Hell In High Heels --- A Jane Delacroix erotic novel: Sex, Sin, and Slaughter in Southern California (5 page)

               Big, raw boned knuckles struck Sten in the side of the head right in the temple, in the sweet spot Boxers' called "the button" and the cop went down like a trip-hammered steer.

              Red rubbed his hand, grinning stupidly down at the unconscious man. He drew back a size 12 dress shoe to deliver the coup de grace.

               Boss, officially known as Agent John Javacovitch on all his paper work, laid a restraining hand on his partner. He gently shook his head, eyes on the burning mansion.

               "What the hell is a cop doing outside of Hun Sen's, and just before the place lights on fire, no less?" He reached up and felt the swollen mess of his nose where Sten had laid him out with the binoculars. "And what's got him so excited about this stakeout he'd risk going toe-to-toe with two government agents?"

               "Man acts that weird, that stupid," Red, aka Officer Martin Pensk, said "it's almost always either money or a woman. But, hell, this is LA, could be anything."

               Javacovitch nodded. "Come on, we better go check on everyone's favorite opium warlord."

               Jane was in trouble.

               The sound of barking dogs poured in through the door as Chau frantically rattled the handle, shrieking like an air raid siren. Smoke hung in the room, now thick as London fog and Jane began coughing as her eyes watered.

               "Time to go, little girl," Jane told the woman. Chau ignored her.

               That was fine, Jane had done her homework. Right outside Hun Sen's room was a kidney shaped swimming pool 12' down at the deep end. From a second story the leap would be ridiculously easy.

               Picking up a chair with a minimum price tag of $500, she swung it around like an Olympic hammer thrower. Her boobs, barely encased by the torn tatters of her evening dress, bounced crazily, almost comically, with the effort of the toss but the chair flew straight, punching through the heavy, burning curtains and bursting through the heavy glass of the window just behind them.

               Boupha shouted just outside the door. Chau whirled at the sound of breaking glass and saw Jane coming for her. The girl threw herself forward, uninhibited by her nakedness, and began clawing furiously for Jane's eyes, one slender, nut-brown hand snagging up in the American woman's long, blonde tresses.

               Chau snapped Jane's head back and forth as her nails raked the P.I.'s left breast, leaving four red claw marks in her soft flesh.

               "Bitch!"

               The pain galvanized Jane and she unloaded in an adrenaline driven attack. She reached down toward the floor and picked her fist up around Texas before driving it into the Cambodian girl's chin. Chau stumbled back against the door hard enough to rattle it in the frame.

               The lock turned over.

               Leaping inside like a clinch-style boxer, Jane followed her upper cut with a hook to the stomach. Chau gasped harshly as the breath was driven from her lungs under the violence of the blow. The slighter woman sagged at the waist under the impact.

               The doorknob turned.

               Moving like a matador, Jane spun around Chua’s shoulder until she was standing beside her, just behind her shoulder, as the Cambodian, still bent over, gasped and sputtered for her breath. Like an executioner Jane drew her left arm up and axe chopped the knife edge of her palm straight into the back of the girl's neck where spine met skull, in a vicious rabbit punch.

               Instantly the unconscious opium slave fell to the floor. The bedroom door swung open and the snarling muzzle of an enraged Doberman appeared in the jam. Jane threw her shoulder hard against the heavy wooden structure and slammed it closed. The guard dog yelped in pain and she fervently hoped she'd broken out every tooth in its mouth.

               Working quickly, she snapped the door's lock closed before reaching over and snatching a silk tapestry off the wall. She couldn't see five feet into the room now from all the smoke. Yellow flames like the pavilion of hell ate along the walls and ceiling, the heat blazed blast furnace hot leaving her instantly bathed in copious streaks of sweat.

               Chest heaving, she quickly wrapped the length of strong silk around the two door handles and tucked the ends. It wouldn't hold long, just seconds, and they had the key to unlock the door. She could only pray that the razor's edge margin she'd just given herself would be enough.

               Stooping low she scooped the unconscious little Asian woman over her shoulder. The locks on the door snapped back open. Half-blind Jane orientated herself toward the broken window. The skin along her naked legs and breasts reddened and tightened under the searing heat.

               Digging her heels into the burning carpet she sprinted forward, charging toward the open window like a running back breaking through and racing for open field. Behind her the door popped open and caught on the silk wrap.

               Jane came through the smoke in two steps and saw Hun Sen scrapping burning sheet from his face. Behind her the door burst open and the two Dobermans raced in snarling, Boupha, Swedish K in hand right behind them. She had to make the leap to the burning bed.

               The sudden channeling of air from the broken window to the open door created an instantaneous funnel of savage heat. The dogs whirled to run, Boupha stopped and threw his arm up to protect himself. Jane leap up on the bed, crying out as her foot was seared.

               Hun Sen lurched up and snatched her by her ankle. Grossly over extended from her jump she went down hard on the bed. She screamed as Chau was thrown clear. Showing incredible strength for a man his size the Cambodian warlord snatched her off the bed by one leg.

               She tried to sit up but he struck her a vicious backhand that sent her already oxygen starved brain spinning. Rough hands grabbed her as Hun Sen's men rushed into the bedroom.

               "Go! Go!" he yelled. "Put her in the basement cells before the fire department gets here."

               Again she tried to fight but the punch she took this time was from a furious Boupha and she was knocked cold.

               Detective David Sten woke with a start.

               "Jane!" he shouted as he tried to sit up.

               Painful vertigo from the blow he'd taken stopped him before he lifted his head six inches. Moaning, he tried to roll over and regain his equilibrium. That red haired bastard hit like a goddamn mule kicking. Gritting his teeth he pushed himself up off the street.

               The two DIA agents were gone. He looked down the street toward Hun Sen's rented Bel Air mansion. Smoke poured out of a window like it was chimney. It plumed up like a giant fist as licks of yellow flame ate away at the edges of the window sill.

               He should have been at the gates by now. He was failing her. He forced himself up and staggered against the car. It was still running. He snarled to himself, summoning his will.

               "Come on goddamn it, Sten! You can take a punch."

               He forced himself straight and yanked open his door, half falling inside to just behind the wheel. His head was clearing though; he
could
take a punch, it was part of what made him who he was. He threw the Buick into gear and it lurched forward.

               On the street people came outside their front gates to watch the mansion burn from the safety of their palm tree lined sidewalks. Snatching the handset for the radio to his mouth, he called in the emergency to the swing shift dispatcher.

               "This is Two Charlie Eight, this is Two Charlie Eight," he said.

               The needle on the speedometer was sweeping left to right in an unbroken arc. He rattled off the address and informed them of the fire. His big V8 engine was growling loudly as it picked up speed and he almost sideswiped a cherry red Corvette Sting Ray parked along the street as he slid into the drive before the property.

               His foot never touched the brake as he rammed through the heavy steel gate. The front of his car crumpled in like a beer can but the big engine and all that Detroit steel made for one hell of a battering ram. The heavy gate exploded open, jacked up off its electric runners and the Buick stuttered to a stop.

               Prepared as he was for the impact he wasn't wearing a seat belt and he bounced off the mammoth rubber circle of his steering well, opening a cut above his eye. He tried to shoulder his door open but it was dented shut and so pinned by the top corner of the broken gate that he could barely budge it quarter of an inch.

               He spun sideways on his butt and brought his knees up to his chin. In the distance he heard sirens. The LAFD didn't mess around with their response times in the 90077 zip code. His feet lashed forward and slammed into the jammed door, knocking it open.

               He caught the jam with his hand and pulled himself half out of the opening. He didn't know what the government sonofabitches had done with his .45 so he reached over and pulled his .12 gauge pump from its brackets under the dash.

               "Look who's coming to dinner, assholes," he muttered.

               The shotgun made that sound, the
this is for real
snap, as he tromboned the action. It made him sneer. Made him happy as he marched up the drive toward the house. This wasn't the best part of the job, but it was one of the most fun.

               The front door opened and a single black torpedo of a Doberman raced clear, running flat out like a Greyhound at the track. With no more expression that a marksman shooting skeet, Sten swept up the shotgun and fired, jacked the action and swept the barrel up to cover the door of the mansion.

               The double-aught buckshot scythed into the dog, smashing its narrow skull instantly. It somersaulted end over end, leaving a bloody smear on the black asphalt of the driveway. Sten loved dogs. He didn't give the ruined Doberman a second glance as he jogged toward the building.

               A skinny Asian male in a Rolling Stones t-shirt and a dangling cigarette swung out, sweeping an already stuttering Swedish K sub-machine gun toward the LA cop. Reflexively, Sten threw himself down and to the side. He triggered the shotgun as he fell and buckshot tore a chunk out of the mansion's door jam.

               The kid ducked back around the corner and Sten popped up to a 3-point stance, the shotgun in one hand. He stood and went to work the action. The muzzle of the Swedish K poked out around the corner and a wall of 9x19mm Parabellum thundered out of the 36-round box magazine.

               He rolled for the cover of some shrubs, realized they weren't going to protect him worth a damn and dove toward a natural stone French fountain gurgling water into the dry, Southern California air. The cherub on the pinnacle, spitting an arc of liquid from pouting lips, exploded into shards as the soft-nosed rounds tore into it.

               Flat on his back Sten finally managed to work his action. Sirens were a deafening cacophony now, the engines just blocks away. He could also pick out the more insistent shriek of police wailers.

               "LAPD!" he shouted.

               Another burst of 9mm fire answered him. Gouts of manicured lawn kicked up next to him and he was forced to huddle lower. There was a screech of tires then a brutal, metallic
crack
followed by the sound of breaking glass tinkling on pavement.

               Sten looked over. Agents Boss and Red had arrived. After ploughing into Sten's car with their own heavy, four-door Ford, they popped out of the cab like demented springs, .38 caliber Police Specials, identical to those used by Air Force security teams in Saigon, in hand.

               "Back off Sten!" Javacovitch ordered.

               "This property has been designated a consulate of the Kingdom of Cambodia! You're committing an act of war!"

               Sten cursed. He was going to lose his badge. He understood this. Over a decade of service flushed down the toilet. He doubted this counted as an act of war any more than his misquoting of the Posse Comitatus Act was exactly, legally, correct. But whatever it was, an armed incursion of a foreign consulate by local law enforcement certainly wasn't something to slot into the 'good' column.

               "There's a girl in there!" he shouted back. He could barely be heard over the approaching sirens. "She's been kidnapped!"

               "Got the hell off Cambodian soil!" Red shouted back.

               Hun Sen now appeared in the doorway, no weapon in sight. A LAFD pumper truck pulled up in front of the mansion, followed by an ambulance and a ladder truck. The apparatus operator waved furiously at the DIA agents, trying to clear the approach.

               Javacovitch ducked back inside his Ford and gunned the engine. The government vehicle lurched forward and shoved Sten's car clear of the gate. The DIA agent cranked his wheel and raced the Ford upon to the lawn, positioning it between Sten and the mansion.

               "Stand down!" Red yelled. "We've called the FBI and they're sending a team along with your Captain to deal with you! Stand the fuck down, cowboy!"