Hell In High Heels --- A Jane Delacroix erotic novel: Sex, Sin, and Slaughter in Southern California

by Wade, Vixen

  The sudden channeling of air from the broken window to the open door created an instantaneous funnel of savage heat. The dogs whirled to run, Boupha stopped and threw his arm up to protect himself. Jane leap up on the bed, crying out as her foot was seared.

  Hun Sen lurched up and snatched her by her ankle. Grossly over extended from her jump she went down hard on the bed. She screamed as Chau was thrown clear. Showing incredible strength for a man his size the Cambodian warlord snatched her off the bed by one leg.

  She tried to sit up but he struck her a vicious backhand that sent her already oxygen starved brain spinning. Rough hands grabbed her as Hun Sen's men rushed into the bedroom.

  "Go! Go!" he yelled. "Put her in the basement cells before the fire department gets here."

  Again she tried to fight but the punch she took this time was from a furious Boupha and she was knocked cold.

  Detective David Sten woke with a start.

  "Jane!" he shouted as he tried to sit up.

  Painful vertigo from the blow he'd taken stopped him before he lifted his head six inches. Moaning, he tried to roll over and regain his equilibrium. That red haired bastard hit like a goddamn mule kicking. Gritting his teeth he pushed himself up off the street.

  The two DIA agents were gone. He looked down the street toward Hun Sen's rented Bel Air mansion. Smoke poured out of a window like it was chimney. It plumed up like a giant fist as licks of yellow flame ate away at the edges of the window sill.

  He should have been at the gates by now. He was failing her. He forced himself up and staggered against the car. It was still running. He snarled to himself, summoning his will.

  "Come on goddamn it, Sten! You can take a punch."

  He forced himself straight and yanked open his door, half falling inside to just behind the wheel. His head was clearing though; he could take a punch, it was part of what made him who he was. He threw the Buick into gear and it lurched forward.

  On the street people came outside their front gates to watch the mansion burn from the safety of their palm tree lined sidewalks. Snatching the handset for the radio to his mouth, he called in the emergency to the swing shift dispatcher.

  "This is Two Charlie Eight, this is Two Charlie Eight," he said.

  The needle on the speedometer was sweeping left to right in an unbroken arc. He rattled off the address and informed them of the fire. His big V8 engine was growling loudly as it picked up speed and he almost sideswiped a cherry red Corvette Sting Ray parked along the street as he slid into the drive before the property.

  His foot never touched the brake as he rammed through the heavy steel gate. The front of his car crumpled in like a beer can but the big engine and all that Detroit steel made for one hell of a battering ram. The heavy gate exploded open, jacked up off its electric runners and the Buick stuttered to a stop.

  Prepared as he was for the impact he wasn't wearing a seat belt and he bounced off the mammoth rubber circle of his steering well, opening a cut above his eye. He tried to shoulder his door open but it was dented shut and so pinned by the top corner of the broken gate that he could barely budge it quarter of an inch.

  He spun sideways on his butt and brought his knees up to his chin. In the distance he heard sirens. The LAFD didn't mess around with their response times in the 90077 zip code. His feet lashed forward and slammed into the jammed door, knocking it open.

  He caught the jam with his hand and pulled himself half out of the opening. He didn't know what the government sonofabitches had done with his .45 so he reached over and pulled his .12 gauge pump from its brackets under the dash.

  "Look who's coming to dinner, assholes," he muttered.

  The shotgun made that sound, the this is for real snap, as he tromboned the action. It made him sneer. Made him happy as he marched up the drive toward the house. This wasn't the best part of the job, but it was one of the most fun.

  The front door opened and a single black torpedo of a Doberman raced clear, running flat out like a Greyhound at the track. With no more expression that a marksman shooting skeet, Sten swept up the shotgun and fired, jacked the action and swept the barrel up to cover the door of the mansion.

  The double-aught buckshot scythed into the dog, smashing its narrow skull instantly. It somersaulted end over end, leaving a bloody smear on the black asphalt of the driveway. Sten loved dogs. He didn't give the ruined Doberman a second glance as he jogged toward the building.

  A skinny Asian male in a Rolling Stones t-shirt and a dangling cigarette swung out, sweeping an already stuttering Swedish K sub-machine gun toward the LA cop. Reflexively, Sten threw himself down and to the side. He triggered the shotgun as he fell and buckshot tore a chunk out of the mansion's door jam.

  The kid ducked back around the corner and Sten popped up to a 3-point stance, the shotgun in one hand. He stood and went to work the action. The muzzle of the Swedish K poked out around the corner and a wall of 9x19mm Parabellum thundered out of the 36-round box magazine.

  He rolled for the cover of some shrubs, realized they weren't going to protect him worth a damn and dove toward a natural stone French fountain gurgling water into the dry, Southern California air. The cherub on the pinnacle, spitting an arc of liquid from pouting lips, exploded into shards as the soft-nosed rounds tore into it.

  Flat on his back Sten finally managed to work his action. Sirens were a deafening cacophony now, the engines just blocks away. He could also pick out the more insistent shriek of police wailers.

  "LAPD!" he shouted.

  Another burst of 9mm fire answered him. Gouts of manicured lawn kicked up next to him and he was forced to huddle lower. There was a screech of tires then a brutal, metallic crack followed by the sound of breaking glass tinkling on pavement.

  Sten looked over. Agents Boss and Red had arrived. After ploughing into Sten's car with their own heavy, four-door Ford, they popped out of the cab like demented springs, .38 caliber Police Specials, identical to those used by Air Force security teams in Saigon, in hand.

  "Back off Sten!" Javacovitch ordered.

  "This property has been designated a consulate of the Kingdom of Cambodia! You're committing an act of war!"

  Sten cursed. He was going to lose his badge. He understood this. Over a decade of service flushed down the toilet. He doubted this counted as an act of war any more than his misquoting of the Posse Comitatus Act was exactly, legally, correct. But whatever it was, an armed incursion of a foreign consulate by local law enforcement certainly wasn't something to slot into the 'good' column.

  "There's a girl in there!" he shouted back. He could barely be heard over the approaching sirens. "She's been kidnapped!"

  "Got the hell off Cambodian soil!" Red shouted back.

  Hun Sen now appeared in the doorway, no weapon in sight. A LAFD pumper truck pulled up in front of the mansion, followed by an ambulance and a ladder truck. The apparatus operator waved furiously at the DIA agents, trying to clear the approach.

  Javacovitch ducked back inside his Ford and gunned the engine. The government vehicle lurched forward and shoved Sten's car clear of the gate. The DIA agent cranked his wheel and raced the Ford upon to the lawn, positioning it between Sten and the mansion.

  "Stand down!" Red yelled. "We've called the FBI and they're sending a team along with your Captain to deal with you! Stand the fuck down, cowboy!"

  The emergency vehicles roared past as the two military intelligence officers climbed out of their vehicles. A figure Sten recognized as Hun Sen's chief of staff, a man named Boupha, came out of the house followed by his three man crew. The Cambodian bodyguards held up a stumbling Asian woman between them. Her face was a mask of bruises and she was naked accept for a charred looking tuxedo jacket wrapped like a cape around her.

  Two black-and-whites rolled through the gate and slammed on their brakes. The crew of the fire engines came off their apparatus and went through their designated drills. A beefy man in his late twenties with a handlebar mustache and the arms of Reg Pa
rk jogged past them with a large diameter draft hose headed toward the dedicated hydrant on the sidewalk just outside the ruined entry gate.

  In front of the house a two man team laid fire hose through the front door while a second crew ran a second line around the corner to attack the fire from the outside. Sten's captain pulled up, driving an unmarked cruiser with a detachable emergency light flashing on the roof.

  It's fucking over, Sten realized.

  His Captain knew he was sleeping with Jane Delacroix, and begrudged him that pleasure bitterly. Worse, the man was as by-the-book as a Paris Island drill instructor. He didn't like bending rules, he didn't like breaking regulations and he didn't like lone wolf cowboy plays.

  In short; he hated Detective David Sten.

  There was an empty chasm where his stomach had been as Sten slowly stood, keeping the muzzle of the shotgun pointed toward the ground. Seeing the short barreled .38s in the agents' hands the four patrol cops drew down, staying low behind their open car doors. They didn't seem quite sure who to point their weapons at.

  "Freeze!"

  "Drop the guns!"

  "What the hell have you done this time, Sten?!"

  Sten winced. The last bellow had come from Captain Gleason. Hun Sen, flanked by his men, began striding angrily down the driveway.

  "Jesus Christ, Sten," Javacovitch said. He slid his pistol away, face twisted in disgust. "You killed their dog?"

  Sten ignored him. "Captain Gleason, there's a kidnapped girl in their! She's in danger and I---"

  Gleason, built like a fireplug with a salt-n-pepper crew cut to match, made a chopping motion with his hand, shutting Sten down. His face was as red as the LAFD fire engines.

  "I just got a call from the Police Commissioner about you, Sten. A Police Commissioner who'd just gotten a call from the goddamn Mayor who'd just gotten a call from Lieutenant Governor Reinecke who'd freakin' just gotten a call from the State Department." He paused and stuck a blunt cigar in his mouth. "Shit rolls downhill, Sten," he growled. "Guess who's standing in the valley?"

  "Sir, there's a kidnapped woman in there," he repeated, pointing toward the house. "Her life is in danger."

  "That's a lie," Hun Sen snapped.

  Boupha eyed Sten like he was looking for a place to stick a shiv. Sten ignored him, spinning toward Hun Sen. "You get her out here right now!" his face was an ugly mask.

  Holding out their ID's, Javacovitch and Pensk walked up, sliding smoothly in to form a protective wall in front of the General.

  "Captain," Javacovitch addressed Gleason. "You are standing on foreign soil right now. In accordance with the 1961 Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations, that is a hostile action. The actions of your officer have flagrantly violated international law to which the United States is a prime Signatory. It is my understanding that the State Department fully intends to pursue this matter formally."

  Javacovitch looked at Sten. "This is to say nothing about the fact that Detective Sten assaulted both myself and my partner before pulling a weapon on us as we performed a security over watch operation on General Hun Sen's consulate-house."

  Gleason lifted an eyebrow at the man. "Done?"

  "I'm afraid I must insist this man be detained and that all law enforcement presence be removed from the premise." Javacovitch continued.

  "Shit, you're an officious prick, ain't ya?"

  "When I have to be."

  "Give me your weapon, Sten," Gleason said.

  "What!"

  The LAPD Captain turned toward his men, who were holstering their weapons. Almost miraculously, the firefighters' aggressive attack seemed to have knocked the fire down. Already the crew of the ladder truck were making their vehicle ready to leave. The smoke had become patchy, though the smell still permeated the air.

  "Cuff him," Gleason ordered.

  Patrol Sergeant Vince Clark walked toward Sten. He had his steel bracelets in his hands. "Come on, Dave," he said. "We've known each other a lot of years. I respect you and I'm sure this'll all get straightened out at the Station, but you gotta do what’s right here."

  Sten looked at the house. Jane was still in there. For all he knew she was hurt and needed his help. For all he knew she was already dead. She was a big girl, she knew the risks when she went in. There seemed nothing he could do to help. Not now. If he tried anything at all his career, already on questionable grounds unless he got a bang-whiz lawyer from the Union, would surely be finished.

  "Yeah," he said. "Sure."

  He handed the shotgun to Gleason. Red was smirking but Javacovitch watched him like a bird dog, only seemingly relaxed. Hun Sen was fairly dancing. Clark looked relieved. He reached for Sten, an apology forming on his lips.

  Sten exploded into motion.

  Clark stepped forward off his back foot, the hand holding the cuffs stretched out. Sten grabbed the man's right arm with his own left hand and then spun, dropping down and pulling him off balance. Clark, surprised, fell forward until his chest bumped into Sten's back. Pulling hard on the trapped arm, Sten tucked his own right shoulder into Clark's right armpit.

  He pulled, rose up and twisted all in one smooth motion. A judo throw onto a mat was a sport; a judo throw onto the hard ground was a fight ending proposition. Clark flew ass over tea kettle in a tight semi-circle and landed with heavy thud on the lawn.

  Sten didn't hesitate.

  Officers shouted in anger and surprise as he started running for Hun Sen. The diminutive General practically screamed in shock. Sten knew he had to make it, everything turned on this single gambit for saving Jane. If he could get the warlord and put his holdout pistol to the man's head he could use him as a hostage to help Jane.

  If he couldn't then everything would fail.

  He shoved Gleason clear and ignored the man's startled barks as he hit the ground. He feigned right at Javacovitch then juked around the ex-Green Beret to the left like Jim Brown running one into the end zone for the Cleveland Browns in the Championship game. The DIA agent, despite being ready, made only a clumsy effort of a tackle attempt.

  Pensk redrew his .38 in a fluid motion and dropped into a Weaver stance, muzzle tracking. Sten sprinted hard as Hun Sen began back pedaling, arms up in front of him as he squeaked "no, no, no!" in Cambodian.

  Boupha shoved his boss clear and took up a Muay Thai boxer stance. Sten had a second to understand how lucky he was the man had been forced to leave his sub-machine behind because of the witnesses, just before a low round house kick snapped toward him.

  He took the kick on his outside thigh and the pain was so blinding from the force that at first he thought his femur was cracked. He staggered in mid-stride, went to a knee, had the presence of mind to use the opportunity to draw his holdout, then popped back up, driving forward.

  He shoved the barrel of the snub nose .32 hard into the Cambodian's face, knocking loose four of the squat man's yellow teeth and sending them tumbling like dirty dice across the black paving. Dark blood splashed in a long, ragged comma as the opium soldier staggered backward.

  Sten felt a fresh surge of adrenalin as he pivoted. Hun Sen turned to run and, panicked, his feet twisted up in themselves so that he went down hard. Sten was almost on him. It was going to work. He was going to get the warlord as a hostage.

  Chau hit him like a screaming banshee.

  One second he was lunging toward Hun Sen and the next he had a hundred and five pounds of hellcat on his shoulders and head. Confused, he spun. She'd thrown the smoke ruined tuxedo jacket off as she ran to Hun Sen's defense and she clawed at Sten, screaming, completely naked.

  From the dirt Captain Gleason looked up in shock. "Jesus, Joseph and Mary," he gawked.

  Sten tried to throw the girl but she held on, biting at his ear like a rabid lynx. He spun in the other direction in a desperate attempt to throw her. Javacovitch stepped up. Sten tried to react but he was too slow by a country mile. The ex-Green Beret took him apart by the numbers.

  Knife hand to the gun hand wrist. The little .32
holdout went spinning. A quick jab put a stiff thumb in Sten's eye, blinding him. Then the DIA agent put the top of his highly polished dress shoe directly into David Sten's crotch, driving the cop's testicles up into his stomach.

  Sten gasped in blinded agony and his knees caved in. He crumpled, Chau still on his head. Javacovitch grabbed the featherweight girl by the head and spun her clear with one sharp twist, spilling her across the lawn like groceries from a ripped bag.

  Sten posted a hand and tried to stand. His eye refused to open. Deliberately, like a surgeon excising a tumor, Javacovitch fired of a short, quick front snap kick. The ball of his foot, inside his Class A foot gear, snapped into the homicide detective’s temple.

  Sten dropped and didn't move. The DIA agent loomed over him, looking down like he was inspecting a bug through a magnifying glass.

  "Too bad, so sad, tough guy." He looked toward house. The fire was out. "Looks like no one saves the princess today," he said softly to himself before looking over at Gleason. The overweight man got to his feet with the help of his men. Clark was still trying to catch his breath. "I may be by an officious prick," Javacovitch allowed, "but I think we all know what needs to happen here."

  Gleason looked tired. "Get him up and get him in the car, boys. And make sure you get the goddamn handcuffs on this time."

  Jane was in trouble.

  She lifted her head, her body aching. Cold, greasy shots of adrenaline spit into her stomach with icy splashes. Fear made her heart pound and wavers of revulsion racked her with every moment of increasing clarity.

  The rubber ball gag was tight across her face, forcing her full lips open until rivers of drool ran down her chin. She had been bent over some kind of desk, rope binding her ankles and wrists to table legs, leaving her rear-end stuck up, utterly vulnerable.

  Chills crept across her flesh in goose bumps thick as berries on a bush. She was in a very, very bad situation. She heard low, sinister laughter and the answering snide, ugly chuckles. It sounded like she was surrounded. She lifted her head.

  Hun Sen stood before her, clothes rumpled and stained with his own splattered blood. His face was bruised and a gauze bandage covered a patch of his face where the burning blanket had melted his face like candle wax. His laughter wasn't reaching the hollow pits of his eyes. He stank like smoke.