Mission: Jaws of the Jaguar

Mission: Jaws of the Jaguar

Chapter Two
Perfect Match

Inside another false candy bar Damn. A Krackle, my second favorite. Why couldn't they have screwed up the Mr. Goodbars? he found a small key, with the address of the safe house and the number 2 etched into the metal.

The safe house was located in a fairly upscale neighborhood in Baltimore. It was in the borderland between suburb and downtown: a nice, respectable two story brick building. Ethan opened the mailbox for the second floor apartment down in the entry hall, noting that his name here was Ethan Bridger.

Inside was an unaddressed manilla envelope that he knew would contain all the identification he would need to maintain this identity for the two weeks he had to prepare, credit cards in the name of Ethan Bridger, and a key to the upstairs apartment. As he was shutting the mailbox, the door to apartment 1 opened, and a middle aged lady in a flowered duster peered out. She beamed at him happily, as if he were a long lost friend. "Good evening, Mr. Bridger. How long are you back for this time?"

Ethan didn't hesitate an instant. "Just two weeks..." He cast a casual glance at the other mailbox. "Miz Gluckman. I'll be having a friend stay over with me."

She smiled naughtily. "A lady friend?"

He laughed. "No such luck."

"Well, let me know if you need anything. You know that you're the best tenant I've ever had." The smile broadened a little. "Sometimes I scarcely know that you're there."

Ethan locked the door behind himself and studied the room. Not bad. Hardwood fl wit with a good grade Persian rug, dark wood furniture upholstered in leather. There was a glass and chrome dinette set to one side. A computer was set up at a desk, and a paper shredder sat beside it. There was an entertainment center with a large screen television, DVD player, and CD sound system, complete with a selection of music ranging from classic to rap, and everything in between. All the comforts. Control must be feeling guilty about this mission.

He checked the kitchen. Fully equipped. Maybe he'd get a chance to cook a little. He'd like that, but the microwave would probably get the biggest work out. It all depended on how fast a study his partner turned out to be. If he was quick, then there would be a little time to relax. If not... He hoped there were good restaurants that delivered in the area.

The pantry and refrigerator were well stocked, and he helped himself to a Heineken Dark before wandering back into the living room. There was just one other door, besides the front closet. That meant one bedroom. Ethan grinned. That probably means one bed.

He went in and checked. Yep. King size brass bed. He can start off on the couch if he's skittish, but he's gonna have to sleep there with me eventually. After all, we're playing lovers. He needs to get used to it. Whoever he is. That's the first order of business.

Back in the living room, he finished the beer before sitting down to the computer. No point in risking an accident. A drenched keyboard wouldn't fuck things up entirely, but it would be an annoyance, and a bad omen, as far as n wan was concerned.

Ethan booted up the computer, reflecting that the information it contained would be worth a great deal of money to a great many interested parties. It would also endanger the lives of many people if it were to fall into the wrong hands. That was why Ethan was particularly careful signing on. A slip would have resulted in the information being destroyed, along with whoever had entered the wrong password, and a good portion of the surrounding room.

There were two icons on the desktop: one for an Internet connection, and a stylized jaguar head. Ethan clicked the jaguar, and opened the program that contained dossiers on all M:I operatives, worldwide. Another click brought up a photo of Daniel Ballard, and a line drawing of a man's body, each marked with dozens of red dots. These represented physical points. The operative who had the highest match on the physical scale while possessing certain personal skills would be the one.

Hopefully they would be willing. The Impossible Missions were all voluntary, though well paid. No one was forced to do anything. That was why they were so effective.

Ethan specified that he was searching the data base of male operatives, then started the matching program. Immediately the screen began to flicker as images blinked on and off the monitor screen. Dossier photos were superimposed on Daniel Ballards image for a split second, matching features pinpointed and assessed.

Ethan sat and watched it, hands folded patiently across his belly. The machine winnowed the prospects down to a hundred, then fifty, then twenty, then ten... There was a beep, and the screen split. Daniel's image was shifted to one side, and the chosen operative's photo and particulars appeared on the other.

Ethan sat forward, frowning. This didn't really look anything like Ballard, aside from the brown hair and height. He checked the figures. No wonder. Only a 58% match. That wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all. If he couldn't find at least a 90% match, he wouldn't feel safe going into Montana lair. Well, as safe as he ever felt on any mission. "It looks like I hunt abroad," he murmured.

He minimized the screen, and signed on to the Internet. Mr. Bridger had a Netscape account. Ethan took the back entrance into the CIA's registry first. That was only a little better: 63%. Next he tried the DEA, and came up with 85%. Better, but not nearly good enough to suit him. He had more luck with the Department of Defense, finding an 89% there, but he didn't speak French. Ethan was not sure how much of a problem that would be, but he would have preferred not to have to worry about it.

One last chance. He went into the FBI files. The screen flickered again, and settled. A red light flashed at the bottom of the screen, haloing a figure. 97%. "Yes!" Ethan closed Ballard's profile, and the FBI agent's ID photo filled the screen. It was uncanny. Ethan figured it would take a close blood relative to tell them apart, and since Ballard wasn't really on speaking terms with his close blood relatives...

Ethan read the name under the photo. "Fox Mulder. Fox?" He smiled. Kind of an eighties term, but yeah. You are one. Now, let's have a look at your particulars, Fox. A few keystrokes. Hot damn! French and Spanish! He'll be able to keep track of what's being said around him. Let's see... Oh, very good. His only close relative is his mother, and she's in a managed care facility. And he's considered to be a loner.

Ethan went and got another beer to celebrate. He stood in front of the monitor, keyed up the photo of Mulder again, and studied it. If anything, he was actually better looking than Ballard. Ethan took a swig of beer, relishing the mellow, malty taste. His only really close contact is his partner, Dana Scully. Their director will help keep her satisfied about his whereabouts. Now, if he'll just play ball. Ethan stared at Mulder's mouth, eyes tracing the lines.

Unconsciously his tongue darted to to lick his own lips. "C'mon Fox," he whispered. "Come play with me."

______________________________

The whole fucking world is going to hell in a handbasket.

Fox Mulder slumped on his futon, watching the midnight rerun of the ten o'clock news. On screen swarthy, rifle toting men in quasi-military uniforms stood guard over a huddled lump that was covered by an alarmingly blood splattered sheet. It looked like it had been tie dyed. The car behind them, door standing ajar, was a mess of shattered glass, exploded tires, and bullet punctured metal. The bland, accentless voice of a network news anchor was droning on about another drug war in Columbia that was threatening to spill over into other countries.

He sighed, and rubbed his face as the image disappeared, replaced by an ad for an exercise system. He was tired. Tired of beating his head against a cement wall. All his personal and professional investigations were stagnant. Nothing moved. He hadn't had a lead about what might have happened to Samantha in months. The Cancer Man seemed to have gone into retirement, though he knew thatwas too much to hope for. Even Alex Krycek hadn't been around to jerk his chain lately.

Scully couldn't understand his mood, of course. "Mulder, I'd think you'd be grateful for a little quiet. God knows I could use a little peace in my life."

There hadn't even been any new X Files for several weeks. Dana was doing mostly autopsies and forensic work on other agents' cases. Fox's last assignment had been babysitting a minor diplomat from a country he couldn't pronounce. That might not have been so bad if it had been a club hopping jet setter. But this one's idea of a good time was a rousing round of bridge. Fox had been pressed into service as a fourth, and had proceeded to thoroughly piss off his partner by losing trick after trick. It took five hands before he was finally allowed, ungraciously, to bow out. He wondered what his mother would have said if she knew he'd done it deliberately. She'd been rather proud of him when he could best senior level players before he went into junior high.

On screen a very muscular, dark haired young man stripped his T-shirt over his head as the announcer intoned, "This could be your body."

"All right. Send him over." Fox murmured. He winced at himself. Damn Fox, gotta be a smart ass, even when it's just you? And what was that, anyway? Well... he answered himself, ...the line was just too good to pass up. He silently pointed a finger at the screen, where an equally buff young woman was doing vigorous leg lifts. "Send that over." Satisfied that he'd straightened that out, though for the life of him he couldn't say exactly who he'd been worried about confusing, he took a sip of beer from the bottle he'd been cradling between his legs.

"Ugh!" He grimaced, but forced it down. Warm. Note to self: don't hug beer anymore. Body heat bitches it up. The commercial ended, and was followed in quick succession by ads for luxury cars, long distance services, tacos, and a personal injury suit lawyer. No charge for the first visit. Can visit you in the hospital. Of course, they don't mention the fact that if they aren't pretty sure they can get a hefty settlement, then grab a major portion of it in fees, you're shit out of luck.

Finally the news came back on. Disheveled men and women were being hauled out of a seedy looking house in handcuffs. More drug news, but on the home front, this time. The house had been a distribution point. Agents theorized that the bust had set the traffickers back all of three or four days.

Mulder squinted as a slight figure was led to a police car, ducking her head in the glare of lights. Aw, fuck. That kid can't be more than fourteen. Mulder stabbed at a button, shutting off the television, then threw the remote across the room. It was followed by the now empty beer bottle.

People getting gunned down in the streets, teeny boppers helping bag cocaine. He remembered the commercials he'd just seen. And a Chihuahua gets paid probably more than I do to shill for Tex-Mex fast food. I wouldn't mind it so much if I thought the little bastard could actually talk. Has the world always been this fucked up, or am I just now noticing it?

He'd been watching tv with the lights off, so at least he didn't have to get up and go to the switch. He didn't feel like standing up at all, so he just shimmied out of his clothes and tossed them on the floor. He'd hung his jacket up before, so it wouldn't be wrinkled. Fox lay back in his jockeys and undershirt, and stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows cast by the light that seeped through the blinds.

I should sleep. Hell, of course I should. It's not like knowing that I should is going to make it any easier to actually do. I've got so little going on in my life right now, why the hell is my mind still ping-ponging?

Irritated, he sat up and jerked off the undershirt, then lay back down. Better. Again he stared up. He tried to make his mind blank, as blank as the white expanse of the ceiling above him. It didn't work. He closed his eyes and saw red splashes, and frightened young faces, trying to look tough.

I need to relax and distract myself. There's always the natural way. Let's see... Who do I want tonight? Eyes still closed, he began to flick through a mental Rolodex. There was Dana, of course, but he hadn't fantasized about her since the early days of their partnership. It seemed vaguely incestuous now.

There was the new secretary in records, she was a red head, too. Or...Yeah, how about Buffy, the Blonde Exercise Bunny? With that spandex, I've gotten a better look at her body than I have most women I know. She'll do.

Fox slid off his jockey shorts and spread himself out comfortably, letting the cool, air conditioned air wash over his naked body. With his left hand he grazed first one nipple, then the other, imagining that it was the crimson nail tips of the commercial model teasing him. They stiffened, and he pinched himself softly, letting out a small groan. One good thing about living alone and having sex with yourself; you didn't have to worry about how much noise you made.

A couple of his lovers had complained about that. "Dammit Fox, it's the woman who's supposed to be the screamer!" one had said. Embarrassed, he tried now to stifle his vocal responses when he made love.

Now he let his hands smooth down his torso, over his belly. He imagined the soft, small hands of a woman, but in the back of the mind he was thinking that his own larger, harder hands felt just fine. He was half hard already when he reached his cock. He half smiled to himself. Now, now, Buffy old girl. Don't be in such a rush. We want this to last, don't we?"

It was good that Mulder was careful about closing his blinds, because right then he would have been a voyeur's delight. His lean, long limbed body gleamed pale in the dim room. His face flushed slightly as he stroked himself to full erection, and he arched his head back against the pillow, lips parted slightly to let the ragged breaths flow more smoothly.

When he started the fantasy, he'd intended to have Buffy straddle him and ride him on the exercise bench, but it wasn't working out that way. Instead she was sucking him off, kneeling between his spread thighs.

Oh, and what a talented mouth she had. Fox didn't try to mentally direct the action. He just let it roll, and enjoyed it. He paused for a moment in his manipulations, and spat into his hands, then started again. Yes, that was better. Warm and wet. If he thought hard enough, he could imagine that it was a hot mouth he was sliding in and out of.

He got closer to the edge, the heat and tension rising. He was thrusting up into his own grip, grunting with each lift of his lean hips. Almost there now... In his mind's eye he reached down and tangled his hands in the thick, dark hair, guiding the head bobbing up and down at his crotch. And they obliged by swallowing him down to the root, while a large, firm hand gripped his balls, massaging them gently, and he came.

He arched, straining strongly into his fantasy lover's oral embrace, spilling his seed in a hot, liquid rush that bathed his belly. He collapsed, panting, and waited a moment to regain his breath. Then he retrieved his jockeys and used them to wipe himself clean before dropping them again. He needed to do laundry some time soon.

As he was starting to drift off to sleep, a thought drifted across his mind. Dark hair? Wasn't Buffy a blonde? Why washinkhinking about dark hair down there tickling the inside of my thighs? And big hands?

His eyes popped open, and he spent another long time staring at the ceiling.