Villain's Prologue
Okay, I'm thinking to myself, ... maybe this part was a mistake.
But, I had to make sure she was gonna be there today. There's no use in exposing a perfectly beautiful plan, if the target is going to be taking one of her sick days.
She's there, all right. All fresh, and crisp, and classy, like always. I watch her rise from her desk, and step lively around the lobby, talking to her colleagues. Then, she turns on her perky little heels with that white dress wisking around trim, shapely legs. She's all businesslike, and all 'professional', but, ... she kinda makes a fella wonder about just how long those legs really are up under that white dress.
She's a looker. She's got great eyes, and a fabulous figure. And, she's even easy to talk to. If it weren't for the fact that she's standing between a half-a-million dollars, and me I'd even ask her out, after this is all over.
But, I'm guessing, she'd probably say no.
Ah, well, ... now, she's seen me. But, what the hell, ... the plan's in place. Me 'n' the boys pretty much got it all wired. Not much she can do about any of it, even if she does recognize me. Besides, she won't even know anything's amiss until lunch time.
There, she's going on about her business again. I pull my fedora down over my eyes. I set about focusing on my own business, too.
I head off down the street, out of sight of the Miller Bank Building's main doors. I flip open my cell-phone, and dial a number from a scrap of paper in my vest pocket:
"Harris, ... she's here. We're on."
"Problem, Chief," Harris said. "Gotta technical glitch with Chano's electronic voice scrambler. It's not working."
That's not much of a problem, I figure. Chano's not supposed to speak, anyway. It's probably best that he have as little verbal contact with our prospective hostage as possible, knowing how he is. Fact is, he likes pretty girls too much, which plays into my plan.
"What about all the other equipment?" I ask.
"The A/V works fine, comp links are up and running ... hey, wait, Chano wants to talk. Here, ..."
Chano's accented English crackles through the earpiece: "Hey, what's up, School?"
I grimace, and sigh. I'm beginning to hate that "School" stuff from him. Like a lot of young punks, they refer to anyone with an ounce of gray in his hair as "Old School", or "School" for short. Makes it sound like I'm old and infirm.
The truth is, I still sling some mean iron at the gym, and still run a dozen miles every week. I'm still built like the point guard that I once was, thirty years ago, and I can hold my own on the court -- and anywhere else, for that matter -- against any of these steroid-heads that hang out at the gym, these days.
I swallow that "School" stuff, only because I realize it is supposed to be an address of respect. Because mothers don't teach their children to say, "Sir", anymore.
I compose myself: "Chano, you're not even supposed to be around her very much until I say so. Just don't say anything, when we're at the staging area."
"Staging area? Oh, you mean the warehouse, yeah, right."
It is at this moment that I make the decision: Chano will not be saying anything. He's gonna screw it up, I can feel it.
Bless him, Chano has his uses: At 6'3", and 210 lbs., he cuts an extremely intimidating figure. He can get physical, when he needs to, and he's pretty good at it. And, I have to concede this much: It was his baby-faced, smoldering Latin good looks, that got him next to that intern at the bank, which gave me this idea, in the first place.
But, Chano's not the sharpest pencil in the box. Thinking on his feet is ... a liability. If I could replace him altogether, I would, but we're too far down the road for that.
Harris is my tech-expert and I am relying on him to make everything work.
Like most tech experts, Harris looks the part: Thin, slightly built, average height, thick glasses. Not a bad looking dude, but he's no GQ poster boy, either. If I were to say he looked like anybody, I'd say it was a grown-up Harry Potter. Then, I chuckle -- his favorite color is brown. How in character is that?
But, what Harris brings behind those thick lenses, and large brown eyes, and shock of tousled brown hair is the ability to improvise, and to think quickly, like an engineer.
He also brings a fat helping of good old-fashioned greed.
I smile to myself, "Greed is good." Harris won't screw it up.
With that small adjustment in mind, I know we're ready to go. Ready to get rich.
I step around the corner and stride through the alley beside the Miller building. I hop into a rented blue Chevy and fire the ignition. I creep out into the morning rush-hour traffic, just as it begins to die down.
The clock on the dashboard says, "9:25 AM". In a little less than three hours, we begin.
Six hours after that, I should be winging my way to a nice, comfortable Costa Rican retirement.
**********
It was one of those fabulous late summer mornings when every breath that you take lets you know that you are alive.
I wake up without the alarm clock feeling quite frisky from the residue of a very kinky little dream that I had had just before opening my eyes.
I slip into the shower and train the nozzle on that special place between my legs luxuriating in the sensual stimulation of the water vibrating off my very sensitive and enlarged female nub.
The memory of my dream where I was bound and helpless to a captor's whims and fancies brings me quickly to orgasm as my body shimmies to its own private sexual music.
As I dry off, I still can feel the energy of desire coursing through my body and wonder what kind of a day is in store for me.
It sure started out with a nice bang I think to myself and smile.
I slip on a pair of teeny light blue nylon panties that hug me everywhere that they should.
I love how they feel to wear under my clothes as they give me, simply by their fit, a constant reminder of sexy.
I apply my make up in the bathroom mirror, comb my hair, and decide what else to wear on such a fabulous day.
