Heading east as she was coming out of the Broadway tunnel, Motorcop Gwen Sweet flipped on the siren and lights on her Kawasaki and pulled over a '69 VW minibus to the curb.
The minibus was decked out in a rainbow of dayglo colors, with graffiti and bumper stickers proclaiming things such as; Peace, Make Love Not War and Save the Whales.
Sweet got off her ride and took off her helmet as she approached the driver's side.
"You Sweet?" Harry Stoner asked from behind the wheel. He was dressed in sloppy denims and the inside of the van smelled like a head shop.
"Sometimes," she replied. "I can also be a real bitch on wheels when somebody plays me the fool."
"Hey, peace, babe!" Stoner said. He waved his Inspector's badge at her. "We're on the same team, sabe?" He leaned back in his seat. "Where ya been? I've been circling the block for an hour."
"Duty called," Sweet said. "Had a bad cycle T-A over on Van Ness. So you ready to talk about Iwana Binder?"
"'Fore we do, I gotta show you something." Stoner reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Sweet. "Is this enough to make you go away?"
Sweet looked in the envelope. Inside were five crisp, thousand dollar bills.
Sweet smiled and handed the envelope back to Stoner. "Want to step out of the car for a moment, sir?"
"Sure, babe." Stoner got out and was promptly kneed in the balls by Sweet, who then had to help a groaning Harry Stoner back into his minibus.
"Guess not..." he wheezed.
"Inspector, I've been a motorcop handing out citations for seven years now," Sweet said. "People have attempted to threaten, cajole, beg and bribe me in ways you can't imagine. And in all that time, I've never taken a dime. Hell, I even pay for my coffee and doughnuts!"
"Just my luck," Stoner grunted. "An honest cop."
"You got that right, asshole," Sweet said. "Now, you wanna play ball? Or do I go down to Bryant Street and talk to Internal Affairs?"
"Okay, okay." Stoner shrugged. "Iwana Binder is being held by Paige Torne, but it's just to protect an innocent girl named Jessica McClintock."
"I know the 411," Sweet replied. "All I want is Iwana Binder. My interest stops there."
Stoner nodded. "Well, she isn't at The Brickyard right now, but she will be there this evening. I'll take you to her then, okay?"
Sweet leaned in close. "Kiss me."
"What?"
"You heard me. Kiss me." she laughed. "When ever I'm going to get fucked, I want to be kissed first."
"Hey, this is legit!" Stoner protested. "No tricks, honest!"
Sweet nodded. "Okay. I'll play along. I get off my shift at four, I'll meet you at The Brickyard at 4:20. And Iwana better be there or the SWAT team arrives at 4:25. And those numbers are non-negotiable."
Stoner nodded. "Sure thing, babe."
"Also," Sweet said. "Don't even think of pulling on me what you pulled on Binder. If something happens to me between now and then, a letter gets dropped into the chief's box today."
"Hey, I wouldn't..."
"Bullshit!" Sweet snarled. "For whatever reason, you sold a fellow police officer down the river. That means I don't trust you. That also means that at the first sign of trouble I'm gonna cap your ass! So you make damned sure that everything goes down smooth like your life depended on it. Cuz it does."
"Okay, babe." Stoner nodded nervously.
"And one last thing," Sweet growled. "Don't call me babe."
***
Jeb Stuart had never met Lillie Hitchcock Coit, but he wished he had.
Like most famous San Franciscans, she was a bit of an eccentric. Starting at age 15, this daughter of a wealthy, Nob Hill family had loved fire engines, going to see fires and even riding with the men of Battalion 5 of the San Francisco Fire Department.
Of course, all this happened in the late 1850's, when horse drawn firewagons still clattered up the cobblestones of Telegraph Hill, as a new city born out of a gold rush just ten years past tried to burn down just about every day.
But through the years, Lillie Hitchcock Coit stayed with Battalion 5, even cutting her hair short like a man's and wearing a red shirt and a tin hat, just like the fireman she rode with. Finally, the city commissioned her as an honorary fireman and gave her a badge.
Lillie Hitchcock Coit died at age 86 in 1929, bequeathing a third of her vast wealth to the city to honor the fire department and the firemen she loved. A few years later, The City completed work on Coit Tower, a massive, 180 foot concrete tower atop Telegraph Hill that had become one of the most famous sights of The City.
The wind was always fearsome at the base of Coit Tower, where Pioneer Park was laid out. There were always a few tourists about, but Jeb spotted his contact right away.
"Hi, Langley," Jeb said to the man loitering by a park bench. "I can't believe you actually wore a trenchcoat."
Langley looked over the rims of his sunglasses. He was mid-forties, with a growing beer gut and thinning hair. He was also an agent of the CIA, but his masterspy days were a few pounds him.
"Hey, Jeb," He nodded. "Good to see you. How's the wife and kids?"
"In hiding," Jeb replied. "What can you tell me about this Jessica McClintock mess?"
"Well, you're dealing with at least two players who want this girl," Langley said. "Matthew McClintock and Joseph Weskler."
"Tell me something I don't know," Jeb said.
"Okay," Langley took out a stack of 8 x 10 photos that he nearly lost to the wind. Jeb snatched them just in time.
"Thanks," Langley said. "First pics are the ones you gave me yesterday. We've ID'd these two jokers as Samarkand and The Marquis. Both are white slavers and gun runners whom the agency has dealt with before. Samarkand is a Jordanian national but grew up in Saudi Arabia, where he has a lot of juice. This Marquis is Belgian, lives in France and is a known criminal associate of Samarkand."
Stuart nodded. He had seen both these men visit Matt McClintock in the last few days. "Who are they working for?"
"Weskler. We're firm on that too. A lot of money has flowed from Weskler's Swiss banks to Samarkand's holding companies in the Middle East."
"What about Fiendly and Wenche?"
"Those two idiots?" Langley laughed. "They thought they were working for McClintock, but they report to Samarkand and The Marquis. 'Nuff said?"
"So who does McClintock have in his corner?"
"This guy." The next pic showed a well-dressed, handsome man at an airport. He had long, dark hair and cold, gray eyes. "Whoever the hell he is."
"I'll be damned," Jeb whispered. "Will Tanner-Hyde."
"You know him?" Langley asked. "All we had on him was this pic."
"Ex-Brit secret service," Jeb said. "Cashiered out for violating a ceasefire agreement in Northern Ireland and blowing up a dozen Sinn Fein higher-ups... plus twenty or so innocent women and children."
He didn't tell Langley that the journalist who had uncovered Tanner-Hyde's covert op had been a BBC reporter named Drew Thrasher.
"Well, he arrived SFO from New York last Friday afternoon on a private Learjet owned by McClintock. That's what got us curious enough on him to have our people snap his picture at the airport."
Jeb thought about that one. It had been Friday night when Tai Anne Roper had gotten that fateful call from McClintock asking for her help in finding Jessica. Had that really been Tanner-Hyde's idea?
"So the G is interested in McClintock too?" Jeb asked.
"And Weskler," Langley said. "Both these guys are worth hundreds of millions, and are playing fast and loose with their money. McClintock has at least three senators in his pocket, while Weskler has a lot of friends in Justice and the FBI. That's how he got Fiendly and Wenche sprung after that shootout at the Sir Francis."
Jeb nodded.
"There's something else you should know," Langley said. "And if anybody asks, you didn't hear it from me. Our man in Brunei says that a Saudi merc squad left in a big hurry for points east."
"These guys have a name?"
"Ever hear of the 'Fist of Allah'?"
"Hell yes," Jeb said. "I hear they've been doing a better job of killing off al Qaida higher-ups then the US Army and the Afghanis combined."
"Only the ones who could prove embarrassing to the Saudi royals," Langley said. "They left Afghanistan early this week, spent two days on the beach at Brunei and then bugged out with new marching orders from their Control in Riyadh."
"You think they're in the mix here in SF?"
"If they are, the agency wants them terminated forthwith," Langley said. "All we need is for these psychos to finish their job here and then decide to start assassinating prominent American Jews for the hell of it."
"So who are they working for?" Jeb asked. "Surely not 'infidels' like Weskler or McClintock?"
"Remember that Saudi juice Samarkand has?" Langley said. "It might be enough to call in these guys. But the Fist of Allah's true loyalties will always be with the Saudi Royal family. I can't see them just grabbing this Jessica girl and saying, 'hasta la bye-bye.'"
Jeb considered what he knew already. Drew Thrasher's reports on Saudi money flowing into Palestinian terrorist efforts on the West Bank had not been appreciated by the sheiks and emirs of that country. Was she the real target?
"Jeb," Langley said. "You've been sniffing around McClintock for weeks now. Do you have any idea why everybody is so goddamned interested in a 19 year old college girl named Jessica McClintock?"
"Not a clue," Jeb said, lying though his teeth. "How about you guys?"
"Ah... there's the usual bullshit concerning Matt McClintock's so called 'fountain of youth', and how maybe it spread to his kid," Langley said. "But most of us believe she just possesses some inside information that is valuable enough for Weskler to try kidnapping her."
"That's my best guess," Jeb said.
"Needless to say, if you get a location of the Fist of Allah..."
"I'll give you a call."
"Good to see you, Jeb." Langley smiled and took off in the opposite direction, pulling up the lapels of his trenchcoat. Jeb sighed and headed back to where he parked the Mercedes.
On his way, he tried calling Tai's cell number and got her voicemail --again-- then he tried Drew's number and got the same response.
Great, Jeb thought. Had Drew already sold Tai down the river to Paige? Or have they both fallen victim to a third party? Time for some answers, and he know just who to ask...
***
Meanwhile, Drew Thrasher now sat alone in her cage. She was still cuffed and gagged, but at least she had more room. She was also worried sick about Tai Anne Roper, who had been taken out of the cage by The Wenche no more than fifteen minutes ago. She could hear nothing in the locked closet vault and she was already fearing the worse.
The door opened revealing Fannikins Wenche. She had changed into a white latex tube skirt and a matching white latex tube top that gripped her large breasts like a second skin. She also wore thigh-high white latex high-heeled boots that made her legs long, sleek and glossy. She looked like a demented nurse.
"Come out and play with us, Drew," The Wenche said. "I think Tai Anne is getting lonely for you!"
Drew bit hard into her gag as The Wenche pulled her out of the cage and brought her up to a standing position. She unlocked the three-link cuffs at her feet and replaced them with shackles that allowed a ten inch step.
The Wenche stood next to Drew and caressed her rubbered breasts, pinching a hardening nipple. She then slipped her hand between Drew's legs and palmed her leathered cunt.
Drew hummed and shook her head.
"Poor Drew," The Wenche whispered. "So proper and ladylike. Can't stand the touch of another woman... yet can't seem to find herself a boyfriend either."
She unbuckled Drew's gag, gently pulling the rubber ball out of her mouth. Drool spilled over her latexed breasts.
Please," Drew said. "Don't be mean to me, Fannikins."
"Not to you, Drew." The Wenche licked the drool off Drew's lips with her tongue. "Not ever. But c'mon. I wanna show you something."
She lead Drew back into the living room of the suite, where Drew gasped and nearly screamed again.
Tai Anne Roper was strapped down tightly to a chair made of leather and tubular steel. She still wore the tight fitting, black neoprene straitjacket, while more straps were tight at her knees and ankles, keeping her legs parted.
Her mouth was still strapped tight and full of bulging black rubber, but there was also something new. A black rubber strap around her forehead that held two electrodes attached to either side of her head. Wires from the electrodes ran to a little black box that The Wenche was diddling with.
Drew saw the lost, frightened look in Tai's eyes as she hummed aimlessly and drooled.
"Fannikins... what the hell are you doing?"
"Its called ECT," The Wenche replied. "Electro Convulsive Therapy. The idea is to artificially initiate a grand mal seizure in the patient. Like this."
Drew screamed as Tai Anne convulsed, surged against her straps and then lost consciousness again. One strapped foot continued to jerk involuntarily.
"Now if I had her at full voltage, she'd be out for an hour," The Wenche said. "But I've only juiced her at a quarter power. So far."
"Noooooooo..." Drew knelt before Tai, her hands still cuffed helplessly behind her. "Why are you doing this?!"
"Shock Therapy has a long history of... 'rounding off the edges". I thought if I gave Tai Anne a few jolts she'd be a little less likely to take off on me and Fiendly."
"It can also give her heart arrhythmia, short term memory loss, and personality disorders," Drew hissed.
"It also kills brain cells," The Wenche said. "I was thinking of getting her down to about a 75 IQ level, dying her hair blonde and turning her into an airhead bimbo... can you imagine our Tai Anne, wandering the streets in a rubber minidress and heels, trying to chew gum and walk?" The Wenche laughed long and hard at that thought.
Tai was coming out of it now. Groaning, her eyes focused on Drew, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Drew stood up and faced The Wenche. Her hands twisted and pulled at the cuffs behind her.
"Alright, Fannikins, you've made your point!" Drew said. "Whatever you want me to do... I'll do. Just don't torture Tai Anne!"
The Wenche giggled and approached Drew. "Anything?"
"Yes."
"Will you submit to me and become... my slavecunt?"
Drew felt her face flame with embarrassment. "Yes... I will."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Ms. Wenche."
"C'mon, you know what I want to hear."
"Yes... Mistress."
"Okey-dokey, it's a deal!" The Wenche said. "But the thang is, I just can't handle two slavecunts at once! So... I'm putting you in charge of Tai Anne. She's your slave, and your responsibility. If she fucks up or tries to run off... you pay for it. Got it, slavecunt?"
"Understood... Mistress," Drew replied, not quite believing the words she was hearing from her own mouth.
"Good, now show me a little more passion this time." The Wenche stood before Drew and kissed her, long and deep and with plenty of tongue. Drew tried her best to pretend she was enjoying it.
Tai looked up and saw Fannikins playing tongue hockey with Drew. It hurt just as much as another jolt of electricity running through her brainpan.
The Wenche broke the kiss, looking into Drew's deep brown eyes. "Have you ever pleasured a woman, Drew? With your tongue?"
"No, not ever."
"Then consider this Enforced Lesbianism 101." The Wenche's dark eyes were cold and cruel. "On your knees, sister!"
Drew got down on her knees while The Wenche hiked her tight rubber skirt up over her thighs and sat down in the same chair Fiendly had sat in before, with her booted legs now spread wide before the kneeling Drew.
"Go to work," The Wenche growled. "Let's see if that silver tongue of yours is good for something besides running your face, anchorbabe."
Drew swallowed hard. The Wenche's cunt was wet and clean shaven, with no piercings.
"Yeah," The Wenche said, reading Drew's mind. "Fiendly says I can't have piercings down there... says he doesn't want to chip a tooth on me."
Drew Thrasher took a deep breath like she was going to dive into a pool and went to work on The Wenche's cunt.
The Wenche gasped and giggled with joy. Oh gaaaawd how she loved a talented amateur!!! Oh my yessiroonies!!!
As the Wenche humped herself into Drew's face while wrapping her fingers thru her hair, she looked at her nemesis, Tai Anne Roper.
Helpless, psyched out and still shaking uncontrollably, Tai still managed to look daggers at The Wenche, which was the last little bit The Wenche needed to slip over the edge and come in Drew's face.
Chapter Thirty-One