Bianca and the Amnesiac
Chapter 2

Copyright© 2014 by Renpet

Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 2 - The assignment should have been simple, just one more like so many others before it. But when it came to fourteen-year-old Bianca, nothing was simple, nothing at all.

Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft   Romantic   Heterosexual   Fiction   Slow  

Another flush started, fever returning to my sore, aching body. I was dehydrated. I could feel reality slip away again, a vertiginous feeling, uncomfortable. Losing control was my deepest fear and I could feel it creeping up on me, a dark numbness slowly seeping in like a rising tide of human effluent; horrific, repulsive, fearful.

The shaking started. The sheets felt rough, like sandpaper. Heat suffocated me preventing me from filling my lungs. Sweat started again powered by fear and fever, beads rolling down my chest and down my forehead to slip into my eyes, stinging and painful. I felt my exhaustion as a physical weight, arms too heavy and weak to wipe my eyes. I felt my tiredness, a feebleness in my body like a weak, newly-born kitten. I felt sweat soaked sheets crumpled uncomfortably under me. I felt the depth of my despair. An ache in my head burned, radiating a constant throbbing; a burning pain with sharp stabs like red hot needles piercing me as if some amateur seamstress was trying to sew me together without anaesthesia.

In this purgatory, an angel lay a cool damp cloth on my brow, sweet coolness bringing temporary respite. The hot breeze passing gently through open shutters evaporated my sweat, cooling me, but not enough. A blue-eyed angel looked at me. I tried to talk, then felt myself fall down a well, her face growing smaller and smaller as I free-fell into the depths of Hell.


Gunfire erupted, single shots barking, a shotgun blast roaring with a blinding bright flash. Confusion. The distinctive acrid reek of burnt gunpowder filled the hall. A door crashed open when my shoulder hit it at full speed. I fell through to find the Devil standing over the bed, his arm outstretched, a Beretta in his hand aimed down, his black, bottomless, evil eyes staring at me.

She was splayed out on the bed paralyzed with fear, her eyes screaming terror at me, pleading, tears large. The Devil grinned at me, his fist tightening, finger curling, knuckles whitening.

Two shots rang out almost blending together, one a sharp crack, the other a soft thutt, pain searing into my temple. The Devil froze, blood blooming from the hole I'd put between his eyebrows. He toppled as I collapsed to one knee, dizzy, my face now wet with gushing blood. Turning without thinking I fired at the man behind me in the hall, his gun still smoking from shooting me. His head snapped back from the bullet. He fell. Massive pain arrived. My sight faded. Sweet unconsciousness arrived.


I heard her light voice. "Bere, è acqua fresca."

I felt a cup held to my lips as consciousness swirled back, disorienting. Someone tried to pour water into my parched mouth. I choked and panicked, flailing at the unseen cup. Leaden eyelids refused to obey, too heavy, encrusted and sealed shut. My heart raced, pain lancing into my temple making me moan and twist. I felt helpless and out of control; it terrified me, my worst nightmare. I fell, free-falling, weightless. Blackness swirled at me like a thick London fog, smothering me.

Visions rushed in.


The farmhouse was old, tiled roof showing moss growth, ancient stonewalls beginning to weaken, mortar crumbling. It sat on a lonely plain, isolated, separated from civilisation, from neighbours, from society. Lights flickered in the kitchen and front room. The mid-summer Spanish heat was still intense even this late in the evening.

In the deathly silent darkness outside I crouched and observed as faint voices carried to me through open windows, indistinct, males, a bray of mirthless laughter. I counted five, perhaps six. One bedroom had shutters closed, light peeking through slats. The girl would be in that room.

Logistically it was a challenge. They were all going to die. That was inevitable. I was going to kill each and every one of them. I never negotiated. The only question was how. There were times where silence and stealth were needed and times, like now, when they weren't. These kidnappers of a child were going to die. I was judge and jury and executioner. I was Rescuer.


My body shook, so cold, so cold, chills assaulting me. A cold towel gently washed my face. Someone tucked a blanket around me. Opening my eyes, a blurred vision of my angel appeared, blond, intense blue eyes. Who was she? I felt her dry my sweaty face, the towel feeling like sandpaper. God I was thirsty. I tried to talk, chattering teeth preventing me.

A wave of furnace-like heat rolled in, sweat bursting, dizziness arriving. My head hurt, pain burst, hot, lancing deep. Dullness spread through my mind, numbness, deadness, fading. I fell, burning, my body aching.


I saw him emerge and leave the front door ajar as he walked towards the old barn, their Citroën parked inside next to a white Ford Transit van. Moving quietly I slipped closer. I could smell him on the air, garlic and stale sweat, rank body odour. Peering across the unpaved driveway, I watched. He bent, his unshaven face poking through the open car window, reaching in, for what I didn't know or care. He was Eastern European, Latvian perhaps or Serbian, dark hair, hefty, two-twenty. The Lupo shotgun in his right hand was carried carelessly, his finger nowhere near the trigger.

It would be easy; slip up behind him, kick his feet out from under him and his throat would hit the edge of the car window. Add velocity with a hard shove on his head from behind, slam him down, crush his trachea, and hold him until he choked to death, his body jerking and calming. Soundless. One. Two. Two moves to a lonely death.

I padded across the drive to the barn, my steps silent. He never heard death arriving.

Three minutes later I carefully lowered his lifeless body to the ground, bending to peer into the car. What was he after? Darkness hid whatever it was. I'd come back for it. Right now four more waited for death in the farmhouse.

Ice flowed through my veins bringing dispassionate clarity. They'd kidnapped the girl, demanded a ransom then, when delivery had gone bad, upped the ransom. But something was off. They'd never given delivery instructions for the five million. It was almost like they didn't care. Twenty-eight days was a long time to hold a hostage in Europe.

Slipping across the unpaved drive, I eased myself up to the farmhouse wall. It was rough, undressed stone. Sounds from inside were muted; unintelligible talking, the sound of footsteps, the faint noise of a radio playing Flamenco music.

Reaching for the door I eased it open slightly wider, a crack of light growing, noises strengthening and becoming individual, distinguishable, identifiable. Through the crack I saw two more in the rustic living room, one lounging on a worn sofa with a leg over the armrest, his Lupo on the floor leaning against the seat cushion. Standing at an open empty fireplace was the second, smoke curling from his nostrils, a filter-less cigarette held between nicotine-stained fingers. He had a revolver tucked into the waist of his jeans. Sloppy. These two were amateurs. Things were definitely off.

I studied them. A plan emerged. Reaching into my jacket pocket I pulled out a sound suppressor and threaded it onto my Sig Sauer P226. Where were the remaining two kidnappers?

The man with his leg over the armrest started bouncing his foot in time with the Flamenco music. A noise filtered down from upstairs. Should I use silence or brute force? Should I take them out quietly and avoid alerting the others? Or, should I just use overwhelming surprise and brutality?

A girl's voice cried out in pain. It made my decision easy. Brute force. Stride through the door and shoot the man on the sofa between his eyes. He could react faster, he was the greater threat, that Lupo very close to his hand. While the second kidnapper at the fireplace wrestled to withdraw the revolver from his pants I'd have eons of time to kill him; another shot between his eyes. Two shots. Two seconds to die. Breathing deeply, my heart slowed. Concentration narrowed. Move!

Exploding into action, two coughs sounded as I strode inside, arm up and straight, Sig Sauer extended. One. Two. Two dead. Two seconds. Noise of feet moving overhead drew my attention. Another sharp cry was cut off suddenly. There was no time to think or plan. Racing up the old wooden staircase I found the hall empty. I didn't need directions. There was only one door closed. The girl must be in there. A shadow suddenly emerged from an open doorway down the hall. The Lupo roared with a bright flash. Plaster exploded to my left. He missed. Too rushed. Definitely unprofessional. Turning, I brought up the Sig and shot the man between his eyes. Moving fast, lowering my shoulder, I thundered into the closed bedroom door. It burst open. I fell through only to find the Devil standing over the bed, his arm outstretched, a Beretta in his hand aimed down, his black, bottomless, evil eyes staring at me.

She was splayed out on the bed paralyzed with fear, her eyes screaming terror at me, pleading, tears large. The Devil grinned at me, his fist tightening, finger curling, knuckles whitening.


Conscious thought arrived slowly. A cool, moist towel draped over my brow.

"Si prega di bere," a soft girl's voice said.

The rim of a cup touched my lips. Eyes closed I drank. Relief was instantaneous and wonderful, water slipping down my parched throat. I gulped ravenously, water running down my chin. Temporarily sated, I opened my eyes to early morning brightness, an open window, a young girl looking at me with worry in her clear blue eyes, and the stench of death - a rotten cloying smell that coated the back of my throat.

"Grazie," she said, a small smile emerging. "Thank you for coming to save me."

Who was she? Save her from what? Where was I? Why did my head hurt? Reaching up I touched a towel wrapped around my head. What had happened to me?

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice cracking and sounding strange to my ears.

"Bianca. Don't you know?" she asked.

Why would I know her? "No. I don't know. What happened?"

"Li ucciso ... You killed them," she informed me.

Killed? "Killed who?" I asked.

"The men."

A brief wave of panic washed over me. What was she talking about? I'd killed people? And save her from what? Who the Hell was she? Panic turned into confusion when I tried to remember. Nothing. Nothing at all. Who was I? What was my name? My hands began shaking. I didn't know!

An hour later we sat in the kitchen, the only place where dead bodies couldn't be seen. The mug of coffee was horrible but contained caffeine. Bianca sat at the table staring at me with her large blue eyes showing concern. The deep crease in my temple caused by a bullet had settled to a hard pulsing ache. A day and a half lost to a fever?

"Si deve ... You have to believe me," she insisted. "Your name is Julian Blackmore. I knew you were coming. They talked about you."

This didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. "Tell me again," I asked, hoping a second time would bring recognition.

"My uncle, Marco Lucchese, arranged my kidnapping. We were supposed to die when you tried to rescue me. They were expecting you. They talked about you."

"But why?" I asked. This made no sense at all.

"For the money," Bianca said earnestly.

"What money? Why would I have anything to do with..."

The faint sound was unmistakable. A helicopter was approaching. Still far off, it would arrive very soon. Without thinking or understanding why, I jumped up. "Rapido, vieni con me," I ordered, wondering how I knew Italian. Grabbing her hand we raced out the front door. Glancing around I noticed the Citroën in the barn and ran towards it. A man lay dead on the ground by the driver's side door. Without thinking I grabbed the Lupo next to him. "Get in!"

I didn't question why we needed to leave. I didn't question how I knew we were in danger, and I didn't wonder at how I recognized the Lupo shotgun. We had no time. I didn't know how I knew how to hotwire a car, either. The engine roared into life. Bianca clicked the seatbelt on just as I hit the accelerator. We tore away leaving a trail of dust.

Two hours later I was no further ahead. I couldn't remember a thing. My pockets were empty. I had no ID, no money, no passport. I had nothing, not even a memory. All I had were the dirty clothes on my back and Bianca. We'd left the Citroën and the Lupo on a side street in Cordoba and quickly walked away. Distance from the car hadn't erased the itch I had in-between my shoulder blades. It felt like a target was painted there. We needed somewhere safe. We needed food. We needed money.

We needed to talk.

First money. With Bianca's hand in mine I led her to a bustling street. Without thinking I spotted the target, a middle-aged man wearing a custom tailored suit, his face clean-shaven and glowing as if he'd recently had a facial. Wealthy. Without thinking I steered us towards him on an intercept course. We bumped into each other.

"Perdóneme," I muttered, excusing myself in Spanish.

He nodded and continued.

Turning a corner I inspected his wallet, pulling out a sheaf of Pesetas and Euros. The credit cards were of no use. His soft, brown calf's leather wallet was dropped into a waste bin.

Café Nebu was small and bustling with patrons, making us anonymous. The air was redolent with the aromas of coffee beans being ground, of cigarette smoke wafting in from the outside patio through open windows, and the noise of boisterous conversations. Bianca and I sat at a very small round table. The espresso was flavorful and invigorating. Bianca consumed her ham sandwich ravenously, chased down with a bottled water.

While she ate I had time to finally study her. Her almond shaped eyes were a rather arresting blue, an Egyptian blue, intense, bold. Framed by soft blonde hair that fell to a few inches below her shoulders and eyebrows of ash brown, her eyes were quite dazzling. Her eyelashes were an even darker ash brown. A perfectly straight, perfectly normal nose drew my inspection down to her mouth. It, too, was quite normal; pale red lips, a bowed upper and fuller lower moved as she ate, her bites revealing small, even white teeth.

I wondered how old she was. From her stature she was very young, her body a bit on the delicate side. "How old are you?" I asked.

She paused between bites. "Quattordici," she answered.

Fourteen. That seemed right. She looked like she was that young. My eyes drifted to the street outside, scanning the pedestrians, assessing. I did it automatically without thought. I found myself noticing things. That man was heavyset and strutted as if he owed no one anything, his hair slightly unkempt. I knew if I needed a gun I could tail him home and I'd find one. That woman in a business suit would have a high-end automobile and an unlimited cell phone plan should I need either. That young man in a wrinkled army jacket would be able to tell me where I could find cheap and anonymous accommodation.

Why did I know these things?

Bianca finished eating and, with a sigh of satisfaction, leaned back, one arm rising to rest on the back of her chair. I bent towards her over the small table. "What's going on?" I asked. "I need you to tell me everything again."

"What do you know?" she asked.

"I know nothing! I don't even remember my name!"

"Ti ho detto," she said, adding in English, "I told you. You're Julian Blackmore."

I didn't question how I understood her Italian. It confused me as much as understanding Spanish. "Tell me everything," I begged. "Please."

Bianca glanced around before leaning towards me. In a low voice she started talking in a rapid tone. Her expressive face started with confusion and fear and grew into anger and outrage, her finger pointing, jabbing, and shaking in emphasis. She'd been kidnapped. She'd never seen the men before. But, over almost a month, she'd overheard them talking. It was Uncle Marco's plan. He was behind it. The kidnappers had talked about Julian Blackmore being sent to make it look like he was rescuing her. But their instructions were to kill me and her at the same time to make it look like a rescue gone terribly wrong.

"Why?" I asked.

Bianca got angry, her deep blue eyes flashing cold iciness. So her uncle could get the money without being suspect! Uncle Marco had been using her money, money left to her by her parents. He was using it to buy his big, ugly house and a boat and cars and friends and always kept her away at boarding school trying to hide what he was doing with her inheritance. It was Uncle Marco behind it all!

Leaning back, I tried to understand. Was I supposed to be the sap, the one to misdirect police? Why me? What the Hell did I have to do with all this? Frustration made me edgy and nervous. Glancing out through the café windows I spotted two men turn the corner towards us. They wouldn't have mattered except they paused and glanced towards the café before looking further down the street. I turned my head and followed their gaze. Two more men were slowly making their way towards us. The four were dressed too alike; casual pants, jackets that were too warm for the weather. Then one nodded to the approaching pair and glanced towards us. Our eyes met.

They were after us!

"Come," I said quietly, reaching for Bianca's hand. Looking around I saw the sign, Salida, the rear emergency exit. Leading Bianca, we wended our way around busy tables and into the hall leading to toilets and a rear door. Over my shoulder I saw one of the four step through the front door. Our eyes met again.

He started pushing his way towards us urgently. Hustling Bianca, we slipped thought the rear door. I paused, pushing Bianca to the side, her eyes wide in confusion. We needed space and time to flee. I needed to delay the man following us. He wouldn't expect me to wait for him. He'd barrel through the rear exit. It would be simple; one hard fist low to the side of his jaw and it would break. The force of the hit would concuss him and bring unconsciousness with it. One hit. Down. I waited. The door opened.

We left him insensate on the ground and raced down the back alley, turning away from the street, and making left and right turns at random, Bianca hanging onto my left hand. My right hand ached from the impact. Twenty minutes later, sweaty, heart racing, we stopped.

"What happened?" she asked breathlessly.

"I don't know. Four men. They found us. How? Did you recognize any of them?"

"No. I only saw one, the one you killed," Bianca answered.

"I didn't kill him."

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