* * * *
Tired. Exhausted.
Played out.
Natasha “Natty”
Svetlankova Birdwell hadn’t a fucking clue how much longer she’d have been able
to tread water, keep her head above the filth of the sewer her life had become.
But, now it was resolved. She had Harris.
Harris was Natty’s
ticket out. Out of Rocky’s Rocket Room. Out of Bakersfield
Harris. Ticket to
ride. Oh, yeah.
Guy was a
congressman? No wonder the country had been brought to its knees. Natty
couldn’t begin to comprehend the dude’s thought process. She’d simply remain
forever grateful for the politico’s lack of cerebral candlepower. His drug
induced brain-fade had prompted the fool to allow her to use her cell phone cam
to record some of their more daring physical experiments. Money in the bank.
Then, as if the
incriminating photos weren’t enough, Harris had gone on a drunken ramble,
describing a ruthless power grabbing scheme involving, lobbying, illegal
funding, pork barrel legislation, and some of the state’s most prominent, and
respected figures. Natty proved an avid listener, amused and gratified to know
that everyone, everyone, had dirty
laundry. Some of it downright filthy.
She lit a
cigarette, paced. Stopped near her door, hefted the two light suitcases she had
packed an hour ago. Hour before that, she’d finished a phone conversation with
Harris. The second of the day. Harris had finally seen the light. Was willing
to meet her demands. First payment to be delivered that afternoon. Well, Natty
was ready. Soon as she had the money, she’d split. Disappear, until it was time
for the next payment.
Not that she was
paranoid, but she wasn’t a fool either. Out of sight, out of harm’s way. One
reason she’d arranged for the payoff to take place in this anonymous little shithole
of a motel room. She’d checked in, using one of the half dozen fake IDs Monte had
provided, hiding behind huge Jackie O shades and a cheap blond wig.
The knock was
hard, startled her. Annoyed, she jerked the door open, said, “Hey, asshole, you don’t have to beat it
down. What took you so long, you stop to print it?”
The heel of the
guy’s hand caught her in the sternum, propelling her backward, through the
small room, into a lowboy dresser. She slammed into the dresser, kept her feet
by placing her hands behind her on its grimy surface.
She didn’t know
who this dude was, but she recognized the look in his eyes as he shut the door
behind him, grinned, said, “Hey, babe.
Name’s Con. They tell me you’ve been a bad girl. Threatening to make problems
for your betters. Sent me over to set you straight.”
Her betters? Fuck
this cretin. Maybe he had “betters,” but Natty? If there was anybody breathing
was better than her, well, they hadn’t crossed her path yet.
Betters? Shit.
She watched him,
big slouchy guy, make his way across the carpet. Eyes glowering with
anticipation, he licked his lips, reached out for her. Con? Didn’t matter.
Coulda been Rick, her uncle, forcing himself on her when she’d been eleven.
Coulda been Micky, her ex, on the night of their honeymoon, when batshit crazy
drunk, he’d busted her jaw, her nose, and caved in three of her ribs. Coulda
been Larry, or Denny, or . . . Didn’t
matter. Same old shit.
But, by this time
there was one difference. The fear was long gone, replaced with a rapacious
desire for payback, fueled by an abuse nurtured streak of mean. She figured it
would serve her well, cuz this swine had more on his mind than smacking her
around, getting his rocks off, in whatever way would appeal to a bottom feeding
freak like him. The fact that he was wearing latex gloves, and had told her his
name, made it obvious: her lesson was meant to be a final one.
Lots of fuckin
luck, Con.
Her hand closed
around the handle of the straight razor secure in the tight weave of her French
braid, flipped it open just as Con’s hand’s found her throat. Her eyes locked
on his as she slashed the back of his hand, watched the lust-gleam fade,
replaced by shock as he pulled his hand back, stared at the flood of gore
pouring from severed veins.
Big geek didn’t
like the sight of his own blood. Tough shit, cuz Natty planned to spill a lot
more of it. She slashed at his throat. He managed to get his shoulder up; her
hand glanced off, went high, the razor missed his throat, opened his cheek from
ear to chin. She saw his teeth, gleaming through the gapping slit, for a split
second before they were obscured by welling blood.
Her own blood was hammering
so hard in her ears, that she didn’t hear Con’s moan when she kicked him in the
balls. As he sank to his knees Natty stepped behind him, grabbed his greasy
hair, yanked his head back, slashed his throat from ear to ear.
Sitting on the bed,
fighting to catch her breath, she watched Con’s final moments among the quick.
Knowing full well their positions might easily have been reversed. If . . . .
If . . . she’d
been a little less decisive, a bit slower to act. Not a problem. She was fast.
Goddamn right. Getting faster every fucking day.
Natty had two
regrets as she stood under the steaming shower, washing the last of Con’s blood
from her body. One: the outfit she’d been wearing was ruined. Two: like it or
not, she was gonna have to call Monte.
Not something she
felt good about, but Harris hadn’t left her a choice. Motherfucker had crossed
her. Tried to have her killed, rather than pay an extortion fee that to him
probably constituted chump change. What a ruthless prick. Stupid too, reneging
on a deal with Natty. Chances were he’d be stupid enough to try again, but
smart enough to send someone a lot more capable than Con.
Now, instead of
being her salvation, Harris had presented a whole set of new problems. Well,
Monte would have solutions for her problems. No doubt about it. Thing was,
after the smoke cleared, she’d be forced to deal with Monte. Wouldn’t be easy. Monte
was no Con.
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