Porsche's pit-stop back East was to be as brief as possible. She would return to work, for one purpose -- to resign. She doubted they would give her any fuss. Things felt strange from the start. There was a ring of silence placed around her. No one talked to her; her colleagues didn't invite her to a farewell lunch. Then she went home to box her few personal items. The final task was to retrieve an emergency go-bag she'd stashed at the gym. In it were a portion of her carats she had squired -- her screw-you money, a handgun, and several passports. She'd always kept it near where she lived. The rest of whatever junk, the landlord could do as he pleased. She planned to vacate the next morning.
The gym was small, personal, and all women. And it had an Olympic-sized pool. Among her routine to relax was swimming laps, then a long soak in the steam room. She looked forward to her last time there.
Porsche showered cold first in the locker, then came out to the pool area. Being a member of this gym for years, she'd recognized some of the regulars. She gave them a nod of cordiality here and there. Other than that, no one approached to converse.
Porsche wore a one-piece black racer. She bought it not only for speed but because it looked good with its high-cut legs and low back that showed off her assets.
She stood at the edge of the pool, loosened her arms and shoulders before plunging in. Each length being 164 feet, she'd need to do 30 lengths to make a mile: that was her daily goal.
Four middle lanes were empty. She chose the far right for herself, secured her goggles and dove in.
The regularity of strokes gave her an interlude of peace and meditation. She maintained a comfortable pace, her mind blinking out all the troubles and questions, including Moreau, Marlboro, the acid bath and Uncle. Her strokes rhythmic, her breathing even, she cut a smooth wake with her first lap and flip-turned on her way back. Fifty more to go.
Somewhere between the twentieth or twenty-fifth length, she sensed another swimmer in the left lane. She wouldn't think twice, only that this swimmer matched her speed, stroke for stroke, and maintained her pace. Decorum said to leave a length or two. And of all the unused lanes, this interloper had taken the one next to hers. The nerve.
Porsche tried to slow. The splashes didn't advance. She tried to speed up. The splashes stayed on her left. Damn rude. She didn't need a leech glued to her. Her calming peace dashed, the intrusion became a distraction.
At the turn, she caught a glimpse of the unwelcome entrant and the bluish shimmer of her suit. The girl was wearing an elastic skull cap and goggled. Porsche didn't make out the face.
Porsche pulled ahead, determined to lose her.
In no time, the splashes inched up to her again.
Porsche fumed. She'd lost her lap count. Agitated, she was ready to confront the interloper.
At the end of the length, she stopped and called out, "Hey."
But the pest didn't stop. She flip-turned and continued down the lane.
What the --
Her anger unfounded, Porsche realized she was being stupid. The paranoia was all in her head. Maybe she was more shook up by Moreau and the gruesome death of Marlboro's girlfriend than she realized. Damn if she could remember which lap she stopped on. Gotta be nearing thirty by now. She'd lost concentration.
Blast.
She jumped out of the pool, grabbed her towel and headed for the locker. She gave a spiteful glare at the swimmer who had ruined her routine. But the girl raced away, oblivious to Porsche. She didn't mess up your laps, you did. Got rattled for no reason.
Porsche felt knotted still. She needed to unwind in the steam room.
She stripped off the skintight suit, wrapped the towel over her breasts and waist, and headed for the foggy room near the showers.
It was empty.
The eucalyptus scent soothed her. She closed her eyes, embracing the luxurious heat as the cycle kicked in, spewing out a fresh cloud of hot aromatic mist to cleanse her body and mind. These mini-vacations replaced expensive therapy on the couch. She would go insane without them. Her muscles loosened; she drifted off in the hot cocoon.
The pleasure of being alone was short-lived.
The glass door hissed open, snapping her back to the present. Someone had entered her privacy once more. She could see the hour-glass silhouette through the steam. Whoever it was, wasn't wearing a towel. The smashing silhouette was youthful, she noticed. Fit and strong. The girl came closer and sat on the upper ledge next to Porsche.
Something familiar about her. Porsche straightened up, closed her legs, and adjusted her towel. The steam cycle continued to pour out thick folds of mist, obscuring the girl's face.
"Amazing, isn't it?" the girl made small talk.
A sudden silence set in. The blower had shut off as the mist curtains held steady. Porsche spotted a tattoo of something on her neck.
"Yes, it is," Porsche replied, closing her eyes. I have seen her before.
"I could do this every day."
Porsche smiled, her silence telling.
"I saw you in the pool," the girl persisted. "Nice form. I tried to keep up."
The interloper!
"I'm new in town."
"That's nice," Porsche said.
"I'm Angie." The girl extended her hand. A slight Teutonic accent.
Porsche didn't linger to make friends. "That's it for me. Enjoy the heat."
"I will," the girl smiled in a strange manner. "Perhaps we could swim together."
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
"Sorry, I do my laps alone. No offense." Her senses, honed through the years, sent alarm bells crashing into her head. Then she remembered -- this was the same girl who'd followed Harry in Union Station. Porsche's chest tightened, her heart pounding, adrenaline flooding her system. There was one reason she was here.
"Not at all. I understand people need alone time. What with all the stress at work, right, Porsche?" The girl had a delicious grin under wet bangs.
"You're here for me." She wasn't walking away from this one.
The girl puckered and blew her an air-kiss.
"What do you go by?"
The girl smirked. "Harpy."
"Let's get it over then."
The genial smile from the girl had changed into a wicked grin. "I intend to." Harpy licked the sweat glistening from her upper lip.
Porsche remembered she hadn't refilled the liquid metal reservoir since her last use at Marlboro's apartment. She cursed herself for this lapse. There won't be enough to defend myself.
At this moment, the steam cycle kicked in bellowing a wall of thick mist coming between them while the din from the compressor drowned out all sounds.
Already naked, Harpy dropped her hands by her side. In the gray steam lit by one overhead LED, her fingers extended grotesquely, the tips solidifying into barbs. They were like Porsche's, the same weapon system surgically installed in her by the Agency. Except her foe had them in both hands, twice the number of talons as Porsche's.
Porsche removed her towel and twirled it around her left forearm as a shield. She found the lump located inside her right bicep. She prayed it worked. A current shot through her body, making her flesh goose-bumped. A tingling sensation ran down her arm as a black fluid oozed from under her five cuticles. It spurted and coughed. Empty. As the remaining liquid hardened, she realized her blades were stunted, barely half as long, more like spikes than claws.
She doubted she could make the door. Even if she could, then what? Run naked through the gym and onto the streets? No, make or break, all right here.
Porsche retreated, taking a step higher up the sitting platform. Cornered against the back wall, she poised above her foe.
Through the folds of steam, Harpy moved into attack mode, claws extended. Her talons stunted, Porsche had one advantage -- the high ground, though that won't be enough.
The girl lunged and swiped sideways at Porsche's thigh, going for the femoral artery. And missed. Porsche kicked out, sending Harpy back but not before the latter had tagged her with the other hand.
Five cuts went deep, filleting her thigh, the pain exploding in her ears. Porsche let out a cry, felt the warm wetness running down her calf, not daring to look down. Her leg weakening, Porsche staggered trying to stay balanced.
Harpy noticed the bloody gash and crimson spray and smiled. An artery was cut. She closed in to finish her off.
Gasping in pain, Porsche limped and retreated farther back as the assassin pressed nearer. She was out of steps to climb.
Seven yards . . . six.
Now or never.
Porsche leaped down on Harpy, blocking the slashing blow with the toweled forearm, her other hand grabbing Harpy's wrist. They crashed hard onto the wet tiled floor and slid against the back wall.
With her last ounce of energy, Porsche rolled on top, straddled the slippery Harpy. Porsche turned her torso, caught another slash, this time sacrificing her bare biceps to the cuts in return for a vital opening. Porsche plunged her right hand into the girl's abdomen, the stubby barbs sharp enough to rip open a cavity beneath the ribcage. Harpy groaned in mortal pain, eyes rolled into her head, Porsche's hand deep inside going for the vitals. Under the sternum, sharp fingers wound their way in and pierced the beating heart. The assassin tilted her head back, gurgled black blood from her lips and became still.
Porsche rose and stood over Harpy's body, slick with mixed blood. She limped out of the steam room, found the nearest towel, then ripped it into cotton strips. She made a loop, inserted a metal hanger and twisted it into a tourniquet above her thigh wound. The spurts became trickles until the flesh turned blue. The pain in her arm, she ignored.
They had tracked her, so getting rid of her Atlas became critical.
Using her sharpest finger, she sliced into her left forearm lengthwise, careful not to cut more arteries. She bit into the towel, muffling her agony. Voltage turned off, the last of the liquid metal dripped onto the carpet, her right hand returning to normal. With plain fingers, she pried open the forearm incision. Her nails slipped, missing the micro cylinder. She hissed at the shooting pain and braced for more. Thrice she attempted and failed, groaning with frustration. She took a deep breath for the final attempt and dug her fingernails in the wound until they clutched the metal cylinder.
The outer door clanged open. Other women were entering. Porsche grabbed her clothes. With neither time nor strength to dress, she rushed past the incoming people and out the door. A few steps away, she heard screams of terror as someone had found Harpy in the steam room soaked in blood.
Porsche clutched her bloody clothes and her precious Go-bag to her chest and staggered outside. The cold air against her naked skin woke her from creeping headiness. She was losing blood, and she knew it, her vision on the edge of going dark.
No time to dress and desperate to put some distance between herself and the dead girl, Porsche hopped on her H1 rocket-bike and started the hydrogen engine with her thumb ignition. She gunned the accelerator and clutched into gear with bare feet; the bike fish-tailed before straightening out and screamed away. No more than a hundred yards down the avenue, she keeled over, crashing the racer into a mound of refuse.
* * *
The orderly led Lockheart into the cold-room where several bodies were laid on wheeled gurneys under white sheets. One was a woman, judging from the mammary swells under white linen, his beloved Harpy. His face alluded to no pain except for a muscle twitch beneath his left eye.
Lockheart rolled the sheet past her abdomen, uncovering the mortal wound. Mortuary Services had drained and washed the body. The tear, left unsutured, was translucent and gray. The coroner said the wound extended past the ribs deep into the heart cavity, puncturing the cardiac muscle. He looked at length, almost mesmerized by the brutal wound -- the outer edges uneven and ragged. An edged blade hadn't done this. Neither did projectiles. He didn't need their findings to know what made the lacerations.
Lockheart touched the gash under the ribcage, a gaping hole wide enough for a small hand to enter. The weapon used on his girl was clear -- it left no duplicable patterns because it used the same compound in Harpy's liquid reservoir. His head hung on his chest as he gathered his loss and bitterness, and fell into a quiet rage.
Harpy's beautiful face remained unblemished and at peace . . . slain by a huntress he should have buried a long time ago. Some women you can't escape from. Porsche wasn't done bleeding him.
Deep down, he relished seeing her again, but for dark reasons now. Porsche was off the reservation, moonlighting for some other outfit -- which made her fair game.
He could remember her like yesterday, an eager eighteen-year-old from some Ukrainian shit hole. But she was DeWitt's pet student, favored and nurtured. She oozed sexuality and knew how to wield it as a weapon. And he had tumbled into her web. The two had a secret dalliance that turned toxic almost at once, and Lockheart was left holding the short stick. She'd made him look pathetic and impotent when the secret came out. She humiliated him in front of his peers and superiors. Enraged, his fragile ego knew of only one sanctuary to hide in -- a mental dungeon equipped with moat and spikes around an unsympathetic personality. He swore their paths would never cross again, until that night at Moreau's.
It was dumb luck a top-cover drone over Moreau's place spotted a birdwatcher on an adjacent tower two hundred yards away. Captured biometrics later confirmed the one person he thought gone from his life forever, had resurfaced. Sneaky Porsche. The next morning, Lockheart met with Oliver to inquire if there were ongoing Agency operations on Moreau he hadn't been told. The answer was an emphatic negative -- the Agency wouldn't conduct surveillance on North American soil. And on an important Affiliate.
How did this happen then?
He had expressly told Harpy to leave it alone but she'd gone against his wishes. Was it out of jealousy or was killing Porsche her gift to him? No matter, she'd paid the price for her misjudgment.
He looked at her sleeping face and his eyes moistened, a rare thing. Good night, sleep tight.
There will be payback, he raged silently. But not yet.
Pleasure could wait.
A simple inquiry told him Harpy's killer was in the hospital under police custody as a murder suspect. Porsche was in intensive care, in a coma. She wasn't going anywhere. Besides, he wanted her awake when he turned her lights out for good.
He had important matters that shouldn't be clouded with thoughts of vengeance. Lockheart may be unstable, but he was also pragmatic, which made for a dangerous combination.