by David Bishop
Penelope smiled. "As you can see, I'm fit and well."
"What about your... husband?"
"Him? Well, his snoring remains as intolerable as ever, but he is otherwise well."
Gordonstoun nodded, his face still full of apologies. "I am glad to hear that, madam. Alas, I must ask to see him in person. My superiors have made it clear I must personally lay eyes upon all our passengers, to ascertain for myself nothing untoward has befallen any of them."
"Well, if you insist..." Penelope replied and opened the door wider, allowing the steward an eyeful of Dante's naked and bound body. A gust of Bitch escaped into the corridor. "Satisfied?"
"Yes, madam," Gordonstoun said with a blush, choking as the florid, cloying perfume flooded the air around him. "I see you have been busy."
"We've been tied up all night, you might say."
"Indeed. There has been quite a lot of that on board," he replied, shaking his head gently. "Well, I will delay you no longer. Breakfast will be served from seven onwards and we are due to stop at Nottingham a little after nine. Good day to you both." Penelope closed the door and returned to the chaise longue. What had the steward meant?
"It doesn't matter," Penelope told herself. Nottingham would be where they got off.
The Phord Capri screeched to a halt outside the Tower of London, back tyres protesting as the car spun through a hundred and eighty degrees before neatly inserting itself between two other vehicles. "Now that's what I call a piece of parking," Dobie announced smugly from the driver's seat. "What do you think, Ray?"
Boyle was too busy adjusting his mass of brown curls with the aid of an afro comb and a small, hand-held mirror. "Are we there yet?"
"Are we there yet?" Dobie replied in mock indignation. "I cross London in record time and you ask if we're there yet? I swear, my talents are wasted on you, they really are."
"I'd agree, if you had any talents to waste."
"Hark at him! So busy preening, I'm surprised you had time to think up a witty one-liner."
"Some of us are better than others at multi-tasking."
Dobie rolled his eyes. "Can we go and question these idiots? With you being so multi-talented, it shouldn't be a great challenge."
The two men sauntered towards the Tower's main gates, each trying to appear more causal than the other. Dobie bashed his fist against the wooden gates.
Boyle couldn't resist having the last word. "Obviously, I am multi-talented, but that wasn't what I said."
The gates swung open to reveal a man mountain of a sentry inside. Dobie flashed some credentials and pushed his way past. "I'm Dobie, he's Ray Boyle. We're bounty hunters, here on official business. We want to see Flatcock and Spatchlint."
"Spatchcock and Flintlock?" the sentry asked.
"Them," Boyle agreed, following Dobie inside. "Hey, do you think Flintlock is any relation to Lord Peter Flintlock, the one who got deported for-"
"Nah, he couldn't be," Dobie replied, shaking his head dismissively. "I doubt he'd ever have the nerve to show his face in the country again."
Dante opened his eyes and groaned. It had not been a bad dream after all, nor some kind of nightmare. He was naked, handcuffed and tied down on a four-poster bed. There was no sign of his captor and no way of calling for help thanks to the panties stuffed into his mouth. His nostrils felt as if they had been scoured with floral acid, thanks to the perfume Penelope had splashed all over his body. Dante's jaws ached from being gagged all night and his bladder was full to bursting. Unsympathetic comments from the Crest were doing little to improve his mood. Perhaps now you'll listen when I try to warn you about the dangers of dubious women.
The compartment's outer door opened and a member of the train's staff entered. His eyes widened at what he found inside. "Jings! Where's ye trews?"
Dante tried to answer but could make no more than muffled yelps. The steward ventured closer, sniffing the air suspiciously while stroking his ginger beard. "What a smell? Have ye been torturing a skunk in here?" Another muffled cry from Dante. "Did ye ken you have a pair of lassie's pants in your mouth?"
Penelope entered the compartment in a black version of her habitual catsuit, clutching a small pistol. The steward pulled the lingerie from Dante's mouth, staring at each garment in disbelief. "I was wrong - ye had two pairs of pants in there! Are ye some kind of bampot?" Before Dante could answer, Penelope smashed her pistol down on the steward's head, knocking him unconscious. He fell forward on top of Dante, who groaned at the added pressure on his bladder.
Penelope began stripping off the steward's Highland dress uniform. "You should be grateful. I searched the whole train to find anyone with the same build as you."
"Please," Dante pleaded. "I need the toilet. Now."
"Well, I'm not stopping you."
"No, but these are," Dante said, rattling the handcuffs. "Either you let me free or else I soak the sheets, the mattress and possibly the ceiling. It's your choice."
Penelope paused after removing the steward's kilt. "I see this one's a true Scotsman." She bit her bottom lip while studying her prisoner. "Very well. But one false move and I'll call the Rippers myself to deal with you."
"The Rippers? They've been here?" Dante asked while Penelope untied his numb legs.
"Last night. I used your clothes as a diversion to get them off the train."
"They'll be back."
"Yes, but we'll already be heading for London by then." She undid the cuff from Dante's left wrist, pulled it round the post and then reattached it to his arm. "The bathroom's through there, but leave the door open. I don't want you trying anything stupid."
"I'm stark naked and my legs are stiff from being tied up all night," he protested. "What am I going to do, fly out of here?" He staggered across to the bathroom, both legs weak and wobbly.
"You'd have to, we're still in the air." Penelope finished undressing the steward, then used her discarded silk scarves to tie up the attendant.
She shoved both pairs of saliva-soaked pants into his mouth and rolled him under the bed. The sound of splashing water made her check Dante's progress in the bathroom. "Haven't you finished in there yet?" Penelope found him struggling to throw water at himself while still in handcuffs.
"I'm trying to wash some of this perfume off," he scowled. "I stink like a bitch on heat."
"Get dressed," Penelope said, indicating the clothes she had stolen from the steward.
"What if I refuse?" Dante challenged.
"My orders are to deliver you alive," she replied, aiming her small pistol at his genitals. "That doesn't mean I have to take you back to London unharmed."
Dante arranged his hands across his groin. "Watch where you're pointing that thing!"
"Don't worry, I'd have to be a sharpshooter to hit something that small."
I like her, the Crest announced cheerfully.
"Well, don't get used to having her around," Dante replied.
Penelope glared at him. "What did you say?"
"Nothing - a private conversation."
She smiled. "That's right, the Crest communicates with you telepathically - I read about that in a briefing paper. A remarkable piece of kit."
"It has some uses," Dante conceded.
Like keeping you alive more times than I care to remember.
"Don't let it go to your head," Dante snapped.
Penelope sighed. "Being with you is like sitting next to a surly husband arguing on the phone with his ex-wife about their divorce settlement."
"You should try being inside my head!"
I doubt she'd enjoy the experience, the Crest commented.
"I doubt I'd enjoy the experience," Penelope unwittingly agreed.
"Bojemoi, the two of you even talk alike," Dante lamented. He finished wiping himself with a hand towel and returned to the main cabin. He surveyed the steward's clothes unhappily. "I haven't worn a kilt since visiting the Victoria Falls in Africa. It's not the most reassuring outfit." His eyes lit up after spotting the Sgian Dhu
b among the accessories. Dante crouched beside the clothes to retrieve the dagger in its elaborately carved sheath.
"I hope you're not planning to stab me with that blade."
"The thought never entered my head," Dante replied. In a single movement he pulled the dagger from the sheath and flung it across the room at Penelope. The blade hit her between the breasts, then bounced away to the floor. She smiled and picked up the ceremonial dagger, bending its blade between her fingers.
"Purely ornamental. This one's made of rubber, it wouldn't hurt a midge."
"I knew that," Dante maintained. "I was simply testing your reflexes."
Penelope rolled her eyes. "Your lying is worse than your snoring. Now, get dressed if you want to eat before we get off the train."
Flintlock's constant complaining had won him a reprieve from being manacled to Spatchcock, but the captives were still sharing a cell. The malodorous runt had retreated to one corner while his aristocratic companion kept to the other, near the door. "We've got visitors," Flintlock announced.
"Female?" Spatchcock asked hopefully. "I was going to ask for a roll in the hay as my final request, before the execution."
"I'm not sure they'll let you have a goat in here, old boy." Flintlock retreated from the door as it was unlocked. A burly sentry let two men into the dank, dismal dungeon, then shut and locked the door once more. The visitors' faces curdled at the stench.
"That guard wasn't kidding about the smell, was he?" one of the newcomers gasped. "I've been to slaughterhouses that weren't this bad."
The other man pinched his nose shut and breathed through his mouth. "Which one of you is Lord Peter Flintlock?"
"He is!" the prisoners replied in unison, pointing at each other.
"Very droll." The curly-haired visitor introduced himself as Ray Boyle, then jerked a thumb towards his nose-pinching associate. "Forgive Dobie's appearance, but he always looks like that."
Dobie looked down at his clothes, a plethora of brown and taupe. "What's wrong with the way I dress?"
"I was talking about your face," Boyle replied with a smirk. He studied the two prisoners before pointing a finger at Flintlock. "You must be his lordship, judging by the white hair and haughty discomfit. I'd have thought the most disgraced man in Britannia would be used to hovels like this by now. You've been in exile long enough - what made you come back?"
"I'd rather not talk about it," Flintlock said primly, folding his arms.
"Have it your own way." Boyle drove a fist into Flintlock's midriff. The prisoner crumpled like a paper bag, gasping for air as he sagged to the stone floor. Spatchcock took a step closer to defend his friend but was stopped by a punch in the head from Dobie. The small man went sprawling, his skull smacking against the nearest wall. He too slumped to the cold floor, blood streaming from a gash on the side of his face. Boyle crouched in front of Flintlock, his cold blue eyes staring into the prisoner's trembling face. "Or you can have it my way. So, which do you prefer? Pain or more pain?"
"What do you want?" Spatchcock asked sourly.
"That's better," Dobie smiled. "See how much easier life can be if you co-operate?"
"Just ask your questions," Spatchcock said.
"All right," Boyle agreed, straightening up again. "Nikolai Dante - where is he?"
"How should we know?" Spatchcock replied. "The last we saw of him was when he jumped out a window at the Palace of London, after the king was shot."
"You haven't seen him since?"
"We were arrested within minutes and brought here. That was at least a day ago, if not longer." Spatchcock gestured at their surroundings. "Not having my social secretary handy, it's a little difficult to be precise about dates."
Boyle used his left knee to give Flintlock a nudge. "What about you? What have you got to say for yourself?"
"Spatch is right," Flintlock whispered between strained breaths. "We don't know where Dante is. He doesn't confide in us."
"So he left you behind to take the rap while he flees London, is that it?" Dobie sneered.
Spatchcock glared at the bounty hunters. "He's left the city?"
"He's betrayed you - both of you."
Spatchcock shook his head. "Not after everything we've been through together. I know Dante, his conscience will get the better of him, sooner or later. He'll come back for us, he'll find a way of getting us out of this place."
Boyle laughed. "I wouldn't count on it." He kicked at Flintlock. "What about it, your lordship? Do you share you foul-smelling friend's faith in Dante?"
"No. If I knew anything useful, I'd tell you," Flintlock said. "I'm no hero."
"But Dante is," Spatchcock maintained. "By now he's busy planning how to free us while sleeping with anything in knickers. You'll see!"
Penelope slapped Dante hard across the face. "Put your hands on me again and I'll chop them off!" They were returning from breakfast in the dining car, where she had kept Dante under control by having her pistol constantly aimed at him beneath the table. But when Penelope tried to unlock her compartment, Dante had been unable to resist fondling her firm buttocks.
"I was checking to see if you have any more concealed weapons," he said.
"Your feeble attempts at seduction couldn't arouse a nymphomaniac." Penelope shoved him into the cabin. "We're due to land at Nottingham within the hour. When we get off, I don't want any trouble. Keep your hands to yourself and you'll keep your hands. Otherwise I'll be forced to disable you - permanently."
"I've been tortured by the best," Dante boasted. "There's nothing you can do to me that hasn't been tried and failed."
"Is that a fact?" Penelope asked, moving closer to him. She ran a hand across Dante's chest, then let it slide down between his legs.
"Absolutely," he affirmed.
"What if I was to seduce you, would that change things?"
Dante shook his head, trying to ignore the sensations her hands were creating. "I possess total self control," he said as Penelope's fingernails dug into his muscular buttocks.
"Total self control?" she asked huskily.
Dante nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Penelope's hands slid up and down, gripping, teasing, taunting him. Her tongue slid between his lips, exploring him hungrily, her body forcing him back until he slammed into a wall. Penelope pulled her lips away from his. "You don't think I could have you whenever I wanted?"
"Not at all," he whispered, willing her to undo the zip that ran down between her breasts to the catsuit's crotch
"We'll see," Penelope said, smiling broadly. Her hand suddenly clenched around Dante's crown jewels, squeezing with the grip of a vice. He screamed in agony and she kissed him again, momentarily relaxing her hold on his scrotum, then clenching again, harder than before. Dante's face showed every paroxysm of pain stabbing through his body. Just as suddenly she released her iron grip and stepped backwards, letting him sink to the floor, hands nursing his bruised body parts. "So much for total self control. I'll never understand why people call women the weaker sex. One squeeze in the right place and you men keel over like a broken bicycle."
"Urgh," Dante replied weakly.
Penelope retrieved a tiny key from between her breasts and used it to unlock the cuff around Dante's right wrist. She clamped the empty binding around her left wrist and locked it into place, tugging hard at the metal to make sure it was securely fastened. Satisfied with the results, she slapped Dante's face to get his attention. "I am now going to swallow the key for these unique bindings. It is the sole method of opening them. Even if you managed to overpower me, you cannot escape me. Better you know that now and save both of us any further trouble. Penelope stuck the key on her tongue and then swallowed. "By the way, as long as any part of the handcuffs remains in contact with you, neither of your bio-blades will function. You and I are stuck with each other until that key flushes through my body."
You certainly know how to pick them, don't you?
"Oh, shut up," Dante winced.
Dobie and Boyle
emerged from the Tower of London to find Rucka sitting on the bonnet of their hover-car. "What a pleasant surprise!" Dobie said sarcastically. "Inspector, that's twice in two days you've been seen with us - people will talk. To what do we owe this dishonour?"
"Spatchcock and Flintlock have no idea where Dante is," Rucka replied.
"That much we found out for ourselves," Boyle remarked.
"But I know where he is," the inspector continued, producing a slip of paper. "On here is written the location where Dante can be found today - if you hurry."
The two bounty hunters exchanged a quizzical look. "Why give that to us?"
"For a start, I'm not giving it to you," Rucka said, standing upright. "I will pass useful facts to you in exchange for a percentage of the reward you claim by finding and killing Dante."
"What kind of percentage?" Bole asked.
"Fifty."
Dobie snorted derisively. "You're joking! The only people we share anything with is each other. How do we even know your information is accurate?"
"You'll have to trust me," Rucka said. "But if you can't trust a policeman, who can you trust?"
"We don't trust anybody," Boyle sneered.
The inspector shrugged and started strolling away. "Have it your own way."
The two bounty hunters watched him go, trying to call his bluff. After a few seconds they caved in, calling him back. Rucka's smile was smugger than ever when he turned round. "Fifty per cent."
"If we don't catch him, that'll be fifty per cent of nothing," Boyle observed.
"Then don't fail. Have we got an agreement?"
The partners nodded reluctantly. The inspector handed Dobie the slip of paper. "Your quarry is on the Flying Scotsman, It should be arriving in Nottingham any minute. He's almost certainly in the custody of a Britannia Intelligence operative called Penelope Goodnight. Your job is to find and kill him, then bring the body back to claim the reward. Don't underestimate Agent Goodnight. She's the best."
