Chapter 1
The girl was one of those dark, sweet beauties that only the islands could produce.
She was naked, and her young ripe tits were pulled high on her body because her arms were tied and she was hoisted off her feet, hanging there in the middle of the room.
The naked girl was silent, but, from where he stood, Gil Rogers could see her face and her eyes.
Those dark eyes were wide and darting around the room. She was frightened. That was easy enough to see.
And the man in the police uniform was babbling at her in Spanish, a language that Gil could not understand. But he could hear the angry hisses that the man in the uniform put into the words and he knew that that naked, pretty girl was in for a lot of pain.
Gil turned to Captain Castro of the island police and asked him the question in English.
"What is she suspected of?"
"We think that she is a rebel, and the officer is asking her to tell us where the rebel camps are."
The fat man who stood with them wheezed out a chuckle. Gil looked at him.
Gil Rogers did not like Bodden, the fat man, at all. The man was always sweating and laughing with that strange wheezing sound. Sooner or later, Gil knew, Bodden would fall down dead in his fat and sweat and he would wheeze no more. But Gil needed Bodden now. Bodden had found Gil's young sister-in-law, a girl who was something of a rebel herself.
And Bodden was the only man who could lead Gil to her.
"I can tell you where the rebels are," Bodden said, wheezing as he spoke. "I can tell you and you would not have to torture me to get me to tell you. They are everywhere. Every other person that you see in these islands is a rebel, and you know it, Castro. You know that they will soon take over."
Even as he talked about the rebel takeover, Bodden, the fat, cynical American who had lived on the islands for years, sucking at the life blood of the community, chuckled and wheezed. He pulled a cigarette from a pack in his sweaty shirt and shoved it in his mouth.
"Got a light, Casto?" he asked.
The captain of the police force lit the fat man's cigarette as he answered Bodden's accusation that the rebels were everywhere and would soon take over.
"Yes, Mister Bodden," he said softly. "They will take over one day. I hope to be on the last plane out of the islands when they take over the government, with all of my money in bags. Of course, I have already moved a great deal of the money to American banks. I love American banks, Mister Bodden."
Bodden sucked in on the smoke and laughed and then coughed.
"Yeah," he said. "There is nothing like an American bank to make an island police officer feel protected in times of upheaval."
"These are sad times that we live in," Castro said. But he was still smiling when he spoke about the sadness that was in the times. "General Rugales cannot hold power for many more months. The Russians are backing the rebels, you know."
"I have heard that," the fat man said.
"You work with the Russians too, Mister Bodden? You sell them things too?" Bodden chuckled.
"I do not know, Castro. I never ask about a man's nationality. I usually only work with men named Smith or Jones or Gomez."
And Castro laughed too.
Gil Rogers was new to the islands and he was surprised by the way that Bodden bantered with the police captain. Both men seemed to be personifications of corruption, he thought, and they accepted the corruption in each other so easily. They would work on the same side when there was something in it for both of them. But Gil Rogers understood that, for all of their friendly and cynical bantering, the fat man and the police captain would kill each other if they had to.
That was the way that things were on the islands, and his young sister-in-law had come to these islands to hide out.
Brooke would never have been noticed on those islands either, Gil Rogers knew, if Bodden did not take American newspapers in order to keep himself caught up on foreign affairs. He had griped to Gil that the island newspapers were nothing but rags and Bodden had once lived in Chicago. He was used to good, American news stories, he said.
He had looked into one of those Chicago newspapers and had found a story about Brooke Hutchinson, a former Miss Ohio and the daughter of a wealthy father, a girl who had given up everything to become a radical, bomb-throwing anarchist bitch. "Miss Radical America" the newspapers called her, although she had not even been a finalist in the Miss American pageant two years before, when she was seventeen.
She had been working in a little house in Columbus, Ohio, had been working on explosives when the house had blown up, killing two of her cohorts and three passers-by. She had run for it and she had been a fugitive from justice for more than a year.
Bodden had read that article about Brooke Hutchinson with interest because he had seen a girl who, looked just like her around the town of San Genoa. That girl lived on another island, a deserted island just off San Genoa's coast. Bodden had found out about that and he had contacted some of his friends in the underworld in the United States and those friends had contacted Gil Rogers, the ex-husband of Brooke's older sister, Bonnie.
Gil Rogers had come down to San Genoa to get Brooke Hutchinson. At least, that is what he and Bodden told Captain Casto. Gil did not know if Castro believed him, but now he knew that it really did not make any difference if the captain believed him or not.
Now Gil Rogers knew that Captain Castro was so filled with corruption that he expected corruption in others too. That was what came from living on the islands all of his life, Gil thought, and that was what came from dealing with men like Bodden too much.
Gil was a crook, but he hoped that he would never get this blasé about corruption.
The other policeman, the man in the uniform, was still babbling at the naked girl.
Gil kept looking at those girl's eyes. She seemed to be asking him to help her, but he could not help her at all. He was just a visitor on the islands and the girl meant nothing to him.
Castro yelled at the other officer in Spanish, gave the man an order. When the naked girl heard that order, she started to twist there as she hung in the middle of the room, as if she were trying to climb up that rope and escape through the ceiling.
Bodden understood Spanish. He cackled when he heard the order and he jabbed Gil with his sweaty elbow.
Gil stepped back from Bodden. He hated to be touched by that fat man. He had only met Bodden early that morning, when Bodden had introduced himself at the San Genoa airport. But he had already grown to detest that man with his sweat and his fat and his wheezing and his smelly cigarettes.
"We are going to get quite a show now, Mister Rogers," the fat man said as he rubbed his fat hands together.
When Gil saw the police officer walk over to a table and pick up a whip, he knew just what kind of show he was going to see. Gil felt a confusion of emotions then. He did not mind watching a pretty girl tortured. He had liked it back in the United States. And this island girl was certainly a beauty. But he felt a little sick at his stomach because he knew that Bodden was going to watch too. Gil knew that Bodden would react to this torture in all the wrong ways, that he would take much of the joy out of the sight for Gil. But Gil Rogers also knew that he could not turn and walk out. Captain Castro had invited them to this back room because he considered the Americans his honored guests.
It would be bad manners to refuse to watch the whipping that this naked girl was going to receive.
And Gil Rogers did not want to anger Captain Castro. He knew that that man could make a lot of trouble for him in this town if he decided to use part of his police power to stop Gil from getting to his sister-in-law.
So Gil stood there and tried to block the wheezing, fat Bodden out of his mind. He concentrated on the way that girl trembled and shivered with fear as she hung there by the rope. Gil thought that he might enjoy this if he could just forget about Bodden's being there. He had not seen a pretty girl tortured in a long time, and he noticed that his heart was beating quickly at the prospect of this sight.
The police officer stood in front of the naked girl who hung there from the ceiling and grinned at her and babbled to her in Spanish and then he cracked that big, black whip in the air.
Bodden moved close to Gil again and leaned his fat, wet body against the tall American.
"That is the way that the island cops do it," he said. "They make the girl wait for the torture. She knows that she is going to get that whip, but she is just going to have to look at it for a little while and wonder when the man is going to make that thing fall on her flesh. Nobody tortures a pretty girl like an island cop, do they, Castro?"
Finally Gil could stand it no longer. He hissed at the fat man.
"Shut up, Bodden. I am trying to concentrate on the fucking show."
The sweating man moved back and was quiet. Gil caught Captain Castro's eye and saw the policeman smile at him. The tall American knew that Castro did not like Bodden that much either. Gil figured that Bodden probably did not have a real friend in the world, and he knew that the fat man did not deserve any friends.
But Bodden was quiet. And the island officer in front of the naked, hanging girl cracked the whip again.
The girl let out a scream as if she had already been lashed. That scream seemed to pierce the inner being of Gil and thrill him. He closed his eyes for a second and sighed and felt his cock getting hard in his pants.
And, when he opened his eyes, he studied the way that the girl's long, black hair fell down her back almost to her butt. That butt was nice too, a fine, rounded, dark ass. A dark piece of meat, he thought. That was what that island girl was, and she was going to be worked on like a piece of meat in a butcher's shop.
"Do you think that she knows anything about rebel hideouts, really?" Gil asked Castro softly, not taking his eyes off the dark girl.
"Who cares?" the captain said with a shrug of his shoulders.
And Gil heard Bodden start to laugh with that wheezing sound again.
Gil turned sharply and Bodden stopped laughing suddenly. The fat man was afraid of him.
Gil grinned and then turned around to watch the policeman start the whipping.
The cop was still asking the girl questions in Spanish and he was still cracking the whip in the air. Gil wondered how much longer he would torture that girl with nothing, would make her wait for the real pain.
And then the policeman glanced toward the three men who stood at the side of the room.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gil Rogers saw Captain Castro nod his head and smile.
And the tall, handsome American knew that that was a sign.
The policeman in front of the girl threw his arm back and then lashed the girl across her naked tits.
Another scream filled the air in that room, and the girl twisted in agony.
Gil Rogers watched closely as the little, thin, red line of blood came oozing out of the top of the girl's sexy tits. He smiled and he rubbed his crotch. He would have to thank Captain Castro for this sexy show, he thought.
And then the policeman who was interrogating the girl drew his arm back again and lashed into the girl's stomach with that whip. The girl's legs jerked up as he did that, and Gil could tell that the dark-haired, island beauty was in great pain already. Another scream pierced his system and made him feel right at home here in San Genoa.
He had to admire that policeman's use of the whip. The man was obviously an expert at treating girls in such a way, and he looked at the smile on the policeman's lips. He knew that this cop enjoyed whipping girls, interrogating them for the pleasure of the torture.
"He is one of our best," Captain Castro said softly to Gil, as if he could read the tall American's mind.
"Very good," Gil said with a nod of his head.
And the blood was beginning to cover the front of the girl's body, rolling out of those two long cuts that the policeman had already put on her and turning her tits and her stomach red. Gil could see the red wetness begin to stain the dark hair of her pussy too. He also saw the policeman look at that pussy hair. When the cop pulled back his arm again, Gil knew where he would aim the whip this time.
And the whip lashed right into that pussy hair and the girl spread her legs with the pain and twisted and screamed and shouted out something in Spanish.
"Is she giving him any information now?" Gil asked Captain Castro.
"No," the police officer said with a grin. "She is praying. All of them pray at one time or another. We are all very religious down here."
And Gil heard Bodden wheezing out a laugh behind him. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to shut that sound out.
He wished that he did not need Bodden for this journey to his sister-in-law. He wished that he could turn around and strangle that little, fat man with his bare hands at that moment.
One did not laugh during a torture session. Gil Rogers knew that and, obviously, Captain Castro did too. One could smile, but to laugh out loud was bad form. One enjoyed a torture session as one enjoyed a good play on words by a witty person, with a smile of appreciation, not with raucous laughter. Laughter was for burlesque comedy, Gil Rogers knew.
And the policeman who was working on this girl was too good with his whip to be in burlesque.
The policeman put the long, leather whip right across the girl's thighs and there was more blood and more screaming.
Gil appreciated the way that that cop worked slowly. He knew that the man was enjoying his work, but he also knew that the man was going to prolong his joy. He was not going to get all excited and beat the girl in a frenzy. The policeman worked in slow and regular and almost delicate movements and gave the girl just enough pain to keep her in agony. A frenzied whipping would have caused the girl to pass out, and the policeman obviously knew that an unconscious girl was not worth anything as a torture victim, especially when he had an audience.
The island policeman moved around the girl and looked at her back. It was still dark, although the front of her body was red with blood.
Now he would work there, and Gil seemed to suspect that the cop would not get as much pleasure out of the back.
He would still be able to hear the screams of the girl, but he would not get a chance to see her face tighten in terror and then in pain. He would not have that satisfaction.
But the cop still worked slowly, methodically with that whip.
First, he lashed the top of the girl's back and put the whip right across her shoulder-blades.
She screamed again and, when the scream died away, the girl muttered in her Spanish prayer to a God that could not help her.
Then the island policeman lashed her lower back and the blood flowed out of there because it seemed that that cut was even deeper than the others. The blood covered the girl's rounded buns and she jerked her legs around and twisted in pain.
And then the cop landed an almost perfect blow, and Gil felt the urge to applaud him. He stifled that urge because he knew that applause was not called for here, and he did not want to be the kind of barbarian that Bodden was.
The whip had landed right in the crack of the girl's ass with a snapping sound.
And the cut that that whip left caused the girl's ass-crack to grow. The line of bloody, torn tissue at the top of her ass seemed to be a fine and perfect extension of her buns.
Gil smiled when he saw that.
The girl was not screaming as much any longer. She was just jerking and muttering her prayer. That seemed to be a sign of something for Captain Casto. He turned and spoke to the tall American.
"Let us leave now," he said. "The best is over."
And Gil knew that his island host was correct. He turned with Captain Castro and walked to the door. But Bodden stood there and stared at the girl's bloody body.
"Come on, you fat pervert," Gil Rogers snarled.
And Bodden turned and followed them quickly out of the room in the San Genoa jail.
The three men walked up a flight of wooden stairs and opened a door that led into Captain Castro's office. The fat man was huffing and puffing by the time they got to the top of those stairs. When they entered the office, Bodden dropped onto a sofa and sat there. He pulled out a sweat-wet handkerchief and mopped his fat brow.
"That was one of the best that Raoul has ever done," he said. "You tell him that I compliment him on his work. That lash in the buns was perfect."
"Yes," Castro said, sitting down behind his desk. "I think that he has been practicing on that one particular strike."
And then the police captain turned to the business at hand as Gil Rogers sat down in the chair in front of the desk.
"So," Captain Castro said, "you tell me that your sister-in-law is on the island of Guertramo. I have no jurisdiction over Guertramo, you know."
"Who does have legal jurisdiction over that island?" Gil asked.
"No one."
"No one?"
"For years; we in San Genoa have been arguing with the authorities over on the island of San Bartholomew. They say that we have jurisdiction and we say that they do. Guertramo lies about halfway between the islands. The fact is, Mister Rogers, no one wants to mess with that place. There is hardly anyone there and the whole island is just a pain in the ass."
Bodden wheezed in his laughter again.
"He picked that up from me," the fat man said, grinning. "I talk to Castro and he picks up all of those American sayings. Pain in the ass."
He continued to laugh as Castro stared at him. Then the Captain spoke to Gil.
"Pay no attention to him, Mister Rogers. He sweats and he fucks fruits and vegetables."
The fat man laughed again.
"I make it a rule not to be offended by any man low enough to fuck food," Castro continued.
And Gil had to smile at that too. He looked at the fat man and wondered if Bodden did fuck food.
He was certainly disgusting enough, Gil thought, to do anything.
"I want to go out to Guertramo and find my sister-in-law. Bodden here tells me that she lives on that island with two native boys. We might have to kill those native boys because I think that they will probably be armed and dangerous."
"Be my guest," the captain said. "Kill whatever boys you like out on that island."
"Of course, there will be a bit of monetary thanks for you, Captain. I just want to get my sister-in-law off that island and back to the States. If I can get her to give herself up, I think that she will be able to get off very lightly in front of a judge."
"The Radical Miss America," Captain Castro said with a smile. "Her father is very wealthy."
"Yes."
"He can hire big and handsome lawyers to leave a jury spellbound, right?"
"Right. Or he can bribe a judge. We have not decided what we will do yet. But we want Brooke to give herself up. Her reputation as a rebel and outlaw is hurting the family. Her father does not like to see the Hutchinson name dragged in the dirt."
Castro leaned forward.
"Mister Rogers, you used to be married to this girl's sister, but you are not married to her any longer. Why are you here at San Genoa? Why do you give a shit about the Hutchinson name?"
"I am a former Texas ranger, Captain Castro," the man said. "My former father-in-law thinks that I would be able to handle this situation in the best and most discreet way. He paid me to care again about the Hutchinson name."
"Paid him a lot, I bet," Bodden said. "Paid him a lot more than I am going to get for finding the girl."
Gil did not even look at Bodden while he spoke to the fat man.
"You will get more money than you will be able to spend on this island in a hundred years, fat man."
"Sure," Bodden said. "I am not-complaining. But I did not plan to spend the next hundred years on this island. I am an American, and I have been thinking about returning to the States. I miss my native soil."
Castro chuckled.
"He will return on the same plane that I leave on," the captain said of Bodden. "When the revolution comes here, Mister Bodden's fat life will not be worth a dime."
"Rebels don't like wheeler-dealers," Bodden muttered. "I don't understand why. I got them some rifles one time. I sold them those rifles at a good price."
"You should them rifles that would not work, Bodden," Castro said with a cynical grin. "Twenty-five rebels were shot down by the police force in San Genoa when they went out on the streets with those things that jammed after one shot."
"They were European rifles," Bodden muttered. "You cannot trust a European product. If they had been American rifles—of course, then they would have cost more."
Castro laughed and Gil Rogers just sat there and thought that the men on the islands were very strange and brutal. They could laugh about dead rebels who had been gypped with bad rifles. He wondered if they would even laugh their way through a revolution.
But Gil Rogers did not want to tarry there with Castro. He had seen the show and he had enjoyed it. But now he and Bodden had to get supplies for their trip to the island where his young sister-in-law was hiding.
They had to get there and kill the girl before anyone else found her.