Jet Angel:

Hera’s Revenge

Chapter Two

by Doc Tangent

 

Amanda Shaw stood before the bay window of her bedroom, nude in the moonlight, staring down grimly at the metropolis of New Stanton sprawling out to meet the vast, dark expanse of the Imboch River. Somewhere out there her most fiendish enemy awaited her, newly escaped from a secret government research facility, where she had volunteered to play guinea pig to escape her due punishment in the hell of Russmeyer Women’s Penitentiary. In the company of two other women, both of whom were certainly deadly as well, Hera Domitian - the self-proclaimed “Queen Bitch of Crime” - kidnapped an innocent girl and was undoubtedly subjecting her to the torments of the damned, for no reason but to send a message: “I’m back, Jet Angel. Come and get me.”
Amanda’s taut, lean gymnast’s body tensed, her hands balling into fists, her grey eyes becoming colder and colder. She was Jet Angel now, ready to meet Hera’s challenge as she always had - decisively and with a world of hurt in store for anyone who got in her way. All that remained now was the Suit.
Amanda closed the curtains, then turned and padded over to the wall panel next to her closet, which slid aside obediently to reveal the distinctive garb and weapons of Jet Angel. Amanda took a deep breath, centering herself as samurai of old would do before putting on their garments of battle, then she began the ritual.
First the boots. A modest heel, enough to accentuate her calves but not enough to interfere with acrobatics or combat, at the bottom of black thigh-high boots of a shiny, latex-like material that rolled up her calves, over her knees, to cling tightly at mid-thigh. Then the body-suit of the same material, cut like a one-piece swimsuit, form-fitting and very complimentary to her pert breasts and delicious curves - there was a small part of her, even on the job, that still delighted in this. The gloves, encasing her hands like a second skin and unrolling over her elbows to cling to her upper arms. She looked at herself in the mirror, a vision in shimmering liquid black offset by her pale skin and full auburn hair. Already she could feel the call of battle. The skin-tight material appeared to be latex, but was actually a special polymer substance that allowed her skin to breathe and provided full mobility, but would also stop bullets and other projectiles three times as efficiently as Kevlar. Shaw Industries’ chemical and engineering divisions employed only the best, and most discreet.
Amanda took down her blood-red Weapons Harness, a set of elaborate straps with a wide belt for her waist and more narrow bands to crisscross between her breasts and over her shoulders. The straps bore the various pouches and compartments that held her weapons and miniature equipment, as well as a set of shoulder pads that bore Jet Angel’s distinctively stylized wing-insignia. She then strapped her Sensor Cuff to her left wrist and her Net-launcher to her right. Finally she brought the mask to her face, felt the cool polymer mold itself to her cheeks and forehead as it settled to bond temporarily with her skin. She had insisted on this feature - too many criminals had gotten lucky and captured her over the years - that she had not yet been unmasked was only because she’d been luckier.
Jet Angel stepped back to take in the whole picture in her mirror. Everything in place and ready to roll. The ritual of dressing for battle had only taken about three minutes, but that was enough time for Amanda Shaw to step aside and allow Jet Angel to come forward. She spun on her heel and went into the enormous penthouse living room, where her assistant, Ellen, worked on the computer, trying to locate the possible whereabouts of Hera Domitian and her new accomplices. In the corner, Valerie Sing, secret agent extraordinaire, had strapped on her shoulder holsters and was pulling her black biker jacket on over her dark-blue Lycra catsuit. She stopped, lips parting as she saw Jet Angel. “Love that outfit.”
Jet Angel ignored her friend and moved to look over Ellen’s shoulder. “Find anything?”
Ellen looked up at the crimefighter over her reading classes, brushing a stray lock of light brown hair away from her face. “Nothing under her corporate identities or her private holdings, which is hardly surprising since her assets are still frozen by the government.”
“Right,” Jet Angel nodded. “And her real property?”
“I’ve checked all of her known aliases and the holding companies she used to channel money through. Again, zip.”
Jet Angel’s mouth became a tight line. “She hasn’t been able to set up any new operations since I put her away, but Hera Domitian can’t function without money. More importantly, she won’t. So where is she?” She took a second to think, then turned to Valerie. “Time to hit the street."


* * *

 

At that moment Hera Domitian was peeling off her trademark black kid-leather gloves and brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead as she looked back at the limp form of Elizabeth Baxter hanging by her wrists from the ceiling chain. The girl had passed out minutes ago, but Hera had not stopped with the riding crop until the requisite hundred strokes had been delivered. The girl’s back, belly, breasts, and thighs were crisscrossed with welts, some open.
Calamity Jane looked at the spectacle and drew in a sharp hissing breath. “Feelin any better now, Hera?”
Hera shrugged. “It was good - educating these spoiled brats always is - but not great. Not as deeply satisfying as it will be once I have Jet Angel.”
“You hate the bitch that much?” Jane pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from behind her left ear and scratched a match across the sole of her boot to light it.
“Jane, my dear,” Hera’s eyes were bright and feral. “Hate is not the word. The people whom I hate I have killed. Once Jet Angel falls into my hands I plan to make her pay for every one of her outrages against me with a strip of her damned hide, but I won’t kill her, not for a while. I mean to return to power in this city, and the one irrefutable way to do that will be to march into an assemblage of all the underworld figures on this coast with Jet Angel crawling beside me on the end of a leash.”
“Damn,” Jane drew out the word around her cigarette. “Then what exactly do ya need me and Fixer for?”
“Aside from the deep appreciation I have for your part in our untimely release from that government freak factory, the two of you are going to provide me with the leverage to crack New Stanton wide open. Jet Angel gets us in, you and Fixer help me take over…”
Hera clapped her hands and several large, muscular men in black leather rushed in to snap to attention. She looked at them with an expression of utter contempt. “Take Miss Baxter down and clean her up, then put her in a chair. I’ll be in to while away some more of the hours with her presently.”

 

* * *

 

Floyd “Snapper” Marsden was not having a good evening. With his drooping eyes, bald sloping head, and slow way of moving and speaking, he called to mind nothing so much as a big turtle -- hence his nickname -- but right now Snapper fervently wished he had the shell to go with it as Jet Angel had him pinned to the wall of the alley behind the Blue Pelican Bar. “I have no time and less patience, Snapper,” she fixed him with her iron-grey eyes. “I know Hera’s back in town. I know she likes her henchmen big and stupid. And when I think ‘big and stupid’ I think ‘Snapper.’”
Snapper gulped against the pressure of the heroine’s forearm against his Adam’s apple. “Okay…okay…” he drawled with a voice like molasses in January, “just don’t hurt me. I’ve always done right by you, Angel.”
“Oh, hurt him a little,” Valerie smiled from her lookout position. At her feet lay the bulk of a thug who had come out of the Pelican to interfere. A lightning backfist had felled him like a tree.
“Talk now, or I take the lady up on her suggestion.” Jet Angel pressed harder. “And with me, a little hurt goes a long way.”
“Yeah… I remember last time,” Snapper closed his eyes, grimacing. “Okay, I hooked Domitian up with some boys… big leather boys… you know her type. She gave me five Gs and an address on the East side, the warehouse district. I rounded up ten guys and sent ‘em to the old Crane Industries supply dock. That’s all I got, Angel, I swear. Can you let go now?”
Jet Angel searched his heavy-lidded eyes for a moment then, satisfied that the middleman had given up all he knew, pulled her forearm back and let him slump to the filthy alley floor. “Thank you, Snapper. You’ve been most helpful.”
Snapper held a hand gingerly to his bruised throat. “Jeez, Angel. You coulda just asked.”
The heroine shrugged. “I know, Snapper. But I wanted you to have something to think about before you even consider telling Hera I’m coming.” She turned and headed back toward the street, Valerie Sing following with a low chuckle.

 

* * *

 

The Crane Industries supply warehouse squatted in the middle of the New Stanton warehouse district like a cancer, black and diseased. Most of the windows in its massive western façade had been boarded up, the other three windowless sides had become the favorite easel for street artists with free and pornographic imaginations. Crane Industries had gone belly-up in the mid-Eighties, but no new tenants had moved into the warehouse. Not officially, anyway.
Jet Angel and Valerie Sing made their way silently along the windowed wall, senses alert, bodies taut in anticipation of trouble. Beneath a window with a break in the boards the obsidian-clad heroine held up a hand and her companion froze. Both had been taught well in the arts of infiltration. Jet Angel opened the face of the Sensor Cuff on her left wrist and pulled out two tiny leads on microfilaments, gently pushing them into the space between the boards. Then she activated the tiny bank of liquid-crystal screens and readouts on her wrist as they registered the information gathered by the sensor leads.
Jet Angel leaned in so her lips just brushed Valerie’s ear. “Fourteen bodies inside the building - that’d be our three targets, ten hired goons, and Liz Baxter. Seven in the front section of the warehouse, seven in the back. Large energy emission coming from the back, and a lot of movement, so I’m assuming that’s where your top-secret thingamajigs must be.”
Valerie leaned in to reply, taking a quick nip on Jet Angel’s earlobe. “Got it. I’ll take the rear entrance and do some damage. You go in the front way and rescue the damsel in distress.”
The heroine nodded and whispered, “Two things. Never bite me while I’m working, and no killing.”
“I’m not making any promises,” Valerie said as she started toward the corner of the building, “on either.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, y’all be careful with that!” Calamity Jane bellowed as two of Domitian’s leather-clad goons struggled to slide a heavy console into place beside the bank of futuristic equipment that filled one wall of the room. “That ain’t a haybale, y’know!”
Jane pushed her cowboy hat back on her head and surveyed the room. Lit like an operating room - which it was, in effect -- the warehouse space was a mad scientist’s wet dream. Computers, a full biochemical lab setup, and one massive angled operating table in the middle of the floor - millions of dollars worth of equipment that Hera Domitian had somehow conjured up as if by magic. Vera Pozner, lab coat on over her midriff tank top and black bicycle shorts, smiled beatifically as each new gadget was installed. Jane preferred Pozner like this, the cheerful scientist - Pozner’s other self gave Jane the shivers ‘n shits.
Jane opened her mouth to bark another caution at the goons when suddenly there was a crash from beyond the door to the loading dock. Her nickel-plated sixgun flew into her hand and she rushed to the door, throwing it open and staring straight down the barrel of Valerie Sing’s Glock.
“Well well,” Val grinned. “If it isn’t my favorite rodeo clown.”
Jane’s eyes matched the sheer hatred in her voice: “Sing!”
“Right the first time, Jane.” Val stepped forward, backing Jane into the lab. Beyond the agent, Jane could see the four henchmen who were supposed to be guarding the dock, unconscious in a black leather pile. “Drop the cap gun, Kozlowski, or I’ll forget the part where I’m supposed to take you alive.”
“DON’T YOU CALL ME THAT!” Jane screeched, bringing up the gun. Val pivoted and slammed her free hand down on Jane’s wrist hard. The sixgun clattered to the floor and Jane backed away, holding her wrist. She spat at Valerie, “Yer gonna pay fer that, bitch!”
“Blah blah blah,” Valerie muttered as the two remaining goons closed in on her. She ducked under one massive swinging paw, driving her boot into the back of the first goon’s knee. As he went down, she slammed her elbow into the second one’s solar plexus, doubling him over. Her pistol cracked into the backs of both skulls and the goons were out of the picture. The fight had taken less than three seconds and Valerie spun on Jane and Vera Pozner, covering them again. “Now where were -“
Her words were cut off by the spectacle taking place beyond Calamity Jane. Pozner had shed her lab coat and the blond woman was… growing. The Lycra exercise gear began to expand as Pozner’s body gained a foot, now two feet in height, muscles popping out and rippling over her now-massive body. The intelligence Val had glimpsed on Pozner’s face was gone now as the woman’s voice deepened into incoherent animalistic growls, eyes sunk into her face, teeth gnashing with inchoate fury. As the behemoth began to advance on Valerie Sing, the agent couldn’t help but notice a profound bulge in the woman’s (?) crotch. She felt a cold pang of stark terror.
“Whoa there, butch.” Val began to back away, leveling her pistol, which seemed awfully inadequate now. “I don’t know what you are, but I will shoot you.”
“Go ahead, Sing,” Jane grinned horribly. “Shoot ‘er. Or better yet, do that there kung-fu shit on ‘er. See where it gets ya.”
Val’s eyes hardened as she sighted down the barrel and squeezed off three shots at the charging thing. She could see the slugs impact, but the Pozner-beast didn’t even flinch. It closed in, swiping at Val with surprising speed and catching her a glancing blow that sent her spinning into the wall. The Glock flew from her fingers to slide across the floor.
Scrambling to find breathing room, Val ducked another swipe and reached for her second gun. Suddenly she felt something close over her left wrist. She looked down and saw the end of a long piece of hemp rope wrapping itself around her gun wrist like a snake. The free end of the rope trailed back to Calamity Jane, who smiled malevolently at the agent and said to the Pozner-beast, “Ease up there, Fixer. I got ‘er now.”
The lariat pulled hard to the side of its own accord, yanking Val’s gun arm out to smash against the wall. Her second gun dropped uselessly. Val grabbed the rope on her wrist with her free hand to loosen it, and the lariat quickly wrapped around that wrist as well, pulling her hands together and binding them securely.
“How the hell are you doing this?!” Val snapped as she struggled in vain. Jane’s only answer was that damned grin as the lariat’s free end suddenly zipped between Val’s legs, drawing her bound hands to her crotch. The rope began wrapping itself tightly around Valerie’s arms at waist and chest, above and below her breasts, cinching them painfully.
Jane watched as the rope flashed down to wrap Val’s ankles, tripping her to crash on the concrete floor. “Ya like my li’l ole rope trick? Somethin’ I learned in the pokey, just like Vera learned her act.” She knelt beside Val, squirming in the seeming miles of rope that now cinched her ankles, knees, and thighs. “Thank t’you I learned all kinds o’tricks. I’m gonna enjoy showin’em to ya, bitch.”
Val glared up at Jane. “Tricks, huh? I’m sure they’ll impress the folks back in Passaic, New Jersey, Jane Kozlowsmmmmpph!” She was cut off by the bandanna Jane had whipped off her neck and stuffed deeply between her teeth. An obedient coil of rope slithered between Val’s lips and tightened around her head, holding the wad inside.
I told ya, cunt.” Jane stood up over her squirming captive. “Don’t call me that.” She scowled and the lariat tightened, coils digging into Val’s breasts and crotch, evoking a muffled moan of pain from the agent. “Fixer, take Agent Sing up front. I been watchin’ Hera play with her society filly long enough. Now I got me somethin’ t’play with…”
Val struggled as the behemoth called Fixer hefted her bound form over her shoulder. These bitches had powers! They’d taken her down like a rank amateur. She squirmed harder, searching for some kind of give in her bonds, some way to warn Jet Angel about the trouble into which she was leaping blindly…

 

 


To be continued…