Chapter 8

It was the surprise attack on the twin towers in New York City that caused Steiner to reassess his plans to remain as a simple independent contractor for the American and British interests. It was a game changer in more ways than one. He could foresee that the old rule of thumb that identified the enemy by a set piece of land with a border around it and with rules and regulations of its own that established policies and agendas that gave victims a target to aim at. Now, the enemy was more likely to be from within or some nebulous organization that formulated plans on the run changing shape in a dynamic fashion and hard to hit even if you could see it in a scope.

He was shooting a new rifle at the range on a quiet Saturday morning when he first met Sandra Smith with her keen eye and steady trigger finger that kept the group inside the bulls-eye with absolute perfection.

She was not an impressive girl.

Her hair was sort of dull and lifeless, all but ignored by her as a waste of time and she wore no make-up like the other American floozies that seemed to take it as Gospel to apply it before ever daring to leave their house. He liked the way she was more like one of the fresh-cheeked farm girls that begged the German soldiers to cover them and give them a baby for the glory of the Reich. He had spent many a night humping those dedicated women until he was unable to produce any more juice to spurt with the glee of victory.

He should have been dead in 1944 along with his other comrades but here he was in fucking San Diego playing footsie with the Americans and taking orders from some ghost-like figures in Virginia that were young enough to be his grandchildren.

At the ripe old age of seventy-six, Steiner was still in pretty good physical shape and still ran five kilometers every morning like clockwork to boost his metabolism and keep his legs in condition for firing a rifle in every position imaginable. In actuality, he looked more like a man in his late fifties and the girl who had only just turned twenty-nine considered him in the category of possible bed-mate material the moment she saw him in the prone position on the five-hundred meter line. He still had that trim backside and long lean legs that had carried him out of many a chaotic situation that had terminated most of his original unit and countless others that never stood a chance against the overwhelming odds.

Karl had stopped his ogling and pursuit of female companionship after a particularly distressing situation with an American Indian girl just outside of Oklahoma City. He was resting comfortably in a highway motel of some merit when the dark-skinned assistant filling in on room service delivered his much anticipated tub of cherry vanilla ice cream that he had been thinking about for the last four hundred miles. His first mistake was to shamefully over-tip the greedy mustached ex-corner boy from Baltimore Maryland and then hesitate when the boy asked him if he would like a “nice piece of pussy” to go along with it for another fifty dollars. It had been some time since he had dipped his wick in an American twat and he guiltily licked his lips like a wolf in the forest of getting a room delivery of a giggling cheerleader to relax him for the next day’s travel.

About ten spoons of the delicious cherry vanilla ice cream later, a timid knock on the door drew him cautiously to the door because he was constantly on the alert for a Mossad unit to discover him alone on the road and take care of business because he had worn the death’s head so many years ago. They certainly wouldn’t give him time to explain his many differences with the Nazi regime including his covert plans to get rid of the psychotic but charismatic leader at the first opportunity.

The tiny peephole only revealed a short and long-haired female of the Indian persuasion on his doorstep and he opened the door and pulled her inside as quickly as possible just in case someone had a bead on the door.

The young girl of about eighteen looked up at him looming above her by a good equal number of inches and pretended to be enthusiastic about her assignment in the middle of the night.

When she started to give him a rundown on the menu of services, he just put his finger on his lips and sat her in the real leather chair next to the western motif floor lamp. He thought it to be an amusing contrast to see the live American Indian of the female gender sitting cross-legged next to the rawhide shade with cowboys chasing Indians across a rugged plain.

“Would you like some ice cream, young lady?”

He saw the acceptance in her gleaming black eyes and passed her the remaining half of the tub of ice cream like they were out on a date after a movie.

He watched her pointed pink tongue come out again and again to lick and suck up the ice cream and found that he was actually getting an erection after a couple of years of limp passivity related to his medical problem of a cancerous nature. It was almost a miracle but he still was not quite certain his performance would meet the minimum standards of an eighteen year old female in a dubious line of work.

The girl came right to the point and right after she finished off the ice cream, she told him her mouth was paid for and he could use it providing he would “tip” her afterward if she did a good job.

“That sounds mighty reasonable little Moonchild, would you mind bending over and letting me play in your down-below garden with my fingers before you give me the joy of your pretty mouth?”

The girl stripped off her flimsy panties and stretched out over the back of the leather chair like she was getting ready to do some aerobic exercises. The over-the-hill sniper explored her tiny teenaged twat for several moments before he pushed her down to a kneeling position between his legs and positioned her face for his complete attention.

It was a successful operation in a technical point of view but Karl was less than satisfied with the fact that he could not even contemplate doing anything else of a more concrete nature that involved a more normal way that men and women related physically behind closed doors. The girl didn’t seem to mind and accepted the twenty dollar tip he pushed into her fanny pack on her waist belt that stayed on her the entire time. He suspected that the girl could be stark naked and still have that security blanket of the fanny pack wrapped around her middle like an anchor to reality.