Agents in Harm's Way Read online

  Agents in Harm’s Way: A White Slaver Story

  by

  Don Winslow

  Dedication

  This work is dedicated to Don Winslow’s many internet fans, who will find this story to echo in the proud tradition of the White Slaver Stories of Melissa, Parker, and Stroker Ace (as well as the insightful Conwic) — internet authors all who are so generous in sharing their masterful tales of erotic fantasy.

  Chapter One

  Mallory Channing sat looking at the memo on her desk. She couldn’t suppress the little smile of triumph that came to her lips. The rumor mill among the female agents had already spread the word. Management was, at long last, actually going to pair up women in investigating teams. The Bureau, known as one of those last male bastions in the federal government, had dragged its feet when the word came down from the White House: hire more women! Of course they weren’t called quotas, they were called goals, but the message was the clear: hire more women! Director Coyne, having since taken early retirement, rather lamely, offered the excuse that the Bureau had a number of valued female employees.

  Of course, women could be secretaries or even low-level administrators. But everyone knew: there was an unwritten policy against hiring women as field agents, ones who might actually face danger from a ruthless enemy in the course of their duties, one which the old boys stoutly resisted. It didn’t matter. The politicians, with one eye on what the media told them was the “women’s vote” simply increased the pressure. The female Attorney General was vehement, her demands unrelenting. And finally, a weary and harassed Director Keyhoe, the second Director in three years, gave in. Within a year the first female recruits had begun a (somewhat modified) training program at the Quanticio Marine Base, and Mallory Channing, a newly-minted female lawyer, fresh out of Cornell’s Law School, was among them.

  Still what many of the young women recruited in those years saw as a holdover of the male chauvinist attitudes, the new agents were always paired with a male partner, who was inevitably designated as the lead on the case. Once again women were seen as more no more than assistants; girls to be looked after by an older, stronger male — in case there should be trouble. It was intolerable! And the female agents, a small but growing band, began to organize, to press their demands on the “old boys’ network” that ran things at the Bureau.

  Now they had won yet another important victory. Of course, the Bureau did not announce the change of policy; that wouldn’t be like them. They had quietly issued memos like the one that Mallory now held in her hands, the one announcing that Special Agent Karen Palazzi was being transferred, to be assigned to her as “co-lead,” Bureau-cratese for number two on a two-man…that is, two-woman, team.

  Mallory tightened her hands and shook her clenched fists at the sky. “Yes!” she hissed in a whisper of triumphant glee that carried no further than her cubicle.

  ***

  The Section Chief was a guy named Federman — a fact verified by the stainless steel nameplate on his polished wooden (supervisor-grade) desk. George Federman had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he would no longer be promoted, but would end his service with the Bureau — in charge of the Missing Person’s Section. He had seen others pass him up to rise to the plum jobs — white collar crime, drugs, organized crime and, at the top of the heap, counter espionage, while he was relegated to chasing runaway teenagers who had somehow managed to cross state lines.

  The balding Mr. Federman, neat and officious, looked across that desk and gave a tentative smile to the two female Special Agents who sat before him, knees primly together, hands in their laps. Looking at the eagerness in the big brown eyes of the young agent, and knowing the overriding ambition carefully masked in the polite gaze of the other, he knew these two had not resigned themselves to such mundane tasks for their careers. They knew that the high proportion of women assigned to Missing Persons was because it was regarded one of the least dangerous assignments. They meant to move on.

  The younger one could have been a freshly scrubbed schoolgirl, sitting on the edge of her chair, a polite and attentive look on her small, youthful face, as though her Mommy had instructed her to be on her best behavior. The older one was more relaxed, poised; regarding him with the knowing eyes of a mature, confident woman. Mallory had taken the measure of George Federman long ago; she knew the sort of man he was; one she could handle. She eased back in her chair and slowly crossed those long, sleek, stockinged legs. Federman, like every other male on the 6th floor, had longed to caress those devastating legs as their owner nonchalantly strolled the halls. Now, he dropped his eyes from the senior agent’s intelligent blue gaze to find himself regarding two pairs of shapely nylon-clad legs, admiring smooth feminine architecture, and the serviceable, yet stylish, black pumps the women wore. Channing’s full and shapely curves, were sheathed in darkly tinted stockings; the younger girl’s limbs were straighter, more slender with delicate curves, but all in all, still quite appealing in their honey-tinted nylons.

  Behind the Section Chief, the mandated photo of the President with his trademark boyish smile, hung in tandem with the one of the Attorney General, a scowling, truculent woman who looked down over Federman’s shoulder with what might well be a sneer of disdain.

  Tearing his eyes away from those feminine legs and the path down which they threatened to drag his male fantasies, he purposefully hunted through the papers on his desk

  He had to be careful how he handled this case. The Operations Director had been blunt: ‘give them a case potentially high profile, if they managed to bring it off; that could be buried if they fucked it up’, he had been told. Most of the cases on his desk were routine, but he did have one that might be used by the Bureau’s PR guys to showcase the talents of their female agents.

  His fingers closed on a file marked “Dillon” he brought it before him. The first thing that greeted him on opening the file, was a full-sized glossy photo of a sunny, tanned and smiling, blonde girl, in her twenties, with the chiseled features and long blonde hair of a fashion model. Meghan Dillon was a looker! She had disappeared from her apartment near Stanford, where she was a graduate student in Anthropology. It so happened that her father, a big donor to political campaigns, had Washington connections, and he demanded the Bureau be called in, even though the local and state police were already well along on the case.

  As Federman went through the backgrounder, Mallory glanced sideways to check out her new partner. Kip Palazzi was a fresh-faced girl, with bright brown eyes, and a short helmet of soft, dusky brown hair. Mallory decided the girl was, if not pretty, rather cute, in a wholesome, girl-next-door sort of way.

  At 28, she was 7 years younger than Mallory and she looked it, with boyish hips and small, neat breasts tucked modestly under her trim business suit. As most of the younger working girls, she wore no makeup or lipstick on the job - some sort of feminist rebellion that inadvertently enhanced her youthful appearance; making her look like a boy with a mop of brown hair; a boy with breasts, Mallory thought.

  Mallory, on the other hand had no trouble using makeup. She carefully emphasized the long dark lashes over her sparkling blue eyes, and her maroon lipstick had become practically a trademark. While her partner’s youthful bosom was understated, her own breasts were even more modest. In fact, she was practically flat-chested, but nature had compensated for what had once seemed a painful oversight in the breast department, by endowing her with striking good looks: a tall, long-legged, sleek figure, with classic, angular features, a pair of lithe hips, and rangy but narrow shoulders.

  And despite the conservative business suit, oversized horned rims and tightly bunned raven black hair, or perhaps because of them, she came across as one very attractive woman. Her sculpted lip
s, painted with maroon lipstick, were pursed in a perfunctory smile as Federman leaned across the desk to hand her the picture of the missing girl.

  Mallory coolly appraised the picture she held in her hands: a cheerful smiling blonde. Probably an ex-cheerleader, she decided. The girl looked like a typical California beach bunny with that mass of blonde curls; one of those bimbos whose only worry is her perfect tan, perfect teeth, and that sparkling smile. The kid exuded sex. Agent Channing took an instant dislike to the blonde with the winning smile.

  ***

  The flight to San Francisco gave them the chance to get better acquainted. The two women hit it off immediately. Kip had been an English major at Kent State when she drifted into a campus recruiting fair to encounter a handsome agent named Shannon. Shannon was a highly effective recruiter at a time when few women considered law enforcement as a career. The Bureau recognized Shannon’s talents — his unique gift for getting college girls to sign on the dotted line. Mallory knew Brent Shannon very well indeed.

  The girl turned out to be lively, eager, and witty; she deferred easily to the older woman, earnest and willing to do whatever she was told. As with her lead, she was a determined fighter for woman’s rights. And she so obviously admired Mallory; knowing Mallory was one of the first women to fight her way through the male bastion of the Bureau made her something of a heroine in Kip’s adoring eyes. For her part, Mallory gladly took the younger girl under her wing, feeling an urge towards her that was almost maternal — more like a big sister really. Thus the two women slipped into an easy working relationships.

  Now they had the chance to leisurely go over the briefing material in Mallory’s briefcase that occupied the seat between them. It all seemed pretty routine. Just another irresponsible rich girl with too much of Daddy’s money; one who decided to dump school and all the rest of it; probably into drugs, more than likely partying; shacked up with some rock musician at a beach house in Malibu. The locals would probably have it wrapped up by the time they got there. What a waste of taxpayers’ money, the two girls decided: sending trained agents all the way across country for something like this!

  ***

  The next few days showed Special Agent Channing that her instinctive reaction to the Dillon case would have to be re-considered. The County Sheriff’s Office had jurisdiction, and though Sheriff Lonigen was perfectly correct in his manner towards them, it was obvious that he was not pleased with the uninvited “help” from Washington. If he had any additional views about that help being female, he knew enough to keep his mouth shut.

  Standard operating procedures called for the Bureau to take over the case once its agents had arrived on the scene. However, in this case, it had been arranged that Sheriff Lonigen would remain in overall charge; the agents to provide “whatever assistance” local law authorities requested.

  The Sheriff introduced the two agents to the Captain of Detectives — a man named Bagley — a heavy powerful-looking middle aged man in a crumpled blue suit, who studied them with small blue deadpan eyes sunk in a square Irish face. The expressionless eyes never wavered as he listened to his boss explain that he had been given some help on the investigation, as it seemed some folks in Washington were very interested in following the case. It was clear that Bagley was not impressed. The women found out just what he thought of the whole arrangement when they were given their assignments. They were to re-interview the contacts at the college. In addition, Mallory was to handle the press; Palazzi could help out around the squad room, updating the status board, coordinating schedules, and answering phones, just “getting the feel of the case” as he put it.

  Mallory felt herself flush with indignation. They would be going over old ground, helping to answer phones! She saw the assignments for what they were: safe; “women’s work”. They wouldn’t be taken seriously until they could get out onto the streets, and the men realized they could handle themselves. Once more, they would have to earn respect in this all-male hierarchy. It was a tiresome but familiar story.

  Days passed and Mallory made every effort to get involved in the unfolding case. She spent a lot of time in briefings and in talking to the detectives, guys who were considerably more friendly than their bosses were (probably for all the wrong reasons). She read everything about the case she could get her hands on. And she handled her press duties with poise and competence, standing tall in front of the cameras while Begley and Lonigen watched smiling benevolently from the wings.

  After about a week of investigation, the county detectives were convinced there was more here than met the eye. It soon became obvious that Meghan Dillon was a “student” in name only. She showed up for classes now and then at the start of the term, but no one at the school had seen her for weeks. A check with the Dean’s Office showed she was on probation. They thought it most likely that she had dropped out of school.

  Then a more promising line of investigation opened up when detectives found out that Daddy’s little girl, as they sarcastically referred to her in reference to her overbearing, and obnoxious father, had been picking up a little money on the side, in fact, quite a chunk of money. They found out she working as a dancer in a place called “Buzzy Berkley’s” — one of those upscale strip clubs near Palo Alto that hired the ready supply of college girls from Stanford. The other girls who worked there knew Meghan Dillon as a wild woman, a crazy chick who was into drugs and fast living: one who liked to hang around with drug dealers and the types of men who seemed to have no manners and inexhaustible supplies of cash.

  After almost two weeks of frustrating days and nights, something happened that brought the two agents right into the center of the case...and into the crosshairs!

  As seemed to be the case a lot lately, Kip had found herself manning the phones in a nearly empty squad room when the call came in. An obviously disguised male voice hastily breathed a few furtive sentences. ‘If they wanted to find the blonde chick they should check out a boat called the Big Wizz off Sycamore point. But they better hurry, or it’d be too late.’

  Shaking with excitement, Kip looked around for help, and found there was not a soul around. It was a rare coincidence, but everyone was out, except for the secretary who was engrossed in her computer on the other side of the glass partition, oblivious to Kip’s excitement. The first thought that struck her was to call the dispatcher and have herself patched through to one of the detective teams. But then she thought about Mallory. Taking her gun out of the desk drawer, she slipped into the shoulder holster and started hitching the straps in place as she scurried off down the hall to find Special Agent Channing.

  Mallory saw the importance of the call immediately. It was what they had been waiting for! A major break in that case, if it panned out. She quizzed her junior and learned that Nazzaro and Glenn were out on assignment, Felcher and Beam were working the interviews, and Bolger was at the DA’s office. Neither Lonigan nor Bagely were in the building, although they were expected back later that afternoon. In short, there was no one on hand to check with; so Mallory would take the initiative. After all, they were officially on the investigation team; there was no reason why they shouldn’t follow this lead on their own.

  Chapter Two

  Mallory tossed the keys to Kip as she slid into the passenger’s side of the unmarked Chevy they had picked up from the motor pool. Soon the two agents were heading towards Sycamore Point, a map folded open on the seat between them. Mallory, her mind racing to plan the mission, decided to make a quick stop at their motel. They would have to change into something less conspicuous for the beachfront. They took a blanket with them, a camera, and a pair of binoculars they had picked up at the motel’s gift shop. Their service revolvers, tucked under their seats, could be retrieved quickly if needed. The two girlfriends would attract no attention — just more tourists in shorts and sunglasses, a couple of working girls out for a day at the beach.

  The white Chevy headed northwest towards what, on the map, was clearly marked as a major Marina. They coul
d smell the salty tang of the sea long before they got to it; feels the warm ocean breeze. Both girls were tense and alert; by now they had lapsed into silence. Kip, her hair tucked under a baseball cap, wore a pair of denim cut-offs that she thought might be a bit snug and were definitely too short to be wearing on a job, just like her electric blue tank top was a bit too showy. But they were only the casual clothes she had managed to pack. She glanced over at her companion, admiring the transformation in Mallory. The dark-haired woman had let her hair down, nonchalantly shedding her work clothes to slip into a thin T-shirt and a pair of safari shorts. The baggy shorts did nothing for her figure but they did manage to reveal a generous expanse of those long, tapering legs — bare all the way down to the white cotton socks and thick-soled sneakers. Mallory, her sunglasses pushed back high on her head, had turned to look out the right side window. She seemed lost in thought, idly watching for the first sight of the bay.

  The two good-looking girls explained how they wanted to take some pictures of the bay from offshore. The smiling blond kid at the boat rental office, wearing nothing but a low-slung pair of ragged shorts, filled out the papers, handed over the keys with a decided leer, and offered to personally show them the sights once he got off from work. They smiled back, and politely declined.

  On their way down the pier to slip number 6, they made inquiries from the locals they met. Two guys, working on their boat, stopped to point to the third in a line of three impressive craft riding high on the horizon. They laughed about the big boats belonging to drug dealers. The Big Wizz was a yacht of considerable size, with an elegant prow, sleek lines, its white paint gleaming in the sun so brightly it hurt your eyes to look at it.