Caught in the Crossfire Ch. 01

This story probably falls more within the moderately nonconsent/reluctance region than in the strongly nonconsent region. There are more than a few twists to it, as it ends up being almost a romantic thriller. As always, everyone in the story is eighteen or older. Hope you enjoy the read.

I want to extend many thanks to the tireless Ms. Mariposa, who was gracious enough to take the time to read and edit an early draft of this story.

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"Live and let live. My ass and fuck you," Jack Dorn muttered to himself as he sat in his car.

Jack hates his job, but is good at it. That simple statement of fact is the main reason he's perpetually pissed at himself and the world.

Prior to his current low state of moral, Dorn worked robbery-homicide in Metro Squad. By all accounts, he was first-rate detective with a sterling arrest record, and unlike most of the other detectives at Metro, he didn't need to 'tune up' suspects for confessions, or plant evidence if a confession, bogus or otherwise, couldn't be obtained.

What also set Detective Dorn off from the other cops was that he never took a payoff. That's not to say Jack wouldn't take a gratuity, such as a free diner or drink from a grateful citizen. He was a cop, not a saint. However, he drew the line accepting any kind of payoff from perpetrators and suspects, particularly payoffs from gang-related interests, what Jack deemed drug and murder for hire money.

Some of the other brethren in blue had no such scruples, and took any sort of payoff from any sort of suspect. This could have set them at odds with Dorn, except that all knew Jack lived by a personal code of conduct far above even what the 'Blue Wall of Silence,' demanded. 'Live and let live' was Jack's motto. Everyone knew if you didn't piss in Jack's pool, he'd leave you alone, and everyone extended the favor toward him—that is, all except Santos Medina, a lieutenant in Internal Affairs.

Two years ago, Jack caught a pretty open and shut case. A smalltime dealer was boosting autos on the side. A disgruntled girlfriend of the perpetrator pointed a finger at a stolen Mercedes housed in a friend's garage. Fingerprints found in the stolen Mercedes lead Dorn right back to the perpetrator. As stated, open and shut.

Dorn was about to hand the case off to the ADA, when Santos Medina made it clear he wanted the car thief to take the fall for something bigger. Jack refused to go along. Setting up suspects for crimes they didn't commit, even if guilty of other crimes, was a line Jack wouldn't cross.

Medina must have wanted the car thief badly, because before Jack could hand off his case, signed, sealed and delivered, and thus safeguarding the perp in the system, Jack was brought up on departmental charges. Seems an anonymous tip implicated Dorn in corruption and drugs. Jack would have fought the charges, but, coincidentally, five ounces of heroin, too much to be considered 'for personal use,' were found in the glove box of his car.

It was a rigged parlay from the get-go, and rigged by all concerned; from the Captain of detectives on down to the Internal Affairs investigator assigned the case. They all had a hand in destroying Jack's career as a cop.

Jack was given a choice: resign with half his pension and a small payment that amounted to half a year's salary, or be prosecuted for possession of drugs with the intent to distribute. Naturally, Dorn took early retirement.

Jack knew Lieutenant Medina instigated the investigation into his career, and was probably the one who dropped the dime on him. Once Jack was out of the way, the brakes were off, and Medina arrested his perp for murder.

"Live and let live, my ass and fuck you," Jack often muttered from then on—just a small malediction to life.

*****

That was two years ago, and after having been a detective for nearly twenty-one years, Jack Dorn found himself a civilian.

Usually when patrolmen were forced into retirement, they went into one or more of the four 'Bs,' bounty hunting, bail bonds, bartending, or bouncing. A retired detective, on the other hand, was best suited for one of the two 'Ps,' private investigation, and/or, protection.

With the small payment given to him for resigning, Jack opened up a PI business after buying some first-rate surveillance equipment—bugging devices, a couple of remote, wide angle, fiber optic lenses, and a laptop with software to bundle and monitor it all.

He worked mostly for divorce lawyers and their clients, gathering evidence of spousal infidelity, which is why Jack always felt like needing a shower. Instead of being a good investigative cop, he was relegated to glorified 'Peeping Tom,' making low budget, amateur porn films for shysters.

Jack had a real talent for surveillance, which probably galled him the most about his present circumstances. Typically, he'd find out when and where the suspect was having a rendezvous—usually a motel—then grease the motel manager or desk clerk for the room key. Planting the wide-angle lenses ahead of time, he always got nice, clear movies of the proceedings, making the case of spousal infidelity a slam-dunk.

Jack couldn't complain too much, however. The hours and pay were better now, and there were added bonuses to the PI jobs.

For example, if the cheating spouse happened to be good-looking, someone he considered his 'type,' Jack would show her all the evidence he had gathered, first, before his clients. Then, using not so subtle persuasion, he'd convince her it would be in her best interest to spend a little quality time with him. In return for the week of fucking, blowjobs, or whatever else Jack had in mind, he would lose the evidence and let her go back to her marriage, the husband none the wiser.

Of course, once Jack discarded the evidence, he wouldn't be paid by the client, but most times, it was worth the hit to his bank account. The slutty wives usually took their temporary duties servicing Jack in stride. Some probably even liked it, although they would never admit it. Of course, it helped that Jack was genuinely a very handsome fellow and kept in shape. Tall, dark and ruggedly handsome, although clichéd, was an apt description of him. It also helped that he had a good-sized package, bigger than most of what the wives were used to with either their husbands or boyfriends. It was just an extra perk in their duties that made them forget they were being used, at least for a little while. Moreover, Jack knew how to use his package well, which made their new duties easier to accept.

The job he just concluded, the one that had him presently waiting and thinking in his car, were cases Jack liked best.

The client wife who hired him, suspectedher husband of cheating—which he was, as Jack expertly documented. However, what really piqued his attention was with whom the suspect was cheating with, a very buxom, cool blonde. She was just Dorn's type, and, as it happened, was also married.

He called these cases 'twofers,' for obvious reasons. Not only would he coerce the blonde bimbo into performing a little extramarital fun time with Jack to keep her affair on the QT, he would still be paid by the client.

Yep, things were beginning to look up for Jack Dorn. So much so, he actually whistled a happy tune as he waited for the two to leave the motel room so that he could retrieve his cameras.

It was then, as he waited, Jack noticed another woman entering a room on the second floor of the motel.

The woman was a short, middle-aged redhead, probably in her early forties, and no more than four-foot-six, if she was an inch. Although slightly on the plump side, she dressed well, hiding the few extra pounds she carried. Her ample breasts and wide hips made her look quite alluring and voluptuous to Jack, even though she wasn't even remotely his type.

What really caught his eye, however, was the way she quickly looked around the motel, staring up and down the open causeway and scanning the parking lot, before entering her room. It was the behavior of someone making sure no one saw her before disappearing into her room.

Jack had seen her behavior hundreds of times before and in as many suspects. It always meant one thing. The redhead was planning to do something potentially illegal.

By her dress, maybe a high-class hooker, Jack mused, but quickly disregarded the thought. A high-class hooker wouldn't be caught dead in a dump like this. Drug business is more likely, but she didn't have the air of a dealer or the skanky appearance of a user.

It was a mystery, but one Dorn quickly let go. It wasn't any of his concern what she might be doing. "Live and let live, right Jack? My ass and fuck you," he muttered under his breath, before returning to thoughts of the blonde in the room below.

Another fifteen minutes past, and the couple he had been monitoring hadn't left their room. Jack figured they must either be taking a shower or fucking again. He was about to pull the laptop back out of its case to find out, when he saw a guy in his early twenties strutting along the second floor causeway.

Jack noted the guy—boy, really—is about six foot, thin, sported a thick mop of light brown, curly hair, and the barest traces of a beard and mustache. There were even a few blemishes dotting his face; although he could tell they were the last vestiges of childhood.

When the kid knocked on the redhead's door, the reason for her prior behavior became all too obvious. "Jesus, bitch, you're robbing the cradle," Jack chuckled to himself.

The redhead opened the door wearing a sheer, one piece, black nightie, the kind that just covers the torso while leaving the arms and legs bare. Her heavy tits were almost spilling out the top, as the whole get-up was barely supported by a thin pair of spaghetti straps. She gave the young man a quick kiss on the lips before pulling him into the room. Just before she closed the door, she took another quick peek around the motel grounds.

Now that he got a good look at the redhead's face, Jack thought he recognized her, but he couldn't remember from where.

He wracked his brain trying to figure it out. Where had he seen her before? Was she someone he arrested? Did she frequent some of the same haunts as Jack, another bar patron perhaps, bartender or waitress?

No. Every time he saw her in his mind's eye, he kept associating her face with large crowds of well-heeled patrons, raffles, and dancing. Yet, as hard as he thought, Jack still couldn't nail it down precisely where he had seen her.

In the days as a detective, he would have had instantaneous, total recall, remembering exactly, when, where, and with whom, he saw her. It wouldn't have mattered how distant in the past or how brief their encounter, he would have known who she was; so honed his senses had been through years of experience—razor sharp.

Now, after two years of retirement, his cop skills had atrophied, and it pissed him off. It pissed him off that he was no longer the man he was, a good cop. It pissed him off even more that lesser cops, lesser men than he, got undeserved advancement and accolades, while he was relegated to making amateur porn movies for divorce lawyers. Moreover, it galled and sickened him to know that real murderers and thieves were getting away with their crimes because these lesser men were now in charge of cases he would have solved. Justice was not being served by this police force, and it was eating Dorn up with hate knowing that.

One thought led to another, and soon Jack's mind dove deeper into memory, back to the early days of being a cop. The duties, the procedures, the normal routines one does in their job passed through his memory; as did all the faces of his partners, all the suspects he arrested, all the midnight sessions in the interrogation rooms. Even the social functions, the ones Jack hated to attend as a junior patrolman, invaded his consciousness. Dog and pony shows he called them. All spit and polish and dress blues, done mainly for the upper brass and their wives...

...it struck him like lightning—total recall.

He had to wait a bit longer for the other couple he was monitoring to leave. When they did, Jack headed to the front desk.

The motel manager was waiting for him when he entered. Handing Jack the room key he would need to retrieve the rest of his equipment, he said with an air of mocking superiority, "Get everything you needed, Officer Dorn?"

The manager was always doing this kind of crap, tweaking Dorn's ego by underscoring the ex-cop's fallen position in life.

Jack ignored the slight, and slid a couple of bills across the counter. As the manager pocketed the money, Dorn responded with only a hint of irritation, "Fuck you, Stens, and it wasDetective Dorn."

Stens stuck his nose in the air while curling his lips downward, "Well, excusez-moi...royalty."

"There's no excuse for you, Stens. Not even your mother is that good a liar." Stens was about to add another derogatory comment, but Jack cut him off, "The tasty piece of strange and her boy toy that checked into room two-twenty-three, what do you know about them?"

Stens just smiled back, staying silent. He was expecting more grease.

Dorn said, annoyed, "Come on, Stens, I'm coming up short this month. I'll pay you next time."

"How do I know there'll be a next time?"

"Depends on what you tell me."

Stens thought about it some more. He didn't like being taken advantage of, but he also knew Dorn was an okay fellow and was as good as his word, even for an ex-cop. "They've been coming around now...oh...once...sometimes twice a week for a couple of months. She registers under the name of Missy Jones." Stens chuckled briefly before finishing, "Nothing else, just Missy Jones. I have to give her credit for not using Smith, but not much."

"Today their usual meeting time?"

Stens just rolled his eyes and huffed. Now he felt Dornwas taking advantage of him.

Dorn responded, laughingly, "Quit being a dick and just check the computer. What days are they usually here?"

Stens grudgingly turned to the computer register and punched a few keys. After a minute of scrolling up and down the screen, he finally said, "Yep, looks like Tuesdays are when they bump ugly. Sometimes Fridays as well, but only every other week."

"Thanks," Dorn said, as he turned to leave.

A mischievous grin creased Stens' lips as he asked, "So, you know them, do you Detective?"

Dorn just shot a smile back as an answer, and said as he walked out the door, "I'll be back next Tuesday around ten. I'll add another c-note to your usual fee. Have a room ready."

Jack whistled a merry tune as he retrieved his equipment. Indeed, things were looking up for Jack Dorn. More than looking up, in fact, they were downright glorious. He hadn't had a day like this since being kicked off the force.

He had met the redhead only once before, at a police officers' benefit. There was a large crowd. All the top brass and city pols attended, and, of course, there was plenty of drinking and dancing. They even held a raffle. The money from which, if Jack remembered correctly, went into the widow's benevolent fund.

It turned out the redhead would soon become the wife of another patrolman who came up through the academy a couple of years ahead of Jack. At the time, however, she had gone stag to the benefit, the daughter of the soon to become police captain. The same police captain that would unceremoniously take Jack's gun and badge, after a crap weasel of a lieutenant framed Jack with heroin. Both of them were friends, thick as thieves, captain and crap weasel, and had been since even before Jack joined the force.

Jack had almost forgotten about that little fact, corrupt cops and their wives, but his cop senses had finally come back to him with total recall. Six months after the benefit, the redhead would become Mrs. Brittany Medina. Wife to the dirtiest cop there is, and architect of Jack's fallen state.

"Live and let live? My ass, bitch, and I'll definitely fuck you."

*****

Jack rang the doorbell to the house belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Santos Medina.

The past Tuesday came and went with easy success. Just like clockwork, Brittany and her boy toy, a punk named Chris, had their two-hour fun-time session, only this time Jack recorded the proceedings. Afterwards, Jack did a little digging into this Chris. It was always good to be thorough with a case, and usually paid dividends later. Dividends for sure, for what Jack found out about Chris made his conniving heart swell with joy.

Chris, it turns out, was dating Mrs. Medina's daughter, Alandra. Seems Brittany was a true MILF, fucking her sweet daughter's boyfriend. It was just a little added information Jack could use to push Brittany further into seeing things his way. Moreover, their 'fuck dates,' Tuesdays and every other Friday, were easy enough to determine, they were days Alandra had band and orchestral practice. She was actually a decent flutist, at least to Jack's untrained ear.

Dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, Brittany Medina answered the door with a smile. She had an oval face framed by short, straight red hair, a smallish nose, full lips, and slightly cleft chin. The cleft only made itself visible when she smiled—which would become something of a rarity from that moment on, for obvious reasons. Standing in front of Jack, the top of her head barely came up to his collarbone.

Brittany had two notable features—well three, if you include her height. The first were her heavy breasts, which were obvious no matter how baggy the shirt she wore. They would have proved to be quite a distraction for Jack if not for her piercing green eyes. Their allure, above everything else, captivated Jack to the point of near obsession, and helped him to stay focused on her face, rather than on her chest.

"Can I help you?" she asked through a partially opened door.

Just like in his days as a cop, Jack always talked to his perps smoothly, and with assurance, "Why yes, Mrs. Medina, I think you can. May I call you Brit, or do you prefer Brittany?"

Jack's overt familiarity put her off guard, yet she maintained her smile, asking him, "I'm sorry, do I know you? Oh, you must know Santos. Are you collecting for the police charities? Wait, let me get my checkbook."

"No need for that Brit, I'm not here for charity."

The smile fell from her face when Jack used here informal name again. Furrowing her brow from irritation, she corrected him, saying, "It's Mrs. Medina to you, and just who are you?"

He loved seeing the snotty looks on their faces. Looks of arrogance and condescension that quickly evaporated when he lowered the boom on their pretty, little heads. Smiling back, Jack noted that he rarely had seen a more conceited looking face as Brittany sported now. This was going to be so much fun.

"Well Mrs. Medina, I'm someone you're going to want to make very happy. Now, I think it's best we discuss this in private. May I come in?"

True to form and just like all the others, Brittany started to close the door in Jack's face, saying, "No, you may not! Now go away from..."

Jack quickly put his foot in the door, stopping its progress. Brittany was about to spout more of her supercilious indignities when Jack cut her off, saying, "Look, I'm doing you a favor. I don't like redheads and you have a fat ass, so I'm really slumming it here. But, because I'm a nice guy, I'm prepared to go the extra mile to keep..."

Brittany cut Jack off. Barely keeping her voice low, and anger in check so none of the neighbors would hear, she hissed like a viper at his insulting behavior, "You remove your goddamn foot and get off my porch, or Iwill call my..."

The picture Jack pulled from his suit jacket froze Brittany in mid-sentence. Then, without seemingly conscious thought, she gingerly took the photo from Jack's hand to look at it closer.