Porter Island Chapter Seven (standard:action, 1990 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Oct 19 2024	Views/Reads: 70/28	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Betty McCloud is called out of retirement to face her biggest assignment yet: Porter Island. Its levels of lawlessness are through the roof, but why?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

riff-raff from the narrow passage Betty now knew to be 1st Street. 

“I can see you still haven't learned how to address ladies.” 

The taller one straightened up, fists clenching, his shorter, stockier
mate likewise. “I reckon first, lady, you need to show a bit of 
respect.” 

Betty's eyes blazed dark fire. “And if you pair intend on using those
bunched up fists, I'd advise you to send for reinforcements.” 

“Would you listen to that, Draco.” The taller one cocked his head to one
side. “Woman's got some guts, I'll give her that, but just cos you got 
one over on the boys the other day don't mean diddly squat. You've got 
us to deal with now.” 

“If I must.” Betty smiled. “But I've got muscles too, if you hadn't
noticed. You've still got the chance to turn tail and run. 

“Bitch!” The taller one sprang forward as Betty anticipated and she
drove her fist into his solar plexus. Her assailant doubled up and 
Betty grabbed his hair and with her right hand yanked him to the side, 
sending him flailing to the cobbles. 

His stocky colleague dug into his pocket, pulled out a blade, but Betty
launched herself forward, grabbed his wrist and squeezed, saw him 
grimace, kept squeezing, heard the crack of a bone as he lost his grip 
on the knife. Betty left him clutching his hand, lightning reflexes 
snatching up the knife before it reached the ground. Wrapping her left 
hand around the handle and placing two fingers of her right hand on the 
blade's surface, her eyes fixed firmly on her victim, she pressed down, 
her biceps surging with power as the blade buckled, folded in half. But 
Betty wasn't finished. Drawing it back into her left hand, she held out 
her arm toward him and crushed what remained of the blade into pulp 
before tossing it back at him, his face now registering disbelief along 
with the pain. Betty glared contemptuously down at the pair. “Maybe you 
should have turned tail and ran.” 

Betty paused for breath, then strode across the cobbles, under the
archway, and out onto the main street. Her first thought was that the 
two thugs might have sabotaged the limo, but all seemed fine with it. 
In any case, she had no need of it right now, heading for the office of 
Briggs' Real Estate, which meant a return to the place that she'd 
encountered the problems with Stapleton, and from where the thugs she'd 
just dealt with would likely have come from. 

They hadn't been Shriver's men, unlikely to have been sent by anyone in
authority, but that could be about to change if the real estate people 
forwarded word of her visit. The pair she'd just dealt with had been 
nothing to her given her power, but she was under no illusions that 
future opponents were likely to be so easily overcome. 

Yes, she'd faced seemingly unsurmountable odds in the past and brushed
them aside, but then that old bugbear growing inside her – she wasn't 
getting any younger. 

Betty crossed Main Street and continued onto 1st Street, the narrow
thoroughfare connecting the main street to the promenade. It didn't 
look any less dingy than it had when she'd journeyed through it with 
Stapleton. Strange, she thought, for Real Estate offices to be situated 
in such drab surroundings. 

She almost missed it at first, walked right past, but an illuminated
sign in the mist, down an even narrower connecting road, drew her back, 
and there at the bottom stood Briggs Real Estate. Betty took the 
mews-like side road cautiously. Even with her massive physical 
abilities she wasn't immune from an ambush. But at the junction, the 
road opened out to reveal a well-kept square, quality red-brick 
commercial properties bordering it. 

From Pilgrim Place, a deteriorating, no doubt once elegant residential
district, to the modern shopping area of Main Street, through to the 
claustrophobic confines of 1st Street, and finally to the broad coastal 
promenade, Betty found Porter Island a curious mixture of mis-matched 
buildings and districts. They sat uncomfortably together as though a 
giant hand had swooped, raised them up, juggled them around and let 
them drop into place willy-nilly. 

Betty pushed the thought aside before stepping into Briggs Real estate,
the plate glass doors automatically opening to allow her access. 
Reception stood to her right, an elegant pine counter running wall to 
wall in the compact space. 

“Can I help you?” A slim woman of mid height came through an adjoining
door and approached the counter. 

Betty placed her forearms on the desk, interlocked her fingers, wearing
a black tank top and jeans, aware that her posture emphasized her 
powerful upper body. Fixing her dark eyes on the woman, Betty said, 
“I'm looking for information concerning a former resident of Pilgrim 
Place, Mr Graham Mahoney. I'd like to know whether he left a forwarding 
... What?” Betty's eyes blazed, the woman had shaken her head. 

“I'm afraid the agent you need to speak to is out on a property visit.
I'm not authorized to deal with such queries. “I can give you his 
card?” 

“Oh, very well.” Betty stepped back from the desk, held out her hand as
the receptionist delved into a drawer. “Here's his card – oh – here he 
is now. Mr. Briggs ...” 

A tall, wiry-looking man in a pristine, tailored white suit came into
the foyer. 

“This lady has a query about a former resident that I'm not qualified to
answer. 

“Oh?” The agent, middle-aged by the look of it, appeared wary to Betty's
eyes. “What query might that be?” 

“The former tenant is deceased now, I believe,” Betty said, swinging to
face Briggs, her long black curls bouncing off her powerful shoulders. 
“But the man's name was Graham Mahoney, of fourteen Pilgrim Place. 

“I'm not sure that name means anything to me,” Briggs answered, in
Betty's opinion a tad too quick in his reply.” 

“Perhaps you could check.” The tone of her voice and the fire in her
eyes conveyed to Briggs this wasn't a question. 

“If you'll follow me.” Briggs sighed “Ms.–” 

“Amanda Thornton,” Betty replied coolly, following Briggs through a side
door. Stopping halfway along the corridor, Briggs pushed his office 
door open, marched to his desk and booted up his PC. He waited for a 
moment, his eyes traveling over Betty's shapely but muscular frame. 

“Fourteen Pilgrim Place, you say?” Briggs returned his gaze to the
screen, fingers of his other hand drumming his desk. Betty nodded as 
Briggs simultaneously shook his head. “Nothing doing, I'm afraid.” 

“That a fact, mind if I look?” 

“No I'm afraid that's ...” 

But reacting at speed, Betty was beside him, muscles rippling, her
strong hands pinning his forearms down as she searched the display. 

“I object to being manhandled, Ms. Thornton,” Briggs yelled out. 

“Woman-handled, actually,” Betty retorted, but with a sigh relinquishing
her grip. Turned out he was right, and yet his file indicated 
otherwise. 

“Your strength is impressive as indeed so are you,” Briggs grudgingly
acknowledged, rubbed his wrists and regaining his composure, sat back 
in his chair and folded his arms. “Just who are you and what's your 
game?” he demanded, looking up into Betty's dark eyes. 

“Classified, thanks for your time,” was all Betty said as she exited the
real estate agency and stepped out onto the street. 

Betty retraced her steps, reached the junction with the narrow 1st
Street, running things through her mind. Mahoney didn't appear to be on 
record, but that didn't mean the hand-written files were wrong. What it 
did suggest was a cover-up. Removing Mahoney's name from the computer 
would be easy enough, though where did she go from here? If one file 
was missing from computerized records, likely they all were. 

And in that case, why?  


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