Spy Games Ch. 21

Note for publisher. This story includes italics and centering.

Read chapter 9 of Realtor Revenge to see the events of this chapter of Spy Games from Raven's point of view.

***

Spy Games

Chapter 21

"Wake up. We got us a situation."

It was 6:00 am. Or at least I think it was. The simple task of opening my eyes sapped most of my strength, leaving very little for focusing on the bedside clock.

"What's the matter Alpha? You getting too old to fight all day and fuck all night?"

The only thing that kept me from throwing a roundhouse punch directly into Flanagan's nose was the soft warm body pinning my right arm to the mattress. Janis barely stirred as I un-spooned from our standard sleeping position and rolled off the bed.

"You too sleeping beauty," Flanagan said as he tried to roust Janis from her slumber. "This is going to be an all-hands-on-deck event."

After a bit more prodding, Janis rolled over onto her back and stretched her arms over her head. If the thimble sized protuberances trying to poke through her thin nighty were any indication, she was having a particularly enjoyable dream before she was so rudely roused.

"Quick looking at my tits and go make us some coffee," she told Flanagan as she sat up.

"Sixty-nine's already on it," he said.

"Then go help her. She's the only girl I know that can burn water."

"Yes ma'am," Flanagan said giving Janis a mock salute. "But don't bother getting dressed."

Not knowing what size scorpion had crawled into Flanagan's jockey shorts, we peed, brushed our teeth, and joined our kinky housemates in the kitchen wearing nothing but our bathrobes.

"Okay. We're here. What's the damn emergency?"

"Raven wants to dig up the grave," Flanagan said.

"That's what you woke us for? She said the same thing the last time she saw Janis. Just take her out to the pasture again and show her how much higher the weeds have grown."

"I don't think that's going to work. You really spooked her last night, and she insists on putting eyes on Janis' dead body."

"Well, that's just not going to happen. There's no way we're putting Janis back into that coffin. Just tell Raven no."

"I tried and got the feeling that if I didn't help her, she'd dig up the grave without me."

"Do you really think Raven Hardwood could dig a six-foot deep hole?" I asked.

"No, but I'll bet there are a shit load of men in this town that would gladly do it for her. And if Raven finds an empty grave, it would be like throwing a box of.38 shells on the campfire. There's no telling who'd get hurt."

"You got any ideas?" I asked.

"Actually, Sixty-nine and I think we might have an actionable plan, but..." both Flanagan and Sixty-nine looked over at Janis.

"But what?" Janis asked.

"You have to get back in a coffin."

"No. Absolutely not. Not acceptable," I shouted. "Weren't you listening to what I just said? Our plan is to drive Raven crazy, not Janis. I don't care how strong of a woman she is, burying her alive a second time is not going to happen. She is not going back into that coffin."

"Couldn't agree more," Flanagan said. "But this time we're not going to bury her."

"Then what coffin are you talking about?"

"The one in our basement."

"We have a coffin in our basement?"

Both Flanagan and Sixty-nine gave me a sheepish nod.

"What the hell are you two doing with a coffin?"

"Don't ask."

***

What Flanagan and Sixty-nine proposed was a bit of Hollywood magic. Like any movie, there were several elements to our impromptu production. Casting, wardrobe, script, set construction, lighting... the list could go on and on... and all of it took time.

But we were under a self-imposed two-hour time constraint. That's how long Flanagan thought it would take him to pick up Raven, drive to the grave site and set up his gear. So, we had to take some shortcuts and use the limited resources available to us.

Casting was simple. Janis was the star and there were no supporting cast members.

Both wardrobe and dialog were also no brainers. There wasn't any.

Makeup was a different story, but we apparently had a ringer in our midst. For a girl who didn't wear any, Sixty-nine knew a shit load about cosmetics.

"I was a four-year member of the drama club in high school," she explained. "Not as a performer, I was way too shy for that. I was in charge of makeup, my specialty being monster faces. I turned our homecoming king and queen into the ugliest pair of zombies you'd never want to meet."

Once Sixty-nine transformed Janis' beautiful face into a gruesome mask of death we went down to the basement where we found a no shit coffin on the floor... conveniently located between the whipping post and a shuffleboard table they had turned into a medieval rack.

"You don't have to do this," I told Janis as she hesitated before climbing into the coffin. "I don't want you to have any nightmares tonight."

"I'm all right. I'm more concerned about what Sixty-nine and Flanagan have been doing in here than bad dreams." With that said, she slipped off her robe and climbed naked into the silk lined wooden box.

Once Janis was settled in, Sixty-nine continued her task. She started by misting Janis' curvaceous nude body with water and then sprinkled a layer of flour over the now slightly damp skin turning Janis' previously healthy-looking complexion to a pasty white pallor. With her canvas set, Sixty-nine used an assortment of mascara, brushes, eye droppers, putty knives and other implements to add bruises and bug bites to random areas and what looked like chaffed skin around Janis' wrists where her arms had been restrained in the original coffin.

Not surprisingly, when it was time to attach the handcuffs to the sides of our current coffin, I found they were already installed.

Do I really want to know what happens in my basement while Janis and I are sleeping?

The next step was an undressed rehearsal.

The real coffin -- the one buried in the pasture where Flanagan and Raven were heading -- had three holes drilled into the top... two for air and one for water... each connected to the surface via a PVC pipe. Flanagan's plan was to lower a miniature camera down one of the air holes and, using his laptop computer, prove to Raven that Janis was still interned. Unbeknownst to Raven, Flanagan's laptop would be connected to a similar camera in our basement via a satellite connection. Our job was to make the inside of the basement coffin look as much like the pasture coffin as possible.

While Sixty-nine was applying Janis' makeup, I drilled a hole in the top of the coffin and inserted a short PVC pipe into the hole... extending it a foot up vertically so it looked like a smoke stack. With Janis comfortably inside, I closed the coffin lid and lowered the camera through the pipe via its power/signal cable.

We initially planned to turn all the lights off in the basement, trying to replicate the total darkness of the buried coffin... which didn't work worth a damn. All our "low light" spy camera showed was total darkness. So, we turned the lights back on and opened the lower coffin lid. That gave us a great picture... too good. Sixty-nine's hurried makeup job wasn't ready for a well-lit, high def, close up shot. Janis looked like a healthy good-looking woman wearing a Kabuki mask.

After several trials, we ended up closing both upper and lower casket lids, drilled two more holes in the coffin and turned out all but one basement light. The end result was a slightly out of focus picture that let the viewer identify the different body parts, but not see them in exact detail.

Flanagan and Raven got to the pasture ten minutes after we were ready to perform. It took him another five minutes to set up his field equipment and explain his plan to Raven. Once he booted up his computer and opened the appropriate application, we could hear everything Flanagan and Raven said and saw whatever their camera saw. Even though Flanagan promised to turn his speakers off, I made doubly sure to turn off the mic on our laptop.

"I'll need to see more than a few weeds to convince me Janis is still down there," was the first thing we heard Raven say.

"Which end do you want to see?" Flanagan asked Raven.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"This here is a miniature camera," he said. "I'm going to run it down one of the air vents so you can see what's inside the coffin. Depending on which tube we use, I can give you a view of her head and boobs or her legs and pussy. What's your pleasure?"

"Really? You had to ask?"

"Right, head and tits it is. Just give me a few minutes to set things set up."

The first video we saw was a close up of Raven's nose as Flanagan dangled the camera in front of Miss Hardwood's face.

"This is a wide-angle lens," he explained. "We don't have much room to work with in the coffin, but it should be enough to identify her."

Having completed his demonstration, he took the camera to the air vent but hesitated before lowering it.

"Dead or alive, she won't be pretty," he said. "Are you sure you want to see her?"

"I have to know she's down there. Do it."

"Okay, but don't blame me for your nightmares. I'll lower the camera; you watch the monitor. Let me know when you see something."

This was the tricky part. Thanks to the Company supplied app, we had the ability to switch the video feed into Flanagan's laptop from his camera to ours. We made the switch as he lowered his camera into the six-foot air vent at the pasture, when all Raven could see was the white wall of the PVC pipe.

I didn't know how long it would take Flanagan to supposedly lower his camera six feet, so I took my time lowering our camera the one foot required and then took my directions from Raven.

"Stop there," she said.

"You're on," I said to Janis. "Try not to breath."

Sixty-nine and I were seeing the same scene on our monitor that Raven saw on hers. The camera was less than an inch above Janis' chest, looking directly through the valley of her cleavage.

"Bring it up an inch or two," she commanded.

I complied to give her a view of Janis' tummy and pubic hair.

"Turn it around", Raven said. "You're pointing the wrong way."

"Don't move your hands," I told Janis as I rotated the camera around showing her hands cuffed to the side of the coffin.

We had previously discussed what we wanted Raven to see. The choices were a barely alive Janis, gasping for breath and moaning in agony. Or a dead Janis. We decided to try for the later and, if for some reason Raven saw Janis take a breath, that too would be okay. All Raven really wanted to know was that Janis was still in the grave.

"Your face is coming into view," I updated Janis. "She can't see your chest so you can breathe but try not to move a muscle above your shoulders."

This was the moment of truth.

"Is it her?" Flanagan asked Raven.

"Definitely."

"Is she dead?"

Raven stared at the screen for over a minute before answering.

"Yeah. She's dead," Raven said without a hint of emotion.

I waited another twenty seconds and then raised our camera into the PVC pipe. Once the video was nothing but a blur of white, I signaled for Sixty-nine to switch the video feed back to Flanagan's camera.

"And that's a wrap".

We had successfully convinced Raven that her lifelong enemy was dead and buried (or in this case, buried and then dead). As an added bonus, we had given Sixty-nine yet another valuable lesson in spy craft.

However, none of that helped me accomplish my mission. Or at least the mission assigned to me by the Company. While messing with Raven Hardwood's evil mind was an enjoyable diversion from my normal life of international intrigue, it didn't get me any closer to discovering what the Russians and Chinese were up to. But it did get me closer to Janis Moorehead.

Basements are generally cold places. Even in the middle of the summer, the temperature in your average basement is several degrees cooler than the rest of the house. That's why people store their white wine and strawberry preserves in the basement. But I wouldn't recommend going down to the basement, stripping naked, spraying yourself with water and then laying in a wooden box for thirty minutes... which is what we had Janis do.

After the show was over -- by the time we got the coffin lid open, found the handcuff keys, and extricated Janis from her temporary stage -- she was shivering uncontrollably. I don't think she was scared, although there might have been a temporary flashback when we turned off the lights. She was just cold. And the best way to warm up a freezing naked woman is to grab her up in your arms and carry her into a hot steamy shower... where we stayed until the water turned cold. And since we were already in the shower, and Janis was completely covered by different types of stage make up, the gentlemanly thing to do was help her wash it off.

She also didn't protest when I ran my soapy hands over her quickly warming body, spending extra time washing her more sensitive body parts. Letting me towel her dry was an additional bonus. But she drew the line when I suggested we forego dressing and go back to bed.

"Don't you have better things to do?" she asked.

"What could be better than spending some quality time in bed with you?"

"Oh, I don't know. Rescue the Russian girls from white slavery. Throw all the crooked Merryville politicians in jail. Save the rest of the town from being sacrificed by our government."

"Can't all that wait until after lunch?" I asked.

She laughed at me, like I was kidding, and sashayed out of my room to go dress in hers. Not having anything better to do, I started on Janis' list. My first call was to Flanagan.

"Are you alone?" I asked when he answered his cell.

"Yeah. Just dropped Raven off at her house."

"You didn't invite yourself in?"

"Nah. It's way too early for a piece of cold-hearted pussy. You should have seen her at the grave site. Not an ounce of remorse."

"Understand. Good job, by the way. Looks like we fooled her."

"The same back at ya. Janis sure looked dead to me."

"You got anything else on the docket for today?" I asked.

"Not really. What do you need?"

"I'm a little concerned about the Russians. Raven wore that dolphin entangled pearl necklace to the party last night and I think Popov might have recognized it."

"The necklace you stole from his wife?"

"Yeah. And, without going into the gory details, I might have left them a DNA sample."

"Are you shitting me? Don't tell the Ball Busting Bitch. She'll cut them off and use them as door knockers."

"Exactly. So do me a favor and stake out the airport. Popov and his crew are supposed to fly back to Russia today and I want to make sure they all get on the airplane."

"Can do easy. Do I have time to get something to eat first?"

"Sure. They were all pretty toasted last night. I don't see them getting out to the airport for another hour at least."

That taken care of, I went looking for Sixty-nine and soon found her in the kitchen surrounded by enough pots, pans and cutlery to open a Sur La Table franchise.

"Great job on Janis' makeup this morning," I said startling the girl. "That's an impressive skill set."

"Thank you, sir. I'm glad to be finally pulling my weight."

"And indeed you are. So, what project has you emptying the cabinets?"

"Breakfast."

"That's a noble undertaking. Are we inviting the entire town?" I asked, gesturing towards the pile of pans.

"Uh, no sir. Just for the four of us."

"Okay... what's on the menu?"

"I was thinking eggs. Maybe some bacon. And possibly biscuits."

"That all sound delicious. But before you start, would you mind doing something for me?"

"Of course. I mean, no, I don't mind. I'll do whatever you ask."

"The Russians are leaving Merryville sometime today. Last night they gave me the impression that they're flying back to Russia, but I'd feel a lot better if we had confirmation. The Company has some contacts in the FAA. Please ask them to track Popov's flight and let me know if he goes somewhere else."

"Yes sir. I'll get right on it. But what about breakfast?"

"I'll take care of breakfast. You use your skill sets, I'll use mine."

As soon as Sixty-nine disappeared into the basement, I asked Janis to make us breakfast.

***

Janis made an awesome omelet. She used six farm fresh eggs, little chunks of honey baked ham, Vidalia onions, three kinds of cheese and a tantalizing mixture of herbs and spices. Combine that with biscuits, coffee and orange juice and I was a happy man.

Until I discovered the rest of the world wanted me dead.

The first report wasn't too disturbing. Flanagan spent three hours staking out the Russian's private jet before they finally showed.

"Five fat men and five skinny women," he reported.

"How many flight crew?" I asked.

"None. Two of the fat guys climbed into the cockpit. Apparently, Popov is so paranoid, he sent two of his goons to flight school."

"I guess the girls are in charge of the food and beverage service."

"And don't forget inflight entertainment," he added.

Even though the idea of Popov having his own personal pilots came as a surprise, I was glad to hear that the Russians were no longer in the same town as I and would soon be on a different continent. Thinking that my concerns about the necklace may have been unfounded, I breathed a sigh of relief...

Until Sixty-nine came running up the basement stairs.

"Atlanta," she said breathlessly. "The Russians aren't going to Moscow; they filed a flight plan to Atlanta."

"What business could Popov have in Atlanta?"

"Maybe they're going on a vacation?" Sixty-nine suggested.

"I guess that's a possibility. Although I take Popov for more of a French Riviera kind of guy."

The vacation scenario was by far the best. But I wasn't ready to stake my life on it. There were numerous other reasons why a Russian crime boss would visit Atlanta. It could be as simple as needing a long runway to get his Antonov off the ground with sufficient fuel to reach Moscow. Atlanta was also the unofficial business capital of the southern states, known for its lucrative drug trade and several other equally disgusting pursuits.

"Fuck. I've got to call the Ball Busting Bitch," I said as the answer dawned on me.

"Why?"

"Because Popov's going to Atlanta to sell the Russian girls."

In the half decade or so that the BBB had been my handler, I might have called the obnoxious woman a dozen times. The other three thousand conversations were initiated by her. So, when I requested a conversation over a secure network, she was immediately suspicious.

It took me a few minutes to explain the situation. When I finished, she still wasn't convinced.

"Have you secured all the properties we will need?" she asked.

"Yes. Sixty-nine sent you the final details a couple of days ago."

"Has the local council approved the tax breaks for the Russian and Chinese contingents?"

"Yes. That information was forwarded to you last week."

"Have the two foreign entities agreed to move their operation to Merryville?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes. We've done everything you asked," I said.

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Because five innocent girls are about to be sold as sex slaves."

"Are you asking me to organize a rescue mission? Should we send a team of operatives to Atlanta to arrest Popov and his crew and charge them with sex trafficking? Is that what you're suggesting? Because if you are, the answer is no.

"You spent a half billion dollars of US taxpayer money to buy out the town of Merryville. You personally arranged for two hundred foreign terrorists to take up residence in the middle of our country. You were told at the outset of this project that every single Merryville resident is considered expendable. All of that so we could keep the terrorists away from major metropolitan areas to limit collateral damage. And now you want to risk what you've accomplished because you think five Russian hookers might be in danger.