by H E Johnson
“I get the point,” I told him dryly. “No need to demonstrate. I think I can figure out how to stab someone.”
Wolseley allowed a hint of a smile to crease that nasty slit in his face. “I bet you can,” he said. “Now the good stuff.”
A simple wrist flick opened the fan. He demonstrated a crosscut. I nodded. Open, the fan sliced and diced like a sabre. Effective from midrange to closeup.
So keep your distance.
He asked me to demonstrate. So I performed a series of blocks thrusts swings and bludgeons. Standard weapon techniques. Nothing fancy. When I finished he nodded approval.
I curtseyed. This he didn’t like.
“Don’t get cute,” he warned. “This woman’s a certified nutjob. She’s had these babies customized. And knows how to use them or so I’ve been told.”
“Customized?”
“Yeah.” He showed me the opened end of his fan. “See the pockets?” I peered closely. There were five narrow pouches attached to the inmost ribs. Wolseley grunted. “Don’t get too close. This thing is loaded.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I took a step back.
Wolseley pointed at one of the pouches. It held a needle. He explained that there were five of these needles or darts. Folding the fan, he pointed to the left guard or outermost stick on the left side.
“See the stud on this guard?”
I looked at the fan in my hand. Sure enough, there was a tiny button on one of the guards on my fan as well.
“So it opens like an umbrella?” I asked.
He grunted. “Yeah. Watch this.”
Turning away from me Wolseley faced the nearest wall. Distance looked just under a couple metres. He held the closed fan down low on his right side.
The pose reminded me of those Hollywood gunfighter scenes. I had to restrain myself from laughing.
In a single motion Wolseley brought the fan up and pressed the stud. The fan split open with a sharp whoosh. Five darts thudded into the wall. Spread neatly over a six-metre range.
I stopped laughing. I pictured one of those darts piercing a vital organ. Not a pretty picture. Especially to someone on the receiving end. Like me.
“Accuracy leaves something to be desired,” Wolseley stated. “But in close you can’t miss.” He walked up to the wall so I followed. Wolseley pulled out the centre dart by its feathered end. “Length: fifteen centimetres,” he said. Showing me the grit on the shaft he added, “A third of it went into that wall.”
“Impressive. Any other tricks up your sleeve?”
“You can deploy the fan to block the darts. Good luck with that.”
“Helpful.” A thought occurred. “Wait a sec. I thought projectile weapons were a strict no-no.”
“Technically you’re right. Ranged weapons don’t provide the same visual impact as close quarters stuff. That’s why DEAD4U excluded bows and crossbows in the first place. But Sweet’s allowing darts as throwing weapons. Apparently, some viewers have complained that your hammer can be thrown so why not allow other throwing weapons? Like javelins boomerangs . . .”
“And darts. Thanks a bunch.” I hadn’t seen McCord throw the hammer in any of the DEAD4U videos. Hurling a sledge had to rank as a desperation move. “And Sweet agreed to this stupidity?”
Wolseley grinned. “I guess he doesn’t value your pretty hide as much as you think. Okay? Now I suggest we use the remaining time to work on basic grappling and striking.”
So we did. Wolseley was an asshole but also a damned good fighter. Smart. Speedy. And tough. He took my best punch in the solar plexus and didn’t flinch. Nice. He also appeared to have forgotten that earlier boot to the balls I’d given him. So the man was disciplined as well. No emotion. Pure action.
Now that was impressive.
I chalked all this info up for future reference. I sensed a day was coming when good ole Wolseley and I wouldn’t be quite so chummy.
Afterward we performed the traditional bow. Rising, Wolseley held up a piece of paper. It read:
—Where?
I shook my head. He sighed and held up a second sheet of paper.
—Find out. Extraction ASAP.
◆◆◆
Two hours later Sweet returned as promised. He was stoned and seemed amorous. I reeked like yesterday’s roadkill. When he tried to kiss me, I pushed him away. I want to feel sexy if I’m dropping my drawers. Not gross.
A smirking Wolseley advised Sweet to make sure I got a good night’s sleep.
Sweet said, “But she’s ready, Kurt?”
Wolseley nodded. “Good to go.”
I watched and listened. I was too tired to talk or kill anything larger than a small mosquito. I needed a hot shower spicy food and a soft place to lay down.
In the car:
“You can crash at my place,” said Sweet. He was driving with one hand on the wheel and a joint in the other. “I’ll get takeout for us. You like Vietnamese, right?” I felt his sidewise glance. “Or would you rather have some of that barbequed duck?”
“Vietnamese is good,” I told him.
Sweet paused to take a hit. Held his breath as he crossed two lanes to make a left turn on a red light. I spotted a courier van coming straight at us. I started to scream but we missed getting T-boned by a hair. Exhaling Sweet continued:
“We can eat and watch a movie or something. Get you nice and chill for that next match.”
Chill? I preferred to keep breathing thank you very fucking much.
“Get the location,” whispered Novak. “We’ll pull you out right away.”
Was I supposed to believe that? SpecOps had to catch Sweet committing a felony. Kidnapping, for instance. And I was positive that Novak and company would do anything to keep me from blabbing my story to the media. Clandestine organizations aren’t big on trust. And dead men tell no tales.
But this dead woman might.
I said to Sweet, “You want me to chill? How about you give me the lowdown on where I’m fighting come Sunday? I’ll sleep a lot better if I know what to expect.”
Sweet shook his head. “No can do, baby. House rules. Need to know only.”
“Fine,” I said, feigning exasperation. “Can you at least tell me if it’s indoors? Outdoors? Hot climate? Cold? Is there water close by? Are we fighting on grass, sand, or rock? Anything would help.”
“Location!” screamed Novak. “Get the location, you idiot!”
I ignored her. Pushing too hard would make Sweet suspicious. I had a hunch that squeezing him for smaller pieces of the puzzle could make filling in the blanks a whole lot easier.
“What’s up?” asked Sweet. He turned to study me as the car slalomed wildly through heavy traffic. “You seem nervous. You’re not worried about the fight, are you babe? Remember: you’re the champ.”
“Champ?” I snorted. “I’ve been lucky so far and you know it.” I paused. “Having the odds slanted in my favour would take the edge off. Please? I promise to act surprised.”
Sweet’s expression became thoughtful. That was my cue to shut up and let him work it out. As any woman knows, manipulating a man requires patience. Male egos tend to require more stroking than a porn star’s dick. But if you work at it things come out right eventually.
Of course a generous helping of cannabis didn’t hurt. And Sweet was definitely stoned. I knew that sooner or later he’d recollect that I’d killed Epstein instead of him. Amazing how little things like that can influence a man’s decision.
As the Jeep hurtled through the city streets Sweet made up his mind.
He told me that the fight was being held outdoors. Forecasted temperature: thirty degrees centigrade. Possibility of precipitation: sixty percent. He confirmed that the surface would be primarily grass with some rougher terrain mixed in. Translation: forest with hills or mountains.
“So,” he concluded, “you’re looking at cloudy skies with a good chance of rain. Happy now?”
I thought about the ballet slippers that Sweet had okayed f
or me. I pictured myself—the mountainous Madam Crunch—battling two martial arts types on a slick surface. One slip and they’d be on be. I swallowed.
“Say yes,” advised Novak.
“Yes,” I answered brightly. “That gives me something to work with. Successful outcomes depend on good planning. Not luck.”
“If you say so.” Sweet tossed the roach out of the window.
Taking the wheel with both hands he drove even faster. We went to a Vietnamese joint. Sweet parked on the street and told me to stay in the car. I watched him walk inside.
Thinking this might be my best chance to get away. Except I had no idea how to get rid of those nasty implants of mine. If I ran now SpecOps could track and retrieve me. Then do anything they wanted with my pretty ass.
In fact they might kill me by remote control.
Fuck.
In the exhilaration of cheating death it hadn’t occurred to me that my benefactors might resort to murder. After all they’d threatened me with prison—not death.
But maybe keeping me alive wasn’t a viable option. I was living breathing evidence of police corruption. Getting rid of me was a savvy business decision. SpecOps couldn’t risk setting me loose. Not unless they could delete my ass without risking detection.
Hmm.
Inside my head were three implants. Any one of them could track me. Neutralizing these devilish instruments was my top priority. And I knew the perfect man for the job.
All I needed was a plan.
In & Out
Sweet returned to the car with two large paper bags in one hand. He stowed the bags in the back seat. Then he got in and we headed out in the direction of downtown.
I figured we’d be going to Sweet’s club. And it turned out I was right. We drove around to the back of Sweet Spot and parked next to a dumpster.
We used the side entrance. It was a solid steel door with a keypad instead of a lock. Overhead was a camera. I watched Sweet punch in some numbers.
A voice said, “Yeah?”
“Open up,” Sweet told the invisible voice.
The door buzzed. We went inside and down a narrow hallway that led to the bar. A quick scan of the clientele offered zilch in the way of info. Looked like the same lowlifes as last night. Or maybe there was a common gene that made them blur into a single disgusting blob.
Sweet smiled at the bartender. It was the black woman I’d run into on my first visit to the club as McCord. Lucky me. He said, “Hey, Darlene,” but she didn’t reply. Just shot me a jealous glare as Sweet and I sashayed past to the private entrance. Ignoring her wasn’t easy, but I did my best.
Darlene. Sweet’s ex. Not part of the gang. Nothing to sweat there, right?
Made me wonder how McCord had managed the sitch. Unless maybe she hadn’t cared where Sweet stuck that codpiece. After all, she and Sweet hadn’t been exclusive despite their mutual pretence of fidelity.
So why did it bother me?
No Big Boy waiting for us. This time Sweet used his phone to switch on the iris scanner. Making eye contact with the screen, he unlocked the device. The machine burped twice.
When the door clicked, Sweet held it open for me.
Back up that cast-iron spiral staircase. It looked different with the late afternoon sun filling up the skylight. Not half so romantic.
Sweet ordered the lights on. And, just like that, we were back in the watercolour loft with those delicious pale green walls and that elegant daffodil-yellow ceiling.
Better. Much better.
We ate in the kitchen. Vietnamese subs. Spring rolls and bubble tea. Yum. I was starting to enjoy Crystal’s taste in food. Could’ve been a lot worse.
Sitting on the barstool I turned to Sweet. He was stuffing a spring roll down his throat. Feeling playful I rubbed a bare leg between his inner thighs. The result was unexpected.
Sweet choked. Literally. At first I thought he was joking. Then I figured no, a piece of spring roll had gone down the wrong tube. But when his eyes bulged, I knew he was REALLY choking.
Grabbing him from behind I performed the Heimlich maneuver. It took a few thrusts before an outsized chunk of shrimp and rice wrapper popped out of his mouth onto the countertop.
Sweet gasped for a bit. Blubbering a hoarse “thanks” he staggered into the bathroom and closed the door. I heard spitting and. water running.
Talk about killing the romance.
◆◆◆
I continued to eat. No sense wasting good food. After a couple minutes, the water stopped running. Sweet exited the bathroom. He looked mildly embarrassed.
“Sorry, babe,” he murmured.
I laid the remnants of my sub onto its waxed wrapper. Held out my hand. He took it. I got off the barstool and led him to the couch.
“Duck to go,” I whispered.
Luckily, it was Griffin who answered my request. “Shutting down,” he said. “Going dark for—two hours enough?”
“Thanks,” I whispered back.
“Did you say something babe?” mumbled Sweet.
I shut down that conversation with my go-to technique. Every woman’s got one. It’s that no-fail move you’ve kept on ice for when you REALLY need to pull a fast one.
Time to make little Santiago happy.
◆◆◆
It worked. I made Little Santiago deliriously happy. This also pleased Big Santiago très mucho big time. End result: both my boys became very very tired.
Given the amount of weed Sweet had smoked—plus whatever booze he’d soaked up during the day—sleep was inevitable. All it took was some decently indecent sex to push him into la-la-land.
Rolling off the bed, I checked my watch. I had less than ninety minutes before those pesky nanoplants went back online. But I had a plan to fix that.
Time to get down to business.
◆◆◆
I set Crystal’s phone to Do Not Disturb and stashed it under a sofa cushion. Then I put on my booty shorts and bra and tiptoed downstairs with trainers in hand. Retracing my earlier route through the bar I attempted to slip unnoticed past the bartender. Fat chance. Bitch spotted me and delivered the death glare. I couldn’t blame her. She’d seen me arrive with Sweet an hour ago. And here I was skipping out in dirty clothes with sex-glazed eyes and smeared lipstick. Should’ve hung a sign around my neck.
Skank Du Jour.
Ninety minutes I reminded myself. No stops. No second chances. Just do it.
I slipped into the shoes and went out the back door. Got into the Jeep and turned it on. Backing out I spun away in a plume of dust. Destination: an industrial park at the city’s southernmost point.
Any moment Sweet would wake up. Finding me gone he’d be pissed. More than pissed. He’d be out for blood.
Mine.
Couldn’t really blame him. At the stroke of noon Sunday DEAD4U was staging another high-stakes game. And I was the game’s “maliciously murderous emcee”. Without Madam Crunch, Sweet didn’t have a show. Yeah he could put three idiots on camera and let them whack at each other with razor-sharp metal fans or what have you, but Madam Crunch was DEAD4U’s main attraction. Her gloriously majestic bod drew the show’s online male demographic. No surprise there.
Sex sells. Always has always will. Men bought the sizzle even when the steak was right in front of their eyes.
But people thought I was crazy.
What would Sweet do when he found his meal ticket gone? He’d call. And learn the number had been switched off. Then he’d panic for real. Or fly into a rage. He’d phone the crew and set them on my trail. Then Big Boy and Federov would reach out to their contacts. And every criminal scumbag in the city would be on the lookout for me.
I didn’t have much time. But this had to be done. Hopefully, the element of surprise was on my side.
Home Sweet Home
It was dark when I reached the gravel road. Forced myself to drive extra slow. Ten klicks in I let the Jeep crawl forward. Spotting the safe house I killed the headlights and parked. I was swe
ating now—mentally as well as physically. If I miscalculated I was totally screwed. Sweet would order me killed in prison or I’d die—possibly by remote control—at the hands of my fiendish buddies in blue.
I got out of the Jeep and stretched. Stood there for a bit to let my eyes adjust to near-total blackness. The windows on the top floor of the safe house were lit.
Moving gingerly over gravel, I got out and walked through the open gateway and up the path. With luck no one would be watching. I went straight to the front entrance. A small typed notice was taped to the glass. Had just enough light from above to read it.
All Units Occupied.
Ha-ha. No kidding, dude.
I tried the door but no dice. It was locked. So I went around back to the fire escape. Had to jump to grab onto the bottom ladder. Climbing up, I snagged my purse on a railing. Disengaging was a nightmare. In the process of freeing my purse the damned railing hooked and ripped my bra. Great. I looked wasted enough. A torn bra made me look slutty.
Hopefully I hadn’t made too much of a racket. Had to be quiet. Just coz I couldn’t see cameras or microphones didn’t mean there weren’t any. Somehow I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling of being watched.
I reached the top of the fire escape without incident. So far, so good.
Found a door secured with a simple spring bolt lock. Pulling a credit card from my purse, I worked it between door and frame. Turned the knob and pushed card past latch.
Easy.
I looked inside. Just an empty hallway. It seemed familiar, but one hallway looks pretty much like another. This one led to a row of doors. I stepped inside. Taking everything nice and slow. Caution was a necessary evil. But it had saved my butt from getting shot more times than not.
There was nothing till I reached the fourth door. That’s when I heard it. A ragged whisper of breath.
This door had a single-cylinder deadbolt with a twist knob on the hallway side. The lock was intended to keep things—or people—inside. Not to prevent intruders entering.
I turned the knob slowly. Inside was a man in a white coat. Over his bald skull was a wireless headset. He was seated at a desk with a keyboard. Instead of a window, his desk faced three large video screens filled with naked people having sex in difficult positions.