Carthago Delenda Est

Author's Note: This is a work of fiction. None of the events portrayed in this fictitious work have ever occurred.

Author's Note 2: Short Lane does NOT make a shell adapter that will function as the author describes in this work of fiction. Follow all manufacturer's instructions.

Author's Note 3: This is not the final work in Jack and Veronica's story arc; the sequel to this work is Audentes Fortuna Iuvat.

XXX

Tuesday, 1728

Jack stepped into the elevator leading from his underground parking garage and waited as the car moved to the fourteenth floor. ("Slower than usual?" He wondered inwardly, aware that the building had just completed its monthly elevator inspection and maintenance three days ago, as attested by the new date on the compliance certificate mounted above the panel of buttons for the buildings floors). Deciding not to dwell too much on the speed at which he ascended to his condo, he instead flicked a glance down at his watch, but before he could take note of the time, the elevator slowed to a stop at the eighth floor, and he crossed his hands back in front of him ('fig leaf' position), and moved slightly to his left; it was an old habit he'd learned when expecting to encounter someone in deployed areas when he'd carried a sidearm. The shift would give him enough time and angle to draw his sidearm and shoot, if he felt the need to do so, and ensuring his shooting side was not pinned against the far wall. While at the moment he had only his ankle-strapped Ruger LCP rather than a full sized sidearm, he knew that if he didn't have time to reach for his LCP, he could always throw a fast jab or hook to a nose or throat, at least halting the progress (or smashing nasal cartilage) of a deserving target. In this case, it was Ed, his not-so-friendly, usually sober (and almost always answers to his own name) building superintendent.

Ed saw Jack in the elevator, smiling in a way that strongly hinted at the possibility of Ed's nose breaking, and he flinched briefly, flicking his eyes unconsciously from Jack's eyes to his own feet, before entering the elevator and using the lame pretense of looking closely at the buttons as an excuse to stand on the opposite side of the elevator.

"Evening, Ed!" Jack said loudly, using his diaphragm to project his voice and make his greeting reverberate painfully and at a too-high decibel level for the small, brass veneered elevator doors and frame that made Jack's words ring so loudly.

Jack studied Ed as he waited for a response. Ed looked like an obese version of 'Fred the Baker,' the donut baker for Dunkin Donuts tv commercials in the early 1980s (though Jack was too young to have seen the commercials in question on tv, and in fact, knew of Fred only from the endless memes one absorbs on deployments); Ed was in his early fifties, stoop shouldered, pear shaped and, like Gill, dyed his mustache. Ed chose to use black dye on his mustache, while ignoring the gray of his remaining scalp and prodigious nose and ear hair.

"Mr. Northcutt." He finally croaked out, never actually looking over at Jack, either directly or via their reflections in the polished brass of the doors. Ed had selected the button for the tenth floor, perhaps far enough from the eighth floor to justify not walking (at least for a man in Ed's corpulent state of fitness), but soon enough to get out without having to be around Jack.

With other matters fighting for Jack's focus, he said nothing until Ed quickly darted out of the elevator doors, as soon as they opened.

"Sorry about your car, Ed." Jack observed in a voice just loud enough for Ed to hear him. Ed stiffened and stopped walking, but hadn't turned around to respond before the doors closed again and Jack resumed his ride, thinking over the interesting phone conversation he'd had with Richard Cudgeons, just before an attorney had arrived to take possession of the office.

XXX.I

Tuesday, 1140

Jack locked his computer's screen as he heard Gill's landline phone ringing in his office, again. He stood up and with a smile still on his face sauntered into Gill's office, kicked over Gill's garbage can and answered the phone. "Fuck him!" Jack thought as the pile of rancid smelling, crumpled paper fast food take-out bags and grease stained, breakfast sandwich wrappers spilled out of the waste basket and onto the floor.

"Hello?"

"Jack! It's Dick Cudgeons, son. Have you a moment for an old man?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Gilbert is no longer an employee of Horizon, and forthwith, you're your own supervisor until we can get you back out on deployment."

"I understand, sir. And, I'm glad you brought that up; may I ask, when am I going back out?"

Jack heard Cudgeons sigh and take a drink of something before answering. Jack had heard rumors that as of the day Cugeons retired from the British Royal Marines, he couldn't stand to be more than arm's length from an always ready glass of neat Glen Fiddich, 18 year old scotch. "Bollocks, son; you cut right to business."

"It's what we live for, sir."

"Fucking right it is. So, as you know from your last bit in Afghanistan, this year's been something of a 'cluster fuck,' as you Yanks are so fond of saying; first that massive bomb outside the Afghan Army's Sia Sang office, then a few days later the bastards breached Camp Integrity and killed 10, and on and on..."

"Yes, sir." Jack said, remembering the thousand pound shaped charge VBIED (Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device) that some dirtbag Haqqani network weasel hid in a silver, hatchback Toyota Corolla and had used to detonate himself to Allah, hitting the second vehicle in a DynCorps, two vehicle convoy, just 12 days after the Taliban had breached the outer walls of the US military's Camp Integrity. The massive VBIED explosion blew the DynCorps vehicle an incredible 40 meters through the air before it landed in a parking lot of a shopping mall. The contractors had been driving away from HKIA (aka, the "Hamid Karzai International Airport") along Route White, back toward the green zone of Kabul when the Gods of Karma decided it was not going to be their day...

Jack remembered particularly that had he, his 'terp' and their driver been able to get the British Horizon executive they were protecting that day (not Cudgeons) back to HKIA just an hour earlier than the blowhard was willing to leave from his meeting in the green zone, they would have been back at either Resolute Support Headquarters (the base that just a year earlier had been known as "ISAF Headquarters") or NKC (the New Kabul Compound, just North of the US Embassy and the green zone) before the VBIED attack caused every base in the Kabul area to lockdown their exterior gates, with the Georgian and Mongolian gate guards (respectively) refusing entry for several hours. Jack and his three compatriots had needed to 'haji-up,' donning pakol hats, and green, shapeless scarves in an effort to further conceal their low-profile armored vests and western appearance as they drove and stayed mobile until they could once more gain entry to a base. Thankfully they'd had an NTV (non-tactical vehicle) with a full tank of gas in which to spend the hours-long drive around Kabul as they waited for ultimately NKC to allow them to enter and wait for their much-delayed return helicopter flight to Bagram and then follow-on flight to the ALP camp from which they operated.

"And you heard that Kunduz fell last month, yeah?" Cudgeons asked Jack, referring to the debacle of the Taliban taking over Kunduz city and then "spanking" the Afghan National Defense and Security Forces' attempts to organically take-back the Provincial Capital.

"Yes, sir, that happened during my last week in country. But I wasn't surprised the Taliban couldn't hold it, once Western SOF and ANASOF got in there to take it back." Jack said, referring to Western Special Operations Forces and the Afghan National Army Special Operations Forces, who just a week before Jack's phone call with Cudgeons, had finished mopping up and pushing out the remnants of the Taliban fighters who'd participated in the attack on the city. While most of those outside of Afghanistan (and particularly the political class bereft of any personal experience serving in an organized military) would focus on the shoot-up of the MSF (aka "Doctors Without Borders") hospital, those with combat experience knew immediately the true significance of what had happened. The fact that the Taliban had so successfully kept their invasion secret and just as successfully executed it against a fairly well-to-do Afghan Provincial Capital which was supposed to have had a well-run segment of the Afghan law enforcement and military complex available to protect it, meant that the ANDSF was in a dire state of unreadiness.

"Anyway, that bit of unpleasant business caused just a hint of sphincter puckering in Washington, Rome, Berlin and London, as you might imagine, and now, as they consider perhaps not running for the exit like they did in Iraq, the tap's opened up more than before. We're still taking stock of the new contracts under discussion, but I feel confident we'll have you back there no later than your American Thanksgiving."

"Sounds good, sir."

"Has that shyster arrived yet to take possession of the office?" Cudgeons asked impatiently.

"Not yet, no; Wait, I take that back, he just did, sir." Jack said, still holding the phone to his ear but walking toward the door to Gill's office as he saw someone use a pair of keys to try and unlock the already-unlocked office door before opening it and tentatively stepping inside.

"Good. Get your things and get out, Jack. From now until I call you on your mobile and tell you otherwise, you're officially working from home. Just send me your timecard as you used to send it to Gilbert and stay out of trouble, yeah?" He asked, and hung up before Jack could offer a reply.

Jack smiled in a particularly surly manner at the harried looking, tall and thin man in a dark suit who arrived and did not smile back at Jack; The dour-faced attorney merely held open the door for Jack as he gathered his phone and forced his computer to power-off before heading out.

XXX.II

Tuesday, 1300

Jack got into his car and engaged the engine, but did not head back to his condo; instead, he drove out to a storage garage he rented well outside Marion County limits, in the part of the state where agricultural operations still dotted the land and the developers had yet to force the farmers, suffering from lousy commodity prices, to give up title to their third or fourth generation farms. From Jack's experience growing up in the rolling hills and cattle country of South Dakota west of the Missouri river, intensively cultivated cropland to him still seemed like a novel and exotic space. He loved driving by the tilled, seemingly endless rows of tall stalks of corn, growing in orderly lines and even in the late fall, still conjuring in his mind recent memories of the verdant green leaves over dark, moist dirt in the spring and summer.

He drove up to the yellow, steel garage built on a cement pad and keyed in the combo to his cypher lock, and watched the steel sections of the garage door move up along the 12 foot high entrance. Jack returned to his car and drove into the garage and turned off his engine, got out, turned on the lights and closed the garage door. Once he had assured himself of his privacy, Jack walked to the five black, bulky gun safes lined up against the interior of the garage's perimeter wall and bolted into the cement floor. He rotated the old-fashioned combination dials on each safe with well-practiced ease, opened all the safe doors and began to browse the tools of his trade, based his analysis of what he'd need after reviewing the video footage he'd recorded thus far from three of the clubs.

Eventually, he formed a basic plan and settled on his Remington 870, Tac-14; a non-descript, blue working class set of insulated coveralls; an old five gallon plastic bucket; a tool box and two boxes of 12 gauge rifled slugs. And for a gambit he wasn't certain would pan out, he also took the "flashback," anti-paparazzi jacket he'd bought on a whim during his last deployment.

XXXI

Tuesday, 1735

As he stepped out of the elevator, on to the freshly waxed tiles of the fourteenth floor, Jack smiled. Ed was a douche, but the man could at least keep the cleaning crews the condo association hired on schedule and focused on their work. He could at least admire that about Ed as he watched his reflection glide by in the shiny tiles while he walked. Jack's last four days had been quite enjoyable, but better yet, the potential offered by the next week was staggering; he might actually have to consider thinking about taking up religion since his mother became too weak from the accumulated beatings his father dished out to her, to continue taking Jack to their Missouri Synod Lutheran Church's Sunday school; Jack had hated the ritual of Sunday school, but felt that things were lining up so well that perhaps it was time to re-engage in divine worship, as somewhere in the cosmos, some celestial architect must surely have had a hand in lining up the wickets Jack now saw. Deciding instead to hold off in thinking about this subject until he received a terminal diagnosis, he unlocked his door, stepped across his threshold and then reached behind to pull his door shut, engaging the automatic locks.

Jack took two more steps inside the well-lit but eerily quiet condo and said simply, "I'm home."

Like clockwork, he heard the hollow sounding click of what he soon saw were her black and shiny, "sexy pole dancer" platform stiletto "peep toe" heels as she stepped from around the kitchen door and walked to within a foot of him. Veronica's transformation in the five days since he'd found her hiding in his condo had been spectacular, and as he took in her appearance since he'd happily purchased this portion of her wardrobe-by-Bangkok-street fashion ("Thank you, Mr. Bezos, for your one day shipping." he thought), she'd apparently decided to reward him for the new, iPhone 7 he'd bought and setup for her, with a slow seduction using some of the skin-revealing wares he'd purchased for her.

With the four inches of height her heels gave her, along with the way her long, now tightly woven, red and black hair extensions lay fixed in a bun, she seemed quite a bit taller than he remembered from just that morning. Her skin was still as deeply ebony as he'd first noticed upon seeing her, but the lotions, better meals she'd prepared for both of them, and long bath she'd taken today gave her skin a luminescent sheen now, and to Jack it only made her even more of the African Fertility Goddess than he already thought of her as being. A part of Jack's subconscious also took note, as his eyes lingered on her body, of a slight glow or subtle sheen to her skin that he'd not noticed before. He didn't know why at the time, but it made him feel a need to hold her protectively.

In addition to the 'fuck-me-now' heels she wore, her long, shapely, jet black legs sported what seemed painted-on, black fishnet stockings to her mid-thigh, and which in turn were attached via elastic clips to a black garter belt. The heels, stockings and garter belt were an even deeper black than her skin, and thus stood out from what might otherwise have been a wasted effort, visually. She wore nothing over her gorgeous, trimmed but still apparent bush, and her large, soft, round, D-cup breasts were likewise nude, and shined even more so than the healthy luster of the rest of her skin; clearly she'd applied some form of lotion or oil, as the simple movement of her natural breasts swinging gently as she breathed, caused reflections of the incandescent light above them to dance hypnotically across the tops of her breasts, areolae and nipples.

Jack noticed that she also wore a choker-style, cameo necklace, the image of which was an African woman in profile, with a wrapped fabric headdress of some kind. Veronica's lips were a bright, cherry red, as were her finger and toe nails, and the texture of her lips and nails seemed permanently in a liquid state, as though the shiny, almost metallically uniform color would follow gravity's pull and slide off at any moment. Her eyes, however, captivated him. She wore a pale shade of eye shadow, and her gorgeous dark brown irises were even more apparent now that her nutrition and sleeping schedule (even accounting for their daily, frequent sex) had improved. The whites of her eyes were stark and clear against the deep Maduro hue of her irises. Her lashes were also quite long and thick, though Jack had no idea if it was simply a cosmetic treatment of her organic lashes, or if her lashes were artificial. No matter the cause of their fullness, he loved how they looked and how they felt against his face as she moved toward him and gently kissed him, and in doing so blinked several times.

Jack put his right arm around her bare back and with his left, he touched her face and felt the texture of her narrow, elf-like ears. He noticed that her ear lobes sported large, gold hoop earrings, which matched the texture and color of the plain, but exotic gold bangle bracelets she also wore now on her wrists. Jack liked the way her earrings and bracelets made soft, tinny noises as they shifted and moved against her skin. He was also happy she'd returned to wearing her hair in braids, as she now wore her long two-toned braids high, up on the top rear of her head in a tight bun.

She put her arms around his neck and back and smiled at him seductively. "Welcome home, Jack." She said simply as he held her tightly.

"You did your hair again." He said, smiling. "I like it when you wear your hair in braids."

She smiled and kissed him again, more passionately and unbuttoned his jacket and slid her hands along his ribs and ran her fingers down his back.

He inhaled deeply of her perfume and her underlying individual scent and enjoyed the soft feeling of the skin on her smooth back and long, thin neck.

Veronica shivered at the way his soft, wool suit jacket brushed against her nipples and how the bottom front corners of his single breasted, charcoal jacket rubbed her crotch and tickled her pubic hair as she shifted slightly in his arms. She could still detect a hint of his shaving cream and deodorant and breathed it in as the slight stubble on his cheek scratched at her ear.

Veronica was ready when he moved in to kiss her lips. She closed her eyes and received his kiss, and then kissed him back deeply, pushing her tongue into his mouth as she brought up her left hand to pull gently against his neck and head, anchoring his mouth to hers. He was handsome, and she loved how he looked in his suit, before he left that morning, and as he returned. His lean and muscled frame filled his suits perfectly, which she knew were tailored. She found his short blond hair, squinty eyes and fast-growing stubble very attractive, and he reminded her again of a sort of hybrid of looks between Sam Worthington and Paul Walker. She could feel her own skin warming as she thought about what she knew would happen next, and his strong arms rubbing her back and holding her tightly against him confirmed his arousal and interest in their post-greeting ritual.

Somewhat out of habit, but more so out of natural reaction, she giggled in surprise as he reached down and grabbed her by the bottoms of her thighs, and then lifted her legs up. She wrapped her legs around his waist, ensuring her massive heels neither slammed against his back, nor against her own ankles, and then she continued to kiss his lips, as she held his shoulders firmly, and he walked with her in his arms to his three piece sectional sofa.

He laid her gently down upon the chaise lounge so that the point of her ass cheeks that met her legs was just inland from the edge of the chaise cushion. She laid back and spread her legs, playing with her moistening labia as he stood back up, took off and dropped his jacket, untied the double Windsor knot of his tie, unbuttoned and tore off his white dress shirt and limp tie, then kneeled down on his knees, between her legs.