A Swallow's Bite Act 03

"Give it a quick once-over anyway."

Security guards, she gasps to herself. The gag smothers any attempt to cry out. She yanks on the chain making it rattle. Hissing machinery, yelling and tramping echoing footsteps drown it out.

"Secure that door," a man yells. "There's nothing in here."

"Nothing but a dead Swallow," Dominika mutters as the rollup door grinds down and slams shut with an echoing boom.

S.P.R. REPOSITORY, SECURITY OPERATIONS CENTER.

Three police cars come to a skidding stop in the snow. Mike Pastor's car is right behind. Parked haphazardly around a low cement structure are a dozen trucks and emergency vehicles. Blue lights flicker off Sveta's face as she follows Pastor into the building.

"Who's in charge here?" Pastor barks.

A uniformed man steps from the half dozen men mulling around the small room. "I am. Gene Acres, Security Chief."

"Mike Pastor, Central Intelligence Agency. What's the update?"

"Security teams are searching every inch of the grounds. So far, they report nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary."

"Bullshit," Sveta says. "She's here. I know it."

"She? Who's she? Who's here?" The man looks at Sveta then at Pastor. "What's with the foxy broad?"

"She's with me," Pastor says. "I'll explain later."

"What is this?" Sveta shouts at Acres. "A fucking sewing bee? Why are you standing around? Where's the bomb disposal teams?"

"Five minutes out."

"Why aren't you searching? Don't you know . . .?"

"Lady, this is a forty acre complex. I got only a few men and --."

Sveta hooks her thumbs in her pockets. "Listen Mister Green Acres. We have credible information that there are fucking dirty bombs planted all over this fucking place. You keep screwing around and your little slice of heaven will explode in a fucking fireball bigger than Mt. Vesuvius."

The tenseness in the room quadruples.

"Now, unless you wanna be a radioactive Crispy Critter you'd better turn some mother-fucking screws."

"Lady, we're doing all we can," Acres says. "Believe me I recognize the danger. If nothing is found in twenty minutes, I pull the plug and order a general evacuation."

"Bullshit. You there? You got a passkey?"

A skinny security guard nods.

"Get your butt over here."

"Wait lady," Acres says. We got rules around here."

"I play by my own rules," Sveta snaps. She points to the skinny guard. "C'mon you're with us. Let's go Mike. We got twenty minutes and I smell Dominika's scent."

THE GROUNDS.

Outside, Sveta glances around the snowy complex. Although accustomed to the brutal Moscow winter, Sveta shivers as her cowboy boots attack the ankle deep snow. Searchers, security guards, and bomb disposal teams in thick body armor dart from building to building. Radios crackle orders, indicating sectors unsearched and sectors checked and rendered clean. High above a military helicopter circles, its brilliant spotlight illuminating the search teams that scurry around like ants.

OUTSIDE PUMPING STATION 69.

"Attention! Attention all Security Personnel and others on the special," a loudspeaker cracks through the snowy night. "This is a general evacuation order. All search teams report immediately to their vehicles. You are commanded to withdraw. All personal report to checkpoint Whiskey. This is no drill."

"C'mon Sveta," Mike shouts from twenty feet away. "That means us too."

"What about in there," Sveta shouts back.

"We've already searched it," the skinny security guard says. "It's clean."

"Well we're gonna search it again."

"I told you, Lady. It's clean. We've been ordered to pull out, so I'm doin' just that."

Sveta cocks her hips. "You're not going anywhere mister."

"Hey, I don't take orders from you. Who the hell are you anyway?"

Sveta puts her face close to his. "Listen flatfoot. I'm freezing cold and I got no time to fuck with you. My informant said something about the number sixty-nine. If you're too scared to search it again, hand over the fucking key."

"Here you go Lady. I got no interest in being blown to bits, burned alive or glowing from atomic poisoning, so I'm outta here."

"Chicken-shit creep," she mutters as she charges toward the dark building. As she approaches the rollup door, Sveta hears the thump of footsteps in the snow.

"C'mon Sveta," Pastor says. "My superiors will roast me alive if I don't play this by the book."

"You go. I can't read English, so I'm searching for Dominika."

He grabs her arm. "Oh no you're not."

She twists away. "Yes I am. We're wasting time. I'm going in."

"Don't make me force . . ."

"Hey, if you want to stop me, shoot me."

He stares at her not knowing what to do.

Sveta steps closer to him. "Look Mike. I know it's risky, but if you prevent this from happening, you'll be everybody's hero."

Pastor glances down at her nipples then rolls his eyes. "Okay. Give me the key."

She drops it in his palm. Frantically he tries to insert it into the keyhole. "My orders were to keep your ass out of trouble. Now I'm up to my ass in trouble, big trouble."

"Look at the bright side. We're standing on a million barrels of flammable crude oil with a radioactive time bomb in the immediate vicinity."

"That's the bright side?"

"This is. I think you got a cute ass."

"I'll remember that as I'm being burned alive."

He twists the key. Motors grind and the door begins to lift upward.

"Mike, if we don't make it, I just want to say thanks for the attempt."

"Just my weak effort at international relations. Let's make this quick."

They duck under the door and flick their flashlights on. Sveta cups both hands around her mouth. "Dominika!" she yells into the dark cavernous building. "Dominika?"

Nothing responds but the sound of hissing machinery.

She turns to Pastor. "You search right, I'll search left."

"Okay," Pastor says. He lopes off muttering, "I gotta be out of my fricken mind."

Sveta darts around a huge pipe, then another and another. Her boot soles skid as she freezes. The device and Dominika sit ten ominous feet away. "Mike!" Sveta manages to shriek. "Over here quick! I've found her!"

Dominika squirms helplessly as Sveta approaches.

"Dom? Dom baby? Are you all right? Please say you're all right." She feels Pastor at her side.

"Fuck," he mutters gazing at Dominika's blood-soaked crotch then the bomb. "What kind of maniacs did this?"

Sveta's eyes jerk to the timer. It reads: 00:00:55 . . . 00:00:54.

"I'll get the bomb guys back here," Pastor croaks, his mouth dry as dust.

Sveta shakes her head. "There isn't time. You know anything about bombs?"

"Just what they taught me in spy school. Don't mess with 'em."

"Some help you are."

Dominika squirms trying frantically to choke out words through the gag.

"In a minute babe," Sveta says. "C'mon Mike. Think of something, quick."

"Can't we just unplug the damn thing?"

Dominika kicks Sveta's shin. She squats down, yanks off the gag and pulls the cloth wad from Dominika's mouth.

"Left side," Dominika rasps, "control panel, under a little door."

Cautiously Sveta finds the door. Her pink-nailed fingers lift it open. Six knobs and a like amount of switches greet her terrified eyes.

"Careful," Pastor cautions. "Good chance it's booby-trapped. Move any one of them and it might explode."

Sveta looks over her shoulder. "If we don't do something, it WILL explode, in-in like 35 seconds."

"Dammit, I should have taken sick leave when I had the chance. Okay, go ahead."

"But which one?"

"Center one looks like a likely candidate."

Sveta looks at Mike, leans forward and kisses him on the mouth. "For luck."

"Hey," Dominika rasps. "I know you two are in love, but the bomb?"

Crouching next to the ticking machine, Sveta reaches her shaking hand toward the center knob. Her fingers close around it. Her left index finger curls around Dominika's finger and hugs it tight. She looks at Pastor. "Turn it to the left or right?"

"This thing's made in Russia and you're asking me?"

"I think they turned it to the left," Dominika says. Try the opposite way."

Sveta frowns. "If you're wrong, I'll be very pissed."

Sveta closes her eyes. There's a soft click as she turns the switch. The readout blinks to STANDBY. The ticking stops.

ROOM 307, CEDAR VALLEY LODGE.

Opening the door to the connecting suite just a crack, Dominika watches. The connection of their eyes guides their faces toward each other's. Muscles tense as arms fold in a soft embrace. Lips lock onto lips. Mike Pastor's hands slide across the thin white pants that cling tightly to Sveta's backside. They aren't just kissing -- they're devouring each other. The sight isn't exactly painful, Dominika thinks. Sveta really fancies this guy and he's enthralled with her. Who wouldn't be? Sveta is a prize. Besides, having a friend with close connections to the CIA never hurts a girl's espionage career.

Between their clenched bodies, Mike Pastor's hand drifts from the hardness of Sveta's ass to the softness of her breast. Beneath her gray sweater, both are as free as she is. His fingertip rolls a nipple until it's hard. Their mouths break apart. Sveta smiles impishly as she lifts the camisole top over her head. Brown-nipped breasts stand high, beckoning for his loving hands. Employing the Swallow's standard "come and get it" look, Sveta slips the bun-hugging pants down an inch.

Pastor's breath catches. "I didn't think you were wearing any," he whispers.

"Swallows never wear any," Sveta says with a mischievous giggle. The stretchy pants come off with little effort. She doesn't bother taking off her boots. Comfortably nude, Sveta goes to work. As his hands drift down her bare back she unbuckles his belt and slides his pants down. His shorts follow. Lowering herself to her knees, her mouth closes over his cock.

He does have a nice ass, Dominika chuckles to herself as she silently shuts the door.

ROOM 309, CEDAR VALLEY LODGE.

Dominika crosses the hall and opens the room with a passkey, easily commandeered from a horny desk clerk. She sniffs the air instantly recognizing Tomiko's perfume. In prison, she won't need the clothes that hang on an open clothes rack. The briefcase sits in a corner. There are two clicks as she opens it. Rummaging through its contents reveals scribbled notes, used airline tickets, maps, and an open pack of chewing gum and a box of Gummy Bears. Something catches her eye. She unfolds the paper. The communiqué is in Russian. Each word makes her blood run cold.

Roughly translated, the communiqué means: "On-sight GRU agents confirm that al-Gama'at al-Islamiyya has six more Cobra Fangs hidden in Afghanistan.

Dominika's eyes widen as she looks up.

"Viktor is on the loose," she whispers breathlessly.