by Laer Carroll
They peeled off into several vans and SUVs. Sasha wedged herself in between the two biggest FBI men in one van. As she was an "observer" she had not geared up .
A half-hour drive brought the vans to rendezvous points. Those of the attacking elements bracketed the target building from two blocks away. Surveillance agents had been around the scene for hours. Far overhead, silent and invisible to anyone on the ground, a helicopter flew in a circle.
Sasha was with the FBI team when it stopped five blocks away and let two men off, wearing civilian clothing and carrying weapons and other equipment in gym bags. She left with them but walked away from them, her equipment bag swinging as easily as if it were empty.
Turning a corner she began a slow transition. Her skin darkened, her body fat expanded to give her a bit of the look of great strength her compact super-efficient muscles gave her, and her face became the harsh knife-blade of a Xulu warrior. Hard and fierce emotion swelled within her. As in every one of her competitions she was now on the rails of a track no one had better try to derail.
She worked her way around to the downwind side of the target building. That side was still to the south. The north wind from the Sound had let up a bit but not much.
As she ambled into the wind and closer to the target building she began to get warnings. She could smell the surrounding forces. But she could also smell the drug gang. It was all awake. It was excited. There was a tinge of hate and readiness. And the smell of weapons was strong.
The enemy was ready for them.
She took out her cell phone and called the SWAT captain.
"Captain Demir, they're waiting for us. Something has warned them."
"Canaro? What the Hell are you doing on the phone? Get off! Don't call again!"
"Sir—" But he'd hung up .
"Shit!"
There was no one around to see her. The shapechanger opened her bag. She put on straps and holsters for weapons and ammunition. Geared up she sat, removed her socks and boots, put them in the bag with her armor and over-sweater, and secured the bag as a backpack. She changed the skin on her feet. They now were boot-leather tough but surer on uncertain surfaces.
She sped up her metabolism and time seemed to slow.
She crouched, leaped, caught a rusty iron balcony with a hand, and boosted herself to stand on the railing top. Pivoting, she leaped across the narrow street to the middle level of a fire escape. She raced up six stories to the roof and swung over its edge. Then she ran toward the side nearest the target building to the north.
The next building was a little higher. At a run the shapechanger jumped up and across the forty-foot gap onto that building. Her vision was heightened. The roof ahead, lit only by stars and the night glow of the city, was like a very grey day to her. Near monochrome but perfectly clear, especially when she magnified what she saw.
She repeated this once more and slowed to come to the lip of the last building south of the target.
At each building next to the target's corners a sniper was looking down at the sides of the target. None seemed to notice that behind the roof edges of that building gunmen were slowly rising to aim at the snipers.
She slowed time still more, zoomed her eyes to 3x magnification, targeted the eye sockets of the six closest men, and began firing her M5 carbine as fast as she could. Re-targeted to the skulls of the two on the far corner of the target building who were looking away from her. Fired two more shots .
To those listening the sound of her firing was like the ripping, buzzing sound of a machine gun with a brief stutter at the end.
The snipers' head jerked toward her. She lifted a free hand and waved at them, jabbing the hand toward the target building.
She eyed the snipers carefully to make sure none aimed at her, paying most attention to the one furthest from her, on the diagonal of the target building. He would find her hard to make out even though he wore night-vision goggles.
She could see them turn to look at the gunmen's bodies, a couple still falling in (to her) slow motion. A couple had been close enough to the low parapet around the top of their building to have slumped over the top of the parapet.
Slowly the snipers' heads turned toward her. One by one they nodded and lifted a hand in an OK sign. The farthest was the last.
She waited till sure all four of them had their rifles pointed toward the target. Then Sasha ran to the corner of her building closest to the front of the target building. That was where the SWAT team below would deploy and she could see them well from up here.
And soon it did, undeterred by the firing up above. Though not very soon to Sasha, still in slow time.
They came out of an adjoining building in orderly pairs of shooters, the lead pairs holding shields in front of them. They moved fast but carefully, guns swiveling toward the front of the target building, some aiming high, some low.
Sasha saw it first, coming out of a middle window, the grey tube of a rocket launcher, pointing down.
It was moving into view too fast. Even she, in slow time, could not keep it from firing. There was a flash from the launcher and a streak of fire behind the emerging rocket.
The shapechanger began firing along the path the rocket was taking, leading it but less and less as she got a better fix on the grenade. Sparks flew on the street beyond her as her bullets struck, shattering and ricocheting.
One of her bullets struck the rocket. It exploded and showered the deploying SWAT team with stray fragments.
She swiveled her weapon to take out the launcher and its trigger man. But other weapons were firing. The SWAT team below and on the roofs had fast reflexes and weapons already aimed at the building.
The tube tilted down and fell spinning end-over-end. The torso of a man flopped half out of the window.
Sasha swapped her near-empty 30-round magazine for a full one and began running back the way she had come, toward the center of her building and of the target building across from her. There she swerved toward her roof's edge, toward the opposite roof top.
She launched herself. Upright, legs windmilling, she sailed over the parapet of the target building, her M5 pointing toward anyone who might come up from the central stairwell below and in front of her.
She landed on the roof top, ran several feet, losing momentum and getting her balance. Then she ran to the stairwell entrance, slammed through it and began rapidly descending the stairs beyond.
At the first floor down from the roof she went to the door to the floor. Listening at the closed door, she heard no one moving in the hall beyond. Then she was through it, crouching, her weapon swiveling left and right.
There was no one in the hallway, which ran all the way through the building. Doors on each side of the hall were closed.
The shapechanger walked quickly to each door, opened it, and peered inside. She saw much furniture and some junk, but no people.
She cleared the floor, returned to the stairwell, entered it. Took the stairs down to the next floor down.
There she encountered a couple of opponents. They didn't have guns. She sped by them, striking each of them lightly on the head. She didn't concuss any of them, just injected them with go-to-sleep messengers.
The next floor she met some opposition, three men with guns. Each died with a bullet through an eye socket. None had been fast enough in turning a weapon toward her to keep her from being surgical.
The next floor, the seventh from the ground, contained more men and several unarmed women and children. The men with weapons died, also surgically. She tapped the survivors on their heads as she raced by them, putting them to sleep.
Done, she looked around. Her battle focus relaxed a bit. The children touched her heart. She went to each and to each woman, adjusting their positions so they lay on their sides so they wouldn't drown in their drool. She also adjusted their bodies to more comfortable positions. As an afterthought she did the same to the two surviving men.
The sixth floor had three women and seven men. Every man ha
d a weapon. They died, their heads exploding from her bullets. The women were carrying ammunition or some other burden. Them she merely put to sleep.
At the fifth floor entrance she heard shooting beyond, the sound of shouts. Some were from SWAT members, demanding surrender.
She began running back the way she had come, ascended the stairs, reached the roof top. A helicopter was descended toward it, a searchlight splashing the roof in erratic swings. Before the light could target her she launched herself onto the next roof over, then traversed several roofs beyond. Behind her a searchlight was swinging her way. It never found her.
A fire escape took her to the street level. No one was about. Anyone near who had heard the gunfire was staying inside the buildings.
Sasha sat down, returning to regular time. She pulled on her socks and shoes, put her M5 and remaining ammunition inside the bag. She removed one of her two pistols from a holster and lay it on the sidewalk. The battle straps, holsters, and extra pistol went into the bag. She zipped it up. Standing, she put the pistol inside her belt, pulled her shirt out of her pants to cover the pistol.
Then she went home, gobbled half the food in her refrigerator, and fell into bed and sleep.
At 10 am she was alerted by her door chime. She walked to it and opened the door. Two FBI agents, a man and a woman, were standing there in her apartment's hall way.
"Ms. Canaro, would you please come with us?"
"Certainly. Come in. I was just having toast and coffee. Want some?"
"No, thank you. Come with us, please. Now."
She was dressed in a silken white dressing gown. She turned to look at them fully.
They seemed determined. She smiled. Long platinum hair curled down one side of her body. Seemingly perfectly made up, barefoot, she was every straight man's and Lesbian's dream.
She let her gown slip open and slide down off her body. She was perfectly and gloriously nude. Her arms were perfectly relaxed at her sides.
"Like this? "
"No. Put that back on," the man said.
"No."
"Please," said the woman. Both were young, for agents, about 30. They looked even younger to her, all scrubbed and polished and made up for a day at the (Sunday) office.
"No. If you're arresting me you get me exactly as you see. I wouldn't be surprised if someone took pictures of me. And they somehow got on the Internet. And in newspapers and magazines and God knows what all. The FBI will get all sorts of interesting publicity."
"Oh, shit, Horace," the woman said, turning to him.
He looked stubborn for a moment. A smile struggled, then won into a chuckle.
"Oh, Hell." He turned away, not without a sweeping look down and up her body. "Please get dressed and come with us."
"Ms. Canaro."
"Ms. Canaro," he repeated after her.
The female FBI agent bent, picked up the gown, and offered it to Sasha. She took it but did not put it on.
"I'll get dressed. But I'm not leaving until I've dressed properly and finish my toast and coffee. You two may as well have some. There's plenty."
And there was. Thick slabs of her favorite tart cheese were melted into the tops of her toast. Sasha's breakfasts were mere appetizers to her, but they were not small.
No casual dress for Sasha this morning. Unless "casual" included fashionable leisure clothes worth thousands if they hadn't been cast-offs from fashion shoots. She wore a silken lime-green dress, a golden belt, matching golden heels, designer eye shades, and a light open jacket with vertical forest-green and aqua stripes. Her hair cascaded in curls down her front and back and she was perfectly made up.
Supermodel Sasha Canaro glided into the DEA briefing room, an FBI agent escorting her on each side. She was in full charisma mode, not only in stance and attitude but aided by subtle biochemicals she exhaled.
It was packed with DEA officials and SWAT, and FBI officials and agents. Many of them had been up all night and showed it.
SWAT captain Demir said to the male FBI escort, "I thought I told you to bring her right away."
The man lifted an eyebrow. He had regained his agent air of inexorable authority. "Ms. Canaro is not under arrest for any crime. In fact, she is cooperating with the FBI and the DEA."
Sasha waved a hand. "Actually I'm a paid consultant. But, yes, I'm also cooperating.
"Now, where will I sit?"
Instantly chairs were offered her. The Most Beautiful Woman on the Planet (several magazines said) accepted one.
The DEA officials took over and the SWAT captain subsided into the background. A successful operation had been concluded and they were determined to put the best face upon it, sloughing over the fact that there had been casualties.
SWAT operations rarely had any. They were carefully planned and swiftly and efficiently done with overwhelming force. The fire fights so beloved of movies almost never happened, and rarely were any agents hurt.
Several agents had been, one seriously but not critically. Twenty of the drug gang had been killed or wounded, most by Sasha, though no one knew that.
She had been suspected of interfering at first. Her hyper-accurate seeming machine-gun bursts of fire with semi-automatic weapons was well known, and something of that same sound had been heard in the take-down of the building from the unknown woman who had descended like a Heaven-sent avenging angel.
But she had been dark of face and skin, and many of the drug gang had seen her hawk-like Xulu face and black helmet of wiry hair.
Sasha was asked about the woman. She admitted that she had called her in the day she had reconnoitered the drug gang's building. The scent coming from it, she said, had not been right.
"Who is she?"
Sasha shrugged one elegant shoulder. "I just have a text address—" "What is it?" "I don't give it out."
"But—"
"I don't give it out. I don't know her name. I call her Bitter. After that dark dark chocolate."
"Where did you meet her?"
"In Africa, on a shoot. Years ago."
And that was all they could get out of her.
The briefing lasted an hour, till noon. Then everyone retired to a buffet set up in another conference room. The tension in the first room had decreased during the briefing. Now at the 45-minute lunch it dropped still further.
Part of this easing was that once the briefing had started Sasha had sat forward and paid close attention, answering the few questions sent her way briefly and to the point. Part of it was the "let's get along" biochemical she had early added to her breathing.
Most of the FBI men and a couple of the DEA men made her acquaintance. So did all of the women, higher-officials and several experts and agents in both agencies.
The female FBI agent who'd helped escort Sasha from home had given the model her card in the car on the way to the meeting.
The briefing continued after lunch.
An hour and a half later the DEA official managing the briefing called a halt. He stood up.
"I think everything else we have to deal with today is routine. We don't want to make Ms. Canaro sick of our company. Who knows, we may have to ask her to cooperate with us again some day."
"Consult, sir. Consult. For money, you know." Her smile was glorious and a chuckle ran around the room.
It was a good thing she had quit emitting the "lets get along" chemical earlier. Soon everyone would be too relaxed to work.
She stood and said. "I'm glad I could help. I was highly impressed with everyone. Especially with Captain Demirs. Once the situation changed he instantly was on top of the new situation. Matters would have gone much worse without his able leadership."
The captain looked at her, startled. He had said almost nothing during the briefing, relegated to the sidelines.
Sasha was rarely resentful. And she might have to work with him again some time. She'd much rather they then meet on friendly terms.
He nodded at her stiffly.
"Well, gentlemen. And ladies. Have a g
ood day of it."
Her two FBI escorts had been sitting through the briefing, none too enthusiastic about it. They quickly go to their feet and followed her out to take her home to her apartment.
And that was Sasha's first job with the DEA. It was not to be her last.
Chapter 5 - Saving the Storm
Shortly after the DEA operation Anna Prince had Sasha and her aircar loaded into a high-flying hypersonic transport and shipped to Russia. For two months she modeled and went to parties, some of them ordinary and some very upscale and covered by the press, showing off the air car.
During November and the first half of December she spent time in the warmer south of Russia on the Black Sea. That move had been needed because country's winter in the north cut down drastically on the outdoor and near-outdoor activities which best showed off the air car she had been given by Prince Enterprises. She also spent time in Odessa, a Black Sea city which was part of Ukraine, a Russian Federation country.
Then she relocated again to Los Angeles, to spend time with her family. She had been missing them.
At 8:00 in the morning of the last Friday in May Sasha received a phone call as she tidied up her Pasadena, California, apartment kitchen after breakfast. The phone readout showed the caller to be Colonel Adrian Storm Cloud's wife.
"Hello, Katie! How are you?"
"I'm afraid something has happened to Adrian." The Colonel's wife sounded as if she were trying hard to control strong emotion.
"What's happened? Why do you think that?"
"He calls or texts me every night when he's off on something that might be dangerous. At 7:00 his time, or midnight at the latest. He's in the Philippines, so he usually texts me if its earlier, or phones me if it's later. And he never misses. Sasha, he never misses—!"
"Slow down. Slow down. He's liaising with the security patrol in Mindanao? Have you called Bluebird? "
"Yes. They wouldn't tell me anything. For 'security reasons'! I know this is a big favor, but would you call Anna Prince?"
"I'm sure you have her phone number. And you're both in New York, last I heard. What, it's 11:00 your time, right? That's not too early."