Nectar of the Godless

NECTAR OF THE GODLESS

by Lucky (2013)

It’s tough to run with a bellyful of lead.

Dalila was expert at it.

As a girl she had been a sprinter, as a very young woman a belly dancer.

Now in her prime she possessed fine powerful thighs and a round firm ass that would be the envy of any 20 year old.

These served her well in any situation.

This was a particularly dire one indeed.

Just as Dalila’s guts boiled and ached from the five .223 slugs that weighed her down, so to did the bowels of this unholy inner sanctum burn with her ferocious determination.

Even mortally wounded Dalila was no one to dismiss. She was perhaps the most skilled, and without a doubt the most ruthless, freelance assassin available to the world of organized crime.

Five in the belly wasn’t enough to stop her, at least not right away. She ran, quickly and with angry purpose, in order to find her way back out of a sterile hell.

It had all started as a proposition too delicious to refuse.

Dalila was the best. And she knew it. She had always refused to affiliate herself with any one given mafia. She had grown wealthy by taking astounding fees for even more astounding tasks.

She was as tight lipped as a clam: the most trustworthy of professionals when it came to keeping a professional secret. No jury had even convicted her of any crime, despite the many she had committed.

In Dalila’s mind, even more importantly in her soul, she had been confident in one fact: they had deserved it. Whoever they were, whoever she has been hired to kill, was evil. Otherwise there would be no reason to bring in Dalila.

There were of course jobs that she refused. She had never killed a child, never an animal, and never a person she knew to be innocent.

Dalila killed killers. That was always the deal.

There had, however, been heavy prices to pay.

Dalila’s wide open style as an assassin had resulted in any number of near death experiences.

More lead had been pulled out of her guts than from a squad of wounded marines. Enough blades had been stuffed into her belly that her entrails resembled the interior of a bayonet training dummy.

The ultimate symbol of this constant trauma was a thick, shining vertical scar that traveled the distance from just above her pubic mound, to her solar plexus.

“My zipper”, she would purr in a dark exotic tone, as proud of her scar as a soldier would be of his Purple Heart.

These assaults had taken their toll. Dalila was still a strong, lithe, athletic lioness of a figure, but her various doctors worried about the inevitable deterioration of her health. Sooner or later the cumulative damage would be the end of her.

There was more, however to these assaults upon Dalila’s body, and her almost super human ability to withstand them, than the purely medical.

Though it was certain that each near fatal wounding would take much out of her, there was a hidden bonus for Dalila, one that few could guess.

She liked it.

She liked the way a bullet or blade to the belly felt.

The pain was just right: a blend of hot, sour, deep, slow-burning, an orgiastic ache.

What would cause others, especially women, to scream in pain would prompt only a low dark guttural sound from that thick velvety throat.

«Ooogh!».

Soft… sensual… subtle… without a trace of fear.

Just “Oogh”.

Dalila always chose to leave her belly exposed in favor of protecting her breasts and head. Just as long as her heart still beat and her brain still functioned she could use her special lust to stay alive.

Time and again she would be written off as too far gone to save.

Time and again she would recover.

What many a doctor didn’t know, nor care to examine, was what the effect of these wounds would have upon the region just below her belly.

The wounded Dalila was an orgasmic steaming wet mess of desire below.

She had no control over it. She came, happily, greedily if involuntarily.

This desire, masochistic yet never that of a victim, gave her the edge in the field.

It was a secret desire to take hot lead or cold steel to the gut that made Dalila an almost unstoppable force.

She had been born with it.

As a girl she would press upon her navel, play with it, hurt it ever so slightly, and bring herself to pleasure.

As she came into her own sexually she would take the fists of her lovers and have them force their full weight down onto her abdomen. The pressure, and the hard ache this would bring thrilled her beyond measure.

A knife to the belly was the next logical step.

Dalila was still very young, and had just performed a belly dance for a group of well dressed businessmen. It was a hobby for her, something to put a little money in her purse as she worked her way through school.

As the men showered her with money and compliments she noticed a strange, slithering figure off to the side of the crowd.

This man, more rat than man in reality, had his eyes glued to the well dressed grandfatherly figure who had just stuffed a crisp $100 bill into Dalila’s belt.

She sensed his desire. He wanted to kill the old man.

Dalila went into a full shimmy. The men hooted with delight. Dalila smiled, threw her graceful arms back, ate up the attention with understandable vanity.

All the while she sensed the danger as it approached.

Just then the rat-man stepped forward, a blade held in his right hand, ready to stuff it into the chest of the old gentleman.

Dalila timed it just right. She took two quick, agile steps to the side and cut the man’s thrust off in mid arc.

The blade, instead of finding its way into the old man’s heart, was buried in Dalila’s belly. Right up to the hilt.

«Ooogh!».

That had been the very first time she let that dull aching expression pass over her pouting red lips.

At first the men around her did not see or hear what had happened.

«Sit down ass hole», «Get away from her», «Yeah we wanna see her dance».

Several of the men grabbed the rat-man and pulled him away from the ravishing young belly dancer.

It was then that they first saw the blade as it wiggled in Dalila’s belly.

She looked at them with wide green eyes and a surprised half delighted mouth… studied their shocked faces… took in the deadly still of the audience… and then looked down at the blade.

«He… he stabbed her», mumbled one of the tougher men.

Dalila looked back up at the crowd of stunned tough guys and did what to her seemed the most natural thing in the world.

She resumed her shimmy.

The men watched in silent shock as the primal sound track throbbed forth. Dalila’s face changed from a wide eyed look of delighted surprise, to a sultry pout, then to a greedy smile.

The blade wiggled, trembled, vibrated in syncopation with the music, and then slowed as she brought the shimmy down to a crude undulating bump and grind.

At the end of the gesture she grabbed the blade with both hands, perfectly timed to the very last drum beats of the track.

She stared down at it again, and then looked up at the men.

«Belly ache», she said with a pouting smile.

Two men rushed to her to steady her.

The others started to pummel the face of the rat-man-assassin with the butts of their pistols.

«Hold on there sweetheart», «Someone call the doc», «We know a guy who’s real good at fixin’up these kinds of wounds».

The comments swirled around her head like a merry go round.

She fell back into their arms, still smiling, amazed at her fortune. She had finally taken a blade to the belly, and it felt better than she had imagined.

«I’m fine boys… really… it’s not too bad».

Dalila had not noticed that the rat-man-assassin had already been beaten to death. There was no reason for her to concern herself with his fate. These men were allowing her to enjoy her secret fantasy, and yet were going to save her life.

She did not think, not for one minute, that this first stabbing would kill her.

As it would turn out this incident would also mark the start of her career as an assassin.

The old gentleman she has just saved was none other than Don Eduardo Romero, the grand old man of Columbian Cocaine.

As Dalila ran down the dank gray corridor her mind flashed back to that very first assault upon her body.

Now wounded yet again, with 5 rifle slugs eating at her guts, she understood just how damaged she was, and just how low her chances of survival were.

It mattered not.

The old feelings of sexual delight, as uncontrollable as ever, thrilled her with each passing wave of pain.

She still loved it.

One more massive orgasm of pain and pleasure pressed itself upon her, and slowed her stride to a crazed stagger. She stopped, bounced against the wall, tightened her blood stained fingers around the wounds, and pushed on, a bit faster than before.

«I... have to find... Massimo...», she blurted aloud in a low breathy grunt.

«Nectar».

Dalila looked up at the well dressed Italian gentleman, eager to learn more.

He studied her cool confident demeanor: a smile that could be considered arrogant if it were not upon that particular face. Green eyes glanced back at him with a world weary twinkle. Full pouting red lips, smug yet hungry, savored the information.

«Tell me more».

She knew the man as “Massimo”. No last name was ever given. He had come to her as others had before, usually with considerable sums of money up front, in order to beg her formidable services.

This time however Massimo offered something more valuable than the almighty dollar.

«The Bilderberg Society has developed a serum that can re-animate the dead».

The magic of this serum was not lost upon Dalila. Lust alone would not be enough to keep warding off death as time and injury took its toll upon her. The mere possibility of such a serum drew her in without any more explanation.

«They call it “Nectar”. It’s administered via injection only. The body must be no more than one hour dead. They’ve successfully brought three condemned criminals back to life after execution via firing squad. Those same three men were executed a second time. Evidently the serum only works once».

«One get out of Hell free card», replied Dalila with a wry lilt to her voice.

«Correct. Now those of us with more… capitalistic goals understand how unfair it would be for the rest of humanity to be denied this wonderful invention».

As always Dalila was forced to choose between the two dark forces that ruled the world.

She realized that her employers were evil. These were the men behind the gangs raping Latin America, and supplying weapons to the lowest of criminal elements in the urban jungles.

And yet… better to deal with them than the soulless, oppressive Bilderberg.  

At least the world of organized crime was ruled by profit. Anyone with enough money could buy what they offered. The Bilderbergers kept their wealth and their advantage for themselves. A tiny group of international elitists sought to rule a world wherein the haves received more than they could ever utilize and the have-nots begged for the most humiliating scraps.

Any job that allowed Dalila to kill Bilderbergers was particularly desirable.

Massimo continued with business-like efficiency.

«The formula for this serum is being kept under lock and key in the underground tunnels of Geneva. Our job is to infiltrate at the exact point that our intelligence suggests, steal the serum along with the formula, and take out as many Bilderberg troops as we can in the process».

«And my job».

«Your job is to go in there and be Dalila. Make a scene. Cause a big bold distraction so that I can get to the laboratory».

«And get my ass shot off». 

«Correct».

«So you suggest that I take a suicide mission?».

«Yes and no. We will have the serum. If you are killed, you will be the first to receive the Nectar. If I can get the serum you will get your get out of Hell free card».

Dalila sat and stared at Massimo for a moment.

She studied his features: he was thin, 40-ish, handsome, with wavy salt and pepper hair, dark brown eyes, deep olive skin, just her type. It was always much more pleasant to receive a job offer, and perhaps a death sentence, from an attractive man.

Massimo, much to his discomfort, was left to stare at Dalila for a long time. She said nothing, but seemed to consider his offer, ever smiling as she pondered.

He took the opportunity to consider her appearance at length.

She wore a tight fitting white suit that accentuated her hour glass figure. The hem line of her mini skirt allowed him to admire her fine firm legs, bare and slightly oiled. She had her feet propped upon her desk casually, legs crossed, a study of cocky confidence. Red high heeled pumps accented her feet.

She wore her hair in a classic 1940’s style: blond, wavy, a mane of wispy sensuality.

He had no guess as to her age. Somewhere between 35 and 40 he supposed: a wrinkle free face that wore ancient wisdom as a mask of paradox.

Dalila had been born wise. That much was certain. She had never been a young innocent girl.

«You tempt me Massimo. But I am afraid that I need just a bit more».

«Name your price».

«Ah… then you must really want me for this project».

Massimo waited a beat, and then replied with a line meant to flatter.

«You are the best, Dalila. We know that you are worth a great deal».

«I see. Well then. I ask for immunity. I ask for universal immunity granted by any and all organized crime syndicates. I must be made universally untouchable. I am permitted to kill with impunity as my skills are required, without fear of retribution. And… if I retire, I retire without fear of being eliminated».

Massimo paused for a moment and then answered.

«Done».

Dalila’s smile became just a bit more mocking.

“These bastards really want that Nectar”, she thought silently.

She made Massimo wait just a bit more for her answer. After another pregnant pause she finally spoke, as though the contract had already been signed.

«When do we do it?».

«We leave for Geneva tomorrow».

The pain was intensifying. Dalila forced herself to keep running, all the while looking for the spot that Massimo had promised.

“Red curtains”, she thought to herself. “He said we would meet at the red curtains”.

She could taste another wave of blood at the back of her throat. The left corner of her mouth was already dripping crimson. She tried her best to keep more of it from bubbling forth.

“Where are those damned red curtains?!”.

Dalila hated to fly, but fly she did.

Massimo had arranged for first class seats direct from New York to Geneva.

She pounded drink after drink of scotch: better drunk than dizzy and sick.

It was an inner ear thing. Fortunately alcohol had a strange neutralizing effect upon her equilibrium.

They landed in Geneva and took a taxi to a low profile hotel, pleasant and comfortable but inconspicuous.

«We’re on our honeymoon», remarked Massimo.

«I suppose I could do worse», replied Dalila with a smirk.

They checked into a room set aside for newlyweds.

Dalila was still a bit tipsy from the scotch.

«You have a rare opportunity to take advantage. After all they expect to hear fucking sounds coming out of here, no?».

Massimo had no intention of missing that opportunity.

“A lioness in the field will be a lioness in bed”, he thought to himself.

They made wild animalistic love, like two condemned prisoners copulating just before dawn and execution.

Dalila, dressed only in a black fedora and red pumps, straddled Massimo like a rider upon a horse and drove herself hard against him, taking him as deep as possible from that position.

She moaned and writhed, all with low guttural sounds, a bitch whore queen out of control.

Massimo turned tables on her and dragged her in front of a mirror. He took her from behind as she stood and thrust himself into her harder than he thought possible while they both watched themselves in the mirror.

Dalila clutched at her belly as though wounded. Her eyes bulged, her mouth stretch in an expression of pain mixed with pleasure.

«You… I… feel like… you’re pushing my guts out through my navel…».

She forced his hands hard into her belly and tortured herself with his fingers. She fantasized that they were daggers slicing into her bowels.

The pair erupted as one volcanic passionate orgasm.

«Just… like… getting… fucked…», Dalila muttered as she flashed upon her wild sexual delights with Massimo that had happened the night before.

The bullets eating at her ruined guts felt just like his thrusting… the pleasure… the pain… she had never been able to tell the difference.

“The curtains”, she thought. “There they are”.

Just a few more steps and she could rest.

Dalila sat nude upon an easy chair, drinking coffee, waiting for Massimo to wake up. She would skip breakfast today. No sense in having a bellyful of breakfast rolls when a bellyful of hot lead was most likely to be the lunch menu.

She had her entire look already picked out, per Massimo’s intelligence report: a black pin striped jacket, complete with several Glock clips and a dagger fastened to the inside for easy access, a white tied off top, fishnet hose, a gray micro miniskirt and a pair of no nonsense high heeled black pumps. An up-do would keep her long blond hair out of her eyes and under control.

“Dressed to kill”, she thought to herself.

She showered quickly, dressed silently, and prepared for the task at hand.

Massimo studied Dalila in the pre-determined attire.

“Damn”, he thought. “She doesn’t need a gun. That outfit is lethal”.

They made a striking couple as they set out for the nondescript Fiat coupé they had leased for the job: he in his Armani, she in her “Laboratory Assistant’s” lady shark suit.

Once inside the car they were free to talk.

«So», said Dalila with a wise ass smirk on her face, «how to do feel about women with scars now!».

Massimo felt himself blush a bit. She had been almost more than he could take in bed.

«I count my self lucky», he said in a hushed, bashful voice.

Massimo hadn’t even considered it, but here was a woman with a near perfect figure, the only real flaw being her long abdominal scar, the badge of honor for many jobs well done if hard fought. Was she insecure about it? Was that possible from this most confident of women? She was a woman after all.

«The scar is sexy», he continued. «It says “dangerous”».

Dalila, all professional, yet all woman, was pleased with his answer.

They arrived at a park just outside of the city. They drove behind a gray little building, grabbed their Glocks, twisted on the silencers, and set out for a man-hole-cover a few paces away.

«This is the spot», observed Massimo, without further ceremony.

He placed his palm on the cover and it unlocked, as if by magic.

He lifted the man-hole cover and let Dalila enter, before following himself.

About 20 steps down the metal ladder led to a gray hallway. There were no special markings, just a hallway with warm off white lighting. The glow was strangely human despite the sterile gray color of the floor and walls.

«It’s a big circle», said Massimo in a hushed voice. «We’ll take off in opposite directions. Kill as many as you can. No matter how many times you get hit, keep going until you find the red curtains. The exit is right there. If I survive I’ll meet you there. If not we’re both dead».

Dalila understood the serious of the task at hand. This was all or nothing: a second shot at life, or a hot trip to Hell.

Dalila believed in Hell, and in Heaven, for that matter. She wanted a shot at redemption, if possible. That’s what this was really about for her. She wanted a chance to live a better life than the one she was living at that moment. The Nectar could be the thing to give her that opportunity.

«Good luck», she said with little ceremony.

They set off in opposite directions.

After about 100 meters Dalila saw three men with AR-15s coming at her.

Pfft Pfft Pfft

She got the jump on them and fired three perfectly placed head shots.

“That was almost too easy”, she thought to herself.

The rounded perspective offered a bit of coverage. If she were to stay close to the wall then perhaps she could spot them as they came around the bend.

She spotted two more men.

Pfft Pfft

Rattattatta

She had placed two shots into their chests. The men died instantly, but the larger one had been able to rattle off a volley.

All Hell broke loose after that.

Dissonant sirens began to blare.

Dalila could hear the footsteps of a squad coming at her.

She would be caught and killed right away unless she did something bold.

There was only one choice.

She stepped away from the wall and strode right into the oncoming gauntlet, firing the Glock into the crowd of black suited Bilderberger troops.

Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft

6 of them went down right away but one was just grazed. 

Rattattattatata

«Ooogh».

Pfft Pfft

The man fell dead from her final shots, but Dalila had taken two slugs to the lower belly, right through her mini skirt.

The sirens continued to blare. More troops would come. She had no choice but to keep moving forward as quickly as possible. She pressed in hard against her wounded belly with her left hand and kept the Glock aimed high.

“Only head shots”, she told herself.

Four more troops came down the hall.

Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft

They fell dead, all from head wounds.

“Reload”, she thought.

She let go of her wounded gut and snatched a new clip from behind her jacket.

The silencer was no longer going to be effective. From here on out each shot would roar from her Glock as if to say “I’m right here boys”.

“Girls”.

Two young attractive female forms, frosty blondes in skin tight white jump suits, tight black belts, and matching black pumps sprinted down the hallway just as Dalila had finished re-loading.

There was no time to take good aim.

Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham

Much to Dalila’s delight she had force fed the two Bilderberg bitches with a hail of .45 slugs. They grabbed their bellies and moaned in disbelief.

There was no time to finish them off.

Dalila rushed by them, left hand on her belly and right on the Glock, not even staying around long to see them writhe on the floor in anguish and watch blood ooze out of their mouths.

“I hate to miss the good stuff”, she thought as she continued.

Four more men appeared in the hallway.

Dalila, out of pure reflex, pulled her left hand away from her belly and went into a two handed grip.

Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham

Rattattattata

The men were dead before they hit the ground, but one of them got a short volley of shots off as he died.

Three more slugs had found their way into Dalila’s already wounded belly.

She doubled over and grabbed her guts with an almost silent retching gesture, eyes bulging, mouth stretched wide open.

This last set of wounds was bad.

Worse still, she had dropped the Glock.

She didn’t have the strength to bend over and pick it up.

She had to stay on her feet…

She staggered forward a few more meters, and then stumbled over to the wall.

She had to stay up… to fall was to die. She had to keep going.

She slid against the wall slowly, forcing her legs to make the rest of her follow.

After 10 more meters she spotted another Female Bilderberger.

This striking young woman had raven black hair, and deep olive skin. Her bosom was full, her waist tiny, with a little soft round belly. She wore the same skin tight white jump suit, tight black belt and matching pumps, but was far more striking than the fair European girls Dalila had just killed moments before.

Dalila recognized her ethnicity right away.

She was Indian.

As she approached she saw Dalila, a seemingly unarmed woman dressed as a laboratory assistant who had been badly shot, and was not sure of what to make of the situation.

«Stop or I shoot», she said.

Dalila looked up at the young woman and smiled wryly. A thin line of blood trickled down her left corner of her luscious red lips, and down her cheek.

«I… I’m glad you… came… intruders… shot me… help… me».

The blue-gray mesmerizing eyes of the Indian beauty changed from cold ruthlessness to sudden compassion.

Dalila had used the big lie and it worked.

The Indian girl rushed to Dalila’s side.

«I help you. How bad you are hurt?».

«Guts… they shot… me in the guts… I’m a… lab assistant here to… work on…».

«Take easy. I have you».

The Indian Girl had rested her AR-15 on the wall just out of Dalila’s reach, as well as her own.

She reached out to Dalila to steady her.

«Your… name… tell me… uhk… your name».

«Aishwarya».

«Beautiful… name… Aishwarya… I… I’m dying… tell me... have you ever… killed anyone… murdered… murdered them… for the Society…».

Dalila drew her right hand away from her belly and clawed at the wall.

The Indian girl was puzzled by the question. Of course she had indeed murdered for the sake of the Bilderberg. It was all a matter of duty. In the end however Aishwarya, she of the sweet eyes and innocent voice, was as much a killer as any member of the Society.

«Yes… I kill… and I will kill those who kill you».

This was all that Dalila needed to hear. She reached behind her back and grabbed the dagger from the inside of her jacket.

She stuffed it into Aishwarya’s soft pouting belly, 7 inches of steel right up to the hilt.

«Hoouchgh!».

The Indian girl’s eyes bulged, her mouth stretched wide in an expression of shock and deep gut wrenching pain.

«My name is Dalila. I kill killers».

Dalila drove the blade up to the girl’s rib cage.

Aishwarya’s mouth gagged reflexively as a river of blood suddenly exploded over her lower lip.

She had been gutted.

Dalila danced the girl around quickly and posed her on the wall.

The wounded blond assassin tried to reach for the AR-15, but it slipped to the ground.

Dalila spun back around involuntarily for a moment and used the wall to regain her strength. She was staring at Aishwarya, who struggled unsuccessfully to keep her bowels from falling out of the massive wound.

The girl tried to stay on her feet, but it was no use. Her legs were weakening. Blood was oozing out of the wound, out of her mouth and onto the slick gray floor below. She gagged like a gutted fish, contemplating her slow demise as the seconds passed.

Dalila looked on and gained strength from the beautiful gruesome spectacle of pleasure the young Indian girl provided her.

The hardened assassin pressed her hands hard into her own wounded belly, spun back around and forced herself to sprint way from the gutted, dying girl.

“That was delicious”, said Dalila to herself.

Just about then the desperate blaring sirens ceased their horrible noise.

“Massimo must have the formula!”.

This thought, the thought that they may still get out of this alive drove her further along the hallway.

Dalila was bad. Badly wounded, bleeding internally, a dead woman running on legs with lives of their own.

Yet, there was a chance.

If she could just make it to the red curtains.

Her labored progress went from an uneven run to a full sprint.

“It’s just a belly ache”, she told herself. “Just another belly ache”.

Memories, distant and recent, flooded her mind as she ran for her life.

She would make it. She swore to all that was holy. She would make it, and quit this dreadful business once and for all.

“Let someone else kill killers for a change”.

She could smell Massimo’s cologne as she remembered their night of passion. She felt that very first blade pierce her guts the night she saved Don Eduardo.

Those memories and others like them played like a carnival ride in her mind: dizzying, beautiful, and painful. They were almost unbearable in their beauty.

Then, when she though she could run no further, she spotted the red curtains in the distance.

“There they are. Just a few more steps and I can rest”.

Massimo knew that his job would be the easier one.

Dalila’s big bold march through the hallway would bring every top notched Bilderberger troop down upon her. If she had survived at all, there would be 15 dead men lying in her wake.

The Society was, without exception, based upon the concept that some were just better than others. The Bilderbergers were nothing if not sexist. They had no problem putting Uzis and AR-15s into the hands of poorly trained female troops so long as those troops looked stunning in their white, skin tight, Lycra uniforms.

Massimo held his Glock down at his side and strode calmly but quickly down the hallway. He could shoot from the hip and enjoy the show.

A pair of female guards came at him: they were big breasted blond beauties, most likely American girls, who had been lured to the Society with promises of money and luxury: an easy life playing at “lady soldier”.

Massimo fired the Glock at waist level.

Pfft Pfft

The women grabbed their bellies in agony and moaned, dropping their Uzis in the process.

They fell to their knees as Massimo casually strolled by them.

Their guts had been ripped apart by the .45 hollow point slugs. They were already spitting blood before they both dropped to the floor in wide eyed disbelief and pain.

«Dalila would have loved that», he mumbled to himself.

Just then the siren went off.

“My little assassin must be kicking ass”, he thought.

Dalila was the best.  Massimo knew it. He almost felt a bit of guilt that his part of the job was so much easier.

Almost…

Five more female guards, some blonds some brunettes, came running down the hallway.

Massimo knew that they would fire before they actually took aim. He dropped to the floor in a prone position and waited, just a beat, for them to walk into his trap.

Rattaattattattaattaa

Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft

The hall echoed with moans and guttural grunts.

Massimo had stitched the bellies of the entire squad. They fumbled their Uzis onto the floor and clutched at their wounds.

Some tried to speak. Others just writhed in pain, trying in vain to put the fire in their guts out with their hands.

Massimo got up quickly and paused for a brief moment to take in the sight.

Sexy dying bitches, blood and guts oozing from bullet wounds, crimson fountains of gore pouring over their crimson lips, they were a sea of regret for the careers they had so foolishly chosen.

Massimo snatched an Uzi from the ground with his left hand and kept walking.

He could hear loud exchanges of gun fire in the distance. He knew that Dalila was still alive.

Still raising hell.

Another squad of female troops came at him.

Armed with both the Glock and the Uzi he would be free to fire at will.

He took a bold position in front of the squad.

Rattattatatatatata Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft Pfft

The combination of slugs aimed waist high cut the squad of inept beauties in half.

Just as the last pitiful group, these young women clutched their bellies and prayed for death, oozing guts and spitting blood as they writhed on the floor.

Massimo had taken out female 14 troops in a matter of about 3 minutes.

He kept walking for another 50 meters, and he noticed something.

The gun fire in the distance had stopped.

Dalila was either dead, or had gotten to the red curtains, and was waiting there, like a good little assassin.

Just then he arrived at a green triangle that had been stenciled onto the side of the wall. He reached up and touched the center of the triangle.

The alarm stopped.

“Our intelligence outdid themselves this time”, he thought.

After this spot he needed to keep an eye out for a small orange circle.

His palm had been embedded with the necessary universal access codes.

He could enter any of the hidden rooms, and operate any of the systems as if he were one of the Bilderbergers himself.

A few meters down the hall, and there it was: the orange circle.

His Glock was empty. He reached into his coat and put the trusty weapon in his holster. He would need only the Uzi to complete his mission.

He placed his palm on the symbol. Right away the seemingly slick gray wall opened and revealed a steel portico. He walked through and heard the door slide shut behind him.

A second door with an orange circle upon it was just a few paces away.

“This is it”.

Hanna was a captain without a platoon.

She walked stunned among the dead and dying women wondering who, or what, could have caused so much mayhem.

Most of the girls were still alive but beyond help. Some tried to call out to her, only to have great fountains of crimson gore run down their lips. Others just moaned and writhed like snakes engaged in some sort of mating rite.

Each girl had taken hot lead to the belly, as though it had been done to torture them as much as eliminate them.

After a stretch of 200 meters she came upon the dead male troops.

They had been taken out with cool efficiency: either head or heart wounds, dead before they hit the ground.

Hanna found two more dying girls, belly shot like the others.

One of them, a blond who spoke only French, tried to communicate.

«Je… je… uhgh».

As the others before her, the only thing that managed to come out of her mouth was blood.

The second girl, a German, with massive breasts, wallowed on the ground in agony: «Mein Bauch… hat… Leid… viel… Leid… Ich… Hilfe…».

Hanna could take no more.                                                                                       

She turned her AR-15 on the young women.

Rattattatattatata

Hot lead bounced the two of them against the floor as it ripped into their breasts.

Both of them twitched for a few seconds, and then died with wide open stares on their faces, mouths stretched in agony.

Hanna continued down the hall, and encountered an entire squad of dead men. They had killed just as the other males: expert head wounds, or direct shots to the left chest. Fist sized holes allowed her to see the very hearts of some of them. Others had half of their heads blown off.

«Hollow Points», she said to herself.

Hanna was a pro. She had worked hard over the past 20 years to actually earn some respect for her skills as an officer.

When she was younger she had been just another pretty face: a striking Lebanese beauty with an hour glass figure that had been brought in as more of a novelty than a solider.

Hanna bothered to learn something about her job. As the years progressed she had climbed the ranks and earned the captain’s insignia that decorated the collar of her uniform.

Now in mid life she had just been put in charge of an entire platoon. She was the ranking officer, even over the men. This was particularly rare in the Bilderberg order, where women were valued for their looks, not their deeds.

Hanna, however, was still vain about her looks. Always well endowed, her breasts were now massive fleshy globes, still perky, but super-sized. She still possessed an hour glass figure, but had gained some weight from her younger days.

She wore the black belt around her waist as tightly as she could tolerate it in order to draw her belly in and create the illusion of a more contrasted figure.

The over all effect visual was that of a mountain of femininity. Sexy to be sure, but an overripe pouting pulsating figure of passion: every inch a Woman, every inch a Captain.

She continued down the hall until she saw the final member of her platoon.

“Aishwarya”.

The beautiful Indian girl that Dalila had tricked and disemboweled was still clinging to life.

She was leaning against the wall, legs writhing and twisting, heels tapping violently against the floor, sitting in her own viscera.

Her beautiful blue gray eyes were wide with anguish. Her mouth was stretched open. Blood gushed from it, over her full pouting lower lip, like a crimson water fall. Her large breasts heaved, almost popping out of the low cut neck line of her uniform.

Her intestines has slithered out of the massive wound and wrapped themselves around her delicate little fingers. She pushed them in slightly with the tips of her long red nails, but they pushed back out. Much of the untamable string of organs was snaked around her thighs and draping against the floor.

Hanna knew that the poor young girl was suffering, but she couldn’t bring herself to shoot her the way she had done for the others.

Aishwarya had been her favorite, her special project. She was training her to follow in her footsteps as a true soldier for the Society. She had even sent Aishwarya on some easier elimination assignments.

Little had Hanna known that by making Aishwarya a killer she had signed her death warrant. Dalila only killed killers.

Hanna knelt beside the dying girl and stroked her thick black hair.

«Now, now sweet child… it will end soon. The pain will pass. You will rest soon… I promise».

Aishwarya wanted to speak. Her eyes intensified. She struggled to talk, but only gagging sounds came out of her at first.

Finally… after gathering all of her will, she was able to say two words: «La… Lady… shark…».

A final burst of blood came from her mouth. She writhed violently for a few more moments, and then fell back against the wall dead, eyes wide open, mouth stretched in an agony that outdid the others.

Hanna paused for a moment and then rose to her feet.

She had understood the dying girls warning. Whoever had killer her, and the others, was dressed like a “lady shark”. This was the phrase the girl soldiers all used dismissively to describe the bitches that worked in the laboratory

Hanna was hunting for a bitch dressed like a “lady shark” that didn’t belong to the Society.

She started double time down the hallway and headed for the red curtains.

Metternich was a pig: a balding, paunchy, doughy skinned, sweaty little man of little distinction save two.

First and foremost he was a Bilderberger. His lineage went all the way back to that very same Metternich who held Vienna in his vice like grip at the time of Napoleon.

He had gone to the best schools, stayed at the best hotels, driven the fastest cars, and indulged in the world’s most beautiful woman, all because of his Bilderberg status.

Secondly he was a genius.

Nectar was his brainchild. He knew that he could rule the world with this serum that literally raised the dead from the grave and he intended to take his invention all the way to the top.

The first experiments were just the beginning. Metternich knew that with the right body chemistry it could perhaps be possible to develop a serum that could grant out and out immortality.

The pudgy little scientist believed very firmly in the theory of the races. Some people were simply better than others. It was one thing to test the serum on stupid condemned criminals, or air headed bimbos who served no better purpose than empty copulation.

If the Nectar could be tested on an exceptional individual, one in possession of a higher intellect, better athletic skills, a greater supply of adrenaline, perhaps, just perhaps, a superior version of the formula could be codified.

If that were to happen then Metternich would indeed rule the world from the very seat of power. He would be King among equals, the Premiere Bilderberger.

There within his tightly sealed inner sanctum he was free to work. The only distraction, one of his choosing, was the harem of “Laboratory Assistants” provided to him for his entertainment. None of these alluring young women were top notch scientists, but each of them knew enough about general scientific principles that they could be of reasonable use to Metternich and his work.

After all, a genius would not be able to tolerate a group of idiotic bimbos for very long. These women were charming and bright as well as overtly sensual.

Metternich had a taste for opposites. His pale bland appearance caused him to desire smoldering Mediterranean types: Italian beauty queens, Arabic princesses, Spanish goddesses, even sirens from Latin America fit the general physical characteristics that he “required” for his work.

He favored the hour glass figure. Each was well endowed with a large bosom, wasp waist, round pouting belly, and a large meaty rear end: “thick” as they say in the vernacular.

There was a uniform required: the “Lady Shark Look”.

Metternich had a kink for the sluttish “professional”. He favored the dark pin striped jacket, a skin tight gray micro-mini skirt, a white tied off blouse that exposed the belly and lifted the breasts, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels.

Some of the young women wore decorative horn rimmed glasses in order to play “professor” “or “intellectual”.

It was all part of the fantasy to which Metternich felt entitled as the Bilderberg’s greatest intellect.

The little scientist and his team had been working all morning.

They had become slightly concerned when they saw that the general alarm had been triggered, but security was always very touchy at this particular outpost.

That alarm went off for all sorts of reasons. No intruder could every gain access to Metternich’s laboratory. Only a Bilderberger with the universal code implanted into his right palm could open the door.

Even if the entire platoon were to be wiped out in attack Metternich and his bevy of beautiful assistants would be safe. There was plenty of food, plenty of liquor, and plenty of sex. They could be just fine down there for months at a time.   

Massimo entered the laboratory without ceremony.

Rattattata

The first volley had been aimed straight into the ceiling.

Some of the women screamed and tittered nervously.

«Was in Der Teufel ist Los!», shouted Metternich.

«You have a choice my fat little friend», replied Massimo coolly. «Get me a vial of Nectar and the formula or I’ll ventilate you».

Metternich grabbed one of his assistants, a beautiful Columbian girl with a name tag that read “Veronica” and placed her in between himself and Massimo’s Uzi, like a human shield.

«Now now», answered the scientist. «You wouldn’t want anything to happen to this lovely young girl would you?».

Rattattattata

«Huoghk!!».

Massimo unloaded the Uzi right through Veronica’s tight micro miniskirt. The raven hair beauty grabbed at her belly and doubled over in wide eyed disbelief.

«Allow me to repeat myself», continued Massimo. «I will kill everyone in this room unless you hand over the formula for Nectar and a vial ready to go… NOW».

Metternich allowed the wounded girl to drop from his grip. She fell to the floor writhing in pain.

«I… I don’t have it written down. It’s… all in my head… wie Mozart Verstehen Sie?».

«You had better start writing, Mozart, because you have about one minute to produce some formulations».

«Papier! Schnell!», snapped the pasty little scientist.

A striking olive skinned blond with hazel eyes hurried to Metternich with a piece of paper and a pen.

The scientist rushed to an empty counter and started jotting down formulations as quickly as possible.

Massimo held the Uzi on him as he wrote.

None of the girls bothered to check on Veronica, who had taken 7 Uzi slugs to the belly. The Columbian beauty clawed at her wounds, and moaned, writhing and scratching at the floor with her stiletto heels. A thin trickle of blood oozed down the corner of her mouth as she begged for help.

«Here take this to him», ordered Metternich.

The olive skinned blond rushed the paper to Massimo.

«Prendi».

The beauty was Italian.

Massimo spoke to her in her own language.

«You don’t want to die do you?».

«No of course not».

«I’ll take you with me if you’ll help».

«Certainly».

«Do you know enough about this project to tell me whether this is the correct formula?».

«Yes I do. I am the senior assistant here. I assisted with every step».

«Look at it».

The girl paused, read it and said shook her head no.

«What is missing?».

«He omitted the Reversine. The rest is complete».

«Is there a vial ready?».

«Yes».

«Bring it to me».

The Italian beauty hustled to the back of the laboratory and brought forth a small medical carrier case.

Metternich looked on with dismay and anger.

«Open the case», ordered Massimo, still speaking in Italian.

The girl complied. Massimo looked down to see three vials and hypodermic needle. The kit was ready to go.

«Good girl», said Massimo assuredly. He calmly put the paper into his coat pocket. The Italian girl closed the medical case and placed on the floor near Massimo’s feet.

«Well now», snorted Metternich, «you have it all. But I can make more of it. If you want it so badly why don’t you just take me with you? I’m open to nego…».

Massimo fired the Uzi into Metternich’s chest. The weak little man was dead before he hit the floor.

Massimo continued to speak in Italian to his new co-conspirator: «What about them. Can they be trusted?».

«No. Not one of them. They have to be eliminated».

The beautiful Columbian Veronica was still clinging to life.

The three remaining girls were dark haired beauties: two Arabic love goddesses and a bewitching Spanish girl, who wore her hair in a tight jet black up-do; on her face before large mesmerizing Spanish eyes sat a decorative pair of horn rimmed glasses.

Massimo knew that they would be of no use to him. They were spoiled Bilderbergers, and they had shown absolutely no concerned for the dying Veronica.

He opened fire upon all three of them, stitching their bellies with hot slugs.

They moaned and gagged as they were hit. One of the Arabic girls, the more full figured of the two, stayed on her feet and wiggled as the bullets hit her soft gut, almost as if she were doing an aggressive belly dance.

The other two had dropped to their knees and were clutching at their wounds.

Veronica, the first to be hit, shook violently as a large amount of blood came gushing for her mouth. The other girls stared at her in horror, knowing that they too would soon die the same way.

A few more twitches, and the Colombian beauty was dead. She stared with wide tortured eyes. Her bloody mouth had closed a bit, to an almost ironic snarl.

The Arabic beauty who remained standing took a few pained steps. She had taken 10 hot slugs and was making short animalistic grunting noises as she stepped. She tried to speak, and instead emitted a wash of crimson gore over her pouting red lips. Still, she refused to drop to the floor.

The other two girls were now writhing on the floor in wide eyed agony, just as Veronica had done before.

The Italian girl watched the macabre suffering of her companions for a few moments, then turned and stared into Massimo’s eyes with a look of desire.

Massimo said nothing as the girl approached him.

She moved in and kissed him as passionately as she could muster.

After the first breathtaking kiss Massimo pulled his mouth away from the girl and whispered to her.

«What is your name?».

«Francesca», she replied with pouting half smiling red lips.

The girl moved into kiss Massimo again. As she did so he allowed her tongue to shoot into his mouth while he moved his left hand into his jacket.

«Splitch».

«Houyghk».

Massimo had shoved a 7 inch dagger into Francesca’s belly. She drew her face away in wide eyed shock, but kept her body right up against his.

He could feel her hot massive breasts, feel the pounding of her heart, feel the throbbing of her ventricle artery through the hilt of the knife, and took in the sweet hot scent of her perfume.

«Francesca the Bilderberger», he said as he drew the blade up from just above her crotch to her sternum.

The girl’s eyes stretched in wide disbelief and horror. She took two or three uneven steps back, and looked down at her ruined body.

The blade was stuck just under her ribs. Her guts had already begun to bulge out into her delicate hands and red fingernails. She looked back up at Massimo and shook her head in a faint nervous “no”. First the tiniest droplet of blood oozed over her thick lower lip. Then a flood of crimson poured out of her mouth. She sank to her knees slowly and then fell backwards onto her round firm ass.

As she hit the floor she lost the grip she had on the wound. Her guts came bursting forth out of the massive gash over her full thighs and onto the floor with a gruesome slap.

Of all of the wide eyed expressions of horror upon the faces of the dying women, Francesca’s was the most desperate, and the angriest. She had collaborated and been rewarded with a slow agonizing death.

Massimo was out of time. As much as he enjoyed watching the suffering that he had unleashed he had to get to Dalila with the vial. He was certain that she would have been at very least badly wounded if not dead.

He dropped the empty Uzi on the floor and took a moment to reload his Glock.

He picked up the carrying case that contained the nectar and headed across the Laboratory to the back entrance intelligence had told him about.

As he left all four women were still in the middle of their death struggles.

The full figured Arabic beauty had taken a few staggering steps forward and in the process spiked pieces of Francesca’s intestines that were wiggling freely on the floor.

The Italian beauty hadn’t noticed because she was too busy hating Massimo in her mind as he headed out. She had now fallen to the floor and gagging upon her own blood. Her face was alive with wrath and anguish. Her eyes bulged at each new wave of pain.

She turned her head just in time to curse the man silently, between vulgar gasps for breath, as he left for the red curtains.

Dalila was holding on, just barely.

The great ones have to do that sometime.

She had been clutching her wounded belly with both hands, bent at the waist, ass pressed against the wall, for a good five minutes.

The slow dull ache was swimming around in her guts like an angry shark that nibbled at her viscera as it went along.

She forced herself to stay on her feet, and told herself, “He’ll be here soon. Just hang on a bit longer. He’s coming”.

She knew that she had taken out the all of men. They were the real threat. The female troops were complete joke, pathetically trained and easy to kill.

“Massimo must have made mince meat out of them”, she thought.

Just then she heard a quick clacking noise against the hard slick floor.

Those were footsteps, but there was no way they could belong to Massimo.

“That’s a woman”, thought Dalila.

She was now completely unarmed, weak from the five .223 rounds she had taken to the belly, and on the verge of collapse.

If this last woman coming down the hall was armed then Dalila was done for.

Hanna could see the figure of a wounded “Lady Shark” bent over, clutching at her belly with both hands, as she came down the hallway.

“That must be the bitch that killed Aishwarya and the others”, thought the Lady Captain.

As Hanna approached she was able to recognize the woman who had disguised herself as a lowly laboratory assistant in order to massacre her platoon.

«Dalila di Capri», she said to herself in a quick hushed whisper.

Hanna had never met Dalila. One of the two of them would be dead now, most likely Hanna, if that had ever happened before.

Hanna knew her by reputation, and recognized her from the many intelligence reports she had received on the brazen mob hit woman who had taken many lives, and survived countless situations wherein she had been written off as dead.

Hanna was about to kill Dalila di Capri. It would be the crowning achievement of her career as a Bilderberger Paramilitary Officer.

Dalila looked up with exhaustion and stared as the woman approached.

“It’s been a good life”, she thought to herself.

Hanna stopped just in front of Dalila and aimed the AR-15 at her.

Dalila straightened up, ever so slowly, fighting the temptation to fall to the floor. Her back was now flush against the wall.

Her thighs were trembling with tension in their effort to keep her standing, despite her serious wounds.

Hanna waited for a few beats and then spoke: «I know who you are, Dalila. You wiped out my entire platoon. That I can understand. I know that you were paid to do that. What I can’t understand is why you gutted poor Aishwayra like that and left her to die a slow miserable death».

Dalila had to struggle to answer, but she felt that an answer was needed.

She worked her mouth painfully, as blood oozed through her fingers, and a thin line of crimson poured down the corner of her mouth.

«I… ukh… I was… already hit… when she found me… all I had was… uhk… the knife…».

Hanna was unmoved by the answer.

«I have a choice to make. I can finish you off with a few quick blasts, or I can make you suffer a bit. Now let me ask you Dalila. If you were in my position, what would you do?».

A wry smile found its way to Dalila’s mouth. She knew exactly what she would do if she were Hanna.

“She’s going to kill me, but she’s going to be slow about it”, thought the green eyed, wounded tigress.

Hanna took careful aim as Dalila braced herself for a wave of gunfire.

Rattattatata

«OOOHGGH!!».

Hanna had put five slugs directly into Dalila’s stomach, just below her left breast.

A hard hot ache dominated her upper belly. Her stomach had been completely shredded by the volley of slugs.

Dalila’s emerald eyes bulged with pain. Her mouth stretched open.

Crimson now poured freely from her mouth as she gagged on the gore. She had grabbed the new wounds with her right hand, but blood poured over her fingers.

«You’re a tricky bitch», snapped Hanna, «so just to make sure!».

Rattattata

The Lady Captain riddled Dalila’s right breast with four more .223 slugs.

Dalila grabbed her wounded breast with her right hand and gagged in silent agony.

That was a kill shot.

There was no way for Dalila to survive that many wounds.

The green eyed assassin slid slowly down the wall and fell into a weak sitting positing on the slick floor.

That was it. Dalila knew that she would never rise from that spot again.

Hanna watched as Dalila tried to force herself to speak.

She studied each wound as it oozed blood.

Hanna began to enjoy Dalila’s death struggle: her wide open mouth, well gifted with full pouting sensual lips, still tried in vain to speak despite the fact that blood poured freely from it.

There was a look of ferocious anger on Dalila’s face. That keen cool mind seemed to be thinking, constantly thinking: considering her situation, hoping for some sort of last second reprieve, judging how long it would take for her wounds to kill her.

Dalila’s mind was indeed a curse. She could see the entire day flash before her eyes like a dream. She remembered each incident, each wounding, each kill, with ironic vibrancy. She was dying, yet never more alive.

«That’s it bitch», said Hanna coolly. «You think about what you did to my platoon. You think about all of the people you’ve murdered. Now you suffer. There is no escape for you. No one will come to your rescue. The cat is out of lives».

Dalila continued to try to speak.

“I am not a murderer”, she thought to herself. “I killed killers. It isn’t murder when you take out that trash… is it?”.

Dalila knew that she would have her answer in moments. The room took on a strange glow, as though brightened by a pale yellow light.

“This is it”, she said to herself, “I’m about to die”.

Dalila started to writhe against the wall. Her heels dug into the floor. The pain consumed her so much that she could not escape it. Her lung burned, her belly ached, all now in an intolerable constant spasm.

“Let me die already”, she said to herself as her eyes and mouth stretched wider still.

Neither woman noticed the small rushing sound of a hidden automatic door as it slid open.

A second later the curtain beside the dying Dalila was pushed aside. A man with a Glock appeared as if out of nowhere.

Hanna was caught completely by surprise.

She tried to turn and fire the AR-15.

Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham

«Houghhk».

It was Massimo.

He had put nine .45 slugs into Hanna’s belly, just below the black belt that she wore as tight as possible to give herself a wasp waist. The Lady Captain had danced with the onslaught of hot lead.

Hanna dropped her weapon and grabbed her wounded gut with both hands.

Massimo glanced over at Dalila as she continued to writhe violently on the floor.

His attention snapped back to the gut shot Lady Captain.

«Uhk... No… don't ki...».

Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham

«Hougghk…!? Houghhk…! Hooughhk!!».

«Just to make sure I really kill you…».

He unloaded the Glock into Hanna’s upper belly.

No mercy for the woman who had finally managed to kill Dalila di Capri.
Hanna forced a painfully grunted "why?" past her lips.
Massimo had already answered by giving her just a bit more hot lead than she had given Dalila. No further explanation was needed.
The Lady Captain’s eyes and mouth now bore an ironic resemblance to those of the green eyed assassin.

Hanna tried to speak more, but only blood poured over thick rep lips. Her eyes bulged in pain. She was in disbelief, not thinking to die in such a way, without a last chance...

She was a dead woman despite the fact that she refused to go down. The eighteen .45 caliber bullets to the belly and stomach - two bullets per life - had completely shredded her guts. No doctor could save her.

Hanna took a couple of tiny staggering steps down the hall. There was no purpose to her tortured walk other than to convince herself that she still lived, or that she could survive. It was all about the defiance of staying on her feet. She knew, just as Dalila did, that if she fell she would die.

Dalila had watched the entire exchange with the sharp intense focus of someone witnessing her last few moments on Earth.

Massimo turned to her and knelt by her side placing the Glock on the floor beside him.

Dalila tried to speak to him, but as before only gagging noises and blood would travel past her lips.

«I know Dalila. It hurts. I know. But I have it. I have the Nectar».

Dalila looked at Massimo with buring intensity.

“Will it really work?”, she thought, unable to say the words to Massimo.

«You must die first, Dalila. It only works on the dead».

Dalila’s entire body started to tremble. An odd smile appeared on her lips. She writhed violently, shook, and grabbed for Massimo’s lapel.

“I’m really going to die now”, she thought to herself.

It was her last thought. She shook more violently than ever. Her mouth closed just a bit, one last attempt at a smile. A final rush of sweet hot breath poured from her mouth.

Dalila was dead. Eyes bulging and intense, but a half closed half smiling mouth; her death had been a gesture of irony, just as her life had been.

Massimo heard a thump, and turned his head.

Hanna had finally fallen. She too would soon be dead, but for now the Lady Captain would writhe and suffer just as her troops had before.

Massimo turned back to the dead Dalila. He opened the medical case and withdrew the vial. He injected the serum into Dalila’s thigh. In his rush to administer the nectar a second vial of the precious serum rolled out of the case.

He snatched the third one from the floor, and left the case where he had placed, along with the hypodermic needle.

“If this works, she ought to be alive in about an hour”, said Massimo to himself.

He shoved his Glock into his holster and hoisted Dalila’s body into his arms. He stood and began to walk down the hallway.

Hanna was still writhing on the floor as he crossed her path.

He looked down at the dying Lady Captain. Her guts had poked out of the massive bullet holes in her belly. Her red fingernails clawed deeply into them. Her mouth gasped pitifully, like a fish out of water. Blood poured from the side of her mouth in a thick gory puddle upon the shiny floor.

«Help… uhkgh… me…», she managed to mutter weakly in between fits of pain.

«No Nectar for you, bitch», answered Massimo coldly.

He continued down the hallway with Dalila’s body. Then he stopped and turned. He was talking at Hanna’s feet, the killer of Dalila, but a sudden rush of compassion moved him to offer her a reprieve.

«There’s a vial over there by the curtains. Good luck».

Massimo continued quickly down the hall with Dalila’s body. He knew that new Bilderbergers would come soon. He needed to get Dalila to a safe clandestine location where she could return from the dead, if that were at all really possible.

Hanna had heard Massimo’s last suggestion. She pulled her bloody fingers from the gory mess that used to be her guts and started to drag her wounded body slowly and painfully to the used hypodermic needle.

Hanna knew exactly what she faced. Every Bilderberger troop above the rank of lieutenant had been briefed on the serum and its limitations. She would have to live to inject herself, but the Nectar had only been tested on the dead. Hanna had no idea whether her dying efforts to haul her bellyful of lead to the red curtains and administer a dose of Nectar would even work.

She had to try. Her body became heavier as she continued to pull it toward the hypodermic needle. Her guts were now slithering freely out of the massive holes the .45 hollow points had put in her soft abdomen. But Hanna, stubborn at the moment of her death as in life, clutched at the signs of destiny that she had learned from her Bilderberg masters.
“Just a few more feet…”, she thought to herself, “just... I… I have to reach it… I must… damn it I am a Captain… I am Hanna…”.

Basic thoughts at the climax of a hard death!

“Even my killer knew it… even he…”.

The Lady Captain started to spasm violently again. A massive flood of gore rushed out of her mouth. She clutched her belly with both hands in agony and twitched like a salamander in salt.

The vial was almost in reach. Hanna would not live to reach it. She bucked violently and moaned in torment. She rolled on to her back and pushed hard against her ruined guts with both hands, shook twice more, and died. Her eyes stared blindly, big and round up at the ceiling. Her mouth was a wide snarl of pain.

Massimo was long gone by the time two Bilderberg Majors arrived on the scene.
Hanna had been dead for nearly an hour. Her beautiful face was frozen in that last anguished expression of death and failure.
«This is the Captain. She looks a little fresher than the others».
«That vial. Perhaps that's some of the stolen Nectar?».
«Could be. Hell, she's dead anyway. What does she have to lose?
Give it to her».

POSTLUDE

Dalila awoke in a quiet hospital suite. The lighting was warm, the room filled with earth tones, comforting décor, and a sweet smell of fresh flowers.

A dozen roses sat on a table by her nightstand. She turned to her left to see that Massimo was sitting by her side, smiling.

«How long have I been out?», asked Dalila.

«Not too long», answered Massimo. «You were only dead for about an hour. We rushed you here and put you in an induced coma so your wounds wouldn’t kill you a second time. The doctors say that all of the fresh wounds you received are completely healed. It’s as if you were never wounded. The old injuries… they couldn’t fix those… but any new bullet holes sealed right up after they took the slugs out of you».

«No new scars?», asked Dalila, remembering how her right breast had been pulverized by her killer.

«That’s right», assured Massimo. «Your right breast is just fine: nothing to worry about».

«I must look horrible», said Dalila, who was suddenly overcome with pure vanity.

«Oh, we knew you would say that», replied Massimo. «We had a girl come in and do your hair and make up. Here take a look».

Massimo handed Dalila a small round mirror so that she could see herself. Her expression of worry turned to vain pleasure, and wry amusement.

«Red lipstick», she declared quietly. «Someone has been paying attention».

«You die, and get brought back to life, and all you can think about is lipstick?».

«Lipstick is important», replied Dalila. «They have make-up in Heaven you know».

Massimo smiled at first, and then thought to himself for a moment.

“This woman, a trained hired killer, just died for an hour. She knows whether or not there is an afterlife. She seems to have liked what she saw”.

Dalila watched Massimo and read his mind.

«I have nothing to worry about, Massimo. I kill killers for a living. It has to be done. God understands. He doesn’t like it very much, but he understands».

Massimo smiled at her comment. He wasn’t sure if she had “seen Heaven” after she was alive again and in her induced coma, or if there really had been something waiting on the other side of death for her. It was clear however that she was calm about it. As far as Dalila was concerned there was a Heaven and she had been there.

«So», Massimo said with a smile, «does that mean you don’t intend to retire after all?».

Dalila paused for a moment, smiled, and gave a sly answer.

«Let me think about it for a while».

IL RITORNO DELLA GRAN PUTTANA

Depressa e stravolta, pallida come un cadavere, Hanna era stata trasportata a casa della sorella in gran segreto.

Dopo il Nectar e la difficile rianimazione, aveva subito ben tre interventi chirurgici ravvicinati.
I medici avevano cercato di ricostruire - con protesi artificiali - parte dei suoi intestini, completamente distrutti dalle devastanti raffiche di piombo.
Lo stomaco era stato ridotto a meno di un quarto, nella prospettiva che potesse lentamente espandersi.
Fragile e malconcia, difficilmente sarebbe tornata a camminare sulle proprie gambe, e alla minima complicazione c’avrebbe lasciato la pelle, questa volta per sempre.
Tuttavia era tornata.
E con 18 pallottole a espansione .45 in pancia era un’enorme conquista.
Le stavano accanto la sorella e uno dei tanti colleghi che le facevano il filo quando era in auge. Gli altri erano spariti.
Si davano il cambio durante le difficili nottate di Hanna, appesa alla flebo, depressa e piena di dolori.
Il Nectar, infatti, non era privo di effetti collaterali.
Uno dei più insidiosi - del resto inevitabile - era quello di mantenere la coscienza della morte addosso al soggetto, come un mantello fatale, una Vergine di Norimberga sempre sul punto di richiudersi sul rianimato.
Hanna, infatti, contrariamente al suo carattere, appariva smarrita e titubante, Liza e Fred le tenevano sempre la mano per mantenere un contatto con lei e la sua fragile coscienza.
Il Capitano aveva assaggiato la morte e respirato i vapori del Lete, e ne era tuttora sconvolta.
Se non fosse riuscita a reagire, soprattutto nella psiche, le complicazioni cliniche l’avrebbero stroncata.
La notizia del trasferimento terminale di Hanna presso la sorella raggiunse anche Massimo, sempre bene informato.
Era consapevole di esserci andato giù molto pesante. Ma lui, appunto, aveva voluto essere sicuro di eliminare l'assassina di Dalila.
Tuttavia, a sangue freddo, si rammaricava della sua fermezza e offriva compassione alla sua vittima, da uomo a donna.
Massimo voleva essere informato sulla sorte del Capitano.
Contattò la sorella e fornì una linea criptata.
Conosceva dettagli che solo lui poteva conoscere.
((Mi hai fottuto... lo sai... macellato... per meglio dire...)), rispondeva Hanna, in un languido messaggio vocale, stando al gioco, accettando incuriosita la compassione del suo killer, non avendo molto da perdere. ((Dalila... come sta...?)).
((Bene. È tornata)).
((Per rimanere... o ripartire...?)).
((Rimanere. E tu?)).
((Io... ho bisogno d'aiuto...)).
((Hai tua sorella e il tuo schiavo)), sempre informato e con le giuste definizioni.
((Non so se...?)).
((Ce la farai anche stavolta, Hanna. Ti ho chiamato per sapere la verità)).
((Prima mi ammazzi… di pallottole… e poi… mi tappi i buchi…)), con un po’ di spirito cercava di tenersi la pelle.
((Ogni cosa al suo tempo. Bentornata, Capitano…)).