Dead4u Read online

  Not a speck of dust. No books. No TV. No dirty dishes. No random articles of clothing strewn about. In other words: no signs of life.

  Place made me want to gag. Then I remembered why I was there. To get clothes.

  A near-invisible glass staircase had been placed on the other side of the fireplace. I went up and found the master suite. More beige. Glass night tables. I checked the bed. Beige wood frame and duvet with a subtle snowflake design stitched into it.

  Couldn’t resist checking out the sheets. Cotton soft as baby skin. Not that I went around fondling infants. But you could tell the material was pricey.

  And I owned this. All of it.

  There was a walk-in closet and two dressers. One of the dressers had a mirror. I figured this would be McCord’s. And it turned out I was right. Bingo!

  You can learn a lot about a person by going through their drawers. In a span of ten minutes I discovered more about Crystal McCord than I wanted to know.

  For one thing the lady liked her lingerie. No doubt Sweet liked it too or liked playing dress up—who knew anymore?

  There was an entire drawer devoted to camisoles, corsets and baby dolls. Digging under the pile, I unearthed handcuffs, a blindfold and a humungous vibrator shaped like a jackhammer.

  I stood up. I wanted to wash my hands. Fast. Like where were the real clothes? Women wore this shit to please men—not themselves. A jackhammer? Shit!

  The other dresser was stuffed with men’s dress shirts. Socks. Underwear. Had to be Sweet’s clothing.

  I tried the walk-in closet next. There was one right inside the door. It made sense. Both Sweet and McCord travelled a lot. And criminals tend to be a transient bunch by nature.

  There were two suitcases. I opened both. They were empty. I felt the insides. Jackpot. Each bag held a secret compartment. Also empty.

  Fuck.

  Checked the closet next. An assortment of cocktail dresses hung on the clothing rods. Included amongst these flashy items was a white wool swing coat. Stand collar. Looked expensive. Vintage maybe? On the floor lay a shoe rack with a row of stilettos in black, blue, red, yellow and white. Nothing practical.

  This struck me as weird. McCord was the type who bombed around in jeans, T-shirts and sweaters. Her big fashion statement: a scarred black leather jacket worn with a white silk scarf.

  So McCord kept her regular duds at her dinky little bungalow and the fancy stuff here? It was almost as though the woman had lived two separate lives.

  Like me?

  Packing a bag full of party dresses seemed pointless. This wasn’t the kind of stuff to wear while keeping a low profile. This would make me stick out like a sore thumb unless I wandered into a cocktail party or gala ball.

  But Novak had brought me here. She knew a lot about this house. Even had the security code. The clothing I needed should be here too.

  Maybe I needed to think like McCord.

  Hmm. Where would McCord stash comfy-type clothes? I’d have put them in a dresser or closet. But McCord hadn’t. McCord was a criminal and . . . of course!

  I ran to the bed and looked below. There was a backpack. Just to be safe, I opened it and looked inside.

  Jeans. Tights. T-shirts. Panties. Sports bra. Hoodie. This was exactly what I was looking for.

  Fingers found a bulge wrapped inside the jeans. I pulled it out. The bulge was a Smith & Wesson 9 mm with a round in the chamber.

  I took a breath. I searched the rest of the clothes. Panties held a wad of dollars, pounds and euros. In the hoodie’s pocket: three passports. The Canadian one was made out to Crystal Alice McCord from Vancouver. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. The second, British, said that I was Julia Lee Symons. Place of birth: Manchester. Brunette. Brown eyes. My third identity was French: Danielle Lemieux of Chicago. Green eyes. Red hair.

  Always nice having options.

  Enclosed in a small wallet were driver’s licences and credit cards for McCord, Symons and Lemieux.

  Two wigs, two pairs of tinted contact lenses, a combat knife and a cheap cell phone completed the list of treasures.

  I’d found McCord’s go bag.

  I sat on the floor and took a moment to assess the situation.

  Title search could’ve led Novak to a corporate paper trail. Building plans, credit card purchases and surveillance might—just might—explain knowing where McCord kept an extra set of clothes. But how had Novak got her slimy mitts on the alarm code?

  Was I being tested? If so, why do this now?

  I looked at the backpack’s contents. Passports and weapons lay spilled out before me like a suicide’s guts. If this configuration foretold the future, travel and danger looked like a sure bet.

  Good to know.

  ◆◆◆

  I went to the closet. Grabbing a suitcase, I packed, went downstairs, reset the alarm and locked up. When I arrived at the car, Novak was sitting inside. An impatient frown creased her face.

  Seeing me, she broke into a smile. Eyeing my suitcase with one of those impeccably arched brows.

  She popped the trunk and I placed the suitcase inside. When I got in, she wanted to know how my “little shopping expedition” went.

  I told her I needed to go shopping for a few essentials. “All she had in there,” I said, hooking a thumb back at the trunk, “was a closetful of party girl stuff and a drawer stuffed with lingerie. So I grabbed a couple dresses and a pair of shoes.” I made a face. “What self-respecting female doesn’t own a fucking bra or T-shirt?”

  “Sorry,” Novak replied smoothly. She gave me a searching gaze. “Bad intel. We’ll see you get some regular clothes.” With that she started the car and off we went.

  ◆◆◆

  Novak sprang for breakfast at a chic eatery on the city’s northside. It was updated diner food with retro décor and a soundtrack of Fifties rock ‘n’ roll hits. Pretentious? Yeah. But it was kind of cute in a kitschy way, and the food—eggs, bacon and crepes—tasted like heaven after the health food shit back at the safe house.

  Over coffee Novak explained that I’d been texting Sweet for a week now. In these messages, I’d complained of burnout and needing alone time to clear my head and “get righteous”.

  “Get righteous? Who the fuck says that?”

  “Your new friends do apparently.” Novak sipped her coffee and wrinkled her nose at the cup. “We found a text to you from Sweet where he told you to ‘get righteous’. So it’s a ‘thing’ I suppose.” Novak sighed. “What else would you expect? These people don’t read Dostoyevsky or listen to Verdi. They live in bars and strip clubs. That’s all they know.”

  “Do I get to see these text messages?”

  “Of course,” Novak promised. “I’ll bring you up to speed tomorrow.” She hesitated. The gleam in her eyes didn’t bode well. “Don’t get paranoid, hey? We’re on the same side. You and I work the same side of the street.”

  “But on different corners right? Like small town whores.”

  Novak stopped mid-sip. Her coffee cup hung in the space between us. Eyes narrowed, she examined me the way entomologists study nasty looking bugs.

  “Then we’d better get you some casual wear pronto,” drawled Novak. “Don’t want people getting the wrong idea. You’re a fighter, not a lover, my dear.”

  ◆◆◆

  We drove to a suburban mall. In the parking lot, Novak handed me a wad of bills and told me to keep receipts for everything. Then we went our separate ways. I knew Novak was shadowing me of course. The taint of her lizard breath sent a trickle of sweat running down the back of my neck.

  I worked fast. Hit a sportswear store where I bought leggings, T-shirts and hoodie—all in black. For jeans and non-sexy underwear, I moved on to a discount shop.

  I hustled this ill-gotten loot back to the car. As expected, Novak was right behind me. I dumped my purchases into the trunk and off we went again.

  Scratch & Sniff

  Next stop was downtown. Novak parked behind a sports bar. She handed me a cell phone and t
old me to go inside, have a drink and wait for a text.

  “This is one of Sweet’s places,” Novak said. “You two come here sometimes. So don’t be surprised if a bartender or server gives you the eye. Chances are someone will call Sweet to let him know you’re here. Any sign of trouble, walk away.” She checked her watch. “If I don’t text you, leave after thirty minutes. Find a safe place and call the contact number in the phone. There’s only one.”

  “And I’m showing my face here because . . .”

  “We’re creating a plausible backstory to explain your erratic behaviour. Poor little Crystal feels burnt out and needs to let off steam so she stops here for a drink. Segue to training montage. Got it?” Novak added, “Don’t fret, Nikita. We’ve done our research. McCord goes off the rails from time to time. It’s totally in character. Besides, you’ve promised Sweet you’re getting ‘righteous’ for the next gig. He’ll be cool with that.”

  “Righteous. Again. Wow.”

  Novak told me to get moving. Her final piece of advice: “Get a receipt, please.” I got out of the car and watched her drive off.

  I walked around to the bar’s front entrance. I went in and took a seat near the front door. Place was dark but looked reasonably clean. The servers—I saw two—were both male and decked out in ball caps bearing the logos of professional sports teams.

  My server wore a Toronto Blue Jays’ cap. He took my order for a screwdriver, nodded, went to the bar and brought it back. When I thanked him, he said:

  “You’re welcome, Ms. McCord.”

  Made already? Great. Now I’d have to tip the bastard.

  I felt suddenly self-conscious in McCord’s filthy ensemble. I looked down at my wrinkled black T-shirt with “38 Specials” scrawled across the chest. The jeans felt stiff. I didn’t want to imagine why. Plus my underwear reeked of two-week-old pussy. Of which Server Boy would’ve gotten a tangy whiff or two.

  I scanned the room.

  It was too early for the lunch crowd. An old, balding white man in a shabby checked suit sat in a corner. Sucking on a glass of beer, the geezer leered in my general direction. Foam dripped down his grizzled chin.

  Lovely.

  Except for the old guy and those two servers, the only other person in the joint was a burly bartender. A cell phone was glued to the man’s face while his eyes tracked a darts match on one of the big screen TVs.

  I nearly burst out laughing.

  One man was trying to grab my attention while the other worked desperately to avoid it. I’d been made. And the bartender was ratting me out to Sweet. Mission accomplished.

  I checked my new burner phone. It was a cheap-as-shit brand. Thanks, Novak. There were no text messages, emails, or recent calls. There was one contact listed as “Work”.

  I sipped my screwdriver and tried to act stoned. Apparently I binged on speed and tequila. Except I didn’t like tequila. I told myself it was no big. Wasn’t McCord entitled to a change of pace now and again? Switching from tequila to vodka wasn’t that far off-script. Booze is booze, after all.

  I practised a goofy grin while staring blankly into space. That got old fast. I gulped the rest of that screwdriver and checked the phone again.

  Two minutes had whizzed right past me.

  As anyone in my line of work will tell you, the worst part of an op is killing time till the killing starts. Makes you pray for death—or an extra-large screwdriver. Since I was playing with the department’s cash, I flagged down my server and asked for a second helping of alcohol.

  Pretty please?

  Server Boy scurried off to the bar. The bartender snuck a glance at me as he fixed my drink. I tried not to watch him.

  The phone beeped. Incoming text. It was from “Work”. It read: “Ok?”

  I answered back: “ID’d. Called in.”

  Novak replied: “10 more & split. Parked out back.”

  Ten minutes. Fuck my life.

  Screwdriver Number Two arrived in the nick of time. It tasted better than the first one. I felt the relaxation kick in. All I needed now was a nice long sleep.

  Phone went beep. Message read: “Where ru?”

  I typed: “Here. Tired.”

  Work said: “Out now! Back door!”

  I got to my feet. Felt woozy. I picked up the phone and stuck it in my jeans. The bartender came over. He asked if I was okay. I said, “Can you tell me where this place is?” Then I pulled the gun out of my purse and pointed it at his nose. The bartender said no problem, okay? I said sure. I kept walking, one foot in front of another, till I fell through a door and someone grabbed my arms and said hurry we got to go and then . . .

  ◆◆◆

  I woke up with the worst headache ever. Felt like a rat had scratched out my eyeballs and eaten half my brain. Griffin handed me a glass of water. He told me to drink it all down. Novak peered over one of his shoulders.

  “What was it?” she asked. “Rohypnol? Chloral hydrate?”

  “Neither,” said Griffin. “Duration of action was too short.” He got close and stared into my eyes. “Nikita? You okay in there?”

  “Fuck off,” I rasped, “and die. Slowly.”

  Novak chuckled. “She sounds fine to me.”

  “How do you feel?” asked Griffin. “Any weird hums or rattles?”

  “I’m not a fucking cyborg, you moron.” I sat up and looked around. I was in bed, back at my room in SpecOps’ safe house. Beside the bed were the bags from my shopping expedition, as well as the suitcase I’d packed at McCord’s. “How long was I out?”

  Griffin looked at Novak who looked back at him and shrugged. “Little over an hour,” she said. “You came out of that bar—fell out of it, literally—then I half-dragged, half-walked you into the car.”

  “Thanks.” My voice boomed inside my skull, causing me to wince. “Was it supposed to go down like that?”

  Novak stared at the floor. Griffin cleared his throat. Since nobody wanted to jump in, I took a stab at answering my own question.

  “Sorry, Nikita,” I said. “Our master plan misfired. We didn’t expect Sweet’s people to slip you a mickey and try abducting you. We thought you’d waltz into one of his business fronts, knock back a couple drinks and stroll on out. Who’d have thought a criminal mastermind would misbehave? Please accept our sincerest apologies for any inconvenience or lasting ill effects.”

  “Couldn’t have said it better,” Novak replied coolly. When I didn’t reply she continued. “We’ll need to adjust your cover story a tad.”

  “Define ‘tad’. Does it involve plastic surgery?”

  Novak sighed. “The bartender may have seen me. Fortunately there were no security cameras.” She examined her nails. “Otherwise I’d have to bow out of this operation.”

  “And how does the bartender seeing you affect my cover?” A thought struck me. “Hold on. Does someone in Sweet’s crew know you?”

  “Tragically, yes. So I’ll have to be your dirty little secret Nikita.” Seeing my face Novak grinned. “Don’t worry. We don’t need to consummate our unholy lust.” Pausing she licked those thin lips. “Maybe we could just hold hands? Share a few PDAs?”

  Whoever acronymed “public displays of affection” should’ve stopped to consider the consequences. Hearing “PDAs” come out of Novak’s smirking mug made me rethink celibacy as a lifestyle choice.

  “I think Nikita needs to rest now,” said Griffin. “We don’t want to overload her, Lane.”

  Novak glared at Griffin. But Mr. White Coat didn’t flinch. Finally, Novak relented and said sure. Adding: “We’ll give her some space. Talk tomorrow, okay?”

  I said yeah. I waited till they were gone. Then I opened the suitcase. The stuff I’d stashed in the case’s hidden compartment hadn’t disappeared. Then, in case anyone was watching, I made a big show of trying on those party dresses.

  Yep. For a dead woman, I was making out like a bandit.

  House/Day9-13

  My last week in the safe house felt like cramming for exam
finals. Also received my monthly reminder from the Period Fairy. Being short on essential supplies, I informed Griffin who ran off and returned in five minutes bearing a shitload of tampons and a complete arsenal of birth control pills and devices.

  Handing over the loot bag, he avoided my gaze. Which didn’t feel awkward at all.

  Yep. Nothing beats the sheer joy of discussing vaginal products with a man.

  Wolseley pushed me hard. And I pushed myself even harder. Fighting in a death match against multiple armed attackers didn’t leave much room for error. One screw up and I’d be screwed permanently—not in a fun way either.

  Novak? She piled on the data till I knew everything that SpecOps had on Sweet, his crew and DEAD4U. I watched videos taken by hidden cameras, listened to Sweet’s phone calls, read his text messages and emails. But none of it was useful. Doubtless he suspected police surveillance. He’d have been a drooling idiot NOT to suspect it. Likely Sweet used burner phones for any serious criminal activity, leaving us a sanitized version of the man.

  What I learned:

  Sweet had it all: looks, brains and a velvet-soft voice that lulled the unwary into forgetting how dangerous he was. The looks came from his mother (a gym teacher) and his father (a fashion model). The voice he owed to a theatre elective while at university to study computer science. Brains? Just north of genius. And smart enough to hide it. Which is the hardest thing for smart people to do.

  After graduating at the top of his class, Sweet had done contract work for a videogame company’s virtual reality team. At some point he got the idea of staging a live-streaming gladiator contest to be called DEAD4U with pay-per-view and gambling revenue streams. Then, to set this plan in motion, he recruited a gang of like-minded scumbags.