Brooke expected that her portion of the settlement would amount to something in excess of $2.5 million. She had been the point person for the firm on the case, and the revenue sharing plan was set as to her percentage of any win. She stood to be very rich, very quickly.
As she went over the percentages of the various firm’s shares, she was seized with a sudden feeling that she was going to vomit. She thought perhaps her nerves were getting to her, or the sudden realization that she was about to be very wealthy. Regardless, she felt her mouth begin to water furiously as she felt the bile rising in her throat.
“Excuse me!” She barely managed to croak out before bolting from the room.
She ran to the nearest lady’s room, and barely got into a stall before she hurled the contents of her stomach violently into the toilet. She continued to retch and heave for several minutes, until finally her stomach was devoid of anything, and she began to feel slightly better.
Washing her face, she returned to the conference room.
“You OK?” Wade asked, seeming to be genuinely concerned.
“Yeah, I guess my breakfast didn’t agree with me,” Brooke explained.
“I’ll say. You look like crap. You want to take the rest of the day off?” Wade asked. “It’s not like you need the money!” His face broke into a broad smile.
“Yeah, if that’s OK, that would be great.” Brooke told him. “I really do feel like crap.”
“OK, see you tomorrow.”
Brooke left the office, got into her car and headed for home. She wondered if the nausea might be linked to her recently missed period. She was just a few days late, which wasn’t unusual. The stress of her job played hell with her menstrual cycle, causing it to be off sometimes weeks at a time.
Once home, she got out a home pregnancy test that she had stashed for just such an occasion. She peed on the stick, and waited for the results.
A few minutes later, almost afraid to look, she turned on the light and saw the pink “+” sign in the window of the tester. She was pregnant.
She smiled, knowing that in addition to suddenly being rich, she was ready to spring her trap on Wade, and get her measure of revenge for his blackmailing her.
Chapter Nine
“Wade, do you have a few minutes?” Brooke asked Wade one morning a few weeks later.
“”Sure, come on in.”
Brooke entered Wade’s office, closing the door behind her. She sat down in the chair in front of his desk.
“What’s up?” His voice was almost indifferent.
“I’m pregnant.” Brooke kept her voice calm and very matter-of-fact.
Wade looked as if someone had hit him in the head with an axe handle.
“What? But you’re on birth control!” he sputtered furiously.
“Yeah.” Brooke lied. “But only abstinence is 100% effective. And I don’t think that’s your strong suit.”
“Are you sure it’s mine?
“Wade, don’t insult me. I’ve only been with you since Vegas. It’s yours.”
Wade sat silently, as if pondering what to do.
“But I figured you might try to deny it, so I had a DNA test done. Here are the results. It matches perfectly to a DNA sample of yours,” Brooke told him, heading off his objections at the pass.
“How the hell did you get a DNA sample from me?” he fumed.
Shortly after learning she was pregnant, Brooke had consulted a doctor about confirming paternity. He explained that he could match a DNA sample with a sample of amniotic fluid and rule out or confirm paternity. She provided him with hairs taken from the hairbrush in Wade’s private bathroom suite in his office. After getting an amniocentisis, the results soon came back confirming that there was less than 1 in 19 billion probability that anyone else could be her baby’s father.
“I took it from your hairbrush in your office. That was easy.” Brooke told him.
“So why don’t you get an abortion,” Wade voice was menacing.
“No.” Brooke’s response was simple and measured.
“But I have a proposal that will make this easy on you, and your wife will never have to know,” Brooke voice was calm and measured, as if presenting a legal offer in a mediation.
“Go on,” Wade said, trying to keep his voice calm.
“Promote me to Senior Partner, and let me keep my job with the firm. I continue to draw salary, regular cost of living increases like everyone else, and full benefits. That’s about it.”
“We can probably make that happen,” Wade said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. I won’t be coming to work anymore.” Brooke maintained a level tone, knowing that Wade was about to explode.
“You want to be promoted, and draw salary for a job you aren’t even going to do?” Wade exploded. “Are you fucking nuts?”
“Honey, look at the alternatives,” Brooke explained sweetly.
“With my plan, what I’ll call Option One, you get to claim my salary as a business expense and not pay taxes on it, along with all of the other costs of my employment. It’s really a sweet deal compared to option two.”
“Which is?” Wade leaned back in his chair, sensing something far more unpleasant.
“I sue you for paternity after the baby is born, which I won’t have any trouble proving. After all, DNA doesn’t lie. I’ll get state standard child support which is 20% of your income. Which, as you know, you’ll have to pay me after you pay the income taxes on it. With the settlement for the class action that just came in, this is a real bad time to get 20% of your income calculated by the court.”
Brooke paused briefly, then continued.
“You’ll also have to provide health insurance for the child. Plus your wife will find out, and probably dump your ass, and you won’t be able to continue to live in the lifestyle to which you have become accustomed.”
“You see with option one, I promise to keep my mouth shut. Your name will not go on the birth certificate, unless you want it to. Which I assume you don’t?”
“No, I don’t.”
Brooke surveyed Wade’s glowering expression, then smiled broadly at him. He stared at her with such intensity and hatred that she almost laughed out loud at having bested him so thoroughly.
“So you see, dear,” Brooke voice positively dripped sweetness. “Option One is really much better for everyone involved. Don’t you think?”
“I’ll never be able to get you promoted to Senior Partner. The other partners will never go along with it.”
“Oh honey!” Brooke continued her fake sweetness. “We both know that the partners in this firm do exactly what you tell them to do. Just tell them you have no choice. They’ll do it.”
Wade stared at her intently, then turned his chair and looked out the window at the Dallas skyline. His office overlooked the scenic new Calavera Bridge over the Trinity River.
After what seemed like an interminable wait, he turned back and faced her.
“I got to hand it to you. You handled this one like a real pro.” His face sported a thin smile.
“You’re right,” Wade continued. “Option One is much better for everyone involved.”
Brooke nodded in agreement.
“It’s a deal.” Wade told her.
“Goodbye Wade,” Brooke voice was low, nearly silent.
“Bye Brooke.”
Brooke turned and walked from the office with a satisfied grin on her face.
Two million dollars richer, and with a well-paid job that she hated, but now didn’t even have to show up for, Brooke had neatly turned the tables on the boss who had blackmailed her for sex. Now she looked forward to moving from the pressure-cooker environment of the law firm and into the somewhat easier life of a stay-at-home mom
And being newly rich didn’t hurt matters either.
Brooke smiled broadly as the left the offices of the law firm for the last time and prepared for her new life.
The End
Breeding The Exchange Student
Chapter One
“LT?” The voice came over the field phone system quietly. The speaker pronounced it as two letters.
The U.S. Army officer, wearing the gold bar of a Second Lieutenant, picked up the handset and keyed the push-to-talk switch. At 6’2” and solidly muscled, the Lieutenant was an imposing figure. His hair was dark and closely cropped.
“Yeah, Cox.”
“Sir, I’m picking up heat signatures on the thermals. Looks like at least a dozen of them, moving up the wadi.”
“Roger,” the Lieutenant answered crisply into the handset.
The young officer turned to the older man at his side. Wearing the same desert camoflauge uniform of the U. S. Army, the older man sported the three-up, two-down chevrons of a Platoon Sergeant. The sergeant had a long, puckered scar running from his ear to the corner of his mouth on the left side of his face, twisting his face into a perpetual scowl.
“Sergeant Mills, why don’t you go take charge at OP1. I’ll go down to the position overlooking the wadi. I suspect that‘ll be their main effort.”
“All right, sir. On the way,” the sergeant turned to duck out of the platoon headquarters bunker, then stopped and turned back to the Lieutenant.
“And sir,” he said in a gravel-filled voice raspy from too many cigarettes and years of hard living. “Give ‘em hell!”
“We will,” the lieutenant said. His voice carried an air of quiet confidence. The sergeant turned and vanished into the night.
“Cox, I’m coming your way. ETA two minutes. Make sure you don’t shoot me,” the lieutenant whispered into the microphone.
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant detected a slight snicker from the other end.
Second Lieutenant Robert McCandless took the M9 Beretta 9mm pistol from his holster, and operated the slide to load a round into the chamber. Then he picked up his Colt M4 Carbine, pulled the charging handle back to its limit, and then let it go. He heard the satisfying sound of a 5.56mm NATO round slamming into battery. He thumbed his selector switch onto safe, ducked his head to avoid konking his head on the timber over the door of the bunker, and headed outside.
McCandless, known as Bob to his friends, and Bobby to his family, took in the cool, crisp air outside. He marveled at its fresh crisp smell. It was a good bet that it wouldn’t smell like this for long. Soon, the air would be filled with the cordite smell of fired rounds, exploding ordnance, and the ozone smell unique to spilled blood on the battlefield.
Kandahar Province in Afghanistan, where his platoon of U.S. Army Rangers was stationed, was universally considered by U.S. Troops to be a real shithole. If it wasn’t exactly the asshole of the world, it was within a mile of two of it. The people were desperately poor, and petrified of the Taliban that lurked in the area. While most of the inhabitants were not in favor of the Taliban, they were sufficiently cowed by the frequent murders of Afghans known to support the NATO forces.
However, one Afghan had risked his life earlier to send in a note, written in nearly illegible Pashtun that warned of a Taliban attack on his perimeter tonight. Although the informant didn’t know the exact time, he said that the attacking force would have over 200 fighters making an all-out effort to overrun his platoon, which had been whittled down by casualties to a bare 28 men out of the 40 he was authorized.
McCandless walked in a crouch toward Sergeant Cox’s position, a fortified bunker on a promontory overlooking what his men simply called, “the wadi.” A deep ditch or gully, it was the likely site of any main attack on his position as the rest of the area was simply too rugged to make an organized attack over. The wadi offered a fairly wide and fast path into the position, and McCandless had his men prepare accordingly.
Reaching the bunker, Bob ducked in. Inside the bunker was twelve of his Rangers. Sergeant Cox was peering out with a large night vision scope. All of the men wore night vision goggles on their helmets, ready to be swung down into position to enhance their night vision. Right now their sets were swung upward, and turned off to save precious battery power. Having your batteries go dead in a firefight was a predicament he didn’t care for his men to get into, and he had trained them accordingly.
“What do ya got, Sergeant Cox?” Bob asked.
“At least twelve, sir. That’s just what I’ve seen so far. They’re moving real careful, though. Going from rock to rock. You’ll only see a few at a time.” Cox was a good trooper, and one of his ablest leaders. He was sharp and had a very analytical mind. He was also an ace with an M4, dropping targets at 300 meters with ease, something most men, including Bob, struggled to do on a regular basis.
“What do you think, Cox? Let ‘em get close and then let ‘em have it with the Claymores?” Bob asked the sergeant.
Cox looked up from his scope and grinned.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Cox chuckled softly. “That’s gonna get real fuckin’ ugly in a hurry.”
“OK, tell Sergeant Mills that that’s our plan,” Bob ordered.
Cox picked up the handset of his field phone and spoke into it, with his hand cupped around his mouth to stifle the noise and keep from alerting the approaching enemy.
Bob picked up the night vision scope and looked outside the bunker. Just as Cox had told him, he saw swiftly darting figures moving from rock to rock up the wadi. The view in the night vision scope was crisp and precise, but everything, including the people and the terrain showed up in various shades of green. The warmer the object, the brighter the green. The Taliban fighters, cloaked in heavy robes and turbans glowed brightly.
“About five minutes I’d say,” Bob whispered so his men could hear. “Go ahead and turn on your night vision, and take your positions.” Without so much as a whisper, his men clicked on their night vision devices and swung them down over their eyes. The only sound he heard was the soft clicks of the buttons. They began to file out and take up firing positions around the bunker, including serving two crew-served weapons, a Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW), and a venerable World War I era M2 Browning .50 caliber machine gun. Despite its age, the M2, commonly referred to as the “50 cal” was the backbone of their defense, and its age belied its sheer effectiveness as a defensive weapon.
“Sir, Sergeant Mills reports fighters closing on his position too. At least 20 of them,” Cox whispered.
“Shit!” Bob thought to himself. Maybe the enemy intended to make their main effort on the other side of the camp. But on the brink of having the attack break over him, it was no time to switch forces. He suspected Sergeant Mills could handle his end of things. He was the toughest son-of-a-bitch Bob had ever met, and had his complete respect.
Bob and Sergeant Cox took turns passing the scope back and forth as the Taliban fighters continued to move forward. Finally, it appeared that most of the hapless Afghans had entered the kill zone Bob and his men had waiting for them.
Bob picked up the handset and keyed the mike.
“All stations, stand by for the Claymores, and then fire at will,” he whispered into the handset.
“Let ‘er rip, Tater Chip!” Bob whispered to Sergeant Cox. Cox’s mouth twisted up in a grin. Then he clicked the handle of the Claymore mine detonator.
A roaring explosion ripped the air. A blast of air blew back from two of the mines in Bob’s direction. He felt the concussion and the accompanying blast of hot air that struck him in the face as the kill zone was ripped apart by the mines.
From each corner of the kill zone, an arc of over 700 ¼-inch stainless steel balls flew into the kill zone, propelled by a large charge of C4 explosive. Sergeant Mills, the old hand, had showed them how to set off multiple mines in what he called a “daisy chain.”
From the brief flash of light caused by the explosion of the C4, Bob saw Taliban fighters literally being blown apart, with human body parts flying into the air as the mines disintegrated the lead element of the Taliban attack.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Cox exclaimed, his mouth hanging open in shock.
Above their heads, he heard the SAW open up in a staccato rapid fire, lacing the kill zone with 5.56mm rounds. It was followed in short order by the slower but deeper roar of the 50 cal as half inch diameter copper jacketed rounds slammed into the kill zone and its occupants.
Bob picked up the microphone to his Mobile Subscriber Equipment, the Army Equivelent of a cell phone. On it, Sergeant Cox had the local artillery unit on standby.
“Fire the illum!” Bob ordered crisply. Set on a preregistered target and waiting for the order, Bob heard the boom of howitzers in the distance. Seconds later, magnesium flares lit up in the sky, bathing the entire area in an eerie glow.
Flipping their Night Vision goggles up out of the way, Bob’s men began picking off the exposed targets as they scrambled for cover. His men, especially his machine gunners quickly disposed of two dozen or more Taliban fighters that had survived the Claymore strike.
“Take that, motherfuckers!” Cox yelled as he deliberately targeted one fleeing Afghan after another.
Bob’s mouth curled into a satisfied grin.
Then to his horror, he heard a roar. He spun just in time to see OP 1, containing his platoon sergeant and several of his men vanish in a series of explosions as artillery and mortar rounds engulfed the bunker.
“Oh shit!” he mumbled just loud enough for Cox to hear.
Cox looked up at him, a shocked look on his face, waiting for Bob to give him orders.
Chapter Two
“Wait for the barrage to lift. Nobody moves while they’re firing,” Bob said quickly. “And try to get Sergeant Mills on the horn.”
“Sergeant Mills?” Cox yelled into the handset.
“Yeah,” Mills voice came through, his laconic voice crackling over the speaker that Cox had turned on.
“Sitrep, over,” Cox used the military abbreviation that requested a situation report.
The Breeding Bundle, Vol. II Page 3
