The Telemachus Story Archive

Part 2 - Assignment
By Wolfpek
Email: Wolfpek

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Rapidfire, surgically precise blows rained down upon the battered punching bag, the sound of the repetitive pounding echoed through the otherwise empty gym. Special agent Nick DiCipriani, grunting and focused, his square stubble covered jaw set in concentration, was perfecting his already deadly kick-boxing skill, or maybe just trying to release the crushing anger that boiled in his mind.

Coated in a thick layer of dripping sweat, which plastered his ribbed wife beater to the shelf of huge round pectorals shading the abruptly tapered six pack, and cascading in a solid line over the grey shorts covering his pert round ass, DiCipriani's 5'11 175 pound 6.1% boy fat frame worked like a machine to pummel the bag. Rivulets of moisture glued his raven black hair onto his brow. It is easy to see why he has never had a problem landing any woman he chose to glance at. Keeping them, was the one challenge in his life that he had never mastered.

Except for Emma. That had lasted for almost two years.

Privileged Emma, smart Emma, classy Emma, the kind of woman he could only dream about when he was a kid growing up in Bensonhurst. Blonde, sophisticated and a long way from the high haired gum chewing Angela s he had to choose from. He'd worked hard to become more than another Guido from the hood. After the marines, he'd worked hard to a position of respect within the FBI, too busy to give the required attention to all the women who had dropped him one after another. Except Emma, for all that refinement, she was a little cougar in bed, and they had something, something good. Now Emma too had walked out leaving behind all the same complaints. "The job took too much of his time"-kick-"She came second to the job"-Jab- "the job was too dangerous"-kick-"She couldn't compete with the job"- jab kick jab thejobthejobthejob!!!! His frenzied beating was interrupted by the sound of a newspaper hitting the floor.

"I could have had the drop on you. That's not like you" The chief reached down to retrieve the paper. "Tell me you're not still moping over that Radcliffe bitch."

DiCipriani's dark brows furrowed over his smoldering brown eyes, an Elvis lip curled upward into a weary 'don't fuck with me' frown. " I saw you. I just figured, the sight of you walking into a gym, I musta been hallucinating. What can I do for you chief?"

The chief, Hal Danvers, a combed over, paunchy, 52 year old with a count down on retirement helpfully presented the front page to the operative. DiCipriani snorted and turned back to the bag. Farrington's disappearance, while sad had cost him two grand collected by a greedy bookie after Sunday's game, probably another victim of cocaine addiction. "I've seen it"

The chief produces a thick manila file folder. DiCipriani respected, even liked Danvers, but dreaded winding up like him, a whole life sacrificed to the job and nothing else to show for it "Do you remember those marines who vanished from that Big Easy whorehouse 4 years ago?"

The rhythmic punching slows but does not stop "Go on"

"The Russian gymnast at the London exposition in 01?" reading from the folder "The Dutch speed skater 01, those two guys from the Italian soccer team the same year?..This file is filled with these disappearances, over the last 15 years same MO, never solved. Thousands in here"

"People disappear every day"

"These cases are all linked by similar circumstances...and similar subjects. All of the missing persons in here are young men between the ages of 19 and 35 years of age. They were all in peak physical condition. Every single one was considered very good looking."

He looked at DiCipriani's profile riveted toward the swinging bag. Instead of detracting from his handsome face, the nose was unusually large, flat, and hooked somehow only added to the dark masculine appeal. The agent said nothing.

Danvers scanned the room to make sure they were not alone. "There is a very wealthy recluse who keeps a compound on a heavily guarded private island off of the Chilean coast, known only as Mr. Sin. Nick, he's collecting these guys and selling them off to wealthy perverts. It's a sex slave ring."

The punching had stopped. Nick was staring, slack jawed. "You telling me that Brent Farrington is some rich fag's bitch!!?

"Nick, this goes up high and it's global. He's got heads of state on his client list, even some of our own elected officials. We can't just blast in there and nab him. We need the whole ring. We need someone on the inside..undercover"

"I've created an identity for you, as a collector, a sizeable bank account and transportation"

DiCipriani was trying to hold back the bile rising in his throat.

"Nick, this can't even be discussed within the agency, this ring is insidious..everywhere. We can't trust anyone. I've told people you will be out on leave indefinitely. I will be your only contact. I'm not gonna lie to you. This is an extremely dangerous assignment. Your my best man, and the only one I can trust. Can I rely on you?"

The Elvis lip sneered upward, the stormy brown eyes locked his. "I'm in"

To be continued.......................

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