Contract Killer Wins the Game

I interjected, "Veronica and the Ghost struck some kind of deal. Their deal, too, went sour."

"Ah, yes, the latest Dread Tower fiasco. Exploding helicopters, bullet-riddled corpses. The kind of headlines that truly stimulate the imagination. I thought it sounded like your work. Or that of the Black Ghost. However, the Ghost usually goes for statements a bit more subtle."

I shrugged. "She was the one who blew up the helicopter."

Pops sniffed, then continued, "With the Dreads in such a state of confusion, I decided it was time to clean house, including my own. I needed you to have a clear head or, worst case, take yourself out of the picture altogether. So I had Sheila kidnapped, knowing that you would inevitably expect the Dreads to be behind it. I hired some out-of-town help to distract you and pick up the girl. They were clumsy but completed both jobs albeit at the loss of too much life.

"As expected, you let your emotions guide you to the Dreads where you took care of both of them for me. My hope was that you'd come to your senses, realize that the girl, Sheila, was a mistake, and we could live happily ever after atop the smoldering ruins of the Dread empire." He sighed. "This does not appear to be the happy ending for which I had hoped."

His story connected enough dots for me to complete the picture. I still had questions, but they could only be answered by the Ghost as to specifics of her schemes with Veronica and Simeon. In other words, those questions could wait, and honestly, they had little to do with me. Answering them would merely satisfy my curiosity, and we all know what that did to the cat.

I had only more question that needed answering: "Is she alive?"

Pops' eyes narrowed. My fixation on Sheila clearly bothered him. He probably expected that he had raised me better (read: worse) than that. I watched one of his fingers slither towards the remote. What was he going to do? Hit a button and send for his goons, my so-called friends? Hit a button and send a couple thousand volts out of the couch like some kind of James Bond villain? Hit a button and torture me with more reality shows? I decided that I didn't want to find out. But I had to hear his answer first.

"She's alive," he said, and then his mouth twisted into a sneer. "I am having her re-programmed as a whore since she does the job so well for free. Might as well make some mo-"

His finger twitched; my arm flew up, and my finger twitched, too. Little more than a grayish-blue blur, I couldn't tell what it was, but the safety was off and it was loud. I rolled forward as I fired. Simultaneously, a wood panel popped out of the wall, and a shotgun barrel blasted into the cushions where I had been sitting, exploding stuffing into the air.. So that's what the button on the remote did.

Pops' chair tipped backwards. It thudded. Pops' brains tipped out of his skull and splattered on the carpet. Stuffing from the couch cushions fluttered softly down like snow. As far as our duel, the point went to youth. I was faster, and Pops was dead-er.

A door knob turned, and I put two shots through the door to discourage the person behind it. I had no idea where my father's men's allegiances would lie, and I had no interest in spending time working it out with them.

I figured I had bought a few extra seconds and went to the body. I rifled through Pops' pockets and took his cell. I checked for recent calls and found only one "unknown" number which had been called multiple times over the last two days. The number was a classic case of good news/bad news. The good news was that I recognized it. The bad news is that it belonged to Cynthia Skye.

With a frown, I stuffed the cell into one of my own pockets and prepared to shoot my way out of my childhood home.

***

I exited with little fanfare. No one seemed to know what was going on or what do to. No one but me. I knew what to do, and I did it. I got the hell out of there.

At this point, nothing should have surprised me, and it wouldn't have, except for Cynthia Skye seeming so sincere, so true, since I had met her. Yes, I knew that she wasn't totally forthcoming, nor did I expect her to be. Yet I had a hard time believing that she could or would have kept something from me like her working for my dad or having anything to do with Sheila's kidnapping.

On deeper thought, it made sense that she'd be connected to Pops, maybe even be on Pops' payroll. She was an A-list crime reporter for arguably the biggest paper in the city. To whom would it be better to feed a few dollars, so that she'd gloss over any potentially nasty business involving the old man or his associates? If she worked for Pops, this might be yet another reason she had "happened" upon me at Dread Tower the night of the shootout: she was keeping tabs on me. This would also explain why she was so quick to become bedfellows with Simeon Dread: she was keeping tabs on him, too. It made sense. She may have even been a planned part of Pops' distraction for me at The Deep End. Why hadn't I seen it sooner?

Because like Sheila, like Veronica, like Amunet, Cynthia Skye was hot, and I had made a habit of thinking with my dick a bit too much lately. In their own individual ways, each of those women had played me, and I had liked it.

Maybe Pops was right. Maybe I was a weak link.

Only Pops was dead; the Dreads were dead; Sheila was kidnapped; and the Ghost had flown the coop. Only Cynthia remained a threat... if she even proved to be one. Clearly, I was not the weakest of the bunch.

I had spent a memorable evening at Cynthia's apartment. I remembered the way and went there. I parked a block away and walked to her building. It was a misty night, and my face was wet when I approached the doorman, a dude so ingratiating it bored on irritating. He was a dough-faced fat-ass who remembered me and had no attack of conscience when I slipped him a Franklin to let me in the building without alerting Cynthia. I told him I wanted to surprise her on her birthday. He didn't ask me why I was dressed like a repairman. He just nodded and babbled something about how he'd thought it was her birthday, what with all the extra guests heading up to her apartment over the last couple of days. I headed to the elevator with him still babbling at my back. I expected the doorman to buzz Cynthia behind me and let her know I was coming. This guy had a cushy job and probably didn't want to lose it, but there was always a chance he'd hold off in the hopes of earning more extra cash in the future.

When I got to Cynthia's apartment, I knocked on the door, and I didn't recognize the guy who answered. I punched him hard in the gut, then chopped the back of his neck when he doubled over. He crumpled. I disarmed him, shoved the chump aside, and stepped into room. It was as huge and as white and as sanitized as I remembered it, and Cynthia was in the middle of it. She sat upright on the long, psuedo-ivory-framed, white-cushioned couch where we had spent some quality time not so long ago.

"Thank god," she said, and she looked genuinely relieved. Her hair was wet, and she wore loose-fitting, crimson silk pajamas. She stood up and walked towards me, and I tensed. Cynthia paused. Then she nodded. "Of course, you don't trust me. Relax. They've got her in the bedroom. I'll help you. I was never a part of this. I just occasionally traded information with your father to our mutual benefit, nothing more. These guys burst in this morning, saying they needed to move Sheila and that this was the last place you'd expect to see her. Said they'd pay me to keep my mouth shut. I had no idea they'd torture her, and there's no way I'd keep quiet about it. I think they plan on killing me when they're through."

The words came fast, but they sounded sincere. Cynthia appeared earnest. On the other hand, she had sounded sincere and appeared earnest from the start, so I wasn't sure if I believed her anymore. The part about torture, though. I remembered what Pops had said about reprogramming Sheila, about turning her into a whore. They were trying to break her spirit so that they could humiliate Sheila for the rest of what could only be a very pathetic life. I felt my pulse quicken.

Cynthia said, "Here." She put out her hand. "You can trust me. Let me prove it to you." I hesitated. I thought about her at The Deep End, fighting side-by-side with me through a troop of ski-masked motherfuckers. I thought about what she had just said, that she had worked with the old man by trading information. Could I take the chance that she'd shoot me in the back? But why would she wait until now to kill me when she'd had plenty of chances already? I went with my gut and gave her a gun, the one I'd taken from the clueless chump at the door. It had a silencer, and I watched the barrel, making sure it didn't swing my way. I kept my own gun trained on her just in case.

Cynthia padded over to the downed bad guy, knelt, and put a bullet in the base of his neck. The body twitched. She looked at the body and spat, "Asshole." Then she turned to me. "Happy now?" The top of her silk pajamas hung low and open, and I could see the ivory swell of her left breast.

I swallowed. "I don't know if I'd say happy," I said.

We made our way to the bedroom. Outside the door, Cynthia glanced at me and whispered, "Two guys. The skinny one is the boss, he does the torturing. The bigger one is muscle. I'll take the..."

"I'll take them both," I interrupted. "Stay right behind me in case I need you."

I tried the door. Unlocked. I didn't want to scare them and have them kill Sheila on accident. Nor did I want to ruin a chance at surprise. I'd go as quickly and stealthily as possible. I wouldn't kick but swing the door open and take them down, one-two. I held my breath. Twisted the knob.

I heard Sheila squeal behind the door. They were hurting her.

I flung myself forward into the bedroom. The door flew open. Cynthia's skinny guy was sitting beside the bed. Some kind of metal tool was in his hand, and sparks flickered at the end of it. I fired. He went into the dresser behind him and shattered a mirror over it. Big guy was faster. He didn't go for his gun. He went right for me. I barely registered Sheila on the bed before the guy hit me like a charging rhino. I felt myself lifted off my feet and carried out of the room, and I smashed into the hall wall behind me. I made a man-sized hole in it. Framed pictures rattled and fell along with plenty of plaster. An enormous hand enclosed over my wrist and twisted. A knee shot up and hit me in the lower thigh, thankfully missing my nuts by centimeters. The hand on my wrist bent it backwards. I lost the grip on my gun. I dropped it. I extended my knees, speared upwards, and drove the top of my skull into the bottom of the big guy's chin. I heard his teeth crunch, but he kept his grip. He grabbed my shoulder with his free hand and swung me into the wall.

I landed on some kind of vase which exploded into porcelain shards under me. Needless to say, it didn't do much to break my fall. I scurried to my knees and saw the big guy coming for me. He staggered, stumbled, grabbed at his neck. He turned. This time I heard the thwip of the gun as Cynthia fired it into him. She stood in the hallway and held the gun in a two-handed grip. Backlit by the hall light, she looked like a lost scene from Charlie's Angels. The original television series, of course, not those awful movies. The big guy took a step towards her, then another. Cynthia fired again, but the guy didn't stop. He was shrugging off bullets like they were bee stings.

I grabbed the biggest, most jagged shard of vase I could see and leapt at the guy. I brought the shard down hard and into his neck. A jet of blood spurted from the wound and painted the white wall a bright, shiny red. He grabbed me by the neck and flung me upside down and over him. I landed face up on the carpet, and my breath whooshed out of my lungs. I watched as the big guy snatched the vase shard and ripped it out of his neck. A thicker, darker gush of blood sprung from the wound and splashed the ceiling, but the guy didn't go down. It was like finding yourself in some kind of terrible horror movie come to life. The big guy lifted his foot. He was going to stomp my face and squash my skull to jelly. This was not how I had guessed my day would end.

Instead of bringing down his foot,the big guy staggered and placed a hand against the wall to maintain his balance. The blood kept spurting from his neck but not as strongly. Then he flailed backwards and collapsed in a heap. I waited, coiled to attack. He didn't move. I pulled myself to my feet. From his position on the floor, the big guy's eyes looked back at me but through me, at nothing. There was no life in them now.

Over the past twenty four hours, I had scaled the peak of Dread Tower, dodged machine gun bullets and a crashing helicopter, and watched my arch enemies die. I had discovered that my own father wanted me dead and had been forced to commit patricide before he'd made me so. I had fought my way through the greatest conflict of my life and emerged victorious-- only to be nearly brained by a mountain of a man in the denouement.

"I think it's time for a career change," I panted.

Cynthia led me into the bedroom, and we freed Sheila from the restraints on the bed. It looked like she'd been tied with climbing rope and duct tape and a real amateur job at that, but other than the expected chaffing on her wrists and ankles, she didn't appear to be in such bad shape. She still wore a white shirt and khakis, her uniform for her uncle's grocery (minus the green apron that normally went over her clothes). I didn't see any marks on her body. Maybe the skinny guy had been told not to leave anything that would show. Sheila seemed groggy, most likely drugged, but aware. I placed my hand alongside her face. Her skin felt warm but not too warm. She looked up at me and smiled.

"I knew you'd come," she said, breathlessly. I imagined Cynthia rolling her eyes next to me, but at that moment, I didn't care. Sheila was the only thing that mattered. Pops had believed that she had made me a weak link, but the truth was that Sheila made me stronger. She wrapped her arms around me, buried her face in my chest, and muttered, "Thank God, it's over."

Sheila had no idea how much I agreed.

"Let's get her dressed and fed," Cynthia suggested, and I agreed with that, too.

***

I couldn't blame Sheila for wanting to get out of an apartment that currently hosted two corpses. The two dead men were morbid dinner guests and terrible conversationalists. I offered to help Cynthia remove them, but she mysteriously told me she knew a guy who would take care of it, no questions asked. She said she'd call him, and I left it at that.

Color me curious, but I wondered if and how Cynthia would ever get her hallways white again. It was going to take shitload of bleach.

After her shower, Sheila insisted we leave to eat, so we did. We found a small diner, one where no one knew us and which no one we knew was likely to frequent, and since it was about three a.m., it was about as empty as you'd ever find it. I tried not to think about the past few hours as I shoveled rubbery eggs into my gullet. Sheila, for her part, seemed to improve the more food she ate. She sat so close to me in the booth that her elbow kept bumping mine, but I was not going to complain. It was a miracle to have her there. Her color began coming back, pale skin flushing pink, and she started talking. Cynthia and I listened.

Sheila told us some things that I already knew like Dread had hired her but that she had refused to report to him. She swore she never took any money from him, not after she had met me face-to-face and discovered she actually liked me. She gave us a brief description of her abduction by masked men who toted shotguns. One of them also had a knife and used it to slit her uncle's throat just to let Sheila know that they meant business. She described it without trembling. I secretly suspected that her uncle knew about the Dread connection and that he was murdered to keep his mouth closed, but I didn't voice this theory to Sheila.

The skinny guy and the big guy had transported her to some kind of warehouse first, then later moved Sheila to Cynthia Skye's apartment. Sheila didn't know why she was moved, and I couldn't figure it out either. Maybe Pops knew that I'd deduce my way to him, and he didn't want Cynthia any place that I might go looking for her. Who knew? And now that Pops was dead, we'd never know. I decided it was a mystery with which I could live.

The two men hadn't hurt her. They seemed to be waiting to hear from someone, to get new orders. Mostly, they just scared her. I said a silent prayer of thanks for this and hoped that neither one of them had let slip what Pops had planned for Sheila, but maybe he had only said it for my benefit. Either way, it was an ugly thought.

When she finished her story, Sheila capped it with: "I'm so sorry. I couldn't tell you that our relationship had begun on... on... well, on deceit, not when it became something real. Please, please know I do love you."

I nodded, but I couldn't bring myself to return the sentiment.

Instead, I said, "Let's get you home."

***

The only person who knew exactly where I lived was Pops. It seemed safer that way. Undoubtably, the government knew where to find me if they really wanted, but I had never been charged with a crime, and they were only interested to me because I was the son of my father. If they learned what I had done to my father, they'd probably want to talk to me. Or maybe hire me. However, my money was on Pops' men keeping his death tightly under wraps, and they didn't know where I lived. Even Kross didn't know although he probably guessed I lived somewhere near The Deep End. Better to cover up his death and continue going out their business than to invite the vultures too soon.

Long story short, this meant our apartment was probably okay, and that's where we went. While Sheila appreciated Cynthia's generosity in lending her some clothes, Sheila wanted to wear a pair of her own panties. She also wanted to sleep in her own bed.

What Cynthia and I didn't expect was for Sheila to hit the emergency stop while we rode the elevator to our floor. The car shuddered to a gut-wrenching stop, and Cynthia gripped the safety bar with two white-knuckled hands to keep from falling to her knees.

"I'm sorry; I'm sorry; but I just can't wait any longer!" Sheila gasped, and her hands were at my belt, unfastening it, and then her lips were on my lips and her tongue was pushing past them.

I started to protest, to say that someone in our building would notice the elevator had been stopped, but every one in our building was old and quiet which was why I liked the place. The idea of being up at the three in the morning would have made any one of them soil their Depends and explode their Pacemaker in their chest. Anyway, I was already hard, and the wanton hunger in Sheila's eyes excited me. She knew that she had barely escaped death; the idea of still being alive after being that close to the precipice must have turned her on. Sheila's hand found me in my pants and stroked me, and then I was turned on, too.

"I think this is my floor," Cynthia said with a wry grin and a raised eyebrow. She had backed into a corner of the car and had her hands held up as though to say she didn't want to intrude. I think it was the first time I could legitimately say that I'd seen the reporter at a complete loss.

Sheila shook her head. "You're not going anywhere," she said. "I want you to watch." Perhaps Sheila wanted to rub her ownership of me in Cynthia's nose. I don't know, but I knew better than to contradict my pretty blonde master. Not when she was treating me so well.