All of his friends told Peter Townsend that he was crazy to buy the apartment in Cartagena, Colombia, in the luxury medium-rise building overlooking the ancient harbor, now yacht basin, as his retreat. But it was so convenient for him to sail his boat right up to the building's dock and whisk himself up to his retreat with its heavy security, and Cartagena catered to some of the special interests he didn't want to own up to back in Chicago. When they said, "But Colombia, with all the drug warfare and the kidnappings of executives?" he'd just laugh and think to himself, "Hiding in plain sight."
He certainly didn't want to tell them that he made far more money from the drug running between Cartagena and Naples, Florida, on his yacht each year than his position as CEO of the major pharmaceuticals manufacturing corporation had made him in the last twenty years. What was a little balancing of Colombian drug cartels in the face of an early retirement without a financial care in the world—and with some added benefits in the meantime?
The sun was high over the harbor, beating down on the bulletproof glass covering his terrace as he swam lap after lap in the pool that took up most of the terrace he'd had covered and that jutted out toward the old castle walls guarding—not always successfully—the approach into the harbor for centuries. He was reviewing the distribution plans for this week's take across the States via his network of Florida bush pilots. He had to review the particulars every day; he had to keep it all in his memory; nothing was consigned to paper or computer file. He was careful and discrete in all of the activities he wanted to hide from his other world back in Chicago.
After he finished his laps and rested in the lounge on the small square of terrazzo between the edge of the pool and the sliding glass doors into his living room, he planned to go to the closet in his guest room and cut the stash he'd just acquired into marketing share portions and pack it into sample drug kits he carried around with him on corporation business. Hiding in plain sight was a favorite ploy of his. No one had ever supposed that selected packets of dietary fiber powder his company was peddling to the world actually held heroin.
Laps and delivery network review finished, Townsend rose out of the pool and padded over to the lounge. He was in great shape for his forty-five years. His muscles were toned, his face was as square-jawed and handsome as his plastic surgeon could sculpt, and he'd managed to keep his own hair, although he'd stopped dying the hair at his temples when he was told that gray there looked distinguished on him. He was barrel chested and thickish in the waist, but he was just a solidly built man, with excellent musculature, a Neptune or Zeus rather than an Apollo or David.
Townsend lay back in the lounge and closed his eyes briefly. But after a few moments, he sighed and reached for the sex magazine on the table next to the lounger. He was keyed up and wanted to let off a little steam. He flipped the magazine over and started to peruse the photos. As he turned the pages, his hand slowly glided down his torso and under the hem of his Speedo. As he became more engrossed in the photographs, he pushed the Speedo down and off his legs and started up a slow but steady rhythm of stroking his engorged cock.
He was lost, safe in his world of security, in his fifth-floor apartment, with the bars over the windows, solid bulletproof canopy covering the terrace, the latest in security alarm systems, and his small armory of personal protection assault rifles, most of them back in the closet of the guest bedroom with the drug stash.
He'd have every reason to feel very safe if the security alarm system was actually armed that afternoon and if all of the double locks on the service door into the laundry room from the service elevator shaft had been bolted—if. But they weren't, just as the times that lax security at the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas at the harbor entrance had nullified the protection of Cartagena at the wrong time.
It took the two men practically no time to pick the locks of the service door at all and to steal silently into the apartment's laundry room on moccasined feet. They were dressed all in black, from nylon trousers, to Ts, to the silk hoods they pulled down over their heads before they carefully moved across the kitchen and dining room and into the living room, and positioned themselves behind the draperies on either side of the open sliding glass door out onto the terrace.
When they spied Townsend masturbating on the lounge by the pool, they smiled at each other and began to strip down to only the hoods covering their heads and knives in sheaths strapped to their thighs. The taller of the two, the dark Colombian, was also the younger of the two, strongly built, an obvious devotee of the gym. The cock he began to stroke while watching Townsend was long and thin. The shorter one, the darker Colombian, was of stouter, more solid build, probably the more heavily muscled of the two. His cock was barely noticeable when he first freed it, but it was impressively thick and was lengthening out nicely as he enjoyed the view of Townsend masturbating in supposed solitary splendor.
At a signal from the darker Colombian, the two moved silently out on the terrace, keeping to the late afternoon shadows for as long as possible.
Almost before Townsend knew they were there, the taller, younger one was straddling his chest and pushing his arms above his head. Townsend began to struggle, but then he felt the cold steel at the base of his ball sac. He saw that someone else was down there, but he couldn't make him out around the looming torso of the dark man straddling his chest. In any event, Townsend's immediate attention was focused on that long thin cock slapping him in the face.
"Suck his cock and do it nicely or you lose your balls," a gruff voice rose from behind the young man hovering over his chest. "You can feel the knife, can't you?"
