Linda Hansen squinted as the door to her prison opened and the bright lights flared on, revealing her naked body still strapped and splayed to an iron pipe.
Linda looked at Debbie Watson who was staring up at her. She knew things about dear Debbie that Debbie herself wouldn't admit to herself. Like the fact that she loved working for Valerie Corder, if for no other reason than to enjoy the sight and sounds of tortured, bound women suffering for the rest of their lives.
Debbie smiled at Linda and began to undo the leather straps at her ankles, followed by the cruelly cinched cuntstrap and the removal of the dildo and plug that had filled her completely.
Last came the straps at shoulders, wrists and the head harness that let her pull the plug gag from her mouth.
Linda sobbed and drooled all over her breasts while Debbie held her tight, stroking her blonde hair and hugging her pain-wracked body.
"Com'n, Lin," Debbie whispered to her. "Let's get you in the shower and get you fixed up..."
Linda grabbed hold of Debbie and looked in her eyes. "Whaaaa... what is gonna happen to me? Tell me."
Debbie smiled. "Well, in the last few hours, things really went to shit. Big time! So Val decided to give you another chance at your old job. Okay?"
Linda looked at her for a long moment and finally began to laugh. She hugged Debbie and laughed and laughed all through her long, hot shower. She was even giggling when she was drying off and getting dressed in a clingy, black turtleneck sweater, tight black leather pants, boots and her familar shoulder rig with a new .45 caliber hk-23 SOCOM pistol that was fresh out of the box.
"So where is Val?" Linda asked as she finished loading the spare clips.
"Asleep," Debbie replied. "She's had a long night."
Linda snapped a loaded magazine in the pistol and worked the slide. She wondered what Val's reaction would be if she strode into her bedroom and double-tapped her in the fucking head.
Linda set the safety and holstered her pistol. Her body still ached and hurt in places a woman's body shouldn't.
"So what happened while I was off the clock?" Linda asked. She walked into the living room of Corder's condo in the Colonnade on Central Park West. The three pieces of 'living' furniture had been put away for the night, but Linda knew that by 7am the pieces would be back in service, suffering in silence.
A glance at her Navy SEALS Swiss Luminox watch told her it was almost four in the am.
"Well," Debbie began. "Around 2:30, ISIS Control sent in two squads to terminate Qwan and Killian, who were watching over Melissa Martin at the Jamaica Medical Center in Queens..."
"Lemme guess... Qwan and Killian made hash outta them."
"Yuppers. Final tally was five operatives killed, four wounded and captured, three escaped unharmed."
"Ouch!" Linda smirked. "Did they even touch any of the targets?"
"Word from Blackbyrd is that Qwan is unharmed, Agent Killian is in the ER with unknown wounds... and Melissa Martin has rabbited."
"Really?" Linda opened the sliding glass door to the balcony and took a deep breath as she looked out over Central Park. "So even Qwan doesn't know where she is?"
"Apparently not," Debbie said. "Blackbyrd is trying to get away to chat up Qwan and find out what she knows. Right now she's in the hotseat with her superiors in the FBI."
"I'd imagine so." Linda Hansen looked out over the city streets far below her. Somewhere down there was Melissa Martin, A woman who had been kidnapped, tortured, raped and enslaved for five years at the personal behest of Valerie Corder.
So the good news was that Melissa Martin had for her own reasons escaped the police, and was now on her own. Or was that the bad news?
"Anything else?"
"Yeah. The Collector nabbed Iwana Binder. She bringing her east on a jet that she hijacked from Joe Weskler," Debbie said. "She'll be here by 10am."
"Good, that means La Donia Scagnetti will be owing us one hell of a big favor," Linda said. "Call that New York cop who helped us at the Plaza... Spinelli, tell him to get a line on those damned Puma bitches. Let's see how the mighty Qwan can handle them."
***
Melissa Martin had gotten one helluva shock when her taxi had dropped her off at Times Square.
When she had last been there five years ago the forced 'Disneyfication' of this cultural icon had been just getting underway, under the behest of then Mayor Rudy Guiliani.
The beach-head had been made with the opening of the massive Disney Store on 42nd Street, followed by daily sweeps by New York's finest to get rid of the homeless, the hookers and the flim-flam men who sold everything from fake Rolexes to umbrellas on the sidewalks.
Then came the removal of the small coffeeshops, the hole-in-the-wall businesses and souvenir shops and even the SRO hotels that had been part of the city from the turn of the century.
Now Times Square was 'family friendly', with a MickeyDs, a KFC and clean, upscale businesses like the Virgin Megastore, a Tower Records and whatever else was clean and plastic and safely homogenized.
But like most things in this world, reality can't be swept under the carpet without a few bumps showing. At 44th and Broadway, Melissa Martin bought a canvas carryall with a shoulder strap, a cheap trench coat and a pair of knock-off Air Jordans in her size from a street vender operating out of a parked station wagon.
The trenchcoat covered up the hospital scrubs, the carryall held the Desert Eagle .44 and the money she had gotten off the dead badguy.
Now she walked south on Broadway towards the Garment District, eating a huge, gooey slice of pepperoni and mushroom pizza and a Papaya slushie.
Melissa grinned like a fool. Things may have been horrible yesterday, and they may be worse tomorrow... but right now things were just fine. She had her freedom. She had money. And she had a big ass hand cannon to blow the head off any motherfucker who tried to dick with her.
Life was good.
She finished the pizza to fast, the cheese trying to burn a whole through the roof of her mouth. She washed it down with the papaya slushie and got a brain freeze headache. Christ, even that felt good.
"Heya, baaaaaabeeee..."
The loud whisper came from the shadows of a dark alleyway at 34th and Broadway, between the lit splendor of the Empire State Building and the new Manhattan Mall across from the flagship Macy's.
Melissa stopped. She spotted a tall and and rail-thin black man standing in those shadows. She walked across the sidewalk and into the alley.
"Yeah?"
He looked her over. "Don't sees many fine lookin' wimmen likes you at this time o' night. You lookin' fo sumpin'?"
"Maybe."
"Gotz nose candy and H... also some rocks at ten bucks a pop."
Melissa nodded. He was well-dressed in a nice suit, but he stank of perspiration and desperation. She could tell by his dangerous, blood red eyes that he had made the single worst mistake any pusher could make. He had a developed a taste for his own merch.
"Tell me," Melissa said, stepping deeper into the darkness. "You sell any of this shit to kids?"
"Fuuuuck," the man rasped. "Ah sells to whoevah the fuck gots ten bucks!"
"I figured that." Melissa turned fast and drive her right fist hard into his throat. There was a hollow crack and then a hissing sound like someone letting the air out of a tire. The man fell to the ground, twitching and gasping. He was dead thirty seconds later.
Melissa went carefully through his pockets, being careful not to get her prints on anything. She found a wad of cash big enough to choke a horse, a stainless Taurus wondernine and separate stashes where he had kept his various poisons.
She took everything, stashed it away in her carryall and kept walking south on Broadway into the old Garment District.
***
The Garment District was still old Manhattan. Where tall buildings held factories that employed hundreds, not to mention small, hole-in-the-wall businesses that had been around for decades.
At the Meecham Building on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 29th, Melissa Martin checked the building directory and was happy to still find a listing for J. Bradislaw and Sons - Fine Custom Tailoring for Men. Still on the 14th floor.
She looked at the cheap watch she had picked up from another street vender. 4:18 in the morning. She buzzed for entry and got an old man's voice warbling over the ancient p.a. system.
"Yes? Who is it?"
"I have a package for a Mr. Joachaim Bradislaw," Melissa Martin replied. "C.O.D. from Chicago."
"Who's it from?"
"A Mr. Needham... I gotta get a signiture tho. Valuable goods."
There was a long pause, Melissa started to sweat.
"Okay... I'll buzz you in."
The door hummed and Melissa opened it and walked quickly through the dark lobby. She took the elevator up.
The hallway of the 14th floor was dark and deadly quiet. She walked to a door of frosted glass that proclaimed the business of J. Bradislaw and Sons.
"Hold it right there."
Melissa smiled and turned. Stepping from the shadows was a frail old man dressed in a ratty robe and aiming a blue steel Luger pistol right at her face.
"Hello, Joachaim," Melissa said.
Joachaim Bradislaw stared at her. Finally he lowered the pistol and snugged it back into the pocket of his robe. "Melissa? Is it really you? After all these years?"
"Yeah," Melissa replied. "It's me."
"They told me you were dead."
"They lied," Melissa replied simply.
Bradislaw approached her. "I don't do business with the Agency anymore. I quit after I lost you."
"I'm not with the Agency either," Melissa offered. "This is personal."
"What do you want?"
"Help," Melissa Martin said. "I was a prisoner of a white slaver for five years. I want to find this person and kill her."
"And you think I can help you with this?" he snorted. "Just look at me! I'm an old man."
Melissa frowned and took a step back. "You look the same as you did five years ago. And I see you're still carrying around that Luger you took off that SS officer when you were in the Warsaw Ghetto."
He frowned. "Did I tell you that story?"
"Yeah. But tell me again."
"All right." Bradislaw chuckled. "I was only 16 then. There were three of them chasing me through the Warsaw ruins for the crime of stealing bread for my family. Dirty goddamn Nazis. I snuck up behind the officer an SS captain no less! and swiped this very same pistol right out of his holster! Then I killed the son of a bitch. Then I hunted down and killed the other two Nazi bastards."
Melissa nodded. "That's why I came to you, Joachaim. I thought you of all people would understand the need for revenge."
The old man looked at this tall, statuesque woman, with her blonde hair and blue eyes she looked as Aryan as the bastards he had hunted and killed all through the war as a Polish partisan ranger.
He nodded. "Come along then. I will help you."
***
The offices of J. Bradislaw and Sons were a mess, with rolls of fabric and clothing patterns scattered everywhere.
First thing Bradislaw did was go to the hot plate and boil some water for coffee.
"Where are your sons?" Melissa asked.
"Far and away," he answered. "One is a soldier in Iraq. Another lives in Michigan with his family. Another lives in Baltimore." He shrugged. "I am by myself these days." He looked at her. "Or at least I was."
"Still have a bedroom in back?" Melissa found a seat and hugged herself.
"Sure. You are welcome to stay as long as you like by the way." He poured the water and stirred in the Folgers. "What else do you need?"
"Clothes. Fake ID. And information." She accepted the coffee and took a sip. It was horrible.
"Information on who?"
"Anything you can get on a woman named Valerie Corder. Also Linda Hansen and Deborah Watson. All living here in New York. Also anything on a company called Imperial Security Investigative Services."
Bradislaw was scribbling this down. "I'll get started first thing in the morning."
"That's a good idea." Melissa got up, leaving most of her coffee. "I need some sleep too. Take your time with this and be damned careful."
Bradislaw just chuckled at this girl's suggestion. He had been doing wetwork like this for over sixty years.
***
In Little Italy they still call them 'social clubs', small, hole-in-the-wall coffee shops on the forgotten side alleys off Canal Street.
Here, nobody sees anything or hears anything. Here you can do a deal whether you're a cop or a wiseguy or even a shady investment banker trying to unload 400K of Hong Kong gold before the market opens.
At a quarter to five in the morning, Luigi's Coffeeshop was still open and all but deserted except for Sergeant Sal Spinelli of the NYPD, who was in a corner booth sipping on his third expresso while chainsmoking cigarettes.
He looked up as Linda Hansen arrived in a long, black leather coat over matching leather pants and boots. She went to his table and sat down.
"You got balls," Spinelli remarked. "There's still a citywide all-points out on youz."
"Yada-yada-yada," Linda replied as a pretty young Italian waitress came up to their table. "Double expresso, please."
The waitress nodded, leaving a complimentary tray of breakfast biscottes. Spinelli abesently nibbled on an almond one. "So? What's doin'?"
"For starters, where are the goddamn Pumas?" Linda asked.
"Fuck if I know, Dey aren't at any of dere hangouts an' aren't answerin' the phone." He shrugged. "They'll show when they show."
"Okay, what about Scagnetti?"
"La Donia or the old man?"
"La Donia Lucrezia of course."
"She's gettin' mighty hinkey. She's nervous about the hit she put out on the Qwan bitch in Montreal getting traced back to her, and she wasn't fuckin' overjoyed dat your boss brought the bitch here."
"Never mind that," Linda said. "Just get word to her that the bitch who killed her son has been taken and is on her way here."
"That'll brighten her day," Spinelli said, sipping his expresso. "Might even make her forget about the total hash you dumb cunts made o'things last night at JFK and then Jamaica Medical."
Now it was Linda's turn to shrug while the waitress returned with her double expresso. It was hard to argue with a guy when he was right.
"Ya got, what? Nine fuckin' dead and ten more arrested an' every damn one of 'em on the payroll to Imperial Security... which is connected right back to Corder." He laughed. "Tell your bosslady that if she don't watch it, she'll be doin' a perp walk right into the Federal Courthouse." He sniggered. "Mebbe she'll get Martha fuckin' Stewart as a cellmate!"
"Fuck that." Linda chose a macaroon from the plate and ate it. "How close are we on framing some warm bodies for the Plaza hit?"
"Real close," Spinelli said. "Got a crew of crackheads outta Miami. Fuckin' Cubans with Mac-10s out the wahzoo. All we gotta do is set'em up and shoot'em down. NYPD searches their crib an' comes up with evidence that they whacked Cundalini and the ten cops with Sue Kaminisky's help."
"Good." She handed a piece of paper to Spinelli. "Here's the setup. Have these Cubans hit this address and you guys take out the crew after they finish."
Spinelli studied the address and nodded. "And who is dis Amanda Frasier?"
"A 'puter hacker working for Killian," Linda said. "Hopefully they'll kill her and whoever the fuck is with her."
"Gotcha," Spinelli said. "This mornin' will be perfect. The brass are scattered all over to hell'n back attendin' Inspector funerals for those dead cops."
"Just make it work." Linda finished her expresso and walked out, sticking Spinelli with the bill.
***
FBI Asst. Director in Charge Emma Blackbyrd squealed her black Ford Crown Vic 'G-sled' to a halt in front of the Jamaica Medical Center Hospital, where at least twenty NYPD cruisers were parked with flashbars still strobing away.
She walked quickly to the front doors, where a crew of forensic techs were still trying to extricate the body of a well-dressed man in black from a shattered door frame two and a half hours after the shoot out.
Blackbyrd would have been here earlier, but she had been stuck in her office in Federal Plaza in a three-way conferance call with the FBI Director himself and the senior Deputy US Attorney General.
They had all wanted to know how an FBI agent and a Canadian mountie could've gotten into not one, but two separate firefights in one night, leaving a trail of deal and wounded perps from JFK to Jamaica, Queens.
Emma Blackbyrd had held her own, and even managed to hold on to her job for the time being. But she had a feeling that she'd soon be looking for employment in the private sector soon.
That is if she wasn't going away for an extended vacation at Club Fed, say for the next 10 to 15 years.
She caught sight of one of her FBI agents guarding the lobby. He nodded as she approached.
"Cobey, isn't it?" she asked. "What's the sit-rep?"
"Final tally is five perps dead and four wounded and in custody," Special Agent Cobey walked fast to keep up with her.
"We interrogating any of them yet?"
"Nope, they're all either unconscious or still in surgery," he replied. "But they're all connected to this Imperial Security Investigative Services that Killian and Qwan ran into out at JFK. Looks like they were looking for the woman they rescued from out there. This... Melissa Martin."
"Any sign of her?"
"Negative. Like she vanished into thin air," Cobey said. They had arrived by the elevators where two loaded bodybags were being zipped up. "There's a local and Federal BOLO out on this Martin woman. We're also working on a tip she might've been a former Federal agent herself."
Christ, it just keeps getting better and better! Blackbyrd thought, bitting her lip to keep from laughing... or crying.
"Let me know the second they find her," Blackbyrd said. So I can pack my things and get the hell outta Dodge!
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah, Joe Killian was sent to the ER, but he's in surgery right now." Cobey paused. "It... doesn't look good."
***
Michelle Qwan hated hospital waiting rooms.
They were all alike, whether they were in Hong Kong, Vancouver or New York. They were always icebox cold, there was always a television bolted to the wall that no one was watching blaring away and there was always that air of desperate hope and ready fear that could almost be touched.
Qwan jammed her fists into her trenchcoat, leaning against a wall. Thad Kudlow was talking to five other FBI guys in a corner. All were on the short list as friends of Joe and could be trusted. It was almost 5 am. Special Agent Joe Killian had been in an operating room for nearly an hour.
Two women wearing coats and worried faces entered the waiting room escorted by two more feds.
"Thad!" The older woman shouted, and Kudlow turned and went to her, giving her a hug. The woman looked to be in her fifties or so, while the pretty, brown-haired girl beside her looked to be in her early twenties.
Qwan walked up to them, just as Kudlow was filling them in on the bad news.
"...so Joe wasn't shot, but he did get hit on the head pretty damn hard," Kudlow was saying. "There was some... swelling of the brain, and the doctors decided the had to operate... right away."
"Brain surgery?" the young girl wailed.
"Just... a coupla very small holes to relieve the pressure," Kudlow said reasuringly. He looked at Qwan. "Ah! Michelle, I want you to meet Joe's mom and his kid sister, Wendy." He looked to them. "Mrs. Killian, this is Inspector Michelle Qwan of the RCMP. She was working a case with Joe tonight."
Qwan came forward and shook hands with Mrs. Killian and her daughter. Both looked at her with suspicious eyes. She didn't blame them one damned bit.
That's when Qwan saw the doctor appear in the waiting room, still wearing sweat stained scrubs and a defeated look on his face.
"Excuse me, are you the family of Mr. Killian?" he asked.
Michelle Qwan walked away, even as she heard the doctor give them the speech about how every heroic measure had been tried, but that despite all their finest efforts, Joseph Killian had died on the operating table ten minutes ago.
Qwan found an unlocked door down the corridor and made it through, turning on the lights to find herself in an empty exam room.
She closed the door and waited for something. Anger, sorrow, rage... something. It was there, but it was still simmering just below the surface.
Jesus Christ. It never got better. Just ten times worse. First in the summer of '87 when she had lost Davey Leung and that rookie Chan Lo at that safehouse in Kowloon.
Then there was that supposed drug house in West Vancouver just four years ago that had been boobytrapped and wired with plastique. One mountie dead, one crippled for life. Only Michelle Qwan had walked away from that party.
I've lost another partner.
She ran through the inevitable coulda woulda shouldas, but it still added up to a dead partner. Joe Killian had been a good man. He had looked out for her. But she hadn't been there to look out for him.
There was a tapping on the door.
"Yes?" Qwan called.
"Michelle, its me. Emma Blackbyrd. Can I come in?"
Qwan almost smiled. Her simmering anger was just coming to a boil. "Sure."
Blackbyrd entered, wearing her long, shiny leather coat over her stylish, short black dress, and even after an entire night of distractions, the black woman's upswept 'do was perfect, as was her makeup. "I just heard about Joe Killian."
"Lock the door, will you?" Qwan asked, turning away from her and facing a wall.
"Sure, babe." Blackbyrd locked the door and approached Qwan. "I want you to know that we're doing everything we can to track down these assholes. And while the regs won't allow you to work the case, you are welcome to stay in New York."
Qwan almost shuddered. She bit her lip. "How convenient."
"Is there anything else you can tell me about this Melissa Martin?" she asked. "I'd like to get a location on her ASAP."
"I just bet you would."
Blackbyrd studied her. "Michelle? Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked.
Qwan nodded. "One thing."
"Name it."
Qwan swung herself around with a roundhouse right kick that caught Emma Blackbyrd in the neck and slammed her into a corner of the small room.
Qwan's booted foot stayed jammed into Blackbyrd's throat, her long, leathered leg braced as straight as a tree trunk, holding her pinned to the wall.
Blackbyrd's face darkened as she gargled for air and scratched at Qwan's leg and boot to no avail. She then tried to pull out her service pistol but Qwan quickly increased the pressure on a neck artery until she blacked out and her Glock clattered to the tiled floor.
Twenty seconds later, Blackbyrd regained consciousness to find herself still pinned to the wall by Qwan.
"The one thing I want to know, bitch, is why you sold us out to Valerie Corder."
"Neeeeeeeevahh... deeedit!" Blackbyrd rasped, the boot now beginning to crush her throat.
"Those goons who came for us tonight work for Imperial Security, same as the goons we met at the airport. And Imperial Security is controlled by Valerie Corder," Qwan growled. "When they arrived here, they knew right where to find us. That ER had fifty plus people standing around, but they walked right up to Killian. And when they went for Melissa Martin and myself, they knew to go right for Exam Room 2."
Blackbyrd tried to shake her head in the negative, which just made Qwan grind her boot into her neck all the harder.
"Valerie Corder wants me dead," Qwan hissed. "That's why she had her new girlfriend Scagnetti try to blow me away up in Montreal. Right?"
"Nggggggggh..."
"Then when Killian and I tumbled across Melissa Martin, there was no time for any finesse. You set us up and Corder used her own goons to take us out. Riiiiiiight?"
Qwan let the pressure off a bit.
"Stop this shit, you crazy cunt!" Blackbyrd croaked weakly. "Lemme go!"
"Just answer the goddamn question."
"I ain't sayin' shit to you!" Suddenly Blackbyrd's eyes went wide and her moves became frenzied as Qwan shoved her boot in deep. "Fu-fuhfuh-uck! Kill me if you want, cunt!"
"I won't kill you. I'll just cut off your air and leave you a veg," Qwan growled. "Or I'll snap your neck and leave you a quadriplegic with a tube for eating and a tube for shitting... your call."
"Eat shit!"
Qwan released her hold and Emma Blackbyrd hit the floor, gasping for breath. Qwan picked up her Glock and stepped back as Blackbyrd then retched all over the floor.
"This... thing, between you and Corder, it isn't about money, is it?" Qwan smirked. "Or at least, not all about money. What did that rich bitch slaver offer you? Power? A slave of your own? What?"
Emma Blackbyrd looked up at Qwan with tear-stained cheeks. She wiped the vomit off her lips. "You wouldn't get it."
"No doubt," Qwan said. She headed for the door. "Stay away from me. Stay away from my friends. Stay away from Kudlow, and let him run the investigation as he wants."
Or what?" Blackbyrd snarled.
"Or I'll tell Valerie Corder you sang like a bird when I put the the heat to you." Qwan opened the door and looked down at her. "Want some advice? Find a good lawyer, think about coming clean and making a deal... and buy some new perfume. A dirty cop always stinks like shit."
She slammed the door behind her.
***
Qwan walked over to where Kudlow was talking with the other FBI guys.
"Where's Joe's Mother and sister?" Qwan asked.
"They're IDing the body. Just a formality," Kudlow replied. She could tell he had been crying. "Then it's our turn. You and me. Doc should be around in a few minutes."
"I can't stay," Qwan said simply. "I gotta get Yukari and a CI of Joe's tucked away someplace safe for the duration."
"Sure, I unnerstand."
"Here." Qwan handed him the Sony pocket recorder. "This is a statement Melissa Martin made to me just before the shooting started. Get it transcribed and put in front of a Federal judge. It'll be good enough for a warrant to be put out on Valerie Corder."
Kudlow nodded and slipped it carefully into his suitcoat pocket.
"One last thing," Qwan said. "Stay away from Blackbyrd. She's in on this whole thing with Corder."
"I thought so!" Kudlow hissed. But can you prove it?"
"Not yet... but I will." She looked fondly at Kudlow. "You're a good cop, Thad. I'll be in touch. Don't call me, I'll call you."
"So what're you going to do?" Kudlow asked as he followed her to the elevators.
"Rattle some cages," Qwan said. She stepped aboard an elevator and punched a button for the lobby. "Don't worry though. I'm very good at it."