by Black, Regan
No.
She stopped the flood of unwelcome memories with the ruthless efficiency of a girl who couldn't afford the distraction. She might be back in her home town, but she was here on a mission and dispatching Atlas was the current stepping stone on her path to vindication and liberation.
"Atlas, honey?" She pressed the knife point into his washboard abs and watched the bubble of blood well up. "Who hired you to take out that wom –"
She gasped, the question unfinished as he flexed and scissored his legs, capturing her midsection in a crushing hold. The knife slid across the bed and onto the floor.
Shit! She'd let the illusion lapse in her rush for information. Atlas would make her dead, and fast, if she didn't regain control.
He was grunting with the divided efforts of cracking her ribs and freeing his hands.
She sank her fingernails into his ass, but he taunted her, claimed it turned him on. She had to be careful how she went after him or staging this as a suicide would be impossible. It would be easier to be careful, to regain control, if she could breathe.
"Tell me – and I'll – let you – live."
"We'll see who's walking out of here, bitch."
She kicked his head, just behind his ear and grabbed some air when his legs relaxed a fraction. As the litany of curses poured out of his mouth, she found the train of thought that put her back in control: his preferred way of killing her once he was free.
With her skills at creating illusions and hallucinations, she tweaked his plans just enough to have him recite a report about killing her to the bastard who'd hired him.
As Atlas made the imaginary phone call, she got the name and direction she needed. Leaving him with a consuming sense of failure and depression, she prompted him to kill himself while she logged onto the hotel server. After adjusting his reservation and adding a do not disturb notice to his account preferences, she cleaned up her tools, turned on the air conditioner and left the body behind.
* * *
Micky eyed the octagonal disc in his palm and thought back to the first time he'd seen it.
"It's as safe as biological alterations get," Jameson had said.
Not a resounding endorsement, but Micky had agreed to the terms. A biological stealth tool in exchange for a particularly tight bit of smuggling.
Micky smiled, thinking he should write a thank you note to the government; all their nonsense regulations equaled some serious padding in his offshore bank accounts.
"Tell me the risks."
"Addiction," Jameson had said with a laugh. "But only like an emotional thing. In testing some guys got hooked on being 'off the radar'. Just put the disk under your tongue, use the suit and you're virtually invisible to all security formats. Most people will look right through you. It's heady."
That had made sense to Micky. The natural tendency of the general population to see what it wanted to see had worked in his favor for years.
"Anyone ever die?"
Jameson hesitated. "Not if you remember you're invisible, rather than invincible."
Micky had remembered the limitations in all his previous outings with the stealth suit. With a flip of the disk, he prepared himself again. This would be the most important of all his invisible ventures. He was on the hunt for Sis's killer. He'd avenge her, and in the process, he'd protect the rest of his girls.
It was better than giving Brian the working motives he wanted for his legal paperwork. As if greed wasn't enough motive for any of his competitors.
He pressed the button on the phone that connected him directly to Jim, the head of his security team. "I'm going out. Give the order to hold deliveries and keep the girls home for awhile."
"Lock down?"
"Not officially." He smiled when Jim grunted on the other end of the line. "I just want things outside to calm down a bit before they go back on the routes."
"You got it, boss."
Micky disconnected, confident Jim would give the girls some valid reason to stay inside. Safety and caution should be reason enough, but most of his mules were determined, if not daring. It meant they naturally enjoyed skirting the law in the name of making money, but it also meant he had to hear their opinions when he set down an order they didn't like. But it was just one more reason why his system, why his entire team, worked so well.
In his hand, the silvery disk looked like a tiny stop sign, reflecting and absorbing the light. The first time he'd held it he thought he'd dropped the damn thing. Now, he was used to the disappearing effect.
It felt cool as it melded to the soft skin under his tongue. He checked the clock, not wanting to risk even the minor side effects possible for those who exceeded the recommended six hour safe limit. Surely he could find at least one good lead and be back here inside six hours.
He used the security camera feed on his hand held to avoid bumping into any of the girls. The last thing he needed was to start some ghost rumor because someone saw a door open and close on its own.
According to the infrared read out, Jaden's suite was full up at the moment. He should start charging her rent for stunts like this one. She might be doing enough training to cover her own expenses, but her ever increasing entourage was another matter.
Aw, hell. He shrugged it off. She was good for it. He was just pissy about Sis and whoever was making a play for his operation. Life surrounded by women meant the estrogen was rubbing off on him. After this jaunt into the city, he'd have a better idea who was trying to move in on him, and be able to devise a counter attack.
* * *
The irony of the location wasn't lost on Trina. She stood in the heart of what once had been the Levee and the very pulse of Chicago's underworld nearly two hundred years ago.
"Well you can clean it up, but you can't keep it legit."
She'd followed Atlas's lead, only to learn the man wasn't top predator on the food chain. She didn't kill any of the middlemen, figuring it'd be more entertaining to watch the feeding frenzy when she took out the top dog. Not that she intended to stick around and watch.
Her current contract had only grown more interesting when she discovered Atlas hadn't been hired by the same crime boss she was serving. If her client and Atlas's client were working together, it could only mean there was a serious power struggle brewing in Chicagoland. She wasn't sure she wanted to get tangled up in it even if her issues with Slick Micky went beyond profit margins and power plays.
But because her interest was personal, she chose to take steps to ensure her success. Having completed the background searches, she decided to toy with the leaders of Chicago's underworld. If she got lucky, her extra investment would pay off in more stress for Slick Micky.
Her bonus target, the esteemed Stanley Dakota, finally emerged from the sleek limousine parked at the curb. A lush blonde about half his age fell into step beside him and his top lieutenant, Walker, followed with a pair of bodyguards. Trina moved into the building along with the crush of other employees returning from lunch. The man was outrageously bold, something she might admire later, but holding two entire floors in the posh building in the shiny new financial district didn't make him anything more than the head goon in a handmade suit.
Her heels clicked on the marble floor and the distinctly feminine sound soothed her as the challenge beckoned. It would take remarkable finesse just to create the opportunity to slide a deadly illusion into the notoriously corrupt financier's brain.
The elevator would put her too close. She waited for a different car and rode to the psychiatrist's office suite two floors below Dakota's headquarters.
The receptionist looked up and Trina smiled as she signed in. "I've got some new samples if he has just a minute." She patted her shoulder bag, knowing the doctor didn't have any appointments for another hour. Plenty of time to take care of Stan and make a graceful exit.
"I'll walk you back."
"Thanks."
In the doctor's office, Trina set out a collection of samples she'd scammed off one of Stan's
drug dealing underlings. Irony, thy name is Trina, she thought with a grin. Her sly expression didn't fade until the shrink arrived and proved resistant to her first illusion. Grabbing the nearest sample hypospray, she sedated him and got her plan back on schedule.
By the time she'd reached Dakota's empty office via the emergency stairwell, she was holding her stilettos and spitting mad at the whole situation. The simple job and satisfying emotional and financial payoff of flying into Chicago, taking out a hated smuggler, and flying home was turning into a nightmare worthy of her own designs.
She caught herself before the burst of impatience completely derailed her planning. Irritability had no place in her professional world. Impatience was as much an enemy as Slick Micky. So Dakota wasn't where she wanted him. So what? It didn't matter if nothing went as planned on this God-forsaken job. She could improvise. Just as long as she met the primary goal.
Calmer now, she looked around the office for a clue. There must be a way to corner a man who didn't let himself get cornered. Well, she wasn't the best in the business because she was one dimensional, was she? She could do more than scare him to death.
Slipping her shoes back on, she sauntered into the hallway as if she belonged there. Within minutes, she discovered her target in a glass-walled conference room. With a direct line of sight it was no trouble to give him an immediate urge to use the restroom. Stepping aside as he rushed by, she followed him into his private bathroom, tweaking the perceptions of the people nearby so they saw one of his bodyguards rather than a woman.
He was dead by stiletto before he unzipped his slacks.
She wrestled the body into a corner, wiped the gore off her shoe, and made her way back downstairs to the shrink's office. He was still passed out, so she couldn't ask his opinion of her chosen career. But she knew herself and her motives well enough without the need for any professional letters trailing after her name. Slick Micky had murdered her best friend and now she was back in town to return the favor.
Chapter Three
Virtually invisible in his stealth suit, Micky listened from the hallway as the crime boss known as the Reverend rained fire and brimstone on the poor schmuck who'd failed him. "It was a simple God-damned order. The man is everywhere and you claim you can't find him. There is no place for liars in heaven, son!"
Micky figured none of those who worked the rough streets of Chicago would end up on Saint Peter's side of the pearly gates, but personally, he preferred to put off the meeting as long as possible.
"My clients trust me to deliver when I give my word. I expect the same from those who give their word to me."
"Yes, sir. I will handle it. I'll bring him down."
"You're slothful and lazy. Gluttony is a sin, you fool. I won't tolerate you eating up my resources and screwing the merchandise. Perks are for those who earn them."
Micky heard the hard crack of a fist connecting with a face.
"A – a question, sir?"
"What now?"
"Am I to coordinate with the other players?"
"The devil's got your mind, son. You're the only man on this."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I recognized um, a kindred spirit the other night."
"Just go do the damned job on your own. And forget spirits of any variety."
The poor bastard shuffled out of the office and Micky pressed himself into the shadows. The single-minded Reverend had been trying to get his grubby hands on Micky's mules for years, but the contracted killer approach was new.
This guy looked seriously under qualified as he passed Micky's hiding place. The dialect wasn't local and the tone too deferential and uncertain for a professional hitter. Knowing how the Reverend operated, Micky was sure he was someone labeled expendable. Maybe a new guard or strung out runner tapped for the extra duty. Which begged the question: why would the Reverend make a half-assed attempt at assassination if he really wanted to be the Slick Micky?
If Micky's mules were typical street urchins in dire straights and ready to barter sex for their habit of choice, the Reverend might have had a chance to turn them into fodder for his brothels. But Micky protected his girls and their warehouse home as carefully as he protected his own identity.
Fortunately for him, the Reverend was less enamored with anonymity and privacy.
Micky followed the wannabe hitman out of the Gothic cathedral the Reverend had restored when the church gave up the neighborhood to encroaching crime and pervasive disillusionment.
It was a nice enough building for those who preferred snarling gargoyle overseers and towering archways of weathered stone.
"To every man his style," Micky muttered, relieved to be outside in the fresher air.
"What?" The no-chance assassin spun around, eyes wild. "Who said that?"
Micky froze, trusting the technology to keep him concealed. "You were thinking it, kid." It was a good bet the younger man didn't care for the old architecture, especially when it came with a lecture from an insane, hard-assed boss.
"Did not," he insisted, his gaze fixed on the nearest gargoyle stretching out from the stone facade.
"All right. What's your style?" While the unlikely hitman was distracted, Micky crept closer, whispering. "Do you kill up close or from a distance. With a gun or blade?"
"Guns are illegal."
Micky snorted. "Never met a hitman bothered by the law."
"This is a trick." The guy looked around, but at this time of day no one was hanging around the cathedral. "Who the hell is up there?"
"Just me. Got a lead on your target?"
"No. I mean yeah." He shook his head. "God this is stupid. I'm talking to a fucking rock."
"A rock with ears who knows you've got no name and no chance to impress the boss, Mr. Expendable."
"Bullshit. He knows my name and what I can do."
"Ha! He looked around for the one guy he wouldn't miss."
The kid thumped his chest. "He called for Ben Trumble by name."
"Tremble sounds about right. You couldn't find Slick Micky with a guide dog and a search light."
Micky had to hold his breath to keep from laughing when the poor guy paled.
"H-how did –"
"I've been up here long enough to forget more than you'll ever learn. Nobody's ever seen Slick Micky. He's a ghost, you fool. How the hell are you gonna assassinate a ghost?"
Trumble earned a point on Micky's scale when he whipped out a .45 and shot off the gargoyle's stone ear.
"Ow!"
Then he lost the point, dropping the gun in his panicked scramble to get away from the injured gargoyle while Micky's disembodied laughter followed him down the street.
Knowing the Reverend's habits, it wouldn't be hard to find the poor kid. He'd be the only one in this worn out neighborhood trying to raise a drink with a shaking hand. Micky picked up the gun and tucked it into a pocket of the stealth suit.
With an apologetic glance at the gargoyle, Micky jogged after Ben, a new plan for the kid's possible reform developing on the way.
* * *
Trina understood the rhythm of Chicago well enough. Neighborhoods and business districts might rise or crumble with funding or false hopes, but the city's heart hadn't changed. That pulsing undercurrent of energy was as strong today as the day she'd run away, a heartbroken and furious young woman saddled with a skill she didn't want or understand.
Taking this job meant returning as a woman of confidence intent on righting an old wrong, determined to shutter an uncomfortable past. She wasn't about to give up simply because things turned glitchy.
From her balcony window, she stared down at the Magnificent Mile, amazed at the one stretch of Chicago that never seemed to tarnish. Anything a girl – a normal girl – could want was at her feet, but Trina's mind circled her primary target.
Where was Slick Micky?
Maybe Atlas had sent the wrong woman out the window. It was certainly possible. If she overlooked Stanley Dakota's ruthless reputation for exacting detail an
d his unlimited funds to pay for the right information.
Yet Slick Micky had not been apprehended by police, they hadn't even requested his appearance for questioning. No one, on any street she'd found, would admit he existed. The idea of a mythical smuggler earned a bitter laugh. Slick Micky was real enough and terrible enough.
Her memories were not exaggerated, but even without them, her bank account proved his existence. Chicago crime bosses didn't order the assassinations of myths.
Atlas's efforts to draw him out had failed. Her elimination of Dakota hadn't earned a sniff of inquiry from the notorious smuggler, police detectives, or even any mules. Assuming some of the rough neighborhoods she'd cruised through were connected to Slick Micky.
Soon, her client would be harassing her, demanding to know if she'd taken out Dakota. She planned to ask for a bonus for removing one of the big competitors from the field.
As far as she could tell, Slick Micky was still doing business as usual. But where did that usual business originate? Where could an 'empire' hide in a city as well-documented as Chicago?
Trina turned from the window to study the gear she'd laid out on the bed. None of her tools or clothes sparked any inspiration.
Frustrated, she brewed a pot of tea and stretched a little while it steeped. The exercise would be the real perk, since the government regulated nearly everything regarding food and nutrition. While her tea was as loaded as was legal, there was barely enough caffeine to keep her awake in Lincoln Park at high noon.
With a long sigh she counted as the first 'exhale', she started a yoga sun salutation and let her mind wander over the past.
She'd been a little girl when sugar substitutes had been outlawed for their link to certain cancers.
Forward bend, lunge, plank.
She'd been old enough to protest when the government started rationing natural sugar.
Chaturanga, downward dog.
She liked her chocolate sweet and –
Joel. Her elbows buckled as her breath hitched. She landed hard on her knees. Every time she thought of him, of his smooth voice and lopsided grin, the loss was as fresh and brutal as the day he'd died.
