In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

100,000 T and M System, Feeney turned back to his own unit.
    And saw the disc beside it. The one, he mused as he lifted it, that hadn't been there before Roarke had come in.
    His eyes might have been tired, Feeney admitted, but they were still sharp enough. Damned if he'd seen the boy plant the disc.
    Slick as they came.
    He turned the disc over, then with a chuckle loaded it. They'd just see what one slick Irishman had slipped to another on the sly.
    In a lovely detached town house of three stories, Sylvester Yost enjoyed the soaring final aria from Aida while he finished a light lunch of veggie pasta in tarragon vinaigrette, topped off with a glass of excellent Fume Blanc.
    He rarely indulged in wine at lunch, but felt he had earned it. He had passed the FBI's bumbling tactical team on their way to his building, had smiled at them through the privacy-tinted glass of the long black limo minutes, literally minutes before they'd arrived at his building.
    He didn't care for such close calls, but they did add some stimulation to routine.
    Still, he was not pleased. The wine had helped mellow him.
    He ordered the music lower by several notches, then made his call. Both he and the receiver kept video blocked, and voices electronically altered, as agreed.
    Even fully secured and encoded palm units could be hacked, if one knew where to start.
    "I've settled in," Yost said.
    "Good. I hope you have everything you need."
    "I'm comfortable enough, for the moment. I lost a great deal this morning. The art alone was worth several million, and I'll have to replace a considerable amount of wardrobe and enhancements."
    "I'm aware of that. I believe we can retrieve most, if not all of your possessions, given time. If not, I'll agree to pay half your losses. I cannot and will not assume full responsibility."
    Yost might have argued, but he considered himself a fair man in business. The detection, and the resulting losses, were partially his fault. Though he had yet to determine where and when he'd made mistakes.
    "Agreed. Since your transmission this morning was timely, and your pied-a-terre quite adequate for my temporary needs. Do I proceed on schedule?"
    "You do. Hit the next target tomorrow."
    "That's your decision." Yost sipped his after-lunch coffee. "At this point, however, I feel obliged to tell you I intend to dispose of Lieutenant Dallas in my own time and fashion. She's inconvenienced me, and beyond that, she's come too close."
    "I'm not paying you for Dallas."
    "Oh no, this is a bonus."
    "I told you from the beginning why she wasn't chosen for this project. Hit her, and Roarke will never stop hunting. Just keep her busy otherwise until the job is completed."
    "As I said, Dallas is for me. In my time and in my way. You aren't contracting for her, therefore you aren't involved and have no say in the matter. I'll complete your contract."
    On the table, over the spotless white linen, Yost's fist bunched and began to pound, softly, rhythmically. "She owes me, and she will pay. Consider this: With her death, Roarke will only be more distracted and make your job that much easier."
    "She is not your target."
    "I know my target." The pounding increased until he caught himself, flexed his big hand. No, he realized with some annoyance, he wasn't as mellow as he'd believed. There was a terrible anger inside him. And something he hadn't felt in so long he'd forgotten the taste of it.
    Fear.
    "He'll be terminated tomorrow, on schedule. And there won't be any cause for concern about Roarke hunting either of us after I deal with the cop. I intend to eliminate him. For that, you will pay."
    "You succeed with deleting Roarke within the time agreed upon in our addendum, you'll collect your fee. When have I ever failed to pay off a contract?"
    "Then, were I you, I'd begin making arrangements to transfer funds."
    He cut transmission abruptly, pushed from the table, paced. When he felt the worst of the rage ebbing, he made himself go upstairs, into the attractive office where he'd set up his portables.
    Sitting, ordering his mind to clear, he brought up the public data on Eve. And for some time he sat, studying her image and her information.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    Roarke didn't quite make it to Eve's office. He found her down the corridor, in front of one of the vending machines. She and the machine appeared to be in the middle of a vicious argument.
    "I put the proper credits in, you blood-sucking, money-grubbing son of a bitch." Eve punctuated