Ingrams & Associates Conclusion: Downfall

Chris and Trish Morgan had been married for nine years, after dating for eighteen months. They were college sweethearts, and while both had had other relationships, they knew that their pairing was meant to be.

Trish was impulsive, which paired with Chris’ over prudence, made them both meet in the middle. She was cheerful, funny, always with a quip, and fairly kindhearted. She did have some traits some would call bossy, and Chris noted that she could push buttons on occasion, particularly with him, until he eventually lost his temper and explained the facts of life to her, in his own fashion. When he did, she became unexpectedly accommodating, never holding it against him when he felt it necessary to bring down the wrath of the Annoyed Husband on her. When it did happen, which wasn’t often, her response was always measured, sublimated, and contrite. But, she did have a calculating side, - Chris saw it more than once, though never turned towards him. She could measure up people, see what they wanted and then use that information to get what she wanted. He watched her use that skill from getting them a table at a hard-to-get-into restaurant, to manipulating her boss to send them on an all-expenses paid trip to New York, looking to recruit new reporters.

To all intents and purposes, their marriage was a good one, both feeling fulfilled by it. They had many friends, although none that close. They had a life that was intertwined, but also with separate parts, so both could breath and be individuals rather than just always joined at the hip, as all good relationships need.

They were married in Vermont, and settled in San Antonio. Chris had joined the military straight from college, a decision that Trish had supported while Trish had taken a job as an intern at a local newspaper, slowly rising up the ranks till she was the PA and second in command of the main editor himself. She had shown herself resourceful and a good communicator, something the editor needed since he was quite gruff and abrupt and not a social man, preferring to spend time working from home with his invalid husband.

Chris had risen through the ranks, and ended up a Captain, his quick intelligence being noted and capitalized on. While he went into the intelligence groups, as per orders, his wife was led to believe that he was a logistics whizz kid. She was told he was on secondment as a troubleshooting logistics manager, which explained his somewhat erratic postings. One month he’d be 100% at home, reporting only casually to the base, and other times he’d be gone for a few weeks at a time.

In actual fact, Chris was part of a loose coalition of intelligence officers / trouble shooters that the Military kept on staff. They were trained in all aspects of the secret life, and sent into troublesome situations, usually to get a source out, or fix up a situation gone bad. They did develop intelligence for themselves, but were used more for trouble shooting existing situations than for creating new ones.

Chris had traveled and performed missions extensively, - Singapore, Vienna, Afghanistan, Hong Kong, The Congo, Egypt, the list went on.

The last mission he undertook, that of validating a new source in the Pakistan Military, and then building a supply chain for getting intel out of the country, and money in, plus building an escape route for the man’s family, in case things went sideways, had taken longer than expected. Chris had been out of the US for three months, when he arrived home, to an empty house.

When Chris was away, his communication with home was sporadic at best, but he did his best. Trish was normally fine with it, and managed to pack a lot of meaning into the times when they did get to talk. And his welcome home was always spectacular.

This time, she’d been reticent, often avoiding chances to talk longer, and sometimes just not answering her phone at all. Chris had some concerns about that, but was also distracted by the mission. When he was away from home, Chris was effectively single, in that he didn’t wear his wedding ring and flirted, as a single guy would. He didn’t not, however, end up going back to where he was billeted with any of the women he flirted with. Almost, but never. It was all a calculated projection, - Chris was in the field and observed on occasion by enemy combatants, whether overtly or clandestine. He wanted no hint of a home life for anyone to get hold of, no threats to Trish back at home. So his communication was sporadic, and he did his best to not dwell on Trish and what she was doing, since it was too much of a distraction. He had a job to do, and he had to have his focus on what he was doing. Besides, he trusted Trish. And she trusted him. It was the basis for their relationship.

Which was why, when he finally made it home, he was both surprised and extremely pissed off to find her not waiting for him. He’d called ahead, left messages on her cell, and she wasn’t there, waiting at home, as she had been every other time he’d returned home, usually with a bottle of something bubbly chilling, a steak on the grill, wearing a cheerful smile, high heels and not much else.

This time he returned to an empty apartment. Dark and gloomy, and from the layer of dust on everything, unoccupied for some while.

He immediately called her cell, not getting a response. He then tried the Find Me function of the new iPhone she had, and didn’t get a response from that, either, meaning her phone had to be either turned off, or the feature deactivated.

There was no note. Most of her clothes were gone, as were a couple of her favorite handbags. Most of the cosmetics where still there, some obvious favorites left. The perfume he’d bought her for their last anniversary was still there, the one she professed to loving more than anything.

Chris immediately called his superior at the base; it looked very like he’d been compromised, and his wife abducted. The MPs descended on his apartment, and they took it apart, dusted and looked into everything, banishing him to a base apartment while their investigated.

At the end of a week, they were barely any wiser. She’d taken some couple of thousand in cash from their accounts three weeks before Chris had arrived home, but everything else was untouched, as was their joint account since that last transaction. No credit cards had been used, and her balances on those were zero anyway. Her passport was gone, but there was no evidence of it being used; she was more than likely still in the country then. But there the trail ran cold.

The MPs and Chris canvassed the neighbors and as many joint friends as they both had, and everything came up the same. Over the last month, before she’d vanished, Trish had slowly but surely faded away from everyone, begging out of friend events.

The MPs had connected with the local police, and they were just starting their own investigation, when Chris got a cryptic email, ostensibly from Trish. It simply said, “I’m sorry I had to leave. Something had come up that I just couldn’t turn down. I’ve made sure there is space for you with me on this adventure, so please, come find me at the following address, the next night, and we can talk it out and embark on the next stage of our marriage. I’m not lost, and you don’t have to be, either.”

There was an address and a time, and Chris immediately called his C.O., and forwarded the email. After a brief discussion, it was agreed that Chris would go to this meeting, but he’d be shadowed by a complement of MPs, all stationed locally, and ready to go instantly if need be.

He’d gone to the meeting, a recorder in his pocket and a small radio wired into his jacket, broadcasting constantly.

The address he’d arrived at turned out to be a large mansion like building, on the outskirts of Austin, Texas. It was hidden from the road, down a long windy approach road, and set in some lovely, well-manicured grounds.

In the parking lot were several high-end cars, and there was the general hubbub of an exclusive club atmosphere. He’d noticed several cameras the moment he entered the premises, where he was met by two uniformed ‘stewards’. Chris practiced eye took in the security apparatus in the house, way above what any club would really need. He noticed the built-in metal detector and body scanner, cunningly disguised in the entrance, as he passed through it.

After waiting with the stewards, who appeared to be packing something under their well-tailored jackets, - a large man, over six feet and four inches, if Chris was any judge, - built like a super hero, and also clad in a dinner jacket, came out to welcome him.

He was assured his wife was here and waiting for him, and she would reveal all as soon as ‘they got him situated.’ However, the moment they took him through some side doors, he was grabbed by the two stewards, and manhandled into a side room. Chris was very able to take care of himself, but in his urge to see his wife, he allowed it to happen, particularly knowing that he was wired and he had backup less than a couple of miles away. This confirmed that there was something extraordinary in her disappearance, and he was even more interested in finding out who had her, and in being able to get her out. He didn’t resist, even when his hands were ziplocked together, in front of him.

He was less happy when the two stewards ripped his jacket from him, and found and removed the wire and destroyed the audio recorder. He was now truly on his own. His backup would not move in without his order; he’d been very clear on that, and now he couldn’t give that order.

He was then zapped with a taser, to ensure his body compliance, and then moved to another room, this time with a simple chair in the middle of it, facing a large blacked out window. Chris was deposited in it, one of the men standing silent guard behind him.

While his muscles were recovering, the large man who had greeted him earlier entered the room, holding a glass of brandy and appraising Morgan. Likewise, Morgan stared back, evaluating him. Light on his feet, but very broad shoulders indicative of time in a gym. His jacket in the arms was just a little too tight, probably deliberately, to show off his large biceps. He moved fluidly, and Chris couldn’t help noticing the movements indicated some kind of training; more than likely martial arts, unless the guy was one hell of a ballroom dancer. He had brushed back dark thick hair, slightly shiny with some kind of product, and a square jaw that looked to be perpetually blue.

But it was the eyes that gave it away. Clear, bright, and heavy with intelligence and curiosity. The man instantly put Chris’ back up, as he recognized this man as dangerous, all on fronts. The kind who leads from example, and usually not a very nice example, at that.

“Well, a wire! Who’d have thought it? A logistics captain wearing a wire! That’s a turn up for the books!” He had a faint British accent, but very faint. If Chris was any judge, he was someone from the east coast who’d spent some formative years in the UK, but wasn’t British.

He leaned down, and grabbed Chris jaw, turning his head back and forth and peering at him.

He stood up again, gazing down at Chris Morgan through hooded eyes.

“I’m sure you are wondering where your wife is? Well, she is here. And all will be revealed to you. In fact...”

He checked his watch, and then nodded at the guard standing by the door. The man reached up and pressed a control on the panel by the door, and the window instantly cleared, giving Chris Morgan a view into the room beyond.

What he saw made his blood go cold.

His wife was on her knees, wearing some bodice outfit, her breasts pushed out and the front barely covering her nipples. It was dark grey, with stockings and garters attached, and she was wearing at least four-inch spike heels. There was a choker around her neck, with a chain running from it, held by one, overweight man, standing in front of her, wearing only shorts, his portly belly hanging over them. He was puffing on a cigar, and talking animatedly with another man, standing behind Trish. Trish was gazing up, adoringly, face painted with heavy makeup, ruby red lipstick and black eye shadow. She looked all the word like an archetypal whore.

The men carried on their conversation for a few moments, when someone said something to them, outside of the view from the window and the man holding Trish’s leash looked down at her, a cruel look in his eyes. He jerked the chain making Trish almost topple over. She recovered her balance, then reached up and pulled the man’s cock out of his shorts, and then just went to town on it. She was slurping and rubbing her face on it, licked and deepthroating, while never breaking eye contact with the owner of the smallish penis she was devouring.

Chris was astonished and revolted. Trish, while enjoying the act of a blow job for the pleasure it brought him, never really got into the act too much. She did it, and did it willingly, but it was never her first thought for pleasure. Yet here, she was going at it like a five-year courtesan, who’s life depended on it.

And worse still, Chris knew her tells. He knew when she was getting aroused and into whatever she was doing, and she was doing it all here, with the exception of closing her eyes and caressing herself, something she did when she was lost to the activities they had participated in in the past.

“Yes, she’s quite the little cocksucker, your wife. I commend you on your educating her,” said the big man, watching raptly. He glanced over at Chris, and noticed his expression.

“Oh, you didn’t teach her!? Oh, she came to this all on her own? Since she’s been here?”

Chris glanced over at the man, communicating a world of fury and hurt that was coming his way soon, the rage of all men shown a betrayal of this magnitude.

“Well, that’s another turn up! I’m surprised. I guess she just loved what we had to offer that much!” The man seemed to be enjoying Chris’ anger, reveling in his power.

“Doesn’t say much for you, does it?” he taunted, taking another sip of the brandy and grinning at Chris, smugly.

“I shouldn’t be surprised though,” the man mused to himself. “What a woman Trisha is. She could never be satisfied with a glorified statistics clerk. I mean, you are supposed to be in the army! I’ll bet you don’t even know how to hold a rifle correctly. Numbers and clipboards, that’s all you are good for, isn’t it, soldier boy?”

‘One day,’ thought Chris to himself, ‘I’m going to wipe that smile off his face the hard way.’

The man stood and watched for a few minutes more, as Trish gobbled down the first man’s cum, showing him her open mouth and his spurts on her tongue, then swallowing, with every indication of delight on her face.

Once done, her leash was handed from one man to another, and Trish transferred her attention to the new man, showing him the same deference she’d shown the first. Another blow job was performed, with Trish getting even more into it than the first, if possible, with the same ending.

“Well, that’s my cue!” said the big man brightly, as though he and Chris were friends.

“Before I do this, I want you to know, there is nothing personal in this. She’s just ... a fabulous piece of ass, and I intend to enjoy it as much as I want. She wants you here, to see this. Your future is here, with us. You just have to reach out and take it, like she has. You need to stop looking like someone is taking something from you. It’s more, they are revealing something to you. Your true nature. Or, it will be, once we are done. She has a message for you, by the way.”

He turned to the guard at the door and nodded at him, and the man pressed a button.

“Go on, slut, he’s here.”

Trish stood up, slowly, like her thighs were wobbly and then, staring into the window, she blew a kiss. Whatever the guard had done, there was now a two-way window, and she could see him sitting there, tears streaming down his face.

“Hey Honey!” she cried, blowing him a kiss. “Isn’t this just great? I’ll bet you are so hard right now. Relax, you’ll get your turn, at some point.”

She softened, then smiled at him. “We are gonna have such fun here. Once I break you like a good little cuck, we are going to have such a good time. I’ve discovered what I was born to be, it’s been so liberating! I’m a switch. And you’ll be my sub, and we’ll live forever, as it was always meant to be. But first, gotta make sure master is happy, before we can get to you. See you baby. Don’t cum just yet! I want that to myself.”

She seemed genuinely happy, and Chris realized for the first time that his marriage truly was dead and that his wife was lost to him, drawn up in ... whatever this was.

The man nodded again at the guard, and opened the door to the other room, stopping only to look back and say, “Now pay attention. You may pick up some pointers. She’ll want you to be able to do some of this on command soon. She’s already gotten used to the pleasure we can offer, and she’ll demand that of you, too. So watch and learn, little man.”

One last look at the two men in the room with Chris, saying, “Keep him here, but don’t damage him. We have plans for him. Or, at least, she does.”

And then the door clanged shut and he was on the other side of the glass.

Trisha was on her knees the moment the man entered the room, head down.

“May I please you master,” she mumbled.

The man drained the last of his drink and held out the empty glass.

“Take it, bitch. Put in on the table. Then assume the position.”

Chris couldn’t believe it, but he actually heard a happy squeal from Trisha. This was his Trish. She didn’t ‘squeal’ at anything. She was as far away from a woman who squealed at things, as the moon was to their apartment.

She took the glass, gingerly, without out looking up, and slunk on her knees to the table. Then she crawled back, slowly, and lavishly, to the man’s feet, again on her knees, eyes cast down.

“Well, time to put the little slut through her paces, just for show,” the man murmured.

He grasped her head, tilting it up roughly and said, “Is that right, slut?”

“Yes sir,” she replied, quietly, eyes glistening as she looked into his eyes.

“Louder!” he exclaimed, slapping her, the crack of his hand on her cheek echoing loudly. Chris could see the rising red mark on her face, and almost got to his feet. The guard standing beside him turned away from the scene in front, and pushed him down, both hands on his shoulder. The guard glanced over at the second man by the door, indicating he should come help. Obviously this man was going to be trouble. They couldn’t harm him, so they’d need to control him.

The second man walked over, standing on the other side of Chris, also taking in the scene unfolding in the room beyond.

By now, Trisha had been slapped three times, roughly grabbed and manhandled, and her lingerie ripped from her, while her breasts now showed finger marks, where they’d been grabbed hard. The man’s cock was out now, his pants removed by Trisha, with her teeth. Chris noted the man wasn’t packing much more than he was, seven inches if that.

There wasn’t much speaking, a few “Oh yes,” and “yes, master” and yips, and a lot of moans. Chris could see she was aroused, even more than before, and it hurt to see. He tried turning his head away, and one the guards cuffed him around the head, turning his eyes forcibly forwards.

The scene progressed, and eventually, Trisha was placed on her hands and knees, facing the window, her head up and staring, unblinking into Chris’ eyes.

Her mouth opened slightly as the man, standing behind her, without preamble thrust his cock into her waiting wet orifice. It was savage and cruel and hard and her eyes closed at the pleasure she was receiving.

The man pounded her again and again, and Trisha fought to keep her eyes open and trained on Chris, destroying him with her obvious pleasure at what was happening.

Then, the man withdrawing, said, “Open yourself up. You know what I want next.”

Trish whimpered, biting her lip, a self-conscious affectation Chris had seen many times, when she was about to do something outrageous or pushing herself beyond her normal limits.

She leaned herself forward, face down, and reached back with both hands, pulled her butt cheeks apart.

The man looked directly at Chris and said, “In the ass, just so you know. With no lube. Just the way she likes it. All slutty whores like it that way, and she’s no different. Right, Whore?”

“Yes, Master. Anything to please you,” she replied, muffled.

It was the final straw.

Chris barred his teeth and a primal growl erupted from him. He started to rise, and the two men on either side grabbed his shoulders and pushed down, with all their weight, in an attempt to force him back into his seat. All the physics of the situation were on their side, - he only had his legs to push up, and they had their weight and the strength in their arms, but for all that, he managed to at least push up a little. Not to full standing, but crouched upright, such was the anger he was feeding off.

And then, suddenly, he sat down. Not only did he crash back into his seat, he flopped off the seat entirely, onto the floor in front.

The two men, pushing down with all their might, abruptly finding no resistance, crashed forward, both leaning inwards. Their heads collided with a sickening crunch, and blood sprayed out. Both men fell back, unconscious from the collision, while Chris struggled to get to his feet with both hands ziplocked together.

The activities in the other room had stopped at the explosive action, both participants staring in horror at what was unfolding in front of them.

Chris knew how to get out of the ziplocked ties, - he’d done the same to enough people in his life in the army to know how to get out of it. Flexing his arms, he drew both hands up as high as he could, took a deep breath, then brought both hands down, flexing his back as though trying to pull both of his shoulder blades together.

The particular angle of power and movement moved the small trapping lock on the ziplock, releasing it under pressure, and suddenly, both his hands were free.

Instantly Chris was on the two men on the floor. It is a movie fallacy that people who are knocked unconscious stay that way for any period of time. If you are knocked unconscious and you stay that way for more than an hour, it’s almost certain that brain damage is setting in. In his experience, most people started to come around within minutes of the initial act that rendered them unconscious. The two on the floor had already started to stir, and clutch at themselves, and he had to do something about that.

Where he came from, he was taught never to leave a man behind who might be an obstacle in the near future. Sometimes you just killed them, but sometimes you just want to ensure they can’t come back at you, - it depended on the situation. While Chris was angry, - angry beyond belief, - his training also kicked in and he understood that even here, with this provocation, killing people wasn’t the answer.

That just meant ‘Other Methods’, as his combat instructor used to say.

Chris reached down and grabbed the right arm of the first man, stretching it out, and then stamped on the man’s hand and fingers, hearing them crunch under his dress shoe soles and the man scream at the sudden pain. He then moved down the man’s body and jumped up and landed with both feet on the guard’s right ankle. Not a killing blow, and probably not a long-term disability either, but enough that this man wouldn’t be getting up to attack him, or pulling out a weapon to shoot at him from the floor.

It was unpleasant as a task, - this wasn’t the heat of battle, this was cold-blooded short-term maiming, - but then Chris was in a pretty sadistic state of mind, so he was fine with it. It had to be done to protect his back.

He then did the same thing to the other man, glancing up briefly after landing awkwardly on the second guard’s ankle, to see The Man and Trisha staring at him, Trisha with a horrified expression on her face, and the guy in black looking at him with a blank face, obviously surprised at what he was witnessing. It was brutal and it spoke of training. Training a logistics clerk was unlikely to have. Chris, evidently, was not what they had been led to believe, - they assumed, - he was. There might have been a miscalculation here.

For a second, gazing at the two of them, Chris’ anger got the best of him and he slammed at the window, screaming primordially. Trisha took an involuntary step back, and the man’s blank stare was broken. He immediately grabbed Trisha’s hand and dragged her back, towards the door in the room that led to the outside.

Chris ran to the internal door, that connected the two rooms, and then saw it was futile, - it was a keyboard lock and obviously one of the two indisposed guards had the pass key. That was a failure of planning and intelligence on his part, but his training kept him on course. If he couldn’t get to them, then he had to get out.

He went to the other door, - this one had both a key pad and also a palm pad. He turned around and dragged the nearest guard, - still moaning and cradling his right hand, - by the scruff of his neck towards the door. Ignoring the man’s incoherent mumbling and mild screams, Chris grabbed his left hand and slapped it on the palm print panel. The panel went green and the door unlocked, and Chris dropped the incapacitated guard and opened the door. He had limited time before Trisha and The Man in Black raised the alarm, and he needed to get out as soon as possible, since he had no idea of the resources he might be facing.

Running through the corridors, he tried several doors at random. Several times he was presented with scenes of various sexual scenarios. Torture was a heavy theme in most of them, although who was torturing whom, and why, was often unclear.

Eventually he opened a door and found a cleaner’s closet. He ran inside, an opportunistic plan occurring to him. Finding some meth spirits, a few rags and a book of matches, - for candles laid out on a shelf, obviously for some poor sap’s romantic ideas of a ‘special evening’, probably, – plus a small standing step, he ran out again.

Chris looked around and studied the ceiling. The building he was in was the usual drywall and wood structure, and there was a sprinkler system in place. That would make things more complicated, - it’s hard to set a building on fire with a good sprinkler system in place, but not impossible. Chris needed a diversion to take attention away from him, and a fire would do nicely. He could blend in with people leaving the building.

The secret to setting a fire in a building with a sprinkler system is to set it high. Sprinklers are designed to blanket tables and chairs and basically hit everything from a six foot and down area. If you set your fire higher than that, it would have a chance to take, and if you were really lucky, eventually it would take down the structure that the sprinkler supply conduits were attached to.

Chris pulled out the step, stepped up and then did his best to splash mentholated spirits as high up the wall as he could. As an accelerant, it was perfect, and it was as if the designers of this building were helping him out, since the walls were covered in wood paneling, with wood edging at the top and bottom of the walls. One lit match thrown up high, and the wall was aflame.

However, Chris knew you had to do this in more than one place. One place of fire was too risky, since there was too much chance it could be put out. For the next five minutes, he ran through strangely empty corridors, repeating his act of arson, managing four different fire starters, before he ran into trouble.

Three men, all armed with tasers, of the type that throw-out-barbs variety. These three guards also had batons and were looking for trouble and they’d found it. By now, Chris’ mood had moved on from sadistic to lethal, and he had absolutely no qualms about plowing into the group of guards and basically beating them to a pulp. At one point, he even used the body of one guard as a shield while another attempted to tase him, frying his buddy instead.

Like most fights where one person really knows what they were doing, it was over fast. Real fights don’t take lots of draw out punch-counter punch. When you break someone’s arm with a first move, they are out of the action almost instantly. And Chris most assuredly knew what he was doing. That’s not to say the bad guys didn’t get a few licks in, - most fights aren’t all as one-sided as Steven Seagal movies would have you believe, either. Chris got a nice punch to the face and he could feel he’d bitten his tongue in the moment.

At this point it was obvious that he had done all he could to give himself a diversion, and as he was taking out the last guard, the sprinkler system suddenly activated, drenching all of them, and the fire alarm warble filled the air. Chris paused only to see if any of the thugs had more weapons on them, finding a USB key in one man’s pocket, and a diver’s knife on another. Taking both, he stood up, groaning as he realized the shot to his face hurt more than he had initially thought.

Running on through the corridors, he turned a corner and realized he could see windows, which meant he must be near an exit. As he hurried on, a door opened and an indignant man, dressed only tuxedo jacket, and with an obscene erection bustled out, directly in front of Chris.

“Now look here,” demanded the man. “What do you think you are ... oof”

Chris didn’t even slow his gait. He plowed directly into the man and viciously headbutted him. Americans don’t tend to expect that kind of move and are unprepared for it. Chris had spent two missions with members of the British Special Boat Service, - cousins to the SAS, the Special Air Service, - and he knew all about what people from various countries expected from close quarters combat.

As he stumbled to the external door he saw after the next turn of the corridor, he glanced into a mirror on the wall, and was brought up short with what he saw. Torn shirt, bruise on his face, and a cut on the top of his head, where the headbutt had landed that was starting to bleed. He needed to get out as fast as possible, and find his people.

He made it to the door, only to find it locked. Using up the last of his now flagging adrenalin, he ran at the door, and to his surprise, it burst open. He was out.

Running out, he found himself in the courtyard of what looked like some kind of mock Tudor mansion, surrounded by expensive cars. Smoke was starting to drift out from the roof, and, looking around he spied a motorcycle. That would do. But just before he left ... time to make sure there was no pursuit from the cars he could see. A quick thrust from the diver’s knife into the tires would do it...

A minute later, after having incapacitated the cars and then hot-wiring the bike, he was roaring off, only looking back when he reached the safety of the first corner of the drive way. The building was now obviously very on fire and people gathered in front of it, more stumbling coughing out of the building every second.

Time to go.