Izzy approached the office of Liv Hoonan, Publicist to the Gods.  Her self appointed title was almost as sickening as the glass office she had built for herself.

He strode through the doors and up to the receptionist, staring at her computer screen.

“I’m here to see Liv.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked, not looking up.

He fished out his LC license, slamming the platinum card down on the table.  “That’s my appointment.”

She looked at the license.  “I’m sorry, but you’ll still have to make an appoint…” she trailed off, looking up finally and seeing the cowboy.  “Oh.  Barrage.  Well, I will tell her you’re here.”

“I’m just gonna head on back,” he said, walking past her into Liv Hoonan’s office.

“Well well well.”  Liv Hoonan sat back from her desk as Barrage walked into her office.  “You’re a big fish I never thought I’d catch.  Does everyone still ‘love a good cowboy?’”

Barrage shrugged.  “If you remember, the other part of my response the last few times you offered me your services, I said ‘and I don’t give a shit one way or the other.’  That part is definitely still true.”

“Disappointing.  I could do such great things with you.  So what brings you here then?”

“I hear you’re offering your services to Siren.”

Liv laughed.  “Who told you that?  That’s a disaster waiting to happen.  I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole.  And really Barrage, I don’t work with broke wannabe heroines,” she gestured around at her lavish office.

Izzy paused.  “You know what, I was mistaken.  Sorry for dropping by.”

“Wait.  If you were to consider hiring me, I might be able to do a little work, pro bono.”

“No, I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to be.”  He turned and left a confused Liv Hoonan staring out the door after him.

“Rachel,” she called to her receptionist after the Legend had left.

“Yes Ms. Hoonan?”

“Find out everything you can about Siren.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Liv leaned back in her chair.  She didn’t like not knowing what was going on in her world, but she usually wasn’t in the dark for very long.



Macy restarted the video, an interview with Liv Hoonan from a year ago.  She paused the video, squinting at the screen.  She was fixated on the Asian woman’s neck.  Macy could have sworn the woman she had met had had a mole on her neck.  She’d honed in on every imperfection on the gorgeous publicist when she’d met her in her petty rivalry.  And the women she was watching now, while looking almost exactly like her, was not the same woman she’d met yesterday.

Macy whipped out her phone, calling Anna.  “Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up,” she urged her sister.

“Hey, you’ve reached Anna, leave a message,” came the recorded reply.

“Anna, call me back as soon as you get this,” she blurted, hanging up.  “Shit,” she breathed, looking back at the frozen image.  “Shit shit shit!”



There was definitely more going on than just a BDSM club under the Whips and Flails and Cat o’Nine Tails.  The faux dungeon upstairs had nothing on the basement.  There were no oversized cells with mock scenarios and padded leather torture equipment.  There were a few exam rooms, the cold metal tables complete with heavy duty leather straps.  Small bare cells with drains in the floor.  Large dog cages were stacked up along a wall, and Siren had the feeling that they weren’t breeding dogs down here.

But the place was empty.  Everything had been cleaned and cleared, and it smelled of lingering bleach.  Siren came to another locked door, trying the handle.  She looked around again for a camera.  Someone had let her into the basement.  And while the room was suspicious, there didn’t seem to be any evidence of human trafficking going on.  If she got the cops involved at this point, the club could simply say the basement was part of the experience.  

Siren pulled out her phone.  Hoonan had gotten her this far; she might know what to do now.  The heroine wasn’t really feeling like interrogating every weirdo in the club for information at this point.

Her phone had no reception.  Of course.  She turned, jogging lightly up the stairs, only to find the door shut.  She tried the handle, finding it locked.

“Shit,” she cursed, jiggling the handle and pushing her shoulder against the heavy door.  Why hadn’t she propped it open when she came down?

She checked her phone, still finding she had no reception.  “Hey!” she called, banging on the door.  “Hey, is someone out there?  Open this door.”

If anyone heard her, they were unable to help.  She went back downstairs.  There had to be another way out of the basement.

Siren froze at the bottom of the stairs.  Two figures stood in the basement, dressed in black combat gear.  Heavy black masks with opaque goggles concealed their faces.

“Tell me who you are,” she commanded.  

Neither made any reply.  They spread out, signaling to each other.  Not American Sign Language, but simple hand signals used by military and Special Forces.  They couldn’t hear her, and they were highly trained and coordinated.  

“Alright then, we’ll do this the hard way,” she said, pulling out her baton, extending it.  She stepped back into the stairwell, preventing them from flanking out and maintaining the higher ground.  

Neither man made an attempt to draw a weapon, nor could she see any on them as they slowly advanced on her.  The one on the right nodded imperceptibly, and his partner bull-rushed the heroine.

Siren planted her hands on each wall, bringing both feet up in a powerful kick.  Her attacker ducked under her sweeping legs, but she brought them back down quickly, locking her knees around his throat, and dropping from the walls, twisting, bringing him crashing down at the base of the stairs.

The other one was right behind his partner, diving over his downed compatriot.  Siren snapped up her baton, holding both end and slamming it upwards, right into his unprotected neck below his mask.  

He let out a rasping cough, choking as she crushed his windpipe.  She shoved him off of her, rolling out from under him, only to be grabbed from behind and thrown down the stairs by the first one.

Siren scrambled to get to her feet, and her assailant charged her, bringing his knee up into her chest as she got to her feet, sending her reeling backwards.  She struggled to maintain her balance as she backpedaled way from him.  She was really hating her new costume now.  Whatever speed and mobility it afforded her, the protection it offered was nonexistent.

She swung her baton in a sweeping arc to fend off the advancing attacker.  He caught it, wrenching it from her grip, tossing it aside.  She changed tactics, springing forward and leaping at him.  He caught her even as she got her hands on his mask, trying to rip it off.  If she could just get whatever was blocking his ears.

He spun, slamming her against the wall.  She lost her grip on the strap on the back of his mask.  “Shit,” she said, noticing the stairwell was empty.  She frantically looked around for the second one, only to be slammed into the wall again, harder.

The heroine fumbled for the strap again, locking her fingers onto it as he tried to throw her off of him.  She ripped the mask off, revealing a steely-eyed man with a thick five o’clock shadow.  His ears appeared to be plugged with putty.

“Well, you asked for this,” she said, grabbing the sides of his head and jamming her thumbs into his eyes.

He screamed, releasing his hold on her.  She dropped to the ground, bringing his head down into her knee.  

She stood up, only to have the other one grab her from behind, wrapping his arms around her throat in a chokehold.  She grappled with his arm, trying to pull loose, kicking back at him as he lifted her off the ground.

The one who she’d unmasked rose, punching her in her unprotected stomach.  Siren gasped, the air forced from her lungs from the blow, and the one holding her tightened his grip, preventing her from refilling her deflated lungs.  

Her flailing became weaker and more ineffectual, and her attacker shoved her to the floor, pinning her with his weight.  The other one grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her back.  A heavy duty zip tie was quickly cinched over her wrists, another around her ankles.  The tight chokehold was finally released, and as she gasped for air, a thick cloth was jammed into her mouth.  She lay, panting through her nose as her lower face was wrapped in heavy tape.

Her attacker finally got up off of her, pulling off his own mask as he rolled her over onto her back with his foot.  She glared up at him, still trying to regain her breath, as he fished the putty out of his ears.  His partner was doing the same.

“You alright?” he asked.  The one she’d unmasked eyes were bloodshot, and his nose was bleeding a little.

“Yeah.  She was a lot tougher than I expected.”

“You got that right,” he responded.  He looked down at Siren, who was already fighting against the zip ties.  “I think we ought to a get a raise after this one.”

“Psh, fat chance.  He’s probably going to try and dock our pay for roughing her up.  I told you, we should’ve just drugged her.”

“I don’t like drugging them.  It doesn’t seem fair.  Give them one last fighting chance before he gets his hands on them.”

“Good point.  And she put up one hell of a fight.”

Siren would have liked to ask what exactly was fair about two against one, but she had more pressing issues.  She was rolled back onto her stomach and her legs pulled back, another zip tie forcing her into a tight hogtie.  A black cloth bag was pulled over her head, and she was roughly picked up and carried off.