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My name is Andrea, she said in her sexy German-American accent, as she placed the coke on my tray table.I snapped out of it, thanked her, and quickly grabbed the soda with my right hand and began sipping it, all the while still gently jacking my cock under the table. She hadn't noticed a thing. She was focused on her job at hand, and moved on to the girl sitting behind me. I could feel my balls ready to explode, so I stopped jacking off, placed my cock in the proper upright position, and pulled my hand out of my pants. Wow, that was fantastic, I thought as I wiped the pre-cum of my left hand with a napkin.Having seen the front of her, I also wanted to see the back of her. Not wanting to make it obvious, I pretended to reach for my little bag of peanuts and accidentally let them slip off the table into the aisle way. I reached across the two chairs to retrieve the bag and took a quick look at Andreas perfectly shaped ass as she was serving customers behind me. Perfect curves and her. When you didn't go the way the voice told you to go, you weren't disturbed when you heard the voice say, "Recalculating." You heard that same statement many times.Ray exited his car and looked at Pat's cottage. Pat's definition of cottage and Ray's definition differed substantially. Cottage, hell thought Ray, this was at least a three thousand square foot home and more if it had a walk-out basement, which it probably did. The cottage appeared to be built into the side of a hill that tapered down to the lake. There was no question in Ray's mind that Pat was doing well as an investor.Walking around the side of the house, Ray saw Pat down on the boat dock and she gave him a wave and started walking toward Ray. This high powered respected business economist wasn't dressed to go on television to be interviewed. Pat was wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses that where high on her forehead, a man's long sleeve blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans that had seen better days and gym.
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A dime-sized spot of blood stood out in the middle of his chest. “Took one in the temple up close, flash burns. Muzzle must’ve been almost touching. .38 maybe. The one in the chest, near the heart, was farther away, six or seven feet.” Andersen, a big, broad-shouldered Swede, was chewing on a toothpick as he moved around to the front of the desk. He turned to face the corpse holding his hand up as if it were a gun and stepped back until he was beside McKay. “Way I figure it, Mike, the shooter stood about here. He came in when he knew the secretary would be gone to lunch. Entered the office door and fired the first round, then he walked over to the body and administered the coup de grace with one to the head. Has all the marks of a mob hit.” “And the room is sound proof so nobody would have heard the shot,” McKay added. “That’s it — pure and simple.” “Mm, I don’t know. Not so pure and not so simple.” “Whatdaya mean, Mike?” The Swede folded his thick arms across his chest and turned to.

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