The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels (56 page)

Something else was strange. As I handled it, my fingers were getting numb. It was as if it contained a hidden chunk of dry ice.

I sniffed at the rim. It was not soaked with perfume, nor did it smell sweet, the way a lady’s sweat smells. This smelled acrid, so it must have belonged to a man. But I detected something
else, an odor that reminded me of . . .

Nothing breaks your concentration like the flashing lights of a police car. From the window, I saw one racing into the parking lot. It lurched to a halt. Immediately, two uniformed officers
jumped out, followed by two suits climbing from the back seats. One suit carried a high-powered rifle slung from his shoulder. The grenade-launcher attached under the barrel of the gun meant this
was not standard issue. The other suit must have stepped out of a science fiction movie. He was muscular and big. He was wearing some sort of goggles, like those fancy night vision things, the
infrared type.

“We are doing this legal,” I heard the cop say, “by the book. No nasty mess-ups like last time.” The suit with the rifle chuckled. “I mean it,” insisted the
cop. “The chief wants this to go smoothly. Get a good clean fix on him before you shoot . . .”

What were these guys after? I was glad they were not looking for me.

Then the craziest sensation hit me. I had no idea what I was doing or who sent me. What case was I on? I started quizzing myself. My unanswerable list grew larger and larger, even when I got to
the fundamental questions. My own name was even a mystery. It was as if I just became self-aware moments ago. What was going on? My pockets were empty: no wallet, cards, license, or money. Not even
snapshots of the wife and kids. Did I have a wife and kids? Sickness cramped my stomach. I felt dizzy, so I steadied myself against the windowsill.

That was a big mistake.

TING! A hole shot through the window glass. It spider-webbed out and shattered. I dived for the floor. I heard yelling.

“HEY! No shooting!”

“You missed,” another informed, “but I got a clear read on him: he’s up there.”

They missed, all right. I had to get out of there fast! Crouching low, I headed for the door.

The dark hallway smelled of plastic and mildew. At one end glowed an exit sign by the stairwell. At the other end was an elevator. I chose the stairs.

Just inside the stairwell, a barred window provided a view of the parking lot. I decided to have a peek at my friends.

Both cops were dead. One lay sprawled on the hood of the patrol car, his head smashed clean through the windshield. The other was spread-eagled on the ground, face down in a pool of blood. The
suits were nowhere in sight. If those two suits caught up with me, they weren’t going to read me my Miranda Rights.

A creaking sound echoed up the stairwell. A glance over the handrail confirmed the worst; the searching beam of a rifle laser sight cut the darkness. They were here.

Dashing upstairs would make noise, so I backed out into the hallway. The only option was the elevator. If the suits had brains, they would separate; one should take the stairs, the other the
lift. So I pressed myself flush against the wall, out of sight, and hit the “up” button. Seconds later, the doors opened. It was empty. I got on and pressed the panel for the top floor.
If a chance existed for getting out of this alive, I needed some distance between us.

“Third floor,” announced the tinny androgynous-sounding speaker above my head.

I wished the drugs, if that’s what had deep-sixed my memory, would finally wear off. But as I concentrated, the wooziness returned. I desperately needed a clear head.

I rechecked my pockets. This time I found a thin black plastic card, hidden by the ripped-out ad I stuffed in earlier. It was like a blank credit card, no names or numbers. But I caught sight of
a thin magnetic strip painted down one side. As I passed the sixth floor, I made another discovery.

I had a gun! Clipped to my belt was a leather holster. The pistol slipped out easily. It was my Birretta Cougar 45. This little baby came in handy in Hong Kong, when those three bastards decided
to have a surprise party for me. But my Cougar was the perfect host; she fed each man one serving before going around the room and delivering seconds. My little baby would not think of letting them
skip dessert, so I went around the table and stuck her cute little barrel right into each gurgling mouth and . . .

Now I was remembering! This gun had saved my life more than once. But I had no time to savor this memory.

Muffled voices. Sounds came from underneath me. Somebody was in the elevator shaft. Grenade launcher! Those words flashed through my brain. Clammy panic washed over my skin. My short hairs stood
on end.

“Eighth floor,” spoke the hardwired voice. I hit the button for the ninth. The elevator eased to a halt. The doors creaked open.

The explosion blasted me forward out of the elevator.

A ball of smoke and fiery orange sparks shot past. The force slammed me face-down. I rolled over to see the now twisted floor of the elevator. It was ruptured open like a tin can. The elevator
snapped its cable. It fell half a flight before I heard the safety gears biting into the shaft. I got up, my gun still planted firmly in my hand. I ran to the stairwell and rushed to the top
floor.

I stepped out into a barren hallway, carpeted in royal blue. The ceiling and walls were painted warm red. But there were no offices, signs, or doorways. This place was a gaudy dead end. I heard
more noise echoing up the stairs; they were on their way up. There was no escape. My gun was no match for their heat, and it was two against one. This was looking bad.

But my eyes paid off again. Buried flush against the wall, I found a hidden doorway. It was so carefully inlaid that anyone could miss it. But how did it open? I felt a pulsing rhythm through
the door. I placed my ear against it and, even though my ears still rung from the elevator explosion, I heard music. Somebody was home. I chanced knocking. Nothing. I banged on the door. Still no
response. I scratched and felt along the door, in search of a secret buzzer, touch pad, anything! My fingernail caught what I at first thought was just a deep scratch in the door. But right where a
doorknob should be was a two-inch long slit. This looked like a card insert, and I had such a card.

I fed the mysterious black thing into the slit. It was sucked into the slot. Then it shot out, tumbling to the floor. As I bent to retrieve it, I heard the blessed sound of releasing dead bolts.
The door slid away.

It was a large spartanly furnished room. Once I stepped in, the door automatically closed behind me.

A large teakwood desk dominated the room. It had legs carved as tiger claws. This was something that belonged in a museum, not a piece of office furniture. The drawers were all locked. On top
was a computer keyboard; propped next to it, a flat screen monitor. Before the desk was a plain chair. But the chair behind the desk was upholstered in blue velvet, and had a high wooden back
carved with all sorts of exotic animals. This was a throne fit for a king, or a queen.

A number of rooms adjoined this one. One was the source of the music. I figured I better check out the scene before I met the owner of this place.

The room I chose was unlocked. In the center was a medical examination table. It looked like the kind of table doctors use to examine women’s glory holes. Attached to the foot of the table
were a pair of stirrups. But these stirrups had secure buckles. The mid-section of the table had a leather belt fastened to the sides. At the head of the table was a pair of leather cuffs. Beside
the table stood a metal cart, covered with a sheet of blue paper. I pulled the paper free, and was greeted by the most evil-looking medical instruments I had ever seen: clamps, hemostats, needles,
probes, and things with hooks. This was a torture chamber! It was even complete with sound-proof tiles to cover the screams. No wonder they didn’t hear the elevator explode.

I returned to the main room, following the music. It was something classical. That’s when I heard the strangest sound – and somebody screaming.

WOOSH-THWACK, the sound went, then a woman screamed, “Stop! Please!” I heard it again. Woosh-thwack, “Uh,” woosh-thwack, “No . . . No more,” woosh-thwack . .
.

Some poor lady was getting the third degree. It was time to act. I gripped my gun firmly. I turned the doorknob.

The woman standing before me looked like a riding instructor from hell! Fortunately, I was behind her. Her long dark hair was luscious. She wore black satin gloves that reached past her elbows.
Her white shirt was stuffed into some sort of girdle that laced up the back and squeezed her tight. She sported brown leather pants, the legs of which were tucked into knee-high leather boots. She
was just completing the swing of a multi-tailed whip.

“Whoosh,” it cut through the air, “thwack”, it smacked the backside of a completely naked woman. The poor girl was bent pretzel-like over a leather-covered hobbyhorse.
Her hands were secured to one side. Her legs were bound to a bar that kept them spread about one meter apart. Her cherry-red ass stuck up in the air.

Then I noticed the man. He was naked except for the tiniest set of briefs I ever saw. He was bound spread-eagled to this large wooden cross. A black rubber ball was crammed into his mouth as an
effective gag. As he saw me, he started shaking his head and struggling. He must have been relieved to see me.

“OK, lady, drop that!” I yelled.

The torturer glared at me. A thick lock of hair was obscuring half her face, like that old movie actress Veronica Lake. This woman was beautiful.

“YOU,” she exclaimed. Of everything she could have said, that was not what I expected.

“Uh, shut up!” I commanded. “Drop that whip and don’t move!”

The whip hit the floor. The female victim spoke up.

“What the fuck is going on?” she asked, twisting her neck to see.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her, “I’ll get you out of this mess.”

I needed a man’s help, so went to the guy on the cross first. He was staring at me strangely. The cord securing the gag was easy to unfasten.

“Who the FUCK are you?” He shot an angry stare at the whip woman. “Mistress Amanda,” he went on, “this is not part of our scene!”

“Yeah,” the naked woman added, “what the hell is going on? This is totally unprofessional! Oh, shit.” She looked at the man. “Are we being robbed?”

“Sam,” the whip woman asked, “how did you get in here?”

My name was Sam?

“You have ruined our honeymoon,” proclaimed the man on the cross. “I hope you don’t think we are going to pay . . .”

“SILENCE!” the whip woman shouted. Her two prisoners shut right up. She turned to me. “Please, Sam, put the gun down.” Most people plead when gazing down the barrel of a
gun, but she just acted upset and concerned. “Haven’t you hurt me enough? We can work this out and . . .” Stopping mid-sentence, her expression shifted to one of revelation.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

I had no idea what was up with this bitch, but she was right about that.

“The Darkling hat,” she proclaimed. “You’ve been wearing it, haven’t you?”

“You mean, this?” I asked, pulling it from my pocket.

She stepped toward me. I raised the gun, asserting my bead on her. I was still on top, and that’s where I wanted to be until I figured this mess out.

“Sam, let me explain.” She stopped, as if searching for words. Then her dark eyebrows narrowed. “You weren’t followed here, were you?”

Pounding at the front door interrupted our chat.

“I think so,” I confirmed. Now I had my angle! I would see if this bitch was on the level.

“Do they want me bad enough to kill two cops?” I asked, my finger tightening on the trigger.

All expression bled from her face. “If it’s who I think it is,” she said quietly, “we are all dead, even if you surrender the hat.”

That was a good answer. I lowered the gun.

“OK,” I said. “It’s your move, uh, Amanda.” She gave me a look of contempt. This woman did not take any shit. I liked that.

“Follow me,” she snapped, striding out of the room, her boots striking the floor firmly.

“What’s going on?” asked the tied-down woman.

“Yeah,” added the man.

“Hey,” I said, closing the door, “the lady said shut up!”

Amanda went to the big desk. The monitor came on by itself. It displayed an image of the two goons who were after me.

“That’s them,” I confirmed.

“Shit! Who the hell are they? And one has a visor.” She indicated the big man. “Are they armed?”

“Yeah, big-time!”

Working on its own, the image switched to a wide-angle shot behind our visitors. That grenade-launching rifle was propped to one side against the wall. This babe had the whole place planted with
stealth cameras. A rapid flash of images cycled across the screen. The faces of the two men were being referenced against some sort of database. A wire frame graphic of the visor spun in a window,
as reams of data scrolled by. The image of one of the goons froze.

“We have a match for the short one,” she informed. “He is an ex-fed. I wonder who he works for?”

Even with all this going on, I found myself staring at her body. Her small breasts fitted the boyish frame of her upper body. Her arms were strong, but not over-developed. Her bottom end was
rendered hyper-female by the pinching corset. How did she breathe in that thing? Her backside was firm and round, like that of a dancer. Definitely a butt to die for.

“Wait a minute,” I added, “you never touched that keyboard once. You have an EOS, an Encephalized Operating System.”

This was illegal. Only the military could lawfully maintain an EOS. Whoever this demon woman was, she was playing for keeps.

They pounded on the front door again. Amanda motioned me to keep still.

“Hello,” she said. “Who’s there?”

“Uh,” we heard from an invisible speaker, “this is the police.”

“Yes,” she called into the air. “I’m busy with clients, how can I help you?”

“There’s a dangerous fugitive in the neighborhood. Can we come in and ask some questions?”