The Super Olympian- Bloodhound

by Laer Carroll

  "She loved horses. Does the family have any? Or does Eliza ride at a stable. "

  "They have a horse ranch in Long Island. Some time she rides in Central Park, but only when she doesn't have time to go to the ranch."

  "Thank you, Luisa. You've been very helpful. Please pardon me. I have to make a phone call."

  The maid nodded and left while Sasha was pulling her cell phone from a pocket.

  Shaker answered immediately.

  "There is a strong smell of horse in Eliza's bedroom. From just yesterday. And one of her uncles visited her there."

  "Yes! Bye!" Before the circuit cut out Shaker could be heard yelling something.

  Job done, Sasha looked around the room to see if she had missed anything. Everything reinforced the image of a young girl in love with ballet and wild musicians and horses.

  The rest of the house yielded no clues even half as strong, except the kitchen. The uncle had sat in one of the chairs at the six-person table to one side. He had rested an arm and hand on the table as he drank coffee .

  Sasha checked the master and guest bedrooms and closets and pantry and utility rooms. She passed Luisa twice doing minor cleaning jobs.

  She saved the living room for last. There was an impression of the horse-smelling uncle there too.

  The Thompsons sat side-by-side on the couch, watching something on a large wall screen. It was a cable news channel. Something about the Argentine space program and its use of the Caribbean Sea as a landing zone. An arrowhead-shaped vehicle was flying in the center of the screen, white vapor trailing behind the tips of the two fat wings.

  The two sat close together, maybe holding hands. Sasha hated to interrupt them .

  "Pardon me. Could I ask you a few questions?"

  The two turned and looked half over their shoulders. Sasha had come in from behind and from the side.

  The man stood as Sasha came around the couch end. "And you are...?"

  "I'm assisting Special Agent Shaker. She thought someone young with younger sisters could give her a better idea of what your daughter is like." The lie came easily. It could even have been the truth if Sasha were someone else.

  The man held out his hand and Sasha held out hers, expecting a handshake. Instead he caught her fingers and turned her hand so that he could bow over it and bestow a dry kiss to the back of her hand. He was of the old school, now dying out, which gave women European honorifics. His physiological signals read genuine welcome, if only from distraction from worry.

  "I am Franklin Thompson. This is my wife Eleanor. We are pleased to give Agent Shaker any assistance she might need."

  "Hello, dear. Please call me Eleanor. And you are...?" She remained seated but extended a hand to give Sasha a handshake.

  The shapechanger returned the shake. Data crashed in on her: deep sorrow, fear, anger, and a dawning surprise. Eleanor Thompson surged to her feet, took a step near Sasha, and peered closely at her face.

  "Would you take off your sunglasses?"

  Sasha complied.

  Eleanor took a deep breath and let it out. "You're that fashion model. The one who kills people."

  "Yes. I'm Sasha Canaro. But you make it sound like I go around all the time doing it. I only did it that once, to keep a bank robber from shooting up a street full of people. "

  "Of course, dear. I'm sorry." She sat back onto the couch, her back straight. She kept hold of the model's hand and drew her down to sit beside her.

  Sasha looked up at Franklin Thompson. He was gazing keenly at her. She was reminded of the brief bio of him which she had skimmed. He was deeply intelligent as well as ambitious.

  Eleanor Thompson was also bright. And deeply in love with her husband. Any scheming gold-digging motives had long been washed away, if they had existed at all.

  The woman reached for her husband. One of his hands joined hers and allowed his wife to draw him down to sit beside her.

  Sasha felt embarrassed. She normally used her ability to read people's bodies and emotions casually and without thought. This was too intimate.

  Focus, Sasha! Focus.

  She withdrew her hand from the all-too-intimate contact and spoke.

  "Would you tell me a little about Eliza? I understand she loves ballet."

  "Oh, yes. We got her lessons when she was quite young. We just thought it good exercise. Young people nowadays, they sit too much. But she really took to it."

  To keep the woman from going on Sasha said. "Something of the same happened to me. I got very interested in gymnastics."

  "Oh, yes. And you went on to the Olympics."

  "She's also in love with some rock star."

  Franklin Thompson looked disgusted. His wife shook her head as if to say "What can you do? Teenagers!"

  Sasha repeated what she had said to Luisa about her sisters and boys .

  "And she rides horses."

  "Horse mad. Maybe all teenaged girls are. I don't remember it though."

  "Nor I. Or my sisters. Doesn't Central Park have stables?"

  "She rides there only if she can't make it to our horse ranch. We have one on Long Island. Oh, do you think she could have gone there?"

  She said this last to her husband. But he shook his head. "If she had she would have left us a note. You know how responsible Lizzie is. And there are those kidnappers."

  Almost on cue the phone rang. As if by magic the young FBI agent came into the room. He did not look so preppie and harmless now.

  "Remember," he said. "Let it ring three times to give them time downstairs to activate the equipment. Follow the script as much as possible."

  He waved at a big white paste board on a metal easel with large black writing printed on it in carefully legible letters. It stood beside a desk with a phone near a far wall with a large picture window overlooking Central Park. Sasha had seen it when she came into the room and ignored it.

  Franklin Thompson walked quickly to a chair in front of the desk, sat in it, and counted off one, then two, then three on his fingers, gazing at the paste board all the time.

  His wife had followed him and stood behind his chair, a hand laid on his shoulder. Sasha and the agent walked quietly to a position behind and to the side of the man.

  Thompson took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

  "Hello?"

  The sound which came from the speakerphone was a hoarse computer voice.

  "We have the girl. She is still unharmed. Do you have the money? "

  "We do. The insurance company delivered it at noon. Ten million dollars, unmarked, undyed, in hundreds. In a bag without a radio tracer on it. Let me talk to my daughter. I'm not giving you the money until I'm sure she's still alive."

  "You are not in a position to make demands."

  On cue Eleanor cried out loud enough to be heard over the phone. Her reading of the "script" sounded completely natural. As it probably was.

  "For God's sake, Frank! Shut up and listen!"

  "I'm not giving any money for a pig in a poke!"

  "Frank..."

  He slapped the table. It sounded as if he had slapped her face.

  "You stupid slut! Now, you, kidnapper. This is just a business deal to me. Let me talk to my daughter."

  "Daddy!"

  "Quick! What's the name you're giving the foal?"

  "Pretty Girl. What...?"

  "Get off the line, Eliza. Now, kidnapper, how do we get the money to you?"

  "You are being smart, Frank. Here's what you do...."

  As the kidnapper read off instructions Sasha thought what big holes in logic everyone was ignoring. The kidnappers could kill their hostage as soon as they hung up the phone. Or kill her when they got the money. Or they could leave her hidden someplace where she'd die if they did not phone her location in once they got away with the money.

  And the FBI delivery person was supposed not to bring a cell phone, since phones positions could be tracked. But the Bureau could and probably did have GPS installed in all their vehicles.


  Ah! Here came the kidnapper demand to take care of that contingency. The delivery person was to get into a tracer- clean vehicle parked on a street. He would be watched from a distance and only phoned the location when he neared it. He was to get out of the car, strip, and drive away immediately with the money.

  What stupidity! The delivery person could hide the GPS device in a body cavity. Ah, here came the condition to deal with that. They would be cavity-searched on delivery of the money and killed if such a device was found.

  Why did the kidnappers not have the money dropped some place where they could pick it up and escape any pursuit?

  Quietly she left the room and entered a bathroom. Opening the front of her dress she placed her cell phone on her belly and commanded her body to suck it inside her. It slowly disappeared to some really strange sensations as her various belly muscles shifted to move out of the way and back again.

  She chuckled. Almost every week it seemed her subconscious delivered up some arcane ability her body had which she did not know about. She wondered what she would be like ten years from now. Or a hundred.

  She sobered at that. Her parents and many of her friends would be dead by then, barring some radical medical breakthroughs. The thought of losing them saddened her immensely.

  The cell phone hidden, she left the room and returned to hear the last of the phone call. She had not missed anything, having kept the bathroom door ajar just enough so her extrahuman hearing could make it out.

  Franklin Thompson carefully set the phone in its cradle. He let out a long breath. Eleanor wept a few tears, then put on a brave face.

  "Mr. Thompson, give me a dollar. "

  "What? Very well. But why?" He took out his wallet, extracted a dollar bill, and handed it to her.

  "I am now in your employ. I will deliver the money and upon my life try to ensure Eliza's safety."

  He looked her up and down and then very intently in her face. "What guarantee do I have you won't take the money and run? And why?"

  "Because I have two sisters as dear to me as Eliza to you, and right now your daughter IS my sister. And the guarantee is the same. I would never do anything to make my sisters, or my brother, or my mother and father and friends ashamed of me."

  Eleanor Thompson was watching her intently. "I believe her, Franklin."

  He said slowly, "If you do this I will pay you a million dollars."

  "Sir, you dishonor me. Apologize or face the consequences this minute." Rage filled Sasha. In that moment she understood the "archaic" concept of honor. And understood why Saya believed in Bushido.

  Franklin Thompson said, "I apologize most sincerely." He slowly extended his hand. Sasha took it and they shook.

  "This is crazy!" The young FBI agent looked all-too-young again. "A...a...civilian isn't up to this!"

  Eleanor turned toward him, her face shining. "Don't you know who she is?! She's the deadliest woman on the planet."

  "That's...That's tabloid shit. Sorry. Sorry."

  Franklin Thompson was nodding his head. "I'm remembering what I know about you, Ms. Canaro. But these men will have guns and you will have just your bare hands, however lethal."

  "But I'll have something else. Is there something in here you wouldn't mind having broken or dented? "

  "Frank, those two vases Gloria gave me. I hate them." She pointed to a credenza on one side of the room. Two vases sat on top of it.

  Sasha's hands flashed to the white scarf-sash around her waist and dug out a marble for each hand. In a twisting motion first one of her arms then the other wound up and lashed forward, the motions at the very upper edge of human speed and far below Sasha's limits. To the watchers she must have been a blur.

  The two vases exploded into shards which rained onto the floor on that side of the room. The marbles shattered against the wall, moving so fast they did not bounce off the wall as she had guessed they would do.

  The FBI agent stood open-mouthed, his cell phone opened on a call to his boss about the idiocy of the civilians.

  Eleanor was nodding in satisfaction. Franklin nodded in agreement.

  "Very well, Ms. Canaro. Now all we have to do is ensure the FBI will agree to you being my agent."

  Everyone went down to the ballroom floor where the ransom delivery and all other activity would be directed. Predictably Special Agent Shaker and the NYPD Police Commissioner refused to consider Sasha as the delivery girl.

  But Franklin Thompson got his way. He did not argue. He did not shout. He merely stated over and over again that he would have his way. Finally Shaker turned to the Commissioner.

  "Johnny, he's in his legal rights. If you don't want to have the city sued by the best lawyers in the country we have to go along with this."

  "Johnny" stalked away, leaving a parting shot of "Goddamned lawyers."

  Shaker turned to the Thompsons and Sasha. "Hah! He forgot I'm an accountant."

  Sasha beckoned Eleanor over and handed her sash of marbles over to her when she untied it. Then she kicked off her red high heels and eeled out of her dress. In her translucent bra and panties she replaced her weapon belt.

  "Lucky that I picked out a white scarf. From a distance it will almost blend in with my skin." Her skin was as perfectly alabaster as when she had risen from the dead.

  It wasn't just her skin that caused almost every man in the room, even the surly Commissioner, to stare at her. Sasha's muscles were extra-humanly efficient so did not need to be bulky to be incredibly strong. But she had spent well over a decade building their lithe strength and she had not reduced their size. They were obvious under a smooth layer of fat, just enough not to seem like an anatomical chart.

  Even more was the way she moved in the slightest way. She was poetry in motion. Even when she stood the poetry remained, for it seemed as if she were poised to flow into instant action.

  And that was even before one considered that she was gorgeous.

  There was a collective sigh of regret as she once again slipped her gold and red dress over her body.

  Except from the women, who made up about a fourth of the law enforcement officials there. Instead of regret there was satisfaction. Every one was dedicated to fighting crime. Every one had fought the belief that women were physically inferior to men. Seeing Sasha, as womanly beautiful as a woman could be, still be so obviously dangerous was like seeing a dream come true.

  The only immune man in the room was Franklin Thompson. He seemed as proud of her as if she was his own daughter. His wife cuddled against him, her satisfaction taking a slightly different form.

  "See, dear, didn't I tell you she is the deadliest woman on the planet?"

  After those few seconds of voyeuristic stillness the professionals moved into high gear. Sasha went to stand by the large canvas bag of money and the Thompsons joined her, Eleanor carrying the "beautiful shoes" Sasha had discarded. The woman had to be dissuaded from dashing upstairs to find something for the shapechanger to wear. A finger drawn over Sasha's foot soles (instantly changed to be leather-tough) persuaded her Sasha did not need shoes.

  Four uniformed NYPD officers took up guard around the three and the money, each carrying an M5 assault carbine at port arms. They stayed with Sasha and the money, or at least the money, after she kissed the Thompsons' cheeks and entered the elevator to the garage. Into the elevator crowded Agent Shaker and the Police Commissioner, restored to better humor now that the action had begun. He carried a shotgun.

  His glimpse of Sasha in near-naked glory might have something to do with that, too, she surmised.

  At the garage the two moved aside to let the first two policemen exit, carbines now leveled to take on any ambush. They were met by three—black!—SUVs, the drivers standing holding the doors open.

  The first two guards waited for Shaker to take the driver's seat of the middle vehicle, Sasha to take the seat behind her, and the Commissioner to take the front passenger seat. He was literally riding shotgun, Sasha thought, eyeing the weapon he had brought from ups
tairs.

  With the middle vehicle ready to move the two guards first out of the elevator deployed to the front SUV and the last two out to the back SUV. All three vehicles smoothly moved to an exit aisle and out of the garage, the exit unblocked before them, sirens and flashers briefly opening a hole in the traffic.

  On the Hudson River highway heading south Helen Shaker spoke over her shoulder.

  "We've got an air-camouflaged unmanned surveillance helicopter up so high it can't be seen. Maybe the kidnappers know about it and have plans to deal with it, but I doubt it. It's a new acquisition on loan to the Bureau. We're going to get these fuckers."

  "Yeah. Now all I have to do is keep Eliza safe. If she's even alive still. And survive contact with an unknown number of kidnappers willing to kill."

  The agent chuckled. "Oh, you'll survive. Whether the kidnappers will survive contact with you, that's in doubt."

  She sobered. "But I agree. I'm worried about the girl. Logically these guys should keep her safe until they have the money. But I'm not sure they are operating out of logic."

  The Police Commissioner nodded soberly and everyone was quiet. Until Helen Shaker received another phone call. It was brief.

  "Well, a piece of good luck. That call was from the company that makes the surveillance copter. They have a vertical takeoff plane out over Long Island and they've offered their services. So we've got a second set of eyes on the situation."

  Sasha was observing the traffic on all sides, looking for suspicious vehicles. She was sure her two companions were doing the same. She was letting her mind idle in the present, not worrying or thinking about much. She had learned this long ago during tense competitions. It was not a shapechanger skill .

  A thought surfaced.

  "How come the police are donating so many people? This is the FBI's jurisdiction, isn't it?"

  "True," said the policeman. "Though we are legally bound to 'give aid to any enforcement agency when requested, if we have assets available to answer the request.' Actually it's because the Thompsons are rich as hell and they have friends who are rich as hell."