Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to Kdj539.
Please note that Yoh-Lin Tee first appeared in the multi-chapter "Weapons of Mass Destruction." For back story, please read it. Thank you.
Trapping Scarlatti
Sunday late afternoon:
Winnie changed out of the Nun's habit into a black singlet and a pair of denim shorts that put her long legs on display. His eyes gained a mind of their own. They fell on her pins and refused to look elsewhere. Then his brain clicked into gear, he's just hot-wired this way.
She's well-proportioned at 1.68m (5'6). His eyes scanned her from her bare feet, his brain clicking and storing the information along the way as his eyes go all the way up to meet her eye-to-eye. His brain captured the stimulus, it being her, and "stored" it as a neuron pathway imprint. Her image transferred from neuron to neuron, till she was encoded in his memory.
This was the image he stored: The legs toned as a result of practicing Yoga, the butt firm, the abs wash-board flat, the breast pert and erect, the neck graceful - his eyes travelled up till they reached her eyes. She was staring back at him, her hands on her waist. He smiled sheepishly at being caught out. "What can I say," he said in his defence. "I've hardly ever seen you in anything but in your uniform."
She laughed, Fair enough, and didn't think any more of it. But he was totally fucked now, distracted to the core. Another part of his anatomy developed a mind of its own. I need a stiff drink. My God, this woman is going to turn me into an alcoholic.
She pottered in the kitchen making dinner. Chopping ingredients and dancing to Kiss' I am Made for Loving You, Baby. The lyrics were so suggestive that he struggled to breathe; she clearly didn't know what she was doing to him. He became totally unhinged when she raised her bare arms up, turning and twisting with her pillow lips pursed in a pout. That's it. He grabbed his book in a huffed, went to his room and closed the door.
The image of her gyrating to Kiss' most enduring song was now inked in his photographic brain. But he realised that what really got to him was the colour of her skin. She has peanut butter skin and he so wanted to lick her. If I could only focus on something else, he despaired.
He tapped the bar on his computer and it came to life. The only subject he could focus on more than Winnie's body was Winnie's safety. He searched for online information on public enemy number one. He wasn't disappointed with the amount of information; there were several gigabytes available on the sub-human who murdered a defenceless woman.
Reading the news reports refocused his mind until she knocked on the door, "Come in." She walked in with a ladle in her hand, "Taste this."
He looked at the ceiling and despaired some more. He taste tested the casserole and gave her his stamp of approval. She smiled, tilted her head just so and peered at the computer screen. Her face crunched, he turned off the computer monitor, "It's ok, don't worry."
She nodded, "I know… it's gonna be ok." She turned to leave then pirouetted on her toes to face in his direction again, "Dinner in ten minutes." Damn!
He came out 10 minutes later with a cotton shirt in his hand, "Come here… put this on." She put her arms through the long sleeve. He buttoned her up to her neck and folded the sleeve just pass the small of her wrist. The shirt looked like a reasonable length mini skirt. "What's this about?" she asked.
"You've been very distracting," he said with a wink. But it didn't helped much in that she looked too darn cute in it. I need a stiff drink.
"Well, thank you for the compliment, Officer Scarlatti."
They ate dinner, bread roll, salad, beef casserole with more vegetables in it than meat. "Are you sure this is beef casserole? It looks anaemic." She laughed at his quirky comment.
"Don't complain. It's good for you."
"If you say so..." They joked a lot until he noticed the time. Nine, "Um, thanks for dinner I gotta go. Need to work on something."
"You're welcome."
He scrutinised her, the lips looked very inviting. Ahh, he took the remaining wine with him and took his leave. He heard her asked, "Why did you do that?"
"Did what?"
"Go away in a huff… ?"
"Because just now I wanted to kiss you."
"Why don't you?"
"Because if I do I won't stop… ". He turned away and forced himself to focus on a battle plan, how to get them through the minefield. Yet, he made a promised to himself that as soon as this business was done, provided he was still alive and breathing on his own, she would be his. He heard the refrain inside his brain, I am made for loving you, baby.
She settled into her sofa bed and thought, but I don't want you to stop… She, too, heard the refrain in her brain.
It was mid-night by the time he completed the malware. He searched for the identities of the legal team. It wasn't hard. They were everywhere, on radio, TV, news print, online, even the bleeping college papers weren't spared. He zeroed in on the Jury Consultant, the notable Pierre Simon, known to one and all by his sobriquet Mr PS.
It was getting very late. He sent an email to Mr PS's mobile phone from an anonymous email address. Subject line: Constable Spike Scarlatti. He attached a scanned photo of himself in a bomb suit. He wrote: "For $50,000 I can give you Scarlatti. Reply by email only."
Spike went to sleep – soundly this time. Mental tiredness and the wine helped to put him to sleep; Winnie, too, learning Morse code nearly short-circuited her brain.
Monday:
Pierre Simon was up at five in the morning. He got all excited when he saw the email; so excited that he forwarded it to everyone in the legal team and to the client himself, effectively spreading the malware. Spike's computer beeped, he smiled. His computer has alerted him to the fact that his message has been opened, "Bingo."
Most people safeguarded their computer from viruses but very few think to do the same with their phone. It was the weakest link. It's even weaker when they sync every devices they own with their Iphone. With one email, Mr PS opened the door to Spike Scarlatti to spy on them. Within minutes of the malware spreading, Spike had control of their phones, Ipad, Ipod, and when Scott Packer plugged his Iphone to his computer to transfer some information, he took control of his personal computer too, and there was nothing McAfee could do to save him.
Winnie was already awake when he came out. "You look very happy," she said.
"That I am."
He showered, dressed quickly in a very casual combination of black T-shirt, cargo pants which had seen better days and a pair of slip on canvas shoes. He came over to her, gave her cheek a teeny tiny peek and said, "I'm off."
"You haven't had breakfast."
"No time." On went out in a hurry. He looped across his torso his reversal shoulder bag. Now, it's blue. The underside of it was red. She was left to wonder what he was up to, it seemed urgent.
He arrived at HQ at seven in the morning, two hour early. "Morning, Peter."
"Morning Spike. You're early." He didn't reply, just smiled and headed straight to the locker room; then the Gym, followed by target practice in the shooting range. By the time Sam and Jules arrived to work at eight am, Spike had disappeared like a ghost.
He went up to the roof with a pair of binoculars. He suspected the modus operandi had to change after he slipped last Friday's dragnet. His hunch was right. He spotted seven heavily tattooed, thick muscled white supremacists. They tried to blend in but it's hard to do when they were all shaved. The suits and the leather shoes didn't erase the tattoos inked on their heads and necks. It just made them conspicuous. He spotted three vehicles. No, four. A Harley Davidson motorcycle tucked away from view, behind some bushes. He only noticed it when one of the thugs went in to retrieve a sidearm.
He came down, Team One were all present and accounted for. "Hey Jules, how's my baby?" he said.
"Is there something we don't know?" teased Sgt Parker.
Sam, the other half of the golden couple heard Spike claim the bun in the oven, "Hands off my baby."
"You have to learn to share you know," he said. "That's the first rule on the playground."
"Kids, kids…. Behave. Spike, you wanna baby? Have Izzy for two days."
"Seriously, when?"
"This week-end. I'm thinking of taking Sophie away for a romantic holiday and Clark is not up to it. He's dating now. You heard me, Spike. Clark is dating."
"So's Dean," piped up Sgt Parker.
Scarlatti scratched his head and smiled, "Well, I'm all for speed dating. From friends to fiancée in a week's time."
"I wanna see that," said Jules.
"My money's on Spike, said Sgt Parker. Before the day ended, a blackboard materialised in the staff canteen like magic. They were taking bets on the sex of the Braddock baby; whether he/she would be blonde, brunette or even a red-haired. There's even an odd for the weight and length of the wee bub. HQ was all agog and happy for the first baby to be born into the Unit that they nicknamed he/she, "Snapper." A word hybrid of napper and sniper.
And then there's a bet on Scarlatti's love life. Fiancée or no fiancée. Only Sgt Parker had his money on him. Greg put an arm around the Techie and said, "If I lose money on you, I will freeze your ass to desk duties." Spike smirked, Sgt Parker couldn't lose money on him, the book makers forgot to add a time limit.
The day went by quickly. Before leaving the building, he went up the roof again and scanned the terrain outside the SRU perimeter. All seven were still outside, bored, probably stuffed full of junk food, sleepy and likely very stressed. Surveillance is not easy. To the uninitiated, it looks like child's play but that it ain't. It requires massive discipline, concentration and patience; and these guys don't have those qualities.
He came down and asked Sam for a lift. "What happened to your car?"
"It's in the garage." He wondered if he should let Sam know of the seven thugs outside, but alerting Sam would inevitably dragged him into his war. It just won't do, especially with a pregnant sweetheart.
"Home?"
"No, I need to go to the Mall."
"Ok?"
Sam's open-topped Jeep put him on display. The seven thugs separated and jumped into their respective vehicles. The guy on the motorcycle seemed to be the most experienced in this type of harassment. Spike kept his cool, chatted and joked with Sam as if he didn't have a care in the world.
Sam dropped him off at the Toronto Eaton Centre, "Thanks buddy, catch you tomorrow."
Three thugs left their vehicles while their partners find parking. Spike walked briskly; his tails not far behind. He entered a hardware store, discreetly flashed his badge clipped in his belt and nodded to the Manager, he was allowed in through the loading dock. When the three thugs tried to follow, the Manager confronted them but backed off when he saw the menace in their eyes. It bought Spike three precious seconds.
He turned into a recessed back door fire exit, picked the lock and re-entered the Mall. As he was walking up the aisle towards the elevator he spotted the guy in the motorcycle. All seven were wearing the same suits and shoes that they looked like Hugo Weaving without hair in the Matrix.
Spike walked to the escalator but didn't climb up it like people do in movies. Rushing was more attention-seeking than just holding your nerves. He lost two more but he knew it won't be for long.
He went in a men's room, careful to check that no Hugo Weaving copy-cat was inside. He entered a cubicle, removed a pair of red thongs from his reversible shoulder bag. Slipped off his canvas shoes just as one of the thugs peered under the first cubicle. He quickly hitched his pants up.
Mr Thug was looking for someone in canvas shoes, not someone in red thong. He coolly tapped his foot as if waiting to finish his personal business. The thug completed his inspection. When bad guy left, he stood up and unzipped the cargo pants from the knees. It became a knee-length walking shorts, gone was the long pants.
From his reversible bag, he took out a loud green Hawaiian shirt with prints of large white frangipani. The back had an image of a pretty hula dancer. He's had it since University days, the same shirt he used for his initiation into one of the College's top fraternity.
He put a baseball cap on, reversed the shoulder bag to red and he walked out. He learned spy-craft from the best senior intelligence in the business, CSIS' Yoh-Lin Tee. Becoming invisible wasn't about disguises although sometimes it helped. It was about morphing your appearance.
Spike walked out of the cubicle looking like a lost tourist from Hawaii. His shirt was so loud that people either averted their eyes in shock-horror or stared at the shirt laughing; no one looked at his face. He had a cap on, red shoulder bag, knee-length pants, and red thong. He passed five of the thugs on his way out and none of them recognised him.
Winnie had a bellyache laughing at his appearance when he showed himself home. He thought to himself, Woman, if you only know how much sacrifices I'm putting myself in for you.
When she was done laughing, she wrapped her arms around him and said, "You're so adorable." And he thought, Woman, you're so worth it.
That night, he checked his computer to see what the crooks were up to, an email was sent to an Irish-Canadian, Colin Kelly Murphy. A bomb-maker!
Target: The court house.
It chilled his gut. Winnie would be inside the court house but so would he and his legal team. Would he put himself at great risk to avoid the Trial? No, it's a big court house. A small acid bomb would be all it'd take to kill Winnie.
He has to move fast. Think fast.
He wasn't going to bury the love of his life. Over my dead body!