Dead4u Page 11

  He was right. I did. But it wasn’t me. It had to be McCord—some part of her that brainwipe device had missed.

  “We okay?” Griffin whispered hoarsely. “Cough once for yes. Twice for no.”

  I coughed once as Sweet’s finger traced the swell of flesh above my heart, down one side and riding up the other.

  “Pulse rate’s spiking,” warned Griffin. “Are you . . .” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude. I, uh . . .”

  Sweet’s phone rang to interrupt that awkward moment. He pulled it out of his suit jacket. A text. Reading the message, he frowned.

  “Got to make a call,” Sweet told me. He seemed distracted. “Back in a few. You need anything, tell Eddie.”

  With a parting nod to Big Boy, Sweet rose and went out through the back door. Leaving me to sip tea and mull over the game plan that Novak had outlined.

  ◆◆◆

  My bladder told me it was time to visit the ladies’ room. I got up. Big Boy’s eyes went on high alert. To calm him down, I walked past his table and mouthed: “Potty time.”

  Big Boy nodded. He pulled out his phone and started texting.

  Wow. Hope I didn’t have to bottle my pee to prove I’d “done it”.

  ◆◆◆

  The bathrooms at Blue Lotus resided below the Ninth Circle of Hell, deep in the building’s concrete bowels. They were older than the restaurant by maybe a century and looked every day of it. To get there, I stumbled down a narrow stairway lit by a bare bulb stuck in a wall outlet. And, yeah, the journey was pretty awful. Place had rat-sized roaches and rats that could take down a large dog. But the destination was worse.

  I didn’t need light to find the bathrooms.

  Just followed my nose.

  “How we doing?” asked Griffin. “Did you need to talk or is this, ah, the real deal?”

  “Guess,” I hissed into my mouth. “When was the last time I used the bathroom, perv?”

  “Good point. I’ll turn the monitors off for—ten minutes? That enough time?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, as I pushed open the door to the ladies’. Rusted hinges squealed in protest. “Now would be good.”

  Feeling around, I found the light switch, shut the door and did my thing. The bathroom was dingy as per usual. A single bulb illuminated the cobwebs that festooned the ceiling’s dark corners. Enough light to see the tats on my legs.

  Shit. Crystal McCord had been messed up. No doubt about it. She’d been the perfect match for a psycho like Sweet.

  But I wasn’t a tattoo type of gal. And I didn’t much like what these said about me. Flames licking up both thighs? Really? Who did that?

  At least McCord hadn’t had her crotch waxed. Small mercies.

  ◆◆◆

  Exiting the ladies’, I ran into one of the six young gentlemen who’d come to my rescue. It was none other than the group’s mouthpiece, the one who’d asked if I were all right.

  “Hi,” he said, “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Nice face. Decent body. Had him pegged as a frat boy jock. Wasn’t hard to guess what Frat Head saw in McCord.

  Cheap thrills aside, this spelled trouble. Frat Head was giving off a vibe I didn’t like. My hero had an obvious thing for women in peril. If he didn’t stop this shit, he’d get curb stomped before the night was over. And I didn’t want to be the reason for a civilian’s untimely demise.

  I grabbed his arm and shook him. Hard.

  “Keep the fuck away from me,” I growled, trying to keep my voice low. “Or I will disembowel you and string your pretty guts all over these walls like Christmas tree lights. You’re seen the walls down here, right? Trust me, you do NOT want to end up decorating them with blood splatter.”

  The fear in his eyes saddened me.

  I watched Frat Head run upstairs like his ass was on fire. Oh well. It beat getting shish-kebabbed in the eye with a dirty chopstick. I’d seen that once in a triad rumble.

  Had to hurt.

  ◆◆◆

  I was climbing the stairs when Griffin broke into my ears. “Was that necessary?” Griffin wanted to know. “Or is spooking civilians just a habit with you?”

  “Hey, Griff,” I murmured. “Fuck off and die, okay?”

  “Tell that to your new boyfriend. I double dare you.” Griffin chuckled. “And I’m betting you won’t.” He cleared his throat. It sounded like a death rattle. “Speaking of, I imagine you’ll be wanting privacy later when you and Sweet are . . . uh, intimate?”

  Intimate? Did anyone use that word outside of a women’s mag? I nearly burst out laughing but stopped. In fact, things had been so rushed that I hadn’t considered the logistics of this op.

  I was McCord. Sweet was McCord’s boyfriend. There would be sex. Oh yeah. Probably kinky shit too. Lots of it. And while I didn’t mind going THAT extra mile for the department, I’d never fucked my targets before. Not literally.

  “Nikita?”

  “I’m going back now. Can’t talk.”

  “I know. I see where you are. We need a code word to tune out. How about ‘red’? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

  Red?

  I hissed, “That’s a safe word for kinky shit, you nitwit. He’ll think I want my ass paddled.”

  “Whatever. You choose.”

  Ignoring the nag in my head, I reached the top of the stairs. The place was packed and the noise was incredible.

  The bar crowd had arrived.

  I spotted Sweet. He was talking with Big Boy. When I reached our table, I found a plastic bag holding a stack of foam containers.

  Looked like we’d be eating on the run.

  “Duck to go?” I asked, pointing at the cartons.

  Griffin whispered, “Red is easier, but ‘duck to go’ works. Slip it into the convo if you plan to get sweaty, okay?”

  I tried the sub-vocal thing. Griffin didn’t answer. Maybe he hadn’t heard me. Or maybe he thought “ladies” shouldn’t talk or think dirty. Ha! Who knew? Men could be so fucking unpredictable.

  ◆◆◆

  We went out the back way. The car was waiting. Epstein was at the wheel with Federov riding shotgun. Big Boy held the door for me. I got into the back seat, followed by Sweet and Big Boy.

  Then the back door to Blue Lotus opened. Out stepped Frat Head and his five buddies. One of them—not Frat Head—knocked on the rear passenger door next to Big Boy.

  Big Boy looked at Sweet. Sweet nodded. Big Boy tapped Federov on the back shoulder. Federov nodded and removed his beloved porkpie hat. Oh no. This wasn’t going to turn out well.

  And it didn’t.

  Big Boy and Federov burst out of the car in unison. They punched, kneed, head-butted and elbowed. My six would-be rescuers were hopelessly outmatched.

  I didn’t want to look. But Sweet had said I liked having men fight over me. That was part of McCord’s persona. And I, being McCord, had to act the part if I didn’t want to end up like these poor dudes. So I watched, licking my lips and feigning arousal by combat.

  Except a tiny bit of what I felt was maybe— just possibly—real. A cry burst from my mouth, the wild hungering in me set free. In that distant place, I heard someone moan. Pulling me against him, Sweet put a hand on my crotch and pressed hard. I rubbed against his palm till my treacherous cunt went slick.

  Yep. Blood’s the best lube. Other people’s, I mean.

  Big Boy and Federov piled the groaning bodies alongside the trashcans. Well at least they could still groan. Which beat being dead. I could attest to that.

  I grabbed a final peek at Frat Head. Busted lip. Black eyes. Maybe a few teeth had gone missing too, but it was hard to see through all the gore.

  All Griffin could say was, “Oh, my.”

  ◆◆◆

  SpecOps knew what Santiago Sweet did for a living. Proving it was the problem. Sweet wasn’t the type who made deals with shifty characters in parking lots. He employed people who contracted that shit out. To my way of thinking, this made him seem more tycoon than
gangster. Or I failed to grasp the fundamentals of business. Hmm.

  In my next-to-last briefing, Novak had confided:

  “If nailing that sonofabitch means breaking a few rules, then do it. Sweet’s paying someone in the department to feed him info. That means we’re playing against a stacked deck. And there’s only one way to win when the fix is in. We need an edge—and you’re our edge.”

  Wasn’t that wonderful? I was the knife held to a sociopathic killer’s throat. That should turn out well. In Vegas, my odds of survival would be plummeting by the second.

  “Do you know who texted him?” It was Griffin’s whispery voice. “If you don’t, look at your left hand. If you do, look at the right one.”

  I looked at my left hand, pretending to examine the state of my nail polish. Griffin made a noise in his throat.

  “That half moon makes a nice tat,” he murmured. “Hope you’re a fan of body art. McCord’s had a lot of work done.”

  Great. Knowing he’d seen it all, I didn’t ask for his opinion. Thankfully, he chose not to share.

  I wondered how much it would cost to get all of my new tattoos removed. Maybe . . . after the job was done . . . if Novak kept her word but I kept this body . . .

  I shut the door on those fantasies. SpecOps had its hooks in me now. They wanted Sweet stopped. And I was their pawn in play. Now came the fun part.

  Baiting the hook.

  Dangle

  Sweet turned to me as Epstein drove us away. “I’ll send someone for your car later.” He added, “Hope you didn’t mind getting takeout. I got a busy week ahead.”

  Busy week? That meant he’d hired people to kidnap players for the next show. Too bad McCord wouldn’t be part of the grab team. I could stop this thing before it got started and save everyone a world of trouble.

  Otherwise I might be starring in the next episode of DEAD4U as Madam Crunch.

  “Takeout’s fine,” I told him. Leaning against him, I whispered, “Sorry for the no-show these past few weeks. Forgiven?”

  Sweet took my face in his hands. Held me there, forcing me to meet his gaze.

  “Forgiven?” Sweet made a face. “What’s up with you, Crystal? How much of that crap did you take?”

  “Two. Twenty. Two hundred? No more, I swear.”

  Sweet shook his head. Laughing, he released me and said, “Okay. You’re ‘forgiven’ if that’s what you need to hear. Just get your head straight. You need to stay sharp, Crystal. I don’t want one of those freaks hurting you because your timing’s off. Remember: next show’s in seven days.”

  Seven days. No pressure, hey? That gave me plenty of time to figure this mess out and stop the killing once and for all.

  Not that I liked my chances all that much. McCord’s skill set wouldn’t come into play till it was too late to call in the troops. Hopefully, I could shut down DEAD4U’s production before someone else died.

  Whatever. There was no backing out now. I was on the inside looking out, in more ways than one.

  ◆◆◆

  I ate in the car. Sweet watched me with a stern expression. Classic neat freak syndrome. I didn’t care, though. I was starving for real food.

  “You’re really going to town on that duck,” Sweet observed, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you use chopsticks before.”

  “I have many hidden talents.”

  I caught Sweet smiling at me as I polished off the duck. As the car lurched going around a corner, his larger frame enveloped mine. A hiss of warm breath spilled across the nape of my neck.

  If this was a promise of things to come, maybe the karmic wheel had decided to spin things my way for a change.

  ◆◆◆

  We drove to a downtown nightclub. Per Novak, it was one of several fronts used to wash profits from DEAD4U. Over the club was a small office/apartment that Sweet kept for these legit enterprises.

  Place was called Sweet Spot. Oddly enough, Sweet hadn’t named it after himself. The club had been a local mainstay for decades. Sweet had found it for sale, liked the name and bought it in a straight-cash deal.

  Epstein dropped us out front and drove off. As always, Big Boy took point. Sweet and I followed behind the enforcer’s massive frame. The club was pitch-black inside. Then I realized that it wasn’t dark. What I perceived as an eclipse was Big Boy blocking out the light.

  Holy shit.

  Sweet turned to Federov who was trailing silently behind us. He said:

  “Watch the doors, huh?”

  Federov nodded and took a table beside the entrance with the club’s bouncer.

  We kept moving. Sweet put his arm around my waist. The move surprised me. It felt protective. Not what you’d expect from a villainous thug. Maybe he disliked being stereotyped. Of course, lacking the perspective of true evil genius, my theories were all shots in the dark. Nothing more.

  Club was full. Usual types. Few low-level drug dealers and pimps mixed with hipsters and other sleep-deprived creatures of the night. The DJ, looking bored, fiddled with knobs and buttons. On the dance floor, two tall women slow-danced and kissed as they groped each other.

  I felt eyes tracking us as we made our way through the club toward the bar. At the back was a door marked “Private”.

  The door was secured with an iris scanner. The scanner’s screen was black. Without being asked, Big Boy used his phone to switch it on. The screen blinked red and Big Boy locked eyes with the flashing light till it turned green. The scanner beeped twice.

  There was a soft “click” as the door unlocked.

  Big Boy stepped aside. He took up residence on the closest barstool. The bartender, a tall black woman with outsized boobs and ass, rushed over a mineral water and lime wedge. Big Boy raised his glass and saluted us. The bartender shot me a hostile look. Oops. I’d need to tread carefully around that one.

  Sweet, it appeared, had been a busy, busy man.

  We walked through.

  ◆◆◆

  I’d been to Sweet’s club before. Doing recon. But I’d never seen past the “Private” sign. It was an older building so I was prepared for pretty much anything. Mold. Bats. Creaky boards. But this was . . .

  An interior decorator’s wet dream. Dripping elegance. Swirly electric wall sconces illuminated green silk wallpaper embossed with a bamboo pattern. Black marble floor . . . wow . . .

  I reined in the urge to gush. This place was old news to Crystal McCord. And should be to me as well.

  We walked up a cast-iron spiral staircase. Overhead, a pale half-moon glimmered down a domed skylight. At the top, we stepped into semi-darkness. The sensation was eerie. It reminded me of astronauts walking in space.

  “Lights on,” ordered Sweet.

  We stood in a spacious loft of pale green walls under a daffodil-yellow ceiling. A circlet of white globe bulbs splashed light and shadow over the room. Place was a totally girly, watercolour fantasy. Soft . . . dreamy . . . everything a woman could ask of a gang boss.

  There was a tiny kitchen with a couple stools at the far side of the loft. Minimal shit. Clearly, Sweet didn’t entertain here.

  Facing the row of front windows: a desk and leather chair. Quality stuff. At the rear: a dark green velvet couch, a glass coffee table and a video screen on the wall.

  The centrepiece was a dark green bed surrounded by a rug of the same colour and shade. Four-poster. Draped in golden gauze. Padded leather cuffs hung from each post.

  Holy shit.

  I felt severely underdressed. A setting like this practically begged for something soft and feminine. But that wasn’t my style—or McCord’s either, come to think.

  Yet here we were. Arm in arm, two dealers in death. Living the dream. Not that I dream about fucking a coldblooded snake who enjoys strangling uncooperative ladies with neckwear. But this could be my entrée into SpecOps. All I had to do was die—again.

  LOL.

  We stopped. Sweet put my arm down.

  He said, “Make me a drink while I change,
hey babe?”

  Stretching his pecs by clasping hands behind his back, Sweet strolled toward an open door behind the loft’s kitchen. That, I guessed, would be the bathroom. Good to know.

  I looked around. No wet bar. No liquor cabinet. No drinks tray. Where in hell was the booze hiding?

  I looked at the kitchen. That seemed like the best bet. But how would I explain rooting through cupboards to find his liquor stash?

  Sweet turned on the bathroom light. He paused at the doorway. Turning, he shot me a puzzled look.

  “You okay, Crystal? You seem kind of . . . out of it still.”

  “Uh . . . my head’s kind of scrambled,” I confessed. Scratching my head, I said, “Can’t remember where the booze is at, hon.” I smiled and shrugged. “Maybe I should stick with tequila, huh?”

  Sweet raised an eyebrow. Nodding, he pointed to the desk.

  “Right side, bottom drawer. Two fingers. No ice, no water.”

  “No problem,” I assured him. “I’ll get your pipe and slippers while I’m at it.”

  Sweet shook his head. When the bathroom door closed behind him, Griffin gave a low whistle.

  “Nicely done,” he said. “Looks like you’re getting ready for beddy-byes. Dangle offered and accepted.” Griffin cleared his throat. “Um . . . duck to go?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “Duck to go. Now fuck off, perv.”

  Taken

  There were seven bottles of scotch. Each bottle was a different brand. Three had been opened. Hmm. A good girlfriend would know her man’s preference. Anticipate his needs. Put on that French Maid outfit with crotchless panties and bend over the kitchen sink to await a methodical plungering of milady’s wet bits.

  Yeah. Fuck that noise.

  Sighing, I picked an open one and took it to the mini-kitchen. Poking about, I found glasses and poured drinks for both of us. Plopped my rear onto a barstool and sipped my scotch. Not my regular drink but this stuff tasted amazingly good.