40: Sapphire Snapped

Angela stirred to the sound of a ringing phone.

"Thirty minutes? But we were just getting started. You wouldn't believe it -- this girl's insatiable." Johnson looked at his watch. "Damn. Time flies when you're having fun. Can we take her with us?" He frowned. "Right, I forgot. All right, she'll be ready in thirty. You want us to leave her here?" He looked over at the once-innocent whore, sprawled out on the bed; she looked well-used. "Don't worry, she's not going anywhere."

The other Johnson waited until the handset was back on its cradle before asking, "Can't we keep her?"
"Ginger needs her to perform in the big finale."
"Oh, right. Let everybody see Sapphire fly to the package before she blows it. Seems a shame to waste such sweet meat. Ginger and her fucking drama."

Angela felt a shiver run up her spine. So they were going to kill her after all.

"Shh! She'll hear you!"
"Fuck that, she's out cold." Angela's eyes snapped shut in case they looked to check. "So, Thirty minutes down at the loading dock? I think that gives us time for one more round."
"I don't know, it's been a long and hard night." Angela heard one of them walk into the bathroom; the other raised his voice a bit.
"So maybe it takes more than a half-hour. So maybe her show starts a little late. Have you seen the crowd out there? Ain't nobody goin' home early. The party's just gettin' started. What's Ginger gonna do, kill us?"
"Maybe," the other one called out over the sound of urination.
"Fuck her. She gives us any lip, when I'm done with this little whore I'll show Ginger a thing or two about takin' charge."
"Damn, you're all charged up tonight."
"Don't tell me you haven't wanted to tap that bossy bitch's ass since we joined this outfit."
"Fuck yeah."
"So to hell with her and her schedule. We're done when we *say* we're done."
"Yeah. If she has a problem with it she can suck my dick."
"Like you're gonna have anything left."
"Funny. Not."
"All right then. Let's see if we can't get sleeping beauty here going again."
"Okay," over the sound of flushing, "but no drugs."

"Hey, I'm not 18 anymore; I need a little boost from the blue man group."
"I meant for her."
"Fuck, she doesn't need 'em anyway. It doesn't take much to get this girl's motor running. Besides, I think she *enjoys* getting used."
"That's the best kind, really." The sound of washing hands.
"Sez you."
"Man, you're weird."
"Coming from you that means a lot. What's the problem?"
"I dunno, man, look at her."

Johnson looked at the girl they'd used and abused with such enthusiasm.

Tattered white satin sleeves rumpled halfway down her arms, the only thing left of her blouse.
Purple velvet bustier emphasizing her slender curves, demicups pushed down to reveal pert nipples capping firm breasts.
Leather miniskirt -- little more than a wide belt -- pushed low on her hips and bunched up above her sweet crevice. Garter belt framing the skirt above and below, drawing taut sheer black stockings whose laddered and torn appearance only added to her slutty appeal.
Small feet arched into feminine tiptoe by narrow platforms and sharp spike heels bound in place by slender purple straps.

A disheveled doll.

His cock twitched. It seemed a shame to throw away such a marvelous plaything.

"So?"
"I dunno, the last couple of times, she was just a little too into it, you know?"
"Johnson, you are one sick fuck."
"To thine own self be true."
"Well, I'm gonna see if I can't get her started for one more roll in the hay."
"I still think we should get her cleaned up. Ginger can't use her lookin' like that."
"Apparently neither can you."
"Couldn't you just fuck a chick naked sometimes?"
"Come off it, you like 'em dressed up too."
"Yeah, but at least if she's naked I can pretend she's a good girl; you always dress 'em up like hookers."
"You weren't complaining an hour ago."
"An hour ago I could convince myself she was just trying to please her dirty old dad; now all tore up like that she just looks like a gutter whore."
"Nothing so base as that; more like Andrew Blake's idea of a gutter whore fantasy, lovingly shot in soft-focus 35mm..."
"Fine, whatever, just hurry up and ride before the park closes. I'll be in the other room watching TV."

Johnson turned the girl over, propping the limp vixen up on her knees at the edge of the bed, unzipping and rubbing his growing staff as he looked her over. He heard a sleepy moan escape her lips; she arched her back, thrusting her hips up toward him, displaying herself lewdly. Her sex glistened and glowed with readiness.

Fuck. This girl never quit.

He positioned himself carefully, his hands running up and down her sides, feeling soft leather, smooth stockings, softer and smoother skin. He gave her ass a quick smack; she squealed before murmuring incoherent encouragement. The head of his dick slicked up and down her engorged lips, wiggling to and fro over her clit, watching with satisfaction the way she rutted upward with every teasing touch.

Finally he could take no more teasing himself. Guiding himself in, he slammed forward with one swift lunge. "Ohgawd," she moaned, her voice low and hoarse.

Already his balls began to boil over.
He wouldn't last long.
He didn't care.
Note to self: buy more Pfizer stock.

The bed squeaked and the headboard slammed the wall with his viscious staccatto thrusting. His cock felt like it was made of iron, a shaft of unyielding might plunging deep into this fantastic fuckbot who despite her ordeal somehow needed more.

No, not somehow. He knew how. They'd fucked the fight right out of her.

He spasmed, one final thrust becoming three as his vision blurred and fuzzed and he fell forward on top of her, rolling off the girl and onto the floor in a disjointed bundle of twitching limbs that struggled to regain his feet even as his cock seeped its last seed.

An appreciative, dismissive hand slapped the girl hard on the ass. "Thanks, babe. You're one sweet lay. I wish I could dress you up and fuck you every day."

Johnson staggered to the bathroom to take another marine shower -- his third of the night. After a few moments wiping off the worst of the sweat and spunk, he zipped up and went out to the front room of the suite. The other Johnson sat there flipping channels, looking bored.

"Hey, last call, you sure you don't want anything?"
"No."
"All right. Hey, whatcha watchin'?" He sat down on the couch.
"What are you doing? You gotta go clean her up."
"Fuck that. You're the one who thinks she needs to be all presentable and shit."
"Fine," the other Johnson said, exasperated. He got up out of the overstuffed chair.
"Where you going?"
"To clean her up so Ginger doesn't kick my ass."
"Dude," Johnson called through the door, "Ginger did a lot worse that fuck her. I don't think she cares."
"Well it's unprofessional."
Johnson muttered to himself, "Now that's just sick." He picked up the TV remote, turning up the volume and flipping rapid-fire; the flurry of barely-recognized random images and sounds soothing his savage beast.

Angela feigned more wooziness than she actually felt as Johnson hauled her into the bathroom by the elbow. She was still unsatisfied, and her playtoy didn't seem to be in the mood; her brow furrowed drunkenly. She had to formulate a plan. A plan to do what? To get laid? No, a tiny voice of reason inside her scolded, a plan to get out of here. But I'm not finished...

Johnson tried to maneuver the uncooperative girl into the shower; still in sky-high platform ankle-strap sandals, she stumbled and fell to her knees right in front of him.

Oooh, hey, what's this? Don't touch that. Why not? It's what he wants. If I give him what he wants, maybe he'll give me what I want. What you want is to get out of here. Exactly; don't you trust me?

The girl immediately latched onto his dick, trying to fish it out of his trousers. "Come on, that's enough of that."

"What's the matter, don't I make you hard? Don't you like me anymore? Come on, mister, one more for the road." She licked her lips, making them glisten in the too-bright bathroom light.

Remarkable; just two hours ago she'd been a blowjob virgin; now she was desperate to suck cock. "Jesus you're a slut."

Despite her behavior, despite knowing it was the truth, hearing the word still startled Angela. It was the distaste with which he'd said it, in contrast to his partner's ebullious use of the term, that gave her pause... and gave her an idea.

"Fine," she said, "I didn't want your stinky little Johnson anyway. You think I 'go down' on just anybody?" Her inexperience made her stumble on the euphemism; subconsciously, Johnson picked up on the unintentional naivete.

Damn, this slut was good. She even knew when to act like she *didn't* want it.

Angela was encouraged by his piqued interest. "I only did it before because you made me do it. It's not something good girls do. I wouldn't put that thing in my mouth unless you had a gun to my head."

A gun. Johnson remembered they'd stashed the guns in the bathroom just in case the girl had wigged out and tried anything crazy. Looking down at the little cocktease now, that didn't seem possible. He looked up to the top of the towel rack. The other Johnson's gun was gone -- he must have taken it -- but his was right where he'd left it, making a disingenuously-cute puffy indentation in the soft white cotton of a folded towel, two loaded clips arrayed jauntily to either side. It was like a surreal product shot...

She got up off her knees, struggling to stand, scrabbling a bit for traction on the tile floor, trying to wiggle free of his instinctively-tightened grip on her wrist. "Now let me go, mister. You're creeping me out."

It was a dangerous game Angela was playing -- not because these were dangerous men, though they were; not because the man holding her had grabbed a gun, though he had. It was dangerous because the wanton slut awakened in her still had control over her body, and had only just relinquished control over her mind. She was *so* horny; the other Johnson had cum too quickly and she still needed release -- it seemed she would forevermore be in need of release. Angela found her behavior disgusting, and she did her best to dwell on the distaste even while subconsciously reveling in it. It was a vicious feedback loop, one she feared she would be unable to break if she let herself go again. But she could think of no other way.

She felt the cold hardness of a gun pressed tentatively, almost tenderly, against her head. "It's not even loaded," Angela heard herself taunt.

Snick, click-click.
It was loaded now.

Angela shivered at the thought of what she was about to do, at the risk she was taking. But through her desperate need to cum and her self-revulsion a tiny voice reminded her that these men meant to kill her; they'd used her mom and gotten her killed; their boss had her stones, and through a gruesome beating that woman had shown that the evil she could inflict with such power was limitless.

Angela didn't realize it, but her inexperience and turmoil and lust crafted just the right combination of practiced technique and princess terror. Johnson looked down at her with tunneling vision; God it was even better than the first time. "That's it, princess, don't stop."

He watched her head bob, her long smooth neck and slender shoulders almost liquid in their propulsion.
Small, slender fingers curved around the base of his shaft, the pinkie curled down, fingernail gently scratching between his balls as she squeezed in double-time with her bobbing head and swirling tongue.

She paused at the tip to look up, deliciously convincing trepidation in her eyes; Johnson's face melted into a possessive slack-jawed smile. His grip on the gun slackened, hand falling to his side, head lolling back, eyes glazing over as he steeped himself in this moment of ecstatic anticipation.

Angela felt him stiffen.

She let out a little whimper; the vibration of her trembling protest did as much to his gland as the sweet sound did to his ears. Johnson gushed and pulsed and shook, his body reeling, slackening as if the girl had sucked his very bones out.

Finally, her lips released him, and he staggered backward. But something tugged at his right hand, twisting him sideways as he crashed into the open door, knees wobbling, just barely avoiding collapse.

But his brain focused very quickly on the shape of the thing now in front of him. Alarm rallied regained consciousness; his eyes blinked. Smooth. Dark. Hard. Hole. Hand. Danger.

"P-p-put that down before somebody gets hurt," Johnson stammered. Angela put her finger to her lips to signal silence, pointing out the bedroom door with her right hand, her eyes never unlocking from his. The dribble of cum running down her cheek glistened like war paint. Johnson backed out the bathroom, footing still unsteady; she noted with satisfaction and disappointment the way his shriveling member retreated into his pants like a frightened worm.

Without warning, the other Johnson entered the room. "Hey, you done yet, Ginger's gonna... Oh shit!"

And her hastily-formulated 'plan' became frenzied frightened chaos.

The intruder reached for his shoulder holster...

Angela panicked and turned, her hand twitching with alarm as a violent explosion threw it back toward her.

The reaching Johnson's expression quickly went blank. A small dark hole in his forehead started trickling bright red blood as he went slack and pitched forward.

The other Johnson lunged for her, hand grabbing gun. Angela squeezed -- a shot. His momentum carried him through her, knocking them to the ground. Shot. Angela felt his body quiver with the impact, but he kept struggling, working to pin her down.

Angela curled defensively, kicking like a cornered cat; the spike heels Johnson insisted were de rigeur for her good-girl slut persona proved gruesomely effective, stabbing Johnson in the upper thigh.

"You Bitch!" he seethed. His grip on her wrist slackened; she pushed him over, the weight of his body falling back to a sitting position.

The bloodied Johnson wasn't about to let this stupid whore get the best of him. He lunged forward, reaching for the slender neck that was key to subduing her, when he heard another sharp impossibly-loud Crack! Suddenly he didn't feel so good...

Angela let out a scream as the first spurt of carteroid blood splashed her chest. A thick stream shot from the awful angry-looking hole in her attacker's neck, and another, and another, each one falling shorter. The man's eyes had a strange, unfocused look to them for several long moments before coming back to stare at her. Arms again reached out, the body spasming forward again, but the move was uncoordinated, wooden. Angela felt herself scream again, but heard nothing over the rushing wind in her ears, the gun once again belching hot death at this corpse that would not fall.

The side of Johnson's face exploded in a splatter of blood and rended flesh. The body slumped forward, its dead weight pressing the slight girl back to the floor.

She kicked and screamed, frantically clawing her way out from under the dead body, falling to the floor, rolling to a stop against the wall, pushing herself against the wall to her feet. The gun pointed at the middle of the room, shifting back and forth between the two lifeless bodies, watching two puddles of blood grow.

After long moments, she began to register the sound of her own ragged breathing; the gun fell limply to her side as she sobbed in recovery.

Time seemed to stand still. It could have been a minute or an hour before she eventually staggered into the bathroom. The gun fell into the sink.

I have to get clean.

A hand fumbled for and found the shower faucet.

I'm dirty. I have to get clean.

She stepped under the cold water, not bothering to draw the curtain. The shellshocked girl began rubbing herself compulsively, trying desperately to wash the blood and sweat and sex and evil away...

I can't get it off. It's not coming off. I'm still dirty. They made me dirty. I have to get clean! Why won't it come off?

The shattered Angela began to cry and wail, sounding for all the world like a wounded young animal calling helplessly for its mother. Her hands were a spastic blur, soaping and rubbing and wiping and scouring... "It won't come off, it won't come off, it won't come off..."

Eventually she collapsed, still traumatized, curling up in a ball under the stinging cold water... she couldn't get it off, it wouldn't come off, she still felt it,
crawling all over her,
entering her,
dominating her,
consuming her.

And she'd embraced it.

Val crossed her arms and pouted. Max sat low in the airport chair directly in front of her. Hurried passengers altered course without making eye contact, steering around the dark-mooded nineteen-year-old.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"It's out of season."

Val looked up and down Max's sinewy frame; he wore a loose tan shirt with a giant Chinese dragon print, khakis, and sandals. "Suddenly you're the fashion expert."
"It's Labor Day Weekend. It must be 85 degrees outside. And you're wearing black stretch pants and a black turtleneck."
"Maybe I'm from back East."
"Where a heat wave is breaking records up and down the Coast." Max dipped his ridiculous-looking Gargoyle mirrored sunglasses -- hadn't anyone told him those had gone out of style before the *old* George Bush was President? -- giving her a 'you can't be serious' look before shaking his head ruefully.

"Okay, so I'm a fashion disaster. We're two of a kind. I'm comfortable. What's wrong with that?"
"It attracts attention."
Valerie looked up and down the terminal; she was hardly the most grievous style offender.
"So?"
"That's an old outfit, isn't it?"
It was the last thing she'd grabbed before she'd fled her apartment ages ago. And it was the last thing she had left of her old life. "Yeah, what about it?"
"It's the same clothing you wore in this photograph." Max handed Val a folded-up flyer.

WANTED

VALERIE STRAIN
ARMED AND DANGEROUS
$50,000 REWARD FOR HER CAPTURE

In the middle of the page was indeed a photograph of her in the same clothes she now wore. She recognized the photo; the bookstore manager had taken it 'for the personnel file.' Well, between Bates and the police, no stone had been left unturned.

But more worrisome was the fact that her head still had a price on it.

"Ohmygod, where'd you get this? Bates is supposed to think I'm dead. How'd he find out?"
"That flyer is from yesterday morning. I thought you might want it as a souvenir. In any case, there are thousands of such fliers in the hands of local residents and travelers alike."

Valerie took another look at the flier.
"For crying out loud, the only thing it's missing is 'Dead or Alive.'"
"Look at the back."
Valerie flipped it over anxiously; it was blank. She looked at Max; he was smiling.
"That's *not* funny," she pouted.
"I believe the expression is 'made you look.'" His grin approached his ears before fading. "In any case, it took a great deal of effort to get you killed. Unless you'd like to repeat that experience, I suggest you change your attire."
"Fine. But the only clothes I have are in the suitcase we just checked."
"I came prepared. Here."

Max pulled out a roll of fabric from his carryon. Valerie took it and headed for the restroom, trying hard not to look around suspiciously.

Max felt something sharp kick his foot. "You son of a bitch."
He looked up at a decidedly-sunnier-looking Valerie Strain. Well, at least her outfit was cheery; her expression was that same melancholy disgust he'd picked up off and on from her ever since her 'death.'

Max mentally checked off the items he gave her; he was curious as to whether she was passive enough to wear everything without question, or if there was still some fight left in her. Her tired frown suggested the latter.

Black sheer midriff tanktop.
Pink patent leather jacket -- sleeveless and cropped to just under the breasts.
Matching pink patent leather miniskirt -- with garter tabs underneath.
Black fishnet stockings.
Black spike-heeled ankle boots. "Sorry, they didn't have the boots in pink." Val just grunted.
Sassy pink scarf tied around her neck.

Wait, one more item...

Max quickly flipped up Val's skirt as she stood there. Pink patent leather thong: check.

"Hey!" She slapped him. But it was a weak slap.

"I look like Pinky Fuckin' Tescadero," she whined.

Max could barely contain his laughter. But it was tinged with sadness. The old spark was gone, replaced by a helpless disgust at her own passivity -- as if the act and the will were disconnected. It was indeed puzzling.

"Now sit down next to uncle Max and behave."
The old Val would have smacked the smug look right off his face. But she was tired of defending her independence against every perceived slight. It was easier just to go along with it. It didn't really matter anyway. They would be far away from this horrible place soon enough, and then she could become whoever she wanted. Once she figured out who that was.

Valerie sat down and crossed her legs demurely, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Max gave her a look.

"What?"
"You are... different."
"Getting killed does that to a person."
"You were not killed."

"A part of me was," Valerie sighed.

Oh so hot no time to take a rest yeah
Act tough ain't room for second best
Real strong got me some security
Hey I'm a big smash I'm goin' for infinity yeah

If you think I'll sit around as the world goes by
You're thinkin' like a fool cause it's a case of do or die
Out there is a fortune waitin' to be had
You think I'll let it go you're mad
You've got another thing comin'
You've got another thing comin'

The Impala SS rumbled to a stop at the departures curb.

"Hey! Hey, you! You can't leave that here!"

There they were, held up in the line at the x-ray machine. He'd just made it. Andrew nonchalantly scanned the elderly woman's carryon; his matched hers in every detail, right down to the laser-printed nametag in the faux-leather snap-shut nametag holder. God bless the neat.

Andrew hustled up to the line behind them, standing off to the right slightly, angling for the conveyer belt. The frail little woman hefted her bag onto the belt; Andrew swung his around, plopping it just ahead of hers, his hand trailing, subtly retaining a hold on the shoulder strap. "Hey, look, same bag," he commented as he smiled. She looked down, seeing his bag nestled in front of hers. "Why, so it is," she smiled back.

The woman turned to step through the metal detector. Andrew turned to follow, giving his bag a covert parting tug, leapfrogging it behind its mate.

"Your bag, madame," Andrew gestured grandly.
"Why, thank you."

Andrew's heart couldn't help but race. It had gone too well.

He felt something jab him in the side; a hand simultaneously clapped down on his opposite shoulder. Hard. Someone hissed into his ear: "Act like you're glad to see me."

"Hey, Taggert! Good to see you!" Andrew said, too loud and too enthusiastic.

"Let's go sit down at this empty gate and see what trinkets you picked up for your old buddy Taggert." The hand on his shoulder wrenched him across the walkway to a row of chairs. "Nice switch, by the way, you practice it much?"
"Thanks. No, first time. Hey, can I ask you something?"
"What?"
"How'd you get the pistol through security?"
"Air Marshall."
"You bribed an Air Marshall?"
"No, I *am* one."
"Wow. The only badge they gave me was for the Colgate Cavity Patrol."

Taggert tucked his piece in the back of his pants. Andrew tried to wrench free, but Taggert quickly grabbed his other shoulder and spun him back around. Taggert was older and a little out of shape, but simple mass overpowered the younger agent, knocking him off-balance and slamming him down into a hard plastic seat.

Agent Dean heard a metallic Click! T-t-t-tick! Taggert grabbed his wrist and slapped it with something cold and hard. Another Click! T-t-t-tick! "Wha-?"

Shit. He'd been handcuffed to the chair.

"Hey, Taggert, I told you I'm not into this kinky shit."
"Shut up and give me the fuckin' bag."

Andrew noticed Taggert had a swollen bruise on his left cheek, poorly covered with makeup. And there was something about the way he moved that implied he was in pain. "Damn, Taggert, you look like hell. You get in a fight with a girl?"

Handcuffs, ankle chains, and a black hood. These men were taking no chances with Eric.

They'd been riding in the car for two hours. Maybe longer. Probably longer.

"Are you working with anyone else?"
"How many times are you going to ask me that question?"
"How many times are you gonna lie to me?"
"I'm not lying to you. I'm not working with anyone."
"That's not what our source says. Our source says you're workin' with a dirty cop."
"I remember you mentioning that before," Eric said dryly.
"So where's he supposed to hit Bates?"
"Nobody's trying to 'hit' Bates."
"That's not what our source says."
"Your source is playing you. My job is to protect Bates." He stopped short of telling them that Ginger was trying to kill Bates; if she ran, the game was over. Even if Eric couldn't get out of this jam, maybe Noel could do something. Maybe Sapphire could do something. Though he hated the idea of betting everything on an eighteen-year-old's intuition.

"Our source has plenty of courrogated evidence. You've just got a bad attitude and a lot of hardware."
"I think you mean corroborated." Eric braced himself for the slap. It still hurt like hell when it came. This was at least the tenth time they'd been through this routine. Eric's cheek was split open, and he tasted blood. He was a glutton for punishment.
"Courrogated evidence. It stands up to close inspection."
"It wasn't clever the first nine times you said it either."

The thug glowered silently.

"Look, kids, if you're gonna kill me, just do it already. If you're gonna interrogate me, try some new techniques because this driving around and slapping me silly shit isn't getting us anywhere. You got things to do, I got things to do."

"Bates just said to hold you."
"So then what's with the panty-waist interrogation?"
"I'm just doing it to piss you off."
Eric seethed. "Well, it's *working!*"
"Excellent."
Eric marvelled at how much that line sounded like Fat Tony from "The Simpsons." The guy probably practiced it every morning in the shower. Now if somebody would just do a Mr. Burns his night would be complete...

"Fine. We can fool around all night and never get to third base if that's what you wanna do. In the meantime, the partner I'm not working with will take care of the man we're not hired to kill."
"Doubtful. Should Mr. Aquino appear at the Party this evening, Security will apprehend him."
"It doesn't seem the least bit suspicious to you that the guy who's been trying to catch the Black Widow for weeks has suddenly been hired from beyond the grave to kill Bates?"
"There is reason to believe that his efforts were less than genuine."
"You guys couldn't find her either. You guys weren't trying? Maybe you've been hired by the Black Widow too. You should be slapping each other until you confess instead of wasting your time with me."

Eric welcomed the slap. At least now they were covering some new ground.

"Detective Aquino is working with Sapphire. He helped get her out of jail." Aquino's career would hardly be helped by sharing such information, but there were larger and more immediate problems to address here. "Sapphire stopped Black Widow from killing Bates. Bates *thanked* her. Can't you guys put this together? Are your heads so far up your asses that you can't smell the bullshit this 'source' has been feeding you?"
"You are Scott Phillips. You are a professional assassin with forty confirmed kills. We have verified this information."
"It's all bullshit. Everything you've used to 'verify' this 'information' was planted for you to find. Why do you think you'd never heard of me before?"
"This is your first engagement in our industry."
"Fucking morons. Spicoli's gonna have your ass when he finds out you ran out on a wild goose chase while all hell's breaking loose at the Party."

Oops.

"So something *is* going to happen."

Eric tried to cover. "Well, it's a fucking party. A thousand kids are gonna be tripping on God-knows-what pharmaceutical abominations while your goon squad is running amok with too many firearms and not enough supervision. I can't believe the cops let you rent-a-thugs carry."

"This is interesting. Perhaps it's time we took things to the next level."

Eric began laughing. "The next level? You need new writers."

"Murray -- hold his hand still."

Eric contemplated the relative value of retaining his thumbs and exploring alternative solutions to the Ginger problem. "All right, now we're getting somewhere," he assented. "But this is a very delicate situation. I'll only talk to Bates."
"I'm not taking you to see him. What, do I look stupid?"
"Insofar as I'm wearing a hood and you think I can see how you look, Yes."
Slap!
"Come on, Bruno, what am I gonna do all shackled and blindfolded, kill him with my razor-sharp wit? Lemme talk to him."

The limo suddenly swerved; Eric toppled over against the bruiser on his left.

"What is it?"
"Cops."
"What do they want?"
"He wants us to pull over."
The limo kept rolling.
"Well?"
"What do I do?"
"Pull over."

Eric felt a gun press into his gut. "Hey, it's cool. Let me talk to Bates and I'll be a good boy."
"We'll see."

"Driver's license and registration please."
"Is there a problem, officer?"
"Driver's license and registration."

The limo driver produced the requested documents. "Did I do something wrong?"
"Your turn signal's been on for the last six blocks. Do you know how to operate this vehicle?"
"Yes sir, the turn signal's right here-"

Eric heard an electromechanical Click! Suddenly the passenger compartment was filled with street noise; the door was open.

"Freeze."

He recognized the voice. It was Noel Aquino.

"Listen very carefully. We can all die right now in a bloody shootout, or you can let this gentleman out and be on your way."

Eric turned to the unseen thug to his left. "I think this is my stop," he quipped.

"I can't let him go."
"I think you can."
"He'll be the first one to die," Thug answered. Eric could sense the barrel of the gun parked inches off his nose.
"Then you'll be second," Noel answered.
"Then you'll be third," Murray added.

A voice came from up front. "Um, boss, I think you's should take a look outside."

Noel spared them the trouble. "That would officers Muldoon and Toody. So are we finished with our counting lesson?"
"Detective Aquino, this man is an assassin."
Noel didn't deny it. "He's not here to kill your boss."
"I'm just supposed to believe you?"
"No. You're just supposed to let him go."

The thug spoke. "Murray, gimme the keys."
"But..."
"Gimme the fuckin' keys."

Eric blinked as the hood was removed. The head thug sat across from him, unlocking Eric's shackles with a 'this isn't over' look on his face. "You can go." The only gun still pointed was Aquino's, kneeling behind the door on the curb.

Eric stepped over the bruiser on his right to go.

"Hey, Aquino," the thug called out.
"What?"
The mob accent came on thick under stress. "We got twenny guys dere on top uh da regular Security an' all the cops on duty, an' four of 'em next to Bates all da time. Ain't no body gonna get near 'im. But if by some miracle anything unfortunate were to happen, you know I got witnesses. We all saw you let an assassin go. Every body in da media's gonna know dere was police involvement. You know dat, right? Right? You know dat."

"Yeah, Skippy, I know that. Come on, let's go."

Eric reached back into the car. "I'll just be taking my tools now."

The thug grabbed Eric's wrist. "You an' me gonna dance again."
"Okay, but next time, I lead."

Eric jerked his thumb back toward the limo. "Did you just call that guy Skippy?"
"Yeah. We went to high school together."
"Thanks for savin' my ass."
"Don't mention it. You're the only one who knows what Ginger and the rest of them look like. And I mean it, really, don't mention it."

Officer Muldoon pointed to Eric. "Hey, Aquino. You sure this guy's all right? Skippy's right about Bates."
Noel looked his fellow officers in the eye. "This man has no interest in Gerald Bates. You have my word."
"Good enough for me." "Me too." "Don't forget, you owe us dinner at Charlie's."

As the limo drove off, Noel waved to his uniformed assistants. The officers got into their cruisers and rolled away.

"Let's go," Noel said as he unlocked the big Mercury. "It's already nine-thirty and we're all the way across town."

"How much longer do we have to wait?"
"Our flight doesn't leave until eleven."
"Eleven?" Valerie whined. "Why so late?"
"It's Labor Day weekend. You insisted on going to Las Vegas. This was the first available flight."

Valerie took a deep breath and sighed, as a young child being put out would do to emphasize her plight.

"I'm just sick of seeing the news."
"Don't look."
"There's nothing else to look at."
"Look at the people."
"After about four hours, they all start to look the same."

She looked again the the headline news channel. Every fifteen minutes, the same half-dozen news bytes. Only the commercials changed. Valerie had begun to mouth the words to the stories. One was particularly vexing.

"Businessman Gerald Bates proves that he is as tough to topple as his shipping empire. After being ruthlessly attacked and nearly killed by the vigilante known only as the Black Widow two days ago, Bates struck back with a vengeance last night, killing his attacker in a violent explosion that reduced his limousine to charred rubble. Bates himself was safely at home, having proven once again his ability to outmaneuver and outwit his opponents, whether they be after his money or his very life.

"Those local sports fans hoping for a rematch between the Black Widow and mysterious local heroine Sapphire are consigned to disappointment. Before Black Widow's death had been announced early this morning, Nevada casinos were reporting very heavy betting on the outcome of the seemingly-inevitable followup to the two girls' knock-down drag-out brawl that destroyed a local restaurant. Odds were two-to-one in favor of the plucky Sapphire. But credit must now go to Bates for the win, ending what was certainly one of the strangest stories I've reported in all my days of broadcasting."

Val seethed. Two to one? Sapphire would be little more than a stain on the wall at GB's if that little geek-boy hadn't interfered.

But that didn't matter now. Neither did Bates gloating over 'his' victory -- his involvement had ended at handing over the keys to the Caddy.

Really, it didn't matter...

"Ow," Max complained. "If you are going to hold my hand, try not to crush it."
"Sorry."

Max looked at his young charge. Something was bothering her. Why wouldn't she let him in?

Val wanted to go. It was the right thing to do. The adult thing. How did it go? The best revenge is living well? Something like that. Valerie'd had her chance; she'd taken her shot and missed. Things were just too hot. She was tired of being a fugitive. The sapphires had turned out to be a curse, turning her whole life inside out. But for all their ruin they'd given her a pinpoint of hope for normalcy in the form of the patient, understanding, and loving man sitting beside her. She only hoped that, once the thrill of their chance pairing faded and the glow of the sapphires was gone, he would continue to understand and appreciate the loving and passionate woman she wanted so desperately to be for him. If only he wouldn't torture her so. If only she weren't so worthless. If only she could find a way to hide her sadness. If only she could make him love her anyway.

If only she could shake the feeling that she was being ripped apart inside.

"Valerie, my sweet princess, what's wrong? Talk to me."
Valerie bordered on tears. "Oh, Max, I'm afraid..."
"Afraid of what? Everything is going to be all right. Everyone thinks you are dead. You can start over."
"But I don't want to start over. I don't want to lose you."
"How could you lose me?"
"Cuz you don't like me anymore. Because I'm... normal."
Max held her chin and looked deeply into "Oh, sweet Valerie, you are not normal. You are extraordinary. You are not going to lose me." He stroked her cheek gently. "Because I love you. We are meant to be together."

Valerie felt the emotional dam burst; she threw her arms around Max's neck, her head buried in his shoulder, sobbing with joy. "Oh, Max, I love you, I love you, I'll do anything you want, just please don't ever leave me, never ever!"

Max felt something burst too; suddenly her fragile mind was an open book. He could read her more easily than anyone he'd ever encountered; was it because of their emotional connection? Or because of the connection forged by the sapphires and the amulet? Was there a difference?

But she'd said what he'd longed to hear: I'll do anything you want. And something dark took control of him. He sifted through her fear, her shattered confidence, her marginalized self-image, searching for some glimmer of the thought he wished her to have. He found the scab that had grown over the Black Widow's persona. And he picked at it.

He wanted her to feel threatened by Sapphire. Jealous of her. He found that she'd seen Sapphire's image as unfairly squeaky-clean and perky compared to her own sinister shading. He grabbed those selfish thoughts and rubbed them raw, watching them grow inflamed in her mind. He teased out of hiding the fear that Sapphire would come after her, desperate to rekindle their rivalry, defined by it; without Black Widow the truth about Sapphire as a super-powered thug would come out.

Val continued to weep. She couldn't shake the sick, weak feeling she had. It felt like there was something crawling all over her, some parasite she couldn't see, sapping her strength. Sucking the very will out of her.

And suggesting a different will.
It was creepy.

Max continued shoving his way through the girl's mind, pushing aside thoughts of Gerald Bates and pulling forward thoughts of Sapphire. He found Valerie's melancholy at having to start over, and hammered into it the fact that Sapphire had to make no such sacrifice. Sapphire got to stay and bask in the glory of a heroine; Val had to slink away, hoping that no one would remember her villainy.

Suddenly Val sat bolt upright. "What are you doing to me, Max?"

Max's face was ashen. "What do you mean?" His eyes showed a fear of discovery. He'd let himself get careless; could she sense what he was doing? Delicate feelers sought signs of distress at the periphery of her mind.

"I don't feel right. This doesn't feel right. Running away. Faking my own death."
Max was relieved; it was working. "Are you having a change of heart?"

"It's not like me to let other people tell me what to do," she said, her gaze growing more intense. "But that's what I did. I let you talk me into this."
"I saw how unhappy you were. You *told* me how unhappy you were. they were never going to let you rest, Valerie. You know that."
"I know. But it all fell into place too easily. It was like you planned it."
"Of course I planned it. I discovered a plot to destroy you and we used it to our advantage."
"To *our* advantage? Or to *your* advantage?"
What was she talking about? Max didn't want her to run at all. He wanted her to stay. She was coming around, but at the same time pushing him away. He needed to attempt a little damage control. He needed her to know they were fated to be together. He needed her to understand her own importance; the importance of them being together.

"Your advantage is our advantage, Valerie. We are as one. It is fate. I would never leave you, Valerie. I worked so hard to find you. I followed the path. It brought me to you."

"What path? What do you mean, find me?"

"I did not know how I would find you. But the amulet led me. It showed me the path. Brief glimpses of the sapphires' power -- of *your* power -- but it was enough. It even led me to your nemesis. It brought me here to help you unite the stones."

"You mean that Avenging Angel bitch? You're nuts. That girl's trouble. I don't want anything to do with her." Val felt the queasiness again, as if a part of her was punishing her for what she'd just said.

"But you must unite the sapphires. Sweet Valerie, try to understand your own importance. It is your destiny to unite the sapphires. The prophecy fortells it. It cannot be that I have followed the path in vain -- that I have found you both, found your paths intertwined, for nothing. Tell me that your followers' lives were not sacrificed in vain."

"Prophecy? Followers? Sacrificed? Who was sacrificed, Max?"

"The airport. Your mate. The thieves. The pimps. The atheletes. The businessman and his son. The gangs. Wretched souls redeemed for a greater good."

"My *mate*? You mean Bobby? Oh my God..." All points strung themselves together in a single moment of horrifying understanding.

"Max, what have you done?"

"Valerie, calm down." He could sense her mind prickling, actively filtering all thoughts but anger.

"All those people, you killed them. When I did it it was an accident, but you... you *enjoyed* it! You've been feeding off me, off her, like some kind of... vampire!"

"Valerie, people are beginning to stare." But she ignored him.

"But that wasn't enough. You *pushed* them! You *made* those people come after me. You told them where to find me, made them believe they could take me. Was that enough? Or did you push *me* too? You did, didn't you? You've been shadowing me all along, pushing me, changing me, making me something I'm not! You made me a killer!"

"Valerie, please. You don't understand. It's not just for me. We both benefit. Together we can ascend to the next plane, to paradise. We'll be gods. It is not just for me. It is for you as well. It is for us."

"Ascend... gods?... You sick fuck! There *is* no us!"

Max reached out to soothe his tortured queen.

Val suddenly felt clarity. She felt Max inside her, his influence suddenly obvious, heavy-handed, clumsy. Her eyes clamped shut, her face an angry grimace. Every minute ever spent with Max suddenly felt tainted. Dishonest. Dirty.

The Black Widow bent down on one knee in a defensive crouch. Forearms rose to her head in instinctive defense.

"Get out of my *head*!"

The scream echoed through the terminal, a violent push, a command of such force it rippled through the minds of every person within earshot. Crowds suddenly fell silent; rushing passengers stopped in their tracks.

Like a radar return, the attention of every soul came rushing back, a mental shockwave converging on Max. Hundreds of discrete, confused thoughts crashed down upon him, so many voices overwhelming his sense of self. Max collapsed in agony, a bewildered child feeling intense pain for the first time, consciousness folding in upon itself . . .

And then it was gone.

Max heard the faint echo of his own cry for mercy. The amulet burned hot on his chest.

Max had never felt such power. Such helplessness. For the first time, he was in fear of what the amulet could do. It had only been the briefest of moments, but Max begged to never experience that horror again.

When Max looked up, his Black Widow Queen was gone.

Valerie stormed down the terminal causeway, the intensity of her presence parting the sea of travelers like a battleship on full boil.

Everything in her life was a lie. The sapphires, the feelings they encouraged, the choices she'd made...

No, not everything. Nothing could alter the burning hatred she felt for Gerald Bates. It was the only thing she had that she knew was real, pure, untainted.

The hatred was the only way she knew she was still alive.

It was a debt she was compelled to repay.

Valerie reached up around her neck. Fingers gripped and then ripped the garish pink scarf away, revealing a choker of brilliantly-glowing blue sapphires.

"Gerald Bates, it's time you felt the bite of the Black Widow."

Her fists clenched.

"And the Butterfly Princess better not get in my way this time."

No, it couldn't be. Andrew blinked twice, trying to clear the hallucination. But it *was* her, in the flesh.

Those mile-long legs strutted across the terminal floor, made to look even longer by the way her black fishnet stockings fell short of her pink leather miniskirt.

The slender curves were mesmerizing, giving off a vibe of veiled fury from beneath the pink patent leather jacket and sheer black top.

The dance of her long mane of hair captivated travelers as she passed them.

And the fire in her eyes was matched only by the icy lustre of the blue orbs encircling her neck.

Black Widow.

Andrew chuckled. The chuckle became a chortle. The chortle became all-out knee-slapping laughter.

Taggert looked up from his search through the carryon bag and gestured with the hand hidden in his coat pocket. "What the fuck is so god-damned funny?"

Taggert's other hand found the necklace. He glanced around furtively, afraid someone would be looking in the direction of the suspicious-looking carryon-looter and his maniacally-laughing companion; but travelers remained resolutely focused on other things.

The necklace broke free of the bag to bathe in the diffuse glow of flourescent light. But they did not sparkle.

They looked dull. Like they'd been scratched up. What the...? They *had* been scratched up. But how? Weren't sapphires supposed to be super-hard? Or was that just diamonds?

"Hey, laughing boy, what the fuck did you do to the stones?"

Andrew only laughed harder. "They're fake," he finally managed between gasps for air.

Taggert shoved the gun forward, nearly tearing through his coat pocket. "Where are the real sapphires?" he threatened.

Andrew pointed down the terminal. "There they go," he said before clutching his stomach and doubling over in hysterics.

"Huh?"

Andrew struggled to calm down, gasping for breath. He finally managed to fall silent for a moment. He looked at Taggert, who remained furiously dumbfounded. "The mighty Miss Hartwick's been duped by a teenage girl," Andrew said, starting up laughing again before he could finish.

Taggert's face suddenly darkened. "Motherfucker..." He turned his back on his prisoner, weaving his head back and forth in an attempt to spot what he thought Andrew had been pointing at. He jumped up on one of the chairs, finally recognizing the tall slender woman...

...and the flash of blue at the base of her neck.

"Fuck me," he breathed.

Taggert took off running, but his new quarry was already into a cab before he could catch her. He pulled out his cell phone, stabbing at the buttons with his pudgy fingers, waiting endless seconds for a voice on the other end. "Leave a message," was Ginger's terse prerecorded reply. "Shhhhit!" Taggert cursed. He jammed in another number.

"Rosewood! The Black Widow has the stones! No, she's alive, I just saw her! And she looks *pissed*! Tell Ginger! Tell her now!"