J. Robb: Delusion in Death

“I’m putting my best man—which would be me—on the target. She makes a wrong move, I’m giving myself the green. We got about seventy people in there—unknown number in the kitchen. If necessary, we’ll do a broad range stun, make them all go nighty-night.”

“Let’s see if we can avoid that.”

“She’d know your face.” She turned as Roarke spoke, and saw the hard anger in his eyes. “If she’s got a weapon, as she surely does, what stops her from using it on you while you’re ten feet away?”

“I’m working on that. Peabody, take off those idiot boots.”

“My boots? But—”

“Do you really think a pair of pink cowboy boots disguises you?”

“It’s just the start,” she told Roarke. “Dig out those silly rainbow sunshades,” she told Peabody. “And that scarf.” She tugged on Peabody’s madly striped scarf. “Wrap it around my head or something. Call out the Free-Ager.”

“A moment, Lieutenant.” Without waiting for assent, Roarke took her arm, pulled her aside. “This is foolish.”

“It’s not. I’ve got my magic coat.”

“It doesn’t cover your hard head.”

“Okay, look, we can’t see what she’s got under that damn table-cloth. Maybe she got her hands on a blaster. It’s more likely a knife. She could slice Weaver open any time, but again, it’s more likely she’ll hurt or disable Weaver enough to keep her in there, use the substance and get out. I can draw her attention off Weaver, get her talking. She’ll bargain to get Callaway out. He’s her legacy, her hope for the future.”

“The bargaining can be done from out here.”

“Roarke, there are kids in there. If she releases that shit, we don’t know how fast it works on kids, but it’ll be faster. They’re smaller, lighter. I don’t know, and I’m not risking standing out at a safe distance while kids get poisoned and maybe hack up Mommy’s face with a pasta fork before we can control the situation.”

“Bloody fucking hell.”

“We can get some of them out. Her back’s to the kitchen. We can move some of them out, quietly, while she’s focused on me. I’m the game changer. Right now she thinks she’s in charge. I change the balance, it throws her off. She has to rethink.”

“You go in, I go in.”

“Listen—”

He took her face in his hands. “You go, I go. That’s non-negotiable. If we’re to get blasted to hell or poisoned into lunatics, we do it together.”

“Crap. Crap. You have to look less rich and gorgeous.”

God help him, she made him grin. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Wire him up, too,” she told Lowenbaum. “Peabody, give me those stupid boots.”

“They’re not going to fit you.”

“I’ll manage.”

She stood while Lowenbaum’s e-man fit her with mic and earbud. And shoving her feet into the pink boots learned Peabody was right. They were miserably tight from toe to heel, awkwardly wide. She’d manage.

“Just enough to get me to the table,” she told her partner as Peabody began to wrap the scarf.

“You might as well look good. You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure the weird scarf and the shades will get me across the room.”

“Dallas.”

“I’m sure. I want you in the back, in the kitchen. We’re going to move people out, and I need you to keep it smooth and quiet. And when I tell you, move in. Not before, Peabody. You, Baxter, Trueheart, move in on my go, and when Lowenbaum clears it. Not before.”

“Understood.”

She leaned in just a little, lowered her voice. “Lowenbaum will stun me if he needs to. I’m counting on you to take care of Roarke.”

“Oh, jeez.”

“If it goes south, you take him down, get him out. That’s not just an order, Peabody, it’s a request from a friend. Get him down and out. Promise me.”

“I do. I will. And you, too.”

“Lowenbaum’s men will come for the cop first. I’m not worried about it.”

Much , she thought as she stuck on the rainbow shades. “How stupid do I look?”

“Actually, you look totally chill.” Peabody gave the trailing edge of the scarf a little flip. “Sort of urban-bohemian chic.”

“God. Doctor Mira? Are you there?”

“Yes.” The voice, tight, tense, came through the earbud. “And I feel this is an unnecessary risk.”

“A calculated one. I’m covered. There’s a toddler in a damn booster seat smearing spaghetti sauce on his face ten feet away from the target. Once I get in position, feed me. Pull me back if I head in the wrong direction with her. I want to keep her engaged until we get as many civilians to safety as possible.”

“She’s a soldier first. She’ll sacrifice herself for her mission.”

“I’m counting on that mission priority being Callaway. Lowenbaum, are we set?”

“In position.”

She looked around. They’d worked fast, barricading the area. Already lookie-loos hugged the barricades, ready for some entertainment. Lowenbaum stretched over his shooting stand, weapon aimed. “If you have to stun me, don’t go for the body shot. The coat’s lined with body armor.”

“No shit.”

“None. I’ll show you later.”

“Lots of traffic inside,” he told Eve. “Waitstaff moving by the booth. The table in front of it partially blocks the target. If you can move the interference, I’d appreciate it.”

“On the list.” She turned as Roarke came toward her, had to roll her eyes.

He’d ditched the suit jacket, the top coat for somebody’s bunged-up fake leather jacket. He’d pulled his hair back in a tail, added a red, I ♥ NY ski cap.

“How much did you pay for that ridiculous hat?”

“Entirely too much.”

“Well, you don’t look so rich anyway.” She took his hands. “Let’s go bag this bitch. On the move, Lowenbaum.”

“Copy that.”

“I bet the pasta’s good here,” Roarke commented as they crossed the street.

“Maybe we’ll get some to go when we’re done. Clear visual on target from here,” she said when they’d reached the door. “Entering building now.”

“Team Alpha, go.”

Into the kitchen, Eve thought as they entered the happy noise, the engaging scents. She slid her hand in her pocket as the cheerful-eyed maitre d’ approached.

“Welcome.”

She turned up her badge before he could continue. “Focus on me. What’s your name?”

“I—Franco. Is there a problem?”

“There is, and I need you to keep on me, listen, and do exactly what I say. Are you a steady sort of guy, Franco?”

“I—yes, I think I am.”

“Stay steady. There are cops moving into the kitchen right now. They’re going to get your staff to safety. No, keep looking at me. There’s a woman in the booth—west corner, rear.”

“Ms. Weaver, but—”

“The woman beside her. She’s dangerous, probably armed. Steady, Franco. When we’re at the booth, when I draw her attention, I want you to—quietly, very quietly, begin to move the people at the tables on her blind side out through the kitchen. One table at a time. You can tell them they’ve been chosen for some special deal, whatever it takes. Get them into the kitchen, and we’ll take them from there. Do the same with your staff, one person at a time. Quietly. Can you do that, Franco?”

“Yes. But Ms. Weaver—”

“I’ll take care of her. Now, first thing. The table directly in front of the booth, the one with the kid with sauce all over him and the older kid pretending to eat his vegetables? Move them out now. You can make a fuss there. You have something special for the family in the kitchen. Something for the kids, right? Big smiles, big surprise. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Do it now—happy face, Franco.”