Urban Dead: This Means War

[Caz]

[1998]

The air of the nightclub was thick, hot, and reeked of alcohol and sex. Definitely not an upper-crust establishment. As the various patrons, most of which fucked up on something or another, gyrated or snorted or argued or puked, there was business brewing up above them.

Heavy Nine Inch Nails bass rumbled the floor beneath her feet as Sherry stood in the corner of the small office, chewing on the filtered end of her clove as she listened to what the runner had to say.

"Oh he did, did he?" she growled, shaking her head. She lit the cigarette and inhaled a deep breath, her other hand resting on her hip. "How many got caught?"

The man--obviously a while older than her, but by his posture a subordinate--explained what had happened: during a routine operation of extracting payment from a low-level affiliate, the shylock on duty--Jaycee--had apparently lost it and gone medieval on their subject.

"The gunshots attracted his neighbours, he phoned up, and now Ham's in lockup. He's the only one that wasn't fast enough, but he didn't do jack shit. Jaycee stabbed him in his fuckin' leg so he could be our scapegoat."

Which would have been fine in a dog-eat-dog operation, but this wasn't a fucking hit. Nothing should have happened to their subject, let alone murder.

[Josh]

Jaycee trotted up the stairs to the office, a cocky look on his face. He had every right to be cocky- he'd just gotten away with murder. Again.

[Caz]

And normally, getting away with murder was fine. While Sherry didn't approve of some of his methods--she'd had to deal with corpses before, fine, but burning the fucking bottoms of their feet off was more than overboard--he was quickly rising in the ranks to become one of their best hitmen. Ron wasn't particularly fond of the idea of a street gang needing a hitman, but things had gotten bad lately, and a few of their own had ended up in the hospital and one in the morgue. So it was a measure of necessity.

But this... however way he'd try to frame it, this was a botched fucking job.

Sherry alighted upon the corner of her desk, brushing her ink-black curls out of her face. Two knocks on the door; the doorman undoubtedly had Jaycee waiting outside.

"Send'im in," she called with more than a little vexation.

[Josh]

He strode in, the eternal smile plastered on his face. "Got the money," he said, casually.

The bitch was going to rant. Or she might actually grow a pair and try something. Either way, it'd be fun.

[Caz]

The first thing that greeted Jaycee upon entering was a hard, well-placed punch straight to his jaw, courtesy of Sherry's gloved left hand. She kept the gloves waited for good measure, as well, so it was sure to leave a fucking mark. As he sprawled down on the floor below her, she stomped a spiked heel onto the back of his hand.

"You incompetent FUCK!" she snarled.

[Josh]

"AH FUCK," he yelled as the heel punctured his hand, pinning it to the floor.

[Caz]

"You call gunning a man down in front of his wife and kids 'getting the money'? You sick bastard," she snarled, grinding her heel down further. "If it was up to me I'd have you shot on fucking sight."

She glared down at him, her blue eye glowing with restrained fury. For Sherry, this was fucking restraint.

"Even if he'd tried something on you, a fucking gun!?" She bared her teeth. "You know what kind of coverage firearms attract! A knife, a fucking hammer, a nail bat--that can't be traced!"

She bent, pulling his gun from his back pocket--he kept it there like he was a fucking Wyatt Earp, great--and shoved iti nto his face.

"This can."

[Josh]

"Hey," he said. "He was making a move! I didn't have a choice!" His eyes crossed at the gun barrel in front of his face.

[Caz]

She shoved the barrel of the handgun up against his eye.

"This shouldn't have been a choice," she sneered, "because this wasn't a hit and you shouldn't have fucking had it!"

It was their policy to not carry firearms on most missions just to avoid such things.

"Jaycee, I know how it is if someone's coming at you. You panicked, fine, but you should not have had this on you in the first place."

[Josh]

His head pressed back as the barrel crushed the flesh around his eye socket, pressing in on his eyeball. "ARGH," he said coherently.

[Caz]

With a growl, she finally removed the pressure from both the gun and her heel on his hand. With a squelching sound, she lifted her foot from the wound and stood before him, arms crossed at her chest. She held the gun with the guise of a professional, a seasoned outlaw. Everyone in the Blackcaps treated Sherry as though she had far more years under her belt; this was why.

"Tell me, Jaycee, do you really want to be here? Because I can't fucking tell."

[Josh]

He rolled to his knees, cradling his hand, looked up at her with a sickly grin. "I do pretty good, most days."

And it was true, he was generally top-notch. He just had... slips.

[Caz]

"Competence doesn't equate to interest," she spat, "both of us know that."

Tapping her cigarette, she looked down to him.

"If you keep doing this, I'm going to start to think you don't want this job. And I'm betting Ham would testify against you in a fucking heartbeat."

[Josh]

He scuttled back and rose to his feet. "No, no he wouldn't," he said confidently.

Because Ham knew that if he did that, someday Jaycee would get out of jail, come back, and kill him.

Ham wasn't that stupid.

[Caz]

And that remark sent him flying right back down again.

"Answer my fucking question or you're back on the street," she snarled.

[Josh]

The fist lashed out, a right hook. She was so damned predictable. He weaved back, dodging.

"You don't run this crew," he shot back. "Want to talk to Ron about it? I'm one of his best earners."

[Pcm979]

"Ron is the only reason we haven't fucking smeared you all over this building," Sherry snarled. "And he does run this crew. He told me to give you one last shot, and the next time you fuck up, you are gone."
Sherry pulled back, through messing with him, and tugged her left glove off with her teeth. She stepped to the desk, ground out the cigarette, and pulled the other glove off, shoving them into a drawer as her tight black skirt lacked any pockets to speak of.

"Ron told me he saw potential in you, and when I looked I saw it too. But if you drown said potential in blind anger then you're just another fuck with a gun, got it?"

He nodded at that. "Okay, works for me. Anything else?" That he'd just killed a man apparently didn't make any sort of impression on him.

As crude as that was of him, that wasn't Sherry's place to argue. She'd done some damned rotten things too, although she'd at least brought a garotte as opposed to something so damned messy.
"Yes," she said, "you're staying here for the next few days. If anyone saw anything, his wife an' brats know your face." She looked to him, her eyes softer. "You got scared, that's okay. It doesn't mean we're going to throw you to the dogs."

"He was coming at me," he said, the smile fading. "I wasn't scared. I took care of fucking business." He flipped out a cigarette with his good hand, stuck it in his mouth.

She chuckled a bit, closing her eyes briefly as the ghost of a smile passed over her face. But then it was back to business.
"Either way, the damage is done. We'll speak no more of it." She moved to behind the large desk, gathering up a bottle of scotch and two glasses. "That being said, you did get the money. And don't think Ron will forget that in light of what happened."
She poured him a drink, as well as a smaller one for herself.

He accepted the drink, studying her with cold eyes over a friendly smile. "You gotta be hard on these fuckers," he said. "They'll bite you, first chance they get. Fuckin' animals."

"Who?" she asked playfully, "You?"

He took a sip of the scotch. "You asking?"

"Your loyalty isn't to me," she said with a shrug. "If you get the job done and keep yourself out of the bloody courtroom, it's none of my business."

"Well, aren't you just all business. You need to fucking loosen up, Sherry," he downed the rest of the scotch, then plonked the glass down. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there was a tasty downstairs that looked about right for me..."

Loosen up? She raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I'll join you."

He grabbed the bottle of scotch, held his hand overout and poured a dollop on his hand, hissing at the pain. "Wanna dance?" he invited.

Although it was more than a shot's worth, Sherry downed the glass as though it were, setting it down and looking to the two men in the corner. One was standard security, the other was the man who'd told her of Jaycee's predicament.
"Find me if Ron calls," she said, then tossed a coy look to Jaycee, heading toward the door. He could take that as a yes.

He followed her outside with a cocky swagger, totally assured of his ability to overcome. Why? Because if he'd had her down like that, he never would've just let her up. That was why everyone else in the world was weak.

"Any particular preference?" she asked of the club. It had three dance floors as well as numerous other activities: billiards, a gambling hall, and on interesting nights, live boxing.

"Up for some pool?" he said, tossing a cigarette down on the floor and stepping on it.

"Mm, sure," she said. "I'm not that good at it... You'll have to show me the ropes." Because coming from a family like hers, luxuries like billiards tables simply weren't something within logical grasp, let alone financial. They headed down to the second floor, which was playing eighties retro. Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus" thrummed through the walls of the pool hall, where several games were already in progress. Sherry headed over to the bar, where she was given two Screwdrivers by the winking barkeep, and headed back.
"Feel like taking on those two blokes in the corner?"

"Sure," he said, giving her an casual wink. "I'll be right behind you the whole time..." He lit a new cigarette and chatted up the pair in the corner briefly, jerking his head toward the table.

"We're up," he told her. "This is Craig and this is Vic. Craig, Vic, this is Sherry." He put a possessive hand on her shoulder, up on the collarbone.
She looked to him with a brief raise of a plucked eyebrow, but accepted the treatment, sliding a bit closer toward his hip and playing into the 'couple' ruse.
"Charmed," she said with a smile that spoke volumes: she could make your dreams come true, fuck you blind, kill your mother, and skin you alive.

"I'm teaching her how to play," he said, drifting back across behind her, his face drifting just over the top of her head, his nose inhaling her scent. She was going with the play. This would be fun...

She smelled of perspiration and expensive smoke. Austrian imports, most likely. Ron's brother had spoiled her with a few packs. The two men nodded in acknowledgement of her fledgling ability and one made a crack about that being fine since both of them were fairly plastered anyhow.

He graciously racked up and let them break. Craig took the first shot, a weak break that didn't sink anything. Jaycee whistled sadly. "Well, guess it's my go, then..."

Sherry sat back, watching the way he handled it. Not one terribly fond of psychoanalysis, she couldn't help but keep herself from trying to explain his actions to her own head. He handled the game like it was life and death, and although he smiled and joked, it was like the smile of a tiger shark. Craig's partner, whose name she'd already forgotten, sank a shot after Jaycee sank two, and then it was her turn. She looked to him expectantly as she chalked up her cue.

He slid in behind her as she lined up her shot, pressing his body against hers, whispering in her ear to guide her.

She rolled her shoulders as she bent, eyeing the position of the various targets and taking what he said to heart. His voice was low, sandpaperish against her ear, and she was suddenly aware of every place where they touched. Vic made a snide comment as she took her time lining it up. Jaycee's arms stretched out to position hers for the shot, and she bit her lip in concentration, finally pulling back and sinking one of the striped balls with a triumphant whoop.

He slapped her on the rump. "Yeah, that's my girl," he said proudly. "Okay... now... that one..." he pointed.

She shot him a look of mock surprise, her hand to her lips in sock. You devil! And she moved to take the second shot, listening carefully to his instruction. Two seconds later, the resounding cracking of ivory resulted in yet another tally for their side.
"Now?" she asked, staring at the table.

"Hey, you should let her play for herself," the not-Craig one said irritably.

Jaycee spread his hands. "Fine, my girl Sherry here can do anything."

Amazingly enough, she sank two more before finally fumbling and missing a bank shot that she had no way in hell of attempting in the first place. Smirking triumphantly, she turned to the opposing team and let the look on her face speak for herself.
He settled in next to her, throwing his arm around her. Oh yes, he was enjoying this. The girl, the imminent triumph. The predatory gleam in his eyes was riding high. He leaned over and whispered in her ear. "See, this is what happens when you loosen up, huh?"

She wasn't sure if it was the drinks or the fact that she seemed to suddenly kick ass at the game or even if it was the temperature of the room, but for some reason her anger with him had mostly vanished. In a brash mood, she leaned toward him and nodded, taking his hand in hers and pouring a bit of her drink onto the open wound. Then she lifted it to her lips and let her tongue snake out, drinking the alcohol from the cut with a predatory spark in her eyes that could have matched his own. Their opponents were watching with a bit of confusion on their faces, awkwardly silenced.

He hissed at the pain, and as she lowed his hand away from her mouth, his palm enclosed her hand, grinding down on it as he smiled at her, threatening to crush the bones of her palm, before relinquishing his grip. His turn. He got up, the look in his eye as he rampaged across the table, sinking three more shots before missing out on the eightball for the win. They were three balls down, bad spot to be in.

And after their opponents' turn, they hadn't gotten any closer to victory. Sherry sashayed toward the table, leaning forward and surveying the scene like a general on the battlefield. She whispered the shot to Jaycee. "Side pocket?"

"Go for it," he said, standing behind her, hands on her waist as he smirked triumphantly at the opposition.

She closed her eyes, called it, took the shot. A moment of terrible tension as the ball seemed to slow toward the pocket, then rolled in with a final /thunk/. She grinned, her free hand forming a fist as she slammed it on the table, victorious.

He spun her around, pressing his lips onto hers in a deep, wild kiss.

For a moment, she told herself that she was treading on dangerous ground, but between the alcohol and the thrill of winning, there was little to no conscious resistance. She kissed Jaycee fiercely, battling his tongue with hers.

When they broke free, he looked over at the other two. "What?" he asked, noting that they were getting ready to go. One of them tossed a wad of money on the table, payoff on the bet he'd negotiated. "C'mon, you don't want to try to win it back?" he asked. "Double or nothing."

Craig smirked. "How 'bout this: double and a night with your woman? She looks like a wild one."

He laughed at that. "More than you could handle, kiddo. You want that on the line, you gotta put more than double on the table." He nodded toward the ring on the man's finger, an ornate piece topped by a verdant emerald. "How 'bout double and the ring?"
She looked to Jaycee, not a hint of apprehensiveness. If there was anything to be said for her, Sherry was fiercely competitive. She smirked at the two, shaking her head. Although he had no evidence to back it up on a personal level, Jaycee was right: more than a handful.

"You're on," the man said. He began racking up the balls. Jaycee strode around to the head of the table confidently, rolling the cue ball around with casual unconcern.

Sherry perched on the corner of the table, watching him curiously. For some reason, tonight she saw him in a different light. Not necessarily on a different personal level, but physically. His hair was long, dark, and the concentration in his eyes was dizzying.

He lined up, his tongue curling out of the corner of his mouth as the cueball and the objective beyond, the clump of balls on the table, became his entire focus. Crack. He launched the cueball across the table. Balls shot to and fro, with a solid landing in the corner pocket. "Solids," he called out, striding around. Crack. Easy shot, another solid plunked in. It was then that he tried to get fancy, going for a two-bounce bank shot, that... just missed.

Craig's turn. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, stepped up, knocked in one to the side pocket. Then he planted another, but the bounce took him into a bad corner, surrounded by solids. He finessed his way out, but failed to sink anything.

Jaycee stepped over to Sherry, whispering in her ear. "Your shot. Your ass on the line," he chuckled.

She smirked. "Which looks best? I could get the six or the three..." Her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Take the three," he suggested. "It's about your speed..."

She nodded, watching the table as though waiting for it to somehow react, then took the shot. A smooth, clean victory. Grinning, she tried to swing the second one and nearly managed, but failed.

She nodded a thank-you at Jaycee. he was damn good at this game.

He smiled at her, and she could sense he had a deeper design going here. A game in a game in a game. The objective? Unreadable. He watched Vic step up. The brothers were in a deep whole, and the man was sweating as he lined up his shot. Predictably, he botched it.

Jaycee confidently rose to his feet, twirling the cue stick around in his hand as he prepared to finish the game. He brushed an affectionate hand across her cheek as he moved to the table.

She was more curious than affectionate by this point, could see the peculiar glimmer in his eye.

One ball left. Crack. In it went. Now for the eight ball. He pointed toward the corner pocket, having set up about the easiest shot possible. A firm crack on the cueball, which hit the eightball... sending it skittering away from the pocket, while the cueball continued practically unimpeded straight into the pocket.

Scratch on eightball. Instant loss. The brothers whooped and slapped each other's backs as Jaycee turned toward her, his smile unfaltering. He shot her a wink as his knuckles flexed on the cue stick.

She honestly didn't understand the game, having never been taught before, and wandered toward the table, asking him what it meant.

"Too bad!" Craig exulted from behind them. Jaycee ignored him, leaning over to take a sip of his drink. He leaned over to whisper to her. "Scratch on eightball. We lost. Now it gets fun..." He caught her earlobe with his teeth briefly, before turning back to the brothers.

They were eyeing her expectantly. Vic was pulling on his coat while Craig held out his hand for the money.

Jaycee smiled broadly, then shook his head.

"No," he said simply.

Although there was a tinge of fear from the revelation that they'd lost, she couldn't help but let out a high, desperate moan as his teeth ground against her skin. God, she couldn't possibly be thinking this... This was Jaycee for fuck's sake...

Craig got close to Jaycee. "Fuck you, you made a bet, you lost. Pay the fuck up!"

Jaycee looked down at him, eyes gleaming. "You want her, you take her away from me..."

Craig responded by punching him in the stomach, and it was on.

Instantaneously understanding, Sherry grabbed her pool cue and swung it around, hitting Craig square in the left eye with the chalked tip.

He screamed as he reeled away. Jaycee dove under her stick, borrowed beer mug in hand. He punched it straight into Vic's face. The hard glass actually didn't shatter; but something underneath the impact did...

With an excited holler, she jumped onto the table and used the cue as sort of a pole vault, jumping high and coming to a satisfying crunch as she landed, vibrant and feline and in the thrall of the action, atop his back.

Jaycee turned and hurled the mug down into Craig's face. This time, it did shatter. Crouching down, he quickly relieved the man of the ring he'd wagered earlier, then leapt to his feet, diving into the crowd as the bouncers began to close in.
Sherry offered one last, graceful kick to Craig's mug, feral glee flashing in her oddball eyes as she felt his zygomatic bone shatter beneath the toe of her boot. "He's right," she said, "I'm a bit too much for the two of you. Combined." She spit on their downed bodies and leapt into the crowd, seeking the dark-haired teenager.

Jaycee was already jamming his way through the door. The one bouncer who got in his path caught stiffened fingers in the throat, and he was out and outside.

Sherry cast a look to the bouncer, who was well acquainted with she and Ron, and smiled, giving him a thumbs-up as she pressed her way through the last of the sweaty bodies and out into the chilly Malton night. January was fucking cold, and for a moment the frigid air traced its icy fingers up her spine in a way that wasn't at all pleasant.

Jayce lingered on the corner, pausing long enough to wave before ducking into the alley.

[Pcm979]

[2005]

Mike listened attentively, refilling her cup of water at periodic intervals.

[Caz]

"So you see," she said quietly, "even if he's offered what he wants, he won't settle for that. He has to break the back of it, to steal it."

She sighed.

"After the paramedics left, I started to wonder how the hell I was supposed to be keeping him out of police custody if he was going to make himself belle of the fucking ball..."

She shook her head, resting against Mike, then thought for a long moment.

"And then... Then I did some things I regret more than anything in the world."

[Pcm979]

She hadn't dropped his hand yet, so he gave it a reassuring squeeze. "You haven't told anyone this before, have you?"

[Caz]

She shook her head. "No... No, I haven't." Her eyes closed for a moment as though fainting, but after a few seconds she forced them open again.

"I let him under my skin, Mike. Let him get in... Let him figure me out..." A strange, far-off look passed over her eyes, and she proceeded to relate bits and pieces of her conversation with Jaycee--where he'd asked her about fear, where she'd tried to do the same...

Her eyes suddenly shifted, and she couldn't look at Mike, couldn't stand to look at someone who appeared so concerned.

[Pcm979]

Mike rested his chin in her hair. He knew that she'd've taken Jaycee's manipulations as a personal failing, a wound to her pride.

"That's what the cocksucker does, Sher." It was the second time he'd called her that in as many minutes, and also the second time ever. "But it's his weakness as well as his strength. He doesn't know what makes the rest of us tick, and we can use that." He meant 'we' to include himself personally, too.

[Caz]

She took a long sip of the water, then licked her lips. Her mouth was still terribly dry, but by then she figured it was mostly nerves. Her stomach had tightened into a sick knot, her trachea tightening in the classic human grief response.

Sherry couldn't meet Mike's eyes.

"That's not all I let him do," she said coldly, hoping he'd let her spare the details.

[Caz]

She took a long sip of the water, then licked her lips. Her mouth was still terribly dry, but by then she figured it was mostly nerves. Her stomach had tightened into a sick knot, her trachea tightening in the classic human grief response.

Sherry couldn't meet Mike's eyes.

"That's not all I let him do," she said coldly, hoping he'd let her spare the details.

[Pcm979]

Mike sensed that this was a touchy spot. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." He said softly.