A Separate Peace

Sarah started to speak, but her mouth clamped shut to stifle a moan as the small woman's hands seized her breasts and squeezed.

"You can't do this," the faux-blonde groaned.

"Would you expect any less from an animal?" The woman said, as she began to roll Sarah's nipples between her fingers. Again, Sarah was struck mute by the juxtapose, such soft loving hands and such vicious, biting sarcasm.

Sarah closed her eyes, and tried to shut out the sensations and think. This woman was a complete enigma to her, and it was a riddle she had better solve quickly, if she wished to live. But what to do? Her classes in psychology didn't even offer a clue on where to begin untangling the webs, paradoxes and contradictions of the Jackal.

A further complication was her attraction to the woman. Two years of globetrotting to check out each and every rumor had left her with precious little time for a social life. Sarah hadn't had sex in months. Being gay wasn't the problem; it was finding the time and energy to go looking for a bedmate that enforced celibacy. Some agents didn't let being on assignment stop them, for some it was even part of the assignment, but she did and now her body was responding to this woman's touch as if they were long separated lovers reuniting.

Tendrils of warmth spread from her breasts, through her chest and downward. Ripples of pleasure pushed deep thoughts from her mind and spiked as her nipples hardened and her aureoles puckered. The slight woman was taking her time, gently breaking down Sarah's already spotty defenses. Realizing that resisting would be in vain, Sarah relaxed and gave in to the sensations and the moment.

"Won't you free my hands?"

"No. I long to, but if you decided to try and escape, I couldn't stop you."

"At least tell me your name?" Sarah pleaded.

"Ablaa," she whispered, leaning down to press her lips gently to Sarah's.

She parted her lips, accepting Ablaa's warm tongue in to her mouth. Their tongues touched, then pressed against one another, and soon a battle raged in her mouth. Sarah eventually gave up, allowing the dark-eyed woman to leisurely explore her mouth, only occasionally caressing the invading tongue with her own.

Those soft hands continued to knead her breasts, gently squeezing or running the palms over her now stiff nipples. Ablaa smelled faintly of roses, and her mouth tasted sweeter than any candy. Sarah found herself trying to move her arms, but all thoughts of escape were gone, she wanted only to touch her lover back. Ablaa broke the kiss, stood and quickly striped, revealing a body that was every bit as stunning as her face.

Sarah's first impression proved to be right. She had a very slight frame, perhaps not even as tall as a girl of thirteen or fourteen. She was thin as well, so thin her ribs were easily discerned, even from a distance. Despite this, her hips were wide and her ass firm and full. Pendulous breasts, looking far too large for her thin shoulders, sagged under their own weight, but still seemed firm. Between her long legs, she had a heavily furred pussy, but the berry colored lips peeked out from the dark curls. Her skin was a dusky color, one that resembled tea with just a touch of milk, and showed no blemish. Until she turned around.

Her back was crisscrossed with multiple scars. Sarah gasped.

Ablaa looked over her shoulder at the bound woman and shrugged.

"I spent some time as the 'guest' of a wealthy Jordanian merchant. He was a cruel man, but it beat the streets," she explained.

Sarah felt anger kindled in her breast. Anyone who would intentionally mar such beauty deserved to be consigned to the lowest part of hell.

Ablaa returned to the bed and kissed Sarah again. This time there was no hesitation and a quick surrender. Sarah was in no mood to fight, even the tender battle of tongues. Ablaa's small hands returned to her breasts, but they concentrated more on her nipples, teasing the taunt buds until Sarah felt she was going mad. Her back arched, and still she felt as if Ablaa's hands were connected to strings that ran through her nipples and out her back. Every moment they seemed to be pulling harder at those strings, building an unendurable pressure that left her breathless.

Sarah cried out in joy when one hand released the soft orb of her breast and leisurely slipped down her tight stomach towards her then very wet pussy. When it skirted her pubes, caressed her hip and her leg, the blonde groaned in frustration.

Sarah twisted in her bonds, trying to move her mound under that soft hand, but Ablaa continued to caress the skin of her hips, thighs and tummy, studiously avoiding her pussy. Her other hand zeroed in on Sarah's hard nipple, gently squeezing and relaxing, driving the captive woman to distraction. She felt an incredible hunger; all the while, Ablaa kissed her, languidly exploring every millimeter of her mouth. Only very slowly did the Arab woman let the hunger they both felt begin to dictate the pace and passion of that long kiss.

Ablaa eventually broke the torrid kiss and ran her tongue around Sarah's lips, then down her chin, before she began to lick and kiss her way down Sarah's long neck to the small hollow between her collarbones. Ablaa swirled her tongue once in that hollow and then started up Sarah's neck, along the line of her jaw and eventually to her sensitive ear. She breathed a soft warm breath that sent goose pimples along the tall woman's spine.

Tiny teeth nipped the bottom of her ear, driving Sarah to whimper. The sensations were rolling, like a wave building in the sea. They piled up, one on another, melting, blending, adding their energy to the growing mass. Nails scraped along her hip, up her side, and along her outstretched arm. Delicate fingers squeezed and teased her nipple, while a soft tongue and tiny teeth worried her ear. The wave was peaking, towering above the shoreline, when Ablaa's fingers finally slipped through Sarah's damp pubes and touched her slick lips.

Everything crashed in on Sarah, then, as a tidal wave, the sheer intensity of it wiped out every coherent thought in its path. Sarah gasped and arched her back so fiercely that she threw Ablaa off. The slight woman somehow managed to keep her hand between Sarah's legs and vigorously stroking the tall woman's spasming pussy. Sarah tossed her head from side to side and moaned, babbling nonsense words as her orgasm slowly subsided.

Ablaa crawled over her leg and settled between them; Sarah's mind was just beginning to work again, when she felt the small woman's tongue slide between her velvety lips and lap at her inner folds. Intense spikes of pleasure shot through her still thrumming body with each movement of that small tongue. Sarah moaned, thrashed in her bonds as the sensation passed the threshold between outrageously pleasurable and unendurable. Her tall body arched, lifting her hips far off the bed. Ablaa quickly slipped her arms under and around Sarah's body and held on tightly, keeping her mouth centered over her captive's clitoral hood.

She lapped at Sarah's pussy like a kitten, each swipe of her tongue making Sarah jerk and heave. Sarah knew this couldn't last long. She felt the beginnings of another orgasm, the tinge at her back, the rhythmic clenching of her anus and inner walls, the slight buzz in the back of her head. Sarah's clit revealed itself, and Ablaa's tongue found the nubbin. With soft, sure strokes, she carried the tall woman to another massive orgasm.

Sarah was sure she would lose her mind. Starbursts and fanciful patterns of light and color danced on the backs of her tightly closed eyes. Pulses of raw bliss radiated out from her pussy, and the insanely erotic sounds of Ablaa's tongue reverberated in her ears. She barely noticed the slight woman uncoil and get off the bed. Her mind was still suffused with euphoria, when Ablaa threw on her clothes and left the room.

Sarah awoke to the sound of explosions and gunfire. The room was dark and cool, but she had no idea how long she had slept. More gunfire erupted, quite nearby, from the sound of it. She smelled smoke, and was suddenly petrified by fear. Helpless as she was, the thought that part of the building might be on fire froze her heart.

The door opened, and Ablaa glided in, her movements stealthy. She produced a large knife and, for a moment, Sarah thought it was the end. Instead of plunging the weapon into Sarah's chest, the slight woman made two quick jerking motions above her head and Sarah felt her bonds loosen. Two more quick slices, and her feet were free. She sat up in a rush, pulling her limbs free of the now slack ropes. Ablaa reached under the bed and tossed Sarah's clothes into her lap. She also placed the big pistol on the floor.

"Dress quickly and escape if you can. Use the window; you will be killed immediately if you try the inner stair. May God protect you," she whispered, and was gone like a puff of smoke.

Sarah struggled into her shorts and top, her urgency making the simple operation clumsy. Ignoring her socks, she shoved her feet into her boots, jammed the pistol into her shorts, and jumped to the window. She could hear the fire now, a not to distant crackling, and her nostrils were filled with the smell of smoke.

The window opened onto a small courtyard. It was a long drop, but she had no choice. Automatic weapons began to chatter, and she dodged back from the window by reflex. When she realized they were not aimed at her, she stepped over the sill, and lowered herself until she was dangling, with only her hands still gripping the windowsill. She let go and there was a dizzying sensation of motion, before the ground brought her to a painful stop. She fell backwards onto her ass, but a shooting pain told her she has twisted an ankle or worse.

Without time to worry about it, she stood painfully and ran to a darkened alley. A shout behind her in Arabic was followed by the chatter of an automatic weapon and the whine of ricochets. Sarah ran as best she could down the alley, but was followed by another shout and more shooting. She felt a solid thud in her thigh, and her leg gave way, dropping her in a heap.

Sarah tried to stand but couldn't. Her leg was obviously broken. She rolled over and clawed for the pistol, only to find it gone. A robed figure approached her, AK-47 extended from the body. When he was close, she recognized him as the malevolent man from the bazaar and later ambulance.

He shouted something, his face twisted with hate, but his voice was eclipsed by the bark of a gun. The man stood on his tiptoes and then slouched, his weapon clattered on the ground as it slipped from nerveless fingers. Sarah looked up to see an Egyptian soldier, holding his weapon at the ready. Relief flooded her body, and with the let down in suspense came blinding pain.

Sarah sat quietly in the great room, watching the snowfall and enjoying the warm, friendly crackling and popping of the fire in the hearth behind her. Today marked the one-year anniversary of her coming to the U.S. Everything had happened so quickly in the chaotic days after her escape from the terrorist hideout. The clash between Egyptian security forces and heavily armed bank robbers had barely made the news. Only when the identity of one of the three dead was made and he was linked to the militant group Hamas, had interest been garnered.

By that time, she was already back in Tel Aviv and being debriefed. The information she had given them had allowed the IDF to thwart the bomb plot. Sarah had kept the identity of The Jackal to herself, however, saying only that she had met the man briefly and hadn't gotten a good look at him. When her face began to appear on Egyptian television as being a "person of interest" to the authorities in connection with the shootout, she had requested and been granted an early retirement.

Her dual citizenship and some palm greasing in high places had made her immigration process a snap, and she now lived comfortably on her retirement and the income she garnered teaching fat Americans how to ski. Her neatly forged past as a ski instructor in the Alps had made landing the job easy. Sarah had kept the blonde hair and adopted a slight Germanic accent as well as a new name.

Her adrenalin rushes now came from black diamond slopes and moguls rather than bullets and close escapes. This wasn't the life she had envisioned for herself, but she was comfortable. Far removed from the Middle East and the conflict she had dedicated much of her adult life to ending, she found herself less sure of right and wrong. Quiet words spoken by a terrorist had gained even more power as she tried to find an answer. In the end, the only answer she had found was forging a kind of separate peace with it. She now studiously avoided the news and the papers and the talk shows and anything else that served to remind her of it and raise the questions to which she had no answers.

Today was different though. Several papers sat beside her on the ornate chaise longue. Every headline screamed the same bloody and triumphant message. In a predawn raid, acting on a tip from a paid informer, the IDF had killed twenty militants hiding out in the West Bank, last week. Among those killed was The Jackal.

Sarah wondered if her identity had finally been revealed, or if some other surrogate had met a bloody end. The papers quoted numerous sources, but none mentioned how they knew for certain they had finally gotten him. She was almost tempted to call someone and find out, but, after several hours, she had decided to let it lie.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a short woman in a fur coat enter the lobby and approach the desk. Sarah would have given her no notice at all, except for the fact her face was swathed in bandages. It took several burly bellmen to lug all of her luggage to her room, and Sarah felt a ghost of a smile tug at her lips. Another ageing star going under the knife to try to keep her youth and hiding out at Aspen while she recovered, Sarah thought.

American culture was still strange to her, and she often found herself at a loss when she saw the superficiality of it. Last week the hot gossip among the staff had been that the busty woman staying in the penthouse was actually a famous singer recovering from a boob job. The month before, she had tried to teach one of Hollywood's up-and-coming action-adventure stars to ski. She had found him so clumsy and uncoordinated that she would be surprised if he could walk and whistle at the same time, and now laughed to herself every time a tabloid pronounced solemnly that he did his own stunts.

Sarah watched the snowfall for another hour, enjoying the tranquility of the scene, and then headed to her room in the staff wing of the hotel for a hot bath. She had barely finished stripping off her still damp clothes and starting the hot water, when someone knocked on her door.

"What do you want?' she called, wrapping a towel around herself.

"Open up," a deep masculine voice called. She recognized it as Gregory, the head of hotel security. Curious, she opened the door a crack and peered out.

"Hey, girl. Big muckety-muck just checked into eighteen-oh-one; rented the whole fucking floor. She wants to sign up for skiing lessons," he said.

"So? Sign her up. My schedule is at the desk, put her into any of the free timeslots," Sarah said.

"No dice, girly. She wants to talk to the instructor personally. You know the drill; what rich patron wants, the cocksuckers who run this place make sure she gets. Don't forget your nametag," he said sarcastically before turning on his heel and walking away.

Sarah growled in frustration. So much for a hot bath. The only part of her job she didn't like was kowtowing to every idiot who had money. Still, it was a small price to pay, she thought as she dressed. She dug out her nametag, clipped it to her blouse and headed for the elevators.

The eighteenth floor was two floors below the penthouse, and the kind of money someone would have to waste to rent all thirty rooms boggled her mind. When she stepped off the elevator, she was met by a giant of a man. He towered over her and his muscles bulged beneath his black suit coat. His skin was ebony, and his brown eyes traveled up and down her body with undisguised interest.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I'm the ski instructor," Sarah said simply, noting the bulge under his arm that had to be a very large pistol.

"Oh, right. Hang on a sec," he said, and then turned slightly and spoke into the mic clipped to his lapel.

"Miss Brenner is in 1801. She's expecting you."

"Thanks."

Sarah made her way down the hall and knocked on the door. She could feel the security man's eyes on her, but chose to ignore it.

"Come," a voice called.

The room was lavishly appointed, and featured a California king. The woman sat in a chair before the big picture window, watching the snowfall.

"This snow will be good for skiing, will it not?" she asked in a clipped British accent.

"Actually, this snow is no good for skiing; it's too heavy and wet. But there will be plenty of powder when we go out," Sarah replied.

The woman stood and faced her, then laughed. The sound was beautiful, like water cascading down a falls. It was also familiar and stirred something in Sarah's memory, but she couldn't grasp it.

"It's a long way from Cairo, you seem none the worse for the wear," she said in a softer and very familiar voice, the accent no longer British. Sarah was unable to speak; she could only watch as the woman reached up and slowly unwrapped the bandages. The face was different, beautiful still, but softer and less distinct.

"Ablaa?"

"Yes. A new face, but the same tarnished soul."

"How...?"

"How did I find you? Or how did I survive the raid? Or how did I get into the U.S. amid the current hysteria?" she asked with amusement.

When Sarah didn't reply, the slight woman sat back down, facing the window and the tranquil beauty of the snow.

"I allowed myself to be taken by the Egyptians. For once, the stereotypes and expectations of men worked in my favor; they readily believed my story that I was simply the housekeeper. After they released me, I fled to Yemen and paid a call to the best forger in the region, if not in the world. Fifty thousand dollars bought me the identity of Miss Brenner, of Ontario, Canada. I flew there from Yemen with a stop in Switzerland to empty my numbered account. I was on the other side of the globe when the IDF foiled the bomb plot."

She paused, to take a sip of tea before continuing.

"I spent six months in Canada, improving on my identity by buying a house and contributing liberally to charities and political parties, and then applied for U.S. citizenship. I would have been happier in Canada, where there is less prejudice, but I knew I would find you here, so I came."

"But how did you find me?" Sarah asked. The slight woman chuckled softly.

"I'm worth nearly seven million dollars. When you are willing to put up the kind of money I was and you have the contacts I do, nothing can remain a secret for long. Of course, if you had given me a false name, it would have been far more difficult. Don't worry. Anyone else who might have been interested in you is now dead."

"Your brother-in-law?"

"Yes. I told him religion should be kept at a distance, but he gave in to fanaticism and he paid the price for trusting another seeming fanatic."

"Why did you come here?" Sarah asked, sitting heavily on the bed.

"Why indeed," she said looking down.

She was silent for so long that Sarah was about to speak, but Ablaa began, hesitantly, as if searching for words.

"I told you once, a lifetime ago, that once you start down the road of revenge, only death awaits, did I not?"