by H E Johnson
Boys will be boys. But does this never get old for them?
I crept up behind the man. Just for laughs I cupped my palms over Griffin’s eyes.
“Guess who?” I said lightly.
◆◆◆
Griffin twisted around in his chair. Jaw dropped. Eyes big.
“You can’t be here.”
Those words told me Griffin was an amateur. Professionals didn’t panic in the face of imminent death. Or get the willies and do that wide-eyed stare into the abyss.
“But I am here. Deal with it.” Removing my hands from his eyes, I nodded toward the naked bodies writhing on screens. “Don’t worry, Griff. I won’t tell anyone you’re a big perv.”
“When Novak finds out . . .”
“Novak won’t know what you don’t tell her. And don’t think spilling your guts to the good lieutenant will save your ass. That cunt would eat you alive and spit out your balls.”
Took maybe ten seconds for Griffin to see the light and move on. Maybe that bit about his balls got to him. “Okay,” he said in a grudging tone. “But why are you here?”
“I’ve come to do you a big favour. Huge.”
“Yeah? And what’s the reason for this sudden change of attitude? Coz I distinctly recall someone threatening to put her foot up my ass.”
Opening my purse I took out the Glock and showed it to him. This seemed to upset Griffin. I explained:
“It’s a tit for tat kind of deal. You give me control of my implants.”
“Not possible.”
Bastard was lying. Wasn’t hard to tell. Guys have lied to me since my boobs grew up. Giveaway might be the eyes or a restless shift from one foot to the other. In Griffin’s case, his hands did the talking. They were nervous. Fingers twitched like insect antennae.
“Voice commands,” I said softly. “A smart guy like you can handle that.”
“Say I do this.” His eyes watched the gun in my hand. “Assuming it was even possible.”
I pointed at my watch. “I’m on the clock here Griffin. Sooner you do this, the better for everyone.”
He nodded but held up a hand. “You can’t shut down till the job’s finished. If the monitors switch on and off independently while Novak or Wolseley are watching they’ll to want to know why.” He paused to wet his lips. I saw fear in his eyes. “They’ll kill me,” he finished hoarsely. “And you.”
“Yeah. I figured. Don’t fret Griff. I’ll play nice. But I need an “off” button. So do it. Turn me off, baby. All the way off.”
So he did. Took thirty minutes to program and test. First he turned the monitors on. Next I used vocal commands to turn them off and back on and then off again. When the monitors switched off, Griffin couldn’t reconnect to the implants. Not till I switched them back on.
Perfect. Being in partial control felt like a major improvement. I wasn’t a big fan of close supervision.
“When’s the next change of shift?” I asked.
Griffin told me. I had forty-five minutes to get clear and turn those implants back on. I gave him a hug and told him not to worry.
After all we were the “good guys”.
◆◆◆
Retracing steps I went down the fire escape, got back in the Jeep and drove away. Time was money. I had to get clear of this industrial park in case Wolseley showed early for his next shift. If he found me in this neighbourhood, he’d guess I was up to no good.
Which I was.
Now I had to deal with Sweet. He’d demand an explanation. How was I going to explain that missing block of time? Why had I left my phone on Do Not Disturb? No matter how you sliced it my actions appeared suspicious. For good reason of course.
I had something to hide: my true identity.
Yet the sheer implausibility of it all worked in my favour. Sweet might worry that McCord would still cut a deal to keep out of prison. But what were the odds of him suspecting an undercover cop hiding inside Crystal McCord’s shapely bod? Nada.
A bolt of inspiration hit me. I headed uptown. Time to take the offensive. That’s what McCord would do.
Hmm. Maybe McCord’s military training had seeped into my consciousness. The dream from last night returned to nag at me. Seeing myself through Crystal McCord’s eyes had been a real mindbender. Like a hunter sitting in a blind, she’d waited for me to show.
And stuck a blade between my ribs as I walked into her motel room.
The memory sent a shiver pulsing from the nape of my neck to the tip of my spine. Oddly though, I kept seeing and feeling everything from McCord’s perspective. Why?
Was some remnant of her mind slowly taking control? If so would I eventually revert to some version of Crystal McCord? Would any piece of Nikita Chen remain?
I might end up dead for good.
That was a hard one to swallow. Waking up inside another person’s body had been traumatic enough. I needed to confront the possibility of losing this final piece of my identity.
Never mind, I reprimanded myself. You play the hand that’s dealt. Not the one you wish for.
It was time to go back online. I whispered, “Salamander.”
In response came a tiny “click”. Then Griffin’s voice: “You’re open for business, Nikita. I’m getting ready for shift change. Next voice you hear will be Wolseley’s.” He paused. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
So did I.
Saturday's All Right For Dying
Checked the time. Fifteen minutes past midnight, Saturday morning. The taste of fear in my mouth had me wanting to vomit. How bad? Enough to think about stopping the car and dropping to my knees—that bad.
Somehow I managed the drive back to McCord’s house without unloading my stomach contents. Parked out front and went to the bedroom. The suitcase I’d brought from the safe house was under the bed where I’d left it. Digging through a jumble of clothes wigs passports and weapons, I found what I was looking for. Tucked inside a tampon carry case where prying male eyes were least likely to go.
Looking at the card I hesitated. What could I say that didn’t sound crazy? Unless Novak or one of her fellow conspirators fessed up—an unlikely prospect—no one would believe they’d hijacked a person’s brain and planted me inside. After all, SpecOps was an elite police unit. Me: I was ex-military and a former cage-fighter likely suffering from multiple concussions and post-traumatic stress disorder. I couldn’t prove: (a) that I was Nikita Chen; or (b) that Crystal McCord had murdered eighteen people in an online gladiator contest. There were no bodies for show-and-tell and not a single credible witness to these alleged crimes.
Yet I had to try. I hadn’t dedicated fifteen years of my life to fighting crime without wanting to at least TRY stopping something so heinous. Granted, SpecOps was focussed on taking down Sweet. But assholes like Novak and Wolseley didn’t give a rancid fuck about collateral damage in the form of kidnapped civilians. Or a dead cop’s brain wired into another body. If I could convince someone in a position of authority, maybe I had the proverbial snowball’s chance. Better that than nothing.
So I punched the number from the card into the burner phone from McCord’s go-bag. Then held my breath as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Please?
A sleepy voice answered. “Dobbs.”
“Hi Miranda.” I cleared my throat. “This is Shelley. I met you at Nikita’s memorial and you gave me your card.”
“Yes I remember,” she replied quickly. “Everything all right Shelley?”
“Not really,” I said. “Could we meet?”
“When and where?” Dobbs sounded wide awake now. “Are you someplace safe? Is anyone else there?”
I said I was alone. And not to worry. Then I named a meeting place. She said fine and disconnected.
◆◆◆
I parked in front of the cocktail bar and walked over. It was dark. The party crowd was out in force. That seemed natural enough. After all, it was early morning. Time to lose all those nasty inhibitions and get your freak on.
A man
bumped into me. Luckily for him, he excused himself.
I wondered how many of these festive types would tune into DEAD4U come Sunday. I checked out the twenty-something males with those smiling self-confident faces. They walked past me without much more than a casual leer.
Made me wonder how these young dudes would react if they knew Madam Crunch was nearby. After all, I was their dirty secret, a fantasy in red-and-black latex. The notion put a smile on my face. The urge to tease exists in every woman. But for a lucky few it’s an art form.
Viva la bitch!
I found the red brick house. It seemed to stare back at me through those bevelled slits of glass with sinister eyes.
Then Epstein’s face flashed in and out of my head.
I shut that guilt trip down hard and fast. There’d been no choice. Not really. Epstein and I couldn’t have shot our way out of that bedroom. Sweet and his crew had had us boxed in. And letting Zeke walk hadn’t been an option—not from a management perspective. Let him off easy and Big Boy or Federov might try getting cute.
Looking weak was how sharks got eaten by their own kind.
All I’d done was save my own neck. That didn’t make me a bad person. Okay, technically speaking, I was one of the bad guys. Again, not by choice. No one had asked my permission before dumping my neural content into McCord’s twisted brain. And side effects: what about those? Despite Griffin’s assurances on the subject, I sensed the subtle intrusion of alien thoughts and emotions.
That brainwipe job hadn’t erased Crystal Alice McCord. Not totally.
Stop this, I told myself. Stop it now Nikita. You’ve got a few more days and hours in this body. Then you’re off to better things.
I tried the handle. The door was locked. Stupid me. Sweet had said the appointment was for tomorrow.
As I turned to go, the door opened and there stood Lane Novak in white cotton T-shirt and boxer shorts. Her eyes were puffy from sleep.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she muttered. Her eyes took in my booty shorts and torn bra. A sigh escaped those thin disapproving lips. “Come in before someone sees you dressed like that.”
◆◆◆
“I was just making tea. Want some?”
We were upstairs in a small apartment. Same pine flooring and white walls as the main floor below. I sat at a plain white kitchen table while Novak bustled about and made hostess-type noises. The effect was disconcerting. Seeing her do this in a plain white T-shirt and boxers made my head spin.
I said yes to tea. Tea seemed like a friendly overture.
Novak loaded a silver tray and brought it to the table. She set out cream, sugar, cloth napkins, china teacups painted with cherry blossoms, and tiny silver spoons. Next to land was a teapot. Same cherry blossom design as the teacups. Very neat. Organized.
Had she been expecting me?
“There might be a scone or two lurking about,” Novak murmured as she ransacked the cupboards.
“If you find some, I won’t say no.”
“Shouldn’t we be watching our waistline, Nikita?” She clacked her tongue. “You don’t want the camera to make you look heavy.”
What a bitch!
“Have you been checking me out?” I asked.
Turning her head, Novak shot me a mocking glance with arched brow. “Aren’t you the tease,” she fired back. “But I’m dead serious. We can’t afford any deviation from routine.”
“I’m asking for a scone. I’m not planning to down a bucket of ice cream.”
Novak located a pastry box. With a bright, “A-ha!” she handed me a scone on a plate. I thanked her. Nodding graciously, Novak poured tea for both of us. Then, hands on narrow hips, she asked:
“Why are you here?”
“I’ve come to you for fashion advice.”
Novak slammed both palms against the table. Tea splashed from cups. Hazel eyes blazed as she hissed, “Don’t fuck with me! There’s too much riding on this op. I want a straight answer and I want it now.”
“I murdered a man in cold blood. Murdered.”
Novak sighed. “Yes. I watched the replay. So? He busted your cherry, Nikita. In fifteen years on the force you chalked up zero kills. I’d say you were overdue.”
“Not like this.”
“You were authorized to employ lethal force. By us. That was a righteous shoot.”
“I fucked him. Then I killed him. That’s a pretty righteous fucking all right.”
“Please don’t go teary on us now. If you’re having pangs of conscience we’ll get you into therapy once the dust clears. Okay? You can blubber to someone who’s paid to hold your hand and answer every question by asking how it makes you feel.”
Issues much?
I nodded. Picked up the scone. It was blueberry buttermilk. Nibbling away I studied Novak.
She sipped her tea. Watching me for signs of a breakdown no doubt. When the doorbell rang, those hazel eyes flickered then narrowed to slits.
“Anyone know you were coming here?” demanded Novak. When I shook my head, she fired back, “Did you check for a tail? A GPS tracker on the car? On your phone?” Before I could answer, the bell rang again and Novak glared at me.
I shrugged. “Maybe I was worried about the costume and decided to check the fit with you. Normal girly stuff.”
Novak grunted. “Yeah. Maybe.” She bit her lip. “I’ll see who’s here.” Putting a finger to her lips, she smiled and left the room.
I listened to her footsteps creaking down the stairs. This was going to be fun.
◆◆◆
I heard the front door open. Voices. Then footsteps coming back up the stairs. More than one set. We had company.
Novak entered the apartment first. Behind her came Miranda Dobbs in rumpled navy pantsuit and yellow blouse. I smiled. The Captain wasn’t the sharpest dresser.
But I needed her now.
Dobbs came straight to me and shook my hand briskly. “Shelley,” she said. “Good to see you again.” Dobbs gave the apartment a quick glance-over. “Everything okay, my dear?”
Before I could answer, Novak said, “Shelley and I were just having a little snack. Care for tea and a scone, Miranda?” Without waiting for a response, she set another cup and plate on the table, tossed scone on plate and filled the cup. Then Novak sat and pointed at the chair across from her.
Dobbs stared into my eyes. Trying to tell me something? I shrugged. Dobbs, rolling her eyes, took the offered seat and reached for the scone.
There was a hiss. Then another. Dobbs slumped over, landing face first onto her untouched scone.
Uprooting the table, I dumped its contents into Novak’s lap. Then I charged using the table to pin her against the wall. That’s when I spotted the holstered semi-auto with attached suppressor. It was mounted under the table on a swivel.
Novak spat in my face. “You stupid bitch! Your buddy Dobbs is the fucking mole! She’s the one leaking intel to Sweet!” Novak nodded behind me. “You think she wouldn’t have ratted you out?” Novak paused. “Seriously. What did you think would happen here, Nikita? Dobbs and I go way back. She knows who and what I am. She’d have warned Sweet to protect herself. Besides, even if she wasn’t dirty, what would she have done? No cop wants to mess with Special Operations. That’s not a good career move.”
Novak was right. And I hated her for being right.
Holding the table with one hand I slapped Novak with the other. As her head bounced around I peeked behind me. Dobbs had fallen to the floor. She was choking. On blood I supposed.
I turned back to Novak. I tossed the table aside and grabbed her by the throat. Then dragged her with me to check on my boss.
Dobbs twisted her head to look up at us. She lay in a pool of dark red blood spreading rapidly over the floor. Her lips formed a gurgling sound that might’ve been “help me” but sounded like “bluh-bluh”.
Calling 911 was the right thing to do. But doing right could easily blow up in face. Let’s see. My mind had been digitally hijacked.
A gang boss kept me on speed dial like some exotic sex pet. And I’d killed a man in cold blood. All while doing the “right thing”.
Novak panted, “Ask her. Ask her if you don’t believe me.”
Dobbs gazed at me with pleading eyes. She tried to speak but all that came out of her mouth was blood.
Maybe ethics mattered in a perfect world. One ruled by logic and kindly intentions. But that wasn’t the world in which my ethically-challenged ass had landed.
I assessed the situation from a rational standpoint. Saving Dobbs looked problematic at best. She’d taken two 9 mm slugs in the gut and was bleeding out fast. If I called for an ambulance right now . . . if the paramedics got here in ten minutes or less . . . she might survive. But afterward? I could switch off the nanoplants to prevent Spec Ops from pulling the plug on me. But SpecOps could prove Crystal McCord had murdered Nikita Chen. And there was no way for me to prove I wasn’t McCord. There’d be serious jail time—assuming Sweet or SpecOps didn’t ice me first.
I looked down at Dobbs. She wasn’t moving. Novak suggested checking for a pulse.
I pushed Novak face first against the fridge and warned her to stand still. Then I tiptoed around the blood puddle, bent over Dobbs and placed two fingers on the carotid artery in her neck.
Nada.
Worm meat.
“She dead?” asked Novak in a casual tone.
“Yeah. She ‘dead’ all right.”
Novak turned around and faced me. “Okay. I’ll clean up here. You go back to Sweet’s.” Gazing down at my feet, Novak said, “Get a dishrag and wipe those shoes down. I think you stepped in something.”
◆◆◆
Later:
I drove to a mall parking lot and changed back to the clothes left in the trunk from my seawall run. Booty shorts, sports bra and trainers went into a donation bin. Would Sweet notice? I didn’t think so. Men check out women to see skin. Not what covers it.