Wallbanger

Fresh Whet INK publishing

WALLBANGER
copyright October 2011 by
Sable Jordan

ISBN:
9780983894612

All rights reserved under the International
and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places,
characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any
actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is
entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work
are 18 years of age or older.

This book is intended for Adult Audiences. It
features graphic language, sexual encounters and situational
violence that may be considered offensive. Please keep your files
in a location inaccessible to minors.

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Cover design copyright 2011 Sable Jordan

First Edition October 2011

A Smashwords Edition

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or
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By Sable Jordan

Prologue

St. Petersburg, Russia

Men his age were supposed to die quietly in
their beds. Coddled in warm blankets and soft pillows. Not in a
dank basement—frail arms tied above their heads and strung up to a
meat hook like a slab of beef. He never dreamed the end would be so
heinous. Now, a flash bang and bullet? Sure. That would have been
fitting.
Full circle
. Instead, his captor seemed more intent
on prolonging the pain than on killing him. Nikolay desperately
wished for the latter.

Another electric current zinged through every
wrinkle of his naked body, and he jerked at the effects of the
cattle prod.

“Where?”

“I…I—” A sharp smack interrupted his
stuttering. Blood seeped from his nose again, blocking already
impaired breathing.

How long had they been at this? Hours? Days?
He’d lost control of his bladder early on, and often thereafter,
the room smelling of stale urine, feces, and sweat. But he told
them nothing. Even when his legs and back were slashed with the
knife he maintained his secret.

“You should know,” the voice said in Russian,
“we have just found the engineer.”

The struggling heart beat faster in his
chest.

A camera phone was forced into view, the
screen’s harsh light causing him to squint in order to bring the
image into focus. There was no mistaking the man on the display.
Anders Yurevich, gagged and tied to a chair, his dark eyes wide,
frightened orbs.

“Save him, Niko. Do something right for once
in your miserable life. Tell me who has Harvey,” the Russian
sniffed twice, “and I will let your friend go.”

He continued watching the live feed. Yurevich
whimpered—a shadow crossed the screen, cleared out again. In the
background, the room had been ransacked, papers, clothes, and other
oddities littering the space. The camera zoomed in so only the
distressed face filled the bright square. When the gag was yanked
from the Belarusian’s mouth he begged, “Please! Please! I
don’t—”

A loud retort. The forehead bloomed red.

Nikolay cringed, unusually saddened by the
death of an innocent. A rare moment of regret.

The device was removed. “You don’t want to
end up the same way, do you?”

He would, though. Not at the mercy of a
bullet, but dead nonetheless. Of that he was certain. With the
amount of pain he was in, the real travesty would come from Nikolay
not
dying. The only measure of comfort was that his
instructions would be carried out:
Get Harvey to the American.
He will do the rest.

“Tell me!” the man demanded, breaking into
his thoughts.

Nikolay stared at the monster he’d helped
create, watching the creature’s eyes shift suspiciously while he
rubbed at his nose. Some things would never change. The boy didn’t
know, and that thought comforted him too.

“You…nev…never find…he..her,”—Nikolay
wheezed, dizziness making him slur—“Harvey.” The punch to his gut
would have doubled him over, but being suspended kept him upright.
Aged joints would give out soon. Already the bones threatened to
slip from their place.

“Speaking their filthy language, too? The
clothes, the house. Disgrace to your proud heritage.”

Another 5,000 volts from the cattle prod and
he felt like his whole body had caught fire. His mind was slowly
turning liquid, thoughts harder and harder to formulate. Any more
punishment would lead to Nikolay talking, and that he could not
risk.

He had to die. Soon.

“Give it to me!”

Spittle landed on his face. “Never…fi—” He
was struck again, but it didn’t matter. Enduring this pain meant
she was secure.
The American will take care of Harvey. He’ll do
right by her.
Nikolay’s delirious laugh turned taunting.
“You…Chern—”

Phenomenal pain detonated in his head when a
rod was forced into his anus. He would have screamed, but the
entire ordeal was too much for his tired brain to process.
Breathing gone rampant, his heart worked so hard it would no doubt
explode in his chest.

“I can do this all night, Nikolay. I can make
this last a long,
long
—”

“Ahhhh!” The activated switch sent a short
shock, but the effects were lasting. His heart thudded faster, the
sound echoing in his ears.

“Again,” the monster commanded. Another burst
locked the old man in a rigid state. “You will tell me, Niko.”

He gasped for breath; lungs nearly lost the
fight against hyperventilating. Once he managed a pace slow enough
to speak, he babbled nonsensically.

“Ready to talk?”

His tired head lolled.

The man leaned a bit closer. “Who has
Harvey?” he whispered.

With a bloody, defiant smile, Nikolay opened
his lids just enough to look into the bland face.
“Chernyi…Russkii.”

Flat black discs stared back; the squared
head nodded.

Prod triggered, Nikolay’s agonized body
danced on the string, a macabre marionette.

1

Panamá Provence, Panama

“Let me out here.”

The vehicle eased to a stop two miles south
of the passenger terminals of Tocumen International Airport. In the
back seat, Kizzie Baldwin removed the cable from the disposable
cell phone and powered the device off and then on again. She
thumbed through the data on the back end and, satisfied, shoved it
into a pocket while marking the time on her wristwatch. A quick pat
to her ankle to check for her lucky knife, she stepped from the car
into the dark Panamanian morning.

She watched the taillights of the rental fade
away, and then headed in the opposite direction, moving toward the
fence enclosing the runway. Tocumen was expanding, a fact she’d
exploited more than once, and with the early hour it was easy to
slip into a break in the gate covered by little more than a few
lengths of bright yellow
precaución
tape.

A standalone portable building sat just
inside the fencing, but she avoided the door she knew to be locked,
making her way to the window at the back of the structure. With the
muggy weather, the construction crew always left the single
aperture open, which suited Kizzie’s needs just fine. A glance
around to ensure she was alone—not a soul, but it wouldn’t stay
that way for long. Already she could hear the sounds of the port
coming to life as the first flights were prepped for departure.
Daylight was fast approaching, and the next shift of builders would
stream in within the hour.

Fingers curled over the rim, Kizzie jumped
and lifted herself onto the ledge, locking her elbows once she’d
angled her upper body through the hole, and pausing at the
unexpected sight inside. Against the wall, a woman sprawled face
down, sandwiching her lover between her naked body and the cot they
lay on. Their breathing sounded steady, and by the looks of the
empty bottles and clothing tossed about it had been a tiring
night.

No other option, Kizzie could only hope they
stayed asleep. She tipped forward to land hands first on the metal
flooring and wriggled her hips through the narrow opening, legs and
feet slithering in behind.

The bodies on the bed shifted, and Kizzie
crouched low, keeping to the shadows for cover. A soft grunt and
the man’s arm slipped from his mate’s back, hanging off the side of
the small berth. In the sliver of light, she could just discern the
ring on his finger.

No one would subject the Misses to
this
, she thought absently, the combined stenches of stale
beer, leftover food and the couple’s nighttime escapades assaulting
her nose. She pushed the distraction away and quickly mapped out a
route to the exit across the portable.

Stepping lightly, she skirted the sleeping
figures and glass landmines, arriving at one of the open lockers
that housed the construction gear. She donned a smelly helmet,
goggles and a neon vest before grabbing the closest clipboard and a
roll of duct tape and heading for the door.

“Rafael, yo leve. Yon moun isit la se.” The
urgent words floated over in whispered Creole, just loud enough for
Kizzie to translate.
Rafael, wake up. Someone’s here.

She froze. This was supposed to be the easy
part.
Is there
ever
an easy part when it comes to being a
secret agent, Kizzie?
Even something as simple as this was
fraught with complications, like hung-over construction workers
cheating on their spouses.
People really don’t get how difficult
this job can be
, she mused. Hollywood spy thrillers didn’t
account for things like human interruption.

From the sound of knocked over glass, the
woman was on her feet, looking for her clothes, Kizzie assumed. The
man adjusted on the cot, his feet thudding on the floor. She angled
her head to keep an eye on the silhouettes behind her while inching
toward the door. A light came on, and her head snapped forward. She
tugged the helmet down a bit more. Adrenaline buzzed through her
body and kicked into overdrive, readying for a fight.

The woman continued in her native tongue. “If
anyone finds out, your wife will kill me, Rafael! I have to get out
of here!”

For his part, Rafael seemed disinterested.
“Calm down. It’s only Bella.” He switched languages, addressing
Kizzie in Spanish. “Bella, why are you so early today?”

“Lo siento, jefe,” Kizzie responded,
muttering to disguise her voice. “No he visto nada.” She took
another step toward the door, placed her hand on the knob.

Rafael laughed, went back to Creole. “See?
Bella didn’t see nothin’. Bella
never
sees nothin’. Now come
back here. We have a few min—”

His words snipped off as Kizzie left the
unit, slamming the door shut behind her. She checked her
watch—
took a tad longer than expected
—and hustled across the
asphalt to the hangars.

Locating the desired building, she waited for
a maintenance worker to leave out before she slipped inside.
“Dammit.” The plane she needed was already gone. For a brief moment
she considered using the one that remained, a large FedEx cargo
carrier. But she had no idea where it was headed, or when it was
leaving. She’d have to track down her bird.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the image from
the screen she’d studied not twenty minutes before:
Flight 1405
to Medellin, Columbia. Departing Gate 16.

Gate 16. Other end of the damn airport.
Great.

Another anxious glance at her watch—time was
running out.

“Screw it.” Commandeering a nearby cart,
Kizzie took to the tarmac, riding in the open straight toward the
gate. Someone in an approaching vehicle waved, and she lifted her
hand, shouted “Buenos dias!” without taking her foot off the
accelerator. As slow as the buggy moved she could have covered the
distance faster on foot. But nothing would bring more attention
than a hardhat-wearing woman in neon streaking across an open
runway. She’d have to be patient.

She hated being patient.

I can still turn back
. Technically,
she wasn’t rogue yet. She’d been contemplating that very thing
while sitting in the back of the car, even as she peeled open the
plastic packaging of the cell phone and brought up flight plans on
an iPad. She was a good agent; had done everything Bill Connolly
had asked of her without question, and then…this. This chance at
redemption for the Mauritius job—the seed of doubt from the
Mauritius job.... Right or wrong, this had the potential to blow up
in her face and see her imprisoned at best. “At worst” was an
option she didn’t want to think about.