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“That’s enough,” he said, pulling himself out of her mouth. “I’m finishing inside of her,” he said, nodding toward me. “You’ll get yours later, baby.”
She nodded, getting to her feet and standing next to the bed. I felt the bed dip with his weight, his knee roughly spreading my legs further apart.
Susanne shoved a pillow under my pelvic area. Kyzer’s fingers were plying the cheeks of my ass apart. I knew what was coming. I was helpless to defend myself.
“If you tense up, it’s just going to be all that much more painful,” he warned me. “Try and enjoy this, Lindsey. Suzy does.”
I felt the ripping, flash of pure pain as he plunged himself into me anally. I screamed out in horror, over and over again as he continued his raw, tortuous assault. I heard myself begging and pleading for him to stop, to please just stop. He ignored my pleas, my screams and my sobs.
“Umm, yeah this is tight,” he said, rocking in and out of me. “I’m about ready to come, Suzy.”
“Go for it, baby,” she said. Something in her voice and the way she seemed to be breathless when she said those words told me that Suzy was masturbating while watching my rape.
Kyzer moaned and then stopped. I felt the throbbing of his penis as the warm, salty ejaculation burned the torn and tattered flesh of my insides. New screams escaped from my lips as this fresh pain continued to seep into me with each squirt of his jism.
By the mercy of God, things became blessedly darker in the room. He was finished for now. Maybe he would let this blessed darkness creep over me, allowing me to sleep. I felt the wetness seeping out as he pulled out of me.
I heard his voice as I drifted off.
“Jesus Christ, look at this. She’s fucking hemorrhaging over here.”
CHAPTER 42
(Taz)
It was Monday morning at 7:45 a.m. I was standing on the concrete steps of the Cobb County Superior Court on Cherokee Street in Marietta, Georgia. I was praying to the saints above that whatever judge I was able to see, wouldn’t be a dickhead.
I was sure I had lost my job, if not then at the very least, garnered severe disciplinary action. I had commandeered a chopper out of Quantico Marine Base by pulling in several marks from officers I knew there.
I had roused Kim’s ass out of bed at 3:00 a.m. this morning, behaving like a lunatic, convincing her it was a life or death situation (which actually I believed to be accurate).
I had instructed her to provide a listing of any and all real estate holdings, personal or commercial for Stanfield Group, Stanfield Industries, Stanfield Trading Company, Stanfield Research, or anything under the name of a fucking Stanfield related to Kyzer. I recalled the name of that LLC she had turned up as one of the importers of record for the green coffee beans. I told her to check property records under “SKS Enterprises.”
She had emailed me a listing within an hour. I focused on Georgia since my instincts, and the fact that Poindexter’s car was still in Marietta, told me to start there.
Slate had already phoned me at a little after 1:00 a.m. to tell me Kyzer was nowhere around Charlottesville. His roommates had said he had gone to a family funeral in Miami. They hadn’t seen him in a week or so. They had acted like they didn’t give a shit about the bastard. That wasn’t hard to understand.
Slate had no clue as to what I had done. I didn’t give a shit. Even the bureau could move slowly when it didn’t involve multiple crimes with multiple perps. The fact that my instincts told me that the son-of-a-bitch had crossed state lines with her against her will was enough for me. That was a federal crime; however, I couldn’t offer proof.
A county deputy unlocked the glass doors to the courthouse. I went through the obligatory metal detector and immediately the fact that I was carrying my Glock sounded the alarm.
Half-dozen deputies immediately surrounded me. I pulled my FBI badge out for their examination. Christ, I had my navy blue hoodie with “FBI” splattered across it in big bold-ass letters. What the fuck?
“Special Agent Matthews, you still need to check your weapon at the door,” I was informed.
“Not a problem, guys,” I said. “Just here to see a judge about a warrant.”
I handed my weapon over and was scanned with a handheld wand then nodded through.
“Can I ask where the judge’s chambers are located? I’m kind of in a rush here.”
“Which judge?”
Which judge? I don’t fucking care which judge. Any judge who will sign a fucking warrant for me!
“Which judge is most likely to be in chambers already? Maybe we should start there.”
“I’m pretty certain Judge Sinclair is already here. He tends to get here before we open the doors. His bailiff is up on the second floor, Courtroom Number 2.”
