Hell In High Heels --- A Jane Delacroix erotic novel: Sex, Sin, and Slaughter in Southern California by Vixen Wade

darkness. Reaching a feeling of near despair, she resolutely promised herself she would go down striking.
                  From overhead Hun Sen's men began shouting in anger. There was the staccato hemorrhaging of automatic gunfire. Her breath came out of her in a rush of relief.
                  David, she thought. Relief flooded into her with such intensity it was intoxicating. She turned toward the open door to the upstairs where Hun Sen stood. Her hand came down as she pivoted and the heel of her palm slid off the smooth old wood of the rafter.
                  She grunted under the impact as her chest bounced off the beam. Suddenly overextended, her knee came down as her feet fought furiously for purchase. It was over in a second and she fell the eight feet to the floor.
                  She cried out in pain at the sudden impact as the switchblade went spinning off into the shadows. Javacovitch hadn’t gotten to the wine racks near her so that even though she was instantly splashed with wine she managed to avoid landing in a field of broken glass.
                  The ex-Green Beret reacted instantly. One second she was trying to scramble to her feet and in the next he was standing above her, clothed in shadow like a deathly specter. A strong hand reached down, fingers like steel cables entwining themselves in her hair, and then she was cruelly snatched up to her feet.
                  She tried to fight, knees striking, hands clawing, but he popped his arm like a lion tamer with a bullwhip and snapped her head on her neck so sharply she saw stars. She cried out and he pulled her up tight against his body, crushing her breasts to his chest.
                  She went for his eyes but the cold, hard metal circle of a gun barrel dug into the tender flesh under her chin. She froze.
                  “Nice try,” Jacovavitch growled. His breath was hot in her face, close as a lover as he peered down at her in the uncertain light.
                  She shut her eyes tight and stood very, very still.
     
                  Sten stalked smoothly through the house.
                  He'd fought house-to-house before, in the battle of Inchon, and he'd followed more than one desperate, armed perp into mazes of urban terrain since joining the LAPD. He understood close quarter battle in the narrow confines of a room by room gunfight.
                  He didn't like it.
                  The margin for error was razor thin, the chance of innocent people getting caught in the crossfire, too great. He didn't really have much of a choice at the moment, however. If he could keep from accidental shooting either of the girls then the mansion was pretty much a free fire zone.
                  Gliding forward, he silently gave thanks once again for the Ocelot running point for him. The Bel Air estate was massive, an ostentatiously decorated labyrinth that he would have quickly become lost in, leaving him with little hope of finding Jane if not for the sure footed wildcat.
                  The orange and black spotted animal darted down a hallway past a secondary staircase and through the door of a room off the corridor. Moving fast to catch up, Sten shuffled past several expensive Renaissance influenced paintings and odd pieces of Louis the XIV furniture like armoires, chairs, and end tables. The interior decorator for the rental company had picked a theme of European decadence and then ran stubbornly with it, the detective noted.
                  He swung the muzzle up as he got to what appeared to be a back, or servants' staircase. Marty appeared in the hall suddenly, running quick. It was all the warning Sten got. He pivoted toward the animal in surprise, bringing the silenced M3 up on reflex.
                  A muscular, Asian man in a chauffeur’s dress