Palmer Ch. 11

He wanted Blair in power for two terms, not one.

Giving the tall, brown haired man the opportunity to address the media was a masterstroke. He'd been well briefed and had allowed him to put his own stamp on the project.

He'd taken it perfectly, too. But then, playing to the media was one of Blair's specialities. Amid the flashing cameras and microphones thrust into his face, the smooth politician had given his Oscar-worthy soliloquy like Sir Anthony Hopkins in Hamlet.

"Yes, I'm aware of, and have been supportive of, the project since its inception."

"Yes, Dominic and I see eye to eye on this and many other things."

"We believe this will revolutionise the entertainment industry."

"Britain will be the place for millions of visitors."

"Scotland will become a major tourist attraction."

"The impact on the economy will be momentous."

All the while, Blair's wife stood in the background, watching, taking everything in. The smartly dressed woman was no one's fool, but had learnt to allow her husband free reign. Things would change once he was Prime Minister. She had a number of pet projects that would be given the attention they deserved. The aged beauty hadn't put up with his philandering over the years for nothing!

Eventually, the formalities were over. The gates to Dinosaur World were now open. The grounds were available to every eager guest, celebrity and media alike. So was the adjacent, newly built hotel, whose opening for business would coincide with that of the major tourist attraction.

DeVere's sigh of satisfaction was a clear indication that the press conference had proven to be everything he'd required and anticipated. A wonderful success.

***

"So they're the odd couple?" Palmer spat under his breath, having watched DeVere and Blair perform to perfection in front of the excited gathering.

The lunchtime flights had resulted in their arrival just too late for the start of the press conference, but they'd caught most of the second half.

"They're part of my past," Roxanne murmured, taking hold of his hand. She recognised the jealousy in his tone. "You're part of my future."

The young detective nodded. "I know. But there won't be a future if we don't nail DeVere. You're sure you want to go through with this?"

Roxanne looked into his eyes, her reply direct. "Of course. If I can help flush them out, I want to do that. Besides, you're here to take care of me. I feel safe with you."

He squeezed the hand holding his, and then let it go. They were two reporters, after all, here for a story. That was their cover and reporters didn't hold hands.

For a second, he thought about discarding the sling. It made him stand out too much. But he realised his left arm was still weak. Common sense won out in his internal argument. If only just.

Then, DeVere and Blair had concluded their session. They were leading the way towards one of the bullet shaped elevators that would take the animated guests to the ground. It seemed everyone was talking at once.

"We'll stay close to them," Palmer told her. "We can look for the best opportunity to let them to see you." He glanced around at the hordes heading towards the elevators. "Let's take the stairs. It'll be impossible to lose them. All we have to do is follow the media circus. Where there's a camera, we'll find those two."

It took no time to reach the ground floor, though Palmer found the four flights took more out of him than he'd anticipated. Sure enough, DeVere and Blair were both outside the building, giving separate TV and press interviews.

Jugglers, fire-eaters, and people in dinosaur costumes were all roving around the nearby area. Various sounds of the jungle combined with the dinosaur roars filling the air from the myriad of cleverly placed tannoys.

No expense had been spared. It was the perfect atmosphere.

Palmer glanced around. He was concerned. The place was almost too big. Too vast. Difficult to control. The nearby trees led to the forest of acres that made up the site. It was dangerous. He'd need to remain constantly close to Roxanne. The young cop wasn't in any mood to take chances.

He glanced at his watch. It was time to check in with the others. Webster's decision to get Taffy to fix them with hand mikes was inspirational, though they'd almost missed their flight as a result. Palmer spoke into his hand. "Where are you?"

It was Goodwin who answered first. "To your left. Got you both in my eyesight."

"The place is too big," Palmer sighed, swinging around to meet Goodwin's eyes through the crowds between them. "I didn't expect this."

"Naw, me neither. Impressive, isn't it. When I get married, I might bring the kids here."

"Married? Didn't you try that already, Alex?" It was Wilson's voice, tinged with sarcasm. She really did have to get her head together about that man.

"Never mind the shit," Palmer snapped, instantly realising his nerves were on end. His voice softened. "It's too big to stay in control out here."

"Maybe. But it also makes it harder for them to spot us," Goodwin suggested. "Whereas we can't miss them."

"Take it easy, Jack." It was Webster's monotonous voice. "You sound uptight. How're you holding up?"

"I'm fine." Palmer resented being asked. He could take care of himself. But was he okay?

The fever had returned. His legs were shaking. The stairs. The crowd. Not having anything to eat since the flight. None of it helped. Still, there was too much going on to worry about any of that. This was the most important mission of his life.

"Where are you, Palmer?" Webster's voice crackled in the sweating cop's ear.

"Near the entrance. Beside an oak tree with a tannoy half way up it. I have sight of Goodwin."

"Okay, Wilson and I are the opposite side of the entrance. Wait a minute… okay… I can see you and the woman. I've also got a good view of the targets. Let's stay close, children."

***

Marco Giovanni paced across the room. How many times had he done that since his lunchtime arrival? He looked down at the carpet. Surely it was worn from his footmarks?

The DeVere Towers hotel wasn't officially open yet. But today, the entrepreneur had opened several suites to the gaze of the world. It went hand in hand with his entertainment complex. Maximum publicity. That was what the event was all about.

Today, Giovanni had been given the use of one of those suites until DeVere left the conference to meet with him. He had no way of knowing that this was a set-up. Except instinct. Right then, that intuition was working overtime. Something smelled rotten.

DeVere's message had said there was a problem. A big problem. To do with the woman he'd wasted. It didn't say what. What concerned Giovanni was the request to meet in Aberdeen. Even if he'd known where the fuck Aberdeen was, why would he want to go there?

The only reason he'd complied with the request was his knowledge of the press conference. He knew what was going on. It was his business to know. One of the reasons he stayed one step ahead. In his business, that's how you stayed alive.

What concerned him was the location. If it were that important, DeVere would have found the time to meet him in London. Or talk to him over the phone. Aberdeen smelt. And Giovanni had a good nose.

The knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Room service." The spyhole displayed a waiter in a white jacket.

Giovanni's instincts came into play again. "I didn't order room service."

"I know, sir. Compliments of Mr. DeVere. He'll join you shortly."

The Italian assassin's hand covered the Makarov inside his jacket as he edged the door open. Well, well, well. So that was the game.

He opened it wider. "Come in." His hand stayed in position. Nothing too overt, but he'd be ready when the man made his move. His knowledge of DeVere's closest aides had paid off. He knew everything there was to know about his employer's activities.

And here, pushing the silver tray into the centre of the room, was DeVere's stooge, dressed as a waiter. Did Bannerman think he was a fucking amateur?

"Should I serve the food here, sir," the fat man asked, stopping beside the small, ornate table.

"Yeah," Giovanni agreed, feigning disinterest as he walked across to the window.

He'd checked out every scenario while he'd been waiting. By standing at this angle, he could pretend to look down on the scene below, yet see the centre of the room's reflection in the small mirror to the side. He had as good a view of Bannerman as if he'd turned round and stared at the man.

There could only be one reason why DeVere's right hand man was dressed as a waiter. The bastard!

Every few seconds, he glanced across at Giovanni, as if looking for his opportunity. He was sweating, his hands unsteady. He was nervous. Giovanni grinned to himself. The overweight man had every reason to be nervous. He was no match for the Italian.

"Should I open the wine, sir?" Even Bannerman's voice was nervous. It trembled as he spoke. Gave the game away.

"Yeah," Giovanni answered in that monosyllabic way he had when confronting a threat.

He stayed facing the window, but the corner of his eye was on the trembling man. Bannerman picked up the Cartouche antique corkscrew from the silver tray and twisted it into the bottle of red. He could hardly open it, his hands were shaking so hard.

Giovanni knew why. The bogus waiter was plucking up the courage to act.

With a pop, the cork came free and Bannerman removed it from the corkscrew. He dropped it onto the tray. Even as one hand unsteadily poured the wine into the glass, the other slipped to the outside of his jacket pocket. It felt along the outline. He had a gun.

Giovanni swung around and covered the distance between them. Time to take care of his problem, like he would swat a fly from his window. Even as his smiling face accepted the glass of wine from the shaking hand, he was pulling out his Makarov.

Bannerman let out a loud whimper as he felt the cold barrel of the silencer jam into the front of his neck.

The Italian's hand dropped into the pocket of the bogus waiter's jacket. With a single wrench, he removed Bannerman's gun. "In five seconds, you'll be dead," the assassin whispered, his voice as cold as stone. "One question. Why?"

A drop of sweat fell from Bannerman's forehead onto the tray of food.

"Four… three… Why?"

"The woman," Bannerman blurted, looking for a way out.

"What about the woman?"

Bannerman's voice trembled. "You… you shot the wrong woman…"

For a couple of seconds, Giovanni froze. The wrong woman? He'd shot the wrong woman? No! It couldn't be.

Bannerman took advantage of the assassin's confusion. He found the silver corkscrew in the corner of his searching eye; the heavy-set man's hand moved quickly. With all his strength, he plunged the coiled end into his assailant's side.

The Italian screamed in pain, squeezing the trigger of his Markov instinctively. The bullet ripped through Bannerman's jugular vein and came out the back of his neck. A geyser of blood burst from the wound.

Pulling the gun away, he fired again. The second bullet shattered the fat man's brain.

The Italian held onto the table, ignoring the tumbling body as it thumped onto the floor. The corkscrew felt like a hot needle running from his side to his chest. He gasped for breath.

When he yanked it out, the searing sensation almost made him pass out.

Several deep breaths steadied him. He threw the wine into the back of his throat, as if alcohol would somehow relieve the burning feeling. Fighting back the shock, he headed for the on suite bathroom. Tearing off his jacket and shirt, the jagged hole was beginning to swell at the sides.

Pain came at him in waves. He picked up a washcloth and held it against the wound. His dimming eyes vainly looked around for something to use. Something to keep it in place.

Pulling his belt through the hoops in his trousers, he placed two hand towels over the reddening washcloth and tied the belt over them. That would have to do.

The water he ran into the small plastic cup was for one purpose. Slipping his hand into his right jacket pocket, he pulled out a small, transparent, plastic bag. There were six red devils. A swallow of water later, there were only four.

His body fell forward, slumping down against the side of the white bath as the pain in his chest shuddered through him. It intensified to the edge of reason. His body jerked violently. His face crunched up into a cry. He jammed his hand into his mouth, cutting off the scream.

For a few seconds, he struggled to contain the noise attempting to burst from his mouth. Then, the throbbing diminished. It was replaced by the roaring rush of speed. His vision cleared. The pain left him. All that remained was hate.

Three options bounced around his brain. Get out of there and back to London. Find DeVere and talk to him about what had happened. Or blow the bastard's brains out. He chose the third.

***

Kelli had never felt so filled. Max's black cock consumed every inch of her clutching sex. Owned it. She'd waited so long for this. Thought about it for so long. Now it was happening. Sitting over the prone black man, she was able to take her time. Control the pace of their fucking.

Exact maximum pleasure from the thick monster inside her.

Her eyes closed. Her head tilted to one side. For some time, she concentrated only on her own pleasure. She undulated slowly, allowing the feeling of fullness to flow through her body, her fingers digging down into his chest. Gradually, she became more confident.

She undulated back and forward. Then in circles. With each change, a different sensation overwhelmed her. She'd already cum twice on his cock. It was nothing. There was much more pleasure awaiting.

She eased her hips upwards until just his crown was inside her. When the black model raised his ass in search of her teasing sex, she smoothly slid back down to take the whole of his hardness once more. Her hands raised and ran through her blonde hair. Her back arched. He was hers to do with what she wanted.

Gabrielle slid behind her, the older woman's pointed nipples digging into her back. "You like Max's cock?" she sultrily breathed, her hands sliding across the blonde's thrusting tits. "Soooo beeg…"

The Frenchwoman licked around her soft ear, whispering something in French she did not understand, but loved. Little grenades exploded inside her. As the brunette's teeth pulled down on her wet lobe, she gasped. Gabrielle's hands kneaded her sensitive swells, pulling on her hard nipples. She could hold back no longer.

Her third orgasm was even stronger than the previous two. She loved this. Losing herself in a sexual haze that was never ending…

Then Max was moving. He effortlessly pulled himself up into a sitting position. If anything, the change of position ensured his cock filled her more completely than she thought possible.

Her hands gripped one another around his broad shoulders. She held on, waiting for him to do whatever it was on his mind. Surely he couldn't split her in two?

The black man's muscular hands cupped under her ass and gently raised and lowered her. Even at her highest point, half of his monster remained embedded. Then he wasn't quite so gentle. When he began to talk to her, she felt that familiar shuddering inside her body again.

"Do y'know how long I've wanted to fuck that pretty ass of yours?"

Her answer was a whimper.

"Ever since I saw you," he continued. "You've wanted Max's black cock that long, too?"

Her whimper turned into a moan as he bounced her faster on his lap.

"Tell me, honey. You like Max's cock?"

"Ye… yes…"

"Louder, honey. You like black cock?"

Her teeth gritted and the words came out in a low hiss. "Yessss." For a second, she heard the word reverberate around her body. He was fucking her even faster now, bouncing her on his lap like a rag doll.

She was his completely. To do with what he wanted. His cum machine. "Say it," he ordered again. "I want to hear you say it, slut! Do you like black cock?"

"YES! I LIKE BLACK COCK!" she cried out, thrusting her chest against his toned, oily body.

"Look," she heard him say. "Look at Gabrielle."

Her head turned to the side, a low growl coming from the back of her throat. Not even a growl. It was an unidentifiable animalistic sound – a cross between a wail, howl and rumble. Her vision was blurred. Not enough to stop her seeing that the Frenchwoman was leaning back on the other bed, her hand feverishly working between her thighs.

"She likes black cock, too. You can watch me fuck her later. Would you like that, honey?"

He didn't wait for a response. His hands began to pile drive her down on his cock. It hit parts of her that had never been pleasured before. She came yet again. Came as that animalistic wail hit new highs.

The black model didn't stop. He didn't cum either. He fell backwards so that he was flat on the bed again. This time he pulled her with him, her tits pressing down into his muscular chest.

When the orgasm had washed through her, Kelli found a second wind. She became a fucking instrument, her sex now comfortable with the size and movement of the black machine inside it. Her head dug into his neck while her ass lifted and plummeted, thumping down on his muscular frame harder and harder.

"Oh yes, honey. Fuck that black cock," he groaned.

She did, anxious to take him to his own climax. She wanted – needed – the black man's cum exploding inside her.

Her long, wavy blonde hair bounced around his face. The sweat poured from her body down onto his. The reverberations from her hip thrusts were firing through every nerve end. Her sex twitched as it clamped down in his black monster.

Oh, God! She was going to cum again…

Geeeeeeeez!

She was cumming again…

The cool hands stroking across her ass interrupted her convulsions. It wasn't Max's – his hands were tight around her glistening back. Her sweaty head jerked to the side. Gabrielle was still fingering herself on the other bed. What the fuck? Who…

When a finger slid to her anus and pushed inside, she knew only too well. Her orgasmic tremors went into overdrive at the thought of what was about to happen.

***

Rage swelled up inside Giovanni. He was leaking blood. Given only a short time, his strength would begin to drain from his body, too. He had to act quickly. The blood was slowly seeping through its make do covering and the one size too big jacket he'd stolen from the hotel lobby was only temporarily adequate enough to disguise the wound.

It had taken some effort to make his way from the hotel to the entertainment HQ. Photo sessions were still in full swing. Instinct guided every movement. Standing in the safety of the trees, he was happy he'd be unnoticed - just one of the hundreds of invitees.

His sharp eyes took in everything. DeVere and Blair were preening themselves in front of the cameras. How much security would the two so-called VIP's have? One, a burly heavy, stood a few yards away to their left. A second, smaller man was keeping himself out of the way a few steps behind. It was good of DeVere to dress them in the green uniforms. Much easier to spot.

People constantly surrounded them. Cameras covered every move. His chances of success were fading just as surely as he was. Should he cut and run? There wasn't even a decision to be made. DeVere had turned against him.

He would pay.

The question was more around the first step. Eliminate the bodyguard's, or avoid them? The first was more dangerous but the second more problematical. In situations such as these, he knew his knife would prove as powerful a weapon as his automatic.