Black Ice

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Black Ice.

  Author Note:  Thanks to my friend Mara ♣ McBain for pointing out that no one would have a clue about the tattoo unless I gave them a picture.  She then, very diplomatically, pointed out that I should have reversed the colors.



The liquid massage of hot water flowed over the top of her head, caressed her face, and pooled in the hollow between her breasts, captured there by the dam formed by her crossed arms.  She winced when her fingers gingerly traced the outline of the fist-sized welt rising on her side.  That bruise would be glorious.  Tilting her head, she redirected the soothing water through her long black hair and downward, where it flowed over the elaborate black butterfly tattoo that covered her lower back.  It was an assemblage of faceted gems, the wings formed by two large profiles set point to point.  The impact of the water on the lump rising at the base of her skull elicited another wince, and muttered curses.  Could it really have gone that wrong?  Let’s see; alarms blaring, sirens closing in, oh, and let’s not forget the two dead guys.  Yeah, short of getting caught or killed, it went as wrong as it could go.



The muffled explosions from distant fireworks reminded her of the time – midnight, New Years Eve.  The alarms had been a piece of cake.  She had hacked some, disabled others.  The safe, however, would have been impossible to crack in a short amount of time.  That’s why she had the combination.  The safe opened with a sigh when she punched in the numbers.  It was amazing how much leverage a little cocaine, a lot of sex, and a digital camera could buy.

Inside were all the loose gems from the jewelry fenced by Beverly Hills thieves during the entire month of December.  Hey, even bad guys have to buy presents.  She grabbed the bags and shoved them in the satchel, ignoring the watches, coins, and other valuables.  She was a connoisseur.

The front for the stolen goods operation was a legitimate pawn shop one block off Rodeo Drive.  When the rich and famous had to liquidate last year’s bling for this year’s plastic surgery, Hollywood’s pawn shops were the epitome of discretion.  It was a normal looking office building with a real estate agency on the ground floor.

Moving quickly through the third floor hall, she expected to leave the way she had entered; the service elevator and the loading dock.  She rounded a corner at a trot and almost collided with one of the security guards.  What the hell?  They weren’t due to make rounds for another hour.  He was looking through binoculars at the apartment building across the street, one hand in his pants.  Asshole!.  Why couldn’t he be a Perv on his own time?

He dropped the glasses and spastically fumbled for his sidearm.  Instinctively, she closed the distance at a run and sent a flying side-kick to his chin.  The idiot tried to step back, tripped on the binoculars, and tilted his head back just as the blade of her foot connected – with his throat.  She felt the crunch of cartilage and bone as his head snapped back and shattered the window he’d been peeping out of.  His body didn’t even twitch on the hall floor, his neck cleanly snapped.  The perimeter alarms were blaring now, so much for the service elevator.

She pulled the 357 and bolted for the emergency stairs.  Taking them three at a time, she made it to the landing mid-way between the third and second floors.  As she made the turn, the door to the second floor landing burst open and another guard, MP5 drawn, appeared, blocking her descent.  She vaulted the railing, and snapped off a shot in his direction.  The big revolver roared like thunder in the confined space, much louder than it should have been.  The air was driven from her lungs.  She spun wildly and landed badly on the next flight of stairs, slamming her head against the wall.  For several stunned seconds she thought maybe she had shot herself.

Still confused, but recovering, she rolled to her back.  Gripping the gun with both hands, she thrust it between her knees towards the landing, but the threat never appeared.  Nine millimeter shell casings from the MP5 trickled down the stairs to land by her boots.  That explained the searing pain in her side.  As she stood, she saw the guard lying on the landing, blood pooling around his head.  Lucky damn shot, that.

It was good thing she was a pro.  She had disabled all the cameras in the building.  The revolver left no casings behind, and the Glazers she loaded it with where untraceable.  There would be no ballistics evidence.  She staggered down the alley and away from the building, accompanied by the growing wail of sirens.





Concluding the water had done all it could to wash away the tension; she reluctantly turned it off and reached for a towel.  The shower, like the kitchen counters, was black granite and huge.  Lovers had joked that she could play team sports in it.  She had smiled and acknowledged she did, regularly.

She rubbed herself dry, carefully avoiding the tender ribs.  As she stood before the mirror squeezing the last of the water from her hair she peered into her own eyes and thought about the black satchel.  Her breathing grew shallow, her pulse quickened, the pupils of those emerald orbs dilated into bottomless black pools.  It was amazing, how the rocks aroused her.  She hadn’t found a human yet who compared, but she kept trying.

“Slow down, honey,” she thought, smirking at her damp reflection.  “I know it’s hard, but let’s make this  last.”

She glided towards the closet, stepping over the clothes she had discarded when she had sprinted for the comfort of the shower.  Like the tail of a dark, leathery, comet, her black leather jacket lay near the door, followed in succession by her ruined body armor, jeans, T-shirt, and black lace thong.  Her eyes were drawn to the stilettos in the bottom of the closet and she actually considered them for a second before shaking her head.  That would be overkill.  There was no one here to impress.  The sleeves of the short black robe slipped over her arms.  Imagining the feathery touch of the silk when it swayed with her movements, she elected to leave it open.  Besides, that tie across her ribs would be a bitch.

Padding silently across the living room hardwoods, she forced herself not to look at the case on the bar.  It took considerable self discipline not to greedily pounce on the bag.  Slowing as she drew near, still not looking at it, she allowed her fingers to lightly skim along the surface as she passed; each strap and buckle sending electric jolts to her spine.  A soft growl rumbled, unbidden, in her throat and the hair at the back of her neck stood on end, but she willed herself to walk past.

The champagne was thoroughly chilled now, having spent the last several hours in the ice bucket.  A single crystal flute stood waiting.  It was a silly superstition, she knew, but none-the-less powerful.  Leaving a magnum on ice and her favorite glass at the ready insured her safe return.  It hadn’t failed yet.  She was startled by the sound of the popping cork and it pissed her off.  It felt like weakness. The wine hissed softly as she filled the glass.  The first was drained in one pull, to steady the nerves, then she poured a second.

Decision time.  Should she take them to bed?  She’d done that before.  No, not tonight.  She sipped the wine and gazed around, searching for inspiration.  Her eyes were drawn to the palm fronds swaying in the breeze on the balcony.  She shivered at the thought of the silk robe sliding similarly across the back of her thighs.  After a deep calming breath, she grabbed the shoulder strap and carried the satchel and glass onto the balcony.

The metal railing was cool against her hips despite the balmy night air.  The lights of LA flickered in the distance, incongruously made more beautiful by passing through the smog.  The breeze did, indeed, do the trick.  She sighed as the warm air slid under the silk and embraced her.  Finally, unable to deny herself any longer, she turned back towards the satchel on the table.

Her shaking hands made releasing the buckles difficult and her frustrated chuckles became giggles of anticipation.  It was Christmas morning, new love, and burning lust all rolled into one.  Sure, she liked the money, but she could live more simply if she chose. She hadn’t always been rich.  Nothing in the world, however, compared to this.

Inside the case were four black velvet drawstring bags, each requiring two hands to comfortably hold.  She randomly selected one and placed it on the table.

After nervously struggling with the knotted string it finally released, allowing her to stretch open the mouth of the bag.  Half-a dozen large white diamonds emerged and she dropped them into her palm.  Throwing her head back, she laughed and stomped her feet with child like glee.  In the lights from the house the stones burned like phosphorous in her hands as she poured them from one to the other.  It was a shame they would have to be cut into smaller gems, but that was the only way to move them.  She selected an oval the size of a robin’s egg, touched it briefly to her lips, and plopped it into the champagne.

In the next bag were corundums - sapphires and rubies.  A blood red and cornflower blue landslide spilled onto the table.  She ran her fingers through them, appreciating again how no two were exactly the same.  Their uniqueness was part of their value, but it made the job of matching them that much more difficult.  She dropped a few of each into the glass to join their large, clear cousin.

The third bag held emeralds.  She savored their oily green sheen.  Peering inside, she saw specks of carbon and a myriad of hairline fractures.  If it weren’t for the black ones, they would be her favorites.  Real emeralds, like people, were infinitely more valuable than the synthetics precisely because of their flaws.  A dark green rectangle joined the other gems in the glass.

By process of elimination, the last bag must hold them.  She hefted it in her hands, delaying the last revelation as long as she could.  When the contents spilled onto the table her breath involuntarily quickened and her skin pebbled as chills crawled up her spine.  It was diamonds again, but this time they were inky-black and gleamed with a steely hardness.  She grasped a handful and purred as they streamed through her fingers, a cascading black curtain of glimmering fire.

She held her glass to the light and swirled the contents.  The collection of gems jingled like sleigh bells as the bubbles rose through them.  She rolled one of the black stones between her finger tips as she sipped.  It puzzled her, this obsession.  It would probably get her killed one day.  She panted and squirmed in the chair as the wine, the wind, and the stones completed a sensuous assault on her self control.  Her head fell back, eyes rolling up; she clamped her knees tightly together, curled her toes and, finally, allowed her body the shuddering release it had been denied.

When she could think straight again she glanced at the table and smiled.  Yep, nothing did it for her like Black Ice.