He paced the room like he'd always done, too antsy and distracted to sit down or relax, letting the many threads of action run simultaneously in his head, watching them fail, seeing his reaction, finding new ways to prevail and win, replaying every possibility, seeing if he'd missed anything. His hands slid over his Ipad, calling up webpages or doing calculations, another level of his mind operating in parallel.
A few minutes later the door bell rang, a quiet gong to alert the guest inside, activated by the electronic key used by the porter to announce themselves. It was probably the person bringing up his coffee things, what did Cathy call them? Pods. He opened up the door and saw a short, lean woman whose hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail. Dressed in the stiff polyester white blouse and burgundy skirt of the hotel, her name tag said 'Rosa' but she was a dirty blond with pale skin – clearly not Latino, at least she didn't have any of the characteristics of Hispanics he'd grown up with in Texas, having friends who spoke and taught him Spanish from elementary school, onward.
She nodded at him deferentially then walked in, moving slowly and very carefully, like she was afraid she'd stumble or nervous because he was in a suite, the indication of a very rich customer, unlike the common folks in the rooms on the lower floors. She didn't know where the coffee machine was, lost before she found it, tucked away in the small kitchenette around the corner from the front door. It made something bubble up in the back of Jabo's mind, as he tried to think of what this situation reminded him of. Taking his silent direction, she'd found it at last, put the box of cups on the counter then returned, one hand slightly behind her skirt as she pulled out a small paper from a pocket on her short apron.
“Can you sign this, Mister Boivee?” Her accent was definitely not Latino or American, pure Eastern Europe. She smiled at him with an animal intensity, trying to be alluring – coming off as anxious, wired up and something else... deadly. The alarm bells went off as his outer demeanor toned down, hiding his growing awareness something was off about this interaction.
She sensed it the second after she stopped talking. Jabo didn't move closer to take the paper from her hand, what the last stupid American she'd dealt with had done, staring at her exposed cleavage, left open for him to ogle and leer at.
He'd been holding a very thin iPad Cathy had given him, pointing out the Apps he'd need to work out his plan, Google Earth and a very simple word processor to take notes, then a calculator he'd found that had built in geometric functions, square root and inverse. Flat in his palm, he held it like a discus at his side, his eyes tracking the slightly confused, anxious maid who'd brought up his coffee refills. Her face changed, the tight smile turned into a sneer. He saw her hidden hand start to come from behind her skirt, a silenced gun in her small hand.
Jabo lunged, moving before his mind could attach words to what he was seeing, going on automatic. His hand lifted up, mirroring hers, the entire scene unfolding in that weird slow motion effect he experienced during combat – when shit started happening at light speed yet seemed to unfold in slow motion.
His arm spat out the ipad like a frisbee, his entire upper body a tightened spring released to shoot it across the short distance between them. It had been one of his favorite passtimes over seas, playing killer frisbee tag with his crew who treated the plastic discs like bullets. If they touched you were dead. It was deadly fun – half chance, half skill – like combat.
Once they started playing, it had to be done no more than ten feet away from each other, since longer distances gave everyone too much time to react. Facing off, then someone moved, attacking, high speed frisbee dodge 'em. It created a split second melee of flying discs your body would twist, jump and bend to miss, because falling to the ground was forbidden, a form of cheating. Games would last about ten seconds on the average, until only one, untouched player, the last alive, was left. They played bare chest, with the two women who they allowed in, joining in the spirit of the thing by sporting skimpy bras that made the game more difficult for them, since something might pop out during a particularly violent movement.
They all went for the throat, literally, since hitting your opponent was one thing and disabling them with the hard plastic disc was another. It was old style, a coup or hit, the kind of attack the bravest Lakota Indians preferred, using a long stick they smashed into the enemies as their only weapon – demonstrating extreme courage in a gun battle.
Among his friends, you earned style points if you made someone cough, blink their eye or raise their hand to protect themselves. The throat throw was his specialty and he spun the narrow edged, metal backed iPad at the woman who was faced with the same high speed reaction quandary his people had aggressively faced and overcome. His team learned to man up and take it, suppress your coughing when hit, swallow a quick drink if you had to, all to steel yourself for the next game, resolving do unto others before they had time to do it to you.
His attacker swung her gun up, whipping it out from behind her back, trying to bat the flying disk out of the way with the clumsy silencer screwed on the barrel of the small automatic. From its size it had to be a low caliber gun, one that wouldn't make much noise heavily suppressed. She could kill him if the round hit his chest, penetrating his heart or a head shot that could bounce around inside – her normal shot. Usually she only needed one.
Her gun and silencer were heavy, heavier than her mind could compensate for in her spur of the moment blocking motion, what Jabo was counting on. Doing a practiced move was one thing, but a new motion with a novel purpose took mental effort, involving far more nervous activity, which slowed her reaction time. This all led to her pistol and silencer rising slower than the spinning Ipad that buried its corner in her neck near her larynx, a lucky shot, since the sensitivity of the spot it hit greatly amplified the effect of the speeding hunk of metal and glass. It skidded by her throat, nearly crushing her larynx which would have killed her unless he trached her so she could breathe. The nervous nexus in this part of the body was highly sensitive. Crushed and damaged, it flooded her brain with bolts of energy, stunning her mind as much as sharp jab to her head. Her grip on the pistol loosened as Jabo stepped into her body, batting away the gun with one hand, landing a sharp punch to her jaw, almost hard enough to break it. It was enough to knock her out. He completed his move, catching her body as she fell with an arm behind her back, so she wouldn't fall back on the artsy metal and glass monstrosity of a coffee table behind her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Cathy had a bag of his favorite hamburgers, a surprise lunch she'd bought to atone for her bitchiness and insubordination. Her new husband had a hotel maid draped over his arm, with her leg she'd raised in attack then dropped over his other, extended arm he'd used to bat her gun away before he knocked her cold. He looked like he was going to rip her legs wide and rape her, caught in the act as he was carrying her to the couch, her thighs tugged wide.
“She attacked me, we have to go, call Albert, no, let's go find him, our phones may be penetrated, hacked, whatever you call it.” He completed his move to drop the woman on the couch without worrying how she landed then hurried to the curtains, ripping off the cords. He sped back to the women he flipped over to tie her up, hands and feet. Cathy stood at the door, unable to move as she watched him move very very quickly. He'd done this before, maybe to other women.
“Didn't you hear me?” he barked at her. Cathy jumped, her body broke out of her catatonic shock and she looked around the room, trying to remember all the things she'd brought up, far too many – scattered without order around the suite of rooms.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she looked at him. Jabo was done with her hands, tied with loops spun around her wrists then tightened by other loops linked over them, making her recall a similar technique in bondage porno, embarrassing online porn she'd gotten addicted to when she was waiting for Jabo to come back and marry her. It made her pussy fire off, exactly what she didn't need. Inside another personality urged her, demanded he tie her up next. Ignoring her i
nternal reaction, Cathy sputtered out, “She attacked you?”
“You all right?” Jabo asked, sensing something was bothering her, nothing new. She nodded her head, dazed by what this new attacker meant, being found here, in the hotel. Grigor was very good at tracking down people and dispatching them, without concern for the consequences much less local police. Maybe they'd bit off more than they could chew. They might get killed like Missange and his family – fodder for the next news cycle.
He pulled at her bound ankles and hands behind her back, keeping her face down. Working hands and feet closer together with another cord, he tied it off before cutting the excess with a knife she'd never seen before.
“Cool huh?” He saw her notice the sharp blade, “got it from under her skirt, strapped to her thigh, backup I guess, real pro this one.” he cut the last cord then reached under her skirt and used the razor sharp knife to cut off her panties, one side then the other, alarming Cathy and making her very agitated cunt go nuts, seeing herself in the face down female, molested and taken by the strong, ruthless hunk that her husband had turned into. What the hell was he going to do to her now, with her bottom exposed – ready for action?
Cathy was dazzled, erotically flying because her 'Bodice Ripper' bondage fantasy had come to life! Jabo ignored her, not yet through with the female assassin who'd tried to kill him. If she'd been successful she would have stayed behind, hidden in the room so she could kill everyone, disappearing to report back to Grigor.
“Go gather everything that can talk on the internet, radio, wireless, laptops, tablets, beepers, cell phones, bring them to the bathroom and toss them in the bathtub and fill it with water, go!”
She was going to say 'but' then bit her lip, leaving him to pull the woman's skirt off then begin probing her asshole, certain her cunt was next, unable to keep watching her husband's ruthless search, being extremely thorough to find any hidden any weapons or tracking devices she might have stashed inside her body.
Cathy felt herself walking with a funny hitch in her step, each movement of her thighs seemed to resonate, adding to the excitement radiating from her aroused pussy lips, making her worry her hyper perceptive husband would recognize what was happening to her. She couldn't let him see how much his rough, domination of the murderous woman was turning her on. Could he handle a little deviance in his innocent, perfect new wife?
Cathy moved quickly around the room, collecting electronics to race off to the bathroom and toss into the rapidly filling bathtub. As she worked, visualizing the two of them role playing, with her as the evil assassin and Jabo the angry, very efficient soldier who'd captured her. She wished she could share stuff like this with her friends from college, but they'd never believe her. She could barely believe it herself !
When she passed through the living room again Jabo had the woman tossed over his shoulder. Following his wife, he carried her to the bedroom to drop the assassin on one of the large beds, face down. Her hands and feet, pulled close together, made her body arch back. Her forced posture would quickly produce agonizing cramps, worse because the cords binding her into position would make it impossible to stretch out to relieve them.
“I need to call Albert, do you remember his number, no wait, I got it here,” he patted his pockets and pulled out his small paper notebook he was always writing in, making her think she should get him the electronic equivalent, but now she wasn't so sure. Paper couldn't be tracked or hacked.
“Albert, got another one, yeah, little fishy number two, a real nasty one, well armed, so we have more weapons. You ready to come back to the hotel? Good, I'll shadow you up after I sweep the halls and stairways to see if she had any backup. There's a car across the street I don't like, no wait, it just moved,” he stepped back from the window, closing the curtains, pulling them to the center since he'd ripped their cords off the tie up the woman lying face down in the other room. He heard a thump then returned, taking the silenced automatic from his waist, giving it to Cathy.
“She rolled off the bed, stay ten feet away from her. If she tries to move herself toward you put one in her thigh, about here,” he tapped the outer, meaty part of his thigh, “so it won't hit anything that'll make her bleed out, got that, right here,” he tapped the meaty part of his thigh again. “Outside is best, all muscle, to discourage her, show her we're serious. Go! And stay far away from her, treat like a skunk that might spray you. She's really dangerous, probably bite an ear off if she could, or take out an eye, even tied up.”
Cathy gave him a 'are you serious?' look which got a sneer of disdain from him. How long was she going to stay in first gear? Pissing off Jabo was becoming a habit she needed to break, quickly.
Jabo folded his new knife, laying it alongside his forearm, hiding it while keeping it ready to use. He glanced outside their door, happy the other suite on the other side of the hallway was rented to a company whose salespeople were in town for a meeting, assuring someone innocuous was there, not a backup for the woman he'd just taken hostage. In one day he'd captured two of them. They'd need a dedicated facility soon, their personal Guantanamo, unless he started blowing them up. Nobody would miss these assholes, starting with him.
He cleared the halls then the stairs, going down a few flights then racing to the other stairway to quietly return up to his floor. Going higher, he found the roof access was alarmed and still locked. Looking closer he saw the key entry didn't show any picking scratches. He quickly returned to his room where he found Cathy sitting on double bed, where they'd made love only a few hours before, the other bed turned into a holding area for the woman who was staring at Cathy with murderous eyes, like she was playing a psychotic killer in a movie.
“So, Rosa, I know you can't tell me anything about Grigor, unlike Lance,” she reacted slightly, her eyes showing she struggled with English. “No visa I bet, one of Grigor's hidden assets. He's gonna miss you, but lucky you, getting to make new friends in the NSA and CIA. I bet they have a big file on you, with all sorts of gaps you can fill.”
“Fuck you,” she mumbled through her panties stuffed deep in her mouth then held in place with a few loops of cord around her head. “Kill you.”
“Hmm, you already tried that, but nice try, no make overs, you're toast, as we say it here, or...” He spoke the Russian phrase that meant 'totally fucked', getting a blink of confusion. She was amazed this American knew her language well enough to speak, laced with obscenities like a street tough. Jabo had a Moscow accent, learned from a native speaker, part of his continuing education in the field where he soaked up anything useful every minute of the day.
Someone tapped out 'shave and a haircut' on the door and he walked to the door, pulling it open rapidly. Albert pointed a silenced pistol at him while Jabo, held his knife behind the door's edge, ready to bury in the throat of anyone else who was feeling frisky and deadly.
“Where's the recycle bin?” Jabo asked, looking down the hallway to see if he'd brought backup.
“Just me,” he moved in, glancing in at Cathy and the naked, bound woman on the bed, “looks like you're shooting a porno movie in there,” his grin brought one to Jabo's face.
“Not yet, but who knows, are you that good at turning trained Russian assassins into film stars?”
“Fuck, she tried to kill you – really?” his gun moved up and Jabo pushed it back down.
“Easy Wyatt, I got it under control, she's hogtied six ways to Sunday and Cathy will shoot her in the leg if she starts wiggling. We're good, for an hour or so, after that...”
“Backup?”
“Yeah, Grigor's going to send more than one next time, everyone he's got, I assume. We have to go.”
“That's an understatement,”
Albert followed Cathy with her last load of electronic toys, seeing the tub full of phones and other electronics, scowling at his personal laptop under a few inches of water. “I see you put everything in the bathtub, a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?”,
Jabo reached in and plucked
Albert's phone out of his shirt pocket, “Where this is going,” he dropped it in the water as well as Albert tried to snatch it back and failed. “We're compromised and I don't have time for techies to do a scan and make it all better, got it?”
“Its a burner anyways, the real one is at home, the latest thing, what my kid told me to buy, killer shit too, great screen...” Albert stopped talking when he saw Jabo's eyes glaze over. Their fearless leader was more comfortable with a small paper notebook and probably pigeons in a pinch.
They had to leave. Everyone moved off to carry personal stuff to the front door, one pile was trash, the other was stuff they couldn't part with. Happily the designer clothes were in the trash pile and in the other were his and hers BDU's, jeans, t-shirts, running shoes and boots, what she assumed she'd need for the next phase of their operation that Jabo hadn't called off, plus the clothes she was wearing.
“What about her?” Albert turned his head to the bedroom where their frustrated assassin lay, wiggling on the floor.
“Trading material, for Grigor or your friends in the CIA. Your call. I'd just as soon toss her out the window and see her kiss the sidewalk.” His cool, joking tone didn't hide the killer look in his eyes. He was deadly serious, ready to dispose of her with a fatal swan dive after he'd figured out how to defeat the lock that kept the tall windows from cranking completely open.
Albert called someone on the room's phone line, taking it into a closet where he talked, then talked louder, finally yelling for someone called 'the fucking director' and then got quiet again. They had one more phone, another burner Cathy hadn't turned on yet, insuring it was clean.
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