Dead4u Page 12

  Maybe the difference was all in McCord’s taste buds. She was only twenty-one, after all. Her tongue hadn’t been worn down by a decade-and-a-half of drinking bad coffee on stakeouts. That was the logical explanation.

  Unless . . .

  Nope. Griffin had wiped McCord’s memories. This was my brain interacting with a different body’s nerve endings. Nothing more.

  I listened to the shower. My target was busily soaping that sleek black hide less than two metres away. The thought of Sweet naked got my nipples hard. I wanted his mouth and tongue kissing and licking a tortuously delicious path down breasts to belly. Rough hands stroking flanks. Grabbing ass and slamming pubes. Oh yeah. I could feel a tingle down below.

  Looking good so far.

  I tried to recall my last amorous encounter. It had been . . . a month? I hadn’t forgotten how Tab A entered Slot B. But who knew what acrobatics Sweet expected? No way to pick McCord’s little brain for that intel. Coz I was there and didn’t have a clue.

  I took another sip of scotch. The liquor went down sweet and smooth. Expensive shit. Mm-mm. Got my belly glowing with heat.

  Sex shouldn’t be a problem. I was overthinking a simple, biological process. Hopefully, there’d be clues to follow. A trail of sticky breadcrumbs ending in . . .

  “Starting without me?”

  Sweet emerged from the bathroom in a blue silk robe. He took the other barstool. Lifting his glass, he clinked it against mine.

  “To us,” he said.

  ◆◆◆

  We ended up in bed. Was it good? Yes. Great? Sad to say: not really.

  Yes, Sweet had a killer bod. Yes, the man was hung like a horse. Plus he had serious moves. Kind of shit you read about in those supermarket rags where the bold print headline screams:

  TEN WAYS TO FUCK WOMEN INTO BLISS!

  Yet the whole thing felt cold. Textbook. Like he was checking off a grocery list of body parts. Each nip got twisted like the dial on a safe. Twice left, once right—open up, baby! Boobs: fondled. Check! Butt: spanked. Check! G-spot? Tap ten times—and hang up if a man answers.

  Ha-ha.

  Well, I’ve had worse—name a woman who hasn’t? And, despite everything, I almost got there. Almost. But didn’t. So I faked the rest. Not liking that too much, but—hey—a girl’s got to do what girls do when boys do us wrong.

  Right?

  After putting his dick away, Sweet found us a movie. It was supposed to be an “erotic thriller”. Translation: mystery-and-mayhem tropes mixed with large dollops of softporn kink. Nuzzling into my left armpit, he conked out well before the closing credits. Leaving me to watch the climax alone.

  Yep. Been here. Done that. Same old, same old.

  ◆◆◆

  Hunched down by the windows, I spotted her car entering the motel’s driveway. She parked close to the road. Smart move—but not smart enough.

  I was sitting in a natural sniper’s nest. Second floor. End room looking over the entrance. Watching her come made my finger itch to squeeze a couple rounds into that stupid face. But bodies dropping in public draw unwanted attention. Best to let her walk in here where I can introduce her kidneys to my trusty Ka Bar knife. Its seven-inch blade was the same length as Sweet’s cock but way harder.

  Gonna fuck you up, bitch.

  Monday's Moron

  “Nikita.”

  The dream disappeared like a fog. Retreating as I ran toward the flickering images. Then it was gone.

  I opened my eyes. Looked down to find Sweet drooling onto my left tit. Yuck.

  “NIKITA!”

  Lane Novak’s voice resonated in my head. I stifled a scream. Idiot must’ve cranked the mic’s volume to max.

  Common sense told me to get clear of Sweet. Despite Griffin’s assurance that the nanoplants were inaudible outside my body, I decided not to risk it. Not with my neck on the line.

  I tried the sub-vocal technique that Griffin had taught me. Not good. I sounded like a baby robot.

  “Wait a sec,” I muttered. “And cut the volume.”

  Slipping out from under Sweet’s head was no snap. Dude’s head was big and just as heavy as it looked. But his drool helped lubricate my passage.

  Again: yuck.

  I padded toward the bathroom. The marble floor felt cold on my bare feet. Once inside the bathroom, I turned on the light and shut the door. Looking up, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Seeing McCord’s face startled me. Took a moment before the neurons kicked into gear.

  I sighed. Getting used to a new face would take time. I had a week. Less now.

  “All clear?” Novak’s perkiness made me want to shove a fist down that skinny throat and rip out her stinking lungs. “Can you talk?”

  “I was sleeping. I’m not a machine. I enjoy long walks on the beach and brief periods of unconsciousness. Look it up. We humans have needs.”

  “Yes. I’m aware of your ‘needs’. When I took over this morning, Griffin said he’d switched off the monitors at your request.” Novak tut-tutted. “You’re on the clock, Nikita. This isn’t playtime. If there’s pillow talk between Sweet and McCord, we have to hear it—ALL of it. Need to know, yeah?”

  “You need to watch too?”

  “Are we shy now? Grow a pair of tits and get over yourself, Detective. How in hell did you survive working this city for fifteen years?”

  “I didn’t. I died.” There was no snappy comeback from Novak this time. I sighed. “Did you want something, Lieutenant? Or did you wake me up just to annoy me?”

  “Your boyfriend’s conked out. This would be an ideal time to search the place.”

  “You want me to go through his pockets?”

  “Well . . . that too, yes. Why not?”

  “I’m not a hooker and he’s not a john. Oh, by the way, Sweet’s a criminal mastermind. So I’m guessing the secret treasure map might be in his other suit—maybe the one at the cleaners.”

  “You’re hilarious.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you doing stand-up for McCord’s next performance? That’s going down in seven days. Seven days, Nikita. So I suggest you start thinking outside the box—before you end up in one.”

  These threats were getting old faster than I was. I yawned and said:

  “Griffin told me you’ve hacked Sweet’s computer and phone. Which turned up zilch. Ditto for his crew. So. You want me to think outside the box, but your genius idea is going through his pockets? Seriously? Is everyone in SpecOps this clueless—or just you?”

  Silence. Then: “It’s your funeral, Nikita. You give us Sweet. We give you a new life. That’s the deal. If you mess up, we’ll burn you.”

  I looked in the mirror so Novak could see my tongue sticking out.

  “Fuck off,” I told her.

  “What?” It was Sweet. He pounded his fist on the bathroom door. “Who are you talking to in there?”

  Shit. I must’ve spoken that last bit out loud. I opened the door and found myself eyeball to eyeball with Sweet.

  “I was talking to myself,” I explained.

  Sweet frowned. “You told yourself to fuck off. Right. What’s going on, Crystal? If you’re not okay, you need to tell me, babe. We got a gig coming up fast. I need you sharp. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “No worries,” I told him lightly. “I’m just psyching myself up.”

  Sweet arched an eyebrow. “Well, if you’re done ‘psyching yourself up’, can I use the bathroom?”

  I said sure and walked out. Listening to the door close behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I had to keep my big mouth zipped. Sweet might enjoy jumping my bones, but he wouldn’t risk going to jail. If he thought I was cracking up, Sweet would finish what McCord had started.

  And kill my cute little ass.

  ◆◆◆

  We went out for breakfast. The club was closed and Sweet’s crew had vanished. Busy committing minor felonies no doubt. What else would scumbags do in their spare time?

  We took
a different car this time, a banged-up green Toyota. It was parked behind the club alongside two similar nondescript vehicles in grey and blue respectively. Sweet asked me to drive as he had calls to make.

  I listened as we motored along. Sweet’s calls were cryptic. Stuff like: “Did you get the package?” And: “Meet up same place and time. Text if you’re going to be late.”

  I took us to a fastfood drive-through for breakfast sandwiches and coffee. After paying, I parked in the lot. We sat and ate in the car. The food was terrible, surpassed only by the horribleness of our “deluxe” coffees. Sweet made a face but didn’t complain.

  “Feliks dropped the Jeep at your place,” said Sweet. He took a bite of his sandwich. Chewing mechanically. Eyes distant. Then: “I figured you’d want to go home and get yourself together.” He looked at me. “Clean up. Work out. Get your head straight.” Sweet stuck his tongue in his cheek. Dislodging food particles? “You won’t go disappearing on me again, right? There’ll be heavy betting action on the next game. You go down, so do I.”

  I told him no problem. Everything was good now. Head on straight, shoulder to grindstone, blah-blah-blah. Judging from the expression on his face, he didn’t believe me. Oh well.

  We finished breakfast. Sweet drove me “home”. Home was a residential neighbourhood deep in the city’s Eastside. There were lots of trees, big-ass yards, flower gardens and kids riding bicycles. I saw an old man pushing a lawnmower and sweating like a dog. In short: just the place for a killer looking to keep a low profile.

  He parked in the driveway of a small frame house. As promised, the Jeep was already there.

  “Home, sweet home,” Sweet said. He waved me away. “Go. Get righteous, babe.”

  Holy shit. Novak was right. Getting righteous was a thing.

  ◆◆◆

  After Sweet drove off, I went to the Jeep and opened the trunk. The suitcase and retail bags were there. Took me two trips to lug everything into the house.

  With that done, I toured the house. From my research into McCord, I knew this was a rental where she’d lived for eight months. A quick inspection revealed the homemaking gene had skipped a generation. Good thing McCord hadn’t relied on cleaning and decorating skills as an income source.

  Front door led straight into the living room. Rear door backed onto a minuscule flower garden and a yard in serious need of mowing. Pathetic. Yet, given McCord’s hectic lifestyle, unsurprising.

  Bathroom was utilitarian. Shower tub. Toilet. Sink. Not so much as a picture or vase to brighten the place. Clean yet sparse.

  I went looking for bedrooms next. There was only one. Bedroom had two doors separated by half a metre or so. I scratched my head over this before realizing that someone—McCord, perhaps—had turned two dinky bedrooms into a single larger entity. That I could understand, being single myself. Like me, McCord hadn’t planned on reproducing or entertaining out-of-town guests. So maybe this sociopathic killer wasn’t completely different from me after all.

  That was a sobering thought. Disturbing in fact. But nothing a stiff drink or twenty couldn’t cure.

  I returned to the living room. Grabbing suitcase and apparel-type goodies, I carted the lot into my new bedroom. Clothes requiring a hanger went into the closet. The rest got dumped in the dresser. The suitcase containing McCord’s go-bag items found a home under the bed.

  Speaking of which, this bed was king-sized. Placed in the middle of the room, there was enough space between headboard and wall to limit copulatory concussion. Considering my newly acquired dimensions, this came as a pleasant surprise. Much as I enjoy being fucked senseless, a dented skull looks bad at the stylist’s.

  Also of note: a motherfucking superb sound system. There were high-end speakers occupying strategic points all over the room. Even a couple behind the bed. Looking around, I found a control panel on one of the bedside tables. Being a techie I had to play with the controls. When I cranked the bass, the bed began to vibrate! Pulling up the mattress I found subwoofers built into the twin box springs. Whoa.

  Maybe she liked to bop to “Blitzkrieg Bop”? Well, no judgment here. I was a solid Ramones fan. Fuck yeah. Who doesn’t like a good bop now and again?

  I checked my watch. I didn’t feel like catching up on someone else’s housekeeping chores. Life was short. And I had less than a week playing Crystal Alice McCord.

  Crunch time was coming fast.

  Sweet was right. I had to get my head straight.

  ◆◆◆

  I went through McCord’s workout clothes. Choice was limited. Booty shorts. Sports bras All of them black. After some deliberation, I accessorized this ensemble with a black ballcap. Inserting wireless earbuds, I set her phone’s music app to a headbanger playlist. A ransack of the front hall closet uncovered no less than four pairs of trainers. Same shoe in one colour. Black. Anal? Yeah, but I’d seen worse. I picked a pair and sniffed. What doesn’t kill you, right? Lacing up, I headed out on my first day solo as Crystal Alice McCord.

  ◆◆◆

  I ran a few blocks in one direction before making an abrupt left turn across the street. No cars followed. An old woman in a heavy sweater, held upright with a walker, smiled at me—or in my general direction at least. Playing safe, I returned the smile and upped the ante with a perfunctory nod. This caused the woman to stop and frown as though she’d sunk her dentures into something horribly foul and gooey.

  I made a note to brush up on my defective people skills. There was a reason I’d gone into Cybercrime. Oh yeah . . . I disliked people. Anyone trying to play in my sandbox was gonna eat a mouthful of sand. And lose a few teeth.

  Well, no one’s perfect, right?

  Clouds covered the sun. The air was thick, clotted with water. A slight breeze from the ocean blew through the grass and trees.

  I ran more. Ran till houses blurred together. Humming with tunes rattling my skull. And I saw a woman, barely twenty, pushing a stroller. Dark circles around the eyes. Hunched posture. Likely not sleeping well with a screaming infant and some guy wanting postnatal nooky. Sure didn’t envy her. Or whatever man—if it was a man—in the picture.

  Would this young mother covet my situation? Think my existence an attractive alternative to her routine? At first glance: maybe. Who wouldn’t prefer a glamorous life of thrills and spills over the humdrum tedium of diaper rash and feeding times?

  Till she learned how McCord financed that supercharged lifestyle. Then: not so much.

  Wolseley burst into my head.

  “You need to do wind sprints!” he bellowed. “No one fights at a nice easy jog when it’s life or death. Move that butt, Chen!

  Yep. Wolseley was an asshole. But he was right. Which didn’t make me like him any better. But survival trumps good manners every time.

  You’re already dead, argued the voice in my head. So what’s the rush, eh?

  I shut that voice down hard. You can’t listen to the voices in your head. They’ll make you crazy. Well, crazier.

  I dashed down the block counting to ten. Then slowed to a walk for thirty before ramping up to a near gallop for twenty. Sprint. Walk. Run. Repeat.

  “Push yourself!” barked Wolseley. “Harder!”

  Cursing, I upped sprint time and cut back on walking. My ribs began to ache. Legs felt like boiled jelly. Hauling around McCord’s ninety kilos of solid muscle was a real eye-opener. No wonder big people moved slower. That extra weight killed you. And speaking of size? Thanks to the genius who invented sports bras.

  Gravity’s a bitch.

  Sweat covered my eyes. I wiped it away. Ran. More sweat. Wiped it off. Ran. More . . . no these were raindrops.

  I turned for home. Wolseley called me a wimp. I thanked him for his motivational efforts. He said fine, get yourself killed you stupid bitch.

  I ran with just the music in my head. By the time I reached McCord’s house, I was soaked and my trainers squeaked as I ran up the steps onto the porch.

  All Work, No PLay

  Lunchtime. I ro
oted around for food. Having been absent for over three weeks, the pickings ran from slim to disgusting. Bananas had blackened, with tiny fruit flies buzzing around them. I tossed these into the garbage. There were cooked chicken breasts in the fridge—also gone bad. A few apples and oranges looked semi okay.

  Being desperate, I settled on a protein shake concocted of whey powder, water and frozen strawberries. I needed to grocery shop for human food. Soon.

  I grabbed McCord’s phone and checked DEAD4U’s website. Next match was scheduled for Sunday. At high noon, of course. Initial odds favoured the champion—naturally. After all, hadn’t McCord won nine straight bouts?

  Okay. Sunday was D-day. Today was Monday. That gave me six days to find the next location. Six fucking days: that was my deadline.

  The site’s wallpaper was an action shot of Madam Crunch brandishing that trademark hammer. I pictured my face beneath the pixellated mask. Saw myself slamming the blunt metal into someone’s face. Crushing bones, splattering brains.

  None of that had bothered McCord. Or had it? Possibly the killings had haunted her. Despite her sociopathic behaviour, no one truly knew what went on inside another human being. And that went double for me. I didn’t know who—or what—I was these days.

  The Nikita Chen who’d worked Cybercrime didn’t exist anymore. She’d been reduced to a few billion bits of data and programmed to function in pre-determined patterns. Of course, the same might be said of anyone . . .

  Right?

  Wolseley broke into these musings with a terse suggestion that I hit the weights. McCord kept some in the basement, he said. Afterward, I should go to a gym where she liked to run an obstacle course.

  Great. The fun never stopped for Madam Crunch.

  Grumbling, I got up and found the door to the basement. This constant training was a complete drag. Who knew being dead could be so much work?

  ◆◆◆

  McCord had some hardcore shit in the basement. Squat rack. Weight bench. Heavy bag. So I did the usual squats and bench presses before moving on to power cleans and snatches. When I was done, my whole body was shaking. Even my tits hurt. I was too tired to even think about smacking that heavy bag. Staggering upstairs, I sat and drank a gallon of water right out of the tap.