Vicky Peterwald: Target (18 page)

V
ICKY
Peterwald, Grand Duchess, lieutenant, maybe lieutenant commander, but now certainly captive, came back to wakefulness from a drugged dream that she couldn’t remember but that left her feeling helpless and violated.

Without opening her eyes, she took inventory of herself.

She was thirsty, and her mouth tasted like vomit. Apparently three sleepy darts did not agree with a medium-rare hamburger.

She could still feel her bra and panties. Apparently the feeling of being violated was not the result of being violated. At least not yet.

She swallowed hard on that thought.

She was spread-eagle on a bed of some sorts. Her hands and feet were cuffed to the bed with cold steel that had been tightly and painfully fastened to her wrists and ankles.

She opened her eyes.

The light overhead glared too brightly; she made a face and looked away. Two men sat in straight-backed chairs eyeing her. Dressed like slobs, both looked only too eager to make her acquaintance more intimately.

“Go tell the boss she’s awake,” the taller of the two thugs said.

The shorter, fatter one, shambled off.

Vicky’s first thought was that these guys couldn’t have been the ones that kidnapped her. Who gunned down Captain Morgan.

There, she’d said it, at least to herself. Captain Morgan was not going home tonight to explore her bed and the happy girl in it. He was dead. They hadn’t given him so much as a fighting chance.

So why am I still alive?

Vicky wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to that question.

A tall man, dressed in black from head to foot, including a black ski mask over his face, came back with the pudgy one.

“You are alive,” he muttered. “Three sleepy darts and you’re awake before morning. You Peterwalds really are tough.”

“And we get our revenge,” Vicky spat.

“Not this time, doll. We have you locked down tight and there you will stay until our employer comes to verify you are who you say you are and to watch you die.”

Vicky suppressed the urge to struggle against her restraints. If she could get loose, she didn’t want to do it when this guy was watching. He had a machine pistol slung around his shoulders.

“I’ll pay you to let me go,” she said, staying in character. Hell, it was her character.

“Sorry, doll, but we’re honest crooks, aren’t we Albert. We negotiate an outrageous fee to do the dirty things, then we stick to our contract. Makes for more work when you have a good reputation, don’t it boys.”

“Yeah, boss.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

Vicky spat at the man in black.

“I could use that for my ID on you. You are Victoria Smythe-Peterwald, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m Käthe von Klaus,” Vicky said, naming someone she’d gone to school with.

“I doubt it, Victoria,” he said, and jabbed her in the arm with a short needle. “This should allow me to do my own field test and get a visit from our clients. They will want to conduct their own proof, but I don’t think you’ll miss a bit more blood. Not from what you’ll be giving up later. They may want you to answer a few questions, too. I would suggest you answer them quickly and accurately. Otherwise, our questioning may go long. Fun for us”—Vicky could see the grin through the ski mask—“but hard on you.”

She spat again. Or at least tried.

Her mouth was dry as scorched sand.

With a laugh, he left.

Again, she found herself alone with her two flabby zeros.

They stared at her. She did her best to ignore them.

She did listen. From the sound of the man in black’s footsteps, he went down a hall, then down some squeaking stairs. After that, she heard nothing.

In a while, the shorter one produced a game from his pocket and started playing. A bit later, the taller one did the same. Now, they ignored her as much as she ignored them.

Vicky quickly found there was not a lot of fun in ignoring two thugs totally ignoring her.

As inconspicuously as possible, Vicky tried the restraints. All she got was a groan from the brass bed.

“You can’t break that bed,” the taller one said. “We tried. It’s strong.”

“Yeah,” his shorter version agreed.

Vicky went back to contemplating her fate.

She’d heard stories of dead people that the State Police certified as very dead, solidly proven by DNA testing, only to show up, years later, not quite as dead as they had seemed. Apparently, loving Stepmother and her family wanted to make sure that there were no later surprises in her case.

That gave her time, but it didn’t suggest what she do with it.

C
OMPUTER,
she thought. The implants were still buried in her hair, but the computer made no reply. Either it was out of range, turned off, or destroyed. The last option she doubted. That computer was worth, if not a king’s ransom, certainly a minor duke or a senior baron’s. It might be locked down for now, but certainly someone would save it on the off chance that they might find out later how to unlock it.

Whatever the case, her computer would not help her now.

Honey, you’re going to have to figure your way out of this with your own two hands,
she thought, then added,
or other body part.

Admiral Gort had joked, well, at least half joked, that at the palace she studied the Kama Sutra and needlework for offensive and defensive purposes. She checked out her two jailers from the corner of her eye. They looked utterly disgusting and totally losers.

If her opinion mattered for anything among her half of the human race, those two had to be virgins.

Likely, by the time her dead body was disposed of, they wouldn’t be.

But did they know what her loving stepfamily intended for Vicky’s demise?

“Either of you two guys got a bedpan?” Vicky asked.

“Bedpan?” came in dumb two-part harmony.

“Yeah, you know the things you pee and shit in when you can’t get out of bed? You two ever been in a hospital?”

“No,” came even more dumbly back.

Likely as not they hadn’t even been born in one, just dropped in an alley and abandoned. Vicky ignored that thought and went on to her next move.

“So, what do you expect me to do, shit the bed?”

“They’ll make us clean it up if she does,” the shorter man told the taller one.

“Shit,” he said. “You need to go to the bathroom?”

“Badly,” Vicky lied. In the last hour she had indeed discovered you can be scared shitless.

The taller man seemed truly on the horns of a dilemma. Finally, he pulled his automatic from his pocket. “Otto, here’s the keys. You go undo her legs.”

“The boss ain’t gonna like this.”

“The boss ain’t never gonna find out about this. You want to clean up her shit?”

“No. No.” And the shorter one went to fumble with the shackles on Vicky’s ankles.

Vicky tried not to look all that intent about what was happening. She kept her eyes on Albert, who kept his gun on her.

“Now, Otto,” Albert said when Vicky’s legs were free, and Otto had felt up her legs to her crotch, “undo her left hand.”

Otto did that and copped a feel of her left breast. At least he didn’t hurt her when he did.

“Now, Otto, listen carefully, come around to the right side.”

While Otto moved to the last handcuff, Albert went to the foot of the bed. “Now you listen carefully, Miss whoever-you-are. Put your left hand over by your right.”

Vicky rolled over as told.

“Cuff her hands, Otto.”

“I can’t, she’d still cuffed to the bed.”

“Otto,” Albert said, exasperated, “cuff her left hand to her right hand.”

“I can’t, the right hand’s already cuffed,” Otto said as he tried to put the new cuffs on over the old cuff’s chain to the bed.

“Otto, put the new cuff on closer to her elbow than the old cuff. You do know what an elbow is, don’t you?”

“I know an elbow,” Otto said, and this time got Vicky’s two hands cuffed together.

“Now uncuff her from the bed.”

A second later, Vicky was free.

She stretched languidly on the bed to both guys’ attentive stares, scratched at her ankles where they’d been hurting like hell, then rubbed her wrists gingerly.

“You said you had to pee,” Albert reminded her.

“Or shit,” Vicky added.

“Well, do it. The bathroom is off there.”

There was a bathroom off to the left. It was filthy, but Vicky took a second to run some water and rinse the vomit out her mouth. Then she swallowed a few quick gulps.

“Pee,” Albert demanded, waving his gun.

“I’m gonna. I’m gonna,” Vicky said, and settled onto the toilet.

No surprise, at least to her, she could do nothing.

“I thought you said you had to shit,” Albert demanded, gun waving more nervously by the second.

“Have you ever tried to shit staring down the barrel of a gun?” Vicky asked with all the sarcasm she could muster.

“No,” Otto said, from where he was standing peering over Albert’s shoulder.

“Shut up,” Albert said, but he didn’t order his erstwhile subordinate away from where he gawked.

Vicky managed to produce some pee and a few grunts.

Albert waved the gun a whole lot more.

Vicky swallowed hard . . . and made her play.

She’d let her skirts fall to the floor, hiding much of herself as she sat on the toilet. Now she pulled her hem up slowly, revealing her shapely legs, wiggled one leg out of her panties, and lofted them in Albert’s general direction.

He had to reach to make the catch with his free hand. Immediately he put them to his nose for a sniff.

“You like it,” Vicky tried to purr.

“Can I have them, too?” Otto pleaded.

Albert took another long sniff, then handed them back to his cohort in crime.

“You know you’re gonna get sloppy seconds if the big boss gets his way,” Vicky said, voice as sultry and low as her nerves would allow. “Or, we can arrange for you to get it first.”

“The boss ain’t gonna like that,” Otto said.

“You want to have a go at her after me?” Albert said.

“Yeah,” came back without a second’s reflection.

“Then go wait outside.”

“Can’t I watch?”

“Outside,” Albert demanded. Clearly now intent on losing his virginity, he intended to lose it in style.

Once Otto was gone, Vicky sauntered up to Albert.

“Don’t get too close,” he said, waving his gun some more.

“You want to unzip me? Unsnap my bra?”

“Yeah. Turn around and back up slowly.”

Vicky obeyed. His hand fumbled at the zipper and bra as badly as he was fumbling with the gun.

Vicky stood obediently, and even managed a shiver as he unzipped the dress all the way down. If he wanted to assume the shiver was for the sex, that was his mistake. His hands were cold and clammy.

Vicky hated his very touch.

“How do you want to do this?” Vicky asked, all obedient and pliant on the outside.

“You go lie down on the bed.”

“Or you could lie down on the bed,” Vicky offered. “It’s easier to keep your hand on that gun if you aren’t holding yourself up with both hands.”

“Yeah, I should have thought of that.”

He dropped his pants and settled expectantly on the bed.

Vicky had been holding her dress up, what with it unzipped and the bra undone. Now she shimmied out of the dress.

Albert’s lust was burning in his eyes and his bobbing manhood.

Vicky swallowed twice. It would not do to throw up again just now.

She let her bra fall and stuck a pose for her kidnapper. Potential murderer. Intent rapist.

His smile was a disgusting leer. The gun still wavered, but it never left her general direction.

Taking a last breath free of his stink, Vicky swayed toward Albert.

She knelt on the bed beside him and fondled his package.

“No. Don’t touch me there. I want to be in you.”

So maybe he wasn’t a total virgin. But he wasn’t going to settle for premature ejaculation from just a hand job tonight.

It took a couple of tries to arrange that. Vicky was dry as sandpaper. On the third effort, he slipped in, and she settled on top of Albert.

He breathed a sigh of intense passion as Vicky wiggled above him. She raised her hands high, inviting his hands to her breasts. First he reached for one. Then when Vicky moaned and gyrated more, he put aside his gun and roughly massaged both of her breasts.

And Vicky brought down both hands—hardened into fists—and smashed them into his Adam’s apple.

A
LBERT
grabbed for his throat. Big mistake.

Vicky grabbed for his automatic and got it.

The thug struggled for a breath, as Vicky felt him shrink inside her. Now he did grab for Vicky, one hand for her throat, one for his gun.

She swatted his hands aside and slipped off him, kneeing him in the balls for good measure.

Now he grabbed, right hand for the agony in his groin, the other for his throat, still struggling to gasp for air. He rolled up in a ball of agony.

Vicky towered over him, gun aimed at his head, wondering if she should put him out of his agony.
Nope, let him suffer. And I don’t want to make any more sound than I have to.

It took him a long minute to die. In the end, his face was purple and his tongue and eyes bulging. To Vicky it looked like he was pleading for a quick bullet to the head.

Vicky ignored him. She had more trouble waiting for her outside the door.

Once Albert finished his convulsions, Vicky went through his pockets and found the keys to her cuffs. She also found a dull-looking knife. Freeing herself of the cuffs at last, she went to stand beside the door, gun in one hand, knife in the other.

She lowered her voice, and muttered, “Come on in, Otto.”

The chubby little guy was through the door like a shot, already busy unbuckling his pants.

Vicky slammed him in the head with the butt of her gun, and he went down in a heap.

Quickly she used the knife to slit his throat.

And was amazed at the amount of blood that gushed over her. She stepped back, then had to get in close to the spurting body to move it out of the door so she could close it.

Poor planning on my part. I should have moved him before I killed him.
She shrugged.
I’ll do better next time.

Vicky listened to see if she’d attracted any attention, but the house was still silent around her.

She’d had enough of being naked, but she was now covered with sticky blood. She took a second to duck into the bathroom and wash off the worst of it, then retrieved her dress from where it had fallen on the floor and pulled it back on and zipped it up.

Then she shook her head. The long skirt was fine for the dance floor at the palace but not so good for what she would be doing in the next few minutes.

Once again, she wielded the knife, this time on the silk as she slashed the skirt off at midthigh.

She also found she needed to take time to put back on her bra. Tonight’s strapless gown could not hold those puppies up on their own. Finally, she retrieved her dinner jacket from where it had been tossed in a corner. She was a lieutenant, God damn it, and she’d do her fighting looking like a lieutenant, thank you very much.

The jacket also had an inside pocket that the knife fit into very nicely.

All necessities done, she slipped barefoot out the door and began a search of the upper floor. She found a bathroom and two empty bedrooms.

The third had a man snoring away loudly. He was all in black and had a machine pistol within easy reach on the bed stand beside him. One of Morgan’s assassins, no doubt, ordered to get some sleep before he relieved the others.

Vicky slit his throat.

She was careful this time to get out of the spray, but some blood still ended up on her.

His eyes popped open, and he made a grab for her, but his life’s blood was fountaining toward the ceiling. He died before he could so much as touch Vicky.

“Three down. How many more to go?” Vicky told no one in particular.

His automatic pistol attracted her attention. It had a full magazine of sixty 4.5 mm rounds, and a second magazine beside it. There was also a rolled-leather holder that revealed a dozen gleaming sharp things that, no doubt, were to be used on Vicky’s delicate parts in a near future that, thankfully, wasn’t going to happen.

Any guilt she was feeling at the casual way she was killing this scum evaporated at the sight of all those sharp edges and the agony they promised her.

She traded in Albert’s rather dull knife for one of the longer, sharper ones.

She also swapped the pistol for the automatic weapon. Slipping the safety off, she sighted down the barrel. From what she remembered of the attack at the diner, the assassins had been shooting from the hip.

It had taken six of them to handle one Marine captain.

Vicky figured she could draw a solid bead on five or six of them, now, before they got her.

Upgunned, but still barefoot, Vicky made her way to the stairs.

She could see light at the bottom of them, and hear screams coming from somewhere down there.

Was there a second victim?

Had they somehow captured Kit or Kat? Doc Maggie!

Swallowing hard on the urge to charge straight down the stairs, shouting and shooting, Vicky made her way down carefully. She put one foot down, then another, taking care to slowly transfer her weight—and to put her weight only on the very side of the step, next to the wall.

It seemed to work. She made it to the bottom of the stairs with no one the wiser.

The screams were coming from a dimly lit room off to her right. By now she was pretty sure someone was watching a vid. To her left was a kitchen.

Brightly lit, it was empty.

Vicky edged toward the dark room.

Yep, they were watching a woman get carved up something horribly. No doubt, they were taking notes to try the worst twists on her unwilling body in a few minutes.

Her hand tightened on the weapon in her grip, as she found she could make out the contents and arrangement of the next room reflected in a mirror.

There were three heads, one above an overstuffed chair and two on a sofa. Facing them was the man in black. He seemed to be concentrating on his commlink and ignoring the vid.

She remembered Mr. Smith’s advice. “Shoot for the center of mass. Not the head.”

Well, she had only one person she could shoot for the center of, the guy in black. She’d have to go for the heads on the other three unless they stood up.

Targets selected, prioritized, and marked, Vicky checked her weapon one more time to make sure it was on fully automatic. She shouldered the machine pistol, sighted down the barrel and stepped into the living room.

A tap of the trigger and a quick three-round burst went into the chest of the guy in black before he even had a chance to look up from what he found so interesting.

She swept her sights to the right and put a pair of short bursts into the two heads above the sofa. One exploded, the other slumped.

The guy in the chair was coming up, machine pistol swinging around as Vicky targeted him. Five rounds in the chest blew him backward to sprawl half-on, half-off a coffee table.

Vicky hurried forward.

Two more shots into each of the guys on the couch, and they would never trouble a girl again. Next was the guy in black. He lay on the floor, struggling to reach for his own gun. Vicky put a bare foot on him, pressed her heel into the gore she’d made of his chest, and listened as a groan escaped his shattered lungs.

“Who hired you?” she demanded, putting the barrel of her pistol right between his eyes.

“Go to hell,” he groaned.

“You first,” Vicky said, and put a round in his brain.

She was smearing a lot of gray matter around tonight. “They should have made better use for it when they still had it,” she muttered bitterly to herself.

C
OMPUTER,
she thought.

I
AM HERE,
came back to her.

W
HERE?

I
HAVE NO FRAME OF REFERENCE FOR THAT QUESTION,
was her computer’s answer.

She rummaged through the guy in black’s pockets. She found the automatic she’d bought on Wardhaven for its sleepy dart option that wasn’t available on firearms for sale on Greenfeld. She pocketed it. Next she came across her computer about three centimeters from where one of her shots had gutted him.

I’ll have to be more careful next time.

Better yet, let’s make sure there isn’t a next time.

She relieved one of the dead assassins of his boots; she’d had enough of being raped and barefoot. His boots had a place for a knife and a whetstone. His knife looked sturdier than the thin blade she’d borrowed from the dead man upstairs. She took what she found.

She’d noticed that the guy in black had a thick envelope of money in his pocket but no evidence of where it came from. Now Vicky relieved him of it, as well as his commlink and a pair of car keys.

“I’ve been here long enough, time to get going.”

She found a dark leather coat, swung it about her, and left the carnage without looking back.