I hope I don't have to kill him.
He's walking towards me, maybe 50m away now. The single light on the loading bay to my left is not helping much, but his body language is still wrong, he's tensed up, walking fast and leading with his right shoulder.
"Oi, dipshit. Calm the fuck down, ok?"
I shout it loud enough for him to hear easily. He stops as if he's run out of power, then he looks around as if confused. Daft cunt.
I motion him over, and he comes closer slowly. He's a round faced, slightly chubby man in his fifties, impressive moustache.
"Hey, nice to see you again, are you staying at the Yasmak Sultan Hotel this time as well?" He gamely recites his code phrase.
"Nah, they were full so I'm in the Legacy Ottoman Hotel."
Formalities over, I relax a bit and we move closer to get the exchange over. He hands me a duffel bag,
"It's all in there, phone, papers, contact details for me and your driver, your place to stay and the hardware you requested."
I take the bag and turn away, walking back the way I came. Istanbul at 2 AM on a warm July night is pretty pleasant. I'm way out in some rundown industrial estate, but the walk here was nice, getting some travel stiffness out of my body.
The next morning I check all my gear in the shitty flat they've got me. I check what they've stocked the fridge with, most of it seems edible, send messages to my contact and the driver making sure they are contactable. Then I start on the briefing notes, and it's clear that this is some sort of arse covering exercise to protect a lot of powdered, soft backsides in Whitehall.
The mission, such as it is, is to recover Beth (Elizabeth Tabitha Drake), the 20-year-old daughter of Sir Montgomery Drake, head of the UK Intelligence committee. There had been some concern over her behaviour prior to her disappearance, and her father had arranged for discrete surveillance and tracking of his wayward daughter. They lost the final tracker on her person somewhere not too far from "The Compound" in Istanbul. Looks like everyone is afraid of upsetting Daft Monty back in Whitehall, so they've organised this charade to placate him. The assumption that she is in this "Compound" looks to be based on spit and hope. Anyway, my job is to scout the place, establish contact with someone on the inside and determine if Beth is indeed inside the compound, then I'm to call in the extradition team to support me. Just after I learn Turkish and grow a pair of breasts no doubt, fuck this.
I was supplied with a brief description of the facility:
"It's a large plot of land down by the Bosporus, surrounded by a tall stone wall topped with razor wire on three sides. The western edge of the compound is open directly to the water.
The northern gate is the main point of access, with an automatic gate and manned guardhouse. Once inside, there is a short drive up to the building. It's an ornate four-story palace, restored from the glory days of the Empire. The building is horseshoe shaped, with the main frontage to the north. The two wings on either side stretch southwards, forming a sheltered courtyard. The building acts both as a place of work for the 150 or so people there as well as residential quarters, located towards the ends of the two wings, since almost all staff live on site.
There is a very large park behind the main building, with cypresses and fir trees providing shade in the scorching heat of summer. Nearest the main building is a large villa, the residence of the Head of station. There are a lot of other smaller buildings dotted around the park, discreetly blended into the landscape. At the water's edge there is a quayside and a jetty large enough to accommodate ships that can cross the Black Sea or the Mediterranean. It's not visible with the naked eye, but the complex has enormous facilities below ground. A number of armed security guards with dogs are patrolling the perimeter, particularly the seafront to the west."
Shitty briefing completed, I spend an hour or so doing my exercises before going back to bed to sleep in preparation for a recce tonight. The flat is a little over a kilometre from the compound, nice and close, I walk down there around midnight, walking the circumference of it, but keeping a couple of blocks distance at all times. There's a bigger road following the side of the compound to the south, parallel to the seafront; the wall here looks to have a staff entrance.
I find a vantage point, an apartment building a couple of hundred metres away, jimmy the front door open and make my way up onto the roof. There I get my gear placed, a mat to lie on, and a piss bottle, and a net to put over the lot. Ready for a boring day trying to get clear photos of all the staff starting to come in to work in an hour or two and leaving at the end of a long shift. After a long, hot day, I've got start and leaving times noted for all 30 or so staff, as well as decent shots of each of them. I wait for midnight to tick past again, pack up my gear and head back to the flat. I send all the shots back to the nest, see if anything pings, looking for immigration records, anything criminal etc. Then I go get some rest.
The next morning I allowed myself to sleep in and got up about lunchtime. My personnel dossiers have arrived. Of all Ahmets, Cengizes and Guls, my eye trips over Natasha. She's not a Turk alright, I remember taking her picture when she was chatting with a guard at the gate. Caucasian, Slavic features, reddish-brown hair, "let-me-speak-to-your-manager" haircut, mid-thirties. Her dossier confirms: Natasha Petrova, Ukrainian, recently divorced mother of two, works here for six months, sends home most of the income. Criminal record is crystal clear, no affiliation with known criminal circles in Turkey or Ukraine. Just a single mom that left kids to grannies and went abroad to find a better job opportunity. Apparently, she's strapped for cash and has no moral obligations to her present masters. Here in Turkey nepotism is rampant, every worker seems to be related to their superior in some way, but not Natasha - she has no relatives here. My course of action is obvious.
Her schedule shifted, so I have to wait for an hour in the car. But at last I see a white minivan leaving the compound, she's in a passenger seat. I tell my driver to follow them, and he does so semi-professionally, staying a few cars behind and closing distance after unexpected turns. We seem to be leaving the city, but not quite. The minivan drives up to a car park near a large, squat building - a wholesale store, my driver explains. Natasha darts inside and I follow her. I see her pushing a large cart and piling some cleaning supplies into it, wait till she turns to some less-populated aisle and catch up with her.
"Привет," I say, "перхоть подзалупная."
"Что, простите?" she turns to me, looking confused.
"Я говорю хвала… Um… A compliment. Понимаешь?"
"Don't exert yourself, I can speak English," she replies.
"Oh, thank God, my Russian is a little rusty."
"You just called me a dickhead dandruff. That's a hell of an ice-breaker!" She smiles now, always a good sign.
"I'm so sorry, my ex-girlfriend was Russian and, I guess, she wasn't a very good teacher," I smile back apologetically.
"Did she teach you Russian before or after you broke up?" She's almost laughing now, but suddenly she tenses and her hand grips a mop handle. "Wait, how do you know I speak Russian?"
"I admit I know a bit more about you. But I mean you no harm," I take a step back, lifting my hands defensively. "I have an offer for you."
"Can I refuse?"
"Yes you can. But why should you? It's good."
"Alright, let's hear it."
"Why not? Is it something indecent?"
"No, it's something illegal," I sigh and step closer. "Ok. I need to get some information about your workplace."
"What, the kitchen?"
"No, the compound. I need to find a certain young woman, and I have reasons to believe she went inside a few days ago. I can give you a thousand quid for useful info about her."
Her ears perked up, I definitely got her attention. She ponders on it for a few seconds and replies:
"Do you realise I'm just a humble servant? I don't have access to the main building, I don't have friends there, I don't have ninja training. You can't expect me to do your job for you."
"You're right, that would be incredible luck. Alright, plan B then. You help me to get inside."
"Oh, that must be worth more," she grins and leans closer. "Do I get a bonus?"
I glance over her lithe tanned body captured in white uniform.
"Sure, I'd gladly do you… a bonus after this is over. So, do we have a deal?"
"It's not that simple. I need time to think it over. I'm not sure if I can live up to your expectations. Leave me your contact…"
My phone chirps, I flick it on and immediately feel the familiar rush as adrenaline is dumped into my bloodstream.
"You need to go now." I turn to Natasha.
I put my hand on her shoulder for emphasis, half shouting, "Go! Get the fuck away from here, find a new job." I give her a shove and turn to go the other way.
I've taken one step along the aisle, as two burly looking men step into the aisle. I look back, and, sure thing, two more at the other end of the aisle. They carry some contact stun guns, meaning they want me alive.
I lean forward and start accelerating as hard as I can, but I'm not a fast runner. At worst, they will stun her, deal with that later.
I gain speed for each stride, decide the smaller guy on the left is then most dangerous, and change course to run straight at the bigger guy on the right, the mouth breather.
I stop at the last second and plant my left foot as a pivot, so I can apply every muscle in twisting my torso, driving my right fist around towards him and extending my arm a little, driving the punch at the side of his head.
It connects just above his ear with a crunch, and he drops sideways, falling without any muscle control. 1 down, 4 to go.
I change my momentum again, getting my weight back on both feet and starting to rotate my shoulders back the other way, he raises his hands further to protect his head and I drive the heavy boot on my right leg through the kneecap on his right leg.
It buckles backwards and lets out a shrill, high-pitched scream. As he starts collapsing, I step in, giving him a well aimed Glasgow kiss on his way down. 2 down, 2 to go.
I turn, expecting the other to be pretty much on me, but instead I stop and gawp. Gawping is not part of my standard operating procedure, gawping will get me killed, gawping and getting personally involved is exactly what I don't do. Ever.
I stand there gawping. Natasha has shoved her cart towards the other two, grabbed a shelf post, jerked it free, causing some crates to fall from the upper shelves. I should start running back to her, but it would make zero difference.
The way she fights is everything I hate in an opponent. She spins one final time, ending in a blur, and a wet crunch as Mr 4 drops like a bag of meat. She turns to me with a slightly disapproving look: "Are you done? Can we go now?".
Chef, eh? My hairy arse.
Natasha is standing unfazed, her opponents sprawled amongst broken crates, upturned shelves and industrial-sized bottles of detergent. One of them is coming around and tries to get up.
"Shit, they must have followed me. Come," I make a motion to grab her hand, but think better of it and just jog to the exit. She followed.
"What did you say about your ninja training?"
"It's not Ninjutsu, it's Sambo."
We trot past cashiers and agitated security, exit the store, and I see a few more angry looking men running our way across the car park. With a squeal of tires, my car appears from around the corner and drives up to us, honking. We jump in and leave our pursuers in a cloud of exhaust.
My driver smiles in the mirror.
"Thought they got you."
"Maybe they would have if you hadn't tipped me off. Thanks."
"You good paying customer, Mr. Catterick. Good customer hard to find."
"So, Mr. Catterick," Natasha tosses in. "I think you owe me an explanation. Are you a private, or is it some Her Majesty's Secret Service shit?"
"You first. You're obviously not a single mother of two. I mean, look at your body."
She groans and rolls her eyes.
"Right, you're a private. Otherwise, you'd know I'm not supposed to blow my cover in front of some local, saving my ass notwithstanding. No offence."
"No taken," the driver throws in.
"But my mission most likely has gone bust already, so what the hell. I'm with Interpol, Ludmila Arkatova, Ukrainian Bureau. I'm investigating the disappearance of some of our citizens around Istanbul and the evidence points to that compound. I managed to infiltrate it as a low-level staff member, but I can't get any deeper. They mistrust foreigners, and probably had me followed."
"That explains the assault," I nod. "They must have been following me too, and when they saw us together they decided to act."
"Anyway, I can't go back now. Can you drive me to the Ukrainian Consulate? I need to wrap up my mission."
"Sure. Or… We can go back to the compound. Yes, your mission went a bit pear-shaped, but now they expect you to bail out. The element of surprise is on our side."
She looks at me, and I see I'll need to work on my persuasion skills.
I can't believe I let him talk me into it. Our whole operation depends on a flimsy assumption that low-level compound security wasn't immediately notified about that little "an Interpol agent in our kitchen" thing. That and my knowledge of guard-post CCTV dead zones. What's most surprising, my brass has approved it. Apparently, Andy's story has been verified. Our plan is simple - go in, break into the main building, find some big shot or someone high enough in the chain of command and pump them for information. What can go wrong, really?
I take a deep breath and walk up to the guard. It's not easy to look relaxed carrying a heavy bag.
"Salam, Natasha!" he looks friendly enough, doesn't shoot me on sight. "Bu gece geç kaldın."
"Özel siparişler. Bana yardım et?" The strap "slips" from my shoulder and the bag thuds on the tarmac.
Kerim is happy to oblige, he walks over, stepping outside of the camera view cone, and picks the bag.
"O ağır…" he says and starts wheezing as Andy steps from behind a cypress tree and puts him in a chokehold. The bag thuds again. I don't wait for Kerim to pass out, rip open the Velcro strap of his flak vest, hitch up his shirt and slap a knockout patch on his chest. He's done in ten seconds, and most likely will be out at least till the morning. Andy lays him down in the sharp shadow of the cypress and nods for me to proceed inside the gate. I take Kerim's RFID badge, pick up the bag again and walk to the wicket door. The badge works as intended, I walk through and peek into the guard box.
"Kerim, iki saat sonra çiş molası…" says the other guard. "Ne?.."
"Kerim orada… Tutmak!" I toss him Kerim's badge. The guard grabs it awkwardly with both hands, breaking his contact with the alarm button. And then Andy shoves me aside, barges in and does his thing in a swift and brutal manner. We stuff both knocked-out bodies in the guard box.
"Posh helmets," Andy remarks. A couple of helmets in question are hanging on the guard box wall - black, glossy, with mirrored visors.
"Don't you want to put one on?" I ask. "It may make this infiltration thing a bit easier."
"No, princess. I'd rather use the Force."
Personally, I'm fine with my dress. I'm still in my kitchen uniform. It's white, but now I'm relying more on familiarity than stealth.
"Shall we?" asks Andy, grabs my bag (well, his bag actually) and takes off towards the main building, crouching behind some shrubbery along the path. I shrug and walk the path openly.
The path is lit by a row of lamplights, but the surrounding park is dark. I hear growling and freeze, but it doesn't matter already. A couple of big, well-fed and probably combat-trained Dobermanns enter the circle of light ahead of us. "Fare, ne buldun?" I hear, and, sure thing, the dogs are accompanied by two guards. "Salam!" I say and wave my hand, trying to look casual. Guards are not amused. One of them mumbles something into his radio set. I can't hear the reply either, but the guard points at me and shouts "Atak!" Well, even Andy wouldn't need it translated for him.
Dogs rush at me. My combat training doesn't really include animal countermeasures other than "Run, dammit!", and the distance is too small for that to work. I half-dodge, half-push away the first dog, but the second leaps at me and knocks me over. "Andy!" I call out, but by this time the park is filled with shouting, barking, bustle and rustle, and my voice is lost in the noise easily. I'm holding the dog by its neck, keeping its teeth away, but I can do nothing to prevent the other one from running around and snapping at my clothes. Guards gather around, there are more than two already. One of them grabs the dog by its collar, while another bends down over me and presses something to my neck. My head explodes, my spine tries to crawl out, and I go off into a faint.
Well, so much for smooth infiltration. Ludmila's plan to pass as staying-out-late staff failed pretty much immediately. I saw everything unfolding, saw armed guards running, but couldn't really do anything short of starting a war, results being quite predictable. Instead, I've done the sensible thing of putting distance between the centre of commotion and myself. At least that's what I keep saying in my head.
From the distance I see the hustle subside, guards drag overexcited dogs away and carry unconscious Mila into the main building, not through the main entrance, but through an ominous looking semi-basement metal door. The door is guarded by a single armed and armoured schmuck. I watch him from behind the bushes, evaluating my chances to sneak up on him, when he removes his helmet and puts on a pair of headphones. Headphones! On a watch duty! My old sergeant would have fucked him in the ass with an entrenching tool for that! The melomaniac must suffer. In less than two minutes, he starts grooving with his eyes closed. I hop over the bush, run up to him and punch him in the noggin with combined force of body inertia and righteous fury. Then I pick up his helmet. I still feel it's a dumb idea, but what else can I do, go inside guns blazing? I frisk the unconscious guard for a key card, leave the body on the stairs, out of sight from the yard, and slip inside.
There's a corridor, long and resounding, covered with green ceramic tiles and humming with some hidden machinery. The first door opens into a laundry, huge industrial washing machines rattling tirelessly. The second door is locked, and there's some storage room behind the third one, packed with crates and boxes to the ceiling. A man walks out of the fourth door, not a guard, just a guy in a civilian outfit. He glances at me in passing, and I tense, appraising how fast I can drag his body. But he says nothing, evidently fooled by a tinted visor of the helmet, and walks further, eventually going into the lift at the end of the corridor. I crack the door he walked out open and peer inside.
There it is. I expected something like that, but actually seeing it boggles me still. It's the 21st century in a country that strives to be a part of the EU! The far wall of the large hall is lined with cages. Only the centre of the hall is lit, so I can barely make out pale naked human forms behind the bars. The cages are tiny and cramped, stacked in two rows one above the other; prisoners can't stand there, only sit or crawl on all fours.
The middle of the hall is cluttered with torture racks, bulky things of various design, made of rusty iron and darkened wood. I'm pretty sure not all the brown stains on them are just rust. One of the racks is about to become occupied. Two guards are busy strapping Mila to a slanted slab of interlocked wooden planks. She's naked already, her clothes are discarded in a heap by the door. Edges of the planks press into her skin and muscle. While, I suppose, they aren't very sharp, worn dull by countless previous occupants, it's still painful to look at.
I'm not sure if I can take down both of them silently. While I linger by the door, hesitating about the course of action, one of the guards spots me and snarls something in Turkish. Not aggressively, just annoyed. They seem to be having trouble handling the girl. Okay, I'll play along for a time being.
I step into the torture room and approach the rack. Mila's coming around already, she shifts sluggishly and mumbles something in Russian. The guard nods at a leather belt in the top-right corner of the rack, and both of them heft the girl up. My task is pretty obvious so far. I take her arm and make a good show of strapping it down. A good show doesn't mean a good job, as I try to leave as much slack as I can without raising any suspicion.
Meanwhile, the guards have fixed her other arm, and bent over to do her ankles. This would be a good time to make my move. I step behind one of them and reach into my pocket for a knockout patch. The door swings open, and a man in a motorised wheelchair rolls in, accompanied by another pair of armed guards with their mirrored visors down.
The torture room guards stand to attention. The new arrival exchanges some blabber with them and moves his vehicle closer to the rack.
"Come on, open your eyes!" he says in a surprisingly deep and clear voice, with just a hint of foreign accent. "I know you're awake already, I can see your eyelashes fluttering."
At the sound of his voice, Mila's eyes fly open. Her gaze darts about the room, taking in the grim reality. I think I can hear her heart pounding.
"What… Why am I here?" she mutters. "Neyi yanlış yaptım?"
"I think you know exactly what you did, and why. The thing is, I want to know it too. Are you willing to talk yet?"
"Let me go! I've done nothing! You have cameras everywhere, check them!"
"Oh, you were careful enough to avoid them. No mean feat for a kitchen hand. Now, whom do you work for?"
"For Omar Uzun, who's in charge of your kitchen! But after this, I'll definitely quit!"
The cripple barks a command, and one of the guards closer to the rack starts cranking a wheel at the side of it. The rack creaks, its surface shifts and starts to bend outwards. The overlocking planks dig deeper into Mila's body. She shrieks and curses, her limbs strained against the taut belts.
I briefly consider just shooting them all, but the guards with the cripple are clutching their SMGs. Outlook not so good. I make a small step to the rack and whisper, hoping the helmet won't garble my speech too much.
"Держись. Не волновайся, я тебя буду тащить."
Mila's eyes sparkle angrily in my direction.
"Где ж ты был раньше?" she hisses.
"Время. Нужно время…" I whisper back. The cripple says something in Turkish, and the guards stare at me quizzically.
"Ударь меня! Быстро!" she whispers and shuts her eyes.
I step forward and slap her face, not really fast and forceful, but she yelps and makes sure her head lolls to the side. The cripple chuckles and says something again.
"Сиськи!" Mila sobs.
I know the word. I slap my palm against her tit flesh, one side then another. That was a good one, a couple of pink prints quickly manifest on her pale boobs.
"So, getting the feeling already?" the cripple inquires. "It only gets worse from here. Talk."
Her fingers curl into fists.
"I told you everything you need to know!"
He rattled another phrase, the only word I can discern is "falaka". One of the guards grabs a couple of batons off the wall and tosses one to me. It's just a piece of half-inch plastic pipe with a loop of string attached at the butt-end. The second guard operates yet another wheel, and the rack screeches, tilting backwards slowly.
"Ты должен…" Mila starts.
"Я знаю," I interrupt her. We should keep our communication to the bare minimum.
Now she's reclined with her back still arched painfully. She tries to lift her head to follow the guard with her eyes. Her brows furrow in concern as the guard steps closer and swings his pipe through the air. Thoughts are racing through my mind, but none of them are of any help to delay the torture. The next swing lands on her right heel with a plastic "pong". Mila jerks her head back so hard, it hits the rack, but no sound escapes her lips. And then, having thought of nothing useful, I have to follow suit. It's awkward for me to use my right hand now, so I take the pipe in my left and strike her defenceless sole.
Not good enough, apparently. The wheelchair man grunts something disapproving, and Mila says, not really hushed any more:
"Сильнее, идиот! Ты все провалишь!"
She's right, no point in pulling punches if it gets us both killed. I force myself to shed all delicacy and whack her foot well. Mila hisses through her teeth. She'll be alright, as long as I don't hit her toes, I suppose. "Pong… Plop… Twang…" the plastic pipes sing as her bare soles are turning pink, then reddish-blue welts reveal themselves slowly. Mila doesn't try to hold back her crying any more, her shouts fill the room, tears run free. Pale human figures behind the bars cringe silently in far corners.
"Dur!" the cripple commands, and the guard lowers his tool. I do the same. The chair wheels closer, its occupant reaches out and touches her foot. She jerks it back as if stricken, in vain. He grabs her foot anyway and squeezes it. Mila whines, and I clutch the pipe involuntarily.
"Look, your beautiful feet are all swollen and bruised. Oh, something wet is seeping between my fingers…"
Mila keeps wincing and trying to yank her feet out of his grip.
"I could bring you so much more pain. I could order the guys here to rig you to a machine that would zap you, mouth to twat with electricity, every time you take a breath. But I know your type. The pain itself wouldn't break you, probably. Disfigurement, on the other hand…"
"Why are you doing this?" Mila sobs. "I told you, I'm nobody!"
"You will be when I'm done with you," he says gently. "You'll be just a stump, a torso with a head. I'll have all your non-vital parts removed. Enjoy that pain in your feet while you still have them! You might experience some phantom pains all over for a few months afterwards, though."
He releases her foot and lights up a cig. Smoke whirls through the yellow light as the wheelchair rolls further into the torture room. Other captives stir uneasily as he rides past the line of cages.
"Those girls are fine physically, albeit somewhat pale. That's how our clients usually like them. We're keeping them healthy and relatively undamaged. You, on the other hand… I have no use for you as a slave. With all that infiltration and combat training, you'd be nothing but trouble, and probably would slip out eventually. So, I'll chop off all your moving parts and use you as a scarecrow for newcomers."
Even in dim light, I see Mila's face turn pale. Her eyes flick to me, I try to twist my lips in a small reassuring smile, but she can't see it through the visor, of course.
The cripple pulls up in front of the rack again.
"You'll be hanging in a dark closet somewhere, blind and deaf, permanently gagged and plugged, fed intravenously, with your bladder hooked to the sewer system. You'll probably lose your mind in a month or two, but before that I'll make sure to cut out your clit and those lovely nipples of yours. Then I'll show your still living body to any disobedient slave to ensure their cooperation. Unless…"
I see a single tear roll down her cheek. There's a wide gamut of interchanging emotions over her face: rage, fear, regret, a flicker of what I can only identify as lust, resolve, anger, sadness… The man stubs his cigarette into her instep.
"Make up your mind!"
Mila shrieks and her anger flares up again.
"Fuck it! I'm with Interpol! Happy now?"
He chuckles and rolls back a bit.
"I don't believe you, but it's a start. I'll let the guys have some fun with you before we bring in the bone saw."
"And you're gonna watch, aren't you? That's how you like to get off! Oh, your little weiner doesn't work!"
There's some gnashing of teeth, and a phrase in Turkish. The guards liven up, start cranking the rack back into flat configuration and unbuckling their belts, but the cripple nods at me.
Why? Does he suspect something? I tarry for a moment, considering my options, and Mila growls:
"Да спускай уже штаны и принимайся за дело!"
I do. I drop the pipe and climb the rack. Mila gives me a thousand-yard stare. Her wiry naked body is glistening with sweat. I unzip clumsily, embarrassed by the fact that I'm more than ready to fuck her. I probe her cunt with a finger, expecting to find it dry and inhospitable, but she managed to surprise me yet again. I part her nether lips and slide my cock in.
"Долго еще?" she whispers.
"Пять минут," I answer, huffing.
"Да, только делай ничего."
"Думай об Англии."
I pump slowly, thinking of England and trying to loosen the belt around Mila's left hand discreetly. She doesn't gyrate, doesn't pump back, doesn't move at all. But then she spasms and grips me with her cunt. I gasp and freeze, willing myself not to cum at the spot.
"Прости…" she exhales.
Guards laugh and step closer, I wave them away, unsuccessfully. I continue pumping, even slower, and they grumble impatiently. Despite the circumstances, despite the stress, and the danger, and the eyes on me, I feel an orgasm building. I stop again, a hair-breadth from shooting my load.
I hear the cripple say something in that haughty tone of his, and Mila's eyes widen. Multiple hands grab me and drag away from the rack, my cock flapping about. They push me to my knees, and the wheelchair whirrs closer. The cripple lifts my visor up.
"Oh, that's a nasty sunburn. Turkish sun can be merciless to pale skin. A helmet? Really? You think I'm that stupid?"
"No harm in trying."
"There will be some harm, rest assured…"
There's a loud resounding bang outside, the building rumbles, a few tiles detach from the walls and clang on the floor. Men around me crouch reflexively and lose some grip, all their radios come to life and tinny blabber floods the room. The cripple spits out some command, and a couple of guards rush out. Really bad move, as a few seconds later a new explosion booms, much closer this time. The blast wave sweeps through the corridor, the door crashes open, dust and debris fill the air.
I shake off the man on my right arm and yank a leg from under the guard to my left. He tries to drag me down with him, but it's not easy to topple a man who's kneeling already. I slap a knockout patch on his neck, shove him back and turn to face his friend, who's lifting his SMG. I grab it behind the cocking handle and yank. He wouldn't let go, preferring to fall forward, following his weapon. It's not a good idea to wrestle for the gun, while the other guard is trying to get up and the cripple is manoeuvring around. I press the mag latch, the ammo drops to the ground, I grab the gun belt and wrap it around my opponent's neck. The guy lets go of the gun, at last, and scrambles to unwind the belt. With all that strain and increased oxygen consumption, he has about twenty seconds before starting to go limp.
I look around. The first guy stopped trying to get up by this point, he's lying on his back with the head drooped to the side, eyes open and unblinking. Okay, where's his gun?
"Let him go!"
I'm still on my knees with a twitching body on my hands, it's not easy to turn around. I look back over my shoulder. Oh, that's where.
"Make me," I grunt and pull the belt tighter.
I knew Andy would blow his cover sooner rather than later. Just as he grabbed their attention, and they grabbed him in turn, I started to work on the belt which he had unbuckled already. When explosions hit, my left hand is free. Andy gets into a scuffle, I loosen the belt on my right hand and bend down to free my legs. In a few seconds, I slide from the rack and almost fall to my knees as pain stabs through my swollen feet.
I pull myself upright just as the man in the wheelchair aims his gun at Andy. No time to look for a weapon. I hurl myself at him, shove his vehicle sideways, and he goes down with crash and clangour, hands flailing. The gun clatters on the floor. We race for it - he crawls on his elbows, surprisingly fast, I limp, slipping on my own bodily fluids. I get there first, pick up the gun, and feel his grip on my ankle. I pull the trigger without thinking, the gun rattles curtly, and the man recoils from me, clutching his bleeding arm.
Andy drops the guard, applies another knockout patch, stands up, zips himself and looms over the cripple, all businesslike.
"Elizabeth Drake. Where is she?"
The laughter sounds really creepy, considering.
"She's my boss."
Andy is as flabbergasted as I am.
"She runs this place! She's a very bad girl indeed. Her daddy should have raised her better, instead of holing up in his club for weeks on end."
The pile of my clothes by the door was scattered by the explosion, I dodder there and pick through them. Ruined, every single bit, shredded to strips. Savages. I try my shoes and find them unbearably small. I briefly consider stripping one of the guards, but there's no time.
"Keys from the cages," I demand.
"There, on the wall…"
"Whatcha doing?" Andy inquires. "We must skip!"
"It'll only take a moment."
I grab the keyring and toss it inside the nearest cage.
The cripple squeals like a girl, while Andy applies a sturdy cable tie to his wrists. I put his wheelchair upright and plop into it. It's not fast, but it's better than hobbling along on what feels like bleeding stumps. As we're leaving the torture room, I hear rusty hinges screech, and the cripple tries to find his commanding voice:
"101, stop! Bad girl! You'll be punished!"
Andy closes the door to muffle the screams that follow. Infuriated with my sluggish speed, he grabs wheelchair handles and pushes it himself.
The corridor is filled with smoke, there's a fire and sprawled bodies at the entrance. We rush into the elevator at the other end, which miraculously still works. On the ground floor, we meet a couple of startled staff who are busy evacuating the premises and don't pay much attention to a guy rolling a naked girl in a wheelchair.
"Where are we going?" I ask, taking note of the exit being in the other direction.
"We can't go back, it's swarming with guards."
Andy stops abruptly by the window looking out to the sea. The view is marred by a thick steel grating, embedded in the frame.
Andy produces a small white tube, squeezes a few blobs of silvery goop around some of the bars and takes a lighter to them. It burns with blinding white light and angry hissing, in just a few seconds the affected bars are completely severed. Andy grunts approvingly, grabs the grating and bends a big chunk of it inwards. A quick tap of the gun butt on the glass, and it shatters in a shower of small fragments.
"I'll go first. Watch out for those shards."
Andy pushes his way into the opening, cursing, and jumps down. Broken glass crunches underfoot, I wince and curse even more obscenely, accidentally touching a bar stub, still glowing hot. I drop like a sack of turnips, and, with some surprise, find myself in Andy's arms.
"Yikes, you're bleeding. I told you to be careful with the glass."
"It's from before. Never mind. Put me down, would you?"
"Bear with me."
He swings me to his shoulder and trots to the beach. There's some shouting and siren sounds, I can see a flickering orange glow from behind the main building. There are wooden planks of a jetty beneath Andy's feet, and then we hop into a boat. He dumps me onto a bench.
"Ugh, you're heavier than you look."
"Always a gentleman."
"And off we go," Andy unties the boat and yanks the starting handle, the engine rattles. "Hold on to your pants."
The pier, the park, and the building, backlit with a raging fire and emergency vehicle flashes, are receding rapidly.
"We've fucked up, haven't we?" Andy asks.
"Oh, yes. But some of us more than the others."
"Did you do that on purpose? Tried to make me cum?"
"Would you do it again?"