The Swarm - Unraveling the Shadows

Moving to a shelf adorned with a locked glass display, she unlocked it and turned to present a delicate flower.

"And here we have the golden forever rose. It's a match for Gabby's choker. Usually, it's a gift given by a husband or boyfriend. A twenty-four-carat gold-dipped rose signifies a love that is truly unique and everlasting — if that aligns with your sentiments," she said, accompanied by another playful giggle.

I caught the hidden meaning behind that giggle. 'You don't give a woman a golden rose unless you've been intimately involved with her.' Tinkerbell had to be aware of the special place Gabby held in my heart, surpassing even my affection for her sister.

A hundred-bucks-and-change lighter, I left the shop with a golden rose and a sterling silver table arrangement. Impish, Tinkerbell Anna had offered me a discount if I bought her an antique choker that matched one I gave Carmen or Gabriella for Christmas.

Perhaps,I thought,you got yourself in over your head, GI Joe.

The twins were demanding enough already, adding another woman, well .... I paid full price, although the coquettish Anna was lovely.

Unlocking the rusty remnants of my Chevy truck, I glanced up and froze in surprise. Standing at the curb was a low-slung, lipstick-red Maserati with an image of a bird on the hood, its wings spread as if in flight. It was emblazoned with the name 'Nightingale' curved over the outstretched wings. That was one fine automobile and certainly out of place in this neighborhood. The petite, long-haired driver was focused on a road map. Lost, I figured.

She glanced up, looking in my direction.

As our eyes met, my thoughts spun backward in time. I saw a familiar-looking face, a look that framed the face of many Amerasian women in a distant place. They all seemed to wear that same stoic countenance as they watched you go by. For 300 piastres ($2.50 American), you could spend time with one for a few hours. This long-haired charmer, though, looked ... different. Perhaps it was because of the one-hundred-thousand-dollar car she drove. Whatever--she had a sense of confidence as her gaze fixed upon me. Nothing subservient in her manner; she didn't look away like those demur Asian girls in 'Nam. She just smiled and then went back to reading her map.

Yes, she had that look, but her demeanor was different from those girls over there.

I let out my breath, finally realizing I was holding it, having been seized by that recollection. I rethought my observation of her petite and shapely form. It had been a world away, different years, and memories best forgotten. Besides, a girl driving a Maserati would never have been there. Still from the VA Hospital? She looked familiar in that way also ... probably not--Maserati and hospitals don't go together either.

And girls like her, well, in the night's shadows, all tend to blend into a hauntingly familiar silhouette as they lie beside you.

Jack Wilson sent me the service jacket on James, aka Jimmy, or Jim Rawlings. It was green-lighted with a new and unfolding assignment. It had a budding, undefined beginning, and its direction was unknown. Essentially, it was deemed beyond the scope of the standard intelligence surveillance systems within the continent. Hence, it fell into the realm of the Criminal Studies Division, a small, elite force of independent operators sanctioned to assess and deliver swift and immediate justice as required — sometimes, without a judge or jury. If you asked anyone in normal channels about such an entity, you would be met with scoffing and get an immediate plausible denial, much like denying the CIA doesn't operate within the USA. And officially on record, it doesn't; I do unofficially.

Rawlings came up on Jack Wilson's radar screen. I figured it was some ex-Army infatuation for which my boss, a former Airborne Ranger, had a fondness. But as I poured through his files and the Fed case the newspapers tagged as 'The Texas Grifters,' I think it was more case related than helping pull a battle-worn Purple-Heart Recipient and former POW out of the fire situation.

Jimmy,I thought, as I read his military jacket,you've been through hell: shot, tortured, severed fingers, and a mangled hand. Not to mention being kept in a cesspool up to your neck for days. No wonder Jack had me watching you at the VA Center and tracking your situation. You poor bastard.

JW's brief also included the background info on the suspected smuggling situation from Mexico following our Interstate Highways. It involved a trucking company. That link connected to Worthington's accounting and had everyone connected to those actions, including a state agency dude nicknamed 'Fish.' It was an apt surname — the guy's last name is Sturgis. Study that long enough, and anyone could connect the dots -- Sturgis ... Sturgeon ... Fish ... Adam Sturgis, aka 'Fish' Sturgis, retired Sargent Major, US Army."

I flipped through former Green Beret Colonel Brett Worthington's jacket as well. Damn! It was thirty years of heavy shit. Fuck, GI, You've been all over the world and cited for a chest full of medals for many clandestine activities. Hell, your jacket references documents even marked 'SECRET.' Sure-as-hell, ought to nickname you Colonel Samuel Richard "Sam" Trautman standing alongside 'Rambo,' I smiled at that connection. Rambo Rawlings and Colonel Brett Trautman making movies together.

At this distance, his counterpart, Rawlings, had that Rambo look, broad chest, arms like a gorilla, and narrow at the waist, easily five-ten — like Stallone. You could quickly tell he still worked out, despite the missing fingers and battered hand--fuckn handsome as hell, to boot. I could see myself jumping his bones — or at least thinking about it. Wonder if he's attached?

JW tasked me to monitor and alert him regarding their latest client's trucking issues. It seems there is some connection between the Muller Trucking company and a case on which JW is working. In Navy terms, that's usually going to be a 'damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead' case at some point. I've learned that from my four years of Navy time and three years of experience working as a 'Fixer' for the Criminal Studies Division; at least, that is what the sign on the headquarters building reads. It should read, 'Vigilante Justice League.'

I followed the old Chevy Silverado from the flower shop, staying discreetly behind. It wasn't like I was going to lose him. Its rust and aged bed camper, marked with faded Ft. Bragg stickers, stood out like a neon sign on an expressway in the middle of the night--crying out, here I am!

He pulled into a business lot next to a house and got out. I watched an old cur greet him and play around for a bit. Buddies, for sure. Rawlings reached into his pocket, pulled out what looked like a few dog biscuits, and tossed them to the fence line. The dog may have been old, but fuck, it was like a rocket in motion after them.

Damn, glad I don't have to scale that fence tonight,I thought as I watched from a half block away.

I hoped this wasn't going to be a long wait. It was fuckn chilly. But those flowers in his arms didn't have my hopes up. He knocked, and the door opened. Through a thin sliver of light, he stepped inside. I was prepared to wait him out for a few hours, then call it a night. I watched the dog roam the yard. I slid down into the comfortable leather seat of my 'Nightingale.' My mom's nickname. Dad, a former Navy guy, had called her that since he met her in a port call over thirty years ago.

"Fuck. Flowers in hand and a cute woman opening the door. Shit," I let out a low growl. I knew what that meant.

Fuck, yeah, attached, it seems, I sighed, rubbing my hands together in the cool night air.

In the silence of the waiting game, my thoughts returned to when I found a table full of yellow roses when I checked into a suite in the Hyatt in downtown San Antonio a few years back. JW sent those as an apology for pulling me into my last case — I met JW number two there. I smiled at those memories. Learning to fly a twin-engine jet was almost as much fun as jumping Jack Wilson's number two's bones after a major sexual craving hit us right after my first solo flight.

Although, nearly getting killed later wasn't a fond memory of what followed in the Mexican jungles when I flew into a drug lord's private airstrip. That motherfucker never got to think about that kind of loving experience ... you don't kill whole families with kids and get off that easy.

He didn't. I forced myself to breathe as those thoughts settled down. I watched for signs of movement, anything that told me Jim Rawlings wasn't staying the night. Two hours — I'd give him that much before bugging out.

"Hey, you," I spoke softly, stepping into the backdoor armed with flowers. Carmen reached around my waist for a close-up hug and a smooch. It was a warm embrace, those braless mounds pressing into my chest as she lingered for a moment. Then she backed up to take a better look at what I'd brought.

"Aw ... you brought me flowers," she whispered.

"Asleep?" I asked softly, inquiring about Gabby, the mother, and bride-to-be. From her twin sister's low tone, I figured Gabby was taking that mommy-to-be late nap time. Good thing she had a devoted twin to look after her.

"Yep. But I bet she would wake up if you kissed her, Prince Charming. Especially a kiss somewhere south of her baby bump," she chuckled with a grin. Carmen wasn't shy with innuendos. Both girls loved kisses south of their belly buttons.

Taking the Sterling-Silver-tipped table arrangement, she placed it in the center of the dining room table. "They're lovely, Jimmy," she said, admiring them while giving me another hug.

For a nineteen-year-old, Carmen was a very intuitive woman. She had this uncanny ability to read people and situations with dead-on acumen. She placed the golden rose by the plate where Gabby always sits. She knew whom it was meant for without my saying a word. Her action reaffirmed that character trait of alacrity she presents so well in a crisis like my last one. She pulled me through a meltdown moment. I smiled and caught her in another hug, this time empty-handed and more closely.

"Don't ... get me started," Carmen breathed, then slowly untangled herself.

"Go," she whispered, pushing me back reluctantly. Her push said one thing, but her smile and twinkling eyes left a different impression.

I headed down the hallway.

"Gabriella ... hey Gabby ... your sister says it's time for dinner, sleepy lady," I whispered, stroking her hair while she lay sleeping. She looked like an angel, the kind you see watching over a manger on Christmas Eve. A few months away, still, I figured. According to the doctor's best guess, she would deliver around Christmas Day.

"Baby ..." something ... he or she didn't have a name yet ... "You seem to be getting a lot of rest, sleepyhead. Time to let your mom get up ...." I leaned down, whispered to the tiny round orb beneath that silky pajama top, and gently kissed her tummy.

Gabby's eyes popped open and blinked. Her face turned into a grin as she realized I had been watching her. She rolled to face me, clutched my hand, and held it against her tummy.

"So, Jimmy, have your baby's name picked out yet? You get to pick the girl's name; I'm taking the boy's name if it turns out to be a boy," she signed as she stretched and sat up.

"What's for dinner? I'm famished," Gabby yawned and stretched again while swinging her legs down and over the edge of the bed.

I chuckled, thinking about my thoughts this afternoon of watching Gina doing those stretching exercises as we struggled through the data analysis.

"Not sure about dinner, but Carmen said you needed a kiss south of your baby bump as an appetizer," I smirked as I knelt, spread her legs, and gently kissed that silky fabric covering her sex.

"My sister always knows best," Gabby grinned, grasping my head with both hands. She raised her hips, and I slipped her pajama bottom down to her ankles. Her hands guided me as I pressed my bare lips against her exposed mons. She gasped as my tongue glided up and down her labia.

"Um, yeah, Jimmy. Carmen is right. I do need a good kiss — a good, long French kiss, baby ... right there," she squeaked out the last words as I found her clit.

Her breathing turned hot and heavy. Her body dropped back onto the bed as she raised her legs into a butterfly pose. In just a couple of minutes of sensual cunnilingus, she flooded my face with her viscous secretion. It was fast and furious. Her hands had slipped away from my head, and one found its way to her clit, helping me to speed things along. Her hips began undulating with urgency, as though she hadn't been fucked in a month, but it was just yesterday that I'd been buried deep inside her. We had spent most of that day in bed, my having just returned from the VA hospital. Hormones and a pregnant woman... I had a lot to learn. Her release was amazing as she gasped for air amidst my stimulations. Her eyes even rolled into her head as her eyelids fluttered momentarily. Then she went spastic, forcing my face away as the sensations of a powerful climax overwhelmed her.

"Maria Elena," I answered her question about the baby girl's name in the lull as I came up for air. What followed after she came from my oral pleasuring was unexpected. Her face went from pleasurable gasps to tears pouring down.

"Hell, I thought you would be happy about my choice of the baby's name?"

"Our mom's name ..." she sobbed.

"I'll pick another, don't cry; you know I can't stand that. I'm sorry, baby," I choked up at her emotional outburst.

"Doofus, these are tears of joy. I'm glad you picked out Maria Elena — after Mama," she half-snorted and half-cried again. "You've got a lot to learn about women, Jimmy."

Tell me about it! I realized. How do you distinguish between tears of joy and ... sadness.

Dinner was a bit late, as a kiss below a baby bump takes a while to deliver.

I had grown more accustomed to the Spanish American dinners the twins served. I even learned how to roll a tortilla as a spoon for carne guisada, rice, and beans. Gabriella ate, I swear, more than Carmen and I did together, as I watched her put it away like a grunt at Christmas Dinner at home with his family.

Partially clearing the table while I watched Gabby double dipping, Carmen's cough caught my attention.

"Jimmy, the dishes can wait," she smiled and batted her eyelashes at me. Flirt and provocateur, she had my attention.

She was waving for me to follow her down the hall. It seemed Carmen couldn't wait and wanted her to turn at kisses delivered south of the border. I looked at Gabby for her reaction. She was still at the table, grinning from ear to ear. She waved me on, permission granted, and motioned me down the hallway.

"S'okay, the horny girl didn't get the appetizer I did before dinner, Jimmy. If you don't hurry -- she'll start without you."

"You coming?" I asked in response.

"Later, sugar, Carmie has missed you for six weeks. Baby and I had a bit of pleasure from your kisses. So, I'll do the dishes ... and catch up if you still can get it up later."

I was pleased about that--double pleased by about ten o'clock and satiated after tumbling in bed with the twins. I had to beg off from further attempts by insatiable Carmen and head back to my townhouse for some rest.

"Girls, I can't stay. I have to meet Gina at nine in the morning, and you two have that new landscaping job scheduled for the morning. But tomorrow night ...."

The air was cool as I tossed my last biscuit to Blacktongue and pulled out just far enough to lock the gate. In the distance, half a block away, I saw flashing police lights. At this late hour, cops had stopped another drunk, I figured. I hope his ass gets to spend the night as a guest in the holding cell. I rolled past the scene on my way back to the townhouse.

Damn, the cops have the Maserati girl pulled over, I thought.

It didn't take long until they killed the lights and pulled quietly away. They must have gotten off with a warning, I calculated by their short stay. Her back was turned as I eased on by the scene. She was getting back into her car. A glance and I saw she could pass for a kid caught out after curfew. She was no taller than five feet and a few inches and built like a lightweight ... something ... yet her silhouette cried out, 'hot-looking long-haired chic,' I caught that much before I refocused on driving.

Eyes on the road, Rawlings, or you'll wind up with a cop pulling you over for weaving down the road.

At dusk, I had seen her parked by the flower shop just two blocks away. Now the cops had her pulled over just off the main drag in a not-too-good part of town and at an awful hour.

What keeps a girl in this area for so long, this late at night?

"Damn my luck, fuck!" I muttered, springing into my Nightingale.

The cops rolled up on me as I staked out Rawling's flower delivery to an old house next to a multi-port garage. It was an odd combination of home/business, gardening services, and snow plowing. I could see why their curiosity was alerted, a hot car in the wrong part of town. It was past business hours, for sure. I sensed that as I exited the car and held my identification in their bright spotlight. I used my FBI credentials, which I had stolen from the FBI bitch who tried to shoot me down in El Paso, Texas. They moved off when I told them I was undercover. Still, that three minutes was exactly when Rawlings came out of that gardening and snowplow business lot. I know he saw me. He slowed down as he went by. Damn, unlucky. GI Joe saw my ass twice today — fucking unreal.

I'd have to create a plausible story by tomorrow morning for being in the area late when I introduced myself to Worthington and his staff. I couldn't leave a clue that I'd been surveilling the hero warrior. I suppose looking for a place to stay overnight would work. I did have to do that anyway,I thought as I rolled my Maserati Nightingale onto the deserted streets. I weaved my way back onto the Interstate and found a place for the night nearby. Five or six hours — after a hot shower — and I'd be up downloading the new data from Jack Wilson's brief before heading out to Worthington and Worthington Accounting for a look-see at the forensic data they had gathered.

It was a comforting routine, stepping back into the morning ritual beside Worthington, our hands lifting three flags high: the American flag, the state flag, and the solemn black one, a poignant reminder of the POWs and the fallen heroes who never made it home. Worthington took pride in the traditional military display of colors, a steadfast symbol amidst the shifting tides of our nation. It was a constant reminder of the honor and duty to serve our country, a loyalty we held dear. If only we had a bugler playing a somber tune and uniforms adorned with medals, it would truly feel like home--a place where our patriotic spirit soared.

Gina rushed in at half past nine, tossing her jacket on the coat stand while gushing, "Sorry, I'm late! Found out why Muller is losing money yet, GI?"