Zillion

by Alexander Blackwood

  "Yessss," she moaned. "Don't stop."

  I narrowed the focus of my mouth work. She squirmed and squealed, then grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me up.

  "Fuck me," she demanded.

  I pinned her arms down and pushed in deep. She clawed the bed and raised her hips to take me even deeper. My thrusts and her hip movements fell into powerful synch, underscored by breathy grunts and groans. The bed rocked so forcefully I feared it would snap free of its anchoring.

  "My turn," Agent Wong said, mocking my tone. Then she flipped me onto my back, held my arms down, and straddled me. She bounced up and down on my sizable shaft with such force that I worried she might hurt herself... or hurt me. The sight of her atop me, all sweaty and beautiful, combined with rapid jolts of pleasure made any further restraint impossible. Groaning through clenched teeth, I erupted inside her. Feeding-off my ecstasy she let loose as well, clenching my biceps as she wailed.

  Ten minutes later I laid naked in bed, hands clasped behind my head, watching as Agent Juanita Wong exited the bathroom. The CIA agent was now fully clothed and refreshed, showing zero signs that we'd just screwed each other's brains out.

  "Let's go, Rookie," she said. "Get dressed. We still have the guest list to go over."

  "Really?" I said. "I was hoping we could go for round two. Screwing the babysitter is so much fun."

  Agent Wong smiled stiffly. The ice queen was definitely back. "Let's get something straight," she said. "What just happened was fun, and I wouldn't mind if it happened again at some point. But let's not lose focus. We still have a lot of work to do."

  She was right of course. I told her so, then rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom to get cleaned up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  We touched down at Nice Cote de Azur airport, on the coast of the French Riviera, at 11 AM local time, Friday morning. As Agent Wong and I exited the Gulfstream 3 we were surprised to see a short-stretch of red carpet leading from the bottom step to what looked like a stealth jet fighter on wheels.

  The matte black sports car was so sleek and angular that I questioned whether it could truly seat two adults. There were no identifying markings except for a matching matte black license plate.

  Two suited men, one about twice the age of the other, waited beside the car, wearing professional smiles.

  "Welcome to France, Mr. Zillion," the older man said with a thick French accent. He handed me a slender key fob and a manilla envelope. "We hope you will enjoy your stay." With that, both men climbed onto a nearby motorized cart and sped away across the tarmac.

  While I tore open the envelope and read a note from Reba, Agent Wong shook her head disdainfully at the sports car. She said to me, "You know, that whole super-spies driving supercars thing, that's only in movies. The reality is, the more inconspicuous the better. In this thing we'll turn more heads than a fire truck with its sirens wailing."

  "First of all," I said, holding up the letter, "Reba arranged for this road rocket, not me. And I'm sure it has nothing to do with playing spy, and everything to do with the fact that I'm a billionaire."

  Agent Wong bobbed her head. "Okay, that makes sense."

  "Reba also reserved us the penthouse suite at the Grand Palais Hotel. According to her the best hotel room in St. Tropez. Even James Bond didn't live that well."

  "Okay, okay. Point taken." Agent Wong slowly circled the sports car, eyeing it admiringly. "I gotta tell you, my brothers would kill to see this machine up close."

  I began to take a tour around the vehicle myself. "It really is a nice car."

  Agent wong froze. "'Nice car?' Do you have any idea what you're looking at?"

  I wasn't a car fanatic or anything, but I knew enough to recognize those signature side-scoops and the horseshoe-shaped grill. I said to Agent Wong, "It's a Bugatti, right?"

  "Right... but not just any Bugatti. This is a Bugatti Divo. Sixteen cylinder engine. Fifteen hundred horsepower. Top speed, two hundred and thirty-six miles per hour. If you could buy one, which you can't because they're not officially available yet, it would set you back a cool six million dollars."

  "Wow!" I said.

  Agent Wong rolled her eyes. "You don't have to pretend for me. I know six million is nothing to you."

  "My wow had nothing to do with the sticker price. How do you know so much about cars?"

  "Oh. I grew up with three older brothers and they were all motorheads. Inevitably it rubbed off." Her eyes returned to the supercar. "I can't believe you actually own a Divo."

  "Actually... I don't. Reba says it's a loaner." I held up the fob. "You want to drive?"

  "A six million dollar loaner? Fuck you."

  I laughed and we both climbed in.

  WE CRUISED down the coastline beneath a clear blue sky and reached the Grand Palais in under two hours. The waterfront hotel was either a well-preserved medieval castle or a meticulous re-creation, either way it looked spectacular.

  While checking in at the front desk a few guests stared, clearly recognizing me from the news. A young Swedish couple even asked to take a selfie with me, which I did happily.

  The massive penthouse suite featured tall arched windows that overlooked a vast bay lined with luxury yachts and colorful seaside villas. The ice queen played it cool, but the way she glided her hand over every opulent surface as she explored each room, told me she adored every square foot. Thanks to Reba, the bedroom closet was pre-stocked with a variety of clothing for both Agent Wong and myself; everything from designer beachwear to formal evening attire.

  Exhausted from the trip and all that wonderful cramming, instead of ringing room service for lunch or engaging in another round of mattress gymnastics, we shut the drapes and grabbed some sleep.

  I was nudged awake at 7 pm by Agent Wong who had a foamy toothbrush in her mouth. She reminded me of our plan to be seen around town. Since Wendell and Reba weren't due until the next evening, we thought we'd use the time to make our presence known in St. Tropez. We hoped if Balthazar Banks got word Mathew Zillion was in town, my showing up to crash his party wouldn't seem so out-of-the-blue.

  After tasking the concierge with reserving us a table at the best restaurant in town, we showered and dressed. I threw on jeans and a designer sports jacket over a black t-shirt. Agent Wong selected a simple black and gold Versace slip dress.

  We drove to a quaint little restaurant in the heart of downtown called Le Broulliard. The young valet out-front looked heartbroken when I told him I'd park the Bugatti myself and hold onto the key. I knew enough car-crazy valets to know better than to hand a six million dollar vehicle into their dubious clutches.

  The restaurant was busy, which was a good sign. We were seated in a great spot and greeted immediately by a short friendly man who introduced himself as the owner. He said he was honored to have Mathew Zillion in his restaurant, poured us a complimentary bottle of wine, and offered suggestions from his very limited menu.

  Later, I noticed several diners stealing glances as Agent Wong and I tucked into the spectacular four-course Provence tasting menu. I wasn't sure if it was because they recognized me or because of the way my lovely companion wolfed down her meal.

  I smiled as I watched her go to work on the foie gras and black truffle ravioli. I said to her, "If you slow down you might enjoy it more."

  Suddenly self-conscious she paused, shut her eyes, and relished the flavors. When she finally returned to earth, she said, "This food is ridiculous... but I guess you eat like this every day, huh?"

  I laughed. "On the days I'm not eating burgers or pizza or a meatball hero, absolutely."

  "All prepared by your private chef, right?"

  "That's true. But that's just recent. Money hasn't changed my taste in food."

  "Not yet. But if you keep eating like this it will. I know it would mine." With that, she shoveled a spoonful of ratatouille into her mouth.

  Suddenly the owner was back, elegantly presenting a large bottle of champagne. "Compliments of Mr. Ban
ks," he said, gesturing across the room.

  Agent Wong and I turned and couldn't believe our eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Balthazar Banks, adorned in a white suit and wearing his trademark bold gold-framed glasses, sat in a shadowy booth in the rear of the restaurant. He was flanked by a statuesque blonde on his right, and a gorilla in an Armani suit on his left.

  Agent Wong and I traded a glance, both wondering how we missed Banks's entrance.

  Banks waved across the room at us as if we were old friends from way back. Agent Wong and I waved back and thanked him with delighted nods. After the tasting ritual, taught to me by Wendell of all people, I gave the sparkling wine an approving nod and the owner poured. Agent Wong and I raised our flutes to the target of our assignment. Banks returned the gesture with a glass of dark red, then we all drank. I was never into champagne, but this stuff was smooth and delicious. Easily the best I'd ever tasted. The bottle, now resting in an ice bucket stand, looked vintage and was no doubt pricey.

  Minutes later, just as Agent Wong and I were settling on the hypothesis that we'd simply overlooked Banks's presence in the dark rear booth, the man himself strolled over to our table grinning and stroking his golden beard.

  "Mr. Zillion," he said. "Welcome to France. I'm Balthazar Banks."

  I rose and shook his hand. "I know who you are, Mr. Banks. I see you on TV all the time."

  He chuckled. "Yes, the press never leaves me alone. Which, let's be honest, is quite flattering. I'm sure you of all people understand."

  "I'm still trying to get used to it." I gestured to Agent Wong, "This is Emily Lee. A friend."

  Agent Wong said hello. Banks responded by taking her hand and actually kissing it. He said to her, "A very beautiful friend."

  "Thank you," Emily said.

  Banks waved dismissively to the blonde and the gorilla waiting across the room in his booth. "I would introduce you, but they're nobody." He returned his attention to me. "So, what brings Mathew Zillion to St. Tropez?" He glanced lasciviously at Agent Wong. "Besides the obvious pleasures, of course."

  "To be perfectly honest, you do."

  He gasped and touched his chest with both hands. "Me? Really?"

  "You don't remember me, do you?"

  He looked at me sideways. "What could you possibly mean? I'm very good at meeting people. It's what I do. I'd never forget meeting one of the richest men in the world."

  "I was a little less rich at the time. You were in New York two months ago. You stayed at the Excelsior. Do you remember?"

  He snorted. "That overrated pile? Of course I remember."

  "At the time I was the doorman at the Excelsior. I had the audacity to interrupt your phone call with a warm greeting, and you punished me by calling me an idiot and slapping the cap off my head."

  Balthazar Banks burst into laughter. "No! That was you?"

  "It was."

  He laughed harder. "My God, what a wonderfully ironic story. I can't wait to hear the rest. So you came to St. Tropez to get revenge by knocking a hat off my head?"

  It was my turn to laugh. "No. Although I won't rule that out. I just thought I'd crash your little party and rub your face in my new found wealth a little. That's all."

  He beamed as if I'd told him the best news ever. "This is fantastic. I can't wait to tell... everybody." He slapped my shoulder. "I certainly don't blame you for being cross. I can really be a shit, it's true." Suddenly he frowned. "Unfortunately, because of the guest list, the security at my party is pretty much impenetrable." He gestured to the gorilla in his booth. "Mouse over there is my head of security."

  "Mouse?" Agent Wong said. "That's really his name?"

  Banks shrugged. "He's Russian. Half the time I don't understand shit he says, but he and his men are very good at their jobs." Banks shook his head at me. "No, trying to crash my party would be a waste of time and possibly very dangerous. I strongly suggest a change of plans." This last part he said with a chuckle.

  Agent Wong shot me a look and I knew exactly what she was trying to tell me. It seemed pretty certain that if I just asked, Banks would bestow upon us an invitation. But asking presented a risk because it relied on Banks's ability to resist rejecting me. Refusing the trendy Mathew Zillion entry to his party was an enticing ending to the story that might be impossible for the image-obsessed Banks to resist. For this reason, I quickly decided on a different course of action -- one that played upon Banks's oversized ego and vanity.

  "Oh, well," I said to Banks with a shrug. "St. Tropez has still been a great little getaway." I held up my flute. "And this champagne you sent, top notch."

  He beamed. "Isn't it amazing? Five grand a bottle, you know."

  "Really? Tastes more like ten."

  He chuckled. "I know, right?"

  "Well, the champagne more than smooths things over between us. It was nice meeting you." Then I shook his hand, retook my seat, and returned my full attention to my beautiful date.

  Banks stood there staring for a full ten seconds before doing exactly what I hoped he would. He reached into his pocket and extended a golden key.

  "Here you go."

  I took the key and turned it in my hand. It was a vintage style key, like something you'd see in a black and white movie. I couldn't tell if it was real gold, but it felt dense enough. Engraved on one side of the shaft was tomorrow's date, and on the opposite side an address. I said to Banks, "If this is what I think it is, it's the coolest invitation I've ever seen." I passed it to Agent Wong who commented on its cleverness.

  Banks paused to savor our compliments. Finally, he said, "Well, it would be a travesty for you two to have come so far and miss the gathering of the century. Would it not?"

  "I totally agree," I said. "Thanks."

  "Yes, thank you." Agent Wong added. "I'm so excited."

  "So am I," Banks said. "See you both tomorrow." He flipped us a snappy farewell salute, then gestured to his two companions who rose from the rear booth and trailed him towards the exit.

  Mouse's titanium eyes lingered on me as he stomped past our table, jangling silverware. I couldn't tell if the Russian goon was star struck or smelled something fishy.

  "Well, that makes tomorrow night a little simpler," Agent Wong said to me, swinging the gold key on her finger. "And you handled yourself quite well. You are full of surprises, Mathew Zillion." Then she gazed at me as she drained her flute.

  Suddenly I had the feeling Agent Wong was ready for dessert, and I didn't mean the kind they rolled out on a tray.

  I refilled both our glasses. "What do you say we go back to the penthouse and do some intense studying?"

  She raised an interested eyebrow. We clinked glasses and drank quickly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  One hand gripped the steering wheel and the other my passenger's thigh as I weaved the Bugatti Divo through the bustling streets of downtown St. Tropez. Agent Wong seemed to be enjoying the upward creep of my touch before abruptly shoving my hand away.

  "I think we're being followed," she said, her eyes pinned to the passenger side mirror. "A pickup truck." I went to glance over my shoulder, but Agent Wong said, "No. Use your mirror. Don't give away we know."

  In the rear-view mirror I spotted the black pickup. It was about fifty yards back, its speed matched to ours. I said to Agent Wong, "Why do you think it's following us."

  "One, it's been behind us since the restaurant. Two, it's had several opportunities to pull beside us at lights, but hangs back."

  "Maybe it's just an overly cautious driver."

  "Maybe." Suddenly she pointed. "Look out."

  Directly ahead a double-parked blue panel truck blocked the street, a delivery man unloading from the rear. I had no choice but to turn down a one-way street. With no shops, pedestrians, or streetlights, the narrow side street seemed more like an alleyway. Behind us, the pickup truck continued to follow.

  Agent Wong's head ticked back and forth as she scanned the dark street. "This doesn't feel
right," she said with an edge in her voice. "Take the next turn and get us back to a major avenue."

  But there was no 'next turn.' The street emerged into a small cul de sac encompassed by a low crumbling wall that overlooked the dark open sea. During the day, no doubt, a great sightseeing spot, but at night it was desolate and creepy.

  I braked in the middle of the circle and said to Agent Wong, "I didn't see a dead end sign, did you?"

  She shook her head. "I'm sure the sign was taken down... by them."

  The black pickup and the blue panel truck, the same truck that caused us to take a detour, stopped side-by-side in the mouth of the cul de sac, blocking our escape. Then doors flew open and ski-masked men wielding handguns appeared -- one from the pickup and two from the panel truck.

  "They trapped us," I said to Agent Wong, stating the obvious. "Who do you think it is? Banks?"

  Agent Wong pulled a small silver gun from her handbag, checked the clip and chambered a round. "I Don't know, and right now it doesn't matter. I'm guessing you're not carrying."

  I shook my head. "Not yet. Farris said he was sending a weapon with Wendell."

  "Great. Well, at least they're not a hit squad."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Because they'd be firing instead of sizing us up."

  The pickup driver, clearly the leader, signaled his partners to hang back, then slowly approached the car. Except for the gun held at his side, he appeared casual, as if he'd done this a hundred times. He paused twenty feet from us, lit a cigarette, then gestured for me to roll down the window.

  I followed instructions.

  The leader took a drag from his cigarette then said in a thick French accent, "No one has to get hurt, yes? We want only the wonderful car. Just get out and walk away. Bye, bye. Easy, yes? But if you give trouble-" He took a deep drag on his cigarette, his eyes smoldering like embers. Finally, he hissed, "If you give trouble, it will be very bad for you. Very bad. You understand this? Now please get out, okay?"