Sinthetica (8 page)

13

Ivan passed the running 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, a feeling of déjà vu rocking 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 and felt a sinking feeling in his guts.  

There was another burst of automatic gunfire and yelling from the floor above. It was followed by more. 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, keeping side on to present as small a target as possible, quickly headed for the kitchen. 

Apart from the body, 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 through the large window over the sink saw 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 sink and the island. 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.

Still, with gun in hand and his breathing fast, Ivan sidled along the island until he was in reach of the door. He grasped the handle and pulled 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.

Falling onto his backside, Ivan was able to deflect the blow with his forearm and grip her wrist before she could strike at him 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 demon girl.”

“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 would be dead too. The Russian has 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 staircase that led up to the bedroom level. At that point, he didn’t know who he was more concerned for, his boss or the pretty robot that he had somehow managed to fall for in the space of a few hours.

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 dropping breadcrumbs, they left a trail of clothes and underwear strewn all the way to their bedroom.

Minutes later, engaged in a wild, urgent coupling, they were oblivious to the angel of death 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, efficiently 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 as she intended, 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 in a very short time 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 enormous pain on her; just he had planned to do to 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!

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

Molenski’s desperate hands overreached and knocked the weapon to the carpet as the third and final blow sent the door crashing into the room. Molenski dove off the bed, his heart thumping madly as he blindly groped for the pistol while peeking 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 that rained down upon him and made sure his trembling fingers finally found his trusty Ruger.

He took a deep breath and prepared to rise and shoot 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 hot metal striking the mattress above him, 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 assassinating her target. 

Two handed, Molenski aimed the Ruger, his elbows steady on the newly aerated mattress. 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 down its left side, gripped the spitting, hissing Tatiana by the neck and, with enormous strength, threw her in Molenski’s direction.

The Russian didn’t duck quickly enough. He was struck heavily in the shoulder by the lower leg of the airborne Tatiana, even as her indignant scream was abruptly silenced by the corner of the bedside table.

Still holding his Ruger, he quickly struggled back to his hands and knees, careful to stay under the level of the mattress, and 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 feel looking at roadkill on the 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 that 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 threw her across the room, like a cruel child throwing a cat.

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 table, before finally coming to a 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 had 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 around to bear on him. He saw her arm tense as she squeezed the trigger.

15

Tom Redfern felt sick to his stomach. The live streaming 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 climbing to her feet and staring wildly at the robot.

The thugs with Redfern jumped out of their chairs, watching avidly 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 the woman on the bed’s crazed face, then a raised 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 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.

***

There was a loud bang. Inga’s blonde hair and blood flew as she stumbled forward from the force of Molenski’s bullet. The burst of gunfire from her weapon missed Ivan by inches as it 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, this one point blank, struck her between the shoulders. This time, she toppled over, dropping her weapon as she fell face first onto the carpet.

“Ha! You fucking bitch!” A red-faced Molenski yelled at his 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 over 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, you big 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.