Invasion (18 page)

She’s going blue in the lips, it’s like all blood just fled the nubile cushions to run to help her heart.

It’s so easy to end her. I hate her. The only reason why she’s here is because I need the package in the uterus. If I find one more unsanctioned scatter cushion I’m going to shove her head in a plastic bag and leave her with her arms handcuffed behind her back for four hours, well as long as it takes to practice my swing at the golf club, with a good whiskey to warm me at the 19
th
hole.

I have Jorge on speed dial for a reason. He’s my cleaner
and
my dealer. I’ve killed more prostitutes than will ever be legal. I watched snuff porn with my ex, but honed the throttling on women no one would miss. Favors to get the charges dropped against them. They’re always so willing to crank apart their thighs and open their mouths.

Women disgust me.

Easing back, letting her inhale like she’s got a condition, I smile down at her. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? When you’re done sucking me and getting my meds, you come back here. I’m going to shit in your mouth, because when you give me lip you get crap for breakfast. Remember?”

She marginally shakes her head, tears joining the trickle of blood from her temple. After reading about shitting in pussy, I had to do it. And I love crapping on her. I fucking love it! She’s not worthy of anything better. She’s shit, so she should eat it.

I miss putting it in her, but I have to be careful with junior hibernating in there now. I’ll piss in there though.

She’s nothing. She’s no one. And the next time she gives me lip I’ll glue her mouth shut after I take a dump in it.

Bitch.

Forty minutes later, in my silk pj’s, sheepskin slippers and velvet dressing gown, I’m at my computer, accessing the database the common man without the clearance can’t get to see, looking up one David Hearse.

Jesus fucking Christ!

Dropping my coffee, not even caring about the stain on the oriental carpet, my hands are shaking when I dial the FBI.

“Agent Dixon.” I tell the operator.

You gotta love it when you have the direct number instead of the wretched switchboard with the endless hold, and messages about how my call is important. I KNOW IT IS or I wouldn’t be calling the FBI! Idiots.

“Dixon,” is said gruffly in my ear.

“Dixon, Carmichael here. What can you tell me about the MIA David Hearse?”

“Moment,” he snaps curtly, dropping the phone on his desk so it bombs my eardrum.

More bureaucratic asswipes.

Sometimes I just hate the world. I’m married to a woman thick as pig shit, and have to be nice to ‘law enforcement’ because they’re my bread and butter. Seriously? Politics is supposed to be the staircase to the White House, not this bullshit.

Sighing with the insufferable penance I have to endure on this pissing planet, I drum my fingers.

I hate waiting. I really really really loathe it!

That motherfucker is doing it on purpose. They get off on knowing when I need an answer I’m at their mercy. One day the wheel will turn and I’ll have their badges. To hell with the whole damn lot of them.

He eventually picks up the receiver, snapping, “Mark, where did you get this name?”

“I never reveal my sources,” I smile, feeling smug.

Shoe – other foot – suck it up cupcake.

“Do you have his whereabouts?” demands Dixon.

“I might.” I play it real cool.

“Carmichael, if you don’t want to be arrested for impeding an active investigation, aiding and abetting, you’d better choke up that intel.”

“Is there a reward?” I dig, thinking it’ll be a nice bonus for xmas. I need a new Jag, fucking Carrie spilled my cum on the passenger seat. I beat her for that. Since when does the whore not swallow? She always swallows. Pregnancy and nausea my fucking ass. Excuses like that will get her two black eyes next time.

“No, Carmichael, there is no reward. This is an active investigation and I’ll indict you to provide information. Talk to me now and you’ll get a commendation. Be difficult, and you’ll be spending the festive season in a four by two.”

Jesus, have a fanny wobble. Moron.

“He’s living with my ex,” I offer, annoyed that I still know zilch about him. He’s military, badass, scary badass, with more purple hearts than a morgue. He was special forces, doing more tours than most kids spend in high school, but the file I have on him says he went missing in action. That asshole isn’t missing, he’s fucking my ex and swaggering around
my
house. Desertion is a punishable offense. If he ran from his responsibilities I’m going to have him locked up so fast he’ll leave jail with a permanent limp - cos his asshole’s been shredded. Dick!

“Address,” demands Dixon.

“It’s my old house,” I sneer at the asswipe. He’s been there! Dinner parties back when we were still swinging. Dixon’s wife is quite the firecracker in the sack.

“Location!” he demands.

“Is this call being recorded?” I interrogate.

“What do you think?” he says, deadpan, like I asked him if his granny wears frilly panties.

“My house, out in Lincoln.” Retard.

“Do you still own the property?” he parries.

“No.” Here we go, will the shame never end. “She got it when we split.”

“Got it,” he confirms. “The Woodland Loop, Forest Ridge. Correct?”

“Yes,” I sneer, drawing out the s to indicate my displeasure at him being all bushiness instead of a friend who hands over info when I need it.

“Thank you for calling the FBI. This conversation is recorded for security purposes. We’ll be in touch.”

And for the second time today an asshole hangs up on me.

To hell with all of you!

If he kills Carly, too bad. Then at least I can get my house back.

A man can live in hope.

David
:

After the odd experience of an intruder snapping my photo with my dick dangling for the world to see, I’ve chalked it up to kids being stupid after consuming too much eggnog and rum. There’ve been no more midnight drive-bys, no more rifle scope-lights infiltrating my sanctuary, nothing untoward at all.

It’s given me a false sense of security, I get that. But being here with Carly, snuggled under the covers with nothing but the waning coals in the hearth to illuminate the bedroom, I’m happy.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been happy, so this is novel for me. It’s so unique and rare after the recent hardships that I don’t want to think about shadow operatives closing in on my location. I don’t want to mull the drama of being mentally incapacitated, I just want to hold this soft bundle of gorgeous, my palm against her ribcage, a squeezey boob filling my fingers, her pulse tapping a lullaby to my neurons.

I don’t believe in love, or domestic bliss; and I’m a liar. I’m crotch deep in the love pit, and it’s amazing. I’m blown away that two souls can connect this fast, and this deep, to the point where facing a future without her is no future at all. Right now the only thing in the world I give two hoots about is in my arms, snoring ever so quietly.

She makes me smile. The miracle is she gets me to laugh. I’d not heard that until now. You don’t even know you’re fractured until someone fills the fissures within you.

I left, briefly, to pack my things and ‘move in’. She’s paid me to stay, in advance for three months, and because I have to put survival before pride I took the money, but I’ve sworn a vow to myself: I’m using a huge chunk of it to get her a present. She has no xmas tree, and for obvious reasons we’re not ‘doing xmas’, but this might be the only christmas of my adult life and I want to give her something to remember me by when I have to run again.

I’m not naive, I know the day is coming, but I’m hoping the unprecedented snowfall will keep them at bay long enough for me to make her as happy as she’s made me.

The day after those snoops evacuated I took the money she gave me and borrowed Mark’s bike to get to Manchester. If I end up camping in the woods again I need to know I have a jacket that’s waterproof and thermal. Goose down with thinsulate lining seemed like a good starting point.

I needed clothing to protect me in this miserable weather, and a weapon. I couldn’t ignore it another second. Knives are great but they’re no match for an assault rifle. If she needs me here as protection, then I’m gonna do my utmost. That starts with hollow points and a nine-mil. The Glock felt natural and familiar, hence that was purchased first, but the store owner had a sixth sense.

Manny Rodriguez invited me into a back room to view his ‘sporting equipment’. At first I thought the imbecile was propositioning me, but when the vault door slid open and I saw the buffet of artillery he had hidden in the back, I got wood just looking at it. I’d like to know where the hell he got an M249 from. It’s a military grade machine gun, and legally he can’t own that, and I said as much.

He went so pale, like he thought I was the undercover fuzz here to bust his chops, and then offered it to me at a discount. I haggled him down, telling him the only thing I was willing to pay for was the ammo, that he shouldn’t stock shit that will get him deported.

Manny just nodded, and then I felt bad, so used a portion of my precious cash to pay him for the security I so desperately need. He concealed my purchase for me in a sport’s bag, padded with bubble wrap.

I considered then how fucked up this planet is. You have to be out of your mind to sell someone a machine gun and handgun with less then a week to xmas. It’s documented fact that folks suffer clinical depression during the holidays, it’s the time with the most domestic abuse cases, violent crimes in families sending more victims to the ER than any other time of the year, and yet this fuckwit sells me enough to slaughter an entire church with a conveniently situated graveyard next door.

Regardless, I scored. I’m not going to slaughter my family because I have mental health issues.

I catch my laugh, choking on it, burying my face in the pillow, because mentally I have so many issues. I don’t know how old I am or where I was born, but yeah, glass houses make idiots of us all.

The loudest boom detonates downstairs and I hit the deck in reflex. Releasing Carly I rolled and hit the floor, moving across the carpet faster than a snake across a sunbaked sand dune, peering out the bedroom door to the landing and downstairs at more red beams dancing across the darkness than a vintage disco.

Carly’s sitting up and I hustle back to her, whispering, “Hide! Don’t come out. Stay here no matter what you hear, there are men downstairs with rifles!”

Time is ticking away faster than we have, but I know in my heart this is it. They’re going to take me away. That’s if they don’t end me here, first.

Grabbing her face in my hands I squeeze her cheeks, pressing a fervent kiss to her lips, whispering, “You’re mine! It’s done. No going back.”

She nods, eyes wide, too petrified to speak. I can hear the footsteps tracking in every direction, and the first footfall on the steps coming up here. Fifteen men by my count, all have covered this staircase from separate locations, diminishing the odds of me being able to take them all out before one of them pops me.

Spontaneity rules my actions, leaning down to withdraw my hunting knife from under the mattress, and faster than she can register I’ve carved my name into her naked chest, above those perfect breasts.

I just want to stay in bed and love my woman. GOD DAMN IT!

She’s screaming silently, catching blood, looking at me with dismay and hurt, pain contorting her features. “Why?” she squeaks, but I’m dead out of seconds. If I don’t move now there won’t be a tomorrow for either of us.

Crouching and running, naked, I vanish into the third bedroom furthest from the stairwell, rapidly and silently extracting my M249 from its hiding place, leaving the Glock at the doorframe. If I need to retreat, I’ll retreat to here, at least then when they think I’m outta ammo I can help them swallow some lead when they cock the victory smile.

I need pants. Shit. I have nowhere to stash the magazines.

Rushing like a mirage back to the bedroom, one hand crammed with magazines, the other holding the M249, I don’t see any sign of Carly. Good.