Dangerous Games Ch. 01

The heat was on. As soon as I scanned my coded email while standing in a line at Starbucks, the heat took possession. I did not open the attached files. I did not know the details. But it did not matter. The heat took over.

The awareness started in my gut, opening it, closing it. Then it surfaced to my navel. The heat settled in, marking my navel as the headquarters. Suddenly aware of the square miles of skin that imprisoned my body, I felt the heat drilled into every pore in my skin, waves of electrons surging through every nerve under my skin, lightning sparks jumping on the surface. My crotch tightened and warmed.

I wondered if the people around me noticed my arousal. The three young men behind had their heads down, index fingers gliding left to right, scrolling through their iPhone screens. The two women in front had their heads up, studying the menu, as if they had never been in a Starbucks. There was a man across the room, sipping his latte, his head down but his eyes up. He was checking me out. I ignored him, bought my coffee, and hurriedly left. I needed to learn the details.

That night, I dreamt of the heat penetrating the soles of my feet, tracing the semi-circle of every toe, from smallest to biggest. Half awake, the heat split into two parallel streams, oozing out of both my heels, rising up my calves, hitting my knees, twisting and rotating, round and round, warming my inner and outer thighs. The streams, flowing like volcanic lava, united into one large lake between my legs.

No longer able to sleep, my chest rising and falling, my breathing labored, I kicked off the thin sheets that covered my nude body. The cool air in the room surrounded me, the heat rushing out of millions of pores. Billions of heat molecules flew out the open window, floating up like hot balloons, escaping gravity at the speed of light. My body cooled and my breathing became normal. I turned sideways, curled like a twenty-week fetus.

I counted one Mississippi, two Mississippi. When I reached ten Mississippi, the heat appeared again on my rock-hard stomach. I turned to face the ceiling again. This time, the heat was gentle, slowly staining my body in concentric circles, emanating out from my navel, like blood from a bullet wound. My heart exploded, the fragments bouncing around my rib cage. I closed my eyes and stopped breathing.

After a minute, I sucked in oxygen. The heat attacked my nipples. I flipped over, face buried in the pillow, holding my breath again. My lungs ache for air, my heart throbbing in my throat. I clasp my hands behind me, fingers interlaced at the small of my back. The heat was unrelenting, not letting me go. My body twitched and shivered. My brain was no longer functioning. My cunt took over.

At first I did it mostly for the money. The heat was present, but played a minor role. A few short years later, after millions sat in numbered accounts in the Bahamas and Cayman Islands, the heat became the only reason.

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EPCOT, Disney's most adult theme park and twice as big as the more popular Magic Kingdom, was not congested on a cool February morning. While the rest of the country was frozen in ice and stacked with snow, Orlando was expecting a high of fifty five with plenty of sun.

The cartel chief's grandson of twelve hopped excitedly a few paces in front of him, stopping to collect a Spanish version of the guide map. Handing the camera to his bodyguard, the chief and his grandson stood with wide smiles in the shadows of Spaceship Earth.

Diagonally behind them, I snapped a quick picture of grandpa and grandson. A split second later, the digital image bounced off a satellite, hit the pizza-sized dish mounted on the side of a building in northern Virginia, and appeared on the eighty-inch screen of an analyst. Thirty seconds later, a secure text arrived on the screen of my cell. The coded text message confirmed he was the target.

I hid the camera in my black shoulder bag and followed the two men and the kid as they turned west, heading for the very popular ride Soaring. There were no opportunities to get close enough. So I waited in the food court outside the ride. It was thirty five minutes before the trio appeared again. The kid loved the ride. Grandpa collected fast passes for another ride at 11:30. The fast passes would remain unused.

They headed east and then south, the iconic sights of the World Showcase attractions visible. The bodyguard took another loving picture, grandpa carrying the kid on his shoulder. I kept my distance, my head down, my nails tapping the screen of my cell, pretending to read.

A poster on a lamppost captured the attention of the chief. "Michael Jackson! The king of pop." He was so loud I heard him say Michael the way Mexican immigrants did. While they stopped for more pictures, I passed to enter the Captain EO Theater. Cast members stood to hand out 3-D glasses for the eighteen minute presentation. I held and tilted the glasses at an angle that allowed me to see the reflection of the target just a few yards behind.

I sat down on the last row. He picked the second row, with the kid sitting in the middle. When the lights were cut, I fished out from my bag an odd device with a needle sticking out of one end. When the deafening thumping beat of Jackson's music was in full swing, I shifted as silently as I could to the third row, directly behind the target. There was nobody else in the theater.

There was another pause in the music. The bodyguard stretched and turned to his left to glance at his boss. The chief was deep in conversation with his grandson. The bodyguard lowered his six-five frame so he could rest his head on the edge of the backrest. Ten seconds later, despite the loud music, he was asleep and snoring softly.

My target turned sideways to glance behind him. He saw a brunette with straight hair that framed an attractive face hidden behind the dark 3D glasses. His eyebrows were raised for a second, as if he was puzzled. His face and neck muscles were tensed. I could see a throbbing vein on his neck. He might have seen me in the last row before the movie started. He might have wondered why I moved to sit directly behind him, although there were empty seats that afforded a better view. But he felt safe because I was only a woman. He turned to face the front again, relaxed.

The music ramped up again, Michael Jackson was doing his famous moonwalk. Patience. I waited until the screen darkened before positioning the needle an inch from the back of his neck. When the ear splitting music exceeded ninety decibels, I pressed a button that shot the sharp tip of the needle deep into his neck. He twitched, his tongue twisted, and let out a soft gasp. His head slumped downward in an odd angle. The kid was standing and dancing, imitating the body movements of the late Michael Jackson, totally oblivious that his grandfather had just suffered a fatal heart attack. The tip of the needle had delivered the chemical and dissolved itself into the chief's blood.

Seconds later, if anyone had been looking, they would have seen a blonde emerged from the theater. I had hidden the brown wig in my bag as I walked to the entrance. My heart was racing and my breathing labored, but I bit my tongue and forced myself to walk at a natural pace. I made it to the tram outside the gates by the time the show ended, the lights came on, and the crew discovered the body. Emergency vehicles passed me on the opposite side of the road as I drove the rented Ford Fusion out of Disney's sprawling property. The onboard GPS guided me to the turnpike and I headed south.

After the job, the heat, which was suppressed during the execution, returned with a vengeance. Before the job, the heat was a distraction, disrupting my sleep at night and popping up at odd moments in the day. I had to force it out of me as I focused on the details of the plan. During the job itself, the heat was dormant. After the job, I no longer existed and the heat took over. Somebody's blood was no longer flowing, but my blood was flowing faster with each passing minute. I was never more alive and aroused than the minutes and hours after the job. My hormones went into overdrive. My juices demanded release.

But I had to wait. Patience. Discipline. There were procedures to follow. I had to back track and drive in circles, ensuring nobody was following. Actually, the waiting made it better. The slow burn aroused like nothing else. As I was driving, I could not help but touched myself constantly through my soaked jeans. I cranked up the AC to the maximum, rotating the dial so hard it almost broke. With only one hand on the wheel, I slipped the straps of the tank top over my shoulders and down my elbows. My top gathered around my waist. I adjusted the vent so the AC blew directly on my pointed nipples. Goose pimples formed on my breasts. The car windows were dark enough so nobody could see I was riding half naked.

My body temperature within control, I set the car on cruise control, a mile less than the speed limit, the GPS pointed at Miami. I deliberately stopped frequently, waiting until dusk before collecting my reward.

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Using the car's rearview mirror, I checked the layers of makeup one last time, brushed my hair again before stepping out in stilettos. With five inches added to my athletic frame, I stood at six two, instantly capturing the attention of every man as I entered the upscale respectable bar with wood panels on the walls. Adjusting to the L-shaped smoke-filled room, I scanned from left to right to locate him, my long-time government handler.

Victor Garcia stood up and waved his hand from inside a booth on a raised wooden platform. He wore torn jeans, white T-shirt tucked in, and a black PVC jacket. Most of his hair was tucked into a pony tail, some of it escaped and partially covered his eyes and ears. As I sashayed toward the booth, he turned sideways to let me pass. He smelled good today, a touch of Old Spice. I slid in and sat down opposite him. On the table was a bottle of Bud Lite and an iPhone. We locked eyes until we both were seated.

"I see that you are dressed to kill, no pun intended." Instead of returning to where he had sat, Victor sat on my side of the booth, trapping me inside against the wood panel. He extended his arm and wrapped it behind me, resting it on the top of the backrest.

"Why? Does it turn you on? Do you have a boner now?" I adjusted my hair so that part of it rested on his extended arm.

"Let's get business out of the way first, shall we?" Victor tilted the screen of his phone so I could see. "The funds are already deposited. Go ahead and verify."

I raised my eyebrows and took the phone, nails deliberately scratching the back of his hand before he could move it away. The heat was rising.

He returned to his side of the booth and finished the rest of the beer.

He liked it that I was one heck of an operative, Victor told me once. I was unique and could handle cases nobody else could. As my handler, Victor knew exactly the type of cases to assign to me. I had an odd sense of justice. Foreign targets were my specialty. I insisted on no women or Americans. Just foreign money launderers, drug dealers, human traffickers, weapons dealers, terrorists, and anyone who gave aid and comfort to them.

My favorite were those involved in the vice trade, I told Victor one night. These men should have their penis cut off slowly with a butter knife, and then shoved deep in their mouths until they suffocate on their own organ. A separate section of hell should be reserved for them. That night, after a job, we had downed a bottle of Jack Daniels between us. That night was the one and only time we had sex.

Recently, in Victor's opinion, my sexual preference had drifted to the extreme. Still, he did whatever I wanted. He considered keeping me happy part of his job description.

He did not mind that I was taking a long time to check all my accounts. I could sense he was openly looking me over, starting from my toes. My legs were crossed and ended in a pair of low-slung tight denim shorts, the one-inch front zipper holding it together. He knew I was not wearing anything under the shorts because I loved the feeling of the rough fabric moving against and cutting into my womanhood. Satisfied the money was there, I glanced up from the phone and parted my lips just enough to reveal the tip of my tongue.

I caught him gazing at the reflective material of my shiny metallic silver jacket. The zip in front of my jacket was halfway down, just enough to reveal a glimpse of the black bra hiding a pair of 36C breasts. He knew my exact measurements because he would sometimes hand me the material I was supposed to wear, with built-in GPS to track my movements.

"Did you arrange my bonus?" I asked as I handed back his phone.

"One phone call and it's in play," he looked me over again. I hoped he did not notice the tiny drops of perspiration forming on my forehead. The heat was getting out of control. "Please wait for me to walk out before doing anything." The phone was glued to his ear as he hurried away from the bar.

The door was still swinging when I edged away from the booth. There were two men sitting at the bar, one at each corner. I took the seat between them and ordered whisky on the rocks. Almost instantly, both men reacted. One of them leaned toward the bartender and whispered. The other, the one wearing a three piece suit, moved to stand behind me. I sensed his presence but did not react. I saw him loosening his tie from the reflection of the mirror behind the bottles of wine and liquor.

The bartender placed my drink in front of me. "The gentleman there had taken care of this," pointing to the man on the right. He bowed when I lifted the glass in his direction. His chiseled body was in a sleeveless black T-shirt and jeans, secured by a thick belt with a Harley Davidson buckle.

Both men kept drinking, waiting. I emptied the glass of whisky, pushing out a cube of ice after playfully rolling it in my mouth under my tongue. Another whisky on the rocks appeared in front of me, this time from the suited man. The suit slid ever so slightly until he was standing in the space between his stool and mine, his arms on the back of both stools. He looked over the top of my head to the man wearing the Harley buckle. As if in response to the challenge, Harley took three large steps to stand just behind me. His shadow covered a semicircle of the bar top.

Both men were so close I felt the heat from their bodies. Their heat were almost as urgent as my own. I wondered if they could tell the hot blood coursing through my arteries as I leaned back. My butt slid on the cold steel of the stool and my denim shorts hiked up. I kept my knees together and squeezed.

I sipped the second glass of whisky and broke the silence. "Are you guys going to drink whisky with me or you're just going to stand there?" It was loud enough for the bartender to appear with two glasses for each man. I emptied the glass and spit out two cubes of ice, one at a time, the ice hitting the glass nosily. Both men did the same.

They moved so they could stand on my right and left, each one with one arm resting on the bar and the other holding the back of my stool. I was trapped. Three more glasses appeared on the bar.

"Just drinking is boring. Let's play a game and drink at the same time." I stood up. I stood taller than the suit but shorter than Harley, even with heels. The suit must be five eleven and Harley six five. The suit was wiry and Harley muscular. Both looked to be in their forties.

"What would you like to play?" The suit's voice was strong and clear.

"I see a pool table over there," I picked up my drink. The men picked up theirs.

"Very well, it will be my pleasure," the suit led the way. Harley was behind me. I was sandwiched between the two men.

The two pool tables were in a separate area, only one of them visible from the bar. Two men were working the one nearer the bar. The other table was unoccupied.

"The rule here is we play for money. We do not play for fun," the suit spoke and appeared to be the leader. Harley was the gofer.

I unzipped my jacket and removed it. The heat was unbearable. "Look here. All I brought was my body. You could take my jacket if I lose." I tossed my jacket to Harley. He caught it and folded it neatly, the perfect gofer.

"No offense, lady. Your jacket is not worth much. We play for one grand per game." As if to make the point, the eight ball on the other table rolled into the side pocket. Ten one hundred dollar bills were counted out and handed over.

The two men had noticed me. Behaving like typical men, they decided to quit and moved over. Like a magnet, I was attracting attention as the tall blonde wearing only short shorts and a black push up bra. The makeup was heavy and I was playing a role. The men knew it was all fake but did not care.

The clinking of glasses and the conversations in the restaurant had ceased. As soon as Victor Garcia left, the bartender hung a handwritten sign with the words, "Sorry, Bar and Restaurant Closed." Five hundred dollar gift cards had persuaded the remaining customers to come back another time.

"Surely my body is worth several games," I did a full rotation as if on a catwalk.

"I've seen better. But it is definitely worth one game."

"Let's play," I needed to fast forward before I got deep fried from the heat.

"One more condition," he was in no hurry. His heat was under control.

"What now?"

"To add to the thrill, let's also impose the rules of strip pool."

"How does it work?" The speed of my question betrayed my impatience.

"Every time you miss, you remove an article of clothing."

"The same for you?"

"Of course."

"I am wearing only bra, shorts, and heels. You are fully suited. That is unfair."

"Nothing under the shorts?" He was intentionally delaying.

"Nothing, pervert."

"Very well. You make a valid point."

He removed his jacket, dress shirt, undershirt, belt, and shoes. The two men dragged two high chairs to watch the curious blonde staking her own body for $1,000.

He walked in his socks toward me, the curly red hair on his chest leering at me. "I am wearing only my boxers, pants, and socks. Still game? As a gentleman, I am giving you one last chance to decline and walk out of here with your honor intact."

"You are talking trash. Make sure you have the cash. I ain't taking no checks or credit cards. And your suit is too cheap to be collateral."

He counted out ten hundreds and slapped them down on the other pool table, using one of his shoes as paper weight.

"Let the two men here be witnesses. You are whoring yourself for merely one grand. Correct?"

"For a moment, I thought you were a gentleman. But your language betrays you."

"I prefer to call a spade a spade. You are indeed a whore, willing to bet your body for $1,000."

"I've been called slut or bitch, but I was never a whore."

The men laughed and doubled over. It was surreal.

"I am afraid that tonight, my dear, you have become a whore. Again, if we cannot agree that you are a prostitute, please feel free to walk away now. My bodyguard will return your cheap jacket."

He was purposely yanking my chain. He knew I could not reject the challenge.

"Okay. Let's rock and roll." I picked up the triangle and began to place the balls inside.

"One more thing," he touched my elbow.

"What else?" I turned and deliberately brushed my chest and legs against him. A slight smile escaped. I could tell his hardness was as urgent as the boiling juices inside me. He could not hold out much longer without becoming a sperm-based IED.

"You said earlier we should drink and play."

"And?"

"Whoever misses a shot strips and then empties a glass of Jack."

"Deal." That bastard knew I would agree to almost anything to get the challenge going.