Palmer Ch. 11

His decision was made easier when the heavy guard glanced around and slipped to the edge of the trees. When smoke appeared, Giovanni smiled. The security man's nicotine habit would prove his undoing.

Circling back in the trees, the assassin made his way to the guard's location. Standing far enough away from the crowds while he enjoyed his smoke, he stood no chance. The assassin silently moved behind him and the razor-thin, doubled edged knife did the job with a surgical precision.

Pulling the burly man into the trees was more difficult. He was heavier than Giovanni had hoped and the wound in his side wasn't helping. The blood leaking onto the stolen jacket told him he'd need to act even more quickly than he'd originally anticipated.

His eyes homed in on the scene as DeVere's blonde assistant approached the two men.

***

The heavily accented voice came from the left. "Excuse me for interrupting," the tall, slim woman said, her French accent as usual bringing a frisson of excitement to DeVere.

Her bright blue eyes stared dismissively at Blair, then swung across to her employer. "I must see you, Dom-en-eek."

"Amélie!" he exclaimed, turning to face her. "Shouldn't you be in the control tower?"

Her smile was full of meaning. "It ees taken care of for now, Dom-en-eek. But I must get back there shortly. We do not 'av much time."

"We haven't met," Blair interrupted, holding out his hand. His eyes flicked across her body. Slim, pale, no tits. She certainly wasn't attractive, but there was something about her. She oozed sex with every movement, look, word.

She took the hand, her fixed smile flicking across his face. "Amélie," she simply said.

"George Blair," he responded. "I understand this is all your creation."

"Eet is Dom-en-eek's creation," she corrected. "And do forgive me, but I need a little time with Dom-en-eek."

"Can't it wait?" DeVere asked, already knowing the answer. He'd seen that look before. Nothing would get in her way.

"Non," she provocatively responded.

They both knew no one else in his empire would dare speak to him like this. They were both aware he would not have complied in this way with anyone else. They both knew Amélie was different. This was how she was rewarded. It was an unspoken understanding. Had been since they first met.

"I need you, Dom-en-eek," she repeated, a hint of exasperation in her tone. "Now, s'il vous plait."

There was no point in arguing. When Amélie had a need, there was no waiting. But then, he didn't want to argue. The excitement of the day had reached his loins, too. When she swung on her four-inch heels and headed back inside, he followed.

"Your chance to shine, George," he grinned over his shoulder. "Keep those interviews going."

***

Gabrielle's fingers gripped her blonde tresses and pulled Kelli's head up off Max's sweaty chest. Perspiration covered her cheeks and brow. The impact of her regular orgasms still rippled across her face. She looked delectable.

"Ever been fucked by two men at the same time, my little innocent," she provocatively whispered, jamming their mouths together for a vicious kiss. When she pulled away, she stared into the aroused brown eyes. This was important, she was saying. "It ees an experience never to be forgotten."

Max raised his hips upwards as the brunette kissed the blonde again. Not only did his calculated movement push his thick cock deeper inside Kelli, it raised her ass to the perfect angle for the American, Formula One star.

A second finger had joined his first in preparing her. The feeling as he withdrew them made her gasp, but it was nothing to the sensation of his long, slim cock sliding inside. Stars burst behind her closed eyes. She groaned into Gabrielle's mouth, breaking the bisexual kiss just to breath.

She mewed with every sweet inch. He glided into her tunnel with surprising ease. Even that turned her on. She was hot. She had an ass to fuck!

Kelli couldn't help but push back onto him. She found the movement buried Max's manhood even deeper inside her. Sweat replaced perspiration. Oh fuck, Gabrielle was right. Nothing could have prepared her for the sensation of being filled at both ends.

"Tell me, cherie. 'Ow does it feel?" the Frenchwoman asked as she eased herself back to her viewing place on the opposite bed.

It was an effort to turn her contorted face in the direction of the French supermodel. Max's broad arms stayed around her back, pulling her flat against his chest. Brad had bent his legs a little to provide the perfect angle. Kelli's breath was coming in gasps. The overpowering feeling of two cocks inside her was threatening her very sanity.

Then the men began to move. Slowly. So good…

Max thrust upwards. With each grunt she gave in response, Brad slid further inside. Oh, God, this was too much! The black man began to slowly move and, quickly adjusting to his rhythm, Brad did, too.

Her initial discomfort disappeared. Don't attempt to move, she told herself. She couldn't anyway. Give in to the submission. Give in to these men and their cocks. Just let the two experts do the work. She was Kelli. Kelli the supermodel. And supermodels were made to pleasure and be pleasured.

The two men moved a little faster. In unison. Surely the two of them must have done this before?

"Oh, God," she found herself growling. It was a weird, reverberating sound, coming from the back of her throat. "Oh, God… Oh, God!"

As Brad slowly drew his cock halfway out, Max drove forward. When the young American slid back in, the black model dropped his hips back to the bed. Occasionally she could feel someone's balls collide against her ass. It inflamed her further.

Then the blonde realised she could move. If she dropped her hips down to meet Max's thrust, she could then push back to meet Brad's.

"NGH! Oh, YES…" Her gentle movements had brought the underside of her clit alive, dragging it across Max's shaft with every downward pump. "OH, YessSSSSS…"

The blonde beauty was lost to the world. An uninhibited sexual being whose only desire was to seek out orgasm after orgasm. She ignored any discomfort and somehow gyrated her hips a little faster. Her clit massaged itself on Max's cock. She couldn't breath.

This was too much. Sensationally, wonderfully, too much!

When both men responded and pumped harder, see-sawing her slender hips between their masculine flesh, she lost it. Her orgasmic scream could have been heard back in London.

***

Blair had risen to the occasion. With DeVere otherwise occupied, he handled another couple of press interviews with consummate ease, suavely positioning himself as the new, great, political hope.

He would be the one to lead the country back to economic viability. Dinosaur World was the first example of that.

The limelight was his. He gratefully accepted it. Took advantage of it. This was his opportunity to set out his stall. Let the country see what a great guy he was. Yes, he was Labour. But he was more visionary than that. He rose above party politics.

That was essential if he wasn't to be dragged down into the Party's abysmally low popularity rating. He represented change. Hope for the future. Someone the people could believe in.

As the words smoothly spewed forth, his brain congratulated himself. This was where he wanted to be. Had worked to be. He was on the verge of the Premiership. He'd soon be recognised as a world leader. And it was just the start. It was the beginning of a journey that would eventually lead to Sir George Blair.

It was then that he saw her. Roxanne! She was standing on her own. Staring straight at him. It wasn't! Could it be? It was! It was her! What the hell was she doing here? Did she know about what DeVere had tried to do to her? She must! Yet there she was, as beautiful as ever. Looking at him. Smiling at him.

His suddenly greying face jerked across to his wife. Had she seen anything? He stumbled over a couple of words. Had she noticed? Did she know why? He floundered, panic setting in.

"Let me rephrase that," he said, attempting to extricate himself from the tongue twisting position he'd put himself into. His eyes went back to Roxanne. She'd gone! The beautiful redhead was no longer there.

His eyes frantically jerked around. She was nowhere to be seen. Had he imagined it? What the fuck was going on?

***

Palmer grinned at Roxanne. From their position at the back of the onlookers, they were hidden from George Blair. But the look of panic on his face was available to them both. He was spooked.

"Well done," he whispered to the redhead, bending to plant a soft kiss on her cheek. "Look at him. Look at his reaction. He knows all about what's going on."

She nodded, a wave of emotion washing across her face. She'd shared only wonderful moments with that man. She'd hoped he knew nothing of DeVere's intentions. His reaction told her otherwise.

"You okay?" Palmer asked, taking hold of her shaking hand and softly squeezing it. He knew this was an ordeal, albeit a necessary one.

"Yes, Jack. I'm okay," she smiled, holding her heaving body in check. DeVere had tried to murder her. George Blair knew. What about Erin? The American woman know, too? Her entire past was crumbling in front of her. It made the future even more important.

"Listen closely," he spat into his hand mic. "Blair's seen Roxanne. He's spooked. Badly spooked. Stay close."

"Where's DeVere?" came Webster's reply.

"I was kinda wondering that myself," Palmer responded. Where was the man? This was his moment. His show. Why would he have vanished like this? Something felt wrong.

***

Giovanni knew DeVere well. There was only one reason why he would have voluntarily left centre stage. Left behind the opportunity to show off in front of the world's press. That reason had been two steps in front of him as he'd re-entered the building. Amélie!

His body was shivering despite the sweat spewing from his pores. He was not well; he had a decision to make. Take out DeVere quickly or get out of there.

He edged forward. The answer was inside the large, white-faced building. DeVere was inside. With his whore. He'd never have a better chance of taking out his new target. It was possibly his only chance. The blood seeping through his shirt was beginning to show on his jacket. The wound was numb now and the pain in his chest had vanished.

That wasn't good news. He urgently needed medical treatment.

A couple in his eyeline stopped him in his tracks. His gaze fell on the woman. She was familiar somehow, but he couldn't quite place her. What was it? He couldn't afford any loose ends. He'd seen her before, he was sure of that. Where? The recollection set off alarm bells.

FUCK! How could he be so stupid? He hadn't seen her before. He'd seen her photograph. Roxanne!

No! No, it couldn't be! He'd killed Roxanne. Blown her away. She was dead. He'd seen to that. Bannerman was right. He'd wasted the wrong woman. That was why DeVere had tried to kill him. The stupid bastard. If they'd talked, the Italian would have gone back and finished the job. The fucking bastard had panicked!

He pulled out his automatic. Finish the job now? No! That was stupid. The woman meant nothing to him any longer. DeVere was his target. His only target. He knew where to find him.

***

"Jack!" Roxanne exclaimed. "That man. He was staring at me. Look at his eyes."

Palmer glanced across. The man had turned and was hurrying in the direction of the building. He wasn't able to see his eyes, but he did see the automatic being sheathed in his pocket. They'd hit pay dirt! It was Giovanni! It had to be.

"Giovanni," he shouted into his hand mic, watching the assassin's shuffling gait, as if his movement was restricted. "He's heading back inside the building. Goodwin get here now. We're beside the—"

"I can see you," the barrel-chested cop responded. "I'll be with you imminently."

Palmer smiled. Roxanne didn't know what was on his mind, but if Goodwin stayed with her, that would allow him to go after the gunman.

***

Giovanni put the receptionist that faced him in her mid forties. Her hard face told him she wasn't going to be a pushover. He'd have her eating out of his hand before too long. He'd need to. It wouldn't be too long before he left a bloody trail across the floor.

"Ciao, beautiful donna," he beamed.

A cold stare she shot back. He'd need to work harder. "Yes? How can I help?"

"I'm looking for Mr. DeVere."

"I'm sorry, but…"

Giovanni interrupted even before she could finish her objection. "He told me to meet him in here. I'm afraid I'm a little late."

"He told you…?"

"Sí, beautiful donna. My magazine is the best in Italy. It will take the story of Dinosaur World and spread it across the whole of Italy. With photographs, too, of course."

"Leading magazine in Italy? Photographs?"

The Italian assassin gave a soft bow. "Sí. My photographer will be here soon. He is the very best." He shot a look over his shoulder towards the entrance, before leaning conspiratorially forward towards the small desk. "My magazine loves beautiful women. I hope you can leave your position for a few moments when he arrives. He will want photographs of you, bella. No doubt."

"Me?" She ran a hand through her hair, stage-shock in her eyes. "Me?" she repeated. "Are you sure? He'll want photographs of me?"

"Sí, bella. You will appear on our pages all across Italy. Maybe you'd like to freshen up before he arrives?" Another glance towards the entrance conveyed an impression of urgency. "He will be here soon."

The woman was on her feet almost before he could finish. "Yes. Perhaps a quick visit to the restroom…"

"I'll wait here," he smiled, flashing Italian eyes that communicated nothing but warmth.

His mind was working even as she scurried away. He knew DeVere's operation inside out. He did with all his clients. He was nothing if not professional. Not only did that include a detailed knowledge of the layout of the operational centre, but an intimate knowledge of DeVere and Amélie's dalliances.

Dalliances? He gave a snort.

He was only too aware that right now, the two of them would be fucking each other's brains out. And it was likely to be in one of the private offices he knew were to the back of reception.

As soon as the receptionist moved out of sight, he made his move through the barrier. Once he reached the offices, his ears would lead him towards his target.

***

"Yes… 'arder Dom-en-eek. 'Arder."

On her back on the small desk with her legs either side of the sweating man was uncomfortable. But the feet Amélie Pascal pressed against the wall behind him, gave wonderful purchase to receive his thrusts.

"Fook me Dom-en-eek… So good… Fook me—"

She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, dragging his head against her shoulder. His crew cut tickled her skin. It was difficult to know exactly who was fucking who.

DeVere's eyes dropped down her body. The small tits and long nipples staring at him from her semi open blouse rippled under their exertions, like pebbles on a pond. Her gasps increased with every thrust. She levered her ass higher, the desk literally creaking under them.

DeVere looked back at Amélie's face, a crazy look on his blood red eyes. He hadn't realised quite how much he needed this, too. "You wanted to be fucked, you bitch," he growled, ramming his cock so hard into her that she grunted at the force. "So how's this…?"

Her eyes were manic, widening with each vicious thrust she took. Her body was on fire. He was fucking her the way only Dominic DeVere could. She needed it like a drug. But then he was a drug. Her drug.

"God, yes… Dom-en-eek," she cried as they rutted away. This was so good, even better than usual.

One hand dropped to his balls, squeezing one and then the other, preparing to wring the cum from him. Her feet settled flat against the wall as her internal muscles began to take him there, the last bits of sanity leaving them both.

***

The banging against the wall, combined with the breathless groans and gasps, had taken Giovanni directly to their location.

From his position beside the small window in the door, he'd watched the two unsuspecting lovers rutting like animals for the last couple of minutes. They had no chance anyway, but waiting until they reached that most exquisite of moments would seal their fate.

Looking down, he saw the blood spotted on the floor. He was leaking too much. Get this over with and get out of there. It was a shame about his condition. Otherwise he'd have fucked her before leaving. Now, she was an inconvenience to be immediately eliminated.

The assassin timed his entrance to perfection. The silenced Makarov felt cool in his hand. Neither of his targets heard the door open. Their orgasmic groans disguised any faint click it made.

The Frenchwoman saw him first. Her eyes opened in surprise. Widened in understanding. The horror on her face as she saw the automatic in his fist was an aphrodisiac to him.

He put the silencer against DeVere's forehead even as the grey haired man followed Amélie's gaze. He'd barely begun to turn. When Giovanni pulled the trigger, the traitor's body convulsed with a huge shudder. Turning sideways, the bullet in the blonde Frenchwoman's throat cut off the scream before it could escape her mouth.

***

Palmer waited five minutes until Webster and Sandra Wilson confirmed they were covering the rear of the building. When the Vice Chief's voice spat in his ear, he decided to make his move. Goodwin should have accompanied him, but the young cop wanted the barrel-chested cop to protect Roxanne.

He wasn't about to take any more chances.

Instinct told him that Giovanni and DeVere were meeting. Presumably they were deciding on their next moves. If he could catch the two of them together, it would be sufficient to haul them both in for questioning. Tie them both into Savannah's death. Bannerman would soon join them in custody.

By separately interviewing the three suspects, they'd be able to identify any inconsistencies in their stories, before they needed to hand the case over to Homicide. That would leave Briggs nowhere to go if the suspected crooked cop attempted to protect any of them.

It was then he saw the assassin, hurriedly exiting the heavily glassed front entrance.

The Italian paused for a moment, his eyes sweeping across the crowd in front of him. It took him only seconds to see Palmer. The man who'd been with Roxanne. Even as their eyes locked, he'd turned to his left, heading towards the surrounding trees.

He was moving uneasily. As if he was in pain. Did some sort of injury hamper him? Palmer had noticed the slight limp when the Italian had entered the building. Now, it was much more pronounced.

Pulling his arm from the sling to give himself more freedom, he hurried after the assassin. Even as he moved, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the limping man as he weaved through the trees. Dodging trees and leaping over the underbrush with an agility that surprised himself, he pulled his automatic.

Suddenly, he was struggling. He'd moved too quickly. The previous damage to his body was kicking in. The fact Giovanni seemed hurt, too, evened the odds.

His momentary pause saw the assassin disappear from sight. Damn! Palmer was a sitting duck. He swung to a halt beside a large oak tree, listening for any sound of movement. He stood quietly, every sense focused on finding a clue to the killer's whereabouts.