|
|
|
Project 30, Chapter 1 |
| Written by Project 30 | |
| Wednesday, 06 August 2008 | |
Chapter 1 - Phil Neale
Phil Neale had walked through the doors of the Grosvenor Victoria Casino at around six-thirty. His job in IT hardware and software systems took him all over the UK, and this week's order tally would take him way over the top of his target once more. He was, without doubt, Merrill Barton McCloud's top earner in the ruthlessly competitive field of systems design and implementation. The good news just didn't seemed to end at the moment, and his regular sales trips, all on expenses, never raised an eyebrow at head office. He was good, and he knew it. More to the point, Merrill Barton McCloud knew it too, and that had been the reason for the recent hike in his remuneration package; the money just kept on rolling in.
In the three hours that he had been sitting at the Blackjack table, his pile of chips had grown steadily and now stood at a very respectable £250,000. He was not a compulsive gambler by any stretch of the imagination, more a keen amateur with a sharp eye and a good memory. He knew all the odds involved in the game and watched the cards with the concentration of an eagle stalking its prey. The house had changed the deck on a number of occasions in a vain attempt to break the cycle of his apparent good fortune, but to no avail. Other players had come and gone, but his attention was drawn eventually to the brunette sitting at the opposite end of the table.
He was aware that she had been looking at him for almost an hour as the hands played themselves out and fresh cards were dealt. Looking over the top of another winning set, he caught her smile and inclined his head almost imperceptibly; she picked up the gesture and made an obvious move to the bar. Cashing in his winnings he followed at a respectable distance and took up a position three stools away from her. A gesture to the barman had a Jack Daniels in his hand almost immediately and as he stood to remove his jacket, he caught a full-length glance at her for the first time.
He taste in women had never extended to the super models which now appeared as the icons for all young wannabes. She stood out as a beacon of 1960s womanhood. A Marilyn Monroe look alike in all but hair, she had the generous curves of the Hollywood star and the magnetism to match. His appreciative stare had not gone unnoticed and she abandoned her lonely perch and sashayed over to where he stood.
"Lonely place." She cooed.
He looked around at the crowded room and smiled back at her. An obvious ‘Come On' which he was not inclined to ignore. He knew that he was in good shape and this female clearly saw him as a welcome distraction.
"Sure is. Drink?"
Now that the opening gambits had been played, their conversation gradually turned to more personal subjects, and over the course of the next hour both had decided where the evening was going to end up. Her name was Stella and she was recently separated from her cheating husband of five years. Making their way to the reception desk, Neale collected his room key and they took the elevator to the third floor. Once inside the executive suite she was in his arms and pressed closer to his body than he could possibly have expected. Reaching around the back of her dress, he was suddenly denied by an impish smile as she disengaged from the clinch.
"Let's take this slow. Shower?"
This was going to be the night of all nights as she slid gracefully across the floor towards the bathroom, shedding garments as she went. The carefully choreographed dance was completed perfectly as the final item of clothing fell to the floor outside the shower cubicle. Standing transfixed, he watched her through the not so translucent glass panel as the water ran in ringlets down her well proportioned form. The application of soap to the tease increased his heart rate and he was just starting to disrobe when the strident tones of his mobile phone indicated that a text message had arrived. He was half inclined to ignore it, but something told him that this would be a mistake. Jenna, his secretary, would never send a text, choosing instead to call direct - a separate tone which he would have ignored. He reached into his inside pocket. The message header had him re-dressing quickly.
Damn! Now of all times. The text was clear. He must pack up and leave immediately. The tickets were ready for him at Heathrow and the flight would be boarding in one hour. He'd been approached by the StoriesVille Organization some nine months previously, but they'd never bothered him until now. His employer was not aware of his membership of the society and he preferred to keep it that way. Stella stepped out of the cubicle as he was about to depart, having left her a note with his mobile number on it.
"Going so soon? Something I did...........or didn't do?" She pouted, dried herself erotically and despite his protestations pushed him backwards into a chair and sat astride his legs. Pushing her ample breasts into his freely perspiring face, she pulled his head forwards. Then, reaching down, she unzipped his trousers. Sliding slowly back across his now bulging crotch, she knelt on the floor and leaned forwards.............................
The taxi ride to the airport took half an hour through the chaotic London traffic, and he made check in by the skin of his teeth. His reservation had been made in business class for the evening flight to JFK. He checked his watch - eleven forty-five and he would need to sleep before departing New York's early morning rush hour for the car journey to his destination.
He collected the Lexus reservation docket at the airport security office and made his way to the long-stay car park area. Still feeling the effects of jet lag, Neale had called in at the airport Starbucks before leaving the terminal hoping that the double strength coffee would keep him alert during the four hour, two hundred mile journey to DC. The effects were beginning to wear off after only an hour, and needing some other distraction to keep himself awake, picked up a hitch hiker fifty miles south west on Route 95.
The guy was a student and much same age, Neale guessed, as his own son Steve. Divorced now for over two years from his wife Amanda, he and Steve had drifted apart as the boy chose to remain with his mother after the break up. Conversation inevitably got around to family, and as with all strangers the talk became more detailed than it ever would have been with a friend. Still, it kept him on track and when the youngster finally took his leave on the outskirts of the capital, it was with some regret that Phil bid him farewell.
His Rolex now said eleven o'clock and the text received in London had instructed him to check in at 1234 Shakespeare Avenue, wherever that was. Spotting a diner some hundred yards down the street, he pulled over and went inside. The place was busy, but a smiling waitress ushered him to a table by the window where he was served with coffee and a jug of water. Taking his order for breakfast she told him that the end of his journey was three blocks down on the right hand side.
Feeling more refreshed after the long and sudden journey, he checked his phone messages to find a missed call from Stella. That sultry voice of hers promised much more entertainment upon his return, and his entire day lightened up at the prospect. Just had to get this damned meeting out of the way and he'd be back in hers arms, crushed closely to that fabulous body in no time at all. He smiled, returned the phone to his pocket, finished up the meal and paid his bill.
Once more outside in the now bright sunshine, he drove the short distance to the house, and was immediately taken aback by the sheer size of the place - this was no house, it was a bloody mansion. Pulling on to the wide graveled driveway, Neale was met immediately by a servant who took his car away for parking. He mounted the imposing steps to be greeted at the double doors by a butler who escorted him inside.
There were a few other ‘members' in what he supposed to be the drawing room when he arrived. After brief introductions, he took the coffee offered to him by a gaunt looking waiter and surveyed the room. It was an oak paneled room of quite impressive size, and was decorated throughout in Edwardian style. The centrepiece was a huge open fireplace laden with logs for the evening. As more guests arrived, they were all summoned to the dining room where a long wooden table had been laid out with settings for around thirty. Neale counted only twenty-one arrivals, including himself, and as the host entered they were all invited to take their seats and open the individually wrapped gifts which adorned their place settings.
Phil Neale was, by nature, suspicious of anything given freely. He firmly believed that you had to earn whatever came your way. Consequently he glanced around as the others unfastened the boxes before them, and wondered at the puzzled frowns on each of their faces. Satisfied that there was nothing dangerous inside the parcels, he carefully peeled away the wrapping paper and looked inside his own package.
Now it was his turn to frown as the 4 megabyte data stick flash drive saw the light of day in his hand. What the hell could this mean? Why drag him thousands of miles from the arms of a woman who was about to deliver him an evening to remember, only to confront him with a piece of computer hardware which was totally useless without the means to drive it?
Their host was, at this time, standing at the head of the table watching the reactions of each guest to the contents of their personal boxes. His face betrayed not the slightest trace of emotion as each one of them looked around for some semblance of guidance. Raising his glass he drank half of the wine and continued with an introductory speech which had been interrupted by Max Booth III. He was destined not to finish as, with hands now clutching at his throat, he collapsed to the floor and died. Pandemonium instantly erupted as guests crowded around the crumpled form. That he had been poisoned was beyond question, and bearing in mind the rumours which had been circulating about his affair with the sultry Huff, Neale had no doubt that responsibility for the death lay firmly with her erstwhile lover, Jason. Copyright 2008 Project 30 |
|
| Last Updated ( Friday, 08 August 2008 ) |
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
via Email