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And said, “That’s what McCord was wearing when Novak and Wolseley picked her up.” Griffin made a face. “We couldn’t risk sending anyone to McCord’s for a change of clothes. In case Sweet’s gang is sitting on her place.” His mouth twisted. “Sorry.”

  I picked up the items one by one and examined them. There was a black T-shirt with “38 Specials” printed across the chest. Cute. Black jeans. Ripped, of course. Black socks. Bra. Panties. Oh-oh. I held the panties up for closer inspection. There were no obvious stains or smells. But still. Hygiene isn’t just a word for me. It’s a mindset. And I was dead set against contracting someone else’s STI or yeast infection. I muttered:

  “Great. I get to wear someone’s dirty underwear. The thrills just never stop.”

  “We have other clothes for you to wear while you’re here in the safe house. But you can’t wear them once you leave. I think you can see why.”

  “This place is a SpecOps’ safe house?”

  “One of them.”

  “And you—are you one of them too?”

  Griffin looked at me and sighed. “I want you to know I had nothing to do with this.”

  “Really? Coz I hear you’re one of four people in on this scheme.”

  Griffin looked down. “Your department hired me to digitize the neural imprints of employees working ‘high risk’ cases.” He looked up. “That’s all I was told. When . . . the incident occurred . . .”

  “You mean when I died?”

  “Yeah. SpecOps asked me to handle the data transfer.”

  “Data transfer. I like that. Sounds clean. Antiseptic. Almost legal.”

  “Please Nikita . . .”

  “Oh fuck you Griffin. You’re a ‘neural programmer’—whatever the hell that’s supposed to be. You knew this wasn’t some harmless exercise. Bureaucracies don’t shell out money for playtime. I was their high-risk employee. You were making a backup copy of my mind. Some number cruncher calculated the odds and SpecOps let me get wasted so they could use me to infiltrate Sweet’s crew.” I stopped to catch my breath. Feeling flushed. “That about it Griffin?”

  He hung his head. “Yeah. Honestly though, I didn’t see all of that. How you were being set up. I swear.”

  “Want to tell me what really happened?”

  He nodded.

  ◆◆◆

  Per Griffin I’d arranged to meet McCord in a motel room on the city’s outskirts. She’d told me that she’d be getting info on the next hunt being staging. I was supposed to install a spy app on her phone and another one—well in a very sensitive area.

  I held up a hand to stop his little recital. I told him this was old news.

  He nodded. “Well, none of that went down coz McCord decided to bushwhack you instead.”

  “And how come I don’t remember this?”

  Griffin rolled his eyes. “Your mind was digitized before that. You can’t recall what wasn’t downloaded. Okay?”

  “Sure. So what happened to her?”

  “McCord?”

  “Yeah. Who else, Griffin? I know what happened to me—I got my ass murdered. I got the message. Let’s move on, okay?”

  He sighed. The sound grated on my nerves. Do men not get that women hate that sound? Sighing’s like leaving the toilet seat up—with your big fat mouth.

  “Your new pals, Wolseley and Novak, were waiting in the next room. They grabbed McCord on her way out. Then they brought her here and called me in.”

  I shivered. “Did she know what was going to happen?”

  “No.” Griffin’s jaw muscles clenched. “I couldn’t . . . I didn’t know how . . .”

  “But you managed.”

  “Yes. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Everyone gets a choice, Griffin.”

  He shook his head. “Sure. Like McCord had? What choice did she get? Inform on her boyfriend who’ll make bail and kill her—or go to prison where he hires someone else to ice her. Not much choice there, I’d say.”

  I looked at Griffin. “What does the department have on you? Must be pretty bad.”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t in a position to say no either. Just like McCord.” His mouth twisted. “And you.”

  Fuck. A lot of people were going to die before this was over. With luck I’d be the one sending most of them to hell. I looked Griffin in the eye.

  “So what’s next?”

  ◆◆◆

  Good thing he saved the worst for last.

  “McCord’s memories got cleaned out when I ran the initial software update. I replaced them with backstory from her files. If I’ve done it right, you won’t be able to tell the difference.” He paused to let me absorb that info byte before continuing. “Also, you’ll notice your speech patterns and vocabulary are programmed to mimic hers.” He grimaced. “Mimic, okay? There’ll be gaps, but it’s unlikely anyone will question your identity. If they do, you can access the memory data that I planted. Your neural print responds to keywords. So if someone mentions your parents . . .”

  A succession of images ran through my mind. As a twelve-year-old Crystal had found her crack-whore mother dead from an overdose on their living-room floor. Crystal’s father had wasted no time turning his daughter out . . .

  Those brief snatches from a stranger’s past left me feeling violated. At twelve my life had revolved around music, martial arts and boys—perhaps not in that exact order. I’d had two loving parents and three squabbling sisters. Our family had lived in a nice home with plenty of food, all of which I’d taken for granted.

  Same age yet a lifetime of experiences separated me from Crystal McCord’s living hell. Maybe I’d learn to understand her by living inside her skin. But I couldn’t see how. I’d been raised to believe that our choices determined our fates. Free will, right? McCord had made bad choices. Ergo, she had no one to blame except herself.

  Fuck yeah.

  But what about me? How did I deserve to die and end up trapped inside a killer’s brain? Hmm. There had to be a moral to this shit story, but I couldn’t figure it out. Maybe I should’ve majored in philosophy instead of criminal justice.

  Who knew, eh?

  “You okay in there?”

  I stared back at Griffin. Was he faking that worried expression? Or did I look that bad?

  “Fine,” I lied. “Let’s get on with it.” I gazed down at the stack of dirty clothes beside me. “You mentioned something about clean clothes?” I asked hopefully.

  Griffin nodded. He left and came back with a shopping bag. Handing it to me, he tried to smile like he was doing me a big favour.

  “You can stash everything in the dresser. I’ll see to it you get more of whatever you need. We can put McCord’s clothes elsewhere till you need to show your face in public. If there’s anything that you’d like . . .”

  “Don’t worry. I know how to scream.”

  I peeked inside the shopping bag. T-shirts. Shorts. Ankle socks. Sports bra. Underwear. And yoga pants? Ew. Everything white. Sterile.

  I pictured Griffin shopping for this stuff but had to stop. The images were way too disturbing. If I survived this shitshow, I’d need years of expensive therapy.

  Coughing into my fist I said, “You might want to turn around while I get dressed.”

  Griffin did an eye-roll.

  Now it was my turn to sigh. “Oh. You undressed McCord right? I suppose I’m going to find your greasy fingerprints all over my ass.”

  Griffin bristled. “Whoa! I sedated her first,” he objected. “And I didn’t look—well not on purpose.”

  That did it. I threw the bedsheet aside and stood up. Griffin’s eyes widened. So maybe he wasn’t a total perv. I chuckled.

  “Take a good look, Griff. Might be your last.”

  ◆◆◆

  I spent the next two hours getting acquainted with my new self. Griffin ran me through a full set of mind-body coordination exercises. Which was a strange sensation to say the least. McCord was a much bigger woman than me—a full head taller and two fists’ wider at the s
houlders. Being inside that extra-large frame reminded me of trying on my mother’s dresses as a kid. Filling out that giant’s clothing had seemed impossible.

  But could I trust any of my memories? How could I tell what was real if every thought I had was a digital reconstruction of a particular version of reality? Realizing there was no way to answer such a question, I suppressed this line of inquiry ruthlessly.

  Survival trumped everything—even truth.

  By the time we were done, my head felt like it might explode. Talk about migraines. Fuck. I felt sick to my stomach. Then it occurred to me that McCord could be . . . drumroll . . . pregnant. Freaked, I asked Griffin if he’d checked McCord’s uterus for hitchhiking small fry.

  The bastard chuckled. “Don’t fret, Nikita, you’re not expecting a visit from the stork. Not that you wouldn’t make a great mother of course.”

  He laughed when I gave him the finger. I promised myself that one day soon there’d be a reckoning. And I’d stuff that finger down his throat, yank out his tongue and cut it off.

  Zoo Tour

  Next on the agenda: basic orientation. Griffin explained that hallway lighting was motion-activated to turn on for fifteen minutes. Room lights turned on and off by voice command or switch.

  Climate control instructions followed. To adjust the temperature all I had to do was say, “Plus two degrees,” or “Minus two degrees”. The building’s computer would acknowledge the request but only by two degrees at a time. Apparently this was a built-in safeguard to prevent fires or frozen pipes should the computer mishear the speaker’s instructions.

  “Feel up to the grand tour?” asked Griffin.

  Even though my legs still felt wobbly I said yes. No way was I passing up a look-see to my prison. Griffin said cool, turned and headed off. Leaving me to hobble after him.

  My room, I discovered, was in the building’s basement. Across the hall was a white-tiled bathroom with small gym included. And next to this bathroom cum gymnasium was a lunchroom.

  The lunchroom utilized the same blue-and-white colour scheme as my bedroom. A double sink, fridge, microwave and coffee press were at my disposal. There was also a table with choice of four varnished pine chairs. In the fridge were a variety of healthy food choices. Juice. Pre-packaged salads. Chicken breasts too: all boneless, skinless and fully cooked.

  Yuck.

  There were five other doors in the hallway. They were shut tight. I knew because I tried each one.

  If I needed anything, I was supposed to call Griffin from a dedicated landline in the kitchen. He’d be nearby.

  I didn’t bother to ask where.

  When he said goodnight, Griffin went through a fire door at the end of the hallway. As the door closed, I glimpsed a flight of stairs. Staying still I listened to his footsteps rising above me. Another door opened. Then nothing.

  Now what?

  I figured SpecOps had countermeasures in place should I try to bolt. Provoking a response now might help me identify and neutralize those deterrents in the future. Or ruin my chances later on.

  I decided to do nothing. No point spitting in the face of Fate.

  For now I’d try playing nice with my new buddy Griffin. I sensed he could be the weak link in the chain holding me captive. When I broke free, maybe I’d stop being nice.

  Place went dead quiet with Griffin gone. As a city girl, my natural environment consisted of traffic noise, loud music and family arguments. The silence was unbearable.

  I walked the hallway for a bit, hoping to ease the tension in my gut through simple movement. But pacing didn’t work. So I gave up after a bit and lay down on my bed.

  Lying there, I analyzed my distraught state. I decided the problem was plain old fear. Fear that I wouldn’t wake up. Fear that a glitch in my neural imprint’s “data transfer” might render me brain dead, paralyzed . . . who knew, really?

  Despite the climate-controlled air, I broke out in a cold sweat. What if my mind became locked inside a dysfunctional body? How would SpecOps deal with that? There were two logical choices. Either plant me in a care facility like a vegetable. Or dispose of the evidence.

  Best case scenario: a bullet.

  And if I woke up “normal”, what then? Infiltrating Sweet’s crew could get me killed in several different and nasty ways. Even assuming I survived the job, what guarantee did I have that SpecOps would let me off the hook? Novak’s word of honour wasn’t worth the price of spit.

  Now I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to keep my eyes open in case they came for me in the middle of the night. But I’d had a rough day. Adrenaline can only keep you going for so long. When you crash, you fall hard . . . and it’s a long . . . long way . . . down . . .

  ◆◆◆

  “You in there.”

  I opened my eyes.

  Crystal stood in front of me. Arms crossed. She wore one of Madam Crunch’s signature black latex outfits. The hammer logo was emblazoned in red on her chest.

  “Hey, sleepyhead.” Crystal smiled. “You need to get lost. There’s only room for one of us in here.” She tapped the side of her head. “And I got first dibs so . . .”

  “You can have it back when I’m done,” I told her.

  Her expression hardened. “Oh you’re done, bitch. You just don’t know it yet.”

  Grabbing my head, she ripped at my face with yellow claws. Frantic, I tried to push her away. She didn’t budge though. When I gave up, Crystal tossed me a hand mirror.

  “Check it out,” she sneered.

  I didn’t want to look. But Crystal insisted. Grabbing me by the hair, she pulled my face to the mirror. I screamed and tried to close my eyes. That’s when Crystal snipped away my eyelids so I couldn’t help but see.

  “You won’t remember any of this,” she warned. Holding finger to lips: “They don’t want you to know about me. Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”

  ◆◆◆

  I woke with a headache. Felt like I’d been dreaming yet unable to recall a single image. Thinking a bottle of aspirin might be lurking in the bathroom, I rolled out of bed and went to the door. Opening it, I found Griffin poised to knock. His fist came to a halt a hair shy of my nose.

  I blinked reflexively.

  Griffin’s shocked expression made me laugh. He smiled and shook his head gently.

  Griffin said, “Great minds think alike, huh? I was just coming to check up on you. Sleep okay?”

  I groaned and said no. I told him my head was pounding. Any chance this was a side effect of the brainwipe and data transfer?

  His face twisted to demonstrate an appropriate degree of concern. Scratching his chin, he deliberated for a moment. Then:

  “Possible,” Griffin said. “But it’s more likely the sedative wearing off.” He nodded to himself. “You’re something of a pioneer, I’m afraid. There are no case histories or literature on the subject. So . . .”

  The word “pioneer” grabbed my attention immediately.

  I said, “Please tell me I’m not your first.”

  “Okay. You’re not my first.” Cracking a grin, he added, “But the others didn’t mean anything, dear. Honest.”

  “You’re a scream, Griffy.” My head pulsed with each word. “Mind telling me what happened to those exes?”

  “Sorry. That’s classified.”

  I pictured empty-eyed husks propped in wheelchairs. The prospect of such a fate sent a shudder down my spine. What if this data transfer of me to McCord developed a similar glitch? The end result wasn’t hard to guess. There’d be a sealed record marked “Classified” with her name and mug shot. Nothing left of me, whoever “me” was these days.

  Observing my reaction, Griffin bit his lip. “I’ll find some aspirin. Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s a reaction to stress.” He paused. “Any weird dreams or nausea?”

  Being unable to recall a dream didn’t strike me as breathtakingly abnormal. And I felt fine, except for the headache. When I told him so, he seemed relieved. Me too. I didn
’t ask about other potential side effects. I could handle weird dreams and nausea like a champ.

  “Okay, go back to bed,” he said, pointing over my shoulder. “Doctor’s orders.”

  So I got back in bed and waited as Griffin left and returned with two white pills in a paper cup and a small glass of water.

  Was I being drugged again?

  I decided not to care. Sitting up, I took my medicine as Griffin watched. He said goodnight and left. Then I tried to sleep. When sleep didn’t happen, I decided to watch the ceiling. The ceiling? It had nothing to say. Which was better than anything I could offer.

  In-House/Day1/Start

  Day One began with a weigh-in. Griffin brought a scale and asked me to stand on it. So I did. I watched in awe as the needle slid past forty-nine kilos (my normal weight as Nikita) all the way to eighty-nine kilos.

  “Is this thing broken?” I wailed.

  Griffin chuckled. “I had to feed you through an IV while your brain was reprogrammed. So you’re actually down a kilo. Remember: McCord’s fighting weight was ninety kilograms. If you think in pounds rather than metric, that’s a hair under two hundred.” Seeing the horror that must’ve shown on my face, he added quickly, “Nothing to fret about, Nikita. Muscle’s heavier than fat. It means you’re built solid. You’re a strong, healthy woman.” Griffin paused. Clearly searching for a bone to throw. Finding it, he broke into a smile. Adding: “And don’t forget you’re taller now too.”

  Yippee.

  Men wonder why we think they’re clueless. Then they open their mouths and huge bricks of stupidity tumble out. Had Griffin been raised by wolves? Did he expect thanks for consoling me about my size? Seriously. Men created this fantasy of delicate, fragile, simpering females. Tiny things with oversized breasts and no waistline—preferably pale-skinned blondes with subhuman IQs. Right? So telling a woman she’s strong as an ox with shoulders like a moose isn’t a confidence builder.

  Still, I had to ask . . .

  “How tall is she? I mean me.”

  “Close to 188 centimetres—or six feet two inches—unless you shrank since I measured you last.”