The Jerk-Off
by Jack Lynch
Chapter 22
That's the Way She Goes.
Thayer squeezed his eyes shut, an attempt to block out what was happening. Think of something else, be somewhere else, with someone else , he repeated over and over in his mind.
He'd made up his mind earlier in the afternoon. Staring out from the dock at The Bar and Gas over to Ledecker Island, he finally decided to let C.O. take his cherry. Not just let—he wanted him to do it. Hard. Rough. In a loving way, but still forcefully. Stinging pain as his anal ring was pierced, pressure deep inside, was what he needed and wanted.
The only obstacle to this life changing experience—C.O. Once again, Thayer's efforts to hook up with him had been thwarted. Frustrating to the max, he was being forced by his dad to stay close to home tonight. Something was going on but C.O. wasn't saying what it was. Their brief message exchange left him feeling fluttery and weak. Was he being too whiny and impatient? Desperate sounding?
"What?" Jogged out of his thoughts, he turned to Rome, unaware that he'd sidled up next to him. At that moment, he had such a hang-dog look about him Thayer almost felt sorry for him.
"Nothin,'" Romey replied defensively. "I'm just standing here."
Thayer let out a long sigh, half out of exasperation, half out of resignation. Much as he tried to deny it, something was going on inside of him. A mixture of attraction and revulsion. If he let Romey do something, do something with him or to him, maybe it would be okay. But, how far would he dare let him go? How far would he want him to go?
Thayer looked down at the ground. "I guess if ya wanna hang out later, I'm okay with it," he said quietly.
"Can we…can we?" Romey asked, trying hard to get Thayer to look him in the eyes.
"Yeah, whatever," he replied, waving his hand, sounding resigned to the idea.
They met at at the entrance to a minimum maintenance trail encircling Hamlet Lake, a mostly uninhabited weedy body of water north of Bay Lake. Rome carried a musty old camouflage blanket wound into a roll, held together by a weathered belt, along with a couple of sodas bound together by plastic rings. He led the way, a bounce in his step, obviously in anticipation of what he hoped was going to happen. Thayer trudged behind, still trying to decide if he really wanted to go through with it.
A few hundred feet along the trail, a small clearing appeared bordered by the decaying trunk of a large tree that had fallen long ago. Romey spread the blanket down, motioning for Thayer to sit next to him. He popped the can open on one of the sodas, offering the other one to Thayer.
With their backs against the tree trunk, the boys talked quietly about nothing in particular. All the while, Romey tried his best to look at Thayer without seeming too obvious. He was delighted Thayer had worn his navy blue hoodie even though it was fairly warm. He looked so yummy in that color, his fair skin and dark hair set off so nicely. Maybe at some point Thayer would go shopping with him. Romey would pick out something nice for him—maybe a long-sleeved t-shirt, in dark blue, of course.
Finally, turning half on his side, Romey reached over and put his hand on Thayer's chest.
"Is this okay?"
Thayer barely acknowledged him, staring straight ahead, nodding ever so lightly.
Even over his thick sweatshirt, Romey could feel Thayer's heart banging away inside his chest. He tried to keep his breath light for fear it might smell bad, even after a couple of sprays of a minty breath freshener he applied in his car on the way over.
After holding his hand there for a few moments, Romey let it drop to the waistband of Thayer's hoodie, deftly snaking underneath. He was wearing a t-shirt, of course, which still left a layer of fabric between Romey's hand and Thayer's skin. Nevertheless, he could feel it's silkiness and the firm pimple when the tips of his fingers crossed Thayer's right nipple.
When it became too awkward to try to pull the sweatshirt away from Thayer's body to gain access underneath, Romey pulled his arm back out and used his other hand to start pulling the hoodie over his head. For a moment, he thought Thayer was going to resist but then he obligingly lifted his arms over head and let Romey pull it off. That's when he saw it—a lump in the front of Thayer's shorts. It's working , Romey thought. He's hard!
Thayer watched as Romey's hand wandered around his chest and stomach, cupping one breast, then the other. He'd never thought this kind of thing would be much of a turn-on, but all of a sudden, he almost felt like he could get off without any further stimulation.
Romey sat up and looked at him. With one hand on the bottom of Thayer's t-shirt, he asked, "Can I?"
A slight frown came over Thayer's face, his mouth fell open, and he slowly nodded.
"Up," Romey replied almost in a whisper. Thayer's arms again went up in the air as Romey pulled the t-shirt up and over his head.
Romey slowly massaged Thayer's smooth chest, running his hands up and down his sides, rippling the tips of his fingers across his rib cage and up into his arm pits. Thayer's eyes gazed upward, watching the rustling of the trees above them. Besides the soft breeze, the only other sounds came from birds calling, both near and far.
With a sigh Thayer raised his arms and placed them behind his head, giggling for a moment when Romey pushed on one of his nipples, almost like he was pressing on a doorbell. What happened next wasn't anything you would do with a doorbell, though. He bent over and lightly licked Thayer's nipple, his other hand lightly pinching the other one. It was like an electric shock coursed through Thayer's entire body causing him to jerk forward and wince with a gasp. Nevertheless, Romey continued to suck on Thayer's nipple, making him gasp over and over, writhing to the touch, both in pain and pleasure. But, he did nothing to stop Romey, his hands remaining behind his head.
After awhile, Romey sat up just enough to pull his own t-shirt off. Thayer looked at him for a moment, then looked away and cringed. He's so skinny! He thought. Bony shoulders, freckles on his upper chest, the ridiculous looking farmer's tan. Seeming not to notice Thayer's reaction, Romey put one finger up on his cheek, turning his face so their lips were barely an inch apart. Thayer swiveled his head away but Romey turned him back again and used his tongue to lick the outside of Thayer's mouth. Those lips, those lips, those lips! He screamed to himself. So sweet!
Thayer tightened them attempting to push Romey's tongue away. Instead, it made it seem as if he was squeezing it which only emboldened Romey more. Instinctively, Thayer relaxed his lips and his tongue came out far enough to tickle Romey's. More lips, more tongues.
As the oral play continued, Thayer didn't even realize Romey's other hand had slipped off his face to stroke the boner that was currently pushing against the front of his shorts. It wasn't until his hips started to move up and down in time to the stroking that he realized Romey was jerking him off.
With another sigh, Romey suddenly pulled his face away, looking first into Thayer's eyes with a hazy smile, before he looked down at the bulge in his shorts. His hand moved up to Thayer's waist where he nudged the button open. Thayer brought his arms down, intending to stop him from continuing. Instead, he just laid his hands flat down on the ground as he watched Romey unzip him. Now more compliant, he raised his hips up a bit, allowing Romey to pull his shorts down and off.
Romey nudged Thayer's thighs open with one hand while his other hand went back to working on his stiff cock.
"Not too rough, please," Thayer half whispered putting one hand over the one Romey was using on his dick. Instead of pulling it off, he used it to calm Romey's hand, keeping it their for a few more moments until the rhythm of it was more to his liking.
Just as Thayer thought the explosion of an orgasm was imminent, Romey took his hands away and quickly pulled his own shorts off. In his case, his underwear came off with them too, exposing his narrow hips and smooth abdomen. A hard pink pencil dick came into view, jumping up and down with his pulse, his nuts waving back and forth. His whole pubic area was completely bald. Small pink balls hugged the underside of his groin. Light blue veins snaked across his thighs. His appearance was both distasteful and intoxicating to Thayer. On the one hand, he wanted to reach over and grab his cock. On the other hand, he felt glued to the spot. He just stared through hooded eyes.
When Thayer's underwear was finally off, Romey leaned over and lightly kissed the thick head of what was probably the most beautiful cock he could have ever imagined. That's when Thayer leaned his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, an image of C.O.'s face vivid in his mind.
"Owww!" Thayer squealed. He grabbed Romey's head, pulling him away from his cock. "No teeth!"
"Jeez!" Romey gasped. How am I supposed to know? 'Never done this before , he thought. Opening his mouth wider and rounding his lips, he let Thayer use his hands to guide his head back down onto the smooth shaft.
A few minutes later, it was over. Thayer blasted a full load into Romey's mouth, so much so that he was forced to audibly gulp it down. Afterwards, Romey sat up, giggling as he wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. Spent and barely able to move, Thayer just lay there, allowing Romey to jerk off and blast his own spunk all over his chest and stomach.
When they left the woods, each one jumped into his own car, hardly exchanging another word.
"Oh, c'mon!" Gretchen yelled, her hands gripping the steering wheel.
An old pickup, complete with a rusting fender and a dented tailgate, yawning to one side, crept along the highway ahead of her. 20 mph in a 45-zone! Then, with no notice, not even bothering to signal, it turned left onto the road leading to one of the private marinas on the northern shore of Bay Lake.
Gretchen shook her head as she stomped on the accelerator. If she didn't hurry, she'd be late for a meeting of the newly formed Citizens for a Safe Bay Lake Association. The group had come out of nowhere, spontaneously organized as a result of the minor ( minor? ) crime wave that had beset the area. A murder, a couple of arsons, and equipment vandalized at Deck's company. On top of that, hopefully unrelated, Louie Lee Ledecker had gotten pushed off of a subway platform in Chicago. CiSBLA, already boasting over eighty-five members, had called tonight's meeting. They wanted—no demanded, answers. They even had a logo and a t-shirt. Worse yet, they had an agenda.
The other four county commissioners had conveniently made themselves unavailable for the meeting. Likewise, Ed Concannon claimed to be buried in meetings with the FBI, Bueller, and Trotter, the State Fire Investigator. Instead, they were sending some guy, a kid really, from the Deerwood PD. He was supposedly the department's Community Service Officer, a position he had been awarded earlier today. What a joke! What police department that has just five officers needs a CSO , Gretchen muttered to herself?
Cornish Jago pulled his rusting Toyota Tacoma pickup into the sand and gravel lot, pulling off to the side just behind a pole mounted with a security camera. With the hinges groaning and squeaking as he leaned on the door for support, he slowly extracted himself, looking up as he squeezed one eye shut and peered up at the small security camera, trying to better see how it was wired. He smirked as his eyes followed a cable from the camera over to a small equipment shed thirty or forty feet away. Scanning the dock area, he spied a second camera mounted on one of the light poles at the far side of one of the private docks.
Fortunately, no one was around at this hour. Cornie shook his head in disgust as his eyes scanned the twenty or so boats and jet skis tied to the docks, most covered in tarps. Those goddamn Lakers , he thought. Spending an insane amount on ridiculously over-priced watercraft, only to let them sit around and attract algae.
Reaching into the truck bed, he pulled the cover off of a stained and dented styrofoam cooler and pulled a bottle of beer out of it. After popping the top off and taking a gulp, he leaned against his truck, waiting for it to get a little darker. About twenty minutes later, the lights along the docks just having come on, he again reached over the side of the truck and pulled a pair of clippers out of his tool box. It didn't take more than a minute to find the cable powering the security camera running down the side of the shed. With one squeeze, he cut it through. Ambling onto the dock, he went to the light pole supporting the second camera. Just before he cut that cable, he threw what remained of his beer, bottle and all, into the water.
Now for the fun part. Retrieving two small containers of kerosene from his truck, he turned and let his eyes scan the docks, taking another quick look around. Two boats, far in the distance, sped across the lake, going in opposite directions. Other than that, it was completely quiet. Hitching his pants up, with a grunt, and a fart for good measure, he sauntered back down to the dock. Stopping for a moment, he surveyed the array of boats tied up in neat rows. Picking the biggest of them, a giant Sea Ray, he squatted down to take a look. She's a beaut! , he told himself. Too bad, but that's the way she goes. First, setting the kerosene containers carefully down on the dock, he hopped down into the boat well and found his way to the cabin door. It was locked but, no matter. A quick punch with a screwdriver and the lock blasted away, the door banging open.
"Jesus H. Christ!" He exclaimed, as he shook his head. The opulence of the lower cabin was beyond the pale. A richly decorated bedroom big enough for a king-sized bed. Peering down a short hallway, he spied a second, smaller bedroom, and a head in between.
Before he took care of business, he was going to use the head. Then, he realized with a chuckle, don't matter. There ain't gonna be nothin' left after I'm done anyways. Reaching under his belt, he yanked the zipper of his pants down and dug away inside his shorts as he tried to find his dick. The damn thing always gets caught in there , he complained to himself. Pulling his hand back out, he undid his belt and let his pants fall to his knees. Yanking his boxers down, Cornie turned to the bed and proceeded to release a stream of piss onto the floral printed duvet.
"That's not very nice." A voice from behind him.
"Jesus!" Cornish yelled, reflexively squeezing his butt cheeks together and swiveling around. Seeing who it was, he responded in a tight gruff voice, "You again!" That same guy, the one that had been hanging around his dock the other day. The one with the cap pulled down on his forehead. Lanky, dark hair, menacing.
He cocked his head to one side, as if he was thinking.
"It seems to me, if I recall, the last time we spoke, you told me you didn't want any trouble."
Cornish just grunted.
"This sort of looks like trouble," the guy continued. There was silence for a moment while he slowly shook his head in disappointment.
It suddenly dawned on Cornish that his pants and underwear were still at his ankles. With another grunt, he bent down and struggled to get them pulled back up.
"Ya know, kid. Why don't you just butt out? What do you care happens to this rich prick's boat, anyway?"
The guy chuckled.
"You might have something there." Then he smirked. "But, we have other priorities. Your little game, this pyro thing, is interfering with our plans."
"I don't know who 'we' is or what your plans are but, as far as I'm concerned, you little shit, I don't give a flying fuck!" Cornish was now gaining some confidence. He balled his hands into fists, ready to jump the guy.
The guy looked at him with a slight frown. Digging slowly into his shirt pocket, he pulled something out and handed it to Cornish.
"Maybe this would help improve your attitude, gramps."
Cornish took what looked like some money and opened it up part way, at first. Then, hardly believing his eyes, he opened it up all the way. A five-hundred dollar bill! ' Never seen one of these before! With a smirk, he refolded it and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his shirt.
"That's good for starters, bud. But, you're gonna havta to do a lot better 'n that!"
The guy let out a long sigh, reached behind his back, and pulled out a revolver.
The single blast was deafening but, somehow, Cornish barely heard it. Instead, he was more focused on the front of his shirt. When he looked down with a frown, he saw a round spot of red in the middle of his chest that seemed to get bigger by the mili-second.
Oh well , he thought. I guess I'm dead .
Thousands of miles away in Gurgoan, a city of nearly a million people, in northeast India, a tech sat at his computer, blandly monitoring thousands of alarm systems and security cameras in the States. Even though it was early morning in India, the heat and humidity was still repressive. An old air conditioner lumbering away in the far corner of the cavernous room where he worked failed to cool the place off much. It was still hot and sticky. He allowed himself an extended blink for a moment, only realizing it was much longer than a moment, when he felt his chin hit his chest. Jerking himself upright, he stared blurry-eyed at the computer monitor, noticing for the first time, a blinking red icon—third column, sixth field from the top.
Clicking on the icon to expand it, a window appeared with data from a camera somewhere in America's Midwest. Power had been lost to the unit. A quick scan of the camera's description told him this was a newer install, one that had its own battery back-up.
With another click, he displayed a live view of the scene. At first, he could barely make out the form of a figure walking from the foreground toward what looked like a body of water. Increasing the window's brightness so he could see more detail, he observed what was obviously a burly man lumber over to a pole in the far corner of the screen. He reached up with some kind of tool and seemed to fiddle with a cable. A moment later, the tech received another alert on his screen—a second camera had lost power. Quickly repositioning windows on his monitor, he now had a live view of the scene from both of them.
The man walked back to a truck, got something, and returned, stopping for a moment near the shore. He then ambled onto one of the docks and hopped into the largest boat in the marina.
Suddenly fully alert, the tech navigated to several different screens, quickly composing an email to the nearest law enforcement agency—Brainerd, Minnesota. He copied and pasted the language prescribed by his firm. Intruder. Possible crime in progress. Address and GPS coordinates followed. He also sent a message to his supervisor.
Brainerd Dispatch dutifully sent out a text alert to the Deerwood PD. Receiving no response, a minute later, the dispatcher got on the radio and broadcast the same message.
Chip Black, Deerwood's newly appointed CSO, watched his phone vibrating on the table in front of him. He was going to reach for it but a side-long glance from Commissioner Millerberg held him in place. She was in the middle of a long-winded answer to a question regarding law enforcement funding.
A minute later, his radio crackled to life. Jumping to turn the volume down as quickly as he could, he quietly excused himself from the meeting and walked outside the room. First, listening to the dispatch as it was repeated and checking the text on his phone, he frowned.
"Hey Smokey," Chip said, after punching in his phone number. "Did you see that intruder alert?"
"Yeah. But, I'm in the middle of helping a lady with a flat tire. Can you take it?"
Macon MacCalman, Deerwood's other deputy on duty tonight. People had to think twice to remember his actual name. Everyone knew him only as Smokey. A dead ringer for Sheriff Buford Jackson from the movie, Smokey and the Bandit . Rotund, broad face, dark hair and thick eyebrows, a stomach that rivaled the size and breadth of Concannon's beer belly.
"Do you know where I am?" Chip huffed.
Smokey grunted as he struggled to stand up. "Ah, right. I'll head over there in a few."
Back to the live views afforded by the two cameras, the tech observed a second person, probably taller and definitely more slender than the first guy, enter the scene. He could barely make out his features because he had a cap pulled down over his face. It looked like he had some scruff and his long dark hair appeared to be pulled back behind his head. Walking with purpose and without hesitation, he tread across the dock, and onto the same boat.
"How long has this alert been active?" His supervisor asked, bending over the tech's shoulder.
"Seven minutes and twenty-three seconds, sir," he responded. He quickly brought him up-to-date.
"Any response from local law enforcement?"
"No sir."
Just then, they both observed the second man, the taller, more slender one, step back onto the dock. He walked away, out of view a few seconds later.
"Where is the first man?"
"He must still be on that boat."
"If he stole something, it must have been small enough to conceal in his clothing. Perhaps he's coming back." The supervisor paused, bringing one hand up to pinch his lips together. "Send a follow-up."
"Yes sir." He quickly copied and pasted another message. Urgent. Possible crime in progress, followed by the same address and GPS coordinates.
"That must be law enforcement," the tech said.
A vehicle had just entered the scene, parking near the dock where the large boat was tied in. Two people jumped out, one tall, lanky, with scruff on his face. He resembled the guy who had just walked away with the notable exception of not wearing a cap, his long dark hair falling around his shoulders. The second person, the driver, was apparently a teenage girl.
"Hmmm, I don't think so," the supervisor responded, in a half whisper.
Elliott's eyes were glued to Ozzie's ass as they walked onto the dock. Those shimmery little shorts riding up with each stride, the bottom of his butt cheeks peeking out with the sway of his hips. Equally so, the sleeveless top he wore, more like a cami. Man! He looks fuckin' sexy. Elliott hadn't been able to keep his hands off of him after getting picked up a few minutes ago. Feeling him up, pinching here and there, made Ozzie giggle as he playfully pushed him away.
"I'm driving!" He squealed in protest with a grin.
As soon as they got on the boat's deck, Ozzie turned on a set of trim lights and some music. With Elliott watching from a slumped position on a side bench, he kicked off his sandals, quickly shrugging off his top and bottoms.
A soft giggle, his eyes twinkling, Ozzie shook his head to get the hair out of his eyes. He didn't have to look down to know what he looked like—he could see himself reflected back in Elliott's eyes.
"Fu-u-u-ck!" A low gasp escaped Elliott's lips. This man-boy-girl is the sexiest thing I have ever seen , he thought. Perfectly smooth light beige skin, narrow chest, tiny nipples, cute tummy, an even cuter belly button, hip bones stretching the skin at his waist, skinny legs, a throbbing cock, outsized for someone of his physical stature.
With another giggle, Ozzie put one knee on the bench, forcing Elliott's legs apart, bent over, pushed his head back, and smashed their mouths together.
The tech and his supervisor, both men's mouths agog, watched silently as the scene unfolded.
"I thought that was a girl," the tech said, a confused look on his face.
Once he got better control, Elliott had Ozzie flat on his back, knees up, gripping his calves, as he thoughtfully lapped at every square inch of his nether region, paying particular attention to his silken perineum and balls. How can anyone taste so good , Elliott asked himself? For his part, Ozzie responded to each lick with a nu sound, gasping when Elliott alternately licked or sucked on his cock.
Minutes later, Elliott was up on his knees, face flat on the deck floor.
"Let me get some lube," Ozzie whispered after thoroughly rimming Elliott.
"That's all right. I waxed before we got here," Elliott responded. "Just do it!" He rasped.
The sounds of their lovemaking echoed across the quiet lake.
Just as Ozzie came to a jolting orgasm, he tipped his head back, eyes to the sky—stars, both real and imagined. But, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something else, some kind of movement. Then, the sound of another person clearing his throat.
Elliott and Ozzie both turned their heads to see an extra large police officer standing on the dock, thumbs curled into his gun belt. They both froze for an instant, then quickly rolled away from each other.
"Gentlemen," Smokey said grunting, a serious look on his face, trying as hard as possible, not to break into laughter.
A minute later, they were both dressed, sitting on the side bench, answering the cop's questions.
"Okay, so this is your dad's boat. I get that," Smokey said. "But, what about the old guy?"
"What old guy?" Ozzie asked.
"The guy who got here before you."
Ozzie frowned. "I have no clue what or who you're talking about."
That's when he saw it. The door to the lower cabin was slightly ajar. Smokey and Elliott both followed Ozzie's gaze.
"Stand back there," Smokey indicated, nodding toward the back of the boat. He quickly unholstered his gun. "You, in there! Come on out. Now!"
Receiving no response, he edged forward, nudging the door open with the gun barrel and peering in. Stepping forward out of sight, he returned a few seconds later, an ashen look on his face.
By the time everybody got there, Smokey had the two boys face down on the boat's deck, with their hands cuffed behind their backs.
Once the news got out, Gretchen barreled out of the meeting, following Chip's squad car over to the murder site. After seeing Jago's body, she had to be helped to a seat on the boat's deck, overcome with dizziness and nausea.
"Get Trotter over here," Sheriff Concannon directed Troftgruben. "I think we may have our arsonist. Our late arsonist, that is." He stared down at Jago's remains, flat on his back, laying in a large pool of blood, the bed entirely soaked through. Two containers of kerosene had been propped up next to him.
After some aggressive questioning by Shamus, the two boys were released from their handcuffs and allowed to sit on one of the side benches. Ignoring the murder scene for the moment, he looked at each one of them long and hard, as he stroked his mustache.
"Deputy Porter, swab these two young men for gunpowder residue," he ordered.
Porter smirked as he turned to retrieve an evidence kit from his squad car. First a swab, then maybe a body cavity search , he thought sarcastically.
The blond kid acts like some kind of entitled little prick , Shamus thought. The other one, Elliott Winehouse, was more of a mystery. His California drivers license listed an address in Yountville, smack in the middle of the Napa Valley. Nothing suspicious about that. But, it was the vibe he gave off. Unusually calm, almost as if he didn't really care about what was going on. And yet, there was an underlying, somewhat troubling, edge. Shamus couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"Sheriff Concannon, you'd better take a look at this," Blaisdell said, sticking his head out the cabin door. Shamus and Concannon squeezed into the bedroom where Harriet Leach was using a set of long tweezers to pull something out of the breast pocket of Jago's blood soaked shirt pocket.
Holding it up to the light, she turned it this way and that. "It looks like a $500 bill," she said quietly.
Concannon took his cap off and scratched the side of his head. "Well, I guess this here is what you call a murder spree."
O was truly shook up when he arrived at the scene a few minutes later. After conferring with the authorities, finding out neither tested positive for gun powder, Ozzie and Elliott were released to him. He stared at his son with a frown.
"We're going to have to have a talk," he told Ozzie in a stern voice. Then looking around, he asked, "Where'd your friend go?"
Ozzie looked around himself. Elliott had vanished, as though he had evaporated into thin air.
Tony shook his head, eyes closed, his fingers massaging the tissue between them.
"Listen. I'm tired of you fucking around. Just get this done."
He spoke barely above a whisper, his tone dark and threatening.
"This is what I do. Take it or leave it," he responded firmly.
"You've got twenty-four hours."
Without waiting for a response, Tony clicked off the call.
A moment later, he leaned against the wall while he delivered his report. Dino tried to listen even though he was distracted for the moment by the sight of a naked Claire laid out on a nearby fainting couch. Owen was bent over her, the index and middle finger of one of his hands currently an inch or more inside Claire's moist snatch.
"You know, I don't particularly like all this collateral damage," Dino said. "This deal is starting to get a little boring."
"Whaddaya wanna do?"
Dino glanced over at Owen, who appeared to not be hearing a word of the conversation. "That developer—what's his name again?"
"Clark Berg?"
"It's a binary choice. He becomes our partner or we take him out."
Tony let out a low chuckle. "I suppose we could have our guy have a conversation with their guy. You know, the one they got on the ground."
"Do it. Tomorrow."
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