Scott Medbury - Inga

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.

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.