Spy Games Ch. 25

Note to readers: While there's not a lot of sex in this chapter, it sets the scene for Chapter 26, which is the last chapter of the story.

***

Spy Games

Chapter 25

Downtown Atlanta traffic delayed our arrival at the Russian's hotel by almost an hour. It took us another thirty minutes to reconnoiter the area, plan our ingress route and plot two emergency egress paths.

Even though this was something Flanagan and I had done numerous times, we usually knew the exact location of our targets. In this case, all we had were five room numbers ... two on the first floor and three on the fourth floor. We were fairly sure that there were only two Russians left, having already killed Popov and two of his bodyguards, but we didn't know which rooms they were in. And most importantly, since they only booked five rooms, where were the five Russian women? Had each Russian man paired up with one of the girls or had they already turned the girls over to the white slavers?

I left Janis and Raven in the Suburban. Janis was armed with a stun gun and a tranquilizer dart. Raven was still sleeping, although not for much longer. The pills we gave her were designed to knock her out for six hours and we were almost at that point. Sixty-nine, Flanagan and I would handle the two Russians.

Since busting down five hotel room doors was a non-starter, and not wanting to risk knocking and have the Russian's ID us through the peep hole, I spent my first ten minutes in the hotel trying to locate a maid. A pleasantly plump Latino lady was pushing a cart of linen down the third-floor hallway when I assumed the role of a slightly inebriated guest who had not only lost his room key but also forgot his room number. Addressing her in my best drunken Spanish, I explained my predicament. After consulting with the front desk, she confirmed I was in the wrong hotel. To thank her for her trouble, I slipped a hundred-dollar bill into her pocket, kissed her hand and stole her master key.

Armed with the master key, Sixty-nine gave a quick knock on the first possible door, said "housekeeping" and moved aside as Flanagan and I stormed into an empty room. We repeated the drill until we found both Russian pilots drinking vodka and watching "The Dukes of Hazard" in the third room we entered.

"Call out and you die," I told them in Russian while we pointed silenced 9 mm pistols at their foreheads.

"We're not here to hurt you," I continued. "If I wanted to, you'd already be dead. Cooperate and you fly home tomorrow morning. Resist and you'll never taste another drop of vodka."

"What is it that you want?"

"The girls. The five Russian women you were traveling with."

"You are too late. They are already gone."

"Gone where?" I asked.

"We don't know," he shrugged. "We take them to designated spot, lock them in truck and leave."

"You don't know who picks them up?"

"We don't see them. They don't see us. Very convenient. Very secure. It's good business practice."

"When did you do this? When did you lock the girls in the truck?"

"Not long ago. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. They tell us to put girls in truck after 8:30."

"It's 9:00 now. What do you think?" I asked Flanagan.

"It's worth a try," he said, reading my mind.

"Listen up you two. Here's how this is going to work. The five of us are going to walk out of here like we're old buddies going to a bar. Once we're in the parking lot we'll get in my vehicle, and you will direct me to this truck. If you haven't already figured it out, Alek Popov and your two friends are dead. Think about it. If the three of them couldn't take us when they were armed with two AK's and a nine mil, the two of you unarmed don't stand a chance. The only way you get out of this alive is to do exactly what we say."

The two men looked at each other, shrugged --­­ like getting kidnapped was an everyday occurrence -- and walked towards the door.

We had purposely parked our vehicles in a dark rear corner of a rather expansive lot. Once out of view from the street and hotel, I covered the two Russians with my pistol while Flanagan secured their hands behind their backs with zip ties. We put one Russian in the front passenger seat and the second in the seat directly behind his buddy. I climbed into the driver's seat and Flanagan rode in the seat behind me, giving him a clear view and field of fire of both our Russian guests. Sixty-nine joined the other two girls in the Suburban. Janis drove while Sixty-nine kept an eye on Raven as they followed us.

"Truck is in park on other side of airport," the Russian said. I think his name was Leonid, not that I gave a damn. "Park closed at dark. We use dirt road to get in."

He directed me to a barely discernable access road which wound around a couple of deserted picnic areas until we came to a small clearing by a lake. It was a beautiful view; a full moon was just peaking above the tree line casting a sliver of light across the still water. But there was no truck in sight.

"Shit. We're too late."

"No," Leonid said. "It is there, in those trees." He pointed to a stand of pines off to our right and, after my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw just a glint of moonlight reflecting off a shiny surface. It was the windshield of a medium sized truck. The type thousands of people rented every day to move furniture around town, baked goods to restaurants or -- hopefully not too often -- kidnapped women to a living hell.

"You assholes stay put while we check out the truck," I told the Russians.

There were three possible scenarios. The white slave traders could have already taken the girls and left the truck behind, they could still be enroute or -- the worst prospect -- they could be watching us from either the cab of the truck or a hidden vantage point in the trees.

Knowing the drill, Flanagan got out of the van first, holstered his pistol, hefted his AR-18 assault rifle and took a position that allowed him to cover our van, the truck and the girl's SUV (which had followed us into the clearing). Using our standard com link, he signaled when ready and then I cautiously approached the truck.

The cab was empty but there was a small key prominently placed on the driver's seat. Picking up the key, I made a cursory search around the truck and, not seeing anything suspicious, went to the rear door. As I expected, the key fit the padlock which secured the roll up door to the cargo bay.

The muffled cries and pounding of feet against the floor as I unlatched the door gave me hope. What I saw when I rolled the door open and turned on my flashlight both cheered and disgusted me.

Five girls were sitting on the floor of the truck with their backs against the steel walls. Two on the right, two on the left, one leaning against the front. Their arms were stretched over their heads and secured with tie wraps to rings normally used to tie off cargo. Each girl's ankles were connected to their adjacent neighbors', spreading their legs wide apart in an exaggerated V. They wore simple scoop necked dresses which failed to hide their naked bottoms. Cloth bags covered their heads so I couldn't immediately confirm they were the Russians, but their slender bodies and lily-white skin made me 99% sure.

"Don't panic," I said in Russian, loud enough to be heard over their frightened sobs. "It's Mark Seiman. I promise not to hurt you."

The sobs instantly stopped, but not a one of them called out to me. Not knowing why, I gently lifted the head covering off the nearest girl. It was Anastasia Volkov, the nineteen-year-old beauty who had dreams of being a fashion model. Two puckered and blood shot eyes stared up a me, pleading for help. Several wraps of duct tape were wound around her head, covering her mouth, and preventing her from speaking. It took me a minute to unwrap the tape and, when I finally pulled the last bit free, I found a pair of saliva-soaked panties stuck to the tape.

Anastasia took two deep gulps of air and then started crying.

"They sold us," she said between sobs. "They promised us money and modeling jobs and college ..."

"Don't speak," I said as I gently lay a finger to her lips. "I'm not sure when the people they sold you to will come. If they're close, I don't want them to hear us. Stay here for just a second, I have friends outside who will help me cut off these restraints and then we'll get you out of here. All of you," I said loud enough so the others could hear."

Anastasia nodded. I kissed her forehead and stepped to the back of the truck.

"I assume you found the girls," Flanagan said over the com link.

"Yeah. We need to get them and us out of here ASAP. I don't want them caught in a fire fight if the buyers come for their goods."

"What do you need from me?"

"Get the Russians out of the van and make sure they can't run off. Once you've done that, send Janis to me with a couple of sharp knives. We'll cut the girls free, load them into the van, and head out. As soon as we leave, you and Sixty-nine take the Russian pilots back to their hotel and keep an eye on them until next morning. I'll stay with the girls."

"Story of my life. You spend the night with six sexy blondes while I'm stuck babysitting two vodka swilling assholes."

"Hey, you also get Sixty-nine. I'm sure you two can find something to entertain you for the night."

"What are my limits?"

"Don't kill or maim the Russians. They need to fly out of here tomorrow morning. Besides that, let your imaginations run wild."

Janis gasped when she first entered the truck but was able to temporarily shelve her revulsion with what she saw and get to the task at hand. With the two of us working, it only took a few minutes to cut the girls free from their arm and leg restraints. Once their hands were available, the girls removed their own hoods. In the interest of time, I told them to leave their gags in place until we got to the van.

Assessing the tactical situation, my guess was that the people who were to drive the human cargo laden truck to its next destination would not be well armed or prepared to fight for their prize. If that was the case, and they were lurking unseen in the bushes, watching as we stole their next paycheck, I would expect them to back off and either follow the van or give up completely.

On the other hand, men who made their living selling women into slavery were most likely not blessed with an overabundance intelligence. So, we had to plan for all contingencies.

"We're ready to move," I told Flanagan. "How's it looking outside?"

"Best I can tell, you're clear."

"Alright ladies. Follow me to the van across the clearing. Move as quickly and quietly as you can. We think we're alone but let's not take any chances. The sooner we get out of here, the safer and happier we'll all be."

Despite their bare feet, the girls ran across the gravel parking area with hardly a whimper and were soon safely in the back of the minivan.

While Sixty-nine and Janis helped the Russian girls remove their gags, I lifted a still woozy Raven Hardwood from the back seat of the SUV and carried her into the back of the truck. Unlike what the Russian pilots did to their charges, I didn't stuff Raven's underwear into her mouth, wrap it shut with duct tape and put a bag over her head. I didn't even tie her up. But I did close and lock the truck's cargo bay door. With Raven imprisoned in the back of the truck, I returned the padlock key to the driver's seat, exactly where the slave traders expected it to be.

I returned to the van, started the engine and was just about to pull away when I realized Janis wasn't with me. A grunt followed by a curse brought my attention to the ground next to the SUV where one of the Russian pilots was lying in the fetal position ... in obvious pain. As I watched, Janis delivered a forceful kick to the balls of his hog-tied compatriot.

"You feel better?" I asked as Janis climbed in the seat beside me.

"Surprisingly, yes."

I gave out a sigh of relief when we drove out of the park without being ambushed, but I knew we weren't completely out of the woods yet. Even though our hotel was only five miles from the park entrance, it took us a good half hour to get there. Not because of traffic, which was light at that late hour. It was my chosen route that turned a ten-minute drive into a thirty-minute odyssey.

One of the first things Mrs. Bancroft taught me, besides the exact location of her erogenous zones, was how to determine if I was being followed. My initial lessons centered on spotting a trail when walking the streets of Moscow. Those skills easily transferred to riding the London underground and were just as useful when driving the roads of suburban Atlanta.

Using every technique I knew, we wandered side streets, through residential neighborhoods, and around several blocks, all the while changing speed and lanes as often as I could without drawing attention from the local police. Best I could tell, we never saw the same set of headlights twice.

Not knowing how things would go down, Sixty-nine had prepaid for five rooms in a mid-price motel just a mile down the road from the Russian's more expensive hotel. Not that our budget couldn't afford a classier place to stay. We favored anonymity over luxury. The five ground floor rooms allowed us to park on the back side of the motel and access our rooms from the parking lot.

As it turned out, we only used two of the rooms. Even though each room had two queen sized beds, the Russian girls insisted they all sleep together and chose the room that had an adjoining door to the one Janis and I shared. They were still recovering from their ordeal and, justifiably so, scared shitless.

Once in the motel rooms, food was our first priority ... easily satisfied by delivery pizza. Second was a shower ... something else the girls did together ... three in their bathroom, two in ours. The final necessity was clothing ... which was going to be a problem since they didn't have any. The short smocks we found them in were torn, soiled and destined for the dumpster. Before sending Janis to Walmart with a shopping list we took a chance and called Flanagan.

"Did the Russian pilots give you any trouble?" I asked.

"Did you screw any of the Russian girls yet?"

"I'll take that as a no."

"And I'll assume your answer is no, as well. So why did you really call?"

"The Russian women don't have any clothes."

"So, you're just calling to rub it in? Remind me to kick your ass when this op is over."

"I'm serious. We can't continue until we find them something to wear. Find out what the pilots did with the girls' luggage."

"Okay, hang on a second.

"Hey, sweety. Do me a favor and take the tennis ball out of Igor's mouth. I need to ask him something."

"Which one is Igor?" I heard Sixty-nine ask in the background.

"The fat one ... with the pink ribbon tied around his balls."

I heard Flanagan put his phone down and then quite a few swear words ... in both Russian and English.

"Good news. The girls' luggage is in one of the other rooms," Flanagan said when he returned to his phone. "They meant to get rid of it when Popov came back but we kind of interrupted their plans."

"Great. Tell Sixty-nine to load the suitcases into the SUV and bring them to our hotel. We're in room 103."

"Are you sure you want Sixty-nine to do that?" Flanagan asked. "If each girl has two bags that means she has to carry ten bags down the stairs and load them in the truck. Not exactly in an accountant's job description. How about I do it?"

"Tell Sixty-nine to get one of those luggage trolleys and use the elevator. She can make two trips if she has to. I don't want her watching the pilots by herself, even if that means you won't get to see the girls naked."

"Can't blame a guy for trying, even though I have full faith in her ability to fend for herself. She'll be there within the hour."

It was nearly midnight by the time we got our wards fed, bathed, and tucked into bed. I helped Sixty-nine pile the luggage into one of our unused rooms and let Janis get a shower while I called a secure number supplied by the Ball Busting Bitch.

"Tony's pizza. Will this be takeout or delivery?"

"This is Alpha."

"This is fifty-two. Where do I do my best work?"

"Between a woman's legs. What do you call my partner?"

"Daniel Boone."

Now that the authentication procedure was complete, I could talk freely with the Company agent the BBB had sent to help me.

"Tell me some good news fifty-two."

"You're all set. I've made the fuel tank modifications you requested and disabled the airplane's satellite communications gear. If you confiscate the pilot's cell phones, they'll have no way to communicate with their bosses until they reach Russian airspace."

"Are you sure this will work?" I asked.

"When did one of my projects fail?"

"Never," I answered. "I'm just a little nervous about this one. There's a lot hanging on it."

"Yeah, there always is. So, is there anything else I can do for you before I disappear into the ether?"

"Actually, there is. How would you like to meet six absolutely gorgeous blondes tomorrow morning?"

"Give me a second to check ... yep, my pecker is still intact. I'd love to meet a small part of your harem. When, where and, most importantly, why?"

"Tomorrow at the airport. Just before dawn. Wear a bulky coat and a hat ... you're going for the Russian gangster look."

Janis was sound asleep when I crawled between the sheets and snuggled up to her warm, naked body. As tempted as I was to wake her and express my appreciation for all she'd done that day, I only had a few hours before my alarm would go off. So, I closed my eyes and cleared my mind, hoping I didn't dream of the myriad ways the next day could go drastically wrong and ruin our lives.

***

Apparently, Janis wasn't a morning person. My 5:30 am alarm didn't wake her and several repeated attempts to rouse her brought out a side of the woman that I had never seen before.

"You know I love you," she mumbled. "But there are five naked Russian girls next door. Go fuck one of them and let me sleep."

Not having any luck with Janis, I took her suggestion and went into the adjoining room. Before retiring for the night, the girls had pushed the two queen beds together making one large sleeping surface. When I flicked the lights on, all I could see was a spaghetti bowl of arms, legs, butts, bushes, boobs and blonde hair. And I'll be damned if I could determine which appendage belonged to which girl.

As tempting as it was to take Janis' advice and as willing as the Russian ladies were to thank me for saving them from what would have been a horrible fate, it was imperative that I got the girls to the airport by dawn. After making promises I probably wouldn't be able to keep, all six girls -- the five Russians and Janis -- were dressed and in the van by 6:00.

We met Agent Fifty-two at the general aviation gate of Dekalb-Peachtree airport and, using his forged security pass, followed him directly to Popov's personal jet. The Russian AN-148 started life as an airliner and, like most large passenger jets, was boarded from a door on the front left side of the aircraft. It also had a slightly larger cargo door on the right side of the plane just opposite the main boarding door.

This starboard door was used by airport catering services to load supplies, such as drinks, meals, blankets and all the other essentials needed to keep passengers happy as they cruised across the Atlantic. For ease of operation, these supplies were delivered by a specially modified truck whose cargo compartment could be raised the ten to fifteen feet necessary to mate with the aircraft cargo door. When we arrived at the airplane, Agents Sixty-nine and Fifty-two had already maneuvered a catering truck up to the Antonov with its elevated cargo bay snugged up to the aircraft cargo door.