A sleek, black burner phone. Its screen blinked green with an open prompt: "Target confirmed in penthouse wing. Awaiting custody transport protocol."
Belita pinned the device to the stainless counter. *Target.* Not Tilo. *Custody transport.* Not a playdate. This was no corporate poacher stealing recipes; someone had ordered an extraction during prep for the evening gala. Acid pooled under her tongue.
She looked up, her gaze snapping to Neva, who was now meticulously arranging small tarts on a tiered stand, humming a cheerful, tuneless melody. The sweet-faced sous-chef, humming while planning to abduct her son. The humming grated like foil on fillings. That habitual urge to fling a ladle hardened into clean, murderous focus.
“Neva.” Belita kept her voice level, dangerous. “What is this?” She turned the screen outward, the green prompt reflecting off the prep counter.
Neva paused, her hands hovering over a raspberry tart. Her saccharine smile didn't waver. “Oh, that? Just a little side gig, Chef. My cousin runs a boutique bakery, needed a temporary delivery device.” Her eyes flicked down to the text. She feigned surprise, blinking slowly. “Oh, dear. Looks like I forgot to delete the test prompt.”
Belita scoffed, a bitter sound. “A test prompt for kidnapping my son during a high-society event?” She moved, not toward Neva, but toward the gleaming magnetic strip where the heavy-duty implements rested. Her fingers wrapped around the walnut handle of her heaviest German meat cleaver, its thick wedge reflecting the overhead halogen.
Neva’s smile finally faltered, replaced by a flicker of something dark and predatory. “You’re smarter than you look, Chef. A shame.” She reached into the wide pocket of her apron. Belita, anticipating a knife, braced herself. But Neva pulled out a small, heavy stun-baton, the tip crackling with a faint blue charge. “Though not smart enough.”
“You think a glorified cattle prod stops eight inches of carbon steel?” Belita advanced, keeping the heavy blade angled low across her hip.
Neva darted forward with surprising agility, aiming for Belita’s stomach. Belita parried the blow with the broad steel flat, the baton sparking on contact and jarring her forearm. Belita whipped the blade across in a short horizontal strike; Neva ducked, the spine whistling past her hairnet.
“He’s better off with them, Belita,” Neva snarled, her sweet demeanor completely gone. “A boy with his… talents… deserves a proper upbringing. Not some glorified caterer with a temper problem.”
“My temper problem is about to ensure you spend the rest of your life in a penal colony!” Belita lunged, forcing Neva to retreat. Neva snatched a heavy stainless-steel stockpot from a warming burner, its contents – a rich, aromatic consommé – sloshing dangerously. She hurled it. Belita ducked just in time, the pot crashing against the wall, splattering bisque across the pristine white tiles like abstract art.
Another pot, this one filled with simmering béchamel, followed, striking Belita’s shoulder with a sickening thud. The hot sauce seared her skin, but the pain only fueled her rage. She roared, a raw, guttural sound, and charged. Neva backed against the pass, rattling a cart of sheet pans onto the floor to cut off the lane, then slammed her palm against the wall's emergency panel.
A piercing alarm shrieked through the vast culinary area. Red lights flashed. “Fire suppression system engaged!” an automated voice boomed. A fine mist hissed from the ceiling nozzles, laying a slick frost over stainless steel and tile. Neva lunged backward toward the walk-in freezer, hauling open the heavy insulated latch.
“Enjoy your final course, Chef!” Neva sidestepped and kicked Belita's hip, driving her across the threshold before hauling the heavy hatch shut. The hydraulic latch engaged with a heavy clank. Sub-zero air bit straight through Belita’s cotton coat. She struck the insulated steel panel with the heel of her hand, cursing, but the gasket muffled every sound. Frost blossomed against her eyelashes.
She hammered the metal with her forearm until her knuckles went numb. Four minutes at commercial freezing temps would lock her joints. She crouched against the lower shelving, teeth clicking, fighting the lethargy creeping into her calves. *Tilo.*
Suddenly, the heavy door hissed, then swung open with a soft click. Belita, half-frozen and disoriented, stumbled out, gasping for air. She looked up, dazed, expecting Neva. But no one was there. She stared at the biometric scanner next to the door. It glowed a faint green, its digital display reading: “Access Granted: T.M.”
Tilo. He had to have hacked it. Of course, he had. Default firewalls were ‘insultingly basic’ to him. A surge of renewed purpose coursed through her frozen veins. Belita pushed past the tingling numbness, her teeth chattering, and lunged for the security monitors embedded in the central prep station. She slammed her hand against the touchscreen, cycling through camera feeds of the sprawling estate. Her eyes frantically scanned for any sign of her son.
She found him. On a feed from the service entrance. Neva, no longer in her chef whites but a dark utility jumpsuit, was hurrying Tilo toward a waiting, unmarked black van. Tilo was holding a small, worn plushie, his face utterly devoid of emotion, a tiny, chilling replica of Osorio’s own steely resolve.