By the standards of the almost-terminally happy, confident Foxxes, the vibe around the conference table was an unusually grim one.

Agent Lonnie James was looking around at the determined faces and set jaws of four of the world’s most dangerous women. They were suited up for battle, skintight catsuits on, guns already loaded and on the table, every face a mask of fierce concentration. Looking from one to the other, a man might be stunned by their beauty – by Mylène’s perfectly sculpted face and slender body, Keiko’s athleticism and adorable Eurasian freckles, Satin’s wild curly hair and kissable lips and unmatchable ass, Summerset’s chiseled features and long Nordic tresses and voluptuous double-D porn-star figure – but what dominated above all else was the electric air of crackling confidence and readiness that surrounded them.

It was, he thought, the most like themselves before a mission he’d seen them in a long time. After that "neuro-therapist" had visited they’d all seemed almost creepily cheerful all the time, what Lonnie’d later learned was a part of their new conditioning. But the news of Raven’s disappearance – Raven whom they all clearly loved like a kid sister – had tempered that unnaturally sunny optimism with steel. They were, on the surface, as ready to go into action as they’d ever been.

But Lonnie knew the end of a long charade was on its way.

Being a part of that charade – forced to be a part of it by Bailey Phillips and the Kitts and their damnable pheromone enhancers, and by his urgent desire that his wife and children should never see a certain video of him pumping his cock into young Janie Price’s mahogany-toned ass while asking her if she "felt the Jungle Fever" – had taken a horrible toll on him. On all the Agents, really; as the days had gone by, it was easy to tell who’d fallen prey to the Kitts and their fiendish sexual blackmail. They all had the same hollow look. You could exchange glances with any of them and have the instant knowledge that you were part of a fraternity of the shamed and shameful, that you shared a dark secret that neither of you would ever speak about. And both of you would look quickly away when one of the Kitts would flounce by through the hallway, humming to herself like the happiest girl in the world, glancing at one and then the other of you, biting seductively on her lower lip with just the barest twinkle of knowing, perverted madness in her eye. Maybe she was one of the ones who’d compromised one or the other of you; nobody would ever say. You’d mumble excuses and go your separate ways as quickly as you could, maybe go and grab some lunch and try not to notice that the food was like wet ashes in your mouth.

By now, that hollow look and those awkward moments were everywhere in the Foxxes’ Den. They were here in this very room, right now, as the Foxxes waited with intense focus for Max’s call. The teams of technicians who worked on the raised tier surrounding the Foxxes’ conference table in the heart of the deepest level of the Den barely looked at each other, spoke to one another only when absolutely necessary, and never joked. You could cut the awkward tension in the air with a knife. By Lonnie’s estimate, there wasn’t a single Agent left who wasn’t compromised, not a single true ally of the Foxxes remaining in the whole complex.

Only the Foxxes themselves remained oblivious to it, thanks to their conditioning. An obliviousness that remained intact even now. Perhaps especially now, since they were focussed on the mission at hand and not thinking about the reactions of the people around them. As usual, Lonnie couldn’t look any of them in the eye, but none of them asked today if he was feeling alright. None of them cared; Raven was all that mattered. They’d spent the last three days training intensely, readying themselves for this moment.

They’re good friends, he thought, sadly. They’re good people. God forgive me, they’re some of the finest people I’ll ever know. But the simple, brutal fact was that that didn’t change anything. It wouldn’t save them. Four of the world’s most dangerous women... Or at least, they used to be.

He’d arrived at work to a smirking Bailey Phillips, the vicious Number One of the now-feral Kitts, who’d handed him a final set of orders to communicate to the Agents. After today, the Foxxes’ Den would effectively be no more. The Agents’ final orders were bizarre and bewildering – and one of them made him feel sick to the pit of his stomach as he looked at the Foxxes – and among a less demoralized, disheartened and soul-sick group of people they would lead to a riot of speculation and debate. Most of the orders, weirdly, seemed to concern what to say when Federal agents from outside Operation Freedom began arriving to investigate events in the Den. And some of the things they were instructed to say... well, Lonnie still couldn’t get his head around them. But as he’d have little else to occupy his time in the remaining days, he’d rehearse the words until he could recite them with feeling.

"The next seven days will tell the tale," was the closing statement on those orders from the Syndicate. "Those of you who serve us well will be a part of the future. Those of you who fail us will be left in the past." You didn’t have to be a genius to figure out the message there. And if you had a family... what could you do? It might feel like a prison sentence, but of course he’d serve them well. And anyway, after today, at least he’d be freed of the daily burden of lying to and betraying a group of brave heroines. That would be like having a twelve-tonne weight lifted from his shoulders. All he had to do was make it through this day.

The speakerphone in the centre of the table crackled to life. "Hello, Foxxes!" came the confident, ringing tones of Max Fawkes as always – really an impersonation by an ex-Cuban spy, Lonnie had learned since, but it sounded so perfectly and exactly like Max that it was uncanny, he still almost couldn’t believe it.

"Hello, Max," answered the Foxxes in unison, but without their usual cheer, clearly impatient to get down to brass tacks.

And brass tacks it was. The impersonator’s next sentence was: "I AM THE PROJECTOR OF THE PLANETARIUM."

The effects were remarkable.

Like flicking a switch, the confident, determined heroines around the table vanished. In their place were four shivering, wide-eyed, helpless women, clearly paralyzed by whatever they were feeling. In the cases of Satin Rayne and Keiko Takeda it was clearly abject terror, and both women were casting haunted little glances around the room as though they could hear something terrible taunting them. Mylène Desange’s mouth was open in a look of sensual shock, her exquisite features surprised and confused, her eyes glazed, like a woman who’d accidentally maneuvered her clit into the path of a jacuzzi jet. Summerset O’Neale looked as though she’d been abruptly cast in plaster, utterly immobile, her striking blue eyes gazing into some unspeakable well of private horror and despair.

"Hello, Foxxes." The next voice to issue out of the speakerphone was a woman’s voice, a mellow, throaty contralto, a voice that would have sounded warm, sensual and welcoming were it not so utterly, creepily devoid of emotion. Lonnie felt his blood run cold; there was only one person this could be. "Hear my voice. This is your adversary speaking. I’m sorry not to be meeting you in person, but I’m afraid that events are moving quickly and we’re not going to have that luxury. Before your final mission, I just wanted you to have a chance to hear from the woman who defeated you. My name is Siouxsie Sexcrime."

Shudders passed through the bodies of the Foxxes, but in this condition none of them could say anything, they couldn’t speak until they were told do.

"As you will remember now from your conditioning sessions, your conscious lives have been a lie for some time," Siouxsie went on calmly. "Every one of you is at the absolute mercy of the Red Queen Syndicate. One of my agents has only to speak a word to reduce any of you into a state of utter, abject submission. You have been useful tools for destroying my competition and ensuring our dominance of Island City’s underworld, and for that I thank you. But now that your usefulness is at an end, it is time to end the charade. I want you to remember this."

The shudders grew more pronounced. A faint whimper emerged through Summerset’s clenched teeth.

"I’ve always had an interest in chemistry and biology," the crimeboss went on. "So once we gained access to your breast enhancement serum, I was able to reformulate it. And I adapted it to a delivery system we’d also been working on for some of our other compounds, especially the Alethex substance that we’ve been heavily dosing you with for some time. This delivery system will rewrite parts of your genetic code to make the effects of these compounds permanent. The reformulated compounds are in the hands of your "disguise" technicians even as we speak, and you will immediately proceed from this meeting to be injected with them. I want you to remember this."

Lonnie realized that that last repeated phrase was instruction. I want you to remember this. The knowledge would stay with them even into their fully conscious state. But why reveal everything in her hand, even at this stage?

"The Agents of Operation Freedom, all of them, are being blackmailed by my Syndicate. While I am sure they dearly wish to help you, they are now directly forbidden to assist you in any way that I have not specifically endorsed," Siouxsie continued. "The Kitts are agents of my Syndicate and have been so for some time. I may yet find a use for them, but the rest of you are disposable. If you accept any help, even so much as a word of comfort, from an Agent that I have not authorized, I will instruct the Kitts to detonate the explosives I have had them place throughout your facility, killing all Agents of Operation Freedom. We have monitoring equipment throughout your facility and will most certainly know if you break this prohibition. I want you to remember this."

More shudders. At the mention of the world "explosives" Satin actually let out a kind of whimpering groan. Lonnie could understand why; it came like a bolt out of the blue to him, too, and he was bolt upright in his chair, now, his mind suddenly racing.

Explosives? Seriously? Was that true? It couldn’t be, they wouldn’t really risk blowing up the Foxxes’ Den, it would attract too much attention... wouldn’t it? But when it came down to it, was there any telling what these bizarre criminals might do or not do? And it could be true: with all the Agents subverted, the Kitts had access to the same demolitions experts who’d trained Satin Rayne. They could have cunningly concealed enough C-4 throughout the complex to cave it right in, they could have learned just where to place it, just how much, just how to disguise it so only a thorough search would turn it up.

If that’s true, he thought, if we’re all really hostages... and they’re watching us... then there aren’t even any small comforts we can offer. Nothing. We can’t search for the explosives, either, they’ll blow us all sky-high. The thought horrified him. But he was going to have to – he knew he’d be meant to – communicate it to the Agents.

As this was flashing through his mind he heard Siouxsie say: "Am I understood? You may speak, Foxxes."

The Foxxes opened their mouths, looking at each other in utter dismay. For a moment, none of them said anything.

"Am. I. Understood."

Their fear overwhelmed them instantly. "Yes, Siouxsie," they said in deeply-humiliated unison, their eyes downcast now. Even their most submissive, conditioned selves, Lonnie noticed, loathed the prospect of being forced answer back to their most hated enemy like a bunch of schoolchildren. I can imagine how that must feel, thought Lonnie bitterly, sitting back in his chair under his own burden of helplessness, willing his eyes not to frantically quarter the ceiling for packets of C-4. But then he amended the thought: no, it’s not the same at all, is it? I really can’t imagine it...

"Excellent. Now that that’s out of the way," continued Siouxsie almost cheerfully, "here’s the good news. First, I’m not going to kill you outright. Second, I’m going to give you a real opportunity to decide your fates." There was a short pause at the other end as Siouxsie broke off, perhaps to take a sip of water? Then her voice returned. "Raven McCoy is in the hands of one of my associates, a contractor really, and is currently being initiated into the life of a willing sex-slave. Your mission is going to be a genuine opportunity to rescue her; all I am doing is removing your safety net and enhancing your vulnerabilities, to make the proceedings a bit more fun for all of us. If you fail, the contractor in question has my permission and my blessing to place you all into sex-slave training and dispose of you as he sees fit. However, he is not part of my Syndicate and has no knowledge of your deep conditioning, nor your vulnerability to programmed code-phrases. Not only will I not give him this information, you also are forbidden to give it to him under any circumstances. He will have to slave-train you the old-fashioned way, and you will have to learn to obey him knowing in your minds and hearts that your deeper obedience belongs forever to me, and to my Syndicate. I want you to remember this."

The words "slave" and "sex-slave training" brought the most powerful shudders around the table yet. Lonnie could see the Foxxes gritting their teeth, unthinkingly moving their hips and rubbing their thighs together, their nipples stiffening, their faces flushing and their breath quickening. Hmmmmm. The erotic reactions kept reverberating in their bodies as though each Foxx had been rung like a bell, their slow, sexy shuddering and writhing continuing through the rest of Siouxsie’s recitation. Alethex, Lonnie realized, thoughts of C-4 suddenly vanquished as despite himself, he felt his cock stiffen. Somehow the drug must be reacting with their fear. Making them want things they wouldn’t normally want.

"If you succeed, however, the only requirement I have is that you kill the contractor in question and that none of you ever show your faces in Island City again, nor ever try to work in law enforcement again. Whatever happens, your former identities as the Foxx Force Five are permanently closed to you. If any of you should attempt to return to Island City, or become active as vigilantes anywhere in the United States or abroad, the Syndicate will reclaim you and – this I solemnly swear – you will end your lives in a Dominican brothel. I want you to remember this." There was another short pause at the other end – Lonnie realized the woman must be puffing on a cigar – and then: "Other than that, you’ll be free to go wherever you like, under whatever names you choose. Become cheerleaders, homemakers, secretaries, coach a girl’s basketball team, it really makes no difference to me."

Lonnie grimaced. A likely story. No way was this woman ever going to let them out of her grasp. Who would, if they could manage to grasp them in the first place?

"Now, between you and me, girls," said Siouxsie almost conspiratorially, "I’m a big believer in Girl Power." In normal circumstances, Lonnie would have had to restrain himself from snorting audibly, but his attention was still riveted by the shuddering, writhing Foxxes, who also seemed too consumed with other things to react to the irony. "The truth is, I think you’re more than a match for this particular contractor. So we’re going to give you one more little handicap, my last command. And that command is: panic. In the presence of any kind of violence, or the threat of violence, all of you will freeze in panic as your first reaction. This panic will persist for as long as the threat persists, though no doubt as strong-willed women you will find ways to fight through it. I leave that fight to you. You will be obeying to my satisfaction just as long as you panic. Panic is the key. Your conscious minds will not remember being given this command."

Lonnie noted the almost-hypnotic repetition. Maybe they have to work extra-hard to overcome basic instincts, he thought. The Foxxes are all heavily trained not to freeze in combat situations. It’ll take some doing to make their bodies "forget" that training.

"And that’s all. I’ve left the details of your final mission with Agent Lonnie James, who will debrief you. I’m sorry that we won’t have the chance to meet face-to-face, but after so much time spent undermining and breaking you, I really do feel like I know you all." There was a hint of cold humour in the contralto voice now: "Perhaps if you do become slaves, one of you will have occasion to lick my boots clean someday. Good luck, my dear, sweet Foxxes. Siouxsie Sexcrime out. THE PLANETARIUM IS CLOSED."

With a collective jolt, the Foxxes were released from their horrific trance. Each of them sat gasping for a moment, privately fighting to deal with what they’d just heard and been allowed to remember, conflicting emotions warring inside them and chasing across their faces, thighs still rubbing and moving as they looked down at their strangely aroused, stiff-nippled bodies and wondered at the hot, aching wetness between their thighs. There were bright tears running down Satin Rayne’s cheeks. Then, one and all, they turned wide, staring eyes toward Lonnie James.

None of them said a word or made a sound. The silence stretched unbearably. Everything in the Den’s inner sanctum had gone pin-drop still.

Just make it through this day. Lonnie felt himself squirming under those awful, hurt, betrayed and hollow stares. Along with a crippling rush of guilt, thoughts of secreted explosives also wormed their way back into the Agent’s mind, and again he had to will himself not to look up and scan the rafters. The only other place to cast his eyes was down.

"Ahem," he finally began uncomfortably, fidgeting with the file folder in his hands. "Well, uh... this is... awkward..."

* * * * *

Siouxsie sat back and hung up the phone in Max Fawkes’ den with a look of icy satisfaction in her pale grey eyes. She took a last meditative puff on her big cigar before she gestured one of her Cleanhead escorts forward, stubbed it out in the big silver ashtray he proffered, and looked over at Gustavo Caliente.

She really is a lovely woman, thought The Man With a Thousand Faces admiringly. Shame about the insanity. It was the beginnings of a warm, sunny day and the sunlight fell across her features in bright bars through the room’s Venetian blinds. Siouxsie was dressed in summery fashion, wearing her platinum-blonde hair in cornrows, gold bangles at her wrists and gold-decorated custom-made leather pumps, a slightly sheer, light blue silk choker dress with an elegant cut, not too form-fitting but devastatingly brief – falling just past the tops of her thighs – showing off her lithe, athletic figure and with a deeply-plunging neckline. Her body really, truly was a work of art, the body of a supermodel, so much so that he found it hard to believe Siouxsie hadn’t originated somewhere in the world of fashion... but then where would she have gotten her uncanny skills? Her connections? Her ruthless criminality? I hope this is all over before I have occasion to know.

"Well, Agent Caliente," she said in that uncanny, smoky voice. It was the first she’d spoken directly to him since she’d shown up at the house mere moments before the morning call with the Foxxes, pre-empting the planned script with her own – no doubt equally planned – "briefing." "I’m very pleased that at least we had the chance to meet face-to-face. You’ve done such fine work for the Syndicate I felt it would be positively... criminal not to thank you in person." A poor joke, but she delivered it with a graceful, winning smile that for a moment made her look almost human, as though she were a public speaker warming up the crowd with a knowingly awful "boy are my arms tired" line.

"It was my pleasure, Señora Sexcrime," he said, lapsing easily into his natural Cuban accent. She had an escort of six Cleanheads with her – one of them was what he noted to be an alarmingly nervous-looking Jimmy Beam, carrying a case of what was presumably his final payment – and as she had to be weighing, now, whether he know too much to be left alive, he wanted to present the least threatening appearance he could. North Americans often seemed to drop their guard in the presence of Latin accents for some reason, as though they mentally associated it with either harmless tourism or tin-pot dictatorship. He very much doubted this would work on Siouxsie, but it was worth a shot.

On the day she finally dissolves Operation Freedom, Max Fawkes had told him, there’s no doubt she’ll keep you on hand for an extra twenty-four hours or so, maybe forty-eight, to keep Washington in the dark just a little bit longer as she activates her attack on the reservoirs. That’s our window of opportunity to inform the White House. I’ll sneak a message to Beam and have him bring it to you with your final payment. A great-sounding plan. If it worked. But privately, Caliente thought it was a long shot, that it was still possible they were underestimating Siouxsie Sexcrime – and sitting in her presence now, he knew for a certainty that could be a fatal mistake.

For a moment she looked at him levelly, then said at last: "I’ve had Mister Beam bring along your final payment. We’ve added a substantial bonus, both in gratitude for your flawless work and in the hopes that you wouldn’t mind staying on another day or two, to help field any calls ‘Max’ might recieve. You wouldn’t mind, would you?"

Another nice guess by Max! he thought in amazement, and said: "Of course, Señora. It would be my pleasure. This," he gestured around him vaguely at the house, the borrowed life, the experience, "has been the most challenging assignment of my career. You cannot imagined how overjoyed I am that it has worked."

"Not half so overjoyed as we are, Agent Caliente, believe me," she said with another glamorous, almost-warm smile. She seemed to consider saying something more, but after a moment settled simply for: "Thank-you again. I hope you’ll consider further work for us in the future." She stood up abruptly and presented her hand.

Caliente stood up and shook it. "Yes, yes, naturally, and thank you. A pleasure doing business with you, Señora."

There were no more hesitations; clearly Siouxsie had other things on her plate. I’m sure staging fake terrorist attacks is busy work, thought Caliente sourly as she nodded to Beam and snapped her fingers at the other Cleanheads, and in moments they were all clearing out and heading to their cars. Beam was still looking profoundly nervous – Caliente sincerely hoped the man wouldn’t wind up giving the game away – but there was no time for a private word. As usual, the Cleanhead left the case behind on the porch, this time glancing at it intensely and meaningfully as he did so – yes, thank you Jimmy, I know there’s a message waiting for me inside – and within a few more moments the Man With a Thousand Faces was waving to the departing Syndicate party as their engines gunned and their sleek black cars peeled out of Max Fawkes’ driveway. The sound of engines lingered curiously in the air for a moment more after they were out of sight, and then ceased.

Peace and quiet. For the moment. All according to plan so far, he thought. Let’s see how long that lasts.

He was going to miss this house, Caliente realized as he took a deep breath and stepped off the porch to look at the airy, warm-toned, faintly rustic domicile Max Fawkes had bought for himself. It was as nice as Havenbrook addresses could get, nestled in a lovely copse of trees – despite the nearby neighbours it felt remote from the madness of Island City, from all the Red Queen Syndicates of the world. An illusion, obviously, but a comforting illusion.

Strange, he thought suddenly, that Siouxsie had left him without a Cleanhead to supervise him – did she just trust him to stay and do what he said he’d do? Well, he thought, sighing as he started to climb back on to the porch, maybe I’ve been overestimating her. That’s never a good idea either. He looked at the case and as he reached to pick it up, thought: Ah, well. Might as well have a look at—

He froze.

Several things fell abruptly into place in his head –

– sound of engines lingered curiously – none of the Cleanheads stayed behind – Beam looking intensely and meaningfully at the case – I know there’s a message waiting for me inside –

– in a split-second, Caliente was sprinting, leaping frantically away from the porch as the world disintegrated in thunder and fire and smoke and splinters behind him. He felt a wave of kinetic heat crashing into him like the fist of a burning god, picking him up and flinging him head over heels ragdoll-style, unfathomable pain like nothing he’d ever felt searing down his left side and a new torment exploding through his body as he landed on his right with the sickening crunch of splintering bones.

Purely on instinct he rolled, rolled, rolled through the pain, trying to put himself out, he knew he was burning, could smell his own flesh cooking. Unbearable agony lanced through him from the burns, and also from his right arm and several of his ribs which were surely broken badly. Lucidity fled for a split second, then again as he rolled and rolled through the hideous grinding of bone against bone and realized he simply couldn’t roll one more time no matter what it cost him. Consciousness returned tenuously like a reluctant ex-mistress who’d just stopped by to pick up her things and wouldn’t be able to stay long, her flight was in an hour, Miami was nice this time of year you see... well okay, maybe just for a cup of coffee...

Delirium. His mind was wandering, he was on his way out. FOCUS! Get up you chingón get up and MOVE you motherfucker, he berated himself, gritting his teeth and somehow finding it in him to make his legs move, rising and staggering desperately away, away, away from the smoking ruins of the house. They’ll be moving in to confirm the kill KEEP MOVING you stupid shithead KEEP MOVING!

Grinding his jaw, he kept on staggering, out of the sheltering copse of trees and onto the street, berating himself for his stupidity as he went. "Overestimating her" indeed, you moron, you fucking son of a goat, KEEP MOVING, he chastised himself steadily. KEEP MOVING that’s it just KEEP MOVING...

His legs churned on, components of a broken machine. He felt pavement, then grass, then pavement, then wood under his feet before he passed out.

* * * * *

"Do we have a kill?"

The big Afrikaner was talking into a cell phone – secured and triple-encrypted, of course – as he sat at the wheel of an operations centre disguised as a movers’ van. His red, beefy face was almost beatifically calm as he looked at the plume of smoke rising above the house just around the corner from him. They’d parked close enough for his partner to get in quickly and confirm the kill. Easy-peasy, he thought, and he should know, he’d packed that case himself.

"Unconfirmed, stand by."

Jesus. The beatific calm slipped just a little, but he kept a friendly, jocular tone in his voice. "What the fuck you mean ‘unconfirmed,’ man? Neighbourhood dogs eat all the bloody pieces of him in twenty seconds?"

"Unconfirmed means I can’t see anything yet because you just blew up a house," replied his partner testily. "So stand by."

Kroeger was about to answer back, but encrypted phones or not, best to keep the chatter to a minimum. He’d known Harel for four years, the man didn’t have a sloppy bone in his body, no point lecturing him. Not a bad sort as Jews go, he thought to himself as he waited with increasing tension, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Forty seconds. Sixty. Shame you couldn’t just say things like "not a bad sort as Jews go" these days, what with the lefties all about and their politically correct – Eighty. Ninety seconds. We’re bloody pushing it, man.

Harel’s voice came over the phone, grim and flat. "I’ve got him. Neighbour’s porch across the street."

Kroeger whistled in surprise. "Blast threw him that far?"

"Negative, he’s alive. Injured. The neighbour’s on the porch looking at him, and talking into a cellphone. Probably calling an ambulance."

Kroeger was speechless with amazement for a long moment. Not possible. Not bloody possible! he thought, but he didn’t bother saying it. If Harel was reporting it, obviously it was possible. How the hell’d he manage that?

"Neighbour’s spotted me. Neighbour’s waving me over. Am I go for both targets?" Harel asked bloodlessly.

ShitshitSHIT, Kroeger thought furiously. They might have maybe another minute to end it here with a minimum of collateral damage, but the decision had to be made in the time it would take Harel to briskly cross a lawn and a residential street. Worth it? Unknown factors? Other neighbours? This neighbour’s family home? Shit. Too many unknowns. No. "Negative," he answered. "Make nice, wait with him for the ambulance, pull out once you’ve found where it’s going. We’ll take him at the hospital."

"Understood." Harel hung up.

Fucking hell. Kroeger reset his phone and hit dial on his commander’s number, his face redder than usual as he tried to think of a good way to tell the man: "Sorry, it turns out the target is apparently superhuman." So much for an easy first job with our new client. Just once, just once I’d love a plan to actually work how it’s supposed to do...

* * * * *

It was odd, Satin Rayne reflected as she and the other Foxxes followed Summerset out of the briefing room and over to the elevator to the Den’s upper levels. In a morning that to put it mildly had contained a lot of distressing revelations, the one that distressed her the most – the reason she’d wept as she’d surfaced from the horrible white trance and the taunting demonic voices that filled it – was professional. The Kitts had hidden explosives in the Foxxes’ Den? And she hadn’t noticed it? Impossible!

It was good to have something to focus on as the Foxxes made their humiliated, lonely walk through a facility that they’d just discovered was entirely staffed by traitors. Satin had felt the eyes on her as she’s walked out of that briefing room, trying to follow Summerset’s example and walk Foxx-tall and proud – which wasn’t easy – and she knew the others must have felt the same. So much of their lives had been revealed as a lie – and how much more hadn’t been revealed? – that the only real thing most of her wanted to do was curl up in a corner and gibber and die. Most of her, of course, except for her hot, wet snatch, still aching and pulsing and throbbing in time to the rhythm of the words "sex-slave training," a reaction that horrified and terrified her, especially knowing now that it was a product of a drug – a drug whose effects were about to become part of her for the rest of her life.

Curl up and die. Gibber. Despair. Except that poor Raven was counting on them; they couldn’t afford to turn down even the remote (and it had to be very remote) possibility that the offer of a genuine rescue and amnesty was on the level. No matter what that bitch Siouxsie Sexcrime thought, the Foxx Force Five were very much alive. They hadn’t been born in the state-of-the-art Foxxes’ Den amidst an army of agents; they’d operated without a safety net before, they’d operated with the odds stacked against them before. They might yet have a few surprises in store for the Red Queen Syndicate.

There was that... and there was the exercise of looking, as they headed toward their fateful appointment in the Wardrobe Department, at all the places she knew perfectly well were the optimum points to place a C-4 charge if you wanted to cave in the complex. Running through all the ways you could conceal and disguise it. No sign. No sign. And none again. She couldn’t rule it out completely without a thorough search that they’d never be able to carry out... but her hunch was that Siouxsie Sexcrime was simply lying. That the Foxxes’ Den wasn’t rigged to blow at all.

She realized, of course, that these feelings were persistences of hope, that she should feel worse, much worse. What were her hunches worth now, after all? How many of her feelings were her own? How many were ‘conditioned’? Would she ever know again? Would the question even have meaning after today? Had she been ‘conditioned’ to feel confident even in dreadful, beyond-worst-case circumstances like this? Was this insane persistence of hope inside her part of the plan, designed to make her fall all the harder and more devastating?

There was no way of knowing. All the same, the hope kept flickering. And a slowly-growing fury was stoking it: use the Foxxes as a tool, would they? She remembered their triumphant raids on the Bloods, on the Italians, occasions that had seemed like triumphs, that had been triumphs. Who was Siouxsie Sexcrime to pervert those achievements? That cold, smug voice, so sure of its victory: was there still a way to take her down, to make her suffer as she’d made so many others suffer?

One step at a time, Satin, she thought as they stepped out of the elevator and she looked up at another ideal point for C-4 charges. Nothing. Siouxsie, you liar. She couldn’t be quite sure enough to call their bluff, but at least it was something. A hint that the Syndicate boss might not be as invulnerable, as completely in control, as she wanted to seem.

Satin’s brittle feelings of confidence came crashing down like a house of cards as they arrived at the Wardrobe Department, the moment of truth. Summerset had paused before the doors, hesitating as though she couldn’t quite bring herself to open them. That in itself was measure of how devastatingly overwhelmed and outmatched the Number One Foxx must be feeling about this whole situation. Satin’s heart swelled, she wished she could wrap her friend in her arms and make the whole world go away for a while... instead she reached out and took her hand in a comforting grip. Summerset gripped back, hard, and with a deep breath the two of them opened the door and walked in to meet the future.

The sight that greeted them stopped them in their tracks.

The Wardrobe Department was a big, circular chamber with mirrored walls that usually functioned as a reconfigurable pseudo-salon, complete with rolling benches decked out with all the hyper-advanced tools of the Den’s disguise wizards, racks of clothes, chairs and tables strewn with sketches of ideas for looks – a bustling, cluttered hive of activity where the appearance of the Foxxes was manufactured on a day-to-day basis.

Today, all that merry clutter was stripped. The room contained a single clothes rack – bearing extremely tiny versions, even by Foxx standards, of what were probably supposed to be outfits – beside which was a bench with a few beauty products on it and four double sets of syringes. Spaced around the edges of the room, beside the mirrors, were an ominous-looking collection of whips, crops, vibrators and dildoes of every description. Red streamers fluttered from the ceiling – along with a white banner lettered in blood red that said "BON VOYAGE, FOXXES!" – and there were no chairs anywhere... though four steel rings appeared to have been installed in the ceiling in a quadrangle near the room’s centre, with long ropes attached to them, running back to a second ring at the ceiling’s edge and down from there to a pulley. And underneath those steel rings in the middle lay four spreader bars sporting leather shackles, and more lengths of rope beside them.

The total effect was like a blow: a familiar room transformed into a perverted dungeon. And in the midst of it all, cheering for all the world like they were the Foxxes’ best friends come to see them off on an exotic cruise, were the Kitts. "SURPRIIIIISE!" the gaggle of teen nubiles shouted gaily, their tits bouncing as they jumped up and down, decked out one and all in tiny black PVC bikinis and thigh-high boots, like twenty miniature dominatrixes.

Satin’s blood went cold, perversely – in a weird effect that she wondered if she would ever get used to – making her pussy throb and pulse even more wetly. Her and Summerset’s grips on each other’s hands tightened almost painfully, white knuckles communicating their shared terror. The first orders for their so-called "final mission" had been to report to Wardrobe to be injected and outfitted, and to report to the Kitts about their "farewell party" – but none of them had had the chance to fully assimilate what it all might mean. The four Foxxes exchanged glances of stark dismay as the picture grew more frighteningly clear; Satin noticed that Mylène and Keiko were holding hands just as tightly.

"What do you think?" asked the Number One Kitt, Bailey Phillips, slinking sexily forth from the band of Kitts. Her tanned, flawless skin and dark brown hair – pulled back severely into a bun, dominatrix-style – shone under the lights. The cheering cut off abruptly the moment she spoke, and her boots clip-clopped quietly on the floor as she advanced on her counterpart, the wide-eyed, stiff-nippled, clearly frightened Number One Foxx. "Do you like it? Our Mistress gave us the materials, we were up all night making it. We wanted our last day together to be juuuust right. Didn’t we, girls?" There was another, briefer cheer from the Kitts, dying away quickly as the girls watched Summerset with eager anticipation.

If they were expecting her to grovel, they were disappointed. "What do I think?" Summerset’s first words since Siouxsie Sexcrime’s horrific "briefing" were delivered with the same quiet, husky confidence as ever, belying her evident fear. Satin felt a thrill of pride in her. "I think with this many of you here, your threats to demolish the Foxxes’ Den are empty. I hope all the Syndicate’s agents make mistakes like that."

Bailey’s mouth quirked in amusement as she stepped closer. The sheen of gleeful madness in her eyes was evident and unconcealed – Satin wondered if it had always been so obvious. How had no-one spotted it in time? "You’re hardly in a position to talk about ‘mistakes,’ are you, Summer?" she said silkily. "Without us Kitts, this glorious day wouldn’t be here. And besides," she added, her smile fading into a look of deadly earnestness. "It only takes one of us to push the button. It doesn’t matter to any of the rest of us if we’re down here when it happens. The will of Our Mistress will be done."

A chill ran down Satin’s spine. She means it, the Black Bombshell realized. She absolutely means it. The Foxx suddenly wondered if she could really be so confident about the explosives claim being a lie.

"You know," Summerset said very quietly, her voice even huskier than usual with intensity of emotion: "I’ve replayed that day ten thousand times in my head. It was me who suggested your name when Max asked for a Kitt to send on that mission. I almost stormed that building six different times that day, and I wish I had. I should have trusted my instincts, not someone outside myself, not our technology. That’s why I failed you, Bailey. That’s why Sabrina Lockhart was able to do what she did to you." A tear was rolling down her right cheek now. "I know you can’t forgive me, or any of us. I won’t ask you to. But you should know something: we were all betrayed. All of us. By the one person we loved and trusted most. If you really want revenge—"

"I don’t just want revenge, you lying slut," Bailey cut her off with a snarl, her face suddenly transfigured by rage. "What I want is pure! I want to obey my Mistress, because I know she’ll deliver you to the fate you deserve! All of you! And... besides..." her voice faltered slightly, an almost confused look coming over her face: "...you were the person I loved and trusted most."

"Oh, Bailey—" Summerset started to say.

O’Neale reeled back from the open-handed slap in shock, her baby blues like saucers, her body utterly rigid. The wild-eyed madness had abruptly reclaimed Bailey’s features, and with it no small hint of chagrin, as though she’d instantly regretted that last admission, as though the whole encounter was souring for her, not going as she’d imagined it... and it was obvious she’d been imagining it for a long time. But whatever the girl was feeling, the slap was really too much, and Satin felt her anger surging back.

"Here, now—" she started to say as she stepped forward.

"Here now what?" Bailey rounded on her viciously, poised to deliver a backhand slap – and to her own astonishment Satin felt a thick wave of panic boil up inside her, found herself cringing away from the mere gesture like a whipped dog, her protests dying in her throat. Wh- what’s happening to me? she wondered through the panic, trying desperately to make her limbs respond, to move, but they wouldn’t. Bailey noticed the reaction, and let her hand fall with a gleam of triumph in her eye. "Here now what, Miss Strong-Confident-Independant-Woman? Why aren’t you strong and confident now? I’m just a little slip of a thing, aren’t I? Either of you want some?" She darted menacingly toward Keiko and Myléne, laughing when both women quailed away fearfully, looking amazed and bewildered at their own reactions.

Conditioning, Satin realized with a hollow, sinking feeling in her gut. More conditioning. But knowing it didn’t ameliorate the effect one whit.

Summerset hesitantly found her voice again, rubbing at her slapped cheek, sounding much more shaken than before. "B – Bailey," she quavered (Summerset never quavered): "P – please, listen to me. You don’t, you don’t have to do this—"

"Oh, shut up," Bailey cut her off again, sounding suddenly sick of the whole game, like a child tossing aside her much-anticipated Christmas toy after only a few minutes of playing with it. "Don’t you get it? Our Mistress has given us the great honour of making you pretty, and giving you a taste of what your future holds. Her will shall be done. That’s all there is to it." She turned away from the Foxxes disgustedly, clapping her hands at her fellow Kitts: "Alright, girls! Let’s get this party started!"

With another gleeful cheer, the Kitts poured forward, each of the four Foxxes suddenly finding themselves at the centre of a knot of five taut young teenaged bodies pressing close, grabbing them, pulling them toward the middle of the room, little hands sliding all over them and reaching into to diddle their hot pussies, stroke and fondle their tits or squeeze and spank their asses insultingly. Satin recognized the leader of her "welcoming committee" as Lizzie Maxwell, the tiny red-headed Goth girl’s hair pulled back as severely as Bailey’s and her eyes seized by that same mad sheen.

In the first moments, the Foxxes tried to pull back and protested at the insouciant fondling. "No please don’t! Please girls we’re your friends!" Satin cried out, struggling against the attentions of the laughing girls, hearing similar sounds from Keiko and Mylène. And without warning, Lizzie dealt her a hard backhanded slap across the jaw – and the wave of panic that had struck her at the mere suggestion of violence paled next to the thunderbolt of abject, craven terror that struck her now. With a whine of humiliation, she could feel her pussy juice starting to leak down her thighs inside her spandex catsuit, her gash was so dripping wet, so aching with desire fuelled by the fear, by her own helplessness in the face of that fear, the two combining to send her into a vicious downward spiral of lust. It only took that one slap to render her completely docile, snivelling meekly as she was led forward, and from the look of the others she wasn’t alone.

She felt tears of impotence dripping down her face as the girls crudely stripped away her utility belt, gloves and boots, and then her spandex suit, fairly ripping it from her body as though in a gleeful contest to see who could shred and destroy it the fastest. All the while, the panic was churning in her body as she looked at the ropes: she knew she was dreading what was to come even more than the other Foxxes, that the mere thought of being tied up and restrained was giving her flashbacks to what had been the worst memory in her life before the Syndicate, before all this began. The rest of the Foxxes were in the heart of their erstwhile safe haven and only real home, naked and vulnerable and overwhelmed and having their arms pulled cruelly behind their backs to be bound tightly together from the wrists right up to the elbows with harsh hemp rope; but as far as Satin’s body was concerned, she was also transported back years, shackled in a filthy basement in Newkirk, the horrible feet of rats pitter-pattering across her body as she listened to the sounds of a less fortunate girl right beside her, mewling through a makeshift gag as she was raped by their captor’s German Shepherd.

The added associations kept the waves of debilitating, lust-fuelling panic coming thick and fast, and Satin didn’t even make the muted whimpers and sobs of protest that were coming from the others, entirely pliable as her legs were kicked wide apart and her ankles locked into the cuffs on the spreader bar. The ache in her pussy was growing unbearable, her clit was throbbing intensely as each wave of panic broke over her, her juices were running from her cunt... and her welcoming committee noticed, too. "Damn," the girl on her left – it was the Latina cutie, Selena Jolie – commented saucily. "Look how fucking juicy she is! You really love this, don’t you, Satin?"

The Black Bombsell clenched her teeth and shut her eyes tight. No I hate it I HATE IT, she thought despairingly, but she didn’t dare utter a sound.

Wrong move. A hard slap rang out across her ripe, beautiful ass, sending a jolt of terror through her a thousand times more powerful than the pain, and abruptly she knew her hot snatch was right on the edge of an orgasm. "It’s okay, Satin," Selena’s voice went on punctuated by another slap, and then another, and another. "It’s okay to say you love it. Tell me how much you love it, Satin. Tell us all, Satin. Say that you love it, bitch! SAY that you LOVE it, you FUCKing SLUT!"

The sexy brown-skinned Foxx writhed and wriggled under the smacks, utterly helpless, feeling multiple hands landing gleefully on her ass now and making her ample buttocks quiver and writhe... the spanking was merciless, her squack was boiling over, the inevitable climax was rushing onward, she couldn’t stop herself from crying out: "OWWWW no PLEASE nononoNO you’re gonna make me CUM OWWWWW OWWWWWW please stop PLEASE STOP you’re GONNA MAKE ME CUM PLEASE STOP OWWWWWW! AHHHHHH! YOU’RE GONNA MAKE ME CUUUHUUUMMMMM OWWWWWWW! AHHOWWWWW! AHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH! PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME CUUUHUUUMMMMMM AHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH! FUUUUHUUUCK! OKAY I LOVE IT JUST DON’T MAKE ME CUMMMMM LIKE THIIIHIISSSSS AHHHHHH! AAHOOOOW! I LOVE IT YES I LOVE IT I LOVE IT YES YES I LOVE IT AHHHHHHH! OWWWWWW AHHOWWWWWWW.... AIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" She was powerless to stop herself from going over the edge, her hot snatch pulsing and squirting, squirting, squirting, squirting, then SQUIRTING again as she wriggled and screamed in shame, in terror, in despair. In the back of her mind was the horrible knowledge that she was the first to be spanked to an orgasm, that the other Foxxes were watching her spurt and sob and beg and debase herself, reduced to swift submission with pitiful ease... and the thought of their watching eyes sent her right back over the edge as the spanks went on and on. "AAAHHHGAAWD NAWWWWWWWWHAWWWWWWWW! AWWWWWHAWWWWWW!"

Her shuddering body was throbbing and pulsing with waves of lust and terror as the spanks finally subsided. She opened her eyes to hear the room ringing with mocking applause and cheers from the Kitts, felt a fresh stab of shame as she saw the other Foxxes watching her with wet eyes, Keiko on her left and Mylène on her right, Summerset across from her – all looking at once compassionate and fearful, knowing the same would soon be done to them. Lizzie stepped in front of her, lifting up slightly on her tiptoes to give her a long kiss, her tongue probing insistently until the lust-whelmed Foxx gave in and melted into it.

The hot, deep kiss went on and on, their tongues dancing as Satin could feel her bound arms being attached to the overhead rope, until finally Lizzie broke it off. "And you haven’t even had today’s injection yet. You’re gonna be one nice, obedient, juicy little slave slut, aren’t you, Satin?" said the mad-eyed girl with a twinkle in her eyes. Quaking in the aftermath of a multiple forced orgasm, feeling her round, ripe ass stinging and her tight slit still dripping and hot and aching with need, the Black Bombshell swallowed hard, wondering if the Kitt was right. The vestiges of confidence she’d felt on the walk to this room were completely forgotten. Lizzie stepped away and made a gesture to another girl – a big-titted strawberry blonde, Satin could see in the mirror – who was standing beside her pulley.

The sound of working pulleys filled the room and the Foxxes exchanged fresh looks of dismay as their cruelly bound arms were lifted inexorably. Up, up, up they lifted as the bound heroines were forced to bend over, and over, further and further, until finally their wrists were above their heads and they were all bent double, forced to push out their luscious rumps and dripping pussies in a magnificent, spread-legged display of fuckable feminine beauty. Satin could see that Summerset and Keiko has closed their eyes tight as if to block out the humiliation; Mylène was staring into some inner landscape, her lips parted and her eyes presenting a look of glazed disbelief. Satin herself was trying to keep her hips still, knowing again that out of all of them, the terror of the harsh ropes and strict suspension were playing the most havoc with her body, with her wet, lusty, greedy little gash.

"All right, you Foxxy ladies," said Bailey Phillips, whose voice had recovered its former slinky playfulness. "It’s time for your make-over! Isn’t that exciting?"

The four Foxxes moaned helplessly.

* * * * *

The Kitts started by taking a little tub of cool jelly around to each Foxx, dipping fingers in the substance and smearing it thoroughly over the breast-flesh of the captive heroines, greasing their stiff-nippled tits to a high shine. They were all familiar with what the substance was meant to do, it prevented stretch-marks while the breast alteration serum did its work. But never had they had it applied in circumstances like these, and all four women were doing their best to suppress whimpers and shudders as it was slathered on by the naughtily-chortling teenaged villainesses.

Then the most fateful of moments: a Kitt coming back from that bench with a pair of syringes. Life-altering syringes, if Siouxsie Sexcrime could be believed. They all gulped audibly as they watched destiny in needle form being carried toward them. Satin’s were carried by a smiling Lizzie Maxwell, Mylène’s by the busty blonde Irina Dubrovna, Keiko’s by the sandy-haired little model-cutie Gemma Bond... and Summer’s, of course, by Bailey Phillips herself. Each Kitt handed off one syringe to an assistant, stepping toward her Foxx with the other.

"Time for you to get some big, sensitive, milk-filled titties, Satin," said Lizzie playfully. "Well, bigger, anyway. God and you’ll have them forever, how cool is that? I kinda envy you, you know. Joining the double-D club and you’ll never have to worry about implants." Satin’s clit was throbbing as she felt a warm hand caressing and very gently slapping her ass. She was trying not to think about the distracting sexual sensations she’d encountered the last time she’d used the serum for only a day, trying not to think of a lifetime of tits that swollen and hyper-sensitive, trying not to think what it might be like to deal with them in her present state. Why think about it, after all – she was going to find out soon enough. "You ready? Well, who cares if you’re ready: here it comes!"

Despite herself, Satin let out a little squeak as the syringe plunged into her soft buttock, the other Foxxes making similar sounds as they were shot up with the serum. By experience, they all knew it would take an hour for the full effects to manifest – but their tits would be hot, hard, tingling and sensitive well before that. Then they caught a collective breath: it was time for the second syringe, the one full of green liquid, the Alethex that had already wreaked such havoc on their bodies, their minds, their libidos, their lives. Their teenaged mistresses were holding the syringes up to the light, tapping and eyeing them clinically... and Satin noticed with a chill down her spine that as they were doing so, their fellow-Kitts were buckling big strap-ons around their waists! Ohhhh shit... ohhhh noooo.... All the Foxxes were looking up fearfully at those syringes, those dildoes, helpless to stop their snatches from juicing in anticipation.

"Now," grinned Lizzie. "While we wait for the titty harvest to come in... time to really get this party started."

As one, the Kitts brought their syringes down, the needles piercing the yielding flesh of their prey, the plungers pushing down and hammering the purest possible hit of Alethex straight into the heroines’ bloodstreams. It was like nothing Satin had ever felt. If she’d been asked to describe the effect later, she would have said it was like the difference between hit by a fist and being run over by a freight train... but in the moment, all she knew was that every debilitating, aroused response already churning in her body magnified its intensity fifty-fold. "UUUUUUUUUUHHHHHH-UUUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHH!" she moaned sensuously deep in her throat – she could hear the others doing the same – as she arched and her hips bucked and her eyes rolled back in her head, the brute fact of her naked body’s humiliating captivity setting her libido utterly wild in newly intense ways, and she realized that the feel of rope around her lower arms, the fact of her strict suspension, these things alone were sending fresh bolts of panic and lust into her cunt. Oh God I’m gonna cum again... she thought it might even happen without anyone touching her!

As it happened, of course, she didn’t need to put that theory to the test. A split-second later, the syringe was pulled out and her eyes were flying wide open – to the sight of Summerset’s eyes doing the same, in an almost comical look of horrified ecstatic shock – as a ten-inch dildo rammed deep into her clutching snatch. As her pussy-flesh was crudely stretched, Satin felt her mouth opening in a silent O while she watched Summerset mouthing the words "Ohhhh myyyy Goood," the very sight making her somehow feel the penetration even more deeply... and then the sound of Keiko and Mylène’s shrill, violated squeals seemed to set all their vocal chords free as their fiendish teen mistresses started pounding them.

"OOOOOHHHHOHHHHHH SHIIIHHHIIIIIT!" Satin wailed as she creamed messily all over the dildo within the first few strokes, her snatch spasming and gripping and squirting its way into a mind-bending series of climaxes as Lizzie powered the fake cock uncaringly, brutally into her. Neither Satin nor Summerset could tear their eyes away from each other’s faces as they were fucked like filthy bitches in heat; poor Summerset, who’d barely ever known the touch of a man, had big tears running down her cheeks and a look of amazed confusion on her face as she unwillingly bucked her hips up to meet Bailey’s manic rape and squealed, high and girlish, as her first orgasm slammed into her tight pussy like an almighty hammer of hot lust. The randy sight sent Satin, already on her third climax, back over the edge again: "NAWWWWWHAWWWWWWWW FUUUHUUUUUCK AWWWWWW-NAAAAWWWWWHAAAWWWWWWWWW!" She could feel her juices jetting, hear them splashing as she came harder... harder... harder... and the harder she came, the harder she watched the Number One Foxx get off, which drove her to new orgasmic heights, until the two friends were staring helplessly into each others’ glazed eyes while they lost count of the machine-gun climaxes they were giving up to their rapists.

The sounds coming from Mylène and Keiko were guttural, almost bestial – low, groaning sobs, "AAAAUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" – as the sound of slap-slap-slapping flesh told of their tormenting ravishment. Satin didn’t dare look at them, knowing from the way they moaned that they were both taking their punishment deep and hard in the ass. But she couldn’t ignore the sound of Irina, at her left, starting to taunt her beautiful Parisian fuck-victim:

"Ooohhhhhh Mylène you’re taking it like such a good little bitch, such a good little slut! Look at your little Asian friend getting fucked right in front of you, look how much she loves it, I think Keiko’s a filthy little butt-slutt just like you, Mylène! That’s what you are, aren’t you? A dirty bitch who loves it in her ass?"

"AAAAHHHHAAAAAHHHHHH MON DIEEEUUUUUUUU!" came Mylène’s answering, throaty moan as the crude taunt clearly brought her off hard. The sexiness, the deep sensual surrender in her voice had a profound effect on the rest of the Foxxes, who unconsciously started to grind harder and moan louder themselves until in moments Summerset went squealing over the edge, biting her lower lip prettily as she did so in a way that hit Satin hard and had her giving up another squirting climax, and another, and another... soon all four heroines had abandoned any sense of decorum and resistance and were writhing and squirming and cumming in utter abandon under the rough pounding.

Their orgasms ramped up in intensity again as the Kitts started spanking them and taunting them louder... again as Summer and Satin started taking it in the ass... again as Bailey set off a new kind of amusement by bending over in front of Summerset and make the Number One Foxx tongue and slurp her pussy and asshole while she grinned down into Satin’s miserable face... again as more and more of their teenaged abusers starting switching off with each other and tearing into them with whips and vibrators and ever-bigger strap-ons, their abuse growing cruder as they spat and swore at the humiliated, helplessly squirting heroines and fucked them like so many drunk jocks, laughing and joking about the growing puddles of girl-come under each bound bitch. And as the feminine gangbang went on and on, the steadily swelling, increasingly ultra-sensitive tits of the Foxxes started to gain attention as they were swatted, squeezed and casually toyed with, sending their owners to newly shrill heights of unwanted ecstasy as they sobbed and begged and pleaded for respite... a respite they were of course denied as they were finally taken by three Kitts at a time, forced to eat out one while a second whipped or paddled or spanked them and worked a vibrator into their pussies or asses, while a third strap-on fucked them into mewling oblivion.

Finally, after her vision had gone long out of focus and Satin no longer knew whether she was coming or going and the orgasms had blended into a single spasmodic, endless, almost painful ecstasy, the Kitts relented for a moment. She felt someone towelling down her body as she floated, floated back down into her flesh – and then she felt a powerful flash of panic, yet more hot lust washing through her body, as someone grabbed her hair and titled her head back. She opened her eyes to see Lizzie holding a wet sponge over her face.

"Open wide, lover," the girl said with a mischievous smile. "Never party without making sure you hydrate."

Fearfully, the Foxx opened her mouth – knowing by now she’d be whipped if she didn’t – as Lizzie started wringing the contents of the sponge down her throat. With a start, she realized it wasn’t water – Lizzie had sopped up the big puddle of Satin’s own pussy juice and was feeding it back to her! As her eyes widened with the knowledge and the last drops filled up her mouth, she glumly did what she knew was expected of her and swallowed her own sweet nectar down, feeling utterly nasty as she did so.

"See," said Lizzie. "Was that so hard?" And she released the Black Bombshell’s curls and walked away to join the other Kitts, most of whom had withdrawn to the edges of the room.

Bailey Phillips was standing, now, in the room’s center between all four of the heroines, holding a black bottle of... something. From the evil grin on her face, Satin knew instantly that it wouldn’t prove to be anything nice.

"Wow," the Number One Kitt began laughingly. "You may not be much good as heroines, but the four of you are amazing fucks. Who knew the illustrious Summerset O’Neale could squirt and squeal and beg like that? Not to mention her rimjobs!"

Summerset’s features were flushed with shame – or was it the aftermath of desire? – as the Kitts around the room joined their mean-girl leader in a sneering laugh, and Satin noticed her eyes were still out of focus, like what had used to happen when she was calculating a solution to a problem. Is her mind working, or breaking? Ohhhh, hang in there Summer, we need you... this is just the beginning...

"But," Bailey continued: "Time does fly. All your new tits have grown in nicely, and I know how fabulous and full and sensitive they feel, so it’s time to invite the rest of our revellers to the party. You know, all those Operation Freedom men you’ve been taunting for ages with your hot bodies. I think they’re all going to find some very satisfying ways to say farewell... and believe me, I’d know that too!" The Kitts laughed madly again as the bound beauties panted dully, new horror crashing over their minds as they realized they were about to be gang-fucked by the very men who they’d thought of as teammates and fellow-fighters all this time. Then Bailey brandished the black bottle in her hand and said, like a mountebank hawking a miracle cure: "And how would I know that, you ask? Well, it’s not just because I’m hotter than any Foxx alive. Let me tell you about this fantastic fragrance we Kitts got from Our Mistress. Let me tell you about the scent that conquered Operation Freedom."

And as Bailey spoke, Satin felt helpless panic overwhelming her again. Oh my God, she gibbered inwardly at the thought of what was coming. Just the beginning...

* * * * *

"That’s what I said," Harel was saying on his cellphone. "The burn unit at Sidon Hospital. It’s a limited window. Look, just tell him to get back to us right away."

Kroeger exchanged exasperated glances with his partner as the latter tucked his cell phone into a pocket of his windbreaker. The two professionals were leaned up against the side of their unremarkable-looking burgundy sedan – they’d swapped out the van with another team en route, doffing their fake movers’ garb at the same time – eyeing the enormous complex of Havenbrook’s largest hospital from their little metal island in a vast expanse of empty parking lot. Their quarry was surely under heavy sedation right now, in one of those enormous, cubical temples to medical science.

We could take the bastard right now, Kroeger was thinking in irritation. But especially when doing ops like this, Executive Results I.S. was extremely cautious. Too cautious, in his opinion, about having the same men who’d turned up at the bombing of the Fawkes house trying to move about the hospital. But it’s OUR bloody job, isn’t it? It’s OUR kill, man. And here we are, waiting on head office, cooling our bloody heels. We supposed to leave it unfinished?

Bureaucracy. With the good pay and benefits, you always got the bureaucracy. Same everywhere. But while he wasn’t any Communist or anything, Kroeger was inclined to disagree with one point of popular wisdom: in his opinion the private sector wasn’t more efficient about things. Not at all. At least not when it came to this kind of work.

The average-tall, thoroughly nondescript and bespectacled Harel was evidently having similar thoughts. "You know what they called me in Hebron?" he said conversationally as they waited. "The Invisible Man. Being forgettable was my specialty."

"I’m sure they’ll greenlight us," Kroeger reassured him, clapping him on the shoulder with a huge paw of a hand. "You’ll get your man. Your outfit always got its man, right?"

Harel shook his head. "That’s the Mounties. The Mounties always get their man."

Kroeger shrugged his broad, heavy shoulders expansively. "My point exactly, bro. So what’s that say about when you’re better than the Mounties, am I right?" His partner gave a shrug of his own, this one noncommittal, and the two men shared a few minutes of companionable silence, finally broken by a Shakira ringtone.

Harel fished out his phone again. "Yes... I see. Alright... affirmative. Just remind them it’s time-sensitive. Out." He hung up, grimacing slightly.

His partner gave him a sympathetic look. "Bad news?"

"Back to the Roost for us," Harel nodded. "They’re sending Beta Team on the nightshift."

"Well, as long as there’s no fucking rush or anything, right?" said Kroeger in disgust, shaking his head. "Fine then. Tell you what, let’s have a stop along the way back, I’ll buy you one. We’ll even get it kosher, how’s that sound?"

"I’ll deny saying this if asked, but between you and me, kosher beer is shit."

The big Afrikaner chuckled. "Regular beer, then. Glad I don’t have to call the client, I tell you that, bro." As they climbed back into the car, a sudden thought came to him, and he added: "But you know, maybe tonight we can do a little unofficial overtime. Just make sure the Beta boys get it right, you know? Make sure nobody gets credit who doesn’t deserve it."

Harel was plainly trying not to look like a man whose ears were perking up.

* * * * *

Siouxsie’s voice was an extra few degrees Centigrade colder than usual as she said into her phone: "Yes, I understand. Now understand me. I’m paying you for a result, not a service. I expect your personnel to deliver that result as the foundation of future business. Is that quite clear." She paused for a moment, looking out the limousine’s window at the passing New Amsterdam countryside as the party on the other end babbled for a few moments more. She was plainly cutting them off when she said: "My expectations are clear, then. Good." And hung up as she went on mildly surveying the scenery, alone in her labyrinthine thoughts.

She looks like a stone sculpture, thought Jimmy Beam to himself as he stole another glance at her from the opposite seat before going back to blindly staring out the window himself. "Heart of stone," that’s Siouxsie. Damn, but I should have gotten out of this game a long time ago. Beside him, his fellow Cleanhead, Ramos, stirred and coughed once, quietly.

Not that there was a way out that wasn’t feet first, Jimmy reminded himself. Once you were in, you were in. And so was your family. This morning, as he’d watched the money case with Max Fawkes’ message to Caliente in it being replaced by another case – most probably a payload – by one of the big South African ERIS mercs who were everywhere on The Sands Estate these days... Jimmy Beam had felt a sudden, powerful pang of regretful longing for his lost former life. For the person he’d once been, for his family down South, who until he’d phoned them after his fateful meeting in Heartland Park some days before had never known what became of him, never known that he’d put all their lives in jeopardy for the sake of his own lust and shallowness and greed.

His family, Siouxsie’s leverage. Breaking his long silence and telling them the truth had been the hardest step, closing the door to forgiveness forever, probably the most shameful experience of his life. Had it worked? Would they believe him? Actually heed his warning to get out, to leave their lives behind, to change their names, to move and never look back? Jimmy was pretty sure he’d never know. For him, as he found himself in a car driving with Siouxsie to an impromptu rendezvous to "take care of some unexpected business" in a remote woodland... for him it was too late.

He’d felt the chill touch of Death on his shoulder the moment he saw the replacement of that case, which had to mean that the game was up. Anyone who opened the original would have him and Gustavo dead to rights, and it surely wouldn’t take much effort to figure out that Jimmy couldn’t be the source of the cipher on the white sheet of paper sitting atop the ex-Cuban spy’s cash payment. But first you had to know to open it. Clearly, Siouxsie had somehow ferreted out the plot against her, and Gustavo Caliente right now was surely dead. Or perhaps just soon to be dead, given what he could glean from that last phone-call – maybe he’d figured out in time, after all, that Beam had been trying to warn him – but against Siouxsie it would amount to the same thing. And that meant Jimmy himself would be next. That right now, he was being driven to his grave.

In a way, it was a personal relief. It was like his favorite movie character said: once you wake up, you can’t go back to sleep. Whatever happened, succeed or fail, he’d known he couldn’t and wouldn’t go on the way he was. He’d known someone else would smell this on him eventually. Not that he wanted to die, he just wanted it to be over.

A wild corner of him thought about making a move here – attack Ramos, crash the car, maybe kill Siouxsie himself – but he knew he couldn’t do that either. Much as he hated to admit it to himself, his superstitious fear of The Boss ran deep, he couldn’t trust his trigger finger to work the way it should. You could contemplate hauling off and shooting a normal human... but Siouxsie Sexcrime? You couldn’t kill a force of nature with a bullet.

Siouxsie stirred suddenly and made a small gesture to Ramos, who reached up and tapped on the glass of the chauffeur’s partition. And then she looked, finally, at Beam – the very coldest, deadliest version of her famously reptilian stare. She must have sensed the thoughts chasing through him, his readiness to drop pretense, because when she spoke it was a simple one-word question: "Why?"

Good. He shrugged simply. "When you’ve become obsolete," he said, "why not go out with a bang?"

"And what makes you sure that you were obsolete?"

"Having two eyes and a functioning brain, Boss."

Ramos, he noticed, had pulled a pistol from inside his suit jacket, was sitting with it casually placed on his thigh. If this latter remark offended him by its implication, he gave no sign of it, sitting there for all the world like a huge Latino Buddha. The limo started a bounce slightly as it turned off the highway onto a rough, rutted woodland trail.

Siouxsie smiled mirthlessly, then said after a moment: "You know me too well for me to get away with pretending hurt or sentimentality. But it occurs to me now that I always did like you, in my own way. Truth to tell, it’s not you that disappoints me the most in all this; eminent men in their field like Caliente and Fawkes should have known better than to imagine they’d slip a coded message to Washington past me. You, on the other hand... I suppose I’m almost proud of you for having taken a stand, however misbegotten and futile it was." She made a show of studying her nails casually as she added: "I almost wish I could send you to die alone."

Anyone who knew her knew that last remark wasn’t just about his accomplices in the plot, and despite his resolve it still sent a cold shaft of guilt and fear through him. But he snorted aloud with deliberate contempt. "Boss, I’ve spent too many years destroying other people’s families with the excuse of preserving my own," he said. "It can’t go on. Let the chips fall where they may. If they followed my advice they won’t be easy to find."

"Won’t they." Siouxsie nodded, pulling out one of her trademark Dominican cigars, and cutting its end as she said: "Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad. Or for people in our line of work, give them a conscience. Have it your way, Mister Beam. Do hand Ramos your pistol, please."

The black barrel of Ramos’ snub-nosed pistol was levelled at him now, and he reached slowly into his jacket to pull out his piece. As he handed it to his fellow Cleanhead, he felt the limo slowing to a halt.

"End of the line, I guess," he said to Siouxsie. "Wish I could say it’s been fun, Boss."

She took a leisurely puff of her cigar, then nodded cordially with a simple: "Goodbye, Mister Beam."

And with that, Ramos was pushing him out of the limo, its door was closing and it was backing out, leaving the two men standing alone on a deserted stretch of trail in incongruously cheerful afternoon sunlight, surrounded by birdsong. Jimmy smiled to himself a little. They’d usually hold until cover of night to do something like this, but he supposed it was too busy a time now to wait on the darkness.

It was only as he walked ahead of Ramos’ emphatically pointed gun into the woods that he had a galling realization: he’d still been calling Siouxsie "Boss" all through that last exchange, without even realizing it. Old habits die hard, I guess, he thought with chagrin. For some reason, that seemed the saddest thing of all.

About a hundred yards further into the woods they came to a fair-sized clearing, a crescent of about thirty Cleanheads standing at its western rim, everyone wearing their best black suits – as were the dozen or so men clustered in the centre. All of the latter, he realized without surprise, were men he’d approached privately on the Sands Estate after he’d embarked on the plot against Siouxsie with Max Fawkes. But there were six of those men missing, which he found vaguely reassuring. So, Siouxsie, you’re not totally omniscient after all. Not that those half-dozen could do much to hurt her, but still.

Jimmy exchanged a fatalistic nod with his dozen men as he moved to join them. They were all old hands like him, from the first days. Men with the experience to see what was happening. They’d held it down together for a long time, and he noticed the recruits facing them, pistols out, were all newer men. Still naïve. A lot like I used to be. He supposed there was really no great honour in being a veteran in this kind of outfit.

Then the execution party’s leader stepped forward... and everything changed.

Jimmy felt all his fatalism boiling away in a flash of pure, incandescent contempt; a sentiment the other man’s eyes answered in spades. "Good to see you, Grayson," he said mock-cheerfully. "Nice day for a walk."

"Isn’t it just," replied Grayson, fastidiously adjusting the cuffs on his signature Nehru suit. There was, Jimmy was pleased to note, a slight rasp in the man’s voice that it hadn’t had before. With any luck, that would stay with Grayson for the rest of his days, a permanent reminder of his encounter with Keiko Takeda. "You know," Grayson added with a poisonous smile: "I really should thank you, Beam. You’ve definitely moved things along. To get even for what you did, I would have waited twenty years, easily."

"That wouldn’t surprise me about you," said Jimmy with equanimity. "But you haven’t got twenty days, let alone twenty years. None of us do. So I figured what the hell, no time like the present."

Grayson clucked his tongue. " ‘None of us do,’ is that right," he mimicked. "You really are a drama queen, aren’t you?"

"I’m not the one declaring lifelong vendettas over a tough day at the office."

Grayson’s eyes flared. He took two swift steps forward and Jimmy’s jaw exploded in pain as he was flattened. Even as he hit the ground, even through the pain he was laughing, possessed by a sudden hysterical giddiness. He spat out blood and teeth as he sat up, his skull ringing with agony but his mind, oddly, as clear as it had ever been. "Knuckle-dusters, huh?" he chuckled up at Grayson, layering his voice with all the stinging contempt he felt. "Bet you’ve never just hit a man with your fist, have you, princess?"

Pain exploded again as Grayson kicked him hard in the ribs.

Steel-toed boot. That hurt, too, but again the mocking laughter wheezed out of him. As he looked up he could see Grayson poised to stomp him, and Jimmy got it under control as he finally said: "Alright, easy, man, easy. You kill me here, you won’t get the pleasure of watching me dig my own grave, now will you?"

Grayson stopped, lowering his foot, his face suddenly contemplative in an oddly sporting Why good sir, perhaps you have a point sort of way.

"Come on, you did bring the shovels, am I right or what?"

"Yeah, you’re right, Beam," said Grayson. "First sensible thing you’ve said, really. Teams, each to your man. Let’s get moving." Two by two, the men of Grayson’s party came forward – one man of each pair was indeed holding a shovel as well as a gun – and silently gestured the condemned men deeper into the woods with their pistols.

Jimmy was externally calm as these erratically spaced knots of three set out, but inner hilarity played around the edges of his thoughts as he walked, his two trigger-men behind him... close behind him. He could clearly read the nervousness of the trigger-men on the team in front, a dozen paces down the path, and even through the pain in his jaw and his ribs, he was having a moment of absolute clarity.

What is a Cleanhead, really? he posed the question to himself rhetorically. Of all of them, only the vets had ever really seen much in the way of high-stakes fighting, in the early days when the Syndicate was still trying to win respect, to establish itself, when any day might bring a team of Yakuza gunmen or Triad toughs or battle-hardened ghetto Bloods into your midst. In a crucial way, these new men weren’t like he used to be. After all, what had they seen? What had they done? They were play-criminals, glorified bouncers, men who’d worked in the era of Syndicate ascendancy and cozy Mafia alliances, whose toughest duties consisted of standing around and looking big and intimidating, of strangling the occasional stool-pigeon or raping and brutalizing the occasional helpless teenaged girl. Amateurs, when you got right down to it. They’d gotten their ideas of how gangsters should act from movies; the whole "marching the condemned to dig his own grave" schtick came straight from a Mexican action flick, he could hardly believe Grayson was actually trying it. In an upstate woodland no less. His trigger-men didn’t even know how to use their guns to advantage, how to keep distance from their quarry. Grayson’s reserve party of four men was bringing up the rear, right behind Jimmy’s party... but how many of them would know how to react to a real fight, with a real opponent on their hands?

No wonder Siouxsie was throwing this crew of no-account losers over for the tough mercs of ERIS; her ambitions required a real army. The Cleanhead really was outdated. She’d valued Beam because he was one of the few who was genuinely good in a fight... well, maybe it was time to remind these punks how good.

"Oh, one thing," he said absent-mindedly as if something had just occurred to him, turning slightly and bracing his back leg. The nearest trigger-man – the one carrying the shovel – stepped forward, clearly about to tell him to shut up and get moving –

Jimmy levered all his weight into the elbow strike, fairly caving in the trigger-man’s face and dropping him like a stone, unconscious and maybe even dead as he hit the ground. The second man was standing open-mouthed, the trigger-men up and down the path displaying shocked expressions, bringing their pistols to bear, too slow – and there in the utmost rear Grayson’s head was snapping up alertly, reacting quickly, but too far. Jimmy grabbed the shovel from his first man and darted forward in a single smooth motion to crush the left kneecap of the second, the man going down screaming, Jimmy snatching the gun from his nerveless fingers as he dove headfirst off the path and chaos exploded behind him. He looked back and had another moment of dark hilarity as he watched the second man collapse, his screams cut off as he was riddled by bullets from the rear and the front... and then he heard screams from the party that had been in front of him.

Bullets started cracking all the way down the path. The parties further on had no doubt shot their prisoners on the spot if they were at all bright, but that was as far as discipline went; leaves and bark now were shredding around him, behind him, on the other side of the path, ricochets whining off in the distance. It was clearly random panic-fire, ordnance lancing out wildly as Grayson’s amateurs emptied clips at nothing or at each other, some maybe thinking they’d come under attack from an outside gang. As he discarded the shovel and circled back through the brush, he could see Grayson pelting down the path, gun in hand and his face a mask of fury as he screamed "Hold fire! I said hold your fire, you idiots! Regroup! REGROUP!"

Jimmy followed the man’s gleaming pate with the barrel of his borrowed pistol. He could kill him right now... but that would mean giving away his position. Not worth it. Jimmy Beam had discovered he wanted to live, after all.

With dark, wild laughter boiling up silently inside him, he slipped away through the brush, headed for the highway.

* * * * *

The strap-on fuckings had been devastating enough. But Satin knew, even before it began, that it wouldn’t compare to being violated by the hot, throbbing cocks of Operation Freedom’s male Agents.

The Kitts had sprayed the bound heroines down thoroughly with the agent they called the "pheromone-enhancer," guaranteed accordingly to transmit the effects of Alethex to anyone nearby who inhaled the scent. The teens had sprayed themselves down, too, and then admitted the first group of "guests" for the Foxxes’ "farewell party."

The first dozen men coming in looked reluctant, unhappy, almost as terrified as the bound, crudely displayed Foxxes were. One of them, Satin noticed with a pang of sorrow as she watched them in the room’s mirrors, was that nice young technician named Chris who’d just started a couple of months ago, red-haired and shy. There was a hint of despairing foreknowledge in his eyes – in all their eyes – and then the "fragrance" wafting through the room reached them, they breathed it in...

... and were instantly transformed.

Satin watched the compassion in young Chris’ eyes drain away in second to replaced with a look of sudden, naked, almost bestial lust and vicious, sneering contempt that shafted straight into her sopping snatch, making her breath catch and her hips actually jerk and writhe in response as though she were already impaled on a phantom cock. The look was replicated on the other men, and as they started ripping their way out of their clothes Satin felt her body jerking again, her juices dripping, as she saw their iron-hard cocks spring free one after another after another. Surprisingly, young Chris’ cock was the biggest of the lot, nothing less than an eleven-incher.

They’re going to grudge-fuck us so hard, Satin realized in terror – and her terror was deepened by knowing that for the rest of her life, this was how her body was going to respond to frightening, degrading displays of animal lust from the male sex, that the more her mind rebelled, the deeper her shame, the more her body would ache to be abused by cock, to be whipped and fucked and used like a five-dollar whore. Satin could feel the lust throb through her body from the soles of her feet to the sensitive tips of her hot, swollen, heavy tits. And it was reinforced even more by the fact that she could see shared knowledge of that weak, wet, trembling desire reflected in the eyes of the other Foxxes, all of them whimpering quietly as they watched the big tears dripping down each other’s faces, despairing at their powerlessness to stop their submissive-little-slut response.

But it wasn’t going to be as simple as just having the men turned loose on them. As the Agents got naked, the Kitts intervened, a girl or a pair of girl kneeling down to seductively suck their throbbing, veiny shafts, lap at their balls and wank them as the men stayed furiously fixated on the bound beauties, clearly waiting for a chance to rip into them. The Kitts, too, were watching the Foxxes as they put on a teasing show, grinning naughtily as they teased the cock-hungry heroines and watched them writhe more and more sluttily in anticipation.

Finally, Bailey – who was crouched beside Chris with his spittle-wet cock in her hand – said: "You bitches don’t really think you’re getting any cock until you beg, do you? Before we let them use you like the bitches you are, at least one of you’s going to have to beg for it."

The shared horror in the Foxxes’ eyes as they looked at each other, then with helpless lust at those throbbing cocks, took on new dimensions. They could each sense the others weakening, they could all sense their readiness to be fucked – but who would actually unleash the brutal debasement not only on her own holes, but those of her friends? Who would be the one to drag them all into sexual hell?

Bailey you BITCH you fucking BITCH, Satin thought miserably... and the refrain kept going in her head over the next few minutes, turning to an expression of jealousy as she watched the Number One Kitt fervently sucking and licking the massive cock that her own cunt was aching for, that she needed, plainly bringing the guy close to orgasm before backing off and gripping his balls, holding his load back as she started her skillful sucking again. The thought of the rivers of hot spunk he’d unleash on the first bitch he pounded with that cock made Satin quiver and writhe with such desire that she could feel her needy little fuckhole coming close to a spontaneous orgasm, her upthrust rump wriggling invitingly to one and all.

Summerset was panting in bewilderment, plainly trying to keep her overmatched senses from going into overload. Keiko kept periodically screwing her eyes tight shut, trying to block out temptation, then guiltily opening them again and unconsciously licking her lips at the buffet of hot cock on display around them. Mylène at first looked like she’d be the first to break, moaning sensuously deep in her throat and on a couple of occasions seeming to open her mouth to speak... and then biting it back desperately, by a narrower margin each time.

But then Satin’s eyes were drawn back to Bailey in the mirror, and she saw Chris’ eleven-incher actually, visibly pulsing in the Kitt’s hand as she stopped yet another load of spunk from boiling up out of his big, hanging balls – and the Black Bombshell gasped as she felt a mini-orgasm rock her, her molten pussy spasming and letting out an involuntary squirt.

In that moment she knew the struggle was lost, and it was Satin who finally said: "P – please..."

The other Foxxes moaned loudly in despair, Summerset looking at her and frantically shaking her head in wide-eyed denial, but Satin knew she couldn’t resist any more and closed her eyes to shut her friends out. She heard Bailey’s voice come triumphantly from behind her: "I’m sorry, Satin, did you say something?"

She gritted her teeth and said, a little louder: "Please... p – please..."

"Please what, Satin? What do you want?"

The other Foxxes were audibly sobbing now, with relief or horror or both, and Satin was awash in humiliation as she said: "Please... please give me some cock..."

"You want some... what? I think you need to say it louder, Satin!"

"Pleeeeheeeaaase," Satin heard a little-girl whine creeping into her voice as she said it louder, but she couldn’t stop it. "Please, please give me some cock."

"And why should we do that, Satin? Are you some kind of cock-hungry little slut?"

"YES," the Foxx sobbed pathetically: "YES I’m a cock-hungry little SLUT! PLEASE give me some COCK!"

"You sure? You saying you want it hard and deep because you’re such a slut?"

"You do beg like a filthy tramp, it’s true," said Bailey playfully. "But what about your friends, Satin? Don’t you know this means all your friends are gonna get fucked like dirty whores too?"

Evil little bitch, a corner of her mind raged, but the lust had taken over completely, it spilled unbidden from Satin’s lips now in a chant of whorish desire: "I DON’T CARE PLEASE GIVE ME SOME COCK, ALL I WANT IS COCK, WE’RE ALL DIRTY FUCKING BITCHES, WE’RE ALL SLUTS WHO NEED COCK, GIVE US SOME COCK, PLEASE GIVE US SOME COCK... PLEASE POUND US, PLEASE USE US, PLEASE TREAT US LIKE FILTHY WHORES AND TEAR US UP PLEEEEAAASE!"

There was an evil, mocking cheer from the assembled Kitts as Bailey laughed and said: "You heard that stupid bitch, boys! Tear them up!" And so it began.

The massive, throbbing man-meat – it had to be Chris – skewering into Satin’s twat brought her off instantly, her eyes flying open as she started to squirt and spasm all over the hot, hard shaft whispering against her sugar walls while the balls slapping against her clit made her juices splash out with maxim intensity. The bound fuckslut opened her mouth to wail but found it instantly plugged with another hard slab of cock-meat and could only slurp and gulp and squeal around it: "MMMMMMPHHHHHHHHHH! NNGGGGGGLCCKHHHHH! GLUUCKHHHHHH-GLUUUUCKHHHHH-GLUUUCKHHHHHH!" Her face-fucker drove his cock deep into her throat and held it there, almost cutting off her air and making her go buck wild on the meatstick in her multi-orgasmic cunt, writhing from one incredible climax to another, spurred on by the sounds of her fellow Foxxes getting brutally fucked all around her.

"YEEAAAAHHH!" shouted the once-innocent young technician as he viciously plundered her pussy, landing hard smacks on her jiggling rump, each one sending a further debilitating bolt of orgasmic panic-lust through the Foxx as she bucked frantically back against his powerful thrusts. "GODDAMN I’ve wanted to USE you like this for SO LONG, bitch! THIS is what you DESERVE, huh? THIS is what you DESERVE for being such a little COCK-TEASE, yeah? THIS IS WHAT YOU FUCKING DESERVE, YOU FUCKING DIRTY WHORE!" With a triumphant bellow he powered into her and held her in place as he pumped and pumped and pumped what felt like a gallon of sperm up into her womb, bringing her off again as the man in her mouth spewed half his load down her throat and the rest all over her face.

She shuddered in the aftermath of the will-breaking climax as the cock slid out of her pussy, spunk splattering down her thighs and dripping from her chin as the Agent in front squirmed under her and started to suck and maul her hyper-sensitive tits. "AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" she gasped as the feeling of her augmented breasts being sucked and chewed brought her off again all by itself, augmented by the shame and arousal of being forced to watch the muscular buttocks of a black FBI man in front of her as he insultingly cock-slapped a desperately mewling Summerset while another man impaled the Number One Foxx’s spurting slit over and over with ruthless jackhammering speed. Mylène and Keiko were both being face-raped by two cocks apiece, jolting and shuddering as the hard cocks violating their hineys brought them off again and again, the sight making Satin’s body yearn for more pounding, more abuse, more humiliation.

She didn’t have more than a second to wait. "AAAAUUUGGGGHHHHAAWWWWD," she moaned sluttily as she felt Chris’ mammoth prick nudge up against the entrance to her poop chute, and then: "UUUUHHHHHUUGHHHHHHHHH! OOHHHHOOHHH SHIIIT!" she was squealing as his well-lubed pole rammed into her tightest hole and started fucking it with long, hard, booty-jiggling strokes. Chris had squatted over her and was powering his cock almost vertically down into her ass, leaving room for another Agent to step in behind her and impale her sloppy cunt, and suddenly she was being driven to machine-gun climaxes as she had both spasming holes fucked at once and the man underneath her bit and slapped and kissed and licked and sucked her hot tits: "AAAAWWWWWHAWWWWWW FFFFUUUUCCKKK! FUCK-ME-FUCK-ME-FUCK-ME-DON’T-STOP AWWWWW! AWWWWWWWW! AWWWWWHAWWWWWW! AWWWWWW!"

"You like those COCKS, bitch? You like getting FUCKED STUPID?" Chris snarled above her as he started swatting her ass again, harder than before.

Her mouth was answering automatically, powered by pure heated lust: "AWWWW YEAAAAAAHHHH! I LOVE YOUR FUCKING COCKS I LOVE THEM! AWWWWWW! AWWWW! AWWWWWW! FUCKING POUND ME WITH THOSE COCKS AAAAHAAAAAHHH YEAAAHHHH! I LOVE IT WHEN YOU FUCK ME LIKE A DUMB WHORE I’M SUCH A DIRTY NASTY FUCKING BITCH AWWWWWWWHAWWWWWWWW YEEAHHHHHHHH!" A corner of her mind cringed with shame at the complete and utter abasement, but that just fuelled her body’s heat all the more, made her juices squirt out even more wetly, especially as she could feel a sweet, sensual pressure building in her tits as they were sucked and mauled, realizing she was about to get milked. The cocks powering into her picked up speed, the pressure built, and before long she was taking a double load of spunk while her tits squirted their sweet milk and her body seized up in an almighty screaming orgasm as she bawled her lungs out: "AAAAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE! AWWWW! AWWWWWWWWWW! AWWWWHAWWWWWWWGAWWWWWWWWD!".

She couldn’t stop the slutty screams, even though she could see the effect they were having in pushing the other Foxxes’ libidos even further into overdrive. Mylène and Keiko were practically cross-eyed with orgasmic bliss as they were being made to choke down huge loads of sperm by their face rapists; Keiko’s butt-fucker had pulled out to spray his load all over her writhing ass and back while he soundly spanked her squirting snatch, while Mylène’s man was lodged deep inside her, growling as he pumped his spunk into her bowels. And Summerset’s increasingly shrill squeals of climax were coming out around a throatful of black dick as her petite body bucked and twisted like a bronco’s, her massive tits jiggling, the man behind her having chosen to spice up his fuck by walloping her ass with a wooden paddle while she came and came and came all over his cock.

Wow, oh wow, Satin thought dizzily, look at them go, we’re all so cock-greedy, we’re such greedy little sluts...

And she knew it was just beginning. Already, she could see in the mirrors that another group of a dozen men were coming into the room, their faces undergoing that chilling transformation into vicious lust, their cocks about to be turned loose on the bound heroines. Then Satin whimpered as Chris pulled his cock out of her ass and came around to her mouth to make her clean it, and as she obediently started to lick and suck his pungent member, to pump it in and out of her hot, wet mouth, the Black Bombshell began to seriously wonder if their "rescue" of Raven McCoy might not die stillborn right here in the Foxxes’ Den.

* * * * *

Fortunately, most of the Agents didn’t have young Chris’ staying power, and they were typically so worked up by the time they got their cocks into a Foxx that they couldn’t last for long stretches of time. The heroines were humiliated, spat on, spanked and filled up and sprayed with copious amounts of cum, over and over in quick succession, but by the time each of the almost eighty male Agents currently in the complex – and a few of the women – had had their way with a Foxx, only a couple of hours had passed. The bound bitches were left thoroughly humbled but still throbbing with molten-hot lust, still wanting more, not even close to exhausted. Foxxes were, after all, well-trained physical specimens.

The final performance of the "farewell party" came when a pair of big, beefy SWAT snipers forced Summerset and Satin to suck them off, then walked the two friends as close in to each other as their ropes would let them and made them suck the spunk out of each other’s mouths as the snipers crammed their asses full of hard cock. Both Foxxes were utterly lost in the sticky, spunk-flavoured kiss, swallowing down the man-batter that mingled in their mouths as the combination of gentle sensuality and crude anal violation swiftly brought them both to perhaps their most incredible orgasms of the day (so far) while they moaned around each other’s dancing, twirling tongues.

Finally, the last Agents had left and the Kitts moved in to towel down the dazed, spunk-soiled Foxxes... and finally unbound their arms and released them from the leg spreaders, the heroines sobbing with relief as they sank to their knees on the floor, shuddering and trying to master their still ultra-horny, cock-hungry bodies.

Bailey stepped forward with a saucy grin, walking around the heroines as she said: "Pretty good going-away present, huh? Isn’t it nice to know what total, absolute sluts you are, that you can drain a dozen and a half cocks each in the space of a couple of hours and still be ready for more? Look," she reached in and grabbed Summerset viciously by the hair, yanking the whimpering blonde to her feet and dipping a finger into her pussy to display it to her companions, showing how glistening wet it was: "Your fearless leader’s still sopping fucking wet! Almost as nasty a slut as you, huh, Satin?"

Satin felt her breathing quicken as she cast her eyes down, ashamed of the arousal that churned afresh through her body as she watched Summerset humiliated in the mad teen’s grip. It was true, the brutal gang-bang that would have broken a lot of normal women had only whetted her appetite. She felt aching and empty without cocks filling her and fucking her. It was shameful, but true. True of all of us.

"So, now that we’ve got you all primed and wet and throbbing for your ‘mission,’" Bailey went on cheerfully: "We figured we’d send you out and let the public see you in the kind of ultra-slutty outfits you used to wear here in the Den. Won’t that be fun?" She didn’t wait for the Foxxes to respond as several Kitts wheeled the clothes rack over and she said: "Girls, dress ‘em up!" And the rest of the Foxxes were peremptorily yanked to their feet before they could rise of their own accord, handled by the same groups of Kitts that had taken them initially.

The Kitts first thoroughly oiled their skin, from their ample, heaving chests right down to their calves – with extra-special attention, of course, to their luscious tits and asses and stopping to play naughtily with the gasping heroines’ pussies, though they now stopped frustratinglyshort of making them come. Their new outfits came in black – the only concession to the traditional Foxx Force Five operational gear – and consisted of exquisitely tiny halter tops that just barely covered their nipples and restrained their tits, equally tiny pleated black miniskirts (so brief they were belts, really, leaving the heroines’ delectable feminine treasures utterly exposed), see-through black mesh thongs, knee-high black athletic socks with white stripes around the top and black "Chucks" with six-inch heels. They finished the look by giving each Foxx a liberal application of dark eyeshadow and deep raspberry lipstick (dark plum-coloured in Satin’s case), tying their hair up in saucy pigtails with black ribbon... and then liberally reapplying the "pheromone-enhancer" perfume. ("See, you’re kind of a cheer-squad for your little Goth chick friend," Lizzie Maxwell explained to Satin: "So we thought we’d kinda dress you like slutty Goth cheerleaders! Do you love it or what?")

With their looks complete, the four Foxxes were dragged on their knees in front of Bailey one last time, and each forced to crawl, kiss and lick the Number One Kitt’s boots and ask her to convey thanks to Her Mistress for "making them pretty." And with that, finally, their ordeal at the hands of the Kitts was over; Bailey sunnily bade them good luck and reminded them: "Better try to steer clear of guys in the corridors on your way out... unless of course you wanna take more dick!"

It was an even more chastened group of Foxxes that left the Wardrobe Department than had arrived there some hours earlier. As they walked back to the elevator, the fabric of their little halter tops rubbing across their stiff nipples, playing havoc with their hyper-sensitive augmented tits and sending feathers of arousal down to tickle at their dripping-wet, clearly visible pussies, none of them said anything at first. They climbed back in the elevator to head to the second level of the Den, where their Foxx Force Futatsu bikes were waiting, and where Lonnie James – who curiously (and it was something of a relief) hadn’t turned up during the "farewell party" – had told them they’d find the map to the estate where Raven was being held.

A few moments after they’d stepped into the elevator, Mylène abruptly hit the "stop" button to halt it between floors. After a long moment more, the Parisian Foxx spoke.

"Mes amies," she said quietly. "I think we cannot do this."

"Mylène-chan is right," Keiko agreed quietly. "Another encounter like that and we will all be ‘slave-trained’ in truth. A wise man once said sometimes it is better to have the courage not to fight the battle."

Satin wanted to agree. The ease with which the Kitts of all people had hammered them into submission made it all too clear that the handicaps Siouxsie had imposed were meant to preclude victory, to ensure the Foxxes would be completely crushed. But she found herself saying: "We can’t just give up, Keiko."

"We can be realistic, Satin-chan. We have to admit to ourselves that we cannot fight in this condition. Look what just happened, and we haven’t even embarked on the mission yet! An eagle with clipped wings has to think about alternatives to flying."

Satin felt a sudden flash of irritation. "Look, would you stop with the fortune-cookie philosophy for once? Where do you get that crap from? And do we just forget Raven?"

Keiko bridled at that. "I have not forgotten her! Did you have her in mind when you were screaming ‘please give me some cock’ a couple of hours ago, Satin-chan? When you were telling our enemy you did not care about your friends?"

Satin opened her mouth to retort... and lapsed into a hurt, shamed silence, biting her lip and looking away. She’s right, the Black Bombshell had to admit to herself. How can I ever talk about loyalty to my friends again?

She felt gratitude wash over her as Summerset intervened and said: "Keiko, it’s not fair to blame Satin for that. You must know any one of us could have broken in just the same way in that moment. It isn’t her fault." Their leader’s voice had recovered its signature mix of calm, compassion, quiet confidence and command with amazing speed given what they’d all just been through.

It was the Tiger Princess’ turned to lapse into a shamed silence.

"Let me ask you all something," Summerset went on. "After we came out of that trance this morning, we all felt a panic response, very powerful, whenever there was a threat of violence near us. Isn’t that so?" Everyone nodded. "Now ask yourselves this. As that orgy went on, as we were trapped in it, did you feel that response getting stronger or weaker?"

After a pause, Mylène said: "I do not know about ‘weaker,’ but after the first few times it no longer completely froze me. Just... tensed me up. Aroused me." Satin and Keiko murmured agreement.

"I felt the same thing," said Summerset. "They had to go to some effort to establish that panic response, I’ll bet. And now our enemies have just spent several hours teaching us how to overcome it and fight through it."

"But we can’t fight through it yet," Keiko insisted.

"Can’t we? Maybe not off-guard and disoriented as we were right in the wake of that gangbang, but I’d wager I’d have a better response in store for poor Bailey if she tried to slap me now," said Summerset. "My point is, we have to try... and we shouldn’t convince ourselves that the enemy has covered all the angles or knows all the outcomes. Satin is right – even if there’s no hope at all, we can’t leave Raven to face her fate alone. But I think there is hope. I think we have other things going for us."

"Such as?" asked Satin.

"Each other," Summerset said. "And we have to tell each other everything, now more than ever. I know we all used to keep our secrets from one another, that we let our pride keep us silent sometimes. But we have no more reason for standing on pride among ourselves. We have no more luxury for silence. If today’s events haven’t taught us that, nothing will. Agreed?"

After a moment, everyone nodded.

"Good," said Summerset. "Then let’s get out of this tomb and get to a place where we can talk safely." And she stepped forward and set the elevator back into motion.

As the elevator doors opened at the second floor, all four heroines’ breath caught in alarm. An Agent was stepping on to the elevator, a man: Larry McWhirter, the mild-mannered Utah Mormon.

As he looked up and registered their presence, his eyes were briefly sad and confused. A usual thing for him; he’d been a melancholic guy even before the Syndicate had systematically taken the axe to Operation Freedom. But the sadness was deeper now, as though he had an inkling of what was coming... and then the frightened Foxxes could see the pheromone enhancer go to work on him, all compassionate emotion draining away and unholy lust flaring in his eyes as his pupils dilated... and he suddenly stepped forward to grab Summerset by her cute pigtails.

Everyone was transfixed as he forced Summerset to her knees in front of him. "Hey there, bitch," he was saying in a guttural snarl as one big hand held Summer’s head in place while the fingers of the other worked at his zipper. "Not leaving without giving old Larry a kiss goodbye, were you?"

Oh God, thought Satin in horror, the panic welling up inside her again, rooting her to the spot as she watched the beautiful, vulnerable blonde Fox looking up at McWhirter with wide eyes and parted lips as he fished out his stiff cock. The sight of that cock... it was mesmerizing, her body’s demanding hunger for hard man-meat was paralyzing her as she looked at it... it had to be happening to all the Foxxes, especially Summerset kneeling submissively before it. Oh God, Keiko was right after all, there’s no way we can resist...

Summerset opened her mouth, licking her lips slowly, looking for all the world like a woman ready to suck. Then she said wryly, huskily: "Why just give you a kiss, Larry, when I could give you a good banging?"

And she promptly pounded a hard right uppercut into the Agent’s nuts.

McWhirter stood frozen and silent for a long moment, as though his brain hadn’t quite processed what had just happened. Then he began to double over as a keening sound of agony emerged from the back of his throat.

It was though Summerset’s blow had released the rest of them from a spell. Satin suddenly found herself swinging her left fist into the stunned man’s solar plexus... not fast or powerful as she usually would, the fear was still there, still a drag on her arm, but more than enough to stagger him back and set him up for the double drop-kick from Mylène and Keiko that sent him flying backwards out of the elevator, to land unconscious on the pavement of the parkade beyond.

For a moment the four of them looked at poor Larry’s prone form in amazement, unable to believe they’d just done it. Summerset’s enormous breasts – F-cups, now – were rising and falling with her quick breaths, her nipples were big and bullet-hard, and there was a brief flash of profoundly mixed emotion on her face: relief, regret, fascination, disgust. Then it was gone as she climbed to her feet and said briskly: "There. Still think we can’t fight through it? Now let’s get going." And she headed out, a vision of pure, voluptuous sexuality and confidence strutting effortlessly in her heels, stepping indifferently over McWhirter as though he were an anonymous drunk in a gutter.

The Black Bombshell knew she’d never been more amazed by Summerset than in that moment. Gritting her teeth anew against the vulnerable feelings of arousal and lust and fear still coursing through her body, Satin began to feel a tiny bit of her earlier flickers of hope returning. She squared her shoulders, took a breath, and strutted out after the Number One Foxx proudly. Maybe we can do it after all!

* * * * *

The Goblin sat in his basement lair at The Sands Estate, leaning against a wall and watching with a certain wistfulness as a bustling group of Cleanheads took apart the place that had been everything to him – his home, his work, his Hell, his Paradise, his prison and his godlike Olympian perch – for what seemed like a lifetime. He scratched at his scalp as he watched the proceedings with nervous attentiveness, occasionally shouting things like: "Hey asshole, don’t drop that!" or "That fucking thing is worth more than your sister!" The Cleanheads tolerated him with ill-grace of men who had no choice, for all they’d no doubt have loved to pound him into paste from time to time.

Like, every fucking time they see me, more like it, he thought with glee. Too bad, assholes! People need my brain! But he had to admit he was worried with this move that one of them might "accidentally"-on-purpose harm his equipment. It was going to take careful monitoring.

Good thing, too. It was the kind of mundane worry he could get his teeth into. It would keep him from overthinking the more... complicated stuff.

He wondered if he’d be more sanguine about the transition to his new workspace if the circumstances were different, the times less crazy. He doubted it. The truth was he was a creature of habit, careful of flourishing in the most cramped and unattractive of environments as long as he had a routine, and most importantly a grand puzzle to challenge him. ERIS might be able to offer him a real office, state-of-the-art workspace, but he doubted anyone would ever again be able to offer him an experience to match that of the last few weeks.

He remembered the various sets of foster parents who’d mistakenly thought he wanted to be an artist because of the reams and reams of complicated geometrical designs he’d produced as a kid. It had been Cornelius van Rooyen III – "the Hound" these days – who’d taken one look at those drawings and seen the truth, the mind of a budding math and programming genius. It had been the Hound who’d given him his first grand challenges and helped his skills blossom. Long before there ever was a Red Queen Syndicate, before he’d ever met Siouxsie Sexcrime.

Van Rooyen now had, it had to be admitted, something close to an equal in the ambit of the Goblin’s life and esteem. Max Fawkes had looked at him and seen a guy in desperate need of some short-term stress relief, but moreover – because the Goblin had quickly decided that meatspace sex was overrated and girls were needlessly complicated – had sensed how completely the Ultimate Puzzle would fascinate him, draw him in, consume him. The Goblin could truly say that the terror, the exhilaration, the complexity of that challenge had him feeling more alive than he’d felt in years, had him stretching the limits of his own hacking talents to the maximum. It was a puzzle that more than matched Operation: Foxx Hunt itself, which was saying something; a purer and deeper challenge, because unlike Foxx Hunt, here he had to keep his efforts concealed from any eyes but his own.

Glorious stuff. The reaffirmation, not that it was needed, of his own genius. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Van Rooyen’s face when he broke it down for the old man how he’d done it all.

If he ever got that far. After all, he was sure the Man With a Thousand Faces and the bruiser Jimmy Beam had felt pretty sure of themselves, too, that neither man had ever suspected his expendability until it was too late. The Goblin may not understand people that well, but he wasn’t so naïve as not to realize the same kind of unpleasant discovery might yet be in store for him. But even if it was... well, it had still been one hell of a ride. Time would tell—

"Hey!" he shouted at one of the Cleanheads. "You’ve gotta carry that with two hands! No... no, with two hands, asshole!"

The door above the lair banged open suddenly, and the Goblin gulped despite himself as he heard a measured, feminine stride coming down the stairs, the Cleanheads standing aside and murmuring "Boss." This was it. "Chances are she’ll come to visit you after she’s done with Beam and Caliente," Max had told him. "Ostensibly to thank you for tipping her off, but the real point will be to do some probing, to see if you’re compromised, too. When she does, just... be yourself."

Fawkes, you magnificent bastard, you haven’t been wrong yet, thought the Goblin in genuine admiration as Siouxsie Sexcrime came into view, looking ravishing and unearthly as ever. The Boss, El Guapa as the Columbians called her, The Red Queen herself. The Goblin gave her his biggest, most repellent grin and snapped his usual mock-salute. She gave him a measured nod and came over to lean on the wall next to him, watching the Cleanheads do their work... and the Goblin couldn’t help but notice, a little bitterly, how much more efficient everything suddenly seemed to be.

"How goes the work here?" she asked mildly.

"Your Kojaks seem pretty fucking happy to see you," he said abrasively. "They weren’t working this fast for me. But we should be packed out in the next hour."

"And upstairs?"

"Yeah, we set up a simplified monitoring station for Fawkes. If he can program a VCR he should fucking well be able to work that rig. Should do the trick for his fun and games with the Foxxes." He snorted, genuinely appreciating the irony that Max would be tracking the incoming "rescue team" of heroines with one of the very satellites Operation Freedom had used.

She smiled, then, that creamily satisfied pulling-the-wings-off-of-flies smile she got when contemplating the suffering of an enemy. "Good, good. And you? How do you feel about saying goodbye to your infamous lair?"

He grimaced. "Guess they’re not gonna let me show up to work at the ERIS building in sweats and a T-shirt, are they."

Her smiled broadened, this time with an almost genuine-seeming humour. "I shouldn’t think so, no. They probably have a policy about hygiene, too."

"Fascists," he groused. "Never understand the needs of a pure creative type. But fuck it, I’ll live."

"Good. I should thank you, by the way," she added mildly. "Your tip paid off."

"Oh yeah?" He shook his head, remembering something Max had told him: "The best way to lie is to do it with a part of the truth." He summoned a genuine sense of disgust at Caliente and Beam for having fallen for Max’s fake "message to Washington" plan and said: "Damn, I can’t believe they were really that stupid."

"How so?"

"Thinking they’d slip a simple trick like that by you."

Siouxsie grimaced. "That’s just the thing," she said. "They almost did. If Max hadn’t tried to approach you, if you hadn’t brought the matter to me, I would be none the wiser even now. Not that it would have forced anything but minor adjustments, but still, I suppose," she went on, her tone curiously flat, "that puts me in your debt."

Danger, Will Goblinson! Danger! "You kidding?" he snorted derisively, at his most nerdily-affronted. "This is much my fucking project as it is yours, remember? Think I’m gonna let some C.I.A. hack take an axe to it? Turn on the person who’s making it possible? Fuck that."

"Picturesquely put, as ever," she nodded after a moment.

They stood in silence for a while, then he asked: "So it’s all cleaned up then, huh? What about Fawkes?"

She didn’t answer for a moment, then said: "I don’t know about ‘all cleaned up.’ As a secondary priority, I want you to stay tapped into the Operation Freedom network for another day or so at the new facility. Apparently Caliente somehow survived his final payment, and our friend Grayson Parks somehow managed to lose seven members of his execution team. He claims all the traitors are dead, including Beam, but..." she shrugged meaningfully.

Wow. Grayson’s got some unpleasant duty in his future, and no mistake. "No problem," he said aloud.

"As for Fawkes," she added. "Well, it was a nice try. But his fate is already set, I see no reason to change it. I trust we did remember to include the homing isotopes in the Foxxes’ injections today?"

The Goblin nodded again. "I tested the tracking devices myself. Long as you’re in the same county you’ll be able to find them. No implants needed, no nothing."

"Good. We’ll have to be sure to reacquire them after their so-called ‘destined master’ is dead." She stood up suddenly, and turned to fix the Goblin with a level stare. "Well, Goblin, I’m pleased to see you’re wise enough to know who has your best interests at heart. You should be grateful that you have that kind of wisdom. Make sure you don’t lose it."

No snark this time. Even the Goblin knew when not to push his luck. He just nodded solemnly.

She held him under that cold regard for a moment more, then suddenly smiled radiantly and said: "See you at the new facility." And with that, she was gone, heading back up the stairs, parting the Cleanheads as though they were a Red Sea of musclebound, shaven-headed clods.

The Ultimate Puzzle indeed: how do you betray Siouxsie Sexcrime and live to tell the tale? The Goblin grimaced to himself , feeling a measure of satisfaction. All according to plan so far, he thought. Let’s see how long that lasts.

Something caught his eye. "Hey!" he shouted suddenly at one of the Cleanheads. "Hey! Careful with that fucking lamp, man! That’s a fucking collectible!"