Scott Medbury

INGA

Introduction

The inspiration for this story is twofold. A love of ‘possibilities’ and a fascination for man’s capacity for good and evil.

Robotics is set to become the biggest disrupter of society since the industrial revolution, when machinery saw the agrarian, rural societies in Europe and America become industrial and urban. The bank of England believes that over the next 20 years (yes that’s 20 not 200) robots of varying sophistication could take over 80 million American and 15 million British jobs. That’s 50% of the workforce.

That is an incredibly sobering prediction and has a whole swag of ramifications for our lives and those of our children. I began thinking about what has driven previous disruptive technology, and clearly the biggest disrupter in our lifetime has been the internet. Many industries and market forces have driven the internet over the last 25 years, in fact there are too many to mention, but one of the biggest has been the sex industry.

As one senior industry figure put it, all the way back in 2002: ‘For years it has been a dirty secret that one of the key drivers of new consumer technology is sex and pornography.’

Cybersex, phone sex, cam sex, virtual sex, sex chat, live streaming and sexting are all new technological phenomena that are the direct result of humankind’s most primal urges.

Just some of the technologies that have advanced far quicker than they would have had it not been for sex, include:

E-commerce – instant payment means instant gratification, and sex has driven online payment and security solutions since the dawn of the internet.

Streaming video – Dutch company Red Light District developed the first Internet-based video streaming two years before YouTube went online.

Webcams – these were a staple of the internet sex industry long before they were introduced to the boardrooms of businesses across the world.

We can even go further back and look at older technologies like VCR and Cable TV for examples of sex driven advances. Who needed to visit an adult theater when you could simply switch the TV on.

Will Robotics be any different? That would be a resounding no. Japanese companies have been working on human form robots for over 20 years, and invariably the finished product is made in the image of an attractive young women. As I write this, there are ‘sex robot’ brothels operating in Europe, and even in the US, one was slated to open in Houston Texas before facing extreme opposition.

While the label ‘robot’ is a stretch for the dolls that populate these new style brothels, it’s fair to say that with robotics technology advancing at its current pace, over the next 20 years we will see the rise of human/ complex robot intimacy and (possibly) more frightening, relationships.

Jobs and brothels are not what this book is about though. It’s a different kind of story to what I usually write, but I hope you’ll enjoy this tale of murder, mayhem and a pretty robot, as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Scott Medbury

4th July 2019

Prologue

Kapotnya, Moscow – Russia Winter 2006

It was cold in the ancient Mercedes. The air from the struggling heater was no warmer than the breath from her mouth. Her unrelenting talk grated every nerve in his body, but he let it continue, hearing but not listening, content that soon he would silence her for good.

Finally, after an hour’s drive from his shitty neighborhood, he turned off the freeway and entered an equally shitty industrial estate. It was here he would end her life and dispose of her body in a dogfood factory.

A fitting end for a cheating bitch.

The drab buildings that marched along the road matched the gray day. If she was curious about why he had brought her to an industrial park on a Sunday, she didn’t ask; she just continued babbling about her friends and the inane things they had done during the week.

Even when he finally pulled the lumbering vehicle over to the side of the road in front of the factory, she was oblivious. Ignorant of his dark mood. Oblivious to his intentions. Unaware that each word – each peal of her sweet laughter – twisted the knife of her betrayal further into his guts.

Fucking bitch!

At 17 years of age, Dimitri Molenski, already had a hard look about him. As thin and deadly as a worn razor, he was in fact, a psychopath. Like most psychopaths, he hid it well. He could be charming and adaptable, but ironically it was his bad boy persona, not his charm, that had attracted Inga Svenson to him.

When they had been introduced at a party by her new friend Kristina, Inga – the daughter of the new Swedish ambassador – had immediately been attracted to his swagger, his rudeness and his clear disdain for her.

The beautiful 18-year-old was not used to any man being rude to her. Indeed, she was the one normally showing disdain. Disdain for groveling boys her own age. For the middle-aged men who moved in her parent’s social circle, making no effort to hide their lechery. For the old men who leered at her when she was out and about.

During a giggling visit to the ladies’ room during the party, Kristina had warned her that he was from the wrong side of the tracks.

“He’s bad, Inga. There’s a rumor he even killed a man in the summer.”

“Really?”

Far from dissuading Inga, this information only made the mysterious Dimitri more desirable.

“Can you imagine my father’s reaction if I brought a boy like that home?” she said.

They both laughed, although Kristina was secretly concerned that her friend would even consider such a thing. She would have been horrified to learn that Inga wasn’t just considering it.

Within an hour, the beautiful daughter of a Swedish diplomat was kneeling at the feet of the small time Russian thug in a dark alley beside the nightclub, busily breaking down his disdain for her.

Inga had been right. Her relationship with Molenski had indeed driven her father wild. But the more he raged, the more determined she became until, eventually, her mother stepped in, persuading her father to let it be.

“She will tire of him in a few months, how could she not? He is a cheap little gangster. Look into his eyes – there is something dead in them… like the eyes of a shark. Our Inga will surely wake up from this spell he has her under but it’s important we don’t alienate ourselves from her. We must be there to pick up the pieces when it’s finished.”

The ‘few months’ had turned into eight, and Inga had not yet tired of Dimitri Molenski. She was under the illusion that she’d managed to coax a softer side of him into the light. For his part, Dimitri tolerated her. Her father’s position and her glamorous beauty gave him an envied status among his peers. Of course, the sex was a bonus.

He knew how to play the game, but occasionally his mask slipped. Those slips were scary for Inga, but rather than taking them as a warning sign, she tried all the harder to coddle him. To somehow make up for the difficult childhood that had no doubt molded him into this sometimes volatile, angry young man.

Inga finally paused, suddenly aware they had stopped. She looked around, then back at her boyfriend.

“You’re not saying much,” she said, in perfect Russian. “Where are we?”

He finally turned and looked at her. His gaze was as cold as the air in the car.

“Dimi, what’s wrong?” she asked, placing a hand on his arm.

“Marat saw you.”

“What?”

“Marat saw you with the old man. Saw what you did in the carpark, you fucking whore!”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking…”

SLAP!

It was the first time he had ever struck her. Inga’s mouth fell open, a red hand mark taking shape on the flawless skin of her cheek almost immediately.

“Dimi!” she said, tears filling her eyes. “Please, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She really didn’t. Inga had been faithful to Molenski the entire time they were dating. Unfortunately for her, the leader of Molenski’s gang, Marat, didn’t like the amount of time his lieutenant spent with her. It was interfering with his ‘work’ and costing the gang jobs and money.

It was easy. All it took was a few whispered words. Molenski’s jealous streak and short fuse took care of the rest. Marat knew the stuck-up Swedish bitch would cop a beating from Molenski, but she’d piss off back to daddy and live happily ever after once the bruises faded. Hell, he was probably doing her a favor.

Even Marat, a career criminal who had spent hard time in prison, didn’t recognize just how deep young Dimitri’s ‘badness’ went.

With her cheek stinging, the young Swedish girl finally did, though. Through her tears, she finally saw in his eyes that something inside him was broken, and when he produced the knife, she knew she was in serious trouble.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Before she could open her mouth, his hand whipped the blade across her left cheek. Inga screamed and clapped a hand to her face, attempting to stem the warm blood that flowed through her fingers. She fumbled for the door handle with the other.

He laughed and stabbed her in the left breast. Inga shrieked in agony and intensified her efforts to escape the vehicle. Molenski laughed harder. The stab wound was not deep enough to do any real damage; he intended to stretch this out as long as he could.

“Dimi please!” she begged her sniggering torturer.

Then he stopped laughing, and it was worse. He put the blade of the knife under her nose. Inga’s hand froze on the door handle.

“First I’m going to make you sorry you were ever born, and then I will send little bits of you back to Daddy.”

In full survival mode, Inga pulled the door handle and simultaneously swatted the hand with the blade away as she desperately lunged from the car. As quick as she was, Molenski was quicker. He grabbed her soft blonde hair before she could escape and began to drag her back into the car.

“I think your ear first,” he growled.

Inga groaned in pain and with a strength borne of panic, jerked forward. Hard. She felt searing pain as her hair was torn out by the roots, allowing her to spill out of the car onto the cold concrete. She scrambled to her feet and ran, leaving a stunned Molenski with nothing but a fistful of hair.

He was out of the car and after her in a flash, but she had a good start.

The terrified, sobbing girl ran as hard as she could, her breath coming in hitching bursts that plumed in the cold winter air. Blood from the wound in her cheek poured down her face and splattered onto the concrete sidewalk, a gory testament to her flight.

His running footsteps were closing on her.

If only she could make it to the main road.

Molenski was almost upon her, his knife in one hand, the other reaching out for the hair that trailed behind her like the ribbons of a fast flying kite.

With one final effort, Inga opened the gap another inch as she rushed headlong into the cross street and… disappeared under a truck.

Molenski skidded to a stop, fast enough to avoid the same fate as Inga, but not fast enough to avoid the truck altogether. He hit the side of the vehicle and bounced, flung back onto the sidewalk even as the driver slammed his brakes, locking up the wheels of the big truck which screeched to a halt, fifty feet down the road.

The stricken driver jumped from his cab and grasped his head in both hands, wailing in shock. Molenski rose to his feet slowly, oblivious to the driver and the scattering of people that came running from their places of work. He had eyes only for the bloody, broken body in the middle of the road.

There was no sadness or loss. Only a deep, raging fury that Inga had stolen his right to torture and execute her for her betrayal.

The distraught driver began stumbling towards him, wailing.

“I’m sorry, it was an accident; she came right out in front of me…”

Molenski spat on the sidewalk before turning and walking away without looking back.

Part 1 – The Delivery

Chicago, USA – November 11, 2029

1

Ivan Petrovic stared at the TV without really watching it. He’d been dressed in his light cotton suit and tie since 7 am. Being up so early was a requirement of the job he’d performed since his late twenties, and even though he was rarely called before 8 am, just occasionally Dimitri Molenski, his boss, surprised him.

Whether to catch him out or not, Ivan wasn’t sure, but it was hypothetical. Ivan had been ready for the call every time. He was diligent and disciplined when it came to his job and apart from his six weeks in the hospital after the ambush, he had eaten and dressed before 7am every single day of his long tenure as Dimitri Molenski’s personal bodyguard.

Ivan stood up and walked to the kitchenette of his suite. The sink was clean. Had he already washed up from his breakfast? If so, he must have done it on autopilot. Then he remembered, yes, he had done it right after he finished his coffee. He smiled. So forgetful of the little things. It was a consequence of his induced coma. As the doctors had told him during his rehabilitation, one simply could not recover from the trauma of multiple gunshot wounds and near death, without some aftereffects.

Still, physically he was fully recovered and if anything, fitter and stronger than before. If a little forgetfulness was the price to pay for escaping death, he was more than willing to pay it. He went back into the living room and sat down in front of the blank television screen to await the call.

Ivan was a large man, tall and heavily muscled, but he moved with the grace of a big cat. His blond hair was shorn into a military cut, and his handsome Slavic face was serious most of the time. He had a year to run on this, his third, five year contract. This time, however, he wasn’t sure he could see it through to the end. It wasn’t the work itself. While it could be boring, there was nothing to complain about. He was earning a good salary, had a luxury suite in his employer’s mansion and got to see from the inside how a big, albeit only semi-legitimate, business operated.

No, it wasn’t boredom or job dissatisfaction that was sapping Ivan’s tolerance for the job, it was Molenski himself. Or more to the point, the things he did or had others do in his name. And it was getting worse.

He owed Molenski a lot. The mobster had taken him under his wing back in Russia when Ivan was only 15 years old. He had given him a job and a roof over his head and then paid for Ivan’s passage to America three years later. The payback had been Ivan’s absolute loyalty through good times and bad, from the early gang wars and struggles to the relative calm ‘business’ that was now the status quo.

His near-death experience had lent him some perspective, though. The bodyguard had seen and done many bad things in the service of Molenski, but in the last two years, he had seen more personal violence, bloodshed, and murder than ever before. More even than during than the five-year gang war upon which Molenski had built his empire.

Briefly, he’d thought things were changing. It had been relatively quiet the last few months, so much so that Ivan began to wonder if he should reconsider his plan. Perhaps the mob chief was finally beginning to mellow?

The events of the previous night confirmed that nothing had changed though, the fleeting, bloodless period of calm was about to come to an ugly end. This morning, Molenski would be ‘talking’ to the man his security team had abducted the night before. If the Russian was true to form, it would end very badly for the man sitting in the basement.

If there was one thing that eased Ivan’s burden of guilt, it was the fact that, generally, Molenski did bad things to other bad people.

Unfortunately, that didn’t negate the fact that over the years, each bullet, each scream, each drop of blood, had chipped away at Ivan’s resolve and loyalty to his boss. Like a tooth that had been eroded by overuse, he was almost down to the raw nerve and was less and less immune to the misery inflicted by and for the Russian.

Ivan kicked his thoughts around like a soccer player practicing for a big game. He knew it would be impossible to break his contract with Molenski without either running for his life or killing his employer. Both would be difficult, near impossible, given the resources at his employer’s disposal.

No, it was better to see his contract to its bitter end and take the large sum of money he had been saving all his working life. Far easier to jet off somewhere, live by the beach and pay for some top-notch counseling to repair the damage done by his service to the brutal mob boss.

Given Molenski’s ruthlessness, Ivan should perhaps have been concerned about his boss turning on him once the contract ended. He wasn’t. He had been around the Russian long enough to know that his warped moral code put business deals above all else. The contract between them was business and the Russian always honored those deals and expected the same of others.

In fact, that was why the man currently sitting in the basement was in so much trouble.

The phone rang.

2

Ivan loosened his tie and collar. The heavy steam of the bathroom had dampened the material of his suit and, compounded by his boss’s cigar smoke, made it hard to breathe. He surreptitiously checked his watch. One hour and twenty-seven minutes had passed.

Surely he will be done soon.

There was a knock at the door. The big man jumped to his feet, his hand reflexively reaching underneath his jacket. He stepped lightly to the door, with his hand on the handle of his hidden gun.

Molenski, relaxing in his hot bath, didn’t move. He simply blew out a plume of cigar smoke and watched as it curled upwards, mingling and dissipating in the steam. To the casual observer, he may have appeared disengaged, perhaps more interested in his cigar smoke than the knock at the door. They would have been wrong.

Of course, given the fact that the estate was watched over by twelve armed guards, a sophisticated security system and was also under 24-hour remote surveillance, he could perhaps afford to be relaxed, but Dimitri Molenski was a man who never left anything to chance.

His hand moved imperceptibly closer to the folded towel on the arm rest of the tub, or more accurately, to the compact Ruger LC9 pistol in the towel.

“Da?” Ivan called.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said a woman’s voice. Ivan relaxed. “I tried knocking at the bedroom door, but no one answered. It’s Marina; please let Mr. Molenski know that his… delivery has arrived.”

“Da, okay.”

Her footsteps retreated.

“Did you hear?” Ivan asked, his chiseled face neutral and hiding any curiosity he had about the delivery.

“Dah,” said Molenski, waving his cigar and sending a sprinkle of ash onto the marble floor.

The bathwater lapped at the heavy silver cross resting on his tanned chest as he took another drag of his Cuban.

It was finally here. He felt a thrill of anticipation but didn’t allow it to manifest itself physically. Since his volatile, formative years in Russia, he had become a master of self-control. That was how he had become so successful, first in his hometown by taking out the leader of his gang, Marat, followed a few years later by wresting control of a major Moscow crime syndicate.

Every move was thought out. Nothing was done on impulse. Nothing left to chance.

Finally, when he arrived in America at age 30, it was that famous self-control that had helped him take down the Italians, the Triads and the Croatians, seizing organized crime in Chicago by the balls and within ten years making the city his very own ‘Russian empire’.

No, as excited as he was by the arrival of the package, his gratification would have to wait. He had other business to attend to first. The cigar hissed as he extinguished it in the bathwater before letting it float away like a tiny, breached submarine.

Molenski clicked his fingers and began to rise. Ivan, who had only just sat back down, got back to his feet in an instant and whipped his boss’s bathrobe fom its hook. It didn’t pay to keep Molenski waiting. The mobster stood, dripping wet and unconcerned with modesty as Ivan passed him the robe.

At 47 years of age, the Russian was in impressive shape, his frame spare but ropy with muscle. His deceptively pleasant face was relatively line-free and, partnered with his thick black hair, made him look younger than he was.

Ivan led the way into the large bedroom. His boss followed, a comical, yet sinister sight with his open bathrobe flapping and Ruger in hand.

Minutes later, Molenski, darkly handsome in a black sweater and freshly pressed chinos, slipped on a new pair of Vans and tucked the Ruger into the back of his pants before turning to Ivan.

“Has he been softened up?”

“Dah, Boss. They kept him awake all night.”

“No one has touched him?”

“Nyet.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

On their way to what Molenski had dubbed the ‘Red Room’ in the sub-basement of the sprawling mansion, they stopped in the kitchen on the ground floor. There were two short blacks, freshly brewed waiting on the counter top. His 10 o’clock shots.

Ivan looked around for the cook Isabella, but she was nowhere to be seen. The mob boss downed the coffees, one after the other.

“Come.”

Molenski scorned the purpose-built lift and ran lightly down the stairs, whistling as he went, his Vans silent on the marble steps. His bodyguard followed, the bigger man just as light on his feet as his boss.

The long staircase was interrupted by a large landing on the basement level. Molenski had converted the whole level into his games rooms and a private cinema. They continued down the stairs and arrived at the bottom, where a large double door opened onto the northeastern corner of the sub-basement.

The sub-basement level of the mansion was huge and ran the entire length and breadth of the big home’s footprint.

Entering, it looked much like an underground car park of a hotel or department store and, for the most part, that’s what it was. On the eastern side, or rear of the home were the cars of Molenski’s staff and security team. Opposite, along two-thirds of the western, or front wall, was his collection of rare and luxury vehicles and a ramp that led up to the driveway.

On the far southern wall, opposite the opening they had just walked through was a guard’s quarters, the armory and the Red Room. The guards on duty were sitting in a circle playing cards and smoking. They stood up eyeing Molenski nervously, as he casually made his way across the expanse of polished concrete.

“It’s fine boys,” he said, good-naturedly. “Continue your game.”

The men slowly relaxed and sat back down.

Molenski’s destination was the bright red door to the right of them. Ivan could almost detect a skip in his walk. Was it the anticipation of his appointment with the man in the Red Room, or the mysterious package?

As per the protocols he had established years ago, Molenski stopped before reaching the door and allowed Ivan to come forward. The mob boss hardly ever knocked or entered a door before Ivan. If there were to be a surprise attack, Ivan would bear the brunt of the assault, allowing Molenski valuable seconds to take action to protect himself or escape if need be.

The protocol had only been tested once, during the ambush at the hotel thirteen months before. It had worked as planned. While another guard had been killed, and Ivan almost shot to death, their misfortune had allowed Molenski and his lieutenant, time to take down the shooters.

Ivan knocked on the door. It was opened by a big man in a white, sleeveless undershirt and black pants. Andre Chichenko, Molenski’s lieutenant.

Chichenko was a scary looking customer. His heavyset frame, hairy apelike arms, and heavy brow gave him the appearance of being a few rungs back on the evolutionary ladder. But despite his Neanderthal-like appearance, he was intelligent, dangerous and quick.

He looked over Ivan’s shoulder and nodded to his boss before stepping back and allowing them to enter. Ivan waited until Molenski was through, then followed him in and closed the door.

3

In the center of the windowless room, facing away from the door, was a timber chair with a naked man tied to it. His head and shoulders were slumped. Another member of Molenski’s security team, a new guy called Marco, stood at the rear of the room, an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. He was taller than Ivan, though not as well built.

“How is our guest doing?” asked Molenski, pleasantly.

“Tired and emotional,” Andre replied, smiling grimly.

“Excellent.”

Molenski walked to the center of the room and rounded the chair, looking down at his captive.

“Robert.”

The chin of the man in the chair remained on his chest, the thick hair he always seemed so proud of, messy and obscuring his face. He shook his head as if denying the name.

“Robert! Look at me.”

The naked man slowly raised his head. Robert Kittinger’s eyes were red-rimmed, and the normally well-groomed businessman had a line of snot running from his nose to his upper lip. He didn’t say anything but did raise his knees in a futile attempt to preserve his modesty as a fat tear squeezed its way from the corner of his eye.

“I am sorry to see you in this position, Robert,” said Molenski in his clipped Russian accent. “You look terrible. Andre, please, clean his face, the man deserves some dignity!”

Kittinger latched onto the small kindness.

“Mr. Molenski, they’ve treated me like shit since they… since they kidnapped me. I know they’re your men and all, but surely after our history…”

Molenski raised his hand.

“Now, now Robert, just calm down. I apologize for any inconvenience, but we’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said, as Andre handed him a small towel.

The naked man nodded and sighed in relief. The mob boss proceeded to gently wipe Kittinger’s face clean and sweep his hair from his brow.

“There, that’s better. Now, do you know why I had you brought here?”

Kittinger’s eyes were frightened but calculating. After a moment he shook his head. Molenski leaned over and put his face very close to Kittinger’s.

“Now Robert. I need total honesty from you. Your life depends on it. Do you understand?”

Robert Kittinger’s bottom lip quivered, and he nodded.

“Why are you here, Robert?”

“Because…”

“Yes?”

“Because I— I made a deal with the Columbians.”

“Bravo Robert! I applaud your honesty, and what was the deal?”

Kittinger’s shoulders slumped.

“To let them know the route of one of your shipments…”

“Continue!” said Molenski.

“So they could – please Mr. Molenski I—”

“So they could what Robert?”

“So they could intercept it!” Kittinger wailed, tears springing to his eyes.

Molenski clapped him hard on the bare shoulder causing Kittinger to flinch.

“There, that wasn’t so bad was it?” the Russian asked, before straightening and folding his arms. He looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

“Now, how do you think I felt when I discovered your… treachery?”

“I— I don’t know— upset?”

“No Robert,” said Molenski. “Not upset… murderous!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Molenski… I can make it right, really I can. Just tell me how much and I’ll pay it – I – I’ll pay anything.”

Molenski theatrically exhaled and looked down at his prisoner.

“Robert, it’s not about the money. It’s about the betrayal. There is no monetary compensation that can heal my broken heart. Not only that, with your tiny dick dangling there like that, I find it very hard to take you seriously.”

Kittinger again raised his feet to try and hide his exposed manhood.

“Please! I…”

“No Robert, it’s too late for please and sorry. You betrayed my trust, and you will be punished. Andre, is my toolbox ready?”

“Da, it’s on the bench.”

“Excellent. Ivan, bring me Bertha.”

Ivan walked across to the bench. Upon it sat a red toolbox. He opened the lid, now an accomplice to the violence to come. In truth, there weren’t a lot of items in the toolbox, just Molenski’s favored instruments of torture. He picked up the claw hammer and closed the lid before taking it over to his boss.

“Robert meet Bertha, Bertha, Robert,” said Molenski.

The man’s eyes widened. He began crying and shaking his head as the Russian turned the hammer this way and that, inspecting it like a master tradesman.

“Oh, look at that, would you. Bertha wasn’t given a bath after her last adventure.”

He used his fingers to pull away a small clump of hair that was stuck in the fork of the claw and held it up for Kittinger to see before flicking it to the floor.

“No please Mr. Molenski…”

Molenski stepped forward and raised the hammer.

“Please! I’ll do anything!”

The Russian lowered the hammer, looking thoughtful.

“Anything?”

Kittinger nodded vigorously.

“Would you sacrifice your wife, Robert?”

Kittinger looked dumbly at him, as if not understanding the question.

“I take it that’s a no?”

With a swift movement, he raised the hammer and brought it down on his prisoner’s right knee cap. There was a terrible, meaty crack and an equally terrible scream.

Molenski let the scream drag on until it ended in a pitiable gurgle as the businessman’s chin again found his chest. There was a deep, rapidly darkening purple indent where his kneecap had been.

“I asked, Robert, would you sacrifice your wife?”

Kittinger didn’t look up, just shook his head hopelessly.

“Hmm… okay.”

Molenski raised the hammer again, bringing it down on the other knee. The noise of the kneecap popping and the shrieks that followed made his men wince.

After the screams faded to heavy sobbing, the mob boss again addressed the whimpering businessman.

“Now, before I smash your dick and balls into a Bolognese, I want you to answer my question.”

The threat to his manhood revived Kittinger, and he looked up at his tormentor. Molenski knew the man had come to the realization that he wasn’t leaving the room alive.

“Tell me, Robert. Would you sacrifice your wife?”

“Fuck you…”

Molenski shook his head, a disappointed father to an obstinate child. He rested the head of the hammer on the wooden seat between Kittinger’s bare thighs, just a few inches away from his shrunken manhood.

“Guess what? You already did.”

Kittinger looked puzzled. Molenski nodded to Andre who went to the back of the room and picked up a container. It was a fancy hat box, white with a red ribbon tied into an extravagant bow on top. Ivan watched with a sinking feeling. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what was in the round box.

“Show him.”

Kittinger understood without needing to see inside the box. He began to wail, not from physical pain, this time, but the raw emotion of a man who had lost everything. He turned his head away, refusing to look in the box.

“You have to look, Robert,” said Molenski, nodding at Ivan. “I’m sorry, but you must know the consequences of your actions before you die.”

Ivan felt ill but nevertheless came forward. He placed a hand on either side of Kittinger’s sweat soaked head and twisted his head around to face Andre. The man struggled to avert his head but Ivan was too strong.

Andre lifted the lid theatrically.

Kittinger’s mouth opened in a silent scream, before he closed his eyes to shut out the horror in the box. Ivan released him, and Kittinger turned his head away and doubling over and puking the contents of his stomach onto the concrete floor.

Some of the vomit spattered the shoes and pants of Molenski.

Andre’s eyes widened, and he quickly evacuated himself from the area. The rage in his boss’s eyes had been fleeting, but Andre knew that the next few minutes would be… confronting, to say the least.

“Hold Mr. Kittinger’s legs apart for me, would you?” asked Molenski, calmly.

Andre nodded sharply to the new guy, Marco, who rushed forward, eager to please, and grabbed one of Kittinger’s feet. Ivan also stepped forward to grip the other foot. They pried the legs of the broken man open with no resistance. They both looked away, the younger man because the man’s private parts were exposed and rested against the wooden seat, Ivan because he knew what was coming.

And what followed was brutal and bloody, and it didn’t end until the tortured man had passed out.

Molenski wasn’t done yet though.

“Wake him up; I want to see his eyes when he leaves us.”

Ivan let go and moved away, and Marco followed his lead, his blood-spattered face pale with shock at what he had just witnessed.

Andre threw a bucket of water over Kittinger’s head, and the poor bastard spluttered awake.

“Knife!”

Andre pulled out his flick knife and opened it before handing it to the boss.

Molenski stepped forward and gripped Kittinger’s hair before pulling his head back sharply and resting the blade against the right side of his neck. He looked into his victim’s eyes.

“Time to die Mr. Kittinger.”

True to his word, after nicking his carotid artery, Molenski looked into the man’s eyes as his heart emptied his body of arterial blood, in bright, spectacular spurts. When the gouts had finally diminished to a trickle, he let the man’s head drop.

“Get this mess cleaned up,” he said to Andre and headed for the door.

Ivan rushed to make it through the door first, relieved he wouldn’t have to stay in the slaughterhouse any longer than necessary. He paused to allow his boss to take the lead as they walked back across the basement to the stairs.

Molenski would head upstairs to shower and change. As he had learned to do so many times, Ivan put the horror he had just witnessed out of his mind, determined more than ever that within a year, he would be gone from the Russian’s poisonous proximity.

4

While he waited for Molenski to finish showering, Ivan began to think about the delivery. He was curious to find out what it was. No matter how clever his boss was at hiding his emotions, Ivan had known the Russian long enough to realize that whatever it was, he was more excited at the news of its arrival than he had been about anything in a long time.

After he was dressed again, Molenski and Ivan went down to the ground floor. This was what Ivan considered the main level of the huge home. It contained entertaining and dining areas, offices, servant’s bedrooms and a galley style kitchen. It also housed a receiving dock, located behind the kitchen.

Ostensibly the dock was for deliveries of fresh produce and groceries, but unsurprisingly given its owner, it was also used for the discreet delivery of contraband, both large and small shipments.

Even before they reached the bottom of the stairs, the delicious aroma of freshly baked pumpkin pie wafted up to meet them. For the first time since he had awoken that morning, Dimitri Molenski thought of his wife.

The night before, he had ordered Isabella, his cook, to bake Tatiana a pumpkin pie as a welcome home from her trip to New York.

Tatiana, twenty years younger than Molenski and only freshly arrived from Russia, had certainly embraced her new American lifestyle. Strangely, pumpkin pie was her American dish of choice, although, being the fickle woman she was, it was more than possible she might have decided she hates it while she was away visiting her cousins.

“Good morning,” said the pretty Hispanic woman behind the countertop as they entered the gleaming kitchen.

Ivan smiled and nodded at Isabella, but Molenski ignored her as he looked at his TAG Heuer. 11:23 am, Tatiana was flying in at 2:30 that afternoon.

That would give him plenty of time to check out his new toy, but he would probably have to wait until later tonight before he played with it. It crossed his mind that perhaps Tatiana, who was much more open to his more sinister pastimes than his previous wife, would be interested in playing with it too. No another toy perhaps. This one was something personal to him, something no one would understand, and he intended to enjoy it all by himself.

“Pumpkin pie, dah?” asked Ivan, who had a liking for the cook. “Perhaps save me a slice?”

“Perhaps,” she said, noncommittally but smiling.

“Come, Ivan,” Molenski said, over his shoulder as he headed into the dining room and towards the balcony.

Ivan smiled at Isabella and shrugged before hurrying to catch up with his boss.

Through the floor to ceiling glass, Ivan could see Marina, Molenski’s personal assistant, enjoying a cup of coffee on the balcony that overlooked the rear of the estate and the city beyond its walls. The attractive brunette held a small tablet in her hands.

“What do you have there, Marina?” asked Molenski, sitting down at the table next to her.

Marina was dressed immaculately in a gray business skirt and crisp white shirt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

“It’s the control tablet for…”

She stopped, looking over Molenski’s shoulder at Ivan.

“It’s fine. He’ll see soon enough.”

“Okay. Well, it’s the control tablet for your order.”

The item looked more like a small sheet of glass with words printed in on it than any tablet Ivan had ever seen.

She held it out, and Molenski accepted the wafer-thin object. He read the text on the screen then turned it over, watching as the print on the screen moved and then flipped over to be right side up again.

“Clever. But not practical. What happens if I drop it?”

“Genitix guarantees the control tablet for two years, sir, the same as the machine itself. The tablet, like the machine, is supposed to be invulnerable to all but the heaviest abuse.”

His eyes narrowed at the emphasis. She looked at him levelly.

Without breaking her gaze, he suddenly raised the tablet and smacked it against the table they were seated at. Marina flinched and involuntarily clapped her hand over her mouth.

Her boss held the tablet up and inspected it. It was undamaged.

He put it on the table as if bored.

“So, no problems with the delivery?”

“No sir, the tech was reluctant to deliver the machine without running through a demonstration, but he didn’t argue when I told him it wouldn’t be necessary. I think it might have been his first delivery; he was very nervous…”

“Come, let’s go and look at it,” he said interrupting her and picking up the tablet again.

Ivan led the way; Marina followed him and Molenski brought up the rear. The Russian was in a good mood and watched Marina’s ass appreciatively as they walked through to the dock. Molenski was a man of many appetites, and he had a feeling that that one day soon he might have to show the serious young woman a few of them.

The mainly empty dock consisted of a raised horseshoe shaped platform that delivery trucks could back into. At the rear of the dock on the raised platform stood a tall timber crate. The unmistakable circular Genitix logo marked all four sides of the crate and just in case one missed it, G E N I T I X was also stamped diagonally in large black print across the front and back.

Molenski, for once, his excitement unrestrained, stepped past Marina, handing her the control tablet as he went. He pushed by Ivan and stopped in front of the crate.

“Pass me that crowbar, Ivan.”

Once it was in his hands, he didn’t waste time. He slid the claw end into the top corner of the crate and began to jimmy it open.

“Grab this edge and pull,” he snapped at Ivan. He then moved the crowbar down a foot and jimmied it again.

Ivan slipped the fingers of both hands under the edge and peeled the lid away as effortlessly as opening a door. The nails screeched as they came free of the rough pine. Marina’s eyes widened at this display of strength, but Molenski seemed unimpressed as he threw the crowbar to the concrete. Ivan carried the panel he had just removed and propped it up against the wall at the rear of the dock. The reverse side of the panel was lined with Styrofoam insulation, like a cooler box and was heavier than the bodyguard expected.

Molenski stepped up to the crate and Marina moved in so she also had a better view.

A film of clear plastic held back gallons of Styrofoam packing beads. Molenski jabbed his fingers through the barrier and ripped it away impatiently, releasing an avalanche of beads that pooled around their feet like a drift of snow.

“Oh my,” said Marina.

Standing in the box, eyes closed and wearing nothing but white lace panties and bra, was a beautiful young woman.

For the first time in a long time, Dimitri Molenski was dumbstruck. It wasn’t just any young woman. It was Inga. His teenage sweetheart… the girl killed in front of his eyes thirty years before. The girl he should have killed in his own sweet time. The girl who robbed him of the chance.

He drank in the sight of her, scarcely able to believe this custom designed machine wasn’t actually her. She was perfect.

Ivan looked on, amazed. Clearly, it was a machine, the labeling on the crate left him in no doubt of that. But this was like no human form robot he had seen before.

The first Genitix androids in 2020 had been easy to spot with their waxy, synthetic skin and jerky movement, but robotics and other technology had advanced a lot in the last ten years. The new generation Genitix robots had lithium-ion batteries that could last for 20 years without charging or replacing, and their skin was living tissue that could bleed and heal just like the human skin it was modeled on.

Ivan was certain that if he didn’t know that the thing in the box was a machine, he wouldn’t have guessed it.

Molenski reached out and brushed beads out of the robot’s hair. She was beautiful, no – more than beautiful – flawless, and just as he remembered her. Helpless to resist, he reached out and poked the skin of her ripe breast, just above the curve of the bra cup. Her skin was warm to the touch and when he removed his finger, just like a real woman’s would, the indentation from his finger sprang back quickly leaving a white mark that slowly faded back to skin color.

Ivan and Marina watched, fascinated. Molenski again reached out, this time placing the flat of his hand against her side. He felt goosebumps break out on her skin and snatched his hand away as if he’d been shocked.

He turned on Marina, grabbing her by the shirt and pulling her close.

“Is this some trick? An actress with plastic surgery?”

“What? No, Sir… she’s not real. You saw the prototypes. They modeled her from the pictures you gave them!”

He stared into her eyes a moment longer then, seemingly satisfied, released her. Marina steadied herself and smoothed her shirt.

Fuck, I so have to get a new job… goddam psycho.

“We’ll see,” Molenski said, still not convinced.

He knew full well that plastic surgery had also come a long way in the last few years. He had even considered paying for a real girl to have it done but using a real girl would have been… problematic, given what he had planned.

Molenski pulled his gun from his pants before stepping back up to the crate and jamming the muzzle of the gun hard into the soft midriff of the girl in the box.

“Open your fucking eyes or I’ll blow your guts out…” he whispered.

There was no reaction, to either the gun, which would have winded anyone unprepared for it, or the words. Nevertheless, he slapped her hard across the cheek, before finally believing she was a machine.

He took the time to study her now. His memory of her had faded in the years since, but it was the Inga he remembered. Her pretty face with its fine features, framed by the same soft, light blonde hair. Again, he reached out, this time prodding her alluring lips. They were soft and pliable and when he pushed them open; her teeth were perfect. He turned his head to Marina, still holding the lip down.

“She will feel pain, right? That was what they promised.”

“Yes sir, you specifically requested the sensitivity feature and signed the non-disclosure. I’m not sure they would have allowed it had you not been a major shareholder though, it created quite a bit of controversy a year or so ago, as you know.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “And she will bleed?” he asked, waggling the lip up and down.

Oh my God, you sick fuck.

Not for the first time, Marina wondered who the poor girl he had modeled her on was.

“Yes, sir. Superficially of course, and it’ll also bruise and heal. The RealFlesh is only a few centimeters deep, though. It’s still a machine underne…”

“Dah!” He cut her off as if he didn’t want to be reminded. “How do we turn her on?”

“Either by the control tablet or there is a button behind her right ear,” she said, wondering if he even realized he was calling the machine ‘she’ and ‘her’.

Ivan, who had been taking everything in, was barely able to take his eyes from the vision in the crate as he took the tablet from Marina and handed it to Molenski.

She, the robot, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he completely understood his boss’s initial reluctance to believe the girl wasn’t real.

The instructions Marina had been reading earlier had disappeared, and when Molenski touched the screen, the tablet began to glow softly before displaying a menu.

Instructions

Start

Activate software

Restart

Shut down

He touched his finger to the start icon and the screen changed.

Please enter your five-digit authorization code

“What is my authorization code?” he asked, turning to Marina.

Marina reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a small plastic object.

“This is your security key; it can only be activated by you. That’s why they took a scan of your retina when you made the purchase. You hold it in front of your eye and press the button on the side. After a positive scan, it will generate a random authorization code.”

Molenski took the plastic key; it was roughly the size of a box of matches but resembled a camera with a lens on one side and a small LCD screen on the other. He passed the tablet back to Marina and held the lens in front of his right eye before pressing a tiny button on the side. The aperture opened and emitted a green light that winked out after a few seconds.

The key emitted a sound like a message notification on a phone. He turned the key over and read the five-digit code before slipping it into his pocket and holding his hand out for the tablet.

Curious, Ivan and Marina watched the robot carefully as their boss entered the code. From her vantage, Marina saw the tablet’s screen light up and display a long list of terms and conditions. Molenski impatiently scrolled to the bottom and agreed to the terms with a stab of his finger.

The screen began to swirl and the Genitix logo materialized in a colorful swirl. That was forgotten quickly, because simultaneously a low hum began to emanate from the crate. It was exactly like the hum of a laptop starting up and faded after a few seconds.

Ivan found himself leaning forward in anticipation. When the robot’s eyes opened he felt the hair on the back of his neck, stand on end.

Dimitri Molenski, the migrant who had become the most powerful man in Chicago, found himself looking into the eyes of his long-dead first love. The moment was surreal, and he could do nothing but stand there with his eyes wide and his hands trembling. She smiled sweetly, even more beautiful now that her eyes were open, her face was animated.

“Hello. I am Sinthetica Model 676, a Genitix Corporation, human form robot. May I step forward?”

The Russian didn’t respond, just stared dumbly.

“Hello. I am Sinthetica Model 676, a Genitix Corporation, human form robot. May I step forward?”

“Dah,” he finally rasped and waved her forward.

The robots facial animation was realistic to the point of being indistinguishable from a real human and so was her movement. She stepped from the crate like a girl stepping through a door. Her body lithe and supple.

Molenski couldn’t help taking a step backward as the robot/ghost came to a standstill less than a foot in front of him. Ivan also looked on, stunned at the robot’s beauty and perfection but also on edge at the reaction of his boss. Back in bodyguard mode, his hand slipped back inside his jacket and curled around the handle of his gun.

“Currently, I am in safe mode,” the android said to Molenski. “If you are my purchaser, Dimitri Nicholas Molenski, I am required to perform a retinal scan for all of my features to be unlocked.”

“Are you sure these things can’t turn?” Ivan asked, without taking his eyes off the robot.

“As in harm a human?” Marina asked.

He nodded, noting that the robot had turned her head, almost curiously, to watch them speak. Molenski still stood frozen in front of the machine.

“No, it’s impossible. They are hard wired to keep humans from harm – even if it means their own destruction.”

“That is correct,” confirmed the robot, in her soft Swedish accent. “According to the 29th Amendment of the United States Constitution and the artificial intelligence industry safety code, an AI product is hard-coded in such a way that does not allow them to harm a human, or by inaction allow a human to come to harm. If an AI product receives a command to harm a human, its systems will shut down and the authorities will be notified immediately. While it is possible to override the hard coding, the penalty for tampering with an AI to harm another human is 15 years…”

“Dah, dah! Enough!” said Molenski, snapping out of his trance. “Scan me.”

“Please step forward and look into my left eye,” said the human form robot, unperturbed by his tone.

Molenski did as he was asked and the Sinthetica’s illusion of humanity was momentarily shattered as an aperture in her eye opened and emitted a soft red light that scanned his eye left to right before winking out.

“Your identity has been confirmed Dimitri Nicholas Molenski; my standard features have been unlocked and activated.”

“So, you will do anything I say now?”

“That is correct, Dimitri Nicholas Molenski.”

“First, stop calling me that. Call me Dimi only.”

“Yes, Dimi Only. Do you wish to name me?”

“Dimi! Call me Dimi!”

“Yes, Dimi. Do you wish to name me?”

“Dah, Inga. Your name will be Inga.”

“Yes Dimi, thank you for naming me. Henceforth I will respond to the name Inga.”

“So, you will do anything dah?”

“Anything within the parameters of the law set out by Amendment 29 of the…”

“Zatknis!” he yelled.

Inga obeyed instantly, apparently recognizing Russian for shut up. She waited patiently, her pretty face devoid of emotion.

“Show me your tits.”

Marina inhaled sharply, half expecting the girl to tell him to go and fuck himself.

She didn’t, of course, and Marina reminded herself she wasn’t a girl. Providing pleasure was one of the Sinthetica model’s primary features. The demeanor of the humanoid robot changed suddenly, her lush lips opening seductively as she slowly raised her hands and grasped the cups of her brassiere. She paused and then slowly pulled them down over her perfect 36C breasts.

“Do you like them Dimi?” she asked, in a husky voice.

Molenski didn’t answer, but just behind him, Ivan’s wide eyes indicated that he liked them just fine. Marina watched Molenski carefully. If she had been asked to describe the look on her boss’s face at that moment, she would perhaps have said that he looked excited by the possibilities offered by his new toy.

Molenski reached out and pinched her nipple lightly, pleasantly surprised when it stiffened between his fingers. Amazing. When he pinched it harder and twisted it viciously, there was no reaction from the robot apart from a soft gasp, as if his sadistic action had been erotic rather than cruel. His face darkened, and he reached out and grabbed her hair, jerking her head forward.

“Oh Dimi,” she moaned.

“What the fuck!?” He yelled, letting her go in disgust and rounding on Marina. “She’s supposed to feel pain! I don’t want a fucking sex doll!”

Inga straightened, watching the interaction of the humans closely.

“You haven’t activated that feature yet…” Marina began.

“That is correct, Dimi. My patented PhysSens software requires activation before pain receptors are operational. Please activate the software using the control pad if you wish to make use of that feature.”

Molenski relaxed, still looking at Marina, his eyes were suddenly thoughtful.

“Never mind for now,” he said, turning back to the robot.

“I have a better idea,” he said and gestured towards his personal assistant. “You will kiss Marina please.”

“What?” guffawed Marina. “No way.”

Molenski grinned at her response.

“I am unable to attempt intimate contact with a human being without their express consent,” said Inga. “The human you called Marina has indicated that she does not provide consent by…”

“Do it, or you’re fired,” the Russian said to Marina, his eyes resolute.

“Please, Mr. Molenski… really, this is not professional…”

“Do it,” he said, in a low voice. “Don’t make me ask again.”

The threat in his tone indicated that the consequences might be more severe than just career related. Marina knew more about Molenski’s ‘activities’ than he could ever guess, and she knew what he was capable of. She even knew about the ‘Red Room.’

Oh, what the fuck, it’s just a machine.

“Fine,” she said. “Just this once.”

“Khorosho – good, good, of course. Tell her.”

Marina looked at the pretty robot, who seemed to be following their conversation just like another human would. She took a deep breath.

“Inga, I give you permission to kiss me.”

With her breasts still exposed, the right one still noticeably red from Molenski’s rough treatment, Inga walked over to the personal assistant. Up close, Inga was even more beautiful, and Marina was amazed at the attention to detail, even down to the fine, almost invisible, downy hair on her cheeks.

Inga paused in front of Marina and looked at her in a seductive way, biting her bottom lip.

“Would you like to kiss me now?” she asked, her cheeks flushed with the faintest hint of pink, perfectly replicating the early stages of arousal in a real woman. Marina felt her body begin to respond to the proximity of the semi-naked ‘girl’.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Inga moved closer, and her hands grasped the woman’s hips as she leaned in and pressed her lips to Marina’s. Inga’s soft, warm mouth surprised Molenski’s PA and her eyes closed as she began to return the kiss.

A good Catholic girl, Marina had only ever kissed a girl once before, on a drunken dare. The next day she had been ashamed and embarrassed by her behavior but her memory of the sensual kiss and its effect on her had lingered.

If possible, this kiss was even more sensual.

Oh God, she even smells good.

Marina forgot herself a little and her arms circled Inga’s midriff, pulling her closer. Inga responded her tongue darting out and probing the woman’s lips. Surprising even herself, Marina opened her mouth, and suddenly their tongues were intertwined.

While her instincts had taken over to a certain degree, on one level the analytical part of her brain wondered at the amazing ‘humanness’ of the robot she was kissing. Inga’s mouth and tongue, even her saliva, felt and tasted no different to that of any person she had ever kissed.

When Inga’s hands moved to her buttocks, she sighed and, all instinct now, she passionately returned Inga’s kiss and brought one of her hands up to touch her bare breast. Inga moaned into her mouth at the touch.

Molenski’s whisper to Ivan broke the spell.

Marina pulled away, gasping and stepped back, straightening her jacket. She smoothed her hair, surprised when Inga’s adaptive technology kicked in and she mirrored Marina’s behavior, pulling her bra back over her breasts and patting down her hair, seemingly as embarrassed as the human woman.

Marina thought she saw a flash of regret cross Inga’s face, but realized instantly that it was a programmed response. Just like the moan when she touched her. Just like her breathing. Just like the soft flush to her skin. All programming.

She became annoyed at herself for falling into Molenski’s honey trap.

“Will that be all?” she snapped.

“Well, how was it?” he asked, a knowing smile on his face.

“Okay, I guess,” she shrugged.

“Just okay?” Molenski leered, noting her blush and smeared lipstick. “Looked more than okay from where I was standing, don’t you think Ivan?”

Ivan shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

“It was very… realistic,” Marina conceded, not willing to give him more than that.

Her boss gave her a shark’s grin that promised more mischief in the very near future and, not for the first time, Marina thought it might be time to get the hell out of Dodge.

“Go,” he said, waving her off as he stepped up to Inga and groped her backside. “Take the rest of the afternoon off; I have things to do…”

“Don’t forget you are having Mr. Bernstein for lunch,” Marina said, before turning on her heel and heading back into the house.

She was glad to be leaving. Even though she knew that Inga was a machine and the kiss they had just shared was nothing more than a coded response on the robot’s part, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for her on a human level. She had gleaned enough of Molenski’s motives to know that the Genitix machine wasn’t there to satisfy only his sexual needs… if at all.

Molenski watched her go. He had forgotten Bernstein, his most important business partner, was coming for lunch. He really would need to put off his fun with Inga until late tonight.

“Come, follow me,” he ordered the robot and headed back to the kitchen without looking back to check she was following.

“Yes, Dimi,” she said, and fell in behind him, followed by Ivan who tried to keep his attention focused on the back of the robot’s head.

It was going to be an interesting afternoon.

Part 2 – Myfriend

5

Isabella barely flinched when her boss walked into her kitchen followed by a gorgeous, semi-naked girl and a bashful Ivan, who, unusually, didn’t even look her way.

Isabella was well accustomed to strange goings on in the Molenski household and for the most part managed to ignore them. She was extremely curious this time, though, especially when just a minute before Marina had rushed through, red-faced and obviously unhappy.

She watched the trio surreptitiously as they passed by.

The girl, obviously aware she was being observed, turned and smiled. She was clear-eyed, clearly not a drugged-up whore like those Molenski sometimes treated his men to. Isabella smiled back, then turned back to wiping her benchtop, even more curious. She made a promise to grill Ivan at the first opportunity she got.

She was unsurprised when they headed up the staircase in the direction of Molenski’s bedroom. The Russian was also known to treat himself occasionally, and the young girl looked quite the treat. Isabella found herself excited. The fiery Latin side of her loved drama, and if Mrs. Molenski came home while the girl was still in the house, or better still in her marital bed, things could get very dramatic, very quickly.

The Russian paused on the steps and turned to look at her. Isabella looked down quickly, furiously rubbing at an imaginary spot on the bench.

“Lunch will be ready in an hour, yes?” he asked.

“Si, Senor.”

“Good. When my guest arrives, see him to the dining room.”

6

Ivan didn’t complain when Molenski broke their security protocol by opening the bedroom door and going through without waiting for him. They both knew the house was impregnable to all but a small army, but usually it was the boss himself who insisted they never deviate from his rules – his years in the vicious underworld having given him a unique outlook on personal security.

Once in the bedroom, Ivan took his usual place by the door to the balcony as Molenski sat on the bed and began playing with the wafer-thin control tablet. Inga came to a standstill, watching him and apparently awaiting further instruction.

Ivan took the opportunity to look at her more closely. He had stopped thinking of her as a machine. His mind was unable to fathom that anything or anyone that beautiful could merely be a machine. She was perfect, and he was curious as to his boss’s motives.

Surely it wasn’t just sex? Although he thought her a bitch, Molenski’s wife Tatiana was also very beautiful, and he, perhaps more than anyone, was privy to how wild their sex sessions were. The walls of the mansion weren’t quite thick enough to block out those sounds.

Even then, if he grew bored with Tatiana, the Russian would just pay for it. Never prostitutes, though. Molenski loved to test people’s greed and boundaries and if he were in the mood, would randomly offer beautiful girls he met enormous sums of money to come home with him. From sales assistants in department stores to girls just waiting at a bus stop. If they took his fancy, he would persist, raising his offer until it was literally an offer too good to refuse.

So why would he pay what must have been an enormous amount of money for what was essentially a sex doll?

A ding from the control tablet disturbed Ivan’s musings.

“You have successfully activated Genitix patented PhysSens software,” Inga said. “Please enjoy this exclusive feature.”

Ivan’s eyes widened in shock when Molenski stood up and delivered a vicious slap to the machine’s face. Inga groaned in pain, and she reeled from the blow.

The Russian watched greedily as she recovered her balance and then stood holding her hand to her cheek. Tears were pooling in her eyes.

“Dah, very realistic,” said Molenski, as happy as Ivan had ever seen him. “Very soon I’m going to make you hurt like I should have made you hurt a long time ago.”

Ivan was confused. Was his boss losing it? When Molenski stepped forward and hit Inga with a stunning right cross to the jaw, Ivan took an involuntary step forward.

This time, Inga cried out and collapsed to her knees, holding her face and sobbing. Molenski stood watching her for a second, an unmistakable bulge in his pants, before turning to Ivan.

“You have something to say?”

“Nyet. Sorry, you just took me by surprise, Boss.”

Molenski bent over and grabbed Inga’s hair, pulling it so that she was forced to raise her tear streaked face for Ivan to see. There was a red welt on the left side of her jaw. Ivan grimaced.

“Ivan, come she’s not a girl. Just a fucking machine… ha! A fucking machine, get it?”

He bent over her and planted his lips on hers. Ivan didn’t laugh at Molenski’s poor joke. He was angry at him and sorry for the girl even though he knew she was not a girl at all.

His mind was still fighting a running battle with his logic, brawling over how any machine could look so much like a real person. Logic almost had the battle won when he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss those pretty lips like Molenski.

“Mmm, damn, you taste good bitch. Does your pussy taste that good?”

“Why don’t you find out,” she teased, not crying anymore.

“Oh, I will,” Molenski promised, looking slightly unhappy that her pain had given way so easily to seduction. “For now, shut the fuck up until you’re spoken to.”

He watched her for a moment, almost daring her to say something. She didn’t. He turned back to Ivan, looking thoughtful.

“Hmm, Inga.”

“Yes, Dimi?”

“I’m going to go and eat my lunch. My friend here seems to be quite fascinated by you. You will give him a head job,” he said and walked to the door.

“Yes, Dimi.”

Ivan reddened and shook his head as Inga stood up.

“No, it’s okay, I…”

“Shut up and let her do as she’s told,” said Molenski, turning in the doorway.

Ivan nodded grimly. When Inga reached him, she dropped to her knees and smiled up at him, the livid mark plain on her jaw. With both hands, she began unzipping his fly. Molenski smiled at his small victory and closed the door.

Inga’s soft, warm hands were soon busy making their way into his boxers. Then her deft fingers found him and… he grasped her wrists, pulling them away gently, yet forcefully.

“Please, stop.”

She stopped immediately, her protocols not allowing her to continue even if she had been capable of wanting to.

“Do I not please you Myfriend?”

He looked down at her beautiful, questioning face.

“You please me a lot… but, please just stand up.”

He took her hands and began to pull her to her feet. For just an instant he felt the weight of her, then she took the strain and rose lightly to her feet.

“Thank you,” he said, zipping up his fly.

“You’re welcome,” she said, automatically and then paused. “For what are you thanking me, Myfriend?”

“My name is Ivan.”

“Dimitri Molenski, my primary owner, designated you ‘Myfriend’. If this is incorrect, please have the primary owner correct my understanding.”

“Never mind,” said Ivan. “What now?”

“I have many secondary functions that you may wish to take advantage of, including massage, internet, dancing, judo, kung fu…”

He thought for a moment. Sparring with a robot would be interesting, but the risk of damaging Molenski’s property made him dismiss the thought immediately. He spied Molenski’s handmade chess table in the corner.

“Do you play chess?”

“Yes, Myfriend.”

“Ahh, let us play! But first…”

Inga watched him as he disappeared into the bathroom and returned carrying a white bathrobe. He opened it for her.

“Here, this will keep you…”

What? Warm? Idiot!

“Will keep me?”

“Comfortable,” he said, studiously ignoring her ripe body.

He half expected her to tell him she didn’t require comfort, but she simply held one arm out and slipped it through an armhole followed by the other. Ivan tied the robe for her, the innocent gesture feeling curiously intimate.

“Let us play!”

They walked across to the table and sat down opposite one another.

An hour and twenty minutes later, Ivan, a former regional high-school chess champion in Moscow, was wiping sweat off his brow as he tried to find a way out of the predicament in which he found himself. It was their third game, and Inga had crushed him unmercifully in the first two. He had put up a better fight this time but again found himself in a losing position.

Inga watched him, a pleasant smile on her face, looking just as alluring in the bathrobe as she had in her underwear. It was hopeless; she would have him in three moves. With a rueful smile, he tipped his King onto its side.

“Good game, Myfriend. Would you like another?”

“Maybe another time.” He glanced at his watch. “Mr. Molenski will be back soon.”

“Yes, Dimi advised me he will hurt me like he should have made me hurt a long time ago.”

Ivan’s eyes widened. He remembered well Molenski saying those words, and the thought of the Russian’s cruelty unleashed on the girl made him feel sick. Especially after spending some time alone with her.

She watched him with an even gaze.

“What do you think about that?” he asked her.

“Think about what, Myfriend?”

“About Mr. Mol… Dimi saying that he will hurt you. Are you scared?”

“Scared – fearful, frightened, afraid.” She reached up and touched the bruise on her jaw.

Her next words were unnatural, more like the voiceover in a TV advertisement. “While my adaptive technology allows me to feel emotions, they are a learned response. Much like a child who is unafraid of a spider before a parent conditions their response, I will only feel emotions when I experience the consequences of certain actions.”

It occurred to him that perhaps he wasn’t so very different to her. He wasn’t scared of Molenski either. Not for himself at least, although that could easily change if he were to be on the receiving end of the Russian’s cruelty. Perhaps he was almost as much of a machine as her?

It was then he remembered something from their chess play. He was sure he had seen her smile several times during their play. It hadn’t registered initially; he had been too preoccupied trying to defend against her skillful attacking play. But now that he thought about it, he was sure of it. He was about to ask her about it when Molenski walked in without knocking.

Ivan noticed the steak knife in his boss’s hand immediately and rose to his feet.

7

“Get up,” Molenski said.

He crossed to Inga and flicked the lapel of the bathrobe with the steak knife.

“What’s this? Take it off.”

She slipped off the robe and let it slide to the floor.

“Pull down your bra.”

“Yes, Dimi,” she said, and seductively touched her tongue to her upper lip before grasping her bra and pulling it down over her breasts. They sprang free, her nipples erect and firm. She held the bra down with her arms squeezed against her side.

“Excellent. Let’s see how you bleed.”

Molenski took a step closer and ignored the sharp intake of breath from his bodyguard as he put the point of the blade against the swell of her bust.

Inga flinched in pain as Molenski pricked her skin with the point of the sharp implement.

He maintained pressure on the knife as blood bubbled from the wound, pooling around the knife point and the depression it made. When he was satisfied, he pulled the knife away and watched as the blood slowly trickled down her pale skin to her nipple, where it formed a droplet.

Molenski used the blade of his knife to collect the droplet and raise it to his mouth, licking it from the cold metal.

“Well, well, well! Even tastes like the real thing,” he said, like an excited schoolboy. He patted her cheek. “This is gonna be so much fun!”

He couldn’t wait to see how she bled when he really went to work. Finally, he could inflict the damage he had planned for that day in Russia, so long ago. It wouldn’t be quite the same as doing it to the real bitch, but it would do.

It was a pity he had to wait even a few hours.

“Pick her a dress from Tatiana’s wardrobe and then take her to the Red Room,” he said to Ivan. “Pick from the left side of the robe; it’s the stuff she doesn’t want anymore.”

Ivan was unhappy, not only at what he had just witnessed but also at the mention of the Red Room. Molenski’s intentions were clear now. Nothing that began in the Red Room ended well. He tried to rationalize and let it go. Inga was a machine after all – it wasn’t as if the pain she felt would be real. He couldn’t let it go, though, and it was with a deep sense of disquiet he walked to the door of the robe.

“Come,” he said.

Molenski kicked off his shoes and lay down, pulling his phone from his pocket.

Ivan ushered her through and then closed the door before turning and finding her barely inches from him. Her bra was still bunched under her breasts, the trail of blood stark against her pale skin. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief.

Inga looked up at him with wide eyes as he wet the corner of his handkerchief with his tongue. He tried to remain clinical as he dabbed away the blood, but her nipples stiffened at the innocent attention. Suddenly the proximity of her semi-naked form in the cramped space made him blush.

A blush? Is that all? What’s wrong with me?

He finished more roughly than he had intended and pulled back as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

“You can pull your bra back up now.”

“No Myfriend, Dimi told me I must pull my bra down.”

“It’s Ivan…” he said absently. “Yes, he told you that, but it’s alright now.”

“It was his last order,” she said, reasonably.

Ivan’s eyes narrowed. How to get around a robot’s logic? Then it came to him.

“No, his last order was that I find you a dress to wear. To wear a dress, you need your bra on properly or Dimi will be displeased.”

“You are right, Myfriend.”

She pulled the bra back into place and smiled. He couldn’t help but feel a pang at her puppy-like response.

“Thank you, Myfriend.”

“You’re welcome.”

He didn’t bother to correct her again. The truth was, he liked the way she called him that. It felt like their little secret.

“Now, let’s find you something nice to wear,” he said, turning back to the clothes.

“Nice: giving pleasure or satisfaction; pleasant or attractive.”

“Yes. Nice, like you.”

He began to rifle through the multitude of hangers in the left ‘wing’ of the walk-in. Now and then he would pull a dress out at an angle to look at it and then back at Inga.

“Is that one nice, Myfriend?” She would ask every time he did this.

“Nyet, not nice enough for you.”

She followed him patiently as he looked and rejected at least five dresses before finally pulling out a light summer dress. It was white with black polka dots, and he looked at her as he held it out.

“Is that one nice, Myfriend?”

“Dah, I think so,” he said, pulling it off the hanger and displaying it to her. “Do you like it?”

“I am not programmed to have taste in items of clothing, Myfriend.”

“Well, I am. It will suit you – here, put it on.”

Inga took it from him and pulled it over her head. She pulled it down over her shoulders before shrugging it into place.

“Do I look nice?”

He reached out and brushed away the strand of hair that had fallen onto her face.

“More than nice. Beautiful,” he said.

Right then, even with the nasty bruise on her chin, he thought she was about the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Beautiful: having beauty; possessing qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about.”

“Yes, all of those things,” he said, dreamily. “You are…”

“What the hell are you doing in there, Ivan? You better not be fucking my Inga!”

Molenski’s harsh voice shattered the moment and Ivan’s smile faded.

“Come.”

“Yes, Myfriend.”

“Oh yeah, nice choice,” said Molenski appreciatively, when they emerged from the closet. “Jesus, I could fuck her right now! But we have to leave for the airport soon. Tatiana is a real asshole when I keep her waiting.”

“Do I look beautiful, Dimi?”

“What?” asked the Russian with raised eyebrows.

“Do I look beautiful?”

“Yes, you look fuckable.”

“Fuckable: highly desirable as a sexual partner – able to be or worthy of being fucked; sexually attractive.”

Molenski looked at Ivan and his bodyguard shrugged.

“Go! Take her to the Red Room and come right back.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Ivan led the barefoot Inga to the door and began to open it.

“Wait! She will put these on.”

Ivan turned in time to catch a pair of white socks, still in their packaging.

“Make sure she puts those on, she always wore them for me…” Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Go! Leave my toolbox on the bench, I don’t want to waste any time tonight.”

Ivan nodded once before continuing through the door, a knot of dread in his gut. The question of the socks and who wore them paled into insignificance at the mention of the toolbox. Inga followed dutifully.

Isabella was cleaning up after the boss’s lunch when Ivan led the beautiful girl, now dressed, through the kitchen. She swallowed a sarcastic comment when she saw his storm cloud of a face. The girl turned and smiled at her again. Isabella noted the bruise on her chin. She didn’t smile back.

What the hell went on in that bedroom?

Suddenly she was not so sure she wanted to be around when Mrs. Molenski found the girl in her home.

8

Ivan led Inga down the stairs into the basement and they headed for the red door. A different group of Molenski’s men sat around laughing and smoking now. The afternoon shift. They became silent when they spied the two approaching. When they were close enough, the silence turned to wolf whistles and catcalls.

Ivan glowered.

Led by the cocky Danny Garcia, the five men stood and came across to meet them. Garcia circled to get a better view of the pretty girl, who smiled at them one by one, drawing sniggers from some of them.

“Hey big man,” said Garcia. He was only 28 but since Andre’s shift had finished at midday, he was the most senior of the guards on duty. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your pretty friend?”

“She’s not my friend,” growled Ivan, looking down at him. The look on his face was the same as one he’d have after stepping on dog shit. “She’s Mr. Molenski’s friend, so fuck off.”

“Hey, chill man. Just being friendly. Hey chica, what’s your name?”

“My name is Inga. I am fuckable.”

This brought gales of laughter from the men. Ivan’s jaw tightened.

“Damn! You sure are, ain’t she boys? Oh, but you must have been naughty if you’re heading to the Red Room. What did you do, Chica?” He asked, looking her up and down and then grabbing his crotch.

Suddenly Ivan’s hand snatched him by the throat and pulled him close. Garcia sputtered, his eyes bulging as he tried to pry the big man’s fingers off his neck.

“I said fuck off…”

None of the others moved to help Garcia; they were too frightened of Molenski to mess with Ivan. Instead, aid came from a surprising source.

Inga’s hand fell on Ivan’s shoulder and pinched his trapezius muscle between her fingers. While gentle, they held the promise of pain.

“Myfriend, please release this person, or I will be forced to disable you and alert local law enforcement.”

He looked at her, dumbfounded, then remembered.

…or by inaction allow a human to come to harm.

He released Garcia and pushed him heavily in the chest. The smaller man fell to the concrete floor, spluttering for air as two of his friends helped him to his feet.

“You’ll pay for that you dumb Russian fuck!”

Ivan ignored him and stalked to the red door, opening it and waving Inga through. He slammed the door so hard it shook the door frame. He was angry… and hurt. Angry at himself and, even though he wouldn’t have admitted it, hurt at Inga’s intervention.

What the hell is wrong with me? She’s just a fucking machine.

Her intervention had driven that fact home hard. He was nothing to her.

“You will stand in that corner,” he snapped and pointed to the far corner of the room.

As angry as he was at himself and her, he couldn’t bring himself to make her sit in the chair. The same chair that Molenski had pasted that poor bastard’s cock and balls over earlier.

“Yes, Myfriend.”

“You will wait there until Mr. Molenski comes.”

“Are you upset with me, Myfriend?”

His eyes widened.

“What? Nyet!” He tore the sock packet open and handed them to her. “Go! Stand in the corner and put these on.”

She looked at him a few seconds longer as if trying to solve a puzzle.

“Yes, Myfriend.”

She turned and walked past the bloodstains on the floor to the corner, then faced the room. He watched as she bent and pulled on the socks one at a time, somehow making this innocuous act extraordinarily sensual. When she was done, she straightened and looked at him again. He ignored her, went to the bench and retrieved Molenski’s toolbox before carrying it to the table in the center of the room.

Ivan’s eyes found the hammer. Its iron head was clean now, but a bloody fingerprint, stark against the yellow of the handle was telling.

He looked up at the pretty girl in the corner. Machine or not, she didn’t deserve what was coming. Didn’t deserve to be Molenski’s victim of torture. He remembered the way she had touched the bruise on her chin. She had felt pain and to her it was real. He felt his anger melt away.

He walked to her, drinking in her beauty and wondered if he’d be able to recognize her the next day when Molenski had finished with her… would she even be alive? – operational, he corrected himself.

She smiled radiantly as he approached.

“Myfriend.”

“Yes,” he said gently. “I…”

He didn’t know what to say. After all the damage and death he had seen done to real humans in this room, why was he so affected by a damn machine?

“Yes, Myfriend? Do you wish to communicate?”

He shook his head helplessly.

“No. I am going now. That’s all.”

“Yes. I shall wait for Dimi. Goodbye, Myfriend.”

Ivan suddenly found it difficult to think and escaped the room in a hurry. He rested against the closed door after he had exited and took a few seconds to calm himself.

“Looks like someone’s got the hots for the boss’s next victim,” said Garcia, before taking a deep drag on a cigarette.

Ivan took a step towards him and was rewarded when the loudmouth tensed and reached for his pocket.

“Stay out of there if you know what’s good for you, Garcia,” said Ivan, unaware of how prophetic his words would come to be.

He spat on the floor before stalking off.

Danny didn’t risk voicing a comeback, but the look in his eyes was defiant.

Molenski was silent when he climbed in the back seat of the limo. That suited Ivan fine. He couldn’t get Inga out of his mind and the silence during the twenty-minute ride to the airport gave him a chance to think about her without any distractions.

He knew what he was feeling. A schoolboy crush. But on a robot? Why else had he been so hurt and angry when she had intervened on behalf of Garcia, earlier. But, even knowing how ridiculous it was to have a crush, to be feeling the first blush of love for a machine, it didn’t make the feeling any less real.

He began to fantasize about taking her from the Red Room and escaping when they got back. He imagined shooting Danny in the face when he tried to stop them and Inga resting her head on his shoulder as they drove off into the night.

A stupid fantasy. There was no way Inga would allow him to take her. She belonged to Molenski and he would have his bloody way with her tonight. Worse, Ivan would have to stand by and watch it.

9

Danny Garcia was angry and humiliated. He wanted to kill the big Russian, but for now, that was a fight better left for another day. The girl, though, that was another story. The boys had calmed him down, and then one of them had produced a bottle of tequila.

“Something to make you feel better, Danny!”

With the courage of two shots warming his blood, Ivan’s warning only made the idea of messing with the sexy bitch in the Red Room more appealing. The big bastard obviously had a thing for her, but he wasn’t the one to be concerned about, Molenski was where the buck stopped.

After the third shot of the Mexican liquor, he managed to convince himself Molenski wouldn’t mind – after all, no one that entered the Red room left in one piece. Surely the boss wouldn’t begrudge him a few minutes of fun.

He decided he would pay the pretty little chica a visit. One she wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

When the bottle was finished, the others stood up to head back into the air-conditioned guard’s room to watch TV and loaf around until the next shift started.

“I’ll just have another smoke,” Garcia said, lighting up and waiting until they had closed the door.

He took a last deep drag and stubbed it out. Time for some fun.

Garcia went to the red door and opened it slowly. She was standing in the corner looking at him as if she had been waiting. Creepy, but whatever. He closed the door and turned the latch. Best not to have anyone stumble in while he was busy.

“Hey, Chica! I thought you might be getting lonely in here.”

The girl didn’t respond. Didn’t move in fact, just stared ahead, her eyes not even following him as he approached. When he reached her, he leaned over her and propped himself against the wall with one arm.

“Aww, don’t be shy chica, Danny’s gonna make it all right,” he whispered into her ear.

She stared straight through him.

“The fuck? Are you meditating or are you a fucking retard?”

Nothing.

Hell, maybe she was drugged. Garcia reached out and touched her bruised jaw.

“I guess you like it rough chica…” he whispered, before allowing his eyes to crawl over her body. He felt himself stir. This bitch was hot. Like, supermodel hot. He wondered briefly what she had done to get in the boss’s bad books, then shrugged it off.

Her misfortune was his good fortune.

He dropped his hand to the hem of her dress, his fingertips brushing the soft, warm skin of her thigh as he grasped the material and slowly pulled it up, watching greedily as it slipped up over her smooth skin to reveal her white panties. Still, she stared straight ahead like she was in a trance.

He began to breathe a bit harder as he placed his second hand on her other side, running it down the warm curve of her hip to her thigh. He pulled the dress even higher and his right hand made its way between her legs, where his finger touched the white triangle of her panties and the promise beneath.

It was then he glanced up and found her blue eyes wide open and looking at him curiously. His hand froze in place.

“Chica! You’re awake.”

Garcia felt his face redden. Like a kid caught with his hand down his pants. It made him angry, why the fuck should he be embarrassed?

“Who are you?”

“Aww, that don’t matter, bitch.”

He pulled his hands away and straightened before reaching into his belt and pulling out a small knife. He tapped it against his cheek thoughtfully.

“What matters is you keeping your mouth shut and enjoying what I’m going to do for you, okay?”

“Is Dimi coming soon?”

“What?” he asked, annoyed. “What are you, slow? Don’t worry about Dimi; it’s me you need to worry about.”

“Where is Myfriend?”

“What the fuck, bitch!?”

Garcia swung an open hand at her face. It never landed. Never even got close. Impossibly fast, the girl’s hand snatched his wrist mid-flight and held it like a vice.

“No one is to touch me without the express permission of my owner, Dimitri Molenski.”

Garcia tried to shake her off, but her grip was impossible. Enraged, he swung a punch with his other hand. Inga also caught that one too.

Not the sharpest tool in the shed, it was then, caught like Brer Rabbit in the tar baby, Danny Garcia finally realized that the girl was not a girl at all.

He struggled a little longer, angry not only at the fact she had bested him but also that he had not recognized her – it – for what it was.

“Okay – okay,” he said, eventually realizing that resistance was futile. “Let me go; I’ll keep my hands off.”

Inga released him, and Garcia rubbed his wrists, looking warily at her as he began to slowly back away.

Unlike Ivan and his boss, Garcia, now aware of what she was, had no problem seeing Inga as a machine, and she terrified him. As a child, he’d been frightened of a doll that his sister owned. It was one of those big creepy dolls whose eyes opened when you stood them up. Add in a couple of horror movies at a too impressionable age, and his phobia of mechanical humans had been deeply entrenched.

Now that he knew what she was; he couldn’t wait to get out. When he thought he had backed up a safe distance between them, he turned and hurried to the door.

If not for bad timing, he may have left the room alive.

10

In an apartment four blocks away from Dimitri Molenski’s enclave, three men were assembled around a bank of monitors and computer equipment. Two of the men stood, while the other, pale and sweaty, sat on a chair. The ID card on his pocket stated he was Tim Redfern, Genitix Robotics Technician.

Just a few hours before, he and his driver had been forced off the road on their way to deliver a custom made Sinthetica model to a customer in an exclusive part of Chicago. The driver had been killed with a double tap, two shots to the head from a silenced pistol, and Tim had been taken captive and forced to drive the van, with the body of the driver and the robot to an abandoned warehouse.

“You will install this in the machine,” the bigger of the two men had ordered, handing him a clear plastic sleeve containing a tiny interface card.

“What is it?”

“It is a computer card,” said the big man, simply.

“Yeah, I can see that, but what’s its function?”

“Never mind, you’ll find out soon enough.”

He had indeed.

Initially, he thought that the card had only allowed the men to track the robot’s movements via the handheld GPS unit they had. But since then, he had discovered it also let them see what the robot was seeing – to tap directly into its visual feed which was displayed in glorious HD color on the monitors in front of him.

But all of that paled into insignificance, compared to the primary and far more sinister function of the card. A function that allowed a user to remotely override all of the robot’s hard coding and give it orders.

With the muzzle of a gun against his temple, he had been informed that he would be entering new codes when they received a call to give them the all clear.

“What do you want it to do?”

“Simple, you’re to program it to kill everybody in the building.”

Tom had glanced at the three screens showing what appeared to be three levels of a very large building and surrounding grounds. He was in shock and didn’t take the time to count, but there appeared to be more than twenty heat signatures.

“That’s mass murder… I won’t do it.”

The big man chuckled.

“Not even for Rachel and Sarah and Bethany?”

Tom felt bile rise in his throat and tried to stand. He was pushed roughly back into his seat.

“Who are you?”

“Easy. The less you know, the better. Your wife and kids are safe if you do as you’re told. If it makes you feel any better, most of the people the robot will be wasting are criminals.”

It didn’t make him feel any better that they were criminals, but the fact was, he would do anything to keep Rachel and the girls safe. Seated between the two stone cold killers, Redfern doubted he would make it home to them.

Despite what his abductors said; he had seen too much. Still, while there was a chance to get out of this alive, he decided to do whatever the two gunmen wanted of him, even if it meant breaking the law and being a party to murder.

The cell phone on the desk began to vibrate, and the big man snatched it up.

“Yes?” he said, then listened for a few moments and then terminated the call. “It’s time; Molenski is only a few minutes away from the estate.”

“Go ahead, do your magic Mr. Technician,” said the other, gesturing to the console.

Tom took a deep breath and began typing.

11

Garcia had just grasped the door handle when the robot spoke in a soft voice.

“Accepting new programming…”

The sentence was followed by two distinctly machine-like beeps and a low humming sound that quickly faded. The thug then made the mistake of turning around. The robot was walking towards him.

“What are you doing? Get back in your corner.”

She continued towards him, smiling like an idiot, and it horrified him. He turned back to the door handle, his sweaty fingers slipping as he desperately tried to release the latch he had locked earlier.

Finally, he did it and turned the handle, ripping the door open. He had barely taken a step when her hand grabbed him by his hair. The scream he let out was decidedly unmanly, and he scrabbled at the doorframe as the robot effortlessly dragged him back into the room. The last thing he saw was her pretty face, still smiling, as her hands gripped his head and twisted it sharply. His body dropped to the floor.

The truncated scream was enough to alert the men in the guard’s room. The robot heard raised voices and running footsteps, before the door burst open.

The beautiful but now deadly robot lightly stepped over Garcia’s body to the threshold of the doorway. Marco, the new guy was keen to impress and beat the others to be the first man through the door of the Red Room. Inga grabbed the wrist of his gun hand and slammed the heavy red door against his shoulder twice, while pulling his arm back at an unnatural angle.

The weapon dropped from numb fingers and his bloodcurdling screams spooked the others into shooting ineffectually at the metal door. The robot, still smiling, began to slam the door repeatedly, pulverizing the unfortunate Marco’s shoulder and upper arm. He passed out just before she wrenched his limb from the mangled mess of his shoulder.

He fell backwards out of the doorway to the floor in front of his horrified co-workers as the door closed with a heavy thud.

“Jesus! What the fuck!? Hold your fire!” yelled a chubby guard named Ray, who also happened to be Danny Garcia’s best friend.

He bent over Marco and then began to drag him away from the door. The gravely injured man was unconscious, with blood pumping from his ruined shoulder at an alarming rate.

“Milos, go and get a towel! And call the boss or Andre or someone!” Ray screamed.

Milos ran back to the guard’s room.

“Was it Danny? Has he fucking lost it?” Ray asked as he tried vainly to staunch the flow of blood with his bare hand.

“I don’t think it was Danny…” said the other guard, Charlie.

Ray took his hand away and stood up, looking at the other man in disbelief.

“What… the girl? Bullshit!”

“I’m pretty sure the hand that grabbed Marco had painted nails…”

Ray stood up and charged at the door, hammering on it with his blood-soaked hands.

“Danny, come on out! What the fuck…”

The door was snatched open, and Ray found himself face to face with the beautiful girl they had lusted over earlier. Her white, polka dot dress was now marred by a large blood spatter. On the floor behind her lay his friend Danny, his head turned at an unnatural angle, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling, a look of permanent surprise on his face.

Confused, he looked back at the petite girl. That was when he saw she was holding Marco’s severed arm, swinging it slowly back and forth like a batter warming up as he approaches the home plate.

Belatedly realizing the danger he was in, Ray began to bring his gun up. He was too slow. Inga swung the arm, clubbing him on the side of the head. The heavy blow poleaxed him, and he fell face first into the floor, his gun clattering onto the concrete.

The man behind Ray, a 24-year-old called Charlie, looked at her, stunned at what he had just witnessed. As her eyes fell on him, he took a step back, and reached for his belt. His hands grasped at nothing and he realized he’d left his gun behind when they’d run out to see what the commotion was.

Never mind. He pulled the switchblade knife out of his pocket and flicked it open.

“Come on bitch!” he said, baring his teeth.

He was still not quite willing to believe that the slender girl had been anything other than lucky. She had simply taken the others by surprise. Well, ole Charlie was ready for her. He crouched and began to weave the blade back and forth in front of him.

Surprising him completely, she dismissed him and turned away. Still holding the severed arm in her left hand, she bent over and picked up Ray’s gun, placed the muzzle against his temple and pulled the trigger.

“Fuck!” yelled Charlie, the concussion of the gunshot still ringing in his ears.

The girl looked up and stepped over Ray’s body. Charlie decided it was time to get the fuck out of there. He turned and ran, weaving as he went, waiting at any moment for a bullet in the back. Again, she ignored him and walked over to the gravely wounded Marco. She bent over and also shot him through the temple.

A quarter of the way to the stairway that led to the upper levels of the house, Charlie squealed at the gunshot and ducked, almost tripping before righting himself and continuing. Inga turned away from the body of Marco and stood up, raised her gun and aimed at him.

Before she squeezed the trigger, Milos ran out of the guard’s room, gun in one hand, towel in the other. He took in the fan of blood and brains around Marco’s head and immediately squeezed off a panicked shot at her.

It missed completely. Inga turned, bringing her gun around to face this new threat. His second shot grazed her shoulder. He didn’t get a third. Inga’s shot took him in the chest, throwing him onto his back.

Milos groaned and put a hand over the wound, hoping to stem the blood. His whole body felt numb, and he could hear his breath whistling with every ragged breath. He could only watch as the beautiful young woman walked over to him. He held up his hands in surrender as she aimed at his forehead.

“Please…”

She squeezed off two shots, then bent over and felt for a pulse. Satisfied, she stood up again and scanned the basement for the target who had run away.

She spotted him in the distance, now three-quarters of the way to the other end of the basement.

“Target acquired,” Inga said, to no one in particular and jogged after him.

Looking back over his shoulder, Charlie saw the smiling girl begin to pursue him. She still had the severed arm in one hand, and a smoking pistol in the other. Badly out of breath, he whimpered in fright and somehow found a way to run faster.

“Yes, yes, yes…” he panted as he closed the gap to the open doors that led up into the boss’s home.

He almost made it.

Slowing as he approached the opening, the murderous robot dropped the severed arm onto the basement floor with a meaty plop and skidded to a stop, raising her gun and steadying it with one hand as she aimed at the center of the fleeing man’s back.

Luckily, or unluckily, for Charlie, pistols don’t allow for expert marksmanship at a distance. He was five feet from the door when her shot took him high on the right buttock. The force of it sent him skidding face first into the polished concrete, coming to rest right on the threshold of the doorway. With a supreme effort and moaning at the burning agony in his butt cheek, he crawled through.

Over the sounds of his struggling breath he distinctly heard the sound of her bare feet padding on the concrete as she began to run again.

Adrenalin gave him a new burst of energy, and he dragged himself to his feet, bleeding from the ass, but alive. He began to pull the heavy double doors shut. If he could just get them locked and make it up the stairs…

12

Much to Ivan’s disgust, the reunited lovers spent most of the drive home tonguing each other’s mouths while he pretended to study the wet Chicago streets through the tinted window. Back in the Arrivals lounge of O’Hare, the couple had reunited with an ostentatious but somehow hollow display of affection that had drawn furtive glances from other travelers. Tatiana Molenski had barely acknowledged Ivan.

That suited him fine. He wasn’t fond of her either. She was the Russian equivalent of white trash, a girl from the slums of Moscow who had won the lottery by hooking up with Molenski on one of his frequent trips home. Not only that, she wore too much makeup and was loud and obnoxious. He couldn’t deny, though; she was a beautiful woman under all the shit she plastered on her face. Unfortunately, her beauty was only skin deep, and not in Inga’s league.

His mind turned back to Inga.

Interestingly, Molenski hadn’t mentioned his new toy to his wife. As a rule, they shared the same carnal tastes, whether it be girls or drugs, and Ivan often had to bear silent witness to their debauchery. Clearly, Molenski wanted to enjoy this particular ‘item’ all by himself.

Not soon enough for Ivan, they arrived back at the estate. They were waved through the gate by the sentry and the driver carefully negotiated the long drive up to the front of the house. Ivan got out and held the door open for the boss and his wife. He was about to follow them in when Molenski turned and held up his hand, leaning in close.

“Go down to the basement with the car and check on my package, will you?” His lipstick smeared lips curled into a smile. “Tatiana and I will be busy for a while, so don’t hurry back.”

Ivan nodded and returned to the car. As he settled into the front passenger seat, he had a small, happy smile on his face. What a break! He would avoid having to watch the Molenski’s go at it like rabbits, and he would get to see Inga.

He watched until the guards at the front door had ushered the couple through and then closed the door.

“Let’s go.”

The driver followed the winding driveway around the flamboyant fountain in front of the mansion and then headed towards the ramp that led down into the basement.

Molenski had told him not to hurry, and Ivan decided he would push that boundary to the limit. He felt like an excited schoolboy at the prospect of spending more time with Inga. Again, his mind turned to the fantasy of taking her and escaping before the evil bastard got his hands on her again.

At the bottom of the ramp, the driver swung the car right, heading towards the limousine’s parking space. Ivan looked towards the Red Room, but the basement was dark, and his eyes hadn’t yet adjusted from the late afternoon brightness.

Why were the florescent lights in the ceiling off?

The driver switched on the headlights, illuminating the floor ahead of them. They both saw the pale shape on the floor at the same time.

“What is that?” asked the driver, leaning over the wheel. “Trash?”

“Stop the car,” Ivan ordered.

As the car containing Ivan was beginning its descent down the ramp just 200 feet away, Inga fired again. The bullet struck the door Charlie was closing just inches from his face. A splinter of hot wood flew into his eye.

“Fuck!” He clapped a hand over his wounded eye and turned, forgetting about the door, and scrambled up the stairs as fast as his wounded body would carry him.

In hunter mode, Inga heard the car engine coming down the ramp but ignored it. She crossed the last fifty feet purposefully and kicked the still ajar double doors open with a crash and walked through.

Charlie, with his strength fading, had managed to struggle to the first landing but had now fallen to his knees, crawling across the marble as fast as his injury would allow. He had just placed his hand on the first step of the second flight when he heard her sweet voice below.

“Target reacquired.”

Charlie sobbed.

He didn’t hear her stockinged feet upon the stairs but sensed death approaching, nonetheless. He collapsed and rested his cheek against the cold marble and waited. Perhaps she would think he was dead and pass by?

She didn’t pass him by. From his vantage, he saw her come to a standstill next to him, her petite feet just inches from his face. A single drop of blood stood out starkly on the top of one of the white socks.

“Do it…” he croaked and closed his eyes as he waited for the bullet that would end his life.

A second passed. Then another. He was still alive. He opened his eyes. One of her feet had disappeared from his view, he understood why when he felt it’s soft, warm sole come to rest on the nape of his neck.

It was when she began to apply pressure that he felt her enormous strength. His life ended with a whimper and a gruesome cracking sound. The human form robot looked down at him emotionlessly for a moment, then bent over and closed his eyes before continuing up the stairs into the quiet house.

Ivan didn’t waste any time. He got out and walked straight across to the object. When he saw what it was, he stopped dead in his tracks, reached into his jacket and pulled out his Beretta. He crouched and immediately began to make his way back to the car, scanning the darkened expanse of the basement as he kept the car between himself and the guard’s quarters.

“What is it?” called the driver, inching the car forward for a better look.

Ivan made a slashing movement across his throat, but the driver didn’t see him. He was too busy staring in horror at the severed arm, the chunky gold ring on one of its stiffened fingers glinting in the headlights.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Turn the fucking lights off!” Ivan whispered, as he reached the driver’s side window.

The driver did just that, thankful when the relative darkness of the basement fell like a shroud over the gory offering.

“Stay in the car. When I’m clear, drive over to the internal staircase and wait with the engine running, we may have to evacuate the boss.”

The pale faced driver nodded. Ivan eyed him a bit longer as though to make sure he wasn’t going to flee, then ducked again as he made his way to the wall. Keeping in the shadows, he began to move along it towards the southern end of the basement and the Red Room.

As his eyes adjusted to the filtered light coming in the windows high on the basement walls, he could see that the door was open and that there was at least one shape on the floor in front of it.

So focused was he, that he didn’t even hear the driver put the car into drive and begin to move it slowly to the opposite end of the basement as he had been instructed.

Truth be told, right then, Ivan was more worried about Inga than Molenski. If they were under attack, the boss had many guards in the house, but Inga, well she had been left all alone in the Red Room and if any fucker had hurt her he would… well, he didn’t know what he would do, but the thought of someone touching her, let alone hurting her, drove him wild.

When he was close enough, he left the perceived safety of the wall and, with weapon in hand, ran to the last pillar in front of the guard’s room. There were three bodies that he could see; all appeared to be men.

He paused, gauging the situation and ensuring there was no movement in either of the open doorways. When he was satisfied, he rounded the pillar and headed for the open door of the guard’s room.

He passed the first body. Milos. There was no need to check for a pulse. He quickly glanced into the guard’s quarters and confirmed it was empty before edging along the wall and carefully stepping over Ray’s body.

He stopped beside the open door of the Red Room. A smeared trail of blood led from the doorway to the bloody, one-armed corpse of the new guy, whose name he couldn’t recall.

He cocked his head to peer into the partially open door of the Red Room. By the pale light, he could see nothing. There was no point delaying. Whatever had happened was now over, and he had to know what happened to Inga.

With a roar, he charged through, his gun at the ready. One shoe slipped in the blood on the floor, but he managed to keep his balance as he swung his weapon this way and that. Inga was nowhere to be seen. The sole occupant of the room was the lifeless Danny Garcia.

“What the fuck did you do?” he asked the corpse, as he lowered the gun.

The muffled sound of semi-automatic gunfire answered him instead. It was coming from inside the house. He ran out of the room and sprinted for the staircase.

13

Ivan passed the idling Cadillac and reached the doorway of the staircase that led up into the house. He paused, taking a deep breath before glancing quickly around the corner. Another body was sprawled face down on the steps on the middle landing. There was no sign of anyone else. He turned back and waved to the driver before entering.

The bodyguard sprinted up the steps two at a time, slowing when he reached the body. Charlie Matuzzi had clearly died a horrible death. He was covered in blood, and his neck had been crushed, almost flattened against the marble step on which his head rested. The walls seemed to close in a little and Ivan reeled as a feeling of déjà vu rocked him.

When it had passed, he continued up the stairs until he reached the ground floor. On his haunches, he peeked through the ornate balustrades into the living area. It was clear, but to the left, through the opening to the kitchen, he could see the legs of another body. A man. He thought of Isabella with a sinking feeling in his guts.

There was another burst of automatic gunfire and yelling from the floor above. It was quickly followed by more shots. It was clear Molenski was the target, and for the first time in a long time, Ivan wasn’t there to protect him. Spurred into action, he rose to his feet and staying side on to present as small a target as possible, headed for the kitchen.

Apart from the body he had spotted from the stairs, the kitchen was empty. The dead man was another of Molenski’s guards, one that Ivan didn’t know by name. He had a neat bullet wound between his staring eyes and his automatic weapon was missing. Ivan noted a discarded pistol resting on the floor a few feet from him. He looked around the kitchen, and then through the large window above the sink. Another man slumped over the railing on the patio.

Jesus, how many attackers are there? And where is Isabella?

He heard a soft scrape from the other side of the large kitchen island and immediately ducked, scrambling to the end nearest him, freakishly silent for a man of his size.

Again, on his haunches he shuffled to the corner and glanced into the area between the island and the sink. Nothing but the debris of a dropped bowl of flour. In the white mess, he saw scuff marks and a partial hand print, but no sign of footprints leaving the area. There was, however, a telltale dusting of flour on one of the cupboard handles.

With gun in hand and breathing fast, Ivan sidled along the island until he was in reach of the door. He grasped the handle and ripped it open, only to be confronted by a hissing, wide-eyed Isabella. She sprang from the cramped space, lunging at him with a carving knife.

Ivan fall onto his backside but deflected the blow with his forearm and gripped her wrist before she could strike again.

“Ivan! Sorr…”

He clamped a hand over her mouth and shook his head. He put a finger to his lips and slowly took his hand away.

“Did you see them? I need to know how many men?”

She giggled uneasily.

“No los hombres! La niña, la niña demonio…”

“What? Speak English,” he whispered harshly.

“Not men! It is the girl. Just her. She’s a demon…”

“Inga?”

“Si, the pretty one. She has a gun.”

“She shot them? Nyet… that’s not possible, she’s a robot, she’s not allowed…”

Isabella spat on the floor.

“She did it. I saw her. Lucky I am quick like the rattlesnake and ducked before she saw me, or I’d be dead too. The Russian cursed us by bringing that demonio into this house.”

“Stay here, don’t come out till I come back for you.”

This new information certainly complicated things. He had no doubt that Garcia had probably earned his broken neck, but even so, it should have been impossible for her to kill a human, let alone seven of them. He had no doubt about her goal. The trail of bodies led to the obvious conclusion.

Ivan stepped lightly over the mess of flour and rounded the island before running down the long hallway and heading for the stairs that led up to the level containing the bedrooms. At that point, he didn’t know who he was more concerned for, his boss or the pretty robot he’d somehow managed to fall for in the space of a few hours.

Part 3 – Death in Socks

14

As soon as Molenski and his wife were through the front door they began pawing at each other. Like a twisted Hansel and Gretel, they left a trail of clothes and underwear all the way to their bedroom.

Minutes later, engaged in a wild, urgent coupling, they were oblivious to the fact that death in socks was rapidly heading their way. The soundproofed walls Molenski had installed when the mansion was built, and the shitty music Tatiana insisted on playing whenever they had sex, effectively muted the symphony of murder and mayhem playing out in other parts of the house.

Tatiana, as overenthusiastic in the bedroom as she was with her makeup, squealed at every thrust of her husband. Far from turning him on, it annoyed the fuck out of him. Molenski had to work hard to blot out the shrill sound of her forced yelps. Thankfully, he had the anticipation of what he would do to Inga very soon to fuel his imagination.

Buried deep in his wife, he imagined punching Inga’s pretty face until it was bruised and bleeding, and then pulling her teeth out one by one with a pair of pliers. He would inflict such pain on her; just as he had planned to on the real Inga so long ago.

He felt himself begin to climax as he imagined taking the box cutter from the toolbox and slowly…

CRAAACK!

An enormous blow rattled the bedroom door on its hinges. The startled Russian rolled off a cursing Tatiana, fumbling for his Ruger even as a second violent blow shook the heavy door, leaving it hanging dangerously askew.

Molenski’s desperate hands overreached, knocking the weapon to the carpet as a third and final blow sent the door crashing into the room. The mobster dove off the bed, his heart thumping madly as he blindly groped for the pistol while risking a peek back over the top of the tall bed.

Like a demon in a nightmare, the smiling replica of his first love, unmindful of the bloody bullet wound in her upper arm, raised the machine pistol she was holding and aimed it at him.

“Target acquired.”

* * *

Ivan sped past the bullet-pocked walls in the hallway to the main bedroom and hurdled the bloody body of another guard.

He heard the burst of an automatic weapon in his boss’ bedroom.

FUCK!

* * *

Molenski ducked as the spray of bullets thunked into the mattress and whizzed over his head. Focusing, he ignored the fragments of foam and feathers raining down upon him and his trembling fingers finally found his trusty Ruger.

He took a deep breath and prepared to return fire as soon as there was a pause in the steady stream of bullets.

He didn’t have to wait long. A banshee shriek interrupted the flow of flying rounds, immediately followed by animal-like grunts and squeals.

Tatiana!

Molenski rose to his knees and saw his naked wife latched onto the killer robot, fighting fist and nail to bring the bitch down.

She was giving a good account of herself.

Tatiana clung to Inga, one hand bunched in her hair, the other attacking her face with a claw-like hand as the robot, one handed, tried to grip the naked, sweaty human whose blitzkrieg was preventing her from eliminating her target.

Molenski his elbows resting on the newly aerated mattress, aimed the Ruger two-handed. He took careful aim but was perfectly willing to risk hitting his wife to take out the bitch robot if a cleaner shot didn’t present itself.

Two things happened before he could take his shot. Ivan burst through the door and Inga, her pretty face now marred by the scratch marks on her left cheek, gripped the spitting, hissing Tatiana by the neck and, with enormous strength, threw her at Molenski.

The Russian didn’t duck quickly enough and was struck heavily in the shoulder by the lower leg of the airborne Tatiana. Her indignant scream was abruptly silenced by the corner of the bedside table as she landed beside him.

Gun still in hand, he quickly struggled back to his hands and knees, and, careful to stay under the level of the mattress, glanced at his wife. Her sightless eyes stared at the ceiling, the bloody, triangular indentation in her forehead a telling footnote to the final, violent minutes of her life.

Molenski felt no more emotion than he would looking at roadkill on a highway. He stayed down and waited for his bodyguard to open fire on the assassin robot.

Ivan stood in the doorway, his gun trained on Inga’s back as Molenski’s wildcat of a wife attacked her. While he didn’t want to risk hitting Tatiana, he would admit to himself later it wasn’t the only reason he held fire.

Behind them, he could see Molenski also taking aim at the two women. Ivan tensed, realizing that his boss probably had less regard for his wife’s safety than he did. He didn’t get a chance to find out. One handed, Inga finally ripped Tatiana free and, like a cruel child throwing a kitten, launched her across the room.

Ivan could have taken his shot then but didn’t. He was spellbound as Tatiana Molenski flew through the air and crashed into her husband and the bedside furniture, before coming to rest in uncharacteristic silence.

Inga wasted no time. As soon as she had rid herself of the pesky human, she stalked around the bed; machine pistol held out in front of her. Even then, knowing she would kill Molenski, Ivan couldn’t shoot her.

He yelled instead.

“INGA!”

She stopped and turned around.

When Ivan saw her eyes, he realized he’d made a terrible mistake. She didn’t know him… if she ever had.

“New target acquired,” she said, in her sweet voice and swung the weapon back to bear on him. Her arm tensed as she squeezed the trigger.

15

Tom Redfern felt sick to his stomach. The live stream from the robot had been distressing for the technician. While his two kidnappers hooted and hollered like they were watching a football game, he couldn’t wait for the carnage to be over.

When the robot kicked open the door of the bedroom, the men went into a frenzy.

“That’s him!” screamed the bigger of the two kidnappers.

“You’re dead, Motherfucker!”

They watched from the robot’s point of view, as she brought up the machine pistol she had taken from one of her victims. The naked man rolled off the bed, leaving his screaming wife to climb to her feet on the bed and stare wildly at the robot.

The thugs with Redfern jumped out of their chairs, watching rapt as the muzzle of the gun began spitting bullets into the place the naked man had just vacated.

Redfern experienced a moment of dizziness as the vision on the monitors suddenly reeled and tipped to the side. There was a flash of a woman’s crazed face, and a clawed, slashing hand. The vision reeled and tilted some more and then abruptly the naked woman was flying across the room, her scream cut off by the impact of her head on a piece of furniture.

The men laughed.

“Where is that fuck Molenski! Come on bitch, take him out.”

Someone shouted behind the robot, and the feed swiveled 180 degrees and came to rest on a powerfully built man with a crewcut. He was aiming a machine pistol at the robot, but he looked reluctant to use it.

The men in the room with Redfern ceased their shouting.

“New target acquired,” came the robot’s voice as her gun was raised towards the man in the door.

BANG!

The screen went black.

“What the fuck!?” yelled the bigger of the two kidnappers.

He banged the top of the monitor twice with his meaty hand, then the keyboard of the laptop computer.

There was nothing. No vision. No sound.

Redfern felt a sinking feeling as the men turned to look at him.

“What happened?” the big one asked as he pulled his gun from his belt and stepped up to him.

* * *

The crack of Molenski’s gunshot rent the air. Inga’s head jerked forward, her blonde hair flying in front of her accompanied by a spray of crimson as she stumbled forward from the force of Molenski’s bullet. Instead of ripping Ivan open, the burst of gunfire from her automatic weapon stitched the white carpet beside him with a line of ragged bullet holes.

In shock and with his ears ringing, Ivan was dumbfounded when Inga regained her balance despite being shot in the back of the head. She began to turn around as the Russian’s second shot struck her point blank, between the shoulders. She toppled over, dropping her weapon as she fell face first onto the carpet.

“Ha! You fucking bitch!”

A red-faced Molenski yelled at the thwarted assassin.

Ivan was so shocked and upset by the sight of Inga, shot and apparently dead; he barely registered the glimpse of metal he saw in the wound on her head.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her even as Molenski stalked across to him.

“And you!” the mob boss screamed and slapped him across the face. “You big dummy! Why didn’t you shoot her!? You could have got me killed!”

Ivan barely registered the blow. His eyes didn’t leave Inga. Sorrow racked him. He wanted to cry but knew somehow that if he tried, tears wouldn’t come.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, shit head? Are you going to fucking cry?!”

Ivan barely heard him. Behind Molenski, Inga had raised her head and looked at him, her bleeding face confused and pained.

16

The muzzle of the gun pressed into Redfern’s chin hurt. It hurt a lot, but it paled into irrelevance compared to the implicit threat of the bullet in the gun. His guts felt watery and, as he looked up into the angry face of the bigger of the two abductors, he thought he might just shit his pants.

A Chicago man with the top of his head blown off and shit in his underpants was found earlier today….

He pulled himself together, the imagined news item steeling his resolve. He clenched his buttocks in an attempt to shut off the threat of imminent bowel evacuation and tried to reason with his tormentor.

“Please, it’s not a problem at our end. It’s a problem with the feed…”

“That’s terrible news for you then,” said the big man, flicking off the safety of his gun.

“No! Please…”

“It’s nothing personal, you understand. Just close your eyes and it will be over in a second.”

Redfern opened his mouth to beg for his life when static burst from the speakers and the monitors flickered back to life. The viewing angle had changed. They were now looking up from the floor at the two men in the bedroom.

* * *

“My – My – My – Myfriend? Am I still pretty, M-M-M-My- f-f-f-friend?”

Molenski eyes widened with disbelief at the stuttering metallic voice. He jerked around, pointing his gun at her. He quickly realized that the robot was focused on Ivan rather than him and that her malfunctioning speech meant she was no further threat.

“Oh, you’re still fucking going?” he sneered. “Well, you know what? Time to go night, night, bitch!”

The mob boss stepped up to her and bent over her, placing his gun against her temple. Before he could squeeze the trigger his neck exploded in agony. Everything went black.

Ivan stood over his boss, chest heaving. He quickly pocketed the gun he had struck Molenski with and rushed to Inga.

“MyMyMyMyfriend?”

Ivan fell to his knees and grasped her hand, aware of the faint sound of sirens in the distance.

“I’m here Inga… can you stand up?”

“I am malfunctioning Myfriend, I need to go into safe mode and run a diagnostic check to scan for…”

“No! We have to get you out of here first. You can run your diagnostic check when we are in the car. Come, stand up!”

Inga allowed him to help her to her feet even though he could see that she was quickly regaining her motor skills. He hoped she wouldn’t also regain her lust for killing.

“Wait here,” he said, before running into the walk-in robe.

Inga’s eyes fell on the unconscious body of Molenski and regarded him expressionlessly until Ivan returned with a jacket, a pair of slip-on shoes and a head scarf.

“Here, put these on,” he said, handing her the jacket as he went behind her.

“Is Dimitri Molenski terminated, Myfriend?”

“No, he is… sleeping. Hurry, put your jacket on.”

The wound on the back of her head was ugly, although the blood matted hair around it perhaps made it look worse than it was. After all, she was metal beneath her skin. If she was still talking and operating, it meant the bullet hadn’t penetrated the delicate electronics beneath. He placed the scarf around her head, hiding the bullet hole, and tied it in a bow.

The sirens were much closer now and as soon as she’d put on the shoes, he ushered her out of the bedroom. He was about to follow her through the door when he spied Tatiana’s still packed suitcase. He retrieved it, then hurried Inga through the hallway and down the stairs to the ground floor.

Ivan remembered his instruction to Isabella, and when they reached the kitchen, he took Inga through to the top of the marble staircase and put the suitcase down beside her.

“Wait here.”

“Yes, Myfriend.”

He ran lightly back into the kitchen and around to the cupboard where he had discovered the Hispanic cook earlier. Remembering her carving knife, he stayed well back as he squatted by the island and knocked.

“It’s me.”

“Is it over?” she asked, as she crawled out of the safe space and to her feet.

“Yes. I have to go, but you will be safe, the police are on the way.”

He began to walk out of the kitchen.

“Did you kill her?” the cook asked.

Ivan stopped and looked back over his shoulder at her.

“You don’t need to worry about her anymore. Goodbye Isabella.”

Isabella noted the hint of finality to his words and wondered what had happened upstairs. Was Molenski alive? If so, why wasn’t he down here with Ivan? As he walked away, she rounded the island ready to ask him more questions.

“Dios es el demonion,” she whispered and made the sign of the cross as Ivan picked up a suitcase and took the girls hand before disappearing down the stairs.

Inga’s grip was gentle, but her inhuman strength was more than evident from the carnage of her killing spree, and Ivan knew that if she didn’t want to, there was no way he could have compelled her to come with him.

Her quickfire change from killing mode was clearly the result of Molenski’s gunshots. It had damaged whatever was compelling her to kill, otherwise he and his boss would have been as dead as Tatiana by now.

Even more puzzling, was the question of what had made her go crazy and breach the hardwired programming of the Robotics’ laws in the first place.

There was no time to think about it now though; they had to get out. Ivan burst into the basement with Inga hot on his heels. Even though she was a machine, she was so quiet on her feet that he had to keep glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was still following him.

Ivan cursed. The Cadillac was still there, but it was switched off, and the door was open, the driver’s seat empty. He ran over and looked in; the keys were gone.

He couldn’t blame the driver for fleeing, but that wouldn’t stop him giving him a royal kick in the ass if he ever got to see him again.

“Come,” he urged Inga and began running towards the lineup of beautiful cars that Molenski had collected. Beautiful all, but impractical for a stealthy getaway. He selected the least conspicuous and cheapest vehicle in the collection, a gunmetal gray Dodge Challenger Hellcat.

“Quickly! Hop in.”

It was only after he had uttered the words that he realized how dumb the term ‘hop in’ was. Thankfully Inga’s vocabulary was sophisticated enough to understand he didn’t mean to literally hop in.

The big V8 rumbled to life instantly when he turned the key. There would be no warm up, and as soon as she had closed her door, he jammed the transmission into reverse. Tires squealed on the polished concrete as the car shot backward.

They were both forced back into their seats when he put the car into drive and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. As he sped towards the exit, the daylight at the top of the ramp told him that the huge roller door was still open, but he was driving so fast he nearly overshot the ramp. He managed at the last instant to make the turn, the heavy car fishtailing dangerously before the tires found traction. The low-slung car bottomed out with a squeal of metal and sparks as it flew up the ramp and out onto the gravel driveway.

Ivan took a sneaky glance at his passenger. She was smiling, her hands gripping the dashboard more for balance than through fear of his driving.

He eased off the gas a little but was still traveling at a dangerous speed on the granular surface and the car slid onto the lush turf of Molenski’s manicured lawn at the first turn. Ivan cursed and spun the wheel, bringing it back under control before he raced towards the front gate. He could see no perimeter guards and assumed they’d abandoned their posts to head inside when the shooting began.

A final turn and then ahead, the heavy wrought iron gates stood open. Ivan couldn’t believe his luck. Clearly, Molenski’s driver had been in too much of a hurry to shut the gates behind him when he fled the estate. He was on the straight and approaching the gates when they began to close.

“Fuck!”

Ivan gripped the wheel harder and pressed the accelerator.

“At this velocity, the gate will close before you reach it, Myfriend,” Inga observed. “Collision at this speed will almost certainly result in your termination…”

“We’ll make it,” he said, feeling strangely happy.

The speedometer ticked upward, and the engine of the muscle car roared. 50, 55, 60, 65. The car hit 70 as it reached the closing gate. Ivan held his breath. It would be a close thing, but it was too late to stop even if he wanted to.

Inga sat, an impassive observer as Ivan sucked in a deep breath and drew in his shoulders as if that would help them squeeze through. There was an almighty screech of metal and breaking glass; the car shuddered but made it through, minus both side mirrors and sporting deep gouges in its doors and fenders.

Ivan swung right as the tires bit into the tarmac and sped off just as the first of the police cars turned onto the road from the other direction. Ivan slowed and watched his rearview mirror. The line of flashing lights pulled up sharply, some turning into the mansion’s drive and the others blocking the road in both directions.

Resisting the urge to go faster, Ivan drove at a stately pace until he turned left and joined the traffic heading into the city.

“Are you alright?” he asked, thinking his passenger would be traumatized by the hair-raising ride.

“No, Myfriend. My system is detecting errors that can only be rectified with a reboot. Shall I reboot?”

“No,” he said, quickly. “No need, I will contact someone. A technician… someone that can help us.”

“Us? Do you have system errors too, Myfriend?”

“What? No – never mind. I’ll make some calls. We’ll get you fixed.”

Ivan didn’t want to risk a reboot in case she turned back into the efficient killer he had seen in operation just ten minutes before. He had no idea what had made her flip out and massacre Molenski’s people, but whatever it was, it seemed to have been nullified by the damage she had taken from the Russian’s gun. As confident as he was in his own abilities, Ivan didn’t think he would last more than a minute with Inga if she were determined to end him.

He had other problems too, namely, Molenski. He had time to think as he weaved through the heavy afternoon traffic, and he realized it was a grave mistake to have left him alive. If the shoe had been on the other foot, the Russian would have blown his brains out in an instant.

The mob boss was notorious for his unrelenting pursuit of those who did him wrong. Ivan no doubt fell squarely in that category. He had nearly let him get killed, had bashed him unconscious and had stolen his property. Very expensive property.

This whole mess would only end one of two ways, with him or Molenski dead.

Still, there would be time to worry about that later. Depending on how badly hurt Molenski was, and how much grief the cops gave him, it might be days before the hunt began.

“What about your wounds?” he asked Inga. “Do they hurt? I thought you could feel pain.”

“The sensitivity feature activated at 11:09 am and was overridden at 3:23 pm. However, the damage I sustained 7 minutes and 42 seconds later has caused my parts of my previous programming to restart. I feel some pain at this time.”

“I’m sorry you’re hurt, but what happened at 3:23? What made you…?”

She turned to him.

“I do not know, Myfriend.”

“Your wounds? Do we need a doctor?”

“RealFlesh is a patented nano-biological design that replicates real human flesh and is capable of regeneration if treated by a medically trained individual using sutures and antiseptic. Unlike real human skin, no scar tissue will form if wounds are treated within two hours.”

“Okay, we’ll get you fixed, but first I need to take care of something.”

Ivan had already decided they had to get out of the country. It was the only way to escape Molenski’s reach, and even then, they would have to disappear completely. For that, they would need help, and they would find it on the Westside, his old stomping ground.

He knew someone there who could help them. His first boss, Mateo Babic, a man Molenski had apprenticed too, for five years before buying him out. A man who Ivan trusted implicitly.

First, though, he had to ditch his phone and the car. Ivan pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot.

“Do you require sustenance, Myfriend?”

“What? No. I just need to do something quick. You don’t need to get out.”

Ivan parked and got out, dropping his smartphone on the concrete before smashing it under the heel of his patent leather shoe several times.

It was only when he picked it up and headed for the nearest trash bin that he noticed an old lady staring at him through the open window of her big 1970’s Pontiac.

He smiled sheepishly and held the shattered remains of the phone out for her to see.

“Stupid technology!” he said. “I can never get used to these damn things.”

“I hear ya,” she said, and went back to eating her chicken nuggets.

Ivan dropped it in the bin and dusted off his hands before climbing back in the Hellcat. The car would have to be ditched next. He knew just the place.

17

Molenski wanted to sleep, but Tatiana wouldn’t let him. Her insistent shaking was making him angry.

“Let me sleep bitch!” he grumbled, but she wouldn’t.

The more she shook him, the angrier he got until finally, his eyes snapped open. Molenski was confused. He was on the floor with one of his house guards, Nikolai, kneeling over him.

“Mr. Molenski… Boss, can you hear me?”

The events of the recent past came flooding back and he tried to get up too quickly. The Russian swooned and nearly fainted, his neck and the back of his head hurt like a first-time ass fuck.

“Try not to move boss…”

“Fuck that, help me up!”

Despite his swimming vision, Molenski saw that the robot and his bodyguard had gone. He looked across the bed and saw the naked body of his wife. Rage filled him, washing over his pain like it was merely a word etched in sand.

He lashed out at the bed with his foot, kicking it over and over as Nikolai retreated a safe distance. After his violent tantrum, Molenski leaned on the bed, his chest heaving. When he thought it was safe to talk, the guard cleared his throat.

“Boss, the police are here,” the guard said. “What should we do?”

The Russian heard the excitement in the young man’s voice. He turned and placed his hand on the guard’s shoulder.

“Help me dress.”

As quickly as he could, Molenski slipped on a pair of pants and a pullover. He then tucked his Ruger into the back of his pants before heading to the door.

“Where is that fucking dog, Ivan?” he said, over his shoulder.

“I don’t know Boss; there are bodies downstairs, but he hasn’t been seen since you got back from the airport. Whoever hit us probably got him too.”

Molenski was too furious and in too much pain to explain that the fucking traitor was probably alive and well. He headed purposefully towards the staircase.

“About Chicago PD Boss, there are lots of them. Shall we fight?” asked the inexperienced Nikolai from behind him.

“No, you fucking idiot.”

Molenski’s mind raced. Ivan and the robot bitch would have to wait for the moment. He needed to deal with the police first. Then he would find the couple and strap Ivan to a chair so he could watch him deconstruct her, first with a knife, then with a fucking baseball bat before he killed him too.

The Russian was nothing, if not patient.

More guards met them at the base of the staircase.

“Where are they?”

“At the front door sir, we had a standoff, but they didn’t force the issue. They have the warrant to search the house.”

“Good, invite them into the reception room and tell them I’ll be with them in a few minutes. He turned to Nikolai and put his hand on the machine pistol, pushing it down to face the floor.

“Our fight is not with the piggies. I shall talk to them, let them look around and then, after they’ve gone, we will consider what has happened and make our plans. Go back upstairs and put a blanket over my Tatiana, will you.”

18

The men who had abducted Tim Redfern shouted and swore at the monitors. Since the feed had resumed, nothing had gone right for them. The robot hadn’t finished Molenski off. In fact, it hadn’t finished anyone off and on top of that, they had watched in escalating anger as the robot ran off with the Russian’s bodyguard.

If he wasn’t in so much danger, Redfern might have laughed at the comical situation. He wasn’t stupid though, and knew with the escape of the robot, his usefulness to the two men and whoever had orchestrated the attempted hit was at an end.

His mind worked furiously through scenarios to get himself out of the awful situation he was in. The buzzing of the big man’s mobile phone gave him the chance he was waiting for. The man snatched up the phone and put a finger in his ear, walking away from the monitors. His pistol remained on the desk. The other man was leaning over the monitor as he continued to watch the feed.

A surge of adrenalin, so violent he thought he might faint, went through Redfern’s system. It was now or never. Live or die. He didn’t wait. He burst out of his chair and snatched up the gun, almost fumbling it before gripping it and aiming it, first at the big guy, then back to the other guy, then back again.

“Don’t move, either of you.”

The short man began to reach for the gun in his belt.

“Don’t!” screamed Redfern turning the gun on him.

“Okay, okay! Chill, man!”

As he put his hands up in the air, Shorty’s eyes flicked in the direction of his partner and Redfern again swung back to the big guy, but he was already on the move – the phone still to his ear he fled around the corner and into the hallway, heading deeper into the apartment.

Shit!

He turned back to Shorty, but while he was distracted the kidnapper had already made his move, running forward and grabbing Redfern’s gun hand.

“No!” grunted Redfern, as he began to struggle for control of the weapon.

They fell to the floor, the muzzle of the gun inching first one way and then the other as they wrestled back and forth. Redfern briefly thought he might win, but finally, Shorty, much stronger than he looked, flipped the technician onto his back and brought two hands to bear against the prisoner’s one.

He twisted the gun and slowly lowered the muzzle towards Redfern’s face. The thug smiled victoriously…

BANG!

He was still smiling, even as the bullet from his own gun, taken from his pants by his intended victim, blew out the side of his head, spraying the white carpet in a vivid red and gray fan.

Horrified, Redfern pushed the body of the thug off him and scrambled backward. He didn’t stop retreating until his head struck the wall behind him. He began to shake uncontrollably, his ears ringing from the loud gunshot.

He thought briefly about running but just as quickly dismissed it. They knew where he lived. They knew the name of his wife. They knew the names of his kids. There was no way he could leave while the other one was alive.

He got to his feet, still holding the dead man’s gun and took a deep breath as he steeled himself to search the apartment for the big man.

As it was, he didn’t need to.

There was a flash of movement from the doorway to the small kitchen to his right and something smashed into the brow of his right eye. Stunned, Redfern fell to his knees, desperately trying to clear his swimming vision. He heard a roar and saw the formidable albeit fuzzy shape of the big guy barreling at him.

He tried to bring the gun up but didn’t manage to squeeze off a shot before the speeding bus hit him. The technician was propelled backward into the wall, the breath smashed out of his body by the impact and then kept out by the heavy weight of the man on top of him. Strong hands found his throat and began to squeeze.

Redfern had somehow managed to keep hold of the gun and with a jellylike arm, lifted it slowly until the muzzle was wavering and wobbling under the thug’s chin. The big hands squeezed harder and with more violence, attempting to throttle the life out of him before he could pull the trigger.

As his vision darkened, he made a final, supreme effort to pull the trigger.

19

Twenty minutes after he discarded his phone, Ivan pulled the Dodge into a wrecking yard on Kedzie Avenue. He drove past the small used car lot out front and followed the driveway, weeds poking through its cracked pavement like hair from an old man’s ears, up to the rundown portable building that served as an office.

To the right, a wall of rusting cars at least ten high muffled the sound of the busy road beyond. They pulled up in front of the building, and Ivan turned to Inga.

“Stay in the car, yes?” he said, placing his hand on the one she had resting in her lap.

It was so warm and soft that he had a hard time reconciling it with the metal he saw in her open wounds.

“Yes, Myfriend.”

Her smile was so humanlike that he couldn’t help but shake his head as he opened the door.

It had been much easier getting into the low-slung car than getting back out, and the big man struggled to do it without looking clumsy. He didn’t quite succeed.

He locked the car and walked to the office. The whole building creaked as he climbed the metal steps and squeezed through the open door. A man of about sixty looked up from behind the counter. His head gleamed under the last remnants of his hair which was slicked across his skull to hide the baldness which had clearly won its war a long time ago.

Ivan placed his hands on the counter and the old man took a final drag on the thin cigar hanging from his lip before blowing a smoke ring casually into the already hazy air.

“Dolph Lundgren, I presume?”

“What?” Ivan asked, his face serious.

“You look like Dolph Lundgren.”

“Who?”

“Dolph Lundgren – you know – from Rocky?” Ivan’s face was blank. “Hmmm never mind. A very old movie. What can I help you with, Mister?”

“Where is Pieter?”

“Long gone. I bought the yard from him two years ago.”

“Oh…”

The man stood up and looked over Ivan’s shoulder at the Dodge. Apart from the damage to the side, it looked a beauty.

He stuck out his hand.

“I’m Stan, is there something I can help you with?”

Ivan shook the proffered hand.

“I want to sell my car.”

“I see… let’s take a look,” said the old man, his eyes narrowing.

They returned to the office after Stan had taken an in-depth look at the vehicle, not to mention a good look at the beautiful, smiling girl in the passenger seat. He didn’t fail to notice the bruise and scrapes on her face and hoped the big guy wasn’t beating on her. None of his business, though, and he didn’t think she’d have looked so happy and alive if he was.

“Is it hot?”

“Yes,” Ivan said.

He didn’t see any point in lying.

“Okay,” said Stan, nodding. “As long as you’re up front with me, I’ll be up front with you. I’ll give you five G for it.”

“Okay, sold,” said Ivan.

Stan was taken aback, he had been willing to go as high as ten, and the ease with which the other guy caved bothered him. Either he was an idiot or the vehicle was really hot. Stan’s eyes narrowed as he thought it over. He had the nagging feeling he should call off the deal, but greed won out. The guys at the chop shop would easily pay him twice that amount and make double again by rebirthing it.

“You have yourself a deal, Mister…?”

“Just call me Dolph,” said Ivan, deadpan. They shook hands and a few minutes later, Lewinski accompanied ‘Dolph’ out to the car and watched appreciatively as the girl stepped out.

What a pair of legs! He might even have whistled if the big guy hadn’t been within arm’s reach.

Ivan handed Stan the keys to the Dodge and scanned the used car lot in front of the wrecking yard. His eyes settled on a brown hatchback.

“How much for the Hyundai?”

Stan looked at him. He liked to think of himself as a good judge of character and decided he’d made enough off him for one day.

“Five hundred oughtta do it.”

Ivan counted out five hundred-dollar bills into the old man’s open palm.

“I’ll get you the keys.”

Five minutes later they were headed to Chicago’s Croatian quarter, the Village.

20

“Ivan! It’s been too long!”

Mateo Babic, a big bear of a man, came barreling from behind the bar of his restaurant. He embraced Ivan, thumping him heavily on the back before straightening his arms to take a good look at him.

“My God, you are even bigger than the last time I saw you. You’ve fully recovered from the… the accident then?”

“Da, I don’t remember much, but physically I feel better than ever.”

“Great! And who is this?”

“This is Inga.”

“What has happened?” Mateo asked, his curious gaze resting on Inga’s face.

“We’re in some trouble,” said Ivan. “Serious trouble. I came here to ask for help.”

“Of course, of course,” said Babic, bustling past Ivan and taking Inga’s hand.

“Come young one, sit. Can I get you some water?”

“I cannot drink water,” said Inga, looking at Ivan as she resisted Babic’s insistent tugging.

He nodded.

“Sit, Inga.”

She allowed Babic to pull her to a chair and sat down.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” he asked again.

“No, she’s fine Mateo.”

The older man looked at him; one eyebrow raised and then back to the girl. He stood up straight and shrugged.

“All right my friend, tell me what has happened and what a poor restaurant owner can do for you?”

Ivan smiled. Mateo Babic was once the most powerful man in West Chicago. He had started and built up a thriving, mainly underground business, in the early 2000s.

When Molenski arrived and began building the foundations of his empire, he saw immediately that the Croatian syndicate was going to be his main opposition. While expansion wasn’t a driving factor for them, they were powerful and dominated the drug trade in the West Side. They were much too strong to take on head to head at that early stage of his career, so against his normal modus operandi, he had extended an olive branch to the Croatian – much better to avoid carnage that would leave both of them weak enough for someone else to pick off.

In the years following the Russian’s arrival, they’d had dealings that had been mutually beneficial, in fact, Ivan had been a part of their first handshake agreement very early on. The size of the silent, young man had impressed Babic, and he had requested him as sugar on top of the deal which slightly favored the Russian.

Ivan had been horrified when Molenski let him go without an argument, but as it turned out, it was the best thing that could have happened. Babic was no Molenski. While he was ruthless with those who did him wrong, he was never cruel and took a real shine to Ivan that was returned by the apprentice bodyguard.

Over time, Ivan came to see him as a father figure rather than a boss and after a year in his service, would have done anything for him. The Russian became a valued lieutenant of the Croatian syndicate and a very effective stand over man. His intimidation factor usually worked without the need for physical force, but when required, he was extremely capable of handling himself and honed his skills at fight clubs.

After 25 years in the business, Babic decided he was ready for retirement, so when the upstart Molenski, now dominating the greater Chicago crime scene, made him a cash offer too good to refuse, the old Croat, without an obvious heir, decided it would be the perfect ‘transition to retirement’ plan.

The only part of his business he didn’t sell to Molenski was the restaurant they stood in now.

Ivan’s return to the Russian’s employ had been a part of the deal of course. Initially, Ivan had been reluctant, but Babic had persuaded him.

“He’s a psycho bastard, but you should take the job. In a couple of years you will be able to retire a wealthy young man.”

Molenski didn’t need another stand over man, so he made Ivan his personal bodyguard. Now, in front of his old mentor again, Ivan looked at him steadily.

“I need help.”

“Come, let’s have a drink while you tell me,” Babic said, leading Ivan behind the bar, where he poured them a whiskey.

They clinked glasses, but Ivan put his down untouched.

“Molenski?”

Ivan nodded.

“What has he done?”

In a low voice, Ivan began to tell Babic of what had happened that day.

“No!” Mateo exclaimed at one point, looking at Inga with wide eyes.

When he had finished his tale, Mateo Babic put his hand on Ivan’s.

“You will need to take your friend to see Dr. Vlad, but you’re right. Molenski has a wide reach, Ivan. You will need to flee the country – tomorrow, at the latest. I can organize fake passports with a few calls; I will just need to take a picture of you both. Then we can book your flights.”

“Passports would be great, but we can’t fly…”

“What, why?”

He simply nodded at Inga. The old man slapped himself on the forehead realizing the girl would never get through airport screening.

“Da, da! Of course! A ship then… from Philadelphia! My brother Uri has a private charter company. I’ll organize him to fly you there early tomorrow morning; then you’ll just have to find a way to smuggle her onboard a cruise ship.”

“Thanks. That will be less of a problem than a plane.”

The old man clapped his hands.

“Excellent, it is settled. You should call Dr. Vlad now. I will keep Inga company.”

“Thank you, old friend,” said Ivan, standing up. “Inga, I will be in the next room making a phone call, wait here with Mr. Babic.”

“Yes, Myfriend.”

Ivan disappeared through the door that led to Babic’s office and the old Croat smiled at Inga. She met his gaze flatly. He shrugged and poured himself a shot of whiskey before emerging from behind the bar and pulling up a chair in front of her.

She looked at him, unblinking, as he pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket and looked curiously at her face, particularly the scratch marks on her cheek, which had crusted over.

“So, Inga, you are a robot?” he asked as if he didn’t quite believe it.

“Yes, Mr. Babic. I am a synthetic human form robot produced by Genitix, the world leader in human form robotics. I am a Sinthetica Model 676 with special features including Genitix RealFlesh and Genitix PhysSens- patent pending.”

“Amazing. So realistic!” Mateo shook his head and took off his glasses before downing the rest of his whiskey in one gulp. “Tell me Sinthetica Model 676, do you like birds?” he asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Birds. Warm-blooded egg-laying vertebrate animals distinguished by the possession of feathers, wings, a beak, and typically by being able to fly. I am not programmed to ‘like’…”

“But you like Ivan – Myfriend, as you call him, don’t you?”

Inga didn’t answer immediately. Her face was blank, her mouth poised to answer but it appeared his question had stumped her.

“Come! You think too much,” he said, holding out his hand. “You need to feel.”

“Myfriend instructed me to wait here.”

“I know, but I want to show you my birds. Come, they are just through that doorway. He said to wait with me, didn’t he?”

Again, she froze momentarily, processing the logic of the request, and after a few seconds took his hand and stood up, allowing him to lead her through a large doorway into the dining area of his restaurant. Considering the bland exterior of the building, it was a grand room with rich furnishings and a spacious feel.

“Here they are!” he said, proudly, leading her to a large wire cage in the front corner of the room.

The cage was home to two peach faced Lovebirds, their colors vibrant even in the filtered afternoon light. They began to tweet and sing as Mateo and Inga approached. The Croatian gestured to them.

“This is Max, and this is Maxine,” he said, introducing the birds one at a time.

Inga bent over for a better look, her forehead bumping the cage gently, causing it to rock back and forth. She reeled in surprise when the startled birds took flight and fluttered around the cage.

“Shhh, shhh,” soothed a laughing Babic.

Inga watched intently as the birds found their way back to the perch.

“What do you think of my babies?”

“Babies: Newborn, Infant, bundle of joy…”

“Birds! My dear, I mean what do you think of my birds?”

“They are… nice.”

The old man chortled.

“So, you do like them?”

“Like. To regard with favor; have a kindly or friendly feeling for; to find attractive…” she looked at him, her eyes wide. “Yes, I like your birds.”

“Here,” said Mateo, reaching for the door of the cage.

Inga watched, fascinated, as he reached into the cage and began making a soft clicking noise with his tongue. One of the birds fluttered to his finger, and he carefully extracted his arm and held out the bird to her.

Inga reached out to grab it.

“No!” said Mateo, and her hand froze inches from the bird.

“Don’t grab him. Just hold out your finger as I am. They’re very delicate.”

She obeyed him and held out her finger. Her eyes widened as the bird hopped from the old man’s finger to her own.

“Pretty boy Max wants a kiss,” said Mateo.

“A kiss?” she asked. “Kiss. A touch or caress with the lips as a sign of love, sexual desire, or greeting… but the pretty boy has no lips.”

Again, the old man laughed delightedly.

“That’s alright, just do this with your lips.” The old man demonstrated how to purse lips. “You do that and let him peck you.”

Neither of them noticed Ivan in the doorway, his mouth open as he watched the strange interaction. Inga raised her hand slowly until the bird was just an inch or two from her pursed lips. The bird hopped to the end of her finger and began to gently nibble her lower lip.

“Ha-ha!” she cried in delighted surprise.

The startled bird took flight. It had flown barely four inches before Inga’s hand snatched it out of the air, a single peach colored feather floating on eddies of air stirred by her quick movement, the only evidence it had been there a second before.

“What have you done?!” Mateo cried, attempting to grab Inga’s arm. She snatched his wrist with her free hand as quickly as she had snatched the bird. She didn’t release him as she reached into the cage.

“No!” called Babic, assuming she would grab the other bird.

“Inga!” said Ivan from behind them, crossing the room quickly.

The robot ignored him, focusing on the task at hand. The old man struggled futilely against her iron-like grip, only ceasing his struggles when Inga opened her hand, and the unharmed Max flew to his perch, rejoining Maxine and preening himself as if nothing had happened.

Inga released the Croat’s wrist and turned to look at the two men. The restaurant owner’s face was pale. Ivan was frowning.

“I like birds,” she said simply.

Mateo rubbed his wrist and smiled back uncertainly.

“Are you all right?” Ivan asked him.

“Yes, I’m fine – she just took me by surprise… did you see how fast she is? Amazing.”

“Yes – I saw, sorry if she gave you a fright. Dr. Vlad said I could take her to him in an hour. Will you order the passports?”

“Yes, I’ll call now. Did you tell the doctor that she is…” he paused, aware the girl was watching him.

“Yes, apparently he has worked on them before. He sounded excited. Are we able to stay here the night when we’re done?”

“Yes, of course, you can stay upstairs. It’s only me here at the moment. Viktoria is in Croatia visiting family. Chef is already preparing in back and after I make a call to the documents man I will bring you both something to eat.”

Ivan looked at him, a small smile curling the corner of his lips. Mateo looked puzzled for a second and then slapped himself on the forehead again.

“I mean, I’ll bring you something to eat. Sorry, my slow old mind just cannot process that she is an it!”

He led them through the kitchen, Mateo briefly introducing them to the chef as his friends before leading them outside and up external stairs to the small apartment he shared with his wife. It was much as Ivan remembered from his years in Babic’s employ. Clean but dated.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a bed to offer you tonight Ivan, but you’ll find the sofa comfortable.”

“The sofa will be fine.”

“What about…?” the old man nodded to Inga.

“She has sleep mode.”

“Yes, I will stand in the corner. May I go into standby mode and run a diagnostic scan?”

“You won’t restart?”

“No Myfriend, a diagnostic scan is similar to a virus scan on a computer, it is not necessary to shut down.”

“All right, as long as it doesn’t take too long, we have to leave shortly.”

“Yes, Myfriend.”

Both men watched her walk to the far corner of the room. Blood from the wound on her back had seeped through the white jacket Ivan had picked for her. She turned to face them and smiled, her clear blue eyes regarding them for a moment before closing.

“Amazing,” Mateo whispered again, shaking his head. “I must go downstairs; the doors open in twenty minutes. Help yourself to anything you need. Perhaps you should pick a new jacket for your friend. Help yourself to Viktoria’s wardrobe and there is a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

After Mateo had left, Ivan sunk into the sofa and looked at Inga. He didn’t know why she had begun deferring to him; it was as if she had forgotten that Molenski was her primary user. Somehow the damage she had taken had messed with the adaptive technology that Marina mentioned. Whatever it was, he liked the change, not to mention the fact that if it hadn’t happened, he would be nothing but a cooling piece of meat back at Molenski’s mansion.

Far from sleepy, he closed his eyes and began to work through everything that could go wrong in the next 24 hours.

21

Tom Redfern tried to sleep, but it was difficult to sleep when you couldn’t breathe. He tried to roll over, but the heavy weight on top of him was too much to push away. Rachel?

Slowly – reluctantly – he began to wake.

The memory of what had happened rushed over him. He opened his eyes and looked straight into the staring eyes of the man who had been trying to strangle him, the slack, gray face slightly distorted by the bullet that had so recently traveled through the skull behind it.

For the second time that day he fought his way from under a corpse.

The technician climbed to his feet, his throat raw from the attempted strangulation, and checked himself – no other injuries.

“I’m alive,” he rasped, then cackled like an old crone.

Suddenly the rush of relief turned to one of triumph as he looked down upon the bodies of the killers. They were next to each other, with almost identical head wounds. They looked like the victims of a professional hit.

“Yeah! You like that bitches!?” he yelled down at them and did a little jig before doubling over in a coughing fit.

When he had recovered, he heard the faint sound of sirens. Fuck! Even though he had technically done nothing wrong and was, in fact, a victim, Redfern panicked. His recent trauma and the moral and legal responsibilities that had been drummed into him as a robotics technician overrode logic.

He had to find that robot and stop it. With the damage it had apparently sustained, there was no use trying to override its programming remotely. He would just waste valuable time. The only way to do that was to shut her down and remove the card.

The sirens grew louder. Redfern bent over and pocketed the gun he had shot both men with and ran to the display, snatching up the GPS unit. The red blip was stationary. The visual feed on the screens was dark, which meant the robot was still functional but in sleep mode. Good.

He quickly grabbed the mini laptop computer they had been using to control the robot and ripped it away from the cables connecting it to the display. He rushed to the kitchen and headed straight to the microwave oven. After placing the laptop inside, he set the timer for twenty minutes on high. It began sparking immediately; he ignored it and headed back for the front door.

Redfern, stressed by the proximity of the sirens, swore and skidded to a stop at the front door. Transport! He needed a vehicle, and the Genitix van would be too conspicuous. He dashed back to the desk and grabbed the keys to the dead men’s SUV and fled the apartment.

Just five minutes later, after nearly causing an accident, Tom Redfern pulled over and forced himself to calm down. Unless he did something stupid on the road, he wasn’t likely to be stopped by the cops. Given the current state of the vehicle’s owners, he didn’t think the vehicle he was driving would be reported stolen anytime soon, if at all, and he had clearly escaped the scene without being detected.

“Breathe,” he said aloud as he gripped the steering wheel. “Just find the robot. Deactivate it and remove the card… then go to the cops and explain everything.”

Of course he hoped tracking down and deactivating the rogue robot would help mitigate his killing the two men, in the event self-defense argument didn’t work, but more pressing in his mind was preventing further loss of life. He had seen what the robot could do in glorious living color, and it wasn’t pretty. It would have to be destroyed; there was no doubt.

While removing the card and a complete reprogramming would be enough to completely mitigate the chance of future problems, human law would require punishment and in this particular case, multiple murders of humans would require nothing less than ‘execution.’

Redfern picked up the GPS tracker. If the robot had been in sleep mode, it wasn’t anymore. The blip was now on the move and showed the killer robot was on the loose somewhere on the East side.

He propped the tracker on his dash and eased back into the traffic.

22

It had taken several hours for the Chicago PD along with a couple of members of the Organized Crime division to question Molenski. Finally, they conceded that the Russian seemed to have been the victim in this particular circumstance. From all appearances, his enemies had devised a particularly sophisticated assassination attempt by a robot.

The Russian had cooperated fully with the man in charge, Commander Burlinson, who was in fact on Molenski’s payroll, but it was clear that the case would be referred to the FBI as the AI factor moved it into federal jurisdiction.

When he’d told them about the murderous robot, it was as if he’d shoved a wasp’s nest up their ass with a long stick. A breach of the robotics laws was rare, especially a murder attempt, so what they had initially thought of as a standard mob hit turned into something with far wider ramifications.

Molenski was careful to implicate Ivan. By the time he left, Burlinson was under no illusion that the bodyguard had been in on the whole thing and that Molenski wanted him apprehended before the FBI got their hands on him.

Of course, the Russian didn’t really think that Ivan was involved in the plot. The assassination attempt was the work of the Columbians, of that he had no doubt. No one else had the resources or the motivation. He would deal with them in his own time.

Ivan, though, had let him down badly. Had betrayed him in his moment of need, despite everything that Molenski had done for him.

Still, one good that had come of the whole ordeal was that Ivan had prevented him from finishing Inga with another gunshot. Now that he wasn’t swept up in the emotion of his near-death experience, he saw how much sweeter it would be to deal with the beautiful Inga lookalike in his own sweet time. And he would make Ivan watch.

Molenski was sure he would find the odd couple, but sending the cops on his payroll after them was a backstop in the unlikely event his traitorous employee escaped his reach. If he was apprehended anywhere within the city limits, it would be easy enough to use his connections and grease a few palms to give Ivan and the bitch the welcome home they so richly deserved.

After the cops had quit the estate, the hunt for Ivan and Inga began in earnest. Molenski’s tech experts got busy hacking into the phone company’s systems to trace his phone and searching for the stolen Dodge.

While he was waiting, Molenski watched the surveillance footage of the Dodge speeding up the ramp of the underground parking lot over and over, peering intently at the black and white footage of the two absconders.

After twenty minutes, Molenski was informed that Ivan’s cell phone had last been detected a few suburbs away and hadn’t moved for hours.

“Don’t bother sending anyone; he’s not an idiot. It’s been dumped. What about the car?”

“Better. Courtesy of the vehicle tracking you paid for, we have an exact location…”

“Is it still moving?”

“No sir.”

“How long has it been stationary?”

“Three hours or so Mr. Molenski, at a wrecking yard on Kedzie Avenue.”

“He’s gone,” said Molenski. “But, let us go and find out who has my car and what they might know of our friend and his passenger. Give me your phone…”

Molenski quickly dialed a number.

“Andre, it’s me. I need you; something has come up. Be ready in 20 minutes.”

Molenski took three men and they picked up his lieutenant Andre Chichenko on the way. Now that Ivan had departed the scene, Molenski wouldn’t have admitted it, but he felt a little vulnerable without his constant and very competent shadow.

Andre though had been with him since not long after he arrived in America and was his head of security; he would adequately fill the shoes of the traitor.

Dimitri Molenski was quiet and thoughtful during the drive to Kedzie Avenue. That didn’t make the four men in the car with him relax. If anything, it put them more on edge, even the seasoned Andre.

An angry Molenski in full flight was much more predictable than his quiet alter ego.

23

The deal Stan Lewinski had made for the Dodge that afternoon put him in a good mood. Once the rebirthers paid him, the windfall would fund his betting for a whole month. He decided to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels on the way home, both to celebrate, and to dull the razor-sharp tongue of his wife… for a few hours, at least.

He started to pack up for the evening. These days he usually stretched his workdays for as long as he could – the less time he had to spend with his shrew of a wife in the evening, the better! If he’d been twenty years younger, he might have clawed his way out of their dead marriage. But he wasn’t. He was old and he was tired and pretty much just counting time, socking away as much money as he could for his grandchildren. Besides those kids and the horses, what else was there?

Whistling, he put on his jacket and hat and bent to pick up his briefcase. He stopped halfway and cursed, aware suddenly of the urgent need to take a piss. That’s how it was these days. No warning. Fine one minute and on the verge of wetting his pants like a toddler the next.

He straightened, groaning a little, and was about to head to the John when he heard tires on the gravel driveway.

“Who calls on a man at this time of night?” he asked in disgust.

He stalked to the door, ready to serve the unexpected visitor a warm slice of ‘fuck off’ pie. A long black Mercedes crawled up the drive and pulled up outside his office, lights on and engine running.

The sleek stretch limo looked out of place in his boneyard, and its blackened windows lent it a sinister air. Trying to look braver than he felt, he stomped down the steps and glared at the dark windows.

“I’m closed!” he yelled, in his best crabby old man voice.

Nothing. Feeling disquiet, Stan stalked to the front of the car and held a hand up to shade his eyes from the glaring headlights.

“I said, I’m closed!”

The car revved suddenly, and the old man jumped quickly out of the way, clutching his chest. A second later the engine and headlights were switched off. The rear doors opened, and four men got out.

“What are you, wise guys?” he yelled, trying to sound braver than he felt. “You’ll give an old man a heart attack.”

“Forgive my driver,” said the shortest of the men in a heavy Russian accent. “He is still getting used to the new car.”

“Well, I was telling you I’m closed, so if you wouldn’t mind turning your nice big shiny car around, I’ll be going home. You can come back tomorrow.”

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, Stan could make out the man who had spoken. He was well dressed and smiling. His smile did anything but put the old man at ease.

“I understand Sir, and I won’t keep you any longer than I have to. Please, would you mind stepping back inside your office for a moment?”

Stan was about to argue when one of the other men stepped up close to him. The old man’s eyes widened. Unlike his boss, the man didn’t display any emotion at all, and with his heavy brow and blocky build he looked like a brick with eyes.

“I suppose I can give you five minutes,” he said, looking back to Molenski. “That’s all, though. My wife will shoot me if I’m home too late… you understand?”

The Russian laughed heartily.

“Oh, I understand completely!” the Russian said, placing an arm over Stan’s skinny shoulders and guiding him to the steps. “My own wife, God rest her soul, also had a temper. Come, let us speak inside.”

Stan allowed himself to be ushered back inside his office.

“Please, sit,” said the Russian.

The old man was about to refuse but the big man who was sticking to him like gum to a shoe, pushed a chair into the back of his legs. Stan sat heavily on the seat at the small table he’d set up for customers who never queued and folded his arms tightly across his chest. The Russian sat down opposite.

“Please relax, Mister..?”

“Lewinski. Stan Lewinski.”

“Mr. Lewinski, thank you. I am Dimitri Molenski. Now, I’m here about a car…”

“Well, you can come back tomorrow, if you don’t mind, I have to be getting home.”

Stan tried to stand up and found himself shoved back into the chair by the meaty hand of the brick.

“Please, Mr. Lewinski, I really don’t want things to become – shall we say – unpleasant. Andre here has a quick temper. Just allow me a few moments of your time and we can all go home.”

“Fine, fine,” snapped Lewinski. “What car?”

“A gray Dodge Challenger,” said the Russian, watching the old man closely. “A Hellcat.”

The old man’s guts turned to water. He should have trusted his instincts earlier, but his greed had won out.

“What, you want to buy one?” he bluffed. “I don’t have one; you should try the used car dealer down the…”

Molenski slammed his open hand down on the card table. The old man jumped.

“I know you took possession of one today. I know that because it’s mine.” The old man opened his mouth to speak, but Molenski held up his hand. “That’s neither here nor there, Stan –do you mind if I call you Stan? All I need from you is information.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve never bought or sold a Dodge Challenger. In fact I…”

Molenski waved a lazy hand at Andre who seized the old man’s wrist and peeled his hand away from his chest before separating his pinky from his other fingers. Without pause, he snapped it backward. The muffled snap of bones breaking was loud in the small room, but not as loud as the old man’s scream.

Molenski winced sympathetically and nodded his head.

“I know, I know – it must hurt like a bitch. Now Stan, please, just tell me what I need to know and as I said before, we’ll be out of your hair.”

The old man was beside himself; his eyes squeezed shut as he rocked back and forth. He moaned and cradled his damaged hand.

“Stan, please.”

Stan Lewinski ignored the Russian bastard, hoping, like a bad dream, he would just go away. It wasn’t until he felt his hand grabbed again and the finger next to his mangled pinky separated from its fellows that he capitulated.

“All right, all right! Yes, I bought it today! Please! I can give it back… no more… please…”

“Excellent,” said Molenski. “Now we’re making some progress. Tell me, was it a big man with a crew cut?”

“Yes,” said Stan, his voice strained. “Him and his girl, a pretty thing.”

Molenski nodded and leaned ever so slightly forward on his chair.

“Good, now think very carefully, did he say where he was going?”

“No,” said Stan, honestly. He was compliant now, willing to tell the man anything he wanted to know. “He did buy a car from me, though. A Hyundai. I’ll give you the registration details; they’re in my filing cabinet.”

“Excellent. You’re sure he said nothing else?”

“No Sir, it was a quick transaction, just the way I like,” Stan said, smiling ingratiatingly. His broken finger was shrieking louder than his wife in an argument, but finally, he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. He just wanted these people gone so he could go home and see to his finger.

“Good,” said Molenski, standing up. “You’ve been very helpful. Give Andre here the details.”

He headed for the door.

“But what about your car?”

“Keep it,” said Molenski over his shoulder before going through the door.

Stan was confused but relieved to see the back of the Russian, and keeping the car was a bonus. He stood up and shot the thug who had broken his finger a dirty look and headed behind the counter to his filing cabinet. He pulled out the folder with the details for the Hyundai and turned around to find the big man right in front of him. He took a wary step back and held out the folder.

Andre reached out with one of his long arms, but instead of taking the folder he grasped Stan Lewinski’s wrist and pulled him into a bear hug, his free hand snaking up behind the old man’s head and pulling his face into his chest.

The move was unexpected and done in such a way that at first, Stan thought the man was comforting him, perhaps sorry for his broken finger. With his face pressed into the fabric of the thug’s well-tailored sports coat, he hugged him back – he just wanted the fucker to leave with as little fuss as possible.

It was only when he tried to break away from the awkward hug that he found that it wasn’t a hug at all.

The hand on the back of his head pushed his face harder into the man’s chest, and Stan struggled to breathe. He dropped the folder and punched and clawed at the strong arms restraining him.

He tried to bite, but his mouth was so tight against the other man’s chest that he couldn’t open it wide enough.

Finally, he tried to scream but couldn’t.

What a fucking way to go! Hugged to death by a Russian!

Just before death took him, Stan Lewinski performed the one act of defiance still available to him and as the struggling of the old man weakened, Andre felt an unpleasant warmth spread over the front of his pants. Cursing, he stayed focused on the task at hand, holding him in the deadly embrace until a full minute had passed.

When it was done, Molenski’s man picked up the body and dumped it unceremoniously in the old office chair behind the counter. As the chair spun lazily into the wall, Stan Lewinski’s unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling, the small smile on his blue lips as unmistakable as the dark piss stain on his killer’s pants.

Andre, his face a thundercloud and the front of his wet pants clinging to his legs, bent and picked up the folder before walking out of the office with an awkward, bowlegged gait.

Molenski’s eyes reflected the burning garage at the back of the lot as his man climbed back into the Mercedes.

“Andre, get in touch with our contact in Traffic Control right now,” he said without taking his eyes off the tall flames. “Give them the details of that car; I want Ivan and the robot bitch in the Red Room by daybreak. And what the fuck is that smell?”

24

After Ivan had eaten the meal provided by Babic, beef stroganoff on a bed of mashed potato, he left the empty plate on the counter.

Inga finished her diagnostic scan a few minutes after he sat back down.

“Come, we should go now,” he said to her.

They had only just left the room when Ivan stopped suddenly, reeling as he suffered another bout of déjà vu on the landing. Inga put her hand out and steadied him.

“Are you alright, Myfriend?”

“Yes, yes. Just… a little dizzy,” he said, before continuing down the stairs.

The déjà vu was apparently another side effect of his trauma. Before the ambush, he had only experienced the feeling once or twice in his life, but since he had woken from the induced coma, it was a frequent and increasingly disorienting visitor in his life.

Inga waited outside as he went into the restaurant and said goodbye to Babic, who was acting as the maître d’ in the absence of his head waiter.

Back in the Hyundai, they headed to the lower west side. On the way, he asked Inga for the results of her scan.

“My system scan returned over 100 errors and corrupt files, indicating severe damage to disk 2. Would you like me to detail them?”

“No, it’s okay. When you say ‘critical,’ what do you mean?”

“Critical errors if not rectified may lead to malfunction, inoperability of software and possible involuntary shutdown.”

“I see. We will try and get them fixed once we are safely abroad.”

Ivan easily remembered the way to Dr. Vlad’s; he had been there many times in the past when he worked for Babic, both for injuries he had suffered in the ‘line of duty’ and when accompanying co-workers. While he had never suffered anything more serious than a broken hand during that time, he thought highly of the doctor. He had seen him expertly treat more severe wounds many times.

Dr. Vlad was a grizzled former army medic. He specialized in bullet and stab wounds and was an invaluable provider to numerous nefarious individuals and gangs, but as far as Ivan knew, had little to do with Molenski’s organization. They had their own man.

The doctor worked out of a small apartment at the rear of a laundromat. It was accessible only by a dark alley that it shared with a rundown, less than busy, Chinese restaurant.

Ivan backed the Hyundai all the way down the alley, coming to a stop right in front of the door.

“Come, Inga; we will see the doctor.”

“Doctor – a person who is skilled in the science of medicine: a person who is trained and licensed to treat sick and injured people,” Inga recited, turning to face him. “I am not ‘people,’ Myfriend. Will he treat me?”

“Well,” he said, laughing gently. “Just between you and me, he’s not a licensed doctor either.”

His humor was lost on Inga, who stared at him with a straight face.

“Don’t worry, you will see, he’ll fix you right up.”

“I am not worried, Myfriend.”

“Good, good, let’s go.”

The scuffed and dented door of Dr. Vlad’s ‘surgery’ opened seconds after Ivan rapped three times.

“Ivan, long time no see, come in…” said the doctor, squinting around his shoulder at Inga. “This is her?”

“Da,” said Ivan, stepping past the doctor.

“Wow, what a beauty,” the doctor said, peering over his glasses at the robot as she followed Ivan into the dingy building. “The craftsmanship is amazing, with the naked eye it’s almost impossible to tell she’s synthetic. Come, sit over here.”

He led her to a frayed leather recliner with stirrups and arm rests. Inga looked at Ivan who nodded reassuringly. The doctor sat on a stool beside the recliner and pulled a large magnifying glass on an articulated arm into place over her face. Ivan stood behind him.

“Amazing detail,” said the doctor, as he peered at Inga’s magnified face. “The pores, the fine hairs, everything!”

Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped on a pair of latex gloves and probed the scrape on her face gently.

“I’ve seen this model on the internet and in promotions of course, but I never imagined how perfect the RealFlesh is. These scratches are healing already. She has bullet wounds, you say?”

“Yes, in her back and head.”

“Sit up, darling,” the doctor requested.

He slowly unwound the scarf and peeled it away from her wound, before moving the magnifying glass over it.

“Hmm…” he said, probing it with a gloved finger, only to snatch it away abruptly when Inga gasped in pain. He glanced up at Ivan, confused.

“It is her programming; she can feel physical pain.”

“Ahh,” the doctor said. “I have heard of this; it is illegal. Must have cost a fortune…”

“Yes,” said Ivan, not offering any more.

The doctor shrugged, then addressed Inga.

“I have to clean and stitch your wound, darling. It will hurt, do you wish to turn off your pain programming first?”

“I am unable to disable PhysSens due to the errors in my system. A full diagnostic check by a trained technician is required to assess the damage. You may go ahead and make the repairs required to close my wounds.”

“You’re sure?” the doctor asked, looking at Ivan.

“Yes,” they said, in unison.

The next fifteen minutes were hard on Ivan. Inga cried and moaned in pain the entire time, tears streaming from her eyes as the amazed doctor closed the wounds in her scalp and back with sutures that he applied deftly with a needle and thread. When he was done stitching and began bandaging the wounds, she immediately stopped crying.

“Interesting,” the doctor said. “Her pain is immediate and real, but only lasts as long as the actual infliction. It doesn’t linger. I wonder if this is by design or just something they haven’t quite worked out.”

“Development of PhysSens – patent pending – ceased when the artificial intelligence industry administration board outlawed the software. The software installed in me is a beta version and may differ in functionality from future versions.”

“I see,” said Dr. Vlad. “That’s a very comprehensive answer, thank you.”

“You couldn’t help us with her programming?” Ivan asked hopefully.

“No, Ivan. I’m not a technician. Frankly, I don’t know anyone in our… circle of friends who would be advanced enough to help. If it makes you feel better, though, the bullet in the back bounced off the chassis. The head too, although it left quite a dent. More than likely that is where the damage to her circuitry occurred.”

“Thanks, Doc. How much do I owe you?”

“Five hundred ought to do it.”

Ivan and Inga left after he handed the money over, then got back in the Hyundai to make the return trip to Mateo Babic’s restaurant.

25

Andre’s phone rang approximately three minutes after he made the call to his contact.

“Da?”

Molenski didn’t turn away from his window but listened carefully.

“Where?” Andre asked the caller and listened for a moment before hitting the intercom. “Quickly, head to Little Italy, we got a lucky break.”

He squeezed Molenski’s leg excitedly, the old man’s piss stain forgotten. Molenski nodded.

“Keep him on the line until we have a visual.”

“Stay on the line with me.”

* * *

Barely five minutes after they left the doctor’s, Ivan spotted a vehicle following them. It was a kick in the guts. He hadn’t expected that Molenski, even with all his resources and contacts, would be capable of finding them so quickly.

Ivan thought furiously. There was no way to escape the pursuing vehicle without perhaps causing more complications like police involvement. He wasn’t sure how Molenski had handled the cops arriving on his doorstep, but he knew the Russian was adaptable, and depending on how much he had told the CPD, there might already be an APB out for him… not to mention the killer robot sitting beside him.

The vehicle tailing them appeared to be content just to follow for the moment, so he forced himself to relax. He sighed when they just missed a green light that would have given them a little more breathing space and perhaps the opportunity to ditch the pursuers.

“Are you well, Myfriend?” Inga asked him.

“Da… yes everything is okay.”

She smiled.

“I like you, Myfriend.”

Despite the gravity of their situation, he laughed in surprise.

“I like you too, Inga.”

“Do you like me because I am fuckable, Myfriend?”

“What? No!” he said, blushing.

“You do not find me highly desirable as a sexual partner?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. What I meant is… there is more than one way to like someone. I like you, but not only because I want to – not only because you are sexy.”

A horn sounded behind them. The lights were green. He put his foot on the gas and glanced in the rearview mirror; the headlights of his tail were still three cars back.

“Sexy – sexually appealing, attractive, or exciting.”

“Yes. You should say sexy instead of fuckable. It’s much nicer.”

“Yes, Myfriend,” she said, and put her hand on his thigh, just above the knee. “I like you too, and not just because you are sexy.”

Ivan glanced at her pretty and very sincere face by the glow of the dashboard. His stomach did a somersault. Grappling with the unfamiliar feelings he’d been experiencing since he first met Inga, he turned his attention back to the road and their tail.

He hadn’t had time to analyze fully why he had risked everything to rescue her and take her away from Molenski, but her display of affection somehow validated his decision. Made him more determined than ever to escape his former boss’s clutches.

Ivan smiled grimly as he weaved through the traffic. The best way to lose this particular tail was to cut it off completely. Time for a trip to the shore and a final confrontation with the Russian. A few minutes later the nondescript Hyundai exited the 290 and headed onto West Congress Parkway. His hands were steady on the wheel. Since the shooting, he didn’t suffer any of the adrenaline-charged nerves that used to occur before a confrontation.

In fact, now that he was resigned to it happening, he was quite clinical about the coming clash. He knew that in ten minutes, he or Molenski would be dead. He was determined to ensure it wasn’t him… if it was, the fate that awaited Inga didn’t bear thinking about.

Finally, in the distance, he saw street open onto a green space and beyond, the blue water of Monroe Harbor. As luck would have it, the final set of lights leading into the road system of the park switched to amber and then red as they approached. Ivan floored the gas pedal and ran the red light, glancing in the mirror to see the tail blocked as they attempted to change lanes.

He sped through the empty network of roads that crisscrossed the whole precinct, then swung hard into the parking lot of Grant Park and parked in the darkest corner he could find. Being late Fall, there was virtually nobody around, and that was just the way he wanted it. If things escalated into a gunfight, the fewer witnesses and innocents in the area, the better.

“Come, Inga.”

Seeming to understand Ivan’s urgency, the robot stepped out of the car quickly and rushed to keep up with him as he ran down a path. The big man checked the clip in his pistol as he ran, before making sure the two spare clips were still in his pants pocket.

“Why are you checking your weapon, Myfriend?” Inga asked, as he put it back in the shoulder holster.

Perhaps he should have lied, remembering her reaction to his handling of Danny Garcia, but he decided not to. Obviously, something had changed after she had been shot, but it was best to know now if her robotics law programming was going to be a problem when the Russian arrived.

“There may be trouble,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “I may have to shoot some people.”

She nodded, seemingly comfortable with the prospect of human on human violence. They had just passed through the opening of a large hedge when Ivan spotted a pair of headlights coming from the direction they had just drove from. He grasped Inga’s arm and directed her to behind the hedge.

“Wait here until I call you out.”

“Yes, Myfriend.”

He turned to go and then, realizing that he may never get the chance again, he took Inga by her slender shoulders and kissed her on the lips.

“I love you, Inga.”

Before she could respond he was on the move, darting back through the opening in the hedge and turning immediately to the right. He would circle around to the back of the parking lot so he could come upon them from behind.

What the fuck? Did I just say ‘I love you’ to a robot?

He laughed harshly under his breath. Perhaps Molenski was right; maybe he was losing it.

Ivan slowed as he approached the parking lot from the west. There was a dark SUV parked near the Hyundai and he could only see one figure from his vantage point, someone leaning over and looking into the car by the light of a phone. Ivan didn’t recognize the man by his build, but of more concern was the fact that there was no one else present. That meant they were already hunting for he and Inga. He would have to make this quick. A broken neck would do it.

Stealthy, nothing but a shadow, Ivan ran towards the SUV, keeping it between him and the man looking into the car. He stopped at the rear of the vehicle and peeked around the corner, gun held at the ready. The light on the phone had been switched off, making his job a little more difficult as the other man would now be undistracted.

His target had moved away from the Hyundai and was looking at something in his hands, heading for the path that Ivan and Inga had taken just minutes before. Ivan was confused, this man was sloppy. Surely Molenski didn’t send this clown alone? It didn’t matter and he shrugged the question off. What mattered was a stealthy kill. If there were more, a gunshot would only bring them down upon him.

Ivan charged.

The other man didn’t hear Ivan, but perhaps sensed him. He turned around when the big man was still five feet away. He shot both hands into the air, one holding a small gadget, and started to backpedal and shake his head. Ivan didn’t pause; he ran straight at the man. As he closed in, the expression on his target’s face changed from fear to recognition, and he stopped where he stood.

Ivan didn’t stop but he slowed and instead of shoulder charging the seemingly unarmed man, when he was within reach, he grasped his head in his two hands.

“Please, wait! I can help you!”

Ivan squeezed the man’s head between his hands but didn’t twist it… yet.

“Who the fuck are you?!”

“My name is Tom Redfern; I work for Genitix. I saw you… I mean, you have the Sinthetica robot, right?”

Ivan stared at the man. He looked like he had been through the ringer, his face was bruised and puffy, and there was blood on his clothes. He immediately judged him to not be a threat, but his presence raised many questions.

“How do you know about Inga?” Ivan asked, easing his grip a little.

“Inga?” asked Redfern, lowering his hands a little. “Oh, you mean the robot. Look, buddy, we don’t have a lot of time if you’ll just show me where she is, I can deactivate her…”

Ivan began to crush the man’s head again. Redfern made a squeaking sound.

“You will not touch Inga.”

“Okay, okay,” said the red-faced technician. “But she’s in some serious trouble – we all are when the authorities catch up with us. I need to remove the card from her to stop her hurting anyone else.”

“Card? What card?”

“I haven’t got all night to tell you about it, you just have to trust me,” said Redfern becoming more animated despite realizing that the big man was more than capable of twisting his head off.

“Tell me,” said Ivan, unrelenting.

Redfern rolled his eyes.

“I was delivering the robot to your boss; we got held up by two heavies. I don’t know who they were, but they made me insert a card into… Inga. It overrode all her security and legal programming and let us send her orders remotely. Orders to kill.”

Suddenly it all made sense to Ivan. Inga going crazy had been an assassination attempt, probably ordered by the Columbians, and instead of a gun, the weapon they were using was a robot that their intended victim had ordered.

His eyes suddenly narrowed, and he looked intently at Redfern.

“You helped them?”

“No! They forced me,” he said, his voice breaking as he became aware that again his life was on a knife’s edge. “They threatened to kill my wife and little girls.”

Ivan slowly relaxed. Molenski’s pursuit wasn’t as close as he had thought, but there was still little time to waste. He lowered his gun and gestured at the device Redfern was holding.

“Is this how you tracked us?”

“Yes, the card I was forced to install contains a GPS tracking chip.”

Ivan held out his hand. Redfern hesitated, then handed it to him reluctantly. Ivan threw it to the pavement and then smashed it to pieces with his heel.

“There will be no more tracking.”

Redfern flinched as the big man grabbed his shoulder and patted him down, locating the gun quickly and pulling it out. He looked questioningly at the technician.

“It’s not mine; I took it from the men after… after I shot them.”

Ivan stared at him a little longer and then slid the gun into the belt of his pants.

“You won’t need it anymore. Come.”

Ivan gave him a gentle shove, propelling him along the path towards Inga’s hiding spot.

“So, you’re a technician? You can help me with Inga…”

They rounded a bend, and pulled up in surprise. Inga was standing in the middle of the path staring up at the full moon.

“Inga! I told you to wait in the bushes.”

She looked around at them.

“Yes Myfriend, but I grew bored.”

Redfern’s eyes widened at this declaration. The machine was clearly faulty and probably a great danger to any humans it met in its current state.

How the fuck am I supposed to deactivate it with the big guy watching over me.

“Who is this man?”

“He is a technician from Genitix.”

Redfern watched the robot warily as they walked up to her. His guts churned nervously, he’d seen what the machine was capable of and knew she could flip at any second. Her disconcerting stare only added to his uneasiness.

“How do you want me to help her?” he asked.

“She keeps talking about how she needs to run a full diagnostic check, but I don’t want her… I don’t want her to change back.”

Relief flooded Redfern.

“Oh good! Yes, I know. We can’t risk her reverting to the new programming. I saw the damage she did. Look, the only way we can be sure she won’t go assassin again is to remove the card and deactivate her until the authorities…”

The gun was placed against his forehead so quickly that Redfern didn’t even have time to flinch. He put his hands up, his eyebrows raised.

“What? What did I say?”

“You will not fucking deactivate her. I just want you to make sure there is no long-term damage and that she doesn’t turn again. I want her to stay as she is now.”

Redfern nodded.

“Fine, I can’t do anything here, though. We need to get her to the Genitix lab, so I can remove the card and run her diagnostic check.”

Ivan looked at him suspiciously.

“If I remove the card, it will mean no one else can control her remotely.”

“Fine, but any tricks and I will shoot you through the head,” Ivan said, in a flat voice.

Redfern didn’t doubt his sincerity. He swallowed hard and gave Ivan a nod. He would have to play this by ear. Hopefully, an opportunity would arise once they were safely back at Genitix.

“Good, hurry, we have to go,” ordered Ivan.

Two minutes later they were in the SUV that Redfern had commandeered and heading out of the park. They were almost to the turn back onto West Congress Parkway when a black stretch Mercedes sped past them going in the opposite direction. Ivan recognized the license plate immediately but kept his speed steady as they merged into the traffic and headed into the city.

Molenski was close. But not close enough.

“Show me the way,” he said to Redfern, after a glance in the mirror to make sure the Mercedes hadn’t turned to follow them.

* * *

“Have them search the whole fucking park,” snapped Molenski, when Andre and the other three jogged back to inform him they had found no sign of Ivan or the robot.

“You heard him!” shouted Andre.

He thought it was stupid to waste any more time here, but given the mood Molenski was in, he wasn’t going to risk saying anything. He turned to follow his men.

“Nyet! Not you, idiot!” yelled Molenski.

Andre turned, his face red. Molenski kicked out at the ruined device on the pavement.

“I want you to get in touch with that FBI guy you were dealing with for the Obermeyer job. See if he can do something to resurrect this fucking GPS and find out what it was tracking. Whoever it was must have been in that SUV we passed.”

Andre swallowed a sarcastic reply. When they had passed the SUV on the way into the park, he had suggested it might be worth following and pulling them over just in case. Molenski had shut him down.

“You are probably right Boss,” he said, without a trace of irony. “I will call him now.”

He took out his cellphone and walked away from Molenski, searching his contact list for the FBI surveillance guy they had bribed into their service.

Ten minutes later they were in the Merc and headed back to the estate. The Russian wanted to have a bath and a cigar to think about things while Andre went to see Agent Hedley Whittaker.

26

The Genitix Factory was located in Massachusetts, but the company’s Chicago headquarters had a sophisticated smaller scale lab on the 10th and 11th floor of their office building. They entered through the basement parking lot and took the elevator up to the tenth floor.

Redfern was nervous. He didn’t see how he could deactivate the robot without getting himself killed and had started to think his best option would be to try and sneak away and make a phone call to 911.

“It’s right through here.”

He swiped his security card for the fourth time since they’d entered the building and led them through a final set of heavy glass sliding doors into the sterile confines of the 11th floor.

Both Inga and Ivan looked around in wonder. The ‘lab’ took up nearly the entire floor. An enormous space filled with desks and work pods that contained an assortment of computer equipment and mechanical devices.

This is not what caught their attention, though. Much more interesting were the many humanlike figures, in various stages of completion, around the room. Some bore skin but were absent of hair; others were nothing but a bare metal chassis.

“Follow me; we’ll go to my pod.”

Redfern took the lead. Ivan felt on edge, the silent building and the half-built robots were more disconcerting than he would have admitted. They passed what was clearly a feminine shaped robot chassis, its bulbous eyes staring starkly from its skinless, metal skull.

Ivan almost jumped when Inga’s hand grasped his. His senses zeroed in on the place their skin touched. Her hand was warm and soft, just as he would have expected the hand of a real person – a real girl – to feel, but here in this place, it suddenly seemed artificial. He tried not to look at her in case her face revealed something he didn’t want to see, but in the end, he couldn’t look away. Her touch called loudly to him.

Inga was smiling at him, a subdued smile, but a smile nonetheless. He smiled back, hoping it didn’t appear forced.

“You are tense, Myfriend.”

“This place gives me the creeps.”

Redfern glanced around at them, doing a double take when he saw that they were holding hands. The big man glared at him, and the technician turned away again.

This will be harder than I thought, he’s grown attached to it.

He reached his work bay, thankful that there were no body parts lying around; the big guy looked spooked enough as it was.

Redfern’s work bay was a space about 14 by 14 feet, partitioned from the ones around it by a low modular wall. A long desk lined the perimeter of the square space, an array of screens, computer equipment and other gadgets that Ivan didn’t recognize spread along the top of it. The technician pulled a pair of disposable gloves from a box on the desk and then gestured to what looked a lot like a dentist’s chair in the center of the cubicle.

“It should sit here.”

“She,” grunted Ivan.

“Pardon?”

“She should sit here.”

“Oh – yes, she…”

“It’s okay, Myfriend,” said Inga, releasing his hand and sitting down in the chair.

Redfern watched the robot appreciatively. She certainly was a beauty, definitely the most beautiful custom order machine he’d seen Genitix produce.

When he glanced up, he saw the big man glaring at him. Redfern cleared his throat and turned quickly to grab a cable from his desk.

He held it up for Ivan to see.

“This is just a cable; I am going to plug it into her so that we can run the diagnostic check.”

Ivan nodded then reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. He sat down on a nearby office chair and rested the weapon casually on his knee.

“Go ahead but remember what I said.”

Redfern pulled the lead across to the chair and leaned over the robot. Inga turned her head to the side, so he had easy access. He lifted her soft hair and pushed her ear forward with one finger, locating the micro USB port. He was just about to plug it in when she spoke.

“What’s your name?”

“Tom,” he said, surprised again by the robot’s strange behavior.

He slid the cable home.

“Tom. That is a nice name.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Are you able to lift your head a little?”

She did as he asked, and he lifted the hair behind her head and located the card slot. It was just below the sutured wound on the back of her head but didn’t look like it had sustained any direct damage. He turned back to the desk and picked up a pair of tweezers.

“Now, after I remove this card, I will have you restart,” he said, as he bent over her again.

“Yes, Tom.”

“You may feel a twinge if your PhysSens software is still running.”

“Yes, Tom.”

Ivan sat forward in his seat.

Redfern placed his hand on the top of her head and pushed it forward gently. Inga reached up and held her hair out of the way for him.

“Thank you,” he said, not registering the helpful act. He lifted the tiny flap of skin hiding the card slot with his forefinger and then delicately clasped the card with the tweezers and eased it out.

He held it up to the light.

“That’s the little fucker that’s been causing all the trouble.”

He dropped it into a tray on his desk. He knew the guys in forensics would want to reverse engineer it.

Inga dropped her hair and looked at Tom.

“Shall I restart now Tom?”

“Yes, do that, then I can run the full diagnostic for you.”

“Don’t look so worried Myfriend,” said Inga. “I will be awake again in a minute or two.”

Again, Redfern’s eyes widened. He had never heard a robot speak with such humanlike nuance. The big man nodded, but still looked as tight as a guitar string.

Inga’s eyes closed and after a few seconds, Ivan could hear a faint humming sound. The hum stopped after about a minute, and he watched her peaceful face as he waited for the hum to begin again. Thirty seconds passed by. Then a minute. As the heavy silence stretched on, Ivan’s face grew darker and darker. He glared at the technician.

“I’m sure it will just take a second,” said Redfern, hating the shrillness in his voice.

Finally, just when Redfern was about to suggest he restart her manually to circumvent the big man’s anger, the low humming began again. The technician sighed in relief and went to stand over the robot. He found himself pushed out of the way by the big man.

Inga’s eyes opened and for just one or two horrible seconds, Ivan was sure she didn’t recognize him.

“Myfriend,” the robot said. “Was I asleep for long?”

He took her hand, his earlier doubts completely gone. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

“No, not long at all,” he said to her and looked up at Redfern, who was watching him with a concerned frown. “Start the diagnostics; I want to get her out of here as soon as possible.”

“Sure.”

Jesus, this guy has tin dick bad.

‘Tin dick’ was the derogatory term the technicians had given to describe the love that some clients began to feel for their female robots.

Redfern went to the computer he had started upon their arrival and hit a few keys. Lines of coding began running across the screen, soon filling it as the diagnostic program trawled through Inga’s hard drives and programming.

Ivan didn’t leave Inga’s side. Redfern licked his lips nervously. He needed to call 911 somehow, or the creep would walk out of here with her in the next ten minutes.

* * *

Andre shook his head at the Russian’s luck. Hedley Whittaker, being a supreme nerd, had a fully kitted out workshop in his basement. Within fifteen minutes of performing open heart surgery on the smashed device, he had triumphantly held up a small chip to Andre.

Now, as he perspired over his keyboard, a map of Chicago appeared on his bank of monitors, a telltale blip flashing intermittently in the heart of the central business district.

“Whatever the device was tracking, is right there,” said Whittaker, pointing at the screen.

Andre recognized the address; he had taken his boss there several times. It was the Genitix building.

“Excellent. Do you have another device I can use to track them myself?”

“I could rig something up, but it would take me a good few hours…”

“Don’t bother. Can you monitor this screen and call me if they move again? I will pay you double the normal fee.”

Andre could almost see the jackpot signs rolling in the FBI man’s eyes.

“Sure!”

Just a few minutes later, Andre and the others were speeding into the city.

“We have located them,” he reported to Molenski over the phone.

“Good. Remember I want them alive. When you have them, bring them straight here.”

“Yes, Boss…”

“And Andre?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t come back without them.”

“No, boss.”

27

“How long will this take?” asked Ivan.

“About twenty minutes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, at least.”

The big man nodded and turned back to Inga.

“Do you mind if I put some music on? I find it helps me concentrate,” asked Redfern.

Ivan waved his approval and pulled a stool across to sit by Inga. While he didn’t exactly have his back to Redfern, the technician, now sitting at his screen watching the numbers scroll endlessly, was partially shielded from his view.

Redfern hit a few keys on the laptop next to his computer, and classical music began to play softly from the speakers. As he pretended to watch the screen, he looked surreptitiously at the robot and her beau, his hand just by the desk phone.

Redfern saw the big man shuffle a little and look his way before resting his head on the robot’s shoulder. He heard them talking quietly now and then and wondered what such a conversation might be about.

Redfern waited a minute and then reached across and carefully lifted the receiver, placing it gently on the desk before putting both hands back on the keyboard.

Neither the robot nor the man seemed to notice; they continued their quiet but sporadic conversation. After another minute, he dared to dial a line out and then tapped 9-1-1 before quickly moving his hand back to the keyboard.

He saw the timer on the LCD start up. He had been connected.

“Okay,” he said, in a loud voice. “I think you can put the gun away now; it’s almost done.”

Ivan looked at him suspiciously, and Redfern quickly pointed at the screen.

“See? Almost there, no need for the gun anymore.”

“Why are you yelling?”

“I’m not yelling,” said Redfern more quietly, pushing his chair back to block his view of the phone.

Ivan stood up, spotting it immediately. Redfern cowered in his chair as Ivan strode over and slammed the phone back onto its cradle before grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up out of the chair until their eyes were level.

“You just fucked up” said Ivan, shoving the muzzle of his weapon under the man’s chin.

“Please, I’m sorry! I just…”

Suddenly Inga was there, the lead still running from her head to the computer.

“What is wrong, Myfriend?”

“He tricked us. He has called someone.”

“Is this true, Tom Redfern?”

“Disarm him! You are programmed to prevent a human coming to harm!”

“Due to damage to my systems, I am not compelled to implement the first law of Robotics. This may be due to a malfunction or a corrupt file.”

As if to punctuate her point, a shrill beep sounded from the computer and Redfern looked at the message displayed on the screen.

Scan of Apex Model 0167 completed. Disk 2 corrupted. 1,879 files lost or damaged. Recommend replacement and reprogramming.

“Oh, what the fuck!”

“Please answer the question, Tom Redfern. Is the statement made by Myfriend true?”

“Yes,” he said, distracted. “I called the police. You killed a lot of people… but we have a bigger problem.”

“You thought you could help by calling them?”

Redfern looked back to her and nodded, his eyes big.

“Myfriend, I sense no malice on the part of Tom Redfern, please do not shoot him.”

Over the music, they heard sirens in the distance. He looked back at Redfern and shook him.

“What is this new problem?”

Redfern pointed at the screen.

“She’s not a Sinthetica model, she’s an Apex.”

“What?”

“Apex… she’s a military grade combat prototype.”

Ivan shook him again and Inga placed her hand on his forearm.

“Please, Myfriend… Tell us more Tom.”

“I think whoever tried the hit on this Molenski guy wanted to make sure of it.” He looked at Ivan. “She’s dangerous man, you have to let me deactivate her.”

Ivan tensed and pushed the gun harder under Redfern’s chin.

“Say goodnight motherf…”

“No Myfriend!”

Frustrated, the big man looked at her then nodded. He lowered the gun before pushing Redfern away.

The technician relaxed and looked at Inga with a new respect. There was something about her, and it wasn’t just damaged hardware or the fact that she was potentially even more dangerous than he first thought.”

“Thank you, I…”

Without warning, Ivan lashed out and smashed the handle of the gun against Redfern’s temple. The technician fell back heavily into his chair.

He pushed the unconscious man back to his desk and grabbed his security pass from his shirt pocket before straightening. Inga was looking at him with her eyebrow raised.

He shrugged sheepishly.

“What? I didn’t shoot him. Come, we have to go.”

* * *

Andre and his crew were a block away when his phone rang. Half expecting a call from Hedley Whittaker, he was surprised to see BOSS Calling on the screen of his phone.

“Yes, Boss?”

“There is a change of plans. Come back to the estate.”

“But Boss, we’re just about to arrive and I haven’t had a call from Whittaker. That means they haven’t moved…”

“I said turn around and come back!” Molenski yelled.

“Okay,” said the Russian’s chief lieutenant, his voice tight.

He told the driver to take the next turn. Barely a minute after the call, they were headed back the way they had come. Multiple police vehicles screamed past going in the direction of the Genitix building.

“Looks like the heat is on,” said the driver.

“Yes,” said Andre, thoughtfully. “The boss must have had a heads up.”

If not, one way or another the traitor will be taken care of tonight.

28

Ivan led Inga out of the robotic boneyard and into the hall. He decided not to risk the elevators in case they were caught in the foyer. They headed instead for the internal fire stairs.

It took them nearly seven minutes to make their way down into the basement parking level. When they burst through the doors, they were as surprised to run into the two uniform cops as the officers were to see them.

“Freeze!” one of them yelled, pointing his already drawn gun at Ivan, as the other reached for his.

So fast that it was almost unnatural, Ivan disarmed the cop with two swift moves of his hands and then turned the confiscated weapon on him. The officer raised his hands in surrender.

Even quicker, Inga snap kicked the weapon from the other cop’s hand as he drew it and sent it clattering across the concrete floor of the parking garage. The shocked cop backed up, reaching for the Taser on his belt. Again, she was too fast; her next kick struck him in the chest, and he flew backward, cracking his head on the polished concrete as he landed heavily. He didn’t get back up.

Ivan stared at her, admiration on his face.

“What?” she asked, in a distinctly human way.

“Nothing,” said a smiling Ivan. He turned back to the cop he had disarmed. “Handcuffs… carefully.”

“Okay, stay calm, no need for any more violence,” said the officer, keeping one hand up and reaching slowly for his handcuffs.

Ivan watched warily as the cop handed them to him. Ivan gestured to an exposed gas pipe a few feet away.

“Good, now, walk over there.”

A minute later they were back in the SUV heading for the exit; one cop safely cuffed to the pipe, sans radio, the other still out cold and cuffed to another pipe.

There were no signs of any other police in the basement and when they turned off the ramp and onto the side street it was also clear. Ivan had a feeling that it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

He sped as fast as he dared towards the cross street at the rear of the large building. Just as they made the turn, he saw the flashing lights of a cruiser turn in behind them at the other end.

Inga noticed.

“Did the law enforcement officers in the vehicle see us, Myfriend?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where will we go now?”

“We’ll head back to Mateo’s restaurant. We should be safe there until morning, but I want to leave by 5 am at the latest.”

“Yes, Myfriend.”

Driving as sedately as possible, Ivan picked up speed when they were clear of the CBD.

“So, what was that back there?”

“I do not understand the question, Myfriend.”

“You attacked that cop. You’re not supposed to…”

“…harm a human, or by inaction allow a human to come to harm.”

“Yes.”

“For the same reason I didn’t disarm you when you threatened Tom Redfern, these directives are no longer imperative. I’m not sure if it is because I am an Apex model or because of damage.”

Ivan digested this information. Images of the carnage she had wreaked at Molenski’s flashed through his mind. Apex predator indeed. As if reading his mind, her lethal, yet soft hand, found its way to his thigh.

“I would never hurt you, though, Myfriend. I love you.”

Ivan turned to her, stunned.

Inga was smiling, but then her head snapped to the front.

“Stop!”

Ivan slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid a collision with the car in front that had stopped for a red light. He gripped the wheel as he stared ahead.

“What did you say?” he asked, this time without taking his eyes off the road.

Surely, he had misheard.

“I love you.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I know,” she said simply.

Ivan turned into the parking lot of a closed tire store. He had many more questions, and it was perhaps better to be stationary when he asked them. He switched the car off and turned to her.

“How…”

His words were silenced when she leaned over and kissed him. Ivan was too surprised to do anything but kiss her insistent, soft lips in return. He felt strange. Emotions boiled in his mind. He couldn’t deny it. Despite knowing full well that she was a machine, he felt an emotion that he hadn’t felt since, not only before the ambush, but since he was a young man. If it wasn’t love, then it was damn close.

They kissed like that for a long time. No hands, no groping, just kissing. Was she waiting for him to take the lead? If so, while he felt emotionally bound to her, his libido was dormant. A product of post-traumatic stress, the doctors had said. It was embarrassing to think about, but at this point, Inga seemed content just to kiss. He decided he would not worry about it until necessary.

Finally, he broke away reluctantly.

“I… we have to get moving. It will be an early morning for us.”

“Yes, Myfriend,” she said, smiling, the skin around her mouth pink from their recent passion. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Ten minutes later they pulled back into the small parking lot of Mateo’s restaurant. Blissfully happy, Ivan took Inga’s hand and led her down the side of the building to the rear. They laughed and giggled like school kids. Before they stepped onto the stairs that would lead them up to the apartment, he turned around and drew her to him. He kissed her again, realizing as he did so that with each kiss, the fact that she was a synthetic human was beginning to matter less and less to him.

“Sorry, I just had to do that one more time tonight.”

“It doesn’t need to be the last time tonight, Myfriend,” she said, her words full of promise.

Ivan grinned like an idiot, turned and headed up the stairs with her at his heels. Not wanting to disturb his friend if he’d already gone to bed, he unlocked the door as quietly as he could and took a step into the small kitchenette without switching on the light. He smelled the familiar cigar smoke just before he felt a cold circle of metal pressed hard into his neck.

“Don’t fucking move,” a voice whispered harshly nearby.

Ivan froze. The voice belonged to Andre.

“Myfriend?”

“It’s alright Inga, just stay right where you are,” said Molenski’s voice in the dark.

Someone switched on the lights. Besides Andre, who had his gun pressed into Ivan’s cheek, there were three more men in the kitchenette, all with their weapons drawn and trained on the two figures in the doorway.

A sneering Molenski lounged in an armchair that had been turned to face the kitchen and now sat in the opening to the living room. He had a cigar in one hand, his Ruger in the other. Behind him stood Mateo with a resigned look on his face, and another man Ivan didn’t recognize.

Ivan stared at his former mentor, the hurt in his eyes clear.

“I’m sorry Ivan. I had no choice after Mr. Molenski explained everything.” He nodded reassuringly. “You will understand too; it’s for the best Ivan. Please, surrender your gun.”

Betrayed and confused, Ivan shook his head. Inga grasped his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. Her gesture told him she was ready to fight if he decided that’s what they should do.

Molenski chuckled.

“Oh, isn’t this sweet, the mechanical lovebirds, come home to roost,” said Molenski, each word dripping with oily scorn. His contempt was lost on Ivan, whose eyes were busily moving around the room, calculating where to begin his fight.

First Andre. He knew it would be difficult, Molenski’s lieutenant was as quick as a snake and enormously capable, then…

“ARE YOU LISTENING, YOU BIG DUMMY!”

Ivan’s eyes ceased their calculated movement and fell upon the Russian. Molenski stubbed out his cigar on the arm of the seat and stood up before stabbing his finger at his former bodyguard.

“This bullshit ends here! I didn’t pay a fucking fortune to bring you back from the dead so you could have a romance with another fucking machine!”

Ivan’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“Oh, come on! Are you telling me you really don’t know?”

Ivan’s blank face told him all he needed to know.

“You’re a fucking robot too!”

Ivan looked at the Russian with a pitying look. He had always been unhinged, but clearly Molenski had lost it completely now.

Molenski laughed and stared up at the ceiling.

“Well, fuck me. He still doesn’t believe it.”

He raised his gun and without a word shot Ivan in the chest.

29

There were gasps of shock from the onlookers.

Ivan was forced backward by the hammer blow of the bullet, fell against the counter, knocking off the plate he had put there earlier. Inga embraced him, her soft yet strong arms supporting him as he struggled to stay on his feet.

Molenski’s laughter echoed around the room.

He clamped his hand over the wound and felt warm blood seeping through his fingers. He looked at Inga as he leaned drunkenly against the counter, wanting her to be the last thing he saw.

Then something strange happened. The deep pain emanating from the impact of the bullet began to dissipate. The wound still burned like a bitch, but he was now able to breathe. To think.

“Get up, you big dummy. You’re not dying. You’re a fucking machine. Look for yourself if you don’t believe me,” said Molenski, clearly enjoying the show.

Ivan shook his head as if trying to shake off the Russian’s words. He looked at Inga. Her pretty face was serious.

She nodded.

Is it true then?

Ivan tilted his bloody hand down and away from the wound. The ragged hole smiled at him like a hateful mouth. The men in the room watched, like a rapt audience watching a particularly good horror movie. Ivan brought his other hand up and, using two fingers from each hand, dug into the wound and pulled it open.

The pain of his skin ripping at the top and bottom of the lesion was real… as was the confusion in his mind when he saw the red streaked metal an inch or so inside the ragged wound.

If Ivan hadn’t been in shock, he would have noticed looks of wonder and disgust on the faces around him. Only Molenski, the person he didn’t recognize, and Inga seemed unperturbed. He leaned dangerously as he suffered his most vivid episode of déjà vu ever.

When the feeling had passed his brain began to churn with denial. Even though he had survived a bullet to the chest. Even though, he had seen the metal beneath his skin.

I am me. I am Ivan Petrovic, age 36. I grew up in Moscow and came to America with Molenski when I was a young boy. But…

He stood up straight and looked at Molenski.

“How is it even possible?”

“Ahh, is the penny finally dropping on the big dummy’s head? I saved your scrawny ass in Moscow, and I saved it again when you were shot to pieces. That’s how it’s possible.”

Ivan shook his head.

“You were dead meat, my friend. The doctors couldn’t believe you were alive. They fished 36 bullets out of you before you died on the operating table.”

“That’s impossible; I remember waking up.”

“Of course, you do. In a private facility. A private facility owned by Genitix. And guess who is a majority and silent shareholder? Even little miss smarty pants Marina doesn’t know that. But seriously, you should be proud Ivan. You were the first of your kind. A dead man’s mind downloaded into a machine. A test case, one that I can say was a roaring success until this robot cunt came along.”

“But why?”

“Why not? You were a good bodyguard. I had invested a lot of time and money in you, and here you were about to check out on me. Your crisis was an opportunity to test new technology on a real human. I wasn’t about to let that slip through my fingers.”

“But I eat! I breathe, I shit…” said Ivan, desperately trying to find a reason to deny what he already knew.

“Explain,” Molenski snapped at the man that Ivan didn’t recognize.

The man stepped forward and pushed his glasses further up his nose.

“You don’t do any of those things. We call your programming ‘Ghost Imperative’. To preserve the sanity of the downloaded psyche, the program continuously imprints mimicked human functions like eating and going to the bathroom over your day to day existence. They are randomly introduced, like advertisements in a TV show, based on the normal biorhythms and bodily functions of a real person. You may remember eating, drinking, going to the toilet or even masturbating, but you never do. The only thing you really do is sleep, or more accurately hibernate, the same way a computer does.”

It was then that he looked down at the dropped plate. The plate he had eaten his dinner from earlier. The plate he had emptied with relish, even wiping the last of the gravy from it with his finger.

Except, it wasn’t empty. The contents of the plate the chef had prepared for him earlier were there, splattered in living color under the broken plate.

“Do you ever have feelings of Déjà vu?”

Ivan nodded without looking up from the mess on the floor. The man knew that Ivan finally understood. Not without sympathy, he went on.

“There are only so many ‘ghost’ scenarios we can input. Thus you get the feeling it has all happened before sometimes.”

Something snapped in Ivan’s mind, something that felt like the cable of a heavy suspension bridge.

“Why tell me now then?” he asked, in a quiet voice.

“Because, dickhead,” said Molenski, “I needed this bullshit to stop now. That’s my property you’ve been running around with, and she’s brought a shit storm down on my head.”

Another cable snapped, and the bridge of Ivan’s mind tilted dangerously.

“So, are you going to kill… deactivate me?”

“No, you are worth too much to me. The research has been invaluable. We are about to go to market with Ghost Directive, and it will make me fucking billions. You won’t be deactivated, you will be reprogrammed.” He gestured to Inga. “Her on the other hand, well she will be deactivated – but first, I will let you watch me cut her into tiny little pieces.”

“You will not touch her.”

“Oh, I’ll do more than fucking touch her, dummy. I am going to flay her…”

The final cable snapped.

Molenski saw it and realized he had pushed too far.

“Disable them,” he ordered. “Now!”

The Genitix man reached into his pocket even as Ivan’s hand whipped out and grabbed Andre’s gun hand, twisting it sharply. Bones snapped and the gun dropped to the floor as he grabbed the squat man by the throat.

The other men started shooting at him. Ivan ignored the hot metal ripping into his back and drove his right fist into Andre’s face. It caved in, a piñata smashed by a brutal child.

There was a bang and a gurgling scream behind him as he dropped the body. Inga had disarmed a man and used his own weapon to shoot him in the throat.

She immediately shot the other man between the eyes as Ivan rushed at the last gunman.

The condemned man put three bullets into Ivan’s already bloody chest before Ivan grabbed his head and twisted it violently.

Molenski had retreated into the living room and stood behind the Genitix man as Ivan let the body of the last gunman drop to the floor. Babic was further back, his face horrified. The Genitix man raised a small black device.

Too late, Inga raised her gun. The man’s thumb pressed the device and suddenly Ivan found he couldn’t move. If he had been asked later to describe how he felt at that moment, he would have described it as being totally paralyzed. He was aware of what was happening, but unable to move.

Inga seemed to have suffered the same fate. In his peripheral vision, he could see her frozen, weapon still aimed at the spot that the technician had now sensibly vacated.

He watched helplessly as Molenski, chuckling, stepped past the technician and headed towards Inga. Looking at Ivan and smiling, he traced the muzzle of his Ruger along her jawline before placing it between her eyes.

Noooo! Screamed Ivan silently

The loud bang behind him surprised all of them.

Perhaps even Mateo Babic, who held the smoking Colt .45. The technician fell to his knees and then toppled face first into the wooden floorboards. The controller he had used to disable the robots fell from his lifeless fingers.

Babic immediately turned his gun on Molenski, his eyes filling with tears.

“I’m so sorry, Ivan. I didn’t know what the bastard put you through until just now,” he said, his voice cracking. “He didn’t tell me they put you in there. He just told me you were a robot, like her. Oh God, what have they done to you… to your soul?”

Shoot the bastard; Ivan willed the Croatian. Shoot him!

With his gun trained on Molenski, the emotional man walked over to the control device.

“I will make this right.”

Babic only took his eyes off Molenski for a moment, but it was enough. The Russian’s hand snaked out. Babic was bending for the remote when the knife struck him in the side of the neck. He fell to his knees and struggled to keep his weapon trained on the Russian.

It was too heavy. His arm wavered and slowly drooped, before the weapon finally slipped from his numb fingers and he toppled onto the man he had just killed.

“Oh, good,” said Molenski, with feigned relief. “Now, where were we…? Oh yes, alone at last.”

He pocketed his gun and reached out to Inga. Gripping the top of her dress he ripped it down the middle, exposing her underwear.

“Oh, yes. So perfect… Ivan, I can see why you fell for her.”

He pulled her bra down, freeing her breasts, and then slid his hands down her belly to the top of her panties. His fingers were just slipping under the soft material when Babic, with one last effort, reached out and touched the green icon on the controller.

Molenski wasn’t aware he was in danger until Inga smiled.

He immediately reached for his Ruger. He was quick. She was quicker.

Her hand, claw-like, slashed his right cheek. Her nails rent his skin like tissue paper, and he backpedaled, the wet flap of skin hanging from his cheek, waving like a flag of surrender.

He managed to pull his Ruger out of his pants, but she disarmed him as easily as a parent taking a lollipop from a child, then threw it across the room. He put up his hands and she punched him in the forehead. Molenski reeled and took another two steps backward.

Ivan could now move as well, but he didn’t.

He simply watched.

“Please, it was all a misunderstanding…”

A heavy punch to his stomach bent him over double. She watched him struggle for breath, her pleasant smile never wavering as she allowed him to recover and begin to straighten.

A vicious chop to the throat with the heel of her hand put him on his ass.

The cruel Russian began to cry.

Her kick to the jaw put him on his back.

Molenski, crying and choking on his own blood, saw her raise her leg. He turned his head, waiting for another kick, only to feel the sole of her shoe placed gently on the side of his head. It began to press down. The Russian reached up, grasping her ankle to try and dislodge her.

“Dimi, I know all about Inga Svenson,” she said in Russian.

Molenski froze, his eyes widening in terror.

“‘Inga Svenson, the daughter of the Swedish ambassador, was today tragically struck and killed by a truck. After returning a blood alcohol reading of 0.97, the driver of the vehicle has been charged with driving under the influence of alcohol. He claims the woman was chased onto the road. The deceased woman’s boyfriend was questioned by Moscow police, however no other witnesses have come forward. The boyfriend told Moscow News Today they were simply playing a game and that he is devastated that his beloved Inga, the woman he was destined to marry, was killed by a drunk driver. He urges people not to drink and drive.’”

“Please. Let me up; I’ll explain everything,” said Molenski weakly.

“There is nothing to explain,” said Inga.

Molenski screamed at the buildup of pressure in his head and began to struggle violently.

“Fuck you bitch; you’re just like that little whore… I’ll fuck you up; you hear me! I’ll…”

His skull collapsed with a muffled crack.

Inga looked down at the now silent Russian.

“No, I just fucked you up, Dimitri Molenski,” she said quietly.

Inga went to Ivan and kissed him on the lips.

“Come Myfriend, let us go and see your doctor. You’re a bloody mess.”

She pulled his hand, but he stayed where he was, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Did you know?” he asked.

“Did I know what, Myfriend?”

“Did you know… about me? That I’m like you…?”

“Would it change anything?”

He thought for a moment.

“No… I guess not.”

This time, when she pulled his hand, he followed. They walked past the bodies and through the door into the early morning darkness.

Epilogue

“Jesus, what a mess,” said the figure in the hazmat suit as she stood over the body of Molenski. She looked around at the carnage in the small apartment. “We have to get this cleaned up before the PD get wind.”

“Yes. Ma’am. A deluxe clean?”

“No, standard. Remove Molenski and our tech guy. Leave the rest, it’ll look like a mob hit gone wrong. With Babic’s history it won’t be much of a stretch.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“No one is to touch Molenski, he had a recording implant, if its undamaged I want to be the first to see what happened here.”

“Yes Ms. Dryden.”

Joanne Dryden, COO of Genitix Experimental Robotics and Enhancements division walked out of the apartment and pulled off her helmet as she descended the exterior staircase. The morning air cooled the perspiration on her forehead as she began to mentally list her most pressing problems so she could formulate a damage control plan.

Dead majority shareholder, check. Missing experimental ‘ghost’, check. Missing, apparently rogue, Sinthetica model, check.

What a clusterfuck of the highest order…

End of Book One

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Copyright

Copyright © 2020 Scott Medbury

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All characters, corporations and events depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Content

Scott Medbury
INGA

Introduction

Prologue

Part 1 – The Delivery

1

2

3

4

Part 2 – Myfriend

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Part 3 – Death in Socks

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

Epilogue

Copyright