NITA KNOCKED on the door to room 403. Kovit stood just to her side, invisible through the peephole. There was no answer the first time she knocked, so she did it again, and called in Spanish, trying to mimic Fabricio’s strong Porteño accent, “Mr. Almeida, you left your credit card at reception. We’ve been trying to call your room phone, but it doesn’t seem to be functioning.”

There was a muffled thud, and then the door opened to reveal a sweaty middle-aged white man glaring at them.

“What?” His Spanish was heavily Portuguese-accented. “Are you sure?”

Nita just smiled and smashed two knuckles into his throat.

He choked, stumbling backwards, and Nita stepped into the room, closely followed by Kovit. She closed the door behind them, and Kovit smiled as he watched the man gasp and sputter. “You’re getting better at this.”

“Thank you.” Nita returned his smile, flicked her phone onto its loudest setting, and played some death metal from YouTube, loud off-key screams reverberating around the room just under the heavy base.

Almeida stumbled to his feet, but Kovit casually grabbed him, twisted his arm behind his back with one hand, and seized his throat with the other. Almeida couldn’t get air to scream as Kovit twisted the arm, forcing Almeida down.

Nita took out the duct tape, and they set to work taping him firmly to the chair.

When they were done, Nita sat down on the bed across from Almeida.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

Kovit had covered his mouth with tape so he couldn’t scream, and Almeida just shook his head, eyes wide with fear.

“That’s fine, then. You don’t need to.” Nita fished through his briefcase, searching for his laptop. She pulled it out and opened it to a password screen. “But if you want to get out of this alive, I’ll need your laptop password.”

He started to shake his head, and Kovit pressed his switchblade into Almeida’s throat. “Think carefully.”

Almeida swallowed, and the switchblade pressed a little harder, drawing a thin trickle of blood. Almeida’s eyes flicked between them, and he tried to say something through the duct tape.

Nita smiled softly. “Let me get that for you. And remember, if you try and scream, my friend will cut your vocal cords right out, and I’ll make you write the answers to my questions.”

Almeida flinched, either at Nita’s calm words of horror or the duct tape ripping off his skin, Nita wasn’t sure.

“It’s my girlfriend’s birthday.” Almeida’s voice was hoarse as he gave them the date.

Nita typed it in and then went straight to the email icon. “Do you work with Alberto Tácunan?”

His eyes widened. “Uh.”