Pussycat Death Squad

by Holcomb, Roslyn Hardy

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

  PUSSYCAT DEATH SQUAD

  Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

  www.loose-id.com

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC's e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * *

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  Pussycat Death Squad

  Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  www.loose-id.com

  Copyright © July 2009 by Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN 978-1-59632-947-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter One

  The would-be assassin's collarbone snapped with a sickening crunch. Sergeant Lelia Assad swallowed against a bitter wave of nausea as she focused on the task at hand, preventing collateral damage. Collarbones are a vulnerable body point and a quick way to incapacitate an opponent in a critical situation. She did wonder, though, if she'd ever grow accustomed to that distinctive sound. After all, it was one of the perks of her profession. As her left hand followed her right, bringing the blade sharply down on the man's wrist, she shut down her body's reaction as she'd been trained to do and relied on muscle memory to complete the task of eliminating the threat. The blow against his radial nerve forced the attacker to drop his weapon as she had intended. Lelia looked down at the man who cowered at her feet. Despite his supplicant position, his eyes blazed with rage. After assuring that he was totally incapacitated, she quickly scanned the crowd for any accomplices. Finding none, she turned as Astaria, her second in command, rushed to her side.

  “Where's the Colonel?”

  “Back at the palace,” Astaria replied. Her sparkling golden brown eyes were never still as she scanned the crowd as well.

  “Are the exits blocked off?”

  “Yes, Sergeant, but we didn't find anyone else.”

  “Good.” Lelia raised her voice as other soldiers joined them. “Restrain him. We need to take him back to headquarters for questioning.”

  Two soldiers knelt beside the attacker and began placing handcuffs on his wrists. Others began working crowd control.

  After ensuring that her soldiers had the situation well at hand, Lelia turned and began walking back toward the squad's headquarters.

  “That's the third one this month,” Astaria said, keeping pace beside her.

  “Four, if you count the one we found lurking in the Palladium Palace.”

  Astaria shook her head, her expression grim. “Yes, but the Colonel wasn't there.”

  “Doesn't matter. Obviously the man wasn't there to deliver figs and honey.”

  “Someone's trying to kill the Colonel.”

  “You think?” Lelia tossed the snide comment over her shoulder but almost instantly regretted it. It was hardly Astaria's fault that they had once again had to thwart an attack against their leader. She glanced down at her friend. Astaria seemed to have taken the quip with good humor; she smiled in return, then continued her point.

  “I meant that it seems more systematic.”

  Lelia stopped midstride, then glanced around to determine their degree of privacy. Most of the crowd that had gathered to hear the Colonel speak had dispersed at the first sign of trouble. Years of conflict and a brutal civil war had conditioned the people to run first and ask questions later, if at all. But there were still a few stragglers, and this was hardly the type of conversation she would want overheard by just anyone. She pulled Astaria into a niche built into the neoclassical architecture of Colonel al-Fariq's favorite palace.

  “How do you mean?” she asked in a voice just above a whisper. She automatically switched to Swahili, a language they both spoke due to their East African ancestry. Few Laritreans spoke it, making it perfect for such situations.

  Astaria answered in kind, making an equally smooth transition to one of the many languages they spoke. She kept her voice soft as well. Whispers carry much farther than softly spoken words. “Some of these attacks have been absurd. Like the one today. A lone knife attack against eight heavily armed guards?” She gestured toward their high-caliber sidearms, worn holstered on their webbed pistol belts.

  “We've seen it before. It was pretty much a suicide mission. That's why we stopped shooting them and started using nonlethal means,” Lelia said.

  “I think they're testing us or softening us up for something.”

  Lelia pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to head off a massive headache that lurked just behind her eyes. “You mean a coup attempt?” she asked, her voice softening even further.

  Astaria nodded. “Or something to that effect.”

  “Why haven't you said anything before now?” Lelia asked, still surveying the surrounding area.

  “I assumed you'd already considered it,” Astaria replied with a shrug.

  “I had. I just wondered how many other members of the Guard had too.”

  “To counteract an assassin, you must enter the mind of an assassin.”

  Lelia pursed her lips as her second in command quoted verbatim from the training manual Lelia had devised. “Sometimes you are much too smart.”

  Astaria smiled again, an odd response considering the grim issue they'd been discussing. “I learned at the foot of the master.” She sketched a slight bow in Lelia's direction.

  Lelia cuffed her gently on the head, then started toward the entry to the palace once again. “Insolent.”

  * * *

  The interview wasn't going well. Hardly surprising given that the Colonel had to have been mad to agree to it in the first place. Lelia couldn't fathom what would make the normally savvy leader agree to an interview with an American reporter. Nothing good could come from it, no matter what his purposes might have been. There were all sorts of rumors about a top secret transaction with the Americans. Some said oil had been discovered, while others claimed it was some type of mineral. No one really knew the truth, and the Colonel, cagey as always, would only smile and shake his head when someone dared inquire. Now, watching this interview from her guard post, Lelia had to finally acknowledge that there must be some truth to the rumors; otherwise she couldn't imagine why he hadn't dismissed the rude reporter when he began asking about the Amazonian Guard.<
br />
  Of course, his inquiry might be a diversion, as he hadn't gotten any further than anyone else when he asked about the rumored American deal. Cam Watson, the reporter, was a superstar in journalism circles, an American freelancer who had written a best seller a few years previously. The book, about the firefighters who had extinguished the oil well fires after the Kuwaiti war, had even been made into a movie. Lelia had read and enjoyed the thriller. Watson was an excellent reporter and writer. The Middle East seemed to be his regular beat, and he even spoke Arabic, an unusual skill in a Western journalist. None of these facts allayed her concerns about the Colonel granting this interview.

  “So, what do you think about that, Sergeant Assad?” Cam asked in Arabic. Lelia hid her ability to speak English and several other languages a closely guarded secret. It helped quite a bit in intelligence gathering, and it generally saved her from having to participate in interviews with the Western media.

  Lelia stared at the reporter blankly. She had no idea what he was asking her about or, for that matter, why he was asking her anything. As far as she knew, she'd never agreed to be interviewed. Of course, the Colonel was infamous for “volunteering” people for various distasteful duties… Best to maintain politeness, even if it was a facade. “I beg pardon, sir. Could you repeat the question?” She deliberately kept her tone flat and devoid of any interest in his query.

  Apparently Watson was accustomed to hostile interviews, as he simply asked it again. “Colonel al-Fariq has repeatedly stated that he chose an all-female guard because women are naturally more loyal.” At Lelia's reluctant nod, he continued, “Do you think your loyalty is based on true patriotism, or is it because it's the only life you have ever known?”

  Lelia gritted her teeth, but her training kept her face perfectly blank as she responded. “Sir, the civil war that ripped my country apart ended before I was old enough to understand what was happening. But I lost both of my parents in it. Colonel al-Fariq has done the near-impossible and held the country together in prosperity for decades. It is an honor to serve him.”

  Watson nodded, his bright green eyes glittering with sharp intelligence. “How do you feel about serving in such a prominent role in a country where women have traditionally held a more subservient position?”

  Before she responded, Lelia glanced at the Colonel, who nodded his assent. “I'm not sure what you mean. We certainly adhere to local customs; we wouldn't think of doing otherwise.” She gestured toward her closely tailored uniform. “We don't wear the hijab when in uniform, but we certainly are honored to do so when we're off duty.” Most women in Laritrea didn't wear the hijab. Lelia encouraged the Amazonian Guard to do so to compensate for their nontraditional roles. There was nothing to gain from pointing this out to an American reporter, however. They only saw what they wanted to see. “As for the rest of your question, I think it is my patriotic duty to fulfill whatever role is required of me. The Amazonian Guard works diligently to protect Colonel al-Fariq.” She gave the pat answer in the same monotonous tone she'd used with other questions, but knew he could detect a sharpness in her response that she'd managed to restrain previously. She hated nothing more than the assumption that all Arab women were docile cows.

  “Oh, I don't doubt that you work very hard. I'm just curious about your role, given the very strict rules governing women's lives in most of the Muslim world.”

  Fortunately for Lelia, the Colonel chose to interject. “First, I'm not sure I would consider Laritrea to be part of this Muslim world of which you speak. In fact, this idea of a Muslim world, a Western world, et cetera…is puzzling to me. We are all one world, are we not?” He waved his hands in an all-encompassing gesture. “A curious habit, that. Dividing the world into these political and religious factions. No sooner had the Soviet Union collapsed than suddenly we became 'the Muslim world.' Why do you think that happened, Mr. Watson?” He continued as though he didn't expect an answer, or maybe he didn't want one. “Most assuredly the majority of my people are followers of the Prophet, peace be unto him.” There was a brief pause before he continued in a softer tone, “As am I. However, that doesn't make this a Muslim country any more than the United States is a Christian country. We have no state-ordered religion. We are, in fact, a secular country.”

  The reporter displayed his experience and shrewdness by pouncing on the most intriguing point in al-Fariq's monologue. “Sir, pardon me for asking such an impertinent question, but there are rumors that you are, in fact, an atheist. What is your response to such rumors?”

  Al-Fariq stood. “I've already answered your question. I am a devout Muslim; anyone saying otherwise is clearly ignorant of my faith and of me. Now, I've given you enough of my time on such a lovely afternoon. I must return to my duties.” He gestured toward the two guards who maintained their positions on either side of the entry door to his office. “Please see Mr. Watson out. I trust that he has sufficient information for his article.”

  Lelia studied the reporter's back as he left the room without protest. She had no doubt that they hadn't seen the last of the man, and the upcoming article was sure to create a firestorm even greater than those firefighters had faced.

  * * *

  Lelia rushed into the Colonel's office in response to a bellow that could be heard on the other side of the palace. For a moment she wondered if there had been yet another assassination attempt but was quickly reassured upon seeing both his assigned guards at their posts on either side of the door. She paused in the doorway, struggling to maintain her passive expression as a laptop computer flew across the room, crashing explosively into the wall. The wall's chipped paint and discoloration gave mute testimony that it was the favorite target for anything the Colonel found offensive. Unfortunately for the palace decorator, the opulent room had been redone only a few weeks ago. The rococo furnishings with their rich velvets and gilded pretty-much-everything were so gaudy, Lelia was convinced the decorator was having a huge laugh at the Colonel's expense. She wondered why he'd never taken aim at any of the hideous furniture. Instead, he seemed to reserve his ire for things that plugged in. He was especially hard on electronics; that was the third laptop this week. At least he hadn't thrown it at anyone's head—this time. As an aide came scurrying into his office with a replacement, she wondered, not for first time, why they didn't just get him a desktop model. Of course, there was a strong possibility that he would just shoot it, as he was wont to do with the plasma TVs that could be found in nearly every room in his palaces. She remained at attention until he gestured for her to join him at his desk.

  “Look at this; just look at this!” he yelled in Arabic, an indicator of his level of distress. Under normal circumstances he preferred to speak French, a holdover from his lengthy exile in that country. He motioned toward the computer screen. “Can you believe this story, Sergeant? Have you ever seen anything so blasphemous?”

  Lelia paused for a moment to take in al-Fariq's increasingly florid complexion; his tall form practically vibrated with his rage. She tuned out the rest of his invective as she leaned over his desk to read the news story on the computer screen.

  Laria, Laritrea (AP) What man would not be pleased in having 40 highly trained and deadly bodyguards who just happen to be beautiful enough to grace any catwalk? Col. Murad bin Sulaiman al-Fariq, leader of this small North African country, is such a man. He has been blessed with an entourage of femmes fatales called the Amazonian Guard—more commonly known, at least in Western circles, as the Pussycat Death Squad.

  The Amazonian Guard goes through a rigorous basic training ordeal at a special academy to become experts with firearms and in martial arts. In a word, they become trained killers. The women who qualify for duty are required to be virgins, and of course, physically attractive. They are handpicked, some when they are as young as eight years old, by al-Fariq himself.

  According to al-Fariq, he chose an all-female guard because women are innately more loyal. He alleges that, as women in this nominally Muslim country, they
have no ambition to succeed him as leader. There are some who do question the women's loyalty, or at least they would if they could speak out in this country where niceties such as free speech are nonexistent. It is hard to believe that these women would be willing to eschew a life of their own to serve the aged leader if they had other opportunities. Essentially they are a twenty-first-century harem, albeit one that is armed to the teeth, chosen when they are too young to make such a life-altering decision.

  Her breath hissed between her teeth as she came across that hated nickname, Pussycat Death Squad. How dare they? The Amazonian Guard had existed for more than two decades as a respected fighting force. It was only when the Western media discovered them that they had been reduced to something out of a James Bond movie. Her soldiers were well trained and prepared to vanquish any opponent, yet they were denigrated with that horrible name. She'd known it was a bad idea to talk to that American reporter. Pah! What nonsense. Since when did any Western reporter give fair coverage in an African country? At least the rest of the Guard, isolated in the barracks, were unlikely to read the story. But the rest of the world most definitely would.