Free Paradise - Part One (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant) by O.L. Casper Page B

rain at any moment, I thought—something else I hadn’t planned for. Without thinking I began to backtrack, crawling away from the cove. Realizing what I was doing, I decided to stop and return to the cove. Ever so slowly I raised my head, binoculars to face, just enough to bring Stafford and company back into view.
    Now I’ll try to describe what I then saw. (There is a slight confusion as to the exact order of events in my mind as I attempt recall. The images are very distinct, precise as though I am viewing them now, but the chronology is fuzzy, and I am as nervous and fearful as I was at the time.) Stafford picked up a phone, but it was not his smartphone. Rather it was connected to a box with a large antenna; a satellite phone. He screwed up his face. Soon he was shouting. Of course I couldn’t hear any sound at that distance and in that wind at all. I figured the sound that was being recorded on his phone must have been good for nothing too.  Then Stafford slammed the phone down on the receiver. Some of the men with guns looked at him. I became scared for him momentarily even though I realized the situation was almost definitely under his control—as much as any mortal can control a situation. Still, my pulse quickened when I saw the gunmen eyeing him.
    One of the men, with a profuse bristly like a wisp of cloud over his lip, stood before Stafford with his head bowed pathetically. His chest shook and his head flailed almost imperceptibly at that distance. In the next moment, he fell to his knees and dropped his head to his chest. One of Stafford’s guards (not with an automatic rifle) moved next to Stafford and drew something out of his jacket. He pointed it directly at the head of old, bowed Bristly and held it steadily. I was positive that it was a sidearm like a 9 mm. But I couldn’t make out whether it was a Colt or a Glock or something else. I braced myself firmly for the loud crack of pistol shot gone off, but one never came. The man tossed the pistol away in the sand. I cracked a tiny smile at the apparent silliness of such a dramatic gesture, right out of a movie. But my heart rate ascended once more as the pistol-thrower kicked Old Bristly twice rapidly—once in the stomach and again in the head, knocking him into the sand.
    All at once I cringed, tightened my stomach and felt the pangs of a sympathy headache for Old Bristly. I put down the field glasses and almost at once fell against the rock wall. I hated Stafford. I could never look on him with sympathy again. Or so I thought in that moment. He was obviously a dangerous man. What had I got myself mixed up in? I now wished I had never come out to those rocks and viewed the business of the cove. On the other hand, the utter disgust I felt for the incident I had just witnessed brought life into sharp focus. I saw everything clearly like a vividly real painting I had just stepped out of and now looked back on. What was worse, I had developed feelings for this man that I still couldn’t shake—even after what I’d just seen. Everything was incomprehensible (feelings-wise) and yet clear (intellectually). It was Through the Looking Glass . Black is white and white is black.
    A chill came over me that penetrated into the very depths of my marrow. Then I had my first rational thought. I would now crawl back through the rocks, the way I came. I just had to take one more look.
    Rising up once more with the glasses, I saw Stafford holding his index and middle fingers together pointing at the man on the ground with his thumb back like the hammer on a gun. He jerked his hand back twice like he was firing off two rounds with this imaginary gun. Then he turned and left, heading back into the brush toward where they must have parked. Stafford walked very much upright, lifting his knees as though he was a soldier on the march. I didn’t know if this was a gesture of mockery, but I’d never seen him walk that way before. The men with guns immediately tore down