Page 64 of Business vs. Pleasure

August hmphed, but then he sighed. “Okay. Okay, so someone who’s obviously injured or incapacitated doesn’t telegraph ‘immediate threat.’ But how does that—are you suggesting we play up your injury to lure him out and get him to let his guard down?”

“It could work.”

“Are…” August blinked. Then he turned away to yank his phone off the nightstand. “Okay, I’m calling Heidi, because I think the scorpion venom fried your brain.”

“It didn’t,” Ricardo insisted. “But think about it. Right now, he’s expecting to meet up with two of the best assassins in the game. If he thinks one of us is incapacitated⁠—”

“He’ll know it’s a fucking trap because—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—he’s not completely stupid!”

“He’s also not completely aware of my condition.”

August eyed him. “What does that mean?”

“He knows I got Darrow. He doesn’t know if Darrow got in any hits.” Ricardo held up his bandaged hand. “He doesn’t know about the scorpion sting. For all he knows, I went hand-to-hand with Darrow and then got bitten by something nasty. And there are a lot of nasty things in Panama that could do a lot worse than fuck up my hand for a few hours.”

“Such as?”

“Well, besides my idiot husband when he’s mad at me…” Ricardo half-shrugged. “There’s worse scorpions. And some of the deadliest snakes in the world live here.”

August quirked his lips and his eyes lost focus, the expression suggesting he was reluctantly starting to see things Ricardo’s way.

Ricardo went on, “It’s a risky play. But any approach we take is going to be risky. Do it this way, and we might put him off-balance just enough to get the upper hand.” He shrugged. “We go in with the assumption that it won’t work, but if it does, we take advantage.”

August wrinkled his nose and whined, “Ugh, I hate how much sense this is starting to make.”

“Don’t most of my plans?”

“When they don’t involve landscaping, I guess.”

Ricardo rolled his eyes. “Fuck you.”

August allowed a quiet laugh to crack through, but it only lasted a moment. “So, how do we play this? I assume you get to be the gimp?”

“It was my idea, and…” Ricardo held up his already bandaged arm.

August glared at him, and for a few seconds, he seemed to be working up an argument to insist that, no, he would be the wounded princess, thank you very much.

To Ricardo’s surprise, though, he just sighed. “Okay. How do you want to play this?”

By the time NightRaven contacted them with their rendezvous information, August and Ricardo had managed to make Ricardo look like he was firmly at Death’s door. Bandages around his right hand and forearm concealed the scorpion sting, a non-existent snakebite, and a vicious but lightweight knife. The makeup August always traveled with, not to mention his wizardry with it, came in handy to make Ricardo look so pale and sickly, even he thought he should see a doctor. Some industrial-strength setting spray promised to keep the makeup in place even in the never-ending tropical rain, and the heat and humidity promised to have Ricardo sweating enough to add to his cadaverous complexion.

“I look like shit,” he muttered at the mirror. “Nicely done.”

August chuckled. “All those times I tried to get you to wear makeup, and you finally do it so I can make you look”—he flailed a hand at Ricardo’s expression—“like that.”

“I’m not trying to be attractive or fashionable.”

“Good.” August barked a laugh. “Because my dear…” He grimaced and shook his head.

“Uh-huh.” Ricardo turned to him. “And if I offered to rail you over the side of the bed, you’d still let me, so…”

“Well, yeah. With my back turned, sure.”

Ricardo just rolled his eyes. “Get your gun. We have to go.”

At that, August’s snark evaporated, and in the same moment, a knot tightened in Ricardo’s stomach. This was a risky gambit. Even if NightRaven lowered his guard, he was still dangerous.

Clearing his throat, Ricardo touched August’s waist. “Be careful.”