Title: The Fleshsmith Job
Author: Hansome Alvin (hansomealvin @ yahoo.com)
Fandom: Transporter 2/Taxi (1998; French)/Leon
Pairing: Lola/Petra, Lola/Mathilda (at age 24)
Rating: NC-17 for language, extreme violence and sexual situations
(in later chapters)
Summary: Lola travels from Hong Kong to Marseilles while being
pursued by a mad slave trader and a mysterious assassin
Archive: Mailing lists, WWOMB, my website
Feedback: post here or mail to me
Status: WIP
Sequel/Series: Chaper three of ???
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, nor do I gain any
profit from the use of them in this context.

The Fleshsmith Job:
A Romance of Certain Black Mascara
by Hansome Alvin (hansomealvin @ yahoo.com)

Chapter Three: Marseilles (The Law)

Inspector Tarconi, kneeling down, tried to get a sense of the scene.
He was fifty-three, French, balding, with an intelligent look in his
eyes. At the front entrance of the house, four men lay dead among
countless empty bullet shells. They were apparently robbers; well
armed and vicious robbers, but still just robbers. Further into the
house a husband and wife, the owners of the house, also lay dead.
And finally, outside the house, three police officers were dead.
Obviously, the criminals had killed the husband and wife and the cops
before being taken out themselves by the reinforcements. This was
all clear cut. However there was something missing that complicated
matters. One of the criminals was missing. Well, at least, Tarconi
thought it was one robber that was missing. For all he knew, it
could have been a dozen missing, but, somehow, he thought it was just
one, no more. A back window had been broken from the inside, the
ground trampled outside, so at least one of them had escaped.
He had only been in Marseilles for a few months, having transferred
from Neece, and this was his first interesting case. It was also his
first chance to make a good impression. He was going to find the
missing robber.

Clive didn't like the skinny psycho bitch from the first moment he
saw her. There was something in her eyes, something dangerous, like
she was just waiting for the right moment to snap and take out
everyone in the room. And what was with the outfit? Who wore
strictly pink lingerie; on a job, no less? Clive realized that the
woman was staring at him, as if she knew he was thinking about her.
Quickly, he diverted his attention away from her onto something he
found much more pleasant: the beauty that was Julie Naceri.
She was gorgeous, not too tall, almost petite in her own way, with
good features and a nice smile. All Clive saw in this Lola woman's
smile was wickedness and death.

Dresdin had just outlined the plan and was looking for comments.

"Where am I going to be waiting with the car?" Clive asked.

"Just around the corner from the building," Dresdin
answered. "Alex will contact you when we need to be picked up."

"Got any guns?" Lola asked, typically.

"Yes," Dresdin said and led them into a back room lined with
firearms.

"That all you care about?" Clive asked Lola as they followed
Dresdin.

"I had to ditch my two Glock 17s in New Zealand," Lola said, as if
that explained everything.

Lola quickened her pace, getting ahead of Clive. She had spotted
what she wanted: two Glock 17s mounted on the back wall. She took
them down and quickly scanned the table in front of the wall for her
accessories: two silencers, two laser sights and six thirty-round
magazines. Alex settled for two fully automatic Barettas. His
choice spoke volumes about his infatuation for the psycho woman, in
Clive's opinion, anyway. Julie looked as if she wasn't going to take
anything, then thought better of it and grabbed a large, .44 Magnum
revolver. Lola eyed her inquisitively.

"Dirty `Arry," Julie said in English by way of explanation.

Lola smiled.

Dresdin offered a simple 9mm pistol to Clive. "No," Clive said, 
"I don't carry guns."

Dresdin took hold of Clive's hand and forced the pistol into it. "Just take it," he said. 
"It could save your life." Clive reluctantly shoved the pistol into the waistband of his pants.

Chief Inspector Petra Kermadec looked again at the photograph and the
Fear began to creep in. The picture was taken at a hospital in
Miami, Florida and showed a tall, thin, well-toned woman. She was
wearing the bare minimum of clothing, a bra and panties, supplemented
by two Glock 17s, top of the line. She was dripping wet; the
hospital's sprinkler system had been trigged. Apparently the woman
in the picture had killed several people in the hospital and two
police officers on her way out.

None of these facts were what caused the Fear. No, what caused
that was the realization that Petra knew this woman, had met her.
She was older now, it had been more than four years since they had
met, but this was definitely the same woman.

She knew this woman. Intimately.

Petra was German, thirty seven years old, voluptuous, with strong
features and short blonde hair. She was married to a nice, funny
Frenchman, also an inspector, whom she loved, but whom had never been
able to satisfy her sexually.

It was on holiday, in the early days of their marriage, in Paris
that her life, her sexual life, had changed forever. Her husband's
best friend, Daniel, had shown up and her husband had spent the rest
of the trip with him. Petra had decided, frustrated, spur-of-the-
moment, one night, to seek out a prostitute. She though about
getting one of the many young, pretty male prostitutes that Paris had
to offer then simply said, "Fuck it," and decided to hire a young
woman. Perhaps two.

When she thought back on it, she decided that her decision came
about because she felt, suddenly, that *no* man had ever satisfied
her.

This is how she came to meet Isabel.

Isabel was a young, vivacious, French girl with long, black hair
and a bright red tattoo of a dragon on her back. She was standing on
a street corner in one of the seedier areas of Paris.

"Hi, um," Petra said, not knowing exactly how to proceed, "are you,
um, available?"

Isabel smiled. "Yeah, baby," she said. "We could go to a hotel I
know."

"All right," Petra said, smiling. "Um, can you bring a friend?"
Isabel laughed and nodded. "Let me go grab her," she said.
She left and came back with a fairly tall, blonde, skinny, striking
girl wearing the bare minimum of clothing and heavy black eyeliner,
who couldn't have been any older than eighteen or nineteen.

"This is Lola," Isabel said, "and I'm Isabel."

"Petra."

"Are you German?" Lola asked, speaking Petra's native language perfectly.

"Yes, originally," Petra said, surprised. "What part of Germany are you from?"

"Oh, I was born in America," Lola said. "My family moved to Munich when I was nine."

"English, German and... French?" Petra inquired.

"Of course," Lola said in very good French.

"Ooh," Isabel said, "you two like each other. We're going to have a great time."

She took each woman's arm and they left for the hotel and the night
that followed, which was quite memorable. Petra had three orgasms
before returning to her own hotel room at four in the morning. The
hotel room had been empty, her husband had not returned as of yet.
And now, more than four years later, back in Marseilles, here Petra
was looking at a picture of Lola; a picture of Lola the Killer. What
had happened to this woman, this girl? How did she become the
monster that she apparently was?

"We have intelligence that she is in Marseilles," the Interpol
agent, Reeves, was saying, bringing Petra out of her ruminations.
Reeves was a British agent with dark hair, graying temples and a
pair of shades that seemed welded to his head.

"How do you know she's in Marseilles?" Petra asked.

"We were tipped off that she was in New Zealand," Reeves said and
put another picture onto the desk. "This was taken by the security
cameras in a New Zealand airport. She boarded a plane to
Marseilles. We didn't catch it until after the fact."

"What do you want us to do?" Petra said, offering the police force's services.

"We have to find her," Reeves said. "If she's in Marseilles, thebcity may not be standing 
within a week."

"She's *that* dangerous?" Petra asked.

"She's *that* dangerous," Reeves confirmed.

"All right," Petra said. "I'm on it."

"You better be," Reeves said. "If not, you'll have a whole lot of dead cops on your hands."

Mickey was returning home for the evening. His house, a ratty,
dilapidated shack near the docks in Hong Kong, was small but provided
him with everything he needed. He had brought dinner, Chinese take-
out, of course, with him. As he was unlocking the door, he felt the
bite of cold, sharp steel on his neck.

"Don't move," a cool, crisp, female voice said in English to him.

"I won't," Mickey said, dropping his dinner to the floor.

"Inside," the voice ordered.

Mickey opened the door and stepped into his house. "Where to?" he asked.

"The couch."

Mickey made his way to the couch.

"Can I sit down?" he asked.

"Yes."

Mickey did so and finally was able to get a good look at this
woman. She was young, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four,
beautiful, American, with a completely shaved head. The head was
gorgeous, complementing her features extraordinarily well. She still
held the knife to his throat, but was now standing over him, waiting
for him to make a move.

"Man, you're something," Mickey said. "Who are you?"

"I'm the assassin," she said.

"You're out to kill Lola," he said.

She nodded. "Where is she?" she asked.

"I don't know," Mickey said.

Quick as a snake, the assassin grabbed his bottom lip with her left
hand and sliced it off with her knife. Mickey screamed in pain and
terror, falling sideways onto the couch and clutching his face,
fountains of blood streaming down his chest.

"Don't fuck with me," the assassin said. "I know you told Interpol
something yesterday. You told them where she went, didn't you?"
"If I tell you, will you let me go?" Mickey asked. His words were
nearly incomprehensible, but somehow the assassin understood them.
"No," she said. "But I'll make sure you die quick."

Mickey thought about a number of things: he thought about trying to
kick the knife out of her hands and get the drop on her. He thought
about rolling off the couch and making a run for it. He thought
about trying to woo her somehow. This last option was ridiculous, to
be honest, he couldn't woo anyone now that his face had been
mutilated.

He looked into her eyes and realized that none of these options
would work. This woman was going to kill him, plain and simple. He
decided to tell her the truth.

"The boat she was loaded onto went to New Zealand," he said.

"Thank you," the assassin said and leaned over him, preparing to
cut his throat.

"Wait," Mickey said. "Can I have your name before you kill me?"

"It's Mathilda," the assassin said, smiled and opened the artery in
Mickey's neck.

End Chapter Three

Next: "Strictly Lingerie"