All characters and situations are entirely fictional. © Copyright Mercian Comics, 2015.
The Return of the Lost Siren 01
Being declared officially dead has a distinct advantage for a fugitive: nobody is looking for the dearly departed; not even in the eyes of the law; nor are secret service agents tracking their most wanted around the world. However, to fool the former shady associates, it’s best to assume a pseudonym and live the simple life at an indiscriminate retirement village in the middle of nowhere, unless you’re secretly yearning for trouble.
“Serena Rocca, you’re impossible to beat!” declared an exhausted female guest at the Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc, “I really thought I had you this time.”
“You played a good game. You lacked stamina, that’s all,” appraised Serena.
Rocca’s sharp eyes recognised a face peering down on them, once leaving the tennis courts, from the bar above.
“Do I still get one of your ace massages?” asked the guest.
“Sure, I’ll catch you up,” returned Serena with a flash of her eyebrows.
In her white tennis attire, Serena strolled through the open air bar. There at a table by the balcony, sat a gaunt man, wearing rimmed spectacles with short cropped, dark, curly hair. He was astutely aware of Serena’s presence but continued to gaze out to sea.
She joined him at the table and casually crossed her burly tanned legs. It had been some time since he last encountered her confident symmetrical exterior, whose deceptively cute features, disguised a very complex woman. She looked in exceedingly good condition, her prominent biceps only intimating of the true potential they possessed within her feminine form. There’s an unspoken androgyny about the former international athlete, like her golden hair flowing to one side, yet tapered down to her ears, leaving men and women regularly amorous towards her; although, few were capable of winning Serena’s heart.
“The climate suits you, better than it does me,” he miserably praised.
“Why are you here, then, Adamski?” asked Serena, wasting no time in getting to the point.
“There is a yacht, named the Karl Dönitz, waiting in Cannes. It’s set to sail in two days – make sure you’re aboard.”
“I quit, remember?” reminded Rocca, “I don’t believe any more.”
“You know better than to think anybody leaves this organisation alive, Serena, you find your faith again fast.,” he grimly advised.
”Ha!” she scoffed, “Who are you to tell me these things? A hired mercenary from the wrong side of Warsaw – what do you care about any of this?”
The nonchalant Pole took one last sip of ice water before getting up to go, “I saved your life in Rome, and I’ve tried to do the same today. For your own good, you should be on the boat.”
Striding through the lobby, Serena’s keen vision spied a beautiful young woman lounging on a sofa. She wore a white suit, and matching sun hat, with a black buckled belt. The lady was of mixed race with coiled Afro-textured hair and long bronze crossed legs. Although partially secluded by dark sunglasses, Serena could tell the lady’s eyes were following her along the floor by the slight turns of her head. A second stroll from the bar to the winding staircase confirmed her interest. The pristine lady is likely a foe or an admirer, both of which intrigued Serena enough to take action.
“Do you want a drink?”
“A gin and tonic would be sweet.”
Serena snapped her fingers at a passing waiter, who took the order. She relaxed, impassively, into the adjacent leathered lounger.
“I was hoping you would come over,” the lady confessed with a broad pearly white smile.
“Why?” inquired Serena, a little sharply, “Do you play?”
“Tennis isn’t my game, babe.”
Although the lady’s appearance was exclusively upper-class, her accent revealed she couldn’t have always afforded such expenses, as she spoke modern street English, common among the poorer districts of London.
“Too bad, tennis is the only game I play,” tested Rocca, preparing to leave.
The lady’s seductive olive eyes skimmed over Serena’s impressive folded thighs, as she slid the tips of her long fingernails along them.
“Are you so sure about that, honey,” she said.
Serena smiled for the first time since meeting the lady; “Let’s go to my room.”
They hurriedly made their way up the stairs. In the empty hallway, Rocca couldn’t resist slamming the lady against the wall and, aggressively, locking lips with her. In one another’s arms, they stumbled through the door into Serena’s room. The lady dropped her hat and Serena helped remove her jacket in a passionate embrace. They threw themselves onto the bed. The lady lifted Serena’s shirt when her wrist got swiftly twisted behind her back and she found herself pinned down on the bed.
“HEY! What you trying to do, break my arm?” cried out the lady.
“I will snap it like a twig, unless you tell me who you are and what you’re really after,” Serena informed, “And if you lie, I might snap some more bones for laughs!”
Their passion had ignited a passion of a different kind; the shadow that Serena had tried hard to leave behind in the mysterious caves beneath the Coliseum, where she had nearly been cremated (see Wonder Woman in Rome).
“All right, all right, let go!” the lady pleaded, “My name’s Fadhila Zuma and he sent me to seduce you.”
“Who did? That rat, Adamski?”
“No, my ex, Radomir Semanic.”
Serena let go of her captive and Fadhila sat up on the bed.
“You don’t know what you’re up against,” she told Rocca, “He’s a real psycho and he’s coming after you, honey.”
“I’ve heard of him by reputation, but I thought he was dead (see Wonder Woman in London).”
“The whole world did,” Fadhila said, “He lay low for a while in England and contacted me when I was released from prison. We escaped to South Africa, by private jet, through a contact I knew. It was he who hired Semanic to kill you.”
“What’s his name?”
Zuma’s fearful eyes looked up at Serena’s expression of understandable urgency, “Abram Osinov.”
Serena pulled a cold ambivalent smile, “So they do want me dead – but why are you telling me this, so easily, eh?”
Fadhila put her hand over eyes, as if she were concealing tears, “Because I’m sick of this life, man, I’m really afraid and I want out. I’ve heard about your reputation, Serena, and you killing Semanic maybe my only chance.”
“You want to switch sides?”
“Yeah, honey, if you’ll have me?” she said, modestly.
“All right, but if you cross me, I promise I will kill you, if Semanic doesn’t first,” warned Rocca in a matter of fact manner.
“Go back to Semanic and tell him you did seduce me. He’ll probably give you a time and place where we’re to meet to make the hit. Now go.”
A dejected looking Fadhila Zuma gathered her belongings and left.
Rocca watched her walk down the hall and called a number on her cell phone.
“Hi Rudy, I visit you, tomorrow.”
“But why?” Rudy inquired.
“It’s time for the Lost Siren to be found alive,” she said.
For Part 2: Click Here