The scared executive nodded, his jowly cheeks fluttering as a piss stain started spreading over his crotch before fleeing into the night. The guard, a beefy guy wearing leather pants and a good amount of baby oil, was more composed, and started backing towards a spot on the wall. "Uh-uh, Gimp Boy," I said, pointing the Glock in my left hand at him. "You got two options. I can knock you the fuck out, or I can shoot you. Personally I don't care which."
The guard looked me in the eyes, and knew who I was. We were in a small alcove, with almost no chance of anyone hearing us. The rooms were very well soundproofed, after all. It helped with preventing complaints from the neighbors. "You promise I can live?"
"If you play it cool," I said. “I’ll tie you up if I knock you out though."
The guard nodded and thought it over for half a second before lowering his head and turning around. I brought the butt of my Glock down at the base of his skull, and he dropped like a two hundred pound sack of rice. Pulling a roll of electrical tape from my vest, I quickly taped his wrists behind his back, along with his ankles before connecting the two. He'd be uncomfortable when he woke up, but he wasn't going anywhere. Fifty meters of electrical tape can bind up just about anyone.
Heading down the hallway, I pulled my other Glock and kept it by my ear, all my senses open. There was a lot that those senses gave me that I didn't want, but would deal with later. The cries and whimpers coming from the closed doors, the crack of whips, the hum of power tools, and other things that I didn't even want to consider.
I couldn't even start busting heads as much as I wanted, because I knew that despite the illegality of some of the shit that went down at Mistress Blood's, over half of the subs were there by their own volition. Not that I could understand the appeal of paying someone to cut your back to shreds with a cat o' nine tails, but that didn't mean you needed to die because of it. I made my way down the hall towards the office, knowing what I'd find.
Mistress Blood, long before she had gotten into doing just hardcore BDSM, had been an amateur bodybuilder. In fact, it was in an attempt to make money for her bodybuilding career that she'd gotten first into BDSM, doing so-called 'sexy wrestling' videos and smothering men with her muscular thighs. She'd even done submission porn videos before turning her attention to running her own place. With the assistance of Illuysas Petrokias, she'd set up Mistress Blood's.
I found her in her office, wearing the leather and latex that I was sure she used for work. Incongruously, she also wore steel rimmed glasses while she looked over an account ledger when I opened the door. It was a strange look, dominatrix combined with school teacher, kind of.
"Did the Councilwoman come in early? If she did, tell her she needs to pay for last time," she said before she looked up, seeing that I wasn't her security guard. "You."
"Me," I replied. "I assume you know why I'm here."
"I suppose it's not to just ask if I've got a part time job open," Blood said, sitting back and tenting her fingers under her chin. I had to give her credit, she had more guts than the client I'd chased out of here.
"Not in the least," I said. "Although be thankful that I actually respect you enough to look you in the eye."
For the first time, I saw fear in Blood's eyes. "You're not giving me a chance?"
"After the dozen men and women I've seen carried out of here permanently disfigured? Tell me Blood, how much did they pay you for the chance to blind a teenage girl, or to literally castrate a man?"
"Quarter million each," Blood automatically replied. "Let's face it Snowman, you killed people for less. At least those people didn't die."
I nodded, my eyes still not flinching. "And I've lost sleep over each and every one of them. We could argue the morality of killing versus permanent maiming, but it doesn't really matter, Blood. You're going to become just another number."
Blood nodded and stood up, keeping her arms spread. She seemed calm, and I wondered what she was doing. "If you're going to, then do it," she said, kneeling down next to her desk. She looked like a supplicant, someone happy to receive what I was offering. "I've been looking forward to it."
I squinted, surprised. "What?"
"You think I got into this because I like it?" Blood asked me, a haunted smile on her face. "I got into it because it was the only thing I was good at. I got into it because every drop of blood I draw, every little whimper of pain I deliver is a balm on my soul."
I nodded in understanding. I had heard similar stories before, and should have ignored hers. But for some reason, I had to know. "How old were you, Blood?"
"She was seven," Blood replied. "Carla was her name, and she was sold by her mother to pay off a drug debt. There were three of them, and the whole time she cried, tears mixing with the blood as she was torn open on both sides. By the time the third one was in her, Carla died. I was born, and it was I who killed my mother when I was eleven. Every weight I lifted, every pound of muscle I packed on was to make sure that nobody would ever hurt me again. When the money came in to let me hurt back, it was all too easy."
I was tempted to let her go, really. Her story was definitely believable, and jived with what I knew about her. She'd been a street kid before getting into the weights, and I knew that she had a deep distrust of people, men in particular. But then I remembered something. "I'd believe you if it wasn't for all the girls that came through here, some not much younger than you were when your innocence was taken, Carla. How many of their lives did you ruin, how much innocence of theirs did you exchange for money? You want to comfort yourself with thoughts of revenge? You didn't get revenge. You became your own mother, Carla."
The words struck deep inside Blood, who surged to her feet, anger and hatred in her eyes. She sprang at me, and I pulled the trigger of my Glock, hitting her in chest. She collapsed to the floor, clutching at the wound, her eyes in agony. "Please...." she gasped, looking me in the face. "Please."
I nodded. "I'm sorry, Carla."
I pulled the trigger again.
Chapter 3
Tabby
I woke up at about three in the morning, somewhat surprised. Normally when Mark went out on patrol, and given the way he and Sophie were making eyes at each other, I thought I'd be woken up to the normal sounds of them making love, especially as Sophie's pregnancy hormones put her sex drive into hyper-speed. Despite her claims of being demure and restrained, there was something about Mark that turned my friend into a very vocal lover. Our unique living situation gave them a full section of the main house to themselves and me often sleeping in the supposedly sound-proofed living room (those bean bag chairs are actually awesomely comfortable), but I could hear them at least once or twice a week. If it wasn't that I loved them both so much, I'd have been upset.
Instead, that night I woke up to absolute silence. I'd planned on sleeping on the bean bag chair, so I stretched, enjoying the rustle of the stuffing under my head. The bags aren't filled with normal foam beads but something else, so they never go flat and dumpy on you. Another one of the effects is that the rustling of the padding inside is quite nice, with none of that plasticky squeal that cheap bags give you. It was somewhere in between leaves rustling and sand scrunching under your toes when you walk on a wet beach. The magic of science, indeed.
Getting off the bag, I wrapped the light blanket I was using around me to ward off the chill of the evening and walked into the hallway. The layout of Mount Zion was rather strange to say the least, considering it had for years been a church and rectory. The main living area connected to what had been the main sanctuary through my bedroom, which had been the room that housed the choir things as well as the pipe organ. Mark and Sophie used what had been the rector's living room, while the office was in between, and had been converted into our own living room. The kitchen, laundry room, and other things were scattered off of our living room, and considering how rich Mark is, were most likely undersized compared to others in his tax bracket. It didn't matter to us though, and we enjoyed the whole setup.
&n
bsp; The sanctuary itself had been converted into our own gym, and was very nice for what three people could use. Behind it, near the front door of the sanctuary, was the entry way which led to the bell tower. The bell tower was used by Mark and Sophie as a base of operations for his vigilante work.
Coming out into the hallway, I headed towards the kitchen area, expecting at any moment to be warned away by a giggle or repressed moan. Instead, I was shocked to find Sophie in bed, snoring lightly while the other half of the bed was empty. Checking the clock, I was shocked to find that Mark wasn't in bed with her.
Heading back towards my room, I heard a muffled sound coming from the gym. Sticking my head in the door, I saw Mark kneeling over one of his practice bags for martial arts, blasting it with rapid fire punches. I could see, even in the dim lights of the moon filtering through the windows (Mark had replaced the original broken stained glass with triple paned clear panels) the dark shine of blood against the blue of the bag and the pale of his knuckles.
"What's going on?" I asked, coming closer. It was then I knew how upset he was, because one of Mark's traits is an almost inhuman sensitivity to everything around him. Details that you wouldn't even believe he would note and react to, giving him an air of super freaky precognition or something. This time though, Mark didn't hear me, so I waited until there was a pause in his self mutilation before repeating myself. "Mark, what's going on?"
His head jerked up, and I could see that not all of the moisture on his face was due to sweat. Tears were coursing down his face, and the look he gave me was so full of agony that my own heart threatened to break. Instead of answering, he stopped his punching, and wiped at his eyes. "Nothing," he said finally, while I watched blood ooze from his knuckles and trickle down his hand, "just a hard patrol."
I went over to the wall, where there were some hand-held foam shields that we used sometimes, and grabbed one, bringing it over and sitting down. Even in summer, the mats we used were cold at night, and I was wearing thin silk pajamas. "You know you're full of shit," I said softly, "and Sophie's going to tell you the same thing when she sees your knuckles in the morning."
Mark couldn't reply, so I wrapped my blanket around me and looked at him evenly. "Tell me about it."
He shook his head, his hair tossing from side to side. He'd grown it out as part of his disguise as Matt Bylur, and it looked good on him. The chestnut brown mane was regal on him, and I know Sophie enjoyed it. She'd told me so herself. "There's some things that you don't need to be burdened with," he replied to my question, "some dark corners that you don't need to look into."
I nodded, not arguing. There were some things that Mark had done, that he knew about, so dark that I couldn't disagree with his statement. He'd once told me during a lighter moment when I'd pressed him about his past, that he had his own little timeshare in hell all laid out for him when he passed on.
Perhaps that was the difference between me and Sophie. She’d be willing to go to those places with him, maybe all the way to hell itself. I guess I would too, if Sophie asked me to. For Mark however, no. I loved him as a brother, and as Sophie's husband, but not that much. Instead, I offered what comfort I could. "It must have been very bad, for you to send Sophie to bed alone."
"It was," he replied, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. For the first time, he winced and noticed the damage to his hands. "Shit. Think you can help me with the peroxide?"
In the gym we kept a small medical kit, not much really, just some Band-Aids, cotton balls, and a large bottle of hydrogen peroxide. It was useful with the training that Mark and Sophie did, where small cuts were common. Holding his hand over the tiny bar style sink he'd had installed, I poured the liquid. We watched silently as it bubbled and fizzed angrily, like it was upset with him for causing such damage to his body as well. "You sure this is all you need?"
"I'll wrap them in gauze before I go to bed, keep the sheets clean," Mark replied. He looked at the ruined pulpy mass that was his knuckles and sighed. "I wish it didn't have to be this way."
"I know," I said. "I wish there was a way I could help you more."
"You do a lot," Mark said with a rueful smirk. "You free up my time to do what I really need to do, and you help by being the public face. Although Sophie and I both wish we could have been there when you took down Traylor yesterday."
He had a point there. For all of Mark's direct action, my role did some good as well. "It was quite satisfying. You sure you don't want to tag along for the press conference tomorrow? You could be my driver, my maintenance man and my personal chef."
"There are a lot of roles I fill, but no thanks. I think tomorrow will be all about Sophie and I. Maybe after a night's sleep and some thinking, making love with my wife won't feel so damn dirty."
I patted him on the shoulder. "I don't know all the details of what you guys do, but I can tell you one thing from looking at my best friend's face. Nothing you two do can ever be considered dirty. If anything, you guys elevate the whole idea. Now go get some sleep."
Maybe Mark drew strength from my words. Maybe he was just tired and the punches had let him drain the worst of the poison from his soul. I didn't know. But some of the pained look was gone from his face, and he was even able to muster a ghost of a smile. "You too. Unless you plan on sucking down a gallon of yerba mate with your breakfast."
* * *
Mark's prediction of me being sleepy was dead on, even after he had made me a super strong green tea protein smoothie before he went to bed, chilling in the fridge for me in the morning with a note attached. "Thanks. Sorry there's no hot breakfast, but if you want, there are Pop Tarts in the cupboard."
Eight hours later, I was running on fumes standing outside the first of the community centers that MJT was opening. Rubbing my eyes, I smiled wanly at the General Manager of the Spartans, who along with three of his players, were dressed in jerseys. He smiled back with an understanding expression. "You doing all right, Miss Williams?"
I nodded, shrugging. "Long night, you know how it is. I'm sure your head coach feels the same way the week of a hard game."
"Why do you think he's not here?" the GM said with a chuckle. "He's getting an hour of sleep before the team starts film and practice this afternoon. Man spends five months a year running on three hours of sleep a night. I'm surprised he doesn't have a mental episode once a season."
I was surprised when another car pulled up, and City Councilman Patrick McCaffery got out. On the job just a few weeks, after the shakeup in city politics that had been caused by the downfall of Owen Lynch, Pat McCaffery was a bit of an enigma. Charismatic, he easily won his recall election, which by itself wasn't a problem. The problem, at least the one that concerned Mark and I, was that his district included The Playground and other high crime, corrupt areas. In the past twenty years, nobody had won an election from that district without criminal backing.
Stepping out of the car, he was dressed for the occasion, wearing a Spartans t-shirt along with blue jeans and holding a Spartans jacket. "Sorry for the late arrival," he said, shaking hands with the General Manager. "How are you doing, Gene?"
"Not bad, Patrick," he said with a smile. "Tabitha Williams, I'd like to introduce you to Patrick McCaffery. I know he's got a new job, but I'll always think of Patrick as the kid I had to throw out of the stadium on nearly a weekly basis back when I was head of security at the old Municipal Stadium."
"Oh?" I asked, smiling. "Were you a bit of a rule breaker back in the day?"
McCaffery laughed and held out his hand. "I break rules nowadays too, Miss Williams. But I’ve tried to at least reform the reasons I break them. I used to just want to get in for autographs and maybe snag a bit of free swag from the laundry room. Now, I'm trying to make the city better."
"I remember, I saw your posters around the city," I said, smiling professionally. Up close, I had to admit that Patrick McCaffery was pretty cute. A little over six feet, he was bigger than Mark by about twenty or thirty pounds, I'd say coming in at a so
lid looking two hundred and ten pounds or so. With black hair and green eyes, he was definitely handsome. Thinking back to my comment the day before about cloning Mark with black hair, I could do worse. "I seem to also remember the local news loving your speeches."
"Not so much the news as one particular editor at NBC," he replied with a cocky grin. He knew he was handsome, and wasn't shy about acknowledging it. "She sort of has a thing for me."
"Along with half the cheerleaders," the General Manager joked. One of his players, the starting linebacker who had gotten All-Pro awards the year before, came over after wrapping up a news interview and whispered in his ear. "Sorry, the press wants a comment from me before the ceremony begins. Just a moment."
With me and McCaffery left alone, I was able to take a closer look at him, and realized why he was carrying a Spartans jacket. His right arm was covered in tattoos, some of them ones I recognized from the training that Mark had given me. "Interesting ink, Councilman," I said. "Where'd you pick all that up?"
McCaffery pulled his jacket on quickly and shook his head. "A reminder of a lot of stupid decisions when I was a teenager," he said. "I keep them to remind myself of not making those same mistakes. Still, not exactly the sort of stuff you sport during a City Council meeting."
"I can see that. So how'd you turn things around? You're not much older than I am, right? Those bad decisions couldn't have been all that long ago," I asked, thinking. "Not that I don't have some bad decisions in my past too."
"We all do, Miss Williams," McCaffery replied. "I don't have time to go into it now though, but if you really want to know, maybe we can get together at either my office or yours? MJT has been doing some amazing community outreach work, and I'd like to talk about ways we could maybe work together and maximize our efforts?"
"I don't know. I just had a meeting with Bishop Traylor that started the same way."
Ambition: A Dark Billionaire Romance (Driven Book 1) Page 3