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DEADLY SHADOWS
by
Mackenzie Alexander

    Two bisexual women, friends since high school, reunite after years of living apart only to find themselves caught up in international intrigue, a serial killer’s bloody rampage, and a group of determined drug dealers. A story of fiery passion and blood.

PRELUDE

    ....She didn’t feel the garrote encircle her throat. The fine piano wire suddenly drew savagely tight, cutting deep into the soft damp skin, crushing her windpipe. The woman’s body was hauled upright onto her knees as her lover sprang backwards off the bed. Eyes bulged open wide in fear, fingers clawed at the wire in a vain attempt to stop the awful sawing. Breathe—I—I can’t—breathe. Need air! Oh, the pain! Stop—someone—stop it. Why?
    The frantic struggling, so violent to begin with as the innocent fought for that last spark of life, gradually gave way to convulsive heaves, then twitches … then stillness. A gurgling came from the torn throat as bloody bubbles accompanied the last rush of air and life.
    The body, finally released by its tormentor, slumped onto the blood-soaked sheets. The room was all but silent. The killer stood, chest heaving, exhausted from a night’s hard loving.

CHAPTER 1

    “Damn!” Em moaned to herself, as she hauled her weary body from the rumpled sheets. The show must go on, time stands still for no woman … clichés began scrolling across her mind’s window. She cast a saddened glance at the empty bed then, following a few minutes of ritualistic stretching, padded her way into the kitchen.
    Reaching into the refrigerator for the carton of pulp-free orange juice, so recently squeezed and shipped to her from the sunny south as announced proudly by the all too bright lettering, Em leaned back against the cool granite counter and sipped the refreshing fluid. She let it slip down her throat while gazing out at a dreary grey day filtering through the warm wooden slatted blinds.
    Poema Hunter—she preferred being called Em—was content with her life. Being born into a wealthy family had certainly provided her with distinct advantages early in life, none of which had compromised the standards instilled in her by her mother. With wealth came privileges most certainly, but also responsibilities—severe at times.
    Doted upon by her Polynesian mother, Em was taught strong family values; respect for the older generation; care and attentiveness to the young; but above all, reverence for the patriarchal position of her father.
    Stanford Hunter had clawed his way out from under the weight of severe poverty which threatened to crush him as a youth growing up in the 20’s. Vowing to himself that should he ever have a family of his own they would never want for anything, he had eked a bare existence from the back streets of Chicago. Gradually, and with the tenacity of a youth twice his age, Hunter had earned the respect of many local small shop owners by volunteering to do menial jobs for them.
    Over the course of several years, his inherent intellect became apparent to the old owner of a shop dealing in second-hand books who had taken the young lad under his tutelage. A whole new world opened up to the young boy, a world full of hope and potential. Then the world had been plunged into the mire of the Second World War.
    The under-aged Hunter had lied his way into the Marine Corps, survived the vagaries of war, and emerged a hardened man, old beyond his years and with a burning ambition for a better life. He started his own salvage and scrap metal company, utilizing the GI Bill for resources, and it wasn’t long before he had secured various government contracts to help with the cleanup of the Pacific islands.
    It was during this phase of his life that he met Em’s mother, Temoe, and married her. Em was born in Papua New Guinea and spent her early years growing up among the local native children in Lae. As his business empire grew, her father removed himself gradually from the dirty, hands-on labor, concentrating his efforts more on the boardroom chores, until the family relocated to Virginia to be closer to the source of government contracts.
    The deterioration was insidious. It took time but eventually the convoluted machinations of wheeling, dealing, and socializing on the Washington circuit, began to corrode the foundations of the Hunter household. Excessive late nights, cocktail parties and meetings all contributed to the bonds between parents and their only daughter dissolving.
    Soon they resorted to the services of a live-in nanny, which only helped further the generational rift. Em was all-too-often left to her own resources to occupy her time at home and as a result grew more and more independent and strong-willed.
    Now, years later, looking back with perfect hindsight, Em did not place any blame at her parents’ feet for the eventual destruction of her family. Her heart was only filled with sorrow—for them all, but especially for her parents. From the moment the Hunters had established themselves in Virginia it was as though they fell under the spell of some major evil, a force which took them into its clutches and began sucking the very goodness from their souls, depreciating their values and replacing them with a dark, vile, selfish hunger.
    Em shook her head to clear it of the melancholy reverie. Her mind began its habitual scanning of the day’s schedule, noting several staff and management meetings, lunch with a new client (promising?) yet more meetings, then the arrival time of Mac’s flight from Florida. A silky smirk of a smile drew itself across her lips and the dark-haired beauty ran the tip of her tongue around them savoring the juice glistening there.
    “Just you wait,” she murmured to herself, returning the carton to its place among the fully-stocked shelves in the fridge. It’s been way too long since she’d laid hungry eyes on her life-long friend and a tingle of anticipation rippled through her body at the thought of having her friend here at home for several weeks … all to herself.
    Em moved quickly out of the kitchen, its elevated position overlooking a jungle-lush dining and living area, alive with stands of bamboo, exotic tropical plants flaunting their brightly colored flowers, and the ever-jubilant waterfall tumbling into the clear rock pool. Off to one side, entirely hidden behind a screen of thick, tall bamboo was the guest shower and facilities. Her naked body threw a bouncing shadow over the stones ahead as she followed the path to the shower enclosure.
    Minutes later, hot water, steamy and luxuriating, coursed over her body and Em could sense her whole being relaxing. Subdued lighting, sifted by the bamboo surrounding her sleek body, danced and sparkled on her glistening skin; wisps of steam swirled up from around the woman’s feet and the water gurgled down through the stone floor to the hidden drain underneath.
    A fragrant aroma permeated the air as she lathered the soap and began massaging her supple skin. I’m so glad I had inherited a golden color from my mother, thought Em, otherwise I, like so many people, would be subjecting myself to the tanning booths chasing after that ever-so-youthful glow. And likewise, my hair is a midnight black blue, falling in luxurious thickness to past my waist, another gift from my mother. Oh how I miss you, mum. A tear blended with the shower.
Nostalgia gave way to a strange sense of foreboding as Em toweled off. What the hell is this about? Am I becoming paranoid or something?
    I haven’t had this kind of feeling for ages, and never this strong before. She quizzed her pensive reflection in the mirror but no answers were forthcoming. Dark green eyes stared intently back at, gold flecks like so much glitter swam in those two quizzical pools.
    Shit!! I don’t need this—not today! The woman poked a pink tongue out at herself and hurried off to dress for her first meeting.
Being predictable was one trait no one could assign to Em. As a young girl growing up in Papua New Guinea, what had started out as a game between herself and her parents in order for Em to keep them on their toes and for the young girl to maintain some modicum of control over her small world, Em learned the secret of being ever-changing.
    In exasperation, Em’s mother would exclaim at least once every day that she “could never work her out”; that she couldn’t tell from one day to the next what devious new ways her daughter would devise to surprise both her and Em’s father, be it a new game of hide-n-seek, new imaginary friends, etc. So now, standing before the full-length mirror, Em smiled to herself as she ran a critical eye over her attire.
    My staff never know what to expect me to wear to the office from one day to the next so they all regard me as somewhat of an enigma as far as bosses go. I even suspect someone of running an office pool on what I may turn up in, or at least what my “color for the day” may be. And today I am determined not to disappoint them.
    Black was Em’s color for today. From head to toe she was clad in black semi-aniline leather. Her preferred choice of clothing fabric, leather doesn’t itch and it doesn’t scratch when you put it on. Leather is at first cool to the touch, then warms to your body temperature, forming to your shape, much like your favorite pair of jeans.
However, nothing smells quite like leather. All leather has its own aroma that is unmistakable. The smell of new expensive shoes or boots … the interior of a luxury car … Em loved it. The pants were tucked into knee-high boots with stiletto heels, the jacket with collar turned up in anticipation of the outside cold accentuated a wide-shouldered frame and was cinched in at the waist by a 3-inch-wide studded belt. Apart from the leather thong, Em wore nothing else under her outer shell.
    To enhance the diabolic look, her lips sported a glossy fire-red. To finish off the ensemble, she slipped a Glock 28 subcompact pistol into its concealed holster inside the jacket. After all, a girl can never be sure when a dinner date may become overly amorous and not want to accept ‘no’ as a directive. Satisfied with the overall look, Em turned on her heel and headed down to the subterranean garage.
    The spiral staircase between the main bedroom and the kitchen delivered the black-clad beauty into the garage. Sensors detected her descent and illuminated the spacious area with incandescent lighting.
    The focal point of the garage was the sleek black Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren. Em’s new pet was a sports car and supercar automobile co-developed by DaimlerChrysler and McLaren Cars. It was one of the fastest automatic transmission cars in the world.
    Most people presume “SLR” to stand for “Sportlich, Leicht, Rennsport” (German for “Sport; Light; Racing”), while it actually meant “super-leicht, Rennsport” (super-light, racing). The 722 Edition referred to the victory by Stirling Moss and his co-driver Denis Jenkinson in a Mercedes-Benz 300 SLR with the starting number 722 (indicating a start time of 7:22 a.m.) at the Mille Miglia in 1955. The “722 Edition” created 650 bhp, with a top speed of 210 mph and 0-60mph in 3.6 seconds.