The men and women on the board had once been visionaries, but now they’d turned into Wall Street stooges. The fire in their bellies was hardly even a spark anymore. Barry Fujimoto, the CEO of Parnassus, had pointed out that having a computer play the game for you was no better than cheating. And anyway, having a super-brain computer the size of a desk was one thing. If Ackerman wanted to develop his idea as part of a game, that brain had to be small and portable. Fujimoto wanted the tech developed but said they’d settle on an application later.
Ackerman had fumed about the CEO’s rebuff for a time, then decided that if someone was going to make money off his creation, it should be him, not a bunch of stockholders. He hadn’t even intended to cut in Noonan — until a soccer mom in a Subaru Outback crashed into him while he was riding his bike to work and broke both his legs. That bitch had cost him millions — and forced him to bring the Poison Dwarf into the deal.
Noonan would still have to come back for his family… or not. You could get yourself a whole new family for as much money as they had. Ackerman hadn’t told the little bastard about his own plans. Sure, he’d helped with the offshore-banking stuff, but that was just out of self-preservation. If Noonan got himself caught before Ackerman could leave, then everything was toast.
The back door squeaked again, like someone was pulling it open. It was funny how normal sounds became monster claws when you had a fortune in stolen money chilling in an offshore bank account. He was sure he’d locked the inner door. Hell, he would have nailed every door and window in the house shut if he would have had the tools — fortify himself until he went to catch his flight the next day. No one could possibly know he was here. Surely. Probably. He was just no damned good at being a fugitive.
He made a shuffling turn, thinking how good the bed would feel on his aching legs — and nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw two Asian women standing in his room. Completely naked but for operating-room-style hair caps, their skin glowed a dusky orange in the light of the bedside lamp. Both women were in their twenties, cut, like they were into CrossFit. He’d read about burglars who went in like that so as not to leave behind so much as a stray bit of thread as evidence.
In any other situation, Ackerman would have found two naked Asian chicks sneaking into his room exhilarating. Now he fought the urge to throw up.
He tried to speak but managed little more than a gurgle.
The nearest one lifted a finger to her lips. “SHHHH,” she hissed, her almond eyes sparkling in the faint glow of the lamp.
Ackerman’s mouth fell open but no words came out. His ex-wife’s revolver dangled impotently in his fist, the thought of raising it never even crossing his mind. The woman to his left moved toward him, snakelike, expertly kneeing him above the walking boot so he fell to the floor. She wrested the gun from his hand and took a half-step back, looming over him, tilting her head from side to side quizzically, as if to get a better angle.
“We require the passwords to your computer,” the one who had shushed him said. She was beautiful — but cold, like he imagined LongGame would be if she had an avatar.
Ackerman tried to push himself up, but the woman who’d tackled him pushed him down with the sole of her bare foot, snap-kicking him in the ribs for good measure. His diaphragm paralyzed, he made futile wheezing attempts to draw a full breath.
“Stay down,” she said, almost tenderly.
“I… you… what… do you want?”
The first woman squatted next to him, arms on her thighs, her knee only inches from his face. He closed his eyes, at once enthralled and terrified at her nakedness.
“This is very important,” the woman said. “I need you to provide for me all existing copies of Calliope. Your life depends on what you do now.”
Ackerman groaned as his bladder gave way.
Like a fool, he babbled an apology.
“It happens,” the nude woman standing over him said, nudging his face with her toe. Her tiny nails were painted bright pink, incongruous to the blackness of her eyes.
She kicked him again.
“Calliope?” the squatting one said. She slapped his face. Hard enough that he tasted blood.
“My… partner…” Ackerman stammered through the ringing in his ears. “I don’t have any more copies.” He did not mention LongGame.
The squatting woman flicked her wrist. For the first time, Ackerman caught the bright glint of a blade in her left hand. It was small, a straight razor she’d kept folded in her fist, out of sight until now. His stomach roiled, and he gagged as the truth fell on him like an executioner’s ax.
The women hadn’t removed their clothes to keep from leaving behind evidence. They did it so as not to soil themselves with his blood.
