Company Car

My job involves walking around with weapons under my clothes (hell, next to my pecker) that would get me thrown under the jail if the local police knew I had them, and using them when I must in order to do the rest of my job, mainly getting other people out of trouble. So I'm sort of a crook, and sort of a soldier, and when I deal with people who are no loss to humanity, sort of a cop. Just some of the fringe benefits of working for the Directorate of Operations, Central Intelligence Agency.

But I digress. In the early fall of 1993, I was driving my "company" car (a Vauxhall Senator 4-door from the embassy's car pool in London 'officially' owned by a rental agency in Hertfordshire) through the pleasant country south of London. The car rolled quietly down tree-lined, bough-covered English roads fully big enough for two large go-karts. It was early in the afternoon, and the leaden sky had opened up with a driving, cold rain because it was late September, too late in the year for sane Americans to spend time in the British Isles. But I had an appointment to keep, and I was anxious to get on with it. You see, it involved paying back a long-overdue debt.

I pulled out onto a highway and a young lady waved at me from the left side of the road with a total lack of English reserve - the first woman in Great Britain I'd ever seen ask a stranger for a ride, even in a driving rain. I couldn't see much more than wet russet bangs and a pale, china complected face protruding from a under a sodden macintosh, but that's enough to get me interested, so I slowed down.

Even though I'd been in England for three months establishing a cover identity, it still jarred to drive on the left side of the road, so I took special care not to drive into the ditch as I pulled off to see what the young lady wanted. She didn't seem terribly surprised to see me pull over, and I wondered if she was one of the legion of hookers I'd seen dotting the A-roads north of London on weekends. That would have been unusual south of London, though, because that business was mainly "in-call" down in the wealthy southern 'burbs.

As she opened the passenger door and got in beside me (a touch of tentativeness there), the woman folded her wet raincoat over her arm with the curious gracefulness of English women, revealing a full, womanly build, nicely shaped legs and breasts that strained the fabric of her blouse. "Are you heading to Hastings, by any chance?" she asked expectantly, gazing into my eyes with an unexpected purposefulness.

I cleared my throat nervously and said "No, to Kemp Town. I've always wanted to know if the racetrack there is really five miles long." Looking directly at me again (in a way that almost made me homesick for American girls), she asked "Can I ride with you as far as Hastings, then? The water pump on my Jaguar (she pronounced it "jag-you-ar") gave up the ghost, and I have to visit my poor ailing aunt."

"That's really too bad," I said, trying to swallow discreetly, "I mean about your aunt. Has she tried tea with honey?" It was a foolish-sounding remark, as I told the ops people at Langley when they assigned it to me, but it seemed to set the woman at eas. She nodded, smiled, and without another word set her raincoat and bag on the back seat of the car and closed the door. I chuckled and pulled back out on the highway, and she eyed me curiously. We hadn't gone a mile before she spoke again. "Your targets actually ARE in Kemp Town, you know," she said with a hint of a chuckle. She reached behind her into her oversized bag and handed me a folder.

I pulled off into the first parking lot (all right, "car park") we came to, stopped the car, and studied pictures taken of two men, not typical Somalis in that they'd obviously been eating regularly for years, sleek and sound in the way that the corrupt ruling class of any country are.

The woman studied me as I studied the file, and I couldn't help sparing a bit of attention for her in return. Her features were soft but feminine, and strangely compelling. Her eyes betrayed an unusual intensity, not just intelligence or curiosity, but what I would have called passion if I'd been anywhere but England the past three months. As she tossed her shoulder-length russet hair, I could smell her earthy womanly sweat, which went well with the cologne she was wearing. My blood began to race, and I reluctantly forced my attention back to the two losers in the folder and the tawdry details of their lives. I didn't have time to see if my new friend was up for a bit of foreign relations - a real pity, because the boner of all time was firming up in my lap. I adjusted the folder to cover it and read on.

When I was happy that I knew what I was about to do and how to do it, I handed my new friend back her folder. "You won't need this?" she asked as we pulled back into traffic. I smiled at her and said "No, I think I can remember what I need to know. Now," and I turned to face her, "where can I drop you off?"

"You're not going to drop me off," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm coming along for the ride."

I stared ahead deliberately for ten minutes, composed myself, and gripped the steering wheel hard enough to leave fingerprints in the plastic. I'd anticipated that British Defence Intelligence would want their observer to tag along, and ordinarily I would have been fine with that - as long as the observer understood that when lead started flying I wasn't going to be responsible if he wound up catching a stray bullet. I hadn't anticipated that their man was going to be a woman. Call me sexist, but I didn't sign on in order to watch attractive young women go down in gunfights. Especially attractive young women whom I really wanted to fuck.

"That's not the deal, and you know it," I said, trying to bluff my way through what promised to be a horrible interdepartmental, international mess. "I worked alone for three months getting into position to take this target. I can't babysit you and I do what I have to." Her nostrils flared, and for a second I thought she was going to hit me, because I can't begin to describe what her eyes did. But Her Majesty's Secret Service is famous for the composure of its agents, and it was her turn to stare out the windshield of the car, her features hardening into a beautiful mask.

I wasn't ready for the large-frame automatic pistol she produced from the folds of her dress. I sensed the thing coming out before I saw it, and knew better than to make any sudden moves. "Pull the car into that next ramp," my irate hitchhiker ordered in a cold, clinical, Lady Diana Rigg-on-steroids voice. Sure enough, there was an exit ramp off to my left, next to a sign saying "Gipsy Rest Area." I pointed the car that way and slowed down while I pondered my next step. I was mentally framing a possible move when my captor barked "Pull over there. Now!" A nine-millimeter bullet trumps a karate chop, so I did what I was told. "Now shut the engine off." I turned the key off and looked at her.

"You Americans have the worst habit of throwing your weight around in other people's countries," my new friend lectured calmly, as though describing the scenery. "I think it's about time we addressed that little problem." She looked around quickly to make sure we were alone. The spot where she had me stop was well away and down a couple of sharp turns from the road, and secluded in every sense of the word. "Step out of the car, please."

I opened the door on my side of the car and did as I was told. "Are you going to shoot me now?" I asked in a bantering tone. I didn't think she was about to do anything of the sort, but I had to try to regain the initiative and get out of this mess. "I'd say that depended on you, wouldn't you?" she remarked lightly. Before I could frame a reply, she said "Now strip."

Of all the things I was expecting her to say, that wasn't one of them. I raised my eyebrows in what I hoped was polite disbelief, but she waved the muzzle of that automatic at me and stared at me coldly.

I swore under my breath and took off the canvas jacket I was wearing. If I had wanted to, I could have reached inside a custom compartment in the coat and fired a submachine gun at her, but that sort of thing would only get me talked about in jail; besides, this whole wrangle started because I didn't want her hurt in the action I was about to jump into.

She heard the machine pistol in my coat clunk as it hit the tarmac of the parking lot and nodded to herself in satisfaction. Her source of information knew more about me and my methods than I'd thought possible, and I began composing a heated memo to my bosses about security leaks as I unbuttoned my shirt and pants and removed them. As my slacks dropped to the ground, I moved my hands slowly out away from my waist just in time to have my ears blasted by a shrieked "Hold it! Don't move!"

"Good Lord, I'd heard you had something like that, but I never thought I'd see it!" the woman with the gun spoke in a hushed, awe-struck tone. "Please keep your hands out from you, and I'll take care of that thing between your legs, if you don't mind." She brought the automatic up to my nose and deftly reached to my crotch, pulled hard, and my "weeping-eye" hoster (and the pistol holstered there) came off and away from me. Now the only weapons I had left were harsh language and moral superiority.

I was standing in t-shirt, briefs, hiking boots and socks, but she simply waved the pistol at me, so I finished disrobing, fuming inside as I did so. I stared defiantly at the British agent after I had finished, standing as tall as I could, naked in the cold, damp September air. I wasn't going to give this bitch the satisfaction of thinking she'd embarrassed me.

She smiled briefly, then pointed her pistol at the ground. "Now that I have your undivided attention, Mr. Rivers." she said pleasantly, "we're going over a few things. First, this is Great Britain, not the 51st United State. We do things OUR way here. You are operating with our permission, and that permission can be withdrawn if we don't like the way things are going. Do you understand?" I nodded dumbly. It was getting damn cold out there and it was all I could do not to shiver. I was damned if I was going to be any more pathetic than I could help in front of this ballbreaker, so I braced myself against the cold.

"So, let me explain how it will be," she continued. "I will accompany you on your way to the objective. I will ensure that no innocent people are in your line of fire and that the operation proceeds in a sanitary fashion. You may kill the people identified in that folder and any others offering armed resistance to you, and no others. Do you understand?" I nodded again, but she persisted. "That isn't good enough. I require an active response from you."

I growled "Yes, I understand, and I will comply with your instructions," you bitch, I didn't finish.

"Very well," my beautiful captor said, smiling "now get in the car, the back seat if you don't mind."

I looked questioningly down at the clothes around my feet, but she repeated firmly "the back seat, if you please." I opened the door to the back seat on that side of the car and slid over onto the leather upholstery, the bare skin of my thighs and buttocks making an undignified squeaking sound as I scooted inside. At least it was warmer in the car than out in the cold English rain.

The woman got into the back seat beside me, my clothes gathered neatly over her arm. She gently put them on one of the front seats and turned to me. The gun had gone away, though whether back under her jacket or somewhere else I had no idea.

"I'm sorry we had to do things that way," she murmured, smiling. "It was necessary to get your attention, don't you see?" She reached out to me, her soft hand stroking my face, then sliding down my chest. As her hand slowly continued down my torso, my breathing grew harder, and so did my manhood. She looked down at it and smiled again, then pushed me back against the seat. "No hard feelings, I hope?" she asked, smiling down at me. I was too shocked to reply, and my jaw must have fallen to my bare chest.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," she purred as she stroked my body with her hands. "I'm Pamela Churchwood, and you know whom I work for. You, of course, are Sandy Rivers of the Central Intelligence Agency. May I call you Sandy?" she asked lightly as she shuffled off the light jacket she wore.

"At this point, Pamela, you can call me anything you want," I replied bemusedly. I hadn't the slightest idea what was next on the menu, but things had already gone so far awry that I'd lost all hope of keeping to my schedule, or for that matter, my normal professional ethic.

Pamela took my right hand and placed it on her left breast, cupping it there with her own hand. That was all the encouragement I needed, and I leaned forward to kiss her, savoring the scent of her own arousal as I pressed against her. She opened her mouth against mine, and my tongue slipped inside the sweetness of her lips. My fingers quickly negotiated the buttons of her blouse, and the gauzy material parted, slipping down her shoulders as she shrugged to let it down, and she held my eyes with hers as our lips parted and she unfastened her bra - it clasped in front and fell away as she undid it, releasing large, soft breasts scented delicately with a perfume I have never smelled before or since.

Pamela closed her eyes in surrender as I took her breasts in my hands and sucked one, then the other, cupping them gently. Her hardening nipples tasted like sweet, musky taffy as I worked them gently with my tongue and lips, and I could feel her body shudder under me as I kissed her skin and stroked her body with my hands. She spread her creamy white thighs - she wore no stockings - and hiked her skirt up toward her hips. My right hand slid between her legs almost of its own accord and gently parted her thighs. To my surprise, she must have taken her panties off when she was getting my clothes (I was too busy crouching down in the rear seat to notice), for my hand found nothing but delicate, moist down between her legs. I stroked her there, pushing a finger into the cleft in her hair and exploring lightly as I lingered over her breasts and mouth with my own mouth. She shuddered again as I found the source of her moisture and rubbed it, moaning softly and whispering soft encouragements to me.

After what seemed like an eternity of enjoying her aroused body, I slid off the back seat, letting Pamela settle on it. She spread her legs and I entered her lush pussy, clasping the bare skin of her hips as I slipped inside of her. Her eyes opened wide as I went into her, and she smiled up at me, then threw her head back in a wild moan as my hips met hers. I stroked her body all over, savoring her soft, womanly curves and the soft skin of her stomach, thanking a clement God for the assignment which brought me to England to have this wonderful interlude.

I took my time with her, stroking slowly, until we began to move faster in unspoken concert, coming over the falls of passion together, and lay there a while in each other's arms. I didn't even pull back, just lay there with my spent cock inside her (it was the warmest place in the car, for one thing) and nuzzled her neck. I looked at her fondly, and she smiled and said, "Well, I couldn't very well let you catch your death of cold, could I?"

We dressed eventually, and got back on the road. It turns out that it was quicker to take the coast road to Brighton than to try to back-track to an A-road (the British version of an American interstate highway), so Pamela and I got to take in a lot of pretty scenery. On the coast, the beaches were made up of pebbles and gravel, not the sand we'd expect on a beach back home.

Pamela's scent was very much on and around me, and the temptation to pull over and walk on the beach with her was a real, powerful thing which I had to put down forcibly. I'd steal a glance at her and be lost in longing to lie with her again. I couldn't tell what was on her mind, and wondered if the little fling in the car was from passion, or just to get me cooperative after her humiliating little lecture in the rain. Thinking about that made me vaguely sad, until Pamela put her hand on my neck and kissed me when we slowed down for one of the two railroad crossings I ever saw in England. I returned her kiss, taking my time about it and thoroughly pissing a fellow off in the white Citroen behind us.

Brighton grew famous as a resort town, but now it has grown much bigger than its resort part. Most of Brighton is like any other English town of its size -gray and a little grim, or maybe my mood, coupled with the dismal weather informed my senses. Or maybe not - Pamela didn't look any more cheerful than I felt.

Just outside Brighton is a large racetrack which inspired a song we in America associate with the Deep South. The track is named for the village beside it, Kemp Town. The song we know as "Camptown Racetrack" is really about "Kemp Town Racetrack." To reach Kemp Town from Brighton, you must actually cut across the racetrack - there are gates which block the road when they're having a horse race. And damn if that track isn't five miles long.

Kemp Town itself isn't much to see - depressing grey concrete apartment complexes and a hospital built like the apartments, a town center you could see a lot better without the couple of hundred obviously unemployed men standing on the side of the road chatting, smoking and generally loitering.

Pamela was great about not jogging my elbow as I found my bearings, and seemed impressed that I found where the targets lived from memory. She looked around with that same focused intensity I noticed when we first met, which seemed to galvanize her from the sexy redhead I picked up from the side of the road to an efficient, somehow fearsome warrior princess. I was happy she was on my side for this little row, even though I worried about her.

I parked the car three blocks away from the target, having sped past it to reconnoiter the area, and we got out after checking our weapons. Pamela surprised me by opening her blouse discreetly, pulling a thick white pad from her bag, and placing it in front of her stomach, below her bra. "Kevlar and a shock plate," she explained as she buttoned back up, "it's the newest way to dress for success in our line of work." She smiled gamely, and I wondered if she were as scared for her own sake as I was for her.

I wasn't worried overmuch about myself - of course, MY Kevlar was in the front panels of that canvas jacket where my FN machine pistol was stashed, but beyond that, I had gotten beyond caring about when and where I died - seeing enough death, some of it happening to friends, will do that to you.

The bad guys lived in a block of apartments which opened up onto a courtyard on the edge of Kemp Town. The apartments used to be "council flats," but during the Thatcher administration they were sold off to some fellow out in the nicer parts of the county. Being caucasian and relatively well-dressed, Pamela and I stood out like sore thumbs in that neighborhood, so we decided to tone down our act by leaning on each other and appearing to be drunk as we made our way.

The Somali bastards were just where the intel said they would be, and we found them just as one was pistol-whipping a girl who looked no more than fourteen... possibly a whore in his stable, but we didn't stop to ask. The pistol-whipper suddenly grew a red hole in his head, and I turned to look at Pamela, who had suddenly produced that pistol, now sporting a suppressor. Two other guys got their guns out just in time for me to stitch them up and down with bursts from my machine pistol. One of the targets snapped a shot off that went wild, whipping past my right ear with a "wheet" and shattering someone's bathroom window behind us, then collapsed next to the fellow next to him in a pool of blood.