She lived for these moments, naked in the black night, little pinches from the twigs, stones and roughness of the ground, sweating even in the cold, her pussy tingling. One with nature, the orgasmic execution she had carefully planned a certainty now that she had gotten past the outer perimeter of the elaborate security system. All her senses were at peak level, and the area within fifty yards of her reverberated as its sounds let her monitor the small animals, one owl, and she thought a groundhog snufflling back toward the stream she had just crossed.

Even though she had gotten wet as she edged across the bitingly cold running water, the coating of mud all over her was still adequate to render her almost invisible. There would be a moment of exposure when she had to cross the wide lawn, but the only guard was nodding off in the small shack at the foot of the hill. The shadows would mean only a moment of exposure, and the video tapes were always indistinct in the weak light.

She paused a moment to bask in the erotic pleasure she felt, her nipples stiff on her full, muscular tits, her clitty being tickled by the dirt, her cunt lips puffy with excitement. It was always tempting to stop at these moments and get off with her hand, but she liked waiting for the period just after the kill. She thought she was going to be able to use the stiletto for this one, since there was no one in the house with him, and he should be in bed. The weight of the silenced handgun in her small backpack was just in case things went wrong.

Quickly, she covered the ground to the wide porch, shorted out the alarm sensor, and pried the flimsy door open with the thin blade. The pictures from Architectural Digest had shown carpets and throw rugs all the way upstairs, so she wouldn't have to cover the soles of her feet. The muddy footprints would just confuse the cops, but let them know who had been here.

The snoring reached her ears even at the bottom of the stairway, and she followed the sound to the room she knew was the master bedroom. As she approached the door, she squeezed her thighs together, rubbing sensation into her pussy. She was smiling, in a way that would have looked greedy and fierce to a watcher.

She didn't go in for foreplay. Sliding through the door, she moved quickly to the bed and plunged the nine inch blade between the fat man's ribs into his heart, her hand over the mouth muffling his gasps, unruffled by his arms groping at her stomach trying to push her away. In no more than ten seconds, he gave a death rattle, and a long exhalation as he died. She took a step back, and wiped the flat of the long blade through her legs, plastering blood on her gaping twat. She wiped the other side, then slid it into the backpack, as her other hand plunged fingers inside her, and her palm pushed the hood up, exposing the nub of her clit, mixing the blood with the caked dirt.

Her orgasm came with just a few cycles, as she stood hunched there, silently shaking. God, it was good. There had never been any man or woman who could produce anything close to this. Waves of pleasure churned through her, as her eyes closed to watch the stars shoot in her brain. The musk of her cream overpowered the faintly putrid odor of the mud all over her. Her abdomen rippled in the throes of her completion. She arched, not allowing the temptation to scream overpower her. That was the only problem.

She lifted her hand to her mouth, reveling in the thick, tart taste of her climax. Then she sucked a little blood out of the swarthy italian's small wound, mixing it, an embellishment of the ritual the Montagnards had taught her. It seemed to revitalize her as she swallowed.

Retracing her steps, she was soon outside, the alarm restored, moving in a crouch through the woods. This shouldn't be tricky, the system was designed to keep people out, not detect someone leaving. She smeared a little mud on her bottom where her earlier orgasm had wiped it away. It felt good as she did it, but she kept moving.

The car door opened smoothly, the disabled light making a little buzzing noise. She should have a good three hours before he was discovered, plenty of time to get back to the small cabin in the backwoods motel. She quickly inserted the vibrator deep inside her raging pussy, shining her little penlight on the picture of her victim taped on the steering wheel. She buzzed it on full power for five minutes, then let herself groan as her cum exploded along with juice, making a little mud slide onto the seat beneath her. He had been such a bad, ugly hoodlum, dope and white slaves, she had none of the regrets she occasionally felt when a victim wasn't terribly evil. This one was, and she wallowed in the triumph as she tingled.

Enough, enough pleasure. As she pulled away, her mind quickly went over the arrangements, turning in the car, after she had cleaned it up, catching the nine o'clock flight, making sure the second payment came through this afternoon. The fun was over. Now it was work, but her mind was clear, and her spirit refreshed.

He was young for a detective, just ten years out of grad school. He wore a beard to try to be taken more seriously, but his work on the Simmons murder had pretty much made his reputation with the locals. He'd been thinking about shaving it off, it was so damn thin anyway, and seemed beside the point now. As he scanned the front of the big house, it's fake collonade gaudy, the new brick faintly offensive, somehow, in this rural Connecticut region with so many old, old houses, he thought there was no way someone would have come in the front. Christ, it was a fucking fortress.

From the laser fence, still activated, to the sensors on every door and window, the video tapes, the twenty four hour guard, there had been no sign. It was probably an inside job, these made guys were forever fighting among themselves. Pasterno was particularly nasty, and his organization was filled with wannabee's. Lt. James Thang sighed as he made his way into the house, flashing his ID, wondering if his Dad was staying on the wagon. Ever since his Vietnamese Mom had died, the old man had been quietly drinking himself to death.

"Hey, Jimmy. How's tricks. Umm, this looks like a mob related thing, y'know, but there's some funny stuff. Blade in the heart, bare footprints from the side, up the stairs, back and out. Quick, quiet, shorted and restored the alarm. Mud all over. No prints. Shit. Look, we oughta scour the woods. Gotta be some fibers, maybe he dropped something." He, thought Thang. How can we be sure? He remembered his mother, small, fine boned, teaching him martial arts. He had only seen her angry once, but it was enough.

He climbed the steps, avoiding the caked traces of mud almost invisible at the top. Size eight or nine. Maybe five seven, five eight. Nothing on the walls, or the bannister. "Hey Sam. Were there any lights on?" The uniform shook his head no. So, careful not to touch anything, but the foot prints stood out. An announcement? A boast?

Forensics were busy dusting, collecting, passing bag after bag into the trunk on stilts at the door. Jean Dash was on her knees beside the bed, with a pan and tweezers. Her trim butt, a little tan flesh showing between the hiked up tee shirt and the waist. Mmmm, a little pale fuzz too. He had kissed that spine many times, but it had ended a couple of months ago. She wanted to get married. He didn't. "Hi Jean."

She looked up and blushed. "Hi Jimmy. Hey, look here, this is interesting." He hunkered down opposite her, watching as she plucked bits of dirt up. She had the right foot almost collected, but the left was still clear. Whoever it was stood here a while. There was a small hint of red about six inches to the right, squarely between the two footprints. "Is that blood?"

"I think. Can't be sure. There was more, but we already took samples. I made sure they got pictures." She looked quickly up at him, blushed again, knowing he would like to have seen it before they disturbed things. He stood, and looked over at the bed. The bloated body was on its back, silk pajama's almost undisturbed. Too far to reach from here. He squinted at the sheet. Yeah, there it was. One smudge, where the knee had supported the killer.

"Jean, check this spot too. And vacuum it for fibers." She nodded, her head still down. He winced inwardly, thinking this contact with her was uncomfortable. Okay. So the killer leans on the mattress, slides in the blade, then... He squinted at the pajamas. Not a trace he could see. You'd want to wipe the blade. He leaned over the bed, checking every inch. There. Nope. Just a drop.

Thang went back down and out to the door which had been used to enter and exit. As he stepped out onto the porch, he tried to imagine what it had been like. Pitch dark. Wonder where the moon was? Was it out? No floodlights. The edge of the forest was only fifty feet away. He looked around, and realized this was the perfect place, closest to the cover of matted trees. He saw a bird flutter from one limb to another, and thought he heard it's cry of warning to anything else on that branch. Beautiful place. He felt a moments' resentment. An asshole like that, with this pretty reserve, so natural, so lovely.

Okay. Start making notes. Check the moon. Rush the examination of the blood beside the bed. Check organized crime for likely competitors. Fibers embedded in the mud on the sheet where the killer's knee had been. See if they can follow a trail to find the way entrance was gained. How did the killer find out so much about the layout, never having to feel around? Better check with FBI for similar MO's. Mud, bare feet, whatever the autopsy came up with on the blade.

The room was dark as her fingers danced over the keys. She was nude, shivering even though it was warm. The size of the numbers was amazing. It got to be almost unreal, thinking about the time in 'Nam, eating bugs and rodents, surviving somehow after her Mash unit was destroyed. Now here she was, wealthy enough to buy any meal, any house. She could buy that damn mountain where the natives had protected her. At a price, it was true, but she came to understand their value system. They never understood why she didn't get pregnant. She didn't explain about IUD's.

There it was. The other three fifty. Tappppp. Off to Honduras. Let it sit for a day, waiting for an attempt to trace it. She remembered the asshole who tried to duck the second payment. She had taken the vibrator in with her, he had been so cocky it was easy. She cut off his dick and stuffed it in his mouth for good measure. No one ever was late with a payment again.

E-Mail Vessy. Then close this box. Vessy had a code she could use to figure out the next address. And the code word to tip her off if it was a trap. It always amused her to watch Vessy hunched over her terminal at the library where she worked on her thesis. Vessy had no idea she was there. But she had the contacts, through her father. And her feminism made her loyal.

She straightened into the lotus position, worked on breathing deeply, and let her mind decide what to do for amusement tonight. After an execution, she liked catting around, dressed to kill, flirting with the boys and girls who knew her as a nurse. Which of course she had been. Her persona was close to the truth. Shelly Townsend. R. N., Lt(USA)ret.

Buzz. "You have mail." Damn. That was quick. Tapppp. "Hi Ellie. Rush job. Dad really pushed me this time. Said the same guy who paid for Pasterno wanted to talk to you. Some big deal. ??????" Shelly Townsend wasn't going to respond to pressure. An answer could wait until morning. She was thinking about Roscoe, at the Encore. He had been hinting about doing her ass last time they slept together. Mmmm, I think tonight's your lucky night, idiot.

Vessy's Dad wouldn't kill his golden goose. He had tried to find out who she was before, particularly when she turned down the Senator, and threatened to reveal the plot if it was carried out. But he wouldn't go too far with his own daughter, and even if he did, she was well hidden. Her three identities for her AOL accounts were all dead babies in New York. She always thought that appropriate. It was as though they were getting back at the world that had robbed them of even a short life. She could feel the little voice, back there, whispering. She refused to listen. When she did, it was her mother's lectures, her father's stern preaching, the sermons, the conflict. She knew she would wait several days, then let the voice out, get drunk, and wallow in self pity for a while. Then, on to the next job, the planning, the thrill. Somewhere there was going to be a dislocation, an epiphany, she was sure. Or she might die. Whatever.

Shelly Townsend decided to take another bath, and wondered whether Roscoe would be there tonight. He liked seeing her buffed, so she pulled the red mini skirt out, and the tight turtleneck. With three inch heels, she would look like a weightlifter. With boobs.

"Jimmy, hi. Shaved the beard, huh. This is Agent Marsh, FBI. He has some questions about the Pasterno thing. Full cooperation, okay." Thang nodded to the bespectacled suit who looked like an accountant. Pretty low level, not the hero G man type they usually sent.

"Detective, I've been over the file. You already know this fits a pattern of about thirty hits over the last fifteen years. At least I think so, not everyone does. Listen, the blood. It was Pasterno's, right? What do you make of that?" Thang was thinking fast. How far to go. He already had a theory, but was glad he hadn't gone anywhere with it yet, so he could honestly say there wasn't any more information.

"I guess just drippings, Agent Marsh. Somewhere there's a stiletto with a lot of blood on it. But the trail's dead. The car was turned in, rented by a woman, probably an accomplice. I'm betting it'll be clean. There were fifteen flights that morning within an hour of the return. Payment with cash. This is very professional."

Marsh shrugged. "We haven't gotten within a hundred miles of this guy, Thang. I've been on it, off and on, for three years. You don't get a lot of effort, the victims weren't much loss to society. But look, help me get it exactly right, okay. So..."

When he left, the Chief asked Thang "Anything else on your plate, Jimmy? This thing looks like a dead end. I could use a little help on that woman who got raped out by the lighthouse." Jimmy nodded, having already reviewed that file. He thought the forensics would help nail the boyfriend. It was really a lover's quarrel, but the girl was the daughter of a big deal. He had always thought this job wouldn't be so political.

"My heart reaches to yours, Sister of my Mother. Is your house happy?" "It is happier with your thoughts, Son of my Sister." His Aunt always reminded him of his mother, and the sibbilant, singing native language got him back to his oriental, patient inner self. It was hard to be a police officer in that frame of mind. He switched to English. His Aunt understood.

"Aunt Tho, we've had a murder up here. It reminds me of your stories about the Mountain Amazon. Is there someone you could introduce me to who knows more?" He heard the hesitation in her voice, but knew she would help. His rise to authority was part of their family's strengthening status within the expatriate Vietnamese community, and requests for help in furthering such a career had great force. As she began talking about several relatives, he stopped listening. The machine would tape it.

It was the video tape. He was the only one who saw it, everyone else saw a blur. He saw a naked woman. At first he was tempted to get it enhanced over at the University, but when he walked the route she had used, he had a vague feeling that it could wait. Then he had the dream.

A dark, naked woman, running a long knife between her legs, getting off with the blood of her victim. It was very Montagnard, he knew. Coated in mud. In his sleep, he felt the erotic pleasure she felt. In his dream, he came up behind and plunged his cock inside her. She turned her head, and it was his mother. Last night, he had exploded into her, and the sheets had been gooey the next morning. A wet dream, his first in years.

As he had lain there this morning, still buzzing, his mind had jumped wildly around, uncharacteristically out of control. His imagination was running wild. There had been no fibers, no clothing. She had crawled through that chilly night, coated in mud, the mountain way of his mother's people. And then... Wow.

He must be vulnerable because of his doubts recently. The disappointment with the years of being the principal detective, surprised he hadn't enjoyed his unequivical success more. The way Jean couldn't seem to touch his heart, in spite of her beauty and sensuality. Realizing his stepfather's weakness, then beginning to question the value of either culture, west or east. His noble sense of choosing the best of each crumbling.

So, the fat asshole had just been a test. She reasoned that the client must be a European, or possibly an Arab. He wanted the fucking Columbian killed. That was a whole new league. It wasn't easy, like most of her jobs. The idea was to catch him in his jungle hideout, which was right up her alley. But he was always surrounded by a mob of armed men. She was studying maps, making notes about her questions: where did he sleep, eat, fuck? Was there a weakness, a vulnerability? The chill she felt wasn't pleasant. Behind the technical issues, why bother, why take the risk?

She just kept studying, making more notes. The morning's exercise had cleared her mind. There had been tough ones before, and they all had eventually yielded to good research and planning. Five million. Plus a million for expenses. And the Columbian was undoubtedly a bad guy. She missed the first ring of the doorbell. But on the second, she slid the maps and notebook under the canvas of the drawing board, and went to answer it. "Yes. Who is it?"

The native tongue. Fuzzed a bit by the intercom, but clear enough. "A humble peasant seeks an audience with the beautiful amazon of this lovely house." Holy shit. "Amazon." She tensed, and grabbed the thirty eight out of the small table in the carpeted entry. Then she thought about just leaving. No, no. She didn't want people going through her house, discovering her secrets. Not while she was alive. The moment had come.

"This house of tranquility has no amazon. Could your search have arrived at this place in error?" She was scanning for police, unfamiliar cars. There didn't seem to be any. She activated the explosive traps, waiting for a response. None came. After long moments, she took a deep breath, and opened the door.

He touched his clasped palms to his forehead, the traditional greeting, implying peace, no threat. She could see the native blood in his facial features, but he was mostly western. And very handsome. His eyes were down, but his tall, slim frame brought his head almost up to hers, though he was standing one step down. Blue eyes, black hair. A half breed, with the best of both.

She slipped the gun back into the felt lined table drawer, opened the door further, and returned the greeting. His eyes came up and stared at her. She tried to read his expression, but couldn't. She could sense his aura, his youthful maleness. "Amazon." Certainty was suddenly slipping away, risk was blooming, and the voice was screaming.

"Whore. Whore. He has finally come, and you are unfit." She shook her head, willing the voice back deep, feeling a dead spot in her stomach she didn't even know existed start to waken. Her destiny had arrived. She couldn't go back, not now. Her nipples under the sweat stained tank shirt stiffened, and she saw his eyes flicker down to them, then return to her face. But he was the Pursuer. She knew it.

"Speak english, please. I'm really not fluent in Vietnamese. You might as well come in. But don't touch anything."

He had studied the pictures, all old, not much help. When he saw her standing in the doorway, hair stringy, a tank shirt and shorts, sweaty, the same pretty face but hard, chiseled now, and muscular, trim hips, long legs, pouty, firm tits, tanned, he felt his blood boil. No simpering, no blushing, no fear. He had meant to scare her with the crack about her background, but she was tense, coiled, edgy, not scared. Just short of forty, based on the records. Looked ten years younger in spite of her scruffy condition.

He nodded quickly in assent. As he entered, she kept her distance, watching him carefully. He studiously avoided her eyes. He had seen enough. He perched on the edge of the couch, hands folded. "I am the detective with the responsibility for the murder of Michael Pasterno. I have become convinced you are his murderer. That in spite of the problems with your identity, you are the woman my mother's people called the "Mountain Amazon." I cannot prove this. I am not here on a vendetta. He deserved his fate. No one wants me to solve this case anyway." He shrugged. "But my analysis of the crime has disturbed me. I know only the stories that I have heard. And I do not understand, though I would like to."

Her silence stretched out. He knew he had to wait, he had no choice. He kept his head down. It was not time for confrontation, not yet. He scanned over the room, noting it's neatness, the engineering board in front of the big picture window, the rich fabrics, but little furniture. She stood there staring at him as he made his inventory. Finally, in a firm voice, without threat, she said "Don't try anything. I would hope you know I have protected myself."

He answered "Yes, I assumed that. I would hope you know my suspicions are also recorded elsewhere." She waited through another long silence. Then: "Please allow me to search you." He stood, and extended his arms. She patted him down conventionally, examining his empty holster, then cupping his groin firmly, seeming to ignore the stiff size of his cock. He knew she was looking for a wire. She reached around him and dipped her hand under his belt and down between his butt cheeks, inserting a finger in his anus. That surprised him, but just proved she was thorough, he supposed. She had not lingered on his hardness.

She walked quickly to the door where he had entered and flicked one of the row of switches. She opened a drawer there and came back carrying a remote control. She stood in front of him and extended her own arms. "Do you want to... pay me back?" She had a small smile, and he returned it. "That will not be necessary. Trust must begin somewhere."

She sat down in the black leather contoured chair opposite the couch. "How did you find me?" He leaned back, closing his eyes. "My Aunt found a friend who immigrated after you left. He knew your name, and rank. Another relative had seen you ten years ago. At a bar, and remembered the name you used. With your picture and the name, I found other names. I found the deed to this house recorded at the county, and recognized the alias." There was shock in her eyes. She had thought she was perfectly hidden.

"One of my talents is to try to intuit a killer's mind. This neighborhood is where I looked. It is perfect for your purposes." He had told her more than he intended, but there was confusion in his mind. He was having trouble keeping calm. He could smell sweat in the dim, close atmosphere of the room, and the image of her masturbating with the bloody knife was all that his mind registered. He realized his cock was hard, tenting his pants rather obviously.

Yes, no doubt. The Pursuer. He was in her dreams often, menacing, yet exciting. It always seemed she wanted to be caught in her dreams. The voice sometimes hinted at his existence, his relation to her destiny. Her rational mind had firmly rejected that oriental mumbo jumbo. She eyed him closely. About six feet, didn't look that well conditioned. All his actions confirmed that he was alone, that he really couldn't prove his idea. And his dick was sticking out at her.

"You never lived in 'Nam? With, um, your mother's people?" He looked at her as he shook his head, and she could see him struggling with confusion. Her cream was starting to smell now, could he smell it too? She was weighing the risks. She could probably hold her own with him, one on one, and she could kill him before he got away if he tried. If she let him close to her, he might take advantage of a moment. But he did not seem that well controlled. And she remembered the Priest's words "When you meet your destiny, you must embrace it."

She stood and stripped off the shirt and shorts. She walked up to stand before him, arching her naked body, allowing just enough room so that he could stand. Her arms reached up, then bent at the elbows to rest behind her head, displaying her sensuous curves. When she whispered "Pay me back" she heard him suck in a breath, and saw his eyes widen. He stood, as though mesmerized. His right hand cupped her cunt, and a finger dipped into her, rotating. She let her hips move to his caress, as a small groan came out. His other hand moved lightly over her hip to her ass, and another finger entered her there.

She kept her eyes on him as he began to stimulate her. Her breathing speeded up as the thrills started shooting from his marauding insertions throughout her body's trunk, as he stared down at her bald pussy. She let herself relax, moving with his hands. As his hand in her twat became more insistent, firmer, she closed her eyes and let her head loll back. She rested her arms on his broad shoulders. He could do it now, she knew. Somehow, that added to the thrill.

She felt his lips on her neck, sucking lightly, and she thought a tongue was in there too, tickling, tasting. Vaguely, she wondered at how smelly she must be, how salty she must taste. But it was good, so good. The Pursuer had found her, would use her, would take her, give her pleasure beyond her experience. Not the mindless fucking of the Montagnards, not even the wonderful killing completions. No, the culmination, the ultimate, the final step.

He began to get rougher, more urgent. She let herself go, twisting and groaning. His legs straddled her thigh now, his hard member surging at her through his light wool pants. His lips slid up her chin and their mouths joined, open, sucking, tongues lashing frantically. Her mind filled with forests, jungle, the highlands, death. The edge was getting closer fast.

As she orgasmed, Thang filled with excited, perverse pride. She was already taking his soul, he vaguely realized. For a person confronted as she was, all her defenses pierced, to give herself this way was a sacrifice, a reward, a committment. And such a risk. The gorgeous, muscled body, firm, high tits with tiny, rudy red nipples, the vulva tanned as well as the rest of her, puffy cunt lips with that clit so obvious and tense. The ringing in his ears, the lightning bolts of sensation her approach, and her rubbing to him had caused dominating all his senses. Her skin shiny with the perspiration starting again, the smell now mixed with a different, musky odor of femininity. Her abandon.

He had to close his eyes to avoid shooting in his pants. She pulsed wildly for a couple of minutes, then slumped her head to his shoulder, her arms around his neck supporting herself. Her breathing was fast and hard, echoing in the room as a car passed by. He felt her stiffen, listening. Her eyes shot open, staring at him as the sound passed and faded away. His hands were still inside her. She continued to stare.

Then she started ripping off his clothes as she spoke quickly, staring at his body while the words tumbled out. "I've never been sure about the destiny shit, all that eastern metaphysics. Now I think I believe it. Think about the coincidence. Maybe the only cop in the world who could've found me. Who might understand at least the technique, the background." As she bared his chest, her lips found his nipples, sucking and licking each one, as her hand rubbed his cock through the pants. "I dream about a Pursuer. What do you dream about? What is your name? You're a good looking bastard, you know that?"

As his pants came down, her mouth sunk slowly but decisively the entire length of his penis, taking it into her throat. Out of the torrent of want in his mind, he choked "Aaaaah, my name is Thang. Lately, I dream of you, of the bloody knife, of entering you." As her head pulled away to surround just the head of his prick, her eyes tilted up to his, and a hint of a smile formed around the almost yellow skin of his shaft. Then she sunk down on it again, as he felt her tugging at the pants around his ankles, so he lifted a leg to help. She pulled off his socks and shoes.

He felt her tongue licking at the slit of his cock, his hands which had drifted to the back of her head urging her back down to the base, the tingling tremors of desire ringing through him. Then she released him, but stayed there, nuzzling the light pubic hair, her tongue flicking around, touching lightly at the jointure of his balls and his dick. "I'll take you in my mouth if you want. Or you can have my cunt, or my ass. Just tell me."

He grasped her shoulders and pushed her down to the thick carpet, going with her so she came to rest on her back. He felt the moisture from her body on his chest, as her hand pulled his tingling member into her. Their eyes were locked together as she held him just between the flesh of her pussylips, as though she were waiting. His hips bucked wildly, and she screamed.