Dead4u

by H E Johnson

  Blink? I shut my eyes and let all the bad shit slide. Felt my cunt melt into goo. Hey if I had to be a total bitch why not enjoy this slay-ride to Hell? I thought of Epstein’s cold cum sizzling on Sweet’s hot tongue. My clit tingled at the delicious perversity of it.

  Fuck to go! Fuck to go! Ha-ha!

  ◆◆◆

  Après sex, I dressed in black cotton sweats and went down to McCord’s basement gym for another bout with free weights. Sweet spotted me on the bench press and squat rack. I grunted and cursed a lot. Later we went upstairs and sat in the kitchen drinking mineral water. Neither of us spoke for a long time. Then:

  “You need to keep up your roadwork,” Sweet said, breaking the silence.

  I groaned. Those final reps of power cleans had been brutal. Power cleans involve lifting a barbell from floor to chin height in a single fluid move. It’s like doing an Olympic style clean-and-jerk, minus the jerk. According to Wolseley, it was the single best exercise for building explosive power and an absolute must for wielding heavy weaponry about.

  “Tomorrow morning,” I pleaded. “I don’t think I can walk.”

  “Agreed,” said Sweet. “You need to run. Fast.”

  So I did. Reluctantly. It was raining, not hard but hard enough to make things miserable. Sweet trailed behind me in the Jeep as I slogged through the wet streets. I hadn’t asked him to tag along, but Sweet had insisted.

  “In case whoever sent this Helga bitch decides to try again,” he’d explained. “No point taking chances right?”

  Great. Now I had SpecOps AND Sweet’s crew watching my every move.

  Running helped. Despite the initial reluctance to get off my ass, it had an oddly soothing effect. Maybe, after the job was done, I’d try doing it on a regular basis.

  I’d slowed down to a walk when Sweet pulled alongside me.

  “Care for a lift home?” he inquired.

  Was there a choice? Saying no would make him suspect I planned to bolt for parts unknown. So I got into the Jeep and rode back to McCord’s place in silence.

  At home I wanted nothing more than to vedge on the couch with a movie and ice cream.

  But Sweet said no. Taking me by the hand he led me to the bedroom where he ordered me to strip and lie face down.

  Griffin broke into my head.

  “This guy’s insatiable,” he said. “Want me to tune out? Damn it, Nikita. Tell him you’re exhausted.”

  “I’m exhausted,” I informed Sweet. “Can we do this later tonight? After I’ve had some rest?”

  Sweet chuckled.

  “No worries,” he said. “I’m here to look after the talent. And that means you, baby.”

  With that he began massaging the soles of my feet. It felt heavenly. As those capable hands moved up my legs and over my back I felt an incredible sensation of lightness. Then he went to work on neck and shoulders. It was all I could do not to weep.

  Later we showered together. I put on a T-shirt and panties. Padding around barefoot, I made beef-and-broccoli stir-fry that we ate in front of the TV. We watched an action thriller with lots of car chases and shootouts. Halfway through I conked out.

  TMI Friday

  And woke screaming into Friday. Sweet cradled me in his arms. My neck rested in the crook of an elbow, pillowed by a meaty bicep. Everything’s all right, he kept saying, you had a bad dream, that’s all. The irony of this pronouncement didn’t seem to bother him. When I finally calmed my shit down:

  “Never heard you hollering like that before,” he said bluntly. “Must’ve been pretty bad, huh?”

  I shrugged. It was gone now, whatever it was. I told him so but the look in his eyes said he didn’t believe me.

  We were in bed but I was still dressed in last night’s clothing. Meaning Sweet had carried me to bed after I’d fallen asleep on the couch. The gesture felt oddly touching for a gangster.

  My gut said Sweet couldn’t be trusted. But damn it felt nice being protected. When a woman’s larger-than-life, most guys can’t deal. Being with someone who’s strong enough to handle your shit? That’s enough to make a smart woman question her instincts.

  He asked if I wanted anything.

  “A glass of water,” I said.

  He left for the kitchen. I looked at my phone. It was 3:15 a.m. Friday morning and another nightmare. But don’t worry, right? So what if your mind’s been forcibly imprinted onto a stranger’s brain? Everything will be all right. It’s just a bad dream.

  Ha-ha.

  ◆◆◆

  As I waited for Sweet to return, Wolseley coughed into my head. “Got an update for you. Missing Persons reported another couple snatched. Separately it seems. Shaun and Emily Wexford. Only one witness so far. And he won’t be talking unless we can find a competent medium.”

  Shaun and Emily. I pictured two fresh-faced innocents caught in DEAD4U’s lethal net. Come high noon Sunday they’d be getting their brains bashed in courtesy of Madam Crunch. No more weekend getaways, candlelit dinners or book club meetings for the Wexfords.

  When I didn’t answer Wolseley coughed again. “Copy, Nikita?”

  “Copy.”

  “Time’s running out fast, Detective. Better get snoopy.”

  “Copy and go fuck yourself.”

  “Two-handed or solo?”

  I was pondering my arsenal of expletives when Sweet returned bearing water. I grimaced a smile of sorts, took the glass and sipped. It was mineral water. That brought back memories of the safe house and my reincarnation as NC 2.0. I suppose my face betrayed some of it coz Sweet took the glass away and gave me a hug.

  Great. You know you’re pathetic when a lowlife feels sorry for you. Still it was nice being in his arms. And quickly morphed into something else when Sweet pushed my shoulders down and used his big thighs to spread mine wide. Although I wasn’t horny, the distraction was a relief. In fact watching him get excited about fucking me felt better than the actual sex.

  Then in my head Wolseley began grunting in time with Sweet’s groans. Had he forgotten to kill the mic? Okay. This was officially weird. I was getting mindfucked and boned in stereo. And how’s a woman supposed to cum with all that going on, eh?

  So I didn’t. Sweet did though. Seconds later Wolseley gave a squeal. And that was that.

  I didn’t bother faking it. Thankfully Sweet didn’t seem to mind. Which was nice. Dealing with male insecurity makes it hard to enjoy the aftermath of an otherwise pleasant screwing.

  I turned on my side to sleep. Sweet looped an arm over me and we lay like that for a while. He started snoring but I couldn’t sleep. I looked out the window and wondered how much of Nikita Chen survived that digital transfer. Could a living thing be reduced to binary code?

  When the sun slid around the edges of the window’s curtains, Sweet woke up and led me by the hand into the bathroom where we showered together. He washed me and rubbed my skin with a loofah. Patting me dry, he spanked me playfully on the rump.

  Like a horse I thought. And why not? After all, I’d given a decent ride. Hopefully the payoff wouldn’t be a bullet in the head.

  The Opposition

  After breakfast Sweet told me to get dressed. I knew better than to ask why. I found fresh underwear, then pulled on ripped black denim shorts and a red T-shirt with FTW printed on the front. Combat boots finished the look. Fuck The World seemed about right. Sweet rolled his eyes at the T-shirt. We took McCord’s Jeep. Sweet asked me to drive.

  “We going to the zoo today?” I asked.

  “You wanted to know what goes on behind the scenes.” Sweet yawned. “So I’m going to fill you in. How does that sound?”

  “Great!” Novak was in my head now. “You’re doing fine, Nikita. Keep him talking.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I told Sweet. “Where are we at so far?”

  “Contestants one and two are in the house. The guy’s your typical asshole lawyer. Married to another lawyer, of course.” Sweet snorted. “He’s young. Got some moves. Taekwondo, I think they said. De
finitely knows his way around a staff. Might be the boy’s picked up some sword shit.”

  I glanced at Sweet. “And?”

  “Grab team pulled rich asshole’s wife from the ladies’ room at their country club. Lady lawyer was counselling the golf pro in a toilet stall. Can you believe it? What a cliché!” Snickering, he added, “By the way, wifey nearly killed one of the grab team. That woman is seriously hardcore.” Sweet shook his head. “Better fighter than her husband anyhow. Grab team had to stun-gun her.”

  “Taekwondo?”

  Sweet grunted. “Nah. She’s into baguazhang. You’ve heard of it, right? I checked out one of her online demos. Had to admit, it looked pretty cool.”

  My gut clenched. Baguazhang was, without doubt, the most difficult of martial arts to master due to a lack of qualified teachers. As a result, the vast majority of bagua fighters were poorly trained and hopelessly inept wannabes. Yet this woman sounded as though she might be the rare exception to the rule. If so, I was in way over my head. I had skills, but I was no match for a true baguazhang master.

  “When was this?”

  Sweet shrugged. “Just a couple hours ago. Got her and hubby stashed nice and safe in a storage unit. They get transported to the kill site at the last minute. That reduces our window of exposure.”

  “So why are you telling me this?”

  “You wanted to know. Now you know.”

  “Yeah, but why now, babe? You were spying on me coz you couldn’t trust me. So why trust me now? What’s changed?”

  Sweet smirked. “You proved yourself, baby. You did the right thing. Smoking Zeke like that, I mean. Besides, you’re in too deep to walk away now. Cops won’t cut a deal with a cop-killer.” He shook his head. “Too bad about that. By the way, you don’t like the new costume?”

  “Uh . . . I’m not sure our audience wants Madam Crunch to look so girly-girl. Ballet slippers aren’t my style, especially if I need to stomp someone’s face. And my pubes are gonna show every time that fucking hem flips up. Which it will. A lot.”

  Sweet smiled. Held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “No problem. If you need that shit waxed, ask Jackie to fix you up.” Picturing Novak’s hands on my vulva sent a cold shiver up and down my spine. Oblivious to my discomfort, Sweet continued. “Thing is, we got competition now. Some other crew’s trying to copy our game. That means we got to stay ahead of the curve. Keep moving forward, right? That’s how any successful business operates. Day you stop growing is the day you start dying.”

  Words to live by. From a killer. Spoken with nary a trace of irony.

  I thought of Epstein’s eyes staring into the big nothing. Had my eyes done that when McCord killed me?

  Stop, I told myself. Stop right fucking now.

  “So where’s the next game going down?” My throat felt dry. “Wouldn’t hurt to get a peek at the actual site.” Trying to lighten the mood, I said, “Like they say in real estate, it all boils down to location, location . . .”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Sweet’s tone was brusque. “Except DEAD4U can’t look rigged. Our business lives or dies on betting action. And perception is everything. Every fucking thing. If our viewers think you’ve got an unfair advantage, they’ll go back to online poker or fucking mahjong. Shit.”

  I cut in quickly. “But we give them the added excitement of real-time blood and guts. With my sexy self thrown into the mix. So maybe . . .”

  Sweet yawned. “You hungry?” he asked. “Coz I need to eat and so do you. Pick a place.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but Novak stopped me cold.

  “Don’t spook him,” she warned. “He’s not biting.”

  And being reminded I was bait for a gang of killers was supposed to improve my appetite?

  Sweet glanced sidewise. “Crystal?”

  “Surprise me,” I told him.

  ◆◆◆

  We stopped at an upscale sports bar. Kind of joint where the menu’s written in chalk on a huge board hung on the wall. Pool table in back—but nobody playing. Lots of rich-ass suits talking shit about business, golf and which office sluts they’d fucked over desks. Servers: all female. Young. Pretty. Decked out in white halter-tops, short black skirts and high heels.

  I watched the servers trying hard not to listen to the incessant trash talk about attractive females having an unfair advantage in the workplace. I marvelled at their self-control. Then considered the gun in my purse. How easy it would be to pull it out and blow these dickheads an extra asshole or two.

  One of these young girls tottered toward our table.

  “What can I get you guys today?” she asked. Big smile. Pointing her tits toward Sweet naturally. “Our house special today is fish and chips. The fish is fresh-caught wild cod. The chips are . . .”

  Weary of this verbal onslaught, I butted in. “Carved by hand? Out of wild yams?”

  The server stopped dead. Judging by the confused expression on her face, sarcasm was a lost art.

  “I’ll have the fish and chips,” volunteered Sweet. “My friend here wants the steak sandwich. Make sure it’s nice and bloody. Easy on the salt, though. Her blood pressure's through the roof.”

  He smiled at me. I smiled back. We were playing nice now—sort of.

  “Anything to drink?” the server asked hopefully.

  Sweet asked for Guinness. I went for a Tsingtao. The server promised to bring those drinks right away. Then wobbled off on her five-inch heels.

  Sweet turned to watch her walk away. His eyes tracked each wiggle of the girl’s butt. I sighed. Men were so fucking predictable.

  “Amazing how they make stilettos with training wheels,” I noted. “Don’t forget to leave a big tip. The mortgage on her dollhouse must be insane. Imagine having to work here AND put herself through kindergarten. Wow.”

  Catching the edge in my tone, Sweet pulled his neck back into place.

  “She isn’t that young,” he replied, sounding defensive.

  I told him never mind. It was none of my business. If he wanted to make a fool of himself ogling little girls . . .

  “Jesus, woman! I’m not a child molester! Bitch is serving alcohol! Odds are she can ovulate.” He held up a hand. “Back to business. Who’s doing your hair for the match?”

  I felt like squirming. Truth to tell, I hadn’t got used to being in McCord’s body. Getting her hair right wasn’t going to be easy. Madam Crunch had a distinct style. I could use some help—a lot of help, actually.

  “Haven’t figured that out yet,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  If I played this right, maybe he’d drop a hint. From the sounds of it, McCord used more than one stylist. I’d have to be careful, though. Some women got chatty with their stylists. If I said the wrong thing . . .

  “Fight day’s coming up. Maybe you could start thinking about it.” Those dark eyes gave me a quick onceover. “Hmm. You know, you look . . . different since you went on that little bender. You even sound different. If I didn’t know better . . .”

  “What?” I asked. “I’m a clone? A doppelgänger maybe?” I laughed. “I don’t have a twin sister either.” McCord’s bio was, in fact, short and far from sweet. “My mother was the only family I had. When she died, I was twelve. Twelve. Had a lot of stepdaddies, though. They taught me plenty.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Pity leaves a bitter aftertaste. Fortunately, the beer arrived. Wrapping my hand around a cold glass, I took a long gulp. Better.

  Having instant access to McCord’s files meant near-total recall. The downside? Seeing life from her perspective evoked unwanted feelings of sympathy for the woman who’d murdered me.

  In a word: weird.

  The food came. As promised, my steak sandwich was bloody. The sight made me want to gag. Having sworn off red meat years ago, the thought of putting that sandwich into my mouth appalled me. But McCord loved her steak. So I’d have to tough it out.

  Chomp.

  First bite wasn’t as bad as I re
membered. In fact, it was damned delicious. Shit! I started gobbling that steak sandwich with both hands. Juices dripped down my chin.

  Looking up, I found Sweet watching me. An amused expression decorated that handsome face. Lots of women would’ve found that smirk charming. I wasn’t one of them.

  Right then and there, I made myself a promise. When the time came, I’d kill him nice and slow. And I’d wear that same expression so he’d remember how it looked and feel what I felt now.

  “You’re really digging that steak,” Sweet said.

  “Yeah? So what?”

  “Nothing, babe. Just saying. It’s so . . . you.”

  That stopped me cold. I nearly choked on a big wad of half-chewed beef.

  Hearing my worst fear voiced aloud freaked me out. What if Griffin hadn’t fully deleted McCord’s consciousness? What if part of her had managed to resist Special Op’s brainwiping device? What if . . .

  “You okay, Crystal?”

  What if I was losing whatever made me Nikita Chen and turning into some version of Crystal McCord? Would I get swallowed up inside that sociopathic mind? Or worse: remain conscious of my separate identity yet helpless to stop McCord’s homicidal instincts?

  Fuck me.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Just hungry.”

  Over at the next table, two loudmouthed male suits were embroiled in a heated argument over female action heroes. In other words: who was the baddest, hottest, most bloodthirsty bitch around?

  The usual names got trotted out. Movie stars. Boxers. MMA fighters. Then, inevitably, the talk turned to videogames . . .

  “Lara Croft would beat the crap out of Milla Jovovich,” said a youngish dude in blue pinstripes. Pushing out his chest, he said, “Plus she’s got bigger guns.”

  Everyone at Pinstripes’ table laughed. An older guy wearing tweed blazer and red bowtie voiced the dissenting view.

  “Yeah?” Bowtie sneered. “Well, I call your Lara and Milla and raise you a Madam Crunch.”

  Their table erupted into a semi-drunken argument over the relative merits of videogame versus movie characters. Out of this semi-coherent babble, one detail stood out. Madam Crunch was synonymous with DEAD4U. In fact, Madam Crunch was DEAD4U.