Allied

Chapter 6

Patrick

Washington, D.C., Present day

Well, this isn't exactly how I planned on today going.

As I lie face-down on the massage bed with Sandra sticking her thumbs so hard into my back that I almost wince, I wonder if I did the right thing speaking with my handler earlier this week. Although, it is hard to think in general while I'm being systematically bruised by the tiny hands of a woman who I consider to be evil incarnate.

Undercover work prohibits physical relationships for obvious reasons. The department hardly wants to be sued by a string of crying women who were seduced and abandoned by agents on the job. However, this kind of physical relationship has been integral to my job so far.

Sandra is the chief masseuse at this shit hole of a massage parlor that is little more than a laundurette for dirty cash. Needless to say, her real job doesn't require being all that great at massage. She spends more of her time supervising 'the product' than she does soothing aching muscles. But I had to get Tyler and Perry to trust me, which meant I had to accept one of their "perks" — either sleeping with the captive women that I'm trying to rescue, or submitting to Sandra's regular torture sessions. Needless to say, I chose Sandra. Just the thought of Perry or Tyler referring to any woman — women like my mother or sister — as 'product' makes me want to throttle them both.

Frankly, three years of this shit has me dying to go back to my own life.

Enough that I finally made contact with the department. It was risky, but it was worth it; I leaked just enough information to my contact to get the parlor busted in a week or so, if the new agent in charge of the case isn't too dense.

And I need the week, too. It should give me enough time to find out the location that Tyler is stashing his new batch of human merchandise at, and hopefully enough time to lure him away from them so they don't suffer the consequences of a bust.

However, as I lie here, desperately trying to relax ahead of what can only be described as a delicate week, I hear a shout that has come far too early. I tense as I listen to glass shatter — the back door being kicked in, no doubt — and it dawns on me that perhaps I gave my handler slightly too much information for my own purposes.

Shit.

Sandra releases me from her vice-like grip and backs towards the corner of the room, directly in front of the chair my clothes are piled on top of. I groan inwardly, preparing for the inevitable arrest. Last time I was "arrested" (to prove my criminal credentials to my newfound friends), the overzealous bastard — no doubt directed by Meathead Mark — decided to body-slam me into the wall. Normally, I can take a few hits, but after Sandra spent the week kneading my back like it was a loaf of fleshy bread, my muscles are in agony.

I rise from the bed, wrapping the towel around my waist.

Come on, Patrick. Make it look convincing.

The door smashes open, splinters of the frame scattering across the floor. 

And I look up to see-

Georgie?

I blink. She blinks. Actually, more accurately, Georgie blinks and then scowls at me with a look of pure, unadulterated rage on her face.

Then Georgie raises her weapon, and — like any sensible man — I do the only thing that comes to mind when an enraged woman points a Glock at you: I raise my hands. In hindsight, this is perhaps a teachable moment; as I stretch my arms upward, the miniature towel that was wrapped around my waist drops to the floor.