Krystal Scent (Krystal Vibration Series Book 2)

by Richard Corrigan

  Cheyenne.

  Their eyes met.

  “I thought you had more training,” Karen said.

  “Etheridge wanted you to have company, so he pulled me.”

  Karen’s eyes narrowed. When she was in the Oval Office with President Burke, Jeffrey Haun, and Carl Etheridge; she had asked if she were working alone or with someone. Etheridge said she would be working with someone from French Intelligence—not the U.S.

  But maybe Etheridge changed his mind at the last minute.

  Cheyenne stood up to adjust her belongings. Her breasts were amply exposed and her skirt was slit up the side revealing her thigh, giving the impression she wore no panties. Karen caught a glimpse Cheyenne’s Glock G33 between her legs.

  “Have you ever been to Paris?” Cheyenne asked, plopping back down in her seat and pulling down on the hem of her skirt to cover what it could.

  “A couple of times but not for any extended period. Just for research.”

  “Where’re you staying?”

  “Aren’t you at the same hotel?” Karen asked, showing a fake smile.

  “That’s not how they operate. They keep us separated for security reasons.”

  Karen had no intention of divulging either her mission or her hotel even though Cheyenne was working for the same organization. “I’m outside Paris somewhere,” she lied.

  “Where?”

  “I’ll find out when I get there. It hadn’t been completely arranged before I left.”

  “I always like to stay in the city,” Cheyenne said, not questioning Karen’s response. “I’m staying in a place on Rue Cler. How long will you be in Paris?”

  She’s trying to find out too much. Why?

  “I’ll only be there for a few days. Then I have to return,” Karen said, turning back to her report.

  “What did you do before joining the agency?”

  Closing her folder but keeping a finger in her place, Karen said, “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to read this report before I drift off to sleep.”

  “Okay, we can talk later,” Cheyenne said and pulled out a similar-looking binder from her bag and began to read.

  Karen was thankful that their conversation ended, but she was somewhat suspicious as to why Cheyenne was at the training center having only introduced herself a couple of months ago.

  Now, Cheyenne’s on the flight to Paris.

  Karen continued reading the report but after an hour, her eyes became too heavy, and so she slid the commentary into her briefcase and drifted off to sleep.

  After a while, Karen’s eyes opened, and she had to visit the bathroom.

  She returned and decided to continue reading the brief. She pulled it out of her bag and immediately noticed the smell of vanilla. She looked at Cheyenne. Her eyes were closed.

  Karen lifted the commentary to her nose and turned a couple of the pages. It smelled like the fragrance was on each sheet. She hadn’t noticed this before.

  What caused this?

  Or was it because she had been away from it?

  Did Cheyenne take the report while I was sleeping? While I was in the bathroom? Why? We’re on the same mission.

  ***

  Karen fell asleep again, but this time with the report in her lap, her hand firmly gripping it. Her sleep was continually interrupted by the airplane chimes periodically sounding each time a passenger pressed the “call” button, and from time to time there were seemingly unnecessary announcements over the intercom by the captain.

  She glanced at her TV screen and the flight-progress map. They were about to cross the English Channel and were beginning their descent into Paris.

  An attendant walked up the aisle and asked if anyone wished something to drink. Karen requested a cola. As soon as she was handed the cup and the attendant returned to her post, Karen got up again to go to the bathroom, she looked over at Cheyenne. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was slightly open. Karen walked to the restroom.

  Karen was still trying to figure out Cheyenne’s reason for being on the flight. Etheridge had said nothing to her about it. She sat back down and quickly drank almost all of her drink. She put her report away and decided to read one of the onboard magazines.

  It had been seven-and-a-half hours into the transatlantic flight to Paris. The Lufthansa jet had passed over Newquay, England and was fifteen minutes beyond the English Channel and over French soil.

  Karen was suddenly finding it difficult to concentrate on what she was reading; she couldn’t comprehend the words and ideas on the pages. She couldn’t remember the previous paragraph. She was becoming delirious. She pressed her call button.

  Within seconds the attendant arrived, but Karen had trouble speaking clearly and suddenly passed out. The attendant tried to revive her but couldn’t.

  Cheyenne sat up and asked what was happening.

  The attendant quickly walked to the intercom and asked if there was a doctor on board. A man in economy class raised his hand, and the attendant motioned for the physician to come forward.

  “She’s unresponsive,” the attendant said.

  The doctor bent over Karen and listened to her breathing and then to her heart. “She’s been drinking a lot of alcohol?”

  The attendant said that Karen only had soft drinks.

  “You’d better call ahead,” the doctor said. “She needs to get to a hospital. Her breathing’s irregular, and her heartbeat’s erratic.”

  The attendant walked to the bulkhead and picked up the phone linked to the cockpit. “Captain, we have an ill passenger,” she said.

  “Define ill,” the captain said.

  “Unconscious, unresponsive, irregular breathing, and erratic heartbeat.”

  “Too much alcohol?”

  “No alcohol.”

  “Do you have medical assistance?” the captain asked.

  “Yes, one physician.”

  “His assessment?”

  “He cannot determine the illness. But he says the passenger needs immediate medical assistance.”

  “I’ll call ahead.”

  The pilot contacted the ARTCC airspace controller.

  “Your identification?” the controller asked.

  “Lufthansa B744 Boeing 777-400,” the pilot said.

  “Your emergency?”

  “I have an unconscious, female passenger.”

  “From trauma? Alcohol?”

  “Negative.”

  “Do you have medical assistance?”

  “One physician.”

  “Assessment?”

  “Unable to determine cause. Unconscious, irregular breathing, erratic heartbeat.”

  “What do you wish?”

  “Diversion to nearest serviceable airport.”

  “You are past closer miles to London. Continue your current filed, flight plan to Paris.”

  ***

  The doctor turned to Cheyenne and asked, “Did you notice her acting strangely? Slurring her speech?”

  Cheyenne shook her head, but the attendant said, “She called for me a few minutes before she passed out. She was slurring her speech.”

  “It’s as if she had a stroke. I can’t do anything for her,” the doctor said. “Get a blanket and keep her warm until we reach the airport.”

  Cheyenne asked, “Does she have something contagious?”

  The doctor replied, “I don’t know. Either it’s some sort of virus, or a reaction to something she ate, or was exposed to, or a stroke.”

  ***

  It was drizzling in Paris when the plane touched down on the runway at Charles de Gaulle Airport. It took fifteen minutes to arrive at the designated gate. The on-board doctor looked through the window and nodded his head in relief when he spotted an emergency vehicle waiting on the apron.

  The passengers were told that when the plane stops and has been secured, they were to exit through the door in the rear of the plane and file out onto the blacktop. They were then to walk into the terminal to retrieve their luggage.

&
nbsp; They weren’t told why they had to exit the plane that way. They would get a little wet, but the airplane staff felt the risk of contamination should Karen be contagious was minimized with almost 98% of the passengers not passing by or near her location.

  Cheyenne had already headed for the rear of plane before the seat-belt sign was turned off.

  As soon as First Class was cleared, two paramedics entered the cabin carrying a stretcher. The airline attendant met them and escorted them to Karen’s seat. Karen was placed on the cot and carried out of the cabin. Her breathing was erratic. The doctor stayed close, and so did the copilot.

  Karen was taken down to the ground through the side door of the Jetway and slid into the rear of the waiting, emergency vehicle.

  The back door of the ambulance was pulled closed; the driver looked back, and then sped off, his lights flashing but his siren silent.

  They drove to the airport access road, through the gate, and passed another emergency vehicle parked alongside a vine-covered fence. Slumped inside the cab, were the bodies of two paramedics, blood oozing from the bullet holes in their heads.

  Karen’s ambulance picked up speed and headed for the outskirts of Paris.

  “We don’t have much time before they realize she’s gone,” the driver said.

  One of the technicians said, “As soon as we reach our destination, I’ll give her the antidote to counteract the Ketamine. In the meantime, we have to get rid of her imbedded tracking device.”

  Karen’s skirt was pulled up and the right side of her panties was pushed down. The technician rubbed some disinfectant on Karen’s skin and then with a scalpel, cut a shallow slit into her flesh. With tweezers, he probed within the wound and pulled out the silicone chip placed there by National Intelligence. He took his physician’s blade and cut the transmitter in half.

  The technician placed a bandage over Karen’s wound, pulled up her panties, unfastened the holster and removed the back-up weapon Karen had between her legs, and then adjusted her skirt.

  The driver turned off the emergency lights and drove south, careful to stay within the speed limit so as not to attract attention.

  ***

  U.S. National Intelligence Headquarters

  Nathan Mallory entered Carl Etheridge’s office and said, “The NSA’s ceased to receive transmission from Karen Krystal’s chip.”

  “She can’t be dead. It would still be transmitting. It must have malfunctioned. See what you can find out.”

  ***

  Somewhere south of Paris, France

  Once out of the ambulance, Karen was injected with an antidote for the Ketamine. She began to come around. She felt hands all over her. She struggled, but it was no use. She was then hit in the head and knocked out.

  ***

  Karen eventually regained consciousness and discovered that she had been stripped down to her underwear and was lying on a cold, cement floor. She rubbed the lump on her head and raised herself to her feet.

  She felt the slight sting from her Hip Chip surgery. She lifted her panties away from her skin and spied the new bandage on her body, gently lifted it, and slid her finger alongside the wound.

  “They’ve removed the chip. How did they know about it?”

  Karen replaced the bandage and took a deep breath.

  I smell gasoline, oil, urine, vanilla, cigar smoke and… and Syrian Cheese. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth.

  Her lips were dry and so was her throat. The air was damp and chilly. She was about to survey her prison when she heard multiple footsteps coming toward the room. She listened.

  They stopped. A key entered the lock and the door opened.

  Five men.

  One walked over to Karen, smiled, and blew a puff of cigar smoke into her face.

  “I want to know everything you and the U.S. and French governments know and are planning,” Ahmed Fadhil said, drawing on his cigar.

  They think that by removing my clothes, I’ll be intimidated into cooperation?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Karen said, folding her arms across her chest and angling her body slightly.

  Fadhil’s hand cocked back and Karen raised her arm to block his swing. The other four men quickly drew their weapons and surrounded her.

  She might be able to disarm one or two, but for sure she’d get shot. She dropped her defense.

  She was immediately grabbed and lifted to the top of the metal table. Her arms and legs were spread apart and tied to the legs. She struggled.

  Fadhil said, “We need information.”

  Karen’s face turned to stone.

  Another man entered the room wheeling a machine of some sort.

  “Well, since you won’t freely cooperate, we’ll have to encourage you. What we have here is a portable electric chair,” Fadhil said.

  Four men lifted up Karen’s body and applied jell to her back and beneath her shoulders. They pulled her panties down to expose her rump, leaving the front of her covered and took their time coating her bottom and beneath her thighs.

  “We’re making sure the electricity fully penetrates your body. Enough,” Fadhil said.

  They fastened metal straps to her wrists and ankles, plugged the other ends into the generator, started it, and attached a heavy-duty cable to one of the table’s legs.

  Fadhil then said, “We’ll start at lower voltage and work our way up until you tell us what we want to know, or you fucking die. Either way, it’ll be entertaining for us. For you… well, not so much.”

  A sixth man entered the room with a hood over his head. It was Atwah. He walked over, placed his hands on the controls, and nodded that he was ready. He was secretly hoping that the effort to get her to talk would kill her.

  Rolling his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, Fadhil said, “Now, tell us what you know of the U.S. and French Intelligence antiterrorist efforts.”

  Setting her jaw, Karen said, “I have nothing to say,” and pressed her lips together.

  Fadhil nodded to Atwah. Atwah flicked a switch and began turning a dial.

  Karen’s body began to tingle, then her muscles began to spasm, and her face twitched.

  Fadhil motioned to stop. He pointed his cigar and asked, “Well, Miss Krystal, anything to say?”

  Karen said in a somewhat husky voice, “You can go to Hell.”

  Fadhil motioned to continue with the torture.

  Atwah turned the dial farther. Karen’s body began to shake all over, her eyes widened; blood began to trickle from her ears, but she didn’t make a sound.

  Again, Fadhil motioned to stop and said, “We’ll give you time to think about your situation. We’ll leave you and be back to see if you want to experience more pain for your country.”

  The men disconnected the cables from the table and removed the cuffs from Karen’s wrists and ankles, but they left her tied to the legs. They wheeled the sinister device out of the room and locked the door.

  CHAPTER 23

  Inside the warehouse, away from where Karen Krystal was being held captive, one of the terrorists asked Atwah, “Why don’t we just kill that fucking Krystal chick?”

  Atwah said, “First off, we want to find out what she knows. Second, we’ve decided to use her as leverage against the President of the United States.”

  “Why should he care whether she survives?”

  “The president’s her sister’s godfather.”

  “Why don’t we just get the sister?”

  “We may do just that. In the meantime, we’ll let her think about her situation. We’ll visit her again in an hour.”

  Two of the terrorist soldiers took off down the stairs. The one whispered to the other, “Did you hear that? They’re leaving her alone for an hour. I’ve got the key to the room. She has a great body. Did you feel how hard her ass was?”

  “And her thighs.”

  “I bet she’s hard all over.”

  “We may never get a fucking chance like this again.”
/>   “We have to make sure she stays quiet while we—”

  “We need something to gag her.”

  “There’re some old rags in the storeroom in the other building. We’ll stop there first. We need to go the long way so we’re not noticed.”

  “That’ll cut out some of the time we have with her.”

  “How much time do we need?” the one terrorist asked and began to laugh.

  The other joined in.

  ***

  Karen began to regain her strength. She scanned her surroundings.

  “This room’s like a cell.”

  It had a toilet, a cot, and the metal table on which she was fastened. There were two doors, both made of steel. The one was how the terrorists entered and left and through which Karen must have been carried. The other had lettering in French: Mécanicien.

  The floor was cement and so was the ceiling held up by metal beams. There was one vent overhead for the heat or air conditioning and one intake at floor level.

  Karen whispered, “I’m trapped.”

  She bent her wrists down beneath the knots of the ropes that bound her so she could feel the table legs. She worked her fingers up the metal shaft to where it met the underside of the top.

  I think the legs unscrew.

  Karen began to twist from side to side. The table started rocking. She kept increasing the momentum. The table fell on its side forcing her body to slam against the cement floor.

  She shook off the pain and began unscrewing a table leg. It soon released and she was able to slip the rope and free her hand. She quickly untied her other arm and then her legs.

  Before they return, I have to find a way out of here.

  She concentrated so that she could discover a path to escape. She began taking deep breaths. She studied each wall, the doors, the ceiling, and the floor. The room was stark and uninviting. No question it was a cell.

  How many others had been captive here? And for what reason?

  Karen looked around the room again. She grabbed some toilet paper to wipe the blood from her ears. She then walked over to the vent intake that sat about eight inches above the floor. She bent down and looked inside. It seemed to travel alongside the mechanic’s room.