Liquid Bullets Ch. 02bykromen©
You clicked on this link for any number of reasons, and I thank you. Be warned, this is the second part of a previous story and if you haven't read the first, you'll be lost before the second paragraph. If you are looking for purely stroke, sorry to disappoint you, but this isn't how I get down. Will you rub one out before finishing the story? Very likely, but you'll also want to see how it ends too. Thanks again for taking time to read it and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
Rio. Blazing sun on pale sands and clear waters. Exposed skin of multiple hues, walking, swimming, and cajoling without a care in the world. A perfect pace to fall in love, lose your inhibitions, or plot the ultimate revenge. I was here for the latter.
Stuffed between two tourists on a Southbound flight that took half a day, minus the two hour timezone shift, I had nothing but a duffel bag and a hunch. I think back to the day that was almost my last on this planet, the events playing over and over in my mind like a DVD set on continuous loop.
The mandated therapy sessions didn't help, nor did the liquid burn from a bottle of Agave. I needed answers. Closure. Revenge. Didn't matter the order.
My target was about 5'9', shapely hips, heavy breasts, and full lips painted the color of freshly spilled blood. A tattoo of a dagger on her left butt cheek. That's all I had; a needle in the second largest haystack in Brazil. In her last encounter with me, we made love. In reality, I was forced, hands shackled, clothes cut off by blade, and my life hanging in the balance.
It's been near three months since my abduction by the Succubus Crew. I was the last in a long line of victims. They robbed banks and took men hostage, usually the security guard, leaving their naked corpses for the authorities to find and the news channels to exploit. At first, I thought it to be a test of sexual prowess. Could I have sex with four women and please all of them? I soon learned that they killed whether satisfied or not.
When it was all over, three were dead, one of them by my own doing. I was lauded as the brave hero in the media. What the news didn't, or couldn't, report was that the task force put in place to stop them was outsmarted and almost killed me in the effort. The stolen money wasn't recovered and one got away.
I threw myself into work, becoming almost a Super Cop, closing cases in rapid succession, hiding behind a mask of heroic bravado. I was in line for a promotion, an easy desk job and increased benefits, but I couldn't sit still. I smiled in the faces of my coworkers and superiors, but at night, I was a fucking wreck. I jumped at the shadows, slept with my gun under the pillow, and changed the sheets on a daily basis from the constant night sweats.
I finally took some time off from the squad and after another nightmarish week of sleep sweats and paranoia, boarded the next thing smoking to Rio. I had two leads, albeit insignificant ones. A tattoo and a location. I held these facts from my superiors; they would just fuck it up and it was out of Fulton County jurisdiction anyway. I needed closure. Answers. Revenge. All three ran neck and neck, the finish line well past the horizon.
It's been a week since my arrival and I've been back and forth through the city, learning my way around. I followed the tourist route, going to Sugar Loaf Mountain, taking pictures of Christ the Redeemer. Was he going to be watching when I found her? I blended in with the residents, doing things that were more Carioca than Gringo.
I befriended some locals from the favela close to where I was staying and got introduced to a low-level lieutenant. Once assured that I wasn't causing trouble for his people and his palm was sufficiently greased, he granted me permission to roam and some other favors. I wanted a pistol, but firearms was scarce since the last police raid. With the Olympics on the way in a few years, the battles for control of the city have increased. I kept under the radar, staying in a shitty hotel a few miles from Copacabana, my comings and goings low-key. I became more familiar with the city day by day, everything falling into a steady pattern.
To catch a thief, one must think like one. I spent too many years chasing down criminals around the city not to pick up many traits along the way. I stared death in the eye many time in my short career as a cop. After the brutal murder of my mother by a thief over a few dollars and a maxed out credit card, I made it a plan to rid the world of criminals, one asshole at a time. Graduated near the top of my class, I became a shining star in the department. Not every apprehension went by the books, but I got results. When I made Detective, I chose the Robbery as my forte, hunting down two-bit stick up kids and soulless car jackers before I had my morning coffee.
I've had bullets whiz past my ear, cars try to run me down and gotten stabbed, twice, by fleeing suspects. It just made me fight crime harder. But, this last case. This one stirred up something in my soul that I couldn't excise.
It was mid-afternoon of day seven when the iron got hot and I got to strike. I was sitting on a bar stool of a beach side Kiosk, sipping a Caipirinha. Crowds of people in all layers of dress strolled along the sands of Posto 9. This was a very active part of Ipanema beach. The section "Sofia" kept regaling about while she fucked me. Women in thongs, some with matching tops, others without tops altogether, strolled amongst the multicolored umbrellas. Gay couples frolicked without condemnation from others, openly showing affection. It was just as she described it. Street vendors hawked giant bags of anything, from bikinis and sunblock to ice cold beer.
I drained my cup and was signaling for another when I saw her. Out of all the figures on the beach, hers was the only one not moving. Staring at the ocean, her hands outstretched at her sides, like she was waiting for a hug, a large red swatch of silk in her right hand, blowing in the wind. From such distance, I couldn't tell it was her for sure, but something in my gut told me it had to be. She was close enough to the water that the waves lapped at her feet. People gave her a berth, not paying her any mind but aware of her presence. She stayed like that for more than a few minutes.
The bartender slid a fresh drink in front of me. I slid him some Brazilian Real and never took my eyes off the figure. I've been wrong before; outside the Catedral Metropolitana, on the way from the airport, and the lobby of my own hotel. I saw her in my dreams, and now she was haunting my days at every turn. I kept watching, when she turned towards me and picked her way through the crowd back to the sidewalk. I slid off the stool, and moved between a stand of palm trees for a better vantage point, leaving the drink untouched.
I changed my appearance since the last time we met, letting a goatee grow and shaving my head bald. In my Ronaldo jersey and shades, I fit in pretty well with the crowd. With the exception of my limited grasp of Portuguese, I could have been taken for a resident. Her appearance changed as well. The Rio sun darkened her a few shades and she looked like she was enjoying the local cuisine as much as I did. Her shape was still stunning, just a tad softer on the edges.
She shook out the scarf in preparation of wrapping it around her waist, walking within ten feet of me, head down as she fixed the material. I was able to make out a mark on her tanned cheek before she wrapped up, a tattoo. That fucking dagger! I welled up with muted celebration as I began to follow her, hitching my tiny backpack higher on my shoulder.
I didn't see her face yet, but her figure was scorched in my brain since the day she left me. I wanted to see her before she saw me, so I stayed at her six.
I watched her cross the street with the crowd, moving East down Avenue Vieira Souto. I stayed on the ocean side, walking parallel to her carefree gait. When she stopped to look in a store window or shake out sand from her sandals, I kept going. I use the environments to keep track of her, buying a coconut water, taking a picture of the beach, or tossing away some trash. Without notice, I stiffened. Whether is was the sway in her hips, the shape of her ass, or even the carefree way she ran a hand through her hair, I was at penile attention. I tried to keep casual, but my shorts put me on blast. I got a few stares from female and male alike before slipping my backpack in front of me.
She turned up the street a few blocks later. I waited for traffic to thin and crossed, keeping her in my sight, but not rushing. I tailed her into a neighboring favela, belonging to a rival crew. She obviously had permission to enter, piquing my curiosity about who she knew and her background. The gangs were dead serious about the territories in this city, and without an escort or tribute, I was signing a death warrant. A young kid was handing out fliers to passersby on the street, giving her one too. She looked at it, said something to him and tucked it away in her bag. He smiled and replied. I was too far away to hear the conversation, but it looked like a positive reaction. As he continued up the street, I purposely got in his path to get one as well. I ducked into a corner store and fiddled around with the tourist trap merchandise, biding my time to see if she would reappear. I read the paper and saw it was a promotion for a baile funk street party. The rum and cane sugar taking effect, I swayed slightly against the counter. This wasn't going to work, the alcohol working against my reflexes and my judgment. I left the store and headed back to the room, repeating the mantra, "Best served cold, best served cold."
The sun was setting and people returned to their homes and hotels to get ready for the night, as did I. Gone was the shorts and sandals, replaced with a linen pants and a button down shirt. I checked my readiness kit and and after satisfied that I didn't draw suspicion as I checked myself in the mirror, left the hotel room.
I caught a cab to the Lapa district, lively music blaring from each doorway. The street was a blocked off from traffic, no cars getting in or out till the block party was over. Only the most daring of tourists dared to venture here after dark. The cab driver let me out at the corner and I joined the masses. I lit a cigarette and took in the visual orgy. Beautiful women wearing the tightest of materials, shook their assets while men ogled, some joining in the beat of the baile funk. Just like Hip-hop, it was the music of the struggling middle and lower classes. Children of all ages ran back and forth selling trinkets or begging for coins, making what money they could. It was an open air drug market, little packs of cocaine switched with every third handshake. I picked a spot on the wall and finished my smoke, nodding my head to the beat and pretending to enjoy the festivities
She would be here, like a moth to the flame. The sensuality of the crowd was too enticing for her not to. She wasn't a loner like me, she needed the attention and camaraderie of others.
A half pack of coffin nails later, the crowd was doubled in size, making harder to scope out individuals. I've been in less crowded atmospheres at the Georgia Dome on game day. It was neutral territory, but rival gang members let their presence be known as they flashed their gang signs during each song. A Mexican standoff, things can go from bad to worse in the blink of an eye. I reminded myself to play the lottery when I got back home as she walked no more than a few feet in front of me. I avoided eye contact as she sauntered past, swinging her hips to the drumbeat.
She wore a floral print dress that fell loose around her knees, cut low in the neck, exposing sumptuous cleavage. I took it all in, from the black pumps to the pink ribbon she had tied into the thick mane of hair that flowed off her shoulders. Seeing her face for the first time was no surprise. She wasn't a spitting image of Sofia Vergara, but might have been cut from the last cloth. She had a genuine smile between those full lips, blazing eyes, and a small beauty mark under her eye that was hidden by her mask last time. She could have been famous; she had a recognizable face that should have been on film, or the cover of magazines. Instead, she was a cunt's hair from appearing on the FBI's top ten.
I was surprised that she didn't recognize me, thankful for the cover, but kept up my guard. When she got further away, I pushed myself off the wall and started to stalk. Just like a few hours earlier, she moved without a care in the world, gliding through the crowd with ease, people just seemed to open a path for her. I had to paw and shove celebrants to the side just to keep her within view. Several men tried to entertain her in conversation, but she smoothly rebuffed their advances with a shake of the head and smile before stepping inside a Samba club at the end of the block. I gave her about five minutes before following suit. Before stepping inside, I pulled out a cellphone and made an important call.
The flashing strobes, smoke machines and bouncing bodies of the virile crowd kept me well camouflaged me in the medium sized club. Leaning against the bar, I kept vigil with glasses of coconut water, no more alcohol during this stakeout. This was a club for serious dancers. Only the fleet of foot and keepers of the rhythm allowed on the floor. She was in the center, widening the space around her with each swing in her hips and step of her foot. A new group of new party-goers flooded the dance floor. These guys were different, dressed like the crowd but looks of killers. One by one, they advanced on her whirling torso, challenging her to dance combat. She met the thrown gauntlet, matching their moves, one by one, step by step. When one got spent, a fresh pair of legs replaced him. She loved the attention, all the swarthy Alpha males directing all their libidos upon her. I watched her dance for better part of an hour, she had the stamina of the Energizer bunny.
She stayed within the group all night, taking a few breaks to quench her thirst or catch her breath. She declined their multiple offers for drinks, buying her own. When she hit the dance floor again, her dress was clinging to her body, hair glued to her neck. She was in bliss. The music died down as the club began to close, young guys in yellow Seguranca shirts guiding people out with flashlights and whistles. I left quickly, taking a spot in the alley across the street for a vantage point. The streets quickly began to clear when the music stopped, nothing left but death and sorrow to deal with.
She came out near last, surrounded by her Samba partners. She was full of smiles and laughter, begging off their invitations for another party. One of them waved down a cabbie, even opening the door for her, like a gentleman, as she got in. I stayed to the shadow as they bid her adieu, blowing kisses and shouting out vows of love.
The cab pulled off and I ran back into the alley, cutting over to the main avenue. The street was deserted, no one out but the creatures of the underworld, slinking with the shadows. I reached into the kit fastened around my waist and quickly prepped. I had a slim window to get it done.
The cab crawled to a stop on the corner, idling at a red light when I made my move. A large shrub blocked my presence from the occupants of the taxi and before anyone knew it, I flung open the backdoor and dove inside. Catching her off-guard, I clamped the chloroform soaked towel around her mouth. She fought back, scratching at my face, looking for an eye to poke, putting up a hell of a fight. As soon as her hands fell away from my face, I pushed her head against the window, locking the rag into place, and stuck a hand between her legs.
I felt the hardened handle of her blade between her thrashing fingers and snatched it, ripping it from her grasp and flinging it to the floor. Anyone who thinks that using chloroform is just like the movies hasn't done it firsthand. She struggled for more than a minute before finally succumbing to the inhalant and going limp.
"OK," I said the driver. "Hora de ir". He nodded at me through the rear-view and started to drive. I checked her pulse for a few minutes as we drove, before removing the cloth and going into my bag. Pulling out a syringe, I checked that the contents were still intact before rolling up her skirt and injecting into her thigh. A little treat known as Satan's kiss, it would keep her incapacitated until I was ready.
The cab driver pulled up to the hotel, crawling around the back to the service entrance. He helped me get her out the cab and quietly thanked me as I handed over a thick envelope for him and his buddies. I took the service elevator up to the top floor with my prize slumped at my feet. She smelled sweet, but it could have been traces of the chloroform. After checking that the hall was empty, I hoisted her up on my shoulder and rushed down to the last door on the right.
The rundown hotel had seen better days, but they still had a presidential suite. I chose correctly, as no one wanted to walk up seven flights of stairs since the elevator was suspiciously out of service. I passed out more money earlier in the week to insure that I didn't need or have any interruptions from any employee. She was mine and mine alone.
The sun was high in the sky by the time she awoke, bound to the bed and blindfolded. Each limb strapped down independently to it's own corner of the queen size bed. She was still dressed in her clothes from last night, except for the pumps, which lay in front of the dresser with her purse. I stood over her, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand, honey roll in the other. I didn't sleep yet, much work had to be done before the drugs wore off. I stifled a yawn.
"Ola?" she moaned, throat obviously dry. "Quem esta la,?" Her Portuguese was quite good. She still didn't realize who took her or she would have used English.
I smiled, taking a sip of the excellent roast. She coughed once, testing the bonds on her wrists and ankles. She knew of my presence, sniffing at the aroma of coffee, turning her head to the sounds of my sips. I put down the late breakfast and took a step to her bedside. The sun stood at my back, shining brightly on her trussed figure. I removed the blindfold and stood back. She rapidly blinked, trying to focus on my image.
"Quem e voce?" My disguise worked better than expected. She had no idea it was me.
"Mi Amor." I said, feigning surprise. "How can you not recognize your greatest lover?" I moved away from the sun so she could verify the face attached to the voice. "You." she gasped, fighting against the ropes to no avail. She started to produce a scream, but I presented her favorite toy with a deadly snap. "This blade, is sharp." I raised a piece of paper and sliced through it with ease. Did it more for my benefit than hers. She quickly held the outburst in her throat, swallowing with tremendous effort.
"Please." she quieted down. "You must understand..." she tried to find words, but I stopped her with two fingers against her soft lips.
"First things first." I sat on the bed next to her. "Name."
"Abila." Very good. She was quick with her answer, a sign of the truth.
"Well, Abila. I'm Chris, but I think you knew that. All of Atlanta knows the name of the one that got away from the Succubus Crew." I rubbed the side of her cheek with the back of my hand. "Such a stupid fucking name, I always thought so."
She opened her mouth to speak, but I hushed her again.
"How did you escape?"
"Luck." She went into detail of her narrow escape through the dragnet. After she was through with me, she left in a second vehicle, with the money. She went to fill up the gas tank and get some supplies for their exit, expecting to make a clean getaway. Luck was truly on her side as she got caught up in rush hour traffic. A sheriff's road block diverted her from the mayhem and instead of investigating, she just took off. I let her talk, but didn't pay too much attention. I watched the rise and fall of her chest, the movement of her lips with a peek of tongue in between words. Even in distress, her sensuality took the lead.