“So, you do not want to talk, eh?” said the man to Om.
“Your wife, she is not liking my attention,” he smirked.
The man had moved a lit cigarette to within fractions of an inch of her most intimate areas, but not actually touched her with it.
Om watched as the man approached his wife, again.
Her eyes were tear-filled, but she was more angry than afraid.
Anger, not fear. Frustration, not resignation.
It was one of the reasons he’d married Barbara Bloomberg.
She was one tough cookie.
Her legs were restrained by paracord and had been tied to the legs of the chair after she had kicked one of their kidnappers so hard in his face that he’d been laid out cold.
The others had slapped her around, but she spat and cursed at them.
Finally, they had made her acquiesce by pointing a gun at him.
She remained seated, not moving as they tied her legs to the chair, glaring at them the whole time.
Then, when they had finished, she’d laughed, and started saying insulting things to them about their heritage and sexual preferences until Om had silenced her with a look.
“If you touch her with that, you are going to be even more dead than you already are, asshole,” Om growled.
“Dummkopf! You really think I care a whit about your whore-wife?” he said.
He spits on her face, and slapped her across her left cheek, raising a red welt.
Motioning to the other men, he indicated they should remove her.
“Take this garbage to the other cell, and clean it up! The Master will want to have his way with her later!” he said to them.
Om, finally truly afraid for his wife, shouted out.
“Barbara! I’m coming for you! Hang on…” he started, but then all the air was let out of him in a tremendous “whoof!” as his torturer slammed him in the stomach with his leather boot.
“Om! Dearest! I’ll be ready and waiting!” she cried, as the thugs took her, struggling against her bonds, into the next room.
“Now, mein Kinder, ve shall haf some real fun, nuh?” the man laughed.
Om could only stare with rage, trying to catch his breath, as the man picked up a scalpel and walked slowly towards him.
—————
“Here is where they are being held,” says Derek.
I look at the man whose cock I had shared with Kim, grinning inside.
Derek White is a man of action and a natural born leader.
It’s no wonder he’s the head of Alpha Team.
The Old Man, Admiral Reginald Decker, puts so much faith and trust in him.
Derek managed to heal rapidly, (helped in no doubt by the TLC that Kim and I had showered him with!).
Now, he’s heading the rescue team for Om and Moms.
“We are going in as a three-squad, okay?” he points at the map on the monitor screen.
“Team Alpha is going to be me, Travis, Walt, Bobbie, and Karl,” he says, pointing at the men.
“Team Bravo is Tony, Chuck, Mike, Mike 2, and Nick,” he says, again pointing at the other men.
“And that leaves Team Charlie, comprised of John, Al, Buddy, Pete, and Randy…” he stops himself.
“Sorry guys, old habits. I meant Oscar,” he says.
Everyone bows their heads a moment, and murmurs of “It’s okay”, “No harm, man” and “Cool, bro” can be heard.
Poor Randy.
“Weapons roster will be MP-5K’s, for Alpha and Charlie, entry teams, and UMP for Bravo, with William and Richard as cover-fire snipers, using the Barrett’s, okay?” he intoned automatically.
“What about Bone, Stephan and me?” I ask.
There are a few chuckles, but it’s short-lived.
“Rachel, that’s a good question, and I was about ready to tell you. Patience, please,” he says, looking at me.
Then he winks.
That bastard!
He WAS awake!
And, I bet a thousand gajillion dollars he tattled on me and Kim to Megan!
Ass.
“Stephan is going to be Control, Bone and you are going to be Medical” Derek says.
“That means that when we retrieve the targets, your job is to assure they are okay, and tend to any superficial injuries until we can get Al and Mike 2 or Walt aboard for full first aid,” he continues.
“In other words, just keep them calm, and make sure they are comfortable, okay?” Derek says.
“And, make sure to keep calm, and frosty, everyone,” he orders.
The men all nod.
We all stare at each other, mentally preparing as we each know how best to do.
In my case, that’s trying not to think too hard about a Megan, Derek, Kim and Rachel sandwich.
Stupid hormones.
—————
I am next to Mike 2, who is a strong, Latin dude, with tattoos all over both arms.
Tribal ones, maybe like from a gang or something.
I think of my own tattoo, and take a peek at it.
No glowing.
“Why do they call you Mike 2?” I ask.
“Because there’s already one Mike,” he says, seriously.
“Why not Mike 1 and Mike 2? Or Mike and Michael?” I ask, trying to figure these guys out.
“Actually, my name is Ramon, Rachel,” he says.
I look to see if he is pulling my leg.
“Really? Ramon?” I say, doubtful.
He grins.
“Ramon Jose Concepcion, of Puerto Rico, at your service,” he replies.
“Well, why not Miguel, then?” I ask, exasperated.
Mike 2 checks his machine gun, a short ugly thing called a UMP.
He loads these big fat bullets into a magazine.
I think they are 10mm.
He pushes them in, slowly, one at a time, looking me straight in the eyes.
His eyes are very warm and brown.
Hypnotic.
“Because we already have a Miguel,” he says, seriously.
Then he laughs, and the other men standing around me laugh as well.
Men and their frat boy insider jokes.
I give up.
—————