Chapter 1

Bobby

5:00 PM

I wish Gregory had killed me when he had the chance. It'd be better than this place.

Bobby hated cleaning the Shujing Hotel, even with the bonus he usually got. Not only did he have to clean a hundred windows by himself on an old-style bosun chair, but those pink windows made him want to shove an ice-pick through his brain and yank out grey matter. The last time he did that, the ending was swift. The Shujing was like an Asian action horror movie. Slow and bloody, digging in to enhance the screaming.

He loved pink when it was used correctly. This hotel pushed the pinkness to the point of bordering on obscenity. They called it Hot Pink, but Vomit Pink would have been better, as far as he was concerned. Every time he finished cleaning the windows, he had to down a bottle of vodka and a handful of aspirin to recover. It was as if something was trying to claw its way into his skull. It made him miss the pain of losing his finger. Avoiding that was what got him into this mess.

Now with a dead body behind the glass, and a dangerous computer code trying to rewrite its way back into his brain, he needed to get in there as soon as possible to find out what was happening.

"Fuck! I just wanted to see Motley Crue play!"

11:00 AM

"You're the best we've got, Bobby-boy. The big boss loves how you work, and Yichen only wants you," said his pimply-faced manager, Chip. The boy tried to pretend he was working on cutting-edge washing technology, but he wasn't quite there yet. Last week, Bobby caught him watching a video on how to melt and remake squeegees from leftover broken ones.

"You're lucky today, Chip," Bobby sighed. "I'm tapped out. I've got a line on a secret Motley Crue reunion concert ticket and a backstage pass, but I'm a bit short. This should put me over the top."

"Rad, man," Chip said, sticking his hand out and giving Bobby the devil sign with his two middle fingers down and the pinky and pointer sticking up.

Bobby cringed and tried to mask his disgust with a shaky smile. "Yeah. I'll pick up my stuff and head over there." He spun around and gagged. Walking away, he shook his head, mumbling in Russian. "That was old when I was a boy. What the fuck is he watching now? I Dream of Genie? Why is he so weird?"

"I hear you got the Shujing gig. Lucky bastard. I loved that place," Kat said, going to their locker.

Bobby sighed and stared at Kat, unsure how to talk to her/them. Bobby was always afraid of putting his foot in his mouth. They were easy to talk to, but maybe it was the Russian in him; he couldn't wrap his mind around why someone would want to change their gender. However, how could he begrudge anyone wanting to change their life after doing the same thing? He still shuddered thinking about his old job. Window washing was still much safer than being an assassin.

"You're welcome to come with me, Kat. Hell, I could use the assistance. You'd make the job go much quicker with your skills. But you got to clear it with Chip first," Bobby said, putting an extra special sauce on the 'ip'.

"I wish," Kat said, punching their hand. "I did it last month when you went on that sudden vacation. The owner gave me a good bonus, and the pink was soothing. It was like it welcomed me in and made me forget all the stress of my transition." They sighed. "But Chip'll pay out extra when I grow a third nipple." They gave the door to Chip's office the middle finger. "I think he's waiting for me to do just that. He stutters whenever I talk to him, always using my dead name. How difficult is it anyway?"

"Maybe," Bobby chuckled, getting his gear ready. "When are we going to update this stuff?" He held up the bosun's chair and grunted. It looked like a plank with straps.

"When window washing becomes the job for the stars," Kat said, waving their hand in the air and bringing it back down next to their cheek, sparkles shining in their eyes.

Bobby snorted.

"I like you, Bobby," Kat said, placing their hand on his shoulder. "I may make you uncomfortable, but you've never been insulting and always accepted me. Only you and my Grandpa Jim are on my side. He and Grandma knew what it was like to be hated just because they didn't follow the norms."

"To each their own, I say," Bobby shrugged. "Besides, with my past, who am I to judge?"

"One day, you'll have to tell me about it." Kat punched Bobby's shoulder and winked.

"Maybe, vut then I'd have to keel you," Bobby said in his best unsmiling Russian accent. The silence stretched as they stared at each other. Kat broke into a grin first and started chuckling. Bobby followed and fist-tapped them on the shoulder. Waving, Kat left for Chip's office to get their assignment.

After loading his truck, Bobby pulled the tin of chew Dr. Slazney had made up for him from his locker and winced. "I hope this knocks back the headache," he mumbled. "If not, I'm getting a refund." He'd paid with cash. A hundred bucks for a wad of gunk that smelled like a diarrhetic donkey. The bonuses he usually got at the Shujing from Yichen should cover them and the tickets, though. With the headache taken care of, nothing should get in the way.

✦

"Bobby, my man. Good to see you," Yichen, the owner of the Shujing, said. Bobby just nodded and kept his mouth shut. The safest action to take when talking to the Triad, even a retired one. Yichen, or Lee Chen as he liked to be called, would always come by and give Bobby a hug whenever he had to clean and stick a couple hundreds in his pocket. Bobby knew enough to check whether they were real after he left. Standing no more than five foot two, Yichen still had great posture. He was wearing a tailored Armani suit and polished loafers. It made him look like a cross between an Italian runway model and a dried-up pixie.

"Hello, Mr. Chen. Nice to see you," Bobby replied, his face set in stone. The less emotion he showed here, the easier it would be to get away from the man. Bobby liked the money, but Yichen always seemed to leave a trail of slime on Bobby that was impossible to get off. It was as if he were waiting for Bobby to do something he could exploit.

Yichen usually took Bobby's silence as an incentive to continue talking.

"One of these days, I'm going to get a smile out of you. Break that Russian façade and bring you back into the game," Yichen said, winking. There was no use hiding his past with this man. Some things just stood out even if they were unsaid. Yichen didn't care about it. That made him dangerous, but not at the 'Oh My God, we're dead' level, yet.

Yichen probably loved having someone clean his place who he wouldn't have to kill if they saw something they shouldn't have. Thank God nothing happened when Kat took over the job, but when Gregory came to Vegas on a business trip, Bobby had to go to the safe house in Detroit. That man's reach was too broad. Although Ivan's fists would have been less painful than Detroit.

Slapping Bobby on the butt, Yichen got into his Porsche.

Bobby just sighed and shook his head. "At least he didn't take a finger, like Gregory."

The Shujing Hotel marketed itself as a small boutique just off the strip that also "laid low." It had been built in the eighties, so it was a little run-down, with faded paint and a few cracks in the foundation. Formerly known as The Red Dragon Hotel and Casino, it had been owned by the Chinese mafia, who'd unloaded it when things got too hot for them. The previous owners had thought installing red windows in every room would bring luck for their bored nouveau-riche Asian patrons and dislodge them of their money after a few days of drinking and debauchery. Why they went with pink was unclear. When Yichen picked it up, he claimed to have reformed the hotel and gotten rid of the mob image, turning it into a convention hall, but Bobby didn't believe it for a minute. Some oil just never rubbed off.

He pulled the safety gear off the truck. Winding the ropes attached to the gears around his arms, he headed up the maintenance stairs. On the roof, he secured them to the safety anchors and placed the bosun chair on the edge. Straightening up, he heard his back crack. "I'm getting too old for this shit," he mumbled to his thirty-eight-year-old body. He used to lift weights daily in St. Petersburg before he screwed up everything.

I wish I hadn't forced myself to forget how to use that code. It would have made this easier.

He slapped his face. "Don't go there, ya twat." Who would have guessed something so small could rewrite reality? Bobby missed programming, but it was too dangerous for him to remember how to do it. He already stayed off social media and hadn't posted a picture in the three years he'd been in hiding from Gregory, but he was bored. There was only so much exercise he could get from running every day, and borrowing his neighbours streaming services didn't cut it anymore.

Next time, he'd bring Kat and pay them out of pocket. "Someone to do all this heavy lifting would be best."

Connecting the hose to the water supply and setting up the scaffolding, he stood back and checked his watch. "Time for lunch."

✦

Bobby sat on the tailgate of the open truck, unwrapped his cheeseburger, took a swig from his cola and winced. "I love the sweet taste of this swill."

Chewing, he started speaking to himself in Russian, watching the people walking past, imagining their life stories.

"Cowboy hat over there could be a Burt Reynolds wannabe with the right tweak. He's got the chest hair for it," he mumbled, watching the rich man in the white Stetson get out of his car and head into the lobby. A family of five walked past the front, "The Simpsons in real life if they had four fingers. Right down to Homer. Marge needs less meat, though. Still cute."

Bobby noticed the usual crazies and wackos on the corner. "It's quiet today," he chuckled, watching the police chase a naked guy down the street.

"Who 'ya talking to, hon?" a hefty server said as she passed his truck. She was wearing the uniform for the diner down the road. Her nametag said, Dhara. "Is that Russian? I heard you say 'family'?"

It was a bad habit he'd picked up, speaking to himself in Russian. Most of the time, he assumed Americans could barely speak their native language, much less a second one. Then he'd meet a person who understood him perfectly. If they didn't take his picture, he was okay. Otherwise, it usually meant it was time to move. His handlers were getting tired of finding him a new place to live.

"My twin brother, Vlad. He died a few years ago, but I still feel he wants to know what he's missing here."

She placed her hand on her chest. "Aww, that's both sweet and sad. Say hello to him for me." She pointed to herself and smiled. "I'm Dhara, by the way. You're cute. I own the Diner down the street. Drop by anytime. Here's my number." She picked up a pen and wrote on his lunch bag.

"Dhara?" Bobby squinted. "Will do." He took the number, nodded his head and watched her waddle away. For such a big woman, she could sure shake those hips. He liked them bigger than the waif type they favoured here, but not when they were about the size of two women. He was getting desperate, though. It had been over five months since his last roll.

"Thank you, God, for the cola," he said in Russian. "It kills the libido nicely." He picked up the bottle, chugged it back, scrunched the number and tossed it. He put the empty bottle back on the side and grabbed the cheeseburger. That's when he saw her.

She wore a pink jacket over a tie-dyed tank top with hot pink Speedos and yellow knee pads. The explosion of colour stabbed itself deep into the back of his brain, causing his eyes to water and threatening to bring up the cola. He pounded his chest.

Dropping the cheeseburger in his lap, he slipped off the edge of the truck and stumbled. The burger landed on the ground, still half-wrapped in the paper. He didn't care. He needed to find that Barbie girl.

"Where'd she go? It was only a few seconds ago." He scratched his head and looked around. "She looked so familiar. Like Vlad, only better dressed." He walked up and down the street, but there was no sign of her. "Fuck!" Kicking the cheeseburger under his truck, he picked up the wash bucket. It was time to get some work done.

Washing windows wasn't as glamorous as they made it out to be. There was no big hoist, crane or even a fancy scaffolding. All he had was a rope, a plank with some guardrails to sit on and a bucket. For a seven-story building like this one, it was enough. He usually did the top four floors quite quickly. All it took was a quick squeegee wipe on the outside and wiping off the dirt. However, the cleaner the windows became, the pinker the light shone. Three hours later, Bobby had a splitting headache. He had just three floors left on the west side, but the pain was moving in behind his eyes. He didn't want to try the chew, but he had no choice. If he wanted a bonus from Yichen, he needed to finish. The doctor assured him they would do the job.

When he got down on the ground, he went to his truck. Pulling out some Tylenol and vodka, he swallowed two extra-strength pills. Closing his eyes, he let the vodka work its way through his stomach, fighting the cola still in there. Belching, he reached for Dr. Slazney's chew tin and put it in his pocket, ignoring the smell.

Heading back to the roof, he secured the rope to the anchors and dropped it off the side. Sighing, he took out a wad of the stuff and started chewing, suppressing his gag reflex. "That Dr.'s going to die slowly," Bobby said through a mouthful. "And the pigs will deal with the remains."

He lowered the rope and plank until he was level with the sixth floor, sighing when he finally settled into a rhythm. The sooner he got done, the quicker he could spit this dung out.

As he swallowed the spit, he blinked, and a subtle euphoria washed over him. The pain reduced to a small residual, and he could see through the glass as if it wasn't even there. "Dammit. That was wonderful," Bobby said. "I should have talked to Kat earlier. This is like the strong stuff back home, but tastier. I wouldn't have missed that action on the east side either." He started whistling. There were downsides. The couple in the corner room almost made him vomit. Bacon should never be used that way.

He cleaned and wiped, moving from floor to floor faster than ever, ignoring the little black spots that appeared out of the corner of his eyes as he leaned back. With each window as the sun hit, they grew a little more. He shrugged them off. They weren't the first hallucinations he'd ever seen. On the fourth-floor corner, he leaned back, and the sunlight hit the clean window just right, sending a series of gibberish letters and numbers floating across the window.

"What the hell?" Jerking forward, the connection broke. He knew those numbers. They tickled at his memory from before he came to America. "I blocked my brain from using that stuff. Why are they here? Fuck! The last time I saw that crap, Vlad died."

Bobby reached up to lower the chair, but something stopped his hand. He had to know if it was real or the chew. Looking back at the window, there was nothing. He leaned out again until the download resumed. Where it was just a trickle before, now it was a force of math pushing through his mind, reopening things better left buried.

"Is this a joke?" It was trying to worm its way into his brain, rewriting memories. "Fuck!" He twisted his head away from the window, but the download slowed, but didn't stop like before. "What's going on here? Where the fuck did that code come from? What was in that chew?" Bobby tried to force his hands up again, but he couldn't let go of the rope. The code grew stronger, snaking its way past the memory blocks he'd set to protect himself. Dredging up memories he'd suppressed. It was like a reality TV show on crack.

"Goddammit!" Bobby closed his eyes. It slowed the download again, but the code continued to rewrite his mind. Bracing his legs against the window, he wrenched the bosun chair to the left and dropped over the side. Panting, he hung over the edge and stared at the glass. The code was still there, but the download ceased. Direct sunlight was the key. "Why now?" The splitting headache returned. "Screw the bonus." Bobby reached up to lower himself down. A small hand slapped the side of the window, leaving a red streak in the pink.

He squinted and drew back. "No! I don't want to know."

The tint usually blocked everything, but now the window was clear, even without the sunlight, and the code started digging in again. "Shit. It doesn't need direct contact anymore." The room spun, and a murdered woman sprawled over the bed with twisted sheets and blood, dripping onto the floor. It was everywhere.

"I know her!" he groaned and rubbed his eyes. The headache stopped, but the code was moving deeper, rewriting his brain. She was wearing the same pink explosion as the girl downstairs. "She's still moving!" He had to get in there and save her.

Bobby pounded on the glass with his right shoulder and the squeegee in his left, swinging the chair away from the window. With each hit, the code twisted before his eyes. It grew bigger and bigger, working itself deeper. By the time he got in there, she'd be dead, or he'd be a zombie. It was already changing him, but he couldn't stop. She was in trouble. A part of him recognized how to correct the math in mid-swing. "Somebody fucked up the execution!"

Bobby gritted his teeth and swung out, smashing against the glass with his feet.

"Dammit!" He bounced off. Taking another look at the girl on the bed, he pounded on the window. She'd stopped moving. "Too late." He slumped forward. The numbers were fighting in his head, and winning. "This isn't the same thing," he mumbled.

There was a loud noise coming from behind the glass. He raised his head and covered an eye to slow the download. I didn't work, but a light was glowing off the dead woman. It built up in the room, twisting reality in a fractal pattern. "That's the same code. I recognize the design, but how? It's been perfected."

Bobby jerked back just as it burst through the window, shattering glass everywhere, forcing itself into him, snapping his harness. He was thrown off the bosun chair. Tumbling through the air, he reached over with the squeegee and used it to grab hold of the side of the plank, smacking into the side of the Shujing, two stories up. Looking up, a curtain swayed outside the room, and a piercing scream came from inside, along with a string of Spanish. He recognized the word " police".

The code was no longer digging into his head. Whatever that second thing that hit him was, it broke the download from the window before it was half finished.

"Fuck!" He could not get involved with a police investigation, not now. Ryan would kill him after the last time. He still hadn't forgiven him for the bakery incident in Canada. It was almost as if that bastard had wanted him to relearn the code.

He glanced down, let go of the scaffold, dropping to a flower bed, and bending his knees to absorb the impact. Rolling to his feet, he snatched his squeegee and raced back to his truck. Chip would throw a hissy-fit if he forgot that. They might have seen him on the cameras, but if they couldn't find him, Ryan could deal with the police.

"Gregory's going to see this for sure."