Shortly after 2:45 AM Police Officer Jillian Kensett parked her cruiser behind a derelict strip mall on South Fayette to catch up on reports.  She'd just finished typing her four-paragraph account of a larceny from auto with no suspects when Dispatch paged her unit number. 
     "Three-Frank-Seventeen, beat info for you," said the dispatcher.  "Report of a suspicious van in the vicinity of Clark and Fillmore.  Described as silver or gray in color, make and plate number unknown.  Our complainant is housemother for one of the sororities.  She advises it was circling the block for forty minutes.  Last seen westbound on Clark."
     The shapely, sable-haired policewoman keyed her hand mic.  "Three-Frank-Seventeen, copy.  I'll drive through the area."
     Jillian saved her report, cranked the engine of her black and white Ford Interceptor SUV and pulled out onto Fayette.  Cruising the deserted streets of Ravenspoint she had to concede that there were certain advantages to working midnights--what Old School coppers called "The Dog Watch."  Few if any civilian motorists to contend with, nor was she obliged to interact with the command staff, nearly all of whom she despised as career-driven opportunists seeking to make rank at the expense of street cops like her. 
     West Clark Street, known less formally as Sorority Row, bordered the nearby Delaplaine U. campus.  Jillian drove slowly, playing her spotlight beam across house fronts and down alleys.  Reaching the cul-de-sac at the west end of Clark, she reversed course and made her way back to the intersection with Fillmore.  Nothing visible to the north, to the south...Jillian frowned at the sight of a lone vehicle stopped for a freight train at the Midland Pacific crossing five blocks away.  Even at this distance it was identifiable in silhouette as a van.  
     She punched the accelerator and swiftly caught up with her quarry.  The stationary van now caught in the glare of her headlights was an aluminum gray GMC model.  Its plate number was so faded as to be unreadable, a vehicle code violation that more than justified an investigative stop.  Jillian however was unable to make herself heard over the radio due to the thunderous rumble of the passing freight.  She would have to wait for the train to clear the crossing before turning on her red and blue lights and requesting a backup unit.  
     "What a pleasant surprise," drawled a male voice on her right.  Jillian's heart misfired.  She pivoted in her seat while clawing for her holstered sidearm, only to find herself looking down the muzzle of a .40 SIG Sauer pistol.  The black-clad figure holding it thrust the weapon through her half-open window.  "Bitch, keep both hands on the wheel," he commanded.  "We'd hoped to bag a few sorority girls tonight, but you'll make a nice consolation prize!"


Even after being disarmed and relieved of her radio Jillian did not go without a fight.  It required all three occupants of the van to wrestle her into the payload bay.  In the struggle her uniform shirt ripped open and she somehow lost her brassiere, fully exposing her ripe 34D breasts.  And now, bound hand and foot inside the speeding van, the helpless beauty strained valiantly but in vain at the jute ropes cinched cruelly tight around her arms, wrists and ankles, desperate cries smothered by the duct tape layered across her mouth.    
     One of her kidnappers smirked.  "Officer Kensett, you're to be commended for your diligence in stopping our van on a lonely road at three in the morning," he said.  "Had you known we were modern day slave traders, I'm sure that you would have waited for backup.  Good news is, we've already found an overseas buyer for you, a close personal friend of Vladimir Putin, no less."  The abductor paused deliberately.  "Do you by any chance speak Russian?"
     "NNNRRGH!" mewled Jillian.  
                        

Another prolonged absence, for which I humbly apologize.  There have been ch-ch-ch-changes in my life, to be precise I was offered early retirement.  Given that my pension is fully vested and well-managed I decided to accept.  Which means I have more downtime in which to write DiD tales for my audience of (whoa, is that possible?) 360 Watchers and assorted visitors. 

I wanted to start with the first in what I hope will be a series featuring my beautiful, beleaguered Jillian Kensett OC.

This also represents my first collaboration in entirely too long with the incomparable Nic of .  I will do my best to post new installments on a regular basis but that is entirely dependent on Nic's understandably tight schedule and my ah, entertainment budget.  (Artwork of this caliber doesn't come cheap, nor should it)  In the meantime, please enjoy!

Below is a version without word balloons and dialogue: