Prodigal's Return. James Axler
a.m. I guess even New York can have its quiet times. There’s the odd cabbie in sight, but little action. But action‘s exactly what this man’s looking for, and I plan on giving it to him.
He pulls into a parking lot outside of an old warehouse. Everyone knows the general atmosphere of the meatpacking district. For crack dealers and runaways it’s a haven amid the streets’ reality, but for guys like my john it brings a whole new meaning to hanging meat.
The Hudson’s proximity lingers in the air, reminding me of the uncomplimentary reputation this area has come to possess with its history of criminal activity, where strangers seek solace in an abandoned corner of the city. The only remote sign of humanity, in a very generous definition, is the flock of hookers hanging out along the docks. This is a world far removed from Lower Manhattan, yet for someone decked out in Wall Street gear this man sure feels at home.
When he turns off the ignition, I wait for his movements before exiting the car. He’s taller than I first noticed, and his walk is swift and rigid. Out of sight from catcalling workers, busy on the end of the night shift, my john maintains his focus on getting me indoors and to himself. Just as I suspected he would.
I follow him closely and when I reach his side, he grabs the back of my neck, guiding me into an entrance. With one hand, I reach to my necklace and feel the pendant resting against my throat. It’s safely in place.
Inside the deserted warehouse, the man pushes me against the concrete wall. His force is powerful, and I do as he says.
He gestures while demanding, “Take off your shirt.”
Though his voice at first sounds soft and almost gentle, it has depth to it, as though he is hiding years of being held in subordinate corporate disrespect. It’s as though only now, here in this dark place, he is able to reach beyond his station in that other world, where bottom lines and cocktail parties regulate his worth.
I slide my blouse over my head and toss it to the side, careful not to disturb my pendant. With an aggressive shove, he presses his face into my neck, biting at my skin. I feel little shots of pain, but remain calm.
This place smells like death and urine.
It’s disgusting. Evidence of this man’s previous engagements are sparsely scattered throughout, proving he is no ladies’ man. The floors are caked in mud, blood and piss, and I have to breathe conservatively to keep focused.
Rapidly, he scrapes his teeth against my flesh, biting into my bra to access my nipples. He won’t be getting away with more than that today.
He holds me against the hard surface of the stained, worn wall. With his eyes intent on my body and one hand placed on my head, he pushes me down so that I am eye level with his crotch.
I’ve never wanted to chomp down on something so badly.
“Do it,” he says, unzipping his slacks. His voice is threatening, yet defensive, as though part of him cannot believe the words coming from his own lips. “And no spitting.”
My pulse is quickening. I can feel my own heartbeat as I try not to struggle against his restraints. When I see his trademark tattoo, I know I’m in the right place at the right time. However much he might vacillate, hot one moment and cold the next, this man’s final actions speak volumes about his struggle for power.
This shouldn’t be taking so long.
“Open your mouth, bitch!” As if to emphasize his words, he slams the back of his hand against my face.
I instinctively fight back, scrambling to my feet to elbow him in the stomach. As I grab hold of his head and knock it against the cement wall, he fumbles for my hair and, with it, pulls my face close to his. His inner contradiction is officially over.
“You gonna do what I say or do I have to make it easier on you?” His two hands are cradling my neck, and I know that, with one quick twist, he could garner some animalistic satisfaction.
My eyes speak for me as I contain myself, and he licks the creased corner of his lips with pleasure as one of his manicured hands reaches behind him, only to return to my face, revealing an unusual weapon. He playfully slides the edge of his knife, unique with its hook-like point, down past my cleavage, and I brace myself, knowing this is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
My nervous perspiration feeds into his needs and, content with my display of fear, he slides me back into position, all the while keeping the knife’s edge within an inch of my flesh.
I feel the skin of my knees wear against the friction of my latex-enhanced boots as I dutifully kneel on the pavement. He shoves his hips into my face, and I am fragments of an inch away from the infamous inked image of Zeus.
His moaning begins even before I move toward him. Leaning in closer, I slowly slide one hand into the lining of my thigh-high boot and feel the trigger of my Bauer .25. The man moves his groin into my face and I prepare to pull out the pistol.
“Put your hands up!”
As I hear the familiar voice from a cluttered corner of the warehouse, my blood ignites. With a sweep, I grab hold of the john’s legs, tripping him to the floor to unleash his grasp on the knife, and aim my gun at his dick.
“You foreign bitch! You set me up!” Although he wriggles in my grip, having his crotch as my target keeps him in place.
With one eyebrow raised, I coyly lean forward and say, “The only thing foreign to me, pal, is how you’ve been able to get away with your bullshit for so long. You got a thing for raping and gutting immigrant prostitutes? Not anymore. Your last victim gave away your trademark, Zeus.”
As I wrestle the man into place, I look to my mentor. “It’s about time, Cain.”
Approaching with his casual slouch, the old pro winks at me. “You wanna work the big time? Then you do it my way, Angie. I run the schedule. No matter whose dick is in your mouth.”
“Very funny.”
“Hey,” Cain says with innocence, as though he had little choice in the matter, “we couldn’t make a move on Zeus until we saw that knife. You know that, right? We had to be sure.”
I know he’s right, but his candor doesn’t rub me well. With drops of blood sticking my skin to the lining of my boots, I return my focus to the perp.
Once the man’s wrists are cuffed, I lean into his body before standing him up. Baring my teeth, I bite close enough to his face to make him wince, but far enough to keep my safety. For fun, I ask in German if he understands me. “Verstehen Sie?”
He starts in on a foulmouthed protest, but I bring a finger to my lips and calmly say, “Shh. You really should work on your manners.”
He spits in my face, and I don’t wipe it off.
“That’s no way to treat a lady,” I say, settling my eyes on his. “Especially one who’s a federal agent. Asshole.”
Two arresting suits take the captive from me, and only now do I wipe off the man’s saliva.
“Hey, that’s evidence,” Cain jokes as I turn to face him. “Angie, kiddo. Do you have to get so riled up? He wasn’t going anywhere. Not with this entourage.”
“Well, what the hell took you so long? This thing not working?” I pull the pendant from my neck. “Or do you just like to hear me suffer?”
“You really want an answer to that?”
I chuck my pendant at Cain, and he picks the small, clear piece from its backing. The temporary wire is good for forty-eight hours, but it didn’t seem to bring me much benefit in these last few minutes of socializing with my first assigned infamous criminal.
“Relax, Angie. You did good. We’ve been tracking this Zeus freak for some time, but it took you and your interchangeable nationality to nab him. You’ll do just fine here in New York.”
Cain tosses me my recently earned, gold FBI identification badge and a paper