Spy Nude Pt. 01

"So what happens now?" she asked herself, standing outside City Hall. "Well I'll tell you what happens, Brittany," she replied to herself, running for the park. "You'll cut through the park before the cops come, get to the sorority house, put on some clothes, and then kill those three bitches."

Brittany Summers, twenty years old, business major, and member in good standing of the Phi Kappa Phi sorority, cursed an invective, near Homeric stream as she made her way through Benfield park. "How could I be so goddamn stupid?" she asked for the fifteenth time. "Fuck! This is worse than pledge week."

She thanked Providence most of the town were on the other side of the park, celebrating its 150^th anniversary. She didn't want to explain her bare-ass nudity to the cops.

The plan was simple really. Drive up to city hall with the girls, strip, and do a streak around the building, just as the mayor and council were leaving. Brit, the fastest runner, would take lead. Terri, Chloe, and Shari would follow with the banner. The result was supposed to be a red-faced mayor, a humiliated council, a college prank for the ages, and a notable protest against the town's anti-immigrant policies.

The girls stripped but, when Brittany started her run, the following footsteps she expected were, instead, replaced by giggles and the sound of car doors slamming. She turned just in time to see Terri and the girls speed away, with Shari smirking, and Chloe flipping her the bird.

"Fuck! You fucking bitches!"

Brittany's parents would be appalled at her language, even though her ex-Marine father regularly cursed a blue streak that would wither trees. She was that angry. Brittany knew precisely why the girls stabbed her in the back. But I thought the whole thing was settled.

So now she had to make her way through a dark public park in nothing but a pair of sneakers. Where anything could happen. Anything. Like walking into a scene where a man's head is blown off before her eyes.

A brutal murder was the last thing Brittany expected to see. This was a small college town. Men, especially this man, do not get their brains and bits of skull splattered across a field, where children played soccer just hours ago. Not in this place. The gun that facilitated this act was near invisible in the dark. The man who performed it, was not; nor was his companion. The two men looked up at her startled gasp.

The next second decided the rest of Brittany's life. A life measured in seconds were it not for two things.

First, one of the men, somewhat indistinct in the dim light, looked at her and said, before the other turned his gun on her, "Hey! Melanie, nice of you to join us. Sorry you had to see that. Just a business disagreement between our employers."

The second was Brittany herself. A woman taught by her parents to be a survivor. A necessity for a young woman navigating, what her parents saw, a hostile world. Especially college these days.

A father used to peril, who taught his daughter to think on her feet. A mother from a war-torn country, who taught her daughter the value of sangfroid. She took in the scene, and the man's words, in a split second. These men killed another. I can't outrun them. One will shoot me. Play along. Figure a way out of this. "Um, who was that?"

"Don't bother yourself," the man said, a queer look on his face.

The other guy, shorter and stockier than the other, asked, "This the entertainment?"

"Yes," his opposite replied.

"Why she have no clothes?"

"I guess she wanted to get started. So the party isn't here then?"

"No party here. Take her to car."

"Uh, shouldn't I get my clothes first?" And get as far away from these psychos as I can, and call the police?

"No time for clothes. We leave now!"

The other man hesitated as if pondering something.

"What the matter?" the stocky man asked.

"Nothing, I just don't like the change in plans."

"We pay big money. Screw plans. You and girl be rich after this."

"Well, when you put it that way," the taller man grinned. He took Brittany's hand. She hesitated just for a second before the man leaned in and whispered surreptitiously, "Come with me or we're both dead, now!"

The three disappeared into the park, leaving the dead body.

Interlude.

In a small office, in a nondescript building, two men met. One was a tall red-faced man in constant sweat. The other was short, bald, pale, and nervous.

"What do you mean she didn't make the rendezvous?!" shouted the Sweaty Man. The Sweaty Man shouted many things to many people. Shouting was his normal way of speaking.

"She got hit by a car. Some college girls speeding," the Nervous Man stuttered.

"She okay?" the Sweaty Man grunted.

"Serious, but not life-threatening."

"Well this is a fine fuck-up for the mission! Because some college brats couldn't drive straight! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"I think it's too soon to tell. Jim Blake was picked for a reason. He's a master at improvisation, and the transmitter is still working, so we know he's still alive."

"Do we know where he is?"

"Apparently a private airport, just outside the town."

"An airplane. So he's leaving the country."

"It looks that way," said the Nervous Man. "This could be it. It's the closest anyone has come to penetrating Krause's organization."

"You better be right. It's our asses if this op goes south," the Sweaty Man growled.

****

Brittany sat in her seat, outwardly calm, screaming inside. She had no idea where they were going. The tall man sat opposite, looking at her intensely. His gaze never wavered. Not since they'd dragged her into the car and whisked her to the airfield. They managed to scrounge up some coveralls for her before boarding the plane.

Her mind was a tornado. Less than an hour ago she was at city hall planning an epic prank. Now she was on a Lear jet headed God knew where, with a pair of killers.

The stocky man, who'd been sitting across the aisle drinking vodka, got up abruptly. "I go to cockpit, talk to pilot, old friend of mine. You sit back, relax, it long trip," he chuckled.

The tall man waited until the stocky man left, and then turned to Brittany. Oh God! Oh God! This is it! He's going to kill me! Oh fuck! She gasped a faint whimper.

The tall man glared at her like a hawk to a mouse. He shifted and leaned forward; Brittany shrank back. The tall man opened his mouth. "Who the fuck are you and what happened to Melanie?"

It took several seconds for the stunned Brittany to respond. "Uh, who's Melanie?" she whispered.

"Melanie Swann? My co-agent? Who are you? Did Foster send you? He know he's fucking up the op?"

Brittany tried to process his words. "Take it in," her Dad would say. "It's just information. Answer truthfully."

"Look Mister, I don't know who Melanie is. I'm Brittany Summers. I was just trying to sneak back to college, and I don't know who you are, or who the other guy is, and I just want to go home and please don't kill me." She didn't exactly sob, but her eyes were wet.

The tall man's expression wavered between shock and disbelief. It couldn't be this simple, he thought. A fucking college girl? I don't believe it. There's something else here. "So why were you naked?"

"It was a prank. We were going to streak the Mayor and the council, only Terri, Chloe, and Shari ran back to the car and left me there . . . those bitches. And I had to make my way through the park and I saw you . . . sob!"

The tall man looked at her, accessing, going through options. Yes, she could be telling the truth and simply stumbled into this thing, but then, where was Melanie? How did he know this woman hadn't killed her? She might be Krause's agent, sent to ferret him out? Still she did look convincing, sobbing, curled up in her seat. She was also quite beautiful; shoulder length dark brown hair, dark hazel eyes, narrow bell-shaped nose, soft pillow lips, and an hour glass body.

He was very impressed when she'd stepped out of the woods. He saw immediately it wasn't Melanie. He also knew this woman was dead in a second if he didn't do something.

Her reaction to being addressed as Melanie raised his suspicions. She didn't scream on seeing the execution, or panic, or go into hysterics. Melanie might have played the hysterical female in this scenario, even though she was a more than capable agent. This lady's reaction was almost professional. It's why his current feelings could be measured as almost sympathy . . . almost. Her presence felt too improbable.

The tall man leaned back, thinking. He nodded his head and made a decision. He turned his right Rolodex upside down and tapped his fingers on the face.

A signal leapt from the watch to an orbiting satellite, then to a small office in the nondescript building, where a small chubby woman with glasses listened with headphones. She took down a coded message and handed the paper to a thin college age man.

The man carried the paper to a larger office where the Nervous Man sat behind his desk. The Nervous Man was doodling. He doodled quite often when he was nervous, and he was nervous quite often so he doodled.

When the thin college age man handed him the paper, the Nervous Man trembled with excitement, and nearly convulsed when he read the message. He tripped and scampered with the message to the large Sweaty Man, who turned various shades of fuchsia upon reading it.

The message read: "Contact successful. Currently in transit over Atlantic. Possible destination: Caribbean. Black Swan missing. Random element inserted. Request background check, Brittany Summers. Message end."

"A random element?! And who the fuck is Brittany Summers?!"

"A random element means some unknown party has come into the mission. I guess this is the name," the Nervous Man quavered.

"Well get on it and find out who she is."

****

The tall man looked at Brittany like the disapproving economics professor Brittany hated. He regarded everyone in his class as lowly worms unworthy of his instruction. She gnawed her lower lip and shrank back when the tall man leaned close, staring at her directly.

"Well, Brittany," he said with considerable skepticism, "If that's who you really are, we're both of us in the shit really deep. You for getting involved, me for saving your life."

"You . . . you saved my life?! But . . . but you're a killer! I saw you kill a man!"

"No, Krakov killed that man. His cover got blown. Krakov did it before I could stop him. He would have killed you if I hadn't called you Melanie. You're supposed to be Melanie Swann. She's my partner. I'm Jim Blake." He didn't offer her his hand.

Brittany was at the edge. It was absurd, a living nightmare. "Ogodogodogod! This can't be happening! Sob! It was only a prank! How did I get in this?!"

"It is happening," Jim replied, a touch of sympathy in his voice, "You got in this game, God knows how. I'm not a philosopher. I'm not going to speculate on fate or serendipity or whatever. The business I'm in doesn't believe in coincidence. You walked into a murder scene and barely twitched an eye. That's suspicious; only people with training can do that."

"My . . . my parents taught me to never express shock."

"You're parents must have been good. Still, it doesn't hide the fact I have a college girl sitting in front of me, knows fuck all the situation or what to do, and who's going to get us both killed, horribly and painfully. The man we're going to see is bad, real bad. My best chance, as I see it, is to take a risk you're not a mole and use you."

"I . . . uh . . . I . . . don't see how I can help," Brittany gulped.

"Simple; I was expecting Melanie Swann so, for now, you're Melanie Swann. As for what's happening, you ever hear of Heinrich Krause?"

Brittany looked at Jim blankly.

"Right, time for your brief. Sigh . . . Heinrich's your typical mad scientist / international criminal. A chip off his father's Nazi war criminal block. Heads one of the largest, meanest, baddest international criminal organizations on the planet; drugs, weapons, people, parts of people, you name it, he's smuggled, traded, manufactured, or sold it."

"He's . . . bad, I guess."

"The absolute worst, and he's the one who's going to kill us unless you put yourself together. Or he'll have Krakov do it, or another henchman."

"Oh God, telling me this won't help."

"It has to. You need to know the type of people we're dealing with."

"People?!" she squeaked, "You mean it's not just him?"

"Yep, people. Here's how bad it is. Krause is the worst type of criminal but first and foremost, he's a scientist. All his criminal enterprises fund his research. He's obsessed, 'obsessed!' with finishing his father's project. Rudolph Heinrich was a Nazi scientist so evil, Joseph Mengele shit his pants at the mere mention of his name. Rudolph wanted to create a Nazi super-soldier and, according to some circles, he nearly succeeded. Took maybe ten thousand Jews, several hundred thousand Russians and Roma, and a couple thousand dissidents culled from all over Europe.

The war ends, he flees to South America. Heinrich is born in Brazil, he inherits his father's project. He goes to college, graduates top of his class, joins the best genetics research programs in America, becomes the youngest to win the Nobel for medicine. He swears up and down he only wants to redeem his family name and atone for his father's atrocities. He disappears soon as he wins the Nobel.

Heinrich resurfaces with connections to every human research atrocity you can think of, from genetics research in apartheid South Africa to North Korea. So you're getting all of this?"

Brittany, whose parents taught her the value of listening, actually did, however much she didn't want it.

"Now," Jim continued, "The problem with Heinrich is he's the slipperiest son-of-a-bitch on the planet. No one's been able to get near him. His organization has some of the world's best security. No one's been able to penetrate it. The world's best law enforcement and intelligence agencies all tried. They only got dead and missing agents. Most of my contacts think there are high placed moles in some of the intelligence services.

So, a rumor has gone out Heinrich's made a breakthrough in his super-soldier project. He's apparently decided to auction his product to the highest bidder. Somewhere, our destination I think, the worst examples of human shit are going to gather to bid for the formula. It's going to have the top criminals, terrorists, and world's deadliest assassins. Basically the dregs of humanity's butt crack."

"And you're supposed to take them on alone?" Brittany gulped.

"No, we are, sort of. My actual task is to lead authorities to the location and, if possible, secure the formula. You," he emphasized, "are going to be the distraction."

"Me?!" the coed gasped. "But . . . but . . . I'm not . . . like you! I'm just a business major who got caught up in some fucking joke! I can't do it! Please! I just want to go home, sob!"

"Sorry kid. This is the fucking mess you walked into. Let me clue you on something. I'm a freelancer under contract to a private security agency. My employers are under contract to another agency, probably government. I'm doing this for the money; catching the world's worst criminal means a major payday in reward money, plus a big bonus if the rumors about the guests are true."

"But . . . if you're a mercenary, how do they know you won't steal the formula for yourself? Or join up with . . . Krause? Better yet, how do I know I can trust you?"

"They don't and you don't," Jim answered. "They're taking a risk on me, same as you. I think somewhere up the chain some government head spook decided he had nothing to lose, given the number of agents lost to this psycho. Personally I don't think it's moles or good security so much as the agencies themselves doing the backstabbing. Krause is a brilliant scientist who did some black stuff for a few governments before going criminal. Who's to say he doesn't still work for a few, and all this manhunting is window dressing to make the agencies look like they're doing something? So what if a few expendable agents get tossed in the shithole? Hell, I'm expendable, so's Melanie, you I mean. That's why they hired us, me and Melanie."

"So they could be betraying you too. Oh God, we're dead!"

"Maybe . . . maybe not. The Agency contracted my employers. My employers subcontracted me. I'm thinking they did this to thwart the 'moles'; keeping the mission known to a very few. Somebody up the chain is serious this time, or they just want the formula. Me, I want the money."

"So . . . uh . . . what do you want me to do? What kind of distraction do you mean?"

"I'm not sure, but it's most likely sexual," Jim answered. "Our covers, Melanie and me, were a professional sex worker and her manager."

"Oh God, I'm going to be sick," Brittany hiccuped.

"Don't be sick all over the seat," Jim said, "Uh, you're not a virgin, are you?"

"No!" Brittany lost her virginity at eighteen and had several since. "But I don't give it up easily."

"You might have to, or not. We're heading into an unpredictable situation. Your duties could be anything from hosting to, well, the bad things you're probably thinking about. You have to be prepared for that. The Agency hired me and Melanie on short notice. They got intelligence a private resort, rumored to be a Krause front, was advertising on the dark web for some 'special' workers to 'entertain' special 'clients' for a few days. I wouldn't have accepted were it not for the big payday. I had to put this gig together quick; use my brother's shady connections to get in contact with the recruiter. The Agency had to build a profile on the fly, able to pass a background check. Since you're here instead of Melanie, they're going to have to change her profile fast."

"How do they know I'm here?"

"Believe me, they know."

"What if they can't change the profile?"

"Then we're dead soon as we land."

Brittany squeaked.

Interlude

The Nervous Man and the Sweaty Man stood behind a seated woman. The woman was young, barely out of her teens. She was the best at her profession and wore it on her face; an air of supreme confidence, aided immensely by the sophistication of the computer at which she worked.

The woman should be so confident. She co-designed the computer and created its algorithms, the price for her suspended sentence for hacking and crashing the NSA's computers. She'd been fifteen then.

Currently, she was on loan to these two clowns, fixing their screw-up. She didn't have much respect for independent agencies, nor for her own, but they paid well. Plus, she was out of jail, and had access to the best equipment.

Right now, she was turning Brittany Summers into Melanie Swann, and with such artistry as, when completed, Brittany's parents would not believe they'd given birth to her.

All it took was a few adjustments to Brittany's life to match her new identity. Instead of the old profile, an experienced woman, well established in her profession, the new Melanie was a young college student, earning money on the side to supplement her tuition.

The Confident Woman noted the new Melanie's attractiveness. It would be easy to believe the profile of a pretty, young, cash-strapped coed earning some extra coin through a controversial profession.

"There." she grinned with a final click of the mouse, "Done, anything else?"

"No, no," quavered the Nervous Man, "We're good for now, thanks."

"No prob," she replied, and packed her laptop.

"Remember, you're still on standby," the Nervous Man called after her departing figure.