Doubleshot

TWENTY - THREE

BLOOD AND LUST

MARGARETA PEERED THROUGH THE PEEPHOLE AND SAW THE BLOND WOMAN sitting in a corner of the room, her knees folded in her arms. With the guards accompanying Espada to Gibraltar, the compound had been left unattended for a night. Margareta wanted to make sure that everything was secure and that none of the girls could escape. Everything appeared to be all right, she thought.

The rest of them were in their rooms, quietly enduring the long hours of waiting for the times when they would be called upon to perform their duties. Some of them who were literate would read books, others might sew. Some slept, some watched television, while others simply sat and stared at the wall, wondering if they would ever see freedom again. Some of them looked forward to their new life away from poverty and hunger, but most of them knew that they had been sold to a fate worse than their most horrid nightmares.

Margareta was satisfied that the girls were safe. She closed and locked the door, then went through the corridors and out of the foyer. She relocked the front door of the compound, then crossed the yard to the house. It was hauntingly quiet with everyone gone. In just a few hours, she, too, would leave with the assassin and join the others at the border.

She went to her room and checked the bag that she had packed. Now she would take a quick shower and get ready for bed. Sleep would probably be elusive, though, for she felt tense about the upcoming events. She needed something to relax her, so she pulled a bottle of red wine off a shelf, uncorked it, and poured a glass.

Margareta undressed and went into the bathroom to start the water. She waited until it was hot, filling the room with steam, then she got in the shower stall.

Margareta had finished washing her hair when the knock startled her. Someone was in the bedroom, just outside the bathroom door.

“What is it?” she called.

“It’s me,” came the voice. Peredur Glyn.

“Just a second,” Margareta said. She rinsed, turned off the water, and stepped out of the stall. She wrapped a towel around her body and opened the bathroom door.

The imposter was standing in the middle of her room. There was a cut above his eye, and red marks were evident around his neck.

“What happened to you?” she shouted. “You look terrible!”

He laughed. “It was the prisoner,” the man said in the distinctive Welsh accent. “We had a scuffle. It’s all right, though. You won’t be hearing from him anymore.”

“What happened?”

“The guy passed out in my hands,” Glyn said. “Just fainted dead away. I said, ‘To hell with this,’ and let the others handle it. I left him with them, they were going to take him to the slaughterhouse. The job should be finished by now.”

“You need to get cleaned up. It won’t look right if your face is messed up tomorrow,” she said, leading him to the bathroom. She ran water in the sink, took a washcloth, and dabbed the wound on the assassin’s head.

She smiled as he winced. “That plastic surgeon did an incredible job. I have to admit that James Bond was a handsome man.”

“You mean is. That’s who I am now,” Glyn said as he slipped his hand inside the towel, feeling her firm breast.

“Right,” she said, ignoring the gesture. He wondered if that, in itself, was an invitation to continue.

Instead, though, he said, “Sorry, Miss Piel, but tonight I have a date with a certain American blonde, if I remember correctly.” He withdrew his hand.

“Hmmm,” Margareta said. “I suppose you do. Well, don’t overdo it. You need your wits about you in the morning. Don’t stay up all night.”

“I can come back and do you again after I’m finished,” he suggested.

“Last night was lovely, dear, but I do need my beauty rest,” she replied. “But if I can’t sleep …”

Glyn grinned lecherously, then left the room.

The phone woke her two hours later.

Margareta grabbed it and answered, “Que?”

“Something bad has happened.” It was the imposter. He sounded out of breath.

“What’s the matter?”

“She’s dead.”

“What? Who?” Margareta had to fight the clouds of drowsiness away.

“The girl. The blond American.”

“Dead? How?”

“I don’t know.…” he stammered. He sounded upset. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.… It was an accident.…”

“I’ll be right there.” Margareta slammed down the phone and put on a silk robe over her naked body. She removed the Glock from her bedside table and stormed out of the bedroom.

By the time she got to the compound, she could hear the cries of the girls. They were bemoaning their predicament in Spanish. One was demanding to know what had happened to the “new girl.”

Margareta told them to shut up, then went straight to the American’s cell. She gasped when she opened the door and saw the bloody mess that was inside.

The imposter Bond was sitting on the bed with an odd expression on his face. He looked like the naughty boy who had just been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar, and his hands and chest were covered in blood.

The blond girl was lying on the floor. She was wrapped in a redsoaked bedsheet.

“Peredur, what happened?”

“My name is James Bond,” the man said, choking back a sob.

“Fine, James, tell me what happened.”

“She wouldn’t cooperate,” he said. He held up a bloody knife. “I only wanted to scare her with it. She fought me. When I forced her to … you know … she pushed herself against the blade. She stabbed herself. It made me very angry. So I … stabbed her some more.…”

“You damned fool,” Margareta said. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Domingo won’t like this. You have to get rid of her. Clean up this place. Take her body to the slaughterhouse and get rid of it. Throw her into the vats. Do you hear me?”

The imposter nodded.

“Get one of the others to help you. Where are they?”

Glyn shrugged. “I suppose they’re still in the annex. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“Never mind that. Just get her out of here. Then get cleaned up. I think I had better keep my eye on you for the rest of the night. We have to leave very early tomorrow. Come to my room when you’re finished.”

The man stared at the body on the floor.

“Do you hear me?” she demanded.

“Yes,” he muttered.

She walked out and slammed the door closed.

It was after midnight when the knock came.

“It’s open,” Margareta said.

Glyn walked in. He had showered and was dressed in a terry-cloth robe. The earlier persona of little-boy helplessness had disappeared. Now he was all man, handsome, virile, dangerous.…

“Well?” she asked.

“It’s done,” he said, sitting on the sofa. “The place is clean. There is no trace of her.”

“There had better not be. What made you do that? You really are one sick hombre. ”

He shrugged. “I kill. It’s what I do.”

Despite the savagery of his act, Margareta couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement as she gazed upon his magnificent body. His animalistic nature appealed to her and she felt the stirrings of desire. The compulsions that had given rise to her nickname of Mantis Religiosa were not about to dissipate anytime soon.

He was a lot like her, this Union assassin. Sex and murder were intrinsically linked in their psychological makeup. Margareta knew full well that she and Peredur Glyn weren’t … normal.

Margareta loosened the sash around her robe and let it fall open. She stood in front of him, then ran her fingers through his hair.

“That’s not all you do well, Peredur,” she said.

Glyn looked up at her and replied, “My name is James Bond now.”

“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “Mr. Bond.”

A smile played around his lips. He slipped his hands inside of her robe and felt the soft warm flesh. His right hand snaked around her waist and rested on her buttocks. He squeezed a cheek, then pulled her closer to him. He nuzzled his face between her breasts, kissing them, licking them.…

Margareta sighed as she straddled his lap. Men who had the capacity to kill had always excited her. Her first lover had been a Spanish bandit who was notorious for robbing grocery stores and murdering the staff. She had accompanied him on a few of his sprees, but the police had never caught up with her. She had been fourteen years old at the time.

She took the assassin’s chin and raised his mouth toward hers. Their lips met, then she pushed him back on the sofa.

They both needed a relief of tension to prepare for the big day.… She climbed on top of him and took the initiative. She found that the anticipation of the next morning’s violence served to enhance her pleasure.

It was unlike anything she had felt before.