An Act of Congress

Troy stood over Greg and glared down at him. Bloody bubbles seeped from his mouth. Slowly and deliberately, Troy lifted his booted foot and smashed it down on Greg's head. Then he stomped and kicked the guy until he had to stop, panting. He dragged the battered and bloodied body to the car, leant it sitting against a door. Maybe Greg was already dead - it didn't matter, squatting Troy pulled the snub-nosed .38 revolver from his jacket pocket, pressed it to the man's temple and, feeling devoid of any emotion, pulled the trigger.

Even muffled by Greg's skull, the shot sounded like a howitzer as it reverberated through the night. His heart racing, Troy stood and paused for a minute or so. Somewhere a dog barked a few times, but there seemed to be no further reaction. Nevertheless, Troy knew he had to work fast. Opening the trunk he lifted out the can of gasoline, placed it ready to splash over the Lincoln. Next he braced his hands on the roof of the vehicle and crashed his cheek against it. It took three attempts before he could bring himself to apply sufficient force to cause a deep gash across his cheekbone. Shit, that hurt! But if the plan was going to come together, if he was to have any chance of convincing the authorities they'd run into a rogue bunch of gangbangers, he needed to inflict some real damage on himself. Leaning into the front passenger well of the car he pulled a blackjack and a set of knuckle dusters from beneath the seat. He rested the Colt on the hood: a slug through his thigh would be the coup de grace - the gangstas offing the rich white dude but sparing the brother. He scanned the ground for a decent sized rock to smash his head against.

He wasn't aware of the dark Chevy Cruze slowly rolling up until suddenly the scene was bathed in strobing blue and red light. Troy spun in shock as the headlamps flared, shielding his eyes with an arm he could just make out the dark shape of the vehicle, the tall bulky silhouette of a man standing by the open passenger door, feet planted wide in the aiming stance. A dry Queens-accented voice, fractured by decades of cigarette smoke, called "Police - raise your hands above your head."

In the next couple of seconds thoughts raced through his head: two cops, at least one of them experienced - he was two feet from the Colt and they had the drop on him. No chance of winning this stand-off, any chance of selling the cover story to them? However this played out he must protect Jen, he couldn't allow any hint of suspicion to fall on her. A car door clicked open, a second voice barked "Hands in the air - now!"

With a sense of futility, brain still whirling in the search for a get-out, Troy raised his hands, one of them still curled around the blackjack. Almost the last sound he heard in his life was the voice of the first cop screaming "Gun!"

The young uniformed officer crouched before Senator Nordstrom, then glanced briefly across at the silently weeping figures of Marisol and Rosella. Resting her hand gently on the senator's knee, the cop looked up at the hands covering the senator's tear-soaked face and asked softly, "Ma'am, are you sure you don't want us to call someone else to come over and stay with you?"

Jen dropped her hands, wiped her eyes with a tissue and croaked, "You're very kind, thank you, but...no. I'd rather be alone right now."

The detective who'd delivered the death message touched the patrolwoman on the shoulder and said, "Okay Senator, we'll be on our way now. We'll arrange for someone to look in on you tomorrow, make sure you're okay, see if there's anything you need." Realising he was starting to burble, he added, "Once again ma'am, sincere condolences on your loss," then he and his colleague made their way to the entry door, closing it softly behind them.

Jen breathed deeply then, letting the air out in a half-sigh half-sob, told her staff "Get to bed now ladies, I think we all need to try and get some sleep. I don't need anything, really, like I told the police, I want some time alone to take this in."

She sat perched on the edge of the sofa, expressionless, unconsciously shredding the tissue in her wringing hands, until the last crunch of the patrol car on the drive had long died away, and until Marisol and Rosella had had time to slide into their beds. Then she sniggered. The snigger turned into a chuckle, then a laugh that she had to press a hand to her mouth to suppress. She reached across to a side table for her cell, and entered a speed dial code.

The call was answered on the second ring. A European-accented woman's voice asked "Jen darling, is that you? How did it go."

Allowing herself a sip of the brandy the police detective had poured her, Jen replied in a half-whisper "Perfect - even better than we could have hoped." Adopting a faux Spanish accent, she continued "Unfortunately the anonymous tip-off came too late." She reverted to her own refined tones. "Tragically the cops got there too late to prevent my treacherous chauffeur from murdering poor dear Greg."

"Are you in the clear?"

Jen swirled the last of the brandy around her mouth. "I believe so. Detective Casey and his family have done my people several lucrative favours over the years, and his no-neck partner will 100% swear that the shooting was good." Apparently, when the CSI techs arrived they would found a revolver inches from Troy's hand. "And Kristina - you've arranged the bank details?"

A chuckle emanated from the phone. "Oh yes. When the cops look into Mr Jordan's finances they won't have too much difficulty tracing his recent 50-grand deposit back to a bank in Juarez, Mexico. There the trail will go cold."

Revelling in the moment, Jen slid a hand under her nightgown, stroked a finger along her damp pussy. Who knew that murder could be so damn erotic. Massaging her clit with a thumb, she whispered, "Oh Kris, I think we've done it. And after tolerating that disgusting creep's hands pawing me I can't wait to feel your tongue inside me again."