Against the Clock Read online

  He slid to his knees, his hands working at the clasp of her belt, then the button of her slacks. From the open space of the undone zipper, white cotton panties flashed at him like a beacon in the night. A small logo of Mickey Mouse at the panty center caught his eye, and somewhere in the back of his mind, the innocence and purity of them registered as an all-devouring aphrodisiac, screaming at him to fuck her in a million different ways.

  He wrapped his fingers over the edges of her loosened pants and underwear and pulled them down, bit by bit. They caught on the curve of her firm buttocks, but gave way quickly under the force of his excitement. Her pelvis became more and more exposed with each slight tug of her clothing, his mouth exploring each newly discovered part of her.

  At the base of her hips, her pants rose over the mound of her pubic bone. Her skin was soft and smooth, and perhaps a shade lighter than the rest of her tanned body. Where pubic hair would have tufted over the edge of her panties, there was none. It thrilled him. He dove onto the hairless skin with abandon, his chin pushing her panties lower and lower as his tongue probed farther and deeper.

  The heat of her excitement met his chin as his tongue discovered the beginning of her outer labia. Marisol moaned loudly, encouraging him to keep going.

  He couldn't wait anymore. He tugged at her pants one last time, pulling them down and off completely, finally exposing her naked groin. The lips of her vagina were full and moist, the space between them glistening with promise.

  He stopped, captured for a moment, and then charged forward with his mouth and tongue, diving into the folds between her legs, vaguely aware of Marisol crying out in pleasure.

  The force of his advance lifted her from her feet. Her trousers and panties fell abandoned to the floor, her legs slung against his wide shoulders. She trembled under the manipulations of his tongue.

  He shaped his tongue wide and flat, moving it up and down, then round and round, skirting the edge of her clitoris, getting teasingly closer each time until she trembled to the core. Only then did he move back to the entrance of her, feeling her inner muscles clench tightly against his tongue with each thrust inside her.

  00:18:52

  Marisol screamed out in bliss while Bill suckled at the folds of her clitoris, bringing her to the edge of orgasm and then backing off. The pleasure built to higher and higher peaks of ecstasy until her whole body trembled uncontrollably and her breaths grew ragged.

  She wanted to orgasm with a force unparalleled to any other she had felt before, to feel the power of climactic release, but at the same time she wanted it to never end, to remain anesthetized to the outside world, forever wrapped in a cocoon of illicit pleasure.

  The sweetness of his touch seemed to reach into every part of her, traversing the great divide between the physical connection and the emotional, and as her body moved in rhythm with his, a tear welled at the corner of her eye, rolling down the side of her cheek.

  Bill freed himself of his pants, tore the shirt from his body and before she could gaze at the hardness of his cock, he thrust deep inside her. She gasped at the fullness of it entering her.

  It felt huge and hard. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulled him in tight, and rose up to kiss him. Their mouths collided, open and hungry, her tongue exploring. She could taste herself on his lips and it made her want him even more.

  With each thrust she gasped loudly; she didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but the excitement grew to dizzying heights, and she found herself crying out as the all-consuming waves of orgasm rolled through her. Like a stone thrown into still waters, the ripples reverberated through her, starting at the center of her core and spreading out in larger concentric circles to touch every part of her being.

  Marisol clung to him loosely as he collected her into his arms, the last ebbs of orgasm giving way to a deep and relaxing sense of peace.

  As Bill carried her to the lounge, every part of her felt new and fresh, tingling with life. Her senses heightened. She could feel the lounge's textured fabric against her naked buttocks, the sound of her hair falling across her shoulders, and the masculine smell of Bill's cologne. Every sensation distinct―and arousing. This was her escape. And so she clung to it, appreciating it, understanding it for what it was.

  She sat on the edge of the lounge, Bill standing before her. His naked body was glistening with sweat, all his muscles flexing with evidence of hours spent in the gym. He looked like a rugged prizefighter, a gladiator. Tough, dangerous, and sexy as hell.

  She saw the full extent of his throbbing penis for the first time as it stood upright and strong, wet with her juices. She gripped its shaft firmly at the base, her hand barely circling its generous breadth, and she brought her mouth over its engorged head. Its size alarmed her at first, yet thrilled her at the same time. Her mouth was barely able to take in the fullness of its head completely.

  Bill threw his head back, groaning loudly, giving in to the tremors ripping through him as Marisol brought him to the brink of orgasm. He wanted to pound his chest and scream out like Tarzan with a primal dominance that would shake the trees and scare the lions.

  Marisol sensed his urgency, knew his every movement, anticipated his need; she ran to her bag, deftly opened a condom and unfurled it over his cock. He lifted her off her feet, thrust himself deep inside her, wedged her against the pillows of the lounge, pumped rhythmically into her, and exploded in a wild orgasm.

  His vision blurred, and black stars twinkled in the back of his mind as he pushed himself deeper inside her with each thrust. The waves of orgasm crumbled his defenses, opened him to a world of unfamiliar emotions. He could feel her muscles squeezing around him each time he withdrew, milking him of all his worth.

  He found himself laughing loudly with a deep and genuine joy. And then, slowly, he noticed a warm and welcoming heaviness wash over him. His eyes clouded in a soothing white haze, and gently, peacefully, they closed. He fell limp. Unconscious.

  00:40:02

  Marisol waited a moment. Assessed him carefully. He didn't move. His breathing stayed deep and even. He was out.

  She freed herself from under him, stood, and looked at him indifferently as he lay awkwardly on the lounge. The drugged condom still clung to his flaccid penis. The topical anesthetic inside the condom quickly absorbed through his throbbing, blood-rich dick had worked faster than she'd thought.

  She estimated a ten-to fifteen-minute window to do what she came for, crawl back underneath him, become Marisol again, and pretend to wake up when he did.

  No one would ever know what had really happened.

  Still tingling from the distraction of sex, she felt rejuvenated. Her inner demons momentarily abated, her mind was clear and focused. She left the room. She moved quickly through the lavish apartment toward the antique polished wood grandfather clock in the study. She knew where it was, and what secrets hid within it. That was why she was here.

  Standing before it, she marveled at how ingenious it was of Bill to protect his secrets there, hidden from everyone, yet in plain sight. She reached for the glass panel protecting the clock face and opened it. The hinges moved stiffly. She made sure not to apply too much pressure for fear of damaging the panel. She could leave no sign that any part of the clock had been tampered with.

  Before touching the clock hands, she looked carefully inside for laser plates, strands of hair perched on a ledge, and any other security measure Bill may have put in place. She could see none.

  Her finger touched the large minute hand of the clock, noting that it felt much sturdier than it looked. She turned it counterclockwise in three full circles. She heard a faint click somewhere in the body of the old clock. Then she positioned her finger on the hour hand and turned it clockwise for five full rotations. Another click. Using two hands, she turned both hands of the clock in the opposite direction at the same time until they met together on the number 12. A loud clunk.

  She pulled the face of the large grandfather clock toward her carefully and watche
d as the whole front of the clock appeared to float out in a wide arc, hinged to the wall on one side.

  Stepping behind the door-like panel, she saw a row of shelves spanning from the floor to the top of the clock's enclosure, recessed into the wall space. Piled onto each shelf were bound manila folders. Each folder had a code number neatly printed on its spine. She knew which file she needed and selected it from the pile. She leafed through the papers, abstracting several sheets which looked like all the others, but which had special significance for her.

  She carried the documents to the window directly opposite the clock, moved the chair from behind the desk, positioned it directly in front of the large window, and stood on the upholstered seat.

  She held each document up, pressing it hard against the glass at the top left-hand corner of the window. She held each document there, then paused to be sure the motion sensor camera positioned on the other side of the window captured a clear image.

  When she was done, she returned the documents to the file and carefully placed the file back into the recess behind the clock. Before closing the front face of the old clock, she took one last look inside to be sure nothing was left out of place.

  She took a deep breath, donned her "Marisol" persona one more time, and returned to the living room.

  01:19:05

  Carlo's phone vibrated in his side pocket. This was beginning to become an interesting night, he thought as he brought the phone to his ear.

  "I have the photo." The voice sounded tense. It was unusual. "When the girl leaves, do not alarm her. Search her bag and person as you did when she first arrived, but do not spook her. A tracking device is on its way to you now. Can you slip it in her bag as you search it without her noticing?"

  "Yes, sir," Carlo replied with more confidence than he felt.

  "Good. When she's gone, the team will stay on her. I want you to have a chat with Mr. Civic about her."

  "I understand, sir." Carlo thought for a moment and then asked, "How friendly do you want me to be, sir?"

  "Answers are more important to me than our working relationship with Mr. Civic from this point on."

  "Yes, sir. Understood."

  chapter 1

  "Knowing your enemy is good, until they know you better."

  the book of seekay

  10:08:04

  Trent Barratt looked away from his reflection in the shop window. What he saw there disgusted him. The small phone in his large hand was almost crushed between the force of his rage and the depth of his embarrassment. There was little he could do now but to report his failure.

  "We lost her, sir," he said into the phone.

  A steely silence echoed back.

  There was more to report, and for a moment, he considered keeping it to himself until he could somehow turn things around, but he was not a coward. He would admit his errors in full, then he would hunt her down and make her pay.

  He took a deep breath and continued, "Three of my men are down, sir."

  A moment let his failure hang in the air before he heard several loud smashes on the other end of the phone. The line went dead.

  He returned the cell to his pocket and started planning his next step. It troubled him that she had escaped his grasp, and it troubled him more that she had killed three of his men.

  Barratt was seasoned. He'd survived too long in an unforgiving business to have an exaggerated sense of ability. He recognized that he was not the best operative in the field, but his track record also told him he was better than most. For this woman to have eluded him indicated the reports on her ability and her resources were modest, at best. He vowed never to underestimate her again.

  Something else bothered him. He had caught a glimpse of her as she was crouched over one of his men. She was in her late twenties, wore black loose-fitting jeans, and a floppy shirt two sizes too large. She looked homely, unremarkable at first glance, but he saw in her movements a woman capable of great speed and agility.

  She moved with a fluidity uncommon in most people, and she had a sense about her that screamed an intense alertness. He understood those traits. He had them too.

  Their eyes had met. There was something familiar in them. Something wild, hungry, and unafraid. He felt challenged by them, and then, behind a flash of blonde hair, they were gone.

  Her face had been a blur, obscured by movement, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her.

  He had moved toward her, angling to get a better view, trying to get within accurate pistol firing range, when a car had driven past, obscuring his view for a moment, and by then she was gone.

  10:09:12

  Director Zelig swept the debris of the shattered phone off the desk, ignoring the cuts and scrapes on his bare knuckles. Whoever this woman was, she had managed to stay one step ahead of his team.

  As if on cue, a gentle knock came on the closed door. April, his assistant, popped her head inside.

  "Is there anything you might need, sir?"

  Zelig waved absently at the smashed phone strewn on the floor. "A new phone," he said dryly. Already lost in thought, he added, "Thank you, April."

  With a nod, she quietly slipped away and returned moments later, unpacking equipment as she walked.

  Zelig barely registered his young assistant cleaning away the debris and hooking up the new phone. When she was gone, he picked up the receiver and made a call.

  "Barratt lost her," he said into the phone, his voice soft, monotone, barely concealing the rage that boiled inside him, "We need to get rid of him, then we need to get that girl."

  Measured carefully, the voice on the other end of the line spoke almost mechanically, "Barratt is a good operative. We could still use him. It's time we seriously consider that this woman is in fact Shirin Reyes."

  "Impossible! She's out! She's been out for years." But even as he spoke the words, Director Zelig felt the seeds of doubt spouting in his mind. If the rogue operative was Reyes, the danger to his mission and the risks for himself were considerably worse than he could have imagined. Zelig fought to control the frustration bubbling up in his voice and took a moment to settle himself before he continued, "Find out who this girl is. If she is Shirin Reyes, kill her. And don't be nice about it. Just make sure she's dead!"

  The voice on the phone, the voice of the man known only as "Smith," was quiet, without emotional inflection. "I have good reason to believe this woman is Reyes. And that she is back in play." The voice paused for effect but continued before Zelig could speak. "I had the agent guarding Bill Civic send me a screenshot from the security footage."

  "And?"

  "The image is dark and grainy, but it was Reyes. I'm sending you a copy of the photo now," the voice said matter-of-factly.

  Director Zelig logged into his private email while the voice he knew only as "Smith" continued. "My man has spoken with Bill Civic, and he claims it was a girl by the name of Marisol Keplor. She had ID matching that name, sighted by my security man. Mr. Civic is adamant that this woman was clean. He says he had been watching her at his club for weeks. I am in the process of collecting recordings from the club for verification. He is also adamant that nothing had been touched or taken from his apartment. He says they had sex all night, and that she left in the early hours of the morning. My security team has confirmed that. Security cameras have her leaving the apartment at 0400. Her bag and person were searched before entering the apartment, and again when leaving. There was nothing of note."

  The photo arrived in his email. Smith had been correct; the image was dark and grainy. Bill Civic was easily identifiable, whereas the girl was not. She was huddled under his arm, her face hidden.

  "I have the image," Zelig said into the phone. Leaning closer to the screen, he strained to discern any identifiable features of the woman. "What makes you so certain this woman is Reyes?"

  "It's her."

  Zelig was not so convinced, but Smith had been a trusted, highly valued colleague far too long to dismiss his opinion so hastily. I
nstead, he said, "I'm sending you another team now. Track her; get me better pictures. We need to ID her quickly. Keep your man on Civic. I'll have a forensic team there within the hour to go over his apartment. If this is Reyes, she had a reason to be there. We need to find out what it was." He didn't wait for a reply before ending the call.

  Reyes had been an unparalleled agent when she had worked for him. A pain in the ass, crazy as hell, and the source of many headaches, but she never failed, no matter the cost. In his world, that level of success was all that mattered. Regardless of rules, laws, or intelligence protocols, success warranted certain freedoms. Freedoms that he had readily provided her.

  But after the death of her husband, her missions grew reckless, her behavior dangerous. And then, she vanished. He had hoped she was dead, but knew better.

  It bothered him deeply that if this mystery girl was in fact Shirin Reyes, it would indicate she had been active for at least several months. But "active" on what? What was she doing? Who could she be working for?

  Rubbing at the stubble forming on his chin, Zelig started making mental notes on the phone calls he needed to make.

  If she were truly back and in play, extra precautions needed to be put in place. Zelig grudgingly conceded to himself that perhaps having her husband killed may not have been one of his best decisions.

  10:24:19

  Shirin Reyes stepped off the platform. Without looking back at the departing train, she walked through the terminal gates and out into the crowded streets of the Central Business District.

  No one followed her; she was sure of it. But for the next hour, she navigated her way through a labyrinth of shops, fitting rooms, and past glass storefront windows before returning to her safe house.

  Her blonde wig lay at the bottom of a trash receptacle outside a Starbucks café, and her handbag, emptied into and dumped in the ladies' room. She kept none of its contents.