In Death 11 - Judgment in Death

silver spikes. Each time he threw back his head and called, the crowd roared back at him.
    Roarke turned his back on gleaming skin and hunting cats and watched Ricker walk into Purgatory.
    He hadn't come alone, nor had Roarke expected him to. A dozen men fanned out, scoping the room with hard eyes. Half of them began to move through the crowd.
    They would be the front sweep, he concluded, and would be carrying mini-scanners, high-powered, to locate and record the security cams, the alarms, the scopes.
    They would find only what he'd elected to have them find.
    Ignoring them, he cut through the bright glitter of people to face Ricker.
    "Okay," Eve said from her station. "Run through the marks. I want everyone to acknowledge, everyone to move into first position. Let's do this right."
    And where before she'd sweat out the wait, she was now coldly in command. "Feeney, give me a weapons check. I want to know who's carrying and how many."
    "Already coming through."
    And so, she thought as she kept her eyes on the screen, was Roarke.
    "It's been awhile," Roarke said.
    Ricker's lips curved, just at the corners. "Quite a long while." He looked away from Roarke just long enough to sweep his gaze over the club. "Impressive," he said with the slightest hint of boredom. "But a strip club is still a strip club, however it's trimmed."
    "And business is still business."
    "I'd heard you've had a little trouble with yours."
    "Nothing that hasn't been dealt with."
    "Really? You lost a few of your clients last year."
    "I did some... restructuring."
    "Ah yes. A wedding present perhaps, to your most charming wife."
    "Leave my wife out of it."
    "Difficult, if not impossible." It was satisfying, extremely satisfying, to hear that hint of tension in Roarke's voice. There'd been a time, Ricker thought, it wouldn't have shown. "But we can discuss just what you're willing to trade for that kind of consideration."
    As with an effort, Roarke took a breath, appeared to calm himself. "We'll use my booth. I'll buy you a drink."
    As he started to turn, one of Ricker's guards laid a hand on his arm, stepped in to check him for weapons. Roarke simply shifted, gripped the man's thumb, and jerked it backward.
    Too much weakness too quickly would, after all, be suspect.
    "Do that again, and I'll rip it off at the knuckle and feed it to you." His eyes went back to Ricker's. "And you know it."
    "I'm glad to see at least that much hasn't changed." Ricker gestured his man back. "But you can hardly expect me to have a drink without some basic precautions."
    "Have one of the sweepers scan me and the booth. If that doesn't satisfy, fuck yourself. It's my place now."
    A muscle in Ricker's cheek jumped, and he felt the rush of heat through his gut. But he nodded. "I never cared for that Irish temper of yours, however colorful. But as you say, it's your place. For the moment."
    "All right," Eve said. "They're moving to the booth. Feeney, tell me his system's going to override their scan."
    "It overrode mine. I asked him to show me the design, but he just smiled." He swiveled toward a secondary monitor. "Look, see, their sweep's coming up clean, getting just what Roarke said it would get and nothing else. Now we'll settle us down for a little alcoholic refreshment and conversation."
    "Peabody," Eve said, reading off the weapons scan. "Your man is left end of the bar, mixed race, black suit. Five-ten, a hundred fifty, shoulder-length black hair. He's armed with a police-issue laser, waist holster. Got him?"
    At Peabody's nod, she continued. "Everyone keep individual targets in close visual range, but do not move in, do not move in to apprehend or disarm until ordered. Martinez, your man is..."
    "Your droid squad stays out of the booth," Roarke said as he stepped into the tube. "I don't talk business with an audience."
    "My thoughts exactly." Ricker moved into the privacy dome, sat as the opening whisked shut behind him.
    He had what he wanted now, what he'd planned for over the years. Roarke would beg. Roarke would fall. And if he struggled too hard, too long, the laser scalpel up Ricker's left sleeve would carve considerable regret in that young and handsome face.
    "Hell of a view," he commented as the dancers spun onstage. "You always did have a taste for women. A weakness for them."
    "True enough. As I recall, you just like to knock them around. You put bruises on my wife."
    "Did I?" Ricker asked innocently. Oh, this is what he craved, what he'd been itching for.