War prize, p.6
War Prize, page 6
part #1 of Captured by the SS Series
Well, partially. “Yes,” I manage, fighting against the drug. There’s not a doubt in my mind that my captor will eventually hurt me, but that’s not quite why I was resisting him.
He doesn’t say anything, but he eases away and then gingerly lays me back down. He doesn’t tie me up.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“In a few moments, the drug will wear off. I’ll allow you to eat, but we’re not finished yet, American. I have more questions for you.”
After several minutes, the darkness over me lifts and finally dissolves.
Relieved to be untied, I sit up. He’s nearby in a wooden chair, sitting sideways with his elbow propped on the chair’s back. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but he’s studying me as if I’m some cryptic riddle.
“Thank you for untying me,” I mutter, rubbing my wrists. Actually, I am truly grateful to be unrestrained…of course he’s the one who tied me down in the first place. “May I go to the bathroom?” I ask respectfully.
“Yes, of course.” He gestures toward another room, which I can tell is a bathroom. “If you want, you may take a shower. I will prepare breakfast.” He stands and then walks briskly to the nightstand, addressing me as he moves. “If you try to escape, I can guarantee you will regret it. The chain around your ankle is a locator.”
“I understand,” I whisper, watching him slip the empty syringe back in the case.
He quickly zips up the black case before tucking it and his notebook under his arm. With a subtle nod, he leaves the room.
A bit dizzy and lightheaded, I manage to stand and then stagger drunkenly to the bathroom. After hurriedly relieving my bladder, I take a moment to study my weary-looking reflection. Although I have very fair skin, I look even paler than usual, which I’m guessing might be a side-effect from either the truth serum or the sedative he administered last night or possibly the combination of both drugs. But all in all, I’m not in bad shape, especially for a prisoner.
After studying my reflection, I cross the small bathroom. With a tired sigh, I sit on the tub’s edge. I hike my foot up, wanting to study the silver chain around my ankle. The small links of gleaming silver look delicate and fragile. I hook my finger around it and pull, trying to break it off, but I quickly discover its appearance is deceiving. I tug until I leave a deep, purple indent in my flesh, but the chain won’t give.
Sighing, I focus on the anklet’s sensor instead, which is sealed in a small, rectangular-shaped capsule. Flat and smooth on both sides, the capsule has no obvious seams or breaks. Running it between my fingers, I can’t find any way to open it. Approximately the size of a pill, the encased sensor looks like one solid piece of shiny metal.
I reluctantly abandon the anklet, not seeing any way to remove or deactivate it.
Not wanting to dawdle, I turn on the faucet. I quickly peel off my damp satin dress and underwear. I’ve sweated through every inch of both garments. With an appreciative sigh, I step into the shower.
The warm water pours over me like rain from heaven. I can still feel the potent drug in my system, and the shower is helping to clear my head. Soap and shampoo are easy enough to find and after a few minutes of scrubbing and lathering up, I almost feel like myself again. Hell, if I wasn’t an SS officer’s prisoner, I’d say I feel great right now. After rinsing off, I turn off the shower, feeling renewed.
Wanting to dry off quickly, I wring out my shoulder-length chestnut hair before blotting my tresses with the towel. I reluctantly look at the blue satin dress on the floor. Crap, nothing sucks more than having to put dirty clothes on after a glorious shower. I don’t really want to put the sweaty garment back on, but I guess I have little choice. With a sigh, I sit on the tub’s edge and blot my dripping hair, frowning at the discarded dress.
The door suddenly opens. Startled, I cover myself with the towel.
“Good. You’re finished. Breakfast is ready. Here, put this on.”
He tosses a bundle of white fabric to me, and I catch it while clutching the towel. Without another word, he turns and leaves.
The smell of bacon suddenly wafts across my nostrils. Oh food. Great!
After quickly pulling on the garment, which is a man’s dress shirt, I fiddle with the buttons and then roll up the sleeves. It’s long enough to cover me up. I’m grateful for the shirt. It’s clean, dry and soft. Realistically speaking, I probably only have a few hours of life left and being comfortable is truly one of life’s simple joys, especially after a hot shower. Hell, there might even be a last meal in my immediate future.
Not wanting to piss off my captor, I tidy up the bathroom and then hang up the towel. I fold my blue dress and underwear before setting them neatly on top of the toilet tank.
Emerging from the bathroom, I cautiously look around the room. I don’t see my captor anywhere.
Just as I poke my head from the bedroom, I spot him leaning against the wall, apparently waiting for me.
He only looks me up and down, but he doesn’t say anything. I can tell he wants to ask me something, but he doesn’t.
“Come on, American.”
He urges me to move while he takes a place behind me. As I move down the stairs, I take in the house and mentally note where pieces of furniture are. It’s a habit, really. I can’t walk into a room anymore without mentally checking off what’s in the space and where it is. The house looks different in the light of day.
Running a quick reconnaissance of my surroundings, I move to the kitchen. There’s a single plate on the table with some bacon, eggs and toast on it. My stomach grumbles. There’s also coffee and juice. Damn, I wasn’t expecting to be treated so well. I quickly check my thoughts though. Just because there’s food out doesn’t mean he’ll allow me to eat.
A bit hesitantly, I turn and look at him.
“Sit,” my captor orders, pointing to the chair that’s closest to the food.
I very cautiously sit down. Is he really going to let me eat? He nods approvingly as he walks to the other side of the table.
“Eat,” he orders, taking the chair across from me.
Almost immediately, I dig into the food before he changes his mind.
He pours himself a cup of coffee. “Slow down, American. Don’t choke. I’m not going to take it away.”
Willing myself calm, I force myself to eat slower. I even take a sip of apple juice. He seems to approve.
“So, how many lamps did you spot in the foyer?”
I stop eating. Did he notice what I was doing? I’ve been trained to be subtle.
“Yes, I noticed, American,” he replies. “I’m just curious how many details you obtained. How many lamps did you spot in the foyer?”
“Three,” I answer honestly. I don’t see the point in lying to him. “Two on each side of the door and another against the wall.”
“The color of the shades?”
I swallow a bite of egg before answering. “The two by the door are the same with gold shades. The one by the wall has a black shade.”
He nods at me. I take a bite of bacon and drink some juice. The food is quite good, and he was very generous with the portions.
“So what about the living room? There was a book draped over the top of the sofa.”
“Keats,” I reply between bites.
“Very good.” He sounds impressed. His expression becomes more focused. “I also have some writing paper and some pens on my desk near the window in the living room. The pens are in a black cup. How many pens are in that cup?”
“Six,” I reply without hesitating. “Seven if you include the highlighter. Eight if you count the pencil.”
“Excellent.” He looks a little surprised I knew that one.
I only shrug a bit indifferently. It’s my job to remember details. I can’t exactly haul around photocopies. Oh yeah, a box of suspicious papers would go over really well at a checkpoint. Digital cameras and video equipment are also thoroughly screened, and the guards will take anything that looks out of place.
Hell, I once had a patrolman confiscate my shoes because he thought they sounded hollow. And another time, a patrolman broke my watch because he thought it looked like a hidden camera. And both times, they were wrong.
“Do you like being a spy?” he asks.
“My country needs me.”
He tilts his head at me, seemingly saying, That’s not what I asked.
“In school, you were one of the brighter students, weren’t you?”
I’m not sure what he’s driving at. “I don’t know.”
“Do you remember taking a lot of exams in school, especially during the first few years?”
I only shrug again and take a bite of toast. I vaguely remember taking a lot of tests when I was young, but no one ever told me what they were for or how well I did on them. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to answer that question.
“Were you often pulled out of class and made to watch pro-American and anti-German films?”
How the hell does he know that? “We all watched those films,” I counter carefully.
“No, they made you watch more than your classmates, didn’t they?”
He’s absolutely right, though I have no idea how he knows that.
“How did you know that?” I ask.
“Did they lock you in a room by yourself and make you watch those films alone? Did they make a point to isolate you from the others?”
For some reason, his questions are starting to bother me. I don’t answer. Instead, I take another bite of food.
He only takes a sip of coffee before continuing. “Your parents suddenly came into wealth when you were young, didn’t they? You may have moved into a bigger house, you may also remember your parents buying things like cars or jewelry, yes?”
Again, he’s right. I remember we moved from a cramped two-bedroom apartment in the city to a sprawling two-story house in the suburbs. Our new home had a backyard, an in-ground pool and a swing set. New cars and fancy electronics soon followed after the house.
Even as a child, I knew there was something strange about how my parents had come into the money. And I vaguely knew it had something to do with me.
I think my captor sees the answers to his questions on my face.
“Your parents were awarded a grant based on your performance on initial exams. By accepting the money, they agreed to a government-approved curriculum for you.”
“What are you telling me?”
“You were selected when you were a child. You repeatedly tested high on several exams, probably hitting top scores in memorization, which made you an ideal candidate for intelligence. Your country has been training you since grade school.”
I don’t like what he’s implying. “My country didn’t force me to do anything. America doesn’t have a draft anymore. I voluntarily signed up for the military when I was eighteen.”
He only shrugs. “Believe what you want, American.”
I quickly dismiss the entire conversation. No one forced me into this. No one tweaked my destiny or manipulated my free will. I’m not listening to a Nazi. I take another bite of bacon before sipping some juice. The food helps clear my head, but his strange words are leaving an odd knot in my stomach.
“You were encouraged to take on many lovers, weren’t you? As a spy behind enemy lines, especially a lovely female spy like you, you could use your body to parley access to rooms and functions, flirt your way past guards and patrolmen, gain favor with contacts and American sympathizers.
“Your superiors would want you to be a skilled and accomplished lover. It wouldn’t be wise to send a blushing virgin into enemy territory. Weren’t you encouraged to take on boyfriends and lovers when you were in school?”
His words cut straight through me. Countless films about sex rush through my head.
Again, I don’t say anything, but I suddenly understand why he thought earlier I should be promiscuous.
When I joined intelligence, my seduction teacher taught me how to use my charms and my body to help aid me in my missions. A doctor even surgically implanted something in my uterus to prevent pregnancy and ward off venereal diseases. I was often told that sex was an available tool in my arsenal and with the implant I wouldn’t have to worry about pregnancy or some unsavory disease.
“Tell me, do your superiors know how inexperienced you are? You may not technically be a virgin, but you’re damn close. I know they wouldn’t like that if they knew. You’re expected to be something of a sexual predator really, with literally hundreds of past lovers, which was why your agency put an implant in your uterus. Do your superiors know you’re not the femme fatale you’re supposed to be?”
I look away from him, refusing to answer that question. My sex life, or lack thereof, is none of his damn business! The thing is, though, my superiors don’t know. Whenever I was back in the States, my seduction teacher used to tell me to hit the clubs. She said one-night stands were my homework. I constantly lied to her about my sexual escapades. Somehow, it was just easier to stay home and be by myself. If I wanted, my fingers could bring me gratification.
“I’m assuming they don’t know,” he murmurs, taking a sip of coffee.
Smug jackass! I avoid looking at him and instead study my plate. I take a bite of toast. How does he know so much? How does he know about my training and my implant?
“Since I have so little to work with, I suppose all I can really talk about is your first and only lover, Steven. You told me you were eighteen when you met him, but I’m guessing you met him on your eighteenth birthday and it was at a party, wasn’t it? A very elaborate party your parents and teachers put together?”
I don’t say anything. I just swallow a bite of egg.
“Let’s see if I can guess your evening.” His confident tone suggests he’s not really guessing. “Steven was introduced to you by one of your teachers. He was attractive, in the military and considerably older than you, at least by a decade if not more, which you probably found intriguing.
“Everyone at the party made sure you two spent the entire evening dancing together and in between songs, a parent or teacher would give you a glass of champagne and wish you a happy birthday.
“And then, around midnight or so, whenever you started stumbling a bit from the champagne, you and Steven were ushered into the back of a limo before arriving at a five-star hotel. By then, I’m sure you were so inebriated you probably couldn’t walk without assistance. But it didn’t matter because Steven was right there to help you up to your suite. And unlike you, he knew exactly what was going on. Am I correct?”
I refuse to willingly answer his question, but I think he already knows he’s right. I’m annoyed with his attitude. To me, that evening was always very special.
My parents even had a gown made just for that party. My parents and teachers called it my eighteenth dress, which I thought at the time was kinda odd because my older sister didn’t have an eighteenth gown nor did any of my classmates. The dress was made of several yards of white satin and tulle. Crystals and beads beautifully adorned the hem and bodice.
That floor-length gown, along with the crystal tiara, made me feel like a princess.
He’s making it sound as if there was something wrong with that party…though I wasn’t too crazy about what Steven and I did in our hotel suite. But every girl’s first time is a little unpleasant…at least, that’s what I’ve been told.
“I’m sure your teachers just assumed he would be a skilled lover because he was older. I guess they don’t test for that.”
“You are twisting this all around,” I declare, inexplicably fighting back tears. I’m not even sure why I’m so upset. He has the uncanny ability to push just the right buttons.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“So there’s absolutely no truth in what I’m saying, American?”
I can’t bring myself to answer. I think he understands what my silence means.
“I’m a little surprised Steven continued a relationship with you after the party. You weren’t supposed to see him again after that night, though…a lovely submissive can be addictive.”
A lovely submissive?
“We go back to your early childhood now. Did you have brothers and sisters growing up or were you an only child?”
That question actually stings. I’m the youngest of three children. The oldest is my brother, Mark, and I also have an older sister named Victoria. Before I started school, we were all friends. My siblings used to let me tag along with them when they went to the mall. Sometimes, my brother would even give me piggyback rides.
But something happened to us shortly after my parents came into the money. My siblings grew cold toward me, even cruel, and I never knew why.
“I can tell by your expression that you did have siblings.”
I feel I’m unwillingly revealing too much. I didn’t intend to tell him anything.
“Your siblings weren’t chosen. I can see that in your eyes. You were the special one, the one your parents doted over. Very few are accepted in the program you were in. You most likely received gifts from teachers and other parents. Your siblings grew to hate you, jealous of the attention you received. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them even attacked you.”
Everything he’s saying is syncing up with events in my life. As a child, I was showered with small gifts on a near daily basis. Just as he said, they were gifts from teachers and other parents. It was always just little things, like a box of crayons or a sheet of stickers or a refrigerator magnet. It was never anything major, but the trinkets were just enough to label me as special and rub my siblings and classmates the wrong way.
One night, I vaguely remember my father whispering to my brother, “Why couldn’t you score the same as Isabel did on those tests?” At the time, Mark was fourteen. I was seven.
Later that same evening, my brother attacked me with a kitchen knife. I still have a long scar across my lower back from that night. My father pulled him off me and beat him nearly to death for it. My older sister, Victoria, only stood aside and watched as my mother scooped me up and rushed me to the hospital.
