Using the forged pass key provided by a supporting agent, I slip into the apartment. I head for the computer by the desk, rifling through the disks on the desk in the hope that I can uncover something quickly. I try the computer; several levels of password protection tell me that it isn't worth the time given the mission constraints. I grab several likely disks from the desk and throw them into a small case over my shoulder.

A notebook, one page partially removed hastily. A remaining fragment contains part of an address downtown. I rip the page from the book and slip it into my pocket. I continue searching the desk and file drawers quickly, stopping only when something captures my interest. There's not much time before I have to finish the search and get into position. The meeting convened at 10pm, but she could leave at any time.

I finish the file cabinet. Echoing in the distance, from the end of the hall, the clicking of heels, sharp and brisk with clean, short steps. The heels grow louder. I throw the bag over my shoulder, pull the Glock from my shoulder holster and duck into the kitchen, slipping behind a pair of small louvered doors from where I can see the front door.

The heels come to a slow crescendo before falling silent at the door. Quiet shuffling, the rustling of a purse, the jingling of keys. The slipping of a key into the lock, and the door opens slowly, a thin column of light slicing the darkness of the living room. I watch, intent, tense and silent as a slender, well-proportioned silhouette glides into the light of the doorway and is gone into the dark as the door slips shut. Several quiet footsteps of the heels, and a light comes on by the bookcase...

Through the gap between the doors of the darkened kitchen, I glimpse her at last. She's neatly turned out in a dark grey suit with a form-fitting cut, a short, waist-length jacket buttoned tightly across the front. Beneath, a silvery silk blouse is buttoned snugly, open an extra notch or two to accent the smooth, deep cleavage of what had to be at least a 35-inch breast. Her skirt, perhaps two inches shorter than what's considered "acceptable", hugs her waist and great, swelling upper thighs, fastened tightly at the waist to accentuate the gentle, sensuous swelling of her lower abdomen and the prominence of her pert, firm buttocks. Her plain, black four-inch pumps arch her slender ankles and display curving, graceful calves. Her raven hair, cut short off the shoulder, is parted to a mod-ish, sharpened forward curl that accents her dramatic cheekbones and wide-set, intense hazel eyes.

She eyes the room for a moment, then goes to the desk, her graceful, plump breasts quivering tightly with each brisk step. She casts a few glances at the desk, the cabinet, the computer, and knows I've been there. But, she doesn't see me. She may not even be looking. She knows I don't have what I'm after -- and what I know she's got -- yet, and she can't waste time closing up shop and getting out to spend time worrying about someone who's been in her apartment. As far as she's concerned, she's done; there's nothing left but the copying of the master disks, throwing together the overnight case, grabbing the passes and bolting for the airport and safety. She turns on one heel and heads for the hallway and her bedroom. I watch with a perverse arousal as she rounds the corner, her tight, hard, worked-out ass shaking tautly with every stride.

I wait until she's in the bedroom packing before I take a tremendous gamble, slipping down the hallway and into the open door of the bathroom halfway down. I step into the shadow of the door and watch her as she prepares for what she believes will be a quick, clean wrap-up and getaway...

She pauses for a moment at the dresser and looks up as if she's forgotten something. Her dark hair glistens and her graceful cheekbones cast subtle shadows across her face in the pale light of the bedroom. She strides slowly into the dimly-lit hall. She approaches the bathroom door; I hit the light and step out into her path, the Glock leveled at her smooth belly.

"That'll be fine, right there, Miss Talbot! Miss... Victoria Talbot, isn't it?"

She glares back with quiet rage and slight surprise. She almost can't believe she was followed here. "You ought to know. I can guess who sent you here..."

I prod her with the muzzle of the gun and back her to the wall. "Hands where I can see them please, Miss Talbot..." I bury the muzzle in her belly and look her in the eye. "I suppose that if you know who sent me, then you know what business I have."

"Do I?" she shoots back, holding her chin in the air defiantly.

"I think you do," I reply, pressing the muzzle deeper into the softness of her belly, just below the ribs. "I think you know why I'm here and what I'm after, and if you're as sensible as I think you are, you'll make things easier on both of us and hand it over to me now."

"What makes you think I'd have it? You've already looked for it; I can see that." she retorts sharply.

"Well, Miss Talbot," I continue calmly, raising the Glock and nestling the muzzle against her breastbone, "for one thing, I haven't searched the bedroom -- and I haven't searched _you_. Let's start with the bedroom, shall we?" I lower the gun to her abdomen, grab her by one arm and push her down the hall, towards the bedroom. "Let's go... _now_."

As we approach the bedroom, Victoria stops and turns to confront me in the doorway. I raise the gun towards her. "Inside. INSIDE!"

Victoria lunges, a knee aimed at my groin, one arm sweeping up towards my gun hand. I twist to avoid the knee as her arm knocks my hand in the air in an effort to knock the gun free. In my effort to hang onto the Glock, I squeeze off a couple of rounds into the ceiling. The effort of avoiding Victoria's knee throws me to the floor, momentarily disoriented as I hear her frantic, short, high-heeled steps rushing down the hall. Quickly, I recover my wits, jump from the floor into a low crouch, raise the Glock and lay down a short burst in Victoria's direction as she approaches to within ten or twelve feet from the door. Victoria yelps sharply in pain and surprise, the yelps turning to grunts and a stifled moan as the slugs catch meat, her lean, sleek torso twisting and jerking as the bullets pepper her back with tiny crimson geysers, stitching a clean, regular arc from above the left buttock up to just below the right shoulder blade.

Delirious in pain and horror, Victoria reaches vainly for the door as she stumbles forward, her weakening legs losing control over the wobbling pumps. Her great, muscular thighs manage one last trembling stride before she topples forward, striking the floor with a sickening muffled thud, bouncing once, quivering and rocking gently before finally coming to rest just steps from the door.

I approach Victoria's body quickly, stealthily, the Glock still trained on her shapely midsection.

Victoria's fresh corpse sprawls crazily, awkwardly, yet somehow gracefully; one shapely leg is stretched out almost straight, and the other is cocked forward slightly, throwing one sleek high-heeled shoe askew. Her right arm trails lazily alongside her torso, while the left lies thrown forward, forever reaching for the door, but never finding it. She stretches at my feet, appearing almost as if bounding or leaping, her lithe, athletic body caught in mid-stride and frozen by the Glock's delicate spray. Victoria's lustrous raven hair, once smartly styled, is thrown in crazy patterns of black lace across her lolling head. Her elegant features, now relaxed, fall into a dark and ghastly repose, a look of aloofness, indifference, a horrifying calm; her deep, hazel eyes stare through the closed door into an unseen distance, the lids hanging heavily, seemingly entranced, dreaming.

I step towards the body, shove one foot under her groin, and nudge, half-kicking, once, twice. No response. Victoria's smooth flanks, taut, prominent buttocks and sleek, round hips rock and quiver gently from the nudging, the flaccid flesh slowly undulating and coming to rest. I kneel over Victoria's body and, grabbing the waistband of her skirt, jerk the carcass up onto its side, her left arm flopping heavily across her belly, her head rolling over her right arm and coming to the floor with a soft, muffled clunk. A thin strand of saliva and blood begins to flow from Victoria's mouth and into a spreading pool beneath her head. Blood dribbles quickly to the floor, spattering lightly, as it finds its way out through the five or six new openings in her lower torso.

I snatch up the left arm and feel for a pulse. Nothing. I drop her arm; it bounces off her hip and slips to the floor, falling at a crazy angle from the elbow. I reach forward, pressing my hand to her throat, feeling for a pulse, again; also nothing. Shifting my grip on her skirt, I slide the corpse away from me a few inches and then, with a flip of my arm, throw it back over onto its face, the soft, limp body rocking and undulating deliciously before once again coming to rest.

I stand up and step over Victoria's body as I cross the room, slip the Glock back into my shoulder holster, take off my jacket and throw it over a chair. I'm sure now that Victoria is dead; there'll be no more struggle and I can proceed at a more leisurely pace. I walk slowly back towards Victoria's body and kneel over it. Her left leg, still cocked slightly forward, stretches the fabric of the skirt tightly and provocatively across her well-muscled thighs and proud, firm ass. (Magnificent! There'll be enough time for that later.)

Quickly, thoroughly, roughly, I frisk her corpse up and down, finding nothing. Again grabbing the waistband of her skirt, I jerk her body on its side and, with a quick pull, jerk her jacket free from the buttons and drop Victoria back onto her face. Yanking the jacket sharply up from her waist to feel for hidden pockets, I notice that its thick fabric has hidden the true extent of Victoria's bleeding. The bullet holes in the sheer silk blouse are ripped, jagged punctures, the shredded cloth and strands of fabric at the edges punched downward into the five entry wounds in Victoria's back. Her blouse glistens with fresh blood from separate wounds soaking together to form a single massive deep crimson pool, leaking through to deeply stain the liner of Victoria's jacket. I feel and search Victoria's bullet-ravished torso and feel nothing but firm, toned flesh and muscle beneath the bloodied silk.

Moving down to her feet, I pick up the one black pump that has already fallen free and feel inside for hidden spaces. Inadvertantly, I catch a whiff of the shoe. Perfume!? I drink in the aroma, momentarily, in spite of myself. I gather myself, lower the shoe from my face and throw it aside. I lift the now-bare foot and notice a thin, lightly sparkling ankle bracelet fastened a few inches up from her ankle. I slip a finger under the anklet and jerk it free; I drop the heavy, limp leg to the floor, it bounces lightly once as it flops to the floor, the momentum setting Victoria's soft, limp, lifeless flanks and hips to quaking slightly for a moment. Grabbing the other leg and pulling it towards me, I remove the other pump and examine it the same way. This shoe is perfumed as well. It's becoming difficult concentrating on business first before moving on to the "perk" of this assignment...

I rise to my feet, kicking Victoria's shoes aside and pausing for a moment to gaze down at the sleek, athletic, tight-assed young corpse crumpled on the carpet at my feet. Good shooting, I notice; five crisp punctures through the fine wool jacket, into Victoria's muscular back and out through the mid-abdomen in a tight, even line between her navel and the second or third rib.

I shove one foot under Victoria's soft, flaccid midsection and, kicking up sharply, throw her limp, heavy carcass over onto its back, her left arm flopping across her chest and bouncing to rest at her side, partly bent, slightly extended from the shoulder. Her great thighs tumble and rock, her hips shimmy provocatively; her head rolls and lolls sloppily back and forth as her corpse comes to rest. Her body rolls over softly and heavily, the momentum setting it to shimmying and quaking gently, like a freshly-killed deer.

I grab Victoria's jacket from the front and begin rummaging through the inside pockets and feeling the lining. Still nothing! The bitch. What if she has it hidden in a locker at the airport? Damn; I should've tried to knock that information out of her before I pumped her. As I finish searching the jacket and throw it open, my eyes wander to Victoria's lifeless face, still exotic and fetching. The soft light from down the hall highlights her high, round, elegant cheekbones in a soft, warm glow, her eyes, still moist, sparkle slightly still in a seemingly indifferent, careless gaze. A small but steady trickle of blood purges from her mouth, across her cheek. It's shockingly fashionable. It matches her lip gloss.

I begin frisking Victoria's soft dead torso from the front, starting at the waist and working slowly up to the armpits, grabbing her arms by the wrists and throwing them up past her head; the limbs bounce and twist as they fall, coming to rest at awkward, haphazard angles. I take care to avoid bloodying my hands uneccessarily as I feel the blood-soaked blouse. Victoria's limp torso quivers ever so slightly, her head rocks from side to side gently as I grab the blouse and yank the buttons free, one at a time, exposing her smooth, taut belly. I pause for a moment to examine my work on Victoria's bullet-pocked torso. The exit wounds pucker out in little craters, little volcanoes welling up slightly with fresh blood, forming a grisly connect-the-dots puzzle between her navel and breast.

I reach up towards Victoria's chest and grab her thin, sheer bra by the cups and slip it up over her still-firm and plump breasts. I pause, nearly startled somehow at the sight of Victoria's breasts quivering gently as I pulled the bra away. My breath is short, my pulse quick, if for only a moment before I compose myself and being feeling for hidden spaces in the bra cups and straps. I reach around to search the straps from the back, lifting the lifeless torso slightly towards me. I gasp quietly in arousal and anticipation as my hand accidentally brushes Victoria's left breast while searching the straps. There's a smear of blood on my hand afterward; where did that come from?...

... I glance down. One of the rounds has grazed the underside of Victoria's left breast, leaving a delicate bloody line as it exited between the third and fourth ribs. The left cup of the bra is slit open roughly, a thin diluted stain of blood and milk spreading in the fabric. A tiny rivulet of blood has found its way down into the smooth enfolding where the underside of Victoria's breast joins the main part of her chest, tracing the underside of the bountiful swelling in a sparkling crimson line.

Nothing in the bra. I'm going to have to search _everything_ now. I can't do it all here. Quickly, haphazardly, I slip Victoria's bra back into position, button her blouse two or three buttons up and fasten her jacket. Kicking the discarded heels aside, I pause for a moment to drink in Victoria's ghastly elegance. Even now, lifeless, bloodied, bullet-ravaged, she's still hauntingly beautiful. Her snug, stylish clothes are disarrayed shockingly, loosely thrown about her corpse in that horrid dishevelment of death. Her expression seems uncaring of the way her rumpled, bullet-ripped blouse and jacket ride up her torso, bunched up around her shoulders, the snugness of the jacket pressing and squeezing her ample breasts together and upward, the half-open blouse exposing a horrifyingly stunning cleavage.

I step back from the corpse for a moment to remove my shoulder holster and lay it over a chair, and to take off my shirt. I then return to my work; I bend over Victoria's body, slipping one arm around her back, grabbing her left arm at the elbow, and pulling her torso onto my shoulder. I put my arm down quickly under her thighs and, grasping the muscular limbs tightly, stand to my feet.

Victoria's corpse slides heavily over my shoulder; as I grab her waist to stop the fall, her lifeless arms flail and thrash the air wildly, and her head bobs crazily, half-twisting at awkward angles as it dangles at the end of her spine. Her hair swishes along with its movements in a dark, lustrous wave, like a horse's tail. I pause for a moment to get my footing, shifting my grip around Victoria's full, sleek thighs; I'm momentarily lost in a macabre reverie as I savor the feel of her luscious, well-muscled flesh in my arms and over my shoulder. Her torso sways lazily from the hip; her arms swing along in kind, and her head now gently bobs to and fro, a beautiful broken puppet of flesh and blood.

I begin walking down the hall towards the bedroom. I'm momentarily startled as I feel Victoria's limp hands brushing my buttocks as her arms swing loosely in time with my steps. I smile to myself, darkly amused. This bitch is _spanking_ me, I muse to myself. I mockingly whisper her imaginary words to me: bad boy! you killed me, you cold bastard. bad boy...

I arrive at the bedroom door and survey the space. I realize I can't afford to dirty the sheets with Victoria's vaginal juices, urine and the blood from her still-warm wounds as I'll need them to wrap the body for transport back to HQ. I look around the bedroom for a place to lay the corpse while I clear the bedsheets. There's nothing; no sofa, no easy chair. I yank hard on Victoria's flaccid legs; her torso slides up over my shoulder. With a soft flip, Victoria's corpse swings out over my shoulder; I let go of her legs and her body drops to the floor with a deep, loud, sickening thump, bouncing hard, her limbs flapping on the carpet, her torso and hips quaking as she comes to rest.

I walk to the bed, gather the bedclothes, fold them hurriedly and toss them into a corner. Returning to Victoria's body, I grab her now-bare feet by the ankles and drag her towards the bed, her arms flopping back behind her head, her head lolling and rocking slightly with each pull on her ankles. Her clothes become even more sickeningly disarrayed; her skirt bunches up around her ample hips, her blouse and jacket pull up around the top of her torso and press her breasts up into an even more obscene prominence. I smile slightly, wickedly, at this ghastly salaciousness. I bend over and snatch Victoria's corpse into my arms, one hand under her knees, one hand around the midsection, and throw it over onto the bed. It bounces wildly two or three times, rolling over onto its face, quivering in time with the shaking mattress.

I cross to the other side of the bed and pull Victoria's jacket and blouse up to her shoulders, exposing the bra fastenings across her back. With a rough yank, the strap snaps and springs free. Down to the waistband of her skirt, now, I unzip the back and begin to feel carefully in the flaps of the zipper, and in the waistband. Still nothing. I slip my hands under Victoria's flank and shoulder and flip her corpse over onto its back. I reach over and continue to pull on her skirt until it's around her ankles, where I can feel it more comfortably. No luck here, either. I put the skirt aside and reach up to Victoria's full, sleek, lifeless thighs and begin sliding the sheer black stockings down from her shapely legs. As I pull the stocking free from her right leg, I pause for a moment to admire her well-muscled calf, her slender, graceful ankle and elegant, smooth foot. I gently let the foot slip free from my grasp and drop to the bed.