This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The Cult of Tickle Assassins
a.k.a.
Salutaret Mortem cum Risu
by Tamira K.
Prologue
There are organisations and groups the world over that you will never know exist and some you would not believe exist, even if you heard about them from your favourite news provider.
One such organisation is the cult of RID. Some who know of its presence speculate that the name comes from its ancient roots and is a shortening of the Italian for smile: ridere. Some say R.I.D. is an acronym, but these people can never say with any certainty what the letters stand for. Others believe it simply stands for what the cult does: it gets rid of people.
This, in itself, says something of how old the cult is. Founded in Europe before the USA was colonised, it is now based in the USA for the reason that, while it operates worldwide, the majority of the cult’s private clients and targets have been USA-based for over 120 years.
Every couple of decades the attention of the government is drawn to RID. Presidents have been asked to consider forcing it to become an arm of the US Secret Service. Such plans have never gone all the way to making this happen, partly due to the government not wanting the risk of being associated with a cult with such a chequered history and partly because if someone in the government wanted to use the cult’s skillset then they could do so... as long as was off-book, of course.
Why use the cult to assassinate people? The main reason is inconspicuousness. Stabbings and shootings are crude. Most poisons show up on toxicology reports. Yes, there are hundreds of ways of vanquishing a person but tickling... that is a method for making someone’s elimination look like an accident or natural causes and thus avoid arousing suspicions. It has always been to RID’s benefit that journalists and the public have never cottoned-on to its existence. One of the reasons for this is that tickling someone to death sounds so ridiculous to the average man or woman on the street that it is presumed to be a ludicrous myth and, much like the mafia, even if the average person has heard of it they are unlikely to have come into contact with it.
There were two occasions that journalists had decided to proceed with an investigation into the legend of RID. Unfortunately, both tragically had their lives cut short during the early stages of their investigations. In 1969, 34-year-old Malcolm Dennerson suffered a freak heart attack whilst trapped under his four-poster bed, apparently in an attempt to get to his slippers. His wife came home from work to find his bare feet protruding from under the bed. And in 1986, 39-year-old Becky Richardson drowned in her own bath. Coincidentally, both had rejected multiple anonymous warnings to cease their investigations, which they ignored.
In 1987 the cult went through some fundamental changes. A new committee of directors decided that they would be more selective about the missions they accepted. Guidelines were put in place, new preliminary investigations were carried out and the committee would decide whether there was a justifiable reason and social benefit for which individuals were targeted. None of this made any difference to the fact that all entanglements with law enforcement were to be avoided at all costs.
And so, while RID is not associated with an official organisation, it very much operates like one. The upper echelons worked their ways through the ranks and, by the time they reached the age when they were no longer permitted to be field agent, they had seen it all. The cult maintains a policy that stated that only those between the ages of 21 and 45 can be field agents. After this, they either retire and are provided with a route into a different, everyday career or, more often than not, they transition into positions of intelligence, management or they become trainers and mentors for new recruits within the cult.
Inductees are scouted from a variety of professions and backgrounds but each must display an impressive degree of mental and physical aptitude for the work. Before being approached, intelligence officers look into their lifestyle and the likelihood of them accepting or rejecting an apprenticeship and ongoing career within the cult. The coming of the internet made this process a lot easier as the hacking of each candidate’s online viewing habits said a lot more than following them around day-to-day followed by an interview. Specifically, it informed the committee of their natural level of sadism. Some of RID’s most prized recruits were those who had been forced out of more conventional government agencies. Over the centuries, it was due to these individuals that the knowledge and training techniques absorbed by the cult had raised it to be on par with any other national spy agency. As a result, the cult was stronger than it had ever been.
The cult has safe houses across the country and around the world for times when there is the luxury of disposing of a target in private — buildings that appear inconspicuous both inside and out, but are equipped with hidden bondage equipment and soundproofed to such a high degree that a bomb could go off inside without alerting the neighbours. The RID headquarters is based just outside Hazleton, Pennsylvania. At ground level is an apartment building for trainees and management of all levels that sits atop a subterranean labyrinth of offices, training rooms and gymnasiums.
Chapter 1
It was mid morning at the training centre as Savannah Wilson, a 42-year-old veteran of the cult, put 25-year-old Cheryl Pereira through her paces in the martial arts training gym. Savannah was three years away from retirement and already knew that being a mentor within RID was the route she wanted to take. She had joined the cult ten years earlier after being dismissed from the CIA. Having lost two members of her family in the 9/11 attacks, fighting terrorism and injustice was deeply ingrained in her. Her interrogation tactics were overlooked by her superiors until they were unleashed upon a guy who not only turned out to be innocent but also to be the son of a member of Congress. After her dismissal it didn’t take long for RID to snap her up.
She enjoyed her amply-paid job and the lone wolf nature of her assignments. She was efficient and ruthless and had learned to enjoy the confused mix of laughter and fear on the faces of her targets. She got on well with everybody in the cult and was respected by her peers and superiors but it wasn’t until 21-year-old Cheryl arrived that she found someone with whom she really clicked.
In Cheryl she saw something of her younger self—ambitious, fiercely independent and well-used to being underestimated, although for slightly different reasons. Yes, they were both women and therefore pre-conceived societal notions of female capabilities was something they both had to deal with (even though, whilst on assignment, this actually became a benefit, particularly when their targets were straight men). However, Savannah was also well aware that her height, at 5’2”, was another reason for people to make assumptions about her – a 5’2” woman with a peroxide-blonde pixie haircut and naturally innocent look (despite a two-inch scar under her left eye inflicted on her very first mission) was easy to overlook. Again, she used this to her advantage and wore clothes that hid her toned body and gave no hint as to the power that she had cultivated over thirty-five years of martial arts training.
Cheryl, on the other hand, was underestimated because of her natural beauty, the result of a divine 50/50 mix bestowed by her Brazilian father and Californian beauty queen mother. She was 5’9” with raven hair, light hazel eyes and a physique that was made for sport. Cheryl had been a contender for the US Olympic athletic team but just missed the cut. Whilst she was determined to do better in future competitions, her head was turned after being approached by the cult who had noticed not only her physical capabilities and laser-focus, but also an internet browsing history that regularly included videos of extreme tickle torture.
Over the course of one conversation in the training centre canteen during Cheryl’s first week, the two women found in each other a kindred spirit and Savannah soon fell naturally into the role of unofficial mentor. She knew that if she could combine her knowledge and the skills she had worked at her entire life with Cheryl’s natural strength and physical abilities, Cheryl would be one hell of an agent.
Seen so regularly together, both inside the cult and in public life, they had earned the dual nickname of The Chess Queens, due to their complementary black and white hairstyles. They didn’t care that others speculated on their non-existent sexual relationship. Savannah’s philosophy was to let the people have their fantasies and gossip.
Savannah and Cheryl stood, sweating and barefoot, in lycra sports shorts and crop tops on the padded mats of the gym as they practiced extra-curricular combat techniques. ‘Last one for today,’ said Savannah.
‘Okay,’ said Cheryl, smiling. These sessions with Savannah always led to some scrapes and bruises but she always came away with something valuable.
‘First thing’s first, I need to get you to the floor,’ she stepped swiftly behind Cheryl, dropping to hold her ankles in place as she shoulder-barged her forward. Cheryl broke her fall face-down on the mat and immediately felt her left leg somehow locked in place. ‘So, I’ve wrapped my leg around your calf and have the top of your foot in place on my shoulder. I just need to move forward to put pressure on your knee...’
Cheryl felt the strain and tapped out. ‘Wowee. That works quick!’
Just then, Tech Agent Michaels, a slightly cross-eyed cyber specialist, appeared at the door, ‘Agent Wilson, MS Baker wants to see you ASAP,’ he said, taking a moment to admire Cheryl before moving on. He liked her anyway, but seeing her face down and barefoot was especially pleasing to him.
‘Thank you,’ said Savannah. ‘We’ll finish this tomorrow, Cheryl.’
‘Okay,’ said Cheryl, unable to move.
‘But while I have you here...’ Savannah quickly crawled her fingers over Cheryl’s immobilised size 9 sole.
Cheryl giggled but was unable to escape and growled in amused frustration.
‘That’s the next part,’ smiled Savannah, releasing her.
‘Just remember that I’ll have you in that position tomorrow!’ said Cheryl.
‘Erm… I may find a trainee for you to practice on!’ said Savannah, towelling herself off. ‘I’d better go see the boss. See you later.’
‘Seeya,’ said Cheryl, watching her go.
Chapter 2
Savannah entered the office of Mission Supervisor Baker, an imposing but softly-spoken man. He observed the sweat patches on her tracksuit top. ‘Feeling energetic today, Agent Wilson?’
‘Always,’ she replied.
He invited her to take a seat and tapped at a keyboard, waking a screen on the wall. It showed a telephoto shot of a handsome woman in a skirt-suit. ‘Recognise her?’ Savannah narrowed her eyes, noting something familiar. ‘There’s a chance you may have come across her in your previous career. This is Susan Rosetti, 38-years-old, of New York — widow of the late Don Mario Rosetti.’
‘Ah, yes. I take it the family business didn’t end with his assassination?’
‘No. If anything, under her it has expanded. Don Mario disposed of the heads of several crime families and, when he was killed, she took over and is moving into places that are treading on the toes of one high-profile client who wants her gone. Sources from inside NYPD indicate that since she took over people have been disappearing or turning up dead in numbers that surpass the any previous mob boss – wise-guys and innocents. She’s not a nice lady.’ Baker tapped the keyboard and the screen switched to silent CCTV footage of Susan Rosetti sipping champagne in a rooftop jacuzzi accompanied by three young hunks, one of whom Savannah recognised to be Preliminary Investigating Agent Mike Gunning.
‘Looks like she’s still in mourning, then,’ said Savannah.
‘Oh, yeah. She’s so grief-stricken that she was taking solace in the company of gigolos while her husband was in the ICU three days before he died. But here comes the important bit...’ said Baker, indicating the screen.
Savannah felt a thrill of excitement as she watched Gunning slip an arm round Susan Rosetti and tickle her waist on both sides. She thrashed her legs in an ungainly manner and instantly smashed a champagne flute across his face. She then shouted something, prompting two bodyguards to drag him from the jacuzzi and out of view. The two remaining young men looked on in shock as she laid back and encouraged their respectful attention.
‘As you can see, she’s no pushover. PIA Gunning will be in hospital for some time,’ said Baker.
‘What’s the plan?’
‘One of the Rosetti legitimate businesses is construction. She has a new 30-story apartment block being built in the city. We intercepted her calls and she’s due to meet with the head of construction on the top floor of the building this afternoon at 1600. We will arrange for him to be delayed. Get yourself into a business suit — you’ll be there instead. There’s a car waiting for you outside. Here are further details about her so that you can get more familiar with her on the way...’ Baker typed into the keyboard, transferring digital files to Savannah’s cell phone. ‘Agent Marquez will be giving you the ride and stick around in case you need him.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ Savannah stood.
‘This is mission 100 for you, isn’t it, Agent Wilson?’
’102, Sir,’ she replied.
‘Well, enjoy.’
‘Oh, I will!’ she smiled and strode for the private apartment she shared with Cheryl.
Cheryl had just stepped out of the shower with towels wrapped around her body and hair. Savannah began to shed her clothes whilst analysing the information on her phone.
‘Got a mission?’ asked Cheryl.
‘Yep,’ Savannah tossed the phone on to her bed and headed to the shower.
Cheryl threw on some clean sweat pants and a top and picked up the phone. There was a photo a woman with wavy chestnut hair, prominent cheekbones, collagen-enhanced lips and brown eyes so dark that they were almost black. Cheryl could tell she worked out. She swiped through several surveillance photos and arrived at a document of the woman’s details:
Name: Susan Rosetti
Age: 38
Ethnicity: Italian American
Height: 5’10”
Weight: 140lbs
Shoe size: 10 US (womens)
Ticklish areas:-
Waist: 8/10 (confirmed)
Others: Unknown
Cheryl swiped back to her photos. She found her face mesmerising — the type of face she didn’t know if she wanted to kiss or slap. Savannah returned, naked and dried. Cheryl couldn’t help but sneak a peek of admiration at her petite, toned bottom as she rifled through the wardrobe.
‘Stop looking.’ said Savannah.
Cheryl blushed, ‘I was only admiring your ass.’
Savannah turned with a smirk, ‘I meant, stop looking at my phone!’
‘Oh,’ Cheryl blushed even more.
‘That’s not why you wanted us to get the matching ankle tattoos, is it? You do know we’re not engaged or anything?’
Cheryl refused to rise to the bait, ‘Who’s your target?’
‘A mob boss.’
‘Ooh! That’s exciting.’
‘Yeah, and you can’t have her. She’s a real sadistic bitch by all accounts. I’m going to enjoy this one,’ Savannah said, now dressed in a grey skirt suit and blouse and stepping into high heels. ‘We will talk about how much you fancy me later.’
‘You should be so lucky! Piss off!’ said Cheryl and slumped onto her bed with a magazine to hide her face.
Savannah smiled and headed for her ride.
Chapter 3
Some hours later, Savannah stood on the deserted, part-finished top floor of an apartment block that overlooked Uptown Manhattan. The bare concrete provided home for a collection of brooms and brushes, some left-over building materials and a dozen sauntering pigeons.
On the two and a half hour drive, she had read up on the building and was prepared enough to carry the conversation until she was in a position to take advantage of the mob boss’s ticklishness. She surveyed the area — no workers, no security cameras, no buildings that overlooked her. This was a good spot. The only issue would be getting rid of any bodyguards long enough to do the job but she had made plans with Marquez to deal with that.
She stepped towards the centre of the bare concrete floor. A 4-metre x 4-metre square hole was fenced off by flimsy plastic netting. She peered over the netting and observed a metal-lined hole that went straight down the 30 storeys and into the basement — the elevator shaft. A hook and chain dangled from a huge crane arm over the middle of the hole, ready to help install the elevator in the upcoming days. Savannah nodded to herself — the netting wasn’t fit for purpose. It wouldn’t stop anyone falling through it. This would be the best place to bid so long to Susan Rosetti.
The exterior construction elevator began to whirr. Someone was on their way up. Savannah’s earpiece crackled to life. Agent Marquez’s voice said, ‘She’s here.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ said Savannah, ‘Anything I need to know?’
‘She’s got two goons with her. She’s left one at the bottom, by the elevator entrance. The other is coming up with her.’
‘Reckon you can get him to come back down?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Okay. I’m gonna take the two-way out of my ear now in case she sees it,’ said Savannah. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m done.’
‘Ten-four,’ said Marquez.
Savannah removed her earpiece and set it in her pocket. She then put on a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and a hard hat and picked up a clipboard.
The elevator slowed as it reached the top floor. A huge, 6'2" bodyguard in jeans and a leather jacket pulled the gate open, blocking Savannah’s view of her target. He stepped from the elevator, eyed Savannah and surveyed the floor. Susan Rosetti then stepped from behind him. She was dressed in oversized sunglasses, a stylish fawn Dolce & Gabbana skirt-suit and heels. Unintimidated by her impressive physical stature, Savannah instinctively knew how easy it would be to get her off-balance. She stepped forward and held out her hand, exchanging her Midwestern accent for full-blown Bronx, ‘Mrs Rosetti?’
Rosetti took off her sunglasses and ignored the invitation to shake hands, ‘Where’s Green?’
‘Mr Green is caught in traffic,’ said Savannah, ‘He sends his apologies. I’m his assistant, Carmen. I’ll be able to answer any questions you may have.’
Rosetti looked her in the eye. She wasn’t the type to speak to assistants. From just the look Savannah could tell why many people would be intimidated by her. She waited for a response, deliberately slack-jawed, ‘Green said he’d be here. I’m waiting fifteen minutes. If he don’t arrive, he can get fucked and I’ll get someone else to take over. He said he had something he needed to see me about in person.’
‘Yes, Ma’am. It’s to do with the elevator,’ Savannah began, leading the way towards the centre of the floor. Rosetti followed and the bodyguard was about to join her when there was a loud bang from the street they all look at one another.
The bodyguard’s phone rang. ‘Yeah, Johnny, what was that?’ after a response he hung up and looked to his boss. ‘Johnny’s having some trouble.’
Rosetti rolled her eyes, ‘Go help him.’ The bodyguard ran to the works elevator and headed down. She turned back to Savannah, rapidly losing patience, ‘What’s the fuckin’ problem?’
‘Yes, Ma’am, it’s over here,’ Savannah stepped over to the central elevator shaft and pointed down.
Rosetti joined her, leaning on one of the fence posts that held the plastic netting, ‘What am I lookin’ at?’
‘Well, Ma’am, there has been a miscalculation in the width of the elevator shaft...’ as she spoke, she took a step back and behind Susan Rosetti. The curve of her suit jacket seemed to call out to Savannah, pinpointing the most vulnerable place on her body.
‘What do you mean, “a miscalculation”?!’
‘It’s easier to explain if you take a closer look,’ said Savannah and grabbed both sides of Susan Rosetti’s waist. Rosetti shrieked, arched her back away from Savannah and collided with the fence post. With a speed of reaction that took Savannah by surprise, she wrenched the post from its stand and side-swiped her to the side of the head with it, sending the hard hat into the sky. Savannah landed on her side and was ready to spring back up when Rosetti brought the fence post on its return swing and cracked her in the temple. Savannah saw flashes of light as her vision became misty white. All sound began to muffle as she lost consciousness.
Blackness.
Savannah felt pain in her wrists and shoulders. She must have slept awkwardly but something else was off – it felt like she was swaying. Muffled sounds became clear. Someone was talking, ‘She’s coming round,’ said a man’s voice. Savannah realised she wasn’t in bed and her eyes snapped open and found she had an audience — Susan Rosetti and her two bodyguards. But why were they looking up at her? Then she looked down — she was dangling over the central elevator shaft!
She looked up, her wrists were tied by a noose that looped through the chain of the crane hook. She looked back the gangsters. The bodyguard she had seen before held the other end of the rope. She quickly adjusted her hands and grabbed hold of the iron crane hook. From where she hung, the concrete floor was out of reach. She would have to find a way to swing there.
‘That’s right, sweetheart. You hold on to the hook. Bobby was getting tired,’ said Rosetti and indicated for Bobby to drop the rope. He threw it into the hole.
Savannah went cold as she felt her entire body weight now solely in the grasp of her hands on the hook.
‘Now, bitch, who paid you?’ said Rosetti.
Savannah looked at her, recalling her pledge to not break RID’s rule of secrecy, no matter what was at stake. Besides, if she did, she would have nothing left to trade. ‘I’m not telling you that.’
Rosetti sighed. ‘You don’t want to end up like your friend down there, do you?’
Savannah looked towards the street.
‘No. Not down there. Down there.’ Rosetti said, indicating the lift shaft. ‘He didn’t want to answer either but there was only one hook. Count yourself lucky.’
Savannah gripped hard on the hook and began to swing her legs back and forth. Bobby picked up a nearby broom, walked to the opposite side of the hole and pressed the broom into Savannah’s lower back, halting her momentum. Her mind raced, she tried to think of other escape options. She considered climbing the chain but couldn’t while her wrists were still tied.
‘I’m getting bored, you little imp,’ said Rosetti. ‘Who was it?’
‘I find it difficult to remember unless I’m on firm ground,’ said Savannah, coolly.
‘Okay, fuck you. I don’t care.’ Rosetti looked around, ‘Johnny, hand me that other broom.’
Savannah didn’t intend to be Susan Rosetti’s piñata for the afternoon and so mustered all her strength to lift herself up. As she did so, she edged out of reach of Bobby’s broom. ‘Erm, Susie...’ said Bobby.
Savannah’s muscles strained and trembled as she brought her face level with her wrists and bit onto the rope, loosening the knot. Thankfully, it slipped apart with ease and dropped into the hole. It was several seconds before she heard the faint thud of it landing in the basement. She was ready to raise one hand and climb the chain when she felt something prod her just above her right hip. She tensed and instinctively tried to edge away from it. She lifted a hand but she felt the prod again, slightly higher and had to grasp the hook again. She looked down – Rosetti was holding the tip of a long broom handle at her waist. Savannah saw the sadistic look in her eye.
A third prod, and this time a little circular wriggle into the muscles of her waist caused Savannah to want to giggle. As she focussed her efforts on holding her reaction inside, the strength went from her arms and they began to straighten until she found herself back in her initial dangling position. She quickly realised that the least important element of her predicament was not laughing — she needed to hold on!
‘Ah. How very interesting...’ said Susan Rosetti. She prodded Savannah’s waist several more times. This time Savannah tightened her grip on the crane hook and raised her head to the sky, letting out a stream of ultra-feminine giggles. ‘Try from the other side, Bobby.’
Bobby smirked and did as he was told, prodding into Savannah’s left side with his broom handle. Fully stretched out, there was no way for her to protect herself and she began to twist her body and cycle her legs in the air in response to the deep prods at her waist. Her laughter became louder as she struggled to think of a new plan. Each time she tried to pull herself up, the incessant prodding sapped the energy from her arms.
As her legs kicked she lost a shoe. She looked down and saw it fall out of sight into the gloom of the unlit lower levels. She also caught site of the feather tattoo on her ankle and thought of Cheryl, but was snapped back into the moment by she sound of her shoe clattering into the basement. The echo of the impact panicked her. She felt herself getting hot and beginning to sweat. Her palms began to slide on the smooth iron of the hook. Fear washed over her as she knew she couldn’t hold on much longer. ‘Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you!’ she shrieked through her giggles.
Rosetti didn’t answer, she just prodded faster. The change in pace tickled the flanks of Savannah’s stomach even more and she burst into high-pitched, panicked laughter, her hands beginning to slip. She looked to Rosetti and shouted, ‘I s-said I’d tell you!’
‘And I told you I don’t care any more. You had your chance,’ said Rosetti. ‘Faster, Bobby.’
Bobby matched the speed and variety of Rosetti’s prodding. Savannah attempted not to flail. She couldn’t believe that she was still laughing whilst feeling so scared but she couldn’t help it. There was no grip left and tears of fear and laughter began to well in her eyes. She looked to Rosetti’s vindictive grin one last time and chose not to beg.
Then she let go of the hook.
Chapter 4
MS Baker knocked at Cheryl’s door. It took some moments for her to answer. Her eyes were red from crying.
‘May I come in?’ asked Baker.
She made way for him to enter. He sat at the dining table. ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked.
‘No, thank you,’ he said, his soft voice as reassuring as usual.
She sat at the table with him and stroked her thumbnails — her method of self-comfort since childhood.
‘She was one of the best,’ said Baker.
‘What happened?’ Cheryl asked.
‘We don’t know for sure but we have a recording from her two-way communicator. It sounds like she was just taken by surprise. It was bad luck.’
Cheryl sobbed.
‘We’re holding a memorial for her and Agent Marquez on Tuesday—’
‘I want to take over her assignment,’ Cheryl interrupted.
‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid,’ said Baker.
‘I can do it. I won’t let emotion cloud my judgement. I’m a professional.’
Baker took a breath. ‘I don’t doubt it but I’m afraid it’s out of our hands now. The client withdrew the contract after he heard what happened. He’s using another route now.’
Cheryl tried to contain her anger. ‘So Savannah and Marquez are gone and we just accept it?’
‘You know how we operate, Agent Pereira. There are protocols in place — as the client has taken the contract elsewhere we don’t risk further exposure by—’
‘I know the rule book,’ said Cheryl. ‘I just need time.’
‘Of course,’ said Baker, standing to leave. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’
She nodded and he left.
Cheryl kicked off her slippers and rested her feet on the edge of the chair, hugging her knees. She looked down and caught sight of the ankle tattoo of a feather that she and Savannah had agreed upon as a vow of their eternal camaraderie. A thought occurred to her.
She wiped away her tears and got dressed...
Tech Agent Michaels sat in the dark Cyber Intelligence suite surrounded by empty desks, his face illuminated by the three computer screens in front of him. He simultaneously played the original 1996 Tomb Raider game using one keyboard whilst mulling over a hack that he occasionally tapped into another.
Cheryl entered, causing him to jump. ‘Agent Pereira!’ he exclaimed, knocking over a bag of Cheetos.
‘Hiya,’ said Cheryl. ‘I thought I’d find you here.’
‘It’s Friday night! Where else?’ he said, noting the loose black blouse, short skirt and high heels she was wearing. ‘I’m sorry to hear about Agent Wilson. She was a great lady.’
Cheryl brushed the Cheetos to one side and sat on his desk, the side split of her skirt displayed her thigh. ‘Thank you.’
‘What brings you here?’
‘I wanted to ask a favour. I need to know who now has the Rosetti contract.’
‘They don’t tell me that sort of thing.’
Cheryl smirked. ‘Are you the type of guy who only knows the things people tell you?’
‘No,’ he smiled.
Cheryl smiled and pulled up a chair next to him. ‘Good. I don’t go on dates with men who play by the rules.’
Michaels began to type frantically. Cheryl took up the Tomb Raider keyboard, placed it in her lap and propped her feet up on the desk, playing while he went to work. As she crossed one ankle over the other he couldn’t help but get distracted by the curve of her wrinkled arch just visible inside the instep of her shoe. Eventually he found it. ‘It’s here.’
Cheryl sat forward, ‘What’s the story?’
‘MS Baker received a call that cancelled the RID contract. I traced the number that called him and the next few calls it made. One was to a phone number that has only been used once.’
‘A burner phone?’
‘Probably. But I traced the SIM — it was purchased on the corner of 8th Avenue and West 37th Street,’ he drilled at the keyboard and brought up an image of a street camera that overlooked the store. He rapidly whizzed through the footage from the last 48 hours, capturing the images of all the customers that entered and left the store. Cheryl looked on, amazed at the speed of his fingers on the keyboard.
Michaels then loaded all the images into a processing application and set it in motion. Three police records popped up on the screen alongside mugshots of the arrestees. Cheryl scanned the files, ‘Burglary, no. Shoplifting, no. Suspected murder...’ the file showed the mug shot of a pinch-faced man staring back at her with dead-eyes. ‘He was let go due to lack of evidence. But, if you were a betting man, Michaels...?’
‘I’d say that’s who you’re looking for. Dorian Stone. Last known address—’
‘Got it, thanks,’ said Cheryl, scribbling down the address and heading for the door.
‘It’s Martin!’
Cheryl paused as she reached the door, ‘Huh?’
‘My first name,’ said Michaels. ‘It’s Martin.’
Cheryl smiled, ‘See you soon, Martin.’
Chapter 5
It was almost 10pm as Cheryl sat opposite Dorian Stone’s apartment block in her souped-up but intentionally ratty-looking burgundy 2005 Volkswagen Passat. It wasn’t long before she saw him exit the building carrying a briefcase, dressed all in black and wearing a black baseball cap. ‘Subtle hitman outfit there, Dorian,’ she said to herself. He got into a black 2014 Hyundai, pulled into the traffic and Cheryl followed.
They headed into the city and meandered through Greenwich Village until he eventually pulled over to the side of the road. She passed him and pulled in a little further up the road, angling a wing mirror so she could see him. For twenty minutes he sat motionless as his engine idled. He then received a phone call. He quickly hung up and threw a U-turn. Cheryl did the same, following him just a few streets. He pulled into a parking spot and got out, running into a side alley opposite a parade of restaurants.
Cheryl stopped in front of an Italian restaurant, ready to run after him but as she unbuckled her seat belt she caught sight of Susan Rosetti and two bodyguards sitting at a table in the restaurant. Her heart leapt. She restarted her car and reversed round the street corner so that she could see the restaurant door. Her mind was suddenly a blank, not knowing what her plan was. Just then she spotted Stone on the roof of the building opposite. Against the illuminated azure of the sky she could just make out his silhouette as he placed a sniper rifle in position. Thoughts of revenge merged with common sense. She could just watch Rosetti get gunned down in the street and take solace in that — no reason to get involved.
An hour passed as she watched Stone peer over the roof. It wasn’t until she saw him adjust his position and cradle the butt of the gun in his shoulder that she knew Susan Rosetti was on her way out. Her heart pounded as she looked to the restaurant door. One bodyguard, Bobby, stepped onto the street and Rosetti followed. Just then there was a bang and a flash that lit up the sky. All looked to the rooftop where a group of partying teens had burst onto the roof with a bunch of fireworks, illuminating Stone.
‘What the fuck?’ said Bobby.
Stone panicked and took a shot that propelled Bobby into the restaurant window. Rosetti ducked behind a parked car as Bobby folded to the ground and Johnny pulled a gun from inside his jacket. He crossed the road, taking shots at the roof, causing the teens to scream. Cheryl started the car, floored the accelerator and skidded into the street. Johnny turned to her and pointed his gun but didn’t have enough time to get off a shot before she rammed him and screeched to a halt. Johnny sailed through the air, accompanied by the soundtrack of fire crackers that continued to rattle on the roof.
Stone took another desperate shot at Rosetti that pierced Cheryl’s car roof and shattered her passenger window. This guy is a fucking terrible shot! she thought. Just then she saw Rosetti through her broken window. She switched character and screamed in panic, attracting Rosetti’s attention. Their eyes met. Rosetti glanced up at the building, saw Stone reloading and dashed for Cheryl’s passenger door. She opened it and got in.
‘Drive!’ shouted Rosetti.
‘What’s going on!?’ cried Cheryl in a panic.
‘We’re both about to get fucking shot! Now fucking drive!’
Cheryl spotted blue lights flashing in the street behind her and slammed her foot down onto the accelerator. Rosetti just had time to see Johnny’s crumpled body slide from a car hood onto the ground as Cheryl sped around the corner. As the Volkswagen barrelled up 8th Avenue Cheryl looked in the rearview mirror and saw two police cruisers turn into the road after her. She floored the pedal, boosting the speed. ‘Woah, soccer mom!’ said Rosetti as she felt her back smoosh into the chair.
‘What am I doing!?’ Cheryl cried hysterically as she pulled away from the cop cars.
‘Keep it together for fuck sake—! Look out!’ Ahead were a group of Friday night revellers crossing the street. Cheryl screamed and swerved, deliberately giving the impression that missing them was a split-second manoeuvre of blind luck.
She then turned left onto West 23rd Street and cursed the fact that traffic was backed up all the way to the lights. She pulled hard to the left and sped the wrong way down a bus lane. Rosetti gripped the dashboard as a bus approached, she opened her mouth to shout something as the bus driver slammed on his brakes causing the bus to skid diagonally across the road. Rosetti braced for impact but Cheryl snaked the car between the bus and the traffic jam of cars, losing a wing-mirror in the process.
Looking back, the bus sat still in the road, silhouetted by the flashing blue lights of the blocked cop cars. Cheryl pulled into a stream of traffic then turned off the road, moving through block after block until they reached the Lincoln Tunnel.
‘Where the hell are you goin’?’ asked Rosetti.
‘I don’t know,’ said Cheryl.
‘Take me to Fairfield.’
Cheryl thought fast, ‘Isn’t that a half hour drive? Won’t the police be looking for my car? Oh, my God, who are you!? What have I done?!’
‘Calm the fuck down,’ shouted Rosetti. ‘You’re actually right about the car. Do you know anywhere round here?’
‘My place is just the other side of the tunnel.’
‘Good. Take me to your place and I’ll get picked up. What’s the address?’
Cheryl gave the impression that she was so focussed on simultaneously trying to stay calm and drive that Rosetti didn’t insist on an answer. Rosetti checked her phone — no signal in the tunnel.
Their destination was not Cheryl’s home. It was, in fact, one of RID’s many safehouses. As Cheryl gave the performance of her life, she considered how exactly she would get Rosetti tied down. The temptation to use all-out violence on the woman who killed her friend was almost irresistible, but Cheryl knew the words that Savannah would speak right now: ‘Do it right and make her suffer.’ As such, she didn’t want to leave any suspicious cuts or bruises.
‘Here we are,’ said Cheryl as they arrived at an unassuming terraced house with built-in garage. Cheryl pressed a button on her fob and the garage door raised up.
‘Hurry it up, will ya?’ said Rosetti.
They pulled into the garage and the door slowly closed behind them. ‘Would you like to wait indoors?’
‘Yeah,’ said Rosetti. They both got out of the car. ‘Lead the way.’
Rosetti followed as Cheryl walked up a short set of stairs and scanned her fob on a panel that gave them access to the main house. They stepped into an entrance corridor. ‘Would you like a drink or something?’ Cheryl asked as she closed the door behind them. There was brief sound of suction as it automatically sealed itself.
She then heard a familiar click and turned to see Rosetti pointing a gun at her head. ‘Who are you?’
Cheryl raised her hands, ‘What do you mean!?’
‘You don’t drive like the bimbo that you’re pretending to be. You pick me up, outdrive the cops and bring me to a place that may as well have plastic fuckin’ sheets on the floor. Plus, it’s a bit too much of a coincidence that you have the exact same ankle tattoo as a woman I executed just this afternoon! Who the fuck are you?’
Cheryl dropped the pretence, ‘I can’t tell you that.’
Rosetti took a step forward. ‘You can go the way of your dwarf buddy, if you like.’
There was a pause as Cheryl contained her anger. ‘I’m an assassin.’
‘Yeah, no shit. Who do you work for?’
‘I’m part of a private organisation. I don’t know who the client is.’
‘What organisation?’
‘The cult of RID.’
Rosetti took another step closer, ‘You think this is a time for jokes?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a myth!’ Rosetti shouted, but then considered — the woman had tried to tickle her into the elevator shaft. That was weird. ‘Okay. Then you’ll be the third one I’ve killed today. Not such a great organisation!’
As she straightened her arm, Cheryl dropped her hands, flicking a light switch and setting the house into blackness. Rosetti fired, illuminating a snapshot of Cheryl as she ducked to the left. She fired again and saw Cheryl almost upon her. Before she could fire a third time Cheryl knocked the gun from her grasp and twirled her on the spot.
She fell forward to the ground and felt her arm pinned behind her. ‘Get the fuck off m—!’ before she could finish, Cheryl’s other hand was at her throat and she was wrenched to her feet.
‘Lota: lumina in!’ called Cheryl and the lights returned. Cheryl marched Rosetti forward and kicked open a door to reveal a modern living room. Shutters covered the windows. ‘Lota: Scamnum!’
Rosetti struggled as a large square of flooring parted and a leather bench, similar to a spanking bench, raised quickly into the centre of the room. Cheryl pushed Rosetti forward and she toppled over the bench, kneeling into padded shin rests. Cheryl yanked her arm forward and swiftly cuffed her wrist. She wrestled more with the second as Rosetti tried to hold back, but Cheryl’s strength prevailed. She then stepped behind Rosetti who tried, ineffectively, to donkey-kick but her ankles were quickly secured into place.
Mob boss Susan Rosetti found herself totally immobilised — kneeling on the bench, bent forward onto a leather pad that supported her torso, her arms stretched out in front of her and her face forced into a hole similar to that on a massage table. Each cuff around her wrists and ankles was highly padded and held her securely in place.
Cheryl slumped into a sofa, ‘You’re one tough lady, Rosetti.’
Rosetti lifted her head, ‘Fuck you! Let me go!’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Cheryl as she analysed the woman in front of her and considered how to begin. Rosetti was still fully dressed in her Dolce & Gabbana skirt suit, honey-coloured nylons and pale pink high-heeled Jimmy Choo pumps.
Cheryl stood, ‘Now, I know from your file that you are very vulnerable around your waist. But I need to find out where else...’ She took hold of the right pump. It slipped off with ease thanks to the glossy nylons. The gangster boss attempted to struggle and had it confirmed that it would not help her to do so — there was zero leeway in the restraints.
Cheryl slipped off the second pump and felt a strange mix of emotions as she looked Susan Rosetti’s nylon-clad soles. She had always had a sexual predilection for tickling and ever since she had first had access to the Internet, she spent hours and hours looking at videos and images of it every week. It was a true fetish for her. She was undeniably heterosexual in her sexual preferences but, when it came to tickling, torturing both men and women was equally exciting. This led her to have an erotic appreciation for any part of the body that was particularly susceptible to tickling. This woman’s soles were undeniably appealing — size 10s but slimmer and more refined than Cheryl had expected, with toes in a Moreton formation that were well-kept despite her preference for uncomfortable shoes.
But while Cheryl was attracted to her feet, she also couldn’t have hated any human being more than she hated Susan Rosetti right now. Again Savannah’s advice came to mind: ‘Channel your emotions into the one specific goal: to dominate their body and mind.’
Cheryl grazed a fingernail up the right sole from toes to heel, the glossy nylon helping the slick movement. Rosetti jolted on the bench. ‘Stop fucking about! What do you want?’
‘I told you.’
‘You’re going to try and tickle me to death!?’ said Rosetti, incredulously.
‘Correct.’
‘Why would anyone do that!?’
‘Many reasons,’ said Cheryl. ‘To help avoid detection. Sadism. Psychopathy. Sexual gratification. To earn a living. To utterly humiliate and undermine some bitch who killed her friend. I’ll leave you to guess which ones apply to me.’
‘It won’t work.’
‘Then you have nothing to worry about!’ said Cheryl as she stroked her fingernails lightly up and down the silky material covering Rosetti’s long soles. Rosetti’s toes clenched and her entire body tensed as she arched her head back and gave a frustrated growl through gritted teeth that ended with the hint of a laugh. ‘It sounds like you won’t be hard to crack!’
‘Fu— AHH!’ Rosetti was cut off mid-insult and shrieked as Cheryl went to town on her soles, scrabbling her fingers up and down the silky material. Rosetti tried flicking her feet from side to side to avoid the infuriating fingernails but Cheryl deftly followed each movement.
Cheryl felt a thrill deep inside her. Susan Rosetti had the kind of laugh that turned her on the most — feminine and full-throated. The laugh of a powerful woman. There was an air of desperation that indicated that she was aware of exactly how ticklish she was and that she knew she had no hope of hiding it as most people tried to do. To Cheryl’s immense satisfaction, her laughter did not subside with the common occurrence of becoming desensitised when one spends too much time in a particular spot. The only movement she could manage was the occasional thrashing of her head. She tried to speak but breathless laughs stole the words from her only to be replaced by laughter when she was able to produce a sound. Her feet were wonderfully ticklish and Cheryl felt no need or desire to move on to other parts of her body and thus tickled her soles for a solid hour without a break.
At the one-hour mark, Cheryl paused and Rosetti let out a moan of relief. Cheryl stepped round to kneel between her outstretched arms. ‘Not used to being out of control, are you Susan?’
Rosetti looked up. Her previously stylised hair was a mess and tangled within her big hooped earrings. Her makeup was melted with sweat and smeared over the leather of the bench. ‘This won’t work,’ she panted, ‘and when I get out of here, you’re fucking dead.’
‘Do you know how often I hear that in this line of work?’ Cheryl said and pulled out a flick knife. She released the blade and held it close to Rosetti’s face. ‘Let’s try something else...’ she said and stepped behind her.
Rosetti hid her concern. ‘How much tickling can you do with a knife?’
In response, Cheryl used the knife to slice open the back of her jacket and let the two sides fall away, leaving the blouse in place. She put the knife down and slid her hands around either side of Susan Rosetti’s waist. ‘Let’s see about this waist of yours...’
Rosetti suppressed a natural urge to protest and held her breath. Cheryl expertly wriggled her fingertips into her waist and she exploded into laughter. Cheryl edged her way all around her waist, seeking and exploiting the tell-tale signs of muscle and resistance. As her victim’s head lurched from side to side Cheryl also noticed her hands opening and closing in helpless desperation.
‘Belly time!’ Cheryl announced, lifting the bottom of the blouse and using light, rapid fingernail strokes over the exposed tummy.
One of Cheryl’s favourite discoveries was that many ticklish people were somehow more panicked when they felt their clothes were being invaded by fingers intent on tickling them. She slid her fingers under the fine silk of the blouse and asked, ‘What about your armpits...?’
‘No!’ cried Rosetti involuntarily, causing Cheryl to smile. She crept up her ribcage and over the outside of her bra and slowly slid into the smooth, sweaty hollows of her armpits. Rosetti shrieked in aguish and reached a higher plateau of hysterics.
Cheryl felt a deep satisfaction, ‘Ahh! I think we’ve found a new top spot! Tell me, does it distress you more that this is being done to you by someone so much younger and more attractive?’ she taunted
Rosetti wanted to tell this brat to get fucked but scampering fingers all over her exposed armpits made her dissolve into a frenzy. Her arms were so stretched that she could do nothing to avoid the torturous sensations. Her laughter was desperate and she kept attempting to punctuate it with cries of, ‘No more!’ and, ‘Enough!’ but each plea fed Cheryl’s desires to hear more.
Cheryl decided to set herself a task and only took another break when she had counted a total of 100 pleas. As they reached the 90 mark, Cheryl recognised the sounds of hyperventilation coming from the older woman. She caught sight of micro expressions of exhaustion in between bouts of frantic laughter.
At 100, Cheryl paused. Rosetti’s head flopped to the bench and she gasped for breath. Cheryl stepped over to the sofa and lifted the seat cushions to reveal a hidden trunk of tools and implements. She pulled out a hairbrush and some massage oil and showed them to Rosetti. ‘You probably have no idea what’s about to happen next do you?’
Rosetti was speechless, her spirit broken. ‘You’re a freak! This will never work!’
‘Oh, but it is working, Susie. Trust me. This isn’t my first time. You know, my first time I didn’t know if it would work either. I’d had the training, spoken to experienced people and I’d even seen videos of it. But we never think whenever we tickle someone that it could actually be used to put them to sleep forever. When I was in the middle of that first assignment it felt like it would never end. My target was this big, strong, hairy dude. He was laughing and begging and sweating but he didn’t seem to be close to popping his clogs at any point. And then, after a few hours, his ticker gave out and that was it.
‘Since then I’ve learned that it will work in the end — you just have to keep going. I’ve learned to just enjoy the journey and spot the signs that tell me it’s working. Like how flushed your face is right now, except for your pale lips. You’re struggling. You know it and I know it. You can beg all you want and I will give you as much mercy as you showed my best friend.’
Cheryl stepped to Rosetti’s feet, tore open the nylons and peeled them back to expose her bare soles and frosted pink painted toes. ‘You really do have nice feet for a total fucking cow,’ She said and dripped massage oil over Rosetti’s soles until they glistened in the ceiling lights.
‘Look,’ said Rosetti, ‘I can—’
‘Is this the part where you try and pay me off? Sorry, bitch, I get paid enough,’ said Cheryl as the hairbrush closed in on Rosetti’s oil-soaked soles.
Outside the night was almost silent except for the sound of distant city traffic. It was 3:13am and nobody would have any clue as to the screaming and begging that was taking place in the modest white house in the middle of the street.
Inside, Cheryl was sweating as she played her counting game, but this time up to 200. Interestingly, it took the same amount of time to reach that number as it had previously taken to reach 100.
She looked at the tattered nylons that hung from Rosetti’s ankles and the remaining tights as they shimmered up her toned calves and thighs. She wiped her hands on a towel and stepped back to the trough of tools.
Rosetti’s body convulsed on the bench. She alternated between sobs and echoes of the laughter that had been forced from her. ‘Please...’ she said. Her mouth was dry and her throat was raw, ‘Please, just let me go.’
Cheryl had her back to her as she replied, ‘Tell you what. It’s 4:30am now. If you’re still able to talk at 5:30am, I’ll let you go.’ She turned and was holding a single long pheasant’s tail feather.
Rosetti swallowed and relaxed.
‘I’ll take that as a deal,’ said Cheryl and she returned to the lower end of the bench.
Susan Rosetti rested her head on the leather of the bench as she waited for the feather to be used on her soles or toes or the tops of her feet. Wherever it was going, it didn’t matter. She knew she was feather ticklish but nothing could compare to the treatment she had just endured with the oil and hairbrushes. She heard the younger woman get into position and clenched her eyes in preparation... Then she felt her skirt being lifted. A moment later her tights were torn from her completely and her panties were sliced loose by the flick knife. Her eyes widened as she felt the tip of the feather trace slowly up her thigh. Her body wriggled in response. The feather stroked her inner thigh — higher and higher…
‘NOOO! Not that!’ Rosetti pleaded.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Cheryl replied, ‘That.’
The feather stroked lightly around the outside of Susan Rosetti’s thigh and under her buttock. Cheryl had to admire her beauty regime — she had as much care and attention paid to her bikini waxing as she had paid to her uptown pedicures and thankfully, her smooth skin was more sensitive than anyone she had ever met and was about to be touched in a way she’d never experienced before.
Rosetti felt the feather stroke her pussy lips and irrepressible giggles began to well up inside her. The light touch of the feather was maddening and unavoidable. She couldn’t move at all as the tip swirled between her asshole and her pussy, touching everywhere in between. The strokes became quicker and more unpredictable and as it finally skimmed her clitoris she erupted into helpless, abandoned, hysterics.
Soon Cheryl recognised the increasingly erratic nature of her target’s laughter. She had lost her mind and her body would soon follow. To speed up the process she alternated between the feather, the oil & brushes, tummy, waist and armpit tickling until the mission was complete...
Epilogue
The sun was rising over the city of New York and Cheryl could see her own breath as she stepped out into the morning air.
She sat on the doorstep and sparked up a cigarette. After some moments of contemplation for how much can change in the space of one day, she muttered to herself, ‘Work is work and pleasure is pleasure, Pereira. After four years of this shit, you’re going to need plenty of therapy to separate the two.’
She would call Baker and accept whatever disciplinary action came her way.
Then she would retire from the cult of RID.
THE END.
The Cult of Tickle Assassins
a.k.a.
Salutaret Mortem cum Risu
by Tamira K.
Prologue
There are organisations and groups the world over that you will never know exist and some you would not believe exist, even if you heard about them from your favourite news provider.
One such organisation is the cult of RID. Some who know of its presence speculate that the name comes from its ancient roots and is a shortening of the Italian for smile: ridere. Some say R.I.D. is an acronym, but these people can never say with any certainty what the letters stand for. Others believe it simply stands for what the cult does: it gets rid of people.
This, in itself, says something of how old the cult is. Founded in Europe before the USA was colonised, it is now based in the USA for the reason that, while it operates worldwide, the majority of the cult’s private clients and targets have been USA-based for over 120 years.
Every couple of decades the attention of the government is drawn to RID. Presidents have been asked to consider forcing it to become an arm of the US Secret Service. Such plans have never gone all the way to making this happen, partly due to the government not wanting the risk of being associated with a cult with such a chequered history and partly because if someone in the government wanted to use the cult’s skillset then they could do so... as long as was off-book, of course.
Why use the cult to assassinate people? The main reason is inconspicuousness. Stabbings and shootings are crude. Most poisons show up on toxicology reports. Yes, there are hundreds of ways of vanquishing a person but tickling... that is a method for making someone’s elimination look like an accident or natural causes and thus avoid arousing suspicions. It has always been to RID’s benefit that journalists and the public have never cottoned-on to its existence. One of the reasons for this is that tickling someone to death sounds so ridiculous to the average man or woman on the street that it is presumed to be a ludicrous myth and, much like the mafia, even if the average person has heard of it they are unlikely to have come into contact with it.
There were two occasions that journalists had decided to proceed with an investigation into the legend of RID. Unfortunately, both tragically had their lives cut short during the early stages of their investigations. In 1969, 34-year-old Malcolm Dennerson suffered a freak heart attack whilst trapped under his four-poster bed, apparently in an attempt to get to his slippers. His wife came home from work to find his bare feet protruding from under the bed. And in 1986, 39-year-old Becky Richardson drowned in her own bath. Coincidentally, both had rejected multiple anonymous warnings to cease their investigations, which they ignored.
In 1987 the cult went through some fundamental changes. A new committee of directors decided that they would be more selective about the missions they accepted. Guidelines were put in place, new preliminary investigations were carried out and the committee would decide whether there was a justifiable reason and social benefit for which individuals were targeted. None of this made any difference to the fact that all entanglements with law enforcement were to be avoided at all costs.
And so, while RID is not associated with an official organisation, it very much operates like one. The upper echelons worked their ways through the ranks and, by the time they reached the age when they were no longer permitted to be field agent, they had seen it all. The cult maintains a policy that stated that only those between the ages of 21 and 45 can be field agents. After this, they either retire and are provided with a route into a different, everyday career or, more often than not, they transition into positions of intelligence, management or they become trainers and mentors for new recruits within the cult.
Inductees are scouted from a variety of professions and backgrounds but each must display an impressive degree of mental and physical aptitude for the work. Before being approached, intelligence officers look into their lifestyle and the likelihood of them accepting or rejecting an apprenticeship and ongoing career within the cult. The coming of the internet made this process a lot easier as the hacking of each candidate’s online viewing habits said a lot more than following them around day-to-day followed by an interview. Specifically, it informed the committee of their natural level of sadism. Some of RID’s most prized recruits were those who had been forced out of more conventional government agencies. Over the centuries, it was due to these individuals that the knowledge and training techniques absorbed by the cult had raised it to be on par with any other national spy agency. As a result, the cult was stronger than it had ever been.
The cult has safe houses across the country and around the world for times when there is the luxury of disposing of a target in private — buildings that appear inconspicuous both inside and out, but are equipped with hidden bondage equipment and soundproofed to such a high degree that a bomb could go off inside without alerting the neighbours. The RID headquarters is based just outside Hazleton, Pennsylvania. At ground level is an apartment building for trainees and management of all levels that sits atop a subterranean labyrinth of offices, training rooms and gymnasiums.
Chapter 1
It was mid morning at the training centre as Savannah Wilson, a 42-year-old veteran of the cult, put 25-year-old Cheryl Pereira through her paces in the martial arts training gym. Savannah was three years away from retirement and already knew that being a mentor within RID was the route she wanted to take. She had joined the cult ten years earlier after being dismissed from the CIA. Having lost two members of her family in the 9/11 attacks, fighting terrorism and injustice was deeply ingrained in her. Her interrogation tactics were overlooked by her superiors until they were unleashed upon a guy who not only turned out to be innocent but also to be the son of a member of Congress. After her dismissal it didn’t take long for RID to snap her up.
She enjoyed her amply-paid job and the lone wolf nature of her assignments. She was efficient and ruthless and had learned to enjoy the confused mix of laughter and fear on the faces of her targets. She got on well with everybody in the cult and was respected by her peers and superiors but it wasn’t until 21-year-old Cheryl arrived that she found someone with whom she really clicked.
In Cheryl she saw something of her younger self—ambitious, fiercely independent and well-used to being underestimated, although for slightly different reasons. Yes, they were both women and therefore pre-conceived societal notions of female capabilities was something they both had to deal with (even though, whilst on assignment, this actually became a benefit, particularly when their targets were straight men). However, Savannah was also well aware that her height, at 5’2”, was another reason for people to make assumptions about her – a 5’2” woman with a peroxide-blonde pixie haircut and naturally innocent look (despite a two-inch scar under her left eye inflicted on her very first mission) was easy to overlook. Again, she used this to her advantage and wore clothes that hid her toned body and gave no hint as to the power that she had cultivated over thirty-five years of martial arts training.
Cheryl, on the other hand, was underestimated because of her natural beauty, the result of a divine 50/50 mix bestowed by her Brazilian father and Californian beauty queen mother. She was 5’9” with raven hair, light hazel eyes and a physique that was made for sport. Cheryl had been a contender for the US Olympic athletic team but just missed the cut. Whilst she was determined to do better in future competitions, her head was turned after being approached by the cult who had noticed not only her physical capabilities and laser-focus, but also an internet browsing history that regularly included videos of extreme tickle torture.
Over the course of one conversation in the training centre canteen during Cheryl’s first week, the two women found in each other a kindred spirit and Savannah soon fell naturally into the role of unofficial mentor. She knew that if she could combine her knowledge and the skills she had worked at her entire life with Cheryl’s natural strength and physical abilities, Cheryl would be one hell of an agent.
Seen so regularly together, both inside the cult and in public life, they had earned the dual nickname of The Chess Queens, due to their complementary black and white hairstyles. They didn’t care that others speculated on their non-existent sexual relationship. Savannah’s philosophy was to let the people have their fantasies and gossip.
Savannah and Cheryl stood, sweating and barefoot, in lycra sports shorts and crop tops on the padded mats of the gym as they practiced extra-curricular combat techniques. ‘Last one for today,’ said Savannah.
‘Okay,’ said Cheryl, smiling. These sessions with Savannah always led to some scrapes and bruises but she always came away with something valuable.
‘First thing’s first, I need to get you to the floor,’ she stepped swiftly behind Cheryl, dropping to hold her ankles in place as she shoulder-barged her forward. Cheryl broke her fall face-down on the mat and immediately felt her left leg somehow locked in place. ‘So, I’ve wrapped my leg around your calf and have the top of your foot in place on my shoulder. I just need to move forward to put pressure on your knee...’
Cheryl felt the strain and tapped out. ‘Wowee. That works quick!’
Just then, Tech Agent Michaels, a slightly cross-eyed cyber specialist, appeared at the door, ‘Agent Wilson, MS Baker wants to see you ASAP,’ he said, taking a moment to admire Cheryl before moving on. He liked her anyway, but seeing her face down and barefoot was especially pleasing to him.
‘Thank you,’ said Savannah. ‘We’ll finish this tomorrow, Cheryl.’
‘Okay,’ said Cheryl, unable to move.
‘But while I have you here...’ Savannah quickly crawled her fingers over Cheryl’s immobilised size 9 sole.
Cheryl giggled but was unable to escape and growled in amused frustration.
‘That’s the next part,’ smiled Savannah, releasing her.
‘Just remember that I’ll have you in that position tomorrow!’ said Cheryl.
‘Erm… I may find a trainee for you to practice on!’ said Savannah, towelling herself off. ‘I’d better go see the boss. See you later.’
‘Seeya,’ said Cheryl, watching her go.
Chapter 2
Savannah entered the office of Mission Supervisor Baker, an imposing but softly-spoken man. He observed the sweat patches on her tracksuit top. ‘Feeling energetic today, Agent Wilson?’
‘Always,’ she replied.
He invited her to take a seat and tapped at a keyboard, waking a screen on the wall. It showed a telephoto shot of a handsome woman in a skirt-suit. ‘Recognise her?’ Savannah narrowed her eyes, noting something familiar. ‘There’s a chance you may have come across her in your previous career. This is Susan Rosetti, 38-years-old, of New York — widow of the late Don Mario Rosetti.’
‘Ah, yes. I take it the family business didn’t end with his assassination?’
‘No. If anything, under her it has expanded. Don Mario disposed of the heads of several crime families and, when he was killed, she took over and is moving into places that are treading on the toes of one high-profile client who wants her gone. Sources from inside NYPD indicate that since she took over people have been disappearing or turning up dead in numbers that surpass the any previous mob boss – wise-guys and innocents. She’s not a nice lady.’ Baker tapped the keyboard and the screen switched to silent CCTV footage of Susan Rosetti sipping champagne in a rooftop jacuzzi accompanied by three young hunks, one of whom Savannah recognised to be Preliminary Investigating Agent Mike Gunning.
‘Looks like she’s still in mourning, then,’ said Savannah.
‘Oh, yeah. She’s so grief-stricken that she was taking solace in the company of gigolos while her husband was in the ICU three days before he died. But here comes the important bit...’ said Baker, indicating the screen.
Savannah felt a thrill of excitement as she watched Gunning slip an arm round Susan Rosetti and tickle her waist on both sides. She thrashed her legs in an ungainly manner and instantly smashed a champagne flute across his face. She then shouted something, prompting two bodyguards to drag him from the jacuzzi and out of view. The two remaining young men looked on in shock as she laid back and encouraged their respectful attention.
‘As you can see, she’s no pushover. PIA Gunning will be in hospital for some time,’ said Baker.
‘What’s the plan?’
‘One of the Rosetti legitimate businesses is construction. She has a new 30-story apartment block being built in the city. We intercepted her calls and she’s due to meet with the head of construction on the top floor of the building this afternoon at 1600. We will arrange for him to be delayed. Get yourself into a business suit — you’ll be there instead. There’s a car waiting for you outside. Here are further details about her so that you can get more familiar with her on the way...’ Baker typed into the keyboard, transferring digital files to Savannah’s cell phone. ‘Agent Marquez will be giving you the ride and stick around in case you need him.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ Savannah stood.
‘This is mission 100 for you, isn’t it, Agent Wilson?’
’102, Sir,’ she replied.
‘Well, enjoy.’
‘Oh, I will!’ she smiled and strode for the private apartment she shared with Cheryl.
Cheryl had just stepped out of the shower with towels wrapped around her body and hair. Savannah began to shed her clothes whilst analysing the information on her phone.
‘Got a mission?’ asked Cheryl.
‘Yep,’ Savannah tossed the phone on to her bed and headed to the shower.
Cheryl threw on some clean sweat pants and a top and picked up the phone. There was a photo a woman with wavy chestnut hair, prominent cheekbones, collagen-enhanced lips and brown eyes so dark that they were almost black. Cheryl could tell she worked out. She swiped through several surveillance photos and arrived at a document of the woman’s details:
Name: Susan Rosetti
Age: 38
Ethnicity: Italian American
Height: 5’10”
Weight: 140lbs
Shoe size: 10 US (womens)
Ticklish areas:-
Waist: 8/10 (confirmed)
Others: Unknown
Cheryl swiped back to her photos. She found her face mesmerising — the type of face she didn’t know if she wanted to kiss or slap. Savannah returned, naked and dried. Cheryl couldn’t help but sneak a peek of admiration at her petite, toned bottom as she rifled through the wardrobe.
‘Stop looking.’ said Savannah.
Cheryl blushed, ‘I was only admiring your ass.’
Savannah turned with a smirk, ‘I meant, stop looking at my phone!’
‘Oh,’ Cheryl blushed even more.
‘That’s not why you wanted us to get the matching ankle tattoos, is it? You do know we’re not engaged or anything?’
Cheryl refused to rise to the bait, ‘Who’s your target?’
‘A mob boss.’
‘Ooh! That’s exciting.’
‘Yeah, and you can’t have her. She’s a real sadistic bitch by all accounts. I’m going to enjoy this one,’ Savannah said, now dressed in a grey skirt suit and blouse and stepping into high heels. ‘We will talk about how much you fancy me later.’
‘You should be so lucky! Piss off!’ said Cheryl and slumped onto her bed with a magazine to hide her face.
Savannah smiled and headed for her ride.
Chapter 3
Some hours later, Savannah stood on the deserted, part-finished top floor of an apartment block that overlooked Uptown Manhattan. The bare concrete provided home for a collection of brooms and brushes, some left-over building materials and a dozen sauntering pigeons.
On the two and a half hour drive, she had read up on the building and was prepared enough to carry the conversation until she was in a position to take advantage of the mob boss’s ticklishness. She surveyed the area — no workers, no security cameras, no buildings that overlooked her. This was a good spot. The only issue would be getting rid of any bodyguards long enough to do the job but she had made plans with Marquez to deal with that.
She stepped towards the centre of the bare concrete floor. A 4-metre x 4-metre square hole was fenced off by flimsy plastic netting. She peered over the netting and observed a metal-lined hole that went straight down the 30 storeys and into the basement — the elevator shaft. A hook and chain dangled from a huge crane arm over the middle of the hole, ready to help install the elevator in the upcoming days. Savannah nodded to herself — the netting wasn’t fit for purpose. It wouldn’t stop anyone falling through it. This would be the best place to bid so long to Susan Rosetti.
The exterior construction elevator began to whirr. Someone was on their way up. Savannah’s earpiece crackled to life. Agent Marquez’s voice said, ‘She’s here.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ said Savannah, ‘Anything I need to know?’
‘She’s got two goons with her. She’s left one at the bottom, by the elevator entrance. The other is coming up with her.’
‘Reckon you can get him to come back down?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Okay. I’m gonna take the two-way out of my ear now in case she sees it,’ said Savannah. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m done.’
‘Ten-four,’ said Marquez.
Savannah removed her earpiece and set it in her pocket. She then put on a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and a hard hat and picked up a clipboard.
The elevator slowed as it reached the top floor. A huge, 6'2" bodyguard in jeans and a leather jacket pulled the gate open, blocking Savannah’s view of her target. He stepped from the elevator, eyed Savannah and surveyed the floor. Susan Rosetti then stepped from behind him. She was dressed in oversized sunglasses, a stylish fawn Dolce & Gabbana skirt-suit and heels. Unintimidated by her impressive physical stature, Savannah instinctively knew how easy it would be to get her off-balance. She stepped forward and held out her hand, exchanging her Midwestern accent for full-blown Bronx, ‘Mrs Rosetti?’
Rosetti took off her sunglasses and ignored the invitation to shake hands, ‘Where’s Green?’
‘Mr Green is caught in traffic,’ said Savannah, ‘He sends his apologies. I’m his assistant, Carmen. I’ll be able to answer any questions you may have.’
Rosetti looked her in the eye. She wasn’t the type to speak to assistants. From just the look Savannah could tell why many people would be intimidated by her. She waited for a response, deliberately slack-jawed, ‘Green said he’d be here. I’m waiting fifteen minutes. If he don’t arrive, he can get fucked and I’ll get someone else to take over. He said he had something he needed to see me about in person.’
‘Yes, Ma’am. It’s to do with the elevator,’ Savannah began, leading the way towards the centre of the floor. Rosetti followed and the bodyguard was about to join her when there was a loud bang from the street they all look at one another.
The bodyguard’s phone rang. ‘Yeah, Johnny, what was that?’ after a response he hung up and looked to his boss. ‘Johnny’s having some trouble.’
Rosetti rolled her eyes, ‘Go help him.’ The bodyguard ran to the works elevator and headed down. She turned back to Savannah, rapidly losing patience, ‘What’s the fuckin’ problem?’
‘Yes, Ma’am, it’s over here,’ Savannah stepped over to the central elevator shaft and pointed down.
Rosetti joined her, leaning on one of the fence posts that held the plastic netting, ‘What am I lookin’ at?’
‘Well, Ma’am, there has been a miscalculation in the width of the elevator shaft...’ as she spoke, she took a step back and behind Susan Rosetti. The curve of her suit jacket seemed to call out to Savannah, pinpointing the most vulnerable place on her body.
‘What do you mean, “a miscalculation”?!’
‘It’s easier to explain if you take a closer look,’ said Savannah and grabbed both sides of Susan Rosetti’s waist. Rosetti shrieked, arched her back away from Savannah and collided with the fence post. With a speed of reaction that took Savannah by surprise, she wrenched the post from its stand and side-swiped her to the side of the head with it, sending the hard hat into the sky. Savannah landed on her side and was ready to spring back up when Rosetti brought the fence post on its return swing and cracked her in the temple. Savannah saw flashes of light as her vision became misty white. All sound began to muffle as she lost consciousness.
Blackness.
Savannah felt pain in her wrists and shoulders. She must have slept awkwardly but something else was off – it felt like she was swaying. Muffled sounds became clear. Someone was talking, ‘She’s coming round,’ said a man’s voice. Savannah realised she wasn’t in bed and her eyes snapped open and found she had an audience — Susan Rosetti and her two bodyguards. But why were they looking up at her? Then she looked down — she was dangling over the central elevator shaft!
She looked up, her wrists were tied by a noose that looped through the chain of the crane hook. She looked back the gangsters. The bodyguard she had seen before held the other end of the rope. She quickly adjusted her hands and grabbed hold of the iron crane hook. From where she hung, the concrete floor was out of reach. She would have to find a way to swing there.
‘That’s right, sweetheart. You hold on to the hook. Bobby was getting tired,’ said Rosetti and indicated for Bobby to drop the rope. He threw it into the hole.
Savannah went cold as she felt her entire body weight now solely in the grasp of her hands on the hook.
‘Now, bitch, who paid you?’ said Rosetti.
Savannah looked at her, recalling her pledge to not break RID’s rule of secrecy, no matter what was at stake. Besides, if she did, she would have nothing left to trade. ‘I’m not telling you that.’
Rosetti sighed. ‘You don’t want to end up like your friend down there, do you?’
Savannah looked towards the street.
‘No. Not down there. Down there.’ Rosetti said, indicating the lift shaft. ‘He didn’t want to answer either but there was only one hook. Count yourself lucky.’
Savannah gripped hard on the hook and began to swing her legs back and forth. Bobby picked up a nearby broom, walked to the opposite side of the hole and pressed the broom into Savannah’s lower back, halting her momentum. Her mind raced, she tried to think of other escape options. She considered climbing the chain but couldn’t while her wrists were still tied.
‘I’m getting bored, you little imp,’ said Rosetti. ‘Who was it?’
‘I find it difficult to remember unless I’m on firm ground,’ said Savannah, coolly.
‘Okay, fuck you. I don’t care.’ Rosetti looked around, ‘Johnny, hand me that other broom.’
Savannah didn’t intend to be Susan Rosetti’s piñata for the afternoon and so mustered all her strength to lift herself up. As she did so, she edged out of reach of Bobby’s broom. ‘Erm, Susie...’ said Bobby.
Savannah’s muscles strained and trembled as she brought her face level with her wrists and bit onto the rope, loosening the knot. Thankfully, it slipped apart with ease and dropped into the hole. It was several seconds before she heard the faint thud of it landing in the basement. She was ready to raise one hand and climb the chain when she felt something prod her just above her right hip. She tensed and instinctively tried to edge away from it. She lifted a hand but she felt the prod again, slightly higher and had to grasp the hook again. She looked down – Rosetti was holding the tip of a long broom handle at her waist. Savannah saw the sadistic look in her eye.
A third prod, and this time a little circular wriggle into the muscles of her waist caused Savannah to want to giggle. As she focussed her efforts on holding her reaction inside, the strength went from her arms and they began to straighten until she found herself back in her initial dangling position. She quickly realised that the least important element of her predicament was not laughing — she needed to hold on!
‘Ah. How very interesting...’ said Susan Rosetti. She prodded Savannah’s waist several more times. This time Savannah tightened her grip on the crane hook and raised her head to the sky, letting out a stream of ultra-feminine giggles. ‘Try from the other side, Bobby.’
Bobby smirked and did as he was told, prodding into Savannah’s left side with his broom handle. Fully stretched out, there was no way for her to protect herself and she began to twist her body and cycle her legs in the air in response to the deep prods at her waist. Her laughter became louder as she struggled to think of a new plan. Each time she tried to pull herself up, the incessant prodding sapped the energy from her arms.
As her legs kicked she lost a shoe. She looked down and saw it fall out of sight into the gloom of the unlit lower levels. She also caught site of the feather tattoo on her ankle and thought of Cheryl, but was snapped back into the moment by she sound of her shoe clattering into the basement. The echo of the impact panicked her. She felt herself getting hot and beginning to sweat. Her palms began to slide on the smooth iron of the hook. Fear washed over her as she knew she couldn’t hold on much longer. ‘Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you!’ she shrieked through her giggles.
Rosetti didn’t answer, she just prodded faster. The change in pace tickled the flanks of Savannah’s stomach even more and she burst into high-pitched, panicked laughter, her hands beginning to slip. She looked to Rosetti and shouted, ‘I s-said I’d tell you!’
‘And I told you I don’t care any more. You had your chance,’ said Rosetti. ‘Faster, Bobby.’
Bobby matched the speed and variety of Rosetti’s prodding. Savannah attempted not to flail. She couldn’t believe that she was still laughing whilst feeling so scared but she couldn’t help it. There was no grip left and tears of fear and laughter began to well in her eyes. She looked to Rosetti’s vindictive grin one last time and chose not to beg.
Then she let go of the hook.
Chapter 4
MS Baker knocked at Cheryl’s door. It took some moments for her to answer. Her eyes were red from crying.
‘May I come in?’ asked Baker.
She made way for him to enter. He sat at the dining table. ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked.
‘No, thank you,’ he said, his soft voice as reassuring as usual.
She sat at the table with him and stroked her thumbnails — her method of self-comfort since childhood.
‘She was one of the best,’ said Baker.
‘What happened?’ Cheryl asked.
‘We don’t know for sure but we have a recording from her two-way communicator. It sounds like she was just taken by surprise. It was bad luck.’
Cheryl sobbed.
‘We’re holding a memorial for her and Agent Marquez on Tuesday—’
‘I want to take over her assignment,’ Cheryl interrupted.
‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid,’ said Baker.
‘I can do it. I won’t let emotion cloud my judgement. I’m a professional.’
Baker took a breath. ‘I don’t doubt it but I’m afraid it’s out of our hands now. The client withdrew the contract after he heard what happened. He’s using another route now.’
Cheryl tried to contain her anger. ‘So Savannah and Marquez are gone and we just accept it?’
‘You know how we operate, Agent Pereira. There are protocols in place — as the client has taken the contract elsewhere we don’t risk further exposure by—’
‘I know the rule book,’ said Cheryl. ‘I just need time.’
‘Of course,’ said Baker, standing to leave. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’
She nodded and he left.
Cheryl kicked off her slippers and rested her feet on the edge of the chair, hugging her knees. She looked down and caught sight of the ankle tattoo of a feather that she and Savannah had agreed upon as a vow of their eternal camaraderie. A thought occurred to her.
She wiped away her tears and got dressed...
Tech Agent Michaels sat in the dark Cyber Intelligence suite surrounded by empty desks, his face illuminated by the three computer screens in front of him. He simultaneously played the original 1996 Tomb Raider game using one keyboard whilst mulling over a hack that he occasionally tapped into another.
Cheryl entered, causing him to jump. ‘Agent Pereira!’ he exclaimed, knocking over a bag of Cheetos.
‘Hiya,’ said Cheryl. ‘I thought I’d find you here.’
‘It’s Friday night! Where else?’ he said, noting the loose black blouse, short skirt and high heels she was wearing. ‘I’m sorry to hear about Agent Wilson. She was a great lady.’
Cheryl brushed the Cheetos to one side and sat on his desk, the side split of her skirt displayed her thigh. ‘Thank you.’
‘What brings you here?’
‘I wanted to ask a favour. I need to know who now has the Rosetti contract.’
‘They don’t tell me that sort of thing.’
Cheryl smirked. ‘Are you the type of guy who only knows the things people tell you?’
‘No,’ he smiled.
Cheryl smiled and pulled up a chair next to him. ‘Good. I don’t go on dates with men who play by the rules.’
Michaels began to type frantically. Cheryl took up the Tomb Raider keyboard, placed it in her lap and propped her feet up on the desk, playing while he went to work. As she crossed one ankle over the other he couldn’t help but get distracted by the curve of her wrinkled arch just visible inside the instep of her shoe. Eventually he found it. ‘It’s here.’
Cheryl sat forward, ‘What’s the story?’
‘MS Baker received a call that cancelled the RID contract. I traced the number that called him and the next few calls it made. One was to a phone number that has only been used once.’
‘A burner phone?’
‘Probably. But I traced the SIM — it was purchased on the corner of 8th Avenue and West 37th Street,’ he drilled at the keyboard and brought up an image of a street camera that overlooked the store. He rapidly whizzed through the footage from the last 48 hours, capturing the images of all the customers that entered and left the store. Cheryl looked on, amazed at the speed of his fingers on the keyboard.
Michaels then loaded all the images into a processing application and set it in motion. Three police records popped up on the screen alongside mugshots of the arrestees. Cheryl scanned the files, ‘Burglary, no. Shoplifting, no. Suspected murder...’ the file showed the mug shot of a pinch-faced man staring back at her with dead-eyes. ‘He was let go due to lack of evidence. But, if you were a betting man, Michaels...?’
‘I’d say that’s who you’re looking for. Dorian Stone. Last known address—’
‘Got it, thanks,’ said Cheryl, scribbling down the address and heading for the door.
‘It’s Martin!’
Cheryl paused as she reached the door, ‘Huh?’
‘My first name,’ said Michaels. ‘It’s Martin.’
Cheryl smiled, ‘See you soon, Martin.’
Chapter 5
It was almost 10pm as Cheryl sat opposite Dorian Stone’s apartment block in her souped-up but intentionally ratty-looking burgundy 2005 Volkswagen Passat. It wasn’t long before she saw him exit the building carrying a briefcase, dressed all in black and wearing a black baseball cap. ‘Subtle hitman outfit there, Dorian,’ she said to herself. He got into a black 2014 Hyundai, pulled into the traffic and Cheryl followed.
They headed into the city and meandered through Greenwich Village until he eventually pulled over to the side of the road. She passed him and pulled in a little further up the road, angling a wing mirror so she could see him. For twenty minutes he sat motionless as his engine idled. He then received a phone call. He quickly hung up and threw a U-turn. Cheryl did the same, following him just a few streets. He pulled into a parking spot and got out, running into a side alley opposite a parade of restaurants.
Cheryl stopped in front of an Italian restaurant, ready to run after him but as she unbuckled her seat belt she caught sight of Susan Rosetti and two bodyguards sitting at a table in the restaurant. Her heart leapt. She restarted her car and reversed round the street corner so that she could see the restaurant door. Her mind was suddenly a blank, not knowing what her plan was. Just then she spotted Stone on the roof of the building opposite. Against the illuminated azure of the sky she could just make out his silhouette as he placed a sniper rifle in position. Thoughts of revenge merged with common sense. She could just watch Rosetti get gunned down in the street and take solace in that — no reason to get involved.
An hour passed as she watched Stone peer over the roof. It wasn’t until she saw him adjust his position and cradle the butt of the gun in his shoulder that she knew Susan Rosetti was on her way out. Her heart pounded as she looked to the restaurant door. One bodyguard, Bobby, stepped onto the street and Rosetti followed. Just then there was a bang and a flash that lit up the sky. All looked to the rooftop where a group of partying teens had burst onto the roof with a bunch of fireworks, illuminating Stone.
‘What the fuck?’ said Bobby.
Stone panicked and took a shot that propelled Bobby into the restaurant window. Rosetti ducked behind a parked car as Bobby folded to the ground and Johnny pulled a gun from inside his jacket. He crossed the road, taking shots at the roof, causing the teens to scream. Cheryl started the car, floored the accelerator and skidded into the street. Johnny turned to her and pointed his gun but didn’t have enough time to get off a shot before she rammed him and screeched to a halt. Johnny sailed through the air, accompanied by the soundtrack of fire crackers that continued to rattle on the roof.
Stone took another desperate shot at Rosetti that pierced Cheryl’s car roof and shattered her passenger window. This guy is a fucking terrible shot! she thought. Just then she saw Rosetti through her broken window. She switched character and screamed in panic, attracting Rosetti’s attention. Their eyes met. Rosetti glanced up at the building, saw Stone reloading and dashed for Cheryl’s passenger door. She opened it and got in.
‘Drive!’ shouted Rosetti.
‘What’s going on!?’ cried Cheryl in a panic.
‘We’re both about to get fucking shot! Now fucking drive!’
Cheryl spotted blue lights flashing in the street behind her and slammed her foot down onto the accelerator. Rosetti just had time to see Johnny’s crumpled body slide from a car hood onto the ground as Cheryl sped around the corner. As the Volkswagen barrelled up 8th Avenue Cheryl looked in the rearview mirror and saw two police cruisers turn into the road after her. She floored the pedal, boosting the speed. ‘Woah, soccer mom!’ said Rosetti as she felt her back smoosh into the chair.
‘What am I doing!?’ Cheryl cried hysterically as she pulled away from the cop cars.
‘Keep it together for fuck sake—! Look out!’ Ahead were a group of Friday night revellers crossing the street. Cheryl screamed and swerved, deliberately giving the impression that missing them was a split-second manoeuvre of blind luck.
She then turned left onto West 23rd Street and cursed the fact that traffic was backed up all the way to the lights. She pulled hard to the left and sped the wrong way down a bus lane. Rosetti gripped the dashboard as a bus approached, she opened her mouth to shout something as the bus driver slammed on his brakes causing the bus to skid diagonally across the road. Rosetti braced for impact but Cheryl snaked the car between the bus and the traffic jam of cars, losing a wing-mirror in the process.
Looking back, the bus sat still in the road, silhouetted by the flashing blue lights of the blocked cop cars. Cheryl pulled into a stream of traffic then turned off the road, moving through block after block until they reached the Lincoln Tunnel.
‘Where the hell are you goin’?’ asked Rosetti.
‘I don’t know,’ said Cheryl.
‘Take me to Fairfield.’
Cheryl thought fast, ‘Isn’t that a half hour drive? Won’t the police be looking for my car? Oh, my God, who are you!? What have I done?!’
‘Calm the fuck down,’ shouted Rosetti. ‘You’re actually right about the car. Do you know anywhere round here?’
‘My place is just the other side of the tunnel.’
‘Good. Take me to your place and I’ll get picked up. What’s the address?’
Cheryl gave the impression that she was so focussed on simultaneously trying to stay calm and drive that Rosetti didn’t insist on an answer. Rosetti checked her phone — no signal in the tunnel.
Their destination was not Cheryl’s home. It was, in fact, one of RID’s many safehouses. As Cheryl gave the performance of her life, she considered how exactly she would get Rosetti tied down. The temptation to use all-out violence on the woman who killed her friend was almost irresistible, but Cheryl knew the words that Savannah would speak right now: ‘Do it right and make her suffer.’ As such, she didn’t want to leave any suspicious cuts or bruises.
‘Here we are,’ said Cheryl as they arrived at an unassuming terraced house with built-in garage. Cheryl pressed a button on her fob and the garage door raised up.
‘Hurry it up, will ya?’ said Rosetti.
They pulled into the garage and the door slowly closed behind them. ‘Would you like to wait indoors?’
‘Yeah,’ said Rosetti. They both got out of the car. ‘Lead the way.’
Rosetti followed as Cheryl walked up a short set of stairs and scanned her fob on a panel that gave them access to the main house. They stepped into an entrance corridor. ‘Would you like a drink or something?’ Cheryl asked as she closed the door behind them. There was brief sound of suction as it automatically sealed itself.
She then heard a familiar click and turned to see Rosetti pointing a gun at her head. ‘Who are you?’
Cheryl raised her hands, ‘What do you mean!?’
‘You don’t drive like the bimbo that you’re pretending to be. You pick me up, outdrive the cops and bring me to a place that may as well have plastic fuckin’ sheets on the floor. Plus, it’s a bit too much of a coincidence that you have the exact same ankle tattoo as a woman I executed just this afternoon! Who the fuck are you?’
Cheryl dropped the pretence, ‘I can’t tell you that.’
Rosetti took a step forward. ‘You can go the way of your dwarf buddy, if you like.’
There was a pause as Cheryl contained her anger. ‘I’m an assassin.’
‘Yeah, no shit. Who do you work for?’
‘I’m part of a private organisation. I don’t know who the client is.’
‘What organisation?’
‘The cult of RID.’
Rosetti took another step closer, ‘You think this is a time for jokes?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a myth!’ Rosetti shouted, but then considered — the woman had tried to tickle her into the elevator shaft. That was weird. ‘Okay. Then you’ll be the third one I’ve killed today. Not such a great organisation!’
As she straightened her arm, Cheryl dropped her hands, flicking a light switch and setting the house into blackness. Rosetti fired, illuminating a snapshot of Cheryl as she ducked to the left. She fired again and saw Cheryl almost upon her. Before she could fire a third time Cheryl knocked the gun from her grasp and twirled her on the spot.
She fell forward to the ground and felt her arm pinned behind her. ‘Get the fuck off m—!’ before she could finish, Cheryl’s other hand was at her throat and she was wrenched to her feet.
‘Lota: lumina in!’ called Cheryl and the lights returned. Cheryl marched Rosetti forward and kicked open a door to reveal a modern living room. Shutters covered the windows. ‘Lota: Scamnum!’
Rosetti struggled as a large square of flooring parted and a leather bench, similar to a spanking bench, raised quickly into the centre of the room. Cheryl pushed Rosetti forward and she toppled over the bench, kneeling into padded shin rests. Cheryl yanked her arm forward and swiftly cuffed her wrist. She wrestled more with the second as Rosetti tried to hold back, but Cheryl’s strength prevailed. She then stepped behind Rosetti who tried, ineffectively, to donkey-kick but her ankles were quickly secured into place.
Mob boss Susan Rosetti found herself totally immobilised — kneeling on the bench, bent forward onto a leather pad that supported her torso, her arms stretched out in front of her and her face forced into a hole similar to that on a massage table. Each cuff around her wrists and ankles was highly padded and held her securely in place.
Cheryl slumped into a sofa, ‘You’re one tough lady, Rosetti.’
Rosetti lifted her head, ‘Fuck you! Let me go!’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Cheryl as she analysed the woman in front of her and considered how to begin. Rosetti was still fully dressed in her Dolce & Gabbana skirt suit, honey-coloured nylons and pale pink high-heeled Jimmy Choo pumps.
Cheryl stood, ‘Now, I know from your file that you are very vulnerable around your waist. But I need to find out where else...’ She took hold of the right pump. It slipped off with ease thanks to the glossy nylons. The gangster boss attempted to struggle and had it confirmed that it would not help her to do so — there was zero leeway in the restraints.
Cheryl slipped off the second pump and felt a strange mix of emotions as she looked Susan Rosetti’s nylon-clad soles. She had always had a sexual predilection for tickling and ever since she had first had access to the Internet, she spent hours and hours looking at videos and images of it every week. It was a true fetish for her. She was undeniably heterosexual in her sexual preferences but, when it came to tickling, torturing both men and women was equally exciting. This led her to have an erotic appreciation for any part of the body that was particularly susceptible to tickling. This woman’s soles were undeniably appealing — size 10s but slimmer and more refined than Cheryl had expected, with toes in a Moreton formation that were well-kept despite her preference for uncomfortable shoes.
But while Cheryl was attracted to her feet, she also couldn’t have hated any human being more than she hated Susan Rosetti right now. Again Savannah’s advice came to mind: ‘Channel your emotions into the one specific goal: to dominate their body and mind.’
Cheryl grazed a fingernail up the right sole from toes to heel, the glossy nylon helping the slick movement. Rosetti jolted on the bench. ‘Stop fucking about! What do you want?’
‘I told you.’
‘You’re going to try and tickle me to death!?’ said Rosetti, incredulously.
‘Correct.’
‘Why would anyone do that!?’
‘Many reasons,’ said Cheryl. ‘To help avoid detection. Sadism. Psychopathy. Sexual gratification. To earn a living. To utterly humiliate and undermine some bitch who killed her friend. I’ll leave you to guess which ones apply to me.’
‘It won’t work.’
‘Then you have nothing to worry about!’ said Cheryl as she stroked her fingernails lightly up and down the silky material covering Rosetti’s long soles. Rosetti’s toes clenched and her entire body tensed as she arched her head back and gave a frustrated growl through gritted teeth that ended with the hint of a laugh. ‘It sounds like you won’t be hard to crack!’
‘Fu— AHH!’ Rosetti was cut off mid-insult and shrieked as Cheryl went to town on her soles, scrabbling her fingers up and down the silky material. Rosetti tried flicking her feet from side to side to avoid the infuriating fingernails but Cheryl deftly followed each movement.
Cheryl felt a thrill deep inside her. Susan Rosetti had the kind of laugh that turned her on the most — feminine and full-throated. The laugh of a powerful woman. There was an air of desperation that indicated that she was aware of exactly how ticklish she was and that she knew she had no hope of hiding it as most people tried to do. To Cheryl’s immense satisfaction, her laughter did not subside with the common occurrence of becoming desensitised when one spends too much time in a particular spot. The only movement she could manage was the occasional thrashing of her head. She tried to speak but breathless laughs stole the words from her only to be replaced by laughter when she was able to produce a sound. Her feet were wonderfully ticklish and Cheryl felt no need or desire to move on to other parts of her body and thus tickled her soles for a solid hour without a break.
At the one-hour mark, Cheryl paused and Rosetti let out a moan of relief. Cheryl stepped round to kneel between her outstretched arms. ‘Not used to being out of control, are you Susan?’
Rosetti looked up. Her previously stylised hair was a mess and tangled within her big hooped earrings. Her makeup was melted with sweat and smeared over the leather of the bench. ‘This won’t work,’ she panted, ‘and when I get out of here, you’re fucking dead.’
‘Do you know how often I hear that in this line of work?’ Cheryl said and pulled out a flick knife. She released the blade and held it close to Rosetti’s face. ‘Let’s try something else...’ she said and stepped behind her.
Rosetti hid her concern. ‘How much tickling can you do with a knife?’
In response, Cheryl used the knife to slice open the back of her jacket and let the two sides fall away, leaving the blouse in place. She put the knife down and slid her hands around either side of Susan Rosetti’s waist. ‘Let’s see about this waist of yours...’
Rosetti suppressed a natural urge to protest and held her breath. Cheryl expertly wriggled her fingertips into her waist and she exploded into laughter. Cheryl edged her way all around her waist, seeking and exploiting the tell-tale signs of muscle and resistance. As her victim’s head lurched from side to side Cheryl also noticed her hands opening and closing in helpless desperation.
‘Belly time!’ Cheryl announced, lifting the bottom of the blouse and using light, rapid fingernail strokes over the exposed tummy.
One of Cheryl’s favourite discoveries was that many ticklish people were somehow more panicked when they felt their clothes were being invaded by fingers intent on tickling them. She slid her fingers under the fine silk of the blouse and asked, ‘What about your armpits...?’
‘No!’ cried Rosetti involuntarily, causing Cheryl to smile. She crept up her ribcage and over the outside of her bra and slowly slid into the smooth, sweaty hollows of her armpits. Rosetti shrieked in aguish and reached a higher plateau of hysterics.
Cheryl felt a deep satisfaction, ‘Ahh! I think we’ve found a new top spot! Tell me, does it distress you more that this is being done to you by someone so much younger and more attractive?’ she taunted
Rosetti wanted to tell this brat to get fucked but scampering fingers all over her exposed armpits made her dissolve into a frenzy. Her arms were so stretched that she could do nothing to avoid the torturous sensations. Her laughter was desperate and she kept attempting to punctuate it with cries of, ‘No more!’ and, ‘Enough!’ but each plea fed Cheryl’s desires to hear more.
Cheryl decided to set herself a task and only took another break when she had counted a total of 100 pleas. As they reached the 90 mark, Cheryl recognised the sounds of hyperventilation coming from the older woman. She caught sight of micro expressions of exhaustion in between bouts of frantic laughter.
At 100, Cheryl paused. Rosetti’s head flopped to the bench and she gasped for breath. Cheryl stepped over to the sofa and lifted the seat cushions to reveal a hidden trunk of tools and implements. She pulled out a hairbrush and some massage oil and showed them to Rosetti. ‘You probably have no idea what’s about to happen next do you?’
Rosetti was speechless, her spirit broken. ‘You’re a freak! This will never work!’
‘Oh, but it is working, Susie. Trust me. This isn’t my first time. You know, my first time I didn’t know if it would work either. I’d had the training, spoken to experienced people and I’d even seen videos of it. But we never think whenever we tickle someone that it could actually be used to put them to sleep forever. When I was in the middle of that first assignment it felt like it would never end. My target was this big, strong, hairy dude. He was laughing and begging and sweating but he didn’t seem to be close to popping his clogs at any point. And then, after a few hours, his ticker gave out and that was it.
‘Since then I’ve learned that it will work in the end — you just have to keep going. I’ve learned to just enjoy the journey and spot the signs that tell me it’s working. Like how flushed your face is right now, except for your pale lips. You’re struggling. You know it and I know it. You can beg all you want and I will give you as much mercy as you showed my best friend.’
Cheryl stepped to Rosetti’s feet, tore open the nylons and peeled them back to expose her bare soles and frosted pink painted toes. ‘You really do have nice feet for a total fucking cow,’ She said and dripped massage oil over Rosetti’s soles until they glistened in the ceiling lights.
‘Look,’ said Rosetti, ‘I can—’
‘Is this the part where you try and pay me off? Sorry, bitch, I get paid enough,’ said Cheryl as the hairbrush closed in on Rosetti’s oil-soaked soles.
Outside the night was almost silent except for the sound of distant city traffic. It was 3:13am and nobody would have any clue as to the screaming and begging that was taking place in the modest white house in the middle of the street.
Inside, Cheryl was sweating as she played her counting game, but this time up to 200. Interestingly, it took the same amount of time to reach that number as it had previously taken to reach 100.
She looked at the tattered nylons that hung from Rosetti’s ankles and the remaining tights as they shimmered up her toned calves and thighs. She wiped her hands on a towel and stepped back to the trough of tools.
Rosetti’s body convulsed on the bench. She alternated between sobs and echoes of the laughter that had been forced from her. ‘Please...’ she said. Her mouth was dry and her throat was raw, ‘Please, just let me go.’
Cheryl had her back to her as she replied, ‘Tell you what. It’s 4:30am now. If you’re still able to talk at 5:30am, I’ll let you go.’ She turned and was holding a single long pheasant’s tail feather.
Rosetti swallowed and relaxed.
‘I’ll take that as a deal,’ said Cheryl and she returned to the lower end of the bench.
Susan Rosetti rested her head on the leather of the bench as she waited for the feather to be used on her soles or toes or the tops of her feet. Wherever it was going, it didn’t matter. She knew she was feather ticklish but nothing could compare to the treatment she had just endured with the oil and hairbrushes. She heard the younger woman get into position and clenched her eyes in preparation... Then she felt her skirt being lifted. A moment later her tights were torn from her completely and her panties were sliced loose by the flick knife. Her eyes widened as she felt the tip of the feather trace slowly up her thigh. Her body wriggled in response. The feather stroked her inner thigh — higher and higher…
‘NOOO! Not that!’ Rosetti pleaded.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Cheryl replied, ‘That.’
The feather stroked lightly around the outside of Susan Rosetti’s thigh and under her buttock. Cheryl had to admire her beauty regime — she had as much care and attention paid to her bikini waxing as she had paid to her uptown pedicures and thankfully, her smooth skin was more sensitive than anyone she had ever met and was about to be touched in a way she’d never experienced before.
Rosetti felt the feather stroke her pussy lips and irrepressible giggles began to well up inside her. The light touch of the feather was maddening and unavoidable. She couldn’t move at all as the tip swirled between her asshole and her pussy, touching everywhere in between. The strokes became quicker and more unpredictable and as it finally skimmed her clitoris she erupted into helpless, abandoned, hysterics.
Soon Cheryl recognised the increasingly erratic nature of her target’s laughter. She had lost her mind and her body would soon follow. To speed up the process she alternated between the feather, the oil & brushes, tummy, waist and armpit tickling until the mission was complete...
Epilogue
The sun was rising over the city of New York and Cheryl could see her own breath as she stepped out into the morning air.
She sat on the doorstep and sparked up a cigarette. After some moments of contemplation for how much can change in the space of one day, she muttered to herself, ‘Work is work and pleasure is pleasure, Pereira. After four years of this shit, you’re going to need plenty of therapy to separate the two.’
She would call Baker and accept whatever disciplinary action came her way.
Then she would retire from the cult of RID.
THE END.
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