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(Thanks to Rey for his editing expertise)
*We bleed for Love and Hate; both celebrated with tears*
(9 days later)
“So, are you anxious about joining the mile-high club,” Echo whispered. I had to wonder about her need for privacy – there were only five of us on-board ‘my/our’ private jet. Michael Harrow offered repeatedly to let me use one of his air fleet to come to Lanao del Sur in the Philippines. I not only refused, but I ‘bribed’ an officer at the Naval Air Station to sweep my plane before departing.
I videoed the devices our ‘normal’ service missed, sending a copy Brad Pierce, my boss, as well as Harrow before dropping the bitches in liquid nitrogen for trans-Pacific delivery to Harrows hot little hands. This allowed me and the currently four ladies to make our flight unhurried to our destination – a place where civil authority barely held sway.
My pilot was Special Agent Jensen Furst, aka FBI Girl – she could fly anything short of a passenger airliner and she’d been shot at in actual combat. Like any true idiot, she’d volunteered to fly into the Muslim controlled Southern part of the country. I really did feel safer knowing she was at the controls.
The other stranger on-board was someone I didn’t know and therefore didn’t trust was DSS Agent Winifred Portsmouth – who apparently was the daughter of a former ambassador to some non-First World country. The US State Department saddled us with a diplomatic security service agent and I was going to find out how they knew who to send.
Lydia Haversett, Detective Sgt. of the LAPD’s Organized Task Force had remained upbeat until we lifted off then had crashed into her seat and was inconsolable by anyone but Echo. Her husband was crucifying her for returning to the life of an undercover officer – the fact that she had just now volunteered for another deep cover assignment only made things worse.
It took one long look at the deep rift in Echo’s emotions to realize what had been thrown on the table. If Lydia put her career on hold for her daughter and husband’s sake and left Echo to go it alone with me, she could retrieve her marriage. Lydia was choosing Echo’s life and safety and, by default, mine as well.
Echo aka Aisha Bashir was my own Hell’s Angel. Not the motorcycle club type but the graceful spirit that destroys you with the best of intentions. We met at a bar twice, played Bondage cop then I made the colossal mistake of inviting her out to a social function and all I could blame was my hormonal synergy and my keen intellect that was attracted to our differences. If Lydia said it was love at first sight one more time she was going to wake up wearing clown make-up.
“At least let’s go to the bathroom,” Echo whispered to me. Apparently it was bad form to have sex with Agent Portsmouth two seats in front of us. Lydia was two seats ahead of Winnie (Winifred Portsmouth).
“It is a coffin,” I explained patiently for the third time. “By that I mean it is the size of a coffin for someone who is 6′ 8″; 230 lbs. or less. I checked the specs.”
“How about the beds?” Echo kept evading. “There are two of them.”
“Do you really want to wedge you and me into a 28 inch high space?” I sighed. I wouldn’t go into the fact that calling them single beds was being generous, she’d already seen them and balked and this chick had done a thirty hour stakeout in a Honda Civic.
“Why are we doing this at all?” she got pissy and conflicted at the same time.
“I could tell you some bullshit about Harrow getting in my face the moment we get to his hotel, if he doesn’t smell sex on me that’s going to plant a serious seed of doubt about my lack of character.”
“But?” Echo traps me with her eyes.
“I just want you Echo. No reason beyond I’m horny for you and scared and terrified that I’m going to let you and Lydia down,” I explained.
“What about Jen and Winnie?”
“I haven’t let them inside,” I responded.
“Yet,” Echo insisted.
“Yet,” I allowed the possibility that common sense would continue to be eroded from my life. That was all the answer Echo needed to forgive this open act of carnality.
Echo stepped into the isle, back to the cockpit and started stripping out of her boots, pants and socks. I got to push up in my seat and do the same, with less room to maneuver. I caught Echo stopping herself from looking back at the other two passengers. We all hoped Special Agent Jensen didn’t take this moment to stroll out of the cockpit; it would embarrass Echo and put her out of the mood and right then I was ready to knock one out of the ballpark.
We pushed the armchairs into a recessed position (almost as if they were designed for what we were about to do – the manufacturer will make some shit up about being make-shift beds or some other nonsense) and Echo mounted me.
“Why do you always end up on top?” I teased her.
“That’s not so,” Echo groaned, “you take me every which way you want me.”
“Yes – and?” I coaxed her along.
“And every way I anadolu yakası escort like,” she confessed before kissing me. I slipped my hands down her back and underneath her jeans waist-line.
“Yes?” she repeated with a wider smile that almost matched my own.
“Someone is wearing a thong,” I perked up.
“Someone’s gone commando,” she upped the ante. I bucked instinctively against her crotch. “Ready to knock one out of the ballpark?”
“Are you inside my head?” I snickered.
“You and baseball – you would never know you hadn’t played a game in your life – now fuck me while I’m still in the mood,” she taunted me. That poetic verse sent us into a frenzy of ripping off our own clothes while biting exposed areas of flesh on our partners.
I stroked two fingers inside Echo’s pussy; she was my liquid nectar of arousal.
“I love that look on your face when you touch me there,” she whispered. “You always look like this is the first time for you.”
“You are embarrassing me,” I responded in a wistful manner.
“Good because I’m not totally comfortable having those three staring at me ass as you – fuck me,” Echo started growling sensually. She was going to love this then. I took my left hand and pushed my dick into her cunt as she rocked up then back, using her force to drive my shaft all the way in as a continuous action. At the same time I penetrate my right forefinger into her anus.
“Damn Dominic,” Echo shivered,” that’s not fair.” Oh yeah? I drove my cock even deeper at the same time my finger drilled all the way to the second knuckle.
“Oh fuck you,” she cried and I mean cried. Tears were trailing down her cheeks and her thighs and stomach vibrated. I wiggled her hips side to side and Echo lost it.
“You are staring Special Agent Furst,” Winnie said. I imagined she was smirking.
“Ssshhh,” Jen replied softly, “I’m taking notes.”
“This is only the first inning,” Lydia chuckled quietly. “They can go like that for an hour.”
“In my briefing I was informed I might have to sleep with this guy,” Winnie grinned (I think). “I’m now okay with that.”
“You three keep it down,” yelled Echo. “I’m getting my cunt massaged damn it!”
“Cunt massage,” Jen mused. “I like the sound of that.”
“I swear to God I’m – I’m shooting – oh yeah Dom – oh that feels – the next bitch who opens her mouth.”
“Echo, please don’t shoot the pilot,” I pleaded while matching my upward thrusts to her downward plunges. This ground her clit into my pelvic bone and tickled it with my hairs. “We are over the Central Pacific and need to refuel somewhere soon.”
“A few days in a life raft with you would be fun,” Echo panted.
“As fun as,” I start ejaculating into my lady, “sunburn and drinking saltwater. Oh God, your craziness just made me cum.”
Gun to the head
As we were getting off the plane, two limos and a handful of pick-ups (Chinese knock-offs of Toyotas) rolled up and a few dozen mean and rather filthy looking indigenous tribesmen arrived as our welcome wagon. They piled out lickety-split and came at us with their guns raised. Oddly enough (I’ve worked really hard at being unpopular recently) they weren’t aiming at me – they were aiming at my ladies.
Even Jensen, at the top of the stairs, didn’t look too enthused at our prospects; Gulfstreams are well-built but not armored. Their AK’s would make Swiss cheese of the airframe and the remaining air fuel would only highlight the afternoon sky. The lead Sergeant Major – the guy who’s AKM (so Winnie identifies for me later) was joined by three different kinds of pistols and the local equivalent of the multi-tool called a Bolo – told the lot of us something in one of the thousands of languages I didn’t know.
As I said, I didn’t understand the language so it was rather miraculous that Winnie started politely interacting with him but he was still getting quite rude and agitated.
“They want all of us – and by us, he means the women – to give up all our weapons or he’ll kill us,” Winnie informed me. She was getting ready to lay her little ol’ euro-built killing machine down too.
“Have him repeat the demand,” I requested of my suddenly priceless State Department associate. No, I was not going to miraculously learn their language, but I needed time to figure out if I was facing your garden variety psychopaths, the Amish Mafia, or one of your common playground bullies. A little verbal tug of war developed between a linguistically agile Winifred and the Sarge. This ended up with every native pulling back the bolts on their weapons.
“Dominic,” Echo whispered nervously.
“Dominic,” Winnie added, “I’ve tap danced all I can. We need to give up our weapons; these guys work for the local Sultan who is pretty hardcore Islamic.”
“Is their leader more afraid of our client or is our client more afraid their leader?” I requested of our translator/linguistic goddess.
Our boy, the Sarge, yelled at Winnie and we were ataşehir escort all sweating from more than the heat.
“Our boy is top dog,” Winnie bowed her head in my direction, as if she was subservient. It was to laugh.
“Winifred, tell our brilliant opponent that I’m requesting my personal weapon then give me a loaded pistol and make sure that security thingy is off,” I joked. I tended to joke when I was terrified. I was terrified because I didn’t want to die and I was not bluffing about what came next.
“It is called a safety you idiot,” Lydia chuckled under her breath. I lauded Agent Winifred Portsmouth and to the State Department in general; she was one cold cucumber. She bowed to the Sergeant Major and stated something firmly but respectfully then rather foolishly several militiamen point their weapons at me. I was praying the damn thing didn’t go off in my hand – really praying and normally I held atheists to be too religious.
I caught her drawing her shoulder holstered 9mm Beretta (I looked it up on a weapon’s catalog on the ride to the palace), Sarge got feisty but that was okay. I had his little red wagon and if I was wrong I wouldn’t have to suffer the ignominy of being outsmarted by a man who most-likely murdered his elementary school teacher last year in order to graduate the 1st grade.
I held the gun in a sweaty palm because it was one thing to say I live and die by my wits and another to really put that to the ultimate reality test.
“Winnie, please translate this over to the Sergeant Major – whoever this fucker who thinks he is in charge is called,” I took a deep breath then put the gun to my temple. Several people looked like they wanted to kill me and some actually worked for the other side.
“Tell Bubba here that I’m going to blow my brains out in twenty seconds unless he boards me and my harem with our weapons on some sort of suitable ride. Ask him what Mr. Harrow is going to believe – he and his redneck posse went nuts and killed his money man or that I actually killed myself. Ask him and his buddies what the Sultan is going to do to them when he decides they murdered me…and to their families.”
Winnie had been babbling on and on like crazy as I had been speaking; both Sarge and his buddies were showing a remarkable lack of discipline as the enormity of working for bloodthirsty dipshits with a low tolerance for failure dawned on them.
“Starting now,” I gulped down my fear.
Action number one for bullies is to bluster and that’s what they did. Winnie wasn’t, I hoped, counting down the last seconds of all our lives as she spoke in short, clipped tones. Action two was for them to bust up the punk who was disrespecting them but all four of my ladies had grasped the concept that I was a total asshole but they were probably facing a gang-rape no matter what and they’d rather go down with the smell of cordite wafting around them than die the other way. They drew their guns and stared down the nearest cluster of bad guys.
One made a lunge at me but Echo put her body in the way, pistol held in the classic two-handed stance. His AK was most certainly pressed against her stomach and would do a good job at cutting her in half. Her .44 would perforate his sinus cavity right before it introduced the front of his brain to the back of his skull. Echo’s a big girl, I may love her and I didn’t want her to die.
Strangely, none of the bastards wanted to play hero or martyr but I was willing to bet that type of guy didn’t tend to beat the crap out of kids half their size either. It was a really, really intense few seconds that Winnie kept counting down. Action three came about when the bullies can’t beat you down; they backed away from the fight – they swallowed face instead of taking pain.
Sarge was yelling shrilly and pointed his weapon from me to Winnie.
“Jen – thirteen,” Winnie shouted a bit shrilly herself. I couldn’t blame her; she probably thought she had a promising career in US service 24 hours ago.
Jensen Furst starts at thirteen and counted down. Winnie was going rapid-fire with Sarge then,
“He says we can keep our weapons and stay together,” she almost screamed with three seconds to spare. God (or Goddess, Allah, Yewoh, or Oppenheimer) Bless Lydia; she yanked my hand up and away right as I squeezed the trigger. Had I been bluffing, Sarge would have known it so I had to be ready to put my life on the line. I was so busy looking over all the angles I almost forgot to save myself.
Everyone jolted at the sound of the shot but thankfully a blood bath did not ensue. All the militiamen were looking at me like I was some sort of lunatic. None of the girls were taking their gaze off our welcoming committee so I couldn’t tell what they were thinking. I was sure I’d get an earful soon enough. I clicked the safety back on, took the weapon by its warm barrel and handed it butt first to its owner.
“Thanks for the loan Winifred,” I smiled and she matched my gaze perfectly. Aaahhh, ümraniye escort she thought I was a lunatic too, but she was smiling like a maniac so it must have been a good thing in her book.
“Thank you sir, now do you require us for any immediate needs or do you want us to oversee the unloading of the aircraft?” Winnie inquired respectfully.
“I want these guys to do the heavy lifting for us, Winnie. I’m not comfortable with our side putting our weapons away,” I said. Sarge interrupted by asking something; I thought he was asking.
“He wants to know why you don’t carry a gun,” Winnie translated.
“I kill people with my mind,” I answered with my most convincing soulless smile.
Winnie said a few things and I saw the native crowd recoil and make some sort of gesture; I was guessing against evil. The second thing she said got Sarge all pissed off again but I owned his ass now.
“He says he won’t ask his men to do menial labor while women are around,” Winnie informed me. Yes, I had been transported to Mr. Harrow’s paradise. I walked toward Sarge.
“He wants to know what you are doing, Sir,” Winnie translated next.
“What is that sword-like thing at his belt?” I questioned the DSS agent.
“It is called a bolo, Sir.” If she kept calling me ‘sir’ I was going to get used to it and that only ended with me in Manila re-enacting the Crying Game – on the losing end of that sexual encounter.
“He really wants to know what you are doing, Sir,” Winnie repeated.
“Tell him I’m going to take his bolo and cut off his left ear if he doesn’t get my luggage into those cars in the next five minutes,” I detailed my current madness.
He snapped his head toward Winnie when she enlightened him and was a second too slow.
Sarge tried to bring his weapon back to my center but I grabbed and twisted his barrel away. He tried to maintain control but I was using his two handed pull against him and flipped him to the ground. The hand on the trigger let go to brace his fall while the other kept to the barrel of the gun. I stomped on his sternum and then drew his bolo.
In most irregular armed force, 50% of the men are there because they are forced to. 33% to 25% are believers of some kind. The last 17% to 25% are there are there for familial bonds, or insane criminals. Likewise, in this part of the world, Sarge had his position because of his loyalty and questionable blood ties to the upper leadership.
In my current situation, it meant 20 of the 40 guys wanted out of this fight and didn’t trust Sarge to do it. Ten were interested in helping their kin out, so five of them wanted this fight not to happen. Of the fifteen left, 8 would support the Sultan and 7 were Islamic extremists. I could count on Jensen, Lydia and Echo to track those nutjobs.
Sarge suddenly changed his tune and the unenthused guys started being called over to get our stuff loaded. Jensen protected our surveillance equipment but the rest of our gear moved fast and safely enough. At this moment I retrieved my briefcase and started reintroducing Christmas to the heathen. I got out seven normal envelops with $(Phil) 2500 in each. I paid off the seven guys who ‘got’ to help us.
I understood that was ~ $200 US dollars. I helped up Sarge and gave him a nice fat envelope with twice as much though I could tell he and I were not buddies. Winnie had to tell them some made up stuff about Sharia law and only allowing money for Charity work. He wanted to stuff some guys in with us on the ride over but I looked from his bolo to his ear and he backed down again.
The money was Winnie’s idea, the anti-bullying campaign was mine but I seemed to have her seal of approval. By the iciness I received on the road to the villa right outside of town, I could tell, she was the only one. Like any good democratically elected despot, the Sultan had his grounds patrolled by armed men with armored cars decorating various key positions around the perimeter. My financial disclosures had revealed the vehicles were Myanmar Army surplus – Harrow never let an antiquated engine of destruction go to waste.
A guy I liked to call the Major met us at the palace/villa/mac-mansion that housed the chief potentate and imagine that, he was seething at the Sergeant Major over my ladies still having guns. His bodyguards were a higher caliber of killer too. They took pride in their appearances and their status as elites. I didn’t care that they didn’t hold a candle to Delta Force. Delta Force wasn’t with me.
I made my snatch unnoticed as I moved pass the guards but I thought that three of my four girls did notice by the way they groaned. I walked back and forth while poor old Sarge got his ass chewed but then it was my turn. The Major spoke to me in Spanish so no translator was needed. This man was clever enough to know that if I lived in Southern California I must speak some Spanish.
“Senor, your women must give up their weapons,” he menaced me but was being polite about it. “That is Mr. Harrow’s wishes.” I was sure it was.
“Do I have the hospitality of the Sultan’s house?” I inquired offhandedly.
“Of course you do, Mr. Umstead,” the Major sensed a trap coming his way.
“Then it is appropriate that I give you a gift for your hospitality (thanks Winnie),” I smiled. I handed him a ring with the grenade pin attached.
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