Other places you can visit...

So, there are a few places I've stumbled across over the years on the Internet. I'm going to start sporadically listing them below. We will start with:

https://spyfemmefatales.blogspot.com/

This is a cracking blog written by an author who goes under the user name of "barrie125ca". He writes really, really good tales of femme fatales carrying out their missions. It used to be a Yahoo Group but the pictures and their captions are phenomenal. Go and check it out.

Midnight

Tonight was the night.

Becky lay in her bed, shifting under the covers. Her mind raced with the possibilities that lay ahead of her and the potential of her life that had yet to be fulfilled. All of it hinged on tonight. Unable to sleep, she rolled over in bed once more, nervous excitement running through her veins. Her course of action was clear in her mind; whatever fear she had felt just over six months ago when she decided on this course of action had long since been replaced by a steely resolve to see things through to their ultimate conclusion. Tonight was the night when she would become truly free.

Tonight was the night she was going to kill her Father.

---

Just over a year ago, Becky had moved in with her father, Jon. He was a man in his late fifties who, outwardly, was everything you'd expect from a successful commodities trader. The house, the car, the wardrobe; everything about him screamed success. Publicly, he had taken on the role of doting father to his then 16 year old daughter following the committal of Hannah, his ex-wife, to a psychiatric hospital following a psychotic episode. Behind closed doors though, the story was somewhat at odds with the public facade.

Using the money he had built up over the last twenty years of city trading, Jon had taken to vindictively pursuing his ex-wife to the point of pushing her into a psychological collapse. Upon securing custody of his daughter, he managed to obtain power of attorney over what few assets Hannah actually retained, giving him the full control over her that he had always desired. In turn, this gave Jon full access over his teenage daughter. The terms of the divorce settlement between Hannah and himself remained in a sealed envelope, locked away inside a safety deposit box; however he knew that if it ever saw the light of day people would question his motives towards Becky.

Over the next year, he took advantage of the proximity he had to his daughter. Sneaking glances at her as she got dressed in the morning; "accidentally" walking into the bathroom as she was in the shower; secretly watching her in her bedroom from a small camera he had installed in the light fitting. He took the time to share his newfound fascination with his younger brother, Buck, who also expressed a strong desire to take advantage of his brother's familial house guest.

Whilst initially unaware of the situation, Becky had gradually become more observant of her surroundings. Never having had a close relationship with her father, she found his initial enthusiasm at her moving in with him exciting, to the point of dismissing her nagging doubts as paranoia brought on by the fraught domestic circumstances with her mother. It wasn't until she had overheard her father and uncle discussing his actions.

"...of course, it's all legally binding," Jon said as he handed his brother a can of beer. His bear-like paw of a hand encircled the can for a moment before popping the ring pull. Jon sat down on the opposite sofa. "It's taken the best part of ten years and close to a hundred grand, but it's done. She's mine now."

"Ours," Buck stated. "To do with what we want."

"Of course, the grooming will take some time to have the desired effect," Jon added. "However I'm confident that we will have ourselves an obedient little slave by the time we're done, just like we did with her mother..." Becky pulled away from the doorway, reeling in a combination of shock and disgust. She retreated to her room in silence that evening and barely slept for the next three days. Fortunately her introspective mood was written off by Jon as the behaviour of a typical teenager.

Becky spent a month essentially in shock, then another trying to find a way out of her situation through the process of legal emancipation. When that avenue ran into a dead end, she found herself contemplating more drastic action. Sitting in a bathtub of hot water with a razor blade in hand, she contemplated the unthinkable. At the moment when she felt the cold steel against her skin, her mind reacted as if she had been struck with an electric shock. Suddenly her thinking was clear - the way forward now seemed so obvious to her that she berated herself for not considering it sooner.

The next three months were spent preparing herself physically and mentally. At the same time, Becky became more acutely aware of the actions of her father and uncle to mould her into something they wanted to take advantage of. However, in order to buy herself time, Becky allowed her father's actions to continue unimpeded. Displaying a maturity beyond her years, she even encouraged him - her choice of clothing and revealing outfits enabled her to move about freely without attracting suspicion as to the fact she knew what they were both planning. On several occasions she would leave dirty underwear lying around in places where she knew her father would find them.

---

Tonight she laid the trap.

Taking time to cook a meal for both her father and her uncle, she took the opportunity to lace their beers with a powerful sedative. Excusing herself after dinner, Becky retreated to her room. Closing the door behind her, she changed. Instead of the usual pyjamas that she wore, Becky pulled out a vinyl leotard-style body suit from her bottom draw. Stripping down so she was naked, she felt the cool material pressing against her skin. She paired this with sheer black pantyhose and a pair of high heeled boots that she had purchased over the internet. Practically pouring herself into them, she then took the time to brush her auburn hair before looking at her phone before climbing into bed to maintain the illusion she was asleep. Intermittently looking at her phone, she noted it had now been an hour since they had eaten dinner. Knowing that the sedative should have taken effect now, she made her way down stairs.

She found them in the living room. Her father on one sofa; her uncle on another. Both of them were in a stupor. With a wicked smile on her face, Becky moved across to her father and slapped him repeatedly across his face. By the third strike, she had begun to rouse him from his soporific state.

"Wake up!" she barked at him. Jon struggled to regain consciousness, upon which he found himself unable to co-ordinate the movement of his limbs with the request of his brain. "Come on asshole!"

"Wuh...b-b-b-Becky...what's...?" The words struggled to spill from his mouth.

"Finally," She taunted as she moved across to Buck, repeating the same actions with him. He seemed to struggle even more than his brother. When she was sure they were both as lucid as she could hope for, she stepped back. With her hands on her hips, she addressed them. "I'm not going to bother with any of the preliminary niceties, I know what you two assholes have been planning since the minute you took custody of me," she looked across at her father. "And tonight, I'm going to emancipate myself..." she paused for a moment. "...by killing you."

"What the fuck...?" Buck mumbled. He tried to stand but only succeeded in falling face first into the floor. He struggled up to his hands and knees before collapsing again.

"You're such a fucking loser," Becky added then she exploded with a vicious kick into Buck's flabby stomach. The force of the blow knocked him over, sending him rolling across the floor as he howled in pain. "Both of you are."

"Becky, please, wait..." Jon said, struggling to get to his feet as he reached out with his hand towards her. "I can explain. We didn't..." Becky answered his pitiful mumbling by firing a powerful kick that struck him in the face. He screamed as he fell back onto the chair, clutching his nose. She could see the blood seeping from between his fingers. She turned back to look at her uncle, now curled up in a ball on the floor.

She advanced towards him, using her momentum to stamp her sharply heeled boot into his back, his arm, his shoulder - anywhere she could strike with a blistering combination of pace and power. Each blow was met with a mewling screech from him as his body contorted reflexively after each strike. Becky paused for a minute, catching her breath and trying to recover her composure. The anger she felt was making her lose control and that was the last thing she needed. She heard a movement off to her left - spotting her father on his feet and moving towards her, she struck him with a powerful back handed blow. He dropped to the floor.

Buck tried to scramble away from her - his attempt to flee made her laugh wickedly. Becky stalked him, mirroring his movements until he presented her with an opening. She punting her boot into his exposed groin. Buck screamed - the noise sounded like an animal due to the high pitch of it. Becky grabbed his shirt, pulling up to his knees.

"You wanted to groom me," She hissed as she smashed her fist into his face. "Make me into some filthy whore for you..." another punch, followed by another. "Well, not in this lifetime Uncle Buck." She released his shirt and looked at him, slumped on his knees. Becky moved behind him, snaking her arm around his neck before locking it in place with her other one, completing the chokehold. "Any last words for Uncle Buck, Dad?" Jon struggled to his feet, looking at his daughter holding his brothers head at an awkward position. "No? Okay..." taking a deep breath, Becky wrenched Buck's head the to right sharply. The sound of his neck snapping filled the room. Jon cried out as Buck's body hit the floor. Becky then turned to look at him, like a predator evaluating her prey.

"Jesus Becky..." Jon muttered, trying to scramble away from her. He managed to crawl backwards on the floor as she approached him, judging her positioning just right to allow her the space to drive her boot down into his groin. Jon screamed. For how long he couldn't recall - then he felt the air being driven out of his lungs as Becky dropped down onto his chest. Positioning herself over his lap, Becky grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head up. Her fist struck his face as she began to grind her hips against his crotch.

"Ooooh...that's it Daddy..." She moaned, continuing to grind her hips against him as she alternated between punching his stomach and face. "This is what you want...right Daddy?...You wanted to fuck your little girl..." Becky moved her hips quicker now, increasing her pace as she continued to assault her father. "You wanted me to fuck you right? I'm fucking you Daddy...I'm fucking you good...mmmm...yes Daddy - this is what you wanted...mmmmm...come on Daddy...cum for me...cum nice and hard for your baby girl..." each increase in pace was met by a hard blow from her fists. Becky then paused with the physical violence as she ground harder against Jon's body, at the same time she reached across to under the sofa. Jon barely had time to register the glint of light against steel as he saw Becky hold it above her head. By now Becky was lost in the moment her eyes closed and her body on fire. Her moans reached a crescendo as she climaxed...then plunged the blade deep into Jon's stomach.

Becky almost collapsed - only using her grip on the handle of the knife to keep her body from slumping against her father. As she regained her composure, she could see the blood seeping from the wound in Jon's chest and the trickles of blood leaking from his mouth. He looked at her, eyes wide and blinking, failing to comprehend quite what had happened. He reached out towards her - prompting Becky to stand up. She moved, positioning herself over his face now. She looked down at him, seeing the look on his face for a moment before lowering herself onto him.

"It's almost over now Daddy..." She purred as she positioned her buttocks to ensure she covered his mouth and nose. "That's it..." she cooed. "Just let me smother you to death..." Jon tried to fight back, weakly flapping his arms to try and dislodge her, only for Becky to grab his wrists tightly. She could feel the pulse in his wrist begin to weaken as she pressed her buttocks tightly against him. Her legs pressed against his face as she concentrated on keeping him perched inside her smothering prison. "Oh...oh...oh yes Daddy...yes... that's it...make me cum...make me cum hard...yes..." Becky felt the familiar stirrings in her abdomen once more, the sensation about to wash over her body again so quickly from her last orgasm. Jon writhed and thrashed as he felt her suffocating grip further choking him. The writhing, twitching form beneath her pushed Becky onto another climax that caught her off guard. By the time her mind had stopped seeing stars, she could feel no pulse.

Climbing off her father's face, she could see his features twisted into a hideous death mask. She smiled and blew him a kiss before turning and leaving the room at the point the clock struck midnight.

Dangerous Curves

It was one of those things you say in the heat of the moment that, if you're lucky, you get chance to regret. She looked at me with what I'd normally call bedroom eyes, sultry and dark with black lining and thick lashes. Realistically she was the type of woman you took home for one night and spent the rest of your life dreaming about; not the type you took home to present to your mother. Not that this had anything to do with me, mind you. I wasn't going to be taking her home for the night and I was most certainly never going to introduce her to my mother, god rest her soul.

She gracefully rose from the chair when I entered the office, unfurling long limbs in all her dark glory. Her hair tumbled down to her shoulders, dark chocolate coloured tresses framing her face perfectly. She curled those full lips in an ironic smile and the expression fit her. She extended her hand to me and I shook it – her grip was surprisingly firm.

As I sat down I could feel my shirt sticking to the back of my neck. The chair was comfortable and provided her with a slightly elevated position in relation to me, no doubt to ensure that she held a position of superiority during our discussion. She was definitely not to be underestimated under the circumstances.

"Don't forget to breath Mr Waltham," her voice was smooth and a tad deeper than I expected, yet it was almost intoxicating. "I don't want you passing out on me in my office." She was right – I'd been holding my breath, partly out of anticipation but mostly due to nerves.

"Thanks…I…" I struggled for the words. She smiled at me and gestured towards the clear jug of water on her desk.

"Would you like a drink Mr Waltham?" she asked. I nodded; taking advantage of the opportunity it presented me. She poured me a glass of water and I took a deep drink from it. "Then just take a deep breath – I can appreciate that this is an uncomfortable situation for you and I don't want you to feel any more nervous than necessary." Her smile was disarmingly comforting in a strange manner. "However, before we begin I'm curious to know how you found out about me?"

"Do you know a guy by the name of Kirk Rasmussen?" My question was met with a nod. "Well, his brother Joey and I go way back. Joey's gambling habits had gotten him into trouble with some Russian's lately and I helped him out. I got talking to Kirk over a couple of beers the night I paid them off and things just went from there." Her facial expression told me all I needed to know. If I knew the Rasmussen's to that degree then I knew the sort of circle of friends they kept – clearly that spoke volumes to her.

"So Joey's been getting himself into trouble again then?" She mused, running her index finger across the edge of her desk. "I'm not surprised – for all Kirk's attempts to keep him on the straight and narrow it never lasts for long. So to business Mr Waltham; just what is it that you think I can help you with?"

"I…" I was starting to feel like a fool. I closed my eyes and tried again. "I…I want you to do away with my business partner." I opened my eyes. She was looking at me with a gleam in her eyes, like a cat when it toys with the mouse.

"Do away with? Who on earth uses that phrase?" She mocked. "Say it again Mr Waltham," her tone was firm. "Only this time with your eyes open." I looked into them, those steely-grey orbs that were locked with mine. They seemed to draw the words out of me, coaxing them from my lips.

"I want you to kill my business partner, Trent Edwards." I said, trying to match her tone and demeanour with my own. She tilted her head slightly and the edge of her lips curled upward.

"I'm impressed," she answered. "Normally it takes someone four to five attempts to get to that stage." She looked down at a notepad on her desk. "Okay, what's he been doing? Embezzling funds? Selling corporate secrets? Planning to kick you off the board?"

"No," I growled. "He's screwing my wife." She looked up at me and nodded. I looked down at the floor for a moment, recalling the moment I saw my wife in our bed with him – the slightly younger, slightly fitter business partner. Didn't she vow to forsake all others, to be with me in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer? She liked the richer part – the company had been set up using several bank loans and a modest amount of venture capital we'd been able to secure and she'd enjoyed the perks that had come with that, yet she'd also taken advantage of the time I'd spent building up the company from scratch. They both had – Trent always dealt with the PR side of things better than I did and in turn I managed the product development. While he was away attending business lunches with prospective investors I was building the system from the ground up.

"Interesting." She didn't seem surprised. "Would you like me to take care of your wife too? A double costs extra, and as you already know, I'm not cheap." I could feel the anger boiling up inside me.

"No, I love my wife," I shot back, not fearing the consequences of this reaction to her question. "However, she loves him now. You have no idea how much that realisation hurts – it feels like someone has reached into my chest and crushed my heart with their bare hands. I couldn't live without her, so I figure it's going to tear her apart knowing she can't be with him." It slipped out, my anger and my hatred at the situation; her betrayal and my own stupidity for allowing myself to feel like this, for allowing someone else to have this control over me. I looked at her – her face was alive as she carefully placed the pen down on the pad.

"How deliciously evil," the words dripped from her mouth – her voice was having a disturbing effect on me. I shuffled in my seat, hoping she hadn't noticed. She held my gaze for a few precious seconds before she was all-business again. "So, how would you like it done?"

"I…I don't know," I stuttered again. "I thought something that looked like natural causes." She shook her head.

"Natural is difficult," she answered as she leaned back in her chair. "That usually involves some exotic poison and in this day and age with the advances in forensic science you can never be too sure." She twirled the pen between her fingers. "Suicide?"

"No, no one would buy that." I answered – my mind swirling at the ease of my response. "He's too…vibrant."

"Let me guess, young, rich and handsome? Pretty girls dotted around the place, all at his beck and call, even if they are with someone else?" the air of disdain was clear in her voice.

"Something like that." I answered. She gave me a wicked grin.

"I might be doing the world a favour then," she said. "No one likes someone who has it all and still isn't satisfied." I realised that I could get to like this woman – from a safe distance of course. She looked at the notepad. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

"Well…if…if possible it needs to be done before the end of the month." I said, involuntarily wringing my hands. "The company is going public on the 30th…"

"…And his death will affect your share price?" She presumed. I shook my head.

"No – his death will produce a minor fluctuation in the share price, nothing more than four to six percent for a couple of days," I said. "There's a clause in the company constitution that if one or the other of us dies before the company moves out of joint ownership then others sole holdings in the company pass to them. After that point, they will become public stock." I took another drink of water. "The bastard might have taken my wife, but I want his part of the company." She nodded once more.

"I understand that your company is doing a series of press junkets across Europe in the run up to a software launch at the end of this quarter," I struggled to contain my surprise. She had done her homework. "Might I suggest that Mr Edwards is the victim of a random act of violence, an unfortunately fatal robbery maybe, in his hotel room one night?"

"That…that's brilliant." I answered. "And…and none of this can be traced back to me?"

"Mr Waltham, I'm a professional," She said as she stood up. "If this gets traced back to you then I'm at risk of exposing myself." I stood up a moment later. She extended her hand to me again. "Once we go down this route, there's no turning back, you understand that? No refunds, no cancelling the contract. Are you sure you want me to do this?"

"Yes, yes," I answered emphatically. "I want you to do this."

"That's all I needed to hear." She said.

"I've paid the first half of the money as directed," I said as she walked me to the plain and unassuming door of her office. "When do you…?"

"I will be in touch once the work is completed." She replied. "Then we will make further arrangements Mr Waltham."

"Thank you." It felt strange to use those words in connection with the conversation we had just completed. "Thanks for your time…?"

"Miss Vincent," She answered. "However, under the circumstances, you can call me Cassandra." She patted me on the back as I left the office. "Don't worry Mr Waltham; the deed is as good as done."

---

Belgrade

Serbia

It was the waiting that she had always disliked. As she sat in the comfortable hotel suite and looked down at the time on her mobile phone, Cassandra found herself drumming her fingers against the arm of the chair she occupied. The set up was one she'd used before countless times - something that was tried and trusted in her opinion and had yet to let her down. Finally her patience began to wear thin, prompting her to get up from the chair. Taking a moment to brush off several flecks of fluff from the left leg of her trouser suit, she approached the overnight bag she had placed on the bed upon first arriving in the room just over an hour ago.

Opening it, she carefully unpacked the evening dress and hung it up in the wardrobe. As far as anyone was aware she was attending a function at the hotel for representatives of the International Monetary Fund at the five-star hotel and the faux invitation made it clear that evening wear was mandatory. After admiring the deep red creation on the hanger for a moment Cassandra returned to the bag, removing a small black box. Prying the security catch free, her hand reached into the container and pulled out the sleek, deadly form of a TALO P345. Cassandra took a moment to admire the pistol, one of only 500 ever produced – a gift to her from her mentor over a decade ago. The moment of indulgence engulfed her as Cassandra allowed her fingers to glide across the barrel. The grip was adorned with a small 24 carat gold embellishment in the shape of a phoenix, producing a brief smile on Cassandra's lips. The mythological bird had been something of a private joke between the pair of them.

The buzzing tone of her Blackberry message service drew Cassandra's attention away from the pistol. Looking at it, she could see that she'd received a text message. On our way up it read. Cassandra shook her mind free of her memories and focused on what was about to happen. She picked up the suppressor from the box and began to meticulously attach it to the compact barrel of the sidearm, carefully lining it up the screw threads before slowly twisting it into place.

Cassandra glanced down at the phone again. It was nearly ten past. She smiled as she put the pistol down on the bed and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves from the bag. Pulling them on her mind registered that she had nearly finished her preparations for the evening's activities – and that her target had less than twenty minutes to live.

---

Trent Edwards couldn't believe his luck.

Despite his healthy reputation when it came to securing the company of attractive women, rarely did he find himself confronted with one quite so forward. When the young woman introduced herself to him as Alessia, who was the living embodiment of the stereotypical blonde bombshell, in the bar just over thirty minutes ago, he was initially dismissive of her advances. Trent viewed himself as a hunter; he was always the one who liked to do the chasing. Upon meeting someone who – on the surface of it all – seemed to be equally as enticed by the prospect of the thrill of the hunt, he gradually found himself captivated by her.

Encouraged by her advances, he eagerly lapped them up as they made their way up to Alessia's suite. Once inside she pounced on him – it was clear that in this situation he was the lamb and she was the slaughter – and a myriad of fantasy scenarios filled Trent's mind.

Almost exactly twenty minutes later, Cassandra exited her own room and moved swiftly to the door of the suite next to hers, inserting the duplicate room key card into the door and carefully opening it. Dressed in a long coat that covered her slate grey business suit, Cassandra was the very vision of confidence and professional detachment as she followed the moans to the bedroom. She pushed the door open and saw Alessia on top of Trent. Cassandra smiled and looked at the two of them going at it. Of course, Alessia was a professional, someone that Cassandra had hired for just this one job. Cassandra could tell she was faking it. Normally she would have thought it amusing, but right now Cassandra was in the mood for killing.

Cassandra walked to the foot of the bed, grabbed Alessia by her long blonde hair and snatched her sharply backwards. She screamed crashed to the floor, barely registering what was happening as Cassandra dropped down to a knee and banged Alessia's head into the mock wooden panelling hard twice. Trent – clearly panicked – tried to roll off the bed, landing awkwardly on the carpet. Cassandra moved quickly, stepping around the bed and driving a strong kick to the side of his head. His muscular arms and gym-sculpted body fell to the floor. Trent managed to push himself up to his knees and held out his hands, pleading with her.

"Please, look, I didn't know…" Cassandra wasn't in the mood for a discussion – suddenly she felt tired.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be." She said swiftly drew the pistol from the inside of her coat and took aim. Trent looked down, and then back up at Cassandra's beautiful face, being met by the steely cold glare in her eyes.

"No! No! Don't kill…!"

Pfft! Pfft!

Cassandra frowned and pulled the trigger twice, both bullets striking Trent in his designer chest. The body slumped forward. Her aim adjusted accordingly before a third shot to the back of his head echoed around the room. Turning to leave, Cassandra stepped over Alessia's naked body. She looked down at her, noting the areas on her body that had gone under the surgeon's knife. Cassandra stood over her for a second before making a decision.

Pfft!

The single shot to Alessia's head was enough to finish the job. Cassandra took a few minutes to scoop up various items from the room – a laptop, iPhone, wallet – before knocking over the bedside table and smashing the ornate lamp to make sure that the scene would look like a simple case of a botched robbery. She had already identified a dumpster in a less salubrious area of the city where she could ditch the items later that evening. Taking a final look around the scene to ensure she had achieved the desired effect, Cassandra left the hotel suite without looking back. After all, she still had to get dressed for a party to attend.

---

England

It's easy to turn a blind eye to things when you're sleepwalking through your life. All I had to do was maintain the façade for another few weeks and it would be over. The news came through at about 5 am on the 25th. The phone rang and I answered it. Speaking through bleary eyes to the manager of the promotional tour the details became clear. While in the Serbian leg of the tour, Trent and his female companion for the evening had been the victims of a tragic accident – a simple case of a burglar breaking into the wrong suite at the wrong time.

There were no witnesses to the crime and the local police had struggled to make any progress in the investigation – which I had expected. No one suspected me of any involvement in his death, after all why should they? I was the best part of fifteen hundred miles away ironing out bugs in our new office suite that we'd discovered during the final phase of our beta testing. Naturally everyone in the company was upset and rallied around me as the de-facto figurehead of the organisation. The public launch of the company happened in a blaze of publicity as a result of Trent's death – the memorial service was particularly touching. The share offering was heavily over-subscribed; I could have sold three times the stock we had and still not met the demand.

Liz took his death badly – her behaviour became increasingly erratic. Mood swings, increased alcohol consumption and prolonged periods of isolation within the house. I tried as best as I could to help her through this, however it was only prolonging the inevitable.

The benefit was a high profile affair. The donations the company made were always good for the community, and since the death of Trent our public profile had soared. After the public speaking had finished the group moved to the more informal aspect of the night – drink and dancing. I watched as people began to pair up as the alcohol flowed and inhibitions waned.

"Imagine the odds of seeing you here Mr Waltham." The voice stunned me for a moment then I turned my head to see her standing there in a full length, dark green evening dress,

"Cassandra," I said as I stood up and politely shook her hand. "What a surprise..."

"A pleasant one I do hope," her demeanour seemed warmer than before. "I see your company has flourished somewhat since our last meeting."

"You might say that," I answered, eyeing her suspiciously. "How did you know about this thing?"

"Oh, I have my sources," Cassandra replied. "You look good in that suit." Her complement caught me off-guard somewhat.

"Thank you. Would…would you care to dance?"

I didn't care who saw us, within a few weeks the divorce would be finalised and it wouldn't matter. A myriad of questions flew around my mind as I held her close to me.

"I understand that your divorce isn't going well." Cassandra whispered into my ear. I pulled back slightly – there was that same wicked grin on her face that I had seen once before.

"Is there anything you don't know?"

"I find it pays to stay abreast of current events." She answered as she rested her head on my shoulder. The song was slow and our movements matched it. "I also believe you owe me some money."

"I was wondering when you'd get around to mentioning that." I answered. "How and when?"

"After your divorce is finalised," she said. "Although, it would be a shame if your soon-to-be-ex wife had an accident, all alone in that large house, drinking heavily…" I looked at Cassandra. Those stormy grey eyes looked into mine. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement, although I think we should continue this discussion in private...don't you?"

---

I don't know why I followed her up to her room - it could have been any one of a number of things; guilty conscience; innate desire to put myself in danger; simple animal magnetism. Whatever it was, I was finding myself being drawn to Cassandra like a moth to a flame. The room itself was one of the hotel's more exclusive suites - opulent and reeking of old-world decadence. Once we were inside, I felt a strange sense of calm, possibly a sense of resignation to my fate - that I was literally putting my life into her hands.

"Would you like a drink?" Her question drew me out of the dream-like state I had entered into. Suddenly everything felt real again.

"Yes..." I murmured as I moved into the main room. Cassandra was pouring two drinks, her back towards me. "Yes please."

"You're so well-mannered James," Cassandra said as she turned around, the light in the room projecting forwards around her. "And you're so trusting too. I mean, for all you know I could have done anything to the drinks while you weren't watching." I could tell that both glasses appeared to contain some sort of whiskey or similar looking derivative.

"Well, as I still owe you a considerable amount of money," I replied, suddenly feeling emboldened in her presence. "I figure you'll want to keep me around for a while yet." She gave me that faint smile, the slightest curl of her lips, as she approached me. As she handed me the drink her fingers brushed against mine. The sensation was electric. She lingered close to me for a moment before stepping back, leaning back against the small sofa as she continued to hold my gaze.

"Ah yes, the remainder of my fee..." She mused as she knocked back her drink in one quick motion. The glass was discarded casually as she licked her lips again, savouring the taste once more. "I meant what I said you know." My eyebrows must have twitched slightly, giving away my momentary confusion. "Regarding your wife and her current…predicament." She took a slow step towards me, her hands reaching behind her back. "Lots of people find themselves behind the wheel of a car when they are inebriated - their senses are dulled and they just don't react in time to something small, something innocuous."

I could hear the sound of a zipper being undone as she moved towards me, the shoulders of her dress suddenly became loose with each passing step. I took a swig from the glass - my taste buds registering the fact that it was bourbon. "She might take one too many tablets to help her sleep, resulting in a fatal overdose when combined with the level of alcohol in her blood stream - that's always a personal favourite of mine," Cassandra was less than ten feet from me now as the dress fell away from her body. I swallowed hard - the alcohol burned my throat.

Her figure was encased in a smooth black body; her legs were sheathed in thigh-high hold up stockings; the heels of her shoes seemed to provide a punctuation point to everything she said to me as she moved up close to me, holding herself against my body. I desperately wanted to reach out and touch her, to take her in all her glory there and then against the back of that sofa, yet the fear of overstepping my mark held me in check.

"She could take a nasty fall in that house of yours, tumble down those stairs and break her neck when drunk," Cassandra was whispering now, her hands moving across the shirt that covered my chest. "Of course, the fall itself won't actually break her neck - I'll do that before hand. I'll wrap my arms around her head and slowly twist it around. Did you know it only takes just over ten pounds of pressure to dislocate cervical vertebrae? I'll even let you watch if you like, I don't know if you're partial to a little girl on girl action..."

I couldn't hold myself back any longer, grabbing her and kissing her passionately. I don't know how long I kissed her for but I never felt so intoxicated by a woman before in my life.

"Why James," she whispered as she momentarily broke the kiss. "I think we just sealed the deal..."

---

Théâtre Mogador

Paris

The stage of the recently refurbished theatre was lit up by a complex series of stage lighting arrays that dangled from the ceiling of the grand old building. All the eyes of those in attendance were focused on the solitary female figure taking centre-stage, standing in front of the microphone and holding an ornate golden statue. Tears were running down her cheeks as she held the statue up and spoke.

"All my life I have dreamed of this moment, standing here and accepting a Molière award…" She said in her soft, lilting voice in-between taking huge gulps of air to try and recover from the shock of wining. The young blonde woman was looking around at the full auditorium, basking in the applause. "I just want to take this opportunity…"

In the dark recess of one of the small private boxes two men sat and watched the awards show. As they watched the young woman complete her speech, the older of the two leaned towards his younger companion somewhat. The sound of the applause in the auditorium easily drowned out his words to all but the most perceptive ears.

"I'm glad you could make it." His American accent was a stark contrast to the French-speaking voices around them. "We were concerned that you wouldn't show."

"Well considering what it is that you want doing I could hardly pass up the opportunity to talk to you could I?" The younger man replied; his voice held a clearly British accent. The older man nodded before handing him an envelope. "Have you approached anyone else regarding this…endeavour?"

"No – we evaluated all the suitable candidates and decided to contact you first." The older man paused for a moment. "Those are the details that we've managed to glean from our source." He said. "I trust you'll be able to make the necessary arrangements to complete the contract?"

"Relax Mr Henderson – I'm a professional." His British counterpart tried to assure him, his tone coming across as condescending.

"Well, Mr Alexander, I'm sure you can appreciate that my associates and I are somewhat nervous about this, after all it's not every day that…" The American began to bite back at him, only to find his barbed comment sternly cut off in mid sentence.

"I said relax!" The British man hissed, his face twisting into a scowl. A moment passed between the pair of them and then his demeanour suddenly changed – his facial expression now a placid mask of calm. "I'm just as invested in this little enterprise as your group is – after all it's not often that someone in my line of work gets the opportunity to make history like this." He sat back in his chair. As he did so, the American got up.

"I have an early flight to catch so I will be in touch with you as soon as I get more information." He said as he left. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

"Oh, I will do Mr Henderson." The British man said as he looked at the envelope in his hand. "I will do."

Reunion

Reunion

NEG Military Headquarters, 2385

“Major Kalansky, good of you to come at such short notice,” Samantha Ardent said as she greeted the military officer to her office. Kalansky shook her hand then took a seat opposite her.

“Well, when the NEG Intelligence Division asks you to come and see them generally it’s not a negotiable situation.” Kalansky replied, failing to contain her lack of enthusiasm for the impromptu meeting.

“I’ll get straight to business,” Ardent said, picking up a small e-pad and activating it. The blinds drew across the window and a small screen appeared on the wall at the far right side of the office. The room lit up as the screen came to life. Kalansky recognised the display as being a map. “We picked up something coming down just outside Juneau last night. Initial intelligence indicates that it’s possibly a Mi-Go landing craft, however the weather has limited our ability to confirm that.”

“Okay.” Kalansky replied as she began to make herself familiar with the topography of the area. “What’s this got to do with me?”

“We’re sending your unit in to confirm our suspicions.” Ardent said. “If our intelligence turns out to be accurate then you are to report back and await further instructions.”

“We’re due shore leave.” Kalansky replied. “We’re been on active duty for eight months straight now and…”

“I’m fully aware of the status of your unit,” Ardent interrupted. “However, this operation has been flagged as top priority by NEG Intelligence and I have complete authority over this potential engagement, hence the reason I requested your involvement. Your dropship is scheduled to leave in two hours.”

****

Kalansky gritted her teeth – she hated it when the spooks took charge over the military; something always went wrong on jobs like that. As she made her way along the cold steel hallway in the pilot’s quarters towards the locker room she heard a door open behind her.

“Major Kalansky,” She turned – and saw the figure of Major Anthony Wright hanging out of the door of his quarters. His hair was shorter than the last time she’d seen him and she could see the grey flecks at the sides. His brown eyes stood out against his pale skin - he was three years older than her and at thirty-four was one of the longest serving officers in the NEG Mech Unit. “May I have a word with you?”

“Of course Major Wright,” Kalansky responded. “I’ll be right with you.”

****

Kalansky slumped on top of Wright’s body – her skin tingled as he held her in his arms. There was barely enough room in the standard issue military bunk for them to lie side by side, yet after a few minutes of being in his arms she managed to slide off him and rest against him, looking at his face.

Publicly these two high-ranking officers were seen as the leading faces of the NEG recruitment campaign for Mech pilots. Kalansky and her Reapers were often portrayed as being in competition with Wright and his unit – called The Wreckers – to see who accumulated the highest body count wherever they were deployed. Privately they had become an item a year ago following the outcome of a particularly disastrous mission where the remnants of both units had been left to hold one of the Martian colonies for a week against a Mi-Go strike fleet until reinforcements arrived.

“I thought that The Wreckers were in Iceland dealing with an outbreak of the Esoteric Order of Dagon?” Kalansky said. Wright shrugged.

“We were – up to six hours ago.” He said. “We’re heading back out there tomorrow morning once we’ve fixed the Mechs – I blew out the control servos on my Broadsword.”

“You’re still using that? I thought you were going to switch over to the new Gladius mech?” Kalansky commented on his current choice.

“I tried it – it just didn’t feel right.” Wright said, catching a glimpse of the clock in the corner of his eye.

“Do those EOD Mechs still make that boing sound when then jump?” She asked. Wright laughed.

“Yeah, they sound like some Saturday morning kids cartoon.” He kissed her forehead, pulling her close to him. “When do you ship out?”

“Under an hour.” Kalansky said, untangling herself from his arms and sitting up. “Will you still be here when I get back later?”

“As long as it’s before oh-six hundred.”

“Should be,” Kalansky replied. “This is just some clean up job for NEG Intelligence.” Wright snorted, shaking his head at her assignment.

“Sure – I’ll still be here.” Wright replied. Without another word Kalansky kissed him, got dressed and left his room.

****

When Kalansky entered the locker room she found herself confronted with five familiar faces.

The Reapers were one of many small Counter Attack Units that had been formed out of a sense of urgency – following the initial stages of the war it had become clear that NEG tactics when it came to dealing with Mi-Go armour was greatly disadvantaged. Dealing with an opponent that could very likely be part of a greater hive-mind meant that many NEG outposts on the outer rim had been overwhelmed within days before reinforcements could reach them.

The small CAUs as they were known as were relatively autonomous, not dependent upon any direct command structure to guide their actions other than an initial briefing. Just point and click – let us deal with the details, Kalansky recalled her comments to their new CO back at NEG Central Command on the first time they had met three years ago.

Over the years the roster of The Reapers had changed, however there was one constant amongst them – Andrea Kalansky. Whenever she needed someone to fill out a spot on the team, Kalansky would personally choose the candidate from the Academy. Provided that smart ass Wright hadn’t swept in and grabbed them first for his precious Wreckers.

“Okay people,” Kalansky said to the assembled group. “We have one more job to do before we get to spend some time back home.”

“Yeah, we’ve seen the orders,” Gates said. “And it looks like some bullshit bug hunt.”

“Indeed,” Kalansky answered. “However, there’s no reason why anything should get fucked up as long as we’re careful and we do our job properly.” She looked at them. “Braberman, I want you in the Scimitar covering our asses; Gates and Ichikama – you’re taking the Rapiers; McEvers, you’ve got the Saber and Dasomy, you’re in the Eclipse.”

“I need an hour to fix the stealth camouflage on the Saber,” Hitomi Ichikama said. Kalansky knew that she was exaggerating how long it would take to complete the repairs.

“You’ve got thirty minutes Hitomi,” She replied. There was a groan from the assembled group. “Okay people, let’s get into our flight suits and get ready to go; the sooner were done, the sooner we’re home.”

****

Stealth is a relative concept when you’re encased inside a twenty-six feet tall walking tank. At least, that’s how I’ve always viewed it, Kalansky thought as they moved through the desolate outskirts of the town known as Ketchington, some thirty miles north of Juneau. Each mechanical walker was equipped with both electronic and optical camouflage systems, although everyone in the NEG knew that the optical camouflage was still somewhat twitchy when applied to the larger mechs. It burned up power like a bitch and caused them to overheat – so it was used sparingly.

The ground underfoot was brittle – crunching and breaking as they moved across it in their armoured bodywork. There was nothing standing over five feet in height – all the buildings in what had been a thriving local community had simply vanished.

“Looks like this place was glassed.” McEvers said over the open communications channel. “Orbital bombardment?”

“More like a localized blast.” Braberman said, towering over them all in his Scimitar. Kalansky looked up at the vehicle that stood a further ten feet higher than she did. The Scimitar had just one purpose in mind when it was designed – devastation. It’s shoulders carried two missile pods on them and one hand was replaced with a heavy beam cannon. The other fist was somewhat oversized and capable of crushing another mech within its grip. Kalansky knew that somewhere inside that behemoth, Braberman had a huge smile on his face.

“Yeah – after all, you wouldn’t want anyone to announce the fact that you’d arrived would you?” Kalansky added. The Pacific Northwest had been a particularly favourable place for the Mi-Go to attack, she thought, must be something about the damp atmosphere seemed to suit their particular physiology.

As she sat inside her Broadsword, Kalansky spared a thought for the newest member of the Reapers – the young Nazzadi woman known as Dasomy. As they waited for Ichikama and Gates to return from their reconnaissance mission in their smaller, stealth orientated Rapier models, Kalansky looked over at the sleek and lethal looking Eclipse class model and thought about the young woman inside it.

“Dasomy, you okay?” Despite her relative newcomer status, Kalansky knew that Dasomy was usually a chatty young woman and thought she had detected the spark of something between her and Gates in their down time. Up to this point, Dasomy hadn’t uttered a word, which was unusual.

“Yes…yes…I’m fine.” Dasomy answered. “It’s just…the Mi-Go…” Kalansky could hear the anger burning in her voice. Then again, I guess I’d be pretty angry if someone else had grown my entire race as soldiers in clone vats for a war I didn’t want to be involved in.

“It’s okay Dasomy, everyone is nervous.” Braberman added. “It will all pass when…” Everyone saw it inside his or her armoured cores. Two small blips appeared on their scopes, advancing towards the ravine – and their target location – that was several miles away from within the woods to the east.

“Engage optical camouflage!” Kalansky barked the order on impulse. “What are they Braberman?”

“Nazzadi.”

“NEG?” McEvers asked.

“Nope – they aren’t squealing on the same frequency as NEG mechs should.” Braberman said.

“Shit – we have to assume they’re hostile then...” Kalansky replied. Everyone heard the soft humming noise – and in the blink of an eye, the Eclipse mech housing Dasomy had taken off, heading in the direction of the two contacts. “Dasomy!”

“Boss, I read two Whisper-class mechs inbound.” Braberman said, feeding his commanding officer with information. “She won’t stand a chance if…”

“You two stay here and wait for Gates and Ichikama,” Kalansky barked, turning and powering off in the direction Dasomy had taken. “I’ll go and get Dasomy before she does something stupid.”

****

Except from New Earth Government Intelligence report submitted January 10, 2365

…It is now clear that continuing conflict with the Nazzadi will result in defeat for NEG forces and ultimately surrender is projected as being the only viable option before the end of the decade.

Recent developments from the NEG Bio-Tech division have yielded a surprise result though. Doctor Westbridge believes that the theories proposed in the third volume of the Pryke documents (see Miskatonic University archive ref. 19042035) concerning Mi-Go abductions and experimentation on human test subjects during the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries may have been the genesis of the Nazzadi race.

Subsequent analysis of genetic compatibility reveals that – excluding skin pigmentation genes being wholly absent in Nazzadi DNA due to their unique ink-black colouration and an artificially induced enzyme inhibitor present in their diet – Human and Nazzadi genetic structure is one hundred percent identical. Doctor Westbridge and her team assure me that, statistically speaking, the odds of two races evolving on different planets with identical genetic structures are nil.

In addition to this, interrogation of subject zero one has illuminated an interesting aspect of Nazzadi culture. The concept of murder is alien to the Nazzadi – they see the killing of their own kind as barbaric, which explains their tenacity when engaging with NEG forces. It would also appear to indicate that the majority of the Nazzadi have no inclination of their true heritage – they really do think they are from a planet orbiting Alpha Centauri.

If we can utilise this cultural concept in conjunction with the genetic results that we have discovered, we may be able to turn the tide of the conflict against the Nazzadi in our favour. We may even be able to negotiate a truce on favourable terms with them, especially considering their technical superiority.

Of course, that still leaves the Mi-Go.

****

Dasomy’s heart burned with a mixture of fear and anger; fear, because she knew she’d acted without thinking, allowing her emotions to take over; anger, because she knew she was about to encounter something that has been a matter of public record and shame for the Nazzadi ever since they had been accepted by their genetic brethren on Earth.

The humans referred to them as “old-school”; the Nazzadi had a more succinct name for what she was about to encounter – Race Traitors.

Despite the evidence that had been presented to them by the NEG – and subsequently confirmed by Nazzadi scientists – there were still some of her race that believed what the High Council had initially told them.

The Grand Lie – that’s how the Nazzadi referred to it. The myth that they had been a race exploited and brutalised by humanity as slaves. Her mother and father had been told that there was a great rebellion, forcing the humans from Nazzadi Prime and back to their own system – and the High Council had ordered the extinction of humanity from the cosmos.

Had they known it was all a lie to begin with? And why support the Mi-Go in their genocidal desire to wipe out humanity? Dasomy had often pondered that question. Once they were presented with the evidence that there was no real difference between Terran and Nazzadi they were then forced to acknowledge the truth – they had been exploited and used. Some Nazzadi remained loyal to the Mi-Go, refusing to acknowledge the truth even when it was proven that there was no Nazzadi Prime orbiting Alpha Centauri. Most switched sides within a week, pledging to aid the NEG to repel the Mi-Go from the Sol system.

Those Nazzadi who denied the truth – who retained their faith in their inhuman masters and swore blind loyalty to them – were declared traitors and were to be executed on sight. That the Nazzadi had been breaking the principle tenant of their artificial culture at the behest of their creators was simply another twist of the cultural knife they had been stabbed in the back with.

And once they embraced their genetic heritage, the Nazzadi took to murder like a duck to water

That’s how Major Kalansky had described it to her. Her father once told her that there were depths to which a Nazzadi should never sink to, yet Dasomy was about to take that step.

And she was looking forward to it.

The first Whisper broke from the trees and paused for a moment. The machine seemed to be sniffing the air around it as its counterpart came into view. Both of the constructs stood nearly twenty feet tall – giving them something of a four-foot size advantage over Dasomy in her Eclipse. They were basically biped in design, yet without a discernable “head” other than a small protruding lump in the centre of the torso.

Each of them carried what looked like an over-sized tube on their right arm that had a plethora of cables running away to the rear of the machine. However she noticed that these were much older machines of war, probably left over from the first Aeon War between Man and Nazzadi.

This gave Dasomy the element of surprise. She sprung free of the cover of the tree line, disengaging her optical camouflage at the last second and slashing at the rear of the nearest Whisper. She knew that with the camouflage engaged she could defeat them easily, but she wanted the pilots to see who was attacking them.

Her attack yielded success as she saw plumes of white smoke billow out from severed pipes at the rear of the mech. Its torso spun around, small blobs of super-heated plasma spitting out of the cannon attached to its right arm.

The ground and the trees sizzled as the blasts struck them exactly where Dasomy had landed after her initial attack – yet she was already on the move before the pilot had pulled the trigger. Her lithe, agile Eclipse was no match in a straight fire fight with the heavier Whispers, yet she knew she could dance rings around them with her superior manoeuvrability, something she exploited to it’s fullest.

Her fist lashed out again at the second Whisper, acid-edged claws tore through servos located in the leg housing, severing them and effectively crippled the pilot’s ability to move. Dasomy then ducked – just avoiding another plasma blast from the first Whisper that succeeded only in destroying his companions left arm. The force of the impact sent the twenty-foot mechanised walker crashing to the ground.

She rolled across the muddy surface, her mind and senses feeding off the adrenaline of the fight and Dasomy felt alive in ways that she never did when encountering the Mi-Go. Maybe it’s because they think like me? I can understand what they feel right now, the fear, she thought as she raised her right arm and activated the compressed rail gun within it. It took her a moment to lock onto her target and fire, giving the first Whisper no time to react to it.

The blasts smashed into the area she knew housed the cockpit of the mech. It stood there for a moment, wobbling unevenly on those thick steel legs, before it fell to the ground face first. Dasomy stood upright, surveying the grounded mech before her. Her sensors danced across the prone form – any life signs were rapidly diminishing.

Her attention was suddenly drawn back to the second Whisper by the sound of metal grinding against metal. Dasomy turned – just in time to see the pilot aiming its heavier plasma-based weapon towards her. She realised that she had just seconds to react.

The rattling sound of the mini-gun cut through Dasomy’s thoughts. The burst of gunfire ripped into the cockpit compartment in the centre of the downed mech’s chest, shredding metal and flesh with equal abandon. The right arm fell to the floor, discharging into the ground.

“Never turn your back on them until you’re sure they’re dead.” Kalansky’s voice came through clearly over the comm-link. She stepped out of the trees, looking down at both chewed up mechs. “Are you okay?”

“Yes…yes…I’m fine.” Dasomy asked. “I’m sorry…”

“Forget it,” Kalansky cut her off. “I understand; but if you ever do that again without my permission I’ll personally tear out the heat sinks on your mech and leave you to freeze to death inside it.” Dasomy nodded, grateful for Kalansky’s tolerance of her behaviour. “Come on kid, we’ve got some bugs to kill.”