Hot Pursuit
Cara Capello realised that she’d picked up a tail when she was about forty minutes out of Florence, passing through the little town of Bargino on the Raccordo Autostradale – the road that led from Florence to Siena.
She caught a flash of black in her rear-view mirror and shook her head, wonderingly. Why was it that the professional assholes that she hunted always opted for the big, black, shiny cars with headlights that looked like they were scowling and engines that roared instead of purred? If they really wanted to tail someone without them noticing – and weren’t so preoccupied with looking cool and compensating small pisellos – why not pick a beaten up old Civic in red and a mustard-coloured minivan? She’d never suspect that. But two brand new, matching Alfa Romeo Giulias in Vulcano Black… Come on.
“They’re very pretty, darlings,” Cara muttered to herself, tucking her honey-coloured hair behind ears and adjusting her Tom Ford sunglasses. “Molto estetico. But so clichéd.”
And, with a grin on her crooked lips – that would’ve had the same effect on a man’s heart as a flamethrower would on a snowball – she performed a world first, and stamped her Manolo Blahnik flat onto the accelerator and into the floor of her Ferrari Portofino.
The car instantly screamed its approval and leapt forward, like an eager puppy invited for a walk. Behind Cara, the two Alfa Romeos did the same.
The cars thundered down the beautifully scenic, winding road. Cara smiled to herself. There were some days when she really loved her job. She guided her Italian sports car around the sinuous bends of the road, the fat tyres sticking the car like glue to the tarmac despite the fact that she was rocketing along at ninety miles per hour. The gorgeous Tuscan scenery flashed past in a kaleidoscope of luscious greens and browns, vineyards rolling into valleys and disappearing again as the black Alfas chased Cara through wooded ravines and along precarious cliff tops that plunged into patchwork agricultural fields of dark, tilled earth.
Cara hit the breaks as the cars entered a bend that promised the start of some seriously snaky roads ahead. One of the pursuing cars pulled up close behind her and Cara saw, in her mirrors, a tanned man lean out of the passenger window. He was dressed in a smart, blue, wool suit – Cara had an inkling that it was a Canali, but couldn’t be sure – and was holding a black handgun.
Cara studied the man in her mirror as she sent the Ferrari squealing around the tight corner. He was quite a tasty example of an Italian henchman, and that blue suit really was lovely. It just went to show, once again, that Italians knew how to do it better. Whether they were trying to knock you up or knock you off they did it with style.
The Ferrari’s wing mirror exploded into plastic fragment as the man opened fire, and Cara heard the snap and thump of bullets making expensive holes along the flank of the car.
“It’s alright, darling!” she yelled over the scream of tortured rubber and the snarl of the 3.9 litre V-8 engine, “It’s a rental!”
She wasn’t quite sure how her cover had been blown, but it was clear that she’d been made. The men must belong to her target – Cosimo Conti – and it was clear that she’d have to get rid of them so that he wasn’t alerted to what she looked like, or, indeed, that a woman was out to get him.
Cara flung the car back out into a straight and punched the gas once more. She swerved in and out of the traffic, horns blaring furiously as she whipped between cars and changed lanes.
As she raced down a short straight, one of the black cars pulled up next to her. She ducked as a couple of shots ricocheted off the roof. Then, in a sudden glorious burst of inspiration, she pulled her top up and pressed her tits against the window of her car. It was quite a hard feat to pull of in the cramped Ferrari – especially whilst maintaining a speed of about one-hundred miles per hour. Her budding nipples squashed against the cool glass, and she felt, in a detached sector of her mind, her areolas prickle pleasantly.
The man with the gun in the backseat of the Alfa travelling parallel to her was taken aback, and he hesitated with his finger on the trigger. The driver’s attention was similarly captured, and Cara gave him one of her dazzling smiles. Absurdly – as if he was functioning on a purely chemical and reactionary level – the driver smiled.
Then he disappeared as a huge truck, going in the other direction, cleaned him out from head on. There was a sky-tearing noise of rending metal and broken glass, and the Alfa Romeo was hurled like a crumpled can of cola off the edge of the road and disappeared into the trees some fifty feet below.
Cara crowed her triumph. Men could be so easily and predictably distracted, bless them! Even in the middle of a high-speed chase a pair of tits could work their wonderful magic. She gave her nipples a little tweak as she pulled her top back down and subconsciously ran her hand down between her thighs. The excitement seemed to be getting to her; she was wearing a gorgeous Balmain miniskirt and she was able to feel that the front of her panties were getting rather warm and a little moist.
All this fuss for little old me, she thought. Very gratifying to be wanted, but it’s probably worth getting rid of the entourage before I get to Siena.
She was in Italy to find and eliminate Cosimo Conti, who had out himself on the British government’s shit-list by manufacturing and distributing colossal quantities of fake currency around Europe. On the whole, the man had proved to be somewhat of a ghost – almost impossible to track and even harder to get a hold of. He was notorious for escaping police on foot and was incredibly athletic and fit.
However, he had one weakness, and that was his love of the ponies – that was to say, he couldn’t resist a good horserace. That weekend happened to be the world-famous Palio di Siena, held in Siena’s Piazza del Campo. Intelligence said that Conti never missed the race and, this year, was planning on using it as a cover to flood the local economy with millions of euros-worth of phony currency.
Along with a soft spot for the horses, Conti was also a sucker for a pretty female face and was a renown womaniser. It was his predilection for letting his charger out of the stables when he smelled a sure thing that Cara Capello was banking on.
Cara slid her Ferrari through another hairy set of corners, her nine-hundred pound shoes ill-suited to playing the racing driver. The remaining Alfa was right up her bum, its front bumper crunching into her rear one, as it sought to run her off the road.
She loved to be pursued as much as the next girl, but enough really was enough.
She slowed slightly and then flicked the car over to the other side of the road. The Alfa Romeo, coming in to ram her in the behind again, shot past her and, as it did so, Cara smashed the Ferrari’s nose into the black car’s rear quarter. Travelling at the speed it was, the Alfa lost control like a roided-up Springbreaker after the eleventh tequila shot. It spun gracefully across the road in a haze of tyre smoke. Cara caught a brief glimpse of the handsome man in the beautiful blue suit goggling in stricken terror – the epitome of a man in dire need of a new pair of boxer shorts – before the car careered off the road and wrapped itself around a tree like a horseshoe.
Cara winced at the sound of the impact. Then she smiled and, opening her thighs slightly, stuck her hand between her legs and felt the warm wetness of her excitement.
