Yes, I’m the Madam and the Elizabeth in the Elizabeth’s Secret house of the “Scarlet Fever Lane” in Montpelier, Matriarchal Zone. The real name of the street is Massey Street. Who Mister Massey was I have no idea. Some flint hearted Vermonter making his money in retail or wholesale and buying his state senator or state representative the means to win elections, I suppose. And, of course, so public spirited a gentleman would obviously make so little name for himself, that it could fit a street sign, staying there with no surround of public history or private story of anything left of Mr. Massey’s life.
Those things, like so much else, were obliterated by the Great Northern Diaspora, as it’s known in the News & Propaganda business. And, actually, as it’s known here in the Matriarchal Zone, who are as much of a self-propaganda bureau as they are a new and rising country. Maybe that’s because they were one of the few clear winners from the relevant events.
I, of course, lived among the losers in the agricultural Midwest. WE called it When The Shit Hit The Fan or Shitstorm, for short. What else can you call it when not a single New Englander was left in New England, and only Matriarchals hiding in the Berkshires were left behind. All that’s left of the real New England now is a Plantation & Colony on the west shores of Hudson’s Bay in New Canada.
So many of everybody floundered in the Shitstorm, so many of everybody died! I lost a lover and business partner, an entire family older than I was, and the purpose of a very expensive academic education. At least the Dollar Collapse destroyed the collection of my student loans.
And I had to become a Fallen Woman, a Working Girl, a Sex Worker, a “devotee of the Cyprian persuasion”, any euphemism you like that hides the name I’m proud of most: a Whore. It’s a good English word (my degrees were in English) and Doll Tearsheet the Madam with Falstaff the whoremonger are perhaps the only two of Shakespeare’s characters left that have anything to say to our post Shitstorm world. I learned the trade on the streets of Chicago until I got talent spotted by a cozy little House (only five girls, only high quality, well paying, Johns) in Cicero, home of the mobster of 150 years ago, Al Capone. Who was Al Capone? Don’t worry about it. Just stick with Doll and Falstaff and you’ll have all you need.
I’m actually prouder of being a Whore (despite my middle age, the title is forever) than a Madam. A Madam merely has to know how to run a business and where to shoot an obnoxious Pimp (in the kneecaps–it will challenge him to make a mid-life career change). A Whore has to know how to coax an erection out of a brain-dead paraplegic. The last is much harder, believe me.
I was lucky and worked for a first madam who knew all there was to know about that as well. She saw to it that her girls did, too, even me who she called Ms. Professor. She once told me privately that I was a gold mine for her with a certain type of clientele. She also called on me when she needed an extra hand doing business. Maybe she could see the makings of a Madam in me, maybe because she needed someone sharper than Tessa the Ditzy, who also had a set of regular clientele.
I was also lucky to be one of the first group of non-citizen whores that the Council of Matriarchs granted special entry to ply our trade for the Submissive Men of the Matriarchal Zone. There were only 28 of us and the program was so politically controversial that it took another three years to allow some more of us in.
In the meantime the 28 of us were servicing damn near every man in Montpelier! Not only were we getting over generous government stipends (they had no clue how much to pay us) and free apartments in a venerable (meaning the toilets always clogged) and genteel (meaning the first thing most of us found when we moved in were samplers left behind by the old lady tenants in the Shitstorm) building known as The Halo. We also were awash in tips!
The girls still do very well that way, but those first three years were like an Oklahoma Land Rush to get into our quarters and into our pants, particularly because we knew how to help the old ones, the shy ones, and the first timers to do so. We had one major incentive to save: there was almost nothing new to buy. So even the feather brains among us made and saved a ton of money. Me, I was one of the first three to purchase outright a Victorian house in Massey Street, where we three first were given permission to start Scarlet Fever Lane.
Back then the “semi authoritarian policing” of our own time was much less intrusive, and the brighter of the Submissives had a fine dry wit when they were alone and away from their Dominant Women. So the genteel Halo building quickly became known as The Tarnished Halo.
These days, since they are forced to come in pairs and spy on one another, they are far more subdued. In fact it’s nearly as hard to raise some pleasant chit-chat from them as it is to keep the tumescence in their dicks!
Both problems stem from their constant over-the-shoulder watch for the killjoys of Fem/Auth. And, privately, several who had already been “retrained” by Fem/Auth have told me that it mostly consists of brainwashing and beatings, generally the last when you couldn’t quite fake a squeeky clean brain. And when they “graduated” they were returned to their homes with a report card assessment of how much of a “reliable” submissive they were.
The Council of Matriarchs used this last fact to brief the neighborhood Fem/Dom cops to encourage all household Dominants to set the more “reliable” ones to snooping on the “less reliable” ones. Hence today’s situation where a girl so often has to work her butt off to keep them paying attention to their libidos, and this with them even being forbidden to masturbate at home!
I can’t blame the Fem/Dom cops, however, who are far more realistic and salty than any other of the proliferating “front slash” agencies. Word is that, in the prisons, once they get you calmed down with a first hard strapping for “insubordination” (such as looking at them crosseyed) they are quite affable after if you don’t get foolish. There are a number of ex-prisoners who ultimately end up in the household of their former guard. And you never hear of them filing a complaint of submissive abuse.
Fem/Dom is the front slash that has high numbers of lesbian and bisexual officers compared to the others. And you can earn the undying gratitude of Fem/Dom “Janes” and “Jill’s” who you bend the rules a little for because Jane has not yet found her Jill and Jill is “between Janes”.
I make sure I hire a fair number of girls who go both ways and keep tabs on which one’s do. Fem/Dom’s Janes and Jills get the room price on the house, as long as they generously tip the girls for the extra time they take working off their extra hunger from being so alone.
I know of this firsthand because frequently Jane or Jill craves mature and maternal and wants the long tumble with me. Unless I have urgent business, I usually accommodate them. The cops are a treat, because one of my ironclad rules for me is no messing with the girls and the one’s who don’t take no for an answer are allowed 2 weeks severance and a place to stay while they look for another house to employ them.
Keeping discipline in the House is just like anywhere else, with, perhaps with the added aggravation of the fact that the Matriarchal Zone can be a frigging bore for non-citizens to live in. Consumer goods are still rather scarce and the Matriarchal Cabinet has to support so much policing (and ancillary services like our whorehouses) that the economy is, and has been, growing only very slowly.
Fem/Dom also did we Madams a great service by teaching us how to beat the hide totally off of someone while not doing them any serious damage. They also gave us Martial Arts training and helped every house to establish a punishment room. At the time they only had unruly gentlemen in mind since a Matriarchal male bouncer is an oxymoron and the cops themselves are prohibited from moonlighting security duties. The Matriarchs want them awake on the beats.
But this has been an immense aid in keeping order among the girls of our own stable. Fem/Dom gave us a restraint bench, but I immediately went out and bought two others. I keep the Fem/Dom three tailed Glasgow Tawse in a locked drawer of my desk. Within two weeks Of installing the punishment blocks, I had a three-way cat fighting, hair pulling dispute on my hands.
I simply hauled all three of them into the Punishment Room, locked one down on each bench, and gave each of them a Fem/Dom Level 2 strapping (butt and thighs, no set number of swats, unable to sit or lie on their back at the end). And each of them got to experience the strappings and bawling of the other two. As the genial Fem/Dom cops, guards at Vauxhall Prison, had warned me to be, I was ready to have a lot of urine to clean up. And needed to be. The expression “belting the piss out of someone” is quite literally true.
I left them strapped down and opened the door to what I expected: a gaggle of Working Geese crowded around it. I got up on my soap box to make it clear that I would no longer be a mediation service. Any physical disturbance or disputes would be handled just as this one was: the parties involved would be locked down and have their butts strapped off (I waved the long tawse at them for theater).
Then I opened the door and brought them all in to see the 3 bare rear ends covered in welts and fast forming bruises. I talked a little about the Fem/Dom strapping levels making it perfectly clear that I was trained just like the cops and guards to dish out any of them at any time. Then I insisted that the three delinquents, while still toggled down apologize both to each other and the rest of the House and promise that they would NOT use physical violence in their disputes. Then I released them and they ran to their rooms.
The audience was still gathered and I told them that for the next three days there would be a lot of crying and squealing out of them (on cue there was a high pitched screech as the first one tried to either lie down or sit down). I said the other girls could help with this by going out and buying ice and rubber ice bags to treat the swelling. They immediately left to do so, leaving me with the next four of the nine major shrieks that come from sitting down on level 2 damage, lying down on it, and trying to take a hot tub bath or shower after it.
Just between you and me, the year before we established Scarlet Fever Lane, I made a Cus/Pas mistake and was hauled off to Vauxhall Prison. I chose to take what I later knew as a Level 2 strapping for it, and I did what I just described here so quickly because I have every reason to know what a Level 2 strapping will persuade a reasonable woman not to do again. Before you ask any questions, there are no reasonable men.
So you probably want to know about Henry, Henry Peterson, the cosmetics salesman and spy. What happened to him is horrid and the results showed all of us the dark underbelly of the matriarchal rule. He did tend to favor us, but spread his needs among all the houses, except Emma May’s House of All Nations. He got hooked up there to some Caribbean Creole newbie to the Zone who was hotter than a firecracker as a Whore, but only able to speak French/English patois.
She kept prying into Henry’s business while she was femme on top and had her mouth unoccupied. It took a lot to get Henry steamed (he even put up with my House’s own Tessa the Ditzy who I’d like to slap twice a week.) After his climax he dumped her roughly on the floor and started slapping Creole Cutie around, just as Emma May was walking by her door. Emma put a Fem/Dom arm lock on him and hauled him to the punishment room. Emma gets steamed very easily and Henry was buck naked strapped on the horse, so she gave him a Level 1 strapping, his entire dorsal side beaten to mush from his heels to the back of his neck.
Henry looked like just some little nermy man. He was half an inch taller than me. But even in his fifties he was physically tough. A Level 1 strapping is supposed to be so painful that you can’t even walk. Henry managed to walk 2 full blocks to the Urgent Care Station and collapsed in the lobby on his ventral side, face first, and blacked out.
They get a lot of overenthusiastic strapping walk-ins, right on the edge of Submissive abuse, so they knew what to do. When Henry woke up he was face down on a medical table and a couple of nurses were rubbing arnica for the bruises from his head to his heels. Next came a cooling cream. Followed by applications of blue ice on and off for 72 hours. They were generous to the massively flogged like Henry. They put him in a back room and the ice was rotated. They kept him on soup and other liquids so he could drink from a straw while lying face down, thus moving the other side of him as little as possible during the icing.
When the Doctor came to see him and looked carefully at the strapping she said, “This can only be a police strapping. They know where the line is and stop just short of it. Nobody else does.” Henry was asleep and after the 72 hours he was free to go having to pay only the labor and not the time of the visit. He could walk, but not comfortably, and sit with a certain amount of pain tolerance and force of will. Henry had both.
That was about four years ago, and from that point forward he spent a fair amount of time in our house. He was very much a gentleman and tipped lavishly, even when he was in the mood for age appropriate sex and asked for me. Because he was open to an old whore, he learned one of the greatest secrets of the profession: we don’t know more than the younger women (in my house I make sure of that) but we know how to do it far better and with greater sensitivity to your mood.
Henry was a long timer: half a day at the shortest and if his mood was randy he would stay both days of a weekend. Your submissive male, no matter what age, is not only tongue tied, he has, at most, four hours of stamina and then he’s through physically and mentally. Henry paced himself.
On a two day jaunt, he would sample the charms of about four of the stable. Different ones each visit. In the intervals between he was always available in his role of genial cosmetic salesman, which the girls loved. They had the quality time for themselves with Henry, rather than the other way around. Being a non-citizen whore for the Matriarchal Zone is a quite lucrative profession, and most girls took Henry’s suggestions eagerly and bought his recommendations. And Henry was good, good at everything he did. On Sunday morning (the weekly lull in the whorehouse) he would hold a make-up clinic for all of them. He was always talking about “killing two birds with one stone” whenever he possibly could.
Did we know he was a spy? No. Were we curious about him? Certainly. He could do what almost no man can do, keep clear and coherent throughout the multiple orgasms men come to the whorehouse for. Some will almost be reduced to word salad by the time 3 have passed. Not Henry. I frequently wondered if he’d somehow been trained to do that. He was extremely alert in many other ways. I’m sure he was as good a spy as he was everything else.
When Henry was found by Fem/Dom, dead on the river bank. It happened to be quite near Scarlet Fever Lane. One of the “Janes” stopped by for a lunch break on us, and told us that Henry clearly had a broken neck, and it was broken by an expert, almost like an old-fashioned hangman of long ago would break it. By that time the story had spread that he was a spy and maybe killed by one of the security officers of Sec/Spy.
Of course they already knew of his mild partiality for Elizabeth’s Secret. They had shaken us down once the week before last and took up our work time with hostile interrogations accusing us of hiding him from Sec/Spy. I asked hiding him for what? So he could get freebee nookie? My actual comment was far more salty than this.
“I don’t give a flying fuck about badly fitting green uniforms. Just because I don’t see ’em so much doesn’t give me any reason to think them special, portentous warnings of retribution or no. If it’s worse than a Level 2 strapping, I have no need to hear it until you bring the instrument to do it with. If it’s not, I got through it, and the Vauxhall prison guards didn’t do me any favors.”
“Look anywhere you like in my house. Just don’t tear it apart. After that, take your security law you’ve been waving in our faces about this meeting out of here and let the girls do their work. They’re on the clock and being partially paid by the Zone government whose money you’re wasting along with their time!”
It took them a little aback. They weren’t used to people standing up to them. The women citizens were used to seeing uniforms as Alpha females and submitting to them. And apparently Sec/Spy liked to hire women who’d been basketball players in high school, beef them up with high calorie drinks, give them mandatory resistance training, and taught them to get up close and personal when talking to you and force you to compress your neck vertebrae to talk to them. The submissive males, of course, were positively unctuous toward them instead of just deferring to what they wanted. Fem/Auth and “retraining” we’re always in the back of their minds.
As a non citizen I was polite to all uniforms, and followed any direct orders they gave. I’m five feet five, a their-shit-don’t-smell-any-better whore and a madam who’s shot obnoxious pimps who were threatening me with a roughing up. No, guns are against the law here and I’m not concealing any. I also have been trained to get an out of control male of any size, down a flight of stairs, across a hall and into the Punishment Room. Just like you’ve been trained to do it.
If they wanted to deport me, fine. My business runs anywhere and, except for the home equity, my money is invested back in Great Lakes Consortium. I’m no fool.
If they want to threaten me with some unknown “sentence” for security law violation, let them be specific and not hide behind those security laws. The pimps at least could talk plainly about their threats. And the threats were a real thing because of it. Are yours a real thing? I don’t know and I’m not going to bother with it until you start talking plain about it. So please get your job done and let me run my business.
In the interrogation after Henry’s death I was told I was labeled a hostile witness and certain interrogation techniques were prescribed for me. So the next interrogator was a uniformed woman more my size who started the questions off low key and politely. And she didn’t have any pumped up basketball players with her.
The only problem, of course, was that she kept trying to get me to admit that I killed Henry. Hypothetically, if I did how would I do it. I have no idea. I’ve never wanted to kill anybody in my life so I would have to treat the matter as a totally new problem.
“You were raised on a farm, didn’t you have to kill animals?”
“No. Daddy was insistent on that his Precious Little Girl was going to be shielded from that. We ran chickens and ducks for eggs, goats for milk and cheese, and we even had a couple of llamas for fancy wool. All animal killing was done by the local butcher, even the chickens. Daddy had them koshered, even though we weren’t. And he was right to do it. They were much more succulent. And the only ones killed were the ones who lost productivity.”
I sometimes wonder what Daddy would say about the career the Shitstorm led me to. He didn’t make it out.
After a certain amount of time, this got boring.
“Look, we’re talking in circles. I didn’t kill Henry, I didn’t help anybody break him out of his secret prison, wherever it is, which I don’t know. I didn’t hide him while he was on the run. I don’t know who killed Henry and I’m not shielding anybody. And, as a Madam, I think my girls are as innocent as I am. What more can I tell you?”
At that point she shut her book, leaned back in her chair (I like comfort in my office and I’m willing to pay for it), looked me straight in the eye and said “Sec/Spy owes you an apology and this is officially from them, though it is still secret and deniable. We were frantic when Henry was on the run. We thought we were dealing with a citizen traitor hiding him and that made everybody’s blood run cold.
“We’ve never put out a manhunt like we did for Henry. The supervisor of The Goons used this to insist that they be part of the search and interrogating teams. They were given the brothels. Like most women citizens, they came in prejudiced against you. And they fucked up every last interrogation on Scarlet Fever Lane with their ham handed manners.
“I was appalled and my supervisor blew a gasket. She marched straight into the office of the Chief of Intelligence, shut the door and was with her for 3 hours. When she came out she told me to plan to take three days and apologise to all the brothels. The Chief herself insisted that I let down my hair and share a little background for you. My boss and I worked out what topics were accessible for that use.
“Sec/Spy agents are citizens and not uniforms, and I was explicitly told to treat you as if we were. Not everybody in our building would think that, but the Chief does. She also agrees with you that The Goons look terrible in their uniforms. I was scheduled to do this after my sessions interrogating Henry. I took the brothels’ questioning so I can do this as well. Real interrogators have better manners and The Goons are supposed to protect us and arrest those we suspect without a fight. That’s their place and they stepped out of it. I think their boss is about to have a conference with her that includes the Chief’s Senior cane.”
I told her no hard feelings about the shakedowns and a thanks for an apology that must have been difficult to construct. I liked Henry and studied him because he was so good at what he worked at, selling perfume. I don’t think he treated us any different than the hoiti-toiti Matriarchs. He was always generous with his time and it was a pleasure to service him, as well as a professional advantage to heed his advice. He must have been a very lonely man given all the time he spent in our company.
“We whores–don’t look shocked that I disdain euphemism–need to look at our peak of attractiveness every workday and Henry was an immense help with this. In this House we mourn him and miss him. And we are shocked by the rumors that his death was merely the end of a long chain of physical abuse of him by Sec/Spy after his capture.”
She continued, “Without going into detail the physical abuse isn’t true, but he was put through an excruciating emotional wringer because his capture and treatment became a football between two Sec/Spy supervisors of equal rank, one who is a not very subtle ladder climber who doesn’t care who or what they walk over to get their way.
“The other is the most terrifying woman secret agent I’ve ever met. I look into many eyes as an interviewer and I’ve seen the eyes of male professional killers. She has them. She came with excellent tradecraft of another agency and, whatever she did for them was very, very bad and very dangerous for anyone around her. Once, our eyes fully met and locked for about ten seconds. At the end of it, she knew already that I’m an interviewer, she certainly knew we’re trained to follow eyes, and I’m sure she knew that I suspected her of being a killer.
“I’ve caught a certain sadness in her eyes when she looks at me now. Maybe she wanted to work with me and now that never can happen. But I think those eyes had the same sadness looking at her victim after making her mind up to kill. So having her look at me that way is harrowing.
“Much of this drama was played out in front of Henry because no one had enough sense to get him out of the large main interview room when they weren’t asking the routine preliminary questions. To be perfectly frank, most of our interview information is extracted through carefully managed terror and fear, and I think we become callous about tormenting even the people who are cooperating.
“Henry’s alternatives were few, most of them nasty, and I think I saw him looking directly into a fast running hourglass of the decent possibilities slipping away. He was certainly a brave man. His face hardly moved a muscle throughout the impromptu bureaucratic confrontation that held his future before him. I don’t know very many men or women, in intelligence or out of it, who could of stood what he stood without disintegrating into tears.
“Then my boss came in to announce that Henry’s interrogation would be shifted ahead to next Monday. I can’t tell you why, but it meant his last chance was gone and he knew it. I watched his face flicker for a moment and then his shoulders slump. I hoped that someone else would be interrogating him but not me. When you kill a last chance for someone and do so unequivocally you kill any reason they have to cooperate with you.
“I saw two other things. One I believe I understood and one that puzzles me. I saw the two supervisors look at one another a final time. One was the cat licking up cream, the other was a poker face but with murder back in her eyes. That confrontation will continue until somebody dies of it I’m sure. The second thing was that as she was walking out the killer turned the sad eyes toward Henry. He made a gesture of cutting his throat and she abruptly turned away and ceased to look at him.
“I didn’t get my wish. I was still scheduled to interview him. Then he turned up missing from his prison cell and the entire agency went into a panic. The only one calm was the murderer supervisor, as she had been for the month that Henry wasn’t captured. Then Henry turned up dead. There’s no more I can say Ms. Elizabeth.”
“Yes, there is, I didn’t catch your name.”
“We never give it. Most people are too terrified of us to ask, so we don’t have to refuse very often.”
Misha Haaretz 2024-2062
GLCIS Official Correspondence, 2062. EYES ONLY
To: Chief of Service GLCIS February 3, 2062 From: “Evan”, Senior Intelligence Analyst GLCIS
Requested Follow-up on “Henry Peterson”, agent code: Sharpshooter
The book is still out on the capture and death of Henry Peterson. In one way it has mortally wounded Sec/Spy. In another, it has made them a laughing stock to the Matriarchals and beyond. Many of the news outlets played up this slant: The Spies That Couldn’t Chase Straight was one of the many headlines up in North New Canada.
But something more profound has happened to the Matriarchals that has shaken their values as a country to the core. The facts are as follows. There was actually a security and spying service, it had summary police powers, it’s own laws, it’s own courts, it’s own verdicts the accused was never allowed to attend, and was using one of the most horrible of punishments since the Middle Ages. They also were leveraging the terror factor of this punishment in all interrogations, which we knew. And ALL of it was only nominally controlled by the Matriarchal Cabinet: effectively Sec/Spy was a law unto itself and their operation both as a whole and in detail was a massive violation of the Six Genders Compact.
The Head of the World Negotiations Agency has explicitly made it clear to everyone in the world that if Sec/Spy was not completely eradicated within six months, they would declare the Six Genders Compact null and void. Now the Chief Matriarch is backed into a corner. But we don’t think either she or the Matriarchal Cabinet will lose their lifetime status, and the Matriarchal Zone as a whole will remain authoritarian. Every other Nation has a large percentage population with overwhelming hate of the Matriarchals, including the Consortium. That will probably increase here as elsewhere among the Nations.
We have no agent in place at The Matriarchal Cabinet, Sharpshooter was our principal source, but our best guess is as follows: The Chief Matriarch will dissolve Sec/Spy completely with the maximum fanfare, giving its minimum duties to Fem/Dom national police, distributing the lower ranking agents among the other front slash agencies, and announce the firing of all the others in the public announcement. In response, Fem/Dom will have to severely restrict daily foot patrols and cut prison guard numbers until the former Sec/Spy employees are fully integrated. Since Matriarchals are all Busy Beavers, we expect this to take 3 months.
The hardware, land, and buildings of Sec/Spy will be sold with the other Agencies having right of first refusal. The only exceptions to this will be a very large estate in Rutland that Sec/Spy kept as their poshest safehouse. The administrative layer has already been put on leave, their files transferred to Fem/Dom, and recruiting officers of all the other agencies operate the main building.
The Head of Negotiations mentioned no specific individuals, so the Matriarch has named the Chief of Service and the Mossad contact Micha Haaretz to a new agency in the Rutland estate tentatively titled Pre/Lim to “study the security problem”. We think from radiophonic communications completely in Clear and Uncoded, they are planning for the renewal of a security agency in 1 1/2 years. Probably under no name at first.
Though it’s known informally in Montpelier that Peterson was murdered by Haaretz, the Chief Matriarch intervened and terminated the investigation because of “security concerns”. This confirmed that Haaretz was not only of Mossad but from Mossad as liaison. As we suspected, Mossad had always had its fingers deep into the development of Sec/Spy from the first.
The Peterson/Haaretz story has provoked the development of a Folklore version that the act was a mercy killing requested by Peterson himself when he knew for sure that he was headed for the Black Widow caning bench. Nothing in the evidence we have refutes this, but no explanation has been found for the fact that Peterson must have still been alive when he escaped the prison. The time of death was much shorter than expected, and the physical evidence all pointed to the killing taking place where Peterson was found and with no signs of a struggle.
Based on the above, I recommend that Micha Haaretz be terminated while still exposed. Truth Teams have been informed and will begin planning upon your orders.
Hope you’re enjoying the lovely Spring weather.
GLCIS Field Agent Committee, October 2062:
Chief of Service, GLCIS
34 Randolph Street
Chicago, Illinois
GLC 27
Of the men and women I’ve killed, Henry wasn’t the most difficult. To kill him, at his request, was an act of love. The only other expression of the love that bloomed from our first terrible meeting as hunter and prey was our final, erotic kiss. But Henry’s death has left me empty, empty now even of tears.
I sit and wait with the pretense that I’m working on building a new security service for the Matriarchal Zone. Helen late Chief of Sec/Spy believes this, the Matriarchal Cabinet believes this, but I know better. I’m loitering here waiting to die.
GLCIS will kill me soon, while I’m exposed, not to revenge Henry, but to kill all hope of a new service. When I die Mossad will send no one to replace me and none of the Matriarchals have the knowledge. It “wasn’t their place” to learn from what Mossad did for them. Finis.
I only hope that the GLCIS killers will give me a swift, clean death, such as I gave Henry. They’re professionals, so I think they will.
For the interested, Misha was shot through the chest with a high powered sniper rifle walking down the path to the mailbox of the Rutland mansion. The bullet shattered the front window, tore through a bathroom wall and lodged in the opposite wall nfrom the toilet.
The former Chief of Sec/Spy called first the Matriarchal Cabinet, then Rutland Fem/Dom. The necessary CSI team had to come from Montpelier so it took 12 hours to definitively establish the bullet trajectory to the sniper’s nest. The scent dog was brought in but the trail was too cold. The .308 Winchester round was the only piece of physical evidence. No cartridge was ever found. This, especially, caused Fem/Dom to believe that the killing was that of a professional hit team.
After weeks of questioning Rutland residents, the best assumption is that the team crossed the border by boat on Lake Champlain, walked the whole way to Rutland, camping in the local woods, drove a stolen electrocar left for them near the mansion, and dropped it at the Lake edge. No prints or DNA were found.
The Chief of Service has disappeared and is presumed to be hidden under an assumed name by the Matriarchal Zone in an undisclosed location far from Rutland and Montpelier. No new plans for reestablishing a Security Service front slash agency are expected.
The Matriarchal Zone 