Seven Deadly Sins

The Seven Deadly Sins

Prologue

"Use extreme prejudice?" Sergeant Asher "Sarge" Mahonin asked the disembodied voice of his father, Four Star General Jacques Frost Mahonin. He stared into his comm. screen, at the flashing icon. The cold, clinical voice of his father sent a vein throbbing in his temple. For once, couldn’t the cold-blooded bastard ACT like Sarge was something other than another body for the meat grinder?

Ever since Sinj’s disappearance, and the girls’ withdrawal from and growing disgust with the Corp, his father had been this way. The fucker. As if Sarge’s pain was nothing, inconsequential. He’d only lost his soul, his heart, and for a while, his mind. What was that compared to the demands of the Corp.?

His eyes were irresistibly drawn to the tiny picture in the corner of the screen, a photograph tucked into the monitor of a woman with shimmering hair like spun gold, eyes like a tiger’s, and a grin like a true-green Marine. She looked stunning in her uniform, or what was left of it. He’d taken that picture during the second war in Iran, back in 2034.

Her slim, trim body was clad in the standard green-camouflage cargo pants, olive green tank top, black combat boots, with a big-as-a-hard-on shotgun over her shoulder. She grinned at the cameraman, her eyes sparkling, her grin feral. Her hair was wild and messy from combat, but she was still so fucking beautiful… exquisitely beautiful.

What the hell happened to you, Sinj? Where the hell did you go? Why did you leave me? I need you….

"Extreme prejudice," the General affirmed, and gave Sarge his orders. Finally, just when Sarge thought the General was finished, he said, "You’ll be receiving reinforcements upon arrival at the UAC Ark Center in Nevada. I don’t want any complaints about who I’ve picked for this mission."

"Affirmative." Say what now? Why would we need reinforcements right off the bat? "Who are our reinforcements, sir?"

"The Fury Unit. They’re new, but they’re good. Orders received, Asher?" He thought there might have been a softening note to his father’s voice, but he dismissed it as wishful thinking.

"Orders received," he replied coldly.

"Good. Over and out." His father disconnected with a click.

"Over and out," Sarge muttered under his breath, "fuck face." He shut down his comm. system and turned to leave, to tell his men, when a thought hit him. It just better not be them. Anyone but that lot of pain-in-the-ass, 36DD-sized trouble makers. The Fury Unit had just better not be the people he thought it might be.

If it were those women, those seven irritating as all hell women, there would be some serious hell to pay.

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"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession. I pray for absolution in the face of my repentance. I confess, in the name of God the Father…."

What did he confess? To having lustful thoughts

(her voice whispering his name, "Eric, Eric, uhn, please, please….")

extremely kinky premarital sex

(her soft skin under his hands, her hair like the softest sable, her eyes, those slumberous golden eyes as he lost himself in her, in the sting of her blade, in the bite of her whip, in the brutal ecstasy of her body)

murder, and forgetting to confess that morning. That was about it, he was pretty sure.

"Goat, why do you ‘confess’ every fucking day?" Portman demanded, kicking one of the trash cans in frustration.

"Because I do bad things every day." And if it involves my lovely lush Christine, I tend to like it. Shame on me, he thought, smiling just a little. Portman wasn’t really listening, though. He was just bitching to do it.

"I don’t believe this shit. Do you believe this shit? Six months without a single weekend and the goddamned transporters are five minutes late. That’s five minutes R & R I ain’t never gonna get back." Portman whined, pacing the room. That was five minutes closer to a beautiful woman he wasn’t gonna get. And those pretty little things down in El Honto were waiting for him!

Reaper ignored him and continued cleaning his rifle, faster than Portman could spit, trying to force out the nightmare memories of that supposed "therapy" as he struggled to hold daydreams of his beautiful precious Natalie in his mind, a shield of midnight fire, a sleek black panther biting back(1) the edges of his barely suppressed terrors. It was barely holding. He needed her, and soon, or he would snap. He could feel the edges of his pain, ragged and raw and sharp as broken glass, cutting at his control.

Portman continued to bitch until the ever-easy-going Byron "Duke" Princeton III chimed in.

"You need to relax, Baby. We’re on vacation." Duke whooped as he scored a point on his video game. Portman grinned. The rich, chocolate-skinned playboy make anyone smile, no matter how pissed off they were. Part of his personality; part of his chick-appeal; part of the reason why he was one of the few men Portman could get along with.

But if Portman didn’t find a nice woman to dick around with for a while, and soon, even Duke wouldn’t be able to keep him from punching someone in the face- and making breaking the wall with said face while he was at it.

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The Kid, Stephen, kept his eyes on everything in the room: the baseball game played with oranges between Mac and Destroyer, Reaper at his desk, Goat reading his Bible, Duke playing his game, Portman’s pacing. He observed from the cover of his Sandman comic book (Neil Gaiman was a literary god) as Destroyer asked, "Where are you going, Portman?

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When Portman’s grin got wider, Destroyer almost wished he hadn’t asked, because he could tell the ratty little bastard had been waiting for an opportunity to say something filthy-minded for a while.

"I’m going down to El Honto, gonna lock myself in a motel room with a bottle of tequila and three she-boys!"

Because he was the master of fucking. Because everything with some type of sexual orifice wanted his dick in them. Because he knew how to make them scream for it, beg on their knees. Hell, sometimes women paid him.

Because he didn’t have a woman to go home to, but he damn well wasn’t going to tell the guys that. Besides, women were overrated. They bitched too much, whined too much, spent too much time in the fucking bathroom, always wanted presents, wanted to do "romantic" stuff like watching the sun rise or walking in the rain. Or ice skating. How pussy was ice skating?

Waste of fucking time. That’s what a woman in a relationship was. A waste of fucking time and energy.

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"You’re sick, man," Gannon "Destroyer" McThane said. Why didn’t Portman realize what a real woman was worth? All he cared about was one night stands, five-minute fucks, shit-faced bangs. Why didn’t he sober the fuck up, stuff his prick back in his pants, and get a real woman?

That’s what Destroyer really wanted. A woman to go home to. He missed that. Someone who smiled with real happiness when he looked at her, who knew just what he liked, what he wanted, what he needed. A woman whose face lit up when he walked through the door. A beautiful woman that could look after herself but didn’t mind letting him look after her, too. He wanted a woman who knew him so well she could practically read his mind. A woman with a voice to die for would be great, too. He loved women with sexy voices. That’s what he wanted.

That’s what he missed, now that Caitlyn was dead. He missed coming home to a beautiful smile and a squeal when he threw his wife (now dead for more than a year) over his broad shoulder and carried her to the nearest comfortable flat surface. He missed goodbye kisses in the morning, hello again kisses in the evening. Hell, he missed being in love, the whole package. He needed someone to go home to at night, or eventually… eventually, he’d burn himself out.

Destroyer whacked the orange Mac pitched at him straight at Goat… who caught it one-handed and set his well-worn Bible down on his knee.

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"I’m sick of your filth, Portman," he growled, taking a bite out of the orange’s peel and spitting it into the trash can.

He knew, at least, what he was going to do while on leave. He’d been waiting for nearly a month. Closing his eyes, half-smiling dreamily, he thought of a woman in black leather (black leather pants, black leather corset, black leather stiletto slut boots) with a long knife at her hip and fucking death in her eyes, a smile like a fleshless skull, and what was soon to be a silver ring on her finger and a black leather dog collar around his own neck.

Then, then he could finally know her without guilt, without shame. He would steal her very soul with his hot, searing kisses, know just how to make her beg for his touch. He’d slice into her with his hunting knife, carve his name, his mark, in her beautiful, white flesh. He’d bury his teeth in her throat, tasting blood, leaving his claim on her. He would ravage the soft, wet flesh between her gorgeous, leather-clad thighs and make her scream for more.

"He speaks," was Portman’s witty response. Portman had no idea. Under his goddess’s tender mercies, he could definitely talk.

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Reaper barely heard the others speculating about their vacation and his, because he allowed his thoughts to drift to a fond memory from only yesterday, of thick dark hair like such soft silk and dark eyes like obsidian fire that burned so hot they cut his soul, of sweet kisses like burgundy wine and even sweeter pleasures. It was forbidden fruit, that pleasure, addictive, terrifying, exhilarating, but he was willing to risk everything for her. And in an hour, tops, he would have her in his arms, would know the guilty pleasure and dark joy of being with her again, holding her close, being inside her

("ooohhhh, John… yes, yes… Johnnnnnn…!")

claiming her again and again because she was his, his, she belonged to him and only him and always would, just as he belonged to her and her alone

("I love you, Natalie, my angel, my vengeance, my only one, I love you, love you….").

Goddess of sweet vengeance, his goddess, the one he worshipped with his hands, with his mouth, with his body, with every waking thought. He’d bring her into his arms, make her his again, as he had so many times before, for so very long. He could lose all pain, all guilt and self-loathing, when he tasted her kisses and felt her fingertips caressing the rough stubble of his cheek, when he buried himself in her body. Even if the guilt and self-hate came up against when he lay empty and spent in her loving arms, he could lose himself for a little while at least.

He needed her now, after that supposed memory therapy. Even if all he did was hold her in his arms, kissing her temple, inhaling the fragrance of her soft dark hair like a perfumed ebony waterfall, her soft cheek pressed against his chest as she listened to his heart thudding against his ribs… it would be enough. And her beautiful dark eyes shone like volcanic glass, glittering in the light like dark jewels… her gaze could lance every festering wound in his soul and burn it clean again. Her love was enough for that.

He prayed Sarge never found out.

"Leave is canceled," Sarge said, and the words echoed in Reaper’s skull like some sort of satanic mantra. He muttered something extremely violent that would’ve scandalized everyone in the room and felt his jaw begin to ache as he realized he’d been grinding his teeth. He’d been looking forward to seeing Natalie again, his beautiful, sweet Natalie. He’d needed to see her, hold her, be with her. Fuck.

He quickly put his gun back together and began packing his few essentials.

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As Sarge talked, the Kid managed to hide the disappointment he felt. Cally was gonna be pissed at him when he got back. Naomi, too. He was gonna get the ass kicking of his life. Of course, then he was gonna get laid by a professional who knew exactly what she was doing, but he wasn’t looking forward to having his butt kicked by his twin sister.

Sorry, Cally, the Kid thought. Tell Naomi I’ll see you both soon.

I think you’ll be seeing us sooner than you think, was all the response he got from her before Sarge started talking again.

"Fall in," Sarge said, and before jumping down to join the others, the Kid kissed Cally and Naomi’s pictures and slipped them into his pocket. Never went anywhere without them.

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"Weapon Identification: Destroyer."

"Daddy’s home," the big, burly black man muttered to his weapon, then winced as the words zinged home. Stupid. He shouldn’t have said that. It made him think of Caitlyn (wealth of dark hair in a braided rope, dark eyes, chocolate skin, chocolate kisses….), of the tiny baby girl she’d lost only moments before breathing her final breath. Daddy’s home….

He wondered if he’d ever find a woman who could make his heart race like she had, make him smile, bring him peace. He prayed he found a woman like that soon, before he finally stopped caring enough to realize when he’d found her.

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"Weapon Identification: Mac."

Katsuhiko Takaashi gripped his gun with sure hands and thought longingly of the girlish voice that said these words. His gun’s ID was different from the others. It was the voice of his wife, Monique. His beautiful wife, his lovely Mimo-chan, with her hair like silk, the color of a new gold coin and her eyes like melted chocolate, her skin like pale milk, her mouth… kuso. He had to stop thinking about her. They were about to go on a mission, now wasn’t the time to be distracted by thoughts of his luscious young wife.

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"Weapon Identification: Portman."

He didn’t believe this shit. A mission, now, when he hadn’t been laid in six months and he was in desperate need of a woman. Hell, he’d settle for a dude, or a dog. A duck. A turtle, even! He needed a fuck. Hell, he needed a month’s worth of fucking. His hands practically had blisters from the almost constant masturbation. His cock needed some outside stimulation. Maybe a nice, hot young thing, with brilliant blue eyes and lush lips, very nimble fingers, and a tight body, with hell’s fury behind her. That’d be fucktastic.

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"Weapon Identification: Goat."

Soon, my lovely Christine, I’ll be home soon. In your bed, soon. Between your lovely thighs, soon. Coming inside you, soon. Dearest, darling, deviant, delicious one. He shouldn’t be thinking of his lovely and lush Christine, in her supple, buttery black leather corset that hugged her soft, succulent, white breasts and her black leather, thigh-high fuck-me boots. Now he missed her, now he wanted to see her, hear her voice. Kiss her, bite her, taste her blood. Feel her knife against his throat, her lash against his back.

I shouldn’t be thinking of her right now. But I miss her….

Soon, Eric Fantom, her voice echoed in his head, soothing, caressing, falling on him like so much soft, black silk. I’ll see you so very soon.

My goddess.

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"Weapon Identification: the Kid."

"The Kid?" He asked, incredulous. He might’ve been new, but he’d been in the Marines since he was seventeen, almost three years. He had real experience, too!

In his mind, Cally’s sweet, sensual voice whispered, You’re not a kid to me, Stephen. Have no fear of that. Think of what it’s like to make love to me when they call you Kid. Think of how I cry out for you, because your touch is so superb. Think of how it feels when we come together, and I whisper your name in your ear. Think of that when they call you Kid.

When will I see you? I need to see you, baby. Just hearing her voice in his head made him reel.

Soon, dear heart of mine, very soon. The question you should ask is, when are you and I gonna have sex again? Because that’s not so soon. But that’s okay, lover. I yearn for you every second of my life. I burn for you at the sound of your voice. Remember that, as well, dear heart of mine.

What’s made you wax so poetic?

Love. The prospect of seeing you. I love you. Good night.

But-

When a hooker- even an ex-hooker- tells you good night, she means it, Danny-Boy.

Dantalion, Cally-Girl.

You’re too sweet and cute for a last name like that. The only time that name fits is when you’re naked.

It fits then?

Tech, yes! It’s pure sensuality. Which is only good if you’re naked. Naked, I can get to your yummy body easier. Hmm, hmm. Now. Good night, Danny-Boy. And do NOT think of that nurse girl! You broke up with her. Just because she can’t take a hint does not mean this retired whore is going to share her true-green Marine with anybody

Reign in the jealousy, Cally-Girl. How could I possibly be thinking of Millie when I’ve got your picture in my pocket?

Is it the good one from two years ago?

Goodnight.

Fine. Good night. See ya in an hour.

Yeah… what?! Utter mental silence. How (and why) was she going to be seeing him in an hour?!

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"Weapon Identification: Sarge."

He hoped he wouldn’t see the six women he hated seeing in the field. He hoped they didn’t comprise the Fury Unit. He hoped he wouldn’t run into them: Nemesis, Screamer, Death, Chaos, Mimo, and Apocalypse. He prayed they wouldn’t be there. And he’d heard they had a new girl, too- Ace Dante, a shooter. He didn’t know the girl, had never met her, but she was a Fury. Furies were mean bitches at the best of times, not to mention agonizing pains in the ass. He didn’t want to have to deal with any of them. He hoped they weren’t there.

He prayed that, just maybe, Sinj might be.

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"Weapon Identification: Reaper."

The voice on his gun ID was soft, for if Sarge heard it over the whir of the chopper blades, his CO would have his nuts. The seductive, velvet voice of Sarge’s oldest daughter was enough to drive a man to murder or worse. He didn’t need the other man to know his daughter’s voice was the voice of his weapon ID. He didn’t want to have to explain how he’d gotten the recording, or why the recorded voice was a soft sound like black silk that caressed his entire body, kissing along his nerves and leaving a cool fire in its wake.

Oh, my beautiful Natalie….

Stop thinking about me and focus.

Get out of my mind and you won’t know I’m thinking about you.

I have every right to be in your mind. I can’t get you out of mine, you know.

Kiss me, beautiful Natalie.

Even though you feel hellishly guilty every time I do?

Even though.

Only if you promise to hush and stop thinking of me afterwards.

I promise.

Phantom lips brushed his, just a soft, brushing feather-kiss. He felt a warm, wet tongue caress his lips before sliding into his mouth, dancing with his, warring with his for dominance. He tried to be still, tried to hold in his reaction. As a soft moan began creeping out of his mouth, the kiss stopped, and he sighed.

I love you, beautiful Natalie.

Love you deeply, my Grim Reaper. Be safe.

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Natalie "Nemesis" Mahonin and her silent twin, Sarra-Sofia "Screamer" Mahonin, slipped quietly past the Olduvai security guards and into the dark recesses of the quarantined facility, every nerve taut with tension, every part of them listening, feeling, searching, for the enemy. It was a strange symphony in the darkness, and the discordant note twanging at her side told Nemesis something was weird with Screamer.

"What?" Nemesis asked her sister, wondering at the strange fear in her twin’s mind. "What’s the matter?"

Someone’s coming. Not right now, but soon. Someone special. He’s with Daddy. Screamer spoke softly in her twin’s mind, unable to speak the words aloud. I can feel him. A Goliath, a…a lion, a knight, a demon. He’s coming here with Daddy, they’ll be here in a few hours. Oh, my…

"John will be with them."

Not a reaper. As the darkness and the silence enveloped them, Screamer whispered, A destroyer.

"Because that’s totally not creepy. C’mon, we need to find you-know-what, before it gets anyone else." Nemesis and Screamer slipped deeper into Hell, thinking of the reaper and the destroyer.

In the dark recesses of Olduvai, a myriad of demons watched them, hateful and eager to kill these female creatures that could overpower them so easily. Kill them… or take them as mate.