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Of Sisters & Brothers Pt. 01

By: u06la14b



Part 1

The Get Away

I knew it was going to be one of those days the moment I tumbled out of bed; one of those 'fucked-up, pisser of a day' days. It had been a late night with way too many shots of Bourbon and Tequila and now my head throbbed like a son-of-a-bitch and my throat felt drier than the Sahara -- this was about the worst case of the cottonmouth that I could remember. It's the Bourbon; it does that to me every time. 

I dragged myself to the fridge and got a bottle of water, chugged it down, stretched and drew the curtains back only to be greeted by a gloomy, sunless morning. I watched the dense rainclouds, rolling across the sky like fluffy cotton-candy and swore that one of these days, and soon, I was going to move to Southern California. Get away from the cold Northeastern winters and leave a life riddled with bad choices behind. 

The next thing I noticed was the big pile of shit in the middle of my rug. Apache! Damn, boy! I had adopted this puppy from the local animal shelter and he was still in the process of being house-broken. He was a 5-month old Shepherd-Akita mix with sad eyes and a confused expression. Some jerk had let him loose on the highway or he had run off -- either way the vet at the shelter was certain he had been abused. There's a special hell for those who hurt children or animals and I'd give anything to meet up with that asshole. Well, I was determined to make it up to the little guy and a chocolate soufflé of dog turd was the least of my problems. 

There were three messages on my cell -- two from my ex and one from Vince. I erased the two from Lisa without listening to her bullshit. She had been sleeping around on me and wouldn't you know it, I was the last to know. I kicked her sorry ass out and now she wanted to get back together -- well, that wasn't happening. 

Vince was my bookie but unlike his usual, profanity laced rants, this one was short: "Cal, you'd better get the fuck out of town! Andrei is lookin' for you."

I felt my nuts shrink and my toes curl. This was bad. Andrei was a Russian retard; an ex-KGB enforcer with a scary disposition. He was big and mean and as nasty as they come. Whenever Sam sent Andrei it meant he had written off the debt and now it was a question of making an example out of the poor slob, in this case, me! Shit! I was looking forward to a leisurely morning; roughhousing with the pooch, reading the papers and taking my time over breakfast - maybe tomorrow, but now, I needed to get the heck out of here. 

I fed Apache and put him in his crate; a quick shave and shower and I was ready and just in the nick of time. 

I heard the heavy banging on the front door and a muffled, "Come on! Come on out, little man! It is time to play!" 

It sounded a lot more ominous and strangely funny with the Russian accent. A peek through the peephole confirmed my worst fears - it was the big, hairy gorilla himself. Just then he kicked the door and if it wasn't for the fact that it was a steel-reinforced, security door, I'm sure it would've caved. I grabbed my Glock 19 and slipped through the kitchen window and onto the fire-escape. The back alley was my best bet. 

I was halfway down and pretty certain that I was in the clear when I spotted Andrei's trained monkey, Nikolai. He was another scary dude; tall and lean and paler than a Norwegian albino. The tattoos on his neck and arms were worn as badges of honor representing years spent in Russian prisons. He was leaning against the adjacent wall looking up with a toothless grin on his face - both his Maxillary Central Incisors were missing, that is, his upper, front teeth for those not familiar with dentistry. The flattened pug nose and scars above his eyes were vestiges of fights won and lost and added to his intimidating appearance. Fuckin' Russians! It must be those frigid, sub-zero Siberian winters; they were tough as nails and as determined as hounds on a fox's tail. 

The Glock crossed my mind but I had a feeling that in a gunfight with this asshole, I'd lose. 

"Okay, comrade, you got me ... I'm coming down!" I yelled, throwing my arms up in resignation. 

He flipped the cell phone open and I could hear him jabbering in Russian while keeping an eye on me. He had that smug expression that said: we got the little bugger, boss!

He should have paid closer attention to me instead of blabbing. He moved under the ladder looking up at me but was still chattering away while nonchalantly picking his nose. Ten feet up from him and I jumped, feet first, right at his monkey ass. I heard him grunt and then we fell in a heap, arms and legs all entangled but I had the advantage of surprise and managed to scramble to my feet first. I knew I had knocked the wind out of him. 

"Hey, you ... you wait!" he gasped, slowly getting up on all fours, groping blindly for his phone. What a dick! 

A knee to his jaw and I saw his eyes roll back before he crumpled like a bad suit and lay still. That's all I needed. A quick look around to make sure that there wasn't a KGB convention out there and I was gone, ducking down the alleyway and melting into the morning crowds. And, true to the script, the skies opened up and it began to pour. Yeah, it was one of those days.

*****

The Viper - Sam Eliasberg

"Sam, I swear I'll pay you back! Call the dogs off, okay?" I pleaded with Vince's boss. 

Samuel Eliasberg was an anomaly. In the 'who's who' of underworld businesses run by the Russian Mob, the Italians and the Albanians, he was a Jew and a sophisticated one at that. He looked more like a research scholar than a gangster. But looks were deceiving and I had the feeling that even the Russians gave him a wide berth. The story goes that he dropped out of Harvard Business School to pursue his real avocation -- crime! I had to admit the man had a special gift for inflicting pain. A creative aspect often overlooked by the less astute in the business. 

I had witnessed some his handiwork up close so my pleading was definitely sincere. I was present when I saw him drill through a man's knees with a quarter inch drill bit, yup; he actually drilled through this dude's knees! Harvey "Stick" Johnson was a good-looking, black cat who possessed a humongous cock and made the mistake of sticking it into one of Sam's girls and that, apparently, was a major no-no. Johnson wouldn't be laying that piece of lumber into anyone for a while, that's for sure. The gory memory of the blood, bone and cartilage being dredged out by the drill was still fresh not to mention the screaming. 

"Why should I believe you, Cal? You've had plenty of time to pay me back," he answered in that soft, effeminate voice.

"Give me a couple of days, Sam, that's all I'm asking for and I'll pay you back in full." I was being as earnest as possible, "I swear! Two days!"

There was a short silence. 

"You broke Nikolai's jaw and that's not nice. There's the question of services lost. Your marker just went up another twenty."

Twenty grand! Is he fuckin' kidding me? This guy is the bastard amalgam of Shylock and Attila the Hun!

"Oh, come on! I was trying to get away from that ape! You can't blame me, Sam!" 

There was a silence and I instinctively looked behind me. Samuel Eliasberg had contacts everywhere so I had to keep my eyes peeled even in a churchyard. For all I knew the parish priest could be on his payroll and was a hit-man in drag. Okay, I'll admit it; I'm a bit paranoid when it comes to Sam. Then, he was back on the phone.

"Here's what I'll do and it's because I like you, Cal, otherwise you'd be a fucking memory! You come in and let's talk. Maybe there's a way we can square things up." A short pause, "Let's meet. You have my word nothing will happen to you." 

"What about Andrei?" I asked just to make sure.

"You have my word." He repeated, stressing the last part. 

"When and where?"

"2:00 PM tomorrow at the loft," he answered and the line went dead. 

The loft was what he called his apartment in SoHo. It was more like the bloody Taj Mahal. It was an old, four-storey, brick warehouse that he purchased for a song and then had it completely renovated. He converted the first three levels into posh apartments and had taken the entire fourth floor for himself. You had to see it -- fuckin' incredible and a fortress to boot. He had more security cameras, photo-electric beams, laser lights and motion detectors than Fort Knox. You would need a bloody army to storm that place. 

I realized a bit too late that the odds were skewed in his favor -- I would be on his turf with his goons. I was so relieved that he had called off his big dog that I wasn't thinking. I tried calling him back to convince him to meet somewhere in public but he wouldn't take my calls so I had to even the playing field the only way I knew how. 

*****

The Warrior -- Clay Mackie 

"He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword."

Job 39:22

I'm not one of those idiots who'll go to a gunfight with a knife. I needed reinforcements and that meant getting Clay to accompany me. Clay Adam Mackie was my childhood buddy and an ex-Navy Seal. Need I say more? He knew about killing than fleas on a mongrel dog but of late it was hard to get him motivated. All he wanted to do was to kickback, smoke weed and listen to music! He was a hardcore "Deadhead", a Jerry Garcia fan -- he was convinced that the lead guitarist of the Grateful Dead was speaking to him from the other side, offering profound advice on life, specifically, his life! The weed was eating his brain. 

But if you were ever in a tight spot, Clay was the best option to have. He as one of those rare people that actually enjoyed the thrill of danger, and I don't mean the extreme skiing kind of danger but the confrontational kind, where the other guy is trying to cave in your cranium or stick you with a knife or load your ass full of lead. And, the greater the odds the more it turned him on. 

His pad was in Chelsea, a one-bedroom, messy shithole he shared with a red-headed, tattooed hippie who went by the moniker, Red ... now that was real creative. I didn't see the hippie but I winced at the overpowering stench; the place reeked of unwashed socks and the sickly-sweet smell of hashish. You could get high just standing there, that is, if you didn't puke first. 

"Hey, I may need some back-up. Are you up for it?" 

I had to shout because he had "Going Down The Road Feeling Bad" blaring over his father's vintage thirty-year-old, Pioneer system. The speakers were being ripped, distorting badly, but he didn't seem to care. He noticed the look on my face and turned it down, not a lot but enough so my eardrums wouldn't burst. 

"What? 'Didn't catch that, amigo ... you need money?" he asked with a bemused look on his face. 

Clay was always broke. Not because he didn't have money but because he gave it all away. He was a sucker for a sob story and couldn't pass a bum without dropping a fiver in his hat, most times, my fiver!

I smiled, yeah, that would be the day. He's been mooching off of me since kindergarten. He turned the music down a little more. 

"I need you to back me up. Are you up for it?" I repeated. 

Normally, he'd bust my balls with a bunch of questions so I was surprised when he agreed without hesitation. 

"Sure, why not. I need some excitement, man; this shit's fuckin' with my head!" He said nonchalantly while rolling another joint, "When?"

"Now. And, I'd skip the joint." 

"Give me a minute," he said getting up, "what are we up against?" 

"Russians! And, a scheming little snake." 

He smiled like he'd just hit the jackpot and disappeared behind beaded curtains into the bedroom. 

I had to step over a littering of empty beer bottles, ashtrays and boxes of week-old pizza to get to the stereo system. I turned it off -- I didn't mind the music but the distortion was beginning to bug me. 

The bed sheet on the mattress that Red slept on was stained and badly in need of a wash. I began collecting the trash and moving it into a pile in the corner when Clay reappeared. He had combed his hair back and donned his trademark army jacket. 

"Fuck that, I'll clean up later. Let's go."

"Where's Red?" I figured an additional body couldn't hurt.

"He got a job. The fucker cut his hair, shaved his beard ... he's gone Wall Street, suit and all. You wouldn't recognize him."

They had been buddies in the Special Forces and Clay had dated Red's sister for a while but like all his other relationships, this one didn't last either. It didn't seem to affect their friendship though and when Red needed a place, Clay welcomed him in. Red was a wiz with computers -- a fuckin' genius! He could do things that honestly scared me and I was sure that one of these days the CIA or the FBI would be coming for him. 

"You gotta get him to clean this place up, man - it stinks like a fuckin' sewer!" 

Clay grinned, put his arm around my shoulders and said, "Never bothered you before. Don't go pussy-winkle on me, brother!"

'Pussy-winkle'? I liked that -- must remember to use it.

*****

The Payback

When we got to Sam's place, there were four goons I didn't recognize and Andrei and as luck would have it, it was Andrei who frisked us. 

He grinned and said something that sounded like "Pree-vyet, pree-vyet," before relieving me of my Glock and the little Beretta Tomcat I had tucked away in my ankle.

"My, my, my, the little boy carry lot of guns!" he smirked, handing them over to one of the other monkeys. Then, before I could move, he reached up and grabbed my nuts and squeezed. I gasped as the explosion of pain shot through me paralyzing my brain. Fuck! It hurt worse than a Judas Cradle on steroids and I thought I was going to pass out but as the maroon mist began to spread I heard Sam:

"Let him go. Now!" 

The gorilla obeyed but not before giving me one final squeeze. I groaned loudly and held onto the back of a sofa. Clay was behind me and had most probably missed the assault but seeing the smug expression on Andrei's face and with me wracked in pain he put two and two together. 

He moved quickly towards the big man and shoved him back, hard, "Hey, what's going on? What the fuck are you doing, man?"

I grabbed his arm and managed to gasp, "Not now, amigo ... not now. Let it go, I'm okay." Then turning to Andrei, "That's all you got? Your sister does better than that. I was poking her last night!" 

The big ape glared and took a step towards me. 

"Settle down! All of you." Sam snapped then turning to me he asked, "'you okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah ... I'm fine." I managed, straightening up. 

"That was for Nikolai. We are even, no? But, if you want to dance I am here to accommodate, eh." 

Andrei said looking straight at me and throwing his arms open in a magnanimous gesture. 

"If you want to dance, then I'm your fuckin' Huckleberry, asshole!" Clay snarled stepping up to the big Russian. 

This time Andrei was ready and didn't budge; his face a stone mask. 

"Hey, I said enough! Cal, if your friend can't keep it together then get him the fuck outta here! I don't have time for this!" Sam hissed. 

I knew that Sam wasn't about to let us leave. We didn't have our guns and we were outnumbered. This wasn't the time for any Ninja bullshit. And though I'd pay to watch these two go at it, I grabbed Clay and pulled him back stepping in between the men. They glared at each other before Clay eased away. 

Andrei remained still for a moment studying Clay, as though he was seeing him for the first time, then shrugged and strolled over to the wet bar. He poured himself a shot of vodka, Czar's Gold (Tsarskaya) vodka, then looked over at us, raised his glass and smiled. There were several slices of dark, sprouted pumpernickel bread on a plate with wedges of pickle on the side. I had dated a Russian gal a few years back so I was familiar with the routine. The toast, the pickles, the hissing, more puerile toasting, more shots, more pickles, more shots and more shots until you were shitfaced and silly. 

"Vashe zdorovie!" he toasted softly, sniffed the bread and took a deep breath adding, "Nu ..."

We watched him toss back the drink in one gulp and shut his eyes tight as the liquid heat seared through him. He waited a moment and then let out an audible hiss -- almost like a low whistle then shook his head, clearing his brain from the sting of the alcohol before taking a large bite of the pickle. These were Russian pickles which have a pungent aftertaste to them; you could smell the Horseradish and Dill. He stood motionless, savoring the flavors, his cheeks red from the rush of the Vodka.

"Oh Khorosho! That was good. Come on, anyone to join me?" He asked, looking at each one of us until his gaze finally rested on Clay, "How about you, tough man, you drink with Andrei?"

"I don't drink with fuckin' Tweakers!" Clay muttered back. 

The big Russian let out a roar, laughing loudly, the deep rumbling coming from the pit of his belly.

"Come on, it's not nice to drink alone. Let us be friends, unh ... I like your eyes, they are strange, like crazy strange, no?"

Clay had one blue eye and one gray. I had gotten so used to them that I didn't even notice them anymore. In fact, I couldn't imagine him any other way.

Clay didn't answer instead he ignored the big man and looked around, casing the place. It was habit; he would look for exits -- doors, windows, partitions etc. Then he would identify the really dangerous players and place himself in a position where he could keep an eye on them. He moved to a corner across from Andrei and a small, wiry guy standing behind Sam. The man had an expressionless face with cold, reptilian eyes and a variation of the Ukrainian Tryzub tattooed on his neck. Instead of the usual Cossack trident, this one had three swords with a lion at the base. One look and you knew that this was a tough customer. 

The black dude standing by the door had a boyish face and it was pretty evident that he was nervous. He was young and unlike the others, who were either ex-military or hardened criminals, and was most probably a bouncer from one of Sam's nightclubs. He kept shuffling his feet, flexing his muscles and looking around at the room like he was waiting for his cue. He was a damn amateur. 

I hated inexperienced, wanna-be tough guys. Take them out of their environment and they were lost. They were unpredictable and usually reacted too quickly or not at all -- both bad options. I made a mental note to keep an eye on him. But, it was the Ukrainian that I was really worried about and glad that I dragged Clay along. 

Andrei made a face and poured himself another shot and looked expectantly at us, "Last chance?" 

It was Sam who finally spoke.

"Nah, it's too early for me;" then looking over at me, "sit down and let's get down to business. These fuckin' Russians will drink a Grizzly under the table." He glanced at Clay and added, "Tell your friend to relax. Nothing's going to happen." 

I smiled at Clay and could see Andrei in my peripheral vision throw back another while Sam explained exactly what he wanted me to do. 

"It's pretty simple," he started and that's when I knew we were getting in far deeper than I would have liked. Who was he kidding? If it were that simple I wouldn't be here. 

This had all the makings of a bloody shit-storm. 

*****

The Doubts -- Of Jokers and Trumps

It was pretty simple, at least on the surface. I was to meet a Hans-Peter Kriegl at a hotel in Stamford and get a package from him. Then, I was to take the package to Houlton, Maine -- wherever the fuck that was. Once I got to Houlton, I was to hand the package over to a bloke named Nazha al-Shishani, a 'carrier' from Chechnya, working for the Albanians. This guy took on assignments that no one else would touch -- I guess that made him the granddaddy of all Specialists! My debt was paid in full once the Chechen called Sam to confirm receipt of the package. How fuckin' hard was that? Not hard at all except that I had no idea who this joker Kriegl was and it was obvious that al-Shishani was no choirboy. Sooner or later it was bound to catch up -- the proverbial shit was going to hit the fan. No matter how small the odds are of something bad happening, it is simply a function of time and frequency. I was sticking my hands way too many times into the fire. I needed to make a change and Southern California kept looking better. 


Of Sisters & Brothers Pt. 01



I took a sip of my coffee and looked at Clay, "There's something screwy going on. Why does he need me to take the package to Maine? Why the fuck doesn't he send one of his apes? It doesn't make any sense." 

We were sitting inside a coffee shop in the Village a few blocks west of 7th Avenue. It was a small, cozy place that always served fresh coffee and had the best damn scones this side of the Atlantic. Crumbly walnut scones with clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam ... Mmmm, almost as good as sex. 

It was a slow afternoon and there were only two other customers there. One was a pretty young thing sitting in the corner reading her Nook and doing her best to ignore us. The other was a big dude stuffing his face with a cruller and yapping loudly on his cell phone. His grating laughter and loud banter drowned out the soft strains of the guitar playing in the background; a favorite of mine, Earl Klugh, from his 'Music for Lovers' CD. It was obvious that the lout was trying to impress the girl. 

Clay looked over at the guy and I knew he was going to start something. He had an intense dislike for assholes, especially inconsiderate assholes - they topped his list. And, he was still a bit miffed that he didn't get a crack at Andrei. In a fight, my money was on Clay. Andrei didn't stand a chance despite the size advantage. Clay was about six-one and one ninety but he was a bullterrier, a real badass that could take you out in a heartbeat. The only guy who had ever given Clay any trouble was a professional mixed martial artist, a Brazilian tough-guy. And even he looked like he had been through a meat grinder when it was said and done. 

The fat guy, who was being a nuisance, was a creampuff -- it would have been a no-contest; Pit Bull versus a Poodle. 

"Forget him," I said, "what do you think? Is it strange or what?" 

He focused his attention back on me. 

"Maybe having an outsider handle it keeps the other guys guessing, you know, that Chechnyan guy, El-Shit or whatever." 

"al-Shishani," I corrected, "Why? Obviously the package is valuable to Sam so why not use Andrei or Nikolai; someone he trusts?" 

"Maybe he trusts you more than he does them, you know, something about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer! And then, there's the fact that you have an incentive to get this done; it squares up your debt." 

"I doubt it ... I doubt he trusts me. It just doesn't make sense." 

"It is what it is, Cal. Listen to Jerry - don't go looking too deeply for hidden agendas, man; accept things for what they are. Here's your chance to pay that little prick off so let's get on with it. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck ..." he waited for effect then added, "It's a friggin' duck!" 

Wow, really! He was full of wisdom today but I didn't get the relevance and Jerry said that? Clay, brother, you've got to stop with the weed. 

I shook my head and muttered, "And that's why ducks get shot!" 

He grinned, a wide toothy grin, and took a bite of his scone and offered in between chews, "Then call the little prick and ask him."

Sam wasn't taking my calls and that was the problem. We sat quietly for a while. I looked out the window, lost in thought, watching the people going by and playing out different scenarios in my head, scenarios where all kinds of shit could happen. It kept circling back to Sam and Andrei. I didn't like or trust Andrei. The big Russian was a lot smarter than he let on. The dumb, head-knocker act was a façade and I knew that. The fucker was dumb, yeah, like a fox, if you get my drift. And Sam, well he was more dangerous than a pit full of vipers!

But, I had an idea that could work. Using Clay's phone I called Sam not really expecting him to answer. It might have been curiosity about a number he didn't recognize or maybe just plain luck but he picked up on the first ring. 

"Yes." I'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"Sam it's me, Cal," I said and before he could react, I laid it out straight, "I have a question -- why me? Why are you doing this? Why not use one of your Russian hard-hats?"

He let out a soft laugh before answering, "Curious Cal; always looking for answers ... you know what they say about curiosity, don't you, Cal? But fair enough, I'll tell you why. The Chechen hates Russians. His mother was a doped-out, teenage whore who was gang-raped by a bunch of soldiers during the occupation. And as a result of that vile and pernicious act she got pregnant. Here's where it gets strange -- you'd think a whore would have no compunctions about an abortion but she's Catholic and she's religious in that way. So she decides to have the baby and then gives him up for adoption. The child was adopted by an older Moslem couple who had lost their only son in the struggle against the Russians. He was brought up on steady diet of hate; the kind of passionate hatred that once inculcated is impossible to erase. And it was directed, not at the Jews or Christians, but at the Russians." He paused then continued, "It's too risky to send Andrei and I don't trust the others. It's that simple." 

I was quiet, wondering about the veracity of the story when he cut in, "If you are having second thoughts, Cal, we can move the pawns back and we can call the deal off?"

If it was just Andrei, I could handle it but it would be Andrei and Nikolai and the Ukrainian with the tattoo and on and on and on until I ended up in a ditch with my head busted open. And, it was unfair to drag Clay into my shit. I need to square this up once and for all. 

"No. You've answered my question. I'll do it -- not a problem." 

"Good." And the line went dead. 

That bit about the Chechen sounded like a plot out of a B-movie but it could have been true, there was no way for me to know. Like Jerry says - it is what it is and it was as good a reason as any. I must be losing it -- Clay, Jerry and I, we all think alike now!

Clay didn't really give a damn; he was back to staring at the annoying creampuff. It wasn't going to be long before all hell broke loose. I've known Clay since we were kids and could read the signs. It was all there. 

"Are you in?" I asked him. 

No response.

"Clay, are you in?" This time I raised my voice. I saw the cutie in the corner look over at us. 

"What? Yeah, yeah, I'm in," he replied impatiently. He was obviously distracted. 

"Okay. Let's go. I call you when Sam gives me the details. Okay?" 

"Sure. Give me a minute, I need to take care of something," he said and began to get up.

"Oh no, you're not. Let's just go, okay? Leave the bum alone." 

We left and I made sure I was in between Clay and the blabber. I don't think that dude had any clue of how close he had come to having the cell phone shoved up his ass. 

The next morning I got a call from Sam with the details of the pick-up. I was to meet Hans-Peter Kriegl at the Hilton in Stamford just off of I-95. The easiest way was to hop the train. Take Metro North from Grand Central to Stamford and flag a cab to the hotel but I preferred to drive. Shit like this, you just never know and we may need to get the heck out of Dodge -- quick. 

*****

The Wolf -- Hans-Peter Kriegl

The executive suites at the Hilton are a pretty nice; a well thought out combination of the old world charm of dark mahogany furniture mixed in with the ultra-modernistic styling of granite and glass. There was an expansive living room with a dining area dominated by a hand-engraved oak table. Behind the dining area, a narrow corridor led past a small kitchenette to the bedroom. From the partially open door, I could see a king sized bed with a multicolored quilt. The bright Indian rug, leather sofas and flat screen TV added to the décor and was done in good taste - I could get used to this real easy. It looked very comfortable and I'm sure, was very expensive. You had to swim in the deep end of the money pool to afford a suite like this. 

Hans-Peter Kriegl was a short, heavyset German with piercing blue eyes behind Clark Kent glasses and blond hair cropped short in a crew cut. He had a thick, short neck and a barrel chest. His blond mustache ran down the sides of his mouth and he had a day's stubble on his chin. When he spoke he looked you straight in the eyes without blinking. He spoke with a heavy, guttural accent though his English was precise and clear. 

"Excuse me for a minute, I have to make a call, ja," he said after the perfunctory handshake and introductions and waved towards the coffee table, adding, "Help yourselves. I took the liberty and ordered coffee." 

He left for the bedroom and I could hear him speaking in muffled tones. A moment later he was back and handed me the phone. 

"He wants to speak with you." 

"This is Cal," I said, not knowing who I was talking to. 

"Listen carefully, Cal," it was Sam, "take the attaché case from him, get the combination and then whack the motherfucker!" 

I controlled my surprise strolling nonchalantly over to the far side window behind the dining table and away from the German and Clay, "What?" 

"Waste the son-of-a-bitch!" 

"No way, Sam! That wasn't part of the deal. I'm not wasting anybody!" I hissed.

"He's a stone-cold killer and you don't stand a chance. Listen to me, son, do him before he does you." 

My voice dropped to a whisper but I needn't have been concerned. Clay and Kriegl had migrated to the kitchen and were engrossed in an animated conversation. 

I looked down at the pretty cobblestone courtyard before asking, "Why? Why would he want to fuck us? I mean, why would he want to mess with you, Sam, and risk the whole deal? Am I missing something?"

"He's an independent, a freelancer. Once he hands you the attaché case his job is done. He knows what's in there and believe me, Bubba, it's a lot more than your lives are worth! This business is about money, Cal. When the fuck are you going to learn?"  

I thought about it and didn't like it -- any of it. But I have a stubborn streak in me and whacking someone on a whim wasn't what I had agreed to do. 

"Our deal is for me to take this package and hand it over to the Chechen in Houlton and I'll do that. You don't worry about it." I replied. 

There was a pause before he answered.

"Suit yourself but remember what I told you." Sam said then added, "Call me when you are on the highway. Take 95 ... it'll take you all the way into Houlton."

"It's an eight hour drive. When do you want me to call you?" 

He was quiet again and I was about to repeat the question when he said, "You're not going to call me because you're already dead; you just don't know it!" 

And he hung up. That was reassuring. 

I walked back to the living room and handed the German the phone. They were exchanging stories of guns and wars and all the other shit that they had been into. Nice. Exactly what I needed now -- Clay and a new buddy who just happened to be a killer. 

"Hey, Hans was in the war too! He was in Afghanistan as part of the UN Peacekeeping Mission." Clay informed me enthusiastically. 

"Ja, I was a medic, a kid you know, with all these grandiose notions of world peace, brotherhood and love," Kriegl offered and smiled, "It's part of the German psyche ... the guilt; part of who we are now."

"That's really touching and I'd love to stay and chat but it's an eight hour drive so we need to hit the road. You have something for me?" 

"Ja, ja, but maybe you leave after lunch, yes? They have a great buffet here and you'll skip the traffic." Hans offered. 

"Yeah, dude, I'm starving!" Clay concurred and then fished out a joint and asked the German, "Do you mind?"

"No, no, not at all, it doesn't bother me but this is a non-smoking room." He replied pointing to the smoke detector in the corner. "You Americans are fussy about smoking, ja, not like Europe. You can take it outside, in the courtyard. It should be okay there." 

Clay thought about it and then decided against it. "Fuck it. Let's just have lunch."

So we took the elevator down to the lobby chatting like long lost friends about Afghanistan, Indonesia, Pakistan and all the other fucked-up places in the world. Except that there was a knot in my belly that was beginning to grow each time I looked at the German. He didn't seem that innocuous anymore -- there was an edge to him. He reminded me of a Malayan Mountain Pit Viper, short, squat and deadly. It wasn't a question anymore of 'if' but 'when' he'd strike. 

After lunch it was all business. Kriegl disappeared into the bedroom and returned with an attaché case, a manila envelope and a digital camera. It was a Sony Alpha NEX-5N. The only reason I recognized it was because I had one and it struck me as strange, a German with a Japanese camera. 

"Well, here it is," he said extending the attaché case out to me. "The instructions and details of the meeting place with the phone number are in the envelope."

I took the briefcase and envelope. 

"Let me take a photograph, ja, so we have proof that you have taken possession." 

"Sure," I replied, "just make sure you get my good side!" 

Here it comes; the set-up and then the strike. But I was ready. If he made a suspicious move or even flinched the wrong way, I was going to cap his sorry ass. 

He adjusted his position, crouching awkwardly and was about to take the picture when he turned to Clay, "You get in the picture too, Clay, come on." 

I tensed, sure that he was about to try something, but I needn't have been concerned. He snapped off several shots in quick succession and smiled. He was obviously good with the camera and caught Clay and me with the attaché case smiling like drunken teens at a prom night party. 

"Oh, there is one additional thing you need to know," he said while putting the camera away, "the lock on the briefcase has been wired. If anyone tries to open it without the combination, even one attempt, it goes ka-boom!" He gesticulated with his arms to emphasize the explosion. 

"What do you mean? What if we get stopped?"

"I suggest you don't get stopped, ja, or run; run fast ... and far! There is enough "Plastique" to blow up a city block!" 

I dropped the case gently on the sofa, "Hey, I'm not taking it without the combination." 

"Suit yourself, Caleb, but I cannot help you. I cannot give you what I do not have." 

This was the moment of truth. I stared at him trying to determine if he was lying or not. It was impossible to tell. His face was an inscrutable mask and the unblinking eyes, lifeless and cold. This was heading for a Mexican Standoff: Sam was up to something and now, this asshole throws me a curve. Fuck! Nothing was simple anymore. It crossed my mind to put the screws on, to see if I could get him to talk, but I decided against it. Working him over wasn't going to help -- not at this moment anyway and I doubt he would have talked. 

"Okay, I'll deal with it. Let's hit the road," I said picking up the attaché case with exaggerated care. 

We left without shaking hands and I noticed a smile on the German's face except that it was more of a sneer. 

"Travel safe, ja, and don't let anyone take that from you!" he said just before closing the door. 

There were others in the elevator so we remained quiet staring blanking at the door. The little girl standing by her mother had been studying Clay intently and when we got off, I could hear her.

"Ma, that man had one blue eye and ..."

"Ssshhhh. That happens sometimes and it's not polite to stare!" Her mother reprimanded. 

As we walked towards the car, I couldn't help it.

"You have a way with women, you know that don't you?" I teased and chuckled.

"Yeah, right! Just what I need, a comedian!" was the terse reply.

"What do you think? I don't want to drive with fuckin' C-4 in the car! It's nasty stuff." I said when we reached my '69 Dodge Charger. It was a badass car, the ultimate symbol of American Muscle, a stubborn "up yours" in the face of a sea of souped-up Toyotas and Subaru STIs. 

"Yeah, it's nasty but don't sweat it," Clay answered, "It won't go off unless we fuck around with the lock and set off the detonator." He paused before continuing, "In Indonesia, in the jungle, I used to start fires with it, I mean, to cook. C-4 by itself is pretty stable. You can throw it, shoot it, sit on it ... without a blasting cap, nothing happens." 

Okay, so I learned something. And, not surprisingly, he seemed to know a lot more about it than I did. I was glad that one of us was cool about having a fuckin' bomb in the car. 

***** 

The Passage

Clay wanted to drive so after checking the address where we were supposed to meet al-Shishani and entering it into the Garmin I settled back and told him what Sam had said about Kriegl being a killer and our lives being in danger. 

"Well, he didn't try to kills us and if he does, we'll bury the fucker somewhere in the wilderness outside Houlton. No one will ever find him!" He said, adding, "Don't worry, brother, the party won't start until we meet the Chechen. I have this feeling. You relax and catch some zees." 

I settled back and closed my eyes. The last time Clay had a feeling, we fucked his sister. It was years ago - we were teens spending summer at his father's fishing cabin up in New Hampshire. His sister, Karen, was a cutie; a year younger than us but had matured dramatically over the previous year. I mean her body. She had developed curves and a pair of knockers that would blow your mind along with that mysterious, sensual look that some girls have -- she could have been a pinup for any teen rag! 

One afternoon after goofing around in the pool we were cooling off under a tree when it happened. Our parents had gone into town and had taken my younger sister with them leaving the three of us alone. Jenny, my sister, was four years younger and was still a kid so we were glad that she wasn't around. She was at the age when she was curious about everything and could be a real pest. I remember that day like it had happened yesterday.

Karen was lying in the middle, in between us, knees raised, eyes closed, her long hair tossed about her head like a golden halo while she drew lazy patterns on her belly just above her bikini bottoms. She had long, slender fingers with nails that were painted a startling red. Her boobs were threatening to spill out of the skimpy bikini top and her legs, man, her legs just wouldn't quit. She would open her thighs a bit and then close them tightly, squeezing them together before repeating that maneuver over and over again, like she was playing an accordion with her knees. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing was getting heavier but I was clueless, only aware of the overt sexual energy sparking between us; all of us. I was as excited as I had ever been. I kept peeking at her, hoping she wouldn't notice the prominent boner I had sprouted. I had to do something soon because it was getting to be painful. 

I got up and turned quickly away with my back to them, "I have to pee. Do you want anything from the house?" 

"Suntan lotion," Karen replied elbowing up and shaking her mane back. 

"I'm going to grab something from the fridge," Clay said getting up. He was a lot less self-conscious about his hardon tenting out from his swimming shorts. I caught Karen staring at it through hooded eyes, her tongue wetting her lips. There was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth and a look of satisfaction, like she had achieved what she had wanted. 

She glanced up at me, smiled and then settled back, closing her eyes, "Don't be long."

As soon as we got to the cabin, Clay grabbed my arm and said, "I have this feeling, man, I think we can do it ... we can fuck her!" 

"You have a feeling?" I was incredulous.

"Oh, come on! Don't act coy, Cal, I know you've been thinking about it! We can fuck her, man, I can feel it. She's in the mood." 




Of Sisters & Brothers Pt. 01



The odd part was that I didn't think it was strange that he wanted to bang his sister. Our hormones were raging and fucking a girl, any girl, was all we could think of. 

"God, she so beautiful!" was all I could stutter. 

And that's how it began. She asked us to help her with the suntan lotion and one thing just led to another. I was doing her legs and Clay was doing her back but it was when he slipped his hands under her bikini and squeezed her tits that it shifted into overdrive. It was a race to see who could get undressed the quickest. We took turns licking and fucking her while she sucked on one of us. I remember distinctly, how turned on I was watching Clay with his sister. 

I didn't last long and had just cum in her mouth and was lying back, watching them. Her thighs splayed, legs wrapped around his ass while he pumped in and out of her. I remember thinking: "I can't believe this! Clay is fucking Karen!" 

Every now and then she would look over at me, watching me stroke my dick, her expression oozing of wanton sexuality. It was a look of desire and discovery, one that is the exclusive privilege of the naïve. Knowledge and experience robs you of wonderment -- the downside to the Apple in the Garden of Eden.

It didn't take him long to cum. With each ensuing stroke, she would moan louder and louder until finally, when he climaxed, she screamed, not a loud scream but some primitive, sensuous, half-gasp, half-moan that seemed to emanate from deep within her. It was a distinct orgasmic sound so female and raw that it transcended mere eroticism and I knew that I was stained by its memory forever. 

The three of us spent the rest of the summer getting away from our parents and avoiding Jenny and fucking our brains out. What I didn't know was that Jenny had taken to spying on us; watching Clay and I take turns with Karen.

A year later Karen was killed in a car crash involving a drunk driver and Clay was never quite the same; in fact, none of us were. It marked the end of our innocence. 

*****

The Relationship -- of Sisters and Brothers

It had started to rain again; a cold, icy shower that drummed heavily down on the car with a rumbling staccato. I glanced at Clay but he was focused on the road, eyes squinting through the rhythmic swishing of the windshield wipers as we whizzed past snaking lanes of cars and trucks inching along the slushy Interstate. It was the perfect weather to stay indoors, snuggle up under the covers with a book and a cup of hot chocolate. I eased the seat back a bit more and closed my eyes and let my mind wander to another time and another place when fate and the rain had connived to complicate my life. 

Even before Karen's death, I had begun to look at Jenny differently. Maybe it had something to do with watching Clay and Karen and how turned on I'd get but the traditional filial boundaries had been breached, at least in my mind. And, as time went by, I began to notice every little nuance about her, from her pouting mouth to her budding breasts and the cute bubble butt of hers. I kept wondering what it would feel like to fuck my sister and spent much of my time at home in a state of hyper-arousal. I would jerk off three of four times a day fantasizing about her and the different ways I could seduce her. It didn't help that she was always barging into my room, asking questions or just wanting to hang out. There is a very fine line that separates fantasy from rationale and I was straddling it and every passing day brought me closer to crossing it. She had no idea what she was doing to me or what was going on in my head, at least not until that fateful night.

It was little past midnight and we were in the middle of a series of particularly severe thunderstorms and as far back as I can remember lightning and thunder had always terrified Jenny. It was an irrational fear that no amount of explaining or logic could mollify. Whenever she was frightened at night, she would scramble into bed with me and that night was no exception -- it didn't matter to her that we were older now only that she was scared and did what she had always done. 

"Cal, are you awake?" she asked in a nervous, little voice, her flashlight pointing towards the carpet and away from me.

I feigned like I was waking up. 

"I am now. What's up?" I answered groggily, "and turn that damn thing off!" 

The flashlight went out instantly and except for the hazy glow of the nightlight, the room was bathed in shadowy darkness again.

"Move over," she said and without preamble crawled in under the covers. 

"Jen, you're getting too old for this ... come on! It's really nothing; just a little rain." I had to protest, I mean, I was the older brother. But deep down I was thrilled.

And, I hadn't accounted for predestination or karma or whatever. No sooner had I said that than a brilliant, electric flash of lightning was followed by a loud, clapping thunder that literally shook the house. That was it. She scooched right into me.

"Did you hear that?" she said breathlessly and snuggled closer, "Are we going to be okay, Cal?" 

"Yes, we're going to be okay. Stop worrying and go to sleep." 

We were lying spooned with her facing away from me. I shifted my hips back so she wouldn't feel my erection but she reached backwards, behind her body, and took my arm and placed it around her waist and held on to it. She must have felt safe and secure with me holding her. 

Her hair smelled of shampoo, a clean, fresh aroma that mingled with the faint scent of her perfume and the natural fragrance of her body. She had always kept her hair short, pixie like, in a bob that framed her face. It was soft and silky brown, a lot like Mom's but thicker. I lay still for a while without moving enjoying the warmth of her body and the satin feel of her skin. Her breathing was even and deep and when I leaned over and looked at her, she was sleeping or pretending to be but I was pretty sure she was asleep. 

I loved her little pointed nose, the full lips and the stubborn set of her jaw. She was more cute than beautiful and if it weren't for her eyes, she would have been just another pretty face. But it was those aquamarine eyes that made her special; that made you look at her and take notice. They were large and almond shaped and sparkled like flawless gemstones. No cloudy speckles of deception; only the pristine brilliance of a translucent blue-green lagoon. It drew you in to its endless spiraling pools with promises of sunshine and happiness; ebullient portals that sparkled with the innocence of her soul. 

It was confusing. On one hand I wanted to fuck her in the worst way and on the other, the risk of breaching her trust weighted heavily on my mind. She was sweet and naïve and had always looked up to me and I wanted to preserve that but I couldn't stop the images of Clay and Karen from churning in some allegoric compartment of my brain. It was this tricked out need that created a frenetic flurry of bodies and faces dancing lewdly in the darkness. It was the ultimate subterfuge; this Freudian transfer of brothers and sisters; Clay and Karen: Jenny and me. That was when I realized that my hand was cupping my sister's breast over the silky fabric of her nightie. 

It fit so perfectly, that small, succulent mound of pliable flesh capped by a nubby tip. I rolled the nipple between my thumb and forefinger and felt her shift, fingers tightening briefly on my forearm, and waited, heart pounding hoping that she was awake and would be complicit. But her eyes remained closed and her breathing even. My cock, now firmly wedged in the crack of her panty covered ass, was throbbing with crass anticipation; seeping the sticky treacle of need for my sister. I toyed with her nipples moving slowly from one breast to the other, feeling them plump up, pebbling under the caress of my fingers and all the while grinding myself against her bottom. Not aggressively but with a slight, imperceptible back and forth motion, the subtle frottage sending pulses of sheer pleasure shooting through me. I could feel my precum soaking through the thin fabric of her panties, the silky sensation enhanced by the increasing slipperiness. I was filled with fear and excitement, lust and love and the primordial urge to bury myself deep inside her. To anoint her cunt with my incestuous sperm and manifest the many fantasies I've secretly harbored. 

Her nightie had bunched up around the apex of her thighs, riding a little above her panty line. It was now or never. I moved my hand slowly down my sister's body, caressing the flat lines of her stomach, making small circles with the tips of my fingers, mapping the outline of her bellybutton and the gentle swell of her abdomen. And when I reached the elastic band of her panties, I stopped, and hesitated, unsure of how far I should go. I flirted with the stretchy bastion, pulling it slightly off her body before letting it go then pushing it down and pulling it back up again debating the course of my next move. But in the end I decided to play it safe and ran my fingers over her panties down into the triangle of her sex. Her breathing had quickened, lips parted slightly, fingers gripping tighter, but her eyes remained shut. I adjusted her upper leg to give me more room and felt her shift as if to comply. I knew then that she had either resigned herself or was also eager to explore whatever the night held in store for her ... for us. The thunder was all but forgotten.

Reassured, I ran my finger boldly along the furrow of her crack, feathering up and down a few times before pressing against the little nubbin crowning her slit. Her reaction was immediate. I heard her breath catch in her throat, a muffled gasp with a slight trembling, her back arching with hips pushing against my fingers while spreading her legs wider. I could feel the seeping moistness spreading, wetting the bridge of her undies, and sensed a subtle change -- a musky, aphrodisiacal redolence that filled my nostrils, driving me to a level of excitement I had never experienced with Karen. 

I began thrusting faster and harder, reaching under her to hold my cock firmly against her cunt. There was a part of me that wanted to stop, to pull down her panties and fuck her but the slick, slippery feeling of rubbing along the gulley of her slit through the slimy wetness of her panties was too much. I could hear her breathing, short, choppy breaths, timed to my thrusts, fingers digging into my arms while her hips moved with mine in the symbiosis of a disjointed and unpracticed dance. I felt the familiar tingle all too soon; the runaway diesel of imminent orgasm emanating from the tip of my cock, racing unfettered down the tracks of nerves until it exploded in a startling array of lights in my brain. 

I pulled her tightly to me and couldn't stop myself from crying out, "Jenny, oh fuck, I'm cumming ... Ohhhhh God, Jen!" 

I thought I heard a whispered "Oh, yes, yessss ... mmmm!"

And then it happened. It was intense, the most intense orgasm I have ever had. I kept shooting glob after sticky glob of viscid cum into her panties and her abdomen, some of it dribbling down her thighs and soaking into her scrunched up negligee. I thought it would never end. I twitched uncontrollably against her, grinding and grunting loudly with each thrust, my face buried into the back of her neck inhaling the irriguous essence of her, until finally it was done. 

We lay still, panting, unmoving for a while, bathed in the recessive aftermath of the most intimate of acts. Her hand still gripping my arm, her soft behind pressed against me. I could feel her breathing, labored, her mouth parted slightly in a sensual pout, and her eyes shut tight. I removed my hand from the messy wetness in between her legs as the repulsive bite of conscience flooded my brain. It was the gradual metamorphosis from blinding lust to reluctant rationale that defined with clarity, and without excuse, the extent of my action. The pellucid awareness of what had just transpired exploded with the subtlety of a cannon. I had violated an unwritten rule by taking advantage of my sister. She was complicit, of that there was no doubt, but she was young and naïve and inexperienced and I should have known better. I rolled away from her and closed my eyes, my mind finally free from hormonal torment and numbed by the consequence of my actions. I drifted slowly into an uneasy sleep wondering what she was feeling and how she would deal with the transmutation of our relationship.

"Hey, do you want to get a cup of coffee?" Clay asked shaking my shoulder and jolting me back to the present.

It took me a moment to get my bearings, descending from that nebulous realm bridging the space between somnolence and reality. It was dark and had stopped raining. 

"Yeah, sure ... how long was I sleeping?" I asked. 

"You had passed out. You've been sleeping for about three hours." 

"Wow! I must have been tired." I muttered then looked over at him and asked, "How are we doing for gas?" 

He glanced at the indicator, "We could use some. Let's take a break, I need to stretch my legs and get a caffeine fix." 

Clay drank more coffee than anyone I knew and when we saw signs for Hampton Falls in New Hampshire, we pulled off the highway. 

*****

The Praying Mantis

"Her golden hair is tied around my memory

The pain she left with me is here to stay

I'm doing all I can to go on living

And yet I die a little more each day" 

Riff from a Country & Western song: She's Walking Through My Memory

The nice thing about a buddy is that you never feel compelled to make small talk, you know, the kind of idle, polite bullshit because the hanging silences get too damn uncomfortable. We genuinely enjoyed each other's company and he is the closest thing to a brother I'll ever have. Oh, I do have a brother, a half-brother, who is ten years older and a real piece of work. Phillip is some hotshot VP at Merrill Lynch with loads of dough and an I-know-everything attitude that bugs the heck out of me. Not that he cares for me either -- the feelings are definitely mutual. He thinks I'm a waste of a life but he dotes on Jenny so I'll cut him some slack. He was the product of my father's first marriage and I don't remember a single moment of any consequence that I shared with him. Clay has been more of a brother than that prick will ever be. 

"Do you ever think of her?" He spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him. He was looking into his coffee, his forehead furrowed. 

I knew he was referring to Karen but my mind went blank. We had never discussed her, not since the day of the accident. I mean never; not a word. It was almost eight years now and it was one of those 'don't even go there' topics with Clay. There were two days every year that Clay disappeared -- Karen's birthday and her death anniversary. No one knew where he went or what he did, he was just gone and we knew better than to ask. 

"What do you mean?" I countered because I couldn't think of an appropriate response. 

"You know what I mean, so stop being an ass," was his brusque retort. 

Of course I thought about her -- for a while she was all I thought about. She was my first and was gorgeous and bubbly and mysterious. And, we shared that maddening, innocent, convoluted teenage passion that was so tortured and all consuming. The three of us swore eternal love and allegiance to one another and foolishly thought that it was forever without really comprehending the concept of time and the fragile unpredictability of life. We saw ourselves as outlaws trapped in some forbidden triangle; those indestructible gypsies of ecstasy whose incestuous profligacy was the sole reason for living. I don't recall how many hours we had spent making love but it was a lot. And, it wasn't just making love or fucking or whatever other tainted forms of physical carnality we indulged in -- we truly enjoyed being together. I close my eyes and I can still see her laughing; rumpled, golden hair and blue eyes; a Rapunzel trapped in a capsule, in that beautiful, ageless moment of memory. How could I not think of her? 

"Of course I think of her ... I was in love with her!" It just popped out but it was the truth. 

There was an uneasy silence. I could hear the clatter of dishes in the background and the tinny laugh of a waitress at a nearby table. 

"I was too ..." he said, paused and added, "fucked up, eh? A brother in love with his sister?" 

"Hey, it's no one's fuckin' business!" I answered and I meant it. It was no one's business but theirs. 

"Amen to that, brother!" he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The day she ..." he grit his teeth fighting back the demons, his face wracked in pain, "... that day was the worst fuckin' day of my life. I died too. A part of me will always be dead. I used to spend hours planning on killing that drunken bastard; different ways; painful ways so it would last. I wanted to get pleasure from his suffering, watch him beg! He had no right to take her from ..." he paused again, struggling for control, "I was sick, man, real sick. But when I found out that he was some forty year old loser with three little kids, I couldn't do it. I knew that she wouldn't want me to do anything; she was the sweetest, gentlest soul." 

He fell silent, lost in thought. I had no idea where this was coming from; this rambling in non sequitur. He wasn't high and he wasn't drunk. It wasn't like Clay to get emotional. I remained silent; I figured he needed to talk and I was ready to listen. 

"She was beautiful and sweet," I offered softly trying to commiserate. 

"I was never jealous of you, Cal. She loved you ... she loved us. She used to tell me that all the time. And I didn't care that I was sharing her as long as it was only with you. You're my brother, man, and there is nothing, I mean nothing, that I ..." 

He left it hanging, unsaid, ambushed by the charitable deception of nostalgia. But I knew what he meant and that he was wrestling with the sudden flood of emotions, the catharsis of sharing feelings that had been bottled up for years. He stirred his coffee, staring into its blackness, working his jaws, allowing the stinging silence to salve our buried wounds. 

I had to help him out and this was getting a bit too heavy, even for me, "Stop. You're making me misty! Anymore and I'll start bawling." 

He looked up, his expression changing and laughed, "You were always a cry baby!" 

"Me? Damn boy, you were the friggin' cry baby! Don't you remember the park?" I countered. 

My family had just moved into the neighborhood. We were kids, about 5, and playing at the local park. Our moms were busy chatting when we had a disagreement over the swings. He pushed me and I punched him in the eye and that did it; Clay bawled like his head was on fire. His mother came running over and examined Clay's eye. She tousled his hair and murmured softly to him before returning to the bench where the other mothers were sitting and said, "What are you going to do? Boys will be boys!"

"Yeah, I remember ... you beat me like a drum!" he smiled, "but you came over and gave me that stone. You told me it was a magic stone and I believed you. I knew then that we were buds for life. Man, those were the good old days!" 

"Yeah, the magic stone; it was a piece of black marble that I carried around with me ... a good luck charm. What did you do with it, dumbass? I want it back. I could use the luck." 

He chuckled, "I kept it under my pillow for a few weeks wishing on it -- certain that if I wished hard enough it would give me the power to fly like Superman! But when that didn't happen, I gave it to Karen. Little good it did her!" 

He had a sad, melancholic smile on his face and then looked up from his coffee, "Don't blow it, man." 

"Blow what?" I had no idea what he was talking about. 




Of Sisters & Brothers Pt. 01



He shook his head, "There you go again. You think I'm stupid, don't you? Quit the verbal fencing." 

"What the fuck are you talking about, man?" I countered thinking it was another Jerry Garcia moment. 

"Jenny. I'm talking about Jen. Don't fuckin' blow it. You get one chance if you're lucky; one real chance, amigo, that's all this life gives you!" 

Now I was really shocked. How the heck did he know about us? I was about to grill him when I saw him looking past my shoulder. 

"Shit! Look at what just blew in," he said. 

I turned, my head pivoting backwards, and was as amazed as he was. 

The woman was tall, very tall, an amazon. A blonde, built like a wet-dream. She must have been over six-four or six-five with a body that was dealt on the wrong side of sin. And, she wasn't shy about revealing it. Her tiny t-shirt, straining against braless twin peaks, was strategically ripped under her breast-line boasting abs that women would kill for. The low cut, hip-huggers were painted on tight, so tight that the flagrant camel-toe screamed in the face of convention, "Yeah, assholes, I fuck for fun!" 

She stood towering over the waitress, scanning the room with obvious disdain, unperturbed that every lot lizard, trucker and wrench transient in that sleazy lay-by was eying her. She was clearly used to it. She walked by our booth with an exaggerated wiggle, a catwalk strut, hips swaying, butt swishing, fully cognizant of the covetous stares glued to the tramp stamp on her ass. She took a table in the corner across from me but didn't venture a glance and it was that ordained indifference which piqued my curiosity. 

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no Adonis but it's unnatural not to look around, to get familiar with the surroundings. She stared at her menu like it held every secret to the meaning of life. Hey, the menu at Le Perroquet was not that interesting so I was getting really curious about this Diana, this Amazonian Goddess of the Woods. 

"I'd love to scale those peaks but let's go! The party's starting." Clay said getting up and gulping down the last of his coffee. I saw him take a quick look through the window before grabbing his coat and heading for the door. 

I tossed a ten note on the table and followed after him. I got as far as the front counter when the owner of the dive stopped me.

"Your tab, mister?" It was a statement and a question. 

He was a squat dude; no neck, hairy arms, obsidian eyes and a lined, craggy face that told the story of an interrupted life lived between sleazy dumps and the slammer. 

"It's on the table. I'm in a hurry." 

"I don't give a shit. You've gotta bring it up here, brother," he said eyeing me coldly, sizing me up. 

I was about to brush past the lawless buzzard when the waitress walked up, "Here it is." 

She slipped the bill and the money on to the counter and looked up at me, "Gee, thanks mista!"

She was a painted gargoyle cemented to the foundation; a trashy, worn out, used up, middle-aged sleeper with garish eye-makeup and heavy lipstick. She was hoping to get lucky and hoping that I was myopic or desperate or both but I smiled and winked and walked out.

When I stepped into the dimly lit parking lot there was no sign of Clay or the Charger. I stood staring at the vacant space now unsure of where we had parked and after a quick look around, called Clay. Eleven rings but no answer and no voice mail. That was bizarre. I did another recon of the cluttered lot, being more thorough this time around, peering between cars, pick-ups and eighteen-wheelers but apart from the soft buzz of traffic and the desperate grunts of a trucker fucking a pavement skank, there was nothing. Clay had literally vanished.

I walked back to the front and tried Clay again and again there was no answer so I dialed Sam and gave him the lowdown on what had happened. 

"Who has the case?" he asked when I was done. 

"It was in the trunk of the car so I guess Clay does," I paused, thinking the unimaginable, and added, "or whoever nabbed him!" 

"Fuck! I knew this was going to happen! I told you to waste that German motherfucker but you just don't listen! No, you suddenly develop a fuckin' conscience!" 

"Sam, I don't give a fuck about the briefcase. If something's happened to Clay I swear ..." 

He cut me off.

"Fuck Clay! You hear me? Fuck Clay and fuck you! You stupid motherfuckers don't listen and now you start bitching about shit that could have been avoided!" 

"Listen to me, you little shit-eating worm! If something's happens to my friend I will make it my sole purpose in life to hunt you down. I will fuckin' kill you, you sorry, motherfucking turd! I'll ..." 

I was on a roll. It felt good cussing at the little shit but that's when I noticed a pair of high beams coming straight at me. I squinted trying to identify the driver and was ready to jump when the metallic blue X5 swerved, tires screeching, and pulled alongside the curb. I caught the whiff of rubber singeing the pavement while the passenger side window rolled down. 

I peered in and heard a throaty, "Get in. Quick!" 

It was the amazon blonde. 

To be continued ...

***** 



Of Sisters & Brothers Pt. 02



Jenny

I'll get back to the blonde but I think it's important to understand the relationship my sister Jenny and I shared. It had changed once we crossed the line separating what is considered normal and what is not and now, after what had happened that night, I was totally preoccupied with figuring out how I was going to take this to the next level. Part of it was hormonal, I was at the age when I'd fuck anything in a skirt and the other part was my developing obsession with incest. 

Playing doctor as kids and exploring each other's privates in some dark cubbyhole or indulging in a show and tell is okay as long as the exploratory touching didn't lead to masturbation or sex. Then it becomes taboo. I'm not sure how or who established these boundaries but we had officially crossed it the night of the storm. 

The morning after the incident was the worst. At some point during the night my sister had left my bed and that was something she had never done before. This could only mean that she was upset and would rather deal with her innate fear of lightning and thunder than with my sexual advances. I felt certain that she would confide in my mother, they were closer than two peas in a pod, and though that would be unimaginably embarrassing, I could deal with it. It was my father that I was worried about. 

Dad was a different animal altogether. He was an Army Ranger and had a temper which turned him into a fuckin' Neanderthal. If she said something to him, I was dead, I mean, baseball bat to the head dead! But, I doubt Jen was comfortable enough to discuss anything sexual with him so at least for now my bones were intact. It would only be a matter of time before Mom got around to: 'You know, dear, your son's trying to fuck your daughter' or something to that effect but I would deal with that when it happened. Right now, I needed to figure out what I was going to say to Mom and Jenny. 

What the fuck was I going to say? I'm sorry but it wasn't me! It was Mr. Mushroom-head ... he made me do it? And, Jenny, you have to believe me, sis, the rubber rat will never again regurgitate on your panties. Never, never, never! Damn, I was dreading this. 

I fussed around in my room waiting for my parents to leave for work but that wasn't happening. I could hear them; they were still there. I glanced impatiently at my watch - what the fuck were they doing? Mom and Dad should have been gone by now! They had to be discussing what had happened. That could be the only reason why they were still at home. My mind raced and my heart felt like a jackhammer on speed. My father was going to kill me! And that's when I realized it was a Saturday. Though that provided a much needed reprieve, guilt and paranoia make for conniving bedfellows and I still needed to be sure. 

I left the door ajar, listening intently, hoping to get the gist of what was being said but except for a few words most of the conversation wafting up was garbled. And then I heard peals of laughter, it was Mom and Jen - I doubt they would have been laughing if Jenny had spilled the beans. I figured that unless I was planning to feign mortal illness, I had better get my ass down there and this was as good a time as any. 

I made a quick stop in Jenny's room and rummaged through her laundry hamper looking for the corroborative evidence of our little escapade. I found several other panties mixed in with her clothes but not the one I had spewed into. I was about to check her bathroom when I heard more laughter and footsteps coming towards the stairway. Returning everything to the way it was, and after one final look around her room, I trudged down to the kitchen. 

"Hi, sleepy head," my sister said, greeting me in her usual upbeat manner shocking the hell out of me. 

Even if she hadn't said anything to my parents I was certain she'd be embarrassed and would avoid me like the plague. But, here she was acting perfectly normal, as though nothing had happened. I can't explain the relief I felt. It was simply overwhelming. 

I gave her a quick look and grunted making my way to the cabinet above the fridge to get the cornflakes. I was floating on air feeling like a death-row inmate who had just been granted amnesty!

"Late night?" Dad asked, peering over the Wall Street Journal. It was something he did religiously; scouring the stocks and worrying about his investments. I swear the man should have been a stockbroker. 

"Yeah, I have a couple of papers I need to submit," I grunted in his direction and wondered what he'd think if he knew about the research I had done on his daughter.

I was about to get the milk when my mother came over and hugged me and took the cereal box away, "Sit down, baby, I'm making you an omelet. Here, drink this – fresh, squeezed orange juice." 

Mom was a health nut. She was tall and slender and looked a lot younger than she was. She was blessed with the paedomorphic trait found in Northern Europeans, an agelessness that would make the troglodytes at school go - Man, your mom's hot! It used to make me want to stomp their nuts but what are you going to do? They were right, Mom was hot! I sometimes wonder how my parents got together – they were so different. Mom was a bleeding heart liberal, beautiful and gentle, and Dad was a rightwing hard-ass, the Great Santini himself. I guess opposites do attract. 

"Don't forget, we are going for the play tonight," Dad reminded, "it wasn't easy getting tickets for the Phantom! And I've made reservations for dinner at Marco's. Read up on Galicia; Northwestern Spain." 

This was something we did every month - catch a play, Broadway or Off-Broadway, and usually a dinner afterwards. It was family time and a tradition that none of us were permitted to break unless we were near death. Mom chose the plays and Dad, the restaurants. He wanted us to learn about different cuisines and cultures. We were expected to research the country and the region and come up with interesting facts to discuss over dinner. We also had to dress up – no jeans or tee shirts and definitely no sneakers. We had to look decent – his words not mine. 

"I'm meeting Celia and Liz at ten and then we have Volleyball practice in the afternoon," Jenny said grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl, "so I'll see you all in the evening. I know something about the Island of Cortegada we can talk about!" 

She added the last part for my benefit with a 'I know something you don't' look before hugging Dad, leaning over him from behind the chair, then Mom, giving her a peck on the cheek. Jenny was as tall as my mother now and they could've easily passed for sisters. 

My mother held her at arms-length and cooed, "Just look at you! You're growing up, honey, and so beautiful! Don't you think so, dear?"

The last bit was aimed at my father who grunted without looking up. It must be a Salazar family trait, the grunting!

"Oh, Mom!" Jen protested and on her way out she stopped by the door and said, "What are you going to do, Cal? Isn't Clay at his Uncle's place?"

Ever since Karen, Clay's sister, had died his parents were having problems and it wasn't unusual for Clay to escape to Connecticut to stay with his uncle. Otherwise the two of us were inseparable.

"Yeah," I replied nonchalantly, keeping my eyes averted. "I have some assignments I have to finish up ... I'll head for the library and then maybe hit the gym." 

"Are you okay, hon?" my mother quizzed a look of concern crossing her face, "You seem subdued."

I gave Jenny a furtive glance before replying, trying to sound nonchalant but it was hard with images of last night tumbling in my head and Jenny standing there looking like a wet dream.

"I'm fine, Ma ... just a bit stressed." 

"Tonight will be fun," Mom said ruffling my hair on the way to the kitchen, "And why don't you go watch your sister play?"

"Yeah, Cal, why don't you come and watch us practice?" Jenny asked, "We have a new coach. She used to play for UCLA and she's good. She thinks I'd make a perfect outside hitter!" 

I looked at her wondering what she was up to, acting as though nothing had happened between us. It was unfair. She looked absolutely edible, dressed in a thin cotton top and a pair of jeans that was cut low exposing her little 'inny' belly button. It would have been a lot easier for me if I wasn't so attracted to her. 

But her attitude was bordering on the weird. It was messing with my head making me think that the whole thing was a figment of my imagination. Either she was a brilliant actress or she was suffering from RA, Retrograde Amnesia! Maybe the event so traumatized her that it caused a temporary loss of memory. However, no amount of amnesia was going to hide the reality of her panties. What did she do with those? I had drenched them with enough cum to starch those suckers for a lifetime! She had to know what had happened. I was so lost in thought I forgot about her standing there.

"Cal?"

I looked at her, surprised, and said quickly, "Umm, I'll see. What time?"

"Around one. We can go and get ice cream afterwards, so please try and come, pleaasssee!" she said, pleading, using her little girl voice.

"Okay, I'll be there. It may be a bit after one but I'll be there in time for the ice cream," I relented, "How about that?"

"That works. You're buying!" She beamed, stuck her tongue out at me and ran off. 

So that was her ploy. She was going to talk to me after practice over ice cream. I was okay with that and was actually looking forward to it. We could clear the air and I could tell her how sorry I was and that would be that. Or, I could pretend that I suffered from retrograde amnesia too.

Volleyball practice was interesting, not the game itself but the players. Watching them jump around in their tiny shorts made me realize that half the girls on Jenny's team were hot; sweltering hot! It was like a light being turned on. Those scrawny little twerps that used to hang out in her room and giggle each time I passed by were growing up and getting to be beautiful. Brought to mind that song: Thank God for little girls ...

But for my money, Jenny was the thoroughbred, and yes, I am biased but damn, the girl was sweet! Long legs, tight round ass, small, firm tits and a full mouth that held a world of possibilities. And then there were the eyes, large, wide set, viridian pools that contrasted starkly with her silky, chestnut mane. I felt my cock lurch and had to tell myself to behave – I wasn't going down that road again. I distracted myself by wondering about the other girls, what it would feel like to fuck them, one by one or all of them together in a mass orgy. There was this pretty, Asian gal that I could write a book on ... 

Jenny met me outside the gym hall after practice. It was a bit chilly and she had donned her track suit over her volleyball shorts and tee. Her face still glistened with remnants of a sweaty sheen, cheeks flushed, hair disheveled and no make-up and despite that she couldn't have looked sexier. There as a wholesomeness about her, an all American sexiness that was hard to ignore and I wasn't the only one, I noticed the guys, even the older men, giving her the once over. 

"Hey, you looked great, sis," I complimented. 

"You just saying that," she replied but I could tell that she enjoyed the attention. 

I grabbed her gym bag and we decided to walk to the local ice cream parlor. The Waffle Shoppe was a small family owned eatery that served homemade ice cream and European style waffles. It was one of our favorite places to hangout. We were about halfway there when she took my hand in hers, fingers interlacing, and holding on tightly. She was humming softly to herself, gently swinging our arms in between us. She wasn't one of those touchy people who displayed affection openly so it was apparent that the sexual machinations of the previous night hadn't affected her as much as I thought or had it? This could be her way of sanctioning the direction our relationship was heading! I was thrilled. 

When we got there, the place was unusually crowded; jam packed with families and kids and teenagers. It was almost impossible to hear yourself over the cacophony of the chatter and the synthesized sounds of kids screaming above shrieks of laughter. But the bustling raucous did provide us with a degree of anonymity. 

We joined the serpentine queue along the counter literally jammed against each other. 

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" I asked, leaning down and speaking into her ear. 

"No. It'll be okay ... it's moving!" she answered looking up and smiling.

She was leaning back against me; her head resting lightly in the crook of my neck and with her ass pressed against my crotch. I was holding her loosely around the waist, my fingers under her track suit, tracing lazy patterns on the flare of her hips. We were standing more like lovers than siblings and there was no way I could avoid getting hard. I wondered what she was going on in her head as my cock pulsed against her. I exploited the crush to pull her tightly against me and felt her wiggling her butt a few times returning the pressure. It was all I could do to resist dry-humping her right there. She remained glued to me until we ordered and I was hoping that no one would notice the blatant tenting of my khakis. 

We were about to sit outside when Jenny found a table in the corner by the window.

"I told you ... and with perfect timing!" she said happily grabbing the chair nearest her.

We sat eating our ice cream making small talk. She had gotten her usual dish, something called Raspberry Nut Orgy – it was essentially vanilla ice cream with a swirl of raspberry and chock full of walnuts. 

"Here have some," she said raising a spoonful towards me. 

I had tasted it before but I obliged her. It was good but a bit too sweet for my liking. I was a pistachio addict. 

"Try mine," I reciprocated. She held my hand gently, guiding the spoon into her mouth. 

"Mmmm, that is good!" she said, smiling and used her napkin to wipe a little bit that had somehow smudged the tip of her nose. 

"Did I get it all?"

I shook my head, "No." 

I used my napkin to get what she had missed, "You're a mess, sis! I can't take you anywhere!" 

She blushed and giggled, "You did that on purpose! I know you did!" 

She was blessed with a long neck and her breasts were getting fuller, not big but pleasantly plump. She was at that stage of metamorphosis, the quintessential in-between phase, of a girl and a woman bursting with estrogen-induced radiance that made her glow. 

She saw me studying her and blushed, fidgeting with the ends of her hair and began chattering nervously making small talk. She was grown up in many ways but with the vulnerable naiveté of an ingénue. I couldn't help myself - it elicited a sudden surge of protectiveness in me. We had always been close and she trusted me implicitly and for reasons I can't explain, I felt like I was breaching that trust. I took her hand in mine and squeezed it, more to reassure myself than anything else. She smiled and squeezed back. 

"You know, the girls here are all jealous ... they think you're my boyfriend!" she said, "A hunky, college guy!"

"What girls?" I said looking around. I was so focused on her that I hadn't notice anyone else. 

She rolled her eyes like 'yeah, right!' and then made a motion with her head towards the adjacent table, "Those girls!" 

The table was crammed with a coterie of high school girls, chattering and giggling, and looking our way every now and then. Young and fresh with a little too much make-up on; wanting to grow up a little too fast.

"They would have to be blind! We resemble each other way too much, don't you think? Well, except for our eyes." Mine were murky blue. 

"And hair," she countered. 

Mine was very dark, almost black like my father's, and hers was a light brown. 

"Okay, I'll give you that!" 

"And nose, and mouth, and ..." she joked. But despite some differences the reality was that we did resemble one another. 

"Okay, then let's give them something to really talk about!" I said and lifted her hand to my face and brushed the back of it with my lips, kissing her gently.

I think it surprised her. She stared at me, at her hand being held against my lips, her mouth parted slightly and her eyes wide. I kissed her hand again and then, without thinking, ran the tip of my tongue lightly along the crack between her fore and middle fingers. There was no mistaking the slanted implication, not even by her. 

I heard her breath catch and she flamed up, and in a moment of confusion, gently withdrew her hand from mine. It provided me with the perfect segue to press home the advantage and broach the subject of the previous night. 

I looked into her eyes and began, "Jen, about last night, I ..." 

"Don't say anything, Cal, please," she interrupted, "please don't ruin it. I don't want to talk about it."

Ruin it? Ruin what?

"Jen, we can't just ignore -" I started again.

"Please. Can't we just enjoy this?" she cut me off again.

She quickly looked away, staring down at her ice cream bowl, her hair cascading around her while she toyed with the spoon. She looked adorable in a helpless sort of way and I didn't want to upset her any further.

"Okay, let's just drop it." I offered lamely reaching across and lifting her face up by her chin, "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

She perked up instantly and we spent the rest of the afternoon chatting about mundane stuff, her volleyball season, my kick-boxing, the play we were going to see that evening and what she knew about Galicia that we could discuss over dinner. But, through it all I couldn't subdue the incestuous longing that I felt for her or the memory of her moans as I spewed into her. 

***** 

The Massage

The play and dinner turned out to be uneventful. In fact, in the days that followed it seemed like Jenny was avoiding me which only added to my confusion. Then about a week later, just when I had resigned myself to the unthinkable, that is, nothing further happening between us, there was a knock on my door. It was late so I knew it had to be Jenny. 

"Come in, it's open," I said from my bed on the far side of the room wondering what she wanted at this hour. 

She slipped in silently and closed the door behind her. It could have been the light and the play of shadows or the fact that I was hornier than a Burmese Bandicoot but she looked absolutely ravishing. She was wearing an oversized, navy tee shirt that doubled as her jammies and I could tell from the outline of her nipples that she was braless. Her hair was damp and coiffed back off of her face, and her eyes glittered with excitement. She stood nervously by the foot of the bed, her skin glowing golden in the subdued lighting. 

I was confused and elated, my senses filled with her. I caught the mild whiff of her perfume and shampoo and asked, "What's up?"

"Coach had us working on spiking drills. I must have hit over a hundred balls at practice. My shoulders are killing me ... umm ..." she paused, and then added, "...umm, can you massage my shoulders, Cal, please?" 

We used to give each other backrubs after working out but that was a while back. She didn't have to ask twice - I would have killed to touch her again. I fell into an instant state of chaos, a frenetic synapsis of sexual possibilities. 

"Okay," I replied shifting over to give her room; my heart drumming in my ears and my voice sounding strangely strained, "lie down." 

I watched her scramble up onto the bed. Her thighs were thick and firm with calves that curved nicely before tapering gracefully down at the ankles. She had that desirable bubble-butt sculpted to perfection from years of volleyball. 

"Great!" She exclaimed happily, lying face down in an obeisant crucifix. 




Of Sisters & Brothers Pt. 02



Her tee shirt had ridden up the curve of her ass, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her pink underwear and I felt myself respond, my cock twitching and poking out against my shorts. My reaction to her didn't go unnoticed. I caught her looking, eyes hooded and unblinking, seemingly mesmerized by the pulsing serpent. 

"Ready?" I asked, straddling her thighs, "I'll do your back first." 

I began rubbing my fingers up and down her spine, pressing into her muscles, working from the small of her back gradually up to her shoulders. She was wound up like a coiled spring, her muscles tense and knotted especially around her shoulders. 

"How does that feel?" I asked, trying to gauge the amount of pressure that would make her feel good.

"Ohhhhh God! That feels so good. Don't stop ..." she murmured softly. 

So I didn't. I kept it going for a while, massaging her back and shoulders, using my knuckles to knead into the larger muscle groups and my thumbs and fingers to gently caress the back of her neck. And each time I ran my hands up her body, I had to lean forward which caused the tip of my cock to brush against the curve of her butt. It was obvious, what was happening and I noticed her ass flexing, tightening in response to the lascivious caress. 

After a while, she relaxed, her body going limp, making soft, soothing sounds as I continued to manipulate her muscles. The cryptic struggle with my conscience was gone, my cock was now pressing flagrantly against her, twitching like a rubber hose and leaking with excitement. 

"How does that feel, sis?" I asked making an oblique reference to the sexual contact. 

She was quiet so I asked again, my voice, a hoarse croak, "Does that feel good?"

"Mmmm ...don't stop. It feels divine!" she replied softly, her butt flexing again acknowledging my cock against her. 

That was all the encouragement I needed. I allowed my hands to slip under her tee, feeling the warm, satiny touch of her skin against my palms and said, "This is much better." 

She tensed up as my hands tracked up her spine to the shoulder blades. I could feel the sides of her breasts with my finger tips and wondered what she was going to do. But when my hands moved up to massage her neck I felt her relax again. I used small, tight circles outwards, away from her spine working up to the base of her skull and then returning slowly back to her shoulders. From the soft sighs and whimpers, I knew that she was enjoying this almost as much as I was. 

"Better?" I asked.

"Unh-ha" was the guarded response. 

I moved up her thighs to make it easier to do her shoulders but having my arms under the tee was restrictive. The front of her shirt was trapped between the mattress and her abdomen limiting my movements.

"Why don't you take it off?" I suggested, rolling the hemmed end up towards her neck. 

At first I don't think she it registered but when I had the back of her shirt pushed all the way up over her shoulders, she reacted.

"No, Cal! Don't!" her hands grabbing at edges, pulling down. 

"Come on, Jen, this is ridiculous! I promise I won't look. I'll even turn the lamp off." I had expected her to protest and reached over and flicked the switch turning out the light.

The room was now washed in a hazy, auriferous glow lit by streaks of moonlight stealing in between the curtains. Our bodies mottled by the dancing, dark shadows cast in soft phosphorescence of the nightlight. 

"There I can't see a thing," I lied, my eyes adjusting to the dimness.

I was perched on her ass with her back exposed and her tee bunched up around her shoulders and I knew that if I didn't act swiftly the moment would be lost. Before she could pull the shirt all the way down, I yanked it over her head. There was a brief struggle, an awkward moment when the neck of the tunic snagged on her chin but another quick tug, accompanied by some squirming and wriggling, and I had the damn thing off of her. My sister was now naked, except for her cute little pink panties.

Any vestige of rational thought was gone. I was overcome by the pheromone induced urgency of our bodies. I scooted down her thighs, my hands on the small of her back. I worked the muscles from the elastic band up towards the narrow arch of her lumbar area and then back down again. I kept this up for a while until she was comfortable with my fingers against her bare skin especially around her panties. And with each subsequent series I rubbed lower and lower until my hands were on her butt, pulling downwards with my fingers while my thumbs kneaded her ass cheeks pushing them up and away from me. And except for that tiny patch of her undies, my hands were now manipulating her naked flesh. 

"Doesn't this feel better?" I asked my voice getting noticeably hoarser and my cock feeling like a steel rod. 

She didn't answer but sighed and turned her head to the other side. She had her elbows squeezed against her body with her arms bent and hands in a ball by her face. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing through her mouth. 

The repeated massaging of her ass cheeks had jammed her panties into the crease of her ass exposing almost all of her. I leaned over, my nose inches from her crack, and got the savory scent of her – the heady fragrance of female arousal. Wow! It struck me then that my sister horny too! 

This was it; the moment of truth. I threw caution to the wind and grabbed the waistband and tugged it halfway down her thighs, totally exposing her ass. I didn't wait for her to react - before she could say or do anything, I resumed the massage by kneading her naked bottom and running my fingers along the sensitive realm of her thighs. 

I heard her gasp and grab the sheets in reflex. It was tangible, that moment when she teetered on the edge of uncertainty; unsure of lying stripped and threadbare, her ass and privates exposed to her brother. I could sense her ambivalence almost as undeniably real as the splendor of her naked body, palpable and sensuous, a raunchy but reluctant ecdysiast. I waited for her to push me off but the moment passed and she remained still as I continued to manipulate her. 

I heard her sigh, her breath whooshing softly out, signaling her surrender. The walls of her resistance had crumbled, washed over by waves of desire that was now manifested in the silvery trickle glistening along the puffy gash of her cunt. 

I could see her vaginal lips and the puckered rosebud of her asshole as I rubbed her butt up and outwards and could hear her breathing, now labored and deep. Her labial region was swollen and plump and she was seeping the juices of her arousal, the wetness draining down onto the sheets. Then slowly, I felt her hips begin to move, hunching back against my hands and I thought my chest would surely explode. I was giddy with lust and desire and close to losing any semblance of control. 

I focused my attention on her ass ignoring her shoulders and back. I had her legs spread in a V, my fingers high on the outside of her thighs and my thumbs rubbing upwards, pulling her ass cheeks apart. And each time I did this, her slit would yawn wide, spreading in response then closing with a soft, wet pussy-smack when I let go. And, like the nectar of the honeysuckle, the slick vaginal secretions ran down her slit, pooling in a puddle to the front. 

I pushed her thighs farther apart, working lower so that my thumbs were now brushing against her vaginal lips. The little growth she had was soft and downy allowing me to see just how swollen and wet she was. I continued stroking her, sensing her growing frustration, her hips twisting and turning, maneuvering herself, trying harder and harder to make contact with my fingers. She was juicing so badly that she had soaked the mattress under her vagina leaving a dark, wet stain that was growing by the second. 

At this point all pretense of an innocuous, brotherly massage was gone. She was moaning openly, panting, her labored breathing intermingled with soft, indiscernible sighs and groans each time my fingers grazed her cunt. I stopped and eased her panties completely off, tossing it to the side leaving her totally naked. I looked at her amazed by her body, delighting in its unequivocal sensuality and settled back in between her thighs with my face just inches over her bum. 

I spread her open and pushed my middle finger into her moist hole. She felt incredibly tight, her pussy immediately convulsing around the invasive digit. I wanted to prepare her for the inevitable moment of penetration, to spare her the pain of entry. 

My middle finger was about halfway in when I wiggled it around, moving it back and forth, and when it felt like she had adjusted, I slowly inserted another finger into her. I could feel her responding to the increased girth, her pussy stretching and constricting in buttery convulsions around my fingers.

"Ohhhhhh ... ohhh, oh God, please ..." she gasped, murmuring unintelligibly. 

Her hips were off the bed, pushing backwards, while I slid my fingers in and out of her, pumping her with my hand. 

"Mmmmm ... mmm, mmm, mmmm ..." her moans, timed to the rhythm of the digits sliding in and out of her, her hips bucking in the air, fucking lewdly against the mattress. 

I was filled with her musky redolence, an enticing aroma emanating from her core that drew me in, permeating my senses, eliciting an overpowering response to taste her. I moved forward, my forehead pressed against her rump, and licked. It was awkward because of the position we were in. Her thighs weren't splayed widely enough to allow me complete access. I pressed down harder, my nose buried into her crack, and licked again, swiping up and down with my tongue tasting the slick, spicy, sweetness of my sister for the first time. Sweet, sweet ambrosia! 

"Ahhhggg!" she gasped, a soft strangled sound that came from deep within her. 

There was a fleshy urgency to that moment that I would never again experience, overwhelming emotions and sensations tied into the esoteric newness of the experience. It was the provocative interpolation of compulsion and passion; the need to possess my sister completely, body and soul. I wanted her to yearn with the same claustrophobic desire that was choking me, to experience the churning need that I felt for her and to evoke the wanton urge to have my cock buried deep inside her. And I knew from my past experiences with Karen that there was nothing as titillating for a girl as the persistent lapping of a soft tongue, licking and teasing her clit even more so than a cock. It was time for me to take my sister to a place she had never been to.

I rolled her over onto her back and spread her wide.

"You're so beautiful," I said diving back in between her thighs, into her muff and heard her groan.

I used the tip of my tongue to pry between the lips of her pussy making sure I avoided contact with her puffed-up, little node. And as I feathered up and down the sides, tickling and probing, licking and slurping, she kept squirming, her hips jerking spastically, trying to get me to touch her where she needed me most. And after minutes of incessant teasing, she relented.

"Please ... please, baby, I need to cum!" It was a breathless plea. The guileless angel was transformed; her virginal abeyance obscured by the reprobating needs of her body. And in between the writhing and squirming, she attempted to touch herself, her fingers snaking down her abdomen, between her thighs, rubbing over her clit but I pushed her hand away.

"Don't!" I commanded, "Don't ... just lie there and enjoy it!"

And when I stuck my tongue into her, her body shook, her back arching upwards, desperately seeking release. Her head was rocking from side to side, hair whipping, flailing around her face. 

"Oh, ohhhhh ... Oh God, what's happening ... what's happening to me, Cal?" she gasped. 

She was leaking profusely now, her juices streaming down the crack of her ass, coating my tongue with a muculent, slippery syrup. I lapped it up, savoring the taste of her, licking her from the ridge of her anal crown to the base of her slit. And with my mouth locked to her sex, I tugged my sleepers off, freeing my dick, turgid and prancing, maneuvering myself around so we could sixty-nine.

I knew that this was all new for her, that she had never sucked a cock before, and felt her fumbling nervously, guided only by somatic curiosity. Her fingers wrapped tentatively around the rubbery rod, her breath hot and clammy, cascading down over my cockhead as she eased the foreskin away from the distended tip. We were lying skewed on our sides, our faces in each other's crotch. I could feel her fingers stroking up and down as her mouth clamped tentatively around the bloated head. She sucked lightly and then pulled back, testing the taste and texture, then licked again, whisking away a drop of precum, before sucking me back into the warm softness of her mouth. 

I continued to lick and suck on her possessed with Satyric fervor; pushing my tongue deep into her, wiggling it in and out, feeling her body undulate; the tiny tremors racing from her cunt causing her legs twitch and jerk. I loved the way my sister tasted, a sweet, mildly spicy flavor enhanced by the musky scent of her arousal. 

I pushed my fingers into her tight, little hole again, curling upwards, moving them back and forth, thrilling to every subtle reaction - the slick constrictions of her cunt, the twitching legs and the sensual tremors that ran along the striations of her abdomen. I was a slave to my own concupiscence, a prisoner trapped within the scorching implications of our sanguinary bonds – sister and brother; illicit lovers.

The room resonated with the soggy symphony of our sex as I continued to lap at her cunt. Like Karen, my sister was multi-orgasmic, capable of experiencing several different types of orgasms. Some that were shallow and mild lasting only seconds and then others that emanated from deep within her. They manifested in waves of rolling spasms, riding up through the pinnacles of orgasmic pleasure, her body quivering in ecstasy, before slithering down its isochronous slopes again.

At first, her oral administrations were tentative and inept lacking in the subtleties gathered from experience. She kept taking me out of her mouth and gingerly licking the tip of my cock, exploring the novelty with the curiosity of a virgin Lolita. Her expressions were priceless often betraying her amazement at the reactions she was able to elicit from this new and irrepressible toy of hers. She had claimed it, it was hers now. She used her fingers to examine the ridges and veins, fondling the mushroomed curve of the glans and feathering slowly down to the root before stroking her way back up again. She watched intently, marveling as my cock throbbed and oozed, and eagerly spread the sticky, precoital sap over the bloated dome with her fingers. 

Just having my sister holding my cock and using her mouth on me was compensation enough but she proved to be a quick study; a natural at cocksucking. After a couple of unpleasant scrapes with her teeth, and with some encouragement from me, she began to get the hang of it. She used my reactions to gage and improve her technique and very soon, she was sucking like a pro, working the bloated tip in and out of her mouth while stroking the shaft with her fingers. I could feel her tongue swirl around the flared ridge, rubbing against the sensitive underside of my cock and sending pulses of pleasure rippling through me. 

At one point during the exploration, she teased the head scratching lightly around the rim causing my cock to flex, jerking in her hand. 

I heard her gasp in surprise, "Ohhhh!" and then whisper, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, baby! Did I hurt you?" 

"No. No, it feels good - keep going, don't stop ... and suck it, Jenny, just suck me ..." was my rambling response. 

And then, unbelievably, she did something that Karen used to do – she began alternating between sucking on the head and using her fingers and palm to rub the ravaged dome, squeezing and pumping with short, compact strokes just around the coronal ridge. The pleasure was almost too intense to bear and I had to stop her or risk losing my load. I was determined to fuck her so I wasn't going to let her milk me as yet.  

And just when I though she was done with her experimentation, she sucked the tip quickly in and out of her sultry little mouth before taking me deep, slowly skewering herself on my pole, her face pressed up against my pubis. I held her head against me, amazed at her proclivity, and could hear her struggling to repress the gag reflex. The sensation of having the tip go down her throat was simply nonpareil. She was moaning around my shaft, as she worked it back out, sucking fiercely on the ruddy head, her cheeks caving in from the effort. She was more erotic than any porn I had jacked off to. 

After what seemed like an eternity of pleasuring each other, sucking, stroking, licking, swallowing and teetering several times on that precipice of orgasm, I knew I needed to stop, that if I wanted to consummate this union I had to do it now. And at that very moment, as though blessed with an uncanny prescience, she pulled me out of her mouth. 

"Please, baby, I need to feel you inside me ..." she was pleading in her little girl voice. 

She wouldn't have to ask again. I gave her one final lick, a long, wet slurping swipe that ran from the bottom up to the tip of her slit and then climbed on top of her. I straddled her hips and leaning over kissed her. It was our first kiss, a deep soulful merging of mouths. And while we sucked on each other's tongues, I shimmied downwards, squeezing in between her thighs, my cock leaving a slimy trail of precum along the length of her belly. She spread her legs out wider, raising her knees, while I settled on top of her. 

I could feel the heat rising from her cunt, burning with urgency, searing the underside of my shaft. She was writhing against me, filled with a need she hadn't felt before. I reached down in between us and holding my cock, swiped the tip along the furrow of her slit running it up and down a few time. I felt her fingers tighten around my ass, pulling me into her, her hips flexing upwards, desperately seeking penetration. Then unable to refrain any further, I guided my cock, forcing the tip into her vaginal hole. I pushed gently, not wanting to hurt her, and felt her spread, slick and hot, her pussy lips gulping open sucking at the dome of my cock. And though I had only about an inch inside her the feelings were unimaginably insane – the sensations of the tight rubbery band, wet and warm, fluttering around the rim of my cockhead, pulling me into her.

"Ohhhhh ..." it was a soft whimper of pleasure from deep in her throat.

She thrust upwards again, wanting more, trying to impale herself. God, what a slut! My slut! I ploughed in, driving into her and felt the dehiscent breach of her vaginal core. 

She let out a sharp cry, "Oh, aaoowww ..." 

I stopped. 

"Sorry, baby! Do you want me to stop, Jen? Do you want me out?"

I could feel her squirming under me, struggling, adjusting, and then, "No. No it's okay, keep going ... do it!"

I cupped her ass in my hands and pushed in, my cock spearing her open, deeper and deeper, until our crotches were mashed together. I could feel my cockhead throbbing at the entrance of her cervix. I could feel the rapid constrictions of her canal, milking my shaft.

"Oh God! Baby ...!" She gasped into my ear, her breath icy hot and rasping. 

We were matched perfectly, cock and cunt, yin and yang, paired by the code of our genetic pool. Just being aware of the incestuous union, and that I was actually fucking my sister was mind-boggling, something that only someone with a similar experience can comprehend. 




Of Sisters & Brothers Pt. 02



"You like your brother fucking you, don't you?" I whispered wanting her to acknowledge this act of incest.

She groaned in response and nibbled on my ear while I lay on top of her, unmoving. I wished that this feeling could last forever, this slick, wet, searing heat massaging the length of my shaft, running from the bloated tip into the very depths of my being. I was fused to my sister, physically and emotionally, and I knew then with certainty that every nuance of her was being burnt indelibly into my psyche. We would forever be one. There might be others in her life and mine but no one would ever feel like this for either of us. Karen was special because she was my first but this - this was forever!

I felt her hips begin to move, fucking upwards, and heard her gasp when I pulled out leaving just the head nestled in the entrance of her cunt. I held for a moment, flexing my cock, and then drove in again, plowing back deep into her until I felt the puffy hardness of her pubis pressing against my crotch. I lay buried to the hilt, grinding my bone against her mons, allowing my cock to throb inside her. I waited, thrilling in the moment.

"Do it, baby, please ..." she pleaded. 

"Do what, Jenny? Ask me ... what do you want me to do? I need to hear you say it, baby," I demanded, overcome by the feelings coursing through me.

She hesitated, tentative and shy, and then acquiesced to the game. 

"Fuck me, Cal ... fuck your little sister," she whispered lewdly. 

I began to fuck her in earnest with long steady strokes, sliding my entire length in and out of her, feeling the fleshy lips of her cunt clinging in protest each time I retracted my cock. And, when I plunged in, she would thrust up making a soft, sweet sound that wheezed out from her mouth, our timing immaculately synchronized. 

We maintained a steady pace fucking each other, hearts pounding together, panting, hands sliding, grabbing, holding, caressing – she was whimpering and whispering inaudibly into my ear, lewd, incestuous thoughts urging me on, arousing me further and further, pushing me to the brink. 

"Oh God, it feels so good," she groaned out loudly, "oh baby, fuck me, fuck! Oh, fuck ... fuck your little sister... unh, unh, unh ... Ohhhhh ..." 

We varied the tempo, our bodies coupled in a choreographed ballet, thrusting fast and hard for a while and then slowing it down, using deliberate strokes, slower and slower until we were lying still. I could feel the walls of her cunt squeezing me, her hips rotating, holding me deep in her before we resumed fucking each other again – a steady, rhythmic pounding up and down and back and forth. 

The noises of the bed and the mattress springs, groaning and squealing was joined by the lewd slapping of our bodies, a grating percussion to the squishy, rhapsody of our sex. I kissed her neck, licking behind her ears, my breath hot and humid against her and felt her turn towards me. 

"Kiss me, baby ... unh, unh ... kiss me, now ... unh, unh ... kiss your baby sister," she said, her voice stuttering, her lips brushing against my chin. 

Our mouths locked together, her tongue slithering into mine, swirling, twisting sucking and being sucked. She tasted minty and fresh, and felt incitingly soft and slick as I traced along the roof of her mouth, probing the pink insides between her cheeks and gums. I sucked gently on her lips, kissing her chin and throat, arching my neck to suckle on her nipples all the while pumping into her without breaking our cadence.

And then I felt her thighs tighten, her body twitching and her breathing, short and ragged. I knew she was close, on the verge of release, and pressed my fingers into her clit, rubbing just hard enough to push her over the edge. And, that did it - her hips bridged high, her cunt in spasms around my cock, and I felt her fingers dig into me, unable to control herself. 

"Ahhhhh, I'm cumming! Unh, unh, unh ... Oh God ... don't stop, fuck, fuck, ohhhh fuck me!"

And as I pumped my cock into my lovely little sister, she thrashed violently in the throes of her orgasm, sucking hungrily on the finger I had pushed into her mouth. 

I fucked her faster and harder, ramming in and out of her, her tits swaying back and forth, jiggling like mounds of firm jello. I was spurred on by the need to join her, to drown in the sea of timeless pleasure where moments and infinity are merged ecstatically together. And then I felt it, that tingling starting at the tip of my cock, my juices churning up from my balls.

"I'm going to cum," I whispered, a choked up, throaty cry, "Oh, little Jenny ..." 

"Yes, yes, darling, cum inside me," she hissed, "cum inside your sister ..." 

That did it. I tumbled over the edge. I felt my cock flex, constrict and spit out a thick, ropey glob that splashed deep inside her and then another and another and another. I kept pumping my seed into her belly, hips twitching uncontrollably, our bodies grinding together in a ruptured mosaic of incestuous passion until there was nothing left but the dry heaving of my cock inside her. 

She had knees bent high, her heels against the underside of my ass, securing me to her. We were still fused together, my cock imbedded in her cunt and not fully soft. She was holding me, her fingers feather soft, caressing me as I lay sweaty and spent. We remained that way for a while, unmoving, basking in the warm afterglow of our love. We were staring into each other's eyes, awestruck and spellbound by the emotional depth of our coupling.

"That was incredible," I said finally, and kissed her. 

She smiled shyly and snuggled into me. I caressed her face, pushing back the strands of her hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks and toyed with her breasts, gently rubbing across her nipples and holding her to me by small of her back. She was warm and damp, covered in a film of sweat. We continued cuddling each other, exchanging little kisses, whispering sweet nothings and that's when she confided in me.

"I've wanted this for so long, ever since I watched you with Karen," she said, her voice soft and earnest, "I would lie awake at night wishing you would do those things to me." 

"What?" I didn't think I had heard her right.

She elbowed up, peering down at me with those sparkling, aquamarine eyes. 

"I knew something was up when the three of you would try and lose me," she said, smiling, her fingers gently tracing the periphery of my mouth and adding in non sequitur, "You have such a soft mouth!" 

"Forget my mouth! You were spying on us?" I was incredulous and mildly angry. 

Clay, Karen and I had been careful to find secluded spots so we wouldn't be discovered. We had never considered Jenny's resourcefulness being far more concerned about our parents. I couldn't understand my feelings – it felt almost like a betrayal and I was miffed with her for the breach. My time with Karen held a special spot in my heart, a sacred spot, especially since she was gone. 

"I couldn't understand why you wouldn't take me with you. And, when I discovered what you were doing," she paused trying to find the words, "I couldn't stop watching ... it was so exciting!" 

I lay without responding, my mind filled with images and memories of Karen, trying to come to grips with my reaction. This explained some of Jenny's experimenting – I'm sure watching Karen doing things like deep throating me had created an impression on her. I couldn't blame Jenny for trailing after us and knew that my reaction was irrational and misplaced. 

"Don't be angry with me, Cal, please," she said, sounding despondent, "It was years ago and I really didn't mean to spy, it just ... it just happened." 

"It wasn't that long ago," I countered, speaking softly, "It's only been two years or so." 

"I love you so much, Cal, please don't be mad ... please," she was pleading worried that she might have upset me.

"I'm not mad at you, silly girl, and I love you too and in case you didn't know, I've wanted you as far back as I can remember ... even before you had grown these!" I said giving one of her nipples a nip. 

"Ouch!" she yelped and then, quick as a cat, reached down and grabbed my cock, squeezing it. "Two can play that game, mister man!" 

"Owww!" I teased, now kneading her breast, "You're killing me!" 

"It hurts, does it? Don't worry, darling, I'll make it all better. How does this feel?" she asked rhetorically, kissing the tip and before I knew it she had me in her mouth. She had pulled the foreskin all the way down and was bobbing her head, running her mouth quickly over the ridge of my glans.

I raised myself up and moved her hair away from her face so I could watch. She looked amazingly sensual with her lips stretched around my cock, riding over the wet glistening ring of saliva and precum. It was a voyeuristic stimulus that forced the visceral response, "Oh God!" 

She released me and whispered, "Just lie back. I want you to cum in my mouth, baby ..." and then she was on me, sucking like a girl possessed. 

We fucked every chance we got, all through high school and college, totally committed to each other, and if it weren't for my stint in Iraq, I'm sure we would have been together today. While I was away, Jenny moved with some friends to upstate New York where they bought a farm, an organic farm. My brother, Phillip had helped her with the purchase and that in itself was enough to keep me away. 

But that's a separate chapter in our jumbled relationship. Right now, I had to figure out what had happened to Clay and how this blonde amazon figured in this mess. 

***** 

In the Den with Lions

I studied the amazon through the open window of the passenger side. I checked the rear seats to see if there was anyone else with her but except for a duffle bag, the car was empty. 

"Get in," she repeated. And, as soon was in, she hit the accelerator and the beamer shot forward throwing me back against the seat. 

"Buckle up," she instructed brusquely. 

Her voice was husky, not foghorn husky, but with a sensual throatiness. I studied her chiseled profile and was surprised by the delicate bone structure. She had big sky-blue eyes, small button nose, high cheekbones and a cupid-bow mouth that arced seductively over a strong chin and except for the fact that she was an inordinately big gal, she was gorgeous, a Scandinavian bombshell. 

"I'm not that stupid!" I replied. I knew all about seatbelts that were modified to be restraints, "Click it and stick it – I'll be trapped, right?" 

She didn't answer but instead reached under the seat and came up with a Steyr M40 with a laser pointer attached. For those who are not familiar with handguns, the Steyr M40 is a 9 mm Glock on steroids. 

I was about to react when she handed it to me, "Here you take it. It's loaded and the safety is off." 

I studied the gun for a second then clicked the safety back in place and dropped it between my legs on the floorboard. 

"Please buckle up, we are being tailed and I'm going to try and lose them." 

I complied and instinctively turned, looking back at the headlights. 

"They are very good, probably professionals," she said, glancing in the rearview mirror, "they are a few cars behind us, a black Lincoln,"

She as driving really fast, weaving in and out, cutting through the traffic with ease. 

"You're going to have to trust me, Caleb," she said, glancing over and then continued, "I'm on your side. We have to act fast if you want to see your friend again - alive! I don't think you realize how much danger he is in." 

I looked at her again, surprised that she knew my name.

"Well, let's start at the beginning. What's your name and how do you know mine?" I asked.

"I'm Greta von Hassel with the Austrian Secret Service, the BVT. We have been working with the Russians to try and nab al-Shishani for quite a while now. We have most of his US contacts under surveillance, including your friend Sam Eliasberg." 

She didn't have to explain any further. Unless you were trying to remain anonymous, and you had to really try, it was easy enough to get the background on anyone these days but I wasn't quite convinced. 

"The Austrian Secret Service? Yeah, and I'm just supposed to believe that," I responded, with obvious suspicion, "And what the heck is the BVT?"

"It stands for Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz und Terrorismusbekämpfung. It's a federal agency that handles counter terrorism. I can show you my credentials when we get back to the hotel," she paused before adding, "but you can also call our colleagues at the CIA. I do have a few contacts at Langley."

"The Bundes what?" 

"Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz und Terrorismusbekämpfung," she repeated, "but almost everyone refers to us as the BVT." 

Her accent was almost nonexistent. You had to listen carefully to catch the slight intonation of certain words typical of European enunciation. I grappled with her story and it seemed to be true but there were still too many loose ends. 

"Okay, then how did you track us to that dive? That wasn't a coincidence; your walking in and Clay going missing? And what's in the briefcase that makes it so damn valuable?" 

"We put a tracking device under your vehicle," she said simply and without hesitation. 

"When?"

"When you were with Kriegl at the Hilton." She answered in anticipation, almost before I had asked the question. 

So she knew Kriegl. This was getting better by the minute. 

"Where's the car now?" I quizzed.

"They must have done a sweep and found the tracker because we lost contact when the two of you were in the diner." She explained while continuing to speed, the hum of the V8 getting louder. She was Danica Patrick on a NASCAR track except we were on an Interstate crammed with traffic. 

She kept glancing in the rearview mirror, checking for the tail, weaving through the slower cars using the shoulder when she had to. I wondered where the state police were. They are never around when you needed them. It would have been interesting to watch her handle New Hampshire's finest. 

We drove quietly for a while and the traffic had gotten considerably less congested. She coasted over into the right lane. 

"I think we've lost them," she said and slowed the X5 down. She glanced over at me and then offered encouragingly, "We'll find your friend but we have to get to al-Shishani first. He's the key to all of this. Where are you meeting him?" 

"You didn't answer me. What's in the case that is so important?" 

That's when the rear window shattered and I heard the soft "thwap" of a bullet tearing through fabric. The blonde amazon lurched forward and gasped as the crimson stain blotched across the front of her right shoulder. 

A second shot blew open the driver side rear window and the car careened out of control, slipping precariously into the grassy ditch. When I looked out past Greta, the black Lincoln had pulled up alongside with the tattooed Ukrainian leaning out. He had a rifle aimed straight at us, his snake eyes glittering ...

To be continued.