Eye of the Storm

EYE OF THE STORM

Amy Eastlake

Published by BooksForABuck.com at Smashwords

Copyright Amy Eastlake 2006-2012

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Prologue

Roger Smyth-Cony inspected the human merchandise on display in the red-light district of Dallas, his groin already swollen with anticipation. He'd had a rough couple of days and now it was payback time.

For once, the streets seemed relatively bare. Maybe because it was cold. Maybe because too many other men had beaten him to the streets while he'd been tied up in business.

He growled a curse, then noticed a flash of pure gold. Turn right, he ordered his driver.

The man had served him for several years now and obeyed without question.

Roger's eyes hadn't fooled him. This whore looked young, with shiny ash-blonde hair that fell past her waist, and with pouty lips that projected an attitude no hooker could afford but that so many counterfeited.

He liked them young. Liked them to imagine that their attitude would protect them from the cold world. Liked to disillusion them and watch how their faces changed. The young ones could be so useful.

He rolled down the window and the little slut came closer.

Looking for a good time? Her voice was young. Perfect.

Maybe.

She nestled against the cold steel of his limo. I know a place that rents by the hour. We could have some fun.

My limo has plenty of room. Fifty dollars?

She wrinkled her nose. No way. Two hundred.

The swelling in his groin increased. He loved the preparations as much as he loved the act itself. You think you're pretty valuable merchandise. How do I know you're worth it?

The whore laughed.

For an instant, red rage descended on him. How did a teen runaway dare laugh at him? He was successful, rich, powerful. She was the lowest of the low, a whore who couldn't even take Christmas off and was stuck working the streets, probably desperate for her next fix.

He inhaled deeply, seizing calmness like a military objective. She wasn't laughing at him. And even if she had been, he knew how to fix that problem.

I've never heard a word of complaint, sugar, she told him.

One hundred, he countered. As if he was really going to pay for it. The bargaining stimulated him even further.

She pouted her little lips and he grinned, imagining the way they would feel when they encircled his cock. Soft and wet. But first he'd replace that hint of attitude in her gaze with something more appropriate. Fear and respect. That's what he demanded. That's what he commanded.

Hundred dollars. Half an hour, she agreed.

He chuckled and gestured to Dwain. Let her in.

His guard popped out of the front seat and opened the limo door.

Roger would let the bitch get in right in front of him, take him in her mouth right away. Once she'd relieved his immediate pressure, he'd show her the stunner and handcuffs and see exactly how much attitude the bitch could maintain then.

The look in her eyes seemed wrong though. Too confident.

He shook his head. He was in control here, not the whore. The more cocky they started, the more fun it was to break them.

He fumbled with his zipper, pulling out his already hard cock.

Get to know your new master, bitch, he whispered.

Ooh, is that for me.

She was for it, rather. But Roger wasn't in a hurry to correct her. That could wait, at least until she'd relieved the pressure.

The little slut was wearing one of those tiny halter-tops that barely kept her tits in. It was a stupid wardrobe for December, even in Texas. It was warm in his limo, but it couldn't be more than thirty degrees out there on the street. Maybe the bitch's drugs kept her hot.

Still, the halter-top made for easy access. He reached around and yanked on the tie.

The bow slipped open with almost no resistance.

He licked his lips savoring the mental picture of those sweet teenaged tits. They'd be little ones that hadn't started to sag yet, still held up firmly by youth's natural muscle tone. He'd slap them a couple of times and let little Miss High School know who was in control of the situation.

The hooker arched her back, letting her top fall to her waist and Roger inhaled in anticipation, then drew back in disappointment. What the hell?

A bit of paper, something shaped like an envelope, covered her treasures. What sort of a game did she think she was pulling?

Seeing the tits costs extra, the bitch told him. Let's say another twenty.

Bullshit. He grabbed that paper and yanked.

She laughed, but this time it wasn't the shy giggle of a teenaged girl. It was the ripe laugh of a grown woman. Roger Smyth-Cony, you've been served.

Chapter 1

"You've been served." Aila Jallay spit out the words. She'd delivered the papers as she'd promised, and now she needed to get out of this mess. Roger was every bit the jerk Carla had said he would be. He was also protected by eighteen layers of guards and flacks. The hooker outfit had been the only way she'd been able to get through his defenses, to make sure that he had the legal summons in his hot little hands.

Aila reached for the door handle and yanked. The sooner she got out of that limo, the better she'd feel. Besides, she was freezing in the skimpy outfit she'd worn to attract the pervert and wanted to spend an hour in the shower scrubbing off the touch of Carla's disgusting soon-to-be ex-husband.

The door handle moved easily in her hand. Too easily. The door stayed closed.

Oh, no, Roger told her. You aren't going anywhere until I say so. He grabbed her hair and yanked hard.

The wig came off in his hands.

Aila kept her real hair cropped short. The last thing she wanted was to give anyone, let alone a jerk like Roger, a weapon he could use against her. Carla had promised that Roger would go for the little-girl with long hair look and she'd been right. With a twenty-dollar wig, half an hour in front of a makeup mirror, and thirty dollars for a wardrobe she wouldn't be wearing again, Aila had transformed herself into a teenaged slut. Well, the wig was off and she was back to her normal twenty-something hard-assed-bitch self.

Aila didn't really care whether Roger Smyth-Cony tried to make things hard for her. Easy or hard, she'd delivered his summons and she was getting out of his car. Now.

Roger enjoyed her discomfort with the door. Like so many control freaks, he got a kick out of seeing someone else in trouble. His prick had softened when she'd served him with the summons, but it was standing rampant again. Carla had warned her about Roger's sadistic side.

Aila stabbed the blades of her fingers through Roger's zipper hole, doing her best to separate scrotum from prick, then grabbed his dick and twisted. Open the door now or I'll yank this little thing right off. It was a promise she would be happy to deliver on.

Stupid bitch. He reached for something on the table next to him. A stun gun, Aila thought. Sitting there with handcuffs, drug paraphernalia, and a butt plug. The guy was a definite pervert--exactly as Carla had claimed.

She squeezed and twisted harder, raising her other hand to block an attack if Roger fooled her and really was man enough to fight through the pain. Drop the stun gun, Smyth-Cony. Then, tell your bodyguard to open the door and stand back.

Right. Roger's voice squeaked. There was a soft thud on the thick carpet. Uh, I've dropped the gun. You can loosen your grip.

I'll loosen it when the door comes open.

Open the goddamned door, Dwain, Roger ordered.

She couldn't see Dwain as there was opaque glass between the driver's side of the partition and the expansive back where Roger had intended to enjoy another conquest. But the guard moved quickly. The door flew open.

Beat the shit out of her and bring her back, Roger ordered as Aila gave up her grip, kicked the halfway closed door the rest of the way open, and dove out the exit. Nobody messes with Roger Smyth-Cony.

Aila's adrenaline was flowing now and she felt ready for a fight. Which was just as well since Dwain had a big fat automatic in his hand.

Roger was in good shape, but Dwain had the overmuscled bulk of a hard-core bodybuilder. His thinning hair and pimpled face hinted at too many steroid injections.

Kick her a few times. Break some ribs. But don't mess with that pretty face, Roger commanded. I'll handle that.

Which meant that Dwain wasn't supposed to shoot her. Aila supposed that was good news, except she wouldn't trust a guy stressed out on steroids to follow orders, especially once he'd had his first punch shoved back into his face.

She brought both hands in front of her face in what she hoped looked like a submissive gesture. Please don't hurt me.

Dwain laughed. Obviously he'd heard those words before. Heard them and ignored them.

Did you lose your shirt, little girl? Looks like you're getting cold out here. He gestured with the gun. Why don't you get back in with the man? After he's finished with you, the two of us can have some fun.

She pretended to consider it.

If she stepped toward him, he'd know she was getting ready to attack. If she did nothing, he could shoot her while remaining beyond the range of her weapons.

She compromised by stepping on an angle, closing the distance but doing so unobtrusively. An experienced fighter would know what she was doing. A pure bully might not. How about I show you a good time and we leave poor Mr. Smyth-Cony to nurse his sore little prick?

I don't think--

There were probably a lot of things that Dwain didn't think and Aila didn't have time for the full list.

She made a brushing motion with one hand. Come on, Dwain, you can put the gun away. What could I do to a big guy like you, anyway?

I'll put it away when you get back in the--

Her hand motion distracted him just enough to open him up. Her crescent kick broke his wrist before he could finish whatever he'd intended to say. Aila followed up with a chop to his neck, then an arm-bar takedown when he tried to grab her with his still-good hand.

The chauffeur was almost on her by this time so she kicked Dwain's gun into the gutter, slammed two fists into the chauffeur's gut, and took off into alleys where that big black limo couldn't go and where a woman who knew her way around could make better time than any vehicle.

She'd earned a hundred bucks harder, but not lately. Still, she couldn't help the strong sense of satisfaction she'd gotten. Carla had put up with Roger's abuse for more than two years. Now that was over.

***

The knock on her office door didn't sound like a client. Which was too bad because Aila needed the business. The hundred bucks she'd earned serving Roger Smyth-Cony two days earlier had barely made a dent in her bills.

But the knock sounded male. And all of Aila's clients were women. Partly because the system screws with women more than with men, partly because many women will go to another woman if they really need help, but mostly because Aila wanted it that way.

She'd spent the first twenty-five years of her life doing what other people had told her. But three years earlier, when she'd been disabled out of the army, she'd decided to change things. Now Aila did what she wanted. Sometimes that meant she went hungry, but at least it meant that she could sleep at night. As far as Aila was concerned, that was a bargain at twice the price.

It's open, she shouted. Most of her clients didn't wait outside either.

A man slouched in. His hair was dark, slightly wavy, and longer than she liked. His blue-black eyes looked sleepy but she guessed they didn't miss much.

She'd never seen the guy before, but she knew him anyway. What can I do for you, detective?

I'm detective Jerry Miller. He was in his thirties, had a decent build on him, and held out a badge.

Aila had learned not to pay much attention to a guy's build and not to pay any attention to their badges.

I've got an appointment in half an hour, she told him. Ask me your questions and leave.

If you want to keep your private dick registration intact, you'd better show some cooperation, Miller told her.

Times like this, she wished she smoked cigarettes, just so she could blow smoke into his face. Take a decent guy off the street, give him a badge and a gun, and like magic you have a stormtrooper.

Twenty-nine more minutes, she told him. Waste it with threats or by asking questions. Your choice.

***

Detective Jerry Miller liked women just fine. He liked them warm and cuddly, and he liked them cool and sophisticated. What he didn't like was heroes playing cop, trying to impose their own brand of vigilante justice on Dallas. From her police file, Aila Jallay was exactly the kind of person he didn't have any use for.

He put his business card on her desk.

We have a complaint against you. Excessive use of force in delivering a summons. Assault on three men. And solicitation. These are serious charges.

Especially serious because Roger Smyth-Cony had sworn out the complaint. Smyth-Cony owned half the city, had political pull all through North Texas and, according to police scuttlebutt, was on the political fast-track toward being the next Senator from Texas. He also played a weekly golf game with the City Manager who was, ultimately, the chief's boss. The chief had told Jerry to get Jallay to back off.

I'm five feet tall, Aila told him. She stood to show him.

Sure enough, she barely came up to his rib cage.

I'm sure that's very interesting, he told her. However, you haven't answered my question.

I'm supposed to have assaulted three men? We're talking about grown-up men, here, right? Not midgets.

Jerry had loaded a copy of Jallay's file on his palmtop and clicked it open now. Fifth degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do. Third degree black belts in Jujitsu and Judo. Fourth degree black belt in Kobudo. And runner up in the all-army woman's boxing championship, ultra-lightweight division. Pretty impressive.

She sat back down. So?

So, I'm guessing that you could take three guys if you wanted to.

Jallay gave him a look that hinted at the least bit of respect. What? Did she think that he wouldn't do his homework?

Finally she laughed. All right, my sweet innocent look didn't work for you. She paused. Would you like to see some pictures, Detective?

He shrugged his shoulders. She might not be his type, but Aila was a pretty woman. He'd look at pictures of her any day.

She reached into a file on her desk and yanked out a photo.

It showed a stretch black limo cruising Harry Hines in downtown Dallas. The license number was clearly visible. Even a cop who stayed far away from politics recognized the distinctive 'I M DALLAS' vanity plate as that of Smyth-Cony.

Mr. Smyth-Cony took quite a detour from his meeting in Las Colinas, Jallay told him.

No law against that. Assuming that the photo really did match the date printed at the base. Even he could fake that kind of detail.

The next photo showed Smyth-Cony leaning out his window, a look of lust marred his movie-star handsome face.

Exactly who is soliciting whom, here, do you think?

Jerry grunted. This was interesting but it didn't really prove anything. It was still three witnesses against one.

The third picture was most interesting of all. Smyth-Cony's pants were open and his erect dick was sticking out like the Eiffel Tower, only skinnier. Next to him, on a small table, were a pair of handcuffs, a stun gun, and what could only be drug paraphernalia.

Jallay tossed the remaining three photos to him. One of Smyth-Cony holding his summons, one of the goon with a gun, and one of the chauffeur holding what looked like a Bowie knife.

Anything else to ask me, Detective. She consulted her watch. You've got five more minutes. And I really don't like to have males in here when my clients arrive.

Jerry could have been knocked over by a feather. He'd known Smyth-Cony was a slimebag. You don't get to be a billionaire in the construction business by being Mr. Nice Guy. What he couldn't understand was how Jallay had been able to get those pictures. The man was scum, not stupid. So how would he let a camera into his car? And why would he just sit there while she was taking the pictures.

How'd you get those pictures?

Jallay laughed, but he didn't think she was amused. I'm afraid it isn't anything you could use, detective.

I'll be the judge of that.

She appeared to consider his challenge, then nodded. Look into my eyes.

He rolled his own eyes. He hadn't fallen for a come-on line like that since the time Mary-Beth Johanson had told him she wanted to play doctor in the fifth grade.

I'm serious, Mr. Detective-man Jallay said. Check them out and tell me what you see.

He nodded and looked. He wasn't above taking advantage of an invitation for a close-up on a pretty woman.

At first, nothing he saw looked significant. A scar, faded and invisible unless he was looking closely, crossed from Jallay's cheek to her forehead. Two pale gray eyes stared back at him showing none of the false modesty many women affected and none of the practiced interest the rest did. Jallay was different.

It took him almost a minute before he saw it, but then he wondered how he'd missed it. One of the pupils dilated and contracted with the shifting of light. The other didn't.

One of your eyes doesn't work.

I guess your files aren't as complete as you thought. I lost an eye in Iraq. They put in a prosthetic and cut me loose from the service. When I got out of the hospital and on my own, I had their fake eye replaced with a custom job. It's a handy place to carry a camera.

Jallay's voice sounded bitter. Well, his dad had served in Viet Nam, so Jerry knew about vets coming home angry and changed by what they'd seen. He'd been lucky enough to spend his own hitch in peacetime between the Iraq wars, sunning in Germany and Fort Pendleton, California.

He flipped through the eight by ten photos again and set them down. Any teenager with a scanner and a computer could fake pictures like this. Photographic evidence just doesn't get the respect it used to.

Jallay just looked at him. I served a legally issued summons to a man who has been evading service for better than a month. When his men attempted to harm me, using weapons, I defended myself, empty hand. I didn't kill anyone although I could have and they definitely had it coming. So, if you're going to arrest me, go ahead. I'll take my chances with the legal system.

Who was the client?

She shook her head. If Smyth-Cony didn't tell you, then it's none of your business.

He stood. I'm going to give you a piece of free advice. Don't go cowboy. According to the files, you think you're some superhero. Well, in Dallas, we'd arrest Batman so fast his own butler wouldn't know what hit him.

Jallay nodded. The door is behind you, Detective. Don't slam it on your way out.

***

Aila watched the detective leave. He had a nice butt. A runner's butt. Not that it mattered. Aila had sworn off men. They weren't worth the trouble. She attracted them because they saw her as a challenge. But men might want to scale Mount Everest, they didn't get into serious relationships with it.

That was just as well, she reminded herself. Because she wanted a relationship with a man as much as she wanted to lose her other eye. Most men were Roger Smyth-Cony wanna-be's. The rest were rabbits.

She stepped into her dressing room and put on her gi. She hadn't lied to Jerry. She really did have an appointment. The group of women who took a self-defense class from her would start arriving any minute.

Maybe, she pondered, she should have invited the detective to stay and play assailant for her students. They would have gotten a kick out of beating up a handsome six-foot plus male type rather than just throwing each other around. And it would help them understand the differences in facing a guy. Learning the skills was one thing. She could teach any woman the basics of defending herself, even against a guy who outweighed her by a hundred pounds or more. But Aila knew from bitter experience that those skills only transferred into practice if the woman had confidence in the techniques. And confidence is taught through practice.

Aila shook her head. She was rationalizing. Detective Miller had pissed her off with his accusations and his files. Her students hadn't reached the point in their lessons when they were ready to take on an actual man. She just felt like punishing Miller.

She stretched and then went through a couple of slow Kata while she waited for her students to arrive.

Carla Smyth-Cony was almost always early for class but something must have come up because she didn't show.

After a few minutes, though, Aila forgot about anything but the students who were there.

They were working on escaping from the guard position. It was useful floor work that simulated how males tend to rape their victims. There were hundreds of escapes, each with their distinct advantages, counters, and limitations. But Aila wasn't teaching these women to be martial artists. She was teaching them to survive. She taught them to fight dirty.

Be careful now, she reminded them when Barbara's long sculpted fingernails brushed against the hard plastic of her artificial eye. But when it's real, go all out. Stick your fingers all the way up their eye-sockets and reach for their brains.

A chorus of gagging noises met her instruction, which got her mad. Self-defense is not a game. You either defend yourself, or you don't. Women who play at it tend to get hurt as badly as women with no skills at all. Often, they got hurt worse. A threatened man is a dangerous man.

She stopped the class and let them have it.

You don't have to take lessons to be goddamned victims, she explained calmly. Just lay back and let them do whatever they want to you. You might even live. She let her voice rise, calling on five years’ experience as a senior non-commissioned officer in the good-ole U.S. Army. Is that what you want, pussies? To stay victims? To learn just enough to make be a fun challenge for the next male that decides to get himself some ass for free? If it is, then you can get out of here. Now. Because I don't have time for that kind of shit.

Barbara had giggled when Aila started but by the time she was winding down, all five of the women shook their heads seriously.

Two of the five of them were already rape victims. Despite official statistics and police lies, that was about the average percentage for American women. Worse, even after decades of so-called liberation, women still blamed themselves when men behaved badly.

Well, she would blame herself if she didn't give her students everything they needed to fight back and survive.

Think about it, she told them, calming down. "If you want to learn to fight, then come back next week. If you're only doing this for exercise, then sign up for aerobics at the Y.