Once inside, I notice it’s darker and hotter than normal. I haven’t touched the window tint in weeks, and I had adjusted the enviro controls before leaving this morning. It should be a comfortable sixty-nine degrees Fahrenheit in here. Instead, the lounge feels as hot as the salt pan of the Namib desert during the dry season.
Damn system must be glitching.
“Computer, report enviro control malfunction to the maintenance department. Priority level one. It’s too damn hot in here. And why didn’t you turn on the lights when I entered?”
The computer doesn’t answer. What the hell is it with the technology today?
“Computer, lighten the window tint in the main lounge by one-hundred percent,” I feel my way along the wall. There’s a full moon, so a little natural light should keep me from running into the solid oak provincial furniture. The computer doesn’t answer. The windows remain dark. “Technology sucks,” I say, muttering as I work my way around the furniture.
There’s a shallow intake of breath on the sofa behind me. It’s so quiet, most people would miss it. Hell, I’m trained in advanced observation skills and I almost missed it.
My fingertips find the bulge on my right calf beneath my leather pants; the blade is almost free from its sheath when a bright light snaps on, temporarily blinding me.
“Apologies, my dear,” a smooth masculine voice says. “Overhead light to sixty percent.”
In the millisecond it takes for the computer to obey, the blade is in my hand. Even if I were close enough to the intruder to chance a stabbing lunge, my depth perception is skewed from the spotlight’s assault. White spots float across my eyes.
“What you’re considering would be unwise,” he says. I may not see him clearly, but he can clearly see my knife.
Cutting someone in my apartment, likely justifiable under the circumstances in the Lawkeepers’ eyes, would generate massive bureaucratic red tape; I’d be buried in paperwork and administrative hearings until the next millennium. Still, I’m not dropping my weapon.
As my eyes adjust, I note that he’s two or three inches taller than my own five-foot, seven-inch frame, and his physique is nothing extraordinary. He’s wiry, but not overly muscular. He has big hands for a skinny guy, and I wonder if they’re strong enough to tear someone limb-from-limb if their owner had half a mind to do it.
He bypassed my apartment’s security protocols. He must have also disabled the intruder alert notifications and reprogrammed the voice controls to respond only to him. He’s not a garden-variety thief looking to get one over on the Dodger; if he were, he would’ve been long gone before I got home. Which means he wants something that can’t be hauled out in a duffel bag.
Some mercs use enhanced security features in their private quarters: double or triple authentication on entry pads including biometrics or retinal scans and keypads for complicated passcodes. Security cameras. Panic rooms with exits to escape tunnels for those who are exceptionally paranoid—or hated. Rabid security measures are a matter of self-preservation because there are mercenaries who don’t buy into the philosophy that a gang of thieves should be found family. It’s a pity there really isn’t much honor among thieves.
My mind flits to the trouble I had getting in the door. Note to self: Reprogram the biometric scanner to make it harder to hack.
Aside from standing uninvited in the middle of my apartment, the man hasn’t made a move against me. Still, a barrage of quick offense tactics to gain leverage and neutralize him race through my brain.
Sand from the Zen garden on the occasional table in his eyes. Knife hand strike to side of throat. Drive the knife into his carotid artery.
“I know it’s highly unorthodox to surprise you like this, but we can’t be interrupted in the course of our conversation. I hope you don’t mind that I adjusted the climate controls. I prefer balmy temperatures.”
“Not at all,” I say, deadpanning the response. “I enjoy it when total strangers break into my home, mess with the heat, and ambush me in the dark.”
“Your blade suggests otherwise.” He sits on my sofa and snaps his fingers. A hulking goon, holding one of my lace bras looped around his index finger, emerges from my bedroom. Another man, drinking from my damn coffee cup, emerges from the kitchen to my left.
“Put the knife down, Mademoiselle Arseneau. Don’t be foolish enough to follow through on what will surely be a tragic choice on your part.”
Rivulets of sweat dribble down the back of my neck. I’m not sure whether it’s from the heat in the room or the adrenaline. Likely, a little of both. The knife rotates in my palm once, twice, three times. It’s a physical tic when I’m nervous or backed into a corner. The goons each take a step toward me, but the man sitting on my sofa holds up a hand. They stop.
“Who the fuck are you and why are you in my apartment?” I ask.
“Language, mademoiselle,” he says with a straight face. “Unless you are very unlucky, we’ll never meet again. I don’t see the point in telling you anything beyond what you need to know for this conversation.”
“Doesn’t seem fair that know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Sit down. We have business, you and I,” he says with a tone of impatient authority that brooks no argument. He settles into my Louis the Fourteenth settee—once owned by Louis himself—and stretches his arms along the top of the gilded bronze wood frame. The man tips his head toward the chair to his right, the
