Tracking Evil: Bucharest Pt. 03

Authors note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Tracking Evil - Bucharest Part 3

Note: While some characters in this tale appear in the series Tracking Evil: a Podcast. It isn't necessary to have read that series to enjoy this story. This story is set a few months after the events in the final chapter of Tracking Evil: a Podcast.

Chapter One: "Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell " - Walter Scott

Ioana steered her small shopping trolley past the cashiers in the grocery store. It was one of those rectangular fabric carts, four small wheels and an extendible handle like a suitcase. Ideal for flat surfaces but a pain when it came to manoeuvring it down the three steep steps outside of the store.

The young man who approached her was tall, although everyone seemed tall to her now. She felt she'd shrunk another few inches since Maria had died, and the guilt of sending little Denisa out to hunt them down.... She was a stupid old woman to have lain that burden on the young woman's shoulders.

The man couldn't have been any older than Maria, an open smiling face, dark of hair and eye. He smiled in a way a person does when they expect to be recognised and she did feel he was familiar. He must have sensed her confusion, speaking first to save her the embarrassment of not knowing who he was.

"Vlad... I knew your granddaughter, and I know Denisa."

"Vlad, of course. I'm sorry, but it's your own fault. You've grown up so much, fine man now. Oh, thank you dear." The last was said when Vlad smoothly took charge of her groceries, lifting the heavy cart effortlessly, placing it onto the pavement outside.

"That's so good of you, a real gentleman. Not many left nowadays."

"Can I walk with you for a minute. To talk..." he seemed awkward now, finding it hard to say the words. More commiserations about Maria no doubt. She welcomed them even though they kept the pain of her loss fresh. Talking about her meant she wasn't forgotten.

"Of course, nice to have a young man walking me home. Hasn't happened in about fifty years," she cracked the small joke, feeling better for it.

They started up the street, he kept his pace slow, his long legs half stepping so that Ioana could comfortably keep up. She didn't press him to start talking, knowing it would come to him in time.

"Please... don't react to what I'm going to say to you. Okay?"

"Of course," she was a little bewildered by this opening, her mind was still sharp but even so it was the oddest start to a conversation she'd had in a while.

"Denisa sent me..." he paused at her startled gasp, waiting while she took a hold of herself.

"She sent me to talk to you. She said... she said to tell you that she knows who did it. And she said that she is already making them pay. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She wanted to leap about, to shout out loud. Not in joy, not in pleasure, but with satisfaction that justice would be served. An eye for an eye.

"She wanted to tell you herself but... the people behind this are powerful and she doesn't want this coming back on you. Also, if they realise it's connected to Maria then you might be watched, so she can't risk herself being stopped before she's finished the job." Vlad got it all out in a rush and then he stopped walking, Ioana following suit. He made a pantomime of examining the store front they had stopped beside, as if he was admiring something in the shop window. He pointed inside the store, a woman's fashion boutique and puzzled, Ioana followed his lead.

In the store, Denisa stood looking outside. As their eyes met, she blew a kiss towards Ioana, Denisa smiling then in gratitude to Vlad. To her credit, the old lady didn't react overtly. Instead, she raised a hand as if she was now drawing Vlad's attention to an item, but as her hand lowered, her fingers waggled in an approximation of a wave to Denisa.

"Come on, I'll walk you home, maybe you'll make me a coffee?" Vlad linked an arm in Ioana's, offering her the support she so suddenly needed.

"That would be lovely Vlad. Thank you," Ioana answered, the two of them turning from the window, continuing down the street.

Denisa waited until she was sure they were well out of sight, leaving the boutique with a few new items she'd bought herself. Not just to avoid suspicion but because she'd already managed to get blood evidence on some of her clothes between the killings at the club and the execution of the city councillor. She'd torched and dumped the incriminating clothing already.

The news on the TV had been full of reports concerning the body found the day before in the garage, a city councillors murder a big headline. But oddly, or maybe not, there had been no reports about the three men she had killed in the club. All for the better, she didn't need a full-on police manhunt right now. Though that did mean the organisation would be handling the matter themselves. She trusted in the fact that the first suspicions would fall on criminal rivals and not a twenty-year-old woman with no connection to them or their illicit businesses.

She checked surreptitiously that nobody was following her, doubling back twice to be sure. It was overkill but the stakes couldn't be higher for her. Denisa was on her own in this, no back up, one mistake and she was dead.

Back at her hotel room it was still evening and she was waiting for night to fall to go to work. To kill some time she took a shower, letting the hot water ease muscles and aches that were still lingering from the events in the club. Her feet still smarted a little from the beating, there was some tightness in her shoulders from struggling against the restraints on the sex machine. Overall, though, she was in better shape than she had any right to be. She'd been lucky. If there had been anymore members of the organisation there that night, even one, she wouldn't have been able to act as she had. Her father was a firm believer in the adage of 'making your own luck' and if she was going to get through this, then she'd be as prepared as possible... no more taking stupid chances.

The city councillor's phone had provided addresses for both Lukeba, the 'brains of the organisation' and Malo, the head of the enforcement side of the gang. Six months before all of this, the old Denisa would have risen to the challenge, going head on at Malo first, relishing the idea of pitting her skills against him. Not now, she was smarter now. Her friends had helped instil that. The biggest danger was the cleverer of the two bosses, Lukeba. So that meant that he became target number one. Tonight, she'd go to his place and kill him. Brutally simple as plans went, but with no resources, simple was all that she had. Of course, the added benefit being that 'simple' is harder to fuck up.

<<0>>

The streets were still quiet, the bars and café's still full of people enjoying their evening. To fit in, Denisa had dressed in something skimpy but not as full-on 'exhibitionist' as she had at the club. Her trusty 'shit kicker' leather boots, the micro denim skirt. A man's black shirt, the ends of which she had gathered up, tying into a bow, the top buttons undone so that glimpses of her bra could be seen as the garment moved. Finally, the same leather jacket she had worn to the club.

Lukeba' s address was in a nice, up-scale part of the old city, the house dating back to the nineteenth century. There was a virtual rabbit warren of small streets and alleyways around the house's location, typical enough for an older section of a European city that dated back to medieval times.

Denisa used this natural cover, sticking to the shadows where possible as she inched along, heading towards the mouth of an alleyway that would give her a view of the house. There was a lamp post a few yards away, so she made sure to remain outside the small pool of light around it. Even so, she could see the front door to the house from where she was.

A large, top of the range, Mercedes was parked opposite it on the street. Proclaiming wealth even without the grandeur of the house itself. Three stories, she couldn't begin to estimate the number of rooms inside but there were six windows on this side of the ground floor alone, not counting the front door. These windows were all sporting iron bars. They looked like they'd been installed a hundred years earlier, no less effective though despite this. That left the front door as her entry point. There was no chance of her climbing to another level, not unnoticed, even if there was a slim chance of a window being unlocked.

The front door was the key to gaining entry and the man living there knew it. That's why he had two men on guard outside it. Armed guards, they had to be armed otherwise what was the point to them. She might have gotten close enough to handle one, unarmed as she was. She might have even been able to take him out before he had a chance to warn anyone else. But two men, she hadn't a hope. A rattle behind her, some stray dog or cat sending a piece of trash tumbling. Denisa drew back further into the shadows as both men tensed, their hands dropping to hidden holsters on their hips.

She couldn't do this.

Chapter Two: "To live is to think" - Marcus Tullius Cicero

Denisa ran blindly back up the alley, back the way she had come. Running away from the house.

Ahead of her, a small church stood on her right, the doors open, almost beckoning to her. Without thinking, she sped across the street, through the small gates that marked the edge of the church grounds, and on into the church itself. Only when the soles of her heavy boots sent echoing thumps into the peace and quiet of the building did she stop running. Standing a few feet inside the door, her heart hammering inside her chest. She couldn't know, having never really felt it before, but she was gripped by panic.

The walls of the church were bright, painted from floor to ceiling with frescos. Blues, greens, reds... the robes of depicted saints were as vibrant as they had been when the artist had put brush against plaster covered wall's hundreds of years before. The ceiling was as visibly stunning as the walls. Rich with gold leaf that chased across arches and circled the edges on the churches main dome, the same flourish of colours bedecking the vaulting canopy of the church as was to be found on the walls.

Denisa felt like a young girl again. A memory of going to church, Ioana taking her and Maria. She'd shushed their muted giggling, promising them sweets afterwards if they showed the proper respect and prayed alongside her there. Denisa couldn't remember now what she'd prayed for back then, she could recall everything else though. The smell in that church, the sound of Maria's happy laughter, the taste of the sweets that Ioana purchased for them afterwards. But she couldn't remember what she had prayed for or if it had been answered.

The tightness in her chest was more than she could bear. Denisa felt as if someone was kneeling on it. The pressure, the responsibility was too much. She was twenty years old and everything was on her. At home, her father called the shots. Arlene had more experience than her, had brought her along, teaching her, but Denisa had never been responsible for everything before. This path of vengeance, the planning, the execution... it was too much.

She felt like she was going to throw up.

Maybe she should pray. She knew her father prayed to James Intercisus, a soldier who'd been martyred sixteen hundred years before. But God and his saints couldn't help her. Not against two armed men on guard.

Ioana was depending on her. Maria too, retribution for the life stolen from her, in Denisa's hands. Others, other women or men who might fall prey to these evil men, they didn't know it, but Denisa was their hope. And she was failing. Failing because she couldn't face the almost certain possibility that unarmed and alone, she couldn't do this.

Worse, all she had achieved had been through feeding her inner slut. She'd let the man who had kidnapped her best friend fuck her. Fuck her in the ass in fact. It didn't matter that she hadn't known at the time, she'd known he was a scum bag, and still she'd succumbed to her need for sex.

The tightness in her chest was getting worse. She was going to puke if she didn't get some relief.

Relief. She needed relief.

Denisa moved quickly, stumbling in her haste, shifting to a somewhat shadowed part of the church. It was empty, after ten at night. The chances that anyone else was going to walk in the doors were minimal.

She put a hand between her legs, the micro skirt barely covering her panties as it was. With her index and middle finger outstretched, she guided them past her panties, finding her slit. The sensation of two fingers climbing inside her, in a church, it made her already panicked and pounding heart skip a beat.

It was wrong on such a massive scale.

And that just made her wetter. Horny.

The tightness in her chest began to abate as she toyed with herself. Her nipples hardened, the sensitive fleshy buds pressing uncomfortably against her bra. Denisa didn't take it off though. Nothing to do with the fact she was in a church, just that she didn't want to have to pull her fingers from inside of her to deal with it. She turned her wrist, rotating her fingers inside the tight confines of her pussy, her index finger curling and straightening, exploring the wet walls within her, searching for that... right... spot.... There!

"Uhhhh," she moaned aloud as she pressed down on it, loving her body's response to her own touch. The candles that stood in neat little rows before different icons around the church flickered in the slight breeze coming through the doors, Denisa's tongue flickering in turn as she masturbated her fears away. Her neat and nimble fingers, capable of stripping down a handgun and reassembling it by touch alone, now applying those same skills to getting herself off.

Thoughts of the club, how she'd danced without fear or constraint, of the two black cocks filling her, the fat one that had split her little ass open. She remembered how it had cum inside her, thick, hot wads of cum drenching her bowels while the thick cock had continued to ram in and out of her.

"Uh, uhhhh," her fingers probed deep again.

Then she remembered the feel of the broken pool cue in her hands, the sticky blood that matted one end of it. The crushed skull of the club manager who had arranged Maria's kidnapping, his body splayed in death at her feet. She had sucked on his cock, the head of it battering the back of her throat. At the end, it was his actual head that had been battered, Denisa screaming in rage and release as she'd killed him.

"Hristos... Christ," she moaned.

Footsteps at the door. Denisa wasn't stopping, she turned her back to block anyone entering the church from seeing. Soft voices. Women. It didn't matter. The panic and fear had been pushed aside, replaced by need and wantonness. The Archbishop of Bucharest could have marched through those doors at that moment and Denisa wouldn't have stopped frigging herself with her two fingers. She needed this, she couldn't stand the other feelings, so she needed to keep going at this, no matter how temporary a shield it might have been.

"Uhhhh," Denisa moaned, not close to cumming but close enough that her privacy and the sanctity of this place were no longer concerns. She slumped sideways, resting a shoulder against a buttressing pillar that stood flush against a wall. The architect who had placed it there never imagining that one day it would support a young woman bringing herself off.

"Is she drunk?" Denisa heard one woman ask, her whispered question magnified in the vault like structure of the church. 'Drunk... drunk... drunk' the accusatory echoes boomed.

'Drunk on life, drunk on pleasure' Denisa wanted to say, 'Drunk on...'

She stopped. Her fingers gradually sliding out, the tightness of her pussy squeezing them free like toothpaste from a tube. As a thought developed into an idea, the deranged smile on her face, plastered there during her frenzied fingering, evolved into one of happiness.

"Drunk," she said out loud. She turned, two wrinkled faces scowling at her impropriety in the church, the old women definitely not amused.

"Drunk! Drunk!" Denisa called again, the word booming like Gabriel's horn as she ran from the church.

<<0>>

Ten minutes later and Denisa was back in the alley. She'd torn out of the church like a demon was chasing behind her, running straight to the nearest bar to buy the two items she'd need to get into the house. Cigarettes and alcohol.

The alcohol, a cheap brand of plum brandy, she'd rinsed in her mouth, spitting it into the gutter, splashing some more on her clothing so that in moments she smelt like a wino. A single gulp she swallowed, the fiery spirit fortifying her new resolve. She opened the cigarettes, dumping about half of the packet out onto the ground before stowing the rest into her jacket pocket.

Now she made no attempt to be stealthy, walking unsteadily to the end of the alleyway, stopping when she reached the same lamppost she had avoided earlier. One arm curled about the metal post for support, the other fishing a cigarette from her pocket, Denisa placing it between her lips before going through a theatrical performance of a drunk searching for a lighter. 'And the Oscar goes too...' she thought to herself.

"Hey," she called to the guards. Neither of whom acknowledged her. They were professional, alert, Denisa appearing harmless to them. Harmless but annoying.

"Hey! Hey-Hey! Hellloooooo... I said helllooooo..." Denisa went full on drunk. Still the two men failed to respond.

"Bitches, yeah, you two black bitches... got a fucking light?" That got their attention, one of them storming over towards her.

"Fuck off, take your drunk ass out of here," the black guard said, his awful Romanian heavily accented in French identifying him as a member of the criminal organisation. That and his tracksuit, dark navy Adidas.

"Have. You. Got. A. Motherfucking. Light?" Denisa said each word carefully, waggling the unlit cigarette at him to illustrate her request. She exhaled dramatically at the end, hitting him with the fumes of the cheap alcohol she'd swilled around her mouth.

"No, now fuck off," he barked. He kept his distance from her now, not sensing a threat from her, just repelled by the stink of brandy on her breath.

"You know what... you're cute but you're an asshole," Denisa slurred. "Let me talk to your friend instead. Is he cute? Hey! Hey you!"

The guard lost all patience with her, grabbing her wrist tightly, squeezing it till she dropped her cigarette. His flat features were of an everyday sort, not handsome, not ugly. The kind of bland regularity that makes for a good bodyguard, someone your eye tends to drift over but never settle on. He had the look, the mannerism of a professional, Denisa had to remind herself that, good as she was, there was a chance one or both of them could be better.

"Hey, no fair," Denisa complained.

The black man, out of ideas, pulled out his gun, waving it towards her. It was a Glock 17, a suppressor fitted to it. These guys weren't fucking around.

"I like your gun," Denisa said as the end pointed at her face. She stuck her tongue out, licking the end of the suppressed barrel. "Long, black, shiny." Her free hand, the one he wasn't squeezing, groped towards his crotch.