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LSD.
The drug which had fueled the hallucinogenic haze of the hippies in 1960s America.
She was about to sigh and shake it off, go down another path because obviously the spirit guiding her finger was a prankster who couldn’t be taken seriously.
But that stubborn fingertip stayed glued to the label, a tingle going through Scarlet when she suddenly remembered that the infamous Acid Tests of the 1960s had been secretly sponsored by the CIA, who were testing the powerful hallucinogenic chemical for use as a psychological weapon, a tool to induce temporary insanity. It was part of the CIA’s secret program called MKULTRA, rumored to include projects as outlandish as attempted mind-control. There were credible rumors that the Agency had considered dosing several high-profile assassination targets with LSD, hoping that the sudden onset of wild hallucinations would result in fatal accidents that could never be traced—especially since it was virtually impossible to detect the miniscule dose of LSD needed to drive a person certifiably psychotic for a solid eight-to-ten hours.
Scarlet’s vision had sharpened as she stared at that little bottle marked LSD.
Shit, this just might work, she’d thought.
It was risky and unpredictable, but with the cameras down, Scarlet had some room to maneuver.
Especially if she could get O’Donnell and Wagner out of theirroom.
She’d considered using the old trick of setting off the hotel’s fire alarm, but that was so obvious it would just put Wagner on high alert, erasing any advantage an evacuation might give Scarlet.
But O’Donnell going apeshit on LSD might get them out of that room.
Scarlet had never taken LSD herself, but she was familiar with its reported effects. Within thirty minutes O’Donnell would be crawling up the damn walls, going nuts and probably driving Wagner out of his own mind as he wondered what the hell had just happened, whether O’Donnell was having a psychotic break or was just straight-up possessed by demons.
Shit, this could work outperfect!
Not only would O’Donnell be an easier victim, but her tough-guy protector would have his hands full handling a violently-insane partner or prisoner or lover or whatever the hell she was to him.
And with Wagner distracted and compromised, the odds would turn in Scarlet’s favor.
It would open up a world of possibilities—especially if O’Donnell’s madness took her out into the Mumbai streets.
That was Scarlet’s domain.
With Wagner distracted on the crowded Mumbai sidewalks Scarlet might be able to push O’Donnell into traffic, in front of one of those overloaded double-decker buses with squeaky brakes that never stopped in time. Hell, Scarlet would even be able to use a knife, sweep past them on the street like a ghost, plunge that blade into O’Donnell’s lower back, right into the kidney—just like the Delta guys were trained to do. Blades didn’t have ballistics, the wounds couldn’t be matched to a particular knife with any certainty. It would be plausible enough that Wagner had been ordered to put O’Donnell down and did it just like he’d been trained.
A knife might work great in the hotel too, now that the cameras were off. It would be easy if Wagner were distracted enough and Scarlet got a chance. She could do it in an empty hallway or a crowded lobby—each had its own advantages.
So many possibilities once O’Donnell was out of her mind.
Yes, this just might work, she’d decided feverishly.
Maybe that prankster spirit guiding her finger was onto something.
It was still risky, still unpredictable, still far from certain.
She’d still have to improvise, think fast, act even faster.
But that was the game.
And Scarlet loved the game.
Benson had been right about that one thing, at least.
He’d promised she’d love the game.
Promised that she was born to play it.
Promised that it was all part of a grand plan that nobody really understood until it all unfolded.
Andthisplan had unfolded with startling vividness back at the flat. Scarlet’s head had buzzed with this new energy that felt like rebirth, reincarnation, returning to something or someplace or someone. She’d undressed in her sparsely furnished living room, dropping her black linen pajamas to the tiles, slipping the loose black tee shirt off over her head and letting it drop until she was naked in the rising sun, her petite breasts still perky enough that the dark nipples pointed up and out like arrowheads.
