by Van ©2012
Chapter 5

Olivia continued talking on her phone as she strode down the hallway of the FBI's New York Field Office.  Dana Scully was in her path, waiting to hear her report.  "I'll meet you downstairs in five," Olivia said, then broke the connection and focused on her superior.  "Executive Assistant Director," she said, "an anonymous call was sent to the liaison number I gave the Boston Police, a text message with an attachment, actually."

Dana nodded.  "Show me."  Olivia handed her the phone and she concentrated on the tiny screen.  The message consisted of a Manhattan address followed by a single word: "Help."  Dana tapped the screen to view the attachment and the image of a movie poster appeared.  "Hell's Crawlspace?"

"One of Natalie Rhodes' early hits," Olivia explained.  "A tactical entry team is assembling as we speak.  I'll try and keep it low key."

Dana sighed.  "Try, but take full precautions."  She handed the phone back to Olivia, then pulled out her own.  "I'll notify NYPD.  They should already be doing that downstairs, but a word from myself would be courteous."  She smiled at Olivia as she selected a number.  "Low key but take full precautions," she chuckled.  "In other words, don't attract attention with a mob of agents in blue jackets and body armor.  At the same time, make sure your people don't get hurt and be prepared to take the heat if anything goes wrong.  I know it's a 'make this pig fly'-type order, but that comes with the territory for an Agent in Charge."

Olivia smiled back.  "So I've learned.  Does it get any better near the top?"

Dana shook her head.  "No, the pigs get bigger, their wings get smaller, and they arrive in herds.  Go."

"Yes, ma'am."  Olivia continued down the hallway.  She'd already started thinking about exactly how she was going to brief the Agents gathering below, but she could hear Dana's voice as she talked on her phone.

"Captain Gates," Dana was saying, "we have a tactical operation getting underway in Upper Manhattan and I wanted to brief you on the details.  The Field Office should already be notifying your Operations Center, but..."

Dana's voice faded into the distance as Olivia hurried down the stairs.

A white panel truck with "MIDTOWN CLEANING" on the sides pulled up to the townhouse.  The back doors opened and a dozen men and women, mostly men, jumped out of the back and headed for the front door.  All were dressed in navy blue coveralls with "MIDTOWN CLEANING" on the back and were carrying toolboxes or canvas duffel bags.  There was one exception and that was Olivia Dunham.  She was wearing a bulletproof vest under her jacket, but was otherwise in boots, pants suit, and blouse and was carrying a clipboard.  Its top-sheet was a typical printed work order or invoice, but underneath was a federal warrant authorizing entry and search of the premises.

Technical expertise and the appropriate tools made quick work of the door locks and the alarm system, and as soon as they were through the entryway doors the "cleaners" drew handguns, broke into pairs, and began a tactical search of the townhouse.  Olivia remained near the entryway, monitoring progress on her handheld radio.  There were repeated reports of "Clear!" from the various pairs as they worked their way from room to room and floor to floor.  Finally, the search coordinator announced "Building clear."

They were in what was obviously a furnished but unoccupied townhouse.  An abandoned iPhone on the floor near the entryway was the only thing Olivia could see that was out of the ordinary.

A voice crackled over Olivia's radio.  "Agent Dunham, second floor."

"On my way," Olivia answered, and climbed the stairs.  Down the second floor hallway and next to a bathroom was a closed door, and on it was an "X" formed by two strips of duct tape.  In addition, three strips of tape on the floor formed an arrow pointing at the door.

Covered by Olivia and three other Agents, an Agent opened the door and stepped back.  Beyond was a linen closet, empty but for a claw hammer and an open bag of nails on the bottom shelf—correction—the next to the bottom shelf.  Below the shelf was an empty set of brackets and what was obviously the actual bottom shelf was nailed to the closet floor, across a closed access hatch.

They didn't want to use the hammer as it was evidence.  The handle might hold fingerprints.  "Does anyone have a—"  Before Olivia could complete her question, an Agent stepped forward with a small pry-bar.  He quickly and efficiently loosened the six nails securing the bottom shelf, then pried it from the floor.  Creeeeeak.

"Mrrf!"  Thump.

Olivia frowned.  "Does anyone else hear that?"

The closest agents nodded.  "There's somebody down there," one said.

Once again, weapons were readied.  Then, an Agent jerked open the access hatch, stepped back, and there was a collective gasp.

Bound and gagged—stringently bound and cruelly gagged—Natalie Rhodes stared up at Olivia and her team.  Her eyes were wet with tears as she squirmed and struggled against her elaborate bonds.

"Get her out of there," Olivia ordered, then thumbed her radio.  "We need a bus," she said.

The radio crackled and a voice answered.  "On the way."

Meanwhile, a pair of Agents had carefully lifted Natalie from the joist cavity and gently placed her on the hallway floor.

"I'll get some blankets," an Agent announced as he sped away.

An Agent with a camera was snapping photos, documenting the cord, rope, and cable-tie web binding Natalie from shoulders to toes.  A female Agent had Natalie's head and shoulders cradled in her lap and was using a pair of bandage scissors to carefully cut through the windings of duct tape mummifying her lower face.  Other Agents were busy cutting her bonds.

Finally, Natalie's gag came free, both the tape and the underlying scarf cleave-gag, and the Agent gently pulled a large sponge from her mouth.

The Agent who had gone for blankets returned.  He also had a plastic bottle of water.

Olivia took the bottle, snapped the cap, and held the bottle to Natalie's trembling lips.  The actress drank with desperate thirst.  "Slowly," Olivia cautioned.  "You're safe.  An ambulance is on the way."

Natalie stared up at Olivia and the Agent cradling her head.  "She left me down here," she croaked.

"Shock," the Agent whispered to Olivia.  She was a few years younger that Olivia.  Her auburn hair was cut pixie-short, and she had concerned, green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and button nose.

Olivia nodded in agreement.  "Just rest," she told Natalie.  "We'll talk when you're ready, either here or at the hospital."

A male Agent approached the group.  "Agent Dunham?"  He nodded towards the nearest bedroom.

The other Agents were still cutting away Natalie's bonds but the task was nearly accomplished.

"You're safe, Natalie," Olivia reiterated.  "I've got to go, but I'll be back."

Natalie nodded, blinking tears.  She began to sob and the auburn-haired Agent held her close, providing what comfort she could.

Olivia followed the male Agent into the bedroom.  It was empty but for the usual furniture; however, on the bare mattress of the queen-sized bed were a pair of bras, two pair of crumpled panties, two compact Glocks in ankle holsters, and four clips of ammunition.  "Run the numbers on those Glocks right away," Olivia ordered.  "Don't wait for the forensics team.  Tell the Field Office to start with the NYPD database."  She noted the Agent's raised eyebrow.  "I'm afraid one of those pieces may belong to an officer in trouble," Olivia explained.

"Yes, ma'am," the Agent nodded.  He produced a pair of latex gloves and began pulling them on.

As Olivia left the bedroom she heard the faint wail of an approaching siren.  Her radio crackled.  "The bus is here," a voice announced.

Rupandra's shoes, skirt, jacket, blouse, pantyhose, shoes, bra, and panties were in a neatly folded stack on one corner of Lady Irena's desk.  She was kneeling on the carpet with her hands atop her head and fingers interlaced, between the desk and the still slumbering Kate Beckett and Jane Rizzoli.  Her eyes were wide and staring but her expression was otherwise blank.  Her smooth, pale skin shone with sweat and her nipples were fully erect.  Inspection of her pussy would have revealed further evidence of arousal.

Irena was seated in her throne-like chair behind the desk, gazing at Rupandra with a self-satisfied smile.  "Yes, you've brought me a lot of trouble, youngster," she mused, "but trouble can sometimes be turned into opportunity."

Just then, the office door opened and three of Irena's employees entered.  All were dressed for dominatrix duty in costumes of black leather: thigh or knee boots of black leather, skimpy leather bikinis and body-harnesses, spiked collars, and opera gloves.  Each had a coiled whip dangling from her belt or a riding crop thrust in a boot top.  All three were brunettes with their long hair pulled back in tight ponytails.

Two were pushing gurneys, similar if not identical to the folding, wheeled beds found in the back of any ambulance or hospital.  Granted, there were a lot of tan leather straps dangling from the gurney's side-rails, as well as wrist and ankle cuffs, but otherwise they were quite normal.

The third dominatrix was pushing a wheelchair.  More accurately, she was guiding the chair as it purred along under its own power.  A compact motor turned the wheels and throttle and brake controls were on the chair's handles.  It had small wheels in the front and large wheels in the back, like a conventional wheelchair; however, its frame was heavy and well-braced.  Like the gurneys, it also had many dangling straps, as well as cuffs for a hypothetical occupant's wrists, ankles, upper arms and knees.

Irena rose from the chair and walked around the desk.  She stepped behind Rupandra and knelt between the slumbering detectives.  A deep slit up the side of her hobble skirt made this possible.  "Kate, Jane," she said in a firm voice, "I want you both to remain asleep, but climb up onto these nice, soft beds for Mistress.  Up you come, my beauties."

Slowly, their eyes still closed, Kate and Jane first sat up, then stood.  The dominatrices took their arms and helped them recline on their backs on the gurneys.

"Deep sleep, Kate," Irena whispered in Kate's ear, then kissed her lips.  "Slumber and dream while my helpers make you more comfortable, and don't wake up until Mistress says you may.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress," Kate whispered.

Irena kissed Kate, again, then leaned over Jane and repeated the same instruction.

"Yes, Mistress," Jane responded, then yawned.

"Like a cat," Irena chuckled.  "So pretty, both of them," she sighed.  "I prefer male normals for my playmates, but these two are an unexpected and most welcome diversion."  It wasn't clear who Lady Irena was addressing.  Her dominatrices simply smiled and Rupandra remained paralyzed and staring straight ahead.

Irena nodded, and the dominatrices began strapping and cuffing Kate and Jane to the gurneys.  With deft hands they tightened and buckled the medical restraints, pinning the unconscious detectives against the soft padding above and below their breasts and across their upper arms, across their waists and forearms, and across their thighs.  Next, the wrist and ankle cuffs were fitted and secured.  They then went over the many buckles, clicking small tabs that double-locked the restraints.  Finally, ball-gags were gently placed in the detectives' unresisting mouths and the straps buckled under their hair at the napes of their necks and thin straps were buckled under their chins, clamping their jaws on the mouth-filling, two-inch spheres of white, medical-grade silicon.

"Take them through the wall," Irena ordered.  "I want them stripped and given alcohol sponge baths, followed by a thorough slathering of aloe vera gel.  We need to get the residual Red Dragon stink off their bodies.  Then, put them to bed, and take no chances.  They're warriors."

"Yes, Mistress," the dominatrices chorused.

"I'll handle the wayward Dragon," Irena continued, nodding at Rupandra.  "There's no reason you three should have all the fun."

The dominatrices laughed, then wheeled Kate and Jane from the office.  The dominatrix who had arrived with the chair gathered Rupandra's clothing from the desk, bowed, and also left.  The office door closed and Irena and Rupandra were alone.

Irena stepped behind her desk and thumbed a button on her phone.  "Suzanne," she said, "I'll be taking one of the new clients through my private entrance in several minutes.  Release the lock-down as soon as the two other new clients are through the wall, but the House is to remain on full alert until I sort things out.  Clear my schedule for the rest of the day and tomorrow.  I know some of my appointments will be disappointed, but assure them I'll make it up to them at a later date.  And bring some tea once the hallway is clear."

"Yes, Mistress," the voice of the receptionist answered.

Irena released the button and walked back around her desk.  "Into the chair, youngster," she ordered.

Rupandra stood and sat in the wheelchair.  Her movements were stiff and somewhat robotic.  Her hands remained atop her head.  As soon as her rump was in the seat, Irena began securing the restraints.  She buckled and double-locked cuffs to secure Rupandra's wrists to the armrests, her ankles in the footrests, and lower thighs, knees, and upper arms to the seat and frame.  She also fastened straps across Rupandra's waist and above her breasts.  Finally, she buckled and locked a collar around Rupandra's throat, pinning her against the chair's minimal headrest.  The restraints dimpled her skin and enforced a rather unladylike pose with her legs and knees spread as widely apart as the chair would allow.

Irena returned to her desk chair and sat.  "Now, Dragon-whelp," she purred, smiling at Rupandra's naked, helpless form, "you may move.  Tell me everything.  Explain how you came to capture such a delicious pair of warrior-slaves.  No deception and leave nothing out.  You know you can't lie to a Seventh-Cycle Elder, so don't even try."

Rupandra squirmed her naked, helpless body in the chair, testing her tight, inescapable restraints.  "Yes, Mistress," she sighed.

Olivia returned her phone to her pocket.  She was standing in a hallway of New York Presbyterian.  Through a glass wall and open drapes of a room she could see Natalie Rhodes reclined on her back in a hospital bed.  An IV drip was attached to her left arm and wires trailed from under her hospital gown to the usual medical monitors.  She was fast asleep.

Dana was talking to a male doctor in scrubs at the other end of the hall.  He cleared the screen of his tablet computer, then turned to leave.  "Thank you, Doctor," Dana called after him.

"You're welcome, Doctor," he responded, then turned a corner and was gone.

That's right, Olivia thought as Dana approached.  She's also an M.D.  Impressive.

Dana sighed and nodded towards Natalie.  "She's dehydrated and exhausted, but otherwise unharmed.  Her preliminary blood-work should be ready at any time.  Oddly, the ligature marks that covered her body when she was brought in have almost completely faded."

"That is odd," Olivia agreed.  "The serial numbers of the Glocks at the crime scene match the backup pieces of Kate Beckett and Detective Jane Rizzoli of Boston Homicide."

Dana frowned.  "Boston Homicide?"

"Rizzoli was on the kidnapping cases before we took over," Olivia explained.  "Her Lieutenant claims he has no idea why she might be in New York.  It was Kate Beckett's phone we found on the floor near the front door of the townhouse."

Dana continued to frown.  "Obviously, once this Detective Rizzoli is on a trail she's the type that won't take no for an answer, especially from the FBI."

"By all accounts she's a good cop," Olivia said, "a very good cop."

"That may be," Dana sighed, "and now she's a very good missing cop, like Detective Beckett."  She forced a smile.  "Continue coordinating the Boston and Manhattan efforts.  I'll wait for the blood-work and do a preliminary interview when Ms. Rhodes wakes up."

Olivia was mildly surprised an Executive Assistant Director was getting this directly involved in the investigation.  She knew the case was 'special," but apparently it was very special.  "Yes, ma'am," she answered, and reached for her phone.

Rupandra reached the end of her story.  Her mouth was dry.  Some time ago the receptionist had arrived in the office with a full tea service.  Lady Irena had taken delicate sips from her cup while she listened, but had made no offer to share with her Red Dragon "guest."

Irena set down her cup and saucer.  "I'd ask you for more detail about your decision to forgo Red Dragon assistance and to shepherd yourself through your first change; but that is Clan business and none of my concern, by ancient agreement.  So..."  Her smile faded.  "You've involved the FBI, specifically, this Agent Dunham.  Think very carefully.  Have you done anything that may lead them to the House of Pain?"

Rupandra swallowed before answering.  "No, Mistress, nothing."

Irena nodded.  "I must decide whether to wait and see if you might be right, or to do something more proactive.  More importantly, I must contact the Ice-Wolf, herself, and seek her council."  She stood, took three steps to the side, and one-by-one pressed three of the leather-clad buttons dimpling the padding covering the wall behind the desk.  There was a quiet click and a hinged panel of padding opened, revealing a steel door.  Then, the steel portal slid into the wall with a quiet hum.  Beyond was a mirrored, brightly lit corridor.  Irena stepped behind Rupandra's wheelchair and grasped the handles.  The chair's motor purred to life and she guided it through the secret door.  The steel door and padded panel closed behind them.

The chair rolled down the corridor, guided by Irena.  "The House of Pain occupies the office suites we've just left behind," she told Rupandra, "but I control the rest of this floor of the building, as well, registered under dummy corporations.  There is no link between the House and the portion of my lair that is 'through the wall,' not counting the armored and well-camouflaged portals, of course.  Even if the FBI does show up, they will find nothing but the House of Pain."

Rupandra mulled over this information.  "A magnificent lair, Mistress," she muttered.

"Thank you, youngster," Irena chuckled.

They were passing a series of steel doors with cipher-locks and closed and latched view-slits at eye level.  They took a right turn and continued down another mirrored corridor and passed more steel doors on either side.

They paused before one of the doors, Irena entered a code in its cypher-lock, and the door opened.  She guided the chair across the threshold and Rupandra found herself in a large room lined with stainless steel cabinets.  The gurneys were present.  One was unoccupied but the other held Kate Beckett.  She was still asleep and was now naked.  The gag was in her mouth and the full array of straps dimpled her skin and pinned her against the padding.  The skin in question glistened with clear oil.  Obviously, it was the aloe vera gel Irena had ordered to be rubbed on her body.

Jane Rizzoli was on her back on a steel table in the center of the room, her tan, toned, naked body shining under a bank of spotlights.  She was asleep, like Kate, but wasn't restrained in any way, nor was she gagged.

The three dominatrices were clustered around Jane.  Two were watching as the third squeezed clear gel from a plastic tube onto her right palm and began rubbing her hands together.  "Mistress, this one has received her sponge bath and I'm about to start applying the gel."

"You're certainly taking your time," Irena chuckled, then frowned.  "I told you to take no chances."

The watching dominatrices reached into their boot tops and produced shock-wands, thin batons with a pair of copper-clad prongs at their business ends and batteries in the handles.  "If she wakes up," one of them said, "we'll immediately shock her back into oblivion."

"But that won't happen, Mistress," the other added.  "She's under your thrall."

Irena smiled.  She left Rupandra's chair and strolled to Kate's gurney. She smiled down at the sleeping captive, then reached out and combed a strand of hair from her gagged, glistening face. "Beautiful," she sighed. "I see her scars are almost completely healed."

"Scars, Mistress?" a dominatrix asked.

"Both of our police warriors were shot several months ago," Irena explained, "and had the required surgery."  She nodded over her shoulder at Rupandra.  "This one healed their skins, a decision with which I totally agree."

"I see no scars on this one," said the dominatrix preparing to rub the gel on Jane.  "Oh, wait."  She leaned close and focused on Jane's abdomen.  "I can just make them out."

Irena joined her employees and smiled down at Jane.  "They're both exceptional specimens, beautiful, strong, and in perfect shape.  I can't wait to watch them suffer."

"And we can't wait to make it happen, Mistress," a dominatrix purred.

Irena turned, went to a cabinet, and returned to the wheelchair with a ball-gag identical to the gag silencing Kate and waiting for Jane on the second gurney.  The ball went into Rupandra's mouth and she buckled the strap at the nape of her neck, under her tousled hair, then buckled the second strap under her chin.  "Put this one in a cell for the night," she ordered as she straightened Rupandra's hair, then turned towards the door.  "Leave her in the chair."  She then turned and gazed at Rupandra.  "Hmm... I'm still angry that she has caused me all this trouble.  Place a vibrator between her legs set on a random timer and put clover-clamps on her nipples.  Also, paint her breasts with nettle oil.  I don't want her to sleep or enjoy the night."

"Yes, Mistress," the dominatrices responded.

"I have to make some calls," Irena added, then left.  The door closed behind her with a solid thud.

Rupandra sighed through her gag and watched the dominatrix with glistening hands begin massaging gel onto Jane's breasts.  The other two watched, as well.

"I love my job," the dominatrix-masseuse sighed.  Her companions smiled.