by D. A. Bale
However Samantha didn’t mind learning her way with a weapon, well besides the weapon of sex. She’d readily pick up both with ease. Maybe if riding him to death didn’t work she could throw a pillow over his head and suffocate him. Or maybe she was supposed to use the pillow to muffle the shot.
That’s what silencers are for, stupid.
Alexandra’s thoughts frequently broke through Samantha’s, the line between the two sides of her life no longer distinct. Made her think of in a marriage ceremony when the preacher would read that part about the two becoming one or some such blather. Samantha only hoped she could be one mind again someday. Hell, at this point she could almost have a conversation between the two factions warring inside her head. She longed for her life before the Elite. But there had been no life there either. Everything was a mess.
The cold Glock warmed in her hands as she repeatedly took aim at the paper target. Bam – right through the heart. Bam – right through the hole in the heart again. It went on and on, the shots muffled by the ear muffs.
One for Warner – bam.
Two for Debrille – bam, bam.
Three for Marcus – bam, bam, bam.
Bam.
Bam.
After emptying the clip she inserted another and continued until tears blinded the shattered target where Marcus’ face stared back in her mind. With a frustrated thrust, Samantha lobbed the empty handgun at the mocking smile.
“Damn, damn, damn you all to hell!”
The entire thing left a gaping hole in her wounded heart, but Marcus had crossed a line. As she slumped to the floor the shameful day’s events flooded back and sliced through it like a dull scalpel. The way he’d held her, kissed her – to know it all meant nothing.
Nearly every day they traipsed about D.C. as if they were a happy couple, lounging here, exploring there…finding shelter from the rain in a covered bus-stop. The various exhibits at the Smithsonian complex had drawn their attention that morning. The chill of the overcast day did little to disturb the pleasure of being above ground even if it meant she might run into Warner again.
Marcus had held her hand, his grip warm as he talked attentively to her about various artifacts, and stole aside to show her how their ear chips would display various escape transport tunnels around the complex if needed. They had a labyrinth of options all over D.C., the breadth of Debrille’s vast undertakings shocking.
Late in the afternoon the clouds thickened over the area and caught them in a torrential downpour. The enclosed bus-stop offered the only sanctuary to wait out the rain but not before they were soaked to the skin. A small group of parochial school girls followed them into the enclosure and stared in wide-eyed fascination.
She hadn’t expected Marcus’ tender kiss, sliding his hands up her wet arms to her face as his blue eyes poured into hers. Then he’d pulled her closer. For a moment Samantha had felt sheltered from the cold spray, the cooling day, the darkness warring in her mind. But as always, it was only for appearances. The innocent girls broke her trance with their stifled giggling.
The mad sex she could handle. The tender kiss she could not. It wormed its way into her soul – her mind.
Her heart.
She had to escape before she went mad, but futility always invaded those thoughts. All exits recognized only the signal of the implants in Marcus, Debrille, or the guard leaders. The elevators to the surface were locked down without their biological component. Then, of course, they tracked her everywhere she went. Damn the microchip.
Samantha had to walk. She refused to pull up the holographic display and didn’t care if she got lost somewhere within the cavernous tunnel system. The glass wall of the greenhouse drew her attention, the entrance secured by more of Debrille’s goons. They weren’t growing marijuana or anything that she could tell just some sort of flowers, so the need for the security had to be because of the research lab on the other side. Thus far they’d not allowed her access to the lab where Marcus concocted only God knew what.
Over the tops of the plants, Samantha watched Marcus at work in the lab. What made the man stay? Better yet, what was the catalyst that made him join the Elite in the first place? If anyone could figure out a way around the ear chip conundrum it was Marcus. Regardless of how much she hated the man, she also respected his obvious genius. Without him, Debrille basically had no one to carry out ongoing research – at least no one she knew. Then again, Marcus probably liked all the training he got to do. Perhaps Marcus was the heir apparent to their little hell.
And you’re nothing more than his whore.
Angry tears gathered in her eyes again, and she stormed away from the scene. Soon the familiar station where she’d disembarked so long ago loomed. The train happened to be docked and the doors swished open to admit her to the lush world. Dim lights and the faint hum of the air system were the only signs of power, no direct control system on board. She made a mental note to check down track for an operating system or control conning. Something had to power the slithering snake.
It had been so long since the day she’d first boarded the luxury liner. She didn’t even remember half of the rich burgundy and mustard colored décor – probably had slept most of the way since she’d still been recovering from the explosion. Everything from her old life had disappeared, even her appearance. No more home to go to, no car, no job – no Gramm.
The old ache rushed back. Did anyone miss her? Joe? Was he sad when he’d thought she’d died in the explosion? Mr. Eddis? Were they safe?
What do you care? It’d be your own fault if something happened to them anyway.
Alexandra again broke through her thoughts, but Samantha didn’t want to listen. Not tonight. She wanted to feel comforted by the past. There was something good in it at least, not like what she had become and what she soon had to do.
The columned walkway led back to her quarters. She was tired. She wouldn’t go to Marcus tonight. He’d see right through her and sense her struggle – and that wouldn’t bode well for the Plan.
After jamming a chair under the doorknob, she undressed and crawled beneath the billowing white down comforter, snuggling into its warmth and imagining Momma’s arms around her. Tonight she was only Samantha, a little girl without cares.
For a moment, the darkness lifted from her dreams.
Chapter 31 - On Display
“Cease fidgeting, my dear. Let her check the hem one last time.”
Being Debrille’s Barbie doll should’ve become second nature by this point. But Samantha’s nerves wouldn’t be stilled.
The seamstress checked and rechecked every detail of the white silk dress made for the occasion. The ruffled edge of the plunging V-neckline lay gently over her breasts, accentuating every curve and nuance to the most exacting detail. The recent weeks in the sun and time under the sun lamp had bronzed her skin to perfection. Every eye in the crowd would be drawn to her.
The stylist had pinned up her auburn hair and let curling tendrils escape from the nape to fall into the valley of cleavage. They may as well have pointed a blinking neon arrow to say big boobs on display. If she got even slightly chilled, her nipples would protrude from the thin silk to entice any man nearby.
Samantha had to swallow her surprise when they placed on her head a wide-brimmed white hat – just like Momma’s. She felt weak in the knees as she stared at herself in the mirror, still unable to get used to the green irises gazing back at her. Momma would never recognize her little girl now.
Marcus looked comfortable and relaxed in his white linen slacks and jacket, like something straight off of a Florida beach. A quick tuck of her arm into his, and they entered one of the surface air lock elevators. The ride up always felt like it would never end, but this time Samantha hoped it wouldn’t. The past weeks she had looked forward to the top-side excursions in the sun, the wind, the rain. But now her job began, her part in the Plan. Alexandra would make her grand appearance.
Breathe deep, girlie. Be Alexandra. Be Alexandra.
<
br /> The cold steel of the tube doors reflected her image as fear melted into confidence. Power flowed into her legs. Strength straightened her back. She lifted her head and looked square into Alexandra’s eyes – and smiled at what she saw.
The elevator opened into another glaring white shaft. They chose the next doorway and climbed a few additional floors. After jogging through several high-speed rides, they finally opened onto an elegant hallway, different than the other apartment floor she’d seen on previous trips to the surface.
The lush golden carpet was riddled with faint swirls of emerald and red. Marcus didn’t explain where they were and Alexandra didn’t ask. She allowed herself to be escorted, keeping watch on everything as they passed by and down the flight of stairs into the lobby of the Melrose. The doorman hailed a taxi that whisked them down Pennsylvania Avenue.
To the White House.
***
The Easter Egg Roll took place on the White House South Lawn every year. Scores of families lined up early to earn their children a place of prominence to sport with the President and First Lady. The First Dog kept the children entertained as he disrupted the festivities with his antics, running after the eggs and entangling the legs of the children.
Alexandra waited, hidden beneath the hat and sheltered by a tree at the edge of the milling parents. The President chased down the dog and laughed with the children. The First Lady gazed adoringly at him as the President nestled the naughty Schnauzer in her arms. They played the image of a happy couple quite convincingly.
From beneath the hat, Alexandra carefully scanned the faces of the crowd and peeked at the Secret Service detail stationed at the ready. Every aspect of the grounds and the building deserved scrutiny, mentally matching every blade and stone with the data she’d spent months only reading about. As the time grew near, Marcus gently nudged her, the festivities drawing to a close.
The media cameras picked her up as soon as she stepped into the sunlight and the breeze fluttered the ruffle at her breast. For a moment, Alexandra separated herself from Marcus and the throng and glided across the South Lawn, the white of her dress contrasting against the green. She sensed all eyes upon her, felt the hush of the crowd for but a breath. The breeze fluttered and pressed the silk against her legs, outlining every curve. Alexandra paused for effect and glanced up demurely from her hiding place beneath the hat.
The tiny white purse slid off her shoulder in one fluid motion and dropped to the grass. Slowly she bent to retrieve it, giving ample view of the sculpted cleavage between the ruffle. Shutters snapped at such a rapid pace, if the photographers weren’t careful their cameras might explode. Alexandra chuckled.
She didn’t even have to look in the direction of the President to know she’d captured his eye. For a split second revulsion arose at the thought.
Be Alexandra, girlie.
Marcus glided up next to her and tucked her arm in his as they blended again into the crowd. He steered them to a conveniently waiting taxi beyond the Ellipse.
Her hands shook. Her knees felt weak. But she had to hold it together and play the part at all times on the surface. Alexandra closed her eyes and leaned back against the cool seat.
Marcus leaned in close and brushed her cheek with his lips. “Perfection,” he whispered.
It was enough to allow her to breathe again. She snuggled into his arms and relaxed against his solid frame. For just a moment she let down her guard and became Samantha, imagining the arms were Joe’s.
Tears pooled in her eyes as she touched the hat brim and thought again of Momma – and the atrocity she would be forced to perform.
***
President Warner could barely contain himself among the innocence of the crowd as he watched Vice President Durksen assist a little girl with her dropped eggs. The younger man would make a good father if he ever took the time to relax and settle down – unlike himself.
“Who was that incredible creature?” Warner whispered to his Chief of Staff as he pulled him aside.
Forsdale kept his composure, so solemn and serious. The breeze didn’t dare to muss even a single hair on his head. He always played his part well.
“I’ve never seen her, Mr. President.”
But Warner had – once – just a glance, but it had been enough. The motorcade had buzzed down the street a few weeks ago. She’d been arm in arm with the same man, her gaze alluring, disarming, the red hair caressing her face. Immediately he’d been enraptured and tossed aside last year’s resolve to temper his dalliances, even dreamed one night about her wrapping those long legs around him and burying his face among those tits. He’d awoke with an aching hard on that had to be tamed.
How long had she been part of the crowd today? How could he have missed noticing her voluptuous body until the opportunity had passed through his fingers like sand?
“Damn it, then find out who she is and make sure she is invited to the next State Dinner.”
Forsdale arched his brow ever so slightly. “Sir, the next State Dinner is a full three months away.”
Warner groaned inwardly and waved to a passing family – couldn’t wait that long. “Do we have any pressing business with the Russian President?”
“Nothing’s on the books, but I’m sure we could create a reason. President Viscinskiev is always willing to clear his schedule to toss down a few bottles of vodka with you.”
Forsdale never missed a beat. But tossing down vodka was not what he wanted. “Devise a premise and get him here as quickly as you can. Find a reason to arrange the dinner in his honor.”
The First Bitch had noticed them and strolled in their direction with a fake smile plastered on her face. Her eyes smoldered with scorn.
Warner continued, “In the meantime, find out who that woman is and make sure she’s there. She can even bring that man if she wants.”
“What if that man is her husband?”
Warner smiled. “I’m sure he won’t mind if the President of the United States has urgent business with his wife, hmm?”
Abbie strolled up to him and slid her arm into his for one more photo opportunity. Then he could get away from the woman for the rest of the day and consider his next conquest.
Just thinking about it threatened to give Warner a hard on in front of the cameras. His smile grew. What would the children think of that?
Chapter 32 – Loose Ends
The murky alley stunk of rotting produce, stale beer, and fresh vomit. Hiding out in the dark alcove between the dumpsters allowed a sheltered view of either end behind the Off-Broadway bar strip, but the aroma left little to be desired. Of all the places in New York City, someone should be shot to suggest such a meeting place.
Eric lit another cigarette more for scent disguise than for personal need, careful to hide the glowing embers from watchful eyes. Tremors in his hands increased before the moment passed. He’d need a fix soon.
Glass rattled along the far end of the alley. A drunken panhandler swayed into a trash can, picked himself up, then sorted through the spilled contents. The shadows enveloped him as Eric slunk deeper into the alcove and crushed out the cigarette. The bum might or might not be his contact – he couldn’t take chances.
After slowly picking his way along the alley, the vagrant made his way to the dumpsters. Eric heard a low mumble.
“Marco.”
“Polo,” Eric grunted, and rolled his eyes at the juvenile secret code.
The man squeezed into the alcove and nearly overcame him with the accompanying stench. Eric lit another cigarette. How informants managed living in such squalor he’d never understand. He wasn’t nearly as dedicated to his job to endure such filth.
The vagrant studied him through strands of grime encrusted hair. “Where’s Harry?”
Eric drew on the cigarette and blew smoke into the informant’s face to staunch the foul breath. “Reassigned. Name’s Eric.”
“Tom.”
He half expected Tom to teach him a secret handshake in order to be or
dained into his club. Instead Tom snatched the cigarette out of his mouth and drew hard on it before relaxing against the brick. The lines in his face eased. Time to get this circus over with.
Eric lit another cigarette. “You have something for us?”
Tom stuck out his greasy palm, and Eric dropped the remainder of the pack and the lighter in it with an accompanying wad of hundred dollar bills. Tom’s hand disappeared into the frayed trench and pulled out a smeared envelope.
The contents were startling.
Tom continued, “The Russian connection isn’t even the half of it. You know all those prostitute murders lately – the redheads?”
“I’m aware,” Eric stated as he rustled through the documents.
“I don’t have anything definitive to give you yet, but my sources are telling me it goes all the way up to someone at the White House.”
Shit!
In one fluid motion, Eric pulled the Glock and shoved it into Tom’s chest. The close proximity diffused the shot and kept it from echoing along the corridor. The lighter he’d given Tom clattered to the ground, the cigarettes scattering around his inert form. Eric picked up the lighter and held it under the envelope until the flames caught and raced up the edge.
After dumping the smoldering evidence in the trash, Eric fished the cigarette pack out of Tom’s coat, lit it and laid it near the dead man’s outstretched hand. The frayed edge of the trench caught before Eric made his way to the end of the alley and out of sight around the corner.
Chapter 33 - The Meeting
While Marcus stayed in his suite to slip into his tux and clip on cufflinks, Samantha stroked on liner and lipstick, slid into silk stockings, and had the auburn curls coifed. With everything in place, the seamstress eased her body into the dress. The body condom left little to the imagination.