by H E Johnson
Driving back to the club I replayed those frantic minutes between Dobbs getting shot and my hasty departure from the scene. Watched it again and again like a bad movie trailer. I’d witnessed one corrupt cop murdering another to protect an illegal op. Working Cybercrime hadn’t prepared me for this. Scammers and pedos were nasty lowlifes but the body count was way lower.
It occurred to me that Novak might’ve lied. That those good folk at SpecOps were the real ‘bad guys’. Hadn’t they’d let McCord kill me and then rewired her brain with my neural imprint—all in the name of public safety? If that wasn’t bad, what was?
As I sought to untangle this web of schemes and counter-schemes, a speeding SUV cut me off. I jammed on the brakes to avoid a collision. The SUV ran a red light and careened around the next corner.
Whoever was in the SUV wasn’t chasing me. He or she was just another random asshole in a city full of assholes. Go figure.
Heart pounding I pulled over and tried to chill. There was too much going on for me to process.
I was dead but not dead. I was working deep cover—really deep cover—inside another woman’s body and fucking that woman’s gangster boyfriend. I had murdered a man in cold blood and let a fellow officer die without rendering aid. And now I was prepping to battle a couple of kidnap victims in a fight to the death. Doing all of this, mind you, in exchange for a promised fresh start in yet another woman’s body. Some innocent civilian with no rap sheet would get her brain renovated with me as the new tenant.
A knock brought me out of this pleasantries. I turned to find a cop peering at me through the passenger-side window. Shit. Where had he come from? A glance in the rearview showed a patrol car. Another cop sat inside it. But no flashing lights. No service weapons drawn.
This was a routine stop. They’d spotted an adult female sitting in a car on a dark street in the middle of the night. They’d think what I’d be thinking.
Drunk? High? Hooking?
“Ma’am?” Traffic cop. Young. Male. Nice voice. Probably a year out of academy. There’d be senior backup in the patrol car. “Everything okay?”
I rolled down the window. “Fine, officer.” I gave him my sunniest smile. “I was just out for a drive and got myself lost. Did I do something wrong?”
Cop Junior shook his head and said no. He asked where I was going, so I gave. him McCord’s home address. Cop Junior smiled and offered directions which I repeated back to him.
Clearing his throat he added, “Uh, this isn’t the safest neighbourhood to park at night.” His eyes brushed ever-so-casually over me and the car’s interior. Doing a routine check for guns bottles and dead bodies. I saw Junior’s eyes widen as he took in my muscled bod. Maybe having FTW on my T-shirt didn’t help things. FTW or “Fuck The World” was a common biker tattoo.
Junior edged backward a hair. Was he going to do something stupid?
Please don’t.
He told me to have a good night. I watched him walk back to the patrol car. As Junior got in I pulled out and turned right as per the directions he’d provided. Didn’t pay to do otherwise. They’d sized me up for a second look. And I couldn’t blame them. It’s not every day you find a specimen like Crystal McCord loitering in an urban warzone at night.
As expected I ran into the patrol car again. This time they were headed in the opposite direction. It was such a typically cop ploy that I couldn’t resist smiling.
Griffin’s voice burst into my head.
“Fucking hell!” he ranted. “You stupid bitch! What were you thinking? Were you thinking?”
The noise level made me wince. I told him to lower his voice. He said okay. Then asked me to explain why I’d led Dobbs to Novak.
“Insurance,” I replied. “I thought Dobbs could keep Novak honest. That if someone outside SpecOps knew what was going down, I’d have a fighting chance of surviving this shitstorm.” I sighed. In retrospect, my plan had proven amateurish at best. “Looks like I miscalculated. Hey, Griff?”
“Yeah?”
“Dobbs was feeding intel to Sweet?”
“That’s what Novak says. Wolseley wasn’t so sure.”
I stopped for a red light. Took a moment to digest this nugget. Griffin was right. Novak had been the one pushing me to attend that memorial service. She’d counted on Dobbs recognizing McCord and any of Sweet’s crew that showed up. It had been a trap designed to catch Dobbs. But Dobbs hadn’t taken the bait.
The light changed to green. I did a quick U-turn back in the direction of Sweet’s club.
Either Dobbs or Novak were dirty. Neither scenario felt good. With Dobbs gone, I was stuck with Novak. Also not good.
“Griff?”
He yawned. “Still here. Wolseley’s gone to help Novak clean up. So I’ll be the voice in your head for the next little while.”
I thought of Miranda Dobbs getting chainsawed into manageable portions and stuffed into bags. She’d be fed chunk by chunk into dumpsters spread around the city.
I forced the image out of my head. Wallowing was counterproductive.
Focus, Nikita.
I asked, “What made Novak suspect Dobbs was the mole?”
“Your friend Helga? Used to be one of Dobbs’ CIs. Ten or fifteen years ago. Dobbs was still in Vice and Helga worked a rub-and-tug. Anyway. Helga knows one of Sweet’s crew. Intimately. Novak figured Dobbs was using Helga as a cutout to give intel to Sweet.”
My head spun. Helga had been a confidential informant. Fucking one of the crew? Which one? Big Boy? Federov? Surely not Epstein. And my old boss Dobbs had wanted McCord dead. But why?
Griffin anticipated my question and didn’t wait to be asked. “Novak thinks your captain was working with a DEAD4U copycat. Plan was to get rid of Madam Crunch and level the playing field. So when Helga spotted you with the crew, she passed the news on to Dobbs.” He paused. “We couldn’t tell you any of this, Nikita. You were Dobbs’ friend. You might’ve felt obligated to warn her off.”
The puzzle pieces were falling into place now. No wonder Wolseley hadn’t wanted Helga dead. She could link Dobbs to Sweet. SpecOps had planned to threaten Helga with jail time for criminal conspiracy. Then leverage her to nail Dobbs. Meanwhile I’d be getting the goods on Sweet. Two for one. And a massive win for SpecOps.
Then the larger implications of this hit me. SpecOps hadn’t drawn Nikita Chen’s name from a hat. Novak and Co. had targeted me. They’d stage-managed my investigation then orchestrated my murder. All to place me undercover with Sweet’s crew.
“Where are you going now?” asked Griffin. “Back to the club?”
“Where else?” I snapped.
Party Time
I parked behind the club. Darlene the bartender stood beside the open rear entrance puffing laconically on an e-cig. She watched me get out of the Jeep. Eyes narrowed to slits. There was no mistaking that look. She’d had a thing with Sweet and I’d gotten in the way. Well, McCord had. And I wore the face of the enemy.
Walking past her, I brushed against her shoulder. She was in good shape. Built like a sprinter. Despite those XL boobs and butt the bitch felt solid. Not in my league—well, McCord’s league—but I could understand Sweet’s attraction to her.
And how did I feel about that? Hmm. Jealous?
A bit. Maybe.
I walked through a scrum of lowlifes to the door leading upstairs. It was locked. Duh. I looked at the iris scanner. It had to be switched on electronically before it would scan. I’d watched Big Boy do it. Sweet too. So my eyeballs should be on file as well. That meant I’d have the code on McCord’s phone.
Except—duh—I’d left the phone under a cushion upstairs in Sweet’s apartment. From which I was now locked out. A simple dumbass mistake that could get me killed if Sweet suspected I’d turned.
“Something wrong Crystal?”
I turned to find the bartender behind me. She smiled that fakey-fake smile that women use to piss off their rivals. I was tempted to give her a good dose of Madam Crunch but thought better
of it. I needed help. I couldn’t afford to be picky about its source.
Then I remembered something crucial. McCord worked for Sweet. He paid her a salary to manage the club. Textbook money-laundering, of course, but the ruse would need to hold up under scrutiny by the tax authorities. Which was all the edge I need in this particular sitch.
I gave Darlene my own version of the fakey-fake smile. Alarmed she took a step back. I explained that I’d left my phone upstairs and needed her to turn on the scanner.
Darlene glared at me. “You know damn well Sweet changed the code after we split up. Only ones who get it are his buddies plus whatever he’s fucking at the moment.”
I shrugged.
“Sorry. PMS makes me crazy. I forget stuff you know?”
Darlene sniffed. She nodded at a corner table. Big Boy was on duty. He was eating noodles from a takeout box. A half-empty glass of mineral water garnished with lime wedge sat in front of him. Dead eyes rotated in my direction. He seemed surprised to see me.
I went over to him. Seeing this, Big Boy stood and moved toward me. That wide torso brushed aside a couple chairs in his path. They fell with a dull thud on the carpet.
I pictured Eddie “Big Boy” Tilo copulating with Helga the Snitch in a low-budget monster movie. Tokyo and my mind would never be the same.
“Everything okay Crystal?” the giant rumbled. I caught a whiff of spice. Pad Thai? He looked around. “Does the boss want something?”
I shook my head and explained my predicament. When he heard that I’d been driving around on my own, those shark eyes widened.
“What the fuck Crystal! You got a fight in two days!”
Clamping a monstrous fist around my right bicep Big Boy waltzed me across the room to the scanner. En route a drunk cab driver advised us to get a room. Big Boy swatted him away with a casual backhanded slap. The blow propelled the cabbie into a tableful of off-duty hookers who began slugging him with purses and bottles. The cabbie slipped unconscious to the floor.
Darlene went back behind the bar. She watched Big Boy switch on the scanner and push me eyeball-first at the screen. It beeped twice and the door unlocked with the slightest of clicks.
“Nighty night,” she called out. “Give Sweet my love.”
The whores got a huge yuk out of this. One glance from me shut them up. Straightening my shoulders, I walked through the entrance.
◆◆◆
As soon as the door closed behind me I bent and removed the combat boots. Then, footwear in hand, I climbed that cast-iron staircase. Trying to do this noiselessly wasn’t easy for a woman McCord’s size.
It had been so much easier during my teen years. Sneaking home late from parties had been a breeze for young Nikita Chen. I smiled at those long-ago memories. The rub of nipples still hard from being mercilessly tongued. Panties wet from a probing finger or two. Boozy breath. Bloodshot eyes dilated from smoking cannabis.
Climbing I remembered Dobbs. Her blood would still be on the shoes in my hand. Wiping the shoes at JJ’s couldn’t have removed all trace evidence. A good bleaching might do that. Maybe.
But I’d never be free of the memory. The way Dobbs had gazed up at me. The fear in her eyes, pleading for my help. I could still see that crimson puddle oozing from beneath her. A cold shudder travelled up and down my spine.
Then:
“Crystal.”
I looked up. Sweet stood at the top of the stairwell. Above him, the domed skylight haloed his head with a luminous sliver of moon. Sweet’s mouth was set in a hard line. The hard planes of his face were chiselled in cold black granite.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He gave a dismissive shrug. “Forget it. Just come back to bed. You need your sleep.”
He waited for me as I climbed the stairs. He was naked. A sizeable erection told me what he wanted. Sweet took the boots from my hand. Gave them a quizzical glance. Taking my elbow he guided me to the four-poster bed in the centre of the loft. I started to strip but Sweet took my hands and shook his head. He began removing my clothes. Socks first. T-shirt next, followed by shorts. Then the sports bra. He took his time with the panties. Licking his lips as he pulled them down my legs to the floor. As I stepped out of them he pushed me down onto the bed.
When Sweet grabbed my left arm, I knew what was coming but didn’t resist. Could I have? Of course! As Crystal McCord I was stronger than him. A simple bear hug would’ve snapped his spine. But killing Sweet wouldn’t stop DEAD4U. It figured that someone like Federov would take over Feliks would find another muscled psycho with boobs. And I’d be stuck in Crystal McCord’s body. Staring at life in prison.
Sweet hummed as he attached my wrists and ankles to padded leather cuffs. I thought that would be it, but I’d missed one of the bedframe’s attachments. It was a studded collar—same black leather as the cuffs—pinning my head flush against the mattress. An index finger traced the collar’s outline on my throat. The finger went to my lips. Tapping gently.
“Someone’s been naughty,” he said. Then he showed me the cell phone I’d left stuffed under a sofa cushion. “Naughty and careless.”
Unbuckling the left ankle cuff from its bedpost Sweet hauled my left leg straight up. I watched the cuff dangle above me. The strap was adjustable. Sweet tightened it a couple of notches. Still humming. Then, using both hands, he pulled the restraint toward my left wrist and clipped it to that bedpost anchor.
“This will be fun,” he promised.
Sweet kept humming as he worked on my right leg. When he was done he stood at the foot of the bed to admire his handiwork.
I lay cuffed to the bed. Legs fanned wide overhead. Cunt and ass open for inspection. He took his time inspecting both crevices. Hands probed hidden depths with clinical precision. I felt my body respond. Juices flowed to ease the passage of thick fingers. Waiting for hot throbbing flesh to fill those holes.
But Sweet wasn’t done. Not yet.
Squatting he rummaged below the bed. I heard something open and close again. When Sweet stood up he was holding a leather band. I saw something shiny. Metal. As he approached me I recognized the device from my work in Cybercrime. It was an open-mouth gag with dual “O” rings for deep throating.
Fuck.
Sweet released the neck collar first. This allowed him to slip the gag’s strap under my head. Then he reattached the collar to keep my head still.
Sweet smiled. “Say ‘ah’ baby.”
I shook my head. I didn’t mind a light spanking now and again. But I had serious gagging issues. No way was I putting that thing in my mouth.
He asked me if I needed something to loosen up. Nitrous? Weed? Injectables?
“No!” I protested. My pussy clenched at the notion of being drugged and helpless for someone’s pleasure. “I can keep my mouth open. Really.”
Sweet shook his head slowly. “We do it this the easy way or the hard way. You can wash down a few bennies with a shot or two of tequila. Or I can get Big Boy in here to pry open your mouth.” He leaned over, putting his face mere inches from mine. “What’s it gonna be huh?”
I told him I wanted a double shot with a squeeze of lime. Sweet told me that was a good choice. With that, he left for the kitchen. I heard a cupboard door open, then another, followed by the fridge. Cutlery drawer. After that came a clink of metal on glass.
Sweet returned with a tumbler of watery green liquid and a plastic bag filled with white pills. He threw the bag onto my stomach. Then he unlatched the collar so I could raise my head slightly. He fished three tablets out of bag and put them into my mouth. Then Sweet held the glass to my lips, pouring. tiny dribbles of tequila over my tongue The liquor made me feel nice and warm all over. Sweet asked if I wanted more. I said yeah, why not? So he went and fetched another glassful of tequila and lime. I drank it down greedily, smacking my lips. When it was gone, I had a pretty decent buzz. I even managed a smile as Sweet slid the gag into my mouth and slipped a leather blindfold over my eyes.
He patted me on the belly. “Let’s give it thirty minutes. Okay? Bennies should kick in by then.” I felt his breath on my face. “I’ll be right back, Crystal. Try to relax, huh?”
With those words of wisdom, he fastened the collar around my neck and walked away. I listened to his receding footsteps. Feeling . . . fear? Excitement? Both I supposed. The metal O-rings pressing down on my tongue heightened the sensation of helplessness.
That Madame Crunch might need release from her own strength was a concept that hadn’t occurred to me. It made me wonder what else I hadn’t known about the woman.
In the distance a door opened and closed.
◆◆◆
There I was. Left alone to stare into the darkness of that blindfold. Trussed and splayed like a piece of meat. Slickness dripped from pussy over perineum sliding down to Chocolate Central. I tried not to think about any of that. Which was impossible. Filling the gaping void between my legs was all I could think about. And that I supposed was the point being made here.
Those four shots of tequila sloshed in my belly like a liquid time bomb. And the bennies hadn’t even kicked in yet. What had Sweet said? Give it thirty minutes? I’d never taken benzedrine or any of the other amphetamines. But apparently McCord liked mixing them with tequila. And I was in her body. So no worries right? Still . . .
I knew combining amphetamines and alcohol was a no-no. It fucked with your body and your brain. Maybe McCord’s system could handle this shit. Or maybe not.
I took a couple deep breaths. Okay. This sort of thing was probably normal for McCord. Perhaps she enjoyed being shackled ankle-to-wrist with legs spreadeagled overhead. Lots of perfectly normal people engaged in bondage these days. Even soccer moms did it!
But I didn’t. In fact, this particular arrangement reminded me of a yoga posture I used to do: the Plough. My yoga teacher had insisted on a wide-legged variation of this pose. That posture had been a major factor in my decision to quit yoga and take up running. Looking up my butthole had seemed a bit undignified.