Two years later Zurich
I lean over and tighten my sagging black satin bra strap before gravity takes over and my left breast pops out. Not easy to do when I'm running through the trash-strewn cobblestone alley smelling like dead cats and urine in thigh-high, black-leather embroidered boots with stiletto heels and a beaded Cleopatra wig, heading for the Central Plaza Hotel to hook up with my Russian informant, and I'm late. He insisted on meeting me at the piano bar in the hotel situated on the riverfront, a favorite of his, where the ex-KGB agent downed shots of vodka during the Cold War.
Not a good sign. His turf, his rules. I hope today's mark if I liked to sleep in a T-shirt or lingerie. Nothing at all, I said, then before he could take me down, I took him out with my Glock 22. After all, this is a job. And I've learned to do it well. The name on my U.S. passport identifies me as Breezy Malone, a twenty-nine-year-old female; place of birth, Philadelphia. I'm taller than average with sun-streaked, white-blond hair and green eyes. Since my recruitment as a special agent for Theta Agency, I've become proficient in adapting disguises, served as a provocateur to entrap extremists and participated in numerous black ops, including major "wet" operations.
Contrary to popular imaginings, the latter has nothing to do with ejaculation but with rolling up political insurgents in Europe and the Middle East. No thumbscrews for torture or blunt objects for persuasion for me. I use vaginal wizardry to entice the target. I go where other government agents can't, taking down sophisticated men in gray tweed as well as terrorists who view the world with a piercing gaze and an AK-47.
As an Arab-speaking agent, I use my language skills as well as my personal attributes, often obtaining more intel by keeping out of the subject's arms. If a man is only physically attracted to me, he will lose interest once he has had sex with me. But if he comes to rely upon me more for companionship and sympathy than merely for sex, the operation has a better chance of success. From supine and supple positions to tease and torture, I can execute any sexual task required of me. Using erotic techniques I learned at the TA training camp near Prague, I snare my target in a black-leather web of intrigue and lust.
My curvy body is the ultimate honey trap.
I check my weapon hidden in my bondage belt along with my prepaid cell phone and wad of cash tucked away in my corset. I'm not fond of the black-leather armor and skimpy red thong I'm wearing, but it's part of the job. Fit in with the locals. Everyone on the streets is wearing crazy outfits. Guys with silver-painted bodies and sporting frizzy purple wigs, girls wearing lacy bras and bare-bottom cowboy chaps. I see latex and sequins everywhere, f lower pasties, even pink-feathered boas. The Love Parade attracts big crowds in the Swiss capital for a weekend of love and beer, though it's more about sex than love.
The perfect place to exchange cash for trash. Bureau-speak for useless intel. According to recent chatter picked up on the street, the Russian knows more than he's selling about terrorist activities in Western Europe. We can't afford any more intelligence failures. Everybody knows the game has changed. No longer are attacks planned and executed by a single al-Qaeda mastermind. Fueled by an ever-increasing well of recruits bound together by motives and causes, it's up to me to find out what the Russian knows and who he's working for.
Unlike military interrogators who push emotional buttons to get the intel, I've taken on the persona of a dominatrix to whip the informant into shape with my sexual tricks. With my sharp black nails f lashing from the tips of my fingers to my mouth glossed with Sinfully Red lipstick, I've been sent to f lush out this ex-KGB agent by my handler, Rork, Special Agent in Charge.
Unlike authorized FBI counterintelligence agents, TA special agents need a handler, an agent who can provide technical support in the form of service weapons, operating funds, clandestine communications gear, spy cameras and other specialized equipment.
A sudden stab of adrenaline strikes me, hitting me in my gut. I've also got personal reasons for working this case. I've waited a long time for this day since I went over the prison wall in Syria. If the Russian is involved with a certain Chechen-based renegade, as I suspect, then we've got business of another kind to settle. Every target I take down brings me one step closer to finding Sharif and bringing him to justice.
I'm about to round a corner when I sense someone sniffing me out like an animal in heat. Nothing new to me. Since I received government-issued breast implants, I'm used to being stared at wherever I go. But this is one pussycat who hasn't got time for primal games.
I slow down, walk purposefully down the alley. I'm a TA special agent who knows her job, wants to get it done and get back into my slinky, formfitting catsuit. Black. I disappear in black, my chin-length sugarcane hair turned up in a perfect f lip.
I wipe off the back of my neck with my hand. The damn wig is hot and sweat is dripping down my bare back. I inhale the smell of my own body heat and a familiar desire to relieve the gnawing ache between my legs hits me. Good. I can use my own need to keep the mark off balance, make the Russian forget he's a card-carrying member of an elite terrorist group.
Out of the corner of my eye I see movement to my right.
The answer to this blonde's wet dream spills out of a doorway, weapon drawn. I stare at him, narrowing my eyes, then peek at him through my false eyelashes. Uneasy but not shaken, I hold my breath. The tattooed bodybuilder stud with the spiked, black-crow haircut and patch over one eye is pushing the cold barrel of the rif le against my neck. I've stared down the barrel of a T.A.R. 21 Tavor assault rif le a few times in my terrorist-fighting career. That doesn't mean I'm used to it. My throat tightens and my nerves become taut, the icy metal against my f lesh signaling a sense of impending danger loud and clear.
Where did he come from? Who is he?
He wasn't on my radar a minute ago.
"Want to have some fun, Fräulein?" he says in German. I bet he cuts a notch in his rif le butt for every girl who says ja. Not me. Every move I make is under surveillance. It goes with the job.
"I don't understand you," I toss back at him in English, relaxing my stance, trying to appear insouciant. No doubt he's a raver out for extra action and he chose this alleyway to frisk the first piece of tail to stroll his way. Why not? No cars allowed on the street during the parade. No cabbies. And the street revelers aren't within earshot but carousing up and down Bahnhofstrasse, eating, drinking and ogling the free show.
"Give me what I want," he says in English with a slight accent, "or I'll—"
"You'll do what? Spank me?"
Play dumb. Get rid of him.
I put my hands on my hips, teasing this one-eyed Jack with my sexy attitude while he checks me out with a questioning look on his face. As if he's not sure what to do next. I'm counting the seconds. I haven't got time for his pickup line. I must get the intel from the Russian before he vanishes back into the black pit of insurgents plying their trade on the open market. He's my only link to Sharif.
I slide my hand down my rib cage. Without missing a beat, the one-eyed Jack points the gun at my head. I hear him cock the trigger. I breathe out, slowly. Damn, I can't pull out my Glock without getting my head blown off.
He, on the other hand, is breathing easily, not even breaking a sweat. I squint. Can he see out of that sexy black eye patch? He must like what he sees. He's grinning. Why shouldn't he? My low-cut black basque hugs my breasts and I'm wearing a wraparound pink skirt slit up one side.
I wiggle my butt and my skirt slips open to reveal my leather garters holding up black fishnet and purple stockings peeking up over my thigh-high boots. I tap my boots, clicking my military-style half soles and steel-toe caps against the cobblestones. The handcuffs hanging from my femdom utility-style belt clink out a tinny tune, drawing his eye. He glances at the hemp rope wound up in a circle on my bondage belt and starts to reach for it, then changes his mind. He doesn't look like the tie-me-up-and-do-it-to-me type, but you never know.
I don't dare make another move, seeing how he's got the drop on me. The pulse on the side of my neck races. I'm stuck like a video-game character lost in a maze. I'm stressing. What if my Russian goes sideways? Disappears? I can't screw up. I've logged more miles in the past two years manning the intel-gathering trenches in the European Russian agent, getting him right where I want him. Even the Cold War is over, it's not unusual for Russians to their knowledge of U.S. intelligence to our enemies we get it from them first. My mission as a member of elite sex squad is to retrieve a guidance chip that in the hands could compromise the antiaircraft defense of a major Western power. That involves softening him and catering to his specific tastes, whether it's showing off prowess in bed with two blondes or playing master-and-with the tender backside of a pretty redhead. I avoid the
I prefer role-playing a dominatrix. I like being the top. When I saw the prelim coded messages from the Russian,
begged Rork for this assignment. Then he mentioned I was suppose he had no choice, considering TA agents must follow different procedures than regular agents. Until the investigation was over, I was assigned to work undercover in a Glasgow company as a file clerk and photocopy documents. Still, I answered all the shrink's questions with a smile on my lips and my legs crossed and got the assignment.
Now this.
Frustrated, I dig my nails into my palms. I'm not letting this stud mess up my plans.
"Why don't you take your toy," I say, my eyes scanning this dude in tight French jeans, crunchy black leather vest, no shirt, backpack slung over his shoulder, "and go play somewhere else."
"I like big tits, Fräulein," says the one-eyed Jack, ignorin...
