Strange Flesh (57 page)

“Try it now.”

Again Blake slides two digits into Ginger. Again nothing happens. Mondano laughs like we’ve finally come to the punch line. “You think we can’t fix this? You think we need you to make this work?”

I open Fred’s hatch again, and while I’m twiddling, I rotate his base slightly counterclockwise.

Blake leans across the table and says, “James, this is very disappointing. What did you think was going to happen here?” Right behind him, I see a flutter in the light from the window. Mondano’s men responding to his raised voice. Checking on their boss.

I guess it’s now or never.

“Well, Blake, from recent experience, I figured you were going to try to”—I incline my head toward the mic in my laptop—“fuck me.”

“Fuck_Me,” of course, is the voice prompt that stimulates Fred to action, and so I used it here, but with modified orders.

A soft click sounds as Fred releases the latch restraining his manhood, and there’s another louder one as he shifts the cylinder on his primary control valve. During the minute we’ve been waiting, I let the air pressure build up to over 250 p.s.i., quadruple its normal value. So Fred’s plastic member shoots out of his pelvic casing and impacts with the force of a pro fastball into the right side of Mondano’s mouth.

He’s flung hard to the ground behind the table, so I can’t see the exact effect, but I suspect a team of oral surgeons will send their kids to college on the proceeds from repairing the damage.

At the same time, Blake cries out at the surprise I installed for Ginger. All of her internal air muscles inflate to their maximum extent, trapping Blake’s fingers in a vise-like grip. Her head then rotates while pulling down hard, hopefully placing his wrist in a painful position.

I dive over the table to knock Xan to the floor. Mondano is screaming, a strangled whistling sound, and his men will be coming in fast.

Xan and I hit hard next to Mondano, who’s trying to go fetal under the table. I roll over and thrust my leg up into its underside with enough
strength to topple it over so that its opposite edge rests on that side’s row of chairs. It forms an incomplete barrier between us and Mondano’s men. The giant glass wall explodes from the blast of a sawed-off shotgun. I nearly lose control of myself. Pistols are bad enough. But a shotgun in close quarters is a recipe for slaughter.

Through the gap under the table’s edge I can see two sets of legs move into the room. I missed the chance to grab my gun as I vaulted over the table, but Mondano’s slid down with me, landing right next to Xan’s head. I snatch it and fire at their kneecaps. A startled shout indicates I hit someone, but I know it’s not going to be enough.

The men will be on us before I can stand, so in desperation, I grab Mondano by the back of his jacket and turn him so that his body is mostly covering mine. I’m just bringing my pistol up when I see the face of Shades from the Cloisters emerge over the edge of the table. He’s looking down past the barrel of his shotgun. He takes in the situation and hesitates. With a handgun it would be an easy shot, but his pellet spread would take a large chunk of his boss along with me. It’s just enough time for me to squeeze off two shots into his chest, and he disappears from my view, firing into the ceiling as he falls.

There’s still at least another shooter, maybe disabled, but probably not incapacitated. But I can’t see him through the table. I roll into a squat and jerk Mondano up onto his knees. He tries to grab at my face, but he’s wild with agony and can’t mount much of an attack. I lurch forward with him, my adrenaline-saturated muscles just able to propel him up over the lip of the table. I’m right behind him, again using his body as a shield. A muzzle flash from the floor just to my left, and Mondano’s head snaps back, spraying my face with gore. I empty my clip in that direction, but I can’t see shit with my eyes full of blood. Mondano becomes dead weight and slumps forward onto the edge of the table.

I duck back down, frantic about what I’m going to do now that I’m out of ammo. I listen to try to get a sense of what’s happening, but a horrible silence has enveloped the room. Xan levers herself upright beside me, her breath coming in sobs. I put a finger to my lips. She holds her breath. The air is heavy with the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder. Then I hear a muffled thump to my left, maybe against the far wall. Someone is still moving. My brain seizes with terror.

And then I see it. Mondano’s lifeless body hanging over the edge of the
table has caused his pants to ride up enough to uncover an ankle holster. I grab the gun and rise, looking for targets.

It’s Blake leaning against the back wall. One of his hands is bent around at a disgusting angle, the wrist obviously mangled. I suppose that happened when I kicked the table over. Ginger would have come flying off with Blake’s hand attached. Despite what has to be unbelievable pain, his other hand is steady. It holds his gun, and is pointed straight at my chest.

On seeing this, I almost start shooting immediately. But something holds me back. Mondano and his help planned violence from the beginning, but throughout, Blake has seemed legitimately shocked by what’s happened. He is someone I
know,
and regardless, there shouldn’t be any more bodies coming from this. My dreams from the past weeks of a triumphant demo are cruelly mocked by the blood drenching the room’s walls. Our unnatural vision of love replaced with this gory nightmare of war.

I have to swallow hard to get my voice to work. “Blake, let’s just—”

But then he fires.

I guess I saw in his eyes the hysterical equations he was processing reach a solution. Maybe I noticed him adjusting his aim. Because as I hit the ground, I know that I got off a shot as well, and we both went down.

I can’t say it hurts too much, but I know it’s bad. Partly because I can’t really move my head. In fact, I’m rapidly losing control of my whole body. I see Xan’s face swim into my line of sight.

Her mouth opens in what must be a scream.

M
y cocoon goes from pleasant darkness to a brighter reddish brown. A light has been turned on, and if I open my eyes, I could find out why. I keep them closed.

Hazy days pass in a swirl of numbness and pain. A surgery I think. I have a dim recollection of being moved onto a rolling stretcher. Some forms thrust at me. McClaren’s face close to mine, saying my name. These are only a few among some far more outlandish memories, so they may be nothing but the residue of a fever-fraught, opiate-laced dream.

The next thing that seems definitely real is a soft feminine voice speaking words I can’t quite hear. Then an entrancing smell of cigarette smoke. My chest clenches with must-have-right-now urgency. I open my eyes to assess the possibility of getting one.

At first I’m optimistic. The mahogany furniture, impersonal floral wallpaper, and decorative molding place me in a premium hotel suite. But my hopes fall as I take in the adjustable bed, IV stand, and nearby heart monitor, which is reproachfully recording my nic fit. I try to lever myself up, which makes me realize that I’ve also been shot just over the right hip. Combined with my chest wound, this makes almost any movement excruciating.

I lie still, but a section of my brain is pumping out some sensational anxiety messages. I look around for clues to their cause.

In a sunny alcove off to my right, I see Blythe Randall chatting on her cell. She’s wearing a gauzy dark-gray suit. And despite the setting, she’s smoking. I’m struck by how beautiful she looks. But then I remember my recent history and conclude that maybe I should be afraid.

Thinking of my email bomb makes me start wishing I hadn’t survived. My phone sits on a table next to me just within reach. A few clicks reassure me that it never went out.

Now, how could that be?

I guess Red Rook was farther up my ass than I imagined.

My sigh of relief gets Blythe’s attention, and her phone flips shut. I test her attitude by placing two fingers sideways at my lips.

She shakes her head, but the crinkle at her eyes conveys “What are we going to do with you?” not “I’m going to strangle you for shooting my brother.” She steps over and places her cigarette between my lips. I inhale deeply, ignoring my suspicion that a coughing spasm might kill me.

Blythe sits next to me and says, “You’ve had us a bit worried.”

I have so many questions, it’s hard to know where to begin.

“Where am I?”

“Well, you’re not in Secaucus bleeding to death.” Her cool tone implies, “Though that could be arranged.”

“Good . . . But—”

“We thought after . . . everything, you might need a break. So you’re at a private clinic on Long Island. Where you’ll receive the best medical care known to man. For the
full duration
of your recovery.”

Does that mean I’m effectively a prisoner? Do I care, as long as they keep the Fentanyl flowing?

I’m just amazed Blythe isn’t ripping my eyes out.

“What about—” I realize belatedly that I’m heading into dangerous territory.

Blythe is a step ahead of me. She takes some papers off the nightstand and hands them to me. “We’re going to need you to confirm this as soon as possible.”

I take the pages warily and start skimming.

The document is Xan’s statement to the police. She’s given them a background précis very close to the truth, but substituting in place of the Dancers some crazy porno NOD build Mondano and Blake wanted to set up. We’d gone to the warehouse to discuss ramping up security on the project due to Billy’s attacks. Halfway through the meeting, Blake shows up and starts screaming threats at Mondano about something having to do with his little brother.

The key paragraphs read:

The first thing I realize upon absorbing this is that Xan has lied extravagantly to protect me. In her account, I have been made into an unarmed bystander.

What about my gun? Is it possible that Xan had the presence of mind to get rid of it?

I reach to remember what really happened. No, I never fired it, so there won’t be traces for ballistics. The only guns I fired were Mondano’s.

But they would have my fingerprints on them, wouldn’t they? Is it possible that Xan wiped them and then ran them back through his hands?