(Based on Wonder Woman, of 1976 T V Series, Staring Lynda Carter)
1943
On the coast of Turkey.
Wonder Woman was drug into the Nazi Compound,
Bound in Her costume, short of her magic belt. Baroness Wilhelm, ordered men to take her to the dungeon! while she presented the magic belt taken from Wonder Woman to the colonel commanding the island fortress.
Two guards took Wonder Woman to the dungeon. The dungeon was dark, damp, and smelled of mold and despair. The walls were lined with rusted shackles and bloodstains that had long since dried. The guards dragged her across the cold stone floor, her chains clinking with each step.
Baroness Wilhelm stood at the center of the room, her crimson lips curled into a smirk. "Strip her," she ordered. The guards obeyed, tearing away Diana's costume with rough hands. The Amazon princess stood naked before them, her body trembling with rage. The Baroness circled her like a predator sizing up prey. "You will tell me everything," she hissed, her gloved fingers tracing Diana's jawline.
"I refuse to say anything! I will not betray America, nor my home!"The Baroness's smirk widened as she stepped back, motioning toward the towering figure lurking in the shadows. The giant Nazi emerged, his bare chest glistening with sweat under the flickering torchlight, his muscles rippling beneath the thicket of gray curls. His fingers curled around the handle of a coiled bullwhip, the leather cracking through the damp air like a gunshot before it lashed across Diana's chest. She gasped as pain bloomed across her skin, her nipples stiffening involuntarily against the cruel bite of the whip.
The next strike landed lower, carving a fiery stripe across the swell of her breasts. Diana clenched her jaw, her thighs trembling as the whip snapped again—this time against the taut curve of her ass. The sting was unbearable, but she refused to cry out. Instead, she focused on the rhythm of her breathing, steady and deep, even as the Baroness circled her like a vulture, murmuring taunts in German. The giant grunted approvingly at her defiance, his thick fingers gripping her hair to yank her head back. "You will break," he growled, his breath hot and sour against her ear.
"You had a meal with the American president 3 days ago.
What did you talk about?"
The question hung in the air like the stench of burnt flesh from the torches lining the dungeon walls. Diana's thighs quivered as another lash split the skin of her left breast, sending a bead of blood rolling down the curve toward her nipple. The Baroness clicked her tongue, stepping closer—so close Diana could smell the bergamot and cruelty in her perfume. "You think silence is strength?" She traced the welt with a gloved fingertip, pressing just enough to make Diana's breath hitch. "But I know what weakens even Amazons."
The giant's fist tightened in her hair, wrenching her head back further until the tendons in her neck screamed. His other hand dragged the whip down her stomach, the leather hissing over the sweat-slicked plane of her abs before biting into the softness of her inner thigh. Diana's legs jerked, her toes scrabbling against the slick stone as pain radiated up her nerves. The Baroness smirked, unclasping her own belt—not to strike, but to drape it over Diana's shoulders like a grotesque parody of her lost lasso. "Such pretty lies you tell yourself," she murmured. "But flesh always betrays."
With a grunt, the behemoth Nazi released her hair only to seize her wrists, the manacles screeching as he hauled her upward. Chains rattled against iron rings embedded in the ceiling, stretching Diana's body taut until her toes barely brushed the ground. Every muscle stood in stark relief—the swell of her breasts, the quiver of her abdomen, the way her thighs tensed instinctively to protect her most vulnerable flesh. The Baroness stepped back, lighting a cigarette as the giant paced behind his prey, the bullwhip twitching in his grip like a living thing.
The first deliberate lash curled around Diana's right breast, the leather splitting skin with a wet crack. She arched involuntarily, her nipple hardening to a pebbled peak as blood welled along the welt. The giant chuckled, his breath ragged with exertion—or anticipation. "You will learn to scream," he promised, before the whip found her left breast, then the underside, each stroke meticulously placed to maximize agony without mercy. Diana's vision swam, her teeth sinking into her lower lip until she tasted copper. The Baroness exhaled smoke through her nose, murmuring, "Such a waste of pride."
gleaming. "Now we begin."
The whip cracked again—this time lower, biting into the soft swell of her ass with enough force to send a tremor through her thighs. Diana hissed through clenched teeth, her toes curling against the frigid stone as the sting radiated outward in waves. The giant Nazi loomed behind her, his chest hair brushing against her sweat-slicked back as he leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Such firm flesh for a warrior," he mused, his thick fingers kneading the welt left by the whip. "But even Amazons bleed." His huge hands slid around her waist, grabbing her Tits in both hands, squeezing them possessively.
Wonder Woman fought hard to free herself from his actions.
But the giant Nazi was too strong.
His grip tightened cruelly around Diana's swollen breasts—thick fingers digging into soft flesh until her nipples stood stiff against his rough palms. She thrashed against him, her chains rattling violently as she tried to twist free, but his massive frame pressed flush against her back, pinning her in place. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice low and thick with amusement. "You fight well," he admitted, kneading her flesh with deliberate, bruising force.
"Tonight, you fight... *me!!"
The Nazi's voice rumbled through the dungeon like distant thunder, his calloused palms still kneading Diana's breasts with possessive brutality. Sweat gleamed in the coarse gray curls of his chest as he ground his pelvis against her bare ass, the thick outline of his arousal pressing unmistakably against her skin through the rough fabric of his trousers. Diana twisted violently, her muscles straining against the chains, but his grip only tightened fingers digging deep into the supple flesh of her tits until she gasped.
"Such perfect American Titties," he growled, his thumbs roughly circling her stiffened nipples. The Baroness watched from the shadows, her cigarette's ember glowing like a malevolent eye. She signaled to the guards.
"Take her to Grubber's Bed, spread her to the posts
Grubber will be there in a few minutes!"
The guards seized Diana's chains, dragging her stumbling toward the massive iron-framed bed bolted to the dungeon floor. The mattress was stained with old sweat and darker fluids, the stench of violated flesh clinging to the coarse linen. She fought every step, her thighs slick with exertion, but the guards, tossed her onto her back and wrenched her arms wide, cuffing her wrists to the bedposts with a series of metallic clicks that echoed like a death knell. Her legs were spread and fastened to the lower posts.
The Baroness exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching as the giant Nazi—Grubber—shuck his trousers with a grunt. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, already glistening at the tip. "No!!...Nooo!!!!! Dianna screamed!
Diana's breath came in ragged bursts as Grubber climbed onto the bed, his weight making the frame groan. He straddled her hips, his calloused palms sliding up her sweat-slicked thighs to roughly part them wider. "Such a tight little cunt for a warrior," he mused, his thick fingers probing her folds with deliberate cruelty. Diana arched against her restraints, her chains clanking as she tried to twist away, but his grip was unyielding. "Nein, nein," he tutted, his thumb circling her clit with mocking precision.
"You will now take my hard Cock inside you!"
Grubber's voice was a guttural snarl as he positioned himself between Diana's spread thighs, his thick fingers forcing her folds apart with brutal efficiency. She thrashed violently, her chains straining against the bedposts as the swollen head of his cock pressed against her entrance.
"Please!!... No!!!!" she screamed, her hips bucking in a futile attempt to evade him—but with a grunt, he drove forward, sheathing himself inside her in one merciless thrust. Diana's back arched off the mattress, a strangled cry tearing from her throat as her inner walls stretched around his invading girth.
Grubber chuckled darkly.
his massive hands gripping her hips to hold her still as
she began a slow, grinding rhythm. "So warm... so tight,"
he groaned, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her inner thighs. The Baroness leaned against the wall nearby, her gloved fingers tapping ash from her cigarette onto the stones. "She's drier than the Sahara," she remarked idly. Grubber merely grinned, lifting one hand to spit into his palm before smearing the moisture between Diana's labia. "Now... better," he growled, driving back into her with renewed force.
Diana's breath hitched as he pistoned into her, each thrust sending shockwaves of pain through her pelvis. The chains at her wrists and ankles pulled taut with every movement, the metal biting into her skin. Grubber leaned forward, his sweaty chest pressing against her Tits, as he murmured into her ear, "Your body betrays you, Fraulein. Feel how wet you're becoming?" His fingers found her nipple, twisting cruelly as he punctuated his words with another deep, brutal thrust. Diana clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream—but her body trembled violently beneath him, her muscles straining against the invasion.
The Baroness stepped closer, her polished boots clicking against the stone floor. She dragged the tip of her cigarette along Diana's collarbone, relishing the way the Amazon flinched. "Such delicious hypocrisy," she purred. "The mighty Wonder Woman, reduced to a Whore, beneath a Man." Grubber chuckled, his grip tightening on Diana's hips as he slowed his pace, drawing out each movement to prolong her torment. "Look at her," he growled, running a thick hand over her quivering abdomen. "Even her skin knows its master." His fingers trailed lower, smearing the mix of sweat and other fluids between her thighs.
Diana's chest heaved, her nipples stiffening against the cold dungeon air. Grubber's free hand returned to her breast, kneading the soft flesh possessively before pinching her nipple between thick fingers. "These American Tits..." he mused, twisting until she gasped. "They were made for German hands." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, his cock driving deeper into her resisting body. Diana arched against the restraints, her muscles straining—but the chains held fast. The Baroness exhaled a slow stream of smoke, her gaze lingering on the way Diana's body bowed beneath Grubber's weight.
The Nazi's rhythm grew erratic, his hips slamming against Diana's Pussy with punishing force. Sweat dripped from his gray curls onto her chest as he leaned forward, his teeth biting the side of her neck. "Your cunt fights me," he snarled, gripping her hips tighter.
"You feel it squeezing, don't you?" Diana spat through clenched teeth, her thighs trembling violently as he still pistoned into her.
Grubber's laughter was a wet, guttural rumble against her neck—halfway between a cough and a snarl. His fingers dug deeper into her breasts, the sweat-slicked flesh yielding under his grip like dough under a baker's fists. The Baroness exhaled a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, watching with detached interest as Diana's toes curled against nothing, her calves quivering with the strain of resisting his rhythm. The dungeon smelled of burnt lamp oil now—Grubber's sweat had overwhelmed the mold.
His thrusts became jagged, uneven—punctuated by grunts that vibrated through Diana's ribs. She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached, but the wet squelch of their joined flesh betrayed her. "Listen to that," Grubber hissed, slowing just enough to let the sound linger before slamming back in. "Your cunt sings for me." His thumb found her clit, pressing with enough force to make her hips jerk involuntarily. The Baroness smirked at the reaction, tapping ash onto Diana's heaving stomach.
Grubber's breath hitched—a ragged, stuttering sound. His hands clamped around her breasts like vises, the calluses on his palms scraping her nipples raw as he pistoned into her with desperate urgency. "Take it, Amerikanische schlampe," he snarled, his hips stuttering. Diana felt the hot spill of him inside her, his cum flooding her depths as his grip on her tits tightened to the point of bruising. He collapsed forward, his sweat-drenched chest hair matting against her bruised Tits! His breath hot and sour against her neck.
The Baroness flicked her cigarette onto the stones. "Pathetic," she murmured, watching Grubber's spent cock twitch inside Diana's ravaged cunt. "Twelve hours, and you barely made her whimper." Grubber growled, lifting his weight onto his elbows to glare at the Baroness.
Diana's chest heaved—each inhale stretching the bruises left by his fingers across her breasts. Her thighs trembled uncontrollably, the mix of cum and sweat trickling down her inner thighs. Grubber's breath was hot on her neck as he chuckled, grinding his hips lazily against her sore flesh.
"She whimpers now," he rumbled, deliberately flexing inside her. Diana clenched her jaw, but a traitorous whine escaped her lips as his softening cock dragged against her raw walls.
The Baroness' polished boot heel clicked against stone as she circled the bed. "Twelve hours," she mused, dragging a gloved finger through the sweat pooling in Diana's collarbones. "And still she won't scream. Fascinating." Her nail dug into a fresh welt on Diana's ribs, making the Amazon's breath hitch. Grubber rolled his hips lazily, his softening cock still buried inside her.
"She makes noises now," he rumbled, thick fingers squeezing her bruised breasts possessively. "Like a squeaky bed spring." His other hand slid down her quivering stomach, smearing their mixed fluids across her skin before roughly circling her clit. Diana's thighs jerked against the restraints, the chains at her ankles rattling against iron posts.
The Baroness stepped closer, her polished boots scraping against the stone floor as she examined Diana's ravaged body. "Twelve hours," she mused, tapping her riding crop against her palm. "And yet—no answers." Her gaze lingered on the way Diana's nipples stood stiff against the cold dungeon air, the dark bruises blooming across her breasts like storm clouds. She reached out suddenly, pinching a hardened nipple between leather-clad fingers and twisting. Diana's breath hitched The closest she'd come to a whimper.
Grubber chuckled from where he lounged on the bed, his thick fingers stroking his half-hard cock lazily.
"Perhaps she needs another lesson," he rumbled, his tongue dragging across chapped lips as his gaze roamed Diana's sweat-slicked thighs. The Baroness arched a sculpted brow but didn't protest when the giant Nazi lumbered to his feet, his footsteps shaking dust from the ceiling beams.
Diana barely had time to brace before Grubber seized her by the hair, dragging her limp form upright against his barrel chest. His other hand groped between her thighs, thick fingers probing her sore entrance with a wet squelch that echoed through the chamber. "Still loose from me," he growled triumphantly, thrusting two fingers deep.
The Baroness clicked her tongue, uncoiling a fresh length of rope from the wall. "Enough boasting. Secure her properly this time." Grubber grinned, spitting into his palm before smearing it over Diana's raw nipples. He forced her wrists together behind her back, the coarse hemp biting into her already-ravaged skin as he cinched the knots tight enough to make her shoulder blades scream.
Diana gasped as he flipped her onto her stomach, her swollen breasts, rolled around on her chest before him. The ropes creaked under her weight as Grubber again shoved his cock into her pussy.
Diana's thighs trembled violently, her toes curling against the rough linen sheets as the giant Nazi mounted himself atop of her..
Grubber's barrel chest pressed against her Tits, his thick fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled her against him. The ropes binding her wrists under her back ."Such sweet American Titties," he growled, kneading them roughly, his calloused thumbs circling her stiffened nipples until they ached. Diana's breath came in short, sharp gasps, her thighs trembling as he ground his erection into pussy.
The Baroness watched from the shadows, her riding crop tapping impatiently against her thigh. "Enough foreplay," she snapped. Grubber chuckled darkly, his grip tightening until Diana's breasts bulged between his fingers. He leaned in, his sweat-drenched chest hair scraping against her bare skin as he whispered, "You will ride me now, Fraulein—like the whore you are." With a cruel twist of her nipple, he rammed into her pussy her bound arms trapped beneath their weight.
Diana's gasp was swallowed by the wet slap of flesh—Grubber's massive thighs pistoning between her spread legs, his cock dragging against her raw walls with each punishing thrust. The ropes binding her wrists dug deeper
He took her now even harder than before!
Diana's thighs trembled violently as Grubber's thick fingers dug into her hips, lifting her limp body only to slam her back down onto his cock with brutal efficiency. Sweat dripped from his gray-streaked chest hair onto her bruised back, mingling with the blood trickling from her split lip. The Baroness crossed her legs elegantly on the oak chair, swirling a glass of 1921 Château Margaux as she observed Grubber's calloused hands gripping Diana's hips hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises. "Fascinating," she murmured, exhaling cigarette smoke through her nose. "Even broken, she tenses when you graze that spot."
The torchlight flickered as Grubber flipped Diana onto her back again, her bound wrists trapped beneath her own weight. He spat onto his palm before smearing it between her thighs, chuckling at the wet sound as he forced himself back inside. Diana's head lolled to the side, her dark hair matted with sweat and blood—until Grubber seized her chin, forcing her to watch as he pistoned into her ravaged cunt. The Baroness took a leisurely sip of wine, her boot tapping idly against the iron bed frame. "Seven hours," she mused. "And still no screams. Remarkable."
Diana's vision swam as Grubber's thrusts grew erratic, his calloused fingers digging into the bruises he'd left on her hips. The chains securing her ankles had rubbed the skin raw, leaving streaks of crimson on the stained linen. When she blinked, the torches seemed to stretch into bright smears—then darkness swallowed her whole.
She came to with the taste of iron in her mouth, her cheek pressed against damp stone. The dungeon cell stank of piss and stale hay, its iron bars cold against her fingertips when she managed to roll onto her knees. Her wrists were still bound behind her back with coarse rope that bit into her flesh with every movement, as she paced about her personal cell.
Diana groaned softly, her thighs slick with the remnants of Grubber's violation as she willed her trembling legs to hold her weight. Beyond the bars, flickering torchlight revealed Nazi guards milling about—their laughter sharp and guttural—while shadows shifted in adjacent cells.
A woman's whimper carried through the corridor, followed by the wet slap of flesh. Diana's jaw tightened. With a few minutes of struggling, she worked her arms free from her bonds, The first thing she did was raise her arms to cover her bare breasts. she walked about the cell, taking in what she witnessed?
Beside her cell, fingers curled around rusted iron, knuckles split and swollen. A gaunt face pressed against the bars, hollow eyes reflecting torchlight. "American?" the prisoner rasped, her French accent thick with exhaustion. Diana recognized the tattered remains of a Resistance uniform clinging to the woman's skeletal frame. Before she could answer, footsteps echoed. A guard paused outside her neighbor's cell, unbuttoning his trousers with a leer.
The Frenchwoman spat at him, earning a rifle butt to the temple. She crumpled without a sound. Diana's fingers curled around the bars—cold, unforgiving steel biting into her palms. The guard sneered, stepping over the unconscious woman's body to glare at Diana. "You're next, Schlampe," he promised, thumbing the edge of his belt buckle. Behind him, another prisoner, a dark-haired man with a broken nose, mouthed don't react through his own bars.
Diana inhaled slowly. The dungeon air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and stale fear, undercut by the acrid tang of Grubber's seed still drying between her thighs. Her wrists ached from the ropes, the fibers having sawed deep grooves into her skin during the night's endless violations. She forced her shoulders square despite the sting. "Who else is here?" she whispered to the broken-nosed man. His gaze flickered toward a cell further down, where a child's whimper cut through the rhythmic dripping of water.
The guard outside her cell chuckled, adjusting himself obscenely as he watched her press against the bars. "No talking, Huren," he growled, slamming his baton against the iron with a clang that reverberated through Diana's teeth. She didn't flinch—but the Frenchwoman in the next cell moaned softly, her fingers twitching in the straw. Diana's stomach tightened. That uniform wasn't just tattered; it had been methodically shredded, the gaps revealing bruises shaped like knuckles.
The broken-nosed man rattled his chains deliberately, drawing the guard's attention. "Scheisse, you're still alive?" the Nazi sneered, turning away from Diana to kick the man's cell door. The distraction gave Diana a moment to study the dungeon properly. The walls wept with condensation, the torchlight glinting off something stone near the ceiling—a rusted hook, dangling a frayed noose. Her gaze dropped to the floor, where dark stains radiated outward from a drain. Not water.
The Frenchwoman stirred, her fingers scrabbling at the straw beneath her. Diana caught the flash of something metallic—a bent nail, hidden in her palm. Their eyes met. The woman nodded fractionally toward the far wall where the guards clustered around a makeshift table, their laughter punctuated by the clink of stolen wine bottles. One Nazi leaned back, his boot propped on the table edge, idly stroking the handle of his holstered Luger. Diana's breath caught. The gun's grip bore a familiar insignia: the eagle and swastika of Marlowe's personal guard.
Her neighbor's whisper was barely audible. "They took everything. Even our teeth." The woman parted her lips slightly—revealing bloody gums where molars had been pried out. Diana's stomach twisted. Behind them, the broken-nosed man coughed deliberately. The guard glanced up, his hand drifting toward his baton. Diana pressed closer to the bars, deliberately angling her body to draw his gaze to her bare breasts. The guard hesitated, his tongue flicking over yellowed teeth.
The Frenchwoman's nail scraped against stone as she edged it toward Diana. "For the lock," she breathed. Diana flexed her wrists—still raw from the ropes—and caught the improvised tool between two fingers. The guard outside her cell chuckled, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. "Patience, Amerikanerin," he taunted, stroking himself through his uniform pants. "Grubber left you... loose, but we'll find uses for that mouth."
Beyond the bars, a new sound cut through the dungeon's rhythm of whimpers and dripping water: the screech of an iron hatch opening. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of snow and something acrid—burning metal? The guards by the wine table stiffened, hastily straightening their uniforms as footsteps echoed down the corridor. The broken-nosed prisoner tensed. "Inspection," he mouthed.
Diana pressed her forehead against the bars, the cold iron biting into her skin. Torchlight flickered over a pair of polished jackboots stopping outside her cell. Baroness Wilhelm exhaled a plume of smoke into the dank air, her riding crop tapping against the bars. "Still conscious?" she purred, leaning in to examine Diana's bruised face. "Grubber must be losing his touch." The scent of her perfume—violets and gun oil—clung to the damp wool of her greatcoat.
The French prisoner hissed through broken teeth.
"They're moving transports at dawn." Diana's fingers tightened around the bent nail hidden in her palm. Wilhelm's shadow stretched across the cell floor as she crouched, her gloved hand reaching through the bars to trace a fresh whip welt across Diana's ribs. "Such pretty sounds you made," she whispered. "Like a gutted songbird." Outside, an engine coughed to life—the rumble of a truck mixing with the moans from the interrogation block.
The Frenchwoman shifted slightly, her skeletal frame blocking the guard's view as Diana angled the nail toward the lock. Rust flaked onto her fingertips. Somewhere down the corridor, a child began screaming—high, desperate notes that ended abruptly with the crack of a baton. Diana's jaw clenched. The nail scraped against the tumblers, her wrist twisting despite the raw burns from the ropes.
Wilhelm's riding crop tapped against the bars again, inches from Diana's bare shoulder. "Still playing the hero?" The Baroness exhaled smoke through her nose. "How quaint." Behind her, two guards dragged a sobbing woman by her hair toward the interrogation block, her bare feet leaving smears of blood on the stone. Diana's nail found purchase. The lock clicked softly.
The broken-nosed prisoner coughed—a warning. Diana froze as a guard strolled past, his boots splashing through a puddle of something darker than water. Wilhelm straightened, adjusting her gloves. "Dawn transport," she repeated, her voice carrying down the corridor. "Marlowe wants them all alive. For now." Her riding crop traced Diana's collarbone through the bars. "Especially you, Liebling."
Diana's fingers tightened around the nail as Wilhelm strode away, her greatcoat swirling around polished boots. The moment the Baroness disappeared around the corner, the Frenchwoman lunged—not at Diana, but at her own wrist, biting down hard on the vein. Blood sprayed across the guard's face as he recoiled, swearing. "Scheisse! She's—" The broken-nosed man hurled his tin cup through the bars, striking the Nazi's temple.
Diana didn't hesitate. She jammed the nail into the lock, twisting until her raw wrists screamed. The mechanism groaned. A click. The cell door swung open just as the guard staggered upright, blood dripping from his nose. Diana's fist connected with his nose, she had no super strength, but even a weak punch, striking a nose would kill.
The Frenchwoman crawled forward, gripping Diana's ankle with bony fingers. "Armory," she gasped, pointing toward the interrogation block with her chin. "Below the stairs—" Her words cut off as another guard rounded the corner, rifle raised. Diana pivoted, driving her knee into the first Nazi's gut before wrenching his Luger from its holster. The shot echoed off wet stone, the second guard crumpling with a hole where his right eye had been.
Smoke curled from the barrel as Diana turned back—just in time to see the Frenchwoman's throat slit by a bayonet from behind. Blood sprayed across the broken-nosed man's face as he roared, rattling his chains. Diana fired twice more. The attacking guard spun, his skull cracking against the bars.
Diana staggered forward, her bare feet slipping in the Frenchwoman's blood. The dungeon air reeked of gunpowder and opened bowels. She snatched the dead guard's key ring, tossing it to the broken-nosed prisoner.
"Free the others," she rasped, her voice raw from twelve hours of screaming. He caught the keys mid-air, already working the lock with practiced hands.
Beyond the cellblock corridor, boots pounded against stone. Three Nazis rounded the corner, their rifles swinging wildly. Diana emptied the Luger's remaining rounds—two found throats, the third ricocheting off a guard's helmet before embedding in his comrade's thigh.
Gott mit uns.
Wonder woman 's bare feet dug unto the steps of the stairwell leading up from the dark dungeon.
Diana sprinted up the worn stone stairs, her thighs streaked with blood and sweat, her bare feet slapping against the cold steps. The air grew sharper as she ascended—less damp, more biting—carrying the distant smell of diesel and gun oil. Shouts echoed behind her, muffled by the thick walls but gaining volume. A bullet whined past her shoulder, chipping the limestone beside her head. She didn't flinch.
The upper door loomed ahead, its iron hinges rusted but sturdy. Diana threw her weight against it, muscles straining. The door groaned open—revealing a narrow barracks hallway lit by flickering electric bulbs. A startled guard fumbled for his sidearm, but Diana was already moving. She drove her knee into his gut, grabbed his pistol, and fired twice into the ceiling. The concussion rang in her ears.
Footsteps pounded from both directions. Diana ducked left—toward the scent of gun oil and metal. A sign dangled crookedly: Waffenkammer. Armory. She vaulted over a crate of grenades, the wood splintering beneath her bare heel as she landed. Three rifles stood propped against the far wall. She snatched the nearest, bayonet flashing as she gutted the first Nazi through the door.
Something golden glinted beneath a pile of confiscated weapons. Her lasso. Diana's fingers closed around the familiar braided leather just as a bullet shattered the oil lamp above her. Fire rained down. She rolled through the flames, lasso whipping out to snare an ankle—yanked hard. The screaming guard crashed face-first into a rack of bayonets.
Her magic belt lay coiled beneath a Nazi greatcoat like a slumbering serpent. Diana lunged for it as another rifle barked. White-hot pain seared her shoulder, then vanished the instant the golden clasp snapped shut around her waist. Power flooded her veins like molten sunlight. Her skin shimmered. Bruises dissolved. The bullet popped out of healed flesh with a metallic ping.
A guard charged with bayonet leveled—only to freeze mid-swing when Diana seized his wrist. Bone shattered in her grip. She hurled him effortlessly through the armory doors, his body crashing into three comrades like a cannonball of flesh and wool. The air smelled of ozone and fresh blood. One Nazi fumbled with a Luger. Diana's lasso lashed out, wrapping his throat so tight his eyeballs bulged before she yanked him face-first into a crate of potato masher grenades.
Then she saw him.
Steve Trevor hung suspended from rusted ceiling chains, his wrists raw where manacles had bitten deep. Sweat and blood streaked his bare torso—his ribs too prominent, his golden hair matted with filth—but his head lifted at the sound of gunfire. Diana's lasso burned against her hip as their eyes met. His cracked lips parted.
"Wonder Woman—?"
The French resistance fighter chained beside him twisted frantically. "They injected him with something!" His own wrists were bound, but his tattered trousers remained intact—unlike Steve, who dangled fully exposed, his thighs bruised from repeated beatings. Diana gazed at his hanging naked Cock.
Steve notices her stare. "The work of the Baroness! Steve explained, with a quick chuckle. Dianna gave a short nod and smile, and then rips away their chains as is they were paper.
The upper door burst open behind her. Three Nazis leveled rifles—then froze at the sight of Diana in full battle regalia, golden lasso coiled at her hip. Their hesitation cost them.
Steve Trevor's hoarse laugh cut through the gunfire as Diana moved like liquid sunlight, snapping the first rifle barrel upward into its owner's chin. Bone cracked. The second Nazi barely had time to piss himself before her lasso wrapped around his throat, yanking him face-first into the third man's bayonet. Gurgling, they collapsed together in a tangle of wet wool and spurting carotid arteries.
The French prisoner—now free—snatched a fallen Luger and put two rounds into the ceiling. "Armory's clear!" he barked, kicking aside a twitching leg. Diana didn't slow. She strode toward Steve, her bare feet leaving crimson prints on the concrete. He was grabbing his underwear from off the floor.
Behind them, the dungeon stairs echoed with approaching boots—too many to count. Diana whirled, her lasso slicing through the air like a whip of molten gold. It wrapped around the lead guard's rifle, yanking it skyward just as he fired. The bullet sparked off an iron railing.
Steve pulls up his trousers and zipped his fly.
Diana's bare foot slid through a pool of spilled oil as she spun toward the approaching footsteps, her lasso hissing through the air like a live wire. The first Nazi through the door took the golden coil square in the chest—ribs caved inward with a wet crunch before his body slammed into the stone wall hard enough to leave a spiderweb of cracks. The second guard barely had time to register the twitching corpse before Diana's fist connected with his Adam's apple, crushing his windpipe in a single brutal motion.
Steve Trevor was now on his feet, buttoning his shirt, before picking up one of the discarded weapons.
The dungeon stank! Nazi fear pungent as spilled beer, as Diana pivoted toward the stairwell, waiting for Trevor to catch up. Steve’s fingers brushed the small of her back, his touch lingering just long enough to convey what twelve hours of torture couldn’t: I’m still here. The French resistance fighter, now armed with a confiscated MP40—kicked open a crate of stick grenades with a guttural laugh. "For Marlowe’s welcoming committee," he grinned, stuffing two into his belt.
Diana’s lasso glowed faintly as footsteps thunder clapped from below—too many uniforms scrambling up the stairs. She braced herself against the door frame, muscles coiling. The first Nazi emerged wild-eyed, bayonet leveled, only for Diana to snap-kick his knee sideways with a wet pop. His scream cut off when she hurled him back into his comrades, sending three tumbling like dominoes down the stone steps.
In the next camber, Dianna's eyes blazed in a combination of fear and Anger!
"Grubber!!"
The monster who had raped and brutalized her for hours stood in her path. Grinning at her in defiance. Dianna place her lasso and tierra on a table. Now with no weapons but her fists, she circles the huge giant remembering what he'd done to her. "This is between, him & Me! She instructed.
Grubber's laughter boomed against the dungeon walls, his thick fingers adjusting his belt buckle with deliberate slowness. "What's wrong, Schlampe? Forgot how I stretched you open?" His tongue dragged across yellowed teeth as he recounted every violation—the way her body had trembled beneath him, the choked sounds she'd made when he'd forced himself into her deeper than any man had ever done before!
Beside him, a fresh-faced Nazi recruit paled, gripping his rifle like a lifeline.
Grubber grinned wider, circling Diana like a butcher sizing up a side of meat. "Tell them, Schlampe," he taunted, his voice thick with relish. "How you screamed when I split you open from behind—how your thighs shook when I made you beg for it." His boot scuffed against concrete as he stepped closer, close enough for Diana to smell the sour sweat and stale schnacher on his breath. "Or should I demonstrate?" He cupped himself obscenely, leering at the way her jaw tightened.
The recruits shifted behind him, their rifles trembling. One—barely older than a boy—swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. Grubber chuckled. "See how she remembers?" He dragged a calloused finger down Diana's bare arm, tracing the fading bruises his teeth had left. "Twelve hours, and still dripping me when they dragged you out." His voice dropped to a growl, hot against her ear. "I could taste you on my fingers for days."
Diana's breath hitched—not from fear, but from the visceral memory of his weight pinning her hips, the way he'd laughed when she'd bitten through her own lip to stay silent. Grubber smirked, reading her tension like a butcher assessing meat. He turned to the recruits, spreading his hands. "She pretends to be a goddess, Kinder, but I had her squealing like a dockside whore." His boot scuffed the concrete as he pivoted, his voice thick with relish. "Ask her how many times she came on my cock."
The youngest recruit's grip on his rifle faltered. Grubber seized the moment, grabbing Diana's wrist to drag her forward. "See these bruises?" He forced her palm against the darkest marks on her inner thighs—his fingerprints purpled from hours of brutal leverage. "I held her open like this," he growled, demonstrating with obscene precision, "and watched her cunt suck me in deeper with every thrust."
Diana's nostrils flared. The dungeon air thickened with the stench of his sweat, the same acrid musk that had soaked her skin when he'd pinned her face-first into Grubber's mattress. He circled her now with the same predator's gait, his jackboots scraping against concrete where chains had once bitten into her ankles. "She begged," he lied to the wide-eyed recruits, "when I twisted her nipples like...?
Her fist drove into his solar plexus with a wet crunch of cartilage. The Nazi staggered—not from pain, but from sheer disbelief. His belly jiggled beneath the impact, his breath exploding in a wheeze that smelled of sausage and cheap schnapps. Diana didn't let him recover. She pivoted on her heel and drove her elbow upward into his jaw. His head snapped back with a crack that echoed off the dripping walls. She could defeat him in seconds, but she wanted him to suffer slowly! Like he had done to her!
Grubber's knees buckled. He coughed, flecks of spit and blood spattering the concrete. "You—" he rasped, clutching his gut. The recruits gasped as their invincible tormentor wobbled like a drunkard. Diana circled him now, her feet silent against the stone. Every whip welt on her back burned with remembered agony. Her thighs still ached where his fingers had dug in like claws.
"You forgot," Diana whispered, her voice colder than the dungeon air, "how hard I didn't hit you before." She flexed her fingers—still tender from hours of straining against ropes. The guards exchanged nervous glances. One recruit edged backward until his spine met damp brick. Grubber wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grinned. His teeth were pink with blood.
"You hit like a—" His taunt dissolved into a wet gurgle as Diana's knee slammed upward between his legs. The crunch of shattering pelvic bone echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Grubber folded like a broken marionette, his scream high and ragged. Diana caught him by the throat before he hit the ground, her fingers pressing into the bruises she had left during his last assault—when her nails had raked his flesh raw in desperate retaliation.
The recruits froze. One dropped his rifle with a clatter. Grubber's face purpled as Diana lifted him effortlessly, her forearm tendons standing stark against his stubbled skin. "You forgot something," she hissed. The dungeon air smelled of urine and rising bile. His jackboots kicked weakly, scraping against her thighs—the same thighs he'd pried apart with such brutish arrogance hours before. "I let you."
Grubber's eyes bulged—not from the chokehold, but from realization. Diana's grip tightened fractionally, allowing just enough air for him to wheeze: "Liar—" His protest died as she slammed him spine-first into the damp stone wall. Plaster rained down. His ribs cracked audibly, the sound reverberating like a gunshot through the silent corridor.
The recruits stood frozen, their rifles dangling uselessly. One retched at the sight of Grubber's legs—twitching like a gutted fish, his polished jackboots scraping frantic circles in the pooling urine beneath him. Diana leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "Remember how you bragged about lasting twenty minutes?" Her knee drove upward again, this time crushing his testicles to pulp against his shattered pelvis. "You won't last twenty seconds."
Grubber's scream curdled into a wet shriek as she dropped him. His body hit the concrete with a meaty slap, limbs splayed at grotesque angles. Diana turned toward the recruits—boys really, their Adam's apples bobbing above stiff collars. The youngest crossed himself. Another pissed his trousers, the dark stain spreading down his woolen thighs. The scent of ammonia mixed with Grubber's coppery blood.
She stepped over his twitching form, her bare foot pressing down on his shattered pelvis just hard enough to draw fresh whimpers. "Run," Diana said softly. The recruits hesitated—until she snapped Grubber's Luger from its holster without looking and fired a single shot past the tallest boy's ear. The bullet sparked off an iron railing behind him. They fled like scattered roaches, their boots skidding in pooled vomit.
Grubber coughed up a stringy mass of blood and bile, his fingers scrabbling at the concrete. "Marlowe...will..." His voice was a wet rasp, his broken ribs grating with every shallow breath. Diana crouched beside him, her golden lasso coiled loosely in one hand. She let its glow illuminate his ruined face—the swollen nose, the eye hemorrhaging crimson. "Tell me," she whispered, "was I worth dying for?"
Behind her, Steve Trevor emerged from the shadows, his stolen Luger smoking. Bodies littered the corridor—some moaning, most still. The French resistance fighter kicked a twitching leg aside with clinical detachment. "Transport trucks," he muttered, nodding toward the distant engine rumble. "Ten minutes." Diana didn't look up. Her fingers closed around Grubber's dog tags, the embossed H.Marlowe glinting dully in the torchlight. She ripped them free with a snap of chain-links.
Grubber's laughter bubbled wetly through the blood pooling in his throat. "Still...wearing you," he gasped, his shattered pelvis grinding as he tried to roll onto his side. His remaining hand pawed weakly at his fly—a grotesque pantomime of his earlier taunts. The stench of ruptured bowels thickened between them. Diana's knuckles whitened around the dog tags.
He coughed, spraying flecks of crimson onto her golden greaves. "Should've seen...your face," he rasped, his remaining eye rolling toward the ceiling in mock ecstasy. His tongue—split from her earlier blow—lolled obscenely. "Ahhh, Grubber!" he mimicked in a shrill falsetto, hips twitching against the concrete in a parody of thrusts. "So tight—like a—"
Diana's fist crushed his windpipe before he could finish.
The crunch reverberated off the damp walls. Grubber's body convulsed, legs kicking at nothing, his remaining hand clawing at her wrist—not to resist, but to trace the veins beneath her skin one last time with pornographic familiarity. His nails left ragged red lines as his gagging turned to wet, rhythmic hiccups.
Outside, the transport trucks revved their engines. Steve limped forward, his stolen Luger smoking. "Wonder Woman—"
She didn't move. Grubber's corpse spasmed one final time beneath her, his ruptured bladder releasing a dark stain across the concrete. The scent of voided bowels mixed with cordite. Diana stared at the dog tags in her fist, the embossed letters digging crescents into her palm. Marlowe's name. Marlowe's orders. Marlowe's men.
Boots pounded upstairs—too heavy to be fleeing recruits. Steve grabbed her elbow. "They're sealing the exits!" The Frenchman already crouched by the stairwell, tossing a stick grenade upward without looking. The detonation shook dust from the ceiling tiles. "Merde," he muttered as return fire chewed the stone beside his head.
Diana rose fluidly, Grubber's dog tags still clenched in her fist. Marlowe's insignia bit into her palm like teeth. The distant engine roar swelled—not trucks now, but armored halftracks grinding into position. Somewhere above, a loudspeaker crackled to life with guttural commands. Steve wiped blood from his brow with a torn sleeve. "They'll have the courtyard locked down."
Then the entire dungeon shook.
Not from grenades or gunfire—but from the deep, rolling thunder of naval artillery, the shells screaming overhead like vengeful gods. Concrete dust rained from the ceiling as Diana's head snapped toward the barred windows high on the wall. Daylight framed the iron slats in jagged stripes, but now it was eclipsed by a flickering orange glow. The horizon was burning.
Steve Trevor staggered as another detonation rocked the compound. "Christ—" He caught himself against the wall, his fingers digging into crumbling mortar. "That's our big guns." The French resistance fighter was already at the window, shoving aside a corpse to peer upward. His grin flashed white in the gloom. "Les Américains," he breathed. "They're shelling the coastal batteries." Another tremor shook the dungeon, sending a severed Nazi helmet rolling like a grotesque bowling ball across the floor.
Diana stepped over Grubber's cooling corpse, her bare feet leaving scarlet prints as she moved toward the high window. Through the iron bars, the skyline erupted in towering plumes of dirt and fire—not random shelling, but precise creeping barrage advancing inland. Beyond the smoke, the sea teemed with landing craft. Higgins boats disgorged thousands of olive-drab figures onto the beachhead, their rifle barrels glinting like a steel tide. The metallic stink of seawater and cordite seeped through the dungeon walls.
Steve pressed beside her, his breath catching. Half a mile out, the first wave of GIs had already breached the seawall. Sunlight flashed off bayonets as they fanned out—some moving in textbook fireteam wedges, others sprinting low between shell craters where Nazi machine guns had gone silent minutes before. A Sherman tank, its hull number barely visible beneath layers of salt crust, lurched over a dune and instantly pivoted its 75mm cannon toward the compound. The French resistance fighter whooped as its opening volley obliterated a sniper's nest in the clocktower.
Closer now, Diana spotted the lead platoon: a grizzled sergeant waving his Thompson like a baton, directing his men through a breach in the outer fence where artillery had peeled back the wire like rotten skin. Behind them came medics with red crosses glaring on their armbands, then engineers hauling Bangalore torpedoes to clear the next obstacle. The air stank of burning diesel and the copper-tang of fresh blood—American and German alike mingling in the sand.
A stray shell hit the compound’s east wing, collapsing the roof in a slow-motion avalanche of tile and timber. Through the dust, Diana saw a Nazi officer—his uniform half-unbuttoned—sprinting toward a parked Kubelwagen, only for a GI’s Garand to cough once and drop him mid-stride. The body skidded face-first through gravel, his outstretched fingers brushing the vehicle’s tire as if he’d meant to change it instead of flee.
The beach was chaos incarnate. Landing craft disgorged fresh waves of troops into knee-deep surf, their boots churning the Mediterranean into froth. Beyond them, destroyers loomed like steel cliffs, their 5-inch guns walking fire inland with methodical precision. Diana counted at least three battalion-sized elements already ashore—infantrymen fanning out between burning halftracks where Nazi crews lay slumped over their machine guns, their blackened hands still welded to overheated barrels. Finally they were inside the castle, and the dungeon.
One GI—his helmet strap dangling—nearly tripped over a severed leg still wearing a polished jackboot. He vomited into the sand, wiped his mouth, then shouldered his M1 and kept moving. The metallic stench of high explosives hung thick enough to taste. Diana's lasso twitched at her hip as the lead elements reached the compound's shattered gates. There, a grizzled captain with a broken nose and Silver Star ribbon suddenly froze, his Thompson swinging toward Steve Trevor's emaciated form. "Jesus wept—Trevor?"
Steve swayed, his bruised face cracking into a grin. "Colonel Packard. You're uglier than Omaha Beach at low tide."
The grizzled officer spat tobacco onto the corpse of a nearby Nazi, his Thompson still smoking. Behind him, the first wave of infantry fanned out—some clearing rooms with practiced efficiency, others gaping at Diana's blood-streaked form. Packard's gaze flickered from Steve's emaciated ribs to the golden lasso coiled at Diana's hip. "Christ on a crutch," he muttered, then jerked his chin toward the compound's heart. "Marlowe's holed up in the east wing with his pet SS. Orders are to take him alive for interrogation." His boot nudged Grubber's shattered pelvis with clinical detachment. "Guess you started without us."
Diana's fingers tightened around Marlowe's dog tags. The metal edges bit into her palm, matching the throbbing welt where Grubber's teeth had torn her shoulder. Beyond Packard's shoulder, GIs were already stripping dead Nazis of ammunition, their hands moving with the brisk pragmatism of men who expected to need every bullet. One private—barely old enough to shave—froze mid-reach when he recognized Wonder Woman's silhouette against the flickering torchlight. His Adam's apple bobbed. "Sarge, that's—"
"I ain't blind, kid," the sergeant growled, though his own knuckles whitened around his carbine stock. Diana exhaled, tasting blood and gunpowder on her tongue. Her costume materialized in a shimmer of divine light—the golden eagle breastplate sealing over bruised ribs, the star-spangled briefs covering thighs still striped with Grubber's fingermarks.
"If you don't mind? Steve...Colonel Packard! I think I'll take leave of you...I think you have things in order here!"
Packard spat out a wad of chewing tobacco onto a dead Nazi's face before nodding. "Ma'am, you do whatever the hell you need to do." His Thompson jerked toward the east wing's blown-out windows where muzzle flashes still flickered. Only then did Diana notice the dried blood caking the colonel's left ear—the ragged hole where a bullet had grazed him during the beach landing.
Steve reached for her elbow, his fingers hesitant against her golden armor. Wonder Woman—" His voice cracked. For a moment, she saw the boy she'd pulled from the Aegean years ago—sunburn, half-drowned, but grinning through the pain. Now his lips were split from Nazi fists, his ribs visible beneath the stolen uniform. She pressed Marlowe's dog tags into his palm. His fingers closed over them, understanding passing between them like an unspoken oath.
A private gasped as Diana's plane shimmered into existence in the courtyard—not the sleek modern variant, but the original propeller-driven craft Steve had crashed in. Its fuselage still bore the patina of Mediterranean salt and bullet scars from that first desperate flight. She vaulted into the cockpit without a ladder, her thighs flexing where Grubber's teeth had broken skin hours before. The engine roared to life with a cough of blue smoke.
Steve limped forward as the plane's camouflage field engaged. Its edges dissolved like mist, leaving only the impression of heat waves radiating off concrete. He reached blindly—not for the fuselage, but where he knew her face would be. His fingers brushed her cheekbone, tracing the swelling from Grubber's backhand. "You're leaking transmission fluid," he lied softly, thumb wiping away blood that wasn't there.
The startup sequence thrummed through Diana's palms. She caught his wrist mid-retreat, pressing his knuckles to her lips. His dog tags—Grubber's, Marlowe's, hers—clinked against the throttle lever. "Tell Packard to save me a Nazi," she said. The engine's growl swallowed whatever Steve replied, but she saw the words shape his broken mouth: You deserve peace.
Her plane lifted with a lurch that sent loose shell casings rolling across the floorboards. Below, Steve became a smudge of dirtied khaki amid the carnage, one hand raised not in salute but in farewell
The End.
Email:Barry.Phillips.Author@gmail.com
Note: The story has reached a satisfying conclusion with Diana departing for Paradise Island and Steve remaining with the Allied forces. No further continuation is necessary as major plot threads have been resolved—Diana achieved vengeance against Grubber, Allied forces secured the compound, and Marlowe's remaining forces were being dealt with. The emotional arc between Diana and Steve reached a poignant farewell moment that serves as an appropriate ending point.
The man's knuckles scraped against the mahogany bar as he reached for his bourbon. The ice cubes rattle like bones in a tin cup. His suit is custom-tailored, midnight blue with silver pinstripes. barely contained the slab of muscle beneath it, seams threatening to split with every breath.
At six-six and three hundred fifty pounds, Victor Otto didn't sit on stools; he occupied them, the leather groaning under his weight like a wounded animal.
"Samson says the little bitch torched another warehouse," Otto growled, swirling his drink. The amber liquid caught the light from the fireplace, casting jagged shadows across his scarred cheek. Across from him, Oxx Hensen exhaled cigar smoke through his nostrils, the stench of cheap tobacco mingling with the scent of gun oil from the Glock barely concealed under his jacket.
Hansen's fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair—a grotesque parody of Samson's antique Louis XIV furniture that groaned under his bulk. "My niece says the cops are sniffing around the docks again. That Glenn fucker's got a hard-on for putting us away." His voice was like gravel in a cement mixer. "Teen Shadow's making us look like amateurs."
Otto's glass hit the bar with a crack, bourbon sloshing over his sausage-thick fingers. "She's a mosquito," he spat. "Annoying, but swattable." His eyes flicked to the security feed on the wall-mounted monitor—grainy footage of a lithe figure in mesh and microfiber vaulting over razor wire, nun-chucks flashing under neon lights. The way she moved pissed him off. Like she wasn't afraid.
Hansen leaned forward, his chair shrieking in protest. The cigar ash fell onto Samson's Persian rug, smoldering like their patience. "Mosquitoes carry diseases," he rumbled. "This one's got rabies." He tapped the screen where Teen Shadow's boot connected with one of their dealer's jaws. The kid's head snapped back like a Pez dispenser. "My boys found Rodriguez puking teeth in an alley last night."
Otto's fingers twitched toward the steak knife buried in the bar's wood. The blade bent between his fingers—not enough to break, just enough to whine. "Samson wants her alive," he said, voice dropping an octave. "Wants her on her knees in that leather outfit, squealing before we gut her." The knife jerked free, his reflection warped in the steel. "But I say we deliver her in pieces. A finger here. A nipple there."
Hansen chuckled, grinding his cigar stub into Samson's ivory humidor. "Your poetry's shit, Otto." He gestured to the paused security footage—Teen Shadow mid-air, thighs gleaming under streetlights as she drop-kicked a meth distributor through a plate glass window. "That's no scared little rich girl playing hero. That's a goddamn feral cat." He leaned back, the Louis XIV chair shrieking. "You ever seen a cat fight? They go for the eyes first."
Otto's steak knife twirled between his fingers, catching firelight in jagged bursts. The leather of his gloves creaked. "We'll use nets," he mused, watching Brandi's blurred form disarm three men in less than ten seconds on the grainy feed. "Like those animal control fucks use for mountain lions." His tongue wet his lips at the thought of her writhing in steel mesh, those toned legs kicking air.
Hansen snorted, crushing another cigar between yellowed teeth. His gut pressed against the desk, nudging Samson's solid gold pen set. "Nets? She'll slice through that shit like pantyhose." He tapped the screen again—freeze-frame of Teen Shadow's boot crushing a kneecap, the dealer's face frozen mid-scream. "No, we bait her. Molly says the James girl's got a soft spot for trafficked teens." His grin split his face like a rotten melon. "Set up a fake shipment at Pier Nine. When she comes sniffing—" His meaty hands mimed a bear trap snapping shut.
Otto's cuff links scraped the bar as he refilled his glass, bourbon sloshing over the rim. The liquor dripped onto Samson's imported marble floor like blood spotting snow. "Samson won't like using his merchandise as bait." Ice cubes cracked under his teeth. "Those girls pull in five grand a head."
Hansen's laugh smelled like decay. He pulled a folded photo from his breast pocket—surveillance shot of Brandi emerging from a women's shelter, brown wig askew as she helped a gaunt teenager into her Charger. "Look at her. Little do-gooder can't resist strays." His thumb smeared across the image, obscuring Teen Shadow's face. "We'll dangle two, maybe three fresh ones. Chain 'em up nice and pretty where she can hear 'em scream."
The humid air in Beau Samson's office clung to the expensive Italian wool of his suit like sweat on a wrestler's back. He leaned forward, the leather chair groaning under his 350-pound frame, and tapped a thick finger against the mahogany desk. "She burned another warehouse last night," he growled. "That makes three this month."
Across from him, Oxx Hensen adjusted his cufflinks, the gold catching the dim light of the crystal chandelier. His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. "My boys say she's fast. Slips in, does her damage, vanishes before they can get a clean shot." He smirked, cracking his knuckles. "But everyone bleeds."
Samson's lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. He reached into his desk drawer, pulling out a folder. The glossy photograph inside showed Teen Shadow mid-flip, her halter top straining against her chest as she kicked a henchman in the jaw. "Look at her. Think she fights like that in bed?" He tossed the photo toward Oxx. "We catch her, we'll find out."
Oxx caught the photo without looking, his calloused fingers creasing the edges. He studied it for a long moment, his tongue flicking across his lips. "Girl's got spirit. Bet she'd scream real pretty." He tilted his head toward the ceiling, imagining it. "Should record it. Send copies to every cop in Centra City." The leather of his gloves squeaked as he clenched his fist.
Samson leaned back, the chair protesting under his shifting bulk. He reached for the crystal decanter, pouring two fingers of bourbon that glowed amber in the dim light. "Molly's got eyes on her boyfriend—that skinny little shit from the university." He swirled the liquor, watching it cling to the glass. "Kid's got habits. Gambling debts. Weak point." The ice cubes cracked like breaking bones as he took a sip.
Oxx stretched his massive arms behind his head, the seams of his tailored jacket straining. "Bobby Sanders," he muttered, recalling the dossier. "Pathetic. Cries during horror movies, they say." A chuckle rolled through his chest. "Bet he'd piss himself if we dangled him off the penthouse balcony." He tapped the photo of Teen Shadow again, this time tracing the curve of her thigh with a blunt fingertip. "She comes for him, we'll be waiting. Nets, trans—the
works."
"She burned another warehouse last night," the massive man growled, rolling a crystal tumbler of bourbon between his sausage-thick fingers. The leather chair groaned under his weight as Beau Samson leaned forward, the dim office light catching the scar running through his left eyebrow. "Third one this month. That little bitch is costing me millions."
Across the desk, Manuel Torres adjusted his silk tie, the fabric straining against his bullneck. "My girls say she’s been sniffing around the docks again." His voice carried the gravel of a lifelong smoker. "Asking questions about Queen Pin’s shipments." He drained his scotch in one swallow, ice cubes clinking like loose teeth.
Samson’s knuckles whitened around his glass. "You let one blonde with a hero complex fuck up our operations?" The tumbler shattered in his grip, amber liquid dripping onto the Persian rug. A vein pulsed in his temple as he flicked shards from his palm. "I want her dragged here by that stupid choker she wears. Alive. Understood?"
Torres didn’t flinch. He’d seen Samson break men for less. Instead, he traced the rim of his empty glass with a calloused thumb. "Alive’s easy. Keeping her that way?" He smirked. "My boys get... creative with runaway merchandise." The unspoken hung between them—the soundproof basement two floors below, the steel hooks bolted to the ceiling.
Samson exhaled through his nose, the air whistling slightly from a deviated septum—courtesy of a bar fight at sixteen. The scent of spilled bourbon and Cuban cigar smoke clung to the room. "Your ‘boys’ couldn’t catch a cold in January." He jabbed a finger toward the window where Centra City’s skyline glittered. "She’s out there right now, swinging those nun-chucks like some fucking anime character."
Torres chuckled, the sound like a boot crunching gravel. "You think too small, Beau." He reached into his breast pocket, producing a folded photograph. Sliding it across the desk, he revealed a grainy shot of Teen Shadow mid-leap, her rave-wear mesh top straining against the momentum of her movement. The timestamp read 2:47 AM—last night. "We don’t chase. We bait." His thumb tapped the edge of the image, pointing to the warehouse’s address scrawled in red ink. "Let her come to us."
Samson snatched the photo, his blunt fingers leaving smudges on the glossy surface. The office’s grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence as he studied the vigilante’s form—the way her ankle boots flexed for impact, the utility belt’s pouches undoubtedly stuffed with god-knows-what. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. "You’ve got inside men?"
Torres leaned back, the chair protesting under his bulk. "Better. A cop." He let that linger, watching Samson’s eyebrows climb. "Not your Sergeant Glenn. Younger. Hungrier. The kind who pockets evidence when he thinks no one’s looking."
Samson’s grin split his face like a knife wound. "Dirty cops are cheaper than clean ones." He tossed the photo onto a stack of shipping manifests, where it slid between invoices for "industrial cleaning supplies"—their code for Queen Pin’s latest shipment of girls. "How deep does his pocket go?"
Torres produced a second photo from his jacket, this one showing a lanky patrol officer with a receding hairline accepting an envelope outside a doughnut shop. "Deep enough to plant this." He tapped the image’s edge where the officer’s cruiser idled, trunk slightly ajar. Inside, just visible beneath a gym bag, lay a coiled length of rope and a veterinarian-grade tranquilizer kit.
"She burned another warehouse last night," the massive man growled, his sausage-thick fingers crushing the crystal tumbler in his hand. Whiskey dripped onto the Persian rug like blood from a fresh wound. Across the desk, Oxx Henson shifted his 350-pound frame, the leather chair groaning under his weight.