Sarah Fisher - The contract

Max glanced at Johnson's face; the grim look of determination had faded to a narrow smile. He drew the crop back again and cracked it with unerring accuracy across the ripe curves of Emily Lawrence's backside and then threw the little whip onto the desk alongside her with a strange finality.

"Get her taken down to Deuvar, now," he snapped as he turned on his heel. He glanced over his shoulder at Max Fielding. "I want to go over the details of Magenta's disappearance again." There was a significant pause before he spoke again. "We need to be ready -" he said.

When the other two had left, Banyon surveyed the girl. She was terrified and in shock, and seemed to have passed out. He took her coat from the stand where she had hung it when she'd arrived, and draped it over her naked body. He pressed a button on the intercom on his desk and asked for the chief of security staff to come and collect a package – with strict instructions that it was to remain 'unopened' on Johnson's personal orders.

When Emily was gone – unceremoniously bundled away like so much meat – he collected his coat and hat and left the office.

Outside, the night had begun to darken rapidly; the sky held the promise of snow. Banyon kept to the shadows, pulling his collar up around his throat. He didn't want to be seen: he dare not use the office computer.

Two blocks away in a public library he logged onto a public access computer and tapped in a message that he hoped would find its way to Peter Howard – if he was still alive…

Peter Howard had been unconscious for five weeks, although he did not realise that yet.

When he did wake up it felt as if his head might just explode.

As at last he opened his eyelids, a fraction at a time, they felt as though they were scouring his eyeballs. Every other muscle in his body must be joined to them, because they screamed out in complaint as he tried to focus. He wanted to lick his lips but his mouth and tongue were as dry as sawdust. Bright sunlight cut into his skull like a knife.

A girl's face materialised above him; a pretty blonde with huge brown eyes, a nurse's cap added almost as an afterthought.

She smiled.

"So you're awake at last?" she whispered, in a gentle Scots brogue. "We knew you were coming to." His mouth was too coated and unwieldy to form the words. She laid a professional hand on his forehead. "Don't try and speak just yet. I'll go and get the doctor to come and take a wee peak at you, Mr Roberts."

Peter Howard screwed up his face. Roberts… of course!… memory flooded his mind with images… he had been on the run, they had swopped passports…

"My friend?"

"Peter Howard you mean, Mr Roberts?"

It sounded so strange. He nodded.

"Dead," she said. "It was bad. Mr Howard was unrecognisable." There had only been the two of them and the pilot. They crashed almost on take-off, they had got nowhere…

Her eyes were full of sympathy.

"Where are my things?" he muttered.

The girl smiled. "Everything that was brought in with you is safe and sound. Now you lie still while I go and get the doctor."

Peter Howard let his eyes scrape shut, listening to the nurse's shoes pitter-pattering across the hard floor, and tried to get a grasp of what it was he remembered.

Magenta!

He shivered as fragmented vivid images came like staccato gunfire – the drone of the engines, a burst of ear shattering static, a loud bang, voices raised in terror, a burning, terrifying sensation of cold water seeping through his clothes, strange unearthly screams of metal on metal, lights, noise – and all the time knowing, at some dark unfathomable level, that whatever else happened, he had to survive and save Magenta…

…he woke again, disorientated and sweating, and pressed the call bell. The little blonde nurse answered, smiling as she opened the door.

"I should think you're hungry?" she said, helping him up to a sitting position. Peter nodded even though it was a lie.

He couldn't help but notice the way her heavy breasts struggled against the thin fabric of her uniform. It didn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to visualise her naked. He breathed in her subtle perfume. He would tie her to the bed, watching those gorgeous breasts swaying as he arranged her on all fours for his pleasure. She would smile nervously over her shoulder as he tied the last of the restraints in place, suddenly aware how vulnerable she had made herself, with all her charms exposed. Her sex would taste so sweet as he parted her lips with his tongue; a sweet tantalising taste of the delights that would follow. His fingers would dip inside her; she'd be wet and would writhe deliciously at his touch. As she lifted to meet his fingers he would step back and slide the leather belt from his trousers, let the cool length play across her back and thighs. She would shiver and begin to moan softly.

He must be recovering…

In his imagination the nurse's face slowly changed to that of Emily Lawrence and the ache in his groin became almost unbearable. The hours he had fantasised about Emily's wedding night were incalculable. He had sensed how ripe Emily was the day she had first applied for a job in his office – so innocent, so gentle, with those flashing blue eyes.

As she had walked up to his desk he had imagined how she would crawl towards him on her hands and knees, naked and obedient to his every wish. He had wanted to be her master from the moment he had laid eyes on her – she would be his and his alone…

Emily convinced herself she must have been dreaming and opened her eyes. What she saw made the breath catch in her throat. She had woken up into her nightmare. Her arms were secured, feet splayed apart. Her naked body ached from cramp and cold, her buttocks still glowing from the kiss of the riding crop. With a growing sense of horror she realised she was in some sort of crate. Light filtered through circular holes just a few inches above her face.

One of her greatest fears was being confined in enclosed spaces. Her heart began to race and she longed desperately to be back in the strange sleep-state from which she had woken. She started to wriggle, trying to free herself from her bonds; her breath coming in tight hysterical gasps.

They had taken off the gag, but she was too terrified to cry out. Every movement brushed her body against the crate's rough sides, reminding her of Johnson's attentions.

At some stage someone had tied her hands tight across her belly, but the space was too confined for it to be of any advantage.

Finally she willed herself relax, closing her eyes to block out the terrifying image of the raw wood just inches above her face, and instead strained to hear what was going on outside. At first all she could hear were the laboured sounds of her own breathing – no voices – and the distant muffled hum and vibration of an engine. She bit her lip; what in God's name had she got herself into? Almost as the thought formed in her head the engine noises stopped and there was the sound of a vehicle door being opened.

People talking!

Emily concentrated on picking out the words; there was at least one male voice and a woman. She sighed with relief. Something must have happened. Someone must have found her – she was safe.

The feeling was short lived.

"Get it inside," snapped the female voice. "You're late. I have people waiting."

The man mumbled a reply. Emily realised that whoever the woman was, she was expecting Emily's arrival. This was no rescue but a delivery. She felt the crate being lifted; a rocking sensation that made her feel slightly sick and disorientated. Even through the wood she could feel the change in temperature as she was carried outside and the light from the air holes above her subtly changed.