He had a ruthless, predatory mind. He cracked his neck at the thought of killing. “He’s a tough bastard, I’ll grant, so I added the minute.”
“That UFC chump would not know what hit him.”
Sokol hung up. Nothing left demanded to be said.
He dialed another number. “Natalya love is in the air.”
CHAPTER 2
Will You Respect Me In The Morning
Two months had flown by, and Mike’s cast on his hand was cut away last week, the wound below his eye morphed into a light scar, the fight was now in his rear-view mirror. His decision to quit the UFC endured.
Mike’s nerd work set up a great business deal for tomorrow. He made up his mind to splurge on a date to celebrate. Not that he often dated, quite the opposite. Killing his parents put a kibosh on deep relationships and provided an unquenchable taste for anger. A taste he hoped to avoid.
Mike slew vegetables to the beat of a classic rock song. He belted out the next verse, stopping when knife met flesh. “Damn it.”
Mike lifted his index finger to his lips and sucked a tiny drop of blood. It tasted metallic, similar to licking a copper pot, but warm and thick. He examined his finger. At first, it appeared healthy until a tiny splash of red appeared. That’s all I needed. The song droned on, ignoring him.
He tore off a strip of paper towel, wrapped it around his finger, and addressed his custom-built home-wide computer system. “Strawhead, remind me to stay focused when I’m cutting vegetables.”
A woman’s voice, smooth as melted butter leaped from his speakers. “Yes, dear.”
Mike reached into a nearby kitchen drawer and ripped open a bandage. He knew he had the cooking finesse, but understood his unfortunate habit of cutting himself during the process. Knowing that his thoughts wandered off in a million directions at the wrong time, he had long ago put bandages in the kitchen as a practical solution. Mike wrapped his finger and checked his first aid skills. Not bad.
“How close are we to date time?”
“She should be here in a half hour, sweetie.”
Not caring what he sounded like, Mike paused to sing the next verse. I’m probably scaring the neighbors.
Mike stopped. Barehanded, he pounded out the drum solo on the counter, avoiding his injured finger. “Strawhead, I don’t know if she digs classic rock. Her profile said she liked blues. Play that playlist when she gets here. I’ll give you the cue.”
“Yes sir, mister president.”
Time to work. He snatched pieces of asparagus and placed them on a foil tray. He was more careful this time. He decided to stick to his tried and true recipe, garlic, salt, pepper, lemon juice, olive oil, with a sprinkle of Parmesan. He kept the same flavor profile for his pan-seared filet mignons. He laid them in rows like little toy green soldiers in a foil pouch to finish cooking and let the juices settle. The smell’s incredible.
A couple of classic rock songs later, he plated.
Mike pointed at his creation. “What do you think?”
Strawhead’s voice played over the classic rock. “How am I supposed to know, you realize I’m only a computer, sweetie?”
Ouch. He continued and set the wine and glasses on the table.
“Mike, your date’s here.”
“Unlock the door. Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.”
The image of Strawhead on the monitor saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.”
Mike shook his head. They made the damn program too realistic. He opened the door and stopped, lips glued shut. Hello, drop dead sexy. Her ravishing good looks forced out a terrible one-liner. “If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”
Mike’s date ran her hand down her side. “Sure, but I only accept cash and gold bullion.” She winked. “I must say, your AI programming is fantastic. You must have one helluva a computer to run it. Haven’t seen anything outside of Japan with voice response that quick.” She reached out her hand, “By the way, my name is Candie, and I’m very sweet.”
Sweet indeed. Mike liked her accent. Russian? Would fit with her high cheekbones. Exotic. Her scent drifted; floral with a caress of spice.
Foreign, smart and beautiful. Get a hold of yourself. He researched her past after she contacted him online. An immigrant with no country listed. It was unusual for women to reach out to men on the site, but not unheard of. She attended the Chicago Institute of Technology.
He knew she was a techie; that was part of the attraction, but standing in front of him, in the flesh, she threw him off guard.
She looked at his chest and smiled.
He knew why. Mike’s t-shirt in bold white lettering proclaimed him to be ‘mr. right.’
He instinctively rubbed his chest and felt the scars. They were old warrior wounds, pearly white, and raised. All the pink and tenderness washed away with time. Under the humor of his shirts a man could hide is scars.
He forced a smile back. When he shook her hand, Mike’s geek pride took over. “The A.I. is a group project with several universities. I wish I could take full credit. They invited me to help with security. I jumped at the chance. But, I do get credit for all the hardware. Bought top-of-the-line equipment and worked it over to make her even faster. Liquid nitrogen keeps her cool.”
She glanced up, one eye cocked. “No shit?”
“No shit. She’s fast.” Mike swept his hand around the room. “The smart-home technology I incorporated in my humble little abode would make a president of any tech company blush.” Mike accompanied the well-rehearsed statement with a wink.
Candie winked back, idly dragging a perfectly shaped, rose-red fingernail along the edge of her breast. “You blush easily?”
Mike felt a flush of heat bloom across his cheeks. He watched a smile spread across her face in response. “Well um, let’s eat.” Mike led her to the candle-lit dining area. He pulled out her chair and waited for her to sit, then went to his seat at the head of the table.
Candie surveyed the table. “Food looks great. Twice in five minutes, you’ve impressed me.”
The edges of Mike’s lips curled up. “Prepare for the third time. Strawhead, blues.”
Mike watched Candie twist in the direction of the computer screen in the kitchen. On the screen, Strawhead sashayed on a busy city sidewalk and entered a smoky bar. She slid onto a stool. A bartender offered her a martini. Her head swung toward a group of musicians. The computer’s point of view warped to them. They started playing the blues.
“Smooth. I’m impressed again. I don’t suppose you need an intern?” Candie stabbed at the asparagus on her plate.
Mike chased fork-fulls of food. “If only. I’m barely keeping my head above water. I’m only doing this tonight because I’m getting a decent size contract tomorrow. A celebration, you could say.”
Candie raised her glass and winked again, dimples forming when she smiled. “Well then. Here’s to big contracts, among… other big things.”
Mike’s exhaled was sharp. “I take it you like the food?”
“Definitely, but I think what I’d love right now--” she pushed herself from the table “--is a tour of your place.”
“Sure thing.” Mike stood up, taking the plates to the kitchen. He decided to show Candie the balcony, what he considered the crown jewel of the place: a great view of the sparkling Chicago skyline at night.
Before they got to the balcony, she pointed to a small framed object on the wall. “What’s the medal for?”
Mike’s shoulders sagged. “A Bronze Star. I got the damn thing defusing a bomb”--he paused and sighs--“that nearly killed a bunch of people in a small town near the Syrian border. Like an idiot, I got captured shortly after.”
Curious, she asked, “Tell me more.”
“Not something I like to discuss. I hate the memories.” Mike saw Candie’s pout. “But I will say, the only thing it was good for was keeping me out of the stockade and letting me escape the Marines with an honorable discharge.”
Candie lo
oked him up and down. “Are you some kind of big bad criminal or something? After all, you got that high-tech fingerprint reader for security.”
Mike shook his head. “Not really. My fists had a bad habit of pulverizing people that got me mad. And people got me mad more often than I liked. As for the reader, I value my privacy.” He raised his hand and pointed toward the balcony. “Enough. Let me show you the lake.”
“Like the automatic curtains.” Candie stepped onto the balcony. “Oh wow, great view, the moonlight on the lake, and the buildings across the water.”
Mike could think of only one word when Candie walked over to his steam-punked telescope, sultry. The telescope rested on its tripod near the edge of the balcony. “Like it?”
Candie teased her fingers over the telescope. “Your apartment looks rustic and old-fashioned, yet overflowing with technology. You’re definitely from two different worlds, Mr. O’Connor.” She straightened. “I’m curious, your apartment’s filled with all this amazing stuff, what’s with that old crappie computer in the corner?”
Mike grew silent, his hands wanting to clench. “Another thing I don’t want to discuss.”
Candie took her hands off the telescope and stepped back and shrugged her shoulders. “You’re the boss.”
He sensed her disappointment. “Sorry, it was a gift from my parents on the day they died. I over-reacted, forgive me.”
“No worries.” Candie rubbed her chin. “Did your parents’ death have anything to do with why you quit the UFC?”
“To be honest, just the opposite. I fought in the UFC thinking it might help me control my temper. Remember the fights I told you about?” He waited for a positive response. Got a nod. “And it worked for a while, I had an avenue to relieve my frustration through hard work and training. But that last damn fight”--he shook his head no--“that last fight, I was shown the lie, so I quit.”
“You’re quite the conundrum Mr. O’Connor.” Her smile lit up the room. Candie put one hand on the sliding glass door. “Care to give me a tour of your bedroom? Come on.” She gestured for his hand.
He grabbed it and led her to the bedroom.
She tugged his shirt up at a snail’s pace, prolonging the suspense. Her fingers sent a shiver down his torso; goose bumps rose. She nearly killed the mood when she reacted to his scars. She recovered quicker than any women Mike ever met.
Mike forgave her on the next shiver. She’s a pro. He watched her undress. When she was naked, she retrieved a bottle from her purse and sprayed a liquid across her chest and stomach. It made her glisten.
Every movement erotic. His arousal, her gift.
She strolled over to him, graceful as a cat. She took her gift and mounted it. She grabbed his hands and pressed them against her breast. When the sex began in earnest, she pinned his arms next to his head and took control. The sex powerful, tender, exhausting.
Afterward, he pointed to the table where six one-hundred- dollar bills rested. He saw a flash of anger in her eyes, but the image dissipated before he grasped the thought.
She grabbed the money and kissed it. “Will I see you again?”
“You're incredible, but I didn’t pay for the sex, I paid for you to leave.” He paused a couple of heartbeats. “It’s nothing personal, beautiful. No attachment, no pain. As a policy, one date. No chance of being hurt.”
“A sad tale, Mr. O’Connor, but if you live long enough, you might be surprised one day.”
You couldn’t be more wrong. “Strawhead, please unlock the door for our guest. Security on after she leaves. And kill the music, I’m tired.”
Strawhead’s soft-spoken response, “As you wish.”
Candie gave a farewell bow. “As you wish.”
Mike watched Candie’s glorious bottom as she left. He shook his head to cleanse his thoughts.
I guess I had better get ready for bed. Big FBI appointment in the morning.
He thought of his dog. He had dropped off the lovable mutt with a neighbor so he would not be underfoot for the evening. Crap, I better get him. He threw on some pants and a t-shirt to pick up the mutt.
Later that night, Mike looked around his empty, silent bedroom. The sex left a bitter aftertaste. Why do I do this to myself?
He stared through his ceiling and all the floors above and felt his mother’s disapproving gaze.
In an alley near Mike’s apartment, Sokol watched Candie ignite six one-hundred-dollar bills. The dumpster, graffiti, and fire escape glowed yellow for a moment when the paper burned. She eventually stomped on the bills, embedding the ashes into the oil-slick pavement.
Teeth bared, she leaned in. “I placed your cameras.” She turned and spat on the ground. “One in each room.”
Sokol did not react to her, merely regarded her as the tool she was. His exquisite, sharp tool. “Natalya, I’m sorry I had you do this. You know we need inside information before the meeting tomorrow.”
“Sorry? Seriously doubt that. I didn’t earn the term chelovek ubiytsa, man killer, for leaving my marks alive. I’ll tell you this, Sokol. I’m no shlyukha, no whore, you understand? I’ve bedded over a dozen men for my country.” She took a single step toward him and lowered her voice. “Gutted every one of them.” A knife appeared. “That stinking mudak O’Connor would be dead now were it not for your orders. Dead!”
“And I respect that you followed orders?”
She lifted her shirt in compliance, exposing her remarkable breasts.
Sokol grabbed a small ultraviolet light from his pants pocket, and Mike’s handprints glowed. He took two pictures with his phone and nodded.
Natalya shoved her shirt down and walked past him, out of the alleyway. “Don’t ask me to do this again. No man survives a second time with me.”
Sokol made a silent promise to let her kill the next one and turned with a spring in his step on his way to the warehouse to print 3D fingerprints.
Sokol’s deadly plan would not be executed for at least two years. Mike his opening pawn move.
CHAPTER 3
First Impressions
Mike sat on his bed, shaking off the night’s deep, dreamless sleep. He reached over and picked up his phone. Two text messages from his adopted Brother Eddie. The first one, a sex meme. A picture of Bill Clinton saying, “Congrats on getting laid… tell me more.” The second message was more ominous. “Don’t trust the FBI!”
Mike shook away the thought and stretched. Eddie was always paranoid. His exaggerated yawn threatened to split his head in two. Mornings were not made for me. Why did they insist on an eight in the morning meeting? If they knew me, they’d know I’d be sleepy and off my game. He flexed the fingers of his newly cast-free hand. His knuckles cracked. Not unusual. Stiff, but no pain. Good.
He splashed cold water on his face and washed Candie’s scent from him. He put on a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt. “I went to the Vegas Hacking Convention, and all I got was your Hard Drive.” Considering what the FBI wanted him to do, slipping on the shirt was delightful. If they don’t like it, tough. He had an allergic reaction to suits and ties, an allergy he inherited from his father.
It was the first time the FBI contacted him without a warrant and handcuffs. I still haven’t forgotten the six months’ house arrest and banishment from recreational computer use for two long, dreary years. You’re not forgiven, FBI.
Thinking about the FBI brought back memories of being stuck in house arrest in the overcrowded foster home – fighting for a place at the table, being ignored by the parents because so many other kids needed attention. He watched the foster parents argue because they were stressed out over it all – wearing Mike down more and more. The judge considered placing Mike in foster care more appropriate than a juvenile hall, but Mike didn’t know how to put his frustrations into words, so his fists did the talking, even when his foster-brother Eddie tried to talk him down.
Mike pushed the memories away and looked at his watch. His chest tightened. Forty-five minutes. You got time. Quit panicking. Wh
ile no longer part of the hacktivist group Anonymous, in the back of his mind he knew the government harbored a grudge but didn’t blame them. He smacked them good.
He crossed the threshold of his bedroom door.
Eighty pounds of playful fur slammed into him. His large, thick-shouldered black and white bulldog-terrier mix licked his face.
“Well, I know what the hell you want, yes I do.” Mike recovered and grabbed the dog by his cheeks. “My little baby wants a walk.”
The ferocious image on the shirt Mike wore the night of his UFC title fight lied. The dog’s black and white face suited his fictional Star Trek name.
“All right, you win already.” To end the relentless tongue assault, Mike rubbed behind Lokai’s ears.
“Sit. Wait. Wait.” Mike took another deep breath and looked around. “Let me get your collar, knucklehead.” He had no doubt in his mind that Lokai would sit, right there, until he returned. The mutt always behaved when he wanted something.
Mike entered the room, holding the dog’s leash.
Lokai tensed but waited for the command.
“Come here, you little brat.”
Lokai shot forward. The force of his impact made Mike teeter.
“Just a short walk.” Mike grabbed Lokai’s cheeks again. “Now don’t get excited. We’ll go for a jog later.” He pulled away to escape getting soaked in dog spittle.
Outside in a nearby alley, Lokai finished his dirty deed in record time, and they returned to the apartment. Mike checked the wall clock. Coffee time.
The coffee woke him up. It was eight o’clock. At least we’re meeting at my place of business, my turf. I’ll have the upper hand. As a precaution, he decided to secretly capture any active device ID info to his phone.
Trust only went so far in Mike’s world. With that thought in mind, the expected opportunity arrived. His sleeping computer awoke.
Strawhead’s voice came over the speakers. “Mike, you have company, dear.” The university team had programmed her voice and persona to vary depending on the frequency of doorbell presses. “Honey, please get the door. The people outside are an impatient lot.”
I Will Not Yield Page 2
