Rebeca was an appropriately talented ladies’ maid, even among a society that had come to re-appreciate a multitalented servant. She made sure Katrina had weekly mindmaps, and mindmaps before a job. She kept Katrina’s weapons cleaned, sharpened, balanced, and polished, as it applied to each. And the Hermès suit was loose enough to hide multiple weapons secured on each calf, up her left forearm, and inside the brim of her hat. Rebeca also knew how to get blood, feces, and vomit out of almost every fabric. Katrina didn’t lose many articles of clothing to her line of work.
The white fedora was symbolic. It sat tilted on her head, with her black hair in a braided bun at the nape of her neck. Katrina found that people trusted her when she wore white. They were attracted to her when she wore red. Green was not her color. The black Hermès suit was to throw the guests off, so that they would feel an undercurrent of anxiety and not know why.
Now, dressed in her suit, a fresh mindmap stored on the server, and cool weapons warming to her body temperature, she was ready to go. Today’s party was close to her home of Punta Diamante in Acapulco. Rebeca ordered a car for her, handed over her wrap and her clutch (which held no weapons; Katrina wasn’t stupid), and escorted her outside so that she might watch the sun set over the Pacific while she waited.
Some ridiculously rich people still hired car services driven by people. It was as logical as having a gold-plated toilet—ostentatiously irrelevant. Many people, including those with Katrina’s level of wealth, simply ordered a self-driving car for where they wanted to go, which made travel both effortless and blameless. More self-driving cars made the traffic a lot better too.
When the self-driving car arrived with someone else in the backseat, Katrina ducked inside her house and drew her gun.
A short, stocky woman with light-brown skin and dark eyes got out of the car and walked without hurry to the door. She wore an expensive gray pantsuit—Italian?—black heels, and a gray fedora. She looked about twenty-five, but carried herself with the confidence of someone much older.
Watching her on the security monitor, Katrina knew who this woman was. She would be a terrible corporate assassin if she didn’t recognize her own target.
The way she walked, the way she dressed, this woman was very much like Katrina. Dedicated, methodical, understanding the importance of a proper outfit, and refusing to move fast unless she had to.
She knocked on the door. “Katrina de la Cruz,” she said in an American accent. “My name is Sallie Mignon. I would like to talk to you. I am unarmed.”
Rebeca had come to investigate. She raised an eyebrow at Katrina, who nodded. Katrina walked a way into the foyer and sat on the bench under the original Phillips abstract painting. She held her gun steady and motioned for Rebeca to open the door.
“Won’t you come—” Rebeca began, but Sallie sucker-punched her in the face.
She went down hard, nose bleeding.
Katrina fired once to the woman’s right, chipping the door.
Sallie stopped and held her hands up. “I wished to talk with only you,” she said.
“That doesn’t look like talking to me, that looks like attacking my household,” Katrina said, pointing to Rebeca with her left hand, right still holding the gun steady.
“I said I was unarmed,” the woman said. “And—” She didn’t get to finish, but let out a surprised grunt when Rebeca’s legs trapped hers and scissored, flipping Sallie backward. She hit her head on the floor and Rebeca sat up, punched her in the temple with two jabs, then leaped to her feet, blood still streaming from her nose, and stepped on Sallie’s wrist, pinning it neatly.
It was probably time to give Rebeca a raise.
“You didn’t know my household was an MMA champion in college, did you?” Katrina asked.
Sallie groaned.
“Check her for weapons,” Katrina said.
Rebeca shook her head. “She doesn’t have any. She doesn’t need any.”
“Tie her up and then see to yourself.”
Rebeca and Katrina moved the dazed woman into the kitchen and tied her to a chair. Katrina sat on a stool facing her. Rebeca put a wet towel to her nose, but watched the woman carefully.
The woman came to her senses quicker than Katrina had anticipated. She flexed, testing her bindings, and then relaxed. She fixed Katrina with questioning eyes. “I’m not dead?”
“I wanted to learn more about you,” Katrina said. “Besides, the job is to kill you at the party. Not in my kitchen.”
“Why were you so cautious when I got here?” the woman asked. “I’m no threat to you; you’ve got to have backups.”
“I don’t have time to wake up a new clone before the party at this point. And I like this suit.”
“Fair enough. I am here to—”
“I can’t be bought,” Katrina interrupted.
“Beyond being hired to kill in the first place,” Sallie said with a smile.
“I suppose,” Katrina allowed.
“I just want to talk before the party,” Sallie said.
“We’re talking,” Katrina told her. “You’re a high-paying bounty. I did research on you. Your brain is one of the most feared in the world. How have you not been targeted by a mind hacker by now?”
“The best hacker in the world is in my employ,” Sallie said.
“Of course,” Katrina said. “Why are you here instead of letting me kill you at the Sol Cola party like I am supposed to?”
“I knew I’d be assassinated at this party. I have several spies within Sol Cola. I looked you up too. You are quite the warrior.”
Katrina shrugged. Flattery of that sort no longer did much for her. She knew exactly how good she was.
“So?”
“I’m not talking your physical prowess,” Sallie said. “I’m talking about your battle strategy. You plan everything down to the smallest detail, taking into account food and drink preferences and past love affairs. You have contingency plans. I need someone like you on staff.”
Katrina shook her head. “I told you, I can’t be bought out of a contract. You can’t pay me double to go after my clients. I lose all professional integrity if I allow that.”
Sallie strained briefly at her restraints. She was someone who talked with her hands, Katrina realized. “That’s not it. I’m asking you to change jobs entirely.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you love money and adventure and power.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Sallie smiled. “All right, most love those things, but you pursue them aggressively.”
“The job?”
“Consultant, to start out with. I have a problem I need to figure out.”
Katrina waited.
“How does one exact revenge on people who are incredibly wealthy and do not fear death?”
Katrina thought for a moment.
“We’re going to need a drink for this.”
Rebeca, with cotton stuffed in her nose, served them an expensive gold tequila and prepared an ice pack for Sallie’s head.