Slaver's Bait: The Taking of Cheryl (25 page)

When Stoner had finished emptying the kerosene bottle, he turned to Jeremiah. He had seen the suitcase Jeremiah had brought with him and he had a good idea of what was in it.

“Got your treasure with you, Jeremiah?” he asked.

Jeremiah nodded. “Yes, Master Stoner. But we must leave. The rebels….”

“Yes the rebels,” Stoner replied. “But first you and I must settle a little business.” He pulled his .45 from his holster.

“How much do you think you earned from whoring out my wives, Jeremiah?” he asked.

Jeremiah was shocked. He had no idea that Stoner knew. His palms began to sweat. “I don’t know Master Stoner,” he said nervously.

“Well, since it was my wives all those men were fucking, don’t you think that that money really belongs to me?”

Jeremiah looked at Stoner with hatred. This man was going to steal his life savings. He opened his mouth to curse the white devil.

He never got a chance to say a word. Stoner fired the .45 right into his chest. It blew him back about ten feet and he crashed to the floor. Stoner smiled. “That fucking black bastard,” he thought. No one stole from him!

He turned to the doomed women. He only wished that he could stay and watch them burn. He put the pistol back in its holster, smiled, and took a book of matches from his pocket. He pulled out a match. The smell of kerosene permeated he room. He stepped back a few feet from the bed.

Just then, the door came crashing open. The Turk stood in the doorway. His chest was heaving from running. He took a quick look around the room. He smelled the kerosene. He saw Stoner standing, poised. He attacked.

Stoner reached for his .45 once he had gotten over the shock of seeing the doors to his bedroom flung open. He just got it clear of the holster when the Turk came crashing into him. It stumbled from his hand. The two giant men wrestled on the floor. Each knew that he was fighting for his life. Stoner’s big fist struck the Turk on the side of the head and he saw stars. Stoner took advantage of the Turk’s momentary distraction to push him off of his body and crawl towards the gun. The Turk recovered quickly and he grabbed Stoner’s foot and dragged him away from it.

Stoner turned his body and struck out with his other foot. He caught Turk in the groin and the man went down. Stoner tried to rise, but Turk was back on top of him. The men traded blows as they rolled about the room. Nora and Justine looked on stunned. Nora tried to make a break for the gun, but Stoner, having risen and seeing this, crashed his fist into her head, knocking her senseless. The desperate struggles of the behemoths had knocked debris all around the room. The racks of whips fell from the wall and spilled across the floor. Stoner grabbed a small stone statuette from the credenza and smashed it into the Turk’s head.

The Turk fell, stunned. Seeing his foe on the floor Stoner calmly walked over to the .45 and picked it up. He pointed it at the Turk. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I’m going to put out your lights.”

Just as he was about to shoot, a lash struck out at his hand. The gun flew to the floor as Stoner screamed out in pain. It was Nora. She had seen the bullwhip on the floor and had seized it just in time to place its biting tip on Stoner’s hand. But Stoner rapidly recovered. Before Nora had time to wield the whip again in the close confines of the bedroom, he rolled to the floor and scooped the weapon back up. He pointed it at Nora. “Lots of new people here today,” he said menacingly.

The Turk had recovered from the blow to his head and had struggled to his feet. He saw Stoner with the pistol aimed at Nora. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the crossed African spears that Stoner had mounted on the wall as decorations. He grabbed one and let out a mighty roar, rushing Stoner like a madman. Stoner turned to meet the challenge, swinging the .45 into play. He was too late. The Turk pierced the evil man right through the chest. The force of his blow sent Stoner reeling back and the spear pinned him against the wall. His body convulsed twice and he was gone.

Just then a commotion was heard in the hall. Shots were fired. Four gunmen, wielding automatic weapons and dressed in native garb came rushing into the room. They saw the mighty figure of the Turk, bloodied and battered staring back at them. Turk put his hands up. The nervous men approached him, their finger’s poised on the triggers of their weapons. The Turk’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed onto the floor.

PART FIFTEEN

A NEW DEAL

When The Turk awoke, he was lying in a large four poster bed. His head ached. Two black men, dressed in colorful, flowing shirts and khaki shorts, sat across from him, balancing automatic rifles on their laps. One of them saw that the Turk was awake. He nudged the other and then got up and left the room. The Turk’s head felt like he had been clobbered with a brick, which, of course it had. There was a large bump on the side. Turk touched it delicately as he tried to piece together where he was and what he was doing here. Slowly, it came back to him. The women had been strung up like sacrifices to an angry god. He had fought with a man, probably Stoner, himself. The natives had rushed in and all went black. “Cheryl!” he thought. What had happened to Cheryl? And Nora! He tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea swept over him. The man at the foot of the bed clicked the safety off of the rifle. After about a minute, the door opened and a tall, black man of regal bearing, wearing jungle fatigues and sporting a pistol on his belt appeared.

He face was narrow and he had refined features, a straight, long nose, thin lips and dark, brooding eyes. He spoke to the Turk in crisp, sophisticated tones, in English.

“I see that you have rejoined us, Mr. Temizan. It was nip and tuck. We thought that we were going to lose you.” Nora had obviously been made to talk.

“Where am I?” the Turk asked.

“You are in a guest bedroom of the Stoner Mansion,” the elegant soldier replied. “You’ve been out for three days.”

“The women, Cheryl…”

“All of the women are fine,” the soldier interrupted. “They’re down the hall in what you might call ‘protective custody’.”

The Turk made an effort to rise from the bed. The rebel at the foot of the bed stood up, his rifle aimed at the Turk’s head. He was scolded by the tall man in Kengali. He made a short bow to the tall man and left the room. The Turk, sensing that the effort of rising was too much for him, lay back.

“Now we won’t be disturbed Mr. Temizan. We need to talk. Please relax. No one is going to hurt you or the women. In fact quite the opposite is true.”

“Who are you?” the Turk asked.

“My name is Upenyu Matunde. I am the leader of the Katangonese Liberation Army in this province. Some call me General Matunde.”

“What are you going to do with me, the women? What do you want?” the Turk asked.

“Well, Mr. Temizan, you see, it is my job to help recover the millions of dollars that Mr. Stoner, may his soul burn in Hell, stole from my country. Unfortunately, the bulk of his money, several hundred million dollars, is tied up in various bank accounts from Switzerland to the Cayman Islands.”

“So?”

“Well, contrary to popular belief, these banks will not release the money except to the lawful owners.”

The Turk closed his eyes. The effort of talking and listening to this well spoken, African general was making him dizzy.

“Are you all right, Mr. Temizan?”

“Yes, I’m all right,” replied the Turk. “Cut to the chase, please.”

“Yes,” the tall man answered. “The chase. Well here it is. The legal owners of the bank accounts are Stoner’s widows, the women Cheryl, Justine and Mary. They are millionaires many times over. I have been, let us say, negotiating with them and they have agreed to cooperate. It was your Cheryl who was the hardest bargainer. It seems that she and the others are willing to return a large portion of the money in exchange for one thing.”

“And what is that?” Turk asked.

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You see under our laws women can only hold property through men. The Uzoma government has been overthrown; his throat was slit by a recently acquired female slave. However, our tribal laws still govern. Under Western law, only the heirs of Mr. Stoner can gain access to the accounts. Under our law, only a male can own property. Therefore, our new government will not certify the women as the owners of the property until they can claim through a male.”

“And that male is me?” Turk asked incredulously.

“Ahhh, Mr. Temizan, you have guessed it. Miss Cheryl and the others have insisted on marrying you.”

“Marrying me?”

“Yes, Mr. Temizan. As soon as you are capable, you are to be married.” The tall African started to laugh. “It seems that you will have three new wives. Congratulations, Mr. Temizan!”

The Turk was speechless. He tried to rise again.

“Now, Mr. Temizan, please, do not try to get up. If something were to happen to you, you would ruin all of our best laid plans. You see, the deal is this. My government does not want to alienate Western investors by appropriating the former Mr. Stoner’s holdings. You and the women will remain the titular owner of his vast properties. But, you will remain here in Katango. The property will be administered for the benefit of the

Katangonese people. But you may live here in relative luxury, guided by my administrative authority. The alternative is, well, many people disappear during a revolution. And there is no official record of any of you ever entering the country.”

Turk looked at the sophisticated soldier. “I want to see Cheryl. I want to see the women.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Temizan. They will be allowed to see you shortly. But first I must have your consent.”

“I want whatever Cheryl wants,” the Turk replied.

“Then it is settled.” Matunde proffered the Turk his hand. Turk shook it.

Matunde opened the door and barked out a command. A minute later, there was a commotion at the door. Five excited white women streamed into the room.

Cheryl was in the lead. She knelt by the bed and took hold of the Turk’s hand, kissing it. “Are you really all right? Oh, God, please. Tell me that you’re okay?”

The Turk pressed her hand firmly. Tears came to his eyes. “Oh, Cheryl,” he said, his voice cracking. “How can you ever forgive me?”

The other women crowded around. They were all dressed in colorful African kandas. Tears flowed from their eyes. Hands reached out and touched the prone man. Cheryl lifted her head. “I forgive you, Tarðk,” she said, using his real name for the first

time. “I knew that you’d come. I’m so happy.” Cheryl laid her head down on the bed and sobbed. Turk rubbed his hand in her hair.

“I love you, Cheryl,” he said. He looked up at the other women. He saw Denise sitting on the bed next to him. He started to speak to her, his voice choking, “I…I…”

Denise placed her hand over his lips. Tears were running down her face. She leaned over and kissed him.

Even Nora, tough old Nora, was in tears. Her arm was around Denise. “Oh, Turk,” she said. “I’m so glad that you’re alive.”

Justine poked her head in, smiling. “Will you do it? Will you marry us?”

“But how can you want to marry me?” the Turk asked. “After what I’ve done?”

“But you freed us, you saved our lives,” Justine replied. “You risked everything to save Cheryl. I can’t go home, not after what I’ve been through. I could never live my old life again. I want to stay here with you.”

Mary had been standing next to the bed and watching. Justine took her hand and pulled her to the bed. “This is Mary,” she told the Turk. “She wants to marry you too.”

Mary smiled at the dark haired, tear-filled man. “We all want it,” she said.

Cheryl raised her head from the bed. “We‘ll be good wives to you, Tarðk. Please say yes!”

Turk looked deeply into Cheryl’s eyes. He still held her hand in his. His eyes brimming with tears, he nodded his head.

It took about a week for the Turk to recover enough so that he could get out of bed and walk on his own. The women waited on him hand and foot. He was getting to know his future wives more intimately. All of the women refused to have sex with him until the wedding, but that did not stop them from teasing his cock to hardness under the covers or promising lewd delights.

On the evening before the wedding, Turk sat on the veranda with Matunde. The sun had set about two hours ago. A bevy of giggling native women, some of Stoner’s former slaves, kept running in and out of the house. There seemed to be a celebration going on in the native quarters that lay nestled along the banks of the Kenga River. Deep, melodious male voices could be heard, chanting and singing, followed by an unmistakably female chorus. Matunde took a sip of his drink. “They’re singing about you, you know,” he said to

the Turk.

Turk took in the dancing lights of the fires. “About me?” he asked.

“Yes,” Matunde answered. “It seems that the native woman, Dalila, the one who was tied to Stoner’s bed when you killed him, has told the tale of how you defeated the evil Stoner in personal combat. You slew him with a spear, an African symbol of manhood and virility. The people are singing of the great ‘Stone Slayer’, a mighty warrior.”

Turk laughed. He liked the affable native general. He had learned that Matunde had attended college in the States, UCLA. He had returned to help free his people. He made an excellent martini.

“The chiefs will be sending you their prettiest wives and daughters to sleep with. They will want to strengthen the blood in their lines.”

“You’re kidding,” Turk said.

“No, it’s an old African tradition. Your seed will be a valuable commodity.”

Nora came out onto the veranda. She smiled and placed her hand on Turk’s shoulder. “I hope that you’re ready for tomorrow, Turk,” she said.

“I don’t know when I’ve seen a more randy bunch of women.”

“Well, he is the ‘Mighty Warrior’,” Matunde said, jokingly.

“I thought that you and the other women have been fucking up a storm for the last couple of weeks?” Turk shot back. “I’ve been pulling my pud every night just thinking about it.”

“We have been getting to know each other,” Nora said, laughing. “But there’s nothing like a good stiff cock connected to the right kind of man.”