encouraging herself to take that shower now.
Mario wasn't talking anymore, but she thought she heard the engine running, which meant he was still in the limo. That or Tomas was driving somewhere without Mario.
Angela looked at the remaining bugs. Two more black thin pads, no larger than the size of a dime, remained in the box. She pulled them out, keeping them in their wrapping. When she got inside Mario's house tonight, she would bug it, too.
"One for the inside of your house, and one for the outside," she said out loud, holding the small packages up in the air and studying the flat, round disks. Once she peeled off the small paper on the back side of each disk, there was a sticky substance that would allow her to leave it anywhere and keep it secure. "I'm going to know every time you take a shit, motherfucker."
The words were barely out of her mouth when a loud explosion rattled the small speaker on the black box.
"Holy crap!" Another booming sound came through the speaker. Angela swore it shook the box. "Somebody talk! What the hell just happened?"
Angela slid a flash drive into a USB port in the side of the black box where the file would be saved once the conversation ended. She actually loved her new toy. The little box enabled her to listen, record, then would automatically save the conversation and allow her to play it back at her leisure.
"Come on; come on," she muttered. "You don't explode like that without giving me some kind of doable explanation."
It sounded as if a car door opened and closed, then the engine roared, accelerating quickly. Angela wondered if a police scanner might be a good addition to her setup here. If Mario just blew something up, it would be nice to know if someone had witnessed it and if police were on their way. She couldn't set up too permanent a headquarters in her suite. This arrangement was temporary. Not that Mario would ever set foot inside her suite. All he needed to know was she stayed at the Drake hotel because she was a spoiled rich girl who'd rather live on the edge than with her annoying parents.
She forced her thoughts to quit meandering throughout her brain when there was a noticeable rustling sound. Angela leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and stared at the black box. Her insides constricted painfully when she heard laughter. The sound was demonic, almost bordering on insane.
"That was quite the show," Mario said, sounding incredibly happy. His voice was as clear as if he stood in the room with her. "It was almost as good as watching my sweet puttana tell those two dumb fucks to drive into the side of a building. God, that was classic. The stupid little bitch never batted an eye. No remorse or fear or concern. Nothing."
"You're so easily entertained," a woman said, laughing along with him. "Did you expect anything other than perfection out of my drug?"
"Your slave juice?"
"'Juice' is such an inaccurate term, but it will work for the nonscientific brain," she said, sounding rather full of herself. "Get your board pieces warmed up on the stuff and, darling, they'll do absolutely anything you want them to do."
"Just like you?" Mario asked, his baritone a soft growl. "Or do I need to give you the drug, too?"
"You know, if you're very good I might show you how to make your army respond to your command with a remote control. You won't need to be anywhere near them."
Angela forced herself to breathe, realizing just then she gripped a ballpoint pen in her hand so tight her knuckles were white. She began scribbling notes on the margin of the instruction manual.
Need attack locations. Where are kidnapped victims? She tapped her pen on the paper, creating small dots around what she'd just written. Being artistic was never one of her strong points, but with a few more clues she would easily connect the dots. Does slave juice have lasting side effects? Angela wasn't sure what compelled her to write the question, but if she was to free the people Mario had
Mario wasn't talking anymore, but she thought she heard the engine running, which meant he was still in the limo. That or Tomas was driving somewhere without Mario.
Angela looked at the remaining bugs. Two more black thin pads, no larger than the size of a dime, remained in the box. She pulled them out, keeping them in their wrapping. When she got inside Mario's house tonight, she would bug it, too.
"One for the inside of your house, and one for the outside," she said out loud, holding the small packages up in the air and studying the flat, round disks. Once she peeled off the small paper on the back side of each disk, there was a sticky substance that would allow her to leave it anywhere and keep it secure. "I'm going to know every time you take a shit, motherfucker."
The words were barely out of her mouth when a loud explosion rattled the small speaker on the black box.
"Holy crap!" Another booming sound came through the speaker. Angela swore it shook the box. "Somebody talk! What the hell just happened?"
Angela slid a flash drive into a USB port in the side of the black box where the file would be saved once the conversation ended. She actually loved her new toy. The little box enabled her to listen, record, then would automatically save the conversation and allow her to play it back at her leisure.
"Come on; come on," she muttered. "You don't explode like that without giving me some kind of doable explanation."
It sounded as if a car door opened and closed, then the engine roared, accelerating quickly. Angela wondered if a police scanner might be a good addition to her setup here. If Mario just blew something up, it would be nice to know if someone had witnessed it and if police were on their way. She couldn't set up too permanent a headquarters in her suite. This arrangement was temporary. Not that Mario would ever set foot inside her suite. All he needed to know was she stayed at the Drake hotel because she was a spoiled rich girl who'd rather live on the edge than with her annoying parents.
She forced her thoughts to quit meandering throughout her brain when there was a noticeable rustling sound. Angela leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and stared at the black box. Her insides constricted painfully when she heard laughter. The sound was demonic, almost bordering on insane.
"That was quite the show," Mario said, sounding incredibly happy. His voice was as clear as if he stood in the room with her. "It was almost as good as watching my sweet puttana tell those two dumb fucks to drive into the side of a building. God, that was classic. The stupid little bitch never batted an eye. No remorse or fear or concern. Nothing."
"You're so easily entertained," a woman said, laughing along with him. "Did you expect anything other than perfection out of my drug?"
"Your slave juice?"
"'Juice' is such an inaccurate term, but it will work for the nonscientific brain," she said, sounding rather full of herself. "Get your board pieces warmed up on the stuff and, darling, they'll do absolutely anything you want them to do."
"Just like you?" Mario asked, his baritone a soft growl. "Or do I need to give you the drug, too?"
"You know, if you're very good I might show you how to make your army respond to your command with a remote control. You won't need to be anywhere near them."
Angela forced herself to breathe, realizing just then she gripped a ballpoint pen in her hand so tight her knuckles were white. She began scribbling notes on the margin of the instruction manual.
Need attack locations. Where are kidnapped victims? She tapped her pen on the paper, creating small dots around what she'd just written. Being artistic was never one of her strong points, but with a few more clues she would easily connect the dots. Does slave juice have lasting side effects? Angela wasn't sure what compelled her to write the question, but if she was to free the people Mario had
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