TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 03

She nodded in agreement, but Dylan was fairly certain Betty had never known what it was like to be in love. "So, um, where are you going after this?" she asked.

Dylan smiled crookedly. "Back home," he said.

"Where's that?"

"Right now, Nebraska."

The girl wrinkled her brow. "Nebraska? I never pegged you for a corn farmer."

He chuckled. "Far from it," Dylan said. "That's, eh, just where they're sending me."

"So, that's pretty much it? You probably won't make it back this way again, huh?"

Dylan gave the girl a regretful smile. "Probably not."

Betty said nothing, just settled her chin to her knees and rocked back and forth for a few moments. She held a contemplative mask on her face, watching as Dylan cleaned the various firearms. Now and then, she would lift her head, full lips parting as if she were about to speak, but she remained silent.

"What is it, Betty?" he asked at last, his voice startling the girl. But just as she was about to respond, there came the sound of a bottle clattering to the ground outside the house. Dylan shot to his feet in an instant, snatching up one of the clean and loaded pistols. He gave Betty a quick look, with a single finger over his lips urging silence.

Betty nodded, her eyes wide and quivering with just the barest hint of anxiety. Dylan gestured with his hand, indicating for her to retreat to the bedroom. With a quick nod, the girl obeyed, pushing open the creaking portal as Dylan approached the front door. He peripherally listened to a hushed conversation between Betty and Michael Craig, though he could not quite catch the words.

He tipped open the door just enough to peer outside. The moon, though not quite full, did an ample job of painting the surrounding landscape in broad strokes of ivory light. The closest trees were a good thirty paces away, yet they were swallowed in shadow. There could have been a man with a weapon pointed at his head, and even Dylan's perfect vision would not be able to discern him.

He chanced a moment, poking his head out and looking left and right. He sniffed the air, trying to detect cologne or sweat, listened for tell-tale sounds such as footprints and breathing. He heard a skittering noise coming from around the corner, sounding like a rodent. His deduction told him what had caused the bottle to tip over, yet he remained cautious as he exited the door and stepped carefully to the edge of the house. He was careful to test the boards that remained before setting his weight upon them. A couple creaked slightly.

Reaching the corner, he leaned around the corner, pistol leading the way. What he thought had happened was revealed as a grey cat looked up at him, standing over the fallen bottle. For a moment, then animal froze, then darted away through the underbrush. Dylan stooped and replaced the bottle upon its short stump.

Still on alert, Dylan retraced his steps, scanning the dark treeline. He only relaxed once he was inside the house once more and the door was closed.

"What was it?" camed Betty's tentative voice from the bedroom.

"Just a cat," Dylan said, smiling warmly upon the girl. "How's Craig?"

Betty gave a distasteful look and stepped into the room, closing the bedroom door. "He's just . . . sitting in a corner, wrapped up in a blanket. I think he's going loony."

"Maybe not the worst reaction," Dylan commented, taking out his pocket watch. Three hours, he thought.

Betty suddenly chuckled, but muffled it quickly with her hand over her mouth. Dylan looked to the girl as she leaned against a rickety table.

"Something funny?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "It's just . . . well, when you looked at the time, it reminded me of an old joke. Something I heard growing up in boarding school."

Dylan smiled. "What was it?"

Betty's cheeks glowed slightly. "It . . . it's not really that funny."

"No, come on," urged Dylan. "I could use a good laugh."

Betty huffed, but her dimples still showed. "It goes like this: A boy sees another boy sitting on the steps of the school, and he looks real confused. The first boy asks, 'what's wrong?' And the second boy says, 'I've been asking people what time it is all day, and I keep getting different answers.'"

Dylan chuckled under his breath, casting his eyes down.

"I know, it's terrible," Betty lamented, her rouge deepening.

"It really is," agreed Dylan as his smile grew.

The girl snorted suddenly, then covered her mouth again as she laughed. "Well, this ain't exactly Vaudeville," she said, gesturing to their surroundings.

Dylan waited for his smile to fade before he asked, "You grew up in a boarding house, right?"

Betty nodded, dropping onto one of the dirty mattresses. "My mother died when I was born," she said. "I got put into an orphanage, and when I was old enough, they sent me to boarding schools. I guess I wasn't the best student; I was always getting in scuffles and the like."

Dylan took a seat at the end of the mattress. "Believe it or not, that sounds very familiar. I grew up in an orphanage, then a boarding school as well."

Betty cocked her head, her expression mildly incredulous. "No fooling?"

Dylan shook his head with a rueful smile. "My mother died right after I was born, too. Don't really know how. But the sisters of Our Lady of Eternal Hope were pretty good to me."

Betty blinked once, then stared, her lips parting slowly. "'Eternal Hope?'" she asked. "In Brooklyn?"

Dylan studied the girl's face a moment, feeling a sense of astonishment touch his mind. "Don't tell me . . . ."

She slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph," she intoned, her words slightly muffled. "That's unbelievable."

A soft, amazed laugh escaped Dylan's lips. "Yes, it is."

"Was Sister Beatrice there?" Betty asked excitedly. "She was my favorite. She always made the Bible fun to read. But maybe that was since she was so young."

Dylan chuckled. "I remember her," he said. Although the woman I remember was in her late thirties and not very entertaining.

Betty's eyes glittered. "Wow. Imagine the odds, huh?"

Dylan nodded. "You know, Betty . . . ."

"Yeah?"

Dylan studied her pretty, freckled young face. For a moment, he tried to remember when he was her age. Five decades and more had passed since those precious years. The Korean War was drawing to a close, and Elvis Presley had not even made his first album. The fifties had been such an innocent time for him, at least until he joined the force and real life latched onto his neck with a stranglehold. Damn. Look how much has happened since . . . .

He blinked, tearing his eyes away from the girl's. "I wanted to ask you about something," he said, finding an excuse to study the door. "About . . . what you were expecting the other night. In the closet."

Betty didn't say anything for long moments, prompting Dylan to look back to her. The young woman was looking at her feet, nibbling her fingernails. Dylan could just make out a touch of color on her cheeks.

"I don't make judgments on other people, Betty."

She lifted her head, eyes wide and fretful. "I been at that damn hotel for two years," she said. "They pay all right, but sometimes . . . well, sometimes we can make some extra money. Mr. Starkweather usually sets it up, but we can, you know, if we're discrete about it . . . ." Betty trailed off, blushing deeply once more, and cast her eyes down. "I don't do it much, and I really don't like it, but . . . well, ten bucks is ten bucks. That's a lot of clams for a girl like me."

"Like I said, Betty, I don't judge anyone."

She mumbled something, lips barely moving.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I didn't say nothing."

Dylan was about to speak again when he tensed, hearing a slight scraping noise through the door. Betty had obviously not detected the sound, for she acted no different. "Betty," Dylan said in a soft voice. "Don't make any noise, don't say anything, just go to the back room."

She lifted her head questioningly.

"Do it," hissed Dylan, pushing to his feet. "Now!"

Betty paused for only brief moment before scrambling to her feet and darting to the bedroom door. It creaked slightly as she stepped through, then again as she closed it – but not completely. She watched as Dylan, pistol in hand, peeked through the front door. He hesitated a moment, then stepped through. Betty caught her breath, feeling anxiety creeping up her thighs and tingling in the pit of her stomach.

Please, God, don't let anything happen to him.

***

There was no one on the porch, but Dylan felt that familiar, eerie sensation that he was not alone as soon as he stepped outside. He often wondered, throughout his career, if he possessed some sort of psychic ability, but always dismissed his uncanny alertness to a 'heightened perception of things.'

Such as what he felt at that moment. The stirring of the wind, the rustle of leaves in the trees, a faint creaking of a board somewhere on the house . . . behind and above him.

He dove forward, spinning lengthwise in the air, looking up toward the roof over the slide of the sidearm he held in a two-handed grip. He fired once at the moon-illumined figure before falling to the ground, and that single shot found its mark in the center of the man's chest. The Walker spasmed, pitching backward, slamming into the roof and rolling down to fall upon the ground. Dirt and detritus exploded around the body in a cloud.

Dylan jumped to his feet, looking around, anticipating more of the Walker's kind. He looked, listened, senses on high alert. He felt the breeze across his skin, the chill in the air. In the darkness, owls hooted and insects chirped. But there was something else. A presence.

"Reece," he said aloud.

A dark chuckle rolled out from the darkness of the trees. Dylan looked, crouching to make himself less of a target, sharp eyes sweeping the shadows over the barrel of his weapon.

Dylan ground his teeth, feeling invaded at hearing Foster Reece's words in his mind.

Dylan looked around, trying to peer through the shadows in the trees.

Dylan could almost hear the grim chuckle as Reece responded.

Anxiously, Dylan looked to the house, frozen for a moment by his own fears of what may have happened inside while he had been out. Curse me for a fool, he thought, then bolted for the door. The flimsy portal nearly flew off its hinges as he stormed within, pistol leading the way.

"Betty?" he called.

The bedroom door creaked open. The girl's face glowed faintly in the light streaming through the door. Her eyes were wide and apprehensive. "Dylan?"

"Is everything all right? How's Craig?"

She glanced behind her. "Um, he's in the bathroom. You know . . . tossing his cookies. Is, um, is everything okay?"

Dylan closed the door behind him, then stepped gingerly toward the trembling girl. Betty gave him a furtive look; she was clearly afraid. Briefly, Dylan touched her shoulder, his eyes reassuring. "Just stay calm, Betty," he said. "It will all be over soon."

The girl nodded, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes never left his until she impulsively pressed herself against him, sliding her arms around his shoulders. Dylan was startled to immobility as the girl pressed her mouth to his, sucking hungrily on his lips. A current seemed to pass from her and into his body, powerful and undeniable. Dylan was surprised at the intense level of arousal that washed through him, and found himself responding much more readily than he would have liked.

With effort, he pushed the girl away, just enough that the kiss was broken. For a moment, they recovered their breath, neither of them speaking a word. Dylan felt dazed, his mind momentarily jumbled. Guilt flashed through him for an instant as he realized Corinna had never aroused him so quickly and completely.

"I, uh . . . I'd better check on Mr. Craig."

Betty blinked profusely, licking her lips and trying to quell the shivers of excitement that rippled through her body. Never before had a man filled her with such need, such longing. Never had she ever actually wanted a man as much as she wanted Dylan. She could only nod and let Dylan pass.

With reluctance, Dylan left Betty by the hall to the bedroom and approached the bathroom door. "Mr. Craig," he called out. "Are you all right?"

Sputtering was the response from the other side of the door. "Oh, I'm just dandy," Craig said in a wavering voice. The door jerked open, revealing the effeminate man with a towel held against his chin. The reek of vomit accompanied his words as he spoke. "Is it over now? Did you get the bastard?"

"You'll need to stay inside just a little longer, Mr. Craig," Dylan responded. He took out his pocket watch, glancing to it briefly. "Just another couple of hours."

"This is ridiculous!" spouted Craig. "You're treating me like a prisoner!"

Dylan gritted his teeth in annoyance and held up a pair of steel handcuffs. "No, I'd be treating you like a prisoner if I used these."

Craig gasped and recoiled. "You wouldn't!"

Dylan replaced the cuffs in his back pocket. "Not unless I had to," he said. "Just stay in the bedroom, and no matter what happens, don't answer the door unless you hear my voice. Understood?"

Craig grumbled under his breath, but nevertheless nodded. "When I get back to New York, I'm giving Mr. Hoover a call. He should know how his agents are treating those they claim to protect."

Dylan smirked. "You do that, Mr. Craig."

***

Betty sat forlorn upon one of the mattresses, looking at the array of weapons laid out upon a blanket beside her. The deadly reality of the intent behind those weapons' existence was inexplicable and daunting. They were used to kill, she realized.

This isn't fun, Betty, she told herself. This isn't a movie. He's not Hoot Gibson, and you're not Helen Foster. This is real. So why in damnation are you here? Because of him?

She looked up as Dylan returned, closing the bedroom door behind him. Her eyes drank him in, and she once again felt that inexplicable sense of arousal, of connection to him, that she had felt that very first day. It was almost like . . . destiny. "I'm scared, Dylan."

He stood by the door, as if reluctant to approach her. He was so stoic, so strong, the idea that he would protect her was one thing that Betty could never doubt. Yet she was aware that she wanted more from him than protection, and that idea frightened her.

"I know. I shouldn't have let you come. I'm putting your life at risk, and I can't have that."

"You said you would protect me."

Dylan set his jaw, making the muscles at his temples bulge. "And I will," he said firmly. He approached and knelt before Betty, taking up one of the pistols. "Do you know how to use this?"

Betty shuddered. "I . . . I used to have a boyfriend," she said sheepishly, reaching for the firearm Dylan offered. "He was, um, older . . . a soldier. He taught me how to shoot."

Dylan nodded. "I want you to hang onto this," he said. "Just for tonight. I hope you won't have to use it."

Her eyes quivered, glistening with a film of tears. "What's gonna happen, Dylan?" she whispered, barely able to push the words out. Her eyes glowed with the obvious need for comfort. Her silent yearning was something Dylan could not ignore.

"Hey," he said soothingly, settling on the mattress beside Betty. He took the pistol from her hands, setting it aside, and pulled her to him. Betty shuddered as she felt his muscular chest against her back, even through the layers of clothing they wore. The arm around her waist seemed to transfer strength. She felt safe, protected. Automatically, she clutched his arm, pulling it tighter about her. She sighed softly as her heavy breasts brushed it. The arousal she had felt before flooded back, now even stronger.

"It's all right to be scared, Betty," Dylan spoke into her ear. "Even I feel it. The trick is not to be unafraid, but to use the fear. Control it."

"Maybe that's easy for you," she said, turning her face to nuzzle his chest. "But right now, the only thing that's helping is . . . is you."

Dylan took a breath, trying to contain the desire that had barged into his mind. The power of his feelings was unlike anything he had known before. It was as if he was being drawn to this young woman. "I . . . I'm here for you, Betty," he whispered, brushing the lobe of her ear with his lips.

Betty gasped, closing her eyes a moment to savor the sexual electricity coursing through her. She pushed against Dylan's body, bit at the fabric of his shirt. A needy moan escaped her lips. "Are you, really?" she managed to ask.

Dylan hesitated only a brief moment, lifting his free hand to cup her chin and turn her toward him. He gazed into her eyes, seeing that they were as heady and full of desire as his own. "Yes," he responded, then lowered his head.

The world melted around them. The kiss was all that mattered. Moist lips met and sucked, tongues tickled and probed. Betty murmured into his mouth, bringing up her hands to caress the stubble of her lover's face. She twisted in his arms, falling back with him until she was atop. Automatically, her legs fell across him, straddling his lap. The growing bulge in his slacks rubbed pleasurably against the single layer of cotton that covered her pussy.

"I want you, Dylan," she whispered between heated kisses. The heat and wetness between her thighs was already palpable. "Make love to me."

Dylan could only respond with a primal growl, belying his own wants. He pawed at her dress, pulling the top down until her breasts were freed, naked and bouncing. Betty sighed deeply at the touch of his rough, warm fingers, they way he pinched the distended nipples. The light spattering of freckles across the tops of her full mounds contrasted erotically with her pale skin, but not as much as the dusky pink of her swollen nipples and broad, thick areolas.

"Oh, Dylan . . . Dylan!" gasped the girl as he lifted his head, swiping his tongue across one of those firm, rosy protrusions. She cradled his head in her hands, urging him to lick, then suck. Betty arched her back, pressing her breast to his mouth. The heat between her thighs grew exponentially. She ground her pussy against his cock, wanting the layers of fabric between them gone.

Words would not have done justice to the moment, Dylan realized, nor would he have known what to say. There was nothing to say, after all. The moment was about passion.

He rolled the girl onto her back, laying between her spread thighs as he suckled the thick nipples of her proffered breasts. He sucked and pulled, nipped with his teeth. The soft, pillowy feel of her tits was angelic, pure. He kissed all around her nipples, sucked gently at the underside of the girl's mounds before kissing his way down her body.

The dress Betty wore seemed to melt away, fabric loosening and pushed aside. Her belly was soft, yet youthfully toned. She stiffened, then relaxed repeatedly at the touch of his lips and tongue. The southward movement of Dylan's mouth made her squirm, especially when her skirt was pushed up and he kissed around the edges of her panties.

"Dylan . . . Dylan, don't," she moaned, her words only partially sincere. "That's dirty."

He smiled, pushing her thighs wide apart. The aroma of her sex filled his senses. It was sweet and musky . . . ripe. He passed his tongue over the bulging lips covered by her underwear. "I like dirty," he responded, then curled his fingers beneath the edge of the garment, pulling them aside. For a moment, he gazed upon the soft brown hair that covered her pussy like a fine coat. Her vulva were thick, framing soft pink labia that draped down from a fleshy clitoral hood.