Page 1 of Bullet Unleashed

PROLOGUE

“Let me see your identification.”

The security guard stands short and is built like a bodybuilder. He has brown skin and is a man with a very hard to read feel about him. He eyes me with soulless brown eyes and I’m not sure if he wants my papers to verify my identity or to find my home address so he can murder me as I sleep. After a moment of intense silence, he waves me through the gate and I push a large gust of air out of my body. I’d been holding my breath as he checked my ID and as I pass him by I become acutely aware of how good breathing feels.

Pulling in front of the mansion, I hop out my car and leave it running. According to Jerry, the councilman wouldn’t be home at this time anyway, so there’s no need for me to park. The crime rate in Sance is low and consists more of personal crime than anything else. The kinds of crime where the victim knew their attacker in some way. Other than that, the people in this sleepy town go about their daily business with a “yes ma’am,” and a “no, sir” included with a “howdy y’all,” before they’d look at another person sideways with intent to harm. I have no fear leaving my car running as I duck inside the mansion, because there’s nothing to fear. A quick in-and-out to drop off the paperwork and I’ll be on my way.

Punching in the guest code Jerry gave me to use on the security pad, I grab the handle on the front door and swing it wide with a whistle. The inside of this place is even more expansive than the outside leads a person to believe and smells like heaven. Refined design with a large foyer entrance and wide staircases within, the entire living room is large enough to fit me and my mama’s home inside with room to spare. The package of papers I hold in my hand in a regular manilla folder is set on an end table inside the interior, and as I spin around to head on my way, something catches my ear. To my right is a large white door. With a measured gait, I move to right outside and press my ear to the wooden barrier. It’s what I thought it was — the moans of a woman being pleasured.

My cock doubles in size and presses on the inside of my jeans. Don’t do it, I caution myself while my hand moves to the doorknob. Don’t do it, I echo as I grip the cold metal and give it a gentle turn. Shit, I exclaim in my head as the knob gives way and the door opens with purposeful silence. This is such a bad idea.

I ease the door open wide enough to get a peek. Inside, a blond-haired woman is being roughly handled as a man is pounding into her from behind. Her moaning and his grunting raises my temperature high enough where my higher brain functions sink below my waist. I rub the bulge in my pants as an idea from the basest of my impulses pushes through the sexual arousal and dominates my immediate thoughts. Reaching in my pocket, I pull out the cellphone I’d later come to regret bringing with me, and press the record button to the video function of the camera.

Who hasn’t wanted to film someone else fucking?I ask myself, knowing there’s no one around to provide sense and reason to this terrible decision I’m in the middle of making. He’s having his way with her, and by all accounts, she’s loving every minute of it. Why shouldn’t I record this for future spank bank usage?

The man spins the blonde around by the fistful of hair he’s gripping, and to my delight, they’re now facing my direction. His head is back, and her tits are swinging as he continues to slam into her from behind. Both of them remain completely unaware of my voyeurism. To be on the safe side, I bring the door closer to its frame, leaving only a crack to continue my amateur filmmaking. The last thing I need is for these two to open their eyes and catch me in the act of catching them in the act. Sance is a small town with minimal crime, and I don’t want to be the reason the police department has to abandon their daily doughnut spree and actually make an arrest.

I zoom in through the camera’s lens and close-up on their faces. The woman I’d never seen before, but my blood grew cold as I stared at him. The man was all too familiar to me. It was the councilman. Marsh Jacobs was tall and built like a warrior with tan skin, dark blue eyes and short, straight, black hair. And he wasn’t supposed to be home, let alone banging a woman who was not his wife. I guess illicit affairs are par for the course in politics, but to see this happening up close is a thing I’m not prepared to process. I know I should stop the recording and back away, but another thought pops in my mind and I can’t bring myself to press pause, let alone the stop button. No, I keep watching and recording. Part of me is hoping he comes to his senses and returns to his dutiful wife. Another part of me is wondering how many strokes he has left before he pops.

She has her eyes closed and her moans tell a story of is ecstasy filling within her as the sound of his balls slapping her skin echoes throughout the room. It’s a symphony of sex and right before they crescendo, his hands race from her hips, up her back, to her neck. Her sounds go from moans to gasps and her eyes open as she begins to struggle against him. I do a double take as I alternate from the image on my screen to the reality of the room. He’s choking her.

She fights against him, but he’s behind her and stronger. They fall to the floor, scuffling as he continues to pump her from behind, and then a roar from his lips as he throws his head back.

And then there’s quiet.

My chest tingles as I shut the door and silently back away and through the entrance. As I speed down the road, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white, there’s only one thought I have.

I’m fucked.

My brain goes on autopilot and somehow guides me home. I park and run up the stairs till I reach my second-floor apartment and shut the door behind me. Turning the lock and securing the chain, I press my back to the door and try to regain my breathing.

I’m fucked, fucked, fucked! Why the hell was the councilman home and what do I do now?

The answer cuts through the fog in my brain like the high beams on a four-wheel drive vehicle on a cloudy, moonless night.

Copy. I need to make a copy of this video asap!

I pull my phone out of the right front pocket of my jeans and input the code to unlock it. Somewhere on here is the application which will allow me to upload the video to the file sharing site I use for all my important documents. I’d normally be able to go straight to it, but my hands are shaking so violently I’m surprised I can hold onto my phone.

There it is. Found it.

Before I can utilize the application, there’s a knock on my door. The suddenness of the sound jars me from my thoughts as the door vibrates against my back. I turn around and place an eye on the peephole to get a glimpse of who my unannounced visitor might be.

“Rusty? Rusty are you in there?”

It’s Robin. She’s the sexy brunette I’ve been trying to bang for a little over a year now, and my next-door-neighbor, but something’s wrong. She never knocks on my door.

“Rusty, can you open the door?” Her voice is high with a hint of strain. “I have to talk to you.”

I slide back. “Yeah, just a second.”

My balcony is a few feet from my front door. I move to the blinds and lift one just enough to peer out.

Two men built like tanks stand on either side of Robin as she’s outside my door. They have clipboards in their hands as if they’re from the utility company, but everything inside me screams “run”. A feeling I confirm when the one closest to me pivots and I catch the glimpse of the barrel of a gun under his clipboard.

“Rusty? Come on,” Robin says, her voice elevated. “I really need to talk to you.”

“Coming,” I call and hurry to my kitchen. It’s in the back of my apartment, and away from the front door. There’s a window above the sink.

I grab my blue and white jacket I left on my couch as I race by and begin to squeeze through the kitchen window, desperately trying to ignore my heartbeat thrashing in my ears. As I dangle from the windowsill, the crash of my front door as they break through it, verify what’s at stake.

My life.

There’s no choice. I release my grip and drop two-stories to the concrete below, agony shooting through my legs when my feet strike the ground.

I’m fucked.

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