Kim Oh 2: Real Dangerous Job (The Kim Oh Thrillers)

by K. W. Jeter

  The Kim Oh Thrillers:

  Kim Oh 1: Real Dangerous Girl

  Kim Oh 2: Real Dangerous Job

  Kim Oh 3: Real Dangerous People

  . . . and more to come.

  Praise for the Kim Oh Thrillers –

  “Real Dangerous Girl grabs you from the first sentence and leaves you wanting more about this wonderful character. Thankfully Kim Oh is giving all of us more . . .”

  – Dean Wesley Smith, USA Today Bestselling author

  “Kim Oh hardly seems dangerous – a one-hundred-pound orphan, barely out of her teens, caregiver for her disabled brother – but the people who assume she won’t fight back when they get in her way learn a tough lesson in survival. And some of them don’t survive. Real Dangerous Girl is smart, funny, and cool . . . Kimmie Oh is a heroine to identify with, and to root for.”

  – Louise Marley, author of The Brahms Deception and Mozart’s Blood

  “With Kim Oh, we’re treated to a refreshingly original experience: joyriding shotgun alongside a truly irresistible heroine in a world of crime, thrills and mayhem.”

  – David Sakmyster, author of Crescent Lake and The Pharos Objective

  “With nods to Mack Bolan, Jonathan Quinn, and Mike Hammer, Kim Oh takes you on a non-stop thrill ride to Hell with no guarantees she’ll ever get back. How far would you go if your life – and the lives of those you love – were at stake?”

  – Nathan Lowell, author of Half Share and Full Share (Solar Clipper Trader Tales)

  “Kim Oh’s Real Dangerous Girl should come with a warning label – may cause addiction. It’s fast and fun, and I devoured it like a tub of kettlecorn. More, please.”

  – Sean Ellis, author of Dark Trinity: Ascendant

  Copyright © 2011 by the Author.

  This ebook edition first published October 2011.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including digital reproduction, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the express written permission of the

  Author & Copyright Holder.

  Please visit the author’s website at

  Real Dangerous Girl.

  A message from Kim Oh:

  This is the second of my thriller novels. It’s a complete novel, but you might enjoy it even more if you start with my first thriller Real Dangerous Girl. Thanks!

  Kim

  PART ONE

  You should never regret killing people. The day will come when you’ll look around and see how many jerks are left in the world – and you’ll wish you’d done more.

  – Cole’s Book of Wisdom

  ONE

  “Here’s the deal,” she said. “Give up any notions you might’ve had about getting some action.”

  “Action?” I stared back at her. “Exactly what do you mean by action?”

  “You know.” Monica was in the process of putting on her exotic-dancer makeup. “With the opposite sex. Like having a boyfriend. Or just getting laid. As of now, you don’t have those options.”

  “Oh. That action.”

  Other kinds of action, I’d had already. Like killing someone. And if I were lucky – if everything went well – there’d be more of that kind. That was the job I’d put in for. And so far, I’d had a reasonable amount of success at it, inasmuch as somebody else had died instead of me. And it wasn’t just luck, you know. I’d put in the hours.

  Which made what I’d just been told seem a little unfair, as it started to sink in.

  “Wait a minute.” I watched her putting on eyelashes so big you could’ve parked a car on them. Are guys really fooled by those, or do they just appreciate the effort? “You mean . . . like nothing? Complete nada?”

  “You got it.”

  “Well . . . that sucks.”

  “What does it matter to you, anyway?” She glanced over with that sort of insufferable expression that really hot women get when they’re looking at the rest of us. Especially the tall ones like her. “It’s not like you were getting any before.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” I didn’t, but I could have pointed out to her that in the place called Before, I had been a nerdy little accountant girl, scurrying like a tiny brown mouse from my crappy job to the crappy apartment I shared with my younger brother. Hair skinned back in a rubber-banded ponytail, cheap white polyester blouses, knee-length skirts that you could’ve recycled as horse blankets if you could’ve found any horses that unstylish. Timid little thing; no wonder I hadn’t been getting any.

  Of course, now I had the sleek confidence that comes with carrying around a loaded .357 in my backpack. Knowing that if anybody gave me any shit, I could – if I wanted to – blow a hole in them big enough to ride my motorcycle through. I’d already figured out that there were at least some guys, a few of them even presentable, who found that sort of thing interesting. And now I wasn’t going to be able to capitalize on these developments, at least when it came to the sex thing? This struck me like having a couple million dollars in the bank, and being told that you couldn’t spend any of it. What was the point?

  “Don’t get cranked up about it.” Monica started putting away her makeup kit. “You didn’t even want it before.”

  “Correction.” Arms folded, I leaned back against the doorway of the warehouse’s minuscule bathroom. “It’s not that I didn’t want it. I just didn’t think I could have it. There’s a difference.”

  “Kim –” She turned her cold, level gaze at me. “If you’d wanted it, you would’ve gone after it. Like the whole thing about going around killing people. For that, you’ve shown some interest.” She patted me on the arm as she squeezed past. “Follow your dreams, sweetheart – it’s the only way to get ahead.”

  Getting personal advice from an aging stripper, with a homicidal sociopath for a boyfriend, was an indication that Now wasn’t exactly perfect, even if it was an improvement over Before.

  “Is this something you came up with on your own?” I followed her out. “About me not getting any, as you put it, action? This your idea?”

  “Hardly.” She picked up her purse, then nodded toward the figure lying on the mattress on the floor, chain-smoking and watching a little portable TV set on a wobbly wooden chair. “It’s his.”

  I looked over at Cole. He didn’t gave any indication that he’d even heard us talking. The Cartoon Channel had his full attention for the moment. With the overflowing ashtray set on top of the blanket that covered his useless legs, he sat with his back leaned against the wall behind him. With the TV remote and his cigarette pack and lighter, plus his own ugly black .357 arranged beside him, he was pretty well set up.

  “He told you to tell me this?”

  “Yeah –” She gave a nod. “He thought you’d take it better, if it came from another woman.”

  It was like being in a commercial for feminine hygiene products. Or maybe this was how women actually talked – I wouldn’t know.

  “Take it easy, baby.” Monica leaned over and kissed Cole on top of his head. “I’ll be home late.” Then she was gone, heading out of the warehouse.

  “Hey.” With the toe of my boot, I gave Cole a kick in the ribs. Our student-teacher relationship had developed to the point where I could do something like that without him picking up his .357 and drilling me between the eyes. “What’s this about my not getting any?”

  “Just trying to help you out.” Cole picked up the bowl of cornflakes that Monica had made for him, fished out the cigarette butt he’d accidentally dropped into it, then ate a couple spoonfuls. “It’s something that comes with the terri
tory.”

  “Really? It never did for you.” I was aware that he had cut a pretty wide swath with the ladies – ladies like Monica, that is – back when he had been fully functional and able to get around on his own. “You seemed to get all you wanted.”

  “That’s because I’m a guy.” He set the bowl down. “It’s different for guys.”

  Not exactly news to me.

  “You see –” Cole continued his lecture. “Chicks dig what I do for a living.”

  Used to do, but I wasn’t going to point that out to him. I’d already figured out that there was only so much you could needle the guy about, before he actually would pick up his .357 and let you have it.

  “Does something to their heads.” He tapped the side of his own with his forefinger. “And when somebody like me nails a lot of ’em, it makes it even worse. I’d walk into a room full of women, I could hear their brains shutting off and the hormones rising.”

  This was the sort of thing I had to hear from him on a daily basis. The fact that he was probably right didn’t make it any more enjoyable.

  “So if, say, I was on some kind of a job – like I used to do – and it involved blowing away a female target, then the job would be easier. Because of the hormones thing. Defenses are down, so to speak. You’re in, you’re out. So to speak.”

  “Sure,” I said. “That’d be how you’d describe it, all right.”

  “But it’s harder for you. Guys don’t react the same way.”

  “I thought you all got off about girls having guns. Gets you excited. You see it on TV all the time.”

  “That’s why you should watch cartoons.” Cole pointed to the portable set on the chair. “They’re more realistic. But here’s the scoop, Kim. Yeah, guys’ll get interested because you’re all dangerous and stuff – but that’ll just shut off half their brains. When they pick up the wavelength that you’re not spreading it around, like the rest of the women they know, then the other half of their brains shuts down. Then you blow them away.”

  That made sense, actually. I just couldn’t tell if it was fortunately or unfortunately for me.

  “Seems a little unfair.”

  Cole shrugged. “So file a complaint with the feds. Like I said, I’m just trying to help you out here.”

  Even if I could’ve, I figured I wouldn’t bother. I bent down, picked up the bowl, and ate a couple milk-soggy bites with the same spoon he’d been using. However bad these conditions were, they beat what it’d been like when we’d both been working for that sonuvabitch McIntyre.

  Who was the reason why I was here at all. That was the big job, the guy that Cole and I were getting ready to kill.

  TWO

  After dinner, my brother Donnie and I watched some television. Not those stupid cartoons, though. There was a limit to how much of Cole’s advice I was going to take.

  “Logano’s having a rotten season.” Donnie pointed to the screen. “If it weren’t for bad luck, he wouldn’t be having any luck at all.”

  “I’ve heard that one before.” Inside my own head, actually. It had pretty much been the story of my life. Right up until I started learning how to kill people. Who says things never get better?

  We were both sitting next to each other on the saggy couch that’d come with our crummy little apartment. I’d helped him out of his wheelchair so we could watch the Speed Channel’s NASCAR wrap-up show.

  “No, he really is,” said Donnie. There was some tall beanpole on the TV screen, not bad-looking, in one of those racing fire suits with sponsor endorsements all over them – the kid didn’t look any older than I did. “It’s having serious consequences for my Fantasy League. I’m getting hammered in the standings.”

  I knew that was one of the things my kid brother spent a lot of time on, with the laptop computer we kept back in the bedroom. There had been one week, a while back, when he’d made more money on side bets than I had at the stupid accounting job I used to have. Not this season, though.

  “You should’ve gone with Harvick,” I pointed out. “You hate Harvick.”

  “Why would I do that? Pick him, I mean.”

  “Like I said. You hate him.” There had been a time when I hadn’t even known any of these NASCAR drivers’ names. If there were any other Korean-American girls who did know them, I’d be surprised – we don’t seem to form very much of the fan base. “That way,” I explained to Donnie, “if Harvick wins, you’re happy because it helps you out with your Fantasy League. And if he loses, you’re even happier.”

  “Huh.” This wasn’t the sort of thing that would’ve naturally occurred to Donnie – he’s a much nicer person than I’d ever been, even before I started killing people – but I could tell that he was mulling it over. “But . . . you can only pick a driver so many times. According to the rules.”

  Something else I wouldn’t have known about. Which was in general the case with this whole NASCAR trip that my little brother had gotten into. He’d tried explaining it all to me and it just hadn’t penetrated. Maybe it was the Korean in me coming out, but I didn’t understand it at all. I’d picked up that the people who ran the sport had some kind of so-called diversity program going on, to get more – or any – African-American and Hispanic drivers racing around the tracks. I supposed that was a good thing, even though it didn’t seem any big concern to me that the drivers they already had were pretty heavily weighted toward the good ol’ boy, cracker side. Seemed fair, actually – I mean, how many of those guys had a shot at getting into the NBA? But I’d noticed that there didn’t exactly seem any big push on to get some Asian-American drivers putting the pedal to the metal. Maybe because the NASCAR officials had already figured out that the chances of finding a Chinese, Japanese, or Korean kid whose parents would allow him to go flying around an oval at a couple hundred miles an hour, plus maybe hitting the wall and blowing up into flaming shrapnel, were somewhere between slim and none. Better to just keep on hitting the books and get into MIT.

  So maybe Donnie and I were letting down the side or something, genetically speaking, by watching the NASCAR races on the weekends when the season was on. But it gave us something to do for ten months a year. Curled up on the couch in our pajamas, with bowls of milk and those cheap imitation Cheerios that were a dollar less a box than the real thing. There was always a certain hypnotic fascination to watching the race cars go round and round, even though I didn’t have much of an idea of what was going on, at least not until the last three or four laps. Donnie tried to fill me in, and I’d listen attentively – and still be just about clueless. I was mainly glad that he liked it so much.

  What I liked were the commentators, up in the booth at the race tracks. They seemed pretty funny. And sometimes they said things that stuck with me. Or that I didn’t even know had gotten lodged inside my head, until something jarred one loose and it came floating to the surface of my thoughts, like the strip of paper from inside a fortune cookie, that’d gotten dropped into a cup of tea.

  Like right now. I leaned my head back against the couch’s musty-smelling upholstery. I was tired. Cole had kept me at shooting practice for hours, blasting away at actual targets hung up inside the warehouse instead of just trying to hit the wall, the way I’d started out. My arms ached and my ears were still ringing, despite the plugs I’d stuffed in them. When you’re a hundred-something pounds like I am, firing off a gun that big, over and over – it’s work. Plus, there was everything else to think about. That I should’ve been thinking about, if I still weren’t too scared to.

  The time was coming – and soon – when I wouldn’t be firing at paper targets. I’d be raising the gun in my hands and squeezing the trigger and firing at something real. Someone, actually. That was the point that I’d just about reached. I still wasn’t sure what it meant.

  Something drifted through my head, that I’d heard one of the NASCAR commentators say on TV, a friendly-looking, round-faced guy named Larry McReynolds. I remembered his name because Donnie had given me a whole lecture
about how many races the guy had won when he’d been a crew chief – a lot of them. I’d been watching with the empty cereal bowl on my lap and there had been a whole bunch of drivers spinning out in Turn 4 at some place called Loudon. And McReynolds had said one of those things that just stick.

  If you don’t step over the edge, you’ll never know where the edge is.

  It hadn’t meant anything when I heard him say it. Why should it? Little Nerd Accountant Girl didn’t need to know where the edge is, because she was never going to go near it. I was just going to keep my head down in my spreadsheets and ledger books, crunching one row of numbers after another. And whatever happened, it would be nice and safe. I wasn’t going to be slamming into the wall at 200 mph any time soon and bursting into flames . . .

  I wasn’t at that place anymore. I was someplace else now. And if the edge wasn’t at my feet right at the moment, it was in sight and getting closer. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about it.

  I woke up some time later. Donnie was still asleep, his head leaning against my shoulder. The NASCAR coverage was over – on the TV, those weird-looking European sports cars were zipping around some road course instead. I rubbed my stiff-feeling face with my hands. I didn’t know how many hours had gone by, but I knew it was late. The way I could tell without looking at the cheap plastic Casio under the cuff of my motorcycle jacket, when I’d be cruising out of the warehouse district on my little Ninja sportbike, and the city streets would be all empty and dark.

  I shifted my weight so I could stand up from the couch without waking my little brother. I didn’t try loading him back into the wheelchair. He’d grown so much that it didn’t really fit him anymore. I was going to have to get him a new one soon, and I didn’t know where I was going to find the money for it. But he really needed it. Technically, he was already taller than I was – we’d checked that by lying next to each other on the apartment floor, with our bare feet flat on the wall, a process which had given us both a fit of the giggles.