Alice's Point of View
She was back.
At first she froze. Then she screamed. She wanted to fight! Why didn't she fight?
No, no, please. Come back, Daddy! Daddy, where are you?
Hands roamed all over her body. Big hands, rough hands, sweaty, hairy man hands.
"Let me go! I don't want to! Leave me alone!"
The hands would only take. She had no choice in the matter. They would take and take until there was nothing. No more Alice. They'd devoured Alice long ago. Nobody was there anymore.
She struggled. I have to fight! I can't take any more!
The hands were firm, holding her in place with an unyielding grip. Whatever she expected to happen next didn't happen.
Why did he stop? Is it over? Please let it be over!
"Alice."
She heard a name. Who was "Alice"? There was no Alice here. Nobody was here.
"Alice, please," begged a voice. Who the hell was Alice? There was only a body, a thing. Things don't have names.
The hands wrapped around her, almost gentle. "Alice, come back to me, please," pleaded a brittle voice.
Alice isn't here anymore. Only the body. You scrapped out everything else. Isn't that what you wanted?
The arms were warm, familiar. "Alice, Alice," the voice repeated.
Is he calling me Alice? Why would he do that?
He was holding her. She let herself be held. She was a thing to use, property to possess. If he just wanted to hold her, that was fine, better than what she was used to.
She opened her eyes, recognizing nothing. It wasn't the sight, but the smell, the familiar smell, the safe smell, old spice and energy drinks and that one brand of detergent he insisted on buying.
Who could that be? Whoever he was, she was sure he was the only one who would never hurt her. His arms felt nice. They were big and strong but so gentle, holding her like a fragile thing.
He called her Alice. Could she trust it? The smell said yes. She breathed in deeply.
Alex, she realized. Alice and Alex. She was Alice again.
I'm home. I'm safe. I don't ever have to go back.
"I'm okay, Alex," Alice rasped out.
He pulled back from the hug, eyes watery with unshed tears. "I was so afraid. I've never seen you go away like that before."
"I'll always come back to you," she promised.
Her boyfriend hugged her, a little too tightly, but she loved it. Don't ever let go, baby...
"Do you, do you want to talk about it?" he asked timidly.
Did she? Maybe a little. Maybe it would help. "Let's just say I know a thing or two about human trafficking."
God, that was hard to get out. Alex looked at her seriously and nodded. He didn't demand anything more. Saying only that much was enough for one day. Alice felt a little stronger.
For Alex's sake, her next hunt would need to be a short one. Then they could sleep easy.
***
The story they came up with to feed Gareth Hart was juicy enough, peppered with a few tidbits of what she personally knew to be the truth.
Dahlia had somebody check her scenario for consistency and had the Corps IT department dummy up a realistic-looking social media presence, backdated for authenticity.
Her name was Avery Wallace, widow of Army Sergeant First Class Brent Wallace, communications specialist with 5th Special Forces Group out of Fort Clay, Kentucky.
They'd decided Hart had too much specific knowledge about Fort Benavidez so they needed a something a little removed from that area. It also fit their planned narrative nicely.
Dressed like a gun bunny, with tight jeans, t-shirt, and a blonde ponytail peaking out the back of a baseball cap, she waited in the kill room they'd done up to look like an authentic private residence.
Alice had gone back and forth with Gareth on social media, trading dms, dangling just enough of a story to entice him into a private meeting in another state.
I hope he shows up.
For extra authenticity, Alice had written out the whole story in a notebook with bullet points, like she was trying to make sure she remembered everything to tell the reporter.
The work crew had done an amazing job. Sitting in the kill room, Alice could easily believe it was a real, lived-in residence that people actually called home. Pictures of her with an man who never existed were on the walls and in a frame on the bedside table. They'd used pictures of Alex from his Marine days, digitally aged up a bit, as a base for the AI composite. If she needed to work up a genuine emotion when looking at the pictures, it wouldn't be a problem.
Alice noticed movement on the closed circuit camera, straightened up, and got into character.
Two sharp knocks on the door announced the presence of her target.
Showtime.
With a thrill of triumph that she hoped didn't show in her calculatedly somber expression, she greeted Gareth Hart himself, all alone, at her door.
"Mrs. Wallace, thank you for meeting me," the reporter extended his hand.
She shook it lightly. "Thank you for coming. It's been...challenging finding someone willing to talk to me, to hear my story. Can I get you anything? Coffee? A soda? A beer?"
"A soda would be great," Gareth said good-naturedly.
Through the corner of her eye, Alice tried to detect any sign of him checking her out. These were tight jeans that showed off her tight little ass. He was looking around the room instead. No bites yet.
Alice walked to the little kitchenette and came back with two sodas and two coasters. She set them down on the coffee table. "Sit, please."
"Do you mind if I record this conversation?" he asked.
"Please do," Alice agreed, opening up her notebook. "I want to make sure I don't leave anything out."
Alice heard a soft pop as Gareth opened his soda. He took a sip. "Writing down your thoughts was good thinking. It'll help me structure the interview."
She favored him with a small smile and leaned forward slightly, pushing her tits together. "Thank you."
Are you sure he's not gay, Dahlia? He didn't even look!
Hart brought out his phone, opened a recording app, and placed it on the table. "This is Gareth Hart, interviewing Avery Wallace, widow of Special Forces communications sergeant Brent Wallace. Mrs. Wallace, I would first like to offer you condolences on the passing of your husband."
"Thank you, again," she said, somewhat taken aback. Alice didn't notice it at first, but Hart's voice was flat, unemotional, almost robotic. He'd seemed a lot more passionate when they interacted in text.
"Brent Wallace served in 5th Special Forces Group, is that right?"
"Yes, that's right. He was a specialist in Gulf Arabic."
"Gulf Arabic," Hart repeated loud and clear for his phone. "And he was a veteran of numerous Joint Combined Exchange Training missions, better known as JCETs?"
Alice had memorized the story, but checked her notebook to seem more like an authentic, flustered widow. "Y-yes. Mostly in the GCC countries. He brought me back all kinds of stuff from Dubai."
"The Gulf Cooperation Council," Hart said into his phone.
"Yes, that's right."
"Your email indicated that he was detached from his team at Fort Clay for a special assignment. Could you elaborate?" Hart's monotone was beginning to creep her out a little.
She checked her notebook again. "They have something over there called the kafela system." She intentionally mispronounced it.
"Kafala system," Hart corrected in that same monotone.
She leaned forward again and touched his arm. "Thank you." He didn't react at all.
Is this guy made of stone or something? "Anyway, the kafala system is pretty much slavery. Foreign workers are confined, have their passports taken, and are essentially treated as property."
Hart's emotionless eyes showed the first hint of interest, not with her, but her dirt. "Until recently, this system has been confined to the Gulf countries. You claim that it's spread here, to America?"
Alice bit her lip, like she was trying to work up the courage to say something. "Yes," she said uneasily. "That's why..."
"-Why your husband committed suicide, yes," Hart said callously.
Is he autistic? Is that it? Filing that away, Alice resumed her grieving widow act. "I think so," she said softly.
"Can you elaborate?" he pressed.
No mercy, this guy. I mean, I'm about to kill him, but still. "They...they made a deal. Gulf families could bring their slaves with them to America. At first it was just diplomats, but now it's anyone."
"What was your husband's role in this?"
"The deal said the slaves had to stay in the house. They are mostly live-in domestic servants, maids, cooks, but sometimes drivers or just a spare pair of hands to follow you around shopping and carry your bags. The only problem..." Alice trailed off.
"Yes?"
"The only problem, Mr. Hart, is that sometimes the slaves would run away. You can imagine the diplomatic stink if one of the slaves made it to their country's embassy in Washington. My husband was part of a Special Forces task force to...hunt runaway slaves here in the district."
The journalist had sanpaku eyes now, looking half-insane. "Slave hunters in Washington. What about the girl?"
Alice took a breath to steady herself. She really was uncomfortable and didn't need to act. "There was...there was a girl my husband had to track down. She was cute, spoke good English, and wore nice clothes. She ran."
"Why did she run, Mrs. Wallace?"
"She was a sex slave," Alice choked out the words. "She wasn't scrubbing floors or doing laundry. She was from a well-off family in her home country, offered a scholarship to study in Dubai. It was fake. The father of her host family took her. He liked her so much he brought her with him to America. I'm told she was two months pregnant when she ran. The girl was fourteen!"
Tears were in her eyes now, real ones.
"And then?" Hart was practically drooling, probably sensing the story that would make his career.
"My husband caught her," she said in a dead, hollow voice. "The girl begged, begged to go home, to her country, to her real family, to a homeless shelter, to be taken anywhere but back to the monster who raped her. Brent was a good Soldier and followed orders. He returned the slave girl back to her master, and then he killed himself."
"Amazing," Hart said reverently.
Amazing? Amazing! This guy obviously didn't want to fuck her. She'd been subtly flirting in every way she knew how for the whole conversation. Scandals were what made him hard, apparently.
"Hey, you've got something on your face," she reached out with the tissue.
***
Gareth Hart's skinny ass was heavier than he looked and Alice had a hell of a time dragging him onto the bed and putting him in the restraints. He started coming to as she pulled his pants off.
"What are you doing?" He sounded like he was talking about the weather.
I'm about to rape and murder you!
"Do you find me attractive, Mr. Hart?" she asked, more out of intellectual curiosity than anything. Just what made this guy tick?
He appeared to think about it. "Somewhat," he answered.
Something about the way he said it pissed her off. "What?" She put some menace in her tone.
Hart didn't appear to catch it. "You are moderately attractive, in a physical sense," he said clinically.
Ugh, whatever, let's just get on with this.
His dick was limp. She started jacking him off. "I have a flight to catch, Mrs. Wallace. I don't have time for this."
"Don't worry," she said sweetly. "This won't take long."
Once his cock was hard enough to get the condom on Alice got an idea. She slipped out of her jeans and panties but kept the t-shirt. Gareth didn't seem that interested anyway.
Gareth reacted with a sharp intake of breath when she mounted him.
"Really, I can't-"
Alice put a finger to his lips. "Shush." I've had enough of you.
What followed was about sixty seconds of the most pro forma, phoned-in riding of her life. Hart didn't speak. Hart didn't moan. Slightly heavier breathing was the only indication he was getting fucked at all.
"That should do it," Alice said to nobody in particular. Leaning down, she pressed a little crease in the headboard.
"What are you doing?" Hart asked in confusion when she cupped his cheeks and lifted his head off of the bed.
SLAM!
Gareth Hart immediately went limp as the kill bed's hidden spike penetrated his brain.
Alice felt...Alice felt...YES! This counted! Rape was going to solve all her problems!
She hopped off the dead man's still-hard cock happily, her body humming with relief and desire.