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Rachel separated her fit legs into a rifleman's stance behind her tall, narrow, collapsible black metal stand on the Botanical Hotel roof. Head height, its robust platform held her Accuracy International AT308 sniper rifle, angled upward forty-nine point one degrees.

Behind her, in the darkening night, the access door sensed its partner magnet, reporting itself closed, her magnetic defeat pad serving its intended purpose. Forty-nine point one degrees upward lay Fu Jian's apartment in the glass tower opposite, her rangefinder scope detailing the true ballistic range. Saving millions, the Chinese businessman hadn't bought the actual penthouse. Six floors higher, he'd have soared above Sydney unreachable.

Her Leupold scope brought his curved apartment window into her crosshairs. His sensational view drew him towards them. She scrutinized his magnified face. Winds rising off Sydney harbor disturbed her potential shot. His short hair, behind floor-to-ceiling glass, stayed still. She'd spent two evenings on the rooftop observing his habits, seated with snacks against the air conditioning hut, gripping her handheld scope. During her two-week Sydney visit, she'd seen tourist sights, leaving a trail of natural activities to cover her deadly presence. Staying in the Shangri La hotel, she'd walked the city, passing her target's shiny glass skyscraper twice.

From her comfortable home, eight thousand miles away, she'd plotted her basic shot concept using Google Earth, selecting viable locations. On-site analysis had proved the Botanical Hotel suitable, its roof door accessible, her unobtrusive black baseball cap defeating the hotel's ubiquitous surveillance cameras.

Her black chinos and gray blouse defined international business casual, her flat black sneakers an important fashion statement. Should escape become paramount, heels would imperil her. Her lightweight stylish black blazer hid her tactical belt, containing her protection pistol, a FN 509 Midsize Tactical, its separate rush suppressor secured beside it. In an emergency, her suppressor would remain unattached. Gifted time, its prudent use may silence trouble.

Her surroundings pre-cleared, she focused on her rifle scope. Every nerve hovered motionless. Even her sensitive butt didn't tingle, last spanked a month ago. Three hundred yards away, Fu Jian disappeared. She'd expected it. He hadn't held his ubiquitous whisky glass. Habits killed. Two ice cubes and two fingers of Japanese Yamazaki fifty-year-old single malt required thirty-two seconds to prepare. His torso returned to her crosshairs. He was predictable. Predictable and dead. Sydney harbor's unpredictable winds settled. She exhaled, squeezing the trigger of her Accuracy International AT308. The butt pad reduced the recoil against her shoulder. Her armor-piercing round sliced through the glass, its forty-nine point one degree angle undisturbed. Rising upward through Fu Jian's chest, it eliminated the wife beater.

Clients lied. This client hadn't. Fu Jian's wealthy wife had deployed her phone, filming chilling video evidence. Rachel snapped her eye from her scope. Kill confirmed. She required hard evidence to provide her unique services. Her handler arranged contracts, advertising on the dark web. An experienced facilitator, she trusted the digital files he provided. He discarded thirty percent of enquiries. She rejected ten. Sixty percent of contracts reached fruition. She shunned attention-grabbing targets. Their price didn't match their risk profile.

Prudence had spun her extensive military training into a substantial fortune. Years spent finessing her sharp shooting skill hadn't suited civilian employment. Facing incredible financial uncertainty, she'd fallen back on her precision skill.

Collapsing her rifle's bipod stands, she folded its stock. Disassembling her tall stand, she packed her tools into her plain black wheelie bag. Re-spraying finger-guard across her fingertips, imperceptible covers formed. Door locks, handles, and elevator buttons were lethal surfaces. Dropping her apparent lipstick into her wheelie, she towed it through the Botanical hotel, disappearing into Sydney's dark night.

She spent several days continuing her tourist adventure, climbing the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Fu Jian's demise didn't reach the news cycle. He wasn't important. Rain dampening her enthusiasm, she departed, changing planes in Los Angeles, blending into the sea of traveling humanity for her short hop home to Las Vegas.

Her neighbors thought her a strategic business consultant, her frequent travel making her presence unpredictable. Her car service collected her from the airport. Stretching her shoulders in the comfortable rear, she removed the kinks added by her cramped coach airline seat. Blending into irrelevance denied her first class travel. Twenty minutes west of the famous strip, her two story single family home nestled beside its affluent neighbors in Haven Lake. Its red roof tiles oversaw a stylish designer home, befitting a global corporate troubleshooter. The driver pulled beneath her porte-cochere into blissful shade, Nevada's reliable heat in full force.

Desirable waterfront homes drew attention she didn't desire. Near the lake, her home wasn't an excessive extravagance. She earned upwards of half a million per contract. Three contracts had bought her gated community mansion. Blending into her neighborhood required occasional greetings, frequent smiles, and clever disassociation from delicate discussions. Surrounded by families, unwanted male attention wasn't a significant problem. Her unpredictable schedule protected her from regular social commitments, affording her added security.

Heading upstairs, she dumped her innocuous tourist travel bag in her walk-in closet, stripping off her travel clothes. Her mission outfit no longer existed. Washing clothes didn't remove gunshot residue. Only burning destroyed dangerous evidence. Spread across continents, uninspiring apartments obscured beneath complex ownership structures served as weapons caches, also containing wide ranging mission tools. Her portable barrel incinerator had turned her mission clothes into worthless ash. She'd laid her after-action outfit ready when she'd retrieved her rifle and protection pistol. She'd detected no one tracking her activities, but on contracts, she assumed constant surveillance. Leaving the Botanical Hotel roof, she'd walked lengthy surveillance detection routes. Passing through unexpected localities, she'd twisted her route in unpredictable directions. Satisfied she remained alone, she'd approached her Sydney cache, a tiny studio apartment near Haymarket.

Entering her luxurious Las Vegas bathroom, naked, she flicked the shiny chrome tap over her white free-standing bath. Raised on a gray-tiled platform, it angled towards the corner, providing twin views over rooftops towards the pristine blue lake beyond.

Sweeping her long brunette tresses behind her shoulders, she lowered into her bath, resting her slender arms on its flat edges, shaking her hair free, indulging her honey highlights. Nobody with a purpose was lonely. Her purpose saved lives and improved society, eliminating dangerous threats. She stretched her toes, unable to reach her bath end. Justifying herself didn't appease her conscience. Objectiveness didn't distance her from guilt. She fired the shots. Substantial earnings sustained her career but worsened her mental argument. She didn't excuse herself. Neither did Victor. Solving his personal dilemma, her friend had also fixed hers.

Growing up in care, her background hadn't matched her school peers. Singled out, she'd received multiple contemptuous physical attacks until Victor, her classmate, had defended her. Bulky, his protection, had stopped her physical suffering, although not her isolation. Their Pacific coast town had enjoyed changeable weather. On bright days, he'd trained her. They'd picked a park across town, far from their school. He'd taught her basic fighting moves. Falling on grass didn't prevent bruises. She'd accrued plenty, rising, repeating her mistakes until she overcame her flawed approach, grasping his. Weaponized, she'd transcended her reliance on him. One fateful afternoon, she'd turned on her aggressors, putting three in the hospital. Detention had rewarded her excellence. Victor had praised her courageous performance. Her formidable reputation had protected her until she'd graduated, joining the marines.

Her care home, shared with three hundred unloved others, had proved somewhat protective. Everyone's interests aligned. She hadn't enemies or close friends. The staff changed, but rules remained strict. Angry from her school suffering, she acted out, refusing simple directions. The staff paddled her. Through thick jeans, skirts, and thin pants, the heavy wood slammed its fiery assessment into her butt, pounding pain deep. It resonated for hours afterwards. Daily, around ten miscreants got hard licks. It hurt. You promised better behavior. Your butt burned during dinner. Your housemates ignored your soreness.

Joining the marines, she'd swallowed the rigid doctrine with relish, spending energy beyond her fellow recruits. Rising higher, she'd specialized. Sniper training had brought ruthless instruction. Her renowned sergeant had caned them for minor mistakes. She'd graduated sniper school miles above her peers, precision thrashed into her receptive butt. Bent before her teammates, she'd valued her crushing humiliation. Guys and girls had seen her bent in her panties, her butt thrashed, overwhelming emotions painting her tear-stained face.

A young sergeant herself, she'd led the highest rated marine sniper team in history. Searching for greater opportunity, she'd re-entered society rudderless, Victor's presence drawing her towards Las Vegas. Leaning forward in her luxury bath, she slipped her phone from the black marble window ledge, messaging him. She tapped a single familiar word. 'Home.'

His reply arrived seconds later. 'One hour. Marine dress blues. Office.'

Learning about her actual career, he'd imposed a tough price. It eased his conscience and satisfied her guilt. Her sole confidant, he inflicted formal punishment for completed contracts. He beat her. No casual spankings. A harsh thrashing befitting her crime. She'd accepted his rigorous friendship requirement, respecting him for demanding it. Her single word message was their code for contract completion. He could demand any outfit he desired. Indulging him pleased her. They weren't lovers, but he seemed to enjoy her meeting her obligation. Service uniform, jeans, shorts, dresses, bikinis. He could order any outfit, specify her underwear, or demand her naked. Compliance was her duty. Losing her rights drew her deep into an obedient mindset, preparing her for her coming agony.

Leaving her bath, she selected her formal marine uniform from her closet. Kept ready, her straight blue skirt, tailored white blouse and white cover defined her. Called Dress Blues, her uniform appeared black. It wasn't. For centuries, blue had symbolized dedication, honor, and loyalty. During boot camp, an assertive male recruit had questioned their uniform color. Their trainer had indulged him, using a handheld spectrocolorimeter to prove they wore the darkest blue imaginable, also gifting him one hundred push-ups and a fifty-mile night run.

Her tailored blue uniform coat fitted her twenty-six-year-old form to perfection, revealing her white shirt collar and red necktab. Ordered into her uniform, solemn obedience enveloped her. Her uniform straightened her spine, instilling the deepest respect for discipline. In her mirrored wardrobe, four polished gold buttons screamed her compliance.

During her military service, she'd kept collar-length hair. Since leaving, she'd grown her brunette tresses long, adding honey highlights. It reached beyond her shoulders. Required to wear her lush length up, she obeyed, raising her beautiful hair into a French twist, pinning it in place, discrete below her white cover. Carrying the gold Marine Corps insignia, it sure wasn't a cap, or hat, a memorable boot camp mistake she'd never repeated. Calling it a hat, she'd marched the parade ground for four hours, one hundred push ups punctuating her growing weariness every ten circuits.

Pride infused her reflection. Her formal skirt rested a perfect two inches above her knee. Daytime regulations required flesh colored hose. Thigh-high stockings satisfied this stricture. Beneath her uniform, mismatching underwear was a crime against self-respect. Her bra was white beneath her blouse. Her bikini panties matched.

Standing to attention, she snapped her wrist into the perfect position, her fingers aligned in a crisp salute. Returning her arm to rest above her butt, she stood before her mirror, at ease. An obedient marine issued formal discipline, guilty of her offense, presenting herself without rancor to receive her prescribed punishment.

Heading down her sweeping circular staircase, blue skies poured sunlight into her home, expansive glass revealing palm trees decorating her rear lawn. Her black shoes left the carpeted stairs, clacking across the marble floors towards her office.

Large rectangular archways separated living spaces. Her modest home office offered views of her pool, covered patio, and white block wall. Her glossy black desk defined the small space, a tall white leather chair behind.

She placed her encrypted iPad on the black corner chair beside the sliding glass patio doors, the Fu Jian case file selected. Its transparent screen cover prevented radio emissions leaking.

Facing her desk, she stood at ease, her arms resting above her bottom. The quiet whisper of her central air system afforded a gentle background to her thoughts. She'd killed a man in cold blood. Nobody else had offered his wife a workable solution. It didn't excuse her. Her formal uniform held her to account, demanding meaningful consequences. Drawn into deep disgrace, its weight on her shoulders demanded a serious sanction.

Obedience kept her still, her brain churning through her guilt. She stared across her desk at the black wooden display cabinet behind her white leather chair. Holding business books on accounting theory, human resources, and finance, its large lower drawers held more prosaic tools. Heavy wooden paddles, dense and slender rattan canes, thick leather straps and regular men's belts lay aligned. Victor maintained her standards. Based on her mission report, he'd impose her punishment, deliver it, and leave proper hurt packing her butt until its slow decline abated. While sore, she'd appreciate her humble status, grateful for his strict supervision.

Her sensitive ears detected her distant anti-pick lock pins moving. Hidden beneath reinforced strike plates, the extra-long tough alloy bolts slid under command from Victor's high-security door key. His approaching footsteps further straightened her spine. Behind her, the low cushioned corner chair creaked, taking his weight.

She pictured his muscular frame reclining, reading her latest file. He'd read detailed research on Fu Jian and see the compelling video evidence. The brave wife had recorded his violent attacks, documenting their circumstances. Background established, he'd read about her challenging upward shot, her travel routing, and any failures she'd noted. Inaccurate reports flattered. Hers, read only by him, contained damning self criticism when required. Fooling herself would lead to casual death. Precision peppered her unemotional reports, ensuring she learned strategic lessons.

Standing, Victor moved behind her. "Fu Jian wouldn't have reformed himself."

Dominating her office, his stern tone vibrated down her spine. Gratitude swamped her, his decision upholding her irreversible one.

"However," he said.

Her heart stilled.

"You remain accountable for your actions. His predictable future conduct doesn't excuse you. Society hasn't appointed you judge or jury. You've chosen to become its executioner."

Compounding beneath his damning tone, guilt spun its mushrooming force, urging repentance. Conflicted, she always made the same choice. Remorse. Without it, she'd lose her humanity.

He surveyed her gorgeous upright posture. A steel-edged ruler placed against her spine wouldn't show gaps. Her formal skirt encased her stunning butt. Holding her accountable for her transgressions wasn't miserable. He suspected she knew.

While training her to fight, he'd discovered her care home punished her. He'd criticized her cautious foot movements. She'd shrugged it off, confessing she'd got paddled earlier.

Visiting him during her military career, she'd described her canings, admitting she respected their sharp effect on her. Lowering her pants before her male and female teammates had humiliated her. Harsh rattan strokes had made a public record of her stupid mistakes. Her guts hadn't surprised him. She'd displayed them again during her visit. He'd built a construction crew with expertise in cement, bricklaying, and carpentry, unaware he'd pitted himself against violent underworld factions. Attacked one evening, she'd fought beside him, destroying his untrained assailants, buying him time. He'd escaped with enough cash to begin his bar business.

Establishing herself in Las Vegas, her military career over, he'd believed her business trouble shooter persona, proving her skillful acting. Sat in her gorgeous garden, she'd revealed her secret career, discussing her inability to rationalize her actions. Challenged by her revelation, he'd questioned their friendship. She'd explained several contracts. He couldn't deny her targets had deserved to die. Despite agreeing, he'd struggled to support her illegal actions. Society maintained order with due process. Her circumvention hadn't sat well with him.

Desperate to save their friendship, he'd needed to balance his conscience. Reviewing their entire friendship history, her attitude to paddlings and canings had suggested a compromise. He hadn't proposed his idea. Instead, he ordered her up, marching her inside to this tiny office.

Demanding details of her most recent contract, he'd made her repeat herself, scolding her at each point. Beneath his comprehensive criticism, she'd withered. Commanded to lower her shorts and bend over her desk, she'd obeyed.

With only his leather belt available, he'd delivered an uncompromising merciless thrashing. Belt marks had blazed agony beyond her slim white panties. She'd cried, but she hadn't argued or complained, accepting his thorough denunciation alongside her ferocious thrashing.

Standing sore before him, still in her skimpy panties, she'd agreed the painful price of their friendship. He'd demanded she declare any doubts she harbored. Silence had met his demand, extending several seconds. She'd met his gaze. Direct eyes piercing his, she'd said, 'Thrash me harder next time.'

They'd bought instruments, packing her assigned drawer with various tools to induce devastating adult pain. Contracts cost her. She bent on his command, accepting her heavy sentences. Unaware of her coming punishment, she couldn't prepare for her pain, exacerbating its cruel arrival.

She steadied her breathing. He entered her view, opening the highest of the three low drawers. He withdrew the thick, devastating, golden punishment cane. She'd felt it before. Experience didn't diminish its excruciating agony. A half inch thick, three feet of straight, high quality Indonesian Kooboo rattan extended from his grip. Used in reform schools, it cured youthful recalcitrance.

Standing, he said, "I must cane you, Rachel."

She stiffened, fear flooding her body. The eager cane tip bounced, worsening her dread. The length of punishing rattan would speed towards her vulnerable butt. Rejoicing in its tremendous acceleration, it would sear its intentional cruelty into her soft skin, its tip reverberating into her flesh, celebrating its incessant heat.

Walking behind her, he tested the rattan's readiness.

Harsh hisses withered her core. Most months, she oiled her straps and canes, her dutiful fingers working viscous fluids into them, keeping them moist, her purpose humbling her. Hand crafted to hurt her, she maintained their effectiveness, ensuring they delivered maximum pain.

"Rachel, your extraordinary skill needs recognition. Painful recognition. You deployed it of your own free will. Remorse alone isn't adequate. I must punish your misconduct, marking it across your backside. Consider your crime. Offer honest regret. Earn your forgiveness." He paused. "Remove your cover, marine."

Raising both arms, she removed her white uniform cover, placing it on the desk, its gold insignia facing her.

"Coat off."

Unfastening her tight, tailored coat, she slipped it from her shoulders, laying it across the desk.

"Remove your skirt."

She unzipped her skirt. Straight, it still constricted her movements. Lowering it, she gripped its waistband, stepping free, draping it on her coat. Standing in her white blouse, flesh-toned thigh-high stockings, and white cotton bikini panties, she accepted his critical gaze, hoping her obedience satisfied him. Stripping on his orders, under his raking male gaze, brought devastating disgrace.

"Bend over, Rachel," he commanded.