Room twelve's back door is there, just as I suspected. Heavy steel with a deadbolt, but the frame looks like it's seen better decades. More importantly, there's a window beside it—small, high up, but big enough.
“Boost me up,” V demands.
I lace my fingers together, creating a stirrup. He steps up, peering through the grimy glass before he waves to me to lower him down.
V pulls me away from the room, far enough he can’t hear us talking, “The room is dark except for the blue glow of a laptop screen. I can make out a figure hunched over the desk, back to the window.”
“Has to be him.”
“The window's unlocked. Latch was loose.”
“One second,” V mutters. “Gotta get something from the van.”
V jogs back to the van. Every second feels like an eternity, my nerves humming with anticipation. This is it. Holloway's time is up.
V returns in less than a minute, his footsteps silent on the cracked pavement. When I turn, he's grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, holding up two tactical gas masks and what looks like a military-grade smoke canister.
“Where the fuck did you get those?” I ask, eyeing the equipment.
“I come prepared for all occasions.” V hands me one of the masks. “Remember that gun runner in Phoenix? The paranoid dude with the bunker? Let's just say I walked away with more than my share of the deal.”
I take the mask, checking the seal and straps. “Smoke bomb, too?”
“CS gas, actually.” V's smile turns predatory, “Not lethal, but it'll fuck him up long enough for us to get the drop on him.”
“Jesus, V.” I'm impressed despite myself. “Remind me to never underestimate your crazy ass.”
“That's what I keep telling everyone.” He checks the pin on the canister. “Plan's simple. I pull the pin, toss it through the window, we wait twenty seconds, then go in hard and fast. Masks on before we breach. You stab him in the neck with the night-night juice.”
I nod, slipping the mask over my head but leaving it resting on my forehead for now. “On my count. Three...two...”
V yanks the pin and hurls the canister through the window in one fluid motion. Glass shatters, the sound sharp in the desert air. We press ourselves against the wall, counting down the seconds.
The gas hisses as it deploys, and within moments, I hear coughing from inside the room. Violent, choking sounds that tell me our surprise worked.
“Now,” I growl, pulling the mask down over my face.
V kicks the back door. The rotted frame splinters like kindling, the door flying inward. We rush through the breach, moving fast through the cloud of white gas that fills the room.
Holloway is on his knees beside the overturned desk, one hand pressed to his mouth, the other fumbling for something on the floor. Tears are streaming, his face is red and blotchy from the chemical assault. He looks up as we enter, and I get my first good look at Charlotte's nightmare.
He's exactly what I expected—short haircut, lean build, cold eyes. The kind of man who is comfortable with violence. Who enjoys it.
“Vincent Holloway,” I announce, circling him like a predator. “We need to talk.”
He tries to speak but dissolves into another coughing fit. His hand finally finds what he was reaching for, a pistol. But V's boot comes down hard on his wrist, the crack of bone almost lost beneath Holloway's howl of pain. The gun skitters across the floor, disappearing under the bed.
“That's not very friendly,” V says, his voice muffled behind the gas mask.
I step closer, uncapping the syringe as Holloway writhes on the floor. His training kicks in—even through the pain and gas, he lashes out with his good hand, catching me in the knee. I stumble but don't fall. The blow is weak, his coordination shot to hell.
“Hold him,” I order, and V drops a knee onto Holloway's chest, pinning him to the grimy carpet.
“You have no idea...what you're doing,” Holloway chokes out between gasps.
I crouch beside him, bringing the needle into his line of sight. He bucks against V's weight, desperation lending him strength. “Wait?—”
I don't wait. I drive the needle into his neck, depressing the plunger in one smooth motion. His struggles intensify for a moment, then gradually weaken as the drug floods his system. His eyelids flutter, fighting the inevitable.
