The Red Room Read Free Page A

heel so deep in your crotch you’ll have shoe leather for a tongue.”
    His sallow skin tone drains to the color of talcum powder.
    The fact that he sits there, standing his ground, is cause for worry: he’s a cocky bastard.
    She detests the thought of logging off when everything is going so well. She can’t bring herself to do it without further provocation. But her instinctive reaction is impatience and she’s trained to guard against it. Good things come to those who wait. She’ll have another shot at this data, she reminds herself.
    So why can’t she bring herself to log off? It’s him and his obstinacy; she’s taken it as a gender challenge and she’s not about to cave.
    She’s angled the screen too low to see what’s happening at the bank. The boy’s flirting will provide good cover, but the distraction has cost her: she’s lost track of who’s entering or exiting the cafeteria. Her best chance now is to keep this boy engaged for the sake of anyone who might be watching. The longer she has him with her, the longer her computer continues recording the bank’s video camera.
    “A woman’s secret treasure, or her secret pleasure?” he says now, and draws the opposing chair back with his shoe, making space to sit.
    “Pleasure cannot be kept secret,” she returns, suddenly enjoying the wordplay, “whereas treasure can.”
    Keeping her prior threat in mind, he estimates the length of her extended leg and moves the chair far enough back to accommodate. He sits.
    “Origin EON seventeen-S,” he says.
    She wishes she could stop the blush that floods her face. John Knox has told her it’s a tell that could get her killed.
    The boy has been lusting after her boutique laptop, not her crotch. She’s made a fool of herself, and he’s so smitten with her electronics that he’s played along.
    He rattles off specs and she counters with the upgrades she’s opted for. Lunge. Parry. His eyes go wide—and then wider. His upper lip is sweating.
    Has she misjudged his age? Is he too old to be a student? Teacher’s aide? Grad student? Or is he a risk-taking thief who dresses well and chats up girls on college campuses, snatches their laptops and disappears before they can rise from their chairs? The Origin is worth over four thousand USD. Mainland gamers would pay that or more.
    If he manages to steal the unlocked laptop, she and Rutherford Risk would suffer. She plays the odds, pressing the two keys and protecting the data. She’s angry over being forced to do so, is tempted to knock the guy across the room.
    Quoting a proverb, “‘Man’s schemes are inferior to those made by heaven,’” Grace casually closes the Origin. It’s heavy, but she one-hands it into the Trager Tru-Ballistic case.
    “I was admiring it. And you. That’s all, cousin.”
    “Next time you might consider antiperspirant on your upper lip, cousin.”
    He holds up both palms in an act of surrender. Behind his eyes,he hungers to test her threats. That look convinces her he intended to steal the laptop. She has to wonder if he was hired.
    She slings the case over her head so the strap, which will hold up to any box cutter or razor, crosses her chest, separating her breasts.
    “I think I’m in love,” he whispers as she passes.

4
    T he air in the Red Room is piped in through slit vents in the ceiling. The temperature is perfect. The humidity, perfect. The company, less than perfect.
    Dulwich is not himself; he’s lost sleep, some color, and his throat is raspy, suggesting he’s stressed.
    “Are we going to rewind,” Knox asks, “or am I supposed to keep up?”
    “What do you think?” Dulwich scratches at the burn scar below his collarbone. The line of pink runs down into his shirt. The phantom itch is one of the man’s tells. He’s editing himself on the fly.
    “Akram Okle owns a pair of Indian restaurants, both called Saffron. One in Bethany. The other in Amman. He’s done well. Not well enough to afford his last purchase,