Thankless in Death

wasn’t going to find her mark.
    “Did you get anything?” she asked as they walked to the bedroom.
    “It’s slow, and bloody frustrating. I’ve got some bytes, and enoughto see she’d interfaced her units. When we pull out more, we may be able to follow the money trail more precisely. Feeney’s banging his head against that wall. We’ve connected on it a few times tonight. He’ll bang it again tomorrow. And before you ask, yes, McNab’s been at work as I have, and they pulled in Callendar as well. We’ll get there, but it’s going to continue to be slow and frustrating for all of us.”
    In the bedroom, she stripped down. “If we find the money trail, the accounts—and they’re out of our reach, legally—you could hack them with the unregistered.”
    He glanced over as she dragged on a nightshirt. Her skin had that faint, translucent glow it developed when she’d exhausted herself. “I could, yes, and enjoy it as well.”
    “I need to think about it. Well, we need to get there first, and I need to think about it. If I can’t find him my way, I may have to find him yours. Because he’s got his next target in mind, and he’s figuring it out now. He’s working it out, and feeling smug about it.”
    He slipped into bed with her, pulled her against him. “One way or the other you’ll have him. He won’t be so bloody smug then, will he?”
    “Not when I’m done with him.” She closed her eyes, tried to will herself to sleep.
    I n his new penthouse, in his swanky new bed, Reinhold swallowed another dose of pain meds, chased it with the last of the complementary bottles of champagne from building management.
    His foot fucking hurt !
    It hadn’t been bad when he’d left the clinic, in fact he’d felt damngood cruising on the drugs. Then he’d felt like a million—or four—when he’d walked into his new place, found the big-ass gift basket from management. Champagne, fancy cheeses, and candy and fruit and cookies, and all kinds of rich-man snack food.
    He’d felt so damn good, he’d ordered the droid to unpack, then go out and buy some imported brew, and fix up that steak dinner.
    He was going to like getting used to steak dinners.
    He’d walked all over the apartment, all over the building checking out the shops, the fitness center, the restaurants and bars.
    He’d thought about hanging out at the bar—for longer than the one drink he’d had—maybe hooking up with a woman. But he wanted to get the lay of the land first.
    He’d walked around the neighborhood some, too, just getting that feel and feeling fine.
    It wasn’t until the foot started throbbing some he remembered being told to stay off it, keep it elevated.
    The idiot doctor should’ve made it more clear, he told himself, teeth gritted as he waited for the meds to kick in. He should’ve given him stronger drugs, more specific instructions, better care.
    Maybe he’d give the asshole doctor a taste of his own. See how he liked a broken foot.
    “You’re on my Shit List,” Reinhold mumbled.
    He could go back for a “follow-up,” teach the asshole a lesson, grab some good drugs.
    He liked the idea, rode on it through the pain until the miracle of chemistry clicked in, and eased that pain away.
    Not smart, he thought, to go back to the asshole doctor. Smarter to do a little research, find out where said Asshole, M.D., lived, and take care of it. He probably had money, too.

    Fucking doctors rolled in dough.
    Yeah, he’d start working on that, maybe catch him some night when he left the clinic, or when he was in his own fancy apartment.
    Something to think about, but he had other business first.
    He ordered the bedroom screen on, had to think through to remember how to call his computer up on it. Then decided he wanted pizza.
    Steak dinner had been hours ago.
    “Hey, Asshole!” He enjoyed programming the droid to answer to the insult. It made him laugh, every single time.
    “Yes, sir.” The droid came to the bedroom doorway.
    “Get me a pizza—pepperoni, mushrooms, peppers, onions. A large. Get it at Vinnie’s, that’s my place.”
    “Yes, sir. Should I go out and get one or arrange for delivery.”
    “Go get it, for Christ’s sake. You think I want to wait for some fuckwad to deliver it? And make it snappy, you shithead.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He liked the “sir.” About damn time somebody called him sir. In fact, from now on, he’d make anybody he planned to kill call him sir before he did them.
    He called