Extreme Liquidation: Caitlin Diggs Series #2 Read online




  Published by Gary Starta

  Copyright 2007 Gary Starta

  Cover design by http://www.formatting4U.com

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author. Please contact the author at [email protected]. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For more information on the author and his works, please see http://www.GaryStarta.net

  Chapter 1

  She stared provocatively at him, beauty bordering upon obscene. Helpless, he returned her gaze, summoning courage between swallows of Jack Daniels.

  Homeland Security Director Greg Salinger theorized risk and chance from his corner seat at the bar. The flirtatious woman continued to stun him with charm and presence. Greg had spent the last fifteen minutes incorrectly assuming the woman represented the risk, unaware of his potential to present a threat to her.

  Greg Salinger weighed threats every day, assigning merit to them, all for the purpose of preserving life. For that reason, instinct told him the curvaceous invitation with sparkling indigo eyes would not represent a code red concern. Sure, she would pose a threat to his marriage—if his wife found out. That would rank at least a code yellow. But right now, Greg Salinger’s mind was far away from his domestic sparring partner, Carrie Salinger.

  Carrie had thrown Greg out of the house six hours ago after a heated disagreement. Whiskey and the promise of casual sex were effectively taking the edge off the guilt he should have been feeling. The inebriated security director was far off his game—letting emotion guide him instead of reason. And like any other man, Greg Salinger had been programmed to respond to visual cues. He had fallen quite hard; his definition of beauty had entered the room.

  The gorgeous stranger now sitting across the room wailed a silent siren for him the moment she entered the bar. He never saw her walk in, yet he had felt her entrance. The room had become electric with her presence. Her voracious leer ate at his conscience. Her pursuit relentless, she presented the perfect package, touting the kind of looks Greg assigned to Hollywood vixens or Victoria’s Secret models. Legs crossed, she tapped her red stiletto shoes against one another in a playful game of dare. He had already committed this alluring figure to memory−enough so that he could still see her, even if he closed his eyes. He broke the glance momentarily to stare at his drink, giving morality one last chance to save him.

  A small voice in the back of his mind told him this was crazy. He never considered stepping out on his wife of fifteen years. Today, this beautiful bombshell beckoned him. Her eyes simply said come hither and nothing more, promising no negative consequences. The lure of casual sex finally sent Greg over the edge. He would take the beauty in the elegant red cocktail dress—without remorse, without further evaluation. He ventured over to her barstool seat. His hand slightly shaking, he reached for hers. His mouth, slightly parched from alcohol and anticipation, could barely register a sound above the din of conversation. Fortunately, his offer of a drink was sufficient enough to earn him a stool beside her.

  At first, he felt sheepish. How could a middle-aged man, sporting white hair around his temples, crow’s feet about his eyes and a slight paunch hope to win such a fresh and shiny prize? That final ebb of reasoning harmlessly flowed away when she put her right hand on his left thigh. She introduced herself as Sharon, took a sip of her cosmopolitan, and laughed raucously as if she heard a great joke. He asked what was so funny. She offered a pearly white grin to seduce and disarm him. When she found him staring back at her with the innocence of a teenager, she commented about his wrinkled white shirt. Greg was too occupied to catch the contempt in her voice.

  “What have you been up to? Did mommy let the cat out to play?” She put her drink on the bar and began smoothing a wrinkle on his shoulder, keeping her right hand firmly upon his leg.

  His mind raced. Had he interpreted her correctly? Was this woman willing to overlook his wedding band? Greg glanced about the bar nervously, half expecting his wife to jump out at him with a camera. Not one eye in the bar was on them. The patrons were all watching a post-season football game on the bar’s flat screen TV. They shouted as the receiver caught the ball for a touchdown. Fully aroused, Greg turned his eyes back to Sharon’s, where he became locked in her gaze. Her deep blue orbs silently told Greg he had scored as well.

  Greg took her hand, attempting to formulate a spontaneous game plan. Their chemistry desperately required private confines. He thought better of proposing the hotel room he had booked. Carrie might show up. It wasn’t the first time he had sought shelter from her storm. Moreover, Salinger believed his ever-suspecting better half could easily deduce he would pick his regular hotel, the Hilton, located three miles from their Washington, DC estate. Previous charges had been itemized on a bill Carrie had electronic access to.

  Lust eventually made the decision for him. It led Greg out of the bar, hand in hand with a woman he had barely spoken to. He used his free hand to dig his car keys from his pants pocket. Sharon used her free hand to feel his heart.

  “Vroom, vroom, baby ,” she said, a wicked gleam in her eye.

  Greg wheezed to catch his breath, full of anticipation, lust and fear.

  “How about I drive you back to your place?” he suggested.

  The sparkle in her eyes dulled when she answered. “I need to take my car, but you can follow me. I’ve had bad experiences with leaving my car in parking lots.”

  “I’m sorry,” Greg said. He didn’t even know why he was. He only knew he didn’t want to squander his good fortune. He waved to her as she entered her car.

  “I’ll follow you then.” He slurred his words as the alcohol was now taking a strong effect upon his speech center.

  Sharon nodded, turning the engine over. Her eyes quickly scanned the car for something she needed to retrieve there. She had to be prepared for any deviation in the game plan. It meant big money to her. The kind of cash she could use to generously support her methadone addiction. The man with the short-cropped black hair had given her two bags as an advance, but those would be gone within a week’s time. Then the withdrawals would come, followed by hell on Earth. She squinted, cursing the effects of the alcohol. She had to recall where she had left the box. . Her habit commanded her to find the object pronto.

  Rummaging through her glove compartment, a few panicked seconds elapsed before she could secure a small cube-like box. A sigh of relief followed. She could now focus on being Sharon again, or anything else it took to secure her payday. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Behind her sat her unwitting victim, wearing a face as harmless as a puppy.

  Salinger listened to voices in his head during the drive. They echoed off of one another from his intoxication. He hoped they would keep him driving in a straight line. Greg didn’t need a Breath test to tell him his blood alcohol content would put him behind bars if he were stopped. He be
gan to pray the ride would end soon, imagining the comfort of Sharon’s cozy, warm bed to lure him along. He knew he was a fish on a hook. Nothing short of the apocalypse would deter him from engaging in sex with the beautiful creature riding ahead of him in the blue Subaru. Finally, after countless checks in his rearview mirror, Salinger put his paranoia to rest. He parked his car behind Sharon, believing the hardest part of the night was over.

  Taking him by the arm, Sharon directed Salinger toward a set of concrete stairs leading to her apartment. She smiled, but did not speak. He directed his focus upon the steps and congratulated himself for not tripping. Cool night air sent a shiver down his back. It also cleared his mind enough to make a few deductions. Perceiving that Sharon lived in a duplex, Greg believed she was keeping quiet as a courtesy to her neighbors.

  He glanced at the mailboxes attached to the house as Sharon fumbled for her house keys. The sound of their footsteps had echoed loudly off a barren porch floor. No outside lights were on. The neighbors were either asleep or out for the night. Located between the two entrance doors were metallic plates bearing names. A street lamp beamed off of them, allowing Salinger enough light for inspection. The neighbor who lived in the left side of the house was listed first: Arnold Sawyer. The second nameplate confused Salinger. It listed the occupant as Alyssa Morgan. Again, the security official’s mind raced for a plausible explanation—an explanation solid enough to quiet his conscience for a night of steamy, hot sex.

  Maybe Alyssa was Sharon’s sister. The deduction did not satisfy Salinger’s investigative nature. His train of thought became derailed when Sharon forcibly pushed him into a black leather easy chair. The front door had led directly to a parlor. “Sharon” excused herself to the bathroom. She scurried to the right, down a short hallway. A door slammed behind her and water began to whoosh from a sink. His head spun slightly as he perused the room.

  He settled upon a darker reason for her deceit. Perhaps, she too, was hiding this rendezvous from a boyfriend or husband. Salinger took comfort in the fact he had not revealed his occupation to Sharon—Alyssa—or whoever this woman really was. The woman apparently did not keep up with the news as evidenced by her bookshelf. So far as he knew, she had not recognized him as a high-ranking official. Salinger decided to keep it that way. They would be nothing more than passing ships in the night.

  The water stopped. She yelled she would be “one more minute.” Salinger realized he would have to maintain control of his clouded mind if he hoped to come out of this affair unscathed. Life would continue as normal tomorrow, in all probability he would never see this woman again. He made a few mental notes in the few seconds of remaining solitude, resisting a reflex reaction to ask the woman about her career and living arrangements, he decided to only comment on what a nice apartment she had. It was a lie, but so was the entire evening so far.

  He had no voice to speak when she re-entered the parlor.

  Stark naked, she asked his permission to forego the usual formalities. “You know I have plenty of teddies I could wear, but you’d have them off me in a second. We both know what we’re here for anyway, don’t we, sugar?”

  Salinger nodded idiotically as if he were a mental patient, wearing the kind of smile reserved for simpletons or lunatics. He felt foolish, but decided to go with the flow. It would be much better to be someone else tonight anyway.

  She raised her right hand and wagged a finger at him.

  “I see your mind is still somewhere else, baby. What were you doing all this time? You should have been out of your clothes by now. But don’t worry, Sharon’s going to fix you a nice drink to ease your last nerve.”

  Her tone of voice disturbed him. Sharon referred to herself in the third person—if she even was Sharon. Greg thought she would have explained why she had used a phony name by now, laughing it off, attributing it to nerves. On the other hand, Salinger didn’t sense much anxiety in this woman. She probably hosted many “guests” in the past. Who was he kidding? Maybe “hosting” was her profession, yet she had not asked for a nickel of his money so far.

  She carried the drink over to him, diligently swaying every curve of her body to his advantage, to hypnotize him with her sex. His mind was racing in so many directions, he never even noticed where she had produced the drink from. Kudos to her; she was a pro at this. And at this moment, he was a butterfly in her net—or so it seemed.

  She put the drink into his hand, and fell to her knees in front of him. Unbuckling his belt, she left little mystery as to her intentions. He muttered the drink was appreciated, but he had enough. She stared at him, momentarily dropping her eyes to his crotch area. She silently intimated a world of pleasure, but first he must drink. He wondered about her persistence. Perhaps an alcoholic, the woman required a drinking buddy—not merely a sex buddy.

  “But I...” he said.

  “I insist,” she demanded, her tone dripping with dominance. He gulped the drink, scowling from the way the whiskey burned his throat.

  “Now it’s time to turn pain into pleasure.”

  Her purr of satisfaction left no doubt she was responding to his size. She had nearly taken him to orgasm when she abruptly stopped.

  “Come to my bed and give it to me good.”

  Salinger obeyed her wish without hesitation.

  They followed a short hallway into pitch darkness and into a bed. He slipped effortlessly inside of what his first girlfriend referred to as her ‘sugar walls.’ He could not remember the last time sex felt like this.

  When they were finished, he would thank this woman profusely for waking this feeling up in him.

  She moaned as if she were a porn queen. “Just keep it up, baby.”

  “I bet you dreamed of this, Sharon.”

  Salinger’s response surprised even himself. He had fallen into character quite nicely. It felt naughty and liberating to be someone else for the night.

  Consequently, he didn’t realize how much Alyssa was into character.

  In her mind, she prayed the drug would kick in. Her client told her to give it to him in a drink before sex. It would take effect in minutes. A few minutes came and went without noticeable consequence. Still, he thrust inside her with the strength of a bull—a red bull.

  Salinger’s next words were those of a mad man. He pulled out of her.

  “I’m onto you now, bitch. You thought you could ruin me, huh? Did she hire you?”

  She gasped in shock, her tone no longer dominant.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Please calm down.”

  “Carrie! Carrie!” He screamed the word at the top of his lungs. For some odd reason, he suddenly believed they were on camera, that Carrie had staged this to bust him.

  “That’s why she hired you, right? You’re a con artist. You’ve acted like this on camera before. You’re some phony bitch who gets her jollies busting unsuspecting men like me.”

  She couldn’t fathom why someone would want to transform this innocent looking puppy into a raging bull. But they did. Alyssa Morgan had been duped, promised easy money, and now realized she was seconds away from death if she didn’t act quickly.

  “This is not what you think. A man paid me to preoccupy you for a while, said it was in the best interest of my country. Honestly, I’d be the last person to be mistaken for a patriot. All I wanted was cash to support my habit.”

  As Salinger’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see her real hair sticking out from underneath her wig. He realized her breasts were far too perfect and round. They had been surgically augmented. Even her eyes appeared darker now, her piercing baby blues aided by color contacts.

  A small part of his conscience begged him to talk his way out of this. To leave the woman peacefully and deal with whomever this man was in good time.

  So he had been deceived. This woman was obviously fearful of him, taking great pains to hide her identity. Quite possibly she was a victim as well. If she were telling the truth...

  That’s when the drug com
pletely took over Greg Salinger’s brain....

  This was America. No one was telling the truth. He certainly had not, sadly coming to a realization he could no longer even trust himself anymore.

  The woman beneath him suddenly represented a walking, talking zombie.

  She was part of the problem, and needed to be eliminated.

  Rage forced him to wrap his hands around her throat. Her legs flailed in desperation. His mind instantaneously became clear and sharp as if he had never tasted a sip of booze. This was the right thing to do. He gripped her harder until her eyes bulged, then he relaxed.

  “This is too soft a death for you!”

  He pushed her off the bed onto the floor. She remained still, except for the heaving of her lungs. Shaking all over, Salinger got off the bed, and towered over his prey. He cursed himself for nearly making a fatal assessment. The foreplay revealed her true colors, finally betraying her as a code red.

  Alyssa lay face down and motionless on the floor, physically broken, but mentally alert. She realized this was for the best. This would be the last time her body would command her to feed its addiction. In seconds, she found herself lifted off the floor by two incomparably strong arms. They would take away her pain forever. She managed to whimper one last cry before her demise. The sound reminded her of childhood and innocence, both irretrievably lost to the dark underbelly of Washington, DC.

  He hurled her through the double hung window. Her upper torso cleared the shattering glass while naked legs braced against the steel frame, offering a final homage to her duality. Minutes later, the crazed security official wandered outside to the back of the house, where he found her decapitated head. He held it up to the stars, pronouncing his sick conquest.

  “You see this? You can’t get me! Who else wants to try?”

  Salinger finally fell silent as only a beagle baying two blocks away seemed interested in his challenge. He hurled the head into a nearby bush with his words ringing in his ears. “Who else wants to try? Who else wants to try Greg Salinger on for size?”