Dead4u Read online

  What? “When did you ‘measure’ me, perv?”

  “I told you. You were out of it for a week.”

  I hadn’t given much thought to being out of things for a week. It’s hard to imagine being dead when you’re not. It’s even harder if you are.

  ◆◆◆

  After the weigh-in, I received a small glass of mineral water, an orange wedge and a grainy cracker full of seeds. All hand delivered to my room on a metal tray by my gracious host in his dashing white lab coat.

  Being a classy bitch I chowed down in bed and let the crumbs fall where they might. Griffin pretended not to see. He talked instead.

  First up, he explained, was a ten-kilometre run. Griffin explained that a world-class physique such as McCord’s required daily maintenance. And since I’d been out of commission for a week, that physique needed a serious tune up.

  When mealtime ended Griffin suggested this would be a good time to pee.

  “Are there cameras in the bathroom?” I asked.

  Griffin’s jaw dropped. He seemed offended. Was I supposed to pretend I wasn’t being held in a secure facility? He said:

  “The entrances and grounds are monitored. That’s all.”

  I nodded but declined the offer. There’d be cameras recording every crap I took. Zooming in as I scrubbed my pussy. And I’d have to get used to it. But. Not. Yet. Fuck no.

  Instead I got dressed and followed him into the hall and then upstairs.

  The exit was a rear door controlled by a keypad to which Griffin gave me the code. As I punched in the numbers, he suggested I relax. Things weren’t so bad, right? He warned me not to use the front door “just in case”.

  I promised to be careful. Taking a deep breath I stepped outside and jogged down a long gravel driveway toward a high chain-link fence. When I reached the open gate, I stopped and looked back.

  The safe house was a grey two-storey prefab in what appeared to be a construction site in the middle of a forest. On both sides of the top floor were rows of small, square windows. A sign on the gate identified the business as “EZ Storage”. Below the name was another sign informing potential customers that all units were occupied.

  Yet despite being in the business of storage, EZ Storage had no loading dock. In all I counted three doors: front, rear and second-floor fire escape. Nothing else.

  Of course there could be a secret tunnel in the basement or a service hatch on the flat rooftop. Otherwise: nada.

  I was smack in the middle of no-fucking-where, preparing to infiltrate a major criminal enterprise that expected me to fight kidnapped civilians to the death. And I was being “volunteered” for this assignment by our in-house secret police unit. Of course, being freshly revivified, the upside to this shitshow eluded me.

  Turning I ran out the gate. The gravel drive became a road thick on both sides with birch, maple and pine. High overhead the yellow sun burned in a cloudless blue sky. It was a perfect day for a run with lots of pretty scenery but the trees crowding the road gave me a claustrophobic feeling and the sun felt like a spotlight.

  Fact: I was a prisoner in plain sight.

  Thirty minutes into the run I realized that Crystal McCord was a remarkably fit specimen. My lungs didn’t gasp for breath. My pulse practically yawned. Wow.

  I did maybe a little more or less than ten kilometres. I found no road signs, traffic or people—just trees and a gravel road that seemed endless. Hoping to earn trust points I headed for home—if a safe house qualified as “home”.

  Still feeling fine.

  On the way back notions of escape flitted across my mental landscape like errant fireflies. Lit up and burned out fast. Maybe McCord would’ve tried but she wasn’t around to make that call. Being a cop I understood how SpecOps and their ilk worked. If the Ops Cops let me roam “free”, there had to be a leash. That the collar was invisible felt more insidious rather than less.

  It could take almost any form. Mind-control drugs. Post-hypnotic suggestion. Implanted sensors channelling behaviour into predetermined patterns. Hell, maybe I’d been poisoned and the bastards were feeding me daily doses of antidote. Which would stop once I ceased being useful.

  A kill switch for a killer. That’s how they’d rationalize it. Though I couldn’t imagine Novak and Wolseley fretting over petty ethical concerns.

  So I could run as hard and fast as I wished. Any thought of escape was pure fantasy. I was stuck inside McCord’s outsized frame as long as it suited these clowns.

  I ran harder, trying to push these menacing fears out by sheer force of will. Desperation fed adrenaline to muscles. I felt myself blurring into the scenery.

  There had to be a way out of this mess. And I had to find it. Fast. This setup stank. I knew that I was missing something. What it might be I didn’t know. But smart cops trusted their gut and mine wanted to hurl.

  ◆◆◆

  I went to the rear door as instructed. The keypad lock was identical to the one on the interior. I tapped in the code and went inside and downstairs to the basement.

  I found Griffin sitting in the lunchroom. He was nibbling away on one of my healthy meals. It didn’t look all that appetizing to me. But when you’re hungry anything tastes good, right? So I headed to the fridge.

  Only to be stopped by a female voice saying:

  “You should wait fifteen minutes after exercise before eating. Have you finished exercising? If not, please complete your workout prior to lunch. Thank you.”

  I looked around. Griffin smiled and pointed at the fridge.

  “AI,” he said. “I’ve programmed the fridge to detect your approach and assist you in making healthy food choices.”

  “Feel free to kill yourself. I’m a cop. I need donuts and coffee. Stat.”

  Griffin chuckled. Then he pointed next door to the bathroom/gym.

  “McCord does a lot of high-intensity training. Sprints. Plyometrics. Olympic lifts. Since you’ve been out of it for a week, we’re easing you back into the routine. Don’t try to change anything. McCord was totally anal about her workouts.”

  “Good for McCord. Except she’s not here—just little old me. And I’m not going to fight in that stupid game. Remember?”

  “Hopefully not.”

  Hopefully? I didn’t like the sound of that. So I asked Griffin to elaborate.

  He shrugged. “That’s above my pay grade. I do tech stuff.”

  That’s always the way with these nerd bots isn’t it? “Let me play with my toys! I’m not responsible for what they do!” Next thing you know, atoms split and murder cities full of well-meaning types who thought it might be fun to push a few buttons and see what happens next.

  Assholes right? Okay, maybe Griffin didn’t seem like a monster, but who does? Smart monsters know how to act and talk and think like us normals. Of course, maybe we’re the monsters and don’t even realize it.

  Imagine that.

  “Novak said she needs the location. Nobody said anything about me risking this pretty face in a gladiator contest.”

  “It’s not ideal,” Griffin admitted. “But if Sweet doesn’t give up the location in advance, well . . .” Spreading both arms wide with upraised palms, he finished with, “Never hurts to be prepared.”

  “Cover my ass and duck, huh?”

  His smile was enigmatic. “Something like that,” he replied. “Think of it this way. You got killed going after Sweet. Now we’re giving you a second crack at him. Nikita, it’s in our interest—and yours—for you to succeed. So why not give yourself the best possible chance to do what you set out to do?”

  Griffin’s proposal sounded logical. Anything that tilted the odds in my favour had to be a plus. Yet I detected a sour note in that rah-rah motivational pitch.

  I didn’t answer. What could I say? Even if he were lying through those perfect teeth, viable options were in short supply. When the good guys blackmail your ass, what can you do? Call a criminal?

  Hmm. Not the worst idea . . .

  Griffin said,
“You’ll find a complete list of today’s exercises taped to the treadmill. Any questions, just ask.”

  ◆◆◆

  Instructions on the treadmill were explicit and concise. After working out, I debated between food and cleanliness. Food won. I went to the lunchroom and selected a nutritious meal of raw veggies and sliced chicken breast. The fridge congratulated me on these choices. I said thanks and asked it to self-destruct and die a fiery death. The fridge declined—politely.

  As I ate, the building’s sound system played soothing nature sounds: birdsong, waterfalls etcetera. Just as I thought things couldn’t get worse, Griffin stopped by. He said hello, went to the fridge and poured us each a nice refreshing glass of mineral water.

  Yum.

  “There are laws against stalking,” I told him.

  Griffin laughed. “Call a cop,” he suggested.

  “Is there more torture on the menu?”

  He tut-tutted. “That was the fun part of your day. This afternoon’s briefing will bring you up to speed for the mission. After that is weapons training.”

  Mission? Would there be suicide pills? Could I have one now please?

  “Someone’s going to tell me how to use a hammer?” I chuckled. “Show me a nail, dude.”

  “That hammer is McCord’s trademark. You need to learn her fighting style. Mannerisms. Everything.”

  I groaned. “When’s downtime?”

  “We’ll make sure you get plenty of rest and relaxation. This evening we’ll go over McCord’s personal life. Basic bio. Plus some material you won’t find in her dossier.”

  “Great. And when we arrest Sweet, you’re going to download my digital ass into a fresh body and then . . . get rid of this one. Right?” When Griffin nodded, I continued. “So. Do I get the same amount of detail on my new identity? I mean, you guys aren’t going to dump me into another person’s life,” I snapped my fingers, “just like that. Right?”

  Griffin’s right eye twitched ever so slightly.

  “You’ll receive adequate preparation prior to being reintegrated into society. Trust me. SpecOps doesn’t want to draw undue attention to its activities. They like to keep a low profile.”

  “That’s reassuring.” Lying asshole. “I’m counting on you, Griff.” Not.

  He clapped his hands together. “Great! When you’re finished eating, go to the last room on your right. That’s where the briefing’s being held.”

  “You won’t be there?”

  Griffin shrugged. “Above my pay grade.”

  ◆◆◆

  Being a good little robot, I finished my delectable meal and headed down the hall to the last room on the right.

  The door was open. Erring toward caution I stuck my head around first to check for bushwhackers. Nope. Just Lieutenant Novak. Lucky me. I’d have preferred a friendly bushwhacker.

  Today’s skirt suit was lime green. I repressed a shudder.

  Novak was sitting at a small conference table. Legs crossed. Long fingers fiddled at a sleek silver laptop. Novak glanced up at me, then pointed to the chair beside her. I took the hint and parked my glutes.

  An enormous video screen took up a large expanse of the opposite wall.

  “Hope you’re well rested,” said Novak. “We have a lot of material to cover today.”

  Usual Suspects

  Indeed we did.

  The briefing began with a slideshow. A series of photos showed a tall black man in a high-end suit emerging from a nightclub. Bringing up the rear was a shorter sumo-type dude who might’ve eaten an entire cow for breakfast. Sumo wore a suit too. His appeared more functional though. Cut for a shoulder holster?

  The duo walked briskly toward a lanky dude in porkpie hat and short-sleeved print shirt leaning against a dark-coloured sedan with crossed arms and bored expression. Unfolding his taut frame, Porkpie opened the rear door. Tall Black Guy said something to him and stepped into the car.

  Porkpie went around to the left side door. Sumo grabbed shotgun. As the car pulled out, the camera glimpsed the driver’s profile.

  Aviator shades. Bristly chin. Arrogant mouth.

  I held my breath when those dark glasses stared directly into the camera lens. My mouth went dry. Down under ached. In response, my thighs squeezed tight together. The presssure sent tiny flutters pulsing up my core.

  “Again?” asked Novak.

  “Huh?”

  Novak glared at me. She said, “You might want to pay attention, Detective Chen. Absorbing this material is vital to your continued wellbeing.”

  I licked my lips. Tried to swallow but couldn’t. Seeing that driver’s face had triggered a reaction that seemed illogical but felt natural. Clearing my throat, I replied:

  “Sorry. I was admiring the camera work. Nice.”

  Novak did an eye-roll. “Wonderful. So glad you approve. Now do you need to see this sequence again? Or are you ready for the quiz?”

  ◆◆◆

  Being a keener I chose the quiz.

  “Who’s our first subject?”

  Tall Black Guy walking down a city street. Built solid. Wearing a tailored suit. Nice shoes too. Purposeful stride. If testosterone came in bottles at the supermarket, his face would be on the label. His skin had a blacker-than-black sheen with razor-sharp cheekbones. This was one truly smoking hot dude. Any creature with estrogen in the tank would feel it. I did—and I knew better.

  Tall Black Guy looked directly at the camera. Had he known a lens was aimed his way?

  “Santiago Salvador Sweet,” I recited. “Head dirtbag. Owns a dozen sports bars, nightclubs and strip clubs—that we know about. According to McCord, Sweet owns all shares in the shell corporation operating DEAD4U. Aside from a handful of speeding tickets, he’s cleaner than squeak.”

  “Guy behind him?”

  Following Sweet was a large bronzed male bulging out of a badly cut dark suit. Sumo-sized Samoan. Arms the width of my thighs, thighs the width of tree trunks. Sumo was saying something to Sweet.

  “Eddie Tilo,” I said. “Muscle. Nickname: Big Boy. Gym rat. Sometime bouncer. Used to be a world-class powerlifter before doing three years for aggravated assault.”

  “Define ‘aggravated’.”

  “He castrated a man in a bar fight. Barehanded.”

  “The one leaning on the car?

  Porkpie hat. Better dressed than Big Boy. Taller. Slim. Guy looked almost elegant except for the toothpick jutting crookedly from a tight, small mouth. The camera had caught him reclining against a dark grey Mercedes. Arms crossed. Ready to pull on a moment’s notice.

  I said, “Feliks Federov. Shooter. Long range or up close. Russian national. Ex-Spetsnaz. Left their Special Forces for corporate work in South America. Hired by Sweet to oversee security on his business fronts.” I paused, closing my eyes to aid recall. Reopening them I found Novak watching me with interest. I continued, “Has applied for permanent resident status here. No criminal record. Not so much as a jaywalking charge.”

  Novak paused. “We didn’t get a good angle on the driver. Can you . . .”

  “Zeke Epstein. Wheelman. Last worked for a chop shop. Did a six-month stretch for auto theft. Has a juvie jacket for joyriding and street-racing.”

  I stopped there. I knew—without knowing how—that you could bounce a coin off Epstein’s abs. And he’d get hard if you stroked the thin line of hair running from navel to pubes.

  My panties felt cool and damp. A discreet sniff detected the bittersweet tang of wet female parts. I glanced at Novak.

  There was no way to explain any of this. I hoped a lifetime of station-house coffee had dulled the lieutenant’s olfactory sense. Or she’d dismiss me as an unwashed degenerate.

  If only I’d showered this morning . . .

  Novak smiled. “Top marks Nikita. Perfect score. Griffin will be so pleased. Good girl!”

  Good girl? What next: a belly rub or a scratch behind the ears?

  Watching this parade of lowlifes left me feeling pissed off. Hadn’t I bui
lt extensive files on Sweet’s crew? I knew what brand of toothpaste Federov favoured. I could recite Big Boy’s entire rap sheet. Identifying the gang was no prob. In fact, I’d snapped these clowns plenty of times.

  And that bugged me.

  “Shall we move on to the lightning round?” Novak rubbed her long-fingered hands together. “This is going better than I’d expected.”

  “Who took the pictures?”

  She made an exasperated noise. “Does it matter?”

  It did. I didn’t recall taking these. Why not hack my computer and use my files? This duplication seemed wasteful and the department’s budget buzzards hated waste.

  “This was my case. How did SpecOps get involved?”

  Novak’s expression made it clear that she did not enjoy being questioned by her inferiors.

  She replied sharply, “I can’t share that information with you. It’s classified.”

  Classified? My ass. Even Ops needed a plausible excuse before sticking their ugly noses into another unit’s case. Of course, if that other unit’s case officer—ME—was suspected of being on a criminal’s payroll, SpecOps had every right to work their evil magic.

  I didn’t say any of that to Novak of course. What was the point? Arguing with this bitch wouldn’t change her opinion of me or mine of her.

  A tiny muscle twitched in Novak’s left cheek. Was a smile about to mess up that frozen perfection?

  Clearing her throat, she said, “Moving on . . .”

  ◆◆◆

  And so we moved on. When the briefing was over, Novak told me to take a short break. “Have some water,” she advised. “You need to keep hydrated.”

  Still playing nice, I nodded like a good doggie. My only fear was getting a biscuit shoved into my mouth.

  As I rose from the chair and stretched, Novak said, “When you’re finished resting, report back here for hand-to-hand and weapons training.” She checked her watch. “Let’s make it fifteen minutes, okay?”

  I looked around the room. It was just large enough to hold a conference table and chairs, but there wasn’t much elbow room. I’d seen McCord swinging that hammer in those videos and this space looked a tad cramped for anything more than athletic than a bent-over-the-desk doggie fuck.