by Jack Parker
He lowered the revolver and slowly opened the bedroom door. A tall, striking blond woman in a blue one piece shift, the skirt terminating at her knees. She smiled coldly at him down the barrel of a 9mm Beretta as his hands came up in an instinctive gesture of surrender. She lowered the weapon.
"Finally," she said. "We need to talk Carlo.
Carlo knelt slowly as he noticed an unconscious Shane at her feet, his shoulder holster empty. Had she been holding him hostage with his own weapon?
"What the hell, Jessica?" Carlo whined. "What you do to him?"
"He was taking too long. Plus he was trying to get cute and warn you. Couldn't have you sneaking off. Through that adjacent suit route."
"So you held him at gunpoint? Knocked him out? Jesus, Jessica I have no reason run from you."
She gave him a look, with a tilt of her head, as if to say, "Really?"
"Ok, yeah, they would have told you about the problem with the CIA. But I've got it under control."
Carlo thought of his other bodyguard on duty as he patted Shane's face.
"What did you. . . Where's Jameson?"
"Taking a nap. Couldn't hold his liquor. Really, Carlo you bed too many women. You're guys are getting sloppy."
Carlo stood and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Well, I was going to offer you a drink but, since you drugged my guy. . ." Carlo shrugged, and then grew tense as he remembered an important detail about Jameson. "Wait, Jameson doesn't drink. He's Mormon. How the hell did you—"
Jessica reached behind her back and from somewhere produced a small silver flask. Her legs went wobbly and she giggled as she stumbled toward him. Her breasts brushed enticingly against his chest as she bumped into him. He felt a heat in his belly as he realized the perkiness in her chest was from more than being just cold. Was she actually excited? Carlo dared fantasize for a moment as she gazed up into his eyes and slurred her words.
"Oh, but can't you help me sir?" Jessica hiccupped. "I can't seem ta find my rooooom"
Carlo shook off his hypnosis. He even managed to shove her away a little.
"Cut it ou—woah shhhh!"
Carlo couldn't quite tell what happened. Jessica had only made a small motion, but it was like a rope was attached to his ankles, tugging him forward and into the air, only to land hard on his back. Before he could take a breath to recover the wind that had been knocked out of him, she lodged her knee painfully into his chest. Her hand shot forward and pinched his mouth open with a vice-like grip. Carlo could do nothing but make a pathetic wheezing noise in protest.
"If I poured this down your throat," she hissed. "You'd be out too. But I need to talk to you, you moron. Why didn't you come back to the high roller party?"
Oh shit! Carlo thought. Forgot about that.
"Is that all you're mad about Jess?" Carlo managed to croak. "Really I didn't think—"
"Exactly," she spat. "You're quite brainless, apparently. Do you have any idea how much damage control I had to do with that Japanese jackass?"
Her knee dug even harder into his sternum, and he coughed, tasting bile in his throat.
"Fu . . . gak . . .Fukazashi is harmless, he—"
"He's noisy. And noisy is bad. But not showing up isn't the worst of it. Are you trying to blow our cover? My sisters are all just as pissed as me."
There was a groan to Carlo's left as Shane regained consciousness and sat up. Carlo watched his bodyguard's eyes cross and try to focus on the gun that was swiftly pressed against his forehead.
"Tell your man to give us some privacy," Jessica demanded as she finally stood up.
It was all Carlo could do to nod at Shane and wave him outside as he coughed and gulped for air. When he could finally stand again, he immediately stumbled toward his liquor cabinet.
"Think I'm going to have a drink now," Carlo said as pleasantly as he could. "Can you wait until after that before you beat me up more you . . . you lovely woman you?"
Carlo was going to call her a nasty name. His cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment. The bitch was certainly going to pay for this insult. Carlo didn't know how yet. It wasn't even as if he needed Jessica and her four "sisters" anymore. They had done their job, just as the Dragons had promised, and gotten the information he needed to pull off the greatest heist that history would never record.
"Remind me again why you girls have to even stay with your husbands to be anymore?" Carlo asked as he selected a bottle of scotch and unscrewed the top. Jessica sighed in answer and surprised him by handing over Shane's gun. He frowned as a quick inspection revealed she had kept the clip of ammunition. He poured himself a glass and selected a perch in his favorite easy chair facing a giant flat screen on the wall.
"Stop stalling, Benedetto," she said as she strolled over to his plush white sofa and plopped down. "You know it would look too suspicious if we all suddenly broke off engagements, had annulments, or caused accidents. I've come to tell you that you've fucked up worse than you realize, but I'm not even sure your guys are good enough to make sure this little love den is free of listening devices."
"Clean as a whistle. But like I said, I got the agent thing under control."
"That bitch is the least of your worries now, Carlo. One of your guys got taken in while you had them chasing her on motorcycles! By the way, explain to me how that was a good idea."
"I couldn't risk her getting to me. Not even as part of the show. And who cares if they nabbed one of the guys. You know how this works. The muscle gets hired by someone else. There's no connection to me. I don't even know the fucker's name."
"Except they were on a television show you twit!"
"And you will be too at your wedding my dear. What's your point?"
"The point is that you're about to transport high grade, top secret military weaponry out of the country, and thanks to that 'fucker,' as you put it, and your overall stupidity, we're going to have not regular cops but feds crawling all over the place!"
"Relax Jessica. All that guy is going to admit to, if anything, is a joyride and some interest in some reality TV pussy. And I seem to recall a news report of three dead guys with guns turning up in a maintenance closet on a Vegas rooftop, so don't come pointing fingers."
"Fuck you, Benedetto. That investigation can be controlled and it will only lead to our CIA spook if we are lucky. But do you really think the feds are going to buy your thug's story? No, they are going to learn he was specifically told to make sure Kingsly didn't win."
She stood up, hiking up her dress as she walked toward him. Carlo thought he was going to get a sexy view for a moment, but he knew better now. Instead of milky-white thighs there were black bands full of throwing knives. Jessica pulled one out and held it up for Carlo to see, gleaming in the low mood lighting of the living room. Her voice lowered deadly soft as she spoke her next sentence.
"And then the network will start their own investigation. If that happens . . ."
She threw the knife, and it stuck in between his legs just millimeters below his crotch. He got the message. The five fem-fatales that called themselves the Dragon's Devils were by far much more of a pain in the ass than Carlo had anticipated. His part had been to provide the information on which security contractors to marry and set them up. More than once, the bait had not been taken, but after three years of social maneuvering, they all had found themselves a useful suitor. From there, getting the information Carlo needed on an Air Force base that officially did not exist had been child's play for these women. Carlo didn't want to admit that they scared him, but scary women by their nature demanded he have contingency plans against them, should The Blackfire Dragon ever decide he was expendable.
"So just silence the guy that got caught," Carlo offered helpfully, ignoring the knife and sipping his drink.
"Oh, you're going to." Jessica sneered. "That's what I came to make sure you do."
"Why not you or one of your sisters? You're much better at that sort of thing than anyone I could find on short noti
ce."
"Do I really need to explain the intricacies of not breaking cover to you again, Carlo?"
"Who risks breaking cover more?" Carlo asked casually. "Another thug I send into a downtown police station just to have that one get caught . . . or a professional like you?"
Jessica seemed to consider this, but her eyes bore into him with hateful bloodlust.
"Fine, Benedetto. We'll clean up your mess. But be warned, the next mess we have to clean up will start by making you a eunuch. So get rid of that agent . . .properly."
She got up to retrieve her knife, which he pried from his recliner and handed to her.
"I understand, Jessica. Have a good night."
She smiled a wicked, seductive, and positively evil smile and left without a word.
Once she was gone, Carlo finished his drink and went back into the bedroom. He retrieved his cell phone and sent one text—a message designed to activate his contingency plan. I WANT A DIVORCE.
Chapter Nine
Victoria shut the door to her hotel room behind her and blew out a deep breath of relief. She leaned against it for a moment as if someone might come in after her and bother her. She was off camera at last.
She would not have minded if Jake had followed her in, he really was a nice looking boy, despite his pigheadedness. He wasn't entirely untrainable either, which was more than she could say for some of the others on this show. It was a pity that he wasn't a target with information to be extracted. Seduction of someone rough around the edges like him was always fun. Instead, Jake was part of a show that strictly prohibited contestants from interacting with each other during the down time. She might not be likely to run into Jake again on a later mission either, as there was a good chance he might not continue on the show after tomorrow, since they had failed their mission while breaking numerous rules along the way. That was too bad too, as part of her at least wanted to get to know him better. The other part always seemed to want to kick his ass though. He just reminded her too much of the man she had lost, of the only man who had every really gotten to her, of the son of a bitch who had gone and died—too much of Dean.
Victoria wanted nothing more than to run a hot bath and just soak. The Grande Chapel suite came complete with a large spa-style tub. Her knees ached from where she'd banged them on that ridiculous side car, and muscles all over her body that were not used to such abuse had decided to punish her with jolts of dull pain along with every step she took after leaving the hotel return shuttle—the price of adrenaline wearing off.
The clock on the dresser across from the bed read 11:54pm in big red letters. It was almost time to make contact. Gingerly she opened the sliding closet to her left and found all of her belongings had been transported properly. They move was for convenience in the next mission, but it made Victoria a little nervous to entrust certain parts of her luggage to hotel and game show staff. There were people monitoring her progress of course, people that would make sure she stayed well equipped, but her concealed weapons were even more personal to her than her undergarments.
Good, she thought. It's all here.
She brushed a hanging garment bag aside, and rolled a large black duffle bag out of the way to get to a chrome metal briefcase adorned with a black sticker that read "God save the drama Queens... From me." and had the white silhouette of a woman in a bridal gown in crosshairs.
She grunted with the effort of lifting the twelve pound case and tossed it on the bed. Then she let her wrinkled blue dress slip from her shoulders and fall to the ground.
Victoria shivered at the sudden pleasant chill of being in just her cream colored thong and matching bra as goose bumps puckered up on her forearms. She kicked her left heel up on the bed, stretching and massaging her sore calf muscle with a groan as she unvelcroed her gun holster. She placed her gun in the dresser drawer, right next to the bible before shutting it and stretching her leg in a similar fashion.
Before she got down to business, she rounded the bed and made sure that blinds were closed and curtains drawn. Then she crawled onto the bed and sat cross legged as she opened the briefcase, which was actually the latest model in secure laptops. When you were a CIA agent secure meant very few people had them, and more secure than Tim Tebow's titanium zipper.
Oh I'd make a man out of you, Tebow, Victoria thought wickedly as she adjusted her bra back to maximum lift and set about the process of opening the case. The case was designed to look like it was opened by dialing in a four number metallic combination over each of two flip up locks. The combination dials worked not unlike those found on cheap bicycle locks—and should any amateur idiot who had no idea what he had found tamper with those clicking number wheels, a small white phosphorous charge inside would detonate and incinerate every last circuit.
The real way to open the case and access the laptop within was to press the thumb of each hand into the center of a metallic spiral pattern on each side of the case. The cool metal read a fingerprint and heat signature unique to the agent the case was assigned to. A cold fingerprint without a pulse would not do. After five seconds, the case would beep in a low tone—its way of asking for a simple code word and voice recognition. Victoria followed the procedure and spoke her word.
"Grudge."
The laptop hummed open as the magnetic seals released. Her shadowy reflection greeted her in a black screen framed in red. An electronic stencil pad centered below the keyboard allowed her index finger to act like a mouse as she guided a tiny red arrow to a virtual button labeled "sign on." She was immediately rewarded with a text message in red letters from someone with the screen name, "Tribal Council". Victoria had no idea who Tribal Council was, only that he or she would be reporting to and taking orders directly from the Associate Deputy Director of Operations, or the ADDO. It was a little unnerving that interest in this operation went so high up the chain, as it meant Victoria could not always play by her own rules.
The first message was straight to the point.
Survivor, the mission is in jeopardy.
"Geez, pessimistic much?" Victoria asked of the computer as she pulled it into her lap.
Just a slight delay, she typed, her nails clicking softly against the delux-sized keys. Even though initial confrontation did not go as planned, Doppleganger exchange may have been too risky. Were any adjustments made to the target's timeline?
There had been this elaborate plan before the show started, to force Carlo Benedetto to be more involved in the Spy Games show than he wanted. Victoria was then put in place to confront him, scare him enough to get him to move his plans forward early, and steal him away for an interrogation while a doppleganger in careful disguise would take over the deal he had arranged. Victoria imagined CIA plotters and schemers sat in their lairs and cackled gleefully at plans they drew up on paper that when tested against the uncertainty of the real world were bound to fail.
The failed switch is not the issue, responded Council. You have been compromised.
Victoria made a face, dramatically pretending for her own amusement to be surprised.
"What? Oh no!" she gasped, placing a hand on her forehead like a dainty southern bell about to faint in the hot summer sun. "That just can't be. Whatever shall I do?"
She chuckled to herself in congratulation of her performance as she typed a simple question—the one that had been burning in her mind ever since three men had tried to burn physical holes in her skull.
How?
Unknown at this time. You are being pulled from the mission.
It took a moment for the words to register with Victoria. They couldn't. They wouldn't. She was so close. Carlo was finally going to face justice for all of his crimes. She was finally going to take back just a little of what he took from her. Suddenly the chat session was no longer amusing.
"All right," Victoria said, her teeth grinding. "Enough with the bullshit."
She bit her lip as her fingers danced along the keyboard, fingertips mashing the keys awkwardly, causing typos.
&
nbsp; Like hell I am. Survivor is in palce already. No tiome to infiltrate anyone else. There are time critical leads to folloqw. Benedetto is going down.
You made a mess on a rooftop.
I was attacked! Victoria had not meant to type three exclamation points, but it had certainly felt right when she jammed the enter button to send the message.
Exactly. Assessment is you will be attacked again. Target is believed to have orchestrated motorcyclists trying to intercept you.
"Ch-ya," Victoria snorted. "Believed? Come on guys tell me something that isn't obvious." She typed a few more lines with angry strokes.
Were any of the three caught or detained?
That is not relevant.
Victoria mashed the Caps Lock button.
OF COURSE IT IS! HE COULD KNOW SOMETHING!
Council has checked out the detainee already and it's a dead end. Stop acting like a rookie. You convinced ops you would not let this get personal. It would be unwise to abuse that faith. Tomorrow you will be eliminated from the game. Stand by for orders immediately following.
She was in the middle of typing, "Give me time to get to an associate of Benedetto's," when the laptop buzzed at her and the words "connection terminated" flashed angrily at the center of her screen.
"Ugh!"
Victoria slammed the case shut. It hissed at her and beeped a tone that was supposed to let her know all was secure as the powerful magnetic seals were reactivated. Instead the beep sounded a bit like a final "fuck you" from her superiors.
"Bastards!"
She stood, tore open the curtains and paced by the window. Somehow the lights of sin city were as soothing and mysterious as a galaxy full of stars. Victoria wanted to scream, but a temper tantrum was not going to help her now. She needed to focus. She needed a plan.
As much as she hated to admit it, Victoria could not find fault in their decision. This wasn't a game. If she were the ADDO, she would most likely be making the same decision. The stupid game she was in was rubbing off on her. This was the real world. Mistakes or poorly placed trust earned you something much more serious than a nice basket of scented soaps and a first class ticket back to the reunion episode—they earned you a spot inside a nice comfortable box six feet under the ground in Arlington, complete with a twenty one gun salute.
