Free The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) by Tobin Wells

“Let’s roll back to your place where, one, we can take our time, and two, you can prove you're the real power in this armpit of America.”
    Still dizzied by the loss of control and blatant disregard for who he was, the Attorney General paused ten seconds to consider the proposal.  With a quizzical look still covering his face, Holland said, “Ok. I have a driver.  I’ll have him come around to the front for us.” 
    “No ,” said Porter a second time.  “If I want to leave, I’m gonna have my own car when I’m ready to go.  You tell me your address and I’ll meet you there.” 
    T he alcohol and sexual rush of this young, confident stranger overrode Holland's caution and concern for his privacy.  “835 Sanders," he offered quickly.  "There’s a guard at the entrance.  Let him know you’re my guest and he’ll let you in.”  Attempting to regain some of the control he had lost to Porter, Holland ordered, “You go on over.  I’m going to finish my scotch.”
    Porter left the Black Curtain and hastily strolled to move his car from the driver's line of sight.  With the car around the corner, Porter quickly searched for what he needed and hustled back towards the bar. 
    Holland's black, late model Suburban was idling in the alley just to the left of the entrance as Porter approached the driver.  "Hey, I’m going to be the guest of the Attorney General tonight.  Do I need to tell you, or can I just show up at his place?” 
    “Sure man.  Yo u got some ID?” asked the round-faced chauffeur.  Porter reached in his wallet and presented his license through the driver's window.
    “Jack Taylor ,” read the driver.  “Okay, I’ll call ahead so they’ll know you’re coming.” 
    “Great.  Thanks ,” said Porter.  As he withdrew the license and moved to put it back in his pocket, he let it fall to the ground.  “Shit.  Too many beers I guess,” he said, still at the driver’s window.  As he bent down to retrieve the laminated card, the gloved hand in his left pocket pulled out a tracking device and placed it on the SUV’s undercarriage. 
    Standing quickly, Porter announced, “Okay, got it.  Thanks.”  The driver offered a quick grunt and a nod.
    When Holland stumbled into the SUV ten minutes later , his driver greeted him with a cordial, “Hey boss.”  Holland grunted as the driver continued.  “Your friend already headed to the house.”
    “He came t o the car?” Holland asked with slight alarm.
    “ Yeah.  He said he was gonna be your guest and showed me his ID”
    “What was the name?” asked Holland .
    “Jack Taylor .”
    “Jack Taylor ,” responded Holland, running that name through his mind.  “Nobody I know,” he concluded.  The warmth of the car, the effects of the alcohol, and the comfortable leather seats assuaged any lingering concerns Holland had on his five minute ride home.
    As his vehicle turned right onto Sanders Street, all seemed in place.  The guard at the gate greeted Holland cheerfully.  “Has my guest arrived?” asked Holland. 
    “No, not yet,” said the guard without concern.  “Paul called me and said a Mr. Taylor was supposed to be headed over here, but he hasn't shown yet."
    A bit puzzled at this news, Holland said, “When he gets here you know where to send him.”
    Holland entered the house and went directly to his bedroom for a quick clean up.  But thirty minutes of anxious waiting turned into an hour of sexual frustration.  Concluding that his evening would be one spent alone, Holland put in a porn and attempted to entertain himself.  But just like his no-show guest, Holland couldn't finish what he started. 
    H olland awoke the next morning with his head raging from both the open bottle rule he had at the Black Curtain and being power slammed by some stranger who had no idea who he was, nor cared.  As he primped in front of the bathroom mirror, Holland assured his reflection that Jack Taylor obviously doesn’t