Chapter One

 

Her name was Quinn. As far as anyone knew, anyway. Sokolov might know more, but no one else. Whenever they were seen together and anyone had the temerity to ask Sokolov what she did for him, presuming they got an answer, it would be something like' odd jobs'. Or if he was in an impatient mood, 'Whatever the fuck I tell her to'.

There was a lot of speculation about that. Quinn was a tall, extremely attractive young woman with a lean lithe body and full, firm looking breasts. She had shoulder length hair with thick bangs cutting across her forehead that changed colors weekly, and sometimes daily.

The speculation was kept to a minimum, however. Sokolov did not appreciate anyone gossiping about him. He usually kept a few beautiful women around who would do whatever he wanted sexually. So, there was some curiosity about what he might be doing with Quinn.

He didn't treat her like he did the other girls. And she was often known to speak curtly, and sometimes openly disrespectfully to him. That wasn't something he tolerated from any of his underlings, yet he never seemed to take offense or revenge. He even seemed amused by it.

Quinn didn't wear high heels or short skirts. She never wore anything low cut, and little or no makeup. Which was again wildly different from the other girls. She was known to be quite expert at some kind of martial art (she wouldn't say which), as one or another guy occasionally discovered when they tried to see just how firm her buttocks were with questing fingers.

She also carried a knife up one sleeve and had a holster in the small of her back that held a small, powerful, and highly illegal military needler.

The East Side was Sokolov's territory, and she prowled it by night, either on feet clad in expensive leather sneakers, or in a black Lexus with tinted windows. Some thought she was Sokolov's spy, keeping an eye on his investments and his employees. Those in the know quietly whispered that she was one of his fixers, taking care of problems for him.

She spoke perfect Russian, leading some to wonder if she wasn't related to him. Perhaps a niece or even, a bastard daughter, or even, some whispered, an illegal clone. But she spoke perfect English, as well, with an upper-class British accent. Then again, she was known to speak Chinese, French, and Spanish on occasion.

Sokolov was one of the biggest mob bosses in a city overrun with criminals, murderers, and various organized and semi-organized gangs. He fought his way up through the ranks of the Russian mob, learning who he could bribe and who he could kill with impunity. He hadn't changed his ways after fleeing to America after the politicians he owned were killed and the opposition's took over.

If there was anything illegal happening on the East Side, and there was plenty, he got a piece of it. He used a considerable amount of that money to bribe cops, politicians, and bureaucrats at various levels. Not just to look the other way and ignore his criminal enterprises, but to feed him information he could use to his advantage. They also helped out his companies by giving them preferential treatment for contracts at elevated prices.

All of this made Sokolov a very rich man.

He valued power more than wealth but enjoyed demonstrating both. He lived on the top floor of a rundown four story apartment building in the center of the east side. All the windows, and all but one door were bricked up on the ground floor and that door was made of solid steel in a steel frame.

The only other entrance was a garage door that was reached by driving down a steep incline. Anyone who got to use it would see the door rising straight up like any other garage, but also thick steel bars a foot apart descending into the floor behind it. No one was ramming their way through there in anything less than a battle tank.

The second and third floor windows were all bricked up. On the 4th floor, large, bullet resistant windows looked out on his empire from all four sides of the building. That floor was furnished like a palace, with crystal chandeliers, expensive antiques, and even a library with real paper books.

There were always several rough looking men standing around in front of the building's main door, and several more inside carrying automatic weapons. Loitering nearby was actively discouraged.

There was, as far as most knew, one elevator and one stairwell going up. Though there was speculation that Sokolov had a hidden back way out, an escape route of some kind, perhaps into the sewers below. That elevator had discreet sensors in it to detect explosives, radioactive material, and firearms. Sokolov didn't believe in taking unnecessary chances.

Quinn didn't either. But she wasn't afraid of walking down dark alleys at night. She knew she was far more dangerous than anyone or anything she was likely to run into. By now, so did almost everyone else on the East Side who dared to venture out after dark.

Of course, a girl who looked like Quinn with a dangerous reputation was something of a challenge to some of the men who flattered themselves that they we're far stronger, tougher, and meaner than her. But most of those were also smart enough to know that anyone who laid a finger on her and survived would then face the wrath of Sokolov. So, she was rarely challenged.

Sokolov himself was reclusive, and needed to be, given the number of people who wanted him dead. Quinn was known to communicate orders from him from time to time. So, when she gave an order, it was assumed to come from Sokolov and would be quickly obeyed despite her not fitting in anywhere on the known hierarchy of his under-bosses.

As far as everyone knew, after all, she worked for Sokolov and had no other life, no other interests. Then again, she wasn't a very chatty person. Her cold eyes discouraged anyone else from being chatty to her either. And she rarely deigned to answer questions.

It was a chilly October night when she made her way to the front door of a long low building on 14th St. The sky glowed slightly overhead suggesting there was a full moon out behind the clouds and smog. Pollution rules had been relaxed due to the energy emergency, which was just one of the reasons she wore a black mask across the lower part of her face.

She wore a loose, thigh length black military style jacket with a hood above tight, black matte leather pants and leather runners. Her hair was mostly jet-black tonight but with blood red undertones and she wore a pair of clear comm-glasses.

They were extremely expensive, connected to the internet, and would show her names and details of anyone or anything she locked her eyes on for more than a few moments. Since everyone's picture was on file now the text popping up on the chest of people she passed tended to flicker endlessly across the screen unless she kept her eyes constantly in motion.

Few comm glasses had the high-speed connection to manage that, but hers did so effortlessly, just as it could communicate with anyone on Earth near a phone or computer. And that was just about anyone other than jungle savages still out in the bush.

There was a large man standing next to the door when she arrived. She jerked her head once toward the door and he turned and knocked several times in a coded series of blows. The door opened and she went inside past another man who looked at her once then away. She went down a narrow hall and through another doorway, weaving in and out around boxes and bales and barrels until she came to an office.

There were two men inside talking when she arrived. They both stopped and looked up at her expressionlessly. She was used to it. No one wanted to see her coming into their office on the East Side. No one wanted Sokolov's personal notice except the daringly ambitious.

She looked at them silently for several long seconds before speaking. It was something she'd picked up from Sokolov. It intimidated people and made them wonder what they'd done wrong that he had found out about,

"Who is the idiot who has been selling goods out your back door?" she finally said.

The man seated behind the desk frowned as if in confusion. The man who had been standing before it just shrugged and gave her a helpless look.

"It was only for a few days," he said. "There was a fire across the street and the road was closed."

Her eyes looked at him coldly and she stepped closer to him. She was almost six feet tall, and her reputation if not her size intimidated most men.

"That door is on Twelfth St," she said. "That's a full block inside the clean zone."

The clean zone was a twelve square block area around Sokolov's building. No one was allowed to do anything on that territory that was illegal. Not if it would bring outsiders into the area for any reason or draw the attention of law enforcement. This building was a warehouse where stolen merchandise was sold and distributed. It got a lot of outside traffic.

"I didn't realize, Quinn. I wasn't here those days, the man behind the desk said apologetically.

"Do you run this place?" she demanded.

He shrugged helplessly and nodded.

The unspoken words behind the question were that he was responsible anyway.

"Fuck, it was only for a couple of days," the other man said.

He had barely finished the sentence when an eight-inch razor-sharp blade was pressing into the underside of his nose as she pushed him back against the wall. Her eyes were icy as she stared at him and his began to widen in fear.

"Never. Again." she said softly in a cold, hard voice.

With one motion she made the blade disappear as she stepped back, turned, and disappeared out the door.

A thin, shallow cut across the underside of his nose and a single drop of blood trickled down before he wiped it with a curse.

"Cunt!" he growled.

"You sold out the back door?" the man behind the desk growled.

"What was I supposed to do, close down?"

"What you were not supposed to do was bring the angel of death down on me! If you do it again I'll kill you myself!"

Quinn left the building and crossed the street, walking past the burned out, boarded up remains of what had been a number of storefronts in a low brick building. She turned the corner and walked a block then turned right, crossed the street and went down an alley. She paused as she neared its end, hearing an angry raised voice, moving slowly up to the corner to peer around.

There was a police car parked at the curb with two cops inside. Beside the car a naked man a few feet from the driver's door held up a long-barreled shotgun. His hands were shaking but he held it pointed through the window of the cop car as he screamed invective about the alien master race inhabiting their bodies and the need to cleanse the Earth.

Quinn already had her needler in her hand when she reached the corner. The comm glasses identified the man standing there as Eugene Potter, age 42, TSN addict. His voice was shrill as he screamed his rage, his eyes bulging.

The needler in her hand fired slim, one-inch-long needles that travelled at just over four thousand feet per second in ten round bursts each time she pulled the trigger. She stroked the trigger once and backed away knowing that she had hit him dead center, then walked quickly down the alley, crossed the road. And continued down another alley, before turning, then a block later turned again.

By the time the shaken, white-faced cops had gotten out of their car, belatedly pulling their handguns, Potter was sprawled out on the road, the center of his chest torn out. They both gaped at him, then around them, turning their guns in all directions.

Quinn was annoyed that she had to go a few more blocks out of her way to avoid what was likely to be a horde of responding police units back where Potter lay. The city's police might be thoroughly corrupt, but they were very good at documenting any scene of violence directed at themselves or anyone else they cared about. Or were paid to care about.

They'd probably be there for an hour or two taking pictures, knocking on surrounding doors to look for witnesses, and sifting through any garbage they found on the nearby street and alley in case whoever had killed Potter had left their calling card.

These days that could be almost anything. But like everything else she wore; Quinn's hair was done at a very expensive shop. None of her hairs were going to fall away unless somebody physically yanked them from her skull.

And she routinely sprayed a thin, invisible coat of plasteen across her hands before leaving her apartment. No one was going to get her fingerprints or palm prints off anything. And with mask, hood, and glasses, no one was going to get her picture, either. At least not one that would do them any good.

She had other people to see that night, and other things to do. She wasn't about to have her time wasted answering questions from nosy cops about where she'd gotten the military needler. They would doubtless be grateful for saving the two cops' lives, but they weren't going to overlook that.

The military was very careful about its weapons these days. Even cops didn't have access to needlers. They were too silent and too deadly. Each of them was locked to the DNA of their user or owner as scented from the pheromones they gave off and could only be used by that person.

Three blocks into the clear zone she walked up to a glistening black Lexus parked at the curb, opened the door, and got in.

Like the needler, the car would only work with her inside. But it didn't really need any security mechanisms when parked inside the clear zone. Nobody stole anything there. The homeless, the addicts, the muggers and thieves all stayed well away. It was the safest area in the city.

Unless you irritated Sokolov, of course.

She drove to Sokolov's building and went down the ramp to the garage door. It had begun to open in response to the button she had pressed on the underside of her seat before she'd even turned, and she drove through no more than a second after the bars had disappeared into the floor. They started to rise again immediately afterward as the door quickly closed.

There were remotely operated autocannons on the walls next to the garage door in case another car tried to race in behind her, but there was no sense taking chances.

There were a dozen cars parked here. She parked in an empty space and got out, then walked across the garage to the elevator. There were five buttons on the wall of the car. Two of them were brightly lit. The other three were dimmed out as if burned out and dead. They weren't. The elevator only rose to the first floor, though, unless you knew what order to press the buttons and how long to hold each of those buttons.

She pressed the fourth-floor button, then the second, the ground floor, then the third, and the elevator began to rise. The building was very old, but the elevator was not. It moved quickly and smoothly before stopping on the third floor.

She got out and walked across a floor that looked like it had been gutted, with bare concrete columns, water pipes and wires along the ceiling, and a bare concrete floor. The only lighting was the occasional bare bulb dangling from overhead.

The comm glasses, of course, lit the place up very clearly for her. They also watched for movement of any kind and would signal her if they detected it. They filtered out the sound of her heartbeat and breathing, the sound of everything within a twenty-inch range, and listened for anything else.

She zigged and zagged around the boxes of pricy, illegal goods stored there until she reached a brick wall, then reached over, and pushed on a particular brick. Part of the brick wall moved inward then aside, and she walked through, took off the comm glasses and stood before a scanner. The bricks pushed back into place and a steel door slid open before her.

Lots of people wanted to kill her, too. And many had tried. There were at least two contracts out on her that she knew about. It took a brave assassin to venture into Sokolov's territory though, and a stupid one to set foot inside the heavily scanned and monitored clear zone around his building.

Still, there was no point taking chances. It had kept Sokolov alive, and so far, her too.

Her apartment wasn't anywhere near as large as Sokolov's above her. But it was just as luxurious because he'd furnished it. There were hidden cameras in various places throughout it because Sokolov, like most men in her experience, had a voyeuristic side. She supposed she could find and disable them if she really tried, but didn't bother. It would just irritate him. Besides, it wasn't like he hadn't seen her naked many times.

In person.

She hung up her jacket, toed off her shoes, and padded down the hall on bare feet to her bedroom. The floors were heated, and toasty warm, just as she liked it. Her bedroom, though, had thick, plush white carpeting that her feet sank into. She took off her holster and put her knife on one of the dressers then undid her pants and peeled them down and off.

She had no idea if Sokoloff was watching, but by now it wasn't something she really thought about unless his voice appeared out of one of the hidden speakers.

She walked across the room and into the ensuite bathroom. It was brightly lit, with mirrored tiles that covered floor and walls. The counter was marble, and a mirror covered the wall behind it all the way to the ceiling. The room was lit by pot lights and track lights, including over the large glass enclosed shower.

She glanced at herself briefly, as usual feeling the little surge of ego driven smugness at her looks and body. She was beautiful and knew it. She made use of that on occasion to persuade where she couldn't intimidate. Sex - ordinary sex - was not something she took seriously or had many qualms about. It was, in most cases, a currency like any other.

She turned on the shower and water jetted out from half a dozen places in the wall, all heated to exactly her preference before she stepped in.

It was good to have money.

The liquisoap she used was expensive, scentless, and came from a special store that catered to the elites. It lathered up easily as she spread it across her chest and down over her breasts And left a slick, slippery sheen over her soft, warm skin.

She enjoyed the tactile feeling of pleasure she got from her fingers as they glided across the curves of her body. She had no hair below the neck, and her skin was unblemished, creamy, and as soft as eiderdown.

She could feel the muscles beneath that skin, muscles that others might have found oddly powerful for her size and gender. She weighed more than most women her size, for her bones were thicker and she had more muscle, though it was cleverly hidden.

She turned off the water, slid the door open, and wrapped herself in a soft, fluffy towel. The people who eyed her furtively on the street would probably be surprised at how she babied herself when alone. But she liked her comforts when she could get them.

She stepped before the mirror and briefly examined herself again. Her hair had been genetically enhanced. That was an expensive undertaking but it produced perfectly obedient hair that was so soft and silky men had been known to get erections simply from sliding their fingers through it. Now all it took was a little brushing and a little hot air before it assumed its previous perfect style.

Naked, she walked back into the bedroom and stopped.

He was here.

She didn't know who he was. As far as she could tell, it was the same guy every time. He wore black from head to toe, literally. It was a black skin suit and it covered his face as well as everything else about him. She could see the musculature of his thick chest and shoulders and how narrow his waist was, but could tell nothing of his looks or race. Though from previous experience he was white.

"You've been a bad girl, Quinn." Sokolov's voice appeared from a discreet speaker.