Page 100 of Own

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

She snorted, the smile that followed short but real.

Still has her bite and still in the fight.

Satisfied, I moved on. “Next…”

LUNCHBOX

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

Surveillance locked me in place for over half a day. Guard rotations, security sweeps, household staff—I tracked them all. Tagged, timed, cataloged. When the target finally arrived, his security did a full sweep, then got the hell out. He dismissed them like hired help overstaying their welcome.

He didn’t like company. Valued his privacy.

Considering what he kept in the basement, that didn’t surprise me.

Stupid move. But I love when their stupid worked for me.

I checked my watch. Thirty more minutes to sit and wait.

Albrecht Weiss. Biotech mogul. Private collector of the grotesque. Publicly, he was married with four children. Privately, he and his wife had a transactional arrangement—she showed up for events, played the doting spouse, and raised the kids. He bankrolled the whole façade while he fed his appetites elsewhere.

This house? It wasn’t for family. It was for inventory.

At 1:40 a.m., I dropped a single word into a saved draft on the burner account we all monitored. Bones and Voodoo would know: I was in motion. The next draft they’d see would mean it was done.

Among the intel we’d pulled from Reznik’s files were override codes for Weiss’s security system. Gift-wrapped.

Lesson one: never make deals with devils.

They always come back to collect.

It might be a bit dramatic, but I’d planted explosives on the glass of most of the upstairs rooms including the very lovely solarium on the second floor.

I hadn’t missed the stains on the floor below.

The sound of glass shattering room by room was almost symphonic—sharp, deliberate, controlled chaos. Inside, I followed the screaming like a bloodhound straight to the ground floor.

Weiss’ office.

He was slamming his phone against the desk in a panic, shards glinting in his hair, scattered across the floor and furniture like ice. The lights were out. He was cursing in German, frantic and blind.

When he spun, gun in hand, I was already moving.

I kicked the weapon clean from his grip, then drove a fist straight into his chest. The impact lifted him off his feet—he hit the desk hard, glass biting into his skin. Blood bloomed in angry little flowers.

The second hit shut him down.

I slung him over my shoulder, deadweight and bleeding, and carried him down into the basement—to the secure room he thought made him untouchable. It required a fingerprint and a code.

He wouldn’t be needing either again.

Inside, was a lab he used for his “screenings” and custom cages. They were empty. Relieved, I carried my prisoner over to the metal table and prepped him.

When he woke, he was strapped in place, naked and I had pulled on the hazmat suit I’d brought with me for just this occasion. It wasn’t air sealed, but it would keep the blood off my clothes. I’d also gotten some tools from upstairs.

Weiss began to bellow in German.

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