Against the Clock

by Charlie Moore

  Her shoulder-length hair fell behind her like a glistening waterfall, straight and smooth, the white suds flowing down, breaking apart at the small of her back and hugging the curves of her round buttocks. The foam clung to her pale skin, gripping to, almost climbing back up between her legs, before falling to her feet.

  He watched as though each molecule of the rinsed suds were a part of him, exploring every intimate part of her, cleaning away the unwanted, leaving only the truth behind.

  That was what he would do for her, too. He would strip her of everything untrue, rip away the falsities society had insidiously implanted in the minds of the masses, and finally he would give her the greatest gift of all―to feel true fear, to feel true hatred, and to feel the true desire to live. And then, when he felt satiated and completely spent, he would take it all away.

  She turned around under the hot water, her face directly under the nozzle. Raising her hands, she, massaged her face, then brushed her hair back smoothly over her shoulders. Her eyes were still closed; she hadn't seen him take a step closer.

  If not for the glass shower door, Smith was so close to her that he could reach out and cup her large breasts as they bounced joyfully with each movement of her body. She was a magnificent specimen. He paused to imagine how wonderful her breasts would feel pressed against his chest, and how soft yet firm her naked body would feel as she struggled beneath him. And he fantasized about that moment when her fight to resist him evaporated into a mist of complete helplessness; when he looked into her eyes, and with each thrust, he could see her spirit breaking.

  17:54:51

  Robyn exhaled loudly. It had been a long day. All she'd wanted to do was come home, lie in a hot tub for hours, drink a little wine, and dream of a less stressful life. But she didn't have a bathtub, so a long shower would have to do.

  With her daughter away on a school trip to Europe, it was the first time in sixteen years she knew she'd have the house all to herself. She wanted only to be alone. To eat takeout food every night, not worry about cooking or cleaning or having to be responsible.

  But two days after her daughter left, she already felt lonely. There was no man in her life, and ordinarily she didn't want one, but with her daughter gone, she was all alone. She found herself fighting off a feeling of sadness. That wasn't like her. Rinsing her face under the hot water of the showerhead, she vowed to call her brother, Ben, and agree to go rock climbing with him on the weekend. It would scare the crap out of her, but anything was better than this, she thought. Besides, she wanted to snoop into his life and find out more about his mysterious girlfriend, Katie.

  Robyn wiped the water away from her eyes and was about to reach for the soap when she saw a dark figure―a man. Standing on the other side of the shower door, only one foot from her. In her bathroom.

  A strange man!

  Robyn screamed. Her heart hammered in her chest. She reeled back in shock, stopping at the cold wall of the shower stall. She rubbed the water from her eyes, hoping and praying it was all a mistake, but the man was still there. Smiling.

  "Who are you? What do you want?" she screamed, instinctively covering her bare breasts and groin with her hands. "Get out of my house!"

  The man just stood there. Smiling. He withdrew a remote control from his pocket, extended his hand toward the bedroom, and hit the button. Music came on instantly; he toggled the volume louder and louder.

  Robyn searched the shower stall for anything she could use as a weapon. There was nothing. Only bottles of shampoo. She grabbed one and hurled it over the glass panel at the man. He shifted his weight effortlessly to the side and dodged the bottle.

  He didn't say a word. Just stood there, watching her.

  Slowly, he undid the top button of his shirt. Then the next button. Then the next.

  Robyn screamed until her voice broke. She was trapped. Nowhere to go. She thought to jam the door shut, but it opened outward. The man would have no trouble getting into the shower.

  He undid the last of his shirt buttons, then placed the shirt carefully on the hanging hook on the back of the bathroom door. His upper torso was built of rock hard muscle. Robyn panicked; no idea how she could possibly escape him.

  Calmly, the man undid the buckle of his belt, and Robyn feared she knew her fate.

  17:54:59

  Ron Haskin sat in the dark blue sedan on the opposite side of the road, overlooking Robyn Mills' brick and tile single-story home.

  The night closed in around him. He had parked the car between two streetlights, in the shadows cast by the lower branches of a nearby tree. It was the best he could do to maintain a good vantage point of the home and remain unseen.

  Smith was inside.

  His mandate was clear: do as Smith instructed and never speak of the mission to anyone. Simple enough. Haskin felt sure Zelig was punishing him by calling him for this mission. Agents had a tendency to disappear when they worked with Smith and couldn't keep their mouths shut.

  He had no intention of disappearing.

  Two years earlier, Zelig had caught him siphoning funds from a closed mission, and instead of reporting him and having him arrested, he was promoted to field team leader, with the understanding that from that moment on, he would do anything Zelig asked of him, no question, no hesitation. It was an easy deal. Haskin hadn't needed long to think about it. That was the day he avoided a prison sentence but became a prisoner to Zelig's every whim.

  Haskin sat in the back seat. He had fixed a fine black fabric across the windows and between the back and front seats of the car, like a curtain divider. Coupled with tinted windows and the three sides of the compartment covered, the one uncovered window gave an unobscured view of the surveillance field while rendering his presence in the car undetectable to pedestrians or traffic passing by. It was a crude yet effective technique.

  Beside him, a loaded Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun lay ready. Attached to its barrel was a night scope and an elongated spiraled silencer. He was practiced in its use. In a "hot" zone, he would be peering through its scope constantly, with a spotter on an infrared binocular, scanning the target zone. On this mission, he was alone, and opted for the binocular himself for its practicality and maneuverability.

  Smith was inside. Haskin pitied the person he was there to visit. Technically, "Smith" didn't exist, but the stories of his missions, the stories of what he left behind, were famed and scorned within the service. He was a scary man.

  Haskin scanned the perimeter of the house again. From his car, he could hear the faint sound of music coming from inside. He wondered what atrocities the music was hiding.

  17:56:02

  Barratt swung the tire iron high into the air, then brought it down in a long sweeping arc onto the rear passenger window of the dark blue sedan. It connected with a dull thud, punching a hole and spraying small shards of tempered glass into the backseat like shrapnel.

  Letting the heavy metal tire iron fall to the road, he moved forward quickly in a firing stance, lifting the silenced Beretta into a two-handed grip and taking aim at the stunned man inside. The silenced end of the pistol hovered just outside of the car's internal perimeter and bucked lightly in his hands as he squeezed off two quick bullets into the darkness of the car's back seat. Both slugs found their mark. One in the man's right forearm, the other in his right shoulder. The shocked and injured man reached instinctively for a concealed weapon at his side. Barratt unleashed another 9mm round into his left shoulder.

  Barratt kept his momentum. He disengaged the rear lock, opened the car door, and slid onto the seat, pushing forward with his silenced pistol.

  Before the man could cry out in pain from the bullet wounds, Barratt pushed him back deeper into the rear space, burying the hot muzzle of his gun into the man's gasping mouth. His cries were muffled to a soft garble.

  "How many men inside?" Barratt asked firmly.

  The man stared wide-eyed, the shock, the pain, the fear too real for his mind to comprehend.

  Barr
att moved his face closer to the man. He made sure the man could see him. "I recognize you. You work for Zelig."

  It was a guess, but Barratt had nothing to lose. The man's eyes flickered slightly. It was minor, only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Barratt to recognize. Good. "My name is Trent Barratt. Maybe you've heard of me?"

  The man's eyes grew wild with fear. He started shaking his head as much as the gun in his mouth would permit.

  "Yes, I think you have heard of me." Barratt moved his face even closer. It was intimate, frightening. He whispered, "I'm going to take this gun out of your mouth. You're going to tell me your name, how many agents are inside, and if there is a backup team close by. Do you understand me?"

  The frightened man nodded. Barratt stalled a moment, then slowly withdrew the weapon from the man's mouth. The barrel never left the man's skin. As the tip of the silencer reached his lips, Barratt let it slide down, over his chin, and along his throat. There, Barratt pushed it deep against his throat. It was painful to breathe, impossible to swallow, but he could still answer questions.

  The man whimpered. "It's not me, I have nothing to do with this…"

  "Name?" Barratt demanded.

  "Ron… Ron Haskin," he whimpered.

  "How many men inside?"

  "One."

  "Men outside?"

  "No one. Just me."

  Barratt twisted his head slightly, boring deep holes with his eyes into Haskin's face, looking for the slightest indication he was lying; a twitch, eye movement, tightening of facial muscles.

  "I don't believe you!" he said with a menacing glare. He pulled the hammer of the Berretta back, cocking it.

  "It's the truth! I swear! It's Smith and me. That's it!"

  "How long has Smith been in there?"

  "I… I…don't know."

  Barratt pulled the gun from Haskin's neck, dug it deep into his left thigh, clamped Haskin's mouth shut with his other hand, and squeezed the trigger.

  Haskin howled in pain, but the sound was barely audible through Barratt's gloved hand. He brought the hot muzzle back under Haskin's throat and said, "Don't piss me off, Haskin! How long has he been in there?"

  "Aaarrhh…ten minutes…fifteen max."

  Barratt grimaced. It was too late. Ten to fifteen minutes. He feared what a skilled agent could have done to her in that time.

  "Barratt, please…Don't kill me… I have nothing to do with this. They just told me to watch the house," Haskin blubbered.

  Barratt didn't hear a word. His mind was already working on how to get in and save the girl without getting himself or her killed.

  "I'll tell you whatever you need to know. I give you my word! Please Barratt, I can help you."

  Without warning, Barratt swung the weapon out and chopped it back with force to the side of Haskin's head. Metal on skull made a thick clunking sound. Haskin slumped, unconscious.

  Barratt leapt out of the sedan and ran toward Robyn Mills' home. She was an innocent, a non-combatant. Maybe it was too late to save her, but he had to try.

  17:56:11

  Robyn felt dizzy from the blow. Smith was in the shower with her, naked, hard, smiling. She had tried to fend him off, but he was too strong. She tried to strike with her fingers, to scratch out his eyes, his throat, anything she could reach. He just deflected her attempts, twisted her arm, and pushed her violently into the tiled wall.

  Her forehead struck the tile hard, the porcelain cracking, gashing her face just above her left eye. Blood spurted as she fell to the floor.

  Smith stared down at her. He kept smiling. Didn't say a word, just kept smiling.

  On her hands and knees, her naked buttocks pointed toward him, he saw the tight pinched flesh of her anus and growled territorially. He knelt down behind her, ready to thrust himself deep inside her. He grabbed her hips with both hands and squared himself for a violent entry.

  Robyn, dazed, felt him behind her. She was scared, but anger fueled her. She felt his iron grip on her hips, moving her buttocks into position. She couldn't stop him, but she vowed to die trying.

  She reached slightly to the left. A full bottle of shampoo―it was all she had. She grabbed it, swung it around wildly as Smith angled his pelvis to thrust inside her. The bottle landed fully across his face with a dull thwack. With the momentum, Robyn twisted on the wet tiles, slid onto her side, and delivered a solid heel kick to Smith's chin. She threw another heel kick toward his testicles, but it skidded off his thigh. She tried to get to her feet but slipped on a combination of water and blood.

  Smith was laughing now. He laughed with joy, as though he were proud of her.

  "Good girl, Robyn!" he said, towering over her. "Hahaha, very good!"

  Robyn twisted all the way to her back, wedging herself along the rear wall of the large shower stall. Blood from the gash above her eye ran down her face, mixing with water from her wet hair. It ran down her neck, over her breasts, down her stomach, and between her legs.

  Smith looked like a giant standing over her.

  He lunged forward. She tried to kick him, but he parried, grabbed her foot, and dragged her out of the shower stall. Still, he was laughing. The violence shocked her, but his smiling, his laughing disturbed her more than anything.

  Robyn clawed at the tiles, clung to the shower screen door as Smith dragged her out of the shower. He pulled her with such force and she clung to the frame so desperately, her body lifted off the floor.

  Smith yanked hard on her leg. Her hands slipped, her palms, then fingers lost their grip on the glass door. The frame exploded as the tempered glass partition fractured into tiny pieces.

  Without the wall for purchase, Robyn fell flat to the hard cold tiles, sharp jagged pieces of shower screen falling on and around her.

  Still with a vise-like grip on her leg, Smith dragged her out of the bathroom.

  17:56:37

  Zelig looked up at the clock. Soon the intelligence world would be changed forever. And his life, with it, would be catapulted to new levels of power. He would be untouchable.

  Zelig stood from his chair, adjusted his tie, walked to the adjoining office en suite. It was time he prepared himself. He had to look his best when the world came to know his name.

  Two sharp knocks on his office door preceded Agent Lipski entering. He turned and closed the door quietly behind him. "Sir, you requested an update."

  "Go on," Zelig said over his shoulder as he opened the en suite door and entered.

  Agent Lipski followed Zelig to the doorway but looked to the side, clearly uncomfortable watching his boss stand over the urinal.

  "Go on, Lipski!" he insisted over his shoulder.

  "Yes, sir. Our man outside Robyn Mills' residence reported that she was home, and that Smith had gained entry and is currently debriefing her."

  Zelig smiled inwardly. "Debriefing her." He doubted very much Agent Lipski understood what that term meant for a man like Smith. Zelig had cleaned up the mess left behind by Smith many times, too many times not to understand exactly how Smith was "debriefing" her.

  "And the brother?" he asked

  "The team arrived five minutes ago. Initial report back indicates he is the one who knows Katie Jones, that he put her in contact with his sister."

  "Interesting," Zelig said. "It seems our real interest lies with Ben Mills, not his sister. Get a message to Smith, let him know our person of interest is the brother. Tell him he can finish up with the girl―he'll know what to do."

  "Yes, sir." Lipski turned toward the door as Zelig flushed the toilet.

  "Send another team as backup to the brother's location," Zelig said as he turned on the faucet and scrubbed his hands.

  "You're expecting trouble?" Lipski asked.

  "If Katie Jones is really Shirin Reyes, as we suspect, and if this Ben Mills really knows her, she'll try to protect him."

  "Of course. Consider it done." Lipski turned the door handle, swung the door open, and started to walk out when, hearing his boss call his n
ame, he turned around.

  "Send another two teams."

  "Yes, sir."

  17:57:06

  Barratt reached the front of Robyn Mills' home. He could hear the music bellowing inside, could feel its vibrations on the windows. It seemed louder at the left corner of the property. He had to assume that was where she was being held. That was where her captor would be working on her.

  Barratt glanced down at the pistol in his hand. He'd used three rounds. That left six in the mag. The safety was off; ready to fire. He didn't like going into a strange environment blind, but for Robyn's sake, every second counted.

  Through the blaring music, he heard a faint scream. She's still alive! He braced himself, took a deep breath, then charged the front door. He didn't have time to pick the lock. Instead, he hurled himself at the door, kicked with his heavy boot and moved forward into the blow. His boot connected with the full weight of his momentum on the edge nearest the deadbolt door handle.

  The doorjamb disintegrated under the force, the front door swinging violently on its hinges, flying open and smashing into the inside wall.

  Barratt continued his trajectory forward, rolling into the foyer and then the lounge room before he righted himself, assumed a shooting position and scanned the room.

  The music was deafening. He ran to the left, peered down the long corridor leading to the master bedroom, to the source of the music. He saw no movement. Only the dim glow of the bedroom light leaked under the closed door.

  Barratt ran toward the room, paused outside the door, knelt at the handle, tested it. It was not locked. He turned it all the way with his left hand, sighted the pistol in his right hand, then charged into the bedroom at a crouch.

  He saw her instantly, naked and bloodied, handcuffed to the wrought iron headboard of the bed. He saw the man a millisecond later. He was diving to the side, toward the bathroom door. Barratt fired instantly in a double tap. Both bullets missed their marks. He followed the shape of the man flying into the bathroom and let loose another volley.