G-Men: The Series (78 page)

“Can I watch?” Susan asked, huskily.

“Of course,” he said softly, unbuckling his belt and removing it. “She needs to learn what happens to a lying, prick-tease.”

My skin was crawling. My stomach roiled as I watched Kyzer fold his leather belt in half and approach me on the bed. I was helpless, but still I squirmed, somehow hoping that I could break free of the binds. That wasn’t going to happen.

The first lash Kyzer delivered with the belt landed against my thighs. It felt like a knife on my skin. I flinched and waited for the next one. It was close behind, landing on my stomach. More followed, hitting my arms, my legs, and my chest. I could feel blood coming to the surface on some of the welts. I was crying now. Maybe that would make him stop. It didn’t.

Finally, there were no more belt lashes. I looked up, the tears stinging my eyes. I could see that Kyzer was done with the belt. He’d dropped it to the floor. He wasn’t done with me, though.

He unsnapped his jeans, lowering the zipper of his fly down and pulling them past his hips to the floor. He stepped out of them. I could see his cock protruding from his boxers.

Oh God, please. No, please.

He put his knee down on the bed next to me, scooting himself up closer to my face. His hands were around his erection as he prompted it towards my lips.

“Suck on it, bitch,” he hissed. “You owe it to me for the way you led me on and played me all those months like some besotted fool.”

I clamped my mouth shut, turning my head away.

“Do you want me to get the belt again? If I have to get the belt back out, I’m not going to stop until you’re a fucking bloody pulp. It’s your decision.”

“I’d suck him if I were you, Lindsey. He tastes pretty good, better than your dad even,” Susan said from the chair in the corner of the room, where she sat watching everything.

I felt tears rushing from my eyes, a sob escaped from my lips as I reluctantly turned my head back to face the lesser of the two evils.

Kyzer rammed his hardened cock into my mouth. My mouth was so dry; there was no way what he was doing felt good to him.

“Get her a glass of water, will you please, Suzy?”

“Sure, babe,” she said, getting up from her chair and leaving the room. I got a momentary reprieve as Kyzer waited for her return.

She returned with a glass of water, holding it to my lips so that I could drink. I swallowed mouthfuls, trying to quench my thirst. I choked and sputtered. Susan withdrew the glass from me and returned to her chair.

“There now,” Kyzer said, “let’s see if you can get this right.”

He shoved his cock back inside my moist mouth and ordered me to slide my tongue around it. I did as he commanded, hating myself for being such a coward.

“Umm, much better, keep going.”

It seemed like an eternity before he withdrew his dick. I knew I would have puked if he’d finished inside of my mouth. It was now obvious that wasn’t his plan.

“Wanna help me here, Suzy?”

She got up from the chair once again, and came over to help Kyzer untie my wrists from the spindles on the headboard.

Once my wrists were freed, I struggled to get out from underneath them. I scratched and clawed like a wild woman. I felt my fingernails rake down the front of Kyzer’s face.

“Son of a bitch!” he hollered.

I screeched in pain as his fist cuffed my cheekbone. I was momentarily dazed by the blow. I felt Kyzer lift me and turn me over, flopping me down on the bed, this time on my belly. Once again, my wrists were tied to the spindles, tighter this time it seemed.

I felt the ropes that had bound my ankles untied. My legs were freed, but lying face down now, there wasn’t much they could do to assist me in flight or defense. I had no clue what type of depravity Kyzer had planned, though I felt I would find out soon enough.

The weight shifted on the bed. My face was turned to one side. I could see Susan and Kyzer out of my peripheral vision.

“I’m going to need some lubricating, baby,” he said to her, softly. “I’m betting that’s some virgin ass there.”

His words had no more registered in my mind when something else took over.

Blessedly, some primal instinct for survival had kicked in, and my mind became numb, willing my body not to feel the searing pain that he was inflicting as he ripped into my flesh over and over again.

In the distance, I could hear someone letting out blood-curdling screams that seemed to reverberate against the walls of this mystery room I’d been taken to by Kyzer. It wasn’t until he had finished that I realized that I had been the one screaming.

By the mercy of God, things became blessedly darker in the room. He was finished for now. Maybe he would let this blessed darkness creep over me, allowing me to sleep. I felt the wetness seeping out as he pulled out of me.

I heard his voice as I drifted off.

“Jesus Christ, look at this. She’s fucking hemorrhaging over here.”

^{chapter 42}

~ TAZ ~

It was Monday morning at 7:45. I was standing on the concrete steps of the Cobb County Superior Court on Cherokee Street in Marietta, Georgia. I was praying to the saints above that whatever judge I was able to see wouldn’t be a dickhead.

I was sure I’d lost my job. If not that, at the very least, garnered severe disciplinary action. I’d commandeered a chopper out of Quantico Marine Base by pulling in several marks from officers I knew there.

I’d roused Kim’s ass out of bed at 3:00 this morning, behaving like a lunatic, convincing her it was a life or death situation (which, actually, I believed to be accurate).

I’d instructed her to provide a listing of any and all real estate holdings, personal or commercial for Stanfield Group, Stanfield Industries, Stanfield Trading Company, Stanfield Research, or anything under the name of a fucking Stanfield related to Kyzer.

I recalled the name of that LLC she’d turned up as one of the importers of record for the green coffee beans. I told her to check property records under “SKS Enterprises.”

She’d emailed me a listing within an hour. I focused on Georgia since my instincts, and the fact that Poindexter’s car was still in Marietta, told me to start there.

Slate had already phoned me at a little after 1:00 a.m. to tell me Kyzer was nowhere around Charlottesville. His roommates had said he’d gone to a family funeral in Miami. They hadn’t seen him in a week or so. They had acted like they didn’t give a shit about the bastard. That wasn’t difficult to understand.

Slate had no clue as to what I’d done. I didn’t give a shit. Even the bureau could move slowly when it didn’t involve multiple crimes with multiple perps.

The fact that my instincts told me that the son-of-a-bitch had crossed state lines with her against her will was enough for me. That was a federal crime; however, I couldn’t offer proof.

A county deputy unlocked the glass doors to the courthouse. I went through the obligatory metal detector and, immediately, the fact that I was carrying my Glock sounded the alarm.

A half-dozen deputies immediately surrounded me. I pulled my FBI badge out for their examination. Christ, I had my navy blue hoodie with “FBI” splattered across it in big bold-ass letters. What the fuck?

“Special Agent Matthews, you still need to check your weapon at the door,” I was informed.

“Not a problem, guys,” I said. “Just here to see a judge about a warrant.”

I handed my weapon over and was scanned with a handheld wand, then nodded through.

“Can I ask where the judge’s chambers are located? I’m kind of in a rush here.”

“Which judge?”

Which judge? I don’t fucking care which judge. Any judge who will sign a fucking warrant for me!

“Which judge is most likely to be in chambers already? Maybe we should start there.”

“I’m pretty certain Judge Sinclair is already here. He tends to get here before we open the doors. His bailiff is up on the second floor, Courtroom Number 2.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking off toward the wide, winding staircase.

I took the steps two at a time until reaching the second floor. I found the bailiff’s office, right next to the double wooden doors that had a brass plate indicating Courtroom No. 2.

The brass plate on the countertop in the bailiff’s office read: Evelyn Pridy, Bailiff.

She was sitting behind the high oak counter, going over case dockets when I interrupted her.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, pulling my identification out for her to examine, “I need to see Judge Sinclair.”

She perused my badge, unimpressed.

“In reference to?” she asked, raising her eyes to mine.

“I need a warrant signed for a search of several properties in Cobb County.”

“Is this a federal warrant, Agent Matthews?”

How the fuck did I know she was going to ask that?

“No, ma’am,” I replied. “It was prepared according to Georgia State requirements.”

“So then, the warrant isn’t serving any federal purpose?”

“That’s correct, ma’am.”

I was getting pissed at the third degree; she seemed to be getting pissed with each “ma’am” I laid on her.

“May I see the warrants, Agent Matthews?”

“Certainly,” I said, giving her a smile.

She took them from me, perusing them up and down as if she was looking for something,
anything
in order to toss them back at me.

“Agent Matthews,” she said, now taking on a conciliatory tone, “there is nothing filled in here under “Probable Cause.”

“I’d like to discuss that with the judge, ma’am.”

“Agent Matthews,” she sighed, “perhaps the feds don’t understand, or are not used to having to abide by state statute on these things, but I’m the door to the judge right now. If you don’t get by me, you don’t see the judge.”

The wrinkled old prune had just severed my last nerve.

“Listen, lady,” I said, my voice rising, “while this case may not be on the federal docket at this moment in time, there are certainly extenuating circumstances involved which relate to an ongoing federal case involving two fugitives from justice.

I watched as she pursed her lips into a thin line, but that didn’t stop my ranting one bit.

“So, I
am
going to see
that
judge regardless of who or what door I have to plow through in order to do it, got that?”

I noticed the color draining from her face around the same time a tall, dark-haired man, not much older than me opened the door behind her desk that led to his chambers. The hallowed chambers, I thought to myself, ready to rip into him if necessary.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said, motioning me to come around the oak counter towards the door to his chambers. “It’s alright, Evelyn. I’ll see the agent.”

She let out a huff that clearly said she was not pleased.

I went through the doorway, hearing the judge close the heavy, wooden door behind us.

He took a seat behind his desk. He didn’t have his robe on yet. He probably didn’t shrug that on until right before he left chambers for the courtroom. He motioned for me to take a seat opposite him, holding his hand out for the packet of papers I’d requested Kim produce prior to leaving D.C.

He read through them quickly and looked up.

“Trace Matthews?”

He’d read my signature on the bottom where the line asked who the “requestor” was. He was eyeing me as if he somehow knew me.

“Are you related to the ‘Trace Matthews’ who owns the bottling plant and distillery near Sonoma, California?”

Yes! This is a good sign.

“That’s my father,” I replied. “I’m sorry, Judge, I’m not familiar—”

“Oh,” he said, smiling, “you wouldn’t actually know me, but that name is not common. I used to visit Napa occasionally in high school with my parents. My two older brothers did, and one still does, a lot of business with your family. I’m Trey Sinclair. My brothers are Nigel and—”

“Tristan,” I finished for him, getting a grin on my face. “I sure as hell do know them. It’s a small world, I guess.”

“Tristan sold his winery to Nigel. He lives back here now,” he said, “I’ll let him know I saw you.”

Judge Sinclair went back to reading through the warrants. Luck seemed to be on my side.

I saw pictures of who I presumed was his family on his desk. He had a hot wife, and by the looks of it, two kids, both nice-looking, too.

I suddenly realized that was my dream. I’d never thought about that before, but I wanted what Trey Sinclair had more than anything.

“Agent Matthews,” he said, “you have to know that this is not customary. There is no federal jurisdiction here for what appears to be a ‘non-FBI’ matter.”

“I realize that’s how this looks, Judge Sinclair, but I’m certain—and I’m going on gut instinct here—that this is not an exercise in futility. I’ve put my whole career on the line. I’m that certain.”

He looked at me for a moment.

“What about ‘probable cause’ Trace?”

“It’s there, your Honor. I just don’t have it with me. There’s a video from the security cameras at the Applebee’s restaurant where she was last seen by her best friend with the individual I’m trying to locate. It shows her leaving with him and she appears to be somewhat incapacitated.”