Contract Iller Wins the Game

Having breakfast with a rival assassin turned out to be much more cordial than I would have expected. In fact, I'd even describe it as pleasant. Not a single bullet fired, not a single drop of blood shed. I have a theory for this-- bacon brings people together.

Even people who are paid to kill other people. We made quite the pair, two contract killers sharing a table. Between us lay toast, bacon, and eggs. We drank tea (her) and coffee (me), and we passed time by conversing about how we would murder our enemies.

"Getting in won't be difficult," said the woman who sat across from me. People called her the Black Ghost. Her jet-black hair was mussed and hung over her brow like a dark drape; she wore an oversized T-shirt which she had confiscated from one of my bedroom dresser's drawers; yet even pre-shower, she remained a mind-numbing knockout. I have more than once compared the Ghost to a living Michelangelo masterpiece and with good reason.

She referred to Dread Tower, crown jewel of Dread Incorporated and home to Simeon Dread, a modern conqueror akin to Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan. The Ghost and I planned to waltz into the Tower and kill the king in his lair. The reasons to do so were many, the least of which being that Simeon Dread wanted us dead. In a way, he had fired the first shot, and we had no choice but to kill him to win the war.

Just one problem, and I voiced it, "We don't know that Dread is behind any of this. Well, any specific thing. We have theories and guesses..."

"Educated guesses,"the Ghost interjected and raised a cup of tea. She sipped it without making a sound. That was her breakfast: tea. The bacon, toast, and eggs were all mine. Earlier, I had tried to reason with her that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. She had just given me a look.

I played with my scrambled eggs which were presently beginning to look more and more like exploded brains (I eat them with ketchup). "Theories and educated guesses," I corrected and continued, "but no real evidence that Dread or Mrs. Dread want us out of the picture. How do I know you're right about any of this? How do I know you're right about Sheila?"

Sheila was my girlfriend, or at least, she was supposed to be. The Ghost claimed she was a plant, a fake, a fraud who had manipulated circumstances to engage in a relationship with me. The Ghost believed Dread paid her to pretend to... love... me so that I'd lose my head if and when he took her away from me. If the Ghost was right, Dread's plan had worked: I was going to lose my head. I was going to lose my head right in front of him, and Dread would not like what he saw.

"Let's say I'm wrong about everything," the Ghost said in a voice that let me know she didn't think she was wrong about anything. Her dark brown eyes demanded my attention over her tea cup. "By confronting Dread, we will be taking control of the game, away from whomever is behind the attacks on you, our recent run-ins with each other, the contract on your Dad, all of it. We'll flush him or her out." She smiled, and it was sly, sexy, and scary all at once. She said, "If I'm not wrong then we'll have finished it." She set the tea cup on a saucer (where the Ghost had found either in my kitchen, I had no idea) and dared me to disagree.

I sighed, stabbed my eggs with my fork, and thought about what she'd said. Some of our friends and colleagues might have found it hard to believe that the Ghost and I could fall so easily into benevolent collaboration. Not too long ago, the Ghost had been contracted to murder me. We had almost fought to the death on the roof an abandoned, dilapidated building. A short time later, I had been hired to kill her by none other than Simeon Dread. Last night we had shared a bed; this morning, we shared a table and an unspoken truce. Here's a second theory to supplement my bacon one: the Ghost and I understood that we were the opposite sides of the same coin. If one of us were rubbed out or destroyed, the other would lose its value. We co-existed to our mutual benefit. We had no choice. If this explanation doesn't quiet the critics, all I can say to them is this: eat a dick. Make that a bag of dicks.

After a moment a silence, the Ghost said, "I killed a man with a fork once. Shoved it into his throat. It was... interesting. Messy though." At her words, I glanced at the utensil in my hand. It gleamed in the morning sunlight.

I frowned and wondered aloud, "What should I call you? It seems weird to call you 'Ghost', especially if we're going to be partnering up." The Ghost knew what I was doing. She knew my name; if she gave me hers, it'd be a show of trust and would cement the bond that we had precariously begun. Of course, she could always lie and make up one, and I'd never know the difference.

"Amunet," she said. "I suppose you could call me 'Ame' if you want to be American about it."

I liked that. It sounded like 'aim' which fit the Black Ghost like a glove-- just not O.J. Simpson's glove.

I leaned back in my chair, scanned the half-eaten food on the table, the half-full glass (yep, I'm an optimist) of orange juice beside my steaming mug of coffee, then glanced around the visible vicinity of my apartment. This small, cluttered space was where I lived. These inane, unassuming objects were the materials of my life. I soaked it in. Made up my mind.

"If nothing else," I said and looked into Amunet's eyes. They held my glare. "It will be very satisfying to see that condescending look wiped off Dread's face when we kill him."

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen blinds and covered us with warm, yellow light.

***

I had not expected the Ghost, Ame, to stay the night. I doubted that she expected it, either. Things had gotten electric very quickly and spiraled out of control before we could stop it. Of course, I couldn't have done much to stop much of anything if I had wanted. Ame had tied my ankles and wrists to the corners of the bed with restraints and given me a healthy dose of sedatives and muscle relaxers. She had made all of the decisions and called all of the shots, and why she had taken a chance on me, I could not quite figure out but had no intention of questioning. The last thing I wanted to do was change the Ghost's mind about killing me.

Every moment I spent with her seemed to bring another shocking revelation: her theory about Sheila, her plan to assassinate Dread, and her name, just for starters. The most exciting discovery of all? We learned we had an insatiable appetite for one another.

Having Ame in the shower with me helped me forget about Sheila relatively quickly, and as the assassin's soapy body slid against mine, a small part of my mind wondered if I was being played yet again. This might be a ploy to turn me against Sheila, the way that Veronica Dread had tried. Mrs. Dread had told me that I could not be beaten if I let Sheila go. In Dread's terms, 'go' was a euphemism for 'die'. I could let Sheila go easier knowing that she had been a fraud and that our entire relationship had been built on a foundation of lies. My heart still ached with regret and hurt, but I had never been a very good boyfriend to Sheila. I had loved her, but that had not kept me from using sex to better deal with Veronica Dread and with Cynthia Skye. Even if Sheila wasn't a liar, she would probably be better off without me as long as Dread (or whoever else might have her) didn't kill her.

Ame put a hand against the back of my head, pulled me to her, and kissed me with passionate longing; her tongue found my tongue, and my thoughts turned off. Steam fogged the glass of the shower doors; I pushed her against them, her skin smearing the glass. Jets of water streamed and hit us and exploded, decorating our bodies and the walls with a thousand pinpricks of reflected light.

My muscles still ached from last night. My penis felt flayed and useless, but it lengthened and went stiff with this woman pressed against me. I explored her with my hands, and I touched perfection. Her skin was smooth and flawless; her muscles, hard and firm; her breasts and buttocks, soft and supple.

It was as if God and the Devil had uniformly designed this women for sex and death.

I went to my knees, and between her legs, I lapped at the mixture of water and sweetness which slid from her to my tongue. Ame sighed, then moaned, and curled her hands into my hair. Dark wet hair plastered across her neck and face, she leaned against the stall wall. My hands moved up her thighs; then I used them to assist my mouth. Ame moaned more loudly and pressed herself into my face.

I did my best to give her the full V.I.P. treatment since Ame was my guest, and I desired to be a good host. She seemed to appreciate my efforts. It didn't take long before the Ghost's eyes flew open, and a cry leapt from her mouth as her body shuddered above me.

Shower water peppered me as Ame pulled me up. Her arms went around me. Her hands slipped around my neck, and they interlocked fingers. My hands grasped her buttocks, and she hopped off the floor and into my arms; her legs wrapped around the small of my back; her feet dug into the flesh of my ass. Then she squirmed, and I lifted her up slightly. She pushed her pelvis into my crotch; with a slight groan slipping past my lips, I felt her encase me.

Ame felt like heaven, but inside her, it was as hot as hell.

I thrust hard. Her back hit the foggy glass of the shower door, and in response, she slammed down into me. Her mouth opened, and my mouth found it. I thrust. She pushed. Me-- up. Her-- down. Up. Down. Me. Then her. Slowly, then harder. Her nipples prodded me as her breasts rubbed against my chest. Water cascaded around us. Up. Down. Me. Her. Her tongue writhed like an animal in my mouth. The shower door squeaked as Ame's wet skin rubbed against the glass.

Faster.

Up! Down! Her fingernails scraped skin from the back of my neck.

Harder.

ME! HER! The shower doors rattled.

UP! DOWN! ME! HER!

Then it was too much for the both of us, and with a gasping dual explosion, we came. Ame threw her head back and howled. I slammed into her and spasmed.

A screw went loose somewhere, and one of the glass doors unexpectedly slid open in the midst of our screaming high. Tangled in a complex puzzle of locked limbs, we collapsed to the cold, hard floor of the bathroom. We lay there, a quivering mass of of very satisfied jelly.

***

Entry into Dread Tower wouldn't prove too much of a problem. High-end shops and three-to-four star restaurants open to the general public (or at least those people in the general public with fat wallets) comprised the bottom floors. Enough people would be walking, browsing, and hobnobbing to make it easy for us to slip through them unnoticed. Higher up were offices: doctors' private practices, lawyers' offices, a few private businesses, whoever else had enough money. Above these, twenty stories belonged to Dread Tower Hotel, a ridiculously expensive place to spend your vacation, hold a convention, or to impress your wife (more often, your mistress).

That's how we were disguised. I played the snobby rich guy. Ame acted the part of my wife or maybe my mistress. The staff of the hotel would know better than to make a presumption on our behalf as they were probably privy to more secrets than the President. Ame and I would check into the hotel and register for a suite which would put us about three-fourths up Dread Tower. The last fourth of the Tower contained offices for Dread Incorporated and the security hub on the second-to-top floor. Simeon Dread's private penthouse sat just above the security center and naturally enveloped the entire top floor, so Dread could watch over the city like Zeus at the top of Mount Olympus. In fact, I would not be surprised if Simeon envisioned himself as the modern version of the Greek god. He didn't strike me as a humble.

We approached the desk of Dread Hotel, Ame's arm wrapped around mine. Ame looked incredible in an tight, hip-hugging blue gown, and I felt uncomfortable in a suit which was worth more than I currently had in my bank account. We appeared to be just another spoiled couple; they populated the lobby area like ticks, dug into leather armchairs or at the adjacent bar, drinking themselves into lethargic stupors. It was easy to understand why the poor hated the rich, and it wasn't just jealousy. Hungry, malnourished kids died in the streets in every city of the world every day. The people in Dread Tower spent hundreds of thousands of dollars-- and, like Wiz Khalifa, that was just on champagne-- as if money was as easy to come by as air.

A skinny, middle-aged man typed on a computer and took a moment before he took notice of us. He had the air of a manager, subservient yet patronizing, which suited our needs perfectly. He had short brown hair, a long nose, and couldn't have been taller than five-five. The Dread Hotel's Napoleon, probably. I made a little throat-clearing sound to get his attention. His typing paused. I made the sound again, just to give him the impression that my time was worth more than his.

Unfazed, the man looked up and greeted us: "Good evening, how may I be of service?"

We took the most expensive suite we could without raising eyebrows. It needed to be ritzy enough to be on one of the higher floors, but if it was too expensive, the staff would be eager to give us their attention. Obviously, the Ghost and I didn't want to attract attention. We didn't plan to be staying in our room for very long.

Once we were in the suite, I asked the question that had been bugging me throughout the discussion of our plan, "What now?" How the Ghost planned to get us through the remaining floors of Dread Tower without tripping any alarms was something that she had yet to explain.

Ame slipped out of the designer dress she was wearing and kicked off her heels. I was struck yet again by her statuesque form. Wearing only her black bra and underwear, she padded to the bed, popped the latches to a case, and pulled out her midnight-black Black Ghost uniform.

"I have many friends," she said. "Some of them are very clever." She raised her arm, and something slithered out the case. I recognized her belt, and I was reminded of a superhero's utility belt with all of its pockets and pouches. Then she pulled out a contraption that looked like a plastic gun with a claw at is mouth-- a rappel gun. My mouth dropped open.

"You're Batman," I said after I found my voice.

"No," Ame replied with a half-smile. "I am something better than Batman." I had to agree. Seeing her there in her black underwear, one hip tilted against the bedpost, a rappel gun in one hand and a utility belt in the other, and her muscles gleaming in the soft light of the hotel lamp, I knew that Batman had nothing on the Black Ghost.

She put down the rappel gun and opened a pouch of her belt. She revealed a gray box which almost looked like a radio or a short-range walkie talkie. Ame raised an eyebrow and gave me an amused look. I knew that whatever she was about to say was going to be awesome.

"This device interferes with electronic devices within a specific range. If I were to pass by a security camera, for instance, with this device turned on, the camera would momentarily cease to function. It'd more or less freeze. If you happened to be watching the closed circuit screen connected to that particular camera, you would only see a slight jump of the picture. Nothing to tip you off that your security had been violated."

Yeah, it was awesome. I returned Ame's smile and said, "You're right. You're better than Batman. And you have very clever friends."

She explained, "Using the fire stairs, I will stealth my way into the security hub and lower Dread's defenses. The only way to his penthouse is by a private elevator. I will give you access to this elevator and then meet up with you when you reach the top floor."

I frowned. "Sounds like you're doing all the work," I said.

"You mean, having all the fun," she quipped. She dug into the bag and pulled out what looked like two plastic grips. She tossed me one. Ame said, "Our weapons." It was a box-cutter.

"You're going to lower Dread Tower's defenses by infiltrating its security center with a box-cutter?" I asked with a sardonic grin. If it had been anyone other than the Ghost, I would thought she was joking.

Ame explained, "Smuggling the rappel gun was a big enough risk. If we were caught with it, we could attempt to sell some story about mountain climbing and mixed-up bags. If we were caught with guns, our adventure would be over before it started. Plus, I'll be able to confiscate better weapons when I penetrate the security floor."

I stifled an amused giggle. "Why do I get butterflies in my stomach when you say the word 'penetrate'?" I said. The Ghost shot me a look, one which was not dissimilar to the one she gave me when I tried to talk her into eating breakfast. I just took it and continued to smile at her. Giving up, the Ghost rolled her eyes and began to slip into her black work clothes.

"The time for play is over," Ame said. "Suit up."

I felt a dangerous temptation to tell her I was already in a suit, but I didn't think she'd appreciate the humor.

***

Unlike the Black Ghost, I don't have specific attire for murder. On this particular night, I wore gray coveralls identifying me as a utility repairman. If things spiraled out of hand, the idea was that the disguise would help get me out of the building without appearing too conspicuous if I was found someplace that I wasn't supposed to be. It would also help dissuade any suspicion if one of the security guards caught me on camera before the Ghost got to him. Pretending to work, I hovered around the closed doors to the shaft that only opened for Dread's personal elevator. Despite being used only by Dread, doors to the shaft could be found on every floor. I guessed this was so Dread could go wherever he wanted without being inconvenienced by the most inconvenient of inventions: stairs. Perhaps his wolf-headed silver cane was necessary for more than show.

The thought of stairs made me think about the last time I was with Sheila. She had worn one of my white dress shirts and nothing else. She had looked radiant, even in the pale-white glare of the florescent light of our apartment building's stairwell. We'd put on a show the likes that stairwell had never seen and never would again. I shook the memories out of my head. I'd deal with Sheila when I had to. For now, the feelings associated with her were too fresh and too deep, and I never handled feelings well.

The worst part of my job is the waiting. It takes a patient person to do what the Ghost and I do as the majority-- probably ninety-eight percent-- of our work requires stealth and patience. The other two percent is where intelligence, flexibility, and a cold heart come into play.

I wondered how long it would take Ame to make her way to the security floor, slip through it, and take control of Dread's elevator. I checked my watch. Time moved so slowly, I felt like I was living in a John Woo action sequence. Just when I began to worry, I heard a car shuddering behind the shaft doors. It was time for the two percent.

My Spidey-sense went off full blast as I heard voices come from behind the doors. They were muffled but audible. I moved to the side, out of the line-of-sight of whomever might be in the elevator car. I held the box-cutter in a white-knuckled grip and slid out a couple of inches of the blade. The shaft doors opened slightly as though forced from the inside. I had no doubt that was what exactly had happened. The voices became clearer.

One, a high-pitched but male voice, said, "What the fuck is goin' on, man? Somethin's fucked up with Mr. Dread's shaft!" Based on the voice, I imagined this guy as Mike Tyson.