Wallbanger

by Sable Jordan

  Approaching another cell, she chose the first tunnel on the right and proceeded to her destination. Ordinarily, she’d have chosen the third, preferring the most direct path to the large chamber, but tonight the circuitous route was in order. The Master believed only he and his guards knew the full course, but the puppet quickly learned her way around the stone labyrinth—its entrances and exits—pushing aside the claustrophobia that paralyzed her on her first visit to the Dungeon. That session had taught her a great many things about the Master, and herself, and her resilience then earned her the Master’s trust.

  She came upon the little nook in the tunnel and dropped to one knee, searching the tiny crevice for where she’d squirreled the package. Her fingers brushed the nylon case and with the tips she pulled the bundle from its hidey-hole. The horrors of the Dungeon paled to the dangers of this weekly trip, but she always looked forward to it. She’d yet to be caught with the cell phone—all outside contact was strictly forbidden due to the sensitive nature of the Master’s affairs—but the puppet was certain no one suspected the gadget had slipped past the chateau’s tight security.

  Helsinki being located on a peninsula, water bordered it on three sides. Therefore, expansion had always been a problem. But the innovative Finns quickly learned to build not up, but down. The city was full of subterranean complexes—shopping malls, hockey rinks, metro and bus stations—and all of them equipped with cell phone access. Sitting on the floor, the puppet powered the phone on, pressing her back against the rock wall. There were only a few places in these tunnels where the signal was strong enough for her to make a call, some close to the Dungeon, but the risk was always worth it.

  “Kotenok.” Her nickname came through the line in a soft Russian purr.

  The puppet smiled and spoke in the same language, her voice hushed to keep it from echoing through the passageways. “They meet in two days, but there will be a party tomorrow night. He is set to attend. ”

  “And your Master?”

  The question was a ritual, one she’d answered every call since becoming a puppet many months before. “He…” she trailed off, decided against voicing what her heart truly felt. “Nothing new, from what I can tell.”

  “You are hiding something, pet.”

  Relief flooded her at the opening, and the puppet allowed the words she’d been dying to say spill like the Hannoki Falls. “He is getting worse. The screaming. The…rage. He…has hurt me, and the others,” she amended quickly, lest she be thought unworthy. “I—”

  “Courage. It will end soon, kotenok. I promise.” The call disconnected.

  Still clutching the phone to her ear, the puppet’s heart soared. A promise. A binding. Already she could feel the long-missed burn of rope on her skin. The Master had bound her, but it was not the same—sloppy and hurried. In the dark recess she fingered the delicate skin of her wrist, lightly tracing the pattern of an intricate knot. Soon…

  Pushing from the ground, the puppet turned off the phone and slipped it back into the nylon bag. Then she continued on her path, mapping out her next move in her mind’s eye. She never put the bundle in the same place twice, and would have to move fast to hide it in a tunnel on the other side. The Master was expecting her to bring his tools and to bind one of the lesser puppets. He trusted her with the tasks, and her alone.

  That her rope-work would end up a bloody mess saddened her. But the Master insisted on her talent, commenting once that the ritual she made of binding was a beauty he’d only before imagined in his dreams. It was the nicest he’d ever been. But she knew that for some of the puppets, it would be the last thing of beauty they’d see in their living nightmare.

  Coming to the desired shaft, she located her hiding spot and shoved the phone inside. Then she turned and ran down the tunnel leading straight toward the Dungeon, never aware of the shadow that followed.

  * * * *

  Halfmoon Bay, British Columbia

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Connolly rolled from bed at the continuous sound of his cell phone ringing. He’d been awake a while now, and had heard when it first started its harping thirty minutes earlier. While he’d gotten more sleep than expected, his aging body protested the quick move with a series of cracks and a pop that would have been disturbing had he not heard it countless times before.

  One hand steadied on the rail, he made his way down to the offending device, tempted to snatch it up and throw it in the bay. There was only one person crazy enough to call him constantly, and right now that person had a boot on Connolly’s neck.

  The ringing started again as soon as his foot touched the bottom level, and he stalked to the table, scooped up the mobile. “Yeah?”

  “This is not the way to do business, Bill.” The voice filtered across the receiver in a silky, feminine dulcet.

  He made his way to the kitchen and out the back door, deciding to walk down his dock to loosen his limbs. It didn’t bother him that he was a rumpled mess in the same shirt and slacks from the day before, or that his hair was unkempt, or that he’d left the house without any shoes. The cold ground felt good beneath Bill’s feet, but had zero effect on his boiling blood.

  “You listen to me,” he said, keeping his voice low and menacing. He’d be damned if some young hotshot bumbled their way into this catastrophe and then started throwing weight around. “Calling like crazy won’t get you your money any quicker. The more contact we have, the more of a trail you could possibly leave, you fuckin’ idiot.”

  “Perhaps a trail is what I want, Bill. I need some assurances, you understand.”

  A boat was out on the water. Not unusual for the area, but it still sent a shiver of apprehension down Bill’s spine.

  “I told you—”

  “I know what you told me. Doesn’t mean I believe you. I’ll expect it within the week, or I expose you to your higher-ups,” the voice said sweetly.

  That couldn’t happen. That wouldn’t happen.

  Bill let out a defeated sigh. “By the end of the week.”

  The line went dead.

  When the first contact was made a couple months back, it was as if the caller was still contemplating this blackmail. The voice was shaky, bumbling, uncertain. Since then it had grown more cocksure, more demanding. Bill had dragged on, trying to get more Intel; what the person actually knew, who else they may have blabbed to and whether or not they were acting alone. It wasn’t forthcoming.

  Now, Bill had no choice but to act. An outsider having knowledge of The Crew and their operations posed a problem for all of his agents, and the nation. And while the method was a last resort that might not plug all the leaks, Bill took solace in knowing it would definitely send a message.

  Looking back across the bay, Connolly noticed the boat appeared to be heading toward a neighboring island. He turned on his heel and strode back to the house. The brisk morning air and the decision he’d finally made peace with giving him just the jolt his brain needed.

  Inside, he dropped his phone on the table, picked up the other to make the call. A tap of the screen and the display lit up indicating a text had come in early that morning. He opened it, seeing the garbled mess, and activated the built-in decryption software. Twenty seconds later, he read the results, and his face paled at the short decoded message—D.N.C.

  That code only came across when an agent was actively engaged in a mission. Since he’d demoted her to inoperable after Mauritius, there was no way he should have read what he had. Something was definitely going on with Kizzie Baldwin; off her game, and now, off the grid. What had happened exactly, he didn’t know, but he knew someone who could help.

  Dropping into the lazy boy, Bill put aside his initial move and composed a message he wished he could avoid.

  4

  Chantilly, Virginia

  “You look nothin’ like a Jack,” Gale Freeman said in southern-salted English, plopping onto the bed in the room at the Doubletree Hotel. She handed the passport to the man beside her and sunk into the com
forters. “And Jack Holloway of all things? Who’n the hell comes up with the names ‘round here?”

  Jack took his credentials and handed Gale hers. “Second Life name generator. Put in ‘assassin’ and….” He shrugged.

  “Assassin?” Gale asked sardonically. “Ha!”

  Smiling, Jack rolled on top of her, pecked her lips. “You never did tell me how you got to be in Virginia.” He dropped another kiss on her neck, one more on her collarbone.

  She swallowed her sigh. Why he insisted on always breaking this rule, she didn’t know. The deal was, whenever they happened to be in the same vicinity they’d hook up for sex. No talking about their jobs or anything personal. Just a nice “Boom-Boom-POW!” for however long they had and they’d go their separate ways. In fact, she only called him by his aliases when they were together. It helped her keep things from getting too intimate. But no matter how crafty her pseudonym—and they were craftier than Jack Holloway—Jack made a point to never use hers.

  “Didn’t have a chance to tell ya’ anything seein’ as how ya’ mauled me soon as I got through the door, Jack. Mumbled ya handle and stripped me b’fore I could say ‘boo’.” She fingered his brown locks and shook her head. “Hardly recognized ya’. What happened to the blonde?”

  “Needed a change. Got tired of it. So answer the question.”

  “What question?”

  “Virginia…?”

  “My…” she chewed her lip, “My mama lives in DC, aw’right?”

  Jack propped himself on his elbows. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” she lied, pushing him off of her. “Now ya’ know somethin’ personal ‘bout me.” Why couldn’t he stick to the rules?

  Gale had been a member of The Crew for years, and if there was one thing she knew it was that relationships didn’t last. Not the good, wholesome, straight from the Disney-vault kind, anyway. The toxic ones, the type based on sex and a mutual respect for your partner’s lies and shortcomings, lasted as long as was stipulated on the hotel reservation, and that was usually long enough. She and Kizzie—one of the few people she really trusted in The Crew—had covered this topic many times. Their motto: Bang ‘em and on to the next one, just like a certain Englishman of the last name Bond.

  But Gale messed up, had returned to this one more times than she could count, and now the ninnyhammer had gone and caught feelings for her. Growing up on her family’s farm she learned a very important lesson applicable to this exact situation: Everybody drinking from the same well was a sure way to get a cow to catch a cold. And that didn’t bode well for Gale. She was allergic to feelings.

  Naked, she stood from the bed and went to find where her purse landed on the floor three hours before. Digging in the depths, she located the machine and freed it from the bag.

  “Make that two things ya’ know about me,” she grumbled, setting up the personal monitor. She pricked her finger with the lancet and touched the test strip to the drop of blood. A second later the meter beeped and she reviewed the results. A cherry LifeSaver came out of the roll and she popped it onto her tongue.

  “We can do a trade.” Jack smiled sympathetically, and it didn’t help matters one bit. “I’ll tell you any two things you want to know about me.”

  Gale leaned against the dresser. “All I need to know about you is what’s b’tween your legs.” His face clouded, and she wanted to roll her eyes. If he weren’t so damn good in the sack, she’d have dropped the sap years ago. Work would have been awkward, well, more awkward than usual, but she’d have gotten over it. “Com’ere,” she said, crooking her finger at him, hoping to get him off the topic before he got too emotional.

  He didn’t let up. “Why do you always do that, Gale?”

  “What’s that, Jack?”

  He hopped off the bed and thundered toward where she stood, stopping just close enough to brush against her. She was average-height to begin with, and Jack’s long, fluid body was one of the things that attracted her to him. Didn’t hurt that he was cute and could fuck her socks off too. But in spite of his stature he was a docile man. The brainy type. More passive than he’d ever been aggressive. For the first time in their affair she actually saw some fire. His anger would have been funny if it wasn’t such a turn-on.

  Gale looked up at him; usually warm green eyes were freezing. He gripped her shoulders and spun her toward the mirror, erect cock pressed against the small of her back. “Who do you see, Gale?”

  “We agreed—”

  “Who do you see?” he demanded.

  His hands slid around her chest, cupping her breasts, kneading the flesh in his palms. He thumbed over puffy pink nipples and Gale dropped her head back against his breastbone, pussy flooding with heat. Commanding Jack was new and uncharted territory, and you could just call her Magellan.

  “I see Jack,” she said, wondering just how that would affect him and, ultimately, her. His long fingers spreading the lips of her sex made her gasp and she decided Jack would be the only name she called him for the rest of their time together.

  “Wrong answer,” he whispered. He pushed down on her upper back, tipping her forward over the cheap, pressed wood dresser. He pulled the sandy blonde wig from her head; fingered her naturally dark hair until it was a mess around her shoulders. “Who do you see, Gale?”

  Without another word, he shoved his cock into her wet center; the edge of the furniture dug into her thighs. He paused, waiting for her response.

  “Jack,” she said firmly, staring daggers at his reflection in the mirror, mindful of the way he filled her so perfectly.

  He pulled back and surged forward again, repeating the process and the question until his strokes came in a merciless rhythm. The dresser banged against the wall, morphing from a soft tap to a resounding crescendo.

  “Who, Gale?” His hand smacked her flank.

  She yelped. “Sssss…aaaahh, damn that’s good, Jack. Just like that, baby.” Through hazy eyes she made out the lust-crazed look on his face in the mirrored glass. The way he bit his lip when they fucked always pushed her over the edge, and she tightened around his cock.

  He groaned and pumped harder, whether at her use of his alias or at her moaned pleas, she didn’t know. Didn’t care. She was so close to bursting her own mama could’ve walked through the door and Gale would have kept right on humpin’ like a jackrabbit. Bracing her arms on the wood, she pushed back, her ass flush with his pelvis, riding his dick. “Oh, gawd, Jack!”

  Her forehead touched the mirror as the first wet wave gushed down her thigh. Hands on her ass, he lifted and spread her cheeks, thrusting roughly into her hot cavern. Each time their skin met it was with a sharp “bap”, and the wood knocked harder against the wall. An angry hammering came from the other side of the thin partition accompanied by a string of curses.

  Jack fucked her more insistently in response.

  Minutes later, her insides soaked with fluids, they were both slumped over the chest of drawers, breathing hard and sweaty. He eased them to the floor and laid flat on his back; she with her back on his stomach.

  Neither spoke, Gale observing the faux marble finish on the ceiling to keep from saying “Gaaaahhh damn, that was fuckin’ amazin’!” around the sliver of cherry candy still in her mouth. Jack wrapped his arms over her middle, nuzzled the spot behind her ear. And there he goes making things uncomfortable again. In a corner of her purse, a phone rang, interrupting the affection.

  “Let it go,” Jack murmured between nips of her skin.

  Gale wriggled out of his hold. “Ya’ know well as I do I can’t do that.” Pushing off the floor, she made her way to her bag and retrieved the device. She glanced at the display and rolled her eyes. “Mama. Prob’ly wonderin’ why I ain’t there yet.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  She smiled warily, unsure why he’d made the request. “No way I’m explainin’ you to my mama. Could never lie to her. She’d hear in my voice I was just diddlin’ a Yank.” Gale winked, stepped into the bathroom saying,
“Hey, Mama,” as she shut the door. She started the water in the sink. “Freeman.”

  “Mama?” the voice on the other end questioned.

  “Things got dicey for a sec. What’s the status?” She noticed her disheveled appearance in the mirror and instantly recalled the look of satisfaction on Jack’s face while he made her come. Her pussy clenched. She turned around.

  “We’re hot. The mark’s former, regimented—keeps to routine. Get there early. And lose the drawl.”

  “Workin’ on it,” she said sarcastically. It wasn’t like she was trying to sound like a southerner, it sort of happened because she was a southerner.

  “Work harder. Check your inbox.”

  She pulled the phone from her ear and opened up the e-mail that had just arrived. A photo. She had to laugh. “What’s with the picture?”

  “A nice touch. You have the back-ups?”

  “Yeah.” This wasn’t her first rodeo, or her second for that matter. “Listen, ya’ can’t unscramble eggs. Ya’ sure you want wet?”

  “Wetter.” The call disconnected.

  Gale shut off the water and left the bathroom, dropping her phone on her purse. She glanced up in time to see Jack frantically tapping at the screen of his mobile. Already in jeans and a sweater, his small rucksack had been packed and was beside him on the bed. He stood and pocketed the cellular.

  “What’s the rush? Thought ya’ didn’t have to go yet.”

  “I’d hate to keep you from your mama.” He scooped up her wig, situating unevenly it over her dark brown curls. “I’ll see you later.”

  “‘Laytuh’? When’s ‘laytuh’?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. But maybe by then you’ll learn to trust me a little.” He brushed his lips over her cheek and went to the door.

  A hand on her hip she yelled at his back, “What the hell d’ya want from me?” Getting serious was never an option. She thought he knew that.

  Jack turned back and frowned. “If you’re still asking after all this time, Gale, I’m afraid you’ll never know.”