This had not been the best of days for Special Agent Steve Estabrook, commander of the FBI's San Francisco SWAT team.
First there had been the fouled up apprehension of that white slaver Samarkand. Estabrook had managed to minimize Inspector Qwan's presence in the official after action reports, but he still had to explain to both his boss and to Washington how one of his men had gotten shot, and three others had been injured, including himself.
Then, he had just finished up at SF General getting his own broken nose set, when he found out that Samarkand had somehow escaped the Federal max security lockup in Alameda, apparently by faking a heart attack and then waylaying two paramedics after they had carted him off to a hospital. Their rig had been found parked at the terminal at Oakland International.
He had been enroute to Oakland when he had gotten the Code Red about a possible terrorist attack at the First Interstate Center in the Financial District. He got his men to rendevous with him, and now they were fighting their way through the crowd and the cops to finally arrive at the command post, which was a long SFPD semi rig parked at the intersection of California and Sansome.
The situation appeared to be controlled chaos, with police choppers chattering overhead, and sirens whooping and echoing down the darkened concrete canyons.
Estabrook bulled his way into the command post, spotting Deputy Chief Liu of the SFPD and Special Agent Leiter of the CIA.
"Okay, does someone wanna give me a SITREP?" Estabrook demanded.
Leiter and Liu both turned and looked at him.
"Jesus, Steve," Liu said. "What the hell happened to your nose?"
Estabrook sighed. He sported a swathe of bandages on his nose, and two black eyes that made him look like a demented raccoon.
"Never mind that," Estabrook said. "What's going on here? Dispatch made it sound like World War fucking III."
"Just about," Leiter said. "Langley, our Control here in SF, got a hot lead on some Saudi mercenaries staying at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. He and his crew went in and nabbed two of them and capped a third. Unfortunately, Number Four was waiting for him down on a lower level parking garage with about six or seven associates. Lots of fireworks."
"Damn, any word on casulties?"
"Neg so far. We've locked down the perimeter and are almost done getting all civilians evacuated. After that we move in."
"At least a half dozen big explosions so far down there," Liu added. "SFFD is waiting to go in as soon as the scene is clear."
Estabrook nodded. "I've got twelve of my men suited up and ready. We'll move in as soon as soon as the civvies are cleared out."
"Roger that," Leiter said, turning as his cellphone buzzed. He clicked on. "Yeah?"
He paused. "You sure about that? Okay, Roger that. I'll pass it along!"
Leiter grinned as he put his cell away. "Okay, boys and girls! The show is over! That was Langley. He says all the bad guys are capped... and he and six other friendlies are headed topside, coming out the California Street exit to the parking garage!"
"Thank Christ," Liu muttered.
"He also says he has two with moderate GS wounds, so get two paramedic rigs out there now. And get a path cleared to SF General."
"Wait a sec, how do we know Langley doesn't have a gun to his head and is just saying all this?" Estabook asked.
Leiter looked at him. "Cuz he's CIA... not FBI."
"Very funny," Estabrook groused as the others ran out of the rig to meet Langley and the others.
***
Smoke was still rising out of the entrance and exits of the underground garage, and with the emergency lights flickering in the background, it gave almost a grandiose, staged effect to the seven people who walked up the ramp to the street.
From right to left, Jeb Stuart and Tai Anne Roper helped along the wounded Gwen Sweet, her arms slumg over their shoulders. Then Michelle Qwan and Yukari Mei Awai who were helping the wounded Langley. Drew Thasher brought up the rear, realizing that her already too tight leather pants were drying even tighter.
There had been no sign of the mysterious Shakira, and Drew had told no one what she had seen.
"Langley!" Leiter ran up to him as paramedics and Swatties rushed them. "Damn you're alive!"
"Lost my whole crew!" Langley replied as they put him on a stretcher. "Five good men... gone!"
"Fist of Allah?" Leiter asked.
"Hell yes, along with about six more shooters," He grinned fiercely "But we got'em, all. Didn't we Jebster?"
"That we did," Jeb replied. "That we surely did."
"Stuart?" Leiter asked in an amazed voice. "Damn, I thought you quit the spygame!"
"I did," Jeb replied. "It's a helluva long story, Leiter."
"And who are all these... women?" Estabrook asked.
"Women, hell!" Langley shouted as they started to wheel him away. "They're hellcats! And I'd fight alongside any of them anytime!"
Estabrook looked down the ragged line of wet, mostly leathered females. One did look familar...
"Qwan???"
"Hello, Estabrook," Qwan said. Like the others she was dirty and soaked from head to foot. She held up her machine pistol. "I fired my weapon again... sorry, more paperwork for you, eh?"
"I'm Drew Thrasher of the BBC!" Drew said, "And I demand to be released immediately so that I can report my story!"
"Well, I don't..." Leiter began.
"Officer Gwen Sweet, SFPD, Central Division Traffic... hi, Chief Liu!" She groaned as she hopped on one foot to a stretcher. The fact tha one of their own was wounded suddenly galvanized the cops and fireman around them, and the two were quickly wisked away.
"Officer P-2 Yukari Mei Awai." The petite Japanese girl wearing a wet maid's uniform and still lugging a big M4 black ops carbine snapped to attention.
"You SFPD too?" Liu asked.
"No sir! Tokyo Metropolitan Police..."
"Somehow that makes perfect sense," Estabrook said. "A Canadian mountie and a Tokyo cop!" He looked at Tai. "And who are you with? The French Surete?"
"Tai Anne Roper," she said with a shrug. "Just a private eye from LA."
A couple of black Suburbans squealed up to them, and the remaining five survivors of what would become known in intelligence circles as 'The San Fran Shootout' were whisked away to the Federal Building.
Tai found herself squeezed between Jeb and Drew.
"Jeb," Tai asked. "You aren't pissed at me for letting The Wenche go, are you?"
"I guess not. Hell, you had more reason to want revenge on her than any of us... except Drew." He looked at her. "But maybe you if you would explain the freakin' why?"
"Yes," Drew said. "That would be enlightening."
Tai sighed and pulled her long wet hair out of her eyes again. "I dunno... if I thought that keeping The Wenche would get us Jessica back, I would've held onto her. But I know Fiendly well enough to know that would never happen."
"True," Drew admitted.
"And... even tho she is a sadistic bitch," Tai continued. "I don't think she deserves spending the rest of her life in some third world shithole."
"So what does she deserve?" Jeb grumbled.
"Fiendly," Tai replied. "And Fiendly deserves her."
Jeb looked at Tai again and shook his head. "Drew, what do you think?"
"I think if these bloody leather pants get any tighter I'm going to scream."
***
If The Wenche's ears were burning, she couldn't tell. Not with the cuffs and shoulder straps and the impossibly big ballgag that filled her mouth as she watched Grackel's Shelby Mustang chirp over another hill as he headed west into the Tenderloin.
Finally he pulled into a deserted alleyway. Most of the businesses here closed early, altho a Chinese restuarant was open three doors over.
Crowe T. Grackel cut the engine and lights, and then rolled down the sidewindow. Nothing and no one, only the smell of cooking food drifting over from the Chinese place.
"Perfect," he whispered, as he unbuckled the strap to The Wenche's ballgag and yanked it none to delicately from her mouth.
"Not a word, not one fucking word from that mouth of yours, nothing." He held up a fist in front of her face. "From now on, and for the rest of your life, that hole in your face has only two uses... taking nourishment ... and this."
Giggling, he started working on his belt buckle and the zipper on his pants. He didn't quite make it.
"No... Nuhooooo Not again!!!" He rose up in the bucket seat of the car, trying to stop his body's own impatience, as he tried reciting baseball stats and Republican Presidential candidates. Grackel finally settled back down, crying on the steering wheel.
"My, seems like you have some control issues," The Wenche said. "Perhaps a numbing agent would help..."
Grackel screamed and backhanded The Wenche hard enough to send her head bouncing off the sideglass. She was still watching the little tweety birds orbiting her head when she felt the barrel of the .45 once more jam itself into her ear. She somehow knew the safety was off and his finger was tight on the trigger.
"One more word, and you are dead," he said. "Now... what are you?"
She wondered if this would qualify for the one word that would kill her. "Nothing."
"And what am I?"
"Everything."
"Yeeeessssss..." He hissed like a snake as he put down the gun and jammed the ballgag back into her mouth, strapping it even tighter.
"We are gonna have so... much... fun!" He cackled as he opened the glove box and got out a rag and a small, capped bottle. When he opened it, The Wenche instantly smelled the chloroform. "First we're going up to a little cabin I have in the woods... where we're gonna get to know each other really well..."
He poured the contents of the bottle onto the rag and capped it again.
"And maybe after I start... modifying you to my own personal specifications, you'll learn to appreciate me a little more."
Grackel yanked her head back by her hair and with his other hand jammed the chloroform soaked rag over her nose.
Fannikins Wenche struggled as hard as she could, twisting and wrenching this way and that for over thirty seconds. Then she quieted down. Grackel watched the rise and fall of her spandexed breasts, and kept the rag over her face a good ten seconds after that.
"Good." He got out of the car and threw the rag away, already getting a little lightheaded himself. He knew the cops would probably be watching every tunnel, bridge and road out of SF after that big deal over at the First Interstate Center, so he planned to secure his new property in the trunk before he headed for his hideout.
Grackel opened the trunk and reached way in the back, where he kept the leather harness and straps.
He was pulling it out when the trunk top slammed down on his head. Hard. As the trunk top was lifted away, he went for his shoulder holstered pistol. Grackel got his torso slammed by the trunk top this time. When it released him again, he tumbled to the ground.
The .45 was still in his hand, but his hand was still on the inside of the trunk by the lock. The trunk lid came down a third time, hard enough to break bones. He screamed.
Grackel looked up and realized The Wenche was standing over him. She raised the trunk and he pulled his hand out, minus the pistol. He saw in the glare of a streetlight that his right hand was mangled and pumping blood. Broken knuckles and fingers throbbed without mercy.
Fannikins Wenche swayed unsteadily as she unstrapped the ballgag and spat it out. It would seem those arcane breathing exercises that Fiendly had insisted on had a purpose after all.
"You bitch..." Grackel stumbled to his feet in time to get a karate kick to the face that shattered another pair of eyeglasses and knocked him on his ass.
The Wenche held onto the rear fender of the Mustang to steady herself, taking deep breaths of air to clear the cold, mind-numbing effects of the chloroform. It felt like the alley was swaying to and fro like the deck of a schooner during a gale.
Grackel shook his head and spit out something crunchy. He realized it was his front teeth.
The Wenche tried to get a grip on her rolling stomach and stumbled forward as Grackel tried to get to his feet. She projectile vomited the rest of her dinner --clams cassino and a good white wine-- with enough force to splatter Grackel's face and chest.
"Oh.... Gaaaawd!!!" Grackel rolled away, and finally got to his feet as The Wenche burped and wiped her mouth with her forearm.
"Thass ith!" Grackel lisped, spraying blood and spit. "Yuth gunith die!!!"
Grackel snicked out a razor sharp, tactical folding knife from his belt. It had a 440 stainless tanto blade that could punch through a ribcage.
The Wenche took a step back and went to her trained defensive stance. The pistol in the trunk could've been on the far side of the moon for all the good it would do her now.
Grackel lunged forward, slicing the air with his blade in his left hand. The Wenche backed up, but not fast enough. She yelped as the blade cut across the palm of her left hand.
"Thass yuhh fisst tasth, bithh," Grackel growled.
The Wenche felt her back touching a huge, stinking dumpster right behind her. She was cornered.
When he came at her again, she sidestepped and caught his knife hand by the wrist, twisting his arm til he was straight armed before her with his joints locked.
Some people might have shown a little mercy at that moment. The Wenche just wasn't in the mood.
She drove her forearm through his elbow joint, which also snapped his left wrist and dislocated his shoulder. He dropped the knife, and she let him stand there for a long moment as the pain hit, before delivering a vicious side kick that shattered his left kneecap., followed by a kick to the balls that had every last ounce of her strength behind it.
Crowe T. Grackel hit the pavement. Down for the count. The Wenche stood over him, breathing hard. At least her head seemed clear.
She looked both ways down the alley for any sign of a witness. Nobody. She opened the trunk up and retrieved Grackel's Colt .45. Nice piece, she thought as she checked the clip and eased back the slide to make sure he had a round chambered.
Fannikins Wenche walked over to Grackel and placed her booted foot tight on his neck. As he gargled for air she aimed the .45 at his face and turned her head away so she wouldn't get his brains in her eyes.
She didn't fire. Instead she looked down at him for a long moment, and finally kneeled with one knee on his throat. She jammed the barrel of the pistol into his mouth.
"You... asshole!" she growled. "You think that all women are... nothings. That they're just meat that you can chew up and spit out when you're done with them." The Wenche smiled. "Well, when push comes to shove, you're the nothing. Hell, You're not even worth a fuckin' bullet."
The Wenche got to her feet and set the safety on the pistol. She gave Grackel a hard kick to the head that put his lights out and searched him good. She took his wallet, checkbook and what looked like some kind of bank passbook.
`
She frowned as she heard a faint crashing sound a couple of blocks down the alleyway. It was a huge, private industry garbage truck, picking up a huge steel dumpster with it's forked arms and lifting the dumpster's contents over the cab into a refuse compartment where it was tightly compacted.
She looked at Grackel, then looked at the overflowing, reeking dumpster a few feet away.
When she opened the small side door on the dumpster, gobs of Chinese food hit the ground. She managed to pick the unconscious Grackel and stuff him into the dumpster with only slight difficulty.
The Wenche then closed the trunk, got behind the driver's wheel of her classic Shelby ponycar and took off, burning rubber all the way down the street.
Her only concern was that she might have violated the City of San Francisco's strict environmental laws regarding the disposal of toxic waste products.
***
Dr. Fiendly looked at the glowing hands of his Rolex Submariner. A few minutes after nine. He had spent the last two hours sitting atop a picnic table that overlooked the Pacific Ocean and Seal Rocks, watching ghostly whitecaps rolling out of the foggy darkness and crashing into the shore below.
To the left was the famous Cliff House, and to the right, the ruins of the Sutro Baths. The cars parked along Point Lobos Avenue gave notice that the dark woods and shoreline held more than a few amourous teenagers.
He took a deep drag on his imported cigarette, a habit he rarely indulged in anymore, because The Wenche hated the way it made his mouth taste when she kissed him.
The Wenche. Where the hell was she?
Still no answer on her cellphone. No doubt she was currently residing in some Federal hoosegow, wearing an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit and already bossing around the other female inmates.
But Fiendly knew her. She was a bitch... a wench and a moll... and she would not allow herself be kept down and out for very long.
And... She is the woman that I love.
Fiendly turned as he heard the rumble of yet another big block V8 as it came to a stop beside the other cars. American teens and their toys, Fiendly thought.
The headlights of the new car went off and he heard a car door slam.
I wonder...
"Fiendly?" A woman's voice called out. "You about?"
He laughed and hopped off the table to run to her. He picked her up and hugged her and kissed her and spun her around in a circle.
"Owwww... watch it, you fiend!" she hissed. "I still have puke breath."
He put her down and looked at her face in the moonlight. She had a hell of a black eye and a bruised cheek. He looked at her hastily wrapped left hand that was still seeping blood and her bruised forearms and neck.
"Grackel?" he whispered with barely contained anger.
"Among others," The Wenche replied. "It's been one hell of a night."
"I can imagine."
"What about the fair Jessica?" The Wenche asked. "Is she..."
"Yes," Fiendly said. "And we are now both indecently, obscenely... wealthy!"
They laughed and hugged again.
"So," Fiendly looked at her, "is Grackel..."
"Well," The Wenche said. "Chances are he won't be making the sequel."
***
They transfered all their luggage from the rented Lincoln Towncar to the Shelby Mustang.
"So how hot is this chariot?" Fiendly asked.
"She needs tags, a new VIN number and a paint job," The Wenche replied, getting behind the wheel. "I've always been partial to Candy Apple Red."
"As you wish, Wenche!" Fiendly said grandly as he got in the passenger side. "I know a lovely little chop shop in Oakland..."
The Wenche kicked over the engine and pulled out. "Then... let's away!"
***
Midnight.
Driving yet another borrowed Agency Suburban, Jeb Stuart tried not to yawn. In the back seat, Tai Anne Roper and Drew Thrasher were cuddled together, both asleep.
It wasn't that far a ride from the Federal Building to The Brickyard, but Jeb was half tempted to find an alley and join them for forty winks.
The de-briefing had gone long, but smoothly. Already, BATF agents were going over the crimescene at the First Interstate Center that stretched from the 47th floor of the Mandarin Oriental to the third level parking garage.
Langley and Gwen Sweet were both out of surgery and doing fine at SF General.
Inspector Michelle Qwan of the RCMP had gone ballistic when she found out that Samarkand had given the Feds the slip. She was already enroute to Montreal, where she had intel he would be trying to make it out of North America.
Yukari Mei Awai was back on assignment with the ICPO. She was thinking of transfering to their International Anti-Terrorist Strike Force.
And that left his girls... Drew and Tai. Jeb looked back at them. One had double-crossed him and the other was a menace not only to herself but also to practically anybody she came within fifteen feet of.
He was half tempted to turn this buggy around and take them both to the Convent for Sequestered Girls. Maybe a year or two of gentle 'restraint' would do them both a world of good.
Instead, he turned off of Folsom and into the almost empty parking lot of The Brickyard.
"Alright, ladies!" Jeb called. "We're home."
***
It was strictly 'invitation only' in the dark, jazzy environs of Club 28. Jeb entered still wearing the remnants of his once expensive Armani suit. He had asked Leiter about the Agency paying for it. Leiter had just laughed and said something about considering it an even trade for the Agency vehicle he had blown to smithereens.
Drew and Tai were wearing the clothes they had gotten from the feds. Blue button down shirts, tight denim blue jeans and sneakers. They looked like they were ready star in a cheap 'women in prison' flick.
Waiting for them was Paige Torne, still in her black leather pencil skirt and white silk blouse. Beside her was Taffy Chu in a black latex micro mini and matching thigh high boots. Buff and khakied Kira McElroy was nursing her customary Fosters beside Talia Monet and Babydoll who wore spandex minidresses.
"Hey, darlens," Paige grinned.
Tai Anne Roper came to her and accepted a long hug and a deep kiss, then she went down the line and hugged the others, saving another liplock session for Taffy. Drew hugged Paige and accepted a glass of ancient single malt scotch whisky that burned all the way down her gullet.
"Aye," Drew said. "I needed that."
"I hear you had a tough time of it, Drew," Paige said gently.
"Tough... you could say that." She looked over at Tai, who was chatting with Taffy. "And I think... I've fallen in love."
"With Tai Anne?"
"Yes."
Paige smirked. "Welcome to the club, sister."
***
The two women entered Club 28 hand in hand. Two black women walking tall and proud. Iwana Binder wore a tan leather jumpsuit with zippers, buckles and straps. While Kunta Kintare wore a black leather mini that was cinched tighter than possible.
"Oh... my... GAWD!!!" Tai Anne Roper shouted as she ran into Iwana Binder's arms.
"Mah sistahgrrl." Iwana held onto her like she never wanted to let go of her again.
They kissed, long and deep and with a passion that almost scorched the room.
Tai stepped back, licking her lips. "Jiminy Crickets!"
"Oh yeah." Iwana ran her fingers through her hair.
"Uh, Iwana," Tai asked. "Whats with the wig?"
"This?" Iwana indicated the large, curly afro that made her look like a dancer on a mid-seventies re-run of Soul Train. "Ain't no wig, sistahgrrl. This be mah real 'do."
"Truth is," Kunta Kintare said. "Both Iwana and I got into a bit of a fight and were banged up pretty good. Both of us received blood transfusions from Jessica McClintock before she was taken from here."
"My God!" Tai looked them over. "Then it is true! I mean about the omni-potent stem cells in her body..."
"Not only is mah hair growing," Iwana said. "But Ah also feel better! Remember that busted finger Ah had that never healed right?" She flexed her left hand. "All better! And remember all that bridge work Ah needed in mah mouth when Ah lost those three teeth? Ah hadda take it out jus' now! Cuz mah teeth are growin' back!"
Drew turned to Paige. Both women had been listening in on the conversation. Jeb joined them, nursing a double bourbon on the rocks.
"This Jessica McClintock thing isn't going to go away," he said.
Paige nodded. "Grackel took Jessica..."
"Who gave her to Fiendly..." Drew continued.
"Who handed her off for a big payday to... whom?" Jeb asked.
"It would have to be someone with a lot more finesse then either her father, or Joe Weskler. Someone not connected to Samarkand, Tanner-Hyde or the bloody Fist of Allah," Drew said.
"But who else..." Suddenly it came to Jeb. "Of course! The better half of the equation!"
"Exactly," Drew said, sipping her whisky.
"The mother," Paige whispered. "Fiona Jacklin. The famous actress who diddled with her own DNA just like her ex-hubby... and is also extremely rich and powerful..."
"Find her, find Jessica," Jeb said.
***
"Mama-san!" Tai cried and ran again into another woman's arms, this time it was Dr. Yoshiko Katsuhara Roper, who had just entered Club 28.
"Tai-chan!" She held her tightly. "I thought I would never see you again!"
Tai kissed her and grinned. "Com'n, Mama-san! You know I always come bobbin' to the surface sooner or later!"
"Yes," Yoshiko took her by one arm as Iwana took the other. "And now it is time to talk about that!"
The two women led Tai to a corner table and sat her down between them.
***
Ten minutes later, Paige was by herself at the bar. Drew and Jeb were off arguing over the redemptive qualities of Kentucky bourbon vs. Scotch whisky, while Paige swirled a jalapeno stuffed olive in a fresh martini.
Kira came to her side holding a cellphone.
"Paige! It's for you!"
"I tole you... no calls."
"You'll wanna take this one, luv."
"Look, rght now I don't care if it's frickin' Betty Page..."
"It's Jessica."
Paige took a deep breath and grabbed the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Paige... its me, Jessica!"
Paige took a deep breath. It was a good, clear connection. "How are ya, Darlen'?"
"Oh, fine! That's why I called, to letcha know I'm okay, and that I hadn't been kidnapped or anything."
"Where are you?"
"Well, I can't say right now."
"Who are you with?" Paige asked. "Your Mom?"
She seemed surprised. "How did you know that?"
"I know alot of things. Why did she take you?"
"She didn't take me," Jessica replied. "I went with her. Willingly! Her lawyers have already contacted the authorities so that nobody will think that I've really been kidnapped."
Great! Paige thought. That shuts down any official investigation. "Look, is she with you now?"
"Sure! You wanna talk with her?"
"Oh yeah."
She heard the phone clatter and click, and then another woman's voice that Paige recognized right away from a dozen movies.
"Ms. Torne?"
"Yes, Ms. Jacklin. This is Paige Torne."
"First, I want to thank you for all you've done for my daughter! Stepping in as you did and giving her safe haven from both her father, and my personal nemesis, Joseph Weskler."
"Not at all," Paige replied. "I was glad to help."
"I hope you'll allow me to express my gratitude where it can do some good," Fiona continued. "I've already told my San Francisco attorneys to hand deliver to you tomorrow, a check for a generous sum, in appreciation of services rendered."
"That won't be necessary, Ms. Jacklin."
"Oh, please! Call me Fiona! And you're... Paige, is it?" she continued on. "Jessica tells me that you do this kind of thing alot... protecting and helping people covertly find new lives from hostile governments and others wishing to do them harm."
"I do what I can."
"Well, I think it's just wonderful! You know, I have a few, select organizations that I make regular charitable contributions to," Fiona said. "I would love to be able to make your organization one of them."
"Mmm... I bet," Paige replied. "Maybe we can discuss this over lunch sometime soon. When's a good day for you, Fiona?"
"Well, no time in the forseeable future I'm afraid! See, I'm going to be spending alot of quality time with my daughter. Making up for lost years and all that."
"Well, could I at least visit Jessica and see how she's doing?"
"I'mmmmmm... afraid not, Paige. After all she's been through recently, I think some time out in the country... in seclusion, is called for."
"Can I hear that from Jessica?"
"I don't think so." Fiona Jacklin's famous voice got lower and more serious. "Paige, dear... you aren't going to let this go are you?"
"Nope."
"That's unfortunate," she said. "For you see, I can either be your valued friend, or I can be your worst enemy."
"Bring it on, bitch," Paige said. "And tell your daughter that I'll be seeing her... soon."
***
Fiona Jacklin opened her mouth to reply and realized that Paige had hung up on her.
"That cunt!" Fiona growled. She clicked off the phone and flung it angrily down the carpeted aisleway of the Gates Learjet that was flying due east and was currently 41,000 feet over Nebraska.
Jade unbuckled her seatbelt and retrieved it for her like a good little lapdog.
"Mommy," Jessica McClintock said from her seat next to Fiona. "That really wasn't necessary! I so wanted you and Paige to be friends!"
"Some things aren't meant to be, dear," Fiona replied.
Jessica sighed and strained once more against her restraints. "And I keep telling you that all of this really isn't needed!"
'All of this' consisted of the tightly buckled, canvas strait jacket Jessica now wore, along with a canvas hobble skirt strapped tight at knees and ankles. Heavy four-point restraints connected to the jacket kept her immobile in her cushioned seat.
"Hush now, dear," Fiona said, getting up. "Mommy wants you to get some sleep now."
That seemed to be code for Ivory and Ebony to move in on Jessica. The lowered the back of her seat, and Ebony stood over her as Ivory handed her a rubber ball that she forced into Jessica's mouth, followed by a wide latex strap that covered the lower half of her face, a wide latex blinder that covered her eyes and a pair of headphones placed in her ears that let her listen to waves crashing into the seashore.
Jade followed her Mistress to the small wetbar at the back of the plane,where she had poured herself a tall glass of chilled vodka.
"Problems. Ma'am?" she asked.
"Just this damned... face," Fiona replied, gingerly touching the skintone latex over her cheeks. "Christ, a few years ago I could wear it for a week. Now, after just a few hours it feels like I'm being buried alive."
Jade nodded sympathetically. "Perhaps your daughter will be of assistance in this matter."
"She'd better be," Fiona Jacklin said. "She's my last hope."
Chapter Forty-Two