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

Author:Wade, Vixen [Wade, Vixen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Park Place Publishing (a 3P Venture)
Published: 2015-12-04T18:30:00+00:00

David Sten woke up.

Concern for Jane was immediate and he struggled to sit up. He was in the backseat of an automobile, hands cuffed behind him. His body hurt from the beating Javacovitch had metered out to him and from where the crazy Cambodian bitch had attacked him.

He realized he was in the back of a prowl car driven by Sergeant Clark with Captain Gleason riding in the passenger seat. The lights on the boulevard glinted and shone with all the promises of fame and wealth that they always had. Somewhere behind him, in the Hollywood Hills, one of the bravest people he'd ever known was maybe dead and most certainly suffering at the hands of bad men.

"Please, Captain," he begged. "Please, Jane Delacroix is back there, she's in danger!"

Gleason spun, face red, his beefy hand came up and a he pointed an accusatory finger at the homicide detective.

"If that's true, Sten--and I have no reason whatsoever to believe you--then it's your own goddamn fault!" he yelled. "The LAPD is not a vigilante force! We do not break the law to enforce the law, we adhere to rules, and last time I checked, whores aren’t cops.

“Now I've got every senior policy maker from the police commissioner to the goddamn State Department telling me this little yellow bastard is off limits and the only thing I got on the other side is a rogue cop and a big tittied private escort with wild stories!" He lowered his hand and glared at Sten. "It's over, Sten," he said. "It's over. Whatever bullshit heroics you thought you were up to are now completely, utterly over. Full stop, fuck you very much. And another thing is over too, your career."

Gleason turned around and glared out through the windshield. The whole incident left a bad taste in his mouth. Cops fighting cops, military and police pointing guns at each other, burning Bel Air mansions and strange looking foreigners arrogant enough to give him orders. This whole thing stunk.

Sten leaned back in his seat. His head sagged forward on a neck covered in deep scratches. He let his breath out in a painful rush, fighting back a bitter sob. He closed his eyes tightly and blinked back frustrated tears. He wasn't a man given to crying and he'd be damned if he'd do it in front of a pompous ass like Gleason.

But Jane was going to die hard and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Behind them a dark Packard pulled out of the line of traffic, raced forward with engine roaring, and slid into place right on the black-and-white's bumper. Clark snapped his head up, eyes cutting to the rear view mirror.

"Who's this asshole?" he growled.

Suddenly a hand appeared out the driver's window and slapped a light bubble on the rooftop. It began spinning like a red spotlight as a siren cut through the distance between the two vehicles.

"What the hell!" Gleason snarled, turning in the seat.

The prowl car's radio suddenly cracked to life.

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