I moved to the door. "What're you doing, coward?" Thera asked from the bed.
"I'm seeing that this time there is no interruption," I said, closing the door, locking it, and bracing a chair under the knob. I turned, ambled nonchalantly across the room, and stared at her voluptuous figure under the negligee for a long, blasé moment. Then I leaped at her.
It was an illusion, of course—but I could have sworn she bounced into the air to meet me.
Next morning I found my clothes scattered all across the room. And her pretty negligee had a hole in it as though some idiot had punctured it with a tent peg. I was never able to remember exactly how that had happened, and never got up the gumption to inquire.
Chapter 4
Ilunga
Ilunga rolled off the bed and hit the carpet silently. She could not see well in the dark, but her hearing was acute. Someone was coming up the stairs toward her apartment. Male, by the tread.
She was logy, suffering from Kill-13 letdown. She picked up her electric cup, popped in a pellet of the demon drug, and turned on the heat. She wanted to be high before she tackled the intruder, but it took thirty seconds for the pellet to vaporize.
The footsteps reached the landing and stopped. Ilunga cradled the cup in her hands. "Come on, come on!" she breathed to it. "Get hot!" Too bad she had to use it at this hour of the morning; her supply was dwindling, and there would be no replacements. She tried to stretch it out by sleeping more, but nothing worked very well.
The man outside walked up to the door, paused another moment, and knocked.
The drug was hot at last. Ilunga brought the cup to her face, opened the spout, and inhaled the vapor. Immediately the thrill of it radiated into her head from the nasal cavities, giving her joy and strength. Now she had power; now she could handle the man at the door. She capped the spout, conserving the remainder of the vapor for another sniff in a few hours.
He knocked again. The kind of man she feared did not usually knock at all; maybe this was legitimate. "Yes?" she said sharply, then stepped aside. On occasion, in this neighborhood, the sound of a voice brought a bullet through the door. Ilunga had many enemies, few friends, and now was stripped of her main power. She had to sell her precious furnishings regularly in order to get money to live on; her brief period of affluence was over.
"It's Danny."
It was his voice, though she could not be certain after two years. She had known he would come back; she hadn't known when or in what condition. "Anyone with you?"
"Not yet. Let me in, will you, Sis?"
She let him in. Danny was seventeen, but looked younger. He was about five-eight and thin to the point of malnutrition. His narrow face was scarred by acne, but his small wispy beard did not help. He wore his hair in a tall Afro, with a black comb stuck in it, a comb that saw frequent use. But his Afro never stayed just right; he had just enough white ancestry, from his mother's side (therefore not connected to Ilunga), to interfere. He wore a small gold earring in one ear, and he had not taken a bath in a week. His left hand had six fingers; they had not had the money to have the extra removed at birth the way other families did.
"Give me five, Sis," and as she put her hands out he slapped one and then the other in black fashion. "You got to help me, Sis—I'm in bad trouble."
"I'll help you, Danny. You know that." Danny was her half-brother, the only man she cared about. She had always protected him. But two years ago he had fallen in with a bad crowd. She had known he would have to learn things for himself, so she had left him alone, even though she despised the men he ran with. It was better for her, too, alone.
For Ilunga had had a rather special life of her own, that necessitated a solitary existence. She had mastered karate so that she could disable rapists—and she had effectively cured scores of them. A man with his testicles crushed by a good kick was unlikely ever to rape again.
Then she had fallen into addiction, trapped involuntarily by the most potent drug of all, Kill-13. She had become a "Demon"—a member of the Kill-13 cult among martial artists. Now the demons were finished, the supplies of the drug destroyed. The other addicts had died from the ravages of withdrawal; she survived because she had managed to salvage a substantial cache.
Kill-13 was absolute; once hooked on it, the addict had no way off, except death. And in time the drug would destroy her anyway. She knew it, but accepted it, as she accepted the problems of being black, or female, or poor, or alone.
Danny was different, however. He had a future.
"Sis, I want out—and they won't let me go." He walked jerkily to the couch and plumped down.
She knew how that was, too. She had had no way out of the Demon cult, except destruction. Worse than heroin, worse than cocaine, Kill-13 would not let go, and its supplier was absolute monarch over the addicts. Destruction was what had happened, but by a fluke it had been the cult that was demolished, not her. That man Jason Striker—he had been the key.
Striker. Male and white, typical of all she hated most. Yet he had power and integrity, and there was something in her that yearned to him, however much she tried to suppress it.
Danny took her silence for condemnation. "Sis, you were right all the time. They're no good. None of 'em. They're horses' asses. But they'll total me."
She focused on the present. "Who?"
"Blakrev. They put out a contract on any dropout—"
"What's this Blakrev? I never heard of it."
"It's new, Sis. Last six months, maybe a year. No big splash, yet. You're too old."
"What is it?"
"Black Revolution. We're going to take over, only it's too tough. Shit, I don't want to kill."
"Sounds like you've been moving in a fast crowd, Danny."
He looked at her, and his face began to crumple. "I'm not like you, Sis. I tried to be tough, so you'd be proud of me, but I get sick just thinking about it. If I tried to kill, I'd just fall to fuckin' pieces. I just want to be left alone."
He was going to cry, and she despised that in a man. But Danny was weak; she had always known that.
"Danny, that's just an initiation. They want to see if you're really with them, so they ask you if you'll kill. So you say yes, and you're in. They know you don't mean it."
He shook his head. "You don't know 'em, Sis. It's not like that. They mean it."
She didn't believe it, but it was evident he did, and she had learned not to act without checking out the situation. She went to the phone and dialed a number from her head.
"Bettye? Ilunga. Know Blakrev?" She listened for a time, then hung up.
"I've been way out of touch," she admitted. And she had been; the Demon cult had been her whole world. "That's a hard-nosed group. They do mean it." She paused to consider. "Yes, we'd better get you out of it. It's not that I'm against their aim, or afraid of killing. But I don't trust them. They're too new, too tough, too sudden—and they have too much money. There's got to be someone behind it, and chances are it's not a black man. Black men don't have money, not when they're revolutionaries. I'd support a real black revolution, but I'm not about to gamble on a fake one."
Danny only nodded. Obviously he didn't care whether it was real or fake; he had lost what little nerve he had, and just wanted out.
"Now I could go see someone in Blakrev," she said. "Bettye gave me the name of their local wheel. But that's iffy. I might have to kill him, and then they'd have to put a contract on me. Then I'd have to kill the one they sent and it would probably be some poor sucker like you, who couldn't get out. No percentage in that." She looked at him obliquely. "So I think we'd better surprise them. You surrender to the FBI."
"The pigs?" Danny shrieked.
"The one place Blakrev can't reach is in a honky jail cell. You don't have to tell them anything important. They'll let you go after a few days. After that, Blakrev won't touch you. They'll know you're marked and maybe staked out. They need anonymous killers; an FBI record is taboo."
"But the honkies—"
"I know it's bad. I hate 'em myself. Nothing I'd rather do than kill a honky cop. But sometimes we just got to use them, and this is the time."
"And that'll get me out of Blakrev—alive?"
"That's the way I figure it. Best chance, Danny."
He nodded. "You'll look out for me, Sis?"
"Always." She considered for a moment. "But you can't just go down there to the station." She had tried that once herself, and learned a bitter lesson about white policemen, and black girls. "They'll have to arrest you. So Blakrev knows you didn't sell out. I'll call."
"Will they hurt me, Sis?" Danny asked plaintively.
"No, not if you cooperate. Tell them everything you know, except for names. For all you know, all the Blakrev names you have are funny, anyway. Everyone talks; the thing is to have a good story. You can string them on a lot with things they already know. You can blame dead people. If they think you've got anything at all, they may try to recruit you as a regular informer."
"No!" Danny cried in terror.
She shrugged. "Then tell them the truth: you're scared stiff, and you'd rather rot in jail than inform and be dead." She dialed the number.
A male voice answered. "FBI. Your name, please."
Ilunga made her voice harsh, masculine—an easy task, for her. "Dondo. You got my address."
There was a pause. "Go on."
"Tip for you, if the pay's right. Blakrev contract man hiding out at his half-sister's. She don't know his business. He's armed." She waited a moment, until she had confirmation of their willingness to pay. Then she gave her own address and hung up.
"Sis!" Danny squealed. "What're you saying! I'm not armed or—"
She put a switchblade into his hand. "You just lie on that couch there brother, and spring it open when they come. Look mean, if you can, but don't fight." No danger of that! "I'll come in from the bedroom and put on a scene. They'll take you and book you, and when they realize you aren't what they thought they had, they'll boot you out."
"But the money! Who'd you tell 'em to pay?"
"Dondo—the man Bettye mentioned. Local wheel in Blakrev. When the pigs find out they've been taken, they'll leak his name, and Blakrev will figure him for the tipster and take care of him in its own fashion."
Danny was not wholly obtuse. "Sis, you're smart!"
"I've dabbled in this sort of mess before. Now get some sleep. We've only got about two minutes. The cops move fast on this sort of lead."
In less time than that, the knock came. "FBI. Open up!" Fast, indeed! Danny rolled off the couch, touching his thumb to the button. The blade snapped out gleaming. But it shook in his hand, and he tossed it aside and opened the door.
There were two of them, cut from the same mold: male, white, big, square-jawed, with crewcut hair and a lot of beef. Both wore conservative dark suits with loud ties over solid-color shirts. Both were in their late twenties or early thirties. One wore horn-rimmed glasses. They stepped into the room briskly, without further invitation.
Ilunga emerged from her room in a nightgown and outsized blue sunglasses to hide her orange eyeballs. She screamed when she saw the men.
"FBI," one said tersely, showing his badge. "We are apprehending your brother for interrogation. He's suspected of being a hit man for Blakrev."
Ilunga staggered and grabbed onto a chair for support, letting her nightgown fall-open to expose one dark breast. "Not my brother! He's a good boy! He wouldn't do anything like that! Officer, you've got to believe me! It's a mistake! He—"
"Shut up, sister," the horn-rimmed one said. He had alligator-skin shoes and his hair was longer than that of his companion; a long crewcut, modishly styled. His face was well tanned. He frisked Danny while the other put handcuffs on him. They led him out the door.
"No! You can't take him!" Ilunga cried, letting both breasts show artfully as she moved. The FBI was used to temptations like this, and always resisted them. "He hasn't done anything!" She broke down, sobbing, as the door closed.
But as the heavy footsteps descended the stairs, she ripped off the glasses. "Fuckin' honkies!" she muttered. "One swift kick in the balls..."
She peered out the corner of the window, under the curtain, where the pane had been broken out. She was looking for the third FBI man she knew would be there, on guard for a sneak exit. He was.
The other two emerged, jerking Danny along between them. She thought they would take him directly to their car, but they stopped on the sidewalk. The third one pinned something to Danny's shirt-a piece of paper. Strange. Then he stepped back. Suddenly a suspicion blossomed. Loud ties? Colored shirts? Alligator shoes? Modish hairstyle? The FBI did not tolerate any of that; deviance from its strict dress code was a more certain route to demotion than graft or incompetence. And no FBI man ever said "Shut up, sister." The FBI was as completely square as it was possible to be.
Suddenly Danny threw himself to one side. "Sis!" he screamed—but his cry was punctuated by the sound of a shot.
In a flash, Ilunga realized the truth. These were not FBI men. They were Blakrev killers! She had missed it because they were white. But they weren't white; one was deeply tanned. In fact, he was a light skinned black man masquerading as a honky. But such thugs would work for anyone with money; they had no politics. And Blakrev had money.
Even as the realization hit her, Ilunga was galvanized into action. She jumped through the window, breaking the remainder Of the glass out with her feet.
It was a ten-foot drop, but she was prepared for it, and her Kill-13 high made her super-strong. Her two feet struck the head and back of the two men holding Danny. She heard and felt the neck and spine of the first crack. He was finished. She bounced off, using the two bodies of the men to break her fall. Twisting in the air, she grasped the hair of the second. As her feet touched the pavement she turned his head violently to the side until his neck also cracked.
The third man still held the gun; the suddenness of her action had kept him from firing. Her reflexes were faster and surer. That was the thing about the drug: it really delivered! But now he aimed—and she was not in position to get to him in time. She had miscalculated; she should have gone for him first.
Her hands went to her head. She had two tiny throwing knives hidden in her piled-up hairdo. Her wrists flicked. The knives flashed together, flying toward their target with the precision of twin SAM II rockets shooting down an Israeli Phantom.
The gunman screamed. The two blades were embedded in his eyes, the handles sticking out like telescopic eyestalks. Now she turned to Danny. He was groaning on the sidewalk, a bullet in his shoulder. Only his sudden motion had kept it from his heart. But he was still badly injured; he could bleed to death if she didn't get him to a doctor.
She ripped the paper off his shirt. "I SOLD OUT BLAKREV," it said. They had intended to kill him almost in public view, and leave the body there as a warning to all the neighborhood. Blakrev was tough, all right. How had they intercepted her call? They must have had a tap on her line, which meant they were already aware of her relation to Danny, and primed for action. And they could have heard her conversation with Bettye, too; Bettye would now be a target as well.
She was up against real professionals. More than she could handle alone, especially with Danny wounded. As soon as they learned about the failure of this fake FBI strike, they'd be after Danny again—and now she was right in it with him.
If she got out of this, she'd have a score to settle! A yellow car came down the street, slowly. "Taxi!" she called, waving. She knew a black doctor who was hot for her; this time she'd have to meet his terms.
The taxi stopped. "I've got to get my brother to a doctor!" she gasped. "Help me get him up—"
The metal snout of an M-3 army submachine gun poked out of the black window of the car. It had a special extra-thick barrel—a silencer.
Blakrev!
Ilunga leaned over the third thug, grasped one of her knives from his eye, yanked it out, and in almost the same motion wafted it at the
face behind the gun. Then she dived for the car. Sharp as they were, the killers had made a couple of mistakes. They had stopped the car before trying to fire the gun, and they had pointed it at Ilunga from too near. Bullets from a moving car a hundred feet away could have cut her down without a chance, and no special accuracy was needed, with this machine gun. But as it was, she reached it in a single bound.
"Taoo!" she cried, startling the hood with the gun. He was a big black dude with shades—black sunglasses. Apparently her thrown tonki had missed him, but that didn't matter so long as it had distracted him enough to delay in firing that all-important moment. Now she hit upward rapidly with her right hand, deflecting the thick barrel of the M-3. She heard a series of small clicks or coughs as the bullets shot out to her right. It was silent, all right.
She grabbed the barrel and hauled on it hard. The man, already leaning toward the window, was jerked half out of it, his head projecting from the car. Expertly, with her other hand, she battered it a couple of times against the sill, breaking open the skin, and finished pulling the weapon from his slackened grasp. There was another man in the car, the driver or chauffeur. Unable to go to the aid of his companion because of the cramped interior, he made the obvious move—and it was another mistake. He opened the front door and scrambled out. He jumped onto the hood, drew forth a wicked ice pick and hurled himself from this vantage on Ilunga.
But he had wasted time, setting up, and now she was ready for him. She dropped to the ground and kicked upward with her right leg in a motion similar to a tome-nage. Her foot caught him squarely in the groin with double force, crushing his testicles. That was her specialty; she hardly ever missed.
He was propelled through the air by the force of her thrust. Stupid but tough, he clutched at his mangled balls with one hand and the ice pick with the other. Amazingly, he found his feet, crouching; few men were able to offer any fight at all after that kick.
Ilunga was also in a crouch, recovering from her exertion. Like a Russian cossack dancer, she shot one leg out from that position, connecting to the side of his jaw and breaking it. Before he could fall, she caught him with a second kick to the other side of the jaw, fracturing it again. For good measure she jumped and fell with both feet on the arm holding the ice pick, one foot on the wrist, the other on the forearm. The limb broke in two places. That dude was finished. But the other one was tough, too.