Table of Contents
FIRST BLOOD
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About the Authors
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First Blood
Copyright © 2010 by Aleksandr Voinov and Barbara Sheridan
Cover Art by Paul Richmond http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where
permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press,
4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-61581-559-3
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
September, 2010
eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-560-9
FIRST BLOOD
Dedication
For Elaine and Marcie
Also for “Napoleon” & “Illya,” Barb's first suave spy crushes
Chapter 1
ROCHEV knelt on the ground, holding his broken arm tight to his chest, cradling it like a weapon. Blood dripped from his face, his breath ragged, wet through split lips. Nikita stepped back and lowered his hands. Unlikely he'd use them again—he didn't expect the other man to get up very soon.
“You're not making this very easy on you.”
“I told you,” the man on the ground said. “I told you he's dead.”
Nikita felt the sudden urge to kick Rochev in the face for saying that. Dead. No. Simply no. But kicking a kneeling man wouldn't do his anger any good. Wouldn't purge anything. He had to control that anger. Somehow.
He turned away, took a few steps to the car, and reached for a water bottle, then drank deeply. Beating the shit out of a man who'd clearly learned to take pain was tiring. His eyes fell on the folded newspaper on the driver's seat. The Guardian. Cover story. “Russian Crime Haunts Europe's Streets.”
And a large image of Andrei Voronin, still alive. Taken from the website of the law firm he had worked for. Andrei A. Voronin, Corporate Law, Harvard Law School, advised on family trusts, off-shore trusts, cross-border mergers and acquisitions, international tax law. Nikita had memorized the profile. Every scrap of information. Rochev coughed, ragged, uneven sounds, but it took Nikita a moment to realize it was closer to sobbing. He turned, eyes narrow. “Don't kill me.”
Nikita put the newspaper down and stood near the car for a while, studying the crumpled figure on the oil-stained cement floor. The headlights tore him out of the darkness, bent over, muscular neck bowed, on his knees. If not for the obvious pain and fear, the position would have been inviting, would have made Nikita think of sex. But this was just submission, without the kick, without the charge in the air. Never mind that Nikita preferred his subs to be people he respected. No respect for a common criminal.
“God, please don't kill me.”
“Stop whining.” Nikita stepped closer, now irritated at the jabbering. “Tell me everything. How did you meet Voronin?” He didn't call him Andrei Alexeyevich. Too personal, despite the fact that using the first name and patronymic was the polite form to address a Russian. Maybe, Nikita reflected, they'd all spent too much time in the West.
“He worked for Zaitsev, my boss. He was his lawyer.”
The past tense of those statements balled Nikita's fists. Liar, he wanted to shout, and punch Rochev, punch and kick him until he was flat on the ground, lifeless, beaten to a pulp rather than merely broken. Excessive force. Breaking his arm and kicking him in the balls could already be called excessive. Punching him in the face wasn't; he'd mainly done that to stun him into compliance.
“And?”
“Then he was attacked. It wasn't us! You have to believe….”
“Just the facts.”
“Please.”
“Don't piss me off.” Nikita stepped closer again, grabbed a handful of the man's dark suit at his neck, and pulled him up like a kitten to look at him. “Just tell me.”
“They shot him in his house in Monte Carlo. Zaitsev's enemies did.”
“Who?”
“Zaitsev thinks it was Shkadov. He's been messing with Zaitsev's
organization. We thought Voronin was dead, but he survived.”
Yeah, and you promised to protect him, Nikita. You promised him
he’d be safe. While you were too busy, they shot Andrei. “And then?”
“Then he vanished. Zaitsev tried to track him. Next thing we
know, he's in Paris. And they say he doesn't remember anything. That
a bullet went into his brain and wiped out his memory. Zaitsev doesn't
believe it. He thinks Voronin has sold out to the law or Shkadov. That
he wasn't shot, that he was tortured to tell everything. So he wants him
dead. Hires a guy who's watching Voronin to kill him. Next day,
Voronin gets shot on the street in Paris and is finally dead.”
Nikita held back the punch and instead released the man with a
hiss of distaste. Finally dead. That fucker was on thin ice and didn't
even know it. “Who fired the shot?”
The man hesitated. “A man called Christopher Gibson.”
“Who is he?”
“Freelancer. Hitman. As far as I know. Somebody tasked him to
watch over Voronin, but Zaitsev paid him five million American and he
shot him, sorting out the problem.”
The problem. One way to call it, Nikita thought. He'd call it
treason. Killing the man you were paid to protect because somebody
made a bigger offer? Worst kind of scum.
“Thank you for the information.” Nikita couldn't bring himself to
smile. In the last half hour, they had left the realm of pleasantries way
behind and had achieved a deeper understanding. He reached inside his
jacket.
“God, no, please don't kill me. I told you everything!”
Nikita paused as if to consider it. “Would you prefer to go to a
nice Siberian prison?”
“I've done nothing wrong….”
“Doesn't count.” Nikita bared his teeth. “You know what kind of
scumbag you're working for. You still do it.”
“God, I haven't….”
“Shut up.” Nikita straightened and pulled the gun, let it rest in his
hand, pointing at the cement floor. Clearly visible in Rochev's view.
“You did cooperate.”
“I will… cooperate more
. Please.”
“You'd betray Zaitsev?”
“I already did.”
“True.” Nikita let the silence drag on, forced his mind to focus on
the present rather than a future when a man called Christopher Gibson
would kneel in front of him, just like this. And Nikita would kill him.
“You will report to me. Every one of Zaitsev's meetings, every
movement he makes. You will give me a full list of his contacts.”
“Yes. Yes, I can do that. He trusts me.”
“More's the pity,” Nikita muttered. “I'll make sure that your
cooperation will be noted. Double cross me, and we will continue our
little talk here.”
JUST a little more. Do it. Push that bitch, Chris chanted silently with
each rep of the two hundred pound weight. Jaw clenched, breathing
precise and timed, he fought against his muscles' protest. He didn't
usually go this heavy unless he was stressed or bored. This week he'd
been both. Three more. Two. One. The weight hit the support with a
metallic clang, and Chris waited a moment before sitting upright on the
faux-leather padded bench.
“You done?” the spotter asked.
“Yeah. Thanks a lot.” Chris flashed a smile, keeping eye contact
with the stocky older guy he'd met in the locker room. “You need a
hand?”
The guy laughed, his gaze lingering. “I would if I didn't have a
train to catch. Another time perhaps? I'm here most evenings after
work.”
Chris nodded. “I'll be in town a few more days.” He stood and
extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Eric.”
“The pleasure was all mine.”
His attention fixed to the guy's tight ass as he left the gym, Chris
regretted that he'd put off getting here. Chariots was open all night, and
he counted on the most interesting crowd showing up later. Too bad he
hadn't given a thought to anyone interesting in the nine-to-five crowd
blowing off some steam.
The night was young, and the cruising room beckoned.
Chris took his time going from the shower area to the locker room.
The lime green and blue locker room. It was a gay hang-out but damn.
Lime green.
No matter. This place was a veritable gay buffet, and he'd
forgotten how much he missed scoping out the local talent. There was
something oddly attractive about these Brit boys. Hell, there was
something generally hot about all European men for that matter.
It was one of the things that drew him to GORGON, that and the
fact the international spy agency paid top dollar for a man with his
skills. Just looking at the prices in London, he was glad for his salary.
Granted, his pad in Montreaux wasn't exactly cheap, either—the Swiss
took from the living and weren't above fleecing corpses, in his
experience.
London, worn-down, dirty, stinky, crowded London, was much
different from squeaky-clean Montreaux. Seedy in all the right places,
faded and frayed like an old queen—and not the kind that got
crowned—too much makeup, but at the same time relaxed, like it didn't
even have to try. Then of course, the breath of history, and the accent of
the local population.
Britain was one of the countries where he preferred the men to the
women. In Poland, it was the other way around. The Polish ladies were
stunning, the men nothing to look at. In Britain, all the women looked
the same. Unsettling. If one of the women's mags started a new fashion,
within days all the women looked exactly the same. And right now, the
eighties were back with a vengeance. No legs, regardless how toned,
should be squeezed into tight, metallic-colored tights. No ass, however
tight and pretty, should be exposed like that. Fact was, though, not
nearly enough of the women were toned enough to have even a hope of
pulling that look off.
He noticed a man watching him and paused, his eyes narrowing.
European but not a Brit. There was something about the man that
reminded him of one of his partners. Russian? Possibly. His facial
structure was reminiscent of Andrei's, and those sharp gray eyes were
cold as a Siberian hell. He was a weightlifter, definitely, but not one
obsessed with mass for mass' sake. Chris didn't doubt this guy lifted
for the same reasons he did—partly for the strength but mostly to see
how much punishment his body could take. His eyes had a pronounced
love of pain lurking within.
Chris finished buttoning his white silk shirt. “How's it going?”
“It goes.” The guy gave him a lingering look and continued past
to the door.
Chris grabbed his leather blazer, threw it on, and ran his fingers
through his damp hair. There was no sense playing too coy, not in a
club like this, and Chris followed the supposed Russian into the lounge
and ordered a beer. He took a sip at the bar and then sauntered over to
lean against one of the square pillars next to the leather banquette sofa
the Russian had chosen.
They both drew enough glances that Chris was reasonably sure he
could arrange a three- or foursome if he wanted. But it might be good
to only have one partner. As much as he got off on his regular
threesome, by now a twosome was really the more exotic option.
“Do you come here often?”
The other man more turned his head than shook it. “First time.”
But certainly not a virgin. He was around Chris's age and didn't
look nervous in the least. “You here on business?”
“You could say that.”
“Then I do.” Chris met and held the other's gaze and enjoyed the
fact the man didn't look away, didn't break the contact. There was
interest, despite the stony, unaffected exterior. Very different from
Andrei, who was easily lured out and evaded only with irony. “I'm
Chris.”
“Nikita.”
Russian. Weird that he had a broad's name, but hell, as long as
Chris remembered not to laugh when he called him that during sex, it
was cool.
“What brings you to London?”
The Russian's stare was aloof yet hit him dead center in the balls.
He had a slow sip of his vodka. “I could tell you but would then be
compelled to kill you.”
“Of course you would.” Chris took a long swig of his beer. “I'm
doing a good deed for a friend. I have the loan of his place while I'm
here.”
Nikita tossed back the rest of his drink, set the empty glass on a
nearby table. “What makes you think I'm looking for an invitation?”
Chris shrugged. “Didn't issue one. I'm just making small talk.”
“Indeed.” The Russian leaned forward a bit, his body language
less unaffected than his face.
He'd have a good shot at the Russian Poker Championship, Chris
thought, and laughed inwardly at the idea. Guy like that shouldn't be
called “Nikita.” “Nikita” was a cute name, a woman's name, La Femme
Nikita, after all. And that horrible Elton John video. Bruiser boy like
this looked like some kind of bodyguard, m
aybe. There were many
wealthy Russians in London that needed a lot of muscle to feel secure.
Andrei, after all, had worked for one of those.
He still relished a challenge. That tough guy exterior could hide
just about anything.
“I'm a fair bit more than you can handle.”
“Maybe I'm a size queen.”
The Russian huffed. “That too.”
Chris smirked and folded his arms. “For the record, I've yet to
meet a situation I couldn't deal with.”
Nikita chuckled and waved off the waiter who asked if he wanted
another drink. “You Americans never cease to amuse me with your
bravado.”
“And you Russians are so predictable in your megalomania.”
“Are we? You have vast experience with us?”
Chris shrugged. “I've been around the world a few times and I
always take time to observe.”
Nikita stood, adjusting his posture in an attempt to look more
formidable. Fucking Russians. He wasn't much taller than Chris
himself, though he had a bit of a weight advantage.
“I'm in the mood to observe things from a different perspective.”
Then he was a virgin. Interesting. “What do you have in mind?”
“You said you have a place. I would like a little privacy.”
“You and me both.” Chris grinned and left his beer behind.
Seemed the Russian was ready to change lanes sexually but not ready
to be observed doing that. He probably had a boss who stood on his
toes. Or as Andrei had put it once, “Don't forget the sexual revolution
never happened in Russia.” It made Russian men very concerned about
their masculinity when cruising, and Chris found that strangely
endearing.
“Do you have a car?”
“I got here by train,” the Russian responded, but he followed him
outside.
“Well, then we take mine.” Chris picked up the rented BMW
from a garage nearby, set up the navigator, and followed the
computerized voice to Andrei's house in Sevenoaks, deep in London's
stockbroker belt. Andrei had a small flat in the center, too, but Chris
preferred the bigger house. A huge, faux-medieval Victorian building
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