A gay story: Star Goalie Sequel Ch 04
A Night in Miami, a Problem and a Solution
This is the fourth (and last) chapter of the sequel to “Miguel Our Star Goalie” on Literotica. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. ©Brunosden 2024. All rights reserved.
The soccer stars are still in Miami after winning a national title…..
They uber-ed to South Beach, found a small, but obviously authentic, Cuban sandwich shop and had dinner. Then they went prowling for the liveliest club. They passed a few and finally decided on the Rainbow Pelican, a large and loud spot on the corner, directly across from the littoral beach park—where many benches had been placed under the shadows of palm trees.
They were carded and stamped; then they paid and entered the crowded space. Men outnumbered women by 2 to 1, and many of the women appeared to be with dates, although some of the women were also paired. Carlos and Miguel quickly found dance partners. Again as was typical, both of the Latinos were on the floor all the time, showing off before a series of Latina beauties and occasionally ringed by hungry guys wanting a piece of them. Toward midnight, the hetero couples began to disappear as the same-sex couples segregated onto different parts of the dance floor. Some even drifted across the street to the benches.
The music was Latin-Punk Rock crossed with Caribbean disco, unrecognizable to most but totally danceable. Hours later, as had so often been the case in the past, Carlos and Miguel were down to tight black jeans, top buttons open—no shirts, no shoes. Hot and gleaming with sweat, despite the AC. Dark curls falling moistly over foreheads and sexy eyes. Thick lips promising a very good ride. They were the center of attention—particularly after it became known that they were the two heroes of the collegiate soccer finals that afternoon.
Jeff and Sean at one point went to walk on the beach, leaving their buddies to dance and sweat—and perform. It was getting a little loud—and very hot. They returned perhaps an hour later, just about ready to call it a night. They hadn’t found an empty bench and were not inclined to fuck in public anyway. Upon re-entry, they spotted Carlos—once again the center of a ring of near-naked guys, tanned and muscled, oiled and musky, closing in for the kill. Carlos was in another world, enjoying the attention, the consummate cock-tease in action, bumping his obviously hard dick toward partners and wagging his bubble toward others. Mr. Personality, candidate for public office, already searching for votes. Jeff looked around for Miguel, but didn’t find him. He waited a few minutes. Then he headed for the men’s room which was eerily empty—even the stalls had no doors. Then he checked the alley behind the club where a few couples were engaged in very public sex. No Miguel. He went back to Sean and asked. “Do you think he went back to the hotel?”
“Not likely. Not without Carlos. I’m pretty sure.”
So Sean approached the undulating ring surrounding Carlos and broke into the circle. Several guys glared at the interruption, until they realized the size of the guy butting in. “Carlos, have you seen Miguel?”
Carlos at first didn’t seem to hear. He was in the zone, probably after way too many tequila shots and beers. Then, he looked over to the back side of the floor, near the entrance to the toilets and the alley. “He was right there. He was enjoying the company of three older hunks a few minutes ago. They really seemed to be in to him.” Carlos pulled out his cell and speed-dialed. No answer. It was so unlike Miguel–whose phone was another appendage to his sultry body. He never turned it off. Then all the guys—including Carlos who had sobered fast when he realized that Miguel was gone–did a careful search of the entire place—the booths, the alleys, even the kitchen. No Miguel. But they did find his distinctive Nikes and his W&M tee, abandoned on the floor near the back. But no cell.
“There’s nothing more we can do here. Maybe he’s at the hotel. Let’s head back. He’s a big boy, and it’s too soon to call the cops. I’m sure he’ll show later.”
Carlos was very reluctant to leave. He wanted to search the neighborhood and the beach. Miguel was his—and he belonged to Miguel. The loss had brought that fact home to him very loud and clear. Miguel was not someone he could neglect ever again.
******
A half hour later they were at the hotel. No one had seen Miguel, and his phone still did not answer. Then, Jeff who alone knew all of Miguel’s background—and the potential risks, suddenly realized what had happened. Fuck, it’s the cartel. Of course they had tentacles in Miami. Maybe they had taken Miguel. The very thought chilled him to the bone. He shivered involuntarily. Then, he pulled out his phone and punched in the speed-dial. A deep voice, obviously awakened by the call, answered. He didn’t immediately identify himself. “Hello.”
“This is Jeff Bridges. Miguel has disappeared. At a club in South Beach. We’ve got his shoes and his tee which he wouldn’t have left behind, we’re pretty sure. He doesn’t answer his phone. And his date has no idea where he went. He didn’t say anything to any of us. It’s probably known around town that he starred in a championship soccer match earlier today. But, otherwise we have nothing.”
“Oh shit. His father is still here in Fort Lauderdale. He was planning to fly to DC with me tomorrow to prepare for the trial. It starts on January 12. Stay where you are. I’ll call Dr. Allende and have someone at your hotel in an hour or so.”
Dr. Allende was awakened and immediately checked his txts. There was indeed one: “We’ve got Miguel. He’ll be in Mexico in a few hours. Testify next week and you’ll never see him again.” It wasn’t signed and the number was not identified—probably sent from a burner, now in the ocean. The doctor immediately broke down and started sobbing—fuck, it was his only son. “What have I done?”
The Feds moved with unusual speed. This matter was at the top of their importance list. They concluded that Miguel would likely be moved to Mexico quickly and by air, if he wasn’t already dead—and might never be seen again–even if the good doctor refused to testify. Then Phil, the Miami COM, made a quick management decision. If they were leaving from a private airstrip, it was hopeless. But maybe they wouldn’t risk a late night flight which would be traced by DEA and potentially intercepted by patrol planes. Only Miami International was open all night, and almost all of the flights were freight after 2 a.m. Phil quickly decided to launch two helicopters from the roof of the Federal Building in Miami—each equipped with a GPS signal detector. (Miguel, together with all his family had been implanted long ago, but the detectors only worked for about a mile or so. They were old.)
One helicopter began a quick low scan of the beach on either side of where he had last been seen. The other headed for the environs of the airport. It announced its mission to the tower and obtained clearance—there were no flights scheduled in or out for the next hour. The helicopter swept the area, mostly old warehouses and airline service facilities. And they got incredibly lucky. A faint signal was picked up and traced to a Aeromexico Freight warehouse off LeJeune about two miles from the airport. The helicopter was afraid to get closer—or desperate kidnappers might hear the chopper noise, kill and run.