Someone is stalking a celebrity and Steve is hired
to find out who the stalker is and put a stop to it. Author's Note: Do not be overly concerned
about the #2 in the title. Each story in this chronicle stands on its own. You do not have to read
#1 to enjoy #2. Those of you who read the previous Whiley stories will find some ground retraced,
but briefly, so it should not detract from the story. There's not much of a mystery in this story,
but then not every case a P.I. takes is a mystery. :-) Credits: I would also like to take this
chance to acknowledge the wonderful talents of the anonymous person who proofs my newest stories.
If the punctuation seems crisp and clean, if the grammar makes sense, if all the words are just
right, it is entirely the fruits of his labors. I would also like to thank Sven the Elder who
pointed out, and rightly so, a hole in the plot. Some minor modifications were made after the story
was returned from being proofed, any grammatical, syntax, or punctuation errors are entirely my
fault. Subject Matter: (Sci-fi) (M/F) (F/F) Rating: (X) Not suitable for minors. May be illegal in
some areas. Author: The SandMan Copyright ( c ) 1998 sandman@bitsmart.com Archive:
ftp://asstr.ml.org/pub/Authors/sandman/index.html Distribution Rights: May be distributed freely
WITHOUT MODIFICATION on USENET, USENET II, not-for profit web sites, not-for profit ftp sites, and
news archival services which offer free public access to archived articles. All other rights are
specifically reserved by the author. Creation Date: 1/16/98 Distribution Date: 1/20/98 Review Date
(Celeste: 10,10,10): 1/29/98 Review Link: http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/7903.txt Steve
Whiley P.I. - Issue #2 Starlight (By Sandman) The office was quiet. I hadn't had a case in weeks
and my funds were at an all-time low. I was reading the collective works of Taria, who many critics
considered one of the better erotic authors at the dawn of the net. Erotic literature was a passion
of mine, especially historical. Oh, people still wrote stories, but few modern authors approached
the greatness of Sven, Pendragon, Hunt, Bronwen, and the other giants that dominated the early days
of the net. Maybe it's the fact that these people wrote their stories without ever expecting to see
one thin dime; maybe that's what inspired my interest. Today, if you want to read the latest
Naughty Nell story, you have to shell out a buck to do it. And while Naughty Nell is a good author,
she doesn't write about anything that hasn't been written about before, and usually the old stuff
was written better. My office door swung open and I clicked the story shut. Of all the people I
expected to see walking into my office, the rotund figure of Bill Stein was not one of them. I saw
him often enough when I made my rounds at the prescient; a P.I.'s got to keep up old ties, after
all. But, in living memory, Bill had never visited my office. A buddy on the force might help me
out, on occasion, but the reverse was rarely true. In many ways the cops were just another street
gang; they protected their turf, and I respected that. "Bill!" I exclaimed, rising to shake his
hand. "What brings you this way, buddy?" "A bit of unofficial business. A favor for someone," Bill
replied as he took a seat. I was all ears as he began. "You seen Crystal Dawn on the net recently?"
I nodded. Crystal Dawn was one of the hottest rising stars in Hollywood. She had starred in the
last major VR blockbuster and had a top-rated net series as well. I didn't keep up all that much
with the latest entertainment, but you'd have to be a hermit not to know who she was. "Well, she
put a call in to us this morning," Bill continued. "She's been getting some threatening letters and
thinks maybe someone is tailing her. We don't have time to go after every celebrity stalker; that's
why the stars have their own security forces. But she's still new to the business and doesn't have
a company yet." "So she gets a company to watch over her," I shrugged. "What's the catch?" "The
catch is, I read the letters. They're really sick. But whoever wrote them is sharp as a tack;
there's no way to tell anything about the perp from what's written, other than the fact that if he
ever gets Crystal alone she's going to be in a world of hurt. I also found a spot he had used to
stake out her home. He's got a DNA scrambler, so there's no way to reconstruct a physical profile
from what he left behind. Crystal needs a real pro right now, not a bunch of rent-a-cops. So I
dropped your name with her, and she's interested. I told her I'd drop by and send you over around
five." I considered carefully. My usual cases involved catching the spouse committing adultery, or,
occasionally, recovery of stolen goods. But before I became a P.I. I had specialized in hunting
hunters: serial killers, terrorists, the most dangerous people who walked the earth. I had also
been younger in those days. I almost turned it down. I was closer to fifty than I cared to admit,
and, while I tried to keep myself in shape, I really wasn't ready to go chasing after bad guys at
my age. But I hesitated just long enough to feel the excitement, a special kind of excitement you
only feel when you're hunting the most dangerous animal on the planet. Before I realized what I was
doing, I found I had agreed to take the case, and Bill was pushing a card into my hand. It was his
office card, but it had an address written on the back. "Good luck, Steve," Bill said as he got up
to leave. "Thanks for the lead, Bill," I replied. "I owe you one." "Shit. For the chance to hang
around Crystal, you owe me ten!" Bill laughed. Usually I have to root around for my clients'
biographies. Privacy laws and security concerns dictate that there's no central repository on
everybody's comings and goings. But computers tended to collect data, and if you know the ins and
outs of the net you can usually get a pretty good idea about a person just on the data that's
floating out there. With Crystal there was no need to root; as a celebrity, her life was an open
book. She had grown up in rural Texas, with a pretty unremarkable childhood. She wasn't noticeably
attractive, even into puberty. But at around seventeen she came into her own and started developing
features that most women spend a fortune to obtain. She attended the University of Texas for one
semester, but flunked out. She moved to Los Angeles and worked as a waitress for a year, where she
met her future husband, one Nick Dawn. She also met her agent at the job, and she was soon a
regular cast member on "Virtual Lights", a third-rate net soap opera that was on the verge of
cancellation. The introduction of her character breathed new life into the show, and it didn't fold
until she left to star in the number one rated netshow "George's Girl". After two years, "George's
Girl" was still the top-rated show on the net, and, just a few months ago, the VR blockbuster
"Dancing the Flame" confirmed her star status. She would probably be considered one of the finest
actresses of her generation; or maybe not-- Hollywood and the viewing public are notoriously
fickle. I punched in her address and the printer churned out a nice site-to-site map for me. It
wouldn't be very hard to find her pad. There were still three hours before the meeting, and so I
punched in some commands and read through a few Douglas stories while I waited. At five o'clock I
stood before the posh beachfront abode of Crystal Dawn. It wasn't a typical Hollywood mansion; it
was a rather modest, if trendy, beachfront house in a nice, respectable neighborhood. I was
surprised when Crystal herself answered the door, and a bit angry as well. A person being stalked
should take more care with such matters. "Yes?" she asked, studying me carefully. "I'm Steve
Whiley. Bill Stein said you had need of my services," I replied. She smiled. "Come on in, Mr.
Whiley." "Steve, please," I insisted, as I stepped inside to a nice, elegantly appointed foyer.
"OK. Steve it is," she replied. Trying to keep my mind off her softly swaying hips, so elegantly
framed by a white low-cut dress, I asked, "No servants?" "A maid," Crystal replied, as she led me
into a very cozy living room. "I was raised to do things on my own, but life's a bit too busy these
days for me to fuss all that much over cooking and cleaning." As we sat, I forced my eyes away from
her inviting breasts with deliberate effort. An afternoon of reading erotica was perhaps not the
best way to prepare for this meeting. "I'm ready to take the case," I began. "But my fee is a
thousand a day, plus expenses." Normally I charged five hundred a day, but for wealthier clients I
didn't mind padding my wallet a little. I made up for it by accepting a case or two where the
clients couldn't afford even my regular fee. It all balanced out in the end. "That's fine," she
said. "Just so you catch the bastard." She considered me a moment and said, "Officer Stein said you
were the best. Do you think there will be any problems?" I shrugged. "I'm not good at fortune
telling, but I'd say if you're careful the next few days, such as letting the maid answer the door
instead of you answering it, everything will be just fine." "Did you really work for the CIA?" she
asked. "Yes, and the FBI, and the police. I've caught men and women who were trained to be
un-catchable," I replied, and not without a hint of pride in the statement either. "But I'd better
get started. I'll want to look over the letters you've gotten; then I need to scout around and find
out where your stalker has been hiding." She nodded and pushed a manila folder over towards me on
the coffee table. I took it and glanced through the contents. I leafed through them. Bill was
right; this guy was a sicko. Every last one of them detailed how she would die at his hands, but
not a single one revealed anything about the man behind the letter other than that one desire. As I
was reading, I heard the front door slam and muffled footsteps. I glanced up at Crystal, my hand
moving toward my shoulder holster. "It's probably Nick," she said, then called, "Nick, can you come
here a moment?" A striking man wearing the latest urban fashion appeared in the doorway. "Nick,
this is Steve Whiley. I've just hired him to track down my stalker." He stared at me a moment, with
an expression that was part glare and part contemplation, before breaking into a wide smile that,
to me, did not seem at all genuine. "Well, that is good news!" he said, walking over to me. I rose
to shake his hand. "It's about time this foolishness ended." I smiled. "Then the sooner I start,
the sooner it can all be over," I replied. "I'll scout around outside." I handed a card to Crystal.
"The card has my mobile number on it; set it up on your autodial so if anything happens you can get
me quickly. I'll be staked out outside, so I'll be able to get here quicker than the cops." She
accepted the card and escorted me to the door. She paused in the foyer and said, "Thank you Steve.
I feel safer already." "Don't." I said sternly and with a bit more force than I had intended.
"Until I catch this guy, you don't have the luxury of feeling safe. You're an actress; for the next
few days, you've got to play the role of a paranoid woman. Don't even go to the bathroom without
thinking he may be waiting for you there." Her face hardened. "That's not going to be easy, but
I'll try." I smiled. "Good. I need you alive when all this is over with to sign my check." I
surveyed the property. The house had a well-tended lawn and a long line of head-high bushes marked
the property lines. It didn't take me long to find the spot the stalker had used to spy on his
target. The branches of the bushes were broken and a few leaves were strewn about. It was near the
back of the property, with a good view of the bedroom window. It was also a secluded area where he
wouldn't likely be spied himself. A few men were camped out on the beach at the back of the house.
From the cameras, I judged them to be paparazzi, and I wasn't wrong at the guess. I walked over and
struck up a conversation with them. "What's the story, Joe?" one of them asked me as I approached.
He answered my puzzled reaction by elaborating, "No camera on you. You a fan or admirer?"
"Biographer," I lied smoothly. "Crystal's thinking of doing an authorized biography. I'm just doing
prelims now, scouting the field." The man I was talking to laughed. "Well, if you've come to find
out if this is a good spot to study your client, you'll be disappointed. The real action is next
door, but they're nobodies; so if you get any video, it's just for private amusement. If Crystal
did what the people in that house do, you'd have to BUY a ticket to get on this beach at night!"
"Sounds like this job may have some fringe benefits," I said, not really interested in the
goings-on next door. "But I'm curious to know if she's got any late night habits," I probed, hoping
I could find some way to ask if he'd seen anyone hanging around, without raising suspicions.
"None," he said, disgustedly. "She goes to bed early, about eight- thirty or so, and stays there.
We regulars usually break camp about eleven-thirty. We'd leave earlier, but the show keeps us
otherwise occupied. Ought to be real interesting tonight." "What about tonight?" I asked. He
grinned broadly. "The quake, man! There's supposed to be a solid 5.0 about nine tonight." "You're
kidding!" I said, honestly surprised. Modern science could predict earthquakes right down to size
and time these days. I'd heard rumors of people who used that to time their lovemaking, allowing
the rolling ground to enhance the experience, but I usually dismissed it as fantasy. I always sat
in my chair, terrified at the powerful forces being unleashed around me. "Not at all," he said with
a wink. "A couple of months ago they did it on a 3.5, and it was wild!" "Hmm... Is that the reason
you're staked out on the beach instead of out front where you can track her comings and goings?" I
asked. He laughed. "One of them, anyway. The major reason is the paparazzi law they enacted after
Princes Di died in that car crash. We lowly scum-sucking vermin may not loiter on public grounds
for more than five minutes. But nothing says we can't loiter on the public beach." The conversation
drifted after that and I excused myself. I checked back in with Crystal and told her I'd be back in
about an hour after retrieving some equipment. I also asked how the letters had arrived, something
that I had neglected to ask earlier. These days deliveries were always marked and logged; letters
and documents were usually transmitted by e-mail, and the post office only survived by delivering
packages and merchandise. I wasn't surprised to learn the letters were always found slipped under
the door. That evening I set up camp out on the beach, a ways away from the three paparazzi.
Stakeouts are dull; they always are, and this one was shaping up to be no different. Through the
night viewer, a little more powerful variant than the ones the paparazzi were using (since mine was
a momento of my days with the CIA), I saw Crystal enter the bathroom and, presumably after a nice
long bath, emerge in a simple white nightgown and settle into bed. Stakeouts are always at their
dullest when you're watching someone sleep. A short while later, a murmur of excitement and
anticipation rippled through the men next to me, and I swung my viewer over to the house next door.
A stunningly attractive redhead and an equally handsome blond where busy at work pushing the bed
around to face a different direction. The man consulted his compass and seemed to judge that all
was perfect. On a whim I had checked tonight's forecast. The quake would be centered on the Joshua
Tree fault and register a 5.0 on the Richter scale. While the couple in the next house probably had
more detailed information, I'd say they had lined the bed up to point directly towards the
epicenter. They began to disrobe, each making a show of it for the other. The woman, however, was
far more interesting as she removed her dress to reveal exquisite and expensively cut lingerie.
When they climbed into bed, the man softly began to fondle her as he removed it. I swing the viewer
back to the house, making a quick scan of the property. I was torn between wanting to watch the
show and the compulsion to keep my mind on the task at hand. In the end though, it was no contest
at all. Given the choice of watching a dead, lifeless property, or a real-life sex act -- well,
even closing in on fifty, I wasn't dead yet; I swung my viewer back. The man had mounted the woman
now and was proceeding with slow rhythmic thrusts, while her hands played along his back. Then the
ground began to move. There was a brief moment of motion sickness as I felt my body moving, but the
image of the viewer stayed rock steady as the computer worked overtime to keep the image from
jerking. An earthquake, unless you're at the epicenter, is not a sharp jolt. Rolling is a better
way to describe it, like swells on the ocean. The man had picked up his pace considerably to time
the thrusts with the rolling of the earth. The woman had her legs wrapped around his and was
clutching hard at his buttocks. Their movements stopped just a little before the earthquake passed.
"Awesome!" one of the photographers muttered. The other two quickly agreed. I shifted the viewer
back to the house but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The couple next door however were just
getting started. The man had drifted down and was orally stimulating his partner, and, judging from
how she squirmed, he was doing a pretty good job of it. "They do this every night?" I asked my
companions, a note of awe in my voice. "They usually don't start this early -- usually around ten
o'clock or so -- but, yea. Every night for about an hour and a half. Sometimes they have friends
over; then it gets really interesting." The couple finished around ten-fifteen and turned out the
lights. The paparazzi packed up their gear. "You coming, bud?" one of them asked me. I shook my
head. "Not right now. The first night I'll do the whole ball of wax just to satisfy myself." "Your
time. But, trust me; after two years of watching this house, I'll tell you: there's nothing to see
after the lights go out." And then he turned and followed his companions back to the street. And he
was right. The only thing which broke up the dull monotony was when Nick left the living room and
retired to his own bedroom. It was a long miserable night on the beach. I set up a proximity
detector that would alert me if anyone were moving about; it was tied in to the one I set up front
before I started the stakeout. I slept, but it was not a gentle or easy sleep. By the next morning,
I had pretty much decided that my stalker had staked out the house for one night before getting
bored out of his wits. The second night I staked out on the beach again, and again Crystal turned
in at eight-thirty. The hoots and catcalls of my companions indicated that the couple next door
were beginning their theatrics, at around nine. I started to watch, but caught myself. I was on the
job, and I was getting paid. The first night was understandable, but to satisfy my voyeuristic
urges on my client's dime went against my principals, and I stubbornly kept my viewer locked on the
house. A few minutes later, I was startled to see a movement at the side of the house and brought
the viewer around quickly, zooming in to get a better view. I almost dropped it when I recognized
the face and body; it was Crystal! I swung the viewer back up to the bedroom, enough to see that
someone was still sleeping in her bed. Either it was another person, a droid, or a hologram. Unless
Crystal had a twin sister, she was now skulking about outside. She slipped through the bushes and
into the house next door. I scooted down the beach a ways. The viewer would be useless here, with
the shades all drawn and the doors all closed. I sneaked a glance at the paparazzi, but they were
too absorbed in the neighbors' sex play to notice what I was doing. Still, when I set up the
snooper, I positioned myself between it and the photographers down the beach. The snooper was
definitely not something you wanted other people to know you had. I had known about the snooper
long before I went to work for the CIA, but I had never appreciated how valuable an investigative
tool it could be until I first used one. When a photon or light hits something solid it generally
stops dead in its tracks, imparting a little energy to the atoms along the way. But sometimes,
maybe one photon in a million just keeps right on going, no matter how dense the material, and
somehow it manages to do this at up to five times the speed it normally travels. No one's really
been able to figure out why it happens, but at least a few people realized that light sometimes
escaped from enclosed rooms. They were right; it was almost undetectable, but, when added to the
latest gee-whiz computer technology, the snooper could gather that light and simulate a picture of
what was going on behind a solid wall, as well as if a video camera had been placed on the other
side. It's illegal to own one. The guys at the agency probably know I have it (most people would be
surprised at how much they do know), but they give ex-agents some leeway.

Karas Amateurs has Tons of naked females with hot xxx pictures and porno movies. naked females will be sure to give you a hard on your make your pussy wet wanting even more naked females Goto Karas Amateurs today and get more naked females you will not be sorry. Thousands of Pictures of naked females. And hot sexy movies with naked females

Click Here to Enter Karas Amateurs - #1 Site for naked females

 After all, everyone would
be an ex-agent sooner or later. It took a minute to get it all set up. An added advantage was that
I now had sound, thanks to the invisible laser that was bouncing off the glass sliding doors. I
frowned at the glow from the display and quickly switched it off, after a few quick instructions to
set up an infrared link to the viewer. This had the added benefit of allowing me to face Crystal's
house without missing what was going on in the house where the real action was happening. I wasn't
worried that the paparazzi would pick up the signals; this was all CIA issue, and the infrared
signal was encrypted with a code that would take ten lifetimes for the most powerful computers in
the world to decode. Crystal was sitting on a couch next to a girl almost as pretty as she was.
"...word?" the other girl said as the audio kicked in. "Not yet. I'm a little worried that he might
find out about us, but I figured that if we could keep those bloodsuckers at bay for all this time,
he probably wouldn't notice. At least he didn't say anything about it to me today." The other woman
put her arm around Crystal and pulled her close. "If he's as good as they say he is, he probably
should have noticed, but I'm glad he didn't. I really didn't want to think about being away from
you for a couple of days." "Hmm..." Crystal moaned, grasping the other girl's hand. "Me either."
Speech at that point stopped as they fell into a deep passionate kiss. With well-practiced
experience, they removed each others' nightgowns, only briefly pausing in their kiss when it became
necessary. Naked on the couch, they began to finger each other's pussies. It was a very slow,
leisurely affair, and I was reminded of several classical portraits of two women embracing.
Suddenly Crystal flushed and she broke away from the kiss to throw her head back and moan, "Oh,
Yes! Oh, God, Yes!" The other girl smiled warmly and continued her ministrations, while Crystal
followed the explosion of pleasure. When she was done, Crystal smiled gleefully and then kissed the
other girl, resuming her probing touch. A short while later the other girl responded with an orgasm
of her own. Without words the other girl lowered herself on the floor and, kneeling between
Crystal's spread legs, dove right on in. Crystal gasped audibly at the oral stimulation and soon
threw her head back, moaning loudly as she lightly massaged her breasts. It did not take long for
Crystal's moans to become hisses of "Yes!" as her breasts rose and fell in large panting gasps.
When it was over, Crystal moved to return the favor, but the other girl said, "No, you'd better be
getting back. No use taking chances when you're being watched so closely. Tomorrow, maybe?" Crystal
smiled warmly and kissed her before pulling back and saying, "Tomorrow." She slipped back into her
nightgown and in the near total darkness between the two houses quickly made her way back to her
own room. I switched back to the regular viewer and watched her bedroom carefully. She must have
crawled into the bed; there was a brief flicker in the sleeping image. The next morning I sat down
at her table and shared breakfast with her. "Anything yet?" she asked. "Not really. I'd feel better
though if you didn't slip out of the house for a few days. Visiting Sandra next door is probably
OK, but it would make my job easier if you didn't make any other unplanned excursions." She blushed
deeply and studied the table. "How much do you know?" "You and Sandra are lovers; you've probably
been seeing her fairly regularly since she moved in a year ago. You bought the house next door
around the same time. Vince and Jackie Greenwood, really Bob Howard and Jean Davidson, are
high-priced escorts under your employ. You probably get them fairly cheap, since all their housing
is paid for; plus they get some additional money on the side by entertaining people who get a
thrill at being with another man and woman. It's very elaborate, and it's also been very effective
at hiding your affair." "You are good," she said as she considered me. "What now?" She was probably
thinking I'd use the information for blackmail, but that wasn't my style. Somewhere in life I
picked up ethics, and ethics are rarely good for the pocketbook. "Now I go back and keep an eye out
for our stalker, and you let me know when you plan to make any unannounced excursions." She
breathed out in relief. "Thank you," she said, with all the power and force of someone who has just
been given the world's most perfect gift. I smiled. "I guess I'm kinda like your doctor. What I
find out stays between us until you say otherwise." That probably wasn't the right thing to say,
since I spent the next hour listening to how she met Sandra and how they had hit it off right at
the start. She went into great detail about how lousy a lover Nick was, always finishing long
before she even began; once he had finished he completely lost interest. But she couldn't divorce
him and move in with Sandra because it would wreck her ratings in more conservative areas and
countries. As she talked and I sat there nodding, occasionally offering a word of support, I
realized that I was probably the first person she'd met with whom she could discuss all of this.
She could discuss Nick with Sandra, but she had no one else to talk with about Sandra. "Does Nick
know?" I asked. She nodded. "Not all the details. But he has his own affairs, I'm sure. The
marriage is a sham, but we keep it up; me for my ratings, and him because of the prestige of being
married to Hollywood's favorite star of the moment." With that last sentence, I began to wonder if
Nick was as accepting of the affair as he had led her to believe. Nick had a great deal of prestige
by being the husband of Crystal Dawn, but how secure was he that he would remain her husband? Where
would Nick be when Crystal finally decided to stop living in secret? He'd be rich; yes, the divorce
courts would see to that. But everyone would know that his wife had left him for another woman.
Arranging a hit and making it look like a stalking would keep his reputation, as well as ensure
that he retained full possession of Crystal's fortune. I fished a pin out of my briefcase and
handed it to Crystal. "Wear this from now on; it's a tracking device. If you're in trouble, touch
it; the heat from your finger will trigger an alarm. If you touch it for longer than a second, to
remove it or put it on, there won't be an alarm. I'm going to be away from you for a while today
and I'll feel better knowing you're wearing it." She smiled and attached it to her dress. "Anything
you say, boss. I'll be a good girl and do what I'm told from now on." "See that you do," I said as
I headed out. I spent the rest of the day following Nick and rooting around his history. Born in LA
and lived here all his life, average in school, certainly no college potential, didn't even try for
college, got a job as a waiter right after he graduated. Struggled a bit before he and Crystal hit
the big time. Nothing unusual, nothing out of the ordinary. His only true passion in life seemed to
be pool, and I was staking him out at the pool hall when the alarm was tripped. Murphy said that if
something can go wrong, it will. The corollary, of course is that it will go wrong at the worst
possible moment. Well, the wrong here was that the alarm tripped when I was halfway across the
city, and the worst possible moment was that it was lunch hour and the streets were packed. I
cursed Murphy as I picked up my cell phone and dialed 911. I didn't know the half of it. Driving
like a madman and an idiot, I had made it a quarter of the way towards Crystal's house when 911
finally answered the phone. "I've got a code 11 at 215 Tanglewild," I said, trying to keep my
breath steady as I swerved into an opening, nearly taking off the front of the car behind me in the
process. "Look, I'm sorry, sir, but all officers are taking another call right now; a major gang
war's broken out and everybody who can carry a gun is out trying to contain it," the operator said,
as frustrated as I was. I cursed and thought fast. "Listen... all your calls are going to be about
the riot. Take a break and get the numbers for the neighbors; I know the system can do that. Get
them out in front of the house yelling and screaming if you can. At the rate I'm going, it's going
to take ten, maybe fifteen minutes, to get over there." "Hold the line; I'll see what I can do." I
held. And I drove, putting more than a few dents and scratches in the paint jobs of several cars,
not the least of which was my own. I was almost at her house when the operator came back on the
line and said, "I'm sorry sir; I tried the whole block. All I got was voice mail or people who just
don't give a damn." "Thanks for trying. I'm almost there. I hope it isn't too late." "I'll log the
call; we'll get someone out there as soon as we can. Call back when you get there. I'm operator
215." "I'll do that," I disconnected. I try not to worry about things I can't control. Things like
that are bad for you. But the adrenaline was pounding through my system, fear and frustration a
tangible ball in the pit of my stomach. I never should have left her. Get the hit man, then go for
the brains. Second guessing yourself is an occupational hazard when things go wrong. Finally I
pulled into the driveway. My gun pulled and ready, I slipped into the house, checking each room and
straining to hear the smallest sound. The house was empty. In front of the garage door, the dress
Crystal had worn, complete with the tracking pin, lay in a crumpled pile. I dropped my head in
defeat as I realized the stalker had won. He had slipped in at the best possible time and made off
with his victim. The letters did not provide much hope for Crystal. But there was a slim hope, a
very slim one. If Crystal had not been Crystal Dawn, megastar, I doubt if I could play the card I
was about to. Quickly I rummaged through the house until I found the letters and made my call. The
man on the view screen was Jim Green, my old boss at the CIA. "I never expected to see you again,"
he said with a note of arrogance in his voice. "Yea, same here. I'd love to chat, but I've got a
crisis and only the agency can help," I said, speaking faster than I really should. "We don't work
for civilians." He used the word "civilians" as some people would use the word "nigger". "You heard
of Crystal Dawn? Well, she's just been kidnapped. I've got the notes her kidnapper sent. I know the
agency can do a deep probe and find out where it came from. Crystal has maybe five, six hours,
tops, left in this lifetime. If she dies, I'll go public with deep probe and point the blame for
her death squarely at the agency for failing to use it. The public will hate you for having it;
they'll hate you more for not using it." "You know the penalty for violating your oaths!" Jim said
in the most deadly threatening tone I'd ever heard before. "I know," I replied grimly. "But you'll
never get me before I reach the press. There are three reporters camped out on the beach behind me
right now. Use the probe. Tell me where I gotta go. I save Crystal, and nobody's the wiser." He
gave a grim laugh. "It was a shame to lose you, Steve; you could play hardball with the best of
them. I'll authorize the probe. BUT we'll discuss the consequences of blackmailing the agency
later." I nodded. I may have just signed my own death warrant. The screen went blank for an
agonizing minute, then Candice appeared. She was one of the CIA net agents; actually, she was the
best. We had worked together often when I was with the agency, and unofficially on a few occasions
afterwards. Normally she'd start out with a crack about how time was not being kind to me, but Jim
must have said something; she was all business. "Fax me the letters; I'll get the probe going in a
few seconds," she said. I punched the transmit button and then we waited. Deep Probe was a black
project, one of the blackest in the agency's list. There wasn't a computer in existence that wasn't
connected to the net, and, years ago, the agency created a little dormant virus that was probably
the most brilliant piece of software design ever created. The virus hides itself in the computer,
undetectable by even the most sophisticated virus checkers. It listens to the net, and when the
right signal is found it begins to transmit the contents of every computer to the deep probe
mega-computers. This includes deleted files, if they haven't been overwritten. For any deleted
files that the owner has made a deliberate effort to delete and wipe, the virus stores them for a
full year, always waiting for the signal. My connection to Candice started to freeze and break up.
The pipelines on the net were staggeringly huge, able to carry a trillion trillions of bits of
information per microsecond; even that capacity was stretched to the utmost limit as every computer
in LA began to dump its contents. I sat in front of the view screen for a full hour, anxiously
awaiting the results. Finally the connection stabilized and Candice turned towards the camera and
said, "I've got a positive match. A quickmap to the location's computer is printing out now. Be
careful, Steve." "Thanks, Candice. I will." I ripped the map from the computer and was out the door
in five seconds flat. It took twenty minutes to drive to a low-rent district, and I finally pulled
in front of a dilapidated old house that didn't look like it could withstand too many more 5.0
earthquakes. My options on how to proceed were fairly limited, so I choose the direct approach. I
went up and knocked on the door. I was genuinely shocked to find an elderly lady answering. I
double-checked my map and the address matched. She was still looking at me inquisitively when I
pulled my gun and motioned her inside. She was terrified, and I didn't blame her one bit. I hated
having to do it. The house was small, so I didn't feel too threatened leaving her in the living
room while I checked the rooms. From all appearances she lived here alone. I went back in to the
living room and found her still sitting where I had instructed her to sit. "I'm not going to hurt
you," I said. But then a lot of really bad men have said that, too; I didn't blame her for not
believing me. "I'm a private investigator. One of my clients has been kidnapped. Your computer was
used to generate the notes. You've got to tell me who's used your computer over the last two
weeks." She hesitated. My explanation and the fact that I had returned my gun to the holster seemed
to calm her, but she had no reason to trust me and she didn't answer. "Look," I pleaded. "Someone's
kidnapped my client. The notes he sent her are the worst thing you could possibly imagine. She is
going to die, very soon, and very horribly unless I can stop him. Please." A look of utter grief
crossed her face and she began to weep. "It's Jerry. My son, Jerry. Three houses down at 915. Don't
hurt him, please; he's the only family I have left!" I wish I could have comforted her then, but
time was my enemy, and as soon as she had said "915", I was already heading out the door. I raced
to the house and knocked on the door. There was no answer, but I heard movement inside. I kicked
the door; it groaned under the kick but did not give. My foot and leg, however, felt as if I had
just stepped off a ten-story building. Gritting my teeth, I kicked again, and the door burst open.
I found them in the bedroom. Crystal was bound and gagged, spreadeagled and very naked on the bed,
with angry black and blue bruises covering her body. The sheets below her crotch were covered in
blood. Beside the bed, with a gun pointed at her head, was a tall, thin man with straggly, curly
black hair, naked but for a pair of dirty white briefs. "Put down the gun, Jerry," I said calmly.
He stood there, arm outstretched and shaking, the gun pointing squarely at Crystal's temple. He was
panting and sweat was forming on his brow. His finger began to tighten around the trigger. If I had
had time, and more information, I could have built a profile of him and talked him down; everybody
has buttons, if you know how to push them. But talking blind like this I had as much chance of
saying something wrong as something right. In less than five seconds after entering the room, my
only sure course of action was clear. With a silent prayer that my old training would be good
enough, I squeezed the trigger. Contact was made, and the battery powered up the electromagnets,
pulling a slug of metal forward at an increasingly faster pace until, by the time it left the
barrel, it was moving as fast as its gunpowder counterpart. With the bullet still in mid-flight, I
lowered the gun to my new target and pulled the trigger again. His eyes widened as he realized what
I had done. His jaw dropped a few millimeters and his finger tightened in reflex. The dice had been
rolled, and for a timeless second the world stood still. My first bullet hit him square in the hand
as he was firing, pulling the shot back so its projectile hit safely in the headboard of the bed,
and not in the head of my client. The gun went flying across the room even as my second bullet
bored its way through Jerry's kneecap, causing him to collapse on the floor in a screaming,
agonized mound. I walked over and calmly picked up his gun, placing it in my belt for safe keeping.
Jerry would not cause me any more problems; he was about to lose consciousness, anyway. I checked
Crystal briefly. She was breathing and had a strong pulse, though she was unconscious. She would
live. I ended up driving both of them to the hospital, the farthest one from the riots that I could
find. I had to call twelve before I found one with beds open. The gang war really was a war, and
half of the central city was in flames. The army was being brought in, and the radios gave warning
that anyone on the streets with a gun would be shot on sight. Just another day in the city of
angels. My suspicion of Nick had been just that: a suspicion. In investigating Jerry, I found that
he fit the profile of a fan stalker to an absolute T: lonely, repressed, paranoid, borderline
schizophrenic. Nick may have wished him well in his endeavors, but he certainly didn't hire him.
Jerry was also a near genius; he was paranoid enough to be concerned about his DNA, and smart
enough to jury rig a scrambler that still had the guys down at the lab scratching their heads
trying to figure out how it worked. He was smart enough to go after Crystal on the maid’s day off,
when I was off chasing Nick, smart enought to pick the day the riots, which had been simmering for
months, began. Crystal, aside from being bruised and mentally scarred from the rape and beatings,
would be just fine. Another successful case to add to my resume. I was at my desk when I decided to
finally bite the bullet and get it over with. I punched up the CIA and Jim glared back at me.
"Congratulations," he said. "Thanks. I believe I owe the agency a debt," I replied. "IF deep probe
existed, and IF you knew about it, and IF you had ever blackmailed us into using it for your
personal benefit, there would most certainly be consequences. But, as you and I both know, deep
probe does NOT exist. And my daughter is just enough of a Crystal Dawn fan for me to think you did
a good job." The bastard actually smiled. "Thanks," I said, and meant it. "I wouldn't try it again,
if I were you," he warned. "We can turn a blind eye towards a few unauthorized toys; a freelancing
net agent we can tolerate, especially when she's the best we've got. But one day you're going to go
too far, and you'll never know when you cross that line." He terminated the connection and I stared
at the blank screen. I was suddenly reminded why I left the CIA. The spooks knew far too much about
people for their own good, and they didn't play by anybody's rules but their own. "Incoming Call -
Crystal Dawn - Memorial Hospital Room 315" flashed on the terminal, and I hit answer. Crystal's
face filled the screen, still with a few bruises, but mending nicely. She'd soon be ready to get
back to work. "I wanted to call and say thank you," she said. I smiled. "You already thanked me," I
replied. "I know. But I've never had someone save my life before; I'm not really sure how to make
you realize I mean it!" She laughed. "I'll believe it when you pay your bill on time," I ribbed.
Even bruised, she was beautiful when she laughed, though she brought her finger up to her face when
it started to cause her pain. "I thought about what you said, about suspecting Nick at first, and
why. I've already contacted my lawyer; I'm going through with the divorce. Nick's really a nice
guy, and I don't think he could ever do it, but a sham marriage isn't worth providing the
temptation." "I think, more importantly, you'll be happier," I agreed. "I did a background check on
Sandra; she's as pure as new-fallen snow." "My knight in shining armor," she said softly. "Thank
you again, Steve." "You're welcome again, Crystal," I replied with a wink. The office was empty and
a long afternoon loomed before me. I sighed and punched up the works of Friar Dave and snuggled
back in my chair. 

Sexy naked females - Hot naked females in these Xxx Pictures and Porn Movies at Karas Amateurs