Chapter Thirteen
As it turned out, the hunting trip wasn’t really necessary. After the predictably elegant breakfast on the balcony, Armando again brought up plans for a hunt, and Dancy was still eager. She was exhilaratingly refreshed after sleeping in the open air of her rooms, hearing only the sounds of the jungle and river. And she had been somewhat aroused by the room with the masks and Armando stripping her, then leaving her alone to dress and find her way back to her bedroom. The idea of hunting deer in this place, carrying a rifle or shotgun with these druglord loonies, hit her fancy like nothing in a long time. She was full of questions about the hunt, especially what weapons they would take. Armando gave her a hooded glance and asked if she had ever fired a machine gun before. She hadn’t but was hot to try. “Maybe we’d better just go out and practice shooting first,” he told her, “Just the two of us. Let you get the hang of it before we organize the full hunt.”
“Sounds good to me. Do UZI’s come in ladies’ sizes?”
“I’m sure we’ll find something to fit your personal style.”
She was sure of that herself, cheerful and upbeat while Armando drove the Hummer off the main road and up a dirt lane in the forest of marijuana. At the base of the cliffs he pulled into an open area with several stump benches in the shade of a palm thatch shed. Starting around twenty yards away were a series of demolished bottles. He dropped Dancy at the shed and drove the Hummer to the closest boxes, where he unloaded several crates of bottles and a box of empty beer cans. After setting them up as targets, he drove back under the shed and walked around to the tailgate. Reaching in, he selected an AK-47 with steel folding stock and a handful of clips. Loading, he walked to one of the benches, pointed down range, and squeezed off quick three-shot bursts which blew away every beer can in sight. Reloading, he demolished the bottles, started punching holes in the boxes.
Dancy was getting extremely interested in the machine guns. The rhythmic pounding was affecting her, a sound she found novel and elemental at the same time. She watched the stream of bullets stitching the crates like a Singer from Hell. She watched the brass flying out of the businesslike receiver, flashing like a golden geyser in the sunlight. She liked the way the hot barrel wrapped the weapon in a slithery aura of heat waves. She dug the crotch-rock music of it. When Armando quit firing she said, “You got pretty butch toys, Army. Could I see it a minute?”
Armando gave her a look just slow enough to make sure she knew it was guns being discussed, not some live-action video game. And the implications of that. Then he slapped another magazine into the gun and motioned her over. For a man like him, life is only meaningful when measured against death. He had to hand it to her, just as there are times when a matador has to turn his back on a bull. His honor was already on the line for her, in a way she’d never be able to comprehend.
But he still felt compelled to point out some realities. “You know,” he said, “There’s no place you can run to.”
“Run? Fat chance, Hotshot. I just got here.”
Armando moved beside her and handed her the gun, then moved away. She caressed the weapon, shifting it in her hands, looking for the feel she liked. She brought the stock to her shoulder and aimed along the sights, then brought it back to waist level and pulled it in to her hip. She squeezed the trigger firmly, touching off the whole clip in a rackety stutter of smoke, brass, and muzzle flash. She looked at the ragged remains of box, then down at the weapon. She turned to Armando, her eyes wide and wild. “My God, Armani, that’s the hottest licks since Led Zep’s second.”
“It’s better to fire short bursts.”
“The fuck you say. Give me some more of those clips, would you be a dear?”
She did interrupt the third clip a bit, hacking around, digging the feel. It was making her wild and it was making her hot. After banging in the fourth clip, she wedged the stock low on her belly, taking the vibrations directly into her pelvic arch. “Damn,” she said to Armando, “Hot diggidy fuggin’ damn.” She blew off two more clips, starting to spin around, hosing down trees and shrubs. Armando had been smiling at her childish pleasure but started having his doubts. She slammed another magazine home and held the gun up by her face, eyes closed as she felt the heat off the barrel. Slowly, dreamily, she turned and pointed the muzzle midships at Armando, who froze as she dropped her aim to his crotch, then between his feet. With a savage little wrinkle of her nose, she opened fire, watching the dirt explode between his shoes, then watching his impassive face as the slugs slapped around him. He didn’t move, but gave her a very disgusted look.
“Well,” she said when the gun was empty, “You’ve got a lot of balls.”
“So glad I get to keep it that way.”
“Just a pretty cool customer, aren’t ya?”
“Not really. Since I plan on sleeping with you, my life is in your hands anyway.”
“Ever hear about the best planned lays of mice and men?” she slapped the gun over her shoulder where it was painfully hot, but she refused to show it. “I thought you were going to an awful lot of trouble just to recruit burp gun students.”
“I hate to shock you, but I didn’t bring you up here just to be decorative. Not that you don’t grace the place.”
“I thought maybe you just couldn’t get decent Christmas trees down here. Hey, get something straight, Arms old man. I may be a show class broad, but I’m not decoration. You hear me? I am NOT an ornamental.”
Armando stepped to the Hummer, picked up a loaded M-16, and said “My turn.”
She put her feet together, canted one of them up on tiptoe to tilt her hips, and spread her arms straight out from the shoulders, her AK dangling from one finger. Armando cut loose, dragging the point of impact around her feet, through her flapping shirt tails. When he was empty, she curtsied.
“You’re damn cool yourself, especially for a woman,” he told her.
“Not really. I just don’t really believe a man would kill me in cold blood. Not before he’s fucked me, anyway.”
That stopped Armando short, but he recovered and moved in on her, letting her smell his sweat mixed with cordite. He inched in further, as he’d approach a strange horse, sensing her mood and sniffing her scent as he stepped into her range. She held his eyes. Cool, steady, amused. And challenging.
“You mean I have to fuck you first?” he asked.
She said, “Well, if you can.”
He grinned. “I see you like weapons. Let me show you one.”
“Don’t be shy,” she said, “I’m unarmed.”
He pulled out a large switchblade, beautiful in ebony, silver and understated menace. When he flicked the blade it made a dull thunk, an open-for-business sound that shivered Dancy’s nape hairs.
He trolled it in front of her eyes, splashing dazzles of reflected sunlight across her face and into her eyes.
“Sharp, Daddy-O” she said.
“Oh yes,” he said. His usual arrogant self-confidence was further bolstered by the knowledge that she was his, bought and sold. That he could just take her, keep her chained to a bed. A no-lose scenario, he thought, and grinned cruelly. He wanted her free, excited with him, trying to break him down. But he realized he was committed to having her right now, right on the spot, whatever it took.
He placed the blade inside her the neck of her shirt, effortlessly slicing away the front panels. They flopped down, revealing her unbound breasts. She looked right at him, waiting for the next move, unfazed, unmoved, unafraid: as far as she was concerned he was walking right into the briarpatch.
With quick, surgical flicks, he flayed the shirt off her, leaving ribbons around her feet.
“Boy, you really know the way to a girl’s heart.”
“I’m not interested in your heart at the moment.”
“Then you’re wasting your fancy knifework on the wrong end of the package, dummy.”
Armando put a hand between her breasts, then ran it slowly down to her navel, then dipped it into her shorts.
“You’re getting warmer.”
He tugged the material away from her body, inserted the knife and sliced down to the crotch seam. Then he stepped up until his chest brushed her nipples and reached behind her to run the fingers of his left hand down her spine, into the cleft of her buttocks. He reached around her with the other hand, gave another quick slash, and her shorts and panties fell off in pieces. He stepped back to admire her, folding the knife.
“Better keep that handy, sport. I’ve been known to get out of hand.”
She walked around a little under his gaze, showing off, sniffing the air. Finally she walked over to the table where the guns were laying. She swept them off on the ground, hopped up on it, and looked at Armando, her legs spread and feet swinging. “So what you got besides war toys?”
Armando moved towards her, shedding his shirt and trousers, stepping out of his shorts as he came. She smirked at him, “So you actually do know traditional ways of removing clothing?”
I’m not long on tradition.” He stood between her knees, reaching forward to per her flanks and lightly cup her buttocks. She flexed them at his touch, the muscle tone like nothing he’d ever experienced. The very texture of her skin went right to his crotch like a freight train.
Dancy said, “Let’s see how long you get on improvisation.”
“Would it be too trite to start out with a kiss?”
She laughed. “There’s a difference between tradition and tried-and-true procedure,” she said, stretching her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips to haul him in. Among other thoughts that passed through Armando’s mind was, “Where would we be without automatic weapons?”