by John Ringo
When he had, he slumped on her, limp, his flaccid member slowly drawing out of her ass. He hit the still whimpering girl on the head and stood up, throwing away the condom, taking off his clothes and laying his sidearm on the bedside table.
"I've raped you," Mike said brutally, pulling out her gag. "Now I'm going to sleep with you. And if you try to run, or steal anything, I will wake up. You will sleep right here, with me, until I'm ready to get up. If you try to get away, you'll be beaten. Do you understand?"
"Yes," the girl said, pulling herself up against the wall and as far away from him as she could.
"Get over here," Mike said, pulling the covers back, then lying down on the bed and pulling the girl to him. He forced her to spoon with him, facing the wall. "Don't try to run," he said in her ear, wrapping an arm around her possessively.
The girl was gently crying, but she nodded. She smelled of fear and he still found that incredibly exciting, his member briefly engorging to touch her on the ass. Other than in agreed-upon "scenes" he had never been so brutal to a woman in his life. And she had, no question, not been a willing participant. It had been paid rape, pure and simple. His conscience was still nagging at him, but he was ignoring it. He slid his hand up to cradle one lovely breast and fell asleep like he'd been drugged.
* * *
Mike woke up, once, when the girl tried to slip out of bed. He simply grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back to spoon, then went back to sleep. The second time he woke to the sound of his phone ringing. He pushed her into the corner of the bed and picked it up, checking the time as he did. It had only been four hours, not nearly enough time for NEST to have arrived and done a full survey.
"Duncan," he said after a moment; he still wasn't used to his cover name.
"Northcote," the man said. "Go scramble."
Mike punched in the code on the phone and hit scramble.
"Be aware," Mike said. "I'm in an unsecure location."
"That's fine," Northcote said. "The IFOR team has finished a preliminary evaluation. They've found traces of plutonium, uranium and tritium. There's also a container that probably held new tritium, which is one of the things . . ."
"Look," Mike said, "this is all fine and dandy. But call me back when a full sweep has been completed including information from the area. I need to sleep; I've been on continuous ops for a while. I'll probably be over there this evening; I'm not far away."
"Okay," Northcote replied, nonplussed. "Will do."
"Bye," Mike replied, hitting the disconnect. He tossed the phone on his clothes on the floor and pulled the girl to him, entering her dry and pumping her hard. It clearly hurt and her face was screwed up in pain. After raping her for a while, he pulled out, then grabbed her camisole from the floor, forcing it into her mouth as a gag and entered her again. She tried to fight him this time, but he was much stronger than she was and there was no way for her to stop him raping her. He slammed her, brutally, holding her hands above her head with one hand gripping her wrists and twisting at her nipples with the other as she cried out in pain against the gag.
That wasn't enough, so he turned her over again, using her panties to tie her to the bedstand and tying the camisole around the back of her head. He put on another condom, then pulled out his belt and whipped her ass red as she cried in pain. Finally, when he was so full of cum he felt he would burst, he mounted her, hard, pounding her lovely ass brutally, while kneading her breasts and pinching her nipples. He still held back, though, giving her a full, hard fucking, before letting himself release into her ass.
When he was done he threw the condom away and untied her.
"Lick me clean," he said, pushing her head down to his crotch. "Clean me all up."
The girl did as he said, then he pushed his cock into her mouth.
"Suck it," he ordered, lying back. "Suck me back to life."
She blew him and played with him until he was engorged again, and then Mike threw her on her back and started pounding her again.
"I love raping you," he said, looking at her face that was screwed up in fear and pain. "Look at me," he ordered. When she opened her eyes a crack he laughed at the fear in them and they shot closed again at his expression. "I love raping you. I'm going to do it over and over again until I have to leave."
He'd already come several times, so he could fuck her for as long as he wanted. He kept pounding her and pounding her as she cried and whimpered in pain at the tearing in her pussy. She never got wet and it had to be painful as hell. He lifted her legs up in the air and slapped her ass, hard, spanking her until she was crying openly, sobbing and pleading at him to stop hurting her. This gave him enough juice that he could come again.
He collapsed on her again and then pulled out, pulling her to him in a spoon.
"You are the greatest girl to rape I have ever met," Mike whispered, licking at her ear as she tried to turn away. "I am having so much fun raping you, I might never stop. I can keep this up all day and all night."
"Please," the girl whimpered. "Please stop hurt me."
"No," Mike said, pulling her hard into him so his dick was right in the crack of her ass. "I like hurting you. I like scaring you. I like raping you. And when I wake up, I'm going to do it again. But don't try to get away or I'll beat the ever-living crap out of you."
He played with her body for a bit and then went back to sleep.
* * *
He woke up at a second call, looking out the window for a handle on the time. The sky was red with sunset so he figured it was about right. The phone said four PM, local time.
"I'm already scrambled," he said, sitting on the bed and reaching over to touch the ass of the girl in the bed. She trembled but held still.
"NEST has completed its evaluation and there's some intel on the activities here you should hear," Northcote said.
"I'll be over in about fifteen to thirty," Mike answered, hitting the disconnect and tossing it on the bedside table. He fondled the girl's ass, which was still red with strap marks from his belt, then squeezed it, hard, eliciting a mew of fear from the girl. He reached into his jump bag, pulled out another condom and rolled the girl over on her stomach.
She had learned to accept him raping her in the ass, but she was still tight. And she cried as he did it to her. He pounded her, playing with her tits and only pulling her nipples a little bit, until he came.
"You've been a lot of fun," Mike said, throwing the condom away and dipping into his pants. He pulled out a wad of euros and tossed them on the crying girl's back. "I'm going to tell your pimp that that is for you. And I'll check up, make sure he hasn't taken it from you. I'll also tell him that unless you want, you're off-duty tonight."
The girl rolled over and pulled the money from behind her back, her tears drying and eyes widening at the sight of the bills. He wasn't sure how much was in the fold, but it was probably half a year's pay for the girl. Most of the money she made, usually two or four to one, went to her pimp, even "tips" like Mike's. She flipped through the roll then looked at Mike, quizzically, for the first time without fear in her eyes.
"I'm not particularly proud of that side of me," Mike said as he pulled on his clothes. "It comes out from time to time, but I don't like it. That," he added, gesturing with his chin at the money, "doesn't make up for what I did to you. But . . . it helps. Both you and me. And I'm sorry for how I treated you, but I was at a point where it was do what I did or kill somebody. And, unfortunately, right now there's nobody left for me to kill."
"Is okay," Magdelena said, pulling the clip off the roll and counting the money. "Not like, much hurt, much . . . bad memory." She got to the end of the quick count and looked at him again, curiously. "But for this, is okay. Would do again."
"Yeah," Mike said as he holstered his piece and picked up his jump bag. "But then you'd be acting. It wouldn't be the same."
* * *
The brothel had a few customers checking out the girls when he walked downstairs, but he spotted Kovacic talking
to somebody on the door who must have been a bouncer. He waved him over with a lift of the head as he headed for the door.
"I gave Magdelena a tip," Mike said, cocking his head to the side. "A very large tip." He dipped into his pants and came up with another hundred-euro note. "This is your tip. Her tip is hers. I'll be checking up. And just to be clear, I'm tight connected with IFOR. Do not think you can have part of her tip, or you'll end up sorry and sore as she is. Am I being blunt enough?"
"Yes," Kovacic said, pocketing the money.
"She's off for tonight unless she wants to work," Mike said. "That's for her share of tonight. We okay on that?"
"Yes," Kovacic replied. "I could hear some of what was going on. She won't be good for much tonight, maybe tomorrow."
"She's got some strap marks on her ass from my belt," Mike said, shrugging. "No bruises. A hand print on the face that is mostly faded. I may be back later for . . . fifths I guess."
"It will not be on the house," Kovacic said. "I normally don't let my girls be treated like that."
"You're such a sweetheart," Mike said, walking out.
* * *
Chapter Five
There was a large cordon set up down the street. Mike walked up to the line of soldiers securing the area and pulled out his diplomatic passport.
"Michael Duncan," he said. "I'm here to meet Mr. Northcote."
"I have to clear it with the sergeant of the guard, sir," the private said, swallowing nervously. "Normally that would get you past, but we have a serious security issue here and . . ."
"Fine," Mike said, grinning. "I know where you're at, son. Follow procedures, I've got time."
It took a visit from both the sergeant and the officer of the guard before he was past, the officer of the guard escorting him to the warehouse. Even then he wasn't allowed to enter until Northcote was called outside. The van was gone, he noticed. He wondered, idly, if they'd loaded it on a tow truck or if some poor bastard had had to drive it. It had been, radioactively, hot as hell. He wouldn't have wanted to drive it.
"There you are," Northcote said, exasperated. "I was wondering when you'd bother to show up."
"I figured it would take most of the day to get a full read on the situation," Mike said, yawning. "And I'd been up for about sixty hours. What do we have?"
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Northcote said, dragging him into the warehouse through the personnel door. Mike noticed that the lock had been knocked out by a door-knocker. "We've got a briefing set up . . ."
"Spare me the Powerpoint," Mike said, looking around. About half the warehouse was now covered in a set of plastic bubbles with guys in clean-room suits waving detectors around and using small vacuums to pick up dust. The office had apparently been converted back to being an office. There were at least thirty people in the room outside of the investigation area, standing around and looking worried. "Just the facts, as they say. And you're on pins and needles. Why?"
"Besides the fact that a nuke slipped into my AO and back out?" Northcote asked exasperatedly. "Maybe it's the fact that the last call I got was from the Office of the White House asking about you. What or who the hell are you? I'd pegged you as a CIA Office of Special Actions guy, but the White House doesn't call about them as a rule. And they asked for you by name; I had to tell them you were sleeping."
"I am not now, nor have I ever been, CIA," Mike said bluntly. "I do favors for the United States government and they, in turn, do favors for me," he added, tapping the pocket where he had his "official" passport.
"Contractor?" Northcote asked.
"Not even that," Mike said. "A contractor signs up for a specific payment. I consider myself more in the field of . . . salvage operations." He grinned and then shrugged. "What do we have?"
"This is Todd Jameson," Northcote said, leading him over to one of the groups. The guy he addressed was a big blond in a blue jumpsuit with NEST printed across the back. The other people were military, ranking up to a bird colonel. "He's the head of the nuke team."
"You must be Duncan," the NEST leader said, shaking Mike's hand.
"Mike," Mike replied, shaking his head. "Duncan's a name that gets you into fights and I hate getting in fights."
"Mike, then," the guy replied, smiling humorously. "Well, the nuke was definitely here. We got the isotope signature from the Russkis and the remnants we picked up are a match. Whoever was working on it knew what they were doing, too. There's remnants of wiring and the detonator circuit had been pulled. It would have degraded from radiation by now, so it was one thing they had to replace."
"Wouldn't they have had to reshape the explosives and the plutonium?" Mike asked.
"No, these older nukes are remarkably stable that way," Jameson said, shrugging. "They had to replace the tritium; it would have degraded. And the plutonium might be a little degraded. But I'm ninety percent sure, based on the evidence, that we're going to get some sort of nuclear reaction. What gets me is the rest of the evidence."
"What's that?" Mike asked. "The lead smell?"
"Yeah," Jameson said, leading him over to the side of one of the bubble tents. "See those?" he asked, pointing to some metal pieces on one of the tables. "Those are metal bars that have been cut with an arc welder. And there were large bolts sitting on the floor." Jameson waved to one of the space-suited guys and made a motion like turning a wrench. The person in the bubble went over to another table and picked up a bolt, turning it back and forth.
"Can I see it up close?" Mike asked. "How hot is it?"
"It's not hot enough to bother about," Jameson said, walking over to the entrance and waving for the bolt to be brought over. "About like a tritium watchface. The shavings that were on the floor were hot as hell, though."
"Yeah, I ran into those," Mike said. "Slid through them, to be precise."
"Jesus," the NEST team leader said, his eyes wide. "You need to be decontaminated!"
"I took a shower," Mike said, shrugging and turning the bolt around and around. It was familiar, but he couldn't place it. "I'll survive. I've survived worse, trust me. A little radiation's good for you. So we've got metal bars and big bolts. Anything else?"
"Well, they were melting and pouring lead," Jameson said, looking at him askance. "And there's a big crane," he continued, pointing to the device. "That's cold as snow. It wasn't in contact with the live weapon. For the rest, I'd suggest you talk to the forensic guys."
Mike walked back over to Northcote, who was talking with a civilian in a rumpled suit and a major with an IFOR MP brassard.
"You the forensics guys?" Mike asked.
"Major Forester," the major said, shaking his hand. "And Agent Wilson with the FBI."
"Pleased ta meetcha," Wilson said in a thick New York accent. "What do you think?"
"They encased the nuke in lead," Mike said. "That way it can't be detected as readily. Probably rigged it to blow. Maybe a timer, but more likely a cell phone. Maybe more than one. I'd want the ability to turn it off."
"My guess, too," Wilson said, looking at him sharply. "But what did they move it in?"
"Big engine," Mike said, holding up the bolt. "But what kind? Any read on the bolt?"
"Used in various systems," Wilson said, shrugging. "Engine blocks, mostly."
"That's where I've seen it," Mike said. "When we had to strip down the engine on my boat. A Volvo diesel."
"That's one of them," Wilson said, nodding. "Also Mercedes. But if the nuke is stuck in an engine cavity, the engine isn't running. So we're looking for a big truck with an engine that's not running?"
"Doesn't make sense," Mike said. "Major, what do you have?"
"There was the proverbial little old lady," the major said, pulling out a pad. "One Branca Obilic, eighty-three. She's lived in this area since, as she put it, the good old days when Tito was in charge. Never been run out, not even by the war. Was a refugee for a few days and came back. One hard-nosed bitch of a Serb, too; she only talked to us because nobody else would listen to her. But she knew
something different was going on here and kept an eye on it. She said that about two days after the van turned up, and it was never moved, a large white truck pulled into the warehouse. It was here for about three hours, maybe more, but she's sure of at least three hours. That was three days ago. It was an odd vehicle. It had a tractor front end but a short rear with doors on the side and back. Personnel doors on the side and double doors on the back. We've got the description out to IFOR, the Bosnian police and Interpol. It shouldn't be hard to find."
"Yes it will," Mike said, frowning.
"It's a pretty unusual vehicle," Forester protested. "There can't be many vehicles like that in Bosnia. Europe for that matter."
"What you just described is a press van," Mike said, sighing. "There are thousands of them in Europe. And if we start stopping all of them, somebody is going to figure out what is going on."
"Shit," Forester said, angrily. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"You've been too close to the problem," Mike said, thinking. "Okay, but what is the engine? Generator."
"There's one of those in those press vans," Wilson said, nodding. "Good call."
"Okay," Mike said thoughtfully. "They put the nuke in the engine, holding it in place with the bars, then poured hot lead around it? That doesn't make sense."
"There are some bits of stainless steel around, too," Wilson said. "I'd wondered what those were. They must have enclosed it in a sleeve, then poured the lead around it."
"That is going to make it a bitch to disarm," Forester said.
