Los Angeles 2170, page 9
Yeah, about what she expected. All the subtlety of a bull in rut. Probably about as nice in bed, as well.
She hoped he wasn’t the kind that liked to grab a handful of hair when he mounted a woman. She might forget herself and bite the bastard if he did that.
Which would probably just arouse someone like Everett MacGill.
Katrina kept her growls to herself and held the glass like a shield. Nobody would waste good bourbon like that.
And she was getting paid extremely well for this, even if the money wasn’t coming from this punk directly.
Just out of his hide.
He finally took the empty highball glass from her hand and set it to one side, stepping right into her personal space again and letting his hands roam. Back, bottom, skin.
Rather than argue or fret, Katrina turned and pressed her back into his chest. The hands immediately cupped both breasts and began to play with them like salt-water taffy. She had dialed the nerve sensitivity down first, but planned to amp it back up in the editing process, so Constance would get an overload of pain perhaps a few notches beyond what this dipshit was about.
One hand went south, looking for the slit in her dress and pulling it up to find the flesh underneath.
You can’t fake goosebumps, but you can tell people they are a result of ticklishness, rather than pure rage. If he even noticed.
She turned inside his hands again, accidentally brushing them off as she took hold of his jacket and pushed the lapels back, kissing him with something approximating passion. He nodded, breathing hard, and let her slide the jacket onto the floor. The shirt went a moment later, showing off gray chest hair at odds with the head, and the paunch that good tailoring would hide.
Katrina stepped out of her shoes and reached down before he could grasp her again. She quickly pulled the dress up and over, inside out so she could lay it flat and get some of the wrinkles out.
Nude, she studied the man with a casual eye, obviously waiting for him to join her, rather than just undoing his fly to take her. Like he had probably planned.
Everett took a moment to finally grasp the finer points of seduction, and then slid his loafers off and dropped his pants and underwear to the floor.
Fifty-four year old scientist with too much money and not enough hunger in his life. Slack skin that even the doctors hadn’t been able to fix.
At least he was still able to perform some duties, or had at least take the right pills earlier to prepare.
She stepped close and took him in one hand, distracting him like all men. He stood perfectly still as she kissed him in a few places, neck and chest, to work up some desire on her part.
It was a little difficult for her to get into character, but he did have a nice-enough cock.
And then the door slammed open and three masked gunmen were pointing weapons at her. And him, but her.
The door slammed shut just as quickly, silence descending, except for the hiss of the air conditioning system.
“Nobody speaks,” the tallest one said in a cultured voice with a hint of a French accent. “Nobody moves.”
MacGill withered in her hand, so she stepped back, placing her back to the corner of the bar.
Hopefully, masks meant professionals. Corporate kidnappings for ransom or blackmail weren’t unheard of. And a French accent didn’t help her identify the man.
The United States technically still existed, but large swaths of the middle were arid desert now, abandoned, with folks pressed east and west to the point that it had turned into three countries, at least culturally. France, of all places, had survived entirely intact, and exported world-class mercenaries to anyone who could pay.
Of course, MacGill didn’t have a bodyguard with him. Who wants a younger, stronger man around for the women to unconsciously compare? The crew had obviously known about this place. Someone had tipped them off. The door hadn’t been kicked in, so one of them had a passkey, or a bypass box.
Katrina went completely cold, wondering if she had been set up by Constance. What better alibi could you have, if you sent a corporate spy in to catch your philandering husband in the act, and someone else just happened to show up and do something terrible to the man? And it was all on camera?
Was Constance that good of an actress? Or that hard of a businesswoman?
Katrina played stupid. Drunk bimbo from a party that the big, rich dude had seduced with his evil wiles.
“I’m not doing all of you,” she announced with a sudden slur. She focused her eyes on MacGill. “What kind of a girl do you think I am, buster?”
Before she could get really worked up, one of the men grabbed her by the back of the neck like she was a kitten. He squeezed just enough to get her attention, showing off muscles, but also letting her know he knew what he was doing.
Katrina glanced back. This one had a better cologne. One she could identify later, from the recordings, if it became necessary. Taller than her, and heavier.
She turned enough to stare up at him with her innocent drunkenness.
“Who are you?” she demanded with a half-slur.
“Bad men,” he said firmly. “Don’t be stupid, and you won’t be hurt.”
Like all men, the eyes roamed. Unlike Everett, Katrina spent four or five days a week in the gym or the pool. Not building muscle, but keeping everything taut and firm for moments when she needed to perform naked in front of a mark.
She could read the appreciation in his eyes. And the control as he pushed her slightly back. Not enough to stumble, just to off-balance her.
“Get dressed,” he ordered. “Both of you.”
The gun was handy, but held almost negligently at his side.
Katrina wasn’t some super-agent who could take on three armed men in a hotel room without getting herself killed.
Hopefully, right about now Constance was triggering her corporate security team’s Executive Alert system. More bad guys coming, but ones she knew would hopefully be on her side.
If they had orders to arrive in time.
Damn it, this was not supposed to happen like this. I’m supposed to be in charge here. Controlling things. Driving the situation. Maybe getting laid, if I liked his moves and cock enough. Who the hell are you people to ruin my plans?
Still, they had guns, and she did not. Simple as that.
Everett had collapsed mentally into some sort of funk. Eyes stared glassy at the Frenchman, like a bull that had gotten down the chute and met the gentleman with the stunning hammer.
Katrina moved carefully. All those years of ballet as a kid. Deliberate and choreographed.
Pick of the little, black dress. Turn it right-side-out with both hands. Lift it over her head and pull it on slowly, getting the neck piece just right around and her arm, before pulling it the rest of the way down.
But for shoes, just as she had entered this scene.
The Frenchman and his cohorts obviously appreciated the effort. They smiled at her in ways that didn’t suggest she was about to be collateral damage, or a rape victim.
“You,” Frenchie snapped at MacGill. “I said dressed. Now.”
“Or what?” the man’s native sullenness came to the fore.
Rather than answer, the Frenchman stepped forward and punched MacGill hard in the stomach, folding him in half with an explosion of breath.
About what you should expect when armed men ask politely the first time, and your ego gets in the way.
Katrina remained frozen. The other two had guns pointed at her while their leader stood over the scientist.
“Or I hurt you,” Frenchie completed the conversation nonchalantly, stepping back and kicking MacGill’s pants closer.
Katrina checked her internal monitors. It was second nature to look natural while doing so. Recorders still picking up all five senses, including the hard spike of adrenaline coursing through her belly. More importantly, video broadcast on a narrow band.
Hopefully, Constance was watching. And doing something about this situation, rather than just sipping her own highball of bourbon and laughing.
Perfect alibi. Full sensory recordings and everything.
Katrina made a note to never let herself get set up like this again, assuming she lived to get even with whoever was responsible. Maybe some martial arts lessons? Or her own commando team handy against shit like this?
At least none of them had the right equipment to detect that the brunette with the long legs was currently transmitting everything about them off-site.
Moving behind the bar to fix another glass of bourbon would probably twitch these men right out, so she moved to the futon and sat. Anything to appear less dangerous.
They wore masks, so she couldn’t identify faces. One of them she could track by scent and voiceprint, if she needed.
Hopefully, she wouldn’t be in a position to record their cocks against later testimony.
The shortest of the three moved to one side and covered her with the gun when she sat. Back in a corner where nobody could get at him quickly. The other two watched MacGill stand and sullenly put on pants. Shirt was left untucked. Jacket went over the top.
Frenchie took the passcard from MacGill’s jacket pocket and gestured the man to move. He turned back to stare at Katrina.
“If I left you, you’d call the cops before we were out of the building,” he said, waving the pistol to get her to stand and indicating her shoes. “Don’t feel like tying you to the bed or shooting you, so you come along.”
“Why?” she said with all the misery she could channel. “Where are you taking us?”
“Someplace quiet and safe,” he replied. “Need him to get a big payment from someone else. Need you under wraps until things are resolved. After I get paid, you can walk away without harm.”
Right, pal. And you’ve really separated from that shrill harpy and are filing for a divorce tomorrow? What other lies do you want me to believe? Just the tip?
Constance, you better be doing something.
Third guy took Everett roughly by the arm and led him into the hallway. Short guy took her. Frenchie was in back. Guns were out of immediate sight, but handy.
Katrina had never fired a gun in her life, so wrestling with the short guy, disarming him, and killing all three sounded like a really painful way to commit suicide.
She made a note to add an emergency alert call to her broadcast rig if she made it out of this alive. Police departments were a fraction of what her history lessons said they had once been, with corporate security forces picking up the slack. The latter had extra-territoriality rights these days, like nations once had, but some of them might be willing to rescue a hot damsel in distress.
Signing up for an Executive Alert Rescue insurance package tomorrow, assuming, would be freaking expensive. Might be worth doing. World was going to hell.
The elevator opened and nobody was there. Katrina had been unconsciously expecting gunmen. Rescue. Something.
Passcard once they were all inside. MacGill was pressed face-first into one corner. Short guy just leaned all his weight into pinning her, side to side. She could watch the floors drip away as they dropped out of the rarified heights of wealth, down to the bowels of the tower where the lower classes toiled to support the beautiful people.
Lon Angeles was still a land of earthquakes, but advanced science and technology had combined with aesthetics to favor massive pyramids as living spaces, rather than the spindly needles of the early industrial age.
Katrina felt like she was descending into the underworld.
Ding. The door opened.
MacGill was driven out first, a bull headed to the abattoir. Short guy pulled her along next. Frenchie followed at a leisurely pace.
A black passenger truck waited at the curb. Station wagon with all-wheel drive, nearly three meters tall, with six doors, smoked windows, and a sag to the axle that suggested serious armor plating.
Katrina had never ridden in a Class-Five-rated vehicle, but had dreamed about being rich enough to need one. Studied them as an excuse to daydream. Random gunfire on the streets would bother her a lot less, with that much bulletproofness around her.
Play this like a detective. Give the cops something to work with.
She studied the truck as she approached, stumbling accidentally on her heels in such a way that her eyes caught the front license plate and recorded it for posterity. Vehicles like this were too expensive to just steal and burn, so hopefully there was a paper trail someone could follow.
And it would lead the cavalry to her rescue, and not just her revenge in a week.
“Thank you,” she murmured to Short Guy as he tugged her upright, catching her from falling, rather than just bouncing her hard off the fender.
Could have gone either way.
And nobody was here. Katrina had never been down to what looked like delivery docks for small trucks, rather than big box rigs. It was evening, and the place was completely abandoned.
Like someone else had planned ahead.
Katrina wondered if all the concrete and steel above her would swallow her transmission signal, leaving her to just vanish without a trace. MacGill got zip-tied behind his back and thrust rudely into the back seat. Her hands were at least in front of her when they put the plastic restraints on. She went into the front seat with the seat belt locking her in, while Frenchie drove.
The locks on her door slammed shut like a guillotine dropping.
They emerged up a ramp into the ugly underbelly of southern Los Angeles, not that far from Long Beach and San Pedro. The massive pyramid emerged from the slums around it like an elephant surrounded by rabbits. Pretty people flew in and out on private auto-copters, never seeing the city from this level.
The empty storefronts with broken windows looked like women with black eyes. It took her back to the bad parts of her childhood. Which was most of them.
Katrina suppressed a growl at being back here, after all the work she had done to escape. Someone would pay dearly for this. Assuming she lived.
Not Frenchie. He was just another mercenary like her, doing what he was best at to pay the bills. The other two weren’t even that, just bums with guns doing what they were hired for.
MacGill started to say something, and got popped in the face. Sounded like a fist, rather than a pistol barrel, from the meaty thunk, but Katrina kept her eyes forward and studied the streets as they drove.
She was still broadcasting. Hopefully someone was watching. It would really suck to end up dead and have whatever police found her body find all the recordings. Maybe something would happen. Maybe not.
They were headed due east now. Katrina focused on the street signs, telling herself that rescue was just around the corner. They just needed to know where to find her.
The streets were almost empty of cars. The only people she saw were homeless folks. Around here, that meant the very young, thrown out by their parents to make their own way, or the very old, dwindling on what few handouts the local churches and groups might provide.
Ciudad de Los Angeles had long since given up trying to feed everyone who needed it. The metropolitan area of SoCal contained nearly fifty million people, ninety percent just hanging on.
She caught Frenchie looking over as they cruised down the empty boulevard.
“Relax,” he said with a bonhomie smile. “It’s just business.”
Just business.
The eternal call to free people up from any aspect of guilt for what they’re doing. Nothing personal, but I have to shoot you know. It’s just business.
She forced a smile, turning to look at the man. He still wore the mask, but the windows of the truck were so smoked that nobody could tell. Just two figures in front, and three in the back, with MacGill in the middle of two gunmen intent on controlling him.
She wasn’t going anywhere until Frenchie unlocked her door from the override he had, and one of the goons in back would shoot her if she lunged for the steering wheel.
No, it’s just business.
Wheels screeched madly. Men cursed in several languages. Impact ruptured her world with a tremendous flash of light and sound.
Katrina was suddenly hanging in space by the seatbelt, looking at the pavement out her side window.
She looked up at Frenchie, also hanging in space, but unconscious. His door looked broken, and she could see stars out his window.
Everything seemed to be two meters away.
Concussion. You have a concussion. She blinked, but nothing wanted to focus.
A man appeared, looking at her sideways in the windshield. He had a very big gun pointed at her. Maybe he was speaking, it was hard to understand.
Somebody attached something to the windshield and ripped it bodily from the vehicle. Sound suddenly arrived again, along with the smells of the streets she thought she had escaped.
He had a cute face. Sandy blond hair buzzed short against his skull and a red beret with some sort of security company logo on it.
“You okay?” he asked, never letting the barrel waver.
There were other barrels there, too. And then the driver’s side door vanished off its hinges.
Katrina couldn’t find words, so she mutely held up her hands to show off the restraints holding her wrists.
The cute blond nodded and reached in with a box knife, expertly slicing the plastic and then unhooking her seat belt.
He pulled her to safety and she let the weight of everything overwhelm her.
Darkness.
The recording rig had remained running, even when she was out cold, so Katrina had been able to play back the audio track from the clinic bed where she woke up. Most of everything had been a blur from the moment the bank truck broadsided her vehicle, clear as a bell when she slowed the video down enough to see it emerge from a side street, timed perfectly since they knew right where she was.
“Ah,” a nurse said as she peaked in the door. “You’re awake. Good. You have a visitor.”
I do? Who would even know where I was? Let alone want to see me.
Constance Ehrlynmeyer entered a moment later, closing the door and locking it before she turned to study Katrina.
