Amanda, CIA Agent Ch. 10

The bartender came over, polishing a glass with a towel. "What'll you have?"

One corner of his little mouth quirked down. "We're leaving." He turned and walked out.

"Sorry," said Amanda, putting down a twenty and a five and hurrying after him. Was he heading for the reception desk? Did he mean to get a room? She'd worried about just such an outcome, which was why she hated meeting men at hotel bars. She didn't need extra opportunities for them to engage in wishful thinking.

"Shane, wait up."

He turned, and when she caught up, he put his arm around her back, delivering a full-on, underhanded, lingering grope of her breast. The young, well-dressed man headed toward them saw it and gave a grinning thumbs-up.

She shoved him away, nostrils flaring.

The reception clerk looked up with a welcoming smile, but Shane kept going, his long stride never faltering. Amanda huffed, but after a moment, she followed him through the automatic door.

The partially filled parking lot was brightly lit by a single mercury vapor lamp on a tall pedestal. Beyond it, in the far corner, Amanda saw her gleaming black Mercedes, parked facing out, angled across two spaces. She told herself the drinks were weak, and she was ok to drive. But before she left, she had to convince Shane to help her.

Directly under the lamp pole, he stopped and turned, slouching against a Ford Fiesta, whose aging paint had once been red. "Did you like it when I fondled your breast in public?"

She glared at him. "No."

"That's how I felt last year, when I asked you to my room for the third time, and you acted like I was pestering you."

Because you were, she thought.

"You know you're gonna get fucked, right?"

She looked back at him, her chin panning slowly left and right. In what sense did he mean, 'fucked'? Figuratively, as in 'screwed over', which lately happened daily? Or literally, which occurred with greater frequency?

"Take off your dress."

She thrust out her jaw, feeling the bite of her intended harsh reply on her tongue, but she snapped her mouth closed before it escaped. She was certain now: In addition to his obvious lust, he was envious of her leading role, despite his own success. Of course, he'd put her in her place.

But not out here, in full view, told herself, pulling at the locked passenger door.

"No. Right there, right now."

She stood rigid, biting her lip.

"Ok, have it your way." He opened the driver's door, climbed in, and turned the key. The engine cranked repeatedly, then caught, emitting a continuous farting noise she associated with a blown muffler.

He shifted into reverse.

"Wait!" She looked at him through the passenger window, pounding on the roof with her open hand.

He shifted back to Park, switched off, and climbed out, circling around to rest his back against the light pole. "Go ahead, then."

She looked around. Behind her, a well-dressed couple headed for the entrance, probably bound for Chez Matisse, the harsh light giving her pretty dress a greenish cast. Beyond them, an Audi pulled in and parked. It was 7pm now, prime dining time, and the lot was starting to fill. Yet Shane's weathered Fiesta remained alone within its brightly lit perimeter, as though it had a contagious disease.

She decided she had no alternative.

Setting her handbag at her feet, she reached behind herself, fumbling for the tiny tab of her zipper, until Shane stepped forward and ran it down. "Thanks," she said without thinking. Slipping it off her shoulders, she shimmied it down her hips, careful to avoid dragging the hem through the oil stains and cigarette butts.

She clutched the dress to her chest. Behind her, the Audi couple's happy chatter died. The woman took the man's arm and pulled him toward the door.

Shane extended his hand, and reluctantly, she gave him the dress. He roughly wadded it up.

"Careful, it's Dior."

"I bet. I saw your S Class in the corner." He tossed the dress onto the dirty floor of his car.

Shivering in the cool air, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts, rubbing her bare legs together in a futile effort to generate warmth. Her head swung back and forth, tracking each new car for a few seconds before noticing another, trying to ignore the fitful patter of excited interjections and low undertones behind her. She looked down at her bottom, completely exposed but for the narrow fabric triangle covering the inner edges of her rounded cheeks, doubtless the subject of discussion.

Like her panties, her bra was white lace, conventional in its practical simplicity, yet, as she had learned, nearly as powerfully, compellingly erotic as the more ornamented confections she favored when dressing for the male gaze. Despite her growing awareness of her body's ability to arouse intense lust, she still credited her lingerie.

His eyes consumed her barely covered form. "Give me your bra."

She reached for her backstrap, then hesitated with her fingers grasping the hooks, looking back over her shoulder. People would see.

Was she really going to let herself be humiliated? If he drove off, she'd have to decline her coveted leadership role. She needed him.

Wincing, she disengaged the hooks and shrugged out of the bra, draping it over his outstretched hand as she covered her breasts with her forearm.

He pulled her arm away, letting his eyes feast on her bare breasts as he slowly shook his head. "You are so getting fucked." He reached out, handling both her breasts as though he owned them.

"Yes, you've made that abundantly clear."

"Pull down your panties."

Rolling her eyes, she slid the elastic down her legs, again being mindful of the dirty pavement as she stepped out of them, then hung them over his extended finger. He rubbed the soft fabric between his finger and thumb, then stuffed them inside his car.

When she glanced over her shoulder, she spotted a kitchen worker edging forward, holding a glowing cigarette, halfway between them and the entrance. He stopped, but when she looked away, he moved forward again.

"Hands and knees. No, facing away."

She chose a spot, brushing away gravel and detritus with her shoe, then carefully knelt, pitching forward onto her palms.

With the streetlight behind her, people could see. Her breathing quickened.

"Knees apart."

Gingerly, she shifted her weight, feeling the tiny stones in the asphalt abrade her knees, until her thighs were spread wide.

"Face on the ground."

With a sigh, she flicked away a cigarette butt, then lowered her head until her cheek rested on the pavement. Her long, silky hair, freshly brushed, trailed through an oil stain, and she wrinkled her nose.

Between her parted thighs, she could see a knot of men and women gathering to one side of the hotel entrance, murmuring and pointing. In the foreground, the kitchen worker edged closer, the smears of food now visible on his dirty apron. She felt heat on her face.

Shane put his hands on her hips, but instead of kneeling behind her, he stood astride her and squatted. She felt his crown between her labia, moving forward and back, then he slid inside her.

"What do you say now, Amanda? Still too good for me? Or are you getting more in touch with your true whorishness?"

His hard thrusts rubbed her soft cheek in the dirt, and she raised her head, only to have him grab her neck and force her face back to the pavement. She mewled, bracing herself with her hands and moving her bottom backwards in time with his hips.

The kitchen worker stood closer now, and beyond him, the knot of spectators grew. While she watched through the space between her thighs, the reception clerk came out, took one look, and went back inside. Shane still hovered over her, maintaining his rhythm but doing nothing to obstruct the spectators' view, and as she confronted her humiliation, she realized how wet she'd become.

The kitchen worker continued to inch forward, and now she could make out his features in the shadow of his paper hat. He had his hand in his pocket, and appeared to masturbate as he stared openmouthed at her naked body.

Amanda moved her hand between her thighs and began to rub her clitoris. Watching the crowd, she felt her core tightening around Shane's cock, and soon her throaty moans announced her climax.

"Ah, there you are," said Shane. "There's the real, slutty Amanda everyone's been telling me about." His pace quickened, and his grunts heralded his orgasm.

He was still inside her when she saw the blue and red flashing lights.

* * *

The Farm, Camp Peary, Virginia, February 2008

Three weeks later, Amanda led her group of trainees to a clearing at the top of a gentle rise, overlooking a sparsely wooded slope. Each carried an M-16 rifle.

She waited until they all stood in a cluster around her. "Blair, demonstrate the prone firing position."

He lay down and lined up with the target. After dry-firing twice, he chambered a live round. Aiming carefully, he controlled his breathing, then squeezed the trigger. He missed.

"That's ok. Stand up. No, watch your muzzle, never let it touch the ground. Now, watch me." Holding her own rifle, she lay prone. "Note how level my shoulders are." Taking aim, she fired, putting her round through the center of the target.

She turned her head. "Julian, watch my shoulders, and my rifle, not my butt. Lauren, you go next."

As Lauren sent a bullet through the outermost ring of the target, Amanda noticed Ciara edge closer to Julian and speak to him in a low tone. From the set of her jaw, she wasn't pleased, so unlike her happy expression leaving Julian's room early that morning as Amanda set out for a run.

Turning her attention back to Lauren, Amanda saw neither of her following shots were any closer to the bull's eye. "Trevor, show us again how it's done."

An hour later, as she led the group back inside, she remembered she still needed to follow up with Shane. She'd procrastinated about seeing him, but their surveillance exercise was coming up, and details remained to be finalized. However, she still didn't know how she'd manage to be civil after what he'd done a few weeks earlier, in the hotel parking lot. While the cop was arresting Amanda, he'd driven off with her clothes.

But before she dealt with Shane, the class had to finish reviewing the trainees' bump attempts. When everyone was seated, she opened her laptop, connected it to the projector, and chose a file called Sabrina Rodriguez Bump 02 08 2008.mp4.

The video showed Harrison Currin sitting at a table in a nearby Arby's, eating a sandwich. Harrison was a senior CIA area manager who'd volunteered to play the part of a Department of Defense official in a fictitious foreign country. He'd suggested he was serving for altruistic reasons, but Amanda knew his true objectives were to scout for new staff and to make a play for the most luscious women among the new hires.

While they watched, Sabrina approached Harrison, wearing a bright red, figure-hugging dress and holding an orange tray. "Mind if I join you?"

Amanda thought it was early in the day for such elaborate eye makeup, but she had to admit, the effect was dramatic.

Harrison looked her up and down, then smiled. "Be my guest."

She pulled out a chair across from him and sat down. "Is that the brisket sandwich? I hear it's good."

He licked some barbecue sauce from the corner of his mouth. "Delicious." He pointed at the medallion attached to her key ring, conspicuously deployed at the center of the table, which featured a letter V above a pair of crossed swords. "Cavalier alumna?"

"Class of 2006. You too?"

"Class of 1985. Watching the big game tonight?" He flicked his eyes toward her chest.

"Wouldn't miss it. I'll be watching on my laptop though." She pouted.

"Come join me at my place. I've got a 65-inch TV."

She rewarded him with a dazzling smile. "Deal."

He broke character then. "Good job." He handed her an evaluation sheet showing perfect marks.

Amanda stood up. "That was one of the shorter bumps I've seen, but it was effective."

"Not really fair, though, when you look like Sabrina," said Julian. "If it were me, he wouldn't have been so quick to invite me home."

Sabrina's face darkened. "I can't help how I look. It's not like I flaunted my body or said anything suggestive."

"What about after you got to his place?"

"Julian!" said Ciara, hitting his arm.

"He didn't give me much choice," said Sabrina, looking away. "He's twice my weight. Once he was on top of me, I couldn't push him off. Anyway, I had to recruit him, didn't I?"

"Too bad you don't have video of that part, Amanda. It'd be a lot more instructive, at least for the girls. Although I am curious to know what her bra and panties looked like, just to see how far Sabrina's willing to go for her country. Not that it's much of a question at this point."

"Asshole," said Sabrina.

"Moving right along," said Amanda. "Here are your team assignments for your surveillance and dead drop exercise. Shane and I will be your instructors. Beside your team captain's name is the address of the safe house I've rented for your team. Don't get excited, they're studio apartments, since my budget is modest and Newport News inventory is limited. Sorry, girls, don't expect privacy or separate beds. And remember, they have their share of bad neighborhoods, so be careful."

* * *

Newport News, Virginia, February 2008

Two days later, Amanda sat atop a tall wooden crate, pulling her heavy wool coat tighter against the draft, keeping her eye on the doorway across the street. Her observation post was in a vacant, unheated office suite, and wind whistled through gaps around the old windows.

To the west, across the bay, the last glow of the setting sun faded, but light spilled onto the street from a row of shops and fast-food outlets. They did a brisk trade with the local residents and blue-collar workers employed by the shipbuilding company that dominated the waterfront.

She checked her watch. Three more hours until Shane relieved her. There had been no visible activity in the apartment across the street for the last hour, but light still showed through the window. Earlier, she'd seen movement, and raised her binoculars in time to see Ciara with a towel wrapped around her, shampoo suds visible in her hair, gesticulating at Trevor and Blair, who apparently had stolen a peek while she showered.

Now that it was fully dark, she expected someone to exit any minute. Blair and Julian had already made their dead drops, so only Trevor and Ciara remained.

According to Shane, Blair had demonstrated exceptional tradecraft, and he'd managed to place his marked envelope inside his dead drop without being detected. But Julian was not as skilled, and Amanda had caught him early that morning as he made his drop beneath a loose paver in a dark corner of a nearby park. Now he was out of the program and on the blacked-out bus, headed back to a desk job at Langley.

Ciara and Julian had become an item, but more recently they'd appeared to quarrel, and now Amanda wondered if Ciara was sorry to see him go, or glad to be rid of him. From what she could tell, his departure hadn't improved her mood. Or maybe she just wasn't relishing sharing a bed with her two remaining teammates.

She spotted movement in the street, and watched a petite form in a hooded parka turn toward her and hustle down the sidewalk. There you are, Ciara, thought Amanda, rushing for the staircase.

She made it to the street in time to see the back of Ciara's head just before she turned the corner. Amanda moved as fast as she dared, slowing as she made her turn, then hurrying again when she saw her quarry well ahead. Amanda intended to do her utmost to track her, but she'd stuck her neck out for Ciara during Selection, and now she wanted to see her succeed.

Amanda followed through a series of twists and turns as Ciara doubled back and used storefront reflections to check for tails. Amanda hoped she hadn't been spotted. Ciara was quick, and imaginative in the tricks she employed, so it was wise not to underestimate her.

Inside the shipyard, a change of shift was approaching, and the streets grew busier. Ciara made another turn, and when Amanda reached the corner, she was nowhere to be seen. Amanda was on the brink of concluding she'd lost her student when she saw a small figure in grey coveralls put on a yellow hard hat. The height and build stood out in a sea of taller, heavier men.

As she struggled to keep pace, Amanda fought a torrent of workers streaming out of the shipyard gate, many wearing yellow hard hats and coveralls. Her target joined a narrower line of employees entering beneath a pair of signs reading, 'Hard Hat Area' and 'Authorized Personnel Only'. Amanda got rid of her coat and joined the line. Her dark sweatshirt and jeans didn't look out of place, but she felt conspicuous without a hard hat.

A jowly man wearing three days' worth of grey whiskers headed the other way, paused to look her up and down, then locked eyes with her. Making a snap decision, Amanda stepped out of line. "How much for your hard hat?"

The man cackled. "Free, if you give me a feel."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, then stepped backward into a doorway. "Go ahead."

He pawed at her breasts through her sweatshirt as she shifted impatiently, holding down the hem when he tried to reach beneath, and feeling more demeaned than she expected. After a few beats, she pushed him away, ignoring his lewd commentary and tugging at the hat until he released it. She put it on and ran for the gate.

Once inside, she panned left and right, searching. To her right, the colossal expanse of Dry Dock 12 stretched for more than a quarter of a mile; Amanda knew a new aircraft carrier, the Gerald R. Ford, was under construction there. Extending along its length was an equally vast array of buildings and sheds housing raw steel plates, bending and shaping machinery, and partially completed blocks destined to become part of the ship.

Once again, Ciara's short height made her easy to spot. When she turned to scan the crowd, Amanda saw her face. Gotcha, she thought.

Amanda followed her into a rabbit warren of spaces, moving through brightly lit assembly areas with cascades of sparks streaming from grinders and cutting tools, and passing machinery, mountains of steel plate, storage buildings, offices, locker rooms, and showers. From each main aisle sprung unmarked side paths. At intervals, staircases led to hanging catwalks.

A worker accosted Ciara, blocking her path. Amanda couldn't hear their exchange, but she saw her annoyed expression before she ducked beneath his arm and rushed ahead.

As Amanda followed, she tried to maintain her sense of direction, but it was impossible. How could Ciara know the way?

Obviously, she couldn't. Initially, she must have had a plan, but now she had lost her bearings.

She saw Ciara hesitate, then move deeper into the complex. Some areas they passed seemed deserted, but periodically, they encountered clusters of workers, some of whom stopped to watch her. The noise level rose, the building shook with the vibration of heavy machinery, and the air became warm and stale, with a burnt odor. Lights hung here and there, but in between lay long stretches of deep shadow.

Now two workers followed close behind Ciara. Increasing her pace, she turned left, between two tall rows of stacked pallets. But after a short distance, the path narrowed and came to an end.

As Amanda watched from the main aisle with increasing dread, the two men trapped Ciara between them. As she grappled with one, the other used a box cutter to tear her coveralls to shreds.

Amanda could see Ciara held something heavy in her hand, and when she finally freed her arm, she struck the man in front on the jaw, and he went down. Pulling free of the remains of her coveralls, she rounded on the man behind her. He backed away.