I was very, very busy when the phone buzzed, about a half-foot deep in the prettiest blonde secretary in the pool, a slut who was in danger of rolling right off the side of her desk if I didn't keep both hands on her gorgeous boobs, and she didn't keep her high-heeled feet hooked together behind me.
So I tried to ignore it, but she could not; training I suppose. While I continued to hammer my thick and all-but-bursting rod into her, she picked up the handset and said, "Mr. Wrightson's office. Oh crap,"and she dropped the phone and climaxed, kicking her feet in the air and beating on my chest with her little fists while she squealed and cussed, bent back like a garden bridge.
"Two more, honey," I told her, feeling my balls tighten and churn, and then I said, "One more," as I pulled it back and rammed it home and pulsed and pulsed, shooting thick ropes of my sperm into her. She shuddered and squealed again and went limp while I gritted my teeth and gave one more load, my thighs bunched and ass tight.
Still imbedded, I reeled in the phone and said I was Wrightson, which I'm not. The voice said, "We've got a hot one, needs immediate attention."
"Shit," I said, pulling my thick cock out of the writhing blonde and letting her fall. "Hang on. Who's up?" I asked her as my dripping prick jumped about.
She pointed at me and smiled as she rolled to her feet and pulled down her skirt and then buttoned up her white shirt.
I tapped the phone on the rest and said, "Action desk."
"A snatch, pair of the IG's broads, right off the damn plane in Houston, fuckin' disappeared. Big flap."
"Send the info. We'll do what we can." I handed the blonde back her tiny underpants, kissed her like a brother and picked up my gun and holster. By the time I got to the office, the machine was spitting out pages.
Gloria J. Thompson, 33, CPA, 11 years experience and Jasmine Fulgar, 23, CPA, one year on the job at the IG's office, had been taken in the jetway between the plane and terminal by person or persons unknown who were seen bundling the females into Lincoln SUV of some sort, probably the Navigator, and roaring away from the airport, George Bush Intercontinental.
They had just returned from a tour of South American projects and their field notes and tapes seemed to have vanished along with them since no unclaimed luggage from that flight was found. Pictures followed. Thompson was a good looking woman with a short haircut and long legs, and Fulgar was a honey colored female who probably could pass for white if she wanted to do so. She was a statuesque beauty, a first class stunner, a Dallas cheerleader-type. Some accountant.
The Lear was warmed up and ready to go when I got to National, and we screamed southward, just me and what little I had, mainly their itinerary which showed where they had been and who they had met with along the way. One name popped out, a trouble-shooter for a one-time wildcat oil driller who was now the CEO of a huge conglomerate doing business worldwide. Marcus Martelli was a vicious sunuvabitch who would sell his mother is there was profit in it.
In Texas I got to look at some security tapes including a curbside set showing the departing SUV, its windows blanked and tag fogged. I folded myself into the next cab in line and asked the driver if he knew where the Midas Petroleum building was. He smiled and nodded. The place was one of those glass towers with aluminum struts and a big atrium. I flashed my ID for the security man and said I wanted to see Mr. Martelli. He lifted an eyebrow and then lifted his phone. "Thirty-two," was all he said when he put it down.
A female who looked like a thousand-dollar hooker showed me to his office, never missing a beat on her chewing gum. Martelli was on the phone, and as I stepped into the room two thugs grabbed my arms, took my Glock and frisked me urgently. I sat where Martelli pointed and when he put down the phone and looked up, I said, "Pretty careless, using tags that could be traced."
"Shit," he said, looking over my head and then back at me. "You're lying."
I smiled. "Where are they?"
He shrugged and rubbed his chin.
"We don't get them back today, your government contracts are going to start being cancelled, one by one, starting with the biggest. What's that, the pipeline in Canada?"
"Put him on ice," he said, picking up the phone. "Got to check on a few things." He hit his intercom and said, "Get the fucking congressman on the line" while his two bullies put wristlocks on me and took me to the elevator and down to P5 where I got stowed in a small, cinder block room with a metal door. I began to feel I had made one bluff too many but then I heard sniveling and sniffing.
"Gloria," I said loudly. "Jasmine? Can you hear me?"
"Just Gloria," the voice sniffed, "they took the girl away an hour ago. Who are you?"
I told her and she laughed.
I blushed and felt acid in my throat and then I laughed too. It was funny telling a woman in a cell I had come to get her out when I was locked in right beside her.
Pretty soon I heard people and the door next to mine opened and somebody was shoved in. "Don't talk," said a new voice. "They can hear you."
"What did they do to you?" asked the Gloria voice.
"Come out here, bitch," said a male voice. "Your turn to dance for us."
I reached in my pants and pulled out the single-shot weapon taped behind my balls, pressed it against the lock and pushed the button. The lock blew to very small pieces, and I stepped out behind the debris and cold-cocked one big jerk and then stabbed the other in the throat with my rigid fingers. He fell back against the open cell door going, "Ach, ach" and slid down, turning blue very quickly.
I took his Tec 9 and handed it to Gloria, noticed that the other women was naked and pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it to her. The other guy had a Glock like the one I had lost so I took that and turned to face the women, finger to my lips. The big grunt on the floor was making noises so I hit him in the ear with his pistol a couple of times and he slumped with blood pouring out of his ear and nose.
We headed for the elevator and I punched 32. "Global been stealing?" I asked Gloria.
She nodded. "This the safety?" she asked, pointing.
The other woman appeared to be in shock, her lips moving but no sounds coming out. My shirt showed she had good legs and shapely ass.
"When the doors open you'll see a blonde secretary. Keep her from touching anything or calling anybody."
Gloria nodded and took a deep breath.
"She all right?" I asked, nodding at the younger woman.
"She will be," said Gloria, looking like she always carried a weapon, cool and calm.
The doors slid open and Gloria was on the blonde in two strides, pushing her away from her desk and ignoring her squeaks. I stepped into Martelli's office and put a slug in his phone. It made a very loud noise, and he jumped a foot or so.
He gawked at me and the girl standing beside me wearing just my polo shirt.
"I want their stuff," I said. "Their luggage. And I want my gun."
He slid my pistol, wallet and ID folder across his desk, and I stuck the familiar gun in my waist. Then he pointed at a low sofa where two black bags sat. "Check," I said to the trembling girl. "Make sure it's all there."
"Over there," I said to Martelli, gesturing toward his little bathroom with my pistol. He went. I checked he didn't have a cellphone and then locked him in. "Bring her in here," I yelled, and Gloria appeared with the blonde, still gum chewing. I locked her in with her boss. Maybe they could find something useful to do.
Then we headed for the elevator, each woman pulling a suitcase on wheels. Down we went, and I waved to the security guy as we went by. Then, on second thought, I went back and ripped his handset off his phone and took it with me. Outside, Gloria had already flagged a cab. They got in the back with their bags and I sat in front and said, "Airport."
"Which one?" he asked with a smile. "We got three now."
"Ellington," I said.