by Wade, Vixen
Chua’s nose broke open like an over ripe piece of fruit and spread across her face. Hot blood pumped scarlet and splashed Jane's breasts, warm as bath water. Some goddamn rescue, she thought, then punched the girl in the face a second time as the little Cambodian tried again to claw her eyes.
Behind her the carpet began smoldering. Hun Sen, choked unconscious, drunk and heavily sedated, showed little sign of rousing. Jane shifted her hold and tried to climb on top of the writhing, naked pleasure girl, their bodies now slick with their sweat. She needed to pin her down and cut off her cries at least long enough for her to make her escape if she had to.
The wiry little Asian was surprisingly strong and Jane miscalculated her attempt to straddle the girl. Both Chua’s legs came up and then shot out like the pistons in an Aston Martin coup. Jane grunted as the girl's heels slammed into the side of her head.
She saw spinning galaxies of stars as she was thrown back. She sprawled across the carpet and only the amphetamines kept her conscious, pumping more oxygenated blood to her brain than she ever could have managed naturally. The carpet burst into flame just behind her. The fire quickly reached the lace fringe of the bed's duvet and moving like a grass fire the flame spread to the highly flammable sheets.
The Cambodian was at the door as Jane came to her feet. Behind them Hun Sen groaned once. She turned and kicked him hard along the jaw, saw the bed burst into flame and spun after Chau. Things had gone to hell pretty damn quickly.
The girl couldn't get the handle on the heavy door to work and Jane clearly recalled Boupha locking it. But from outside the door she suddenly heard shrill voices responding to the girl's warning cries. Behind her the curtains began blazing and the heat had grown enough to be tangible force at her back. Smoke began hazing the room.
Things were starting to look bad.
Lieutenant David Sten got out of his car.
He left the engine running just in case the signal came and put his binoculars up to his eyes. The window he and Jane had earlier identified as Sun Hen's bedroom remained closed and covered with curtains. He didn't know what in the hell Jane was doing but the plan was running over schedule and he didn't like it.
"I must need my head examined," he muttered to himself. "I never should have let her go in there."
Thing was, Jane had a way about her. He'd seen her handle herself in crazy situations, seen her pull off victories against overwhelming odds. She was good, good as hell, good as she was beautiful, but on top of that her luck was simply uncanny.
He'd allowed himself to be talked into this crazy plan because he had faith in the blonde bombshell of a private escort. Everything in him that was male and cop told him this was stupid and trusting a girl to this kind of danger was the worst kind of folly. But if it could be done he had to admit; experience had taught him that it could be done by Jane Delacroix.
Besides, since he was half in love with her, he found he had one hell of a time saying no to her. But it made him angry at himself to feel that way about hooker, so he pretended it was just about wanting to fuck her.
Still muttering under his breath, he took a few steps forward toward the front of his car. He wasn't exactly being inconspicuous standing around on a mansion-lined street with binoculars. The residents who dwelt here paid large sums of money to ensure their privacy remained private.
Since his official investigation had been squashed by City Hall before it had even began, he'd now have a hard time talking his way clear just by flashing his badge if the neighbors called the police to report a prowler.
Behind him, just around a corner concealed by a high wall of arborvitaes, two men in a silent Buick with government plates also go out of their cars. They wore dark blue Brooks Brother’s suits, fedoras and shiny shoes. Both men were clean shaven and each had a tailored bulge under his left arm.
One of them took a cigarette out of his mouth and flipped it in the gutter. When he walked he sauntered and he had the hard-eyed glare of a full time ass kicker. His partner was a taller, red haired version of the same. Not bothering to hurry, they began strolling down the sidewalk under a line of palm trees toward where David Sten stood.
Though worried about Jane, the street cop was alert enough to hear them coming. Sten turned slowly and sized the men up instantly. They were fit, the hair under their hats regulation short. If it weren't for how highly polished their shoes were he would have figured them for G-Men, either FBI or maybe agents out of Treasury.
But it couldn't be a coincidence they were here outside the rented mansion of a Cambodian warlord and CIA assets. Sten was a cop; he damn well didn't believe in coincidences.
"LAPD," he said, voice low and deep like the warning growl of a pit bull.
"Bully for you, tough guy," the red head said.
"Tough guy?" the other one scoffed. "More like peeping Tom, maybe."
"Whatcha tryin' ta see? Some famous titties sunning themselves by the pool?" Red demanded.
"It's nighttime, jackass." Sten shot back. "And I told you, I'm a cop."
They came to a stop in front of him but he didn't fail to notice how they position themselves, slightly fanned out so he was up against the car on one side and penned in by them on the other.
"We're with the government." the Boss said. "It's a little bit above your pay grade. Frankly you're queering our surveillance. Scram."
"Got IDs? How do I know you aren't just two West Hollywood rangers out cruising?"
"You wiseass sonofabitch!" Red snarled and stepped forward, pointing a blunt finger in Sten's face.
"Easy," Boss snapped. "As a professional courtesy, I'm going to work with you. But once I show you our paperwork you are to take your annoying, traffic ticket writing, ass and get the fuck out of my AO. You understand?"
Sten didn't answer.
It took all his willpower not to turn and look at Sun Hen's window. He had no official reason to be here. In fact, his stakeout, in and of itself, was enough to get him in hot water if reported. He needed probable cause, something that would give him a plausible reason to suspect a crime in progress and then intervene.
He needed Jane to uphold her end of the plan. Even if she didn't, he wasn't going to drive off and leave her in the hands of a Cambodian pervert. He didn't care if it was a National Guard unit with a tank shaking him down.
"No promises 'til I see who you are," he answered.
He let his hands drop to his sides, non-threatening, but he changed his grip on the Binoculars. If these two were who he thought they were, then he had no problem laying them out if push came down to shove.
Boss reached into his jacket and pulled out a square plastic wallet Sten instantly recognized as a government ID case. The fed snapped it open and shoved it toward the LA cop's face, letting him get a clear look at the photo ID and the three letter abbreviation next to it.
DIA
Defense Intelligence Agency, the pentagon's intelligence service. Not what he had been expecting, though it made a certain sense. Of course he now knew how he was going to handle the situation.
"DIA, huh?"
Red smirked. "That's right, doughnut eater. Big Boys."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you two to leave before I'm forced to detain you under the Posse Comitatus Act. Unless you guys happen to have a letter from the President pursuant to the Insurrection Act."
He smiled, dipped his head a little as he shrugged and used the movement as cover to take a quick peek at Hun Sen's mansion. He saw nothing.
"Don't take it the wrong way," he continued. I'm a big supporter of the military, was a Marine myself, 1st Division, Korea 1950. I believe in supporting our boys in uniform, but regulations are regulations. Couple sharp cookies like you two understand how it is."
Boss smiled.
His teeth were crooked as tombstones but looked predator strong. "Frozen Chosin, eh?" he asked, referencing the now infamous Battle of the Chosin Reservoir. "I was Army myself, before I moved upstairs. Missed out on Korea but got to play
a little in Vietnam. Special Forces, 10th Group."
Red cocked his head he smiled, "Airborne, Jarhead. 101St, Screaming fuckin' Eagles."
"Yeah, well, the war is about six thousand miles that away," Sten countered. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the west, toward the Pacific. "Maybe that's where you boys should be concentrating your efforts."
"Funny thing about counter-insurgency," Boss answered, losing his smile, "there are no front lines. Now take your car and kindly un-ass my Area of Operation."
"I'm afraid you don't have the authority to give me orders, which is sort of a police officer way of saying ‘screw you,’ and your red headed stepchild of a partner."
He knew it was coming but he still barely avoided the big round house Red tried to tag him with. He hadn't counted on locking horns with an ex-Green Beret in the street outside of a Bel Air mansion, who would? And his plan to bluff 'em down was falling apart rather quickly.
He took the punch in a glancing blow off the top his head, where the skull was nice and thick. Using the motion, he twisted around and smashed the binoculars into Boss man's face. The DIA field officer staggered backward under the force and landed hard on his own ass.
Red moved in and stomped the side of Sten's knee with a sniper's precision. The blow came in from the side which allowed his leg to fold and was the only thing that saved him from permanent injury. He went down to one knee, pivoted hard and drove forward like a half-back breaking the line of scrimmage and gunning down hill for open field.
His shoulder slammed into Red's gut and his drive lifted the man off the ground and sent him sprawling out to the pavement, flat on his back. Both of the agents went for their guns but Sten was way ahead of 'em.
"Take it easy and listen up," he watched them close, his gun turned sideways. "This, as you may have noticed is a Colt M1911A1, in .45 caliber. Sturdy weapon, simple parts. In fact, and I probably don't need to tell a couple of old hands like you two, the parts are so simple all you have to do is take a round file to the hammer catch on the action to make it full auto. I squeeze this trigger and the recoil, the way I'm holding it, will march those big slugs right across Boss man here and straight into you, Fire Crotch, all with a single pull of the trigger."
"Are you fucking insane?" Boss snarled.
He was furious and his eyes were cold, dark pits of fury. Sten knew he'd made an enemy who'd happily kill him if he could. Well screw him, Sten could play rough too.
"You may be hotshot agents, but this is my town. The cops who respond to the reports of gunfire? They'll be my boys. The detectives who do the FBI's legwork looking into your murder? They're my brothers in black."
"You think you can shoot two government agents and get away with it?" Red sounded so incredulous that his voice was almost petulant, like an angry child's.
"You two are dead but armed. Your IDs vanish. Patrol cars get here I'm just an off duty cop who saw two suspicious characters, maybe prowlers or, worse, Negroes, casing a big house in Bel Air. Thought I smelled some of that funny cigarette smoke those hippies are always burning, too. But when I approached you, you attacked me after I clearly identified myself, and drew guns on me.
“Self-defense. It'll get in the papers right quick too," he grinned and shrugged but the cavernous barrel of his .45 didn't waver. "I know folks at the LA Times. My guess is, you jack asses not having any letter from the President and all, that this whole thing is a spy game, which means your bosses'll be a helluva lot more interested in covering their asses than going after a police hero and veteran like myself." He met Boss's eyes, matching the man glare for hate filled glare. "How's this doughnut eater doing so far, motherfucker?"
Boss seemed to relax, his hand came slowly out of his jacket. He took it and waved Red down. "You should have taken the ass beating," he told Sten. "Black eye and a few bruised ribs are nothing compared to the hell that's going to rain down on you once I start the official-compliant-ball rolling down through channels. You're going to be writing parking tickets in Watts by the time I'm finished."
"You still talking?" Sten asked. He kept his voice mild but inside he was queasy with apprehension over Jane's fate.
At that point the window to Hun Sen's bedroom exploded outward in a ball of fire.
Sten spun around, lowering the pistol and the two DIA agents scrambled to their feet. A ladder of fire shot out through the broken glass reaching toward the blue California night.
"Jesus, Jane," Sten whispered. “What the hell did you do?"
He spun to dive into the already running car. If a raging fire wasn't a good excuse for your friendly neighborhood homicide detective to knock on a door then he didn't know what was. He hesitated as he turned. Boss and Red were already on their feet.
They were fast. He tried to bring the gun around and threaten 'em enough to give him room to slid into the car. His radio was in there and he could call the fire in himself.
Sten had no way of knowing it, but the man he called Red had pitched minor league ball before his draft number came up in 1967. Now the ex-paratrooper wound up like he was on the mound in the Big Show and unleashed everything he had down through his skyscraper of an arm.
Big, raw boned knuckles struck Sten in the side of the head right in the temple, in the sweet spot Boxers' called "the button" and the cop went down like a trip-hammered steer.
Red rubbed his hand, grinning stupidly down at the unconscious man. He drew back a size 12 dress shoe to deliver the coup de grace.
Boss, officially known as Agent John Javacovitch on all his paper work, laid a restraining hand on his partner. He gently shook his head, eyes on the burning mansion.
"What the hell is a cop doing outside of Hun Sen's, and just before the place lights on fire, no less?" He reached up and felt the swollen mess of his nose where Sten had laid him out with the binoculars. "And what's got him so excited about this stakeout he'd risk going toe-to-toe with two government agents?"
"Man acts that weird, that stupid," Red, aka Officer Martin Pensk, said "it's almost always either money or a woman. But, hell, this is LA, could be anything."
Javacovitch nodded. "Come on, we better go check on everyone's favorite opium warlord."
Jane was in trouble.
The sound of barking dogs poured in through the door as Chau frantically rattled the handle, shrieking like an air raid siren. Smoke hung in the room, now thick as London fog and Jane began coughing as her eyes watered.
"Time to go, little girl," Jane told the woman. Chau ignored her.
That was fine, Jane had done her homework. Right outside Hun Sen's room was a kidney shaped swimming pool 12' down at the deep end. From a second story the leap would be ridiculously easy.
Picking up a chair with a minimum price tag of $500, she swung it around like an Olympic hammer thrower. Her boobs, barely encased by the torn tatters of her evening dress, bounced crazily, almost comically, with the effort of the toss but the chair flew straight, punching through the heavy, burning curtains and bursting through the heavy glass of the window just behind them.
Boupha shouted just outside the door. Chau whirled at the sound of breaking glass and saw Jane coming for her. The girl threw herself forward, uninhibited by her nakedness, and began clawing furiously for Jane's eyes, one slender, nut-brown hand snagging up in the American woman's long, blonde tresses.
Chau snapped Jane's head back and forth as her nails raked the P.I.'s left breast, leaving four red claw marks in her soft flesh.
"Bitch!"
The pain galvanized Jane and she unloaded in an adrenaline driven attack. She reached down toward the floor and picked her fist up around Texas before driving it into the Cambodian girl's chin. Chau stumbled back against the door hard enough to rattle it in the frame.
The lock turned over.
Leaping inside like a clinch-style boxer, Jane followed her upper cut with a hook to the stomach. Chau gasped harshly as the breath was driven from her lungs under the violence of the blow. The slighter woman sagged a
t the waist under the impact.
The doorknob turned.
Moving like a matador, Jane spun around Chua’s shoulder until she was standing beside her, just behind her shoulder, as the Cambodian, still bent over, gasped and sputtered for her breath. Like an executioner Jane drew her left arm up and axe chopped the knife edge of her palm straight into the back of the girl's neck where spine met skull, in a vicious rabbit punch.
Instantly the unconscious opium slave fell to the floor. The bedroom door swung open and the snarling muzzle of an enraged Doberman appeared in the jam. Jane threw her shoulder hard against the heavy wooden structure and slammed it closed. The guard dog yelped in pain and she fervently hoped she'd broken out every tooth in its mouth.
Working quickly, she snapped the door's lock closed before reaching over and snatching a silk tapestry off the wall. She couldn't see five feet into the room now from all the smoke. Yellow flames like the pavilion of hell ate along the walls and ceiling, the heat blazed blast furnace hot leaving her instantly bathed in copious streaks of sweat.
Chest heaving, she quickly wrapped the length of strong silk around the two door handles and tucked the ends. It wouldn't hold long, just seconds, and they had the key to unlock the door. She could only pray that the razor's edge margin she'd just given herself would be enough.
Stooping low she scooped the unconscious little Asian woman over her shoulder. The locks on the door snapped back open. Half-blind Jane orientated herself toward the broken window. The skin along her naked legs and breasts reddened and tightened under the searing heat.
Digging her heels into the burning carpet she sprinted forward, charging toward the open window like a running back breaking through and racing for open field. Behind her the door popped open and caught on the silk wrap.
Jane came through the smoke in two steps and saw Hun Sen scrapping burning sheet from his face. Behind her the door burst open and the two Dobermans raced in snarling, Boupha, Swedish K in hand right behind them. She had to make the leap to the burning bed.
