Megan

by C. R. Daems

  The third night I visited several nightclubs and finally settled in at the 250 Lounge, where they had table seating and dancing. For a twenty-dollar tip, I convinced the waitress to bring me martini-looking drinks periodically—water and an olive. I danced with several men and was considering allowing one to take me home.

  I had just finished a series of dances and was debating who the lucky man would be when the waitress brought me my fourth 'martini.' I took a good sip while admiring the view of the Reno skyline and realized it was salty. Being naturally paranoid all the time, I always have the waitress bring me fake martini-looking drinks with water because date-rape drugs are easier to detect. Rohypnol turns a clear liquid blue but is harder to see in a dark liquid. Ketamine turns water slightly cloudy, and Gamma-hydroxybutyrate (GHB) is salty.

  While I sat there deciding what to do, two men approached, one who I had decided I definitely didn't want as a hookup.

  "You don't look well, Megan. Come, Curt and I will see you safely home," the one called Jack said as his friend, a six-two bruiser, lifted me easily out of the chair. I tried to pull away but couldn't. I was dizzy, my legs felt like rubber, and his grip had me locked in his embrace. I decided to wait for a better opportunity. If I made a scene now, they would dismiss me as drunk. My only advantage was to let them believe I was under the full control of the drug.

  I was lucky I hadn't been drinking anything with alcohol in it or the combination would have rendered me unable to move at all. Even with the small amount I had swallowed, the effects were already obvious: dizziness, nausea, tremors, sweating, and trouble maintaining consciousness. They half-carried me downstairs and out to the parking lot where they threw me in the backseat of a car.

  Curt crawled in beside me and began stroking my body. I shuddered but felt little physical movement. He was grinning as he put his hand inside my dress and caressed my breasts. "Not much in the tits department but she's a good looker."

  I endured, struggling to quiet my mind for what would be the real challenge. Sometime later the car stopped and the engine was turned off. They supported me between them as they dragged me into a first floor motel room that stank of beer and sweat, and threw me on the bed.

  "Party time, sweet thing," Jack said as he began removing his clothes. Meanwhile, Curt was struggling to remove my dress, for which I was thankful since it would restrict the limited movement I was presently capable. When he reached for my briefs I attempted a strike at his throat, but the strike was weak and only partially successful. He stumbled backward, choking but able to breathe.

  "Bitch!" he shouted, and for a moment his face twisted in fury. It slowly turned into an evil smile I knew I'd regret. "You need to be taught what happens to slaves who strike their masters." His eyes had a crazed look and his laugh was maniacal. Jack was quick to grab my arm as I tried to rise. I managed to sink my teeth into his wrist, but I didn't have the strength to cause real bone-crushing damage. He jerked his arm away, leaving skin and blood in my mouth, which I spat into Curt's face when he grabbed my throat. He let go as he stepped back, rubbing his face with his shirt just as Eric, who I recognized as one of the bartenders, entered the room.

  He stood there laughing.

  "Can't you two pussies control one drugged woman?" he sneered. Even through my foggy vision, I didn't like the look in his eyes. "Wait," he nodded slowly, 'I think our party girl had Sherry bringing her watered-down drinks...and if she didn't drink it all... Give me a minute." He disappeared into the bathroom while the two men watched me as though I had a red hourglass on my now bare stomach.

  A couple of minutes later Eric returned with a paper cup. "Give her this and we won't have any more trouble," he said, handing the cup to Jack who nodded to Curt. Eric seemed content to watch, while his eyes were roaming my body.

  Curt went around the bed and grabbed my shoulders from behind and pinned me to the bed as Jack's hand locked onto my jaw, forcing my mouth partially open. Then he poured the liquid into my mouth.

  I managed not to swallow.

  Jack smiled and slapped me several times across the face and then grabbed my throat.

  I spat the liquid into his face, which was now only a foot away.

  He stumbled backward rubbing his eyes and screaming, "Beat the bitch into submission!"

  As Curt leaned forward to push me into the bed, adrenaline surged through me, and I pulled my legs up and rolled backward. With my crouch in Curt's face, I locked my legs scissor-like around his neck.

  He straightened, leaving me hanging face down at his naked crotch.

  I sank my teeth into his balls.

  His scream must have been heard in every room in the motel—if anyone else was staying in this fleabag of a motel. He collapsed.

  I rolled off, gagging and vomiting blood, skin, and my stomach contents.

  Before I could recover, Eric grabbed me around the neck and yanked me upright. "If you would have behaved, we would just have fucked you and left. You wouldn't even have remembered the good time we gave you. But now you are going to be my private property. I'm going to rent you out to every sadistic psychopath I can find. They pay very—" His scream echoed Curt's as my fingers sank into his eyes. He let go as his hand sought his face, blood dripping between his fingers.

  My legs were still wobbly and I helplessly collapsed into a sitting position.

  "Kill her!" Eric shouted as he backed into a chair and sat, blinded and clutching his bleeding eyes. "Kill the bitch!"

  Jack drew a switchblade from his pants and advanced toward me. He wasn't smiling and moved toward me slowly and cautiously.

  "You plan on killing me with that tiny knife? Well, Jack-the-idiot, to stick that knife in me, you'll need to be close enough for me to jab my fingers in your eyes. You'll be blind even if my fingers don't pierce your brain and kill you." The fight-or-flight situation made adrenaline surge through me. "Right now you are guilty of attempted rape. If you kill me, it'll be murder. The murder of an undercover agent investigating date rapes. Why do you think I was drinking watered-down drinks? The FBI are going to descend on that bar like army-ants. They take it really personal when one of their own is killed. So blindness and death row for murdering an FBI agent, or run now while you have a chance."

  "Kill her, Jack! Kill her!" Eric kept screaming.

  While Jack debated his options, I fished in Curt's pockets and found a cell phone, opened it, and dialed 9-1-1. I didn't have to say anything with Eric shouting. Besides, I didn't know my location.

  Finally, Jack turned toward Eric, eyes wide in horror. "You kill her, Eric. You wanted this one. Well, she's yours." He thrust his knife in his waistband and jerked open the door. His pounding feet could be heard as he disappeared out the door.

  Eric's head swiveled toward the door as Jack's car engine started up and the sound of screeching tires as the car sped off. Eric turned back in my direction, his face a twisted gargoyle of fury and hate. He slowly moved toward me, probing with his foot and listening for me.

  I had recovered a bit and thought I might be able to scramble across the bed and make it to the door, but if I were wrong... I decided to save my strength and wait.

  Eric reached Curt's body, stopped, and then attempted to step over him, but the heel of his foot came down on Curt's arm, lost his balance, and came crashing down on me.

  My head slammed against the floor and stars danced before my eyes. Eric's insane laughter kept me from passing out, knowing I'd never wake if I did.

  His hands worked their way up to my throat and held me like a vise.

  I put my hands on his chest as if to push him away.

  He roared with laughter. "I'm going to enjoy this," he said as one hand maintained its grip on my throat and the other worked its way to and into my briefs. "The last thing you are going to remember is being raped."

  My vision had cleared enough to see, if not to read. I folded my hand into a fist with my index and middle fingers extended. Then I straightened my arm with all the force I could,
driving my two fingers into his throat. I felt his trachea collapse beneath my fingers.

  He heaved upward, face going purple and gasping like a fish out of water. Gurgling, he fought for air that would never reach his lungs as his hand tightened around my throat.

  * * *

  The sounds of people in the distance, the smell of antiseptics, the warmth of blankets were hazy thoughts as I tried to focus. Where was I? Where had I been? I couldn't seem to think or remember, and I began to panic.

  "She's waking up." It sounded like Witton.

  Why was he here? Where was here? My eyes flew open and I jerked upright. My body exploded with pain that took my breath away and caused me to collapse in tears.

  "Relax, Megan. You're in the hospital and safe." Witton stood holding my hand and sounding concerned. Before I could reply a nurse came into the room.

  "Finally awake. How do you feel?" she asked as she checked the monitors I was attached to. "What's your pain level?"

  I had to wait for my breathing to return to normal before answering. "Tolerable, so long as I don't have to move or talk," I said as the waves of pain slowly subsided. "What happened?"

  "You don't know?" Witton asked, frowning.

  "After I passed out."

  "The police responding to a 9-1-1 call found you lying under a dead man and rushed you here, to the Nevada Hospital. The man on top of you still had his hand pushing against your throat. Another minute or two and you would have died. They wanted to question you, but I refused permission. So, what happened?"

  "It was around midnight at the 250 Lounge. I was dancing with several men and drinking water-martinis when..." I detailed the entire incident, stopping many times to answer questions for Witton. He insisted on hearing the details as he would have to report back to the Committee.

  * * *

  I stayed three more days in the hospital. When I was released, Ann Marie had the company plane pick me up and fly me back to Richmond, where I spent several more days moping around my condo, unsure of what I wanted to do—so I did nothing. Several days later I noticed an advertisement for the PGA Expo in Vegas was starting the next day and remembered my promise to Jason. I spent the evening debating whether I was ready after the evil-threesome. At two that morning I decided there was no shortage of evil men and women or of good men and women and called the airlines for first class reservations to Vegas and a suite at the Venetian—something I normally don't do but felt the incident had somehow changed me.

  * * *

  As I rode the elevator down to the lobby, I wondered if Jason would be there. He might not have remembered me—I doubted that. He might have gotten married—I wondered if I cared. Or maybe he wasn't interested—a very depressing thought. When I entered the lobby, Jason was sitting on a couch in the lobby scanning the entrance. He was a handsome man, but after the evil-threesome he looked gorgeous. I managed to approach him from behind without being seen.

  "Sir, do you have the time?" I asked, still behind him.

  "Ten thirty-five," he said after a brief look at his watch and immediately looked back to the entrance. I was impressed but wondered if it were my company or the good sex that had him so intent.

  "Expecting someone?" I asked.

  "I'm hoping she didn't forget and can make it." He still hadn't looked back at me.

  "A bit scatterbrained?"

  "Oh, no. It's her job."

  "Sounds like an excuse," I said and finally got a reaction.

  He whirled around with a scowl on his face. He stared at me for several seconds with his mouth open, and then smiled. "You made it...what happened to your face?" His smile disappeared and replaced with a look of horror. I had forgotten the bruising hadn't completely disappeared, and I didn't wear make-up, which might have covered it.

  "Have you eaten?" I asked.

  He shook his head, still staring at my face and throat.

  "Good. It's my treat since I have a confession to make." I put my arm though his and turned him in the direction of the Public House Restaurant, where I arranged for a private booth. After we were seated I took a deep breath. I had decided that I wasn't going to pretend to be anyone but who I was. If that scared men away they weren't right for me.

  "I lied to you last time. It was easier or maybe more convenient than the truth. No more. I don't work for a local security firm and I don't provide security for large estates or private security for special occasions." I paused, dreading the truth because I liked Jason and would miss him if the truth intimidated him and he left or his behavior toward me changed.

  He reached across the table and placed his hands over mine. "I just hope you aren't married." He looked anguished as if waiting for a doctor to tell him the results of some medical test.

  I had to laugh. That was the last thing I expected. "No. I work in a special organization that guards VIPs under reliable death threats."

  "Is that how you got injured?" he asked, seemingly not concerned about my occupation but only my injuries.

  "Ironically, no..." I talked about my job in generalities, post-assignment time off, and my encounter with the evil-threesome.

  He listened intently but asked few questions. "All right," he said. "At the risk of scaring you off, my confession. I haven't been able to think about anyone except you for the whole year." His face flushed a bit while he talked.

  "Okay, here's the deal. I earn a good salary so we'll split the expenses, and I have a room here so you can cancel yours.

  * * *

  "It's been a fantastic week," Jason said as we sat waiting for our planes to depart. Jason had an American flight to Chicago in about an hour. I had an American flight in a little more than two hours to Virginia. "I'd love to see you more often than yearly in Vegas," he said cautiously. I would have bet he had his fingers crossed—the ones that weren't holding my hand.

  "I'll make you a deal. When I get post-assignment vacation time, I'll email you. If you can get away or have time and want to see me—"

  "I want to see you, Megan. Anytime you're free," he said in a rush.

  "Then we can arrange something. I've given you my condo email, but don't expect much in the way of emails from me. When I'm working, I'm totally out of contact, so I'll only respond if I'm at Richmond."

  I was sorry to see the ten days end. It had been wonderful and he had extended his vacation a couple of days.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FBI Agent Neely

  Ann Marie had set up a meeting with Witton several days after I had returned from Las Vegas.

  "You look far more relaxed than the last time we talked," Witton said. Witton had become many things to me over the years, fellow Kazak, boss, and friend.

  "I think I'm beginning to resolve the issues this job creates around men. When they find you are more macho than they—in their minds—many get weird. Besides, who would want to marry a Kazak who isn't home most of the time? So you lie, but that creates other problems."

  "Well, both women and men marry combat soldiers, and fighter pilots, and navy crew."

  "Yes, that's what I've decided. They can take me or leave me, because I'm not changing."

  "I think that is good advice for all Kazaks." He paused to look inside a folder in front of him. "You look ready for another assignment. Somewhat like Lynn looks after a visit to see Clare…relaxed and content but anxious to get another assignment."

  "Yes. I had a good time and feel ready for another assignment," I said, wondering if I looked in a mirror whether I'd see whatever Witton saw. Probably not. I didn't see anything different when I washed my face this morning. Well to be truthful, I might have felt pleased with myself and hoped my meeting with Witton meant a new assignment.

  "Most Kazaks like what they do, but it's just a job. But somehow it appears different with Lynn. She requires time off after assignments, as though coming down off a high. Like an addict, she craves assignments. I see that in you." He sat back and took a drink of his coffee, awaiting my response. I gave a laugh, thinking that's
what I must have saw in the mirror this morning.

  "Yes, a vacation and good workouts before and after are necessary to keep me…healthy. Assignments are intoxicating, but I don't think they would be without a change of pace. Time to renew physically and mentally—therapy." I smiled thinking of Jason.

  "Therapy?" Witton frowned, looking confused.

  "Clare calms Lynn, provides her balance," I said, and Witton gave a slight nod.

  "And you?"

  "Since I don't have a Clare, I seek new places and people to entertain me. They bring me back to reality and reduce the adrenalin."

  "Except for that incident at Lake Tahoe." Witton watched me closely.

  "That was a heavy dose of reality…" I chewed on my lip. "But worth it."

  Witton eyes went wide. Then he nodded for me to continue.

  "It eliminated three psychopaths and made me appreciate being a Kazak. Otherwise they would have raped me and gone on to rape countless more women over the years."

  "The Witch Meztlil isn't arbitrary when she names new Kazaks. You and Lynn are much alike, yet very different." He smiled. "Well, are you ready for another adrenaline high?"

  "Yes, sir." I smiled back.

  "Have you heard of William Neely?" Witton asked. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but nothing came to mind. I shook my head.

  "The Mall of America shootout?"

  "Oh, was he one of the FBI agents in the shootout?" I asked, remembering a news report about an incident were a FBI agent shot a child during a shootout at a mall in Minnesota."