Dangerous Liaisons

By Daniel R. Robichaud

Fighting for freedom but against what enemies?

The gorgeous beauties did not use guns and bombs, but they nevertheless held the wealthiest families hostage! Seduction was their game, and it was better than any cartridge or Molotov cocktail to destroy wealthy families. The lovely women take as much cash as they can before moving on to the next target. What's more, the families are happy to part with their riches!

The scheme has gone undetected because it is subtle, one which never relies on the same eye-catching girl twice. This Bad Girl Squad may appear pristine, but their pretty smiles and to-die-for bodies hide a deadly sting. Their black hearts belong to the ruthless organization Skorpion, and their game is part of a bid for global dominance! They have already squeezed some of the proudest families in the world, but they are not done yet.
Kinetic Force discovers the scheme while tracking an international arms dealer peddling Skorpion's munitions. This dangerous plot draws a Kinetic Force squad on the trail of a ruthless Skorpion mastermind. Their journey will take them across Europe and ultimately off the grid.

Kinetic Force is the best of the best America has to offer, but they have never met a challenge quite like this one. It will take all their strength, all their wits, and all their courage to chase down and stop these Dangerous Liaisons!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twice Told Tales II
• Release date: Jan 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463836460

Daniel R. Robichaud

Daniel R. Robichaud has lived in southeastern Michigan, central Massachusetts and southern Texas. He is a Rhysling Award nominated poet and the author of over one hundred stories, articles and poems, which have appeared in such markets as Shroud Magazine, Rogue Worlds, Goblin Fruit, Rage of the Behemoth, Green Prints, and WritersWeekly. Daniel holds degrees in both Physics and English, and his career path has reflected these passions. In addition to his numerous writing opportunities, he has been an Igor For Hire (aka a freelance research engineer), a substitute teacher, an automation engineer, and a neurophysiology lab manager. Daniel enjoys entertaining people with his words and stories. If you enjoy a good read, why not try one of his works? You might just love them.

Book preview

Dangerous Liaisons

A Kinetic Force Adventure

By: Daniel R. Robichaud

Chapter 1

Have you ever visited a big Hollywood film set before, your majesty? asked the glad-handing producer, an oily little suit with a greedy grin and hungry eyes. Jeffe Shardik, prince of the small but prosperous nation of Montelban, admitted he had not. With other men, he would have dispensed with the your majesty nonsense and asked to be called Jef, but not this priss. Well, you are in for a treat, sir. The little man indicated a soundstage door. Today, we'll be visiting one of Sir Alfonse Stitchock's shoots. There was a name that drew Jeffe's attention. The modern master of historic suspense pictures was a world class fellow, known almost as well for his shy demeanor and classy (if macabre) sense of humor as well as his often bloodcurdling thrillers.

A new Stitchock production? Jeffe could not hide his excitement. The master of suspense had been making pictures since he was a boy. A new production was cause for celebration!

Indeed, the producer said. Wellesley is starring again. He pronounced the platinum blonde's name with a wistful sigh. It was the only response appropriate to such a silver screen goddess. She's a patriotic pin up girl who discovers a Nazi propaganda plot in pre-wartime blah, blah, blah. The glamorous good girl next door versus the forces of German darkness. All very exciting, I'm sure. The way he said it told Prince Shardik that the producer was sure of no such thing. Here was a man who was only interested in numbers, particularly income and particularly the income Shardik's family would be willing to invest in Tantamount Studios. This man, Jeffe decided, is a boor and a bore. Want to go inside?

Of course, Jeffe said. His retinue of bodyguards shuffled along behind him, wary of the surroundings. They startled when, after the producer opened the door to the set, a distinct sound of a pistol report sounded off. Their responses were quick after that, pulling the Prince into the protective center of their huddle. A woman screamed on the set, sending the bodyguards tension levels even higher.

Three more pistol reports followed, and then came a curt Cut! Finally, Stitchock's familiar bass rich voice announced, We will need to do that, again. Set it up, Curtis. Thank you, Tracy, and please find your starting mark.

The pistol had been part of a scene. Movie magic strong enough to convince the bodyguards of a threat. Truly, Jeffe thought, Alfonse Stitchock is the master of suspense!

The oily producer ushered the group inside, and guided them to an observation space. The soundstage was decorated to look like a classic dockyard. A pier stretching out toward distant blue, white sandy beach stretched out to either side like wide arms. A nineteen forties photography setup was in the shot, part of the scene, camera on tripod pointed toward a sandy hill. A couple of actors in period garb worked that equipment. Meanwhile, modern movie cameras formed an arc outside of the scene, grabbing as much coverage of the area as possible. A troupe of men, one in a long dark coat and slouch hat and two cops chatted amiably near a food cart, stuffing their faces with bagels. Among the film camera setups and crew sat a portly fellow in a strappy chair labeled DIRECTOR, whose attention remained fixed on a small monitor.

The latter fellow possessed that all too familiar face caricaturized in The New Yorker, but Jeffe had to remark, He looks so much thinner than he does on his television show.

Afraid the old boy has a little nip of stomach . . .

Whatever nip the old boy had was lost on Prince Jeffe Shardik because Stitchock called, Quiet on set. Roll cameras, and then Action! and the people who had been standing at the 1940s photography equipment called for Let's see your smile, Marnie! and from behind the sand mound she appeared, heart-shaped face surrounded by lovely long platinum blonde hair, eyelashes batting, hands folded beneath her chin and then rising toward the soundstage's sky.

Of course this blue-eyed nymph was none other than Tracy Wellesley, playing a girl called Marnie perhaps? She was radiant, with a smile that could light up an entire city if she chose to turn it on. Her lovely curves were squeezed into a tiny sailor's uniform, perfect pin-up material that emphasized the ample swell here, the delectable roundness there, the flatness between. Jeffe was reduced to speechlessness at the merest sight of her.

She's a dish, isn't she? the oily little man said. I'd love to clean that plate.

There's, Jeffe said, no need to be crass.

Sorry, your majesty.

Suddenly a shot rang out. Actually, it was a pistol in the director's hand firing toward the ceiling. One of the in-scene camera men collapsed. Tracy's perfect, gleeful face twisted into such terrified shock that Jeffe felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach and knocked the wind from him. Primitive protective instincts swelled in his breast. She then let out a blood curdling scream, as a new figure in a dark coat rushed onto the scene. He turned toward the rolling film camera and pointed a German Luger, ready to use it. Stitchock fired his own three more times into the air. The sand mound burst twice, throwing small tufts of sand into the air. Tracy shied back, playing fear with absolute conviction. The man in the coat clutched his chest. As blood flew, he collapsed into a heap, hat flying away. Tracy stared down at the corpse as the two cops ran onto the scene and stared down at the body on the pier. One of the cameras rolled along its track heading right for Tracy as she sputtered, I . . . I know that man!

And cut! Stitchock said. He coughed into a handkerchief. Very good, one and all. Let's set up for a fourth take, please. Tracy you are perfect.

Jeffe could not agree more.

Tracy said, Would you mind a few minutes, Switch? I have sand in uncomfortable places.

Of course, dear. Fifteen minutes, everyone. Larry, if you wouldn't mind setting up for the next take.

Sure thing, Switch, said a fellow in khakis, loose shirt and boat shoes. We'll be ready in five. He then addressed his team of effects people.

Tracy excused herself, slipping into a terrycloth robe and leaving for the restroom. Her stride was long, purposeful. Her legs were tanned and oiled. Each step brought out the shadows and bulges of muscles not afraid of use.

Pretty great, huh? the oily producer said. Let's go meet Switch.

Yes, Jeffe said, still glancing toward the door where Tracy had left for the moment.

The director was amiable, glad to shake hands and share a joke. As a born and raised politician, Jeffe managed not to gush like a fan when he talked with the director. Stitchock invited him to a party in the evening, and Jeffe accepted. His poise failed when a new person joined the group, asking And who is this debonair man in spats?

It was Tracy Wellesley herself. Jeffe smiled like a fool when he met her and shook her hand. The skin was soft and warm. She offered him a charmed smile and something passed between them. The newspapers would later refer to this as their meet cute, but there was no denying the spark.

At Stitchock's party, that spark would burn even further. A fuse lit, ambling toward a powder keg of affection. It could have been a setup from one of the master's own films, their falling in love. And what came after would not have been a stranger to his films either.

Prince Jeffe Shardik and Tracy Wellesley experienced a whirlwind romance. The whole world was caught up in the affair. When he proposed three short months later, she accepted with hugs. They shared a deep, passionate love that was the stuff of movie dreams and the world audience ate it up. They honeymooned in the Mediterranean, and the world watched. They rubbed elbows with nobility and stars of screen, stage, song, and print, and the world sighed with gentle jealousy. They fell deeper and deeper in love, and the world wondered how such a brilliant, pure thing could exist in a world where terror destroyed peace and extremism unleashed fiery wars of words or bombs across the globe. The Prince and his Princess were a hit, the stuff of faery tales. Unfortunately, a happily ever after was not in the cards.

Five months after his marriage, Prince Jeffe Shardik came round with a sweaty, half naked woman lying atop his also naked shape. Her fur coat and stylish sunglasses were alongside the bearskin rug beneath them. A fire crackled nearby. The woman glanced up. She was Asian with full lips, electric blue hair kept short and spiky, and exertion smeared makeup. She offered him a lusty, glaze-eyed smile. He tried to extricate himself, only to find his wrists bound by his own medallion chain. She teased one of the tender bite marks on his chest that had not been there . . . earlier. When he last remembered. His heart sank when he realized that he was sweaty as well, and the air was thick with the musk of their activity. Where am I? he asked, mouth dry. Who are you?

Don't you remember, lover? she asked. I am Grace.

No, he did not bloody well remember any such thing. He was about to ask her to untie his hands, when the doors burst open. Thank goodness for his bodyguards! But no, it was two men with cameras and victorious grins. Paparazzi.

He tried to shield his face, but the wrist chain was tethered to a steel ring dangling from a black leather dog collar around the Asian's throat. Bad boy, she said oblivious to the intrusion. Bad, bad boy. She bit him again on the chest, and the photograph made all the tabloids.

Mother's stern disapproval was terrible. Father's scowl set Jeffe's bladder to shivering. However, Tracy's frown froze his blood. I don't understand what happened, he said. There was no explaining. He had been out to dinner with some boring octogenarian German nobles, talking about radishes of all things. Then, he was waking up in an expensive hotel suite underneath a comely creature having destroyed his marriage vows.

You were drunk, Mother explained. You were high on pills. I never guessed that a Shardik would ever turn out to be a sotted philanderer!

Please, understand. They would not.

In private, as he pleaded with Tracy, she wept. Body heaving sobs, the sort that cut out the heart of any man worth the name. He apologized, he begged. In time, she forgave him. He was her Prince Charming she said, asking what she could have possibly done differently.

That ruined him for a good long week.

Her strength of character was almost deified in the papers. His lack of character was the common target of ridicule for a fortnight before other stories buried the scandal.

It will never happen again, Jeffe promised the love of his life.

He agreed to see a counselor, he agreed to try healing exercises, and he found new depths in his love for his wife. Two months later, however . . .

A different room than last time, more tacky and tawdry than his last rendezvous. It was less cozy than claustrophobic, a pair of narrow rooms dominated by cheap furnishings and a king-size bed. The cheapness was made worse by the state. Someone had been rather active in here, leaving clothes and bedlinens heaped on the sticky floor.

Instead of lying on his back, he sat upright in a cheap chair. The act of waking brought a kink to his neck. Movements nudged two empty 1.5 liter wine bottles on the floor near his naked feet. They rolled with glassy clinks. His thighs and chest were burning, and a glance down showed not bite marks but waxy droplets – a nearby extinguished candle of the same color told tales of its origin.

An African woman leaned against his legs, head on his lap, and the rest of her poised alongside his chair like a prize pet. Her chest rose and fell as she slept. This time, his medallion chain was wound around her wrists, cinching her tight.

Panic quickened his heart and breaths. Cold sweat joined the hot already gleaming on his flesh. What have I done? Or more to the point: What have I done, again?

He pushed himself upright, and the woman rolled down and off of him. He did not even get a chance to ask her name, when the door kicked open once more and paparazzi entered, flashes bursting as they claimed the next big scoop on what the papers would dub the philandering Prince Charmless.

Needless to say, there would be no third chances. Tracy asked for a divorce. He could not say he was surprised.

Mother and Father Shardik consented, of course. They had hoped to keep the matter quiet, but the truth was: the divorce became a source of scrutiny for a world duped into believing Prince Charming could exist for someone as strong, sweet, and charming as Tracy Shardik nee Wellesley.

After receiving not only her separation but one hundred million dollars from Montelban's apologetic royal family, when asked what she was going to do next, Tracy said, I want to find myself. Figure out myself. I need to get away from all of this, she indicated the lights, cameras and general media circus with a slow sweep of the hand, and give myself a chance to heal. These wounds run far deeper than I show. Please excuse me.

She then retreated to Tibet, escaping into Asia for a recuperative journey. She did not remain there for long, finding herself carried away around the globe. So far as the news was concerned, she was finished. Other news stories rose, and interest in her passed over the next weeks. Should she return, particularly in the company of another eligible bachelor, she might easily slide into the public eye again. For now, she was allowed her Eat, Pray, Love moment.

When Tracy Wellesley decided to retire to the Swiss Alps for the final leg of her recuperative holiday, she was all but a footnote in major news sources and social media. What happened while she was there remained a mystery to the world. In fact, it would never become public knowledge.

Instead, her life after this point became part of a document declared Top Secret and retired to the classified mission report annals of that United States government division responsible for the operations performed by Kinetic Force . . .

#

In the Swiss Alps wait several towns that seem to offer the world only cheery homes, glorious views, and mysteriously named buildings. In one such town, larger than others, among a few exclusive prep schools and ski chalets, stands the R. Brinsley Sheridan Institute for Remedial Health and Beauty. According to public reference, it is a place dedicated to the scientific exploration of health and beauty. According to speculation, it is another overpriced spa and resort with a Dr. Oz ‘new medicine’ appeal. In the grand scheme, it is little cared about since it offers exclusive services to exclusive clientele who prefer to escape public scrutiny for a while and have the means to pay for such things.

Tracy Wellesley was one such person.

She made her way through the opulent entryway of the R. Brinsley Sheridan Institute for Remedial Health and Beauty, acknowledged a portly blonde in a security guard's uniform, and then proceeded down one of the pearlescent halls to a bank of elevators. She moved with the casualness of a regular visitor.

The bank of elevators were done up in brilliant, shiny golden hues. Not a single smudge or oily fingerprint was on the doors or even the buttons. Tracy depressed the UP Button with a single leather gloved finger and waited for the car to arrive. The Institute was a five story structure, wide and filled with the smells of roses, lavender scented creams, and a hint of sandalwood. Old world olfactory tonics for prettification and relaxation. The car arrived with a pleasing chime, the door slid open and she stepped inside. No one accompanied her.

Inside, she pressed the close doors button, and her reflection lost the easy smile she had been wearing for the last six months. Seriousness looked odd on her features, even to her own eye. Playing the part of the Hollywood darling and the beloved Princess had been full time work. Smiling that much could change a woman.

She fished a locket from around her neck, snapped it open and withdrew a golden key. This fit snugly into the second of two keyholes on the elevator's buttons panel. The first was for security override, turning off and on a car as needed. The second, which Tracy's key fit, was for purposes unknown.

In fact, as soon as she inserted and twisted it ninety degrees counterclockwise, the car jounced on its track. All the lights flashed off and back on again, twice. Then, the car began its descent. While the buttons panel offered options from B and L to 2-5, there was no button for the subbasement the car now descended to. The doors opened.

Above had been gorgeous pearl and gold tones. Down here was obsidian, onyx, and scarlet. Tracy found her old smile, and it was far less lovely than a Princess', a smirk instead of a smile. She sauntered down the hall, heels clicking off the tile floor with rhythm. She passed numerous doors, each labeled with puzzling assemblies of two letters and three to six digits. Her cool gaze remained on the double doors at the end of the hall, some forty yards from the elevator banks. Even before she reached them, she heard the humming of heavy machines and smelled the hot oily stink of the active equipment. The smell made her blanch from soiled memories.

She touched her kidskin gloves to the doors and they swung silently open on oiled hinges, upon a large industrial zone. The mistress and her capable scientist associate stood on her platform near the middle of the space, surrounded on all sides by the augmentation equipment, great machines that served two egg-shaped chambers large enough to accept a single human being. The pods were curious things, biomechanical nightmares of frosted glass, shiny black plastic, and well lubricated moving parts manufactured from surgical quality steel. Each of them glowed an eerie green from internalized light sources. Of these, one pod was currently in use, thus the smell and sounds.

The mistress herself paused at the edge of the platform, gripping the safety rail with both hands and leaning slightly forward to see just what was happening inside the active pod. Her uniform fit her like a glove: tight padded leather clung to her chest, midriff, and legs. A pair of jet black steel toe boots with solid gum rubber soles kept her lower extremities protected from sole all the way to knee. Her joints were sheathed in dark spandex, offering maximum movement and minimum restriction as well as thorough protection. While doing little to restrict her lethality or range of movement, the outfit emphasized her enemy-distracting curvaceous feminine aspects. The mistress' raven hair fell in long, dark waves past her shoulders and down to the middle of her back. The eerie green glow of the two pods twinkled in her glasses' perfect circle lenses.

Behind the mistress waited Dr. Wynn Niombi, a ruthless scientist with degrees in biochemistry, pharmacology, and solid state physics as well as outstanding warrants for war crimes performed during the messy breakup of Churtzegov into both the Czay Republic and the independent nation of Hurtzegov some years back. She was an unassuming sort, medium build, henna reddened brown hair, and an aquiline nose. She wore a white coat over her black Skorpion uniform. Her hazel eyes never once left the control panel and monitoring equipment she operated.

Tracy continued to the base of the platform, waiting for the mistress to accept her presence. Those spectacles shifted slightly her way in brief acknowledgement, and Tracy Wellesley responded in the expected fashion. She thrust her right arm toward the ceiling, fingers curled into a fist. Her left arm curled across the ample swell of her bosom. The movie star lips, anointed ballerina pink pushed out the words, All hail Skorpion! with the force of belief.

All hail, the mistress said, her rich eastern European accent adding harsh allure to the simple response. She now turned completely from her machine, returned Tracy's salute, and said, Give me good news, Agent Kunst.

There was a name she had not heard in almost a year. It felt comforting and warm, like a favorite pair of silk pajamas. The plans proceed smashingly well, Duchess. Tracy's light tone had regressed to something far harsher. The pleasant princess next door had reverted to something colder, reptilian. Shardik’s wealth is even now resting in the accounts you created, swelling our coffers with the pride of those monarchist, Montelban swine.

Excellent, Agent Kunst, said the Duchess. The wicked smile her lips rose to emphasized her pleasure at this news, and brought warmth to Tracy. Are you ready for reassignment?

I am always ready to serve Skorpion, Tracy said. And to serve you, my mistress.

Agent Grace is almost done, the Duchess said.

Agent Grace is only now undergoing Augmentation? Tracy would have supposed the Duchess would have decreed her needing a change long before this.

I chose to keep her in the wings, in case further push was needed on your husband. A little blackmail might have been required to push him over the edge that Dr. Wynn Niombi's drugs pushed him to.

Tracy nodded. I understand.

The machine will require another hour before she can shed this identity and take her next, Dr. Niombi informed. The Duchess added: Prepare yourself.

If you don't mind, Tracy said, I would like to stay and welcome Agent Grace back.

The Duchess beckoned her platinum haired agent up onto the platform. Tracy climbed the stairs, lovely shoes canted to the side to prevent slippage. It was a rich woman's affectation. She moved to stand alongside her mistress, who had joined Dr. Niombi at the control panel. The scientist's hands operated the gears and switches like a concert pianist performing a tricky piece. The constant movements looked easy when she made them.

View screens offered pleasing views of the augmentation pod's occupant. The sweat soaked tan flesh of arm, closed eyes set surprisingly close together each without a hint of epicanthic fold, strong shoulders, and powerful arc of thigh. More. The web of straps keeping the woman in place was almost invisible, on the monitors. Tracy knew all about the harnesses, however.

She is beautiful, Tracy whispered.

Of course, said the Duchess. Anything less would be failure. Mundanity has no place in our mission.

Yes, Duchess.

Lights turned from red to yellow on Dr. Niombi's panel. These then shifted from yellow to green. Processes were running to completion. The Duchess watched the monitors as she ran the final series of rigidity tests. On those screens, small pins mounted on mechanical limbs pricked the framed flesh. Hand and shoulder, thigh and forehead, cheek and chest. The woman in the pod winced, looked eager to squirm; the straps would prevent too much of this. She may have cried out, but there was no audio.

The Duchess leaned into a microphone, offering a soft purr. Excellent. You are quite complete, she said. The monitor focusing on the subject's lips revealed their rise into a fierce grin. They mouthed, Hail Skorpion! but of course no sound accompanied this motion.

With a hiss, the augmentation pod opened. The yellow glass exterior and its black iron frame split from the rest of the pod like an egg coming apart along a seam. Trapped gasses emerged like smoke. Soon, the agent inside was revealed in her fullest glory. Straps entwined her, binding her tightly in place. At the flick of one of the Duchess' switches, those straps disengaged and slithered across the agent's