Sarah Fisher - The contract

If he didn't love her, why was he going back to Deuvar when his plan could so easily be unravelled from the far end of a telephone wire? The answer came like a soft white heat; because whatever had happened to her at Deuvar he still wanted Emily for himself. He didn't care that he hadn't been the first, what mattered more was that she was safe and free – but most of all that she was with him.

He coughed to clear his throat and his mind and in a few curt sentences arranged for a safe passage for himself and Emily to South America. He didn't tell the officer at the far end of the line what he had done with Magenta. The organisation he worked for, along with everyone else, would find out soon enough. He just hoped there would be enough time to get Emily out safely before the shit hit the fan.

An intense memory of the final screen of Johnson and Fielding's computer system flitted across his brain again: 'Recreate Magenta'? flashing like a beacon in his mind. He had typed 'yes' and as he had done so two further questions had appeared: "When? Where?"

He glanced down at his watch. Just a little while longer and Magenta would have recreated herself. Even so there was still time to spare for one more game with Angela and then it would be time for the show down, the last grand finale, with Johnson and Max Fielding. A final game which if he misjudged a single move might cost him and Emily their freedom.

Through the glass partition of the cafe he saw the lorry driver watching him with interest. He raised his fingers to signal five minutes, then laid the phone back in its cradle and glanced across the car park to Angela's car. The distance between the cafe and the car looked like a marathon. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the effort, and headed off into the darkness.

By the time he got back his legs felt like damp straw and he was sweating like a horse. Steadying himself against the roof he jerked the door open and called Angela's name. She blinked,unfocused in the half light.

"Are you ready to leave now?" she said thickly, struggling to sit up.

Peter grinned. "Almost." He extended a hand towards her. "First of all there is someone I would like you to meet."

Angela rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "Is this one of your million and one possibilities?"

Behind him Peter could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. "Get out of the car," he said in a low voice that invited no contradiction.

He saw Angela stiffen, suddenly wide awake. "I thought you meant you and I were going to…" her voice faded away as she spotted the men that Peter sensed standing at his shoulder.

"Oh, my God," she said unsteadily, eyes widening.

Peter stood back. "These gentlemen are looking for a little company. It's a cold lonely night."

Under the jaundiced car park lights he could see Angela's colour draining. "Get out of the car." he said again. Slowly she did as she was told, eyes never leaving his.

"Come around this side into the shadow. My friends are very busy men."

Angela crept towards them like a terrified rabbit amongst a pack of hounds. The lorry driver had brought a friend with him. The pair of them were great muscular men, dressed in donkey jackets and jeans, hard faced and rough. Angela stood stiffly against the side of the car, her hands clenched in tight fists.

Peter smiled. "Undo your coat and lift up your skirt. I want to show my friends what's on offer."

Angela swallowed hard, her pupils reduced to bright pin pricks in the yellow lights. "Peter…" she began.

"Do it," he snapped coldly, relishing the way she flinched.

Her hands trembled as she undid the buttons and raised her skirt. Her thighs were milky white, the dark leather harness framing the golden corona of hair around her quim. Behind him one of the men let out a thick guttural snort of pleasure.

Peter glanced at them. "Well?"

The first man nodded. "Not bad," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. He pulled out a roll of crumpled notes and peeled off the top two. "She'll do." He stepped closer to Angela, eyes drinking in her exposure. "Yer said twenty, didn't yer?"

The man grinned lewdly and spat onto to the Tarmac before handing Peter the money without a backward glance. All his attentions were focused on Angela, who shrank away from him, trembling. He reached out, pawing the soft recesses of her sex, seeking entry, almost prising her open. Even in the half light his hairy, tattooed hands were in sharp contrast to the alabaster whiteness of Angela's skin. She flinched as he found his way, gasping as his fingers vanished inside.

His companion moved behind her, arms snaking up around her torso to explore the voluptuous contours of her breasts. He jerked at the buttons of her blouse, dragging aside the fabric so the heavy curves were exposed. He groaned as he cupped them, meaty fingers teasing at Angela's already erect nipples.

The first man, uninterested in anything but the quim his fingers had spread and forced their way into, slid his cock from inside his jeans. His shaft was muscular, arching menacingly towards Angela's soft belly. He wrapped his hand around the base, tugging the foreskin back from the angry head.

Angela seemed rooted to the spot. Her face was devoid of emotion, jaw set. Peter stepped back to watch. The driver's burly companion held Angela tightly against his chest, spreading her thighs with his huge hands, taking her weight so that his friend could take her with ease.

The first man spat into his hand, wiping the saliva over his cock before moving between her open legs. His face was contorted into a tight unpleasant grin.

"Like a little bit a rough, do you, then?" He pressed his slick cock close, a menacing weapon, wet and unnerving.

Angela gasped as the lorry driver forced himself home, bracing herself against her captor as her unknown lover buried himself to the hilt with a dark hot moan of pleasure. He leant closer, kissing her crudely, a trail of saliva trickling down onto her chin. His strokes were ragged and invasive, uncontrolled, as if he were trying to thrust his whole body into her.

Peter shivered. This was better than he had anticipated. The man's face flushed scarlet. "Shit, she's hot," he gasped, sliding his hands down over her backside to drag her closer. As he worked his lips sought hers again, pressing wet kisses against her throat and face.

Angela threw back her head, trying to evade the lorry driver's lips while behind her the thickset man ground his crotch against her buttocks, rubbing and thrusting as if he too were making love to her. She whimpered, struggling, writhing, but even so Peter could sense her growing excitement. Her breasts were flushed, her body held uncomfortably as if she were struggling to unseat her rider, who plunged on, oblivious to her pain.

The man kissed her again, seizing her chin so that she couldn't escape his aggressive lips. Suddenly, as if instinct overtook her revulsion, Angela started to move with him. She arched her hips forward, drawing the lorry driver deeper.

He gasped and renewed his efforts, jerking her towards him, driving on and on until with a wild wolfish howl he crashed his way into orgasm. He snorted as the waves of pleasure engulfed him, twitching and shivering, a gob of saliva clinging to his unshaven face. Finally, breathless, he slithered out of her.

Angela's head slumped forward. Released by the great bear of a man who held her, she stumbled and folded down onto all fours. This was too much for the bear, already excited by the efforts of his friend. He crouched behind her and pulled up her coat. He worked wildly, exposing the ripe pale orbs of her backside. Before she had time to recover or protest, he plunged his great arching phallus into her quim, so recently abandoned by his companion.

Angela let out a high pierced wail, and arched back as if to try and push him out. Instantly the great bear grabbed her neck, impaling her with a single devastating stroke. With one hand he groped at her breasts, rubbing her already engorged nipples, pummelling the soft flesh with filthy fingernails.