by Ciana Stone
She smiled as she considered his chagrin at discovering how much she knew about him. From her observations of him, it was clear now he realized he was being investigated and researched every bit as much as he was investigating and researching the new professional obsession in his life—namely her.
As she watched, he took a long pull from a bottle of imported beer then flipped back to the beginning of the leather-bound book and started to read.
I spent my childhood dreaming of and fantasizing about being a superhero. That marvelous, miraculous being who would swoop in and save the day, foiling the evil villain, righting the wrongs, protecting the innocent and being universally recognized for my greatness.
What I never imagined was that my wish would direct me to become one of the more notorious (and successful) criminals in the world and on the Top 10 of every list from the FBI's most wanted to Interpol's.
Not that my picture has ever been splashed on a television screen, printed in a newspaper or even appeared online. No one has a clue who I am. I'm that good. That's not a boast, just a mere statement of fact. If I were not that good, I wouldn't be sitting in the comfort of my own surroundings leisurely penning this little tome for the stalwart yet thoroughly delectable Special Agent John Rushing who has been working so diligently over this past year to apprehend me.
Yes, John, I know you're looking for me. If you weren't, then half of the fun would be gone. And I do enjoy the dance we're engaged in. It's so…. arousing.
But back to my story. I wanted more than anything to be a superhero. But since I never found the miracle potion that turned me from a mere mortal into a super-being, I kind of gave up on those dreams as I matured. At least I thought I had. Then one day I picked a lock on a door I wasn't supposed to enter, and it opened to reveal everything I needed to be a superhero. All I needed was a wrong to right.
Thanks to the deluge of information slamming our senses at every turn from radio, television, internet, and print, the wrong I sought found me. In fact, it had been right there in front of me for the longest time. I was just too blind to see it. Or perhaps merely too young. It wasn't a new crime, and maybe that made it all the better because no one would be expecting anything to happen.
But now I had my mission, and I knew what I had to do.
John paused and reached for the beer sitting beside his chair on the balcony. He'd read the journal dozens of times, sure on every subsequent reading that a clue he'd overlooked would jump off the page at him. If it didn't soon, then his ass was really going to be in a sling.
He'd come into possession of the journal six months earlier when he came within minutes of catching Robin Hood, as the Bureau had labeled the Unsub. Until the journal, the Bureau had assumed Robin Hood was a man. That they were dealing with a female, put an entirely new slant on the profile. The journal turned things upside down. Robin Hood was not like anything they'd encountered before.
They believed her to be a woman in her mid-to-late fifties, a college graduate, middle income, with a low to mid-level management job, probably divorced or widowed, who harbored a deep-seated resentment and jealousy of those in higher income brackets and those with higher-ranking professional positions. They further theorized that she would be average in appearance or possibly less and that her resentment of the "beautiful" people of the world could potentially exceed her envy of those in positions of power or wealth.
John disagreed, but he wasn't sure if that was based on professional objectivity. He would never admit it aloud, but something about Robin Hood really got to him. When he read about her escapades, he didn't get the impression she was a bitter or jealous woman. There was too much life in her, too much enthusiasm, curiosity, and humor. And there was also a boatload of sensuality and uninhibited sexuality. That didn't spell "I can't get a date" to him.
He'd thought about her so much that he had come to develop a real hard-on for her. While his other male friends fantasized over the latest supermodel or actress, John spent more lonely nights imagining Robin Hood than he cared to admit even to himself. Many a night he'd masturbated to fantasies of her.
Which, he realized, was a sad testament to his sex life. He consoled himself with the excuse that an FBI agent focused on his job had little time for a social life, much less an active sex life. John knew that was a lame excuse, but it was all he had, and so he clung to it during those long nights when self-doubts rose to rob him of sleep.
And unless he got some solid leads or figured out something from this damn diary, sleepless nights were going to be a permanent part of his life. Along with professional failure.
John polished off his beer and turned his attention back to the journal.
As you may have figured out by now, my illustrious career began with what I like to call the "Buff in the Rough" caper. All artists tend to be sentimentally attached to their first creation, and in that respect, I'm no different. It may not have been the most elegant of my creations, but after all, I was a newbie.
I got my idea, as I mentioned earlier, from the media in a little tale called Smiley v. Citibank. Okay, all you law enforcement folks, run to your computers. If the FBI doesn't have this in its database, then they are woefully inadequate in listing the real criminals in our country. And if that's the case, use Google, or take a course in American History, circa the 1990s.
Anyway, before 1978, there were thirty-seven states that capped interest rates and fees on credit cards for the customers in their states. Most were at less than 18 percent APR. But two court cases effectively invalidated these state usury laws. The first case was in 1978, Marquette v. First Omaha Service Corp and the second was Smiley v. Citibank in 1996.
In short, Marquette held that national banks could charge their credit card customers the highest allowable interest rate allowed in the bank's home state, as opposed to the customer's home state. Now what this did was have major banks move their "home" to states like Delaware and South Dakota where there were no usury ceilings on rates.
Smiley effected the same outcome for fees, which, like interest rates, were originally regulated at the state level. Before Smiley, late fees averaged sixteen dollars. After Smiley, it was thirty-two or more. Not much to be Smiley about for millions of Americans.
Now at the same time the credit card companies were being given the legal right to stick it up our collective ass, if you will, they were also approving massive amounts of credit cards with high credit limits to people who would never be able to repay the debt if they used the credit limits they were given.
But many of them did, and that started a snowball from hell that had this country seeing in the 1990s a historical all-time high record in the number of cases of bankruptcy being filed.
Obviously, I could go on at length about this situation, but the gist of it is, people got in trouble and the deeper in debt they got, the higher their interest rates climbed, making it impossible for them to make their monthly interest payments on their credit card debt.
It really pissed me off. Yeah, I was all too aware it was decades ago, and maybe I was looking at a case of "too little, too late," but I had what you might call a "hard on" over it and wanted to get back at big banking. Look at the way they had screwed people over and gotten away with it. They'd never see it coming. The grass was well established on the graves. They'd won.
It was high time someone made them pay, and who better than me? Thus, was born Buff in the Rough.
John shifted in his chair and paused to look out over the lights of the city. He didn't believe for a minute that the Hood, a shortened version of "Robin Hood" as she was called in the Bureau, was in her mid-fifties. Yes, he knew the profilers were good at their jobs, and yes maybe he was wrong and was letting this insane attraction blind him. But in his gut, he knew he wouldn't believe it until he was face-to-face with her and saw it for himself.
The only thing keeping him from unquestioning certainty was the timeline. For her to be of an age that fit his fantasies, she would be mid to late thirties
, and that would mean she'd been just a child during the early '90s, and therefore all her information would have to been obtained from old articles about that time.
Following that thread of thought, it seemed unlikely she would feel so impassioned about events that were little more than words on a page to her. John rubbed at his eyes, then blew out a breath. There were times he wished he'd never been assigned this case.
Hell, if he was honest, sometimes he felt it'd been a mistake to leave the DIA, Defense Intelligence Agency. That thought prompted a memory, one he'd tried to forget for over five years. John reached for his phone, which lay on the table beside him and placed a call. It was answered on the second ring.
"What's up, bro?"
"How's it hangin', Linc?"
"You know, it's all good. So again, what's up?"
John paused before answering. Lincoln Shaw was his partner at the DIA. Over the years they'd seen a lot, shared exciting and dangerous times. Their last mission cost three other operatives their lives. It was the straw that'd broken the camel's back for John, and he walked. Right into a position with the FBI.
Linc stayed. They didn't really talk about that mission anymore, but the bond between them remained strong, and it was Linc he'd call when John needed a secure and trusted sounding board.
"This case bugs me. On several levels."
"Still working the Robin Hood case?"
"Yep."
"Talk to me."
"I think the profilers are wrong."
"Because?"
"Call it a gut reaction."
"Well, I'd trust your gut over their assessment, if that helps."
"It does."
"What does your gut tell you to do?"
"Work if from my own angle."
"Then do it."
"It's not always that easy."
"Sure, it is. It's what we've always done."
"And that sometimes exacts a high price."
"You run the risk of that no matter what course of action you choose."
"You got that right. So, when're you coming to DC for a visit?"
"When are you coming home for one?"
John chuckled. "I keep forgetting you're in Cotton Creek now. Does anyone there suspect your gig there is just a cover?"
"What makes you think it is?"
This time John's laugh was heartier. "Yeah, right."
"I've gotten to know your Grandma."
That shocked John. "Why?"
"She lives next door to my brother and his family. They're close. She's a nice lady."
"You mean when she's not busy being the town gossip?"
Linc chuckled. "She and those Red Hat gals do love to gossip, but she has a good heart. She's been very nice to my brother's family. You should come to visit her, John. She misses you, and she's not getting any younger."
"Are you sure this is Linc Shaw I'm talking to? Getting soft in your old age, buddy?"
"You wish. And it's not soft when it's family. Think about it."
"I will."
"Okay. Gotta go. There are some ladies at my door."
"It's good to know some things never change."
"Shows what you know. Don't be a stranger, partner. Talk soon."
"Yep."
The line went dead, and John put the phone back on the table. For a few minutes, he thought about what Linc said. He really should visit his grandmother. John's father was career Army and was killed in action before John was born.
His mother raised him for the first eight years of his life, then hooked up with a man several years her junior who had no desire to have a kid around. So, Joanne, his mother, dumped him at her mother's house and drove away.
From that day, onward, Netta Bloom, his grandmother, raised him. He had no complaints. She was fair and kind, and loved him. But she wasn't his mom, and she refused to find any fault with what her daughter did. That rankled John his entire life.
Maybe it still did, but not as much, and Linc was right. He needed to get home to see her soon. He hadn't visited since two Christmases past.
Thoughts of the Hood intruded, once more dominating his thoughts. He couldn't help but admire the Hood's indignation and her desire to change the system. John believed she was sincere about that even if the profilers didn't. He didn't support her methods, but could still respect her for caring enough to try and make a difference.
Red alert, his inner voice prompted, and he reminded himself for what was sure to be the hundredth time that the Hood wasn't a folk-hero but a criminal. Why was it getting so damn hard to think of her that way? And why did he get a raging hard-on every time he thought about her?
You're fucking insane is why, he mentally answered his own question. Rubbing at his eyes, he rose to go back inside the apartment. He grabbed another beer from the refrigerator and headed back to the balcony.
From her secure vantage point, she watched as he reclaimed his seat on the balcony and tipped the beer bottle up for a long drink. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. After a few minutes she thought he'd drifted off to sleep, but then his hand moved to his groin, drawing her attention to the evident bulge.
Excitement flared bright and hard inside her, making her wet and her pulse rate increase. As she watched him readjust his erection, she imagined it was her hand on him, squeezing him through the thin fabric of the low-slung cotton pants he wore. Of freeing him from the confines of those pants and feeling him throb in her hand as she stroked him to within an inch of orgasm.
Soon, she promised herself. From her months of surveilling him, she was confident that despite his professional stance, personally, he had as bad a case of lust for her as she did for him. All that remained for her to discover was whether his hard-on superseded his devotion to the job. In short, what did he want more? To take her in—or take her? Depending on what happened tonight, she'd have the answer. Despite the titillating action taking place on that far balcony, she couldn't stay and watch. She had a very important errand to run.
After setting the digital camera connected to the telescope to record, she grabbed her shoulder bag and headed out into the night.
Chapter Three
Washington, D.C.
John considered going to bed and taking care of business. He was rock hard and horny. But that would almost be anti-climactic. Despite knowing exactly what the journal contained, he had to reread it again. Adjusting to get more comfortable, he returned his attention to her words.
In order for Buff in the Rough to succeed, I needed a high-level stooge, someone with access and clearance. It took forever to locate, investigate, and select the perfect candidate. Once I knew my target, the rest was a picnic.
I made first contact with him on the golf course of a prestigious country club. While I'm quite adept at the game and enjoy playing a round now and then, I didn't even bother to play the front nine. What I wanted resided on lucky number 13.
I had to plead a twisted ankle and let a couple of parties play through before my target appeared. As soon as I spotted him, I pulled my cart closer to the tee box. As his cart stopped behind me, I got out of mine and walked around to the back where my rented clubs were stored. I saw him checking me out, just as I had hoped. With my new tousled auburn wig and quite an expert makeup job, topped with colored contacts, I hardly recognized myself. But I'd taken no chances of revealing anything of my true identity. I'd even had my privates completely waxed to prevent my true hair color from being revealed.
My target, who I'll call Jack to protect his identity, exited his cart. "Playing alone?" he asked.
"Unfortunately," I pouted. "I was supposed to have a lesson today, but the course pro called in sick, so I thought I'd get in a round just to practice. How about you? Are you waiting for the rest of your party? I can let you play through. I'm afraid I'm pretty slow."
"No, no," he countered, his eyes glued to my braless chest inside the tight white top I'd worn beneath my golf shirt. "As a matter of fact, I'm alone today, too. I was supposed to be p
laying in a party of four, but none of the others showed up."
"Sorry to hear that. You can still play through if you want."
"No, you go ahead. I don't mind waiting."
"Well, okay, if you're sure."
"Positive."
I gave him a smile, grabbed my driver, and approached the tee box. Thanks to the very short skirt I'd slipped on after leaving the clubhouse, when I bent over he was rewarded with a bird's eye view of my thong-clad ass.
I addressed the ball, swung the club, and missed entirely. "Damn!" I groused with another pretty pout. "I just can't get the hang of this."
"Maybe I can help." He literally jumped forward with the offer.
"You sure you wouldn't mind?"
"My pleasure." He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me, positioning my hands on the club with his on top. I suppressed a grin when he pressed a little tighter than necessary up against my backside.
"Now remember, let your left arm do the work. Don't push with your right. A nice smooth swing and keep your eye on the ball."
He went through the motion with me twice. Each time before the swing, I wiggled my ass against his groin as if getting my position. The second time I detected a definite bulge pressing against me.
He seemed hesitant to move away, but I assured him that I had it, so he stepped back and with beautiful precision, I swung, connected, and hit a perfect slice right into the rough.
"Darn!" I daintily stamped my foot in pretend frustration.
"It's not so bad," he consoled me.
"But I'll never find my ball in all that!" I whined.
"Don't worry, we'll find it. You did just fine."
"You are just so sweet," I cooed.
Jack tee-ed up and sliced his drive too. "See?" he grinned. "It happens to all of us."
