Date: Mon, 12 Jul 2021 02:26:44 +0000
From: Vance Von Jungsburg <vereinington@protonmail.com>
Subject: The Eliminator (Gay/Adult-Youth)

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under Vance Von Jungsberg

E-mail me if you liked the story or want to talk:
vereinington@protonmail.com

This novella will be a slow burn, starting as an action tale before
devolving into carnal pursuits between a man and a twelve year old boy.
All characters and situations are fictional.


THE ELIMINATOR

by Vance Von Jungsburg


I was on to my third Gin Rickey when my phone chimed with four quick
tones. It was a text from the office. I looked out over the teal blue
Caribbean and tried to decide if I would pretend I hadn't heard it or if
I would do the responsible thing and respond.

I was tired of it all, stuck in a career from which retirement was
impossible. It wasn't the blood, and it wasn't the fear of getting caught
- I'd long ago gotten used to both of those side effects of my job. What
was wearing on me was the look in the eyes of my targets as they realized
that every day they'd been alive led up to a situation that was usually
unfair and always out of their control.

While I was grappling with my job woes my eye caught a boy walking along
the beach below my balcony, treading lightly on the compacted wet sand at
the edge of the dry sand. His lean, tan torso displayed just-emerging
pectoral muscles and a flat stomach. The damp green board shorts he wore
hid the parts I was most interested in, but his pretty face and the fall
of chestnut hair that covered his forehead were enough to keep my
interest. As he passed I was afforded a view of his backside - the wet
fabric of his trunks clung to the two rounded mounds of his ass. The
office knew about my taste for young male flesh, and had considered it an
asset when I was brought into the profession. The industry was full of
tales of eliminators who had been seduced out of their contracts by adept
and attractive women; having someone who was immune to feminine
persuasion was a plus in this profession.

I wondered how long I could go without responding to the text message. My
last gig had gone without a hitch, but I was left with the recurring
image of my target's face as I pushed him off the roof of the office
building which bore his name. At the exact time his body plunged past the
mirrored glass floors, his company's bank accounts were drained and
several million dollars added to its debt, leaving an accounting trail of
insolvency, bankruptcy and financial ruin. Suicide would be an
understandable action for a business owner who found himself in those
fiscal circumstances.

I fixed another Gin Rickey then cracked open my laptop, keying in my 26
character security code. I logged onto SNiQ, my employers' exclusive dark
web browser, and entered the code the office had texted me. A folder
appeared:

###

Caleb Christopher Dunbar  1127794

DOB: 14 July 09

15 Seneca Rd
Scarsdale NY
10583

Completion: 12 May 22

###

I read the details three times.  A kid. I was supposed to eliminate a 12
year old and I had four days to do it. During my 20 years on the job, I'd
dispatched two older teenagers, 17 and 19 year old sisters, but never
anyone this young. The girls had been in the initial stages of filing a
sexual assault lawsuit against a tech exec worth several billion dollars,
but their lives ended in a head-on collision with a concrete freeway
pillar. Both sisters had high alcohol levels in their bloodstreams, which
was understandable given the trauma they were about to go public with. I
felt a twinge of regret deep in my stomach at the young lives ended too
early. It wasn't a feeling I'd had 11 years ago when I did the job.

Below the information on my screen about 12 year old Caleb Dunbar was the
icon of a silhouetted head. I clicked on it to reveal thumbnails. Most of
the pictures appeared to be taken from social media, but a few looked
like surveillance photos taken with a telephoto lens.  The boy was
attractive, caught at that moment in late boyhood when the limbs and
torso lengthen and begin to show an adolescent musculature. His head of
thick, blonde hair was offset by dark eyebrows and deep brown eyes that
carried a glint of mischievous confidence. But the braces on his top and
bottom teeth gave the opposite impression, that of innocent boyishness.

Why had this case been assigned to me?  Had the office sensed my flagging
enthusiasm for killing and given me a test? If so, this was a test I had
to pass. There was no retirement from this career; once I became useless
I would become a target for Tanaka or Clegg.

Tal Tanaka and Luther Clegg, my coworkers in the division, specialized in
sending messages: dirty, bloody crime scenes meant to warn others not to
cross the Board of Directors.  But my talent was dispatching people in
ways that would not arouse suspicion: accidents, overdoses and suicides
were staged with meticulous planning and due diligence on my part. As
crime scene investigation and forensics advanced, so did my methods. The
explosion of security cameras and surveillance systems in the last decade
had complicated my job but were just obstacles to consider when I planned
an operation.

I used the SNiQ browser to find the boy's social media presence:
Instagram, Snapchat, Twitch, Discord. Deploying one of my most valuable
tools, the digital skeleton key, I accessed all of his accounts. Only a
handful of people on earth possessed a skeleton key and even the
existence of such a thing was a highly guarded secret. If the public knew
that virtually every tech company had colluded to create backdoors and
cracks in their platforms, apps and hardware, angry citizens would storm
Silicon Valley with pitchforks and flaming torches.  But the billionaires
knew that retaining access to their users' private, dirty secrets was an
asset they couldn't let slip away.  By mutual agreement, the companies
had designed and shared with each other secret routes into their most
secure networks. The ironic fact that a noble and charitable billionaire
who spent his time building children's hospitals in Africa had come up
with the idea was not lost on me.

I sent push notifications to the boy's Snapchat and Twitch apps
recommending an upgrade to the newest version and waited. 45 minutes
later I sent my "software upgrades" to the boy's phone and computer,
which allowed me full access to the devices.

Spending the next three hours watching in real time as Caleb Snapchatted
friends and played Call of Duty was not unpleasant.  I had activated the
cam on his laptop and was afforded a clear, detailed view of the boy. He
was wearing a striped tank top and yellow basketball shorts that afforded
me a view up the leg opening when he put his feet up on his desk. I noted
that Caleb was wearing light gray boxer briefs.

The boy's conversations with his friends were playful and witty. I got
the impression that Caleb was talking over the heads of most of his
friends. His comments were sprinkled with innuendo and arcane references
that seemed to go unnoticed and unremarked upon by his pals.

I watched the boy for close to four hours. I should have been digging
around his computer trying to find his school schedule or upcoming
orthodontist appointments - any kind of information that would have aided
in formulating a plan for his demise.

The next day I went to work researching the boy.  Investigating and
analyzing my targets was the most important part of my job - their deaths
had to appear beyond suspicion. But I was self-aware enough to know I was
looking into Caleb because he had charmed me; I just wanted to know more
about what this sexy boy was made of.

The information I gleaned from his mother's bank accounts and legal
records gave me a clearer picture of the situation.

Caleb's mother, Dina Dunbar, had been the mistress of Sidney Aaronson, a
billionaire casino mogul, when she became pregnant with Caleb. She'd
signed a child-support and non-disclosure agreement, but was now in the
process of suing for equal treatment of Caleb with Aaronson's legitimate
offspring. The billionaire's daughter and two sons received a 15 million
dollar annual stipend, and Dina wanted the same for Caleb.

A knot of disgust expanded in my stomach. When an assignment was given to
me, my instructions never offered a reason for the operation. But I
almost always figured it out.

This billionaire asshole was wiling to take out his own flesh and blood
to save 15 million dollars a year. I knew calling Aaronson a "billionaire
asshole" was redundant. Every billionaire was an asshole.

At that moment I faced the first crisis of confidence of my career.
Usually a person grows harder as they age, building emotional walls and
becoming dulled to life's unpleasantries. But the opposite was happening
to me. I was feeling regret for some of my past actions and experiencing
protective feelings towards Caleb.

My mind started to race. I fantasized about traveling to Scarsdale as if
I were going to do the job, then swooping Caleb up and escaping to
somewhere far from contract killers and amoral billionaires. But I knew
that scenario would be impossible. I followed through on my work plan,
booking a flight from Martinique to New York via Toronto using one of my
Canadian names and passports and reserving a room at the Residence Inn
near Scarsdale. I began formulating a plan to do away with the boy. It
had to be painless and quick, simply for the reason that I fancied the
kid and didn't want him to suffer.

My research led me to Caleb's medical records. The boy's low insulin
levels were concerning to his doctors and he was just shy of being
diagnosed as a Type 1 diabetic. As a result, his sugar and carbohydrate
intake was restricted. Forcing him to eat a box of donuts probably
wouldn't kill him, but a small dose of an insulin inhibiting drug would
cause him to go into a diabetic coma and pass away.  I did a little
research in the medical databases, then used one of my MD identities to
prescribe an oral insulin inhibitor. I would pick it up at a Duane Reade
Pharmacy in Queens, far from the scene of the medical situation that
would be occurring in Scarsdale.

***

After arriving at Laguardia on the 11th, one day before my deadline, I
drove my rental car to the pharmacy in Queens and picked up the Diazoxide
which would put Caleb into a coma and lead to his death. On my way to the
Residence Inn in Scarsdale I stopped by a liquor store and bought two
handles of Hendricks. I would need to drown myself in gin to force myself
to follow through on the plan.

At the hotel I began digging through the photos on Caleb's phone and
computer, not because it was part of my research, but just because I
wanted to look at pictures of this engaging 12 year old. I got a more
rounded image of the boy by looking at the visual record of his life:
Caleb at the beach with his mom, an attractive woman in her mid-thirties.
Caleb in his team uniform playing soccer. Clothed selfies. Shirtless
selfies. I found three nude selfies, which appeared to have been taken
three or four months apart and documented the boy's transition from
hairless boy to lightly haired adolescent. The boys' cock had grown over
the six month period as well. It still hadn't reached adult proportions,
but was not the finger-sized appendage it had been when he was 11.

And then I found them. They had been hidden in folder inside another
folder among his homework assignments. Twenty six photos and three videos
showed Caleb with a slim, dark-haired boy and a slightly pudgy blonde
girl, both of whom looked about the same age as Caleb. The initial photos
showed the dark-haired boy making out with the girl, then feeling her up.
The images progressed to both being naked. In one photo the girl sucked
the boy's narrow, straight cock. Further pictures showed a naked Caleb
joining in, sucking the girl's tits while the other boy tried to mount
her.

I lingered on a photo taken by Caleb down the length of his body. The
dark haired boy had Caleb's cock in his mouth while the girl's puffy hand
stroked Caleb's balls. The vantage point of the pictures changed and now
it was just Caleb and the dark haired boy in the pictures - the girl had
left the action to take the photos: Caleb sucking the boy. The boy
sucking Caleb. Both boys on their sides on a bed sucking each other
simultaneously. The last photo was a close up of Caleb's head lying on a
pillow. His cheeks and chin were covered with watery semen.

"Shit!" I thought to myself. To remove such a beautiful boy from this
world was wrong. I downed another shot and concocted an alternate plan in
my gin-addled head. I'd lure Caleb from his home and stow him somewhere
safe. I'd have to rent a house far from New York. I'd need a new name and
identity - the office had created and supplied me with all of my current
aliases and passports and would be able to track me. I started making
lists of things I needed to have and do to save the boy.

I woke up six hours later, feeling the impending gnaw of sobriety. The
lists and plans I'd made to save Caleb didn't make sense by the light of
day. Anyway, I still needed to figure out how to administer the insulin
inhibitor that would end Caleb's life. End... Caleb's... life. The
thought stabbed me in the stomach like a rusty screwdriver. I took a shot
of gin and looked at my watch. 11:45 AM on the 12th of May, the day of my
deadline. I wouldn't have time to figure out an elaborate scheme to get
the boy to take the medicine. I'd have to confront him face to face, and
convince him to take it by guile or force. That was not the optimal way
to do a job. This was turning into the sloppiest and most poorly planned
operation of my career. I took another swig of gin and turned on the TV.
A home makeover show was playing. I became enthralled by the renovations
and updated styling of a beach cottage somewhere in Southern California.

The gin filled my head with ideas and I began to feel confident in my
plan. I wouldn't kill Caleb. I'd just sit here and watch HGTV in a
drunken haze, and wait for Tanaka or Clegg to come get me, to release me
from the guilt and stress of my life. I felt warm and relieved. A "House
Hunters" marathon had just started on TV. I played with the jeweled
flamingo pendant beneath the breast of my polo shirt - it was a gift to
myself on the tenth anniversary of my employment and I only took it off
to shower.

At some point the gin and real estate talk put me to sleep. I awoke
several times. surprised I was still alive, and fell back asleep.

The penetrating sun shined in my eyes through a crack in the black-out
drapes. I woke with a start. My mouth was as dry as a coffee pot warmer
and my head felt cottony, but I wasn't suffering from the headache or
nausea that less-experienced drinkers feel when they come off a bender. I
got a glass of water from the bathroom sink and looked at my watch: it
was just after noon on May 13. I had missed my deadline to dispatch the
boy.

By the light of day, my plan to let Caleb and myself be killed seemed
foolish. My clearing head began to formulate a way out. If Caleb was
still alive he'd be in school. I could intercept him before he got home.
I had his school schedule and address on my laptop. I powered it on and
looked at a blank screen - the computer had been wiped. Though I'd never
been told, I knew that the Board of Directors had access to everything I
did on my laptop, so it wasn't a surprise that they could control it
remotely.

I sat on the edge of the unmade bed and tried to remember the research
I'd done on Caleb. What was his school called? It was a private boy's
school. Iona. Iona Prep. I looked at my Samsung Galaxy - it hadn't been
wiped. Of course not. The office would use it to keep track of my
position. They knew exactly where I was. It would be a stupid move to
look up the address on the phone.

After a quick shave and teeth brushing I drove my rental car to Iona
Prep. The cheerful desk clerk at the Residence Inn had given me the
address and even found out when school let out. My phone was sitting on
the bathroom counter back at the hotel. That might buy me a little time.

Arriving at school about 15 minutes before the final bell, I noticed the
cars of parents and caregivers had already started the lineup in front. I
parked behind a white Volvo and directed my attention to the school
entrance, confident that I'd recognize Caleb. As boys began to dribble
out of the school doors I realized they were all wearing the same thing:
yellow-trimmed maroon blazers and gray flannel trousers. In my mind's
eye, Caleb would be wearing a striped tank top and yellow shorts, or
something similar. But dozens of blonde boys were mixed among the
scattering school kids; my attempt to spot Caleb would be futile.

I changed tactics. Dina Dunbar was a single mother who didn't work, so
she probably picked her son up from school. Thinking back to my research
I remembered she drove a blue Audi. I scanned the cars along the street,
leaning out my window to get a view of the vehicles in front of me. After
a few minutes I spotted the Audi In a line of slow moving cars heading in
the opposite direction. Caleb's blonde head could be clearly seen in the
passenger seat as they passed. Trapped in place by the throng of cars in
the street, I switched on my turn signal and gently maneuvered into
traffic, cutting off the advancing line of vehicles. I was met by a
volley of honking horns, but continued my path, cutting off the traffic
in the opposite direction as well. A pissed-off dad in a Mercedes yelled
and flipped me off. I ignored him and determined my position. I was six
cars behind Dina's Audi.

Things were unraveling at a frenzied pace. I re-engineered my plan as I
followed the Audi down the leafy streets of east Scarsdale. When Caleb
and his mother pulled into the driveway of their imposing colonial house
I continued past and swung around, stopping across the street and one
house over. Only a few cars were parked along the street. I watched the
garage door descend, hiding the Audi; What if Clegg or Tanaka were in the
house waiting? I still hadn't found a satisfactory course of action. My
mind raced, trying to formulate a plan.

A car approached in the distance. As it got closer I recognized it as a
silver Chevrolet Cruze, a bland mid-sized sedan. I knew it was the most
popular make and model for car rental companies in the US - it would be
the kind of car Tanaka or Clegg would drive. I slid down in my seat as it
passed, and recognized the rust-colored comb-over and bottle-thick
glasses of Clegg at the wheel. Tanaka sat in the passenger seat and
inspected the Dunbar house as they drove by. Clegg looked straight ahead
without expression as the car passed. But I knew they'd seen me. And they
knew I'd made them.

The nondescript sedan continued down the block and turned the corner.

I had no plan, only the sense that I had seconds to act. I jumped out of
the car and ran to the front door of the Dunbar house. My emotions wanted
me to pound on the door but my training told me to knock softly. I gave
three gentle taps. If Caleb came to the door I'd grab him and flee. It
seemed like minutes before the peephole darkened then Dina Dunbar's face
appeared in the door opening. A gold security chain allowed just enough
width for me to see her attractive face.

"Dina Dunbar." I said.

Caleb's mother looked surprised that a stranger called her by name.

"Sidney Aaronson has sent some men to kill Caleb. They're close."

I could see the play of thoughts across her face - the two short
sentences had overloaded her. I didn't have time to convince her and I
didn't have time for her decision. I gave the door a forceful push with
both hands and it flew open - the cheap security chains on most
residential doors offered only false peace of mind.

Dina gasped and retreated as I bolted the door behind me.

"We have to get Caleb out of here," I said with authority. "Now."

Dina's thoughts radiated across her face. I saw her eyes focus and knew
she believed me.

"Okay..." she gulped. "What do we do?"

"Do you have a gun?" I asked. I never carried one when I was on a job.
Being unarmed simplified and streamlined my operations.

"No..." Dina's voice betrayed disappointment and disorientation.

"That's fine," I said. My voice was calm and in control. "We'll take your
car. Where are your keys?"

Dina led me into the kitchen.

"Go get Caleb;" I instructed. "Don't tell" --

"Splank!" The sound was loud, but not deafening, like a basketball being
thrown against the side of a house.

My years of training impelled my body to dive and seek cover behind a
kitchen counter. I knew that sound, Unlike what one heard in movies and
TV, a silenced gun did not sound like a puff of air.

I could see Dina lying on the tile floor next to the breakfast table.
Blood pooled beneath her long brown hair.

In the span of a second my mind spun out thoughts in all directions. "It
didn't have to be this way." I scanned the kitchen for knives, cast iron
pans, caustic cleaning solutions - anything I could use as a weapon. I'd
have to act now - Clegg was on the other side of that kitchen counter.
I'd spring over it, using force and surprise and hope to evade a bullet.
I listened, trying to determine his position, and coiled my body.

"Thunk!" A sound reverberated with a hollow ping, and was fallowed by
another sound - the thud of a body falling to the floor.

Remaining in my crouched, coiled position, I tried to assess what was
happening on the other side of the counter.

"Mom!" Caleb, wearing baby-blue boxer-briefs and a white tank top, was
standing over his mother's body. He held an aluminum little-league bat
loosely in his right hand.

I stood up and surveyed the room. Clegg was lying face down, the back of
his head covered in blood. His Glock 21 was on the floor just beyond his
reach,

Caleb looked at me and held the bat up like a big league player ready to
swing. My throat tightened - not because I was afraid, but because I was
in the presence of this beautiful boy.

"Hold on," I said, trying to project composure and authority, "That man
was sent to kill you. His partner is here, too."

"My mom..." Caleb suppressed a sob.

I held my hands up to show I wasn't a threat and moved toward Clegg. Real
life differs from the movies in another way: when someone is knocked out
they usually come to in under a minute. I picked up the Glock and fired a
single bullet into the back of Clegg's head. Caleb jumped at the sound of
the shot.

"Come with me if you want to live," I told Caleb. It was a cheesy line
from a "Terminator" film, but it worked. Caleb lowered the bat and
stepped toward me.

"His partner will be somewhere close by." I was sure Tanaka would be near
enough to hear the shots. A shot for mom and a shot for her son. To
Tanaka two shots would not sound out of place, and might afford us a
little time. I put the large pistol in my waistband.

"Help me move the body. We need to confuse the scene. Where's the
bathroom?"

Caleb pointed through the kitchen.

With the boy's help I dragged the body through the kitchen and into the
maid's bathroom, leaving a smeared crimson trail across the white tiled
floor. Clegg was a big man, and it took some effort to get the body into
the bathtub.

I shut the bathroom door and pushed the privacy lock. Caleb looked
alarmed.

"This is the only way," I said  just above my breath. "We need to be
completely silent. It might take a while." I moved the bathmat against
the wall and motioned for the boy to sit on it, then stuffed a towel in
the crack beneath the bathroom door. I sat myself on the floor facing the
door and held the Glock, focusing my concentration on the doorknob.

From my training I knew that Tanaka would not kick the door down - that
technique looked good on TV but was prone to failure. If the hinges and
bolt were too strong, the door wouldn't open. If the door material was
weak, a foot might penetrate the door and get caught in the gap. No,
Tanaka would test the doorknob, turning it with a slow, almost
imperceptible motion to determine if it was locked. If it was locked, he
would know we were in here.

I could see Caleb examining Clegg, the unmoving fourth man in this drama
lying in the bathtub. Clegg looked like a harmless, lovable oaf. His big,
slightly pudgy body, thick glasses and unfashionable haircut gave him a
friendly, gentle demeanor. It was a powerful asset for a contract killer.

Tanaka, on the other hand, looked like he was designed for murder. He was
a Ninjuta, an assassin skilled in dispatching victims without a weapon,
and never carried a gun. Clegg had shown me a video of Tanaka taking out
ten people in less than 45 seconds.  The eight Bahraini oil executives
and their two armed bodyguards had felt secure in their corporate
boardroom, but Tanaka had broken both arms of one bodyguard and the neck
of the other in the first three seconds, allowing them no time to draw
their weapons. The Bahrainis had tried to fight back, but the killer's
whirling movements were precise and unpredictable. Clegg captured the
moment on his iPhone, giving a snickering commentary and offering no
assistance to Tanaka. The memory caused me to shudder.

Caleb and I sat in silence for at least forty minutes. I would give him
quick glances from time to time and nod, letting him know this was how it
was supposed to play out. I wanted to stare at the boy - his tight blue
boxer briefs contrasted with the tan, smooth skin of his legs and
revealed the appealing contours of his body. From my position I could see
my own reflection in a floor length mirror. I appraised my appearance as
if I hoped to be presentable and attractive to the kid sitting next to
me. I noticed lines in my forehead I hadn't seen before, but was
satisfied with the overall image. I was handsome in an unremarkable way,
like someone you might see on TV in a bit part. My resting face looked
cheerful and content - I was the kind of man that people looked at and
thought they could trust.

My mind went through training exercises from twenty years ago. Tanaka
would know not to stand in front of the door when he tested the knob. We
had been drilled to stand to the side of the doorway in case our prey
shot through the door. But Tanaka knew that I knew that. What would I do
if the situation were reversed? My eyes watered as I kept them on the
knob.

More minutes passed in silence. Was the doorknob moving? I leaned closer
to examine it. Slowly, slowly it rotated. Motioning for Caleb to cover
his ears, I took aim and blasted six rounds into the door just above the
floor.

If I were in Tanaka's situation, I would lie on the floor and reach up to
turn the knob. My bullets had been sent where I imagined my own body
would be positioned if the situation were reversed. I had to move now -
if I'd missed Tanaka he'd be disoriented or moving for cover. There were
two rounds left in Clegg's Glock. I pulled the bathroom door open and
almost fell over Tanaka's body. He was lying on his back, motionless with
his eyes wide open. Geysers of blood gushed from wounds in his chest and
neck.

"We're safe," I told the boy. "For now."

"What's.... Why is this happening? Who are you?" Caleb asked just above a
whisper.

"I came to protect you. I'm sorry I couldn't save your mother." It was a
lie of omission.

Caleb's face displayed a mix of bewilderment and dread - he'd lost his
mother and fought off two assassins in the last 90 minutes. I felt proud
of how the boy held up, almost as if I was his mentor or guide. My eyes
stung.

Caleb looked at me and seemed to sense what I was feeling. Tears streamed
down his face. I held my arms out reflexively and Caleb came to me and
hugged me, delivering heaving sobs into my shoulder. I put my arms around
the slim body pressed against me and willed my own eyes not to betray my
emotions.

I broke the spell. "We have to get out of here. Others will come."

***

The first 30 minutes of the 20 hour drive to Florida were turbulent .
Caleb seemed to pass through the five stages of grief in a quick, ordered
succession, directing both denial and anger at me until the reality of
the situation became concrete. The boy's tense body relaxed and he sank
back into the passenger seat.

After a long stretch of silence Caleb spoke up. "I don't even know your
name." He sounded like he had no expectation that I would tell him.

I took a deep breath. "Matt. Matt Grey." I looked at Caleb. "I haven't
told anyone my real name in twenty years."

Caleb's eyes widened just enough to be noticeable.

Telling the boy my real name was like pulling the stopper out of a
bathtub. I'd had no one to share my inner thoughts with in years, but now
I couldn't stop talking. I'd found a confidant who was eager to listen
and easy to impress.

"I was like those men who broke into your house," I explained. "I was...
I was actually sent to kill you. But I couldn't do it. Something in me
changed. I knew I had to save you."

"But why are people trying to kill me?" I could hear the alarm and
confusion in Caleb's voice.

"Do you know the name Sidney Aaronson?" I asked.

"No...?" Caleb phrased it as a question, as if I thought he should know.

"He's a billionaire. An asshole." I tried to choose my next words with
precision.

"I don't know what your mom told you about your father." I paused. "It
was that rich asshole. Your mom wanted more money from him and he decided
that killing you would take care of the problem."

Caleb's faced reddened and his jaw clenched.

"You're a killer.  What do I have to do to get you to kill him?" Caleb
looked straight ahead at the highway as the words came out of his mouth.

My chest felt like it was expanding, as if my heart had been pumped full
of melted butter. I was experiencing a perverse pride; the boy accepted
and valued what I was.

"We can talk about that later." I answered. "First we have to make sure
we're safe."

***

The seventies-style motel in Ft. Lauderdale had been our home for two
days and I was finally starting to relax. We'd driven Dina Dunbar's blue
Audi to the Philadelphia airport and played license plate swap with a few
cars in the parking structure, then I'd "borrowed" a series of other cars
to take us to Florida. The office would eventually put the puzzle
together and trace our route, but it would take a while. The ATM security
footage of Caleb making several withdrawals from his mother's bank
account along the route between Scarsdale and Philly would confound the
authorities if they had discovered the scene at the Dunbar house. I knew
the office would have already viewed the ATM footage and figured out what
was going on. I had to avoid using my credit cards because the various
aliases and I.D.s issued to me by the office would set off alerts and
were now useless.

South Florida was my chosen destination because it was the US capital of
counterfeit identification documents. They wouldn't be cheap but I
carried my emergency fund with me at all times. The stunned look on
Caleb's face when the orthodox diamond dealer in Miami appraised my
flamingo necklace at just shy of a million dollars gave me a small
thrill; mixed among the pink rhinestones on the cheap gold-plated cartoon
flamingo were 26 small flawless cut diamonds. I knew the dealer was
undervaluing the gems by almost 30%, but I was willing to settle for that
when he agreed to pay me in cash and dismantle the piece of jewelry while
I watched. I needed to bury any evidence of the transaction.

After selling the diamonds, Caleb and I headed to Point View. The
exclusive office towers along the Miami waterfront hosted several high
priced immigration attorneys who operated in the gray areas of the law.
From experience I knew that large quantities of cash could get such
lawyers to move from gray to black.

"For this meeting, you're my son," I instructed Caleb as we rode the
stainless steel elevator to the 16th floor.

"What's my name?" the boy asked. He had a slight grin, as if he expected
this was going to be fun.

"Uh... Liam?"

"No!" Caleb yelped. "There's a kid at my school named Liam. I hate him.
How about... Jack?"

"Ok, Jack," I said. "And I'm Chris. Chris Hoff."

15 minutes later I'd engaged an attorney with a cash retainer of
$100,000. I told the lawyer, Antonio Delacuente, that my "custody battle
with Jack's abusive mother" was getting ugly. She was holed up with a
Miami drug dealer and I was afraid for both my life and my son's. During
our 90 minute discussion it was decided that the best course of action
was for me to flee with the boy.

"Of course, you know this is an extralegal operation," Delacuente
explained with a slight Cuban accent. "But sometimes to do the right
thing you have to operate around the obstacles the law sets up."

"I think it would be safest for us to leave the country," I replied. "Can
you get us passports? Legitimate ones that will pass through
immigration?"

Delacuente took a deep breath, then answered in slow, measured tones.
"That can be accomplished. But it will take up a lot of my time."

I knew he was angling for a large fee.

"They have to be impregnable," I said. "They have to pass Immigration
inspection, the State Department... even the FBI. Can you do that?"

Delacuente looked at me for a few seconds. "$200,000 for you, $100,000
for your son."

"How do I know they'll be authentic?" I pushed.

"You know my name. You know where I work." Delacuente paused. "I have had
many clients, Mr, Hoff. I can think of three or four of them over the
years that speak like you, that share your mannerisms, your... way of
carrying yourself. These are men that I still have dreams about. Bad
dreams. In my nightmares I have accidentally crossed them, or made a
small legal mistake. And for that I suffer the consequences."

I could see Caleb eyeing me, trying to discern this magic aura that
Delacuente could see. My opinion of the lawyer's skills had taken a
dramatic escalation. I pulled two bundles out of Caleb's backpack for
Delacuente to add to the bundle I'd already handed over for his time.

We drove back to Ft. Lauderdale through a heavy storm.

"So, jack off," I said. Caleb jerked his head toward me.

I turned toward him to gauge the surprise in his face. I could barely
suppress my mirth.

"Why'd you say jack off?" the boy asked. His voice betrayed a mixture of
confusion and embarrassment.

"That's your name. You picked it. Jack... Hoff."

Caleb slumped back into the passenger seat and groaned.

"You're getting another new name in two weeks," I said.

***

That night in our Ft. Lauderdale motel we sat in our side-by-side queen
beds and watched the Dark Knight on pay-per-view. Caleb reclined against
the headboard with the bed sheets pulled up to his waist. His gray tank
top showed off slim, shapely arms and square shoulders. I knew he was
wearing dark blue boxer briefs under the sheet. A slight mound projected
from the center of his body just below his waist. It had been the focus
of my attention during much of the movie; my eyes were drawn to it like a
rubbernecker passing a severe accident on a highway.

"Will you teach me how to shoot?" the boy asked after a scene in which
the Joker casually mowed down his henchmen with a large caliber pistol.

I was caught off guard by Caleb's request. He'd seen me fire a bullet
into Clegg's head with ease and precision; I would make an excellent
firearms trainer. But spending the last couple days with the boy had
generated conflicting feelings deep in that part of me that I'd
sequestered for years. I was his de-facto protector and wanted to do the
right thing for the boy whose life had just been ripped from him. At the
same time, being around the handsome kid who was on the first stair-step
of adolescence provoked a ceaseless smoldering ember of lust in my
mid-section, causing my groin to feel full and sensitive. It was as if my
genitals were constantly prodding my brain: "You've got this beautiful
boy - do something with him!"

I turned to Caleb. "Yes, I'll turn you into the finest marksman in South
Florida."

The boy looked at me. His eyes held my gaze for a moment, trying to
determine if I was being serious. I was.

I was again reminded of just how attractive Caleb was. His deep brown
eyes were wide set and the splash of faint freckles across his nose and
cheeks gave him a dash of boyish charm. His lips were full and prominent
- it was a feature I'd noticed on other boys who wore braces on their
teeth. I thought back to the pictures I'd discovered on his computer.
"That mouth has had a cock in it," I thought to myself. The photo I'd
seen of Caleb's boyish face covered in another boy's cum flashed into my
consciousness. I crossed my legs to hide my erection.

With fifteen minutes of the movie left I noticed Caleb had drifted off to
sleep. I watched to the end and turned off the light.

***

I was awakened by the sound of quiet sobbing. My initial desire was to
put my pillow over my head and try to ignore it, but the sorrowful sound
penetrated my hard shell. I felt an ache in my chest as a dark clump of
dread and anguish began to expand.

I switched on the bedside lamp.

"Caleb," I said just above a whisper. The boy was lying on his stomach
with his face pressed into his white motel pillow.

I got out of bed and knelt at the boy's side. His heaving shoulders and
muffled crying enhanced the protective and paternal feelings I'd been
experiencing since his mother's death. I put my arm around his shoulders.

"It'll be OK, Caleb, I know things have changed a lot and... you miss
your mother. But I'm here to take care of you, I won't let anything bad
happen to you, I'll be like your... like your bodyguard." As soon as I
said it, I regretted it. What a stupid thing to say.

The boy turned his head toward me.

"Really?" he asked

Maybe I had said the right thing.

Caleb pulled himself upright. Despite his red face and tear-streaked
cheeks, the boy was still beautiful. Without thinking I held my arms out.
Caleb leaned toward me and embraced me. This was the second time I'd held
his slim body against mine. His face was pressed against my shoulder - I
felt the warm, wet tears penetrating the cotton fabric of my t-shirt.

I stroked Caleb's back as his sobs subsided, rubbing with a slow, gentle
motion. I could feel his ribs and spine. His gray tank top was pulled up
at the waist, allowing me a view of his smooth skin and the abrupt line
where the white of his upper bottom met the tan of his lower back. I felt
my cock lurch at the rare view. My gentle stroking had been confined to
the part of Caleb covered by his tank top, but I went lower, rubbing the
exposed skin. Caleb kept his face buried in my shoulder as my hands went
up and under his shirt, hoisting the hem up toward his shoulders and
uncovering the beautiful back of this exceptional boy.

Puling a shirt up at the back sends a signal, and Caleb got it. He
unclasped my body and pulled the tank top over his head and used it to
wipe his face. We looked at each other, our eyes about a foot apart.
Caleb's exposed chest, with its emerging adolescent musculature, was
sending signals directly to my groin. I felt my cock growing.

"Matt?" It was the first time Caleb had called me by my name.

"Yes?" i whispered.

The boy didn't say anything, but continued to look at me. I felt my the
space between my lungs expanding, as if all the emotions of the last few
days were trying to escape. I leaned toward Caleb with a motion so small
it could only be measured in micrometers, and saw his lips part in the
same way - almost beyond perception. Caught in that place where two
people have formed an uncanny connection, we were both aware of the
subtle movements of the other. Two seconds later our mouths were pressed
together and our tongues danced. I put my hands back on Caleb's bare
lower back and caressed the hollow just above his buttocks. My erection
felt trapped and uncomfortable in the confines of my boxer shorts, as if
it knew it would be freed soon enough.

Slipping my hands beneath the waistband of Caleb's boxer briefs and
stroking the boy's smooth, warm bottom felt as natural as breathing.
Caleb began grinding his pelvis into mine. His erection was unmistakable
through the two thin layers of fabric that separated our groins. I was
sure he could feel my hardness as well.

My mouth, which had been exploring Caleb's lips and tongue, at that
moment decided it needed to taste a cock. I knelt down and pulled the
boy's boxer briefs to his ankles, revealing his hard boy dick with it's
light dusting of fresh pubes and taut ball sack. It was like seeing a
movie star at a restaurant - I'd obsessed over it in pictures and videos,
and now, here it was in the flesh, pointing up towards his belly button
like it was proclaiming itself number one.

I engulfed the infamous member and pulled Caleb into me, swallowing him
as deep as I could go until my nose was pressed against his lower
abdomen. He took a deep intake of breath and his tight stomach flexed.
The warm fullness of his erect penis inside my throat felt satisfying and
right.

With an unhurried rhythm I began an in and out movement, feeling his cock
withdraw to the point that it was just on the edge of my tongue, then
pulling it back in as deep as it could go. Caleb increased the pace and I
tasted a salty discharge of precum - he wouldn't last long. I pulled off
and looked at his saliva-wet penis. To me it was perfect. I looked up at
Caleb from my kneeling position.

"Will you get naked?" the boy asked, almost in a whisper.

Caleb's eyes were stuck to me as I stood up and pulled off my t-shirt and
boxer shorts. A slight smile appeared on his face and I had the thought:
"What I'm doing is right - it's the first time the boy has been happy in
days." I knew I was just rationalizing my actions, something I hadn't
felt the need to do before the boy's life and mine collided.

Caleb stepped toward me and we embraced again, grinding our hard cocks
together. The boy's mouth was pressed into my shoulder, then he was
nibbling on my nipple, then licking my belly button. I knew where he was
headed.

Kneeling in front of me, Caleb grasped my erection and looked at it with
pursed lips, then opened wide and took the first couple inches into his
mouth. The view of his cute freckled face feasting on my man-sized cock
was so stimulating that I had to suppress a shudder. Caleb clamped his
left hand on my butt cheek and used his right hand to explore my balls
and perineum as he sucked me. These were the actions of someone who had
fantasized about being with a man.

The previous days of suppressed desire I'd felt had created an erotic
build up inside me. "I'm pretty close to cumming," I said, looking down
at the boy. Caleb pulled off my cock and turned his face up to me. then
rubbed my engorged, shiny cockhead over his mouth and cheeks. The visual
of the young boy luxuriating in man cock was too much - I lasted only a
few more seconds, then delivered my seed in spasmic waves of pleasure,
coating the boy's face.  Caleb rubbed his cum covered cheeks against my
lower abdomen, then lay down on the bed with his legs spread. His erect
cock and full ball sack beckoned me like a siren.

I consumed the boy's erection and used my years of fellatory practice to
deliver a symphony of cock sucking, combining deep emotional passages
with bursts of prestissimo passion. Caleb's hips bucked and small grunts
escaped his lips as I built up, then held back, then built up, than held
back, finally allowing his lust to crescendo. His boy-sized cock plunged
as deep down my throat as it could go, then pulsed and delivered a
surprising quantity or thin semen. I pulled off and studied the gorgeous
naked boy. He looked spent, like he'd just run a 1000 meters. I lay down
next to him and put my arm around him and held his naked body against
mine.

"Matt," Caleb said just under his breath,"when are we going to kill my
dad?"

Ancient Spartan culture decreed that warriors must take a pubescent boy
as a trainee and lover. It was believed that the bond between the man and
boy would spur the adult warrior to fight with maximum ferocity and
fervor; that the fastening of the young adolescent to the grown male as
both a sexual partner and an apprentice warrior would impel the master to
protect his ward and exhibit prowess and skill on the battlefield. At
this moment, I could identify with a Spartan warrior.

"It will be the first thing we do once we get our new passports," I told
the boy.

***

We drove to New York ten days later, a father and son in a nine year old
budget-model motor home.  I was now James Lassen and my son was Logan.

Billionaires are insulated, rarely setting foot on the pavement of a
city. A man like Sidney Aaronson would step from a private jet into an
armored Escalade which would be driven through the underground entrance
to his office tower. I simply needed a reason to be in the same building
at the same time.

I had spent dozens of hours researching and piecing together Aaronson's
schedule and knew that he had a meeting with his casino directors the
afternoon of June 5, after which he would be watching the Mets game from
his private box suite at Citi Field. That narrowed down the window of
time he'd be in the office tower he'd named after himself. I made an
appointment to meet with an investment adviser who had a suite in
Aaronson's building for 3:15 pm on the 5th. It was an appointment I'd
miss.

On the afternoon of the 5th, Logan and I drove down the curvy ramp and
parked four floors below Broad St. under Aaronson's building.  The motor
home was too big and distinctive to drive around Manhattan so I had
rented a white Chevy Cruze at Newark Airport. Billionaires didn't like
wasting time descending vehicle ramps, so I knew Aaronson's SUV would be
on the highest parking level, just beneath the lobby. That parking level
was secured by a K-rated retractable barrier and a booth with an armed
guard. The elevator from the lobby up to the penthouse offices would be
accessible only to those with RFID cards and keys.  The security flaw lay
in the parking levels. The architect of the building hadn't designed a
secure elevator from the lobby to the underground parking.

"We have to time this right," I told Logan. "We can't hang around in the
parking foyer too long. Aaronson never misses the opening pitch, so he
has to be out of the building by 3:30 to make the game. A billionaire's
time is too valuable to stop for errands on the way, so he'll be leaving
close to 3:30." I looked at my watch. It was 3:10.

At 3:25 we took the spotless mirrored elevator to the top parking level.
The vestibules on the lower lots had been raw concrete painted in primary
colors corresponding with each parking level, but on the highest level
the elevator opened onto a well lit foyer of black terrazzo and oiled
walnut. I placed my foot in the opening of the elevator door and held it
there. I knew I could only detain it for so long before security took
notice, at which point I'd have to tell a story about waiting for my wife
to come down with some heavy boxes. If that happened our plan would have
to be aborted.

Logan stood next to me, tapping his palm against his trouser pocket to
the quick beat of an unheard song. I knew the boy was nervous, but I felt
serene and centered. Other elevators descend several times, but none of
them stopped on this level.

No more than two minutes later, I heard the soft tone of an arriving
elevator. I nodded at Logan and he stepped from the elevator into the
foyer. From my vantage point I wasn't able to see the arriving elevator
car, but I could see the boy looking toward it with expectation in his
eyes and a Mets cap pulled low over his forehead.

Another chime sounded as the doors opened.

"Mr. Aaronson! I'm a big fan. Will you sign an autograph?" The boy
sounded sincere. To a billionaire, the world centered around their every
action and whim. The vain ego of a man like Aaronson wouldn't find it
surprising that someone wanted an autograph.

I could see Aaronson's broad back and unnatural black hair as he left the
elevator. Two large men in business suits walked on either side of him.

Logan handed a small notebook and a Sharpie to Aaronson. "Can you
personalize it?"

"Yes. Who should I make it out to?" Aaronson's voice was that of a
decrepit old man.

The boy said it so softly that I couldn't hear him, but I knew what he
would say. "To Caleb. Caleb Dunbar."

"Aaaagh!!!" the quiet conversation was pierced by Logan howling at the
top of his lungs, then falling to the floor.

The two startled bodyguards crouched over the boy who writhed and howled
on the black terrazzo.

I took that opportunity to pierce Aaronson's heart from behind with a
reed-thin stiletto, then stepped back into the elevator.

I only heard what happened next.

"I'm OK," Logan said. "I get seizures... I'm sorry. But... what happened
to him? I think I scared him to death." It sounded like there was real
concern in the boy's voice.

"Mr. Aaronson?" I heard one of the bodyguards say. "Mr. Aaronson?"
Louder.

Logan joined me in the elevator and hugged me as the doors closed.

That night we made love like a Spartan warrior and his boy apprentice.
Logan let me fuck him for the first time as CNN announced the death of
Sidney Aaronson. He let me fuck him again in the morning after the news
announced the fact that Aaronson's death was now considered suspicious.

***

The "Billionaire Slayer."  That's what the tabloids call me. But it's
really two of us, James and Logan Lassen, father and son. Aaronson's
murder was seen as an anomaly, as was the disappearance of Jared Botsis,
the wealthiest man in the world. By the time the second richest man,
Bertrand Arles disappeared, the media noticed a pattern. Logan and I were
able to take out the next two tech billionaires on the wealth ladder
before the panic set in.  Some billionaires went underground. Others gave
away their riches in an attempt to get off the Forbes list. Universities
were endowed with enough money that students could attend for free.
World-class hospitals sprang up in the poorest neighborhoods and offered
free care. Unskilled workers were treated to stock and bonuses from the
corporations they toiled under.

You might be feeling compassion for the worried billionaires of the
planet, being picked off simply for the fact that they have a lot of
money. But I worked for the billionaires. I knew the billionaires. I
already said it: every billionaire is an asshole. It might be possible to
come into a billion dollars without stepping on the people below you,
without deploying ruthless tactics and unethical business practices, but
I've never known it to happen. And once a man has that first billion
dollars, the thirst for the second billion drives him to commit further
corrupt, immoral and evil activities. Like banding together with other
billionaires to form a company that will fix problems that need
solutions. And when that happens, be careful who you hire.

Don't get the wrong impression: I'm not some kind of hero, like a Robin
Hood killing the rich so the poor can have money.  Sure, the world is a
better place now that the billionaires are on the run. But I don't murder
people to improve this planet.

I do it for the ass.

END