Prey

by L. A. Larkin

  Two middle-aged bikers with shaved heads and tattooed arms, pull up outside and join a group on the front deck smoking joints. They talk and laugh, posing her no threat. A young guy gets out of a car and has a smoke. Wolfe watches as one of the middle-aged men buys some pills off the dealer.

  ‘You haven’t touched your beer.’

  Standing near her, a man who looks to be in his thirties, with a long but well-groomed auburn beard and buzzcut hair, grins at her. His pupils are too wide, his manner a little too intense. He moves from foot to foot repeatedly. She wonders what he’s on.

  ‘Here,’ she replies. ‘You have it.’ She pushes it along the narrow table towards him. ‘I’ve got to go, anyway.’

  ‘But you just arrived. What’s the rush? I’ll get you something else. What would you like?’

  Perhaps he’s just chatting her up? Or is he a killer?

  Wolfe flicks a look out of the window. Another bike pulls up. No new cars. No sign of Blunt’s Prado. No apparent interest in her. Except for this guy.

  ‘You a regular here?’ she asks.

  ‘Yah.’ He sits on the stool next to her, his feet twitching up and down repeatedly.

  Wolfe leans in. ‘Do you know the barman?’

  ‘Yah. Why?’

  She drops her voice, forcing him to lean close. ‘Just heard the cops are about to raid this place. Tonight.’ She slides off the stool. ‘I’m outta here.’

  He jerks his chin up. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Scanner. Police radio.’

  ‘You serious?’

  Wolfe nods and heads for the door, then looks back.

  He’s talking to the barman. Word spreads fast, as she had hoped. Wolfe pulls on her helmet, straddles her motorcycle and waits. It’s not long before half a dozen others get on their bikes. Like a motorcade, with identical cars switching places to disguise which car the VIP is in, Wolfe leaves the car park amidst six other bikers, secure in the knowledge it would be virtually impossible in the darkness to work out which bike is hers.

  39

  Wolfe switches off her motorcycle’s engine, dismounts, and padlocks it to a young jacaranda tree, three houses down from the address Yushkov gave her. It’s two minutes to midnight and leafy Norwood Avenue is noiseless. The large houses are in darkness behind their security gates, the affluent residents sound asleep. The go-bag on her back with its ESAPI bulletproof plates and the gun in her holster are comforting, but she can’t help asking herself, yet again, if this meeting is madness.

  The house she is looking for is hidden behind a dense twelve-foot-high cypress hedge, but the electronic gates are wide open. Yushkov hasn’t said who owns the property, or if they’ll be there. The windows are dark. The only light comes from a bell-shaped porch light over the front door.

  The drive is narrow, lined on both sides by cypress trees. The pale light of the almost full moon helps Wolfe find her way. The drive opens out into a paved turning circle with an ornamental fountain at its centre. She’s reluctant to ring the doorbell and she can’t look into the front windows either: azaleas and hydrangeas crowd too thickly under the windows to clamber through. Feeling increasingly on edge, Wolfe sends Yushkov a message on her burner phone:

  Arrived. Where are you?

  The phone is switched to vibrate: the last thing she wants to do is wake the neighbours and have the police banging on the door. A bird’s high-pitched shriek shatters the quiet. She’s heard it before. A nightjar. But it has her spinning around, searching the shadows for Yushkov.

  He assured her this place was safe. It feels far from it. She hasn’t told anyone where she is, not even Butcher. Especially not Butcher. For the umpteenth time Wolfe checks the time: 12.03am. He said he would be here at midnight. So where is he?

  There’s a clank. Wolfe jumps. Then an electronic whir. The wrought iron gates at the end of the drive are closing. Somebody is operating them. If it’s Yushkov, why hasn’t he shown himself? Is this a trap? She stares at the burner, frowning. Still no message.

  A crack of twigs behind her. Wolfe spins, the pistol drawn. A tabby cat freezes, then scuttles into the bush.

  40

  Wolfe’s burner phone vibrates. A message at last:

  Go to back of house.

  With pistol raised, Wolfe follows the flagstone path, ducking under low-hanging branches. She uses her phone’s torch. Wolfe navigates past a rectangular table in glass and metal with six chairs. Beyond, a slice of lawn and a kidney-shaped fishpond, with a wall of cypresses.

  A light suddenly blazes through two narrow stained-glass windows, either side of a stable-style back door. Wolfe almost has a heart attack. She retreats into the shadows and holds the CZ 75 steady, aiming at the middle of the door. It opens, the wood warped with age, scraping on the flagstones. She cannot see much more than a silhouette of a tall man with wide, muscular shoulders who almost fills the doorway, but she instinctively knows it’s Vitaly Yushkov.

  ‘Why is it when we meet, you always try to kill me?’ he asks.

  She doesn’t have to see his face properly to know he is smiling. Wolfe lowers the gun to a forty-five-degree angle and relaxes her finger on the trigger. ‘Maybe because you have a knack of freaking me out.’ She glances up at the rear bedroom windows, lights out, curtains drawn.

  ‘What is this place?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘The owners are away. The dogs are with them.’

  ‘So, we’re breaking and entering?’

  ‘I have permission.’

  ‘Cameras?’

  ‘None. If you saw the dogs, you would understand.’

  ‘You are alone?’

  ‘I am always alone.’ It is a matter-of-fact statement. His life is, by necessity, a lonely one.

  ‘Are you going to invite me in?’ she asks.

  Yushkov steps out of the way. She holsters the pistol and enters the house.

  To the left is the living room, the sofa in bold floral fabric. Ahead is a kitchen, the floor tiles are terracotta, the ceiling, exposed honey-coloured beams. Shaker-style wooden chairs, solid table, Aga cooker, blue and white china plates on a wooden wall rack. The back door clicks shut behind her. She swivels round. Yushkov turns the key in the lock, bolts it, then leans with his back against the door. He is still. His pale blue eyes study her face.

  She takes a good look at him. Same lop-sided smile. The semi-circular scar under his left eye has faded, but is still raised, the result of an interrogation that almost killed him. His beard is new, the colour of pale driftwood. Befitting of a man forced to drift by forces beyond his control. Until this moment she had no idea his fair hair was wavy. The last time she saw him he had a buzzcut. He now looks younger, leaner, fitter. Perhaps life in South Africa suits him.

  ‘It is good to see you,’ he says.

  Feeling self-conscious, Wolfe tucks a strand of hair behind an ear and opens her mouth to speak, then closes it. She’d imagined throwing herself into his arms, but now she’s here, she feels an odd sense of despair. Here is the man she wants more than anything, and yet she can only have him for a few hours.

  His smile fades. ‘What is wrong?’

  He takes a step towards her. Instinctively she puts out her hand to stop him. He freezes.

  Wolfe cannot look at him. Instead, she stares at a tiny beetle scuttling past the skirting board. She fears he will see her need. How much she has missed him.

  ‘I hoped you would call,’ Yushkov says.

  Another step closer. He could touch her, but he doesn’t. He removes his leather gloves and pockets them. His smell is familiar and comforting: soap and sun-baked skin, and the faintest hint of cigarettes. In black T-shirt, jeans and heavy boots, his gear is the mirror image of hers.

  ‘Guess you didn’t get the memo,’ Wolfe says, tugging at her black T-shirt, her voice flaky, the joke lame.

  ‘I guess not.’ Yushkov tilts his head to one side. ‘What is wrong, Olivia? Were you followed?’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’ She tries to find the right w
ords. ‘Seeing you again is… difficult… bittersweet.’

  Yushkov wraps his arms around her, his touch as light as a sheet on her skin. Almost a foot taller than her, she is lost within his embrace. For the first time since she arrived in South Africa, she feels safe. The irony is not lost on her. After all, most people believe him a killer.

  He says in her ear, ‘Every day I think of you. I have missed you, Olivia Wolfe.’

  41

  Wolfe is the first to pull away from their embrace. She needs to get used to seeing him again and to the weirdness of their situation. She dumps her bag under the kitchen table and drapes her jacket over the back of a chair. Her holstered pistol is now visible.

  ‘Nice piece.’ Yushkov nods at the CZ 75 in her holster. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘It is good you are armed.’

  On the table are two shot glasses and a bottle of Zubrówka Zu Bison Grass vodka. The drink has a greenish hue.

  Yushkov pours them both a drink, then takes her hand. It envelops hers, the skin rough, but the grip is light. He leads her into a lounge room of chintz floral sofas and armchairs, and bookshelves overstuffed with paperbacks and travel books. The matching chintz curtains are drawn. Neither turns on a light. Wolfe sits on the sofa crossed-legged facing him.

  ‘At least some things never change,’ she says, raising the glass. She remembers celebrating the successful outcome of a scientific expedition in Antarctica with Yushkov, drinking way too much of his vodka. That was probably the last time she saw him really happy. Laughing and joking. After that, their brief moments of pleasure were tinged with fear.

  ‘What shall we toast?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘To this moment.’

  ‘To this moment, and others,’ Wolfe says pointedly.

  He says nothing. The glasses chime as they touch. Wolfe watches as Vitaly downs his vodka immediately, then she finishes hers.

  ‘Why are you in Johannesburg?’ Yushkov asks.

  A few months ago she trusted this man with her life. But his reluctance to talk about his work makes her reticent to talk about hers.

  ‘Following some leads. Possible money laundering by a British national with ties to South Africa.’

  Yushkov pours more vodka. ‘Who is the Englishman?’

  Wolfe tenses. It dawns on her that they can never have a normal conversation. ‘I’m not sure yet. And you? You have a job?’

  He tilts his head. A silent apology.

  ‘This isn’t going to work, is it?’ she says. ‘You can’t tell me what you’re doing here, and I can’t tell you either.’

  Wolfe has an odd sensation that he is far away, as if looking at him through binoculars.

  ‘We don’t have to talk,’ Yushkov says. ‘Let me hold you. Please.’ He kicks off his boots, lays his head on one armrest of the sofa and drapes his long legs over the other. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps they shouldn’t talk. Wolfe removes her boots and lies next to him on the soft cushions, her head in the crook of his arm. He strokes her hair, then kisses her nose.

  ‘I have dreams about your nose.’

  Wolfe laughs.

  ‘Why do you laugh?’

  ‘Because of all the bits of me you could dream about, you choose my nose.’

  ‘I have dreamt about your skin, too.’

  He strokes her cheek with the back of his fingers. The barest touch. Her heartbeat quickens. She knows her desire blinds her. Makes her vulnerable. She should push his hand away. Ask him how he knows about this hitman. Then leave. No good will come of prolonging their fractured and dangerous relationship. Except that their connection is nothing like she has ever experienced before.

  Instead of stopping him, she brings his palm to her lips and kisses it, then cups it against the side of her face.

  ‘And your lips,’ Yushkov says. ‘I dream about your lips. And that stud in your tongue.’

  He lifts her chin and kisses her mouth. Just a peck, over in a second.

  ‘I cannot change the situation, Olivia. I wish I could. I wish we could be like normal people. Go out to dinner, drink, make love. Live together. I would want this very much.’

  ‘With me?’

  ‘Of course with you. But my life is mapped out. By others. It is not the life I want, but it is the one I have. It is not possible for me to have a relationship. You know this, don’t you?’

  ‘I know you think this. But give it time. We can work something out.’

  Yushkov hugs her tight. ‘Do not hope for this.’

  He sounds defeated. This is not the Yushkov she knows.

  ‘What’s going on, Vitaly? Something’s wrong.’

  He places a finger on her lips. ‘We only have a few hours.’

  ‘Then let’s make the most of them,’ Wolfe says. And sod the consequences, she thinks.

  42

  Yushkov switches off the only light in the house and leads her up the stairs and into a bedroom where he opens the drawn curtains enough to allow moonlight to penetrate the darkness. He takes off his belt. Attached to it is a hunting knife which he places on the bedside table.

  ‘You won’t need that,’ he says, looking at the pistol on her hip.

  He unholsters her pistol and places it next to his knife. His arms close tight around her. He whispers, ‘You want this?’

  ‘I want this.’

  He lifts her T-shirt over her head, dropping it to the floor, and unclasps her black bra. He gazes at her body for a long moment, then caresses her breast and runs his finger over her nipple ring. Wolfe is conscious she’s not as trim as when he last saw her. Her head wound, and the resulting migraines, scuppered her gym routine.

  As if reading her mind Yushkov says, ‘You are as beautiful as I remember.’

  His fingers slide down her stomach to the pearl in her belly button piercing.

  ‘You still wear this. Good.’

  Wolfe grips the bottom of his T-shirt and lifts it. He helps her. As he pulls it over his head, he winces. There’s a large and livid purple bruise on his lower right ribcage. At the centre is a blackened circular wound. Her touch causes his muscles to spasm.

  ‘What happened?’ she asks, knowing the answer already.

  As a foreign correspondent for The Post, she had been embedded with the British SAS in Iraq as part of the effort to reclaim Mosul from Isil. A soldier removed his damaged body armour. It had stopped the bullet, but his skin was an angry confusion of red, purple and yellow, in much the same way Yuskov’s is.

  ‘If I say it was an accident, will you believe me?’ he asks.

  ‘You know I won’t.’

  ‘I was shot. The vest saved me. I am not hurt.’ He places a finger softly on her lips. ‘Forget it. It is not important. This is important.’

  He kisses her on the lips, the tip of her nose, and runs his tongue down her neck. He sucks on her skin, it briefly smarts. She laughs.

  ‘I haven’t had a love bite since I was a teenager.’

  ‘I don’t want you to forget me.’

  ‘No chance of that’

  Still in her jeans, Wolfe lies on the bed and beckons him to her.

  Yushkov lies next to her and runs his tongue over her breasts, then takes a swollen nipple between his lips, and squeezes. He plays with the silver ring through her areola.

  ‘It must be painful. To pierce something so sensitive.’

  ‘It was kind of erotic.’

  Yushkov raises an eyebrow. ‘This is true?’

  ‘I have a high pain tolerance. It felt more like a sting. As a kid, I fell and broke two bones in my fingers. I didn’t even notice until I saw them bent back the wrong way.’

  ‘You are lucky. Less pain is good.’

  Yushkov runs his tongue down her stomach to her belt line. He undoes her jeans and pulls them down slowly, kissing her mound, her inner thighs, her ankles. He pauses to gaze at her body before he peels off her black knickers. His stare is so intense, it’s as if he sees her very soul.

  His
tongue migrates up her inner thigh and touches her most sensitive spot. She inhales sharply. Already aroused, it will not take long for her to orgasm.

  ‘I want you inside me,’ she says.

  He lets go of her hips and sits up. ‘It is too fast. We should take our time.’

  ‘I can’t wait. From behind,’ she says, nodding at the mirrored wardrobe.

  ‘You will always surprise me,’ Yushkov says.

  She lies face down on the bed, with her feet on the floor. She turns her head to one side, so she can watch him in the mirror. He runs his fingers down her spine and parts her thighs. She feels the tip of his cock brush her clit, then push into her. Wolfe cries out.

  ‘This way, I will not be able to hold back. Are you sure?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  He takes a measured breath then moves slowly within her. She watches him in the mirror. His eyes follow the contours of her body. His muscles tense.

  Wolfe lowers her hand to her already stimulated clit. She keeps her touch feather-light. Their need is intense. The heat within her grows. There’s an unbearable ache. Almost unaware of what she is doing, she pushes back onto his cock, forcing him deeper into her. His grip on her tightens. His rhythm speeds up. She turns her head again to see him in the mirror, his every muscle taut. Wolfe brings herself close to the edge. She spasms. He feels it and loses control, plunging into her. The burning heat of her orgasm ripples through her belly again and again.

  43

  Wrapped in each other’s arms, tangled in the sheets, their heartbeats slowing, their bodies begin to cool. Yushkov turns on his side and props his head up in one hand. Not for the first time he winces, his ribcage’s bruise clearly painful.