Hell In High Heels --- A Jane Delacroix erotic novel: Sex, Sin, and Slaughter in Southern California by Vixen Wade Page A
Authors: Vixen Wade
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suit appeared in the doorway, Swedish K at the ready in his fists. Focused on the strange sight of the fleeing Ocelot, his eyes flared in surprise as he caught sight of Sten. The LAPD detective centered his gun-sight on the man's chest, his finger taking up the slack on his trigger.
The chauffeur darted back inside the room. Sten had a lot of faith in his 185-grain large caliber rounds. The .45 caliber slugs were slow juggernauts that created deep wound channels in human flesh and could attack structural targets with raw, blunt force trauma.
He fired a tight burst from the hip, clawing a line of baseball sized holes through the wood paneling of the hallway and sending the hardballs crashing through into the room beyond. The thwak-thwak-thwak of the suppressed sub-machine gun coughed out against the clink-clink-clink of the bolt cycling back and forth like the piston in a Corvette engine.
Glittering brass cartridges pumped out of the oversized ejection port in wild arcs and bounced to the floor. The adrenaline-high stink of cordite was a sudden, intoxicating perfume in the cramped quarters of the back hallway.
And there it was.
Like a Jack-in-the-box inside his soul, popping up again though he thought he'd left the feeling of it, the Satanic rush of it, behind him; that feeling like back on the Chosin or in the gutters of Inchon; the love for killing people that needed killing. He felt the involuntary stretch of his lips as they drew back in a fierce, barbaric grin.
He didn't let the rush take him, didn't plunge into the river of the emotion, but a little part of him, a part now well tucked away since the war, savored it. He eased his finger off the trigger when he saw a wave of blood rolling out from the edge of the door and across the floor.
He heard the slump of the body striking the floor like a sack of loose meat and then the chauffeur splayed out on the ground. .45 caliber rounds at under ten feet of range had caved in his ribs like kindling, blown the arm off at the elbow and splattered the man's insides all over the outside.
Sten heard a slap of bare feet on tile and was already turning when the girl screamed. Wearing only a short, white silk robe with brilliant lavender birds painted on it, Chou, the girl he and Jane had come to save, stood at the bottom of the staircase behind him.
Her hair was wild as a lion mane, eyes crazy with emotion and drugs, in her hand she held a big .357 Magnum Colt Python with a 4-inch barrel. The size of the handgun was ludicrous in Chou's tiny hands. Though first produced in 1955, Sten had never seen one outside of a high end gun store.
Now, as he looked deep into the massive tunnel of its muzzle, he hoped to never see one again. “Easy,” he warned.
Chou shrieked and launched into motion. Startled and almost paralyzed with disbelief, Sten watched her squeeze her eyes tightly shut as she took the titanic revolver up into both her hands. She dropped straight down into a full crouch and snapped the heavy weapon up, like an Olympic Weightlifter trying to hit a 400lbs Snatch.
Eyes still locked tightly shut, Chou was screaming in what Sten assumed was Cambodian, though he found it impossible to tell for sure. The surrealistic fog of the situation felt overblown, like a melodrama seen on stage. He stepped easily to one side as she began firing blindly. The roar of the hand cannon was deafening and the .357 magnum rounds plunged through the hall, leaving funnels of supersonic air cracking down the length of the corridor.
Recoil jerked the heavy pistol barrel up like the arm of a puppet on a string. Three shots in and Sten had managed
The chauffeur darted back inside the room. Sten had a lot of faith in his 185-grain large caliber rounds. The .45 caliber slugs were slow juggernauts that created deep wound channels in human flesh and could attack structural targets with raw, blunt force trauma.
He fired a tight burst from the hip, clawing a line of baseball sized holes through the wood paneling of the hallway and sending the hardballs crashing through into the room beyond. The thwak-thwak-thwak of the suppressed sub-machine gun coughed out against the clink-clink-clink of the bolt cycling back and forth like the piston in a Corvette engine.
Glittering brass cartridges pumped out of the oversized ejection port in wild arcs and bounced to the floor. The adrenaline-high stink of cordite was a sudden, intoxicating perfume in the cramped quarters of the back hallway.
And there it was.
Like a Jack-in-the-box inside his soul, popping up again though he thought he'd left the feeling of it, the Satanic rush of it, behind him; that feeling like back on the Chosin or in the gutters of Inchon; the love for killing people that needed killing. He felt the involuntary stretch of his lips as they drew back in a fierce, barbaric grin.
He didn't let the rush take him, didn't plunge into the river of the emotion, but a little part of him, a part now well tucked away since the war, savored it. He eased his finger off the trigger when he saw a wave of blood rolling out from the edge of the door and across the floor.
He heard the slump of the body striking the floor like a sack of loose meat and then the chauffeur splayed out on the ground. .45 caliber rounds at under ten feet of range had caved in his ribs like kindling, blown the arm off at the elbow and splattered the man's insides all over the outside.
Sten heard a slap of bare feet on tile and was already turning when the girl screamed. Wearing only a short, white silk robe with brilliant lavender birds painted on it, Chou, the girl he and Jane had come to save, stood at the bottom of the staircase behind him.
Her hair was wild as a lion mane, eyes crazy with emotion and drugs, in her hand she held a big .357 Magnum Colt Python with a 4-inch barrel. The size of the handgun was ludicrous in Chou's tiny hands. Though first produced in 1955, Sten had never seen one outside of a high end gun store.
Now, as he looked deep into the massive tunnel of its muzzle, he hoped to never see one again. “Easy,” he warned.
Chou shrieked and launched into motion. Startled and almost paralyzed with disbelief, Sten watched her squeeze her eyes tightly shut as she took the titanic revolver up into both her hands. She dropped straight down into a full crouch and snapped the heavy weapon up, like an Olympic Weightlifter trying to hit a 400lbs Snatch.
Eyes still locked tightly shut, Chou was screaming in what Sten assumed was Cambodian, though he found it impossible to tell for sure. The surrealistic fog of the situation felt overblown, like a melodrama seen on stage. He stepped easily to one side as she began firing blindly. The roar of the hand cannon was deafening and the .357 magnum rounds plunged through the hall, leaving funnels of supersonic air cracking down the length of the corridor.
Recoil jerked the heavy pistol barrel up like the arm of a puppet on a string. Three shots in and Sten had managed
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