Hard Revenge Page 4

  “It was mostly how to kill silently with a knife, and how to stay alive when the other guy had a knife. I worked with those two old guys for almost a year. Then they hooked me up with another guy who taught me how to use guns up close. From there, I went to a place up north in Thailand to learn how to use a long-range rifle for sniper training. The whole time, I still worked on physical training, kickboxing, and hand-to-hand shit. I also worked with an amazing cat burglar who taught me how to get in or get out of any kind of building. I got pretty good at it, but I’ll never be a master like her.”

  Eyes wide, head tilted, Deja asked, “You’re serious?” She clutched her glass of Pepsi and ice, condensation dripping onto her lap. “You know how to kill someone, with a knife? This isn’t like getting pissed and just grabbing some kitchen knife, but doing it on purpose, right?”

  “Knife training came first, because it’s emotionally the hardest. It’s damned hard to kill someone up close and personal with a knife. Shooting a target is easy; stabbing a dummy is surprisingly hard. It makes you think about what you really want. So yeah, I’m telling you I learned how to kill someone close enough to touch.”

  “If it’s the hardest, why do they make you do it first?” Nikky asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s not like you can’t still shoot people. And maybe those guys just did it that way. They may do it differently with the government, or in other parts of the world, but that’s how I was trained.”

  “Maybe they just wanted to be sure you were the real deal,” Nikky said. “You know, weed out the wannabes.”

  “Well it must have worked, because someone figured I needed to learn more, so they sent me to Vietnam. I lived in a jungle, doing hardcore training for seven months. The whole time, it was only me and two men. They didn’t speak any English, and I didn’t speak any Vietnamese. Pretty quick, we figured out the basics. I needed to know when to follow them, they needed to know I’d slit their throats if they tried any funny business. You know, the important stuff.

  “But that training was some hard-ass shit. The one guy, not even tall as Nikky, kicked my butt almost every day. The little shit would run up a steep mountainside, and I had to follow. He’d sit in the shade, waiting for me to drag up to where he’d be relaxing, then he’d make me fight him for a drink of water.”

  “Some prick kept me from having a drink when I’m thirsty, I’d be kicking his butt,” Deja said.

  “The first time, I thought, ‘What the hell, it ain’t no thang,’ and let it go. I figured it was some kind of training on how to deal with thirst. I was wrong. A couple of minutes later when I tried to get something to drink, that bastard wouldn’t let me. Finally, I got pissed and tried to shove him outta the way. The little shit didn’t move. With no warning — nothing at all — he slapped me like I was some kind of bitch or something. Pissed me off! And the fight was on! Soon as he’d kicked my butt real good, he smiled and gave me a bottle of water. Shit like that happened all the time. After a while, I’d walk up and start swinging on the little cocksucker.

  “He still kicked my ass, but it didn’t come cheap. Before then, I was a little afraid to get hit. In the ring where I was learning how to kickbox, we always wore headgear and guards. Up in those mountains, all I had on was some light clothes and sports shoes. That little bastard didn’t care about me being a woman, either; he hit me in the tit, or kneed me in my pussy so he could beat me. After that, I learned getting hit can hurt real bad but still not stop you. Unless you’ve been shot bad or had bones broke, the pain doesn’t have to stop you. You stop because your mind says so and you agree. But you don’t have to agree.”

  “So, you spent three years running up and down mountains, getting the shit kicked out of you, and then you came back here?” Deja asked.

  “No. I spent the first two years going from one training system to another. The third year, I mostly stayed in Bangkok. Bangkok is a big city in Thailand, and it’s kind of like L.A. I still trained every day, and learned about electronics in security and computer systems. Some of it was done in back rooms, some of it in legitimate schools with college students.”

  “How did that work?” Nikky said. “Can you speak their language?”

  “A little; enough to get by. It wasn’t a problem, though; the advanced texts are in English, and the students have to learn English to get into college. While I was studying that stuff, little by little, I started getting jobs. Some paid crap or were stupid dangerous, but all of them helped me gain experience and build my rep.”

  “What do you mean by jobs?” Nikky asked. “What kind of jobs?”

  “Assassination contracts.”

  “No shit!” Deja blurted. “You really killed people?” Then she shrunk back. “Sorry, that just came out.”

  “My first time was in China,” Michelle said. “Some rich businessman from Europe doing business and taking in the sights. Seems he’d screwed over the wrong associate. I acted like a tourist to get access to him, and that was that.”

  “For real? You got close to this guy and killed him?” Deja asked.

  “It’s real, homegirl. It doesn’t get any more real than what I’ve been doing for three years.”

  “How many did you do?”

  “Shit, girl, you can’t ask her that,” Nikky said.

  “She’s right, Deja. I can’t say what and where and how many. I shouldn’t have even told you about the guy in China. He was just some mid-level businessman, but telling you about some of the others would be a big mistake. Let me put it this way: I’ve never done anyone in Africa, Canada, Russia, or South America.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Michelle. That means you’ve been busy all over the rest of the world,” Nikky said. “You’re a fucking double-oh-seven from the hood!”

  “That’s one way of saying it. I work for some dangerous people who make the bangers in the hood look like a bunch of rooty-poot pussies. They’re hardcore serious, and if you know too much, it could be trouble for you. I’m only telling you this much because I want your help with getting Michael’s killers. I can’t ask for your help without your knowing the real deal.”

  Nikky looked over at Deja, who nodded, then back to Michelle. “Like we said earlier, we’re in. Whatever you need from us, we’ve got your back.”

  Michelle smiled. “I knew you would. I can’t tell you how much I hated not seeing you for so long.”

  Sisters from the hood who’d always lived by the code. Even after they knew what she’d been doing all that time, they were still one hundred percent her crew, and she knew she could trust them both. She’d die for either one of them, and they would for her.

  “That’s some serious shit for sure,” Deja said. “But why did you come back two months ago and not tell us?”

  “Several reasons. First, I needed to know it was safe to come back. I didn’t want to come back all big and excited, making a lot of noise that might have you guys caught up in either a leftover problem or something that had followed me from my work in Asia. My world is one hundred percent unforgiving, and I was scared something from that life would come and hurt you.”

  “Wow, it’s beginning to sink in how strange your life is,” Deja said. “I would’ve been throwing parties and celebrating, big time. I see how that might have been a stupid mistake.”

  “I also used the time for a few other things,” Michelle said. “I had to build my cover so when the shit came down, I wouldn’t look like a suspect. It’d look bad if those bastards started dropping dead the day after I came back home. Now, I’ve been back long enough to look legitimate. As far as they know, I don’t have any reason to start some shit. You two are okay, because you’ve never had any grief with those guys.”

  “I like your crib,” Nikky said. “What else is your cover? Or can’t you tell us that?”

  “I can.” Michelle nodded. “I work as a freelance movie production assistant. I go around doing all the legwork, finding the people and researching places the producers need.”

  “I
guess since you’ve told us, it’s safe now, right?” Deja asked.

  “‘Safe’ is a dangerous word. It’ll never be safe, and we’ll always have to be careful. And I have two important reasons to be careful with this. One, I’m taking out every one of those bastards involved in killing Michael and Gabe Jr.; and two, I can’t be getting grabbed up and dropped in jail while I’m doing it — I have to be free to finish the job.”

  “Yeah, you can’t be capping some asshole out on the street if you’re in the joint,” Nikky said.

  “Plus,” Deja said, “you can’t get any good sex if you’re in prison. I know none of us are down for pussy. Now, I don’t care one bit about who gets their swerve on with who, but we three be strictly dickly.”

  “I know that’s right.” Nikky high-fived both Deja and Michelle.

  “That brings up the biggest reason why I’m telling you all of this. I need your help to find out exactly who was involved in the deal with Michael. The more me and Uncle G looked at it, the more it didn’t seem like a deal gone bad with some jumpy druggie pulling a gun. Those guys had experience and knew how to conduct business on a straight deal. It doesn’t feel right for it to go to shit like it did. We think people were behind what went down, and the guys who did it were acting on orders.

  “I had to be gone for so long, though, that lots of things changed. Other than Uncle G and you two, I don’t have any connections I can trust. If you can help, it’ll make things much easier to get the information I need. You do need to know, if you help me on this, it could be seriously dangerous. I’ll be going after and killing some ballers and their crew. What do y’all think?”

  Deja stared with her big, innocent eyes. “Goddammit, you’ve been gone three years getting the shit beat outta you in some jungle. Now, you come in telling us how Michael and Gabe Jr. were murdered and you still want to know if we’re in? What kind of sorry-ass friends do you think we are? Course, we’re in. If nothing else, we’ll make those sonuvabitches pay for keeping you gone so long. Shit, give me a gun and I’ll shoot the bastards myself.”

  “Damn skippy!” Nikky said, pointing at Deja.

  “There’s another reason,” Michelle said. “I had to make the change from doing my business over in Thailand, to here in the States. I don’t like killing, but it’s what I do now, and I’m good at it.”

  “Does that mean you’re still an assassin?” Nikky asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So, you get paid to go — Well, you get paid — I mean someone pays you money to — Damn, you know what I mean,” Deja said.

  “I know what you mean” — Michelle nodded — “and yes, I still get paid to kill people. It’s a hard fact and it’s the truth, with no getting around it. I don’t like anything about it except that it’ll make it possible to get even. When Michael got killed, I didn’t know my ass from a hole in the ground about anything. Back then, if I’d tried to get next to the murdering scum who did it, I would’ve only gotten myself killed.”

  “Okay, well. I’m sorry you’ve been gone so long,” Deja said. “But really that’s better than you getting killed by doing something stupid.”

  “I agree.” Michelle sipped her A&W. “It’s like this: just because I didn’t know what to do or how to do it, didn’t mean I’d accept it and not do anything. I made a promise to myself and to Uncle G that I’d learn how to kill, that I’d learn to do it right, so I could come back and get them.”

  “Now here you are,” Nikky said, “looking like our old friend, but with one hell of a wild-ass job. My God, Michelle, I never would’ve, in a million years, guessed this stuff you just told us.”

  “And some of the connections and information from that world will help us find, and kill, Michael’s murderers.”

  “Yeah, I guess I can see that,” Deja said, “but damn, girl, you’d been gone three years, then you didn’t tell us you were back for two whole months!”

  “The day Michael got killed was the worst day of my life,” Michelle said, “but like I said, these last couple of months living only twenty minutes away and not getting in touch with you has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And I have to tell you, I’ve done some hard-ass shit.”

  “Well, you’re home now,” Nikky said. “We’re your rowdogs, and the three of us have a job to do.”

  They all clinked their glasses in a toast.

  “To a sister’s revenge,” Michelle said.

  “To a sister’s revenge,” Nikky and Deja replied.

  .

  Six: Cover Story

  THANK YOU, GOD — open road on the 405.

  Free-flowing traffic that morning, and great sex the night before. Either one would always put a smile on Michelle’s face. Today, she had both — hooah!

  Flying up the freeway with the top down, Pjae Stanley’s blues remake of “I’d Rather Go Blind” bumping on the Bose, and a plan for taking care of business. Life was good.

  Michelle put on her “business face,” turned down the music, and called the office in Burbank.

  “Moving On Studios! This is Shelly. How may I direct your call?”

  “Hi, Shelly. This is Michelle Angelique. May I speak to Keisha?”

  “Sure. One moment, please.”

  The line clicked, and then: “Hello, this is Keisha.”

  “Yo, Keisha, Michelle Angelique. What’s up, girl? I have the assignment on the cowboys for that Western movie you have me working on. I’ll be at the office in about twenty minutes. Do you have time to meet with me, or do you want me to leave the file up front with Shelly?”

  “All right, you go, girl! Yeah, I’ve got time, if you can wait a few minutes. I have a conference call that I’ll finish shortly after you get here.”

  * * *

  Michelle pulled into the parking lot of the two-story Moving On Studios office. Designed to impress, the tall, glass front and modern deco architecture offered a far greater opulence than the actual size of the building, which was nestled among other business ventures in an area that sported first-rate landscaping and huge curb appeal. Moving On Studios kept their accounting, personnel, and executive offices in the front, while some production items found temporary storage in the back bays.

  Michelle walked in and headed for the receptionist’s counter. She waved and smiled. “Hi, Shelly. I need to sign in and wait. Keisha said she’ll be a few minutes.”

  The overstated chrome-and-glass lobby could have been from a high-end law firm or a private plastic surgeon, with the only distinguishing feature the feel of money. As with most things in the movie industry, a good impression carried more impact than reality. Truth was, Moving On Studios was a successful mid-level production company that supported made-for-television films and some straight-to-DVD movies. Michelle didn’t like the industry or the company’s fake bullshit, so she generally tried to spend as little time as possible in the patently false lobby. Keisha’s office, on the other hand, was a pleasant, down-to-earth oasis of sanity that had an obvious focus on getting the job done.

  While she stood at the reception counter, three people emerged from the back of the building, and they were so completely cliché, it almost made her laugh out loud. She caught Shelly’s eye, and Shelly smirked.

  The couple were a perfect, Hollywood-matched pair: sixty-five, if he was a day, with a small shock of hair pulled into a sparse ponytail. His pot belly’s girth was matched by the exceptional, oversized breasts of the bleached blonde with him. Plastic surgery made it impossible to guess her age. The other man, with his overdone tan and whiter-than-white teeth, wore stacked heels and flaunted an exposed, bare chest. He dripped with gold at every possible draping or attach-point on his body.

  While waiting for Keisha’s call, Michelle overheard the older man, and as if being a walking cliché wasn’t enough, he said, “Let’s do lunch. Love you! Mean it!”

  She openly stared at the threesome, who paid her no attention even though she only stood a few feet away. For anyone else, it could have been an insul
t, but for Michelle, it was perfect. She needed to be invisible, and with this crowd, unless she financed a movie, that was guaranteed. Overall, being a script development research assistant for Moving On Studios met her needs — it gave her a visible income, plus the flexibility to set her own schedule and no one looked over her shoulder or asked any questions.

  The job paid okay, though it would never give her the money she needed for her plan. Still, she couldn’t have asked for a better cover job.

  Shelly pushed a button on her console. “That was Keisha. You can go on back now.”

  “Thanks, Shelly.”

  Michelle strode through the frosted-glass double doors and down to Keisha’s office. Like usual, her office door was open, and like usual, Keisha’s desk was piled high with files and papers as if someone had dumped a year’s worth of who-knew-what and then walked away. To see a sister like Keisha in this movie world always surprised Michelle. Keisha looked ghetto-fabulous but she had her head in the right place and she was good at her job.

  “Knock, knock. What’s up, girl?” Michelle said, standing in the doorway.

  “Hey, girl, come on in,” Keisha said. “Show me what you have. You said that shit’s done already? Girl, I am impressed.”

  “Yeah, I got lucky. Found a little surprise right here in the Valley. You won’t believe what I ran into. This here” — Michelle pointed to the file she’d put on Keisha’s desk — “is a cracker brother cowboy named Charlie, with his teenage Cosby son, Max. They know everything there is to know about horses, tack, and all of that shit. The dad, Charlie, also knows movie sets and all the issues with stunts and animal rights, so he can pretty much be your go-to guy on the whole horse thing. He’s been working with several studios up in places like Palmdale, Saugus, and Simi Valley. He lives right here in Burbank. His complete operation, including costs, schedules, and even references, is in that file.”

  “See? That’s why I like working with you so much. No bullshit, no excuses, no whining, just straight-up get the job done.”