Monday, 20 April 2015

The Honey Trap - Part 2 by Allan Hudson

The following short story is posted in three parts. Part 1 was last Friday (see it below) Part 2 today and Part 3 on Wednesday. It is about an idea for a novel that has been kicking around in this old head for a bit.

Now here's where YOU come in.  Please let me know what you think?

              The Honey Trap Part 2

Her inquiries led her into a pit of serpents. She had been captured by the same ruthless gang. Probing for information she did not have, it was Hoch himself that removed three of her fingers making the young man they kidnapped watch, terrorizing his very soul.  Prior to the fourth finger to go missing she and the son were rescued by Drake Alexander and his unruly cohorts.
He had been her sergeant when she was part of the Special Ops during her time with the Canadian Armed Forces as a member of their elite Task Force 2 Commandos. Now Alexander hunts criminals. Her career with the CSIS was put on hold during her rehabilitation when she lost her arm to infection and eventual gangrene.  Some consolation was that Alexander and his band of vigilantes killed or captured the entire terrorist cabal. Hoch, however, was not amongst them.

Now she’s a one-armed gardener, sun worshipper and a thirty seven year old retiree and always looking over her back. She is consulted occasionally but only as an advisor. She misses the espionage, the rush only danger can bestow. More desperately than that, she wants the man that took her fingers, her arm. She knows from her sources, usually reliable, that Hoch was seen in Istanbul less than ten days ago. CSIS have agents searching for him.  

In her training room upstairs over the garage, she studies her unclothed body in the mirrors on the gable end that has no windows.  One of the dormer windows to her left admits the first stream of early morning light to paint her upper body the color of butter. Being open, summer scents of pine sap and salt water drift in. Bright blue workout pants, white spandex top, red cotton panties are scattered around her feet like lost thoughts. After an intense workout every square inch of the smooth skin that covers her big boned frame is taut, normally dark as brown sugar and beaded with perspiration. The three limbs are rippled with girlish muscle, flexible as a whip. All 70 inches of her physique is sensuously proportioned. 

The only blemish is the missing arm. Turning to her right side, the faint scars around the flap of skin used to cover the amputation site causes her to yearn for her other hand. Not wanting to think of the ordeal that brought her here, she shakes her head, staring defiantly into her image’s bold eyes. The blue is the color of cold morning seas. Short curls, brown and loose, collapse on her wide forehead.  Her square-like face is Slavic, making her an ideal agent for most of Europe.  Again her thoughts turn to her former trade, the lure of intrigue.

Rosa kicks the panties away from her foot and strides towards the bathroom at the other end of the exercise room, bypassing the weight machine, the treadmill, a stair climber that is on the rim of “worn out”.  An antique teacher’s desk sits against the guard rail for the stairway that separates the large room. Bella’s laptop is in the center, open mouthed and always powered up. On the edge is one of her throwing knifes. A nine inch, double edged sticker made of 440 Stainless Steel.  Bella likes it because it’s easier to sharpen than the high carbon steel and it doesn’t rust.

She picks it up, caressing the sleek handle. Her index, middle and ring fingers grip the handle opposite the thumb. Arching her arm, she stares at the outline of a used dartboard on the far wall twenty feet away and throws. The knife spins perfectly vertical striking the pockmarked board an eyelash away from the center dot. She doesn’t check where it struck, its close enough. She’s thrown the knife a thousand times since she lost her other arm. She was right-handed. Turns out she’s even better with her left.

The shower is hot, steam filling the small bathroom. The shower stall is brightly tiled with whites and blues, the glass door runs with beads of soap when she rinses the shampoo from her short hair. She lets her mind go vacant while the water cascades over her. Her arm outstretched, hand against the tile, head directly under the stream. She’s feeling sorry for herself. She’s tried to make a life here, she wants for nothing financially. Her neighbors are kind and honest. She rarely locks her door. The waters where she lives are much like her temperament, at times calm and lazy as if on canvas and other times reckless and driven with passion. The owner of the gas bar in the village center expressed an interest. She likes his smile and silly jokes. Raising her face to the streaming water she can’t understand why she can’t be happy here.

She reaches down to close the taps, the shower head sputters and drips. Shaking her curls, she grabs a thick black and white stripped towel from the bar and begins drying herself off. While frisking her hair with the towel she vows not to give up. Not to give into the sense of being unfit. She’ll prove to her superiors that she deserves to work again.  Later this morning after she plants the root cuttings she has been cultivating, she will practice with her gun again.

 Slipping into a short purple robe decorated with silver dragons, she hastens downstairs to the mud room connecting the house and the garage. The walls are mostly glass and the warm sun glows, turning the water to the north a shimmering orange. Pausing only for a moment to admire her property, she thinks of how peaceful it is, how unlike her spirit. She trots off to get dressed before breakfast thinking about the adjustment needed on the front sights on her Beretta Tomcat.

Don't miss the ending of this short story. Drop by Wednesday for the finale. Please leave your comments! Especially those that like action stories!

International adventure with Drake Alexander and his band of cohorts.  Dark Side of a Promise is  novel you don't want to miss.
Available here 

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