David Leadbeater: Weapons of the Gods

Madam Masuda held up a black object. “Strap on?”

“No! I don’t even wanna get close to this guy.”

Traveling in the car on her way to see Gleeson, Lauren recalled the time, not so long ago in Peru, when she walked away from the team, returned to DC and started unearthing the truth. It had been a frustrating period — striking one closed door after another — but now she sensed a better opportunity. She imagined the conversation she would need to engineer to extract all the right answers.

The car stopped, the big, burly driver half-turning in his seat to look at her. “You okay, miss?”

He saw only Nightshade wrapped in a knee-length beige coat. “Yeah, thanks. The hardest part is meeting them.”

“I’ll be right here,” his voice rumbled deeply. “You need me, you hit the button.”

Lauren nodded and climbed out of the car. Gleeson had invited her to a hotel about half a mile from the Capitol building, set back from a busy street and popular with tourists. The old perv probably had a bellboy on retainer, one that could loan him an empty room for an hour or so. Lauren had seen it many times before. Money corrupted in every imaginable way, and people like Gleeson in their powerful roles used it to get exactly what they wanted.

Through the hotel doors Nightshade stalked, heading down a level to the elevators and then punching the button for the third floor. She swept along a quiet, echoing corridor, then stopped and knocked at a door. Within seconds, it was pulled open.

“Come in,” he said. “I have less time than I thought. The wife wants to meet me for dinner.”

Nightshade stepped inside and closed the door, thumb hovering over the button that would summon her driver. Gleeson appeared to be at ease but hurried. She saw nothing dangerous in his body language but that might change. She slipped off the long coat and waited until he turned around.

“Answer me this first,” she said. “If a girl told you she had a whip, would you want her to use it on you, or would you want to use it on her?”

Gleeson struggled with a reply, but he was also distracted by her lithe body clad in stockings, suspenders and skimpy underwear. Finally, he said: “Both?” in a husky, questioning voice that told her she already controlled the room.

“Right,” she said. “Let’s start by removing those trousers.”

Nightshade fell into her role, taking over, giving orders that Gleeson certainly appeared to appreciate. The darker persona took over, propelling her easily through the first half hour. The action was pretty much routine until Gleeson asked to switch roles.

You’re fucking kidding me? No way in this world would she let this pompous, corrupt wedge of debased beliefs have any power over her. But this was where the Nightshade personality helped. The game expanded, the stakes went higher, and she took him to a higher realm of dominance.

She was conscious of the opulent room, the tightly closed crimson drapes; the widescreen television on low volume and tuned to a sports betting channel. She wondered if Gleeson would be signed in. She noted a carryall perched upon a small, round table and a change of clothes neatly pressed. Of course, the objects she preferred were a cellphone and a laptop.

And time.

The essential trick was getting away with it, and she had to act whilst Gleeson was still excited about being immobile. Luckily, this was Nightshade’s last outing. Lauren would never use the identity again. In truth, Nightshade had retired some time ago — this final collision with her questionable past was only to help her friends survive the trouble they were in.

With a flourish, she stuffed Gleeson’s own jockey shorts into his mouth, smiling at the faint confusion that came across his face. She pulled duct tape from her coat pocket and fastened it first across his mouth and then around his wrists and ankles. She made sure all coverings were off the bed because she wanted this ass to feel maximum embarrassment when they found him — assuming he could feel anything beyond superior. Time was short, so she made a point of searching for his wallet, his jewelry and any other valuables. She then took his phone and laptop.

Gleeson’s eyes bulged and he writhed around on the bed. Lauren shook her head at him. “You’re going nowhere, bud. Keep struggling and you’ll break that baby-white skin. I’d wait for maid service tomorrow, if I were you.”

Gleeson looked like he was reverse-humping the mattress he struggled so hard.

Lauren cast a sad glance between his legs. “And, I’d seriously think about retiring that wrinkled insect between your legs, bud. It ain’t up to much.”

Quickly then, she hefted her burden and blew him a kiss. The last indignity was to unhook the do-not-disturb sign from the door and indicate she would hang it outside.

“Enjoy your evening.”

Gleeson grunted and shouted at her, every syllable muffled by the gag. Lauren gave him a last pout and some quick words to embellish her cover.

“Hey, calm down. You’ll get most of this shit back anyway once I’ve sold it on. Business is business and I’m pretty sure I need the cash more than you.”

The door clicked loudly behind her. She made sure she hung the sign around the door handle then headed for the stairs.

Next stop, Shake Shack. Kimberley Crowe’s contact would meet her there — a man, she had assured Lauren, that could hack into anything with a circuit board.

Deep underneath London, in dank and wet subterranean caverns, a surprising amount of work gets done and not even half of it by known criminals. Drake was surprised when Captain Cambridge of the SAS asked to meet the SPEAR team there, but couldn’t think of a better man to help them in their current situation. Cambridge had led the SAS team that had taken the Sword of Mars and, presumably, organized its journey to England. Kimberley Crowe had initially arranged the London meet to introduce SPEAR to a new influential figure inside the British government and gain support for their search for the weapons.

The entire team stood waiting at a crossroads of arched tunnels, each one leading to an unknown destination. Noises echoed out of the dark and the incessant drip of water soon began to scratch at their nerves. The walls were black and slimy, dripping with damp. Smyth and Yorgi stood at the back, covering the tunnel they’d used whilst the others spread out around the small, circular space.

“Talk about British hospitality.” Alicia sniffed. “It’s not quite Kensington Gardens.”

“It is the SAS,” Drake reminded her. “Remember?”

“Puts me in mind of real spy stuff,” Kinimaka said happily, not even bothered about his wet shoes. “Y’know, authentic, real-deal occurrences.”

“We are spies, dude,” Hayden told him. “The real deal.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Hay.”

Luther was a very large presence in the enclosed space. “How long we waiting around here, boys? I’ve never been comfortable underground.”

“I can see why.” Alicia turned and admired the muscles bulging out of the tight T-shirt. “A man with assets like those should always be seen in the full light of day.” She paused. “Or by bedside lighting.”

Luther glared. “You’re not feeling them again, girl, so don’t even ask.”

Alicia pouted. “You gotta know that just makes me more determined.”

Drake nudged her. “Really? You felt his arms?”

“I felt more than his arms, Drakey.” Alicia laughed loudly. “But don’t worry, you’re still my man.”

“Oh, thanks.” Drake knew it would do no good questioning her. Alicia was quite simply Alicia and she would never change. God help the man that tried to tame her.