Caught In The Crosshairs Ch 01

The young woman in the black thong bikini did not know that she was under close observation, that as she walked across the deck to the chaise lounge her beautiful face was centered in the crosshairs of a powerful telescopic sight. She set down a white canvas bag and released the clasp that held the shiny black cups of her bikini top. Her firm breasts sprang free, and then she slipped the flossy thong over her hips. The young woman showed no embarrassment at her nudity, and her body was so extraordinary that her lack of modesty was perfectly understandable.

She drizzled lotion over her arms and legs, and when she finished with them her slippery hands glided over her sculpted abdomen. She took her time oiling her breasts, her fingers circling the pale nipples over and over and over. She set the bottle down, spread her long legs, and lazily played with herself, running her fingers in and out of the soft folds of her clean-shaven pussy. When she had enough she put on sunglasses and lay back, totally at peace, ready to enjoy another morning of sun worship.

The hit man patiently moved the crosshairs over her glistening body, from her eyes to her lips, then down to her nipples, and then slowly, slowly, he adjusted his aim until the rifle was centered on her crotch. The hit man wore a small headset, and he pressed the speed dial key on the stolen cell phone he wore on his hip. Five seconds later a nervous voice spoke in his ear. "Yes?"

"She's outside," the hit man murmured. "Do I proceed?"

"Wait...wait." The crosshairs refocused on the target's forehead as the man on the other line struggled with his decision. "Are you sure you won't miss?"

"I won't miss."

"She won't suffer?"

"Not unless you want her to."

There was a long pause. "I...I can't decide." And then the man on the other line screamed so violently the hit man flinched a quarter-inch. "Why can't I do this!" He started crying. "Back off, just...back off. I need to think about this."

"This is the third time," the hit man said. "That's an additional five thousand you'll owe me. And you said that she visits her masseuse on Thursdays. I won't get another chance until Friday. That's another five thousand."

"I don't care about the fucking money," the man said, music to the hit man's ears. "Back off, we'll talk tomorrow."

The hit man ended the call. He did not immediately retreat from his hiding place. The woman might sense movement on the hill that loomed over her palatial estate, six acres of exquisitely manicured grounds that included a ten-thousand square-foot house, an eight-car garage, two tennis courts, and the pool where she spent much of her time.

For the last two days the hit man watched the young woman work on her suntan and waited for the order to kill her with a rifle bullet through the head. The first day the target wore a bright yellow bikini, the second day she wore a neon green suit, and both days she stripped nude before she tanned.

She was one of the most beautiful women the hit man had ever seen. Her hair was golden blonde, parted in the middle, and she wore it long and razor-straight, her silky tresses reaching the cleft of her buttocks. Her breasts were deliciously full and ripe, her legs and arms firm and well-muscled. Through his scope the hit man admired the delicate bones of her face, bones that would shatter and splinter when the copper-jacketed bullet smashed into it, if her husband found his courage and gave him the order to eliminate her.

The hit man mentally reviewed the brief dossier his client gave about the target. Her name was Jenna, she was 25 years old, and when she met her wealthy husband five years earlier she was selling speedboats at a trade show. Jenna was the bathing beauty lounging on the deck of a sleek, sexy boat that cost half a million dollars. "I went up to her and asked her if she came with the boat, that old line," his client told him when they met for the first time, the two of them tucked away in a booth of a noisy restaurant. "I told her I was serious, if she'd join me for the maiden voyage I'd buy it right then." His client made a noise that passed for a laugh.

"That's a nice story," the hit man said patiently.

"We got married six months later. Probably she was fucking other guys already, but I don't know for sure. What I do know is that she's been fucking around while I'm away on business, and..."

The hit man held up a hand. "I don't care why you want to kill her. Maybe she's cheating on you, maybe she's not. Makes no difference to me. If you pay my fee, I'll do the job."

The client nodded. "Of course, of course, I just wanted you to know that I'm not doing this for no reason."

"Reason has nothing to do with it. If you want her dead, I'll kill her."

The client swallowed. "How much?"

"Two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars. Half up front, half on completion."

"Deal," the client said, so quickly that the hit man wished he'd doubled the price. "How will you do it?"

The hit man mused a bit. "I understand you've had trouble with your business partners in the former Soviet Union."

The client turned white. "Where did you hear that?"

The hit man shrugged. "I move in certain circles, I hear things. Is it true?"

"Well, nothing serious, but..."

"But you haven't been back to Kazakhstan in eight months, and you won't be going back until the police arrest a certain Mafioso who put a bounty on you."

The client swallowed. "Yes."

"That makes it simple. I'll shoot her with a sniper rifle, make it look like a contract hit. All you need to do is convince the cops that the contract was put out by Mr. Ismailov, not yourself."

The client winced at the sound of that man's name. "I think that'll work. But the house is guarded by a sophisticated security system. If anyone triggers the alarm armed guards from the security service come running. They can be there in less than ten minutes."

"There are no guards on the grounds?"

"No, my wife wouldn't have it. They'd cramp her style, wouldn't they? She couldn't fuck every guy she meets if there are guards around."

"When can I get at her?"

The client thought a bit. "In the morning she lays out by the pool by herself. You could hide up on the hill behind the pool, there are trees right around the edge of the property, but from near the top you could probably get a clear shot. The security perimeter only extends about a hundred yards up the hill. Could you hit her from that far away?"

"Of course."

"Then that's the way to do it. She's usually out by the pool by eleven. Get up there around ten, wait for her, and shoot her."

And that's what would have happened, had the client not called him off the last three days. For some reason the client insisted that he give a final confirmation just before the killing shot was fired, and hit man reluctantly acquiesced. Each time he asked for permission to kill the beautiful woman he'd been denied. That concerned the hit man, because he wouldn't get the remaining $125K until he completed the contract, but the client was paying him five thousand dollars for each day until the contract was fulfilled, and the hit man never passed up easy money.

With nothing to do but wait until she went inside the hit man allowed himself the pleasure of watching her body brown in the sun. A pity, destroying such a beautiful creature, but pity wasn't high in the hierarchy of the hit man's emotions. Nor was lust, but that didn't stop the telescopic sight from roaming over her magnificent body.

Something startled the woman, her breasts wobbled as she sat up, her legs straddling the chaise lounge. She reached into her bag and pulled out a cell phone, and the hit man watched her speak for about fifteen seconds. He was too far away to read her lips, but he could tell that she was excited about something. When she hung up she tossed the cell phone in the bag and thrust her hand into her groin, diddling herself with enthusiasm.

The hit man was patient, patience was an absolute necessity in his chosen field, and he alternated between looking through the scope and scanning the grounds with his naked eyes. He was curious as to what the phone call was about, and ten minutes later he had his answer. There was movement in the house, the tall glass window that led to the pool deck eased open along its tracks. The hit man moved the telescopic sight until the crosshairs centered on the face of a man in his early twenties, an extremely handsome man with a deep tan and wavy black hair that hung to his shoulders. He wore a white T-shirt that showed off his bulging biceps and massive pectorals.

The hit man leaned back from the scope and watched his client's wife walk over to her guest, stand up on tiptoes, and wrap her arms around his neck. From the size disparity the hit man guessed that the dark-haired man was about six-foot-four and weighed about two hundred and thirty pounds. He cupped the woman's tiny ass with one massive hand and pulled her naked pelvis against his groin. He helped the beautiful blonde pull his shirt over his head, and the hit man could see that a number of tattoos adorned his pumped-up body.

The bodybuilder kissed the woman on the lips, and hefted one of her weighty breasts. The woman's own hands were busy with the zipper of his black shorts, which she quickly yanked down to his ankles. She slowly slid down the length of his body, and from the bobbing motion of her head the hit man knew that she was performing fellatio.

The hit man pressed the call button on his cell phone. "What?" came the irritated voice of his client.

"Your wife has a guest."

"What?"

"Do you know anyone about six-four, long black hair, built like a bull?"

There was a pause. "Why?" the client's voice was hoarse.

"Because your wife is giving him a blowjob."

"What? She's doing...she's...she's doing WHAT?"

While the client screamed and sputtered the hit man watched his wife give her lover head. Her blonde hair formed a soft canopy around his groin, and after a few seconds more her oral loving sapped his strength to the point where he had to sit down on the grass. He spread his legs wide and the client's wife pushed her long hair away from her face, exposing what was to the hit man's amused eyes the biggest penis he'd ever seen.

The client said, "Wait, does he have tattoos? Lots and lots of tattoos?"

"Yes."

"The one on his arm, is it a drawing of the sun, with big rays extending out?"

"Yes."

"Jesus Christ," the client screamed. "He's our gardener's assistant. She's fucking some piece of shit who waters my lawn!" The client ranted a bit more before he sobbed, "Why would she want to fuck him?"

"Maybe because his cock is over ten inches long," the hit man ventured.

"What...what did you say?"

"He's hung like a gorilla. I'm surprised she can take all of him in her mouth."

The client went berserk and the hit man let him. He watched through the scope as the beautiful young woman loved the enormous phallus with her lips, tongue, and mouth. Her muscular lover writhed under her tender attentions, he spread his arms wide and thrust his hips desperately, and the client's wife wrapped both her hands around the prodigious length of the man's penis and pumped him furiously while the fat helmet remained trapped in the warm, wet confines of her mouth. The hit man could not hear the two lovers, but he could tell by the man's spasmodic thrashing that he was coming, and after just a few minutes of this beautiful woman's cocksucking. She must be very good, the hit man thought. Very, very good.

"What's going on now?" the client cried.

"He just came in her mouth." The hit man could not actually see if that was true, but he assumed it was so, and he wanted to goad his client, he wanted his client in such a towering rage that he would finally give the order to kill the beautiful woman laboring on the grass by the pool.

But when the client shouted, "Kill them! Kill them both right now!", the hit man calmly replied, "I can't."

"Why not! Is it the money? I'll give you a quarter-million to kill him too! Do it."

The hit man smiled with satisfaction. "If I kill them now suspicion will immediately fall on you," he explained. "If the police find the two of them lying dead together, no one will believe it was a professional hit. You will be hounded by the police, there will be a massive investigation into your business, and eventually you will be charged with capital murder. I know you don't want that."

"No...no," the client said sullenly. And then, his voice brimming with pain, he asked, "What are they doing now?"

The hit man reported what he saw, that the man was lying down on the chaise lounge and his wife was straddling his semi-hard prick. She stroked him slowly, rubbing the sticky head between her legs, until he was hard enough to insert in the moist lips of her pussy. The enormous organ disappeared inside her vagina and it was almost like a magic trick, it seemed impossible that she could accept such a huge object into her body. But she did, she lowered her hips until every inch of his thick cock was buried deep in her pussy.

The hit man described to the client how his wife slid up and down the endless length of her lover's cock, how the tattooed stud kneaded his wife's pillowy breasts as she rode him like a whore. She threw her head back and that golden mane of blonde hair spilled down her back to caress his bulbous testicles. She put her hands on his chiseled abdomen and screwed her lover with more and more speed, until her hips were a blur in the telescopic sight. The hit man moved the crosshairs and saw the man's sexy features twist in a rigor of ecstasy.

She lifted her hips, breaking their connection, and finished him with her hands. Again he thrashed about as he climaxed, his powerful thrusts so violent they nearly threw the woman off the chaise lounge. But she held on to his spurting prick, stroking him even as he bucked like an animal caught in a trap.

"They're finished," the hit man said. "For now, at least."

"When he leaves, kill her," the client said dully. "You can deal with that bastard later."

"No. The police might get to him before I did, and his semen would be all over her. We'd have the same problem as we would if I shot them now."

"I don't fucking care! I'll give you a million dollars! Kill them both!"

"A million dollars won't help me if you are arrested and confess that you hired me. I'd have to spend all the money trying to elude the authorities."

"I'd never tell them about you."

"Yes, you would. Now be patient, and let me do the job you hired me for. I'll send you a package tonight, so go to the mail drop tomorrow and throw away the phone you're using now." The hit man's voice turned soothing. "The next time I have the chance, let me do what you hired me for. You know what kind of woman she is, right?"

"Yes," the client whispered.

"On Friday give me the word, and I'll take care of your problem."

"OK, Friday. Thank you, thank you...Friday..."

The hit man hung up, and returned his attention to the target. She was kneeling in front of the man, kneading the now-limp penis. It refused to thicken under her caresses, and when he moved the crosshairs to the man he saw anger in the face. He shouted at the blonde woman who had just brought him to orgasm twice in fifteen minutes, and the hit man could guess at what they were arguing about. "You brought the heavy artillery, but you forgot extra ammunition," he chuckled.

The argument grew heated. She slowly rose to her feet, letting the flaccid dong flop on his stomach. She must have said something especially venomous, because the man sprang to his feet and began screaming at the woman, with such volume that his voice actually carried faintly to the hit man's position. He could not make out the words, but the anger was unmistakable. The man reached down between his legs and hefted his inert meat, waving it at her, and she turned on her heel and stalked away. He took two quick steps and grabbed her by the arm, swinging her around violently. He said something else to her, and then he cuffed her on the shoulder, hard, knocking her to the ground.

The hit man slowed his breathing, centered the crosshairs on the man's forehead, and waited. He could not allow anything to happen to the target. If this man killed her it would solve his client's problems perfectly, but the hit man would be out a quarter of a million dollars. And he was not about to let that happen.

Nor, it turned out, was the client's wife. She struggled to her feet, and with surprising quickness raced over to her bag. She pulled out a shiny object, and at first the hit man thought it was her cell phone. But the muscular gardener suddenly raised his hands and stepped back, and the hit man knew she held a gun. He looked closely and guessed that it was a .25 Beretta, a good weapon for a woman. She held it casually at her hip, where her lover couldn't get at it, and she looked perfectly calm. She knew what she was doing.

She motioned with her head toward the door, and the hit man leaned away from the scope and saw the man head for the sliding glass door. He focused in again as the man gathered his clothes and walked to the door, the huge penis swinging like a pendulum between his legs. The client's wife followed him inside the house, leaving the glass door open, and a minute later she reappeared, the gun still in her hand, her gait free and relaxed. She tossed the gun in her bag, reached inside, and pulled out a cigarette and lighter. The hit man watched her place the cigarette between her lips, touch the tip with flame, and lay back on the chaise lounge. He watched her smoke, and when she finished she rubbed out the butt on the cement of the pool deck and walked over the a small trash can on the patio. She returned to her bag and picked it up along with her bikini, then walked slowly back to the house. A rich, beautiful, confident woman without a care in the world, and the crosshairs remained fixed on the back of her head until the glass door slid shut.

The hit man waited fifteen minutes before he broke cover. He was only ten yards from the top of the hill, so he only had a crawl a few seconds before he disappeared over the crest. He retrieved a hard plastic case from under a bush and disassembled the sniper rifle, fitting each part in a padded section of the case. His dark blue van was parked in a clearing fifty yards away, and after secreting the rifle case under the back seat and stripping off the camouflage jump suit, the hit man drove away.

It was a 35 minute drive to the Holiday Inn where he had a room. He showered, shaved, and dressed in khaki shorts and a navy blue Polo shirt. The hotel was located in a heavily-developed commercial area and the hit man crossed the four-lane road to a shopping center. He walked to a bank of pay phones, keyed in the number of a stolen phone card, and then dialed a number.

"Yhullo?" a heavily accented voice said.

"I need clean phones sent to the same drops," the hit man said.

"I can do zhat," the man said, "but you use up last of deposit. If you need any more, I want one thousand American dollars first."

"I'll have the money transferred tonight," he said, and hung up. He dialed another number. "Yes?" This voice was also accented, but it was educated, and amused.

"Transfer another thousand to Ma Bell."

"Oh, dear, not done yet?" The accent and affectation was British, but the man speaking was obviously not a native of Albion.

"Not yet."

"But soon?"

"That's none of your business."

"But what should I tell our friend?" the playful voice asked. "He's very anxious for news, as I'm sure you can understand."

"Tell him to be patient."

The man on the other line giggled. "Patience is not one of our friend's virtues."