Dex and Xalbador cartwheeled away, Dex’s stump flinging up, trailing crimson mist. Evan heard the bullet zing overhead and then silence—it must’ve flown out the open door. He scrambled forward, reaching for the metal handle and slamming the thick door.

Dex rolled on the floor, clutching his arm. Xalbador crawled out from beneath him, transmitter in hand, trying in vain to electrify Evan’s shock collar.

Holding the door shut, Evan groped behind him for the severed hand. His fingers cupped Dex’s. He gathered the hand in and slapped it against the sensor panel. It leaked blood, but the noose had held, still cinched around the base of the hand above the jagged line of the wrist.

The sensor whirred and processed. Had the bootlaces held enough blood in the hand for the sensor to read the vein pattern?

Xalbador was on his feet now.

The screen lit up.

READING.

READING.

In his peripheral vision, Evan sensed bodies pouring through the doorway, backup arriving.

Finally command buttons littered the screen—LOCK, OPEN, DISABLE, RECODE.

Evan thumbed RECODE.

Xalbador lunged for the handle.

Evan spread his own hand on the panel. The screen flashed green, and the lugs engaged with a clang an instant before Xalbador curled his hands around the handle.

Xalbador tore at the steel bar, his flailing locks spattering sweat across the Lexan. He stopped flailing. His shoulders sank.

He and Evan stared at each other through the transparent door.

Behind Xalbador, Dex rose to his feet and aimed his muted screams at the elaborate chandelier. Bidders and guards sprinted into the ballroom, jostling and shouting and overturning chairs. At the head of the pack, René halted, the sole point of stillness in the room. His face was flushed in streaks along the lines of plastic surgeries past. A cold rage cemented his jaw.

He glared at Evan, locked safely inside the Lexan vault. Removing his transmitter from a pocket inside his suit jacket, he aimed it at Evan and squeezed.

Evan took a step back, picked up the .45, righted the folding chair, and sat.

René squeezed the transmitter again, then hurled it aside. He charged across to the vault and tugged on the handle, his thin hair cascading over his forehead. Then he stopped, sweeping his bangs back into place. “So you’ve locked yourself in your own cell.” His voice, filtered through the panel, had a tinny quality. “You think that gives you some kind of advantage?”

Evan leaned to pick up Dex’s severed hand from the floor. The blood-dripping scowl inked on the skin was now augmented with the real thing.

The alligator skin below René’s left eye twitched. A squiggle of a vein showed at his temple. “We still have you trapped.” He coughed out a laugh that was equal parts fury and disbelief. “How exactly do you see this ending?”

Evan lifted Dex’s florid scowl. And placed it over his mouth.

53. Some Delicacies

53

Some Delicacies