Even now, as they drove back to Hominy with a warrant for the arrest of Warden John Chambers, Melissa could not prevent her hand from resting on Sandy’s thigh. She slid it casually back and forth, her fingers caressing the silky smooth skin on the inside of Sandy’s thigh. Her fingers and palm gradually slid higher and higher, slowly inching Sandy’s skirt higher and higher. Sandy smiled with pleasure. She spread her knees a little farther apart and Melissa took advantage of the better access and her hand slid up and into Sandy’s crotch. Melissa found her open and wet with desire. She delicately caressed the hard nodule of flesh exposed from its hiding place in the satiny folds of skin.
“If you keep doing that, I’m going to bust!” Sandy said passionately, biting her lower lip gently and hunching her groin forward onto the encroaching finger.
Melissa laughed teasingly and withdrew her finger. Sandy moaned with disappointment.
“You’re lucky we’re not far from the prison,” Melissa teased. “Otherwise I’d have your heels in the air.”
“It’s just ahead,” Sandy said. “You’re the lucky one. If we weren’t so close I’d pull over and make you finish what you started, hussy!”
“That would be my pleasure, sweetie,” Melissa said seriously, then winked and licked her lips hungrily.
Sandy laughed and said, “You just wait until tonight, girl. You’ll be sorry!”
“Oh, I doubt that,” she smiled back, as Sandy turned the car left off the main highway and started down the long driveway to the Connors Unit.
“Here we come, ready or not, Warden Chambers,” Sandy said, as she pulled into a parking place near the front of the building.
“I wonder if he’s expecting us,” Melissa mused, as they got out and started for the entrance.
“I sure hope not,” Sandy laughed. “I just love the look of total surprise and disbelief on their faces when they realize they were caught with their pants down,” she added, as Melissa held the door for her.
“Me, too,” Melissa agreed, then stepped in behind her and walked beside her to the reception desk.
“Hi Ladies,” the guard on duty at the desk smiled. “Who are you here to see?”
“I’m Special Agent Borne and this is my partner Agent Jackson, FBI. We’re here to see Warden John Chambers,” she finished holding her badge and identification up for the guard to inspect. Melissa did the same. The guard ignored them for the most part.
“He left yesterday about noon. He hasn’t been seen since. His house has been vacated and some of his personal belongings are missing, as is his car. Sorry,” the guard said, paling slightly, placing both hands on the counter edge, as if to hold himself erect.
“Any idea where he might have gone?” Sandy asked.
“Not a clue. I did hear that he came into a lot of money, though,” he offered helpfully.
“Do you mind if we have a look in his office?” Melissa asked.
“Can I see the warrant?”
Melissa produced it from her purse and handed it to him. He read it and handed it back. “Follow me, please,” he said, then turned and came from behind the desk and led them down the hallway to the office.
On the computer screen flashed the words, ‘BYE BYE!’
“Run Johnny run!” Sandra laughed. Melissa and the guard joined in. They turned and left the office.
Sandy and Melissa walked past the reception desk and out the door.
Melissa went to the driver’s door and got in. Sandy settled in on the passenger side and smiled over at Melissa, “Pay back time,” she said seductively.
“You wouldn’t dare!” Melissa laughed as she fastened her shoulder strap and closed the door. She hiked her skirt up high and started the engine.
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Sandy laughed.
Before they reached the end of the parking lot, Sandy’s hands were in action; one for each of them.
* * * * *
Ex-Warden John Chambers ran for his life. There was no way he could spend the rest of his life inside a system he had helped to create and bring into the twentieth century. Especially for something he hadn’t done! That system was for the losers; the scum of society. He certainly wasn’t one of them! He had done nothing wrong! He couldn’t explain how the money had come to be in his possession. He certainly hadn’t put it there. He knew nothing about it. But, he had seen the system work before and it wasn’t in the best interests of the accused. So he knew, no matter what he said or did, he would not be believed, just as the millions of others before him had not been believed.
In modern America, one was guilty until proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt, innocent.
Yes, John Chambers knew the system was jam packed with men and women, who didn’t, in any way, belong there. They, like him, had gotten caught up in circumstances beyond their control, then were left alone to fend for themselves against an oppressor, who paraded as a liberator, who could care less about civil, constitutional or human rights, and who they had not even a mere weak, spark of power to defend against, and an even lesser chance of defeating. John Chambers was smart enough to know that he had been entrapped by the beast and his doom was sealed. He was a goner!
In situations like he was in, he knew the only defense was money, power and/or connections. He had none of the above, so he had chosen the only option he did have access to. Distance! The very last option for a man in his position. The greater the distance between him and his oppressor the better his chances of survival; maybe.
The Mexico border was a mere half an hour ahead. He had been driving since late yesterday evening when he had come to the conclusion about what he must do. He had taken what money he had and a few ‘must have’ possessions and had hit the highway running south as fast as the speed limit would allow. In this case it was 85 MPH for cars and 65 for trucks. He was pushing it a little, as all drivers did. The Mexico border was getting closer with every revolution of his tires. His only stops had been for fuel, for both him and the car. He was awash in strong black coffee and still his eyes drooped from time to time.
He had bought a few snacks at the last rest area he had stopped at to relieve his bladder. These helped to relieve the acid of worry that ate relentlessly at his stomach; like a live rat in a basket strapped to his stomach.
His money was mostly gone. The Feds had seized his bank accounts before he even knew it was gone. He had five-thousand dollars left to build his new life upon in Mexico, or parts farther south.
There was only one way he could turn five grand into a decent nest egg; illegal drugs! They were a necessary evil of the American economy despite what the government raged. He did not personally use, love, hate or abide them. But, he understood the war on drugs was nothing but an economic front for the government. After all was said and done, if drugs were legalized, where would the government’s thousands of employees who fought against them, find new employment? Certainly not in America. Therefore he knew the war on drugs was a loser. Hell, anyone who cared to look closely could see it a mile away and recognize it for what it was; a grand illusion!
The prisons were overcrowded and ready to explode into violence at any second and still the government continued to pack them into their inhumane warehouses as if they were nothing more than sides of beef. Then held guns on them to keep them from objecting. Then to add insult to injury forced them to serve 85% of their sentence before they would be considered for release. On a thirty-year sentence a person must serve 26 calendar years before he could be released. In most cases, he was beyond sixty years old and after half his lifetime in prison, he was released with no prospects. What was he expected to do? His family was, for the most part, dead. He was all but forgotten. His children were grown with families of their own. They wanted nothing to do with a person they neither knew nor wanted. He was adrift in a society he didn’t know or understand. His only option was more crime or homelessness on the streets to survive out of dumpsters. John knew that wasn’t going to be the life for him, so he sped for the border
as fast as his Dodge Ram would carry him. In America, under an assumed name, the best he could hope for would be a minimum wage job. He knew that wasn’t even surviving. That was merely existing. In that case, one’s only option was to have a little something on the side. Usually that meant selling a little something illegal. That something was usually illegal drugs to willing buyers. Those willing buyers would get them somewhere if that was their desire, which it obviously was or there wouldn’t be a need for so many dealers and so much drugs.
As he drove along at eighty five miles per hour he wondered just how long it was going to take the American people to wake up to the fact that the American government was just as corrupt, if not more so, than any other in the world. Just because they shouted ‘democracy’ in loud voices, from coast-to-coast, did not make democracy a reality.
John viewed it much as he viewed religion, in that Satan’s greatest trick was to convince the people that he didn’t exist. Likewise, the American Government’s greatest trick was to make the American people believe they were living in a democratic society. Both were false. There was evil in the world and there were electoral votes to cancel out individual votes so that the popular vote no longer mattered. So, American leaders were not chosen by the people, for the people. They were chosen for the people by the ruling elite, selected by the multinational corporations if they toed the line and sold their souls to the devil in exchange.
It’s all bullshit! Smoke and mirrors, John thought as his eyes once again grew heavy. Deceive the poor and ignorant into slavery for the government and call it democracy; the American way.
Shout it loud enough, often enough and long enough and soon the slaves began to believe it and echo it until they were in time with the originators.
Of course the politicians had to keep a serious, solemn and straight face and the gullible, ignorant masses would kill for and worship at the feet of the Great Deceiver.
Power, John thought, it’s all about power. Getting it and keeping it. And most of all, using it for self-elevation, no matter who was trampled underfoot in the race for the top of the heap.
John was so deep in angry thought that he failed to notice he had drifted over the median line of the highway and into the path of a parked eighteen wheeler until it was much too late. His right foot left the accelerator petal, and the steering wheel moved fifteen degrees, as the front bumper of the car entered under the rear end of the trailer at 85 miles per hour. It continued under the trailer until it slammed into the rear tandem axle and stopped dead. The rear end of the car slammed up nearly three feet in the sudden stop.
The rear door of the trailer stopped at the top of the front seat. The only thing that stopped John from being propelled from the vehicle was the fact that his face had made near instant contact with the oncoming doors. They stopped his forward plunge, but in the end, as the car stopped, his head flew over the back seat and out the rear window of the car. It was instantly smacked by the front bumper of an oncoming, but sliding, car bumper that had managed to slow from 85 miles per hour to 81 miles per hour. John’s head was slammed between the dual tires of the tractor and would be found three hours later when a Highway Patrolman noticed the tires appeared to be bleeding.
The steering wheel collapsed around the steering column, as it was designed to do. But John’s instant forward momentum caught him at the bottom of his chest and entered his chest cavity at 84.9 miles per hour. Almost instantly his chest was slammed against the back doors of the trailer and the steering column ripped through his groin as the trailer shoved him off the column and pushed his head back over the top of the front seat.
His face shattered like a ripe apple shot from a cannon at a concrete wall. The contact lasted a mere millionth of a second before his skull shattered into a million pieces. But, John Chambers was long dead by that time. His spirit had fled his body before the impact with the trailer. His limp, lifeless, shattered body fell across the dash of the car and his remaining lifeblood began to puddle onto the crumpled hood and then drain off to the ground to mix with the engine oil, antifreeze, transmission fluid and gasoline from the mangled and ruined drive train.
Gasoline shot from the ruptured carburetor and fuel line and splashed onto the exceedingly hot exhaust manifold as the front of the car compressed and shoved the engine and transmission back through the firewall and into the front seat. The engine compartment burst into flame with a loud wooofff, as John Chambers was launched forward into forever.
As John’s severed head was slammed between the tires of the tractor, the driver’s door jumped open and the driver’s hand tooled western style, custom made boot, the top encased very tightly into the leg of Levis, popped out and found support on the chrome plated step rail along under the door. The driver never saw John’s head, but his eyes almost popped out of his head as he saw the oncoming, sideways car bearing down on him. His custom made boot barely made it back inside the cab before the oncoming car came sliding down the front of the tractor and sheared the driver’s door off at the hinges, then continued to spin around the front of the tractor and off into the right of way along the right hand side of the highway.
It would be fifteen minutes before the Texas Highway Patrol would arrive. He had to drive from the Border Crossing. When he arrived, it was the first time in his fifteen-year career as a State Trooper that he became violently ill.
The headless body in the car was burned beyond recognition. The only link they would have to his identity would be the license plate on the rear of the car.
The truck driver was sitting petrified behind his steering wheel; he had gotten out to check for survivors. He was wondering if he would be listed among them.
The woman in the passing car that had smacked John’s severed head and then slid down the side of the truck, nearly defooting the truck driver, sat in the door of her car and chain smoked from a pack of Camel Filters.
Five minutes after getting control of himself, Trooper Delbert Englebright learned that the deceased was Warden John Chambers of the Oklahoma Department of Corrections. He was wanted for embezzling state funds. He was found not guilty, as a matter of course and buried at state expense with full honors in the State Capitol since he had no family.
Chapter 10
Cramer drove slowly past Tommy LeSade’s residence. He circled the block, and then parked halfway down the block behind a custom van with tinted windows. He could plainly see the front of Tommy’s house from his vantage point. He picked up the new spotting scope from the seat beside him and brought it to his eye. He began to search the front of the house, starting along the front, from side to side. He spotted two dim red lights under the eaves of the roof; one at each end of the house.
Security cameras, he thought. That complicated matters considerably. He slowly moved the scope along the side of the house, then down to the lawn, across, back and back up the side of the house to the eve. Halfway down he spotted two more cameras, both were moving slowly.
When he was satisfied he had seen everything he could from this vantage point, he started the car and drove slowly along the street. He could see faint light around some of the window curtains as he drove slowly past the front. That didn’t necessarily mean anyone was home, but it did mean the house wasn’t vacant.
Down the street he turned the car around and approached the house from the other direction. When he could see the front door he pulled to the curb and parked. He began to scope the side of the house. Almost immediately he spotted the cameras. They were the same as the others. Two small faint red lights under the eve at each end and in the middle.
As he watched the red lights he noticed one was making a slow arc along the wall. Roving, he thought, as he began to sweep the side of the house, slowly working his way down the wall to the yard, then across to the edge of the yard. He also scoped the entire front of the house again.
Satisfied, he started the car and drove off slowly. He decided he would have to think about the security cameras and how to get around them. I
t was the unforeseen obstructions that flawed a perfect plan.
A surprise attack on the house would be impossible with the cameras watching everything. He would never know who might be watching the monitors.
Explosives, he wondered.
No, I don’t know if it’s the right target or not. No innocent people. I’m not a murderer!
He drove slowly around Tahlequah while he considered his options. He familiarized himself with the street layout as he drove, so he could make a quick exit if necessary. He learned Tahlequah wasn’t very big when after ten minutes of slow driving, he was on the other side and heading for a town named Wagoner. He turned around and started slowly back.
He turned left at a traffic light. The street curved in a long S and he passed by the college campus and Indian hospital. He knew where he was, sort of. He turned around and started back toward West Cherokee Street
He couldn’t think of a way around the security cameras. He drove back along the street to the traffic light, turned left and drove out of town and back to Muskogee. His mind churned the problem over and over the entire way.
* * * * *
Special Agent Fred Wright couldn’t believe his eyes when the new Lincoln pulled up behind his van and parked. His heart began to race and his breathing began to speed up. He moved very slowly inside the van, not wanting to cause any movement of the vehicle body. He noticed his hands shook slightly, something that had never happened before.
“I’m getting too old for this kind of work!” he told his partner, Jim Stevens, a twenty-year veteran of the FBI, in a soft voice.
“I know what you mean, Fred,” Stevens whispered back, as he picked up a camera, aimed it through the window and began shooting frame after frame at the occupant of the new Lincoln.
“You have the right camera?” Fred asked.