Sheriff (The Police Trilogy, #3) (3 page)

She swore again, and he spanked her left cheek so hard it felt perfect.

She closed her eyes, and felt the tip of his cock pressing into the cleft of her buttocks, felt his mouth sink into her shoulder and felt his hands grabbing at the front of her blouse. She heard the buttons pop and fly off as he tore it open and roughly pushed both tits free from her bra now, grabbing them so firmly, doing just what he wanted to her nipples as his prick pushed between her cheeks and rubbed at her asshole.

She felt so exposed, so wanton, so whoreish; and she loved it.

“Fuck me,” she begged, over and over again, as his hands worked her body with a bestial urgency and his prick massaged against her puckered anus.

Without warning, he grabbed both of her wrists and yanked her arms hard and tight behind her back, forcing her tits into the wall. It felt freezing against the blazing heat of her chest, and her ass stuck out even further. She stepped her legs apart, loving how he was restraining her now, wanting him inside so badly.

Her wrists hurt against his grip, engulfed as they were in one hand, and she felt him shift his weight, felt the tip of his enormous cock stroking down between her pussy lips now, finding her clit and stroking it in slow, sensuous circles. She was so wet for him, and he was so hard for her.

And then he was inside.

She sighed with wonder, that feeling of coming home suddenly enveloping her, the way she stretched around him so amazing, so perfect.

His free hand gripped into her hip and he pushed deeper, teasing her with the slowness of his penetration, making her rock her body against him, squirming down onto his shaft, swearing, gasping, moaning, sighing.

“Please fuck me,” she begged with a voice so pleading he couldn’t deny her.

And the more she begged, the harder and faster he fucked.

Neither of them lasted long, neither of them wanted to; they both came together, an intense simpatico that felt so right, so perfect, so rare.

They didn’t let go of one another for the rest of the night, and even awoke clutched together in a needy embrace.

Eve rubbed her wrists as the monitor suddenly came back into focus. The red line of the cuffs they had used was obvious, as were the bite marks on her lower neck and shoulder; but she didn’t care. Her ass cheeks were probably bright red from the powerful spanking he had given her when they both awoke at 2am, and her whole body ached in that wonderful way it always did after intense, amazing sex.

And Eve didn’t really know what to think about it all, or even want to think about it; the only thing she knew for sure was that she’d never felt feelings this powerful for someone before, and she just hoped it wasn’t the danger that was informing that wonder.

Which is why she had to do what she was about to do; not because it was the right thing to do, but because she wanted to remove the one mitigating factor that might be clouding or amplifying her emotions right now, to make sure, for certain, that this was something else entirely.

The reverie flooded away from her, she took a deep breath and got to her feet so fast she sent the office chair wheeling backwards at speed until it hit an empty desk behind.

Eve didn’t let it thwart her momentum, and she strode across the room and burst through Cyrus’ door. She was aware that the last time she did this, they ended up having sex on his desk. No way that was going to happen now, in spite of the lusty look of anticipation on his face.

She smiled, and slumped down in the seat opposite, trying to make her body as unalluring as possible. He seemed to sense her mood and resolve, and the arousal soon drained from his face (and elsewhere no doubt).

Eve thought it prudent to slowly work her way up to it.

“I’ve been bugging Conrad Duff and his Strike Team.”

She blinked, unaware of why she suddenly blurted it out like that.

Cyrus looked back at her with eyes so wide they were bulging.

“What the fuck?” he said softly and at length.

“He recruited a new member, and I turned him; he’s been wired for a few days now.”

“Have you had an aneurism or something? Please tell me you suffered a massive blow to the head; because otherwise you’re just bat shit crazy and in need to new employment.”

“This guy’s good,” she smiled at the double meaning again. “He’s already in; got him on tape planning to rip off a gang drug supply.”

She knew that revelation might change his mood.

He sat back and steepled his fingers in front of him, looking over them at her, studious, thinking.

“And it’s going down soon,” she said.

No response.

She watched him watching her for a full minute.

“So,” he said finally. “What do you need from me?”

“A retrospective authorisation for the whole operation.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“And I need to report a sexual relationship with my UI.”

His eyes closed for a moment in annoyance, but then he opened them again, focussing on the bigger fish and not the smaller, more navigable quagmire of her personal relations.

“Get things in motion,” he instructed, and she got to her feet.

Halfway through the door, his next words stopped her in her tracks.

“Good work.”

She smiled and got on with it.

B
randon pressed his back into the coarse wall, feeling it dig in through his jacket and into his skin. The balaclava was tight around his face, itching at his lips and eyes, making him feel trapped and enclosed. The gun in his hand was heavy, loaded, and dangerous.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, trying to focus his mind on the task at hand, avoid the bigger, more dangerous picture. Take it one step at a time; that was the way.

The silver disc of the moon in the sky was huge, beaming down and lighting the darkness with a soft blue glow.

A body heaved into the wall next to him, and he knew without looking that it was the bulky frame of Hemp. Kane was on the other side of the building, next to Conrad, all heavily armed and disguised.

Brandon was weighed down with extra clips, a bullet proof vest and a string of smoke grenades. It was enough to make moving difficult in a situation where speed and reflexes were going to be key.

Their infiltration had been meticulously plotted on maps, with markers and lines denoting their movements. It had been committed to memory, and constantly tested as they drove around town in an effort to look like they were doing their regular police work.

And all the while, the digital recorder captured every word spoken, every plan made, and every boast bragged.

So many times in the past week had Brandon been terrified of being caught, of the microphone feeding back and giving the game away, or of being randomly patted and discovered.

His only relief from the tension and terror had been his brief moments alone with Eve. They had held one another, kissed and stroked, but nothing more. It didn’t feel right to either of them to engage fully with their blossoming relationship, not until this was out of the way, and then they’d be free to be with one another.

Brandon gripped the lower barrel of his pump action shotgun, flexing his fingers and ignoring the sweat gathering on his palms.

He looked to his right and saw Hemp doing much the same, but on his hand there was a thin latex glove.

That was new.

Brandon deduced why though; prints.

No doubt Conrad and Kane would be wearing them too; which meant only one thing.

He was being set up as the patsy.

Only his fingerprints would be found at the scene.

They obviously took him for an idiot, thinking him too stupid to realise the need for gloves of his own, and he was only too ready to play up to that prejudice. The more they underestimated him, the sweeter their comeuppance.

And every time he had feigned doubt at the plan, or at the whole thing, Conrad had taken him aside and given him the whole sister speech over and over again. And every time he heard it, Brandon felt sick in his stomach at the callous manipulation of the man.

In any other circumstance, it wouldn’t have worked, but here Brandon had to play along and wilt to his supposed logic. The number of times he had to physically stop himself from launching a fist at the bastard’s face was ridiculous.

Brandon vowed in that moment to get his chance to pop one on him.

Seeing the cuffs slapped on to their wrists would be sweet as hell.

Hemp made a gesture with his hand, and it was time to move.

As one, they bolted from the wall and ran at pace down the side of the building, ducking low whenever they passed a window, until they reached a doorway. Brandon ran past it and smacked back into the wall on the other side. Hemp stopped short and did the same. Now they were on both sides of the door, guns at the ready.

Timing was important now.

But their radios were deliberately silent.

They just needed to wait for their cue.

A car backfired.

Go.

Hemp span round and launched his foot into the door.

It splintered at the lock and crashed open, sending bits of wood flying. Brandon swept inside, Hemp behind, their eyes adjusting to the darker interior.

Across the building, they heard another door being smashed in, knowing who would be coming through.

The warehouse was small and damp.

It was mostly empty too.

A gantry along the back wall was their only problem, and it was the only source of light. A small room up there suddenly erupted with action, its door opening, and three armed gang members storming out to investigate the noise.

Brandon moved sideways and to the right, Hemp went the other way, each aiming their guns up at the gantry.

Hemp fired a shot, and a goon was knocked from his feet, landing on the metal with a heavy clang, blood everywhere. Brandon squeezed off a shot, hitting one of them in the leg with his secretly switched out rubber bullets. It was enough to bring him down, clutching his calf in pain, his gun long forgotten as it tumbled from his grasp and fell to the floor several feet below.

The remaining goon had his gun aimed now, directly at Hemp, when he was hit from the side and thrown to the floor below. Brandon looked to Kane, the barrel of his gun smoking.

Conrad hadn’t fired a single shot.

Probably on purpose.

Rat bastard; he was willing to leave all the dirty work to his team, maybe even let them all take the fall.

Up on the gantry the surviving goon groaned in pain, and rolled onto his side.

Kane fired again.

He was silent now.

Brandon didn’t know how to feel about those deaths.

And so he felt nothing; at least for the time being.

Conrad was laughing, and he turned to see the others slowly walking towards a table stacked high with bags of cocaine.

It was the biggest haul Brandon had ever seen in person or on TV.

“Shit,” he heard himself exclaim.

“Looks like a million dollars,” Conrad was beaming.

Hemp was already moving towards a sack truck, which he quickly wheeled to the table, and Kane joined him in loading it up.

“Time’s ticking,” Conrad said, a little more nervous now as he checked his watch.

Hemp checked that the little trolley would still easily roll under the weight, and was happy to find that it did.

“How are we going to unload this?” Brandon asked, not for the first time.

“We’re going to sell it back to them, fifty cents on the dollar.”

Brandon nodded with appreciation; it was a pretty good idea. He’d much rather they got these drugs off the street though – which was the next job.

He examined the button on his jacket, making sure the microphone hidden in it was in tact, and he had a surreptitious look around the rafters to make sure the cameras that had secretly been placed up there yesterday were still there, unfound by the gang.

They were.

The whole thing had been captured for prosperity.

And talking of capturing ...

“Everyone got their alibi?” Conrad asked.

“I was with you boss,” Kane said.

“Me too,” Hemp grunted, just as he started to wheel the truck towards the door.

Conrad didn’t look at Brandon wanting an answer.

Another nail in the patsy’s coffin.

Brandon had another look up at the rafters, and when he looked back, he saw Conrad staring at him.

He gave the other man a weak smile.

Conrad’s brow knotted and he stepped closer to Brandon, looking up into the rafters with narrow eyes.

“Something up there son?”

“Nope.”

The moment he said it, he knew it was the wrong answer. He should have said he thought he saw a pigeon, something at least, otherwise why look?

Conrad slowly bought his gaze back to Brandon’s face.

Then he headbutted him.

Brandon recoiled, staggering on his feet as one hand came to the centre of the pain, clutching it, yelping in agony. He kept a grip on his gun though, and steadied himself.

“What the fuck?”

“Thought maybe a bit of DNA might flavour the scene,” Conrad shrugged.

So, he wasn’t even gonna be subtle about it now.

Brandon lifted his gun, but felt his arms squashed into his sides, and he realised Hemp had him in a hold.

Kane came up to them and wrestled the gun from Brandon’s reluctant grip, before slamming the butt into his stomach.

The pain made light dance in his vision, and he struggled to breathe, choking against the agony and bending forward in Hemp’s grasp. He spat on the floor, checking to see if there was blood, relieved there wasn’t.

He saw Conrad’s feet step into his eye line, and felt fingers grasping his hair, lifting his head roughly.

Their eyes met.

Conrad cocked his head to one side, unsmiling.

Then he slapped Brandon hard across the cheek.

The pain of the sting momentarily made Brandon forget the ache in his stomach.

He had no idea why he was being beaten.

Maybe there was no reason.

Maybe it was just a sadistic delight, a way to release the pent up adrenaline of their raid and gun battle.