Tanker (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 1)

by Nicholas E Watkins

  “You’re right; I am in the habit of picking up random strangers it seems. Anyway I took the drink. Then zilch, nothing, I don’t remember a thing. I don’t remember leaving. I have no idea how I got outside with the two chaps. It is a total blank.”

  “It was probably a spiked drink? All too common these days, but all’s well that ends well. The bonus is that I got to meet a very beautiful woman.” Jackie looked at him and moved her hand to her hair and twilled it between her fingers. He really did find her very attractive.

  He had driven her back from the restaurant and she had invited him in for coffee. She had started to show him the house then realised that he was already familiar with it. Slightly embarrassed by the memory that the last time he was here when he had to haul her incoherently up the stairs and get her to bed. She retreated to the kitchen to make the coffee.

  There was an awkward period when the conversation flagged. They both knew that they wished to get a little closer but how to get from a cup of coffee to embracing was proving to be cumbersome.

  Tim decided to just go for the honest approach. “I really want to kiss you,” he said.

  “I want you to.”

  They kissed and then kissed some more. He was becoming very aroused and she could felt his erection pressing into her as they pulled each other close. She wanted this man. It had been a very long time since she had felt such an intense desire. Her husband had left her battered bruised and bereft of any self confidence. Now suddenly she felt like a woman again and a desirable woman at that.

  She took his hand and took him to the bedroom. She wanted him and she felt free to want him. She felt liberated from the controlling restraint of her husband who was derisive and gradually made her feel worthless. The look in Tim’s eyes, his obvious admiration and desire for her was a healing force.

  She sat him before her on her bed and with a brazenness she had never exhibited before in her life began to strip for him. She did it deliberately, taking pleasure in playing the exhibitionist, slowly unbuttoning her blouse and dropping it to the floor. Then she turned her back to him, she allowed her skirt to fall, gyrating her bottom to aid its descent. She undid the clasp on her bra, her nipples so erect it clung to them before falling.

  Again she turned her back and bending she removed her knickers, lingering to allow her bottom fully exposed as she bent down, legs straight to free the panties from her shoes. His heart was pounding as she turned and bent foreword kissing him.

  She undid his shirt buttons and pulled his shirt off and began to rub her breasts against his bare chest. His trousers, shoes and socks were difficult to undo, he decided he could not take too much more and rapidly undressed himself. Her naked body against his felt so right, so good and so sensual as he pushed her down into the softness of the bed.

  He woke the next morning before she did and he watched the rise and fall of her breathing, the curve of her bottom and waist. Her hair messed up on the pillow. He really did like this woman. He curled himself round her body and feeling secure and whole, fell back to sleep.

  Out now by the same Author

  BANK

  A TIM BURR NOVEL

  Copyright © Nicholas E Watkins 2017

  The right of Nicholas E Watkins to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and patent Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication my be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor may be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictional and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Bank

  The Sun beat down on the three man, scorching their skin and evaporating the moisture form their bodies. The ropes binding them cut deeply into their wrists and ankles. They lay on their backs facing the sky, the Sun blinding them and blistering the skin on their faces. They had been in the back of the flat bed truck for three hours as it bounced over the arid rocky terrain driving deeper into the Mexican countryside.

  The two men, upfront, in comfort in the air conditioned cab were listening to the music on the radio. “Stop I need a leak,” said the passenger.

  The driver pulled over and they both stepped from the truck, stretching their legs. The passenger climbed up onto the back of the truck. He stood over the three captives in the rear. “Are you thirsty my friends?”

  There was no response. They were barely conscious, with lips cracked and large blisters on their foreheads and noses as their skin burnt in the Sun. He unzipped his trousers. Looking at the driver for approval, who laughed at the sight, he began to urinate on the captives. “Drink my friends.”

  He rotated his body from side to side ensuring that each of the unfortunates received their fair share. They hardly had the strength to move their heads as the stream of yellow urine splashed down on them. They were almost grateful. The piss cooled as it evaporated in the mid day Sun. With a final shake he climbed down from the rear of the truck. Getting back into the cab they continued their journey along the rough track, kicking up a dust cloud as they drove. The dust stuck and clung to their damp bodies in the back irritating their eyes and skin further as the Sun continued to beat down.

  The hut stood on its own with pink, mud plastered walls and faded paint peeling wooden shuttered windows. It was the only shade for miles around. There was a well to the front which had run dry years before, making any form of farming untenable. Abandoned it had become a useful hideout from prying eyes for the Drug Cartel these men worked for. To one side of the hut was stacked a pile of old truck tyres.

  The extreme poverty in Mexico made the rise of the drug industry easy. It was now the direct employer of half a million Mexicans. Mexico was the gateway to the United States for hash and cocaine from Latin American. It was truly big business with another four million people indirectly dependent on the trade for their livelihoods. With such big stakes the various Drug Cartels would go to extreme lengths to preserve their share of the business. One such Cartel was headed by Jesus Rojas and it was for him that these men worked.

  The three men were dragged from the truck into the darkened interior of the adobe hut. They were left bound on the compacted mud floor while their captors opened the shutters letting in shafts of sunlight illuminating the single room. “Do not die my friends. At least do not die before the boss arrives,” said the driver as he poured water into each of the men’s mouths in turn. Their captors lit cigarettes and settled down to wait.

  Rojas sat on the back seat of the limo. Alongside him was his seventeen year old companion, a stunning beauty with long black hair, slim long legs and prominent small breasts. She wore very little, an almost transparent white dress through which, when the light shone, her dark nipples were visible. She never wore panties. She loved the feel of eyes on her body. She was an exhibitionist and Rojas loved it that way. The sight of his men furtively looking at her body aroused him and he encouraged her to indulge herself to the extreme in her tendencies.

  Rojas was in his mid fifties and did as he pleased. He had risen in the drugs World through self determination and a passion for violence. He liked killing and he liked to be hands on. He had taken time out to come to the isolated hut in the middle of nowhere to personally take charge of these men’s punishment.

  The three men were his employees and had worked for him transporting hash across the border to the US. They had felt they were worth more than the money Rojas paid them. They had wanted to branch out on their own and start their own little business empire. Rojas wondered why these people thought he was stupid. Surely they must realise he did not stay number one by letting every peasant who wanted just walk in and steal his business. He reasoned that it was time to send a message to all those thinking of comp
eting against him.

  “No body fucks with me and gets away it,” he thought. “Not even the Yankees.” On the pull down table in the back on the limousine he had a large bowl of cocaine which his companion had been helping herself to on their long drive. He pulled her dress down exposing one breast fully. He could see the driver looking at her tits in the rear view mirror. He positioned her so he could get a better view. Taking a small spoon he laid a line across the top of her tit and inhaled. He felt the rush of euphoria and power. He knew at that moment he was invincible. She made no attempt to cover her tit and left it exposed for the driver to admire. Smiling and aroused she pulled her dress up revealing the dark public hair. She gently masturbated. The mix of cocaine and the anticipation of the violence to come stirred her lust and aroused her.

  “No body fucks with Jesus Rojas,” he repeated. He thought of how the CIA man had died only two weeks before. He had been down in Mexico working with Drug Enforcement as part of America’s war on drugs. He had made a nuisance of himself. This had annoyed Rojas. So he sent a message to the CIA in the form of his decapitated head.

  The car pulled up at the hut. A second car pulled in behind them and discharged four men armed with light machine guns. His bodyguard did a sweep checking in around the hut before opening the door to his heavily armoured car. His companion made sure that the guard, who opened the door her side, got a glimpse of her breast and pubic region before pulling her dress up and letting the skirt fall as she stepped from the limo.

  As Rojas’s eyes became accustomed to the darkened interior, he could see the three bound unfortunates sitting in the centre of the room. The smell of shit filled the air and it was clear that the younger of the bound men, no older than Rojas’ female companion, had defecated in fear. “You should shit yourselves my friends. I would shit myself if I were caught stealing from Jesus Rojas.”

  Addressing his men he said, “Get them outside,” It stinks in here.”

  The bodyguards had moved the tuck tyres about two hundred metres from the hut and arranged them in a neat line about fives metres apart. The captives were pulled, still bound from the building. They blinked in the full Sunlight. The young boy was crying and pleading. The older men just looked grim faced at the row of tyres. They knew that Rojas would show no mercy and begging was a waste of time. They knew his reputation as a sadist. They also knew how debouched and corrupted the young whore, who he liked to exhibit, was. So young but so perverted her every fantasy indulged by Rojas.

  The men still tied were lifted one by one into the centre of the stacked tyres their heads and shoulders poked from the top. A can of gasoline was taken from the boot of the second vehicle and part of its contents was poured liberally over each tyre and its captive filling. Necklacing was the name they penned for putting the victim in a tyre, filling it with petrol and setting it on fire. The young girl, wide eyed was becoming increasingly sexually aroused as the gasoline was poured over the first victim, the next and then the next. She reached between her legs, pulling her skirt up. She began to rub herself. In her state of cocaine induced heightened sexual arousal, she was indifferent to the men looking at her.

  A piece of cloth was round tightly around a charred stick that had clearly been used many times before as a torch. It was dripped in gasoline and lit. There horror in the eyes of he three victims was clearly visible. They knew what their fate was to be. The remains of previous burnt tyres were scatted around them, dispelling any doubts.

  Rojas’s bodyguards and his driver left in the second car. “Come back in an hour,” he said. The girl, impatient, pulled her dress off without waiting for the departure of the truck that had delivered the three prisoners for execution. Eagerly she picked up the burning brand and set fire to the first capture. She rubbed her cunt and watched him scream and slowly roast. She was in a frenzy of lust and drug induced euphoria.

  Rojas stripped naked his cock fully aroused as he watched her set fire to the second and the third piles of rubber and flesh. He lay on his back with his feet pointing towards the burning and screaming men. She thrust down hard onto his erect penis, her arse facing his head and she facing the screaming burning men. She fucked as she watched the men roast in the flames.

  The distant scene unfolded in the scope of the sniper’s rifle. He saw the look of ecstasy on her young face as she fucked. He pulled the trigger and a red dot appeared on her forehead. She slumped, toppling forward onto the knees of Rojas. He without realising she was dead carried on thrusting.

  Her lack of response finally and slowly entered Rojas’s consciousness. He pushed himself upright. She slid to the side. He now saw she was dead but he hardly had time to process this information before he too died from the sniper bullet, fired from nearly half a mile away, entering through his left eye and exploding his brain.

  The assassin lay the riffle down on the ground beside him. Abandoning it, he started the engine of the motorbike and drove across the rough terrain towards the two dead bodies. He reached them in a matter of minutes. He inspected Rojas’s body ensuring he was dead. He could hear the screams of the young boy burning. He pulled out a pistol and shot him, in the head, ending his suffering.

  He looked down on the two intertwined bodies and reached into his pocket. He pulled out two white feathers and placed one on each of them. He started his bike and drove off. He had done his job and would soon be on a plane heading for the next contract killing.

  There was a knock on the Director’s office door at CIA headquarters in Langley. The door opened and the deputy director walked in. “Just thought I would let you know that Jesus Rojas seems to have met an unfortunate death.”

  “It would seem you can’t fuck with the CIA and get away with it after all,” said the Director.