Hell In High Heels --- A Jane Delacroix erotic novel: Sex, Sin, and Slaughter in Southern California (6 page)

               The emergency vehicles roared past as the two military intelligence officers climbed out of their vehicles. A figure Sten recognized as Hun Sen's chief of staff, a man named Boupha, came out of the house followed by his three man crew. The Cambodian bodyguards held up a stumbling Asian woman between them. Her face was a mask of bruises and she was naked accept for a charred looking tuxedo jacket wrapped like a cape around her.

               Two black-and-whites rolled through the gate and slammed on their brakes. The crew of the fire engines came off their apparatus and went through their designated drills. A beefy man in his late twenties with a handlebar mustache and the arms of Reg Park jogged past them with a large diameter draft hose headed toward the dedicated hydrant on the sidewalk just outside the ruined entry gate.

               In front of the house a two man team laid fire hose through the front door while a second crew ran a second line around the corner to attack the fire from the outside. Sten's captain pulled up, driving an unmarked cruiser with a detachable emergency light flashing on the roof.

              
It's fucking over
, Sten realized.

               His Captain knew he was sleeping with Jane Delacroix, and begrudged him that pleasure bitterly. Worse, the man was as by-the-book as a Paris Island drill instructor. He didn't like bending rules, he didn't like breaking regulations and he didn't like lone wolf cowboy plays.

               In short; he hated Detective David Sten.

               There was an empty chasm where his stomach had been as Sten slowly stood, keeping the muzzle of the shotgun pointed toward the ground. Seeing the short barreled .38s in the agents' hands the four patrol cops drew down, staying low behind their open car doors. They didn't seem quite sure who to point their weapons at.

               "Freeze!"

               "Drop the guns!"

               "What the hell have you done
this
time, Sten?!"

               Sten winced. The last bellow had come from Captain Gleason. Hun Sen, flanked by his men, began striding angrily down the driveway.

                "Jesus Christ, Sten," Javacovitch said. He slid his pistol away, face twisted in disgust. "You killed their
dog
?"

               Sten ignored him. "Captain Gleason, there's a kidnapped girl in their! She's in danger and I---"

               Gleason, built like a fireplug with a salt-n-pepper crew cut to match, made a chopping motion with his hand, shutting Sten down. His face was as red as the LAFD fire engines.

               "I just got a call from the Police Commissioner about you, Sten. A Police Commissioner who'd just gotten a call from the goddamn Mayor who'd just gotten a call from Lieutenant Governor Reinecke who'd freakin' just gotten a call from the State Department." He paused and stuck a blunt cigar in his mouth. "Shit rolls downhill, Sten," he growled. "Guess who's standing in the valley?"

               "Sir, there's a kidnapped woman in there," he repeated, pointing toward the house. "Her life is in danger."

               "That's a lie," Hun Sen snapped.

               Boupha eyed Sten like he was looking for a place to stick a shiv. Sten ignored him, spinning toward Hun Sen. "You get her out here right now!" his face was an ugly mask.

               Holding out their ID's, Javacovitch and Pensk walked up, sliding smoothly in to form a protective wall in front of the General.

              "Captain," Javacovitch addressed Gleason. "You are standing on foreign soil right now. In accordance with the 1961 Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations, that is a hostile action. The actions of your officer have flagrantly violated international law to which the United States is a prime Signatory. It is my understanding that the State Department fully intends to pursue this matter formally."

              Javacovitch looked at Sten. "This is to say nothing about the fact that Detective Sten assaulted both myself and my partner before pulling a weapon on us as we performed a security over watch operation on General Hun Sen's consulate-house."

               Gleason lifted an eyebrow at the man. "Done?"

               "I'm afraid I must insist this man be detained and that all law enforcement presence be removed from the premise." Javacovitch continued.

               "Shit, you're an officious prick, ain't ya?"

               "When I have to be."

               "Give me your weapon, Sten," Gleason said.

               "What!"

               The LAPD Captain turned toward his men, who were holstering their weapons. Almost miraculously, the firefighters' aggressive attack seemed to have knocked the fire down. Already the crew of the ladder truck were making their vehicle ready to leave. The smoke had become patchy, though the smell still permeated the air.

               "Cuff him," Gleason ordered.

               Patrol Sergeant Vince Clark walked toward Sten. He had his steel bracelets in his hands. "Come on, Dave," he said. "We've known each other a lot of years. I respect you and I'm sure this'll all get straightened out at the Station, but you gotta do what’s right here."

               Sten looked at the house. Jane was still in there. For all he knew she was hurt and needed his help. For all he knew she was already dead. She was a big girl, she knew the risks when she went in. There seemed nothing he could do to help. Not now. If he tried anything at all his career, already on questionable grounds unless he got a bang-whiz lawyer from the Union, would surely be finished.

               "Yeah," he said. "Sure."

               He handed the shotgun to Gleason. Red was smirking but Javacovitch watched him like a bird dog, only seemingly relaxed. Hun Sen was fairly dancing. Clark looked relieved. He reached for Sten, an apology forming on his lips.

               Sten exploded into motion.

               Clark stepped forward off his back foot, the hand holding the cuffs stretched out. Sten grabbed the man's right arm with his own left hand and then spun, dropping down and pulling him off balance. Clark, surprised, fell forward until his chest bumped into Sten's back. Pulling hard on the trapped arm, Sten tucked his own right shoulder into Clark's right armpit.

               He pulled, rose up and twisted all in one smooth motion. A judo throw onto a mat was a sport; a judo throw onto the hard ground was a fight ending proposition. Clark flew ass over tea kettle in a tight semi-circle and landed with heavy
thud
on the lawn.

               Sten didn't hesitate.

Officers shouted in anger and surprise as he started running for Hun Sen. The diminutive General practically screamed in shock. Sten knew he had to make it, everything turned on this single gambit for saving Jane. If he could get the warlord and put his holdout pistol to the man's head he could use him as a hostage to help Jane.

              If he couldn't then everything would fail.

               He shoved Gleason clear and ignored the man's startled barks as he hit the ground. He feigned right at Javacovitch then juked around the ex-Green Beret to the left like Jim Brown running one into the end zone for the Cleveland Browns in the Championship game. The DIA agent, despite being ready, made only a clumsy effort of a tackle attempt.

               Pensk redrew his .38 in a fluid motion and dropped into a Weaver stance, muzzle tracking. Sten sprinted hard as Hun Sen began back pedaling, arms up in front of him as he squeaked "no, no, no!" in Cambodian.

               Boupha shoved his boss clear and took up a Muay Thai boxer stance. Sten had a second to understand how lucky he was the man had been forced to leave his sub-machine behind because of the witnesses, just before a low round house kick snapped toward him.

               He took the kick on his outside thigh and the pain was so blinding from the force that at first he thought his femur was cracked. He staggered in mid-stride, went to a knee, had the presence of mind to use the opportunity to draw his holdout, then popped back up, driving forward.

               He shoved the barrel of the snub nose .32 hard into the Cambodian's face, knocking loose four of the squat man's yellow teeth and sending them tumbling like dirty dice across the black paving. Dark blood splashed in a long, ragged comma as the opium soldier staggered backward.

               Sten felt a fresh surge of adrenalin as he pivoted. Hun Sen turned to run and, panicked, his feet twisted up in themselves so that he went down hard. Sten was almost on him. It was going to work. He was going to get the warlord as a hostage.

               Chau hit him like a screaming banshee.

              One second he was lunging toward Hun Sen and the next he had a hundred and five pounds of hellcat on his shoulders and head. Confused, he spun. She'd thrown the smoke ruined tuxedo jacket off as she ran to Hun Sen's defense and she clawed at Sten, screaming, completely naked.

               From the dirt Captain Gleason looked up in shock. "Jesus, Joseph and Mary," he gawked.

               Sten tried to throw the girl but she held on, biting at his ear like a rabid lynx. He spun in the other direction in a desperate attempt to throw her. Javacovitch stepped up. Sten tried to react but he was too slow by a country mile. The ex-Green Beret took him apart by the numbers.

               Knife hand to the gun hand wrist. The little .32 holdout went spinning. A quick jab put a stiff thumb in Sten's eye, blinding him. Then the DIA agent put the top of his highly polished dress shoe directly into David Sten's crotch, driving the cop's testicles up into his stomach.

               Sten gasped in blinded agony and his knees caved in. He crumpled, Chau still on his head. Javacovitch grabbed the featherweight girl by the head and spun her clear with one sharp twist, spilling her across the lawn like groceries from a ripped bag.

               Sten posted a hand and tried to stand. His eye refused to open. Deliberately, like a surgeon excising a tumor, Javacovitch fired of a short, quick front snap kick. The ball of his foot, inside his Class A foot gear, snapped into the homicide detective’s temple.

               Sten dropped and didn't move. The DIA agent loomed over him, looking down like he was inspecting a bug through a magnifying glass.

               "Too bad, so sad, tough guy." He looked toward house. The fire was out. "Looks like no one saves the princess today," he said softly to himself before looking over at Gleason. The overweight man got to his feet with the help of his men. Clark was still trying to catch his breath. "I may be by an officious prick," Javacovitch allowed, "but I think we all know what needs to happen here."

               Gleason looked tired. "Get him up and get him in the car, boys. And make sure you get the goddamn handcuffs on this time."

               Jane was in trouble.

               She lifted her head, her body aching. Cold, greasy shots of adrenaline spit into her stomach with icy splashes. Fear made her heart pound and wavers of revulsion racked her with every moment of increasing clarity.

               The rubber ball gag was tight across her face, forcing her full lips open until rivers of drool ran down her chin. She had been bent over some kind of desk, rope binding her ankles and wrists to table legs, leaving her rear-end stuck up, utterly vulnerable.

               Chills crept across her flesh in goose bumps thick as berries on a bush. She was in a very, very bad situation. She heard low, sinister laughter and the answering snide, ugly chuckles. It sounded like she was surrounded. She lifted her head.

               Hun Sen stood before her, clothes rumpled and stained with his own splattered blood. His face was bruised and a gauze bandage covered a patch of his face where the burning blanket had melted his face like candle wax. His laughter wasn't reaching the hollow pits of his eyes. He stank like smoke.

               Next time she'd double the dose of Phenobarbital.

              Slowly, Jane turned her head. Boupha stood still as a statue, a long, thin cane of bamboo in his hands. Her heart sprinted in terror when she saw it. She closed her eyes against the horror of her reality. Things were not going well and, most certainly, not according to plan.

               Where was David? Where was rescue?

               She tried to ignore the other two bodyguards standing nearby but she could feel them staring at her naked buttocks and exposed sex as if their eyes gave off heat. She tried to push back the fear, take in details, catalog facts, formulate a plan. Anything that could stave off admitting what was about to happen.

               She was in a wine cellar. She was tied down over a writing desk of burnished pine. Light came from a single naked bulb hung from a cord in the ceiling over her head. The dark corners and deep shadows around her distorted the sound of the men’s laughter, making her think the basement was large. She could smell smoke. Her mouth tasted metallic with her own blood.

               Being analytical didn't help. Nothing could distract from the horror. She looked up at Hun Sen, her hair hanging loose in her face. His cold, angry lust made a hideous mask of his already ugly face. He lit a cigarette. It was a yellow papered French Gauloises. Jane had always hated the smell of those.