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Decoy (m/f)
by
Kid Indy
“Williams, call out positions. Over.” A radio crackle.
“Two vehicles on-site. They’re waiting on somebody. Everyone’s still in the cars. Over.”
“Roger that. Dallas, stay sharp.”
“Ready to roll on your mark.”
Williams again: “Two more vehicles approaching from northwest. Green, what do you see?”
“SUVs, both of them. Maybe Dodge Durangos. Black.”
“Roger. Everyone stay sharp. Move on my mark.”
Nicole Green watched as the four large vehicles converged in the abandoned parking lot. The Bureau’s Internet analysts had caught a lucky break, and according to the chatter they had picked up, two of these vehicles should be transferring some seriously illegal weapons to the other two. She continued to scan the scene with long-distance infrared binoculars. Something wasn’t right--somebody should have left a vehicle by now.
She scanned the roads leading off into the Tennessee hills. The Mountain Foxes, a dangerous group of drug runners, was the first case the FBI had put her on a year ago, fresh out of the Academy, and she knew that they were ready and willing to kill to protect the contraband that filled two of those vehicles. In another operation they might have followed the shipment in hopes of finding bigger fish or even handed this over to the Drug Enforcement Agency, but the intel that the Illegal Ordnance Unit had obtained told them this was a big one, heroin and military-grade weapons, and the latter the Bureau wasn’t going to leave out on the streets, even if the DEA’s feelings got hurt.
The moments clicked past, and none of the four vehicles moved.
“Dallas, do you see anything?”
“Windows open, but no movement. Something is wrong here.”
As if on cue, tires on all four of the SUVs screeched, and the vehicles sped towards the parking lot’s access points.
“Williams! Dallas! Get on the eastbound vehicles! Campbell, you’re with me on the southbound!”
Agent Green called into her radio, “Which group am I on?”
Special Agent in Charge James responded: “Stay here and watch the meet site in case they circle back.”
Green slapped her car’s steering wheel. “Dammit!” She knew full well nobody was circling back; when the more experienced agents pulled the gun runners off the highway, she would still be sitting in her car, watching an abandoned Sears parking lot. She put her binoculars to her eyes again and started another scan, but she knew better than to hope too much.
She heard Rick Dallas come over his radio. “Vehicles have hit the Interstate. Backup, where are you?”
Nicole shouted at her deactivated radio, knowing that her senior agents could not hear: “I could have been there helping, but you stuck me out here watching an abandoned parking lot!”
More transmissions called out the chase play by play: all four vehicles had made it to nearby Interstates, and state police were involved in the pickup. Nicole grumbled and cursed her luck at losing out, here at the end of her first major operation. Then she saw flashing yellow lights round the corner behind her. The loud rumble of a tow truck was on her, and she watched in alarm as it slowed down in front of her. The backing signal drowned out the loud engine, and Green stepped out of the car. The oncoming truck’s headlights threw a long shadow behind her as her long legs advanced towards them. She waved her arms at the truck.
“Hey! What are you doing?” The backing sounds stopped, but the truck was still running as a large man opened the door and stepped out of the truck.
He shouted over the truck’s idling: “Got a call about a broken down engine! Did you make that call?”
Green stepped out in front of her car to make sure he didn’t attempt to open its hood or pull it onto the truck’s bed. “Wrong number. Whoever called you, it wasn’t me.”
The man looked down at what looked like a tablet and began shouting again. “Well, this is the call I got! See? This is the address and everything!”
Agent Green walked up to the man. He held out the tablet, and she looked down at its screen. With her mind on her bad luck and on how to get the man to leave, Green did not think to turn around to see if anyone was coming out of the woods. She felt metal against the back of her neck. “Don’t move.” A hand removed the firearm from her holster, and another pair of hands pulled a bag over her head. A third pair of hands, she assumed the truck’s driver, patted her down and took her wallet and removed her belt. Hands pulled her wrists behind her back and secured them with a plastic zip-tie. The training kicked in: wait until they’re isolated; cooperate until there’s a chance for escape. She heard another vehicle drive up, and the sound of a van’s door opening hit her. They led her to a large step up--definitely a fifteen-passenger van--and she heard the door close behind her.
The gun’s barrel was still pressed against her neck, so she didn’t make any sudden movements. She could tell that the driver and the gunman were not the only bodies in the vehicle; a third voice had grunted as he shut the passenger door. She felt the van accelerate hard, and she tried to remember which direction she was facing when the ambush had come. Mentally tracking turns, she knew that the van was heading up into the mountains, but by the time they jumped off of pavement and onto a gravel road, the route had turned too many times; she did not know these hills well enough to know where to call for help. She swallowed her spit and started plotting how she might make a run if she needed to.
The gravel roads took several minutes, and Green knew that she was way back in the hills at this point. When the van came to a halt, the gunman grabbed her upper arm and guided her out of the van. Her boots hit gravel, and the air was cool; they had climbed well up into the hills, she guessed. Three sets of footfalls confirmed her suspicion that she had been accompanied by two plus the driver, and they marched her through the gravel. “Step up.” She did, and she felt a wood porch under her boot. The same voice, accented East Tennessee, guided her through a door into an indoor space, then through another door, then down twelve (she counted this time) steps, then across a concrete floor. All three sets of footsteps were with her the whole way. The cool air told her she was in a basement.
A hand took the hood off, and she looked around at her three captors. Big, all three of them, and she immediately spotted weapons on the two who hadn’t been holding her at gunpoint. They were in a large cinder-block basement space, and all three of them were between her and the only door. She’d have to wait for a chance to escape. She noticed an old recliner in a corner. “Can I sit down?”
Two of the men looked at each other, then nodded to her. She set herself down on the recliner, hands still tied behind her, to rest and take in the scene. Not much time passed at all before Green heard more footsteps coming down the stairs. At least three more, by the sound of it.
The first one into the basement carried what seemed to be lighting equipment, and Green knew that there would likely be an interrogation. Once again she prepared herself mentally. A second man began to set up a tripod and a camera. Standard procedure so far--they’d likely want to examine video of the interrogation to discern things she had given away without meaning to. The third man was the first to speak to her. Dressed in black fatigues and combat boots like the rest, nonetheless he walked with a confidence that told Green that he was the ringleader. He opened up her wallet and read from her identification: “Special Agent Nicole Green. I think I’ll call you Nicki.”
“You’ll call me Agent Green, and you should know that other agents will find me soon.”
“You mean the ones we sent running after the stolen rental cars? Hardly.”
Green resisted the urge to respond: he might be after their intel source, and any details of the operation could help them on that front.
“You probably still think there were kilos of heroin in those SUVs, right, Nicki?” Her eyes narrowed as she resisted the urge to respond. “No, one of our people just got a job at a small-time dealership and got us some joy rides for the evening. Our four guys led your people out into the mountains, and then they ditched the stolen wheels and got away on dirt bikes. Your buddies at the Bureau are going to find four empty vehicles, and our guy isn’t going to show up for work tomorrow. He wouldn’t want to get in trouble for leaving the doors to the dealership unlocked.”
Green’s confusion got the best of her. “Then what was your target? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“That’s right, Nicki. Those four empty SUVs were only there to draw your team away in four different directions. They’re the appetizer. You’re dessert. But I’ve not introduced myself, have I? You can call me Trevor.”
Green noticed that the second syllable rhymed with “more,” and she started to place him as an Englishman or someone from abroad. “The cameras are running because we’re going to show your Bureau boys that, when we tire of your games, we can do anything we want to you.”
“Any crime you commit at this point is compounded with illegal confinement. You kill me, and everyone in this room is up for federal felony homicide.”
“NIcki! Loosen up a little, kid! If we wanted you dead, we could have trained a sniper on your car or dropped your body out of the van out in the mountains. Everyone’s going home alive tonight, Nicki. We just want you to have some stories to tell next time you’re at the field office.”
Green clenched her teeth. There was no way of telling whether he was lying about their aims, but she did have to grant that this was entirely too much trouble simply to kill her.
He turned to the camera and announced in an official voice: “14 November 2019. Special Agent Nicki Green.” He turned and faced Green. “Now that the cameras are rolling, I do want to talk about this uniform you’ve got going. They must let you Special Agents get away with anything here at the Knoxville Field Office!” Green looked down in spite of herself. She had been called in on the operation from a night out with friends, and she still had on her tight jeans and black leather boots that came up to her knees. She had thrown her FBI jacket on over her top, but she definitely was not in a cinematic G-Man suit.
Trevor stepped closer to her, careful not to block the camera’s view. “I’m going to take those boots off of you. If you cooperate, no harm will come to you. If you try to fight me, your hands are bound, and there are six men in this room.” Green knew the odds well enough. She extended a long leg, and Trevor knelt and began slowly, deliberately, to unzip the boot. He pulled it from her ankle, revealing black work hose underneath. He ran a finger along the side of her ankle down the instep of her foot, and her leg jerked back in response.
“Oh good. Now give me your other boot.” This one he took his time removing as well, and once again he availed himself of a brief swipe at her foot, this time underneath. Her face twisted into a scowl as she continued to wait for an opportunity to escape.
Green gasped when Trevor reached for an ankle sheath and produced a combat knife. “Now stand up, Nicki.” She did, hoping this wasn’t the end, and Trevor stepped behind her. She felt the zip-tie on her wrists tighten, then fall away. He had freed her hands. She still wasn’t going to try to fight six men with guns, but she started scanning even more attentively for opportunities to move.
Trevor stepped back, letting the camera take her in. “Now I want you to strip down to your underwear.”
“I’m not taking my clothes off for you perverts.”
“Either you take them off, or these lads take them off of you. Either way the camera keeps rolling.” Green assessed her odds and began to comply. Trevor held up a hand. “Slowly.” She tossed her field jacket violently to the floor, and then she unbuttoned her shirt and took it off. Though the lights on her made the room hard to read, she could tell that the men in the room were enjoying the show. Next she unzipped her jeans, grimacing at the indignity of having to wiggle them off in front of the drug runners’ goons. As she reached down to take off one of her sheer black work stockings, Trevor called out, “Stop.” She looked up at him. “I like the socks. Keep the socks.”
She stood as defiantly as a 25-year-old in her underwear and work stockings could manage. She knew that she must be the stuff of their fantasies--a walking representative of the federal government, her long legs glowing under the lights, bare shoulders and hip bones framing a toned abdomen and a black bra covering her perfectly proportioned chest. “What now, Trevor? Can I put my clothes back on?”
He gestured to the recliner. “Have a seat.”
She did, and two of the men stepped past Trevor with bedsheets in their hands. One of them wrapped his sheets around her arms at the elbows, binding her to the back of the chair. The other extended the recliner’s footrest, then looped the sheets into a figure-eight around her upper calves, tying her lower legs tight against the footrest. Trevor pulled a low wooden stool out from behind the recliner and sat next to her feet. He looked into the camera. “Please note, all interested parties in the Federal Government and on YouTube, that Nicki here has not divulged any operational details surrounding the FBI’s current actions in the Southern Appalachian region. We have not asked her for any. And when the cameras turn off, she certainly isn’t going to give us any such information.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
Trevor leered. “Just reminding your handlers that this is not about any intel you might give us.”
“What’s the point, then?”
“To let them know what we could have done to you at any point before this and what we will do if you keep interrupting our business.” With that Trevor, still facing the camera, scooted his stool next to the footrest and reached both hands towards Green’s feet. She squirmed in spite of herself, and he chuckled at the reaction.
“You’re going to rot in federal prison, you drug-running Brit!”
“Brit? I’m offended!” Trevor looked right into the camera. “Let’s see how long it takes for Nicki here to guess where I’m really from!” His left hand, closer to her body, grabbed her toes from above and pulled them backwards, and his right hand began to scrabble down the slick surface of her work hose. Green screamed as he touched her, and her legs attempted in vain to kick away from his hands.
He kept scratching at her sole, and she growled at him, suddenly having to fight an urge to giggle. “Get your hands off my feet!”
“What’s the matter, tricky Nicki? Do you feel a tickle?” Green shut her eyes and clenched her fists, but Trevor’s hands were not stopping: she bit her lower lip as she felt his fingers on her soles, and she knew somehow that she would not be choosing whether or not to laugh for very much longer. She heard Trevor talk to the camera as her resolve diminished: “Look at this, Feds! Your Special Agent is just about to start laughing, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”
Green tried to groan as his fingers finally overran her silence, but what came out was not a groan but a giggle, then a shriek, and then laughter. Trevor kept tickling her stockinged foot, and none of her humiliation at her situation on camera could stop it: she was laughing and laughing hard as his fingertips danced across her sole. Tied to the chair as she was, there was no way to get leverage and pull away, much less fight back, and as his fingers started working the edge of her heel, she tried to remember what she was supposed to do in a situation like this. Something about false answers to the questions. But he wasn’t asking any questions--his tickling hand was now scratching at the ball of her foot, and he hadn’t asked her anything other than what’s the matter. His hands released her foot, and her chest heaved as she panted to get her breath back.
He turned his body to face the camera again. “As you see, we’ve not hurt her, and we’re not going to, this time. But you need to know that we saw you coming, and we can get to you. But for all of this trouble, we’re not going to settle for one foot, are we?”
He stood and walked behind the chair. Green pulled at her restraints in vain. “No! Get away from me!”
Trevor talked to the camera again. “She says she wants me to get away, but I think she just wants me to tickle that other foot to even the score. What do you think?” Behind the chair she heard canvas scrape the concrete floor, and she pulled harder. He emerged on the other side with a small duffel bag in one hand and the stool in the other. He sat himself down and reached into the bag, pulling out a plastic hairbrush, its bristles tipped with brightly-colored plastic knobs.
“Put that thing away! Don’t touch me!”
“Please note again, my federal friends, that I’ve asked her no questions, and she’s offered no information to get me to stop. I’m just tickling her because she’s a beautiful young woman, and I want her to laugh for me.”
What was he doing? What were all of these denials? It didn’t matter for long; this time the right hand grabbed her toes and pulled slowly back, and the left swept in with the hairbrush. Whatever those bristles lost in intimacy, they made up for, and outran, his fingertips in terms of intensity. The rounded bristles running over the nylon of her work hose turned every nerve on the bottom of her foot into a live wire, and she thrashed in the chair and screamed as he worked it in small, tight circles. But she couldn’t maintain the scream for very long: as the brush kept moving, her laughter came back, and her eyes shut tight as her hips danced for the camera and as her voice rang out, her ongoing laugh echoing in the cinder-block basement. Every inch of the bottom of her foot was fair game for this sadist pervert and his Wal-Mart hairbrush, and she couldn’t think straight: she found herself confused that her arms wouldn’t move, and as he tickled and tickled with the hairbrush, she couldn’t even remember what the FBI Academy looked like.
When he finally stopped with the hairbrush, Green was covered in sweat, and once again she had to shift around in the chair to draw breaths deep enough to regain her balance. She felt his fingers now on her calf, and she had no more threats in her: she heard herself start to whimper, “Please stop. Just stop!”
Trevor chuckled and looked at the camera. “Isn’t a girl just that much more lovely when she’s laughing? None of these threats! None of this bravada! Let’s just hear her laugh some more, shall we?” Green felt the hand start to pull the work hose off of her left foot, and she flexed her toes to stop him. His free hand scratched and scrabbled at her sole as he kept pulling, and within seconds she could feel the basement’s cool air on her bare foot. Trevor held up the limp nylon to show her his prize before he cast it aside with a flick of his wrist. “And now we’re going to find out what tickles little Nicki more--the hairbrush on the hose or fingers on her skin. What do you think will tickle more, Ticklish Nicki?”
“Please… just let me go.”
She felt his hand grasp her bare ankle, and she tried to brace herself, but she had been laughing--and he had been tickling--too long for that. His fingertips started to worm their ways between her toes, and she squealed in protest for a split-second, but then she was laughing at his command again. She felt the warm invaders explore every gap between her toes, and every moment she felt them moving against the sensitive skin there, where she never thought of before as a place of torture, she laughed loud and clear, her voice bubbling up in her abdomen and sounding the walls as he tickled and tormented her foot. When he moved to the ball of her foot and her instep it might have been a relief, except that the energy that had built up when he was tickling her toes was still overflowing, and she could have sworn that this tickled worse than the hairbrush. She did not even try at this point to pull at the bonds, but her waist and hips writhed at the terrible foot-tickling, and she could feel her underwear rub against the upholstery. His fingers changed patterns every few seconds, and in a flash of lucidity she realized that he must have practiced this as a master painter learns his brush strokes. As she pictured the bristles on a paintbrush that made her all the more ticklish, and her laugh jumped to a higher pitch for a moment. He tickled her without stop and without mercy for what seemed forever, and when he let up again, she wished for a moment that she could move her hand to get her sweat-soaked hair off of her forehead.
Trevor once again started playing the actor. “Now poor tickly Nicki has to be wondering when this is going to stop and what she can do to make it stop, right? So, my federal friends, I’m going to offer her a way out. I’m going to tickle her right foot again with the hairbrush, and the next time I take a break, she’s going to tell me whether the FBI has an undercover agent inside our organization. That’s all--no need to name names, and no need to tell stories. Just a yes or a no.”
NIcki knew well enough that the cyber-forensics unit had cracked their communications system from a computer terminal in the Field Office, but now she knew that she had to weather the storm: “I’m not going to tell you anything!”
“I love when they say that. But first, we need to give Nicki’s foot a bit of a spa treatment.” Out of the bag came a small glass vial, and Trevor tipped several drops onto his hand, filling his palm, then began to rub oil on Nicki’s bare foot. She gasped and squirmed as she felt his palm on her sole, then whimpered as his fingers worked the oil between her toes.
“Stop! Stop touching me!”
Trevor looked at the camera again. “Now you can’t smell this lovely oil on that side of the camera, but now ticklish little Nicki has a foot that smells like cinnamon. It’s going to take everything I have not to lick that oil out from between her toes!” His tongue circled his lips, and Green squirmed at the prospect. “But first, we just have to give that foot in the work hose some more attention--which one do you think is more ticklish?”
Trevor picked up the hairbrush again and pulled back her right foot’s toes again. His technique did not change in the slightest--Green had hoped that desperation or a desire to finish big would make his movements more predictable, but as he tickled and she laughed, she knew that no such luck was coming her way: he was going to tickle her crazy as long as he wanted, and he wasn’t going to let up. He tickled her heel until she whined through her laughter, and he cut tiny, torturous zig-zags along her instep. She could feel each bristle doing its individual work on the glowing nerves on the bottom of her foot. Trevor did not make any errors as he tickled and tickled, and a voice in the back of Green’s mind was begging her to take the deal and tell him that there was no mole. But when he stopped, after what seemed hours, she managed to recollect something of her sense of duty. “What do you say, love? Do you want to see the toys in have in store for that bare foot, or do you want to answer my little question?”
She looked up from under her mussed hair. “Special Agent Nicole Green, Knoxville Field Office.”
“I hoped you would say that.” His hand went once again into the bag, and out came a gray cylinder, bigger than a screwdriver’s handle, with a chrome tip that looked something like a headphone’s plug, only tipped with bright green plastic. Trevor pressed a button on the side of the handle with his thumb, and in the cool basement air Green could hear it jump to life with a buzzing hum. “This is an engraving tool you can pick up for less than ten bucks at any hardware store in Knoxville. I’ve just added the plastic tip so that it moves over your foot really smoothly, especially now that you’re oiled up.” Green gasped at the thought. “But first, I want to show everyone watching at home just how different tickling is when we remove the friction from the surface of the skin. As you know, a beautiful lady’s feet are some of the most sensitive places on her body, and now my fingers are going to run over those nerves so fast and so smoothly that this is going to be like nothing poor Nicki has ever felt before. And as it turns out, she’s decided that she’d rather have me tickle her this way than answer my little question. So let’s enjoy some cinnamon skin, shall we?”
Green shut her eyes and clenched her teeth--he had to be bluffing about the oil. This time he didn’t grab her ankle, and she opened one eye to see that both of his hands were getting ready to touch her feet. She began to flex it and move it, and his hands took off after the foot like hounds at a hunt. She squealed as they found their prey--every time a fingertip found her skin, her movements and the oil made it streak across her foot like a lightning bolt, and within seconds her bottom was bouncing up and down in the chair, the ticklish touches making her whole body writhe as fingers found their ways between her toes, short-cut fingernails traced paths across her slick sole, thumbs and index fingers pinched at slippery, ticklish skin. Neither hand held her toes back; instead, when her toes would try to crunch into a defensive curl, one hand would tickle the top of her foot at the base of the toes, and her reflexes extended her toes and gave his other hand a new shot at her stretched sole. Trevor clearly wanted her to laugh loud and long, and she did, and then he tickled some more, taking her into silent laughter as she ran out of breath, then slow tickling to let her replenish her lungs, then rapid tickling strokes again to make her sing the song of the ticklish condemned as long as Trevor wanted to hear it.
Then the tickling fingers stopped, and Nicki heard a high-pitched hum. She panted and panicked and saw the tip of the tool getting ever closer to her oiled sole, and her hands clenched into fists, trying to muster one last surge of resistance.
The problem, of course, is that this was not the last tickling Trevor planned on giving her--not remotely. The vibrating green plastic tear-drop made contact with her bare foot at the center of the heel, and Green went through the roof. As her ankles flexed and tried to retreat, he followed her foot with the tip of the tool, each pass across her sole making her belly heave as she experienced something that couldn’t just be tickling--it was too horrible, lasted too long, drove her too far from her own mind. When the tool finally reached the base of her toes, the tip slid between her second and third toe, and she knew that Trevor had won-she squealed and giggled and squirmed, and she knew that whatever Trevor asked for next--sexual favors or banking information or the details of their operation--she was going to give it to him.
Trevor shouted over the laughter as he explored each gap between her toes. “Oh tickly Nicki! I don’t think you’re going to last much longer! You have another chance now--nod yes if there’s a mole in our ranks, and shake your head no if there’s not!”
Green surprised herself as she simply threw her head backwards into the padding of the chair, making neither head motion. The engraving tool had pushed her beyond what she thought of as her resolve, and she was howling now with her own laughter, but her neck would not yield even as her will had retreated. She heard the engraving tool drop onto the duffel bag, and more quickly than she could process why, she felt the hairbrush’s bristles on her hosed foot again. She screamed at the new sensation, but before she could even react Trevor had her toes in his grasp again, bending them backwards to stretch her sole into a nylon-covered live wire. The brush’s bristles were utter torture on her nylon-clad soles, and as he tickled her beyond conscious resistance, she felt her neck shake her head side to side. His hand dropped her foot, and he heard Trevor shout, “And… cut!”
The tickling stopped. Green panted as she tried to get her breath back. Trevor stood up and flashed a grin at the audience in the basement. Green cursed herself inside, but she refused to let them have the satisfaction of seeing her despondence at giving up the information.
Trevor reached into his pocket and retrieved a smart phone. “Now, Nicki, my love, you have a decision to make. This is what we could send to your superior officers.” He called up a video and turned the screen towards Special Agent Green, and she saw video of herself, tied up, in the van on the way to the house. “I could record a voiceover that tells the Bureau that we can strike at them whenever we want, and there’s nothing they can do.” He crouched down and slowly traced a finger from the ball of Green’s foot to the heel as he said, “Or we can send along the video that we made over the last hour.” Green growled at him, but his finger started tracing the line again, this time slowly from her heel up towards her toes. “Your career in the Bureau could end because you gave us information that we already knew. That would be a pity, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re not going to blackmail me with this! I’ll take whatever consequences wait for me at the Field Office!”
Trevor stood up again. “Or, if you have a bit of imagination, we can work something else out.” Green scowled at him as he kept talking. “My employers sent me here because we know our time in these hills is coming to an end.” He paced as he continued. “In the coming months, they would like to feed information to Agent James to lead him on more wild goose chases. In the meantime, we feed you information that leads to a major bust and the apparent end of the Mountain Foxes. You become the most promising young agent in the Bureau, on your way to greater things.”
“Apparent?”
“It’s all about appearances, Nicki. Do you want to end your career in your mid-twenties as the Special Agent who got tickled until she gave up federal secrets? Or do you want to be the promising young agent who brought down the most dangerous criminal organization in the region?”
“But you wouldn’t really be gone.”
“Of course not. We’d just change up our players so that your intel doesn’t apply, and besides, as far as your agency is concerned, we won’t exist any more.” He reached down and gave her hosed foot a one-finger tickle. “But you know that if we’re gone, someone else will come and get heroin and weapons to these good people, right? There’s just too much demand out there!”
Green took a deep breath. “I’m not going to lie to my country to help you. I’m not going to make the world safe for gun runners and heroin traffickers.”
Trevor knelt down, then stood back up again. In one hand was the hairbrush again. In the other was the engraving tool. “We’ve still got most of the night, love. I think we both know which of those feet is more ticklish. We’ll change your mind.”
Decoy (m/f)
by
Kid Indy
“Williams, call out positions. Over.” A radio crackle.
“Two vehicles on-site. They’re waiting on somebody. Everyone’s still in the cars. Over.”
“Roger that. Dallas, stay sharp.”
“Ready to roll on your mark.”
Williams again: “Two more vehicles approaching from northwest. Green, what do you see?”
“SUVs, both of them. Maybe Dodge Durangos. Black.”
“Roger. Everyone stay sharp. Move on my mark.”
Nicole Green watched as the four large vehicles converged in the abandoned parking lot. The Bureau’s Internet analysts had caught a lucky break, and according to the chatter they had picked up, two of these vehicles should be transferring some seriously illegal weapons to the other two. She continued to scan the scene with long-distance infrared binoculars. Something wasn’t right--somebody should have left a vehicle by now.
She scanned the roads leading off into the Tennessee hills. The Mountain Foxes, a dangerous group of drug runners, was the first case the FBI had put her on a year ago, fresh out of the Academy, and she knew that they were ready and willing to kill to protect the contraband that filled two of those vehicles. In another operation they might have followed the shipment in hopes of finding bigger fish or even handed this over to the Drug Enforcement Agency, but the intel that the Illegal Ordnance Unit had obtained told them this was a big one, heroin and military-grade weapons, and the latter the Bureau wasn’t going to leave out on the streets, even if the DEA’s feelings got hurt.
The moments clicked past, and none of the four vehicles moved.
“Dallas, do you see anything?”
“Windows open, but no movement. Something is wrong here.”
As if on cue, tires on all four of the SUVs screeched, and the vehicles sped towards the parking lot’s access points.
“Williams! Dallas! Get on the eastbound vehicles! Campbell, you’re with me on the southbound!”
Agent Green called into her radio, “Which group am I on?”
Special Agent in Charge James responded: “Stay here and watch the meet site in case they circle back.”
Green slapped her car’s steering wheel. “Dammit!” She knew full well nobody was circling back; when the more experienced agents pulled the gun runners off the highway, she would still be sitting in her car, watching an abandoned Sears parking lot. She put her binoculars to her eyes again and started another scan, but she knew better than to hope too much.
She heard Rick Dallas come over his radio. “Vehicles have hit the Interstate. Backup, where are you?”
Nicole shouted at her deactivated radio, knowing that her senior agents could not hear: “I could have been there helping, but you stuck me out here watching an abandoned parking lot!”
More transmissions called out the chase play by play: all four vehicles had made it to nearby Interstates, and state police were involved in the pickup. Nicole grumbled and cursed her luck at losing out, here at the end of her first major operation. Then she saw flashing yellow lights round the corner behind her. The loud rumble of a tow truck was on her, and she watched in alarm as it slowed down in front of her. The backing signal drowned out the loud engine, and Green stepped out of the car. The oncoming truck’s headlights threw a long shadow behind her as her long legs advanced towards them. She waved her arms at the truck.
“Hey! What are you doing?” The backing sounds stopped, but the truck was still running as a large man opened the door and stepped out of the truck.
He shouted over the truck’s idling: “Got a call about a broken down engine! Did you make that call?”
Green stepped out in front of her car to make sure he didn’t attempt to open its hood or pull it onto the truck’s bed. “Wrong number. Whoever called you, it wasn’t me.”
The man looked down at what looked like a tablet and began shouting again. “Well, this is the call I got! See? This is the address and everything!”
Agent Green walked up to the man. He held out the tablet, and she looked down at its screen. With her mind on her bad luck and on how to get the man to leave, Green did not think to turn around to see if anyone was coming out of the woods. She felt metal against the back of her neck. “Don’t move.” A hand removed the firearm from her holster, and another pair of hands pulled a bag over her head. A third pair of hands, she assumed the truck’s driver, patted her down and took her wallet and removed her belt. Hands pulled her wrists behind her back and secured them with a plastic zip-tie. The training kicked in: wait until they’re isolated; cooperate until there’s a chance for escape. She heard another vehicle drive up, and the sound of a van’s door opening hit her. They led her to a large step up--definitely a fifteen-passenger van--and she heard the door close behind her.
The gun’s barrel was still pressed against her neck, so she didn’t make any sudden movements. She could tell that the driver and the gunman were not the only bodies in the vehicle; a third voice had grunted as he shut the passenger door. She felt the van accelerate hard, and she tried to remember which direction she was facing when the ambush had come. Mentally tracking turns, she knew that the van was heading up into the mountains, but by the time they jumped off of pavement and onto a gravel road, the route had turned too many times; she did not know these hills well enough to know where to call for help. She swallowed her spit and started plotting how she might make a run if she needed to.
The gravel roads took several minutes, and Green knew that she was way back in the hills at this point. When the van came to a halt, the gunman grabbed her upper arm and guided her out of the van. Her boots hit gravel, and the air was cool; they had climbed well up into the hills, she guessed. Three sets of footfalls confirmed her suspicion that she had been accompanied by two plus the driver, and they marched her through the gravel. “Step up.” She did, and she felt a wood porch under her boot. The same voice, accented East Tennessee, guided her through a door into an indoor space, then through another door, then down twelve (she counted this time) steps, then across a concrete floor. All three sets of footsteps were with her the whole way. The cool air told her she was in a basement.
A hand took the hood off, and she looked around at her three captors. Big, all three of them, and she immediately spotted weapons on the two who hadn’t been holding her at gunpoint. They were in a large cinder-block basement space, and all three of them were between her and the only door. She’d have to wait for a chance to escape. She noticed an old recliner in a corner. “Can I sit down?”
Two of the men looked at each other, then nodded to her. She set herself down on the recliner, hands still tied behind her, to rest and take in the scene. Not much time passed at all before Green heard more footsteps coming down the stairs. At least three more, by the sound of it.
The first one into the basement carried what seemed to be lighting equipment, and Green knew that there would likely be an interrogation. Once again she prepared herself mentally. A second man began to set up a tripod and a camera. Standard procedure so far--they’d likely want to examine video of the interrogation to discern things she had given away without meaning to. The third man was the first to speak to her. Dressed in black fatigues and combat boots like the rest, nonetheless he walked with a confidence that told Green that he was the ringleader. He opened up her wallet and read from her identification: “Special Agent Nicole Green. I think I’ll call you Nicki.”
“You’ll call me Agent Green, and you should know that other agents will find me soon.”
“You mean the ones we sent running after the stolen rental cars? Hardly.”
Green resisted the urge to respond: he might be after their intel source, and any details of the operation could help them on that front.
“You probably still think there were kilos of heroin in those SUVs, right, Nicki?” Her eyes narrowed as she resisted the urge to respond. “No, one of our people just got a job at a small-time dealership and got us some joy rides for the evening. Our four guys led your people out into the mountains, and then they ditched the stolen wheels and got away on dirt bikes. Your buddies at the Bureau are going to find four empty vehicles, and our guy isn’t going to show up for work tomorrow. He wouldn’t want to get in trouble for leaving the doors to the dealership unlocked.”
Green’s confusion got the best of her. “Then what was your target? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“That’s right, Nicki. Those four empty SUVs were only there to draw your team away in four different directions. They’re the appetizer. You’re dessert. But I’ve not introduced myself, have I? You can call me Trevor.”
Green noticed that the second syllable rhymed with “more,” and she started to place him as an Englishman or someone from abroad. “The cameras are running because we’re going to show your Bureau boys that, when we tire of your games, we can do anything we want to you.”
“Any crime you commit at this point is compounded with illegal confinement. You kill me, and everyone in this room is up for federal felony homicide.”
“NIcki! Loosen up a little, kid! If we wanted you dead, we could have trained a sniper on your car or dropped your body out of the van out in the mountains. Everyone’s going home alive tonight, Nicki. We just want you to have some stories to tell next time you’re at the field office.”
Green clenched her teeth. There was no way of telling whether he was lying about their aims, but she did have to grant that this was entirely too much trouble simply to kill her.
He turned to the camera and announced in an official voice: “14 November 2019. Special Agent Nicki Green.” He turned and faced Green. “Now that the cameras are rolling, I do want to talk about this uniform you’ve got going. They must let you Special Agents get away with anything here at the Knoxville Field Office!” Green looked down in spite of herself. She had been called in on the operation from a night out with friends, and she still had on her tight jeans and black leather boots that came up to her knees. She had thrown her FBI jacket on over her top, but she definitely was not in a cinematic G-Man suit.
Trevor stepped closer to her, careful not to block the camera’s view. “I’m going to take those boots off of you. If you cooperate, no harm will come to you. If you try to fight me, your hands are bound, and there are six men in this room.” Green knew the odds well enough. She extended a long leg, and Trevor knelt and began slowly, deliberately, to unzip the boot. He pulled it from her ankle, revealing black work hose underneath. He ran a finger along the side of her ankle down the instep of her foot, and her leg jerked back in response.
“Oh good. Now give me your other boot.” This one he took his time removing as well, and once again he availed himself of a brief swipe at her foot, this time underneath. Her face twisted into a scowl as she continued to wait for an opportunity to escape.
Green gasped when Trevor reached for an ankle sheath and produced a combat knife. “Now stand up, Nicki.” She did, hoping this wasn’t the end, and Trevor stepped behind her. She felt the zip-tie on her wrists tighten, then fall away. He had freed her hands. She still wasn’t going to try to fight six men with guns, but she started scanning even more attentively for opportunities to move.
Trevor stepped back, letting the camera take her in. “Now I want you to strip down to your underwear.”
“I’m not taking my clothes off for you perverts.”
“Either you take them off, or these lads take them off of you. Either way the camera keeps rolling.” Green assessed her odds and began to comply. Trevor held up a hand. “Slowly.” She tossed her field jacket violently to the floor, and then she unbuttoned her shirt and took it off. Though the lights on her made the room hard to read, she could tell that the men in the room were enjoying the show. Next she unzipped her jeans, grimacing at the indignity of having to wiggle them off in front of the drug runners’ goons. As she reached down to take off one of her sheer black work stockings, Trevor called out, “Stop.” She looked up at him. “I like the socks. Keep the socks.”
She stood as defiantly as a 25-year-old in her underwear and work stockings could manage. She knew that she must be the stuff of their fantasies--a walking representative of the federal government, her long legs glowing under the lights, bare shoulders and hip bones framing a toned abdomen and a black bra covering her perfectly proportioned chest. “What now, Trevor? Can I put my clothes back on?”
He gestured to the recliner. “Have a seat.”
She did, and two of the men stepped past Trevor with bedsheets in their hands. One of them wrapped his sheets around her arms at the elbows, binding her to the back of the chair. The other extended the recliner’s footrest, then looped the sheets into a figure-eight around her upper calves, tying her lower legs tight against the footrest. Trevor pulled a low wooden stool out from behind the recliner and sat next to her feet. He looked into the camera. “Please note, all interested parties in the Federal Government and on YouTube, that Nicki here has not divulged any operational details surrounding the FBI’s current actions in the Southern Appalachian region. We have not asked her for any. And when the cameras turn off, she certainly isn’t going to give us any such information.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
Trevor leered. “Just reminding your handlers that this is not about any intel you might give us.”
“What’s the point, then?”
“To let them know what we could have done to you at any point before this and what we will do if you keep interrupting our business.” With that Trevor, still facing the camera, scooted his stool next to the footrest and reached both hands towards Green’s feet. She squirmed in spite of herself, and he chuckled at the reaction.
“You’re going to rot in federal prison, you drug-running Brit!”
“Brit? I’m offended!” Trevor looked right into the camera. “Let’s see how long it takes for Nicki here to guess where I’m really from!” His left hand, closer to her body, grabbed her toes from above and pulled them backwards, and his right hand began to scrabble down the slick surface of her work hose. Green screamed as he touched her, and her legs attempted in vain to kick away from his hands.
He kept scratching at her sole, and she growled at him, suddenly having to fight an urge to giggle. “Get your hands off my feet!”
“What’s the matter, tricky Nicki? Do you feel a tickle?” Green shut her eyes and clenched her fists, but Trevor’s hands were not stopping: she bit her lower lip as she felt his fingers on her soles, and she knew somehow that she would not be choosing whether or not to laugh for very much longer. She heard Trevor talk to the camera as her resolve diminished: “Look at this, Feds! Your Special Agent is just about to start laughing, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”
Green tried to groan as his fingers finally overran her silence, but what came out was not a groan but a giggle, then a shriek, and then laughter. Trevor kept tickling her stockinged foot, and none of her humiliation at her situation on camera could stop it: she was laughing and laughing hard as his fingertips danced across her sole. Tied to the chair as she was, there was no way to get leverage and pull away, much less fight back, and as his fingers started working the edge of her heel, she tried to remember what she was supposed to do in a situation like this. Something about false answers to the questions. But he wasn’t asking any questions--his tickling hand was now scratching at the ball of her foot, and he hadn’t asked her anything other than what’s the matter. His hands released her foot, and her chest heaved as she panted to get her breath back.
He turned his body to face the camera again. “As you see, we’ve not hurt her, and we’re not going to, this time. But you need to know that we saw you coming, and we can get to you. But for all of this trouble, we’re not going to settle for one foot, are we?”
He stood and walked behind the chair. Green pulled at her restraints in vain. “No! Get away from me!”
Trevor talked to the camera again. “She says she wants me to get away, but I think she just wants me to tickle that other foot to even the score. What do you think?” Behind the chair she heard canvas scrape the concrete floor, and she pulled harder. He emerged on the other side with a small duffel bag in one hand and the stool in the other. He sat himself down and reached into the bag, pulling out a plastic hairbrush, its bristles tipped with brightly-colored plastic knobs.
“Put that thing away! Don’t touch me!”
“Please note again, my federal friends, that I’ve asked her no questions, and she’s offered no information to get me to stop. I’m just tickling her because she’s a beautiful young woman, and I want her to laugh for me.”
What was he doing? What were all of these denials? It didn’t matter for long; this time the right hand grabbed her toes and pulled slowly back, and the left swept in with the hairbrush. Whatever those bristles lost in intimacy, they made up for, and outran, his fingertips in terms of intensity. The rounded bristles running over the nylon of her work hose turned every nerve on the bottom of her foot into a live wire, and she thrashed in the chair and screamed as he worked it in small, tight circles. But she couldn’t maintain the scream for very long: as the brush kept moving, her laughter came back, and her eyes shut tight as her hips danced for the camera and as her voice rang out, her ongoing laugh echoing in the cinder-block basement. Every inch of the bottom of her foot was fair game for this sadist pervert and his Wal-Mart hairbrush, and she couldn’t think straight: she found herself confused that her arms wouldn’t move, and as he tickled and tickled with the hairbrush, she couldn’t even remember what the FBI Academy looked like.
When he finally stopped with the hairbrush, Green was covered in sweat, and once again she had to shift around in the chair to draw breaths deep enough to regain her balance. She felt his fingers now on her calf, and she had no more threats in her: she heard herself start to whimper, “Please stop. Just stop!”
Trevor chuckled and looked at the camera. “Isn’t a girl just that much more lovely when she’s laughing? None of these threats! None of this bravada! Let’s just hear her laugh some more, shall we?” Green felt the hand start to pull the work hose off of her left foot, and she flexed her toes to stop him. His free hand scratched and scrabbled at her sole as he kept pulling, and within seconds she could feel the basement’s cool air on her bare foot. Trevor held up the limp nylon to show her his prize before he cast it aside with a flick of his wrist. “And now we’re going to find out what tickles little Nicki more--the hairbrush on the hose or fingers on her skin. What do you think will tickle more, Ticklish Nicki?”
“Please… just let me go.”
She felt his hand grasp her bare ankle, and she tried to brace herself, but she had been laughing--and he had been tickling--too long for that. His fingertips started to worm their ways between her toes, and she squealed in protest for a split-second, but then she was laughing at his command again. She felt the warm invaders explore every gap between her toes, and every moment she felt them moving against the sensitive skin there, where she never thought of before as a place of torture, she laughed loud and clear, her voice bubbling up in her abdomen and sounding the walls as he tickled and tormented her foot. When he moved to the ball of her foot and her instep it might have been a relief, except that the energy that had built up when he was tickling her toes was still overflowing, and she could have sworn that this tickled worse than the hairbrush. She did not even try at this point to pull at the bonds, but her waist and hips writhed at the terrible foot-tickling, and she could feel her underwear rub against the upholstery. His fingers changed patterns every few seconds, and in a flash of lucidity she realized that he must have practiced this as a master painter learns his brush strokes. As she pictured the bristles on a paintbrush that made her all the more ticklish, and her laugh jumped to a higher pitch for a moment. He tickled her without stop and without mercy for what seemed forever, and when he let up again, she wished for a moment that she could move her hand to get her sweat-soaked hair off of her forehead.
Trevor once again started playing the actor. “Now poor tickly Nicki has to be wondering when this is going to stop and what she can do to make it stop, right? So, my federal friends, I’m going to offer her a way out. I’m going to tickle her right foot again with the hairbrush, and the next time I take a break, she’s going to tell me whether the FBI has an undercover agent inside our organization. That’s all--no need to name names, and no need to tell stories. Just a yes or a no.”
NIcki knew well enough that the cyber-forensics unit had cracked their communications system from a computer terminal in the Field Office, but now she knew that she had to weather the storm: “I’m not going to tell you anything!”
“I love when they say that. But first, we need to give Nicki’s foot a bit of a spa treatment.” Out of the bag came a small glass vial, and Trevor tipped several drops onto his hand, filling his palm, then began to rub oil on Nicki’s bare foot. She gasped and squirmed as she felt his palm on her sole, then whimpered as his fingers worked the oil between her toes.
“Stop! Stop touching me!”
Trevor looked at the camera again. “Now you can’t smell this lovely oil on that side of the camera, but now ticklish little Nicki has a foot that smells like cinnamon. It’s going to take everything I have not to lick that oil out from between her toes!” His tongue circled his lips, and Green squirmed at the prospect. “But first, we just have to give that foot in the work hose some more attention--which one do you think is more ticklish?”
Trevor picked up the hairbrush again and pulled back her right foot’s toes again. His technique did not change in the slightest--Green had hoped that desperation or a desire to finish big would make his movements more predictable, but as he tickled and she laughed, she knew that no such luck was coming her way: he was going to tickle her crazy as long as he wanted, and he wasn’t going to let up. He tickled her heel until she whined through her laughter, and he cut tiny, torturous zig-zags along her instep. She could feel each bristle doing its individual work on the glowing nerves on the bottom of her foot. Trevor did not make any errors as he tickled and tickled, and a voice in the back of Green’s mind was begging her to take the deal and tell him that there was no mole. But when he stopped, after what seemed hours, she managed to recollect something of her sense of duty. “What do you say, love? Do you want to see the toys in have in store for that bare foot, or do you want to answer my little question?”
She looked up from under her mussed hair. “Special Agent Nicole Green, Knoxville Field Office.”
“I hoped you would say that.” His hand went once again into the bag, and out came a gray cylinder, bigger than a screwdriver’s handle, with a chrome tip that looked something like a headphone’s plug, only tipped with bright green plastic. Trevor pressed a button on the side of the handle with his thumb, and in the cool basement air Green could hear it jump to life with a buzzing hum. “This is an engraving tool you can pick up for less than ten bucks at any hardware store in Knoxville. I’ve just added the plastic tip so that it moves over your foot really smoothly, especially now that you’re oiled up.” Green gasped at the thought. “But first, I want to show everyone watching at home just how different tickling is when we remove the friction from the surface of the skin. As you know, a beautiful lady’s feet are some of the most sensitive places on her body, and now my fingers are going to run over those nerves so fast and so smoothly that this is going to be like nothing poor Nicki has ever felt before. And as it turns out, she’s decided that she’d rather have me tickle her this way than answer my little question. So let’s enjoy some cinnamon skin, shall we?”
Green shut her eyes and clenched her teeth--he had to be bluffing about the oil. This time he didn’t grab her ankle, and she opened one eye to see that both of his hands were getting ready to touch her feet. She began to flex it and move it, and his hands took off after the foot like hounds at a hunt. She squealed as they found their prey--every time a fingertip found her skin, her movements and the oil made it streak across her foot like a lightning bolt, and within seconds her bottom was bouncing up and down in the chair, the ticklish touches making her whole body writhe as fingers found their ways between her toes, short-cut fingernails traced paths across her slick sole, thumbs and index fingers pinched at slippery, ticklish skin. Neither hand held her toes back; instead, when her toes would try to crunch into a defensive curl, one hand would tickle the top of her foot at the base of the toes, and her reflexes extended her toes and gave his other hand a new shot at her stretched sole. Trevor clearly wanted her to laugh loud and long, and she did, and then he tickled some more, taking her into silent laughter as she ran out of breath, then slow tickling to let her replenish her lungs, then rapid tickling strokes again to make her sing the song of the ticklish condemned as long as Trevor wanted to hear it.
Then the tickling fingers stopped, and Nicki heard a high-pitched hum. She panted and panicked and saw the tip of the tool getting ever closer to her oiled sole, and her hands clenched into fists, trying to muster one last surge of resistance.
The problem, of course, is that this was not the last tickling Trevor planned on giving her--not remotely. The vibrating green plastic tear-drop made contact with her bare foot at the center of the heel, and Green went through the roof. As her ankles flexed and tried to retreat, he followed her foot with the tip of the tool, each pass across her sole making her belly heave as she experienced something that couldn’t just be tickling--it was too horrible, lasted too long, drove her too far from her own mind. When the tool finally reached the base of her toes, the tip slid between her second and third toe, and she knew that Trevor had won-she squealed and giggled and squirmed, and she knew that whatever Trevor asked for next--sexual favors or banking information or the details of their operation--she was going to give it to him.
Trevor shouted over the laughter as he explored each gap between her toes. “Oh tickly Nicki! I don’t think you’re going to last much longer! You have another chance now--nod yes if there’s a mole in our ranks, and shake your head no if there’s not!”
Green surprised herself as she simply threw her head backwards into the padding of the chair, making neither head motion. The engraving tool had pushed her beyond what she thought of as her resolve, and she was howling now with her own laughter, but her neck would not yield even as her will had retreated. She heard the engraving tool drop onto the duffel bag, and more quickly than she could process why, she felt the hairbrush’s bristles on her hosed foot again. She screamed at the new sensation, but before she could even react Trevor had her toes in his grasp again, bending them backwards to stretch her sole into a nylon-covered live wire. The brush’s bristles were utter torture on her nylon-clad soles, and as he tickled her beyond conscious resistance, she felt her neck shake her head side to side. His hand dropped her foot, and he heard Trevor shout, “And… cut!”
The tickling stopped. Green panted as she tried to get her breath back. Trevor stood up and flashed a grin at the audience in the basement. Green cursed herself inside, but she refused to let them have the satisfaction of seeing her despondence at giving up the information.
Trevor reached into his pocket and retrieved a smart phone. “Now, Nicki, my love, you have a decision to make. This is what we could send to your superior officers.” He called up a video and turned the screen towards Special Agent Green, and she saw video of herself, tied up, in the van on the way to the house. “I could record a voiceover that tells the Bureau that we can strike at them whenever we want, and there’s nothing they can do.” He crouched down and slowly traced a finger from the ball of Green’s foot to the heel as he said, “Or we can send along the video that we made over the last hour.” Green growled at him, but his finger started tracing the line again, this time slowly from her heel up towards her toes. “Your career in the Bureau could end because you gave us information that we already knew. That would be a pity, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re not going to blackmail me with this! I’ll take whatever consequences wait for me at the Field Office!”
Trevor stood up again. “Or, if you have a bit of imagination, we can work something else out.” Green scowled at him as he kept talking. “My employers sent me here because we know our time in these hills is coming to an end.” He paced as he continued. “In the coming months, they would like to feed information to Agent James to lead him on more wild goose chases. In the meantime, we feed you information that leads to a major bust and the apparent end of the Mountain Foxes. You become the most promising young agent in the Bureau, on your way to greater things.”
“Apparent?”
“It’s all about appearances, Nicki. Do you want to end your career in your mid-twenties as the Special Agent who got tickled until she gave up federal secrets? Or do you want to be the promising young agent who brought down the most dangerous criminal organization in the region?”
“But you wouldn’t really be gone.”
“Of course not. We’d just change up our players so that your intel doesn’t apply, and besides, as far as your agency is concerned, we won’t exist any more.” He reached down and gave her hosed foot a one-finger tickle. “But you know that if we’re gone, someone else will come and get heroin and weapons to these good people, right? There’s just too much demand out there!”
Green took a deep breath. “I’m not going to lie to my country to help you. I’m not going to make the world safe for gun runners and heroin traffickers.”
Trevor knelt down, then stood back up again. In one hand was the hairbrush again. In the other was the engraving tool. “We’ve still got most of the night, love. I think we both know which of those feet is more ticklish. We’ll change your mind.”
