Zero Woman

I did not expect to kill two times within the last twenty four hours. And I did not expect to end my career this way.

The evening before, I had just finished a job in Los Angeles. An easy one. The target was lured to a restaurant in Chinatown. I pretended to be the waitress.

When I took his order, he placed his hand on my butt. I took a deep breath and wrote down what he wanted. This was going to be his last meal, so I made sure I did not make a mistake. Peking duck, Szechuan spicy deep-fried squid, Hunan chicken, beef with broccoli, twice cooked pork, fried dumplings, shark's fin soup, combination lo mein and fried rice. The man was a pig.

Our client sat next to him. After dinner, the client repeatedly poured more Tsingtao beer in his glass. Beer meant his bladder filled up quickly. Thirty minutes after finishing his meal, he burped and headed to the boy's room.

It was a typical Chinatown bathroom. Small, narrow, the stench of urine pervading the air. There were two urinals, one taller than the other. I hid in the only stall, strategically overlooking the urinals. For extra kicks, I had stripped down to my bra and panties, squatting on the covered lid with my five inch stilettos. For some reason I could not fathom, death and sex tend to invade my mind at the same time.

He staggered through the door, unbuckled his belt, pulled out his cock, and ended with a deep sigh. Standing on top of the toilet, over the short wall divider, I held my breath, aimed, squeezed the trigger slowly with the fleshy part of the index finger.

His fountain of urine bounced off the wall when the first bullet sliced diagonally through his neck. He turned around, the yellow stream continued escaping from his body, joined by a red stream ejaculating from his neck.

He met my eyes and I squeezed the trigger again. The second bullet drilled through his chest. He toppled to the ground, his eyes bulging, not believing he had been ambushed by a woman. The ultimate insult.

He cussed in his native language with his last breath, his pants down, one hand on his penis. I understood enough Mandarin to realize he wanted to fuck me and my mother at the same time. I walked up to the dying man, kicked apart his legs, and emptied the third round into his crotch, making sure he entered heaven or hell without his manhood.

The blood flowed from both sides of his body, soaking the uneven bathroom floor. It would soon flow under the door and out to the restaurant. I removed my bra and panties, then stuffed the panties into his mouth and tied the bra around his neck. Our client was very particular about the kinky details. The news would spread in the criminal world that he was found with women's underwear. Our Chinese client had cultural preferences that was beyond my imagination. But we sought to please the customer. And the customer was always right.

I stepped over the corpse, making sure I did not leave footprints on the bloodstained floor. Using the only broken sink and cracked mirror, I ran water over my hair and face, removing the splattered blood and fluid from the last shot. Someone must have called nine one one because I heard sirens. I stepped on the toilet lid and kicked the glass on the narrow high window with my heels. When I slipped through it, my bare chest caught the jagged edge and a glass fragment embedded itself in my left nipple. I landed on the gravel of the back alley wearing only my stilettos.

Don's car was waiting with the engine running. He drove calmly as I removed the glass fragment in the backseat. His eyes glanced occasionally at the rearview mirror, but he kept the Toyota Corolla on a steady pace along Interstate 10.

High from adrenalin, I was ready to party, so I put on a halter dress, tying the straps at the back of my neck. The little black dress was backless, so it was impossible to wear a bra. It was possible to wear panties under the short dress. I chose to wear a skimpy G-string. I like the feeling of it sliding up my crack.

Don, my business partner of five years, was formally dressed in a three piece suit, complete with bow tie.

"You look like a waiter." I crawled between the seats so I could ride shotgun.

"And you look drop dead gorgeous." He enjoyed teasing. I never did. I believed a professional distance was healthy. Besides, he had twenty years on me, old enough to be my dad. In fact, he was dad's partner until dad passed away.

"I wish all jobs were that simple."

"If they are all like that, our clients won't pay us handsomely, right?"

Don had a point. Our jobs were mostly very risky types. Over the years, we had some really close calls. I had been shot twice. The scars on my stomach and thigh were constant reminders.

Interstate 10 quickly became Interstate 15. We pulled over to a gas station just outside Barstow. I took my time to apply makeup while Don shoved the gasoline gun into the small hole at the back of the Corolla, half the gun sticking out. We bought coffees and moved on.

When we crossed into Nevada, we both screamed at the top of our lungs for having survived yet another job.

We drove on to the Las Vegas strip, but did not stop to gamble. The thrill of gambling with money could not excite us. After all, we had just gambled with our lives.

Instead, we went strip club hopping on Industrial Road. We were equal opportunity customers, checking out both male and female strippers.

"I'll bet $200 your whore does not dare to take the stage." A man, visibly drunk, shouted at Don in a seedy joint.

Don played it cool. "You'll have to wager directly with her."

He repeated his dare, this time in my face.

"Show me the $1,000 and I'll consider." I pulled down my dress to show more cleavage.

"Here," he removed his wallet and counted out ten bills. Don used the light from his cell phone to verify that they were hundred dollar bills.

When the song ended, I climbed the two steps to the round stage. Holding the pole, I struck a pose. A dozen men or so moved closer.

"This man is betting a grand that she does not dare to strip." Don was loud enough so that the men around the stage could all hear. Nobody offered to raise the stakes.

The thumping music came on. I wowed the audience by inverting myself, gripping the pole by my ankles, my hands on the floor, the dress floating around my chest, my thong undies visible. When I stood upright again, stacks of twenties appeared. I sauntered around the stage, taking my time to collect my reward, letting them slide it into my G-string.

For the second song, I untied the knot behind my neck, letting the dress drop to my waist. The catcalls were deafening, almost as loud as the music. More twenties, and even a hundred. Las Vegas was a rich town.

I let my dress drop completely to the floor on the third song. This was not a nude club, just topless. I pranced around in my thong, crawling on the stage, pretending to be a tigress. The crowd went wild when I crawled to the pole and kissed it.

By the time the song ended, the entire club was standing three deep around the stage. Don held my hand and helped me down the steps. We were up at least fifteen hundred.

We decided we had celebrated enough.

"Can we switch cars?" Don asked when we were almost at his house. "I have to meet a new client tomorrow." For some strange reason, new clients had a tendency to trust only assassins with luxury cars.

I hesitated for several seconds. "Sure," I said as we pulled into a gated community on a golf course in Boulder City, just outside Las Vegas.

"Thanks. I'll see you soon." He leaned over to kiss my cheek. He had never done that before. This was strange.

It's not a big deal, I thought to myself as I merged with the traffic on Interstate 40, heading east. The morning sun was suddenly in my eyes. I reached down to the glove compartment and pulled out a greasy pair of oversized sunglasses. Don really had bad taste.

When the traffic thinned, I spotted a silver Buick of some sort in my rear mirror. I sped up, and then slowed down, the Buick followed. God, who drove a Buick anymore? Didn't General Motors stop making them ugly cars? Or was that the Hummer they stopped making?

I floored the pedal to pass an eighteen wheeler, shooting the needle to ninety. The Buick effortlessly kept pace. It was only a foot away from my bumper. I resisted the urge to slam the breaks. The Corolla was no match for any car, even the Buick.

I blinked and tried to concentrate. The dotted lines dividing the lanes blurred and merged into a single continuous line. The needle was at one hundred, as fast as the Corolla could go.

Chancing a glance to the right, I fished out my cell phone from my purse. Pressing just one button, the ring tone went on and on. God damn it, Don. What the hell were you doing? Rubbing your own dick or sticking the middle finger up your own asshole? Pick up the fucking phone!

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, his lazy voice came on. The background sound of the television was audible. He appeared to be alone.

"Hello honey, what can I do you for?"

"Cut it out, Don."

"Ashley, what's wrong?"

"There's a guy on my tail. What should I do?"

"Step on the gas and lose him. Don't worry about the cops. I have many friends in Nevada."

"I'm in Arizona. And I'm stuck in your stupid Corolla. You took my BMW, remember?"

"Hang on," he said.

I heard the whirling fan inside his laptop computer.

"Where are you now?" he asked, a few key strokes later.

"Exit 157 on I-40." More keystrokes.

"Get out at Exit 161. There's a single gas station off the ramp. There should be nobody except the store clerk at this hour. FM him."

"Understood." FM was our code for a flanking maneuver.

Once again, I could count on Don to give me the solution when I was in a jam. The last few years had been very good for us. There was a surprisingly large market for the elimination of criminals. Our clients range from government intelligence agencies to criminal organizations. They only knew that a female called Zero Woman had a near certain probability of executing the hit. Don was the secret sauce and hidden connection that made it work.

I kept going as fast as I could. At the last minute, I slammed on the brakes, tires skidding and screeching, the burning smell of rubber filling the air, the car narrowly missing the concrete wall.

He braked as well, but missed the exit ramp. He stopped and reversed furiously. The highway was empty. I had only a few seconds.

I burned rubber and parked the car directly in front of the mini-supermarket, in the handicap lot. Grabbing my purse, I sprinted and pushed the glass door hard, the bell on top of the door clanging wildly. The clerk jumped and woke up from his sleep. I held my index finger to my lips to signal silence. I waved the gun to let him know I meant business. His face turned white. He nodded and understood.

The man parked next to the Corolla, in the other handicap lot. The bell clanged again, bouncing off the wall. He was in the store, his gun drawn, his eyes narrowing. The clerk was nowhere to be seen. Smart clerk.

The small supermarket had only three rows. The man systematically checked out each one, crouching and keeping his body low. The front row had all the snacks. He quickly reached the end and turned one-eighty degrees to the next aisle.

One side of the middle row was filled with toiletries and feminine hygiene products. The other side carried Pepsi, Sprite, Coke, Mountain Dew, Dr Pepper, and Fanta. Strangely, there were no diet sodas. It took him barely a minute to complete the first two rows. There was only the back row left.

On the back row were alcoholic beverages, mostly beers, kept cold inside giant refrigerators. He got down on one knee next to the aluminum siding. Peeking with one eye, he saw that nobody was on the last row. By elimination, she must be hiding in the bathroom, he might have thought.

I knew he was coming, the fluorescent lights casting his shadows in all directions. I was starting to shiver, my bare back touching the icy cold beer cans. My heart was pounding and my breathing labored, but the refrigerator motor drown out my presence.

I saw a shadow creeping from left to right. I stopped breathing, both hands holding the Glock, index finger on the trigger, legs shoulder length apart, aiming slightly upwards.

First, his gun was visible, then the arms, and lastly the side view of his face. I squeezed the trigger gently. The glass shattered, a thousand fragments flying outwards. The bullet went in through his jaw and went out through his temple.

I stepped out, tiptoed around the broken glass, and checked his pulse. He was dead. I sucked in air, breathing for the first time in a minute.

In the Corolla, I put my purse in the glove compartment, locked the doors, and turned the ignition key. I wanted to get the hell out of there.

Before I could step on the gas, the cold barrel of a gun was on my neck. I stopped breathing again.

"Put your hands behind the seat." I complied like a obedient dog.

Plastic cuffs secured my wrists behind me. A leathered arm reached around me and pulled out the ignition key.

I stole a glance at the rear mirror. The man behind was wearing a Spiderman mask and a leather jacket. When he saw me looking, he removed a rag from his pocket and blindfolded me. I could still see shadows from behind the blindfold, but could not make out faces.

Then I was dragged by the elbows out of the car. He slammed me faced down on the hood, kicking apart my legs at the same time. After a quick search, he removed my panties, shoved them into my mouth, and sealed it by duct tape.

Finally, I was thrown into total darkness in the cramped trunk of the Toyota.

>>>>>

The windowless basement was full of terrible steel objects. There was a fridge, microwave, dishwasher, stove and sink.

I was forced to kneel on the cold concrete floor. The plastic cuffs had been replaced with standard police-issued handcuffs, tough steel cutting into my wrists. My tormentor sat in front of me, with the chair facing backwards, his legs straddling it. The Spiderman mask and his leather jacket were on the empty chair next to him.

He walked towards me and tore off the tape that sealed my lips, allowing me to push the wet panties out of my mouth, soaked with my own saliva.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" I attempted to take control, spitting in his face. It was a mistake.

He slapped me hard with the back of his hands, dropping me to the right, my shoulder unable to properly cushion the fall with my arms shackled behind. He yanked me up by my hair, almost pulling the roots out until I was forced back on my knees. Warm blood flowed from my cut lips.

He laughed.

"What's so funny, motherfucking coward. If you are really a man, uncuff me and see if you can handle me one on one."

He laughed again. It was a long roaring laugh, like rolling thunder from far away. When he stopped, only the sound of the air conditioner could be heard.

He went down on one knee and looked me directly in the eye. His eyes were the coldest blue I've ever seen. It reminded me of the cold ocean waves in San Francisco.

Without warning, he pinched and twisted both my nipples through the thin fabric of my dress. The twisting continued until I screamed, involuntarily. Then he stopped.

"You will not talk unless I ask you a question, understand?"

I nodded.

He twisted my nipples until I screamed again.

"And when I ask you a question, you reply verbally, understand?"

"Yep," My tone was reluctant.

Another twist of my tits, this time raking in his fingernails. I was going hoarse on my third scream.

"You address me as sir, got that whore?"

"Yes sir." My breathing was rapid and shallow.

"Good."

He sat down and took out a cigarette, leaning back and crossing his legs.

This was very strange. What did he want? Who was behind him? Was he working alone?

As a woman, I was very effective in my line of work. Very few people expected a blond with an angelic face to be capable of killing. But as a captured woman, nasty things could be done to me.

A captured male assassin would be tortured. A captured female assassin would be tortured and raped. It was true that a man could also be raped. But somehow, the odds of gang rape were heavily against a woman.

However, I could feel my dress was still intact. Also, Spiderman had not stuck his dick into my mouth, cunt or ass, at least not yet.

Neither had he interrogated me. It was as if he already knew everything about me. This was driving me nuts. What could have gone wrong?

The last job was easy and perfectly executed. Very few people saw me in the restaurant. The client was absolutely trustworthy. Don had carefully screened him, as he had done so for all our clients. The drive out of Los Angeles was uneventful.

Also, why would anyone wait so long before making a move? If the client wanted to kill us, we would have been blown up by a car bomb or shot on the way to Vegas. The strip clubs in Vegas were also very dark. We were most vulnerable there when we were celebrating. I had been near naked on stage and had no weapon on me.

After Vegas, I was driving alone. Why would anyone follow me, but not shoot until he was in a gas station?

A second man entered the room. He had slick black hair that was tied back into a pony tail. His eyes were narrow and lifeless. His facial skin was so smooth it reflected the light from the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Wasting no time, Oily Hair tied a rope around my neck. I was led by the rope and forced to crawl on my knees. I was made to stop in one corner of the room, which had iron hooks protruding from the floor.

The sound of metal chains came from behind me. Oily Hair had a knife. The cold knife was on the back of my neck. At first, he tried to untie the knot behind my neck. When he fumbled and failed, he simply used the knife to slice through. My dress dropped to my waist.

Oily Hair walked in a big circle around me, making sure I could see the two pairs of nipple clamps. He held them with one hand, the other stroking his chin.

"You want to guess what these are for?" Oily Hair grinned, exposing his missing front tooth.

"They are for you to link your gay nipple to your mother's cunt." I spit at Oily Hair right after the insult. It landed on his face and dripped down. He was stunned, but recovered quickly. After wiping his face with the back of his hand, he rubbed his hand on my hair.

"Clamp her and start taking pictures." Spiderman did what he was told.

One end of each clamp was secured to the floor hook, the other bit into the soft skin around my nipple. I gasped and bit my tongue. The world was turning gray.

One of them, I no longer could keep track, yanked back my hair, forcing me to kneel upright. The clamps bit harder into my nipple when the chains were fully extended. The camera snapped away, capturing my tortured look.

Why did they want to document the incident? Would that not be incriminating evidence? Was it just for their client to see? Were they planning to blackmail me in future, compelling me to do what they wanted, perhaps to kill for them?

The combined effects of the pain from the clamps and the delayed effect of the alcohol I consumed at the strip club were beginning to blunt my thinking. I was confused. Blackmail implied they planned to keep me alive. Was that wishful thinking?

After what seemed like a thousand camera flashes later, the clamps were painfully pulled off. Blood rushed back to my chest.

I was hogtied on my stomach, thick ropes binding my ankles and wrists together. After a few kicks from heavy boots, I was flipped over, like scrambled eggs. Facing the ceiling, my arms and legs were trapped by my own weight. I was repeatedly kicked until I passed out.