by C. L. Black
“Yes, dear. Then what happened?”
“Nothing. Really! My mom texted me. They were coming home from work to say good-bye before they left. Some last-minute emergency work trip. On Christmas! Who works on Christmas? Anyway, her mom said that I should leave the boots with her. So, I did. She said they looked so cool on me.”
“Yes, dear, I’m sure. Did she tell you anything more?”
“Later that night, my mom said I could stay over her house. I asked her who this Katrina chick was. She said Mistress Katrina was dead; died a long time ago. She said I looked just like her, only younger. Don’t take this the wrong way, but— Well. The more I wore the boots— The more she felt—” She loves MK, not you stupid. “I can’t explain it. I never felt that way,” about anyone, “before.” Except—well, maybe Dani too.
“I see. Can you describe your feelings for Natasha?”
“Don’t want to.”
“Do you think Natasha gave you the boots?”
“Her? Na, I asked her. She said that the Katrina chick had them when she croaked?”
“Did she say how Katrina had died?”
“Yeah. She said that she was at ground zero when the planes hit. She could barely say it.”
“How old is your friend?”
“She’s like, fourteen. We have the same birthday, you know. June ninth!”
“I see. And her mother? Do you know Natasha’s age?”
“No, I don’t know. About twenty-eight, I guess. She doesn’t talk about when she was young. Gets all upset. Says she doesn’t remember. I think she was like, raped or something.”
“So you and Natasha talk a lot?”
“Yeah, maybe a little. So what? It’s no big deal. She’s friends with my mom.
“Do you find that odd that your mother’s friend tutors you in, German?”
“What the fuck! I thought I only had to tell you how I got my boots?”
“Yes, dear, but I don’t think you’ve told me everything.”
“Have fuckin’ too!” Catherine fluffed her dress provocatively. “What’s with this fuckin’ wacky baby game?”
“It’s no game, my dear.”
“Whatever!” She crossed her arms. “Why are you treating me this way?”
“It’s merely the first step in your education, my dear.”
“Education? How is making me pee in a fuckin’ cup and dressing me up like this, and treating me like some psycho baby, educating me?”
“How does it make you feel?”
“Like a fricken baby! I fricken pooped myself, you know?”
“Yes dear; everyone poops. Do you know how a baby feels?”
“Well. I didn’t. But I guess, this must be like what a baby feels.”
“Do you like feeling that way, my dear?
“Well.” Catherine looked into her reflection in the silver tea service. “Not too crazy about the outfit. Pink? Come on. What’s with all the fricken pink? Didn’t like waking up covered in poop.”
“What do you like about being here?”
“Nothing!” What about that Dani? Catherine’s face brightened.
“Honestly, dear? You can tell me.”
Silence overtook. Miss Christi waited a bit, then rose and set about building a fresh cup of tea. Catherine studied, watching her add the touch of milk and two lumps before the tea. Miss Christi retook her seat and found solace in the hot tea. Ten minutes later, the baby showed the first signs of growth.
“Well.” Catherine uncrossed her arms and let her skimpy dress ride up. “I kinda like not being responsible.” She began flapping her way-too-short hem. “I’m hot. Are you?”
Miss Christi didn’t pay the hot pink vinyl any notice. “Explain yourself, my dear.”
“I’m hot.”
“Not that, dear.”
“Okay! I like that Mommy is getting spanked when, well. It should be me.”
“So you like that, dear?” The familiar glint in Catherine’s eyes told Miss Christi all she needed to know.
“Well, yeah. It’s kinda fun, seeing her ass getting whacked.” She shrugged. “A little twisted, huh?”
“I don’t think so. Do you plan to be a baby much longer, dear?”
“Didn’t know I had a fuck—a choice?”
“Of course you have a choice, my dear. We all choose when to grow up and when to be a baby.”
“Okay. I choose to grow up. Right now! Please Gran—” Shit! “Sorry, Miss Christi.”
“It’s not about asking, my dear. It’s about being honest. Our actions determine how we are treated at Blachmann. Do you understand why you’re in that dress now?”
“Yeah. Yes! I think so, Miss Christi.”
“Very good, my dear. Now please, tell me more about your friend and her mom.”
“You said one question. I’m hungry.”
“So I did, my dear. Please, try a scone.” Miss Christi took one and looked out to the Atlantic. “Perhaps another day?”
Catherine grabbed one and looked out at the breaking waves. “Perhaps.” She took a bite. “Hey, these are pretty fucking good.”
“Yes, my dear.” They always were your favorite… “Shall I have Miss Giselle bring the paddle?”
“Yes, please, Miss Christi. Rules are rules.”
“So they are, my dear. I believe you’ve earned her at least twelve.”
“Is that all?” No fuckin’ way. “I was thinking it was like, sixteen or seventeen.” Yeah.
“I see someone’s been paying attention.”
Catherine’s face had the look of a beautiful sunrise.
Target in Sight
Silverstone Circuit, Northamptonshire, UK, Thursday, 4 June, 10:13 local
Assignment or not, Dame Jane Sterling was determined to have two days’ practice for the upcoming Porsche Cup race to be held at Silverstone. The team’s sponsor had prearranged for her car and crew, the private motor coach, and two days of track time. She needed to clear her head. Nothing did that better than piloting a speeding car on a razor’s edge, around a high-speed circuit like Silverstone. The Porsche GT3 began the last lap of the morning test session.
A U.S. Army Blackhawk helicopter hovered a thousand feet overhead. Pete sat inside the open doorway watching as the Black Stallion came into view. “Target in sight. Make it count, Tiger.”
One day earlier: Jane woke before sunrise. Told the dolls she was going for a run. She ran alright—all the way to England. First thing she did was to shut her phones off, telling her plan to no one. Secondly, she ditched the shadows. Karla and her mate, and two men she didn’t recognize. She’d first spotted them in London, outside Papa’s flat, then again, at the Eiffel, and in the lobby at their hotel in Paris. Pete’s DSS boys were always harder to lose. She ended up hitching a ride on a lorry. The old Frenchman smuggled her across through the Chunnel for a kiss. Back in the UK, she paid a cabbie a thousand quid to shuttle her up to the track. Everyone had a price…
It felt good to get away from the bloody assignments. Day one went off without a hitch. Jane was back in the driver’s seat. She had always loved Silverstone. Maybe it was the speed. Maybe it was England. Maybe it was being around her racing mates. Whatever it was, she thought the time away would provide some restful sleep. It didn’t happen. Krump was making a fool out of them. They were no closer to Papa than, that night in Dubai. KK…
Unable to let go, she replayed the breakfast meeting with, Pete. Krump was a dead man. A ghost. Vanished last year… Body never recovered… I didn’t kill him. Did I? But why would KK put on such a show? Did KK kill Papa? How could she pull it off? True: the little slut was a drama queen. That knotty girl could act…steady girl… but, fooling Krump’s associates, all six, for five months? It would have taken someone bloody capable to pull that one off? Kat—it had to be Boris—
The squeal of tires losing their grip alerted her good senses. Hurtling down its long straights and powering through its blindingly fast and world-famous turns made Silverstone Circuit a favorite of
racers and race fans around the globe. Jane woke that morning and sent word through Mum to her British client that she had had enough of the Krump assignment. After her day at the track, she would hand-deliver her assignment—incomplete. Dame Jane was done. Finished with Papa and, done babysitting his daughter. Well… She was done with Pete’s kinky senator. Definitely. Most of all, she was done fearing Krump’s dead Tiger. Boris is the bloody ghost. Dame Jane had made up Katrina’s disturbed mind. She was going back to DC to find my Natasha and—
Midway through turn one, a right-hand sweeper known as Copse Corner, taken flat at about 150 mph, her left rear tire blew without warning. Bloody—Fuck!
Seconds earlier: From a secluded position in the elevated camera platform at the end of the front stretch, Tiger66 completed the fifty caliber recoilless rifle assembly with the muzzle suppressor’s installation. The expert markswoman chambered the frangible tipped round. The platform was shrouded with tarps for protection from the expected weather, not to mention the expected shit-storm that would most surely rain down on them if she missed. Lined up on the reference mark at the apex curbing, she calmly said, “Call it, honey.”
Bullwinkle called the shot. “Five, four, three, two, one.”
The Black Stallion blurred her sights. Boris squeezed. Sorry baby… It was a difficult shot. There was no noticeable sound or muzzle flash. At that speed, there was only one chance to get it right. Pete’s estranged bedfellow had made it count. Now they were even. The ex-KGB assassin, Boris, could crawl back under the rubble. Captain Schumacher couldn’t. She still had some unfinished business with Krump.
“Good hit. Move your ass,” Captain.
“Fuck you.” Kate quickly dismantled the tool of her past life as the Blackhawk swung around to make its approach to land at the infield heliport. The Tiger had been instructed, Make it look like an accident. Not an easy task, but that’s why Papa entrusted Boris with the Sterling assignment.
To Pete, Papa’s Tiger would always be his Kate. Boris? That KAT was a ghost, resurrected from his wife’s past life to protect the Blachmann legacy. Until Dubai, Kate had been his love. But Boris? He wasn’t sure who that KAT loved. First Natasha, then, “Rocky!” now, “Fuck!”… Love… Yah, it sure makes ya do—
“Bullwinkle, is Rocky alright?”
“Christ Tiger! This is an open channel.” Ah, fuck it! It didn’t matter now. He couldn’t afford to give a flying rat’s ass if, Rocky—Jane Sterling got her ass whacked or not. Not anymore. Not when they were this close to identifying the Breeder.
Pete wasn’t running this operation on the books. But neither was the competition. Too much was at stake. Just the same, when the Porsche left the track, there was no way he could guarantee if Katrina GoodKnight or Jane Sterling would survive their deception. He watched with widening eyes and wondered if he’d miscalculated. “Shit! Oh, fuck—Rocky!”
At a buck-fifty and change, there was no way anyone could save it. In an instant, the highly modified Porsche was careening off the track and tumbling end over end like a drunken German gymnast performing a strip show. Over and over she went. No longer in command, Jane was now a passenger, along for the ride. The Porsche kept up its mesmerizing strip tease, shedding bits and bobs, losing more luster with each pounding hit. After what seemed to take forever, the ugly remains of what was once a fine example of precision German engineering and painstaking craftsmanship came to rest next to the tire barrier at the exit of Copse Corner.
Krump’s old KAT was already on the move.
“Can you see her? Is she—?” My baby—
“Negative Six. Keep moving.” His ear and knee ached.
Thankfully, what remained of Jane had landed right side up. Shaken and perplexed, she instinctively pulled the small catch lever at her lap. The five-strap safety harness that still bound her tight in the driver’s seat released. KK… Having completed her morning practice session, she stepped out of what was left of Black Stallion Racing’s last Porsche GT 3.
Hot, sweaty, tired, and, with the exception of her pride, uninjured, she turned back to see. Jane was pissed—royally pissed. She took in the bloody awful sight. She couldn’t deny who was responsible. Stepped a bit over the edge. It felt like she’d injured a trusting lover. Sir Goody’s not going to like this… The chassis was a write-off.
Something caught Katrina’s eye. “What’s this?”
“Rocky’s fine babe.”
“Are you sure? Is she out yet?” Boris dropped the disguised rifle case into the open rear bonnet of a waiting car. It started off. She kept moving. Captain Schumacher had somewhere to be. She had to meet Karla. Not to mention: Boris the KAT was persona non grata west of Berlin.
Pete didn’t answer. Come on, Janie! He signaled the pilot to orbit the scene. Move your ass!
Jane knelt beside the punctured rear tire. Bloody hell… It didn’t take two seconds for her mind to grasp reality. Fuck me. She poked a finger through the entry and exit holes made by the would-be assassin’s bullet. Boris… The medical team arrived on scene. Get us the fuck out of here, Jane!
She hadn’t gotten more than twenty feet when the Porsche’s fuel tank exploded, sending burning fuel into the cockpit and engulfing the whole mess in flames. Intense heat—the blast wave knocked her to the ground. Any more delay, and Dame Jane would have been, toast.
“Bullwinkle! Answer me, you piece of shit! What just happened?”
“You just saved her ass. Be in touch, babe.”
“I’m not your babe! You need to end this charade now!”
“Not yet, Tiger.” He terminated the secure communications link.
“Eat me.” She ripped the piece from her ear and dropped it in a trash bin. “Dickhead.”
Jane stayed low as the medical team came to her aid. She looked to the sky. The Blackhawk circled twice. It landed at the infield heliport. Judging by the bullet’s trajectory, the shot had come from above. She took one last look at the carnage. That should do us for today. The car was toast and needed to be replaced. Boris… Pete said she was toast too. Lying fuck! Easy, girl.
Her day done, Dame Jane Sterling was taken by the ambulance to the infield medical center. Once there, she handed the lovely attending her helmet and HANS device for the mandatory inspection. HANS stood for Head-And-Neck-Support. Its job was to prevent a broken neck from a major impact. With three active assignments, the last thing this disgraced GoodKnight needed was a broken neck. The good doctor recommended a thorough top-to-bottom exam. “Well, love, if you insist.” Meow…
Forty minutes later: a repaired Jane opened the door to Black Stallion Racing’s luxury motor coach. Stretched out on the sofa was Uncle Pete, reading Jane’s copy of, yesterday’s Times.
“Hey, Janie.” He was done buying the Dame Jane act.
No response.
“Saw your little mishap on the way in. Thought I might have to call in a replacement. It looked like you blew a left rear.” He scratched his two-day-old scruff. “Tough luck, Rocky. You really gave us a scare. Saw it blow…Hey, what kept ya?”
“Missed me so soon?” Except for the rosy cheeks, Jane appeared unaffected. She reached for the zipper of her one-piece driving overalls. Rocky? Only Boris called me that.
The old Kat needed a cold shower. Pete didn’t need to hear about the attractive physician. The good doctor insisted on a thorough going-over. She gave her Jane’s best, leaving the fine young lady with a hot stethoscope and a promise she would ring her upon her return for the race in two weeks. Katrina’s list of Jane Sterling’s promises was getting longer.
“The secretary wasn’t thrilled by your disappearing act. Don’t want the job? They can’t always look like Barbie.”
“That’s not the reason. I’m just stretched a little thin.”
“Look; would you’d rather do the babysitting?”
“No! You called me Rocky?” The zipper started down.
“Nah.”
“Yeah, you did, mate.”
Like he needed his memory
stimulated. She slipped free of Jane’s tailored overalls and then peeled the flame-retardant undershirt over her head.
“Okay, I did! Just forget it.” His attention was back in The Times. “Your little Hushgirl is in a pile of shit.”
“Not again?” She kicked off her driving shoes and stepped out of the overalls.
“What?” Pete looked more than a little distracted by the already-unfastened bra.
“Doctor’s orders.… Says who?” She peeled Jane’s fire-retardant long underpants down her longer legs. That should do the trick…
“Says me! I see you started working out again. Good… Anyway, I did some more checking for you.” Pete felt a sharp pain in his right knee. He rubbed it. “Happens every time I see you.”
“Sorry.” She pulled on an oversized Black Stallion T-shirt and reached under, removing her bra. “That still a problem, is it?” She pointed to his knee.
“Yah. Never been the same since.” He looked at the rogue grimly.
“I said I was sorry! Did you learn anything more?” Off went a sock.
“Plenty! Your little Red Riding Hood? She’s German Intelligence.”
“BND?” The other sock followed the first into the pile.
“Deep cover. Germs inserted her last fall.”
“Elsa? Do say. Last fall?”
“Yes, I do say. And Janie; don’t get any ideas. The secretary reminded me to tell you; the big Germs in Berlin don’t want any headlines. They have elections coming up. They want Krump left vertical. If he still is vertical. Understand?”
“You Yanks involved?”
“Now, Janie, you know we don’t do that.”
“Right. Not since Obama. So what do you get out of it?”
“Me? Nothing. Krump’s their deal, not ours. We’re after Osama; remember?”
Janie didn’t like that joke either. She reached under and downed the knickers. “Want them?”
“Look, Cougar; I got one wicked pissed-off senator. I really need your Mistress skills. Tomorrow, O-nine-hundred. Room eight-seven-one. Just give me two hours. Someone’s got a real bad itch that needs scratching. Just give her a sample. Okay?”
