Contract Killer Wins the Game

Another person in the car chuckled. "Just don't say that to the old man. He'll have your job and your head. But yeah, somethin's fucked up with his elevator, all right." This guy had an unnaturally low, rumbling voice. I imagined thug #2 as Paul Wight, Big Show from WWE.

"Can you fix it? I've an important meeting with Mr. Dread," said a third voice, a female one and one I recognized. I didn't have to use my imagination whatsoever. It belonged to a Times reporter named Cynthia Skye. I frowned. Undoubtably, Skye had been on her way to the penthouse for a "private parlay" with Mr. Dread, and of course, Skye would have scheduled such a meeting with Dread on the night the Ghost and I planned to storm Olympus and kill its god. I should have known circumstances would make themselves as complicated as humanly possible; nothing in life, especially in the life of a contract killer, comes easily.

It wasn't like I could find another elevator, and it wasn't like there was a place I could hide while Cindy and the men exited to the stairs and left the elevator wide open for me. No stairs led to Dread's penthouse. The only ways to get there was by this elevator or by helicopter, using the helipad on the roof. I had no choice but to kill these men and take the elevator. The only reason it was even here was that the Ghost had control of it.

"What the hell floor is this?" said Big Show.

"I think it's one of the hotel ones. Can you get ahold of Freddy?" replied Tyson.

A noncommittal grunt and then: "Intercom's not working. Get out and find a working one, will ya?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, if the system's actually down, I'll hafta shoe it up to the security floor and see what the fuck's up," Tyson whined.

I heard a gritty, shuffling sound as Tyson and Big Show pulled the doors open enough for Tyson to exit. I readied the box-cutter and coiled in the corner of the hallway beside the elevator. Tyson, who turned out to be much larger and whiter than I had expected, took a step out. His bald head gleamed in the dim hallway light, and he clearly didn't expect trouble as he did not bother to check the corners. Bad move. He didn't see me right away, so he had no chance.

I quickly moved behind him. With one hand, I unholstered the gun at his waist, and with the other, I slashed the box-cutter deep into the flesh of his throat under the jaw and yanked my hand across his neck. Blood spewed, and Tyson gargled and fell forward. Without slowing, I dropped the box-cutter, kicked it (in case Tyson wasn't all the way dead), clicked off the safety of the gun, swung to aim inside the elevator, and shot Big Show in the face as he attempted to come through the doors. He died without making a sound but a dull thud on the carpet. I glanced at the body. The dude was no Big Show. Not much of a show at all. I grabbed his armpits and pulled him out the car. I walked over and checked on Tyson. Super dead.

Cynthia didn't scream. I could see her pushing herself into the deepest corner of the car with a terrified grimace on her face. It took her a few moments to recognize me, and even when she did, she didn't wipe off the grimace right away. It had been a bad last two days for her-- in fact, a bad last three days if you counted the fact she had put Simeon Dread's dick in her mouth and sucked the cum out the day before yesterday. Yesterday hadn't been much better. Our copulation (Cynthia's and mine, not mine and Dread's, yee-ech!) had been mutually wanted-- at least before it was interrupted. She and I had been nearly killed by ski-masked men. However, I figured that Cynthia could comfort herself with the knowledge that when everything was said and done, she'd have a hell of a story for the paper.

She said, "We have to stop meeting like this."

I stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid closed behind me. I turned to the set of buttons beside the door and said, "What floor, miss?" Without waiting for the answer, I pressed the button for the penthouse, and the elevator shuddered and rose with a stomach-churning lurch. I figured it'd impress Cynthia that I'd gotten the elevator working, but you and I know that it did not suddenly work due to clever maneuvers by yours truly. Ame had most likely watched the entire scene from the feed of the security camera in the hallway and activated the car when she saw me enter through the doors.

"You're not going to kill me, are you?" Cynthia asked in a tone which told me that she honestly didn't know the answer to her question. I turned to her and raised my eyebrows. Cynthia Skye was intelligent, redheaded, ivory-skinned, beautiful, and frightened, a porcelain doll balanced on the edge of a quaking shelf. She said, "I saw you get into that limousine with Veronica Dread yesterday."

I shrugged. "Yeah, so?"

Cynthia's lips pressed together, and she seemed to be considering something, probably how much to tell me without revealing anything she shouldn't. Her red hair was down, pooling on her shoulders. She wore a simple gray shirt buttoned to the collar and white pants with a brown belt, but she wore them well. I wondered about her meeting with Dread. She didn't appear dressed to whore herself out to Dread for a story, but with Cynthia, you always got more than what was presented by her appearance. It only added to her charm.

Cynthia seemed to come to a decision about what to say, and she got talking: "Veronica Dread is embezzling from the Dread Foundation charities. I also suspect she was behind the death of one of Dread's bodyguards, Johnny Knox. Knox had been fired by Dread and was planning on using his knowledge of Veronica's embezzlement as collateral to win back his job."

I soaked up this information with a set expression, the infamous "poker face" of which Lady Ga-Ga sang so eloquently a few years back. Cynthia was right. Veronica was behind Knox's death. I knew this because I had been her tool of disposal. She had convinced me to proactively take out Knox as a way of protecting myself. Knox had attempted to place his own hit on me, perhaps as part of a two-pronged approach to re-attain his former position: kill me and blackmail Mrs. Dread. If Veronica had stolen money, this also gave her a reason for wanting Simeon dead, hence her attempted procurement of my services. If Simeon Dread discovered that Veronica was stealing from him, he'd either cut her off from her CEO duties for his foundation (best case scenario) or label her a liability and rid himself of her forever (worst case scenario). Veronica always got what she wanted, so to her, both options must have reeked of failure Her best strategy was to be rid of Dread and take over the whole empire as its Dark Queen.

"And you're planning on confronting Simeon Dread with this information?" I asked.

Cynthia nodded, and her emerald eyes quivered. She still looked worried. I decided to ease her mind and said, "Don't worry. I'm not colluding with Mrs. Dread."

"You just kill Dread's men for fun then," Cynthia retorted.

"No," I said. "I kill them, so they don't kill me. It's too bad that you walked into this."

She pressed herself against the wall of the elevator. She whispered, "So I ask again, are you going to kill me?"

"Don't be dramatic. Tell me about your meeting with Dread."

She sighed, then spoke: "You know that I began a relationship with Dread. Tonight I was going to secure his trust through this information about his wife. After Dread heard that I was involved at the attempted robbery at your club, he thought we should meet again."

I had wondered if Providence had dropped Cynthia Skye in this elevator with her tasty tidbits of revelation as a pure unbelievable and incidental coincidence. Now I realized the Fates weren't randomly handing me this information on a silver (make that red-headed) platter. It made sense for Cynthia to be here, and I should have expected it.

Now I wondered if Dread had any idea that his security had been compromised. If not, the appearance of Cynthia Skye could prove propitious. I turned and met Cynthia's concerned gaze. I said, "I think you're going to keep your appointment."

***

When the elevator doors opened, Cynthia stepped in Dread's penthouse and looked around. The vast, expensively-furnished foyer seemed to be empty and dark save for a single lighted lamp. I stayed in the car, but I heard Dread's voice, smooth yet forceful, call out from his study, "In here, Ms. Skye. You may leave my personnel in the car. They may consider themselves dismissed."

Cynthia turned to glance at me, and I gave her a nod. It sounded as if Dread had no idea his men were currently staining a hotel hallway carpet. This was to everyone's benefit since it meant the killing could be delayed-- for now.

Cynthia disappeared from sight, and I chanced a quick peek into the room. On cue, a shadow silently detached itself from the darkness, and as if she needed to continue to earn her nickname, the Black Ghost treaded like a cat towards me. For a moment, I could only see the gleam of her eyes, and then closer, her statuesque form could be seen, a slightly blacker outline in the gray light of the room. When the muffled voices of Cynthia and Dread could cover our own, Ame whispered, "Who is she?"

The materialization of the Ghost had sent my mind momentarily spinning. She had told me the only two access points to Dread's penthouse were the elevator and a stairwell leading to the roof. If this was truly the case then how did the Ghost get here? I suspected that a secret route led from Dread's quarters to the security floor; this would allow Dread to call in his private army in case of emergency but would be unknown to anyone who was out of the "need-to-know" loop. So did Ghost force this information from a guard, or was she somehow a part of the "need-to-know" loop? I suppressed these thoughts and answered her question.

"Cynthia Skye. She's with me. She'll distract Dread for us," I said in hushed reply.

"She can be trusted?"

"Only as much as you or I can be," I said. Ame smiled, her teeth gleaming as a Cheshire grin in the muted lamplight. I wanted to kiss her, but I was afraid she might bite me. Then she nodded which I took as her approval. Together, we moved through the room and towards Dread's study. Our footsteps were quiet, padded brushes of carpet. A thin spear of light glowed from the cracked door and crossed the floor, and as we approached it, the conversation between Cynthia and Dread grew in volume and clarity.

"... is most interesting," Dread was saying. "I appreciate you bringing such information to light. I must admit, I have had my own suspicions and had hoped to make my own internal investigation. I suppose that as a seasoned professional, you have no choice but to bring this dark secret into the light of day." He had the kind of voice which could lull you to sleep while he narrated how he would kill you if you made the mistake of doing so.

Cynthia replied, "I suppose I could be coerced out of publication. Unless you wanted to keep our relationship purely professional."

I gave Ame a look, smiled, and mouthed the word, "Distraction."

"My dear, I believe our relationship to be a perfect combination of professional and pleasurable." Then came a short but meaningful pause. "Come across this desk and let us continue it," Dread said. I had to give Skye credit. Dread hadn't even bothered to pretend to resist Cynthia under some false pretense of morality. I knew better than anyone that Ms. Cynthia Skye could make herself irresistible when she wanted.

Cynthia was no slut, and she didn't have to sleep with Dread to further her career. Like any femme fatale worth her salt, she simply understood that sex was an incomparable tool to utilize on and against men. She could use her body as bait, as a reward, or for humiliation and blackmail. If you want to throw morality into the mix then you're just muddying the waters. It's easy to get on your high horse and preach. Go for it. And keep on preaching until your voice gives out while you watch everyone else get ahead in life.

I positioned myself so that I could see into the study without breaking the bar of light which issued from the crack of the door. To do so would be the easiest way of catching Dread's attention and then his ire. I had no interest in attracting his ire. Then I considered that the Ghost and I had already disabled his security measures and taken out several of his guards. Maybe his ire wouldn't be so bad. It'd be like being attacked by an angry shark whose teeth had all been pulled out (by an extremely careful shark dentist, I can only assume). Still, I didn't want to chance it. When attempting to assassinate a criminal kingpin, I'd advise caution.

Tall shelves lined three walls of the room, and leather-bound books filled them from wall-to-wall. I doubted Dread had the time to have read any of these books. A bar comprised the fourth wall, the shelves stocked with bottles rather than books. The last time I had been in that room, I'd had to duck behind the counter of the bar while the Tuxedo brothers and the Black Ghost shot at me. Bottles had exploded, showering me in a foamy, alcoholic rain like one of Charlie Sheen's fantasies coming to life.

Also, the last time I'd been in the room, there was no desk. Presently, a massive and ornate mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, and it was on this desk that Cynthia Skye lay.

Dread was in the midst of unbuttoning her shirt. When finished, he slipped the shirt over her milky shoulders and admired his work, looking down on her with voracious eyes. He smiled, and it was a wolf's grin. With one hand, Cynthia unlatched her dark gray bra, and with the other, she pulled Dread's head between her newly-freed breasts. She leaned back, her hair brushing the desk top, and purred. Nothing appeared to be on the desk but her. I couldn't help if Dread had bought it to use solely as a "fuck desk". When I had been in the room with him, Dread seemed content with only two chairs in true pseudo-minimalist fashion. Yes, I know that's an oxymoron, but that was Dread. He enjoyed being two things at once, especially opposites, whenever possible. For example, Dread presented himself as a ridiculously wealthy, well-educated man but now sucked and licked Cynthia Skye's breasts like a horny fourteen-year-old, all of his careful self composure tossed away as though it were as needless as a used cigarette butt out of a car window.

For the record, Cynthia has fabulous breasts, and any man would morph into a fourteen-year-old when faced with them. After Dread's attention, they gleamed with wet saliva.

Like a true villain, Dread had no time for foreplay. He fumbled with his belt, and his pants dropped to his ankles. His purple-headed, swollen member protruded from a set of silver silk boxers like the head and neck of Nessie poking out of Loch Ness. He aimed it at Cynthia and reached out to peel off her white pants. Cynthia coaxed more of Dread out of his boxers by stroking him with one hand as she bent her legs and twisted to help him free her of her pants.

Ame's right hand came from behind me and suddenly went to my chest and began to rub me. I looked at her and she put her index finger over her lips to silence me. She took her hand away from her mouth moved it to my crotch where it began to manipulate me into hardness. While I had no issue with the potential pleasure that Ame's attentions offered, her motive became suspect. I didn't think Ame would waste time on a... oh, yes, she had a hand-job in mind, I observed as her hand slipped underneath my coveralls... unless she was totally confident that we would not be interrupted and that Dread was completely distracted. I couldn't help but wonder if she had something up her sleeve (other than my dick). Trust me, my paranoia has served me well in life.

I kept my eyes on Dread and Cynthia, partly because they needed to be watched in case things went badly and partly because you can't take your eyes off Cynthia Skye. Her hands gripped the ends of the desk, and her hair spilled over its side like a swishing auburn waterfall. Dread had her legs curled over his shoulders and her breasts cupped in each of his hands. His eyes bulged wide as he pumped into Cynthia. It was a wonder he didn't give himself a brain aneurism. He thrust like a piston on speed. His skin turned redder than Cynthia's hair; veins strained in his neck. A loud, rhythmic clapping resounded through the room over Cynthia's soft moans and Dread's primal grunts.

Ame stroked me with a swift, fluid motion that made my entire body go tight. She worked me out of my clothing, and I could feel the cool breeze of air conditioning on the heat emanating from my erection. I kept my eyes open, but it was an effort to keep them from rolling into the back of my head. Her wrist increased its speed, and her fingers tightened their grip. Her thumb kept brushing and rubbing against the head of my penis.

I figured Dread must not be receiving the satisfaction he needed from his wife or that Veronica saved her kinky side for impromptu encounters during limousine rides. Dread attacked sex the way that one would attack a most-hated enemy: with unrelenting force and anger. Cynthia's entire body rippled from the impact of his thrusts while Dread's skin bloomed a shade darker, from red to near-purple. He had gnashed his teeth in a hideous crocodilian grin, and spittle flew around them, peppering Cynthia with a foamy spray.

Ame worked me into a silent frenzy. Just when I thought my body couldn't get any tighter, I exploded into hot, thick streams which softly pattered the white carpet outside Dread's study. I didn't think it would stop; spray-after-spray erupted from me, and while I tried to contain it, my body shivered. I allowed my eyes to close, just for a moment, then opened them when I realized my climax had yet to end. Finally, Ame slowed, and I trickled to empty. I glanced at the gleaming mess on the floor. It felt right that I would leave my mark there.

"Sorry," Ame breathed into my ear. "Needed you to finish before Dread did."

In a moment, Ame tucked me into my coveralls and zipped me closed. She nodded, and I returned it. Together, we moved into Dread's study. Ame held a silenced gun in her hand and fired once. It made a muffled thwip sound. The overhead light shattered; the room went dark; and the ugly sounds of Dread and Skye's copulation abruptly ceased. Cynthia squealed, and I heard a thick, syrupy sound which I assumed to be Dread disengaging himself from the redhead.

"Guards!" Dread called in a voice that was the closest I'd ever heard him to panic, but we all knew it would be to no avail.

From the time I entered the room, I never stopped moving. Dread had wasted time, frozen in shocked stupor, and I circled behind him before he had managed to take either a figurative or literal step towards the thought of escape. Probably, the guy had never previously experienced the feeling of being caught by surprise. One could almost feel sorry for him, but I didn't. I wrapped one hand around his neck, another around his chest, and pulled him back into his chair, pinning him there like a spider in a display case.

I couldn't see but felt the presence of the Ghost and her gun, covering Dread through the darkness and ready to spit death at us. I was aware that she could shoot me as easily as Dread; I positioned myself so that Dread's body shielded mine with the unfortunate exception of my arms and hands which held him in the chair. I had no choice if I were to keep Dread restrained.

"Checkmate," I uttered so only Dread could hear. I could feel Dread stiffen. No doubt he recognized my voice.

Before he had a chance to respond, Ame's words cut through the black shadows, "Ms. Skye, get out while you can."

I heard the rustle of clothing and footsteps thudding away and out of the door. A moment later, the sound of the elevator doors opening then closing and the mechanical sound of the car departing. Ame said, "And now it's just us merry murderers."