Double Exposure Pt. 07

Double Exposure - Part 7: In the Grip of the Enemy

11 June 1985. 6:32 am. Paris, France

Claire stirred awake to the heat of the Parisian summer. The slow spinning ceiling offering little relief from the heat. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep, and then she felt it. A soft, insistent pleasant pressure on her vagina that sent a jolt of electricity straight through her body.

"Oh. Oh God." Claire began to moan, her body arched off the mattress as her eyes suddenly opened. The room was bathed in the soft, light of the early morning. Her fingers instinctively dug into the sheets as she tried to process what was happening.

Her vision was still blurry from sleep, but she didn't need to see him to know who it was. The warmth of his breath, the delicate flick of his tongue. It was him. The bakery boy. She tried to remember his name. It was either 'Artak' or 'Ashot' or something like that. She didn't really care.

Now fully awake, she looked down at the top of his head as he focused his attention in between her legs. She felt a little guilty about his age, he was young, 18 or 19 years old, but she had to remind herself that she was only 24, even though she felt much older.

Claire had been in Paris for nearly two months now, assigned to observe and report on a French businessman with possible ties to Russia. The mission work was incredibly boring, and Claire looked for any distraction to break up the monotony of her daily grind of watching the businessman.

She discovered that distraction a little over a week ago when she was buying some pastries at a local Armenian bakery down the street. She instantly became intrigued with the baker's son as soon as she saw him sweeping the floor. She attempted to make some small talk with him only to discover that there was a language barrier. But with Claire's talents, she didn't need a huge vocabulary in order to get what she wanted.

And what she wanted was what she was getting right now.

She let her head fall back against the pillow, her fingers gripped the sheets as his tongue traced a slow, deliberate path along her slit. "God, he's good at this." The thought ran through her mind, half-formed and hazy, as he opened her with his fingers, she whimpered. Her hips lifted instinctively, seeking more of that pressure. The whiskers from his barely-there beard tickled the more sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

She tilted her head back, a soft moan escaped her lips as his tongue circled her nub with slow, deliberate precision. His fingers began to plunge into her, spreading her wider as his tongue went deeper. The sheets clung to her sweat-soaked skin.

It had been a week. A week of this. Every morning, without fail, he'd show up at her door just as the sun was rising, on his way to work at his father's bakery. He would silently come in and undress without waking her. Every morning she was there, sleeping in the nude in the hopes that he would arrive. They never spoke. They couldn't really. She barely knew a word of Armenian, his French was very limited, and his English was non-existent. But words didn't matter. Not when his mouth was this good at other things.

"Yes!" she breathed, her voice filled with desire. "Just like that. Don't stop."

Even though he didn't understand what she was saying, he didn't stop. His tongue flicked faster, pressing harder against her until she was writhing beneath him and her toes curled. She could feel the pressure building, the familiar tightening in her stomach, but she wasn't ready. Not yet. She needed more. Needed him.

Her hand reached down, her fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair. She tugged gently, guiding him up, and he followed without hesitation.

His face appeared above hers, his cheeks flush and his lips glistening with her wetness. She could see the innocence in his face. It was a face who probably hadn't been outside of Paris his entire life. She loved seeing that face of innocence. It was a welcome change compared to some of the other people she has had with her in bed.

"Claire." he murmured with a thick accent..

She smiled, loving the way he said her name. Her fingers ran down his chest. "You're too good at that." she said, even though she knew he wouldn't understand. "Way too good."

He didn't need to understand. He could see it in her eyes and feel it in how she reacted to him pleasuring her. His hands slid up her legs until they reached her mound. His fingers gently caressed her pubic hair, and she bit her lip.

"My turn." she said, her voice low and teasing. She shifted, pushing him back onto the bed. He went willingly, his eyes never leaving hers. She straddled him, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. Sweat covered the skin of their naked bodies from the Paris summer and their passion.

She bent down and kissed him. Her large chest was pressed against his, he could feel her hard nipples against his smooth skin.

"Claire." he moaned again. She could hear the need in his voice.

Claire smiled as she began to move downwards, her tongue drawing a line on his skin as she did. She stopped at certain times of her journey to take time to gently suck on those parts of his body, his neck, his nipples, his belly button, his pelvic bone, and finally his inner thighs.

Once there, she licked around his manhood, only briefly making contact with his cock and balls. He moaned with both bliss and frustration.

Finally, when she saw that his dick ached with desire, she reached up with her hand and held it. She paused, her breath hot against him, and felt him tense beneath her. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and saw the desire burning there, raw and unfiltered.

She didn't tease any longer. She didn't need to. Her lips closed around him, taking him deep into her mouth, and he let out a low moan that sent a thrill through her. She moved slowly at first, savoring the taste of him, the way he filled her mouth, she could taste his pre-cum already oozing out. As his hips began to move, she matched his pace, her tongue swirling around him in tight, deliberate circles.

His hands grabbed her head, gently pulling on her hair as she sucked him, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. She could feel him trembling beneath her, his body tensing with every suck, and she knew he was close. He was young, she knew he wasn't going to last long. But she wasn't ready to let him finish. Not yet.

She pulled away, her lips parting with a wet pop, and looked up at him, her eyes dark with desire. "Not so fast." she said, even though she knew he wouldn't understand. She shifted, positioning herself above his erect cock and guided him inside her. She took her time lowering herself onto him. She enjoyed watching his young face as she sank all the way to the base of his shaft.

He gripped her hips, his hands guiding her as she began to ride him with slow, deliberate strokes. He wasn't the biggest she's ever had, but she loved the way he felt inside of her, but most of all she loved watching his innocent face as she rode him.

Claire leaned forward, her hands pressed into his chest, increasing her pace. She grinded her hips back and forth against him, gradually increasing the pace with each gyration. His hands moved to her tits as they swung above him, he pinched her nipples with his thumbs and forefingers, causing her to gasp.

She could feel the tension in his body as his grip on her tightened, and she knew he was doing his best to last longer, waiting for her. She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear. "Together." she whispered.

He understood. His hands moved back to her hips in an attempt to help guide her, but she was the one in control. She was the one ensuring their bodies were moving in perfect sync. She could feel the pressure building to where it was almost unbearable. And then, with a sharp cry, she came, her body shuddering with the force of it. She felt him follow her a second later, his hips jerking as he shot his cum inside her, his moan echoing through the room.

She collapsed onto his chest, her body still trembling with the aftershocks, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. They stayed like that for a long moment, their breaths slowly returning to normal, the heat of the morning sun warming their skin.

She didn't know his name. She didn't need to. All she knew was that tomorrow, he'd be back. And she'd be waiting.

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Claire laid in bed, silently watching the bakery boy get dressed. She almost felt bad for the girls he would be with after she was long gone. Although he had some natural talents in bed, she knew he was quite inexperienced. Claire set a high sexual bar for every girl that followed. She was giving him memories that would last a lifetime. She, on the other hand, doubted she would even recall what his face looks like in a few months.

But, she was thoroughly enjoying her time with him now.

When he finished getting dressed, he turned around to look at her naked body, partially covered with the bed sheets.

"Yerani te karoghanayink amboghj ory miasin mnal ankoghnum. Iskapes karcum em, vor siraharvats em." the boy said in Armenian before leaning down to kiss her goodbye.

Claire didn't understand what he said, and she didn't say anything in return. She simply watched him as he left her apartment with a smile on her face.

She laid back on the pillows and closed her eyes. It was still early, and she was hoping to get a little more sleep before she had to resume her mission of observing and reporting on the French businessman. The idea of the drudgery of it made her wish that this mission would end soon. If it went much longer, she was convinced that even the boy's morning visits would provide enough of a distraction.

Then some wicked thoughts began to formulate in her mind. Even though inexperienced, the boy had some amazing natural talents, especially with his tongue. She wondered if it was genetic. If this mission went a lot longer, she might have to seduce the dad to see. That definitely would provide a distraction to the monotony of the mission.

[RING][RING]

The silence of the apartment was shattered by the sound of the phone ringing.

Claire's stomach dropped as the thoughts of the bakery boy and his father quickly evaporated from her mind.

Phones in the safe houses were typically meant for external calls only. A way for an agent to communicate with their handler to report on their mission. In all of her missions, Claire had never received an incoming call.

An incoming call signified one thing... something bad has happened.

She threw the sheets off of her and ran to answer the phone.

She picked up the receiver, put it to her ear, and listened. A voice spoke. "Secure?"

"Affirmative." Claire replied.

"Identify." the voice said..

"Agent number 2309." Claire responded.

"Code?" replied the voice.

"La Belle Dame." Claire said.

"Steel." the voice said. Even though it wasn't a question, they were expecting a response.

"Shadow." Claire responded.

"Preparing transfer to the Assistant Director." the voice on the other side of the call said. Claire then heard a click signifying the call transfer.

Claire was surprised. The call appeared to be initiated by Elliot Graves, the man who recruited her and was quickly moving up the Echelon ranks. For an incoming call to come from the Assistant Director at Echelon was unheard of.

"Agent Weber." Elliot said as soon as he picked up the transfer. "We have a situation."

"Understood." Claire replied signifying that she would be committing the next statements to memory.

"48 hours ago, we had an agent and a team of three West Berlin BND operatives acting as support, go over the Wall to retrieve a high profile Stasi agent who wished to defect." Elliot began.

"36 hours ago, we lost contact with the agent as they failed to check-in." Elliot continued. "Twelve hours ago, the team failed to arrive at the extraction point."

"At this point, we are assuming that our agent has been compromised. By whom, we are not sure. Maybe by the BND operatives, or possibly some other unknown person. Regardless, we need to conduct an emergency mission to rescue our agent." Elliot said.

"Understood." Claire said coldly.

"Claire." Elliot said quietly, pausing before continuing. "The agent is Damian."

Claire's heart sank when she heard Elliot speak those words, but she did not make a sound to betray her emotions.

Elliot let the information set in before he continued. "I know you started with Agent Cross and are close with him. I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't think that you weren't our best option. We have a jet already ready at Charles de Gaulle. All of your necessary equipment and documents will be on it. We want to be wheels-up in 45 minutes."

Claire composed herself so her voice wouldn't betray her emotions. "Understood, sir."

Elliot Graves hung up the phone without another word.

Claire finally allowed herself to cry.

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11 June 1985. 2:52 pm. East Berlin, East Germany

Claire disembarked the Swissair flight that just landed at Berlin Schönefeld Airport. She had taken the Echelon jet from Paris to Zurich, and transferred to a commercial flight to East Berlin.

According to the file handed to her during the Echelon leg of the trip, she was to assume the identity of Giulia Bianchi, a Swiss journalist from the Neue Zürcher Zeitung in Zurich. Her cover story: she was writing a favorable piece on the Stasi.

The CIA had embedded a mole inside the Stasi, specifically, the secretary to the Director of Propaganda, named Anna Meier. It was she who had crafted the Swiss reporter narrative and persuaded her superior to authorize the interview. She also would serve as Claire's liaison, providing any clues as to what happened to Damian and his team.

The name Claire assumed, Giulia Bianchi, suggested she was from the Italian-speaking region of Switzerland. That detail wasn't incidental. If Claire slipped up in German, it would be dismissed as the natural imperfection of a native Italian speaker.

As Claire exited the plane, she immediately saw Anna there to greet her. Anna was accompanied by two hulking East Germans men. She safely assumed that they were Stasi muscle meant to intimidate the Swiss reporter.

Anna held up a simple sign with the name "Giulia Bianchi" printed on it. Claire smiled as she neared, and waved in acknowledgement.

"Hello Ms. Bianchi." Anna said, extending her hand.

Claire responded in kind and shook the woman's hand. "Hello Ms. Meier." Claire responded in perfect German.

"Welcome to East Berlin!" Anna said. "Come, we have much to do." She turned and started walking, not bothering to introduce the two men. Claire quickly followed.

"We have you staying at the Hotel Adlon Kempinski. You should find it quite comfortable." Anna continued to talk as they walked through the airport. "You will meet with the Director first thing tomorrow morning at Stasi Headquarters." Claire kept pace with Anna while the two men followed behind, carrying Claire's luggage.

Finally they made it outside and walked to the parked black Wartburg 353. The Wartburg was a bit more of a rarity than the Trabants that were a common sight on the streets of East Berlin, it offered a bit more room.

Anna got into the driver's seat, and motioned for Claire to sit in the front passenger seat. The men loaded Claire's luggage into the trunk, and took their seats in the back.

As Anna started the car, Claire began to say "So how long is it to th--"

With surprising quickness, the man seated directly in back of Claire forcefully roped a cord around her neck and began choking the air out of her.

Claire's training instantly kicked in as she forced her fingers between the cord and her neck to prevent her from choking, but the man's strength was immense. There was little she could do to fight back.

She was beginning to see stars when she felt a sharp pain of a needle being jammed into her neck.

She managed to struggle for a few more minutes, but the man behind her began to loosen his tight grip on her neck as he knew she would not have much fight in her for long.

Claire knew what was coming next, she tried to fight the fear that was rising in her. Soon her eyelids became much too heavy and the world went black.

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The icy shock of water ripped Claire from her state of unconsciousness. She choked and spit out cold water that was thrown over her head. When she came to, she realized that her arms were bound tightly at the wrists by a rope. The rope was attached to a hook in the ceiling.

The rough restraint bit into her skin, pulling her shoulders into a burning ache. She was unsure how long she had hung there, but as she regained her wits, she was able to stand, relieving some of the ache in her shoulders.

Her head swam, the lingering effects of whatever sedative they'd used still clouding her thoughts. She blinked, vision slowly clearing, to reveal a stark, concrete room. Bare. Cold.

"Guten Tag, Fräulein Dubois." a voice cut through the silence. When she focused on the man behind the voice, she recognized him as one of the men who met her at the airport.

Claire didn't respond, instead she took stock of the situation. The man in front of her was sitting on a metal chair, grinning as he stared at her. Behind him was a metal table, complete with obvious tool of the torture trade. Fluorescent lights hummed from above, casting a white glow on everything in the room.

She surmised that the reason she was compromised so quickly was because the mole they had been working with, Anna, was a double-agent. She was most likely the reason Damian and his team got compromised as well. Anger began to build in Claire as she thought about what she would do to repay the traitor.

The man in front of her stood slowly, still staring at her as he did.

"So, Fräulein Dubois," the man began, his grin widening, revealing teeth that looked like they hadn't been brushed in quite some time. "Now that you realize your situation, perhaps you will be cooperative. We have many questions for you. About your mission. About your contacts. About the defector."

He gestured towards the bare walls with a casual wave of his hand. "You see, time is precious, for both of us. You talk, we can avoid any... discomfort, and we send you home. You don't talk... well, let's just say we have ways of making you reconsider your silence." He took a step closer, his eyes glinting in the harsh light. He grabbed her face, and pinched his fingers into her cheeks. "Who is it, Fräulein? Who is the defector?"

Claire had no idea on the identity of the defector. It wasn't in the mission briefing. Her task was to retrieve Damian. But Claire knew the Stasi techniques. Regardless if she talked or not, she was going to be tortured. And the promise about her being sent home if she talked was an obvious lie. She simply stayed silent and mentally prepared herself for what was to come.

The man's grip tightened on her cheeks, his thumb pressing hard against her jawbone. "Silence will not help you here, Fräulein. We are not, how you say, famous for patience." He released her face abruptly, leaving red imprints on her skin. He turned towards the metal table, his hand hovering over a row of various instruments.

"You are American, yes?" he said as he studied the table. "You know what I like most about America?" he asked, not expecting an answer. "Baseball. I am, how you say, a big fan. When I am in America for mission, I watch as much I can."

He glanced back at her with a smile as he picked up a baseball bat from the table. "New York Yankees. That is my team."

He strolled up to her, hitting the head of the bat against his palm, menacingly. "Dave Winfield. He's my favorite. "You ever see him bat? It's a work of art." the man continued as he neared Claire. He then turned his body so that his hip was facing toward her as she hung helplessly. He then took the bat to his shoulder and crouched into a batting stance.

"His swing has so much power with so little effort." the man said as she swung the bat into Claire's stomach.

[THWUMP]

Claire's lungs seized. Air fled her chest in a hoarse wheeze, and she crumpled forward, gagging.

"Who is the defector?!?" the man screamed.

Even if Claire wanted to speak, the man gave her no time before swinging the bat into her gut once again.

Pain exploded through her like broken glass. Her vision swam. The force of the swing rocked her back into the wall behind her. A hot burst of vomit surged into her throat. She lowered her head and began retching on the floor. Her legs gave out and her body swayed from the rope, the pain not only in her stomach, but also in her shoulders as they supported her weight.

The man rested the bat on his shoulder. "We can end this now, Fräulein. Just give me a name."

Claire looked up, vomit and saliva hanging from her lips. Her clothes were clinging to her body from the water thrown on her. "I have a name." she coughed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The man smiled. He was thinking that she might hold out a little longer and he could have a bit more fun, but his superiors would be pleased with his efficiency. "Tell me." he said as he came in closer, crouching so he could hear her. His face next to hers.

Claire spat a mixture of blood and puke onto the concrete floor. Her head lolled, her vision still blurring at the edges, but a spark of defiance flickered in her eyes. "Dave Winfield."

And then like a cobra, Claire's head snapped and she sunk her teeth into the man's cheek. She clamped down with ferocity and pulled her head back, taking a chunk of his flesh with her.

The man screamed in pain.

Then, ignoring the searing agony in her shoulders, she pushed her feet off of the cold, damp concrete wall behind her. The force propelled her body forward and upward in a short, quick arc. Her legs, though weakened and trembling, shot out.

Her right leg snaked around the back of the man's neck, followed swiftly by her left, locking them together in a tight, scissor-like grip as she hung from the rope. The man gasped, his eyes widening in disbelief and dawning horror. The baseball bat clattered uselessly to the floor as his hands shot up, clawing frantically at her thighs, trying to break her hold.

Claire squeezed her legs with every fiber of her being, the muscles in her thighs burning. The blood rushed to her head, the pain in her shoulders intensified, but she held on.

The man's face contorted into a mask of shock and panic, rapidly turning a bright red. He desperately grasped for breath. He clawed harder at her legs in a desperate attempt to free himself.

With a final surge of adrenaline, Claire twisted her hips and tightened her leg lock with brutal force. A sickening crack echoed in the room, followed by a wet, gurgling sound from the man's throat. His frantic clawing ceased, his body going limp.

The man's lifeless body slumped against her legs, his head falling at an unnatural angle. Claire held the position for a few more agonizing seconds, ensuring he was no longer a threat. Then, she released her grip.

The man's body slid to the concrete floor with a dull thud. Claire hung suspended, her wrists burning, her body trembling, but a grim sense of satisfaction washed over her.

Claire didn't waste a moment. She turned around sharply, eyes locking onto the wall. Her fingers curled around the rope, slick with sweat and tension. Planting her shoes against the cold concrete, she pushed upward with raw, silent determination, inching her way toward the steel hook embedded in the ceiling.

Near the top, she hung there, one hand gripped the hook, the other worked the knot. A sharp snap of release, then she dropped. No stumble. No hesitation. She landed like a cat.

With the slack gone, her bound wrists slipped free of the rope. She freed herself and got moving.

At the table, her eyes scanned past the hammers, pliers, and other tools meant to deliver as much pain as possible. She wanted precision. Lethality. Her fingers closed around a 6-inch tactical combat knife--blunt along the edge, serrated near the hilt. It was meant to carve screams from her bones. Now, it would cause screams from her captors.

She moved to the wall beside the door, flattening against it, blade ready. Her breathing slowed. Focused. A minute later, she heard the unmistakable sound of boots just outside the door.

"Jan?" a voice called.

The door creaked open. The man stepped in, his line of sight blocked by the metal door swinging inward.

"Scheiße... Jan!" he choked, rushing forward.

He never saw the door close.

Claire exploded from the darkness in one clean motion, with fury and precision. She hit him hard, the knife driving down in a rapid rhythm--one, two, three... six times. Warm blood spattered across her face. The man collapsed in a heap.

The room was silent again.

Claire didn't pause to savor the moment. She knelt beside the guard and took his sidearm, an East German Makarov. Magazine full. Safety off. She tucked it into her waist, stepped over his body and turned toward the door. Her knife, slick with blood but steady in her grip, was still her preferred weapon for the time being. She carefully looked out into the hallway beyond the door. It was dimly lit. One of the overhead bulbs flickered at irregular intervals, casting random shadows.

Once outside in the hall, she moved cautiously and silently. A few feet ahead, the corridor split. To the left, a stairwell leading upward. To the right, a single corridor extended fifty feet down, terminating in a reinforced steel door.

And in front of the door stood a guard.

He was alert. His posture was rigid, disciplined, his hands resting on the strap of his MPi-K submachine gun. A Stasi uniform, crisp and clean.

That has to be it. An armed lone guard, guarding a reinforced door? They're keeping someone important in there. Someone they don't want getting out.

Damian.

She drew a slow breath through her nose and considered her options.

Charging the man head-on was suicide. The corridor offered no cover. If he raised the MPi-K, she'd be dead before her second step.

She slipped back into the room where she was being tortured, and scanned it for anything she could. No fuse box. No control panel. Just the two dead bodies and the tools still strewn on the metal table.

Then, she saw it. An old metal wrench, heavy and solid.

She picked it up, took a breath, and tossed it against the far wall of the hall. It clattered and rang out sharply. a sound that didn't belong.

From down the hall she heard, "Was ist das?"

Footsteps. Hesitant at first, then stronger. She pressed herself flat against the wall beside the door inside the room, knife in hand, listening.

"Jan?" the guard called out. "Bist du das?"

He was getting closer.

Claire remained perfectly still, the handle of the knife was a source of comfort in her fingers. Then, he stepped just past the doorway and in, sweeping his weapon as he scanned the room.

Before he could process the scene in front of him, she struck.

One arm looped around his neck, yanking him back into her. The other jammed the knife under his jaw--fast, deep, surgical. He thrashed for half a second, tried to yell, then choking on his own blood. She dragged him down to the floor with practiced precision and held him tight until his twitching stopped.

Once he was neutralized, she retrieved his MPi-K and the keyring from his belt. Then made her way quickly back to the steel door at the end of the hallway.

When she got there, she hurriedly jammed one of the keys into the lock.

The first key didn't work, but the second one did. She heard the familiar sound of a click as she turned the key and opened the door slowly and cautiously.

A bare bulb buzzed overhead, revealing a small concrete room. Chains bolted to the wall. Bloodstains. And slumped in the corner was a man. "Damian." she whispered.

He didn't respond at first. Just a low groan, like something half-alive trying to wake from a coma. His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut, both lips were split open. His clothes were dirty and splattered with blood, but he was breathing.

Claire stepped inside and crouched beside him. "Damian! It's me."

His eyes fluttered open. Recognition.

"I hoped they'd send you." he rasped.

"I'm late." she said, slipping his arm over her shoulder and helping him get to his feet. "You're heavier than I remember."

He gave a faint, painful grin. "I thought I'd be lighter with all the blood loss."

As she helped him to his feet, he stumbled, before steading himself. "How bad?" she asked.

"Bad enough, but I can move." he muttered. "They were going to move me tomorrow. Moscow."

"Not anymore."

She pressed the Makarov into his hand. "Can you shoot?"

"Shoot? Yeah. Aim? Not so much." he responded.

She peeked back out into the hallway. They wouldn't have much time before more Stasi appeared.

"What about the West Germans you were working with?" Claire asked.

"Dead." Damian answered.

Claire slung Damian's arm tighter around her shoulders and guided him toward the stairwell just outside the room. His steps were uneven, but adrenaline gave them both momentum. They reached the top of the staircase just as a door above creaked open.

Claire froze.

A figure filled the entryway. He was tall, lean, and wearing a gray Stasi uniform. His weapon was drawn and pointed towards them. Claire raised her submachine without hesitation, ready to fire.

"Don't!" Damian rasped with urgency.

She glanced at him, her finger already tightening on the trigger.

"Claire. Don't shoot. I know him."

The Stasi agent did not act, he just locked his eyes on hers. No alarm. No orders barked. Just silence.

"That's Becker," Damian said. "He's the defector I was sent to retrieve."

The man gave a tight nod, eyes flicking toward the hallway behind them. "We don't have time. They'll come check on the interrogation and they'll find you gone. They'll be swarming this place in minutes." Becker explained.

Claire hesitated. She didn't trust easily. Never had, not in Berlin, not in this game. Especially not someone in a Stasi uniform.

Becker seemed to sense it. He slowly lowered his weapon and raised both hands. "If I wanted you dead, I would've closed that door and let the guards come."

Damian leaned heavier into her. "He's been feeding us intel for a while. Things got too hot, and I was sent in to retrieve him. He can be trusted."

Becker stepped back, motioning upward. "There's a car in the alley. Basement garage connects through the back stairwell. Come on. It's clear right now, but it won't be for long."

Claire nodded once, still watching him with the eyes of a predator. She adjusted Damian's weight and they followed Becker up the narrow rear stair. Every noise made her finger twitch against the trigger. Every door they passed could swing open.

But they reached the garage. A battered Trabant sat parked near a freight elevator.

Becker moved fast, popped the back door open, swept the backseat clear of papers and a coat. "Get in. We have maybe ten minutes before someone notices the guard's not at his post."

Claire eased Damian into the back. She climbed in beside him, her gun still drawn, resting low against her thigh.

Becker started the car. The engine coughed once, then turned over. He backed out into the alley with the practiced ease of someone who'd rehearsed his escape.

Claire's eyes didn't leave him. "Where are we going?"

"We have a safe house in Prenzlauer Berg. We can recoup there." Damian began. "Then there is a rail freight we will take as a route out."

Becker knew the location. He punched the gas and they sped.

Outside, East Berlin passed in a blur. They passed by gray buildings and hunched figures as they made their escape. It didn't appear that they were being pursued. Yet.

Claire recalled the woman that had betrayed them, Anna Meier. She regretted that she was not able to fulfill the promise to herself to punish her.

Unlike the Armenian boy, Claire would not forget Anna Meier.

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22 July 1996. 2:18 am. Alexandria, VA.

Claire tiptoed through the front door, the faint creak of the hinges disturbing the quiet of the house. The guilt from the weekend weighed heavy on her chest, pressing down with each step as she set her suitcase by the door. Her mind replayed the memory of her time with Sofia this weekend. "What have I done?" Claire thought as she shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, but the guilt persisted.

She had left New York and arrived at Echelon headquarters yesterday where she gave the photo to Elliot so that he could have it processed through their facial recognition software. Hopefully they would get a hit. She had her hair dyed back to her normal color, and as soon as it dried, she headed for home in the middle of the night.

She stood in her foyer and took a deep breath, glancing toward the stairs, her heart pounding. David and Emma were still asleep, she observed. Good. She needed to make this right, to ease the guilt that she was feeling. She made her way as quietly as possible up the stairs until she was standing in front of her bedroom door. Her fingers trembled as she began to unbutton her blouse, slipping it off and letting it fall to the floor. Her bra followed, then her pants and panties, until she stood completely naked in the hallway. The cool air caused goosebumps to appear on her skin..

The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and she slipped inside. Her eyes immediately landed on her husband's sleeping body. He lay on his back, one arm flung over his head, the sheets tangled around his waist. When she saw him, the guilt twisted in her stomach again, but she pushed it down, focusing instead on the plan she'd concocted in the car ride home. "This will make it better." she tried to convince herself.

She crept toward the bed, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet. Slowly, she slid onto the mattress, the warmth of David's body radiating toward her. She hesitated for a moment, her heart racing, then leaned in, her lips lightly kissing his neck. David stirred slightly but didn't wake. She trailed her lips lower, down his chest, her fingers gently brushing over the faint smattering of hair. She could smell him. A combination of sleep, sweat, and something uniquely him. It was a scent that was familiar and comforting and made her guilt flare anew.

Her hand slipped beneath the sheets and into his pajama bottoms, her fingers circling his already half-hard cock. David was always like this in the morning, waking up ready for her. The thought made her bite her lip as she gave him a few slow strokes, feeling him grow harder in her hand. She could feel her own body responding, but she pushed it aside. This wasn't about her. This was about him.

She lowered her head, using her free hand to slowly pull down his pajama bottoms. Her breath was warm against his skin as she kissed the tip of his cock, her tongue darting out to taste him. He groaned softly in his sleep, his hips involuntarily bucking slightly. She opened her lips and drew him into her waiting mouth, her tongue beginning to lick his shaft as she did. She moved slowly at first, savoring the shape of his cock on her tongue, the way he filled her mouth perfectly. It had been awhile since she had given him head, and she wondered to herself why she didn't do it more.

She reached her hand down further into his pajamas and cupped his balls, gently massaging them as she bobbed her head, taking him deeper with each stroke.

He groaned again, louder this time, and she felt his hand brush against her hair. She glanced up to see his eyes slowly opening, a drowsy, confused look on his face. "Claire?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

She didn't stop. In fact, her pace increased and she sucked him harder, one hand stroking his shaft the other massaging his testicles. David moaned, his fingers running through her hair, causing a thrill to run through her. Her guilt making her even more enthusiastic.

"God, Claire!" his words now loud, his hips lifting off the bed as he thrust deeper into her mouth. She could already feel him getting close, his cock throbbing against her tongue. She would do anything to bring him to completion.

The tip of David's cock was now hitting her tonsils, but she didn't mind.

[GLUG][GLUG][GLUG]

The sounds echoed through the quiet room.

Claire's experienced tongue danced around his cock inside her mouth, and she knew it would be soon. No man could last when she put her talented tongue to use.

And then she felt it. The welcome feeling of her husband ejaculating into her mouth.

Claire didn't pull away, instead she pulled him closer. She continued to suck as he expelled every ounce into her. She felt the sensation of the warm cum travelling down her throat and into her belly.

After his initial explosion, she continued to lay there, milking him silently. His hips jerked a few times over the next few seconds until he was finally spent.

When his balls were finally empty, Claire pulled back, her lips making a wet slurping sound as she did. She didn't hesitate to continue as she was already moving, straddling his face, her wet pussy hovering just above his lips.

He quickly understood what she was wanting. He mustered up the energy and gripped her hips, pulling her down onto his mouth, his tongue immediately diving into her. She gasped, her fingers grabbing his hair as she began to grind her pussy down onto his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming. His tongue probed deep inside of her, his mouth mashed against her lips as her hips rocked back and forth against his face.

His fingers grabbed her hips, his nose touched a particular spot that made her cry out. An area on her was sore for some reason. This caused David to pause for a moment.

She pulled on his hair, encouraging him to continue, which he did with even more enthusiasm.

She swallowed, her own orgasm building as his tongue worked her clit. She dragged her vagina along his chin, mouth, and nose. She felt pleasure everywhere in her pelvic area. Then it hit her. She cried out, her body trembling as she came, her thighs clamping the sides of his head as she did.

She collapsed next to him on the bed, spent. They laid for quite some time in silence, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing as they both came down from their highs. Then David finally spoke, his voice rough, "Claire. What's this?" His fingers traced a bruise on her pelvis, his tone hesitant but curious. She froze, realizing that the strap-on dildo that she used this weekend must have bruised her from the pounding she gave Sofia with it. Her mind raced as she tried to come up with an excuse. "It's just..." she started, her voice trailing off as she met his eyes, unsure of what to say next. "I'm not really sure."

Claire's mind raced, her heart pounding as his fingers lingered on the bruise. She couldn't let him dwell on it, couldn't let him suspect anything. She needed to distract him, to pull his attention away from the mark that betrayed her guilt. Her lips curled into a fake smile, and she leaned down, capturing his mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. When she pulled back, her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but laced with a sultry promise. "I missed you so much. It got me thinking. I think I'm finally ready. For that." She tilted her head in a way to indicate pointing to her ass.

His eyebrows shot up, his curiosity about the bruise momentarily forgotten. "For what?" he asked, his voice thick with desire, his cock began to twitch against her thigh as he began to realize what she meant. "You mean?"

She nodded, her cheeks reddening with a mix of nervousness and excitement. "Anal." she breathed, not believing the words that were coming out of her mouth in desperation.

She was not much of a fan of anal sex. She had convinced David that she had never done it before and was not interested in doing it. But in her desperation she made a compromise. "I think I'm ready." she said.

His eyes narrowed in anticipation, his hands gripping her hips tighter. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice excited. "I don't want to hurt you."

She nodded again, her confidence growing as she saw the hunger in his eyes. "I'm sure. Just go slow, okay?"

He didn't need to be told twice. In one swift motion, he flipped her onto her back, his body hovering over hers. His lips crashed into hers, his tongue slipping into her mouth as his hands roamed her body, over her breasts, down her stomach, to her thighs. She moaned into the kiss, holding him tight as he fondled her, his touch both tender and forceful.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck, over her collarbone, to her breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. She arched into him, a soft whimper escaping her lips as his fingers found her pussy, already wet from their earlier encounter. He circled her clit, his touch light but deliberate, sending sparks of pleasure through her body.

"God, you're so wet," he murmured against her skin, he slid his fingers into her, gathering her juices for lubrication before moving lower to her ass. She tensed slightly as his fingers brushed over her tight ass, but he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, his eyes locking with hers. "Relax," he whispered. "I'll be gentle." She continued to pretend that he was the more experienced lover and in control.

He looked into her eyes for approval as his finger began to press against her entrance, she nodded her okay. He began to work the tip of his finger inside her as his other hand steadied himself on her hip. Her butthole sealed around his finger as he entered her. This was David's first experience with anal sex, and he was surprised with the warmth of the inside of her rectum. He began to massage her cavity walls. She moaned, her hips instinctively rocking against his hand, the new sensation sending a combination of waves of pleasure and uncomfortableness throughout her body.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "You're doing so good, Claire." He added a second finger, stretching her carefully, his touch gentle but insistent. She gasped, her nails digging into his back as he began to move his fingers in and out, the rhythm slow but steady. "You're so tight," he groaned, his now fully erect cock throbbing against, waiting to enter her. "You feel incredible." He wanted to take her right then and there, but he waited.

She could feel herself opening up, her body responding to his touch, the initial discomfort giving way to a strange, aching pleasure of fullness. It had been years since she felt this sensation. His fingers moved deeper, curling slightly as they pressed against a spot that made her cry out, her back arching. "Oh God," she breathed, her hands clutching at him as the sensation began to overwhelm her. A mixture of pain and pleasure.

His fingers continued to work the inside of her, and Claire was surprised when she felt the familiar feeling of the beginnings of an orgasm building. "I'm close." she gasped, her voice trembling.

"Not yet." David said, his voice rough with need. He was not sure he would ever have this opportunity again, so he wanted to make sure his dick was going to go inside his wife's ass. He awkwardly fumbled at the nightstand drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube. He quickly coated his cock generously, hoping he could begin before his wife changed her mind. "Just tell me if it hurts too much." he said, his voice gentle but tinged with urgency.

She nodded, her heart pounding as he positioned himself at her entrance. She could feel the head of his cock pressing against her, the sensation sending a shiver of anticipation through her body. He moved slowly, his hands gripping her hips in place so she couldn't move away as he began to push inside. The stretching felt intense but not as painful as she remembered. She gasped, her nails digging into his arms as he inched deeper, her anal cavity slowly adjusting to him.

"You're doing so good," he murmured, his voice strained as he fought to keep his control. "You feel amazing, Claire."

Claire squeezed her eyes shut and ignored his words, instead concentrating on the pressure in her ass. She had to remind herself to breathe.

He groaned, his hips snapping forward as he thrust the rest of the way in, filling her completely. She cried out, the sensation overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that sent her head spinning. He stopped for a moment, giving her a moment to adjust, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Okay?" he asked, his voice thick with concern.

She nodded with her eyes still shut. "Okay." she lied, her voice shaky but sure. "You can move."

David couldn't contain his excitement as he began to ass fuck his wife. He pulled out slowly, then pushed back in, his thrusts shallow but deliberate. Claire moaned, her hands began to grip the sheets as he continued to thrust, the friction actually began sending sparks of pleasure through her body. He picked up the pace, his hips driving forward with more force, his cock hitting a spot inside her that made her cry out from pain.

David was too overcome from the feeling of his wife's tight sphincter gripping his cock for him to acknowledge her discomfort. He looked down to admire the sight of his lube-covered dick sliding in and out of Claire's asshole. An image he would remember for a lifetime. He groaned, his hands gripping her hips tighter as he pounded into her, his thrusts deep and relentless. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with their moans and gasps.

Then they heard a voice call out from the other bedroom. "Daddy? I'm thirsty!" It was Emma. The animalistic sounds coming from their bedroom must have woken her.

Claire's eyes shot open in a panic, worried that Emma may walk into the bedroom. She grabbed for the sheets in an attempt to cover their bodies.

David had no intention of stopping however. "Don't get up, honey. I'll be right there with some water." he yelled breathlessly as he continued to drive his cock deep into his wife's ass.

He figured he only had a few minutes before their daughter would interrupt them again, so he quickened his pace and force.

"I'm going to cum." he growled, his thrusts becoming erratic as he approached his release. She yelped as he increased his pace, her ass involuntary clenched his cock even tighter. He let out a strangled groan, his hips slamming into her one last time as he came, his release filling her cavity.

David collapsed on Claire and held her tight as his hips drove a few more times into her, expelling the last drops of semen. Claire felt each thrust with discomfort.

When David was finally finished, their breaths ragged and their bodies slick with sweat, he pulled his cock out of her with a pop, his semen leaked out of her ass and onto the sheets. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his voice soft. "You were amazing," he murmured. "Thank you." He quickly pulled his pajama bottoms up and jumped out of bed. He then made his way to the bedroom door and down to the kitchen to get Emma her water.

Claire smiled as she watched him run off to tend to their daughter, her heart swelling with a mix of relief and satisfaction. And although she didn't get as much enjoyment out of it as he did, she'd given him something new, something special, and for now, at least, the guilt of her betrayal felt a little lighter. But as she lay there, listening to David fill up a glass of water in the kitchen, she couldn't shake the nagging fear that her secret life would eventually come to light.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The following day Claire pulled into her driveway just past four. David was with Emma at her summer swim lessons at the YMCA, so Claire had used the opportunity to get in an extra workout. Her white tank top and blue workout shorts were damp with sweat, she looked forward to a shower and a change of clothes.

She stepped out of her SUV and noticed them right away. Six men in matching green uniforms, trimming the tall sycamores that lined the block. Their unmarked white truck parked at the curb, a magnetic sign slapped on the side said 'Green Leaf Services'. The sign was temporary, disposable. They spoke Spanish, but their conversations weren't the generic conversations that workmen typically spoke to pass the time, these men's conversations were brief and direct.

They moved with purpose, but not like landscapers. They were too precise. Too quiet. Too aware of her.

Claire's instincts sharpened.

She forced herself to walk casually to the mailbox. Collected a few bills. A flyer. Nothing important. As she turned back toward her front door, she felt the weight of their stares.

All six of them had stopped working. They weren't moving. Just watching her.

But they didn't come for her.

Not yet.

Once inside, she locked the door and set the mail down. She knew whatever happened next, it was going to come quickly, so she had no time to retrieve her gun that was locked away in the basement. She moved fast and silent through the kitchen and into the living room. Her eyes scanning everything.

Her eyes locked onto a heavy brass candlestick. Thick, solid. Meant for decoration, not as a weapon. Until now.

She grabbed it and tested the weight in her hand. Heavy. Balanced. Easy to wield. The kind of thing that could shatter bone.

Then she heard the subtle click of the back sliding door being popped off its track.

Claire moved without hesitation, ducking behind the kitchen island just as the first man entered through the back. He entered her home with no fear, like he expected anyone inside the house to panic when they saw him.

He was wrong.

As moved further into the kitchen, Claire rose up from behind the island and slammed the candlestick across his jaw with a full-body swing. The sound of bone cracking was sickening. He dropped, mouth slack, eyes already rolling back as he collapsed beside the fridge.

But another man was already rushing in.

Claire spun as he lunged, narrowly dodging him. He grabbed at her waist, but she brought her elbow up into his chin. He staggered backwards from the blow. She then followed with a brutal blow to the side of his head, the candlestick colliding with a thud. He reeled backward, but didn't fall.

He cursed in Spanish and swiped low with his foot, catching her ankle.

She hit the floor hard. But she quickly recovered. She twisted and kicked out with both legs, driving her heel into his knee. He grunted, bent over in pain, and she drove the blunt end of the candlestick into his temple. This time, he stayed down.

Heavy footsteps thundered toward her.

Claire scrambled up, just as a third man closed in. He was taller, thicker, and had muscles stacked on a broad frame. He moved differently. Deliberate. Dangerous.

He didn't rush.

Instead, he raised his arms and advanced, eyes locked on hers like he was studying her footwork.

Claire shifted sideways, forcing him to follow. She snapped a quick strike at his head. He ducked it and grabbed her wrist. He tried to twist the candlestick from her hand, but she stomped down hard on the top of his foot. He grunted but the gym shoes she was wearing dulled the effect of the blow. She broke free and swung again. This time, catching him just above the eyebrow, opening up a gash just above his eye, but he didn't go down. Blood ran down his face.

He was quick for a big man. He abruptly charged and he tackled Claire, slamming them both to the ground.

She wheezed as the weight of his body knocked the air out of her lungs. She did manage to roll away, gasped for air, and then came up swinging. The candlestick struck his collarbone with a loud crack. The intruder yelped in pain, grabbing at his shoulder. She stepped in and hit him again, this time on the side of his jaw. He staggered.

One more hit to the back of the head sent him face-first into the carpet.

Panting, bruised, Claire turned--

Too late.

A fourth man was already there. Slim, fast, eyes cold. He raised something small in his hand.

She heard the pop before she saw the Taser.

The leads struck her in the side. Electricity surged through her body in a wave of agony. Muscles locked. The candlestick fell from her hand. She collapsed, convulsing, gasping for air as the world spun.

The man with the Taser stepped closer, and kneeled beside her.

Claire could barely move. Her jaw clenched tight. She could hear voices. They were barking commands in Spanish. Hurried footsteps thudded across her floor.

Rough hands rolled her onto her stomach. Cold plastic zip ties cinched her wrists behind her back.

Someone lifted her by the arms.

She began to panic as they rolled her into a plastic tarp.

She used all of her training and fought to stay conscious, blinking through tears of pain, her limbs numb and trembling.

The front door opened.

Two of them carried her in the tarp down the steps toward the open landscaping truck which was now parked in her driveway, next to her SUV. Inside the back of the truck were more tarps, toolboxes, and a space cleared just for her.

They roughly threw her in. She groaned as she hit the metal floor of the van.

The doors slammed shut behind her. Darkness closed in.

The engine revved. The truck pulled away.

No one in the neighborhood noticed a thing.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Claire came to slowly, dragged from unconsciousness by the dull, throbbing ache in her limbs. Her mouth was dry, lips cracked, and a sharp pain radiated from her shoulder where she must have hit the truck wall during the ride. Her wrists were still zip-tied, but thankfully, her ankles were now free. She tested the tightness of the zip-tie and noticed that it had a little give. She began to instantly move her wrists back and forth in an effort to loosen it.

She took in her surroundings, the room was small, windowless. Bare concrete walls. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, flickering slightly. A drain in the floor. She has seen this type of room before. It was the kind of room meant for people who weren't expected to leave.

A door creaked open.

Three men stepped in. All Colombian. Two of them she recognized from the kidnapping at her house. One of them was the one who knocked her to the ground. His jaw was swelling from being hit with the candlestick, the gash above his eye still open. The other was the man who shot her with the Taser. He no longer had his Taser, but instead he held a nondescript duffel bag. The third man she did not recognize, but by the way he carried himself, she knew he was in charge.

As she sat there and studied the men, she cursed to herself silently. It had been almost a month since she dealt with Mateo and the two Columbians outside her in-laws home. The Khan mission had been monopolizing her focus, and she didn't think that the Colombians involved in the failed plot to obtain David's software were that big of a threat. If she did, she would have been more aware of her surroundings, and probably would have noticed them watching her before just today.

The third man looked down at the zip-tie on Claire's wrist and spoke in Spanish to the man with the swollen jaw. "Are those necessary? She is just a housewife."

"Yeah, but she fights like a jaguar." the man replied.

The man in charge laughed as he looked down at the captured woman. "Perhaps we need to send you back to the streets of Medellín. America has made you soft."

The Columbian with the injured jaw just glared at his boss, not risking to say another word that might get him killed.

The older man switched to English, although Claire understood everything that they were saying while they spoke in Spanish. "Hello Claire." he said without any accent whatsoever. "My name is Thiago. I believe you met my associates, Esteban and Pablo a bit earlier." He pointed to the men, Esteban was the one who wielded the Taser and Pablo was the one nursing the fractured jaw.

"I really wish there was another way, but I needed to ask you some questions, and this was really the only way that it could be done. We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. The hard way is... unpleasant for a pretty woman like yourself." Thiago said, gesturing towards the two men to emphasize his point. "The easy way gets you home to your husband and daughter before they realize you are even gone."

"Now Claire, there are three people who work for me. These three people have seemed to have just... disappeared... about a month ago." Thiago said, his voice growing more and more stern.

Claire's heart hammered, but her expression was a carefully composed mask of innocent terror. Beneath the facade, she was calculating and analyzing every possible method of escape. "Ah, um, I don't know what you are talking about."

Thiago ignored her and continued. "The last time I heard from any of these men was when they were doing a job for me that involved you and your family."

Claire tried to act surprised. "Why... why would you be interested in my family? I think you have the wrong person!"

Thiago stared at her menacingly. "I don't think I do, Claire Donovan. I know you met one of these men at your gym a while ago."

"I really don't remember meeting--" Claire's explanation was cut short as Thiago slapped her hard across the face.

Claire was able to muster tears, making her look scared and helpless.

"The one you met, Mateo, you see, he's my nephew. My sister's kid. Now Mateo loves his mother and has a habit of calling her every day." Thiago continued. "The only thing is, he hasn't called his mother about a month ago. So now my sister is calling me every day, worried about her son."

"I'm telling you, I don't know this Mateo!" Claire exclaimed.

Thiago slapped her again with even more force, this time drawing blood from inside of her mouth. She continued to attempt to loosen the zip-tie.

Thiago bent down and stared at her and then spoke with a cold stillness. "I'm going to ask you one more time before I hand you over to my associates, who won't be near as nice as me. Where is Mateo? Has he been arrested?"

Claire thought to herself that they had no idea all three of them were dead. That was good. If they knew they were dead already, they would kill her immediately. They would be restrained somewhat if they thought she had information to give them.

She forced her body to shake and she cried crocodile tears. "I told you! I don't know what you are talking about!"

Thiago stood up straight and turned to the other two men in the room. "Do it." he said in Spanish as he left the room.

Esteban slowly unzipped the duffel bag, the ominous noise cutting through the room. Pablo drew close to her, a menacing grin across his face.

She glanced behind him and saw Esteban removing a thick rubber hose from the duffel bag. She knew what was coming next.

Without breaking eye contact with Claire, Pablo reached back and grabbed the hose as Esteban was handing it to him. He brought it in front of her face and tapped it idly against his palm. Claire shifted her focus to the zip-tie, subtly flexing her wrists, testing the tension. The plastic bit into her skin. It would take awhile, but eventually she would be able to free her hands. In the meantime, however, she mentally prepared herself for the pain she was about to endure.

Without warning, Pablo raised his arm up and then brought the hose down hard.

[TWACK]

The first blow landed across her thigh, the sound resonated throughout the room. Claire gasped, a sharp involuntary sound. The pain was real, a blossoming bruise already forming just below the bottom of her gym shorts.

"That is for the candlestick." he said in heavily accented English, then he lifted the rubber hose above his head again. He struck once more, this time across her arm.

[TWACK]

The sharp sting of the hard rubber against her bare arm made her teeth clench in pain.

"And that one was just for fun." he smiled through gritted teeth.

Claire blinked away the tears of pain forming in her eyes. She stared forward. She couldn't help but notice that Pablo was getting erect as he tortured her. He was a sadist, and that was concerning. Sadists tortured for pleasure just as much as they did to gather information. Without warning, he struck her other arm with the hose.

She screamed from the sudden pain.

Pablo then asked an odd question. "I have a thing for feet. Mind if I take a look at your pedicure?" She ignored the question. Pablo pulled off both of her gym shoes and socks, and then placed her outstretched feet onto an overturned bucket.

"Now, señora, let's try again. Where are my friends?" he asked, half hoping that she wouldn't answer so soon.

When Claire remained silent, Pablo smiled and raised the rubber hose. The blow landed across the sole of her left foot, a dull thud that sent a jarring ache up her leg. Claire cried out again, a sharp, involuntary sound, her toes curling involuntarily. The pain was immediate, stinging and deep, but she fought to keep her expression a mix of shock and agony, not defiance.

"Still don't know?" Pablo's voice seemed to be getting giddier. He struck again, this time on the right foot, a precise, measured thwack. Claire screamed again as tears began to flow.

"I... I'm telling you! I don't know anything about your friends! Please... please... please, just let me go!" Claire said with a feigned pleading. She thought internally that she needed to quicken the pace of loosening her hands. The situation was escalating too quickly.

"Wrong answer." Pablo said.

The blows continued, alternating between her feet, until her soles throbbed with a dull, insistent ache. Pablo paused, observing her closely, he was a little surprised that this housewife hadn't broken and said anything yet. Maybe she was telling the truth. But the truth really didn't matter to him. "Perhaps we need to make you a little more... amenable," he mused, a cruel glint in his eyes.

Claire stiffened, her internal alarm bells ringing. Pablo reached for the hem of her tank top, a leering grin spreading across his face. He roughly yanked her shirt upwards pulling it along with her sports bra up over her chest, exposing her breasts. "Look at this, Esteban," he sneered, his eyes raking over her. "Our little suburban housewife is built for comfort, not speed." A wave of vulnerability washed over Claire, quickly replaced by a cold, simmering rage. The air in the room seemed to thicken, laced with a new kind of tension, humiliating and infuriating.

Pablo then pinched one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it roughly. Claire cried out, a raw, involuntary sound of pain and indignity. He twisted harder, dragging out the agony, causing Claire to elicit a scream. The pain was excruciating, designed to break her spirit and her body.

"Still not talking, huh?" he grunted, then moved to the other nipple, repeating the agonizing twist. He squeezed, kneaded, and tugged at her breasts, the crude motions escalating with each gasp she couldn't suppress. A faint tremor ran through his hands as he continued, his excitement growing with her pain, until he was breathing heavily, his eyes wild, his penis fully erect.

Esteban, seemingly impatient with the lack of results, stepped forward, his eyes glinting with crude excitement. "Maybe she needs a little encouragement elsewhere." He said as he reached into the canvas bag. He pulled out a device that brought Claire the sense of dread, an electric cattle prod. The snap-crackle of discharging electricity filled the stale air, accompanied by a faint ozone smell.

Pablo stepped away, letting Esteban take over. He spoke to Esteban in Spanish. "Fine. But don't damage the goods too much. Mrs. Claire and I are going to have some fun when we're done." He then looked over at the beauty bound before him. "Well, fun for me."

Esteban nodded while handling the tool. The cattle prod was meant for a different level of pain, designed to shock and incapacitate. She watched Esteban's movements, noting how he held the prod, the slight tremor of anticipation in his hand. He was eager, reckless. She made a mental note.

He grinned, a sinister flash of teeth. He stepped closer, the buzzing tip of the cattle prod held inches from Claire's side. The low hum vibrated through her chair. She could feel the sweat beading on her forehead, the primal fear clawing at the edges of her control.

"I'm going to give you a taste. Just enough to loosen that pretty little tongue." Esteban said as he leaned in. He stepped closer, the buzzing tip of the cattle prod held inches from Claire's side. The low hum vibrated through her chair. She could feel the sweat beading on her forehead, the primal fear clawing at the edges of her control.

Esteban then pressed the prod against her ribs, a searing jolt of white-hot pain shot through Claire's body. Her muscles spasmed violently, and a strangled cry escaped her lips. The smell of burning skin filled the air. Her vision swam for a fraction of a second, but years of training kicked in, and she regained control. The plastic zip-tie was now cutting into her wrists as she tried desperately to loosen it.

Esteban, emboldened, grinned. "Maybe a little lower?" He moved the prod down, pressing it against her inner thigh. Another agonizing jolt ripped through her, even more intense than before. Claire's body arched against the chair, every nerve burning. She screamed out in pain. But beneath the agony, a cold resolve hardened.

"You are getting close to her pussy. Be sure not to zap that. I want her to feel me completely later." Pablo said, Claire understanding every word.

Just then the door opened, and Thiago stepped back into the room. "Any luck?" he asked the men.

"Nothing yet." Esteban answered. "She's actually tougher than she looks."

"Ok. I'm going to send someone to her house to grab her kid and bring her back here." Thiago said as calmly as if he were ordering a pizza. "We'll see how quiet she stays when she sees her daughter's fingernails getting pulled out in front of her." Thiago paused for a moment, just now noticing her large, exposed breasts. He licked his lips. "When you are done here, bring her to me. I don't care if she is conscious or not, just make sure she's not dead."

Pablo cursed to himself silently. He was hoping that he would be the first one to get his dick wet in this beauty, but now he was going to be getting sloppy seconds after Thiago. He just had to make sure he fucked her before the rest of the crew, while she was still barely used.

A red haze began to descend in Claire as soon as Thiago mentioned Emma. It eclipsed the pain currently coursing through her body. It was rage, pure and unadulterated, surging through her veins. It wasn't the cold, calculated skill of a trained operative; it was the primal, visceral wrath of a mother whose child was threatened. Her eyes blazed with a terrifying intensity.

Esteban came close and raised the prod once again. Claire's gaze locked onto his, a silent promise of violence. With a scream that seemed to tear from the depths of her being, she twisted her left hand, pushing her thumb back, back, until a sickening pop echoed in the small room. A sharp, searing pain shot through her arm, making her scream even louder, but she barely registered it. She had just dislocated her thumb, allowing her to slip her hand out of the zip-tie.

In an instant, she was on her feet, the chair clattering to the floor behind her. Esteban momentarily stunned by her sudden, violent movement, hesitated. It was all the time she needed. She launched herself forward, a blur of raw fury. Her foot lashed out, a lightning-fast kick connecting with the man's knee. A sickening crack causing his knee to bend in an unnatural direction. He bellowed in pain, dropping the cattle prod as he crumpled to the floor, clutching his shattered joint.

Pablo reacted instantly. He lunged towards Claire, his hands outstretched, aiming to tackle her like he did at her home. But Claire was ready this time. She dropped low, narrowly avoiding his grasp. She reached out and her finger closed around the handle of the cattle prod just as Pablo was recovering.

He tried to rush at her to grab her shoulders, but Claire twisted, using his momentum against him. With a grunt, she swung the cattle prod in a short, brutal arc, the electrified prongs connecting with sickening accuracy into his groin. He shrieked, a frightening sound of pure agony as the current began to run through his body. His legs spasmed, and he staggered back. He doubled over, clutching his crotch, his face contorted in agony. Claire didn't hesitate. She ran towards him and with a vicious thrust, she jammed the prongs into his eye socket.

Pablo's shrieking was cut short, replaced by a strangled gasp. His body went rigid for a split second, then convulsed violently. His remaining eye rolled back in his head as he collapsed onto the floor, his hands still clamped to his groin as if trying to contain the unimaginable pain. A low, continuous buzzing sound emanated from the cattle prod, the smell of burnt flesh filling the air. Claire kept the prod pressed against him, her knuckles white as she gripped the handle, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She watched the man, her face a mask of grim determination, until the violent twitching subsided and the man lay still, becoming a lifeless corpse.

The lingering scent of burnt flesh and the echoing silence where screams had been sent a fresh wave of determination through Claire. She glanced at Esteban, still groaning and clutching his shattered knee. He was effectively neutralized for the immediate future. But she knew the screams wouldn't go unanswered. Her mind raced, adrenaline sharpening her focus. Barefoot and in gym clothes, her advantage lay in speed and surprise, not brute force.

Within seconds, the door swung inward as two more Columbians rushed through the entryway, alerted from the screams from their comrades. The first through the door was burly, a thick neck straining against his collar, a menacing.44 Magnum clutched in his right hand. The second man was leaner, his movements quicker, and Claire glimpsed the butt of a pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

Before the burly man could fully register the scene in front of him, Claire moved. Her adrenaline gave her a burst of speed despite her pain and exhaustion. She lunged towards him, her bare feet padding silently on the concrete. Her target wasn't the man himself, but the weapon. She dropped low, sliding under the barrel of the Magnum as he instinctively tried to bring it to bear. Ignoring the pain from her dislocated thumb, her left hand shot out, a lightning-fast strike to the inside of his wrist, targeting the median nerve. His grip on the heavy revolver loosened fractionally, a grunt of surprise and pain escaping his lips.

In that same fluid motion, her right hand snaked up, fingers hooking around the cylinder of the.44. With a sharp twist and a powerful yank, honed by years of training, she wrenched the weapon from his grasp. The heavy gun came free, and she immediately scrambled back, leveling the Magnum at the two men.

The second man, the leaner one, was already reacting. He drew his pistol, a smaller, more agile-looking 9mm. But Claire had the initiative. Before he could fully raise his weapon, Claire squeezed the trigger of the.44. The deafening roar of the hand cannon filled the small room. The large-caliber bullet slammed into the man's chest, a dark blossom appearing instantly on his shirt. His eyes widened in shock, his pistol clattering to the concrete floor as he staggered backward, collapsing against the doorframe. He was dead before his body even hit the floor.

The burly Columbian, momentarily stunned by the sound of the gunshot and the swift demise of his partner, roared in fury and lunged towards Claire. She adjusted her aim, the heavy barrel of the.44 tracking his advance. He was close, his large hands reaching for her. Claire fired again. The recoil from the Magnum caused her hand to buck as the bullet tore through the air and pierced through his shoulder. He stumbled, his charge faltering, he cried a roar of pain.

She couldn't believe it, but the man was still standing after taking that hit. His adrenaline must have been driving him. Claire knew she had limited rounds. She took a quick step to the side, creating a sliver of distance. As he lurched forward, she aimed for the center mass of his chest and fired her third shot. The impact knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling onto the blood-stained floor. He twitched, his thick limbs flailing, before finally going still.

She ignored the still injured Esteban in the room and ran out of the room with the gun. She needed to act fast.

She exited into an open warehouse space where she saw a stunned Thiago look at her and run into an office, quickly closing the door behind him. She assumed that was his office where he most likely kept a gun. Despite the pain in her feet from the torture, she sprinted towards the door.

As she neared the office, she stopped abruptly. Even though it was an interior, flimsy wooden door, she didn't want to risk attempting to break it down by ramming into it, that was a sure way to dislocate her shoulder. Instead she stood with her back to the door and performed a mule-kick. That type of kick provided her more power, which she desperately needed because her feet were in so much pain.

The weak lock shattered and the door popped open inward, Claire quickly spun around and raised the gun. She slowly entered the office.

She immediately saw Thiago desperately trying to open a drawer in his desk, presumably to retrieve his gun, but he was too late. Claire was already inside and the Magnum was trained on him. He raised his hands in surrender.

Claire calmly spoke in fluent Spanish. "We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. The hard way is... unpleasant for a pretty man like yourself."

Thiago was astonished when he heard the woman speak fluent Spanish and saw her wielding the gun like it was a part of her body. Obviously he had greatly underestimated this suburban mom.

"The man you sent to kidnap my daughter... describe the car that he is driving." Claire said, the gun never wavering.

Thiago responded without hesitation in English. "It's a Monte Carlo. Um... red. A red Monte Carlo!"

"Good." Claire continued in Spanish. "Now, slowly, give me the keys to your car and tell me where it is."

Thiago was shaking in fear as the woman had the weapon pointed at him. There was no one left here to protect him. He just wanted to appease this woman so he could get out of here and on the first flight back to Columbia. He would just send a hit team to her house in a few weeks to take out her whole family.

He slowly pulled his car keys out of his pocket and slid them across his desk toward the woman. "It's a black Mercedes E-Class. Parked right out front. We good?" Thiago pleaded.

Claire looked down at the keys and smiled, before straightening her arms so that the gun was now perfectly pointed at Thiago's head. Instinctually, Thiago raised his hands in front of his face in some feeble attempt at defense.

Claire didn't particularly care for the.44 Magnum. She found it heavy and unwieldy compared to many other guns. Typically the people who had them first saw Clint Eastwood use one in the Dirty Harry movies and thought they would be badasses if they had one too.

But right now, Claire was pretty pleased with the Magnum as she pulled the trigger. The bullet cut through both of Thiago's hands and then continued its path through his head before finally burying itself into the wall behind him.

Claire grabbed the keys and was making her way back to the interrogation room before Thiago's body even hit the floor.

Her feet were sore and she needed to retrieve her shoes. When she entered, she saw the injured Columbian, Esteban, staggering to get to his feet.

She did a quick mental count and determined she still had two bullets left. Plenty for what needed to be done.

Claire took aim and fired her Magnum again. She made sure to aim for his gut. He wouldn't die instantly, instead the last minutes of his life would be filled with excruciating agony.

She quickly put on her gym shoes and ran out to find the Mercedes.

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Diego pulled into a rest stop just outside of Alexandria on I-95. He wasn't feeling well. His stomach always turned when he was on a job that crossed a line. Kidnapping a five-year-old gir to torture her was about as far over the line as it got.

He headed toward the restrooms, quietly relieved to find them empty. He always felt uneasy using the facilities when someone else was around.

He stepped into the handicapped stall and locked the door behind him.

As Diego sat in the stall, trying to settle his nerves, the restroom door creaked open. Footsteps echoed on the tile. He tensed, instinctively holding his breath. He would be embarrassed if they heard him shitting.

The footsteps stopped just outside his stall.

The handle jiggled.

"Ocupado." he called out in Spanish, his English not being very good.

There was a pause, then the squeak of sneakers on the floor. The figure moved into the neighboring stall. The door clicked shut.

Diego exhaled slowly. He glanced down out of habit.

Running shoes. Small feet.

"Was this a woman?" Diego thought to himself.

He chuckled but didn't think much of it. Maybe the women's restroom was broken and this traveler had an upset stomach like him. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to refocus. Trying not to think about his embarrassment about the sounds that would soon come out of his body.

In the next stall, he thought it was a little odd that there was no noise. No movement. Just silence. He never shared a bathroom with a woman before. Maybe they made less sounds then disgusting men.

After about ten minutes, when he was finally finished, he stepped out of the stall, wiping sweat from his brow, the dull ache in his gut still twisting.

He moved to the sink and turned on the water, splashing his face.

Behind him, the neighboring stall door creaked open.

Footsteps. Soft. Steady.

He glanced up and froze, recognizing the woman. He turned towards her out of reflex.

She was already moving.

No warning. No words.

Claire closed the distance in two strides and drove her fist into his throat. Diego staggered back, gasping for air, hand clutched to his neck.

She followed with a sharp, brutal elbow to his temple. His head snapped sideways, blood flicking against the wall.

He didn't even have time to speak.

She grabbed the front of his jacket and hurled him into the sink. The back of his head hit with a sickening crunch. He dropped to one knee, dazed, stunned.

Claire grabbed him by the collar and dragged him upright.

One, two, three... six strikes to the face, the jaw, the nose. Bone cracked. Teeth scattered across the tile.

He slumped, a breathless, twitching heap.

She didn't stop.

Claire towered over his collapsed body, she continued to pummel his face. Her fists an extension of her rage.

Finally she wrapped her hands tight around his throat, and squeezed. Her expression didn't change. She was cold, focused, and mechanical. She didn't speak.

She only wanted him dead.

A barely conscious Diego clawed weakly at her forearms, his boots sliding helplessly against the floor. He kicked once. Then again. Slower.

And then nothing.

His body went limp on the floor.

Claire crouched, checked for a pulse.

Gone. Good.

With quiet efficiency, she dragged his corpse into the stall he had just left. She sat him on the toilet, propped his head against the divider, and closed the door.

She turned the lock from the inside, and then crawled under the stall door.

No one would question it. Anyone who came in here would assume that it was just some guy taking his time to take a shit. His body wouldn't be discovered until the cleaning crew came through. Tomorrow maybe. Maybe longer.

She washed her bloodied hands in the same sink where he'd stood minutes ago. It was now cracked from where his head hit it.

She wiped her face, adjusted her tank top, and walked outside as if nothing had happened.

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The front door creaked open just as the last light of the sun was beginning to set.

Claire stepped into her home, clutching the doorframe to help steady herself. Her white tank top was soaked with sweat and streaked with dried blood. Her gym shorts hung unevenly, one leg torn, revealing deep, purpling bruises that covered her thigh. Her arms trembled at her sides, a sickening discoloration climbing from her elbows to her shoulders.

"Claire!" David's voice cracked with panic as he rushed toward her.

She swayed on her feet, eyes glazed, lip split open. "I'm okay," she murmured, just before her legs buckled. The adrenaline that coursed through her body over the past few hours was now gone, and her body was responding accordingly.

He caught her just in time, lowering her gently to the floor. When he tried to take her hand, she hissed in pain and jerked back. David saw his wife's left thumb was dislocated, jutting at an unnatural angle.

"Oh my God," he breathed, staring. "What happened to you?"

"Car," she said, barely audible. "I went for a run. Some idiot speeding through the neighborhood clipped me. I fell down a slope on the side of the road. Couldn't... get up right away."

David's eyes scanned her, registering every injury in an attempt to help her. He noticed the raw marks on her wrists, the skin broken in places, it almost appeared as if she had been bound.

"Claire," he said carefully, "those bruises... your wrists..."

She met his eyes, and for a second. David noticed something flickering there. Fear and calculation.

"I got tangled in old wire," she said flatly. "Fence or something. Tried to pull myself free."

Her explanation didn't make sense, but David wasn't going to push it now, not when she was like this.

Claire pushed herself upright with a grunt, bracing against the wall. "I just want a shower. It's really not as bad as it looks."

David hesitated. "At least let me call--"

"No." she snapped, sharper than intended. Then, softer. "I just need to be here. With you."

He stood there, helpless, as she limped up the stairs, one arm pressed to her ribs, each step revealing just how much pain she was hiding.

She closed the bathroom door behind her and leaned on the sink, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Using a hand towel, she looped it around her dislocated thumb, giving herself something to grip for leverage. She took another towel and soaked it under the running water. This towel wasn't for her thumb, instead she put it in her mouth and bit down, the pain was coming.

Bracing her forearm against the sink and locking her elbow, she pulled the towel-wrapped thumb forward and slightly outward in one smooth motion, trying to align it with the joint.

Then a sickening pop.

The bone slipped back into place.

She screamed through gritted teeth into the wet towel in her mouth. The pain nearly caused her to black out, she clutched the edge of the sink to stay upright. The pain was sharp, then dull, then burning.

She tore a tampon applicator apart, using the smooth plastic tube as a makeshift splint. She wrapped it with a few layers and medical tape from under the sink, anything to keep the thumb in place.

Once her thumb was attended to, Claire peeled the blood-streaked tank top off over her head, wincing from the bruises on her body. She carefully pulled down her shorts and panties, being extra careful as to not drag them across her bruised thighs. Her thumb, now wrapped and held stiffly in the makeshift splint, throbbed like a heartbeat outside her chest.

She stepped into the shower, letting the water scald her. It poured over her face, her shoulders, her bruised arms and thighs. Her hands shook as she washed, carefully avoiding the worst of the damage. The water swirled red, then pink, then clear again.

They'd taken her. They'd tried to break her. They had come after her family.

And now they were gone.

Khan was next.