W & Little D 02

WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age of 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

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CHAPTER TWO

On the Trail of Evil

I had just gotten to my car when a text came into my phone. It was from Sis and said simply, “Burner Fibonacci 20 Single.”

It wouldn’t take the Agency more than a few minutes to figure out that code, but first the message had to be sent to the proper people. That meant I had about five minutes to make the call. The code, which I had taught Sis many years ago, was simple. A Fibonacci sequence is a mathematical structure where the next number is the sum of the previous two numbers. Single meant to only use the final part of each number. Usually I use it to create a semi-random long number that I can easily remember, like for a password. In this case, Sis was using it to tell me a special phone number. She had to have planned for something like this a long time ago.

With a starting number of 20, the full sequence was 2-0-2-2-4-6-(1)0-6-6-(1)2, so the number Sis wanted me to call was 202-246-0662. I drove about ten blocks to make sure I was on a real tower and not an Agency sniffer and then pulled over and called the number. I used a burner phone that I had in a special compartment beneath the glove box.

Sis immediately answered the phone. “Oh God, W,” she said. She wasn’t quite crying, but I could hear the quiver in her voice. “How bad is it?”

“They left a naked picture of her,” I said flatly, “and a message that there were things worse than death.”

“They have her!” Sis wailed. “They have her! Find her for me, W! Please, you don’t know what these people are like!”

“What people?” I said curtly, and Sis replied, suddenly becoming calm, “It’s a cartel of world-wide sex traffickers. Normally Teddy Bear and I work scientific intelligence. Usually it’s in a nice little office complex in Alexandria, or sometimes in embassies around the world. But because of our special traits, we were asked to infiltrate a BDSM sex scene here in Germany.”

“Let me guess,” I said, “you are a Mistress and Theodore… Teddy Bear… is a sub.”

There was a long pause before she said, “Yes.” Then she quickly added, “I didn’t want you to know.”

“Sis,” I said almost angrily, “you know the kind of work I do. Did you think I would judge you or be angry?”

“No,” she said wearily, “I just didn’t want to crush your image of your sweet little sister.”

I could hear her take a deep breath and then she said, very firmly, “Do you have anything we could use to find her?”

“Pricker told me my help wasn’t needed,” I said curtly.

“Agent Bricker is the one who convinced Ted and me to do this op,” Sis said flatly. “He said we would just be providing surface intelligence and there would be no real danger to us or our family.”

“There’s a reason his fellow agents call him Pricker,” I said, a little more harshly than I intended.

“Can you do an independent investigation?” she asked. Her voice was once again cracking slightly.

“I have my own means,” I replied. “And my own sources. I will see what I can do.”

“Thank you, W,” Sis said softly. “I knew my big brother could save the day.”

I wasn’t as sure of that as she was, but I said, “I’ll try,” and ended the call.

I got out of the car and put the burner phone under the car right up against the front tire. Then I drove off. Sis had a lot more faith in my ability to do anything than I did, but I did have one very important piece of information that the spooks probably didn’t have– or didn’t recognize the significance of. I saw the shark fin etched into the stainless steel pipe that the cutter nozzle rode on. I knew that logo. That custom device was built by James Finnegan, known in the trade as Finn.



I contacted a friend of mine in London. He is a true friend, and I won’t mention his name, but he picked me up at the airport and took me to his house. In his garage– they call it a garage in the UK, but pronounce it GAR’-raj or something like that. Anyway, in his garage was a Triumph Street Triple RS motorcycle. It was registered to a fake name, but it had all the legal tags, title, and insurance in that name. I know a car might be faster and safer, but when the shit hits the fan, too many Americans, possibly even me, forget that you are supposed to drive on the left side of the road. A motorcycle means I don’t have to contend with being a right-side driver, so I can react a lot faster and better if needed.

Finn’s Fetish Factory Funhouse was located down in the East End of London. It’s not one of the best– or safest– areas in London, but they are desperate for anything that might help the area, so Finn was able to purchase an old factory for the right price with an adjacent, enclosed, car park. Security men and women were everywhere around it.

From the front it looks like a gentrified factory building remodeled for flats. There is a double-wide front door with a long canopy supported on bright silver poles that reaches almost out to the street. On the front of the canopy it says simply, “Finn’s.”

When you enter that door, there is a host’s desk and a maitre d’. Beyond them is a large, well-decorated dining area. Finn’s has a Michelin Guide rating of three stars. Many of the people enjoying the haute cuisine have no idea that two floors above them is an erotic BDSM night club. The second floor, which isolates the restaurant from any of the noise of the club, is living quarters for Finn and several members of his security force.

“Do you have a reservation?” the receptionist asked politely.

“No,” I answered, “I’m here to see Mister Finnegan.