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With feverish excitement Scarlet inspected the components, then silently put the gun together. Wagner must have broken down the weapon and hidden it to get past the hotel’s X-Ray machine. The secret compartment must be lined with X-Ray-blocking fabric.
Scarlet stared at the gun, blinking as her mind raced. This was an older model Sig, probably sourced locally. But why was it still in its hiding place? Surely Wagner would have kept it on him.
Must be a spare, or maybe they ran into some trouble earlier and took it off someone, Scarlet reasoned. Besides, O’Donnell might also have a CIA-issued weapon on her. Either way, it was almost certain there was at least one handgun in that bedroom with Wagner and O’Donnell.
Still, Scarlet now had a gun that had been in Wagner’s possession. She could use it on O’Donnell, leave it here for Wagner to deal with. Didn’t matter if he wiped it down or got rid of it—the weapon had no connection to Scarlet, and Wagner couldn't use it to prove his innocence.
Enough for plausible deniability.
Scarlet chambered a bullet, her heart pounding as she crept to the bedroom door. She crouched down low, leaned close to listen so she could figure out where Wagner and O’Donnell might be positioned.
It sounded like they were close to each other, probably on the bed in the center of the room. They were talking softly, their voices carrying an intensity that made Scarlet’s ears prick up.
She took a breath, preparing herself for action. With the advantage of surprise combined with Wagner’s compromised state, Scarlet knew she could put two bullets lightning-quick into O’Donnell’s chest, perhaps even get a clean head-shot. Then Scarlet would turn the gun on Wagner before he got a chance to draw. She had to gamble that he wasn’t suicidal, wouldn’t force Scarlet to blow him away too and screw up her crime scene.
Then she remembered Wagner was messed up on LSD too right now.
Could Scarlet reliably expect the guy to be rational?
The consideration made her hesitate.
And in that moment of hesitation Scarlet heard O’Donnell sob out a statement, whimper out some words.
Words that almost stopped Scarlet’s heart.
I see her, came O’Donnell’s voice from the other side of that door, perhaps the other side of time.I see my mother. She’s looking down at me as I suckle on her left breast. Now she’s cupping the back of my head, pressing my face into her breast, and . . . and . . . and she’s . . . oh, Ice, she’s . . .
Scarlet dropped the gun onto the carpeted floor as the words hammered into her like bullets.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel, couldn’t see.
But she could still hear.
Still hear those words that couldn’t be real, had to be a dream, an auditory hallucination, like maybe Scarlet had gotten some of that drug into her own brain, was tumbling down that dark rabbithole herself, the demons dragging her down to Wonderland, their claws smothering her, their wings suffocating her.
She was down on her knees now, gasping breathlessly for oxygen, clawing at the carpet for the gun she’d dropped. This is a trick, she told herself as the panic threatened to overwhelm her. This is Benson fucking with your head.
Yes, that’s it.
Benson.
Ithasto be Benson.
Because he’s the only other person in the world who knows those details.
Now Scarlet managed to get a breath, then another. Her vision slowly came back. Her head still spun with dizzy disbelief, and Scarlet tried to convince herself she’d been hearing things, that it was just her own thoughts echoing in her head, masquerading as sound.
But it was wishful thinking.
Scarlet knew what she’d heard.
It can’t be, she told herself. It simplycannotbe.
This is Benson’s idea of a sick joke, a farewell mind-fuck before he takes you out, Scarlet told herself again with forced firmness. He’s the one who activated you. He’s the one who engineered the complexity of having to leave Wagner alive, forcing you to get close to them—close enough so O’Donnell could read from Benson’s script, scramble Scarlet’s signals before they put her down.
Scarlet rubbed her eyes, shaking her head to make sense of it.
Of course, she couldn’t make sense of it. It was too much of a stretch, even for a maverick madman like Benson—who wasn’t even CIA anymore.
