Dead4u Read online

  But the gore was disgusting. I couldn’t see the appeal in mindless butchery and found the realism chilling. Still, I reminded myself, these fights were only computer-generated imagery.

  Hyper-realistic. But not real.

  All participants’ faces were pixellated. Voices were muted to prevent communication between the challengers. And each game came prefaced with an official disclaimer:

  This simulated match is provided for entertainment only. DEAD4U does not condone violence. Thanks for playing!

  Leaving no connection between DEAD4U and those nine missing persons. DEAD4U was, pardon the pun, a dead end.

  I took my report to the Head of Cybercrime Unit, Captain Dobbs. Dobbs nodded. She gazed out the glass wall of her windowless office into the squad room. And said:

  “You’re taking point on this.”

  “What?”

  “Missing Persons doesn’t have a single lead beyond this one tip. Their Head requested transfer of case to Cybercrime.” Dobbs held up an open palm to forestall my protest. “The Chief approved the transfer. So it’s our baby now.” She sighed. “Sorry, Nikki. You’ve got your nose stuck in this one. I know it’s shit. But . . .” she gestured with both hands, “you need to throw everything at this donkey fuck. Every motherfucking thing! Prove the game’s legit, submit your report to me and I’ll get the case sent back to Missing Persons. You’ve got two weeks.”

  Her final words of wisdom:

  “Close this case and a promotion’s in the bag.” She gazed hard at me. “You’ve heard the rumours about a mole, right?” When I nodded, she said, “The Chief wants you working solo on this. Trust no one. No one, Nikki.”

  I said okay, saluted and left her glass cage. Working alone suited me. I wasn’t what our dumbass HR types would describe as “a people person”. Trust, in my opinion, should be earned. And no one had ever earned mine.

  ◆◆◆

  The door opened. Griffin’s head popped through. “How are you doing in here?” he asked. “Are you needing a rest?”

  “I have to report in,” I told him.

  Griffin nodded. “Of course. You need to call Captain Dobbs and tell her . . . what? You’re not dead? Even though she’s identified your body?” He shook his head. “Think what you’re saying, Nikita.” Frowning, he added, “You need a bit more time to digest the situation. How about I make some tea? Earl Grey sound good?”

  I opened my mouth to protest but nothing came out. Griffin closed the door as memories flooded back . . .

  ◆◆◆

  Taking Dobbs’ order to heart, I dumped my current workload into pending status and went to work on DEAD4U.

  Solo.

  Domain search led to a shell corporation registered in an offshore tax haven. A lawyer’s name appeared on the registry as DEAD4U’s contact: R.W. Hamilton, LLM. Curious, I checked out the designation. Seemed these LLMs were high-priced suits who specialized in particular fields such as international law and tax law.

  Rules for Rich Fools 101.

  Taking the indirect approach, I sent a business proposal to R.W. Hamilton, LLM regarding potential licensing fees for sporting apparel using DEAD4U’s trademarked logo. R.W. Hamilton didn’t answer my emails or return my phone calls. Quel surprise, huh?

  Forensics proved even trickier. Without faces or voices, matching victims to those eighteen missing persons was impossible.

  With those doors shut in my face, I concentrated on DEAD4U’s champion. Gamertag: Madam Crunch, a six-foot-plus embodiment of pubescent male fantasies.

  Madam Crunch was the sole common element to these games. Uncovering her identity—assuming she was real and not some AI construct—would lead to the brains behind the game. Or so I hoped.

  Going over replays of previous matches, I scoured every inch of Madam Crunch’s anatomy. Analysis provided an approximate height of 185-188 cm. Weight: upwards of 86 kilos. In the non-metric world, that translated to six feet two inches and 190 pounds plus. No matter how you tweaked the math, those numbers added up to a lot of woman.

  Then I caught a lucky break. Tattoos. Madam Crunch had four visible ones. The back of her right hand carried a smirking sun. On the left: a tearful moon. Inside thighs had flames roaring crotchward. Assuming these tats hadn’t been digitally retouched, it was my first valid lead.

  Next came the detective work. This Madam Crunch had serious fighting skills. That narrowed the search to a largish female martial artist who carried specific tats on the backs of her hands and inner thighs. A review of military and criminal databases came up with zilch. Then I got the bright idea to check the MMA or mixed martial arts sites.

  Back then, regulated MMA didn’t have many females in the heavier divisions. For some reason, men didn’t get off watching largish women smack each other around. Go figure. So I checked the underground scene. Took some doing, but I found my woman putting a rear naked choke on a man. Size and tats matched perfectly. And now I had a name:

  Crystal Alice McCord.

  This McCord had no adult criminal record. Pre-tattoo she’d served in the military, completing two tours overseas. After that, she’d tried cage fighting. Due to a lack of female opponents in her weight class (90 kilos), these fights had been unsanctioned bouts against men. Even so, McCord had piled up an unofficial six-and-oh record before leaving the sport to manage Sweet Spot, a local nightclub. This career transition led me to the club’s owner—a videogame creator with a long rap sheet—Santiago Sweet.

  Ding!

  Now I had everything except proof. Getting McCord to cooperate, though, wouldn’t be easy. Working solo meant no resources for surveillance and no backup. All I had was a simple, stupid bluff . . .

  Mirror, Mirror

  The door opened again. Griffin entered, steaming mug in hand. His expression wavered between apology and sympathy.

  “Green tea,” he said. “I’m assuming you don’t take cream or sugar with it.” He made a face. “That would be so wrong.”

  Then he offered the mug. Reaching to grasp it, I fumbled the exchange. But Griffin, with a deft move, intercepted the mug before it spilled.

  “Use both hands,” he ordered. “Coordination takes time. I did as much as possible while you were unconscious. Still . . .” Shrugging, he let the obvious remain unstated.

  “How did I die?”

  Griffin looked uncomfortable. “Official story? You went undercover to bust a violent pedo ring. Got killed in the line of duty. Homicide’s looking into it and won’t rest till the guilty are brought to justice. Blah-blah.”

  “Fuck that noise. Give me the straight-up version minus the PC crap.”

  “I know what I hear. Which may or may not be true.” He shot a meaningful glance upward. Then said: “If that’s not enough, you’ll need to speak with the officer in charge.”

  “When can that happen?”

  “I’ll make a call. I’ll say you have questions. Then it will happen.”

  “And who might you be calling?”

  “Friends.”

  That answer I didn’t like. My gut told me Griffin’s invisible friends might not be my friends. Or even friendly.

  “I’d like a mirror,” I told him. When Griffin frowned at this unexpected segue, I explained, “McCord went kind of heavy on the eyeshadow. It’s a woman thing. Okay?”

  Griffin nodded. Turning, he left the room without a word. The metal door hissed shut behind him.

  ◆◆◆

  What an asshole! Thinking my vain self needed a mirror when my LIFE was on the line? Maybe I'd kill him later just for kicks.

  Now if I could clear this fog out of my head . . .I surveyed the room. Walls were pastel blue. Beside the bed a small wooden dresser painted egg white floated like a cloud on this watercolour horizon. Ceiling was the same shade of white as the dresser. I raised my head to check the floor. It was a light-coloured wood—pine, maybe. Nothing about it jogged my memory. Couldn't see any cameras or mics, but I didn't expect anything obvious.

  I tried the t
oes again. Muscles twitched in both feet. Standing seemed risky, but Griffin would be back soon, so I needed to be ready. Always good to have a Plan B ready in case life went sideways.

  And mine was doing a serious loop-the-loop.

  I refused to think about being dead or living out my days in Crystal McCord's body. Given her career choices and love for the criminal lifestyle, any outlook for the future exceeding life in prison with a variety of sexually transmitted infections seemed optimistic.

  I shut those images out of my head. They could wait till later . . . if there was a later.

  With tentative fingers, I felt for those telltale pouches under my eyes. Ones I’d earned pulling double shifts. They were gone. Emboldened, I managed to sit up. The sheet slipped away, revealing my butt-naked self. McCord was—or had been—a soldier and fifteen years younger. Body molded from solid muscle. I had to stop myself from whistling at the result.

  Physique-wise, I had traded up.

  Both legs buzzed with pins-and-needles like they'd gone to sleep. Except these weren’t my legs, at least not the ones I remembered. But they belonged to me now.

  Okay. Time to stand on your own two feet, Nikita.

  Keeping my weight on both arms, I lowered my legs to the floor. Then I stood up. Those pastel blue walls spun like a merry-go-round. I bobbled, weaved and nearly did a face plant. Falling back onto the bed felt like a major victory. Perspiring from the effort, I wrapped the sheet around me. Then, tucking pillow behind tailbone, I steadied myself into a seated position.

  So much for kicking ass, I decided. At this rate, I could maybe kick my own ass.

  Then I heard voices. Not in my head, thankfully. There was an actual conversation going on in the hallway outside my door. Two people: a man and a woman. Speaking in hushed tones. Like they were in a library or a hospital.

  Hard to guess which, being there weren’t a whole lot of clues in my room. No video screen to while away the hours. No phone. No medical equipment. Not even an effing bathroom. If this joint wasn’t a library, it sure wasn’t a hospital either.

  This room screamed “interrogation”.

  In place of the standard desk and chairs was a plain metal-framed bed. No side rails. No wheels. No mechanism to elevate head or feet.

  Using one arm to stabilize myself, I ran a hand beneath the mattress. Bingo! Someone had tucked restraints out of sight. I pulled both out. Padded leather cuff for right wrist and ankle. Quality stuff. I presumed there’d be a matching set on the other side of the bed. Normally, I’d have checked to make certain, but time wasn’t on my side here.

  Those hallway voices had gotten louder. I caught snatches here and there. A woman’s voice said, “She’d better . . .” and a man—Griffin, I think—replied, “Of course . . . expendable asset . . .” To which the female shouted, “Not your call!” before getting shushed by yet a third voice—this one male—talking too low for me to hear clearly.

  From my perspective, there wasn’t much to like. Obviously, I was the subject of this discussion. And the phrase “expendable asset” sent a herd of butterflies chasing around inside my belly.

  I looked around for something to use as a weapon. Nothing. Except . . . head slap . . . of course!

  I tucked the restraints back under the mattress. A little activity plus a healthy dose of anger had worked wonders.

  Seeing the tats on the backs of my hands made me think of McCord. I’d never had any use for tattoos. Always found them stupid. And now, ironically, I was stuck with hers—for life. But that life wouldn’t last much longer if I screwed up this next bit.

  When the voices stopped, I was ready.

  ◆◆◆

  Griffin walked through the door with pocket mirror in hand. Trailing behind him was a tall, leggy brunette with hazel eyes accompanied by a blocky man of medium height.

  First thought: it didn’t take three people to deliver a pocket mirror.

  The woman wore a lavender skirt suit with black ballet flats. Pasty skinned. Early fifties? Carefully manicured and airbrushed. Thin lips. Plucked brows. Pixie haircut. Nose job? Yeah. Executive material for sure. Easy to tell from the stride. Execs walk fast to brush off the little people. Time’s money, honey, and this one walked like she had a gold bar stashed up that perfect ass.

  The guy? Piggy eyes. Brush cut, bristly beard, thickset from neck to thighs. Wearing a blue-and-grey checked sport jacket. Grey silk T-shirt and khakis cut wide at the waist. On his feet: high-end trainers. Obviously, this dude was no desk jockey. He was dressed to move quickly.

  Money Maid and Muscle? Tag-team treatment didn’t bode well.

  Griffin said, “Got your mirror, Nikita.” Without looking back at his travel companions, he cleared his throat and added, “This is Lieutenant Lane Novak from Special Operations.”

  My sphincter clenched. SpecOps ran the police department’s covert branch. Being introduced to these bogeymen didn’t bode well for my future.

  The woman nodded. Lane Novak had the kind of nasty face you’d expect of a SpecOps cop. No doubt she kept the old landing strip shaved closer than a putting green.

  Nothing would stick to this babe.

  Novak said, “Hi, Nikita.” To Griffin: “Sorry to interrupt, Griff, but this is a time-sensitive matter.” Taking the mirror from Griffin, she handed it to me. “Here you go.”

  Since I’d asked for a mirror, there didn’t seem any graceful way to decline. So I took it off this Novak person. During the exchange, her fingers brushed mine. They were cold.

  Hell, maybe she was dead too. Only nobody had worked up the nerve to tell her.

  I looked in the tiny glass square.

  ◆◆◆

  What did I expect? Not this. Knowing a thing and confronting it are entirely different animals. You can learn lots of useful stuff from instructional books and whatnot. But coming up against the real deal is where you find out what you’re made of. And this was way real. Too fucking real.

  Life or death shit.

  Crystal McCord stared back at me. She was dynamite gorgeous. I blinked. She blinked. I “knew” that face in the mirror was mine. But my brain didn’t believe it. Not yet anyhow.

  I was looking at Crystal Alice McCord. I was DEAD4U’s merciless Madam Crunch. If not for my sedated condition, I might’ve lost it right there. Emotionally, I wavered between panic and rage.

  “Griffin will come back later to help you get adjusted,” said Novak. The smile on her thin lips failed to reach those hazel eyes. She turned to Griffin. “Thanks. I’ll let you know when we’re done here. Okay?”

  Griffin nodded at me. His eyes showed concern. That felt good—and bad. I liked that he cared. What I didn’t like was this none-too-subtle handoff. As he opened the door to leave, I called out:

  “See you around, Griffin.”

  He didn’t answer or look back.

  Asshole.

  Working Cybercrime I’ve seen a shitload of movies. For copyright violations mostly. And there’s one thing I’ve noticed. At some point in every movie, your hero comes face-to-face with something that changes him or her.

  Waking up to find I’m not me? That’s one motherfucker of a shit sandwich to swallow. Felt like killing myself which was pretty stupid all things considered. Coz apparently I couldn’t die.

  How the fuck did this happen to a nice girl like me?

  Oh yeah.

  I was running a bluff …

  Instant Replay

  The bluff worked. Even over the phone, I could hear the change in McCord’s voice. After hearing we had her cold for eighteen murders, the snotty attitude dropped fast. She jumped on my offer of amnesty with a throaty, “Okay! What do you want?”

  “Where’s the next game being streamed from?” I demanded.

  “No idea,” McCord shot back. “Everything’s need-to-know. The operation has four cells with no overlap. Sales. Casting. Location. And Shooting—that’s where I come in.”

  I wrote down “classic cell structure”. It would look good in m
y final report. Management loves a nice buzz phrase. Always nice to have a juicy bone to toss the media and our ever-salivating public.

  “Who does what?” was my next question.

  “Sales looks after the website and public relations. They handle pay-per-view subscriptions, advertising, plus our cut of gambling revenues from partnered sites. Corporate shit, you know?”

  “Casting?”

  “Grab team. A cutout hires a crew. The crew fills the order and holds the merchandise for delivery.”

  “Merchandise? You mean people, right?”

  Ignoring my barb, McCord continued, “Location team hunts for visually interesting sites. Once a game’s ready, Sweet coordinates the handoff from grab team to location crew. Shooting team moves in at the last moment.”

  “Bodies?”

  “Shooting team handles disposal and cleanup.”

  “Yeah. And where do the bodies go?”

  “We cut ‘em up and drop the pieces in the ocean.” She paused. “So what happens now? Do I sign something? What? Hey! I want immunity, witness protection, relocation . . . and a signing bonus. Six figures at least.”

  Six figures? How about six slugs in the face, bitch? Did McCord think I was a fucking talent scout? Fuck her!

  I told McCord we had to meet. She’d wear a wire and get Sweet to talk. And then she could waltz off into the sunset . . .

  Mission Statement

  My brain ramped into overdrive. The sedative which Griffin had given me wasn’t there for my benefit. That was obvious. It was a chemical straitjacket. They wanted me calm. Dull. In a word: defenceless.

  To counteract the drug’s woolly effects, I needed an adrenaline boost. And nothing trumps lethargy like fear. Fear brings out the beast:

  Hate.