“Positive?”
“I’m sorry to say Colonel, but yes.”
Proust looked back to the building in disbelief. It was four stories tall and dingy in all the classic areas. Each window was tinted in different colors. Movement could be seen from various rooms, but what the people were doing could not be seen clearly, yet the purpose of this building gave away what was happening regardless of tinting or color. Pedestrians on the sidewalk either ignored, or listened to a man advertising something at its front doors. The flashing neon lights from a simple marquee insulted Proust with each blink.
It was a brothel.
Proust knew it as such. King’s Row had a few and he learned of their existence from Paladin. How they managed to be in business did not matter to Proust, only that something precious to him was inside the building.
He looked back to Paladin and put a hand on his should. Paladin’s face was apologetic and didn’t flinch as Proust’s large hand squeezed a threat. “Proof?”
“Yes.” Proust’s mood turned from suspicion to anger. In his mind he tried to conceive of events that could lead anyone to be inside that building. As each scenario played like lightning flashes in his mind’s eye, he declared each as impossible. That was his training. Proust felt like shutting down, at the same time, he needed to fix the injustice of the reality he was facing.
Paladin, expecting a reaction from Proust raised his other arm, producing black and white photos. “See for yourself. I was discrete.”
Proust snatched the photos and quickly scanned through them, dropping each as he was finished. At the last photo his eyes widened and he shredded the photo until his large hands could not tear further. The pieces rested around his feet and he simply closed his eyes, breathing heavily but steady. The gravel of the rooftop bounced a beat as Proust readied himself for what was to come next.
Self-massaging his shoulder, Paladin looked toward the building and shook his head. “Colonel, for what it’s worth … I’m sorry.”
“Accepted,” Proust growled.
Paladin fished into a coat pocket for something. Finding it, he spoke into a receiver, “Stand by.” Turning to Proust, “Begin.”
At the command, Proust leapt into the air. Arcing high above the street, he heard sirens activate and magnify as they turned the corners to converge on the building he started to fall toward. He crashed through the roof in a cacophony of wood and electrical wiring. Untangling himself, he was surrounded by women screaming and men grunting from either trying to escape, or frantically dressing themselves. Proust ignored the frightened looks and pointing fingers as he got his bearings. Seeing the elevator, he took the most direct route toward them by tearing down doorways or ruining walls in between.
Proust forced the doors apart as half-naked people ran around and behind him while shouting from officials could be heard from the stairways. Grabbing a cable he fell five stories and into the elevator car resting on the basement level. By now his rage was almost uncontrollable as he could not block the image from the last photo. Proust pried the doors apart and stepped into a large room. It was dimly lit with only candles scattered throughout the room. Incense hung heavy in the air like sleeping ghosts and one sniff told Proust his waking nightmare got worse.
Narcotics. Hallucinogenic vapor.
His fury filtered the foul stench and his vision focused on a large plinth in the center of the room. On it, draped in translucent red cloth suspended from the ceiling was a large bed. Red carpet ran from the elevator to the bed, inviting a visitor to become a participant inside the veil. Rows of seat surrounded the centerpiece for spectators and within the veil rested a female.
Proust balled his fists and walked up to the lightly glittering cloth only looked onto the bed. Wrapped in satin-like Sheet slept a woman, sprawled face-down and away from him. Her long white hair, clear yet disheveled, covered her face but blended with the sheet and pillow. As the authorities continued the chaos above, it was all muted in Proust’s ears as he slowly walked around the bed in distraught disbelief. He parted the veil and breathed in shock as his fear was revealed.
“Kassandra.”
---
Paladin watched peripherally as paddy-wagons were being filled with prostitutes, pimps and johns equally and with protest. His attention was focused on the roof, especially the hole his associate created several minutes ago. He glanced at his watch when his attention was captured by movement. A grappling hook found purchase on a ledge and the cable was taut. A large purple hand clawed its way up, pulling Proust and a white bag over his broad shoulder. Within seconds, Proust was next to Paladin, gently placing the bag of the rooftop between their feet.
“Medic.”
Paladin took a knee and uncovered the woman’s sheet-wrapped face. “My god, she’s … beautiful.” Paladin gulped. I promise the Earth, she will be fine.”
Proust stood. “She is a GREL. I know she will be fine.”
“Name?” Paladin could not look away from her beauty.
“Shandra.”
“I’m sorry to say Colonel, but yes.”
Proust looked back to the building in disbelief. It was four stories tall and dingy in all the classic areas. Each window was tinted in different colors. Movement could be seen from various rooms, but what the people were doing could not be seen clearly, yet the purpose of this building gave away what was happening regardless of tinting or color. Pedestrians on the sidewalk either ignored, or listened to a man advertising something at its front doors. The flashing neon lights from a simple marquee insulted Proust with each blink.
It was a brothel.
Proust knew it as such. King’s Row had a few and he learned of their existence from Paladin. How they managed to be in business did not matter to Proust, only that something precious to him was inside the building.
He looked back to Paladin and put a hand on his should. Paladin’s face was apologetic and didn’t flinch as Proust’s large hand squeezed a threat. “Proof?”
“Yes.” Proust’s mood turned from suspicion to anger. In his mind he tried to conceive of events that could lead anyone to be inside that building. As each scenario played like lightning flashes in his mind’s eye, he declared each as impossible. That was his training. Proust felt like shutting down, at the same time, he needed to fix the injustice of the reality he was facing.
Paladin, expecting a reaction from Proust raised his other arm, producing black and white photos. “See for yourself. I was discrete.”
Proust snatched the photos and quickly scanned through them, dropping each as he was finished. At the last photo his eyes widened and he shredded the photo until his large hands could not tear further. The pieces rested around his feet and he simply closed his eyes, breathing heavily but steady. The gravel of the rooftop bounced a beat as Proust readied himself for what was to come next.
Self-massaging his shoulder, Paladin looked toward the building and shook his head. “Colonel, for what it’s worth … I’m sorry.”
“Accepted,” Proust growled.
Paladin fished into a coat pocket for something. Finding it, he spoke into a receiver, “Stand by.” Turning to Proust, “Begin.”
At the command, Proust leapt into the air. Arcing high above the street, he heard sirens activate and magnify as they turned the corners to converge on the building he started to fall toward. He crashed through the roof in a cacophony of wood and electrical wiring. Untangling himself, he was surrounded by women screaming and men grunting from either trying to escape, or frantically dressing themselves. Proust ignored the frightened looks and pointing fingers as he got his bearings. Seeing the elevator, he took the most direct route toward them by tearing down doorways or ruining walls in between.
Proust forced the doors apart as half-naked people ran around and behind him while shouting from officials could be heard from the stairways. Grabbing a cable he fell five stories and into the elevator car resting on the basement level. By now his rage was almost uncontrollable as he could not block the image from the last photo. Proust pried the doors apart and stepped into a large room. It was dimly lit with only candles scattered throughout the room. Incense hung heavy in the air like sleeping ghosts and one sniff told Proust his waking nightmare got worse.
Narcotics. Hallucinogenic vapor.
His fury filtered the foul stench and his vision focused on a large plinth in the center of the room. On it, draped in translucent red cloth suspended from the ceiling was a large bed. Red carpet ran from the elevator to the bed, inviting a visitor to become a participant inside the veil. Rows of seat surrounded the centerpiece for spectators and within the veil rested a female.
Proust balled his fists and walked up to the lightly glittering cloth only looked onto the bed. Wrapped in satin-like Sheet slept a woman, sprawled face-down and away from him. Her long white hair, clear yet disheveled, covered her face but blended with the sheet and pillow. As the authorities continued the chaos above, it was all muted in Proust’s ears as he slowly walked around the bed in distraught disbelief. He parted the veil and breathed in shock as his fear was revealed.
“Kassandra.”
---
Paladin watched peripherally as paddy-wagons were being filled with prostitutes, pimps and johns equally and with protest. His attention was focused on the roof, especially the hole his associate created several minutes ago. He glanced at his watch when his attention was captured by movement. A grappling hook found purchase on a ledge and the cable was taut. A large purple hand clawed its way up, pulling Proust and a white bag over his broad shoulder. Within seconds, Proust was next to Paladin, gently placing the bag of the rooftop between their feet.
“Medic.”
Paladin took a knee and uncovered the woman’s sheet-wrapped face. “My god, she’s … beautiful.” Paladin gulped. I promise the Earth, she will be fine.”
Proust stood. “She is a GREL. I know she will be fine.”
“Name?” Paladin could not look away from her beauty.
“Shandra.”
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