Date: Tue, 14 Apr 2009 08:07:25 -0700 (PDT)
From: Matt Surname <darkhorsestalking@yahoo.ca>
Subject: Sheila the Fugitive 01

Author's Note:
    Despite the change of title, this is a direct continuation of the
Sheila the Babysitter story. The changed title and reset numerical sequence
reflects the story now being written in the third-person perspective, as
the former way is far too limited for the scope it has taken. For those who
miss it being written from Sheila's perspective, know I mourn the change,
too.
    The reason for the long delay is right after the fifth chapter was
submitted, my computer suffered a near-fatal crash (I'm praying it's only
near-fatal). The time between submitted chapters will likely be a bit
longer than before, as I have to use another's computer, while mine is
hopefully being salvaged.
    For the fans of this story, I profoundly thank you for your kind words
and heartfelt interest. The story is not only for all of you, but it
breathes and has grown because of you. I hope you enjoy, and a very special
thank you to the great people at Nifty Erotic Stories Archives, who none of
this would be possible without. My eternal gratitude to you, Nifty!

Warning:
    If you are not of legal age (dependant on your region, most often 18
years or older), then please respect the law and do not read this
story. Laws may often seem unfair, but more often than not, there's a valid
and sound reason behind them. Thank you.
    The following story includes pedophilia and adult-minor sex, among
other sexually-related themes. If any of these things disturb or offend
you, this story is not for you.  Disclaimers:
    All characters in this story are completely fictional, and are solely
the offspring of my own imagination. For the record, I neither encourage,
suggest, or practice pedophilia.
    In the story I might end up misrepresenting, and occasionally even
bending, various facts. If this offends die-hard statistics-rules-lawyers
out there, sorry, but if fiction was meant to adhere to exact statistics
and situations, then it wouldn't be called fiction, would it?  Copyright
Information:
    This story is solely the property of the author. It may be viewed and
downloaded for personal enjoyment, or sent to a friend. However, if it is
desired to be re-posted on a personal website, or the characters used in
another author's stories, then please first contact the author for
permission.
    Copyright 2009 Dark Horse. All rights reserved.

Story Codes:  bM,  bG,  bi,  ped,  rom,  1st,  oral,  mast,  con



Sheila the Fugitive 01
by Dark Horse


"Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead."
~ Benjamin Franklin (1706 - 1790)


    Just above Sheila Donnelly's blonde head, bullets ricocheted off the
steel I-beam, causing the beautiful sixteen-year-old to duck down with a
curse. Crouching next to her, twelve-year-old Jesse Anderson's eyes went
wide, half-hidden by the short boy's shaggy mop of brown hair.

    From deeper within the partially-built office tower, a trio of M-16
assault rifles sprayed their lethal load across the stack of steel girders,
which the young duo hid behind for cover. The hammering roar of the
automatic weapons were even louder than the whumping of the nearby
helicopter, which hovered in the night sky a watchful distance from the
skeletal-framed building.

    "Has the FBI gone nuts?" Jesse exclaimed, over the whine of bullets
ricocheting away into the summer night.

    Sheila shook her head, making her long blonde hair ripple across her
shoulders. "I don't think it's the FBI this time, squirt."

    "Aw shit! You mean it's those bastards again?" the boy asked, unable to
hide a note of fear.

    Nodding, Sheila felt a knot of dread tighten in her own guts.

    The twelve-year-old cursed vehemently. "So what do we do, Sheila? We're
trapped up here!"

    Glancing around, the babysitter-turned-fugitive didn't have an answer
for him.

    The building wasn't much more than an open framework of red I-beams,
shaky wooden planks for flooring, and piles of construction supplies. From
the fifteenth floor they were on, the nighttime city lights glowing around
them looked almost artful. By contrast, the flaring muzzle flashes of the
three assault rifles were as stark, as the deadliness of the bullets they
spat.

    A sudden soft squawk came from the palm-sized hand radio, tucked inside
Sheila's light jacket.

    "Foxtrot is in position," a woman's cold voice echoed from the
radio. "I've got a bead on the targets."

    The assault rifles instantly fell silent. A man's deep, monotonic voice
came over the radio a moment later.

    "Take them, Foxtrot."

    Sheila and Jesse traded a fear-filled glance. The slender
sixteen-year-old seized the boy's wrist, hauling them up in a desperate
bolt towards the building's side behind them.

    No sooner had they started running, than a sniper's bullet plowed
through the wooden planks they'd just vacated. The short boy made no
complaints, being all but dragged by the teenager's longer-legged
sprint. Halfway to the building's edge, another high-powered rifle round
nearly found Sheila. The shot was so close, the babysitter actually felt a
faint tug, as the bullet passed through the trailing mass of her swinging
blonde hair.

    Behind them, the M-16s began barking their death song again.

    With the end of the building coming up quickly, the boy's breathing
laboured as much as the older girl's own. However, it wasn't so much from
the strain of running full out, but rather the shared fear gripping their
chests.

    Sheila felt another faint tug, this time on her jacket sleeve, as a
bullet very nearly grazed her forearm.

    Jesse pointed ahead frantically. "The edge!"

    Being all too aware of the fact, Sheila didn't slow their panicked,
headlong rush towards the open night air. "I know, Jesse, but ---"

    One of the bullets finally found their mark, punching through the back
of the teenager's knapsack.

    Sheila screamed in sheering agony as the bullet struck home, before her
world went black. Having reached the crude plank flooring's end, her
impelled momentum carried her limp body off the building, still gripping
her friend's wrist.

    Jesse cried out as Sheila's dead weight dragged him with her over the
edge, to plummet helplessly towards the merciless ground fifteen storeys
below.



One week earlier . . . .



    While Carol Langdon was saying goodnight, and thanking Sheila Donnelly,
further away in downtown Toronto, twelve-year-old Jesse Anderson was also
giving his own thanks.

    By sucking the cock of a fifty-year-old accountant, inside a car parked
in a dark alley.

    The homeless boy knelt across the passenger seat, his worn jeans and
underwear down around his knees. Not visible from outside the car, his
unkempt mass of longish brown hair bobbed up and down in the man's lap. One
of the man's chubby hands rested on Jesse's head, while the other stroked
and diddled the cute boy's hairless, circumcised three-inch boner.

    "Oh yeah," Bob Carthen moaned, his business suit's trousers pushed down
to mid-thigh. "God kid, you're good."

    His mouth filled with the balding man's six-inch cock, the
twelve-year-old slipped his hand underneath the man's hairy balls, to
massage the sensitive skin there. Bob groaned even more soulfully, as a
lustful quiver shuddered through his legs.

    "Oh fuck, Jesse! Just like that! I'm gonna cum soon!"

    Jesse redoubled his efforts, his hot mouth milking the man's straining
erection for all he was worth.

    The boy was a natural cocksucker. Of the many men who'd felt his
talented tongue, each still looked back on the experience fondly. A few
like Bob, who were lucky to encounter Jesse more than once, loved to buy
the lean, scruffy street kid a good meal. In return, the boy always showed
his gratitude, in a manner both enjoyed.

    As Bob's moans deepened, his wide hips bucked up from the driver's
seat, trying to pack more of his man-sausage into the child's mouth. Just
when the accountant thought he couldn't take it anymore, his adolescent
passenger plunged his mouth down sharply, engulfing the cock
fully. Suddenly being deep-throated, Bob jerked back in his seat with a
strangled gasp, his pulsating cock spewing its pent-up load.

    Despite choking a little on the hot cum squirting directly down his
throat, Jesse continued sucking, making the man nearly pass out from the
wracking ecstasy. He only stopped when Bob pleaded for him to do so. Lifted
his cute face from the man's lap, the preteen used a finger to drag an
errant dribble of semen back into his mouth.

    "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," the plain-looking, overweight man gasped,
panting like he'd just ran a marathon. "That was . . . wow! You're
something else kid, let me tell you. Thank you!"

    "No prob, Bob," Jesse smiled, gently easing his small boner from the
man's forgotten grip. Pulling his faded jeans back up, he also retrieved
his ragged backpack from the backseat.

    "Oh," Bob stared at the adolescent's jutting erecting, as Jesse
buttoned up his jeans. "Wait. Don't you want me to . . . uhm, help fix that
for you?"

    "It's okay. We should get going, before anyone catches us. Especially
the cops."

    Visibly wincing at the thought, the accountant quickly scrambled to do
up his own pants. While the boy smoothed out his worn black t-shirt and put
on his seatbelt, the car eased from the alley, and onto the thankfully
empty side street.

    After going two blocks, Bob finally worked up the courage to ask,
"Jesse? As tomorrow's Sunday, I was wondering if, well . . . . There's a
new Chinese, all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant, and if you want to, maybe,
tomorrow night . . . ."

    The twelve-year-old cocked his head. "You want to hook up again?"

    Blushing, the mature man nodded hopefully.

    Jesse smiled. "Sure. Should I give you a call, to figure out where to
meet up, like tonight?"

    Bob nodded again. The fifty-year-old felt as giddy as a schoolboy, and
actually pinched himself, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

    Arriving at a Tim Hortons coffee shop, where Bob had dropped the boy
off after their previous two trysts, they wished each other a goodnight,
even though less than an hour remained before midnight.

    Waving goodbye to the departing car, Jesse hiked his well-worn backpack
higher on a shoulder, and began walking across the empty parking lot to the
coffee shop.

    Of the many, many men that the boy had been with, during the past year
he'd lived on the streets, Bob was one of the better ones. While he might
be old, going bald, overweight, and plain-looking, the accountant was also
genuine. It was a nice change from many of the men he encountered.

    Smiling happily, the scruffy twelve-year-old entered the coffee shop.

    Where he was suddenly confronted by a butch-looking female manager, who
was waiting just inside the doors.

    "What do you think you're doing?" the husky manager asked sharply,
staring at the homeless kid with ill-disguised hostility.

    Aw shit, Jesse thought with a cringe. He'd forgotten about the last
time at this particular Tim Hortons.

    "I-I've got money this time ---"

    "I don't care if you've got a million dollars," the mannish manager cut
him off. "I banned you for a week for panhandling, and that means until
Wednesday, you're not allowed in here. Or near the store
itself. Understand?"

    "But ---"

    "Do you want to be banned permanently, or for that fact, be banned from
every Tim Hortons in Toronto?"

    "No, ma'am," Jesse answered meekly, quickly backing out of the doors.

    As much as he wanted to tell the manager how unfair this was, he held
his tongue. He couldn't afford to get banned forever from Tim Hortons. Not
only were the coffee chain stores among the best spots to panhandle, but
their washrooms were always open. As well, they were great for waiting out
bad weather. Not like the shopping malls, where rent-a-cop bullies lived
for the chance to boot him out on his ass, just because he was homeless.

    While Jesse moped across the parking lot to leave, a two-decade-old
Chrysler Voyager was pulling into the drive-thru. At the wheel of the
eggplant purple minivan, Sheila Donnelly spied the short boy in worn
clothes, who at the moment looked as forlorn as a neglected puppy. Stopping
in the drive-thru lane, the sixteen-year-old leaned slightly out her open
window.

    "Hey, Oliver Twist," she called out.

    Startled, Jesse pointed a finger back at his chest questioningly.

    "Yeah, you," Sheila smiled. "What kind of sandwich did you want?"

    "Huh?" the street youth replied in surprise, and half-jogged to the
idling minivan. "Why do you want to buy me a sandwich?"

    Brushing a long strand of blonde hair behind an ear, Sheila
shrugged. "For one, you're lean enough to make a starving wolf pass you
over as a meal. Second, I just feel like it. Simple as that."

    Although suspicion flashed through the boy's slate-grey eyes,
half-obscured by his long brown forelocks, it vanished moments later with
his grateful nod. Asking the beautiful stranger for a roast beef sandwich,
he waited as she went through the drive-thru. Several minutes later the
minivan emerge from the far side of the squat building, to return and park
beside him, underneath one of the parking lot's security light poles.

    Climbing inside the passenger side, Jesse's eyes went wide. "Whoa."

    The purple minivan's interior looked akin to a church shrine. Religious
paraphernalia was scattered everywhere, including a plastic Jesus statue
atop the dashboard.

    "Just so you know," Sheila explained a bit hastily, "I'm just borrowing
the van. Its owner is a former nun."

    "Oh," a relieved Jesse said, putting his backpack at his feet in the
footwell. Living on the streets, he'd encounter more than his share of
self-proclaimed preachers. "Well, it's, uh, very . . . nice?"

    "I would've gone with 'unique' myself," she grinned, handing him a
wrapped sandwich, and started eating her own one. "So, why the long face?"

    He accepted the submarine-style roast beef sandwich with thanks. Even
though he'd finished a large meal barely an hour ago, he immediately began
wolfing the food down. No matter how much the twelve-year-old ate, he was
always hungry.

    "It's nothing really," Jesse answered around chewing. "I kinda forgot I
got banned from here till Wednesday. The crabby old manager was more than
happy to remind me of it."

    "I see. I'm Sheila by the way."

    "Jesse."

    "So Jesse, how long have you've been on the streets, if you don't mind
me asking?"

    "About a year, I guess. The winter was pretty hard, but now that it's
summer again, it'll be a whole lot better."

    Looking at Sheila as he ate, illuminated by the overhead light coming
in through the windshield, Jesse was glad the sandwich paper across his lap
hid his boner. The slender sixteen-year-old's long blonde hair framed her
beautiful face, her long-lashed eyes being an incredible shade of deep
blue. Even dressed casually in jeans and a light grey vest, over a black
t-shirt like his own, Jesse had trouble taking his eyes off her.

    "So, um, Sheila," the boy tried to ask casually. "I guess you're coming
back from a date, huh?"

    Laughing, Sheila's fingers caught a sliver of roast beef that nearly
escaped her lips. She swallowed before answering.

    "A date, in this van? I'd think it be hard for most people, to get hot
and heavy with old Jesus here staring accusingly at them. I just finished
babysitting, and was heading home to talk with a . . . friend."

    "It sounds like you don't like this friend that much."

    Sheila sighed. "She's more like my arch-nemesis, though I really
shouldn't be so hard on her. I mean, Princess can be a stuck-up bitch at
times --- Okay, all of the time, but none of us are perfect."

    "Princess?" Jesse cocked his head questioningly, polishing off the last
of his sandwich.

    "It's my pet name for her," Sheila grinned, tightly rewrapping the
unfinished half of her own sandwich, and took a sip of her coffee. "So,
what about you, Jesse? Just finished getting off a date yourself?"

    Choking, the boy's cheeks turned crimson.

    "No," Jesse squeaked too quickly. "I mean, me, having a date? Yeah,
right. Like any girl would go for . . . a bum."

    "I don't know about that," Sheila smiled, looking at her passenger from
the corner of an eye. "I don't see anything wrong with bums. In fact, I
like cute bums myself."

    Eyes dropping to his lap, he crumpled up the sandwich paper, muttering,
"I mean the kind of bums who live in dumpsters."

    Shifting over to lean against Jesse's shoulder in the passenger seat,
Sheila playfully toyed with his long forelocks.

    "Is there a law that says I can't like cute street bums, with cute bums
to boot? I should warn you, when it comes to cute boys in Tim Horton
parking lots near midnight, I tend to have a certain soft spot."

    She lowered her voice to a husky whisper. "A soft spot that's hot and
wet, and oh so tight."

    A strangled sound escaped Jesse's throat. Then his grey eyes widened
even further, as her fingertips trailed down the front of his shirt.

    The near-nymphomaniac's grin matched the hungry look in her deep blue
eyes.

    Normally, Sheila wouldn't have tried something in public, even in a
parking lot as currently empty as this one was. However, after earlier
today going at it with six-year-old Kassie in the rec center's restroom
stall, and later with the girl's family in the public whirlpool, she felt
quite emboldened.

    "I noticed ever since you got into the van," Sheila continued in a
naughty whisper, "you've been sporting a diamond-cutter in your jeans. I
can tell, by the way your body's all tensed up. Not to mention, it's a
little obvious. No doubt your boner's throbbing so hard, it feels like it
could punch a hole in a wall. I'd feel totally miserable going home, if I
left you suffering with a severe case of blue balls."

    Jesse tried to reply, but no words came out. Red-painted fingernails
traced lower, running across the small bulge in his jeans. Her delicate
fingers slipped beneath the hem of his black t-shirt, to fondly rub his
smooth, lean stomach.

    At Sheila's whispered suggestion, Jesse quickly undid his pants, while
she eased his shirt high enough to bare his midriff. Tugging his jean and
underwear down a bit, his freed erection sprang up like a spring-loaded
iron bar.

    All three inches of it.

    "Aww," Sheila cooed, gliding her thumb and index finger up and down its
hairless, circumcised length. "It's sooo cute!"

    In spite of gasping from the teenager's loving touch, Jesse's voice
still held a note a bitterness. "But it's so small, right?"

    "I don't think it's that small," she said honestly, kissing his cheek.

    Adding her middle finger to caressing his boyhood, her three digits
ringed the fleshy shaft. With each stroke, she brushed the underside of his
cock's purplish gland, which further intensified his moans. Coupled with
his already-heightened state of arousal, the preteen was soon mewling in
rapturous bliss.

    As she tenderly stroked the boy's straining boner, Sheila's hot breath
whispered his ear.

    "Seeing as you're a guy, you probably don't know this, but a vagina
does more than just make itself slippery. Because there's so many types of
cocks, a pussy was made with that in mind. Whether it's a massive horse
cock, or an adorably cute one like this puppy here, a pussy will adjust to
everything. It's made to tightly grip any cock, so us girls can get
pleasure out of it, no matter what the size we decide to take."

    Jesse was now writhing in ecstasy, completely at the teen's mercy.

    "And then," Sheila whispered throatily, jerking his little boyhood
quicker, "there's how my own pussy loves to milk cocks. It grips them real
tight, and can use its muscles on it, just like this."

    As her fingers squeezed and tugged his cock even more firmly, the boy
squirmed and whimpered in desperation.

    "My greedy pussy loves milking cocks, just like a cow, to make them
give it their creamy boy-milk. And it won't stop, not till it's gotten
every . . . last . . . drop!"

    "Oh god," the twelve-year-old cried out, arcing his back.

    Jesse's whole body spasmed with the intensity of his orgasm.

    Sheila gasped as the three-inch boner in her fingers geysered, shooting
a ropy stream of cum more than seven inches straight up. A second jet of
adolescent sperm launched right behind it, followed by another powerful
squirt, albeit with lesser force than the first two. Although Jesse's cock
didn't spew a fourth pulse, more milky boy-cream continued to flow from its
throbbing tip, adding to the already copious amount of cum covering the
girl's hand.

    "Holy shit," Sheila exclaimed wide-eyed. "Your balls weren't blue. They
had purple rage!"

    Slumping in the passenger seat, the short boy's chest heaved as he
panted.

    Lifting her hand coated in cum, she started licking off the thick
semen.

    "Mmm," Sheila purred. "Delicious! This would be great on a salad. Or
better yet, gobbled up as it seeps from my pussy."

    Beside her, an exhausted Jesse smiled lopsidedly. "Thanks, Sheila."

    "You're quite well-cum," she giggled, scooping the remainder of the
gooey cum from his exposed, hairless groin, and popped it in her mouth to
savour. "Do you always cum like a fire hose?"

    "Most of the time, yeah." His grey eyes turned away. "I guess it's
kinda freaky, huh? That I cum so much, from a tiny dick."

    "Hey now," Sheila said a bit sharply, bringing his eyes back to
her. "Do you think I did a shitty handjob?"

    "What? No way! It was better than fucking awesome!"

    "Well then . . . ."

    The blonde sixteen-year-old suddenly parted her grey vest wider, and
yanked up her black t-shirt, baring her braless tits. Jesse's jaw dropped
in speechless amazement.

    Although her breasts weren't exactly eye-catching, not being much more
than shallow bumps on her athletically-slender chest, her puffy pink
nipples were another matter. Especially engorged as they were at the
moment, her swollen, cone-like nipples and areolae looked almost like
miniature tits poking from her breasts.

    Sheila raised a blonde eyebrow. "Seeing how I've basically got no tits,
but freakishly-puffy nipples, does it affect how good I can make someone
feel?"

    "N-no," Jesse stammered.

    Slowly, and more than a little reluctantly, she lowered her shirt back
down.

    "Let me put it this way, Jesse. You know the old saying, it's not what
you have, but how you use it? Take it from a girl, when I say there's no
greater truth. A guy could have a horse cock, but be the worse excuse for a
lover in the world. It's the same with what makes a man, too. Cock size
isn't the measure of a man. It's the size of his heart. Understand?"

    Jesse nodded. Surprisingly, he did feel a little better about himself
now.

    "I guess you're right, Sheila. Other people said the same thing, but
it's easy for them, seeing how their cocks ---"

    The boy's face instantly turned crimson, and quickly looked away.

    Sheila affectionately rubbed his lean stomach. "Did I forget to mention
I'm bisexual, too? It's nice having the best of both worlds, isn't it?"

    Seeing understanding in the teenager's eyes, the homeless boy nodded
with relief. Never having the chance, nor the courage, to get to know a
girl, he'd always feared they wouldn't understand his shared feelings for
males and females.

    Then something out the windshield caught Jesse's attention.

    "Aw shit," he exclaimed in a panic, scrambling to do up his jeans.

    Sheila looked up to see the headlights of a car pulling into the
parking lot.

    "Don't fret about it," she said calmly, taking a sip of coffee.

    "How can you say that?" the boy desperately fought with his
zipper. "They'll see us and ---"

    "They won't see us, Jesse. The glare of the overhead light on the
windshield prevents that. As well, it's just a car. They're not high enough
to see anything below our shoulders. We could be naked from the waist-down,
and they'd never know it."

    "Really?" He gusted a relieved sigh. "Fuck. I thought we were goners
for sure. I almost had a heart attack!"

    "I've nearly had two of those myself today," Sheila laughed. "Anyways,
we should get going, before someone thinks we're drug dealers and calls the
cops on us."

    Starting up the eggplant purple minivan, once their seatbelts were
secure, she eased out of the parking lot.

    "I'm heading for the area around the ROM, further downtown. Is there
somewhere you want a lift to?"

    Jesse tried to keep the disappoint that they'd be separating soon from
his voice. "Maybe at the museum, please? I've got a spot in one of the
alleys, where I stay when I'm down there."

    "Ah," she nodded. "No doubt it's one of the more luxurious
hotel-de-alleys, right?"

    "Yup," Jesse smiled, playing along. "Not just anyone can get a luxury
cardboard room like mine. It's even got its own bathroom next door, though
they call it Tim Hortons."

    "Do you go to that Tim Hortons a lot?"

    "Sometimes, I guess so. Why?"

    Sheila glanced sideways at him, from the corner of an eye. "Would you
possibly be there, say, Tuesday night, somewhere around nine or
nine-thirty?"

    It took the short boy several tries to find his voice. "I-I ---" he
squeaked before swallowing hard. "I sure will be!"

    "Cool," she smiled, her long-lashed eyes giving him a lustful,
half-hooded look. "It's a date then, cutie."

    Jesse's hammering heart threatened to leap out of his chest.

    When they reached the Royal Ontario Museum, both were hesitant to part
ways. With one hand on the door handle, and his other gripping his
backpack, Jesse gave her a brave smile.

    "Thanks for everything, Sheila. So . . . I'll catch you Tuesday night?"

    "Count on it, squirt."

    "Hey, I'm not that short! Am I?"

    Sheila grinned wolfishly. "I wasn't referring to your height."

    "Oh," he blushed, but with a grin.

    "Before I forget," she handed him the uneaten half of her sandwich,
which he stuffed into his backpack with thanks. Then she undid her seatbelt
to pull out her wallet, and removed a trio of twenty dollar bills to hold
out to him.

    Jesse stared at the bills, as if they were bars of solid gold. "I-I
can't take that!"

    "Yes you can. It won't buy you too many good meals, but at least you
can get a few out of it."

    He shook his head, making his longish brown hair sway across his
eyes. "I can't. It's too much."

    "Jesse, please. I won't be able to sleep tonight if you don't. Take it
for my sake, okay?"

    Seeing she was serious, he reluctantly accepted the money, where it
seemed to suddenly vanish from his hand. While he hadn't been to school for
a year now, he'd learned other skills on the streets. While the skills
weren't ones most people would approve of, especially the law, they were
part of the simple fact about being homeless.

    When it came to moral principles and basic survival, the two were often
incompatible.

    Thanking her profusely, Jesse was about to open the minivan's door,
when Sheila sudden grabbed the front of shirt, and yanked him back.

    To give him a long, heartfelt kiss.

    When their lips eventually parted, both were a little flush.

    Sheila finally let go of his shirt. "I-I thought that might be a nice
way to say goodnight."

    Jesse felt like he was dreamily floating on clouds. "So that's what a
goodnight kiss is like?"

    "Uh-huh," she grinned with a wink. "Wait till you find out what my good
morning kiss is like."

    The twelve-year-old could only stare dumbly, his mind reeling at mere
thought.

    Chuckling softly, Sheila leaned over and gave him another kiss,
although a reluctantly brief one.

    "You better get going, scamp, before I do something that'll get us both
in trouble. Don't forget, Tuesday night, nine to nine-thirty. Sleep tight,
okay, Jesse?"

    "I won't forget, I promise! Goodnight, Sheila, and thanks again for
everything!"

    Climbing out, he reluctantly closed the passenger door. With a last
wave, the minivan merged with the light midnight traffic, and was quickly
gone from sight.

    Turning, the boy headed for his familiar alley, almost skipping.

    In three more days, he'd be seeing Sheila again! The girl who'd kissed
him. Him! A homeless bum, who most people didn't even see walking past. His
joy threatened to overwhelm him. Finally he couldn't contain it any longer,
and had to shout it out.

    "I'm in love!"

    "That's great, kid," slurred a drunk curled up next to the museum, and
rolled over to go back to sleep. "So tell it to someone who cares."

    His exuberance no less diminished, Jesse stuck out his tongue at the
bum's back, and left for his cardboard box in the nearby alley.

    Meanwhile, Sheila was experiencing much of the same emotions as Jesse,
as she drove the three city blocks back to the orphanage. It was also a
little unsettling for her, realizing the depth of them for the young
homeless boy. Over the years, she'd been with numerous males and females,
both older and younger than herself. But she hadn't felt . . . this
strongly about them. Except with Melody of course, but the two of them were
sisters in all but blood.

    Even though she'd only met Jesse less than an hour ago, in a weird
sense, she already felt as if she knew him. Even more bizarrely, it was in
ways that she couldn't even explain to herself. She hadn't experienced
anything like that, not since ---

    Gary.

    The realization stunned the teenager, and nearly caused her to run a
red light. Shaking her head, Sheila tried to push the whole matter from her
mind, if only for now. Driving was hazardous enough in Toronto, even this
late at night, without being distracted.

    Especially by, inside her mind, her romantic side doing constant back
flips that would shame an Olympic gymnast.

    Turning on the radio for the midnight news wasn't much help, having
only recycled stories from earlier in the day. Such as the latest crime in
the east end. More construction hindering traffic on the Gardner
Expressway. And yet another protest rally at city hall, for some obscure
cause that most people didn't honestly care about.

    Yawning, Sheila drained the last of her coffee. It had been a long day.

    Not that she was complaining!

    Befriending Kassie O'Connell, and her father Ray and brother Alex, at
the rec center. Witnessing Melody and Billy's first date, and hours later,
as they gave their virginity to each other. Getting it on with Carol
Langdon. Encountering Carol's sister, Helen Allard. Not to mention meeting
Jesse.

    And the day wasn't even over yet.

    There was still the matter of meeting with Tammy Quinvare, or Princess,
as Sheila preferred calling the twelve-year-old blonde-wannabe. Whatever
the reason her nemesis wanted to meet, and in the bunker no less, the
babysitter hoped it was a good one. Right afterwards, she planned to hit
the shower, and head straight to bed.

    As proof of how tired she was, in spite of the fresh caffeine, even her
overactive libido was trying to stifle yawns.

    Sheila suddenly let out a little laugh. Had it been just over
twenty-four hours ago, that she'd had the feeling today would be monumental
for her?

    It definitely had been that, that's for sure!

    Arriving home, she parked the minivan in the back lot. Grabbing her
knapsack, she got out, but didn't head for the orphanage's back
door. Instead she started for an adjacent building, with a sunken set of
concrete steps leading down to a steel door, which was covered in graffiti
like the surrounding walls.

    Retrieving one of the two keys hidden in the crumbling brick around the
door frame, Sheila let herself inside the dark, abandoned basement, making
sure to lock the door behind her.

    Unaware that she was being watched.

    Inside a dark sedan parked in the rear of the back lot,
nineteen-year-old Levi Sarcowski lowered a pair of miniature binoculars. A
grin crossed his skinny face, made more rat-like by his greased back black
hair.

    The blonde jailbait going into the basement hadn't been
expected. However, now there was the chance Levi could get the other blonde
all to himself. The thought of all the vile things he could do to a
twelve-year-old girl, made his cock twitch in the dark suit and long, black
overcoat he had to wear.

    In the passenger seat beside him was a muscular, handsome man with neat
brown hair, who Levi only knew as Jack. Also clad in a dark suit and black
overcoat, the man continued sharpening a large, wicked-looking survival
knife on a whetstone. The fact the knife was already razor sharp, and the
guy had been doing it non-stop for two hours now, reinforced some of what
Levi had heard about him.

    It wasn't reassuring being teamed up with a psychopath, who thought of
himself as the new Jack the Ripper.

    Of course, getting paid a cool hundred-grand for this no-brainer of a
job alone, was worth putting up with his creepy partner. Then there was the
added bonus of likely getting a tight little girl, to do with whatever he
wanted. He would've preferred a tight-holed little boy, but girls were
okay, too. And this was only the start of bigger and better things for him.

    Yeah, Levi Sarcowski was no longer gutter trash. Now he was in the big
leagues.

    Which unfortunately meant obeying his new boss's rules.

    "I'm going to call this in," Levi told his partner, pulling a
palm-sized hand radio from inside his dark suit jacket.

    "Whatever," Jack said, gliding his large knife over the worn whetstone.

    "Do you want the newcomer?" the rat-faced teenager asked, trying to
hide his hope.

    "Yeah," the ominous man nodded. "She'll put up more of a fight than the
other one would. And she'll provide some nicer trophies for my collection."

    Levi shuddered, recalling some of the street rumours about Jack's
. . . hobbies.

    Keeping his eyes on the basement doorway across the back lot, Levi
brought the small radio to his thin lips.

    "Echo here," he reported. "We've got a newcomer. A blonde girl, fifteen
or sixteen. Carrying a knapsack. Arrived and went straight inside. Advise."

    For several long moments the radio was silent. Then a man's deep voice
finally answered, speaking in a monotonic deadpan that always sent an icy
shiver through Levi's guts. He'd only met the voice's owner once in person,
who was only known as Cerberus, and remembered how scared the man's
presence alone had made him.

    "Copy Echo. Have the targets moved?"

    "Negative," Levi replied.

    "Continue as planned. Out."

    Slipping the hand radio back in his suit jacket, Levi drew his
submachine gun from the black overcoat. Making sure the silencer was
secured on the barrel, he racked the arming lever back sharply, priming the
weapon. The Heckler and Kosh MP5 was a compact and durable submachine gun,
used throughout the world. Although only firing 9mm pistol rounds, its high
rate of fire made it more than lethal.

    Next to him, Jack readied his own identical submachine gun.

    Levi found himself grinning, in anticipation of what was to come.