Corrupting Alicia

by Tsoukalas, Evan

  He stared mutely at the fallen firearms, eyes wide and unblinking, brain going supersonic. The barrel of the pistol faced away from him and the MP5SD was positioned parallel to him, bolt closed. His mind was sluggish, but it stepped through several scenarios before offering up the most likely option: Alicia had run out of ammunition, desperation causing her to hurl the useless weapon at him in frustration. His rational mind tried to assert itself, whispering that unlike most automatic weapons, the German-made machine pistol did not lock the bolt back when empty, so there was no way to know for certain.

  His ego quickly shouted down rational thought, insisting that there could be no other explanation for the strange move.

  Firmly in the driver’s seat, ego kicked his somnambulant senses into high gear. A fresh wave of adrenaline flooded his system, and he smiled as he watched her step away from the recessed doorway, her succulent body garbed in black. “Welcome home, Alicia,” he murmured ominously, his tone the opposite of welcoming. He took several steps toward her, ignoring the weapons because they were no longer necessary. Instead, he drew a wicked-looking blade from a sheath at the small of his back. Ohh, you’re gonna pay for this, he thought, licking his dry, cracked lips in anticipation.

  ◆◆◆

  “Fuck you, Chris,” Alicia bit out in reply, patently ignoring the desire to watch me as I rose up from the floor, silent and deadly as an adder. Not yet, she whispered silently. Not yet.

  I straightened to full height, my Blood-crusted clothing sticking almost painfully to my skin, but I resisted the urge to peel it away as any further movement might alert Christian. I also studiously kept my stare off him, because some people can instinctively feel it when they are being watched.

  “We’ll get to that, baby,” Christian said dangerously, eyes sweeping her body in a lazy caress. “Later.” Through Alicia’s eyes, I could see the nasty, sickening smile on his face, powered by his demented glee to inflict pain, and I whispered soothing, comforting words in her head. Words of the terrible tragedy that was about to befall dear, sweet Christian Lucier.

  I think I went a little overboard, because she smiled, eyes full of quiet mania, and Christian stiffened. Something about her reaction seemed grossly wrong to him, and his glance flickered quickly to the Desert Eagle, wondering if he should have picked it up after all. Ego stuttered and paused at this new information, and his rational mind tried once again to be heard.

  The bolt on the MP5 would be closed regardless of whether or not there were any bullets left! If the weapon is not actually empty, then her throwing it at you is not desperation, it is calculation. She knows she doesn’t need it!

  Rational thought left out the “you dolt” at the end as it had no need for name-calling, but it was implied, and in that moment of perfect inner silence, Christian came to the realization that it didn’t actually matter whether or not there were any rounds remaining. Both of their firearms were on the floor and out of immediate reach… and she’s smiling.

  Terror gripped Christian’s intestines like a clenched, rigored hand, and he whirled around just in time to watch my hand extend and wrap itself around his throat to lift him off the ground. His eyes dilated wide, mostly whites showing because he was trying to look me in the eye though he was unable to tilt his head down.

  I smiled fangless and smashed his hand, knocking the knife from his numb fingers.

  “I told you I’d come for you, Christian,” I reminded, laughter rich and deep in my voice. He tried to choke a reply, hands grappling with mine at his throat. He lost both battles. I let him struggle for a few moments before I let him go, spinning him around and grabbing him by a handful of hair at the base of his head before he even realized his brief moment of freedom.

  He let out a loud yelp, like a dog that had been savagely kicked, and then flung his arms behind his head, attempting again to free himself, grunting and struggling like a man possessed. I held him effortlessly, watching with satisfaction as Alicia approached. Terror blossomed, as it would when a field mouse sees an approaching owl, and I could feel Christian trembling.

  Pathetic. Delicious, but still pathetic.

  Alicia stalked forward like a predatory cat, eyes alive and dancing, a slight smile turning up the corners of her mouth. When she was two feet from Christian, she stopped and reached out with her hand. He flinched violently and then shuddered as she playfully slapped his cheek. A goofy grin broke out on my face.

  Without facial expression of any type, Alicia drew back her hand and smashed a fist into his sternum. Breath exploded from him, and he pitched forward against the limits of my grip, a gurgling noise bubbling from his lips. I felt part of his scalp tear, and a pathetic whine came next as he instantly attempted to straighten himself and lessen the pain.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I’d say to you in this moment, Chris, but it all sounds stupid now.” She pointed to me, and Christian flinched again. “I’ve thought about letting him torture you in ways even you couldn’t imagine, but now I’m not sure.” My eyes locked with hers, and she read my surprise, both at her statement and at the mania slowly dissipating from her eyes. Christian’s body sagged a bit with relief.

  “If I let him,” she continued, eyebrows furrowing in thought, “it’ll just prove that there’s still a part of you inside me, and I’d hate that.” Christian sagged even further, his ragged sigh piercing the silence.

  The sigh was worse than if he’d spouted some false bravado or called her any of the names that women don’t really like to be called. If it had just been a sigh of relief, or some type of gratitude for sparing him the indignity or pain, he might have been okay, but there was this ugly hint of satisfaction in it, as if she had just proven that he was right about her.

  In response, mania flooded her eyes like a spreading ink stain. “Then again, maybe I can stand to be like you just a little.” She turned her head a bit to look directly at me. “Tear his arm off at the elbow,” she said evenly, her carefully modulated voice completely devoid of all inflection. She wanted to shout, to growl, to laugh with mad glee, but in the end, she decided that the absence of emotion had greater impact.

  She was right. Her delivery prickled the skin on the back of my neck as a ghostly, icy finger drifted up my spine.

  Without hesitation, I used my free hand to turn Christian ninety degrees, jerking him backwards by the hair and scalp so that he collided with the wall with a yelp. My face devoid of expression, I reached out and gripped his nearest arm, one hand above the elbow and one below. “No,” he whimpered softly just before I savagely wrenched his elbow the wrong way, the joint crunching like a giant walnut shell.

  An inhuman wail thundered through the hallway, building to a crescendo as I tore skin, tendons and ligaments, orphaning the lower extremity from the upper. Blood gushed from the wound, and I tossed the lower part over my shoulder in an overly theatrical gesture before clamping my hand over the stump to stanch some of the blood flow. Christian’s scream intensified, hurting my ears until it faltered abruptly, his body going into shock.

  He stared mutely at the stump of his arm, grabbing pitifully at the place where his forearm should have been. Blood showered his hand, but he didn’t seem to notice anything but his missing appendage.

  I watched in grim silence as Alicia bent to retrieve his fallen blade. Christian saw nothing but his mangled arm as she straightened, holding the knife at her side and watching him.

  Despite my makeshift tourniquet, I felt him bleeding out and knew that he wasn’t going to remain conscious for much longer. I opened my mouth to say so until I realized that Alicia already knew it. She put her hand gently on his undamaged arm, her fingers tightening. “Goodbye, Chris,” she stated simply, slipping the blade between two of his ribs and skewering his heart. The blade was so sharp and her thrust so full of pent-up malevolence that it went clean through and embedded itself into the wall behind him.

  Christian gasped, eyes as wide as an innocent child’s. “Bu-but...” he whi
spered; it was his last breath. He sagged, his head falling forward, and the knife held him up for a brief moment before he crumpled to the floor. Our eyes followed his progress and stared at his corpse for a few moments in silence. Then, in unison, they came up to meet.

  “Did it work?” I whispered softly, bending down to the body to finish the wet work.

  Alicia looked at me, but she didn’t really see me, her gaze far away. “I don’t know,” she replied honestly.

  ◆◆◆

  Alicia was eerily quiet after leaving Christian’s house. Despite the advent of World War Three at the compound, the police had been unusually slow arriving on scene, which indicated that they knew more about Christian than they let on. Considering the affluence of the neighborhood, I had anticipated a rapid police response, but they were apparently reluctant to get in the middle of a drug power struggle, and since Christian’s compound was set well away from the other houses, there was less of a chance of civilian casualties.

  The most difficult part of the entire assault proved to be dealing with the Hive. It was a veritable bunker two-stories below ground, and the only saving grace was the fact that it had no connection to the outside world. If I had not gotten more of a glimpse into Christian’s mind than I ever wanted, that fact would have surprised me, but he had been such a control freak that he didn’t even trust the people who were spying on his people.

  Thankfully, the Hive’s occupants were nerds instead of soldiers, so even though they were dug in like ticks, I was able to take care of them before the police arrived. Brute force won out over strategy, and although I tore up my hands breaking through one of the reinforced concrete walls, they had healed by the time all of the fancy monitoring equipment and servers were burning. Dried Blood stained my skin and sleeves.

  Alicia and I watched from the shadows as an army of SWAT personnel showed up buffeted by black and whites that were probably more for show and crowd control than anything else. The prevailing mood was mostly incredulity because wars like this rarely came about without some kind of warning signs, and they began to scratch their heads as it became clear that all of the dead bodies belonged to Christian, something that was extremely unusual for a conflict like this one. In most cases, casualties were high on both sides, but when attacking a fortified position, the assaulting force usually sustained the most.

  A few of the younger cops figured that the attackers had carried away their dead and wounded. Most of the wily veterans thought the scene smelled suspiciously of a crack commando unit and wondered which federal team had been bold enough to conduct operations in their back yard without so much as a courtesy call.

  I watched the Keystone Cops bumble around for a bit, as I swept minds to see if our next objective was on their visiting agenda for the next hours, but I was quickly satisfied that we were safe. Police intelligence still hadn’t identified the new location of Christian’s processing operation, a nondescript and half-decrepit warehouse on the docks.

  I had closed the link to Alicia’s mind shortly after Christian’s demise, letting her sort through her thoughts in private, and she was like an automaton as she put her arms around my waist to prepare for our departure. The only indication that she still partially operated in the present was the care with which she avoided contact with the canvas-lined, neoprene sack containing Christian’s head. It was clipped to the right side of my waist, dangling down my thigh and crinkling slightly as it swung with my movements.

  A present for our next objective, DeShawn Winters.

  As Christian’s primary lieutenant, having him onboard would make the takeover a lot easier. Based on information gathered at the compound, DeShawn looked in on the warehouse nightly, mostly because he did not trust the warehouse manager, Joao. By mutual agreement, we decided it was best to take DeShawn as he left the warehouse, and I had about two hours to prepare for it.

  I dropped Alicia off at my house, leaving her armed and still pensive. She barely acknowledged my departure, a slight that I felt keenly but understood.

  During the trip to the waterfront, I called out to Gisele in an attempt to keep my mind off Alicia. She patently ignored my call, and I felt a momentary sense of deja vu. Had I really expected anything else?

  Oddly enough, I had.

  I landed softly in a thick patch of shadow, extending all my senses outward. I could hear the gentle lap of the tide against the pier, and the jumble of motion from within the warehouse, but save for that, all was still and quiet.

  For the moment.

  I dialed Jeffrey on my cell phone, finalizing my plans. A limousine would be sent to an address two blocks south of the warehouse, where the driver would wait for further instructions. If he heard nothing by dawn, he was free to leave.

  I surveyed the warehouse. There were few windows facing the ocean, and those that did were painted black, offering no view in or out. There were currently no guards outside, nor should there be at any point. Because the function of the warehouse was such a tightly guarded secret, no one thought the added security was worth the attention that it might draw.

  Uncovering the BloodHunger and marrying my centered psyche with the Power Sound, I extended my mind into the warehouse. The number of people within was expected but dizzying. I counted forty-three separate thought streams, some vigilant, indicating guards, and others preoccupied with the tasks of breaking down the bulk product and repackaging it for street distribution.

  ◆◆◆

  DeShawn arrived at the warehouse around 1:15am, sporting the look and swagger of your typical street thug. He wore dark, baggy jeans, a hooded sweatshirt bearing the faded decal of a popular thug rapper, and gleaming yellow Timberland boots. The hood was down and a black bandana covered his head, secured by a series of knots that a sailor probably couldn’t duplicate.

  According to Alicia, life had been hard on him, and he survived it mostly thanks to a willingness to do whatever was necessary, a higher-than-average intellect, and occasionally, sheer guts. In that order. DeShawn did not solve problems, he cut them out, often with a larger instrument than was necessary. His methods might have been messy, but they were clearly effective.

  After he disappeared into the building, I approached his car, an immaculate Lincoln SUV. He had parked it two buildings away, far enough from the glow of the only working streetlamp nearby. His caution said a lot about him.

  I found a suitable hiding spot along his most likely path from the warehouse, and I waited. It was more than an hour before he emerged, obviously taking his inspection duties very seriously. I had expected nothing more than a cursory visit to establish his presence and dominance. That said even more about him.

  I watched him carefully as he approached. He walked swiftly, his head constantly moving, eyes scanning the path ahead of him. He was a few steps past my position when he stopped dead, his right hand moving to the small of his back to grip the firearm nestled there. His head movement increased. He looked in my direction several times but was unable to pick me out of the deep, concealing shadow.

  Good instincts, but he was still just a mortal.

  After about thirty seconds of heightened surveillance turning up nothing, he released his grip on the weapon and continued toward his vehicle. His posture was stiffer, vigilant, and I made my move, rendering him unconscious before he realized that his instincts had been accurate.

  ◆◆◆

  He came to about twenty minutes later as if someone had slapped him. The first thing he noticed was his hands, tie-wrapped at the wrist to the steering wheel. “What the-” he began, stopping short when he discovered that his head was also tie-wrapped, to the headrest. I let him test the bonds for a few moments before leaning forward from the voluminous back seat to press the barrel of his weapon into the back of his skull.

  “Shut up and sit still,” I hissed.

  “You have no idea what-” DeShawn began, instinct and a lifetime of experience directing him not to comply.

  “What part of ‘shut up’ didn’t you
understand, DeShawn? Close your fucking mouth, or I’ll blow your brains all over the dashboard.”

  DeShawn’s mouth snapped shut, jaw clenching powerfully and the veins standing out in his neck.

  “Thank you,” I said congenially, reaching forward with my free hand to adjust the rearview mirror so that we could make eye contact. I sat back when I was finished, and we regarded each other for a few long moments, DeShawn’s chest rising and falling agitatedly. I kept my expression neutral, but I left no doubt that I would shoot him given the slightest provocation.

  When I felt there had been enough silent communication, I continued. “Do not speak unless spoken to, and keep your voice low when you answer. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal,” DeShawn bit out, glowering at me.

  “Good,” I said, lowering the pistol to my lap. “I apologize for this unpleasantness, but it was unavoidable. I have a message from my employer, and you need to hear it.” DeShawn nodded as well as could be expected, given his position, his gaze taking on a measuring quality. In addition to being pissed as hell, he finished taking stock of his situation and moved on to an appraisal of his adversary.

  I found myself somewhat impressed by DeShawn, which as you might guess was a bit unexpected.

  “Christian Lucier is dead. The proof of that is here,” I said, unclipping the sack from my waist and tossing it into his lap. DeShawn flinched when it landed. “You may see for yourself if you’d like.”

  DeShawn looked at me, his eyes asking permission to speak. He was smart. I nodded.

  “I want to see for myself,” he stated in a low whisper, and I leaned forward again, extending my arms around either side of his head to grab the sack. I opened it wide with swift motions and then moved it into his line of vision. He stared at its contents for several seconds before closing his eyes. “Okay,” he said. I closed the sack and withdrew my arms, taking it with me into the back seat. Our eyes met again in the rearview.