The dress had been sent her, especially for this meeting, which she had asked for, pleaded for, really. She'd been told to wear this, or else not to bother even showing up. It was a whore's ensemble, matched with white go-go boots and a white hair tie. Then again, it was a whore's job she was applying for.
Make that personal comfort girl, affiliated with the entertainment wing of the empire of Nikolai and Gregor Karkhov.
Gregor himself met her inside the club. Two women flanked him, bare breasted with matching black bikini bottoms, stockings and high heels. They had heavy steel collars around their necks with chains hanging between their ample tits. Both were pretty, docile and freshly whipped on their thighs and legs.
"You are bold to come here,” said Gregor, whom she had never met. “Or else very, very stupid."
"I need work,” she said. “Work that pays me what Gargone gave me. If you know somewhere I can make that typing, let me know."
The bull of a man laughed. Muscles shook beneath the black, pinstriped suit, which would probably take her a month to earn, even with her augmented earnings. “Come with me,” he ushered.
Simone fell in line with the two whores, who pressed at either hip like obscene bookends. She wondered what stories they had, and all the others, too, the painted girls on the stage, the writhing girls hanging from their cages above the dance floor, the serving girls, with their trays and licking tongues.
What had led them to this newest form of 21st century slavery, here in the dark neon soaked den of the Brothers Karkhov, with its swirling lights, beams upon the washed out faces, its undulating bodies, the fabulously rich, next to these girls who owned nothing, not even their own flesh?
It was this sight that Mick Gargone must have seen, or something very similar, on the night of his death. His final breaths were taken here, she was sure of it. There was no suicide, no note scribbled on a lonely road. He'd come here, by invitation, in all likelihood knowing what would follow.
If it was a self-imposed death, it was only in the sense that he did not fight the time and place of his execution.
Gregor took her to a back room. She felt it now in the pit of her stomach. She was retracing, exactly, her boss’ steps. Maybe they wanted to kill her, too, or rape her. Or maybe they would happily take her up on her offer, making her their newest call girl. It was all the same to them. Hurting, toying with others, crushing their hopes, draining them till there was nothing left.
They had killed Mick way before that trigger was pulled-the first time he'd ever laid down a nickel on one of their tables, to be precise.
"So, the personal assistant shows her face."
The tall, hook nosed man in the silly toupee could only be Nikolai.
"You've got me showing more than that,” she quipped, sauntering to the center of the room.
"I hope your mouth is good for other things besides talking back,” Nikolai said.
Simone looked around the room, richly, but cheaply decorated. The chief fixture was a nude girl, chained with her hands over her head, on tiptoes in the corner. Her ass was facing the room. Thick red stripes lined it. She was still twitching from a recent beating.
"I just want to make a living ... now that I don't have a boss. Now that you've killed him, I mean."
Karkhov snapped his fingers. A girl in a black leather harness and ankle cuffs brought him a box of cigars and a lighter. She stood there as he picked one from the handmade wooden case, clipped the end and ignited it. The cigar girl made no movements, not even when he reached out casually, touching the lit end to her naked breast.
For a full five seconds he let it burn.
"That wasn't my fault. Your boss had it coming. And the way I see it, so do you."
Gregor drew a pistol and cocked it. “We're wasting time."
"So I came all this way just to be killed, too? Seems kind of a waste don't you think?” Simone queried.
"Oh, don't worry,” Nikolai chuckled. “We'll be sure and rape you first. Strip, girl and let's get this over with."
"Sorry, I don't think I will."
"No?” He looked amused. “And why not?"
"Because you're the ones who are going to be killed, not me."
Nikolai took a puff off the cigar, a twinkle in his eye. Addressing his brother and the other two thugs who'd come into the room he said something in Russian, presumably a commentary on her threat.
They enjoyed a good and hearty laugh, their last, she was quite sure.
"So,” Nikolai drew another puff when they'd settled down. “Tell us, please, on what basis do you draw the conclusion that we are going to be killed? No offense, but you don't seem up for the challenge yourself."
"It's not a basis I have, it's a man. A man I believe you know. From your homeland."
Nikolai cocked his head, curious. “From Russia?"
Here was the good part. From what she'd been told, these men were about to shit their collective pants.
"Major Vladimir Uchenko,” she nodded. “Special Forces. He said you would know him by a different name, though, from his days with the national police. The Snow Leopard, I believe he was called?"
Nikolai spit the cigar from his mouth. Pulling a weapon of his own from inside his jacket, he barked orders to Gregor and the others. Simone didn't understand the language, but from the tone she could tell he wasn't exactly inviting them to tea.
Simone smiled, because she knew it was already too late for the bastards. Every last fucking one of them. Running for the door, she opened it. this was her one job in coming here. To open the way for the Leopard.
* * * *
Vladimir Uchenko slipped in through the vent in the roof. He was dressed in black, the automatic weapon slung across his back. At his waist, he wore a pair of pistols and a large, steel knife. His heart was beating in slow motion. Each second counted now, for he was in the killing mode.
Inside this building were gangsters. Mafia. Scum whose money supported the guerrillas. Even here in Moscow, the Chechnyan pigs had tentacles. It was his job to hack them off one by one. In this case, he had been led here by an informer.
The girl was brave, this American. She was smart and beautiful, too. She had led him to this place and he loved her very much. When the killing was done this night, he intended to ask her hand in marriage. And after that, he would make love to her, upon a soft bed with clean sheets, her pure white skin bared before him. And he would tie her, because she had said she liked that. Shyly, she had whispered earlier in fact, that she would like that from him tonight.
To be helpless beneath him. To be at his mercy, opening to his love and to his passion. He had heard her and soon enough Uchenko would claim her as his woman. Very soon.
Dropping silent as a spider onto the floor in black boots, he found his bearings. He was in the access corridor to the kitchen. Selecting the pistol with the silencer, he moved into stalking mode. There would be many people inside. Only the killers, the thugs and terrorists would die. The others would live, those deemed innocent. He would make the decisions. Instant justice.
Three of the thugs went down instantly, bullets to their heads, administered without noise. Beyond the door at the end of the hall he could hear the music. He would have to cross the crowd. This would be the hard part. It was an art. This dance of death. The surgical elimination.
The next few seconds, perhaps fifteen in all, took him to his next objective. People cried out and fled, bullets were fired. More criminals fell. Vladimir did not fall. He made it to the door, to where Simone was waiting, his Simone.
"Grab her!” Cried a man in a suit, his tall body topped with an oval head. The man was Russian, his accent from Kiev. He was signaling for another to put his arm around Simone and put a gun to her head.
Vladimir did not find this acceptable. The man in the suit was dead before he hit the ground, his bulky muscles flattening the thick carpet.
"Gregor!” Cried the tall man in despair for the fallen one. Turning to a group of men with guns, he cried.
“Kill him!"
Vladimir used the Kalishnikov to mow them down. The tall man in the suit was still standing. Coward that he obviously was, he tried to run for the emergency exit.
Not wishing to waste another bullet, Vladimir threw the knife, landing it in the man's back, between his shoulder blades. Stopping to kill two more along the way, he went to the tall man, who was gurgling face down, choking on his own blood. Beside him, blood stained, lay a toupee.
Whispering to him a final curse in Russian, he pulled out the knife from the man's back, using it to slit his throat. With a gasp, the man was dead. Vladimir tossed the knife into the wall across the room, sinking the blade two inches deep.
"There may be more outside,” he hoisted the machine gun.
"No,” pleaded Simone. “It's enough. Let's go, please?"
He looked at her through blood colored eyes. None but a true love could pull him back from this mode of death. “Very well,” he drew a softening breath. “Let us go."
She took him by the hand and they escaped through the exit door into the alley. The car was parked across the street, a temporarily stolen one, off the lot of a used car dealer. Vladimir cranked the engine and off they drove. A half hour later, after dropping the car off, they were in Simone's apartment.
"Thank you,” she said to him as they stood together in the shower.
"It is nothing,” he assured her.
Simone smiled. “No, really,” she sank to her knees beneath the splashing waterfall. “Thank you."
He groaned, running his hands through the hair of this incredible creature, this warm and vibrant woman who had declared her love for him. She was already licking at him, kissing him, wanting his cock.
"Simone, wait."
She looked up at him in wonder and pure adoration.
"I want to ask you ... something ... personal..."
She smiled, the water making her look just like a mermaid. “Yes, Vladimir, I will."
"Will?"
"Marry you, silly."
His heart nearly stopped in his chest. “You will stay here with me then, in Moscow?"
"I will be anywhere you are ... always."
"You have made me the happiest man.” The tears dotted his eyes, all too quickly washed away.
"And I'm the luckiest woman."
There was no holding back now. She wanted and would have his shaft in her mouth. The position of devotion, and outright submission, combined with the long time he'd endured without sex, insured that he would not last long. A few warm licks of her tongue, a little bit of sweet sucking and he was ready.
"Simone,” he leaned against the tiles.
She pushed her mouth over him, making it clear she wanted it, every drop. He came down her throat in a mighty explosion, overjoyed that she was accepting him, swallowing his offering of love.
"Always,” he moaned, fists clenched. “I will protect you ... always."
And with God as his witness, he would, too.
* * * *
Simone lay on the chest of her sleeping lover. Her fiancée. Her leopard and living hero who had saved her from her captors and avenged the murder of her boss and friend, Mick. It was funny in a way, and certainly ironic that it should come to this. For so long she'd wanted a man to follow, to devote herself to without question. A man to obey and cherish.
In her dreams, even before she knew what they were about, this special savior had taken various forms. Sometimes tall, dark and handsome, or else blonde and longhaired, sometimes rugged with the eye patch of a pirate or smooth skinned with the beard of an Indian Raja. But never had he been scar faced, with such sad eyes, and a twisted nose. And a mind that would never, in the opinion of the outside world, be right.
But Vladimir was right for her. And she would marry him and obey him. And she would do so happily, wearing his ring, his ropes, wherever he led them. He could call this Moscow or the moon for all she cared, as long as they were together.
Somewhere far away, she could picture Mick smiling down. Thanking her, and wishing her well. In her heart, she'd always have a place for him. And for dara, too. A young woman of spunk and fire, taken too soon from an ugly world.
May there be no more ignorant masters, she thought, no more men who torture others either in their dreams or in real life. No more bullies and abusers like Lucien. Or dangerous, thoughtless dreamers like Martin. Would dara ever forgive Charlie and the others in the next life the way she had in this one? That was her business. And if dara chose, Simone had a feeling, she could put Charlie or any of the rest on a leash, naked, making them crawl for a change.
Now there was an image to laugh at, to fall asleep with.
"I love you my leopard,” she murmured into Vladimir's chest.
He answered by wrapping his arm tighter, more protectively about her.
Yes, she sighed. Now I am home, at last.
THE END
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Stealing Simone Page 13
