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
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