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Description
Black Market is the second novella in the Olesia Anderson thriller series. Put simply - what if James Bond was a woman who took private contracts, the violence was R rated and the sex scenes didn't fade to black? That's Olesia Anderson.

www.amazon.com/gp/product/B007…

Photography by the exceptional and modelling by the fantastic !

- - -

Conversation outside. Laughter. Then the doors creaked open, and a thin wedge of light played up the floor of the van. Olesia crouched behind the stacks of Styrofoam boxes, measuring her breath. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, calm, calm...
Two men were silhouetted against the gray Trenton sky. One of them leaned in close, peering into the dark edges of the van. "Load it up quick," he said, "we don't have time to fuck around..."
He stopped, brow furrowed. He retreated. The two men whispered.
Olesia squeezed down tighter into the black. They must have smelled her - there was no way to mistake the stink of shit inside a supposedly sterile van. She swallowed hard and measured the distance to the door. Three steps, just enough space to get some speed. So long as neither of them were armed...
The first man reached into his pocket and produced something small and silver. Through the gap she could make out that it was small caliber, but even that would punch through unprotected skin and bone. She had a stolen pistol in her handbag, but it had suffered through the Atlantico outflow system. No chance of it firing clean. And if the other guy was armed as well...
She didn't have time to consider any more, because the doors were flung open. Sunlight streamed into the van and Olesia threw an arm up over her face, blinking back tears. The first man squinted into the gloom, the pistol thrust out before him.
"Out!" he said, jabbing at where Olesia was hiding. "Whoever the fuck you are, get out!"
Olesia stood slowly, hands held out before her, showing they were empty. "I'm sorry, I got into the wrong van-"
"Get the fuck out!" The man's finger trembled on the trigger. "Hands higher. Higher! Get-"
She heard a skittering and glanced down. Her jacket was bulging.
The rat. Noseface.
"I'm just getting my jacket," she said, crouching slowly until she had a hold of the fabric. The gun wavered, but the man didn't fire. Olesia kept her expression steady as she walked through the stacks of Styrofoam boxes, her hands held up over her head, her jacket dripping water onto her shoulders. The man with the gun stepped back, retreating from the stink. She could see the second man waiting outside the van - broad, grim-looking, but no gun. That'd make things a little easier.
"I got mixed up," she said, trying to sound innocent. "You're not going to hurt me, are you?"
"Bitch, I will shoot you if you don't get out-"
"But I thought this was the van to Cincinnati? Look, I have a map."
She was spinning before the man had time to reply, hurling her shit-stained jacket like a set of bolas. It whirled across the length of the van in a brown blur, and the man raised his gun just as the jacket slapped around his face. The gun went off with a skull-splitting bang, but it was aimed high, opening a hole the size of a penny in the roof of the van.
The man started to scream.

Description
Black Market is the second novella in the Olesia Anderson thriller series. Put simply - what if James Bond was a woman who took private contracts, the violence was R rated and the sex scenes didn't fade to black? That's Olesia Anderson.

www.amazon.com/gp/product/B007…

Photography by the exceptional and modelling by the fantastic !

- - -

Conversation outside. Laughter. Then the doors creaked open, and a thin wedge of light played up the floor of the van. Olesia crouched behind the stacks of Styrofoam boxes, measuring her breath. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, calm, calm...
Two men were silhouetted against the gray Trenton sky. One of them leaned in close, peering into the dark edges of the van. "Load it up quick," he said, "we don't have time to fuck around..."
He stopped, brow furrowed. He retreated. The two men whispered.
Olesia squeezed down tighter into the black. They must have smelled her - there was no way to mistake the stink of shit inside a supposedly sterile van. She swallowed hard and measured the distance to the door. Three steps, just enough space to get some speed. So long as neither of them were armed...
The first man reached into his pocket and produced something small and silver. Through the gap she could make out that it was small caliber, but even that would punch through unprotected skin and bone. She had a stolen pistol in her handbag, but it had suffered through the Atlantico outflow system. No chance of it firing clean. And if the other guy was armed as well...
She didn't have time to consider any more, because the doors were flung open. Sunlight streamed into the van and Olesia threw an arm up over her face, blinking back tears. The first man squinted into the gloom, the pistol thrust out before him.
"Out!" he said, jabbing at where Olesia was hiding. "Whoever the fuck you are, get out!"
Olesia stood slowly, hands held out before her, showing they were empty. "I'm sorry, I got into the wrong van-"
"Get the fuck out!" The man's finger trembled on the trigger. "Hands higher. Higher! Get-"
She heard a skittering and glanced down. Her jacket was bulging.
The rat. Noseface.
"I'm just getting my jacket," she said, crouching slowly until she had a hold of the fabric. The gun wavered, but the man didn't fire. Olesia kept her expression steady as she walked through the stacks of Styrofoam boxes, her hands held up over her head, her jacket dripping water onto her shoulders. The man with the gun stepped back, retreating from the stink. She could see the second man waiting outside the van - broad, grim-looking, but no gun. That'd make things a little easier.
"I got mixed up," she said, trying to sound innocent. "You're not going to hurt me, are you?"
"Bitch, I will shoot you if you don't get out-"
"But I thought this was the van to Cincinnati? Look, I have a map."
She was spinning before the man had time to reply, hurling her shit-stained jacket like a set of bolas. It whirled across the length of the van in a brown blur, and the man raised his gun just as the jacket slapped around his face. The gun went off with a skull-splitting bang, but it was aimed high, opening a hole the size of a penny in the roof of the van.
The man started to scream.