That Time in Paris, Logan Ryles [room on the broom read aloud TXT] 📗

small—just frequent and powerful enough to give him a jolt of jollies, yet innocent enough to be dismissed as the thrill of impending corporate stardom. When Wolfgang cut off the supply a little over forty hours before, the loss hadn’t been noticed. Not until now, anyway. Now, the rages of withdrawal were in full effect, clouding Hawthorn’s mind and jeopardizing his entire future.

Wolfgang remained close enough to keep Hawthorn in sight, but far enough that nobody would take note. The cold sidewalks of downtown Chicago passed beneath him amid a clamor of car horns and shouting voices, but it was easy to keep Hawthorn in sight all the way up to the front steps of the mighty Willis Tower.

Formerly the Sears Building, the Willis Tower was the tallest building in Chicago and the third tallest building in America. Jutting almost fifteen hundred feet into the sky, it loomed over downtown Chicago like a domineering emphasis dedicated to the gods of the corporate universe—which it pretty much was.

Hawthorn stumbled up the front steps toward the glass canopy entrance of the tower. Tourists from around the world were already crowding toward the building, eager to experience the breathtaking view from the tower’s observation deck. Hawthorn ignored them, pausing at the door and suddenly clutching one hand over his stomach.

Wolfgang checked his watch. Nine minutes and eighteen seconds had elapsed since Hawthorn left the coffee shop, which meant that his present gut distress was right on schedule. Wolfgang closed the distance between them as Hawthorn pushed through the door and stepped into the massive lobby. More tourists and suit-clad businessmen hid Wolfgang from view as he followed Hawthorn toward the elevator.

But Hawthorn never made it to the elevator. He came within two paces, then doubled over, gripping his stomach. A moment later, he spun on his heel and bolted toward the lobby bathrooms, waddling like an old man with stiff knees—because a laxative is also a hell of a drug and virtually undetectable when mixed in a dark roast with two creams and one sugar.

Wolfgang turned to follow, his shoulders loosening as his stress level began to subside. The operation was all but over now. Hawthorn blasted through the door into the lobby-level bathrooms, and Wolfgang followed two strides behind. The bathroom was bright, with light gleaming off of porcelain sinks and polished mirrors. Banks of bathroom stalls lined the right-hand wall, and Hawthorn made for the first one, sliding through the door like a baseball player skidding onto home plate. The door smacked shut, the briefcase hit the floor, and then Hawthorn hit the throne.

Wolfgang winced at the sounds erupting from the stall. He dug beneath the collar of his dress shirt and produced a stretchy neck gaiter, passing it across his mouth and nose to help block out the smell as he slipped into the stall adjacent to Hawthorn’s. Wolfgang kicked the seat cover down over the toilet and sat down as Hawthorn grunted and groaned like a cow giving birth. His hand smacked against the side of the wall as though he were retching, and then another wave of bodily ejections erupted inside Hawthorn’s stall.

Wolfgang grimaced and tried to hold his breath. He dug a pair of rubber surgical gloves from his pocket and tugged them on, wishing he could pull them over his head instead. Then he peeked beneath the edge of the stall. Hawthorn’s briefcase was visible, standing next to the toilet, only inches from Wolfgang’s fingers. He waited until Hawthorn retched and groaned again, then quickly swapped his briefcase for Hawthorn’s.

Wolfgang produced a small case from his pocket and snapped it open over his knees. Two electronic plates were inside, connected by wires. The plates featured tiny LED screens on the top sides, with three rubber wheels and a rubber thumb on the bottom side. Wolfgang lifted the plates out of the case and fitted them over the locking dials on the briefcase. The rubber wheels landed perfectly over the metal dials of the briefcase’s combination lock, sucking tight against it with magnetic force, and the rubber thumb pressed against the lock switch. He checked to ensure that the device was properly aligned, then hit the only button on either plate.

A soft whirring began a moment later, and numbers flashed across the LED screens as the device began to spin the dials while the rubber thumbs maintained pressure on the lock switches. It checked twenty-eight possible combinations every second as the right-hand device worked backward from 999 and the left worked upward from 000.

It was almost certain that both combinations were the same, so as soon as one device founded a winning number, the second device would cease its search and attempt the same number on the opposite side. Most people set the combinations of both sides to the same number, and Hawthorn was anything but a security genius.

Wolfgang leaned back and crossed his arms, waiting and trying not to breathe. Seconds ticked by, and then the left-hand lock popped open with a soft click. 317. Wolfgang tried not to roll his eyes. He should have guessed that number. It was Hawthorn’s birthday.

The right-hand plate attempted the same combination a second later, and the lock popped open. He pocketed the device, his fingers moving in a blur as he reached into his coat and unclipped the package from his lower back.

The pod that he produced from beneath his coat wasn’t much bigger than a cell phone, but about four times as thick and worth infinitely more. Wolfgang opened it at the same time he opened the briefcase, and carefully deposited its contents inside. Heroin. A lot of heroin. Enough to get Hawthorn slapped with an intent-to-distribute charge.

Wolfgang clicked the briefcase shut amid another round of groans from Hawthorn, and then swapped it with his own again. Then he straightened, flushed the toilet in case anybody was observing him, and exited the bathroom. After conducting a perfunctory wash of his hands, he walked back through the lobby and into