Читать книгу Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs - Jina Bacarr - Страница 7

1

Two years later Zurich

I lean over and tighten my sagging black satin bra strap before gravity takes over and my left breast pops out. Not easy to do when I’m running through the trash-strewn cobblestone alley smelling like dead cats and urine in thigh-high, black-leather embroidered boots with stiletto heels and a beaded Cleopatra wig, heading for the Central Plaza Hotel to hook up with my Russian informant, and I’m late. He insisted on meeting me at the piano bar in the hotel situated on the riverfront, a favorite of his, where the ex-KGB agent downed shots of vodka during the Cold War.

Not a good sign. His turf, his rules. I hope today’s mark doesn’t give me any trouble. The last man I shot asked me if I liked to sleep in a T-shirt or lingerie. Nothing at all, I said, then before he could take me down, I took him out with my Glock 22. After all, this is a job. And I’ve learned to do it well. The name on my U.S. passport identifies me as Breezy Malone, a twenty-nine-year-old female; place of birth, Philadelphia. I’m taller than average with sun-streaked, white-blond hair and green eyes. Since my recruitment as a special agent for Theta Agency, I’ve become proficient in adapting disguises, served as a provocateur to entrap extremists and participated in numerous black ops, including major “wet” operations.

Contrary to popular imaginings, the latter has nothing to do with ejaculation but with rolling up political insurgents in Europe and the Middle East. No thumbscrews for torture or blunt objects for persuasion for me. I use vaginal wizardry to entice the target. I go where other government agents can’t, taking down sophisticated men in gray tweed as well as terrorists who view the world with a piercing gaze and an AK-47.

As an Arab-speaking agent, I use my language skills as well as my personal attributes, often obtaining more intel by keeping out of the subject’s arms. If a man is only physically attracted to me, he will lose interest once he has had sex with me. But if he comes to rely upon me more for companionship and sympathy than merely for sex, the operation has a better chance of success. From supine and supple positions to tease and torture, I can execute any sexual task required of me. Using erotic techniques I learned at the TA training camp near Prague, I snare my target in a black-leather web of intrigue and lust.

My curvy body is the ultimate honey trap.

I check my weapon hidden in my bondage belt along with my prepaid cell phone and wad of cash tucked away in my corset. I’m not fond of the black-leather armor and skimpy red thong I’m wearing, but it’s part of the job. Fit in with the locals. Everyone on the streets is wearing crazy outfits. Guys with silver-painted bodies and sporting frizzy purple wigs, girls wearing lacy bras and bare-bottom cowboy chaps. I see latex and sequins everywhere, flower pasties, even pink-feathered boas. The Love Parade attracts big crowds in the Swiss capital for a weekend of love and beer, though it’s more about sex than love.

The perfect place to exchange cash for trash. Bureau-speak for useless intel. According to recent chatter picked up on the street, the Russian knows more than he’s selling about terrorist activities in Western Europe. We can’t afford any more intelligence failures. Everybody knows the game has changed. No longer are attacks planned and executed by a single al-Qaeda mastermind. Fueled by an ever-increasing well of recruits bound together by motives and causes, it’s up to me to find out what the Russian knows and who he’s working for.

Unlike military interrogators who push emotional buttons to get the intel, I’ve taken on the persona of a dominatrix to whip the informant into shape with my sexual tricks. With my sharp black nails flashing from the tips of my fingers to my mouth glossed with Sinfully Red lipstick, I’ve been sent to flush out this ex-KGB agent by my handler, Rork, Special Agent in Charge.

Unlike authorized FBI counterintelligence agents, TA special agents need a handler, an agent who can provide technical support in the form of service weapons, operating funds, clandestine communications gear, spy cameras and other specialized equipment.

A sudden stab of adrenaline strikes me, hitting me in my gut. I’ve also got personal reasons for working this case. I’ve waited a long time for this day since I went over the prison wall in Syria. If the Russian is involved with a certain Chechen-based renegade, as I suspect, then we’ve got business of another kind to settle. Every target I take down brings me one step closer to finding Sharif and bringing him to justice.

I’m about to round a corner when I sense someone sniffing me out like an animal in heat. Nothing new to me. Since I received government-issued breast implants, I’m used to being stared at wherever I go. But this is one pussycat who hasn’t got time for primal games.

I slow down, walk purposefully down the alley. I’m a TA special agent who knows her job, wants to get it done and get back into my slinky, formfitting catsuit. Black. I disappear in black, my chin-length sugarcane hair turned up in a perfect flip.

I wipe off the back of my neck with my hand. The damn wig is hot and sweat is dripping down my bare back. I inhale the smell of my own body heat and a familiar desire to relieve the gnawing ache between my legs hits me. Good. I can use my own need to keep the mark off balance, make the Russian forget he’s a card-carrying member of an elite terrorist group.

Out of the corner of my eye I see movement to my right. The answer to this blonde’s wet dream spills out of a doorway, weapon drawn. I stare at him, narrowing my eyes, then peek at him through my false eyelashes. Uneasy but not shaken, I hold my breath. The tattooed bodybuilder stud with the spiked, black-crow haircut and patch over one eye is pushing the cold barrel of the rif le against my neck. I’ve stared down the barrel of a T.A.R. 21 Tavor assault rif le a few times in my terrorist-fighting career. That doesn’t mean I’m used to it. My throat tightens and my nerves become taut, the icy metal against my flesh signaling a sense of impending danger loud and clear.

Where did he come from? Who is he?

He wasn’t on my radar a minute ago.

“Want to have some fun, Fräulein?” he says in German. I bet he cuts a notch in his rif le butt for every girl who says ja. Not me. Every move I make is under surveillance. It goes with the job.

“I don’t understand you,” I toss back at him in English, relaxing my stance, trying to appear insouciant. No doubt he’s a raver out for extra action and he chose this alleyway to frisk the first piece of tail to stroll his way. Why not? No cars allowed on the street during the parade. No cabbies. And the street revelers aren’t within earshot but carousing up and down Bahnhofstrasse, eating, drinking and ogling the free show.

“Give me what I want,” he says in English with a slight accent, “or I’ll—”

“You’ll do what? Spank me?”

Play dumb. Get rid of him.

I put my hands on my hips, teasing this one-eyed Jack with my sexy attitude while he checks me out with a question-ing look on his face. As if he’s not sure what to do next. I’m counting the seconds. I haven’t got time for his pickup line. I must get the intel from the Russian before he vanishes back into the black pit of insurgents plying their trade on the open market. He’s my only link to Sharif.

I slide my hand down my rib cage. Without missing a beat, the one-eyed Jack points the gun at my head. I hear him cock the trigger. I breathe out, slowly. Damn, I can’t pull out my Glock without getting my head blown off.

He, on the other hand, is breathing easily, not even breaking a sweat. I squint. Can he see out of that sexy black eye patch? He must like what he sees. He’s grinning. Why shouldn’t he? My low-cut black basque hugs my breasts and I’m wearing a wraparound pink skirt slit up one side.

I wiggle my butt and my skirt slips open to reveal my leather garters holding up black fishnet and purple stockings peeking up over my thigh-high boots. I tap my boots, clicking my military-style half soles and steel-toe caps against the cobblestones. The handcuffs hanging from my femdom utility-style belt clink out a tinny tune, drawing his eye. He glances at the hemp rope wound up in a circle on my bondage belt and starts to reach for it, then changes his mind. He doesn’t look like the tie-me-up-and-do-it-to-me type, but you never know.

I don’t dare make another move, seeing how he’s got the drop on me. The pulse on the side of my neck races. I’m stuck like a video-game character lost in a maze. I’m stressing. What if my Russian goes sideways? Disappears? I can’t screw up. I’ve logged more miles in the past two years manning the intel-gathering trenches in the European theater and the Middle East than most sex agents do in their entire career. I don’t intend to see it end in a dirty, beer-can-filled alley.

And I don’t intend to go back to prison

For months I’ve been working on this case, flushing out the Russian agent, getting him right where I want him. Even though the Cold War is over, it’s not unusual for Russians to trade their knowledge of U.S. intelligence to our enemies unless we get it from them first. My mission as a member of the elite sex squad is to retrieve a guidance chip that in the wrong hands could compromise the antiaircraft defense system of a major Western power. That involves softening him up and catering to his specific tastes, whether it’s showing off his prowess in bed with two blondes or playing master-and-slave with the tender backside of a pretty redhead. I avoid the latter. I prefer role-playing a dominatrix. I like being the top.

When I saw the prelim coded messages from the Russian, I begged Rork for this assignment. Then he mentioned I was up for an FFD, fit-for-duty psychiatric exam, because of an unpleasant incident in London. I put on quite a show to secure intel about a sleeper cell in Liverpool. I wore nothing but a shiny silver garter belt, stockings and pointy black stilettos. The mark tried to cut me when I peeled off my black stockings and I panicked. Ever since what happened to me in Tadma prison, I’m skittish where knives are concerned. I got the intel, but unfortunately, I had to shoot him, which was against orders. I was disappointed when I found out Rork filed paperwork that characterized my London performance as “ineffective, inefficient and substandard.” I suppose he had no choice, considering TA agents must follow different procedures than regular agents. Until the investigation was over, I was assigned to work undercover in a Glasgow company as a file clerk and photocopy documents. Still, I answered all the shrink’s questions with a smile on my lips and my legs crossed and got the assignment.

Now this.

Frustrated, I dig my nails into my palms. I’m not letting this stud mess up my plans.

“Why don’t you take your toy,” I say, my eyes scanning this dude in tight French jeans, crunchy black leather vest, no shirt, backpack slung over his shoulder, “and go play somewhere else.”

“I like big tits, Fräulein,” says the one-eyed Jack, ignoring my suggestion. He lowers his rif le, though he doesn’t take his finger off the trigger. “Take off your bra.”

Gets right to the point, doesn’t he?

“So you can cop a feel? No way.”

“I’m not used to having my orders disobeyed.”

“There’s always a first time.”

“I said, strip. Now.”

Taking my time, I give him a second look, my eyes moving up and down his body with an appreciative gaze. I notice a scar along his jawline. He needs a shave. I imagine without his scraggly beard he’d be considered good-looking. Is he a street thug? A local with a hard-on? Or a nerdy tech guy with a plastic gun?

Whoever he is, I’m not immune to admiring a pair of bulging biceps that sets my libido tap-dancing. I lick my glossed red lips. Too bad he’s not my mark. I’d like to take a ride on his pony, but I have no time for silly games. I have a mission to complete.

“Take if off yourself,” I say, challenging him. “If you can.”

I’m stalling, figuring out how I can get the drop on him when he pulls down my bra straps with his free hand and exposes my breasts. That’s not enough for him. He twirls me around and points his weapon at my rear, then smiles. I shiver, chills running down my back, then I send my emotions packing. No way am I going to let him inhale the faintly musty perfume of my pussy drifting up to entice him, making him want to taste my desire. A desire too long unstirred by real emotions. I don’t have the luxury of enjoying sex. It’s a job to me. Nothing more.

Perspiration pops out all over my face while I plan my next move. The thug pressing the rif le in my throat interprets my sweat as fear.

“You sweat. Gut. I enjoy watching you squirm.” He doesn’t move the rif le. Not an inch. Flush against my throat.

“I’d rather watch you squirm,” I say, trying to knock him off course, make him back off. He won’t budge.

“Do you know how a pigeon kills its prey, Fräulein?”

“It shits on its victim?” I grin, but I’m gritting my teeth at the same time. It’s not only the mental torture he’s putting me through that sets my teeth on edge, but the white heat vibrating in my sweet spot that disturbs me. What is it about this one-eyed Jack that’s eating away at my emo-core?

He laughs. “Pigeons kill their kind simply for fun,” he says. “Slowly, to prolong the pleasure.” He pushes his knee between my legs and jams me against the rough brick wall so I can’t disarm him. Worse yet, it’s a turn-on I never saw coming, sending delicious vibes down to my clit. I hate him for making me dream about him putting his face between my thighs. I take my job seriously, though I didn’t ask for it.

“Is that so?” I can barely utter the words. I’m breathing hard. Damn him. If I fail to connect with the Russian because of him, I’ll hunt him down and make him wish he’d kept out of my business.

“I’d hate to see your flesh picked apart.” He runs his hand over my neck. He’s got to stop this game. I’m losing. “You should be caressed and pleasured, my hands exploring the curve of your body and the smoothness of your skin until I fill you up with my cock.”

I take a deep breath, blow off the heat rising in me. This has gone far enough. I’ve been known to use any means to gather intel, from stripping in a window rigged with cameras and reading the lips of the men ogling me, to posing nude for amateur photographers who have military secrets to sell, but I’m a professional. I don’t fool around on the job for my own pleasure. More than likely, a long-range telescope is trained on me right now, a field agent from the bureau watching my every move. It’s their way of keeping me in line and not allowing my hormones to take over and compromise my mission.

“I have to go,” I mutter. “I’ve got a date—”

“He can wait, Fräulein,” says the one-eyed Jack, not smiling. “I want to fuck you.”

“I don’t fuck punks,” I say, spitting at him. My stomach twists into knots, my mind catching fire as I realize where this is going. Straight to hell. If he tries to take me, I’ll have to kill him. I don’t have time to play nice, not when my ass is on the line. I wipe my mouth with my hand, waiting. The next move is up to him.

He snorts, lowers his rif le and shoves it into my ribs. I swear I see fire coming out of his nose. He’s sweating. Big-time. And did the bulge in his pants just get bigger? I hit a nerve.

“You’ll find out I’m no punk, Fräulein.”

I pull back but not fast enough. He grabs me around the waist and crushes me up against his bare chest. Hard. Oh, has he got muscles. Tight, taut and perfect. I take a deep breath. No way am I going to lose control eyeing a set of abs glistening with sweat, while he flexes his biceps like an actor in a straight-to-DVD flick. Sure, he’s good. Really good. But I’m better. I have more to lose.

I go into auto mode. I raise my boot and smash him in the knee with my metal toe cap. He curses and stumbles backward, but recovers before I can execute my next move. Damn, he must have steel plates for kneecaps.

“What the—” I cry out when he slams me hard against the wall of the brick building, rattling my brains. I’m breathing hard and I can’t catch my breath. He points the rif le at my breasts.

“Don’t try that again, Fräulein, or—”

“Let me guess. You’ll splatter my fake boobs all over the alley?” I say, teasing him, but I’m not done with him yet. “I’ll take that chance.”

He grins. “You little—”

“Watch your language,” I say, letting my left hand stray down to my waist while my right hand cups my breast. Never let your right hand know what your left hand is doing. “You never know what’s coming at you.”

Before he can react, I rip off my skirt, revealing my bikini thong. Red. His eyebrow shoots up above his black eye patch. He grunts, rubs his crotch. I smile. Men. Give them a look and they’re putty. I’ve got him right where I want him.

Before he can grab me, I toss my flimsy pink jersey skirt at him. It lands on top of his head, covering his face.

Bull’s-eye.

I take off down the alley and race toward the riverfront hotel to meet the Russian, leaving him to tackle with my skirt. By the time he gets it off his head, I’ll be gone.

With considerable regret, I attempt to zap my meeting with the one-eyed Jack out of my mind, but a redolent aroma makes my nose twitch, though not in an unpleasant manner. A funky body odor arouses me, making me touch my crotch. Fresh. Yet earthy. Intoxicating. I savor the teasing smell lingering in the air. I’m wet, but it’s not my own scent turning me on. Black leather and musk oil. The one-eyed Jack.

I’m drenched in his sweat.