Interrogation of an Amazon

The following totally fictitious writings of M Coolham are intended for the sole readership of those of LEGAL AGE. The ADULT ONLY material contained within is also for personal use only where local standards permit scenes of violence, torture and sex. Please do not read further if any of these subjects offend, or if you are not of legal age.

This is a work of fiction. The author does not condone violence of any sort.

The following is under Copyright and is for your sole enjoyment. Your cooperation in not using the material in any other application without the express permission of the author is requested. Thank you.

Interrogation of an Amazon

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Jessica put down her book. She lay back on the bed and exhaled. The toweling robe felt luxurious against her skin. The agent had sought distraction from her upcoming mission and the story had delivered admirably.

Lieutenant Hawkins had recommended the book, half joking, half seriously. She recalled his words. "Whatever happens, don't let them discover your identity. Marco is ruthless. His instinct for recognizing undercover operatives is legendary. If you're found out he'll show you no mercy".

Hawkins's thinly disguised reference to Sempha and Neepa was not lost on her. She shuddered.

She glanced at her watch. 8.20pm. Later than she thought.

Jessica got up and looked out over the Montevideo skyline. The lights were pretty, dazzling against the crimson sunset. About to turn away she noticed her reflection, ghostly in the hotel window. She ran her hands down her muscular arms and across her taut abdomen.

'Like an Amazon,' she smiled to herself.

At five foot ten with curly black hair, Amphora's face, Glaina's eyes, and Sempha's body, she was a striking woman. And she knew it.

The investigator was under no illusions that she had been selected for this job on account of her looks. The infamous Marco, the most wanted drug baron in the country, had a liking for tall dark muscular women. For years the authorities had tried to infiltrate his organization without success. Six first-rate detectives had met grisly ends, their bodies dumped in public car parks, warning notes attached to their chests.

The agency had decided to try another strategy – seduction. Agent Jessica Saunders had been with the department for three years. Her record spoke for her abilities; leader of a team responsible for nine major busts. After years of intensive training, at twenty-seven years old this was to be her first solo undercover assignment.

The authorities were desperate.

Jessica had chosen to accept the offer for more than just career advancement. There were personal reasons. Two of her siblings had fallen prey to the scourge of heroine. She sought revenge on the big hitters; the invisible faces behind the cartels. Not for her the arrest of minor street dealers. She wanted to go straight to the top.

Two days ago snouts had told Hawkins that Marco would be at the Flamingo Club - tonight. 'Operation Raven' had been put into action.

An hour later, showered and made-up, she stood in front of the room's floor-to-ceiling mirror, her hands on her hips. Jessica studied her reflection. The operation's budget was generous; she'd purchased an outfit she knew he wouldn't be able to resist. The black skintight cat suit clung to her body like a second skin. The zip started at her crotch and ran all the way up to her neck. She lowered the shiny silver tag another inch. The costume was open to just below her breasts giving her magnificent cleavage full vent. The lycra strained to contain her ample chest.

Her white thong was invisible.

She stood at six foot one in her black patent-leather stilettos. Elastic straps ran under her feet holding the cat suit in position. A thick silver belt accentuated the slimness of her waist, in sharp contrast to the width of her powerful shoulders. There was no place for concealed weapons. That was the idea – Marco trusted no one. The thought of being frisked by one of his revolting cronies disgusted her. Better to demonstrate in direct fashion that she came unarmed.

The agent checked her make-up, the dark bronze blusher amplifying her high cheekbones. The pale-green glitter eye shadow complimented her slightly slanted emerald eyes. Glossy blood-red lipstick flushed out her full lips.

Her long curly hair hung mid-way down her back – simple. No adornments.

The whole look was way too tarty for her liking. But she'd received good intelligence about his preferences and had followed them to the letter.

'If this doesn't get you nothing will,' she thought. 'You bastard'.

Jessica picked up her tiny black bag. It contained some make-up, a couple of credit cards, a little cash, ID with the name of Margery Perman, a tissue, a pen, some business cards promoting her supposed photographic company, and a slim red mobile phone with built-in camera.

The Flamingo Club was a six-minute cab ride away but she didn't want to leave a trail. She would walk. Jessica put on a lightweight full-length overcoat. The non-descript grey and shapeless cut disguised her provocative outfit.

The bill had been settled in advance; there were no extras. Nothing in the room was of consequence. She had no intention of returning to the hotel.

The detective took the lift down to the lobby. A pair of Japanese businessmen stared at her, mouths open, when she entered the elevator on the tenth floor. Jessica paid no attention. She was used to being noticed.

She passed through the revolving doors and out into the refreshing cool of evening. Uruguay in October was very pleasant. She turned left and strode off down the well-lit street.

A short thickset man saw her exiting the hotel and sat up. He put his half-eaten burger on the dashboard and spoke into a radio.

"Rhino here. She's on her way. Heading south".

A voice crackled back.

"We see her".

Other radios broke their silence.

"Roaming party. This is Tiger. Raven's on her way. Proceed as planned".

Five engines in different streets fired up. A red Ducati pulled away, slowly so as not to attract onlookers. Three avenues south an old beige Cadillac Eldorado, one of its headlights dim, slipped into the traffic. Two roads to the west a white Volkswagen Golf drove out of a car park. One block north a bright yellow Suzuki waited for a truck to pass before starting off.

Three streets from the Flamingo Club a non-descript black Ford van eased down the road. The back section of the van had no windows; the glass behind the driver and passenger had been blacked out.

Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap.

The driver banged on the rear partition.

The four men inside donned their balaclavas.

"No guns," the tall man had said. "Knives, but only in an emergency. She's good. Real strong. Black belt karate. Gold medal judo. Fit as hell. But with four of you, and back-up – you'll get the job done. No noise. No witnesses". He had dragged on a cigarette. "And most important: no marks. Chameleon wants her perfect. Remember, Marco thinks he's going to have her. We know he's about to be disappointed. She'll be no use as a bargaining tool if she's damaged". The man knew he could use her two ways: to get even with Marco, his archrival, or to negotiate the release of his brother, incarcerated in a federal institution.

The men had nodded their understanding. Ten thousand dollars awaited each of them if their mission was successful.

Jessica pulled the collar up around her face. Although this was the safe part of town, and the street was busy with Saturday night revelers, there were still too many creeps around at this time of night. She had memorized the route. The agent saw the flashing neon of Swami's Deli and turned right. She went over the plan again.

She had met Marco twice before. She knew he liked her. Really liked her. She had rebuffed him each time, forcefully on the second occasion. Jessica knew he would come on to her again tonight. Fine. That was the idea. Once inside his house she knew what to do. The department had briefed her on the drug gangs that scarred the city. The Names, The Animals, The Sharks. Hawkins had guaranteed, rock solid, that no one outside the agency, absolutely no one, knew who she was, where she was, or what she did. He had assured her that to the outside world she was a freelance photographer on an assignment.

The investigator turned left at the maple tree. The long street ahead was deserted. Shuttered industrial buildings lined the pavements. The place smelt of decay; most of the streetlights were out of order. The only sound was the click click click of her heels. Jessica quickened her pace.

When she was half way down the road she noticed an old Cadillac parked at the end. Par for the course in this part of town. The sound of a motorbike heightened her curiosity and she turned around. Its headlight dazzled her; she couldn't see that it was a Ducati – and that the bike behind it was a Suzuki. Jessica looked ahead again and noticed that a white Volkswagen had just pulled up behind the Cadillac.

'Cause for alarm?' she wondered.

'Stay calm,' she told herself. 'Be aware, but stay calm'.

All week the agent had been on edge in anticipation of this evening. She thought back to the tearful farewell she had had with her younger sister a few days back.

"Where are you going?" Sarah had asked.

"To Brazil," Jessica had said. "Photography job".

"E-mail when you get there," Sarah had said through sniffles.

Jessica hated lying. Especially to Sarah. But it was the only way. Just like Neepa, she knew that deception was an integral part of getting the job done. Jessica thought back to the book and smiled. Those heroines and the hideous adversaries! Jessica had thought that maybe the King and the Princess would fall in love. The agent had never been good at guessing story outcomes.

'Thank goodness it's fiction' she thought.

Her sandal splashed in a puddle. Dirty water soaked her foot. She snapped out of her reverie.

"Damn" she said out-loud.

Jessica looked up. Only another couple of hundred yards and she'd be on the main drag. Well lit. Loads of people.

The motorbikes had passed her and had pulled over at the end of the street, near the Volkswagen. One of the bikes appeared to have a mechanical problem, the other had stopped to help.

She had been distracted by the noise of the bikes, the memory of her sister, the puddle, the book. So she was surprised when a black van pulled level.

The passenger wound down the window.

"Excuse me," said a foreign-sounding woman. "Do you know how I get to the Flamingo Club?"

"Sure," said Jessica, walking over to the van. She declined to say they shared a destination.

Both passenger and driver were dressed for a party. They had the colouring of locals.

"Thanks," said the foreign woman. "I'm Christina by the way. And this is Maria".

"You look alike," said Jessica.

"Yes," said Maria, tapping the steering wheel. "We're cousins".

"Here's our map," said Christina. "It's a bit feint. Can you see it OK?"

Jessica peered into the cab.

The hinges and lock on the rear doors had been oiled and tested a hundred times. They opened without a sound.

The agent's peripheral vision picked up a reflection in the chrome speedometer. Something was moving behind her. She lashed out, her heel catching one of the men in his groin. She turned. There were three more. A vicious karate chop to the neck of one, a kick to the stomach of another.

The fourth man produced a can. Mace! The detective lashed out at his hand just as he let off the spray. The worst of the gas was deflected. But the potent fumes disorientated her.

Jessica felt an arm across her throat. She was pulled back against the van's side door.

"Not so fast," hissed the passenger.

The investigator reached up and tugged at Christina's forearm.

Three of the men approached the trapped woman. Christina threw the agent forward. The gang caught her. A fist impacted against Jessica's taut abdomen, knuckles meeting solid muscle. Before she could react they swiveled her around and slammed her chest against the van.

Jessica smelt the chloroformed rag pressed against her nose. She slumped into their arms.

***

The detective awoke. She tried to bring her hand up to her aching forehead - but her wrists were handcuffed behind her back. The men had removed her coat. She lay face down on the van's metal floor, her elbows roped together.

She heard a man's voice, muffled through her semi-conscious haze.

"How long till we get there?"

"At least four hours," said another.

"Let's see what she looks like close-up," said the first man. "See if she's anything like her photos".

Rough hands grabbed her arms and turned her over. She lay before them, focus returning to her eyes. Four masked faces looked down at her. The gang sat on benches running along each side of the van.

The men gaped.

"Fuck. She's gorgeous".

With her shoulders forced back, her breasts were thrust forwards. The cat suit was strained to bursting-point.

Gorilla reached down to her zipper.

"Four hours," said a man. "Plenty of time for us all".

The leader gripped Gorilla's wrist.

"Remember. Chameleon wants her perfect. Leave her. You'll get your chance".

The van turned onto the highway. Cheetah – alias Maria - hit the throttle. She spoke into a radio.

"Raven aboard".

Chameleon didn't reply. He flicked a switch on his intercom.

"Hyena. Raven's being brought in. I'll need some information. Get ready".

Hyena leaned back in his chair.

'Could it be the Raven in the photo?' he wondered. He opened his desk drawer. A beautiful bronze skinned woman with green eyes and dark curly hair gazed back at him.

'Could this be her?'

He lit a cigar.

"I do hope so," he said.

To be continued……………

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