by JC Ryan
“Well, come on, then,” he said, irritated at Digger because he was irritated at himself.
Digger looked at the loose wrap of the leash around the bike stand and then looked at Rex.
“Come on, it will come loose.”
Digger sat down, yawned, and whined.
“You’re such a baby,” Rex scolded as he walked back and unwrapped the single loop. “You could have just walked away. That wouldn’t have stopped you.”
Digger gave a soft growl, hopped into the open driver’s door, and stepped across to the passenger seat. He turned his head away as Rex got in after him.
“What, you’re mad at me? What’s wrong with you?”
On the way back to the hotel, Rex tried to think what he’d done to make the dog mad, if that’s what this act was all about. Was it tying him to the bike stand in the first place? But Digger could have gotten loose for any reason he wanted, whether to free himself to defend or just because he was tired of sitting there. Furthermore, Rex knew Digger knew it. So why had he acted helpless when they were ready to leave?
For ten minutes, dog and human rode together in a mutual snit. Then it dawned on him. Is it even possible? Rex questioned in silence. Could it be that Digger had been trying to tell him there were people on the street – witnesses. Lots of them. If Digger had demonstrated he wasn’t really restrained, it would have had two consequences. One, the majority of people would have been terrified when Digger pulled loose, and it would have caused a scene. And two, it would have broken character for both of them.
If so, just how smart is this dog?
Rex had almost blown it.
This wasn’t like him. Not like him at all. He’d made several mistakes today, and if he kept making them it was going to get him killed, maybe both of them. One way or another, he was going to have to get his head back in the game, immediately.
“Thanks, buddy,” he said to Digger. “I’m sorry. You’re right, and I’m an idiot. Let’s just hope you can keep me straight until I can shake this… whatever it is that’s making me stupid.”
As soon as he’d said the word stupid, Digger turned and looked at him finally. He grinned that goofy dog grin and woofed. Rex reckoned Digger had accepted his apology. Or maybe he’d just said, “Don’t let it happen again.” Rex didn’t know what to believe of his companion’s abilities anymore, but he was sure there was very little that would surprise him after what he’d seen today.
When he got back to the hotel, the email was waiting for him. In it, instructions for where to meet the forger, along with an admonishment that if he wanted papers for the dog it would be another one-thousand US dollars. It was a bargain — Rex would have paid ten-thousand.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Washington, DC, June 30, 10:00 a.m.
JOHN BRANDT HAD spent most of the previous night and evening second-guessing what he was about to ask his best female agent to do. It was distasteful in the extreme, but he was in a hurry, and the only thing his Old-Timers team had turned up for leverage on Bruce Carson was his membership in the ‘gentlemen’s’ club.
Gentlemen my ass. No gentleman would behave in that way. Illicit sex club would be more like it.
Marissa Bisset was due to meet him in his hotel suite any moment. He trusted her to downplay her looks, as exotic as her French name, in case someone was watching him. But it would be difficult to gain leverage on him, even if someone saw what they might have thought was a call girl entering his hotel room.
Brandt had been widowed for over thirty years. His wife, a fellow field agent, had been killed in an operation gone bad, the fault of an inexperienced handler. It had been the precipitating factor in forming the group that eventually birthed CRC.
So, if he wanted to indulge in a call girl now and then, there was no reason, other than legal, that he shouldn’t. But everyone in this corrupt town overlooked the illegal. It was only useful to someone that could use it to blackmail him. He wasn’t worried about that.
Brandt shook himself from that train of thought. Marissa, and in fact his entire team of female agents, had been trained to promise much and give nothing when their assignments were honey traps. He always told them they were not required to go beyond the limits, which they alone set for themselves. Brandt didn’t want to know the extent of those limits. But he thought this assignment might stretch Marissa’s.
If the prize had not been certain knowledge of what Carson had done to get Rex Dalton killed, he would not have asked it. While he waited for Marissa to arrive, he decided he would give her every opportunity to turn the assignment down. He hoped she wouldn’t.
To take his mind off it, he reminisced about recruiting and setting up this team. It had been just before he’d recruited Rex. He’d always preferred to keep women out of the equation. Partly because of what had happened to his wife, and partly because he’d accepted many assignments in countries where women were at risk for fates far worse than death. But after one mission was made infinitely more difficult than it should have been because a woman was needed for surveillance in the home of the target, Longland had persuaded him to rethink it.
He’d recruited four women after that, making sure they were diverse in age, appearance, and ethnicity. He’d trained them in a separate facility and with different skills than his male teams. Naturally, he’d given them defensive training, from martial arts to firearms and explosives, but he’d always tried to use them on assignments where he was relatively certain they wouldn’t have to use it. Any of them could pass for anything from a waitress to the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar corporation.
Their most valuable training was in cyberespionage. Any of them could have handled the assignment Brandt had in mind, but Marissa was the best. She also had the looks that the Old Timers had determined would most appeal to Carson. Her shoulder-length, raven hair and azure eyes suggested her French heritage, and her thirty-five years gave her a mantle of maturity that men found alluring, as well as a full figure that women envied, and men coveted. Only Brandt and her sisters-in-arms knew of her keen intelligence.
Every beautiful young woman learns as a teenager that men can be threatened by beauty and intelligence combined. Some hide their intelligence, and some hide their beauty. Others don’t hide either and find it difficult to attract a man, and some, like Marissa, hide one or the other as the mission requires. This mission would require both her quick wits and her beauty.
Precisely at the appointed time, a knock on Brandt’s door informed him that his agent was there. He opened the door and smiled. Marissa was like a daughter to him, as were the others. She stepped inside and gave him a warm embrace.
After exchanging pleasantries for ten minutes or so she got right to the point. “What’s the mission, boss?”
Brandt quickly explained what had happened to Rex, leaving his name out of the narrative. It was inevitable that the male agents would learn of each other, but the women were kept segregated from them simply as a precaution. The names of their distant male teammates were on a need-to-know basis, like when they had to work together as a couple. Rex had never been teamed with a female agent, so his name would have meant nothing to Marissa. All she needed to know was that he was one of CRC’s, and he’d been killed in an operation that went south because of betrayal. Brandt didn’t even share his hopes that Rex hadn’t been killed at all.
He finished by telling her Carson’s name and position.
“I strongly suspect that he was the last link in the chain of betrayal. I want him brought down, and I want the names of the people who were pulling his strings. I strongly suspect he’s dirty. You need to get the evidence for me.”
“What’s the dirt?” she asked.
“How much do you know about the BDSM scene?” Brandt countered.
Marissa’s eyes twinkled. “Enough. Am I the dom or the submissive?”
Brandt’s blush gave away his discomfort with the subject. But he forged on, aware that he’d have to be uncomfortable or abandon the idea al
together. “I’d never put you in a submissive role, Marissa. It seems Carson likes to be punished. Let’s give him what he wants, though not in the way he’s accustomed to. However, if you’re at all uncomfortable with the assignment, I can ask one of the other agents or come up with a different plan.”
“Why, John, I don’t think you’ve ever given me a choice before! Tell me, will I get to wear a leather bustier and brandish a whip? I’ve always fancied that.” She laughed as he blushed even brighter. “Seriously, I can do it. But how will I introduce myself?”
Brandt went on to explain the club and its setup. “It may take a while to establish yourself in the club, but we can help with that. Once you make a connection with Carson, you’ll wear a hidden camera and microphone. Then we’ll blackmail him with it to reveal his controllers.”
“Piece of cake, seriously. When do I get started?”
“No time like the present,” Brandt answered. “I assume you’ll have some research to do? Meanwhile, we’ll look for a way to get you membership in the club.”
Marissa smiled seductively. “I’ll never tell, John. But I’ll be ready whenever you have paved the way.”
After Marissa left, John wiped his forehead with his pocket square. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Marissa had been teasing him or had revealed more about herself than he wanted to know. She’d always fancied that?
***
IT WASN’T THAT hard to finagle an invitation for Marissa in one of her cover personas to join the club. As it turned out, they were actively recruiting female members, and Marissa’s alter ego was the perfect candidate. Posing as a self-made millionaire, head of a cyber-research firm, she exuded grace, wealth, and a benevolent streak. That she was beautiful was merely the icing on the cake. Within a week, she was confirmed as a member and established the habit of eating lunch at the club daily.
Within a second week, she’d been approached obliquely by platinum members, who expertly gauged her interest in the illicit activities of their club-within-a-club. Marissa played coy, but she passed some secret selection process with flying colors. Ten days after her meeting with Brandt, she was able to report to him that she’d be initiated into the platinum group on the following evening.
“Be careful,” was his response.
The next night, Marissa dressed carefully for her initiation. She’d been given no instructions other than to present herself for dinner at nine that night. When she arrived for the assignation, she wore an outwardly conservative little black dress, cut just low enough in front to be correct but suggestive. Red four-inch spike heels complemented the outfit, along with a black velvet clutch, beaded in jet and garnet. Inside the clutch was a hidden microphone, which she switched on when she saw a debonair man approaching her table.
“Are you dining alone, my dear? How is that possible for such an exquisite creature?” the charmer asked.
Reacting in kind, Marissa gave him her most brilliant smile. “Perhaps not, now,” she answered. “Won’t you join me?”
“I have a better idea. Why don’t you join me? I have a private spot with a special menu,” he answered. His brown eyes were intense as they stared into hers.
“I’d be delighted,” Marissa answered.
The stranger led her to a discreet elevator and pressed a remote control. The elevator had no visible buttons. Marissa’s smile faltered only a bit as she contemplated what might await her. Was it a trap, or had she pulled off the act she’d been practicing for the past ten days?
When the elevator came to a stop at last, her guide ushered her out with a hand at the small of her back. “Welcome to Underworld,” he said dramatically. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Three people stepped forward to greet her – one man and two women, both dressed in similar fashion to her choices. Marissa mentally congratulated herself on her intuition. The man pressed a curious black button into her hand.
“This operates the elevator. Feel free to use it whenever you like.”
Marissa favored him with one of her brilliant smiles. “Thank you.”
Then both men excused themselves, and the women took Marissa on a tour of the facility. She met no one else that night, which suited her. It was all she could do to hide her revulsion at their idea of ‘entertainment’. At the end of the tour, one of the women asked her preference. As scripted, she made her selection. The women then took her to the suite of rooms reserved for those activities and left her in a setting made to look like an intimate nightclub.
“It’s up to you to make new friends here,” the women told her. “You may approach anyone in this room, or you may wait for them to approach you. The only rule is that there are no names, and if you recognize someone, you will not disclose their membership here, ever. Naturally, the existence of this level is a secret, as is your membership. Do you understand?”
Marissa nodded. She managed a salacious smile. “I’m going to enjoy this membership. Thank you for having me.”
The women melted away with smiles of their own and best wishes. Marissa was left alone at a table in the dim light of the nightclub. Mentally, she reviewed the pictures of Bruce Carson she’d been shown. If he wasn’t here tonight, her intention was to decline any invitations she received on the grounds that she was new and just wanted to observe. If he showed up, she’d wait for him to approach her. Otherwise, whatever resulted could be viewed as entrapment. From what she’d heard, she wanted the evidence she produced to be unassailable, even in court.
Carson’s vice was not, strictly speaking, illegal. The practice, she’d learned in her research, involved an exchange of power between consenting adults. The submissive desired punishment, but the dominatrix was bound by the limits the submissive placed on it. There might or might not be sexual behavior attached to the punishment. She was prepared to cross that bridge, or not, when she came to it. Her horror at the idea that a man in such a powerful position, literally responsible for keeping America safe from its enemies and with the lives of hundreds of agents in his hands, both official CIA operatives and the agents of private military contractors like CRC’s, could be as corrupt as Brandt suspected, led to her determination that she’d do whatever it took to bring him down.
That night, Carson did not appear. It gave Marissa the opportunity to observe the interactions in the nightclub-like room and learn how to interact when Carson made his appearance. The next night, she’d know a little better how to draw Carson in, and she’d be there every night until she got the opportunity.
***
ON THE THIRD night she sat in an out-of-the way alcove nursing a single drink, she noticed a slender man dressed impeccably in a well-tailored suit approaching her table. As he passed into one of the pools of muted light from a down-light ceiling can, she recognized him as her target.
Lights, camera, action.
She casually pressed the mic switch in her clutch before he reached her table.
Without asking permission, Carson pulled out a chair and seated himself. “You’re new,” he stated.
“I am, and hello,” she answered, allowing a small smile to twitch her lips.
“Here to play?” he asked.
“That depends on the game,” she replied. Now her grin was broader. It wouldn’t matter what the game was – she already knew she could beat him at it.
Carson leaned forward and spoke in a lower tone. “I’ve been a bad boy.”
Matching the drop in his register, Marissa leaned forward as well, putting her face within inches of his. “Have you now?” she asked.
“Yes. Very, very bad. Why, if my mother knew how bad, she’d spank me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m not your mother.” Marissa leaned back, breaking the connection. As she’d expected, a desperate look flashed in his eyes.
“You could, if you wanted,” he stammered, “punish me anyway?”
“If I wanted,” she answered coolly. She glanced at her nails, recently lengthened with acrylic and painted blood red, playing hard
to get.
Carson’s glance followed her own. “I think my mother would be grateful…” he whispered.
“I suppose I could,” she said. The dance continued for another ten minutes, during which Marissa noted Carson becoming more and more desperate.
Finally, she agreed, and he eagerly ushered her to a private suite accessed through a second door and down a long hallway. Idly, she wondered how this warren of secret passages and rooms could have been built below the much smaller building that housed the main club. The suite they entered contained all the implements of punishment she’d read about. Now she would learn if her research had been sufficient, and if she could channel the revulsion she felt into the strict and cold persona she had to become to perform her duty.
In the room of the suite that was reserved for dressing for her role, she found an array of costumes. She almost laughed at the leather bustier, but she was wearing her own under her conservative dress, along with the accoutrements. Hers included a hidden camera in the bow on top of the lacing. Just before she opened the door to the room where the main event would take place, she checked her appearance in the mirror.
She’d pulled back her hair in a severe bun, darkened the red lipstick, and removed her dress to reveal an outfit that she thought made her look like Cat Woman, or some other sexy female superhero. Her red, four-inch, spike heels gleamed against the black stockings. She’d had to practice breathing in the bustier, which nipped her waist in to the point where breathing happened only lung-deep, as her diaphragm was too constricted. That further enhanced her figure by pushing up her bosom with each breath she took. Her outfit was no less modest than a one-piece swimsuit, but it suggested wanton sex.
There had been no discussion of sex play accompanying the punishment. But Marissa knew that because she was the dominant, it would be up to her, not Carson. And she had absolutely no intention of doing so.
Tonight’s video would have to capture every humiliation she’d heap on him, because she wasn’t about to do this a second time.