Lance & Ingrid
By: Kat Keith
I
Lance removed the stiff, studded leather collar from the satchel resting at his feet. The silver D-ring gleamed against the bare light bulb hanging overhead and the diamonds shone brilliantly. The petite, 20- something Ingrid instinctively lowered her head and cast her eyes downward.
"You are to wear this until further notice," Lance said, holding the collar to her lips for her to kiss. She did so gracefully and gratefully. He firmly fastened it around her slender neck, securing it with a tiny padlock. He returned the key to his key chain and lightly kissed her bristly-short platinum hair. She smiled appreciatively.
"It's beautiful, thank you."
"I'm glad you like it. We'll see if you still enjoy it by the time I get back, after it has been rubbing against your neck for hours on end." Her smile dropped minutely, barely perceptible. He noticed, but said nothing and continued on.
"I have some business to take care in Newcastle. As in none of your fucking business." She nodded. She never inquired about his "extra- curricular activities".
"I'll be gone a day or two, no more than three, tops. Here's 50 quid for food and some cleaning supplies. I want this house spotless by the time I get back. If you do well, I will reward you. If you fail to do this correctly, you'll know it. Do you understand?" He stared at her intently with cool, slate eyes, studying her face.
"Yes, Lance. I understand," she said humbly. Her silver-studded lower lip trembled slightly, though not out of fear. A queer feeling that made her quiver also made a rosy flush creep across her breasts and up to her face in a surge of circulation.
"Before I go, I'll have my lunch. I have a few things to pack, and that should take me about 20 minutes. It should be hot, filling, and on the table waiting for me by the time I'm done." He looked at his watch. "Go."
Ingrid hurried to the kitchen and put on her vinyl apron, tying the strings around her tightly corseted waist. She set about preparing a perfectly balanced meal of chicken, mash and vegetables. He had made it clear from the start of their relationship that she was always to cook for him and instant meals (no matter how gourmet they claimed to be) were unacceptable.
As she removed the frozen vegetables from the freezer, she stopped short. It was a medley of peas, carrots and corn.
"Damn, that was close," Ingrid breathed to herself. She started to return them to the icebox. Better safe than sorry she thought and threw the unopened bag into the trash. She opted for a can of creamed corn instead.
The last time she made the mistake of making his meal multi-coloured, Lance turned away and made her scrape the offending food, fruit salad, onto the dirty floor under the table where she was to eat it all without utensils, like a dog. This unexplained aversion to colourful objects rarely leaked over into other aspects of his life. He could happily sit and watch Saturday morning cartoons, but never over a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. Candy such as M&Ms and Skittles were by far the worst. It was bizarre but Ingrid took this in stride as just another one of his little quirks.
While the herbed chicken sizzled away in its pan, Ingrid put on a pot of strong Columbian coffee and prepared his mug to receive it ("Three sugars, no fucking milk.") She would have to buy another can tomorrow. Again. It seemed as though they went through at least two large ones a week. Lance's current coffee intake at 15 cups per day was his reasonable answer to her subtle request for him to cut down. Prior to her suggestion that so much coffee wasn't doing his constant acid reflux any favours, his caffeine addiction required nearly double that amount. Many recovering alcoholics develop a strong dependency on caffeine, but this was ridiculous.
She readied his plate and set the table neatly for one just as Lance returned from the car. As she always did while in service to him, Ingrid knelt by his chair, eyes downcast, waiting for morsels he may or may not choose to give her. He finished his meal in silence, occasionally feeding her bits of chicken with his fingers, which she hungrily licked clean.
Lanced belched gratuitously and finished his coffee in one easy swig. He pulled the clean ashtray closer and fished out a battered pack of smokes with one remaining cigarette. Before he could light up, a beep from his mobile phone alerted him of a new text message. He pulled out a phone roughly the size of a Tic-Tac box and retrieved the message. It said simply:
It's on. Come now.
He stood and motioned for Ingrid to stand as well. Lance yanked her roughly to him and kissed her lips deeply, drinking in her mouth. He fucked her with his eyes. She stroked his back, nearly shaven head and his strong, tattoo-sleeved arms lovingly. He broke from her abruptly and without another word, he grabbed his briefcase, turned and left the house.
Lance unlocked the trunk of his black Mini Cooper and swung it open. He pulled out the Kevlar vest, replacing it with his leather briefcase. He expertly donned the bullet-proof jacket over his form-hugging beater. As he secured the last strap, his skin raised in gooseflesh against the brazen cold of a London autumn. He covered himself with a long sleeved black shirt, grey hoodie and black leather vest.
Glancing in the trunk, Lance took a mental inventory of its contents. This most notably included two baseball bats, a tennis ball (to avoid prosecution for having the bats as weapons. "Know your enemy," as he would say) and a square, black plastic case which contained his trusty Desert Eagle.
The trunk also contained a half full carton of Marlboro reds. He fished out two packs and slammed the hatch closed, stuffing one pack into the pocket of his Levis. He opened the other pack, letting the foil and cellophane fall to the ground. Lance pulled out a cigarette and let out a forceful puff of air onto its filter, dislodging any loose tobacco. There was none, but he did it anyway out of habit. A remnant from his Marine life "in The Shit" where quality cigarettes were a rarity. He removed his Zippo from its case on his belt and used a snapping motion to open the lid and light the flame in one smooth motion. Lance drew deeply, exhaling through his nose.
Right. It was time to go. He got into his car and backed down the short drive onto the road. The tires screeched in protest as he threw the car into first gear without stopping and punched the accelerator. He stubbed out his smoke two-thirds of the way down and immediately lit another.
"Alright you Geordie motherfuckers, here I come."
II
Ingrid had moved to London from Boston two years previously to live with Lance on a British passport that he had procured for her. This, along with a National Insurance card and a birth certificate (all bearing the name Alexandra Marie Linley) allowed her to live and work freely within the British system.
She had met Lance while on holiday. She was 20 at the time and although he was nearly 18 years her senior, she was instantly taken with him. It was an instant carnal magnetism that surprised her with an intensity she'd never felt before.
What some don't realize is that for many people there is an almost tangible level of sexuality to being tattooed. The proximity between people itself is very intimate. A tattoo artist is in constant contact with the body, their faces only inches from the flesh. This, coupled with the intimacy of allowing someone to change a piece of you forever can stir bonds between two people who would otherwise remain relative strangers.
This is how Ingrid met Lance.
Dodgy dealings aside, Lance was a tattoo artist by trade. He ran a small studio near the Camden Lock Market in northwest London as well as taking freelance work on the side. Ingrid met him a week into her holiday. It was her birthday and she wanted to commemorate the occasion by adding another tattoo to her growing collection; her "life story" she called it.
She had already decided on the Guinness harp by the time she got there. What better symbol to remember her trip to the UK by? Ingrid had him place the carbon stencil low on her hip, just above and to the right of where her pubic hair would be, were it not neatly waxed into a Brazilian. This required her to strip to her skivvies and pull the front down half way.
The pain was exquisite, but Lance's strong and nimble hands worked quickly and reassuringly. Despite this, she watched him work and noticed herself growing warm and flush with what she could only characterise as "whoa, mama". Ingrid suppressed these feelings with a great deal of self- control and maintained her façade through forced, but enjoyable, conversation. All the while she prayed that he wouldn't notice the growing, musky warmth in the leopard print boy-briefs less that a foot from his face.
The whole tattoo took less than an hour to complete. Ingrid was more than relieved. She had self-restraint, but it only went so far. Lance did not leave the room as she pulled on her torn fishnets and plaid micro-mini. Instead, he watched her intently, unwavering to the curious glances she threw him over her shoulder. He watched her dress completely and as she was lacing up her boots, he finally spoke.
"Meet me for coffee tonight." His was a statement, not an invitation. "Eight o'clock at Cafe Rimini in Leicester Square. Be on time."
Ingrid smiled and nodded once. He had noticed... and he had liked it! She fumbled for the £70 she owed him and finally managed to hand it to him with shaking hands.
"Eight o'clock," she said, nodding again. She turned and left, nearly forgetting to open the glass door before walking through it.
Four months later he tattooed her again in the comfort of their own east London flat. This time, he marked the nape of her neck with the kanji symbol for "slave". His own inner forearm was already tattooed on with the symbol for "master".
That night, they had fucked in way most people don't even know exist. The next day she couldn't sit down properly, but she revelled in the welts he left on her small ass, the first lingering evidence of their passionate affair.
III
Lance pulled into the car lot of the rendezvous. This time it was an abandoned slaughterhouse on the northern outskirts of the Newcastle industrial district. In the shadow of twilight he could distinguish the outline of three other cars. He wasn't the last to arrive.
He got out of his car and stretched his legs. The long drive was relatively traffic-free but he rarely stopped to take breaks once he was on the road. He adjusted his Kevlar vest and popped the trunk to retrieve his gun and shoulder harness. Once he was satisfied the clip in his Desert Eagle was full, he snapped it into place and secured it in it's holster. He donned his favourite black leather jacket and went inside.
IV
The large concrete room was lit by a single bare bulb and the scent of long dead carcasses still hung in the thick air. Five chairs arranged in a semi-circle with one standing opposite them were clearly visible in the harsh cone of light directly beneath the high- watt bulb. Three of these chairs were occupied. Lance recognized these people as Eddie Vincent (a long time friend and accomplice), Ardal Killian (an errand-boy for the I.R.A. among other things) and one first class piece of shit known only as Ash. Ash, he remembered, had a nasty little habit of "accidentally" starting fires... Like the one that almost got them busted on the last job. The only other heads that seemed to be missing was their wheel-man, Nos.And El Jefe of course.
"The keg's tapped and the stripper is on her way, boys. Let's get this fuckin' party started!" Lance said from behind the trio. All three stood and heel turned, guns drawn at the sudden voice.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Lance! You scared the shit outta me," Ardal said, reholstering his gun.
"You guys are losing your touch in your old age. I could have shot all three of you motherfuckers twice over before you knew what hit you. I thought we were all fuckin' professionals here." They all let out a relieved chuckle, except Ash, who's face looked remarkably like a cat's ass.
"We're still waiting on El Jefe and Nos. How the fuck are you, you crazy bastard? Long time no see," Eddie said. He scratched a match with his thumbnail, lit the Lucky Strike hanging from the corner of his mouth and sat down.
"Not bad, not bad," Lance replied. "When's El Jefe due? And where the fuck is Nos? I'm itchy to get this job sorted out. We only have," Lance consulted his Rolex. "18 hours 'til launch."
"Relax, mate," Ash said, his voice dripping with smarm. "It's not like we're nervous, petty fuckin' thieves. We're all professionals here." Ardal and Eddie sniggered.
"Look, mate. I don't know about you, but I really don't feel like getting nicked. I like my asshole intact and unintruded, thank you very much. I don't particularly care for tossing the salad and I don't particularly care for silly twats like you who don't give a shit and botch the fuckin' job at a crucial moment. So. I ask again. When is-"
Eddie stood up quickly with a broad smile on his face, glad to be relieved of the mounting tension between Lance and Ash.
"Se?or Jefe! You're just in time! I think we're about to have one a helluva
bitch fight on our hands," he said. Lance and Ash held each other's eye, but said no more. Both men's hands relaxed a little on the grips of their guns. Neither realized they had been there in the first place.
"Cool your heels, ladies, we got work to do," El Jefe said. He took his seat in front of the semi-circle of chairs and placed his Italian leather briefcase on his lap. He removed from it a collapsible music stand that he set up quickly. He clipped diagrams and blueprints to the frame.
El Jefe looked like the 1990s had completely passed him by. His blue velvet track suit strained against his ample belly and a thick mass of dark chest hair was prominently displayed below the collar. He wore what Lance referred to as "Coke Dealer Glasses" night and day and his Rolex watch was of a ridiculous calibre. His raven hair was slicked and pomped until it seemed the grease would roll down his neck. You would almost laugh if he weren't for the fact he would put a bullet in your temple.
"Okay ladies, let's review. I hope you all did your homework because the final is tomorrow."
V
While Lance was away, Ingrid busied herself cleaning the house. To the untrained eye, it was immaculate; to Ingrid there were countless things to be done. The dusting hadn't been tended to in three days. The back garden hadn't been mowed in nearly a week. Two weeks had passed since she cleaned behind the refrigerator!
After his departure, Ingrid had removed the corset in favour of a black tank top, no bra (what a fucking relief.) The collar remained, chafing and digging into the tender flesh beneath her jowls every time she looked down. That didn't change the fact that she admired every mirror she passed as she went about her housework.
Having plenty of food in the fridge, she had used most of the £50 to buy a new vacuum. The old one still worked, but it just.sucked. As she vacuumed the living room she noticed the difference straight away. The carpet was a deep green pile that seemed to brighten a few shades as she went.
After the living room, she moved into the bedroom. Even the old Hoover did a fair job on the nearly wall-to-wall rug that lay over the bare floorboards. It was a lovely sample of Landlord Brown, but as the flat came furnished, it remained until something better came along. The fringe was tangled, but at least it protected the feet from slivers.
She started the vacuum and went to work on the room. As she worked the hard plastic hose into the corner, the fringe of the rug became firmly inhaled into the tube. As it peeled back from the floor, she noticed an irregularity in the wood. There were quarter inch gaps where it should be firmly jointed together.
Ingrid clicked the vacuum off and peeled the rug back further, intrigued. The gaps she had noticed weren't as random as they had first appeared. She realized they made a distinct outline of a neat rectangle, four planks wide and roughly two feet long.
"What the hell," she said into the empty room. She examined the floor more carefully. As she pressed in the far corner of the rectangle, the near corner rose a few inches. She pressed harder, removing the panel completely and peered into the gloom under the floorboards, afraid of what she might find. She held her breath and when she saw it was only a strong box, the breath came whooshing out of her lungs.
Okay, she said to herself. No bones, no secret passages, no dark ritual remnants. Just a box. I can deal with a box. She steeled herself against the worst and reached in to retrieve it.
Okay, she repeated. Not very heavy, so it's not another gun. Lance probably took that with him anyways. If this is even Lance's box. Well, there's one way to find out.
She looked at the front of the box at eye level. It had a combination lock. That was a good start. Lance used the same combination on all his cases. He never told her what it was, but she had seen him open his various cases enough times to pick up on it. Mark of the Beast, dude, she thought absently. She spun the three digits around so that it read 666 and popped the latch.
As she kneeled there, sifting through the passports, weapons permits and property deeds, she stopped dead.
VI
"That's it. Are there any questions?" El Jefe looked as though he had just finished a marathon, with greasy sweat rolling down his ruddy face.
"I want to be abso-fucking-lutely sure that everything is crystal clear to you lot. No fuck-ups, got it? Ash, you check your fucking lighter at the door, mate. We don't need another repeat of our last little incident. You nearly got us killed, you asshole."
Ash started to get up from his seat, mouth open in imminent protest.
"Save it. You're damn lucky to even be here at all, you ungrateful sod. You're lucky I haven't killed you already." Ash shut his mouth with a snap and nodded
"Alright boss, no heat. I got it." He looked as though someone had just run over his kitten with a bus, but he sat back down. Lance's face was stone, but his eyes flickered with amused laughter.
"Now that we're all square, we're done here. Get your beauty sleep ladies. We go to work at 1300 hours and we rendezvous back here by 1400 hours at the very latest. If you're not here by 1400 hours, I claim your share. Is that clear? If you have the goods and aren't here by 1400 hours, I will hunt your ass down and kill you. Is that clear?" They all nodded. El Jefe glared at Ash and Ash glared at the floor.
"Now fuck off!"
As Lance walked towards his car, the sun crested the eastern horizon. He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of countless factories. Even the industrial district of Newcastle smelled cleaner than the smog-choked air of London on it's best day.
He got into his car, lighting his last cigarette. He pointed the car in the direction of the Holiday Inn just outside of Newcastle and took off, thinking of the warm, (but thankfully) empty bed that awaited him.
VII
"A marriage certificate? Surely this isn't right," Ingrid thought. Bella Louise Rossi was neither her real name nor her moniker. And the date. this certificate was only eight months old. She'd been with Lance for over a year and they certainly weren't married. She moved on to the next document.
"What the fuck.?"
VIII
Lance signed into the hotel under the name Alex Burgess and paid cash as always. It was already six in the morning and there was precious little sleep to be had until check-out time at noon.
In his room, he undressed completely and threw the nylon bedcover on the floor. The sheets they definitely washed, but the bedcover? God only knew how many nights of sweat, fart and crotch was embedded into them.
He sprawled full-length on the hospital cornered sheets, facing the ceiling. As he lay alone he began to think about Bella's tortured face the day she died. He closed his eyes and his hand crept downward. It found what it was looking for. As he began to pump, his mind went to
IX
"March 17th," Ingrid said in an unsteady voice.
She held Bella Louise Rossi's death certificate with shaking fingers as if the paper itself was venomous. Her eyes scanned the page and came to rest on one line: Cause of death: Acute loss of blood due to dismemberment.
The page slid from her numb and trembling hands. She felt, no, knew that this was no coincidence. She wondered if Bella Rossi was even her real name.
"What the fuck," she repeated into the still air of their bedroom. She looked again at the marriage certificate. It was dated only three days before the death certificate. She remembered that day clearly because it was Saint Patrick's Day. She had been looking forward to a night out drinking Guinness with Lance, but he had had "some shit to take care of" in Italy. He had been gone nearly a week and when he returned he had presented her with a stunning platinum and ruby collar and no further explanation.
Ingrid hauled herself to her feet and sprinted for the bathroom. She fell to her knees and heaved uncontrollably into the pristine porcelain bowl. As the toilet water splashed back into her face she sobbed and retched again. Dark rivers of mascara ran down her colourless cheeks.
X
It had been so perfect. Everything had been so carefully planned. Tracing the body back to him would be an impossibility so he had been able to take his time with Bella. After the police report had been made on the blood found in the room it conveniently disappeared. along with the boxes in the evidence locker. It always had paid to know people.
As Lance's hand pistoned away below his waist, he replayed that day in minutia.
XI
She had looked so beautiful bound to that bed in the villa, gagged with her own panties and a length of duct tape. At first she had only feigned distress as was her want when they played a scene. Her jade eyes would squeeze shut and she would emit a muffled squeal against her gag when he would slap or spank her hard, shaking her Bettie Page hair all the while. When she opened them however, her eyes always held a glint of passion.
This had changed when he removed the military issue KA-Bar from his boot. This glint had turned to a look of dawning realization as he drew the knife closer to her throat. Dawning realization had given way to sheer terror as he pressed the tip of the deliberately dull blade into her neck hard enough to draw blood. She had felt his hardness against her naked hip and loosed an unheard scream. He had smiled and forced her knees apart with his leg.
XII
His fist pumped faster.
XIII
She had grunted Shave and a Haircut, their non-verbal safeword for the times when she was gagged. He had merely laughed and mounted her, pressing the blade in deeper. But not too deep. Not just yet. The blood had trickled from around the edge of the knife.
XIV
When she could vomit no more, Ingrid continued to dry-heave for another ten minutes. When that stopped, she was finally able to brush her teeth and give her face a good, cold wash. Her thoughts were racing.
I have to get out of here Jesus Christ he's going to kill me I have to get the fuck out of here where am I gonna go ohmygod what the fuck is going on who is he why is this shit happening to me I've gotta get out of here before he finds out that I saw that shit ohmygod how many times has this happened I haven't even been through all the papers.
She went to the kitchen and poured herself a tall bourbon. She swallowed it all in one go and gasped with the afterburn. She poured herself another large measure of "Dutch courage" and returned to the bedroom to go over the rest of the papers. She had always had a sort of morbid curiosity that got her into trouble more than a few times over the course of her life. She only prayed that Lance didn't come home early.
XV
As he had approached the home stretch, he had buried the blade into her throat, nearly to the hilt. Her eyes had widened and a squelching sound escaped from her neck. He had been amazed that she was still conscious. Bella was one tough bitch.
Right before he climaxed he had twisted the blade clockwise, tearing a considerable sized ragged hole in her throat. There had been a final, wet death rattle before her whole body tensed. Her muscles had clenched tightly around him, spasming erratically. Lance's eyes rolled into his skull as he spent into her lifeless but twitching body. He had licked the blood spatter from his lips and it had tasted gorgeous.
XVI
Lance was spent. He cleaned himself off quickly in the hotel shower before crawling under the sheets and drifting swiftly off to sleep. It was 6:30 AM and he had work to do in less than seven hours. He had to be on form if this job was to go off without a hitch.
XVII
Ingrid pored over the documents for another three hours, incredulous. There were more deeds in various countries, weapons permits for nearly every passport and even a few grams of coke, but no more information relating to Bella.
He had always kept her in the dark about his "business" because there was always that chance that they would get married. Under British law, a wife can testify against her husband, unlike the States.
"It's better to be safe than locked away for life," he was fond of saying. Now she knew why. Too bad Bella hadn't.
She had always just assumed that Lance's business involved loan sharking, class A drugs or maybe even "collections". Based on these documents, it obviously went way beyond that. She realized that she didn't even know his name or his birthday. She felt nauseas again even thinking about it.
Ingrid returned all the documents to the box, arranging them in what she hoped to God was the right order. Lance had an eye for detail when it came to his personal effects. Everything had an order and if one page was out of place, that would be the end of her. She knew it.
What she didn't know was that he also set his combination locks to 715 (the 5 being half way to 6) when not in use. It was a simple but effective way of telling if anything had been tampered with. Subtlety and nonchalance were key.
XVIII
13:04 PM.
Lance didn't have time to think, only to react. He swung his arm in an upward arc, bringing his gun to shoulder height. He gave a quick glance down the sight of the barrel and fired off three quick shots. The cop's head exploded in three different places from scalp to chin, leaving little more than a bloody stump atop his shoulders. Lance ducked just as another bullet flew over his head. If he'd had any, it would have ruffled his hair. He spun quickly and fired without sighting. His aim was true. The bullet hit home in the hollow of the rent-a-cop's throat - what Lance called the sweet spot- exploding his larynx with a hollow-point bullet. The sirens of police cruisers droned on in the distance like a pack of yowling tomcats.
"What the fuck is this shit?" Cops (aside from the transport and security guards) had not been in the plan.
Lance grabbed the black satchel that rested at his feet and made a beeline for the backdoor. He skirted dead cops, dead civilians and the myriad of bodily fluids lost by these people. He managed to stay upright amid the slicks of blood and loose cut diamonds that littered the floor. He also noted the bodies of Eddie and Ash. The latter, he saw, was still clutching a can of spray paint in one hand, with a Zippo in the other.
"I'm glad you got tagged, you fucking asshole," Lance muttered under his breath. He gave Ash's lifeless body a good hard kick to the head to emphasize this. He sprinted towards the back door. The sirens were nearer now. Much nearer.
Two minutes exposure time my ass, Lance thought. That was more like three or four. Shit! And where the hell did all those cops come from? Nobody touched the cases- His thoughts were cut short as he rounded the corner of the building, directly into the sight of a gun levelled at his head.
"Drop your fucking gun and give us the bag." Ardal said. This came out sounding more like "Drahp yer fahkin gun and givuzure bag." with his broad Ulster accent.
Lance dropped his Desert Eagle to the cobblestone street, keeping his eyes trained on Ardal, who was smiling.
"You set us up, you unbelievable piece of shit. It was you, wasn't it," Lance said, knowing that it was.
"Ah, but yer a clever one, Lance. Always have been. But if you think I'm going to split the contents of this bag with anyone, you're sorely fuckin' mistaken. Give it to me now and I'll just hobble you instead of blowing your fuckin' teeth out the back of your head."
Lance appeared to consider this for a moment. In reality he was considering nothing more than what a complete fool Ardal was. The sirens in the background grew swiftly and steadily closer.
He tossed the bag from his left hand to Ardal's feet. The same instant he snapped his arm forward, releasing his sidearm from the spring- clip concealed in his sleeve. The small gun flew easily into the palm of his hand and he fired immediately. There was a loud report as Ardal's face exploded in a shower of brain, blood and bone fragment.
"Now why'd you make me go and do that for," Lance said to the corpse as he recovered his gun from the ground. "I kinda liked you and you had to go and fuck me over."
He picked up the blood-spattered bag and started to run towards the location at which Nos, their wheels-man, would be waiting to take them to the rendezvous. He suddenly thought better of it (you could never be too careful) and turned left down a narrow alley instead. When he came to the end of it he made an immediate right and smashed out the driver side window of the first car he came upon. Happily, this turned out to be a VW Golf GTi. They aren't much to look at, but do they have balls Lance had once said.
"Sweet," he said to himself. "At least the god of auto-theft is on my side today."
Lance quickly let himself in, unmindful of the broken safety glass. He yanked down the wires he needed from under the steering column and stripped them with the pocket knife he had already produced from his pocket. He touched the bare connections together, making a small shower of blue sparks.
"Come on you bitch..Start! NOW! START DAMN YOU!"
The engine roared to life and Lance let out the clutch, propelling him forward in first gear. He glanced into his rear view mirror long enough to see three squad cars flying down the main crossroad a block behind him.
He headed towards the north-bound highway, keeping one eye on his rear view mirror for tails, cops and anybody else who shouldn't be there. No one followed him. He merged onto the highway and drove back towards the abandoned slaughterhouse.
It was 1:10 PM exactly as Lance disappeared into the relative anonymity of lunch-hour traffic.
XIV
When Lance pulled into the parking lot of the rendezvous, he was alarmed to see two cars already parked there. El Jefe's gold Caddy sparkled in the afternoon sun and parked directly behind it stood the souped up electrician's van that served as their getaway car.
This wasn't right. El Jefe wasn't due until 2:00 PM exactly and it was only 1:25. He didn't see any other cars in the vast lot, but his experience told him that didn't really prove anything.
Why was Nos even here? Lance could understand if he had come a couple of minutes behind him, but to get here ahead of him? Nos had had orders to be disappeared from the designated meeting point by 1:10 no matter what, but Lance had driven like a bat out of Hell from the diamond exchange. There was no way Nos could have passed him without his knowing.
Before getting out of "his" car, Lance checked the clip in his gun. He saw that it was only half full and replaced it with a fresh one from his pocket. He pumped a fresh one in the chamber and approached the slaughterhouse with wary eyes and a calm demeanour.
XV
Lance stood with his ear to the outside employee's door for a full two minutes, listening for voices, friendly or otherwise. He was rewarded with nothing but silence. A disconcerting silence. He knew that El Jefe and Nos were friendly; they'd known each other for years and had built an almost brotherly rappaport between them. There should have been conversation within. Laughing, talking, anything but silence.
Lance stepped back from the door cautiously. A furrow came to his forehead as his eyebrows knitted together above his cool, calculating eyes. This wasn't right. This job had gone FUBAR. Lance started to reach for the door knob, thought better of it and withdrew his hand slowly. Best to go through the side door.
He made his way around the side of the building, wading through thigh high weeds and briars. He came to the massive cattle doors that stood on the eastern side. These would take him not into the main room, but directly into the slaughter pen where long-dead cows had started their journey towards becoming some snot-nosed kid's Happy Meal.
He swung the door inwards quickly, raising a groan from the ancient hinges. He winced at the sound and brought his gun in front of him, scanning the dark room for unexpected company. The room was empty. Lance let out his breath with a soft whoosh.
He made his way through the dank room as lithe and stealth as a wolf. A sliver of light shone under the door that would take him to the room which served as their meeting area. Lance paused and listened again, head cocked to one side. The silence that came was deafening.
He prepared himself to break the door open, gun drawn and at the ready. With one swift kick just left of the knob, the door splintered open. Light poured from the bare 75 watt bulb into the shadows of the slaughter pen.
Suddenly, a flurry of motion came from the far right corner of the meeting room. Lance squeezed off two quick shots without aiming and the form burst into a small shower of blood and hair. The short, dismal squeal identified the intruder as a freakishly large rat. He quickly realized however, that a rat, even a freakishly large one, was incapable of producing the sheer volume of blood that he saw congealing on the floor.
XX
Over the course of her day, Ingrid kept getting drawn back to the strong-box. Her mind was plagued with a thousand questions to which she still had no answers. Maybe she had missed something, some important document that held the key to this whole situation. It crossed her mind more than once that there was a very distinct possibility that this wasn't even the only box.
So, she returned to the box two, three, five more times, convinced that the answers lay within. She sifted through the papers, always careful to keep them in perfect order. She discovered no new information, but raised even more questions. What she though of as her rational mind took over.
Maybe you're making too much of this, it said. You don't know what really happened. You don't even have any proof that he had anything to do with Bella's death at all. Sure, it's a bit weird that he has this chick's death certificate, but people keep death certificates all the time for things like life insurance, household records. For all you know, she lost her head in a car crash that had nothing to do with him.
"But what about the marriage certificate," she said quietly. "He was married to this chick. while we were together! The bastard." She waited for her rational mind to pipe up.
Right, she thought. I gotta get out of here before he gets back. At this her rational mind spoke again, whispering in conspiratory tones.
He'll find you. He knows everything about you and it turns out you know nothing about him. He'll find you. He'll find you and-
"SHUT UP!" she screamed into the empty room, startling herself. She stood motionless for a moment, deciding on what to do next. She gathered all the courage she could muster and broke from her stance, nearly falling over her own feet as she sprinted for the closet. She ripped her hiking pack from the top shelf and began to hastily pack her few personal belongings.
The time was 2:05 PM and 200-odd miles away, Lance was pulling onto the southbound highway, making his way towards London.
XXI
Lance stepped forward into the room, keeping his gun raised. As he walked, his eyes searched out any other forms hiding in the dark corners. There was no other movement, no more sounds. He made his way to the corner where the dead rat (what Lance thought of as an R.O.U.S.- rodent of unusual size) twitched spasmodically then lay still.
There was not a body in the corner as he had first suspected. There were two. El Jefe and Nos lay less than five feet apart, both sprawled out in pools of their own blood, both with guns drawn. Lance immediately recognised it for what it was.
"A fuckin' Mexican stand-off," he said, reholstering his gun. A queer mix of amusement and contemplation crossed his face.
El Jefe had taken the full force of Nos' bullet directly above his left eye. Nos was now sporting a large, ragged hole in place of his chest. It seemed Lance wasn't the only one who was partial to hollow-point bullets.
He stood for a moment in careful consideration. If this had been a Mexican stand-off, there was only one conceivable reason why. Nos had been in this with Ardal. Those two bastards were planning to make off with the goods from day one. A cool 15 million each would be enough for people like them to turn on their so-called friend, these people they'd know most of their lives.
Realization struck him like tangibly. Now that El Jefe was dead, there was no one to report back to. Now that Ardal, Eddie, Ash and Nos were all dead, there was no one to split the loot with. Lance was the last man standing. Endgame, baby.
All he had to do was take the ice to the client that was waiting in London and the whole stash would be his, free and clear. There was no one left alive, so there was no one left to talk. Beautiful. A smile played across Lance's lips. The smile broke into a chuckle and the chuckle turned into a full gale of laughter.
Lance was still sniggering as he drove back to the garage. His nondescript Mini Cooper stood ready for him, waiting to take him home. His digital dash clock read 13:55.
XXII
Ingrid had almost finished packing when her emotions caught up with her. She plopped on the floor with an almost comical lack of grace. Her eyes were shrink-wrapped in tears and her breath came in short, wet hitches. She hung her head between her legs and cried.
When she finally pulled herself together, she was astonished to find that she'd been wallowing for over an hour. She realized with a dawning horror that she had no plan whatsoever. She had no tickets, no friends (Lance had been her whole life) and she hadn't spoken to her family for over a year. For all she knew, they thought she was dead. She didn't even have enough money for bus or cab fare.
This was something that hadn't exactly crossed her mind before. She had been so caught up in her endless questions that money hadn't even entered the equation.
"Crap," she said softly. She wiped away the tears streaking her face and drew in a deep breath. With no money and no place to go, there was only one option left: wait it out. The thought made her shudder violently and she hugged her knees back to her chest.
I'll wait until Lance gets back. If he's away on "business" he's bound to return with a fair amount of money. A couple thou at least. He won't know I've seen the box, so there should be no trouble there. I'll just play dumb, just like usual. Make off while he's in the shower or something. Anything. Now that I know where he stashes his shit I can run. I can run with the money and take the box with me. Give it to the police. Yah, I'll give it to the cops and get the hell out of here. Flawless. I can do this. Just gotta stay cool and make like everything's kosher. I will make it out of this twisted fucking situation I got myself into. Gotta be ready. Could be home any time.wouldn't count on him to call first.
Ingrid pulled herself unsteadily to her feet and began to pack her bag. The BBC was announcing from the kitchen that it was 3:45 PM and here is the news.
Lance listened intently to the BBC news update as he pulled onto the eastbound M25, also known as the London Orbital.
XXIII
Ingrid unpacked her bag, returning her personal effects to their places. As she was doing this, she set aside the things that were most valuable to her: her journal, her vintage Social Distortion shirt, her Discman and her SLR camera. Along with these, she placed a few pairs of underwear, socks, her green hoodie and a pair of jeans into a reusable plastic grocery bag. She hid this bag discreetly at the back of the closet, ready to take with her when she ran.
With this taken care of, she decided to take a well-deserved shower. A nice hot shower always helped her put things into perspective.as if that would help in this particular situation. She went to the kitchen to turn on the immersion water heater.
"And this just in," the radio announced. "A robbery that occurred earlier today at a prominent diamond exchange in Newcastle is currently being investigated by local police as well as MI5. It seems a group of highly organized criminals have stolen over 30 million pounds worth of diamonds. Three of the suspected robbers were found dead the scene of the crime, along with six other security guards, police and civilians. Officials suspect that at least one more individual is still at large. They are releasing no more information at this time, but we here at the BBC will keep you updated as we receive new information. In world news today-"
Ingrid turned the volume dial to the OFF position and shivered. Now that she knew about Lance's dealings, she couldn't help but to wonder whether Lance was now dead or alive.
"I hope you're one of those poor, dead bastards," she said. She flipped the switch for the immersion heater and tugged at the stiff collar around her neck. Probably best to leave it in place for the time being. Taking it off would only raise questions from Lance when he got back. She headed for the bathroom, undressing as she went.
By: Kat Keith
I
Lance removed the stiff, studded leather collar from the satchel resting at his feet. The silver D-ring gleamed against the bare light bulb hanging overhead and the diamonds shone brilliantly. The petite, 20- something Ingrid instinctively lowered her head and cast her eyes downward.
"You are to wear this until further notice," Lance said, holding the collar to her lips for her to kiss. She did so gracefully and gratefully. He firmly fastened it around her slender neck, securing it with a tiny padlock. He returned the key to his key chain and lightly kissed her bristly-short platinum hair. She smiled appreciatively.
"It's beautiful, thank you."
"I'm glad you like it. We'll see if you still enjoy it by the time I get back, after it has been rubbing against your neck for hours on end." Her smile dropped minutely, barely perceptible. He noticed, but said nothing and continued on.
"I have some business to take care in Newcastle. As in none of your fucking business." She nodded. She never inquired about his "extra- curricular activities".
"I'll be gone a day or two, no more than three, tops. Here's 50 quid for food and some cleaning supplies. I want this house spotless by the time I get back. If you do well, I will reward you. If you fail to do this correctly, you'll know it. Do you understand?" He stared at her intently with cool, slate eyes, studying her face.
"Yes, Lance. I understand," she said humbly. Her silver-studded lower lip trembled slightly, though not out of fear. A queer feeling that made her quiver also made a rosy flush creep across her breasts and up to her face in a surge of circulation.
"Before I go, I'll have my lunch. I have a few things to pack, and that should take me about 20 minutes. It should be hot, filling, and on the table waiting for me by the time I'm done." He looked at his watch. "Go."
Ingrid hurried to the kitchen and put on her vinyl apron, tying the strings around her tightly corseted waist. She set about preparing a perfectly balanced meal of chicken, mash and vegetables. He had made it clear from the start of their relationship that she was always to cook for him and instant meals (no matter how gourmet they claimed to be) were unacceptable.
As she removed the frozen vegetables from the freezer, she stopped short. It was a medley of peas, carrots and corn.
"Damn, that was close," Ingrid breathed to herself. She started to return them to the icebox. Better safe than sorry she thought and threw the unopened bag into the trash. She opted for a can of creamed corn instead.
The last time she made the mistake of making his meal multi-coloured, Lance turned away and made her scrape the offending food, fruit salad, onto the dirty floor under the table where she was to eat it all without utensils, like a dog. This unexplained aversion to colourful objects rarely leaked over into other aspects of his life. He could happily sit and watch Saturday morning cartoons, but never over a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. Candy such as M&Ms and Skittles were by far the worst. It was bizarre but Ingrid took this in stride as just another one of his little quirks.
While the herbed chicken sizzled away in its pan, Ingrid put on a pot of strong Columbian coffee and prepared his mug to receive it ("Three sugars, no fucking milk.") She would have to buy another can tomorrow. Again. It seemed as though they went through at least two large ones a week. Lance's current coffee intake at 15 cups per day was his reasonable answer to her subtle request for him to cut down. Prior to her suggestion that so much coffee wasn't doing his constant acid reflux any favours, his caffeine addiction required nearly double that amount. Many recovering alcoholics develop a strong dependency on caffeine, but this was ridiculous.
She readied his plate and set the table neatly for one just as Lance returned from the car. As she always did while in service to him, Ingrid knelt by his chair, eyes downcast, waiting for morsels he may or may not choose to give her. He finished his meal in silence, occasionally feeding her bits of chicken with his fingers, which she hungrily licked clean.
Lanced belched gratuitously and finished his coffee in one easy swig. He pulled the clean ashtray closer and fished out a battered pack of smokes with one remaining cigarette. Before he could light up, a beep from his mobile phone alerted him of a new text message. He pulled out a phone roughly the size of a Tic-Tac box and retrieved the message. It said simply:
It's on. Come now.
He stood and motioned for Ingrid to stand as well. Lance yanked her roughly to him and kissed her lips deeply, drinking in her mouth. He fucked her with his eyes. She stroked his back, nearly shaven head and his strong, tattoo-sleeved arms lovingly. He broke from her abruptly and without another word, he grabbed his briefcase, turned and left the house.
Lance unlocked the trunk of his black Mini Cooper and swung it open. He pulled out the Kevlar vest, replacing it with his leather briefcase. He expertly donned the bullet-proof jacket over his form-hugging beater. As he secured the last strap, his skin raised in gooseflesh against the brazen cold of a London autumn. He covered himself with a long sleeved black shirt, grey hoodie and black leather vest.
Glancing in the trunk, Lance took a mental inventory of its contents. This most notably included two baseball bats, a tennis ball (to avoid prosecution for having the bats as weapons. "Know your enemy," as he would say) and a square, black plastic case which contained his trusty Desert Eagle.
The trunk also contained a half full carton of Marlboro reds. He fished out two packs and slammed the hatch closed, stuffing one pack into the pocket of his Levis. He opened the other pack, letting the foil and cellophane fall to the ground. Lance pulled out a cigarette and let out a forceful puff of air onto its filter, dislodging any loose tobacco. There was none, but he did it anyway out of habit. A remnant from his Marine life "in The Shit" where quality cigarettes were a rarity. He removed his Zippo from its case on his belt and used a snapping motion to open the lid and light the flame in one smooth motion. Lance drew deeply, exhaling through his nose.
Right. It was time to go. He got into his car and backed down the short drive onto the road. The tires screeched in protest as he threw the car into first gear without stopping and punched the accelerator. He stubbed out his smoke two-thirds of the way down and immediately lit another.
"Alright you Geordie motherfuckers, here I come."
II
Ingrid had moved to London from Boston two years previously to live with Lance on a British passport that he had procured for her. This, along with a National Insurance card and a birth certificate (all bearing the name Alexandra Marie Linley) allowed her to live and work freely within the British system.
She had met Lance while on holiday. She was 20 at the time and although he was nearly 18 years her senior, she was instantly taken with him. It was an instant carnal magnetism that surprised her with an intensity she'd never felt before.
What some don't realize is that for many people there is an almost tangible level of sexuality to being tattooed. The proximity between people itself is very intimate. A tattoo artist is in constant contact with the body, their faces only inches from the flesh. This, coupled with the intimacy of allowing someone to change a piece of you forever can stir bonds between two people who would otherwise remain relative strangers.
This is how Ingrid met Lance.
Dodgy dealings aside, Lance was a tattoo artist by trade. He ran a small studio near the Camden Lock Market in northwest London as well as taking freelance work on the side. Ingrid met him a week into her holiday. It was her birthday and she wanted to commemorate the occasion by adding another tattoo to her growing collection; her "life story" she called it.
She had already decided on the Guinness harp by the time she got there. What better symbol to remember her trip to the UK by? Ingrid had him place the carbon stencil low on her hip, just above and to the right of where her pubic hair would be, were it not neatly waxed into a Brazilian. This required her to strip to her skivvies and pull the front down half way.
The pain was exquisite, but Lance's strong and nimble hands worked quickly and reassuringly. Despite this, she watched him work and noticed herself growing warm and flush with what she could only characterise as "whoa, mama". Ingrid suppressed these feelings with a great deal of self- control and maintained her façade through forced, but enjoyable, conversation. All the while she prayed that he wouldn't notice the growing, musky warmth in the leopard print boy-briefs less that a foot from his face.
The whole tattoo took less than an hour to complete. Ingrid was more than relieved. She had self-restraint, but it only went so far. Lance did not leave the room as she pulled on her torn fishnets and plaid micro-mini. Instead, he watched her intently, unwavering to the curious glances she threw him over her shoulder. He watched her dress completely and as she was lacing up her boots, he finally spoke.
"Meet me for coffee tonight." His was a statement, not an invitation. "Eight o'clock at Cafe Rimini in Leicester Square. Be on time."
Ingrid smiled and nodded once. He had noticed... and he had liked it! She fumbled for the £70 she owed him and finally managed to hand it to him with shaking hands.
"Eight o'clock," she said, nodding again. She turned and left, nearly forgetting to open the glass door before walking through it.
Four months later he tattooed her again in the comfort of their own east London flat. This time, he marked the nape of her neck with the kanji symbol for "slave". His own inner forearm was already tattooed on with the symbol for "master".
That night, they had fucked in way most people don't even know exist. The next day she couldn't sit down properly, but she revelled in the welts he left on her small ass, the first lingering evidence of their passionate affair.
III
Lance pulled into the car lot of the rendezvous. This time it was an abandoned slaughterhouse on the northern outskirts of the Newcastle industrial district. In the shadow of twilight he could distinguish the outline of three other cars. He wasn't the last to arrive.
He got out of his car and stretched his legs. The long drive was relatively traffic-free but he rarely stopped to take breaks once he was on the road. He adjusted his Kevlar vest and popped the trunk to retrieve his gun and shoulder harness. Once he was satisfied the clip in his Desert Eagle was full, he snapped it into place and secured it in it's holster. He donned his favourite black leather jacket and went inside.
IV
The large concrete room was lit by a single bare bulb and the scent of long dead carcasses still hung in the thick air. Five chairs arranged in a semi-circle with one standing opposite them were clearly visible in the harsh cone of light directly beneath the high- watt bulb. Three of these chairs were occupied. Lance recognized these people as Eddie Vincent (a long time friend and accomplice), Ardal Killian (an errand-boy for the I.R.A. among other things) and one first class piece of shit known only as Ash. Ash, he remembered, had a nasty little habit of "accidentally" starting fires... Like the one that almost got them busted on the last job. The only other heads that seemed to be missing was their wheel-man, Nos.And El Jefe of course.
"The keg's tapped and the stripper is on her way, boys. Let's get this fuckin' party started!" Lance said from behind the trio. All three stood and heel turned, guns drawn at the sudden voice.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Lance! You scared the shit outta me," Ardal said, reholstering his gun.
"You guys are losing your touch in your old age. I could have shot all three of you motherfuckers twice over before you knew what hit you. I thought we were all fuckin' professionals here." They all let out a relieved chuckle, except Ash, who's face looked remarkably like a cat's ass.
"We're still waiting on El Jefe and Nos. How the fuck are you, you crazy bastard? Long time no see," Eddie said. He scratched a match with his thumbnail, lit the Lucky Strike hanging from the corner of his mouth and sat down.
"Not bad, not bad," Lance replied. "When's El Jefe due? And where the fuck is Nos? I'm itchy to get this job sorted out. We only have," Lance consulted his Rolex. "18 hours 'til launch."
"Relax, mate," Ash said, his voice dripping with smarm. "It's not like we're nervous, petty fuckin' thieves. We're all professionals here." Ardal and Eddie sniggered.
"Look, mate. I don't know about you, but I really don't feel like getting nicked. I like my asshole intact and unintruded, thank you very much. I don't particularly care for tossing the salad and I don't particularly care for silly twats like you who don't give a shit and botch the fuckin' job at a crucial moment. So. I ask again. When is-"
Eddie stood up quickly with a broad smile on his face, glad to be relieved of the mounting tension between Lance and Ash.
"Se?or Jefe! You're just in time! I think we're about to have one a helluva
bitch fight on our hands," he said. Lance and Ash held each other's eye, but said no more. Both men's hands relaxed a little on the grips of their guns. Neither realized they had been there in the first place.
"Cool your heels, ladies, we got work to do," El Jefe said. He took his seat in front of the semi-circle of chairs and placed his Italian leather briefcase on his lap. He removed from it a collapsible music stand that he set up quickly. He clipped diagrams and blueprints to the frame.
El Jefe looked like the 1990s had completely passed him by. His blue velvet track suit strained against his ample belly and a thick mass of dark chest hair was prominently displayed below the collar. He wore what Lance referred to as "Coke Dealer Glasses" night and day and his Rolex watch was of a ridiculous calibre. His raven hair was slicked and pomped until it seemed the grease would roll down his neck. You would almost laugh if he weren't for the fact he would put a bullet in your temple.
"Okay ladies, let's review. I hope you all did your homework because the final is tomorrow."
V
While Lance was away, Ingrid busied herself cleaning the house. To the untrained eye, it was immaculate; to Ingrid there were countless things to be done. The dusting hadn't been tended to in three days. The back garden hadn't been mowed in nearly a week. Two weeks had passed since she cleaned behind the refrigerator!
After his departure, Ingrid had removed the corset in favour of a black tank top, no bra (what a fucking relief.) The collar remained, chafing and digging into the tender flesh beneath her jowls every time she looked down. That didn't change the fact that she admired every mirror she passed as she went about her housework.
Having plenty of food in the fridge, she had used most of the £50 to buy a new vacuum. The old one still worked, but it just.sucked. As she vacuumed the living room she noticed the difference straight away. The carpet was a deep green pile that seemed to brighten a few shades as she went.
After the living room, she moved into the bedroom. Even the old Hoover did a fair job on the nearly wall-to-wall rug that lay over the bare floorboards. It was a lovely sample of Landlord Brown, but as the flat came furnished, it remained until something better came along. The fringe was tangled, but at least it protected the feet from slivers.
She started the vacuum and went to work on the room. As she worked the hard plastic hose into the corner, the fringe of the rug became firmly inhaled into the tube. As it peeled back from the floor, she noticed an irregularity in the wood. There were quarter inch gaps where it should be firmly jointed together.
Ingrid clicked the vacuum off and peeled the rug back further, intrigued. The gaps she had noticed weren't as random as they had first appeared. She realized they made a distinct outline of a neat rectangle, four planks wide and roughly two feet long.
"What the hell," she said into the empty room. She examined the floor more carefully. As she pressed in the far corner of the rectangle, the near corner rose a few inches. She pressed harder, removing the panel completely and peered into the gloom under the floorboards, afraid of what she might find. She held her breath and when she saw it was only a strong box, the breath came whooshing out of her lungs.
Okay, she said to herself. No bones, no secret passages, no dark ritual remnants. Just a box. I can deal with a box. She steeled herself against the worst and reached in to retrieve it.
Okay, she repeated. Not very heavy, so it's not another gun. Lance probably took that with him anyways. If this is even Lance's box. Well, there's one way to find out.
She looked at the front of the box at eye level. It had a combination lock. That was a good start. Lance used the same combination on all his cases. He never told her what it was, but she had seen him open his various cases enough times to pick up on it. Mark of the Beast, dude, she thought absently. She spun the three digits around so that it read 666 and popped the latch.
As she kneeled there, sifting through the passports, weapons permits and property deeds, she stopped dead.
VI
"That's it. Are there any questions?" El Jefe looked as though he had just finished a marathon, with greasy sweat rolling down his ruddy face.
"I want to be abso-fucking-lutely sure that everything is crystal clear to you lot. No fuck-ups, got it? Ash, you check your fucking lighter at the door, mate. We don't need another repeat of our last little incident. You nearly got us killed, you asshole."
Ash started to get up from his seat, mouth open in imminent protest.
"Save it. You're damn lucky to even be here at all, you ungrateful sod. You're lucky I haven't killed you already." Ash shut his mouth with a snap and nodded
"Alright boss, no heat. I got it." He looked as though someone had just run over his kitten with a bus, but he sat back down. Lance's face was stone, but his eyes flickered with amused laughter.
"Now that we're all square, we're done here. Get your beauty sleep ladies. We go to work at 1300 hours and we rendezvous back here by 1400 hours at the very latest. If you're not here by 1400 hours, I claim your share. Is that clear? If you have the goods and aren't here by 1400 hours, I will hunt your ass down and kill you. Is that clear?" They all nodded. El Jefe glared at Ash and Ash glared at the floor.
"Now fuck off!"
As Lance walked towards his car, the sun crested the eastern horizon. He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of countless factories. Even the industrial district of Newcastle smelled cleaner than the smog-choked air of London on it's best day.
He got into his car, lighting his last cigarette. He pointed the car in the direction of the Holiday Inn just outside of Newcastle and took off, thinking of the warm, (but thankfully) empty bed that awaited him.
VII
"A marriage certificate? Surely this isn't right," Ingrid thought. Bella Louise Rossi was neither her real name nor her moniker. And the date. this certificate was only eight months old. She'd been with Lance for over a year and they certainly weren't married. She moved on to the next document.
"What the fuck.?"
VIII
Lance signed into the hotel under the name Alex Burgess and paid cash as always. It was already six in the morning and there was precious little sleep to be had until check-out time at noon.
In his room, he undressed completely and threw the nylon bedcover on the floor. The sheets they definitely washed, but the bedcover? God only knew how many nights of sweat, fart and crotch was embedded into them.
He sprawled full-length on the hospital cornered sheets, facing the ceiling. As he lay alone he began to think about Bella's tortured face the day she died. He closed his eyes and his hand crept downward. It found what it was looking for. As he began to pump, his mind went to
IX
"March 17th," Ingrid said in an unsteady voice.
She held Bella Louise Rossi's death certificate with shaking fingers as if the paper itself was venomous. Her eyes scanned the page and came to rest on one line: Cause of death: Acute loss of blood due to dismemberment.
The page slid from her numb and trembling hands. She felt, no, knew that this was no coincidence. She wondered if Bella Rossi was even her real name.
"What the fuck," she repeated into the still air of their bedroom. She looked again at the marriage certificate. It was dated only three days before the death certificate. She remembered that day clearly because it was Saint Patrick's Day. She had been looking forward to a night out drinking Guinness with Lance, but he had had "some shit to take care of" in Italy. He had been gone nearly a week and when he returned he had presented her with a stunning platinum and ruby collar and no further explanation.
Ingrid hauled herself to her feet and sprinted for the bathroom. She fell to her knees and heaved uncontrollably into the pristine porcelain bowl. As the toilet water splashed back into her face she sobbed and retched again. Dark rivers of mascara ran down her colourless cheeks.
X
It had been so perfect. Everything had been so carefully planned. Tracing the body back to him would be an impossibility so he had been able to take his time with Bella. After the police report had been made on the blood found in the room it conveniently disappeared. along with the boxes in the evidence locker. It always had paid to know people.
As Lance's hand pistoned away below his waist, he replayed that day in minutia.
XI
She had looked so beautiful bound to that bed in the villa, gagged with her own panties and a length of duct tape. At first she had only feigned distress as was her want when they played a scene. Her jade eyes would squeeze shut and she would emit a muffled squeal against her gag when he would slap or spank her hard, shaking her Bettie Page hair all the while. When she opened them however, her eyes always held a glint of passion.
This had changed when he removed the military issue KA-Bar from his boot. This glint had turned to a look of dawning realization as he drew the knife closer to her throat. Dawning realization had given way to sheer terror as he pressed the tip of the deliberately dull blade into her neck hard enough to draw blood. She had felt his hardness against her naked hip and loosed an unheard scream. He had smiled and forced her knees apart with his leg.
XII
His fist pumped faster.
XIII
She had grunted Shave and a Haircut, their non-verbal safeword for the times when she was gagged. He had merely laughed and mounted her, pressing the blade in deeper. But not too deep. Not just yet. The blood had trickled from around the edge of the knife.
XIV
When she could vomit no more, Ingrid continued to dry-heave for another ten minutes. When that stopped, she was finally able to brush her teeth and give her face a good, cold wash. Her thoughts were racing.
I have to get out of here Jesus Christ he's going to kill me I have to get the fuck out of here where am I gonna go ohmygod what the fuck is going on who is he why is this shit happening to me I've gotta get out of here before he finds out that I saw that shit ohmygod how many times has this happened I haven't even been through all the papers.
She went to the kitchen and poured herself a tall bourbon. She swallowed it all in one go and gasped with the afterburn. She poured herself another large measure of "Dutch courage" and returned to the bedroom to go over the rest of the papers. She had always had a sort of morbid curiosity that got her into trouble more than a few times over the course of her life. She only prayed that Lance didn't come home early.
XV
As he had approached the home stretch, he had buried the blade into her throat, nearly to the hilt. Her eyes had widened and a squelching sound escaped from her neck. He had been amazed that she was still conscious. Bella was one tough bitch.
Right before he climaxed he had twisted the blade clockwise, tearing a considerable sized ragged hole in her throat. There had been a final, wet death rattle before her whole body tensed. Her muscles had clenched tightly around him, spasming erratically. Lance's eyes rolled into his skull as he spent into her lifeless but twitching body. He had licked the blood spatter from his lips and it had tasted gorgeous.
XVI
Lance was spent. He cleaned himself off quickly in the hotel shower before crawling under the sheets and drifting swiftly off to sleep. It was 6:30 AM and he had work to do in less than seven hours. He had to be on form if this job was to go off without a hitch.
XVII
Ingrid pored over the documents for another three hours, incredulous. There were more deeds in various countries, weapons permits for nearly every passport and even a few grams of coke, but no more information relating to Bella.
He had always kept her in the dark about his "business" because there was always that chance that they would get married. Under British law, a wife can testify against her husband, unlike the States.
"It's better to be safe than locked away for life," he was fond of saying. Now she knew why. Too bad Bella hadn't.
She had always just assumed that Lance's business involved loan sharking, class A drugs or maybe even "collections". Based on these documents, it obviously went way beyond that. She realized that she didn't even know his name or his birthday. She felt nauseas again even thinking about it.
Ingrid returned all the documents to the box, arranging them in what she hoped to God was the right order. Lance had an eye for detail when it came to his personal effects. Everything had an order and if one page was out of place, that would be the end of her. She knew it.
What she didn't know was that he also set his combination locks to 715 (the 5 being half way to 6) when not in use. It was a simple but effective way of telling if anything had been tampered with. Subtlety and nonchalance were key.
XVIII
13:04 PM.
Lance didn't have time to think, only to react. He swung his arm in an upward arc, bringing his gun to shoulder height. He gave a quick glance down the sight of the barrel and fired off three quick shots. The cop's head exploded in three different places from scalp to chin, leaving little more than a bloody stump atop his shoulders. Lance ducked just as another bullet flew over his head. If he'd had any, it would have ruffled his hair. He spun quickly and fired without sighting. His aim was true. The bullet hit home in the hollow of the rent-a-cop's throat - what Lance called the sweet spot- exploding his larynx with a hollow-point bullet. The sirens of police cruisers droned on in the distance like a pack of yowling tomcats.
"What the fuck is this shit?" Cops (aside from the transport and security guards) had not been in the plan.
Lance grabbed the black satchel that rested at his feet and made a beeline for the backdoor. He skirted dead cops, dead civilians and the myriad of bodily fluids lost by these people. He managed to stay upright amid the slicks of blood and loose cut diamonds that littered the floor. He also noted the bodies of Eddie and Ash. The latter, he saw, was still clutching a can of spray paint in one hand, with a Zippo in the other.
"I'm glad you got tagged, you fucking asshole," Lance muttered under his breath. He gave Ash's lifeless body a good hard kick to the head to emphasize this. He sprinted towards the back door. The sirens were nearer now. Much nearer.
Two minutes exposure time my ass, Lance thought. That was more like three or four. Shit! And where the hell did all those cops come from? Nobody touched the cases- His thoughts were cut short as he rounded the corner of the building, directly into the sight of a gun levelled at his head.
"Drop your fucking gun and give us the bag." Ardal said. This came out sounding more like "Drahp yer fahkin gun and givuzure bag." with his broad Ulster accent.
Lance dropped his Desert Eagle to the cobblestone street, keeping his eyes trained on Ardal, who was smiling.
"You set us up, you unbelievable piece of shit. It was you, wasn't it," Lance said, knowing that it was.
"Ah, but yer a clever one, Lance. Always have been. But if you think I'm going to split the contents of this bag with anyone, you're sorely fuckin' mistaken. Give it to me now and I'll just hobble you instead of blowing your fuckin' teeth out the back of your head."
Lance appeared to consider this for a moment. In reality he was considering nothing more than what a complete fool Ardal was. The sirens in the background grew swiftly and steadily closer.
He tossed the bag from his left hand to Ardal's feet. The same instant he snapped his arm forward, releasing his sidearm from the spring- clip concealed in his sleeve. The small gun flew easily into the palm of his hand and he fired immediately. There was a loud report as Ardal's face exploded in a shower of brain, blood and bone fragment.
"Now why'd you make me go and do that for," Lance said to the corpse as he recovered his gun from the ground. "I kinda liked you and you had to go and fuck me over."
He picked up the blood-spattered bag and started to run towards the location at which Nos, their wheels-man, would be waiting to take them to the rendezvous. He suddenly thought better of it (you could never be too careful) and turned left down a narrow alley instead. When he came to the end of it he made an immediate right and smashed out the driver side window of the first car he came upon. Happily, this turned out to be a VW Golf GTi. They aren't much to look at, but do they have balls Lance had once said.
"Sweet," he said to himself. "At least the god of auto-theft is on my side today."
Lance quickly let himself in, unmindful of the broken safety glass. He yanked down the wires he needed from under the steering column and stripped them with the pocket knife he had already produced from his pocket. He touched the bare connections together, making a small shower of blue sparks.
"Come on you bitch..Start! NOW! START DAMN YOU!"
The engine roared to life and Lance let out the clutch, propelling him forward in first gear. He glanced into his rear view mirror long enough to see three squad cars flying down the main crossroad a block behind him.
He headed towards the north-bound highway, keeping one eye on his rear view mirror for tails, cops and anybody else who shouldn't be there. No one followed him. He merged onto the highway and drove back towards the abandoned slaughterhouse.
It was 1:10 PM exactly as Lance disappeared into the relative anonymity of lunch-hour traffic.
XIV
When Lance pulled into the parking lot of the rendezvous, he was alarmed to see two cars already parked there. El Jefe's gold Caddy sparkled in the afternoon sun and parked directly behind it stood the souped up electrician's van that served as their getaway car.
This wasn't right. El Jefe wasn't due until 2:00 PM exactly and it was only 1:25. He didn't see any other cars in the vast lot, but his experience told him that didn't really prove anything.
Why was Nos even here? Lance could understand if he had come a couple of minutes behind him, but to get here ahead of him? Nos had had orders to be disappeared from the designated meeting point by 1:10 no matter what, but Lance had driven like a bat out of Hell from the diamond exchange. There was no way Nos could have passed him without his knowing.
Before getting out of "his" car, Lance checked the clip in his gun. He saw that it was only half full and replaced it with a fresh one from his pocket. He pumped a fresh one in the chamber and approached the slaughterhouse with wary eyes and a calm demeanour.
XV
Lance stood with his ear to the outside employee's door for a full two minutes, listening for voices, friendly or otherwise. He was rewarded with nothing but silence. A disconcerting silence. He knew that El Jefe and Nos were friendly; they'd known each other for years and had built an almost brotherly rappaport between them. There should have been conversation within. Laughing, talking, anything but silence.
Lance stepped back from the door cautiously. A furrow came to his forehead as his eyebrows knitted together above his cool, calculating eyes. This wasn't right. This job had gone FUBAR. Lance started to reach for the door knob, thought better of it and withdrew his hand slowly. Best to go through the side door.
He made his way around the side of the building, wading through thigh high weeds and briars. He came to the massive cattle doors that stood on the eastern side. These would take him not into the main room, but directly into the slaughter pen where long-dead cows had started their journey towards becoming some snot-nosed kid's Happy Meal.
He swung the door inwards quickly, raising a groan from the ancient hinges. He winced at the sound and brought his gun in front of him, scanning the dark room for unexpected company. The room was empty. Lance let out his breath with a soft whoosh.
He made his way through the dank room as lithe and stealth as a wolf. A sliver of light shone under the door that would take him to the room which served as their meeting area. Lance paused and listened again, head cocked to one side. The silence that came was deafening.
He prepared himself to break the door open, gun drawn and at the ready. With one swift kick just left of the knob, the door splintered open. Light poured from the bare 75 watt bulb into the shadows of the slaughter pen.
Suddenly, a flurry of motion came from the far right corner of the meeting room. Lance squeezed off two quick shots without aiming and the form burst into a small shower of blood and hair. The short, dismal squeal identified the intruder as a freakishly large rat. He quickly realized however, that a rat, even a freakishly large one, was incapable of producing the sheer volume of blood that he saw congealing on the floor.
XX
Over the course of her day, Ingrid kept getting drawn back to the strong-box. Her mind was plagued with a thousand questions to which she still had no answers. Maybe she had missed something, some important document that held the key to this whole situation. It crossed her mind more than once that there was a very distinct possibility that this wasn't even the only box.
So, she returned to the box two, three, five more times, convinced that the answers lay within. She sifted through the papers, always careful to keep them in perfect order. She discovered no new information, but raised even more questions. What she though of as her rational mind took over.
Maybe you're making too much of this, it said. You don't know what really happened. You don't even have any proof that he had anything to do with Bella's death at all. Sure, it's a bit weird that he has this chick's death certificate, but people keep death certificates all the time for things like life insurance, household records. For all you know, she lost her head in a car crash that had nothing to do with him.
"But what about the marriage certificate," she said quietly. "He was married to this chick. while we were together! The bastard." She waited for her rational mind to pipe up.
Right, she thought. I gotta get out of here before he gets back. At this her rational mind spoke again, whispering in conspiratory tones.
He'll find you. He knows everything about you and it turns out you know nothing about him. He'll find you. He'll find you and-
"SHUT UP!" she screamed into the empty room, startling herself. She stood motionless for a moment, deciding on what to do next. She gathered all the courage she could muster and broke from her stance, nearly falling over her own feet as she sprinted for the closet. She ripped her hiking pack from the top shelf and began to hastily pack her few personal belongings.
The time was 2:05 PM and 200-odd miles away, Lance was pulling onto the southbound highway, making his way towards London.
XXI
Lance stepped forward into the room, keeping his gun raised. As he walked, his eyes searched out any other forms hiding in the dark corners. There was no other movement, no more sounds. He made his way to the corner where the dead rat (what Lance thought of as an R.O.U.S.- rodent of unusual size) twitched spasmodically then lay still.
There was not a body in the corner as he had first suspected. There were two. El Jefe and Nos lay less than five feet apart, both sprawled out in pools of their own blood, both with guns drawn. Lance immediately recognised it for what it was.
"A fuckin' Mexican stand-off," he said, reholstering his gun. A queer mix of amusement and contemplation crossed his face.
El Jefe had taken the full force of Nos' bullet directly above his left eye. Nos was now sporting a large, ragged hole in place of his chest. It seemed Lance wasn't the only one who was partial to hollow-point bullets.
He stood for a moment in careful consideration. If this had been a Mexican stand-off, there was only one conceivable reason why. Nos had been in this with Ardal. Those two bastards were planning to make off with the goods from day one. A cool 15 million each would be enough for people like them to turn on their so-called friend, these people they'd know most of their lives.
Realization struck him like tangibly. Now that El Jefe was dead, there was no one to report back to. Now that Ardal, Eddie, Ash and Nos were all dead, there was no one to split the loot with. Lance was the last man standing. Endgame, baby.
All he had to do was take the ice to the client that was waiting in London and the whole stash would be his, free and clear. There was no one left alive, so there was no one left to talk. Beautiful. A smile played across Lance's lips. The smile broke into a chuckle and the chuckle turned into a full gale of laughter.
Lance was still sniggering as he drove back to the garage. His nondescript Mini Cooper stood ready for him, waiting to take him home. His digital dash clock read 13:55.
XXII
Ingrid had almost finished packing when her emotions caught up with her. She plopped on the floor with an almost comical lack of grace. Her eyes were shrink-wrapped in tears and her breath came in short, wet hitches. She hung her head between her legs and cried.
When she finally pulled herself together, she was astonished to find that she'd been wallowing for over an hour. She realized with a dawning horror that she had no plan whatsoever. She had no tickets, no friends (Lance had been her whole life) and she hadn't spoken to her family for over a year. For all she knew, they thought she was dead. She didn't even have enough money for bus or cab fare.
This was something that hadn't exactly crossed her mind before. She had been so caught up in her endless questions that money hadn't even entered the equation.
"Crap," she said softly. She wiped away the tears streaking her face and drew in a deep breath. With no money and no place to go, there was only one option left: wait it out. The thought made her shudder violently and she hugged her knees back to her chest.
I'll wait until Lance gets back. If he's away on "business" he's bound to return with a fair amount of money. A couple thou at least. He won't know I've seen the box, so there should be no trouble there. I'll just play dumb, just like usual. Make off while he's in the shower or something. Anything. Now that I know where he stashes his shit I can run. I can run with the money and take the box with me. Give it to the police. Yah, I'll give it to the cops and get the hell out of here. Flawless. I can do this. Just gotta stay cool and make like everything's kosher. I will make it out of this twisted fucking situation I got myself into. Gotta be ready. Could be home any time.wouldn't count on him to call first.
Ingrid pulled herself unsteadily to her feet and began to pack her bag. The BBC was announcing from the kitchen that it was 3:45 PM and here is the news.
Lance listened intently to the BBC news update as he pulled onto the eastbound M25, also known as the London Orbital.
XXIII
Ingrid unpacked her bag, returning her personal effects to their places. As she was doing this, she set aside the things that were most valuable to her: her journal, her vintage Social Distortion shirt, her Discman and her SLR camera. Along with these, she placed a few pairs of underwear, socks, her green hoodie and a pair of jeans into a reusable plastic grocery bag. She hid this bag discreetly at the back of the closet, ready to take with her when she ran.
With this taken care of, she decided to take a well-deserved shower. A nice hot shower always helped her put things into perspective.as if that would help in this particular situation. She went to the kitchen to turn on the immersion water heater.
"And this just in," the radio announced. "A robbery that occurred earlier today at a prominent diamond exchange in Newcastle is currently being investigated by local police as well as MI5. It seems a group of highly organized criminals have stolen over 30 million pounds worth of diamonds. Three of the suspected robbers were found dead the scene of the crime, along with six other security guards, police and civilians. Officials suspect that at least one more individual is still at large. They are releasing no more information at this time, but we here at the BBC will keep you updated as we receive new information. In world news today-"
Ingrid turned the volume dial to the OFF position and shivered. Now that she knew about Lance's dealings, she couldn't help but to wonder whether Lance was now dead or alive.
"I hope you're one of those poor, dead bastards," she said. She flipped the switch for the immersion heater and tugged at the stiff collar around her neck. Probably best to leave it in place for the time being. Taking it off would only raise questions from Lance when he got back. She headed for the bathroom, undressing as she went.