Spy Nude Pt. 03

Spy Nude

Part Three

by The Preve

Jim woke early the next morning, showered, and went to Brittany's bungalow. She was already up and eating breakfast.

She opened the door at his ring. She was nude. Krause hadn't yet given her clothes.

Jim's breath stopped, really. He would look back on that moment later and agree, Yep, I stopped breathing for a second.

The Brittany Summers of two days ago was beautiful enough. This... this stunner, was a goddess. Wavy, glossy, dark brown hair; flawless, glowing white skin, smooth and hairless; sculpted eyebrows and gleaming white teeth, ringed by red rosebud lips. She was beyond smokeshow. She was a California forest fire.

"What-in-the-fuck did they do to you, 'Melanie'?"

"They gave me a hair removal, a body wash, and a makeover. They used some cutting edge shampoo. They told me it was permanent."

Jim, who'd been around, heard rumors about this type of tech.

"I shouldn't be surprised Krause would have access to this shampoo," he told her.

"I don't know. If they were going to kill me, why make me look like this? And is it really permanent? Are there any side effects?"

"I don't know what Krause is up to with this makeover. The rumors about the nanotech are mostly over cost. Very expensive. Only the elite of the elite of the elite can afford it. People would kill to have the makeover you got. I'm not kidding. I'm not a doctor so I don't know about side effects. If we get out of this, I'll see about getting you one."

"If. I don't know if I can do this. We're going to get killed," her voice trembled for just a second.

"I'll try to keep us alive. I'm trying right now. It might work, but I need you to be Melanie Swann for just one more day."

"I'm going to have to do those... things you mentioned on the plane."

"You might. If I have to do something to get us off the island, you'll have to keep them occupied. Remember, you'll have to do things you normally wouldn't."

Brittany leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her breasts.

"All this because those backstabbing bitches ex-BFFs couldn't get over my being picked for Rose Queen instead if one of them. If I survive this I'm going to kill them. When is it going to happen?"

"They arrived last night. I suspect Boorstadt will come for us soon."

Brittany looked down. "I... need to finish breakfast. I need to get ready for it."

She went back into the bungalow, but paused before closing the door.

"There's a young man named Jason. He's an albino, hairless. He escorted me to the spa. He was kind and cared about me. I think he can help."

"I'll keep that in mind," Jim replied. Jason Krause? Heinrich's son is on the island? He didn't look like an albino in the file. What happened? "I'm going to have some breakfast myself. Back in an hour."

****

Boorstadt arrived at the bungalow to collect "Melanie." His eyes widened upon seeing her.

"Most impressive, excellent work."

"I was blown away myself. Her rate will go through the roof after this gig," Jim grinned. "You hear, Mel? You'll have new higher class clients. Your tuition's paid."

"Melanie" smiled demurely. Boorstadt cocked an eyebrow and smiled back.

"Today is mostly about relaxing the guests and settling them in. Many of them are from groups, factions with differences, political, social, racial, and religious. Mr. Krause feels your unique presence might help keep things calm until the auction tomorrow."

"A bit of eye candy for the guests, then?" Jim quipped.

"Among other tasks. For the moment, Mr. Krause wishes Miss Swann to serve drinks while the guests have lunch. No uniform required."

"Ah, nude waitressing," Jim glanced at "Melanie." She smiled again, betraying no nervousness.

Good. She gives away nothing. This girl really is a natural. "So, when do we get paid?"

"Payment will arrive, end of the day tomorrow. Then you can be on your way. I'm happy to inform you, Krause has promised a substantial bonus for your services."

"That is very good news," Jim grinned.

Brittany slipped her feet into a pair of small white slippers. She wore nothing else. Before she left, the coed checked herself in the mirror.

"I look different," she realized, and not from the makeover. "I'm not afraid."

Her look gave no trace of desperation or haggard fear.

I'm going to have to sell this or we're both dead.

She walked to the golf cart between the two men, and came to another revelation. She was nude, but didn't feel embarrassed. She hadn't felt embarrassed since the park.

The luncheon was set up in a Bedouin tent, by the pool near the main building. There were no chairs. Pillows and rugs were spread about the room with a low table in the middle.

Expensive china and crystal glasses formed the table set. Varied fruits, mostly of Mediterranean origin, were piled in the middle.

"Boorstadt, your boss doesn't scrimp," Jim noted.

"Krause is a man for show when it comes to his clients. If Miss Swann will accompany me, there are some final preparations. Mr. Blake, please wait here."

Boorstadt ushered "Melanie" to a curtained off section. Jim peaked inside when it opened. He saw a chair, a white-suited woman, and a few cosmetic products.

"Hair salon," he guessed. "What can they do to make her hair better than it is already?"

Jim leaned against a pillar, having nothing better to do except plan.

They'll be coming soon. Krause should arrive first. We'll be safe until tomorrow. They need me alive to keep her cooperative. I'll sneak a look at Krause's vault while she distracts them. I need an excuse to get away from this lunch. That stunt I pulled yesterday is our only chance. They should know by tonight, if not tomorrow.

Brittany and Boorstadt re-emerged twenty minutes later. Jim's breath stopped again. The cosmetician had done up Brittany's hair in a braid, with gold string intertwined throughout. Gold bracelets, elaborately designed, were wrapped around her wrists and left ankle. She wore no makeup.

The ensemble was simple but extremely effective. The idea was to emphasize "Melanie's" beauty, not distract from it with an elaborate costume.

"You have been very cooperative throughout this whole ordeal, my dear," Boorstadt said, "You must tell me where this demeanor came from."

"My parents on one end, the money on the other, and college in the middle," "Melanie" smiled.

Boorstadt chuckled.

"Mr. Krause and the guests will arrive shortly. I must ask you to wait behind the curtain while lunch is prepared. It will only be a short while."

The waiting area was comfortable, with cushions. A gap through the curtain allowed Jim and Brittany to view the cooks and waiters. They set the table with more expensive food. Arabic and Mediterranean styles were the theme. A food bar was set at one end of the tent, a wet bar at the other.

When they finished, the waiters and cooks exited the tent, quickly. Shortly after, the guests entered, escorted by people Jim judged not so much assistants as henchmen.

On seeing the guests, Jim's first words were whispered, "Fuck me."

"What is it? Who are they?" whispered Brittany.

"A whole fucking jackpot of the world's most wanted," he whispered back, awestruck. "Name an atrocity, name a crime, these guys have done it, gleefully. If the feds knew they were here, if Krause didn't have the formula, this place would be drenched in drone strikes like Hurricane Katrina. Ninety-nine percent of the world wants these ass fucks dead."

The guests continued to file in. Jim gave Brittany the lowdown:

Erik Strom, 45- "Leader of Pure Scandinavia. Former Swedish ski champion, medaled at the Olympics. Now heads the rightest right-wing crew north of the Baltic. He thought the psycho who killed those immigrant children in Norway was too soft. Strom prefers the slow, painful approach, like sarin gas. Hates anyone with a shade darker than a light tan."

"Too bad," Brittany whispered, "He's kind of cute. So's his assistant."

Ragnar 'Rage the Ax' Axelsson, 40- "Heads a hate metal band, Odensjakt. Worships Odin. Thinks anyone not Scandinavian, specifically not Swedish, is subhuman. Wants to revive Viking culture, especially the pillage, rape, and slaughter."

Ahmed Abdullah Ibn Ali, 36- "Heads the Sword, a radical Islamist terror group so radically terror, ISIS fighters shit their pants when they hear his name.

ISIS, Al Queda, the Taliban, they all kicked him and his crew out. Sent emissaries to the US and Britain begging us to drone his ass. His goal is to kill everyone in the west above the age of ten and convert the rest."

"Who's the clean-shaven one?"

Selim Said, 30- "His lieutenant in charge of suicide bombs. Likes to use children, likes to kill them too. A 'nits make lice' kind of mass killer. Doesn't discriminate between non-Muslims and those he sees as heretics and traitors. Basically anyone not specifically like him."

Michael Boka, 38- "Leads the Lord's Power Army, Uganda. Mostly it's about rape, both sexes, with side work in plunder and pillage, conflict gems dealing, and more rape. Claims to have a magic penis that makes everyone who sucks or fucks it invincible."

"And the other guy?"

Harry Ochen, 36- "It's genocide and rape for him, mostly genocide. He's aiming for Pol Pot's record."

Akeem Zahir, 43- "Nigerian Islamist. His organization's name translates to, 'All knowledge and civilization is sinful and forbidden.' Basically wants to take mankind back to a simpler time, when they wore animal skins and bonked marriage prospects on the head with clubs. His group's snatched so many schoolgirls, he could populate his own country.

His sidekick's his brother, Yakub. He's more radical. Thinks animal skins and clubs are too civilized."

Hiro "Fuck You" Fukosawa, 32- "Vilest member of the vilest Yakuza crew in Japan. Human trafficking. Father used to head a snatch crew that kidnapped Japanese women and shipped them to North Korea. He does the same thing, only it's brothels and sex shops.

The Pacific rim's his main area. The big sumo guy with him is his henchman, Bobo 'Onibaba' Odo (38)."

"The big guy's ugly."

"Onibaba means demon mask. They don't call him that for nothing."

Two final men filed in. Jim blinked twice and muttered, "Fuck my ass with a two by four and suck my balls!"

"What is it?"

"That," Jim jutted his jaw at the two men, "is trouble with a capital Capitol. The guy on the right's Robert Bridger (35). Heads the Alliance for a Clean America. White supremacists in suits posing as anti-immigrant (no one allowed who isn't white, male, and Christian), law and order (put all blacks and browns in jail, let the cops do fuck everything), anti-choice (women are good for cooking, fucking, and popping out babies), and anti-gay (unless you're a hot lesbian) organization."

"I think I've heard of him. The other guy looks familiar."

"That other guy is one giant fucking complication. John Forrest (54)."

"Wait, Jack Forrest? Senator Jack Forrest?!"

"Of the intelligence committee, in living fucking color. Looks like my backstabbing government theory's gotten more credible."

"And I'm supposed to serve them," Brittany gulped.

"Yep. Keep them distracted. Play the part while I secure the formula."

"But how are you going to do that? This place is crawling with guards."

"That's my problem. I've met challenges like this before."

The guests glared at each other. The philosophies and beliefs to which they professed were polar opposites. These men, had they not been disarmed, would set on each other in a spectacular blood fest. Only one religion, the gods they truly worshiped, kept them from using their bare hands: hate, greed, and power.

They were present for a prize that provided the key to world conquest. The bloodbath would come later.

Boorstadt entered the tent and cleared his throat.

"Greetings gentlemen and welcome to Falstaff island. I hope your journeys were without incident."

Some of the guests were silent; a few grunted some affirmatives.

Boorstadt continued, "Mr. Krause shall arrive presently. In the meantime, please avail yourselves of the food and drinks provided. A waitress shall be out presently to assist."

The group muttered and growled, but sat on the cushions, eyeing the food and each other warily.

Strom and Axelsson sat near Bridger and Forrest, keeping well away from the others.

Ibn Ali, Zahir, Said, and Yakub brightened slightly on seeing the food conformed to Islamic standards. Jim doubted, though, this group's devoutness. He'd heard stories of Ali's boozing and love of pork rinds.

Boka, Ochen, Fuck You, and Odo took up the last block.

"Fucking A, you could cut the tension with a knife and fry it on a stove," Jim observed.

"I don't like the way everyone's glaring at each other," Brittany added, "The Senator and Bridger seem friendly with the Swedes, though."

"Kindred spirits, but Europe and America can hate each other just as bad as Christianity and Islam. They'll go at each others' throats soon enough. Here comes Boorstadt."

Boorstadt strode to them behind the curtain.

"Well, they're settled in. You're up, young lady."

Boorstadt gestured to a pitcher, "The best wine in existence. Just keep their goblets filled and be on standby. They'll most likely require other favors."

Brittany betrayed no nervousness at Boorstadt's statement. His instructions did bring forth another potential problem.

"Hmmm, all that wine and alcohol," Jim said, "You sure it's a good idea to get them lubed up like that? They don't look the kind of people you want drunk together, knowwhatimean? Plus there's the danger to Melanie..."

Boorstadt smiled. "Mr. Krause wants his guests relaxed and happy. If you're concerned for Miss Swann's safety, I can assure you he's had most of the guards, and surveillance, brought close to the tent. Most of the other guards are watching the perimeter. If things get out of hand, they'll intervene. So, ready Miss Swann?"

"As I'll ever be," "Melanie" smiled, with no hint of trepidation.

"She's really good. A natural," Jim thought. Other thoughts played in his mind as well, none made him feel easy.

On the surface, the concentration of guards, and the focus on the tent, should be a windfall for him. With the rest of the guards around the perimeter, it meant a large empty space for him to operate.

It's a perfect opportunity; fell right into my lap. It's too good to be true.

Therein was the danger. It can't be this easy. It's a trap.

Plus, another possibility presented itself: Krause could be attempting a hit.

The worst of the worst were in the tent, unarmed; a terrific opportunity for a man like Krause, but that didn't make sense either. Krause had engaged in business with almost everyone present. None of them were threats; a few were useful.

"Something else is going on here," thought Jim.

Boorstadt picked up the pitcher and handed it to Brittany.

"Go slay 'em girl," Jim smiled. Once the distraction started to happen, Jim could get to work. I hope she can keep them occupied long enough.

Senator Jack Forrest (R-OH), was the first to see her. He didn't particularly like being in this place with these degenerates, but the opportunity presented was too great to pass up.

A formula like Krause's concoction offered so many possibilities. Supercops to clean up the streets, keep the blacks in their place, and illegals out of the country. Super-soldiers to finally deal with the scourge of Islam, and spread American power throughout the Middle East and beyond. All to be done under the administration of President Jack Forrest, cementing his place in history (along with the removal of a pesky term-limiting amendment, soon as he got into office).

Forrest's association with Krause extended back to before the scientist went underground. Krause saw great potential in this up and coming politician. A prominent senator, perhaps future president, offered enormous opportunities.

Forrest and Bridger's presence was unofficial, of course. Ordinarily, a trained agent would handle such an operation, but Krause specifically requested the Senator's presence, plus one guest.

A few arrangements with his high placed intelligence community contacts (contacts he'd used to sidetrack or thwart investigations into Krause's activities [albeit there was one guy. "Biggs," the Senator snorted. An ex-analyst, now in charge of monitoring financial transactions, career gulag in the clandestine service; quiet, bland, looks like a clerk, And a nigger to boot, harmless looking and no threat but, There's something about that guy... The Senator made a note to look into this man's record when he got back.]) allowed him to undertake this unconventional trip.

Jaunts like these were in keeping with his reputation as a maverick, earning him admiration among crucial and influential circles.

Robert Bridger's presence was a deliberate pick. Forrest saw Bridger's potential as a running mate for a future presidential campaign.

His prep school looks, clean cut image, tech savvy, and ability to shape his political philosophy into easily digestible bites, made him popular with both college age voters and the alienated working class.

It didn't matter his ideas were shit; if people ate them up, and liberals heads exploded, it was fine with Forrest.

"Holy fuck," Robert gasped.

Jack agreed. The woman who emerged from behind the curtain shamed the word, "Smokeshow." He'd seen more than his share of beautiful women. Laid with some of the finest call girls Washington could offer. Hired, coerced, and blackmailed more than a few smoking hot interns onto his cock (his wife, no small looker herself, knew her husband was a piece of shit. It was a marriage of convenience. She did her duty; popped out two sons and a daughter, and planned for her status as First Lady when her husband took over the country.).

All thoughts and memories of his conquests were blasted to bits by this vision of goddess beauty holding the pitcher.

"Where in the fuck did Heinrich find this," Jack muttered. His question was shared by all the guests in some form or other.

Erik Strom was a man rarely prone to gaping. One moment, he was sitting with his buddy The Ax, at a table ringed with subhumans and low-class Yanks. His presence was to bid on a formula, with the potential to fulfill his dream of a new Swedish Empire.

The next, he gazed upon a vision of stunning beauty to strike him thoughtless.

Erik was a man used to getting women easy, given his movie star looks. Most really meant nothing to him, but this one stirred the first lust he had in ages.

Ax, to his left, gnawed his lower lip, muttering profane curses in Swedish, and a few Norse prayers. His face was red, his fists were clenched.

Fuck! His blood is up and it's not even one of his gigs.

Erik reached over and touched his friend/bodyguard on the shoulder.

"Steady Ax," he cautioned, "We're here for the formula. You can have her later. We can't make trouble yet."

"Gods! I want to ream that bitch's cunt! Just look at that! She's all kinds of fuckable!"

"Yes she is, but it's the formula that matters. When we get that, we'll ream them all."

"I'm going to snatch that bitch, rape her ass, marry her, and burn London as a honeymoon gift! 'Can't wait to revive Danelaw on those Brit fucks."

Erik sighed; Danelaw was something the Danes did. Danish were on the lower end of Scandinavia so far as he was concerned. Ax could be so exasperating sometimes.