by Steve Lee
She kicked. A foot cracked the fat guy in the face.
Seadog hammered his fist into her midriff again.
The strike knocked the wind out of her. Her mouth opened, her lungs strained, her body cried out for air, but she couldn’t breathe. A high-pitched croaking sound was all that came out.
Then she felt it. And knew her nightmare had only just begun.
Seadog’s hand disappeared under her skirt. He grabbed her underwear. Yanked. Threw the torn white cotton panties across the room.
Rough fingers prodded and poked.
She flinched as course hands scraped over her delicate flesh like sandpaper.
Finally, Cat gasped a great breath. Energy surged through her once more.
She squirmed.
Twisted.
Jerked.
Her voice breaking, she said, “No, please. Don’t. Please.”
But Seadog clasped his hand around her throat and squeezed.
Once again fighting for breath, she could hardly move.
He climbed on top of her.
Oh God, no. Please. No. This couldn’t be happening. No, this happened to other women. Not to her. Please God, not to her.
She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she knew from the way he was moving – unfastening his trousers.
Tears ran down the sides of Cat’s head while she gagged and spluttered for air.
His rough fingers poked at her crotch again. Then something else prodded there.
Her stomach churned, her innards heaving like someone had reached down her throat to drag them out. If she’d had anything to eat that day, she’d have hurled it all over herself.
She twisted her hips. Struggled to rip her arms free. Struggled to kick out. Struggled to break free. But she could barely move.
Then…
Oh, God, he was in her. He was in her. HE WAS IN HER!
Chapter 02
In the bar, Tess cradled a bottle of beer while sitting with her back to the wall so she could see the restroom doors, and the front and rear exits. She’d picked up this awareness technique in Shanghai from Sergei, her ex-Spetsnaz lover, who’d taught her the finer points of handling a gun. He’d always insisted on sitting in a spot from where he could see everyone’s comings and goings so no one could sneak up on him. Awareness had become a key element in Tess’s combat strategies.
Sergei would’ve liked this bar – black wooden beams from a bygone age, a wall of majestic crests emblazoned with castles and lions and warriors, and ale strong enough to stand a spoon in. It was how she’d always pictured the Russian bars he reminisced about.
She took another sip of beer and watched a group of boisterous young men walk in. Automatically, she scanned each one, deciding how she’d put them down if she had cause to – break the fat one’s knee, gouge the small one’s eye, punch the tall one in the throat, and, hey what the hell, just go crazy and have fun with the last one.
Awareness again. When violence was such a big part of her life, she had to be constantly aware of her environment, and who and what filled it. Unless she’d lost interest in breathing.
But she hadn’t been looking for trouble tonight. No, all she’d wanted was a quiet drink at the end of a busy day. However, just because she wasn’t looking for trouble didn’t mean she wouldn’t find it. Especially when the couple next to her were just begging for it.
At the next table, a young couple coiled around each other like mating snakes. In between dental inspections with their tongues, they swigged the occasional mouthful of beer and chatted in English – he fluently; she with a struggle. Tess had singled them out the moment the guy had opened his mouth and spoken to his Polish girlfriend. Yes, they couldn’t have made better targets if they’d painted bull’s-eyes on their backs.
From Tess’s eavesdropping, she guessed he was early twenties, but because of his baby face, she’d bet he had to regularly produce ID in bars back home.
His girlfriend was even slimmer than Tess. Yet had bigger breasts. Much bigger. In fact, too big. In Tess’s vainer moments, she dreamed of going up a cup size to a C, but this girl? Hell, if Tess had boobs that size she’d marry the first chiropractor she came across.
The boyfriend stood up. “Come on.”
He pulled his girlfriend by the hand to drag her out of her seat, but she stayed put.
She spoke with an accent as thick as she was pretty, “One beer more.”
Her sentence sounded awkward and slow, as if the words really shouldn’t be anywhere near each other. It was always the same for Tess when she learned a new language – she always came off sounding like a broken robot. And it never got any easier, no matter how many languages she learned. Maybe if she did it for the love of learning, it would be different. But that wasn’t the case. She’d had no choice but to learn to talk to people in their own language. It was the only way to acquire the tools she needed to do what she had to do when she finally made it back to the States.
The boyfriend tried again. “Come on. We can come here again tomorrow.” He tugged gently on her arm.
“Is early.”
“It’s not. It’s nearly half-one.”
She shrugged as if she didn’t understand and said something in Polish.
He showed her his watch.
She threw her arms up. “Is very early.”
“Please.” The word was long and drawn out, like a little boy begging his mom for another cookie.
She rolled her eyes, but then smirked at him. “Okay.”
They meandered out arm-in-arm.
Tess waited a few moments, then followed.
The couple sauntered through the Old Town’s main square, the sheen of rainwater on the cobbles glistening with the reflection of the street lights. They laughed and spoke pidgin English, often using phrases out of context which obviously meant something special only to them.
Tess hung in the shadowy arches of the Cloth Hall’s colonnade. With her straight dark hair, black gloves, black jeans and black leather jacket, the darkness engulfed her with ease.
By day and well into the evening, the square pulsed with activity, most of it concentrated in the outdoor seating of the bars and restaurants that encircled the square and, to a lesser extent, around the Cloth Hall which sat in the square’s center, a colonnade of nineteen arches down each of its sides.
At this time of the night, most family-oriented establishments had closed for the day, while the bars hidden up alleyways and secreted in the backs of buildings blazed into life for the city’s party animals.
Tess waited. Her targets weren’t in the optimum position for a strike yet. Maybe they never would be. Unless the situation changed, she’d lurk out of sight. Hidden. A nobody. Doing nothing. Nowhere.
The couple ambled toward the end of the square, passing Saint Mary’s Church, its two giant towers gazing down on them like world-weary gods.
Tess slunk through the colonnade, shrouded in darkness.
As the couple neared a narrow street leading away from the square, they argued playfully over which country produced the best beer. The boyfriend insisted it was his because they had more variety, while the girlfriend insisted it was hers because theirs were stronger.
Tess slipped out of the arches and followed them down Florianska Street, clinging to the shadows.
The designer stores and global food chains lay deserted and darkened. Ahead loomed the thirty-three-meter Gothic tower that was Saint Florian’s Gate, guarding Krakow as part of the city walls as it had for centuries.
Carefree, the couple ambled down the sidewalk, while Tess lurked in the darkness in which she spent so much of her life. The couple seemed to be heading straight for the archway that sliced through the tower and led to the narrow park which surrounded the Old Town. But the archway didn’t only lead to the park…
The Barbican. A perfect location for an attack.
Tess quickened her pace to move in as the couple passed through the arch.
At the other side of the archway
, the Barbican lurked in the gloom. With seven turrets clawing the night sky, the circular structure had probably witnessed more bloodshed than any other part of the city, having showered invaders with arrows and molten tar.
Tess’s heart pounded in anticipation and nervous energy surged through her body. She wiped her palms on her jeans, then balled her fists.
As the couple strolled along the path through the trees, a figure loomed out of hiding.
A stocky man in a motorcycle jacket shouted at them, “Hey, America.”
The couple stopped. Turned.
Two young Polish men strutted towards them.
“America,” said Motorcycle Jacket, “why you come here for Polish woman?”
His tall skinny friend shouted, “Because America women all hundred-kilo hamburger ass.”
Motorcycle Jacket laughed and patted his friend on the back.
“Sorry,” said the boyfriend, “but I’m not American; I’m English.”
Motorcycle Jacket shrugged as if anything the boyfriend said wouldn’t make any difference.
“England. America. All same – come to Poland, take our rich job, take our beautiful woman.” He thumped his chest. “But Poland our country. Our!”
The girlfriend shouted something in Polish.
Two other men stepped from the park’s tree line and blocked the path behind the couple. One of them, in a hoodie, shouted at her in Polish.
The boyfriend looked around, his gaze flying in all directions. He was obviously searching for an escape route. There wasn’t one. He pulled his girlfriend behind him and backed away to the side of the path, bushes blocking any chance of them running.
The boyfriend’s timid stare flashed from one threat to the next and back again. “Look, we don’t want any trouble. Leave us alone, please.”
“You no want trouble?” Motorcycle Jacket sneered and shook his head. “Then fuck off home, fucking America.”
As Motorcycle Jacket swaggered over, the boyfriend put his hands up submissively. “Please. Just leave us alone.”
Motorcycle Jacket pushed the boyfriend’s arms aside and smacked him in the head with a haymaker.
The boyfriend fell and sprawled on the asphalt. In the dirt, he threw his arms up and cowered. “Please. Please, don’t.”
Motorcycle Jacket spat on him. “Fucking mommy boy.”
He kicked the boyfriend in the gut.
The boyfriend screamed and hunched over, clutching his midriff.
Tess sprang from the darkness. She hammered a kick into the back of Motorcycle Jacket’s knee. As he slumped backwards, she ripped him back by his hair and slammed the side of her fist down onto his collarbone, eliciting a satisfying crunch.
Motorcycle Jacket shrieked and clutched his broken bone with his left hand while his right arm hung useless at his side.
Frozen, the tall guy who’d been standing next to him stared wide-eyed.
Tess was never one to turn down a golden opportunity – she whipped out another kick. Her shin bit into his thigh, deadening the nerve, which took away his mobility to keep him an easy target.
She crashed in a flurry of punches ending with a massive right hook.
Two of the guy’s teeth hit the asphalt path a fraction of a second before he did.
The guy in the hoodie ran at her, while his friend, a pudgy guy, hung back.
Tess waited for Hoodie. There was little point expending energy going to him when he was coming to her.
He heaved his right hand back and flung a giant of a haymaker at her.
Hoodie telegraphed his attack so clearly, Tess could have dealt with it blindfolded.
His fist thundered at her.
Confronted by explosive violence, the average person backed away, threw their arms up, or cowered to hide. And that was why the average person got the crap beaten out of them on the street.
Tess did not back away.
Did not shield herself.
Did not cower.
Instead, she moved closer to the danger.
She guided the punch harmlessly past with her left forearm while grabbing him around the back with her other hand.
She spun around.
Bent forward.
Flipped him over her hip.
Splattered him into the sidewalk.
Still holding his arm, Tess immobilized it in a figure-four armlock, then levered it that little bit further, bending what should never bend.
Hoodie cried out as his elbow cracked loudly.
Tess glared at the pudgy guy, the last of the four targets standing.
Backing off, he held up his open hands and spouted Polish.
Tess couldn’t understand a word, but she understood the waver in his voice.
She took two bounds toward him, then stopped and watched him hightail it into the blackness.
She turned and glared at the three men she’d put on the ground. Warily, they each clambered to their feet, cradling their injuries.
Without saying a word, she strolled towards them.
They backed away. Not one able to fight.
With a nod of her head Tess motioned toward the archway back to the Old Town.
As quickly as they could, they lurched away, regularly glancing back to check where she was.
No, Tess hadn’t been looking for trouble tonight. However, she hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to avoid it. And it wasn’t like she’d killed anyone. A few months of hospital treatment and they’d all be fine. Meanwhile, the streets would be a little safer. Plus, now that these goons knew what could be lurking in the shadows watching them, hunting innocent people for kicks might lose some of its appeal.
Tess turned to the couple who’d been ambushed.
Sitting on the ground, the boyfriend stared at her openmouthed, holding the side of his face where he’d been hit. His girlfriend clung to him, her fingers clawed into his shirt. They both flinched as Tess stepped toward them.
Finally, Tess spoke. “Are you two okay?”
The boyfriend stared. “Huh? Er… er… yeah. Er, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Tess reached down a hand to him.
He looked warily into her eyes, as if not knowing whether he was going to be pulled to safety or have his shoulder wrenched out of its socket. After a second, he clasped her hand and she hauled him up.
She said, “You haven’t heard about the gangs targeting English speakers who have Polish girlfriends?”
He shook his head, looking at her blankly. “We’ve only been in Krakow a couple of days.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow. After we’ve visited Auschwitz.”
“That’s probably wise. There are more of those assholes around.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, and don’t go wasting your money booking a special tour to Auschwitz. It’ll cost you five times more than just getting a local bus yourself.”
“You’ve been?”
“No. Actually, I was planning on going tomorrow too. Can you make it back to your hotel okay?”
He pointed to the street on the other side of the Barbican. “It’s only a minute or two.”
“Good. But be careful.”
“Yeah. And thanks again.”
Tess watched them totter down the path, then turned to leave.
She shivered, though it was a warm evening. The fight was over, but something didn’t feel quite right. A tingling sensation all but ate away her spine, the way it always did whenever something was wrong but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Was someone watching her?
She heard a rustle behind her.
She spun.
Pulled her fists up.
Scoured the shadows.
Nothing but blackness stared back at her.
Squinting to catch the tiniest of movements, Tess surveyed the clawing darkness.
Nothing.
Strange. Her instincts were rarely wrong.
She prowled along the path.
But the hair bristled on
the back of her neck.
She stopped.
Peered into the shadows again.
This wasn’t over. There was something wrong here. But what was it?
Chapter 03
Auschwitz. The name conjured all manner of nightmarish visions, yet few lived up to the real horrors unveiled to its visitors.
The spring sun blazed outside, but a deathly chill crawled up Tess’s spine. Alone, she stood in the center of the room, enclosed by nothing but grungy concrete walls, a concrete floor, and a concrete ceiling. No windows. No furniture. No decoration. But why would there be? A gas chamber needed no such finery.
Enveloped by an eerie silence like that of a church crypt, she scanned the room.
The Nazis slaughtered over a million people here, in this room and others like it. Over one million people.
However, there was no smell of death.
No sounds of death.
No sight of death.
There was nothing. Nothing but concrete.
Yet…
Tess shivered, colder than she should be, as though everything – everything – in the room had died, even the very air, leaving nothing but an icy void which sucked the living warmth out of anyone foolish enough to enter.
Like the room, Tess had known death. A lot of death. So much it would have broken most people. As it almost had her.
Over a five-month period in Shanghai, she’d killed fifty-three people.
Fifty-three lives. Gone.
The first six had been in self-defense. That made them easy to justify. Easy to live with.
But the seventh?
Sometimes, when she closed her eyes at night, she could still see that look on his face as she pinned his throat to the floor with her foot, about to push down. Horror mixed with resignation. Maybe even a flicker of relief. It was as if, even though he’d fought to go on living, he knew he deserved what was about to happen and had been waiting for it.
Afterward, she’d stood over him looking down. Trembling. Crying. Lost. For how long, she didn’t know, but a voice in the back of her mind screamed, ‘What have you done? What have you done? What the fuck have you done?’
She didn’t eat or sleep for three days after that night. Despite having verified everything she’d been told about him as being true, questions had haunted her like a migraine she couldn’t shake, torturing her every waking moment. Had he truly deserved to die? Had she had the right to judge? To sentence? To kill?
