An Instant Family

by Barneyr

Caution: This Drama Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Size, Slow, .

Desc: Drama Story: What does an alphabet soup agent do when he retires at an early age? Does he just drop off the grid or does he take what has been given to him and try to make a life out of it? Read and you can follow along and see how Jason copes with life after the hectic life of an agent.

My team was all set, and we only waited until it was 2AM. Only ten more minutes and the Ortega Cartel would be no more. While we were working our way into the compound, we set charges at all the outlying buildings. His hanger, his power house, and his warehouse. We made sure that there was no money in the warehouse first. Juan Garcia Montoya Ortega was known for hoarding his many millions in his house where he could look at it, play with it, and just know that all his money was safe. It was rumored that between the gold, silver, and multiple currencies, he kept in his basement that he had accumulated in excess of one billion dollars American through all his varied businesses. Drugs were his most profitable business, but he was also into prostitution, white slavery, and the smuggling of foreign agents and radicals into the US.

It was time now. Twenty of the top agents of our alphabet soup agency moved in on the mansion of Ortega. In the next ten minutes, we had silenced all twenty-three of the inner perimeter guards and entered the house. The inside guards were very lax; no one had ever penetrated this compound. They knew that they were safe, and as long as the Patron was asleep or busy with one of his many whores, they could relax.

Carefully ten of my team cleared the ground floor. There were a couple that were the cooks and housekeeper who were our inside people, and we had them leave in a hurry. The other ten of our group with me leading took the second floor. The guards were easy. Ortega was smart in one respect; he had a guard room on each floor, but most were sleeping. They were easy, just a slit throat and move on to the next one. The roving guards were next, but they were not the most alert guys either.

Now came the time for clearing out the rest of the second floor. In one room, we found three American girls, and five Orientals trussed up on a large bed. They were cut loose and told to stay quiet, or they would die. Another room held a lot of jewelry and art that Ortega had conned from people he smuggled across the border. We found his office and I left one of my men in charge of finding all of his relative files on his smuggling locations and who was being bribed or bought to allow the smuggling. Lastly, we went to the Patron’s room. I picked the lock, and we entered. Thankfully, he and his two whores were dead asleep. They stayed dead.

Now was the time to finish the job. All of our charges were remote detonated, and we had plenty of time to clean out Ortega’s horde in the basement. Surprisingly, there was no huge safe or other obstacle for us to clean out his basement. There was a tunnel leading to his hanger, and we used that to transport all of his ill-gotten gains to our box trucks with Ortega’s produce company’s name emblazoned on the side.

By the time we were loaded up with the gold and silver bars, and six pallets of cash along with the eight young girls (about 18 to 20 years old). It was going on five in the morning. We made our way to the airport not far from the Ortega compound, and it was starting to get very light out. We loaded everything into our cargo aircraft, a C-17 and took off flying out of Mexico toward the Gulf. We triggered the explosives at Ortega’s compound as we flew over it and the whole place went up in smoke and fire. After getting to the Gulf we turned north to NAS Corpus Christi for refueling, and then once in the air again we made for our secret base in northwestern Texas. There is so much area in Texas that a secret base is easily camouflaged in its vast open range areas.

Once everything was sorted out the agency, which receives half of all funds gained, the total was 1.7 billion dollars. The other half of the $850 million was divided up amongst the twenty team members. We rounded down to $40 million apiece and gave the rest to the eight women that we rescued. We could place all of them back with their families, and the money was used as a college scholarship plus therapy costs to allow them to get well after their ordeal.

I guess I should introduce myself here. I am Jason Paul Turner; I am 28 years old, and five-foot eleven and one hundred eighty-five pounds of fit human male. I am not muscle bound like some gym rat, but I could hold my own with a gym rat twice my size. I know probably two hundred ways to kill a person with my bare hands. I am an expert marksman with rifle, handgun or about any other weapon, including a blowgun. I was recruited by the CIA while in college and then transferred into this new agency when I was 25. In the three years in this agency, I have accumulated quite a nest egg. Scattered over thirty banks and financial institutions around the world I have a net worth of just over nine-hundred million. I plan to retire when I’m thirty, so I can settle down and have a family. I was able to finish college and received a bachelors in Finance and a masters in Computer Science. I could work just about anywhere that I wanted; that is if I wanted to work. I have no close friends except members of my team. I am pretty much a loner right now, but that is because of my job.

Two years and five jobs later, I am on my last job. It is the infiltration of a massive white slavery ring that holds auctions for selling young girls and boys from one to sixteen year olds. Most of their merchandise, however, is in the preteen age group, but everything from babies to teenagers is for sale.

We are set up in a Holliday Inn next to a Hampton Suites outside of Washington DC. The auction will take place at midnight. We have the three hotels in the immediate area covered. There is a Ramada about a half-mile down from these two hotels that we have some people in order to make sure that we catch these bastards. Each buyer is set up in a room on a different floor with a laptop. We open a specified website, and we can see the merchandise up for auction. We are given a routing and account number to submit our bids to. We have a voice that gives the current bid and if the price stays the same for over one minute, the auction for that girl or boy is over.

We can trace back from my laptop where the merchandise is being displayed from. The signal is routed through several servers, but originates from the hotel next door. This is so that after the auction the buyers can pick up their merchandise. Now where the auctioneer is, is another matter, but we are tracing his signal as well.

The auction starts with a nine-year-old boy, and he sells for twenty thousand. I bid on a fifteen-year-old girl, and am the high bidder at seventy thousand. Each of the boys or girls are drugged and tied to a box affair with their arms up and their legs in straps spreading their legs. The box rotates so you can see all of them. Later, there is another girl, who looks much like the fifteen-year-old I bid on. She is only twelve but the similarity is uncanny, so I bid on her too. I think they are sisters.

By the time the bidding is all over with we have nailed down where everyone is. Each of the bidders has one or two of our men outside of their room. They will not escape. We also have the auctioneer as well. I’m so glad we added the Ramada down the street. That was where he was broadcasting from. We found the room where the kids were kept. It was a two-bedroom suite and the kids were kept in one of the bedrooms while the auction was in the main room. Within ten minutes, we had all the buyers, and the goons moving the kids to the auction. The auctioneer was interrupted while trying to transfer all the bids to his account. So we got him and his account before it could be transferred again.

When everything was done we had three girls that we could find no relatives for. The sisters; fifteen-year old Jacolyn Preston or Jackie as she preferred to be called, her sister Marilyn or Mar as she wanted to be called. Then there was this bundle of joy Amie. Amie was six years old, and we tried everything we could think of; fingerprints, footprints, and DNA to find her parents or any relative, to no avail. Our agency files plus what we had access to could not find a match for her. She was just young enough that the only thing she knew was that her hometown was called Jamestown. Well, there are twenty-eight states with a Jamestown, plus there are several more Jamestown’s in the world, but Amie didn’t seem to have an accent, so we traced down each missing persons for each town and looked for similarities to Amie and found nothing. Great, what to do now? I stepped in and said I would adopt her as this was my last job, and I was going to settle down in either Arkansas or my ranch in Texas.

The sisters were the only living remnants of their family. Their parents and a younger brother were burned in a fire at their home. The fire was arson, and we thought that the white slavers set the fire to hide the kidnapping of the sisters. I said I would adopt them as well, and they agreed.

After a brief stay at a hospital in Maryland, the four of us traveled to my cabin in Arkansas to relax and just get over the tragedy and turmoil they had endured over the last three weeks. School didn’t start for another two months, so we had plenty of time to unwind and get to know each other. My cabin is on a lake and has three bedrooms upstairs and a great room downstairs that is open to the upper floor. The kitchen, bathroom and utility rooms are under the upper bedrooms. So is the furnace and storage room. The great room has a stone fireplace on the north end of the cabin as well as on the east side that heats the bedrooms upstairs. The first night I let them each have a bedroom, and I would sleep downstairs on the foldout couch.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Heterosexual / Fiction / Size / Slow /