tagLoving WivesThe First Deadly Sin

The First Deadly Sin

bydtiverson©

From time-to-time, people have asked me to continue one of my characters. This story satisfies the most frequent requests.

Almost from the day I posted it, readers have asked me to tell the story of the little boy in "A Totally Unromantic Love Story." Not too far behind, are the folks wanting me to do something about the two people in "The Long Goodbye." I couldn't come up with a good story-line until Rick at rkv330, bailed me out. He's done that an embarrassing number of times. Then, when I bogged down again, E. W. Orc asked me to relate a few fond memories from my days in Sodom-and-Gomorrah-upon-the-Potomac.

People who have already read this have told me that they think I am making stuff up. All I can say is - believe it... There is nothing in this, from the Bumblehive to botnets, that is fictional. None of the operations, or agencies, their mission, or gear are a figment of my imagination. They all operate exactly as I describe them and are doing it as you read this. As usual, I would like to thank Randi and Pixel for their usual amazing editing work. It's a humbling experience getting stuff back from those two.


*****

THE FIRST DEADLY SIN

The man was sitting in an English garden, replete with flowers bees and tomato plants, but it wasn't in Devon, or Kent. It was on top of London's Ham Yard Hotel, not two minutes from the insane comings-and-goings of Piccadilly Circus.

He was an extremely handsome guy; stalwart, chiseled features, five eleven and a solid one-ninety, fit and trim, thick forearms, all-reflexes, like a western gunfighter. His blond hair was cut into a high-and-tight, which implied a military background. His eyes were bright blue. They belonged to a fellow who could overcome challenges.

Those eyes turned loving, as a dusky woman sat down opposite him. She was the man's equal in extraordinary appearance. She was perhaps five-two with a wealth of dark brown hair framing a beautiful oval face, huge brown eyes, a slim nose and a full sensual mouth.

The rest of her was a Sultan's delight, voluptuous and erotic. The subtle hint of her perfume preceded her. It evoked images of a-hundred-and-one nights of carnal pleasure. Her eyes sparkled with humor and warmth. She extended both arms as she sat. It was an affectionate gesture. They held each other's hands, looking deeply into each other's eyes. Their love for each other was unmistakable.

The tender scene was captured by a big dragon fly, which was hovering next to a hollyhock. Except it wasn't an insect. It was a PD 100 Black Hornet micro-bot. It was easy to make the mistake. The miniature drone was painted to look exactly like a dragon fly.

The handler had released it from his palm as he stepped onto the terrace. The HD video was transmitted to a digital repeater in the handler's pocket. From there, it streamed to a satellite and down to an obscure little building in Beltsville, Maryland. That building housed the Special Collection Service.

The Special Collection Service is a joint CIA-NSA black-budget operation. It is never a good thing to be caught doing clandestine surveillance, particularly if you are in a friendly country, or even France for that matter. It tends to create hard feelings among the natives. It doesn't mean that we don't do it. It just means that we do it covertly. So, the SCS uses "Mission Impossible" stuff; and the dragonfly drone and various other bird and insect bug-bots are their stock in trade.

~

I joined the Guard after I got out of the Army. It seemed like a safe commitment. My wife, Pia, thought that a weekend a month and a couple of weeks a year was good for me. She told me that playing soldier made me less aggressive.

She was right, of course. I AM a little over-aggressive. That's why I spend so much time hitting the weights. It's a lot more constructive than hitting other people. That thought reminded me of Pia's brutal murder. The man who had seduced and killed her was in the ground too.

His spinal injury made him a helpless cripple. So, he killed himself. His death saddened me. I had hoped that he would live a long and excruciatingly painful life, but the sniveling coward was too weak to deal with reality. I had caused that injury. It was the least I could do for my murdered wife.

After I settled that debt, I went back to lonely ten-hour days. We contract with the Feds to do local sniffing. The question might be asked, "Why would the National Counter Terrorism Center, hire clandestine agents to watch the people of the Windy City?" It's because, Cook County might have more potential home-grown jihadists than a few Middle Eastern countries.

Those people aren't unhappy Brothas either. They are typically over-entitled, rich-kids; eager to shirk adult responsibility. Most are posers. They're just doing it to impress their friends; and horrify their folks. But a few are too stupid to see the big picture. They're the ones we keep an eye on.

I was sipping my morning coffee when a wealth of copper curls and a gorgeous pair of green eyes peeked around the door. I heard a husky female voice say, "What kind of mood are you in boss?"

I laughed and said, "I haven't killed anybody ... yet!! What can I do for you Kelly?"

My partner takes getting used to. Kelly is arguably the hottest Celtic woman in captivity; at least, since the lifestyle caught up with Lindsay Lohan. She is five-foot seven and a hundred and twenty-five pounds of gorgeous Irish female.

Her bountiful hair is the color of copper. Her huge cat eyes are deep emerald and loaded with tons of Irish mischief. Her nose is narrow and long and her full mouth is downright lascivious. She also puts new meaning to the term "brick-shit-house."

Kelly is the second toughest and most ruthless person I know; moi being numero-uno. She can steal your secrets, or kick your ass. She can seduce a marble statue. She can drive a nail with her little Barretta nano; which she keeps in a pancake holster, located just above the crack in her delicious round ass. She is whip-smart, street-clever, totally fearless and unquestionably loyal.

We are perfect together. We think alike and we have the deepest mutual respect. I know she loves me, but we will never get together in a romantic way.

Why would I NOT want to fuck Miss Kelly McMahan? She might be the most sensuous female agent since the French shot Mata Hari. It's because I don't want to mess-up what we have. And a sexual element would complicate things infinitely.

I discovered that while we were investigating Pia's murder.

Pia's killer's DNA was a critical piece of evidence. If I didn't get it, the perp would skate. The problem was that he wouldn't give it up voluntarily. I COULD get it by brute force; which was my preferred method anyhow. But, knocking him out would warn him that I was coming. And I knew he'd scamper down a rat hole. So, I was stuck.

Kelly got it for me, except she did it by fucking the suspect. I should have known that she would do something like that. She saw how much I needed the sample, and it was just sex to her.

But, the thought of Kelly with that slime-ball's cock in her drove me into green-eyed paroxysms. I was astonished to find that I was even angrier than when I discovered that my loving wife was fucking the same douchebag.

It made me realize how deeply in love I was with Miss Kelly McMahan.

I'm a player. I'm always on top of the situation, nobody gets a clean shot, but Kelly knocked me out with one punch. And, the amount of hurt that she laid on me made her an existential threat.

So, I did the only thing I could. I closed her off completely.

Before I met Pia, I thought that everybody was out to screw me. I knew that Pia was the one person I could trust. She had every admirable trait, warm. loving, nurturing and smart. But she had one weakness. She loved to fuck. Her boss took advantage of that.

Pia's betrayal was hard to take, even for a thug like me. So, I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Instead, Kelly and I have the most sympatico bond that two partners can have. I've never had a friend, man, or woman, who I have EVER felt closer to than Kelly.

That includes my former wife. Pia was a warm and loving woman, too loving as the case turned out. But Pia didn't come close to Kelly's status as a life-partner. Kelly is me, and I am her.

Kelly gets horny when she has a new case. It's especially true if there might be danger and violence involved. That's her version of foreplay. I wondered what had prompted her present state.

She sauntered the rest of the way into the room. I said resignedly, "Okay, what are we doing now?"

She gave me her cat-that-ate-the-canary smirk and said, "How would you like an all-expense-paid trip to Europe?"

I said, "There's no such thing as free. What's the catch?"

She turned to close the door. She was wearing yoga pants, for God's sake!! Her butt was so perfectly round and full that you could bounce quarters off it. It's times like these that test my resolve. There isn't a man born, whom Kelly can't get a rise out of, especially when she is in one of THOSE moods.

She walked over and sat, crossing her legs in a way that drives me nuts. Naturally, she knows that. She said, "Frank at the NCTC called."

Frank was our Program Administrator. I said, "What does he want?"

She said, "He wants us to come to DC to talk. He said it had to be there, not here."

I said, "I wonder what's so red-hot pressing?"

Kelly got that familiar larcenous gleam in her eye, it's a look I love. She said, "I'll bet that there's a pot of gold at the end of THAT rainbow. I'll make the arrangements."

*****

Bill Hughes Junior had led a privileged life. His dad, Bill Senior, owned a big beltway consulting firm. His mother Maddie, was a lawyer and very rich in her own right.

Maddie was actually Billy's step-mom. But she was his center of gravity and guiding star. Her wisdom and intelligence were the virtues that inspired him to excellence.

The strength of her love had given Billy the confidence to excel at the Academy. After that, he had gone through the advanced-strike pipeline, at NAS Pensacola. When he graduated, he had flown carrier missions all over the Gulf.

Billy was renowned as a "hot stick." That got him an offer to join the Navy's Flight Demonstration Team, better known as the Blue Angels.

He met Suzy at a Make-a-Wish event. The Blue Angels, leverage Navy PR. Part of that is the one-on-one contact with the public, so Billy and the Team's slot guy were sitting at a table signing pictures. The PR people had carefully posed them in front of an F/A 18A, with its spectacular blue and yellow paint job.

Billy looked up into the hottest cornflower blue eyes imaginable. They mingled little girl innocence with carnal knowledge. She was smiling shyly while proffering the eight-by-ten glossy of him standing in front of his aircraft. He had to admit that he DID look like a knight in shining armor.

He gave her his most welcoming smile. Every member of the public got that smile. But this one was especially welcoming. That was because Suzy Marshall was a sight to behold.

Her flawless, heart shaped face was framed by a wealth of natural blond hair, tied back in a single long pony tail. Her features were perfect; button nose, huge round eyes and a mouth that was so sensual it screamed, "kiss me." She was wearing one of those off the shoulder tops that all the country-girls sport. The mounds of her big, round, firm breasts peeked above the elastic.

For a change, it was Billy who was flustered. He dropped the pen. Before he could move, she bent down and retrieved it. That didn't help things, since her perfect apple ass stretched her jeans even tighter. He just stood there looking at her. She looked at him expectantly. The people waiting in line started to get restless. He hastily signed. She said, "Thank you," and moved past him.

The slot guy said appreciatively, "Man, I would love a piece of THAT!!"

Later that day, Billy was standing in the Make-a-Wish reception. It was August, so he was wearing his Summer Service Whites, which everybody calls the "Milkman." He had the shoulder boards of a Lieutenant Commander and the gold wings of a Naval Aviator.

The "V" on his Air Medal designated his combat service and the 68 strike/flight numbers detailed it. The Distinguished Flying Cross with two silver stars indicated that some of that combat was down-on-the-deck in close support of Marine operations.

Billy didn't drink much. You need to have split second reflexes to fly an F/A-18; at least, in the way that it's supposed to be flown, so Billy kept himself in perfect shape. Self-discipline was natural for him. His mother expected it.

He knew that his mother loved him beyond her other children. It was odd really. Billy was three years old when Maddie Wilson came into his life. Billy had never known his birth mother, nor did he want to. There were only two women in his life. They were, his unparalleled mom and his even more incomparable sister Chelsea.

Maddie Hughes raised extraordinary children. Bill's younger sister, Chelsea, exceeded her mother's extravagant beauty. She should have been the family's stunning crown jewel, perfect debutante and conspicuous social asset. But she was a genius.

So, instead of "marrying well" and merging into white glove society, Chelsea disappeared into the darkweb. Nobody knew what she was doing, but the rumor was that she was an elite, super-hacker.

Chelsea idolized Billy, so he was the only family member with whom she regularly communicated. He knew that she was married to an enigmatic older guy and living on the Island of St Lucia. What they did for a living was anybody's guess. But whatever it was, had brought them very-big-money.

Billy had sufficiently "showed the flag." He was about to leave, when he felt a tentative tap on his arm. He turned questioningly; the only thing lacking was the halo and the heavenly choir. If there is such a thing as kismet, it appeared when Billy Hughes locked eyes with Miss Suzy Marshall.

Instead of a casual top and painted on jeans, this version of Suzy Marshall was dressed to kill. She was average height for a woman, perhaps five-five, but the brushed gold Herve Leger Iman dress made her look like five feet of shapely leg.

Of course, the rest of Suzy was awe inspiring. The dress was held up by a tapered strap that left her shoulders bare down to the big round mounds of her impressive boobs. It accentuated her long waist and amazing bubble-butt. Billy was enthralled.

Suzy said, "I wanted to thank you again for signing the picture." The look in her eye said she wanted to do a lot more than just thank him. He stammered some sort of inane reply and stood there gaping at her beauty.

There was an uncomfortable moment. She finally said, "My Daddy is sponsoring this event. Would you like to meet him?" So, she was rich too!!

Billy nodded mute assent and she gently took his arm and led him over to the circle of Louisville elite. She walked up to a guy who Kentucky society would have called, "Big Daddy." He was a large fleshy man, much bigger than Billy. It was Derby week, so he was wearing the full Colonel Sanders, right down to the black string tie. He was holding court with a bunch of big-shots. They were all drinking juleps.

Suzy crushed Billy's arm against one firm boob and said, "Daddy, I wanted to introduce Billy Hughes, we are close friends." That was news to Billy. It was good news, but news nonetheless. Big Daddy turned and looked at Billy, who was standing with his usual relaxed confident attitude.

Billy extended his hand and said, "An honor to meet you Sir."

Big Daddy did the calculations. The Blue Angels were in town and his daughter was wrapped, possessively around a naval aviator. Ergo, Billy must be one of the Angels. Big Daddy gave Billy the politician's two-handed shake and said in his booming voice, aimed at getting the maximum advantage out of what his daughter had brought him, "It's a privilege to meet you son. Which position do you fly?"

Everybody in the immediate area swiveled to look at him.

Billy blushed furiously and said self-effacingly, "Number five, lead solo, Sir. We do the sneak passes and the high-alphas. The guys in the diamond do the real flying."

Suzy actually squealed with excitement and said, "We'll get to see him do it tomorrow Daddy. I have his autographed picture and everything."

Big Daddy said expansively, "We'll all be looking for you tomorrow, Son. Perhaps you'll do us the honor of watching the fireworks show afterward on our VIP Rooftop."

Suzy squealed again and mashed his arm between her two big breasts. She said, "That would be wonderful Daddy. I'm never letting this man go."

*****

It's a fact!! Military intelligence is an oxymoron, but perhaps I'm jaded. Nothing ever surprises me and nobody in DC has ever sunk lower than my expectations. Still, the increasing amount of time that I have spent there never fails to reinforce the belief that there are additional depths to be plumbed.

When you think of intelligence you think of dedicated patriots. That's probably true among field agents and analysts. But with clandestine service managers; what you get are ass-covering blame-shifting bureaucrats, most of whom are pushing a personal agenda.

The best word to describe them is "sanctimonious." Their only thought is how to further their own career, and "the big picture" for them is the portrait of the current President, which is always worshipfully displayed behind their desk.

That pretty-much summed up Frank McCarthy. Frank always gives Kelly a thorough and appreciative going over whenever she's in the same room. Those attentions might be a problem for some women, but Kelly doesn't discourage it. She tries to keep Frank motivated and if he ever got out of line, she would just shoot him.

Frank was squatting at his desk, looking like Jaba the Hut; without the Klatooine paddy frogs. Kelly and I were sitting on the other side. Frank shuffled a file. It obviously contained our paperwork. He cleared his throat, then he sat there looking like he didn't know what to do with us.

Kelly, ever the smart-ass said in a bored voice, "Take your time Frank; we've got all day."

He harrumphed some more and then the door opened. Lieutenant General Burton Reynolds walked into the room. The good General's parents were either devoted fans of Smokey-and-the-Bandit or they were totally clueless. My money was on the latter.

The funnel gets narrow at the top, so moving up requires a skill-set more appropriate to the Emperor of Byzantium's Court than the E-Ring of the Pentagon. Hence, most three-stars are politicians. Sitting in front of me was a slightly chubby illustration of that adage.

Lieutenant General Reynolds had always been in Intelligence. So, he didn't carry the hard edge that field commanders have. Nevertheless, he was VERY impressed by the three stars on his shoulder tabs. And he expected everybody in the room to be equally awe-struck. IT WAS a significant achievement; no matter how much backstabbing he had to do to get there.

He also checked out Kelly, who was giving him a full vista of her gorgeous upper body. Kelly is perfectly happy to accommodate men, if they want to make fools out of themselves.

He turned to me and said, "I have an assignment for you Major."

I said, "Check with the Governor of Illinois, I'm in the Guard now."

He said roughly, "You've just been called back to active service MAJOR, here are your orders."

I thought to myself, "Shit!! Those bastards were going to activate me and McCarthy set this up."

I uttered the immortal words of every poor sucker the Army's just dropped in the shitter, "Why me!!?"

Reynolds got a beatific look and said, "Because we can!!"

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