0 comments/ 17026 views/ 6 favorites Best Enjoyed Cold Ch. 01 By: realvelvetglove CONTENT WARNING Please be warned that this story is not for the faint-hearted. It is an airport-paperback-type thriller as much as a stroke story. It is a novel of 45,000 words that contains rape and revenge, emotional and psychological cruelty, forced incest and bi, and other taboos. Please don't read any further either if such things offend you or you think they're a good idea in real life. There are nine chapters and they will all be posted within the next couple of weeks. "La vengeance se mange tres-bien froide" From 'Matilde' (1841) by Joseph Marie Eugene Sue, French novelist. "Your enemy is sleeping and his woman is free" From 'Famous Blue Raincoat' (1970) on the album 'Songs of Love and Hate' by Leonard Cohen, Canadian singer-songwriter. CHAPTER ONE: Songs of Love and Hate The Chameleon watched dispassionately. The gang rape was being carried out to a background of piped organ music with the same meticulous precision as the military manoeuvres of the previous 72 hours. A tang of incense pervaded the white-walled room adding an aromatic twist to the woman's pitiful wailing and the relentless male grunts. It had all been worked out in advance. This woman should - at this exact moment - have been basking in happiness as 'The Mother of the Bride', proudly watching her elder daughter walk up the aisle. Instead, she was now being held down, mounted and ruthlessly fucked by a succession of masked and uniformed men, each enjoying his allocated five minutes. Cold hearted? Sure, ladies and gentlemen. After all, this is an ode to Love and Hate. And especially Hate. So where do I begin? When do I begin? In one sense it all began so many years ago. Three decades, in fact. Plenty of time to chill a splendid buffet that is best eaten cold. But in another sense it really all went off just three days ago. The stretch limousine carrying the happy bridal party to the wedding rehearsal left the gates of the imposing Cumber estate at 14.40 hrs precisely on its way to the church. As usual, the limo chauffeur was armed, and the Mercedes saloon following carried a pair of uniformed heavies. All was going like clockwork. But the chauffeur and bodyguards proved no match for the crack team of mercenaries that carried out the raid. Five people - the groom, the bride and her mother, brother and sister - were extracted and kidnapped at exactly 14.47, in less than sixty seconds, with a minimum of fuss and bloodshed. Only the father of the bride was missing from the party. And, of course, that was the Chameleon's intention. After that it was a simple question of making enough changes to cover their tracks. The five unconscious victims were transported north and east, then south and west, over 7,000 miles in total. They zigzagged back and forth, shuttled in a miscellany of SUVs and trucks, then helicopters, a cargo jet, via motor launch and powerboats, eventually overland in ancient lorries. The final part of their journey through mountain passes was completed strapped over the backs of a train of camels. Each time, the method of transport was 'cleansed' afterwards, and - in the case of the motor vehicles and powerboats - completely destroyed by fire. So, by the time their long, crisscross journey was finished, they were on a different continent, in a strange and exotic country, in an untraceable location. Even with satellite surveillance, finding a needle in a haystack would have been a thousand times easier than tracing either the victims or their kidnappers. The Chameleon smiled thinly and lit a Marlboro, amused by the woman's begging. The geographical trip had taken 45 hours, but her journey from arrogant 45 year old billionaire bitch to pleading, sobbing cunt had been a short one indeed. It was the way she obviously thought she still had something to bargain with that caused his smile. As if, having failed to order them about like her domestic servants, she could negotiate her way out instead. Maybe she thought they took credit cards? Or she could send round her chauffeur with a wad of cash later? But now, Leatherback was already the seventh man demonstrating to her that everything she had to offer them could be ripped from her for free. The mercenary's muscled buttocks hammered up and down in fierce, deep, impatient strokes as he prepared to fill her with his venom. The familiar organ music being piped over the sound system on continuous loop started up again. The joyous 'Bridal Chorus' from Wagner's Opera Lohengrin is the standard march played at the entrance of the bride at most weddings in America and the Western World. Now it was being used as a melodic accompaniment to Susan Cumber's terrible ordeal. Here comes the bride's mother, perhaps? On second thoughts, probably not. Susan Cumber was undoubtedly still a gorgeous woman. One of those Prom Queens who had been born beautiful, married young and the years since had been kind to her. She had popped out three kids in quick succession, got her figure back, exercised, ate well, rarely drank alcohol, and lived right. She hadn't even had to resort to surgery yet. No nips, tucks nor even botox. Her 45 year old skin was smooth, her butt was firm, and her boobs were natural Ds that still looked sensational even without a bra. Of course, money helped; cooks, diet counsellors, full time personal trainer, a tennis coach, two masseuses, daily hairdresser, and the best doctors, gynaecologists, dentists, orthodontists, 'what-have-yous', all at her beck and call. It was hard to envisage the groaning, sobbing, writhing woman as the same immaculately poised corporate wife and mother-of-three, whose photograph so often adorned the business press and society magazines. She was a statuesque, green-eyed, platinum blonde, with perfect cheekbones and teeth that dazzled; a rare blend of Hollywood glamour and Manhattan sophistication. At 5' 9" tall, she was the ideal height to complement her handsome 6' 3" husband, her head at his shoulder, whether posing formally for press shots or snapped attending charity balls together. Her beautifully cut and cared for hair was thick and lush. Her figure was just a little curvier than those of her two daughters but it was absolutely in proportion to her fuller breasts and extra height. The Chameleon stubbed out his cigarette. Leatherback had shot his bolt and was being replaced by Night Snake. There was no rush. As that old Satchmo love song goes, they had all the time in the world. *** *** *** Day Four At the very same moment the Chameleon was extinguishing his Marlboro, at least one continent, six time zones, and several thousand miles away, John Cumber was pacing a room that was packed full of the best. From the President down, everybody had promised him anything, and dropped everything, to help. It was a Saturday but they were all there; CIA, FBI, Military brass, others from agencies John hadn't even known existed, plus his closest hired hands and colleagues. The Cumber Corporation was a multi-billion dollar machine and all of its resources had been utilised or placed on standby to assist. Today was the fourth day since his wife and children had been taken. The problem was there had been no progress so far. Sure, there were teams of agents combing the kidnap site. Officers were interviewing anybody and everybody, researching, collecting data, trawling every damned domestic and international contact for clues. Any clue. But the result so far was a big fat zero. He glanced down at his gold Patek Philippe. Right now he should have been walking his darling Lorna up the aisle, in front of five hundred guests, standing proudly alongside his wife Susan throughout the service. His daughter Rachel and his son Ryan should be there smiling either side of them. John crushed the empty plastic water cup that was in his hand, swearing for the thousandth time that he would find his family and save them. And get the people responsible. *** *** *** 20.07 hrs The Chameleon sat at a bank of screens and surveyed his guests. He was dressed in just a white towel round his waist, his hair wet, his mind cleared by the ice cold needles of the shower he'd just taken. Each of the five guests had a cell to themselves. The cells were not, of course, the five star accommodation such WASPs were used to. They were underground, humid and dank. There was a lingering odour of sewage. Rats and insects scurried under the steel bars. Above ground, the house and its surrounding land had long since been converted into a comfortable but inconspicuous home. The thick compound walls that ensured total privacy had been built of mud, baked rock hard by many years of desert sunshine. Decades before, this site had housed a fortified prison used by the famous French Foreign Legion to incarcerate its prisoners, miscreants and deserters. On an ancient caravan route, it lay on the edge of an oasis, with a stone mountain to the north and an endless sand dune field to the south. But the relatively high water table made primitive agriculture possible; citrus, apricots, almonds and figs were grown in the vicinity. From the sky, a satellite or drone would merely see palm trees, a walled garden and courtyard, a swimming pool and a modest bungalow. There were even white dishdasha robes drying on a washing line and kids toys lying on the ground. There was no clue as to the evil concealed underground. Although the bank of screens would suggest the five basement cells they had selected were located next to each other, in fact his men had a choice of over fifty, and had chosen cells spaced well apart. It was important that their captives be unable to communicate with or hear each other, at least during the early stages of their ordeal. The cell walls and hard floors were constructed of dried mud and stone except for the front bars that were made of columns of steel. Just like those in the cowboy movies he'd watched as a child, the Chameleon thought. Each cell measured only six feet by six feet square and they were totally devoid of furniture; no bed, chair, even sanitary facilities. The only 'decorations' were five iron manacles set in the outline of a starfish into the rear walls. Their positioning alone would have made it obvious they were intended for a captive's neck, wrists and ankles to be fixed in a stretched, spread-eagle position. However, what made that fact even more evident was that each of the guests had already checked in and been fastened into the manacles. Microphones and night-vision CCTV lenses in each cell gave the Chameleon perfect sound and vision, even in the murky greenish light. The middle screen showed Susan Cumber suspended on her tiptoes. She was naked with a glistening sheen of wetness still oozing between her thighs. The gang rape had been thorough. A dozen copious loads had been injected into her. And what goes up, must come down. Her breasts, hips and abdomen were marked with red blotches and a couple of darker bruises. Her head sagged down dejectedly, face obscured, her shoulder length platinum tresses mussed and dangling. The Chameleon shrugged. It was to be expected. After a lifetime of fidelity to one handsome man, you couldn't expect any woman to be thrilled about racing from male partners numbers 2 thru 13 within one hour. She deserved her little rest. Displayed on the screens either side of Susan, were her two daughters. In one, Lorna Cumber - who should by rights now be Lorna Collins of course - was fastened in a similar uncomfortable starfish pose, arms and legs outstretched. She was wearing the same white outfit she had been kidnapped in, although it glowed dirty and torn in the green night-vision CCTV light. It was a wedding dress. Not the real dress, of course. Oh no, it would have been bad luck to be seen in that before the happy day itself! But the billionaire Cumbers had typically splashed out on three different bespoke, couture dresses for their darling, spoiled 23 year old daughter to choose from. She had decided to wear her second choice to her wedding rehearsal. Lorna was beautiful, no two ways about it. She took after her father rather than her mother. She was a pure aristocrat; a doe-eyed brunette, with perfectly plucked eyebrows, long dark eyelashes, high cheekbones and million dollar teeth. She had a slightly olive complexion and an elegant neck. At 5'7", her body was in perfect Pilates-honed shape for her wedding. Imagine a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit cover model, but with bigger boobs. Her torn wedding dress accentuated her trim waist. She had lost her wedding pumps on her journey and was now staring at the floor of her cell, shrieking and blubbering whenever a rat or spider came close to her bare, arched feet. Meanwhile, in the other monitor, Rachel Cumber was wearing an expensive Sister of the Bride outfit, a beautifully cut, cream pantsuit made especially for her by one of America's trendiest designers. Unlike Lorna, Rachel was not so much classically 'beautiful', as just ... well ... downright fuckable. Even though the minx was two and a half years younger than Lorna, there was a provocative sensuality about Rachel that belied her 21 yrs. At only 5' 2" she was much shorter than her mother and sister, but she was just as perfectly formed. She was a college gymnast and cheerleader. Facially, she had inherited her mother's features, with shoulder-length blonde hair and the same porcelain cheekbones and expensive flawless smile. Her pretty, turned-up button nose was of the 'my shit doesn't smell' variety. But whereas her mom's eyes were green, Rachel's were a startling cobalt blue. The Chameleon chuckled and decided that, in the unlikely event Hollywood came calling to make a blockbuster of his thriller, the casting brief for Rachel Cumber would be somebody who looked like a young Paris Hilton. Sure, it was unfortunate that Rachel's cleavage - a perky B cup at best - was smaller than her mom and sis's but her model-thin legs and wasp waist made her top half appear reasonably endowed. Give her credit. She had spunk too. Unlike her sister, the bitch was staring out straight at the lens, mouthing 4-letter words in apparent defiance. The other cells were occupied by the two males. Ryan John Cumber, middle child and only son of John and Susan, and finally Gene Collins III, the unfortunate groom-to-have-been of Lorna Cumber. The Chameleon perused the boys briefly, spending much less time studying them than the females. Ryan was a younger clone of his father; similar six-foot-plus jock physique, the same handsome features, jutting jaw, close cropped brown hair and intense brown eyes. Gene was the obvious odd one out of the group. And not just because of his ginger-top. The Cumbers were all hewn from beautiful stock and it was evidently something other than Gene's looks that had appealed to Lorna. He had a bookish air, with carrot hair, pale skin and insipid, watery-blue eyes. At 5'7" he was only the same height as his fiancé. Mind you, the Chameleon knew that when this particular groom was standing on top of his wallet, Gene Collins measured a lot taller than a mere five seven. Strange how these rich folks gravitated towards each other. Mergers, not marriages. He pushed his chair back from the monitors and lit another cigarette. It was now over three days since any of their captives had eaten or drunk anything but water. Soon the fun could begin. *** *** *** Saturday The Eyes watched the Cumber Building from an outside table at the coffee shop across the Street. The police had cordoned off a large area one side of the main tower to contain the throng of media vehicles and riff-raff that always gathered to rubberneck an event like this. It's not every day that the wife of a billionaire gets kidnapped, let alone with her three brats and a fiancé. What made it funnier to the owner of the Eyes was that all these people - the police and agents meeting in the building, units around the country, the media hacks and paparazzi nearby, the watching and listening audiences around the world - none of them knew jackshit! His Eyes squinted up to a large window at the very top of the tower. He framed it within a circle formed by his thumb and index finger. He knew it was the office window of John Cumber. Billionaire. Asshole. He watched a while through his imaginary scope, aiming carefully at the glass. Then, slowly, he closed the palm of his hand, eradicating the entire Cumber Building from his sight. Only one fucking person in the whole US of A knew anything! The Chameleon. Him. *** *** *** 06.55 hrs The Chameleon entered her cell at dawn. The temperature outside was already climbing fast after the chill of another cloudless, starlit night. However, underground, neither the dank air nor the dingy light varied much throughout the 24 hour cycle. Susan Cumber was barely conscious. The Chameleon wrenched her head up by her hair and the lingering odour in the cell seemed to act like smelling salts, waking her. She opened her glazed, bloodshot eyes and her nostrils flared. The Chameleon surveyed Susan through the mask's eyeholes until her face crumpled in shock and fear. "Time to wake up". The Chameleon chirped cheerily, like a mom waking her drowsy teenager. An amazed expression came across Susan's features, her forehead creasing into a frown. "Y ... you're ... a woman?" "Yes." She said curtly. "Good observation." "But ... how c ... could you do this ... to another woman?" The Chameleon chuckled aloud through the mouth flap of her red and green mask. What a funny question. She ignored it. "Are you hungry?" "Answer me!" Susan Cumber implored in anger. "How could you?" The Chameleon took her time. She stepped back and slapped her rubber-gloved hand across the woman's face twice, first one way, then a backhander. Not too hard but the blows snapped Susan's head sideways, making her gasp and shriek, before she tilted her face backwards in the neck iron, cowering from another blow. "If you speak to me like that again," she spat, "I assure you that, not only will you regret it, but your two hot little daughters will as well." "Rachel!" Susan's face furrowed as she looked up. "Lorna. And Ryan. What have you done with them all?" "Oooh, they're not far away." "Please, tell meeee!" the woman begged, madness in her eyes. "Later. Now, I asked if you are hungry." Susan paused, her brow puckered in confusion. Her head slumped again. "N ... yes." She whimpered quietly. "And thirsty?" "Yes." A whisper. "Okay." The Chameleon clicked her fingers for the guards. After unfastening her, a tattooed male helped Susan off the wall. She crumpled to the floor and lay curled up in the foetal position. Another guard brought food. He placed a steel dog bowl on the floor and lifted her up onto her hands and knees. "Eat." The Chameleon ordered. Susan hesitated, peering up at her from underneath her tangled hair. "Eat! If you care about your brats!" She watched from outside the cell as naked Susan Cumber knelt on all fours and cautiously peered at the swill. It was congealed and grey. The main ingredients were oats and canned milk. Susan didn't know it yet but in the future the unappetising mush would seem a veritable banquet to her. But Susan had already realised that the grey surface had been garnished with fresh male ejaculate. It was unavoidable. A creamy puddle and thick white streaks decorated the congealed surface. "I'm sure that Lorna will eat it if you won't." Susan's mad green eyes looked up at her like a rabid dog's. "Now get your head in that bowl and start eating." The Chameleon watched Susan's pink tongue slither out of her mouth to test the swill. She winked at the two guards who were watching too. After all, they had provided the fresh garnish. Best Enjoyed Cold Ch. 01 "You've got two minutes to finish the bowl. Or ..." The threat produced the desired result. Susan lowered her head and opened her mouth, breaking the surface. She vacuumed up a mouthful of oats and relish and began chewing. She retched, steeled herself, and swallowed mechanically. Then she took another mouthful. It was a wondrous sight. A woman who ate only the finest fish and superb salads, prepared by her own chefs or at the most expensive restaurants, now down on her hands and knees gulping slop. A man can break a woman's body with brute force. But a female is much more suited to breaking a woman' spirit. She relished the frantic gulping and gagging as Susan wolfed the bowl in 1 minute 47 seconds. It was the Chinese leader Mao Zedong who observed that 'every long journey starts with a first step'. On the Chameleon's shelves were many books on behaviour modification; Pavlov and Wolfe, Thorndike and Watson. And Susan Cumber had just taken the first step on her long journey. The two masked mercenaries returned to manacle Susan back into the same outstretched, 5-star position in her cell. But as a small mercy they allowed her to rest the soles of her dirty feet properly on the floor. "Better?" The Chameleon smiled behind her mask and casually removed her rubber gloves. She placed her bare hand on Susan's hip. Susan winced, helpless to shy away. The Chameleon slowly traced her fingers up Susan's flank and over to her superb but bruised breasts, hefting them up and down as if she were judging damaged fruit at a stall. Livid hickeys and scratches adorned the nipples. "It looks like my boys loved these." Next, she walked two fingers down Susan's ribs and gym-toned abdomen, through her honey coloured pubes and then between her damp thighs. She found her clitoris and stroked it, enjoying Susan's indignant hiss. She pushed her thumb deep inside and prodded around, before removing it leisurely. "I'm going to give you an hour or so of thinking time." She said, sniffing her thumb through the nostrils of her mask, while staring straight into Susan's eyes. "And when I come back, I want you to give me an answer to one question. Okay?" Susan stared back at her with a sullen look of unrestrained hostility. "What's the question?" "It's simple really. You see, my poor boys are all alone here with us. Sadly, we weren't able to invite their wives and girlfriends along." She shrugged, wiping her thumbnail clean on Susan's hip. "And to stop their trigger fingers getting itchy, they will need their sexual needs ... er ... catered to. Regularly. But you can be damned sure that I, for one, am not going to put out for them." She paused, relishing the horrified expression on Susan Cumber's face. "I mean, why the fuck should I? You've already met most of my boys when they raped you. But you see, we can't keep having all that futile fighting and pitiful wailing again every time one of them needs to drain his poor balls." She smiled behind her mask at Susan's look of dawning realisation. "So, from this point, two things can happen. Either you can volunteer to be enthusiastic and nice to any of my horny boys whenever he needs some relief. And that will mean putting in some pretty intensive stints on your own, I can assure you. Or ..." She fished into her pocket. ".... your two daughters can assist you." She held up a pair of headphones, poised over Susan's ears. "So, it's up to you. Mull the decision over for an hour or so." She snapped the headphones into place and walked briskly out of the cell before Susan had a chance to reply. The music Susan would be forced to listen to was apt; Leonard Cohen. His 'Songs of Love and Hate' album. After breakfast, the Chameleon would next pay a room visit to lovely Lorna Cumber, elder daughter and almost-bride. Today should have been the first morning of the young socialite's honeymoon, whisked by private plane from the swanky reception to an exclusive suite in the Caribbean, to start sucking and fucking and making love to her darling carrot-top husband for three memorable weeks. But instead, today would be her first wakeup call in a rather less salubrious honeymoon suite. I'm afraid Lorna wouldn't get to enjoy a lot of 'making love' in this place. But she could still get to do plenty of sucking and fucking. The Chameleon exhaled a little sigh of amusement. And hey, after all, two out of three ain't bad! END OF CHAPTER ONE Chapter Two coming soon: Two out of three ain't bad AUTHOR'S NOTE This story was originally written five years ago. It was set in 2007 with an epilogue that looked ahead to 2012. Five years on, I have decided to repost an entirely reworked and updated version of the story with many additional scenes. The complete story will be posted over the next couple of weeks. 'Best Enjoyed Cold' is a work of fiction and fantasy. Neither events nor characters portrayed are based in reality and any resemblance with actual persons is entirely coincidental. Copyright is claimed by the author Velvetglove. In this story, I have occasionally used a few lines from well known songs under the copyright fair use rule. Best Enjoyed Cold Ch. 02 CONTENT WARNING Please read the content warning at the start of chapter one. This story is not for the faint-hearted. This is the second of nine chapters. "When one woman strikes at the heart of another, she seldom misses, and the wound is invariably fatal." From 'Les Liaisons Dangereuses' (1782) by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, French Novelist "Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." Confucius (551-479 BC) Chinese Philosopher Chapter Two: Two out of three ain't bad Day Five It was well before dawn in America, when the envelope was delivered to the night guards at John Cumber's gatehouse. They even signed for it. To be fair to them, there had been so many comings and goings those past few days, they couldn't be blamed too much for not getting a better identity fix on just another delivery guy. "White, medium height, stocky, moustache, maybe thirties?" Well, their description should maybe narrow down the suspect list to five million or so adult males! The date was Sunday, March 4th 2007. A sleepless John Cumber was drinking coffee brought to him by Catalina, a housemaid, flicking through newspapers and unopened mail aimlessly, when he came across the hand delivered envelope. It appeared innocuous enough, a thin brown packet of the type used by companies worldwide. 'JOHN CUMBER, PRIVATE' was all that was handwritten on it, in big, black upper case letters. It was when he opened it that his heart stopped. There was a single 10 x 8 inches glossy photograph. It was a photo of Susan's face. She had been crying and looked terrified. He cautiously turned it over to the other side. Dear Mr. Cumber, Welcome to hell. If you want to see your bitch and brats again, then follow my instructions very closely. If you disobey me, even once, you will never see them again. Never. Full stop. No negotiation. Clear? You will be able to accuse me of many things in the coming weeks, but being unclear is not one of them. Now, I own a lot of Cumber Corporation stock. The first rule is that I do not want the share price to fall, whatever happens. On Friday they closed at 15 dollars and 5 cents. If the price closes below 15 dollars at any time during our future 'discussions', you will lose one family member for each day that happens. So, the fourth time it happens, game over. I suggest you use that personal fortune of yours, if the share price ever needs propping up. Buy, buy buy! as the saying goes. That's all for now. By the way, Susan sends her love. We'll be in touch again soon. Enjoy! X John read through the letter so many times he lost count. At least, forty. He weighed each consonant, every word, each nuance, every phrase; 'the coming weeks', 'the first rule', 'Susan sends her love', and the signature 'X'. The bitter coffee reacted with the ulcerous bile in his gut as he clenched and unclenched his fists. If he could have traded every damned cent of his fortune to have the fucking Mr X who had sent him this letter in the room right now, he would have shaken on the deal in a second. He kept the letter private for an hour. It somehow made him feel closer to his family, now that he at least knew something. But, at a quarter to seven, his sweaty palm picked up the phone and dialled Walt Furness. *** *** *** 08.00 hrs She glanced at her watch, coordinating the time. Then she lifted the headphones from Susan Cumber's ears. "Depressing stuff isn't it?" The patrician eyes looked back at her sullenly. They were watery, like peridot stones, no longer so defiant. Not beaten yet, but certainly down taking a count on the canvas. She placed her gloved finger under Susan's elegant chin. "Chin up, Sue. Things can get a lot worse, you know. Now, have you thought about my little question? Got an answer for me yet?" Susan's eyes dissolved into tears. "I'll do it. Whatever you want." A pause. "Just don't touch my children." The Chameleon smiled inside her mask. "Sure. That's a deal." She replied in her most soothing, reassuring tone. "But if I'm to abide by it, then I want to be certain that you're one hundred per cent clear about your side of the agreement. You will be able to accuse me of many things, Sue darling, but being unclear is not one of them. Okay?" Susan nodded, snivelling. "You see, it won't just be a bit of fucking, Sue. It's the whole nine yards. You've got to do everything my boys want. No saying no. Whenever and whatever they want. Any of them." The gorgeous, pampered creamy skin scrunched in a scowl. Funny how quick the worry lines are to appear once you inject a bit of stress into a cosseted life. "Wh ... what do you m ... mean?" "I mean if you say no to anybody, to anything, even just once, our deal is off and Lorna and Rachel will both reap the whirlwind." "Okay, just don't involve them. Please. That's the deal." The Chameleon nodded reassuringly. "Sure. You're a good mommy Sue. But another thing, some of my boys ain't gonna be happy about sharing just one middle aged hole between all of them. Not when there's young booty about." She put her hand between Susan's thighs and eased three fingers inside her. They slid into the wetness and the message was clear. "You like giving head? Did you blow John sometimes?" Susan screwed her eyes shut. She gave a tiny nod. "Excellent. Good girl, Sue. A lot, or a little?" Susan breathed in deeply and shook her head. "Not often, huh? You swallow?" There was a pause before a pitiful sob broke the silence. "I want to know, Sue. Did you swallow John's pecker snot?" Susan whispered eventually. "Once." The Chameleon grinned inside her mask. It was just as she hoped. "Once in twenty five years? Right at the start, I guess. Early days, huh? And I figure that means you didn't like that taster too much, right?" Susan sobbed quietly, shaking her head. "Don't cry, Sue. Heck, I don't much like the stuff either!" She looked down at her three fingers, soiled with rape juice. "I wonder if Lorna likes the taste. I reckon she must have already tried blowing Gene, don't you?" Susan's eyes opened and she blinked back tears. "Pl ... please ..." "Let's change the subject. How about the asshole, Sue? I've got a few butthole addicts on my team. You occasionally let John in your backdoor?" Susan simply stared at her. She shook her head from side to side. "No? Not once? Oh fuck. My boys are gonna love that." Susan squinted, her eyes clearly searching for mercy, but finding none. "There are twenty of my boys in all, Sue. You've only met twelve of them so far. One of them is gay but the other nineteen are good, horny heterosexual brutes. Two-three-times-a-day guys. What's that? Fifty, sixty loads a day?" She held up sticky fingers as if she was using them to count. "And one final thing, you've got to be real enthusiastic. Maybe some guys like it when a woman just lies there, but mine will want to see some real gusto. Tongue-kissing, trash talk, raw enthusiasm. And you'll say yes to any kinky suggestions they have too. You got all that?" Susan Cumber shut her green eyes again and her jaw line froze. "Yes ... I understand." "Well, that's settled then. I guess your baby girls are going to be real chuffed to be spared having to take their share of the loads." She chuckled at her own pun. Susan's eyes blinked open fiercely. "Now I get my say." Stupid bitch. As if she had anything to negotiate with. "What?" "I want to see my children. I need to know they're safe.". "Sure you can. But not just yet." "Why not?" "Because I fucking say so." Susan paused, evidently gauging how far to push it. "When?" "A few days, if you keep up your side of the deal." Susan's tearstained eyes studied her. The mask helped. Not only for scaring the shit out of them and for hiding her identity a while. No, it helped when the Chameleon needed to lie as well. "Okay." Susan capitulated. "Just don't touch any of them in the meantime". *** *** *** 08.00 hrs At exactly eight, Lorna Jackson Cumber, woke and screamed at the dreadful apparition. Somebody had walked into her cell. The person was wearing a facemask. It was a dreadful blue-green rubber hood in the shape of a lizard's head, with eyeholes, nostrils and a mouth slit, like something out of an old horror movie. She swallowed her screams and begged. "Please, nooooo!" Everything ached. Her calves above all, but her feet, ankles, thighs, back, neck and arms throbbed with agonising pain from spending all night standing up. "Please," she repeated, "whoever you are." "Shut up, bitch." It was a man's voice. Harsh, flat with no immediately distinguishable accent. It might have been American, Canadian, Australian, British, even a fluent English speaker from another country. The sound was somehow expressionless, hollow and ruthlessly professional. His hands reached out and seized the cleavage of her wedding dress. With barely a pause, he tore the silk and lace creation off her shoulders and down the middle from her chest to her waist, and rent it asunder. She screamed again. Despite her shock and fear - sick to her stomach - Lorna was awake enough, and clear headed enough, to know she was about to be raped. Guys didn't shred dresses if they took no for an answer. She wasn't a virgin. Not quite. She would rather have sex with somebody than die. But she couldn't just accept it. His hands pulled and ripped every last piece from her body until she stood in just her matching white panties and bra. She couldn't fight him. She couldn't move. So she tried words. "Look, Mister, it doesn't have to be this way. I ..." She winced as her bra was brutally pulled away from her breasts until it tore the clasp at the back, the spaghetti hoops over her shoulders ripped and the whole thing fell away, leaving her topless. Before she could compute that indignity, he did the same thing to her lace trimmed pants, ripping so that the delicate material exploded in his grip. She stood naked. Shock, shame and dread coursed through her. Finally, he paused, dropping the remaining shreds of her underwear, stepping back to admire her body. She could see his ebony pupils moving in the eyeholes, appraising her. He looked up and down her body, lingering between her legs and on her breasts and face. And then he started to unbuckle his belt. "Please," she attempted one last time, "look, at least let me off this wall." He didn't even undress properly. He just dropped his pants to his ankles. His body looked hard, older but without an ounce of fat, and there was a jagged purple scar that looked like an old bullet wound in his right hip. His penis was hard and purple too, jutting upwards towards her. "No!" she howled, starting to cry, flexing her helpless fingers. He hunkered down in front of her, so that his erection was the correct height between her spread thighs. She was bone dry but that didn't seem to concern him in the slightest. He spat through the mouth flap onto his fingers and roughly manipulated her arid labia apart. She felt him wetting her inside and out, raising his hand to his mouth again to add a second dollop of saliva, smearing it into her. Then he simply forced his penis up into her in a single thrust. "Noooo ..." She gasped, incapable of finding the energy to scream. She was helpless, unable to move more than an inch or two in any direction. Like a stuck butterfly. She had no choice but to stand there and take it, up against the wall. About ten years before, at high school, Lorna's class had attended a lecture about date rape. The memory flooded back to her now, the sunshine streaming through the classroom windows, her teenage friends' morbidly fascinated faces, the homely woman who had come to give them the lecture, and the sexy male assistant who had provided them hints on self defence. But this was something quite different. She turned her face to the side, away from his rubber mask and tobacco breath, her wracking sobs and his manic thrusts making it difficult for her to breathe. She knew behind her back she'd been known as Cocktease Cumber since high school. Boys had accused her of leading them on. It was only Gene -- dear, gentle Gene -- who hadn't simply expected her to open her legs just because he wanted sex. At last, she felt a small amount of lubrication as her vagina produced some moisture in self defence. She didn't know whether to feel relief because it made the rape hurt less, or shame because her body had responded in some way. He was bigger than Gene, the only penis she had known up to then. He was discernibly thicker and longer and devoid of any care or finesse. And then suddenly it was over. He groaned and humped without much apparent enjoyment and she felt him twitching in orgasm and then the hot savage wetness of his invasion of her insides. He pulled out and took a step back. She she saw a big teardrop of semen still dangling from the tip of his penis. "You bastard." She muttered, her defeat turning to anger. He chuckled coldly behind his horrendous lizard mask. He picked up a shard of her wedding dress and used it crudely to wipe his groin, then tugged his pants back up. He stepped forward and cupped her cheek in his palm, gently but with menace. "Get used to it, cum dump. Trust me, there's plenty more where that came from." And his words were worse than the rape itself. The sudden realisation of the inevitable. She had no idea where she was, where Gene, Mom, Ryan or Rachel were, or even what really had happened to them all; whether this man was just acting alone, or how many of them there were. But what she did know was that she was now 'in play'; game on. "Pl ... please," she turned her head to face him, "who are you? At least tell me that." "Sure." He paused, checking his watch. She waited helplessly while he ran his rough hand down her neck, between her breasts, over her belly, and finally between her legs, as if admiring the load he'd just dumped inside her. His pupils stared back through the eye slits. "I'm the Chameleon." *** *** *** Day Five It was later on Sunday morning when the first journalist called him. "John?" The guy was one of John Cumber's close contacts, a top financial reporter to whom he had given his private cell, somebody he could trust. "Hi, Dan." He replied. "John. I hate to do this to you. I know what you must be going through. But there's a rumour sweeping the chat rooms and streets that you're going to announce your resignation first thing tomorrow morning because of what's happened." "Let me stop you there, Dan. That's baloney. I wouldn't let any fuckwits beat me. Sure I'm taking some time out, but resign? Hey, no way." "Well that's just what I thought, John. But this rumour's got some traction. I'm also hearing that some funds are going to lighten their holdings tomorrow. There are a few big sell orders of Cumber stock being placed in Asia for opening tomorrow." John exhaled, controlling his breathing, gripping the phone tight. A few days earlier the Dow had fallen 3.3% on one day and the markets were still jittery. That 415 point drop on February 27th had been triggered by a global sell-off of Chinese stocks. "Dan, you gotta do something for me. The whole thing's baloney. I can't explain now but I think this must be some kind of scam linked to the kidnapping of my family. So, you can call back your own contacts and your fund manager friends and tell them all that, not only do I deny it, but I will never again deal with anybody who unloads Cumber stock at this time." "Whoa, my friend. Cool it. I'm sure it won't be that bad. I'm just warning you something's out there. I'll make some calls but I can't promise anything." "Okay, thanks, Dan. Keep in touch." He punched the red phone icon with his thumb and stared out of the window. Now things were starting to make some sense. *** *** *** 16.30 hrs In the large courtyard round the swimming pool, it was like a scene from a movie. Most of the mercenaries had spent the day lounging on sun beds, listening to their music, drinking mint tea or coffee, reading magazines, tanning themselves. Yet even in the safety of this place, two guards were constantly on duty, scanning the sophisticated detection equipment, the skies and the horizon, for signs of unmanned drones or human activity. They were a tough bunch, reputedly the best. Officially known in the Underworld as 'Squad 105'. An international team of men who had fought and killed side-by-side in many of the world's harshest places; in Eastern Europe, across Asia, throughout Africa, down Central and South America. Of course, they had real names. And a plethora of valid passports from different countries. But each member of Squad 105 also had a codename. Amongst themselves, they knew each other as 'The Reptiles'. Until then, 'embarrassment' to Susan Cumber would have been arriving at a charity dinner and finding another woman wearing the same designer dress. 'Shame' was one of your children not top scoring at school. She had led a charmed life. But now, she was working the line of sun beds, like a beach bum at a seaside resort, fetching and carrying drinks, emptying ashtrays, doing whatever she was told. She was topless, naked but for a bikini bottom and little apron, scurrying hither and thither without a moment's respite. Her skin was pink from the boiling hot sun. They'd given her some sun lotion for her face and body, except for her breasts and buttocks. They made her leave her most tender curves unprotected. "Keep moving fast bitch , and they won't get burnt!" But she could tell her breasts had already caught the sun. They were hot and sore to the touch. Beads of perspiration sprouted like teardrops from her pores, running into her eyes, down her temples and into her cleavage. The cheap bikini was nylon, turquoise and too small. The fabric dug into her orifices. When she nearly fainted, they gave her a salt tablet to swallow and a large glass of water. It was lukewarm but tasted like nectar. As the hours passed, their demands had become more humiliating. She cringed with shame. The men wanted her to rub lotion on their backs, their chests, their feet, their faces. They were not wearing any masks and the thought troubled her. If they didn't care about being identified, what did that mean? The men were mostly chisel-featured with stubbly, unshaven jaws and cruel, vacant eyes. They had huge biceps, hard stomachs and honed bodies. Many had scars, or large tattoos. Some had deep suntans. Three of them were Black, one was Indian, one Arab, one Oriental, the rest varying shades of Caucasian. She estimated their age range to be like hers, mostly in their forties, but several looked younger and one appeared to be in his sixties. When she had started waitressing them, they were wearing swimming shorts, and a couple had khaki T-shirts too, with dark patches of sweat. Only one of them looked out of shape, a huge fat black man with a bald head and an enormous stomach that hung over his leather belt. She winced at the realisation that he had probably been one of the men who had raped her yesterday. Susan liked to think of herself as a tolerant, modern woman. Not a racist. But she had been brought up in the South and to her the idea of African Americans and their black things was, quite literally, beyond the pale. She tried to push the awful thought from her mind. "Come here." She looked round and saw that one of the mercenaries had undressed. His tanned naked body glistened with oil but he had a white strip under his waistline where he had taken off his shorts. He lay back down. He had a thick mass of pubic hair that joined up with a mat on his chest. She tried not to stare at his genitals. Best Enjoyed Cold Ch. 02 "Put this on me." He said, handing her a plastic bottle. She wiped sweat from her eyes and leant over him. She carefully tipped a drizzle of brown oil onto his hairy abdomen, then tentatively rubbed it into his pale hips. "Now my dick." He said. His eyes were shut. But she noticed the men either side were watching with interest. Slowly she traced her finger up his penis. It started to thicken. Now he was shielding his eyes from the sun, looking at her. "More oil. Make me hard." She applied a dollop directly onto his shaft. It bucked to meet her fingers. "Me next." The man on the neighbouring lounger chuckled. She slithered her fingers up and down his erection. It had been a long time since she had masturbated John, her husband. She screwed her eyes shut. "Open them." She looked at him. His face was obscured by the shadow from his hand. "Jerk me off." He said. "Or your daughter can do it." After that, she got no respite. The whole line of men wanted her attention. They still had her scuttling to and from the outdoor kitchen, pouring tea, lighting cigarettes, peeling fruit. But they demanded other things too. The first man had shot his semen over his oily chest and stomach. There was an enormous quantity. It mingled with his body hair. "Clean me up." She looked for a box of tissues she'd seen earlier. Several men around her laughed. "He means lick it up bitch." "Or one of your daughters will." They chorused. There was more amusement. She grimaced and lowered her head. The second man chose to bypass the licking. Instead, he pushed her mouth directly onto his penis the moment he was about to orgasm, and she had no choice but to gulp and swallow the bitterness all down. It made her retch but she managed it. Her right arm and wrist were exhausted. The third man ended by kneeling up on his lounger and making her squat down below, so he could masturbate himself onto her bare breasts. "Here's some sun lotion!" Several men rubbed the creamy necklace into her tender breasts. The fourth made her lie with her head pillowed on his stomach, sucking his erection while she masturbated him. Her aching arm was agony but he insisted she carry on for what seemed like fifteen minutes. "Okay. Kneel down there and look up at me." She knelt by the side of the lounger and watched his fist jerking. "Open your mouth." She parted her lips wide and felt a hot spurt landing on her forehead. A second splattered her cheek. He adjusted his angle so that the next two coated her tongue. He was groaning. The audience was cackling. He seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. "Phew." He said, at last. "Don't wipe any of that. Let it dry on your face." "And go fetch me a black coffee." Somebody else ordered. When she returned, she asked them politely. Her bladder ached. "Please. I ... I need to use the bathroom." They hooted. "The lady needs a bathroom la-di-da." "Piss or shit, Ma'am?" another asked, mockingly stretching out the word Ma'am as if he were a fancy hotel concierge. She gulped. "Er ... pee." Somebody handed her an empty water jug. "Use this." She looked at them and glanced around. Their eyes were hard, jaws set, lips curled. She saw no mercy in them. "Do it now." One said. "Or shall we fetch your son to watch you?" With a silent sob, she placed the jug on the tiles at her feet. Then she slowly tugged the tight bikini down her legs until she could step out of it. "Take off the apron too." She undid the knot behind her and let the apron fall. She was now totally naked and exposed. Fourteen strange men were all staring at her. The one who seemed to be their leader they referred to as Gator. He picked up a bamboo stick as she slowly squatted over the empty jug. "Open wide, lady. Knees apart." He pushed each of her legs with the stick, running it teasingly up her thighs. He was one of the ugliest men she'd ever seen, with an entire ear missing and a livid purple scar distorting one side of his face. He was missing several teeth and those that remained were tobacco-stained. "Don't be shy. Heck, most of us have said hi to your cunt already." She guessed this moment had been planned all along to destroy the last vestiges of her dignity. She would rather have died. But she would survive for Rachel, Ryan and Lorna. And John. They were worth more to her than any amount of cruelty or humiliation these bastards could inflict on her. Two of the men were filming her with their phones. The other obnoxious faces were fanned out in front of her, studying between her legs, gazing between her naked thighs, waiting, occasionally exchanging smirks with each other. Each of them had already invaded her body. Now they were invading her soul. The edge of the bamboo poked up between her humid labia, splaying her open. She was still unwashed from their rape of her the day before. The foul scent of stale sex and body odour assaulted her nostrils in the afternoon sun. "Please." she mouthed silently, a hiccup of air escaping her lips. The man called Gator grinned at her with the half of his mouth that still worked. "Okay. But make sure you get most of it in the jug, or else." She paused. She'd been desperate but, when it came to the actual moment, something within her wouldn't allow her to do it. Her bladder ached and yet ... How on earth was she going to do something so undignified? She couldn't bear to look at the grinning, spellbound faces of the sweating men as they enjoyed her total dishonour. She hunkered lower over the jug, shut her eyes and let out an uncontrolled sob. And then she heard the hiss of her own urine. What had she done to deserve this? *** *** *** Day Five "John." The agent in overall charge of the case was Walt Furness, a grizzled veteran of thirty years, although he'd never known a situation remotely like this. Five days gone and not a single meaningful clue. "We dusted the envelope and contents. Nothing. No prints except yours, John, no traces, zip. We've sent the writing off to Quantico for analysis. But what it does do in the meantime is help us with a pointer as to who and what we're dealing with." John nodded, rubbing his chin. That much he'd worked out for himself. "John, I've got to ask. Do you have any enemies?" He would have laughed in other circumstances. Even now he allowed himself a wry smile. "A few, Walt. You don't exactly reach my position without inflicting some casualties along the way. I'm not exactly the most popular kid on the block." "So, you know what I'm saying. Any ideas?" He shrugged. "Somebody who would do this? You're kidding right? I can be a shit, Walt, but ..." he threw up his hands, "... enough to cause this?" "Nevertheless, would you make a list of all the names you can think of who might dislike you? Anybody, with or without reason. We'll handle them with care." John stared across at him, then nodded. "Sure. But isn't this just about ransom money? Or some financial scam? We're just the innocent targets." Walt eyed him back, stroking his bristled jaw. "Maybe. Maybe not." *** *** *** 17.12 hrs "Caught in the crossfire." Gene Collins III hung helpless in the manacles, his mouth dribbling, doing his best to stay conscious and to comprehend what the female behind the mask was saying to him. Caught in the crossfire? What the fuck? She said he'd been caught up in something beyond his control. "What?" he mumbled again. Her gloved hands eased down his underpants and she used scissors to snip them off him, leaving him stark naked. Please, no. "Yes, you've been caught in the crossfire, I'm afraid." She repeated, her tone of voice sounding to him as if she was much less concerned than her words might have suggested. "So, let's have a look-see, shall we?" Her voice sounded older, like a woman his mom's age. Her fingers cupped his balls and then smoothed out his shrivelled, petrified length. He felt like some meagre cut of meat she was considering at the deli for her family dinner. "Not bad for a little one." He could detect the amusement in her voice. "Please d ... don't." She moved her finger to his lips. It smelt of latex. Like a condom. "Ssshhh." she cooed. "I won't castrate you. Not yet. Not if you're good. I've got a nice job for this thingy anyway." He gulped. Job? "Yes. You should have been fucking your lovely bride right now, shouldn't you? Using this cocktail sausage to give your lovely Lorna a damned good seeing to, right? Right?" He nodded slowly. His mouth was dry as desert sand. "Well, I'm afraid that you can't fuck the Cumber kid you wanted to. You see, your fiancé is now ... er ... engaged with someone else." He groaned inwardly, fearing the implication of her play on words. "Yes." She cupped his balls gently, as if she was trying to excite him. She teased a fingertip up the underside of his shaft. "Do you like that?" He shook his head. But her hands kept playing with him anyway. "It excites you, doesn't it, Gene? Being tied up like this. Your browsing history makes interesting reading." He frowned. How? He heard an amused snort behind the mask. "Oh, I know you deleted those sites. But remember when daddy brought home that shiny new laptop and the butler chucked your old PC out?" He groaned, still confused. His groin was slowly responding. "It was all there, Gene. Tucked away. Every site, every image, every document. A computer history is like a window into somebody's mind." "Please ..." He was hard enough for her to stroke him now. "Lorna doesn't know, does she? Your nasty fantasies." He screwed up his face, blushing, unable to find words. "Don't worry. It can be our little secret." "Wha ... what have you done to her?" "Oh, don't worry your little head about Lorna. She's fine." She was pumping his shaft up and down skilfully. He was rock hard in spite of everything. Her fingers knew exactly where to squeeze. "But you can fuck the other Cumber kid." She continued. "I'd like that. And I'm sure you'll enjoy it too." He gasped and frowned, then tried to shake his head to clear it. Instead he banged his ear against the hard cell wall. Fuck Rachel? I mean, but why? Inside the eyeholes of the lizard mask, he detected two pupils shining. She took her hand away and abandoned his erection like an empty flagpole. "No." the woman's voice said, with a hoot of laughter. "Oh no. You've got the wrong idea. Not Rachel, you silly boy! We wouldn't want that. No, it's Ryan we'd like you to give a good seeing to." *** *** *** 17.30 hrs Susan pouted her lips and squinted into the mirror. They had only given her fifteen minutes to shower, eat and refresh herself. It felt so good to have washed at last, even though a man supervised her throughout. The warm water stung her pink breasts and buttocks but she soaped every crevice and inch of her scummy body and scrubbed her hair. She dried herself and was then given another bowl of the congealed gruel to eat, but with a wooden spoon this time, rather than on the floor like a dog. She forced it down knowing she was weak with hunger. The man checked her bowl to ensure she had scraped the sides clean. He gave her a comb, makeup and lipstick. The eye shadow was a dreadful blue like a prostitute would wear and the mascara was thick and cheap. The lipstick was bright scarlet. Finally he gave her a set of purple satin underwear. The bra had only quarter-cups so her breasts were displayed and the panties were frilly. She shivered as she pulled them up. It was quite obvious from the stains inside that the tacky underwear had been used before without being washed. "Okay, let's go make you a star." The man said, propelling her out into the sunshine. By the pool, she saw that several cameras on tripods, boom microphones and silver foil lights had been set up. There were computers and even some director's chairs. The men wolf whistled as they saw her outfit and makeup. "Ready, guys." She heard somebody shout. "Let's roll." *** *** *** 18.14 hrs A pair of Chameleons sat together in the shade and watched the screen. It would have been nice to have the final member of their trio there too, all enjoying the moment together, but he was rather busy over in the States just now. Still, as Meatloaf sang so powerfully, and so appropriately, three decades earlier, Two out of Three ain't Bad. 'I poured it on and I poured it out.' Two chilled glasses of lager rested on the table, wonderfully refreshing in the heat of the North African evening. They chinked glasses together and supped their ice cold beer. 'But you've been cold to me so long I'm crying icicles instead of tears.' Best Enjoyed Cold. There is something wonderfully erotic about an attractive white woman's scarlet mouth sliding up and down the full length of an impressive black erection. Her bright lipstick was still shiny and without smudges yet. Every ridge and vein of his thick shaft was visible as she slid back her stretched lips. On the main widescreen - a huge plasma monitor - Susan Cumber was being slowly spit roasted in the golden glow of late afternoon sun. Gecko, a heavily tattooed warrior of uncertain parentage and nationality, but now carrying a Russian passport, was crouched behind her as she knelt on the lounger. His muscled torso glistened with oil as he sensuously eased himself in and out of her slurping matriarchal cunt. Meanwhile, Cobra was lying on the sunbed, his massive black belly shimmering with sweat, his fat fingers possessively entwined in Susan's damp tresses, guiding her pursed lips up to his swollen helmet, then all the way back down his shaft as far as she could manage without gagging. Her pendulous tits hung down as she worked, nipples brushing Cobra's inner thighs. Her discarded purple lingerie lay crumpled on the floor. Give the dame her due, an onlooker really might have thought she was enjoying it. Her eyes were closed in apparent ecstasy, revealing her sluttish blue eye shadow. The expensive sound system picked up every meaty slap of flesh on flesh, each moan, every whimper, the continuous sloshy glugs from her cunt and mouth as she tackled her first ever threesome. Gecko and Cobra played their parts convincingly too, with the usual male porn star noises and 'oh yes babe', 'mmm ... you love it don't you', 'oooh, you're so tight round my dick' and other choice XXX movie clichés. They had been cast after careful deliberation. Cobra, in particular, was perfect for his role. The microphones taped. The cameras rolled, focussed close up, so as to catch her face in glorious detail but only recording her two faceless lovers from their necks to their knees. In the smaller screens to the side, other lenses captured a close up from below and also a long shot of the entire scene. For Susan Cumber, it was sure going to be a hard day's night. She had a ticket to ride. The Chameleons exchanged amused glances as Gecko uttered a prolonged, orgasmic groan and unleashed his first orgasm of the evening. They watched him pull out and stagger away, high-fiving Komodo, a tall slim Hindi. Within moments, Night Snake had shucked his shorts and taken Gecko's place. He was the youngest of the Reptiles but he had no qualms about sinking his erection into the sodden cunt of a woman 15 years his senior. The Chameleons knew each one of the mercenaries' true names and backgrounds. Most were longstanding members of Squad 105. For example, Night Snake was really Nikolaos, a swarthy Greek, although he answered to Nicklas, Nicholas and Nico in various countries. But Komodo was a new member of the team. His real Hindi name was Kovida and he had been recruited for a specific purpose. Night Snake smacked his hand harshly across Susan's rump and uttered words of encouragement in his native Greek. Yep, everything was going exactly to plan. She was starting to learn the Rule of Three. END OF CHAPTER TWO Chapter Three coming soon: The Rule of Three