Operation Rigid Pt 02

ONE

The Hostage

I stood in my boxers as Alison tightly wrapped my left thigh in a shock pad. The pad was similar to a compression bandage, except it was secured in place with strong hook and loop strips so it could quickly be attached or removed. Made from a piece of stretchy black fabric, sewn in such a way to form a pocket, another, thicker pad with electrodes on one side and impact sensors on the reverse, was inserted into the pocket with the electrodes against my skin and the impact sensors facing outward. The shock pads were available in various sizes, depending on the need, were designed to fold around a person's limbs, and were connected to a mass of wires with a plug attached. My right leg was already wrapped, along with my left calf, and before she was done, both arms and my torso would also be wrapped. The thick pads covered only the muscled areas, leaving my joints unencumbered for freedom of movement.

"How's that feel? Tight enough?"

I worked not to smile. "Not as tight as you felt last--"

"Don't..."

she warned, grinning and drawing the single word out. "We're working... and you need to focus."

I returned her smile. Alison Fryzell was the tech that took care of the shock pads and our other high-tech toys. She was also a close friend. Close enough that she didn't mind providing certain benefits. She was a nerdy little chick, barely five one, but she worked the hot nerd vibe in a big way. She sported large rounded square glasses that complimented her face and big brown eyes, and she wore her long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail that always appeared to be seconds from disintegrating. She didn't have the most voluptuous body, but there was no mistaking her as anything other than all woman.

While she might look like a nerd, at least at work, she was anything but. She was a wild woman at night. She and I didn't fuck often, but when we did, it was anything but boring. Alison got off hard on men fighting. She was into it all, cockfights, erotic wrestling, fist fights, and anything else that involved men competing naked or beating the shit out of each other, and the more brutal, bloody, and nasty the fight, the more she liked it.

I'd discovered her kink when she begged me to take her to a local amateur mixed martial arts match. I'd noticed her slyly caressing the inside of her thigh as her attention was focused on the men pummeling each other in the ring, her skin glowing and her color high. It was our first date, but after the match, I'd fucked her in the back seat of my pickup as the parking lot emptied. Then I'd taken her home and fucked her again.

I watched as she began wrapping my upper arm in another shock pad. The pads connected to the battery pack I wore like a ballistic vest. Like everyone else, I hated wearing the shock pads because they hurt like a bastard when they activated, but there was no better training aid. Getting shot while wearing a shock pad was as near as possible to taking a bullet without causing actual damage, and they were a great incentive to train like it was real. While nobody liked the pain, unlike getting shot in the real world, you got a do over with the shock pads if you fucked up.

I held my arm out as she began wrapping my lower arm in another pad. "Good?" she asked as she snugged the pad down with the wide Velcro bands.

"Not as good as you were last--"

"Would you stop," she growled, but there was no heat in her voice, and I could tell she was struggling not to smile.

"That's not what you were saying last night."

She glared at me, but her tiny smile gave her away.

After our first tumble, we'd been fucking every three or four months for the last few years. We hooked up when she wanted me to scratch an itch that just anyone wouldn't, or couldn't, scratch. Last night she'd invited me to her place where I'd found another guy, a big dude with a bad attitude, waiting in her barn. I knew the game well, but the other swinging dick obviously didn't. Like nearly all the men I faced, he'd thought he was going to fuck Alison in the thick hay that defined our arena, and he became pissed-off when he found out he'd only get his fuck if he could get through me.

Even after she made it clear she was going to fuck the shit out of whichever of us kicked the other's ass, I thought he was going to walk, but then she questioned the size of his manhood and his ability to get it up. Alison was an expert at digging into a man's soft spots to bend him to her will. I knew that firsthand.

I'd started out taking her to fights to get her turned on, followed that up by getting into bar fights that she instigated. That had led to me comparing the size of my cock to some other dude who'd she'd managed to convince to do the same, to finally fighting with some big-dicked asshole in the nude. She'd slowly nudged me along, always prodding me to go just a little bit farther than I'd gone before, until I was taking my clothes off in front of another swinging dick whose ass I had to kick, just so I could get into her pants.

The fights weren't sexual, at least for me, but as me and the guy she'd conned into fighting tried to beat the shit out of each other in the nude, Alison masturbated herself to a wailing orgasm if the fight lasted long enough. I'd quickly learned the longer our fights lasted, the harder she fucked me afterwards, so I only used as much force as necessary to protect myself until the other guy gave up. If the other guy got grabby, or we ended up rolling around in the hay, that turned her on even more and got her off that much harder.

I still wasn't sure how she'd first convinced me to whip my cock out for a size comparison, or how she'd made me think it was a good idea to strip down in front of some guy and fight for her pleasure, but she had... and I had to admit, it was worth it.

So far, I'd faced six different men in her barn, all big, strong bastards unafraid of a fight, and I'd emerged victorious each time. My training gave me an unfair advantage over most guys, but the man I'd faced last night had been my toughest test to date. He was clearly a bodybuilder, strong as shit, and could take a punch.

Her sneering, cutting remarks had worked him into a rage, his anger probably fueled by steroids. He'd started to go for her, but I'd put a stop to that, causing him to turn his wrath on me, and I was afraid I was going to have to kill the fucker before he backed off. After we'd stripped, I'd let him get in too close once and he'd gotten his hands on me. I was no lightweight, but I'd been unable to break free before he'd taken me to the dirt for a ground and pound. Despite my efforts to break away, he kept pulling me back in as we rolled and tumbled on the hay covered dirt floor. In desperation I'd finally broken his nose, his blood splattering on my naked, dirty, sweat soaked chest. His roar of pain had joined Alison's shriek of pleasure.

Breaking his nose had finally taken the fight out of him. He'd tried to take his frustration out on Alison again, but I'd intervened a second time before he could touch her, taking him into an extremely painful elbow lock that convinced him it was time for him to leave.

After the match was over, and she'd kicked the loser off her property, our fucking had been epic. Last night was the first time I'd gotten bloody, and the blood seemed to have turned her on even more. As we'd kissed and groped each other, she'd smeared the mixture of blood, sweat, and dirt on my chest. For the first time, she couldn't wait to go to her house, even though it was only fifty or sixty yards away, and we'd fucked right there in the barn, rolling around in the hay as we snarled and growled in pleasure.

After we'd shuddered through our orgasms, we'd laid on the barn's floor, gasping for breath, chaff stuck to our sweat drenched bodies with the blood from my match smeared between us. She was normally good for one hard romp, but last night, after we'd returned to her house and showered the blood, sweat, and dirt off us, she'd wanted another. I'd gladly taken her to her bed where I'd fucked her to another loud orgasm.

With her kink, it was a good thing she lived on a small ranch in Wharton, about an hour outside of Houston, Texas, so the noise of our fucking didn't disturb the neighbors, and she didn't have to worry about someone driving up and seeing two naked guys snarling and bellowing while rolling around on the ground inside her barn. I sometimes worried that one of the assholes would return to claim what he thought he was owed, but this was Texas, and Alison had a 20-gauge shotgun loaded with number 8 shot, which was perfect for hunting quail... or ruining some asshole's day without killing him.

I held my arms up as she wrapped my chest and stomach in the final shock pads. These were the largest of the pads, and were different in that they didn't have the shock sensors embedded in them like the ones wrapping my arms and legs did. "Feel good?" she asked, holding up a finger and glaring at me, smiling with playful warning, when I opened my mouth to reply.

"Feels fine," I said as I twisted and stretched, making sure I had my full range of motion.

She spent ten minutes more plugging in the wires that powered the pads, and routing them, taping them to me as she did so they stayed in place, and I didn't accidentally snag one and damage the equipment or get myself tangled. Wires routed and secured, she handed me a black t-shirt with TTS--short for Texas Tactical and Security--stenciled on the back in crisp white letters. Next, I placed the battery pack over my shoulders. The battery pack was cut in the same style as a ballistic vest, but instead of plates to stop high-powered rounds, it held the impact sensors for my chest, back, and stomach, and the batteries to power the shock pads. The paintball guns we used in our drills didn't hurt that much, especially when wearing the vest, but the pads shocking the shit out of us when we were hit certainly did.

Alison connected the various wires to the plugs on the back of the vest. When she finished, I put on my pants and boots, and then adjusted my gear to make myself comfortable. Today I was armed to the teeth with a Colt AR-15 replica, complete with four additional magazines stored on my vest, a Glock 9mm replica with two extra magazines in a holder on my belt, and a training knife in case the shit got really deep.

Anders, you ready?

the walkie squawked from the small table.

"Almost. I need about five more minutes," I replied after picking up the device and squeezing the transmit button.

Five minutes.

"Roger that." I squirmed again to make sure the wires didn't bind and that my Glock was well secured in its holster.

"You ready for this?" Alison asked.

"Kiss for luck?"

She grinned before thumping me solidly on the chest with her fist.

I grunted and hunched over as the shock pad registered the blow and pumped current into my chest. "Fuck!" I hissed as I waited out the pain.

The pads weren't perfect. A hit anywhere on my chest or back hurt everywhere on my chest or back. Same for all the other pads. What really sucked was getting hit somewhere in the middle and getting shocked in both the chest and the abdomen. Alison told me once that the pain was equivalent to taking a 9mm at close range while wearing a ballistic vest. I wouldn't know, having never been shot, but after a moment the torso pads switched off until the next impact, and the pain began to fade.

Getting shot the chest or back was bad, but the arms and legs were worse. Getting hit with a paint ball there caused the current to continue to flow until a tech unplugged the wire. The current flowing into the limbs was much higher than that into the chest, so not only did it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, it also very effectively disabled the limb in the process. I'd been shot many times in the leg or arm, and while I could mostly battle through the agony, the pain was distracting, and dragging the useless limb around was nearly always the first nail in my coffin. I also wore a helmet with clear plastic face protector, but a hit anywhere in the head was considered a kill shot and the exercise ended.

"Bitch," I muttered after the pad switched off.

Alison grinned at my discomfort and then handed me my face protection. "I can do better than a kiss. You survive this and I'll have a surprise for you afterwards," she purred.

"Incentive to not get killed," I rumbled as I placed the helmet on my head and cinched down the chin strap.

She slapped me on the ass. I involuntarily stiffened for a moment, expecting the muscle twisting agony of the shock pads before it registered where she'd slapped me. It was okay if I got shot in the ass because the sting of the paintball strike was the only result.

She grabbed the bottom of the face shield and pulled my face a foot lower to be closer to hers. "Fuck them up."

I grinned as I picked up my AR. "Tell me how many bandits there are and where the hostage is."

She smirked as she wagged a finger in front of me. "What fun would that be?" She released my face shield and picked up the walkie. "He's ready," she said into the device.

There was a long pause.

Go!

crackled from the speaker.

I crouched, swung the door open, and covered as I burst into a hall from the staging room. I was in a huge, two-story warehouse leased by TTS. Inside was where we ran many of our drills, and today I was playing in one corner. Portable walls eight feet tall had been wheeled into place to form a makeshift maze of corridors and rooms, complete with cheap, second-hand and paint splattered furniture. TTS had enough walls and furniture that we could simulate any situation we might find ourselves in. If I didn't pay attention to the wheels under the walls and furniture, or look up, I could believe I was in an office building.

TTS provided high end security and kidnapping recovery services. Despite what someone might think from watching television, there wasn't a lot of demand for paramilitary style hostage rescues, and I'd never performed one except here in the warehouse. Security was more common, but that mostly involved me and some of my fellow 'security experts' standing around, armed to the teeth and looking pissed off. Outside of a firing range, I'd never fired a weapon other than the paintball guns, but holy shit was playing Rambo fun!

I was well trained in the use of firearms and hand to hand combat. The owner of TTS, Uri Eskenazi, was ex-Mosad and a total badass. He pushed his men hard, and I'd made good use of his weight room and firing range. Three months shy of my twenty-ninth birthday, six-two, and over two hundred pounds of muscle, I was twenty-six years younger, four inches taller, and much heavier than Uri, and he could still take me down about half the time.

Today, my job was to rescue the hostage, but there were some other TTS guys whose job it was to stop me. The rumor was we were auditioning for a government contract, but I didn't know which side I was on. I didn't know if I was being evaluated on my ability to rescue the hostage, or the other guy's ability to stop me. None of the other guys knew either, and it wasn't until a few hours ago that I found out I was the one in the hot seat. I'd even been excused from helping set up the walls so I wouldn't know the layout.

I was at a severe disadvantage. I didn't know where the hostage was, nor how many bandits I was up against, but I had two things in my favor. First, the paintball guns were much quieter than a regular firearm, so I could use my weapon without alerting everyone in the building. Despite what movies and television showed, no gun could be silenced enough that it made only a

poof

ing sound, and that applied ten times to the AR. The second was the guards had been on duty for almost three hours and didn't know when I was coming. I was probably going to get my ass shot off, but I was going to give it the ol' college try.

I rounded another corner, moving in a combat crouch to keep my profile small, my AR flicking back and forth as I covered doors and checked rooms. I rounded a corner and there was a bad guy. My AR spit four times before he could raise his weapon, spraying paint and death, two blue splotches appearing on the guy's chest and two more on the face plate. I was the good guy. The man I took down had only paintball protection for his face, no comms, and no extra magazines. Any solid hit was considered a kill shot.

As Randy lay on the floor where he'd fallen, he held up his hand and I slapped it in passing. He'd lay there until the exercise was over, not because he couldn't move, but because having one of his buddies find his 'dead' body would alert the bandits to my presence. TTS always trained like it was the real deal because, as Uri often said, 'When shit starts going sideways, you don't rise to the challenge, you fall to your training.'

I finished clearing the first floor and found nothing. Of course not. Why would Uri make it easy for me? I fucking hated stairs because they forced me into a kill zone and limited my ability to move. I'd been killed on steps so many times I'd lost count.

I crowded against the wall with my weapon pointed upward. I saw movement and froze, silently moving to the inside to obscure myself as much as possible. I waited until the guard had time to pass before moving quickly, but soundlessly, up the steps. I shot the asshole twice in the back because playing fair was for suckers.

I grinned as I passed the downed man, Chuck's middle finger held up in admiration that I'd shot him in the back. I worked my way around the floor, clearing rooms as I went. Uri had a surprise for me, I just knew it, because this was too easy. I rounded a corner and came face to face with another bandit. I squeezed in reflex and pumped four rounds into his guts. We were so close the paint balls actually hurt, and he stumbled back with a harsh grunt while bending at the waist. I shot Doug again in the head for good measure and received another finger of good luck. I pulled the magazine and replaced it with a full one.

I rounded another corner. A man was at the door. He was more alert, but I got off two shots, both kills shots. He also got off a shot, but it went wide and struck the door beside me with a yellow splatter. I quickly closed on his location. Even with paintball guns, if the hostage was in the room, and guarded, the bandits knew I was there.

He'd fallen in front of the door, forcing me to drag his heavy ass out of the way as he repeatedly rapped me on the calf. Not hard enough to set off the shock pad, but every time his knuckles hit my leg, my stomach lurched in anticipation of the pain.

"Dick," I muttered as I bent over Allen and hauled him out of the way.

"Your girlfriend enjoyed it last night," he sneered with a smile.

Allen cleared from the entrance, I breached the door and took two shots for my trouble, the two red splatters right in the center of my chest. Without my vest I'd be dead. I gritted my teeth as I fought through the pain and shot Trevor twice in the head, his body blocked by the hostage, a hot mid-fifties woman I'd never seen before. She was sitting in a chair with her hands in her lap. No need to actually tie her up. In the real world my fake knife would be real, and I'd have been able to cut her restraints in seconds.

I glanced at the chair. "Don't move." The chair was sitting on a piece of cardboard with a portable airhorn on the floor beside it, the cardboard and horn standing in for a pressure sensor tied to an alarm. That was Uri's surprise. I thought for a second. No way I could transfer Trevor to the chair without it going off, and stealing the horn would be cheating. I was running out of time and we needed to move.