"I like those stockings a lot," he murmured, as he gently but firmly guided her toward one of the pools of light half-way across the room. There was a bench there - covered in leather and with steel loops bolted to its rough wooden frame."Wha - wha ..." she tried vainly to blurt a question, but her mouth was acting as traitorously as her hands had."Shhhh. Just trust me," was his firm reply as he stopped her in front of the bench, which had a knee-level padded "seat", but a padded top as well. "Kneel here," he instructed as her body obeyed, in spite of the screeching, gibbering mad-woman her mind had become. How could she just obey when this HAD to be wrong? Yet she obeyed.Her mind almost won it's battle against her inexplicably willing body when he seized her right wrist firmly and began wrapping coarse rope, which smelled of some rich-scented oil, around it. He gently bent her over the bench then, passing the rope through one of the steel rings toward the bottom of one leg and then. The Marshal began, "Chuck, it's good that you went after the problem as fast as you have. If you're lucky, you might be able to quickly handle these men. If they had kept their activities out of the country, no one would have ever said anything, other than foreign entities would be here hunting them. Understand that what I've asked you to do is highly unethical, but is necessary as there are several government and military figures that have open prices on their heads."The man continued, "No one but John and I know that you've been asked to do this. The people you call for disposal are the tightest lipped group within the Secret Service, so they will never divulge your activity. I'm telling you this so you know that there will be no one hunting you when this is done. Stay covert, stay out of sight, and stay lucky."While the Marshal had been talking, I was listening to his inner thoughts. What he was telling me was what he felt. The man actually felt fear of these men. I mentally nudged.
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