by Jack Ketchum
Stinger grabbed MacLean, wrapped his now-disjointed left arm around the man, and carried him across the room, where he closed the safe and dropped MacLean in the chair. He pulled out the pouch and removed the tiny strip.
MacLean saw what he was doing and began to struggle.
It didn’t matter. Stinger hoisted MacLean and the chair up together and ran back to the desk. He also covered the man’s nose and mouth, noticing that when MacLean tried to bite him, his teeth slipped over the adapted skin.
The man tried to yell, but Stinger’s stretched arms muffled the sound. At the desk, he held MacLean’s nose and, as soon as the man tried to breathe through his mouth, took the tiny gel strip, jammed it inside, and held it against MacLean’s tongue.
It dissolved in an instant and Stinger knew it was safe to let go. He hoped the bruising was minimal.
MacLean looked like he was going through a seizure—the main target was to cause cardiac arrest and then break down into unremarkable metabaloids. Now Stinger felt vibrations in his feet that told him the cavalry was on the way. He raced to the door and locked it from the inside. It would buy just a moment or two, but it would be enough.
He heard a gargling sound and saw MacLean pointing at the open folder. He managed to utter a few words Stinger wished he hadn’t understood.
“How. Will. You. Look.”
They were at the door. Knocking first. Then shouting.
Stinger snatched the vent cover and surged up the wall.
It was close. If they hadn’t been staring at MacLean, who sat wide-eyed and drooling, they might have noticed the last of what looked like a royal blue robe pull the vent into place.
Seventy-Two Hours Later: The Egg Office
Brooks sat at the table and plugged in the memory stick. Stinger ignored the pounding in his head and tingling sensation throughout his lower body.
“Good, good, good! Yeeees!” Brooks sounded like he was chanting. All it meant to Stinger was that he must like what was on the stick.
“Your crew got to the house first?” Stinger forced out the words. It hurt more than ever to speak.
Brooks looked up. “Oh, yes. There will be a ‘full investigation,’ of course, but I have it on good authority that the report will show a brilliant man passed away at his desk, thinking of his long lost daughter.”
“Then I get paid. When do we start the reversal?”
“You were incredible. Are you certain you want to give it up? You are without a doubt the most unique assassin on the planet.”
Stinger pointed at the memory stick. “Not for long.” The skin flickered red and blue then settled to what he thought was a normal flesh tone.
“That’s not your concern. But if you are sure ...”
“Don’t feel right.” He reached out and dropped several teeth onto the Lexan table. “They fell out last night. Look.” Stinger opened his mouth to reveal the hard upper and lower single beak-like structures that had crowded out his other teeth.
Brooks failed to hide his disgust. “Fair enough. You were able to use the autoinjectors for the Haltizol?”
Stinger nodded.
Brooks reached into a satchel. He held up a kit with a row of spring-loaded syringes in plastic sheaths. “These work the same way. They are phase one. Use them in place of any leftover Haltizol. Do this for three weeks.”
“Then?”
“Come back to see me. Not here. At my house. Contact information in the kit.”
“All right.” Stinger took the kit. He was careful not to crush them. His fingers felt numb more and more lately.
“These will prepare your body to revert to normal so don’t expect to feel better just yet. That’s part of the process. Just lay low, take it easy and let the meds go to work.”
Stinger nodded. His throat burned from the talking.
“See you soon.”
Three Weeks Later
“Maybe he won’t show.” Lopez checked the clock on his phone.
“He called, he’ll be here. But he sounded like a mess.” Brooks laid out the equipment. He stared at the tropical fish in the large aquarium that dominated one wall of his living room. Their colors and movements never failed to lower his stress.
Ten minutes later the doorbell rang.
“I didn’t hear a car.” Lopez peeked out at the driveway. Brooks glanced at a screen and dialed up the security cameras. Nobody in the driveway. Or at the door, for that matter.
“Huh?” Check it out, would you?” he said.
Lopez opened the door and the light shone on an empty stoop. Then a shadow shimmered and materialized. Lopez jumped backward.
“Stinger? Get in here. Don’t let anyone see you doing that.”
The man, if that word still applied, shambled in and Brooks wasn’t sure where the legs stopped and the feet began. Even the shoes seemed to change and he realized all of it was illusion.
“Why didn’t you wear something? You’re flashing and shifting.” Brooks motioned to the living room.
He could hear a wheezy whistling noise and realized it was Stinger breathing. It sounded like he was sucking air through a soggy paper tube.
“You sound awful. Can you speak?”
Stinger was standing by the men, but the top of his head rose and fell as if he were truly boneless and could stand only through efforts of his muscles. Almost like he could only imitate a man on his feet.
Stinger drew in a rattling breath. “Barely.”
“Did you take all the drugs?”
“Liar.”
“Excuse me?” Brooks said.
Lopez took several steps back.
Brooks felt sweat dance down his rib cage.
More horrible wheezing. “Tested. Water. Salt. Sugar. Mostly bullshit!” Stinger lunged at Brooks. The arms flopped forward like wet noodles, but one caught him by the neck and stuck like glue. The arm felt like a python with thorns.
Brooks started to yell when the muffled reports cut him off. Lopez stood nearby and pumped shot after shot from a large handgun into Stinger’s torso. The suppressor kept it from being deafening, and several rounds penetrated clear through Stinger’s body and peppered Brooks’s kitchen.
He didn’t care. Stinger released Brooks and fell in a heap to the ground. He thrashed on the floor and his skin flickered like a living strobe light. The wheezing ratcheted up, then fell silent. Brooks stepped away and put out an arm to tell Lopez to quit shooting. No need to tear up the floor on top of the kitchen cabinets.
“I thought you said he’d take his medicine.” Lopez flicked on the safety and reholstered his weapon.
“I guess he got what he needed. I never saw anyone this far along and still alive. Usually the changes are so radical by this point that they die on their own.”
“You’re cut.” Lopez pointed toward Brooks’ neck. Now that he was starting to calm down, he felt where that arm had snaked around him. His fingers came back red and wet.
“Damn. Let me clean these up. Can you get the bag from the car? We need to get rid of this carcass.” Brooks watched Lopez walk out the front door. The cuts on his neck began to throb.
He hurried to the bathroom and turned on the water. He let it heat up and could see the streaks alongside his throat. More than scratches, those barbs on the arm hadn’t cut deep, but they might’ve become serious given a bit more time.
Just don’t let them get infected.
He opened the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle of antiseptic. He closed the mirror and wadded up some toilet tissue. He doused the paper with the antiseptic and swabbed the wounds.
He clenched his jaw at the stinging pain. The burn meant the stuff must be working, but it hurt like hell. Despite the pain he felt better. Once they got the body out and cleaned up, he’d pour a tall glass of bourbon and then he’d be just fine.
He heard Lopez come back in and shout something in surprise.
Now what?
Brooks stepped out of the steamy room into the hallway.
�
�What?”
Lopez held a black body bag folded over his arm and stared. “Why do you want to cut him up here? That was fast, you got a surgical saw?”
“I was in the bathroom, what the hell are you talking—” Brooks reached the end on the hall where he could see past just Stinger’s feet. “Where’s his head?”
“That’s what I was asking you.” Lopez looked as confused as Brooks felt.
It wasn’t where he left it. In what looked to be a clean and surprisingly neat cut, the only thing that remained was a slack torso. The whole body looked like it was melting, but that could have been an illusion due to the soft or absent bones.
He saw a smear along the floor that reminded him of a slug trail. The body at their feet began to ooze from the neck.
Disgusting.
“I think I’m losing my mind. Maybe the head collapsed into the frame,” Brooks said.
“You going to autopsy him here?”
“Funny. Scoop him in the bag and let’s get him out of here.”
Lopez shook his head. “Weirdest shit I ever saw.”
“Take him to the car. I’ll be right there. I want to wash this crap off my hands. Smells like fish guts.” Brooks needed to make sure this thing got dumped where it would never be found. Lopez was a good man, but Brooks worried he might offload the body somewhere just to be rid of it.
Brooks heard something in the bathroom and his heart jumped. A second later, he recognized the sound and realized he’d left the hot water running in the sink. The small powder room was steamed up like a bathroom after a shower. He turned off the water and checked his cuts in the partially fogged mirror.
At first he didn’t see them in the distorted reflection. He canted his head and the cuts appeared, almost glowing red. He saw his puzzled expression reflected and reached out to clear the fogged glass.
Why did the mirror feel rough?
Now he saw his reflection contort with rage and the eyes glowed bright yellow.
Brooks tried to back away, but tentacles lashed out from the sides of the frame. The last thing he saw was a bulbous shape, with a sharp, snapping beak at the center, detach from the real mirror and pull itself toward his face, smothering his scream.
ONE OF US
BY AUSTIN S. CAMACHO
I like to set meetings out on one of the long piers at the National Harbor, especially when I’m meeting one of us. For one thing, it’s almost impossible for somebody to film you without you knowing it. The breeze would play hell with any recording device. It’s public, but not too public. Nobody’s going to sneak up on you. And best of all, you get to take a good long look at anybody headed your way before you have to talk to them.
Marty C was styling today in the three-piece suit, gators on his feet, and the hat dipped over one eye like Ne-Yo. He’s wide and solid, but still moves like a dancer. I expected the two big guys hanging back behind him. I didn’t expect the sister on his arm. She’d be tall even if she kicked off those six-inch Christian Louboutins. Soft features and perfect skin under a three-hundred-dollar weave. Bigger tits than mine, but that was okay. I had the nicer ass.
She stopped six yards out. I held her gaze while Marty continued, hoping the eye contact made it clear I was not competition. He stopped just outside arm’s reach and nodded hello.
“I don’t get introduced?”
“In a minute,” Marty said. “Business first, if that’s okay.”
I smiled. “She’s not business?”
“Well, sort of,” Marty said. “There’s a reason she’s here, but really, she’s just a friend I’m trying to help out.” Her body language said it was true. His eyes told me he wished it wasn’t.
“I see. She’s got a problem you want me to solve.”
“Yeah, but not the usual way. Carmen’s brother disappeared. With all that’s going on he’s low priority to the DC cops. I thought you’d help. For your usual fee, of course.”
I slipped my hands into my leather jacket pockets. “Me? I ain’t no detective, Marty. I’m ...”
“I know,” Marty said, palms forward. “You’re one of us. But you’re real good at finding people. I remember that dude who was in witness protection. And you might even know Yemmi.”
“Yemmi the rapper? The guy who’s starting to make a noise in the clubs?”
“See?” Marty grinned like he had won something. “You travel in some of the same circles. I’m betting you can find out what happened to him before some private eye could even get started. What do you say?”
I stared into the low afternoon clouds. It would be just like locating any mark, only I didn’t have to do the actual job, and I got paid the same. I shrugged.
“What the hell. I’m between gigs.” We shook on it. “I’m going to need some information to go on. Time for that introduction.”
Marty waved the amazon toward us. We faced each other like fighters in a ring. He said, “Carmen, this is Skye, that friend I told you about.”
Instead of touching gloves I turned to Marty and said, “Stay here.” To Carmen I said, “Let’s talk,” and moved off. She fell into step beside me. I knew the guys would follow, but at a discreet distance. She ran her eyes up and down me, gathering that my black tights, calfskin boots, and leather jacket only looked cheap. And she would have noticed the absence of jewelry, unless you counted the silver-star belt buckle, and that my shoulder-length jet-black hair was all my own.
“So, Marty says you need help finding your brother Yemmi.”
“He offered to help,” she said in a smooth accent. “Opeyemi performed Saturday night and no one has seen him since. He calls me every day. He would not go a week without so much as a text message. Marty said you might be able to help. I would be very grateful.”
She sounded as if that last sentence hurt to say. “Opeyemi? What is that, some kind of African name?”
“We are Nigerian. Family is important to us.” She made it sound haughty. I wondered what Carmen might be short for.
“So what do you think is going on with Yemmi?”
“If I knew ...”
I stopped short and stared up into her soft brown eyes. “Look, people don’t just disappear. There’s only a few possibilities, right? Either he took off on his own and don’t want to be found, or somebody grabbed him, or he’s dead. Where would you place your bet?”
She clenched her eyes tight, then opened them. “I talk to or text with Yemmi every day. He would not just leave.”
“Okay, so who hates him?”
“What? No one. Everybody loves Yemmi.”
Of course. Loved ones always said that. Of course, if no one had any enemies I’d be out of business.
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Who would have seen him last? Who are his closest friends?”
“I’m afraid he still associates with gangsters,” Carmen said, looking a little embarrassed. “There’s Jimmy, he’s bad news. And Bobby who goes by Smuggla. Maybe his best friend is his DJ, Scratch Daddy. He sells their CDs all over the city.”
I found Scratch Daddy on Wisconsin Avenue leaning up against a maroon van. When he saw me approaching he reached into the open back door, pulled a disk out of a box and handed it to me. He opened his mouth but I cut him off.
“Save the sales pitch. Yemmi’s sister Carmen sent me. She needs to know where he is.”
“Me too,” he said, glancing at the heavy gold Rolex on his ebony wrist. “We got business to take care of. But I ain’t seen the brother since Sunday when he asked me to make that delivery.”
“Delivery? To who?”
He cut me a glance. “Why’s it any of your business?”
“Didn’t I just tell you his sister sent me? Look I ain’t trying to spend all day chasing this dude.”
He puffed up and leaned in on me. “And I ain’t trying to give up my boy, so maybe you better ...”
Stiffened fingers into his solar plexus backed him up while I dropped the blade down out of my right sleeve. When I pressed the point aga
inst the notch of his collarbone he backed against the van and froze.
“You could bleed out right here and people would step over you for hours,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear. “Or, you can tell me what Yemmi told you to take where on the day he went missing.”
I don’t think it was the dagger at his throat that opened his mouth. But Scratch Daddy looked into my eyes and could see I was for real.
“Look, it was just one of his CDs. Seriously, he scribbled a note on the label and told me to take it over to Flex, sort of like a calling card before he went over there, and when I got back he was gone and I ain’t seen him since.”
“Now, was that so hard?” I asked, backing off and pushing the blade back into its ejection holder in my right sleeve. “Now you don’t have to see me again ... unless you’re lying. And you know what? Give me one of those CDs.”
I popped the disk into the Miata’s CD player and was bobbing my head while I piloted the little red Mazda across town toward Georgetown where I knew Flex, born Noah Allen, lived. Yemmi had the kind of flow that helped you get through the midday traffic. It wasn’t long before I was parking half a block away and listening to my boots click on the brick sidewalk toward the big square brick house. A white boy dressed in full livery opened the door and escorted me to the back where Flex sat by the pool. Three cell phones sat by his elbow and a Shaquille O’Neil look-alike stood six feet away. I greeted him, keeping my hands in plain sight. The bodyguard did too. Signs of mutual respect.
Flex’s skin was the color of a walnut shell and beneath the smoothly shaved head his face was lined with deep wrinkles. He poured Remy into a glass and pointed to an empty one for me, but I waved it off. Everything he wore—golf shirt, jeans, tennis shoes—bore a designer label. His smile was dazzling. I could see he took the shift from performer to promoter and producer very seriously.
“You’re easier to see than I expected, Flex.”
“What, you think just because a nigga lives in a ten-million-dollar house he got to turn away company? I ain’t like that. Besides, Junior here said he knew your name. He says if you was looking for me for the usual reasons you wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell.”