The Sentinel Ch. 14byJPMMURPHY©
There was no wake-up call in a flea bag like this, but Scott rolled out early to get 'in uniform' as he called it. Donning his rumpled trench coat, he grabbed a coffee and donut at a 7-11 on the corner. Even Thanksgiving Day held captive its share of employees, he thought. Another block and he found a pay phone on the relatively deserted street. Of course, that wouldn't last long as people showed up to enjoy the parade - a Macy's tradition adopted by New York and the rest of the world.
He made a call to 'Bruno' to give his phone number, and an hour later, he was in a stretch limo headed across the bridge to Jersey. He'd been to the house only once before, shortly after signing on with his silent partners, and it surprised him just as much today as then when the limo stopped in front of a large, middle-class house, immaculate with a lawn that most green keepers would envy.
It was a large, yellow sandstone affair that looked big, but not gaudy, and fit in well with the other houses on the street. It was the mob's new low-key look, a long way from the gaudy mansions surrounded by goons that had been the style twenty years ago. Even more impressive was the feeling of family and a Thanksgiving Day feast headed up by one of the country's top Don's.
But business was business, and after the meal as the family gathered in the T.V. room to visit and chat, Scott found himself in a private study that reflected all the pretentiousness and gaudiness that had been shed on the outside.
"So, Scott, how goes business?"
With that, Scott felt the pull of the leash and settled in with his brandy and cigar to make small talk concerning big things.
Jan and Jack sat at the table surrounded by Juan, Mary, Juan's sisters and his parents. The food was wonderful, and the company better.
The men had passed the morning, yelling at the wide-screen T.V. and arguing with each other over their choices on exactly who would be the winner and backed up their teams by placing hundred dollar bills in a bowl on the coffee table. Meanwhile Juan's sisters kept Jan cornered in the kitchen, pumping her for information.
All was in fun and meant to make her feel more welcome and lighten the task of creating a Thanksgiving feast. The big topic was how she managed to 'trap their Jack'.
"Trap Jack?" Jan asked with the innocence of a high school girl on her first date. "From everything Jack has told me about you three, I thought you knew him better than that."
The red faces and a high five from the youngest of the three told Jan her response had been more than adequate as they headed in to call the men to the table.
Jack and Jan were seated with Juan at the head of the table, and he raised his glass to toast the return of his friend to life among the living. "To Jack. Welcome back. And to Jan. May God make her as intelligent as she is beautiful so she will come to her senses and abandon this pinche gringo and find a real man."
The laughter was subdued but heartfelt as glasses clinked to declarations of "Salud!"
Jan prayed her own silent prayer during grace that Jack's stay among the living would be long lived.
Dave sat on his hotel room bed, watching the game; his laptop was off to the side, logged into a chat room with very little 'traffic' to speak of. It was something he'd grown accustomed to. No family meant holidays alone - something that suited him it seemed.
Jan hadn't answered his calls to her cell phone. It seemed to be turned off, and the bitch at Pond Enterprises was more than happy to relay a message. At last, he'd sent an e-mail to her explaining there was a package that seemed to be urgent and that he'd taken it upon himself to send it to her. He was surprised when the messenger service had notified him that she couldn't be located at the address given. He'd asked for a forwarding address, and was waiting patiently for a response.
A light knock on his room door told him his Thanksgiving meal had arrived. Hitting mute on the T.V. before closing the lid on his laptop, he grabbed a robe from the bathroom, not bothering to tie it closed in front, and pulled the door open to find a serving cart pushed by a young Hispanic girl.
Giggling slightly when she realized the guest's robe was open and he was naked underneath, she exclaimed, "I have your meal, Sir. Where should I put it?"
Waving her in, he watched the young woman's ass as she pushed the cart over to the worktable beside the window. Maybe I won't spend Thanksgiving alone after all, he thought. Walking to his dresser, he picked up a wad of bills and flashed them as he watched her transfer the covered dishes from the white, linen-covered pushcart to his room table. When she turned with the check in hand and giggled again at his open robe, he made a show of looking down at her point of focus. Reaching down with one hand, he made a feeble attempt to cover himself before walking to the table to sign the check. "Sorry about that," he said as he leaned over the table, letting his robe fall open again and making no attempt to close it. Peeling off a hundred dollar bill, he pushed it in her hand, letting his fingers linger as they rubbed across her palm before holding the tips of her fingers in his and stating shyly, "It's a shame you have to work. We could keep each other company."
Her coffee and cream-colored skin darkened a little, and she looked at the huge tip in one hand and the wad of bills in his other hand before responding, "Actually, you're my last delivery. Not many guests are eating in today."
Releasing her fingers, Dave walked to the door and watched a smile play across her face as he pushed the room door closed, locking it firmly. Yes, he thought, money could get him just about anything he wanted.
Linda's day was not your typical Thanksgiving celebration. Sitting in one of ICB's pool cars, slouched down, and listening to the police radio, she waited quietly with a member of the SWAT team that had been assigned to make the actual bust. Even though the 'date' was four hours away, they had decided to take up positions early so that the street would remain quiet, as one expected it to be on a national holiday like today, and await their target.
There were four cars at different points around the seedy motel and a white delivery van with caterer's markings in the alley. The van had six officers: two women and four men, including the officer-in-charge, sitting half-asleep as they waited, patiently, for notification that the 'target' had arrived.
Sara Waters had delivered excuses to her family back east. Now, she walked around her bedroom in thigh highs, panties, and a bra, packing a small overnight bag with the usual items that would be used on an afternoon such as this: a change of underwear; stockings to match; a few condoms that she didn't plan on needing; the whip that John seemed to loath, but she knew he secretly loved; and the spike-heeled boots that should put the whole thing into play.
There was no place to hide a 'wire' on her body with what she expected to be wearing when things went down. So she had opted for a small silver handbag provided by the SWAT team with a false bottom that hid a one-way transmitter and microphone, brought to life by turning the clasp to the right instead of the left.
Pulling a vibrant, blue silk, front- buttoned dress from her closet, she slipped it on and buttoned from her bust to just below her crotch, letting the bottom fall open around her ankles seductively when she sat or walked. Grabbing her silver purse, leather overnight bag, and spiked, open-toed shoes, she was out the door.
Calling the Captain from her cell phone, she let him know she was on her way. She ended the conversation and got onto the freeway. Yes, she thought, as her car merged into traffic and she stole a last glance at herself in the rearview mirror, I can do this. He hasn't got a chance.
John walked or maybe, it was more of a stagger, to his car and threw his gym bag behind the front seat, making a mental note to start shopping for something a little sportier than the family sedan. Besides, the front looked like crap since hitting the back of Marge's minivan.
Starting early, he had made sure his bourbon bottle didn't feel neglected today either, by finishing half the bottle as he prepared to teach that bitch a lesson. Turning the CD player on, he settled in to contemplate the upcoming events. Should he enjoy her body first, fucking her brains out and leaving her panting for more as he shoved the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger?
He knew she would bring the whip. Maybe, he should take the whip and beat her until she begged him to put her out of her misery.
But the foggy thought that he needed to spend as little time as possible in the room kept floating around his mind. Even through the bourbon, his investigative training reminded him that Forensics could catch him with just a pubic hair or slight leakage of body fluid.
Linda sat up a little straighter and inspected the compact car pulling into the lot when she heard the Captain announce Sara's arrival over the radio. Stopping the car in front of the registration desk, a well-built black woman got out, walked around the car, and disappeared inside, only to return a few minutes later and drive her car farther down the building, stopping about halfway.
Linda knew this was wrong. She knew without a doubt they were barking up the wrong tree, but circumstances and events prevented her from forcing the issue. How could she explain it? It would mean the end to all that had become her life.
She watched Sara getting out of the car again; this time with what appeared to be a leather overnight bag. Turning to lock her car before walking to the room door, she paused long enough to run her access card through the lock before disappearing inside.
Glancing at her watch, she saw that Sara was 30 minutes early as planned. Registered under the name Ms. Susie Smith, she had left a message at the desk that she was waiting for a Mr. Smith. The pimple-faced teen, stuck with holiday duty, paid little attention to any of it as he watched her walk away from the desk and back to her car. Mr. Smith, my ass, he thought, as he pulled his Playboy out from under the counter and found himself substituting Ms. Smith on all the models' faces.
Sara pulled her cell phone out and called the Captain. "I'm in," she said, "room 132".
As the Captain passed the information on to the team, she went into the bathroom and unbuttoned her dress, hanging it neatly on the clothes rack provided by most motels. Pulling back the zipper on the overnight bag, she withdrew the boots and threw them in the middle of the bed. Taking the whip, she kept it in her hand as she stowed the bag above her dress on the clothes rack and carried her purse to the nightstand beside the bed, turning the latch to the right before walking away.
Slapping the whip against the palm of her other hand, she walked to the full-length mirror and took a pose to see if she projected the image she wanted. She knew John was expected to show up with a loaded gun, and the whip was really her only line of defense. She had worked her way around many aggressive men before while she was still dancing but never one she had purposefully provoked into what she hoped would be a killing rage.
Satisfied, she walked back to her purse and pulled her phone out for one last call. Without holding the phone to her head, she stated clearly in a normal voice, "All set. How do you read me?"
Putting the phone to her ear, the Captain simply said, "We read you fine, Sara," before clicking off. Closing her phone and dropping it in her purse, she sat on the end of the bed to wait.
Linda hunkered down this time as the Captain announced over the police radio that the 'target' had arrived. Glancing across the SWAT officer beside her, they both peeked out the side window as a family sedan with damage to the front rolled to a stop at registration.
John seemed to stagger a little as he walked around the car, leaning on the hood for support before disappearing into the same door Sara had gone through about 20 minutes earlier.
Linda took note of his state and decided he was well on his way to the end of a bottle. She watched as he came back out and drove down the row of cars to park close to the exit before getting out and fishing a gym bag from behind the front seat.
Picking up the microphone, she thought, it might be a good idea to pass the information along concerning John's condition. Clicking the microphone, she said simply, "Suspect out of the car and appears to be drunk".
Sara heard the click of the door release and stood to face it. With the whip in hand and her hand on her hip, she put on her best 'who the hell are you' look as sunlight shot across the floor from the opening door.
John hesitated a second before pushing the door open as if surprised the access card had worked at all. Stepping inside, his alcohol-soaked brain was confronted with two things that seemed to be a little more than he could handle.
The first thing to register was the beauty of the black woman, standing in front of him, feet spread to shoulder-width, wearing pearl white thigh highs, blue thong, and bra. John had had no idea just how beautiful she really was; the cam simply didn't do her justice.
Fumbling a little, he pushed the door closed behind him just as Linda announced on the police radio, "He's inside."
The SWAT officer turned up a handheld radio on the seat between them, and they could suddenly hear Sara talking quietly to John.
John now registered the whip in suzi-q-zi's hand where it rested on her hip and stopped in his tracks before throwing his gym bag on the bed. Finally, the black spiked-boots registered, and he could feel himself getting hard.
Oh, yeah, he thought. I have to have me some of that before I show her who the real boss is.
Sara walked up to him and played the whip lightly across his crotch.
Linda and the SWAT officer listened as she asked John coyly, "Is that a gun ya got there, or are you just happy to see your big, black momma?"
John's forehead was sweating by now as he realized she was, in fact, big - not heavy, but tall. It was something you really couldn't tell on cam when you only saw the other person alone with no point of reference for comparing how tall they might be beside someone else. With the spiked-heels on, he found he actually had to look up into her eyes.
Tentatively, he put a hand on her bare waist above her hips and almost lost it as she leaned closer to kiss his cheek. Her breasts were pressing into his chest, and his now, fully hard cock, strained against his pants to nestle into her crotch.
First, the SWAT team heard him clear his throat then say, "I am very happy to see you, suzi-q-zi". They heard a few wet, sucking sounds, and they guessed a little get-to-know-you kiss was underway.
Stepping back, Sara turned on her heel and walked away from John toward the bathroom. John was transfixed by the sight of the blue thong as it disappeared between the cheeks of her ass. The bra strap was small enough to be an afterthought; it gave the impression she was naked except for thigh highs and heels.
Turning at the corner of the bed, she stepped up beside the boots and shoved his gym bag off onto the opposite side with the whip. If he has a gun, that's probably where it is, she thought, and I want it as far away from me as possible. Looking up at John, face downcast slightly, she pouted and pointed at the boots with her whip.
The idea was to provoke John into brandishing the weapon. Hopefully, she could get him naked first, in an effort to limit any escape; then give the signal for the SWAT team which was 'what a big gun you have, John'. They hoped using his real name would confuse him and buy them a few seconds as they got through the door.
Up to this point, they had not divulged much real personal information to the other, and she wanted to keep it that way awhile longer.
John hesitated only a second before walking to the edge of the bed to reach for the boots. The SWAT team could only hear rustling and shuffling. Reaching for the boots, Sara whispered, "Wait, don't you think you're a little overdressed, stud?"
John hesitated until he saw her drop the whip on the bed and reach for the clasp at the front of her bra. A slight click and she stood holding the cups in place waiting for him to comply.
John's foggy mind kept saying this wasn't what he'd planned. It kept screaming that he was supposed to be in control even as his hands went to the buttons on the front of his shirt. Even as his pants pooled around his ankles beside his shirt and belt, something inside told him to leap across the bed and show her who the boss really was.
Hooking his thumbs in his briefs, he stopped and looked across at Sara, dropping his eyes to her hand-covered breasts and waited like a school kid playing 'you show me yours, and I'll show you mine'. He actually held his breath as she did, pulling her hands away along with the cups of her bra. A breathy, "Oh, my God," escaped his lips as she shrugged the bra off and it fell to the floor.
A chorus of snickers rippled through the parked cars and van as they listened to John's exclamation of awe and wonder. But it was stifled as quickly as it started as they monitored the radio signal coming from the purse on the nightstand.
John hooked his thumbs a little deeper and pushed as the elastic in his waist band, straining against his full erection. Letting them drop past his knees, he kicked the accumulation of clothing around his ankles away from the bed.
"My, my, aren't you just full of yourself today?" Sara teased as she slid onto her side of the bed, knees together, and pointed her feet at the boots.
John followed suit, but he sat first to pull his socks off before swinging his feet onto the bed and kneeling at Sara's feet with the boots to one side.
There was another ripple of restrained laughter as the SWAT team heard the rustling bed covers and a bed spring squeak, suggesting just what John might be full of.
Sara wanted complete control; she wanted to be sure she had his full attention before she became the 'black bitch' he really wanted to kill. Flicking the boots with the whip and looking at her feet, she waited.
John's fingers actually shook a little as sweat ran down the side of his face, and he concentrated on undoing the ankle straps of both Sara's shoes before pulling them off, letting them drop beside the bed. But he didn't stop there as one hand slid up the inside of her leg and past her knee to rest on the bare skin just above her thigh highs.
Sara panicked a moment as she realized she may not have the control she needed yet. Looking at John, she watched his eyes wander from one erect nipple to the other before moving down her stomach to stop at her crotch where a small triangle of blue silk kept him transfixed.
In her best 'little girl' submissive voice, she asked with a slight tremble that was as real as it was pretend, "Don't you want my boots on me first?"
The tone of her voice was enough to stop all the snickers throughout the SWAT team and their ears listened intently to their radios.
Pulling his eyes away from the blue silk, John looked to the side at the boots before looking back at the blue triangle. Something in his mind pleaded with him to just 'do it your way'. Some animal instinct told him to rip the small blue triangle away and take her - pull her up on all four and take her from behind as she cried and begged him to stop.
The Captain decided there was little chance John would come out of the room, look or pull the curtain back, and gave the signal for all units to converge slowly on the shabby, yellow door with '132' nailed at eye level. The SWAT officers opened the side door of the van and quickly crept around the building, forming two groups, each a room's distance away from each side of the door.