Kim Possible Porn Story: Taken Chapter 4

Chapter 3

On the Trail

From this day, until the end of history, we in it shall be remembered, we lucky few, we band of brothers, for he who sheds his blood with me today shall be my brother. Henry V

I treasure the words my grandson said to me when he asked this question . . . Grandpa, were you a hero during the war? Grandpa said No . . . but I served in a company of heroes. Major Richard D. Winters DSC, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division, Easy Company . . . Band of Brothers.

As Ron raced toward Kims apartment, he pulled out his cell phone, and got in touch with a very old friend.

Wade, I need you to analyze something for me, Im downloading a copy to you now.

On it, Ron. Ill have the information for you in a couple of minutes. Wade replied, as Ron hung up the phone, and pulled into the small parking lot.

Ron rushed into the building like a wild man on a mission, and the first person he saw, was the landlord.

You got the keys to Kims apartment? Ron asked.

What if I do? the man replied.

Unlock the door, now. Ron said, his voice dangerously calm.

Fuck you, man. the landlord replied.

Boy, you just said the wrong words. Ron replied.

Ron struck with the speed of a Cheetah, grabbing the landlord by the throat, and forcing him against the wall, which rattled, as the ceiling rumbled, creating a dust cloud as Ron slammed the man against the wall hard enough that the sound echoed throughout the narrow hallway between the two apartments.

Now, I am not in the mood to be screwed with. Either you unlock Kims apartment, or youll be eating Tomato Soup through a straw until fucking DOOMSDAY!! GOT IT?! Ron bellowed.

The landlord nodded, and timidly pulled out a key ring with two keys on it. He stuck one of the keys into the lock of Kims apartment door, and turned the knob, the door came open with a loud creaking of rusty hinges, as Ron tossed the landlord aside.

Now, if you value your life, youll crawl back under whatever rock you slithered from under, and not show your face in front of me again, until I choose to pull you out by your ankles. Ron replied, staring at the man with eyes ablaze.

Kims roommates, Tara King, and Mike Horner walked in just in time to see Ron enter the apartment, and begin looking around.

Whats going on, Ron? Tara asked.

Yeah, dude, you look like Mt. St. Helens, ready to blow its top, whats the deal? Mike asked.

Its Kim . . . shes been taken. Ron replied.

Taken, what do you mean taken. Tara asked.

Just as it sounds, Tara . . . which room is Kims? Ron asked.

Up the stairs, first door on the right. Tara replied, following Ron up the stairs, as Ron yanked open the door.

The scene that greeted him was very familiar, with a few exceptions, the walls in the room werent painted pink. Instead, they were a vivid white that almost hurt Rons eyes, however, her familiar picture frame decorated the night stand, in it, was a picture of Kim and Ron shortly after graduation, Ron was still wearing the spacesuit, while Kim was wearing her tattered gown, and no cap, with her National Honor Society sash tied around her waist.

Mike . . . you have connections with United Airlines through your leasing company in Florida, right? Ron asked.

Yeah. Mike replied.

Get me a plane ticket to Paris. Ron said sharply.

For when? Mike asked.

An hour ago. Ron answered, rather sternly.

Right. Mike stated, now excusing himself from the room, as Tara took a seat on the bed.

What now, Ron? Tara asked.

Im gonna find her, and God help the sons-of-bitches that took her. Ron replied, his face stony.

Oh, my God . . . youre gonna kill them, arent you, even if you get Kim back . . . youre not gonna let these guys live. Tara replied, sudden dawning comprehension filling her face.

They kidnaped Kim, that is inexcusable, and unforgivable in my book, Tara, they dont deserve to walk the streets, let alone continue what theyre doing. Ron replied.

Just get her back, Ron. Tara replied.

You know I will. Ron stated sternly, as his cell phone began to ring out his favorite tune, Low Rider.

What have you got for me Wade? Ron asked, as he switched the speaker on, so that Tara could hear.

Well, form what I could pick up on the accents, and dialect, these guys are Albanian, probably from a town called Trapolje. Thats ground zero for scumbags like this. Wade replied.

Go on. Ron urged.

Anyway, the man you talked to, Marko, turns out that a Marko Traliev arrived in Paris about six years ago, if its the same guy, hes a big fish. Wade stated.

Go on. Ron urged.

Am I on speaker, Ron, are you the only person in the room? Wade asked.

Taras here. Ron replied.

Hey, Tara. Wade said, as cheerily as he could.

Hey, Wade. Tara replied, in a somewhat demure voice.

She needs to know, Wade, just in case. Ron replied.

Alright, anyway, the tattoo, its a group mark, its how they identify each other. Wade stated.

What else? Ron asked.

This groups previous M.O. was to lure girls form developing countries, Romania, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, to the west with jobs as maids, nannies, that kind of thing . . . theyd then addict them to drugs, and force them into prostitution. Wade replied.

Keep going. Ron urged.

Anyway, they started just grabbing foreign tourists, cut out the cost of transportation. Wade stated, then, he continued, From the intelligence I got, you got a 96 hour window.

Until when? Ron asked.

Until you completely lose track of her, and never find her again. Wade replied, with a somber voice.

Im not gonna let that happen. Ron replied, as Mike walked back into the room.

Good luck, Ron . . . Ill keep in touch. Wade replied, as Ron hung up the phone.

Theres a private plane on the way from Sacramento, should be here in about five minutes, your flight plan has been filed at LAX, and youre ready to go. Mike stated.

Alright, Tara, listen very carefully, Im gonna give you a cell phone number, if I dont come home in a week, call that number, theyll know where to find me. Ron replied.

Right. Tara replied.

Okay, I gotta go . . . see you in about a week. Ron replied.

On the plane, en route to Paris:

Ron continued to play the recording over and over while waiting to land, should he could get every quirk of the voice down in his mind, he continued to play the last message over, and over, until the pilot finally told him that they had arrived at Charles DeGaulle Airport, he then got off, and left for the apartment building.

Ten minutes later, near the heart of downtown Paris:

Ron walked up to the apartment building with a grocery bag in hand, as a cover, when a young woman opened the door, Ron quickly walked through.

Merci. Ron said, as the woman walked away, he then walked to the nearest open hall window, and walked the ledge to the first window of the apartment, where he began his own investigation, he saw the living room was a total disaster, indicating that Pam had put up a struggle before finally being tranquilized, he continued through the rooms, until he came to the bathroom, and noticed that through the bathroom window, he had a perfect view of the living room.

Okay, Kim was here when Pam was grabbed, what bedroom did she go to? Ron asked himself, as he left the bathroom through a side door, and found himself into a smaller bedroom, he looked around, and quickly noticed a broken mirror, as he continued to look around, he noticed Kims cell phone, on the floor, in pieces.

Jackpot, found the room. Ron said to himself, as he bent down to look at the smashed remains of Kims phone, unfortunately, the G.P.S. tracker that Ron had placed on her had been hidden inside of the phone itself, therefore making it useless to track her using satellites.

Looks like Im gonna have to do it old school. Ron said to himself as he bent down to take a closer look, thats when he noticed it, still in Kims camera, a memory stick. If there was one thing Ron knew about Kim, she loved to take pictures to document where she had been, so, he was sure that there would be pictures on it.

Ron took the memory stick, placed into the pocket of his ever present black leather trenchcoat, and started for the door, when he noticed a single red hair stuck to the mirror, he pulled it out, and the scene of Kim having her head smashed into the mirror played out in his mind, making his blood boil with every second.

You spineless fucks are so dead when I catch up to you, they wont even find enough to identify through DNA. Ron thought savagely as he left the apartment, and out, into the Paris night.

Later that same evening:

Ron had found an all night one hour kiosk in which to develop the photos on Kims memory stick, he quickly loaded it into the computer setup, and began to cycle through the pictures, until he stopped on one that showed Kim and Pam, hamming it up for the camera, near the main entrance to Charles DeGaulle Airport, he looked further, and noticed the reflection of a man, holding a cell phone in the glass surface of a bus stop. Ron printed the photo once, with Kim and Pam in the center of the photo, he then focused on the bus stop, and zoomed in on the reflection of the man, sharpening the picture to crystal clarity, and printing it out a second time, so that he could find the man that had marked them.

Were gonna start with you, whoever you are. Ron said aloud, as he smiled, he had his first lead in the case.

The next morning, at the atrium at Charles DeGaulle Airport:

A young man with short brown hair lounged near a patio table with a beer in front of him, looking at the women that were walking through the airport, when a very beautiful woman with long blonde hair caught his eye, he quickly looked toward a large bald black man standing on the other side of the atrium, who nodded. The young man got out of his chair, and followed the young girl, but neither one of them noticed the well built blonde haired man following them out and into the bright sunshine.

Tourist? the young man asked, now looking at the beautiful blonde standing next to him.

Yes. the young woman said, speaking with a Scandinavian accent.

Me too, the young man said, smiling, Im Peter.

Ingrid. the woman replied.

The cabs here in this country are so damned expensive, would you like to share? Peter asked.

Sure. Ingrid replied, to a smile from Peter, who began to get into the waiting taxi, he was quickly pushed into the cab by Ron Stoppable, who pushed him up against the other door of the car, and began punching him fiercely against the rib cage.

DRIVE! Ron bellowed at the driver, who got out of the car, and ran off.

THE TWO AMERICAN GIRLS FROM YESTERDAY, WHERE ARE THEY?! Ron shouted at the top of his lungs.

I dont know, I swear, I dont know. Peter sobbed, as Ron resumed his hard punching, hitting the young man three more times, breaking at least two ribs as he did so.

The next rib drives into your lung. Now, THE TWO AMERICAN GIRLS, WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?! Ron asked, his temper becoming shorter, and shorter by the minute, until he felt a heavy weight at his ankles.

Ron was pulled unceremoniously out of the cab, where he hit the ground with a loud thud, he turned around, to see a muscular black man, hanging onto his left leg, Ron brought up his right foot, and planted it into the mans chest, causing the man to leg go of his leg.

You really dont want to do this. Ron stated, now looking at the man, who charged him.

Looks like you do. Ron replied, now catching the man with another kick to the chest, knocking him backwards, this was the hesitation Ron needed to open up.

Ron grabbed the man by the arm, spun him around, and pulled hard, dislocating his shoulder, he then pulled the man toward him, and caught him across the throat with a vicious knife edge chop, following it up by driving the mans head into the trunk of the taxi behind him.

Say goodnight, punk. Ron said, as he watched the man slide down the side of the taxi, quite dead, his windpipe crushed.

Ron then returned his attention to the taxi, and noticed that his prey had taken off down an off ramp for the nearest freeway, Ron jumped into the drivers seat of the taxi, and took off after the young man, who caused a snarl in the traffic, Ron was effectively reduced to chasing the man on foot.

You son-of-a-bitch, when I get hold of you, there wont be enough to recognize as human. Ron said aloud, as he gained on the young man, who was holding onto his broken ribs, and wheezing due to lack of oxygen in the body.

Ron finally caught up to the young man, who was now at the highest point on the freeway, an overpass, looking down at a very busy Parisian street.

Youre not gonna . . . Ron said, almost unbelieving, as the young man maneuvered himself on the other side of the guard rail, and prepared to jump.

Holy shit, you are . . . youre actually gonna jump. Ron said, a look of shock crossing his face, as the young man jumped off the overpass, and onto the roof of a semi.

Lucky asshole. Ron replied, as the man jumped off the now stopped semi, what the young man didnt see, was the five ton truck coming at him in the lane to his right. He took three steps to the side, and turned just in time to see the grille of the truck slam into him, he was dead before his body ever hit the concrete.

Dammit . . . that was my only lead too. Ron said, slamming his fist into the concrete guard rail on the overpass, as he worked his way back down to ground level.

The main entrance to Surite headquarters:

Jean-Pierre La Mond liked his job, but, in all reality, he preferred his old job, as an agent for the French Government better, at least he was able to get some air every once in a while, in this job, he was chained to a desk, it was maddening.

What do I have to do to get back in the action? he thought to himself, as he passed a small bistro less than three doors down from the building he worked in, what he didnt notice was the young man, wearing a black leather trenchcoat, with a newspaper held up high, to conceal his face.

Ron brought the paper down, and began following one of his oldest friends, Jean-Pierre La Mond, a former French Preventer, and someone Ron worked with on several occasions.

Jean-Pierre. Ron said, as he came abreast of his friend.

Just like old times, Ronald. Jean-Pierre replied, smiling for the first time in two years.

Would you have it any other way? Ron asked.

Between you, and me, no, Jean-Pierre replied, with a slightly disgusted tone to his voice, But, I sit behind a desk now, retirement cannot be much better.

It wasnt, until two days ago, when someone decided to kidnap Kim here in Paris. Ron replied, quickly catching hie friends attention.

Kim was kidnaped here? Jean-Pierre asked.

Yes, by a group of Albanian traffickers. Ron replied.

Hmm . . . how do you know all this? Jean-Pierre asked.

Im retired, Jean-Pierre, not dead. Ron replied, a bit of an edge to his voice.

Okay, so, what do you want from me? the tall French officer asked.

I need some information on them. Ron replied.

Maybe it would be best if we go to the airport, and find their spotter. Jean-Pierre stated.

I already did, the mans dead, thats why I came to you. Ron replied.

You found him that way? Jean-Pierre asked.

What do you think? Ron asked.

Dammit, Ronald, I cannot have you running around, tearing up Paris. Jean-Pierre stated.

They got Kim, Jean-Pierre, Ill tear down the fucking Eiffel Tower if I have to, are you gonna help me find them, or not? Ron asked.

They came here about seven years ago, at first, there were maybe 20 of them, since then, theyve grown into the hundreds, maybe even more . . . and very dangerous. Jean-Pierre stated.

So Ive heard. Ron replied, unfazed by this news.

Ill do what I can, Ronald, but you must understand, I sit behind a desk, and I take my orders from a man that sits behind a bigger desk. Jean-Pierre stated.

I dont care who sits behind what size desk, Jean-Pierre, Im gonna find Kim if I have to tear apart this entire city to do it. Ron replied.

Ill do what I can. Jean-Pierre commented, suddenly finding himself afraid of Rons surge of temper. He was well aware of what Ron is capable of, and he had seen Ron interrogate people, it wasnt pretty to say the least, and his ability to kill someone with a simple lead pencil was enough to make even Hercules quake in his boots.

Ill do it, and I can guarantee results. Ron said, as he began to cross the street.

Ronald . . . try not to make a mess. Jean-Pierre stated, but he would have done better to talk to a brick wall. At least a brick wall doesnt kill a person just for being unhelpful.

And the body count currently stands at two, get ready for more, as Ron is going to keep the Paris morgue rather busy.

Now, I bet several of you are wondering why I started this chapter with an epigraph, instead of my usual song lyrics. Lets just say that within the next few chapters, Ron will finally get the meaning behind the first one, while the second one works pretty much for Kims family, as they hear of what happened through Wade.

As always, keep the reviews coming,

Doug