Wire-Pulling Pt. 02

Then there were the repeated visits of what seemed to be young Paul's girlfriend. The sister of one of his colleagues. If they were seriously working on this case, there wouldn't be that many conjugal visits taking place, further enforcing Dallas' false sense of security.

The final straw that made him overrule Fairfield's orders, however, was the report of the surveillance team stationed in an adjacent building to Paul's apartment complex. According to that report, there was a good chance that he had, somehow, some way, managed to deceive them, and was in actuality living somewhere else. This report confused Dallas, as they had been observed consistently entering and leaving the building, and he knew for a fact that Paul did not own another apartment in the building. They had launched an extensive background check on the guy, so they knew he didn't have any secret bank accounts or cash reserves that would allow him to rent anything under a false name.

Fairfield himself was out of the country at that time, meeting with another client to discuss another operation. So, the decision was his. And he needed to make sure they were surveilling the right apartment! If there was even the remote possibility of young Paul deceiving them, he had to confirm it. The operation's success hinged on information like this.

However, only minutes after the infiltration team had gained access to the apartment and confirmed that the usual indicators for an ongoing cohabitation in the apartment were all present, the lookouts called the alarm. Just as Fairfield had warned them, the apartment must have been rigged somehow, because the police had been on their way within a minute of the team stepping a foot inside!

Dallas, once again, cursed mentally, as Fairfield had finished studying the photos the infiltration team had gathered and leaned back in his seat, regarding Dallas with a deadly glare.

"So, tell me," Fairfield started in a cold tone. "What exactly did that report say that made you throw caution to the wind and let your team walk right into this mess?"

"Sir, the report from the surveillance team stated that, despite seeing Mr. White and his mother enter and leave the apartment complex on an almost daily basis,... the lights in his apartment have never been turned on. So, they trained a parabolic microphone towards his living room window, but they couldn't pick up any significant activity with that either."

"Uh-huh," was all Fairfield cared to comment in a lazy tone before leaning towards a drawer and pulling out another report. With a perfectly emotionless face, he loudly dropped the file in front of Dallas and gestured for him to take it.

The report's first page was enough to make Dallas' stomach drop. What Fairfield had dropped in front of him was the result of the investigation they had launched into one of Paul's colleagues. A 'Timothy Brown', the brother of the girl that had been witnessed visiting Paul so many times over the past few days. The reason why a single glance had that effect on him was because, at the very top of the very first page, it listed Mr. Brown's residence as an apartment in the same building. He was Paul's former neighbor.

"You see, Dallas," Fairfield started with a mixture of exhaustion and disappointment. "If you just had consulted with me before causing this shitshow, it could have been fully avoided."

"Sir, you weren't even in the country. We NEEDED to confirm his whereabouts!"

"Have you ever heard of a phone, man!?" Fairfield responded irritated. "Do you have ANY idea how much of a problem this is going to become!"

"Sir..." Dallas tried to defend himself but was immediately shot down.

"No! You just listen for now." He waited for Dallas to nod before he continued. "I told you, in no uncertain terms, that we needed to EXPECT countersurveillance. What in the world made you think he wouldn't have installed some kind of hidden security system in his own apartment? Not only did you burn two very capable members of our infiltration team and handed valuable hardware to the enemy, you also handed them proof of there even being a case for them to work on! Until now, all they had were suspicions! Now they have enough to convince even the most skeptical judge in the country that there's more going on!"

"But... all they have is someone placing a bug under his desk. Mr. White works as an investigator. This could just as well just be some former..."

"Are you completely out of your mind!? That was not just a bug! That was a short-wave transceiver! And not exactly a version that you could buy at RadioShack, either! So, not only do they know that this was a high-profile attack, but once they examine the thing, they will determine that it doesn't have enough power to transmit over long distances! Consequently, they will be looking for our surveillance teams stationed around his apartment and be even more careful from now on! We won't be able to get close enough to even train the parabolic microphones anymore! And what's with this crap I had to read about you trying to plant something on his computer?"

Dallas had to swallow. As he had thought earlier, this was just another disaster.

"Sir, given how he and his colleagues managed to pull the DA onto their side..."

"As a direct result of your earlier screw-up with the photos of Ms. Anderson's affair," Fairfield threw in lazily, stunning Dallas for a moment before he continued.

"Y-Yes. I thought it would be well-advised to have something on him. So, if he actually managed to turn something up that would make him a thread, we could blackmail him into backing down."

What Dallas had just told his superior was indeed the truth. But there was another reason as well. Carver's demise had provided him with a new perspective on this organization. He enjoyed his function as a quasi-secret agent. He did not enjoy watching people die. If the team had been successful in their operation, and the police had not seized the PC, it would have been an alternative to disposing of the young man in the event of him being successful in his investigation.

Instead, the stupid boy had to ruin it. And now both of their fates were unclear.

Fairfield may have seemed not more than annoyed by Dallas's repeated insubordination, but internally he was livid. This was no way to conduct themselves in this business. If it were up to him, he would shoot the man where he stood. However, he had not forgotten that Dallas was the offspring of one of the organization's founding members, and therefore, regrettably, untouchable.

"Maybe," Fairfield thought to himself, "These repeated beginner mistakes, which could very well cost us a very wealthy client, would make the higher-ups see reason. At least they could allow me to throw this imbecile into a plane and send him home."

"Sir," Dallas' desperate voice ripped his superior out of his musings. "I will correct this mistake. I guarantee it!"

Fairfield looked at his protégé for a long time. Long enough to make Dallas feel how his superior's gaze tried to penetrate his mind. After a moment, however, Fairfield took a tired breath and spoke in a cold tone.

"No. You won't." He paused to stand in front of the younger man. "I'm pulling you from this case. Not only did you, again, make a potentially fatal mistake by disobeying my orders, but you did so while on probation! That alone should have made you think twice about taking such a risk without consulting anyone."

Dallas felt his throat attempt to dryly swallow. He did not worry about his life, do not get that idea! Even after Fairfield had surprised him with how fast the higher-ups reacted to Dallas's report, his family still held a lot more influence in the organization than Fairfield himself. His declared goal upon entering the organization was to take Fairfield's job within six months of working for the man, and he was still convinced he made the right call when sending the infiltration team into Paul's apartment. This wasn't his fault because he had neglected to consult with a superior. This was Fairfield's fault because he failed to share critical intel with the one in charge of the operation!

But, if his superior actually followed through and reported his repeated blunder, his journey up the chain of command would take significantly longer than planned. He had to rectify this!

"Sir, I agree that punishment is warranted. But I implore you to let me participate in this operation. I screwed up before, and my second mistake does not help in earning your respect, but it also doesn't mean that we have to abort. I would have spoken with you either way before trying to make use of that new blackmail option. Please, show me how to salvage this mess and turn it into a successful operation."

Fairfield knew exactly what Dallas was trying to do by humbling himself to this degree. But he also had grown tired of shouting at the man. Also, even if he ultimately decided to send the guy home, it wouldn't make sense to do so before he had a chance to fully familiarize himself with the current state of this case. And, if he kept Dallas on the team, there was a chance that he would walk in front of a car while surveilling a target, or accidentally strangle himself with the strap of the camera hanging around his neck. He would not allow Dallas to work as an operation manager again, that much was certain!

"Fine, Dallas," he said and saw the man relax significantly. "Go report to the leader of surveillance team D. You will work with them from now on."

"Yes, Sir!" Dallas said with a smile and hastily removed himself from Fairfield's presence.

Chapter 6

After I returned from the bathroom about half an hour later, Mom was no longer on my bed. It allowed me to take in the full extent of what I had just done to her. There, on the disheveled bed, lay the cuffs next to the soaked ball gag that showed clear bitemarks. I groaned when I saw quite a bit of my cum right next to where Mom's head had been when we finished up. In the heat of the moment, I must have missed a few shots that were meant to land on her face. On the other end of the bed, the bottom half of the sheets were soaked in Mom's squirted juices.

I was just thinking about how to explain this to Tim if it were to leave a permanent damp stain, when I pulled off the sheets and found a second layer of protection on the mattress: A bedwetter sheet. Remembering how this was Tim's former bedroom, the quick impulse to call and ask him about it was killed when my mind connected this discovery with what I had learned about his past home life. Instead, I was resolved to simply never mention this to him. Yes, we liked to talk shit about each other but, at the end of the day, our back-and-forth banter was always in good fun, never to be taken seriously or as actual insults. So, this? This wasn't something I wanted to make fun of.

Though, while this discovery fell in line with all the disturbing shit I had learned about his past after he admitted to being close to ending himself back then, it kinda made me wonder how in the hell they reached the level of intimacy and love I witnessed just a few hours before. How did they go from THAT to his mother literally smothering him with love while his sister was willing to do everything in her power to make the guy happy!?

"Everything in her power to make the guy happy," I repeated the thought in my head, which was immediately followed by the words my mother had said a few days earlier: "All I want is for you to be happy again. I will do whatever I need to make you happy. In whatever way you need."

And today, after spending days offering herself to me, she asked me to punish her.

Why? An hour ago, I was convinced I had given her what she needed. She got off when I spanked her! She moaned when I mounted her! She squirted when I tortured her with orgasms! But... the offer to let me punish her came only after I had spent days refusing her sexual advances. And only after I had told her that pleasing me would not change anything about the abuse she allowed to happen.

I just stood there motionless, holding the damp sheets in my hands, staring at the mattress. For multiple minutes, my mind went through every conversation I had with Mom, replaying every interaction I had with her, and continuously comparing all of it with what I had seen from Tim and Ava.

It was like my mind had been emptied of all distracting thoughts after what happened in the bedroom. I could think a lot clearer now. And the conclusions I reached did not bode well for me, as, finally, my own words echoed through my head:

"If I were to use and abuse her, even if to punish her for watching while her husband beat the shit out of me, I would be no better than him."

After fitting the bed with new sheets, I gathered the old stuff and walked into the kitchen to throw it all into the washing machine. I noted how Mom's bedroom door was closed for the first time she had moved in with me. Until now, she had always stayed right next to me or made sure to stay in hearing range.

Shaking my head, I decided that I could use a beer, though a quick look into the fridge revealed that we were all out of anything fun to drink. And that's where I spent another minute just standing around, not doing anything, while being consumed by my thoughts and doubts, before I finally stepped in front of Mom's door.

I thought about knocking and asking her if she wanted something if I were to head to the store, but just... couldn't. Instead, I pressed my ear to the door. I'm not gonna lie... I was scared of hearing her sobbing. But I didn't hear anything. There was total silence on the other side of the door.

"God dammit!" I swore quietly under my breath, before slipping into my shoes and deciding to simply walk the short way to the 24/7 convenience store.

Half an hour later, I stood in line at the checkout, holding my six-pack and two TV dinners while watching the old lady in front of me with a blank stare. All I wanted was to turn off my brain for a while, to not think about the case, or Mom, or my past. And yet, here I stood, with the instrument of my salvation in my hand, but forced to watch that eighty-year-old woman empty a damn penny jar onto the counter and painstakingly slowly count them off, one by one.

I didn't pay much attention to my surroundings until I thought I heard someone mention 'Schrader', the name of Dick's private bank. I looked around but couldn't find the person responsible. Instead, my eyes fell on two guys standing at the entrance. One of them seemed to be watching me while speaking into his phone, though he was half-covered by his friend who stood with his back to me.

"We found the white shingles," he said into the phone before falling silent as if listening to the person on the other end. "Dallas is done?" Another pause. "Alright. Then the Fairfield job is next."

And with that, he hung up the phone and started speaking with his friend, who was now lazily skimming through a magazine. Call me paranoid, but hearing them speak about 'White shingles', while my last name was 'White', seemed weird. Who the hell puts white shingles on his roof? And... Fairfield? I pulled out my phone and opened Google Maps. That town was 150 to 170 miles away, depending on the route you took. A drive that would take up to three hours each way. Dallas was even further away at roughly 250 miles! Aren't there enough roofs in Houston they could worry about, especially on a Saturday at ten in the evening?

Looking at the two guys more closely, I couldn't help but notice how neither of them looked like a roofer, or any other kind of construction worker, in the first place. They wore dirty, sturdy clothes and heavy work boots, and their dirty hands looked like they had mortar under their nails... but those nails also looked neatly manicured. Not like I would expect hands to look if you do heavy manual labor for a living. And why would you need mortar to tile a roof? I also couldn't help but ask myself why those two weren't looking to buy anything and just stood there near the entrance.

As my danger sense went haywire, the automatic door opened and I heard the bell go off as Michael waltzed in.

"Oh, hey, Paul!" he called out in surprise. "Haven't seen you since we picked up your mom. How are 'ya?"

He sounded genuinely happy to see me but, as soon as he had passed the two suspicious guys and they were no longer able to see his face, his eyes made it clear to me that he wanted me to play along.

"Bit of an... adjustment period, but generally good. What're you doing here?"

"Same as you it seems," he pointed at the six-pack in my hand.

Now it was clear something was off. I happened to know that Micheal lived a good half hour away. That half hour was by car, not by foot. So, his being here was not a coincidence. We chatted for a minute while doing our best to seem casual until the old lady finally finished counting off her money. The whole time, the two supposed roofers browsed the magazines near the exit. At one point, Michael had walked further into the store to get a bundle of tomatoes and peppers, just to see whether those two guys would react to either of us, but they didn't give anything away.

When we were done paying and walked towards the exit, just as we passed the two men, Micheal accidentally dropped his tomatoes.

"Ah, shit!" Micheal called out as he stepped towards a tomato that had rolled towards the two men and bent down to pick it up, but then accidentally bumped into one of them. "Sorry about that."

"It's alright," replied the guy, albeit in a rather disgruntled tone before he and his friend left the store. I noticed how they never approached the check-out area, but simply placed the magazines back on the shelves and turned for the door.

I helped Micheal pick up his strewn-about groceries and, as we finally left the store ourselves, heard an engine start. Those two guys had sat in their car waiting for us to come out before driving off. With my phone still in hand from my search for the towns they mentioned earlier, I quickly pressed the action button on its side that Tim had programmed to instantly take a series of photos, hoping at least one of them would later show the license plate.

"Alright," I started before turning towards Micheal. "What are you really doing here?"

"You didn't think the boss wouldn't have someone watch your back after they broke into your apartment, did you!?"

"Oh!" I didn't want to admit that the thought never crossed my mind. "Alright. Thanks! I mean it!"

"No problem-o!" he replied happily before pulling a wallet out of his jacket sleeve.

"What's that?"

"Oh, we all have something we're good at, Paul. Poindexter does the IT stuff, you do the investigative brain stuff, and I..." He paused to shrug before opening the wallet, pulling out a driver's license, and studying it with great interest. "I'm good with my hands. Now, let's walk you home before I need to drop off Jack Stockton's lost wallet at the nearest police station."

I made a mental note of that name. It felt like it should tell me something. At that moment, however, I simply couldn't make the connection. I kept thinking about it until we reached my home but never figured out why it bugged me so much. And, once I was back in the apartment, my thoughts were dominated by the fact that Mom was still hidden away in her bedroom. With a heavy feeling in my stomach, that I wasn't sure anymore whether it was just caused by the fact that I hadn't eaten anything all day, I placed my dinner in the microwave and Mom's in the fridge. Just in case she'd later decided to come out of her room and remembered that she, too, hadn't eaten any dinner yet.

I even sat on the living room couch and watched TV while eating, silently hoping she'd hear the noise and join me like the evening before... but she didn't. This unnerved me even more. Was I completely wrong about everything? Had I gone too far?