Read Online Bolt Action by Charlie Charters - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlie Charters
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the airport to the Virgin Atlantic check-in. He’d been reading a copy of Exchange & Mart and she swept up to his table, dousing him in Chanel No. 5. He could feel the stares from males and females alike. She was strikingly beautiful in a lush, accessible sort of way.
An easy, transatlantic sort of accent. ‘You must be Ferret.’
He nodded mutely. The woman had him off balance already.
‘My friend, the lady captain, tells me Ferret is short for Womb Ferret.’ Her hair was auburn, mid-length, and her dark eyes heavy with mascara and bronze eyeshadow. ‘Fancy yourself as the Womb Ferret, do you?’ Just like the captain, Dalia was absolutely no pissing around.
‘W-why don’t you sit down?’ Ferret stuttered. Then, ‘Can I get you something?’
‘Doesn’t the Womb Ferret even stand up for a lady?’
Ferret clambered quickly to his feet. Couldn’t help but stare at the shape of her body busting through her creamy silk blouse. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed, crossing her legs so provocatively half of Starbucks had fallen sideways out of their chairs. ‘Now tell me what makes the Womb Ferret such an expert on women . . .’
That was how she was. All business. Ferret didn’t even have a chance to muss up his hair and get his puppy eyes working. Dalia was full on. Just as Tristie had said she would be: ‘Think of her as a fire-and-forget missile. Don’t walk her to the target. Just give her all this information . . . and let her get on with it.’ And the captain passed over the surveillance photos and thedozen pages of background she’d been able to trick up from her contacts in the Adjutant General’s Corp. The subject? A Scot. MacIntyre. Forty-seven. Two divorces. A weakness foretold in his habit of trying to expense-claim on hotel bills unnamed pay-per-view purchases and massage treatments.
Ferret had then watched from a distance after they had boarded the flight. MacIntyre had made a solemn, rather pompous introduction while Dalia was at the bar at the back of Virgin’s upper class. He came on like a real prig. For a second Ferret had wondered whether this whole scene would work, but then Dalia took over, playing the man the whole nine hours they were airborne. Not more than a kiss passed between them – as far as he could tell – but she had him all the same.
Ferret had trained on both the Starburst and Starstreak surface-to-air missiles and the fire-and-forget analogy was a good one. That was just how Dalia operated. Tiny adjustments to her onboard gyroscope, tweaks to her accelerometer: little bit faster, then easing off. First in complimenting this rather lugubrious character by choosing him over the other men at the bar. Then laughing easily, throwing her head back, running her fingers through her luxuriant hair, a quiet whisper in his ear followed by a throaty laugh, running her hand softly over his cuff. All the time tuning that gyroscope and accelerometer, all the time squeezing off the space between them. Eventually – as the flight map showed the 747 crossing the west coast of Ireland – moving to sit at his feet on the little ottoman, all the better to stoke the slow sizzle of seduction.
Men. Such idiots. The guy looked absolutely toast this morning as he stumbled off the plane, Ferret trailing some distance behind. Just like a guy who’d been fed single malt whisky for nine hours; a hard-on for this out-of-the-world woman giving him no hope of sleep. At the luggage carousel, for just a moment, Dalia had eased off MacIntyre’s arm and with a barely perceptible flick of the wrist pointed out the object of the exercise; the case Captain Merritt was after. Ferret had texted an appropriate description.
As Piglet powers the Honda down the off-ramp, Ferret wonders. Perhaps there’s a factory somewhere that churns out women like this Dalia and Tristie Merritt . . . and his mind trips to the hybrid human–alien SIL . The Natasha Henstridge character in Species : a big shag-fantasy in 3
An easy, transatlantic sort of accent. ‘You must be Ferret.’
He nodded mutely. The woman had him off balance already.
‘My friend, the lady captain, tells me Ferret is short for Womb Ferret.’ Her hair was auburn, mid-length, and her dark eyes heavy with mascara and bronze eyeshadow. ‘Fancy yourself as the Womb Ferret, do you?’ Just like the captain, Dalia was absolutely no pissing around.
‘W-why don’t you sit down?’ Ferret stuttered. Then, ‘Can I get you something?’
‘Doesn’t the Womb Ferret even stand up for a lady?’
Ferret clambered quickly to his feet. Couldn’t help but stare at the shape of her body busting through her creamy silk blouse. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed, crossing her legs so provocatively half of Starbucks had fallen sideways out of their chairs. ‘Now tell me what makes the Womb Ferret such an expert on women . . .’
That was how she was. All business. Ferret didn’t even have a chance to muss up his hair and get his puppy eyes working. Dalia was full on. Just as Tristie had said she would be: ‘Think of her as a fire-and-forget missile. Don’t walk her to the target. Just give her all this information . . . and let her get on with it.’ And the captain passed over the surveillance photos and thedozen pages of background she’d been able to trick up from her contacts in the Adjutant General’s Corp. The subject? A Scot. MacIntyre. Forty-seven. Two divorces. A weakness foretold in his habit of trying to expense-claim on hotel bills unnamed pay-per-view purchases and massage treatments.
Ferret had then watched from a distance after they had boarded the flight. MacIntyre had made a solemn, rather pompous introduction while Dalia was at the bar at the back of Virgin’s upper class. He came on like a real prig. For a second Ferret had wondered whether this whole scene would work, but then Dalia took over, playing the man the whole nine hours they were airborne. Not more than a kiss passed between them – as far as he could tell – but she had him all the same.
Ferret had trained on both the Starburst and Starstreak surface-to-air missiles and the fire-and-forget analogy was a good one. That was just how Dalia operated. Tiny adjustments to her onboard gyroscope, tweaks to her accelerometer: little bit faster, then easing off. First in complimenting this rather lugubrious character by choosing him over the other men at the bar. Then laughing easily, throwing her head back, running her fingers through her luxuriant hair, a quiet whisper in his ear followed by a throaty laugh, running her hand softly over his cuff. All the time tuning that gyroscope and accelerometer, all the time squeezing off the space between them. Eventually – as the flight map showed the 747 crossing the west coast of Ireland – moving to sit at his feet on the little ottoman, all the better to stoke the slow sizzle of seduction.
Men. Such idiots. The guy looked absolutely toast this morning as he stumbled off the plane, Ferret trailing some distance behind. Just like a guy who’d been fed single malt whisky for nine hours; a hard-on for this out-of-the-world woman giving him no hope of sleep. At the luggage carousel, for just a moment, Dalia had eased off MacIntyre’s arm and with a barely perceptible flick of the wrist pointed out the object of the exercise; the case Captain Merritt was after. Ferret had texted an appropriate description.
As Piglet powers the Honda down the off-ramp, Ferret wonders. Perhaps there’s a factory somewhere that churns out women like this Dalia and Tristie Merritt . . . and his mind trips to the hybrid human–alien SIL . The Natasha Henstridge character in Species : a big shag-fantasy in 3
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