Quickly, Lourdes began to undress. As she tugged at her clothing with one hand, the other took up the letter opener. Now where to put this? What piece of furniture am I going to defile?
Santa Clara Temporary Detention Facility, Dahlgren Naval Station, Balboa, Terra Nova
The facility had been a school once, with the classrooms built atop a hill and the gymnasium down at the base, both connected by a covered walkway. Later on, after it had lost that function and been abandoned, it had served as a training facility for city fighting for the very first incarnation of the Legion del Cid. This function it had lost once better facilities were built. Now the upper level school served as temporary barracks while the lower level held Parilla. The helicopter bearing a bound Carrera from his home touched down by the upper level. President Rocaberti was waiting to meet it when it landed, along with a couple of his larger and beefier presidential guards.
"Duque Carrera," Rocaberti sneered as Patricio was tossed at his feet. "How very pleasant to meet you again in this way."
"Fuck you, fat boy," Carrera answered.
"Fuck me? No, I don't think so. I did tell me nephew, Moises, to fuck your wife, though. He's a good lad, and obedient to his clan patriarch. By now your skinny, working class bitch, Lourdes, should be on all fours making the choo choo."
Turning to the guards, Rocaberti ordered, "Beat the foreign swine."
Quarters 39, Fort Williams, Balboa
He knew he would need an advantageous position. To that purpose, Chapayev first ran parallel to the road leading away from the house. His uniform was the legion's dark pixilated tiger stripes. Against the light beige house this would have stood out in the moons' glow. Against a background of jungle, it would be considerably less noticeable, essentially invisible, in fact.
About twenty meters past the house, he cut left, aiming himself toward the vehicle into the trunk of which the colonel's captors were attempting to stuff him.
Right, he thought as he padded across the soft grass, legitimate police don't stuff a prisoner into a trunk.
His pistol was lining up on the head of the captor nearest him when Victor thought, I need one prisoner, but only one. His finger stroked the trigger lightly, his pistol's muzzle flashed, and a man's head exploded in red mist and spraying bone. Chapayev rolled then, dropping from the view of the other two men as they turned to face the threat, for the moment forgetting Muñoz-Infantes. They, however, were looking in the wrong place. Victor was already almost behind them. He fired again, three rounds into the one, and then again, a single round, center of mass, into the other. Then he was on his feet, running again to stand next to a shocked driver. This one had time only to open his mouth is a surprised "O" before Victor put a single round through his head, just under his left eye.
He returned around to the back and began helping the colonel out of the trunk. "Maria! Call out the guard!"
"No!" the colonel said. "One of those people was mine!" His voice was rife with bewildered hurt. "One of my own men. Who could believe it?"
"Then we'll take you to the military academy. You'll be safe there."
"But those are just chi—" Muñoz began to object. "Ah. Yes, of course. And we must take Maria as well."
"Of course. Are you up to helping me move the bodies inside?"
"Sure," the colonel answered, "if you can get these handcuffs off of me."
Victor knelt on the bloody ground and began searching bodies until he found the key to the cuffs. "Thanks," the colonel said, once he was free. He then went and grabbed a corpse by the feet.
From the post golf course, helicopters began lifting. It was too dark to see in any detail, certainly too dark to make out the uniforms of the troops riding inside. Even so Muñoz knew his equipment and knew his own organization.
"Those are the frogs who got settled on us a little bit ago," the colonel said, as he dragged the corpse towards the house, a dark and wet looking trail staining the concrete behind it. "Where are they going?"
Victor's burden was moaning slightly. He paid the wounded man no attention as his eyes followed the navigational lights for a few moments. He answered, "They're going to the bridge over the Gatun River."
Muñoz dropped the legs of the body he'd been dragging. "To cut off troop movement, south to north?"
"That would be my guess."
"Then we're not going to the Academy; we're going to my headquarters. Maria!"
"Father?" asked the daughter, now standing framed by light in the doorway.
"Don't call out the guard, but bring me my pistol! And get my escopeta for yourself to guard Victor's prisoner."
Casa Linda, Balboa, Terra Nova
"I trust the prisoner has complied with her orders," Moises Rocaberti said to the guard on Lourdes' bedroom door.
"I wouldn't know about that, sir," the guard replied. "I haven't looked. Willing to wait my turn, sir, don't you see?"
Moises nodded and unconsciously licked him lips. "Don't disturb me, then, until I send for you."
"Yes, sir."
* * *
Lourdes chewed at her lip, nervously, nervous, in fact, about seeming nervous.
Don't be silly, Lourdes, she told herself. There's no sense in trying to pretend you're anything you're not. The most this swine expects is that I'll give myself to him in fear for myself and my children. For that, I should seem terrified and disgusted. If I actually am, so much the better.
She saw and heard the doorknob turn and unconsciously moved one arm across her chest to cover her nipples and the wet circles their leaking had made in the sheer and short camisole she'd donned. Below, she wore a black thong. Her doffed clothing was tossed on the desk. She had travel clothes secreted under the bed.
She caught a glimpse of a guard's short hair, his face turned away, as the door opened halfway and the chief of her captors slid in sideways. He closed the door behind him, one handed, then half turned and slid a bolt closed.
With one arm crossed across her breasts Lourdes' other hand slid down to cover her crotch.
This suited Rocaberti perfectly as he hung his submachine gun on the doorknob by its sling. With both her hands occupied she had none to defend herself when he walked to stand directly in front of her and slapped her across the face, hard enough to hurt, to bring tears to her eyes and a quiver to her lip, but not hard enough to make her cry out. However, when her hand moved of its own accord to her insulted cheek, her arm moved away from her nipples. Rocaberti's own hands then moved, insect quick, his fingers clamping painfully on both of those, then twisting. This made her cry out with pain, the more so as they were tender from nursing her youngest.
The next she knew his hand was entwined in her hair, forcing her down to her knees. His other hand fumbled with the fly of his trousers. As his penis shot out against her face he twisted her hair again, saying, "Suck it, whore."
She forced a smile to her face, looked up, and said, somewhat unconvincingly, "I like it rough, you know. And I'm really superb. 'The best,' my husband says, and he should know. You should sit. I guarantee you won't be able to stand once I start. He never can."
Moises was a little taken aback, perhaps even shocked. She's a good actress, he thought, but she can't hide that she's afraid.
Lourdes stood then and pulled his hand from her hair. She led him by that to the chair and pushed him lightly into it.
It isn't sex, she told herself, as she dropped again to her knees and began undoing her captor's trousers. It isn't sex-it isn't sex-it isn't sex . . .