Nandita To Nandini
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Second Thoughts And Last ChancesChapter 12 free porn video
With my sister's warning ringing in my ears, and the CIA rent-a-cop's pistol barrel pointing at my heart, I stood unmoving behind the Visitor's Desk counter; the head rent-a-cop in one hand and a gaping lack of anything remotely like an offensive weapon in the other.
The world around me slowed down like a bug trapped in tree sap. I saw that the man with the pistol was left handed; something I hadn't noticed before and which was excruciatingly unimportant ... but I saw and made note of it none the less.
I saw that the bluing on his pistol's trigger guard had worn away and that sliver of silver steel was reflecting the overhead lights into my eyes. And I could see the tendon in his left forefinger tighten and turn white as he applied more and more pressure to the trigger mechanism behind it.
He was going to pull the trigger and I couldn't think of a thing to do that would stop him or the bullet that was shortly going to be coming at me.
A single thought burst out across my mind.
I was off the path again. For years I'd thought I was doing pretty well, only to discover that I'd fucked it all up, and hadn't even been aware I was doing it.
Done feeling sorry for yourself? You know, I really thought we'd gotten past this self pity shit.
Screw you! We'll be past it when I say we're past it, not you! And I'm not feeling sorry for myself ... exactly.
It won't matter one way or the other, unless you do something about Bozo the Cop and his pop-gun.
What's the worst he can do ... kill me?
Well, yeah!
Death is nothing. Dying's the hard part, and if Sparky over there is just marginally good with his pistol even that shouldn't be too bad.
You think your death is going to solve anything?
Won't it?
Short term, perhaps. But try using your head for something other than a place to hang a hat and start thinking long term for once why don'cha? He kills you ... then what happens?
I'm dead. No insanity, no destroying the world.
And... ?
I blinked one time. It felt like it took a year.
... and the girls die with me...
Yeah.
I'm not going to die.
You sure about that?
Pretty sure.
And if you're wrong?
What happens to the kids?
Do you have a will?
Wouldn't matter ... they aren't legally mine.
Do the girls?
I don't know...
Do you even care what happens to your children?
Of course I care. Dad...
... might get custody of Belle, but the other three, they probably end up wards of the state. Busted up and put into foster homes...
No.
... they might never see each other again. It'll be really hard on AJ you know ... no telling how he'll react to being separated from his sisters.
No.
And you've seen and heard the horror stories of young girls who go thru foster homes. Remember what it did to Peggy? Tragic, just tragic.
No!
What are you worried about? You've given up, right? You don't give a damn about anything but your own little piss-ant problems. What do you care if four little kids who depend on you to protect them have to endure a childhood marred by abandonment, guilt, loneliness, and unremitting anguish? You won't have to watch it, right?
"No!" I rasped thru a tightened throat, glaring with unconcealed contempt at the face on the other side of the pistol barrel.
I linked and hammered him with the full force of my mounting rage at the exact same instant his finger finished its backward motion. The projectile left the gun barrel just as his entire body burst apart into several hundred thousand tiny bits of flaming organic detritus.
His agony was brief; death for him took a mere fraction of a second. It felt infinitely longer to me. And then the bullet hit me.
He'd been a good shot. A very good shot.
The bullet struck my chest, at a point that would have bisected a line drawn between my nipples, with the force of a sledgehammer on an area the diameter of my little fingertip.
Isabeau screamed briefly and threw her hands and arms up to cover her face when the gun wielding guard exploded, so she never saw the bullet hit me. But I could tell she felt its impact. She grunted loudly, pulling her elbows in protectively between her breasts and hugged her arms close to her upper torso.
Walker also cried out when he saw the burst of flame emerge from the barrel of the pistol, probably afraid that his goon might hit him by mistake. I tightened my grip around the small man's neck quite a bit when the bullet hit, causing him to squeak like a rat that'd been stepped on.
Oh shit, did it hurt. It hurt a lot.
At first it was nothing more than a high powered punch impacting a very small area, but then the pain spread out to engulf my entire upper body, spreading quickly to my shoulders, arms and down into my belly.
I had to take two steps back in order to stay upright and ended up crushing the young guard Germain between me and the wall behind us.
I stood there for several seconds leaning against Germain and the wall, waiting for the pain to dull down enough so that I could resume breathing.
While I waited for my lungs to start working again I scanned the area outside the Visitor's Desk, hoping I wouldn't see any other potential heroes.
Isabeau was crouched over, bent at the waist and holding her hands pressed between her breasts, but valiantly trying to make her way over to the counter. Her complexion was as pale as I'd ever seen on anyone who wasn't me. She was obviously in a great deal of pain, and if I hadn't been hurting so much myself right then I probably would have been able to sense it.
Just as she reached the counter and leaned heavily against it my lungs opened up for business once again and cold cool air rushed in. I started gasping and sucking air like bellows.
"Shit!" I groaned after my third or forth lungful. I linked with my sister, leeched all her pain into me and poured it out into those few people in the lobby who were beginning to rise up to their feet. They all screeched like sea birds and flopped back down into the sloppy mess that was the lobby floor and thrashed about like landed fish.
Using Germain like a springboard, I pushed away from him and hauled Walker along to the counter.
"Are you okay honey?" I rasped.
Isabeau was trembling as she uncurled and stood up, lifted her head and looked at me. Her eyes fixed on my chest and grew wide.
"He shot you!" she whispered.
I nodded my head very slowly, trying not to aggravate the painful throbbing in my chest.
"Yeah, he sure did." I agreed.
Her eyes flicked up to mine and then back down to the frayed hole in my shirt.
"There's no blood." she pointed out in amazement.
"I sure as hell hope not."
She reached out, put the palm of her hand over the hole and pressed against my chest.
"I can't feel your heart beating." Her voice was breathy, husky, low and rough. Her eyes were glassy and dilated, and the skin of her face was damp with sweat.
She was in shock. She pulled her hand away, staring at me with undisguised awe.
I put the hand with my badge in it on the counter and vaulted over, dragging Walker along after me, grunting, squeaking and flapping like a goose. I clipped my access badge to the lapel of my coat, wrapped my free arm around my sister's shoulders and pulled her close. I linked with her and allowed my concern, admiration and love for her to flow. She melted against me like soft butter on hot bread.
"Everything's gonna be okay. I'm fine, really. Sore, but otherwise unharmed."
She tightened her arms around my ribs with an unbelievable amount of strength and pain lanced thru the both of us, but she didn't let up for an instant.
"How did you do that?" she wondered.
"Magic." I replied softly, hugging her close and kissing her forehead. I released my hold on her and took a step to one side. I leaned over the counter with my free arm, snagged a visitor's badge and clipped it to Izzy's coat lapel.
"We still have a meeting to crash and things are going to get ugly again. Are you ready?" I asked.
She took a deep breath and stood up straight, adjusting the hang of her fashionable business suit. She gave me a half smile and a wink. "Ready."
I lifted Walker up so that his face was near mine, forcing him to look over at my lovely sister's brave face. I turned my face partially towards his.
"Isn't she the most beautiful woman you've ever laid eyes on in your whole sad pathetic life?" I asked him, using the man as my personal ventriloquist's dummy.
Walker snarled as best he could, drool ran down his chin and all over his once natty uniform shirt.
"You and your bitch'll be dead before lunchtime!" he promised. I tightened my grip on the back of his neck until I heard vertebrae start to pop and saw the man's eyes bug out of his head. He gagged out something unintelligible in response.
"I asked you a simple yes or no question, but you just had to go off on an irrelevant and insulting tangent." I shook him like a rag doll and then let him hang limply.
"Now, let's try it one more time; isn't she the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your worthless excuse for a life?"
"Yes," the man gasped, " ... most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
I offered him a quick smile, turned to my sister and blew her a kiss, returned my eyes to the man at the end of my arm, raised my free hand and held up a split fingered peace sign in front of his face.
"Try not to forget." I said coldly, planted a kiss on his forehead and then jammed my two extended fingers into his wide open and unbelieving eyes ... all the way to the third knuckle, stopping only when I felt my fingernails scrape raw bone.
Spreading my hand over his face, I held the man's skull like a bowling ball, my thumb latched beneath his jaw, shutting off his ear splitting shrieks. I allowed the weight of his body to pull my arm down to hip level then turned to Isabeau, holding out my clean hand to her.
"Come on sweetie. Let's go crash a meeting."
We navigated our way thru the viscous slop and the bodies, some of whom were beginning to move again like grunion on damp sand, and reached the elevators without incident.
As we stood there waiting for the doors to open I did a quick search of Walker and his possessions. I used his own handcuffs to secure his arms behind his back and pocketed the lock blade Buck knife I found in a holder on his pistol belt. Then I linked with the whimpering wreck of a man and held a quick question and answer session. What I learned didn't make me any more homicidal than I already was, but then it didn't do much to inspire a live and let live attitude in me either.
The three of us rode the car up to the executive level and exited into the shallow hall that led to what I liked to think of as the steno area, where the five or six mid-level agents who'd been marked for administrative greatness were kept busy at computers tracking the day to day operations of the Agency for the Director and his chosen Deputies.
There were four men busy at their desks when my sister, Walker (who had resumed dragging along beside me at the end of my arm) and I exited the hall and emerged into the low level lighting.
I have no idea why Agency policy insisted on keeping it so dark up there. Maybe they thought it enhanced their self-image of skulking along thru the shadowy corners of the world. Maybe they were just cheap. I didn't get invited up to that level very often, so I'd never gotten much insight into how their minds worked.
One thing I did know for certain. They were traditional, hidebound and predictable, rarely deviating from established routine. You'd think people in charge of spying on the world would have learned that routinely doing anything made you easy to spot and easier to fool. How the hell had we managed to outlast the Soviet Union?
One of the steno agents looked up, saw the three of us coming towards him and panicked. He jumped up from behind his desk and reached for the pistol on his belt. His three cronies turned to look at him, irritation on their faces. His antics were distracting them from their world saving work and they weren't pleased. The look on the man's face must have triggered some ingrained response though, because they all turned to see what had set him off, and then they were all reaching for holstered pistols.
With the hand that wasn't holding Walker's head I snaked out one of the 10mm Glocks from beneath my suit jacket and linked with all four men.
"Put your weapons on your desks and step back." I ordered them in a conversational tone. "Anyone who hasn't complied in three seconds dies here and now. One ... two ... th..."
I suppose they'd heard about me. I wasn't much of a secret within upper levels of the CIA, and it wasn't as if there were many other people in the building who could have been mistaken for me. If only Walker had been as well informed. All four set their guns down on the desktop blotters and stepped away, keeping their hands up where I could see them.
I nodded slightly. "Very good gentlemen. Never did much like people getting in my way when I'm working. Now, if you'll be so kind ... into the janitor's closet. Move!" I snapped, waving the Glock in the direction of the closet door behind me and to my left, near the large tinted windows.
They scurried over with all the professional dignity they could muster and opened the closet door.
It was a tight fit. The closet wasn't all that large to begin with, and it was well stocked with cleaning supplies and equipment, so there wasn't much room, but they managed to squeeze in and Isabeau slammed it shut behind them. I picked up one of the uncomfortable institutional chairs they used in the waiting area, jammed it beneath the door handle and with a quick kick wedged it into the carpet.
I rested one shoulder against the door and raised my voice slightly.
"If I any one of you sticks his head outside of this closet anytime during the next hour I'll put a ten millimeter slug thru your face."
I tucked the Glock back into its holster and started walking towards the main conference room. Isabeau hurried to catch up with me, reaching my side as I shoved thru the heavy double glass doors engraved with the CIA seal. Behind the glass doors were the offices of the Director, the Assistant Director, three of his top section deputies and the main conference room. We headed down the row of office doors to the heavy oaken door at the far end.
No security on the conference room door. That was interesting, but as I rarely ever came up here, and had never been invited to the weekly staff meeting of deputies, I couldn't say whether or not it was standard procedure.
Just meant there were fewer people to intimidate or kill. And that suited me fine.
I rapped three times on the dark wood, twisted the handle and flung the door open wide. It slammed loudly against the wall and remained open. I strode in, dragging Walker along at my hip, followed by my sister who shut the heavy door behind us.
Standing there in the doorway, with every eye focused on me, I was suddenly reminded of a bumper sticker I'd seen a few weeks before: Politics — from poly meaning many, and ticks, as in small, blood-sucking parasites.
I don't know ... the thought just seemed appropriate to the moment. I smiled warmly at the amassed brainpower of the Central Intelligence Agency.
These were the hands that held the tiller of the United States of America's principal intelligence gathering organization.
My smile grew predatory as I fought to damp down the more primitive emotions that threatened to turn my little boardroom visit into a bloodbath of biblical proportions.
"Good morning gentlemen, so sorry we're late. I hope we haven't missed anything important." One of the Glocks reappeared in my hand almost as if by magic and I held it up near my shoulder. "Please, don't get up. Unless you think this is a good day to die."
I looked around at the eight men seated at the conference table, shook my head and smiled. The biggies were all there; the Director, the Deputy Director, the Executive Director, Operations, Intelligence, Support, General Counsel, and the Inspector General. The only groups not represented were Science and Technology, Military and Public Affairs and The Center for the Study of Intelligence. Dr. Wills once refered to the CSI as 'the Community College of the CIA'.
No one moved.
I mentally shrugged. Maybe they weren't as stupid as I'd thought.
I shifted my weight, planting my back leg, rolling my shoulder and tightened my bicep while increasing the grip of my fingers and thumb in and over Captain Walker's face. Then I lifted and tossed his limp body up and out, letting loose of his chin and eye sockets in time to watch his gracefully sailing body arch out and then land with a soggy THUMP in the middle of the large rectangular table.
All but one of the men jerked back in their swivel chairs when Walker's body crash landed. All but one. Donner. Head of the Directorate of Operations.
Tyrone 'Tye' Donner. He'd been a field agent in the early seventies, an embassy 'chief of station' in the eighties and a regional director during the early nineties. He'd seen his share of brutalized human bodies over the years ... had probably done a bit of brutalizing himself, at one time or another.
"I believe this belongs to one of you." I said, gesturing with my bloody fingers at the shaking body on the table.
Donner leaned forward and rolled Walker onto his back, checking the little man's throat for a pulse. His eyes narrowed when he got a close up look at the ruined features in front of him. Donner rotated his chair around to face me. His features were hard and icy.
"Why?" he asked coldly, his voice reminded me of David Jones' with its harshness.
I let the smile fade from my lips.
"Perhaps you should ask the Director of Support that question."
All eyes focused on the man sitting on the Director's left hand side. For someone who'd worked so hard to get so high up in government service, he sure didn't seem to enjoy being center stage very much.
The Director decided to try and resume control of events.
"Dr. Blacktower, whatever Mr. Quinlan may or may not have done, it in no way excuses you from breaking in on a highly classified meeting, or from wantonly assaulting one of our security personnel. Rest assured that I will be reporting to the House and Senate Intelligence oversight committees about your disgraceful and unprofessional behavior."
A short bark of laughter escaped from my throat. "Director Timmons, you pompous, pretentious sack of shit; if you'd take your head out of your ass long enough to look at the world around you, you'd find that my behavior is neither disgraceful nor unprofessional. This, " I said pointing a goo covered finger at Captain Walker's moaning body "is what I get paid to do. By definition that makes me a professional. As for disgraceful; I didn't get my job by kissing some lying, adulterous politician's ass. Can you look me in the eye and say the same?"
The blood that had suffused Timmons' face at my jibes and insults drained away quickly at the reminder of who'd gotten him his current position. Political hacks hate to be reminded that they are, when it's all said and done, nothing more than political hacks.
I walked slowly up towards where Quinlan was seated.
"I don't require an excuse or invitation to come to this meeting. You might recall, if you try real hard, that my mandate ... my Presidential mandate ... authorizes me unlimited access to any and all data passing thru this organization." I stepped up behind Quinlan and wiped the blood and eye tissue that coated my fingers on his several thousand dollar hand tailored Italian suit jacket. The man cringed and then squawked when I clamped my hand down on his shoulder.
"But we'll get back to your personal leadership failures in a bit. Let's shift our attention back to the question Mr. Donner originally asked. 'Why?' was the question, in case you've forgotten." The looks they gave me as I mimicked Donner's gruff and rasping voice were priceless, but I didn't take the time to enjoy them.
"Who among you is responsible for building and ground security? Who hired the current security chief? Who approves the hiring of all security personnel? Who's responsible for administration of the security database and all its attendant computer systems and software?"
I tightened my grip on Quinlan's shoulder. He groaned.
"Who was it that granted Captain Walker uncontrolled access to the data base, along with permission to add and remove data at his own discretion ... including mine?" I knelt down behind Quinlan's chair and rested my chin on the top of his head. "Feel free to speak up any time Thomas." I said softly.
"You allowed a low level rent-a-cop access to our security database?" Donner snarled.
Quinlan whimpered almost as loudly as Walker, who was still lying motionless on the table.
"It gets better." I assured the men around the table. I got up and released my grip on Quinlan's shoulder, and resumed pacing around the table, counter clockwise.
"Not only did Captain Walker have access and regularly make alterations to the database, but he received orders late last night to completely remove all of my files. Pay, security access, medical and dental, the whole lot. He was also told that when I arrived this morning I was to be refused entry and if there were even the slightest fuss made about it ... well, Captain Walker was given permission to use deadly force to ensure I didn't get back in."
Even the Director looked taken aback by this information. It didn't take much imagination on their part for them to see that Quinlan could have used his private little army to stage a quasi coup if the mood had hit him. I knew that had probably not been his intention, but just the idea that such a thing was possible added a little extra weight to my side of the scales.
Quinlan sputtered for a moment or two, but when he saw the glares coming from nearly every one of the faces at the table he choked back whatever it had been he was going to say and sank deeper into his chair.
I continued making my way around the table.
"Now before anyone develops a sanctimonious streak and decides to proclaim Mr. Quinlan doomed to the deepest pits of Intel-Hell, let me point out how badly the rest of you've been doing lately."
I'd reached the end of the conference table once again and was discreetly watching my sister watch me at work. Her beautiful face had regained its usual olive complexion, with just a tiny extra touch of blush in the cheeks and along her lovely neck.
I pulled out one of the chairs farthest from any of the men already present and gestured for her to take a seat. Isabeau stepped over and I helped her out of her overcoat. She sat gracefully as I draped her coat over the back of the chair next to her then removed Walker's pistol from my coat pocket and set it on the table in front of her.
"If any of these gentlemen even appear to be reaching for a weapon, put a bullet in his head." I told her.
She nodded and picked up the pistol, released the manual safety and eased back the slide to be sure a round was in the chamber.
Director Timmons chose that moment to put both hands flat on the table as if to raise himself up out of his seat.
"Blacktower..."
Isabeau raised her arm in one fluid motion, drew back the pistol's hammer to full cock and aimed the barrel over and across Walker's body so that its gaping maw pointed between Timmons' eyes.
All movement around the table stopped immediately.
"I wouldn't tempt her if I were you. She's already seen me get shot once this morning, and I don't imagine she's all that interested in seeing if I can survive a second round in the chest."
"Who shot you? Walker?" Donner demanded harshly.
Timmons took the opportunity to slowly ease himself back into his seat, keeping his hands flat on the table as he sat down. Isabeau lowered the pistol and sat back in her chair.
"Walker? No. One of his rent-a-thugs. The dead one."
The man under discussion whimpered softly and mumbled 'boom' under his breath just loud enough to be heard, then started sobbing weakly.
"Who shot me is irrelevant at the moment, because I'm still alive. What does matter is that this tin pot little tyrant has been jerking me around on and off for more than five months, and with the exception of Quinlan, not one of you had any idea what was going on. Why do you suppose that is? I've been hunting spies here for eight years now ... why don't the people who work Security in this building know who I am and what I do? And whose fault is it that they don't? Mine?"
I strode back up the length of the table to stand behind the Director's chair.
"Maybe a little. But I'm the company spy hunter, not the goddamn Welcome Wagon. So then, whose fault is it that the head clerk wasn't told that the tall guy with the white hair is the one person in the entire Agency that he should never-ever fuck with?!" I thundered loud enough to make all of them, except Donner, flinch.
I leaned down over Timmons' head and rapped one knuckle against his balding head.
"Anyone care to venture a guess?" I asked pleasantly. No one spoke up. I whipped the barrel of my Glock around so that it pressed against Quinlan's right temple. "Anyone at all?" I asked again.
Not so much as a peep.
"Every last one of them." Isabeau stated icily from the far end of the table.
I could actually hear eyes clicking in their sockets as the men seated around the conference table shifted their attention at the sound of her voice. With the exception of Captain Walker, who could be forgiven ... what with his disability and all.
I smiled fondly at my sister and lowered the barrel of my handgun from the side of Quinlan's head.
"Who are you?" Director Timmons asked in a strained tone of voice.
"One of his wives, no doubt." Marion Urbanick, head of the Directorate of Intelligence, offered.
"One?" Timmons parroted mindlessly.
" ... most beautiful woman ... miserable life..." Walker muttered as his body shuddered convulsively.
I stood up and headed back down the length of the table to stand next to Isabeau's chair.
"Yes. One of my wives. Bravo Mr. Urbanick, kudos to the Chief Analyst. If only you paid that much attention to events occurring outside your directorate. Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Isabeau Blacktower. You've never met her because we don't travel in the same social circles you folks do, and because I've tried very hard to keep my work here far away from my family. However, recent events have forced me to alter my thinking somewhat."
I fought back an increase in the pain in my upper body, took a shallow series of breaths and exhaled slowly.
"We'll return to the issue of responsibility in a few minutes." I said ominously. "The main reason I decided to pay a visit to your little coffee klatch today is because a former CIA field agent, Carlos Negron, has attacked my family. I dislike people attacking my family even more than I dislike them attacking me." I waved absently towards the man in the center of the table. "You can see for yourselves the level of tolerance I employ when responding to personal attacks ... can you imagine how much more drastic the response will be to an attack on my wives and children?"
"Carlos Negron. I know that name." Donner said under his breath.
"He went by Alex Chorney when I met him in 1991." I offered, ignoring the stab of guilt, remorse and anxiety I received from my sister. I laid my free hand on her shoulder and gave her a comforting pat.
"Right. Chorney, he was the assistant embassy chief in Budapest. Had one hell of a reputation as a recruiter." Donner recalled.
"Correct. Now, the reason I'm here today is because I went looking thru the Agency files the other day for information on either identity. Now, assuming that Chorney was his operational identity, and was wiped when he left the Agency, there should still be files on him under his real name. But I came up with a whole lot of nothing!" I stepped away from Isabeau's side and began walking slowly back up towards Quinlan.
"Redacted files, incomplete files, missing files, files checked out to other government agencies for indeterminate and unspecified periods ... Mr. Urbanick, care to apply your powers of deduction to the problem? If you were me, what would you conclude?"
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