It was absolutely quiet in the dark office as the thug Jimmy Beam stood behind The Boss’ finely-appointed wing chair, watching a bright bank of plasmascreen televisions.

What was on the screens wasn’t pleasing, to put it mildly. Sweat glistened on Jimmy’s brown, shaven scalp, and his powerful shoulders were visibly tense. One of his eyelids twitched as more and more news reports, from stations all over the country, picked up the hottest story of the moment: the latest humiliation of mighty Island City’s criminal underworld.

A group of Russian mobsters were being led out of a burning mansion in handcuffs, the cops around them beaming and breaking into spontaneous cheers. Vladimir Popov and crew, some of the hardest, most dangerous men in the world, superstars of the Vory v zakone, top-flight traffickers in guns, heroin and Eastern European flesh, all of them looking bruised and bloodied and disbelieving. Behind them, scores of women were being led away as well, most of their firm bodies virtually naked, their expressions dazed as they tried to take in their newfound freedom, as they were taken to waiting cars and ambulances full of concerned social workers and police and journalists, even a few long-lost family members.

The Boss said nothing, moving only to blow a ring of sweet-scented Dominican cigar smoke at the offending screens. Jimmy’s jaw clenched as screen after screen picked up a new group of figures coming out of the mansion, their appearance touching off a wave of hysteria and skittering flashbulbs from the horde of reporters descended on the site. Questions rang out in three dozen languages as the figures emerged from the smoke, each of them pulling off a small rebreather mask.

It was them. The Problem. Foxx Force Five.

They were all there, clad identically in skintight black jumpsuits that showed off their athletic frames to perfection, shaking their hair loose in the early evening breeze to frame a set of five perfect, fine-featured faces. They stood in front of the cameras arranged in a V, clearly assuming long-practised press conference positions and poses, hands on hips, eyes flashing.

Jimmy knew them by heart, and he had to admit to himself that even through his hatred, part of him grudgingly admired their charismatic self-assurance, the extraordinary skill and determination they’d shown in doing what they had done. Nor was there any doubting their dazzling beauty; any of the Five would look perfectly at home on the red carpet at a Hollywood function.

On the far left was Raven McCoy, her trademark raven-black hair settled into a bob. The gossip rags agreed that Raven was close to being a dead ringer for Diablo Cody, to the point where there was a running joke about their never being seen together in the same place and time, but Raven was fresher-faced as befit her tender nineteen years. Her skin was pale and creamy, her eyes a striking green and ringed in black eyeliner. Even on television you could see she was petite, and her body was luxurious and feminine for all her obvious athleticism, with full hips, proud buttocks and firm C-cup breasts. But none of that detracted from the air of coiled menace that surrounded her; she was a gifted knife-fighter who’d once killed a Boryokudan mob boss with a thirty-yard throw.

Next to her was Keiko Takeda, slim and tight-bodied, tall and graceful, with legs that seemed to go on forever. Each of her breasts was a modest B-cup handful, but they were invitingly pert as they pressed against the tight material of her uniform. She was gifted with exotic Eurasian beauty, her features lightly dusted with adorable freckles, her almond-shaped eyes dark and sultry, her black hair falling well down her back in shining, luxurious-looking cascades. Her movements were poised, economical, centered: the mark of a kung fu and jiu jitsu master said to be already among the world’s top ten fighters at the tender age of twenty-four.

On the far right stood Satin Rayne, a beauty with coffee-coloured skin, mouth-wateringly full D-cup breasts and a huge ripe ass, her dark hair with its light brown highlights falling long and wavy around a face so gorgeously symmetrical that it earned her regular comparisons to the pop superstar Beyonce. (Satin wasn’t lacking in confidence, either; when she heard those comparisons her stock response was, "I’m sure she’s a nice girl, but don’t compare us – she isn’t pretty enough.") There was particular pride in her stance today, because the smouldering ruins of the mansion behind her were largely her handiwork, as a demolitions expert that some said had been trained by the best the intelligence world had to offer.

Next to her was the Parisian bombshell Mylene Desanges, who was said to have given up a multi million-dollar modelling career – a leading designer had described her as "the next Gisele Bundchen" – to go into the business of fighting crime. She certainly had the delicate perfection of features to justify that designer’s description with a body to match, over six feet tall and achingly willowy, with more than a hint of sexy curvaceousness and tits a touch fuller than the supermodel norm; but she also had a playful quality animating her eyes, her mouth, and her saucy, cock-stiffening stride. Her light brown shoulder-length hair danced in the breeze, and of the five, she was the only one with a smile playing over her lips. It was never quite said in the press what specialty Mylene contributed to the team, but no red-blooded man looking at her could doubt that she was an expert at seduction.

Finally, front and centre stood Summerset O’Neale, the team’s leader. She wasn’t especially tall, in fact barely taller than Raven’s five-feet-nothing, but with her long blonde hair, brilliant blue eyes, perfectly chiseled Nordic features and confident bearing, she had a presence that belied her height. Her figure in some ways was really more reminiscent of a porn star – especially the double-D tits straining to rip through the front of her uniform, and her equally impressive ass – but underneath those assets there was whipcord strength. A cool, calculating intelligence behind her eyes was coupled with a sense of firm resolve that warned all but the most foolish away from the idea of making "dumb blonde" jokes around her. It didn’t hurt that she was already a near-legendary markswoman who could store up grudges to an extent most women could only dream of, on account of her total recall memory.

The team stood silently posed for a moment more, before Summerset started singling out reporters from the crowd and answering questions. No doubt they would say the same things they had after the three previous major busts in what they were calling "Operation Freedom." Yes, here it was, O’Neale opening up with a speech about how "this city has been the capital of the modern slave trade for long enough," but Jimmy’s attention was ripped away from the screens as The Boss spoke.

"How do you think they found Popov’s private stable, Mister Beam?" Her voice was a mellow, throaty contralto, neutral, giving away nothing.

Jimmy swallowed. "We’re not sure, Boss."

"Its location was a carefully-guarded secret, as I remember."

"It was, Boss."

There was a click from the seat, and one of the screens paused at a closeup on the face of the Parisian Foxx, Mylene. "You don’t suppose," said The Boss, "the French slut might have found a way to wheedle it out of someone?"

Jimmy shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t have to ‘suppose’ anything; he knew firsthand what techniques the Parisian had for, say, distracting a man while his coat was pickpocketed. Very... effective techniques. He started to mumble out a reply, but The Boss cut him off.

"We’ll come back to that in a moment, Mister Beam. First things first. We must deal with The Problem."

Relief flooded over the thug as he realized that he might live out this night intact after all. And the subject of how to kill those five damnable vixens was easy to warm up to. "I say no more pussyfooting around. We go at them guns blazing. Show them who’s boss... Boss."

"Yes," said The Boss, "that would be wonderfully cathartic, wouldn’t it? The Commission are saying the same thing, and the Columbians too. They have two thousand guns in the city between them, our operation has over two hundred more, they could no doubt bring some of the local Crips in, too. All-out war on the police and their vigilante allies. It’s costly, but it’s been done before." A manicured hand with long, elegant fingers emerged from the recesses of the chair, fiercely stubbing out a large cigar in the massive, solid-gold ashtray sitting next to it. "But I’m afraid this time, it simply won’t do."

Jimmy stayed respectfully silent for a while until it became plain he was expected to ask: "Why not, Boss?"

"It’s very simple, really. The events of the past year have made it plain that our allies in the government have been identified and neutralized. And that it was done carefully, in a way designed to avoid alerting us. Have you noticed anything about the Five?"

Jimmy thought for a moment, then ventured: "They don’t conceal their identities."

"Correct, Mister Beam. They don’t fear us. And events so far have shown that despite our best efforts, we haven’t yet been able to give them a reason to fear us. This can only mean they have heavy backing, most likely from the very top. Multiple government agencies supporting them, resources outstripping anything the Italians or the Columbians could bring to bear. Certainly outstripping ours."

"Then taking them on directly would be..."

"Suicide. Precisely."

"So, what do we do?"

The Boss got up from her chair abruptly, revealing herself: an icy Scandinavian beauty, her platinum-blonde hair swept into a pony-tail. She was taller even than Mylene Desanges or Keiko Takeda, surprisingly young and easily the match of any of the Foxxes for looks, her lips full, her bearing as haughty as her supple, business suit-wrapped body was tantalizing. But Jimmy knew better than to entertain any dangerous fantasies; her light gray eyes were cold, the deep, Arctic cold of a born killer. He knew what she’d done to get her position, had even helped her do some of it.

"What we will do, Mister Beam, is think in subtleties," she said coldly. "As our opponents have plainly been doing. As the criminal mind must always be better at doing if it wishes to survive."

He nodded. "And where do we start?"

"We have already begun." The Boss walked over to her desk, her hips swaying sexily (Don’t go there, brain! Jimmy said to himself, an old ritual), and pulled a thick file folder out of one of its drawers. "In point of fact, I’ve been working out a countermeasure since the day this whole Operation Freedom business started." She tossed the folder over in front of him.

Jimmy stared at it, the realization hitting him like a faceful of cold water before he even looked at its contents. "You let them take Popov. Deliberately."

The Boss allowed herself a small smile. "Indeed. As quiet as they’ve been about neutralizing our original allies, we’ve had to be just as quiet about developing new sources. Rescuing Popov would have tipped our hand."

"And my, uh, experience with the Desanges woman?"

"A contingency we anticipated, and useful to the plan." Her smile vanished. "Which is why you’re still alive."

He swallowed, nodded. "It’s... brilliant, Boss."

"Brilliance is what the Commission pays us for," she replied dismissively. "It’s what sets us apart from the rest. Open the file."

He did so, expecting to see reams of information on the Five, something that could be used to get to them. But instead he was confronted by a picture of a nondescript, middle-aged man. A minor functionary in the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms named Max Richards.

He frowned in puzzlement. "Who is this nobody, Boss?"

"A somebody," replied The Boss. "Go ahead ten pages."

Jimmy flipped, stared, flipped back, then back again. "Maximillian Fawkes, Federal Advisor to the Island City Vice Task Force. Clearance Level Five Top Secret." He gave a low whistle of appreciation. "Fawkes, as in Fawkes’ Force. Their handler? How in hell did you get this, Boss?"

"It took some doing," she replied, "but it was worth it. ‘If he cannot attack from without, the cunning warrior attacks from within.’ "

"So... when do we attack?"

"Operation Foxx Hunt begins today, in three hours’ time. I’ll need your help with a couple of minor tasks." The Boss smiled sweetly. "The Five aren’t the only ones who know a thing or two about seduction."

* * * * *

Maximillian Fawkes, better known to his office colleagues as Max Richards, pushed away from his desk and shut down his computer with a sense of satisfaction.

The sun was down, the office dark and deserted except for him. His cover persona was a workaholic with all the social skills of a wet sponge. As forgettable a man as you could ever hope to meet.

It had served him well. This, he reflected, was a good day. A very good day.

When Operation Freedom had been conceived and the President had brought him in, he’d been given leeway to hand-pick candidates to publicly spearhead it. It was, the President had decided, to be a massive operation with a media darling face, the kind of operation that would ensure that people knew something was being done about the pimps, the pushers, the traffickers that had driven Island City to the brink of social collapse. High-risk, with high rewards. He wasn’t supposed to work domestically... but the White House wonks had found ways around that.

When he’d arrived, Fawkes – layered so deep in cover identities after nineteen years with the Company that in truth, he barely even remembered his own name – had been as horrified by what he saw in Island City as he’d been by any overseas posting. Only Cambodia could truly compare. In the past three years, trafficking of every kind had exploded; infiltration of the police force, the courts, of city, state and federal government representatives was rampant; rates of drug addiction were through the roof, and bizarre new designer drugs were appearing on the streets on almost a monthly basis. Kidnappings had almost reached Columbian levels, especially of teenaged girls, who were vanishing at an alarming rate: not just illegal immigrants from Russia or Eastern Europe or Central and South America, but fresh-faced newcomers from Canada or the Midwest, eager to get a slice of Island City’s action. Even some daughters of Island City’s privileged elite had gone missing. Sometimes they turned up months later in a dumpster or floating in the West River; sometimes they didn’t turn up at all.

And the sickness was spreading right through Island City’s social fabric. Married fathers were getting up at six in the morning and pretending to go off for an early work day... and vice statistics calculated that not coincidentally, from sixty-thirty to eight-thirty on any weekday morning were peak hours for the drug dealers and underaged prostitutes. At ever-increasing rates, people were being fired from their jobs for turning up impaired, creating spiking divorce rates and feeding even more into a cycle of misery, of violence.

It had to end. And Fawkes was the man to do it.

As he walked to the elevator, the cheap fluorescent lighting in the hallways called to mind the halfway house where he’d found three of his Foxx Force. Orphans to a one, each of them had come within an ace of being dragged into the trade he was trying to stop... but had escaped before being broken to it. They had each felt the hot breath of the terrible beast they were fighting, had seen its teeth and claws, and they were motivated to save other people from its gullet. Even the glamorous Mylene, who had very nearly gone from being a rising superstar to a tragic statistic during a seemingly innocuous trip to Tokyo – where he had found both her and Keiko – and whose radiant smile hid the truth of her body’s dark, salacious trek through the sleazy bowels of the fashion industry. The fiercely gifted "Summerset O’Neale," who had started life as Anastasia Kurylenko from Kiev, had once been forced to listen to fellow immigrant "waitresses" being gang-raped and injected with heroin, waiting numbly for her turn: fortunately a vice squad had stumbled on the scene before it came. They all had similar stories to tell, stories that warned them, no matter how powerful they felt, never to be careless.

Though he’d never officially met any of them face-to-face, always working through speakerphone or codenamed intermedaries, he’d often observed them from the shadows and felt like they were his adopted daughters. And ever since Operation Freedom had swung into full gear, he couldn’t have been prouder of them. Or, despite his best efforts, more afraid for them. He knew all too well the risks of making them so high-profile, no matter how much clandestine muscle he’d put behind them.

He verified his retina scan in the elevator and rode to the parkade, musing on the way that this was only the beginning. It was going to get more dangerous from here on out.

There were no coincidences. He knew in his gut it wasn’t some chance intersection of forces that had produced the incredible phenomenon sweeping Island City. Someone was helming it, there was a specific personality and intellect driving it... a phantom opponent that he could feel, palpably, behind the blood-chilling statistics and ingeniously-conceived street pharmaceuticals. Someone beyond the regular Mafias and South American cartels, someone infinitely more dangerous. As yet, he hadn’t picked out who it was – all he had were ridiculous aliases like "Siouxsie Sexcrime" that would pop out of a low-level hood’s mouth from time to time – but he was getting close. The Foxx Force Five were getting close.

And it was going to get hairy, he could feel it. Everywhere he went these days, for weeks now, he felt as though someone was watching him. His hair was on end, his every sense was on alert as he got out of the elevator and walked toward his car.

* * * * *

As Gustavo Caliente watched his mark from the shadows, his state-of-the-art eyepiece tracking him from virtually the other side of the vast, echoing parking garage – its technology magnifying the target’s image and its microphone capturing and amplifying the sounds of their movements over the tiny pip in his ear – he marvelled again at the man’s instincts. The mark had stopped, straightened, looking around suspiciously. Somehow, despite the range from which the former Cuban spy was monitoring him, he could still feel something out of place. How did he do it?

Shadowing Fawkes had been perhaps the most stressful assignment Caliente had ever accepted. The man was positively uncanny, and on a dozen different occasions had come closer than any other mark had ever done to making him. But he had to admit, the money was right; whoever wanted this Gringo out of the way was willing to pay top dollar. It sure beat working for Castro, that much was certain.

And whoever his anonymous employer was, they’d put a lot of research into the physical resemblance between the two men. After Caliente had shaved his beard and spent a few weeks putting on weight and letting his Caribbean tan fade, they could be twins. For a man who’d spent a lifetime changing faces and personas, it was astonishing how little he’d need in the way of props and prosthetics to settle into this role.

Almost a year of preparation and staggeringly expensive research to find the mark, to find the right leverage. Weeks spent learning the man’s habits, his mannerisms, the way he’d hold his head waiting for an elevator, the way he’d sneeze or shuffle his feet. It was all about to come to a head. This was the moment of truth.

Caliente picked up his phone and texted a message: GO 4 B8.

The game was on. "You poor bastard," thought the spy as he watched Fawkes for what would probably be the last time. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy.

* * * * *

Fawkes heard the trouble before he saw it: a clattering of high heels, the sound of sobs. Someone coming up the parkade ramp immediately to his left, rounding the corner.

Even before he saw the girl, he’d resolved to keep his distance. It was just how he’d expect the opposition to come at him, use the damsel-in-distress ruse, get him in close and then dispatch him with a syringe or a well-placed knife. Cut the heart right out of Operation Freedom. It meant he’d have to change his M.O., that they’d successfully identified him at last. I wonder what took you bastards so long? he thought to himself wryly.

But the sight of the girl, when she did come around the corner, wrenched at his heart.

He’d seen abused girls before, too many of them to count. He knew the minutiae, could tell nine times out of ten when someone was really in pain or just engaging in histrionics. The girl in front of him – petite, brown-haired, busty, teenaged-slender and full-lipped, her huge hazel eyes brimming with tears and her full young breasts heaving up and down as she gulped for air – was almost certainly not faking anything. She was wearing the shredded remains of a black cocktail dress, the material flapping free at her right breast to reveal a lacy pink bra, and the frantic look in her eyes called out to him poignantly. Whoever had tried to rip that dress off her hadn’t left any other marks... so far. But they hadn’t been fooling around.

For all his resolve, it took every ounce of his self-control not to race over to her as she called out, "Mister! Mister! Help me!"

He hardened his heart. He couldn’t let himself be drawn in; even if the girl’s distress were genuine, she was somebody else’s pawn. Her appearance was too convenient for any other explanation.

As if on cue, a second figure came barrelling around the corner. It’ll be a man, thought Fawkes in the split-second before the other came into full view. Someone suitably threatening.

It was the first surprise of the night. The other figure was a man, all right, but there was nothing threatening about him: it was Neil Roberts, the supplies manager for the office, a rotund five-feet-six, red-faced and panting heavily as he tried to catch up his teenaged prey, eyes wide in shock behind his coke-bottle glasses as he tried to process the sight of Max.

"Richards?" he said, disbelieving.

Fawkes had extensive profiles on everyone in his office. He knew Neil was clean as far as criminal connections or bribery went, but that he was a loner, potentially vulnerable to the blandishments of the sleazier sectors of the sex trade. Was it possible the guy had actually been dumb enough to bring a hooker to the parking garage of his workplace?

The girl screamed again, "Mister!" and started running toward him again, Roberts plainly torn about whether to pursue her or get clear of the whole situation.

"STOP!" Max shouted, freezing them both in place. "Nobody comes any closer!"

The girl froze, rigid, snivelling, her eyes wide. Roberts froze too, guiltily.

"What the hell is this, Neil?" Max asked.

"She smells... she, uh, smells good," the other man replied lamely, his voice nasal, pitched higher than usual. His face was the picture of consternation, as if he couldn’t believe or understand the words that were coming out of his mouth. "I... like her."

Max set his lips into a line. "Neil, get the fuck out of here," he said firmly. "Get out of here now, and I won’t tell anyone in the office about this incident. You have one chance."

Roberts hesitated again, in an agony of indecision, directing an almost frightening glance of lust at the girl. "She’s... she’s mine," he whined almost under his breath. "She’s mine."

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" Max shouted, breaking the spell, and the portly supplies manager bolted, vanishing around the corner of the ramp. A few seconds later, his car came squealing unsteadily around the corner, headed for street level and freedom with best possible speed, bypassing Max and the girl as they stood stock-still in their frozen tableau.

As Neil vanished out of sight, the girl rushed toward him again, sobbing. Max thought of trying to forestall her, but he didn’t have the heart to pull his pistol on her and part of his mind was working elsewhere, trying to figure out Roberts’ behaviour. The man had been acting almost like a badly-manipulated puppet; why? Something was still wrong here.

Then the girl arrived, throwing her arms around him and shouting "Thank you, mister!" Fawkes inhaled involuntarily, and he had his answer.

She smells good, Roberts had said. As Fawkes felt his body disconnecting from his conscious mind, felt fierce arousal swelling in him, engorging his cock, felt his arms come up and wrap around the girl of their own volition, he realized what had possessed the poor bastard. Pheromones! Weaponized pheromones!

The reaction was powerful, instantaneous, as though that single breath had severed his body from his conscious control. He’d heard of Defense Department research into weaponized pheromones, the kinds of things that could be unleashed on enemy positions to render them a hapless, origastic pile of bodies as the Marines swept over them. But he knew that research had never got beyond the planning stage.

Well, someone had certainly taken that ball and run with it. His phantom opponent had outmaneuvered him after all.

Max felt as though he were floating above himself, watching his arms shift to pin the girl’s wrists behind her. Watching her eyes widen in shock and terror as she felt his hard-on grinding against her crotch, felt his mouth come down to suck and bite at her neck.

"Mister... no!" she screamed. "Please mister, no!!"

Too late, thought Max in the back of his brain. Too late for both of us. But his mouth, too, was leading a life of its own, and it was clearly in the grip of the drug. "What are you gonna do for me, you little whore?" it gasped roughly as his hands came up into the small of her back, keeping a painful grip on her wrists. "I did something for you. You’re gonna rub those nasty, slutty little tits up against me and then tell me you can’t do something for me?"

Numbly, clinically, his horrified mind commented that it was probably something more than a simple pheromone, that it was clearly also designed to affect the speech centres of the brain. A clever adaptation; that hadn’t been part of the original concept as far as he knew.

The girl squirmed in his grip, squealing desperately as his mouth continued to chew on her neck, unwittingly stoking the fires of his body’s lust, her young, panty-covered pussy mound sending thrilling sensations through his throbbing cock as she was unable to stop from rubbing up against it in her futile struggles. His body hummed with adrenaline, feeling powerful, almost invincible.

An evil compulsion tore into his body and the base of his brain-stem, somewhere below the level of conscious thought. Tie her up! Tie the bitch up and enjoy her properly!

"It’s time we get better-acquainted, little fuck slut," said his mouth hotly into her ear. He felt her go rigid with fear then, and his mind gabbled helpless pleas for forgiveness as his body wrestled her to her back on the concrete. His right hand took hold of both her wrists, restraining them effortlessly behind her, forcing her to arch up as his left came up and finished the job Neil Roberts hadn’t been able to complete, ripping the material of her dress right off her young, firm body, leaving her squirming, nubile form covered only in lacy pink panties and a bra as he used the material as rope, binding her hands securely behind her.

"Mister, please," she whimpered, her pleading eyes welling up with tears. "Please don’t do this."

I’m not going to do this! his mind shouted furiously. I would never do this! But his mouth said, "Can’t shut the fuck up, can you, slut? Then let’s give your mouth something to do."

His hands came up and unzipped the front of his trousers, freeing all eight inches of his rock-hard cock. His right hand went up, it seemed in slow motion, to the holster under his left arm, freeing his pistol and cocking it. No, no, NO! his mind shouted, but his body sat astride the weeping girl’s shoulders, pointed the cock at her mouth and the loaded pistol at her head and said, "Suck."

Whimpering, the bound teenager opened her mouth. His left hand grabbed her by the hair and, not waiting for her to do anything of her own accord, his body plunged its cock into her warm, wet mouth.

His mind tried to shut down and turn away, tried to escape the horrible moment, the wet sounds of the girl’s mouth being fucked by his hard cock, the sounds of her snivelling and gagging and gasping around the hot, salty man-meat as it pushed again, again, again to the back of her mouth, down into her throat, his balls slap-slap-slapping against her chin.

His mind tried to escape the moment, but the thrilling sensations in his cock kept bringing him back to it. That and a battery of horrified speculations. Was this girl even eighteen? it gibbered. She has to be, she has to be eighteen, she’s too voluptuous to be younger, but the speculation wasn’t convincing. Even she if was of age, this was still rape, as plain as day.

But his mind also began to notice something else: a change in the way the girl wriggled beneath him, her movements growing more sinuous and sensual, an increased throatiness creeping into the moans coming out around his pumping cock. Her mouth was getting more active, sucking, slurping, her tongue flickering erotically across the underside of his cock as it pumped in and out. That can’t be a natural reaction! She’s drugged, too!

Is the drug leaving her conscious mind intact? his brain wondered as his body brutally used the girl’s mouth as a fuckhole. She was still snivelling, still gagging, still pulling at her bonds... had the drug left her mind intact to be ravaged, to be extra-humiliated by her body’s response to the brutal treatment?

"That’s it," chanted his mouth, still leading its independent life, "that’s it, suck, little whore. You want something else, don’t you?"

His body pulled out of her mouth, but whatever drug was working on her body wasn’t designed to manipulate her speech centres as was happening to him. "No, mister, no, please, no," the girl babbled futile protests as his body slid down hers, his right hand holstering the now-superfluous pistol, his left hand grabbing the front of her bra and ripping it from her body with unbelievable violence, leaving her to squeal helplessly as her firm, mouthwatering teenaged tits bounced free in the warm air of the parkade, brown nipples rock-hard and pointing at the ceiling. His mouth let out an evil chuckle before sealing itself over her left breast, then her right, sucking and chewing them, coating them with his spit as his left hand snaked down and ripped away her panties, revealing an ample brown bush and puffy, glistening snatch. Her skin was flushed, her body writhing as a pair of fingers came up and impaled her hot, tight hole.

"What do you mean ‘no mister no,’" his mouth mocked cruelly as his left hand started to piston two fingers in and out of her young, shuddering body. "You’re fucking wet, bitch!"

"No no no," the captive girl rocked her head in denial as his mouth went back to her tits, but her cunt was clasping hard around the invading fingers, her spittle-wet breasts jiggling and heaving as his mouth alternated between them, her breath coming quick and shallow, her hips moving in a tight circle as if trying to maximize her sensation. "No no no, don’t, stop, no, don’t, stop, don’t, stop, don’t... stop... don’t... stop... don’t stop... don’t stop... mister, don’t stop..."

His mind was in shock but his body knew what to do, picking up the pace of the finger-fucking, bringing the girl closer and closer to climax as she writhed erotically beneath him, her futile pleas for mercy having deteriorated into pathetic begging. "Don’t stop mister ahhhh don’t stop," she gasped, her body tensing up, her legs spreading wide, her pussy clutching at his fingers, and he hoped at least that the monster possessing him would give her some release.

No such luck. At the last second his body pulled its hand away, pulling a despairing, sobbing, humiliated cry of frustration from the girl, her body now alive with lust and desperately in need of a hard orgasm.

"The only way you come is on my cock, you fucking whore," he heard his voice rasp. "Now beg."

The girl moaned piteously and shook her head, trying to hold her mouth closed, but then his body reached down and ran the head of his cock up and down the greedy mouth of her tight, dripping young twat, tapping the head against her engorged clit, the exquisite torment bringing a fresh cry of defeat and despair from his victim.

"I said beg, bitch," his voice repeated.

His body teased her with the cockhead again. She resisted a moment more before she blurted out, "Ahhhh fuck please give me your dick, mister!"

"Why?" his mouth asked cruelly. "Why should I give you my dick?"

"Because I need it mister I need your cock please fuck me mister please fuck me mister please fuck me!" A desperate edge had crept into her piteous begging. Her body jolted sharply once, twice, three times while she begged, as he continued to gently slap his cock against her burning clit.

"Because you’re a dirty little fucking whore?" his voice taunted.

"Yes yes mister I’m a dirty little fucking whore mister I’m your fucking slut mister I’m fucking yours mister PLEASE MISTER!"

He heard himself give an evil cackle as his body positioned itself, and with one brutal, irrevocable thrust, ripped into the girl’s tight, wet, clutching depths.

"AUGGGGGGGHHHH!" she wailed, cumming hard on that first thrust, her snatch milking the huge cock with hard spasms, her juices squirting out copiously to lubricate the vicious fucking. "AW! AW! AW! AWW! AWWW!" came her defeated cries as his body started to pound her mercilessly, the cock dragging back across her clit before slamming back in to stretch her greedy little cunt, her pussy spasming over and over again as the initial orgasm stretched into multiple, sanity-wracking detonations of pleasure.

She was amazingly, almost virginally tight, her juices gushing, her hot snatch desperately gripping its defiler, and Max was horrified to feel the barrier between his mind and body eroding as his possessing demon thrust into his victim again and again. He wondered, abstractly, if he came back to himself in this moment, would he really stop? Would he deny himself these amazing sensations? His whole body, he could suddenly feel it, alive as though he had been a walking corpse for every moment before this day, this brutal, demonic forced coupling.

Was it him or the drug that dipped his head down to claim a bruising, searching tongue-kiss from the girl’s gasping mouth, him or the demon that said: "You like that cock, don’t you, bitch?"

"UH UH UHHHH yes mister I love your cock I love your fucking cock," she chanted breathlessly, lost in the moment, her earlier panic forgotten, her body taken over by a frenzy of hot lust.

He slowed, his body slowed its rhythm, intensifying the brutality of its thrusts, pounding hard into the tight twat, making her arch up and wrap her legs around his torso and mewl helplessly. "Who’s your daddy, you little fucking bitch?" he said, his mouth said, "who’s your daddy, you filthy fucking whore?"

"AW AW AWW AWW YOU are YOU’RE my daddy YOU ARE!"

"And what do you want daddy to do?"

Her cunt gripped hard around his shaft, her hips wriggled, her head tossed back and forth in delirium. "AWW AWW AWWW AWWW FUCK me FUCK me FUCK your NASTY little WHORE daddy FUCK ME daddy FUCK ME DADDY FUCK ME LIKE A WHORE!"

He picked up the pace, slamming into her hard and fast and frenzied as he shouted, "THEN TAKE IT LIKE A WHORE YOU FUCKING BITCH FUCKING TAKE IT ALL!"

The girl’s abused fuckhole seized up around the pounding, plundering cock as she came again, again, again, squirting, squirting, squirting, covering their thighs and bellies in honey-sweet teenaged pussy juice, splashing it all the way up to both their chests. "AUGGGGHHHHHAWWWWHAWWWWWHAWWWWFUCCKKK!" she screamed, her cunt muscles milking his cock even harder as, with a vicious cry of release, "AGGGGHUHHHHHHYEAHHHFUCKKKKKBITCHHHHH!" he held her down, buried himself balls-deep inside her and pumped her young pussy full of hot spunk, his nuts jumping, jumping, jumping as they fired volley after volley of sperm into her violated womb.

As they came down from their orgasmic bliss, a post-coital high came over Max, making his head feel impossibly light and buzzy. Just outside that beautiful feeling something nagged at the corners of his consciousness. He’d been heading to his car... how had he wound up on the pavement with this sweet little fuck pig? Had someone been trying to tell him not to fuck her, not to use her like the nasty slut she obviously was? What kind of idiot would pass up a chance like this? A fucking douchebag, that’s what, he thought with vicious satisfaction, looking down at the eyes of the girl below him, delightedly watching them fill with fear again as she realized his cock was still full and heavy inside her, that his hard-on wasn’t slackening.

He ground his hips in a circle, pulling a humiliated whimper of pleasure from her lips, a vulnerable shudder from her body as spunk trickled out of her torn cunt and down into the crack of her ass. Sweet, he thought to himself, this is fucking sweet. "You’ve got something all over my cock, you fucking slut," he said amiably. "I think you’d better clean it off... don’t you?" He chuckled evilly as she sniffed and nodded, her huge, shimmering eyes lost and bewildered and miserable. Fuck, yeah. This bitch is mine.

* * * * *

Caliente watched the scene unfold in frozen astonishment and (he had to admit) no small amount of arousal. He felt a jolt of guilt for the girl; her name was Alexis, and he’d recruited her the same day, bought her dinner and plied her with gifts from his employer – including a special perfume, some top-of-the-line skin cream and an illicitly-consumed wine spritzer – and told her to play out a little scene with the mark’s coworker, who’d thought he was meeting a blind date. It’s just a harmless prank on my brother, he’d told her, promising to pay her a cool thousand dollars when it was done. She’d wanted the money; she was going to be out celebrating her eighteenth birthday tonight.

Happy eighteenth, Alexis, you poor thing, he thought sadly. Somehow, I don’t think you’ll ever be seeing that thousand.

He hadn’t expected anything like this. The plan had simply been for the girl and the co-worker to distract Max with a fight (staged on her part), to keep him off balance and trying to figure out the situation long enough for an acquisition team to close in and grab him. At least, that’s what he’d thought the plan was.

He’d been ghosting and studying Max Fawkes for long enough to know that the brutal rape the agent had suddenly committed here went against everything the man stood for, everything the man was. Yet there he was, pumping into his teenaged victim for all he was worth, plainly enjoying himself. It seemed to him like a lessening of the man... like the kind of thing even spies shouldn’t do to one another.

What could do this to someone? he thought in alarm. Just what the hell kind of people am I working for?

For a long moment he thought about abandoning the game... but it wasn’t a realistic possibility. Whoever had found and hired him was clearly capable enough to make life nigh unlivable if he skipped out on a contract. Who knew but they might actually be good enough to kill him.

And anyway... the money was too good.

He watched as Max pulled out of the girl, clambering up her bound body to shove his pussy-soaked cock back into her mouth, forcing Alexis to taste her own sweet juices as she sucked and licked his shaft, his balls. He flipped her over, putting her face down on the concrete with her ass and pussy displayed proudly in the air, and he started playfully spanking her ass-cheeks and spreading them open, watching the flesh grow pink and jiggle as he smacked her again, again, and again, ignoring the bound girl’s wriggling and renewed, desperate protests as he moistened a finger and slid it up her asshole, pumping it slowly in and out... in and out... saying something inaudible but plainly nasty and insulting to her while he did it.

It wasn’t hard to tell what he had in mind... and Caliente had suddenly seen enough. The go-between, "Ray," had told him to wait fifteen full minutes before giving the acquisition order, but the hell with that.

GO 4 ACK, he texted on his phone.

Caliente watched grimly as the squeal of tires sounded somewhere on the upper levels of the parkade, the acquisition team’s van getting ready to move in. They wouldn’t , he realized, be in time to save her from an ass-fucking; in fact, Max was already taking his impressive cock in hand and forcing it gleefully past the girl’s sphincter, laughing at her screams and sobs as he broke her virgin asshole, spanking her soundly while he did it. But at least they’ll shave some time off her sentence, the Cuban thought hopefully.

There was something strange happening to the girl, too. As the black van came barrelling down onto their level, its headlights illuminating the fornicating couple, Caliente realized that Alexis’ back was arching as the massive cock plowed into her tight, virginal teen ass, that there was pleasure mixed into the pain and terror and humiliation in her screams, that her pussy lips were puffy with arousal, her snatch visibly gushing, squirting as she came almost immediately from the brutal anal violation. He could hear her even at this distance and through the interference of the van’s engine, her despairing squeals as the filthy, invasive, probing mass of throbbing cockflesh turned her thrust by vicious thrust into a helpless, mindless butt-slut. "UGH!" she was squealing, "UGH! UGH! UGH! AUGGGGHHHHH!!!"

She wasn’t just babbling earlier out of fear, trying to placate the rapist, he realized. There was a drug in something I gave her. Something meant to condition her body to respond this way.

He resolved in that moment never to touch anything given as a gift from his employers without having it analyzed first. I’m going to have to watch my back on this one, more than usual, he thought.

The van stopped short of the couple, as though the acquisitions team were momentarily transfixed by what they saw. Fawkes was obviously oblivious to his surroundings, preoccupied with his rape, his glistening cock plunging in and out of the girl’s upraised ass, occassionally poising itself in the air above her increasingly-gaping asshole before ramming brutally back in. Max could be heard loudly taunting the girl as he broke her: "Want me to stop, bitch? Want me to stop fucking your ass, you dirty little ass-fucking whore? You like that cock in your ass! You like to get fucked like filthy little sluts get fucked!" Little Alexis just mewled wordlessly, writhing as the pounding cock mastered her, taking it over and over again in her taut teenaged rump, her delicious, terrifying torment going on and on. As Max picked up the pace of his thrusts she could be seen to arch up again --"AWW! AWW! AWWW! AWWW! AWWW! AWWWWWW! AWWWWGAWWWD!" – her plentiful girl-cum squirting, soaking her thighs, splashing the concrete underneath her.

Caliente looked at the van in alarm. When the hell were they going to do something? Weren’t they professional enough to take a display like this in stride, work through it?

Of course they are, he realized with a sinking feeling. It’s just that they know I sent the order early. They’re following standing instructions, waiting out the full fifteen minutes. Unlike him, they’d probably been told what the real plan was for tonight; they’d known what they would see. The fifteen-minute time restriction hadn’t made much sense for a contrived argument... but it did make sense if they wanted to watch this run its course, see how well their drugs were working. He hadn’t spared the girl anything.

Max had one hand in her hair now, holding her head up just off the concrete so he could lean forward and spit on her face or whisper insults in her ear, and with his dick he had started switching holes, rapidly pounding first the girl’s sloppy, squelching cunt, and then her delectable young ass. He quickly worked it into a rhythm that had her plainly cumming every time his cock entered and rapidly pumped her, no matter which hole was getting fucked. "AW AW AW AWW AWW AWW AWWWW FUCK ME DADDY!" she could be heard to scream as her pussy seized up, pulsing and squirting around Max’s pole while he fucked her like a bitch in heat and a gob of his spittle slipped down her cheek and into her mouth. "UGH! UGH! AUGGGH! AUGHHHHH! AUUUUGHHHHH! YOU’RE MAKING ME CUM AGAIN DADDY!!" the raped and bound teen cried helplessly as the cock plowed back into her ass and her hot little snatch lost all control. Again and again he switched, slamming his newly broken-in fuckslut relentlessly, her voice hoarse with screaming and mewling and begging, her pussy exploding with so much juice that Caliente wondered how she had any fluids left in her body. Periodically, Max’s other hand came cracking down on the soft flesh of the bitch’s ass, drawing out an extra squeal and sexy waggle of her hips, no doubt sending a thrill down his cock and adding to the tornado of contradictory pain and pleasure that had to have her mind at the breaking point.

"YEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHHHHYOUFUCKINGSLUTTTT!" Max screamed as he finally buried his cock balls-deep in her ass, his balls visibly pumping, the girl squealing exhaustedly as her butt was filled with hot, creamy spunk, her snatch once again pulsing and squirting, adding to the growing puddle of pussy juice around her legs.

The two stayed still like that for a long moment, the thoroughly-fucked teen’s head slipping back down to rest on the cold concrete, sobbing quietly as reality seeped back into her awareness. Then she jerked suddenly, whining, and a hot stream of what was clearly piss came steaming out of her pussy. She whimpered loudly in ultimate, pitiful humiliation and defeat as she lost control of her bladder while a hard cock was still embedded firmly in her violated, spunk-filled ass. The piss streamed out powerfully for about seven seconds, pooling around her as she moaned and wept brokenly. Above her, Max seemed to be in a trance; he didn’t even twitch.

The van door opened. That was fifteen minutes.

A half-dozen figures in balaclavas and fatigues piled out of the van, and for as long as they’d waited, once they moved everything seemed to happen like lightning. They unceremoniously tasered both Max and the girl – neither one seeming to even register their approach – and tossed them in the back of the vehicle like so much meat. They gathered Alexis’ torn bra and panties up off the concrete and climbed back in themselves. Another squeal of tires and that was it, they were gone. The whole Boschian, nightmarish scene Caliente’d just witnessed might never have happened, but for a lingering hint of sex in the air and the redoubtable puddle of pussy juice and sperm and urine that marked the site of Alexis’ brutal ravishing. A cleanup crew would no doubt be back to erase that shortly.

His phone bleeped as he stepped out from behind the car he’d been using for cover. He looked down and read the incoming text. SHOWTIME, it said, MEET IN 30 MINS CHK EMAIL 4 SCRIPT.

He sighed, pulled a set of contact lenses out of his jacket pocket and popped them in, taking his duplicates of Fawkes’ car keys out of his pocket. As he strode out into the parking garage, stepping into the light, it became plain that he was wearing exactly the same outfit as the mark had been, right down to the wristwatch. He assumed the subject’s gait, tilting his head at just the right angle as he checked his watch, climbing into the car and putting his eye in front of its specially-fitted retinal scanner. The contacts worked: a few seconds later the car’s engine was humming to life, and "Max Richards" was driving out of the parking lot.

Showtime is right, Caliente thought to himself. And the show must go on. Here goes nothing.

It was time for Gustavo Caliente, the spy Raul Castro had once called The Man With A Thousand Faces, to take over the helm of the legendary Foxx Force Five. Unbeknownst to them, of course. It was the most daring act of impersonation he’d ever attempted... and as he drove to keep his appointment with destiny, he tried to keep his mind off the violated, brutalized, helplessly orgasming form of the teenaged girl he’d delivered to her fate.

You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, he reasoned to himself. And despite his misgivings after the atrocity he’d just witnessed, he tried on a smile... just the way Max would have done it.