Dead4u Page 9

  First onboard: Feliks Federov. Sweet found the ex-Spetsnaz gun for hire through a darknet ad. Federov, seeing the need for an enforcer, introduced Sweet to fellow gym rat Eddie Tilo.

  Next came the tricky bit. Sweet wanted an image to market his game. With this in mind, he trawled the underground fight venues for a centrepiece to personify the brand’s identity.

  Someone unique.

  Sweet found his headliner in a bare-knuckles cage match. He watched a hulking Crystal McCord snap a man’s spine. Then bend over that paralyzed opponent to spit on his face.

  She was perfect.

  The final piece of the puzzle—a driver named Zeke Epstein—came recommended by McCord who’d met Epstein at a street-racing event. The crew needed anonymous transport and Epstein could boost anything on wheels.

  The rest was a rehash of stuff I already knew. DEAD4U’s fights were supposed to be virtual-reality simulations. No one died or got hurt. And, since the events were streamed live from unknown locales, there was no way to prove DEAD4U was anything other than an ultra-realistic videogame.

  One day at lunch, Griffin showed me my obituary on the police department’s website. It read:

  Detective Nikita Chen . . . decorated police officer . . . killed in the line of duty. A memorial service will be held . . . donations can be made . . .

  The finality of the words stunned me. Waking up to learn I’d been murdered had seemed like a highschool prank or TV comedy aimed at juveniles. Whereas seeing the proof hit me right in the gut with the full force of Greek tragedy. I wanted to curl into foetal ball. Moan about fate and ponder poetic thoughts of bloody revenge.

  But I didn’t. I had places to go and lives to destroy.

  “Care to attend?” Griffin asked.

  The thought of my parents and sisters tearing up over my demise was too much. I said no, not really.

  “It’s a chance to see your family and friends one last time,” he said. “And you could have some closure.”

  “Closure?” I laughed. “Sweet’s psycho girlfriend killed me. I’ll get ‘closure’ when Sweet goes inside for life.”

  From the doorway Novak said, “You should be there, Nikita.” As I began to protest she waved me off. “Not for family and friends. That’s your business. I’m thinking a memorial service might attract one of McCord’s buddies.” She shrugged. “It’s not a gimme, but these people are fucking ghouls, okay? We don’t know for certain that McCord acted alone when she killed you.” Novak cleared her throat. “We’ll have spotters and security cameras in place, so don’t fret. It’s completely low risk with high upside. Dangling you—sorry, I meant McCord—could flush out an accomplice or two.”

  “So I wiggle my ass like a juicy worm on a hook. Classy. Acting as bait at my own funeral has got to be a new low even by your standards.”

  “Memorial—not funeral,” corrected Novak. “There’ll be no dead body or ash in a can to spoil the festivities.” A barracuda smile slashed her face. “Think of it as a celebration of your life.”

  I expressed my opinion with a double-barrelled expletive. Novak didn’t appear offended. She told me to go make myself beautiful. Griffin would drive me there. She couldn’t risk being spotted with me a second time. Once the “celebration” was over, he’d text the extraction point to me.

  It would be a piece of cake but first:

  “As a precaution Griffin will prep you for the op with nanoplants. We’ll see and hear everything you do. And you’ll hear us too. If you need to communicate just whisper.”

  With that cheery bit of news Novak departed. I looked at Griffin. He shrugged.

  I said, “Great. So you’re wiring me for sight and sound? Do I get bathroom breaks off camera?”

  “Of course. Just give us a heads up and we’ll turn off the monitors.”

  “So when do I get these fancy-dancy implants?”

  Griffin smiled. He pulled a plastic case out of his white medical coat. Opening it, he showed me a set of three tiny syringes.

  “You won’t feel a thing,” he promised.

  ◆◆◆

  He lied. The needles felt like hornet stings. Per Griffin these nano-sized implants were connected to a phone app. He seemed really proud of himself, so I applauded half-heartedly.

  Griffin smiled sheepishly. What an asshole.

  First he tested the volume. He whispered into the phone, “Testing testing,” but in my head this came out, “TESTING! TESTING!”

  I fell to the floor, hands covering both ears, but I couldn’t shut out the horrendous echo smashing around inside my skull.

  Griffin made some quick adjustments. The echo receded before finally disappearing altogether.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just a glitch.”

  Yep. That was my life story right there.

  ◆◆◆

  Griffin dropped me two blocks from the downtown hotel where the memorial service was being held. A hotel—not a funeral home. It seemed my comrades-in-blue had decided to “celebrate my life” with a cash bar and catered lunch.

  I could smell the fucking donuts already.

  In keeping with the day’s cheery theme, Mother Nature decided to piss down rain. Not really hard, mind you. Just enough to make me feel miserable. Passing a large planter I noted cigarette butts soaking in a puddle around the bunched flowers. Thinking:

  That’s me now. I’ll be turning into a tulip or a daffodil. A bee will suck my nectar and make honey. Then a bear will eat the honey and get his or her butt shot to pieces by a hunter. That’s the circle of life, baby.

  I was wearing one of McCord’s cocktail dresses. It was a classic little black dress that seemed appropriate for the occasion. On my feet were those black stilettos I’d filched from her house. All I needed was a pearl necklace and wide-brimmed hat. Then I could be Audrey Hepburn—with muscles.

  Oh well.

  The downtown hotel was old-fashioned and a bit worn down at the edges. Being across the street from a police station, its restaurant and bar had become cop hangouts. I’d been a regular here on Friday nights. I’d shot pool, played cards and drank beers with the gang. When I’d made detective, Dobbs had paid for drinks all around. Then made me stand on a table—drunk of course—and sing my high school’s fight song: “The Fighting Beavers are true believers . . .” after which I’d tossed my cookies over an entire roomful of cops.

  You can’t buy memories like that.

  Don’t get maudlin, I told myself. You’re on the job. Being dead is no excuse. Well, it is but it isn’t. You’re allowed three tissues max, Detective Chen. Got to keep both eyes peeled for the bad guys. And never mind the whole thing’s going to be a shitshow.

  But what the hell did I know, right?

  According to Novak’s theory, McCord would’ve wanted help in case killing me went south. Having a getaway driver or backup shooter made good tactical sense. And her accomplice should be properly freaked with McCord gone AWOL. So why not see if any of her fuckbuddies have decided to crash Nikita Chen’s wake?

  A waste of time, I thought sourly. But I wasn’t running this show. I was a fucking sockpuppet in someone else’s smelly sock.

  Fuck my life.

  I pushed through a revolving door into the hotel lobby. A sign with my dead-ass face on it directed mourners to the Sunrise Banquet Hall. I followed the trail of signs around a corner to a long marble hallway. From a distance, the babble of loud voices and music rendered further signage unnecessary.

  I smiled. Put a bunch of cops in a room with booze and free food, things are going to get loud.

  The banquet hall’s doors were open. I found my photo taped to a sandwich board like a half-price appetizer. Detective Nikita Chen: looking dapper in dress uniform with peaked cap. Trying her damnedest to look stern yet fair. Not an easy look on that face.

  The picture in question had been snapped fifteen years ago. Occasion was my graduation from the police academy. Tears welled up against my will. I wiped the traitorous water away.

&n
bsp; Fuck that.

  “Hi.”

  I looked up.

  Captain Miranda Dobbs laid a hand on my shoulder. Seeing her made me want to cry or hit something. Maybe her. Dobbs had given me a shot at the brass ring—but that shot had landed me in the burnbox. So our reunion came with mixed feelings on my part.

  “Hey,” I croaked.

  “You’re here for Nikita?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Come on in,” she said, taking my arm and leading me through the doors. “My name’s Miranda.”

  “Shelley.”

  “Nice to meet you, Shelley. How did you know Nikita?”

  Fortunately, I’d prepped for this on the way. “I met her at a party a couple years back,” I said. “We got together now and then. She was . . .” I swallowed, as though overcome by fond memories. “She was funny and smart. You know.”

  Nodding, Dobbs squeezed my arm.

  Inside my head, Griffin whispered, “You’re doing great. Don’t oversell it.”

  Oversell it? What? All of a sudden I’m a whore?

  The room was packed. Seemed like the entire station had shown up. Even the assholes from Human Resources were there. Had to be a free lunch or someone was getting fired.

  My head spun. I’d never considered myself popular. Being bad-tempered and mouthy isn’t the best way to make friends and influence assholes.

  “Let’s get you some grub,” said Dobbs.

  She steered me toward a buffet table. The usual suspects were there. Cold cuts folded into accordions. Olives speared on toothpicks. And those tiny, awful sandwiches with the crusts removed. I checked them out. Yep. It was standard stuff: tuna goop, ham and cheese, or egg salad. None of which looked fresh. Beverages consisted of coffee, tea, and lemonade the colour of dishwater. All paid for by the union.

  Good thing my dues had been up to date.

  I looked around. The cash bar looked promising. Not much chance of having my drink spiked in a roomful of cops. And I needed to unwind in a serious way. Being dead takes a lot out of you.

  To help soak up the booze, I loaded a paper plate with cold cuts and sandwiches. While I made my selections, one of the sergeants—a real ass-kisser—tapped Dobbs on the shoulder and suggested going out for a smoke. Dobbs said sure. Before leaving, she pointed out the cash bar and told me to mingle. Her parting advice:

  “If you don’t want guys hitting on you, tell them Miranda said to fuck off or else.”

  I laughed and said I’d do that. Then I sashayed over to the bar in my black party dress and heels. Heads turned—male and female. “Shelley” was making an impression.

  I gave a casual glance around. People seemed to be enjoying themselves. One guy—a real asshole whom I’d always detested—was telling off-colour jokes to a ring of plainclothes dickheads. Perfect. Could there be a more fitting accompaniment to my demise than a poorly done stand-up routine?

  Feeling morose, I sat at a table with my plateful of hideous funeral food and a paper cup of beer. One bite of a cheese-and-pickle finger sandwich convinced me to leave the food alone. Other than serving it warm or stale, there wasn’t much anyone could do to ruin beer.

  Fingers tapped my shoulder blade. I turned to find Ray, a detective with whom I’d partnered briefly. “Hi,” he said, extending a callused hand. “Friend or family?”

  At least he hadn’t assumed a white female couldn’t be related to a woman of colour. Chalk one up for Ray.

  “Friend,” I told him. Glancing around, I said, “I don’t see any family here.”

  “You know Nikita’s family?”

  Shit. If any of my family showed up now, there’d be questions. And I couldn’t handle talking to family now. Not like this. Had to tread carefully here.

  Scrunching up my face, I replied, “Well, I don’t know them. But I’ve seen pictures.” I paused for a moment of pseudo-solemn reflection. “I really hope they’re okay.”

  Ray nodded and excused himself. Dumbass.

  “They’re not coming, Nikita.” Griffin’s voice was soft. “Your mother and sisters blame the department for letting you work without backup.”

  “Oh shit,” I murmured.

  “Nothing can be that bad,” said a voice behind me. I turned. And nearly had a heart attack. It was Sweet’s wheelman, Zeke Epstein. He said, “Happy to see me, Crys?”

  Epstein matched the images in my retooled memory. “Rough around the edges” was the best way to describe him. A small scar etched over his left eyebrow had come from a prison scuffle. The rest was standard bad boy: tousled bed hair, unshaven chin, aviator shades hung from open shirt collar. Black suit. Black shoes. And it all came packaged with the softest, sweetest brown eyes I’d ever seen. Doe eyes caught in headlights.

  Well, at least he wasn’t poking a gun into my ribs.

  I stood up.

  “Depends why you’re crashing this party,” I said. “By the way, don’t try slipping anything into my beer.” Leaning toward him, I whispered into his ear, “Call me Shelley, okay? And be cool. Gotta be like fifty cops in this room. Easy. And you shouldn’t be here.”

  He whispered back, “Are you fucking nuts coming to this cop’s funeral?”

  “It’s not a funeral. It’s a celebration of life, asshole.”

  “Whatever.” Epstein gave me an exasperated glare. “I was afraid you might come here, so I came to warn you. Sweet isn’t happy. He’s put out the word to have your ass dragged in.” Epstein grabbed my arm. “What do you think Santiago would do if he knew you were here? Huh?”

  I looked at his hand on my arm. “I came to pay my respects to a friend. So what? You think Santiago doesn’t drink and do lines with that pet cop he keeps on a leash? Get real.”

  “Dead cops leave a bad stink. You know?”

  I felt a chill. Did Epstein know about McCord sticking a knife in me?

  “Problem, Shelley?” It was Dobbs, returned from her smoke. She stared hard at Epstein. “Can’t leave you alone for a minute without some guy hitting on you.”

  From the quizzical look on her face, it seemed she didn’t know who or what Epstein was. No surprise there. Aside from the department’s mole, law enforcement types had no dealings with Sweet or his crew.

  I said, “No worries, Miranda. This is my ride. I think he’s double-parked out front.” I raised an eyebrow at her. “Can you fix the ticket?”

  That one stopped Dobbs cold. She froze. Then broke out in a belly laugh. Everyone in the room stopped drinking and eating to see what was going on. Epstein let go of my arm. Then shot me a none-too-subtle glare. Smiling, I told him to go ahead without me.

  “I’ll find my own way home,” I said. “Don’t wait up.”

  Dobbs patted me on the shoulder. “Yeah, don’t worry about Shelley. She’s in good hands here with us.”

  Nodding, Epstein thanked her, turned and walked away. Dobbs watched him go. Eyes slitted. I could see the wheels turning in her head. Maybe she didn’t know who Zeke Epstein was, but an experienced cop like Dobbs had processed plenty of his type.

  Once he’d gone out the doors, Dobbs turned and pressed her card into my hand. “If you ever need to talk,” she told me. “Call. Don’t think. Call.”

  I thanked her and sat down. Dobbs wandered off to the cash bar. Me: I nibbled at a ham slice folded into origami, sipped beer and tried to blend into the blue polyester scenery. Wishing that I hadn’t come in a little black number and heels.

  In my ear, Novak murmured, “Told you so.”

  God, I hate smart alecks.

  House/Last Day

  My last day in the safe house went like the ones before it. I woke up, feeling like I’d had been dreaming but unable to recall any specifics. I performed the prescribed routines. Ate healthy food I didn’t like. Everything was normal yet none of it felt normal because I wasn’t me anymore.

  All I could think about was a life I’d lost and one I’d been given.

  Talk about an identity crisis.

  ◆◆◆


  Movie night in the conference room featured a Marx Brothers’ flick. I’d seen this one a few times before, but that didn’t keep me from laughing. Or maybe I just needed an excuse to let loose and giggle like a teenager.

  When it was over, Griffin turned up the lights. He looked sad. So I kissed his mouth. Hard. That startled him—a lot. When he tried to kiss me back, I pushed him away. The flash of anger in his eyes was typically male. As if I’d promised something then failed to deliver the goods.

  But men don’t get how fleeting a woman’s moods can be. Or maybe I’m just a bitch. To-may-to, to-mah-to . . .

  Hoping to spackle over this awkward moment, I joked, “If you want some more of that, make sure I come back alive.”

  Griffin didn’t seem amused. He told me it was time. And pointed at the door.

  Making Nice

  Insertion

  Thirty minutes later, I was headed home in a car. The vehicle—a grey Jeep Wrangler—belonged to McCord. And home was her place, not mine. But car and crib had defaulted to me now.

  It felt like stealing. Which felt wrong in my cop mind. But it couldn’t be theft since McCord’s fingerprints and DNA matched mine. So there.

  This was the upside of impersonating a criminal.

  Of course it also meant spending quality time with Santiago Sweet and his merry gang of cutthroats. Hmm. Not so good. Then those surveillance photos of Sweet ran through my mind. And a warm glow brightened the Bermuda Triangle from nipples to clit.

  Perky, perky.

  I yawned. It was early morning: as in 1:15 a.m. early. Looming ahead of me was the inevitable confrontation with Sweet. There’d be questions. Sex. More questions. Maybe more sex . . . the dirty kind that obliterates your mind and liberates your soul . . .

  Hopefully I’d survive. If not . . . well, no point going there. Either I did or didn’t.

  Surveillance footage of Sweet had been unsettling. Not in the sense of being hard to watch—far from it. Sweet was, in truth, one hot bundle of maleness. Kind of face and bod that checked all my boxes. Hard stomach. Broad shoulders. Bad boy handsome with sexy eyes.