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“You did this.” He waved his other hand at Foundry who was starting to vomit over the papers I’d spilled and which I’d failed to collect.
“No! I-I just needed a signature. Please, let me call for an ambulance!”
He dragged me over to him and shook me. “More like the cops. You’re a murderer.”
“He’s not dead yet,” I shrieked, but I knew the face of greed too well to register his satisfaction at the situation.
That was when I let the remaining papers in my hand fall to the floor and with them, the charade. As quick as death, I delved into my pocket and reached for the second syringe.
He fought hard, I had to give him that. When he saw what was in my hand, he spat, “You bitch.”
I winked at him. “You’ve no idea.”
Smythe went for my throat, but I blocked him and kicked him between the legs before I grabbed his balls in my fist and made a eunuch out of him.
As he proved he had the singing range of a mezzo-soprano, I broke free of his grip on my wrist and thrust the needle into his throat.
Staggering to his knees, I watched as the same symptoms afflicted him.
“Fucking…,” he slurred. “…cunt.”
“My favorite label,” I drawled with a smug smirk before I rounded the desk again and picked up the phone. “Dialing 911 now.”
“Redirecting,” Conor rumbled. “And recording.”
“I need an ambulance!” I cried out like I was panicked.
Troy, on the other end, sounding bored as fuck, went through the rigmarole with me and, a few moments later, declared, “An ambulance has been dispatched, ma’am.”
The outer office wasn’t bustling because Foundry had two. One where his PA sat and the other was loaded with secondary staff.
Retreating to Anna’s desk, I pulled out a black body bag that I’d stored there after she’d darted to the restroom and returned to the office where I hauled Smythe into the covering first.
Huffing at his weight, I muttered, “It’s a good thing I started training for this shit again.”
Conor snorted. “Is there a ‘haul a dead body around’ program at the gym that I missed?”
“Technically, they’re not dead, just a deadweight,” I panted. “Okay, Smythe’s in the bag, D.” I pulled his body away from the door and tucked him into the corner. “Tell me when you’re about to leave the elevator.”
“Will do,” D agreed. “We’re just pulling up now.”
“Good.” Calmly, I studied the outer door, just waiting for someone to burst in and uncover what I was doing. But it seemed Anna had everyone suitably terrified of trespassing because no one even knocked.
“Exiting elevator in three, two, one…”
Nodding to myself, I rushed over to the second door and pulled it open, shrieking, “Where are the EMTs?”
Most of the ten-strong team were out on their lunch break, but two turned to stare at me just as D called, “We’re here, ma’am. Please, step aside!”
As they bustled forward into the office, I started sobbing when the first woman approached me.
“What happened?” she cried, standing on her tiptoes to peer over my shoulder as I blockaded the door.
I hurled myself into her chest and started wailing like I was traumatized.
“Jesus, you should have gone into acting,” Conor muttered in my ear, but I ignored him, too engrossed in the role that would keep the front office distracted as the ‘EMTs’ worked on Foundry.
Within twenty minutes, Foundry was declared dead, his ‘corpse’ was carefully loaded into the body bag with Smythe, and they were both on the stretcher that D and Troy wheeled out of the building.
