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“I pay as I go.”
With a nod, the bartender slid a small black folder across the bar.
“Where’s the action around here?” Reinhold demanded.
“Not much tonight. Holiday. A lot of people are out of town or heading that way. Friday, you’ll see some action—and the band’s live.”
“Maybe I’ll be back.” He flipped the folder open, fought not to goggle at the tab. He could buy fifty goddamn brews for the one glass of whiskey.
He interpreted the bartender’s impassive look as a pitying smirk, and wished he had his sap. Instead, he tossed down the new credit card, lifted the glass.
He took a deep gulp. Nearly choked. Because he felt his eyes water, he turned quickly away as if taking a longer look around.
He’d never tasted whiskey before, but he was damn well sure the asshole of a bartender had cheated him, charged him for high-grade and served him crap.
Oh, he’d pay for that, Reinhold promised himself. He’d make a point of seeing the asshole paid for it.
He forced more of the whiskey down, just to prove he had the balls, then dashed off the signature he’d practiced off and on the last couple days.
Pocketing the card, he walked out.
Fucking prick, he thought. He’d meet Reaper some night very soon. And he’d see how he liked having acid poured down his throat.
Desperate for anything to kill the taste of the whiskey, he pushed into the market, picked up a bag of cheese and bacon–flavored Onion Doodles—a favorite—a family box of Spongy Creams, two Chunky Chews, and a Grape Fizzy.
He charged all of it, sucking on the fizzy as the droid clerk bagged the rest.
Starving, he broke open the bag of Onion Doodles on his way back to the elevator. Munching and slurping, he headed back up.
He’d take a real look around the next day, he thought. Before his own Thanksgiving feast. Maybe see if the same bartender was working, get his name.
Do a little research on a future target.
He found Joe still unconscious, so out even slaps didn’t bring him around.
No fun playing with a sleeping asshole, Reinhold decided.
He took his snacks up to the bedroom. He’d watch some vids, catch some sleep. And get a good start on Joe in the morning.
He had plenty left to try out on his old pal before Turkey Time.
Roarke gave it until half-one, coordinating with Feeney, McNab, and Callendar until after midnight. Like them, he’d meant to leave the work on auto and walk away, but he’d been too caught up.
He’d seen progress—real progress—when they’d untangled the initial routing, found the shadow beneath it. But then, there’d been a shadow under that.
He had considerable respect for the late Ms. Farnsworth, and had she lived, would have hired her in a finger snap in any number of positions.
He’d managed to crack the initial code, and felt pure satisfaction. Until he’d understood she’d switched codes for the next section.
Smart, he had to admit, making certain her killer didn’t, likely couldn’t, catch on to the pattern. And all this while she’d certainly been in terror, likely in pain.
The trouble was, she was so bloody good, it was taking him a great deal of time. Putting back the wiped material, byte by bitter byte, and then going under it all for the message he now knew she’d left wound in it.
Tomorrow, he promised himself, and gulped down a half bottle of water. By Jesus, he’d have the rest tomorrow.
He set up the auto, scrubbed at his face, then went off to fetch his wife. He had little doubt she’d crashed by this time.
And he wasn’t wrong.
