The Cult of Tickle Assassins
The Cult of Tickle Assassins II
The Cult of Tickle Assassins III: Trainee Syra Rahul's Final Exam.
The Cult of Tickle Assassins
Episode 4: Pereira vs. Rahul
by Tamira K.
Prologue
The morning sun broke cover, sending a shard of light through the bedroom window. At first it warmed Cheryl Pereira’s chin and brought a confusing addition to the dream in which she was swimming; fighting against the flow of a very wide stream.
As the sun continued up her cheek she sensed that the water was getting hotter and she put full effort into escaping the pursuers on the river bank behind her by kicking out diagonally across the drift. The opposite bank got further away as she felt the current edging her towards the crest of a very high waterfall. Panic rose in her as the sound of an approaching boat merged with the calls of the men on the riverbank pointing out her location. A searchlight closed in on her position. She was about to dive for cover when the water became uncomfortably hot and the light blinded her.
She sat up with a start and lashed out. The figure tangled up in the sheets next to her stirred and gave a brief, wordless gripe at being disturbed. Cheryl swung her legs out of the bed and wiped sweat from her brow as she sat for some moments to calm her breathing. She considered how much the helicopter circling overhead sounded a lot like a motorboat from some angles. She then collected her clothes from various landing points around the room and got dressed.
‘Don’t you even shower before you run out on somebody?’ said the voice from beneath the sheets.
‘You need curtains,’ Cheryl replied.
A heavily-tattooed woman with a funky mushroom-cut and shaved sides made her appearance. ‘I like being woken up by nature.’
‘Yeah. And I like waking up without my retinas being melted.’
‘I was hoping you’d have to time wrap those lovely, long Latina legs around me once more,’ said the woman whose name, Cheryl believed, was Cara… or Carla…?
‘Gotta get to work.’ Cheryl pulled on her boots without the ceremony of tights.
‘Will I see you again?’ asked Cara/Carla.
‘Probably not,’ said Cheryl picking up her leather jacket and throwing a holdall over her shoulder.
‘Pity. I wanted to hear the story behind that feather you have inked on your ankle.’
Cheryl stepped to the apartment door and opened it. ‘That’ll have to wait for another time.’
‘But I’ll probably never see you again?’
‘Right.’ She closed the door behind her.
Stepping out onto the street, Cheryl was once again in the position of knowing which city she was in—this time it was San Diego—but since she ditched her phone she had little other clue as to whether she was in a north, south, east or west suburb. Using the sun as a guide, she concluded it was south.
She was travelling as light as possible. Everything unnecessary to help her escape from the USA had been left behind. She had all the money she’d withdrawn as soon as she’d escaped the RID headquarters hidden in her boot and a couple of changes of clothes to help her fit into as many environments as possible.
To avoid unnecessary spending on motels and sleeping on the street, she’d been going to bars and spending nights with those she seduced. Having only been a contender for the US Olympic team and an agent of RID, she was unused to the amount of tequila that was sometimes required to make the evening tolerable. She had worked out, however, that if she seemingly matched the other person drink-for-drink (when she was actually dumping 70% of her drinks into plant pots or drip trays) she could sometimes get them to pass out before any clumsy carnal fumbling took place. Then again, there were times, like the night she’d just spent with Cara/Carla, when she was more than happy to enjoy the sex.
She wrapped a bandana round her head and put on thick-rimmed glasses to reduce the likelihood of the tech agents finding her with their face-recognition systems. Her boots fitted her easier by the day as her finances diminished. She hoped that she had enough left to bribe some truck driver to smuggle her into Mexico where she would have to start to grift in order to work her way to her father’s home country of Brazil. Although RID had agents in every country, and escaping to Brazil via Mexico may have been an obvious route for her to take, her hope was that Mission Supervisor Baker and all the other top agents would consider it to be a little too obvious.
She noticed a constant stream of trucks on a nearby freeway. She followed their route for an hour or so and found herself at a truck stop where she was hopeful she could find someone who would help her, either via bribery or flirtation.
A tear formed in her eye as she considered the one thing she’d been constantly pushing to the back of her mind on this journey – not only was she leaving behind the only country she’d ever known, she was also leaving her parents.
Her father was out of the country on business when she’d paid her mother a hurried visit in Los Angeles. On the hitchhike from coast to coast she had worked out a plausible story of landing a top job that was going to take her out of the country for a while.
She didn’t want to visit the family home in Santa Monica because, even though she trusted the RID code—the cult would never involve agents’ friends or family members, no matter the circumstances—there was always a possibility that the house was being watched. Therefore, Cheryl visited her mother’s workplace and snuck in via a back door.
As an ex-Miss California, Helen Pereira now ran her own modelling agency and so Cheryl was forced to hug her mother amid a bustle of business calls and model auditions. She didn’t tell her the visit was to say goodbye. Possibly forever.
At the truck stop it didn’t take long for Cheryl to attract the attention of a grizzled Mexican trucker who was more than happy to take her across the border in his trailer full off rugs as long as, once they were clear of the crossing, she sat up front with him “in those sexy leather boots” all the way to Oaxaca de Juárez.
Cheryl looked at her watch. There was time to call her mother one last time without the risk of the call being traced.
‘Necesito desayunar antes de irnos,’ said the trucker. ‘Quieres comer conmigo, queridita?’ He smirked, as though he’d unearthed Cheryl’s secret desire.
‘No, gracias. Voy a esperar aquí.’
He shrugged and headed inside the diner as Cheryl stepped over to a payphone. She broke out some change and dialled home. The house answerphone kicked in but was interrupted before she could start to speak.
‘Hello?’ her mother answered a little breathless and with humour in her voice, as though she had just been sharing a joke with someone.
‘Hi Mom.’
‘Cheryl! I was just talking about you, honey!’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, a friend of yours has stopped by. She wanted to see you before you fly out. Which hotel are you staying at?’
‘Which friend?’ Cheryl asked.
‘Your friend Syra…’
Cheryl’s blood ran cold.
‘…she’s a funny one, isn’t she? I told her I didn’t know where you were staying and she kept tickling me as if that would help! Wait… No! Not again!’
Helen’s voice became distant as she held the phone away from her mouth. Cheryl could picture the scene: her mother trying to defend herself from what she considered to be playful tickling while being totally naive to the danger she was in.
‘Mom! MOM…!’
‘Here! Take the phone!’ Helen said, laughing and running away, ’I’m going to hide from you!’
Cheryl was petrified. She heard the phone being slowly lifted from where it was dropped. ‘Hiya Cheryl,’ came Syra’s voice with uncharacteristic gaiety.
‘What the fuck are you doing there?’ Cheryl shouted.
‘You haven’t left the country yet, then? I was having trouble tracking you down, girlfriend! I knew your mom would be able to help!’
‘Don’t you fucking touch her!’
‘Oh, it’s too late for that! Plus, I’ve got nowhere to stay; I think I may have to persuade her to let me crash here until you come over. And, if she says no…!’
In the background Helen conceded: ‘You can stay! You can stay! I don’t have to be persuaded!’
Cheryl paced as much as the phone cord would let her, ‘You’re fucking dead, Rahul!’ she said and slammed the receiver down into the cradle so hard that it cracked.
She stepped into the parking lot and could see the Mexican border, but she knew she had to go back.
’FUUUCK!’
Chapter 1
Earlier that week, on the top floor of the RID headquarters Agents Denise Jones and Patrick Sloane coincided outside the suite of Lynette Zhang, one of the organisation’s directors.
‘You get called too?’ asked Patrick.
‘Yeah,’ Denise replied. ‘Do you know what this is about?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Only one way to find out…’
They entered the suite and were greeted by a personal assistant who opened the office door and introduced them. ’Agents Jones and Sloane for you, Director.’
‘Thank you,’ said Zhang, ‘Take a seat, agents.’
Before Zhang’s desk sat Mission Supervisor Baker, Tech Agent Martin Michaels and Senior Agent Cooper, who was one of the trainers during their induction year and always resembled the head of a SWAT team in his signature black baseball cap. Denise and Patrick nodded their hello’s and took their seats.
‘We have an urgent situation,’ said Zhang. Patrick forced himself to pay close attention, which was never easy when he was faced by a sexy woman in a senior position. ‘I’ll let MS Baker explain.’
‘We’ve just found out that we had a breach to our cyber security systems some days ago,’ said Baker. Michaels gave a self-berating shake of the head. ‘Someone has accessed our files and we need to get to the bottom of it.’
‘What do we know?’ asked Denise.
‘Quite a lot now,’ said Michaels. ‘It seems someone was pretty interested in the Rosetti assignment from last week.’
‘Rosetti?’
‘I thought you might know a little about it as you’re both quite close to Cheryl Pereira, but I understand she might not have told anyone,’ said Baker. ‘Savannah Wilson’s last assignment was to take care of gang boss Susan Rosetti, which is when both she and Agent Marquez were killed. Against my explicit instructions, Pereira took matters into her own hands and assassinated Rosetti…’
Denise and Patrick were astounded.
‘Agent Pereira informed me of what she had done and, while I was in consultation with Director Zhang, she left the grounds. I have put Senior Agent Rahul on the case to track her down and bring her back…or make sure she doesn’t leave the country.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Denise.
Michaels sat forward. ’However, in the meantime someone breached our firewalls and whoever did it seemed to be searching specifically for the information on who killed Susan Rosetti and, my team have just let me know, that they now also know that Agent Rahul is tracking her down.’
‘So, whoever is after Cheryl is likely to be following Syra?’ asked Cooper.
‘It’s highly likely,’ said Baker.
‘Do we know who hacked us?’ asked Patrick.
‘At the moment, it looks to be someone in the FBI. Not many other places have the technology to infiltrate our systems,’ said Michaels. ‘And thanks to a cyber-mole I created, we know where the hacked information was sent!’
‘Cyber-mole?’ said Denise.
‘Yes, a simple but ingenious bit of code that I invented, which buries itself into our files and goes anywhere our files do. It’s like microchipping your dog or cat. I’m quite proud of it!’ Michaels beamed, then caught sight of Zhang’s unimpressed expression. He shrunk in his seat. ‘Of course, it’s preferable that we don’t get hacked in the first place.’
Zhang addressed the agents: ‘Jones and Sloane, I’m teaming you up with Senior Agent Cooper. I want you to go to the address that received this information, find out what has been done with it and deal with the perpetrators. We cannot have this going any further. We will deal with the crooked FBI agent.’
‘Crooked?’ asked Patrick.
‘Yeah,’ said Cooper. ‘If my guess is right, then we’re about to take a trip to visit the home of the dearly departed Susan Rosetti.’
Zhang nodded.
‘And who’s the head of that family now?’
Chapter 2
It was 11:40am the following morning when Susan Rosetti’s brother, Luca Marcuzzi, heard a knock at the door. He shuffled to the door in his velvet Gucci loafers and rest day tracksuit, munching on a hotdog. He looked through the peephole and frowned before opening the door.
On the step stood MS Baker. At 6’3”, both men were used to looking down on most people. Here, they met each other’s eye.
Luca said nothing but looked Baker up and down. The only black men who ventured onto this doorstep of this property were generally detectives. He glanced over Baker’s shoulder to the street – no black’n’whites or unfamiliar unmarked cars were present. He took another bite of his hotdog and waited.
‘May I see the owner of the house?’ said Baker.
‘Not without a warrant.’
‘I’m not a cop.’
‘Then you should probably fuck off.’
Luca went to close the door but Baker raised a hand and stopped it.
‘You know what we do to trespassers ‘round here?’ said Luca.
‘It’s very much in your interest to talk to me, Mr Marcuzzi. I believe you may have met some associates of mine recently.’
Luca looked him over again. ’Close the door behind you,’ he said then turned his back on Baker and walked through the house. Baker followed, detecting the smoke of a barbecue.
‘Can’t say if I’ve “met your associates” since you ain’t told me who the fuck you are and why the fuck you’re here. Why would anyone you know come see me?’
‘Because your sister was Susan Rosetti and, since her husband, Don Mario, had no siblings and you joined him on many of his “business ventures”, it stands to reason that you inherited the top dog position since Susan passed away.’
Luca stopped and faced him, ‘You’ve got a nerve, son. Don’t talk about my sister.’
Baker retained his usual calm exterior but decided against prodding the hornet’s nest any more at this point. Luca continued on and they headed for some patio doors. Outside was a large garden, outdoor pool and patio. An excessive plume of barbecue smoke enveloped whoever was manning the grill. Eight Italian men stood and talked in various places around the garden and turned as Baker joined Luca on the patio.
Luca stopped at a point when Baker was in the middle of the men. ’So why’d you come here?’ he asked as he dumped down the remaining hot dog on a picnic table and lifted an already smoking cigar.
‘Like I said, I’m looking for my associates and you’re the head of the Rosetti family…’
‘You’re wrong. I ain’t a Rosetti.’
‘Yes, but—‘
‘Mission Supervisor Baker!’ came a voice from across the patio. Hiding his surprise at being called by name, Baker casually turned his attention. ‘Should I be grateful that one of the head dudes from RID has come to join my party?’
The lid of the barbecue grill slammed shut and the smoke cleared to reveal Don Mario and Susan Rosetti’s daughter, Giada Rosetti. She held a pair of barbecue tongs and her eyes were red from the smoke. Baker sensed she probably melted the tongs as the smell of burnt meat was infused with a plasticky odour. With one hand, she wafted away the remainder of the smoke, ‘Phew! I need to get better at this!’
‘Hopefully you’ll have time,’ said Baker.
Giada bridled at the threat but painted on a smile. ‘I have longer than you.’
A couple of the men gently pushed aside their coats, ready to grab their handguns.
‘It wouldn’t be wise to do anything to me. You can’t see my people, but that’s because they’re good at what they do and I need to tell you, you’re outnumbered.’
‘If they’re good at what they do, how comes you’re out here lookin’ for three of them like you lost your fuckin’ cat?’ said one of the men. A few of the others chuckled in response.
Baker didn’t take his eyes off Giada. She raised an eyebrow – her man had a very good point.
‘Where are they?’ asked Baker.
Giada was uncannily confident for someone so young. ’You’ll find out, when I’m ready to tell ya. In the meantime, you’d better leave us alone, for their sake. One of your people needs to pay a price. Anyone who stands in my way will pay the same price. Shit…!’ she said as she lifted the lid of the grill and ducked away from a new funnel of malodorous smoke.
‘Where are they?’ Baker repeated.
‘Two of them are with my aunt and—fuck it, I always forget to take the wrapping of these before I cook ‘em,’ she said and flung something onto the patio with the tongs.
Baker recognised it to be the smouldering remains of Agent Cooper’s cap. Nausea welled inside him when he realised that it still had hair stuck to it.
Luca choked on his cigar smoke, signalling an appropriate moment for all the men to guffaw, ‘You truly are your father’s daughter G!’. As Baker made for the house he avoided looking at the barbecue for confirmation of what he already knew but caught the look in Giada’s eyes as she watched him, unblinking, amid the now sickly-sweet smell roasting meat.
One of the men stood to block his way but Luca indicated to let him pass, still wheezing at his niece’s comic timing.
As Baker strode from the Rosetti grounds he spoke into his communicator, ‘All agents stand down.’ He then took out his cell phone and called Lynette Zhang. ‘Director Zhang? We have a problem. Jim Cooper is dead. Jones and Sloane are missing.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Zhang.
‘We need to move fast,’ said Baker. ‘Who do we have in LA?’
Chapter 3
The inside of Syra’s cheek was a little sore. She had been chewing at it as she sat outside the house of Luciano and Helen Pereira in a rental Sedan – big enough to put someone in the trunk if necessary but not so spacious that the person in the trunk would have room to fully draw back and kick at it with their long, athletic legs.
As expected, Cheryl had done an expert job of covering her tracks and so the tech department had provided little by way of useful information. The only details Syra had to go on were the locations of Mr and Mrs Pereira’s home and workplaces. Luciano was out of the country on a business trip.
She didn’t feel comfortable at the thought of interrogating Mrs Pereira as, until they met, she wouldn’t know what form the questioning would have to take. When the average Joe or Joanne on the street were the target it was relatively easy, but physically interrogating the parent of an agent (or ex-agent) was walking a razor-thin tightrope along the RID code of ethics. That was to say nothing of how Cheryl would take it, particularly coming from her.
The dashboard clock read 8:26am. Cheryl’s mother would be leaving for work soon. Syra’s palms were sweating, which indicated a level of trepidation that she had not experienced in a very long time. Searching for a reason to knock on the door amid the abundance of reasons not to, the justification that she was doing it for Cheryl’s sake was what made her leave the comfort of the air conditioned car.
As she approached the door, she could hear talking through an open window – Helen Pereira was on the phone to someone. It sounded like a work call. Syra knocked.
‘I have to go. There’s someone here… Get Delilah on it. I’ll call you later,’ she said and hung up. Syra remembered to get into character and pasted on an enthusiastic smile just as the front door opened.
‘Hello?’ said Helen, obscured by the mist of an insect door.
‘Hi! I’m looking for Cheryl. Does she live here?’
‘Not any more. I’m her mother.’
‘Oh, hi! I’m Syra. I used to train with her in Colorado Springs on the Olympic team.’
‘Oh, wow! I’m Cheryl’s mom,’ said Helen, opening the screen door. Syra could see the family resemblance. Helen was naturally beautiful and could have easily been mistaken to be Cheryl’s sister. Cheryl was a carbon copy of her mother except that she had tanned skin and raven hair, which was presumably handed down from her Brazilian father, whereas her mother had fair hair and pale skin that had obviously not been over-tanned by the California sun. She was dressed in a summer shirt, jean shorts and flip-flops.
‘Nice to meet you! Wow, you’re pretty!’ said Syra. This level of sanguinity didn’t come naturally to her but she knew how to carry it off as it was basically an impression of her younger sister.
‘Well, thank you! As you’ve made the effort to come this far, would you like to come in?’
‘Sure! I’m not stopping you from going to work, am I?’
‘No, I’m working from home today.’
Syra followed Helen to the living room. The furniture, decor and knick-knacks were a cheerful mix of Brazilian-beachfront and Californian-hippy. It felt like it had been a long time since she’d been anywhere so homely. She stepped over to Cheryl’s trophy shelves, which still took pride of place above the TV.
‘Your mom must have some shelves like that too, huh?’ said Helen.
‘Oh yeah. Not quite as many though.’ Amid the athletics trophies were a couple of beauty sashes and crowns. ‘These are yours, right? Cheryl said you were a beauty queen?’
‘Yeah, in the early nineties. It was only Cheryl setting up camp in my belly that made me drop out from Miss California. I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She passed through two days ago in a whirlwind. That’s my girl!’
‘Yeah, I know – just like her! Do you know where she’s staying? I’d really like to catch up.’
Helen hesitated and scratched her neck as she answered, ‘She didn’t tell me.’
‘Oh, shoot. I had some really good news for her. Do you have her cell number?’ Inside her pocket, Syra’s phone illuminated with a call from Director Zhang’s office. She felt the vibration and dismissed the call.
‘No. She doesn’t have a phone now.’
‘She doesn’t have a phone?’ Syra asked, with millennial incredulity, ‘and she didn’t tell you where she was going?’
‘No,’ said Helen. She nodded as she answered, holding onto the back of the sofa as if it were a shield.
Syra was in no doubt: Helen was lying, and she wasn’t very good at it. Syra squinted and smirked, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course!’ said Helen.
‘Okay,’ said Syra as she slowly circled the room, taking in all the family photos. Her phone buzzed again in her pocket and she surreptitiously switched it off. ‘It’s just weird, that’s all: she doesn’t have a phone and she doesn’t tell her mom where she’s staying or where she’s going…’
Helen looked out the window. ‘Well, as we said, that’s my girl—YIYEEEAA-HA-HAA!!!’ She shrieked in surprised laughter as Syra grabbed her shapely waist with expert, wriggling fingers. Her knees instantly buckled but Syra pressed herself into her butt and she collapsed forward over the back of the sofa.
‘I think you’re telling me little untruths, Mrs Pereira!’
The tickling sensations were completely debilitating to Helen. She tried several times in rapid succession to grab Syra’s wrists to free herself, but each time she did, she face-planted into the sofa cushions and had to support herself with her hands again.
‘Are you going to tell me something?’ called Syra.
‘No!’ Helen squealed amidst her laughter.
‘Then I’ll just keep doing this, Mrs Tickly-ribs!’ Syra flinched at her own use of irritating baby-talk as she adjusted her position and began tweaking incessantly at Helen’s lower ribs.
‘Oh, Go-ho-ho-ho-ho-hod!’ she cried as the tickling became worse. This new move caused her to again grab in desperation but, as before, her face became smooshed in sofa cushions. The predicament was so absurd and her own repeated mishap was so ludicrous that she started to find the situation funny. She quickly discovered this was a mistake as it made her even more susceptible and she filled room with bright, sunshiny laughter.
‘Sounds like a fun time! Can I join in?’ came a male voice from the window, which caused Syra to start and raise a fist. It was an overweight mailman, who was throwing his comment from behind the net curtains. He moved on, amused by his own wit.
This pause gave Helen the chance to grab the seat cushions and pull herself inelegantly over the back of the sofa. Before she could slip away completely Syra managed to wrap an arm around her ankles and wedge herself against the back of the sofa to prevent her from going any further.
‘Hey! What are you doing?!’ said Helen.
Syra was glad that she seemed to be interpreting this as a game and so replied in kind. ’I wanna know how to talk to Cheryl… or there’ll be trouble!’ she finished this sentence with a childish sing-song lilt as she pulled off one of Helen’s flip-flops.
‘Oh, God, no! Not my feet! Please! I can’t bare it!’
‘Are you gonna tell me?’ Syra asked, her fingers primed as she looked down on Helen, who still looked absolutely gorgeous despite her inverted position, messed-up hair and flushed complexion.
‘I…’ Helen began, shaking her head.
‘Very well!’ said Syra with a grin as she scrabbled her nails all over Helen’s bare sole.
The older woman went ballistic and it took all of Syra’s might to keep her from escaping. ‘Hee hee hee! You’re killing meee!’ Helen cried through her laughter. She wasn’t serious, but the image gave Syra pause.
She pulled off Helen’s second flip-flop. ‘Then you’d better tell me!’
‘Oh God, no! Please! She said she didn’t want people to know-ho-ho-ho…!’ Helen pleaded as Syra’s fingernails began to explore both soles at once.
Suddenly the telephone rang. Syra gripped tighter and tickled more intently but the shock made Helen scream and thrash her legs like a shark’s tail propelling it into top speed. She broke Syra’s grip and rolled onto the carpet. Syra staggered against the sofa, nearly falling over it herself.
‘Oh, Lordie! You’re a menace!’ said Helen, still giggling. She looked in the mirror and smoothed down her clothes as she picked up the phone. ‘Gosh, look at the state of me…! Hello…? ‘Cheryl! I was just talking about you, honey!…Yes, a friend of yours has stopped by. She wanted to see you before you fly out. Which hotel are you staying at?…Your friend Syra…’ she said with a wink.
Chapter 4
The next three hours passed with agonising slowness. Syra sat on the sofa, drinking ice-cold pink lemonade with her eyes glued to the TV while Helen took phone calls and sent emails. During a lull she would start up conversations, which Syra steered away from her relationship with Cheryl, to avoid having to remember too many falsehoods.
Helen was very warm towards her and Syra couldn’t figure out why. It seemed as though she really enjoyed the physical torment she had put her through. Then she remembered that Cheryl was one of the agents who was a true tickling fetishist and she pondered whether the kink could be in any way hereditary.
The thought had no sooner entered her mind when she heard a car pull up outside. ‘Here she is!’ said Helen. Syra stood to see Cheryl getting out of a cab and approaching the house. She had hoped that the anger she expressed over the phone would have dissipated. From the expression on her face, evidently not.
Cheryl moved out of view of the living room window as Helen opened the door to greet her. ‘My baby’s home again! Twice in one week! Gimme mama a hug…! Oh, my girl, you’re in need of a shower.’
Cheryl’s footsteps seemed extra heavy on the floorboards. And then she appeared in the living room with Helen behind her. There was fire in her eyes, which made it challenging for Syra to face her and Helen with a convincing look of joy.
Neither woman had planned their script for this moment, which gave Helen the chance to speak up. ‘Well!? Aren’t you two gonna hug after all this time?!’
‘Yeah!’ said Syra over-enthusiastically. She trotted over to Cheryl and, as they embraced, Cheryl dug her nails into Syra’s back. ‘Eurgh! You’re crushing me, big girl!’ she said and pushed Cheryl away firmly, while still maintaining the happy pretence.
‘Let’s go talk,’ said Cheryl.
‘Oh, no,’ said Helen. ‘Go shower! Syra can come see the garden.’
Helen’s cell phone rang again. While her attention was distracted Syra could finally drop her facade and she and Cheryl shared a look. Cheryl went upstairs – Syra would keep.
Syra stepped into the garden, which was encompassed by a series of lush bushes and palms trees. At the far end of the veranda was a good-sized jacuzzi.
Minutes later Helen came out ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you two girls to it. Something has come up and I need to go into the office.’
‘Aww! That’s a shame!’ said Syra with great relief.
‘Yeah. It was nice to meet you, Syra. I hope to see you here again!’
They shook hands and Helen flashed a dazzling smile.
Cheryl tied her wet hair into a bun and went to her mother’s bedroom where she found some sports underwear, a tracksuit and some sneakers to wear. She glanced out the window to see Syra shaking hands with her mother. Rage burned inside her once more.
Syra heard Helen bidding a tearful goodbye to her daughter. Then the door closed and a few moments of silence passed. She briefly wondered if Cheryl had decided upon another tactic and slipped out with her mother so that they could both escape together. She was about to check when she saw Cheryl’s silhouette moving through the house towards her. To Syra’s mind she looked a lot taller than usual. She stepped into the sunshine, her sights fixed on Syra.
‘Have you brought a gun?’ Cheryl asked.
‘No,’ Syra remained placid.
‘A knife? A tranquilliser? Don’t tell me you’ve just come out here with nothing but your superior tickling skills!’
‘I just want to talk to you.’
‘No: you want to take me back! Or finish me off. Either way, it’s not happening! I’m out of it! I’m done!’
‘You can’t just leave and you know that—‘
‘I can and I have. It’s not what I want and neither should any sane person. It’s completely fucked up and if you don’t see that, then you’re completely fucked up too. And what the fuck were you doing touching my mother?!’
‘I had to find you—‘
‘And the only way to do that was torturing my mom!?’ Cheryl stepped forward; her fists clenched.
Syra stepped back and raised her hands, ‘No! I didn’t “torture” her. I was just being playful. She actually found it funny—‘
‘And if I hadn’t called while you were in the middle of it?!’
Syra faltered and, in a flash, Cheryl covered ground and grabbed her by the shirt. Syra blatted her hand away and retreated again. ‘Now, look! I’m here because I want to help you, Cheryl! I had to do anything I could to stop you crossing the border! What happens when you end up in a country where you have no friends but there are twenty foreign RID agents who know nothing about you except that you defected and are a liability to their safety?!’
‘You’re not my friend! You’ve never been my fucking friend—!’
‘That’s because you’ve always been jealous of me! I’ve tried—’
Cheryl reacted with disbelief. ‘Even now, you find the time to be a total bitch! D’you bring a car?’
‘What? Yes. Why?’
‘Where are the keys?’
‘In my pocket.’
‘Okay: because you went against all the RID code—actually, fuck that—all principles of decency just so you can come across as the cult super-fucking-heroine, only one of us is walking out of here and the other one is going to be tied up in the trunk of that car. Either I’ll be driving you into the desert and leaving you there, or you’ll be driving me back to New York. But for that to happen, you’re gonna have to kill me.’
‘It doesn’t have to be that way.’
‘You’re right! You could have just left to tell Baker and the rest that you couldn’t find me, but you, Super Syra, chose to interrogate my fucking mother!’
Syra knew from their martial arts training days that Cheryl could always be goaded into over-reaching to her own detriment. She just needed to provoke her and she’d be able to get her off-balance.
‘Fine!’ said Syra, ‘Piss off to another country! Only, next time, I’ll have a whole RID squad waiting for you and maybe I’ll have to torture your dad until you come back—‘
Cheryl launched a punch at Syra’s face. Syra parried with one hand and clapped the other around the back of Cheryl’s head, simultaneously kick-blocking her front ankle and hurling her forward.
Cheryl dove into a forward roll and sprang up with a twisting crescent kick that cracked Syra squarely across the jaw. This was instantly followed by a thrusting kick to her gut and a left-right punching combination that knocked Syra onto her butt.
Momentarily blinded by the impact, Syra rolled onto her back and span with 360º horizontal windmill kicks that swept Cheryl’s ankles and knocked the wind out of her as she landed on her back.
Syra threw a knockout hammer-fist to the temple but it was met with a solid block. Cheryl thrust her fingers into Syra’s armpits and squeezed hard into her pectorals. Syra grimaced with a mix of sensitivity and intense pain. She thrust her knee into Cheryl’s stomach with such force that it sent her backwards; out of Cheryl’s grip and into a standing position.
Syra felt a red mist descend and kicked out as Cheryl’s face. Cheryl defended but took a harsh blow to the arm. Syra repeated the kick and Cheryl caught it, locking Syra’s ankle in place before lancing her fingers between Syra’s thigh and groin, shooting a bolt of electricity through Syra’s nerves and cancelling her balance.
As she dropped, Cheryl moved behind her, slid one arm across her throat and trapped her head into a choke hold. Syra instantly felt the pressure and knew she would soon be unconscious.
Cheryl watched as Syra raised her hands. ‘Oh, no, bitch!’ she hissed, ‘You had your chance—‘
Syra squeezed together the fingertips of each hand and, with one last effort, dropped her arms and thrust her fingertips behind her, jamming them into Cheryl’s lower ribs. Cheryl yelped in pained surprise, which gave Syra just enough room – she turned her head and shot her fingers skyward, carving her own skin as she threaded the gap between her neck and Cheryl’s forearm; breaking the hold.
She twisted on the spot and knocked Cheryl sideways with a reverse elbow shot to the cheek, but the effort caused a choking fit as she gasped for air. Cheryl barged her over and grabbed her shirt.
Dazzled by the sun and struggling to breathe, Syra looked up as the sun was blocked out by Cheryl’s raised fist; a fury of retribution on her sweat-and-dirt-covered face. ’Goodnight, Syra—AAGH!’
Syra started in surprise as Cheryl’s back arched and she spasmed on the spot, as though she’d just touched the third rail of a train track. There was a loud crackling sound and a smell of electricity.
The sound stopped and Syra had to dodge being head-butted as Cheryl collapsed on top of her. She tried to push her off, then sensed the presence of someone else.
‘Now, that was better than pay-per-view,’ said a male voice with a New York Italian accent.
A figure stepped forward. Syra sheltered her eyes from the sun and recognised the handsome Italian man from her flight.
‘Save your questions for later, doll,’ he said, and jabbed a black carbon walking stick into her stomach, ‘and like your friend said: Good night!’
He pulled a trigger and her body went rigid with shock… until she blacked out.
Chapter 5
‘Aches and pains… Aches and pains…’
Cheryl was woken by her own mumblings. She was groggy and stiff and felt bruised in several places. She could taste blood along with an unfamiliar chemical flavour. She also noticed that she couldn’t move.
A warm shiver popped her eyes open and she saw that she was locked into some kind of improvised frame – semi-inclined, a leather bench supported her back but her wrists and ankles were trapped by a network of scaffolding poles and fixed clamps in the shape of a capital I, with shorter bars fixed in tight squares around her wrists and ankles. ‘Fucking Syra!’ she whispered to herself and then froze as she caught sight of Syra, unconscious, in the exact same position just a few metres away.
She looked around. They were in the middle of a high floor in an abandoned office block, lit only by the windows as, presumably, there was no power. Wires protruded from holes in the ceiling and carpet with occasional discarded office paraphernalia scattered about and, against the wall in front of her, sat a small electric generator and what looked like a black walking stick. As her eyes adjusted to the light she looked out the window and could see LA in the distance; not New York as she had assumed.
She noticed the stains of grass, dirt and blood on her mother’s tracksuit then realised that both she and Syra were both still fully-clothed, so this was not an agent of RID’s doing.
Syra stirred and coughed herself awake to find Cheryl watching her. She took a moment to survey the scene. ‘Where are we?’ she whispered.
‘Still in LA. What the fuck happened?’
‘I was followed.’
‘F…? By who?’
‘Some guy who was on the same plane as me.’
‘Oh, awesome(!) And you didn’t notice him tailing you all around the city?’
As Syra tried to shake off her grogginess she rediscovered the cuts and bruises on her face. ‘Give me a break, Cheryl! You seem to be the one who’s obsessed with the idea that I’m perfect!’ She tried to slip free but quickly understood how fruitless the struggle was. ‘I was just trying to bring you in unharmed. I don’t blame you for what you did. I liked Savannah too.’
‘Okay, okay! I believe you.’
For some moments they sat in silence until it was broken by Syra: ‘I never slept with Patrick, you know.’
Cheryl rolled her eyes, ‘Why the hell are you bringing that up now for?!’
‘Because I know it’s one of the reasons you took a dislike to me when we first met.’
‘I didn’t like you because you’ll step on anyone to get what you want!’
Syra was silenced for some moments. ‘That’s true. But I’m working on it. Nobody’s perfect… Not even me.’
Cheryl couldn’t help but smirk. ‘Can we get the fuck out of here?’
‘I’d like that—‘
The sound of footsteps approached and a stairwell door was kicked open. The Italian man stepped in, carrying a flat-screen TV. ’Hey, the MMA sisters are awake!’
‘Well?’ said Cheryl, ‘What the fuck?’
He mounted the TV on an empty wall bracket in front of them as he answered, ’My job is not to explain, honey. I ain’t the ringmaster, I’m the fockin’ lion tamer… Or lionesses tamer in dis case.’ he snorted a laugh at his own joke and plugged the TV into the generator. ‘Your real hosts just arrived, so give ‘em a chance to get up the fockin’ stairs, uh?’
‘How’d you both like my little buzz-stick?’ he asked, lifting the walking stick and pulling the trigger. It flashed with sparks and crackled loudly. ‘It weren’t nearly strong enough when I first got it but, after a few modifications…’ he caught Syra’s indifferent expression.
‘I’m good with my hands. You’d know that if you were awake while I passed the time up here, just the three of us.’ He smiled and combed his hair.
Voices and footsteps echoed from the stairwell and soon the door opened. A burly Italian man sweated his way in and surveyed the room. He acknowledged their captor. ‘Hey, Rocco.’
‘Hey, Petey.’
‘Could you’ve found somewhere with more stairs?’
‘Hey, what the boss wants, she gets. Maybe you should try not wearing a fockin’ leather jacket in the middle of the day in LA?’
Petey pushed the door open, ‘It’s all clear.’
A female voice addressed others outside the door: ‘Wait out here.’
In stepped an attractive woman in her mid-30s. Her eyes were ice blue and her chestnut hair was tied into a ponytail, which emphasised her naturally chiselled features. To Cheryl, there was something familiar about her but she couldn’t place why until the thought occurred to her that she didn’t know whether she wanted to kiss her or slap her… the same way she felt when she saw Susan Rosetti for the first time.
She stood before them, her eyes locked on Cheryl with undisguised hatred. She glanced at Syra.
‘You rough them up, Rocco?’
‘Nope. They did that to each other.’
‘Set it up.’ Without shifting her glare, she indicated to Petey, who handed Rocco a tablet. Rocco plugged it into the TV and turned it on. A caption read Calling G.
The call was answered and the screen was filled by the face of Giada Rosetti. ‘Auntie! Ooh! I can see you’ve got what you came for. Well done, Rocco!’
‘Any time, G,’ said Rocco.
‘You bitches know who I am?’
‘I can take a guess,’ said Cheryl. ‘You’re related to Susan Rosetti.’
‘I’m her daughter, Giada. You’ve already met my mom’s younger sister, Lorena.’
Cheryl looked to Lorena. ’I can see that: you got the blue eyes; Susie got the botox.’
Syra shuffled in her seat, uncomfortable with Cheryl’s judgement of when to serve up antagonism. Lorena stepped up to Cheryl, drew back and, with full force, cracked her across the face with the back of her hand.
‘You’re a funny girl,’ Giada continued, ‘I’m gonna find this funny too. Let’s get started, auntie.’ She sat back and propped her feet up – her dirty soles filling half the screen. She placed a huge bowl of popcorn in her lap.
‘Bring them in,’ said Lorena.
In walked Patrick and Denise. Their wrists and mouth were wrapped with gaffer tape. Both had been beaten but Patrick was severely bruised with one eye swollen shut. Two no-nonsense-looking women pressed guns to their heads as they followed them in.
Syra and Cheryl were dismayed.
‘Listen—‘ Cheryl began.
Lorena pointed to a glass-enclosed office in the corner of the floor. ’Danni, take him in there and, Hayley, bring her here.’
Patrick was led to the office and forced to lie on his front by the barrel of Danni’s gun.
Hayley walked Denise to between Syra and Cheryl, then backed off but kept the gun trained at her head.
‘Tell these sick bitches the rules, auntie!’ said Giada.
‘First rule: obey the rules or he gets shot.
‘Second rule, your friend here is going to torture you both in the same way you tortured my sister, until one of you dies. Whoever’s left standing gets to go down the elevator shaft, just like the twot Susan got rid of…’
Cheryl and Syra looked over their shoulders – in the middle of the floor behind them was an elevator shaft with the doors prised apart.
Lorena directed her next comment into Denise’s ear, ’And if I sense for one second that you aren’t doing everything you can to kill these two…’ she flicked out a switchblade, ‘I will give you a real incentive to do so.’
‘If you are the one who dies laughing,’ she pointed the knife at Cheryl, then indicated Denise and Patrick, ‘then these two go free. That’s it.’
Lorena sliced apart the tape holding Denise’s wrists, then calmly stepped back and sat against the wall.
The room was silent.
‘Get on with it!’ Giada yelled, causing Denise to jump. She took hold of Syra’s frame and pulled it closer to Cheryl’s. It was only then that they realised the frames were mounted on caster wheels.
Denise untied the laces on Cheryl’s trainers and pulled them off. She then removed Syra’s shoes.
Cheryl was wearing her mother’s grey sports socks while Syra had on black cotton ankle socks. Denise couldn’t help but notice the differential between Syra’s size 5 feet and Cheryl’s size 9s and, as she placed her fingertips against Syra’s left foot and Cheryl’s right, she hoped the sock material would give them some protection.
Syra and Cheryl both flinched and braced themselves for what was to come.
Denise’s fingernails began to scribble at their soles. Cheryl held her breath and refused to respond. Syra tried the same tactic but her toes began to clench and flex. Denise worked her fingers in a deliberate up-and-down motion. Syra began to twitch erratically and focussed on ceiling. Cheryl kept her eyes fixed on Giada and her countenance intact but sensed a warm sweat building on her upper lip.
Giada could see Cheryl trying to stare her out but this was a game she’d played with her mother since she was 2-years-old. Her eyes would shrivel into raisins before she blinked! ‘This ain’t shit!’ she said, ‘Take their fuckin’ socks off!’
Denise reluctantly took hold of the cuffs of their socks and peeled them off. She then scribbled her fingers onto the skin of their bare soles. Cheryl stiffened but held her reaction but she could hear the sounds of Syra beginning to crack – her breathing was quick and shallow. Coughs of laughter snuffled from her nose. And, as Denise’s fingernails simultaneously ran over their arches, Syra broke into a stream of titters.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Denise and Cheryl were struck by the fact that they had never heard the constantly stoical Syra laugh before. She’d always avoided being the practice dummy during training and now they knew why.
In a strange way, the fact that Denise was mirroring her attacks on their feet and Syra’s defences had been breached, caused Cheryl to feel as though one of her mental shields had been disintegrated. So, as Denise’s fingernails scuttled up-and-down their skin, when she crossed the arches—a place where Cheryl had never before felt completely susceptible—because Syra displayed her responsiveness to it Cheryl felt an empathic tingle of dread.
As Giada continued to play Eyeball Chicken, she noticed her opponent getting jumpy at specific touches. ‘Focus on the middle of their feet!’ she shouted.
Syra burst into unrestrained laughter and began twisting as much the frame would allow. But Cheryl kept together, as sweat began to bead on her forehead.
This was a bizarre situation for Denise – she’d been tickled against her will before but never had to tickle others against her will! Still, she knew that, for her friend to live, she had to do it. At least until one of them came up with a plan of escape. It unnerved her to see Syra crumble so easily – especially as she was the senior agent in the room.
‘Leave the Indian one!’ called Giada, ‘I want you to do both of her feet at once.’
Denise stepped in front of Cheryl and Syra caught her breath. She took off Cheryl’s right sock and went to work with both hands.
Cheryl’s body tensed and her teeth clenched behind pursed lips. Denise’s expert nails were getting her in all the right places and she knew that if she relaxed even a little, she would start to lose it.
‘Get her between the toes! That’s always a good place!’ ordered Lorena.
Denise wriggled her fingers between and around Cheryl’s beautiful toes. She couldn’t prevent her feet from quivering in response and the reaction began to crawl up her body – from her legs to her thighs to her waist and to her torso. Soon she was shaking all over, but retained her look of defiance.
Giada’s eyes were stinging. ‘Auntie! I don’t think she can do the job properly if they’re padded all over!’
Knife in hand, Lorena immediately went over to Syra, lifted her top, sliced it up the middle, cut the sleeves and yanked it away. She then sliced down the legs of her bottoms and threw them to one side.
She turned to Cheryl and did the same with added vigour, irritated that Cheryl ignored her as she did so. She took a resentful step back. ‘Carry on!’ she said, shoving Denise, who checked her instinct to counter attack.
She between Syra and Cheryl. Syra was now in burgundy lacy underwear while Cheryl wore a sports bra and panties. Denise reached out and grabbed their waists.
Syra displayed a micro-reaction of irritation with herself before succumbing to the sensations. She knew that her waist was one of her most ticklish areas and she melted into laughter.
Cheryl’s instinct was to pull away but she refused to give any clues as to where she was sensitive. She had mastered the art of turning off her innate reactions during the first year of training. Since then, only Savannah had managed to take her by surprise enough to make her laugh and she wasn’t about to break their last bond.
Denise’s fingers crawled across their bellies to the other side and pressed into the flanks of their waists. Syra gave up any hope of resistance and threw her head back with abandoned laughter.
Again Cheryl resisted but was caught by surprise enough to let out an audible sign of an internal struggle and her abdominal muscles tightened and glistened with sweat.
Lorena’s eyes narrowed as she observed minute changes in Cheryl’s expression – her cockiness was seeping away. ‘Higher…’ she said.
As instructed, Denise’s hands moved up their ribcages. Each touch found a vulnerable spot on Syra’s body and sent her into deeper howls of hilarity.
‘Higher…!’
As Denise’s fingers encroached on their armpits, Lorena saw Cheryl’s eyes flit from the screen to meet hers and back again. This told her all she needed to know – this girl was in trouble.
‘Stop!’ said Lorena.
‘What?!’ shouted Giada, tossing her popcorn over the sofa.
‘I want a go,’ she said.
Giada shrugged and indicated for her to go ahead. Lorena shooed Denise away and revelled in leaning over Cheryl, whose eyes remained fixed on the screen.
Lorena began wriggling her fingers as they approached Cheryl’s armpits. Cheryl swallowed and her nostrils flared. Lorena was more than used to recognising the look of someone who was already beaten but hadn’t acknowledged it to themselves. She adored the moment when the realisation hit them. Then her scurrying fingers met Cheryl’s smooth underarms.
Cheryl jolted on the bench. Her muscles strained as she pulled against the unbreakable frame. Her whole body began to shake and her lips quivered into a smirk of regret and humiliation.
Lorena scrambled her fingers faster. Cheryl held her breath until a vein pulsed in her forehead and she began to turn the first shade of crimson.
Lorena varied her pattern of attack and a smile broke across Cheryl’s face. Fingers jabbed into Cheryl’s waist and then switched straight back to her armpits, causing her to lurch forward with a scream of laughter so loud that it closed her eyes.
‘YES, LORENA!’ shouted Giada.
Cheryl fell back and she looked up at Lorena, tears streaming from her dry eyes as she cried through her impotence. The faster Lorena moved her fingers, the more Cheryl bellowed with laughter and squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt at coping with the torture. She thrashed her head from side-to-side in a hopeless attempt to cope.
Syra hung her head. This was not good.
In desperation, Cheryl champed at Lorena’s arm.
‘Woahhhh!’ said Lorena standing back.
Hayley stepped forward with her gun aimed at Cheryl.
‘Hold your fuckin’ horses, Hayley,’ said Giada.
‘I’m fuckin’ horny right now!’ Lorena announced victoriously. She turned to Denise, ‘You – do this to her,’ she indicated Syra and stood behind Cheryl’s head, then went back to torturing her armpits. Cheryl exploded into laughter again.
‘Get the others to tickle their feet!’ commanded Giada. ‘Not the guys, they’ll just feel them up! Hayley: you get Leggy, there. Danni: you’re on the Indian.’
Danni handed her gun to Petey and went to Syra’s feet. Hayley holstered her pistol and looked to Danni. They shrugged to one another then commenced tickling.
Denise joined in on Syra’s armpits, which were not her worst spot, but in conjunction with her feet, she reacted like an electrified wildcat.
Giada relished the sight of these “secret agents” thrashing helplessly side-by-side, by their own methods, while being forced to laugh and in just their underwear!
Syra was overwhelmed. All coherent thoughts were now scrambled as she struggled uncontrollably in the frame; her stomach beginning to cramp from so much laughter. She had never experienced anything like this and didn’t know how much more she could take.
Cheryl was in utter turmoil. She couldn’t stop herself from howling with laughter and the smug, sadistic look on the face of Giada Rosetti was incomparably humiliating.
Hours passed and Giada was glued to the screen. She liked the fact that these women were getting hoarse from their involuntary laughter, but she was also impatient to see them suffer more.
‘Stop!’ she shouted, much to Lorena’s disappointment. Hayley and Danni’s cheeks ached from grinning constantly. Syra and Cheryl were sweating and convulsing from the treatment. ’You, Green Eyes,’ she pointed at Denise, ‘How can we make this more intense? Lorena, take her muzzle off.’
Lorena used her knife to slice the tape around Denise’s head and tore it away. ‘Ow!’ Denise said with undisguised anger but an idea came to her as Lorena laughed it off and leaned provocatively on the square of metal poles that enclosed Cheryl’s wrist.
‘And don’t fucking lie,’ Giada continued.
‘Oil,’ said Denise.
‘What?’
‘Put oil on their feet. It makes the sensation worse.’
Syra and Cheryl looked to her in disbelief – why did she have to tell them that?!
‘Okay, do it,’ said Giada. ‘Who’s got some oil?’
Rocco whistled and tossed a bottle of hair oil across the room. Denise caught it.
‘Where did you find these two anyway, Rocco?’ asked Lorena.
‘At the tall one’s ma’s place.’
‘Perhaps I should pay her ma a visit after this, eh, G?’ she said, drinking in the tearful infuriation on Cheryl’s face as Rocco scrawled down the address and handed it to her.
‘Perfect!’ said Giada. ‘But let’s get this finished first!’ she ordered.
Denise poured the oil into her hands and smeared it over Cheryl’s feet, then Syra’s. She was about to take her position back at Syra’s armpits when Lorena spoke: ‘Show us.’
Denise hesitated but began to tickle Syra’s feet. Syra knew she had no resistance left and a piteous whine swiftly turned into laughter.
Lorena was bored with the length of time this was taking. ‘This is no fuckin’ different from before!’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Giada. ‘You just trying to buy more time, black girl?!’
‘No!’ Denise insisted.
‘Fuck this!’ said Giada. ‘Execute the guy!’
‘NO!’ they cried together. Patrick shouted muffled protests.
Lorena smiled and signalled Petey.
Outside, the sky was softening from bright blue to the first pale orange of dusk. A woman was walking past an abandoned office block when a gunshot rang out from a high floor, causing a flock of seagulls to take flight.
Denise, Syra and Cheryl were frozen with shock. Syra yanked so hard to escape that she almost dislocated her shoulder.
‘I’m gonna fucking kill you!’ Cheryl screamed at Giada and Lorena.
‘Shut the fuck up! Let’s get this over with and if no-one dies in the next half-hour, you all go down the elevator shaft!’ said Giada.
Denise could hardly see through her tears as she was shoved back towards Syra’s top half. On the way, she rubbed her oily hands on Syra’s hands and wrists The torturers retook their positions. they all began to tickle again.
Cheryl and Syra could not have been less in the frame of mind to laugh but their defences were so damaged that they couldn’t stop themselves. They screamed and wailed in protest as laughter washed over them.
Rocco and Petey stood together in appreciation of the surreal but highly erotic scene in front of them and didn’t notice the doors slowly open behind them.
Denise was the first to see her: a tall, African-American woman with skunk-striped afro dressed in a full-on latex catsuit. She was aiming a handgun at Rocco’s head
Petey noticed Denise’s distraction and looked behind him. ‘What the fuck!?’ he shouted and pulled his gun. The woman switched her aim and shot him in the face.
Rocco was blinded by the blood that sprayed into his eyes and she knocked him to the floor with the butt of her gun.
Hayley quickly drew her pistol but the woman dived behind Syra’s frame. Hayley shot twice and missed.
‘What the fuck is happening!?’ yelled Giada.
Danni made a run at the woman and Lorena pulled her knife. As Hayley rounded into view, she found the woman kneeling with her gun pointed straight at her. She was about to squeeze the trigger when Denise dove at Danni and they fell to the floor between them.
As Lorena darted for the woman with her knife raised, Syra yanked both arms with all her strength and the oil helped her slip free from the frame. She made a blind grab and caught a handful of ponytail. Lorena’s head snapped back and she crashed hard onto the floor.
Hayley unloaded at the woman who ran for cover behind the central lift shaft.
Syra sat forward and struggled with the clamps which held her ankles in place. Lorena furiously yanked Syra’s frame back and hurled it towards the open lift shaft.
Denise and Danni slogged it out on the floor until Denise sent a punch skyward under Danni’s chin and knocked her out cold.
As the latex clad woman skidded round the central column she saw Syra’s frame spinning toward’s the lift shaft where a corner wheel dipped over the edge. She reached for a bullwhip and lashed it to catch hold of one leg.
Hayley chased her round the corner.
‘Hold this!’ the woman said to Cheryl and put the handle of the taut bullwhip in her mouth. She then span and dropped, blasting a single shot that took Hayley off her feet.
Syra’s oil-covered hands struggled to gain a grip on the metal clamps. Cheryl pulled as hard as she could but a second wheel tipped over the lip of the shaft and dragged her towards it.
Lorena saw that she was outnumbered and ran for the stairwell only to find her path blocked by Denise. ‘You’re going nowhere, bitch!’
The woman heaved Syra’s frame clear of the lift shaft.
‘Thanks!’ said Syra, still struggling at her ankles. ‘I’ve gotta get these off!’
Cheryl saw something that chilled her stomach. ’Denise!’ she cried, but it was too late to stop Rocco slamming his buzz-stick between her shoulder blades.
Denise screamed in agony and dropped to the floor.
‘Nice one, Rocco,’ said Lorena.
‘You go, L. I’ve got this lot,’ he said as he stooped to collect Petey’s gun and aimed it at the newcomer who had left her gun on the floor. Lorena smiled and ran for the stairs.
Syra stumbled from the frame.
‘You want all of these to take a ride down the lift shaft, G?’ Rocco called.
‘Yeah, why not?’ Giada scoffed. ‘Catwoman first! You can fuckin’ shoot her!’
Rocco cocked the gun but Syra stepped into his sights. ‘I can’t let you do that,’ she said.
Rocco’s patience ran out and he strode towards her, holding the trigger on his fizzing stun baton. When he was within three feet, Syra exploded into action; she grabbed the baton and twisted it from his grip, cracked the gun from his hand with the silver wolf’s head and kicked him squarely between the legs. As he doubled-over and yelled in pain, Syra thrust the cane into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Rocco’s face lit up in a shower of blue sparks as Syra led him, skewered to his own weapon, to the lift shaft. Paralysed, he could do nothing but watch as Syra toppled him backwards along with his mouthful of electricity. ‘Goodnight,’ she said as he lit up the walls of the shaft on his journey into the gloom.
‘Get me out of here!’ shouted Cheryl.
Syra and the newcomer prised open the clamps on Cheryl’s frame. ’Who are you?’ asked Syra.
‘I’m Donna,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Donna.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Cheryl who jumped free of the frame and immediately started stripping Hayley of her clothes.
Syra ran to Denise and made sure she was okay. ‘We have to get back to New York,’ she said.
‘I’m going nowhere!’ said Cheryl.
‘We have to—!’
‘That bitch has my mom’s address!’
Syra considered. ‘Okay.’
‘What about her?’ asked Donna, nodding at the screen.
Giada was still watching them and it was her turn to look less cocky.
‘Oh… her…’ Cheryl aimed Hayley’s gun at the camera and pulled the trigger.
TO BE CONTINUED...
The Cult of Tickle Assassins II
The Cult of Tickle Assassins III: Trainee Syra Rahul's Final Exam.
The Cult of Tickle Assassins
Episode 4: Pereira vs. Rahul
by Tamira K.
Prologue
The morning sun broke cover, sending a shard of light through the bedroom window. At first it warmed Cheryl Pereira’s chin and brought a confusing addition to the dream in which she was swimming; fighting against the flow of a very wide stream.
As the sun continued up her cheek she sensed that the water was getting hotter and she put full effort into escaping the pursuers on the river bank behind her by kicking out diagonally across the drift. The opposite bank got further away as she felt the current edging her towards the crest of a very high waterfall. Panic rose in her as the sound of an approaching boat merged with the calls of the men on the riverbank pointing out her location. A searchlight closed in on her position. She was about to dive for cover when the water became uncomfortably hot and the light blinded her.
She sat up with a start and lashed out. The figure tangled up in the sheets next to her stirred and gave a brief, wordless gripe at being disturbed. Cheryl swung her legs out of the bed and wiped sweat from her brow as she sat for some moments to calm her breathing. She considered how much the helicopter circling overhead sounded a lot like a motorboat from some angles. She then collected her clothes from various landing points around the room and got dressed.
‘Don’t you even shower before you run out on somebody?’ said the voice from beneath the sheets.
‘You need curtains,’ Cheryl replied.
A heavily-tattooed woman with a funky mushroom-cut and shaved sides made her appearance. ‘I like being woken up by nature.’
‘Yeah. And I like waking up without my retinas being melted.’
‘I was hoping you’d have to time wrap those lovely, long Latina legs around me once more,’ said the woman whose name, Cheryl believed, was Cara… or Carla…?
‘Gotta get to work.’ Cheryl pulled on her boots without the ceremony of tights.
‘Will I see you again?’ asked Cara/Carla.
‘Probably not,’ said Cheryl picking up her leather jacket and throwing a holdall over her shoulder.
‘Pity. I wanted to hear the story behind that feather you have inked on your ankle.’
Cheryl stepped to the apartment door and opened it. ‘That’ll have to wait for another time.’
‘But I’ll probably never see you again?’
‘Right.’ She closed the door behind her.
Stepping out onto the street, Cheryl was once again in the position of knowing which city she was in—this time it was San Diego—but since she ditched her phone she had little other clue as to whether she was in a north, south, east or west suburb. Using the sun as a guide, she concluded it was south.
She was travelling as light as possible. Everything unnecessary to help her escape from the USA had been left behind. She had all the money she’d withdrawn as soon as she’d escaped the RID headquarters hidden in her boot and a couple of changes of clothes to help her fit into as many environments as possible.
To avoid unnecessary spending on motels and sleeping on the street, she’d been going to bars and spending nights with those she seduced. Having only been a contender for the US Olympic team and an agent of RID, she was unused to the amount of tequila that was sometimes required to make the evening tolerable. She had worked out, however, that if she seemingly matched the other person drink-for-drink (when she was actually dumping 70% of her drinks into plant pots or drip trays) she could sometimes get them to pass out before any clumsy carnal fumbling took place. Then again, there were times, like the night she’d just spent with Cara/Carla, when she was more than happy to enjoy the sex.
She wrapped a bandana round her head and put on thick-rimmed glasses to reduce the likelihood of the tech agents finding her with their face-recognition systems. Her boots fitted her easier by the day as her finances diminished. She hoped that she had enough left to bribe some truck driver to smuggle her into Mexico where she would have to start to grift in order to work her way to her father’s home country of Brazil. Although RID had agents in every country, and escaping to Brazil via Mexico may have been an obvious route for her to take, her hope was that Mission Supervisor Baker and all the other top agents would consider it to be a little too obvious.
She noticed a constant stream of trucks on a nearby freeway. She followed their route for an hour or so and found herself at a truck stop where she was hopeful she could find someone who would help her, either via bribery or flirtation.
A tear formed in her eye as she considered the one thing she’d been constantly pushing to the back of her mind on this journey – not only was she leaving behind the only country she’d ever known, she was also leaving her parents.
Her father was out of the country on business when she’d paid her mother a hurried visit in Los Angeles. On the hitchhike from coast to coast she had worked out a plausible story of landing a top job that was going to take her out of the country for a while.
She didn’t want to visit the family home in Santa Monica because, even though she trusted the RID code—the cult would never involve agents’ friends or family members, no matter the circumstances—there was always a possibility that the house was being watched. Therefore, Cheryl visited her mother’s workplace and snuck in via a back door.
As an ex-Miss California, Helen Pereira now ran her own modelling agency and so Cheryl was forced to hug her mother amid a bustle of business calls and model auditions. She didn’t tell her the visit was to say goodbye. Possibly forever.
At the truck stop it didn’t take long for Cheryl to attract the attention of a grizzled Mexican trucker who was more than happy to take her across the border in his trailer full off rugs as long as, once they were clear of the crossing, she sat up front with him “in those sexy leather boots” all the way to Oaxaca de Juárez.
Cheryl looked at her watch. There was time to call her mother one last time without the risk of the call being traced.
‘Necesito desayunar antes de irnos,’ said the trucker. ‘Quieres comer conmigo, queridita?’ He smirked, as though he’d unearthed Cheryl’s secret desire.
‘No, gracias. Voy a esperar aquí.’
He shrugged and headed inside the diner as Cheryl stepped over to a payphone. She broke out some change and dialled home. The house answerphone kicked in but was interrupted before she could start to speak.
‘Hello?’ her mother answered a little breathless and with humour in her voice, as though she had just been sharing a joke with someone.
‘Hi Mom.’
‘Cheryl! I was just talking about you, honey!’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, a friend of yours has stopped by. She wanted to see you before you fly out. Which hotel are you staying at?’
‘Which friend?’ Cheryl asked.
‘Your friend Syra…’
Cheryl’s blood ran cold.
‘…she’s a funny one, isn’t she? I told her I didn’t know where you were staying and she kept tickling me as if that would help! Wait… No! Not again!’
Helen’s voice became distant as she held the phone away from her mouth. Cheryl could picture the scene: her mother trying to defend herself from what she considered to be playful tickling while being totally naive to the danger she was in.
‘Mom! MOM…!’
‘Here! Take the phone!’ Helen said, laughing and running away, ’I’m going to hide from you!’
Cheryl was petrified. She heard the phone being slowly lifted from where it was dropped. ‘Hiya Cheryl,’ came Syra’s voice with uncharacteristic gaiety.
‘What the fuck are you doing there?’ Cheryl shouted.
‘You haven’t left the country yet, then? I was having trouble tracking you down, girlfriend! I knew your mom would be able to help!’
‘Don’t you fucking touch her!’
‘Oh, it’s too late for that! Plus, I’ve got nowhere to stay; I think I may have to persuade her to let me crash here until you come over. And, if she says no…!’
In the background Helen conceded: ‘You can stay! You can stay! I don’t have to be persuaded!’
Cheryl paced as much as the phone cord would let her, ‘You’re fucking dead, Rahul!’ she said and slammed the receiver down into the cradle so hard that it cracked.
She stepped into the parking lot and could see the Mexican border, but she knew she had to go back.
’FUUUCK!’
Chapter 1
Earlier that week, on the top floor of the RID headquarters Agents Denise Jones and Patrick Sloane coincided outside the suite of Lynette Zhang, one of the organisation’s directors.
‘You get called too?’ asked Patrick.
‘Yeah,’ Denise replied. ‘Do you know what this is about?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Only one way to find out…’
They entered the suite and were greeted by a personal assistant who opened the office door and introduced them. ’Agents Jones and Sloane for you, Director.’
‘Thank you,’ said Zhang, ‘Take a seat, agents.’
Before Zhang’s desk sat Mission Supervisor Baker, Tech Agent Martin Michaels and Senior Agent Cooper, who was one of the trainers during their induction year and always resembled the head of a SWAT team in his signature black baseball cap. Denise and Patrick nodded their hello’s and took their seats.
‘We have an urgent situation,’ said Zhang. Patrick forced himself to pay close attention, which was never easy when he was faced by a sexy woman in a senior position. ‘I’ll let MS Baker explain.’
‘We’ve just found out that we had a breach to our cyber security systems some days ago,’ said Baker. Michaels gave a self-berating shake of the head. ‘Someone has accessed our files and we need to get to the bottom of it.’
‘What do we know?’ asked Denise.
‘Quite a lot now,’ said Michaels. ‘It seems someone was pretty interested in the Rosetti assignment from last week.’
‘Rosetti?’
‘I thought you might know a little about it as you’re both quite close to Cheryl Pereira, but I understand she might not have told anyone,’ said Baker. ‘Savannah Wilson’s last assignment was to take care of gang boss Susan Rosetti, which is when both she and Agent Marquez were killed. Against my explicit instructions, Pereira took matters into her own hands and assassinated Rosetti…’
Denise and Patrick were astounded.
‘Agent Pereira informed me of what she had done and, while I was in consultation with Director Zhang, she left the grounds. I have put Senior Agent Rahul on the case to track her down and bring her back…or make sure she doesn’t leave the country.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Denise.
Michaels sat forward. ’However, in the meantime someone breached our firewalls and whoever did it seemed to be searching specifically for the information on who killed Susan Rosetti and, my team have just let me know, that they now also know that Agent Rahul is tracking her down.’
‘So, whoever is after Cheryl is likely to be following Syra?’ asked Cooper.
‘It’s highly likely,’ said Baker.
‘Do we know who hacked us?’ asked Patrick.
‘At the moment, it looks to be someone in the FBI. Not many other places have the technology to infiltrate our systems,’ said Michaels. ‘And thanks to a cyber-mole I created, we know where the hacked information was sent!’
‘Cyber-mole?’ said Denise.
‘Yes, a simple but ingenious bit of code that I invented, which buries itself into our files and goes anywhere our files do. It’s like microchipping your dog or cat. I’m quite proud of it!’ Michaels beamed, then caught sight of Zhang’s unimpressed expression. He shrunk in his seat. ‘Of course, it’s preferable that we don’t get hacked in the first place.’
Zhang addressed the agents: ‘Jones and Sloane, I’m teaming you up with Senior Agent Cooper. I want you to go to the address that received this information, find out what has been done with it and deal with the perpetrators. We cannot have this going any further. We will deal with the crooked FBI agent.’
‘Crooked?’ asked Patrick.
‘Yeah,’ said Cooper. ‘If my guess is right, then we’re about to take a trip to visit the home of the dearly departed Susan Rosetti.’
Zhang nodded.
‘And who’s the head of that family now?’
Chapter 2
It was 11:40am the following morning when Susan Rosetti’s brother, Luca Marcuzzi, heard a knock at the door. He shuffled to the door in his velvet Gucci loafers and rest day tracksuit, munching on a hotdog. He looked through the peephole and frowned before opening the door.
On the step stood MS Baker. At 6’3”, both men were used to looking down on most people. Here, they met each other’s eye.
Luca said nothing but looked Baker up and down. The only black men who ventured onto this doorstep of this property were generally detectives. He glanced over Baker’s shoulder to the street – no black’n’whites or unfamiliar unmarked cars were present. He took another bite of his hotdog and waited.
‘May I see the owner of the house?’ said Baker.
‘Not without a warrant.’
‘I’m not a cop.’
‘Then you should probably fuck off.’
Luca went to close the door but Baker raised a hand and stopped it.
‘You know what we do to trespassers ‘round here?’ said Luca.
‘It’s very much in your interest to talk to me, Mr Marcuzzi. I believe you may have met some associates of mine recently.’
Luca looked him over again. ’Close the door behind you,’ he said then turned his back on Baker and walked through the house. Baker followed, detecting the smoke of a barbecue.
‘Can’t say if I’ve “met your associates” since you ain’t told me who the fuck you are and why the fuck you’re here. Why would anyone you know come see me?’
‘Because your sister was Susan Rosetti and, since her husband, Don Mario, had no siblings and you joined him on many of his “business ventures”, it stands to reason that you inherited the top dog position since Susan passed away.’
Luca stopped and faced him, ‘You’ve got a nerve, son. Don’t talk about my sister.’
Baker retained his usual calm exterior but decided against prodding the hornet’s nest any more at this point. Luca continued on and they headed for some patio doors. Outside was a large garden, outdoor pool and patio. An excessive plume of barbecue smoke enveloped whoever was manning the grill. Eight Italian men stood and talked in various places around the garden and turned as Baker joined Luca on the patio.
Luca stopped at a point when Baker was in the middle of the men. ’So why’d you come here?’ he asked as he dumped down the remaining hot dog on a picnic table and lifted an already smoking cigar.
‘Like I said, I’m looking for my associates and you’re the head of the Rosetti family…’
‘You’re wrong. I ain’t a Rosetti.’
‘Yes, but—‘
‘Mission Supervisor Baker!’ came a voice from across the patio. Hiding his surprise at being called by name, Baker casually turned his attention. ‘Should I be grateful that one of the head dudes from RID has come to join my party?’
The lid of the barbecue grill slammed shut and the smoke cleared to reveal Don Mario and Susan Rosetti’s daughter, Giada Rosetti. She held a pair of barbecue tongs and her eyes were red from the smoke. Baker sensed she probably melted the tongs as the smell of burnt meat was infused with a plasticky odour. With one hand, she wafted away the remainder of the smoke, ‘Phew! I need to get better at this!’
‘Hopefully you’ll have time,’ said Baker.
Giada bridled at the threat but painted on a smile. ‘I have longer than you.’
A couple of the men gently pushed aside their coats, ready to grab their handguns.
‘It wouldn’t be wise to do anything to me. You can’t see my people, but that’s because they’re good at what they do and I need to tell you, you’re outnumbered.’
‘If they’re good at what they do, how comes you’re out here lookin’ for three of them like you lost your fuckin’ cat?’ said one of the men. A few of the others chuckled in response.
Baker didn’t take his eyes off Giada. She raised an eyebrow – her man had a very good point.
‘Where are they?’ asked Baker.
Giada was uncannily confident for someone so young. ’You’ll find out, when I’m ready to tell ya. In the meantime, you’d better leave us alone, for their sake. One of your people needs to pay a price. Anyone who stands in my way will pay the same price. Shit…!’ she said as she lifted the lid of the grill and ducked away from a new funnel of malodorous smoke.
‘Where are they?’ Baker repeated.
‘Two of them are with my aunt and—fuck it, I always forget to take the wrapping of these before I cook ‘em,’ she said and flung something onto the patio with the tongs.
Baker recognised it to be the smouldering remains of Agent Cooper’s cap. Nausea welled inside him when he realised that it still had hair stuck to it.
Luca choked on his cigar smoke, signalling an appropriate moment for all the men to guffaw, ‘You truly are your father’s daughter G!’. As Baker made for the house he avoided looking at the barbecue for confirmation of what he already knew but caught the look in Giada’s eyes as she watched him, unblinking, amid the now sickly-sweet smell roasting meat.
One of the men stood to block his way but Luca indicated to let him pass, still wheezing at his niece’s comic timing.
As Baker strode from the Rosetti grounds he spoke into his communicator, ‘All agents stand down.’ He then took out his cell phone and called Lynette Zhang. ‘Director Zhang? We have a problem. Jim Cooper is dead. Jones and Sloane are missing.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Zhang.
‘We need to move fast,’ said Baker. ‘Who do we have in LA?’
Chapter 3
The inside of Syra’s cheek was a little sore. She had been chewing at it as she sat outside the house of Luciano and Helen Pereira in a rental Sedan – big enough to put someone in the trunk if necessary but not so spacious that the person in the trunk would have room to fully draw back and kick at it with their long, athletic legs.
As expected, Cheryl had done an expert job of covering her tracks and so the tech department had provided little by way of useful information. The only details Syra had to go on were the locations of Mr and Mrs Pereira’s home and workplaces. Luciano was out of the country on a business trip.
She didn’t feel comfortable at the thought of interrogating Mrs Pereira as, until they met, she wouldn’t know what form the questioning would have to take. When the average Joe or Joanne on the street were the target it was relatively easy, but physically interrogating the parent of an agent (or ex-agent) was walking a razor-thin tightrope along the RID code of ethics. That was to say nothing of how Cheryl would take it, particularly coming from her.
The dashboard clock read 8:26am. Cheryl’s mother would be leaving for work soon. Syra’s palms were sweating, which indicated a level of trepidation that she had not experienced in a very long time. Searching for a reason to knock on the door amid the abundance of reasons not to, the justification that she was doing it for Cheryl’s sake was what made her leave the comfort of the air conditioned car.
As she approached the door, she could hear talking through an open window – Helen Pereira was on the phone to someone. It sounded like a work call. Syra knocked.
‘I have to go. There’s someone here… Get Delilah on it. I’ll call you later,’ she said and hung up. Syra remembered to get into character and pasted on an enthusiastic smile just as the front door opened.
‘Hello?’ said Helen, obscured by the mist of an insect door.
‘Hi! I’m looking for Cheryl. Does she live here?’
‘Not any more. I’m her mother.’
‘Oh, hi! I’m Syra. I used to train with her in Colorado Springs on the Olympic team.’
‘Oh, wow! I’m Cheryl’s mom,’ said Helen, opening the screen door. Syra could see the family resemblance. Helen was naturally beautiful and could have easily been mistaken to be Cheryl’s sister. Cheryl was a carbon copy of her mother except that she had tanned skin and raven hair, which was presumably handed down from her Brazilian father, whereas her mother had fair hair and pale skin that had obviously not been over-tanned by the California sun. She was dressed in a summer shirt, jean shorts and flip-flops.
‘Nice to meet you! Wow, you’re pretty!’ said Syra. This level of sanguinity didn’t come naturally to her but she knew how to carry it off as it was basically an impression of her younger sister.
‘Well, thank you! As you’ve made the effort to come this far, would you like to come in?’
‘Sure! I’m not stopping you from going to work, am I?’
‘No, I’m working from home today.’
Syra followed Helen to the living room. The furniture, decor and knick-knacks were a cheerful mix of Brazilian-beachfront and Californian-hippy. It felt like it had been a long time since she’d been anywhere so homely. She stepped over to Cheryl’s trophy shelves, which still took pride of place above the TV.
‘Your mom must have some shelves like that too, huh?’ said Helen.
‘Oh yeah. Not quite as many though.’ Amid the athletics trophies were a couple of beauty sashes and crowns. ‘These are yours, right? Cheryl said you were a beauty queen?’
‘Yeah, in the early nineties. It was only Cheryl setting up camp in my belly that made me drop out from Miss California. I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She passed through two days ago in a whirlwind. That’s my girl!’
‘Yeah, I know – just like her! Do you know where she’s staying? I’d really like to catch up.’
Helen hesitated and scratched her neck as she answered, ‘She didn’t tell me.’
‘Oh, shoot. I had some really good news for her. Do you have her cell number?’ Inside her pocket, Syra’s phone illuminated with a call from Director Zhang’s office. She felt the vibration and dismissed the call.
‘No. She doesn’t have a phone now.’
‘She doesn’t have a phone?’ Syra asked, with millennial incredulity, ‘and she didn’t tell you where she was going?’
‘No,’ said Helen. She nodded as she answered, holding onto the back of the sofa as if it were a shield.
Syra was in no doubt: Helen was lying, and she wasn’t very good at it. Syra squinted and smirked, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course!’ said Helen.
‘Okay,’ said Syra as she slowly circled the room, taking in all the family photos. Her phone buzzed again in her pocket and she surreptitiously switched it off. ‘It’s just weird, that’s all: she doesn’t have a phone and she doesn’t tell her mom where she’s staying or where she’s going…’
Helen looked out the window. ‘Well, as we said, that’s my girl—YIYEEEAA-HA-HAA!!!’ She shrieked in surprised laughter as Syra grabbed her shapely waist with expert, wriggling fingers. Her knees instantly buckled but Syra pressed herself into her butt and she collapsed forward over the back of the sofa.
‘I think you’re telling me little untruths, Mrs Pereira!’
The tickling sensations were completely debilitating to Helen. She tried several times in rapid succession to grab Syra’s wrists to free herself, but each time she did, she face-planted into the sofa cushions and had to support herself with her hands again.
‘Are you going to tell me something?’ called Syra.
‘No!’ Helen squealed amidst her laughter.
‘Then I’ll just keep doing this, Mrs Tickly-ribs!’ Syra flinched at her own use of irritating baby-talk as she adjusted her position and began tweaking incessantly at Helen’s lower ribs.
‘Oh, Go-ho-ho-ho-ho-hod!’ she cried as the tickling became worse. This new move caused her to again grab in desperation but, as before, her face became smooshed in sofa cushions. The predicament was so absurd and her own repeated mishap was so ludicrous that she started to find the situation funny. She quickly discovered this was a mistake as it made her even more susceptible and she filled room with bright, sunshiny laughter.
‘Sounds like a fun time! Can I join in?’ came a male voice from the window, which caused Syra to start and raise a fist. It was an overweight mailman, who was throwing his comment from behind the net curtains. He moved on, amused by his own wit.
This pause gave Helen the chance to grab the seat cushions and pull herself inelegantly over the back of the sofa. Before she could slip away completely Syra managed to wrap an arm around her ankles and wedge herself against the back of the sofa to prevent her from going any further.
‘Hey! What are you doing?!’ said Helen.
Syra was glad that she seemed to be interpreting this as a game and so replied in kind. ’I wanna know how to talk to Cheryl… or there’ll be trouble!’ she finished this sentence with a childish sing-song lilt as she pulled off one of Helen’s flip-flops.
‘Oh, God, no! Not my feet! Please! I can’t bare it!’
‘Are you gonna tell me?’ Syra asked, her fingers primed as she looked down on Helen, who still looked absolutely gorgeous despite her inverted position, messed-up hair and flushed complexion.
‘I…’ Helen began, shaking her head.
‘Very well!’ said Syra with a grin as she scrabbled her nails all over Helen’s bare sole.
The older woman went ballistic and it took all of Syra’s might to keep her from escaping. ‘Hee hee hee! You’re killing meee!’ Helen cried through her laughter. She wasn’t serious, but the image gave Syra pause.
She pulled off Helen’s second flip-flop. ‘Then you’d better tell me!’
‘Oh God, no! Please! She said she didn’t want people to know-ho-ho-ho…!’ Helen pleaded as Syra’s fingernails began to explore both soles at once.
Suddenly the telephone rang. Syra gripped tighter and tickled more intently but the shock made Helen scream and thrash her legs like a shark’s tail propelling it into top speed. She broke Syra’s grip and rolled onto the carpet. Syra staggered against the sofa, nearly falling over it herself.
‘Oh, Lordie! You’re a menace!’ said Helen, still giggling. She looked in the mirror and smoothed down her clothes as she picked up the phone. ‘Gosh, look at the state of me…! Hello…? ‘Cheryl! I was just talking about you, honey!…Yes, a friend of yours has stopped by. She wanted to see you before you fly out. Which hotel are you staying at?…Your friend Syra…’ she said with a wink.
Chapter 4
The next three hours passed with agonising slowness. Syra sat on the sofa, drinking ice-cold pink lemonade with her eyes glued to the TV while Helen took phone calls and sent emails. During a lull she would start up conversations, which Syra steered away from her relationship with Cheryl, to avoid having to remember too many falsehoods.
Helen was very warm towards her and Syra couldn’t figure out why. It seemed as though she really enjoyed the physical torment she had put her through. Then she remembered that Cheryl was one of the agents who was a true tickling fetishist and she pondered whether the kink could be in any way hereditary.
The thought had no sooner entered her mind when she heard a car pull up outside. ‘Here she is!’ said Helen. Syra stood to see Cheryl getting out of a cab and approaching the house. She had hoped that the anger she expressed over the phone would have dissipated. From the expression on her face, evidently not.
Cheryl moved out of view of the living room window as Helen opened the door to greet her. ‘My baby’s home again! Twice in one week! Gimme mama a hug…! Oh, my girl, you’re in need of a shower.’
Cheryl’s footsteps seemed extra heavy on the floorboards. And then she appeared in the living room with Helen behind her. There was fire in her eyes, which made it challenging for Syra to face her and Helen with a convincing look of joy.
Neither woman had planned their script for this moment, which gave Helen the chance to speak up. ‘Well!? Aren’t you two gonna hug after all this time?!’
‘Yeah!’ said Syra over-enthusiastically. She trotted over to Cheryl and, as they embraced, Cheryl dug her nails into Syra’s back. ‘Eurgh! You’re crushing me, big girl!’ she said and pushed Cheryl away firmly, while still maintaining the happy pretence.
‘Let’s go talk,’ said Cheryl.
‘Oh, no,’ said Helen. ‘Go shower! Syra can come see the garden.’
Helen’s cell phone rang again. While her attention was distracted Syra could finally drop her facade and she and Cheryl shared a look. Cheryl went upstairs – Syra would keep.
Syra stepped into the garden, which was encompassed by a series of lush bushes and palms trees. At the far end of the veranda was a good-sized jacuzzi.
Minutes later Helen came out ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you two girls to it. Something has come up and I need to go into the office.’
‘Aww! That’s a shame!’ said Syra with great relief.
‘Yeah. It was nice to meet you, Syra. I hope to see you here again!’
They shook hands and Helen flashed a dazzling smile.
Cheryl tied her wet hair into a bun and went to her mother’s bedroom where she found some sports underwear, a tracksuit and some sneakers to wear. She glanced out the window to see Syra shaking hands with her mother. Rage burned inside her once more.
Syra heard Helen bidding a tearful goodbye to her daughter. Then the door closed and a few moments of silence passed. She briefly wondered if Cheryl had decided upon another tactic and slipped out with her mother so that they could both escape together. She was about to check when she saw Cheryl’s silhouette moving through the house towards her. To Syra’s mind she looked a lot taller than usual. She stepped into the sunshine, her sights fixed on Syra.
‘Have you brought a gun?’ Cheryl asked.
‘No,’ Syra remained placid.
‘A knife? A tranquilliser? Don’t tell me you’ve just come out here with nothing but your superior tickling skills!’
‘I just want to talk to you.’
‘No: you want to take me back! Or finish me off. Either way, it’s not happening! I’m out of it! I’m done!’
‘You can’t just leave and you know that—‘
‘I can and I have. It’s not what I want and neither should any sane person. It’s completely fucked up and if you don’t see that, then you’re completely fucked up too. And what the fuck were you doing touching my mother?!’
‘I had to find you—‘
‘And the only way to do that was torturing my mom!?’ Cheryl stepped forward; her fists clenched.
Syra stepped back and raised her hands, ‘No! I didn’t “torture” her. I was just being playful. She actually found it funny—‘
‘And if I hadn’t called while you were in the middle of it?!’
Syra faltered and, in a flash, Cheryl covered ground and grabbed her by the shirt. Syra blatted her hand away and retreated again. ‘Now, look! I’m here because I want to help you, Cheryl! I had to do anything I could to stop you crossing the border! What happens when you end up in a country where you have no friends but there are twenty foreign RID agents who know nothing about you except that you defected and are a liability to their safety?!’
‘You’re not my friend! You’ve never been my fucking friend—!’
‘That’s because you’ve always been jealous of me! I’ve tried—’
Cheryl reacted with disbelief. ‘Even now, you find the time to be a total bitch! D’you bring a car?’
‘What? Yes. Why?’
‘Where are the keys?’
‘In my pocket.’
‘Okay: because you went against all the RID code—actually, fuck that—all principles of decency just so you can come across as the cult super-fucking-heroine, only one of us is walking out of here and the other one is going to be tied up in the trunk of that car. Either I’ll be driving you into the desert and leaving you there, or you’ll be driving me back to New York. But for that to happen, you’re gonna have to kill me.’
‘It doesn’t have to be that way.’
‘You’re right! You could have just left to tell Baker and the rest that you couldn’t find me, but you, Super Syra, chose to interrogate my fucking mother!’
Syra knew from their martial arts training days that Cheryl could always be goaded into over-reaching to her own detriment. She just needed to provoke her and she’d be able to get her off-balance.
‘Fine!’ said Syra, ‘Piss off to another country! Only, next time, I’ll have a whole RID squad waiting for you and maybe I’ll have to torture your dad until you come back—‘
Cheryl launched a punch at Syra’s face. Syra parried with one hand and clapped the other around the back of Cheryl’s head, simultaneously kick-blocking her front ankle and hurling her forward.
Cheryl dove into a forward roll and sprang up with a twisting crescent kick that cracked Syra squarely across the jaw. This was instantly followed by a thrusting kick to her gut and a left-right punching combination that knocked Syra onto her butt.
Momentarily blinded by the impact, Syra rolled onto her back and span with 360º horizontal windmill kicks that swept Cheryl’s ankles and knocked the wind out of her as she landed on her back.
Syra threw a knockout hammer-fist to the temple but it was met with a solid block. Cheryl thrust her fingers into Syra’s armpits and squeezed hard into her pectorals. Syra grimaced with a mix of sensitivity and intense pain. She thrust her knee into Cheryl’s stomach with such force that it sent her backwards; out of Cheryl’s grip and into a standing position.
Syra felt a red mist descend and kicked out as Cheryl’s face. Cheryl defended but took a harsh blow to the arm. Syra repeated the kick and Cheryl caught it, locking Syra’s ankle in place before lancing her fingers between Syra’s thigh and groin, shooting a bolt of electricity through Syra’s nerves and cancelling her balance.
As she dropped, Cheryl moved behind her, slid one arm across her throat and trapped her head into a choke hold. Syra instantly felt the pressure and knew she would soon be unconscious.
Cheryl watched as Syra raised her hands. ‘Oh, no, bitch!’ she hissed, ‘You had your chance—‘
Syra squeezed together the fingertips of each hand and, with one last effort, dropped her arms and thrust her fingertips behind her, jamming them into Cheryl’s lower ribs. Cheryl yelped in pained surprise, which gave Syra just enough room – she turned her head and shot her fingers skyward, carving her own skin as she threaded the gap between her neck and Cheryl’s forearm; breaking the hold.
She twisted on the spot and knocked Cheryl sideways with a reverse elbow shot to the cheek, but the effort caused a choking fit as she gasped for air. Cheryl barged her over and grabbed her shirt.
Dazzled by the sun and struggling to breathe, Syra looked up as the sun was blocked out by Cheryl’s raised fist; a fury of retribution on her sweat-and-dirt-covered face. ’Goodnight, Syra—AAGH!’
Syra started in surprise as Cheryl’s back arched and she spasmed on the spot, as though she’d just touched the third rail of a train track. There was a loud crackling sound and a smell of electricity.
The sound stopped and Syra had to dodge being head-butted as Cheryl collapsed on top of her. She tried to push her off, then sensed the presence of someone else.
‘Now, that was better than pay-per-view,’ said a male voice with a New York Italian accent.
A figure stepped forward. Syra sheltered her eyes from the sun and recognised the handsome Italian man from her flight.
‘Save your questions for later, doll,’ he said, and jabbed a black carbon walking stick into her stomach, ‘and like your friend said: Good night!’
He pulled a trigger and her body went rigid with shock… until she blacked out.
Chapter 5
‘Aches and pains… Aches and pains…’
Cheryl was woken by her own mumblings. She was groggy and stiff and felt bruised in several places. She could taste blood along with an unfamiliar chemical flavour. She also noticed that she couldn’t move.
A warm shiver popped her eyes open and she saw that she was locked into some kind of improvised frame – semi-inclined, a leather bench supported her back but her wrists and ankles were trapped by a network of scaffolding poles and fixed clamps in the shape of a capital I, with shorter bars fixed in tight squares around her wrists and ankles. ‘Fucking Syra!’ she whispered to herself and then froze as she caught sight of Syra, unconscious, in the exact same position just a few metres away.
She looked around. They were in the middle of a high floor in an abandoned office block, lit only by the windows as, presumably, there was no power. Wires protruded from holes in the ceiling and carpet with occasional discarded office paraphernalia scattered about and, against the wall in front of her, sat a small electric generator and what looked like a black walking stick. As her eyes adjusted to the light she looked out the window and could see LA in the distance; not New York as she had assumed.
She noticed the stains of grass, dirt and blood on her mother’s tracksuit then realised that both she and Syra were both still fully-clothed, so this was not an agent of RID’s doing.
Syra stirred and coughed herself awake to find Cheryl watching her. She took a moment to survey the scene. ‘Where are we?’ she whispered.
‘Still in LA. What the fuck happened?’
‘I was followed.’
‘F…? By who?’
‘Some guy who was on the same plane as me.’
‘Oh, awesome(!) And you didn’t notice him tailing you all around the city?’
As Syra tried to shake off her grogginess she rediscovered the cuts and bruises on her face. ‘Give me a break, Cheryl! You seem to be the one who’s obsessed with the idea that I’m perfect!’ She tried to slip free but quickly understood how fruitless the struggle was. ‘I was just trying to bring you in unharmed. I don’t blame you for what you did. I liked Savannah too.’
‘Okay, okay! I believe you.’
For some moments they sat in silence until it was broken by Syra: ‘I never slept with Patrick, you know.’
Cheryl rolled her eyes, ‘Why the hell are you bringing that up now for?!’
‘Because I know it’s one of the reasons you took a dislike to me when we first met.’
‘I didn’t like you because you’ll step on anyone to get what you want!’
Syra was silenced for some moments. ‘That’s true. But I’m working on it. Nobody’s perfect… Not even me.’
Cheryl couldn’t help but smirk. ‘Can we get the fuck out of here?’
‘I’d like that—‘
The sound of footsteps approached and a stairwell door was kicked open. The Italian man stepped in, carrying a flat-screen TV. ’Hey, the MMA sisters are awake!’
‘Well?’ said Cheryl, ‘What the fuck?’
He mounted the TV on an empty wall bracket in front of them as he answered, ’My job is not to explain, honey. I ain’t the ringmaster, I’m the fockin’ lion tamer… Or lionesses tamer in dis case.’ he snorted a laugh at his own joke and plugged the TV into the generator. ‘Your real hosts just arrived, so give ‘em a chance to get up the fockin’ stairs, uh?’
‘How’d you both like my little buzz-stick?’ he asked, lifting the walking stick and pulling the trigger. It flashed with sparks and crackled loudly. ‘It weren’t nearly strong enough when I first got it but, after a few modifications…’ he caught Syra’s indifferent expression.
‘I’m good with my hands. You’d know that if you were awake while I passed the time up here, just the three of us.’ He smiled and combed his hair.
Voices and footsteps echoed from the stairwell and soon the door opened. A burly Italian man sweated his way in and surveyed the room. He acknowledged their captor. ‘Hey, Rocco.’
‘Hey, Petey.’
‘Could you’ve found somewhere with more stairs?’
‘Hey, what the boss wants, she gets. Maybe you should try not wearing a fockin’ leather jacket in the middle of the day in LA?’
Petey pushed the door open, ‘It’s all clear.’
A female voice addressed others outside the door: ‘Wait out here.’
In stepped an attractive woman in her mid-30s. Her eyes were ice blue and her chestnut hair was tied into a ponytail, which emphasised her naturally chiselled features. To Cheryl, there was something familiar about her but she couldn’t place why until the thought occurred to her that she didn’t know whether she wanted to kiss her or slap her… the same way she felt when she saw Susan Rosetti for the first time.
She stood before them, her eyes locked on Cheryl with undisguised hatred. She glanced at Syra.
‘You rough them up, Rocco?’
‘Nope. They did that to each other.’
‘Set it up.’ Without shifting her glare, she indicated to Petey, who handed Rocco a tablet. Rocco plugged it into the TV and turned it on. A caption read Calling G.
The call was answered and the screen was filled by the face of Giada Rosetti. ‘Auntie! Ooh! I can see you’ve got what you came for. Well done, Rocco!’
‘Any time, G,’ said Rocco.
‘You bitches know who I am?’
‘I can take a guess,’ said Cheryl. ‘You’re related to Susan Rosetti.’
‘I’m her daughter, Giada. You’ve already met my mom’s younger sister, Lorena.’
Cheryl looked to Lorena. ’I can see that: you got the blue eyes; Susie got the botox.’
Syra shuffled in her seat, uncomfortable with Cheryl’s judgement of when to serve up antagonism. Lorena stepped up to Cheryl, drew back and, with full force, cracked her across the face with the back of her hand.
‘You’re a funny girl,’ Giada continued, ‘I’m gonna find this funny too. Let’s get started, auntie.’ She sat back and propped her feet up – her dirty soles filling half the screen. She placed a huge bowl of popcorn in her lap.
‘Bring them in,’ said Lorena.
In walked Patrick and Denise. Their wrists and mouth were wrapped with gaffer tape. Both had been beaten but Patrick was severely bruised with one eye swollen shut. Two no-nonsense-looking women pressed guns to their heads as they followed them in.
Syra and Cheryl were dismayed.
‘Listen—‘ Cheryl began.
Lorena pointed to a glass-enclosed office in the corner of the floor. ’Danni, take him in there and, Hayley, bring her here.’
Patrick was led to the office and forced to lie on his front by the barrel of Danni’s gun.
Hayley walked Denise to between Syra and Cheryl, then backed off but kept the gun trained at her head.
‘Tell these sick bitches the rules, auntie!’ said Giada.
‘First rule: obey the rules or he gets shot.
‘Second rule, your friend here is going to torture you both in the same way you tortured my sister, until one of you dies. Whoever’s left standing gets to go down the elevator shaft, just like the twot Susan got rid of…’
Cheryl and Syra looked over their shoulders – in the middle of the floor behind them was an elevator shaft with the doors prised apart.
Lorena directed her next comment into Denise’s ear, ’And if I sense for one second that you aren’t doing everything you can to kill these two…’ she flicked out a switchblade, ‘I will give you a real incentive to do so.’
‘If you are the one who dies laughing,’ she pointed the knife at Cheryl, then indicated Denise and Patrick, ‘then these two go free. That’s it.’
Lorena sliced apart the tape holding Denise’s wrists, then calmly stepped back and sat against the wall.
The room was silent.
‘Get on with it!’ Giada yelled, causing Denise to jump. She took hold of Syra’s frame and pulled it closer to Cheryl’s. It was only then that they realised the frames were mounted on caster wheels.
Denise untied the laces on Cheryl’s trainers and pulled them off. She then removed Syra’s shoes.
Cheryl was wearing her mother’s grey sports socks while Syra had on black cotton ankle socks. Denise couldn’t help but notice the differential between Syra’s size 5 feet and Cheryl’s size 9s and, as she placed her fingertips against Syra’s left foot and Cheryl’s right, she hoped the sock material would give them some protection.
Syra and Cheryl both flinched and braced themselves for what was to come.
Denise’s fingernails began to scribble at their soles. Cheryl held her breath and refused to respond. Syra tried the same tactic but her toes began to clench and flex. Denise worked her fingers in a deliberate up-and-down motion. Syra began to twitch erratically and focussed on ceiling. Cheryl kept her eyes fixed on Giada and her countenance intact but sensed a warm sweat building on her upper lip.
Giada could see Cheryl trying to stare her out but this was a game she’d played with her mother since she was 2-years-old. Her eyes would shrivel into raisins before she blinked! ‘This ain’t shit!’ she said, ‘Take their fuckin’ socks off!’
Denise reluctantly took hold of the cuffs of their socks and peeled them off. She then scribbled her fingers onto the skin of their bare soles. Cheryl stiffened but held her reaction but she could hear the sounds of Syra beginning to crack – her breathing was quick and shallow. Coughs of laughter snuffled from her nose. And, as Denise’s fingernails simultaneously ran over their arches, Syra broke into a stream of titters.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Denise and Cheryl were struck by the fact that they had never heard the constantly stoical Syra laugh before. She’d always avoided being the practice dummy during training and now they knew why.
In a strange way, the fact that Denise was mirroring her attacks on their feet and Syra’s defences had been breached, caused Cheryl to feel as though one of her mental shields had been disintegrated. So, as Denise’s fingernails scuttled up-and-down their skin, when she crossed the arches—a place where Cheryl had never before felt completely susceptible—because Syra displayed her responsiveness to it Cheryl felt an empathic tingle of dread.
As Giada continued to play Eyeball Chicken, she noticed her opponent getting jumpy at specific touches. ‘Focus on the middle of their feet!’ she shouted.
Syra burst into unrestrained laughter and began twisting as much the frame would allow. But Cheryl kept together, as sweat began to bead on her forehead.
This was a bizarre situation for Denise – she’d been tickled against her will before but never had to tickle others against her will! Still, she knew that, for her friend to live, she had to do it. At least until one of them came up with a plan of escape. It unnerved her to see Syra crumble so easily – especially as she was the senior agent in the room.
‘Leave the Indian one!’ called Giada, ‘I want you to do both of her feet at once.’
Denise stepped in front of Cheryl and Syra caught her breath. She took off Cheryl’s right sock and went to work with both hands.
Cheryl’s body tensed and her teeth clenched behind pursed lips. Denise’s expert nails were getting her in all the right places and she knew that if she relaxed even a little, she would start to lose it.
‘Get her between the toes! That’s always a good place!’ ordered Lorena.
Denise wriggled her fingers between and around Cheryl’s beautiful toes. She couldn’t prevent her feet from quivering in response and the reaction began to crawl up her body – from her legs to her thighs to her waist and to her torso. Soon she was shaking all over, but retained her look of defiance.
Giada’s eyes were stinging. ‘Auntie! I don’t think she can do the job properly if they’re padded all over!’
Knife in hand, Lorena immediately went over to Syra, lifted her top, sliced it up the middle, cut the sleeves and yanked it away. She then sliced down the legs of her bottoms and threw them to one side.
She turned to Cheryl and did the same with added vigour, irritated that Cheryl ignored her as she did so. She took a resentful step back. ‘Carry on!’ she said, shoving Denise, who checked her instinct to counter attack.
She between Syra and Cheryl. Syra was now in burgundy lacy underwear while Cheryl wore a sports bra and panties. Denise reached out and grabbed their waists.
Syra displayed a micro-reaction of irritation with herself before succumbing to the sensations. She knew that her waist was one of her most ticklish areas and she melted into laughter.
Cheryl’s instinct was to pull away but she refused to give any clues as to where she was sensitive. She had mastered the art of turning off her innate reactions during the first year of training. Since then, only Savannah had managed to take her by surprise enough to make her laugh and she wasn’t about to break their last bond.
Denise’s fingers crawled across their bellies to the other side and pressed into the flanks of their waists. Syra gave up any hope of resistance and threw her head back with abandoned laughter.
Again Cheryl resisted but was caught by surprise enough to let out an audible sign of an internal struggle and her abdominal muscles tightened and glistened with sweat.
Lorena’s eyes narrowed as she observed minute changes in Cheryl’s expression – her cockiness was seeping away. ‘Higher…’ she said.
As instructed, Denise’s hands moved up their ribcages. Each touch found a vulnerable spot on Syra’s body and sent her into deeper howls of hilarity.
‘Higher…!’
As Denise’s fingers encroached on their armpits, Lorena saw Cheryl’s eyes flit from the screen to meet hers and back again. This told her all she needed to know – this girl was in trouble.
‘Stop!’ said Lorena.
‘What?!’ shouted Giada, tossing her popcorn over the sofa.
‘I want a go,’ she said.
Giada shrugged and indicated for her to go ahead. Lorena shooed Denise away and revelled in leaning over Cheryl, whose eyes remained fixed on the screen.
Lorena began wriggling her fingers as they approached Cheryl’s armpits. Cheryl swallowed and her nostrils flared. Lorena was more than used to recognising the look of someone who was already beaten but hadn’t acknowledged it to themselves. She adored the moment when the realisation hit them. Then her scurrying fingers met Cheryl’s smooth underarms.
Cheryl jolted on the bench. Her muscles strained as she pulled against the unbreakable frame. Her whole body began to shake and her lips quivered into a smirk of regret and humiliation.
Lorena scrambled her fingers faster. Cheryl held her breath until a vein pulsed in her forehead and she began to turn the first shade of crimson.
Lorena varied her pattern of attack and a smile broke across Cheryl’s face. Fingers jabbed into Cheryl’s waist and then switched straight back to her armpits, causing her to lurch forward with a scream of laughter so loud that it closed her eyes.
‘YES, LORENA!’ shouted Giada.
Cheryl fell back and she looked up at Lorena, tears streaming from her dry eyes as she cried through her impotence. The faster Lorena moved her fingers, the more Cheryl bellowed with laughter and squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt at coping with the torture. She thrashed her head from side-to-side in a hopeless attempt to cope.
Syra hung her head. This was not good.
In desperation, Cheryl champed at Lorena’s arm.
‘Woahhhh!’ said Lorena standing back.
Hayley stepped forward with her gun aimed at Cheryl.
‘Hold your fuckin’ horses, Hayley,’ said Giada.
‘I’m fuckin’ horny right now!’ Lorena announced victoriously. She turned to Denise, ‘You – do this to her,’ she indicated Syra and stood behind Cheryl’s head, then went back to torturing her armpits. Cheryl exploded into laughter again.
‘Get the others to tickle their feet!’ commanded Giada. ‘Not the guys, they’ll just feel them up! Hayley: you get Leggy, there. Danni: you’re on the Indian.’
Danni handed her gun to Petey and went to Syra’s feet. Hayley holstered her pistol and looked to Danni. They shrugged to one another then commenced tickling.
Denise joined in on Syra’s armpits, which were not her worst spot, but in conjunction with her feet, she reacted like an electrified wildcat.
Giada relished the sight of these “secret agents” thrashing helplessly side-by-side, by their own methods, while being forced to laugh and in just their underwear!
Syra was overwhelmed. All coherent thoughts were now scrambled as she struggled uncontrollably in the frame; her stomach beginning to cramp from so much laughter. She had never experienced anything like this and didn’t know how much more she could take.
Cheryl was in utter turmoil. She couldn’t stop herself from howling with laughter and the smug, sadistic look on the face of Giada Rosetti was incomparably humiliating.
Hours passed and Giada was glued to the screen. She liked the fact that these women were getting hoarse from their involuntary laughter, but she was also impatient to see them suffer more.
‘Stop!’ she shouted, much to Lorena’s disappointment. Hayley and Danni’s cheeks ached from grinning constantly. Syra and Cheryl were sweating and convulsing from the treatment. ’You, Green Eyes,’ she pointed at Denise, ‘How can we make this more intense? Lorena, take her muzzle off.’
Lorena used her knife to slice the tape around Denise’s head and tore it away. ‘Ow!’ Denise said with undisguised anger but an idea came to her as Lorena laughed it off and leaned provocatively on the square of metal poles that enclosed Cheryl’s wrist.
‘And don’t fucking lie,’ Giada continued.
‘Oil,’ said Denise.
‘What?’
‘Put oil on their feet. It makes the sensation worse.’
Syra and Cheryl looked to her in disbelief – why did she have to tell them that?!
‘Okay, do it,’ said Giada. ‘Who’s got some oil?’
Rocco whistled and tossed a bottle of hair oil across the room. Denise caught it.
‘Where did you find these two anyway, Rocco?’ asked Lorena.
‘At the tall one’s ma’s place.’
‘Perhaps I should pay her ma a visit after this, eh, G?’ she said, drinking in the tearful infuriation on Cheryl’s face as Rocco scrawled down the address and handed it to her.
‘Perfect!’ said Giada. ‘But let’s get this finished first!’ she ordered.
Denise poured the oil into her hands and smeared it over Cheryl’s feet, then Syra’s. She was about to take her position back at Syra’s armpits when Lorena spoke: ‘Show us.’
Denise hesitated but began to tickle Syra’s feet. Syra knew she had no resistance left and a piteous whine swiftly turned into laughter.
Lorena was bored with the length of time this was taking. ‘This is no fuckin’ different from before!’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Giada. ‘You just trying to buy more time, black girl?!’
‘No!’ Denise insisted.
‘Fuck this!’ said Giada. ‘Execute the guy!’
‘NO!’ they cried together. Patrick shouted muffled protests.
Lorena smiled and signalled Petey.
Outside, the sky was softening from bright blue to the first pale orange of dusk. A woman was walking past an abandoned office block when a gunshot rang out from a high floor, causing a flock of seagulls to take flight.
Denise, Syra and Cheryl were frozen with shock. Syra yanked so hard to escape that she almost dislocated her shoulder.
‘I’m gonna fucking kill you!’ Cheryl screamed at Giada and Lorena.
‘Shut the fuck up! Let’s get this over with and if no-one dies in the next half-hour, you all go down the elevator shaft!’ said Giada.
Denise could hardly see through her tears as she was shoved back towards Syra’s top half. On the way, she rubbed her oily hands on Syra’s hands and wrists The torturers retook their positions. they all began to tickle again.
Cheryl and Syra could not have been less in the frame of mind to laugh but their defences were so damaged that they couldn’t stop themselves. They screamed and wailed in protest as laughter washed over them.
Rocco and Petey stood together in appreciation of the surreal but highly erotic scene in front of them and didn’t notice the doors slowly open behind them.
Denise was the first to see her: a tall, African-American woman with skunk-striped afro dressed in a full-on latex catsuit. She was aiming a handgun at Rocco’s head
Petey noticed Denise’s distraction and looked behind him. ‘What the fuck!?’ he shouted and pulled his gun. The woman switched her aim and shot him in the face.
Rocco was blinded by the blood that sprayed into his eyes and she knocked him to the floor with the butt of her gun.
Hayley quickly drew her pistol but the woman dived behind Syra’s frame. Hayley shot twice and missed.
‘What the fuck is happening!?’ yelled Giada.
Danni made a run at the woman and Lorena pulled her knife. As Hayley rounded into view, she found the woman kneeling with her gun pointed straight at her. She was about to squeeze the trigger when Denise dove at Danni and they fell to the floor between them.
As Lorena darted for the woman with her knife raised, Syra yanked both arms with all her strength and the oil helped her slip free from the frame. She made a blind grab and caught a handful of ponytail. Lorena’s head snapped back and she crashed hard onto the floor.
Hayley unloaded at the woman who ran for cover behind the central lift shaft.
Syra sat forward and struggled with the clamps which held her ankles in place. Lorena furiously yanked Syra’s frame back and hurled it towards the open lift shaft.
Denise and Danni slogged it out on the floor until Denise sent a punch skyward under Danni’s chin and knocked her out cold.
As the latex clad woman skidded round the central column she saw Syra’s frame spinning toward’s the lift shaft where a corner wheel dipped over the edge. She reached for a bullwhip and lashed it to catch hold of one leg.
Hayley chased her round the corner.
‘Hold this!’ the woman said to Cheryl and put the handle of the taut bullwhip in her mouth. She then span and dropped, blasting a single shot that took Hayley off her feet.
Syra’s oil-covered hands struggled to gain a grip on the metal clamps. Cheryl pulled as hard as she could but a second wheel tipped over the lip of the shaft and dragged her towards it.
Lorena saw that she was outnumbered and ran for the stairwell only to find her path blocked by Denise. ‘You’re going nowhere, bitch!’
The woman heaved Syra’s frame clear of the lift shaft.
‘Thanks!’ said Syra, still struggling at her ankles. ‘I’ve gotta get these off!’
Cheryl saw something that chilled her stomach. ’Denise!’ she cried, but it was too late to stop Rocco slamming his buzz-stick between her shoulder blades.
Denise screamed in agony and dropped to the floor.
‘Nice one, Rocco,’ said Lorena.
‘You go, L. I’ve got this lot,’ he said as he stooped to collect Petey’s gun and aimed it at the newcomer who had left her gun on the floor. Lorena smiled and ran for the stairs.
Syra stumbled from the frame.
‘You want all of these to take a ride down the lift shaft, G?’ Rocco called.
‘Yeah, why not?’ Giada scoffed. ‘Catwoman first! You can fuckin’ shoot her!’
Rocco cocked the gun but Syra stepped into his sights. ‘I can’t let you do that,’ she said.
Rocco’s patience ran out and he strode towards her, holding the trigger on his fizzing stun baton. When he was within three feet, Syra exploded into action; she grabbed the baton and twisted it from his grip, cracked the gun from his hand with the silver wolf’s head and kicked him squarely between the legs. As he doubled-over and yelled in pain, Syra thrust the cane into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Rocco’s face lit up in a shower of blue sparks as Syra led him, skewered to his own weapon, to the lift shaft. Paralysed, he could do nothing but watch as Syra toppled him backwards along with his mouthful of electricity. ‘Goodnight,’ she said as he lit up the walls of the shaft on his journey into the gloom.
‘Get me out of here!’ shouted Cheryl.
Syra and the newcomer prised open the clamps on Cheryl’s frame. ’Who are you?’ asked Syra.
‘I’m Donna,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Donna.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Cheryl who jumped free of the frame and immediately started stripping Hayley of her clothes.
Syra ran to Denise and made sure she was okay. ‘We have to get back to New York,’ she said.
‘I’m going nowhere!’ said Cheryl.
‘We have to—!’
‘That bitch has my mom’s address!’
Syra considered. ‘Okay.’
‘What about her?’ asked Donna, nodding at the screen.
Giada was still watching them and it was her turn to look less cocky.
‘Oh… her…’ Cheryl aimed Hayley’s gun at the camera and pulled the trigger.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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