Dead4u Read online

  Eyes that stared through you like you didn’t exist—or shortly might not.

  In short: Santiago Sweet wasn’t a guy to mess with. And even if this felt—kind of—like a blind date, it was a set-up, a booby trap.

  Me: I owned the boobs to trap the booby in question. Oh yeah . . .

  Thinking dirty thoughts about my new criminal boyfriend almost got me killed—again. This time the culprit was a patrol car running a red light.

  Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.

  I hit the brakes. Slewed left in the intersection. Narrowly avoiding a potentially fatal collision.

  The patrol car kept going. Two uniforms inside. Youngish guys. Probably talking about women or sports. Too busy to stop for a red light.

  Assholes.

  I took a breath and resumed my homeward course. “Did you catch that?” I whispered.

  “Yeah.” It was Griffin’s voice in my head. “Sorry, Nikita. Cops are tearing up the city looking for your killer. I mean, well . . . you know.”

  I did and told him so.

  “Don’t sweat it, dude. McCord’s the name, shitkicking’s my game.” When he laughed, I added dryly, “Can’t waltz around town thinking I’m Nikita Chen.”

  “Copy that. You’re totally safe. Nobody knows this tech even exists.” Griffin cleared his throat. “We’re talking sci-fi territory. Trust me: Sweet has no reason to think you’re anyone other than who you appear to be. You’ve got McCord’s military record down pat. You’ve watched Madam Crunch do her thing on video. You know everything our informants know about her—which isn’t much. So you’ve got as much intel on Crystal McCord as anyone—more than she could access.”

  Huh? That didn’t sound right. So I called him on it.

  “How could I know more about McCord than she knew about herself?”

  “Most of the stuff in a person’s head is retained on subconscious and unconscious levels. Traumatic events, stressors and specific emotional triggers ingrain behaviour patterns that self-program the mind. Keeping this stuff out of our everyday consciousness is what preserves our sanity. That’s what you inherited from McCord.”

  Wonderful. Now I could play waste receptacle for another woman’s weirdness. So she’d been traumatized, huh? Big fucking deal. Join the club, lady. Life is trauma.

  Enough. I cut the pity party short. Feeling sorry for Crystal McCord and her messed up existence wasn’t going to help anyone. Empathy was cool. Sympathy was for simps.

  At least she’d had a penis on call. Me: I’d suffered through years of online dating. In that time, I’d rubbed up against every male lowlife, degenerate and cheating scumbag the city had to offer. That’s the joy of being a workaholic. You get the job but no life. You have all the men you want but not a single one worth having. And, if you’re like me, you wear a smiley face while telling family and friends that all’s well in Nikita Land.

  Nikita Land: the island of wayward losers.

  The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I had McCord’s life now. Mine was gone for good. I could never be Nikita Chen again. Both career and lacklustre social life were done. All I had now were the dregs of someone else’s existence. Coz mine had gone up in smoke.

  Literally.

  Thinking of smoke made me hungry for barbequed duck. Just the thought of that succulent bird flesh made my mouth water. I hadn’t had any for a while coz I’d been dieting to keep the fat off my ass. But hey, McCord’s bod was hard as rock. She could afford to swallow back half a kilo of greasy duck. Maybe even a couple pieces of pork—why not?

  Besides, didn’t I deserve a treat? I was dead and now I was alive. In my book, that called for a celebration.

  Grinning like a fool, I changed course and headed for Chinatown.

  ◆◆◆

  “So that patrol car was looking for me?”

  “Yeah. There’s a BOLO out on you.” Griffin laughed. “Bimbo On Loose: Observe.”

  Funny man. Would he laugh when I dropped the hammer on his fat head?

  “Hmm.”

  “What now?” I demanded. “UFO sighting?”

  “Late breaking news flash. Sweet’s having a meltdown. He thinks a competitor—or some wacky fanboy—might’ve learned Madam Crunch’s true identity and kidnapped your homicidal ass.”

  “And you know this how? Ouija board?”

  “We have assets in place. For your protection.”

  “Assets? Such as who exactly? The Three Spirits of Christmas? Or Goldilocks and Her Three Fucking Bears?”

  “Can’t say,” he replied softly. “Again: for your protection.”

  “When a man says he’s got protection, I know the condom’s gonna leak.”

  As Griffin laughed, I checked the rearview. A late-model sedan turned onto the road behind me. Chinatown was still five minutes away.

  Coincidence?

  I made a left at the next corner. The sedan mirrored my move. Mercedes S-Class. I whistled under my breath.

  “What’s going on?” asked Griffin. “You think that car’s tailing you?”

  “Did you see it?”

  “I see what you see, Nikita. Remember?”

  Oh yeah. Fuck. In the weirdness of getting a new body, I’d forgotten those video implants.

  I said, “They turned when I turned. They’re keeping pace but not trying to pass. Hmm. I’d say yes.”

  “Uh . . . by the way, where the hell are you going, Nikita? That’s not the way to McCord’s place.”

  “Felt like barbeque. Funny, huh? Being dead gives you the worst munchies.”

  “Barbeque? Fuck! Nikita! Please tell me you’re not headed to Chinatown. There’s no time for side trips on this mission. Novak’s gonna freak!”

  “Okay, boss. I’m not going to Chinatown. Really I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are! Don’t lie to me, Nikita! Damn it, you . . .”

  “Best cover my tracks. For your own protection.”

  First Contact

  I took a hard right and the car roared down an alley. In the distance, tires squealed. I swerved onto the restaurant’s back parking lot just as the Mercedes’ high beams seared my eyeballs.

  I waited for the sedan to pull up alongside me. The guy riding shotgun and the one behind the driver got out. I’d seen both before. Knew their rap sheets inside out.

  Shotgun dude was Eddie “Big Boy” Tilo. His sidekick—guy in the porkpie hat—was Feliks Federov. I didn’t need to see the driver. Only one man drove these two goons around—and that was Zeke Epstein.

  Big Boy opened the rear door passenger side. I stood and waited for the shadowy figure inside to surface.

  Santiago Sweet emerged from the car. Six foot five in charcoal suit, black silk shirt and zebra-striped tie. Black loafers. (No tassels, thank God.) All of it moving toward me with smooth, unhurried power.

  I reminded myself that Sweet was a vicious gang boss. A killer. And I, in the throes of midlife, was too smart to fall for bad boys like him.

  But my traitorous loins had other ideas. Maybe being inside a younger body was messing with my head. Or my inner slut had decided to crawl out of the dark ages and party like there was no tomorrow. All of which could be true.

  Gulp.

  He smiled at me. In that gravelly voice, he said: “Where you been at, Crystal? Last time we talked, you were going home to shower and change your clothes.” Making a show of checking his watch, Sweet added wryly, “Been three weeks, babe. And you’re wearing the same damned clothes.”

  That resonated with McCord’s debrief by Novak and Wolseley. After killing me, McCord had planned to hook up with Sweet at his crib. Only that never happened coz McCord got her brain reprogrammed with my law-abiding synaptic pattern.

  “Sorry, hon,” I told him. Reaching up to lace my hands around his neck, I gazed up at Sweet. “Got waylaid with a bottle of tequila and some bennies. You know how it goes.”

  Judging from the stony expression on Sweet’s face, it seemed that he did. And that he did not appreciate his girlfr
iend’s errant behaviour.

  “I was worried,” he growled. Placing those two large mitts on either side of my face, he tilted my jaw upward. “You get off jerking my chain, don’t you?” He looked behind me at the backside of my fave restaurant. “What the fuck you doing here in Chinatown?” Sweet’s eyes were hard black coals set in white marble. They raked my skin, leaving me feeling more naked than naked. “This isn’t your kind of place, baby. You wouldn’t be seeing someone behind my back, would you?”

  I shook my head no. Well, I tried to shake my head. But my head didn’t move coz of those big-ass hands gripping my face. Okay. This seemed like a good time to do the girly thing and melt into his muscular arms. I felt that rock-hard physique soften in response.

  “No, Santiago,” I murmured. “Never. You’re my guy.”

  One eyebrow arched. “Sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m just here for the food.”

  Sweet said okay, cool. Releasing me, he turned to his bodyguards. “Big Boy: check the place for anyone who looks out of place. Feliks: you watch out back. No one goes in or out till I say so.”

  Big Boy nodded and went inside. Feliks, tilting hat over eyes, took a position beside the door.

  Then the car’s passenger window rolled down. I heard a familiar voice call out, “Where do you want me, boss?”

  Sweet gave a careless wave with one hand. “Drive around the block a couple hundred times, Zeke. Or park somewhere close by. Whatever. But don’t leave the car. I’ll call when I want you. Just get here before I ask twice.”

  “Right,” said Epstein.

  With that, the window rolled back up and the car rolled away.

  Federov opened the door. Sweet took my hand and we strolled across the threshold together.

  Why not? We were just like any normal, average couple. If they ran around with hired muscle and packed heat.

  ◆◆◆

  Blue Lotus was your typically old-style Chinese restaurant. Red lanterns swayed in the breeze from a green ceiling fan. Tables were wood and scarred with initials and cigarette burns. At the entrance, an old fish tank held nine goldfish—one of which was black—to keep the joint’s feng shui healthy.

  I’d been coming to Blue Lotus all my life. My parents used to bring me and my sisters every Sunday morning for dim sum. We knew the owners, their kids and every employee who’d ever walked through the doors.

  Maybe that’s what brought me back in the early hours of a Saturday. I knew the joint stayed open till 3:30 in the morning—sometimes later—to catch the bar crowd on their way home. For me, though, the food was just an excuse.

  I needed to feel normal—whatever that meant in my screwed-up life.

  One of older waiters got up from his chair to usher us to a table. It was my buddy, Joe Wing, a wrinkly old dude who’d worked Blue Lotus since before my parents were born. Smiling his gap-toothed smile, he beckoned us to follow him toward a choice location by the front window.

  Sweet stopped. He held up a hand to Joe and pointed at a corner table where Big Boy had set up shop.

  “We’ll sit over there,” Sweet told Joe.

  Big Boy had selected a corner table with line of sight to both exits. It was also furthest from the windows. Big Boy knew his stuff.

  Joe smiled and nodded.

  We sat. Joe handed us menus. He said he’d give us a few minutes. Then he returned to his customary chair by the cash register.

  Pretending to examine the menu (which I knew by heart), I scanned the place. Not too busy yet. Near the door sat a group of six young men talking sports and women over beers. Two tables away: a middle-aged couple chowed down on kung pao chicken. That was it so far: eight warm bodies with the bar crowd yet to arrive.

  Big Boy took a table between us and the front door. According to Novak, Big Boy wore an ankle rig due to profuse upper-body sweating. He also kept a folding tactical knife in the left side pocket of his pants and used it to cut food or enemies as needed.

  Reminder to self: avoid sharp objects.

  “You been here before?” asked Sweet. He gazed around the place. His nose wrinkled. “I didn’t think you liked Chinese food all that much. Didn’t you tell me it was too greasy?”

  That sounded like McCord. Being a combat nerd, body issues were constantly on her mind. Well, the girl kept herself in shape. That was a positive.

  “I came here once,” I told him. “Don’t remember exactly when. The duck was to die for.”

  Sweet raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  I nudged him under the table with my foot. “What kind of trouble you been up to?” I asked. “Anything you care to share?”

  He glared at me. “Are you kidding?” he snapped. “I’ve had everyone out looking for you for the last three weeks. You didn’t answer your phone except to text me a few times. You didn’t check in—not once. Nothing!” He paused. “Anything YOU want to share, darling?”

  I kept to the cover story. How I’d fallen to temptation and popped a couple bennies. Got drunk. Then washed down more magic beans with tequila. That I’d felt a little “off” and checked into a motel so I could chill and regroup.

  “Didn’t mean to worry you,” I continued to gush. “I just didn’t want you mad at me for having a little bit of fun.” I held up both hands. “I was letting off steam, you know?”

  Sweet bit his lip. Man was obviously working to suppress his anger. While I, the “talent”, was behaving like a spoiled, drugged-out diva. Temper finally won out, though. He exploded:

  ”Fuck, Crystal! You know the rules. A few drinks, a little smoke: that’s cool. Chemicals are strictly off limits.” He sighed. “We’ve got a good thing going here. You need to keep your head straight and stay out of trouble. Promise?”

  That made me wonder what he’d think of McCord being blackmailed by me. I had a feeling McCord hadn’t shared that juicy morsel with the boss. And, judging by the throbbing purplish vein in Sweet’s forehead, I could see why.

  I told him yes. But I needed food, okay?

  He chuckled. Said sure. Raising a hand, Sweet waved at Joe.

  The old man got up and hustled over to us with that gap-toothed loopy grin. Pretending we weren’t lowlife gangsters. Which we were. Clearly.

  Sweet ordered sweet-and-sour pork with chow mein and six eggrolls. I asked for duck and a bowlful of steamed rice.

  Sweet looked at me funny.

  So did Joe, whose jaw had dropped dangerously close to the floor. Something in old Joe’s ancient eyes warned me to shut my trap.

  “What the fuck?” Sweet’s brow crinkled up. “When did you learn to speak Chinese?”

  Oops!

  “I know enough to order off a menu,” I lied. “When I was overseas, one of my buddies spoke the lingo. Turns out they speak the same dialect here.”

  I looked at Joe. My fave waiter’s mouth was still open. Then I remembered. Steamed rice and duck was my usual Friday night order. Everyone at Blue Lotus knew that. That fact—plus a white woman ordering in Chinese—added up to a shitload of coincidence.

  Sweet noticed Joe’s hesitation.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked Joe.

  “No, no, everything fine,” said Joe, glancing in my direction. Was that recognition in the old fart’s eyes? “I come back with tea. Not long.”

  After Joe had shuffled off to the kitchen, Sweet grabbed my left wrist and squeezed. It hurt—a lot. A tiny yelp escaped my lips before I clamped them shut.

  “He acts like he’s seen you here before,” Sweet hissed. “If I find out you’ve been screwing around on me . . . somebody’s gonna get hurt. Bad.”

  “There’s no one!” I hissed back. “Now let go of me! You’re making a scene.”

  In fact, the tableful of young men—six in all—had taken notice of our discussion. They’d seen Sweet’s hand on my wrist and heard my whimper. And now all six of them decided to come to my rescue.

  Oh no. This was bad. This was seriously bad.

  Big Boy intercepted the vigilante commit
tee. Fully erect, Big Boy Tilo turned into a wall of rippling muscle. His neck was three times a normal human’s size. My six heroes took one look at Big Boy and stopped to reconsider the foolishness of taking on this monster.

  One of them got up enough nerve to ask if “the lady was all right.” At this, Sweet smiled. He turned to face the six young men.

  “She’s fine,” Sweet said. “Tell them, dear. Aren’t you totally all right?”

  Last thing I wanted was innocent blood on my hands. These idiots had gone out on a limb and couldn’t back down without losing face with each other. I had to reassure them that all was cool or Blue Lotus would become a crime scene on the morning news.

  With their bodies littering the floor.

  “I’m good, guys,” I hollered, waving at them. “I appreciate that you cared enough to rescue me, but this damsel isn’t in distress. Word of honour, dudes. So please sit down and clean those plates. Okay?”

  This appeased the group. Nodding at us, the gang went back to their table. The one who’d spoken out shot a look in my direction, but I ignored him.

  Big Boy sat down and resumed watching the door.

  But Sweet had a puzzled look on his face.

  I said, “What?”

  “You’re acting weird, Crystal.”

  “Me? Weird?” Think fast, Nikita. Something you’ve done has spooked the guy. “How exactly?”

  Joe came by with tea. With shaky hands, he poured two cups for both of us and left the pot behind. Sweet, watching Joe with a guarded expression, waited for the old guy to leave before speaking.

  “You like having men fight over you,” Sweet remarked coolly. “That’s why we’re made for each other, babe. You know I’ll do anything to keep what’s mine. That’s why,” he cocked his head toward the gang of six, “that little performance of yours kind of threw me.”

  “You think you know me inside out?”

  He laughed. “I’ve seen and touched every square centimetre of you—inside and out—so yeah, I think I do.” Reaching out, he trailed a finger lightly from behind one ear to the hollow of my throat. The warming touch put a flush in my cheeks and sent my heart into overdrive. “I know you like this, babe.”