Iwana Binder got out on the 18th floor and made a quick circle, catching Franklin the bellboy scoping out her butt. He grinned as the elevator doors closed.
The long, carpeted hallway was deserted, and there were a dozen doors to chose from. Since somebody knew she was coming she put her back to a wall and waited.
"Ah, there you are!" A voice called from the north end. "This way, Ms... Binder, was it?"
Fiendly stood in the doorway of a suite, smiling in his three piece suit and quite pleased with his American accent. He'd been practicing.
Iwana strode towards him. "Yeah, Iwana Binder."
Fiendly extended his hand as she approached. "I'm David St. Hubbins. Executive secretary to Mr. McClintock. Glad to meet you, Ms..." his eyes traveled down her firm, luscious bod and stopped at the badge clipped to her belt, "...Officer Binder."
"Sergeant, actually," She replied, smiling as she gave his hand a firm shake. "LAPD. But Ah've taken a few days off to assist Ms. Roper with the McClintock case."
"Yes, you said you had some information," Fiendly said. "Please do come in."
Iwana came across the threshold but that was it. She stood there admiring the furniture and antiques that filled the suite, along with the magnificent view afforded by the floor length windows on the north side.
"This is the MacArthur Suite," Fiendly explained. "The general lived here after World War II, and also after he was relieved of his command in Korea by your President Truman."
Fiendly winced at the mistake. He quickly strode across the suite past two long leather sofas to the huge teakwood desk lit with a Tiffany banker's lamp.
"I'm afraid Mr. McClintock isn't here right now, but I just talked to him, and 'he shall return' in about ten minutes." With his back to her, Fiendly slipped his right hand under his jacket. "Meanwhile, if there's anything I can do for you..."
"For starters, keep yo' hands where Ah can see 'em, asshole."
Fiendly heard the distinctive triple click of a large caliber revolver being cocked back as something hard was jammed into the back of his neck. He raised his hands and turned his head.
Iwana Binder was not across the room where he had left her, instead she had followed him to the desk almost step by step. A rather massive handcannon was in her hand. An American Colt Python .357 Magnum, if he wasn't mistaken.
"Alright," Iwana said. "Hands on yo' head, fingers interlocked."
He complied. She patted him down while keeping the magnum at his neck. She relieved him of his silencered pistol.
"Wow, a '96 Broomhandle Mauser!" Iwana said. She tossed the weapon onto the floor. "Quite an antique... like you, Dr. Fiendly."
"So you know..."
"Oh yeah. Tai Anne had me run yo' files yesterday, and Ah had a chance t' look at yo' mug shots."
"Bad luck that..."
"Which brings me to the first of mah many questions." Iwana yanked him around and jammed the barrel of the Python into the underside of his neck. "Where's Fannikins Wenche? From yo' files Ah thought you two were joined at the hip."
"Seems like it sometimes," Fiendly grumbled.
"I'm right here, you bloody black whore!!!"
The shout came from across the room. In an instant, Iwana clobbered Fiendly over the skull with the big magnum in her hand and pulled him around so he was her shield. The Python now jammed into his right ear, with her muscled left arm catching him in a choke hold.
Fannikins Wenche was standing twenty or so feet away in the bathroom doorway, dressed fetchingly in a tan leather mini, knee boots and a midriff bearing white spandex top. In her hands was what looked to Iwana like a small, silencered machinepistol. Possibly a .380 MAC-11, with a gawdawful huge drum mag that looked like it could spray bullets til Christmas.
The Wenche was holding the gun with both hands, in a way that told Iwana that she didn't know what the hell she was doing, which made her three times as dangerous. The activated laser sight bobbled around both Fiendly and Iwana.
"Best tell that lil cooze that even if she caps me wit' the first shot, you still gonna die!" Iwana hissed in Fiendly's ear.
"Indeed!" Fiendly said. He turned to the Wenche. "I say, Fannikins! The whole point of this exercise was to 'get the drop' on Ms. Binder! Not wait til she had a bloody piece of field artillery jammed down my ear canal!"
"Ohhhhh, tuff luck, wot!" The Wenche replied in her fake Brit accent. "I guess you're both jolly well up Shitfuck Creek with outta fucking paddle, say wot?"
"She isn't kidding, luv!" Fiendly whispered to Iwana. "The little strumpet is still pissed over an incident last night... I'm afraid we're both in for it. Unless you hand your weapon over to me..."
"Sorry, asshole," Iwana said. "First thing they teach you in the LAPD is to nevah give up yo' piece. No matter what."
"Then we're both fucked..." Fiendly said at the same instant that one of the floor length, plate glass windows looking out over The City was shot by a sniper's rifle. The window spider-webbed and then shattered inward, driven by the high force winds that whip past tall buildings like the one they were in.
It was just the right diversion, at precisely the right time.
Iwana shoved Fiendly away from her and dived for the nearest sofa of heavy leather and oak, as two more windows were shot out. Again
they spiderwebbed and were blown inward as the whole apartment was sprayed with pebbled safety glass.
Fiendly screamed as twenty plus rounds of .380 automatic weapons fire ripped up his back and across his chest with enough force to knock him ass over tea kettle across the wide expanse of the desk to dump him on the carpeted floor.
Screaming and laughing, the Wenche kept firing, ripping into the sofa that Iwana was hiding behind. With the silencer attached and the wind still howling through the shattered windows, the only sound was of the bullets themselves shredding the leather and turning the wood into kindling.
Iwana bellycrawled to the end of the sofa and came up firing. The heavy THUMPAH of her Colt Python a distinct and powerful counterpoint to the Wenche's silent, yet devastating weapon.
The Wenche yelped and ducked behind the bar. Iwana fired again, taking out an irreplaceable bottle of ancient Glenfiddich Scotch where the Wenche's face had been an instant before.
"Fiendly, you alive?!?" the Wenche screamed over the howling wind.
"No thanks to you, Wenche!" Fiendly hollered back. Dammit all! Fiendly thought. His Kevlar vest had saved his hide once more... but it was also a fact that a bulletproof vest only stops the actual bullet. Not the velocity or hitting power of said bullet. Right now it felt like his chest and back had been pummeled by twenty blows thrown at him by Mike Tyson.
Grunting in pain, Fiendly rolled onto his belly and crawled under the desk to reclaim his prized Broomhandle Mauser. Antique indeed! He pulled off the silencer. No need for that now.
For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of the howling wind as the curtains, sheaths of paper and anything not nailed down fluttered about the suite.
"I say, Sergeant!" Fiendly called out. "We have you two to one, and a bit outgunned! There's no shame in an honourable surrender!"
He peeked around the edge of the desk and nearly got a .357 lobotomy from Dr. Sam Colt. Another thumping round blew an opening the size of a rathole through the desk itself, just shy of his ear. Damn!
The Wenche cut loose with another long burst of fire that took out an original Frederick Remington sculpture, another Tiffany lamp and General MacArthur's bookcase and bureau drawers. Iwana answered with another thump of her artillery that sent the Wenche to cover.
That's five shots, Fiendly thought.
Still hunkered down behind what was left of the sofa, Iwana popped the cylinder of her Colt Python and dumped the spent brass, taking a six-round speedloader from her belt and reloading the revolver in a split instant. Then she fired off one more round at Fiendly.
That's six! Fiendly thought triumphantly as he jumped out from behind the desk and charged towards Iwana's position with his gun blazing.
He knew he was catching her reloading, so his surprise was total when instead Iwana rolled out from behind the sofa and cranked off three fast shots at Fiendly.
The first shot hit him right under the ribs like the Fist of the Al-fucking-mighty, knocking him backwards into into one of the unbroken plate glass windows. As he bounced off, the second shot hummed past his shoulder to drill the window and spider-web it from one end to the other. The third shot punched him in the chest again, with enough force to send him flying through the plate glass and airborne into the great outdoors.
For a long, horrible moment, Fiendly knew he was falling 18 stories straight down, either to land with a splat on Sutter or through the roof of a parked car.
Instead, he landed in a bruised and bloody heap on the balcony just outside the MacArthur Suite.
The Wenche screamed again, spraying the room with bullets, hot brass casings skittering across the floor. She strode to the center of the room and laid waste to it until the machine pistol quit firing.
She tried to work the action, but yelped as she burned her hand, dropping the red hot weapon.
"Yo, cunt." Iwana Binder popped up from behind a ruined table, holstering her piece and yanking loose some electrical cord from a shattered table lamp. "Next time you're goin' to town with a high capacity machinepistol, remember to space yo' bursts... or y'burn out the barrel and jam the action."
"You bitch!" the Wenche screamed. She charged Iwana, both hands drawn into claws to scratch her eyes out. Iwana caught her by the wrists and head-butted her across the bridge of her nose.
While the Wenche was still dazed, Iwana twirled her about with her hands behind her back. She used the electical cord to bind her wrists together palm to palm. She then put the Wenche bellydown on the deck hard and drew her booted feet back into a very tight hogtie.
The Wenche struggled and cried as Iwana strode out to the balcony, where Dr. Fiendly was still trying make sure he was still alive. The Kevlar vest had stopped the magnum rounds, but he had a feeling he'd be pissing blood for a week.
He was reaching for his Broomhandle Mauser when Iwana stepped on his hand. Hard.
"Dr. Fiendly!" Iwana said. "Its time to play... JEOPARDY!"
"Hah?" the bloody and bruised Fiendly looked up at Iwana.
"The category is... 'Things You Better Know, or Else'. For a hundred dollars, 'Current location of Tai Anne Roper'."
"Don't know..."
"Eeeeeep! Wrong answer!" Iwana kicked Fiendly in the balls and hauled him up by the lapels of his jacket. "Let's go to Double Jeopardy then!"
She shoved him over the balcony railing. Fiendly screamed as he felt himself slipping over the side of the building, only to have Iwana grab hold of his ankles and tuck them under her arms.
Fiendly looked down 18 stories, upside down, and screamed again.
"The answer is... 'Current location of Tai Anne Roper!'" Iwana shouted. "And remember to phrase yo' response in the form of a question!"
"FOR CHRISSAKES I DONNO!!!" Fiendly screamed. "WE FOLLOWED HER LAST NIGHT AFTER SHE HAD DINNER WITH MCCLINTOCK! SHE GAVE US THE SLIP IN A TAXICAB! I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD!!!"
"Awwwrighty, let's go to Final Jeopardy!" Iwana shouted over the wind. Her muscles were straining under the weight. Fiendly could stand to lose a few pounds. "The answer is, 'Who you two are really working for!"
"WESKLER! I MAN NAMED JOSEPH WESKLER!!!" Fiendly howled. "HE WANTS JESSICA TOO!"
"And why are you all so hot for Jessica McClintock?"
"BECAUSE SHE IS THE..."
"FREEZE, NOBODY MOVE!!! SAN FRANCISCO POLICE!!!"
Iwana sighed and looked behind her. Sure enough, four uniformed SFPD officers where standing there with cocked Glocks pointed right at her.
"Look, I'm a cop!" Iwana said. "LAPD. I'd show you my shield, but my hands are kinda busy now."
"We know you're a cop!" the senior supervisor shouted back. "We got an officer involved shooting call with your description! But right now, I want you to haul that guy back onto the balcony and keep your hands were I can see them!"
"Awwwwww... fuck!" Iwana said as she hauled Fiendly back onto the balcony.
"Well!" Fiendly said with a smile. "Who said there's never a police officer around when you need one!"
***
Meanwhile, back in the bowels of the Brickyard, Tai Anne Roper was discovering the true meaning of Nawa Shibari.
It was --of course-- the art of Japanese Rope Bondage. And whatever other faults that Ropemaster Crowe T. Grackel possessed, not knowing his business around rope wasn't one of them.
Grackel was a true Sensei of Shibari, from the way he lovingly wrapped fathom after fathom of soft, corded rope around Tai's now naked body, slowly cording her up in an inescapable web, to the ways he also demonstrated the art of Shinju and Shiatsu on her.
"Shinju is the art of breast bondage," Grackel said reverently. "To accentuate, to bring forth the beauty of the breasts..."
Whatever, Tai thought. The intricate ropework around her shoulders and boobies had them fairly bulging, with stiff nips and plumped areolas.
"And Shiatsu is the art of placing knots, mostly over pressure points." He tightened a crotchrope that caused Tai to gasp. "Right now I have a knot across your clitoris, and also one over your anus, that will slowly work themselves in as you are suspended into your Ebi..."
At each new stage of her bondage, he would leave the area where Tai was centered over an oaken bondage frame so that one or both of the other bondage models could take over and pose like they were the ones doing the ropework, while Grackel took the photographs with a professional looking 35mmm Nikon SLR camera on a tripod.
The Ebi --Japanese for 'The Prawn'-- was the complicated and hazardous art of suspension bondage. Only with care and practice can a woman be suspended by rope and feel no loss of circulation or pain. A true sensei of Shibari utilizes an intricate web to evenly suspend a woman in a comfortable cradle of rope that can hold her for many hours.
"It really fries my eggs," Grackel groused to Tai as he roped her ankles, "that I get none of the credit in these pics or the vids! Why can't I be seen roping a girl up! I'm the Master! I'm the Sensei!" He picked his nose and wiped his fingers on his pants.
Grackel completed Tai's Ebi by roping her ankles to her wrists, and securing her knees to a wooden spreader bar connected to a single suspension rope also connected to her shoulders.
Tai Anne Roper now gently swung in the air, about three feet off the ground. Her arms behind her with wrists crossed behind her shoulders. Shoulders and chest corded to support her upper body and full, bulging breasts. Crotchrope taut within the now hairless folds of her cunt, Shiatsu knots rubbing her clit and anus with each shift of the ropes.
"Perfection." Grackel whispered as he took shot after shot of the superbly bound Tai Anne Roper. He now knew what da Vinci felt like after he had found his Mona Lisa.
"Now, one last thing," Grackel said to Tai in an excited, breathless voice. "I want tears. I know I could sprinkle some glycerine down your cheeks, but I want the real thing, baby."
Tai looked at him. "Go to hell."
"Really?" Grackel smirked and brushed aside a long black wave of Tai's hair. The two other bondage models frowned as they saw him fiercely whispering something into her ear for almost a minute.
At last he went back to the camera and tripod and focused in on Tai, whose head was now bowed.
"Okay, baby... give it to me!"
Tai looked up and into the camera. Real tears streaming down her cheeks.
It was such a perfect shot that Crowe T. Grackel came in his pants.
Chapter Sixteen