Around her neck went a largish silver locket. It was very conspicuous and would command the attention of anyone who knew who she truly was. There was nothing deadly about it, though; it was just a distraction from the real dangers. Inside was a photo of a pretty little girl with fluffy, straw-colored hair. The child’s full name was handwritten on the back of the picture; it looked like something a mother or an aunt would wear. However, this particular girl was Carston’s only grandchild. Hopefully, if it was too late for Casey, the person who found her body would be a real cop who, due to the lack of identification, would be forced to dig into this evidence and bring her murder around to the doorstep where it ultimately belonged. It probably wouldn’t really hurt Carston, but it might make things inconvenient for him, might make him feel threatened or worry that she’d released other information elsewhere.
Because she knew enough about hidden disasters and classified horrors to do much more than inconvenience Carston. But even now, three years past her first death sentence, she hadn’t grown comfortable with the idea of treason or the very real possibility of causing a panic. There was no way to foresee the potential damage of her revelations, the harm they might cause to innocent citizens. So she’d settled for just making Carston think that she had done something so reckless; maybe the worry would give him an aneurysm. A pretty little locket filled with drippings of revenge to make losing the game more palatable.
The cord the locket was attached to, however, was deadly. It had the tensile strength of airline cable in proportion to its size and was easily strong enough to garrote a person. The cord closed with a magnet rather than a clasp; she had no desire to be lassoed with her own weapon. The wooden embellishments on her tote’s shoulder strap had slots where the ends of the cords fit; once the cord was in place, the wooden pieces became handles. Physical force wasn’t her first choice, but it would be unexpected. It gave her an advantage to be ready.
Inside the intricate patterns of her black leather belt were hidden several spring-loaded syringes. She could pull them individually or flip a mechanism that would expose all the sharp ends at once if an attacker pressed her close to his body. The mix of the different substances would not blend well in his system.
Scalpel blades with taped edges were tucked into her pockets.
Standard shoe knives, one that popped forward, one to the rear.
Two cans labeled PEPPER SPRAY in her bag—one containing the real thing, the other with something more permanently debilitating.
A pretty perfume bottle that released gas, not liquid.
What looked like a tube of ChapStick in her pocket.
And several other fun options, just in case. Plus the little things she’d brought for the unlikely outcome—success. A bright yellow, lemon-shaped squeeze bottle, matches, a travel-size fire extinguisher. And cash, plenty of it. She stuck a key card in the tote; she wouldn’t come back to this hotel, but if things went well, someone else would.
She had to move carefully when she was in full armor like this, but she’d practiced enough that she was confident in her walk. It was comforting to know that if anyone caused her to move less carefully, he’d be the worse for it.
She left the hotel, nodding to the clerk who had checked her in, a briefcase in one hand and the black tote over her arm. She got into her car and drove to a crowded park near the middle of the city. She left the car in an adjacent strip mall’s lot on the north side and walked into the park.
She was quite familiar with this park. There was a bathroom near the southeast corner that she headed into now. As she’d expected, midmorning on a school day, it was empty. Out of the briefcase came another set of clothes. There was also a rolled-up backpack and some more accessories. She changed her clothes, put her previous outfit in the briefcase, and then shoved it and the tote into the large backpack.
When she walked out of the bathroom, she was no longer immediately recognizable as a she. She slouched away toward the south end of the park, loose-kneed, concentrating on keeping her hips from swaying and giving her away. Though it didn’t appear that anyone was looking, it was always smarter to act like someone was.
The park started to fill up when lunchtime approached, as she’d known it would. No one paid attention to the androgynous kid sitting on a bench in the shade furiously texting on a smartphone. No one came close enough to see that the phone wasn’t on.
Across the street from the bench was Carston’s favorite lunch spot. It was not the meeting place she’d suggested. She was also five days early.
Behind the men’s sunglasses, her eyes scanned the sidewalks. This might not work. Maybe Carston had changed his habits. Habits were, after all, dangerous things. Like the expectation of safety.