Dead4u Read online

  The thought of doing an obstacle course depressed me. I had McCord’s physique but lacked her mental focus and discipline. Probably Wolseley sensed this.

  He let me rest a bit. Doubtless he was watching my vitals through those stinking nanoplants. I pictured him gauging my recovery. I considered faking a panic attack but discarded the notion. If I seemed unstable, SpecOps would discard me and try something else. Bottom line: I had to make myself useful if I wanted the new body Novak had promised me.

  My rest period ended with Wolseley telling me to get my ass in gear. So I grabbed my purse and went out to the car. Wolseley provided the destination. Punching the address into GPS, I pulled out.

  The rain had diminished to a weak drizzle. Twenty minutes later, the rain had stopped and I was cruising through the city’s southside. I found the gym beside a massive junkyard. Classy. I parked the Jeep alongside a dozen other vehicles and went inside.

  It was a regular type gym with an outdoor obstacle course tacked onto its rear. I checked in and went to look things over. I’d done this shit at the police academy but never since—for good reason. Obstacle courses are designed to torture masochistic types who want to experience the joys of soldiering without getting shot. Fun times? Maybe for some—but not me.

  The setup was fairly standard. Running through tires. Uneven beams. Monkey bars. Wall scaling. Followed by a wire crawl. Heavy tire flips: check. At the end, I found a rope-climb where you rang a bell to celebrate your victory over inanimate objects.

  Yay.

  Assuming you had enough strength to raise your arm and hit the bell.

  Per Wolseley’s orders, I ran the course three times. Climbing wet walls wasn’t much fun. On the plus side, the mud lubricated my belly for crawling under wire. By the time I rang that final bell, my upper back and shoulders were a screaming mass of knots. Plus I was slathered in mud.

  I cooled down with a slow walk. Then I hit the gym’s juice and water bar. I ordered a peanut butter and banana shake with almond milk and goji berries. And drank the mess down without tasting it. Which was probably for the best.

  “You did okay,” said Wolseley. “Not up to McCord’s time but decent. Go home and take a nap. Maybe shower first.” He barked an unpleasant laugh. “You must stink.”

  Did Wolseley hate all women or just me?

  I didn’t reply. I was too tired to spar with the voice of a misogynist in my head. All I wanted was to lie down and die quietly.

  ◆◆◆

  At McCord’s place, I stripped as I walked to the bathroom. I set the shower temp to hot. Stepping in I scrubbed head to toe. Then the nasty part. I turned the setting to cold. Motherfucker! I could feel icicles hanging off my tits. I withstood this wintry blast for maybe fifteen seconds before dialling up the heat. Seven times I repeated this process. Boil. Freeze. Scream.

  Then I went to the bedroom, crawled under covers and closed my eyes.

  Spa Time

  I heard knocking. I opened my eyes. I was on the edge of something. I didn’t know what but felt it curled cold and spiteful around me. It dissipated under the hammering of fist on wood.

  “Ms. McCord? Ms. McCord? It is Helga.”

  Helga? Who the fuck was Helga?

  Moving gingerly, I rolled out of bed. My body was stiff and sore everywhere. Throwing on a bathrobe, I hobbled to the door and glanced through the peephole.

  Helga was a stocky woman with arms like a horse’s rear legs. Fortyish. Ruddy cheeked. Flaxen-haired with twinkling blue eyes that promised naughty secrets. With walking stick and thick boots, she’d have been mistaken for an Alpine goatherd. Oh well. Whoever Helga might be, she didn’t belong to Sweet’s crew. Those faces I knew by heart.

  I opened the door and said hi. Helga ignored me. She brushed past, nearly knocking me off my feet. A large case was slung over one shoulder. Kicking off a pair of worn flip-flops, she marched straight to the bedroom.

  I said, “Uh . . .”

  Helga turned. She fixed me with a stern glare. In heavily accented English she rumbled, “Boss tell me you are back now. He says I must take good care of you.” A radiant smile burst through that cross expression. “Come now,” commanded Helga waving me toward the bedroom. “We start now. Good?”

  This was a present from Sweet? I bit my lip. Maybe I didn’t know everything about McCord. Maybe she had a thing for lesbian goatherds. Or Sweet did.

  I followed the woman into the bedroom. She seemed to know the lay of the place. I had to go along with this, at least till I knew what was going on.

  Helga put the case on the floor. Unsnapping the clasps, she opened up a portable massage table. I watched her swift, efficient movements with awe. There wasn’t a single wasted motion. In less than a minute, the table was ready.

  Helga turned to me. She seemed perplexed. Then I realized that she expected me to undress. My fingers fumbled with the belt but kept cramping up from all the exercise.

  Helga became impatient. Removing my hands, she undid the knot. Trying not to flinch I let her undress me. Helga folded the bathrobe neatly and placed it on the bed atop my pillow. As she turned, I let my hands dangle in front of my pussy. Casual like.

  Helga pointed at the massage table. I took the hint and lay facedown. Grunting she slathered oil over feet legs butt and back. I twisted my neck around for a peek. Helga’s arms were thick and bristly as a man’s legs.

  “Good,” she muttered. “Good.”

  She proceeded to twist, prod, squeeze and pound away. Starting at the feet she worked up to the neck. A warm glow coursed through my veins. Muscles softened to the consistency of melting wax. Helga’s pummelling hands molded them into perfect shapes.

  Now I felt relaxed. I thanked her and started to get up. But Helga wasn’t having that. She grunted, “No done yet,” and flipped me like a burger on a grill.

  My entire body tensed. That’s how I react to full frontal exposure. I’d never been comfortable getting naked in locker rooms. In front of a stranger: no effing way.

  But Helga was there courtesy of our mutual boss. This rubdown had to be part of McCord’s workout. Deviation from routine would raise eyebrows. And I couldn’t risk close scrutiny.

  “You relax,” ordered Helga. “I see everything plenty times.” Again that radiant smile. “Plenty.”

  She started with the toes. Moved up to ankles. Then calves. Anticipation ate away at my mind. I told myself I was being ridiculous. Yet the sense of imminent danger wouldn’t leave me. By the time those hands arrived at thigh level, every nerve cell was up and jumping.

  There was nothing overt. She seemed respectful of personal boundaries. No finger crossed labial borderlines. This was all aboveboard and completely kosher. Not a hint of kink or crazy.

  I started to relax again. This was going to be okay. Allowing myself to drowse, I closed my eyes and let the feeling of good health wash over me in waves. Those hands were hypnotic. Tidal. Kneading breasts. Twirling nipples like long-stemmed roses.

  Then:

  Two iron claws gripped my throat. I opened my eyes and struck with open palms against Helga’s ears. Releasing the choke, she reeled backward. I rolled up in a ball and kept moving forward, planting a solid foot to that smirking chin.

  Helga went down hard. I followed up with a stomp to that fat solar plexus. As air gushed out of her, she stared up at me with bug eyes. Begging for mercy? I didn’t wait to find out. I dropped to one knee and let fly with a stiff-fingered strike to the trachea.

  The gurgle in her throat told me I’d hit the sweet spot. I moved away quickly, in case she tried to lash out.

  Helga—or whoever she was—tried to rise but couldn’t. Those hits to the midsection and throat had done the job. Blue eyes bulged at me. Pleading.

  “Did Sweet ask you to do this? Tell me and I’ll get you to a hospital.”

  Helga shook her head no. Was that a “no” to Sweet being the culprit—or “no” she didn’t want to go to a hospital?

  Hoping for clarification, I said, �
��Not Sweet? Someone else?”

  This time I got a head bob. So it hadn’t been Sweet. Good to know. But then who was behind this attack? All of Sweet’s competitors stood to gain if I were out of the way. But only an insider would connect Crystal McCord with Madam Crunch.

  Helga managed to sit up. Looked like she was going to recover. Goody. I went to my purse, pulled out the Glock and returned to my masseuse. She stared at the gun. I pointed the muzzle at one of her kneecaps.

  “Who told you to kill me?” I asked.

  She shrugged. Rubbed her fingers together in the universal language of money. “Not know,” she claimed. “Get call from someone promise money. Half now. Rest later. Voice . . .” Pausing, she grimaced. “Like robot sound.”

  “You should go now,” I told her. “Pack up your little table and scoot before I change my mind.”

  Helga didn’t argue. She collected her stuff and scurried off. I walked her to the door. Even opened it. As she breezed past, I gave her a boot in the rump. Helga stumbled. Skidding off the porch, she rolled down the steps. The case went flying down the driveway and landed in a small puddle.

  I stood in the doorway. I watched her rise unsteadily and wobble off. As she bent to retrieve the case, Helga shot a hateful glare in my direction. I responded by showing her the business end of the Glock. Helga beat a fast retreat to a small van parked on the street. I waited till she’d gone. Then I went around the house, checking points of entry for Helga’s backup. There were none. This smacked of an amateur job. I went to the living room windows and peered between closed drapes.

  McCord, it seemed, had enemies. Not pros, obviously. Pros wouldn’t use people like Helga. Massage had to rank as one of the more unreliable killing techniques.

  Griffin’s voice came into my head.

  “Why are you walking around naked with a gun in your hand?” he wanted to know. “Not that I’m complaining about the view. Still . . .”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what? I just took over the monitors from Wolseley. He was having a . . . rest break when I got here.”

  “You mean he was taking a piss. I’m a big girl Griff. I know guys have penises and like to pretend they’re firemen.”

  Griffin sighed. “There are only three of us, Nikita. Sometimes nature calls, okay?”

  “I had a visitor.”

  “A naked visitor?” He sounded amused. “Did the perp discharge his weapon first?”

  “Ha-ha. It was a woman.” I paused, trying to think. “Didn’t Wolseley see her?”

  “Um. Wolseley just left. I can ask him though. It was a woman right?” He made a sound in his throat. “Yeah. Looking at her now on replay. Yikes! That must’ve been intense.”

  ‘It was.” I paused to collect my thoughts. A question took shape in my mind. “Griffin?”

  “Yes?”

  It occurred to me that our communications were hardly private. Novak and Wolseley might be listening and probably others as well. Shooting off my mouth to the wrong party could get me shot.

  I said, “Never mind. If you zoom in on her licence plate, maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Griffin agreed to look into it. Then signed off.

  I went to the bathroom and threw up.

  Beddy Boos

  I ended the day watching mindless entertainment. Reality television. Cat videos. Crime thrillers that didn’t thrill me one bit. All of which left me wondering how the fuck people did this day in and day out. This was living?

  Maybe death had gotten a bum rap.

  Me: I’d never been the reflective type. All my life I’d been drawn to action. Sports. Hiking. Camping. Combat arts. Later, inevitably, police work. Cybercrime was ugly work—too many pedos to suit me—but nabbing baddies felt rewarding. Coz sometimes—not too often—they resisted arrest.

  Which I enjoyed more than I should’ve. But every job has it perks, yeah?

  Right now, though, all I wanted was to drink or drug myself into oblivion. But that wasn’t a viable option. From hereon out I had to stay sharp. Ready for action as a virgin on prom night. Coz that next match was coming fast. And someone wanted McCord out of the picture. One of Sweet’s

  Staying sober seemed like the smart play.

  Before turning in, I located McCord’s gun stash. It was a metal locker hidden in a closet behind her clothes. Fortunately for me, she didn’t keep it locked. The contents didn’t surprise much. I’d expected an arsenal and that’s what it was.

  I passed on the sniper rifle in favour of a shotgun. Had a pump action with walnut pistol grip that fit my palm perfectly. I checked that it was loaded. It was.

  Good to go.

  The Smith & Wesson from the money-laundered house went into a bedside table. I tucked the shotgun under the bed. Tactical knife—also from my fancy house—slid easily between mattress and box spring.

  Final move: I set the alarm. This activated motion sensors on all windows and exterior doors. Now I could rest easy. Not that sleep would prove difficult tonight. Exercise plus excess adrenaline from that tussle with “Helga” had left my nerves in a state of jittery exhaustion.

  My final thought before darkness fell were Epstein’s words at the memorial service:

  “I was afraid you might come here . . .”

  ◆◆◆

  “Can Crystal come out to play?” The little girl smiled shyly at me. “I’ll make sure she’s back in time for supper.”

  The little girl looked familiar. She looked a lot like a younger version of me. She had the same dark ponytail, narrow face and scrawny build of the little girl I’d been.

  “Sure,” I told her, patting that sweet head. “Would you like to come inside for milk and cookies?”

  The little girl shook her head sadly. “No,” she replied. “Crystal needs to get out.” She cupped a palm around one ear. “Can’t you hear that, Nikki? She’s not happy about any of this.”

  I stopped to listen. Yes. There was a high, screeching wail. It resonated like an angry throb splitting me from chest to crotch. Falling, I clutched at the girl. She fell apart, crumbling in my hands like dust.

  On my back, I watched my distended belly pulse. The pain was incredible. I splayed my legs wide, opened myself to a voice rising from the deep, calling for her . . .

  Tuesday's Wild

  Tuesday went much the same as Monday—minus attempted murder by deranged masseuse—with only minor tweaks. In lieu of lifting weights, Wolseley insisted I practise my hammer skills. That I didn’t enjoy. Being used to the finer points of swordplay, I found swinging a blunt instrument less than stimulating. Naturally, these lacklustre efforts did not pass unnoticed.

  “Cut the prima donna act!” Wolseley barked. “The weapon in your hand shouldn’t matter. Whatever you’re holding should feel like an extension of your body.”

  To which I retorted, “But what if I forget and scratch my nose?”

  Wolseley said fine. Get yourself killed—again.

  So I went over the routines he’d taught me. Though I did wonder how Wolseley had picked up this odd skill. Fighting with a sledgehammer isn’t a common talent like baton twirling or fellatio. Not everyone can do it.

  Picturing my tormentor prancing about in a drum majorette’s costume eased the pain a little.

  Takes all kinds, right?

  During lunch Griffin reported back on the licence plate. It had been lifted from a different stolen vehicle—not Helga’s van. Leaving no solid lead to whoever wanted me dead.

  Logic told me it couldn’t be Sweet. McCord was his game’s star and top draw. Killing her before a big match made no sense. Besides, if he had wanted me dead, then I’d be dead already.

  So who? According to Novak, McCord would’ve had help killing me, if only to dispose of my corpse. I could understand McCord’s partner panicking when Crystal went AWOL. But why go after McCord now?

  Was I merely a loose end?

  I mulled this puzzle over. It seemed to me that McCord’s unknown partner had planned to whack
McCord all along. Culling her would’ve been a simple business decision. Which made my recent brush with death feel inevitable somehow. Nothing personal: merely a logical chain of events falling into place.

  Unsurprisingly, this line of reasoning failed to cheer me.

  Next I considered the department’s mole. Whoever it was had maneuvered Captain Dobbs into sending me undercover without backup. That mission had failed, obviously. But the blame was mine alone. Simply put, McCord’s fear of Sweet had exceeded her fear of me. Being greedy for a dangled promotion, I’d pushed too hard too fast. And that miscalculation had cost me my life. McCord’s too, come to think.

  Two for the price of one wasn’t always a bargain, was it?

  ◆◆◆

  Later that afternoon, I went grocery shopping. All I needed was enough food to get me through four days at most. Come Sunday I’d be fighting for my life in some remote location. And then, hopefully, I’d be done with all of it.

  I ate a lonely dinner of broccoli, baked potato and poached salmon. Although I kept expecting Novak or Sweet to contact me, neither did. The anticipation gnawed at my nerves.

  After dinner I washed the dishes and brushed my teeth. Checked the TV listings and decided an early night beat what passed for entertainment.

  Final preparations for bed included checking points of entry and double-checking all weapons in case someone had tampered with them. Such was the life of the terminally paranoid.

  I set the alarm. Then fell asleep.

  ◆◆◆

  I woke up. Felt groggy. Like I’d tied one on the night before. Mixing speed with alcohol feels great while you’re buzzed and the world is a symphony of sounds and colours. Afterward: not so much. Crashing from that high is bound to be depressing, just coz it’s such a long way to fall.