Chapter One

Tzivia Azaria was soaking wet.

It was a cold, unrelenting rain that fell steadily from the night sky; had been for hours. And the thin spandex, full-body leotard she wore offered no protection. Her leather high-heeled boots were sodden. Taz hated high-heels; thought they were frivolous and impractical. But tonight they were necessary. She stood five-foot ten and the heels took her over the lofty six-foot mark. Yes, tonight the heels would be necessary.

Even though the rain was chilling, Taz felt nothing. She was immune to discomfort. The Israeli Army had cured her of that: The training, the beatings, the starvation. The harsh living conditions in the desert had taken a toll on her psyche; leaving her emotionally void, bereft of the natural need for love and nurturing. Taz flicked her head, propelling rainwater from her eyes, and refocused on the doorway across the street.

It was brightly lit. Inside it would be cheery and warm and she heard the sounds of laughter, the clink of glassware and she hoped he was having a nice time; enjoying the wine and pasta. There was a twinge in her bladder, then a sharp pain. She had been holding it for hours. Taz massaged her lower abdomen and it helped. A minor distraction. She studied the doorway again and put her need to urinate outside the realm of conscious thought.

He was some sort of fancy attorney; big money and lots of political clout. What he couldn’t coerce out of powerful friends, he bought outright; cash on the line. Taz knew that extended to a string of pretty wives: Five at last count, before he gave up on the institution of matrimony. Hookers were less trouble and infinity cheaper in the long run. And they didn’t complain if you hit them.

He had sent his wives off to their attorneys with split lips and broken noses and a variety of cuts and bruises. The assault charges never materialized; his bank account having suffered the brunt of the punishment. Well, best to be rid of them, he had smugly rationalized. They, the wives, had slunk away, richer by far, and feeling lucky to have survived his fists.

And then there had been the brutal sexual assaults. The rapes.

He loved to take a woman against her will. Their shock and horror was like a hit from a powerful drug.

The last had been the teacher, barely twenty; a sweet little thing. She had been lured to the deserted farmhouse by a young girl who said she was desperate to attend classes; but complained that her parents wouldn’t allow it. The teacher, dedicated to a fault, went to plead the young girl’s case: That she be allowed to enjoy the benefits of an education. But at the lonely farmhouse the teacher found only the slobbering attorney; his belly and shoulders matted with hair.

The teacher had been set up. The girl’s mother had been well paid and the little girl had proved to be very convincing, in return for a brand new bicycle. When the teacher walked through the door of the farmhouse, she had been grabbed from behind. He was a sixty-three year old slob with a flabby gut. He had rubbery lips and she had watched in horror as he removed his dentures before forcing his mouth on hers. He had a dick the size of a ball bat.

The attorney had cut the clothes from her body and forced her into an upstairs bedroom where she was bound to the bed