(Rated R for Language, Violence and Suggestive scenes)

The mission was simple but dangerous. I'll explain the reasons for it the best I can. An insurgent group calling itself the O16, or the October 16 Movement, an anti-government terrorist group out of Amsterdam was heavily involved in Narco-terrorism, or drug trafficking to finance their group and its terrorist agenda. They are a faction of Red Cell.

They are directly involved with the Hell's Angel's gang based in Stuttgart, West Germany. The German faction of the Hell's Angel's is best known for their control of European white slavery. They control many of the prostitutes who work Hamburg's red light district. They also oversee much of Europe's drug trade, manufacturing crystal meth, crank and street grade heroin in their compound an few miles outside Stuttgart. The Angels supply the drugs to the O16 who in turn provide weapons and other favours. It's a profitable marriage.

Section was interested in shutting down O16 drug connection. They also want to bring in a brilliant, young chemist called Rom Montgomery, who had been kidnapped as a teenager from his graduate studies in chemistry at a German university by the O16 and forced to develop new and more powerful illegal drugs in the concrete bunker that serves as a drug lab in the Stuttgart biker compound. Rom Montgomery has capabilities and information of great interest to Section.

Walter is an expert on gangs especially those of the motorcycle variety. As he told me the image of a biker has largely been both romanticized, downplayed and distorted by the media. The gangs are intricately operated groups, not just a bunch of Harley riding, chain-whipping bad asses and their old ladies. They have presidents, treasurers and a working hierarchy of staff just like the big corporations downtown. You might have a biker living next door to you and you wouldn't even know it. He usually calls himself an entrepreneur or an executive, with a few minor differences including the killer instinct. Stabbing the back of a rival in the business world is a figure of speech. To a biker it's a fact of life.

The colours, the grinning death's head, are no longer worn twenty four hours a day, though the traditional uniform of black leather vest and bandana is worn with pride at the biker runs, or the occasional party, funeral or wedding. The Hell's Angels have exchanged the hogs for Lincolns and Jaguars. They carry brief cases and cell phones and the tattoos are not of the full body variety any longer. Those in the upper echelons take their appearance seriously and like to blend in. They pay big bucks to public relations specialists to repair their images. They donate blood and ride their Harley hogs for charity.

"They might look it, but they're not regular guys," Walter growled. " Far from it. They'll nail you to a tree without blinking, Sugar. Be afraid. Be very afraid. There's a rule in the Angel's organization: You have to do what a member tells you. If he don't, he'll do it and then he has the right to kill you."

I'd like to see anyone try to nail Michael to a tree, I thought to myself, imagining him kicking the bad ass of a gonad-driven, greasy, beer-bellied biker. I have since changed my viewpoint on the kicking ass capabilities of bikers. Michael, however, remains in my mind, the baddest dude I have ever known despite that he looks like he just stepped down from heaven.

Michael's cover was that of an biker executive type out of Montreal, Quebec. The Montreal Hell's Angel's chapter is one of the strongest in the world. His name was Michel" Jinx" La Chance and he came to Stuttgart as a representative of the Montreal chapter, to attend the funeral of one of the Stuttgart notables, killed in a freak rear ender with a nun in a Volvo station wagon outside of Hamburg. A nice touch. I have never credited section for having a sense of humour. It was also an excellent opportunity to study the lab setup of the Stuttgart club. I was to be Michel's old lady, Nikki.

There are some biker rules with regard to old ladies. They are, as follows, and according to Walter, directly from the rule book: Members are responsible for their old ladies and their actions. Members may have more than one old lady. Members must not discuss club business with said old lady. No old lady is allowed at a meeting. Old ladies don't wear the patch of their man, as an old lady can't wear the colours, so if you see a chick you like better ask if she's taken before you ask her to sit on your face. No one ever said they were liberated.

Michel " Jinx" La Chance, I noticed, to my surprise, was grinning behind his hand during Walter's briefing. None of this stuff really sat too well with me.

Walter just said to Michael: " I wish you luck. And Michael, if you meet a guy wearing an eightball, don't let him sneak up behind you. And Nikita , if you meet a guy with a pair of purple wings, you run. And don't throw the first punch. It's considered rude for a guest. Anyway, it is a funeral and bikers pride themselves on being a bit respectful of their dead at a wake. There probably won't be much wife swapping. They usually frown of that stuff nowadays. You're lucky it isn't an initiation party." He went off with that teasing Walter grin on face.

How comforting.

I suppose that you've been waiting for me to describe Michael in biker gear. Let's just say he didn't remotely resemble Walter. Or that gay dude from the Village People.

Sorry, Walter, you're kinda cute with your bandy legs and all, but Michael on a Harley Davidson in black leather pants is lethal. He wore a black sleeveless tee-shirt, black leather pants and denim vest, a red bandana around his neck. In his perfect left earlobe was a discrete gold earring, the grinning death's head dangling on a chain.

I watched as Walter put the finishing touches on Michael's tattoo. " There you go, son. Faded like it's been there all your life. Pretty nice if I say so myself." Yea, I was thinking. Pretty nice. Michael's arms are very well muscled and they'd manufactured him the most gorgeous tan. It made his eyes sparkle and his teeth flash brilliantly white. Walter guaranteed that the tattoo he had put on Michael, though not permanent, wouldn't melt off even with a red hot spoon or a propane torch, but it would probably come off with a certain chemical he had recently developed. Therefore he was not to worry if they questioned the badge of honour, which happened to be a common biker practice.

If the idea of the hot spoon made Michael look a little green, he didn't show it. I was shivering in my boots thinking that taking a hot spoon to Michael's perfect -- except for a few faded scars body was tantamount to taking a hammer to Michaelangelo's David. I have never had a fondness for tattoos or earrings, but on Michael. . . well, anything looks good on him.

Especially the black leather pants. They just moulded over that rounded butt of his so perfectly. And the way they hugged his thighs and his narrow hips, just this side of indecent. I like watching him walk away from me, that strut he has that's just so natural and fluid, but in leather pants it comes close to being a religious experience.

And there were some guys there for the funeral on the compound wearing those black leather cowboy type chaps. They looked quite nice with the faded jeans. I was kind of interested in seeing Michael wear a pair of those. Unfortunately that never happened. But maybe someday if I ask nicely

I think I need a drink of water. I'm getting kind of flushed

Driving down the highway on the back of a Harley hanging onto Michael's waist while my hair whipped behind me in the wind was delightful. I hugged that lean sculpted body for all I was worth, kind of pressed the notch of my thighs up against his leather clad bottom and sighed with joy. I took advantage of it, letting my hands roam and explore his muscled torso and hips. What the hell, it was part of the cover and I am trying to be an obedient operative.

He's been kind of touchy and quiet lately, quite himself, but I get the feeling that Michael's also in his element on a big bike. And he handled that ton of muscle machine like a pro. I think most of the biker babes in there turned their heads and let out a collective sigh when Michael stopped the Harley, swung a big leather clad thigh over the back and leaned up on it with his arms crossed over his solid chest. In those black shades and that sleeveless black tee, with his hair all windblown, he was to die for.

Michael would temp a saint. I just stood there and drank him in, thinking that he was like the cover of a bad-boy romance novel come to life. Mouth-watering. A big, delicious Sara Lee cheese cake you just have to have.

In a store that closed ten minutes ago.

I suppose I am getting off the track here. Expect me to do that from time to time. This was a rather interesting mission.

I have to say that the biker compound was not exactly what Walter had led me to expect. I had this vision of swastikas on the walls and rows of motorcycles with greasy guys with biker chicks draped all over them. It actually seemed rather clean and well organized. There was even a lawn and some flowers out front. Part of the new biker sensibility, I guess. For all intents and purposes it wasn't that bad that bad at all, but as Michael whispered in my ear as we drove up, "Don't get complacent, Kita. The party hasn't started yet."

He removed his sunglasses, grinned at me like he was supposed to, given his cover, and then pulled me into his arms for a deep, wild kiss that stole my breath and made my toes curl up in my boots. When he set me back, his hands on my hips, I was gasping for breath. I think he was branding me as his woman in front of the bikers who had begun to mill about staring at us and honestly, I did not mind in the least. If there had been a bed right there, I'd have thrown him on it and jumped his bones. I don't think I even minded when he finished it off with a slap to my rear. Walter says that bikers are like that. Michael is nothing, if not a good study, when it comes to his cover.

The party started early, soon after Michael and I came into the compound and were introduced around. The aura of intimidation and cruelty immediately opened my eyes.

One of the bikers, a huge man called Boner had taken a waif like girl up onto the roof of the club house and was dangling her down by the ankles. She couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds. Her blouse had fallen over her face and I could see her delicate ribs and tiny breasts. He was laughing while the others egged him on. I was certain he'd drop her on her head and kill her. My heart was in my mouth and I would have gone forward to do something if Michael had not grabbed my arm and squeezed. Walter had told us the rules.

After a time the man called Boner got bored and lowered the girl down to a pair of waiting arms. She was crying but none of the others offered her comfort. They stood around laughing while she tried to straighten herself out. The whole thing made me sick with fury. I kind of pushed Michael away from me to release his hold. He leaned in and whispered a warning in my ear. " Don't make trouble."

"I hope Section blows these jerks off the planet."

"Kita, I never thought I'd hear you say something like that." He gave me a wide grin and leaned in to kiss my nose. That took some of the sting away. God, he can be cute when he's pretending. Not at all the bossy boots he is around Section.

Michael went off to discuss business with a short bodybuilder type called Gary. The bikers in training were standing around flirting, if I dare call it that. Flirting seemed to involve asking the girls to lift their shirts and show their boobs. They usually complied. I didn't plan to walk anywhere near them in my currently braless state. I was only keen on lifting my shirt for one guy and he wasn't apparently in the mood. Maybe I should try it one day, the direct approach. Hi, Michael. Wahoo. Here's what you're missing.

The music was loud and obnoxious but the food smelled good. I was hungry and hot. I wished they'd had something to drink besides beer. I hate beer. I suppose a nice Merlot or lemonade would be asking too much. I didn't eat anything. I was still thinking about the girl on the roof.

I was minding my own business when a hard looking woman in Spandex pants, big hair and high heels approached me. I wanted to tell her that the ratbag look went out in the eighties, but I buttoned my lip. I tried for a smile. These women looked pretty tough. Some are hookers and exotic dancers. They turn all the money they make over to their man. My mother was of this ilk.. I guess that's what made me ticked off at them to begin with.

" Your man is hot."

That was blunt. " Yeah. He's hot." I turned to walk away. She grabbed my arm and sunk her one inch black fingernails into the bare skin.

" Hey, dolly face. Don't turn your back on me. Tell him that we can have a threesome later. I like his big, French dick."

Well, I couldn't fault her taste." I'm not into threesomes. And his dick is Canadian." I didn't apprise her of its size. I guessed she wasn't stupid or blind given the leather pants.

She laughed and stuck her face in my space. " Who said you were included, Barbie-doll? I guess I'll just ask him myself."

"He's strictly a one old lady man, sister, and that lady is me." I gave her a hard shove to the chest. She almost fell but her friends pushed her back. She was on me like flypaper, her mass of hair flying, spraying her stale beer breath in my face. She fought like a chick, her arms flailing in front of her, her booted feet trying to kick me. I was concerned about the nails. And I'd think those teeth would carry more germs than a poodle in heat and she was snapping like she might bite me. I had a foot in height on her, but she weighed more, on top anyway. She had those ever popular child bearing hips, too. She got me by the shirt pocket and tore it off so it that it was hanging by a flap. That pissed me off. It was about time I showed her who was boss.

I had her on the ground in seconds, in a choke hold worthy of the WWF. When Michael came up behind me and jerked me off my feet. I kicked at him. I really wanted to grind her face in the dirt a little more but he held on tight.

A few of the guys were grinning, some roaring with laughter. " Man, Jinx, your broad is wicked. We haven't had a good scrag fight here in weeks. "

I was trying to cover myself with the hanging pocket flap. He was still holding me two feet in the air. " Put me down, Michel."

"Not until you behave like a good girl. She has a temper. That's what I like about her."

They were speaking like I wasn't even present. Like I was a piece of meat. I ought to be used to that given that I come from a backwards hell hole and then wound up in a worse one, but I was getting really angry. The president, a huge beast of a man called Diablo looked me up and down. Maybe I'd fight him next. I'd kick him right where it hurts.

" You don't want to beat it all out of 'em. Makes em better in the sack. She has real nice ones, though, Jinx."

" Best that money can buy," said Michael with a self-congratulatory air. " And they're all mine, boys. All mine." He gave a look that said he meant business and still holding me up, carried me off away from the others. He set me down, his very observant grey eyes all over my chest accessories.

" I hope you do meet some guy wearing an eightball," I hissed, yanking up my pocket flap up over my very real breast. " I hope you enjoyed yourself at my expense."

" I was enjoying that cat fight a lot." He brushed the dirt off my rear.

I pushed his hands away. I didn't really want to, but a girl has her pride. " I hate you, Jinx." He probably knew the fight was over him and was gloating.

He grinned. " No, you don't. I have to go and talk with Gary and Diablo. Can I trust you to behave yourself, Kita? Just until I get back? "

There was this heated twinkle in his eyes. Like he was promising me something. I told myself I would not count on anything. He is the consummate actor. I told him I'd behave like a good little biker chick. He just laughed and kissed me again. Not one of those deep, wild Michael this is my cover, babe and I always do it up right -- kisses that I crave, but something very gentle, almost affectionate, like he really cared about me. I went to our room and put on a new top thinking I could put up with a hell of a lot of crap for more of those kisses.

I had just returned wearing clean clothes when the small girl who'd been dangled from the roof came up to me. She was so slight, so waif like a wind could have picked her up and blown her away. Her eyes were huge, liquid brown and very appealing. She told me that I had to watch out for Angie. She told me her name was Julie and asked if I was okay.

I gave her a smile. " Maybe I should ask you that question?"

"I'm okay." She shrugged her narrow shoulders. " Boner does stuff like that to me all the time. He thinks it's funny. He dropped me once but not from that high. I broke my collar bone. He dropped a girl on her head last year and she broke her neck." She said it very matter of fact.

I recalled the rules. Women are just holes to be plugged here.

She was twisting her light brown braid and sucking the end like a little girl. She had told me that she was twenty. I almost didn't believe her. She was from Amsterdam. She met a man at a party and this was where she'd ended up. It seemed to be almost a case of kidnapping. " Where are you from, Nikki?"

" Australia. I met Michel last year and moved to Canada."

" He's handsome. Like a movie star."

" Yes, he is."

" But you're beautiful, too. You look so good together. I'll bet people tell you that all the time." She giggled. " I thought at first that you were cops."

" Cops?" I laughed. " Whatever gave you that idea?"

" Hollywood movies. I guess it's cause you're polite, different from the bikers here. I'm silly. I guess I just hope that everyone here is a cop so maybe they'll help me get out."

" Are you here against your will?"

" Yes. I guess I am. I've tried to get away but it never works. Maybe one day. Anyway, you're lucky, Nikki. Your boyfriend seems to love you a lot. And he's nice. That's important."

When he wanted to be, I thought. I wished the other part were true. He was a good actor. I wanted to tell her that I was a prisoner too, but I knew my situation couldn't compare to this. My heart went out to this tiny girl with the freckles and the chipped tooth. She and I had a lot in common. I smiled at her. " Do you think you could show me where to get some ice? My eye's smarting a little after that fight. "

She was about to take me when Boner came along. He had a bushy brown beard with the remains of his dinner embedded in the scraggly hairs. Kissing him would be like pulling up your chair to a week old buffet. He took her by the arm and jerked her away from me. I was thinking how she didn't belong with these animals and wondering how I might help her. As usual, I felt hopeless inside.

I was a little worried about Michael. They went off to a bar amidst rumours that a rival gang would be there and they would try to disrupt the funeral. This was all a section One setup of course, so the plans for tomorrow's missile bombing of the bunker could be set in place with as few bikers around as possible. I had instructions to find the location of the bunker and the place where Pom was housed.

Walter had given Michael explicit instructions on how he should drink in order to appear to be intoxicated and on how to palm any drugs he was offered.. The big fight at midnight was a way off.

While they were gone I took the opportunity to look around for a while after dark. Most of the security cameras were at the front of the compound near the gates and around the clubhouse. The back, near the bunker, was badly lit, but set against the electrified fence. It would not be hard to disarm and cut the section. Getting the boy out I was not so sure of. Was he locked in the bunker? Or did he have a place outside of it? After three years he must be allowed some freedom.

I saw a shadow then, just down the path. Two shadows, one very small, the other tall, thin and red headed. The two kissed and disappeared into a door near the lab. Was that Rom? Was Julie having an affair with him? My romantic heart turned over.

I was still thinking about the illicit lovers when I went back to the clubhouse to await Michael's return. I locked the door and dressed for bed in a thigh length white Victoria's Secret tee-shirt night gown, panties and socks. The night air was cool. I sat on the bed, hugging my knees to my chin and tried to watch a German game show. It was ridiculous. I didn't have a clue as to why the contestants would want to ride little bikes in vats of green slime. To each his own. I was dozing off during the German dubbed American sit-com, when Michael tapped at the door and asked me to let him in.

When the door opened I kind of jumped back remembering the tee-shirt didn't cover much. He looked me over once, a strange look crossing those handsome features, like he was deciding something. And then he came for me fast, in one big step, slamming the door with a booted foot, then he was lifting me in high in his arms and rubbing his stubbly jaw on my ribs, just under my breasts. I think I gasped as he let me slide down his body the rest of the way, covering my mouth with his.

He tasted unfamiliarly like alcohol and cigarettes but I really didn't care. He had a scrape on his jaw and a bruised lip too and he kind of moaned into my mouth as I wrapped my legs around his waist. I don't know if it was pain ( I have since found out that his ribs were bruised in the fight) or the same intense longing that I was feeling at that moment. All I cared about was that he was kissing me and then staring down at my breasts with this glazed look in his eyes. I was shivering by that time. My chin was wobbling, my teeth chattering together as he slid hid warm, firm lips up my neck. He walked me into the bathroom and turned on the shower, setting me down on my feet as he nibbled my ear. " Kita, there's surveillance here. Be natural. We can talk in the shower."

Be natural. Okay. I was willing to give it a go. I am as natural as Bran Flakes and almost as squishy when wet.

I knew that the reason for the lovemaking wasn't quite what I'd hoped. It was the cover. You know, I wished that he was nuts about me for real. But it was okay. Definitely okay. This girl has her pride but she isn't stupid. He put me into the barely warm shower, shirt, socks and all. I just stood there with the spray running into my gaping mouth, watching him. He whipped off his own clothes like a man possessed. Clothes flew off that lean, big body. A boot just missed the toilet. I just swallowed the water in awe as he hopped into the spray in his most awesome altogether, pulling me closer to him again and kissing me. He kissed my lips, my cheeks, my closed eyes, even the tip of my nose. Michael is a wonderful kisser. He leaves no spot unconquered.

He held my face in his hands and bent a little to look right into my eyes. " The girl who won the wet tee-shirt contest has nothing on you. Merde, you're so beautiful."

" Thank you," I whispered. He was beautiful too, even with the tattoos. I told him so.

My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could see it throb beneath the translucent material. I looked into his beautiful face. I was a little jealous of the girl who won the contest because she'd had his attention while I was watching stupid game shows, but proud too. I wondered if he really thought that I was beautiful. Beads of water separated his lashes into perfect stars. The water was collecting between our noses, right in the gorgeous little divot above his lip. I licked the water out, my tongue scraping on his week's growth of stubble. He kissed me again capturing my tongue in his mouth and pushing me against the slippery back of the shower, protecting my back from the hard tiles with his arm. Our bodies fit together in that confined space like a Chinese puzzle.

" What did you find?" he asked when we came up for air.

He was nibbling up my neck again, his hands sluicing up under the wet tee-shirt. It was incredibly erotic. Like a sweet, wet dream. He kept asking me questions in that hoarse whisper. I just wanted him to shut up and make believe that we were really lovers like I was doing. I was taking many liberties myself, running my hands down his muscular flanks, back up his hard, beautiful back, memorising every knob on his spine. He prodded my waist with his thumbs.

" Okay, okay." I whispered in his ear, telling him about the lab and the security, the electric fence. He yanked the sodden tee down and was kissing my shoulder now, his hands covering my breasts. I kept thinking to myself: Don't stop. Don't stop. It was hard to tell him about the electric fence when my body was way more charged up than any electric fence ever could be. Then I made the mistake of mentioning Julie and Rom and how I had seen them, how sweet they were and how she needed our help. He told me if I tried to involve, or save a biker chick, I had another think coming. He pulled back from me. He looked cross.

I pulled him back and bit his earlobe. Hard.

He yelped and was about to retaliate in some delicious way when someone began pounding on the door. The person was calling for Jinx to come out and party. I really hoped that he's say no. I remembered that Walter told us you don't say no.

We looked at each other, me with grave disappointment, he with grim duty. I stayed in the shower feeling silly now to be wearing soaking wet socks and waited as he got dressed. He had a lot of trouble getting his leather pants on. I was kind of smirking as he tried twice to get them over his butt but I didn't turn my eyes away. He had a little trouble getting them zipped, too. I don't have to tell you why. I was kind of proud that I had put him into that state. Then Jinx went out to party. He didn't appear to be in a party mood.

I just stood in the shower in my socks feeling extremely aroused and knowing that this might be as far as things went. I wanted to kick the tile wall but thought better of it. I hoped when he came back he was really dirty. Then we could start this talk again.

I never sleep naked. It's just uncomfortable to be under the sheets with all that skin hanging out. Three years ago I was sleeping in a parka and gloves, so I got used to it. I also sleep light. Now, I might sleep naked if the circumstances were right, dear journal. But as you know they rarely are. I decided that since my one nighty was not in a soaking ball on the bathroom floor, I would borrow something of Michael's. Or I could sit here naked and wait like some eager harem chick.

That might be an idea considering the last reception.

I slipped the soft, black vee-necked tee-shirt out of his bag. It smelled like him. Like laundry soap and fabric softener. He doesn't use cologne. He doesn't have to. Every time I get a whiff of a man drenched in cologne I almost gag. I once sat on a bus next to a man wearing an entire bottle of Old Spice. I had to get off and puke in the gutter. True story.

Not to say that these bikers couldn't use some kind of pit odour destroying perfumes. Maybe section should just send a missile loaded with Secret over here and let 'em have it. I was stuffing Michael's other belongings back in the bag when I found the condoms. I felt kind of bad like I'd invaded his privacy and then a little defeated because there were eight condoms and only one of me and one night.

Not that I couldn't handle that. And then I started getting mushy and hopeful because maybe he did want me after all. Then my mind started turning on me and I was thinking about Angie and threesomes. Black nailed hands all over him Never mind. You know me. I just buried the packets in the bottom of the bag and went to bed.

I sat there on the bed that felt like a cement slab listening to the sounds of pit bulls howling at the moon and White Zombie. Oh, jeez, I'll never get to sleep, I thought. Not with Michael's touch still on my skin and his taste in my mouth and his tee-shirt that smells like him on my sensitized flesh. I was wondering about what he was doing out there. Was he safe? He was condomless. It was driving me crazy.

There were some magazines in the drawer of the night stand. I checked to make sure there were no pages stuck together. There were no Martha Stewart Livings, not even a Cosmo. Biker Bitches on Wheels had no gardening or cooking tips, but there was a selection on the care and maintenance of body piercings. It was enlightening. It was also gross. Who in the hell would want to pierce that?

There was a nubile young lady on the cover Cindy " Tank Top" Jones. I thumbed through the advert section: See the greatest, dirtiest adult biker video ever! Cycle Sluts. starring the one, the only Bobbie " Jugs" Olsen and real bikers. Real partying. Real fighting. Real disgusting. Directed by the lovely, Kenny " Scratch and Sniff " Wilson. Did all bikers have puerile nicknames?

God. I rolled my eyes and flopped back on the rock hard bed. What kind of a girl, especially a nice looking one like Cindy " Tank Top" Jones would want to get mixed up with a bunch of jerks if she had free-will? I grin as I write this thinking of something Walter told me yesterday. Walter is a font of wise sayings.

" Sugar, women take up with these dudes for the same reason flies are attracted to shit. Some are hungry. Some need a warm place to stay. Some just feel safer in a crowd."

I feel asleep with the book open over my chest. The sun was up when Michael came back. He looked exhausted and filthy, his hair standing up in tufts. He didn't remove his clothes, just flopped down on the bed and grunted. He threw an arm over my stomach, trapping me there and nuzzled his bearded face against my ear. " I spoke to him, Kita. It's a go. Now I have to get a few hour's sleep. Wake me. Nice nightgown, by the way. It never looked that good on me."

I smiled. He nestled his big, hard body against mine in a way that seemed completely natural and was soon snoring very softly in my ear. I lay there beside him thinking about the Scottish abductee and Julie. I wondered if it would be easy to get her out, too.

I must have gotten a little too comfortable there on the bed with Michael hugging me because I didn't wake up until ten.

He was gone. I could tell from the towels in the bathroom and the clothes on the chair that he'd dressed and gone long ago leaving me there to sleep. I hope my mouth wasn't open. I do that sometimes and have a feeling it's not too attractive.

I went back to get dressed. On the pillow was the magazine with Cindy " Tank Top" Jones. He had written in code over her overstuffed top : Rom ready. Keep an eye on the girl in case he tells her. XOXOXOXOX Jinx.

I sighed. The smart ass. I guessed there would be no talking him into helping Julie. The idea of leaving her with this bunch made me so sad. If she did find out, I wasn't going to stop her. Michael could deal with that when the time came.

Breakfast was leftover sauerkraut and knockwurst, spareribs and beer. There was no fruit platter, no lightly buttered toast. Certainly no chilled Mimosas.

I took walk across the compound, chewing on a stale bun and sipping on coffee that tasted like brake fluid. I spotted Michael talking to the president. Michael was sitting on the seat of his hog taking in the sun, one booted foot resting on the wide handle bars. He had his tawny head tilted back and wore only his faded jeans, bandana and sunglasses.

Every woman there, including the infamous Angie, now dressed in traditional biker funeral garb of black jeans --cut off at the crotch to expose an ample butt that had probably spent hours doing the Peter Fonda Workout was drinking in her fill of his amazing looks.

I couldn't blame them. He was just so darned dazzling. He passed his hand lazily though his hair, chugging a beer. I could see the muscles in his throat working. He rubbed his chest then let his hand glide slowly down his flat stomach to rest in the vicinity of his lap. I think I must have looked like a total goon, my mouth dropping open at the sight of that large hand passing over all that glittering, sun-washed skin. The longing was so intense I couldn't breath: it was hard to act like I was used to seeing that naked splendour on a regular basis. My concentration was broken when a guy with a beer belly called Nose obstructed the view.

Then I saw Julie. She waved shyly at me from across the compound. She was lugging a bag of laundry twice her size and there were fresh bruises on her delicate face. Living, dead girl. I hated this, I told myself. I hated what they put that poor little girl through. And I wouldn't touch the underpants of these monsters with a ten foot pole. If they wore underpants. I made a note to ask Walter.

I will not bore you with the details of a biker funeral. Let us just say that it was different. At least they had a genuine man of God officiating and that surprised me a little. I was expecting a representative of Beelzebub or something. The widow had been allowed by the grand high poobah of bikers to wear the colours to the ceremony. The vest looked very classy with the property of Hell's Angel's black tee-shirt she sported. Everyone was impressed.

I noted that the bikers took a lot of time hugging each other and patting each other's backs. Some of them even cried. The women were left out of this display of brotherly love.

An end has to come to this story I suppose. You're not stupid and you know I'm alive and writing this so it's no surprise that we didn't blow up real good. Let's just say we made it out in one piece but it was a mind opening experience.

And I never did get to finish that steamy shower scene with Michel " Jinx" Lachance. As soon as we were back on section cement my wild Jinx was gone and that stiff, remote being I know and begrudgingly love had taken over. I'm wondering if Michael may have a split personality.

The preparations for getting the Scottish chemist out went off with out incident until he looked at me and burst into tears. " We have to get Julie. I love her." Michael rolled his eyes. I was almost crying too. That sweet Scottish burr. Those sad eyes.I was so angry with Michael's heartless manner that I almost kicked him.

I had just pushed after Michael through the hole in the fence when I felt the cold jab of the gun at the back of my neck. The hand that grabbed my arm was steady and small. " Take him and she's dead," she said to Michael. We had five minutes until the explosives fired.

" Why don't you come with us, Julie?" Was she so in love with him that she'd consider killing me. I looked at Michael hopefully. I couldn't see his face very well in the dark.

She laughed. " Are you that stupid? Maybe just one of those romantic twits who likes a happy ending. I'm with O16. I've been here a year making sure that he doesn't try to run again. We figured the best way to keep him happy was through his dick. It's always that way."

I let out a sigh. All my charitable thoughts. My dreams of the good in all of us. Blown sky high. I am a suck. A big stupid, romantic suck.

And I am a big, romantic suck with fifty pounds and twelve inches on the midget behind me. She was jabbering on like Scoobie Doo about her terrorist mission and saying how she was going to blow us all to bits, I decided that I'd had just about enough. One well place back kick to her knee, shattered it and she was down. I stood over her and aimed my gun at her delicate little face. I considered plugging her right between those doe-like eyes.

" Kita, no." Section can use her intel on O16." Michael was back through the fence. He picked up Julie and threw her over his shoulder. We made a run for the waiting van just as the bikers showed up. The bunker exploded seconds later.

I was so mad I didn't even flinch .

Julie cracked. Madeline extracted a wealth of information on the O16 Movement. She was pleased with me. I didn't get too excited about that. I saw Julie walking down the hall to meet the torture twins. She seemed a little stiff like a miniature Pecos Bill.

I am trying not to think about Julie and what a fool I am always taking people at face value. That's just me. I guess I'm not a very good judge of character. I trust the people I shouldn't and distrust the ones I should.

Rom is still a prisoner of sorts. He's now working in the chem labs of Section 8. Michael tells me he's doing well. I don't know. I'll bet he's as disillusioned and scared as I am.

Walter tells me that I did a good job and should stop kicking myself. Even Michael, in an act of mercy quite unlike him, praised my performance. I have missed seeing him in his biker gear. I have to admit, though that he does look very nice in his usual black Gaultier. I think about those leather jeans and the black tee-shirt left behind at the clubhouse. I remember him sitting shirtless on the back of that bike, glittering like a diamond in the dirt.

I'm still thinking about that shower and wishing. I'm still wondering about why he had those condoms. Ah, the mysteries of Michael.

If there weren't any, I'd have nothing to write about.

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