Dalila Di Capri
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The official Gates of Dalila di Capri
It’s tough to run with a bellyful of lead.
As a girl she had been a sprinter, as a very young woman a Belly dancer.
Now in her prime she possessed fine powerful thighs and a round firm ass that would be the envy of any 20 year old.
These served her well in any situation.
This was a particularly dire one indeed.
Just as Dalila’s guts boiled and ached from the five .223 slugs that weighed her down, so to did the bowels of this unholy inner sanctum burn with her ferocious determination.
Even mortally wounded Dalila was no one to dismiss. She was perhaps the most skilled, and without a doubt the most ruthless, freelance assassin available to the world of organized crime.
Five in the belly wasn’t enough to stop her, at least not right away. She ran, quickly and with angry purpose, in order to find her way back out of a sterile hell.
It had all started as a proposition too delicious to refuse.
Dalila was the best. And she knew it. She had always refused to affiliate herself with any one given mafia. She had grown wealthy by taking astounding fees for even more astounding tasks.
She was as tight lipped as a clam: the most trustworthy of professionals when it came to keeping a professional secret. No jury had even convicted her of any crime, despite the many she had committed.
In Dalila’s mind, even more importantly in her soul, she had been confident in one fact: they had deserved it. Whoever they were, whoever she has been hired to kill, was evil. Otherwise there would be no reason to bring in Dalila.
There were of course jobs that she refused. She had never killed a child, never an animal, and never a person she knew to be innocent.
Dalila killed killers. That was always the deal.
There had, however, been heavy prices to pay.
Dalila’s wide open style as an assassin had resulted in any number of near death experiences.
More lead had been pulled out of her guts than from a squad of wounded marines. Enough blades had been stuffed into her belly that her entrails resembled the interior of a bayonet training dummy.
The ultimate symbol of this constant trauma was a thick, shining vertical scar that traveled the distance from just above her pubic mound, to her solar plexus.
“My zipper”, she would purr in a dark exotic tone, as proud of her scar as a soldier would be of his Purple Heart.
These assaults had taken their toll. Dalila was still a strong, lithe, athletic lioness of a figure, but her various doctors worried about the inevitable deterioration of her health. Sooner or later the cumulative damage would be the end of her.
There was more, however to these assaults upon Dalila’s body, and her almost super human ability to withstand them, than the purely medical.
Though it was certain that each near fatal wounding would take much out of her, there was a hidden bonus for Dalila, one that few could guess.
She liked the way a bullet or blade to the belly felt.
The pain was just right: a blend of hot, sour, deep, slow-burning, an orgiastic ache.
What would cause others, especially women, to scream in pain would prompt only a low dark guttural sound from that thick velvety throat.
Soft… sensual… subtle… without a trace of fear.
Dalila always chose to leave her belly exposed in favor of protecting her breasts and head. Just as long as her heart still beat and her brain still functioned she could use her special lust to stay alive.
Time and again she would be written off as too far gone to save.
What many a doctor didn’t know, nor care to examine, was what the effect of these wounds would have upon the region just below her belly.
The wounded Dalila was an orgasmic steaming wet mess of desire below.
She had no control over it. She came, happily, greedily if involuntarily.
This desire, masochistic yet never that of a victim, gave her the edge in the field.
It was a secret desire to take hot lead or cold steel to the gut that made Dalila an almost unstoppable force.
As a girl she would press upon her navel, play with it, hurt it ever so slightly, and bring herself to pleasure.
As she came into her own sexually she would take the fists of her lovers and have them force their full weight down onto her abdomen. The pressure, and the hard ache this would bring thrilled her beyond measure.
A knife to the belly was the next logical step.
Dalila was still very young, and had just performed a belly dance for a group of well dressed businessmen. It was a hobby for her, something to put a little money in her purse as she worked her way through school.
As the men showered her with money and compliments she noticed a strange, slithering figure off to the side of the crowd.
This man, more rat than man in reality, had his eyes glued to the well dressed grandfatherly figure who had just stuffed a crisp $100 bill into Dalila’s belt.
She sensed his desire. He wanted to kill the old man.
Dalila went into a full shimmy. The men hooted with delight. Dalila smiled, threw her graceful arms back, ate up the attention with understandable vanity.
All the while she sensed the danger as it approached.
Just then the rat-man stepped forward, a blade held in his right hand, ready to stuff it into the chest of the old gentleman.
Dalila timed it just right. She took two quick, agile steps to the side and cut the man’s thrust off in mid arc.
The blade, instead of finding its way into the old man’s heart, was buried in Dalila’s belly. Right up to the hilt.
That had been the very first time she let that dull aching expression pass over her pouting red lips.
At first the men around her did not see or hear what had happened.
«Sit down ass hole», «Get away from her», «Yeah we wanna see her dance».
Several of the men grabbed the rat-man and pulled him away from the ravishing young belly dancer.
It was then that they first saw the blade as it wiggled in Dalila’s belly.
She looked at them with wide green eyes and a surprised half delighted mouth… studied their shocked faces… took in the deadly still of the audience… and then looked down at the blade.
«He… he stabbed her», mumbled one of the tougher men.
Dalila looked back up at the crowd of stunned tough guys and did what to her seemed the most natural thing in the world.
The men watched in silent shock as the primal sound track throbbed forth. Dalila’s face changed from a wide eyed look of delighted surprise, to a sultry pout, then to a greedy smile.
The blade wiggled, trembled, vibrated in syncopation with the music, and then slowed as she brought the shimmy down to a crude undulating bump and grind.
At the end of the gesture she grabbed the blade with both hands, perfectly timed to the very last drum beats of the track.
She stared down at it again, and then looked up at the men.
«Belly ache», she said with a pouting smile.
Two men rushed to her to steady her.
The others started to pummel the face of the rat-man-assassin with the butts of their pistols.
«Hold on there sweetheart», «Someone call the doc», «We know a guy who’s real good at fixin’up these kinds of wounds».
The comments swirled around her head like a merry go round.
She fell back into their arms, still smiling, amazed at her fortune. She had finally taken a blade to the belly, and it felt better than she had imagined.
«I’m fine boys… really… it’s not too bad».
Dalila had not noticed that the rat-man-assassin had already been beaten to death. There was no reason for her to concern herself with his fate. These men were allowing her to enjoy her secret fantasy, and yet were going to save her life.
She did not think, not for one minute, that this first stabbing would kill her.
As it would turn out this incident would also mark the start of her career as an assassin.
The old gentleman she has just saved was none other than Don Eduardo Romero, the grand old man of Columbian Cocaine.
As Dalila ran down the dank gray corridor her mind flashed back to that very first assault upon her body.
Now wounded yet again, with 5 rifle slugs eating at her guts, she understood just how damaged she was, and just how low her chances of survival were.
The old feelings of sexual delight, as uncontrollable as ever, thrilled her with each passing wave of pain.
One more massive orgasm of pain and pleasure pressed itself upon her, and slowed her stride to a crazed stagger. She stopped, bounced against the wall, tightened her blood stained fingers around the wounds, and pushed on, a bit faster than before.
«I... have to find... Massimo...», she blurted aloud in a low breathy grunt.
Dalila looked up at the well dressed Italian gentleman, eager to learn more.
He studied her cool confident demeanor: a smile that could be considered arrogant if it were not upon that particular face. Green eyes glanced back at him with a world weary twinkle. Full pouting red lips, smug yet hungry, savored the information.
She knew the man as “Massimo”. No last name was ever given. He had come to her as others had before, usually with considerable sums of money up front, in order to beg her formidable services.
This time however Massimo offered something more valuable than the almighty dollar.
«The Bilderberg Society has developed a serum that can re-animate the dead».
The magic of this serum was not lost upon Dalila. Lust alone would not be enough to keep warding off death as time and injury took its toll upon her. The mere possibility of such a serum drew her in without any more explanation.
«They call it “Nectar”. It’s administered via injection only. The body must be no more than one hour dead. They’ve successfully brought three condemned criminals back to life after execution via firing squad. Those same three men were executed a second time. Evidently the serum only works once».
«One get out of Hell free card», replied Dalila with a wry lilt to her voice.
«Correct. Now those of us with more… capitalistic goals understand how unfair it would be for the rest of humanity to be denied this wonderful invention».
As always Dalila was forced to choose between the two dark forces that ruled the world.
She realized that her employers were evil. These were the men behind the gangs raping Latin America, and supplying weapons to the lowest of criminal elements in the urban jungles.
And yet… better to deal with them than the soulless, oppressive Bilderberg.
At least the world of organized crime was ruled by profit. Anyone with enough money could buy what they offered. The Bilderbergers kept their wealth and their advantage for themselves. A tiny group of international elitists sought to rule a world wherein the haves received more than they could ever utilize and the have-nots begged for the most humiliating scraps.
Any job that allowed Dalila to kill Bilderbergers was particularly desirable.
Massimo continued with business-like efficiency.
«The formula for this serum is being kept under lock and key in the underground tunnels of Geneva. Our job is to infiltrate at the exact point that our intelligence suggests, steal the serum along with the formula, and take out as many Bilderberg troops as we can in the process».
«Your job is to go in there and be Dalila. Make a scene. Cause a big bold distraction so that I can get to the laboratory».
«So you suggest that I take a suicide mission?».
«Yes and no. We will have the serum. If you are killed, you will be the first to receive the Nectar. If I can get the serum you will get your get out of Hell free card».
Dalila sat and stared at Massimo for a moment.
She studied his features: he was thin, 40-ish, handsome, with wavy salt and pepper hair, dark brown eyes, deep olive skin, just her type. It was always much more pleasant to receive a job offer, and perhaps a death sentence, from an attractive man.
Massimo, much to his discomfort, was left to stare at Dalila for a long time. She said nothing, but seemed to consider his offer, ever smiling as she pondered.
He took the opportunity to consider her appearance at length.
She wore a tight fitting white suit that accentuated her hour glass figure. The hem line of her mini skirt allowed him to admire her fine firm legs, bare and slightly oiled. She had her feet propped upon her desk casually, legs crossed, a study of cocky confidence. Red high heeled pumps accented her feet.
She wore her hair in a classic 1940’s style: blond, wavy, a mane of wispy sensuality.
He had no guess as to her age. Somewhere between 35 and 40 he supposed: a wrinkle free face that wore ancient wisdom as a mask of paradox.
Dalila had been born wise. That much was certain. She had never been a young innocent girl.
«You tempt me Massimo. But I am afraid that I need just a bit more».
«Ah… then you must really want me for this project».
Massimo waited a beat, and then replied with a line meant to flatter.
«You are the best, Dalila. We know that you are worth a great deal».
«I see. Well then. I ask for immunity. I ask for universal immunity granted by any and all organized crime syndicates. I must be made universally untouchable. I am permitted to kill with impunity as my skills are required, without fear of retribution. And… if I retire, I retire without fear of being eliminated».
Massimo paused for a moment and then answered.
Dalila’s smile became just a bit more mocking.
“These bastards really want that Nectar”, she thought silently.
She made Massimo wait just a bit more for her answer. After another pregnant pause she finally spoke, as though the contract had already been signed.
The pain was intensifying. Dalila forced herself to keep running, all the while looking for the spot that Massimo had promised.
“Red curtains”, she thought to herself. “He said we would meet at the red curtains”.
She could taste another wave of blood at the back of her throat. The left corner of her mouth was already dripping crimson. She tried her best to keep more of it from bubbling forth.
“Where are those damned red curtains?!”.
Dalila hated to fly, but fly she did.
Massimo had arranged for first class seats direct from New York to Geneva.
She pounded drink after drink of scotch: better drunk than dizzy and sick.
It was an inner ear thing. Fortunately alcohol had a strange neutralizing effect upon her equilibrium.
They landed in Geneva and took a taxi to a low profile hotel, pleasant and comfortable but inconspicuous.
«We’re on our honeymoon», remarked Massimo.
«I suppose I could do worse», replied Dalila with a smirk.
They checked into a room set aside for newlyweds.
Dalila was still a bit tipsy from the scotch.
«You have a rare opportunity to take advantage. After all they expect to hear fucking sounds coming out of here, no?».
Massimo had no intention of missing that opportunity.
“A lioness in the field will be a lioness in bed”, he thought to himself.
They made wild animalistic love, like two condemned prisoners copulating just before dawn and execution.
Dalila, dressed only in a black fedora and red pumps, straddled Massimo like a rider upon a horse and drove herself hard against him, taking him as deep as possible from that position.
She moaned and writhed, all with low guttural sounds, a bitch whore queen out of control.
Massimo turned tables on her and dragged her in front of a mirror. He took her from behind as she stood and thrust himself into her harder than he thought possible while they both watched themselves in the mirror.
Dalila clutched at her belly as though wounded. Her eyes bulged, her mouth stretch in an expression of pain mixed with pleasure.
«You… I… feel like… you’re pushing my guts out through my navel…».
She forced his hands hard into her belly and tortured herself with his fingers. She fantasized that they were daggers slicing into her bowels.
The pair erupted as one volcanic passionate orgasm.
«Just… like… getting… fucked…», Dalila muttered as she flashed upon her wild sexual delights with Massimo that had happened the night before.
The bullets eating at her ruined guts felt just like his thrusting… the pleasure… the pain… she had never been able to tell the difference.
“The curtains”, she thought. “There they are”.
Just a few more steps and she could rest.
Dalila sat nude upon an easy chair, drinking coffee, waiting for Massimo to wake up. She would skip breakfast today. No sense in having a bellyful of breakfast rolls when a bellyful of hot lead was most likely to be the lunch menu.
She had her entire look already picked out, per Massimo’s intelligence report: a black pin striped jacket, complete with several Glock clips and a dagger fastened to the inside for easy access, a white tied off top, fishnet hose, a gray micro miniskirt and a pair of no nonsense high heeled black pumps. An up-do would keep her long blond hair out of her eyes and under control.
“Dressed to kill”, she thought to herself.
She showered quickly, dressed silently, and prepared for the task at hand.
Massimo studied Dalila in the pre-determined attire.
“Damn”, he thought. “She doesn’t need a gun. That outfit is lethal”.
They made a striking couple as they set out for the nondescript Fiat coupé they had leased for the job: he in his Armani, she in her “Laboratory Assistant’s” lady shark suit.
Once inside the car they were free to talk.
«So», said Dalila with a wise ass smirk on her face, «how to do feel about women with scars now!».
Massimo felt himself blush a bit. She had been almost more than he could take in bed.
«I count my self lucky», he said in a hushed, bashful voice.
Massimo hadn’t even considered it, but here was a woman with a near perfect figure, the only real flaw being her long abdominal scar, the badge of honor for many jobs well done if hard fought. Was she insecure about it? Was that possible from this most confident of women? She was a woman after all.
«The scar is sexy», he continued. «It says “dangerous”».
Dalila, all professional, yet all woman, was pleased with his answer.
They arrived at a park just outside of the city. They drove behind a gray little building, grabbed their Glocks, twisted on the silencers, and set out for a man-hole-cover a few paces away.
«This is the spot», observed Massimo, without further ceremony.
He placed his palm on the cover and it unlocked, as if by magic.
He lifted the man-hole cover and let Dalila enter, before following himself.
About 20 steps down the metal ladder led to a gray hallway. There were no special markings, just a hallway with warm off white lighting. The glow was strangely human despite the sterile gray color of the floor and walls.
«It’s a big circle», said Massimo in a hushed voice. «We’ll take off in opposite directions. Kill as many as you can. No matter how many times you get hit, keep going until you find the red curtains. The exit is right there. If I survive I’ll meet you there. If not we’re both dead».
Dalila understood the serious of the task at hand. This was all or nothing: a second shot at life, or a hot trip to Hell.
Dalila believed in Hell, and in Heaven, for that matter. She wanted a shot at redemption, if possible. That’s what this was really about for her. She wanted a chance to live a better life than the one she was living at that moment. The Nectar could be the thing to give her that opportunity.
«Good luck», she said with little ceremony.
They set off in opposite directions.
After about 100 meters Dalila saw three men with AR-15s coming at her.
She got the jump on them and fired three perfectly placed head shots.
“That was almost too easy”, she thought to herself.
The rounded perspective offered a bit of coverage. If she were to stay close to the wall then perhaps she could spot them as they came around the bend.
She had placed two shots into their chests. The men died instantly, but the larger one had been able to rattle off a volley.
Dalila could hear the footsteps of a squad coming at her.
She would be caught and killed right away unless she did something bold.
She stepped away from
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