Striper Assassin (32 page)

Abruptly, Eliana lifts her arms out from her sides and the light of the candles swells in intensity. The cats all look up, then return to washing themselves, or stretching, or napping.

This is just the beginning.

Eliana removes her lustrous robe and lets it drop to the ground. That leaves her clad in only the briefest of string bikinis, a black one. Raman surveys her form from behind. The she’s body is delightful, slim and supple, enticingly curved, neither extreme nor spare in any of its proportions. Raman feels a stirring of arousal, as he always does at the sight of a female so nearly naked.

Knowing this one as he does, he would expect Eliana to turn her head and look back at him, if only to ascertain that he is indeed looking at her. It is the cat that looks, however. From its place beside Eliana’s ankles, the black one turns and looks directly at Raman, then bares its teeth and hisses. This, Raman knows, is a warning of sorts. He lowers himself to the floor and sits with legs crossed, leaning back against the wall. Standing is not allowed. It is considered a great privilege to be permitted to witness the conduct of the magic. He must sit here, remaining silent and unmoving, until the magic is done.

Eliana tosses her hair, then begins to hum. She steps up to the altar and casts a small quantity of some powder into a metal crucible. A peculiar bluish flame immediately bursts into life. Eliana then turns and casts more powder toward the four corners of the room. Her humming rises into a chant.

“Spirits, I call thee… Spirits, I call thee…”

Raman becomes aware of a strange buzzing tension, one that seems to pervade the room, passing right through his own skull. The tension swells into a vibrancy that makes him dizzy, as though he would topple if he tried to stand. He comes to feel rooted to the earth, fixed in his position. Such feelings are disturbing, but he has survived them before. They are a part of the magic. A side effect, the she claims.

Eliana now sways before the altar and her voice rises into song. Every intonation is like gold, ringing forth with bell-tone clarity. Such purity of tone makes the sensual beauty of her body seem so trivial as to be irrelevant. Raman has never heard another voice quite like it. The sound is captivating.

Abruptly, the she is dancing, swaying sinuously, seductively, smoothing her hands along the luscious contours of her own body, rolling her hips. Her movements carry her slowly around the circumference of a broad circle, and rival even the beauty of her voice for sheer sensual appeal.

What magical significance any of this has Raman does not know, nor does he care. To him, as a male, the seductive dance has only one true meaning. It is an invitation, and very difficult to resist. He becomes fully aroused even as the she begins. He spends the next quarter-hour or so struggling against the urge to rise and answer the she’s enticing siren song. His blood begins to rush hotly through his flesh. The heat in his groin seems almost molten. Yet, he realizes, the she is only toying with him again, intentionally or not. Were he to follow his urgings, interfere with her magic in any way, Eliana would become enraged, and that would be very dangerous indeed.

With just a movement of her hand and a whispered word, she once hurled him against the rear wall of this room with such force he was sure his spine was shattered.

Never again…

Abruptly, a wall of flame erupts around the circle Eliana has sketched out with her dance. The flames send a billowing cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, then vanish. As the smoke clears away from the floor, Eliana is revealed, now kneeling at the center of the circle, facing the wall of candles, the altar, and the mirror.

Her singing continues, but softly now. From time to time, she sways, raising her arms, and the greater strangeness begins, brought on by the magic. The room seems to grow blurred. Raman feels his eyes growing heavy. The desire to sleep becomes all but irresistible… and then suddenly he sees Eliana on all fours, crawling before the altar.

The magic has begun in earnest. Power vibrates through the air. The she is changed. Her face resembles the strange feline image on her medallion. Her eyes are black as jet, her fingernails like claws, as long as each of her fingers. Her hands resemble paws. A lustrous golden down seems to cover her entire body. As she moves, turning back and forth, sometimes turning completely around, she hisses and purrs, at times baring her teeth, revealing a pair of diminutive fangs protruding from her upper jaw.

Every cat in the room surrounds her. They sit on their haunches facing her as though entranced. Each time she moves, the ones immediately before her bolt aside as if frantic to get out of her way. The instant Eliana stops or turns elsewhere, they immediately halt and turn back, sitting as before, motionless as statues and staring as if captivated.

It is as if their god has appeared before them.

Do cats have gods? Raman wonders, but then the strangeness overcomes him again. His eyes fall shut. When they open again, he sees an image wavering in the mirror above the altar, as transparent as water and yet as clearly visible as the blurry lines of heat rising from the tiers of candles. The image is like that of Eliana’s medallion, a strange and alien feline face. Eliana sits on her heels before it, her head thrown back, her hair cascading almost to the floor. Behind her the cats sit on their haunches in a perfect semicircle.

Melodic voices whisper, so soft and far away Raman cannot quite make out what they are saying.

Another time passes. Raman abruptly realizes that Eliana is wearing her golden robe again. She is now lying on her side, sprawled luxuriously in the center of the room, head propped on one arm. The cat-like manifestation in the altar mirror has disappeared. The light of the candles is once again at a normal level. Eliana looks at him with the languid eyes of a sensual woman. The cats walk around her, back and forth, purring, meowing, rubbing themselves against her, as if striving for her attention.

Smiling, Eliana extends one hand, motioning Raman closer.

Raman gets up carefully. His head has cleared. He feels fine, vigorous and alert. He steps to the center of the room and lowers himself to one knee. Smiling seductively, Eliana runs her fingertips over his chest and around to the back of his neck, then lightly pulls him downward till his face is but a breath away from hers and that of the black cat, seated next to her cheek.

“I know exactly where Striper is,” Eliana murmurs, eyes gleaming. She pauses to smile. “And I will show you,” she adds softly. “But first you must serve me.”

Naturally. “What do you want me to do?”

Eliana releases his neck and stretches her arm out across the floor and lays her head against it. “There is a man who must be chastised,” she says softly, lightly. “Chastised in a physical way. It should not be difficult. Not for you.”

“That is all?”

The she smiles, arching one brow.

It is never just one thing. In this case, however, the second thing the she desires is not at all displeasing. Raman guesses what it is by Eliana’s next remark.

“Take off your clothes,” she croons.

Raman willingly complies.

37

“You set?”

Kirkland looks at the woman sharing the elevator with him. Her name is Val Pandolfini. She’s Italian, but you’d never guess it just by looking at her. Her hair is long and thick and a rusty shade of red-brown. Her face is almost dead-white, though touched by a pinkish hue high on her cheeks. Combined with her skin tone, the dark shadowing around her eyes and the black paint on her lips and nails make her look like a fragging vampire. The black bomber jacket doesn’t help. The skin-tight, short black skirt helps some, but her bare, pasty-white legs and idiotic low-heeled ankle boots detract from what little the skirt struggles to add.

Of course, that’s just Kirkland’s personal opinion, and they’re not here on this elevator for anything other than purely professional reasons. Ms. Pandolfini, approximately twenty-seven years of age, is a three-year veteran of the Minuteman Police Intelligence Bureau. She is a police recorder, and one trained for and experienced with undercover work at that.

“Twenty-six July,” she says, looking straight ahead at the elevator doors. “Nineteen fifty-three hours. Job number 23054.” She looks at Kirkland. “Accompanying Kirkland, Lieutenant, Homicide, Central Division, on subject interview, Platinum Manor Estates. Everything I see and hear from this point forward will be recorded, Lieutenant.”

Kirkland gives a nod. “Good.”

To look at her, you’d never guess she has cybercams for eyes and a sealed recording module implant. That’s the beauty of it. Once she turns on, everything she sees and hears becomes evidence admissible in any court. Her record of events is even better than that of an ordinary hidden camera because her memory module has been sealed by the court and can only be opened in the presence of a judge. Any form of tampering with the module would be overtly obvious, if only to the court’s appointed technician.

Kirkland’s glad to have her along, even if she does more resemble a vampire than a cop.

The elevator doors slide open. Stepping out, Kirkland glances to his right and his left, then immediately stops. Pandolfini stops, too. The corridor leading past the elevator is very short, no more than six, seven meters long. It’s a kind of private entrance hall giving access to a pair of luxury condos. To the left of the elevator stand three men in dark gray, military-style body armor, complete suits, everything from helmets with reflective faceplates to semi-rigid chest protection to armored gloves and boots. Two of them hold short-barreled assault carbines. The third holds an SMG. Back the other way, to the right of the elevator, are two more in full armor carrying assault carbines.

Kirkland immediately recognizes that if this is an ambush, he and Pandolfini are dead.

“We’re cops,” Kirkland says at once.

That turns out to be exactly the right thing to say.

Three move in close. The one with the SMG takes center stage. His voice is flat and raspy. Computer-modulated, Kirkland assumes. “Your identification.”

“They’re both armed,” another one says.

Somebody’s got sensors, weapon detectors.

Kirkland slowly draws the left side of his jacket fully open and slowly reaches into his inside breast pocket, then slowly draws out his shield case, flips it open, and extends it out for all to see.

“Kirkland,” he says. “Lieutenant Kirkland. Homicide.”

“Who’s the other?” says the one with the SMG.

The “other” identifies herself, displaying a brass shield and saying, “Detective-Sergeant Val Pandolfini.”

“State your business. Lieutenant.”

Kirkland’s arm starts to get tired. He closes his shield case and returns it to his inside jacket pocket. Pandolfini follows his lead. “I’m here on official police business. Who the hell are you?”

“Agent Two-Nine-Five, in command, Birnoth Comitatus High-Threat Defense Unit.”

“Fine. You wanna get the hell outta my way?”

“Contacting command,” says Two-Nine-Five. “Stand by.”

The tone of voice grates on Kirkland’s nerves, but he forces himself to stay calm. He’s encountered corporate mercenaries plenty of times before. Some of them are fraggin’ psychopaths. Others are just nuts. Birnoth mercs have a pretty good rep, based on everything Kirkland’s ever heard, but that doesn’t mean the average Birnoth operative has anything like a normal psychological profile. Caution is advised.

“Right,” says the Birnoth agent. “Who is your commanding officer. Lieutenant?”

“Captain Emilio Henriquez.”

“That’s the name. You’re clear to pass.”

“Thanks a lot, chummer.”

Agent 295 precedes Kirkland down the hall to the door, then keys the intercom. The door slides open. Kirkland steps into a small room with marbleized, mirrored gold paneling and several pieces of antique wooden furniture. Pandolfini comes up alongside him and runs her eyes around the room. She knows what to watch for. In a moment, the double-pocket doors leading into the rest of the condo slide apart and a man in a white servant’s uniform enters and approaches Kirkland.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Need to see Mister Ohara.”

“I’m sorry,” the servant replies. “Mister Ohara is not here at present.”

“Oh, yeah?” Kirkland lifts his brows as if surprised, then glowers. “Well, maybe you better go check with Mister Ohara again, because a good friend of mine just saw him and his two girlfriends come home. And if he still isn’t here, then Detective Pandolfini and I will just wait right here until Mister Ohara decides that he
is
here. And make sure you tell him that, chummer.”

The servant frowns very briefly, then goes back through the double doors.

About two minutes later, Kirkland steps through a sliding transparex door onto a spacious transparex-enclosed balcony providing a panoramic view of the expansive Platinum Manor Estates botanical gardens. There’s a badge down there somewhere, and another one in the underground parking garage. That Kirkland’s got Ohara under surveillance shouldn’t be construed as meaning he suspects Ohara of any crime within the jurisdiction of Philadelphia. Kirkland’s just covering the angles. Officially, he’s just covering angles.

Tonight, Ohara wears a long black satin robe and slippers, not to mention an excess of gold jewelry. He sits on a velvet-cushioned lounge. He smiles like the king of the world. A bottle of champagne on ice and a dish of caviar sit on the table beside him. Sharing the lounge with Ohara are a pair of blondes who look like raunchy sex just waiting to happen. The blondes are nude, and they look enough alike to be twins. Neither makes a move to get up or to cover herself.