End Game Ch 01

I did not expect to kill two times within twenty four hours.

The evening before, I had just finished a job in Los Angeles. An easy one. The target was lured to a restaurant in Chinatown. I was the waitress.

When I took his order, he placed his hand on my butt. I took a deep breath and wrote down what he wanted. This was his last meal, so I made sure I did not make a mistake.

Our client sat next to him. After dinner, the client repeatedly poured more Tsingtao beer in his glass. Beer meant his bladder filled up quickly. When he went to the bathroom, I followed with a gun.

His fountain of urine bounced off the wall when the first bullet sliced through his neck. He turned around, the yellow stream continued to escape his body.

I squeezed the trigger again. The second bullet drilled through his chest. He toppled to the ground, his eyes bulging, not believing he had been ambushed by a woman. The ultimate insult.

I unscrewed the silencer and wiped clean the gun with my restaurant uniform. The blood flowed from both sides of his body, soaking the uneven bathroom floor. It would soon flow under the door and out to the restaurant. I hurried to the last stall, put down the lid of the toilet seat, and climbed out the tiny high window.

Don's car was on the other side. He drove as I stripped off my uniform in the backseat. The Toyota Corolla kept a steady pace on Interstate 10. I was ready to party, so I put on a halter dress, tying the straps at the back of my neck. The little black dress was backless, so it was impossible to wear a bra.

Don, my business partner of five years, was formally dressed in a three piece suit, complete with bow tie.

"You looked like a waiter." I crawled between the seats so I could ride shotgun.

"And you look drop dead gorgeous." He enjoyed teasing. I never did. I believe a professional distance was healthy. Besides, he was twenty years older, old enough to be my dad. In fact, he was dad's partner until dad passed away.

"I wish all jobs were that simple."

"If they are all like that, our clients won't pay us handsomely, right?"

Don had a point. Our jobs were mostly very risky types. Over the years, we had some really close calls. I had been shot twice. The scars on my stomach and thigh were constant reminders.

Interstate 10 quickly became Interstate 15. We pulled over to a gas station just outside Barstow. I dumped the blood-soaked uniform while Don shoved the gasoline gun into the small hole at the back of the Corolla, half the gun sticking out. Somehow, it felt right to deposit the bloody dress in California, before crossing the state line.

When we crossed into Nevada, we both screamed at the top of our lungs for having survived yet another job.

We drove on to the Las Vegas strip, but did not stop to gamble. The thrill of gambling with money could not excite us. After all, we had just gambled with our lives.

Instead, we went strip club hopping on Industrial Road. We were equal opportunity customers, checking out both male and female strippers.

"I'll bet $200 your whore does not dare to take the stage." A man, visibly drunk, shouted at Don.

Don played it cool. "You'll have to wager directly with her."

He repeated his dare, this time in my face.

"Show me the $1,000 and I'll consider." I pulled down my dress to show more cleavage.

"Here," he removed his wallet and counted out ten bills. Don used his cell phone to check that they were hundreds.

When the song ended, I climbed the two steps to the round stage. Holding the pole, I struck a pose. A dozen men or so moved closer.

"This man is betting a grand that she does not dare to strip." Don was loud enough so that the men around the stage could all hear. Nobody offered to raise the stakes.

The thumping music came on. I wowed the audience by inverting myself, gripping the pole by my ankles, my hands on the floor, the dress floating around my chest, my thong undies visible. When I stood upright again, stacks of twenties appeared. I sauntered around the stage, taking my time to let them slide it into my g-string.

For the second song, I untied the knot behind my neck, letting the dress drop to my waist. The catcalls were deafening, almost as loud as the music. More twenties, and even a hundred. Las Vegas was a rich town.

I let my dress drop completely to the floor on the third song. This was not a nude club, just topless. I pranced around in my thong, crawling on the stage, pretending to be a tigress.

By the time the song ended, the entire club was standing three deep around me. Don held my hand and helped me off the stage. We were up at least fifteen hundred.

We decided we had celebrated enough.

"Can we switch cars?" Don asked when we were almost at his house. "I have to meet a new client tomorrow." For some strange reason, new clients had a tendency to trust only assassins with luxury cars.

I hesitated for several seconds. "Sure," I said as we pulled into a gated community on a golf course in Boulder City, just outside Las Vegas.

"Thanks. I'll see you soon." He leaned over to kiss my cheek. He had never done that before, This was strange.

It's not a big deal, I thought to myself as I merged with the traffic on Interstate 40, heading east. The morning sun was suddenly in my eyes. I reached down to the glove compartment and pulled out a greasy pair of oversized sunglasses. Don really had bad taste.

When the traffic thinned, I spotted a silver Buick of some sort in my rear mirror. I sped up, and then slowed down, the Buick followed. God, who drove a Buick anymore? Didn't General Motors stop making them ugly cars? Or was that the Hummer?

I floored the pedal to pass an eighteen wheeler, shooting the needle to ninety. The Buick effortlessly kept pace. It was only a foot away. I resisted the urge to slam the breaks. The Corolla was not match for any car, even the Buick.

I blinked and tried to concentrate. The dotted lines dividing the lanes blurred and merged into a single continuous line. The needle was at one hundred, as fast as the Corolla could go.

Chancing a glance to the right, I fished out my cell phone from my purse. Pressing just one button, the ring tone went on and on. God damn it, Don. What the hell were you doing? Rubbing your own dick or sticking the middle finger up your own asshole?

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, his lazy voice came on.

"Hello honey, what can I do you for?"

"Cut it out, Don."

"Ashley, what's wrong?"

"There's a guy on my tail. What to do?"

"Step on the gas and lose him. Don't worry about the cops. I have many friends in Nevada."

"I'm in Arizona. And I'm stuck in your stupid Corolla. You took my BMW, remember?"

"Hang on," he said.

I heard the whirling fan inside his laptop computer.

"Where are you now?" he asked.

"Exit 157 on I-40"

"Get out at Exit 161. There's a single gas station off the ramp. There should be nobody except the store clerk at this hour. FM him."

"Understood." FM was our code for a flanking maneuver.

I kept going as fast as I could. At the last minute, I slammed on the brakes, tires skidding and screeching, the burning smell of rubber filling the air, the car narrowly missing the concrete wall.

He braked, but had missed the exit ramp. He stopped and reversed furiously. I had only a few seconds.

I parked the car directly in front of the mini-supermarket and grabbed my purse. I pushed the glass door hard, the bell on top of the door clanging. The clerk was astounded. I held my index finger to my lips to signal silence. His face was white. He could not speak.

The man parked next to the Corolla, in the blue handicapped lot. The bell clanged again. He was in the store, his gun drawn, his eyes narrowing. The clerk was nowhere to be seen. Smart clerk.

The small supermarket had only three rows. The man systematically checked out each one, crouching and keeping his body low. The front row had all the snacks. He quickly reached the end and turned around to the next aisle.

One side of the middle row was filled with toiletries and feminine hygiene products. The other side carried Pepsi, Sprite, Coke, Mountain Dew, Dr Pepper, and Fanta. Strangely, there were no diet sodas. It took him barely a minute to complete the first two rows. There was only the back row left.

On the back row were alcoholic beverages, mostly beers, kept cold inside giant refrigerators. He got down on one knee next to the alumimium siding. Peeking with one eye, he saw that nobody was on the last row. She must be hiding in the bathroom, he thought.

I knew he was coming, the fluorescent lights casting his shadows in all directions. I was starting to shiver, my bare back touching the icy cold beer cans.

I saw a shadow creeping from left to right. I stopped breathing, both hands holding the glock, my right index finger on the trigger, legs shoulder length apart, aiming slightly upwards.

First, his gun was visible, then the arms, and lastly the sideview of his face. I squeezed the trigger gently. The glass shattered, a thousand fragments flying outwards. The bullet went in through his jaw and went out through his temple.

I stepped out, tiptoed around the broken glass, and checked his pulse. He was dead.

In the Corolla, I put my purse in the glove compartment, locked the doors, and turned the ignition key. I wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as I can.

The cold barrel of a gun was on my neck.

"Put your hands behind the seat."

Plastic cuffs secured my wrists behind me. I stole a glance at the rear mirror. The man behind was wearing a spiderman mask and a leather jacket. When he saw me looking, he placed a hood over my head so I was blinded. I had to concentrate to breathe through the tight leather hood.

I was dragged by the elbows out of the car. He slammed my body faced down on the hood, kicking apart my legs at the same time. After a quick search, he removed my panties, shoved them into my mouth, and sealed it by duck tape.

Finally, I was thrown into total darkness in the trunk.

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To be continued in Ch 2, where there will be nonconsensual sex.