Authors: Nick Kelly
"Well, damn. An' here I was thinkin' I could give up the glorious life I'd made fer myself." He took a long sip off of the coffee. "I can definitely teach any of the things you mentioned, probably blindfolded and drugged."
“Really?”
“I’ve had a gun in my hand since I could count. I went through years of training in Jeet Kun Do, Aikido, Krav Maga and Kenpo when I got my legs an’ started my cop career.” He paused, realizing he was marketing himself as some ninja superhero. “Details out the window. I can help.”
Delilah’s green eyes studied him over the rim of her coffee cup. “You did all that?”
“Yes. No. Let me explain. Most of the initial training is pure programmin’. Think of it as yer first two years a’ college pre-recorded and installed into yer brain like software. It’s fast and convenient, but it’s flawed.”
“Instant education is a flaw?”
“Knowin’ more than the other guy is alright, until everyone knows the same thing. Everyone with that training knew the same moves, the same combinations, and the same actions an’ counteractions.”
“That’s bad,” she replied.
“The second someone knows what I’m gonna do next is my last second alive.”
Her face paled a bit at his response, and she suddenly glanced to make sure her cup was still steaming.
He leaned forward. "Lemme just ask you this."
"Yes?"
"Did you invite me here to hire me as a trainer in self-defense, or was there another reason you dialed me up?"
"It was to thank you, and to, perhaps to get to know you better."
There, she'd said it
, he confirmed to himself. It was a bold question, but if she'd seen him as nothing more than a killer and not the man behind the mask, he'd need to sever ties quickly. He stared at her for longer than he'd wanted. Finally, he nodded. "Good. Cause I can't shoot ta save my ass."
Delilah’s eyes grew wide. "You can't? But you're in law enforcement, right?"
He chuckled. "I'm not in law enforcement. I was in law enforcement back east, but no, not any more."
Her wordless nod was enough.
"I'm an independent contractor, an odd-jobs man, what some people would call a 'cleaner'. Usually, it means protection or kidnapping, or on rare occasion, retiring a competitor. In a sentence, Delilah, I'm not always a hero." He felt like drowning simply for saying it, but she was the first woman in years he wanted to be honest with. It was a welcome and uncomfortable change.
Delilah smiled. She didn’t bolt out of the cafe. Maybe there was hope after all.
"I could have let some of those attackers live the other night, but in reality, they would have only made life hell for me in the next few months if I did. I killed to send a message, to let people know that I was, and you are, off limits. Does that even make sense?"
"Yes, I suppose it does."
“
Hey, I did just kill a child molester who cost 18 families their children
,” he screamed inside his own head. He wanted to offer some sort of confession or be his own character witness, but it would hardly hold up against the stockpile of darker deeds he'd done. "Tell me about yer recent purchases, maybe I can give you some pointers." He brought the cup to his lips in a desperate move to shut himself up. The fact that it was empty didn't matter.
In a gesture that swam with natural grace, she reached out and placed a hand on his arm. "I won’t claim to understand the depths of your work, but I do know what you did to protect me."
She pulled her hand away and made her focus change to her recent purchase. "The salesman called it a ‘Glock’. He said it would be easy for a woman to handle."
The contact was something Cat never would have anticipated from the runway model. His gaze remained fixed on where she touched his arm.
"Personally, I think he wanted to make a sale, but I let him talk me into buying it. It's in a case at home, waiting for...whatever." She sipped again.
Without looking up, he rattled off details. "Probably a Glock 16, 9mm, ten in the cartridge, one in the chamber, semi-auto capability, not too much recoil but could overheat due to the polymer components of the barrel."
Her comments about the salesman registered with his distracted mind. "Wait, he said what? What a sexist pig. Want me to shoot him in the foot?"
She laughed. "I'll think about it."
He looked up. "Well, my first response involved a Samurai sword and some very sensitive parts. Sorry.”
"No, don't apologize. Tell me more...about you...about...you." She ended aimlessly.
"How bout we schedule a little range time? Maybe we can go shootin' together?" He had no idea why he even suggested it. He was a notoriously bad shot, which had led to using the Stinger baton and some of the close-quarters fighting techniques. It had also led to his affinity for the sawed-off shotgun.
"I'm flattered that you have time, and that you offered. Yes."
Great," he said far too soon. "What's your schedule like? I can make some time, I'm sure."
Sure, Cat, right between the religious zealot, the forced physical therapy, the side jobs to pay for Will and his crew, getting a firmer handle on Delambre and Eva and tuning up the bike. There was a 25th hour in the day somewhere.
"How about Wednesday night? Say 8:00? Or is that a busy time for you?”
"If it was busy, it won't be." He grinned. She was amazing, and he was bumbling about low-budget handguns.
“I'll bring the weapon in its case, the ammo, the cleaning kit. Anything else?"
“Well, yeah, maybe one thing."
She looked at him eagerly. "What would that be?"
"You like motorcycles?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
24 July 2022
Every night for as long as he remembers, Leon wakes from the dream to the acrid reality that he cannot soar. He cannot walk. He cannot run. He prays to the god he’s read about but doesn’t believe in. He prays for death, any escape from the unresponsive body that has become his cell.
Morning comes. His prayers are once again unanswered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The scientist allowed himself to smile only the slightest bit. It was the first time in as far as he could remember. His latest creation was nearly perfect, though not as perfect as his angel. She is absolute perfection, the embodiment of all a slave should be. She is as she was designed to be, the pinnacle of excitement, the embodiment of loyalty.
His brain reflected on the geneticist, his counterpart, once his friend, the tall man with salt and pepper hair. He remembered learning so much from the man. He’d been the one to preach honor, trust, compassion, such bullshit. It was the technical expertise, the algorithms, RNA and DNA replication and relationships…conversion of man to machine, that the other valued. He provided testimony and tried to convert his counterpart, every time met with an obvious brush-off. Each memory became fuel for his internal fire. It increased the depth of the chasm between them.
He remembered it then, meeting her, the angel, his rival’s daughter. She was radiant, succulent, with olive skin and full lips. Her dark hair framed her face, and her eyes were deep and inviting. He remembered every detail of her. He could bathe in the memory of her, and her silent statement of wanting him from her first reflection.
He opened his eyes to look down, the same dark hair gripped tightly between his clenched fingers. He pulled and the beautiful brown eyes glanced up at him. She hummed an inquisition. She was unable to speak. Her mouth, the angel’s mouth, was full. Her lazy eyes pivoted up to meet his while she continued to service him…the pinnacle of excitement, the embodiment of loyalty.
He enjoyed the feel of her warm mouth surrounding his cock. She was perfection. His rival’s daughter, born again in a new form, on her knees, worshipping him. He closed his eyes, and the image in his mind shattered his focus. Yellow eyes burned through the angel’s eyes, the glowing eyes of the cat.
The realization ignited the venom within him once again, hatred for the Cat.
His fingers clenched tighter, and the angel responded with instinctual resistance. Soon, she succumbed, as she was designed to do. In response to her, his hips moved faster, harder. The scientist embraced it then, his hatred of the yellow-eyed, chaotic hitman. The hatred devoured him as a drowning victim. Hatred of it. Hatred of the man. Hatred of the Cat.
He decided then, that he would unleash the Angel on him, in time. For now, she was his. His hips increased in violence. His grip nearly frantic as he pulled on her hair. The angel enjoyed every aspect of it more. She savored him, the way he fucked her face, forced himself down her throat. The scientist shattered between ecstasy and fury as he reached orgasm. He achieved the ultimate pleasure and the pinnacle of hatred.
The angel received his pleasure with hunger as designed. It was one of her core desires. The master’s pleasure drove her existence. She accepted it willingly, a gift for all she had become in his vision. Her only other desire was blood, that of the liar, the one who the creator sought dead above all else.
The scientist finished, realizing that his eyes had rolled back into his head as if in a drugged stupor. He exhaled finally, his chest burning. When he released his grip, the angel licked her lips. His pleasure was hers. “You were quite determined, Master. I only hope I did not disappoint you.”
The scientist brushed her sweaty hair, removing it from her flushed face, “No, my Angel. You are, as you have always been, perfection. Soon, you will exist for me, with me, without interruption, without corruption, when those who would betray us burn in the flames of eternal wrath.”
“Go, my angel. Fly!”
Angelyka burst upward in a combination of ecstasy and pride, flush with the affection of her creator. Her exultant laughter echoed in the room as she ripped skyward, disappearing in a laser-sharp silhouette.
Relaxation should have been his. His heart rate should have ebbed downward, yet venom overpowered anything else he could think or feel. Despite physical satisfaction, he needed death to sate his desires. The geneticist and his bitch daughter could wait. For now, another had stepped in his path and delayed his coronation.
The Cat must die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Honda-Suzuki reacted with trained loyalty at his every command, gliding over the damaged road and between the scorched buildings of Downtown. The perfectly crafted machine was Catwalk's to direct, if only his head could stay as focused. The new stim treatments made his back as sore as any memory, but, in theory, they were more effective than drugs alone. Maybe there was a cure for his botched surgery after all.
He left behind the Shine gangers and the fires, moving southwest toward the more upscale part of town. The establishments here weren’t the armored fortresses of Beverly Hills, but Hotel Infinity wasn't in the slums either. He found open freeway for almost ten clicks before the lights grew in frequency again. He scowled, and the cycle seemed to echo his hatred of restraint. The engine cooled beneath him as the mechanical growl silenced in his chest. Like it or not, it was time to drop speed in favor of the caution flag.
The digital readout of coordinates chirped inside his helmet, and Cat arrived in the circular valet area in front of the monstrous, plush hotel. He whistled at the sight. The place was an absolute palace compared to his loft, and the dwellings of his usual clientele. The structure before him boasted more than a dozen individual architectural designs, each overlapping and attempting to control the next. He shook his head at the phenomenon. Hotel Infinity seemed to adapt with every second, shifting in the multi-colored lights that outlined its frame.
The place defied description, and probably logic. Cat patted the gas tank of the motorcycle, anchoring back to what he could feel and understand. He lifted his gaze back to the Hotel, and it seemed different than what he had just recalled. Security through obfuscation or evolution. Cat scoffed. He needed more rich folks on his client list. Too bad this visit was completely personal and not for hire. He could use the paycheck. Sometimes, financial reward wasn't the reward in mind. This was one of those times.
The H-S slid smoothly to a halt near a parked limo. The valet began to approach, but Cat shook his hand, waving the suited man away. "Touch it and it'll explode, Johnny Boy." The valet blinked wordlessly, catching the cred chip in his hand. Cat didn't even break stride, removing his helmet and unzipping his jacket before hitting the first step. He looked up at an expectant and overly courteous doorman.
"Greetings, Mr. Caliber,” he greeted in one of the deepest tones Cat had ever heard, "you are expected."
Cat paused, instinctively sizing up the behemoth who addressed him. He hadn't been prepared for the welcoming committee. "I'm expected, huh?"
"Madame DuPree is in the lounge, sir." He pointed the way.
"Hmmm…no dress code?"
“You are her guest." He continued, accenting his words with a practiced polite gesture.
Cat grinned broadly and tilted his head. "Well then..." He walked in, following the doorman's gesture. It was nice to be welcome anywhere, much less a place he'd kill to get into anyway.
He skimmed the room, saw the undeniable form of his hostess, but managed to keep pretending he was looking around. The yellow eyes gave him enough flexibility to hide it if he wanted to stare and not get caught. He thought she might have waved, but at this point, all he wanted was to derail her. The doorman had caught him by surprise, and he was bent on returning the favor.
On a hunch, Cat overacted the comm ringing and mimed answering it. From there, he launched into a loud and boisterous act of screaming at a phantom telemarketer trying to sell him health insurance. By the thirty-second mark, half of the lobby was staring.
He erupted into a stream of profanity, finally slamming the comm shut. Looking up to the crowd of staring eyes, he bowed with the flourish of a Thespian. Gasps of indignation peppered the lobby, and the murmuring began.