Operation: Thrustmaster (Rock Hardin: Agent of A.S.S. Book 1)

by Alana Melos

  “What were you hired to do?” he asked, grabbing his shirt, and buttoning it up. The more he watched her, the easier her tells were to see now that she had let down her defenses having been caught in the lie.

  “Delay you, and that’s all,” she said, glancing down and away for a moment.

  “That’s not all,” he said. “What else?”

  “Nothing, I swear to you,” she said, biting her lip.

  “Where’s my contact?”

  “I don’t know! I was just given the car and told to hand you the papers,” Petite replied, looking earnest. “Please, please… he’ll kill me.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, considering the situation. If she were a male operative, he’d feel nothing working them over to get the information. A woman, though… he just couldn’t, and she was more scared of whoever hired her than she was of him. He went to his duffle bag and brought out a pair of handcuffs. “You’re going to stay put,” he said as he returned to her, taking her hand roughly and handcuffing her hands around the brass bed frame. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Just don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, her eyes huge and liquid.

  “I won’t,” he said as he gagged her. “I promise, I won’t. I’ll be right back.”

  He finished readying himself with his jacket and boots, then fished his gun and glasses out of his duffle, and the keys to the car out of her purse. Looking over her once more and satisfied the petite woman wouldn’t be able to escape, he exited, heading back down to the garage. When he reached the car, he opened the trunk… and saw the body of a woman inside, stuffed hastily in there. A twinge of guilt clenched his heart, but instead of wasting time over it, he reached in and searched. Burned remnants of what must have been the real dossier from the French lay underneath the body. “Fuck,” he said, slamming the trunk shut. His only lead now lay with Petite, and he’d do what he’d have to do.

  Fortunately for his conscience, something hard and heavy hit him on the back of the head. Unfortunately for his mission, consciousness swam away from him, and he sank to the ground.

  Chapter Three

  A sharp slap roused him from his unwanted slumber. Rock jerked away, pain racing through the back of his head and up his arms. He started to move, then realized he was strung up, his hands bound above him and hooked over something. He’d been stripped to his waist, open and vulnerable. As his senses came to him, the dark, almost dungeon-esque room swam into focus. The walls were made of a heavy, dark stone, which appeared to be rough to the touch. Chains and other accoutrements of a medieval prison were abundant, though no actual torture furniture or instruments he could see.

  A figure stepped before him, slapping him once more. “Are you awake, Mr. Hardin?” a cold male voice asked.

  “Not until you get me my coffee and a smoke,” he quipped, earning himself another hit. Rock heard some rustling behind him, and a grunt of effort. Turning his head slightly, he caught a flash of blonde hair, but then the man who’d hit him grabbed his jaw and forced him to look forward. He instantly recognized him from the fake dossier he’d read: Sebastian LeMarchand… Ms. Cutler’s lover.

  “I trust you’re awake now,” Sebastian said, letting go of Rock’s jaw and stepping backwards. “You couldn’t just enjoy Paris for a few more hours, could you? It would have all been done then.”

  “Let me go, you asshole!” a feminine voice behind him shrieked. “I’m going to fucking sue you!”

  LeMarchand laughed, looking over Rock’s shoulder to his other captive. “Quiet down now, my dear, the boys are talking.” He directed his cold gaze back to Rock. “I should kill you now… but we’ll have a little fun first.”

  “How ‘bout some football?” he asked. “Not soccer, real football.”

  The earned him a contemptuous laugh, and LeMarchand walked a few paces away. Rock kept his attention mostly on the villain in front of him, but tried to scout the room as best he could, orienting himself to the layout. His shirt, jacket, watch, and shoes were piled haphazardly on the table, their contents strewn across the surface… but they must have missed the gun in the shoe sole. The table stood by the only door to the room, a heavy wooden one with no window. He swiveled over to the other side and he saw Cynthia Cutler hanging in the same position he was, though only her tip toes brushed the floor. She was practically naked, hanging there in her expensive black underwear, and looked to have bruise on her body, as if she’d been beaten lightly. Rock ground his teeth and set his jaw at the sight.

  Even though she must have been hit a few times, she still wasn’t taking her captivity lying down. Cindy squirmed and grunted, trying to get herself off of the hook as LeMarchand circled her. “You’re so feisty,” he murmured. “So… full of rebellious spirit.” He ran his fingers down her side, and she shrank away from him as much as possible.

  “You are a fucking asshole!” she snarled at him. “How could you do this to me, Sebastian? I thought we had something!”

  “No, no, my dear, you’re just an idiot,” he said, removing his hand and wandering over to the table. Cindy shrieked in rage at that while LeMarchand moved Rock’s jacket aside, revealing what lay underneath… the instruments of torture Rock had been looking for earlier. “It is such a shame I cannot keep you, but I will give you something to remember me by…”

  When he turned back to his two captives, LeMarchand held a cat-o-nine-tails, a small one, but each lash looked to have something shiny and sharp at the end of it. Cutting a glance over to Cindy, Rock saw she spied it too, and quieted down almost immediately, her face paling. “That’s what you like?” Rock taunted him. “Beating little girls? Can’t get it up otherwise?”

  The words caused the villain to look to the secret agent. “Oh, you object? Very well, I will start with you… and I don’t need to keep you around.” He approached Agent Hardin, who braced himself. He’d had worse in his years in the field, and he stood there unflinching as LeMarchand cranked his arm back. The tails of the whip whistled as they came down, and pain sparked through his side as the barbs cut him. It wasn’t deep, but when LeMarchand pulled back, they ripped the slight wounds open more to let the blood flow freely.

  “Stop!” Cindy cried. “You sick fuck! Just stop it!” Her voice trembled, and broke on the last word.

  Rock didn’t let a sound escape him, though he had to grind his teeth together to do it. “That all you got, jack-off?” He did his best to sound casual, but he knew his voice had tightened under the onslaught of the pain. The burning sensation in his side ached and throbbed, and when LeMarchand hit him again with the cat-o-nine-tails on his back, a small grunt escaped him. “My mom hits harder than you do.” His taunts were hitting home, though at a glance Rock knew LeMarchand was getting off on it. He had to be a sexual sadist, one of the worst kinds of people in Rock’s opinion. A third strike. The barbs dug into his back, and when the whip was pulled free, skin came with it. “Just tell me who you’re working for,” Rock said, trying to keep his voice even. “Russians? Chinese? Hell, Korea?”

  “That is none of your business, monsieur Hardin,” LeMarchand said. “And once we get the scientist, it won’t matter.”

  The scientist? Rock frowned slightly, glancing over to Cindy. Her blue eyes locked with his, and he could read the fear in them, loud and strong, the silent plea to help her, and the desire to help him. “That’s why you need her,” he said, piecing it together. “You’re not after the plans… you’re after him.” He looked back to LeMarchand, and shook his head. “She’s your insurance, to keep him in line.”

  “The plans he brings us won’t go to waste either,” he laughed, walking around the agent, inspecting his handiwork. He ran a finger through the blood which trickled down Hardin’s back, then licked it off the tip. “Mm… once we put his brilliant mind to work, there will be no stopping the Society.”

  “Society, huh?” Rock asked. “Can I join? I have a tux. I’d fit right in.”

  LeMarchand smirked, “No, Agent Hardin. You’re going to di
e in this room. I wonder how long it will take you to bleed to death.” He paused, fingering the handle of the whip. He cranked it back, “Let’s find out…”

  Before he could land the blow, the wooden door opened. “Sir, we need to go,” Petite said as she walked into the room. She barely looked at the prisoners as she strode in, “Nemo has radioed. He’s in position, and the scientist is about to board the ferry.” There were multiple ferries between England and France; there was no telling which one she meant. Rock trusted Maverick would be on Cutler’s six, but he had to get to his watch, or barring that, a radio to give the clear to snatch the scientist before he boarded. With the nickname Nemo, more than likely they would assail the ferry using a submarine from below… and then disappear into the depths of the oceans after blasting the boat into scrap. A little over elaborate for Rock’s thinking, but the confusion with sinking a ferry and the likely missing bodies afterwards would have covered Cutler’s kidnapping handily, had the ASS not gotten the tip off about Dr. Cutler’s cut and run.

  LeMarchand sighed, almost regretfully, but still brought the cat-o-nine-tails down one more time viciously, the barbs sinking into Rock’s back. He twisted slightly as his assailant pulled the barbs out. “Very well,” he said, moving back to the table to put the weapon down. He moved towards Cynthia, and lifted her off the hook, then threw her over his shoulder despite her protests. “Adieu, Agent Hardin,” he said. “Perhaps in the next life.”

  “No, no, I’ll be seeing you soon,” Rock said. “You can count on it.”

  The lunatic laughed lightly, “No, I won’t, but I appreciate the… how do you say… bravado.” He turned to Petite, “Give him to Gerard. He is hungry, and prefers his meat… kicking.”

  The diminutive woman nodded her head, and both exited the room, closing the door behind them. Rock wasted no time in trying to tug the hook loose from the ceiling, but it was too firmly seated. He began to lift himself up, trying to unhook himself when the door opened again. Immediately he relaxed so that he was hanging straight once more. A thug he’d never seen before led in a big grey dog… no, wolf… into the room via a leash. The wolf growled and snapped, looking at Rock like he was his next meal… and the agent probably was. When the thug unleashed the wolf, he backed away quickly and slammed the door shut behind the huge grey beast.

  As the wolf lunged at Rock, he swept his legs up, barely avoiding the wolf’s attack. The beast slid into the wall, but recovered in an instant. Desperation lending him strength, he grabbed hold of the hook with one hand and started to lift himself off of it. The wolf leapt at him once more, and he couldn’t swing away completely this time. The wolf’s teeth sank into his calf, but Rock kicked at it with his free leg. The kick connected solidly, and the beast let go, retreating only for a moment, snarling still.

  The moment was all he needed. He lifted himself off of the hook and his feet landed firmly on the ground. With his hands still bound together, he wouldn’t be able to fend off the circling creature for long. The wolf approached, growling the entire time. Saliva dripped from its jaws as he moved with it slowly, watching the wolf, waiting for its attack. The blood from his wounds trickled down his side, leaving fat spatters of blood behind as he glided towards the table. Unable to reach behind him to search, he had to turn his back on the beast… and the wolf took that as a sign to attack.

  Rock scrambled, searching his things which LeMarchand had left behind. As the wolf jumped for the last time to attack, the agent found what he was looking for. He turned just in the nick of time to spray the breath spray in the wolf’s snout, the knock out gas contained within rendering the wolf unconscious in a matter of seconds. The great beast fell forward with the momentum of its jump, landing on an ungainly heap on top of Rock, knocking him back against the table and then down to the floor. His back and ribs bruised on the edge, he shoved the unconscious wolf off of him and dropped the empty, tiny canister, glad to be alive.

  Agent Hardin took a breath as he stood, then wasted no more time in finding the switchblade he always carried with him. He cut the ropes holding his hands together, and grabbed his watch. He opened it up, saw it still carried a charge, and radioed Maverick. “Tex, come in, Tex,” he said, voice betraying the urgency of the situation. Silence. “Mav, come in, man,” he said, saying a quick prayer under his breath.

  “North, go for Tex,” came the faint, static-ridden reply.

  “Goldilocks is out of the cottage,” he said, lying straight out… but hopefully not for long.

  “Roger, putting Papa Bear to bed,” came the reply. Without further ado, Rock shut down and strapped on the watch. He didn’t have much time to catch them. Throwing his jacket on quickly, he stuffed everything else in his pockets, keeping only his switchblade out. They’d, of course, taken his gun, but he still had the mini-uzi in his boot if he needed it.

  With care, Rock pushed on the wooden door, but it didn’t give at all. Instead of fussing around with it for much too long, he took a step back and kicked it, again and again. Wood cracked and splintered, then finally the lock on the outside gave way as he kicked the door open. No shouts were raised, so he took a leap of faith and plunged into the hallway outside. It was clear. He found his way to the steps upstairs, and slowed his pace slightly, trying to listen for enemies. The staircase twisted round in a circle, and he followed it up to a bright entrance, large wall length windows showcasing the French countryside… from on top of a large hill, or mountain.

  As Rock moved through the room, he heard noises coming from the next. He slowed his pace, heart thumping in his chest as he approached the door. Easing it open, he snuck a glance and saw two ladies having what appeared to be a very good, if somewhat unusual, time. A tall, lithe black woman with an afro stood dressed in a black leather dominatrix outfit, complete with tall boots and silver studs lined up and down her costume. She circled around a smaller woman, naked save for a collar, who was on her hands and knees. The white brunette sobbed into what appeared to be a riding bit, like what was used to guide horses. As the tears streaked down her face, he just knew he had to get involved even though time was against him.

  All he had on him was the knife, though since it was just a woman (even though she was a very tall and very strong looking woman, she was a woman nevertheless), confidence surged through him and he didn’t get the micro uzi hidden in his boot. Agent Hardin opened the door, and strode inside. He pointed the knife at the black woman coming fully into the room as he demanded, “Get away from her.”

  Both women stopped what they were doing and looked at him. The black woman recovered much more quickly, and reached over to pick up something while the perfect ‘O’ of surprise on the white girl’s face made her drop her bit. “You should be dead!” she exclaimed.

  The confusion which ran through him must have showed on his face, for when the taller woman turned back to him, holding a long bull whip in her hand. “Don’t worry, M,” she said, her French accent sexy and dangerous all at the same time. “He will be, soon.”

  “Uh…” he said, somewhat ungainly looking between the two of them. The white girl stood up, her perfect breasts bouncing as she strode towards him, following the taller black woman. “Aren’t you… in trouble?”

  The white girl glanced to her mistress, who nodded allowing her permission to speak. “I want to be here, you stupid man,” she said, taking off the bit and keeping it in her hand, most likely to use as a weapon. “Squares like you don’t get us, man, but we’re the future,” she said.

  “That’s enough, M,” the black woman said, cutting her off sharply. “This one is mine.”

  “Yes, Mistress S,” she said, bowing her head.

  M cracked her whip, narrowly missing Rock as he moved back. “Slave M is right, though, we are the future,” she said as the two women split up, one on each side. “You, though, you and your Establishment belong in the past.” She laughed throatily as they circled him, cutting off any means of escape, and he weighed his options. S exuded exotic danger with e
very step, confidence and arrogance pouring off of her in waves. M seemed more subdued, but eager… eager to please her mistress, the dominatrix. His choice made, he moved swiftly, surprising the smaller woman. She attempted to punch him, but his superior training helped him to easily dodge the blow, and grab her arm, spinning her around and jamming her arm halfway up her back.

  She cried out in pain and ecstasy both as he wrenched her arm. “Yes! Yes! Oh God!” Somewhat horrified and definitely surprised by her reaction, he loosened his grip, though he didn’t let her go. “No! More! I want more!”

  S lashed out with the whip, striking her slave, who moaned again in pleasure. “Stupid slut,” she said. “No one hurts you but me!”

  “No one should be hurting anyone!” he exclaimed, bewildered by the pair. A man being a sexual sadist he understood. It was about power more than sex, about exerting control over another being… and that was a man’s thing. The two women confused him completely, throwing his world view slightly out of kink. “I’m just passing through… you can go back to your… activities.”

  M wiggled against him, her bare ass stroking his cock through his jeans, bringing it to life. He groaned as he backed up, trying to ignore his more primal instincts. Distracted by the wanton writhing in his arms, he didn’t sense her movement until it was too late. M raised her foot and stomped his, hard. He let go of her and hopped backwards as S raised the whip again. M dodged out of the way, and the whip licked along his chest, raising red welts where it hit him on his pec. “Mmm… yes, Agent Hardin,” she said, her voice low and throaty. “I’ll so enjoy beating you.”

  He didn’t want to hit a woman, much less two of them. It went against everything in his nature, everything his father had taught him, and his own experience had confirmed. It was a new world, however, and to live, he had to adapt to it. Maybe he could find a compromise, however, giving the ladies what they seemed to want and subduing them at the same time. The thought was a balm to his ethics, soothing his conscience as he knew what he had to do. He had to become part of their scene, become a master to M but a slave to S all at the same time if had any hopes of surviving this while keeping his ethics intact. He might be a bastard, but he wasn’t a fucking bastard, and that fact had kept him in espionage for all these long years. He had to know what he was doing was right, else he could do the things he did.