Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  “You’re the boss,” he acknowledged. Then, carefully, “You know Brand’s going to be ready. I told him you were planning to strike next week, but he won’t drag his feet.”

  “No he won’t.” Margo squeezed her fists until her knuckles popped. “I still have connections, and I know how much he’s escalated security since you met. It tells me he’s definitely moved the evidence there, anyway.”

  “And it’s now or never?”

  “It’ll only get harder.” She glanced at the time. “Speaking of which, we should head out before Friday night traffic throws our whole schedule off.”

  They climbed the stairs, following voices and laughter to a large bathroom with wide mirrors and bright lights. There, four boys stood, stripped to the waist, their faces half-painted and their hair pinned beneath stocking caps. Music played as they applied their makeup, but you could barely hear it over the quips and comebacks, over a camaraderie as sharp as knives and tighter than a fist. Margo watched them with a pang of jealousy; she led the team, but she would always be an outsider to this secret sisterhood.

  “We’re taking off,” she finally said, and a hush fell over the group. The boys looked up at her, their eyes dramatic—but still understated, thank God—and she projected a confident smile. “You guys know the drill.”

  Axel nodded back—solemn, determined. “See you on the other side.”

  * * *

  They took Las Virgenes to the 101, and then headed east along the Valley, Dallas’s SUV as quiet as a tomb. In the dark silence, Margo sent up a silent prayer, asking a creator with whom she wasn’t wholly familiar to let her father know what she intended to do that night. She hadn’t even visited Harland’s grave, for fear of Petrenko’s men staking it out.

  What if they failed? What if she couldn’t read people as well as she thought? When he lies, he swirls his drink. Reginald Castor wasn’t LA’s only egotist.

  But her “sense for people” wasn’t all magic and guesswork, either. Years of observing Harland taught her how to read intentions and body language; her martial arts training had honed an instinct for identifying weaknesses and strengths; and seeing her mother rise, confident, from a bad marriage had taught Margo to trust herself.

  She was right. Her plan would work.

  The SUV stopped suddenly, and she glanced up with a jolt, realizing they’d reached their destination. An aviation tower, slung with lights, rose behind a low building in front of them, and a tiny jet lifted noisily into the twinkling sky. To their right, blades churning with a rhythmic thud, a helicopter waited on a stretch of tarmac—the pilot a friend of Dallas’s from all the time he spent jumping out of airplanes.

  “This is it, you know.” Margo’s mouth was dry. “This isn’t your fight, and you’ve already helped more than I could ever repay. I won’t hold it against you if you back out.”

  “Margo—”

  “No, listen, please. It’s the point of no return, right? The boys and I are on a hit list, and this is our way off it; it’s my responsibility to get us off it, since I got us on it in the first place.” Then, with the coppery tang of vengeance in her throat, she added, “I also owe a debt to Addison Brand. But you don’t owe anybody anything, and if you want to wish me well and leave—”

  “Margo. I’m not going anywhere.” Dallas gripped the steering wheel. “I … there’s a million reasons I could walk away, but I haven’t felt this alive in ages, and it’s a feeling I’ve missed.” He looked over at her. “And then there’s you. I’ve never dated anyone that makes me feel the way you do—who makes me feel like it’s okay to not be ‘normal.’”

  Margo leaned forward. “Are we dating?”

  He laughed out loud. “I hope so. I mean, that’s what I’d like, if you’re into it.” Reaching across, Dallas ran his fingers through her loose blond hair. “Seems like our timing is always screwed up, and bad shit keeps getting in the way, but … Eagle Rock wasn’t enough for me. Not even close.” Grinning crookedly, he said, “I’m doing this for you, but it’s for me, too. I’m doing it because I can’t imagine not doing it. I’m all in, Margo Manning. No matter what. Let’s go snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.”

  The helicopter beat its steady rhythm, lights flashing from the aviation tower, and Margo looked up at the boy she was falling for. “You’ve got a deal, Dallas Yang.”

  They hurried across the tarmac to the helicopter, ducking when they neared the blades, and clambered aboard. Strapping in as the aircraft lurched into the sky, they watched the Valley fall away—a river of lights that flowed between black velvet hills.

  41

  Vivaldi’s strings filled the car, plastering over a tense silence as Davon drove the boys toward Bunker Hill. He’d boosted a low-profile sedan, something forgettable, swapping its plate for one with lots of sevens on it. He wasn’t superstitious, but the number was supposed to be lucky, and it sure as hell couldn’t hurt.

  Tonight they’d eschewed their Technicolor manes for wigs in natural colors. Davon’s lace-front was black and wavy; Axel’s was a fall of loose curls in chestnut brown; Joaquin’s was an auburn cascade trailing past his shoulders; and Leif’s was ash blond, sleek and severe. The skirts and dresses they wore were business casual, and from a distance, they looked like four boring office workers.

  Which, of course, was the entire point.

  On Grand Avenue, Davon slowed, turning in at the entrance of the Manning Tower parking garage, and stopped beside an electronic reader. Lowering the window, he swiped the key card Margo had gotten from her op-tech genius. The gate grumbled open, and they drove down a ramp into the bilious, golden embrace of underground safety lights.

  * * *

  Just as the gate was sliding shut again, a dark helicopter thudded across the dome of night sky over Bunker Hill. It made a lazy circle, the bright streets dizzyingly far below, before finally hovering some five hundred feet above the landing pad that crowned the Manning spire.

  Quickly, Margo and Dallas checked the straps on their parachutes, donned their goggles and helmets, and stepped to the helicopter’s open door. The landing pad seemed ridiculously small, but there was no time to linger or second-guess; with their static lines clipped into place, they exchanged a brief nod—and then jumped into the air.

  Margo’s chute snapped open, the harness biting into her groin and underarms, and she gripped the controls that would guide her descent. The helicopter pulled away, its drone fading and vanishing, swallowed by the roaring updraft of wind. Below, the rooftop closed in, rushing at her with astonishing speed—and when she touched down, the impact drove the air from her lungs. Pulling the cutaway handle to release the canopy as a precaution, she just managed to reel it in before it blew off into the night.

  Dallas landed a few seconds later, his chute collapsing behind him, and they convened before a square metal structure that rose up from the flat surface of the roof. Removing his goggles, the boy grinned, eyes aglow. “Ready to crash the party?”

  “I’m Margo Manning,” she returned, tossing her blond hair with exaggerated insouciance. “I’m always ready to party.” Activating her comm, she announced, “Miss Anthropy and guest in place. Liesl, Dior, Electra, Anita: What’s your twenty?”

  After a moment, Axel’s voice came back. “In place and approaching the elevators. All systems are go, Miss A.”

  From her utility pack, Margo pulled out a small black box—a miniature EMP, identical to the one they’d used on the LAMFA job—and turned to a heavy door set into the metal structure before them. Guarded by an electronic locking mechanism, it opened onto a staircase leading into the building. Fixing the micro-charge in place, she activated it and pulled Dallas a few feet away.

  There came a dry pop and the crackle of dying energy, and then silence. Stepping forward, Margo tested the door, and it opened without resistance. Through her comm, she said, “Ready, set, go.”

  * * *

  The parking deck was a grim, oil-stained maze of concrete and sulfurous lighting,
and the clatter of high heels echoed like rain on a tin roof as the boys headed for the elevator to the lobby. Set in an alcove that glowed beneath a strip of fluorescent bulbs, two sets of double doors bore a painted P1—Parking, first level. A bubble of black plastic bulged from the ceiling, betraying a surveillance camera, and Axel licked his painted lips. “Game faces on, girls.”

  Heads down, they began to laugh and gesture as they came within range of the camera, their steps languid. Upstairs, there were three armed guards in the lobby—two more than usual, after hours—and, having received an alert when the gate to the parking deck opened, all of them would be watching the surveillance feed from the garage. The monitor would show four women, tipsy from drinks after work, returning to the office.

  Davon pushed the call button and the doors opened. Their charade continued for the short ride up—a pantomime of conversation performed for an electronic eye—while Axel slipped both hands into his shoulder bag. His blood quickened, his breathing slowed, and he found his center. He was the only one getting off when they reached the lobby, and if he failed in the task before him, the game was over; the other boys would retreat and escape, while Margo and Dallas recalled their helicopter. As for himself …

  Joaquin’s eyes were on him, he realized, nervous behind an artfully subtle cut-crease effect; and Axel forced a confident smile that was almost genuine.

  The car slowed, the bell dinged, the doors slid apart … and time slowed.

  Axel stepped off the elevator, swinging two guns free from his shoulder bag as he strode into the lobby. One guard had already been on his way to intercept them, with a second just behind, the third remaining seated at the reception desk before a bank of security monitors—and a button that would activate Manning’s silent alarm.

  Surprise dawned on the faces of the two guards closing in, the whites of their eyes showing as they noticed the weapons; but Axel fired before they could react. Tranquilizer darts streaked across the lobby, one hitting the second guard just beneath his hip and the other plunging into the seated man’s shoulder as he tried to twist away.

  The pistols could only hold one dart at a time, and with the first guard already snapping open the holster at his hip, there was no chance to reload; tossing his weapons to the floor, Axel lunged forward, slamming his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose. The guard staggered back, eyes rolling, and the boy launched an outside crescent kick that sent him crashing to the floor. Quickly, then, he removed a third dart from his purse and plunged it into his dazed opponent’s backside, letting the drug drain into his bloodstream.

  Four seconds after the elevator bell had rung, all three guards lay sprawled on the floor, and Axel stood over them, his breath a soft shush that filled the marble atrium.

  * * *

  The fifty-fifth floor, at the very top of the skyscraper, commanded the building’s most stunning views. For this reason, it was reserved for conference rooms and exhibition space, where both investors and journalists could be dazzled by LA’s sun-soaked sprawl.

  Now, the sun down and the rooms vacant, the floor was sepulchral as Margo and Dallas emerged from the stairwell by the elevator bank. The carpeting underfoot absorbed sound like a black hole, their footsteps silent as they made their way to an unlocked conference room. The nighttime city filled the wall of windows behind the elongated table like a cyclorama of fairy lights in the darkness.

  Margo was eyeing a large vent in the wall when her comm came to life, Davon’s voice crisp and professional. “Lobby secured. Phase One complete.”

  “We’re on fifty-five,” Margo replied softly. “We’ll check back soon.”

  They wasted no time unscrewing the grate, slipping on rubber knee and elbow pads, and climbing into the metal shaft that channeled fresh air between the floors. The breeze sweeping up from below lifted Margo’s hair, chilling the sweat on her neck and making her shiver.

  * * *

  In full view of the street, the lobby had been an unavoidably high-risk place to take down three guards; and no matter how quickly Axel had managed it, Joaquin knew that they were as good as fucked if anyone passing by had seen it happen. His heart beat so hard he could feel it in the roof of his mouth as they hustled the unconscious men into a supply closet—stripping off their uniform shirts, cuffing them, and taping their mouths shut.

  Leif disassembled the firearms, emptying their bullets into the trash and tossing the slides, barrels, and other parts into a mail chute. Slipping on one of the guard’s shirts, a peaked cap resting atop his glossy black wig, Davon took a seat behind the console. From the street, he’d look like the guard on duty: bored and waiting for the night shift to end. Into his comm, he reported, “Lobby secured. Phase One complete.”

  Dressed in another guard’s shirt and hat, Axel swept the chestnut curls out of his face and held up the downed man’s key card. Before he’d give it to Joaquin, however, he made the boy meet his eyes. “Are you ready?”

  “I can do this,” Joaquin replied tightly, annoyance sparking to life in his gut—but Axel surprised him with an honest smile.

  “I know you can do it,” his brother said. “I asked if you were ready.”

  “I am,” Joaquin promised. “And Leif’s got my back. We’ll be fine.”

  “I know. I know.” Axel still wouldn’t relinquish the card. “I just…” He cleared his throat, and—to Joaquin’s surprise—his eyes started to fill. “I want you to know how proud I am of—”

  “Ohmygosh, Axel.” Joaquin’s throat closed, pressure building immediately behind his own eyes. “Are you kidding me? Don’t do this right now.”

  “I have to.” His brother sucked in a shaky breath and swept a tear from his false eyelashes. “Whatever happens tonight, I need you to know that I’m proud of you. I’m lucky to have you as my brother—and my drag sister, too. I know I’ve been a shit, and I’m sorry. When this is over…” He took another deep breath. “I’ll help you unenroll from Somerville. I know you hate it there, and you deserve to go where you want to.”

  “Seriously?” Joaquin stared, suddenly grateful for the deadly peril they were in. “In that case, fuck it.” He snatched the plastic card from his brother’s hand. “Let’s see them try to kill me. I made it through two years at Somerville—dodging bullets will be a cakewalk.”

  “Be careful,” Axel called after him as the boy scurried for the elevators that accessed the rest of the tower. “I love you!”

  “STOP EMBARRASSING ME!” Joaquin shouted over his shoulder. He jumped onto the first open car, Leif beside him, swiping the key card and pressing the button marked forty. Just before the doors closed, though, Joaquin called back, “I love you, too!”

  The elevator shut, jolted, and surged upward. As his stomach dropped, he reached for Leif’s hand. Their fingers laced together, Joaquin closed his eyes and smiled.

  * * *

  The reverse screwdriver made quick work of the vent one floor down, and even though the burn had barely started in her thighs and shoulders, Margo still breathed a sigh of relief as she climbed out of the shaft. They were fifty-four stories above the ground, and the column plunged straight down for at least a hundred feet before it bent again.

  She found herself in an abandoned corner office on the executive floor, stripped clean of its furnishings. The fixtures were dusty, the carpet indented where a desk once stood, and a faint, woodsy aroma still lingered in the air. A pair of booted feet swung through the vent then, and Dallas slid into view, dropping to the ground.

  “That was kinda fun,” he remarked, peeling off his rubber pads. “Like rock climbing, but without the rocks. I still say you should have let me go first, though. I’m a lot bigger, and if I’d slipped, I could have landed on top of you.”

  “Who says having you on top of me isn’t part of tonight’s plan?” Margo parried with an innocent smile.

  An animal glimmer flashed in Dallas’s eyes, and she could have sworn actual sparks climbed up her arms when he took a step closer. Adrenaline pu
mping, their senses were heightened and the usual magnetism that drew them together had been dosed with electricity. The danger was intoxicating, and with some difficulty, Margo took a step back.

  After a long moment, Dallas turned and took in the room. “Where are we?”

  “This used to be Brand’s office.” She looked around the barren space, not even a scrap of paper left behind. Where had it all gone? Harland’s office had seemed practically unchanged when she’d confronted Addison there two months earlier. It was as if the man had cast off his old skin and tried to step right into her father’s.

  A strip of light showed under the door to the hallway, and Margo crossed the room, pressing her ear to the jamb. Voices, male and overlapping, reached her from somewhere outside. Knuckles flexing, she spoke into her comm again. “Okay. Begin Phase Two.”

  * * *

  Behind a locked, steel-reinforced door on level forty, in a room kept at a frosty temperature around the clock, were the servers that supported the computer network for Manning Tower. The beating heart of a hand-built empire, it housed a universe of sensitive information, and Addison Brand had been determined to protect it. While beefing up other security protocols, he had also hired an extra armed guard to watch the server room after hours, just one more added precaution against an expected break-in.

  That night, lost down an internet rabbit hole of conspiracy theories about the death of James Forrestal, the US Secretary of Defense who mysteriously fell from the sixteenth story of a naval hospital in 1949, the new guard almost believed he was hallucinating when he heard the sharp ding of an elevator arriving at his floor.