in. Turning on him, she snapped, “What are you gawking at?”
That led to rehearsal number three where Omar did in fact flick the hooks on her bra, exposing her boobs. Everyone in the room went silent. Her breasts were always a surprise to men the first time she went full monty. Because she was so tall and slim and athletic, they probably expected pancakes.
Fortunately, no one said anything. But they thought it.
It took them a half dozen rehearsals before they got it even remotely right. Agent Zekus was railing over the impossibility of Joy pulling this off. F.U. was still complaining about his pain. Slick was giving everyone last-minute instructions.
“I can do it,” she promised the agent. “Really, I can do it. I promise.” And she would, too, or die trying. She hoped that wouldn’t be literal.
“If it looks as if she can’t handle it, I’ll tie her hands and put a gag in her mouth,” Omar told the agent. “A resisting sex slave wouldn’t be a stretch.”
Oooh, Joy didn’t like the sound of that.
The plan was to get inside the tango hideout. CIA and SEALs would be stationed outside. She had a high-tech device implanted just under the skin behind her ear. It could listen to what was being said within ten feet, give her messages, and in case of emergency, allow her to signal for help. It also had a GPS locator in it. Despite all the technology, it still needed people to make this work. People , meaning her.
“Okay, folks,” Slick said then. “Everyone good to go?”
“Hoo-yah!” they all answered, even Joy.
As they walked toward the designated location, Omar swaggering in front, with her and the two other “women” following meekly behind, Joy got her first flash of intuition that something was going to go wrong. Loud and clear, a message was beginning to pound in her brain, and it wasn’t saying “Hoo-yah.”
Nope, it was that same old What was I thinking?
You could say Snafu was her middle name . . .
It was worse than Joy ever could have imagined.
But if ever Joy had any doubts about taking part in this mission, she had none how. How could she, when she saw the three young girls, in purdah, already purchased by the terrorists? Huddled in one corner, they wept copiously but silently, after being slapped across the face a few times by the guard at the door.
The girls, two from Spain and one from South Africa, could be no more than thirteen. Children, really. But not for long if the leering glances of one of their purchasers was any indication. He was a particularly evil-looking man, bone-thin, eyes like ice, but lips thick over yellowing teeth. A livid scar ran from his left eye to his chin, drawing his mouth up on one side in a perpetual sneer.
Omar had told the men that Joy was from America, thus explaining his occasional use of English with her.
Her group had not arrived here yet when the girls had been brought forth for examination by the half dozen Arab men in the room, but she suspected it had been more than humiliating. Especially when she noted a morbidly obese woman in a burka but no face veil, wearing disposable rubber gloves. If the bitch dared to put those rubber gloves near her, Joy was afraid she would not be able to hold up her pretense, and it was dangerously important that she do so now that they were in the midst of these snakes.
Drawing her to the center of the room, Omar flipped her face veil off. Immediately, she bent forward, using her long hair to hide her face. She’d been advised to leave her hair loose, another selling point, she supposed. They must have gotten a bit of a peek anyhow, because one of them said something in a snide tone to Omar.
Omar argued back in Arabic, then repeated it in English for her benefit. “Yes, she is older . . . almost twenty-one . . .”
Joy almost snorted at that. She was closer to thirty . . . well, twenty-seven . . . and hadn’t been carded in ages.
“. . . but her assets more than make up for being long in the
That led to rehearsal number three where Omar did in fact flick the hooks on her bra, exposing her boobs. Everyone in the room went silent. Her breasts were always a surprise to men the first time she went full monty. Because she was so tall and slim and athletic, they probably expected pancakes.
Fortunately, no one said anything. But they thought it.
It took them a half dozen rehearsals before they got it even remotely right. Agent Zekus was railing over the impossibility of Joy pulling this off. F.U. was still complaining about his pain. Slick was giving everyone last-minute instructions.
“I can do it,” she promised the agent. “Really, I can do it. I promise.” And she would, too, or die trying. She hoped that wouldn’t be literal.
“If it looks as if she can’t handle it, I’ll tie her hands and put a gag in her mouth,” Omar told the agent. “A resisting sex slave wouldn’t be a stretch.”
Oooh, Joy didn’t like the sound of that.
The plan was to get inside the tango hideout. CIA and SEALs would be stationed outside. She had a high-tech device implanted just under the skin behind her ear. It could listen to what was being said within ten feet, give her messages, and in case of emergency, allow her to signal for help. It also had a GPS locator in it. Despite all the technology, it still needed people to make this work. People , meaning her.
“Okay, folks,” Slick said then. “Everyone good to go?”
“Hoo-yah!” they all answered, even Joy.
As they walked toward the designated location, Omar swaggering in front, with her and the two other “women” following meekly behind, Joy got her first flash of intuition that something was going to go wrong. Loud and clear, a message was beginning to pound in her brain, and it wasn’t saying “Hoo-yah.”
Nope, it was that same old What was I thinking?
You could say Snafu was her middle name . . .
It was worse than Joy ever could have imagined.
But if ever Joy had any doubts about taking part in this mission, she had none how. How could she, when she saw the three young girls, in purdah, already purchased by the terrorists? Huddled in one corner, they wept copiously but silently, after being slapped across the face a few times by the guard at the door.
The girls, two from Spain and one from South Africa, could be no more than thirteen. Children, really. But not for long if the leering glances of one of their purchasers was any indication. He was a particularly evil-looking man, bone-thin, eyes like ice, but lips thick over yellowing teeth. A livid scar ran from his left eye to his chin, drawing his mouth up on one side in a perpetual sneer.
Omar had told the men that Joy was from America, thus explaining his occasional use of English with her.
Her group had not arrived here yet when the girls had been brought forth for examination by the half dozen Arab men in the room, but she suspected it had been more than humiliating. Especially when she noted a morbidly obese woman in a burka but no face veil, wearing disposable rubber gloves. If the bitch dared to put those rubber gloves near her, Joy was afraid she would not be able to hold up her pretense, and it was dangerously important that she do so now that they were in the midst of these snakes.
Drawing her to the center of the room, Omar flipped her face veil off. Immediately, she bent forward, using her long hair to hide her face. She’d been advised to leave her hair loose, another selling point, she supposed. They must have gotten a bit of a peek anyhow, because one of them said something in a snide tone to Omar.
Omar argued back in Arabic, then repeated it in English for her benefit. “Yes, she is older . . . almost twenty-one . . .”
Joy almost snorted at that. She was closer to thirty . . . well, twenty-seven . . . and hadn’t been carded in ages.
“. . . but her assets more than make up for being long in the
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