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V Is for Verna

By: jjskylark



Chapter 1

The secluded hilltop villa overlooking the Roman port of Ostia was almost silent except for the sound of Casio's soft leather whip striking the pliant ass cheeks of a newly acquired slave girl. The cause of the unscheduled punishment was that she had inadvertently backwashed some of his cum onto his bush instead of holding it in her mouth until she was told to swallow. And though she nervously attempted to lap the sperm off her new master's bush before he could notice her mistake, he had already grabbed the whip resting along side his opulent couch and struck her firmly across her beautiful ass as she knelt, causing her to forget the rule of silence and cry aloud. 

"You are to always have every drop of my cum in your mouth with a few moments after my climax unless told differently, do you understand?"

"Yes, my master. Please forgive me", she said meekly in Latin with a slight Spanish accent

"Even if I discharge my load on your belly or tits, on your lovely ass or pussy or even on the ground , you are to gather up my release and place it in your mouth as quickly as possible. Do you understand? If I think you are not quick enough, this will be your punishment and worse."

The newly acquired slave girl endured the light flogging with considerable grace, never breaking her position in front of the now- standing Casio who realized her novice rank within his vast holdings of women slaves and stopped before really bruising her radiant skin any more than necessary. Once she realized the punishment had really ceased, the lightly sobbing twenty year old quickly returned to the standard presentation position used at the Casio villa by all kneeling submissives: Her hands were placed under her breasts in a cupping manner, nipples exposed, and her lips pursed as if ready to gently give a soft kiss, as she did when her new master came in front of her and placed his softening cock close enough for her to kiss the crown of it several times in a show of her subservience to him or any other master he so chose to give or sell her to in the future

After he made his demands known and punished her a bit, Casio wasn't interested in her ministrations any more and rang for Verna to come into the room and lead the newbie out by a long leash that Verna attached to the exhausted slave's pert nipples. Casio ordered Verna to go to his office area on the other side of the vast villa after she secured her beautiful charge to her bed in the novice slaves' sleeping quarters located next to the chariot stables across the courtyard patio with its exquisite marble floors and statuary. Verna was a trusted administrator of Casio's numerous slave holdings in Rome and in the provinces ofthe Empire that stretched from the northern coasts of Britannia, Gaul and Scandia to the Moorish deserts and Egyptian pyramids in the south, extending eastward to the Middle East, the Turkish and Armenian borders and beyond .  

Casio was one of the wealthiest men in the Empire, with incredible villas in Rome, Capri and Ostia, the main seaport for his slave trade. He became a man of power and wealth by specializing only in female slaves of great beauty, talent and charm who were designated as vernas, females who were the offspring of other female slaves born within the Empire over several generations. Unlike newly captured or kidnapped females, these slaves grew up in a Roman house hold. They were regular servants in the fields or vineyards or kitchens and, because of their potential as pleasure slaves, a number of the more attractive generational female slaves were given some sexual training at the age of seventeen or older. These hand-chosen young beauties were put on track to be groomed into the rewarding Roman world of pleasure slaves to the emperor, his debauched court, as well as generals, tribunes and the wealthy throughout the Roman Empire. Once chosen by a provincial committee near their family's household, these incredible beauties, upon agreement from the verna herself or her family elders, went into training in her province to prepare for the annual Verna Pageant held in a small amphitheater in Rome next to the Coliseum on midsummer evening. It was an honor to participate, and the reward of being chosen to do so usually freed the female slave and sometimes her entire family from servitude and placed them in Roman society as citizens sans slavery. The Pageant was not unlike our modern beauty contests except for the blatant emphasis on the sexual prowess of the slave woman on display at the event that had a limited audience of elite society and visiting dignitaries from the far corners of the Roman Empire in the time of Tiberius. All of the women carried the name of Verna to designate their rank. If a household or property had more than one or two second or third generation vernas, their first name was used to separate one from the other, and the first name almost always beginning with a V. 



Chapter 2

On the Roman galley ships docked at the port of Ostia below Casio's villa were two dozen vernas waiting to disembark, one ship with a bevy of a dozen beautiful females from the northern provinces, mostly fair-skinned blondes and brunnets and a redhead or two. The other arriving boat held excited contestants from the east, from Egypt, the lands south of it like Turkey and the provinces of Greece, Syria and Lebanon. Most of these lovelies were smaller, darker beauties with black hair and of more exotic sexual traditions than say, the taller women from the barbaric lands of Gaul or Britannia. One thing they all already shared, however, was a small tattooed V at the hairline in the back of their sensuous necks . Any Roman who was aware of its meaning upon lifting the long hair the slave's back would know her as a verna, a status much higher than the typical Roman slave girl, as beautiful as a common slave girl may be. The verna ranking protected the slave girl from a random rape or an abuse unless permission was given by her master's household. Indeed, once a verna was designated as Pageant quality, she was treated with great respect because a win by her would elevate the household, indeed the province, and gave officials a great sense of local pride. Some winners returned to their homeland after spending the proscribed two year contract to be enslaved in Rome by her temporary master who wins her services by a lottery run by the Emperor himself, if he chooses not the own her services exclusively. The lottery is very expensive to participate in and only the wealthiest men or couples attempt to win completely the sole submissive services of the Verna Midsummer Pageant winner. Many times, a betting pool was formed and if the lottery was won by the participants, they doled out the time share of the Pageant slave according to the money each invested. 

The women who are generational slave girls and who are not selected into the top two runners up usually return to their local towns and are quickly auctioned or married off to some local official or businessman, usually finding themselves in a much better social position in their province due to having been chosen to try for the event in Rome. Sometimes, a benevolent governor would free her and her entire bloodline because of the honor she had brought to his province. The women who are runner ups usually were auctioned off at a private sale for a one year enslavement in Rome. The bidding was fierce and usually the second and third place vernas fetched the highest pleasure slave prices in the Empire. 

To become a contestant was almost every attractive vernas' dream though only one was chosen to represent the entire Roman province each year. Once chosen, the training period in Rome was intense. Many of these stunning lovelies had led sheltered lives, maybe some were just recently introduced into sex by a master or his teenage son. Rarely did she have any experience in pleasuring another woman, much less participating in an orgy of any size that the Romans were famous for. She would have to be trained in the subtleties of worshipping cock, perhaps two or three at a time, or kissing and tonguing Roman ladies of the Imperial Court, women jaded and demanding of sexual perfection. The Pageant contestants on the docking galley ship would soon know how difficult their training under the whip and the dildo would become once locked behind the gates of Casio's compound. 

Chapter 3

Verna waited a long time on her knees in the corner of Casio's office, as she had done many times in the past ten years She herself had won the Midsummer Verna Pageant a decade ago and Casio could not bear to give her up once he had trained the gorgeous Syrian to such sexual perfection that the Emperor himself almost demanded the slave trader Casio relinquish her to him or face exile. Finally, Tiberius' wife saw the risk of having such a goddess too intimate with her husband and demanded that he not have her as part of his concubine property. Casio negotiated with Tiberius to have the elegant woman secretly delivered to Tiberius' summer villa in Capri when the Empress wasn't in residence in exchange for sole rights to options on all verna slave girls in the Empire. Tiberius agreed and enjoyed Casio's Verna on every occasion possible. Eventually, newer, younger and more perversely trained females caught the Emperor's fancy and Casio kept his prize beauty solely for himself though he rarely used her sexually anymore, preferring exclusively nubile black women slaves from the Africa's as sexual diversions as he became more jaded. Sometimes he would call Verna in to prepare him and his ebony beauties with her tongue and fingers, but rarely did he penetrate her pussy or ass anymore, thinking of her as more a platonic business associate than a plaything. 

When Casio arrived in the office carrying various scrolls under both arms, he scarcely acknowledged the kneeling woman's presence until minutes later, though any other man would have gazed down upon the forty year old beauty in her breast-holding, knees - apart position and become hopelessly erect with the thought of just touching her long-stemmed nipples or kissing her pouting lips.

"Have the galley ships been unloaded yet? Are the contestants being cleansed and groomed at our holding area on the pier? When will they be brought up here to the villa to begin their training?"

Casio was impatient for answers. Verna knelt nervously and told her master that both ships were docked but behind schedule. The incoming slave girls were still shackled to their oars and not washed and groomed and in need of an extra period of time for the servants to bathe and groom each woman to the standards that Casio was used to having upon arrival at the Villa's gates.

"Is Geius still insisting that the vernas come into the harbor at the oars? I told him to stop this foolish display and have the male galley slaves continue their rowing as usual and save the precious time that we need here for training the contestants!"

Verna was miffed. He knew that his partner Geius loved theater as much as any Roman. He loved to have the spectators who were waiting at the docks believe that he would really use these naked lovelies to row, subjecting them to the whip if they weren't up to par when, in fact, each woman was pampered aboard ship with attendant slaves of their own in waiting to groom and spoil them in every way possible. Yet, the Romans who gathered every June on the piers to catch a first glimpse at this season's bevy of female vernas always demanded that the women disembark with sweat dripping from their bare breasts and their necks chained , wearing a copper sign across their pert busts stating their name and province of origin. Geius never disappointed them, even though he knew that Casio would give him a lecture about time and money. For this reason Geius was well thought of while Casio was portrayed as a cold and even a homosexual prig on the streets of Rome. Geius understood the need of the average Roman for circus while his partner only despised the hordes of voyeurs at the dock as rabble.

After Verna was dismissed, Casio decided to take a chariot to the docks down below the cliffs of his villa and meet up with his partner and give him a piece of his mind. He arrived just in time to see Geius, in all his armor and regalia step up to the bow to address to crowd milling around on the pier :

"Gentleman and dear ladies of Rome, I have with me this year's 

Midsummer Verna Pageant contestants awaiting your approval.

However, this season's females will be marched on display in a different fashion than from past years. I've decided to have each verna disembark in full flowing white dresses, with only their lovely breasts and full asses exposed for your approval but nothing else. Each slave's face will be covered up to the eyes, as we sometimes see in the barbaric lands of the desert areas. If you pay to come to the Julius Amphitheater in ten days on midsummer, you will experience thrills and lusty desires beyond belief! Until then, I give you this years tits and asses, beginning with the most petite of beauties to the most buxom. Enjoy!"

Half the crowd booed while the other half cheered. Seeing just the exposed privates (excluding the hidden pussy) seemed more perverse to some of the men the and couples than witnessing the same nudity that they could see at any bath or bordello or in their own household after they put their children to bed. Casio was surprised and pleasantly shocked. His old partner had learned how to sell the sizzle rather than the whole piece of meat! He smiled to himself: "When this gets to Rome, more admission tickets will be sold than ever before! Perhaps I should arrange for a bigger venue this year."

He was a happy man.

Chapter 4

All twenty-four beauties knelt silently on the cobblestone road at the foot of the massive iron gate that surrounded the villa. Geius had lined them up in two rows of twelve. Each one wore the same skimpy loincloth tucked in at the front while the slave girl's ass crack was the only partly covered in the rear. They were topless and their hair groomed in the Roman beehive style of the day, exposing the tattooed V inked at the hairline of their graceful necks. On the left side of the closed gate were the beauties from the northern and western sectors of the Empire. On the right, the eastern and southern entries nervously knelt, their hands cupping the undersides of their offered breasts and their eyes staring down at their pierced navels, each with a ring holding a brass tag stating her V name and province of origin. A light wind was blowing around them when they heard two Nubian slaves push open the gates leading into the inner road of the villa. The men were massive and almost nude except for sandals and a narrow g string that hardly held in their members. Suddenly, they heard a chariot and several wagons coming towards them. On a silver-plated chariot was Casio and his Verna, both fully dressed and carrying short multi-tong whips. When they dismounted, everything was silent again except for the wind in the kneeling slaves' hair.

"Hail Casio!", Geius shouted as Casio walked towards his partner. Verna remained next to the chariot with the driver.

"Hail, Geius!" 

They embraced for moment then both walked toward the two lines of nervous females kneeling as perfectly upright and still as possible as the men slowly perused at each slave and then moved to the next.

"They're stunning, Geius!" Casio finally whispered to his cohort.

"Do you have all their papers in order?"

"Of course."

"Good. Remember last year. A runner-up was later found to not be a genuine generational girl and we almost lost our slave importing license. It took three of my best pleasure slaves to convince Caesar not to ban us from dealing. We need to be careful."

The kneeling vernas were told to stand and place their manicured fingers on their copper collars. Quickly, the Nubian

eunuchs attached the wrists of each girl to the rings of the collar, then proceeded to run a length of chain back to front to each female in the coffle until all were locked in place. A petite young woman with a full bust yet tiny long-stemmed nipples led the line. Next to her was a somewhat taller Egyptian with smaller tits but a superb complexion and rather fetching

pair of lips. Then came a Turkish delight, lighter-skinned verna with a lovely full ass and perky small breasts with inverted nipples. And so on.

The contingent from the north and west was led by a very short but frisky looking Franc named Valois, her boyishly short hair accentuating a pair of mesmerizing brown eyes. She smiled when she heard to clicking of the chain upon her lovely neck.

Then, there was Vian, a feisty Scots woman with flaming red hair and a matching pubic patch, freckles on her fair chest and a pair of oversized nipples. The governor who sent her was hoping that her exotic coloring and skin tone would be a hit with the Pageant judges in Rome. She herself looked as if it wasn't her idea to be involved. When Verna spotted her among the more enthusiastic slave girls. she knew that Vian might be trouble.

Finally, there were the four very tall long legged Nordics at the end of the coffle, their hair up as styled but massive and thick,their bushes natural and breasts tending towards too much flesh, yet solid looking and proud. Last year's Pageant winner, Vinta, was from the far north. Her large, cunning green eyes were like a Indian tigress and her full pouting lips were complimented by a very trained and talented tongue that brought the crowd to their feet. During one of the various contests in the amphitheater, she put on a show as she quickly dispatched seven naked gladiators in a row with that tongue and mouth of hers, leaving the other five vernas in the competition to suck and lick for minutes after she had already climaxed the men in half the time, reveling on her knees at the cheers of the audience and judges as the auburn -haired nymph joyously finger- fucked herself before the crowd. The common service slaves who were brought to the event by their master or mistress to pleasure them while they were in audience tried to duplicate her performance that night, but ended up getting a good front flogging for their inability to do so. Vinta won easily over the second and third placed submissives, a sensuous full-figured Slav named Vaca and a lovely young Nubian girl with conical tits and a high ass name Vanda. 

Chapter 5

Once inside the gates of the compound, the first order of the day was for each verna to meet with Casio or Geius or Verna and have them decide how to trim each slave girl's pubic area. Some women were fine with their natural look while others needed some changing or a complete shaving. Tables were arranged in the grooming hall and service slaves were on hand to take orders from their masters or Verna. She decided to leave the Scot's woman's wild flame-red bush natural but decided to completely shave the short haired Lebanonese girl's pussy so that she seemed even more boyish, a look that some masters and their wives especially like if the wife enjoyed being doggy fucked with a harness dildo by another women, avoiding an unwanted pregnancy or, if the husband had a penchant for young males but still enjoyed finishing inside a female.

Once all the entries were shaven and given an olive oil enema , the group was given a free afternoon at the baths to relax and ready themselves for the first round of try-outs and inspections. Many were anxious, and though they were forbidden to speak to one another for the full period of the Pageant, each could see some worry upon one another's faces, though they smiled constantly at the thought of having this unique opportunity to excel in their enslavement, maybe even winning their freedom and the freedom of their family back home. 


V Is for Verna



The first evening at the villa was given out to testing the natural sex drive of each verna at an outdoor orgy that Casio set up by invitation only. Only Roman men and women on an exclusive list were invited, including members of Emperor's inner court and military men and gladiators who had distinguished themselves in battle. Ceasar himself was at his summer villa in Capri. Casio decided to send him several stunning vernas as a gift, drawn by lot. A blonde beauty from Germania, a small Moorish dancer from Carthage and a buxom Greek girl were placed in a wagon bound for Capri, with the agreement that whoever pleased the Emperor the best would be given manumission , a binding contract freeing her and her family from any more slavery. Of course, the vernas were honored and spent their silent time in the escorted wagon devising devilishly wanton sexual ways to please the Emperor and his court.

All the entries realized that only six of them would be going to the actual Pageant in less than two weeks. With three of them now shipped off to Caesar's summer villa at Capri, it gave each aspiring woman about a four-to-one chance to be chosen. This put great pressure on each slave girl to excel and stand out from the rest of the group. Roman elites were already quite jaded. Both men and free Roman women had vast sexual experience and were not to be swayed by a mediocre blow job or somewhat talented tonguing. Variety and spectacle were the rule of the day. The women would be rated on site by the orgy participants. If sexually incompetent or displeasing in any manner or form, the masters and their wives and cohorts were given tags to place on each girl's slave collar. Five demerits and she would be on probation. If, at the next orgy following her training she received just two more tags, she was disqualified and sent back on the next galley to her province. No one wanted to be the first to be dismissed.

After a late dinner on the massive grape-trellised patio, the women were led out into the courtyard and placed standing hand in hand in a circle in the middle of the immense patio. Casio introduced each girl to a round of applause as she knelt down gracefully and ran her fingers through her hair to expose her V and place her forehead upon the lovely outdoor Roman tile work, arm bracelets jingling as she prostrated herself before the still-clothed guests . Each woman wore a very well-tailored short toga, barely covering her recently styled pubic area. Her breasts were wrapped from under so to prop up and present them as an offering to the audience. Lipstick and perfume on each nipple, her pussy lips and her mouth completed her attire. When kneeling in her extended state of submission, the guests could see a dub of probably olive oil on and between each entries' ass cheeks.

After all the vernas were introduced to a round of applause

the musicians began to play their lutes and harps as each girl fanned out on the mosaic tiles, still on their hands and knees, led by Verna to an awaiting couch area. She was dressed exquisitely in a long Greek toga with her nipples peeping through the sheer fabric. With make up on and her lush Syrian hair combed to perfection, many of the men waiting for their slave girl contestant to arrive at his couch wished that they could possess her as they would soon have the novices at their bidden. Her poise and grace made her almost too breath-taking to look at.

Verna returned to the raised dais where Casio and Geius were lounging with their entourage and knelt solemnly in front of both men and softly began sucking on each masters' erection as they watched Pageant entries being fondled and used by the men and women at the affair, moans and small cries of climaxing filling the early summer's night air.

"Shall I continue, my masters?", Verna said softly looking up at the two men. The answer came in a gesture as both men placed their stiffness in her awaiting mouth at the same moment.

By the early hours, there were still about a dozen drunken or half-dozing partyers still with enough strength to try one more orgasm. One comely Roman matron seemed fast asleep as a young Turkish verna slave kept lapping at the older woman's sex, too afraid to cease without a direct order. Her collar showed five demerits inflicted upon her for some infraction or whim of a male or female guest. Her ass was red with whip marks as were her over-sized tits. Apparently, she was having a bad night.

Earlier in the evening, a competing verna was directly dismissed by Geius after a cat fight broke out between her and another eager slave over who was going to tongue a male teenager's ass. The young man was wading in one of the lovely mosaic pools surrounding the villa's patio, and when he got out, he came up to a gorgeous blonde Nordic and a small but stunning Spaniard and asked them to dry him off. Both girls stopped eating each other's cum-soaked clits and quickly found towels and began to dry the handsome young Roman when he stated that they should really use just their tongues and lips to blow dry his entire body. The small Spaniard quickly started to blow the boy's erection and balls from under while the tall blond was stuck with blowing on his ass hole and lower back. When he pushed the blonde's lovely face into his crack, she refused to go on, arguing with the Spanish girl in broken Latin that the Spaniard usurped the Nordic girl's positioning. The blonde tried to continue the cock sucking job that the other started, but the temper of the fiery Spaniard got the best of her and a cat fight broke out.

At first, a cluster of naked men enjoyed the sight of two wonderfully gorgeous slaves pulling on each other hair and biting at each other's breasts and neck. When Geius arrived, he quickly broke up the fight and decided to have both girls have a shot at tonguing the young man's asshole. The boy was delighted. The Spaniard had no trouble lapping at the orifice, sticking her lovely face into his crack, pulling back the young man's long cock between his muscular thighs and eagerly sucking on it from the rear as the other men cheered her on. When it came the German's turn, she tried but could not place her tongue in his asshole. Immediately, Geius lifted the failed girl from the lawn and brought her to a marble column that had iron cuffs dangling. He adjusted the chain and placed the tall lanky blonde on her tiptoes facing the column. He handed his quirt to the other woman and ordered her to give a good sound whipping to the other verna's glorious backside, which she did with great relish. After she was told to desist, Verna walked over to the sobbing Nordic and pushed an oiled dildo up her ass. The thick dildo had a copper tag placed on it with the word "Dismissed" written on it. In the morning, she was gone on the next galley going north, her beautifully perspiring body seated at an oar and the whip master egging her on with continuous strokes of his whip. It would be a long trip for her back to her province.

Chapter 6

The Julius Amphitheater was filled to capacity, just as Casio had hoped. Tickets were being scalped for many times their original price of admission. It was a perfect early summer sunset and a cool breeze pleased the spectators who were lucky to get a ticket.

The first competition had thirty-six slightly-built charioteers standing on their vehicle's platform, a long shield in hand and each helmeted horseman naked from the bottom down. There was a glory hole in each silver plated shield and each driver had his member peeping through the hole. In front of each set of six charioteers was a naked verna, her hands tied behind her back and her entire body oiled. A small dildo peeped out from between her ass cheeks. The contestants were standing at the left of the line of drivers. When Casio gave the order, each verna was to suck off the cock in front of her as quickly as possible. No hand jobs were allowed. After he came in her mouth, the submissive was to spit the jism into a silver chalice as the charioteer turned and rode out of the theater. The last slave girl left sucking on an unsatisfied cock was out the contest and sent to the gladiators' quarters for the night before shipped home.

The new pleasure slaves worked each cock as quickly as they could without the assistance of their hands or breasts. As they bent to the task the crowd roared, placing side bets on who would be the last to finish the task. If a dildo slipped out from between a slave girl ass cheeks, the slave had to endure a whip wielded by Verna as the slave tried to finish off her man and move on. If she should display any reluctance to Verna's ass flogging, Verna would ass fuck her from behind with a long dildo that she wore for the pleasure of the cheering crowd. 

It was the boyish verna Valois who easily won the contest, finishing as the other five were still licking and sucking for all their worth. A local verna from Sicily finished last, leaving a lone charioteer in the center of the amphitheater. When he finally gave it up, the crowd went wild. The exhausted and sweating slave girl lifted her chalice and drank the libation but it was too little too late. She spent her last night in Rome in the dark torch-lit dungeon under the nearby Coliseum, a prize for any gladiator who won their afternoon fight in the arena above. 

Chapter 7

There were only three vernas left: a Celtic nymph with an exquisite figure and a bi-sexual appetite for cock and cunt. An olive-skinned Mesopotamian big-busted beauty with a small waist and full luscious black hair, and Valois, the boyish Franc with perky long stemmed nipples and a pussy and asshole that could squeeze and clutch a cock like a hand. Each woman showed great promise, but in differing ways: Geius enjoyed the first verna's passion and ability to be graceful under his whip. He liked the way her milky complexion reddened after an ass or breast spanking. He had her suck off one of the Nubian male guards as he held her upside down, her nicely styled, sparse pubic hair scratching the black man's chin as he nibbled on her extended pussy lips. She was able to keep her throat completely relaxed and suck his ten inch erection right down to the kinky bush. Geius was greatly impressed.

The Arab woman was alluring with her quiet and shy demeanor when not obeying a sexual task. Then, her explosive libido would emerge once penetrated or sucking on cock or pussy. It was breath taking to watch. She belly danced beautifully to Arabic drumming and put on a private show for Casio and his inner circle of male cohorts where she ended her performance writhing on her back on the Persian rug in the center of Casio's private pleasure garden, beckoning the applauding men with elegant hand gestures to encircle her and circle-jerk over her with their stiff cocks while she undulated her broad hips and squeezed her ample brown- nipple breasts to bursting. She eagerly delighted in bathing in their juices until the last man was satiated and her belly, breasts, face and bejeweled navel were covered with hot cum.

Valois was open to anything. She would obey each command to the hilt and than some. Verna enjoyed her sadistic side when given permission to punish an errant slave, either male or female. She relished spanking cock or a pussy. She fucked women like a horny sailor, her thrusts with her harnessed dildo almost orgasmic. Verna thought that she might make a good replacement for herself since the now middle aged slave had been offered manumission by the grateful Casio and Geius. After much discussion, the tribunal chose Valois as Pageant winner. Another Verna was set to rule as mistress of Casio's villa. After the Franc served out her two year agreement with the fortunate winner of the Pageant lottery, Valois would have a choice of either replacing the freed Verna and become the most famous Verna in Rome or return home a freed woman herself. The choice was hers alone to make.



"V" is for Veronica



Paris

Citroens, Peugeot's, Mopeds and delivery trucks create such a soothing sound in the early morning that only those who live in a major Metropolis can appreciate, understand and love. 

High above The Avenue des Champs-Élysées, in a Penthouse that has been owned by her family for the last one hundred years, Veronica lay with her sleeping husband, in a massive four post Victorian bed, on her back, lightly wrapped in a silk sheet, staring at the constant circling motion of the ceiling fan, listening and enjoying the early morning stir of her beloved city.

It was in this very room, surrounded by inlaid mahogany, rosewood, gold, marble and priceless artwork, that she and her "Frankie" first made passionate love. It was in this room, "Frankie" held her, loosing himself to her, bewitchery that he swore an undying love. 

Veronica, takes a deep breath smelling the wonderful aroma of fresh bread from Marcel's, just across the street, thinking, there is nothing like the soothing aroma of fresh, baked dough in the wee hours of the morning, tickling the senses.

The morning sun peeks through the white linen curtains hanging, from the open patio door, followed by the soft, cool morning breeze that visits from the Seine, filling the room, softly caressing her naked body like the, intimate touch of a seductive lover.

Slowly, Veronica slides out of bed, running her hands through her waist length silver hair and walks through the blowing curtains, out onto the balcony, leaning on the iron rail, carefree, allowing the world to view he ageless beauty. 

Westward an unobstructed view of The Arc de Triomphe, East the Eiffel Tower, North, Notre Dame and thirty yards away, Marcel's, the aroma of which causes her to take another deep breath.

She looks back through the flagging curtains smiling at her sleeping husband recalling the memories they made the night before, thinking of the way he made her feel by the way he looked and touched her.

Quietly, she walks back in and opens the washroom door that is not too far from the head of her sleeping lover and wrapping her hair in a bun, she leans over and draws hot water for a morning bath, briefly glancing over to a solid gold and silver flowered, Victorian vanity, catching the reflection of the un-aged woman.

The bottle of Jasmine and Lavender oil, she opens saturates the air with a smell reminiscent of days not too long ago, when she and her husband shared each other under starlit nights on the knolls of Grasse. One single drop of it, hitting the slow rising steaming water, magnifies the pleasant and intoxicating floral aroma, to the point of instant relaxation.

She turns the gold and onyx, cold and a hot knob, stopping the running water and lowers herself. The combination of the hot water and aroma causes a drifting off into thoughts of nothingness. 

When she awakens, she washes with bar of Jasmine scented soap, rinses, lifts herself out of the porcelain tub and dries off. 

Quietly, so as not to stir her beloved, she opens a walk-in closet, housing countless pants and dress suits given to her from Coco Channel as a gesture of thanks for saving her from the hands of the Nazi's during their occupation. Dresses, pants, shirts, all aligned the vault size closet as if arraigned by some department store employee.

She sits on a wood bench in the middle, towel wrapped around her, arms crossed, scanning the selection, thinking, confidently how she would look good in anything here, she smiles at her self-centered notion and stands, running her hand over the soft selection of exotic wools and silks.

As she exits, Francis awakes and looks at his beautiful wife floating about. He smiles, leans up resting his back on the Mahogany head board and watches the erotic vision unfold before his waking eyes.

Veronica throws a cream colored silk mini skirt and a black Casmir sweater on a Luis VIII chair, unties the towel that covered her body revealing her damp glistening skin. She unclamps the barrette that holds her hair up in a bun and as her silk like hair falls onto her body, clinging to her back and chest; Francis cannot help but sigh, at the picture coming, sharply into focus. Slowly he begins scanning Veronica's flawless skin up and down, something that even after all these years, he enjoys. The sight of her nude body, the subtleness of her erotic moving about the room, causes his heart to pound.

With her back turned towards him, she smiles and looks over her right shoulder, shooting a seductive grin. "Did I wake you?"

"Sort of, but its fine." He gestures for her. "Come here Ronnie."

She walks over and lies beside him, seductively looking deep into his eyes as he gently runs his hand up and down her soft skin, stopping to elicit a moan pleasure.

She moves on top of him, grabbing a handful of his burly chest hair and with her right, she guides him in her and slowly and deliberately begins moving back and forth. His eyes roll back in his skull, his mouth open, as she once again takes him to the highest level of ecstasy.

He leans forward and grabs her from the rear pulling her towards him, softly moaning, "God." 

She leans down and kisses him on the neck, her hair covering their faces, their lips locking in a long passionate kiss. Francis slides down lower and begins kissing her chest, sucking gently for a few moments before arching his lower body upward, finishing in her. 

She looks down at him flashing a wicked grin, before sliding between his legs, covering his wet shaft with her mouth. He tightly grabs her long silver mane as she slowly pulls off of him. She slides back up to his face and after kissing him on the neck, she stares at him. He stares back. The subtle scent of musk mixed with the gentle aroma of her Jasmine scented skin, fills Francis' nostrils as his heavy breathing slowly subsides.

Lost in her erotic nature, carried away by her beauty, Francis softly caresses her face and kisses her gently on the lips, breaking only to utter the words, "Damn, you are so beautiful." 

Noticing the clothing on the chair, knowing that when in Paris together they barely leave this room, he looks at her curiously. "Where are you going?"

Every year, on their anniversary, Veronica says to herself that she will make a wonderful breakfast for her 'Frankie', only to come to the realization that in all the days they have been together, she has not lifted one finger in the kitchen. She cannot boil water an egg or even bake a box cake. Today would be different, though, she is going to make the effort. Secretly back in New York, she has been taking cooking lessons from, one of the most popular chefs in the city, and now filled with culinary confidence; she feels she can at least make a decent omelet.

"I'm going to the Bakery to pick up some bread, then to the meat market to get some things for breakfast."

Francis flashes a look at her, for in all the years of marriage to this beautiful, intelligent, erotic woman, he has never known her, to do any food shopping, not even for a gallon of milk. 

He leans closer to her and runs his hands through her hair, looking her in the eyes, almost as if he were thinking of something pithy to say.

"Why are you doing that?"

"I'm making breakfast."

Hearing that string of words, Francis could not contain his laughter. It was as if she told him a hilarious joke.

Veronica slides off the bed and finishes dressing, while looking at his uncontrolled hysteria.

"Why are you laughing?"

Trying to contain himself he leans forward and after a few seconds he looks over to his wife.

"Ronnie, I love you, you know that, but...you..."

She looks at him waiting for an acceptable answer. From the look on her face, he knows that he needs to quickly make amends, or at least be diplomatic.

Veronica stands and straitens her short skirt and pulls her hair into a pony tail before sitting on the side of the bed, at which time she leans on his chest and gives him a soft kiss on the cheek, all the while, looking at him slyly like she had some kind of ace card ready to be pulled out at any given moment.

"You don't think I can do it? You don't think I can be domestic?" She says staring at him through her almost, unnatural blue eyes causing him to melt in the very spot he is in. Francis has lost himself, countless times over the many years when she shoots him that look, a look that tells him she will always have the upper hand in any situation.

When given that look, Francis nervously licks his lips and tries to speak intelligently back to her, but his word end up being a jumble spew of confusion. He closes his eyes and sighs, opening them back to see that piecing look, digging deep into soul.

"Ronnie, there are many things that you are just superb at...cooking is just not one of them. Give me a half hour and we'll go to the George V for breakfast."

"No. No Frankie, I am making breakfast this morning and I am not going to argue with you about it, and that is final." 

In all the years of being married to Veronica, Francis knew one thing; never argue with her, when she's made up her mind about something. 

He sighs and shrugs his shoulders and sighs. "Okay. I'll be waiting."

"I'll be back in about an hour."

"I'll make the coffee."

Veronica slowly walks out the room leaving her husband behind, smiling shaking her head, thinking, when, will he ever learn.

"God I love that woman." Francis mumbles. 

Francis looks over to the dresser and picks up his phone book, scanning through the many names, stopping at the letter 'C'. He presses a name and after a few rings a man answers.

"Hello." The voice on the other end says.

"Hey, what did want to talk to me about?"

"Do you have a few minutes? Can I come over?"

"Yeah, Ronnie has gone food shopping; she's making breakfast this morning."

"Your wife, Ronnie? Making breakfast?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. She'll be away for about an hour, so if you want to talk, now is the best time."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

Shortly thereafter, Archie Carlisle and Francis sit sipping on very strong freshly ground French roast coffee on the balcony. After taking a long sip, Archie puts his cup on the saucer, crosses his legs and looks very seriously at Francis. He sighs and bits his lower lip.

"What?" Francis says.

"We got a problem Frankie."

"What kind of problem?"

"We have a mole."

"Where? Who?"

"Within your section. Someone has been selling names of our operatives to the Chinese. Five agents have been killed."

"Where?"

"Johnson in Kuala Lumpur, Hampton in Hong Kong, Scotts in Manila, Fitzgerald in Australia and Henry in Hawaii. All deaths made to look like accidents."

"Made to look like accidents? What do you mean?"

"These were top agents. Experienced agents, that don't have accidents, but as far as the news media knows, they died from accidental drowning, falls etc."

"This is my section, why was I not notified?"

"The less you knew the better."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It appears whoever killed these men are after one person."

"Who?"

"You. The news is out Frankie you are control."

"How could anyone possible know that?"

"When you think about it...it is quite obvious."

Francis sighs. "I guess we are getting sloppy in our old age, my friend." Francis takes another sip of his coffee. "Why would they kill my agents?"

"We suspect they were tortured, before dying, although there is no physical proof of that. But this we do know, they all talked, spilled their guts."

"I don't believe that, no way!"

"We have a double agent in Chinese Intel that says they now have information about operations that could only have been attained through agents who knew." 

"Who sold them out?"

"We have narrowed it down to two. Green, who is here in Paris and Stiles."

"Stiles who?"

"Jonny."

"You mean, my second in command?"

"Yes."

"Why those two."

"Green is debt to the Russian Mafia due to some gabling problems and Stiles, we've found has a Swiss account, flush with two million plus. And you know, Frankie, when an agent becomes flush with money that means one thing."

Francis sighs deeply and shakes his head not wanting to come to the forgone conclusion.

"So, what now?" Francis asks.

"Well, in order to flush him out and to protect your family, one thing needs to happen."

"What?"

"You need to die."

"What are you going to kill me?"

"Something, like that."

Veronica sits, staring at Francis as he takes a bite of a feta cheese omelet she prepared. With both arms on the table, hands holding up her head, waiting for the verdict. Francis, blow the hot piece of egg dripping in fresh goat cheese, and slowly taste. She flashes a grin of satisfaction as he nods his head up and down. Suddenly, the smile of approval she has hoped for.

"Wow!"

"It's good? It's okay? You like?"

"This is wonderful Ronnie, this is really good. I am impressed."

Veronica leans back in her chair and lets out a sigh of relief and joy that for the first time she's accomplished something so simple, but yet so difficult.

Francis cut a piece and feeds it to her. She takes a bite and taste the flavors exploding in her mouth.

"Oh, Damn! That is good." 

Giddy, of her accomplishment, Veronica leans over and places a kiss on her husband's cheek.

"26 years and I finally learned how to cook an egg."

"I'd still love you whether you can cook or not." 

Francis finishes his meal and leans back in his chair, satisfied. Veronica moves over to him, sitting on his lap, arms wrapped around him holding him tight. 

Looking at his watch, Francis glances at Veronica as he stands. "If we are going to make it to after noon Mass, we better get going." 

Francis and Veronica Edmonds were far from practicing Catholic. As a matter of fact, they weren't Catholics. They're not even religious. Spiritual? Maybe, but far from being people of god. 

Paris, 1945, OSS (Office of Strategic Services) International Counter Espionage Division. 

Through the thick loom of smoke rising from freshly bombed buildings and exhaust from the military transport vehicles patrolling the streets, there was still an allure of the Paris that once inspired great artist, musicians, writers and painters alike. Many of the world famous landmarks still stood, but the most important thing the Germans left behind was, the resilience of the Parisians and their Allies. 

Despite the threat of another bombing by German long-range planes, there's a sense of normalcy, yet, a specter loomed over the liberation that sparked a new fight.

Paris played an important role for dispensing orders and directives to the front lines. One way of doing this was by using heavily encrypted messages in the pages of the New York Tribune, The London Tribune, The Chicago Times, The International Herald in Paris, Corriere Della Sera in Milan Italy, all newspapers read religiously by the troops and officers across the battle fields. 

The news organization that operated, and Published these important window to the world, was the World International Press, owned by the Edmonds Family. 

It was a twenty year old Francis Edmonds III that was assigned by his family and the O.S.S. to set up a Global network to send out top secret directives and orders that was simple for the allies to decipher quickly and complex enough to go unnoticed by the enemies. 

Francis was universally liked and respected by some of the most war harden soldiers of the frontline, mainly; he chose to be here, fighting hand and hand with his fellow countryman. Because of his family's stature in the political arena that he did not have to be on the frontlines, but upon graduating from Yale, in 1943, he knew what he had to do as a lover of freedom and democracy. 

Sitting at his desk, sifting through the latest batch of orders to be encrypted and published, Francis is has a visitor from the highest rank pay him a visit.

This particular OSS field office was staffed by thirty intelligence officers all with covers of reporters and editors of the various news agencies reporting on the war, and all in this unit were considered to be the brightest the Allied Forces have in the fight in the intellectual war.

The Commander of the Allied Forces enters and at once Francis stands in attention, nervous.

"Sir, I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow." 

Commander Smithers a tall slender man that has a sickening pale complexion, unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat in the chair across from Francis and begins speaking in a thick, almost un-understandable. Francis cannot help but stare at his mouth, full of rotten teeth as he finds the words to begin the conversation.

"Right. We have a new assignment for you chap."

Always eager to serve and to accept anything coming his way, Francis looks back at the Commander and flashes a cordial smile.

"Of course, whatever is needed of me, you and all others know I am here to assist."

"That is the type of attitude we like. That is why everyone respects you Francis."

Most Military personnel who visited this office did so under the cloak of night, so as not to be noticed by the many Nazi spies that still dotted the Paris landscape, so for a top ranking Officer, to pay a visit in the middle of the day, meant one thing, something big is at hand.

"As you know, we are now fighting the war on a different battlefield now. The air, and I'm not talking about bombers or fighter planes; I'm talking about the radio and shortwave transmitting."

"I am aware of that sir."

"And you and your little staff her are doing a bloody hell of a job intercepting enemy codes and the like. But we now have reason to believe that the Nazi's have a code they are using to communicate with each other, that our boys on the front lines have not been able to break...until now." 

Francis perks up in his chair and with a childish eagerness leans over the desk looking directly into the withered teeth of the Commander.

"What is it?" 

Francis and his staff, always enjoyed using the latest technology in the war, so for the Allies to have something in their vast arsenal that can make the jobs of this band of highly classified cryptographers easier, he was more than willing to do whatever was necessary

Commander Smithers senses Francis eagerness, gently smiles and leans back in his chair crossing his arms.

"They are calling it the 'Black Cipher'."

"Sounds interesting. What does it do?"

"It can break any encrypted code, in ten languages, in less than thirty seconds."

"Amazing! What type of technology is this? French? Italian? English?"

"It's American, if you can believe that."

"Our boys have done it? This is outstanding! When do I get to see it?"

"Soon. You will be the guardian of it, if it falls into the hands of the enemies, we are sure to loose our fight on the intelligence front."

"Of course, you have my complete guardianship."

"We know." 

The Commander nods at his staff sergeant and few seconds later, he arrives with a young blond haired girl. Francis is so concerned about the news, he hadn't time to even acknowledge the girl.

"How big is it? How much does it weigh? Is it portable?"

"You will now find out Francis."

Walking back into the room with the Staff Sergeant is a very young girl. Francis is so excited to examine this new piece of technology, that he doesn't even notice the girl.

"Where is it? Where is this 'Black Cipher'?

"I-Am-the 'Black Cipher'." 

Francis looks confused. "I don't understand sir. I thought that this...thing...this decoder was some sort of machine."

"You misunderstood. Or you didn't listen." The girl says.

"Sir. I am an Intelligence Officer; I have no time to babysit a child."

"I am NOT, a child!"

"SIR!"

"Francis, she is your new assignment. You must protect her at all cost. There is no negotiating this. This is a direct order from the highest level. Do you understand?"




"V" is for Veronica



Francis sighs deeply. "Yes Sir!"

"Good. That will be all." 

The commander and his Sergeant walk out, leaving behind the girl only know as the 'Black Cipher.'

She walks over to the window of the office that has an unobstructed view of the Eiffel tower, spreads open the curtains and takes a deep dramatic breath in. 

"God I love this city." She turns and looks back at a very angry Francis. "Don't you just love this city?"

Francis doesn't answer. He sits behind his desk with his right hand holding up his chin. The girl walks over to a couch, by his desk and plops down and rests her legs up on it. She stares at the very disturbed Francis and smiles. He looks over at her and become intoxicated by her childish charm. She is dressed like a Parisian woman, a short skirt, matching coat and ankle high boats. She stood abut five foot three inches, had a fair complexion, blue eyes and waist length blondish grey hair. At first glance, one would immediately tell that she was very young. But after examining her facial features, it would appear that she had seen and experienced things well beyond her age, as did most during this time.

"Francis. I had a duck named Francis. You are not a duck. So you know what? I'm going to call you Frankie. Frankie sounds more masculine, strong, like a warrior, don't you think? Do you mind if I call you Frankie? If not, I'll call you Francis."

"No one's ever called me Frankie. So I guess that would be fine. What do I call you? Black or Cipher?"

She laughs loudly and holds her head back and runs her hands through her hair. "You have a sense of humor; I like that, a lot. My name is Veronica, but everyone calls me Ronnie."

"Last name?"

"Harper."

"Is..."

"Yes. Everyone asks me that when they find out my last name is Harper. He is my Grand Father."

"Really? I would think that any relative of his would be assigned...Well, wouldn't be assigned."

"I'm a volunteer. I am here of my own free-will."

"What do your parents have to say about this?"

"Nothing, because they're dead, murdered by some Nazi bastards in the French Alps."

"So you're doing this for revenge?"

She sighs and unbuttons her jack and lies down completely on the coach, revealing she wears nothing under her jack. She looks over at Francis and grins. "No, I don't believe in revenge. I believe in justice and fighting for what is right. What are you doing this for Frankie? I mean someone like you, with your family's background; you should be heading a corporation or something back home."

"Where is home for you?"

"Port Washington. You know it?"

"Of course."

"Our families probable know each other, coming from the same type of money."

She leans up and swings her legs around and stands up. She then walks over to the window again and looks out.

"That's why I'm here."

"Why?"

She sits on the corner of his desk, crossing her long smooth legs. She leans over and exposes her bare chest more openly to him, staring deep into his eyes. Her almost unnatural blue eyes, captivates and hypnotizes Francis, as her long blond hair rest on the papers that Francis was going over before the Commanders visit. His heart races in his chest, beating loud that he is almost certain that she can hear it. His mouth becomes dry; he licks his lips in a nervous uncontrolled reaction.

"Our families. That is the reason I am here."

"I don't understand. Explain."

She swings her legs towards him showing off her long smooth calves and thighs. 

"Frankie think. What does money beget?"

He shakes his head not knowing. Even if he knew the answer, he couldn't think straight. This girl was driving him insane. She bats her blue eyes at him and shakes her head. 

"Boy, they said you were a prude! But God!"

"What are you talking about?"

She moves within inches of his face and rubs his chin with her well manicured hands. 

"You, me, are to be one."

"What the HELL are you talking about?"

She sighs hard and rolls her eyes. "I'm not use to being with virginal men. Our fates, our lives have been arranged so that we, you and I are to be with one another." 

She looks at him waiting for him to catch on. If it were some encrypted code, he would have broke it within minutes, but he hadn't any clue when a woman was telling him that she was there for him, for his pleasure. He was clueless.

She sensed his purity, something that she lost years ago. She sensed his honesty, something she yearned for. She sensed his want of heart, which is why she was there. Slowly she turns his chair around and hikes up her short skirt straddling him, grabbing his face very gently. Her touch seems to paralyzing him. His heart races, blood surges through his veins. 

"I can feel your pulse racing. Do I make you nervous?" She says smiling. He does nothing but takes a hard swallow, shaking.

She grins and whispers in his ear. "I am yours, Frankie. A gift from the Allies and the United States of America, for your loyalty."

"Oh." 

"Now, do you understand?"

"So, I guess you'll be staying with me then."

She laughs and leans back still holding on to his neck. "Purity is so refreshing!" She says.

From the time of them arriving at the Penthouse, they became one, christening as it were, every room, on every surface. The roar of enemy planes overhead and air raid sirens did nothing stop the two young lover's lustful play. On a table, in the middle of an ornate living area, Veronica spread her legs as he forcefully entered her. The harder his movement, the more she moaned, begging that he not stop. The more he moves on her, the mores her body burnished the marble table, leaving a puddle behind.

Although, physically weak, from the continuous physical actions, Francis is able to carry, Veronica's light body into the master suite, were they continued sharing each other into the morning, until they both, unable to make another move, fall asleep in each other's arm.

Air raid sirens and the loud thunderous sounds of bombs going off in the distant woke Francis a few hours later. Instinctively he sits up, and rushes to the window to see where the noise is coming from. Thick black smoke rise some fifty miles outside of the city, causing sense of relief to come over him. Returning to the bed, he stops to marvel at Veronica lying on her stomach, naked. He sighs, touching her face gently so as not to wake her.

"She is real." He says before lying down closing his eyes.

The warmth of the morning sun hitting Francis' face wakes him and as he opens his eyes, the hazy vision of an angel appears before him. Veronica sits at the foot of the bed, legs crossed Indian style, leaning forward, her hair covering her bare chest, waiting for her Frankie to wake up.

"Hey, sleepy head." She says.

"Hey." 

The natural light reveals, Veronica's youthful features and a panic comes across him. He begins thinking he had the most erotic time of his life, with a child. "My god." He thinks. "What have I done?" 

He covers his face with both hands. "How old are you?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

He sighs. "No."

"Old enough, Frankie."

She brushes the hair away from her chest and grabs his hands placing them on her. His blood boils as she moans at the gentle squeeze.

She intrigued him. He wanted to know everything about her, but deep inside, he felt the truth would be something he did not like.

"So, how did you get the code name, 'Black Cipher'?"

"It's not a code name; it's more like a nick name, that only a handful of people use. Only a handful of people know about me and what I do." He leans up and she wraps her legs around his waist holding his neck tightly as the talk face to face, within inches of each others lips.

"What do you do?"

She whispers in his ear. "I'm a spy."

"What like, a spy...spy?"

"Yeah, a spy. I'm used to do covert things. Spy things."

"So, where did the name come from?"

She looks him in the eye, while her right hand moves between them, grabbing hold of his erection, connecting to him. She lets out a soft whimper as she moves and rest her head on his shoulder.

"I have 55 confirmed enemy kills and I can crack just about any code there is...I guess 'Black Cipher sounded better than the killing encrypter." 

55 kills? Dear god, she's a sociopath. He thinks shaking his head.

"How did you kill all those men?"

"Who said all of them were men?" 

She kisses him on the lips and enters his mouth with her tongue. She moves into him and grabs hold of his hair and whispers in his ear.

"I seduced them, had sex with them and while at their weakest, I killed them."

Her tone was cold, but Francis did not get the feeling she was always that way. It became clear to him, very quickly that she is a bit damaged, but her beauty was something to be desired and that, could very well the reason for overlook her damaged state. 

She gives Francis a seductive look as she rocks faster on him, grinding between his legs. Francis falls back, closing his eyes and grabbing hold of the sheets beneath him, pleased at being taken away. She leans down and kisses him on the neck softly, the way an experienced lover would do, licking the sweat dripping from his face. Slowly she moves towards his ear biting his lobe and grabbing hold of his face with both hands, grinding her body into his faster, bringing him just to the point of a climax, she says without remorse, "I can kill you right now, if I wanted."

He opens his eyes, scared and shocked, he tries to push her off of him, but she tightly grabs hold of his neck pulling him into her. He didn't know what to think or how to react to her absurd statement. 

Sensing his anger, she lets go and pushes him back down, she pulls off of him and sits at the foot of the bed, looking at him with a devilish smile.

"They've been all that easy."

Francis lens up, resting his back on the head board, staring back at her, entranced by evil, infatuated by sexuality. 

"You are one seriously disturbed woman."

She shrugs her shoulders. "I know." 

He sighs and moves to down to her, grabbing hold of her neck, rolling on top of her taking her legs, forcing them over his shoulders, pushing down on her, tightly pulling on her hair, trying his best to dominate her. All she does is laugh. He kisses her on the lips and shakes his head.

While still in the awkward physical position, Francis begins to run his hands through her hair, looking into her eyes, wondering what life would be like with her. 

"You're different than the other men I've been with."

"How many men have you been with?"

She touches his face and as he goes deeper in her, she closes her eyes and lets out a sigh of pleasure. 

"I stop counting."

"Where did you leave off at?"

She touches his face and turns her head to the left moaning. "Triple digits."

"Where were you, before here?"

"Marseille." She bites her bottom lip and digs her nail in his back as his movement brings her closer to a climax. 

"There was a double agent that needed to be taught a lesson."

"And did you teach him a lesson? Did you catch him?"

She grabs his neck and closes her eyes, smiling. "Of course! I always get my man." She pauses as she lets out another erotic moan, the sound of which causes Francis to exclaim, "Goddamn woman."

"It ...it appears that spies" Francis pushes harder on her almost to the point of having her legs completer over her head. She smiles, laughing at his contorted facial expressions as he concludes. 

She finishes her sentence, in between orgasmic moans. " in particularly...Ahh...really... bad ones, like very young girls."

He pulls off of her and grabs her hair pulling her with him to the bottom of the bed. She pants for a few seconds and rest her chin on his shoulder, breathing heavy in his ear.

"I like that." She whispers.

"How Young?"

"My age, Frankie."

Veronica slides off the bed and walks over to the patio doors opening them, she scans the horizon. To Francis, Veronica was like, some illicit drug that had been given to him to try, and he liked it, he was hooked. He never wanted to be without her. 

As he looks her naked body over from the short distance, his eyes stops between her spread legs. A sexual rush comes over him as he examines her labia, silhouetted by the, sun blazing in its morning glory proclaims her sexual openness.

The clouds parting reveals to Veronica thick smoke rising, from the early morning German bombings, the sight of which does nothing to stop her from proclaiming.

"God I love this city!"

Francis gets out of the bed and walks over to her and softly grabs her and runs his hands over her bare chest kissing her on the neck. He sighs. And after whispers in her ear, "Marry me." 

She turns around staring at him, as if she is trying to process the question in her mind. "What did you just say?"

"Marry me."

Instead of looking excited or happy, she looks bewildered as to why he would have asked her that question. She looks up at him shaking her head as he pulls her close to him. "You do understand what I do?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "So."

"Are...are you certain? Are you certain you want to be with someone like me? Forever?"

"I'm certain."

She flashes a look, one that was different from moment earlier. A look that was nothing playful. A look that, rattled him, scared him. It was a warning and he believed one hundred percent what she said next.

"If you are not faithful to me...I will kill you."

He takes a deep breath pulling her to him all the while thinking this is a very bad idea, but realizing his actions, his speaking before thinking things through, which is something that he has never had a problem with until now, has him holding in his arms an overtly sexual assassin, he just asked to be his wife. Looking at her face, thinking of the sex they just had, and what they will have in the future, he thinks to himself, I can deal with her flaws.

Francis sighs and closes his eyes. "I don't think that will be a problem."

"Okay. When?" 

"Today."

Veronica pulls away from him thinking about the idea, raking her mind, where in this great, but war torn city they could find someone to marry them.

She looks at him and tilts her head grinning. "Where are we going to get married? We're in the middle of a World War."

He turns her around and points to the most famous steeple in the world. "There!"

"Frankie, that's..." She pauses. "Notre Dame. We just can't walk up to The Notre Dame Cathedral and say we want to get married. I'm not Catholic, but I'm pretty certain of it."

"How do you know?"

She turns back around to him and looks up. "You're serious?"

"Yes. Get dressed." 

Standing in front of the most famous Church in the world, looking up at the imposing façade, the simple and harmonious mass that has strength and somber grandeur, not only impresses Veronica and Francis, but also leaves them in a reverence and awe as they hold hands tightly. The four powerful buttresses that spring up to the top of the towers, lifts them heavenwards, symbolically let the couple know that this cathedral-church was built for God. Two wide horizontal strips seem to bring the building back down to our mortal earth, indicating that this cathedral-church is also for mortal men. 

From the moment they enter the Portal, that is open, the Portal of the Last Judgment, the worldly cares they have, seemed to instantly drift away. Wander like scared little children, in a strange and fascinating world, slowly they walk past the south Rose Window and its eighty-four panes. It seems they are guided by the late morning sunlight shining through the glass, pointing to the West alter where a priest is performing his daily rout. The two sigh at the same time. This is the first time Francis has stepped foot into a place of worship, and from the tight squeeze that Veronica has on his hand; it is for her as well. She looks up at Francis and quietly asks.

"You sure you just don't want to go to a justice of the peace?"

Francis smiles and laughs lightly. 

"May I be of some assistance?" A soft, comforting voice says from behind them. 

Turning, they become speechless, as a man, a Priest stands before them, hands folded looking at them, gentle, kind, loving and as light from the sun, passes through the stain glass windows, it produces an almost, halo like glow around his head, making him look, angelic. 

Their mouths dropped, as is if seeing a sign from the Almighty one himself. 

Quickly Francis collects himself. "I um..we um...we would like to see if you could um.."

"Would you marry us?" Veronica says.

The Priest chuckles, at the question. It was not a mocking chuckle, but rather comforting one, as Francis and Veronica stare back like little children waiting for an answer from a parent.

"We..." the priest slowly says. "don't take walk in's. There is much to prepare when contemplating marriage. There is counseling, and many other things." 

He stops and looks at the two. "How, long have you two known each other?"

Francis looks at his watch. "Oh, about ten..."

"Ten years. I have been in love with this man for ten years. I have always known he is the one that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Right now, he is all I have. My parents were killed by Nazi's, my brother who is one years old lives in an Orphanage,...I just don't have anyone. We wanted to be right before the eyes of god, so if you could, please make some sort of consolation. Please."

"Very well. Wait here and I will be back in a few minutes." The priest says as he turns away.

When the Priest is out of ear shot, Francis looks over at Veronica, concerned and puzzled. 

"You have a brother in an orphanage?"

"He lives with my aunt in Poughkeepsie." 

Paris, the Present

As they get closer to the Portal of the Last Judgment, Francis stops and looks up in awl at the massive structure. Veronica has never been one to call attentions to Francis' shortcomings and has never become irritated by his, sometimes childish reactions to certain things, but every year on their anniversary, Francis acts as if, it's his first time seeing the façade, with its statutes and ornaments. And every year, his childish, touristy reaction, irritates the hell out of her.

"Every year, we've been coming here; I still become awestruck at this place."

Veronica rolls her eyes at his statement. Not just because, she's tired of hearing it, but after they were married, the unit that she belonged to used, the Church's Dudgeons to extract confessions from Nazi spies. To Veronica and her self-righteousness this place of god, is nothing more than a house of hypocrisy. 

"It's just a building Frankie."

Francis looks over and shakes his head, not understanding why his love could not enjoy the simple, little things in life.

Francis pulls Veronica through a sea of tourist listening intently to tour guides explaining the structure and the many statues who they are and what they represent to the gazing foreigners. 

A couple walks up and stops Veronica and Francis, just at the door and asks a few questions. Before Francis could open his mouth, Veronica in her irritated state chimes in with perfect French, causing the couple to stop and apologize.

"We thought you were American." They say.

Walking into the building and down the west aisles, they are met by Cardinal Mortelli, who will be blessing their marriage. It will be Padre Dubious that will give them mass. They are new to Francis and Veronica, but for 45 years they have been coming here and are somewhat of a fixture.

The crowds quickly, become silent, chattering tour guides stop talking, cameras stop flashing and the videos stop taping as the head Priest leads the faithful in afternoon mass. He holds up the wafer that symbolized the body of Christ and says a quick prayer. 




"V" is for Veronica



Far past where the visitors can go, Veronica and Francis knell before Padre Dubious in their own private Mass celebration. The two receive looks of envy and confusion from patrons and visitors alike. What makes these two so special that they can worship at the main alter and be blessed by the Cardinal himself? Little did they know that Francis and Veronica had contributed millions to this Cathedral and even more to its charitable, organizations. The two normally take the leisurely walk back, but today, Francis is feeling ill. Thinking it may have been her cooking, Veronica hails a cab to quickly take him home. Francis is now running a temperature of 108 and sweating profusely. In an attempt to cool him down, Veronica puts a cold rag on his head and holds his hand sitting by his side. She quickly realizes something is just not right. She makes two phone calls, one to the paramedics and one to Archie Carlisle. The paramedics arrive in three minutes of the call followed shortly by Archie. 

By the time the medics put Francis onto a stretcher and load him in the vehicle, he is on life support. Confused as to what has made her husband so sick, so quickly, Veronica sits beside him and begins to weep. 

Archie is stunned by her outward emotional expression. He has known the two of them for years and never seen Veronica cry, ever. 

When they arrive at the Hospital, the medics rush Francis to the Emergency room, leaving behind Veronica and Archie in the waiting area. 

Three hours latter, a Doctor grimly walks down the hall, looking at Veronica. When she makes eye contact with him, she breaks down, knowing what the news is, instantly becoming inconsolable, weeping uncontrollable, in a bent over position.

There is nothing Archie could say or do. He just, sighed and waited for Veronica to calm down.

A peace comes over her as he sits up and crosses her legs and breathing deeply.

"Are you okay?" Archie asks.

"My husband of 36 years just died. What do you think?" 

She pauses and sighs as she stands up heading to the door.

"Veronica, wait." Archie shouts.

She turns to him and calmly orders. "I want an autopsy." 

"Ronnie..."

"Now Archie. I will be at our place waiting for the results."

The penthouse was about fifteen blocks away from the hospital, but she decides to walk, to think. What could have caused his death? She was with him for the majority of the day, what? Think Ronnie, think. She says to herself.

Walking up the Champs-Élysées, past the many shops, cafés, the chatty people, the cars, everything during this think time, seems to go in slow motion past her. It appears that she was invisible to the world. The street lights, the taillights of cars, the ambient light around her, fuses together creating a hypnotizing psychedelic rainbow color. She stops to sit at a bench by the Arc de Triomphe. Thinking, more deeply, she comes to one conclusion, Francis has been poisoned. 

She stands hailing a taxi. "100 Rue Washington." Getting in, she softly tells the driver.

The driver has her there in les than two minutes; she pays and goes into the building.

She undresses and walks into the washroom to takes a shower. After she dries off, she dresses in a black pair of jeans, and pulls over her body a black turtle neck shirt. She walks into her closet and picks up a black pair of Timberland boots. She sits on her bed, puts them on and ties them tightly up. She sighs and holds her head in her hands and begins to cry.

After collecting herself, she walks back into the closet and taps the right corner floor board with her right foot. The wall is pushed back and swiftly slides to the left, revealing a hidden room with the tools of her profession. 

On the wall is a rack of guns. She walks over to the rack and picks up a Berretta and then places it on a small table in the middle of the room. On the same rack, she takes a silencer that fits. She slowly turns and reaches for a shoulder holster. She puts it on and takes the Berretta and slides it in and locks it. She reaches for black leather jacket and puts it on and then pulls her long hair back into a pony tail.

Reaching for a belt that can hold another five round, she puts it on, knowing that she will not need the added ammunition, but just in case. Finally, she takes a ten inch hunting knife and clips it on her belt. Taking a deep breath, she walks out and taps the same spot on the floor board again, and the room becomes sealed. 

Sitting on a couch in her living room area, she stares at the Eiffel tower, as the cool evening breeze blows the silk curtains in and out. She reflects back on the years she's had with Francis, causing her to cry. Anger and rage begin to swells up in her. She knows who killed her husband; she just needs to know, why? He was poisoned, she knows that. The only things he had to eat this day, was her omelet, a wafer and wine. She knows she did not poison him, so the only one or ones that could have done this was the Priest and the Cardinal. If these two men of god did the work of the devil...then the angel of death will be paying them a visit tonight.

Behind her, she hears the front door unlock. She slowly gets up and walks out on the balcony. Knowing who it is, she doesn't turn around. She hears Archie walking up behind her.

"What type of poison?" She asks.

"Cyanide."

She slowly turns and holds her head down and then raises it up and looks at him. "Who uses cyanide to kill someone?"

He says nothing to her.

"Who was it Archie? I know you know. I know he was here working on something, his death must be connected to what he was working on. Who killed my husband?"

"Ronnie, please, lets us handle it."

"WHO? I know it was someone in the church. The sun will be down in one and a half hours. Thirty minutes after that, the doors of the church will be lock. If you do not tell me who is responsible for the death of my husband, I will slaughter everyone in the there and then kill myself."

Archie bites his bottom lip and sighs and then takes a hard swallow. "Mortelli and Dubious."

"The Cardinal and the Priest?" She asks calmly.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"They are agents working for a group of people that do business with the Chinese. They have been selling the names of agents to the highest bidder. The real Cardinal and Priest were found dead, a few months ago."

She walks past Archie and sits heavily on the coach. "So...my husband was killed for money."

"Yes."

She nods her head, allowing the information to process. "How much?" 

"A little over a million."

She holds her head down and begins to exhale in and out; rage begins to flow through her veins. Her eyes become red and tear filled as she looks back up at Archie. 

"This apartment holds art, worth over three hundred million dollars." She points to a Renoir on the wall closet to them. "That painting is worth over one million dollars. That painting is worth MORE THAN MY HUSBANDS LIFE?"

She begins to cry again, uncontrollably. After wiping her tears she asks. "Who else is involved?"

"We know that information is being passed on to them from sources inside our agency."

She closes her eyes, trying to calm her self. "Who, in our agency?"

"Johnny Stiles."

With her eyes still closed and in a clam tone she asks. "Why does he think he can get away with this?"

"I don't know. I guess when your back is against the wall; you do and think dumb things."

"What are you going to do with him?"

"That, we are still trying to figure out."

"Who's we?"

Archie curses to himself. He couldn't tell her just yet that Francis is alive, that the paramedics gave him the antidote to the poison in the van, but his slip up, indicated to Veronica, that Archie and someone else knew about this. Archie forgot how sharp she is. 

"The higher ups, management."

She looks at him, seeing his lie, knowing they, Archie and Francis, were "The Higher Ups." Whatever the case was, she is now hell bent on avenging her husband's death.

Archie witnessed something that no one had witnessed before; the transformation of this normally, calm, collected woman, turning into a cold blooded assassin. He watched in silence as her blood boiled, as rage pumped through her heart, as her mind began to work out the meticulous details.

"How? How are you going to do this Ronnie?"

She coldly glances over at him. "You weren't with our unit, before Paris was liberated. We used that Cathedral as a base, and... the dungeons to extract information from the Nazi spies. There are things down in those caverns that would make Satan himself shiver." 

"Yes, but how are you going to get in if the doors are lock?"

"Through the tomb of St. Germaine, there is a secrete passage that leads to the west alter."

Veronica sits saying nothing, for the next thirty minutes. Archie watched mesmerized. He had never, before today, seen her cry, before today he had never seen her filed with so much hatred and rage. Of course he knew what she was capable of doing, she was after all a finely tuned killing machine; he just never witnessed her alter ego. 

She slowly Veronica walks down the Champs-Élysées. As the sun begins to set, the hot summer air drops ten degrees. Out of the corner of her right eye, she sees lights flickering on, illuminating instantly the famous iron structure in the world. Up ahead, two blocks away, there are three tour buses unloading, giddy American high school seniors all looking anxiously, waiting to be let loose to explore on their own, the Paris night. A group of young boys from the buses, stand on the corner, gawking at a woman of the night, who has just stepped out of a café, with her newly acquired gentleman. 

Veronica stops, when passing the Louvre and stares at the glass pyramid, which has a somewhat calming effect on her. A few minutes later, she is standing on the corner of the Pont Notre Dame, the bridge that will take her to the killing grounds.

Walking up to the tomb of St. Germaine, Veronica turns a stone rose, that opens a dark, haunting stairwell, leading down. When she gets half way down, the tomb closes behind, encasing her in an unnatural darkness. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a lighter, and flicks it on, giving her a limited depth of field. She knew this passage very well, when she was younger, she and the rest of the resistance during the Nazi occupation, used this passage to go in and out undetected, by the SS. 

When she walks about three hundred yard in the ghostly tunnel, covered by cob webs, centuries of dust, dirt, and neglect, the lighters light hits upon a familiar sight; a set of steps leading upward. 

The statue of St. Dennis slides to the right, revealing a hidden niche that Veronica, walks out of. She walks, about three hundred feet to the confessional booth and rings the bell. A few minutes later, the Cardinal sits on the other side of the screen.

"My, child, how did you get in here, the doors are lock?"

"The portal of the Last Judgment was jarred opened Father."

"Have you come to confess your sins, my child?"

"Yes, of past and future."

The Cardinal hesitates. "How do you know what sins you will procure in the future? Only god can know this."

"I know too, father."

"When, was the last time you have confessed your sins openly, my child?"

Veronica reaches into her jacket pulling out the Berretta. She screws on slowly, the silencer and pulls the hammer allowing it to click back, giving a unique and distinguishable sound; a sound that even if one never shot a gun, would know. The Cardinal looks up and slowly turns his head to his left, with wide eyes.

"Father. I have never confessed my sins."

A flash goes off and the Cardinal falls to the floor of the booth. Veronica stands up and pushes the door open. She walks down the vacant aisles and follows the black and white marble flooring to the rectory.

There are many doors leading to many rooms, where her next target could be, but she knows where he is.

Walking up to the door of the library, Veronica stops. She puts her ear to the door, and immediately recognizes the sound. The low tones, the giggles, the sound of two people in love, trying to be inconspicuous as possible, the sounds that were made when her and her husband were together with a intrusive five year old is running around the house.

She steps back and with one swift kick at the door with her Timberland boot, the door opens and with deadly accuracy, one shot from the barrel of the Berretta hits the forehead of the priests lover. She falls to the floor. 

Shocked and mortified the Priest, holds up his shaking hands and looks at Veronica.

"There are two things I hate in this world; people who kill for money and hypocrites, and you are both."

Veronica walks over to him and presses the barrel of the gun to his forehead. "Who hired you to kill my husband?"

The Priest stops shaken and looks up at Veronica. "What gives you the right to come into this house of god and kill a servant of his?"

"Are you serious? You in all your hypocritical glory, have the nerve to counsel me father? What gives you the right to kill my husband?"

"You and your husband, contract killers for the Government, you are nothing but a well paid thug."

"That may be so, but our killings made the world a better place. Who hired you? Who in our agency tipped you that we would be here?"

"You will not get any answer from me. You can kill me. I leave my life in the hands of god."

"Your faith is sickening. Stand up!"

With the barrel of the gun inches away from his head, Father Dubious stands. Veronica walks over to the book shelf and scans the selections.

"Now. Where is that book? Oh yes here it is, how fitting, Dante's inferno."

She pulls the book down and the wall next to it slowly slides open. The Priest month drops at seeing the secret passage.

Veronica turns with gun still pointed at the Priests head. She gestures for him to stand and moves to the side of the door.

"Now, down to a place that not even god can hear you scream."

The Priest is speechless. He moves down the steps with the Grim reaper behind him. Three feet into the vault, Veronica turns a knob and the passage is sealed. She flips a switch and a row of incandescent lights flicker on.

"Walk." 

When father Dubious gets to the bottom of the stairs, he turns to her and screams. "You will burn in hell!"

"I am already there father. Walk."

She pushes him into a dark room. Turning to her left, she flicks a switch and a dim light turns on.

"If you answer me, you will go to be judged by your maker in peace. Who hired you?"

"I will never give you the answer."

"Your choice."

She walks over to a covered table and whips the dusty cover off revealing a piece of medieval torture technology, the sight of which makes the Priest shakes violently.

"One last time, who hired you?"

He looks over at her. "Please have mercy on my soul."

"Are you asking me, or god?"

He says nothing.

"Very well." 

She points the gun to his knee and shots. He falls to the floor screaming in agony. Veronica slides him closer to the torture rack, all the while he struggles. 

She stands over him and hits him in the head with the barrel of the gun, knocking him out.

Twenty minutes later, he wakens with his arms and legs tied to the rack. Veronica walks over to a skeleton hanging on some shackles attached to the wall.

"You see this man, or what used to be a man? He was an SS Corporal, his nick name was the Iron man, because of the way he fought the Allies during the war." She looks at him closer and touches his chin. "That was before I got a hold of him. I guess he wasn't made of iron after all. Who hired you Padre?"

"You will kill me if I don't tell you. You will kill me if I do tell you."

"True, but if you do, I will make things a whole lot easier for you. Who?"

He says nothing

She walks over to the right side of the table and clicks the wheel once. The Priest screams. She leans over and bits his right earlobe and then whispers in his ear.

"Do you feel that? That is your muscles contracting. The next click will be your muscles pulling. After that your muscles will tear, then you ligaments, until you are torn, limb to limb. Messy. Shall I click again?"

He says nothing. She turns the wheel another click. 

"Who?"

"Stiles...John Stiles."

Veronica looks up and closes her eyes. She shakes her head and walks to the door.

"Wait. You said...you would do this quickly."

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned."

Veronica shoots a leaver at the bottom of the table, freeing a ten ton weight. She walks out and turns the light off. As she closes the iron door, the priest screams as the rack slowly pulls at him.

As she walks down the dark halls of the dungeon, tears roll down her face, reflectig back on her life.

Approaching a set of stairs that leads to a mausoleum, Veronica feels an eerie sense that someone or something is watching her. She takes out the gun and flicks the lighter. She turns slowly and surrounding her are Stone statues, watching her with piercing, judging eyes. She drops her head and feels something for the first time...a conscience, guilt.

"What was I to do? They killed my Frankie." She asks, as if the statues would give her some kind of response.

Falling to her knees she feels an almost instant, sense of comfort comes over her. She relaxes, and closes her eyes curling up into a fetal position on the floor.

A beam of the morning sun's light rests on Veronica face waking her. She takes a deep breath and stands, coughing from the dust on the floor. The tomb and the statues of saints and patrons of the early church are revealed. 

Veronica brushes herself off and looks around her, sighing as she walks over to an iron door leading to the garden. Before leaving, she looks back pausing for a long moment. 

"Forgive me." 

Walking through the garden she passes a crowed that has convened at the doors of the Cathedral, shocked and appalled that someone would have the gall tom kill two people of god. The local police have barricaded the area as the two bodies were carried out. Veronica could over hear conversation of people, talking about how they heard the Cardinal may have been responsible. Veronica slowly drops her head and another feeling comes upon her that she has never felt before, remorse. A sanctioned kill was nothing new to her, but this was the very first time, that those at the end of her gun, were beloved by spiritual people.

"What have I done?" She says in low tone.

"Don't feel too bad Ronnie. They were the bad guys."

Veronica turns and looks at Archie. "I want out. I don't ever want to see you again."

"Before you decide that, I need you to come with me."

Reluctantly she follows Archie past the police and media, into the church. There are around fifty people going over the scene inside, taking pictures, and interviewing workers of the church. Flood lights shining on dark corners of the alter looking for a clue as to who could have done this. Archie turns and looks at Veronica and grins. "You don't leave much to investigate."

He walks her to a set of steps leading down into a grotto. They both walk down and he point to a room at the end of a hall, where she hears voices. She turns to look at Archie.

"Open the door."

She opens the door and sees Francis sitting at a table talking to a man. The conversation stops as she looks at him with fire in her eyes. She sits down, and pulls the gun from the holster and lays it on the table. She looks at Francis and moves away from him as he moves closer to her

"You have five minutes to explain, to me why you are still alive."

"I needed to die Ronnie, in order to flush out a mole. It had to be done to protect you and our daughter."

"You couldn't tell me that?"




"V" is for Veronica



"We needed to make sure; you were safe and now that I know that you are things can go back to normal."

"How? When people know you're dead."

"My death has been only told to those who were suspected of being the mole. What name did you get from the priest?"

She looks at him and then over to Archie. "Is that all you wanted was a name? I killed three fucking people, to get a name for you?"

"Veronica, please." Francis sighs. "This had to be done. We needed you to do...what you do best."

"John Stiles."

Francis looks over at Archie and the other man.

"That is what we needed to know." 

Veronica sits back in her chair and crosses her legs. "What now?"

Francis looks over at the man sitting next to Veronica and nods to him.

"My name is Carl White, I am with British Intelligence." He slides a file over the table. "This man is who we are looking for."

Veronica opens the file and reads the information. She looks over at Francis and closes the folder. "What do you want me to do?"

Francis leans over and holds Veronica's hand. "Flush him out."

"What makes you think I can do that?"

"Because he believes you are, Control. Information has been leaked through agencies around the world, that Veronica Edmonds is Control."

"Where is he?"

Francis looks up at Archie standing by the door. Veronica leans back in her chair and stares at him.

"Hong Kong."

"And Jonathan?"

"Los Angles."

"Who do you want first?"

Archie looks over at Francis and then down to Veronica. "Johnny."

"How do want it handled?"

Archie gives the order, "Exterminate with extreme prejudice." 

Veronica never could understand why people in the intelligence business, went rouge or thought they could get away with selling secrets. They always get caught and nine times out of ten, she is the one that catches them.

One of the first things, Veronica did before leaving Paris, was send out a report that John Stiles is wanted for treachery, forcing him to make dumb moves and decisions. No matter how good of an operator you are, when your name is flagged for being a traitor, you make dumb mistakes, like standing three people away from the teller at the Bank of America on Ventura Boulevard, with a blue bag in hand, thinking you are able to have access your bank account and make a run for it. 

"Can I help you?" The cashier asks.

John hands her a withdraw form. "I want to make withdraw some money."

The cashier punches his number into the computer and looks puzzled.

"Is anything wrong?"

"It's...I've never seen this before. I see you money there, but it won't let me withdraw."

John sighs and rolls his eyes at the realization, he's been burned. All assets cut off. All identifications flagged no one to turn to. 

"Would you like for me to call a Manager?"

"Trust me. There is nothing he can do."

John cautiously leaves the bank and walks to a car he stole and as he opens the door, a L.A. PD cruiser slowly rides by him. John reaches under the seat for a nine millimeter and sits down. The cruiser speeds up and passes him. 

Quickly thinking, he makes a phone call to someone he knows will be more than willing to help, for a price.

Walking to his meeting through China Town, John cannot help but think how much this place in the hot summer evening smells like a wet dog. Walking past the many seafood shops selling strange and bizarre cuisines from around the world, he despises the sights and sounds around him.

Entering, Kim Jim restaurant John whispers into the ear of a man standing at the door, "I need to speak to Kim Wo."

The man looks him up and down and walks away, stopping at the counter, speaks something in Mandarin to another man, who picks up a telephone. A few seconds later, John is being ushered down a dark set of steps to a smoke filled room with poker being played on ten tables.

In the dark corner of the room, sits a man smoking a pipe. When the smoke clears, the man face can be identified.

"Kim Wo." John says. "I have some information for you."

Kim Wo laughs and leans forward in his seat. "It will rain tomorrow." He says and laughs.

"Funny. I need fifty thousand dollars."

Kim laughs louder and harder. He looks around him at his body guards and points to John. "He needs fifty thousand dollars." He takes puff of his pipe and blows a long stream of smoke. "And why come to me? You can just call, your friends in Langley and have it wired to you."

"I'm burned."

"You're what?"

"Disavowed."

"So, they finally found out about you...and I. So tell me, why should I let you live?"

"Because I can give you what you want. What you have been looking for."

"Why should I trust you?"

"I no longer work for the U.S.A."

"How are you going to get me the information?" "It's not information." John sits down across from Kim Ho and takes a piece of chicken, popping it in his mouth.

"Have some, please."

"It's who, I can give you."

Kim Ho leans forward and looks at John. "You have him?"

"Not him Kim, her."

Veronica was less than pleased when her daughter insisted on spending time with her in Los Angles, but in order to not shed any suspicions, she needed for things to be normal. A thousand things could go wrong, a thousand and one having to do with her daughter. 

Emmy works an investigative reporter for the L.A. Tribune and has just wrapped up a story about corruption in the L.A. Police force, so when she heard that her mother would be in town; she jumped at the opportunity to spend some bonding time with her.

Waiting at a private hanger, not far from LAX, Emmy waits for her mother's private jet to taxi. The G-5 slowly pulls into the hanger an attendant opens the door and Veronica gracefully walks out and into the arms of her daughter.

"It's so great to see you." Emmy says.

Veronica smiles and gives her kiss on the cheek. "You look wonderful, darling."

Emmy walks with her mother to an awaiting limo while attendants load luggage into the trunk. A chauffeur holds the door open and closes it when the two women enter. 

Settling in, Veronica crosses her legs, hiking up the short skirt she wears. Emmy looks at her and tugs it down, like a parent making adjustment to their child. Emmy never liked her mother wearing such flirty clothes that showed off her ageless body. She hated when other men besides her father flirted with her. She despised how men, young enough to be Veronica's grand children, gawked and stared at her. Veronica ignores her and leans over and takes the carafe of Brandy and pours herself a glass.

"You didn't have to meet me, Emilia."

"Nonsense, I don't see you enough." 

The limo pulls off and smoothly pulls out of the hanger and out onto the main road.

"So, how long will you be in town?"

"No long. I just have a few loose ends to tie up."

"Where's dad?"

Veronica takes a sip of her Brandy and rolls her eyes. She finishes her drink and places the glass into holder across from her.

"He's in, New York somewhere."

"I was hoping he'd be with you."

Veronica grunts and leans her had back, closing her eyes, thinking of a plan to get things over with quickly and without a mess.

Veronica opens her eyes and look at her daughter and sighs. She needed to spend more time with her, she feels guilty for not being there for her. She leans up and moves closer to Emmy.

"What do you want to do?"

Emmy smiles and gives her a kiss. "I was thinking dinner and then just spending some time together. Nothing big."

"Sounds good. Dinner where?"

"There is this great Asian fusion place; I have been dying to check out. I just haven't had the time."

"How's the writing?"

"Not bad. I just finished an investigation that I'm pretty proud of. It will be in the paper tomorrow."

"I can't wait to read it."

Emmy failed to mention or didn't know that the restaurant has a wait time of two hours, unless you're a celebrity of some sort. Impatiently, Veronica sits next to her daughter, looking at the celebrities and pseudo celebrities go in and out of the place and just when she is ready to call it in, the hostess walks up and guides the two to a table. Before settling in, Emmy excuses herself and heads to the ladies room. 

Veronica looks over the menu and orders a bottle of Chardonnay and an calamari appetizer.

A man approaches Emmy as she heads back to the table and informs her she has an urgent phone call. 

"No one knows I'm here." 

"Ms. Emilia Edmonds?" The man says.

Emmy nods her head as the man gestures to back. She walks in front of him and as she gets to a dimly lit hall, she notices there is no phone. She quickly turns, and a gun is pointed at her head.

"I don't believe I fell for that."

He gestures to the back with the pointing gun. The man leads Emmy to a back ally, where a black SUV waits for them. He opens the door and pushes her in. A man standing in the shadows, smoking a cigar, pulls a cell phone from his pocket and calls Veronica. 

Sipping on her glass of wine, Veronica looks at her cell phone as it vibrates on the table. She looks at the screen and opens it.

"Yes."

"If you want to see your daughter alive, be on the corner of Hollywood and Vine in thirty minutes."

"How original."

"And don't call the police."

"They'll just make thing worse...for me."

"Thirty minutes."

Veronica rolls her eyes and places a hundred dollar bill on the table and walks out.

"This is fine." She tells the cab driver.

She walks through a sea of tourist and over to news stand. She picks up the latest edition of the L.A. Tribune, seeing Emmy's story on the front page. Handing off a dollar to the attendant, she begins to walk away and stops. Turning around, she scans the stand. 

"Do you have pens?"

The attendant reaches under the counter and places a ball point pen in her hand. "One dollar." 

Veronica sits on a bench on the corner of Hollywood and Vine working on a crossword puzzle, when a shadow covers what she is working on. She finishes a word and without looking up she acknowledged the person.

"Johnathan."

He sits next to her and spreads his arms across the back of the bench. Ignoring him, Veronica continues her puzzle. "If one hair on my daughter is touched, I will make your death painful."

"Like that Priest in Paris?"

"Worse, Johnathan."

"I'm not afraid of you Veronica."

She looks at him and grins. "I don't want you to be afraid of me. I want you to fear me."

She stands and folds her newspaper and tucks it under her arm. "Now, shall we get this over with?"

John looks at her up and down and stands in front of her. He grabs her by the waist and pulls her to him.

"Frankie never knew what he had. I would have done so much to you and you would've liked it. Do I have to check for weapons?"

He pushes her into a dark corner and unbuttons her jacket and runs his hands up and down her back. 

"You have soft skin."

"That will be the last thing you remember before I blow your brains out."

"Veronica. I have the upper hand."

"So you think."

Veronica walks to the parked van and waits for John to open the door. She gets in and crosses her legs. The driver sets off as John sits running his hand up and down Veronica legs. She stares at him as he opens her jacket and unhooks her bra, kissing on her neck and chest. Veronica closes her eyes and thinks that how she could easily kill him and the driver. She'll be a little banged up from the crash, but will still be alive. Then she thinks about Emmy, she needed to know where she was.

Veronica opens her eyes and sighs as John reaches under her skirt. He grabs her underpants and pulls them out.

"Frankie said you like it rough."

Veronica smiles at him and stares him the eyes. "I am going to enjoy killing you."

"I've never been with a mother and daughter at the same time."

The van stops John opens the door and hold out his hand for Veronica. She looks up at the old warehouse and shakes her head. John leads her to the door and pushes her in. A young Chinese man squats next to a door smoking a cigarette, holding a nine millimeter in his right hand. From the looks of this place, Veronica could tell it has been used for torture and killing.

The man opens the door and Veronica walks in and sees Emmy sitting in a chair with duct tape over her mouth. She rushes over and takes the tape off.

"I'm sorry." Emmy says.

"For what?"

"This is all my fault."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's what I was working on. The story. This is retaliation for the story I wrote."

Veronica turns and looks at John. He takes the gun from one of the men and points it at her head.

"Sit down, Ronnie."

She sits down on a rusted chair next to Emmy. John points to the door and tells one of the men. "Get the van ready." John looks at the other man and hands him the gun. He points to Veronica and looks at the man. "Be careful with her. She's more dangerous than she looks. If she gets up from this chair, shoot the daughter in the head."

John runs up the steps and closes the door, locking it from the outside.

"I didn't not mean for this to happen."

"Emilia, it's not your fault."

"Yes it is."

Veronica takes the newspaper from under her arm and opens it to the crossword. She takes the pen fiddles with it and drops it on the floor. As she leans forward to pick it up, the man screams at her.

"Stop." He points the gun at Emmy.

"How am I going to do a crossword with no pen?"

The man leans down to pick up the pen, when Veronica takes a tightly wound piece of newspaper from the fold. As the man looks up to hand her the pen, she rams it into his right eye. He drops the gun screaming and holds his face. Veronica quickly picks up the gun and holds it to his head, pulling the trigger.

"You killed him with a newspaper."

"Actually the bullet to the head killed him."

"Where did you learn how to do that?"

"No time now darling, I have to figure a way out of here."

Veronica walks up to the door and tries turning the rusted handle. "Blast."

Emmy stares at the dead man laying on the floor in disbelief that her mother, the quintessential Upper East Side Socialite just killed a man, with a rolled up sheet of newspaper. She looks up at her mother and is just stunned at her calmness in this situation.

"Emilia, did you hear anything they talked about?"

Emmy holds her head down and shakes her head. "No. Um wait. Something about a KimWo."

"Kim Wo? Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Why."

Veronica knew if she didn't figure a way out of this, she would be tortured for information and her daughter would be killed. She holds the gun in her hand and checks the remaining rounds. Twelve bullets left. She leans back against the wall and rushes over to Emmy. 

"Help me get him up."

Emmy and Veronica lift the man up onto the chair. 

"He's going to have to lean on your shoulder." Veronica tells Emmy.

Emmy sits down as her mother sits the man up in the chair.

They both look up at the window as a car pulls up. Veronica sighs and looks at Emmy.

"This may get messy. Close your eyes darling."

She rushes up to the right side of the door and closes her eyes. She can count the foot steps getting out of the vehicle. She estimates seven people.

The rusted door unlocks and opens. The first one in is John, Followed by Kim Wo and six of his men. John walks over to Emmy and sees the body next to her is not Veronica's but the guard.

"No."

Veronica steps out from the shadows and shoots Kim Wo and his henchmen dead. The surprise and accuracy catches John off guard. He reaches into is jacket to pull out his gun, when veronica shoots him in the femoral artery.

She slowly walks over to him and squats down. "I told you, I would kill you slowly."

She reaches into his pocket and takes her phone and presses a button.

"Yeah."

"If you don't get a medic to this gps location soon, Jonathan will be dead."

"Okay."

Veronica stands and looks at her daughter and sighs. "I have a lot of explaining to do."

"I'll say."