A Swallow's Bite Act 01

MOSKVA, PRESENT DAY.

"Winter becomes Mother Russia," Dominika Nedel'ka Patroph mutters to herself. Her brandy-toned eyes stare out the trolley's ice-incrusted window at the fur-wrapped Muscovites trudging along the snowy street. She glances down at the evening's duty assignment sheet in her gloved hand. "Infiltrate a formal business gathering and sniff out any intelligence of interest," is all it says. Dominika's luscious lips curl into her naturally sensuous smile. "With luck, I'll even keep my clothes on," she whispers to herself.

"Astanovka pajalst," she calls to the trolley driver.

With two sharp bell-clangs, the battered vehicle shudders to a halt. Its rear door unfolds and Dominika steps out into the bitter cold. Sveta Novoshev is right behind. Dominika frowns at the repetitive buzz coming from inside her shoulder bag. She removes the cell phone from under the Beretta 3032 Tomcat pistol that Russian Swallows like Dominika always carry.

TOKYO.

Halfway around the world a woman's curvy figure steps into a shadowy room made of teakwood. Turquoise and white water gurgles and bubbles in an oval hot tub. A match flares. Her delicate hand touches its flame to a candlewick. The amber glow illuminates Tomiko Kasawara. High cheekbones and dark brown, almond shaped eyes underscore Tomiko's haunting Asian beauty. A tiny snow-white Brazilian bikini hugs her flawless skin.

DEBOVSK APARTMENT COMPLEX, MOSKVA.

Light from a bare bulb slashes shadows across bearded faces . . . Middle Eastern faces. Sitting in the middle of the dingy apartment is a table filled with chemicals and mixing containers. Three men mill about fastening small canisters to a forth man's bare chest with strips of duct tape. The fourth man isn't Arab. He's of average build, clean-shaven and Russian.

TOKYO.

Reaching under her cascade of waist-length blue-black hair, Tomiko tugs at two knots. The triangular bra drops liberating small sloping breasts that stand high and proud, apparently immune to their own weight. Fragrant incense floats about the private bathhouse or Kousyu-Yokujo as the Japanese call it.

A few feet away Yakamitsu Niguri removes his black silk robe. Tomiko's eyes twinkle with crafty intelligence as she browses his bronze, muscular frame and the elaborate tattoos of a dragon in a turbulent seascape that cover his entire torso, front and back. Fifteen plus years beyond Tomiko's twenty, Yakamitsu Niguri's entire presence emits the dangerous aura of the Nipponese Yakuza. Tomiko's gaze drifts lower. She feels secretly pleased that such an important man's body is acknowledging hers' with a growing erection.

Niguri can't help but stare. Glints and shadows dance across Tomiko's succulent young breasts. They're the biggest of all the other "comfort women" he owns, bobbing only slightly as she steps nearer and bows. There's a warm rush between his legs as she turns and walks toward a small table laid out with oils other substances. As he settles into the oval hot tub's warm water, his focus rivets to Tomiko's butt-muscles rubbing rhythmically as they play a game of hide and seek with the thong's white center-string.

MOSKVA.

Dominika slams her cell phone closed. Her exquisite face has turned as icy as the sub-zero air biting at her cheeks. Dominika's pace turns into a brisk walk.

"What is it? What's happened?" Sveta says catching up with her.

"Viktor's just ordered us to kill Dmitry Rostislav."

Sveta's eyes widen. "Dmitry? Holy-shit, why?"

"He just became a suicide bomber with a short fuse."

TOKYO.

Tomiko's pink-nailed fingers slide under the thin elastic waistband stretched above the flare of her hips. The tiny back-string slips out of its hiding place and the scrap of white cloth skitters down her legs to the teak floor. With the appropriate amount of Oriental shyness, she turns around.

Her nakedness swamps Yakamitsu Niguri's jet-black eyes. "Come here," he says in a gruff demanding murmur.

There's a whisper of Tomiko's footsteps. The warmth of the hot tub's bubbles consumes one foot and then the other.

MAIN LOBBY, HOTEL NEZHKA, MOSKVA.

Dominika's glossy red fingernail anxiously presses the ancient elevator's up button. Its door grinds open. Both girls step inside the claustrophobic car. Motors vibrate. Gears clash.

"Is Viktor sending backup or are we naked?" Sveta asks as the elevator moves slowly upward.

"Naked."

"Shit. Nothing like doing wet-work in close proximity to a bomb," Sveta mutters.

Dominika glances into Sveta's bright blue eyes. "We'll just have to improvise."

"Great. Do I storm in, pull out my Uzi and yell -- take this you creep?"

"It may come down to just that."

The elevator car jounces to a stop and the door grinds open. Both scurry into an empty cloakroom. Dominika pulls off her mink ushanka and tosses her head. Long golden blonde hair falls past her lower back, kept that way since her teenage years.

"There're 200 people in there," Sveta says as her fur coat reveals a -- let it all hang out -- ivory micro-dress. Its snug silky material does little to conceal Sveta's beautiful breasts . . . one of a Swallow's most valuable commodities when employed to make many a man's mouth water.

Dominika lifts her gaze to Sveta's heart-shaped face, framed with salon-styled short-cut blonde hair. "This could get sloppy."

"We'll need a diversion," Sveta cautions.

Dominika removes the Beretta from her purse and screws its silencer into place. "You do the dangle and I'll do the nasty."

"Why do I always get the grunt work?" Sveta mutters.

"Because you're friendly, loyal and trustworthy."

"So is a damn dog. Hey Dom? You sure you're up to doing this?"

Dominika clicks the Beretta's safety off and returns the weapon to her purse. "Guess we're gonna find that out, aren't we."

"I love confidence," Sveta mutters nervously as they step into the huge ballroom turned battle-space.

DEBOVSK APARTMENT COMPLEX, MOSKVA.

Exhaust fumes billow from a black sedan that waits at the edge of the dark and deserted street. Three shadowy figures emerge from the dingy building and climb into the car. The clean-shaven Russian is now wearing a heavy fur coat. The sedan pulls away from the curb.

THE GRANDE BALLROOM, HOTEL NEZHKA, MOSKVA.

Gold and scarlet adorn the walls of The Grande Ballroom. The lavish décor is leftover from some Czar deep in Russian history. A six-piece ensemble plays a Viennese waltz. Dominika scans the wall-to-wall crowd of Russian oil moguls and wealthy tycoons from a dozen Asian and European oil-consuming nations.

"Dmitry sure picked a target rich environment," Sveta whispers under the sound of violins, cellos and low murmuring voices. "Isn't that Nikolay Svyatoslavich the head-dick of Zukos Petrol Group?"

Dominika nods. "Look there. It's Sergei Godunov, the chairman of the Central Committee of Petroleum Control."

"Tasty tidbits for a bang and burn. How are we going to play this?"

"I figure we got five minutes to find Rostislav," Dominika whispers. "You got two minutes to nail a patsy and come up with a diversion."

"Gee, I thought I was going to be rushed. Standard signals?"

"Check. Good hunting."

As Sveta walks away, Dominika's eye-line tracks her sculptured muscles rolling smoothly under that ultra-snug butt-loving Spandex micro-dress. Dominika shakes her head. Sveta doesn't wear clothes -- clothes wear her.

As Dominika becomes part of the crowd, an appropriate amount of male eyes drool over her carefully crafted curves, subtlety accented by a moon-glow evening gown. The dress is little but a loose swathe of cascading nylon. A gleaming diamond fastens it at one shoulder while another holds it low and snug about her hips. The loose-fitting back dips daringly deep, purposely fashioned to entice glances at her most treasured asset. Mentally, Dominika shrugs. With Viktor's little bombshell, this 3,000 ruble gown is about as useful as a pickaxe in the shower. That fact has her nerves standing on edge. Her eyes brighten. Played right, this situation could be a rare chance for advancement. With luck, her GRU superiors won't call her Gypsy Danger. They'll call her the INFAMOUS Gypsy Danger. Her gaze swings from a fat Frenchman to Aleksandr Novokuibyshev, the top kick at Gazflot, then over to Sveta. She's already nailed a fall guy. He's a shifty looking Cubin wearing cowboy boots and a cheap suit. He's probably somebody's bodyguard. Lust and that nearly translucent dress being what they are, Sveta will digest him with one chomp, two chews and a burp.

TOKYO.

Niguri watches as bluish bubbles tickle at the clean-shaven V between Tomiko's legs. Her petite body feels almost weightless as she lowers herself into his lap. Pressed against her hip, his cock feels like a stick of hot granite. Niguri raises a palm-full of water and watches the droplets glide down a breast slope then glint as they drip from Tomiko's tense, ash-brown nipple. His lips graze her areola then suck in the whole hunk of sensitive flesh. Tomiko closes her eyes as arousal soars. She lifts his head away from her breast, immediately missing the feel of his suckle.

"May I pleasure you?" she asks her tone as soft as the whispering wind.

Niguri considers then nods.

"Wait please?"

She stands, pausing a moment to let him see the water cascade from her gleaming skin. Turning, she slowly climbs the three stairs, knowing that Niguri's eyes are paying a caressing tribute to the thin but hard-muscled rear built by sweating for hours in the gym.

THE GRANDE BALLROOM.

Dominika's eyes rove from person to person. Dmitry Rostislav isn't among them. His attractive face materializes in her mind. Beneath her gown, the month-old imprint of his hand ripples across her bare breasts. Two months ago, they'd worked an espionage operation in Vladivostok. On a whim, she'd made love with Dmitry. His bedroom demeanor had been warm, loving and respectful. The orgasm he'd given her had been thunderous. After the Vladivostok Operation, they'd begun to date. She found herself growing quite fond of Dmitry, the man Viktor has ordered her to assassinate. A snobbish group of men from Chechnya pops the dilemma away like an exploding soap bubble.

She tenses. That big man, heavy overcoat, standing alone, looks nervous. She jockeys for another position. No bomb, just blubber. She sighs as the memory resurfaces. Despite the tension of having to carry out her first kill, she can almost feel the texture of Dmitry's cock sliding in and out of her and hear his guttural groans as his fiery sperm ejaculated into her welcoming womb. A month after Vladivostok, Dmitry and Viktor had gone to Afghanistan. Only Viktor returned. Dmitry went dark, which isn't unusual for a frontline GRU agent assigned mole duty in a hostile territory. Then he shows up here ready to maim and murder his own countrymen. It makes no sense at all. Dmitry is a hardened veteran of the Soviet/Afghan war and a fiercely loyal GRU operative. He wouldn't join up with radical Afghan Muslims, would he? That possibility makes her shiver.

TOKYO.

Bathed in a candle's flickering light Tomiko hums as she carefully blends several honey-like liquids in an earthen bowl.

THE GRANDE BALLROOM.

Dominika's sensuous smile masks her frantic inspection of the vodka sipping VIPs. Thoughts surge through her head. It's crucial to toss aside personal feelings for Dmitry. Whatever the reason, the man is now the enemy, a rat-fucker, a traitor, a turncoat, a pig -- simply a target to neutralize. Dominika's imagination paints an ugly image. That bomb is certain to contain deadly bits of flesh-cutting razor wire. A blast in this close-quartered crowd will turn dozens of Russia's oil-elite and a hundred innocent people into chunks of charred, copped up gristle. Therefore, failure is not an option.

TOKYO.

Yakamitsu Niguri's dark muscled body is sitting Samurai-straight on a rice mat in room-center. As Tomiko mixes and blends, his attention is riveted to her creamy shoulders, smooth back, curving hips and widely crevassed bottom.

Tomiko dips a fingertip in the golden mixture. Seemingly pleased with its consistency, she raises her finger, licks and swallows as if sampling the substance's flavor.

BOULEVARD IVANTEYEUKA, MOSKVA.

The black sedan's headlights swing wide as it makes a left turn into the Hotel Nezhka's parking garage.

TOKYO.

Bowl in-hand, Tomiko kneels before Niguri like a melancholy supplicant bowing before an ancient Oriental shrine. He can't help but stare at her breasts. Since boyhood, Niguri has always loved breasts. Tomiko's are small yet perfectly shaped, and resemble seductive fruit waiting to be felt -- then picked.

Tomiko looks up. "When?"

"Seventeen minutes," Niguri mumbles as he grazes one of Tomiko's hard bump-covered nipples with the stump of his little finger, a finger chopped off at the knuckle, the telltale mark of the Yakuza.

THE GRANDE BALLROOM.

Dominika's slender figure slides between a stuffy Chinese industrialist and his prissy female translator. Aleksandr Novokuibyshev's flabby face fills her view.

"Dobre viechir Dominika," his old voice grates.

Dominika congers up a smile that would charm the balls off a Siberian bear. "Dobre viechir Aleksandr. Nice to see you are in good health."

"Not as healthy as you," he responds, leering at the long slash of skin left naked by the loose-fitting gown.

"Izvinichye, schastliva, da-vai," she says excusing herself. As she turns away, a shiver whips up her spine. Swiping a look down the back of her dress is okay. Copping a feel -- isn't. Oh well. A light brush across the butt-crack is no crack in the universe. She turns back to Aleksandr, smiles, leans closer and whispers, "You can fuck me when you love me."

Leaving Aleksandr speechless, she circles the room twice. Face after face is examined, then discarded as harmless.

THE KITCHEN, HOTEL NEZHKA.

A dented freight elevator door grumbles as it opens revealing the clean-shaven Russian in the heavy fur coat. He appears calm. Nobody pays any notice as he walks through the clamor of cooks, waiters and busboys.

TOKYO.

Tomiko kneels before Niguri. Setting the bowl on the floor, she opens a black lacquered box with a ritual akin to religious worship. Inside is a skillfully carved piece of bamboo, about the size and shape of a tongue depressor. She swirls it around in the amber solution. With Picasso-like strokes, she paints the golden honey-like fluid onto Niguri's blue-veined cock.

THE GRANDE BALLROOM.

Two minutes later, it's still zilch. Dominika glances at her watch. It's six forty-seven. With all the power packed into this room, orders to terminate Dmitry Rostislav must have come from very high in the Kremlin. Maybe Viktor had it wrong. Maybe he didn't. She wipes a bead of perspiration from her upper lip. If Viktor's information was reliable, there's thirteen minutes to detonation.

TOKYO.

"You're so hard," Tomiko whispers as the liquid flows from Niguri's testicles to his tip.

Niguri smiles not. He slides his hand up her thigh. Tomiko widens her legs as Niguri's fingers near her swollen pussy mound. One touch turns the surrounding skin pinkish. Tomiko squirms. A soft stroke makes her moan softly. She stares into his eyes twisting her hips as he slowly works a finger inside.

"You're dry," he mumbles.

"You can fix that," she whispers gazing down at his gleaming cock. He's so aroused that that the tip nearly touches his navel.

"May I taste?"

Niguri nods.

She leans forward. Dangling strands of long arrow-straight hair tease his bare legs. Her pink tongue emerges. He tenses. Her tongue-tip wiggles across the base of his cock. Her lips kiss each enlarged testicle. Tomiko's first long lingering up-lick robs Niguri of breath. Slurping sounds drift about as she works her way up toward his crown. Following each long lingering lick, she tips her head back, swallowing -- savoring the golden substance as if it's an intoxicating elixir.

WORKER'S TOILET, HOTEL NEZHKA.

Alone in a stall, the Russian carefully attaches a length of clear fish line to a detonation mechanism taped to his upper chest. With surgical precision, he treads the line through the coat's arm and loops it near his wrist, arranging it he can pull it with his opposite hand with a minimum of movement. A light tug and a slight "click" confirm the quality of his work. Appearing satisfied, he twists two electrical wires together, buttons the coat then glances at his wristwatch.

TOKYO.

"Ooooooh—mmmmm," Tomiko purrs. It's as if each tongue-stroke sets fire to the tender tinderbox between her legs. Her lapping tongue reaches his tip. Niguri trembles. His breath comes out in whooshing raspy pants. Her pointed tongue-tip skips across his cock-head then circles, pushing and probing as if trying to find its way inside his tiny ultra-sensitive slit.

"Urga . . . urgaaa," Niguri moans, as his hands drift up and down her curving waist.

Tomiko folds her fingers around the base of his cock. Short upward movements bring forth a drop of milky ooze. Bending at the waist, Tomiko licks it away. She tips her head back. Her throat moves as she swallows it down. Suddenly, it's as if the taste has ignited the blue flame of a welder's torch. Tomiko's glossy lips attack Niguri's cock-crown with vengeance. Her cheeks collapse. The pull is so powerful that Niguri's muscles cinch tight as if they're threatening to implode. Adjusting her neck, Tomiko takes in more, and then more, then even more, consuming Niguri's raging arousal inch by inch.

"O-ksa-gnaaaa," Niguri groans as Tomiko juggles her head to work his cock-head into the deepest confines of her pulsing throat. Niguri's eyes clamp shut. His tattooed belly heaves as he luxuriates in the profound feeling of Tomiko's esophagus caressing and sucking for its seed.

THE GRANDE BALLROOM.

Precious seconds tick by. Beneath the plunging back of Dominika's gown, the pucker-factor is at red line and rising. She glances left. The Cuban fall guy is on station and ready to act. Sound the alarm and clear the room? There'd be mass panic and Dmitry would explode the bomb anyway, so scratch that option. Twenty feet away, she catches Sveta pointing to her eye and tapping her shoulder. Dominika swings around. Her heart thuds. Dmitry stands twenty feet distant sandwiched between a dozen important people. How to get a clear shot in this crowd? She wiggles past a fat old hag. She spots the fish line looped around his finger.

Her stomach knots.

One tug on that line and the game is up.

TOKYO.

Tomiko's eyes fix on Niguri's eyes. Their faces are just inches apart. Her hand closes around his cock as she lowers herself, settling her lower body onto his thighs.

"Do you want into my special place?" she whispers, holding his cock and brushing the head across her pussy lips.

"Taunt me no longer," he snaps.

Tomiko's hip movements tease his cock-head with the burning, throbbing nakedness between her legs. Nibbling pussy-lips gobble for his tip. Niguri groans. Separation occurs by simply moving his cock-head from side to side with her hand. Outwardly, Tomiko craves Niguri's cock as one craves air in the vacuum of space. Inwardly, all she sees is her cunning plan unfolding here and a half world away. Writhing and twisting her hips, she slowly lowers her dripping pussy onto the stone-hard stick between her legs.

"Mmmmm," she moans, reveling in the ecstasy of her quivering clitoris embracing the long and lethargic entry.

THE GRANDE BALLROOM.

Danger thrums through the air resonating with each thud of Dominika's heart. Dmitry seems unhurried, composed, working the crowd looking for the most advantageous position. Using people as a visual shield, Dominika shadows Dmitry's every move, keeping her distance, maneuvering, waiting for the opportune moment to make the play. A hand gesture commands Sveta not to interfere. Options? Reason with him? Negotiate? Nyet. Viktor's orders had been very specific. Kill Rostislav.