Crimson Gauntlet – Chapter One

Featuring: Hilary Duff, Haylie Duff, Marketa Janska, and Ashlie Brillault

Story Codes: MF, MFF, cons.



Washington D.C.

June 2006

According to the Russian president, Russia today is the ‘biggest Mafia state in the World.’ Since the fall of Communism, Russia crime syndicates and protection rackets have taken control of roughly 40 percent of private business, 60 percent of state owned enterprises and over 50 percent of banks.

The current report by Russia’s Ministry of Internal Affairs, the agency in charge of combating organized crime, declares
the 200 largest Russian crime gangs operate as global conglomerates with arrangements with American-Sicilian, and Colombian crime syndicates. The largest group, under the control of the Mikhailovich family, has tentacles throughout Russia’s economy, manipulating its banking system, financial markets and government.1

The infiltration by crime groups has resulted in multibillion-dollar black market sales of sophisticated military arms to both foreign governments and other criminal organizations, including Colombian, Caribbean, and Nigerian drug cartels. The erosion of Russia’s legitimate governmental authority also heightens the chances of ‘nuclear materials’ being put on the market. According to Alexei Yablokov, formerly of the Russian National Security Council, up to 100 portable (suitcase) “atomic demolition munitions” were developed during the Cold War for a secret KGB program. These bombs were designed to destroy key targets such as power plants, military bases, and commanded and control centers.2

The long-term governmental instability, its inability to pay its’ soldiers, and the resulting unrest, provides ample economic incentive for Russian military leaders to raise funds by selling arms to the highest bidder.

It is strongly urged that the President recognize the threat of Russian organized crime to United States National Security, notably because of the danger posed by nuclear and other weapons of mass destruction. It is recommended that the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund deny export credits and new loans to any firms under the control of Russian organized crime. It is also recommended that increased efforts be made by governmental intelligence gathering agencies to track the activities of Russian organized crime.

1. Central Intelligence Agency, Assessment of the Russian Organized Crime, 4-8, January 2006.

2. Center of Strategic and International Studies Report, 13, May 29, 2006

Marketa Janska’s (Playboy Playmate, July 2003) weary emerald-green-eyes looked up from her analysis of the current state of the Russian mafia. Even though she had spent the last three days working on the report, it was more art than science to shift through the tons of information available from the CIA, Interpol, CSIS, and the FBI. Organizing the relevant information into digestible bits that her boss, Mark Watson, could use was the tricky part. While Mark was a competent boss, he wasn’t a chess master. Marketa made it her mission to make him look and feel like one. Marketa spoke into the intercom, “Mark?”

“Yes, Marketa?” Belying his large 6’3” frame, Mark’s high squeaky voice came over the intercom.

“Are you busy? I need you to talk to you.”

“Okay, Marketa, come right down.”

Turning off the intercom, Marketa opened her desk drawer and reached for a flask of vodka. It still surprised her that, after all these years, she needed a drink before influencing Mark. Spraying herself with his favorite French perfume, she got up and walked down the hall. She entered his office without knocking. He was sitting at his desk, intently going over his doctor theses. Marketa smiled to hide her amusement at having actually written most of it for him.

“Hi, Mark. I’ll have the Russian Mafia report ready tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Marketa, you’re a real trooper, but don’t work too late, again. Okay?”

“Don’t worry, Mark, I’ve got to make sure that the President likes our work.”

“Thanks. So who’s in charge over there (Russia)?”

“It’s not the current Russian government…not really.” As Marketa spoke, she gazed lustfully into Mark’s hungry brown eyes. “On one’s been able to put together a democratic government since the fall of Communism in 1991.”

“But the President believes we need to give them a chance?” Mark asked.

“Mark, crime lords are taking over a country with thousands of nukes. All the support and money we’re giving to them is being wasted. You know, it makes me miss the old days. The Soviets were at least predictable.” While Marketa’s voice was sounded professional, her sultry body language spoke something quite different as she walked over and sat on his desk beside him.

Mark liked Marketa’s big tits. They were very firm, about the size of large melons and had a defiant up thrust. Her large brown nipples pushed outward against the fabric of her blouse. Brandishing a small alluring grin, Marketa undid the top button of her silk blouse revealing more of her titillating size 34-C cleavage. Mark had always appreciated that that she didn’t wear a bra when they worked together privately. “But perhaps the resurgence of the Russian Communist party could be an opportunity to straighten things out.”‘

“Mmmm…I see. I think I’ll pass that along.” Mark said.

Mark had hired Marketa as his executive assistant three years ago, back when he was in charge of a joint FBI-CIA task force monitoring the activity of the FSB, the Russian Federal Security Service in the United States. Before the fall of the Soviet Union, the FSB had been formerly known as the KGB. It had been very difficult to find anyone with the proper background and training who was also fluent in both Russian and English. When the beautiful Marketa applied for the position, she had seemed too good to be true. Efficient and tireless, Marketa had the innate ability to make sense of all the contradictions that frustrated most Russian specialists. She truly seemed to love her work and Mark soon learned to depend heavily upon her. Mark grew to depend heavily upon her. At only forty-five years old, he was in the running to be the next FBI Director.

“You’re the one with good ideas,” Marketa said. Brandishing a small alluring grin, she crossed her legs. “I just do the leg work.”

Mark Laughed. “We make a good team, don’t we?” he said as he leaned forward and gave Marketa a peck on her lovely neck. “Why don’t you come by the house Saturday night? My brother Don is in town and would love to meet my little playboy bunny. He has seen your centerfold spread and would like to meet you. Don just retired as a major from the cavalry so we’re holding a retirement party for him. You’d like him. He’s really funny.”

“Thanks, but no. You know my work is my life.” She slightly bent her eyes down coyly, shaking her head with a pouty expression. “Besides, that’s when my poetry circle meets.”

“I know. But it was because of your encouragement that I first asked Hallie out. I owe you for so many things.” As he finished speaking, Marketa leaned forward briefly brushing his lips, giving him a brief, but passionate kiss.

“You’re welcome.” She said, giggling while looking hungrily into his eyes, “just name your first daughter after me.” Lana showed a slight, almost girlish blush as Mark put his arms around her slim waist. She giggled as Mark drew her to him.

“Oh, Marketa!” he grunted. “Your moth is as hot as your cunt! I think I’ve done enough work today.” He showed a wolfish grin as he unzipped his pants. “It’s time for you to go to work.”

“Ooh, my yes! I want to suck your cock!” Marketa showed an impious smile that Mark found sexy. She got on her knees to face him. Leaning back, Mark enjoyed her talented hands on his cock and balls.

She moved his knees apart and gazed at his crotch. Marketa hid her disappointment of seeing his shrunken balls dangling and the minor up thrust of Mark’s small cock. Instead of laughing, she acted as if he was the best hug man in Washington.

Shoving her head between his thighs, Marketa nuzzled her boss’ balls, while one hand stroking up and down his cock. She snaked her tongue out and lapped almost delicately at his hairless balls, acting as if she enjoyed the way they felt on her tongue. She ran her tongue about them, licking them all over. Finally she pulled one into her mouth, sucking on it gently. All the time she kept up a smooth, slow pumping on his cock. From above, Mark’s eyes burned, watching her sucked on his balls, going from one to the other.

“Mmmm!” she mewled, gulping his whole four-inch his cock into her mouth. Tugging and twisted his diminutive balls, Marketa continued to act as if he had a huge horse cock.

Marketa then began to suck up and down Mark’s cock making wet, slurping sounds. She bobbed her face swiftly, and then slowed, only to race her lips up and down his prick again. She devoured his cock like a starved woman, which she actually was.

Taking his cock in and out of her lips, her lungs drew in so hard that she sucked in her cheeks. Marketa’s tongue scraping as she went down with swift strokes. But as she sucked up, she moved slowly, using her tongue against his prick. Then she held the cockhead tightly with her lips, licked at his dripping piss hole and then drove down quickly once more. Marketa knew that sucking his dick this way gave him the most pleasure. He began to twist and writhe his hips, his ass thrusting up and down.

Marketa fucked his cock with her hot, wet mouth furiously, pretending as if she was anxious to have his cum juice spurting over her tongue. He gave a loud grunt and raised his hips as Marketa sucked even harder … and he came. The hot cum juice slowly bobbling from his piss hole and dribbled onto her tongue. She acted if he filled her mouth with thick sweetness and pretend to shudder in orgasm, her lips squeezing as she wiggled her ass about. Sipping at his leavings, her throat appeared to be gulping and swallowing as her eyes rolling around as if in ecstasy.

Finishing her grand performance, she dug her fingers into his ass, clinging to his cock long after he finished coming, her tongue lapping gently and lovingly about the head. She turned her mouth about his prick like a slow corkscrew, sobbing with delight. Mark was panting harshly, his body very still and relaxed. Then reluctantly released his cock, as she ran her wicked tongue about his little balls for a moment or so longer. Marketa then pulled her face from his crotch.

Mark put his arms around her slim waist, drawing her to him. He reached up her skirt, pulled her panties down, and filled his hands. Marketa showed a slight’ almost girlish’ red blushed again as he began to fondle her high, round ass, kneading and squeezing her firm skin. Then reaching up and around, he slipped a finger into hot luscious cunt.

Bumping up his eyebrows like Groucho Marx, he whispered, “Marketa, the men of the Czech Republic don’t know what they’re missing out on.”

Marketa giggled as she wantonly wrapped her legs around Mark’s head as he began brushing his tongue up and down, munching on the auburn tinted locks covering her juicy pussy. But once his face was buried between her thighs, Marketa face turned hard and disinterested even as she faked climatically orgasm after orgasm.

Later, after finishing her grand performance, she ordered the single red rose that Mark wanted sent to his new wife Hallie Todd, the Vice President of the United States. Marketa looked forward to the safe haven of a hot midnight bath, a liter of Stolichnaya, and Tchaikovsky’s Ballet Swan Lake. Listening to it always moved her, bringing back memories of her youth. Only at the sanctuary of her home could Marketa reveal her true self. But later when she tried to relax in the steaming water, her thoughts were troubled by the last communiqué from home. Marketa’s tension finally subsided when she suddenly laughed out load as she pondered whimsically if that so called comedian ‘Jakov’ (Yakov) Smirnoff would come out of retirement if her father’s plan were successful.

Red Devil Stadium, Southern California

“Stay back, stay back, please!” Standing at the edge of the crowd, Ken Thomas shouted through his bullhorn again at the crowd under a brilliant Southern California sun. “The yellow flag is up. There won’t be any more smash ups until the Fire Department puts out the fire.” Over the racket of the crowd, Ken heard the announcers southern twang call out over the loud speakers, “Okay, folks with the Lotus out, it looks like we are down to the Dodge Viper, the Plymouth Prowler, and the Porsche Piranha. When the fire is put out, the Adam Lamberg demolition derby will continue.”

On a light Pacific breeze, dust floated in thick brown clouds across the stadium teaming with humanity. As Ken drew in a breath that reeked of burning rubber and gasoline, he noticed someone had made a smiley face on the fine oily dust deposited on the window of a press box. The chief of security for a major movie star, Ken knew that many careers had been made at wild Hollywood parties. He also knew that most movie stars fell because they couldn’t live up to their legends.

Turning back to watch the derby, Ken could hear hundreds of spectators continue to bet on the outcome of each smash up. The way the crowd was acting reminded him of something out of Ben Hur. Now most money was on the Plymouth to win, to be the last car left driving. It turned Ken’s stomach that the crowd cheered loudest when the most expensive cars were smashed up. He just hoped that no one would get hurt. It seemed a crime just to watch what was left of a dozen of the world’s greatest sports cars race about, trying to ram into each other!

“Folks,” the announcer said, “it looks like the Prowler, driven by Carl Greenhill, and the Viper, driven by Stan Gilbert, are teaming up again. The last Porsche, driven by Mary Duncan, doesn’t stand a chance!”

Like hungry sharks, Ken watched as the two American-made sports cars circled closer and closer around the smaller car until it appeared they had it trapped. Trying to escape, the Porsche darted and dodged into the mass of broken and twisted metal and plastic in the center of the field, just as hundreds of spectators shouted, “RAMMING SPEED!”

Trying to watch through the smoke, Ken saw the Porsche plow between a Ferrari, which was turned on its side, and a Jaguar, which was missing its front end. The Porsche’s front bumper was ripped away, leaving bent metal and shattered glass. One of its tires appeared to wobble, but with its rear-engine unharmed, the Porsche continued moving. But as the two hunters matched their prey’s move, again the crowd shouted, “RAMMING SPEED!”

The Porsche left a cloud of dirt in its wake as the Prowler just barely missed it. But the Porsche wasn’t quite quick enough, as the rear bumper of the Viper caught its right rear quarter panel, knocking it up on its two left wheels. But bouncing off the Porsche, the Viper ran straight into the Prowler. Bumpers locked as they hit and the Prowler caught fire.

For several heartbeats the Porsche teetered forward, somehow balancing on two wheels and appearing ready to flip on its side. But then its driver steered towards a clump of metal that had been the radiator of Ferrari 355 Spider. With a loud sharp clank of metal, the Porsche bounced over and then fell back on all four wheels. As it hit, a cloud of dust obscured the car from the audience. A tire and two hubcaps rolled away in three different directions, seemingly to abandoning the Porsche to failure, until then the Porsche emerged, continuing forward on three wheels! The crowd cheered as the Porsche, sputtering and coughing, slowly dragged itself around the outside of the field.


As the announcer continue to shout, Ken saw many displays of cheer or anger erupted throughout the crowd. Winning tickets were joyfully waved into the air. Losers angrily threw their tickets down and grinded them into the patient Earth. Others, just as forcefully, happily embraced friends and strangers alike. But the show continued a little longer. The stunt man driving the Prowler was trapped in the final smash up. As firemen rushed to an attempt rescue, the noise of crowd fell in suspense, and Ken could hear the betting continue.

“A thousand dollars they save him!”

“Five thousand they don’t!”

It still unnerved Ken that, despite the danger, it had been so easy to get enough stunt drivers for the derby. Getting them to sign the release forms hadn’t been a problem either. Money and a chance at the spotlight always seemed to work wonders. Hollywood was supposed to be the dream factory. Hell, it seemed more like a nightmare now Ken.

Suddenly the driver of the Viper emerged from the smoking wreckage, only a little burnt at the edges. He waved his good arm to the crowd as they carried him away.

As final bets were concluded, Ken heard several voices shout, “Damn it!”

“CARL GREENHILL IS OKAY FOLKS,” the announcer shouted rapidly. “Everyone please give a hand to all the stunt people that made this event possible. We’d like to thank everyone for coming to Adam Lamberg Hollywood Demolition Derby. All the money raised today will go to the Dali Lama and the people of Tibet.”

Thinking about the insanity of this whole thing, Ken could only shake his head. He estimated the car-wrestling derby would raise just over $900,000. If Adam were trying to help, wouldn’t it have been better just to give the Dali Lama the two million it took to rent the track and buy all the cars? But that was Adam in a nutshell, more flash than substance. He knew it was a good idea not to try to understand why his boss did the things he did.

Standing nearby, Ken heard Adam exclaiming, “It’s too bad,” it was hard to hear him over the noise of the crowd, “someone got hurt. I wanted to have a ‘Bull and Bear’ fight, but the animal rights people wouldn’t let me. So, I had to wrestle cars instead.” The people around Adam appeared to get the ‘Paint Your Wagon’ joke and broke-up laughing. It seemed to Ken that the only things that Adam took serious now were getting high or being the life of the biggest party in town. But he just couldn’t laugh at Adam anymore.

He used to like his job, but that was before Adam had hit it big. Ken felt relieved that he had finally given his two-week notice just this morning. It had been very difficult. Adam had only been a minor comedic actor when he’d become his bodyguard four years ago. Back then Adam kept his affairs low key and private. That all began to change after Lizzie McGuire went off the air and Adam Lamberg became a major movie star. …riding the tiger on a grand scale. Ken knew he had to quit, before he became just like him.

Looking at his Rolex, he gave a sigh of relief. While he was relieved that the Derby was finally over, Ken didn’t look forward tonight’s party at Adam’s estate. The guest list made him apprehensive. A former Navy Seal and combat veteran, he could smell trouble. Hollywood prima donnas were bad enough. While Ken would never forget the promise he made on an Iraqi battlefield to Adam’s older brother. He shuddered, unable to forget the feel of warm blood dripping from his fingers. But drugs and Russian mobsters were too much. That type of crap was not what Ken signed up for.

After the madness of the day’s demo-derby, Ken found little comfort in vodka and orange juice. Looking down at the glass in his hand, he uttered a low swear. It was only last week that Ken had found the strength to join AA and try, the emphases upon try, to stop drinking. Feeling utter contempt for his boss and himself, he thought, ‘What a piece of shit I am!’

Adam Lamberg Estate, Beverly Hills, California 19:00

Adam Lamberg’s estate was huge. Built to resemble the French Palace of Versailles, there were 25 bedrooms, each with its own different colored marble bathtub. The front grounds of the estate were covered with fountain filled landscapes with alternating colored lighting. Dominating the back yard was a seven-foot hedge maze cut in a colossal crop circle pattern, which Ken thought only ‘aliens on designer drugs’ could make sense of it. In charge of security, the frequent parties that Adam liked to throw drove Ken crazy.

Tonight’s party was a black tie affair celebrating Adam’s latest movie deal. Most of the major players in Hollywood were present. After the madness of the day’s demo-derby, Ken found little comfort in vodka and orange juice in his glass. But it was Hilary and Haylie Duff that drew Ken’s undivided attention. With her older sister Haylie, Hilary was standing in the front ballroom, beside a life size ice sculpture of the Dutchess Anastasia Mikhailovska. While only of average height, the Duff sisters’ beauty contrasted with the harsh cold lines of the large sculpture. While they were still in their teens, their female sun-drenched flesh was clearly fully ripened. Dressed in matching cocktail dresses. Low-cut and backless, the dresses black silk color accentuated their light skin tones and the tight fit showed off their luscious figures and long supple legs. Haylie noticed him first. Nudged by her sister, when Hilary met Ken’s eyes, she gave him a smile that could have stirred a mummy from its tomb.

‘Hilary had done pretty well for herself,’ Ken thought. Even though she hadn’t released a successful motion picture or starred in a hit television show in several years, Hilary’s reported fifty-five million dollar trust fund testified to her continued success with the preteen crowd. It was impossible to enter a ‘Mart’ today without running into one of her clothing or makeup lines. In contrast, while Adam now pulled in fifteen million a movie, all of his money some how disappeared as soon as he made it. As Ken walked toward them, in the background a band was performing the Beatles song Back in the USSR.

The Duff sister’s put down fine china cups filled with coffee as Haylie spoke first. “Hi, Ken.” The three old friends hugged, sharing a warm greeting. Only later would any of them discover the secret ingredient that Adam Lamberg had arranged to be put in their coffee.

“Wow, you girls have grown!” he exclaimed. “Where are the gawky teenagers I used to know?” While Ken beamed at his old friends, it impossible to miss their titillating cleavage and enticing figures. Ken was somehow able to pry his eyes away from Hilary’s long, smooth legs without fulfilling his urge to stroke them, let alone start kissing them…

Ken had first met them when Hilary starred and Haylie had a minor role on the television show Lizzie McGuire, playing Ashlie Brillout cousin. In the show, Hilary was always getting in and out of one mess after another. Even though he had been actually several years old, Adam Lamberg played Hilary’s best friend, as they tired to get through the trials of junior high school together. Ken meet them all the year after the show was canceled.

“We’re still here. We just don’t trip over our own feet as much.” Hilary answered. “So how are you doing?” Giving him the same gooey-eyed look that Hilary used to as she put her right arm around Ken’s waist.

He nodded his head, enjoying the warmth of her fingers resting upon the small of his back. “Okay, I guess.” Ken said as he tried to control his thoughts. Twelve years her senior, Ken used to think Hilary’s crush on him was cute until the final day of shooting. Since then, he’d thankfully been able to avoid her. Perhaps it was the alcohol or Adams influence rubbing off on him. But he couldn’t help but notice how sexy the now eighteen-year-old Hilary Duff and her older sister looked.

While Ken had grown up on old classic western movies and stories of chivalry, it had become more and more difficult for him to remember the reasons why he first joined Navy Seals and then opted for private security work. ‘All the money, all the drugs, all the noise made it almost impossible to think, impossible to remember his boyhood ambitions to protect the defenseless. But didn’t he begin his career to protect the innocent people like Hilary and Haylie from people like Adam’s new friends?’ Ken wondered silently.

“If half of what is in the news is true, it must be pretty wild around here?” asked Hilary.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Was Adam really drunk when he played Santa Claus at the Super Bowl?” asked Haylie.

Ken shook his head, remembering how Adam had been all over national news coverage for days stumbling, cussing, and referring to his ‘girl-elf’s as his ‘ho ho ho’s’. “The attorneys advised us not to say anything until the trial,” he said. Ken could only guess at how much money Adam was shelling out to his lawyers to keep him out of jail. Figuring he should change the subject, Ken asked. “Do you girls ever see Hallie Todd any more?”

“No, but she’s so busy now.” Haylie answered, shaking her own head. “Ken why does Adam have that strange maze?”

“Adam,” answered Ken, “likes to get people lost in there. He thinks it’s funny to sneak up on them holding a rubber knife and shout, HERE’S JOHNNY!”

Just then they heard Adam, using an obviously exaggerated bad Russian accent, take over lead vocals for the band. Welding a whisky bottle like a microphone, he appeared hardly able to stand. Only with the help of a very large breasted blonde was he able to remain standing. Haylie stared at the girl uncertainly, but the fog and glare from the bands laser lights obscured her face. Noticing Hilary’s interest in Adam’s latest plaything, Ken led them away from the crowd. They settled in around a table in a far dark corner further obscured by a low wall cover by robust shrubbery and several palm trees.

Ken was glad that Hilary had the good sense to ignore Adam’s drunkenness when, to change the subject, she said as the song ended. “Aren’t the band’s Russian costumes wonderful!” Immediately an updated version of From Russia with Love commenced as Adam proceeded to wreck its lyrics, partygoers continued to laugh. Whether with Adam or at him, Ken wasn’t sure. But being around Adam was rubbing off on him. As Hilary continued to keep her arm around him, his mind wondered. Now that they were no longer ‘jail bait,’ he smiled as he thought of what it would be like to be with either of them, especially Hilary. Caressing her back, Hilary’s creamy soft skin felt nice and soft as Ken’s right hand slid down her back and came to rest upon the top of her firm right rump.

“What are you grinning about?” Haylie asked, as Hilary fondled his butt. Sitting besides him with a naughty twinkle in her eye, Hilary seemed to like how Ken was squeezing her buttocks.

Distracted, Ken slowly took in Haylie’s question. Then with a jerk, he shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, “Sure…I like the ethnic look.” Then his face grew more somber as he asked. “Did you two go to the demo derby?”

“No!” both sisters answered in unison, with an intent-disapproving stare, eyes so wide, their pupils completely surrounded by white. But a smile returned to Hillary’s face as her hand came to rest upon his upper thigh. Reaching all the way to floor, the long tablecloth hid Hilary’s hand slide up and encircling around his erection. Feeling the effects of all the alcohol he’d consumed, he grinned broadly. While Hilary began stroking the bulge in his pants, Ken shuddered, as he remembered the lat time they were together, at the Lizzie McGuire reunion party last year.

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