CHAPTER ONE Call of Duty
I never thought I would retire. But then I never thought that I would get old. In the business I am in there aren’t many old people. That’s because sooner or later your luck runs out. For many people that is sooner. But even if your luck holds out, eventually you get too slow… or Karma, or whatever you want to call it rears up and bites you in the ass. Now that most of my friends and associates are retired… or dead… and their replacements look like someone who just wandered away from a fraternity or sorority party, I have decided it is time to hang up my guns and my lathes and mills and just enjoy my lake property.
Of course, when you have supplied as many people with interesting erotic machines for as long as I have, you have a lot of very rich and powerful people who want you to make “just one more.” I always politely refuse them and turn them over to Juan and Juanita. Both Juan and Juanita have been working with me at the shop for many years. J&J Exotic Machines have access to all of my old designs and have come up with some interesting new ones. J&J Exotic Machines operates out of my shop here at the lake. They live in a rather modest small home which I… actually we… built several years ago alongside the big barn that has been one of my major manufacturing sites off and on for many years.
I have already contingency deeded all of the land plus the lake to Juan & Juanita. Their names are on the deed, but I retain full control until I shuffle off this mortal coil, as Shakespeare said it. I have most of my other properties set up in trusts for various people. My lawyers will have a very good year financially when they have to settle my estate. The only codicil in the deed for this property is that the ancient, round hunting cabin on the far side of the lake must be kept in proper condition in perpetuity.
I don’t plan on doing any shuffling in the near future, so there are also two other houses built near my lake home. They were built when I had to rebuild the lake house after the Monty brothers tried to eliminate me and the entire Inner Circle of The Society. My primary techno-nerd, Boris, actually Barry, and Natasha were also on the hit list. Because all five of the Monty brothers’ names started with a W, Boris quipped that “the W brothers have declared war on W.” With Boris and Natasha’s help… and the help of her KGB father… I won that war. I gave Barry and Natasha the Bald Knob safehouse and a trust fund to maintain the place and keep them on the payroll. That weird-ass fortress is heaven for a paranoid geek like Barry/Boris and his lovely wife, Natasha.
One of those two new houses here at my lake property is for the captain of my personal bodyguards. He and his family live there. There is a basement play room for the kids which doubles as a heavily-armored safe room… just in case. The other house is actually a multi-bedroom barracks for a squad of eight very well-trained men and women, three of which are always on duty. The Monty brothers aren’t the only people who would like to perhaps act as dance master as I shuffle off this mortal coil. The bodyguards are well-paid, and they know that I have a contract with another special firm run by Sam Two Feathers to help them avoid temptations. That contract pays off in case of my natural death, but goes into force in case any of my security detail betrays me. That triggers a one million dollar payoff to the man who takes out my betrayer or betrayers. All of my detail know the conditions of that contract and have met Sam Two Feathers. They are very familiar with his work and have great respect for him. They don’t show it, of course, but inwardly they are scared shitless of him. If a setup like that sounds paranoid, it’s not. You aren’t paranoid if there are very rich, very powerful people out there trying to get you. And just because you are retired, that doesn’t mean they stop trying.
I was watching the sunset from my back deck when an alarm sounded on my cellphone. It was from my security captain. I answered the phone and a firm, clipped voice said, “Vehicle on access road. No indication of threat. Will advise.” I answered, “Roger,” and set down the phone.
A few minutes later the video system from the main gate came up on the monitor that doubles as a TV out on the deck. A black Mercedes Maybach S 650 armored state limousine had stopped at the gate. That got my attention. Then all of the darkened windows rolled down and two people… the only passengers… got out of the back seat. One was Master Tyrone, Grand Master Emeritus of The Society. The other was Mistress Lacy McGrath, Chief Mistress of the Mansion Club. The chauffeur opened his door and the passenger side door, but didn’t bother to get out of the car. Master Tyrone was beginning to show his age. So was Lacy. I had heard that she had retired as head of the special branch of Homeland Security which dealt with “unique cases,” but was still chief Mistress of the Mansion Club. Master Tyrone was no longer the Chief Master of The Society, but was still on the Inner Circle. Watching them turn slowly around with their hands held up and out from their bodies, I knew that there was something terribly important… or terribly wrong… if both Tyrone and Lacy felt they needed to drive all the way out here to see me.
I triggered a special code on my watch and said, “Occupants cleared. Maintain surveillance on car and driver.” A few moments later I watched as one of my black-clad security people rolled up to the gate on a black Gator ATV. The front hood of the Gator said “Security” in large silver letters. On my phone with special filters there was also a large W emblazoned on the hood that didn’t normally show. That expensive detail, known only to me and the special shop that did the detailing on the Gator, was just in case someone got past my regular security and attempted to approach the house in a fake black Gator. I know that is a really paranoid touch, but bringing a fake Gator through the woods is exactly what I would do if I wanted to infiltrate this compound.
The Gator stopped at the gate and one of my female bodyguards stepped out onto the ground. As trained, she had stopped so that she was shielded from the car itself by the massive stone wall. Then she opened a metal cover and inserted a key into an electronic lock. There are only four of those keys. Two of them are with me in the house. One is with the Captain, and one is on a special hook in the barracks. No one but me… and Boris… knows it, but lifting that key off of its hook signals me on my phone. And when the Captain’s key leaves his house it also signals me. A final touch suggested by Boris is that when the metal cover is lifted that puts a different alarm on my phone. Again, that sounds like paranoid overkill, but there is no way someone can hack my front gate. Drive through it with a large truck or a tank, yes, but open it surreptitiously, no.
I used the intercom to call down to the kitchen. “Two visitors arriving. Most likely one coffee and one tea. Bring them out to the back deck please.”
Martha is a great housekeeper, a marvelous cook, and a former Navy Seal. Her wounds in action forced early retirement but she keeps her skills up. And no, there are no romantic entanglements between her and me… nor between me and her companion, Dolores, who functions as my secretary. They have living quarters off the kitchen with separate entrance, security, wifi, and high-speed internet. They like to use one of the boats to go over to the old hunting cabin on the other side of the lake and go skinny-dipping… among other things.
Martha ushered Master Tyrone and Mistress Lacy out onto the deck. She gestured to the two chairs opposite me at the table and then set down two cups. “Coffee, black,” she said with a smile as she set the cup in front of Master Tyrone, “and tea, lemon but no sugar,” she added as she set the cup in front of Mistress Lacy.
Both said, “Thank you,” and Martha returned to the kitchen area.
“I see you haven’t gotten sloppy or careless in retirement,” Master Tyrone said in his deep, but very crisp voice.
I pointed out at the mountains, “They haven’t retired,” I said firmly. Then I added flatly, “But I have.” I paused for a moment before asking “So, what brings you two not yet retired people out here to see me?”
It was Lacy who answered. “Mistress Ramala has been… captured,” she said with a strange look on her face.
“Captured?” I asked.
“Another one of those damned tribal conflicts,” Master Tyrone said angrily, well as angrily as he ever gets. I could tell from the tension in his body and the way he clipped his words that this disturbed him greatly.
“I’m retired,” I answered in what I hoped was a firm voice.
“She knew something was coming,” Mistress Lacy said softly. “She, her daughters, and the daughters of several very prominent and powerful people took shelter in a cave that only Mistress Ramala knew about.”
“Unfortunately,” Master Tyrone continued, “one of those girls was the daughter of the General who led the coup. She had a tracking beacon on her and triggered it when they started for the cave. Mistress Ramala and all sixteen of those girls are now hostages.
“I’m retired,” I again said. Then I added hopefully, “I really want to keep it that way.”
“Mistress Ramala specifically asked for you,” Mistress Lacy said in an overly-calm voice. “She made a satellite phone call just before the General’s troops arrived at the cave. Her specific words were, “I have been betrayed. Only an unarmed W can help me now.”
“Don’t you say it!” I said sharply to Mistress Lacy. My pointed finger was only inches from her face.
“Mistress Ramala has already said it,” Master Tyrone said in a slow, measured voice. “You are her only hope.”
“Shit!” I said vehemently. Then I added in a much more controlled voice, “I guess I am out of retirement.”
CHAPTER TWO The Worm in the Apple
Usually an operation this complex, involving both The Society and The Mansion Club and who knows how many governments, can take months to set up. But this was high priority and I was actually brought into it late. Most of it was already set up before Master Tyrone and Mistress Lacy came to visit me. Of course, there was also a Plan B ready to be put in place if I refused to participate. On the surface it was a simple plan, providing of course that General Mugumba didn’t kill me at first sight.
The flight over was rather calm. The Land Rover was waiting and ready at the airport and I began the long journey to the General’s headquarters. There were two pre-arranged overnight stops at safe houses. It was near noon on the third day when I arrived at his compound. The General now controlled a good portion of his country. The rallying cry of his revolution had been an abandonment of western influence and a return to true African heritage and culture. That apparently didn’t include western military equipment. His compound was surrounded by M1 Abrams tanks. Behind this first line of defense were at least a half-dozen MIM-104 Patriot systems in case of air attack.
I stopped at the gate and a guard walked up to the Rover. “The General is expecting me,” I said calmly as I handed him my card. They had me get out of the car and after a very thorough and almost intimate pat down instructed me to walk up to the house.
I expected the General to be dressed in a standard uniform with a huge hat and an impressive array of medals and sashes across his chest. He was not. To my surprise, when he came out to meet me, he was bare-chested with a yellow cloth sash across his front that had the emblem of his country embroidered on it. He was wearing very baggy shorts and black sneakers with low socks barely visible on his ankles. The two men and two women walking with him were dressed in loose-fitting, but otherwise standard army uniforms.
“Come in. Come in,” he said in very cordial English. “Let us eat before we talk.”
I smiled and agreed, but inwardly I was very tense. Was this a trap? Or perhaps a test of some sort? Would I even get to talk about the ransom for the hostages?
We sat on cushions along a low table. Several bare-breasted female servants in wraparound loin cloths brought out a meal of roasted meat of some sort. They set two identical plates in the center of the table.
“Pick out which plate you would like,” he said, pointing at the food. “I will eat the other one.” “Or,” he continued, “if you don’t trust me, we can switch plates half-way through the meal.”
“I do not trust you, General,” I said flatly, “but if you wanted me dead, I would be dead already.” I reached out and took one of the plates. The General took the other. The way he looked at me bothered me. It wasn’t the look of a narcissist playing with you, it was more a look of concern… and hope.
One of the servers brought out a long loaf of bread, broke it in half and placed half on each of two plates. This one was totally naked. I at first thought she might be a slave, but the way she moved and the way she smiled at me didn’t seem like the actions of a slave. Then I noticed that she was not totally naked. There was a red, intricately-woven cloth rope tied around her waist.
Once she had placed the bread on the table, I nodded toward the General and said, “The choice is yours.”
He laughed slightly and picked up one of the plates. A soft feminine voice above and slightly behind me asked, “What would you like to drink, Mister W? We have lager, dark ale, fruit juice, and of course, purified water.”
I asked for water and when the General looked at me oddly I said, “I don’t drink on duty or I would have accepted your offer of dark ale.”
We then ate in silence. When both of us were finished eating, the General clapped his hands and said loudly, “Now for a little entertainment.”
A naked young woman was pushed out into the area on the right side of the table. Six rather strong-looking young men– also naked– surrounded her. A large timer was set on the table between me and the General. He made a great show of setting it to five minutes. Then he said, “Begin… Now!”
At the command to begin, the young woman dropped to her knees and began sucking on the cock of one of the young men. She seemed to be working frantically, but the man was just staring off into space. Then, after what seemed like a very long time, she pulled her head off of his cock and let him spurt onto her breasts. His cum looked very white against her almost totally black skin.
She moved to the next man in the circle and repeated her frenzied cock-sucking. Soon she had another load of white cum on her black skin. She tried very hard, but when the timer began ringing there were only five puddles of cum on her breasts.
She was crying softly, “No. No. No. Not again,” as the men pushed her onto her hands and knees, scooped the cum off of her tits and began smearing it between her ass cheeks. The sixth man, who had not yet spurted, began forcing his massive prick into her ass. He moved very slowly because she was not prepared, but after a few moments he slid into her almost dry ass.
I glanced over at the General. He was watching me intently, and his eyes seemed to spend a lot of time looking at my crotch.
A second man in the circle stood in front of the naked woman and held his stiff prick up against her lips. Finally, she opened her mouth and allowed the prick to enter. The two of them spit-fucked her almost violently until they both spurted. They both stood breathing heavily for a few moments and then simultaneously pulled out of her.
Two more men took their places. The young woman groaned, but complied as they too spit-fucked her. This time they were in her cunt and her mouth. When they were finished, the final two of the six took their turn. When they were done and had pulled out of the woman, two rather burly guards came and picked up the woman and walked her out of the room. Her feet were barely touching the ground, but it made no difference, she was barely conscious and barely able to walk.
“What do you think of the entertainment so far?” the General asked with a very false smile. He was watching me intently, almost staring, as he waited for me to answer.
“It is your house,” I answered flatly. I tried to not show my inner anger. It isn’t wise to anger a narcissistic despot.
He answered with what was obviously an artificial laugh and said, “Time for dessert,” and clapped his hands loudly. A bevy of servants rushed in with dishes of fruit. “You must try my apples,” the General said with a smile. “My father planted those trees when I was a small boy. Somehow they have survived the many conflicts which have torn our country apart.”
I hesitated and he quickly took two apples from the bowl. He also grabbed two mangos.
“You pick one and I will eat the other,” he said, gesturing toward the fruit. “There are also two knives and two plates for the mangoes. What you do not choose, I will use.”
I chuckled slightly, took one of the apples, set one mango on a plate and then selected a knife.
“You find this amusing?” he asked, looking somewhat hurt or perturbed.
“I’m only thinking about the fact that your attempts to make me feel safe with the food are so unnecessary,” I replied. “If you wanted to poison me you could do it in so many different ways, including using a poison for which you have already taken the antidote.”
“I may have underestimated you,” the General said flatly. Then he brightened and said, “Let us have more entertainment as we eat.”
Three platforms were pushed out into the center of the room. On each platform was a T-shaped post and on each post a white man was bound with his hands in restraints that were attached to the ends to the T. Their legs were spread wide and secured at almost the same width as their hands. Their pasty skin looked extremely white in this context.
“What do you think?” the General asked as he munched on an apple. “Tawse, wood, or leather?”
“It is the General’s choice,” I answered flatly.
“Then one of each,” he said with a smile and clapped his hands loudly. He said something in a language I did not understand and three very large, very black men in wraparound loin cloths walked in. One was carrying a long, thin piece of leather that was split in two at the ends almost like a snake’s tongue. The second was carrying a thin wooden paddle about two inches wide. The third was carrying a shiny, black leather paddle about three inches wide and perhaps a foot long.
The three black men positioned themselves behind the three bound whites and stood with their hands to their sides. “One!” shouted the General and all three men sprang into action. They each brought their instrument of pain back in a wide arc and then slammed it into the bound man’s ass. The three instruments landed almost simultaneously, but I could tell from the “Crack! Snap! Thwack!” that the tawse had hit first, followed by the wooden paddle, and finally the leather paddle. A bright pink welt appeared on each man’s ass. It was very obvious from the shape of the welt which instrument was used.
“Move!” the General ordered and the three men stepped to their right with the one on the end walking around in front of the bound men to now take up the first position. Once they were in place the General yelled out, “Two!” The sounds were the same, “Crack! Snap! Thwack!” and I began wondering if it was a matter of the men’s reaction times or perhaps the resistance of the paddle moving through the air.
The General again yelled, “Move!” and the men again rotated to their right. At the cry of “Three!” they again slammed their instrument of pain into the bound mens’ asses. I watched impassively as the count slowly moved upward to “Six!” The three men’s asses were now an equal shade and shape of red and purple.
After the men with the paddles had finished the sixth stroke, the General got up from his cushion and stood directly across the table from me. He placed four small pieces of stiff paper on the table. At first glance, one might think that these were four of my calling cards, but I knew that three of them were fakes. One wasn’t the right azure blue. One didn’t have the proper embossed border. One had the W printed in dark blue rather than black. And the fourth one was mine, the one I had handed the guard when I got to the General’s compound.
“So,” I said flatly, trying to keep any fear, anger, or anything else out of my voice.
The General clapped his hands rather softly and one of the serving women carried out a tray and held it next to the General. He carefully arranged nine guns on the table in front of me. The top row started with a Glock 21. Next to it were two Glock 42's. The row beneath had the same weapons as did the third row.
He smiled at me and reached back for something on the tray. He then lay three pens on the table. They were each slightly different, but all three of them had a cork impaled with a needle on their ends like a cap.
“Do you know who these three men are?” he asked, pointing to the three bound white men.
“No idea,” I answered flatly.
“They are you,” he said. He drew out the end of “you”, making it more like “youuuuu”.
“Interesting,” I answered, trying not to show my inquisitiveness.
The General’s face and demeanor suddenly changed as he said, almost politely, “Here, let me take that plate. My servant will take it back to the kitchen.”
As he started to hand the plate to one of the servants he suddenly stopped. “Where is your apple core, Mister W?” he said slowly. He looked genuinely surprised because all that was on the plate was the rind of the mango, the knife I used to cut it, and the small stem of the apple.
I laughed slightly. Then I said, “An apple only has a core if you want it to have one. I grew up poor. We ate the whole apple… except the stem.”
The General’s eyes were now very wide. He clapped his hands and said, “Leave us.” Then he turned to the three men who had swung the paddles and said almost vehemently, “And take those vermin with you.”
Turning back to me he said in a very pleasant voice, “Come, let us walk together.”
We went out a side door and down a path leading to an area rather heavily overgrown with what I grew up calling jungle plants.
“We are safe here,” he said. Then he added, “…as long as we speak softly and face the jungle as we speak.”
He turned me slightly so we were standing shoulder to shoulder with our backs to the main house. “Did you know that satellite phones can be intercepted?” he said softly. I nodded my head “yes”. “That young woman you saw at dinner,” he continued. “That was my oldest daughter’s maid servant. She is the one who put a tracker on my daughter and betrayed me.”
“So,” I said, carefully choosing my words, “you don’t have Mistress Ramala and the girls?”
“No!” he answered angrily, “and I’m not the leader of a revolt. My movement was intended to be peaceful. I wanted people to embrace some of our basic African ways and heritage. The supposed revolution was all a scam to get military and other aid from the United States. President Massaibra staged things to look like it was an armed revolt.”
He laughed and looked over at me before returning his gaze to the jungle and saying, “To his surprise, many people joined the movement before he could squash us. So he decided he had to control us in some fashion.”
“And he came up with this plan to kidnap your daughter and the daughters of your important followers,” I said flatly.
He turned to look at me and I held up my hand and pointed out into the overgrowth. General… or should that be Professor Mugumba spoke softly, but the bitterness in his voice was very evident. “President Massaibra played the tape of Ramala’s satellite call for me. He said that imposters would come trying to act as an intermediary so they could steal the ransom.” He looked down like he wanted to spit on the ground but then said angrily, “You saw them. They are worse than Massaibra.”
“How did you know I was real?” I asked.
“To begin with,” he explained, “your calling card was real… or at least a very accurate copy. Mistress Ramala gave me one of your cards many months ago and told me to hold onto it because I would need it in the future.” He glanced at me before continuing, “Then,” he said softly, “you did not respond sexually when my daughter’s handmaid was punished.” He held up his hand like he was making an important point in a speech and said, “And you treated my servers with respect. Even the virgin who served the bread.”
“I may have just been a very well-prepared, polite imposter,” I said softly.
He laughed and then replied, “Mistress Ramala’s prophecies are very accurate… if you can ever figure out what in the hell she is saying. She once told me that my daughter’s savior would arrive unarmed and eating an apple like an African.”
He paused to look at me and then looked back out at the jungle. “I had no idea what in the hell she meant. Then you came unarmed. You could have just been mimicking her phone call in some fashion. But then you ate the whole apple.”
He laughed. “That is one of the Western ways that have changed Africa. You Westerners taught us that apples have a core that civilized people throw away. My father always ate the whole apple. I didn’t realize what Mistress Ramala meant until I saw the apple stem on the plate.”
I waited a moment and then said flatly, “How much is Massaibra asking in ransom?”
“Two million for each child,” he said, barely keeping himself from crying. Then his face lost all expression as he said, “There is no ransom for Ramala. He plans to kill her once he gets the money.”
“I need to contact some people,” I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. “I have an encrypted satellite phone hidden in the Rover. Tell your President that I will be bringing the ransom but that it will take a few days to get it here from all the other leaders.”
“He told us to be ready for when the real W finally arrived,” Mugumba said. He seemed to be very agitated. I probably would be too if someone like President Massaibra had captured my children.
“Then tell him,” I said as calmly as I could, “that you are converting the money into diamonds so that it will be totally untraceable. He will go for that.” I paused and then said, “Besides, I think he has seen the writing on the wall and knows it is time for him to retire to some safer place.”
Professor Mugumba was very crestfallen as he said, “He has already said that there can be no delays or he will kill the hostages.”
I just nodded and said, “OK.”
CHAPTER THREE Diamonds from the Sky
My conversation with Master Tyrone was relatively short. After a bit of mumbo-jumbo to establish that both of us were talking to the right people and neither of us were under duress I said, “Mugumba is an unwilling puppet. Massaibra is pulling the strings. It was a ploy to con military and other aid out of the Western powers but the people joined the revolution and now Mugumba is on the verge of taking over the country.”
There was a short silence as Master Tyrone digested what I had just told him. Then he said, “Same plan, different target, three days.”
I like a man of few words. I replied “Acknowledged,” and began taking the phone apart to put it back in its concealment.
Master Tyrone must have known that it would take me three days of hard driving to reach the capital city. I wish he had known what it felt like to try to make speed on roads that are more rut than road. There wasn’t time to arrange safe houses to spend the night, but that wasn’t needed. I did my old drive three sleep one pattern. Hopefully stopping for just an hour on this god-forsaken road was safe enough. It was probably safer than my slow drive through the darkness at night.
The Range Rover was covered in dust, mud, and animal waste by the time I reached the President’s palace. Normally I would have stopped to wash it off and make a better presentation, but the dirt and smell reflected my opinion of this pint-sized pumba.
The guards were not impressed. As soon as I arrived they told me to come back when my vehicle was clean. I told them that I had driven three days to meet with His Excellency and he wasn’t going to ride in my car anyway.
That got their attention. One of the guards, evidently an officer of some sort, approached the open window and asked, “Are you W?”
He didn’t quite pronounce W properly by English standards, but I firmly answered, “Yes, I am Mister W.”
“Ah,” he said. “His Excellency is expecting you.”
I got out of the car and was led through the compound to the edge of the palace building itself. There I was led into a small room and told to take off my jacket, my shirt, my shoes, and my pants. I waited while one of the guards carefully went through those items. Now I was the one with pasty white skin in a sea of black.
After a few minutes, they came back over to me and patted me down. They were sloppy. I could have been carrying a grenade launcher in my underwear and they wouldn’t have found it. Luckily for them I was carrying no weapons.
I was allowed to dress and they led me into the palace. I was actually impressed that except for the large compound and guard houses, the building itself wasn’t really all that ostentatious. I was led to a small room and told that dinner would be at sundown. In this area of the world, that would be between six and seven.
At six on the dot… or perhaps I should say on the bell because there was a large clock somewhere which was sounding the hour, I was led to a large, open area in the center of the palace. I felt my entire body tighten as I entered the atrium. Around the walls, arms held above their heads by ropes trailing from the roof, were seventeen naked women. I immediately recognized Mistress Ramala. She was in the center of the wall directly opposite from where I entered. Glancing to the side showed that each of the other three walls each held four young women, two on each side of a door in the center. There was no doubt that these were the sixteen daughters whom Massaibra held hostage.
“Come, sit, eat with me,” a voice said loudly. The President was standing there with a big false smile on his face. He was wearing a Western-style military uniform heavily weighed down with rows of brass, silver, and gold medals of one sort or another. There was an obscenely oversized hat with a polished black brim which stuck out like a sunshade over his face. There was also a yellow sash across his chest. A large, golden crest of the country was pinned to the center of that sash.
“Please, be seated,” he said. He sounded very friendly, but somehow his words echoed as hollow in my mind.
There was a large, square table in the very center of the atrium. As it had been at Professor Mugumba’s the table was low to the ground and seating was on cushions which surrounded the table.
He smiled at me again and gestured to the women hanging from the wall around him. “I believe you Westerners call this a human shield.” His smile became even wider and even more false as he sat down and said, “It is actually very effective. Your friends cannot attack me without killing them.” He laughed and said, “And they are what you came to save, are they not?”
I said nothing, but took my place at the table on the cushion directly across from him.
“I assure you,” he said gesturing again to the walls, “that none of these young women have been harmed in any way.” He paused and put his hands together before adding, “That would be bad for business.”
“This young lady however,” he said gesturing towards the doorway, “is a little different. Her father refused to pay the ransom.” His smile… and his face… became almost snake-like as he said gleefully, “So I am going to show you what I will do to those who don’t pay.”
In the doorway, a young woman was struggling weakly with two large guards.
He clapped his hands loudly and two rather burly men in loose-fitting black pants and no shirts pushed a small platform into the room. There was a Sybian female masturbation machine on the platform. It was set up with two dildos for both vaginal and anal penetration. They set it on the opposite side of the table from where the woman was held. It was on my left… the President’s right… and was directly in front of Mistress Ramala.
He clapped his hands again and the guards walked… almost carried… the young woman across the room to the platform. “I believe this is one of your machines, Mister W.” Massaibra said pleasantly, “I have contacts in the West that can obtain anything I want or need.”
I didn’t think this was the time to correct him, so I remained silent.
He barked out something in a language I didn’t understand and the young woman slumped her shoulders and stepped up onto the platform. She straddled the machine, then knelt and lowered herself down so that her cunt just touched the large dildo. It took her a moment to get the large pink plastic prick to enter her. Then she began squirming in small circles as she tried to get the anal dildo to enter. Massaibra barked out another command and she suddenly forced herself fully down onto the machine. The guards used leather straps to secure her firmly in place.
One of the bodyguards approached him and handed him a remote control. He looked up at the wall behind me. I didn’t turn around, but I also looked up and on each of the three walls visible to me I could see there was a camera dome in the center and at each corner. From the size of the dark globe it was obvious that there could be a rather large camera lens in use in each of them.
He spoke in English, which surprised me. “You wouldn’t pay,” he practically yelled up at the camera. “So every day until you pay, your daughter will be tortured on this machine.” He huffed and then said, “If you continue not to pay, she will be well-trained for whatever whore house I sell her to.”
He then twisted both knobs on the Sybian controller to full. The girl gave a great groan as she took in a large breath. Then she began panting and groaning, “No, no, no, no, no.”
I tried to remain impassive even though I really wanted to shoot this bastard. Perhaps it was a good thing that I hadn’t brought any weapons.
President Massaibra continued silently smiling at the young woman until she suddenly threw her head back and groaned in orgasm. “One,” he said quietly.
The young woman writhed and pulled against the straps which held her firmly on the Sybian as she experienced orgasm after orgasm. When Massaibra said “Nine,” he shut off the machine. The young woman slumped unconscious on her tormentor.
“It has been nine days since you refused to pay the ransom,” he said firmly. “If your daughter survives to the end of the month, she will be sold into the worst whorehouse I can find.” He laughed, “Or perhaps I will just turn her over to my men.” He laughed once again and then made a cut gesture to a man sitting in the corner of the room behind me. Evidently that was his camera operator.
He composed himself, looked directly at me, and said slowly, “You see, Mister W, that not paying the ransom is not an option. Unless you want all of these precious young women to suffer the same fate as you just witnessed you WILL pay the ransom.”
I said nothing. Then he clapped his hands and said, “It is time to eat.”
The servants brought in a simple meal of some sort of meat, a vegetable I couldn’t identify, and a small bowl of soup. A cup of dark ale was also set next to my plate.
“I assure you none of this is poisoned, Mister W,” he said with his constant smile. “It would not be in my best interest to kill you.”
“And I,” I said smiling, “have no means of killing you.”
He laughed very loudly and said, “Then we understand each other.”
We ate in silence. I had expected music or something, but then I heard the soft moaning of the hostages. The ropes which bound their arms were slowly tightening, pulling them up and stretching their arms even wider so that they were now standing on tiptoe. It wasn’t fast enough to be seen, but it was obvious that the ropes were tighter than when I first entered the room. Their legs did not seem to be spread further, but their ankles were not bound to the wall. They were tied to spreader bars. That was usually done if you were planning to pull someone off of the ground.
I looked for a mechanism but could see nothing. Then I realized that it was not rope that was holding their arms so taut. It was woven rawhide of some sort. It must have been wetted and then stretched so that it would shrink as it dried. Hopefully the leather wrapped around their wrists and ankles was not also rawhide or they could lose circulation.
“Do you like the music?” the General asked, motioning toward the hostages. I said nothing but continued sipping my ale. This was one sadistic bastard.
“Let’s add a symphony,” he said, smiling wider than he had before, and several naked women were suddenly pushed into the open atrium. There were four native Africans and three whites. All bodily hair had been removed from them. It took me a moment to realize that one of the white women was, in fact, a man. He had no breasts, but his genitals were extremely small, almost atrophied.
Massaibra barked out some sort of command and the naked women dropped to the ground on their hands and knees. Behind each of them stood a large naked black man. The men’s pricks were standing very erect. He barked out another command and each man knelt behind one of the women… and the man. At another command the well-hung men drove their stiff pricks into the asshole presented in front of them.
The room was now filled with screams of pain as the men began pumping furiously. After several minutes the screams morphed into groans of pleasure. By the time the men spurted into their bowels the women… and the man… were groaning in climax themselves.
Massaibra stared directly at me and said very firmly, “Do you see what I have done?” He smiled broadly and gestured toward the naked display. “I have broken them so much,” he continued, “that they get pleasure out of pain. Are you planning some form of doublecross. Mister W? If so, you will be in the orchestra for my next formal dinner. I think now would be a good time to put the diamonds on the table.”
I had no doubt that he was totally capable of such cruelty. I pressed a button on my watch as I stood up. I really hoped that I had my compass directions correct and I was sitting on the east side of the table.
“I will now give you the payment you deserve, Your Excellency,” I said as I stood up. I pulled a bag from my pocket and began pouring its contents on the table.
“What is this?” he screamed in anger.
I replied calmly, “I am making a circle of sand to contain the diamonds. You wouldn’t want any to tumble off of the table.”
“Put the diamonds on the table,” he snarled. Then he angrily screamed, “Now!”
“As you wish,” I said as I stepped back slightly from the table. I hoped that I… or to be exact, my watch… was exactly four feet from the center of the table.
There was a loud whistling noise followed by a very loud “Thunk!!!” as a small rocket of some sort slammed into the center of the ring of sand I had drawn on the table. Everyone… except me… pulled back and ducked expecting an explosion, but there was none.
Instead of an explosion, there was a loud “Pop,” and a compartment that was still just above the table opened and a shower of diamonds spilled out onto the tabletop.
“There are your diamonds,” I said firmly. It was impossible to keep my anger from showing in my voice.
There was another loud “Pop,” and a compartment closer to the tail of the rocket opened spilling a sheaf of documents onto the table.
“If you look at those pictures, Your Excellency,” I said in a measured pace, “you will see images of your room here in the palace. There are also images of your car, your mistress, your hideaway in the jungle, and your underground bunkers here and in three other places.”
He looked at me with extreme hatred in his eyes, but remained silent.
“Take your diamonds,” I said. “That is five times what you were demanding. That is to show that the people you have angered have almost unlimited riches. If you look closely at the pictures, you will see that they are sighting images from various precision rocket systems. That is to show that the people you have angered have almost unlimited power.”
I walked over and cut the rawhide strips which were holding Mistress Ramala. I handed her the knife and walked back over to the table.
“Take your diamonds,” I said firmly. “Go to some place that will take you. Live a life of ease. We will not pursue you. Professor Mugumba is a man of peace. He will move forward and let you fade into the past.”
I paused and then said angrily, “Leave tonight… or die.”
I turned to watch as Mistress Ramala walked along the wall freeing the young women under her protection. When I turned back to the table, President Massaibra… and the diamonds… were gone.
“Would they really have bombed the palace?” Mistress Ramala asked as she came back and stood next to me.
“You can only poke the bear so many times,” I answered flatly.
“Even if that bear thinks he is retired,” she said with a smile. Then her face became almost blank as she said in a really strange voice, “A bear is a bear is a bear… and sometimes the bear has to growl and roar or even strike. The bear will come out of its den many times before it finally hibernates forever.”
She stood silent for a moment then she shook her head slightly and the smile returned to her face. She looked into my eyes and said, “Unlike some others, I remember what the voice says.” She bent forward and kissed me on the cheek and said, “May the bear find rest between times of need.”
I replied, “I’m retired.”
I really didn’t like the way she laughed and smiled at me.
EPILOGUE
Professor Mugumba’s forces took the capital… and palace… with no resistance. At his inauguration as President he stood on the dias barefoot in a wraparound loincloth patterned like leopard skin. Maybe it was real leopard skin. Mistress Ramala stood at his side bare-breasted wearing a black cloth wraparound loincloth. She was his chief deputy. After he took an oath of office, a yellow sash was draped over his head. In the center of the sash was the golden emblem of the country.
He began his address by saying that he was a temporary leader. A committee of very learned men and women were writing a new document of governance for the country. He would serve only until that was finished and a new form of government was implemented. Then a Prime Minister would take his place. I wish the best for him and his country.