Twist the Knife (Lost Kings MC #24)

Here’s the riskiest part of my plan. Running along the side of the building, I pop out near the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor and scurry up a few steps. Large, unkempt shrubbery obscures the bottom half of the staircase, making it dark and shadowy. A perfect temporary hiding spot.

A few seconds later, the delivery driver approaches the stairs.

Please let this be the right one.

I grab the banister and act like I’m running down to meet him. “Oh, hey. Is that for Room 242?”

He squints at me, then smiles. “Yup.”

I hold out my hand for the bag. “Thanks.”

A frown creases his forehead. “Patrick…?”

“Larsen, yup,” I confirm, giving him the correct last name.

“Excellent. Thanks.”

“No, thank you.” I hand him a folded-up twenty-dollar bill, hoping surprise at the amount of the tip will override any other details about our encounter, like the black latex gloves I’m wearing.

“Whoa, thanks ma’am.” He grabs the bill and unfolds it, his attention not lingering on my hand. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I think he always forgets to tip in the app, you know?”

“Glad I didn’t spit in his chili now.” He laughs and darts away.

Gross. I sigh. If that guy’s my undoing, then I deserve to be caught.

The hard part isn’t over for me yet. I’m exposed outside. It’s dark but anyone could walk up on me at any time. The motel isn’t exactly deserted. I drop my butt to the stairs and plop the bag between my feet. To anyone observing, I could just be checking to make sure my whole order’s here. Totally normal, right?

The syringe I pull out of my sweatshirt pocket isn’t at all normal, though.

Chili, the kid said, right? I pull the two twine handles apart and peer into the bag. Chips, what looks—and smells—like several wrapped hot dogs, a tall white cup with a clear dome-shaped cover with swirls of whipped cream underneath, and finally a wide, white cup with a plastic lid—complete with ventilation holes—in the corner. Perfect, I don’t even have to puncture anything. I uncap the syringe and plunge the tip into one of the holes in the chili container and slowly empty about half of it.

Enough odorless, tasteless fentanyl to kill a football team slips into the hot, smelly cup. Just in case, I pluck a napkin from the bag, wipe the tip of the needle and empty the rest of it into the milkshake. The perfectly swirled whipped cream at the top deflates a little but that shouldn’t look too strange. It’s sitting in a bag with a bunch of hot food, after all. Even if he decides not to drink the milkshake, hopefully he doesn’t skip the chili.

I tuck the empty syringe and the dirty napkin in my pocket and stand. A quick scan of the immediate area shows it’s still empty.

Time to make my delivery.

I hurry up the steps and walk down the long corridor, trying to stay in the shadows. I stop outside his room and crouch down to grab my small camera. No reason to leave evidence that could lead straight back to me.

Once I unfasten the camera and stick it in my pocket, I tap my knuckles against the door. My heart pounds wildly and an invisible band of fear tightens around my forehead—or maybe my wig’s too tight. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck.

“Just leave it!” someone barks from inside.

I pitch my voice into something worthy of a helium-drunk cartoon character and garble a few nonsense words.

“What?” The door flies open.

Face-to-face with evil, he’s not all that impressive. Just another pathetic excuse for a human who enjoys taking out his anger on those who are weaker than him.

“Patrick?” I ask sweetly, holding up the bag.

His hostile attitude switches to interest as his gaze lands and stays on my chest.

“That’s me.” He opens the door wider. “Come on in.”

“Oh, we’re not allowed to.” I giggle like an airhead.