“Touch anything and you die, too,” I growl, kicking in the door and getting into her small space. I spot the panic button and caress the side of her face with the gun. “Did you touch that?”
She shakes her head no. Violently no.
It wouldn’t have helped, but I like to feel obedience.
Everything is brown or beige tile. Is that calming to the nutjobs? Valerie would probably know. She has opinions on colors. She once told me to wear a blue tie—she said it was more executive than all black. I told her it was a long-standing tradition to wear all black in my “accounting firm”—black shirt, black jacket, black tie. She seemed surprised, but she wanted me to try the blue. “The brightness is going to look more modern to people. You’re setting a tone for your regime. You’re your own man.”
I think people responded well to the blue tie.
My main man Mercal crowds in, and we study the feeds, count the staff. Like taking candy from a baby.
But then, nobody is interested in breaking a person out of an institute for the criminally insane, not like with a real prison. A real prison is full of angry guys who can be useful to an organization. The criminally insane tend to be a bit more dubious.
I send one crew member to lock down the office wing.
“You got a list of names?” I ask the woman. “I’m looking for a Kiro Dragusha.”
“I don’t believe we have such a person.” She gets on her computer and with shaking fingers brings a spreadsheet up. Names, room numbers. “No Kiro.”
“How about a Keith. You got a Keith?” That was another name Kiro had. The name his adoptive parents gave him.
She stares at me. Deer in the headlights. After a prompt to the side of the head, she finds no Keiths.
I nod at Mercal, who takes her away.
No Kiro. No Keith. I figured he’d be under a different name, but it was worth a try. It’s okay. We know Kiro’s about 20. We know he’s been in one year. That’ll narrow it down, and I know a Dragusha when I see one.
I make the call, and fifteen more of my guys slip in. We’ve rehearsed this. It’s simple stuff—a violent takeover, four guys to a wing. Paint the walls with blood if we have to. I adjust my stocking mask.
“Fast and furious,” I tell my guys. “Ten minutes in and out. You call me when you find him.”
Killing Kiro is something I need to personally oversee and film, and I’m getting DNA. No fucking around.
We go in and disperse. My own team and I take the most likely floor—the top. We start by rounding up staff. That’s the key to this operation, controlling the staff. Taking the phones.
We put the three guys face down on the floor—we’re not expecting heroes, but you never know. We let the females sit against the wall.
I press my piece to an older nurse’s forehead. She has a polka-dot headband. “You in charge?”
She nods. She’s crying and shaking. Her powdered face is garish in the fluorescent lights.
“You should apply your makeup when you get here—not beforehand at home. It’s all about the lighting.” A little chitchat. Valerie would be proud. She looks at me with terror. “Are you hearing me?”
A hot younger nurse is fumbling with something. Mercal turns his piece on her. “That better not have been a phone.”
She opens her hands, wide green eyes. “I gave you my phone. It’s my…” She shows us her stethoscope. “Nervous habit.”
I turn back to the older nurse. “We’re looking for Kiro. He may be going by Keith. Got anyone like that?”
Her lips move. Trying to speak.
“No such person,” the hot young one says.
I turn my attention to her, because at least she can fucking talk. “What are you?”
“Attending nurse. This was my floor until a week or so—”
“You’re our tour guide now. We’ll meet each patient, and you’ll tell us how long they’ve been here.”