“You’re a brave man,” Sunday said.
“Three sisters, near enough. One way or the other, she’ll be more ‘on’ for the mission.” George pressed down a corner of the green tape where it had lifted away from the badge. Lousy cheap-ass garbage, that’s all we get these days.
“Your funeral, dude.”
“Hey, she doesn’t need that loser. She’s got us,” Schmidt insisted.
“If you say so, dude.” Tommy shot him a sharp but perceptive look. “But if you hurt her, I will personally fucking pulverize any pieces of you she doesn’t get to first.”
“Gotcha,” the younger man agreed. “E-mail. How hard would this guy be to kill?”
“Hard.” Sunday pressed his lips together and climbed.
Sitting on the tank of a toilet with your clothes half on and half off wasn’t calculated to inspire confidence. If changing clothes in a restroom stall wasn’t something she’d done dozens of times in her life, Cally would have felt odd about it. As it was, she just froze in place until the other woman finished her business and her primping and whatever the hell else she was doing — like, perhaps, reading War and Peace — and left. She wriggled the rest of the way into her cleaner’s coverall. She had to fight to get the zipper all the way up in front, of course, and cursed the lazy ass in wardrobe who had gone with standard size charts when fabricating them. Yes, she was a size twelve, tall. Everywhere but the bust. Ow. When she caught up with the bastard who did it, she was going to find him some night, shove him into a good, old-fashioned, straight jacket, trussed and gagged, and leave him somewhere he wouldn’t be found until morning.
Her purse and other disposable crap she stuffed in the empty tank, then without appearing to hurry, got her ass to the stairs as fast as she could. It was a calculated risk to leave George’s tape in the doors. If someone noticed, they’d know something was up. On the other end of that, the black masking tape was nearly invisible in the recessed shadows. If things went right, their cyber would be working his customary magic to cover their tracks. If things didn’t go right, she didn’t want to be boxed in by doors she couldn’t open. None of these scanners was biometric, so if she had to hide for a bit, she was maybe as low as one body away from getting out of the building.
The janitors didn’t technically come on shift until six, but she had to get all the way down to the ground floor. She glanced at her watch and hauled ass. She had only a narrow window in which to swipe a cart without having to dispossess some poor schmuck of both cart and life. She’d rather not do that if she could help it. A missing cleaning cart wasn’t going to ring any alarm bells right away, just cause a bit of confusion. A body, on the other hand, was something you had to hide someplace — a real pain in the ass on this kind of run.
Sure enough, four carts were in the hall, all on their lonesome, while someone rustled around in a stockroom for whatever critically necessary brush, bottle, or bags weren’t already on the carts. She grabbed one and got around the nearest corner faster than fast, coming out next to the elevator. Here’s where she needed a bit of luck if she wanted to keep clear of another needless death. She’d cheerfully kill the man-sized rodents who ran and worked the nastier parts of this place, but when she thought of maids and janitors, she couldn’t help thinking of the gray haired old lady in some prewar show about a family with too many kids. How could you kill a cookie-baking little old lady? Yeah, stashing a body would be a pain, but she would also hate to have to kill the cookie lady. Or someone like her, anyhow.
Luck was with her again, maybe. She pretended not to see the balding man in a guard uniform who was coming down the hall, swiping her card ineffectually and cursing in a properly ladylike fashion when there was no answering green light. When the guard came over, she gave him a properly helpless look. “It won’t work,” she said.
“Here, let me try.” The guard examined her ID and swiped it, with, of course, no result. Duh. As if him swiping it was going to magically make it work by some sort of masculine osmosis. This was another calculated risk. If she had to kill someone for a badge, and wanted someone more culpable than a cleaning lady, she had to draw him in, didn’t she? He turned the card over in his hands, examining it.
Cally kept up her helpless me act, watching for the moment when it might be time to kill him. The ID should be perfect, except for the data that wasn’t encoded on it. She’d also artfully scratched it up a little to age it.
“Here’s your problem,” he said, pointing out the scratches along the code stripe. “It’s all scratched up.”
Boy howdy, a bona fide genius, she thought. “Dammit. Not another one. My supervisor is gonna kill me.” She gave him puppy dog eyes as he nodded in commiseration. “I know I shouldn’t put it in my back pocket, but…” She shrugged.
“I’d like to be in your—” He stopped himself. “Damn, tell me I didn’t just say that.”
“Aw, how sweet,” she chuckled, practically cooing at him. Dumbass. You had fish for lunch, didn’t you?
She bit her lip, looking up at him through her lashes. “If I could get up to the third floor and get personnel to make me a fresh one, maybe I wouldn’t get caught,” she said.
“Ah, but that would be a security breach.” He was clearly only teasing her, holding his own card just out of reach. “I’ll do it for a kiss and a phone number,” he said.
“Awww…” she cooed again, pulling a lipstick out of her pocket. She scribbled a number on his arm, leaning over to plant a passionate smooch on Fish-breath. He swiped the door, pressing the third floor button for her.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
She waited until the door closed all the way before wiping a sleeve across her mouth. Blech. It wasn’t that she’d have had anything against the guy if he hadn’t worked here. She, at least, only killed people for good reasons and then as cleanly as the mission permitted. Creep. But not the first creep to develop a sudden case of stupid when presented with a pretty face, thank goodness. Besides, she’d been nice; she hadn’t killed him.
The elevator dinged and she pushed the cart out past the visual and braille “three” on the door jam. Why the hell they still printed signs in braille she didn’t know. She couldn’t imagine anybody not shipping to a colony if the alternative was staying blind or something. She swiped the bags of trash from one set of restrooms, just as if she was really emptying them. They’d need it for camouflage.
Granpa’s vent was at the far end of the floor from IT. She had only half lied about going to the personnel department. She parked the cart underneath the vent and popped the cover, startled at the trail of strings that came along with it.
“What are you doing? Taking up macrame?” she hissed over the pack at her grandfather.
“Shut up and take this damn thing,” he growled, pushing the ruck towards her.
She hefted it out of the vent, then shoved it into the trash hamper, putting the bags on top of it. She scattered some loose paper towels around to make it look more authentic.
She was bending down to get her buckley out of the side pouch when she saw him. He had shoved his shirt out in front of him and emerged, clutching the coverall. His scowl dared her to say anything.
“I got stuck,” he said, standing bare except for his skivvies. “After I got the others off, obviously.” He scowled.
Wordlessly, she fished his sneakers out of the pack and set them on the floor. It wasn’t funny. Nothing that happened on an op that could get them killed was funny. Ever. And she absolutely was not going to laugh. Because it wasn’t funny. Besides, Granpa had a mean sense of payback.