CHAPTER ONE

 

Monica Brightman felt like the last American in Valle-Sierre. It was not a comforting thought. The attempted military coup six days earlier, which had been swiftly and brutally crushed by forces loyal to President Carrende, had left the stench of bloody vengeance in its wake. Whether or not the rumours that the CIA had been behind the attempt to oust the dictator were true, they had provided the regime with all the excuses it needed to act against "Imperialist aggressors and enemies of the State". The near-deserted streets of the capital, Malnaverno, were decorated with banners bearing anti-US slogans. The walls of practically every building were daubed with crude variations on the message - DEATH TO AMERICAN SCUM!

Most foreigners had had the good sense to flee the crackdown that followed the crushing of the coup. The President had ordered that the assets of all foreign companies in Valle-Sierre be seized and had issued a thinly veiled warning that any of their staff who failed to leave would be considered a potential target for reprisals. The evacuees had been fortunate to escape with their lives, leaving all their possessions behind. Only hours after the US embassy had been evacuated and all diplomatic relations with Valle-Sierre severed, the airport and seaports had been shut down by the military, sealing the country's borders as tight as a drum.

Monica was Regional President of GLT - the largest of the tiny number of US multi-nationals that had been operating in Valle-Sierre Sierre. As far as she was concerned, the seizure of the company's assets by the State did not change that. Even when the Americans on her staff had joined the panic stricken exodus, she had steadfastly insisted on remaining behind, determined that she could single-handedly strike some kind of deal to rescue at least a fraction of the millions of dollars pillaged from GLT. What a heroine that would make her with her bosses in New York! They would soon forgive her for disobeying their order to leave and see her colleagues for the craven cowards they were. Ruthless ambition and determination had rewarded her with her Presidential position within the company, at the age of thirty-one. She was not about to let the eighteen months she had spent consolidating her corporate power base go to waste. What others saw as a disaster, she chose to view as a golden opportunity.

She cared not a jot for the three hundred Sierran employees who had been summarily dismissed and now faced possible government reprisals merely for having worked for GLT. Expendable serfs were easily replaced.

Monica hated the small knot of fear that gnawed ever more insistently at the pit of her stomach. All logic dictated that she should have cut her losses and run while she still had a chance. But stubbornness was no respecter of good sense. Her last hope for the rescue of the company's plant, and possibly her very survival, rested with an acquaintance in the Finance Ministry.

After several days of frustration, she had finally contacted him that morning. In the present climate, the fact that he had even agreed to meet her was encouraging. She was certain her impressive negotiating powers would prove successful. The man certainly owed her a favour after the considerable amount she had paid him in bribes, not to mention the names of several employees on the company payroll she had passed to the security services, following rumblings of discontent over pay and conditions at the plant. A few days later the employees in question had simply disappeared, leaving Monica with the doubly satisfying knowledge that she had nipped a potential industrial relations problem in the bud and helped the State to dispose of a few undesirables in the process. Yes, she decided, even these ignorant fascists would realise that she was on their side. Her fellow countrymen might prefer to maintain a discreet distance from the unsavoury regime that ruled Valle-Sierre, but she was a woman who knew how to do business. If all else failed, she was prepared to offer herself as an inducement to the man from the Ministry. She had opened her legs for lesser prizes.

Though it was not yet midday, the heat was already oppressive. With the air-conditioning broken down, like almost everything else in the country, the interior of the Mercedes was like a sauna. Sweat dribbled down Monica's brow and her cream silk blouse was plastered to her skin, accentuating the shape of her braless round breasts. Her chestnut hair, piled up in a bun, felt as wet as if she had just stepped from the shower. Beneath her expensive pale pink skirt, her panties were uncomfortably clammy. She supposed the man she was on her way to meet would not mind. He would be used to pawing sweating and smelly Sierran women who, despite the slender, dusky skinned beauty of the majority of their kind, Monica regarded as little more than animals. This was an unashamedly chauvinistic society, where men held the reins of power and women - herself excepted - knew their place. Until the day came when she was forced to deal with a native woman in a position of power, Monica was happy for it to remain that way.

She cursed her driver as the car was rattled by yet another huge pothole. He continued to stare straight ahead, the obscenities falling on deaf ears. Another employer would probably have been grateful that he had remained with her at all when the majority of his compatriots had abandoned their posts, for fear of contamination by association with a member of the despised Imperialists. But it would have never occurred to Monica to display even the slightest gratitude to a member of the lower orders. As far as she was concerned, he should consider himself lucky to still have a job, however poorly paid. If she chose to curse him, he had no choice but to damn well take it. She decided she might just mention his name to her contact as a rebel sympathiser, purely for her own sadistic pleasure. That should see him promptly dragged off to provide some fun for the secret police in the torture chamber and might just earn her a car with air conditioning that actually worked. The thought rekindled her sense of purpose and somewhat softened the ball of fear in her guts.

"You might just be useful to me yet, you fucking sour faced cocksucker," she muttered, managing a thin smile in the process.

Suddenly an olive green armoured personnel carrier rocketed from a nearby alleyway straight into the path of the oncoming car. The driver hit the brakes and the Mercedes screeched to a halt, only inches from impact. Monica was almost flung from her seat by the abrupt halt.

"You fucking greaseball asshole!" she screamed. "I'll ...."

Her tirade came to a similarly abrupt halt when she saw a small platoon of khaki clad soldiers armed with submachine pistols, pour from the APC. In a matter of seconds the Mercedes was surrounded. The driver stepped out immediately, hands raised high above his head. When his back seat passenger failed to follow, her door was flung open by a moustachioed giant, whose gold armband bore the insignia of sergeant.

"Out of the car!" he barked in heavily accented English, thrusting the muzzle of his Uzi at Monica's chest.

"What's the problem, Sergeant?" she demanded, fighting back a sudden rush of panic.

The man did not reply. Instead, he grabbed her arm in an iron grip and hauled her out onto the tarmac.

"Take your fucking hands off me!" she screamed.

"Lady, you better shut your filthy mouth, unless you want me to shut it for you," he snarled.

Unaccustomed to being addressed in such a manner, Monica was too shocked to immediately respond. By the time she managed to find her voice again, her other arm had been grabbed by another soldier and she found herself being forced face-down onto the bonnet of the Mercedes. She yelped as the hot metal burned her through her blouse.

Her driver was face-down on the side of the street, an Uzi pointed at his head, but the troops seemed more interested in Monica. She felt the cold snout of a machine pistol at the back of her neck as the sergeant ordered her to place her hands flat against the windscreen.

"Your name," he barked.

"Monica Brightman," she replied. "I'm an American citizen and ..."

"I know what you are," he interrupted gruffly. "Where are you going?"

"To the Finance Ministry," she answered, struggling to check her rising anger. "I have an appointment there with a Mr Valdemerrian."

"You're lying," he retorted.

"Fuck you!" she retaliated. "Check with his office if you don't believe me. In the meantime, I suggest you get that gun out of my back. You don't seem to realise who you're dealing with here."

At this, several of the soldiers surrounding her exploded with laughter.

"Yankee whore tries to give me orders!" the sergeant sneered, painfully prodding the nape of her neck with his Uzi. "Keep your hands where they are, bitch, or I'll blow your fucking brains all over this car."

Under the circumstances, a little humility would have been the most prudent course of action. Unfortunately for Monica, she scarcely knew the meaning of the word.

"Don't you threaten me, you jumped up little tin soldier," she spat, infusing her voice with far more bravado than she actually felt.

"I don't make threats," he replied. "Only promises."

"Fuck you!" she repeated.

"You like to fuck, is that what you say to me, bitch?" he rasped. "Okay. You want to fuck, we fuck right here."

His free hand reached round to grope the swell of her left breast. When she tried to resist, a pair of soldiers seized her wrists and pinned her arms to the windscreen of the car. Monica suddenly realised that her arrogance had been a dreadful mistake. Far from being intimidated, like the underlings she was accustomed to dealing with, these men were merely infuriated by her attitude.

Even when the sergeant ripped open her blouse and roughly squeezed her naked breast, she could not bring herself to either beg or apologise. It was simply not in her nature. Instead, her mind struggled wildly with alternatives. She decided it might be best to remain cold and unresponsive, no matter how crudely she was mauled. Once they realised she was not prepared to scream and blubber like a terrified little girl, they would quickly lose interest.

The sergeant pawed her breasts for a few moments, then moved his hand downwards and yanked her skirt up over her hips. The sight of her sweat soaked white lace panties clinging to the creamy mounds of her buttocks was greeted by whistles and raucous cheers from the soldiers gathered around her like wolves.

"Open your legs, bitch," the sergeant growled. "You did say you wanted to fuck me."

When Monica failed to respond, another pair of soldiers grabbed her ankles and forced her legs wide apart. She had to bite her tongue to choke back a scream of protest. It would do her no good anyway. On these streets, the army was the law. There was not the slightest possibility of anybody coming to her rescue.

The sergeant grabbed the waistband of her skimpy panties and ripped them away as easily as if they were made of paper. He tossed them to one of his troops, who raised them to his nose and guffawed loudly as he sniffed them. Monica's body stiffened as her assailant thrust his hand between her splayed thighs and penetrated her with a thick finger. She knew she was about to be raped. She was equally certain there was nothing she could do to prevent it. For the first time in her life, she found herself in the role of helpless victim.