The Widow (Federal Hellions Book 1)

by Gray Gardner

  The Widow

  Federal Hellions Book 1

  Gray Gardner

  Blushing Books

  ©2017 by Blushing Books® and Gray Gardner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Gray Gardner

  The Widow

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-61258-535-2

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61258-579-6

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Contents

  What’s Inside

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  1. Colombian Jungles and Martini Lunches

  2. New Associations

  3. Come and Take It

  4. Curious Encounters

  5. Library Crimes and High Times

  6. Problems and Punishment

  7. On the Prowl

  8. An Interesting Twist

  9. Epiphanies and Panthers

  10. Revealing Slash, Interns, and Jesus

  11. Death by Snow War

  12. Big Fish and Black Silk

  13. Spying Eyes

  14. Off Sides

  15. Stupid Intelligence

  16. Covet the Notepad, Not the Writer

  17. Little Pearls of Prudence

  18. Sacrifice the Fed

  19. Escape to the Empty Grave

  20. You Found Me

  Gray Gardner

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  Blushing Books

  What’s Inside

  Jane frowned when he pulled the back of her t-shirt up and she felt his warm hand stretch around her waist and squeeze tightly. When his other hand reached into the waistband of her leggings and began peeling them down she resumed her struggling.

  “Wait, Conrad, wait!” she cried, sounding a little too desperate to her own ears. She felt the coolness of the air in the room and realized he’d gotten the leggings halfway down her thighs in an instant. He didn’t say anything. Oh God, was he just staring at her?

  He bit his lip and mumbled an almost silent curse as he stared down at her. He’d seen her with her skirt flipped up and white panties, but it had been totally different then. He’d been the impassive professor doling out a punishment. Now, now he groaned in physical pain as he gazed down at the creamiest pale skin he’d ever seen, framed in dark clothing pulled away in either direction, and the roundest, chubbiest cheeks that were so cute he could barely contain the erection pushing through his pants.

  “Please wait,” she said in a softer voice. “This doesn’t feel very grown-up.”

  “My students get spanked over their underwear,” he said, lifting his right heel up and catching his breath as she slid forward, her backside pushed higher. Those pink Wellingtons swung around and it endeared her even more to him. Her soft, nearly bare lips peeked out from between her legs, though he was pretty sure she wasn’t very aware of that as she waited for her first spanking without the protection of any clothes. “My naughty little girlfriend gets spanked on her bare bottom.”

  Jane squeezed her eyes shut out of both embarrassment and anticipation, but when his hand smacked down again and again she discovered a few things. He’d been right about it not hurting all that much; it certainly hurt a little. She was feeling better about having hurt him as he told her it was all going to be over soon and they would get a second chance to show one another how much they cared. She was so embarrassed, lying there over his lap with her pants pulled down and getting spanked, but she knew he’d never humiliate her; he’d never do this in front of anyone else. It was their secret which was a little thrilling.

  Which led to the final sensation she was experiencing as he lectured and smacked his hand down—the tightness and pulling in her groin that she’d only ever felt during sex as an orgasm was building up. Oh crap, that couldn’t be right, could it?

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  Colombian Jungles and Martini Lunches

  Don’t stop running.

  The thick, humid air clung to her already clammy hands. It should have smelled so fresh underneath that dark leafy canopy, but all she could smell was dampness. She inhaled as deeply as she possibly could as she pushed her legs to run harder through the dense vegetation. Wet leaves slapped against her body and branches scratched at her face as she maneuvered through the Colombian forest towards the landing strip.

  Her extraction point.

  Shots echoed and screeched around her, sending puffs of debris from tree trunks and shrubs. Though she had been trained to handle it, she hadn’t been shot at in a while and it was pretty unnerving. If she was going to die she wasn’t sure she was prepared for it to be at the hands of a Colombian drug cartel.

  Run.

  The camera slipped in her hands, but she managed to slip the leather strap around her neck as she ducked her head and changed her course to the east. It had to be close.

  She wouldn’t have been running at all if her moronic partner hadn’t blown their cover by activating their mobile satellite on the roof of their hotel in plain view of practically the entire city of Bogotá. Their position was immediately compromised, probably by the FARC, those damned cartel militants, and while her partner was immediately killed, she’d barely escaped with her life. She’d been on the run with no means of communication for what seemed like two days with six months of reconnaissance in that fake touristy camera around her neck
and absolutely no clue as to whether her extraction was initiated or not.

  She’d had time to alert the nearest field office, which was in Panama, grab the materials and shove them in the camera that was supposed to fool even the customs officials, and burn the hotel room which had been their base of operations before the FARC had stormed the hotel lobby.

  To top it all, she wasn’t exactly a full field agent. She worked in the field, yes, in many countries and out of plain sight. Her role was purely intelligence, though. She, and her dumb dead partner, had to collect information, relay information, and verify information for the Department of Justice.

  Then the cowboy field agents could handle the rest. And get all the credit.

  If the Department of Justice was a high school, she’d be a theater geek. Everyone saw her around, she could easily disguise herself with costumes, and she had to clear the stage when the popular class president swooped in to take charge and get rid of the bad guys, making the world a better place. She never got to see any real action because her life was all pretend. Invented.

  Until now. Now it was real as hell.

  Her partner had drawn attention to himself on the roof of their hotel and had taken one between the eyes by a sniper who most likely worked for one of the most feared drug lords in Central and South America. She’d seen it all on a satellite feed from her room as she monitored the caravan of black Escalades moving through town. And now she was on the run from the bullies, just like a theater geek.

  She’d gone undercover before as a student studying abroad, a secretary, and even a freaking librarian. Her boss had grown tired of her complaints and had let her take this job with the new transfer and go to Colombia as a couple. Now the new transfer was dead, and she was sloshing around in her own sweat in a jungle with God knows how many men chasing her.

  Her boots slapped onto pavement as the forest opened up and a C130 idled less than one hundred feet away on the sunlit-cracked concrete. Thank God for panic buttons, exit strategies, and global positioning satellites, she thought to herself, as she waved at the pilot and leapt into the rear of the slowly moving huge cargo plane. She snagged the MP5 that the two SEALs at the large cargo door threw at her and joined them in shooting cover fire at the emerging army from the trees with the counterterrorism weapon used mostly in hostage recovery operations. She was glad that she never made it to the hostage stage of her stay in this country and gladly fired the eight hundred rounds per minute out of the submachine gun.

  The cartel creeps were forced back and gave the Americans enough time to take off towards the north and head for Washington DC.

  “What’s your name?” one of the SEALs shouted, securing the door as she fell back onto a metal bench and tried to catch her breath. She didn’t want to assess what had just happened. She just wanted to focus so she wouldn’t freak out.

  She dropped the MP5 and held out her hand. “George,” she panted over the roar of the engines, shaking his hand and taking the water he’d offered. If she was a theater geek, the SEALs were the all-star jocks.

  “Sanders,” he nodded, sitting back. He sighed heavily and folded his arms across his broad chest. “Weren’t there supposed to be two of you?”

  “Yeah,” she huffed, shaking her head and closing her eyes. That was all she was at liberty to say to these guys. Unless she wanted to be the only expelled theater geek from the DOJ. All the jock SEALs were supposed to know was that they had to rescue some wayward feds in South America.

  She did everything by the book. No screw ups, no citations, just excellence. It was how she’d always lived her life. Not perfect, just orderly. She wasn’t surprised her partner had gotten himself killed, either. He was reckless, passionate, and went off of his gut feelings way too much. Not that she didn’t feel sorry for him or his family, but still, she wasn’t surprised.

  Not much surprised her these days.

  “You aren’t allowed to speak to me anymore, are you?” Sanders asked, staring at her with a knowing look. Usually he was the one withholding information because of clearance issues and a need-to-know basis. He figured she must have been pretty important.

  “Sorry,” she shrugged, looking surprised as he handed her a backpack.

  “Lie down, get some sleep. We’ve got a few hours before we get to Andrews.”

  She nodded her head in thanks and immediately fell asleep. She’d have to brief everyone when she got to Andrews Air Force Base about their botched intelligence assignment and barely successful escape. And she needed to be alert whenever she was around her boss. Not that her boss was a monster, but she hated showing inadequacies at work. She liked perfection.

  She wasn’t a freak about being perfect or anything. She’d gone to a state school and had kept a B average, but she’d become a CPA upon graduation because she liked the tidiness of wrapping up every day with nice and neat numbers. Perfection in the workplace was just something she strived for, that’s all.

  After explaining to her current boss how the last assignment was far from perfect, she’d probably spend the next year on desk duty until all of the dust cleared. Damned protocol. She was ready for a break, but not a demotion.

  The plane landed with a thud and she emerged onto American soil full of gratitude. She’d been out of the country for way too long, but that was her life. She had assimilated into Bogotá six months earlier after coming off a previous long assignment in Spain. The student abroad scenario. Her skin was darkened by the sun, and she’d died her dark red hair black and had worn brown contacts to assimilate better into the Colombian culture. Now the dark red was peeking out at her roots and her blue eyes squinted in the late afternoon sun.

  A Hummer picked her up and she jumped in, still wearing her sweat-stained green tank top and cargo pants. Her boots smelled a little mildewy and she was certain her body didn’t smell very nice, either, but her boss would want an update immediately.

  Her boss, the perfection fanatic. Paperwork haunted her future as she rode the elevator in her building.

  “Agent George?”

  She nodded as she stood in the doorway of the large, corner office. The downtown building housed many different federal agencies, with an underground connection to the Hoover Building, and while they all cooperated with each other there was still an underlying rivalry that everyone felt. High school. Her sector, a branch of the DEA’s Intelligence Division dedicated solely to deep undercover operations and which only a handful of people even knew about, was no different. She’d never gotten along with her partner who was moved from the local FBI to join her, and she really hoped no one thought that any of this was her fault.

  “Director Nelson,” she began, not sure where to start.

  “What in the hell happened?” her boss snapped, facing the window of the top floor office but not really watching anything outside. Her short brown hair curled perfectly under her ears. Her suit was heavily starched and barely shifted at every movement of her body. Nothing was ever out of place with her.

  Like Agent George, Nelson had moved over from the Financial Management Division to the Intelligence Division. Perfection seemed appropriate for gathering intelligence, and they were both much happier in their current positions. Nelson had even been George’s handler until the mass firing of almost every head in the DOJ had led to her promotion. New president and everything. Now handlers didn’t even really exist anymore, and George still reported to Nelson, only now Nelson had the title of Director, which fell somewhere beneath the Chief of Intelligence and many rungs above Agent George.

  “We were compromised.”

  “How?” the Director asked, turning and frowning as she looked her agent up and down.

  George shook her head and looked down. “Agent Diaz just…” She rubbed her head and sighed. She didn’t want his final act to be known as a stupid one, but she needed to tell the truth. She always needed to tell the truth.

  “Yes?”

  “Diaz thought he’d set up the remote satellite camera and call his s
ister,” George sighed, folding her arms across her chest.

  The Director nodded, stood still momentarily as she carefully calculated her next move, then walked to the door and opened it. “Thank you, Agent George. I have some phone calls to make now. You have reports to write, too.”

  “He was just checking to see if she’d had her baby yet,” George said, feeling she had to defend his actions for some reason.

  “Your compassion is noted, Agent George. Now I have some FBI imbeciles to decimate,” she said, a satisfied look on her face. Agency rivalries.

  “It was really just by chance that the FARC lieutenants were passing by in their caravan and spotted him.”

  “You sure it was them?” Nelson interrupted, perking up in alert. There were several cartels out that region, but the FARC was king.

  George shook her head. “No, but, it has to be—”

  Nelson grabbed her arm, which shut her up immediately, and leaned in as she lowered her voice. “Put it all in the report, Agent. And quit defending the asshole that got you into trouble. You’re lucky enough that I’m not paddling your ass right now for screwing up the recon.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” George replied, looking down with a little bit of shame.

  The door was shut in her face. She exhaled and hung her shoulders as she turned for the elevators. This was why she’d fought so hard to work alone. She couldn’t be responsible for other people’s mistakes, even though she felt like she was. Stupid Diaz. If she hadn’t grabbed the camera when she left him dead on the roof top, she wouldn’t have been able to come home. Forget the paddling that Nelson wanted to verbally deliver. Showing up back at the Justice Department empty handed was never an option. It was a hard choice but one she had to make in about one second. She wasn’t sorry, but she felt guilty anyway.