Butterfly Stomp Waltz

Chapter 10

10

The computer room is all bright lights and square corners.

You can describe me in many ways, but “square corners” isn’t one of them. Anyone who Rob hired isn’t going to back into the computer room. They’ll come in and glance down each aisle, verifying that their initial sweep didn’t miss a rat.

The linoleum is a little slippery, but my boots hold just about anything.

The man who steps in is only a little shorter than me. He’s wearing a short-sleeve button-up shirt and dress slacks, but he’s ripped off the blue tie and stuffed it into the pocket. With those biceps, he looks like a gorilla stuffed into a clown suit.

One of those biceps has a tattoo.

USMC.

Shit.

The sound of my feet catches his attention. He turns just as I crash into him.

Some people call Marines dumb. Usually dumb people with dumb opinions.

You get a Marine by taking a normal healthy man, running him within an inch of his life, and teaching him that he can take a lot more of a beating than he ever thought possible. The first time you get socked in the jaw it’s a shock. The fiftieth time, you think I’ve had better punches from my grandma and move in for the kill.

My only hope is an immediate takedown.

I knock him into the wall, trying to smack his head against the fire extinguisher cabinet and stun him. He stumbles but gets his feet under him right away, veering us off target a critical inch so he smacks the drywall instead of the steel case.

Shit again.

We’re at it.

I sidestep a punch and whirl to his side, launching an elbow at his nose in passing, but he turns his head and leans in to take it in the ear. He swings his arm to grab me, but I dance out of the way. He’s stronger, I’m faster. Eventually I’ll wear him out, but I don’t have eventually, his radio is already squawking asking what the problem is, so I jab loosely folded fingers at his eyes and make him recoil and blink.

Not even the Marines teach you to strengthen your eyeballs.

He raises his hands up instinctively and takes a step back to get a bit of distance.

I dance back as well, reaching down with the step.

My weight has barely shifted when I draw my .38 and shoot him point blank over his heart, the silenced report like a loud cough.

The impact knocks him back – he’s got a bulletproof vest beneath that shirt.

So I shoot him between the eyes.

No hesitation, this time.

I didn’t want to kill him. I went for a blackout hold, then a knock to the head.

But there he is, dead. Limp on the floor in his button-up disguise and blue tattoos.

Just doing a job. While the rest of the team is handing out the fireworks, he’s guarding the back.

Shooting a security guard.

He’d sworn after shooting the guard.

Guess he didn’t want to kill anyone either.

That’s enough. I’ve got to get out of here. Everything is about to go to hell, and I’ve killed a man without getting anything.

I take a step into the lobby and stop.

The reception area inside the elevator is decorated with more money than taste. The walls have rich paneling, with gold-framed black-and-white portraits along one wall. I recognize the founders and principal backers from the files I’ve studied, but they’re not nearly so prettied-up in real life. A stylized blue-and-red-and-gold butterfly dominates the wall behind the curved receptionists’ desk. A phone on the desk blinks with enough light-up buttons to launch the USS Enterprise—the aircraft carrier or the starship, whichever. Even the plush leather chairs are better than any piece of furniture owned by anyone I knew growing up.

The security guard lies face down in front of the elevator. His peaked cap has rolled off, exposing a ring of thin hair yellowed by age. Rich scarlet blood stains a growing circle in the plush white carpet. Dammit.

I hate it when old men security guards die. They should be retired. They should get an adequate pension so they don’t have to do s**t jobs like guarding rich assholes’ stuff on the Fourth of July. This whole system needs to burn.

The electrical wire stripper sticking out of the canvas tool bag plopped in the middle of the floor catches my eye.

Could I be that lucky?

Yes—it’s an explosives tool kit. I thought I recognized that Marine’s other tats. And right on top of the bag, in a clear plastic box, is a detonator.

It’s roughly the size of a bulky television remote control. There’s a big red button with a separate plastic cover toggled over it. Nineteen lights shine a merry green on it. One shines red.

As I watch, it turns green.

Twenty devices, ready to go.

But better still—beneath the detonator…

Two hard drives, in plastic trays.

Labeled C8-115 and C8-116.

Sorry, Rob. You lose this time.

But I really do honestly like the guy. And winning doesn’t mean crushing.

I stuff the hard drives into the cargo pockets on the thighs of my jumpsuit. Then I dash back into the computer room, slam the door, and lock it from the inside. The dead ex-Marine’s radio comes out of his belt pretty easily, and I make my way to the big circuit breaker panel next to the single door.

I lift the radio, key the button, and say, “I have the detonator.”

Then I throw the master breaker, killing power to the whole floor.

On my way out of the computer room, I pull the fire alarm.

When I leave the party, that party’s over.

Rob’s not an i***t. When someone else has your detonator, you run. I bend low and scurry through empty halls and open-plan office prisons, navigating by dim widely-spaced emergency lights set near the floor. Elsewhere I hear men shouting and roaring, and I catch echoes of Rob’s commanding bellow herding their anger and outrage somewhere towards usefulness.

My backpack’s where I left it, in the credenza in one of the chintzy meeting rooms reserved for the squalid peons. I stuff the precious hard drives into the pack’s bottom compartment, safely tucked in a padded space, then yank the extra strap out of the pack’s underside.

Then I shrug the backpack on.

Shoulder straps—tight.

Hip belt—tight.

Crotch strap—tighter than any man could take it.

I slap a lump of plastic explosive into the middle of the glass window, stick in a fifteen-second timer, and dash out into the hall, putting a couple walls between me and it and squeezing my hands over my ears.

The explosion shakes the whole floor. A sudden rush of air launches papers and dust and debris towards that meeting room.

We’re going to vacuum out this place.

Then I’m running, wind at my back, straight for the ten-foot jagged hole in the glass. I space my steps so I can kick off the edge of the hole.

Joy bubbles out of me. I can’t help shouting with sheer pleasure at the open air, the wind around me, the ground rising towards me.

Then I pull the rip cord.

The parachute in the top compartment of my backpack explodes upward. I’m kicked in the shoulders and crotch.

Then I’m gliding into the night, sailing north towards the touchdown point and my black van and a few hours driving before a night’s sleep.

I’ve almost hit the ground in an empty school playground when my phone buzzes. I ignore it until I roll to a stop and disconnect the shroud lines.

It’s from Rob. One word.

CLEAR.

Rob’s a friend.

I pull the detonator from the half-empty backpack.

As the sky lights up I can’t help thinking, Deke would have loved this show.