Highway policewoman by Martin Kane, martin_s_kane@yahoo.co.uk Not all justice is legal. --- Author's note: First the standard blub on copyright, which is mine. I'd be flattered if anyone wanted to use this tale elsewhere, but please seek permission before copying, altering, posting etc. Secondly, I invite anyone to send their comments, suggestions, thoughts or suspicions should they care to. Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters merely the products of an overwrought imagination I'll abstain from the adult content warning, if you've got this far, you're certain to know what kind of thing to expect anyway. --- The road was deserted. No other car was in sight before him or behind him. The grey strip of road led straight into the horizon, unencumbered by any other scenery, just as it had been since he left the motel in Reamer. As far as Frank was concerned, there was no reason for him not to speed. Unfortunately, the cop didn’t view it like that. Where she came from, he had no idea. There was no bush or bill hoarding for the bike to hide behind, but one moment he was alone, the next, he glanced into the mirror to see the police bike catching him up. The lights flashed and the siren hailed him. Obediently, Frank pulled over, cursing highway cops who had nothing better to do with their time. The mechanical voice echoed over desert plains as the speaker instructed him to switch off the engine. He did so and watched as the cop methodically swung a leg up over the bike and approached him. "What’s the problem, Officer?" Frank asked as the figure drew level to his window. He looked up to see that it was a woman, blonde hair locked up inside the helmet, masculine glasses giving her a fixed, stern expression. "Can I see your licence and registration please, Sir," she asked her voice calm and professional. He sighed and offered them. He hated cops. She made a show of examining them carefully. "How fast was I going?" he asked, nervously. Again she ignored his question, giving that air of self-importance and arrogance that all cops possess. Instead she gave him another order. "Step out of the car please," she said, stepping back to allow him the chance to do so. It was his first chance to assess her properly. She was tall for a woman, probably matching his own five-eleven. She was broad too, looking physical and powerful. The police were trained for action after all. Her blonde hair was longer than he’d originally thought, trailing down her back in a long ponytail. Her face was angular and direct - a careless beauty that didn’t need to question its worth. She wasn’t pretty - the word suggested a girlish sweetness that she simply did not possess. Her beauty was far harsher, the kind of careless looks that cast aside suitors without regard or consideration. He had only moments to make a decision, but did so without arousing suspicion. Still not knowing what this was about there was no sense in pushing the situation further than may be necessary. She might not want to search the car. Obediently, Frank opened the door and stepped out. He was careful to do so without turning his back to her. He smiled what he hoped was his sweetest smile, trying to reassure her that all was OK. She was unmoved, folding her arms across her chest. "Could you open the trunk please, Sir," she said. If she noticed his heart sink, she made no evidence that she had. Frank however, felt the entire situation spiral out of control in that single moment. "Sure," he sighed. His mind raced. What was he going to do now? He took the keys, looking down at them as though an answer to his predicament could be found there. And then it struck him. He walked around to the back the car, managing to appear natural though walked in a manner so he never fully turned his back on her. The cop kept at a reasonable distance, retaining her stern stance. He selected an applicable key and slit it in with some effort. He twisted for effect, feeling metal bite and grind. "It appears to be stuck," he apologised. "Allow me," she offered, appearing beside him. A blue uniformed arm appeared besides his own, and he couldn’t help noticing how much thicker hers appeared to be in comparison to his own. There appeared to be no slack within the sleeve, could her arm actually be that thick? If so, she must work out. He moved his hand away and she grasped the key. She twisted. It certainly appeared jammed, not wanting to turn. "It gets stuck sometimes," he explained, adlibbing. "You have to give it a really hard turn." She did so and the snap was audible. She lifted the key up, examining where the metal had shorn off, the other half still stuck in the lock. Then she regarded the keys in her hand, comparing them to the broken head. Realisation struck like a warning. She had only taken her eyes for a moment but it had only taken him a moment to step backwards, draw the gun from his waistband and aim it at her head. "Ma’am, put you hands behind your head please." Frank held the gun on her, watching her carefully. He was prepared to shoot if he had to and she could see it. Slowly, she obeyed, lifting her arms. The motion unwittingly flexed her arms within the uniform. Even through the heavy sleeves, he could see the movement of muscles bulging as her biceps contracted. He reached forward with care, taking her handcuffs from her belt and snapped them around her wrists. He had to stretch to reach, bringing him uncomfortably close to a body that was more than capable of destroying him. Throughout this, he kept the gun trained on her, not willing to take any chances with a woman as physically capable as this. He took her gun and her keys, her batten and her mace. "Now back away," he told her. The policewoman stepped backwards, slowly backing away. "OK, I’m going to have to shoot out the tire and the radio but when I’m away, I’ll call in, let them know where you are." And he meant it, he really did. Despite it all, he didn’t want any more trouble. She was halfway between the car and the police bike when he told her to stop and step to the side. Silently she obeyed, backing off as he levelled the gun at the bike. Frank had never fired a gun before and his shot missed, kicking up dusty smoke a foot from the tire. He cursed and took more care with the aim, taking his attention away from the cop for a few significant moments. A blur of motion in the corner of his eyes and Frank turned to the woman. As he did so, something sharp slammed into his face. His immediate thought was that she’d thrown a knife at him. Then a fist slammed through his vision and he knew darkness. He awoke just moments later. His gun was already gone, her own retrieved. He was sitting on the ground. It was still spinning a little. The blow had knocked him senseless. He looked at her wrists, wondering how she’d escaped the cuffs. Then saw that she hadn’t - at least not fully. The metal bracelets still enclosed each wrist. The chain between them however, was in two, neatly snapped in the middle. The cop was fiddling with her keys, removing the useless restraints. "How?" he asked, rubbing his sore face. His hand came back bloody. "You want to know how?" the cop asked him. She tossed aside the cuffs and was beginning to unbutton her uniform, exposing a growing V of tanned flesh beneath. She went over to him as she peeled the uniform off. Beneath she wore only a bra, though on a physique such as hers, it didn’t appear to be particularly needed. Her breasts were modest, as they tend to be on heavily muscled women. Frank’s jaw gaped, he had suspected that she was strong, that she worked out, but to see it, to actually bare witness to such spectacular musculature - all the more shocking for the fact it was on a woman. He felt a surreal combination of fear, awe and jealousy. But the thought of what would happen next is what terrified him. A combination of different factors were beginning to align. This cop was not acting in the manner of one about to arrest him. She was armed and very dangerous, and his only advantage had now been lost. She rolled her arms about for him, displaying muscles that could well be capable of snapping the chain on a pair of handcuffs. Her biceps bulged, round and absolutely enormous. Frank tried to speak but found that fear kept his voice trapped in his throat. She seemed to take pleasure in his fear, a knowing smirk blossoming on her face. "What are you going to do?" he finally managed to ask. The cop stopped her posing routine then, turning on him in hate and fury. "I’ve been following you since Reamer, Frankie boy," she told him, viciously. "So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to have a look inside your trunk and if I find it empty I’m going to let you be on your way." He shuddered. He didn’t ask what she’d do if she didn’t find it empty. Instead he asked: "How are you going to open it?" She rolled her eyes as though this were a stupid question. Looking at the power contained in her rolling muscles, he acknowledged to himself that it was indeed a stupid question. She eased her fingers into the crack either side of the trunk and ripped at the metal with all her might. The creak and groan of protesting bodywork was audible from where Frank sat, but he could see her strength winning out, the metal buckling. A final crack sounded and the slightly crumpled lid popped up. Even from the distance and angle, Frank could see the girl within. Despite himself, despite the situation, he began to feel a tingle of excitement at the reminiscence this provoked. It was immediately quashed by the expression on the face of the cop as she turned back to him and began to head over. He considered running but there was no chance he could outrun her. He was hardly an athlete and knew that she would catch him in no time. "I didn’t mean to do it," he told her as she reached him, murder in her expression. "Honestly, I didn’t mean it." But that was the problem. He didn’t mean it, he never did mean it, but that never stopped him, no matter how many times is happened, and he regretted it each time, it never, ever stopped him. He began weeping but the cop felt no pity - not with the sight still locked inside her head. Frank began to scrabble backwards. His hand landed on something sharp. Looking down he saw a star-shaped badge. A police badge. He realised then that it’s what she must have thrown at him when she’d ripped the handcuffs apart. In an absurd gesture of appeasement he offered the badge back to her. She did not take it however, waving the gesture aside. "I don’t need that right now," she told him coldly. "I’ll only put it back on once I’m done." And then she was on him, hands about him, fingers crushing into him. He gasped as he was heaved into the air, looking down the length of powerful arms, down to a face as hard and relentless as her body. He clawed at her, fighting for purchase on muscles as solid and unyielding as steel. Prising her grip apart was as hopeless as clawing open vice, but he didn’t cease his struggles until she’d squeezed the life from him. Only then did she release him, dropping him back to the ground. And only then did she retrieve the police badge. Noting to herself how easy it was to wipe the blood off. Frank’s car was found in the desert with a body in the trunk.