Evan put himself in René’s shoes and thought for a time before settling on the next step. It was a gamble, but everything was a gamble.

Back in the bathroom, he thumbed the remaining paste off the rubber toothbrush where it had been squirted between the bristles. He added a drop of water and worked it between his thumb and forefinger until it gummed up into a gooey mortar.

He smeared it over the crack in the frame outside the bathroom. That knocked out their view of half the bed and the sliding glass door. Then he worked up more paste and went to the corner of the room by the closet. Bracing his bare foot against the closet hinges, he put his back to the wall and squirmed his way up off the ground like a rock climber until he could reach the ceiling. He put his face big in the hidden camera, went for a smug smirk. A few swipes and he’d obscured the tiny lens, eliminating René’s visuals on the fireplace.

He dropped back to the floor and wiped his hands on his jeans, acting satisfied with himself. He’d left them the most essential camera, the one in the heating vent that captured half the room, including the door to the hallway. The one they’d need to discern his position before they entered the room. The one that was filming him right now, acting as though he’d just put one over on them.

If René was smart, he’d hit Evan with sleeping gas again and reposition the cameras he’d knocked out. But if he was really smart, he’d concede the ostensible defeat, let Evan believe he was surveillance-free in the room, and use the remaining camera to observe what Evan got up to when he thought no one was looking.

Head lowered, Evan paced the rustic oak planks, doing his best to construct the chessboard mentally, to anticipate René’s counter and plan several moves ahead.

A knock came at the door once again.

He was about to find out how well he was playing the game.

12. Magical Machinations

12

Magical Machinations

The entourage entered, René flanked by the same narcos, now brandishing familiar, less-lethal shotguns. Dex loomed after them, a pipe swinging low behind his leg. With some pleasure, Evan noted that there was a new front man. He looked nervous.

Two dogs, eight guards, and Dex.

René said, “Shall we try this again?”

Evan looked at him. “No more croissants?”

René took a few steps toward the bathroom, the men locked in position around him. They moved effortlessly, maintaining a practiced standoff distance. The movement of the air brought a whiff of expensive-smelling cologne. Dex kept a clear route to the door, ready to whisk René to safety the instant something went down.