It was just another boring day on the job, but at least it was Thursday, so he was over the hump. The security guard sat watching the monitors that were hooked into the perimeter surveillance system. There had been a few friends of the family coming and going, plus the pool man and gardeners, but definitely no activity on the fence and ground sensors, all of which created an invisible electronic shield around the exclusive estate.
He heard it before he saw it. The unmistakable rumble of a Harley-Davidson turning onto the secluded Beverly Hills street. Moments later the guard picked-up the biker on the security system as he broke the infra-red beam that crossed the front gates. A quick glance at the gate camera confirmed the presence of a tough looking character in a leather vest on a large black motorcycle, just sitting waiting at the closed gates. With dark glasses but no helmet the biker looked straight into the camera without smiling. The guard immediately hit the button that opened the front gate without even requesting his identity over the intercom. He had never seen the stranger before but there was no mistaking this visitor — or at least that’s what he thought.
 | The biker knew he was being watched, but did not feel uncomfortable. Before he could even slip the big bike into neutral, the ten foot high iron gates slid open on well oiled tracks. He slipped the shifter straight into first, gunned the big V once and then accelerated up the long driveway that was lined with white Grecian statues, rose bushes and carefully trimmed trees. The top of the drive opened into a large court-yard in front of a huge mansion. Without backing off the throttle, the biker shot across the imported Italian paving stones and parked next to a line-up of two Mercedes, a Range Rover, a red Pantera and a convertible Rolls Royce. |
The guard pulled on a dark windbreaker, checked that his gun was secure in its holster, grabbed a Motorola radio and went out to meet the new arrival. The guard, drawing comfort from the high capacity nine millimeter on his hip, stepped out of the guard shack and into the courtyard, but at the first site of the big biker sitting on the even bigger bike, a chill ran down his spine. Could he have made a mistake? Could this actually be the very threat that he was being paid to keep out? At worst this could get real nasty, and at best he may have just lost his job.
Coop – born Michael Cooper – sat on the love of his life, a bored and stroked ’55 Panhead with high bars and a custom paint job, watching the guard approach. He watched the way the guard squinted into the bright sun and nervously kept his hand close to where his gun was probably holstered under his coat. He noted how the guard carried his radio in his right hand. He also noted the light colored slacks and shiny Italian loafers that the guard wore.
“Mr Coop…arh, Mr Cooper?” the guard stammered.
“If I’m not you just fucked up royally,” Coop responded without getting off of the bike. This did not help the guard’s already nervous disposition.
“Ah, Charlie, said to expect you. He described you pretty well,” the guard answered defensively.
“What did he say? Expect a guy on a bike? That really narrows it down don’t it?”
The guard became more agitated, “Can…can I see some ID, please?”
“About time. You should have done that at the gate,” Coop explained patiently, as if talking to a child.
Coop pulled out a business card and handed it to the guard. The guard looked at it and breathed a sigh of relief. “Billy Larkin, I work for, Charlie, and I guess you now. It’s a pleasure to be working with you Mr Cooper. Sorry about this. First day, you know how it is,” the guard babbled.
“And your last if it happens again,” Coop scolded. “Now, when you come to work tomorrow, dark clothing and rubber soled shoes. Those slacks would make you too visible at night and those leather-soled brothel sneakers wouldn’t be worth shit if you have to move fast.”
“Er…thank you, Mr Cooper, I’ll take care of it before my next shift. Anything else?” the guard asked.
“Yea, if you are right handed, carry your radio or flashlight in your left. That leaves your gun hand free. Make sense?”
“Yes, sir. Got it,” the guard responded humbly.
“And when you step out of the guard shack into bright sunlight, put on your shades or wear a ball cap. You were all but blinded coming out weren’t you?” Coop continued to lecture.
“Got it. Shades or ball cap,” was all the guard could answer.
“So where is Charlie? He knows better than to turn an unsupervised FNG loose on a job like this,” Coop pressed.
“FNG?” the guard asked looking puzzled.
“Fuck’n New Guy. No offense,” Coop added smiling. The guard also smiled at the humor.
“Charlie went to breakfast this morning with Tiffany, Mrs Austin’s assistant. She came back at ten but I haven’t seen Charlie since eight,” the guard supplied helpfully – happy to be away from the subject of his own inadequacies.
“Fuck! Won’t Charlie ever learn. Okay, give me your radio and go back to the guard shack. I’m just going to check the safe rooms in the house and test the panic buttons. Use the base-station radio to let me know if the panic buttons are activating on the control panel.”
Coop then got off his bike and walked into the house, still shaking his head at Charlie’s stupidity.
For several years, Michael Cooper had been a senior Special Agent with the U.S. Diplomatic Security Service, that was until the unending bullshit and bureaucracy forced him to tell his supervisors where to shove their job.
Two weeks before, Coop had returned home from a three day ride to Tombstone to find his answering machine had thirty odd messages on it, but only one caught Coop’s attention. It was a request to handle security for a big wheel movie producer, Derek Austin, who had had a serious death threat. This was just the type of short term contract that Coop liked, and would give him the cash to not only finish the drag bike he had been building in his garage, but also enough extra to take a few weeks off to ride back to Sturgis with Bandit and Hammer.
Coop had a passion for two things, building bikes and taking long cross-country rides – preferably without a helmet. But to pay the bills he would work as a bodyguard. Not the typical Hollywood “baby-sitter to the stars” type bodyguard, but as a respected protection specialist. Coop had earned a reputation as a total professional and someone who could be counted on to take care of business – even if his appearance came as a shock to some of his more gentile clients.
For several years, Michael Cooper had been a senior Special Agent with the U.S. Diplomatic Security Service, that was until the unending bullshit and bureaucracy forced him to tell his supervisors where to shove their job. The friction had begun as a direct result of Coop’s preferred lifestyle choice, that of being a biker, which was not at all appreciated by his conservative, promotion hungry supervisors. Coop was constantly in violation of the Service’s strict grooming standards and was only really happy when protecting diplomats in some semi-third world shit-hole where grooming was not even a close second to experience, tactical awareness and shooting ability.
In the real world of operations, Coop was not only respected by his peers, he was constantly being requested for “hazardous duty” by senior diplomats and congressmen on overseas junkets. It was on this experience and reputation, and a few contacts in high office, that Coop had built his little business of handling medium to high risk private security contracts.
After a few calls to Austin’s office, a faxed contract and a wire transfer of funds, Coop began assembling a team for the job. He would handle the travel and movement of the principal with his own team of ex-shooters and looters from various military special operations groups, but he needed a supervisor for the static guard work and the more routine domestic security tasks that went along with the assignment. For this, Coop brought in a reputable guard service run by Charlie Bates, an ex-LAPD motor officer and patrol sergeant, with whom Coop shared a love of American Iron. They had worked together before and Coop found him to be a total professional. Well, up until this time.
Within a few days, Charlie had become a target for Mrs Austin’s personal assistant – a horny little wench named Tiffany. Tiffany was five foot four inches of total trouble. She was twenty-four with platinum blond hair, big breasts and favored clothing that was either too short, too tight, low cut, revealing or all of the above. The fact that Charlie was married, didn’t seem to bother her, in fact it only made him more of a challenge.
Coop had pegged her as a walking minefield on the first day when she had intentionally brushed her ample breasts against his arm as she passed him in the office. He had also noticed how she looked at the crotch in his Levi’s, the same way that a heroin addict looked at a loaded needle, so made a mental note right then to steer clear of this nymph – well at least until after the contract was over. Then he may sport-fuck her just for the hell of it.
But for poor Charlie, Tiffany represented everything his wife was not – young, shapely, horny and interested in his body -mostly from the belt down. But, as with most middle aged men, his ego clouded his thinking so he didn’t realize that at the time.
In just two weeks, Charlie had gotten himself so hooked on this bitch that he considered leaving his wife and family, and was now making some bad judgement calls. This was more than Coop needed, especially when it was his contract and reputation on the line.
As Coop entered the mansion and walked passed Tiffany’s office he heard the phone ring, and then a few seconds later a gasp and the phone drop onto the desk. He stepped in to find Tiffany, sitting at her desk wearing a tight white blouse open two buttons more than needed, with a shocked look on her face staring at the phone like it was a poisonous snake.
“What’s up?” Coop asked.
Tiffany pointed at the phone and said, “Its Charlie. He said he was gonna shoot himself and he wanted me to listen.”
Coop snatched up the phone, “Charlie, its me Coop, are you still there?”
“Fuck you Coop, put that bitch back on the phone,” Charlie’s voice came clearly across the line. Coop could tell that Charlie was mad and that he had been drinking.
“Listen buddy, I don’t know what’s going on so talk to me,” Coop said calmly.
“Fuck you and fuck her, I’m ending it all right here,” Charlie screamed and slammed down the phone.
Coop turned to Tiffany and demanded, “What the fuck is going on?”
“Charlie just got too serious so I told him this morning I didn’t want to see him any more. He didn’t take it too well and started drinking really heavily, so I split. That’s all. Honest,” she blurted, but recovering her composure.
“Well no shit. You only played him like an old violin for the past two weeks. What do you expect? Where is he now?”
“He’s at my apartment. He was depressed at first so I gave him some anti-depressants. But then he hit the Tequila and began waving his gun around, so I came back here,” she added meekly.
Once Coop hit Sunset Boulevard he really poured it on, slipping traffic and running lights.
“You left him alone with downers, alcohol and a gun, and just came back to work. You are something else lady. Give me your keys, now.” Coop grabbed her keys off of the desk and as he ran to his bike, shouted back, “Call 911 and get the paramedics to your place, now.”
In one kick he had the pan fired up and was blasting across the court-yard. The guard had seen Coop sprint for his bike so the gates were already open by the time Coop hit the bottom of the drive and slid through the turn sideways.
Once Coop hit Sunset Boulevard he really poured it on, slipping traffic and running lights. He already knew Tiffany’s address from the security back-ground checks that they had run on everyone, so his only concern was to get there before Charlie blew his brains all over the wall paper.
Ten minutes later and more than a few irate drivers, Coop braked to a rubber burning stop in the driveway to Tiffany’s Brentwood apartment building. Her keys got him through the security gate, up on to second level and through the door in less than a minute.
Coop took a deep breath and slowed as he went through the door. He didn’t know what he was running into. He heard nothing and as his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside he saw that the living room and kitchen were a shambles, furniture broken, lamps overturned and books and cassettes all over the floor.
When he entered the bedroom he was immediately hit by the foul odor of human sweat and urine. Charlie was face up, pale and lifeless on the bed wearing nothing but a soiled T shirt. He had a gun in one hand, both wrists were bleeding, there were red pills all over the bed and a couple of empty liquor bottles on the floor. There was broken glass and furniture everywhere.
Coop first checked Charlie’s pulse at the carotid artery on his neck and when he found a faint pulse, removed the small Beretta .25 automatic from his hand. Just then he heard the paramedics coming through the door. With them were two patrol officers from LAPD’s West LA division and at the sight of the “big, bad biker” standing over the dead guy things became quite tense.
After a few gut wrenching seconds, and some fast talking by Coop, the cops relaxed and things became all business. While the paramedics bandaged the still unconscious Charlie’s wrists, took samples of the pills for toxicology and loaded him onto a stretcher, the cops took a statement from Coop. They then gave him their business cards, complete with home numbers, in case he needed any more part-timers for future security gigs.
The next day, Coop dropped by the hospital to check on Charlie and found him sitting up in bed looking a whole lot better than the day before.
“Charlie my man, welcome back from the dark side,” Coop chuckled.
“I guess I have a lot to thank you for Coop. Sorry I fucked up. I didn’t….” Charlie began sheepishly, but Coop cut him off.
“Hey, no explanations. We have all been put through the wringer by women at some time in our pathetic little lives – it was just your time old cock,” Coop said, keeping the mood light. “So what happened?” Coop asked pointing at the bandages on Charlie’s wrists.
“Drinking myself to death wasn’t working so I tried to cut my wrists, but even with the drugs and booze, the blunt old Buck knife I used just hurt too much. So I decided to explore other methods. That’s when I got out my back-up gun and called Tiffany. I was determined to shoot myself but then those damn prescription downers of hers kicked in and I woke up here with a hose down my throat and another on up my dick having my stomach pumped.”
“Look at it this way Charlie…you are supposed to be a highly trained killer who knows weapons and is ready to protect my clients. But you couldn’t even shoot yourself.”
“You got this suicide shit out of your system now?” Coop asked.
“Yea. I talked to the wife and kids this morning and all is forgiven. I am gonna be paying “honey dues” for a while but there is light at the end of the tunnel. They took the restraints off an hour ago and said I could probably go home in forty-eight hours.”
“That’s great. Wish I could get that Tiffany bitch canned for you, but unfortunately, Mrs Austin thinks she is great,” Coop confided. With that, Coop reached out and patted Charlie on the shoulder and said, “For now, I got’a go but I’ll stop by tomorrow and see how you are doing. Hang tough.” With that Coop turned and headed for the door. Charlie called after him.
“Listen Coop, I’m sorry I let you down and I know you have to cut me loose. It was all very unprofessional on my part.”
Coop stopped in the doorway. “Hey, Charlie, I ain’t letting you go for being unprofessional. That cunt had you all twisted up inside. I am firing you for Incompetency.” Coop grinned and Charlie looked puzzled.
“Look at it this way Charlie. I know you keep a 12 gauge pump loaded with buckshot in your car, you pack a Colt Government .45 on duty and you have a little .25 Wop gun as a back-up – and with all that firepower you picked the .25 auto. Hell, you are supposed to be a highly trained killer who knows weapons and is ready to protect my clients. But you couldn’t even shoot yourself. Shit, if you can’t pick the right gun for the job and hit a target the size of your own fat melon from point blank range, what chance have you in a gunfight with real bad guys? That’s why I got to let you go, Charlie.”
Charlie sat there in shock listening to Coop’s footsteps echo down the hospital corridor.
As Coop left the hospital he was thinking about Tiffany and the shitty way she had manipulated Charlie, but he had to admit she had a body built for pleasure. Getting his mind back above his belt buckle Coop realized that the sun had set hours ago and it was time for a beer. After making one quick phone call to the estate, Coop was on his bike and moving, but instead of making straight for the Baja Cantina where he usually hooked up with Bandit, Doc and Grady on a Friday night, he headed for Bar One over on Sunset where the Beverly Hills wanna bees went to see and be seen. Considering the mood he was in, he thought the hunting would be better there.
Ignoring the parking attendants and muscle-bound doorman, Coop parked the Pan right in front of the club and walked in like he owned the place. The expensively decorated club was fast filling with the beautiful people – LA’s sporty young, and many not so young, jetset types, all dropping names and trying to one-up one another. Although the bar area itself was quite crowded, the expensive suits and tight dresses parted like the Red Sea did for Moses as Coop’s six foot three, two hundred and forty pound frame headed straight for the bar. The rich and pampered didn’t know quite what to make of the “big, bad biker” who towered over them.
As Coop ordered a shot of 1800 and two beers he saw Tiffany, breasts bulging from a tight little black number, propped on a bar stool at the other end of the bar holding court with a group of hopeful admirers, all vying for her attention.
The hunt was on. After shooting the Tequila and downing the first beer, Coop headed in her direction.
When Tiffany saw Coop approaching, she was at first surprised seeing him in this bar and then felt nervous, not quite knowing how to greet him. Coop walked right into the middle of her little pack of yuppies, totally ignoring them and immediately dominating Tiffany’s attention. She actually felt a little shudder run through her body as she realized just how poorly her little group of men-friends stacked up against Coop’s raw power and presence. The others just became part of the bar’s background noise.
” ‘Evening Tiffany. Shame about Charlie – and hey, I’m sorry about being a little hard on you earlier….”, Coop began.
When she heard the softer tone in Coop’s voice she began to relax. “Oh, that’s forgotten — is he okay?” she asked but didn’t seem sincerely concerned. In fact she was more interested in the sudden interest the other blood-sucking women in the bar were paying to Coop. She liked the fact that other women found him attractive and that the men were intimidated, but more importantly, he was talking to her.
“Never the less, I still feel bad about it and I am sorry for interrupting you and your friends. I need to get going anyhow…” Coop added as he finished his second beer.
“No, don’t go, let me buy you a drink,” Tiffany insisted as she gently squeezed his arm. Coop liked the feel of that.
“I would like that, but not right now. Its been a long day but I still need to swing by the Austin Estate to drop off some papers,” Coop begged off.
“Oh,” Tiffany pouted like a spoilt little girl who someone had just said ‘No!’ to.
“But if you want we could get a bite to eat afterwards,” Coop added in a conciliatory manner. This perked her up. “In fact, it will only take a minute, and since you aren’t dressed for riding, if you give me a lift up there in your car, we can go straight from there.”
Tiffany was not going to let this big brute get away so easily, so in one smooth movement, she grabbed her purse, was off the bar stool and they were heading for the door without even acknowledging “her friends”.
As they left the club Coop checked that the lock on his bike was secure, slipped the valet parker ten dollars and told him to keep an eye it. However, fear of what Coop may do to him was more incentive to watch the bike than the ten dollars for the small attendant.
Tiffany gave Coop the keys to her car and let him drive. She also used every opportunity in their conversation to touch his arm or leg as they drove west on Sunset towards Beverly Hills. There was no doubt in Coop’s mind that she was an affectionate little beasty, and one horny woman to boot. The estate was within a few miles of the club, and since Tiffany had an automatic gate opener, within minutes they were pulling up in front of the main house.
Exiting the car and pulling a folded envelope from inside his jacket, Coop said, “Listen, the Austins are away for the weekend so I should really put these in the safe in the master bedroom for safe keeping, but I don’t have the combination with me. Do you know it?”
…he ran his large hands up under her dress — and to no surprise, found no underwear.
Just trying to be helpful, Tiffany said, “Sure, follow me,” as she leapt from the car.
Once in the huge, ornately decorated, but dimly light master bedroom Tiffany headed for the back of one of the walk-in closets, found the safe, quickly spun the dials on the safe and popped it open. Coop reached out to place the papers in the safe and again, in the confines of the closet, his arm brushed her ample young breasts. Tiffany all but cooed at the sensual contact. She reached up with her long fingers, wrapped them around the back of Coop’s neck, pulled his face down to hers and devoured him in one long passionate, hungry kiss.
When she finally came up for air she asked, “You sure they are gone for the weekend?”
“Positive!” was Coops only response as he ran his large hands up under her dress — and to no surprise, found no underwear. Tiffany shuddered with pleasure and immediately began squeezing her own breasts with one and his crotch with the other.
Getting into the swing of things, Coop peeled the dress off over her head faster than most men could peel a banana, and then gently lowered her to the thick, soft carpet on the closet floor. Still fully dressed and not wanting to rush, Coop knelt between her legs and, taking her hands, slow guided them over her own body. With a wicked little smile, she caught on quickly and began playing with herself as Coop just knelt there assisting where ever it pleased him.
As her fingers slid down between her spread legs, over her own neatly shaved pussy and then inside, exploring, her eyes rolled back and she abandoned herself to her own personal heaven.
Tiffany knew that she did not come fast, but she did come strong — and she knew exactly how to get the most out of her masturbation. As she entered her own little world of naked men, big cocks and soon-to-be Coop’s hard body, she knew that she would also be arousing Coop — and that could only be better for her, very soon.
Tiffany began to moan and twist on the expensive carpet as she approached her first orgasm, but just as she began to climax a man’s voice brought her back to earth. But something was wrong –it was not Coop’s voice. Then there was a woman’s scream. Tiffany snapped her eyes open to find Mr and Mrs Austin dressed in formal evening wear looking down at her, totally aghast at the spectacle they were witnessing. Tiffany was naked in Mr Austin’ closet, masturbating and with the safe wide open.
“I can explain…. Aren’t you supposed to be away for the weekend? I am with Michael, you know, Coop,” Tiffany stammered as she scrambled to find her dress, which she could not find.
As Mrs Austin headed straight for the mini-bar in the bedroom, Mr Austin, still looking at Tiffany’s wet pussy, exposed for the world to see, regained his composure, and said, “Coop’s not here, and he knows that we were at the ballet this evening. He set up the security detail earlier. Now would you kindly get some clothes on young lady!”
When the shock had passed, Mrs Austin had had a drink and Tiffany had slipped into one of Mr Austin’s jackets, she continued trying to explain that she really was there with Coop. But the Austins were having none of her story, and when Mr Austin called down to security, the guard reported that only Ms Tiffany had come on property that evening and that Mr Cooper had not been there since early the previous afternoon.
Down in the guard room Coop winked to the duty guard and then slipped across the darkened property and out over the fence undetected. It would only be a short jog back to his bike.
Mrs Austin now launched into Tiffany, “You are fired,” and then turning to Mr Austin she said, “Derek, have the guards escort this little tramp from the property,” then turning back to Tiffany, “and there will be no work reference for you. In fact I will personally see to it that you don’t work in this town again!”
As Tiffany left crying, being escorted by a smiling guard, Mrs Austin realized that she had actually enjoyed the little show that she had just witnessed. She had never seen a woman masturbating before. Mr Austin would get lucky tonight.
– Hammer
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