The author of this damsel in distress story can be contacted at drake.fiction@gmail.com and would greatly welcome all comments and feedback. Martin Drake, October 2010.
Night was drawing in. Olivia exited the celebrated galleries of the Louvre and began a slow trudge back to the agency’s Paris safehouse. The bookish analyst was feeling thoroughly dejected. It had been a terrible day. It had begun when she and Cristina raced to the Sorbonne to find that their intended contact had been abducted, a heap of folded clothing the only trace of her traumatic disappearance. Then Ally had returned with news that those almost certainly responsible for the crime had managed to escape. The field agents had spent the rest of the day liaising with the local authorities, coordinating efforts to locate either the missing dean or the likely culprits. In the meanwhile, Olivia had spent her time focusing on the problem which had brought them here in the first place, the mysterious da Vinci Enigma and the supposed secret of the Mona Lisa’s smile.
She had hoped that a trip to the Louvre would trigger a flash of inspiration. Unfortunately she was no wiser now than she had been back in Washington. She had stood for hours staring at the original of Leonardo’s masterpiece, the actual canvas and paints touched by the artist’s hands. Was there some arcane mathematical formula encoded in the ratios of the subject’s face? Were the lady’s eyes or folded hands pointing to an object hidden by a trick of perspective? What about the colours? The symmetry? The fabric of the canvas? By the end of the day all she had gained was a throbbing headache and suspicious glances from the museum’s staff.
There were just too many variables. As she had told Athena, the whole business was as likely to be an oblique cipher devised by da Vinci’s followers. Answers, if there were any, would only come if they knew the context in which the right questions should be asked. The book stolen from the Italian embassy might have helped, but without it or the extensive knowledge possessed by scholars like Dr Duvert, Olivia’s theorising was really nothing more than aimless guesswork. She gave a downcast sigh, depressed by her inability to contribute to the team. Hopefully Ally and Cristina had more luck digging up leads to locate the kidnapped historian.
Olivia glanced over her shoulder and slowed her pace as she crossed the street, following protocol to verify that she wasn’t being followed to the safehouse. It wasn’t very probable, but such precautions existed for a reason. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she entered a shuttered building marked as closed for renovation. The short brunette passed through an untidy hallway filled with dustsheets, ladders and half-empty tins of paint, pushed by a stack of cardboard boxes then climbed three flights of stairs to the property’s highest floor. An electronic lock hinted that this room didn’t match the rest of the structure. Olivia keyed in her access code and stepped into the reinforced loft which acted as sleeping quarters, communication centre, operations room and whatever else the agents would need when working in this part of the world.
Something was wrong. She stopped dead at the threshold of the room. The lights were already on, but there was no sign of agents Douglas or Torres. Ally’s grey overcoat was lying on the floor along with the spilled contents of a disposable styrofoam coffee cup. Taking a cautious step to the side, Olivia pressed her back to the wall and began edging around the perimeter. A chair had been overturned, the glass doors of a cabinet had been smashed and a deep gash scarred the surface of a table. There had definitely been a fight here, although, thankfully, there was no evidence of blood.
"Ally? Cristina?" She called out softly, trying to keep a frightened quaver from her voice. The other rooms were dark with nothing to suggest that they had been disturbed. There was no one else in the building. Whatever had taken place, it had finished quickly and been limited to the front entrance chamber. But what had happened? And where were Ally and Cristina?
A high-pitched bleeping drew the worried analyst back to the main room. A mobile telephone had been left behind, conspicuously visible on an otherwise empty shelf. It was ringing for attention. Olivia hadn’t paid it heed before, but now that she did she realised that it wasn’t agency issue and that it didn’t belong to either of her colleagues. The identity of the incoming number was being blocked. With great apprehension, she lifted the anonymous device to her ear and hesitantly answered its call.
"He ... Hello?"
"Miss Wilson, how nice to speak to you. You must be starting to wonder where you friends have gone. Don’t fret, I’m going to help you find them." It was a woman’s voice, a sultry growl with mocking undertones.
"Who is this?" Olivia couldn’t prevent the tremble that gave away her anxiety, "What have you done to them?"
"Calm down. Hysterics won’t help anyone. I’m sending a video message to the phone you’re holding. You’ll see that your two agents are quite safe ... for now. They’ll stay that way if you follow my trail of breadcrumbs."
"Breadcrumbs? I don’t understand."
"The video contains a clue. You’re a clever girl so I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Be in the right place at the right time and you’ll receive your next breadcrumb. If you fail to meet the deadline or you don’t turn up alone then your friends will earn a forfeit. Trust me, Miss Wilson, you don’t want that to happen."
The line went dead, but a message with a digital attachment was being uploaded. Olivia clasped a hand to her mouth, almost dropping the handset in shock as a pixelated image resolved itself and started to play. The picture was grainy and poorly lit. It was impossible to distinguish background details, but the woman at the centre of the shot was unmistakable. It was Ally, her bright blonde hair standing out in stark contrast to the black straps circling her eyes and mouth. She was gagged, blindfolded and suspended by thick leather cuffs buckled round her wrists. She wasn’t moving, in fact judging by the way her knees sagged and the way her body hung so limply, she may not even have been conscious. The image cut to a different location. Cristina was shown this time. She was bound by similar buckled restraints; cuffed, gagged and blindfolded. Unlike Ally she was very much awake and fighting her captivity with every ounce of strength. The camera zoomed in to freeze on a close-up of the red ball crammed between the Hispanic agent’s lips.
Two rows of numbers were superimposed on top of the distressing video. To Olivia’s logical mind their significance was obvious. The first row was a set of GPS coordinates, the second was a local timestamp. Her lips moved in rapid calculation even as she flipped open a laptop to confirm her estimates. The coordinates corresponded to an industrial park in the outskirts of the opposite side of the city. It would take at least thirty minutes to get there. The time shown gave her thirty-five. That didn’t leave much margin for error! What if she ran into traffic like this mornings? What if she got lost in the city’s muddled boulevards? She would never forgive herself if her incompetence put the others’ lives in danger.
The daunted girl gulped back her fears. Wiping a tear from behind her glasses, she sucked in a deep breath to steel her nerves. She had to hold it together. She couldn’t let herself be paralysed by doubts. Ally and Cristina were out there somewhere and right now she was the only one who could save them.
Everything was dark. Pain tore at Ally’s wrists and shoulders and formed an aching pulse at the side of her head. She tried to move, to open her eyes, but the darkness persisted and neither arms nor legs would obey her feeble commands. The young spy convulsed in sudden panic, jerking in her bonds and screaming around her gag. It was a reaction born of terror; helplessness and disorientation combining to rob her of self-control. The fit only lasted for a few moments before discipline reasserted itself. Blurred memories were penetrating the shroud of her confusion, bringing with them an unwelcome explanation for her debilitated state.
She had just entered the safehouse, sipping a soothing cup of coffee and chatting with Cristina about the next stage of their investigation. A crackling buzz and her partner’s yell had made her turn in alarm. Cristina was pitching forward, stunned by the electric filaments fired into her back by an incapacitating taser. The gun had been held by Victoria McDonald, her old nemesis flanked by two hooded musclemen. One of the bruisers had fired a second taser at Ally, but she had dodged to the side in the nick of time. A vicious tussle had ensued. Ally seemed to remember throwing the nearest thug through a glass-fronted cabinet, but three against one were insurmountable odds. When Victoria’s booted foot connected with Ally’s temple the uneven contest had come to an abrupt conclusion.
There was no way of telling how much time had passed since then. With a grunt of resignation, the agent planted her feet more firmly and straightened her battered body. That at least eased the sore strain dragging on her shoulders. Knowing how she came to be here only answered some of Ally’s questions. For one thing, she didn’t even know where here was. Had she been moved from the safehouse and, if so, to where? More importantly, was Cristina nearby and was she safe? Ally risked calling out, though her friend’s name was mangled by the intrusive rubber ball which gagged her speech. There was no reply. Nor could she hear any other sound. Wherever she was, it seemed that she had been left alone.
Not that any of her queries really mattered at the minute, not when she had been tied with such rigorous determination. The blindfold was the worst of it. It felt like her eyes were covered by thick pads lined with a soft wool. The black veil before her was uniform and absolute. No chink of light was admitted, not even at the slope between cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. Rubbing her head against her raised arms did nothing to dislodge the band, it had been buckled much too snugly for that. As was the strap which held the large ball shoved deep inside her mouth. Ally hated ballgags. She hated the texture and taste of hard rubber, hated the way her jaw was held rigidly open and, most of all, she hated the way uncontrollable saliva dribbled so disgustingly down her lips and chin. Most unseemly.
With the blindfold imposing darkness, it was impossible to see exactly how her other bonds had been applied. The senses of touch and hearing made a half-decent attempt to fill in details. There were wide bands belted around her legs. Even through the tough denim of her jeans, Ally could feel the straps that welded her legs at ankles, knees and thighs. Any movements would be restricted to short precarious hops, although even that wasn’t a viable option at present. Padded cuffs of some kind had been buckled around each of her wrists and then locked together by small links of heavy chain. More chain rose from between her joined wrists to a high point far beyond her reach. It was from this that she had been suspended, dangling from a winch or hook so that her booted feet just about touched the floor. No wonder her arms had endured so much pain while she had slumped in unconsciousness. Given that her entire weight had hung from her chained wrists, she was lucky not to have dislocated a shoulder or suffered some equally serious injury. Her current discomfort didn’t seem so bad when you kept that in mind.
Ally shuffled on the spot, mentally preparing herself to face a long and arduous ordeal. Not even her considerable knack for escapology could come to the rescue this time. All she could hope was that it wouldn’t be too long before someone came to set her free.
"Come on, come on. Please, pick up. I can’t do this on my own." Olivia was managing to plot a reasonably unimpeded route across the city, splitting her attention between the road ahead and the repeating ringtones coming from her hands-free speaker system. The countdown was still running, but with enough time left to make an urgent phone call home.
"This is Agency Director Athena. Go ahead, please."
"Oh, Director, thank god." The voice of her boss had never sounded so good. Speaking rapidly, the plucky analyst distilled the night’s dire developments into as few words as possible, "Agents Douglas and Torres have been taken from the Paris safehouse and I’ve been given a message from their captors. I can’t be positive, but it has to be more trouble from Victoria McDonald. She’s sent me on an insane treasure hunt against the clock." Olivia glanced at her watch before continuing, "I’m nearly in position to collect her next set of instructions, but there isn’t much time to spare. What should I do, Director? We don’t have a secondary team in the vicinity and even if we did, I’ve been told that I have to show up unaccompanied."
There was a brief pause while Athena digested this alarming torrent of information. When she replied it was in level tones of reassurance, "You’ve done well, Owl. Watch your back and keep in contact, but for now I want you to play along with Victoria’s demands. Several of these recent events don’t add up. Doing as she asks will buy me time to check a few things out from this end."
"Understood, Athena. I’ll be careful." Just sharing her burden had given a boost to Olivia’s flagging spirits. The moral support buoyed her confidence, although the preceding bout of worry hadn’t completely crippled her sharp wits. "There’s one other thing I might be able to try. I may have a plan that can eliminate the need to jump through Victoria’s hoops. Can you put me through to the Forge? If this idea is going to work, I’ll need some assistance from the gals of Hephaestus."
Victoria was enjoying herself immensely. She would have spent much more time in Paris if she had known that the city offered such a rich harvest just ripe for the picking. First the gorgeous Dr Duvert with her mischievous line in girly underwear and now these feisty American spies so full of fighting spirit. At this rate she would soon be inundated with trussed beauties and would have to seriously think about retiring to run her own private harem.
The tall amazon sniggered at the notion, inwardly acknowledging that she was more than a little bit tipsy. She lounged with crossed legs propped on a wooden desk, sipping from a glass of strong malt whiskey, smoking an earthy cigar and watching the amusing scenes playing out before her on a couple of widescreen monitors. The displays showed the struggling agents of Athena. Their capture had provided Victoria with the most entertaining sport she’d had in ages and now their vain efforts to escape were proving equally diverting.
She laughed aloud as the dark haired agent made yet another attempt to free her cuffed wrists from the chain suspending them from the ceiling. The fiery Latino had tried pulling on the chain, whipping it from side to side, even standing on tiptoe as though a few more inches would magically provide enough slack to make a difference. She would have been left in no doubts as to the futility of her labour if she could only see how many sturdy padlocks were fitted through the metal links or how deeply the anchor points sank into beds of thick concrete. The blindfold hid these details, of course, although Victoria suspected that the Hispanic agent might have struggled anyway out of naïve optimism or sheer bloody-mindedness. Silly cow.
A generous measure topped-up Victoria’s glass, accompanied by a musical plink as she dropped in fresh cubes of ice. She was almost willing to forgive Lady Longford for thwarting her planned night of raunchy games in the company of a pretty historian. Why make a fuss about being forced to work late when your job came with such enviable benefits? Leaning back, she blew out a lazy cloud of smoke and watched the ice slowly melt in its bath of warm liquor. A malicious grin began to spread as her gaze flicked from the frozen cubes to the image of the captive heroines. Cold ice on helpless flesh. Maybe it was time to turn the monitors off and catch a live show instead. With her cigar clenched between her teeth, the vindictive felon grabbed the bucket holding the remainder of the ice. She paused on the way out the door to snatch up a few other objects. Best to bring along all of her favourite props, after all they could be in for a long night.
Torres was locked up one floor down. Victoria practically skipped her way down the stairs, giddy from the potent mixture of alcohol and anticipation. Three heavy bolts had to be drawn back to gain access to the great vault serving as a prison. The iron bars and rusty hinges screeched noisily, the awful din alerting Cristina to the arrival of a visitor. Her head turned blindly towards the sound and the odour of tobacco that drifted in on a draught. She was trying to discern whether the newcomer’s presence would herald good news or bad. Victoria giggled at the sight, but then clapped a hand to her mouth. The element of surprise always added an extra frisson of excitement. Why spoil it with unnecessary giveaways?
Without saying a word, the inebriated villain entered the room and began a patient orbit of her bound guest. She remained silent as she circled, but allowed the hollow echo of her footsteps to beat out a slow and ominous tempo on the floor’s hard tiles. The suspenseful rhythm escalated the levels of tension and uncertainty evident in her victim’s bearing as she twisted to follow the sound, still not knowing who was there or why. Victoria spiralled inwards, the distance between captive and captor growing steadily smaller until finally she stood within touching range, leering down like the proverbial cat that had got not only the cream but also a defenceless little mouse for afters. Cristina reared away, intuition warning of the nearness of a threat. She snarled something defiant through her gag, delving into reserves of pride despite the imbalance in their circumstances and the crushing encumbrance of her bonds. She couldn’t see what was going on, but by now she could sense that she was being toyed with and was damned if she was going to meekly submit to the diabolical whims of an unseen tormentor.
"My, my, aren’t you the brave one?" Victoria purred, exhaling a breath flavoured with smoke and whiskey. She pressed her head closer and entwined long fingers in Cristina’s tumble of raven hair. Her free hand fished for a dripping ice cube, lifting it up and pressing it gently against the dusky skin of an Hispanic cheek. Cristina gave a snort of startled shock and flinched back, but the firm grip behind her head forced her to remain in place. She shivered slightly, feeling small goosebumps rise as chill droplets trickled over the gag’s strap and down the side of her neck.
"Oh? Don’t you like that?" Victoria moved the ice from cheek to lips, rubbing it seductively around the outer edge of the gag’s rubber ball, coating the parted lips in a sheen of glistening liquid. "Don’t you like the way it feels?" she coaxed, "Is it too cold? Maybe you would prefer a little heat? Something nice and warm that we both can share?"
Clawing fingers wrapped themselves more deeply in the glossy mane, pulling down so that the moist lips were presented as a sensual offering to her own. Cristina’s resistance increased, but was no deterrent to the impish tongue that snaked its way across the gag and along the contours of her mouth. Victoria’s kiss became more fervent as her teeth and lips entered the equation. She nibbled, teased, licked and sucked until every drop of icy water had been removed and then continued to nuzzle at throat and ears, demonstrating a seemingly inexhaustible thirst for her prisoner’s silky skin.
Eventually the need for air forced her to break off, tossing back her head with an impassioned gasp of desire, "Oh, that was good. The stubborn ones always pose the biggest challenge, but it’s so rewarding when they’ve been tamed to dutiful obedience. Don’t you agree?" Cristina’s furious grunts made it abundantly clear that she did not, but Victoria’s merry laughter seemed not to care, "Open your eyes now, my angry vixen, I’ve brought some things that I want to show you."
Cristina had to screw her eyes shut when the blindfold was unbuckled and lifted away, squinting through lowered lashes while her vision adjusted to the return of light. When her sight cleared she was greeted with a spectacle that almost made her yearn for the ignorance of darkness. Victoria was posing with a veritable armoury of corporal punishment. A fine chain terminating in shining clamps was draped around her neck, a coiled whip hung at her left hip and a stiff leather flogger was tucked near the right. In her hand she gripped the curved handle of a slender length of birch wood, her strong wrist swishing the evil implement through the air with an eager grin of admiration and approval.
"This one is my absolute favourite. You’ll have to be naked for us to achieve the best results, but you’ll see first-hand how it leaves the most amazing welts with no effort at all. But I’m getting ahead of myself again, aren’t I?" The would-be dominatrix lowered the willowy cane and bit her lip in an incongruously coy expression of guilt. "Rules are rules. I’m not allowed to hurt you unless Miss Wilson fails her test. Speaking of which, shall we give her a call? Let’s find out how the little floozy has been getting on."
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