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“I don’t know, but if I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to pass out.” The hand around her chest gave her a final squeeze. “Or turn into soup.”
Harris chewed the inside of her cheek, as if debating the pros and cons of having a liquefied partner. But she must’ve decided it wasn’t worth it. “Let’s go grab some lunch. I doubt they’ll come back for a bunch of empty filing cabinets.” She paused in the doorway. “I was going to suggest soup, but now that seems cannibalistic.”
Cassie didn’t argue. There was something off about this place, but she could hardly think straight. The heat had infiltrated every brain cell, burning her up from the inside. Against her better judgment, she slipped her sweater over her head but left her coat hanging off her arm. By the time she made it back outside, the air felt like a cool salve against her feverish skin.
5
Zbirak had booked the cheapest motel room he could find. For less than forty-five dollars a night, he had a door with a deadbolt, heavy curtains, a shower, and the luxury of only having to walk through the front door twice—once to pick up his key and once to drop it back off. This was the type of place that took cash and didn’t ask questions.
It was perfect.
As a bonus, his room contained two twin beds. The duvets were hideous, of course. Mauve and teal and mustard petals floated across the cover as though pushed by an invisible wind. He’d spent enough time in hotel rooms to know they rarely washed the bedspread. Balling them up, he threw them in the closet. The sheets were stiff and scratchy, but at least they looked clean.
One bed was for sleeping. He subsisted on four hours every night. When he was a teenager, he had optimized his body.
It had started with consuming a precise number of calories every day. He had always been thin and wiry, so weight was not an issue. But he needed muscle. Enough to overpower his enemies without slowing him down. Nine times out of ten, his speed gave him the upper hand in a fight. But that other ten percent wasn’t to be ignored. His slight frame was a smokescreen for the power he had stored in his muscles. He could easily restrain a person twice his size.
Then, he trained his sleep schedule to follow a simple pattern. Going to bed at the same time every night and waking up five minutes earlier every day. If he overslept, he’d start over at the beginning. Now, he could fall asleep within sixty seconds and wake up within four hours. No more, no less. He was a light sleeper, but thanks to his regimen, he always felt well-rested. How many people could claim that?
The other bed was for his partner. His arsenal. He chuckled to the empty room. He had met many killers throughout his lifetime, but few saw their weapons as anything more than tools to aid in their chosen vocation. Not him. He saw his guns, his knives, his poisons as friends. If you treated them well, you would gain their loyalty. They would never betray you. If a mission went sideways, you only had yourself to blame. A leader should always take responsibility for his team. And Zbirak took his responsibilities very seriously.
After laying out his arsenal, he took stock of his weapons. There was a missing spot at the corner of the bed, grid thirty-two, where a vial of poison should have been. His friend had served him well tonight, dispatching Officer Pisano with ease. A loyal servant to the cause—right up until the end.
In a few days, Zbirak would make a new friend. Grid thirty-two would be filled. The team would be complete once more.
Until then, there was work to do. Zbirak showered, getting the stink of Pisano off his skin. Changing clothes, he dumped his old outfit into the bathtub to light it on fire. With the window open and the door shut with a towel against the space along the bottom, the smoke detector never even knew of the danger.
When his clothes were nothing more than ash and ribbons, and the smoke had cleared, he gathered the remnants into a bag and placed them in a dumpster behind the motel.
Returning to his room, Zbirak turned on the television and clicked through the channels until he found the news. Starting with his rifle, he broke down each of his weapons, cleaning them with the ease and familiarity of an old friend.
Atlanta had its fair share of crime, and he did not expect any of the local reporters to have found Pisano’s story so soon. Still, it never hurt to check. He liked being in the know, up to speed on who was chasing him and why. For now, the Atlanta PD was blissfully unaware of his presence in their city, and he hoped to be gone by the time they decided to look for him.
Zbirak set his rifle back into its position on the bed and picked up his pistol. He was only half paying attention, but the movements were second nature. He could do it blindfolded. He could do it in his sleep.
No, most of his brain power was directed toward finding a solution to his current problem.
Pisano had let Mrs. Sherman slip through his fingers. What had been one loose thread had quickly turned into three. These things had a way of spiraling out of control, but Zbirak had clipped the man and his nephew. He was back down to one. By now, she would know her time was coming to an end. An ordinary woman, Mrs. Sherman had proven herself to be resourceful. She had evaded all his—albeit passive—attempts to capture her thus far.
This allowed Zbirak to come to several conclusions. One, Mrs. Sherman had known the nature of her husband’s work. Two, she understood the consequences of severing ties with their employer. And three, Mrs. Sherman was adaptable. She had once relied on the police—which is why Zbirak had sent Pisano to bring her in—but his sources told him she had become uncooperative before going off the grid. Pisano’s nephew had driven her away, and now Zbirak suffered the consequences.
If he could kill that man a second time, he would not hesitate.
But as smart as Mrs. Sherman was, she did not have a lot of resources. In trying times, people either turned to the authorities or whoever they trusted most. Who did the woman trust? A family member? A longtime friend? He didn’t know much about her personal life, but a quick trip back to Savannah would give him the answers he needed.
As if on cue, his cell phone rang. Only two people had this phone number, and Zbirak didn’t need to see the caller ID to know which it was.
“Hello?”
“Joseph.” The voice was congenial. Too familiar. Grating. “Did you have a good night?”
“I had to send my steak back to the kitchen, but otherwise it was”—he searched
for the right word—“fruitful.”
“Good. I have another problem here in Savannah I’d like you to take care of.”
“I had every intention of stopping by when I got into town.” Zbirak’s voice was pleasant enough, but his hackles were raised. He didn’t like starting a new job before the last one was finished. His employer knew that. “But—”
