by Richard Lee
Peter threw himself across the table. He slid across the smooth surface on his side. He thrust the dagger overhead at Eric, who moved sideways with the speed of a cat. Peter spun himself forty-five degrees and snapped his leg out. His foot slammed into the Eric’s face, sending the guy stumbling backwards into the path of the waiting dagger.
It slid easily into the middle of his back. Peter gave it an added thrust to ensure it hit home.
Eric bent back against the steel death. His arms shot upwards in a wide arc. He threw his head back and gave voice to his pain.
His voice shook Rachael and she suddenly realized she wasn’t using the listening device. Eric was speaking. “How can you...” She hesitated. “Speak?” she asked, as Eric’s body slid off the dagger and he dropped to the floor. She crouched next to him. “Tell me,” she demanded. Looking at Peter, she said, “He was deaf and mute.”
From being in our time zone, Peter’s friend said. Not sure how that worked out. Something to do with time rips that even I don’t yet fully understand.
Peter stretched across the table. “Rachael,” he said and waited for her to look up before continuing. “I don’t know about him speaking, but I know he lied.”
“Eric never lies.”
“I can get you anything you want.”
Looking at Eric again, she said, “I want you, Peter.”
Smiling, he pulled himself onto the table to conserve the remaining energy. His legs dangled off the edge and he causally rolled the dagger across his fingers.
Eric groaned.
Peter released his dagger, watching it drop point first towards Eric’s slowly rising and falling chest, but Rachael snatched it from the air moments before it made contact. She caught it with the palm facing in, and suddenly dropped to her knees. Eric had almost rolled onto his back when the dagger slashed his throat.
He clutched madly at the opening shooting out thick globs of blood. His legs thrashed about, knocking Rachael aside. Their eyes were locked. He tried to speak, but made only gurgling sounds.
To himself, Peter said, One down and two to go for my stockpile.
He would find his computer later. He had many plans for later, but first he had to take care of himself. Rachael’s act had already committed her to him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The “Bar” was not the safest place in town for drinking, but it was all right. It was one of few bars that still served customers, instead of having machines generate the drinks and snacks. That could be the reason it was always extremely busy, even with a war bubbling in the background.
It was a brick building in the lower regions of Area City, one of the poorer parts of the city, where not everybody was constantly connected to the Net. Most weren’t even connected. A place where many children were born unregistered. It had a medium crime rate for this part of the city, but it had the largest and deadliest stockpile of drugs. Mind-killer was the latest and cheapest. It was also the deadliest. It had serious side effects, and was extremely hard to get a hold of and the dealers usually only dealt with a pre-built clientele.
She had yet to meet or speak to the main man. The creator of Mind-killer. He was the guy behind it all. Six very heavily armed men guarded his office. She had rarely seen the man enter or leave it. She assumed he teleported back and forth. For the first six months she had no idea what he looked like. Her client had only given a verbal description at the time. She hated when they did that. It made her job even harder. But now, she knew his face and was starting to learn his routine.
Sometimes, she didn’t feel like a P.I at all. Usually she felt like a hired killer.
Samantha had worked hard to gain their trust. She dyed her hair black and had a holo facemask created. It was easy to get a job here, but harder dealing with the drinkers. She knew the man she wanted, but getting close to him was another story.
The veiled lady.
She’d entered her office wearing a black veil. Wanted her husband put behind bars forever. “He’s a bastard,” she’d said.
“What’s he done?” Samantha was curious about what the veil was hiding. She guessed it hid a beating. Black eyes, broken nose and/or missing teeth.
“He tested Mind-killer on me.” Her voice was shaky and she spoke slowly.
“What do you mean by ‘tested’?”
She started crying.
Samantha remained in her seat and waited. Many people had cried in front of her, men and women. It never affected her. She could be cold-hearted when the need arose. She had spent most of her life with a cold heart. At thirteen she was attacked by six teachers and five senior students, and no one had believed her, including her parents. There was no money to take her to a doctor to be tested, and the government forgot about people in this area, except at tax time. Not being able to go to a doctor, her parents had closed their eyes and said it didn’t happen. Hell, everyone knew she was sexually active from twelve.
She didn’t cry or throw a fit with her parent’s denial, instead she blocked them. Locked them and all others out of her emotions. She would exist and they would too. But she needed to defend herself and was lucky enough to find a holo-teacher and the library. A teacher of the deadly arts. He was a short Asian man and the holo file was hard light. He was a full contact teacher. Hard light files never gained popularity. They scared people more than helped or entertained.
And she had studied hard. Instead of going to school, she spent hours in her room practicing and used the library to teach her what she needed to know. When she trained, she constantly remembered the attack. Every block and kick was aimed at them. At times, she got frustrated at new moves she couldn’t perform or understand right away. And that emotion would force the image of her being held down naked across the homeroom teacher’s desk as one by one they pumped into her.
She learned fast and caused fights at local bars to put her knowledge into practice.
Years later, she was here sitting in her office, listening to a woman who refused to give her name talk about her bastard of a husband using her as a test animal.
The woman had stopped crying.
“Would you like to take a break?” Samantha asked. She knew from experience that the lady wouldn’t. She’d want to get it over with.
“Telly invented Mind-killer. When we first met, he was an amazing scientist, very dedicated to his work. Not long after, his parents were killed in a robbery, and he kind of lost it. He would leave the house for months at a time. I found out he was taking drugs.”
“How did you find out?” Samantha asked.
“I found the injection canister in the bathroom. I think he left it there on purpose. I didn’t mention it, just left it where it was and pretended not to have seen it.” She stopped and stared at the floor, as if she were watching the past replay just for this moment.
Samantha waited a few minutes in silence. Judging an appropriate amount of time had passed, she said softly, “Continue, please.”
The lady took a long deep breath, then, “I thought he was getting better. A couple of months after I found the thing, he suddenly went back to work. His mood improved for about six months and then he said he wanted to test something. He said he’d been working on a new formula for destroying bad smells.”
“Bad smells?”
“You know, overflowing rubbish porters, the kind that send everything flying towards the sun?”
She nodded in understanding.
“He wanted me to test the new formula. I agreed and he put his hand under my nose and I blacked out. When I came to, I was on the bed and he was watching me. Before I had a chance to say a word he did it again. This time I could see it clearly.”
Samantha only knew a little about this new drug. Mind-killer in small amounts was nearly invisible. It was so finely cut and processed that most people had to feel it to know it was there. Since its introduction it was never sold in such small amounts. Each capsule was a hundred credits, a cheap price for an addictive ride.
“Where is t
his?” Samantha asked.
“Area of Lost Hope,” the woman replied softly.
“It would be very hard to have him arrested,” Samantha said in her sweetest tone.
“Why?”
“Have you seen the police in that area?”
The lady was silent a moment before answering, “No, never.”
“That’s my point.”
“I’ve heard about you from others.” The lady played with the lower part of her veil. “You’ve never had anyone arrested, have you?”
It was true. She didn’t trust the police to take care of business, as it were. “What exactly is it that you want?”
Without a hesitation, the lady said, “I want him out of business and out of my life. I want the bastard dead.”
“Let me get this straight. You want me to kill your husband for testing a drug on you, and remember you agreed to test his new product, even if it was a lie. And you want him to disappear for beating you up?”
“Firstly, I would never agree to take any drugs. Ask anyone who knows me, I prefer natural science. And I never said he beat me up. Telly never laid a hand on me.”
“Then why the veil?”
The lady said, “So you want to see, do you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Her voice was loud in anger. “Very well. These are the side effects no one talks about with Mind-killer.” She threw the veil over her head quickly.
Samantha gasped. She had planned not to show any reaction, but the sight she faced was...Oh god, she didn’t want to look at it a second longer. Her eyes were beautiful blues, but the rest of her face was hideous. Open sores oozed yellow puss. Scabs, likely infected due to a green coloring, spotted her nose and eyebrows and forehead. The skin of her cheeks was so pale that veins showed in dark red pencil thin lines. Under her right eye, skin hung loose like a carry bag and it had purple spots. She opened her mouth to show black gums with perfectly lined white teeth. There was a growth on the underside of her chin the size of a matchbox. Thick dark hairs grew freely from it.
“Would you like me to undress, so you can see more?” There was no sarcasm in her voice. From her purse she took out a photo and placed it on the desk. “This was me, last year.”
Samantha looked at a photo of very appealing woman. This woman looked fit and happy. Her skin was crystal clear and she had blond hair. The woman wore a short skirt and short-sleeved tennis shirt. She was holding a racket and standing in a park surrounded by trees.
The lady was looking at her strangely now. The trust or hope was gone from her voice when she asked for the photo back. Samantha handed it over. She couldn’t believe the woman in the photo was the same person sitting opposite her.
And for the first time in her career, she got up from behind the desk and sat in the chair next to the lady.
When the lady turned to face her, Samantha wrapped her arms around the woman and hugged her tightly. She knew she wouldn’t catch what this lady had, and she wasn’t afraid to touch her.
The lady sobbed loudly, her tears soaking through Samantha’s light shirt.
“I’ll get the bastard,” Samantha said when the woman’s sobs had quieted.
“You’re the first person to touch me in a year,” the lady said, sniffing loudly.
Samantha broke the hug and looked into the tear stricken face.
“The bastard’s going down,” she promised.
Eight months had passed since then and she had met with the lady only twice for additional information. The hardest thing was finding his location. She didn’t count on him running business from the meanest bar in Area Ten, or as the locals called it, “Area of Lost Hope.”
For just over six months she had worked as a bartender. She had learned most people in “Lost Hope” had dreams and were fighting to achieve them. And she also learned not everyone was vicious. She could walk the streets late at night without trouble. She was very surprised with this town; it was safer than her own neighborhood. It was a low employment area, and that is probably what kept it safe. Houses didn’t have automatic shutters that blocked out the outside world and all its sounds.
And the bar she worked undercover in turned out not as bad as others claimed it was. Sure, it was loud, with music and drunkards. There were often a lot of fights and people grabbing her ass, including the bar manager. But all in all, the place was bearable and she made some friends who she knew she would lose once her cover was blown. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was getting the bastard and that was the hard part.
Sooner or later he would make a mistake and she’d have the pleasure in nailing him.
Samantha was looking forward to that.
“Hey, Sam. Table sixteen needs you.”
She looked over. A group of five young Japanese men sat in the curved booth. They were laughing loudly and smoking heavily. And they all sprouted different colored spiked hair.
“Oh, come on, Steve,” she complained. “Those guys are assholes.”
“They asked for you. Now get.” He snapped his towel at her in a friendly manner. It snapped just above her ass, hitting the black mini skirt she wore.
Samantha flipped him the bird. “What comes around goes around,” she said with a sneer and moved off before he had a chance to reply. Steve always had a reply to the old expressions, even if he wasn’t exactly sure what they meant. He’d be a super nice guy if only he could keep his hands to himself.
As Samantha moved closer to the table, she saw the Japanese boys weren’t alone. Instantly she knew who they were with, even though she could only see the back of his head.
Quietly she muttered a curse for not carrying a weapon. She’d love to take him out now. It’d be wonderful.
Two men sitting at a table grabbed her attention
She stopped and turned to face them.
“What do you want?” she asked automatically.
“We heard you talking,” said the fat one. He had a heavy layer of stubble coving his cheeks and neck.
“So?” Samantha replied.
“So?” said the second man. He was stick thin and clean shaved. “So, nice girls shouldn’t speak that way.”
They were drunk and were also regulars at the bar. Until tonight they had never spoken to her. Even at the bar, they stood in front of Steve to make their order.
“Is that right?” Samantha said. “Perhaps you don’t know any nice girls?” she offered.
“Oh, I bet you’re real nice,” the fat man said. The thin guy was looking into his glass.
“Fuck you,” she said and took a step forward.
The fat one grabbed her by the wrist. “Where’re you going, sweet thing?”
“Away from you, you ugly shit.”
The fat guy stood up and pulled her roughly to him. Samantha grabbed his wrist with her free hand and gripped it firmly, letting her thumb and forefinger push into the base of the bone. In one fluid motion she snapped the wrist around, forcing it open, and twisted side on. Quickly she pulled the arm over her head, turned forty-five degrees and pushed his twisted arm down. The fat man dropped to his knees. Holding the wrist firmly with fingers pointing up, she stepped forward and heard the shoulder pop out.
The fat man’s head was on the floor. He hadn’t uttered a sound and she knew that move was painful. She released the hold. Instantly he grabbed his shoulder and started massaging it.
“You need to pop it back in,” she said, surprised at his silence. He must have a high pain threshold, she told herself.
“Bitch,” he muttered.
She knelt next to him. Quietly, she said, “I’m not a nice girl.”
“Hey.” It was Steve.
Samantha looked up.
“Stop talking to your boyfriend and get to table sixteen.”
She nodded. Walking past him, she felt two slaps against her rump. Steve remained where he was, eyes fixed firmly on the two bastards. They won’t be regulars anymore, she thought, heading to table sixteen.
“Sorry about the wait, gentlemen,” Samanth
a said, standing in front of the table. She could easily see the old style handguns sitting in shoulder straps on the Japanese men. She activated her holo notepad. “What can I get you?” Her eyes remained on Telly, the owner.
He shifted uncomfortably, as if he could read hate thoughts directed at him. He quickly composed himself while his friends were ordering and returned her stare. He never blinked, but the corners of his mouth curled up into a smile.
Samantha did the same. She blindly tapped the order into the holo notepad. After a moment of silence, she realized the Japanese men had stopped ordering. “And how about you, sir?” she asked, knowing he didn’t drink.
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
It was the first time she had heard his voice. It was silky soft and refined. He spoke with the ease of confidence and superiority. He knew exactly where he stood in society and he liked his position.
Her eyes were drawn to two black briefcases sitting between Telly and the Japanese. He was making a deal, she realized and didn’t care. The Japanese only sold to Japanese, same as the Chinese only sold to other Chinese. Each nationality had borders of sales and knew not to cross into another area for selling.
“Oi, get our drinks, bitch.”
She scowled at the Japanese man. Chinpiras, she hated them, worst than the fucking Yakuza on a violence scale.
She nodded in his direction and turned just as the front door swung open. Her mouth dropped open at the sight of a man in his sixties wearing black. A man she knew and trusted, although the years looked hard on him. Could it really be him? He walked straight to her. A foot away, he stopped and smiled.
“Father Michael?” she asked.
“In the flesh, so to speak, dear Samantha.”
“My god, it’s been years,” Samantha exclaimed.
Father Michael nodded. “And I need your help.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Hold on a minute, Father.” Samantha went to the bar, handed over the holo notepad and said to Steve, “Old friend. Let me take a break, okay?”