by Jesse Jordan
With Knucks down, I turn to Knife, or Knife-less now, who tries to kick me with his filthy, scuffed work boot, but I catch his leg and pull him close. I headbutt him, his nose crunching and blood spurting from his nostrils immediately. “Argh!”
“Wrong fucking move, asshole,” I grunt as I catch him and throw, twisting as I do to not fall on the pavement. He flies through the air to land next to his compatriot in a heap, screaming in pain as his stretched hip cracks on the curb, his leg or pelvis clearly broken. I pick up my bag and think about finishing them off, but then walk away. They’re not worth it and I don’t need the hassle. Besides, it’s not my mission.
Up ahead, I see the sign for Sixt car rental. The counter person is quick and courteous at least, and ten minutes later I get behind the wheel of my rented Range Rover, noting that nobody’s come to pick up Knucks and Knife yet. Ah well.
The Range Rover’s a nice drive, better than my Ford back home. Regardless, I’m going to have a talk with Larissa about professional courtesy. I’ve still got hours of driving ahead of me and then a short night in a shitty hotel before we meet, and I’m not looking forward to either.
Larissa
“Mistress Larissa?” my housekeeper, Elena, says as I sit on my back terrace and take in the morning sun after my morning exercise session. Like all of my staff, they use the proper form of address with me, regardless of how they serve, and Elena's been with me for nearly five years now, she's practically indispensable. “The information you asked for has arrived.”
“Let me see it,” I say, holding out my hand for the data stick. It would have been faster to try and get the data sent electronically, but I wanted to make sure I maintained security after having to do so much on the plane back from England to here. Besides, I just got back to my townhouse less than twelve hours ago, and I wanted to have a few minutes to enjoy my morning before I have to deal with Agent Stephen Knightsbridge of the CIA.
Elena hands me the stick and I plug it into my laptop, Elena disappearing as I’ve taught her to do. There is a very simple rule in my house, when Mistress Larissa is working, the staff is a ghost. I’ve only had to punish a staff member once for it, and since then nobody else has been willing to risk my wrath. They still don’t know where the body went.
First thing's first, I take a look at the written report and medical reports. The two men I sent to attack Stephen aren’t Network men, just a couple of street criminals who make a decent living hustling tourists and occasionally holding up someone who’s stupid enough to flaunt their foreignness and their money in Athens. Usually Americans. I have yet to understand the psychological need for some Americans to show up in a foreign country literally wearing their flag on their shirt like a giant sign that says ‘rob me, I have no idea how to act in your nation.’
Whatever. The men I sent weren’t top of the line Network operatives, but they weren’t soft either. Still, the hospital report reads like they got their asses kicked by a team. Fractured patella, torn ACL, LCL and MCL on the first, while the second has a broken nose, cracked forearm, two smashed teeth, and a broken pelvis. Even if they weren’t Network men, they were armed, knew the terrain and had the element of surprise. To get beaten so badly....
Sucking some more juice through a straw, I pull up the video files, the more difficult part of the setup. I paid good money to make sure these two approached Stephen at just the right spot so that the whole thing could be caught on two different cameras. The first camera isn’t that good, an ATM camera that is part of a Network bank and didn’t see much because of the darkness, but the second was set up by the thugs themselves, a small HD camera that captured the whole thing less from less than twenty meters away.
The first thing I notice about Stephen is his walk. He’s well built, tall and lean, and while he’s dressed to practically scream tourist in khakis and a polo shirt, his shoulders are well muscled. The thugs don’t get much of a drop on him, he turns while they’re still a good four meters away, he’s got good hearing and reactions.
The fight doesn’t take long, ten seconds at the most, and when it’s over Stephen picks up his bag and walks off like nothing happened, leaving his two victims on the sidewalk screaming in pain. I back the video up and watch in slow motion, and as I do, I’m very, very impressed. He moves with power and grace, each blow exactly where it’s supposed to be to deliver maximum impact with as little risk to him as possible. The effect of even his first block was impactful, and his throw was poetry in motion, power, balance and technique all wrapped up in one. I don’t know if his skill is just because of CIA training or if he’s studied on his own, but in any case he’s a skilled fighter.
Unconsciously, I bite my lip, wondering about Stephen. So much restrained strength, a body that certainly looks good, and while I didn’t get a great look at his face in the camera, he wasn’t disfigured. It's been a long time since I worked with a man as a mission partner, this might be a bit of fun.
I erase the files, and sit back, finishing my juice. I don’t have to wait long, less than four minutes after I finish the last drops, my Network phone rings, and I see I have a call from Sicily. I pick it up on my headset, smiling indulgently and switching to Italian. “Ciao, Luigi.”
I’m the only person I know of who has the permission of Luigi Scoglitti to call him his first name to his face, he’s always had a bit of a soft spot for me. Not much, he’d kill me in an instant if he knew I was Deep Cover, but enough that he lets me call him Luigi.
“Good morning Larissa,” he replies. “How was your flight?”
“You know that having a private jet and pilot's license always helps with air travel Luigi,” I reply, humming as I get up and stretch my back. “I could use a good massage session though. No matter how hard you go at it, workouts never do get all the kinks out of your back.”
“Larissa, your flirtations don’t work on me,” Luigi says with a chuckle, both of us knowing he’s lying. While Luigi isn’t as easily led by the cock as most men, he’s not dead. “I hear you have a visitor in your territory, an American?”
“Yes, Rodrigo said he’d clear it with you,” I reply. “I’m not happy about it, but it helps the Network. You and I both know which group has their fingerprints all over this death. And if The Network can get some more influence with the Americans, this can be to our benefit.”
Luigi hums, still not sure. In some ways he's the most cautious of the capo in The Network, a product of surviving an era when the people of Sicily got fed up with their local Mafia and started fighting back. “While that is true Larissa... an American military man working with The Network. It could be dangerous.”
“Former military,” I emphasize, going with Rodrigo’s cover story. Simple is always better. “And from what Rodrigo told me, he’s not the cleanest person in the American mercenary community too. This man has a reputation for only focusing on his job.”
“Still,” Luigi says, his voice cautious, “I would prefer if you do not reveal anything about The Network that isn’t essential to this man completing his job. I must ask, forgive me for doing so, but are you one hundred percent sure that nobody with The Network in your area did this?”
“One hundred percent!” I growl, a bit pissed. Old man, you know I wouldn’t condone this type of shit. “Luigi, I do not allow underage work among my people, regardless of the money involved. I’ll take the hit on that myself, but also, my people are not stupid enough to go and kidnap the daughter of a high ranking American official! Anyone who is would have been eliminated when I took over The Sultan’s position.”
“I know, figlia, I know,” Luigi says, using the affectionate term he’s always used for me when he’s trying to be apologetic. “I don’t mean to cause you stress. I’m an old man, I worry too much. I’d like to see my grandchildren graduate school from outside prison.”
No chance of that, old man. MI6 would never let you go that long, and you’d never see the inside of a prison anyway. I wouldn't disrespect you that much, when it's y
our time I'll make sure you're taken down clean, free and final. Not yet though, so I smile, leaning against the stucco wall that surrounds my terrace as I watch my city wake up. “Luigi, I’d like to actually survive long enough to see that myself. So I understand and totally agree. This American will only be put on the trails that I want him put on, nothing more. One American with a gun is nothing to me, I’ll have him eating out of the palm of my hand before dinner tonight. Or eating out something else.”
Luigi laughs, I think one of the last erotic joys in his life is listening as I tell him very explicit stories of some of my missions for The Network. At least he’s better than pervy Father Giacamo back in Sicily, who’d jack off over on his side of the confessional when I got to the good parts. “I look forward to hearing how you’ve added another American to your list of hearts you’ve broken. So you suspect the same people I do in this crime?”
I growl, looking out on the park in front of my townhouse, truly pissed for the first time. Down below, I can hear the laughter of children, something that I treasure considering the rest of my life. “You fucking know it, Luigi. I need confirmation, but if it is, then we gain more than just some help in the Americas. We can remove a cancer from our own sides as well.”
“If it is them, you crush them without mercy,” Luigi says vehemently. “We’ve tolerated their kind long enough because of their connections. But with this travesty, they have endangered the entire criminal fraternity in Europe. I’ve already spoken with Nikolai about this, he agrees. Whoever did this, crush them utterly.”
Oooh, a green light from The Network. I don’t get those that often unless it’s with a contract involved. “And collateral damage?”
“As Rodrigo would say, you must sometimes break a few eggs to make an omelet.”
I laugh, Luigi’s a charmer even if he is old enough to be my father. “Not quite Luigi, but good enough. I’ll be ready, and if it is what we suspect, I’ll update you then. Enjoy the weather, it’s a beautiful morning in Greece.”
“You are lucky then, the southern wind is burning us up,” Luigi says with a grumble, referring to the winds from nearby Africa that can scorch the very ground of Sicily it seems. “But thank you. Good hunting.”
Luigi hangs up, and I lean on my wall, watching the park down below. I’m meeting Stephen in an hour, and I’d like a little reminder of what all this shit is for.
The warehouse is empty but clean, one of my own in fact, and when there’s a knock on the door, I hit the lock button, letting him in. “Welcome to Kalamata. Try the olives.”
“Very funny,” he grumbles, crossing the dimly lit interior of the warehouse towards the table I’m sitting at. He gets closer, and I can see that the videos didn’t do him justice. He’s easily over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a tight waist that looks like he doesn’t have a gram of extra fat under his polo shirt. His forearms are corded with sinewy muscle, he’s no gym rat but looks like he earned his body with real hard work, the calluses on the tips of his fingers aren’t the type you get from Cybex machines. “Stephen Knightsbridge.”
“Larissa Moraitis,” I reply, pulling my shoulders back just a little. Most men take any opportunity they can to stare at my tits, and while Stephen’s eyes flicker, his focus is right back on my face before I can even begin to smile. He’s got cobalt blue eyes that burn with an inner fire, and while his cheekbones are just a little sharp, it’s the good kind, the kind that makes him look deadly. I like it already. “Have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand,” Stephen says, and I can see it in everything that he radiates off of him, he’s pissed off, but also, he’s used to being the man in charge. Or at least the man who doesn’t give a fuck if you like what he has to say or not, he’s going to say it. Interesting, and a little annoying, but it’s too early for total judgment.
“As you wish,” I play it off, leaning back. “You have something you wish to say?”
“You’re damned right I do,” he fumes, slamming his hands on the table and staring into my eyes, commanding and dominating. This might become a problem. His body, take charge attitude and confidence are quickly becoming hot in my eyes, but there’s something about him that still frustrates me. My initial good impression about him is souring very fast, he’s just so arrogant. “What the hell were you thinking just sending me a text to get a rental car in Athens?”
“I was thinking that I needed to see if you were worth sticking my fucking neck out for you, Yank,” I growl back, slipping into British English. I don't get enough chances to use it, and I relish the opportunity to do so when I'm angry, Brits sound so much better than Americans when they're pissed off. “In case you don’t know, I risked a shit-ton just to bring you in here. So I tested you.”
“Tested me?” he asks, arrogantly surprised. “With what? Oh… I got it, those two idiots I put through the concrete last night.”
“You did, but you fucked up at the same time,” I hiss, getting up to stare him in the eyes. “If they’d had guns, you’d have been a dead man as they could have both shot you with your bloody back turned! Good job, Mr. Langley-CIA, shot in the back like a bitch to die in the street.”
“There was no need, I’d hurt them,” Stephen says, his lip curling. “I don’t go rogue.”
“Go rogue? You better get savvy really fucking quickly Jack the lad, because you just stepped into a world that you’re not prepared for,” I shoot back, realizing what it is that pisses me off about Stephen. He’s dangerous, he’s dominating, he’s got a magnetism to him that pulls at me, but it’s immature, he’s too play by the rule book innocent for the world that I live in. He’s got potential, but so far it’s just wasted potential. I bet back home in the States he’s got plenty of women swooning over his badass vibe, but I’m no dental assistant who sobs at pictures of wet kittens on Facebook. “Unless you're willing to expand your horizons a little, you're going to get your goolies twisted very quickly.”
“I can handle myself,” Stephen says cockily, even though I can see he doesn't get some of my British slang. He gets the point though, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping back. “I was top of my training class at Langley, and I’ve been a field agent for years now. I’ve punched a few tickets in my time. I’ve got skills.”
“Yeah, I bet,” I laugh, stepping back myself to slide the tablet I brought with his fight video over to him. He picks it up, watching the video quickly before setting tablet back down on the table and shrugging for me to explain. “I got a view of your skills from ten meters away. Nice kick to the knee, but you still don’t understand, do you? This isn’t playing spy versus spy with some stupid cunt who spends most of his time behind a computer trying to crack databases and wanking off to Internet porn. This is old school, hard core shit here. Fuck James Bond, fuck Jason Bourne, they’d get themselves killed in about ten minutes in Deep Cover. And you show up looking like you got dressed by the CIA agent book for warm weather operations with standard issue polo shirt, standard issue khakis from The Gap, and standard issue short boots straight out of the fucking FBI catalog. You might as well wear a sign that says Shoot me, I’m the cunt sent here over Chastity Hendricks. Quite frankly, Agent Knightsbridge, your skills mean pretty much jack and shit to me.”
“I can handle myself,” he repeats, his hands clenching and his knuckles cracking. “Don't like the British English bullshit, but I can handle you too.”
“Then prove it,” I hiss, stepping around my table towards the middle of the floor. “You aren’t getting a gun or one piece of information from me until you can at least do that.”
Stephen considers it for a second, then reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. In the dim light he’s even more impressive, his muscles looking like they’ve been carved from wood underneath his nearly paper thin skin, which is totally unmarked except for a thick scar that crosses his body from just below his left collarbone to under his right nipple. He looks down when he notices my look. “Bike accident in high schoo
l, chain link fence to the chest. No cool story.”
“Hmph, you could at least make it that you got it for a reason,” I taunt, rolling my wrists. “Let’s make it easy. You win, you get to be the boss of this operation. I’ll be Your Girl Friday and just give you information and introductions. I win, then you shut the fuck up and listen to someone who might be trying to keep both of our asses alive.”
For a moment, Stephen looks like he’s about to walk away, but then he stops and steps forward, bringing his hands up. “I’ve got no problems hitting a woman if she asks for it.”
“Oh how you’ll find out,” I grin, waiting for his first attack. He flicks out a jab, and our impromptu contest is on. I have to admit, as we circle and throw kicks and punches, he’s got skill. His hands are fast, and I’m barely avoiding in time, a few times having to absorb them on my arms or block with my legs.
He’s just as good on defense as he is striking, avoiding well and countering so that in about two minutes, neither of us have landed any sort of telling blow. But he’s making a mistake, and it’s the same thing I saw before He’s just too polite. He doesn’t want to get ‘dirty’ with a woman, he’s trying to give me a fair playing field.
I step in, and he steps back, unwilling to grapple with me where his strength and size would dominate me, and I use his attitude against him, faking a half stumble as he steps back and yelling in pain. “Fuck!”
“What?” he asks, immediately concerned and letting his hands down. I use the opportunity to strike, rolling into his shins and knocking him to the ground. I keep rolling, striking him with my thumbs and knuckles in the painful points that MI6 taught me. They might not cripple, but they do send sheets of pain through your body no matter how tough you are. “Shit!”
I use the moment he’s frozen to jab him in the armpit, temporarily disabling his left arm and turning him to his stomach, wrenching his arm up and between his shoulder blades, my elbow digging into the base of his neck. “Your arm or your neck. Which is it going to be, Yank?”
