Traffic

By Taylor Bambico

    It was a normal day in February for New York Native Nicole Collins. A private investigator like her father, she possessed skills and a mentality gained from him and others like her in hopes none would ever be required.

    However, when she saves the life of Caspian Sullophaire, CEO of Silver Lake Hotels and Resorts, little does she realize the nightmare about to engulf her.

    Cast into a world unseen by society, Nicole must find a means of escape before all is ripped from her and ends up as no more than a name on some piece of paper.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Taylor Bambico
• Release date: May 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386013228

Book preview

Traffic

Part One

Chapter One

11:29 am February 18th, 1993 Manhattan, NY

To celebrate her belated birthday, Nicole Collins took the day off and drove into the city for a little fun. She also stopped by Jovino’s in Lower Manhattan to resupply on defensive ammunition and components, such as powder, primers and projectiles, to reload for practice rounds. No snow having plagued the city today, even with the temperature just below freezing, she headed to Midtown for a trip up the Empire State Building observation deck afterward.

Concealed horizontally in a tan leather shoulder holster, the Beretta 92FS Inox with two auxiliary magazines of 147 Grain jacketed hollow points was an item some private investigators would possess. The procedure she went through to obtain, and in time acquire, her carry license was ridiculous. However, the obstacles never would prevent her from exercising that right.

She rolled her eyes at the arguments against firearm ownership. They’re necessary because people believe in the illusion of safety—those who wish to cause harm prey on the masses’ dependency for protection in our dangerous society. The individual’s acceptance of responsibility to provide it themselves has faded away over time through coddling. It may have been bad before, however, you two must be rolling in your graves. The remnants of this country is headed towards an irreversible fate unless the People take a stand.

Even with them absent from her life for over half a decade, what her parents passed along about the world always stayed in the forefront of her mind.

***

11:37 am

I take it all you read my briefing, Sampson? he asked the head of his security who stood similar to those in the military.

Yes, Mister Sullophaire. The others and I will respond in ten seconds upon your call.

As CEO of Silver Lake Hotels and Resorts since the death of his father Thaddeus in 1983, thirty-six-year-old Caspian Sullophaire had to maintain the advantage against this business’s competition. Every meeting with the Board of Directors about conventions they attended was critical. However, with the staff he was accompanied by, most of the time Caspian would accept or reject the proposition, depending on its cost and the profit margin.

With how grand the business was, he occupied the seventy-eighth through eightieth floors of the Empire State Building, each with a specific designation. Seventy-eight housed the security entourage; this floor contained his office, the boardroom and cubicles for executives; and the eightieth was complete with an elegant bed and bathroom, a washer and dryer, auxiliary wardrobe, kitchen, and his exercise room as his home away from home in North Hills.

When a B-25 Mitchell crashed into the three floors in 1945, Caspian’s grandfather, Matheius Sullophaire, offered to pay for the damage in exchange for their permanent occupation and control over the renovation plans. The most noticeable any New Yorker would see were the windows: all had been changed from their uniform appearance to a then-futuristic floor-to-ceiling style.

When first in power almost ten full years ago, one aspect he had remodeled was his office. The once simple yet bright textured walls and carpet flooring, which had been in place since the last update in 1968, were changed to an exquisite dark green marble tile throughout all three levels.

Good. I will be ready in an hour. Attention on his Rolex, he dismissed the entourage except for Sampson, whom he told to meet him upstairs.

He rose from his desk, put on his suit jacket and walked towards the stairwell that led to his private quarters on the eightieth floor. With a smirk, he adjusted his collar in front of the bedroom’s closet door mirror and rubbed the stubble under his chin. I’ll need a new blade once I decide to shave. In his quarter’s corridor, each step echoed off the walls and ceiling while he grew anxious at the thought of Yvette.

I’ll wait here, sir. Sampson took his position outside the exercise room after he removed the padlock.

With a nod, Caspian stepped past him and shut the door.

I see you waited for me. It’s better to work out together, isn’t it? He brought out his keys and unlocked the cage each of his past investments lived in when they disobeyed. Come here!

The nineteen-year-old from France did as it was told and crawled out on both hands and knees.

It was in the U.S. for college and came to visit New York City a few weeks ago where it crossed paths with the woman Caspian purchased them from. The accent it had astounded him, and he understood why many liked them on men.

Their screams are nicer, too. He squeezed his investment’s lips. Your country’s oral care has been good, especially compared to the Brit’s. He squeezed a bit harder, looking at the teeth.

Yvette jerked her head away in response.

He slapped the investment before clenching a hand around its throat as he unzipped his pants. That’s not very nice. His hard shaft now exposed, he put it to their lips and let go of the throat when he tightened his grip in its hair at the scalp. How about a kiss to say you’re sorry.

Though it glared at him, the investment soon slipped him in its mouth, but only after a kick in the stomach to gain compliance. Eyes closing with a groan, last night when he fucked its tight snatch on the bed behind them came to mind.

All the exercise I need.

The room was no more than a bland box with fluorescent lighting left on, a bed with shackles on its posts, the cage for punishment, and a toilet with a shower—times were civilized. It was secured with a door capable of being opened from the inside only when the person possessed a key or its opposite side was unlocked; the deadbolt and auxiliary padlock ensured no escape if a key disappeared. A wall constructed to separate it from the window ensured investments were never tempted by the dangerous outside world again. Like all the others, this too was soundproof, which made certain no one could hear what might occur.

With a schedule to keep, this had to be a quick one. Climax near, he said with a groan, It’s normal for you. You’re most usable during all sexual activities with a man. With another like you...shit! It swirled their tongue around his cock head and distracted him to the extent his concentration broke. It looks nice but overall is a waste of good snatch—they’re meant to fucked by men, not licked by the means of you.

No reason to hold back anymore, he pulled the investment’s head against his groin and spurted his seed in its mouth as it whimpered. More than positive it swallowed, he slipped from between those supple lips and was about to tuck his softening shaft away when it spit the ejaculation all over his pants.

Fuck you!

In utter disbelief, he took the padlock used to secure their cage by its U-shaped shackle and struck his investment across the face with the bolt.

Yvette went with the blow and fell to the floor where she crawled backward from her purchaser, blood trailing down her cheek gashed open by the piece of metal until she hit the shower wall.

When he called for Sampson, Caspian held out his hand after the head of his security detail entered and retrieved the Karambit from its sheath. With the blade in hand, he shook his head. Why do they fight back? I don’t understand it. Do you, Sampson?

Human nature, sir. Though it is dwindling as people are conditioned to accept being victims.

Caspian nodded in agreement as he knelt by the defective investment, pinned it to the ground and slit each wrist. Hand over the mouth to keep the noise level down, he said over his shoulder, Have one ready?

Here, sir.

Life draining from the body, he took the glass vial from Sampson and held it beneath the cut. A fair amount of blood inside, he secured the cap and wrote the investment’s name, including today’s date, on its label.

Put it on ice until you can dispose of it. Eyes on the French one while blood trailed towards the drain, Caspian sighed as he shook his head. Least it can be washed away.

Yes, sir. Sampson put on latex gloves as his boss went to change.

Chapter Two

11:58 am

Watch out, ma’am! shouted a man as he hurried past Nicole with a camera in hand. She turned towards what the sudden commotion was about only to discover continuous flashes and scrambled voices. A well-dressed man and his entourage strutted out of the Empire as they called the name Caspian and wanted him to look their way for a photograph along with the answer to different questions.

"That’s the latest charcoal suit by Numan-Stine, isn’t it Mister Sullophaire?" one said.

It is. He smirked. If you want to look the best, you must wear the best.

Another shouted, Mister Sullophaire, with the recent shooting at your resort in California, what is your view on the gun control issue?

This ought to be good. She rolled her eyes, already positive she knew what the answer would entail.

Caspian stopped to answer the one question. It is tragic what happened to those innocent guests at my Los Angeles resort. Why someone believes they have any right to decide who lives and dies is beyond me. To those who imagine they could somehow do a better job than law enforcement at stopping a crazy shooter, all I say to them is: Apply for the job and prove it. No one is out to kill you, and you don’t need firearms as protection. This isn’t the Wild West where everyone gets a gun—that’s not what a civilized society or who we as a nation are supposed to be.

Many would argue hypocrisy, given you have a private security team! another reporter shouted.

They are well-trained and will outshoot any yahoo with a gun. People like myself need such protection because I am someone of higher statue. Let me be clear: No one else’s life is less than mine. However, there are people who gain pleasure in trying to make a name for themselves by attacking different classes of people, on occasion. I’ll wager money against anyone who deems they have a right to carry said deadly device that will happily step up and attempt a better job than my detail. Now if you’ll excuse me, I do have a prior engagement. He stepped away and his security went on to control the media.

What a surprise. Nicole shook her head as she turned around. Thinks he knows what’s best for me. Typical controller. You may have to worry about said crazed person every now and then, but who has to live down the street from them?

All of a sudden, shots rang out.

Nicole resorted to her training and darted left to acquire cover behind a taxi where she could assess the immediate threat. As she reached into her winter jacket, her eyes went forward after she dropped her purse: One threat armed with a revolver was the target. On her feet, she concluded no one was beyond the target and flipped her Beretta’s safety switch up to disengage it, sights on the threat. First shot in double-action, the hollow point slammed into the threat’s torso, followed by maybe another seven or eight in single-action as Nicole advanced towards the active shooter.

Many would wonder how she hit her intended target where many before have not. Through time, Nicole overcame her resistance of killing a human being with conditioning and a proper mindset.

One method which to help gain it was the constant reminder no one was coming to her aid and how it would be the last day on Earth she would awaken from a peaceful slumber before an eternal rest.

Another technique involved cardboard silhouette targets adorned in clothes from The Goodwill, which she filled with plastic bags that contained tomato paste and meat to simulate a real man or woman. In her mind, bullseye targets were for sight adjustment and long-range precision. Innumerable hours applied to this particular practice behind sidearms, long guns on occasion, and the persistent reminiscence what she would kill one day in defense of her life or another’s was different than her—a mere empty figure, resulted in a desensitized perspective.

Eyes narrowed while they shifted side-to-side with her muzzle on the threat and finger indexed, she approached the individual whose foot twitched. As smoke drifted from the barrel, Nicole kicked the revolver from their grasp, a .38 Special Smith & Wesson Model 10 or 12. Her breath visible when she exhaled through her mouth, which stated she was alive, her lips curled into a slight smirk. Cold enough but at least it didn’t snow today. Glad I practiced with gloves on, otherwise my thumb may have slipped off the safety when my adrenaline hit. Attention on the individual, she waited to see if their breath was visible.

No sign.

After confirmation no further threats existed, she thumbed the Inox’s safety down, decocking the self-loader safely in the process. Unsure the actual number of rounds she sent downrange, the slide still in battery was a clear indicator the magazine contained at least some ammunition. Regardless, her statement with lawyer present would be she fired to stop the threat.

About to holster her firearm, a man yelled, Drop your damn gun and lay face down! at her. Task executed as she was ordered, Nicole threw it aside and then lay on the sidewalk a few feet away from the body.

Not an action many would think to do, one of the first exercises she ever did while training was toss her gun on the ground. It was to overcome the hurdle and realize: Your firearm was a tool and would acquire cosmetic damage. Of course, doing the tactic was only necessary on a firearm if it were to be carried. Safe queens, target firearms, family heirlooms, and commemorative pieces were never treated like so.

You’re acting like them but I don’t see an N.Y.P.D. Shield. Must be the entourage.

The same man gave another demand. Interlock your fingers with hands behind your head!

A pair of handcuffs was then cinched tight after her wrists were grabbed one at a time and placed behind her back. She understood why: With shots fired, the scene was chaotic and no one, except for her, knew who was in the right. The man yanked Nicole to her feet using her jacket collar and escorted her away from the immediate vicinity.

When New York’s Finest arrived, the location was photographed while bystanders and the news crews were questioned before they went on to report the event.

Nicole stated her full name, birthday and that she would cooperate, but only after she received medical attention and had a chance to correspond with her legal professional.

Once cleared by medical personnel, she was escorted to the Midtown South Precinct where she called her lawyer. Her first, and hopefully sole visit to the interrogation room, various tactics were used to attempt a rise from her and make a confession. Though stressful, only when her attorney was present, she spoke to detectives about the events as they occurred.

Beretta forfeited as evidence after receiving a receipt for it with a value and signature, she posted bail, was provided a court date and collected her holster, purse and other possessions upon release.

***

7:23 pm

Statement given to law enforcement with lawyers present, Caspian was escorted by Sampson and a couple others from his entourage to his awaiting car. Two of his detail were shot: Mead took a bullet in the back of his head and died at the scene; Schaffer died on his way to Bellevue Hospital Center from blood loss after a round hit him in the neck and severed the carotid artery.

Like earlier, when he stepped outside the precinct reporters with cameramen began throwing questions at him.

Any injuries, Mister Sullophaire? one asked.

You said earlier you believed other people didn’t need firearms to defend themselves. Have your views changed in the past hours, considering someone other than your entourage put their life on the line for you? another shouted.

His beliefs had not changed in the slightest.

He turned his attention to the woman who asked. While I am grateful to be alive, it is because of those who support the ‘right to bear arms,’ situations like this keep occurring. The individual who shot the man responsible must also realize they fired in the same direction as myself and others. It was reckless and they might have missed, resulting in more people killed only to make today’s event worse. I stand behind my words of earlier and believe more control should be imposed to clamp down on the easy access to guns.

At that point, Sampson made it clear there would be no further questions and hurried Caspian into the car as his other man made hast around the car’s front to slide behind the wheel.

As they drove away, Caspian pulled out a scrap piece of paper and stated, A thorough background check of this one on my desk no later than eight AM tomorrow, before handing it to Sampson. He looked at the driver. Take me to my house. I’d prefer the Empire but a night away will be nice.

Nicole Collins? he read. Who is she, if I may ask, sir?

Caspian grinned a bit at the head of his security. Apparently, who shot back...and my next investment.

Chapter Three

6:59 am February 19th Queens

After the long day in Manhattan, Nicole stretched as she lay beneath her bed sheets. Once done at the precinct, she took a taxi back to the parking garage and retrieved her car, thankful to have paid for a longer time than she expected.

Sliding a hand under her pillow to retrieve the Inox, she gasped. Damn. That’s right. It was in the Midtown South’s evidence room where, for all she knew, some cop was spinning her firearm on their finger. Hell, they probably used the slide catch as a release instead, dropped it a couple times as well after a few dry fires and debated whether to take it home for their own private use.

I will always remember what you taught me.

Her father having been an enthusiast and a Vietnam Veteran after a stint in the Marine Corps, she was raised around numerous firearm types and the Four Rules:

1: The firearm is always loaded and will be treated like such.

2: Keep your finger off the trigger until sights are on target.

3: Never aim the firearm at anything you are not willing to destroy.

4: Know your target and what is beyond it.

With a strong desire to enlist for a long time, after she approached him about the subject, he went on a long tangent how he never wanted her there, and she would be disqualified with her OCD diagnosis. It petrified Nicole because she had never seen him angry to such a degree. That moment the last time they ever spoke to each other, it made the entire memory worse.

When two petty-thieves held up the convenient store six blocks from their home, Corps training kicked in. Concealment found, he stopped both active threats with his 3 1/2 inch barreled Smith & Wesson 27-2, however, he caught some rounds to his right side. Femoral Artery hit and right lung punctured, which led to its collapse as a result, he was immobilized. No chance to create a makeshift tourniquet with his belt, he went unconscious before he succumbed from both blood loss and lack of oxygen.

To make things even more distressing, less than a couple months after his burial, her mother Katye went to their doctor for tiredness, weight loss, decreased appetite, and night sweats. With some blood tests, the results revealed she had myelofibrosis, a rare bone marrow cancer and type of chronic leukemia related to myeloproliferative neoplasms, a group of blood cancers.

Now with a life expectancy of three years or less according to her doctor, Katye decided she would spend as much time possible with her only child.

Plenty of money at her disposal from her novels’ success, the two of them started with a few key places in Washington D.C. They paid their respect to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, viewed the Library of Congress and took a tour of the White House.

Adventure far from over, they flew to the West Coast for some time in California. There they went on a mother-daughter shopping spree, won a raffle to participate in a photo-shoot, saw the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and visited Disneyland for a few days. Though neither were into the whole princess thing, they did dress up together for a novelty picture: Katye as Cinderella because it was her favorite animated movie as a child, and Nicole as Snow White since the dress’s colors appealed to her.

Her mother did have to rest on multiple occasions, but Nicole understood and took the opportunity to relax with her, aware she was against the clock.

In line for some lunch after the Haunted Mansion, a man they met sold them his tickets for an event he wouldn’t be able to attend. A venue the two of them knew little about, the four-wheel-drive exhibition at Angel Stadium was a change of pace. Albeit loud for an outside event, even with ear protection, she and her mother enjoyed the controlled carnage of twenty and thirty year old cars being pulverized by drivers who laid their foot down.

However, upon their return to New York, doctors found the myelofibrosis had progressed at an astronomical rate. Though determined to fight it, the cancer overtook her and in late June she was buried beside her husband of sixteen years.

Tragic? Sure. But hey, life’s hard and we all owe a death.

Train of thought back on firearms, she groaned and threw the covers off. That Beretta wasn’t cheap, either. Fingers interlocked with hands over her head, Nicole’s attention went to the full-length mirror. Her green eyes scanned from her mid-back length black hair to the pale skin of her feet and back, stopping at the two peaks beneath her shirt. A large bust had been on Nicole’s list for when puberty hit, but she grew fond of her smaller chest and, not only because of her career, appreciated their size. It’s just how I turned out.

It used to keep her awake at night men might find her unattractive because they were smaller than average. Obsessive thoughts like Would any want someone with less than a C? and Do I appear less feminine because of them? bothered her on a regular basis. It took a while to gain control of her anxiety, but prevailed once she perfected a method to assure herself all would be fine.

Before she went to her hallway bathroom, she retrieved another firearm, this one unknown to the State of New York: A four-inch Sturm, Ruger Security-Six in .357 Magnum. Complete with a pair of Pachmayr Presentation Grips and made from stainless steel, this revolver was a favorite amongst her collection. Between that or a four-inch Smith & Wesson 64-3 heavy barrel in .38 Special, she chose the Ruger because Sturm was her mother’s middle name and the more powerful cartridge. Her other firearms were kept elsewhere because bullshit laws made ownership difficult.

Damn Sullivan Act. She slipped her shorts off for the