Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze)

by Jade Hart

  I looked at my blank email. Shit. I just found what spent me hours to find, and now my day job decided to get interesting.

  After deleting all evidence of my hacking, I stood and clipped on my police utility belt. It was bloody uncomfortable to wear while sitting at a desk. I checked it was complete: cuffs, taser, walkie-talkie, gun, baton, and water bottle. Ready and armed for the masses of morons who seemed to think they were above the law.

  Swiping my hands through my hair, I ran straight into Wade, who bolted past my office. “Jeez, Mark. Where's the fire?” Pudgy Mark Wade wasn't the sharpest wombat in the Outback, but he was a nice guy. I didn't mind being partnered with him. He gave me the space I needed to work the way I worked. However, I caught him watching me now and again, eyebrows drawn together. Did he suspect I was completely over qualified for this humdrum job?

  “Ready?” Wade asked. He rubbed his forehead with his arm, a sheen of sweet appeared on his sleeve. “I hear there's a lot of blood.” For a cop, he had a weak stomach.

  “Civilian? Or perp?” Death of an innocent never failed to make me boil with anger. Death of a perp, well, I can't say I didn't enjoy it. That would be a lie.

  “Mongrel Mob. I overheard Scott say there's gang tattoos around the guy’s shoulders, and his leather jacket and patches puts him in the top rank.”

  Excellent. One less prick I’d have to chase and lock up. My mind instantly jumped to considering who might’ve killed a Mongrel boss.

  We made our way in silence to the basement garage, and signed out a police car. As we drove out of the gloom, bright sunshine stabbed my eyeballs. Trust me to forget my sunglasses today.

  It wasn't far to the center of Kings Cross and crap, did it look nasty at that time of day. At night the neon nightclubs turned the drab, seedy buildings into jeweled music boxes, promising a life of happiness and excitement. In this light, it was nothing but dirty streets and garbage.

  “Don't you think Kings Cross is like a hot woman in a bar?” I asked Wade as we ducked under the police tape at the bottom of an alley between an herbal high store and sex shop.

  “What?” Wade's eyes went wide. “How do you figure?”

  “You know. The hot woman. Perky boobs, luscious lips. Long flowing locks. With a taut stomach and ass—the perfect package.”

  Wade continued to watch me with a weird look.

  “Then you take home this hot little sheila only to find she's wearing spandex, which turns her from a size twelve to a size eight. She's wearing a wig, her lips are Botoxed, and the boobs—well they're just chicken fillet implants in her bra.”

  Wade coughed a laugh. “Interesting analogy there, Bliss.” He slapped me on the back. “You speaking from personal experience?”

  Hell yes I was. Hence my reluctance to fall for the pretty package; nine times out of ten, it was fake. But Ocean, she deliberately unprettied the package, and still interested me more than any other woman before. With or without the vanishing trick.

  The forensics analyst was bent over a corpse. A black stain seeped in a large puddle beneath—the remains of a life. Whoever killed this man did a good job prolonging it. Death by blood loss could be a slow process.

  Catherine Smith raised her head, hazel eyes sharp. She was a fantastic forensic analyst, but she was a mean-ass bitch.

  “What's the cause of death?” I asked, squatting beside her. The reek of body fumes was only just beginning. I’d place his time of death somewhere around nine hours. I never let on I held a degree in forensics as well as law. Too many pieces of paper labeled me a perpetual student. And not all my accolades were gained by reputable institutions.

  Glaring at me, Catherine muttered, “Cause of death was by an oyster knife, stabbed into his femoral artery.” She pointed to the nasty slash in his thigh, then to a plastic bagged knife.

  My eyes travelled the corpse. I sucked in a breath and my throat latched closed. Holy hell!

  Where there should have been a penis—there was a nasty fleshy stump. My own equipment shrunk in horror. Fuck, that would hurt!

  Catherine saw my look and chuckled. “The eunuch procedure happened before the stab. I've been searching for prints, DNA, anything to show who might’ve done this, but all I detect is alcohol residue and baby wipes. Whoever did this sliced him and cleaned up thoroughly.”

  A cold sensation settled on the back of my neck, even as hot disbelief filled my veins. Ocean was in this area the night she was arrested. Could she? No. . .

  I needed to find out who the dick-less man was. “Identification of the vic?” My voice was cool, level. No evidence of the riot of confusion inside me. Could she have done this? And how did I feel about it if she did? Was that what all the emails implied? Missions being completed? ‘Missions’ being code for murder?

  Catherine tossed me his wallet. “Bart Matthews.”

  I didn't need a computer to know who this bastard was. His mug shot was center place on our wanted criminals board. He was linked to two murders and recently, the rape and murder of a sixteen-year-old boy.

  Shivers caused the hair on my forearm to stand to attention. “Well, that's good news for the rest of the population.”

  Wade took the wallet, flicking through the credit cards and cash. “Who killed him? Another gang member? Is this the beginning of a turf war?” He swallowed. “Hell, it could get real messy if they're fighting over the Cross.”

  For some reason I didn't think that was the case. If Ocean had done this, then she did the police a favor. If we had, by some miracle, arrested the son of a bitch, we wouldn't have had him for long. The Mongrel Mob was notorious for paying obscene amounts to lawyers and cops to avoid jail.

  Another shiver ran over me, this time in stark realization of the truth. Ocean killed. Everything in my police code told me that wasn’t okay, but we worked toward the same goal, however differently. I swore under my breath to admit I approved of her choice of victim in this case. I’m pro-vigilantism now? Holy hell.

  The next few hours were spent casing the area, taking notes, and interviewing sleepy-eyed and grumpy shopkeepers. No one had seen a thing.

  By the time we returned to the precinct, my uniform was gritty with street grime, and all I could think about was the sea.

  There was one more thing to do before I could leave.

  Opening up a new email window, I typed a ridiculous message and pressed ‘send’. Nerves sent electric shocks down my back. I was one step closer to solving the mystery that was Ocean Breeze.

  But right now I was clocking off, I needed food and a surf. The ocean was calling my name. And soon another Ocean would be, too.

  Chapter Eight: Ocean

  The time difference meant I left New Zealand in late afternoon, and arrived in South Africa late morning. The sun lurked behind smog-heavy clouds; the light tinged with dimness. Century City presented itself as a shiny new penny, despite the gloom. Windowed buildings, sparkly water features, and saplings lined quaint walkways.

  I wasn't fooled. A city could be as perfect as a postcard—it didn't mean the same evilness, the same black sludge of human vileness, didn't lurk in the new-fangled architecture.

  My back was ramrod straight as I stalked through the pretty streets. I changed my money into local rand, and I was ready.

  Time to hunt.

  By the end of the day, I’d have blood on my hands. If I didn't, I'd be pissed.

  Palm trees bowed toward traffic, adding a touch of exoticness to local amenities such as McDonald's, and other well-known chains. It didn't look like a place where child slavery happened. But I'd learned from experience: appearances deceived. Just like that blasted freakin’ cop. Why was I thinking about him again? It didn't help I kept imagining him half-naked with a surfboard.

  Growling, I prowled to my first point of contact. An internet cafe.

  I chose Y2K Internet—a black dungeon full of bug-eyed gaming geeks and a sprinkling of tourists—and paid for one hour of access.

  The young boy behind the counter t
ook my cash and handed me a code. Smiling my thanks, I headed to the back, and claimed a seat in the darkest part of the hovel, as far away from the other customers as possible.

  Clicking on the browser, I typed ‘Atsu Bazeer’.

  Lucky for me, his name popped up instantly. My eyes widened and my breath grew shallow the more I researched. Atsu Bazeer was a ruthless businessman. He was part owner in a number of developments around town. His online profile emitted a lethal charm. A closely cropped afro gleamed like wiry obsidian, while black eyes glinted with cut-throat power.

  He favored suits, especially in pastels, and he wasn't short on bling. In fact, the more I researched, the more I hated him. Something about his iron-fisted charisma erupted sparks of unease down my spine. This was a man who had a lot to hide. A man who dealt in children in the back-alleys, and sequestered who knew what else.

  The familiar buzz of the hunt gave me an adrenaline shot. He was a worthy opponent, and by that I meant he wasn't stupid. Unlike Adrian Mathieu and his unknown accomplice who stole my family from me. They were next on my hunt-to-kill list.

  My hands shook slightly as I copied down Bazeer’s business address. My hour was almost up, so I decided to check my email before calling it quits.

  From: Callan.Bliss@sydneypolice.govt.au

  Date: 12 July 2012

  Subject: Are you Ocean Breeze?

  Hello,

  I am trying to find a woman. Aged twenty-four. Was arrested last night in Kings Cross, Sydney. If this is you please contact me on the above email address. It is imperative I talk to you. (regarding your file and what happened on the night of the 10 July 2012.)

  Thank you for your time,

  Callan Bliss

  Officer, New South Wales Police.

  Holy shit! Was this guy for real? He tracked me down? And how the freakin’ hell did he find my email? He must’ve violated a whole stack of laws to find that personal piece of information, because it sure as hell wasn't on my file. Email was my only form of contact, and only with Maurice. No phone. No Twitter. No Facebook. No online presence of any kind. It was too risky when you were in the killing game.

  To respond or not to respond? I glared at a poster of some computer game princess, biting my lip. Should I ignore this cop who seemed determined to get hold of me? Or play with him?

  Hitting reply before I could stop myself, I typed:

  From: OBAnon@gmail.com

  Date: 12 July 2012

  Subject: Bugger off.

  Ocean Breeze does not exist at this address.

  Good luck next time.

  P.S Even if she did exist, she would not want to talk to a cop.

  Good day.

  I pressed send before I could think, then panicked. I shouldn't have done that. He didn't know it was me. He was fishing, and I just tugged his line. At least I didn't take the bait. He’d be waiting till the end of the world before I responded again.

  Leaving the dark grotto of computers, I headed straight to McDonald's and grabbed a Fillet-o-Fish combo. With my mouth full, I planned my attack.

  Thembi was close by. Atsu Bazeer wouldn't have sold her yet, or defiled her. She was worth more to him untouched. . . or at least I hoped so. French fries lodged in my throat at the thought. What if? Don't think that. You'll save her before anything happens like what happened to you. Focus and save her.

  After my meal, I walked directly to Atsu Bazeer's office. It was located in a swanky new part of Century City. Of course.

  The foyer of the soaring sky-scraper featured sheets of glass reflecting the buildings opposite, which were bordered by countless palm trees. The security guard opened the oversized door for me. I gave him my biggest smile. Time to turn on the charm.

  Crap, I should've stopped to buy a new outfit. A low cut top would do best, and a skirt, but I unbuttoned the top of my blouse and fluffed up my chest. Tousling my hair, I pinched my cheeks, and strode toward the pretty little receptionist.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a prissy voice.

  Would she be so prissy if she knew Atsu Bazeer sold women like her? My skin crawled.

  “Yes. I have an appointment with Mr. Bazeer. He's expecting me. What floor should I go to?” My voice was sharp but friendly. No ounce of uncertainty, or hint at the fact that it was a bold-faced lie.

  The girl blinked then tapped her keyboard. “Um, he's on floor thirty-four. I'll get someone to take you up.”

  I grinned. “Oh, no, don't worry. I can manage. Thanks so much.” Not giving her time to respond, I jumped in the glossy elevator and pressed the button for thirty-four. The ride allowed me time to check my secret weapons were easy to hand. My entire body was a weapon, since I’d trained ruthlessly in martial arts, but I kept knives on me, too. In my left bra-cup there was a switchblade. In my back jeans pocket rested a box-cutter. And in a special pouch I'd sewn into my sleeve nestled a serrated knife that caused more damage when I pulled it out than when I pushed it in. I knew that from personal experience.

  The elevator doors pinged open to a gaudy, over-the-top office with black veined marble on every surface.

  Behind a shiny desk sat a primped, youngish receptionist that was fake everything. Eyelashes, boobs, lips. Botoxed to the max. She screamed tackiness—exactly like the office space. “I'm here to see Atsu Bazeer,” I said, walking toward her with a sashay I'd perfected.

  “And you are?”

  “His newest money-maker.” I winked.

  “There is no mention of an appointment for today. Your name?”

  I leaned over the counter, purring, “Ocean. My name is Ocean, and Mr. Bazeer will be so disappointed if you don't allow me to see him.”

  “No, he—”

  “Sandy. I'll see her,” said a gruff voice behind me.

  I tossed my hair, hitting the receptionist in the face, and eyed Atsu Bazeer. I uncurled from the desk and cocked my hip. “Good choice, Mr. Bazeer.”

  His eyes widened as he licked his lips.

  Gross son of a bitch. I plastered my smile to high wattage and beamed. This was my only chance to come across as a savvy woman who begged for sex. Guaranteed to capture his attention from the research I'd conducted.

  “Follow me, miss.”

  Got him. Thank God for that. Thembi. I'm coming.

  The door slammed closed behind us. I jumped despite myself, but covered it up with a theatrical stretch, making sure Bazeer noticed.

  His eyes were calculating as he prowled to his desk. He wasn't as tall as the online photos suggested, but he was lethal. I didn't have to read body language to know—one slip and I’d end up dinner for hyenas.

  Once seated, Mr. Bazeer stared at me. His pastel green suit was radiant against his ebony skin.

  True to his vain nature, there were a multitude of mirrors of every size hanging behind him. Each one captured my every move. My every twitch. My heart rate picked up and a heavy pulsing headache warned me to be careful.

  Adjusting his cuff links, he asked, “What is it that you want?” His Afrikaans accent was strong, his voice a rumble.

  Don't screw this up, Ocean. “I want what you want.” I cocked my hip in a seductive pose, but without over doing it. My act was to be sexy, strong. Not slutty and sloppy.

  His eyebrow rose, while a sharp gaze dropped to my jeans. I resisted the urge to shudder as his eyes snaked over my figure. I smiled instead. A memory of Callan Bliss appeared, unsettling me. He didn’t look at me like Bazeer did.

  “And what is that, pretty little girl?”

  “You want to make money. I want to make money. I'm a specialist in grooming young women for—” I coughed pointedly. I didn't want him to miss this. “Let's just say. . . new ownership.”

  He froze, and his hand disappeared into a drawer. Was he reaching for a gun? His eyes narrowed, glinting with evil. “Go on. I'm listening.”

  “I've come to gain employment. I can guarantee you won't regret it.”

  His eyes slithered over my body again, stroking his chin with the ha
nd not in the drawer. What was in there?

  This man was a loathsome reptile. Repulsive. My fingers itched to reach for one of my knives. I didn't need proof to know poison lurked in his veins. I’d take pleasure in ridding the world of him.

  Bazeer smiled a cold smile. “How did you find me? I don't just hire anyone, you know. What are your credentials?”

  With each word he spoke, I wanted to scream and launch myself across his desk and stab him till he told me where Thembi was. Swallowing my thoughts, I took a step closer. “I assure you, I’m qualified.” And don't pretend you aren't interested, you bastard, because you are. “I know you were business partners with Mr. Suaziki.” I used my trump card. My past of hunting malevolent assholes allowed me a wealth of information.

  Bazeer stiffened, but a new interest glimmered in his eyes.

  “I was a trusted member of his. . . staff,” I murmured, allowing Bazeer to draw his own conclusions. I killed Mr. Suaziki a few years ago for trafficking, raping, and killing women. I knew his sick tastes and had no qualms about using information to gain me access to Thembi. Thanks to my Google search on business associates of Bazeer’s, I saw how the two men were linked. “I've also worked extensively with young women who were sold as cures for certain ailments.”

  Bazeer froze again. Was that a good freeze or an I'm-going-to-kill-you freeze?

  I continued in a rush, “I know how to dress the girls, teach them how to act. I coach in the art of love and obedience. I make the purchaser believe in the fantasy he’s buying.” I wanted to scrape my mouth out. I spoke such filth.

  Bazeer didn't respond. Instead, he buzzed an intercom on his desk. “Sandy, please escort Miss—” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Ocean.” No harm in using my real name. He was no threat to me.

  “Miss Ocean to her new quarters, and organize a new wardrobe. I wish her to begin work immediately.”

  My heart sprinted in fear and sick anticipation. I'd done it. I was in bed with the devil.