Crimson Flare: Blackmail

by marat

 

Chapter Ten

 

Maria’s voice was hoarse. Her cheeks were soaked with her tears. Her entire body ached as the fourth of Gouyannou’s capos approached her.

 

The man was middle-aged, greying at the temples. But the room fell into utter silence as he stepped toward the prisoner. This was Vlad Blandescu, possibly the most feared of Gouyannou’s lieutenants. He had arrived only a few years ago from his native Bucharest, where he had risen to command his own criminal network. A bloody gang war, with retribution following retribution, forced him to quietly leave the country, where his nephew took over his organisation. But here in Mitropoulos, he had risen quickly among Gouyannou’s lieutenants due to his innate ruthlessness, as well as his contacts in Eastern Europe. None of the men stationed around the walls of the library had risen so far so fast in the organisation. He was the one man here whom the others all feared.

 

He spoke slowly, as if making sure that he chose the correct word in his non-native English. His guttural voice sent chills up Maria Blakeman’s spine.

 

‘Now, little girl, you will receive the finest fuck of your life!’

 

Unlike those who had previously assaulted the now-exhausted policewoman, Blandescu first removed his shirt and tie, and then fully stripped, rather than merely removing pants and underwear. He folded his clothes neatly on one of the chairs that had been pulled away from the table.

 

His rock-hard body showed how deceiving the greying temples were. Before Blandescu eased his powerful body into position behind the helpless woman, he reached out one hand and stroked the policewoman from her breasts down past the quivering curve of her navel… across her hips…

 

Maria’s body trembled even more.

 

…down the outside of her thigh…

 

A soft unsteady groan escaped her dry lips.

 

…around the perfect curve of her leg to the inside of her thigh.

 

Oh, god, no! Not…

 

With a sudden move, the ganglord reached his fingers up and penetrated the helpless woman.

 

Despite her weakness and exhaustion, Maria screamed again.

 

Supporting the girl’s upper body with his free hand, Blandescu lifted the captive from the table like she was a doll. Inside her, he felt the wetness that three rapes had generated. He smiled. His prick stiffened.

 

Almost gently, he placed her on her back on the cold, polished oak planks. Removing his hand from inside the trapped woman, he watched her for a moment as her chest rose and fell, air filling her lungs in quick gasps broken by sobs. He listened as she groaned her pain and humiliation. He smelled her scent as he waved his fingers before his face. Her aroma made him harder.

 

‘I promise you will enjoy this, little girl,’ he said softly. None of the capos along the walls could hear his words.

 

He easily climbed aboard the tabletop, settling between Maria’s spread legs. On his face there was no expression, just the look of a man going about his business.

 

Maria’s sobs now burst forth as she looked up at him. ‘Please… please, no!’

 

‘You will change your tone momentarily.’

 

Openly crying, the policewoman begged the mobster, pleading that her torture would finally end.

 

He reached one hand out, and placed it gently over her sore, firm breast. With the tip of his middle finger, he plucked at her sensitive nipple.

 

She responded with a mixture of a startled gasp and yelp.

 

He slid his hips forward, pressing his member into her no-longer-resisting sex. He circled his hips, gradually moving them forward, his tingling prick becoming more and more excited as it slid into her. His body shivered.

 

At the same time, surprise and tension gripped the girl; her eyes opened wide and she craned her neck backward as she felt a rush up her spine. When her lips parted to respond to his ministrations, Blandescu leaned forward and quickly clamped his mouth over hers. His tongue stroked over her teeth and gums, pressed down her tongue, and reached far back into Maria’s orifice. Maria tried to bite down, tried to close him out, to remove this monster from her. She failed. Her ineffective struggles hardened him even further.

 

Maria had been severely ravished by the previous assaults, so that now she was incapable of even the weakest resistance. She lay flat on the table while Vlad performed a solo dance over her; her only movement was a vain attempt to violently shake her head, a movement blocked by the kiss he had locked onto her.

 

A single word repeated over and over in her mind, which was becoming ever more clouded by pain and anguish: No!

 

Blandescu held Maria’s tits tightly. Digging his fingernails into the perfect orbs, he pulled the captive—hard—up and against his chest, so that the conjoined pair looked like a cold erotic sculpture. Maria’s head was lying against Vlad’s shoulder, her hair and face covered with sweat. Defeated, too weak to cry out any more, her last scream was just a hoarse, guttural moan.

 

‘You will have to scream louder than that!’ Vlad whispered. ‘That was heard barely beyond the walls of this room.’ His nails dug into the flawless flesh again.

 

Maria wailed in pain. But more, she simply cried.

 

The pair collapsed back onto the tabletop, Vlad lying heavily on top of the petite woman.

 

The two figures lay, unmoving, joined in this embrace; the Man, on top, heaving each breath; the Woman, on her back beneath him, weeping.

 

He changed his position. Releasing her breasts, Blandescu’s hands gripped her head, squeezing it like a ripe grapefruit. His fingers twirled into her dark brown hair, pulling the strands forward. He pressed his chest against her body and her hard nipples only excited him more. Slowly, he moved his arms down her body, until they encircled her, holding her tightly, painfully pushing the air from her lungs as he bear hugged the battered, weakened policewoman.

 

No!

 

She couldn’t breathe! In desperation, Maria tried to escape Blandescu’s powerful grip, squirming, wriggling her body. But with his arms wrapped around her chest, his body pressing down on her, the weakness that gripped her as a result of the battering she had absorbed was magnified. Her lungs screamed for air! But his mouth was clamped over hers, his face brushing across hers… she… couldn’t… breathe! His hold on her was too tight! There was… no… air!

 

Vlad’s prick exploded inside the policewoman, as he grunted several times to indicate his climax. As Blandescu’s body jolted, Maria’s listless form simply moved with his. Unable to resist, unable to respond, the beautiful policewoman had become simply a toy to be manipulated by the criminal who held her.

 

Blandescu stirred. As he slowly rose, he allowed his declining prick to remain inside Maria. The throbbing of their joining continued, and he wanted to extend his enjoyment of this conquest. He pushed his hips forward. Maria’s body shook limply.

 

*                       *                       *

 

Crimson Flare stood on the roof, staring down through the skylight onto the dark, empty master bedroom. She no longer heard Maria’s cries, and she could see no one in the large space beneath her.

 

Reaching her gloved fingers down, she released the latch, springing the window a few centimeters upward. The heroine pulled upward on her entrance to the mansion and slid her body into the darkness.

 

She dropped lightly to the carpeted floor below. Still holding the fully extended baton in her left hand, she tensed as her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness.

 

Opening the door a crack, she saw that the upstairs hall was empty and quiet. In fact, the entire building seemed to be holding its breath. She slipped into the hallway beyond the door, keeping her eyes on the grand staircase to her left. The only light inside the mansion came from the large entranceway below.

 

She inched her way toward the stairs. Suddenly, she heard a weak cry, barely audible.

 

Maria!

 

She took two quick steps, but pulled up short! There were men—guards—stationed on the grand staircase.

 

But they were not looking at the upper levels of the home. Their eyes were focused downward, toward the entry hall, the front door and the rooms surrounding the foyer.

 

One of the guards seemed to react, startled, to Maria’s cry.

 

The heroine couldn’t believe what she had seen. Had he been dozing?

 

Looking more closely at the figures on the staircase, she crept along the hallway, keeping to the darkness. The men on the stairs seemed listless, not even carrying on whispered conversations.

 

Crimson Flare paused, considering. Was this an act, just to draw her in?

 

As she got closer to the railing that circled above the foyer, the unmoving forms of the criminals who had gathered for Gouyannou’s celebration seemed everywhere—a dozen, maybe more, in the entry hall alone. How many more scattered elsewhere in the house?

 

The heroine heard a weak cry from behind a door to the left of the foyer.

 

Crimson Flare slipped back into the darkness closer to the walls of the upstairs circular hall. None of the erstwhile sentries seemed aware of her presence. Then she moved swiftly, stealthily, to the head of the stairs.

 

On the stairs themselves, she could see three—no, four!—armed men, all facing the foyer below. None of them moved; none even gazed around, keeping their eyes focused on the doors leading to the vestibule. All but one of those doors was open, allowing them clear sightlines into the several rooms, all the way to the windows that opened onto the exterior of the mansion. More men were actually sitting, sprawled, on odd pieces of furniture scattered around the great hall.

 

She shifted her baton to her right hand.

 

Crimson Flare had never used her weapon to kill. Although it did carry sufficient power to do so, Stacy had warned her about taking the law into her own hands: The legal system, her friend had said, must deal with criminals. Vigilante Justice must not become part of Crimson Flare’s arsenal.

 

I’m sorry, Stacy.

 

Immediately below her, two men stood on opposite sides of the staircase, about a third of the way up. One seemed to be gazing absently into the foyer’s open space. He leaned on the handrail, his chin cradled in the palm of his hand, with his assault rifle dangling loosely from a strap around his neck. The other had carelessly set his weapon on the stairs at his feet. The other two men on the stairs seemed similarly unengaged in their watchfulness.

 

Now!

 

Crimson Flare leapt from the top landing to a point directly between the guards nearest her. Even before she touched down on the broad stair, she swung her baton at one figure, catching him in the neck with a pulse that disabled him immediately. He slumped and his unconscious form spread across the stairs. Continuing her weapon’s arc, she spun, and brought it crashing with all her strength against the back of his fellow’s head. He flew from the stairs and landed at the foot of the staircase, his head bleeding massively.

 

The two guards immediately below them on the stair were dispatched with equal ease.

 

The other guards in the foyer now seemed to waken from a doze. One or two seemed to have difficulty focusing on what had just happened. Even more simply stared uncomprehendingly at the heroine or her victims. Only two of these men had the presence of mind to begin to raise their weapons at their attacker.

 

They never made it.

 

In what seemed to be a single graceful movement, Mitropoulos’ Champion of Women rebounded from the stairs, placed one hand on the railing and swung her body toward those two criminals.

 

She caught one—Gouyannou’s chief, Stevens—flush in the jaw with her shiny black boot, twisting his head and neck horribly. He spun out of control into the wall, where he simply collapsed to the floor.

 

Two quick steps brought her to the other prepared gunman. Two short strokes with the baton ended that combat. One was downward, onto his collarbone, crushing it, drawing a cry of pain. Her second target was his groin, where the impulse from her weapon cut his cry short. His eyes widened, and then rolled back in his head.

 

America’s Darling was a vision of alluring menace as she dealt with the men who earlier had laughed so jovially at her humiliation and who now guarded those who menaced her friend. Her sequined costume in the light of the foyer glittered dazzlingly. The celebrated crimson-and-silver costume that Stacy had designed clung tightly to the heroine’s body, so that even as she delivered one devastating blow after another and moved with gleaming grace from one gunman to the next, it accentuated her every curve and nuance, declaring to all who faced her that their foe was, above all, a Woman!

 

On the now-dulled marble flooring of the entrance hall, Crimson Flare’s boots made little noise. Her movements were balletic and graceful. The glistening black leather, like the familiar costume, clung like a second skin to the curve of her ankle and calf. Her kicks carried a message of retribution. The blows she struck with fist and baton were powerful, filled with righteous rage. She left in her path the strewn bodies of more than a dozen strong men, some dead, the rest injured critically.

 

And it all happened so quickly and so noiselessly that the capos in the library, enjoying their diversion, heard nothing.

 

In infinitely less time than it takes to tell, the entire foyer had been cleared of Gouyannou’s gunmen. Without taking a moment to spare, the incensed crimefighter moved from one open doorway to the next, ensuring that no opponents remained.

 

She heard a weak, soft, gurgling moan from one of the felled gangsters. She saw him slowly, painfully turn his body, trying to rise. An assault rifle lay across his torso, held by a strap around his neck. An easy leap brought the champion to him.

 

He looked up into her expressionless face.

 

‘No… please!’ he said softly.

 

A strong blow from the baton against the side of his skull ended the conversation.

 

Then she stepped to the one closed door off the foyer, turned the knob, and walked in.

 

*                       *                       *

 

The ballroom was located at the rear of the first floor of the mansion. Except for two personal bodyguards, Fareed Gouyannou was alone in the now-dimly-lit space. The large man paced slowly back and forth in front of the French doors leading to the patio. This evening had not turned out at all the way he had planned. This event was supposed to fix him at the peak of the Mitropoulos Underworld: police intruders and spies exposed and punished; Crimson Flare humbled; and at the climax of the evening, the arrival of Police Commissioner Jeri Warren, who would proclaim her support for his position. Now, that bitch!... that sequined cunt… Crimson Flare… had ruined all his plans!

 

Somehow she had escaped his control. He had invested heavily in the drugs and the science to prevent just this sort of thing. Now he was the one besieged. He and his guards were awaiting the return of that meddling heroine.

 

How had this happened? The evening had begun with so much promise. His people had assured him that Crimson Flare had been beaten—no, more… broken!—and that she would only obey the orders given her. She was to be his slave. She would provide him with the drugs that would bankroll future operations.

 

But now it was too late to worry about what had happened. The only thing to do was to have the heroine dead—dead!—by the time Warren got here.

 

His best men were all that remained at the mansion. His guests had been shooed out into the early morning. Hangers-on were removed, sometimes forcibly, so that his capos—men who had proven both their loyalty and their ability—along with Stevens and his praetorian guard—rock-solid killers, every one of them—were all that remained around him! It would be a simple thing for them to defeat one girl!

 

*                       *                       *

 

Inside the shadowy library, a deathly silence now reigned. Gouyannou’s capos, previously alternating between joviality at their captive’s travails and silence in observing Blandescu’s fearsome triumph, now stared at the figure that stood in the door. Faint glimmers of light reflected off her sequined skintight costume. Behind her, the stronger light from the hall silhouetted her petite form. There was no doubt that their master’s plan had, in fact, come to fruition.

 

Crimson Flare had arrived.

 

She gazed around the room, surveying the pack of enemies gathered there. The brightest spot in the library was a heavy oaken table, well-lit, squarely in the centre of the room. On top of that table was a young woman, unmoving and silent. Next to her, a man, naked except for his socks. Powerfully built, he seemed utterly unashamed of his nakedness.

 

Her grip on her baton tightened as she searched the walls, counting and locating her opponents.

 

Several of the capos, briefed about the master’s plan, pulled out lengths of rope. They knew that Crimson Flare lost her strength if her wrists were bound. Surely a roomful of Mitropoulos’ most dangerous gangland leaders would be able to bind a single girl.

 

Out of the darkness to her left a figure leapt at her. Immediately, her right arm shot up in a backhand swipe and Crimson caved in the right side of her attacker’s face with her baton. Instead of wrapping up the heroine, his body crashed against the empty bookshelves and then slid slowly to the floor.

 

The first gun appeared to her right, as a dark figure pulled a vintage US Army model 1911 pistol from a shoulder holster. But the fast-moving heroine didn’t even give the thug a chance to clear the holster as she plowed into his midsection with her shoulder, and then with a curving uppercut sent the baton crashing against his jaw. The blow lifted him off his feet and sent him reeling backward into the two men who stood behind him. All three went noisily to the floor. Two of them quickly stumbled to their feet, one pulling a .38 from his pocket, the other unspooling a length of rope. The latter grunted, ‘Let’s get her!’

 

Without a pause, America’s Darling rushed these two closest threats. She jabbed the baton into the chest of the gunman, whose scream was cut short. The high-powered charge from the baton stilled his heart in a mere moment. The capo with the rope pulled up short and looked stupidly around.

 

It was like the entire room was watching his encounter with Crimson Flare—watching and waiting. But this confrontation was ended as quickly as all the others as the Champion spun on the toe of her left boot, sending a spinning kick against his head. His body twisted horribly under the force of the blow and he settled noiselessly to the floor.

 

Gunfire erupted to her left, the first bullet shattering the bolection near her, sending small splinters flying. Crimson Flare did not wait for a second round as she immediately raced directly at the muzzle flash, her weapon already raised. The rod crashed down on the wrist of the gunman, shattering the bone and sending the gun skittering across the floor. Without a pause, the heroine’s hard left fist smashed into the side of his jaw.

 

Without hesitation, she next ran directly at the naked figure in the centre of the library, the one standing next to Maria’s unmoving form. Her boot caught him square in the small of the back, sending him sprawling across the chair on which his clothes were neatly piled. With a quick, instinctive movement, he turned to face the heroine, only to be kicked solidly across the side of his head.

 

All this had happened in the first few seconds of combat in the library. Crimson Flare knew that, outnumbered and outgunned, she could not give her enemies the opportunity to turn their weapons on Maria; to force the heroine to surrender by threatening their prisoner.

 

She easily lifted her friend and, in a few quick steps she had placed her on the floor in a shadowy alcove. Returning to the capos who had filled the room, one more, also armed with a .38, was felled with a powerful shock from the baton. He fell directly across the face of the niche.

 

Another shot was fired, but the bullet lodged in the wood somewhere above Crimson Flare’s head.

 

*                       *                       *

 

As she drove up to the now-empty street outside the McLeod-Slaughter Mansion, Police Commissioner Warren was surprised to hear gunfire. First one shot, then, scant seconds later, a second.

 

What the hell is happening?

 

She exited her SUV and stood, staring at the brightly-lit façade of the imposing residence that had been taken over Fareed Gouyannou.

Usually there were guards stationed at the front door. But now, after two gun shots, she saw that they were absent from their post and the door stood open, revealing the entry hall. A flurry of shots from inside the mansion! A moment later, a figure literally flew through a window at the side of the building, landing with a muffled thump! on the lawn. The figure lay still.

 

She got back behind the wheel and waited.

 

*                       *                       *

 

Crimson Flare saw two men outlined in the doorway to the library. The guards stationed outside the main entrance! Their weapons swung in slow arcs, surveying the interior of the library.

 

The heroine covered the space between them quickly, slamming into the nearer of the two figures with her shoulder, knocking him into the other new invader and both of them to the floor. In a single graceful move, swift kicks ended the gunmen’s intervention. As she moved past the open doorway, exposing her fast-moving form in silhouette, several of Gouyannou’s capos opened fire toward the lighted hallway. Six, seven shots went wildly into the doorframe and the hall beyond.

 

One figure rose up in front of the window on the opposite side of the room, himself now outlined against the summer night sky. America’s Darling rushed toward him and brought her full power against his jaw, lifting him from the floor and through the window.

 

Taking advantage of the shadows near to the walls all around the library, Crimson Flare moved methodically in her destructive race from one capo to the next. Using the full power of the baton, the capos on whom its power was used now lay motionless. Those whom she struck or kicked fared little better.

 

Finally, the last group of three chieftains faced the fury of the Defender of Mitropoulos. They stood shoulder to shoulder opposite the still-open doorway, with the large, shattered library window angled behind them. Crimson Flare stood between them and the alcove that sheltered Maria.

 

For a moment—but only for a moment—the three fixed the heroine in hard stares. Then the one furthest from the wall bolted! He raced across the library, dodging the brightly-lit table in the centre of the room, and out the open entrance to the hallway. He slid on the marble floor, almost falling as he turned sharply to the left and raced from the mansion.

 

The remaining two thugs found it impossible to hide their surprise. Their breathing suddenly became shallower and their bodies visibly shook. In a moment, they too raced for the door.

 

*                       *                       *

 

Commissioner Warren watched with growing curiosity as first one and then two more young men raced through the open front door. They scurried down the walkway to the large iron gate that guarded the grounds. By the time the first man figured out how to unlatch the mechanism, his two fellows had joined him, urging him to work faster, all three constantly looking over their shoulders as if in fear that whatever had driven them from the great house would catch them.

 

They pulled the gate open and ran into the street, past her SUV, still glancing back to make sure that they were not being followed.

 

*                       *                       *

 

Crimson Flare surveyed the battlefield. A dozen men lay scattered about the library, most resting near the walls, unmoving, two or three in the centre of the floor, near the large table.

 

Slowly she turned and walked toward the alcove that sheltered her friend’s ravaged body. It was dark within the niche. Some light bled in that direction from the lights in the foyer, a little more reflected through the broken window. Crimson Flare stared at her friend. Maria lay still, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.

 

She stepped over the body lying across the front of the niche. Maria’s eyes were closed, her face still strained from the agony she had suffered at the hands of Gouyannou’s men. She lay on her back and her knees were drawn up slightly, allowing her to fit her small frame inside the walls. Her face still showed the bruising inflicted on her by her first rapist and there was some discolouration at her sides, where Blandescu’s bear hug may have damaged her ribs.

 

The heroine stepped close, and then stooped to gaze into the troubled face of the policewoman who had become so close to her. ‘It’s over, Maria. They’re not going to hurt you again,’ she whispered.

 

She reached out her hand to touch Maria.

 

A slight creak in the floorboards behind her alerted the Champion—but too late! Two massive arms wrapped around her and she was pulled against Blandescu’s naked body. He spun America’s Darling wildly, crashing her head against first one wall of the alcove and then another.

 

At the door to the library, two more armed figures suddenly appeared—Gouyannou’s guards from the ballroom.

 

End of Chapter Ten

 

Comments, questions, suggestions welcome: contact the author at marat1793@comcast.net