Posted by Extranjero on October 05, 2007 at 11:21:46:
EXTREME WAYS
Becky peeled her tee-shirt off and unfastened her bra. The air was warm against her sticky skin. She pulled her Levis down and slipped the black thong off her buttocks. The night caressed her nakedness. The sense of liberation made her smile.
A golden moon had risen and was peeping through the trees. Ignoring it, she turned towards the car. The filtered light just tinged the curves of her petite young body. Her breasts rose as she opened up the trunk.
The countryside was whirring with cicadas. She could hear the distant music from below. A tinkling of laughter, then a dull splash from the pool. She calmly strapped on her night-vision gear.
The goggles kept her fringe at bay. She pushed them up her forehead. Her eyes were dark and toffee-soft. She had fine cheekbones and a pointed chin. Tying the gunbelt round her hips, she touched the holstered pistol, then took a sniper rifle from the trunk.
Laying the butt against one breast, she moved into the trees, her sneakers treading softly in the dirt. The rancho came in sight below. The big pool glowed with underwater light. The slim brunette crept closer, then glanced up into the sky. The velvet night was full of stars. She felt their glimmer touching her bare skin.
She raised a hand to screen the lights and squinted at the deck. There were figures drifting in the pool. She heard them giggling. Others sat around, or came and went inside the house. And in the darkest corners, shadows lurked.
Becky brought the rifle up and flicked the night-sight on. The patio appeared in eerie green. She saw a sentry lurking at the far end of the deck, a sub-machine gun slung across his chest.
Patiently she scanned the grounds and found another one. His firefly cigarette gave him away. There would be others in the house. The cartel’s bosses never dropped their guard. Not even at a party with Sonora’s finest call-girls. Their lissom bodies glided through her sights.
Becky took a shallow breath and squeezed the trigger back. The silenced rifle gave a muffled thud. The smoking sentry coughed as if succumbing to his habit. His body crumpled like an empty suit.
She waited for a moment, but the party burbled on. The glowing crosshairs tracked across the deck. She squeezed again and felt the jolt against her collar bone. The first man jerked, then toppled out of sight.
Becky’s heart was pounding but she kept her mind detached. The call-girls wallowed in their bath of light. She scanned the limpid surface without pity. A sultry senorita filled the scope.
The girl had taken off her top and was floating on her back. The rifle gave its vulpine cough. The target kicked and made to clutch her breasts. Becky saw her startled face, mouth open in an O. An inky serpent spurted through the pool.
No one seemed to notice as she slipped below the surface – except the wet-haired girl by the pool steps. Becky saw the wheels go round in her befuddled mind, and stopped them with a shot between the eyes. The girl threw back her head, her pretty face wiped clean of thought. She slumped into the water with her friend.
Becky rose up on one knee. Adrenalin sang through her. She shot a woman on a lounger, shattering the cocktail glass she held. The girl convulsed and then flopped back, her features blank with shock, her dress soaked with her spilled drink and her blood.
The other girls were stirring now, beginning to catch on. Some had heard the insect-whines, while others glimpsed the red slick in the pool. Someone in the water screamed, both hands against her cheeks. The sniper took fresh aim and fired twice.
Both shots hit the junction box, high up under the eaves. There was a burst of bluish sparks and every light went out. The girls still in the water squealed as darkness swallowed them. They splashed and floundered blindly in the glow of Becky’s electronic eye.
Their breasts were bare and gleaming wet. She sniped at them like someone shooting melons. One girl reared back with a grunt. Another grizzled through her gritted teeth. The bodies flopped and floated in the darkness of the pool. The girls on the deck fled back indoors. She shot one like a game bird on the wing.
There was shouting from the darkened house. The deck was clear; she put the rifle down. Pulling her goggles into place, she drew her Sig-Sauer pistol and darted forward through the undergrowth.
She came to a wall and vaulted it. Her body rippled with a panther’s grace. Boots crunched on a gravel path. She twisted round and fired. A guard went spinning off his feet: his weapon barked and sputtered. Her bare flesh tensed expectantly. She loped towards the house.
Another topless girl was trying to clamber from the pool. She looked up blindly in the dark: her eyes glowed spookily in Becky’s view. “Sorry, love,” said Becky, firing twice at point blank range. The bullets punctured the girl’s tits and threw her limply back into the pool.
A sub-machine gun clattered from the doorway, its muzzle flash like lightning in the dark. Becky rolled and fired again. The sentry’s chest blew out. She skittered off around the house and came to a side door. Her breasts were heaving, slick with sweat. The goggles gave her an inhuman look.
She opened the door and slid inside, her pistol braced before her. The rooms showed up in grainy green. Her sneakers made no sound against the tiles. A female guard holding a Uzi groped into her sights. Her crop-top hugged her rounded breasts. She sensed a presence, whirled, and Becky fired.
“Hgh!” the sentry grunted as her sternum was kicked in. She thudded back against the whitewashed wall. The goggles magnified the flash, but Becky scarcely blinked. The girl’s tits joggled as she slithered down.
Another burst of automatic fire ripped through the house. The blaze of it made Becky squint; she flung herself aside. The flicker lit the darkened rooms and tinged her glossy skin. She hit the floor, rolled over and shot back.
The guard dodged out of sight again and Becky powered forward. She scooped the Uzi up with her free hand. Then she rushed the archway and the dining room beyond. The survivors had retreated there. She struck them like a demon in the dark.
Gunfire stripped the gloom away and cast distorted shadows. Becky triggered both her guns. The stroboscopic flashes lit her up. A bullet-proof observer would have glimpsed her swollen nipples and admired her tidy puff of pubic hair. But none of the guards or squealing call-girls had the chance to do so. She raked the room and emptied it of life.
Darkness slithered back again, like earth into a grave. She felt her heartbeat thudding in her ears. And then a muffled whimpering, from over by the staircase. She whirled, and swung her pistol round to bear.
A burly man was lurking in the corner with a woman clutched against him like a shield. Her eyes were wide with fear above the hand that gripped her mouth. She wore a halter top and long, slit skirt.
“Back off, bitch,” the drug lord said. “Or will you kill the girl to get at me?”
The question was absurd, of course. She’d murdered half a dozen girls already. Becky drew a bead on the whore’s cleavage. The Sig would penetrate her easily.
Her forefinger began to squeeze, and something balked inside her. She kept the pistol aimed, but didn’t fire. The captive girl’s breasts panted as the pause went on and on. Her scared eyes were as liquid as a deer’s.
Becky’s confidence was badly shaken. There were dead girls all around her, but her instincts shrank from making this last kill. She didn’t know how well the man could see her – then realised she was outlined by the starlight shining through the patio doors.
The target sneered at her, and then the woman’s chest erupted. He’d fired the pistol jammed against her back. The bullet ripped straight through and spattered Becky’s cheek with blood. She spun aside and felt it graze her breast.
The call-girl’s head flopped forward and she dropped like a rag doll. The drug lord raised his pistol as she fell. Becky fired snap shot as she went down onto her arse. Her bullet punched into the target’s brow.
He crumpled like a puppet with cut strings, and silence fell. She drew a shaky breath and scrambled up. The cool, dark house felt like a morgue, and now it had become one. She padded out onto the deck again.
The stars were blazing overhead. More victims drifted face down in the pool. Ignoring them, she vaulted the low wall and climbed the slope. Retrieved the sniper rifle, and went back to where she’d left her clothes and car.
Her momentary weakness had unnerved her. She cursed herself and pulled her panties on. Perhaps she’d done too many jobs already. Becky, all of twenty-two, began to think she might be getting old.
* * *
“Staying in again?” said Vicky, sighing. “Oh, Becca: what a boring life you lead!”
She meant it amiably enough, and Becky smiled wryly. The crack of gunfire echoed in her head. She shared the house in London with three nightclub-happy friends who had no inkling of her real job. As far as they all knew, she was a mousy secretary with a rich boyfriend she wouldn’t talk about. A boyfriend who had taken her to Mexico last month. They’d begged her to tell all, but she’d played coy.
She was curled up on the sofa with her black-framed glasses on – the ones she knew made her look plain and shy. Already in her wrap, though it was barely eight o’clock. All ready for a hot milk drink and then an early night.
She couldn’t hide her curves, of course: the others were quite envious of those. And she’d come back with a glossy tan that emphasised her dark, exotic looks. Her family had Irish, Portuguese and Indian blood. But Becky kept her passions carefully veiled.
Her friends were getting ready for a night out on the town. Sophie was soaking in the bath and Amy was deciding what to wear. Vicky herself was still in her brief bathrobe. Her squinty eyes suggested that she hadn’t put her contact lenses in.
“I hope you three behave yourselves,” said Becky with a grin. “Because I’m not coming down town to bail you out ...”
The microwave pinged in the kitchen and she went to get her TV meal. Her other life seemed like a dream, the kind in which you fall but never land. And when she was out working, her life here seemed just as strange: an existence so mundane it was unreal.
That was why she did it. For the thrill of being alive. The cash was just the icing on the cake. To her girlfriends she was plain Rebecca Palmer. On her missions, she was known as Becky Black.
Trinity the cat came slinking up to brush her calves. She opened the back door to let her out. The sky above the garden was as colourless as ash. Becky sniffed the evening air and hugged the skimpy wrap around herself.
Standing on the patio, she listened to the quiet. The distant city murmured like a sea. An autumn chill was in the air: it made her nipples harden. Then the door swung closed behind her and the latch clicked shut.
“Shit,” she said resignedly and squinted through the glass. There was no-one in the kitchen or the passage. Backing off, she looked up at the glowing bathroom window. A lazy splashing reached her ears. She peered round for a pebble she could throw.
The doorbell rang. “Oh God, the boys are early!” Vicky called. She flitted through into the hall, still wearing her short bathrobe, and Becky had no chance to catch her eye.
Vicky opened the front door with an embarrassed simper. “Sorry, guys …” she said, and then tailed off. Something poked her in the chest: a stubby metal tube. It pushed against her plump left breast and spat into her body with a thud.
“Guh!” sobbed Vicky, saucer-eyed. The back of her white bathrobe blurted out. Scarlet flecked the pastel wall behind her. Her body reared and crumpled to the floor.
The woman who’d been on the doorstep strode into the house. She wore a black sweater and jeans which hugged her slender figure and pert breasts. She had a solemn face, green eyes and hair like dirty straw. Her pistol was a Sig-Sauer 239.
Another woman followed, glancing back to check the street. The third team member waited in the car. The woman stepped over the corpse and closed the door behind her. Vicky slumped with one bare breast protruding from her robe. The nipple, broad and pink, contrasted with the neat red wound. The woman lingered, savouring the sight.
She was dark-haired and haughtily good-looking, with blue eyes and a wry twist to her mouth. Her skirt and jacket were black leather, matched by hose and boots. She wore black velvet gloves as well. Her pistol was a nickel-plated Sphinx.
Becky was still peering through the window. She glimpsed the black-clad figures in the hall. Adrenalin surged through her and she twisted out of sight. The blonde girl looked into the kitchen, then went padding back towards the stairs.
The other girl was halfway up the staircase. Amy heard her footsteps and came out onto the landing with a smile. She was petite and olive-skinned and delicately pretty. She held a dress against herself. “So what do you think of this one …” she began.
Her brown eyes widened, then her mouth. The silenced Sphinx coughed twice, the bullets plucking at her party dress. Her mouth gaped in a silent wail as both her breasts were punctured. She slithered limply down the wall, still clutching at the garment like a shroud.
In the garden, Becky heard the pistol’s muffled whacks. She clenched her fists in horror and dismay. Half her instincts urged her to smash through the kitchen window. The other half said run and don’t look back.
The dark-haired girl was listening outside the bathroom door. The languid slop of water made her smile. She tapped her gun against the wood. “All right, I’m nearly finished,” Sophie called. The killer took a step away, then barged in through the door. Poor Sophie sat bolt upright with a splash.
She was an elegant brunette with eyes like chocolate drops. Her honey-glazed complexion turned ghost white. She cowered back amid the suds and hugged her soapy bosom. The black-clad woman aimed but didn’t fire.
“My name’s Ruth,” she drawled, “but Mummy made the wrong choice there – I’m the most ruthless bitch you’re ever going to meet.” She glanced towards the doorway. The blonde killer shook her head. Ruth turned back to Sophie. “Where’s Rebecca, then?” she asked.
“God … I don’t know … in the house!” The girl’s posh voice was quavering with fear. Unimpressed, Ruth gestured to her partner. The blonde produced a hairdryer she’d got from Amy’s room. Ruth took it like a bulky second pistol. The blonde girl plugged it in outside, and the nozzle howled as Ruth depressed the switch.
Sophie’s face went slack with utter horror. Ruth held the hairdryer out across the bath. “Your little friend Rebecca was a naughty girl last month. She killed someone in Mexico, and we’ve been paid to punish her for it.”
“Oh please …” sobbed Sophie wretchedly. The hairdryer drowned her out. Ruth took mocking aim with it. “She’s staying in tonight!” the posh girl wailed.
“She’s in the garden, Ruth!” the blonde girl shouted from the landing. There was the sound of breaking glass, and then the coughing of the killer’s gun. Ruth’s gloved fingers opened and she let the hairdryer fall. It landed in the bath with a blue flash.
Sophie bucked and quivered as the current fried her nerves. Her wet breasts joggled and her teeth clenched tight. “Eeeeghhh!” she mewled in agony, and then the fuse burned through. Her body flopped back in the bath, her sweet face now as vacant as a mask.
“Whoops,” said Ruth and sauntered out. The blonde was already pounding down the stairs. She ran towards the kitchen while Ruth made for the front door. The street was empty in the dusk. She walked with feline smoothness to the car.
Becky had climbed the garden fence as soon as she’d been spotted, swinging herself across it as the blonde girl’s bullets tore into the wood. She was nude beneath her thigh-length wrap, her leap revealing all. Her heart turned over in her chest. She landed in the neighbours’ shrubbery.
An automatic light went on and bathed her in its glare. Becky squinted, rolling clear, but the house itself stayed dark. More shots splintered through the fence, this time from lower down. She threw her spectacles away and scurried down the passage to the front.
The road was empty, streetlamps cherry-red against the sky. Her bare feet slapped the pavement as she ran. No time to think of what she’d left behind her. She knew her luckless friends must all be dead.
She glanced over her shoulder, and the slender black-clad blonde was at her heels. Becky veered around the corner, into the pedestrianised high street. There were pubs and wine bars on both sides with lines of people waiting at the doors. Others walked the street in groups, the girls already giggly and half drunk. Becky pelted on, the short wrap flapping round her thighs. The men she passed cried out in raucous glee. One guy made to block her way and she kneed him in the groin, then felled him with a vicious backhand blow.
Ignoring the burst of cheers and jeers, she fled along the street. Music thumped out of the bars, but they all had burly bouncers on the doors. She risked a look behind her and collided with a group. “Watch where you’re fucking going!” someone said.
There were five of them, with the well-manicured good looks of office girls, but all were wearing tight school uniforms. She guessed they must be off to join a hen night, already liquored up on alco-pops. Their blouses were too small and half-unbuttoned, revealing lace or satin bras beneath. They wore short skirts and knee-high socks or stockings. Becky had a flashback to being victimised at school.
One girl swigged from her Bacardi Breezer. “And I thought I was under-dressed!” she smirked. Becky tried to elbow through, but the girls closed in around her. “So what’s the hurry, then?” demanded one.
The five of them found out a moment later: their hen night was cut short as Becky watched. The background clamour of the bars drowned out the silenced pistol, but she saw the crimson blossoms on each blouse. “Uh!” gasped one girl throatily. “Eugh!” another grunted. Their large breasts bobbed and quivered with each hit. A mousy-looking redhead took a shot between the eyes, her bosom bulging as her head flipped back. Becky shouldered past them as the three died on their feet. The last two girls stood stupefied – then clawed their tits as they were shot down too.
Becky dropped into a crouch. A bottle fell towards her. She snatched at it and tumbled clear. The bodies were still slumping to the road. The cold-eyed blonde girl stalked towards her, levelling her gun. Becky rolled and scrambled up, then dived into a narrow passageway. The blonde came lunging in pursuit. She swung around the corner, and Becky spattered vodka in her face.
The girl recoiled, her eyes screwed up. The pistol coughed and ruffled Becky’s hair. The brunette pounced on her pursuer and they both went down. The pistol wavered blindly as they wrestled in the alleyway like cats.
Becky’s bare legs scissored out and wrapped themselves around the blonde girl’s neck. “Bitch!” she gritted through her teeth. The killer thrashed and tried to throw her off. Becky caught hold of her wrist. The pistol spurted skywards. The blonde smelled Becky’s pussy as the smaller girl’s strong thighs compressed her throat.
Then Becky jerked her pelvis with a wrench that snapped the blonde girl’s slender neck.
The killer spasmed and shuddered, then relaxed in Becky’s lap. The young assassin gasped and wriggled clear. She picked the silenced pistol up and checked the magazine. The gun was almost empty, but she found a spare clip in the dead girl’s jeans.
There was consternation in the street. A girl cried out in horror. The pistol clicked and snapped in Becky’s hands. She darted down the alley to another well-lit street. More young people on the pull. She joined the crowd, the gun held at her side.
People turned to stare at her bare feet and painted toenails. The flimsy wrap revealed too much; her panting bosom threatened to escape. She weaved between the revellers, ignoring their wolf-whistles. But movement made her visible. She joined a queue outside the nearest bar.
There were mostly girls ahead of her, all dolled up for the evening. Despite the chill, they wore crop-tops and two-inch miniskirts. Compared to Becky, even they looked over-dressed right now. She huddled up and kept her head well down.
A car cruised past and halted at the junction just ahead. She glanced at it, then kept on looking round. There had been two killers at the house: a real pair of pros. The second one would not have given up. Scanning the crowd, she found a phrase repeating in her head. The code for high alert. Bikini Black.
Then the car’s reversing lights came on. It powered backwards. The passenger window was wound down, and the thick tube of a silencer poked out. Becky knew at once it was a Mac-10 sub-machine gun. Her stomach turned a somersault, and then the vicious weapon sprayed the queue.
The girls went down like dominos as the muzzle flashed and spluttered. The bullets raked their trim, bare bellies, making them grimace and double up. The weapon rode up with the recoil, biting through plump breasts. The victims sobbed or grunted as the impacts flung them back against the wall. The Mac-10 chewed its way along the line of carefree girls – some of them still gossiping until the bullets hit. Shopgirls, students, secretaries, all hoping they would score. But only the pathologist would get to peel their sexy panties off.
Becky swung her pistol up and fired through the back window. The bullets blew towards her like a squall. Still shooting, she fell backwards as the queue was wiped away. The car surged past and jounced onto the kerb.
The sub-machine gun had cut out; the bodies were still toppling. She swivelled on her arse and fired again. The shot punched through the windscreen and the female driver’s brow. The girl’s head whiplashed with the force of it. She was wearing a white T-shirt and her bosom stretched it tight, then sagged as she collapsed across the wheel.
The passenger door swung open and the other girl fell out. She glared at Becky rabidly and aimed the sub-machine gun with one hand. Becky rolled into the gutter as the Mac-10 coughed. A single bullet fanned her cheek, and then the bolt went clunk.
“Fuck,” hissed Ruth between her teeth. She wasn’t looking quite so haughty now. One of Becky’s shots had winged her. Each breath felt like snorting broken glass. Dropping the empty gun, she drew her nickel-plated pistol as Becky clambered smoothly to her feet.
People were screaming, running past. Ruth seized a shapely leg. The fleeing girl fell headlong and the killer pounced on her like a black widow. As Becky came around the car, Ruth twisted round to face her. She was hugging the dazed girl like a shield, and levelling the Sphinx at Becky’s chest.
Becky kept her pistol braced, the trigger at first pressure. Her breasts were panting in her filmy wrap. The two girls glared at one another, frozen in a standoff. The hostage gasped and wriggled helplessly.
Then Ruth sneered and put her gun against the trapped girl’s temple. “Back off, you little bitch,” she said. “Or else I’ll kill her now.”
Her captive’s dark brown eyes were as dumbfounded as a cow’s. She wore a lemon yellow mini-dress. Her cleavage was plumped up and there was glitter on her shoulders. Becky didn’t hesitate. She shot the hapless girl between the tits.
The captive jerked, her shocked mouth falling open. The impact thrilled through her soft body, knocking Ruth off balance with its jolt. Before the girl in leather could recover, Becky shot her through the column of her throat. “Ulhg!” Ruth croaked and clutched her neck, her blue eyes wide with horror. Blood leaked through her black-gloved fingers, spilling down into her scoop-necked top.
Becky watched her squirm and stick her tongue out – but the bitch still had the Sphinx in her free hand. No sense in running risks, so Becky shot her through each breast. The slugs puffed smoke from Ruth’s black T-shirt, spurts of blood erupting in their wake. Ruth’s contorted face went slack and she teetered for a moment, then flopped and let the gutter flood with red.
Becky turned and walked away. The street was almost empty. The onlookers who hadn’t fled were crouching behind cars and litter bins. She reached a darker side-street and took off at a dead run. Towards a new identity.
There’d be a new assignment soon enough.