Friday Read Free

was hopelessly outnumbered. But I’m not smart; I’ve already proved that. Better yet, I would have run like hell when Jim told me the boss had sent him…instead of climbing in and taking a nap, fer Gossake.
    I recall killing only one of them.
    Possibly two. But why did they insist on doing it the hard way? They could have waited until I was inside and gassed me, or used a sleepy dart, or even a sticky rope. They had to take me alive, that was clear. Didn’t they know that a field agent with my training when attacked goes automatically into overdrive? Maybe I’m not the only stupid.
    But why waste time by raping me? This whole operation had amateurish touches. No professional group uses either beating or rape before interrogation today; there is no profit in it; any professional is trained to cope with either or both. For rape she (or he—I hear it’s worse for males) can either detach the mind and wait for it to be over, or (advanced training) emulate the ancient Chinese adage.
    Or, in place of method A or B, or combined with B if the agent’s histrionic ability is up to it, the victim can treat rape as an opportunity to gain an edge over her captors. I’m no great shakes as an actress but I try and, while it has never enabled me to turn the tables on unfriendlies, at least once it kept me alive.
    This time method C did not affect the outcome but did cause a little healthy dissension. Four of them (my estimate from touch and body odors) had me in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It may have been my own room but I could not be certain as I had been unconscious for a while and was now dressed (solely) in adhesive tape over my eyes. They had me on a mattress on the floor, a gang bang with minor sadism…which I ignored, being very busy with method C.
    In my mind I called them “Straw Boss” (seemed to be in charge), “Rocks” (they called him that—rocks in his head, probably), “Shorty” (take that either way), and “the other one” as he did not have distinctive characteristics.
    I worked on all of them—method acting, of course—reluctant, have to be forced, then gradually your passion overcomes you; you just can’t help yourself. Any man will believe that routine; they are suckers for it—but I worked especially hard on Straw Boss as I hoped to achieve the status of teacher’s pet or some such. Straw Boss wasn’t so bad; methods B and C combined nicely.
    But I worked hardest on Rocks because with him it had to be C combined with A; his breath was so foul. He wasn’t too clean in other ways, too; it took great effort to ignore it and make my responses flattering to his macho ego.
    After he became flaccid he said, “Mac, we’re wasting our time. This slut enjoys it.”
    “So get out of the way and give the kid another chance. He’s ready.”
    “Not yet. I’m going to slap her around, make her take us seriously.” He let me have a big one, left side of my face. I yelped.
    “Cut that out!”—Straw Boss’s voice.
    “Who says so? Mac, you’re getting too big for your britches.”
    “I say so.” It was a new voice, very loud—amplified—from the sound-system speaker in the ceiling, no doubt. “Rocky, Mac is your squad leader, you know that. Mac, send Rocky to me; I want a word with him.”
    “Major, I was just trying to help!”
    “You heard the man, Rocks,” Straw Boss said quietly. “Grab your pants and get moving.”
    Suddenly the man’s weight was no longer on me and his stinking breath was no longer in my face. Happiness is relative.
    The voice in the ceiling spoke again: “Mac, is it true that Miss Friday simply enjoys the little ceremony we arranged for her?”
    “It’s possible, Major,” Straw Boss said slowly. “She does act like it.”
    “How about it, Friday? Is this the way you get your kicks?”
    I didn’t answer his question. Instead I discussed him and his family in detail, with especial attention to his mother and sister. If I had told him the truth—that Straw