Morris / The Dangerous Jade

Morris Micklewhite and The Dangerous Jade

 

 

A Fanfiction

 

 

Based on the character Jade Dragon

 

 

created by Battlestrength

 

 

Part Two

 

 

by The Preve

 

 

The Author wishes to express his deepest thanks to Battlestrength for his permission in writing this story, and Destodes 777 for his edit.

 

James Joseph Levy, born August 4, 1960, in Chicago, Illinois, married Fiona Chow Li, born May 16, 1964, Hong Kong, on a beautiful summer’s day in August 1988, a week after his 28^th birthday.

A boatswain’s mate, first class, stationed in Guam, Joe was the son of a North Lawndale used car salesman, and a Polish-Jewish immigrant Holocaust survivor from Krakow.

She was the daughter of a Hong Kong Cantonese store owner, and an Irish bank teller from Cork.

The announced engagement startled both families, none knew the romance between the couple, but they recovered, and the Levys were able to fly to Guam for the wedding.

The affair was low-key, attended by the Chows and the Levys, along with Joseph’s shipmates. The two families gave gifts to the newlyweds. Fiona impressed Hanna Levy, Joe’s mother. While Hanna wished Joe had found a nice Jewish girl, she found Fiona lovely and intelligent.

Lloyd Chow was fully satisfied his new son-in-law loved his daughter deeply, and would make a good husband for her.

The photograph of the newlyweds, Joseph in his dress whites and medals. Fiona in her simple red cheongsam dress, constituted one of two mementos kept by their daughter. It was her only visual memory of them.

Jennifer Jade Levy entered the world, March 15, 1990, at the Naval Medical Center, Portsmouth, Virginia. The labor was difficult. On birth, doctors initially thought Jennifer underwent oxygen deprivation and brain damage.

She did not cry upon emerging from her mother’s womb, nor when slapped. A nurse, weighing her later on, took note how Jennifer’s eyes followed her movements. A doctor took note as well.

It became apparent to the Levys, shortly after, Jennifer was not an ordinary child. She rarely cried and took longer than most children to acquire language. However, by the age of two, she’d read Dr. Seuss and, by four, was at a sixth grade level.

The Levys were loving, attentive parents, and recognized their child’s gifts early. They took great pains to make sure of their daughter’s education, but Joseph’s naval career made finding proper schools difficult. They moved constantly, and too few schools had facilities to educate gifted children.

The Levys’ future dreams for Jennifer were cut short by tragedy, June 22, 1994.

On the way home from a showing of the Lion King, in Pensacola, Florida, the Levys’ station wagon got hit, head on, by an SUV.

The driver, Sam Boggs, a plumber, was on the wrong side of the road. A subsequent alcohol test found him at four times the legal limit.

Joseph Levy died instantly. Fiona died on the operating table. Boggs survived. His airbags, unlike the Levys, worked. The auto company recalled the station wagon model due to the fault. Boggs’ sentence: ten years for vehicular manslaughter.

They brought Jennifer to the hospital, unconscious; an object gripped in her hand. It could not be pried loose, in spite the efforts of doctors and nurses, nor would she allow it to be taken on regaining consciousness.

It was a small object, given to Fiona by her father for a wedding present. The night of the accident, Fiona gave it to her fidgety daughter, to calm her excitement after the Lion King.

A tiny jade dragon.

The social worker assigned to Jennifer’s case, broke the news gently as she could. Jennifer did not react; a lack of response which unsettled the social worker. Her experience defined such emotional absence as either trauma, or sociopathy. She left Jennifer staring at her parents’ wedding portrait, praying this child wouldn’t become a problem in the future.

Shortly after Jennifer received news of her parents’ deaths, a new friend appeared. His name was Lee. He was British.

The senior Levys and Chows had both died within a few years of each other: the Levys from accidental carbon monoxide poisoning in ’91, Lloyd Chow from a heart attack in ’89, Siobhan Chow from breast cancer in ’93. There were no other surviving relatives. The state placed Jennifer Levy in foster care. She’d bounce from foster home to foster home for the next eleven years.

Opinions on her varied:

Unnamed social worker- “Lack of speech skills, inability to complete school work, indicates low I.Q. Recommend placement in a special needs program.”

Unnamed special needs teacher, letter to supervisor- “Who the hell recommended placement of Jennifer Levy in this program?! Somebody fire that idiot. This girl wrote a report on ‘Catcher In The Rye.’ I repeat Catcher In The Rye! For a special needs class! I demand she undergo an IQ test, immediately.”

Notes on the results of the IQ test, Jennifer Levy, age: 7- “Tests indicate IQ of 152, placing subject at an extremely high ability. Recommend advanced classes.”

The papers vanished into the labyrinth of Florida bureaucracy.

Psychological evaluation, August 10, 2000: evaluator- Carl Spencer, PsyD, Miami Clinic: subject: Jennifer Jade Levy, age: 10- “Extraordinarily intelligent young girl but extremely violent. Antisocial personality, possible schizophrenic. Foster home placement extremely problematic due to violent behavior. Conversations with ‘imaginary friend’ referred to simply as ‘Lee’ indicates possible childhood schizophrenia. Anti-psychotic medication recommended.”

Psychological evaluation, October 4, 2003: evaluator- William Sonders, PsyD, Florida State Hospital for Disturbed Children: subject: Jennifer Jade Levy, age: 13- “A complete psychopath. Extraordinarily violent. Chronic liar. Probable Munchausen Syndrome. Paranoid schizophrenic. Claims of hearing voices from nonexistent individual named Lee. Recommended course of anti-psychotic medication, prefrontal lobotomy.”

Note: William Sonders was later arrested and charged with multiple counts of sexual abuse, on evidence provided by an anonymous individual, referred to as Jade Dragon. Follow up investigations uncovered numerous cases of abuse by staff, corruption and graft by officials connected to the hospital. Hospital was subsequently closed and patients transferred to other clinics. In the context of Doctor Sonders’ conduct, any evaluation is considered questionable.

Note: Levy evaluation discounted, as assessment was performed in wake of alleged assault on Doctor Sonders by Miss Levy, in response to attempted sexual assault by Doctor Sonders.

High school diploma is awarded to Jennifer Levy, age 16.

Personal opinions.

“A strange, sad, quiet girl.” Unnamed foster parent, 1995.

“A sad, angry child.” Unnamed foster parent, 1997.

“A demon child! Spawn of Satan!” Reverend Billy “Bubba” Wallace, foster parent, 1998, later jailed on multiple charges of child abuse and welfare fraud.

“She’s weird.” Unidentified foster brother, 2001.

“Highly intelligent, for her own good. I believed placing her in a regular school with her peers would socialize her. The poor child got into so many fights, with the students, with the teachers. Yet, she managed to get such high grades, at least when she did the school work. The teachers couldn’t keep up with her, and the students . . . well, I know children can be brutal, but she’s had such a tough time in foster care. I hoped the students would be accepting but . . . and there’s that imaginary Lee character she always talked to.

And there’s the time I caught her trying to dye her hair green. And she took to calling herself Jade Dragon. It just got to be so much; the fights, the disrespect to the teachers, the principal, her imaginary friend. A friend of mine recommended William Sonders. She said he did wonders with her daughter. If I’d known . . . and then the whole thing came out about him, and my friend found her daughter . . . ” (interview ends here). Edna Harris, foster parent, 2003.

“So anyway, me and the girls, we got to raising the ruckus, and it draws everyone in. The fucking guards, the pill pushers, the shrinks, the wards, and nobody fucking notices Jade.

So she pops out and comes back, and everybody goes back to the usual fuck shit. And it goes on for a few days, and then boom! The fucking blues swarm the place, fucking reporters crawling all over the building. They bag Sonders and half the staff.

Jade hacked the fucking cameras, linked everything to half the police and news stations across the state. They got everything, including that fucker Sonders and his act. It was beautiful . . . No, I’m not going to tell you who Jade is. Find out yourself.” Interview with unidentified former patient, Florida State Hospital for Disturbed Children (closed), 2005.

“It was all about her energy really. We knew she was extremely intelligent but she’d had bad foster care experiences. People who’d misinterpreted, mishandled, or held her back; and then we got a bunch of her papers, one of them her IQ test, and we saw her high scores.

So we thought the best thing for her was to challenge her brain, and give her some freedom. Of course we didn’t realize how she would exercise some of that freedom, but America, like it or not, is a highly sexualized society. It only pretends to be puritanical.

We did manage to get her into college classes, while fulfilling legal requirements for high school attendance. We had her evaluated after that incident when she was fifteen. The psychiatrist diagnosed her as hyperactive, and recommended therapy.

We decided to try redirecting her physical energy, so we enrolled her in gym and martial arts classes. She took to them very well.

Jade Dragon? Well, she liked to call herself Jade Dragon instead of Jennifer, so we called her that as well. Elaine taught her how to dye her hair properly, even finding the right kind of emerald green to match her dark hair.

The imaginary friend? We think of it as an eccentricity rather than a psychosis. I think Lee is a sort of personal sounding board for her, like, you know the cartoonist, Pat Oliphant? Lee’s her Punk Penguin.

All those past incidences were responses to bad handling, not impulsive actions. Except, perhaps, the sexual activity.

Her location? We don’t know. She’s moved around so often after she aged out. We offered to let her stay permanently but she wanted to see the world. She sends postcards sometimes. The messages are short but sweet, so we know she thinks of us.” Interview conducted with Sarah Moore and Elaine Dougan, foster parents, 2009. From the personal files of Harry Coal, case officer, Special Activities Coalition, International Intelligence Syndicate (redacted).

Jade Dragon.

It just goes to show you; there’s always a killer around the corner. You do a kickass job on your last gig. Score some big bucks in the bank account. Get home. The kid’s quiet for once. You treat yourself to a bath, and just when you think you’re going to get some decent downtime, things go to shit.

Of course they go to shit. It’s Murphy’s Law number thirty-four. At least we get to see you naked.

You get to see me naked. Everyone else has to imagine it ’cause there’s no pics. He’s writing me naked because I just got out of the bath.

Who’s writing you naked?

The schlub writing the story. He saw me naked once . . . twice . . . a bunch of times.

I thought I was writing this story.

No you’re not. You’re just the Chorus. He’s trying to channel you.

Oh. Should I be flattered or insulted?

I don’t know. You’re white and British (he thinks) and he’s black and American, so I guess he’s doing the best he can. Now, can you shut up and let me get on with the story?

I don’t think I’ve been channeled before.

Always a first time. Now, where was I? Just finished a job . . . scored some dough . . . kid’s quiet . . . out of the bathtub . . . right. So I head to my office, to check my messages. I got a nice set up here. State of the art shit, set up by me mostly, plus some of the best programmers money (and sex) can buy. All of it connected to the dark web and my bank accounts. None of it traceable to me.

I had to audition a few. The guys and gals who assisted had to be least as good as me.

Yeah, and you fucked most of them for a discount. Killed a few who got too greedy, and some who got too nasty.

You can’t trust too many folks in this business, Boss. You know that. Some of those fucks shouldn’t try extorting clients without doing research first. I might’ve let ’em get away with some of it, if they hadn’t treated me like some dumb slut who knew fuck all what she was doing.

Nah, probably not.

Yeah, you’re right. I’d’ve killed their asses anyway. So, getting away from the digression, my office is lit up like a Christmas tree. Alerts across the dark web. Phones buzzing from contacts. Email stuffed to bursting with messages.

I’m thinking something really big just went down and, boy, am I fucking on the bullseye.

The Syndicate’s on the warpath. They’re offering some big bucks to track down a scientist, Yelizaveta Slutskaya. It’s in the seven figures.

I’d heard of Doctor Slutskaya, even read her research. She was really on the cutting edge of biotech. Saw pictures of her too. She’s hot. I’d tap that ass in a heartbeat. Disappeared a few years ago, dropped off the map. Now it looks like she got snatched from some safe house in Key West.

A note says she might be accompanied by a young man; not much more than that. The man’s probably in a ditch. If she’s the target, he’s baggage.

Even before I finish reading, I know I’m taking the contract. Those seven figures are a shitload of money. The man suspected of the snatch seals the deal: Doc fucking Hazard. I’ve got the serious jones for him, and not in that way.

You shouldn’t have said that in the first place. Now I have to wipe the image from my mind.

Sorry Boss. Doc Hazard has a seven figure contract himself. If I can kill two birds here, my score’ll be a personal record.

I click my acceptance but it looks like I have two competitors. Odd, I thought one was dead. Doc Hazard doesn’t get many takers. He’s too much trouble for the best of them, and he has some protection from the Big Folks. I took him on when I was fresh, young, and naive.

And what a show that was.

Shut up Boss. Yeah, that was ten years and dozens of bodies ago.

My first move: get dressed. Typically between gigs, when Isabelle’s not scheduled, and I’m not expecting guests, I’ll go nude around the apartment.

And damn! Do I love the display!

Geez, Boss.

Little Joe will have stories to tell when he grows up.

Little Joe’s too young to remember anything. When he gets older, I’ll cover up.

For how long. What happens when he gets to legal.

Look, I’m not into that shit.

You sure? You fucked a dead man. You like killing people in the middle of the bang. Believe me, when it comes to sex, you go there.

. . . Right, so next: call Isabelle.

She comes. I hand Little Joe to her. Tell her I’m gone for a few days, give her a bonus, and then head for my other “office.”

Isabelle never asks questions. I think she has an idea what I do for a living. She hinted, once, her family has a foot in The Life too. She was taught not to ask questions, just take the money.

My other office is a tricked out semi and trailer in a rented garage, where I keep my gear, among other things.

My arsenal, extra money cache, including gold, bearer bonds, some priceless art (including a Pollock and Van Gogh).

Look, I don’t treat money like water. Sure, I like to spend it, but I like to make it too. Whether scamming some rich mark by getting pregged with his baby . . .

Right before you killed him.

Or finding good investments to build a big portfolio . . .

Which paid off handsomely.

I got cash salted away all over the world in hidden accounts. Stocks and investments in big corps. Front businesses to launder my earnings. I’m comfortably well off. I do this job ’cause I’m good at it, and I like it.

The garage might look ordinary on the surface, but underneath, it’s a giant safe; burglar proof. Cost me a mint but it was worth it. It’s a good and solid emergency hideaway, and the semi’s fueled for a quick getaway.

So’s the other two vehicles I got: my BMW S 1000R motorcycle and The Growler, my cherry red 1950 Mercury Monterey with bullet proof glass, extra armor, and a nitrous oxide injector engine. I bought it, restored it, and tricked it out ’cause I saw this Stallone movie, “Cobra.” Shit movie, kickass car. I wanted one.

The gig’s a locate and rescue, with the Doc as a T.O.O.

Target of opportunity.

So it’s going to be a quick in and out. Wherever they’re located; house, apartment, garage, it’s probably guarded. That means the C8 carbine, grenades and flash bombs, katana, k-bar, tactical cat suit, and a gas mask. After my first encounter with the Doc, I don’t take chances.

I take The Growler. The 1000R is good for solo gigs but I’ll likely have a passenger or two.

On the way to Key West, I put in at a rest stop and take out the laptop.

Be careful. That T-shirt and Daisy Dukes get up’ll attract attention.

I’ll be quick.

Like the trucker outside Atlanta? The cop near Buffalo? The biker gang in Twin Falls?

Shut up Boss.

Just trying to warn you not to get distracted.

Advice noted. The way I figure, this snatch had to be a rush job. The Syndicate’s good with security, ordinarily, but my hunch tells me someone leaked. When the Syndicate moves an asset, they rarely put out advance warning. So whoever got her, found out, and put the snatch together fairly quick. Either getting some quick hires or using assets already available.

I start by going over Doc Hazard’s known associates. He keeps assets on retainer. So it’s the FBI, CIA, and Syndicate databases. No, wait. It’s domestic so no CIA.

The Matamoros Cartel’s not moved. The Breakpoint private military corporation’s still in Chad killing civilians. The Devil’s Bandits MC are guarding an arms shipment in San Diego. A whole list of associates are busy with private projects except one: the Aryan Revolutionary Front.

ARF! ARF!

That’s right. Go and insult the canine race. ARF’s been quiet lately, which might be a good thing, except ARF’s almost never quiet. They’re always up to something. They’re usually based in Minnesota but spotters identified some barkers in Florida, and they went quiet recently, very recently. There’s following crumbs, and there’s hunches. I go with a hunch.

A contact I know in Key West, Brody, has a girlfriend, Cassie, whose brother’s in the Front. The brother likes to sponge money from his sister. Brody says the brother likes to sports bet. I get an idea.

“Do me a favor. Tell your girlfriend, an old pal’s looking to place some money on the Marlins game, and if her brother knows a good sports bar. Add that I might be looking for some other action too.”

I send him a slightly altered picture (different hair color, altered nose, still hot) of myself, to show the mark.

Good idea. Appeal to the cock.

Works better than not. I eat a little lunch and get set to travel. The contact calls back.

The girlfriend’s not talking to her brother today. His friends got a little rough and trashed her house last night. He offers something juicy though.

Her brother and his ARF pals blew into town two days ago. Then blew out this morning after getting a phone call . . . just after news popped of a gas explosion in New Town. Interesting.

The dark web mentioned a compromised safe house. The news said gas explosion. My ass.

Too big a crater for that. Lucky most of the other houses were empty.

I make speed to Key West, radar detector on. I don’t have time to fuck myself out of a speeding ticket.

On the way back perhaps?

I hit Key West and stop by the Margaritaville where Brody is concierge. Always court the concierges. They know everything about everything.

Brody tells me no luck with the brother. He did hear rumors of a bunch of ARFs hanging around Max’s Bar and Grill near Fleming Key.

Fleming Key? Makes sense. Smuggler’s central there.

Fleming Key’s technically off limits to civilians, being part of the Naval Air Station. Unofficially, every secret squirrel and his mother uses the place for clandestine shit.

Want to invade Cuba? Use Fleming. CIA wants to store some cartel drugs? Use Fleming. Military op needs to set up a trip to Central America? Fleming. Mad scientist and sex pervert holding possible hostages with help from a white nationalist terrorist organization? Probably Fleming.

It’s still early afternoon. I park the Growler in the lot. It’s a hot looking car but some of the others are just as fine. There’s a bunch of motorbikes in front too. MCs and Aryans; I’ve killed tougher. Fucked tougher too.

Fun times. You planning on similar action here?

Tempting. The guy writing this wants to see some, and the reader too, probably, but this gig’s strictly business. Fun time’s going to have to wait. Sorry folks.

Maybe next chapter?

We’ll see.

So what’s the plan?

I can’t just go into Fleming to check all the warehouses the government says don’t exist. If there’s barkers inside, they can lead me to the right one.

The interior has the classic Key West vibe. Dark, mostly wood, big TV above the bar. Gulf of Mexico flavor, complete with Jimmy Buffet music.

The day is nice and sunny, so no surprise to see few people. I was expecting to wait for the evening crowd to show up. Instead I get lucky.

Three ARFs, two I recognize from mugshots, at a table in the corner.

They’re eating a late lunch, I guess, but one keeps looking at his pager. He’s waiting for a call.

People look up and watch me approach the bar. Most of the patrons are men, a few women. No family types. They look like bikers mostly.

Maybe you should have picked something other than the Daisy Dukes and tee. Some of those guys are sizing you up like a prime rib.

No time. I’ll just have to play the ignorant bimbo here. I order a beer and a plate of chicken wings, keeping a sly eye on the trio.

Two minutes within sitting down, the first idiot comes to sit next to me. Middle-aged, balding, beer-bellied. I wouldn’t fuck him if I were trapped in a cage with one of Doc Hazard’s mutants, and this idiot kept the only key. I need to make sure he’s the only idiot.

He gets to work immediately, sliding his hand down my back to my ass.

“So honey, what’s a hot . . . gack!”

He’s not looking well. I don’t see you do that often but it’s fun to watch.

Mastering the art of eating chicken wings with one hand, while giving a beer-bellied dickhead a nut crunch with the other, isn’t difficult for me. I don’t bother to look from my plate.

“You were asking a question?”

“No!”

“Your hand’s on my ass.”

“Not anymore!”

“Tell me what’s going to happen when I take my hand off and you’re still here a second later.”

“You’ll rip my balls off and make me eat them?”

“I’ll barbecue them first.”

The idiot waddles like a crab to his table.

Pity. He doesn’t look that different from Little Joe’s dad.

He was richer Boss.

Looks like the trio’s leaving.

Good timing.

I pay the bill, leave a tip, and follow the trio out. Figures they’d be in a Silverado.

The truck’s headed to Fleming Key. That’s a good sign. We cross the bridge. They used to have guards on the bridge but the secret squirrels complained. Most of the guards stick around the bunkers and warehouses along the shore. Dirty little secret: not all of them are bunkers, not all of them are warehouses, and not all of the guards are Navy.

We turn towards the piers and pass several warehouses before the truck turns off at a fourth. Two of the previous three had guards. The third looked empty. Unless a warehouse is in use, there’s usually no guards, just regular patrols from the Navy police. Sometimes, depending on who’s using it, the Navy doesn’t patrol it. Some of the users have the clout to avoid scrutiny.

I slow down just enough to take a closer look without raising suspicions.

It’s a big one. Lots of shipping containers, trucks, and semis. The trio’s speaking with a guard at the gate. Another ARF.

I drive on, over a small crest, stop and wait, then come back. I drive to the gate. The guard walks up, hostile and suspicious.

I get out of my car and put on my little lost bimbo act. One thing about acquiring larger boobs from pregnancy: better bounce and jiggle.

The guard falls for it.

Excuse me sir, I’m lost. Can you direct me to a such and such warehouse I have no intention of going, since this is a ploy to get a closer view of the security layout?

The guard says I’m two warehouses too far, to which I say thanks, wag my little (not little really, well-shaped and toned) booty, flash him a smile, get back in the car, and drive away.

That’s how it’s done. Put on a show, distract, and obfuscate.

The unguarded warehouse is my destination.

Well, not exactly unguarded. Watch those naval patrols.

There’s a practical village of cargo containers I can use to get close to the ARFs. I’ll hide the Growler there.

Don’t forget the cameras.

By the time they figure I’m on the property, it should be over.

You got it figured out then?

No, I’m making this up as I go.

Ha, ha nice.

It’s the truth.

Getting through the gate is easy. Just a pair of bolt cutters from the Growler’s trunk.

I get close to the ARFs warehouse and put my car behind a cargo container. Then I get out and get ready.

Well, I get to see you in your underwear, at least. Let me help you readers. Sports bra by Nike, panties by Pink. Both colored a utilitarian gray.

You done? I have to get to work.

Get on with it then.

I put on my suit and lace up my tactical boots. I remember some idiot I worked with once; thought the suit would look better with high heels.

Yeah, I remember him. Got a stiletto heel in his eye, I heard.

Shouldn’t have gotten handsy with the pole dancer.

I’m geared up and ready. I check first to make sure I’m alone, then I go in.

There are guards at the ARF warehouse. I duck and weave between the containers. I’ll be sweating soon, not from exhaustion. It’s Key West in summer.

I have to be honest. I’m acting on a hunch here. There are reasons this crew looks promising. Doc gives them some of his best equipment, offering discounts in exchange for service.

Fleming is sort of neutral territory for clandestine activity. You won’t believe how much government activity is bound up with freaks like Doc Hazard. Sure he’s got a price on his head but he also does favors for Uncle Sam and others. They look the other way, let him use some of their facilities, and let him get away with murder . . . so long as he does some for them.

ARF’s sort of his go to henchmen. He uses others of course but ARF is good when he needs an op put together quickly. Where there’s ARF, he’s likely around.

The warehouse has cameras. I smile. Older model vids with blind spots. Those cheap Navy asses couldn’t be bothered to upgrade.

I make a dogleg around to a container just right of the front.

Two guards ten feet apart, looking in opposite directions. I have to use the katana and k-bar for this. Quick and quiet as long as I can.

Two cameras in the corner, placed at angles, but too far in different directions. A nice blind spot, and ARF number one just walked into it.

Go Jade.

A good pair of specially designed tactical boots can allow a killer to run across any surface, like she was wearing socks on thick carpet. I hired the best to design these shoes. Combat training and regular, intense exercise fills in the rest.

Mister piece-of-shit skinhead barely has time to register me before I’m on him. One slash to the throat with the k-bar, one grab of his collar to pull him out of sight. I hold him while he bleeds out and listen for his companion. He notices soon enough.

“Pete?! Goddamn it Pete, you better not be doin’ another fucking meth break!”

His footsteps approach, his feet appear, and I strike. My knife buries to the hilt in his throat.

I whisk his twitching body ’round the corner, make sure they’re dead, and peer back. No other guards.

Good work so far.

I rush to the warehouse doors and slip in. It’s packed with shipping containers, crates, and military vehicles. This place not being a bunker, my guess Doc’s setting up a delivery service.

Looks like it. Some empty spaces here and there.

And it’s damn quiet too. I don’t like this boss.

Me too. Gas mask time.

Already on it.

A place like this should be crawling with more guards than those two outside, even on a slow day. One explanation is obvious; the Doctor is out. Which chaps my ass because it means no T.O.O.

On the plus side, it also means less goons to worry about, and the priority is rescuing Doctor Slutskaya . . . if she’s here. This whole thing could be wild goose all around.

It’s the moans I hear first. Moans punctuated by grunts. Plus a few curses.

Oooo, I know those sounds.

Yep, I’ve made more than my share in my day. That’s the sound of fucking.

Or getting fucked, given whose lair this belongs to.

Let’s check it out then.

I follow the sounds, keeping eyes out for signs of an ambush. The only thing that happens is one big fat ARF in the aisle.

He barely has time to ask, “Who the fuck are . . .” before I cut off his head.

I wait a few seconds to make sure no one heard, then continue.

I find them near the back, in a large square, hemmed by crates and vehicles. I immediately see why there are so few guards.

They are all here, ten of them, watching the show.

Holy mother fucking shit and my sweet aunt’s ass!

The show being two people, laying naked on two benches across from each other. One is the blonde smokeshow scientist, Doctor Yelizaveta Slutskaya. She’s moaning, cursing, and grunting. Her body’s shiny with sweat. Her breasts are jiggling, and she’s in intense orgasm, her body arched upward. She is fucking hot.

Yes she is. Bloody hell!

Yes, I’m going to fuck her when I finish this op.

The other is a young man. He looks to be in his late teens. He looks cute. Kind of like some golly gee whiz clean cut kid from a fifties Disney sitcom. The freckles on his face makes him look even cuter.

Looks like a Norman Rockwell boy scout, and you look interested.

I’m curious that’s all. I haven’t fucked a teen since my teens.

The kid is moaning and cumming like Doctor Slutskaya but being quieter about it.

The machine that’s basically fucking them looks like a pressure cooker with hoses. The end attached to the kid looks like a codpiece / vacuum hose combo. The other in the Doctor is definitely a dildo.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. He’s getting sucked, she’s getting fucked.

However this machine worked, it was putting a lot of him into her. Doctor Slutskaya’s belly looked rounder than her pictures. Not to preggo proportions but swelled up.

Looks like the audience is doing some pumping of their own.

Yeah, I got to give it to Doc Hazard, he knows how to put on a show.

Should make it easy for you.

Yep, I’m going to really enjoy this.

I take off my mask and clear my throat. The masturbating ten turn around in shock.

“Hi,” I wave.

They go for their guns; difficult, most of their pants are around their ankles.

I dispatch them with slices, slashes, stabs, and kicks to the sensitives. I aim for a few cocks on some.

Well, that was easy. I almost expect an army to come out so we can have a proper melee.

So do I. This might be one of those rare easy ops.

“Who . . . the fuck . . . are you . . . talking to . . . Green?” Doctor Slutskaya grunts.

“No one.”

“Well don’t just . . . fucking stand . . . there. Get us off this . . . fuck machine . . . before Hazard and his goons get back!”

Detaching the hoses is far easier said than done. The adhesive on the codpieces isn’t exactly superglue but is still difficult. I’m able to get it done though.

The next problem is dealing with the cum. Doctor Slutskaya’s pussy gushes; her belly deflates. The kid’s something of a grower. His throbbing cock’s ramrod and squirting like a broken soda fountain. I get a shot on my tac suit. The kid turns red. “Sorry,” he says.

“I’ve got a feeling it can’t be helped, Kid.”

“Doc Hazard injected sperm stimulant and Viagra into his balls,” Doctor Slutskaya says, “You’re going to be busy awhile, Red.”

It looks like I have a couple of leakers. It’s going to be tough getting them to the car. I’m not looking forward to cleaning the mess on my seats either.

I move to free Yelizaveta.

“No,” she says, “Get the camera first.”

“Camera?”

“Over there,” she jerks her head left.

A video camera mounted on one of the crates. I take it and bring it to the cart with the fuck machine.

“Back in a minute you two. I have an idea.”

I wheel the fuck machine and camera to an open area, away from the crates. Then I attach two grenades to both the camera and machine, using the sticky codpieces. I pull the pins.

Seconds later the two items are in bits and pieces, along with evidence of my involvement in the rescue.

Doc Hazard might deduce it’s you anyway. He’s smart.

Yeah, but this might keep him doubting.

I return to the leaky captives. I run into an immediate problem when I start on the Doctor.

“Klausenstein Restraint and Lock Systems. I know,” says Doctor Slutskaya. “Hazard’s the world’s foremost pervert.”

“So of course he’d be on good terms with the world’s leading manufacturer of state of the art locks, bolts, cuffs, and bondage gear.” I was familiar with Klausenstein, both as prisoner and customer. Who do you think manufactured the restraints Doc Hazard used, when he sicced that fuckbot on me?

I have lock picks but getting these two out of the braces will take time. Time I don’t have.

Doctor Slutskaya sees that look.

“Get the kid first, Jade. You’re Jade Dragon right? Harry told me about you, and don’t ask about him. We don’t have time.”

“You’re the priority Doc. Sorry kid but she’s the biotech genius. You’re, well I don’t know who you are, but the reward’s for the Doctor.”

I don’t like doing this but Doctor Slutskaya has scientific knowledge people want. The kid was collateral.

You’ve made decisions like this before. It’s The Life.

“She’s right Liz. You’re the scientist. I’m just a kid who knows fuck all. Doc Hazard says I might be worth some ransom. Personally, I don’t think Dad will lift a finger.”

I’m a little surprised. The kid’s sincere, not sarcastic. His guts makes this job even tougher.

“No, Red. You’re the priority. As of this morning, you’re the Achilles project.”

“What?!” asks the kid.

“What?” I echo.

“Come closer Jade. I have to be quick and we don’t have time.”

I lean in.

“You have to get Morris out. Before I blew up my lab and the house, I injected Achilles into him. I had no choice. I didn’t have time to secure it. Killers were on their way. No, not Doc Hazard and his crew. They’re wildcards. This morning I got a text from Harry. He said he’d been ambushed at his meeting with the Syndicate’s Regional Director. He said a hit team was headed to the safe house, and not to trust the Syndicate. Told me to secure or destroy everything and get Morris to safety.”

“Did he arrange a rendezvous?”

“No. He said he’d find me. He said there were bad actors in the Syndicate, and they needed to be settled. He was sending somebody to help.”

Gee, I wonder who? You mentioned you thought one of the rivals was dead? Maybe Harry is trying to muddy the waters for the hound dogs? You think he can afford seven figures?

He has people who owe him big favors, so I heard.

I set to work on Morris’ braces. Each brace has three different locks; the Klausenstein stamp of quality.

“How’s Doc Hazard mixed in this?

“Peripherally I think. The . . . informant said there might be two actors with differing agendas. One of them leaked Project Achilles. Just after I got his text, I got a call from the Regional Director. He said the safe house was compromised. A team was coming to take me to a secure location. I was to have all my research ready for transport. I told them I’d be ready in twenty minutes.”

I unlocked the first brace and got to work on the second.

“So you put Achilles into this kid? Who are you anyway?” I ask him.

“Morris. Morris Micklewhite. Harry’s my uncle.”

I’m a bit shocked.

So am I. Harry’s real last name is Micklewhite.

The second brace is easier than the first. I know which tumblers to tackle this time. The ankles use a different set of tumblers. Fuck Klausenstein, fuck Doc Hazard.

“Morris, your life is going to change in a major way. I’m sorry to do this to you, but this is the most revolutionary development since the discovery of DNA. I couldn’t lose all those years of research.”

“Don’t look that way kid,” I say, “You’re not the first one to have control over your life taken away. You’re looking at a veteran from way back.”

“Did you have some weird biotech shit injected in your ass?”

“Well, no, but I’ve dealt with gas, truth serum, LSD, anti-psychotics . . . ”

“Uh.”

I started on the last ankle. “Doctor Slutskaya . . .”

“Call me Liz.”

“Liz, I’m going to have to try to get you out. You’ve got stores of knowledge in your head, including the Achilles Project. Doc Hazard will pry it out eventually.”

“No he won’t.”

“No one’s that strong.”

Except you and a few others.

“It’s not strength. There’s nothing to pry out, or if it’s there, it’s too deep to reach.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The reason I left Minsk was because my Russian handler tried to kill me. I don’t know if FSB put him up to it or if it was a rogue job. All I know is I’ve got a bullet in my head and two years of memories wiped out. I needed extensive notes to complete my research. Long term memory is fucked too. I got out with everything, managed to contact the Syndicate. They sent me Harry.”

Bullets to the head are funny. Sometimes the head explodes. Other times, the victim barely notices. I remember a story of a housewife who started getting mysterious headaches. She went to the doctor. He found a years old bullet in her head. Turns out her husband tried to kill her a while back, regretted it immediately, and kept his mouth shut when she looked none the worse. They arrested him. I wonder how it must feel to have a ticking time bomb in your head.