by Nick Kelly
"How bout we schedule a little range time? Maybe we can go shootin' together?" He had no idea why he even suggested it. He was a notoriously bad shot, which had led to using the Stinger baton and some of the close-quarters fighting techniques. It had also led to his affinity for the sawed-off shotgun.
"I'm flattered that you have time, and that you offered. Yes."
Great," he said far too soon. "What's your schedule like? I can make some time, I'm sure."
Sure, Cat, right between the religious zealot, the forced physical therapy, the side jobs to pay for Will and his crew, getting a firmer handle on Delambre and Eva and tuning up the bike. There was a 25th hour in the day somewhere.
"How about Wednesday night? Say 8:00? Or is that a busy time for you?”
"If it was busy, it won't be." He grinned. She was amazing, and he was bumbling about low-budget handguns.
“I'll bring the weapon in its case, the ammo, the cleaning kit. Anything else?"
“Well, yeah, maybe one thing."
She looked at him eagerly. "What would that be?"
"You like motorcycles?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
24 July 2022
Every night for as long as he remembers, Leon wakes from the dream to the acrid reality that he cannot soar. He cannot walk. He cannot run. He prays to the god he’s read about but doesn’t believe in. He prays for death, any escape from the unresponsive body that has become his cell.
Morning comes. His prayers are once again unanswered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The scientist allowed himself to smile only the slightest bit. It was the first time in as far as he could remember. His latest creation was nearly perfect, though not as perfect as his angel. She is absolute perfection, the embodiment of all a slave should be. She is as she was designed to be, the pinnacle of excitement, the embodiment of loyalty.
His brain reflected on the geneticist, his counterpart, once his friend, the tall man with salt and pepper hair. He remembered learning so much from the man. He’d been the one to preach honor, trust, compassion, such bullshit. It was the technical expertise, the algorithms, RNA and DNA replication and relationships…conversion of man to machine, that the other valued. He provided testimony and tried to convert his counterpart, every time met with an obvious brush-off. Each memory became fuel for his internal fire. It increased the depth of the chasm between them.
He remembered it then, meeting her, the angel, his rival’s daughter. She was radiant, succulent, with olive skin and full lips. Her dark hair framed her face, and her eyes were deep and inviting. He remembered every detail of her. He could bathe in the memory of her, and her silent statement of wanting him from her first reflection.
He opened his eyes to look down, the same dark hair gripped tightly between his clenched fingers. He pulled and the beautiful brown eyes glanced up at him. She hummed an inquisition. She was unable to speak. Her mouth, the angel’s mouth, was full. Her lazy eyes pivoted up to meet his while she continued to service him…the pinnacle of excitement, the embodiment of loyalty.
He enjoyed the feel of her warm mouth surrounding his cock. She was perfection. His rival’s daughter, born again in a new form, on her knees, worshipping him. He closed his eyes, and the image in his mind shattered his focus. Yellow eyes burned through the angel’s eyes, the glowing eyes of the cat.
The realization ignited the venom within him once again, hatred for the Cat.
His fingers clenched tighter, and the angel responded with instinctual resistance. Soon, she succumbed, as she was designed to do. In response to her, his hips moved faster, harder. The scientist embraced it then, his hatred of the yellow-eyed, chaotic hitman. The hatred devoured him as a drowning victim. Hatred of it. Hatred of the man. Hatred of the Cat.
He decided then, that he would unleash the Angel on him, in time. For now, she was his. His hips increased in violence. His grip nearly frantic as he pulled on her hair. The angel enjoyed every aspect of it more. She savored him, the way he fucked her face, forced himself down her throat. The scientist shattered between ecstasy and fury as he reached orgasm. He achieved the ultimate pleasure and the pinnacle of hatred.
The angel received his pleasure with hunger as designed. It was one of her core desires. The master’s pleasure drove her existence. She accepted it willingly, a gift for all she had become in his vision. Her only other desire was blood, that of the liar, the one who the creator sought dead above all else.
The scientist finished, realizing that his eyes had rolled back into his head as if in a drugged stupor. He exhaled finally, his chest burning. When he released his grip, the angel licked her lips. His pleasure was hers. “You were quite determined, Master. I only hope I did not disappoint you.”
The scientist brushed her sweaty hair, removing it from her flushed face, “No, my Angel. You are, as you have always been, perfection. Soon, you will exist for me, with me, without interruption, without corruption, when those who would betray us burn in the flames of eternal wrath.”
“Go, my angel. Fly!”
Angelyka burst upward in a combination of ecstasy and pride, flush with the affection of her creator. Her exultant laughter echoed in the room as she ripped skyward, disappearing in a laser-sharp silhouette.
Relaxation should have been his. His heart rate should have ebbed downward, yet venom overpowered anything else he could think or feel. Despite physical satisfaction, he needed death to sate his desires. The geneticist and his bitch daughter could wait. For now, another had stepped in his path and delayed his coronation.
The Cat must die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Honda-Suzuki reacted with trained loyalty at his every command, gliding over the damaged road and between the scorched buildings of Downtown. The perfectly crafted machine was Catwalk's to direct, if only his head could stay as focused. The new stim treatments made his back as sore as any memory, but, in theory, they were more effective than drugs alone. Maybe there was a cure for his botched surgery after all.
He left behind the Shine gangers and the fires, moving southwest toward the more upscale part of town. The establishments here weren’t the armored fortresses of Beverly Hills, but Hotel Infinity wasn't in the slums either. He found open freeway for almost ten clicks before the lights grew in frequency again. He scowled, and the cycle seemed to echo his hatred of restraint. The engine cooled beneath him as the mechanical growl silenced in his chest. Like it or not, it was time to drop speed in favor of the caution flag.
The digital readout of coordinates chirped inside his helmet, and Cat arrived in the circular valet area in front of the monstrous, plush hotel. He whistled at the sight. The place was an absolute palace compared to his loft, and the dwellings of his usual clientele. The structure before him boasted more than a dozen individual architectural designs, each overlapping and attempting to control the next. He shook his head at the phenomenon. Hotel Infinity seemed to adapt with every second, shifting in the multi-colored lights that outlined its frame.
The place defied description, and probably logic. Cat patted the gas tank of the motorcycle, anchoring back to what he could feel and understand. He lifted his gaze back to the Hotel, and it seemed different than what he had just recalled. Security through obfuscation or evolution. Cat scoffed. He needed more rich folks on his client list. Too bad this visit was completely personal and not for hire. He could use the paycheck. Sometimes, financial reward wasn't the reward in mind. This was one of those times.
The H-S slid smoothly to a halt near a parked limo. The valet began to approach, but Cat shook his hand, waving the suited man away. "Touch it and it'll explode, Johnny Boy." The valet blinked wordlessly, catching the cred chip in his hand. Cat didn't even break stride, removing his helmet and unzipping his jacket before hitting the first step. He looked up at an expectant and overly courteous doorman.
"Greetings, Mr. Caliber,” he greeted in one of the deepest tones Cat had ever heard, "you are expected."
C
at paused, instinctively sizing up the behemoth who addressed him. He hadn't been prepared for the welcoming committee. "I'm expected, huh?"
"Madame DuPree is in the lounge, sir." He pointed the way.
"Hmmm…no dress code?"
“You are her guest." He continued, accenting his words with a practiced polite gesture.
Cat grinned broadly and tilted his head. "Well then..." He walked in, following the doorman's gesture. It was nice to be welcome anywhere, much less a place he'd kill to get into anyway.
He skimmed the room, saw the undeniable form of his hostess, but managed to keep pretending he was looking around. The yellow eyes gave him enough flexibility to hide it if he wanted to stare and not get caught. He thought she might have waved, but at this point, all he wanted was to derail her. The doorman had caught him by surprise, and he was bent on returning the favor.
On a hunch, Cat overacted the comm ringing and mimed answering it. From there, he launched into a loud and boisterous act of screaming at a phantom telemarketer trying to sell him health insurance. By the thirty-second mark, half of the lobby was staring.
He erupted into a stream of profanity, finally slamming the comm shut. Looking up to the crowd of staring eyes, he bowed with the flourish of a Thespian. Gasps of indignation peppered the lobby, and the murmuring began.
“Who was that man?”
“How rude.”
“What a jerk.”
As he stood up, he leveled his gaze to the auburn-haired goddess at the bar sipping Crème de Menthe. To her deepest embarrassment, he waved and stepped quickly in her direction. She was blushing. Good. She rose to meet him, gracing his cheek with a kiss.
“Good eve, Mr. Caliber,” she said in her low, throaty voice, "will you have a drink?" Her face was flushed, and the green in her eyes deepened.
"I would love to, but I better refrain at the moment." Cat raised his right hand in the air and mimed the motion for accelerating the cycle. “I may toss one down when it’s just my life at risk, but, well, never with a passenger.”
She didn't miss a beat. "Of course, you are my guest. Is there anything else I could get for you?" She set her own glass down and didn't reach for it again.
"A light?"
“My pleasure,” From somewhere in the depths of her cleavage she brought out a silver cigarette case and a slender lighter. "Please, allow me."
The cigarette was between his fingers by the time the flame ignited. He inhaled a few times and nodded thanks. "Bring yer piece?"
"My...oh! Yes," she glanced around and lowered her voice to near whisper. “Yes, I have it." There was a barely visible bulge in her leather jacket pocket. She nodded slightly toward the jacket. "I am looking forward to learning."
Cat blew smoke, literally and figuratively. "Awesome, but we have a problem."
She tilted her head. "What problem is that?"
He nodded his head toward the tinted windows. "See that ride out there? That's my custom Honda-Suzuki. I wrenched every part on that overpriced puppy myself."
She turned to have a look. "You have many talents, I see." Her eyes remained on the bike. "That’s our transportation then?"
“Oh, yeah, that's part a' the deal. Here's the problem though. Every component on that thing is yellow, black or chrome." He turned to face her with a stone face. "Red will clash. I'm gonna need you to take all your clothes off."
Delilah took a drag off of her own cigarette, watching him without a word. She studied him through dark lashes, as if she was considering his statement as fact. She feigned offense, allowing her cheeks to flush before she spoke.
“Mr. Caliber, I thought you a gentleman. I must have given you more credit than you deserve. I’m sorry that I wasted your time, and I hope you make it off of the Hotel grounds with all your limbs intact.” Delilah stood, turning her back on the hitman and motioning to an oversized cyborg at the far end of the lounge.
“Whoa,” Cat called, trying to stop her before turning the plush lobby into nothing more than a war zone. He waved a hand quickly. "I was kidding. I'm kidding!"
Delilah stopped, gazing over her shoulder at him. Her eyes glistened in the light. A smile crept across her lips. "Oh. Kidding. You may want to look around. The other reason you managed an exception to the hotel’s dress code is me. I think one good turn deserves another. Don’t you, Mr. Caliber?"
He'd overstepped his bounds by a long shot, but wasn't that always the case? Instead of antagonizing her, he took a drag from his cigarette. "Look, Delilah, as much as I'd love to see you without that outfit...never mind, that's not what I meant. I mean, it is, but..."
"Well, then, let’s assume you’ve already learned how to control your impulses before they become words. I’m going to pretend that’s a skill you’ve already mastered.” She smiled, the embodiment of cool. “Now, Mr. Caliber, if you don't mind, I'd like to have a look at that machine."
He mumbled. "Wow, suddenly a drink sounds like the right solution." He shook his head, embarrassed at his own conduct.
Delilah made a conciliatory gesture. She'd regained her composure and the upper hand.
"That doorman sure is a snappy dresser." The words felt desperate before he ever spoke.
Evenly, she said, "It's his job. What sort of drink do you prefer?"
He balked internally at the horrible shift in subject matter, but it was a desperate move. When she replied right in stride, he laughed. Taking a deep breath and finally exhaling, he replied, "I really just want to get you out on a ride with me. How's that for starters?"
Delilah’s smile was perfect. "It's a fine idea."
Cat stood up, chanting the mantra, "You're an ass" under his breath ad nauseum. "You ever worn a motorcycle helmet?"
She gathered up her jacket and began to slip one arm into it. "I wore one once during a photo shoot. If you’re asking me if I’ve ever ridden a motorcycle, I’m afraid the answer is similar. I’ve been on a motorcycle, just not one in motion."
"What idiot photographer would ever hide your priceless face?" He wanted to follow up with a qualifying comment like "I'm not a stalker, I swear" but pulled back from further embarrassment.
She looked at him sideways. "One hired to bring out the best in a motorcycle. It seems female models are preferred." There was a touch of the cynic in her tone. "I'd really have preferred an actual ride. But all they did was to polish it wherever my fingers touched."
"Madame Dupree, with you in the shoot, no one on this world or all the colonies would ever know there was a motorcycle in frame."
"You have quite a silver tongue." The flicker of a smile played on her lips. "Will you expect me to remove my prints from your motorcycle?"
“What? No, you can leave prints anywhere you want.”
She giggled slightly, the priceless smile crossing her lips in victory. "I'll wear gloves." She drew out a pair to show to him. "Are these appropriate?"
"You'll be holdin' on ta me instead of the bike, but yeah, I think those will work just fine." The thought of her nails against his skin crossed his mind, and he stopped to remind himself of where they were and what they had scheduled.
Her hands gripped into his sides as the H-S left the circular parking area in front of the Hotel Infinity. They crossed the parking lot in under ten seconds, hitting the ramp to the Interstate. He waited on purpose before clicking on the comm.
The H-S was purring along in third gear, somewhere near 100 kmph before Cat tapped the button opening the communication between the helmets. "How you doin', Red?"
"Fine,” she replied, about one octave higher than usual.
“Alright, we'll both be okay. There are a few simple rules if you...whoop, hold on." He leaned the bike hard left, crossing two lanes of traffic before returning to avoid a bus held together mostly with duct tape and prayer. One side of its bumper dragged limply behind it, sending sparks along the road. Cat figured he would move out of harm’s way before the bumper cut loose completely.
"As I was sayin',” he chirped w
ith the energy granted him behind the handlebars, "there are a few rules."
She held on to him tighter, leaning against the turn with a natural sense of balance. She was breathing hard. "What rules?"
"Three rules. One. Lean the same way I lean."
"Two. Don't put yer feet down without tellin’ me."
"Three. Don't cover my eyes or we're both organ donors!" He thought of a few more rules, but left them resounding happily within his skull.
She laughed at his last comment. "I'll behave, I promise."
“Alright. How are you for freeway time?"
"Faster? Oh yes!" She leaned forward, the length of her body pressing against him. Her booted feet were firmly planted on the rear pegs. "Ready when you are."
"Good ta hear. Hold tight...an' I mean tight." Cat gripped the rear brake hard, skidding the back tire around until the H-S was perpendicular with traffic. Delilah looked to their right. Pairs of headlights barreled down upon them from cars and trucks alike. She squeaked as she tugged on his jacket.
Cat said into the comm. "Let's see how this handles."
The rear tire erupted into smoke as he burned out before taking off. She clung to him as if her life depended on it, which it did. The acceleration of the custom monster paid off as they leapt off of the highway ramp. For what felt like forever, they were airborne, leaping off of I-10.
When they landed with a stretch of sparks and an indignant thump, they were smack in the middle of the northbound lanes of the 405. The lights behind them grew brighter, and the sound of horns circled them like a hurricane.
Cat ripped the motorcycle into a 0 to 60 sequence that shook them each to their dental work. By the time they each caught their breath, they were pushing 150 northbound on a completely different highway.
Finally, Cat checked in, "Wow, that was pretty crazy, even for me. How ya doin' back there?"