The .40 Caliber Mouse

By Stephen Pytak

The first novel in The .40 Caliber Mouse series, this action-packed thriller is an introduction to Corinn Michaels. Artist. Computer hacker. Angry spirit. And a low-rent mercenary's key to starting a deadly online business.

Corinn Michaels is an Internet criminal haunted by spectres from her past. Five years back, the friends, lovers and accomplices she knew in college had reported her subversive activities to police. She did time. The betrayal changed her world. She suffered a breakdown, tortured by her memories of the ones that got away. Unable to move on, she believed her life was at an end.

A job offer encouraged her to reconsider her options. A stranger in black asked her to resume her life of crime, to become a new kind of terrorist, to start a website for a mercenary called The .40 Caliber Mouse. She grinned as she made the deal. "On one condition..."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Pytak
• Release date: Mar 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465766977

Stephen Pytak

Stephen Pytak is a novelist who writes thrillers about the dark side of human nature. He also enjoys bringing his characters to life through art, photos and film. As of February 2012, he has written and self-published three novels; written 3 songs related to his characters and produced them with three different musicians; and directed 5 films of varying lengths. When not writing fiction, he works as a reporter for a daily newspaper. He resides in Pennsylvania.

Book preview

Daughter of the Furies

Chapter 1

They were on her all night, laughing and teasing, calling her name over and over and over again.

"Coooooorrrrriinnnnnnnn..."

The woman child with shoulder-length hair, dark like fresh ink, pressed her fingers into her cheeks then massaged her temples, trying in vain to shoo them. But they were so strong, she felt as if her phantoms were right there, just over her shoulder.

"Can I ask you something? Mind if I call you 'C' for short?"

Dammit.

"You know you'll always be..."

Uuuuuuuggggghhhhh...

"...my girl, C."

After more than five years of struggling with her demons, Corinn Michaels wasn't sure how to fight them anymore.

No matter how much she talked it all out, no matter how many times she dyed her hair to try to make herself look like someone else, no matter how much she drank, no matter how loud she screamed, she was simply unable to shake them.

They were staining every chapter of her existence. Every page...

The thought struck a chord with her. She wondered what it would be like if her life was a book. She was sure it would be some kind of horror story with a tragic end. It was a depressing thought.

She exhaled a bit of a laugh, then got quiet for a few moments. It wasn't impossible for her to believe that's how it would go. She lowered her head and sighed with resignation.

God, she said with a breath of sorrow, I'd give anything for a happy ending. I'll fuckin' walk the devil's dog.

The front door opened.

As it did, it tripped a teacup-sized brass bell dangling from the ceiling.

Shit.

That Tuesday morning in February, her demons had her right where they wanted her, where she couldn't run, couldn't make any sudden moves or beg for mercy.

She was at work, designing T-shirt logos on a deadline, reworking a website and running the cash register at a tiny screen printing and embroidery shop in Georgetown. Business was good that day. And customer traffic, steady.

As she struggled to work out a deal with the guy who ran the local sub shop, the evil spirits attacked her brain cells with the potency of anthrax, seemingly unstoppable.

I need these by Monday, said the dude with wire-rimmed glasses and a beard which resembled a steel wool scouring pad.

Less than a week? She flipped open the date book on the counter.

Every square on the calendar had some writing in it.

Is that gonna be a problem? He sounded like he was talking out of his nose.

Then the worst of the evil fairies in her head returned with a seductive whisper. Hey. Come here.

Dammit.

What? The customer looked up.

Corinn shook her head. She wasn't talking to him.

"I wanna show you something..."

Corinn added another scribble to Monday's schedule. I'll make it work.

It went on and on.

"You like cat calls?"

She recalled a conversation she was part of. At the time, it felt so right. It haunted her at least once a week since it took place more than five years ago.

"Cat calls?"

"Yeah. You know. Puss-puss. Puss-puss-puss-puss.."

She bit her tongue as she stoked her willpower to block it out, but it ran on and on as she tried to concentrate at the computer. She was editing graphics, perfecting a logo for a motorcycle club, a group of rather tough road-runners.

The leader of the pack had drawn out the design on a torn piece of notebook paper. It was a hog zooming past something which looked like a phallic symbol.

That a cactus?

"Puss-puss."

I think he said it was a cactus.

Corinn started to draw one, as she forced herself to ignore the sexy voice teasing her brain.

But it kept on keepin' on.

The bell rang.

The door opened.

And Corinn's day became even more eventful.

That's not right, a cold woman barked with the charm of a prison guard. She was a representative of the local Montessori school. She was referring to the logo on an order of tees she was picking up, a box of 200.

What? Corinn asked.

The rep said the wording had been changed. Didn't you get my e-mail?

Uuuuuuuhhhhh...

The customer was beside herself. Well...we can't use these.

So...what do you want me to do?

The woman shrugged. Do 'em over.

Look...I think you should talk to the manager. He...

The rep interrupted her, had a fit and started on about how much this was costing her committee.

"Puss-puss."

Shut up, Corinn said under her breath.

The rep stopped in mid sentence. What?

Not you.

Their chat was interrupted by the obnoxious roar of a souped-up engine.

Who's that? the woman asked as she looked out.

Corinn hit the print button. Not sure you want to stick around to find out.

She didn't.

Hola, said a tough who walked in. He was a quintessential biker who wore leather everything. Even his attitude was thick as cowhide. What set him apart were wicked-looking piercings in his eyebrows and lips, thorn shaped things. How'd it turn out?

Corinn revealed the art he'd commissioned, a bold image of a motorcyclist riding through the desert. The design was to be used for T-shirts to promote a fund-raiser his club was hosting to support a child battling cancer.

He smiled when he saw how she accented the headlight with a cow skull. Not bad. But he studied the cacti she drew in the background with concern. Was that supposed to be a cactus?

Yeah. I think so.

Huh. Can you do something about that?

Corinn brought her right hand up to her face and started massaging her temples again. Like...?

"Puss-puss."

God dammit!

Her phantoms really had it out for her.

She couldn't get that cat call out of her head. There was a time in her life when she thought it was the most exciting thing in the world. But that was some time ago. For whatever reason, that morning it was on repeat.

I dunno. Something...different.

Different. She wasn't sure what he was getting at.

Something angry.

Angry.

Something crazy.

Crazy. She was just going along.

Yeah. Like this. With a burst of inspiration, the biker dropped his right elbow on the counter with a thud.

She jumped. The sudden move caught her off guard.

He made a fist and stared at her with eyes filled with conviction and stale fire water. Like demons bustin' out of the sand.

Out of the sand, she said, repeating, going along.

Straight outta Hell!

Straight outta Hell.

Yeah, he said. You ever been there?

Where?

He grinned, having a bit of fun. Probably not. You're just a kid.

"Puss-puss."

As the pillars of her foundation shook, she applied more pressure to the right side of her head.

The front door opened.

A tall thin man walked in. The store's owner, he was a very pale white guy who dressed head to toe in black, from his carefully sculpted coiffure to his polished leather pumps. And he was just in time to hear the tough offer up a short sermon about existence.

Over the years, I can honestly say I rode through a lot of fire and brimstone. My first wife can probably tell it better than I can. But she's not around no more. The guys in the club I'm in, they all have stories. Stuff we all had to deal with. Stuff we still have to deal with. We all get raked over the coals sometimes. Then you're left to wonder how you're gonna deal with it.

Corinn nodded in agreement. She certainly couldn't argue. As the wicked voices haunting her mind rambled on, she pressed her perfectly-painted black fingernails against her scalp. Then she pushed a bit too hard.

The one on her right index finger cracked.

Fuck!

Think you might be able to bang something out by Thursday? the biker asked.

Yeah, she said.

The biker turned and met the owner nose to nose. Thursday.

Thursday, the thin man said, just going along.

The tough walked out, fired up his bike and zoomed off.

What's Thursday?

Corinn exhaled as she fell back into her chair. Guess that's the day I'm going to Hell.

He saw the box of shirts on the counter. The school like the shirts?

She let out a breath of frustration, then smiled to try to make herself feel better. Yeah.

You all right?

She sniffled. Drama makes the world go round, apparently.

When did you figure that out?

She shook her head, unsure.

I'm reminded of that every time I run into other human beings. Gotta love it.

The shop, called Buffalo Graphics, was named after the city in New York he hailed from. And all his friends called him Buffalo Dan.

Like Corinn, he was part of the alternative scene, enjoyed dark clothes and dark personalities not unlike his own. He felt only a few people really understood him. And if given the option, he preferred the company of shadows.

She stood up. Think I'm gonna take an early lunch.

Dan checked his watch.

It was 10:30 a.m.

Uhhhh...sure. There was a bit of concern in his voice. He picked up the schedule they were keeping. He noticed there was a new scribble on it. She wrote something in for next Monday. He couldn't tell what.Hey C...

The back door slammed shut.

He walked to the back and looked out.

Her primer-gray 1986 Camaro was still parked outside.

But she was gone. Wherever she went, she walked.

She stepped onto Wisconsin Avenue and turned east on M Street. She didn't go to her apartment, which was only a few blocks from there. She just kept walking and walking and walking. And every few steps, a curse passed her lips.

Fuck...Fuck!...Fuck!!

"Puss-puss."

Shut-up!

She was Caucasian, part Irish, part Ukrainian and part something else. She wasn't sure if it was German or Lithuanian. Doesn't really matter. She never felt the need to keep up with her family history. She stood 5 feet 6 inches tall and had a few nice curves. Even though she enjoyed stuffing herself with cheese steaks, chocolate-chip cookies and iced caramel lattes, her weight hovered around 125.

Her face was lovely. She had a solidly defined jaw and chin which complimented the determination in her soul. Her eyes were nearly as dark as a cup of black coffee. But that morning they didn't look so strong. Weak from her internal struggles, they were filled with worry.

She had dark brown hair which was shoulder length and parted on the left side. She added blonde accents occasionally to try to lighten her mood. But the last time she tried that, it didn't do much to lift her spirits. It was currently dyed black.

Maybe I need a new look...or something.

Corinn loved goth and punk fashion and wore a lot of clothes which eclipsed her in shadow. That windy morning, she was wearing a long-sleeved hoodie with deep pockets and a fancy belt which tied in front, black jeans, a belt covered with studs, a pair of black high-top sneakers with white laces and a metal bracelet around her right wrist. Attached to that was a silver star, one of her trademarks.

She always had it on. It was a gift she got when she was 15 from someone who encouraged her to dream, to look up, to pick a bright one and set her heart on it.

Now at 26, her weathered heart wasn't so sure about such things.

She grew up in Scranton, Pennsylvania. She didn't talk about her childhood or her parents. Dan asked about them once. She shrugged, got quiet, let the moment pass then changed the topic. She acted as if they had never existed. And he didn't push her for information.

She told him a bit about her older sister. Kate was blonde, pretty, an honor student and never had any problems getting dates. As a teenager, Corinn was kind of a runt, a tomboy, very much the opposite. They didn't have much in common, or much affection for one another.

Kate lived in Clark, New Jersey, married with a daughter. Corinn hadn't spoken to her in years. Maybe four. And when they talked last, they didn't have much to say to one another.

After high school, Corinn went to Pittsburgh to study art and film production. She knew how to draw and paint and wield a computer mouse to create dazzling illustrations. She wanted a career in entertainment. She saw herself as a production designer, someone who could take big concepts and shepherd their development.

While headstrong and bold, she kept to herself a lot. But every once in a while, she let a few people into her world. Her best friends in college were three students she met in the dorm, a lively, playful and mischievous trio.

Dan wanted to know their names.

Corinn never offered them, because these were the demons she was trying to forget about. But she offered up some colorful descriptions.

One was a dude. Scruffy. Disheveled. Bottom feeder. The other two were young women. One had long blonde hair and a boy's name. Psychotic. The third was a dark-skinned beauty. She had lips sculpted fine like a ribbon on a box of chocolates, the most seductive eyes, soft thick black hair and a body like an underwear model's.

"Puss-puss."

They introduced her to epic goth music, pepper shots and the thrill of pushing society’s buttons. They loved to laugh and party, make out, experiment and cross the line on occasion. In particular, they enjoyed stealing credit card numbers via the Internet.

Corinn figured out how. And they enjoyed going through online catalogs and buying things for each other. That included leather jackets and boots, a car stereo with a killer speaker system, and a treasure chest of adult toys just because they could.

Thursdays. Always got together on Thursdays.

Her mates loved her, did favors for her, treated her like a queen and swore to her they'd be friends to the end.

Yeah right.

It came around rather unexpectedly. She sensed something was wrong one week when they didn't return her phone calls or e-mail messages. They appeared to be avoiding her.

Then the police showed up. They charged Corinn with identity theft. She was accused of stealing more than $30,000 from six financial institutions using credit card information taken from 43 accounts. The police didn't charge anyone else. She wasn't one to squeal, but her friends didn't do her any favors. Since all the evidence pointed to her, they did too. A judge sentenced her to repay the stolen money and serve six months in prison. Meanwhile her so-called friends turned their tassels and life went on.

Sort of.

She didn't talk about her criminal background too often. If she did, it was only with people she was comfortable around, like Dan. She joked about it every now and then, calling herself a specialist in white collar crime to give it a bit of sheen. But she feared that her rap sheet would eventually come back to haunt her somehow.

Life is so wonderful.

Lost in thought, Corinn walked for hours. The colorful clothing stores and Italian kitchens which usually tempted her didn't draw her eye that morning, as she pursued a very different destination.

She wanted peace of mind, but something inside her refused to let it all go. Bitterness. A desire for retribution...

That need burned inside her like a vigil. She saw it in her eyes every time she looked in the mirror. And she found no comfort behind her eyelids. In that blackness she could still see the students she used to call friends as clear as day, one in particular.

Corinn knew every curve on her figure, and could still recall the good vibrations she felt when she heard the young woman's silky yet sharp voice.

"Just you and me, my girl C?"

At one time, Corinn thought that was the coolest thing in the world. The sound of it used to caress her senses and make her feel wanted. The playback still touched her deeply, even though she didn't want it to.

Uuuuhhhhhhhhhhh....!!!!

Corinn growled and punched herself in the stomach as hard as she could, trying to physically knock it out of her system.

Ouch.

She bruised the right side of her abdomen. Her fingers hurt too.

"Puss-puss."

Damn!

She entered Rock Creek Park and kept to the shadows, took paths she'd never traveled, got lost a time or two, but kept walking, not caring all