A-Cup Angst Ch. 07

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The coven goes after an international crime syndicate.
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Part 7 of the 16 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 11/27/2013
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sycksycko
sycksycko
1,599 Followers

Jean Pierre Lemoine was an artist. His magic moved the needle through the subcutaneous tissue with surgical precision, which was no great surprise to anyone that knew him, as he did have two years of surgical residency under his belt. The surgical scars will be less noticeable than if a plastic surgeon had been over them to hide them, despite being located in plain sight, across the man's abdomen. He finished the suture and relaxed. An orderly used his power to levitate the man from the surgical table onto a hospital bed next to it. The nurse handed Lemoine the patient's chart and he filled it out. He had just implanted a whole liver into the man and the orderlies wheeled him back to his suite. The patient needed to sleep off the anesthesia.

Lemoine stretched and removed his surgical mask. The machine beeped out a flatline alarm and he turned to the other surgical table. The trafficked young woman finally expired, causing Lemoine to bunch his brow and examine the gaping hole in her abdomen where her liver used to be. Then he saw and remembered that he had cauterized her arteries and portal vein, as he had severed them, in order to keep his surgical field clean. Still, he was surprised her cardiovascular system had lasted this long. "Clean this up," he said to the nurse and she nodded. Two more orderlies came in and dragged the fresh corpse from the table to be taken away for disposal, along with the corpse of the girl that was drained to change the DNA of the liver. He took off his scrubs, bunched them up and tossed them on her as they passed him by.

Jean Pierre got dressed, left the surgical suite and proceeded down the hall, taking a few turns that led him to his office. Outside his door, he saw Khaled coming in the other direction. "Ah, good," he said, "I've been meaning to speak with you, Khaled."

"Lemoine," Khaled said, not even bothering to slow down or look at the man.

Jean Pierre skipped to catch up to the stocky, bald Arab. "The level of professionalism around here has dropped significantly, since you came here," he said. "We cannot run a clinic in this way. There are certain procedures that must be followed in order to ensure the smooth running of this operation."

"What are you talking about," Khaled said. The doctor was an uppity, abrasive man, but he had to be tolerated. Most surgeons grew a conscience after learning the truth of their operation and had to be silenced. He knew well that to Lemoine, the practice of medicine was not about doing good or saving lives, it was about playing god. Since he had his license revoked for drug abuse and malpractice, he had no other way of practicing his craft, except working for them, here.

"I'm talking about us not having enough organs delivered to meet our demand," Jean Pierre said. "I used to get medical records of people to review and make certain we were harvesting only from healthy, uninfected subjects. Now, every day, one of the organs I get is unchecked and then my assistants have to drain a whore's life to change it, right before implantation, and I'm supposed to implant it on just your word that the organ is good? And just now, I took a whore's organ to implant!"

Khaled was a proud man and he did not take slights against his honor or reputation lightly. He bit back his anger at having this pipsqueak call warlocks, that were his betters in every way, "assistants". The doctor's lack of morals was not the thing that made him a precious asset for their organization. He had a small amount of magical power and he expertly used that to simplify and speed up his surgeries. The Nassau clinic was doing ten implantations a day and warranted three dedicated collection clinics just to supply its needs for fresh organs. The big bucks were coming in, hand over fist, but only as long as Lemoine remained an eager participant. They tolerated his unseemly appetites and many addictions and even covered up the results of his homicidal tendencies, but Khaled was close to losing it with the uppity, little, annoying Frenchie.

"Yes, doctor, you are supposed to take me at my word," he said. They reached the elevator and he pressed the call button.

"I am a medical health professional," Lemoine said, causing Khaled to roll his eyes. "When I implant an organ into a patient, I am responsible for-"

Khaled turned to him and cut him off with a wave of his hand. "You are responsible for the surgery," he said, "and that is all. The provenance of the organs is not your responsibility. That is my responsibility."

"If our patients contract anything from the organs we implant, we'll be ruined," Lemoine said.

The elevator dinged and opened its doors. Khaled entered it and said, "Please, doctor. If any of our clients come down with some disease, it is because of their lifestyles. And they'll only come back to us for the cure." He turned and smiled at Lemoine's sour expression. "Another organ or two, to stave off the inevitable, eh?" Lemoine made to enter the elevator, so Khaled played his ace that always seemed to end his bitching sessions. "Besides, if you're so concerned about infection, why don't you use your magic to prevent it?" Lemoine stopped dead in his tracks, glaring down at the smiling Arab who said, "Happy Christmas," as the doors closed.

Jean Pierre had been born with a very small amount of power, and he didn't even realize he had it until he had been a teen. After he had met other witches and seen and felt what they could do, he thought himself cheated. However, those witches were hunted down by the Directorate and all but neutered by signing licenses, while Jean Pierre swooped under their radar, free to continue to hone his craft. He knew then that he wasn't cheated at birth, but rather blessed. One of these days, he was going to show Khaled. One of these days, he was going to show them all. But not today. He was a professional and there were more surgeries scheduled. Surgeries that would implant tested organs he had already reviewed and approved. Selected, even.

He walked back to his office. A tall, hispanic, young woman, barely nineteen years old, greeted him there, on her knees with downcast eyes and a playful smile. She was enslaved by his magic, a process that took him months to accomplish, and trained to his exact preferences. She had been trafficked there to be whored out and kept on hand in order to have someone to drain in case of an emergency, but he took her for himself, along with thenty year old girl from Latvia, that was kneeling in the corner. They both wore bright red lingerie and Santa hats, his only concessions to the ridiculous american pageantry of Christmas. "Cognac," he said and sat heavily in his office chair. The brunette jumped up to pour him a tumbler. "Massage," he said and the tall, leggy blonde popped up to start rubbing his shoulders. He relaxed in his seat as the brunette brought the tumbler to his lips and carefully tipped it. The tasty liquid washed over his tongue and its emanations wafted up to his nose.

Jean Pierre enjoyed the delicious drink and soft fingers, for a few minutes more, and then he commanded the girls to suck his cock. The brunette set down the glass and knelt beside him. She opened his zipper and reverently fished out his soft cock. The blonde ran her hands all over Jean Pierre as she made her way lower to join in the worship of his cock. She snaked her slender hand inside his underwear and began to gently tickle and stroke his sack. His cock started to become engorged and she took it whole into her mouth. She formed a tight seal and applied suction. He started to grow in her mouth. Soon, he was at full mast and she started to run her mouth up and down his shaft, using her tongue to tickle his most sensitive flesh. The brunette then took over and the two of them took turns sucking his cock and stroking the shaft until he blew his load down the blonde's throat, breaking his silence to announce his release with a moan. They licked him clean and put him back in his drawers, zipping his pants up. Jean Pierre sighed in delight and gestured for a refill.

He had just begun to think on the surgeries he had yet to perform that day, when he heard running and panicked voices in the hallway, outside his office. He sighed in annoyance but kept his eyes closed. He was a surgeon, an artist with a blade and spell and he needed to be completely relaxed and concentrated to do his work. All this running and shouting was unprofessional. His musings on the lack of professionalism, that was affecting this place ever since Khaled arrived, were interrupted by his door opening wide to admit one of Khaled's casters.

"Doctor," gasped the short, fat, black man as he bent over to catch his breath, "we're under attack!"

Jean Pierre raised an eyebrow in response. "I thought you people came here to protect us from that," he said.

"Yes, yes, but I must evacuate you to safety," said the gasping man. He waved at Lemoine. "Come, come! We must go!"

Jean Pierre sat back in his chair and said, "Nonsense. Deal with it. I'm staying right here until the organs arrive and I implant them. My concentration is vital."

"Doctor," the man shouted, having caught his breath, "we must go to the basement, now!"

Jean Pierre fixed him with an imperious stare. "Are you telling me that you can't deal with this attack, whatever it is?"

The man straightened up and looked insulted at the question. "Of course we can," he said, firmly, "but there is procedure and I have my orders! I am to take you to a safe room and protect you there. And you are to cooperate, doctor! Now, get up and let's..." His voice trailed off as he heard an explosion.

"What was," Jean Pierre's question died on his lips as the man held up a finger to shush him. He went back to the door and cracked it open to peek outside. Jean Pierre set aside his files and gestured for the girls to go kneel in the corner.

A figure came running past the door and the man called out to it in a language Jean Pierre didn't recognize. A brief, shouting exchange ensued and then the black man closed the door. "They have breached the perimeter," he said. "They are sweeping the building. We must stay here! I must protect you!"

"They," asked Jean Pierre. "Who are they? How many are there? What are they doing here?"

"I don't know," the man said. "We must stay here and be quiet until the situation is resolved."

Jean Pierre huffed in frustration. The whole point of Khaled's group coming here was to provide additional security and they were, apparently, failing at it. Just as he was about to launch into a tirade about their incompetence, he heard it. Gunfire, followed closely by an explosion. A small one, not big enough to destroy walls, but big enough to make them shake. The gunfire continued coming closer. One shot after another rang out and kept getting louder. "Is that one of ours," Jean Pierre asked.

"Possibly," the man said. "It's an AK, a Kalash. I'd know that sound anywhere. We use them, but..."

"But what?"

"But, why is it firing in single fire and coming our way," the man asked. When Jean Pierre threw his hands up in annoyance, he said, "I'd better go check." Another small explosion shook the hallway outside. This time they even saw the flash, under the door. Whatever it was, it was around the corner, by now. The man pulled out a talisman from under his shirt and kissed it, mumbling something. He then pulled out a handgun and worked its slide. He cracked the door open and peeked out.

Jean Pierre jumped up in his seat as the man's head exploded, spraying his brains across the wall. He let out a short string of profanities in French and forced himself to keep it together. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his enchanted key. With trembling fingers, he slid it into the lock on his bottom drawer. The drawer unlocked and he pulled out a big, thick chain. He wrapped it quickly around his fist. He had spent half his life making this chain and each of the thirty-four links contained the power he had gained from sacrificing an adult virgin. He kissed the chain and stood up. Whoever, or whatever, was coming his way was in for a world of hurt.

Two more shots rang out and he could hear two soft thumps follow them. Then his eye caught a ray of light passing across the crack of his door, like an incendiary bullet. At the same time, he heard and felt a big explosion rock the walls, just down the hall from his door. He nervously clutched the chain and swallowed against the dryness in his throat. A shadow was seen in the crack of the door. The door slammed open to reveal a woman standing there and holding two assault rifles, one in each hand.

He didn't waste time to admire her half asian, half european looks. He let loose all the power in his chain. The links dissolved, releasing the power the dark spirits gave him in return for the suffering of his sacrifices. With a single mindedness born of fright, he loosed that power against the armed woman. A whip of darkness uncoiled itself from his fist and lashed out at her instantly. Nothing happened. He blinked. He had unleashed pure destruction, in volumes no one and nothing could withstand, and it all just fizzled out? He was stunned with surprise.

"Doctor Lemoine," the woman said, "please be seated and await questioning."

His legs gave out in fright and he fell down heavily in his chair. The woman's gaze made him squirm uncomfortably. She never took her eyes off him, even as she pointed one of her rifles down the hall and fired three shots. He heard three thumps follow. She tossed the other rifle in the air and removed the curved magazine from the one she had just fired. She flipped it over and inserted the other magazine, that was duct taped to the first, in its former place. She did it all so fast she had time to perfectly catch the other rifle before it fell beneath hand level.

Jean Pierre gaped at her in mute shock. He idly noted the rifles weren't identical, they just looked very similar and the other rifle had only one boxy magazine attached to it. A few minutes of silence followed and then a young man and woman entered his office. They took a brief look around and then the young man pointed at his desk. "This the computer used to order the organs," he asked.

"Yes," replied the Asian. "This is doctor Jean Pierre Lemoine, born in Bordeaux on October twenty seventh, nineteen seventy one. His license to practice was removed nine years ago after multiple convictions of malpractice, drug abuse and ethics violations. He started, but didn't complete a surgical residency at-"

She was cut off by the young man saying, "Thanks, but we don't need to hear his whole life story in reverse chronological order. Just give me the outliers and anomalies, if he has any."

"He was arrested under charges of a disturbance to the public peace after getting drunk and trying to induce a member of the GIGN into a fistfight in a Marseilles bar," said the Asian.

The young man chuckled and said, "Well, you're stupid as well as evil." Jean Pierre bit back his retort, eyeing the two barrels still pointed at him. "Complete your sweep." The Asian left without a word.

"I don't get it," said the young woman, kneeling before his slaves. "How does she suddenly know everything about the guy? Doesn't everyone here have a fake identity?" Jean Pierre, despite his crippling fear, noted the redhead's big breasts.

Jamie Jacobs rolled his eyes and smacked his hand against the open door, right under the sign that read, "Jean Pierre Lemoine, M.D." Rose Romano's ruby red lips made an "o" shape and she nodded, suddenly understanding Nova's newfound knowledge.

"What are your names," asked Jean Pierre. If he could connect to these people, who obviously had the power to wipe out their organization, despite being so young, maybe he could get them to recruit him into their operation.

"You don't ask the questions around here," Jamie said. "You answer them." Jamie could sense the guy was freaked out beyond all reckoning and had no plan to fight back. He sat down in the chair in front of the desk and put his feet up on it. The doctor winced as more gunfire was heard in the distance. "Now, we know that healthy organs are taken from healthy people and then other people are drained of their life force in order to change the DNA of those organs. Then the organs are placed in a sealed and warded container to remain fresh until implantation and sent via airmail just like an ordinary package would be. Someone from your clinic picks it up and you maintain strict separation between the collection place and the implantation place. Complete anonymity from one end to the other."

"Yes," Jean Pierre said and then put on a smile. "I implant them myself using magic and-"

"Shut up," said Jamie, cutting him off. An explosion was heard and felt from upstairs. "There are a few things I need to know from you. The first is: where is the money? How are you getting paid and where is the money going to? This spa thing you have going on as a front is an employee owned business and it never sends a dime elsewhere."

Jean Pierre relaxed hearing those words. He had information and he could use it as a bargaining chip for his very life. "Well, if I tell you that, what is to stop you from killing me," he asked and pointed at the corpse lying by his door, "like you did him?"

Jamie smiled and spread his hands. "Do we look like the law to you," he asked, mirth in his voice. "Did we flash badges? Are we serving up warrants here?" Jamie got serious and sat up in his chair, taking his feet off the desk and leaning in towards the doctor. "No, we're not. We've noticed this setup and we like it. We've decided to bring it into the fold. Our fold. Now, it seems to me there are a few things of value that a place like this capitalizes on. One would be the skills of a talented individual, such as yourself. If you want to become a valued part of our organization, doctor, then you have to tell me exactly how to find and eradicate you former employers. There will be no business negotiations between us until we've concluded our business with your former employers."

"So, if I tell on them to you, we make a deal, a contract," Jean Pierre asked. He flinched as more gunfire was faintly heard.

"In this business, there are no contracts," Jamie said. "All you get is my word that we'll negotiate a proper agreement, with many amenities," he looked pointedly at the naughty Santa girls in the corner and extended a hand to the man, "and we shake on it."

Jean Pierre smiled in relief. He took Jamie's hand and pumped it a few times. "Well, I'm glad we can be in business together. I have some thoughts on how we can-"

"Your ideas will be heard later, doctor," Jamie said, raising his hand. "Actually, you'll probably be the one that you'll pitch the ideas to, if you catch my meaning? But now, you must tell us everything you know about the corporate management."

Jean Pierre relaxed into his seat and said, "Well, I've never really had any dealings with them, myself." A faint boom was heard in the distance. "I've been focused on the medical side of things, like perfecting my technique and integrating-"

"Doctor," Jamie said, kindly, "we are aware and appreciative of your commitment to your practice and continuing excellence, but right now, we need to know what you know of the upstairs management."

Jean Pierre spread his hands and shrugged. "Nothing, I am afraid. Like they keep their facilities strictly separated, so do they keep the head office isolated. The only one that has dealings with them is Ivan."

"Ivan?"

"Yes," said Jean Pierre, "Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov. He's the head of this clinic. He has deputies for everything, so he doesn't actually run this place, but he is the only one that has contact with the head office and the clients prior to their arrival here."

sycksycko
sycksycko
1,599 Followers