by H E Johnson
No wonder Sweet had freaked when McCord had gone missing. I was his bloody meal ticket. Accent on blood.
Sweet touched my forearm. Leaning forward, he whispered:
“Hear that? You’re a star, Crystal. Only you’re the real deal and these dickheads don’t know it.” Sweet grinned. “Gives you a rush, doesn’t it?
I told him yeah. And it did. The adulation went to my head like champagne on an empty stomach.
But what if I started liking it too much? Would I be able to let go? Would I ever want to be Nikita Chen again?
◆◆◆
“Nikita.”
It was Novak again. Hearing her voice made me nostalgic for Griffin. And I didn’t like Griffin a whole lot. Leaving less than a bunch of upside from my POV.
“Nikita. Listen up. Tell Sweet you want Jackie to do your hair. I did Crystal’s before her last performance. Trust me. Sweet won’t find it suspicious.”
My inner ESP called bullshit. Yet I couldn’t figure why. After all, Novak was SpecOps. And SpecOps had a major hardon for Sweet and company. Taking down DEAD4U would look pretty great on any cop’s resume.
Added bonus: I’d get a fresh start in someone else’s body—hopefully not a murdering psycho bitch. Maybe I could be a housewife in some hick town, married to a grocery store manager with a thick dick. Two kids? Nah scratch the rugrats. I liked my sleep too much. Maybe a thick dick now and again. Something to fill that empty space between my legs and call me beautiful.
“I think I’ll get Jackie to do my hair,” I told Sweet. “She did a great job last time.”
Novak whispered, “Gold star, honey.”
Sweet said fine. He’d set up an appointment with Jackie for Saturday. Cool? And that wax job?
“Big yes to that,” I said.
Novak: “What the hell? You want me to wax your legs?”
I smiled at Sweet. “My pussy thanks you.”
Novak spluttered, “No fucking way am I giving you a Brazilian!”
“Jackie has such soft hands,” I said. “Mm-mm.”
Sweet raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take your word for it babe. But isn’t Jackie a little, uh . . . old for you?”
I heard a sharp intake of breath in my head. The lieutenant hadn’t liked that remark. Sensitive about her age? Or did McCord’s muscular build turn her on? Hmm. If Novak had a thing for big women, maybe I could use that . . .
I shook my head. Taking advantage of people wasn’t like me. Or hadn’t been till now.
Sweet gazed doubtfully at the mound of fries on my plate. He suggested none too subtly that I might want to burn off some of those recently acquired calories.
“Fine, yeah,” I told him. “I’ll go for a run before dinner. Happy?”
“Big yes to that,” he deadpanned.
◆◆◆
Sweet ordered another beer. Excusing myself, I went to the ladies’ to fix my face.
Unlike your so-called friends, mirrors never lie. What I saw was a woman with that rumpled “humped-and-dumped” look. In a word: scary. Brushing out my hair worked wonders on that tangled mess. A few quick fixes to mascara and lipstick then—presto—I stood staring at a brand new woman.
“Looking good,” purred Novak.
Okay. She was definitely into me.
By now I was used to voices talking into my brain. But I still didn’t like it. And Novak, after two weeks and counting, grated on my nerves big time.
Was I being overly touchy? Or was McCord slowly taking control? How much more could I take before breaking wide open?
For sure the sensation of being watched was creeping me out. I leaned over the washroom countertop. Stared straight into my own eyes.
“Fuck you bitch,” I growled.
“Uh, you okay?”
I whipped around fast. A woman had walked into the washroom. She stood directly behind me. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Looking scared and ready to bolt if I made one wrong move.
Hmm. Maybe I’d gone a tad heavy on the mascara.
“Fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
The woman glanced around. “It sounded like you were talking to someone in here.” She glanced at the toilet stall. I followed her gaze. There were no feet underneath the cubicle’s walls. “My mistake,” she chirped. “I must be hearing things.”
“Nope.” I smiled. “Just me and my imaginary friend Pookie. It’s a love-hate kind of deal. You know?”
Carefully averting her gaze, the woman washed her hands quickly and left.
“Don’t try that again,” warned Novak. “Or there WILL be consequences. Trust me. You don’t want to end up in a psych ward, Nikita.” Her voice dropped to that sensuous purr. “A woman hearing voices might end up getting lobotomized. For her own good, of course.”
◆◆◆
We left the restaurant without getting dessert coz McCord was watching her weight. Per Sweet too much body fat would spoil Madam Crunch’s muscular definition. I argued for bulking up but no luck.
Spoilsport.
In the car Sweet told me to drive. He sat shotgun and fired up a joint. He didn’t offer me a hit so I didn’t ask. No doubt Crystal didn’t indulge prior to shows. Or maybe she was a cautious, law-abiding citizen.
LOL.
Good thing sex wasn’t off the menu. A woman needed something to keep her spirits up. And I could always use a top-up.
“So what’s on for the afternoon?” I ventured cautiously. “Running? Shooting practice? Sparring?”
Sweet shrugged. “Up to you babe. After all it’s your neck on the line out there—not mine. I imagine you might want to stay sharp though.” Seeing the expression on my face, he sighed. “Yeah. Our players are amateur types. But even amateurs get lucky.”
“What weapons did they pick?”
I glanced at Sweet. He rolled his eyes. Oh-oh. The expression on his face said I wouldn’t like this.
He told me. As expected the man had gone with the ever-popular katana. The woman, however, had chosen less conventional weaponry.
“Seriously?” I asked. “She wants to use a war fan?”
“Specialty item. She insisted on it. Apparently, these fans got some pretty nasty blades.” He chuckled. “Bitch wanted to use poisoned tips. We said no fucking way. Bottom line: our viewers want blood and guts on their screens. Poison isn’t visual enough.”
“So the wife knows how to use this thing? And I’m guessing hubby doesn’t. Right? That’s why he wanted the sword.”
Sweet laughed. “That would be my guess too. Our guy can show you the ins-and-outs of war fans. Consider it a professional courtesy.”
Our guy? Surely not Big Boy. Federov?
I shuddered. “This is so dumb.”
“Customer is always right, babe.” Sweet paused to take a hit on that weed. “Don’t blame me. Grab team tried talking her out of it, but she’s one of these kungfu nuts.” He snorted. “Maybe she thinks fighting with a fan is cute or something.” Giggling he took a long drag off the joint.
Great. I’d never used or seen a war fan in my life. The odds were stacking up against me faster than pancakes on a Sunday morning in suburbia.
Running in Circles
I drove to the seawall. Parking the Jeep, I realized I hadn’t brought any workout gear. Running around the seawall in sandals, jeans and a halter-top wasn’t my idea of fun.
I told Sweet I needed to go home and change. He gave me an odd look. Reaching behind the back seat, he pulled out a duffel bag.
Oops.
“You always keep a bag in the car in case you feel like working out.” Sweet squinted at me. “You sure you’re gonna be okay come game time?”
“No worries.” I gave a reassuring smile. “And where am I supposed to change?”
Sweet gave a look of mock surprise. “Right here is cool. Don’t worry. I promise not to peek.” He smiled. “Unless you want me to.”
I got out of the car and went into the back seat. I didn’t enjoy stripping in public, but it really wasn’t MY body
. So why should I care? Hell, I could smoke three packs of cigarettes a day, down a quart of whiskey, then snort sniff and shoot every drug under the sun. Didn’t matter.
Not my ass bitch.
Sweet watched the show. He whistled when I took my top off so I gave him the finger. In response, he threw the joint out the car window and hid his eyes behind his hands. As I continued to disrobe, he opened his fingers and smirked.
The workout gear was pretty basic. Booty shorts. Sports bra. Socks. Trainers. Headset. At the bottom of the bag was a twin of the black ballcap that McCord kept at home. Plus a tube of lubricant.
I didn’t mention the lube to Sweet. McCord might’ve enjoyed a buttfuck al fresco but that was her and this was me. Sweet had a choice of two holes yeah? If that wasn’t enough, he could find himself the south end of a north facing sheep.
It occurred to me that SpecOps would’ve done a thorough recon of Sweet’s business. I wouldn’t have bet against them knowing Big Boy’s deodorant brand. But one thought nagged at me.
Why hadn’t SpecOps shared their surveillance info with me when I’d worked the case for Cybercrime? After all, I’d been the detective assigned to infiltrate and undermine DEAD4U. What a piss off! In all likelihood, their withholding of crucial intelligence had contributed to my demise. And made my “pre-selection” to impersonate McCord seem pretty suspicious.
How many other secrets might Novak and Wolseley be holding back?
“I’ll go for coffee and come back,” Sweet said. “Meet you at the car. If you’re here first, text me.”
I nodded. Adjusting the ballcap, I started into a brisk jog.
◆◆◆
The afternoon sun felt good on my shoulders. Ten minutes into the run, I broke a sweat. My breathing held nice and even. Damn! Crystal McCord was in pretty decent shape. Seemed being a bad girl had paid off big time.
Yellow sunshine sparkled off the blue-black ocean. Smells of salt and rotting seaweed filled my nostrils. The humid air was thick as glue. Running through it felt like swimming in snot.
I was listening to tunes through earbuds. Trying to maintain focus on the pretty view without letting my guard down. It’s way too easy to relax in beautiful settings. That’s why so many idiots marry against common sense. Relaxing’s nice but can get you killed fast.
I’d died once. I didn’t plan to make a habit of it.
An ice cream bike had stopped up ahead. A trio of elderly females in straw hats and colourful sundresses clustered around the stocky vendor like large, glittery flies. As I approached this bottleneck, I veered left to go around it.
The ice cream bike had other ideas. It slid in front of me and nearly knocked me over. Putting out my hands, I managed to halt my progress by slamming into the bike’s freezer chest. Angry, I went face to face with Mr. Ice Cream.
He wore an all-white outfit complete with soda jerk hat. The only non-white bits were the mirror shades covering his eyes.
“Killing Epstein was a smart move,” Wolseley said. “Just don’t get any stupid ideas, Nikita. Remember: we can put you inside for life as a cop killer.”
“You’re becoming a real pain in the ass,” I told him. “Much as I appreciate the pep talk—as in NOT—is there any point to this meet-up?”
The bulky muscles in his neck and shoulders swelled as his face reddened a shade or two.
“Just a reminder that we can find you whenever we want,” he said stiffly. “Keep that in mind, Nikita. Don’t even think about going native on us. Re-upping with Sweet is NOT an option you should even consider.”
Making one hand into a gun, he took aim dead centre between my tits and fired off an imaginary round with his fat thumb.
“Scary,” I said. “But I got a real one that makes a big noise when I squeeze the trigger.” I smiled. “Keep that in your fat head Wolseley.”
Grabbing his ears I kneed him in the scrote. Dropping to the path Wolseley clutched his genitals. He seemed in considerable pain.
La-di-fucking-da eh?
The trio of elderly ice-cream lovers stood aghast. I gave them a cutesy little wave as I skipped lightly over Wolseley’s writhing body. Over one shoulder I yelled:
“Toodles!”
Wolseley had no snappy comeback for me. He was too busy trying to save the crown jewels.
Ha-ha.
◆◆◆
I continued to run.
Griffin told me that my behaviour was concerning. I told him to shove it. I also advised that threats were counterproductive. He agreed that Wolseley might’ve overstepped but argued that a stupid threat didn’t change the facts.
Facts? Oh, yes. Those facts.
My old life was gone. I was trapped in a killer’s body. And helping take down a major criminal network to avoid prison.
If Wolseley had wanted to set me on the straight and narrow, a memo would’ve done nicely. I explained this to Griffin but he wasn’t having it.
Uh-huh.
Me: I had Wolseley figured for goon status. That people like him somehow got badges never failed to amaze and horrify me. But they did.
And I was stuck in this mess precisely because SpecOps needed me there. Never mind that I’d been killed once already. Forget how I was risking my neck again. They still acted as though this was completely normal. Typical bureaucrats.
Assholes.
◆◆◆
I kept a steady pace. Got a nice sweat going. Did a few pull-ups at a playground. Ran some more. Stopped. Dropped for pushups. Ran some more. Stopped yet again to perform squats and jump squats till my thighs began to shake and turn to jelly.
By this point I was ready to quit. But I had a fight coming up fast. One mistake could easily be my last.
So I pushed myself a bit harder than I really wanted. Keeping up with Crystal’s hard-core routine was not a bunch of fun. The burning ache in my muscles demanded that I stop and lie down. But I kept going anyhow. Refusing to surrender to the pain felt like a small victory in the middle of the shit-storm that my life had become.
Was that how Crystal had felt?
I told myself it didn’t matter what Crystal had felt, as Crystal couldn’t feel anything. Crystal McCord was history. Ancient history. This was life at its most basic. Pleasure and pain, right? In the end that’s what everything boiled down to.
And there was plenty of pain to go around. The sports bra chafed the underside of both boobs. My nipples stung from the constant rub against material. I could understand the myth of Amazons lopping off a boob. Wasn’t there a Geneva Convention for women’s clothing? Fuck!
I did a couple more circuits before calling it quits. There was no sign of Wolseley or his ice cream bike. When I returned to the Jeep Sweet was relaxing in the driver’s seat. The interior reeked of cannabis.
Sweet insisted on driving. We headed away from the ocean. The sun was slipping down behind us. Sweet was oddly quiet. Me: I was too tired to ask questions. The fight was Sunday noon. Thirty-six hours away.
A single bead of sweat trickled down my nose to my mouth. It tasted warm and salty. An image flashed quickly across my mind. Above me stood a youngish woman holding an unfurled war fan. She smiled at me. Reflected in her eyes was a bloodied pulp resembling an autopsy photo.
Mine.
All's Fair
Next stop was a rundown neighbourhood across town. We went to a strip mall where I followed Sweet into a largish pawnshop. My stomach protested the absence of food. Loudly. If Sweet heard those rumblings he didn’t appear to give two fucks.
The pawnshop owner was watching porn on a big screen TV. Being curious I peeked. There were the usual penises and female receptacles. Porn man looked up, waved at Sweet and returned to watching the complex interplay of human body parts. We walked through the shop to the back and up a flight of stairs. There was one door. Sweet opened it and motioned for me to go first.
Inside was a large room roughly the size of the pawnshop below. In one corner was a weight bench with a barbell on the rack. Beside it hung a pun
ching bag. Mats covered the floor. This was basic stuff, nothing trendy. Old school shit.
Sweet leaned against the wall. He yawned and lit a cigarette.
The door opened. In walked a familiar face. A pair of fingerless sparring gloves laced together was tossed in my general direction. I caught them one-handed.
“Reflexes seem okay,” declared Wolseley.
Sweet nodded. “Yep. She’s warmed up and ready to go my man.” He paused. “You can show her this ‘war fan’ shit. Right, Kurt?”
Kurt? I studied his face which, as usual, gave nothing away. “Kurt” seemed like a good fit for Wolseley the Weasel.
“Absolutely,” Wolseley replied. “Leave her with me. Come back in a couple hours.” He held up a pair of folded metal fans. “No hurry.”
◆◆◆
We waited till the click-clack of Sweet’s footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs. As I opened my lips to voice an impossible obscenity, Wolseley held a finger to his lips.
Mouthing: “Bugged.”
I lip-synced back: “Fuck you.” Then looked pointedly at his crotch. Adding aloud, “You’re walking kinda funny, Kurt. Everything okay?”
Wolseley glared. He handed me one of the folded fans. I took it. In a cold voice he told me to put on the gloves. To avoid any misunderstanding of his concern Wolseley added:
“Can’t risk damage to those hands.”
That made sense. Tucking the fan under one arm I tried on the sparring mitts. Not surprisingly they fit.
“These babies can hurt you in a lot of interesting ways,” he said.
Wolseley held up his fan. It was still closed. He whacked the long side of the fan against the palm of a gloved hand. It made a satisfying smack. Then he held up the blunt end where the fan’s sticks joined the central rivet. This time he pounded the rivet into his palm. Smack.
Next he pointed the business end at me. The ribs were needle sharp.