Disgraced stock broker takes revenge on those that wronged him..., and another man's wife.
LEEANNE AND JAMIE
Leeanne and Jamie were looking forward to the trip. It the occasion of their 25th anniversary. Jamie had been a nurse since before they were married. But nursing wasn’t how Jamie made his real money. He was also a performer. Jamie was an Elvis impersonator. He actually did well and the family savings was the proof of this.
The financial arrangement had long been that the income Jamie earned nursing was the money they lived on. The money he made performing went into their, i.e. HIS, savings. Leeanne had no access to this money. Jamie was always very clear about this.
Coinciding with the couple’s 25th anniversary, Jamie was celebrating having finally landed the Harrah’s account. He’d earned an exclusive contract to perform for 14 of the Harrah’s casinos. He’d start on the Gulf Coast, then Atlantic City, Reno and finally at the Las Vegas location.
The plan had always been that when Jamie could save up $2 million dollars, he would quit nursing and only work his Elvis act exclusively.
Jamie kept the plans for their trip to himself, only giving his wife the barest of details. They’d take a yacht from it’s home port in Mobile, AL, around the state of Florida and up to Miami. They’d stay for 3 days, then sail back to Mobile.
It wasn’t until Jamie was pulling into the parking lot of the harbor that he revealed the surprise. They’d checked into the Marriott Harbor hotel, and would be leaving early the next morning at first light. After dropping the luggage off in their room, Jamie told Leeanne they needed to go to the harbor.
Jamie: I got a surprise for you Leeanne.
Leeanne: What?
Jamie: It’s better that I show you rather than tell you.
-
STAN
I was huddled in the front seat of a brand new Ford Expedition in a car carrier on a rail car. The rhythmic clattering of the southbound train was making me sleepy. The adrenaline rush and excitement had worn off and sleep was quickly overtaking me. As I drifted off memories came back.
It started with her – my now ex-wife, Rachel.
I was hired by the investment house owned by her dad, Bob, right out of college. I’d been with the firm for 3 months when I met his oldest daughter – Rachel. She was home from college for the summer. Bob insisted she work at the firm during her off months. That’s a thing he would do. Rachel was daddy’s little girl and was treated as such. However with that singular distinction there were expectations placed on her. If I’d known she was the old man’s daughter, I wouldn’t have asked her out. If I’d known any number of things, I would have never thought of stopping by the mailroom and even spoken with her.
I was a kid from the wrong side of the tracks. My family was euphemistically called financially disadvantaged. In other words, we were poor. I was the first in my family in generations to graduate from college. My academic career was somewhat less than distinguished as well. I attended college, mainly to get as far away from my hometown as I could and still pay in-state tuition. If not for a brief Army enlistment, I couldn’t even have afforded it. Wouldn’t you know it, the only job worth having upon graduation was an equity firm back home. It honestly felt like returning back to hell after being given a holy reprieve.
I was a hustler.
Not exactly in a bad way, not in the pejorative.
It meant that I got by with hard work. Every newbie in an equity firm, the ones with brains to see anyway, would say the same. In my case it was particularly true. Show up early, stay late, scramble and hustle for every investment. Fight for every dime. The firm wasn’t remotely shy about telling all of us newbies that we were in direct competition with our contemporaries. Basically, kill or be killed.
During my 1st year I brought in more new accounts than 5th year senior investors.
I pursued Rachel with equal gusto. We were engaged a year after we began dating, and married a year after. Rachel busied herself with the life of a young suburbanite housewife. Daddy’s girl married to the fastest rising up and coming equity fund manager. She spent my money as soon as I made it. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t the ideal son-in-law that my in-laws would have preferred. I didn’t come from a good family, I didn’t attend an Ivy League school. I didn’t have the MBA/PhD nor other credentials her dad, Bob, craved as a husband for his “little girl”.
At work, I didn’t wine and dine the upper crust for investment opportunities. I was basically incapable of kissing ass. I let the other drones play that game. When I say I hustled, I mean I went after small market opportunities. Guys who started with nothing, put it together and made something and needed capitol to grow and expand. I’d plug in some of that blue-blood investment money and it paid off. Without even trying, clients were opting out of a relationship with the snobs down the hall and banging on my door. Money was money, and if it came with sweat and dirt on it, who cared? Money just became a way of keeping score.
Things went great for a while. Rachel did the “mom” thing and played her role.
For a while.
Then things got boring and stale for the both of us. Neither of us were saints or angels. I probably cheated on her both first and more than she. We never threw it in each other’s face. What was the point? I was making the dough and she was eating cake. Why blow a good deal?
I remember that particular day as clearly as any other in my life. It was about 3:00 pm on a Thursday. My admin started to buzz me that someone was there to see me, but she was cut off. Suddenly my door flew open and into my office strolled 2 local state investigators and a rep from the SEC. Not the good kind, from the Southeastern Conference, but from the Securities and Exchange Commission. I was placed under arrest and hauled away. I was able to reach my attorney from jail. It was too late to get my bail set, but he managed to get me in front of a judge first thing Friday morning. My bail was set and paid and I was free to go home.
That’s where the next shoe fell.
Rachel met me at the door and informed me that, and I quote: “It might be best if you stayed elsewhere. At least until the court case was cleared up”.
So I’m kicked out of my house.
The house I paid for.
The next few weeks flew by in a blur. My license was suspended pending the investigation. As such, I was relieved of all my duties, with pay of course, until there was a final resolution.
Said resolution came soon enough. The forensic auditors had seized all my files and announced that they’d found more than sufficient evidence to charge me with fraud, embezzlement, wire fraud, just about every white collar crime short of ripping the tag off my mattress. Their work was sloppy and lazy. It was a results oriented investigation. I was already guilty in their eyes. When they found enough to make the case and bury me, they just stopped looking.
Suddenly my entire support system was yanked out from under me.
Work suspended me indefinitely, now without pay.
The state board revoked my license. Permanently.
And Rachel filed for divorce.
Accompanying her divorce petition, her lawyer filed a motion to freeze all of our accounts until the final distribution of assets could be made.
The only real help I had was a *********** group of clients who’d made big bank off me. Fortunately one of these was my lawyer, who basically donated his services for free.
The original plan had been to delay the trial as long as possible to find out who’d set me up. Because I’d been set up.
Big time.
With my funds drying up, this became impossible to prove. The trial began. D-Day came 14 months after the charges were first filed, 4 days into the trial. The DA and the SEC gathered with my lawyers and made their best and final offer – They would drop all but one of the charges, interstate fraud. It was a C-Class felony. I would agree to a 10 year sentence. With good behavior I’d be out in 2-3 years. My SEC license was to be permanently revoked. If I went to trial I was looking at up to 50 years total, having to serve a minimum of 20 years. Per my lawyers, I was screwed and the offer was a gift.
All I had to do to get the awesome deal was - return the money.
Money I didn’t have because I hadn’t taken it in the first place. What money I had was tied up in divorce court. Even that wasn’t sufficiently close to covering the loss.
I was good and royally screwed.
I explained this to my lawyer – Barry Mednikow. Jaded by life as he was, I still don’t know exactly why, but he believed me. Instead he managed to work a deal with the DA. I took a plea of Nolo Contrende – No Contest. It was a way of saying I wouldn’t fight the charges any longer, but wasn’t exactly pleading guilty. The difference being I would not have to perform the process known as purging myself – announcing in open court that I was guilty of what I’d been accused of. The plea got me a single 25 year sentence.
I was hauled off to jail immediately. Per my plea agreement, I’d serve at a minimum security facility.
I spent the first year in prison keeping largely to myself. I wallowed in shame and self-pity. My only visitors were my lawyer and my now grown kids. No one else bothered and that was fine with me.
After sulking for 12 months, I would spend the next 6 figuring out exactly what had been done to me. Clyde, my erstwhile assistant at the Brokerage Firm, accompanied Rachel on a daily basis after testifying against me. It was Clyde’s testimony that ultimately sunk me. Exactly one week after I ceased my defense and took the plea agreement and went to jail, Rachel and Clyde married. I focused my attention on Clyde. I had my lawyer bring me a tran*********** of the trial and all the discovery evidence. After taking half a year to review the case en totem, I nailed down exactly what happened. I strongly suspected during the trial that Clyde was the one that set me up. I now knew how he did it. Bottom line, he’d forged my credentials onto each of the questionable transactions. With his fingerprints no where near, he was in the clear.
With my plight now fully known to me, anger and rage began to build through months 13-18 of my sentence. I took that frustration, anger and rage and channeled them into a plan.
BARRY MEDNIKOW
Barry was my lawyer. He’d been a long term client, I’d been working with him since he left the DA’s office, when he figured out lawyers should be making money and the easiest way to make MORE money was to have that money work FOR you. I could foresee that it would be advantageous to have a lawyer as a friend, so I floated Barry’s first few deals at a deep discount. Within a year of working on his finances, I managed to get Barry through his first divorce relatively pain-free. What money he had was so well hidden that his wife and her divorce chasing lawyer couldn’t have found it with a map. If I’m honest, I went to school on Barry’s account and perfected the art of moving / laundering and hiding assets. I would use these skills for my other clients over time. There’s something to be said for perfecting a skill to a science, and then to an artform. I not only made my clients more money than any of my contemporaries, I could hide/shield the money with expert ease. By the time all hell broke loose in my life, Barry was a millionaire several times over. I’d saw him through 2 more failed marriages. It was my hard work and enterprise that shielded his assets so that neither ex-wife secured more than a pittance of his vast fortune.
Barry was grateful to me for my hard work on his behalf. He agreed to work for me at a greatly reduced rate. After what was left of my assets had been frozen, Barry worked for me for free. We were more than simply attorney and client, more than business associates, we’d become long friends.
It was because of my relationship with Barry that he made a point of seeing me at least once a week. Even with no legal matters to discuss, Barry went out of his way to come to see me. State and federal law guaranteed my lawyer reasonable and completely private access to me. When I conveyed the plan I’d begun to hatch, Barry was at first reluctant to even hear it, let alone actively discuss it. After wearing him down over several weeks, he would agree to actively participate. Giving him fair dues, Barry gave me pointers, made suggestions and brought the plan to fruition.
Months 18-24 at my minimum security facility were my effort to set up my plan. With Barry funding the operation at the outset – of course with a guarantee from me that he would be more than amply compensated – I was able to bribe the guards. I secured an assignment to the custodial crew. Specifically I had the 3rd shift to sweep and mop the facility. From 8:00 pm (2000 Hours) to 6:00 am (0600 Hours) of the next day I was basically alone, sweeping then mopping the floors of the facility. I had unfettered access to everything save the most sensitive areas, basically the armory. I had access to offices, administrative rooms, everything. Soon I got the guards into the habit of letting me go to my cell for breakfast and to sleep after my duties were completed. I was left alone until 1200 Hours – noon, when I was roused for lunch. Bottom line? I had 16 hours wherein I was completely unaccounted for and unsupervised.
Habit is the oil that makes a corrections facility work. The same thing happens every day like clockwork. It’s the only feasible way to administer a corrections facility. Habit is also the greatest weakness for a prison. With the COs – corrections officers – virtually trained to accommodate my schedule, I had finally laid the groundwork.
24 months, 2 years to the day when I first arrived at the prison, my plan was ready to execute. At 1924 Hours I reported early to the COs in charge of the supply room. I got my broom, mop and bucket. 1900 Hours was the shift change. The guards working graveyard shift were mere caretakers. Already bored and paying more attention to the TV than me by the time I’d reported to them, I pushed the mop bucket to the elevator to start my shift on the top floor of the administrative building, as always. Once on the 4th floor, I opened a closet, shoved the bucket inside and made my way to the stairwell. Once I reached the 1st floor I wound my way to the COs breakroom. They’d be watching TV with the prisoners just now. Walking past it once, then twice, I verified no COs were inside. Carefully closing the door behind me, I made my way to the breakroom windows. Slipping out to the yard, I made my way to the gymnasium. From the crow’s nest in the gym, I pried open the window, carefully slipping down the arch, then reaching as far as I could, I pulled the branch of a hickory tree toward me. Swinging onto it, I quickly climbed down to the ground. Now outside the compound, I made my way to the road beyond the auxiliary parking lot.
The van was quietly idling with it’s lights off in the wooded patch hidden from the long guard tower. The backdoor opened as I approached. I hopped inside and we were gone.
THE CREW
Driving the van was DeShawn Washington – DW for short. DW was freakishly tall and even more freakishly skinny. He was 6’6” and weighed 175 lbs soaking wet.
Sitting in the front passenger seat was LaTroy Givens – 8 ball for short. 8 ball stood roughly 5’9” and weighed 255 lbs. He was pure muscle from head to toe with no neck in between. 8 ball rarely spoke, but when he did his deep base voice absolutely commanded attention, if not respect.
Holding the door for me was the leader and Barry’s contact within the gang was Graham Phillips – Gram for short.
Sitting in the captain’s chair in the rear of the van was Germikal Tipken – known as MC. MC was 16, stood 5’8” (maybe) and easily weighed 285 lbs. He had a high pitched, whiny, raspy voice and wheezed from carrying all the fat around. He also had the worst case of acne I’d ever seen. MC was Gram’s little brother. He wouldn’t have been there at all, but there was no one to keep an eye on him. Besides, it was time for MC to come up in the world and start earning his keep.
Barry had hired this crew out of Detroit. None had a record, therefore no fingerprints or DNA on file. Members of the Vice Lords, this was their “making bones” job. 8 ball and Gram had done several jobs for their gang leader, but nothing like this. As for DW & MC, this was their first real sojourn into hardcore crime.
THE JOB
Our target was about 4 hours away from the prison. Per the clock on the van’s radio, the time was 2017 Hours – 8:17 pm. We’d reach our destination at approximately 0024 Hours – 12:24 am. The van was owned by a local delivery service of questionable ownership. It would be reported stolen the next morning. In point of fact, the “owner” of the delivery service was merely a front. The true owner, once wading through all the layers of bureaucratic red tape, was one Barry Mednikow.
No one would ever peel away these layers.
Arriving at the woods behind the palatial estate, Gram, 8 ball, DW & MC followed me through the woods. We hopped the fence after stepping out of the tree line, retrieved the ladder leaning against the garage, and leaned it next to a window in the attic. Prying open the window, I slipped inside. The crew, minus DW, followed me up. DW returned the ladder to it’s resting spot against the garage.
My garage.
The garage I’d built.
At my house.
The house that I’d built and paid for.
The deposed master of the house had returned.
I knew the house like the back of my hand. I’d supervised the installation of the alarm system. I assumed Rachel had long since changed the passcode, but I knew exactly how to sidestep the alarm. From the attic, we entered what was my office. From the bay windows there we had a full view of the access road off State Route 117, and the long driveway. We confirmed that Rachel and Clyde were gone and the house was empty before taking the wooded route. The Crew rotated raiding the refrigerator. I wasn’t hungry. My stomach was in a knot. Just being back in the house, MY house, affected me. It felt similar to returning to the scene of the crime. The Crew chatted and engaged with each other.
I sat quietly, my eyes never leaving the access road. I wasn’t sure where they were. What if they were away on vacation? I’d kept track of all real estate transactions in the area and knew the house had never been sold. The one time I left my old office to go to the bathroom, I stopped to survey the closet in the master bedroom, just to make sure Rachel’s clothes were still there. I spotted Clyde and Rachel’s wedding picture on the wall in the hallway. They still lived there. So where were they?
If they were away on vacation, the whole job was blown. Once the prison guards deduced I was gone, sooner or later they’d send a car out to the house to let Rachel know her jailbird ex-husband was on the loose.
I needn’t have worried.
We’d been in the house for about 2 hours when I spotted the headlights turn off the State Route and onto the access road. Clyde was driving a Maserati. He always did have a thing for Eurotrash. Careful to make sure all the lights were out, the Italian sports car rolled into the driveway, sliding into the garage. As we heard the garage door close behind them, we heard the kitchen door leading to the garage open. I heard the alarm beep, the 4 digit code and shut down code keyed, then silence. For a moment anyway.
I recognized the tone in Rachel’s voice instantly. She was pissed.
Rachel: I can’t believe you just walked off and left me there.
Clyde: You seemed to be ok.
Rachel: They were YOUR clients.
Ah, there was trouble in paradise.
Clyde: I had other clients to see to.
Rachel: Yeah, I saw that client you were “seeing to”. The cute blonde waitress?
Clyde: Oh come ON! I was just being polite.
Rachel: You were being an asshole. Oh, and those aren’t “YOUR” clients, they belong to the firm. And the firm belongs to me. So they’re “MY” clients.
Now this was interesting…
Clyde: Why are you being like this?
Rachel: Clyde, it’s not so much that I don’t trust you, because I don’t. It’s that you’re so blatantly obvious. Did you at least get her phone number?
Clyde: You know there’s no one else for me but you.
Rachel: Don’t compound your sins by lying.
Clyde sighed.
Clyde: Can we just go to bed? I’m tired.
Rachel: Whatever.
From our hiding places in the darkness we watched and listened.
Rachel: What do you think you’re doing?
Clyde: You’re a little scrappy tonight. I like it. Turns me on.
Rachel: Then I suggest you go to the bathroom and jerk off, because you aren’t getting anything from me.
Clyde: Why are you acting like this? Remember…
Rachel: What I remember is catching you with your dick in your secretary. What else would you have me remember?
Clyde: Rachel, that was a 1 time thing. I told you that.
Rachel: Yeah, you told me a LOT of things. Now don’t fucking touch me again.
Rachel was kicking her shoes off. I gave DW the signal. It was time for work.
Clyde: I can’t believe you’re still pissed about that.
Rachel: Believe what you like. You’re still not getting any. Ever again.
As much as I was enjoying this disturbance to their domestic tranquility, we had work to do. DW stepped out, pulling his knife as he did with one fluid motion. He planted across Clyde’s throat.
Rachel: CLYDE!
Clyde had just enough time to survey the situation and almost nailed it.
Clyde: Don’t argue with them, Rachel. Just let them take whatever they want and they’ll go.
DW: Don’t you fucking MOVE bitch, or your man loses his fucking head.
Rachel: What do you want?
The rest filed in behind DW. I chose that moment to make my presence known.
Stan: Good evening, luv. How’ve you been?
Rachel: Stan? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?
Clyde: Stan? What are you doin…ICK!
DW’s knife tightened against Clyde’s throat.
DW: Shut the fuck up man. Ain’t nobody talkin’ to you.
Stan: Lookin’ good Suz. How’s things?
Rachel: What are you DOING here? You’re supposed to be in prison!
Stan: Yeah, I know. I granted myself early release. Time off well earned, considering the bullshit charges against me.
Rachel: What do you want?
Stan: Well, there’s several answers to that – I said as I produced my own blade.
I waved the knife, telling Rachel to head toward the bedroom.
Stan: Bring that piece of shit in. Sit him down and make DAMN sure he sees everything.
I followed Rachel into the bedroom. Once inside, I reached forward, grasping her silk blouse, yanking it open. Buttons flew and skittered across the tile floor. She wheeled around ready to strike, only to find the tip of the blade placed precariously beneath her chin. She gasped.
Stan: Not a good move. You used to be smarter than that. Must be spending too much time with this fucking moron.
Rachel: Just tell me what you want.
Stan: Nah. Better if I show you.
I brought the blade down, slipping it under her bra between her breasts. With a quick flick, the bra split open allowing her breasts to spring free. She tried to grab for the knife. With practiced ease I slapped her hand away then shoved her back onto the bed.
Rachel: This is NOT going to happen, asshole! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!
Stan: As I recall, I had this house built. Paid for it to. Wouldn’t that make it MY house?
Rachel: Whatever. You leave now or your going back to prison!
This elicited a chorus of laughter.
Stan: Already been there bitch. Didn’t like it. Now, where was I…
Rachel: NO! You are NOT going to…
I clamped my hand over her mouth.
Stan: Getting tired of the sound of your voice, you lying cunt!
I hiked her skirt up, reaching underneath I found the waistband of her panties. With a quick jerk they tore free.
Stan: Keep the bitch occupied for a sec, will you gents?
8 Ball and Gram seized Rachel by her wrists. Pulling her up on the mattress, Gram produced a zip tie. Feeding it through the slats in the headboard, he and 8 Ball pulled the tie around her wrists. Giving the tab a quick yank, Rachel was firmly secured.
Meanwhile I busied myself removing my shoes, pants and shorts. Wading through Rachel’s flailing legs as she attempted to kick me away, I mounted my ex-wife.
Stan: Truest thing I ever said to you is right now. You got this coming to you, you money-clutching whore!
With that, I took my cock in hand, guiding it toward her snatch. Pressing the head against the clenched hole that was her pussy, I gave a hard push. Burying the head of my shaft into her hole, Rachel screamed. She cursed me, spat, tried to bite me and cursed again.
Stan: Gonna make me work for it, eh? Why should now be any different?
Thrusting over and over again, I drove my cock into her dry hole. She actually was making me work for it. Just like old times. Pumping harder and harder, after several more thrusts I’d buried my manhood balls deep inside of her. Rachel’s scream was as much due to the pain as her rage. I sawed my shaft in and out, cumming quickly. My jizz coating the length of my shaft, I just kept fucking the slut. It didn’t cause her as much pain, which was disappointing, but the pleasure I was getting more than offset it. I pounded away at her vertical slit, finally cumming one last time.
I guess I knew down deep this was it, the final time I’d get to fuck her. Seeing the hate, fear, anger, panic and rage welling in her eyes, I would remember this for the rest of my life.
Slowly pulling out, the cum trail leading from the tip of my shaft to her pussy, I glanced down, taking in the sight.
I slowly rolled off her. I was done.
Pulling my shorts and pants on, I turned from my seething ex-wife and to the cocksucker who’d set me up.
Stan: Pull his pants and shorts off.
Clyde: Whu-why? What did I do?
I gave my former protégé a look.
Stan: Let’s not ask stupid questions, ok?
I left the room and retrieved Clyde’s laptop, opening it as I sat by him.
Stan: Ok dipshit. I need file locations, access codes and passcodes for all your accounts.
Clyde: WHY?
Stan: Because I’m going to rob you blind, same as you did to me, dumb fuck.
Clyde: Bu-bu-buh-but why?
Stan: You got 5 seconds to start giving me the info I need, numb nuts. At 6 seconds I turn these animals loose on you. If you believe nothing else, believe this: these guys will have you taking it up the ass and sucking cock. If you would spare yourself…
Clyde: Bu-buh-but I’m not gay!
DW: Neither are we, dumbass.
Gram: We just wanna see that look in your eyes.
8-Ball: I know I do.
Clyde gulped. I could see the wheels spinning in his head. Doing the math, he at least come up with one smart decision.
Clyde gave me the file names I needed. Dumbass had left the account and pass codes on half the files. The other half he gave me. After creating a holding account, I moved all the funds from Clyde’s accounts, totaling just over $11 million. Once fully compiled, I transferred the funds to the account of Nordic Fleece, a dummy corporation. 18 seconds later I got the text on my burner phone.
Nordic Fleece: Alpha
Meaning the funds had been received.
58 seconds later I got the 2nd message.
Nordic Fleece: Lambda
The funds had been sent off to their first of 46 destinations, finally recombined into one single account.
Nordic Fleece: Zeta
The funds were now safe and secure. Barry would keep 10% for himself, more than enough to compensate him for all his work on my behalf.
Stan: Gents, fetch the bitch, if you will?
Rachel was cut loose and drug toward me.
Stan: Ok Rachel. Your turn.
Rachel: What do you want?
Her chin was trembling, her lips quivering.
Stan: The access codes to your accounts, passcodes and action codes.
Rachel: Why?
Stan: I’m gonna GET my MONEY!
Rachel: But that’s my…
Stan: I’m just going to take half. It’s what I would have gotten in the divorce, if you and dipshit over there hadn’t been so greedy.
Rachel: But…
Stan: Rachel, I’m not going to threaten Clyde if you don’t give me what’s mine. Based on the conversation you 2 were having when we dropped in, I seriously doubt you give a shit what happens to him. And I DO know how you love your money. So try this on for size; give me what I want. I will only take half, you keep the rest. You do that, we leave and never, ever trouble you again. If not? Well, there’s an answer to that too. You sit there in total bitch mode and I turn these animals loose on you. It's really important that you believe me here. The shit they’ll do to you? It will mark you forever. By the time they’re through with you, you’ll never, ever be the same woman again. You really shouldn’t doubt me on this.
I could hear Rachel’s gasp at the thought. Her eyes quickly darted in the direction of my crew, then just as quickly averted.
Stan: I will ONLY take half. It’s what I’m owed and you fucking know it.
Rachel: Only half?
Stan: Yup.
She chewed her bottom lip as she thought about it. Finally she relented, giving me the codes I needed.
At the time of the divorce I’d managed to accumulate upwards of $24 million. As I strolled through her various accounts, I saw that she’d managed to keep Clyde away from most of it, just over $20 million. I respected her ability to save that much from her cocksucking husband.
I made the proper transfers and waited. I got the text:
Shed window.
Second round of funds received.
A minute twenty-two seconds later I got the next text.
Trees.
The second round of funds had been dispatched, bouncing around the electronic bankingverse (as I called it) with trillions of dollars from around the world.
A minute seventeen seconds later I got the final text.
Atlas
The second round of funds were now fully laundered and secured.
Barry was, as he had been throughout my incarceration, my guy on the outside. Between the 2 of us we likely knew more about laundering funds than any forensic accountant working for the feds. For his 10% cut, Barry sent random amounts of the funds careening through the bankingverse, leaving small amounts of funds here and there, only move them as well. There was no rhyme or commonality among the transfers. Ultimately the funds would end up in accounts in the Caymans. I had a bogus drivers license, social security card, credit cards and passport. Everything I needed to access my money.
Stan: Well, I guess that’s that. $31 million dollars to my name, and I feel SO much better about myself.
Rachel’s brow furrowed.
Rachel: $31 million? How do you get…
Then it dawned on her.
Rachel: But you said…
Stan: Bitch, I just broke into your fucking house, took you and your dickless husband hostage, raped you, so yeah, I lied.
I stood as I closed the laptop. I’d run the bath and drop it in the water, just as a final means of precaution.
Stan: Oh, and I lied about one other thing as well…
Rachel looked at me in blank disbelief.
Stan: Boys, the bitch is all yours. Party time.
Rachel’s eyes flew open wide. She tried to run, only to be seized by 8-Ball. From his iron grip, there was no escape.
I occupied myself walking through the home that was once mine. I hadn’t appreciated it as much as I did now. Prison will do that to you. You learn to appreciate the little things. As I wandered upstairs I could hear the sound of cruel hands slapping tender flesh, then Rachel screaming for all she was worth. From the balcony I could peer through the bay window down into the valley below. This was something special the architect designed for me. I began to realize how much I would miss all of this. There were actually some good memories here. As I trundled down the opposite stairs, I poked my head through the bedroom doorway to see 8-Ball pumping his dick deep into Rachel’s ass. She cried out with every thrust. Off to the kitchen I went to make me a late night snack, as my appetite had returned. Fucking bitch didn’t have the spicey mustard I’d been craving for far too long. With a shrug I made myself a sandwich with the yellow mustard instead. From the bedroom I could hear Rachel crying. Tilting my head to the side, I could see it was Gram working her over now. He’d fucking impaled her twat with the longest cock I’d ever seen a man bare. With my sandwich done, and not caring a bit about the crumbs I left behind, I decided to do some prospecting. I could hear Rachel yelping as I stepped back into the bedroom. MC was tugging violently at the dangling diamond earrings Rachel was wearing. If I remembered right, I’d given them to her on our first wedding anniversary. The other earring was already gone, as was the necklace she’d been wearing. I didn’t recognize it. Maybe dickless gave it to her? Maybe daddy in celebration of fucking me over? Didn’t know, didn’t care. MC’s fat fingers were having a hard time manipulating the backing of the earring. Let’s be honest, he didn’t have a clue how to remove it in the first place. I dug through the closet trying to see if I could find anything of value. I was disappointed that all the sex toys were gone. I had hoped to make them a surprise for the crew to use. With them gone, I was glad I hadn’t said anything. The crew had already harvested the jewelry box for the loot inside. Pulling out one drawer after another in her bathroom cabinet, I spotted something dark way in the back. Reaching for it, I felt a small felt box. Retrieving then opening it, well I’ll be damned. It was her wedding set. Specifically the one I’d given her. I peered back to see if anyone had seen what I’d found. All eyes were on the bed. Rachel was struggling mightily to fit 8-Ball’s cock in her mouth. I smiled. The smile was due not only to seeing my ex-wife struggle with serious black cock, but at the tink sound her wedding set made as they landed in my shirt pocket.
I wandered throughout the house one last time. Paranoia was starting to nag at me. I knew I had until noon before the guards should even know I was gone. That was still 10 hours away. But what if I DIDN’T have that much time? What if my disappearance had been detected? Obviously Rachel’s house wasn’t going to be the first place the law would look, but they’d get around to it sooner or later. My jaw clenched, then relaxed slightly as I spied MC fucking Rachel. Her legs were draped over his shoulders and he was hammering away. Way to top out at 16 kid. Probably all downhill from here for you. A few minutes later I could hear Rachel crying and begging. Looking in, I could see MC tugging at Rachel’s wedding set. He backhanded her, wrenched her fingers open and violently pulled the engagement ring first, then twisted and pried the wedding band off her finger. DW and Gram were already lined up for another round. DW wanted that big round white ass. Gram wanted a blowjob. As he staggered back, I touched MC on the shoulder and bid him step out into the den with me.
Stan: Nice job in there kid. How was it?
MC: FUCKING GREAT MAN! SOON AS I GET ME SOME DOWN TIME, I’M GOIN’ AGAIN!
Stan: Cool. Give her a good fuck for me kid.
He gave me his big, toothy grin.
I then held my hand out.
Suddenly the grin disappeared.
MC: What?
Stan: You know what. Give it up kid.
MC: I don…
Stan: The wedding set. Give it to me.
Poor MC frowned slightly.
MC: But I just thought…
Stan: A deal’s a deal kid. That’s the way it goes.
He was basically pouting as he dug into his pants for Rachel’s wedding set, slamming them into my hand.
Stan: Hey kid?
MC: What – he replied still sulking.
Stan: At least you get to fuck a fat white bitch, yeah?
He smiled.
Ah, to be a simple teenager again.
The “deal” I mentioned was simple. The crew could have anything and everything in the house they wanted. They could do to Rachel, AND Clyde, whatever the hell they wanted. I wanted 4 things:
To be the first to fuck Rachel
Clyde’s money
Rachel’s money
Rachel’s wedding set
Everything else was fair game and they could take and do all they liked.
The plan was we’d leave when they were done, driving back to Detroit. From there, I would slip across the border into Canada and move on from there on my own.
At least, that was the plan as far as the crew was concerned.
My actual plan?
I quietly slipped out of the house as Rachel see-sawed back and forth; DW was plowing his shaft into Rachel’s plump ass. Gram was finally getting his blowjob.
Taking Clyde’s keys out of my pocket, I opened the garage door and unlocked the BMW with the key fob. The German beast gently roared to life and I backed down the driveway. The crew was obviously busy elsewhere, a thought that gave me pleasure no end. It also afforded me the opportunity to put distance between not only Rachel and Clyde, but the crew as well. If Rachel and Clyde couldn’t or weren’t able to call the law, the law would eventually show up on it’s own. It might take days, if I was REALLY lucky. Time equaled distance. Distance equaled safety. Between my fingerprints and DNA, there would be little doubt I’d paid a visit to my old house, assuming the crew hadn’t left the traumatized couple in shape to give their own account of what had been done to them. I figured it was even money if Rachel and Clyde would be left alive. Meanwhile I had an appointment. I’d tossed the burner phone I’d previously been using, and pulling the new one out instead. I made one quick text before disposing of the new burner phone:
Falcon 18
Falcon was code for I’m on the way.
18 meant I was 18 minutes away.
Owl would have meant I may or may not have a tail.
Turkey means I was busted and my contact should bail.
Quickly.
I pulled up to the railway overpass. My contact was there already. My guy was the cousin of an inmate I’d served time with. I purposely broke contact with Barry. An effective escape requires much the same skill set as laundering money. You want to create as many of what I call firebreaks as possible. Firebreak is defined as a wall, a point or place in time wherein anyone chasing the money, or me in this case, hits a dead end. The money, or the escapee, changes the direction of the flow in a totally unrelated direction. When laundering money, you put the money in a numbered account, transfer it to another numbered account, then another. Any forensic accountant not possessing the numbered accounts would have no means to track the money. Each of these transfers are firebreaks. In my case, if Barry were somehow compromised, any contact he had with me was severed when I left the house. I knew Barry would never give me up and the move was strictly precautionary in nature. If he somehow WERE compromised, all he would be able to tell the cops was I was at the house and that was all he knew.
I tossed my guy the keys to the BMW, which would be stripped and boxed before the law would even get to the house at all.
I had everything I needed on me.
And suddenly here I was. The train brakes startled me, waking me from my memory soaked dream. Barry had given me the location and time for the train I needed. It was virtually non-stop, aside from one quick stop in Dothan, AL. With that stop now completed, the last burner phone Barry had provided me showed the train was soon to arrive in Mobile.