N.B. Spellings (when correct) are in UK English. All the characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The author does not necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this story, some of which may be illegal in certain jurisdictions. I'm adding (for legal reasons) that apparently if you're under-age you mustn't read this, so if that's the case go away and grow up.

Chapter 6 – A knave falls.

Ephraim Larkin Porter the third may have considered himself a King amongst Washington's movers and shakers, but far away on another continent they thought him a vile Knave.

He was a villain and a coward for what he'd done to thousands of people, those directly hurt by his manoeuvrings, and the many thousands more who'd benefited from the trickle down of the wealth generated from overseas sales to European and American customers.

If the Studio was guilty of some supposed crime, then surely those members who bought the products of that Studio were also guilty of having pictures of 'child abuse' although in reality they had collected pictures of happy young girls, who were all the happier at that time because they were able to help their family put food on the table and a whole lot more besides. Ephraim Larkin Porter may not have ranked all the way up there with Attila the Hun, or Hitler, nevertheless he was a destroyer of lives.

In his researches Boris had discovered Porter detested weakness, frailty, or illness of any sort, even loath to visit his ailing mother in her final days in hospital. His abhorrence didn't come down to a pathological condition though it wasn't far off. Ephraim didn't know it yet, but he was about to get sick. The first time it was just a prank to see if he could be got at by people on the ground, amusingly people who were being paid from funds Boris had lifted from one of Obadiah Franklin's offshore accounts.

If you wanted to find a retired spook, where better than the States, both Washington and Virginia were awash with them, a few still missing their glory days, and open to earning a little more for their leisure activities, money that Uncle Sam didn't need to know about. What could be more fitting than to destroy the political advisor and lobbyist with a plot that was suitably Machiavellian in nature; but first a few twists.

For those in the know they could find this spook via an obscure backwater on the net that was buried so deep only Boris and serious players would find him. He went by the name of John Doe-land, and for the right price would get things done, up to and including wet work as they called it in the trade. Boris in one of his many guises, but one known in the very top echelons contacted the man, laying out the plan, making it plain he didn't want the target dead, he wanted him to live for a very long time while wishing he was dead!

Ephraim Larkin Porter the third hated these big social gatherings of the great and good all in one place under the spotlight, he was a creature of the shadows and preferred to stay there doing his manipulation from the back rooms in the seat of power. Needs must, so on occasion he had to put in an appearance, to show his face and glad hand with the people who thought they were somebody.

Unlike most of them he was somebody, he didn't need to put up with the shit they put up with, he'd even had his own special blend of coffee sent to the kitchens ensuring he didn't have the same slop as the Senators and such. One of his own staffers would check they sent him out the good stuff just the way he liked it, despite the kitchen having to cater for over a hundred and fifty VIP guests at the plush event sponsored by the defence industry.

It wasn't surprising to see more mature serving staff at such an important gala event, it wouldn't do to have any novice waiters who hadn't the experience of serving at top table. For that reason John Doe-land in his current disguise went unnoticed just as he'd done throughout his career in a certain TLA, though he rather liked the humour of this mission, he even got one of the other waiters to take the drink out to keep the target at a distance.

Ephraim savoured his coffee, it tasted just like it should, the additive was almost tasteless, not that you'd want to try it if you knew how powerful it was. John Doe-land would have liked to witness events first hand but the two wireless spy-cams should capture what the client had asked for, even if it was a childish prank. Ephraim tried to disguise his boredom with those people whom he shared a table, thinking about when it might be polite to leave in order to visit his club which wouldn't let half this lot in through the door.

Suddenly he began to feel nauseous, it wasn't over hot or stuffy but he felt most decidedly queasy, not sure if he should get up and visit the restroom, or wait for it to pass. To late he lurched forwards disgorging his lunch in a projectile manner clear across the table to the horror of his neighbours, hardly had the retching finished, when he felt the most awful bilious cramps in his guts as his bowels let loose a noisy liquid torrent soaking his bespoke tailored Italian suit. His abject misery and humiliation seemed to go on and on, nobody in the room quite sure what to do other than ring 911, as no one wished to get within range.

Mr Porter's sudden indisposition left him hospitalised for over three days, and the talk of the city for quite some while after, even if some of the stories had left out the name of the unfortunate man at the event, it didn't take people long to find out who it was. Then out of the blue a couple of videos hit those popular sites on the internet causing it to go viral under the title 'Extreme illness'. A remix then turned up with a backing track, with the vomit projecting out then back again, with the same happening to the stain on his pants. If anyone really paid any attention each version had the letters TGOR in the top corner.

The videos were particularly popular within a certain group of people in and around the Ukraine when they learned who he was, and what he'd done. Whether it was seen by the good Reverend was unrecorded as he seemed to be busy answering a lot of questions in regard to financial irregularities with 'The Franklin Save the world mission' which had sent money overseas to places like the Cayman Islands and other tax havens with tight lipped banks who were not known for their cooperation.

In a move that surprised everyone (aside from Boris and Ira) the banks sent copies to the investigating authorities by registered courier that confirmed the amounts and the dates of the deposits, though details of the onward transmission of those funds had the account numbers censored cutting the trail dead. The evidence of his malfeasance was there in print from the various banks in question, though Franklin wouldn't say where the money had then been siphoned off to according to the prosecution, in reality he couldn't say as he didn't have a clue what was happening.

Boris wanted some good to come of the money, though shifting large sums into his own country was bound to ring alarm bells, especially with Uncle Sam keeping a closer eye on bank transactions. He set up a system of random small payments to various charities that helped the homeless and destitute rather than funnel it into any big aid program where a good deal would disappear as graft payments. He had money enough of his own, and that was scattered all over to provide him avenues of escape if that ever became necessary.

Any chance of Franklin going anywhere was curtailed by his bail conditions, all his fund raising activities had been suspended by court order, though with the publicity all but the very stupid gave his mission a wide birth. His, and his wife's passports were surrendered also by court order, and he had to wear a GPS tracking tag around his ankle, as well as report into a police station three times a week to inform them of his proposed movements, he was also forbidden from leaving the State.

Boris and Ira had more plans for Porter and Franklin, but Ira had come up with a wheeze that was too good to pass up. She'd discovered there were no ends to the perverse items that people could purchase over the internet, and Boris had confirmed her scheme was bound to capture the attention of the US postal service, and if it didn't he'd drop them an anonymous tip-off.

A cheap blow up sex doll was a common fraternity or stag party joke, but the Japanese as was their way made more sophisticated versions costing a hell of a lot more, and looking far more realistic, solid dolls made from some kind of latex or silicone foam. Due to their manufacture they were bulky, even if the limbs were detachable on the larger ones, they also had a full range of accessories and clothing available. They came in all shapes, sizes, and colours, disturbingly these 'fully functional' dolls also came in childlike dimensions and looked considerably more realistic than any manikin from a teenage clothing store.

Had Agent Hennessey looked he would have found a very large hole in one of his rainy day savings accounts, well over two thousand dollars was missing, and he was now the proud possessor of a post office box in his mother's maiden name. As expected the US postal service didn't like the packing crate from Japan, as strangely enough there had been a departmental circular about some perverse products being shipped by the very company whose name was printed on the box.

Boris liked knowing everything about someone, which is why Hennessey was the fateful recipient of this particularly unpleasant hoax. He was hardly going to realise that the letter from his wealthy but exceedingly eccentric uncle was a fake, even the odd last paragraph where he insisted that both the letter and envelope are to be burned before he collects his gift from the local post office box that is in his mother's maiden name.

Uncle Bernard was nutty as a fruitcake, but his mother's older brother, mad as he was had a talent for making money, though he rarely attended any family events, maybe when the old fellow croaked he'd get a share of the pot, so when he sent you a gift out of the blue you did as he asked even if it did seem weird. Bernard had passed on the ID info so as he could pick up the parcel without any hassle, but it was a big cumbersome crate almost five feet long shipped all the way over from Japan.

If it had been anyone other than his Uncle, Hennessey would have thought it odd to have it delivered via a PO box rather than send it straight to the house, but that was his Uncle. Looking at his rather sad SUV in the parking lot he thought any inheritance from the old boy would take away the nasty taste of that whole debacle, and he'd be able to go out and buy the latest model with all the extras, and be shot of his current shabby vehicle.

An Agent of his standing would have seen the tail if he'd been paying attention rather than speculating on the contents of the crate, though the crate did hold one additional item since it's arrival from overseas, a GPS tracking device just in case the detectives following were to loose him in traffic, as they couldn't be sure their man would be going to his home address, having gone to the trouble of having the package go to a PO box service instead.

Parking up in his drive he hauled the crate inside via the garage, picking up a box-cutter and pry bar on the way as he sat his prize in the middle of the lounge carpet.

He opened it with care, then lifted off the lid, next he peeled back the foam packing material, at first he thought it was a shop manikin, but it was far too lifelike, almost as if he were looking at a pretty oriental twelve year old dressed in a skimpy bikini, then he thought perhaps it was one of those robots the Japs were so good at making.

He spotted the instruction manual, picking it up the colour drained from his face, why on earth would his Uncle think he'd want a sex toy in the shape of a young girl?

At the sound of the door bell he quickly replaced the lid to see who was there – from there on his world spiralled out of control as all the later evidence pointed to him having made the purchase, records on his computer history log, and the payments from his account. Even worse was his original explanation beforehand had caused his Uncle to go ape-shit, so no way in hell would the old boy help him out, and everyone else he knew was treating him as if he were a leper. He'd never realised how hard it was to sit on the wrong side of the table in an interview room when your truthful story didn't hold water.

It wasn't illegal to own a sex doll as such, but one so obviously designed to perfectly copy the body and appearance of a twelve year old girl was bound to raise a lot of questions, none of them very pleasant, and so his house was being ripped apart in search of any other deviant material. They were also asking questions about missing kids, and unsolved sex crimes, while nothing he said in his defence was given any credence.

When he mentioned how his car was trashed, and all the insurance paperwork kept going missing, and now the doll, and how he thought he was being set up by someone with a grudge, they just shook their heads. He began to realise how weak it sounded, it was the truth, but it fell on deaf ears. Although he hadn't committed any offence, and there'd been no questionable porn on his computer, he still ended up as a registered sex offender with all that entailed – including loosing his job, he'd also had to sell the house though he got a rock bottom price because of the damage and the bad publicity.

Ex-Agent Hennessey moved to live in a trailer park, his trashed SUV now being his most expensive possession. The record would follow him around for life, and he had to report in to the local police station once a week. They treated him with disdain, everyone hated it when any sort of law officer went bad, and nobody from his old life wanted to answer his calls as he'd become an embarrassment. They shouldn't ever need to revisit Hennessey!

Ephraim Larkin Porter on the other hand was ready for some more pain, he hadn't died from embarrassment though it had left him badly shaken. He hadn't even been able to sue the hotel venue for either food poisoning; as no one else had been affected, nor had he been able to get them about the videos, because none of their security cameras covered the inside of the suite where the private gala was being held.

Boris told Ira about a Russian defector who'd moved to live in England, and how a tiny pellet delivered from the tip of an umbrella in a crowded street had caused his demise. Their plan would differ slightly in that the package to be delivered wouldn't be deadly, just very very nasty. If you knew the 'wrong' people anything was available for a price, so it seemed fair that one of Porter's overseas accounts should pay for the small vial that was delivered to John Doe-land by a rather roundabout route.

John Doe-land studied his prey, it also helped that his client had made available a large digital file of information about the man. Two or three times a week he'd visit his exclusive club to dine in the evening, once a month he'd visit his barber for a trim of his greying and receding hair, other than that his movements were unpredictable, though on occasion he'd get a text on the burner throwaway phone he was using for this job. Somehow his client had an inside track on the target's movements, as if he had a guy on the household staff, or had a tap on the man's phone.

Waiting for the right weather didn't take too long in Washington, a rainy day that wasn't too rainy explained someone carrying a furled umbrella. Jabbing someone in the ankle as you ran past swiftly to catch a cab was considerably more difficult. John was good at his craft which was why he still found employment, he could blend in unobtrusively, complete his task, then most importantly exit stage left with the ease of many years of practice.

“Idiot!! Can't people look where they're going, these are expensive pants, I'll be pissed-off if he's torn them.”

George, Mr Porter's chief go-fer thought his boss had got increasingly tetchy after the gala incident, something none of them dare mention. Hearing the word 'pants' it was all Pete the driver could do to keep a straight face, all the staff had enjoyed that incident where their boss had taken ill. In the back of the car Ephraim inspected the leg of his pants which looked okay, but there was a small scratch on his ankle.

It had only been possible to add a small amount of local anaesthetic in the hollow point injection system, along with the culture medium, but the firing mechanism was pressure sensitive shooting the load on contact with the target. Only some hours later did Ephraim Larkin Porter feel any further discomfort which he ignored putting it down to the earlier scratch, he was dead right too, for now the anaesthetic was wearing off so he could begin to feel the processes at work in his foot and ankle.

Unfortunately for Mr Porter it wasn't a common bug, as it was highly resistant to any form of antibiotic treatment, it had a long scientific name, but the tabloid press called it the flesh eating super-bug in that it wasted away all the tissue as it spread through a patient. By the time Ephraim was willing to admit he had a problem it was already far too late to save his foot, later the surgeons had to go back and shorten the stump almost to the knee to ensure they could save their patient.

All he kept saying was that it was only a scratch, how could it lead to such a devastating result. He was now an amputee, a cripple, how could he face people from a wheelchair? He spoke to the top man, he wanted a prosthetic limb straight away, but of course that wasn't possible due to the swelling and trauma to the stump, maybe a year down the line. He couldn't visit his club as the venerable old building only had steps, and he'd been the one to force the local authority to back down from insisting they had wheelchair access for the disabled, because it would spoil the appearance of the historic building.

There was one other thing that disturbed the man, a strange business card kept cropping up, in his mailbox, or falling out of his newspaper, a white card with a black border, no details other than the name in black – The Goddess of Rhamnous. The very first one also had a two word hand written addition - The Goddess of Rhamnous - hates you. Of course he'd long ago thrown out that first card, but now he began to wonder if this had anything to do with his sudden misfortunes, then it hit him the letters at the top of the video TGOR!

Ira celebrated with Boris in the best way she knew how, he was ridden hard and put away wet – wet and well drained with a smile on his face. The next morning she did a search and replaced on all her text files the words - Ephraim Larkin Porter the third, to the more apt in her mind title of - “Ephraim Larkin peg-leg Porter the one and a half.”

Chapter 7 – The retribution continues.

Ira didn't know what it did for the others who were in the loop who followed what was happening, but for her each act of retribution made her feel stronger. At the time of the raid so many had cowered in fear, unsure what would happen, as it turned out for a good deal of them it was just about as bad as it could get. The Americans would have done less harm if they had dropped bombs on the city with the number of people whose lives were ruined. Nothing good had come of the raid, it had only caused more poverty and sadness.

She didn't understand how the law worked in the USA with all sorts of State or Federal law officers who dealt with various sorts of crimes. From what she could make out the biggest crimes trumped the smaller ones, so people got charged with the serious stuff, and the others tended to get overlooked. They couldn't be sure in which order they would discover all the clues they had planted about Franklin, but all the local minor infringements were just a cover to get his computers into the hands of the law while he was dealing with civil suits, and the county administration people.

The fraud investigation was ongoing while he was under strict bail conditions, almost all of his assets were frozen, as the network of shady holding companies to hide his wealth was coming to light. With the general opinion among the right wing Christians over there, the abortions amounted to murder, churchmen sleeping with under-age girls and getting them pregnant didn't go down too well either, then there was the flagrant cash embezzlement.

With a bit of adultery thrown into the mix she would have most of the ten commandments covered in a general sort of way, or at least the important ones.

Boris was appalled at how slowly the police forensics team were able to search the hard drives, he knew how they were doing because he was hacked into their network.

If things went any slower he'd have to send them instructions! He'd discussed it with Ira how in the US crimes of theft could sometimes get you longer prison terms than one of murder, so it was certain he would eventually serve out his remaining days behind bars, though it would be fun to make sure everyone hated him first, by leaking some of the evidence from the crime lab as if it had come from the police.

The cops did manage to find a log of all the wife swapping and swingers websites, which they leaked themselves to the public without his help. He soon realised that the encrypted partition they'd come across was harder than they could crack, so he sent them a bogus anonymous message from 'a computer savvy parishioner' who'd helped the Reverend, but now saw the error of his ways in helping Franklin who was nothing more than a conman.

Boris and Ira had worked hard on that part of the job filling the secret compartment with lots of nasty surprises. Boris was proud of the diary excerpts, looking as if he had meant to delete it but somehow it had gone wrong leaving juicy fragments, as the Reverend put down his thoughts of lust for various young boys and girls of his congregation.

When detectives started asking kids from his ministry about the Reverend, it lit a fire in the district, with him instantly labelled as a ghastly paedophile without the slightest hint of evidence other than a few uncorroborated stories from his past about some possible teen pregnancies, and the payments to abortion clinics. Innocent men had gone to the chair for a lot less, and hearsay was soon labelled as fact among the general public.

The few times he was out on the street people either hurled abuse, or they crossed the side-walk to avoid him. One strange echo seemed to follow him around, teenage punks would come up to him and whisper the phrase 'The Goddess of Rhamnous hates you' - nothing else, they would deliver the message and walk off laughing at his expression.

They'd been recruited online, a hack to a free game for a bit of fun to the teenage gamers who lived around that district. The reaction it garnered, and the stories it generated among their peers had the effect of it almost becoming viral, in that any kid would go up and say the words, free game or not, just to see his look of horror.

Reverend Obadiah Franklin could see no way out as his legal team were costing an arm and a leg, and he wasn't even in court yet. They'd complained about the leaks as a form of character assassination, but it had done little good, as it had no bearing on the fraud charges against him.

The local TV news stations, and the papers ran a lot of the more salacious stories, not for titillation obviously, but as responsible journalists expressing their rights to free speech, he had a right of response if anything they said was wrong, though it just so happened they'd been sent copies of the relevant documents. Though his own suffering was both financial, and in terms of reputation, he had something in common with an erstwhile collaborator who was now having a series of health issues; they had both sought to find out who the hell it was who'd been sending the obscure business cards and messages.

Both men were shaken to find out 'The Goddess of Rhamnous' was in fact 'Nemesis' the Goddess of revenge, and remorseless divine retribution, as the more in depth articles that actually spoke of the Rhamnous Sanctuary made it plain she was absolutely devoid of any compassion, relentless in her pursuit, and totally without pity in regard to her enemies. From this perspective it was worrying that she'd declared her personal hatred of them.

The Reverend hadn't instigated the demolition of his own house, even if the data trail said otherwise, and it was the catalyst of his current demise, just as Porter suspected his gala incident was not a random case of food poisoning, he was also one-hundred percent sure that the rare Necrotizing Fasiitis bug had been due to the man with the umbrella. Paranoid or not, both men knew they were under attack from an unseen foe of great imagination, skill, and destructive power. Orson Wells was a frequent exponent of an unseen foe in his films, which demonstrated how effective it was in unsettling victims and audience alike.

Neither man had any means of knowing from whence their Nemesis originated for they'd both been ruthless in the pursuit of their own goals, thoughtless of the consequences for the most part, not caring for the little people.

Franklin's Save the world mission had sent out a couple of crazed religious fanatics, just so he had some evidence of work overseas, but the vast majority of the cash was siphoned away while he enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame preaching on the TV and at rallies all around the bible belt parting suckers from their money. His current appearances on TV were not to his liking, as they lifted the veil on his darker activities real or imagined, the public was unconcerned that no swinging wife swappers came forwards to claim they'd had the Reverend and his wife around for sex, the website addresses on his computer were proof enough for the average Joe.

Ira watched all her enemies squirm, she would have worried about the vast cost of their campaign if it wasn't being funded unknowingly by the men themselves, in that respect she liked that they were paying for their own destruction, it was somehow so much more satisfying. It would be better if more of that cash could help her lost friends, but Boris was doing all he could to channel money to various shelters or feeding programs that helped the destitute and homeless, though even that was difficult thanks to Uncle Sam watching.

Other than Ex-Agent Hennessey who was a broken man, out of the game with his life in tatters, the six agents who'd joined him on the raid were still subjected to a series of low level forms of harassment in their day to day lives until either Ira or Boris could think up some new form of torture for them. Ira had on the other hand found a form of torture for Boris, in that she had slowly been increasing the distance of their daily walks, she had even suggested they get bikes to roam further afield to build up his strength and stamina.

He had to agree he hadn't felt this fit even back in his teens, it was as if somehow their ages were growing closer together, Ira maturing before his eyes, meanwhile he seemed to be regressing becoming more youthful in mind and body through her constant influence.

Living in one another's pockets they had no secrets, becoming attuned to the others mood or needs at work or play. When a reminder came through the post that Ira's check-up was due at the health clinic she encouraged Boris to see the doctor too, because she was sure it was an issue he'd not bothered with in the past.

Getting out and about so often Ira joked his skin was now a darker shade of white, that of course was in fun, as through the months he had taken on a more lively colour from their daily outdoor exercise. She now felt it her job to care for him as he'd done for her at her lowest ebb, as generally he wouldn't make the effort if she didn't push him to keep more reasonable hours, to get adequate sleep, and to eat sensibly. Unlike the ill fated Mr Porter, Boris could have a much healthier life now as he grew older.

The ad-hoc arrangements made in Ephraim Porter's substantial house to cater for his use of a wheelchair, and his general infirmity were to be superseded by the building works to make him a fully fitted suite on the ground floor, complete with an accessible terrace to overlook the gardens. Unfortunately despite employing the best architect and builders the job kept slipping, initially with paperwork getting lost in the system, then as bespoke parts turned up on site they were the wrong size and had to be reordered.

If anyone had checked they would have found e-mails, specifications or drawings that all went via computer were the cause of the problem. If Porter's people spoke to anyone by phone or online, Boris knew about it and kept tabs on any vital components that could be screwed up by changing a number or two. Porter didn't rant at the builder as he knew by now he was being fucked with, and it wasn't an error on their part.

They now confirmed with any distant manufacturing plant that drawings received matched the ones that were sent by long tedious phone calls checking on every single dimension.

Porter posed the theoretical problem about any orders sent by computer being messed with by a third party to some of the people he knew in various TLA's, but they just said it couldn't happen on the scale he proposed, that he was just being paranoid. A few of the more skilled men believed a top player might pull it off but they couldn't see why anyone would bother pulling stunts on one of Washington's backroom operators, so they gave him the same negative answer. They weren't to know who he'd upset, if they didn't know Ira's online persona, those at the top of the game might know some of the handles Boris used.

With his constant medical attention, and his regime of antibiotics it was harder to mess with his health for the moment which is why they frequently pissed him off in other ways. When an opportunity arose they would do something else to make his life miserable, or to be more accurate, increase his miserable demeanour and his sense of paranoia.

Ira's English skills which had been reasonable before, were now practically on par with someone of her own age living in the USA, thanks to the amount of time she spent online looking at their websites, and at the communications of the people they were monitoring.

Thanks to the free games, hacks and cracks that were gifted to the wannabe hackers in the area where the Reverend lived, The Goddess of Rhamnous was respected by the guys who were willing to do her bidding on the ground. Nate Stevens lived just a few doors away across the street from Franklin's current rented property, and in his online guise as Snake7 he'd hinted as much to TGOR. He couldn't believe it when real parcels started turning up at his door addressed to him in his real name, with personal messages from the Goddess in his in-box.

The inline skates were the ones he'd looked at online, the right size and colour, so it was no biggie to mount the quality web-cam in his window pointing across the street. It was a pity he couldn't boast to his online friends he was tight with the Goddess, but that would be so uncool. He was mixing one on one with the big league, so her next request though sick was something he would find a way to accomplish, because she really hated this guy.

The money he'd put by for the skates he gave to Ron, they weren't exactly mates, but the guy was a trickster, bad boy, low level thief. He had to tell Ron what they were for, as he didn't want Ron thinking it was him who was the perv. They visited several laundromats in the area, then bought back the haul to sort out their hastily grabbed finds. The items they didn't want went into a dumpster, then taking care not to leave their own prints, an empty plastic bag taken from Franklin's garbage can was stuffed with their booty.

Nate completed the job then sent the Goddess a message. The next morning he watched as two police cruisers pulled up outside Franklin's house knowing it was being caught by the web-cam. He saw the man answer the door, then the lead officer, a detective showed him the warrant. The police had received an anonymous tip-off that some pervert had been stealing clothing from service washes that had been left at various local laundromats. It was no good Franklin proclaiming his innocence, that his GPS tag could prove he wasn't there, because he must have had an accomplice in his crime.

The bag contained girls underwear, unwashed soiled panties probably from their size and labels belonging to girls from say eight through to twelve that had been found on a shelf in his basement. As Franklin was lead away – again, in cuffs, a news van pulled up in time to record the event. Also visible through the clear evidence bag was the multi-coloured kids underwear, that the reporter already knew about having had a hot anonymous tip-off. This latest news item gave additional credence to Franklin being a kiddy-fiddler, even if so far the youngsters they'd interviewed wouldn't admit to any inappropriate touching.

Only Nate and Ron knew it was a scam, and neither were going to say anything, dropping the bag through the tiny loose basement window, then pulling it closed onto a wedge of paper using a suction cup had been fairly simple and quiet at half one in the morning.

On the Sunday Ira insisted they stroll down Taras Shevchenko Boulevard, as it was closed to traffic on weekends, and they could enjoy the numerous street performers and animal handlers. It seemed there were Kvas vendors on every street corner, and stalls with every kind of snack food. Ira indulged Boris as they ate healthily most days of the week, so it didn't hurt to be naughty occasionally in terms of diet, in terms of sex Ira was insatiable at times, especially when her enemies suffering reached new heights.

Both had pockets full of change, slipping a few coins to the various performers or to the beggars, to give them more would only cause more problems than it solved, a little cash and they might eat, too much, and they might get off their heads with glue or some other substance to escape their awful lives for a few hours – or maybe even permanently!

Ira had heard of Marta's work, which the older of the Goose sisters did assisting the street kids of the city. It was a difficult balance handing out aid, in that it only fed them a day at a time, whereas helping them to help themselves was a far better long term solution if you could find a way to make it work. From what they'd heard via Karl, Marta still had a strong link to the street orphans, her original idea blossoming out to become many individual local 'chapters' each having their own district where they could earn a living.

Getting back to their flat Boris hit the boards, she didn't mind as that was how he earned his living, staying in touch with others in their line of business. You'd only be a respected player if you kept in the game. Boris was very good at what he did which prompted Ira to ask why he'd worked at the Studio. He explained security experts were thin on the ground with such a low take-up of technology in their region, and he'd seen how so many families could benefit from the application of his skills in helping the Studio back then, besides he still had his hacking work that could be done at the same time.

Sam at twenty-one was good with computers, so he'd felt sure living in Virginia that he'd get a job at the agency, but no, they only wanted people with a good Degree from college, as if he was ever going to find the money for that from his background, so without a good job - catch 22. He'd spent a lot of time online mixing with some serious dudes who were good hackers, so he made a few dollars locally by selling cracks to illegal copies of popular games. One of the forums he checked-out regularly was visited by a couple of serious players who were just slumming it with the minor operators like himself, but it was worth listening to these guys, maybe getting in their good books.

He'd put himself on the line giving out his real twenty, well not his home address anyway, but the town he lived in when talking privately to one of the players. The dude wanted a few jobs done in the real world, right near where he lived. Apart from the kudos, the man had some great links to help Sam out, with a promise of more to come if the job worked.

Sam wasn't great with cars, but he knew a guy that was, Mike was also an avid gamer who was well up for it with the games Sam had on offer. Popping the hood late at night, it didn't take long to add the mixture of sand and iron filings. TGOR said that the guy was an agency man, saying he always listened to loud music on his way to work, which meant a long trip on the freeway each morning. He didn't question how TGOR knew that shit, but Mike said by the time the dude had travelled twenty miles the engine would be so well fucked it would need replacing.

Phill Granger couldn't believe how his life was dogged by bad luck, the last six months had been one disaster after another, now he had to be in early for a review with his boss, and the traffic was bound to be crap, so he'd decided to set off early. He was hoping for a car to be included in his latest review, to cut down the mileage on his recently acquired new truck, though off course it wouldn't have the same sort of high power sound system that he enjoyed listening to, cranked well up as he covered the miles into work.

He was making good time, though he'd kept below the speed limit most of the way, when the flashing lights in his mirror caught his attention, he then also noticed the smoke!

Indicating he pulled over turning off the radio, it was then that he heard the sound of his engine, shit that did not sound good. The officer was not sympathetic writing him a ticket, then he had trouble with his cell phone trying to call work, and get himself a tow truck.

For Ira and Boris it was early afternoon as they listened in on Granger's misbehaving phone, first as he got a ticket for an un-roadworthy vehicle belching smoke, then his vain attempts to call his boss or a tow truck. Half an hour later by which time traffic was nose to tail they allowed his phone to suddenly become operational, by which time a tow truck would take another two hours to reach him, and there was no chance of arriving for his review meeting on time.

They would follow the consequences and fallout from Phill Granger's mishaps later via his phone log, and listening to the calls, but in the meantime Boris had to earn a living doing a few jobs that had come in. Individually or between them they sent Karl updates of the odd misfortunes that kept happening to people overseas who they all had reason to hate for the misery inflicted upon everyone within the Studio network. They knew Karl, Marta, and his in-laws had kept in contact with as many of the old crowd that they were still able to reach, though sadly most had fallen through the cracks never to be heard of again.

It was thinking of those who had suffered the greatest loss that gave Ira the strength to pursue her enemies with such unrelenting vigour. If she spent the rest of her life punishing these people, it would still amount to only a fraction of the hurt they had caused illegally destroying the lives of so many innocents, their families, and their friends.

Phill Granger's boss was unimpressed with the story of the car breakdown, in that Phill claimed he was unable to get any cell phone service on a main stretch of busy highway! Needless to say he didn't get the promotion, in fact it lead to a poor report for his annual review. Aside from the cost of the ticket, his new truck was in the shop with news that the damage was so serious that he would need a replacement engine or total rebuild, on top of that he had the cost of hiring a set of wheels so he could travel back and forth to work.

Of the remaining agents they had many unfortunate incidents like mysterious fires, graffiti, vandalism, or were the victims of credit card fraud which took many months to resolve. Eventually it occurred that three of the original team happened to meet up during a two day conference between departments from various districts, as they'd become separated since that fateful trip to the Ukraine.

Having something in common they later congregated in the hotel bar, Phill moaned how some punk vandal messing with his truck, along with a dicey cell phone had fucked his recent interview for promotion. The other two guys dragged out their own tales of woe, including the hunting cabin booking they'd made that had become cancelled, and a host of other lesser misfortunes. This lead Phill to mention he'd also suffered far more bad luck than would seem fair, they went on to talk about the other four guys who'd been on their jaunt to the Ukraine, and in muted whispers the name of Hennessey came up.

It seemed they'd all suffered a string of misfortunes since that time, seven guys who were once rising stars were plagued with problems. In hushed tones they spoke of Hennessey. The guy had claimed it was a set-up, first his truck was keyed, then he's found in receipt of a kiddy sex doll that he claims to know nothing about. The three men were aghast, it could have been any of them. They had no idea how all this shit was happening, but the one defining thing they had in common was the raid on that modelling agency overseas, as they were trained detectives they were meant to be able to spot patterns, and this was one which they found very disturbing.

They had no way to determine how they were being played as victims, as each individual problem they had suffered seemed so random. As other tables in the bar became louder, theirs became more subdued, their drinks hardly touched, their sense of paranoia manifest in the long unlikely list of stories each man was able to relate, not realising that some of those events were just the ordinary day to day issues of life, and therefore not down to the mysterious force that was affecting the entire team from that expedition abroad.

Having the three cell phones of the men they watched come into such close proximity had caused Ira and Boris to keep a closer eye on the men in question, taking it in turn to stay awake through the night in Kiev due to the time difference. The early evening spent in the bar in Virginia on Eastern time meant it was 04:00 for Ira and Boris as they listened into the conversation via the cell phone in the pocket of Phill's causal shirt.

Now the men were aware of the game Ira and Boris decided on a course of action.

Bill Carter heard the bleeping and felt the vibration of his cell phone indicating an incoming text message.

“You and the others will forever continue to suffer the consequences of your illegal actions unless you atone for your meddling ways.”

Stunned at the contents he read it aloud, or should that be quietly to his equally shocked companions considering the subject of their current discussion. As he was showing them the message which was from an 'unknown caller' the text deleted itself from the screen letter by letter. Jack Lewis nearly jumped out of his chair as his text alert went off next.

“A monthly donation of 10% of your salary to any Ukraine children's charity – for the rest of your life, will make your problems go away – this is non-negotiable.”

His text was also received with a sense of dread. They were spooks sitting in a room full of spooks being blackmailed by a person or persons unknown.

Phill waited in fearful apprehension, sure his phone would be next, it was!

“Beware TGOR is the all seeing one who will watch over you – Forever!!

Again they all looked at the message on the screen, leaning in and talking in low whispers, unaware that each of their phones was under the total control of someone half a world away, each one the personal listening device of their enemy. The message began to delete from one end until only the words 'Beware TGOR' were left on the screen for a short while before they too disappeared like the smile of the Cheshire cat, only this wasn't a simple tale for the amusement of children, this was a game of fear.

Phill dropped the phone like a hot cinder as it again displayed a new message.

“Remember Hennessey.....”

The stark message was that their old colleague had been the victim of whoever it was who was sending the messages, and Hennessey had been stitched up like a kipper, all the evidence pointed to a guilty man. They had all been shocked at the time of his public downfall, all the while protesting his innocence though the case had been rock solid.

Their conversation remained subdued none of them sure what to make of the situation till at last they parted for an early night though sleep would not come easily for any of them. The following morning the three men looked the worst for their lack of sleep but they each swapped current contact details with promises to keep in touch, though none made any mention as to whether they would be making charitable donations overseas.

Jack Lewis was still having trouble believing what had happened, that they could each get a text that would then self destruct, but the haunted look of the other two guys the next morning showed they'd had just as little sleep as himself. He was a spook for gods sake, living in spook central so surely someone could give him some answers.

Speaking to a few contacts he heard Russia was supposed to have a large community of cyber black-hats, though the Ukraine was reckoned to be a technical backwater.

When he asked questions about mysterious texts that could wipe themselves out he got a lot of blank looks as the 'experts' told him it couldn't be done, they either weren't expert enough or they didn't mix in the same exalted circles as Boris.

Boris had space on Virginia based servers to avoid delay loops on the voice calls, he also kept a total record of all voice and text messages of those under his surveillance, and he could take over the display on those phones at will, without the service provider having any record of the anomalous goings on. When Jack began to investigate the meaning of the letters TGOR they let him run with it for a short while, just enough to frighten himself.

The first reference Jack could find was the letters appearing on a viral video under the title 'Extreme illness' of Ephraim Larkin Porter, some influential political advisor and lobbyist at a plush event sponsored by the defence industry. By a stoke of luck he then found out that the initials popped up in gaming forums where punk kids hung out looking for pass codes known as 'cracks' in order to use illegal copies of popular computer games.

A few days later he came across the campaign to hassle Reverend Obadiah Franklin which gave words to that set of initials. The Goddess of Rhamnous!

Moments after he'd uttered the words out loud the text alert on his phone went off.

“Do not take my name in vain. Cease searching – I'm everywhere and all seeing.

Your pay cheque arrives on Thursday, this week you will receive a list of suitable charities. Remember no less than 10%....”

Jack wasn't so much a worried man he was actually scared, just like Hennessey he had no form of proof, the message disappeared as if it was never sent. He may have baulked at the expense, but he couldn't imagine the cost of annoying The Goddess of Rhamnous!

The list of some twenty odd charities turned up in his postbox, plain envelope, no stamp, no address, just his name. They were all charities for the Ukrainian homeless or orphans, and checking online he was able to determine they were real, though being small none of them had an internet presence in their own right, they were just listed as genuine hard working humanitarian organisations within that region. The list was topped by a number, close as he could tell it was ten percent of his monthly salary cheque after deductions.

Looking at the sheet of paper it was nothing unusual, it could have come from his own printer on his desk, there was nothing to indicate it's origin, not that he intended trying to follow that lead. The next day he went and purchased several international money orders to the total stated value, well a few dollars in excess just in case as he then sat down to write out the envelopes adding the various accents to the carefully copied addresses.

Jack pondered how long he could afford to spend out 10% of his hard earned cash, but that was soon resolved when he received letters from three magazines he subscribed to, and a club to which he belonged stating they were sorry that he'd seen fit to cancel their standing order payments due to other more pressing financial outgoings.

It was no idle boast about being everywhere and all seeing if TGOR knew all his bank details and was able to manipulate his standing orders at will.

On a Saturday morning a few weeks later he got a panicked visit from Bill Carter, he'd not been so quick off the mark in following instructions, so he'd been punished.

Every single standing order he'd had with his bank had been cancelled, and it had taken an age to get the vital ones like his mortgage reinstated. He then received a very terse message not to renew his golf club membership, nor was he to go hunting or pursue any of his other hobbies as he would now be making a monthly donation of fifteen percent.

He told Jack that as he was heading to the main post office he'd got a text telling him to move faster as starving kids were in need of the food those money orders would buy.

The threats he'd received due to his tardiness implied he could find himself in a situation like Hennessey if any further 'donations' were late in arriving. If they spoke to anyone higher up in their own agencies, they had no proof, disappearing text messages, the odd glitch at the bank, plus an assortment of unfortunate breaks in life could happen to almost anyone. They had nothing real they could put on the table. Each of them willing to backup the story of the others was hardly cast iron testimony, it might even put them deeper in the hole.

They spoke with Phill Granger, finding out he'd paid out the moment he received the list of charities, then dug into his savings to buy a second-hand compact, deciding to sell off his newly restored truck. He didn't want to own anything of value that could be messed with. Jack shared what he knew about TGOR with Bill and Phill, this was obviously payback for the raid on the model agency, but he couldn't see the connection to Ephraim Larkin Porter, or to the Reverend Obadiah Franklin, the second of whom had been in the news with a whole host of scandalous stories.

Phill sat quietly for a moment then snapped his fingers.

“Did you guys hear what happened to the guy in charge of the team running the raid? About two months later he was found to be involved in some really sick shit, but because of his position a lot of it was hushed up. They found evidence he was interested in a lot of extremist organisations, it also appeared he had a lot of other perverted tastes as they found some of the sickest kiddy porn on his home computer that you wouldn't believe. He's now doing 'very hard time' as a bitch at the grey bar hotel - for life without parole!”

Bill added his thoughts next.

“Hennessey! Him and that kiddy sex doll.”

Jack then spoke of Franklin with the tales of under-age girls, rumours of kiddy fiddling in the congregation, and then more recently of police raiding his house and finding little kids underwear stolen from local laundromats.

“There does seem to be a theme here. I believe Hennessey was set up, TGOR more or less said as much, but it's some pretty sick and foul stuff. When you compare the sick crap out there to what we saw from the Studio it's chalk and cheese. Hell, none of them girls were being forced to do anything, more like they were getting to play dress-up then romp about taking their kit off. Them young girls were all smiles looking real happy, I think we fucked up big time on that raid – it never should have happened.”

Phill now took up the thread.

“Nobody out there ever got charged, that issue never really hit the news, but none of the girls or their parents would testify. They all loved the Studio network, according to them we were the bad guys; and you know what, I think they were right.”

Reviewing the tapes later a tear trickled down Ira's cheek, at last they were beginning to understand, though they would never know the full extent of the misery.

Chapter 8 – The last three men.

Ray Martin was a broken man, Suzy calling it off just two days before the wedding, there was nothing he could say to convince her he hadn't been cheating. To loose Suzy was bad enough, but he was now homeless too, having moved into her much larger apartment six months ago. He'd been in the shower when the text had appeared on his cell phone, so naturally Suzy had checked it out, worried it was a call from the agency that would spoil their planned evening out.

“Don't forget to move our playtime gear from the back of the closet in the spare room, it wouldn't do for the old cow to find it – Love Karen, kiss kiss.”

Smartly dressed he'd found her stony faced in the lounge, her diary open checking dates with a bunch of restaurant and hotel receipts. Of course asking the cause of her upset she had passed him the phone saying to look at his last message.

Immediately he'd realised this Karen woman had accidentally sent her message to the wrong number, joking with Suzy that some lousy cheating schmuck was in a whole world of trouble, but Suzy didn't laugh saying she'd already been to the spare room.

Her tone was so cold that he went to look for himself. The closet doors were standing open with a bag tipped out on the floor, the contents spread out.

Sluttish costumes from some cheap store, the typical cheerleader and nurse outfits, only in a size that wouldn't fit a grown woman like Suzy. A half empty box of condoms, a partially used tube of KY jelly, and a few sex toys completed the haul. It didn't make sense as Suzy had been on birth-control since before they'd both met. He couldn't understand what this was all about, so went back to see what his fiancée was checking with in her diary.

The loose envelope of receipts had been in the bag from the closet, all the dates matched either trips with the agency or times when Suzy had been travelling away on business.

He had no way to explain it – there was no rational explanation, he couldn't even return the call as this Karen's number had been withheld, though of course Suzy wouldn't believe that he didn't know her number off by heart as it wasn't on his caller list.

Suzy being the sister of his best friend, and his best man for the wedding meant he didn't even have a bed for the night as Adam had heard the news by the time he arrived, luckily the worst he got was a black eye and a host of abuse for being a lousy cheating bastard. Suzy must have arranged to send back all the gifts, the locks were changed, his clothes in garbage bags were left in the hallway mostly hacked to pieces, and all their old friends now shunned him as a louse. He imagined his Christmas card list would be a hell of a lot shorter, aside from the agency, they had so many friends in common – ex-friends to him.

After Ira came up with the idea four months ago it had taken a lot of organising, watching both their schedules, and listening in to their conversations. The lucky guy who she had chosen to help got to take his girlfriend out on nice dates, eating for free, staying in very respectable accommodation, everything paid for in cash from the money she transferred to his bank. All he needed to do in return was to send the receipts to the PO Box number she had given him. Helping TGOR and keeping quiet was a no brainer.

Using cash left no tell tale credit card trail, something any cheating agency guy would be aware of, his fiancée finding the receipts all of them being cash money sales would ring alarm bells if presented as planned. Boris helped her find a small time local housebreaker who was sent to collect the receipts from the PO box, then gather the other stage props for the sordid little affair, with the emphasis on small sized clothing that would fit a freshly budding teenage girl. Then all he had to do was let himself in carefully then leave the bag in the correct location, not taking anything away as a souvenir on the way out!

Ray Martin had no home, no girl, no friends, no social life, very little to wear, and nobody that would believe it was all caused by some terrible sort of hoax. He couldn't even follow up on all the places he was supposed to have eaten or stayed because Suzy had all the evidence. Worse was to come as he later found she'd maxed-out all his credit cards that were left behind in the apartment to pay the bills for the wedding that didn't happen.

He would be paying it down for years to come, and trying to get some lawyer involved was a total non starter as he'd probably end up paying even more than he was now.

Ira felt no remorse for the collateral damage, the devastated fiancée, or for the long list of friends and family who would be involved in the fallout. TGOR didn't do remorse, not after what she had endured, or the families of other girls just like herself. The hurt that she felt would never go away, her only solace was to pass on a little of the pain and suffering to her enemies in retribution for what they'd done. Boris recognised her mood, that glint of triumph as the man was broken and the wedding cancelled. He knew to finish the job he was doing, his own little Goddess would want to celebrate yet another victory in their bed.

Aside from his basement flooding Mitchell Hayes hadn't been plagued with quite as many misfortunes as his other six colleagues from that fateful trip abroad on agency business, not that he was aware of that as he'd since left that TLA to join a defence contractor. Many of these companies had a wide portfolio of products right from leg irons to guided missiles, not that the average Joe on the street would be privy to that information. Guided munitions were fine, but systems meant for personal restraint were a very touchy subject. Rendition may not yet have joined the common language, but dodgy practices carried out behind closed doors in places unknown were the suspected behaviour of certain agencies.

The consultants -'read sales force' in many of these companies had staff gleaned from TLA organisations who were their frequent customers. Mitchell hadn't been that far up the greasy pole, but he had the gift of the gab, and he had a wide circle of acquaintances in the right places who had the authority to make purchases. The contacts through contacts lead to those shady characters who were the purchasing ministers for tin pot third world dictatorships. Mitchell knew he had to start somewhere, though eventually he wanted to move on to be involved in the big bucks weapons systems.

Boris usually steered well clear of anything military, but the arm of the business where the man was employed dealt with equipment for civil and judicial enforcement, and besides he was staying clear of the head office, just hacking into Mitchell's phone and laptop. For an ex-spook the guy had lousy encryption on his communications with his office or clients, so Boris and Ira could follow his every move, and every deal that was being negotiated.

These foreign ministers that he dealt with were very unpleasant individuals, usually having a small army of bodyguards in their own countries, even abroad they tended to travel with two or three heavies or they somehow felt naked. Arriving with a retinue of various staff and lackeys also bolstered their own sense of self-importance. Mitchell had been through a wide range of training so he knew how to handle these people, pandering to their over inflated egos, making the deals, and passing the bribes under the table.

Graft and backhanders were the cost of doing business with this sort of banana republic, it was built into the price, and the ministers expected it as their right, so they could send their kids to the finest foreign schools. Part of this scheme could be done from their work stations in their basement flat, though they would also require someone locally to perform action at a distance, and this time that person would need greater skills than any common housebreaker to pull off this little intrigue, they needed a real player as it was all down to their coordinated timing for the job to have the intended spin.

John Doe-land, the semi-retired spook, now a man for hire had been faintly amused to see the video of Porter go viral on the internet, happy that even in his disguise he'd remained out of shot. He had checked on that before sending the files on to his mysterious client, so while everyone had been focused on the paramedics at the end when they'd arrived, he then collected the two remote cameras unnoticed, after-all he was just one of the many faceless service minions at the prestigious event.

He had not noticed Porter before as he was one of those shadowy figures, but in recent times he'd taken note of the man's ever declining circumstances, both in his health and in the abysmally slow progress in converting his substantial home to cater for his disabilities. Obviously his client also employed some additional means to harass the man who was the piteous object of his wrath, though John Doe-land didn't need to know why the guy was being victimised, he just performed the contract he was paid for.

A new communication from the same client proposed an interesting new job that might prove to be entertaining. With the fee agreed he began to study the mark, forewarned in advance that the man was an exponent of the craft being as he was ex-agency.

Pitting his wits against another former agent would be both amusing and highly satisfying, though certain details relating to the scam might only come light at the last moment, hence a new burner phone set to silent vibrate to catch any last minute text updates.

Mitchell thought he was quite adroit at dealing with these jumped-up creeps from all these appalling shit holes who bought the equipment supplied by his current employer. Basically they were no better than thugs in suits, probably the only difference between them and their bodyguards was having the right family connections. From the amount of kit he had shifted recently he wondered how many of these countries were expecting massive civil insurrections, he surely wouldn't like to be on the receiving end of their judicial systems.

During the last two weeks he had closed on three deals, and was currently working on a fourth which was one of his biggest to date. He reckoned another year, and he could find himself moving on to sell the big bucks military equipment. The meeting would be in the hotel suite where the minister was staying, whereas Mitchell was operating from a more modest room in a nearby hotel, not wanting to risk being late due to the ride commuting into the city. Everything was set, his clothes laid out ready, and the attaché case with the neat bundles of cash as delivered a short while ago by the usual courier.

The evening's meeting was just the final formality to seal the agreement. He wouldn't take his laptop along, only the last document to be signed, plus of course the money.

He went to take his shower, though he'd feel like another shower later after shaking hands with the vile man he was about to meet.

John Doe-land was in the adjoining hotel room, having notes on the mark's habits he knew he had no less than twenty-three minutes since the sound of the shower starting. He'd been listening in to his neighbour via the electronic eavesdropping device fixed to the wall, so it was time to move. The fish-eye door viewer showed the hall was clear, silently he moved to the hall then into the adjoining room with a card cloned from that used by the housekeeping staff. Releasing the latches on the case he replaced the bundles of cash with those he'd bought with him, closed the case then left as if he'd never been there, all in a time of ninety seven seconds. He would return again later after the mark had left.

Mitchell checked his appearance one more time in the mirror, straightening his tie before picking up the case to descend to the waiting cab, after-all it wouldn't do to get mugged on his way to the appointment. He could handle himself but there was no point in inviting trouble, though these days he spent more time in bars or clubs schmoozing than he did in the gym, he was getting soft, and he kept promising himself he'd do something about it.

Two hours later Mitchell lay in an alleyway not far from the clients hotel, his nose and one wrist broken, his difficulty in breathing suggested he also had a number of cracked ribs, as to put it mildly the meeting hadn't gone as planned. It started all smiles and handshakes, then handing over the case the minister had briefly looked inside before passing it on to one of his heavies to count it, not being so crass as to do that himself.

It didn't take a genius as each bundle had the original band from the bank, one thousand, two thousand, and so forth. The bodyguard quickly returned interrupting their jocular conversation about 'gentlemen's clubs' in a nearby area, whispering in his bosses ear then handing him one of the cash bundles. Even from across table Mitchell could see only the top banknote was real, the rest were very poor fakes. The anger erupted and he was outnumbered by three to one, perhaps the only reason they hadn't shot him was because they weren't inside their own embassy.

One handed he was barely able to dial 911 on his cell phone, coughing on his own blood and discovering a broken tooth in the process. He wouldn't be able to say what really happened, he'd have to say how he was mugged by some masked thugs, though to his boss he would need to explain how the courier had ripped them off, and to make things right with their client, because the guy certainly wasn't listening earlier on.

Mitchell wasn't to know that John Doe-land had made a return visit to his hotel room the moment the elevator doors closed as he left for the meeting. In a matter of seconds a text informed Boris the laptop was powered-up, and connected to the internet. Boris had full administrator control of the device, able to operate it from his remote location, so he 'helped out' Mitchell by routing a few routine memos and reports to his boss, at the same time as if by accident sending a spreadsheet that appeared to be Mitchell's own personal 'secret accounts book' that dealt with him skimming part of the graft money from several deals in which he'd been involved.

The secret document had also been loaded onto the laptop with false properties that would make it appear as if it had been on the machine since the date of the first alleged scam. Mitchell might be in no condition to retrieve his belongings or laptop, though it could be guaranteed his superior would be interested to see it's contents, especially after the very sour conversation with the minister who had just been so gravely insulted.

Mitchell was totally screwed, aside from the document that he was unaware of, the courier was also a trusted staffer, he had to be because the contents of that attaché case was peanuts to what he sometimes delivered, so he'd had no reason steal from that tiny pot. The minister's bribe had to be replaced with an additional sweetener to settle his ruffled feathers, with assurances that Mitchell would never again work in the industry.

When Mitchell did get to speak with his boss it was in private behind closed doors.

Due to the nature of the missing cash nobody could admit it ever existed, but his boss had the document proving Mitchell was a thief. Plain and simple he could empty all his savings accounts to pay it all back or else... the threat was left hanging.

Worse was to come as he was faced with his own hospital bills, as his health cover went out of the window along with his job.

Boris said that word would spread unofficially, Mitchell Hayes wouldn't be able to get back into the agency network, nor anything in the defence companies, also he would have a hole in his employment record that he couldn't explain without any prospective company discovering he'd been dismissed for gross incompetence. That reason for dismissal without notice covered the real reason of embezzlement of 'non-existent' slush fund monies. John Doe-land got to keep the additional cash as a little bonus over and above their agreed fee.

A very happy Ira insisted they go out to a nice restaurant to celebrate the successful outcome of their latest scheme. Boris felt humbled that this attractive slim willowy blond who was sixteen, now almost seventeen found him as an acceptable companion though he was old enough to be her father. Thinking back to the time when he'd taken her home, back then he'd looked old enough to be her grandfather, but her care and loving had done wonders for his health, his appearance, and his wardrobe during that intervening period.

He'd never been much of a people person, hardly full of social graces, that aspect of his personality hadn't really changed, instead he'd discovered he was a person person, and here she was sharing his life making it richer by her presence. Now he couldn't imagine his life without Ira at his side replete in the sound knowledge that she felt the same way, with neither of them concerned if they were viewed as an odd couple. It was truly amazing how she'd come on during the past two years, constantly honing the skills she'd acquired in order to achieve her goals, realising that he himself was one of her projects.

They spent many hours sitting side by side in their work, so it made a pleasant change to be sitting facing one another over a great meal prepared by someone else, his smiling and confident girlfriend the subject of admiring glances from other men in the room. Briefly he wondered if they were in a restaurant in the UK or the States if some of those men might do a double take thinking that they recognised her from somewhere. He and his former colleagues from the Studio knew that their substantial membership were just a minuscule fraction of the potential audience who for one reason or another were not able to join-up.

Ira knew men in the room kept looking at her, one even getting kicked by his girlfriend due to his wandering eyes. She liked the attention, she had done back when she was in front of the cameras, but now she had the attention of Boris and that was enough.

The new look suited him, gone was the pony tail, he now sported a relatively short cut, but not so short as to look military, and his skin had more colour, loosing it's previous pallor as she managed to get him out into the sunshine during the reasonable weather.

She'd noted the pronounced bump of a lady across the room, and thought back to her plan, thinking in another year Boris might be open to the suggestion of becoming a father, but they would probably need to move into somewhere a little larger. For a wealthy man Boris maintained a very modest lifestyle, so they would still need to show some discretion to remain under the radar. By the time they returned home they would have walked off the meal, and she could practice for the time that she got to make a little baby Boris.

A few days later Ira was looking at the list of her foes, the team leader who'd remained in the States had been thoroughly dealt with by Boris before she came on board.

The two instigators Porter and Franklin who had inveigled others to push the raid were now subject to her ongoing machinations, and three of the agents who were paying a monthly tribute in contrition for their actions were all aware of the Goddess.

Currently Gordon Hennessey, Mitchell Hayes, and Ray Martin all felt their lives had hit rock bottom, though TGOR had yet to reveal herself by name to these men to inform them that their living hell had barely yet begun. The worst that Karl Simmons the seventh member of their team had so far suffered was to have his garden buried below umpteen tons of fresh manure, plus a little random harassment now and again.

Ira decided he'd escaped far too lightly, and it was about time that changed.

Karl had never been able to determine how the manure debacle had been perpetrated, the call to some dumb receptionist who had taken the order over the phone, with the debit card bank transfer correctly authorised. He couldn't think of anyone that he or his wife had upset to such an extent they would organise such a despicable prank. He was unsure what had been the worst, the manure itself or that people could mess with his bank account. The episode increased his paranoia, though agency guys had enough of that to start with.

He'd also had a few spates of vandalism and graffiti which were uncommon in the area where he lived, which meant wasted weekends for himself or getting contractors in to fix the damage. At some expense he'd now fitted security cameras in order to deter or catch any further troublemakers, and to keep his insurance premiums in check.

Ira had asked if they could tap into his cameras and control them, as she liked the idea of the guy giving them full access to the area around his home.

Boris did a little research, then left messages with a few contacts who were hardware specialists in order to seek advice. The system was 'stand alone' independent from the guy's home computer, or any outside comms line, but nothing that couldn't be resolved by a couple of home visits, unwittingly paid for by the Reverend Obadiah Franklin from the monies they'd drained from his offshore accounts. Their entire campaign was paid for by the victims themselves, though who paid for what wasn't important.

One morning Karl and his wife Paula missed their morning alarm call meaning they were both late for work due to a power outage during the night. On checking with neighbours Karl found it was only their house, then checking the utility cabinet outside discovered the main safety cut-out had tripped for some unknown reason. It reset okay which left him wondering if he'd need to call someone out to do an inspection, though it was a high spec build above basic codes so there shouldn't be any issues, he decided to let it ride for now.

John Doe-land had access to all sorts of 'James Bond' type toys, so his visit to Karl's house at 02:00 wouldn't have been recorded on the security coverage because it didn't have a backup supply to keep working when the mains went down. From a point on the sidewalk not covered by any camera he launched the small box with a crossbow to land on the lawn beside the electrical utility cut-out. Pressing the remote the box sent out a disruptive pulse that tripped the supply breaker, a fact confirmed by the porch light winking out.

He waited a few minutes to see if there was any response then let himself in to add a little hardware to the security system. It would give him control of the unit for now, and when he later returned to fit the additional equipment he could do so at his leisure.

Later during his subsequent visit a few sub-miniature cameras were fitted inside the house, to which only his client would have access via the comms device that streamed video and audio from the new toys placed inside, including video from the householder's own less sophisticated cameras mounted outside.

Aside from control of Karl Simmons phone, computer, and bank account, they could now watch and listen to him in his own home without his knowledge. Ira didn't want to make any overt move that would tip her hand that she could monitor his movements directly inside his house, but she'd decided to play mind games on the guy until his own paranoia made him a quivering wreck.

It started small by adding or deleting items they worked up each week on the computer to print a shopping list. It started the odd argument between Karl and Paula as to who had made a gaff by including or removing some item or other. Because they were sometimes short of an item it would necessitate a trip out just for one or two products, so far only a minor irritation while Ira thought up new ideas.

Karl was beginning to wonder about Paula's health the way she was becoming forgetful, so it wasn't surprising when he got a text as he was about to drive home to pop into the store to pick up some groceries. He thought they'd got some of those products when they had last been out, but he must have been mistaken as he'd had a lot on his mind recently.

When he hauled the shopping inside he got an odd look from Paula who asked what on earth he had bought. The following conversation was a corker, as he said it was what she'd asked for, with her denying that she needed or had space for the items he'd brought back from the store. Karl showing her his phone then found the text he'd thought she sent wasn't there, and it couldn't be faulty as all his other messages that day were clearly still there and he couldn't recall deleting it as he'd referred to her list a couple of times on his way around the store.

Paula was beginning to wonder about Karl's mental health as he'd been behaving oddly of late, he was becoming forgetful, then this thing with the groceries and him thinking she'd sent him a text message that he was certain he would find on his phone. Meanwhile Ira and Boris reviewed hours of tapes to learn more about the Simmons household in order to escalate their mind games, as the tricks she played got Karl doubting his own sanity.

While watching a live feed she realised he was looking for his keys, so for a laugh sent a text suggesting where to look, he appeared startled at the message, but went to the place where Ira told him to find them. Each time he went to review past texts he found that the mysterious ones disappeared, so he was unable to prove they'd ever been sent.

He even checked his records with the phone company, and had one of the lab guys at work take his phone apart to see if it had been tampered with in some way.

These lines of enquiry got him nowhere, as the tap Boris had on the phone system was buried so deep in the software as to be invisible except to another hacker of equal skills. Finding out more of their victim, Ira began to take a new tack, as unlike his fellow agents from the raid Karl and his wife were regular church goers, and she thought they could use that to their advantage. A small twist in her approach, had Karl believing some spiritual entity was contacting him which was why nobody else could see the messages.

Slowly Ira had him believing he should be doing something to help all the poor families that had been devastated by the raid he had taken part in. By the time he went to speak with the Paster at his church, it was no coincidence that the churchman had received in the post appeals from several Ukraine based Christian charities working to help the street children in that region. She and Boris had sent a circular to each of those organisations claiming that writing to that particular church would likely receive a favourable response.

As well as a regular ten percent donation from Karl and his wife, many other members of that congregation also agreed to make a few of the Ukrainian charities a part of their own regular list of charitable beneficiaries. If Karl, his wife, and perhaps to a lesser extent the leaders of his local church wished to believe there had been some divine guidance in the charitable causes they'd selected, Ira wasn't going to disabuse them of that idea, because she merely considered it as a tilt from one kind of mental instability straight into another.

Ira thought it was only just and fitting that a church and it's members should be aiding the destitute as it was them and their ilk who had backed and encouraged those with the mindset to make the raids in the first place. They may have disapproved of the Studio without ever having seen the output, but among the alternatives many of those girls had was starvation, homelessness, suicide, and prostitution, none of which had justified the breaking up of the Studio network. Unfortunately the aid, or the syphoned funds that Ira and Boris had so far organised was but a small fraction of the money once taken in and distributed by the Studio.

Because Karl was now an ardent supporter of the Ukrainian relief effort, and was raising a reasonable sum from his fellow parishioners she didn't terrorise him as she did the others. Now and again she would send a suitably sanctimonious text about the piety of doing good works, and occasionally signed it off TGOR. If Karl chose to believe that meant 'Thy God of Redemption' she would leave him with his delusions as long as it suited her plans.

Chapter 9 – More misery for the instigators.

Boris and Ira hadn't finished with Franklin or Porter, though first Ira had a job for Bill Carter, Jack Lewis, and Phill Granger. Though like Franklin and Porter they all knew that The Goddess of Rhamnous hated them, they also knew why she hated them, because of that abortive attempt to arrest the people running the Studio network. Their illegal policing action had failed dismally although it was dressed up to be a massive success in the eyes of the world media, but as they'd since learned it had left devastation behind in it's wake.

The three men were each given the current address of either Gordon Hennessey, Mitchell Hayes, or Ray Martin with instructions to inform them about the Goddess and the reason for their past and current misfortunes.

Gordon Hennessey wondered who could be knocking on the door of his trailer, probably a debt collector or a John for one of his neighbours banging on the wrong door, he sure as hell didn't have any visitors these days. Opening up he stood there rather stunned.

“Phill? What are you doing here? You don't want to be seen calling on the likes of me, it won't do your career any good if people find out you've been here.”

Phill interrupted, asking to come in so they could talk. The first thing he said to Hennessey who'd never liked to go by Gordon, was that he believed he was innocent, in fact he knew that he'd never ordered that sex-doll despite all the evidence saying otherwise.

He then laid out the sad tales of his own trials, and what he knew of other people involved in the bust on that foreign Modelling network.

“If it's happened to all of us then maybe I could get a review, get this millstone from around my neck, you've no idea how hard it is to live with the stigma when everyone believes you're an out and out pervert.”

“It doesn't work like that my old buddy, none of us have any form of concrete proof that would stand up to scrutiny, certainly not in a court of law, and besides the Goddess would never stand for it, she'd find a way to punish us some more.”

“Goddess? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“TGOR – The Goddess of Rhamnous, we don't know of her by any other name, and I'm watching what I say and do, cause it's like we're under surveillance 24/7. None of us have seen a tail, but we know for damn sure if we fuck with her she will fuck with us, and boy can she mess with a guy; well if anyone should know that it's you. A while back I met up with Jack Lewis and Bill Carter at a conference, and we got to talking, swapping stories about some of the shit stuff that had happened over the past two years.”

“Ever since we got back from that raid over there in the Ukraine awful things have been happening. Everyone has the odd bit of bad luck, but we started adding it up, and we did have some similar nasty experiences that started to make a pattern, then our phones went off one after the other with these text messages that then deleted themselves.”

“The first one said how we would all continue to suffer for our illegal meddling unless we atoned for our actions. The next message was about us all sending 10% of our monthly salary to various Ukrainian children's charities, then a bit later a warning that TGOR was all seeing, and watching us all the time. You had to have been there, like the colour drained away we were all just so shocked, then the last message said - Remember Hennessey?”

“I think that kind of proves you were set up, and it was a stark warning to the rest of us too. Jack did some research, texts shouldn't be able to self destruct, and nobody thought the Ukraine had spooks or hackers worth a light, but TGOR has us shit scared, and we're all dancing to her tune. Anyway he uncovered this guy Porter, an ultra right wing commie hater who's a back room political advisor, and this Reverend Obadiah Franklin who are both in a world of shit if you've been following the news, and her initials are linked to both those men. Our best guess is these two guys were pushing buttons behind the scenes.”

“Shortly after Jack discovered that TGOR meant 'The Goddess of Rhamnous' his phone goes off telling him to quit searching, with a reminder about his 10% contribution to any of the charities on a list he'd receive before his next pay-check. She knows how much we earn, who we bank with, our savings accounts, damn she probably even knows my brand of toothpaste, I can't remember the agency ever doing such a thorough run down on a suspect as the stuff she knows about us.”

“We can't ever escape as she has assets on the ground, with the gamers and hackers on our own doorstep willing to do her bidding, I couldn't begin to estimate the size of that army at her disposal. Bill was slow off the mark making his first payment, so she cancelled all his standing payments at his bank, then told him he had to give up his golf and hunting as he would now be paying 15% each month.”

“I can't see a way out, you know yourself she leaves a toxic evidence trail that enforces what she wants investigators to believe. Anyway me, Bill and Jack were told to tell Mitchell Hayes, Ray Martin, and yourself about the Goddess, and why we're all being targeted.

She wants the people involved with the raid to know how they've destroyed thousands of lives, and taken away the route out of poverty for thousands more.”

Two other similar conversations took place with Mitchell Hayes and Ray Martin, both men having suffered radical blows to their plans for the future, knowing why they were targets didn't help as there was no possibility of repairing the damage that had been done.

They'd all had to take their lumps and remain silent, making claims that were impossible to prove would do nothing for their situation. Trying to blame their misfortunes on some 'Goddess' would only make them look like cranks or conspiracy theorists, which in turn made them wonder about some of those strange lone voices from the past.

For the Reverend Obadiah Franklin there was no escape from his mounting troubles, but his younger attractive trophy wife had taken as much as she could stand. The bag full of kiddies underwear had been the last straw, though she was included on some of the legal indictments, she turned States evidence, telling what little she knew in the hopes of a plea bargain down the line. She still had to wear a tracking tag, but she reverted to her maiden name, changed her appearance, and went to live with her sister as agreed in the terms set out by the DA.

It was only due to his very strict bail conditions that Franklin wasn't sitting behind bars as the various indictments began to pile up with regard to a growing catalogue of crimes that appeared to get longer with each passing week. With his name often recurring in the news it came as no surprise that when any religious figurehead was interviewed on the radio or TV that they were asked to comment about the Reverend Obadiah Franklin who was now a source of extreme embarrassment to the church of whichever particular denomination.

Chat show hosts on more liberal channels often looked for the more eloquent victims of sexual abuse to confront any church leaders they could persuade to join their panel. As so many of these preachers were desperate to get their faces on TV, it clouded their better judgement, and they usually got a mauling on air. Boris and Ira kept an eye on the coming TV schedules, sometimes able to send useful, i.e. toxic information to the host, and to any person opposed to the religious guest on a programme. They didn't think they could ever sway the false, bigoted, or hypocritical views of the religious factions in the States, but they could allow the more intelligent citizens a few laughs at the expense of the church.

With no wife on hand, and nobody willing to work as staff; not that he really had the cash to spare, Franklin had to do all the chores alone in his rented house. His grocery shopping was limited to a few stores, as he was excluded by a banning order from any street with a laundromat, toyshop, school, park, games arcade, or any place that children might gather.

Jordan was nineteen, but back when he was eleven he'd been felt up by the priest at his local church, he'd kicked the guy hard and legged it. Nobody believed him, but nothing his parents would do could persuade him to ever attend church again. He held a grudge that his parents were so blind as to what had happened, saying the touch must have been an accident and he was taking it all out of proportion. Jordan was now part of a growing number of activists who highlighted wrong doing, and took reprisals whenever they could.

He'd watched Franklin closely since he'd moved into the district believing him to be as sick and perfidious as all the other priests and religious bastards. He'd also seen the number of kids go up and say stuff to his face that seemed to shake the guy. Speaking to a few he found out about TGOR, and how she hated Franklin, encouraging the gaming community to constantly remind him of her hatred. It was early evening, and Jordan was becoming impatient as to if the guy was going to the store or not, as he was starting to get cramp.

It hadn't taken long to choose the correct location, but laying in wait for the past couple of hours had been uncomfortable. The spot was ideal as he could see the house, and he had plenty of cover, plus a good escape route, he'd even checked the range down to the nearest yard, then been out to practice using that exact distance.

Franklin had looked out of the windows several times, but today there were no protesters out there with their banners, so he would make a quick dash to the store to get what he needed to last a few days. For all the freedom he had he might as well be locked-up, but his legal team said it was better being on police bail than being held on remand, as it gave out all the wrong signals to a jury. On such a warm evening he couldn't justify a coat to act as disguise because that would only make him stand out more, so he wore lightweight pants with just a sports shirt as he stepped outside.

Jordan had seen the face at the window and got ready, then he saw the door opening as his target stepped out locking the door behind him. It was only a dozen steps to the sidewalk then he would turn and present the best target. He steadied his grip, the small bipod helped as he lay prone to take the shot, he hoped he would only need the one shot.

Franklin fell to the floor doubled over in pain puking and gasping for breath, his hands going to his crotch felt the wetness, lifting one hand away he saw the red, then in anguish screamed for someone to help him. Jordan's hours of practice had paid off, the perfect nut shot, he could tell that from the initial silence then the amount of noise the guy was making, with a smile he took a few souvenir pictures, then folded the stock of his gun placing it in his backpack, before leaving the scene to return home.

Ira and Boris couldn't hope to follow all the news feeds from the States, though some of their community friends flagged anything that TGOR might find interesting.

Top of the hour local news flash.

“Earlier this evening the controversial preacher Obadiah Franklin who's currently on police bail pending numerous allegations including embezzlement, money laundering, tax evasion, fraud, and possible under-age sex crimes was assaulted outside his current home address. Paramedics and police called to the scene confirmed he had been shot in the groin by an unknown assailant using a paint-ball gun. Our reporter on the scene earlier spoke to some local residents, we apologise as most comments had to be censored.”

“This is Jeff Barns for XYZ evening news, excuse me sir did you witness the shooting?”

“I didn't see the b*****d get shot, but I came out of the house hearing him making such a ruckus. Nobody wanted him living around here amongst decent folk, the police should have locked him away from the start, pity that slug weren't real. We don't want perverts or kiddy-f*****s in our neighbourhood.”

Back in the studio.

“Once again we apologise, but there were very few interviews from the scene that we could broadcast showing the strength of feeling from local residents that didn't require far more editing.”

“The police detective in charge Vic Clements said they took all assaults seriously, but they had few leads to go on at this time. Unofficial sources inform us that the police believe the case as unsolvable due to the animosity raised by some of the recent allegations bought to light against the controversial preacher who has become the centre of so much litigation.”

“The local county hospital would make no comment at this time on Mr Franklin's condition, and the lawyer of his estranged wife said she would rather not discuss the issue, as she was currently filing for divorce...”

Ira lapped up the story as it was presented on each of the news channels, some of the anchors trying not to smirk, or wincing at the thought of being hit in such a sensitive area. They even interviewed a few people running paint-balling adventure parks, who listed the protective equipment needed by regular participants which included a sports box to avoid groin injuries. Several medical experts were also wheeled out to speculate on the possible injuries from such a projectile. Ira's single regret was that this hadn't been her idea.

She was soon helping Boris as he began to track down the mysterious assailant who lived half a world away. Among all the tongue in cheek reporting it was possible to glean a few facts, then tapping into detective Vic Clements computer they found out a little more, as the man was only going through the motions with no intention of actually capturing the guilty paint-baller. Once they isolated Vic's phone they could hear the mood in the crime room was that the shooter was considered by everyone as an avenging hero.

They did know the shooter had a serious gamers gun that would be used by a regular player at weekend events, as it had a greater range than any off the shelf rental or hobby gun, plus it had a good sight and bipod. Working out to a twenty mile radius they soon had a vast number of potential suspects who were club regulars. Checking on local shops, and asking for help from hackers who had knowledge of the sport, they narrowed it down to half a dozen weapons. From the police report they knew the brand of paint-ball, so it was now a case of collating all the facts, they also had the advantage of a web-cam.

Nate Stevens was elated to receive a fresh message from the Goddess in his in-box, she had sent him several money orders to upgrade his computer system, so he'd fitted an external hard drive dedicated to storing 24/7 coverage of Franklin's place across the street, plus another one he kept hidden away with his porn collection. She wanted him to check back over the week prior to the shooting to see if he could find any evidence of the shooter, not to snitch on the guy, but to thank him! TGOR thought it was well planned in advance, and therefore the guy probably checked the distance of the shot he would make.

The remains of the red stain on the sidewalk showed where Franklin had been hit, so Nate began running through hundreds of hours of coverage at high speed slowing down when anyone came in frame on that part of the street. One guy showed up three times, and he was definitely pacing out back towards where the police said the shot had come from, so he had to be their man. He isolated the three visits, and sent the files in their full native resolution so the Goddess had the best chance of seeing the shooter.

At a point over two years after the raids most experts would have said facial recognition was still in it's early stages, but the darker the agency the more cutting edge their tools, and Boris knew of lots of dark places, besides he only wanted to run a comparison against a list of just over eighteen-hundred names. The driver and vehicle licensing database was good enough to provide the match they wanted, and then Boris removed all traces he had ever been poking around in a place he shouldn't have been.

Jordan Fellows was nineteen, so with an address and DOB Boris began to compile the same sort of complete profile that he'd made of their enemies. Meanwhile Ira was doing a little online shopping, after all a nineteen year old apprentice motor mechanic must find his various hobbies ate up his spare cash. She knew his ISP, and was soon looking through his browsing history to help out a guy who was about to find out he had powerful friends.

Finishing work early Jordan was home before his parents, it sucked living at home but on his wages he couldn't see he'd be moving out any time soon. He was hailed by one of their neighbours who'd taken in a delivery, probably something ordered by his mum, so it was a surprise to see the three heavy boxes all had his name on the label. After hauling them inside he pulled off one of the delivery dockets from under the plastic cover, unsure how the online company could have made the mistake. He thought he'd better get online and sort it out before he got billed for stuff he didn't order, not opening any of the boxes as they'd only need to be resealed for later collection.

It was a bummer that he'd probably have to stay in at some point so UPS or whoever could come by and collect the damn boxes. His computer took it's own sweet time coming out of hibernation, but switching it off it took an age to boot from scratch. He thought to check his e-mail first as there was probably some notification of this rogue delivery that he could reply to telling them they'd fucked up and he wasn't paying for whatever it was.

Even with the spam filter there were twelve new items since yesterday, though the subject line on one jumped out at him.

“Replacement RED balls from your friend TGOR.”

He knew those initials, The Goddess of Rhamnous, she was the one that encouraged all the geeks, and those kids into gaming to constantly hassle Franklin. He knew of her, but how the hell could she know about him, he hadn't told anyone of his plans, then had kept quiet about it afterwards. He saw spam adds every day, this wasn't fake Viagra or some miracle weight loss cure, this was about RED balls, just like the blood red ball he'd fired at the preacher. Jordan opened the e-mail.

“Jordan please don't be alarmed, maybe you don't know me, but as the enemy of my enemy you are my friend. I don't know if your action was personal, but I can see no record of your paths having crossed, so I'm guessing you don't like him on principle, which is fine by me because something he set in motion hurt so many innocent victims.”

“In recognition of your service in targeting the scumbag, I've arranged for a small gift to be delivered so that you can enjoy your weekend hobby more often. I loved the coverage on the news wishing I had thought of it, but it was your idea, so you deserve a reward.”

The message was signed off 'The Goddess of Rhamnous' and included a way for him to leave a return message, as the originating source of the e-mail would be untraceable.

He opened the first box, top brand paint balls, not the cheaper type that inevitably coated your barrel with residue during a long series of battles. They weren't all red ones, though that wasn't the issue, he had ammo enough for some months ahead, as he'd only have to pay for the game fees. Looking back at the open e-mail on his screen he noted the clever way it had been written, it didn't name names, or connect Jordan to any crime, instead it noted they had a common enemy.

For him this guy happened to be someone who was currently in the news that lived close by, but he would have been content to target any preacher or member of the established church. For TGOR it looked like she had a particular score to settle with the man for some kind of thing he'd been involved with that she said had a large number of victims.

At the local county hospital Franklin was not a popular patient among the nursing staff, as they saw the news stories just like anyone else. The allegations were now so numerous that it was plain common sense he had to be guilty, the latest rumour was that his original house being knocked down was arranged by a disgruntled criminal associate who Franklin had swindled, or the father of one of his child victims. The chart at the end of his bed had all the medical details, his penis and both testicles had suffered severe blunt trauma that had caused intense bruising and swelling. This had made passing water almost impossible, so the doctor had instructed a catheter be fitted, this was done none to gently by the nurses who were very sparing with the analgesic gel usually used for such a procedure.

Boris had found his way into the hospital records system that was so highly computerised in order to bill the patients for every last item or procedure. Noting that his current pain pills were available in either of two sizes, he reduced the dose so that Franklin would get the 400mg pills in place of the 500mg pills in order to increase his suffering.

At the time of the assault Franklin had at first thought he'd been shot with a regular bullet, thinking he was bleeding to death. He did not appreciate the laughter of the police officers attending, who'd belittled his injury.

He couldn't believe that one of the officers had wanted to write out a vagrancy ticket for him being sprawled on the sidewalk having thrown up all over the place, but the officers agreed amongst themselves to let him off this time owing to the circumstances.

His ball sack had swollen to the size of a grapefruit, though it felt even bigger, and the colour down there of the bruising was horrendous. The doctor in charge hadn't exactly filled him with joy as he outlined all the possible outcomes, stating he was mandated by policy to inform a patient of all the possible risks or hazards involved with their condition.

On his fifth night in hospital Franklin slept through till morning without the restlessness he'd experienced on the previous nights, that was due to the medications that had been tampered with by the new night shift doctor. John Doe-land only needed the badge holder for the name-tag that issued from his printer in the correct style and font, it would also match with the hospital records on the off-chance someone should query his presence in the building. The patient didn't stir as he received several small injections in the nasty site of his injury, it wasn't the Necrotizing Fasiitis bug, though it would still be difficult to treat.

Boris had upped the pain meds the night before back to 500mg doses, and during the night the 'doctor' doing his rounds had added some painkiller to Franklin's IV drip that would be disposed of at breakfast time the following morning. Hence the patient was unaware of the growing infection until it was nicely established, by which time the real doctors found they were unable to control the situation making radical surgery the only option for their stricken patient. Reconstructive surgery might be possible at some future date, though it would merely be a cosmetic procedure, Franklin would never be having sex again unless he was on the receiving end as a jail-house bitch.

Ira was very happy at this latest news, she in turn celebrated by making Boris very happy, not that he didn't consider himself very lucky all the rest of the time since she had come into his life. Jordan wasn't left out of the celebration as he received notification from his friend the Goddess that she'd be paying for an annual membership to his favourite paint-balling venue for the next five years, and had paid the community college fees for him to attend the evening classes he'd looked into related to his job at the garage.

Jordan had to read through it all twice, his boss at work had said they were too small an operation to sponsor his fees, but if he paid for the course himself, they would give him extra time off to study with no loss of earnings. Then with a qualification under his belt he would be in line for a decent pay rise, added to that was now his weekend hobby had just become one hell of a lot cheaper. He sent a reply thanking the Goddess, though in truth the emasculated guy in the county hospital had paid for all of those gifts from the money Boris had spirited away from Franklin's Cayman Island accounts.

Franklin was still in deep shock, his neither regions still swathed in dressings, fearful of what he would see, or rather 'not see' when the scar tissue began to heal. The surgeon had been unsure of the final outcome, at best Franklin would have to sit and piss like a woman, or if he had no control of his bladder he'd have to walk round with a piss-bag with a catheter in place all the time. Since being in the hospital he'd had no visitors, so it was a surprise to receive a card, though opening the envelope sent a chill down his spine.

“The Goddess of Rhamnous still hates you, and will continue to hate you forever.

I have taken away your money and now your manhood, what shall I take next?”

Dropping the card to the floor he screamed out in his anger and his rage.

In the short time it took nurses to reach his bedside he was almost incoherent babbling about being tortured to such an extent that they had to give him a sedative. By the time one of the staff saw the card on the floor Franklin was unconscious, picking it up to put on his bed side table the nurse thought it odd the man should receive a card with no message, as by then the photosensitive ink had totally disappeared leaving it blank inside....