Chapter 2
822 Words
Chapter 2
Franco Lamar cursed.
The damned b***h wasn’t supposed to taste her own food, not that big teasing lick off the back of her hand anyway. A small taste and she’d have been fine. For a while. Long enough anyway.
Now he could see Marianne Rimaldi wavering from where he and his men lurked in the shadows of the television studio, far behind the judges’ table and well clear of any camera’s eye.
Bitch was really pissing him off.
He held his breath, keeping his men in place. He had a Plan B, but he hated when that happened. Especially because he didn’t have a Plan C.
Rimaldi made it through the other competitor’s meal service by clutching the edge of her work table, rousing herself to high-five her sous chef, but little else.
The studio emptied. Last shoot of the day. Competitor headed for the bathroom after the judges were done critiquing him. All the main kitchen staff and cameramen drifted out just as he’d planned.
Now he was down to three judges, two cameramen, one floor director, and dumb b***h Rimaldi.
She served the first of her three main dishes. Oohs and ahs and cheerful commentary among the sappy judges.
Franco could feel his fingers digging into his opposite arms where they were crossed. He always hated this part the most.
In Marine Force Recon, they’d parachute down behind enemy lines, observe, assess, and report. They could be weeks on the ground playing cat-and-mouse games with enemy security and military forces. That was fine. Even laying low between the final “Go” and the actual zero-hour start of the operation was easy; you found a willing local female, or an unwilling one, and you laid her low until it began.
It was the time between the actual start of the operation and the launch of his role in it that had always eaten at him.
Full alert and on hold sucked. It sucked when he was still in Recon and it sucked now.
Rimaldi was wavering, but fighting it well through the first three plates of her meal. Her body was shutting down on her and she’d have no idea why. Her brain was going with it so she was probably past caring.
C’mon b***h. Just hold it together long enough to deliver the dessert clean.
She almost dumped the final dessert plates to the studio’s cement floor, earning gasps of surprise from the judges and cameramen.
But she recovered and made it to the table.
Franco held his breath as she stumbled through her presentation. The drug was allowing so little oxygen to her brain that it was amazing she was still standing.
Done.
Now the tasting.
C’mon judges.
The movie star wench did even better than he could have hoped.
She ate the poisoned dessert in two neat bites. Then the stupid w***e picked up her plate to lick up the puddled chocolate sauce with a long, sensuous move that sent a shiver up his balls.
Licking that plate clean on top of the dessert was a massive overdose, not just a knockout.
She collapsed forward, face down into the plate.
Shit!
The actress hit the table so hard that one of her awesomely impressive breasts—barely trapped in her sheer top anyway—popped free.
Franco looked at the other two judges as the studio exploded in panic.
Kate Stark’s hand rested on the male judge’s arm to keep him from eating.
The two primary targets both sat there—undrugged.
Rimaldi’s body finally figured out that it was already dead and she collapsed to the floor.
That put paid on the two secondary targets: Rimaldi and Zania were past recovery.
Still Stark and they guy sat there unmoving.
Franco nodded to Jason.
Jason Mann pulled out a dart gun and shot them both in the back of the neck.
They each flinched in turn, then slowly collapsed forward.
Franco signaled his men and they started forward. When the studio lights blacked out, the four of them pulled down the night-vision goggles that had been perched on their foreheads. The studio was now visible in a hundred shadings of green.
They pulled the darts out of Kate Stark and Harold Merritt and dragged them back.
Jason hesitated just long enough to grope Zania’s errant breast. He looked ready to do more until Franco hissed at him to get moving.
Their timing was perfect.
Down the elevator that their inside man had locked in place for them.
Along the corridor.
As the hired truck backed the empty shipping container against the loading dock, Vince used bolt cutters to off the diplomatic-pouch door seal. Manuel held the door open as they dropped the two bodies on the mattress inside and Jason injected them with the antidote.
Doors closed, an identical seal slapped back into place, and Nicky—who’d been sent to greet the driver—shooed the truck on its way.
They dumped all of their gear into a couple of lawyer’s briefcases and each took a different route to the parking garage.
They were done. The container and its cargo were on their way.
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