by marat
Chapter Nine
Fareed
Gouyannou’s gaze moved slowly between the two police officers tied before him.
Around him, his men provided a whirlwind of activity, laying in the ambush he
hoped would eliminate Crimson Flare once and for all.
Maria Blakeman
and Tim Westbrook were tightly secured to the wooden chairs placed near the
centre of the back wall in the now bare ballroom. Their wrists and forearms
were bound to the armrests, immobilized; their ankles and calves secured similarly
to the thick, heavy legs of their seats. In addition, thick rope had been
wrapped a round their torsos, tying them to the upright backs of the chairs;
and finally, one final stretch was looped around the neck of each prisoner and
dropped to a wooden support that ran crosswise between the rear legs. Tim
Westbrook slumped, only slightly conscious of his circumstances, his bruised
face hanging low toward his chest. His eyes reduced to narrow slits, it was
impossible to tell whether he was even sneaking a glance toward the powerful
gang lord who stood only three meters in front of him. Though conscious, he was
only vaguely aware of what was going on around him.
Still wearing
her clinging, provocative black catsuit, Maria Blakeman’s fury was evident,
though tempered by a well-founded fear. She knew the ruthlessness that
Gouyannou was capable of, but, as a police officer, she wouldn’t allow him to
destroy her dignity. She stared straight ahead, not looking him in the eyes,
her jaw set.
‘You should be
very pleased with yourself,’ Gouyannou said slowly, mostly to Maria. ‘It’s very
difficult for a police officer to get a private audience with me.’ One of
Gouyannou’s men finished stretching a thin metallic sheet across the floor in
front of the prisoners. He looked up at his boss, who disinterestedly waved him
away. He moved quickly from view.
‘I don’t think
we’re the only police you’ve met with privately.’ Maria looked around the room
for Bruce Sealing, but she didn’t find him.
‘Eh? Oh, that
type serves their purpose. They’re small potatoes.’
‘I suspect we’re
no different.’
‘That’s true.
However, your usefulness is much more immediate, and of much greater import.’
He smiled broadly. ‘You’re going to bring me Crimson Flare.’
Maria wasn’t
totally surprised by the criminal’s statement. She had figured that she and Tim
served the purpose of baiting a trap. ‘Are you sure she’ll come back for us.
After all, aren’t we “small potatoes”, too?’
‘Not to her.’
‘If that’s true,
maybe you won’t want to have to deal with Crimson Flare again.’
‘We’ll be ready
for her when she arrives.’
*****
Slowly Crimson
Flare drew herself out of unconsciousness. She groaned.
‘What happened?’
she heard a familiar voice ask.
She opened her
eyes and saw her blonde friend looming over her, sitting on the edge of the bed
on which she herself was lying.
‘What happened?’
Lynn asked again.
Oooohhhhh, god.
That was terrifying.’ The heroine, her strength now fully restored, pushed
herself up.
‘What.
Happened?’ Lynn seemed to be getting impatient.
The heroine drew
a breath before she spoke. ‘It was like I had no strength whatsoever. A child…
an infant.’ She wet her lips and swallowed.
‘Before, when my
wrists were tied, it was like I was what I guess was a normal woman. I could
walk, even resist my captors. Not well, not very effectively, but I had some
strength. But this time! When I realised how weak I was, I… I panicked. I… I
got scared, Lynn.’
‘You collapsed
and fainted. Was that from your fear and shock or was it…?’ Lynn didn’t want to
finish the thought.
Crimson Flare
looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. ‘I don’t know. Maybe both.’
There was
silence in the room for a full minute. Then the heroine said what was on their
minds. ‘How can I help Maria? If I get captured, I won’t even be able to use
the claw.’
‘The extremes
are… broadened. The height of your strength and the depth of your weakness have
been extended,’ Lynn said slowly.
‘What?’
‘The change that
Chan created has broadened the spectrum of your strength. And the lack of it. You
are stronger… I saw it when you were getting dressed. It wasn’t just the
self-assurance I saw in you; there was more power there. It was in the way you
moved; evidence of the containment of potential. It wasn’t just a psychological
change. There’s more power contained in that small body of yours. That’s the
plus side.
‘But the
negative effect is that you’re also weaker than you were, once your wrists are
bound.’
‘I was strong
enough to bend metal, like the door at Cos’ warehouse. Does this mean that…?’
‘It should be
easier for you. But do you remember telling me how they captured you by
gradually wearing you down in the fight there—the gas, the blindness, the
blows?’
‘Yes.’
‘My guess is,
now it’ll take much more of that to bring you down. You’ll be able to withstand
much greater punishment before you feel effects from that kind of combat.’
‘But once they
capture me, and bind my wrists, I’ll be weaker.’
‘Probably. Much
weaker.’
There was some
concern in Crimson Flare’s voice as she said, ‘I won’t be able to use the claw.
I won’t be able to escape.’
‘Maybe. Your
reaction just now may have been to the depth of the weakness you felt, rather
than the actual weakness itself. Your lack of strength might have been so much
greater than you’ve been used to experiencing that the panic that gripped you
wouldn’t let you respond. You may have the strength to do the small act of
cutting away the ropes. You probably do. It may take longer; you may have a
greater sense of fatigue while you’re doing it. But you’ll probably be able to
eventually cut your way free.’
‘Then it’s
really important that the claw remain secret.’
‘It’s the only
thing about you that hasn’t turned up on CRIMNET,’ Lynn said, referring to the
collection of blogs and websites created by Mitropoulos’ underworld. ‘It’s
still secret.’
There was a long
silence as the two friends considered the significance of what they now
believed to be true.
‘All of this is
pure speculation, of course,’ Lynn said. ‘We don’t know whether any of
it is true. We won’t know anything until we do some testing.’
‘In the
meantime, Gouyannou has Maria,’ Crimson said, rising to her feet.
*****
In the early
morning light, the McLeod-Slaughter Mansion looked like the crumbling symbol of
Mitropoulos gentility that it was: overgrown weeds on the lawn nearest the
roadway and clear evidence of peeling paint on its scarred front. But the
newly-installed iron fence and steel bars protecting the first- and
second-floor windows that Gouyannou had put in place demonstrated that refurbishment
had begun.
Crimson Flare
stared out at the building from the copse of trees across the street. In her
mind she ran through the interior layout of the rooms as well as she could
remember, and as well and she and Lynn could reconstruct it. There was no
movement around the front of the headquarters of Fareed Gouyannou. But the
security cameras, she knew, were operating.
The Champion of
Mitropoulos felt an emptiness in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth was dry as
she moved quickly along the trees near the edge of the woods.
*****
‘There’s
movement in the trees across the street, sir.’
Gouyannou was
pacing in hallway on the second floor of the mansion when the security chief
told him, matter-of-factly, that his wait was over. He didn’t have to ask for
any more information.
Speaking into
his walkie-talkie, he ordered, ‘Get ready.’
*****
Crimson Flare
sprinted from the woods across the street and leapt easily over the newly
installed security fence. As she landed gently on the lawn, she felt a greater
confidence in her new power. She was stronger!
The heroine
moved quickly to the house, climbing, at last, the short stairway to the patio.
Closed French doors and drawn curtains behind the glass faced outward to the
bare flagstones that lay open to the brightening sky. Behind those draperies,
she knew, was the great house’s ballroom, the site of her earlier humiliation.
She moved swiftly and almost soundlessly along the garden façade, gathering
assurance with each passing second. She hoped that Lynn’s plan would succeed.
Near the rear of
the house was a service entrance that formerly had been mainly used by
musicians who provided entertainment at the lavish parties that had been common
features of high living in Mitropoulos society. Inside, Lynn had told her, she
would find herself in the stairwell at the back of the ballroom, a stairwell
that led to the cells on the lower levels.
She eased the
door open.
‘Welcome,
Crimson Flare.’ Gouyannou’s voice came clearly through the curtain from the
ballroom. ‘Please, join us in the ballroom. I hope you remember where it is.’
She strode
through the narrow entry and saw the bound figures of Maria Blakeman and Tim
Westbrook. The black-garbed policewoman alternately stared defiantly at the
gangland chieftain, who stood about halfway across the large dance space in the
ballroom, and fearfully at the heroine. By this time, cloth gags had been
placed on the prisoners, so that any sounds they offered up were muffled. Maria
tried to warn the masked Maiden of the trap she knew was about to be sprung.
Westbrook’s head still hung low toward his chest. It was unclear whether he was
even conscious.
Behind each of
the prisoners stood one of Gouyannou’s henchmen, armed with a large pistol.
They did not look at Crimson Flare, but rather their gaze was fixed on their
boss, as if awaiting a signal from him.
The Champion of
Women stopped a few paces from the curtained entry. With her feet about
shoulder-width apart, she settled comfortably into a prepared stance, balled
fists resting on top of her hips, staring directly at her nemesis. ‘All right,
Gouyannou, you obviously want me here. Now that you have me, you can let them
go!’
‘Oh, but my
dear, heroine. Nothing is so easy as it seems. When you were last here, I had
the clear advantage over you. Now, these two represent the only advantage that
remains to me. Why would I give that up?
‘Place that…
baton… on the floor. Then take several steps away from it. Leave it lying
behind you. If you refuse, I shall have one of the prisoners shot.’
Crimson Flare
drew her weapon from its holster. She briefly looked at it, then stooped and
almost noiselessly placed the hard metal object on the wooden floor. She
straightened up and took three paces toward Gouyannou.
As Crimson Flare
faced down the overlord of Mitropoulos crime, another of his thugs slipped from
the shadows behind the heroine. He moved quickly, silently, to the baton, and
waited.
‘Now, Crimson
Flare,’ Gouyannou said, his voice much harsher than it had been, ‘we can talk.’
‘The only thing
we have to talk about,’ the Champion of Mitropoulos said evenly, ‘is the
release of those prisoners.’ She took another small step toward him.
‘I think we can
discuss a great deal more. For instance, where are the materials I sent you for
earlier?’
‘They are still
safely at police headquarters.’
‘There, you see?
That’s what I mean.’ Gouyannou was no longer speaking just to the heroine. ‘I
can’t trust anyone to follow orders. Here, I thought this… this vigilante…
would follow my directions to the letter, and I find myself bitterly
disappointed. If you can’t trust a junkie to follow an order, who can you
trust?’
As chuckling
emerged from around the room, Crimson Flare recognised the number of Fareed
Gouyannou’s thugs who were watching the unfolding drama. She took another,
smaller, step toward the drug lord.
‘Your sarcasm is
below your usual level of humour, Gouyannou,’ she said. ‘I can remember once
when you were being challenged by a new drug supplier—an immigrant from Latin
America. You arranged for the police to find his body in a movie theatre. You
had Scarface being run when they arrived.’
There was a
brief silence in the room, almost as if the room itself had caught its breath.
Then, the man said slowly, ‘I… had nothing to do… with that.’ Gouyannou’s
lieutenants chuckled again. That was, after all, the official story.
When the masked
beauty took another step forward, the tips of her highly polished black boots
were now at the edge of a dull metallic sheet that covered the floor directly
in front of the seated prisoners. At about three meters square, it neatly
filled the space between Gouyannou, the bound policemen, and their rescuer. In
the semi-darkness of the ballroom, the smooth, unreflective surface was almost
invisible. Crimson Flare was unaware of
its presence, and even if she had perceived it, she would not have marked it of
any significance. Behind her, the tall muscular hoodlum now bent down and
silently picked up her baton. He continued to await his boss’s orders.
‘Obviously, we understand
one another perfectly,’ Gouyannou said, his tone once again more friendly. ‘I
know that I have lost the control that I had over you. You know that I know
that. And I… well, let’s just say that we’re a knowledgeable couple.’
‘Are you going
to release your hostages?’ Crimson Flare asked directly, her voice firm. She
was wearying of Gouyannou’s games.
‘Since you are
so direct,’ said the gangland chieftain, ‘I will oblige in kind: No.’
Crimson Flare
immediately strode purposefully forward, toward the bound captives. As soon as
her lustrous boots touched the dull sheen of the material covering the floor in
front of her, she froze in place, held there by a powerful electromagnetic
force generated from the mansion’s auxiliary generators. The massive electrical
charge that coursed through her body caused intense pain, and the masked Maiden
of Mitropoulos first grunted and then, briefly, shouted out in her agony.
Unable to move, the powerful Champion of Women dug down deep for her reserves
of strength.
But at almost
the same moment, Fareed Gouyannou’s henchman, who stood behind her, holding her
baton, suddenly whipped the weapon out to its full length and jammed it into
the small of her back. The powerful electric charge generated by Crimson
Flare’s greatest weapon shook her to the very core of her being. The
combination of these two electrical forces, one pouring from the newly
installed turbines housed in the basement, the second a much sharper and more
focused pain rolling like a bolt of lightening from her own baton, tortured the
heroine unimaginably. She shrieked in her agony, bringing a smile to Fareed
Gouyannou. Desperate to reach the prisoners, she struggled to find the strength
to pull herself from where the mat held her in place.
Crimson Flare managed
a few steps across the fabric, sparks erupting from beneath her glittering
boots each time she managed to take a small stride. After she had staggered
only a few paces, her step slowed, and finally stopped altogether. The Defender
of Mitropoulos groaned loudly as she swayed in agony. She tried in vain to take
one more step toward the bound captives.
Maria Blakeman
wept as she saw the heroine reach out in blind pain. The policewoman seemed to
understand that Crimson Flare’s defeat was imminent.
More of
Gouyannou’s men rushed toward the Champion, surrounding the mat that was the
source of her pain. All they had to do now was wait.
The hulking
figure that held her baton thrust it once again into the small of the masked
Maiden’s back. This time she made no sound. The pain that gripped her body was
too intense to allow for that.
She swayed for
only a brief moment, and then dropped forward onto the dull metallic tarp that
had held her in place, defeating even her increased strength. As her body
struck the floor, a shower of blue, yellow, and white sparks shot up from
beneath her body, which convulsed as the electrical power of two new generators
poured through her. The sequins covering her costume reflected the colours
brilliantly, if only for the brief seconds that they hung in the air around her
form. Eventually, the shuddering ceased and the Champion of Women lay still in
the midst of her enemies. Unconsciousness had come as a blessed relief to the
masked crimefighter.
Fareed Gouyannou
smiled as he walked toward the unmoving figure of his greatest enemy. ‘Lights!’
he ordered. In an instant, the ballroom was flooded with a brilliant electric
glow from the chandeliers as well as the wall fixtures that surrounded the open
floor. When the current was redirected from the matting beneath Crimson Flare
into the ballroom’s main electrical fixtures, the criminals who had remained
safely off the tarp strode forward to take control of the city’s greatest
heroine.
As they lifted
her unconscious form from the sheet, an exultant cheer rose from the throats of
the men there assembled. This time the nemesis of Mitropoulos’ crime syndicates
had been defeated while at full strength. She had not been brought low by
chemicals, or drugs, or even by the mystic arts. In a battle of strength
against strength, Crimson Flare had been overcome by the power marshaled
against her by Fareed Gouyannou.
Fareed Gouyannou
would enjoy the fruits of his victory.
*****
And there would
be no police intrusion to rescue either hostages or heroine. As promised, Lynn
had made her call to the police regarding the goings-on at the mansion. She
indicated that there had been mysterious comings-and-goings in the vicinity of
the MacLeod-Slaughter Mansion all through the night, with odd and unexplained
noises. The police operator who had taken her call was most attentive and
helpful. He had told the ‘concerned citizen’ that the police would deal with
whatever was going on there immediately. He had then passed the report to
Commissioner Warren, who was standing over him. She, in turn, had taken it to
her office and shortly dropped the burning residue in her waste paper basket.
Upon this
assurance, Lynn had sent the single ping to notify her friend that the
police were on their way. At the mansion, it went unheard, as America’s Darling
was undergoing her trial by electricity at that very moment.
*****
Crimson Flare
lay unconscious in the centre of the ballroom floor. Two of Gouyannou’s thugs
expertly tied her wrists and ankles, then ran a thick single loop between the
two ropes that secured the masked maiden, forcing her, still unconscious, into
the severe arch of a hogtie. The large group of men stared at the now-powerless
Champion of Women. The sequins of her uniform glimmered in the bright light of the
ballroom. The red-and-gold spandex clung to her every curve like a second skin.
And the ropes that bound the masked maiden held her in a greater mortal danger
than she had ever experienced.
End of Chapter
Nine
Comments, questions, suggestions welcome:
contact the author at marat1793@comcast.net