One Wrong Move (45 page)

A frantic bray of the horn, and Dmitri pulled smoothly ahead, watching in his rearview mirror at the swerving containers, spinning, flipping, with massive, leisurely grace. Cars flew over them, bouncing every which way, on their heads, sides, tails. A pall of smoke rose.

Dmitri shook his head. Shame. Those poor people. But the guy shouldn’t have flipped him off. People needed to be more polite. At least to him. Starting with Sasha and his whore. He had something special planned for them. Rudd, too. Anabel. So arrogant, so unsuspecting. No idea that they would soon be on their knees, anxiously sucking his dick.

The fantasy had him in a bubbling ferment, like a champagne high, except that his wits were razor sharp. He drove through Spruce Ridge on the freeway, following the directions of the GPS, though he scarcely needed it. The Greaves Convention Center had its own exit off the freeway. The roads were crowded with luxury cars.

Dmitri eased out onto the shoulder and pulled on past the crowded front entrance with the valet parking. He kept on going, until he found an overflow lot, far from the action, and walked around the building, to the back.

The kitchen entrance was swarming with staff, and security, too. He took a moment, from the shadows, to observe the white uniform coat as some men offloaded boxes from a truck, and crafted a constant feed of that white uniform over his clothes as he went in. It was tricky and strenuous, projecting something constantly. But he wouldn’t have to do it for long. Slipped right past the security guys.

He wandered around in the hubbub, scoping out the perfect spot to bait his trap. This was a banquet for hundreds, so there would be an army of ringers hired on for the night, scores of people who didn’t know each other. In ten minutes, he’d found himself a likely subject, and latched on to the guy’s mind, leafing through what lay around on top.

The guy was similar in height and build to Dmitri, though much younger, and had the same color and length of hair. His name was Leo, and he was twenty-four years old and gay, but had not yet told anyone. He had a deep-seated terror of large dogs.

Dmitri managed to glean these two facts because the kid was obsessing about his next-door neighbor as he worked, upon whom he had a huge crush, but he could not approach the guy because of his enormous German shepherd. The beast made poor Leo shit himself. Dmitri could work with that.

He followed the guy as he scurried on some errand involving rolling carts of champagne flutes, and called out as soon as they had gotten near the unused conference room he’d chosen.

“Leo!” he called.

Leo turned, puzzled. “Huh? Excuse me?”

“Come here for a second,” Dmitri ordered.

Leo looked bewildered and put upon. “Look, man, I have to hurry! Mike is going to rip me a new one if I don’t get these glasses to the—”

“Forget Mike. This is more important. You’ve got to see this.”

Dmitri shoved open the door, and gestured for Leo to go inside.

Leo was a good-natured, agreeable, innocent guy who didn’t like to get on anybody’s bad side, so he followed Dmitri in, and looked around, his eyes full of anxious puzzlement. “What is it, man?”

Dmitri closed the door, preparing two images in his mind, and launched the first one. The dog’s growl, deep, ferocious, mutat-ing into a gaping jawed, full-throated snarl.

Leo’s gaze darted around, panicked. “What? Where is it?”

“Did you bring that animal in here, Leo?” Dmitri yelled, pointing.

“No!” Leo shrieked. “No, no, I swear . . .” The huge phantom dog materialized and leaped for him, enormous slavering jaws gaping, eyes a demonic burning red. Leo shrieked, lunging for the open door—

Crack,
his head smacked against the door, which was not, in fact, open at all. Leo had lunged, full speed, headfirst, toward the projected image of an open door. The kid thudded to the ground with a pathetic, creaking sigh. The door now had a large, bloody splotch on it.

Dmitri knelt down. Leo was not going to be getting up any-time soon, perhaps not ever, if no one noticed him for a while.

Even if he lived, he was unlikely to remember what had happened. That blow was hard enough to bruise his brain. Cause bleeding, swelling.

He was pleased with himself. He was good in a fight, proficient with guns, knives, bare hands when the occasion warranted it, but this new skill was so much better, so much smoother. The beauty of it, the simplicity, the lack of accountability. Who could link him to this?

He unbuttoned Leo’s white jacket, with the latex gloves he’d picked up earlier that day. His biggest challenge now was to get Leo’s catering uniform off without getting any blood on it.

The rest was cake.

Miles gazed uneasily at the bejeweled people bottlenecked at the entrance, wondering which were brain melters. He wasn’t surprised at the heavy security. No party crashers allowed at a shindig with a fifteen-thousand-dollar ticket price.
Ouch.

That price tag still hurt him.

They’d scoped out every entrance before reluctantly coming back to the front. Security personnel were teeming at every single one, even the kitchen. So, full-on frontal attack, then. Hiding in plain sight.

Nobody liked it, but what the fuck.

Speaking of security, cameras were trained on them from all directions. Nina and Aaro did kissy face. Miles visualized his encrypted computer, and tried not to sweat. He’d picked up nerdy glasses for Aaro at the Walgreens, and they gave the guy’s severity a geekier flavor. Still, nobody in his right mind would mistake Aaro for a nerd. His body was too dense.

“Burns my ass that I figured out how coercion worked after you laid out the cash,” Aaro bitched beneath his breath. “Could have just jabbed the guy who has the guest list. Saved us forty-five thousand.”

“No, you could not,” Nina whispered back. “You can use this ability to save a person, or a kitten in a goddamn tree. But not to save money, or time, or effort. Or else you’re no better than them!”

“You’re such a hard-ass. That’s the cost of a nice new car!”

“And your point is?”

Aaro looked rebellious, but suddenly, his face went hard.

“Miles,” he said. “Ten o’clock, directly in front of the fake water -

fall, talking to the lady in gold. See him? Fake tan, brow lift?”

“Brain-melt dude?”

“Yeah,” Aaro murmured. “The bombshell in the gray dress, she’s the telepath. Also badass. Also enjoys inflicting pain. The only way through the main hall is right past the two of them.”

“Yeah?” Miles said. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, you go distract him and the blonde while Nina and I slither in like eels.”

“Oh, God. Why couldn’t we have just knocked out the six big security guys at one of the back entrances instead?”

“Too many,” Aaro replied. “If it was two, or maybe even four, maybe. But we couldn’t take out all six without somebody getting in a call on their com device first. And then we’d be toast.”

“Behold, my first task,” Miles muttered. “Schmooze the guy who melts brains, who is guarded by the hot nymph who reads minds.”

“I’d do it for you if I could,” Aaro said.

“Stop condescending to me,” Miles snapped. “Let me bitch and moan and be sarcastic if I want, OK? It helps me!”

“Bitch and moan all you want while you get into position.”

“Fine. I’ll see you in hell, or whatever Han Solo says.” He launched himself before he could get stalled out by his own good sense. Muscling ahead of an elderly couple who were also waiting to be admitted. Clearly, the old couple weren’t used to waiting for anything.

He pretended not to hear their pointed comments about rude young people these days, about how it was all me, me, me.

Right. If he were thinking about me, me, me, he’d beat hell out of here. What was up with him, anyway? Always trying to show the world what a brave and righteous dude he was. Who was he trying to prove it to? Himself? The McClouds? Or worse, to she who could not be named who had ruined his life? He hoped not, since his noble gesture was wasted on her. She was too busy blowing her rock star to notice.

The image of Lara Kirk popped into his mind, complete with her streaming banner of dark hair and her nipple hard-on as the guy with the list turned to him. “Your name, sir?”

“Miles Davenport,” he supplied, banishing names and images from his brain. He was a blank plastic case, a keyboard, a blank screen with a dialog box and a blinking cursor, like a taunt.
Just
try and get into my mental space, you evil brain-melting motherfuckers.

Just try.

The security guy’s face did not change, nor did he attempt to melt Miles’s brain. He located Miles on the list, checked him off with an electronic pen, smiled politely, and waved him on.

There was a thick crush at the meet and greet, so Miles took his time, oozing slowly in Rudd’s direction. He was grateful to have spent last night reading up on Rudd. Business history, guber natorial campaign, the blogs he had written.

He glimpsed the blonde. It was like getting kicked by a horse.

He lost a few seconds, staring at her. Scary gorgeous, dressed in is-it-gray-or-is-it-black taffeta, shot through with iridescent gleams of rainbow, tits pressed cruelly flat by the front placket of her bodice, but still plumping up over the top, undaunted. Gold hair slicked back into a Japanese-looking topknot, a scary-sharp beaded hairstick stabbed through it.

The closer he got, the more her beauty scared him. Her soft-focus shimmer confused and destabilized him, crowding even what’s-her-name out of his mind. He jerked his brain into line.

Plastic computer case. Bland, impenetrable. The glowing fairy princess was a mind-raping sociopath, so keep that bad dog chained up
waaay
out there in the back, where nobody could hear him howl.

The press behind him was shoving him to the point of no return. Rudd was inches away. Into the jaws of death and all that good shit.

He stuck out his hand. “Mr. Rudd, I’m so honored to meet you,” he gushed. “I’ve been your biggest fan, since you were CFO of Scion! We studied your company in my econ class, and you’re, like, my hero! I read your business blog every week, and when I did exactly what you said, I made money! Like, when you warned everybody about Sylvan Industries? I got out just in time! Brillant, sir, absolutely brilliant. I paid for my graduate degree with money I earned because of you!”

Rudd continued to shake Miles’s hand, since Miles did not let go. “Thank you,” he said. “You hardly look old enough to have been reading stodgy investment advice six years ago.”

“I’m older than I look.” Miles grinned like a fool, presenting his body so that the people crowding in nudged him around, forcing the other man to turn . . . turn . . . and they no longer faced the front entrance, but stood at an angle to it.

“That’s very gratifying,” Rudd said. He turned his gaze over Miles’s shoulder, getting ready to schmooze the next guy—

Miles grabbed his hand again and yanked him back that crucial quarter turn. “Sir, I hope you don’t mind, but I already sent my CV to your campaign manager. I wanted to urge you to look it over personally. I can’t say I’ve been involved in a political campaign before, but I’m writing my thesis on the world’s new emerging economic models, and I have an economic vision that dovetails perfectly with yours. Your administration will really need my kind of vision to—”

“This is all extremely flattering, Mr. . . . ?” Rudd’s teeth flashed.

“Davenport,” Miles supplied. “Please. Call me Miles.”

The blonde had noticed her boss’s plight, and was moving closer.

“Ah, yes,” Rudd said. “As I said, I’m flattered, but this is not the time for us to conduct a job interview.”

“Of course it’s not, sir, I understand!” A flash of glittering red swept by, tickling his peripheral vision. Rudd did not react. “I need you to know how strongly I support your candidacy, sir. We need leaders who understand how money works, and can’t be jerked around by advisors with their own personal agendas!

You’re the reason I’m here, sir. You’re why I can donate fifteen grand to the Greaves Foundation. If I hadn’t studied your blog, I’d still be working at the electronics store. So thank you. Really.”

He wagged Rudd’s hand again. “Really.”

“You’re most welcome.” Rudd gave him a big smile, and that was when Miles felt it. A breathless, anxious, eye-popping pressure. An urge to get away, as fast as possible.

Just another couple of seconds. Let them get ten meters away.

The feeling got more intense. It was sickening fear, now. But he’d been feeling queasy and frantic ever since what’s-her-name defected with the rock star. Queasy and frantic was normal for him. He ate it with his morning cornflakes. He hung on tight to his shit, and persisted. “Could I set up a meeting with you, sir?”

he begged. “It would mean so much to me. I’m sure you won’t regret it.”

“Anabel,” Rudd called. “Come here a moment, my dear.”

Oh, man. Thrown to the dogs. The bombshell drifted over, eyeing him. He began to sweat. Like she had a direct line attached to his glands. She yanked a pull chain, and
squirt squirt,
they went nuts.

“This is Miles Davenport,” Rudd told her. “Miles, this is Anabel Marshall, my assistant. Anabel, this extremely forceful and intense young man is a great admirer of my work, and I have reason to think he might be . . . special. Would you take down his vital stats? I want all his contact info in our files.” He turned to Miles. “We vet our staff with extreme care. I count on Anabel’s infallible instincts. Tell her all about yourself. As if she were me.”

“Um, OK. Thanks,” he said, as the blonde towed him away.

To God alone knew what.

“Aaro! Do you mind? I was just shaking his hand!” Nina hissed, as Aaro dragged her behind him through the tables.

“Did you see the way that guy was looking at you?”

“Ah, yeah,” she said, with dry irony. “I thought that was the whole point of tight, sexy dresses. Isn’t it?”

“Up to a certain point, Nina. Up to a certain point.”

“I would have had to go a little beyond that point to read him!