First Blood

by Aleksandr Voinov

  outside he fished the keys from his pocket and tossed them over his

  shoulder, smiling again at the clinking sound that signaled the mid-air

  catch. He appreciated quick reflexes.

  Chris passed him, turned and walked backward. “It's been a real

  fun evening. Toodles.” He offered an effeminate finger wave and

  turned to face forward. He tossed his keys up and caught them,

  quickened his pace and began whistling a sprightly tune.

  “Was the money so important?”

  Chris froze, the key in the door lock yet unturned. He looked up.

  “Money is always important. I thought your side was all about

  capitalism these days.”

  “Financial gain overrides loyalty for you lot. It always has.”

  Chris shook his head. “You're a fine one to talk loyalty. Voronin

  was one of you, yet you guys wanted him dead anyway. I finished what

  you couldn't. I deserved the cash.”

  Nikita didn't correct the wrong assumption in that statement.

  “You were hired to protect him. That is the difference.”

  Chris stared at him, and Nikita could feel every steel edge in the

  American. He had many of those, as flippant and laidback as he

  appeared. All that was an act. Chris Gibson was one hundred fifty

  percent predator. A loose gun, somebody who changed sides at the drop

  of a hat. It wouldn't have taken five million dollars to pay him. He'd

  have done it for less, but Nikita assumed that Zaitsev had been

  impatient and unwilling to negotiate.

  “Who hired you?” Nikita asked. “He didn't have that kind of

  contacts.”

  “Maybe I met him in the hospital while he got sorted out? Might

  have hurt myself working out. We had a chat.”

  Possibly. Although the very fact that Gibson was so forthcoming

  with the information made it seem unlikely. Gibson, like most, would

  only admit to things like that after his kneecaps had exploded under the

  measured application of a baseball bat.

  Then again, he just might be the type to take his truths to the

  grave. A rare quality, and one not often seen, never seen in a typical

  Westerner, and yet….

  Nikita moved forward until his leg brushed the bumper of the car.

  He could shoot his arm out and deliver a fatal blow. He probably

  should, but Chris Gibson was too prize a catch to dispose of so quickly.

  “Zaitsev,” he said quietly, the name almost a hiss under his breath.

  “Zaitsev hired you.”

  Chris shrugged. “Didn't quite catch his name in conversation, and

  I don't take personal checks so I'm not a hundred percent on who

  wanted Voronin dead.” He paused, his stance set, braced for conflict,

  his gaze steady, unreadable. “One shot was all it took. He was gone like

  that.” He emphasized the last word with a quick finger snap. “One of

  the best hits I ever made.”

  Nikita clenched his fists. His jaw ached from the strain of gritting

  his teeth.

  Gibson turned the key in the car door lock. “Here's a question for

  you—why do you have such a hard-on over this? You know how this

  business is, don't bullshit me that you don't. What was Voronin to you?”

  He partially opened the door, kept one hand poised on the roof, the

  other on the top of the opened door. “Maybe the question should be—

  what wasn't he to you?”

  Nikita kept his face in a studied mask when all he wanted was to

  grab that baseball bat and break every bone in Chris's body. Hit the

  joints first, shatter his knees and elbows, shoulders, then continue with

  the large bones. Shins, arms, collarbones. He wanted to break every

  bone into such small pieces that they'd bury Chris Gibson in a bottle

  rather than a box.

  “You wanted to fuck his ass, right? You looked at his lips and

  wondered what they'd look like around your thick cock.” It was a

  statement more than teasing. “But you didn't, and now you can't. And

  that's driving you a little batty.”

  Chris gave him a long look and then sat down in the car, pulled

  the door shut with a soft sound. He didn't start the engine immediately,

  as if to wait for Nikita's reaction, but Nikita was just breathing, trying

  hard to get himself back under control. He stepped away when Gibson

  finally started the car and backed out of the parking space.

  Chapter 3

  CHRIS couldn't sleep, so he wandered around Andrei's house. He'd

  just given it a cursory tour when he'd arrived a couple days ago,

  checking it from a security angle (nowhere near as safe as Andrei's

  lodge in Monte Carlo, and that was the place where he'd been shot).

  He did like the large marble Jacuzzi in the winter garden, the

  kidney-shaped, illuminated, heated pool in the garden that, right now,

  cast a soothing blue light into the representative living room furnished

  extensively with expensive silken Persian carpets and antique wooden

  furniture.

  There was a log cabin in the garden that had been converted to a

  gym and a sauna. Russians and their saunas. He could imagine Andrei

  there, covered in sweat, buck naked, thinking about whatever lawyers

  thought about while sweat beaded and rolled off him. He could imagine

  Nikita like that, too, come to think of it, only he had no idea what the

  man looked like when he actually relaxed. Being that tense as an

  assassin had to be a bitch. Tension was harder to maintain than

  relaxation.

  Every martial artist worth his salt was completely relaxed before

  a fight. Locking up joints and tiring muscles with tension only made for

  a terrible performance. And the guy clearly had anger management

  issues. Bad childhood? Chris chuckled to himself. Imagining Nikita as

  a kid was nearly impossible. And very unsexy. No, in his mind, Bruiser

  Boy had always looked like that.

  And why was he thinking of him still?

  Sounds like you’re in love.

  Chris snorted. Yeah, right. Just because he got hard when he

  thought of Nikita didn't make it love—or he'd nearly achieved the

  Christian ideal of loving just about everybody as long as they were

  attractive.

  However, the little show at the club had piqued his interest. He

  wanted to find that woman and ask her about Nikita. A “pet” had to

  know something about her master, right?

  He pushed the thought back. Deranged. He wouldn't go off

  stalking this guy. He'd just ask for more pain. Maybe the bear? He had

  some professional rivalry going on with Nikita, hadn't he? Well. As

  professional as that dominance gig was. No doubt Nikita wasn't just

  that. That was just how he rolled sexually. Fuck. This didn't actually

  get him anywhere. He was pretty sure he could find that club again, if

  that was a regular hangout… fuck.

  Chris groaned to himself. Three-thirty in the morning, dawn just a

  couple hours away, and he couldn't turn anywhere without thinking of

  Nikita. He should be missing his partners, and he did, but his body was

  obsessing over Nikita. What the hell was he, anyway?

  They'd never pieced togethe
r the entire puzzle. Andrei had helped

  Zaitsev with his tax evasion scheme, hidden the money from Russian

  authorities, who weren't exactly pleased about it. Then somebody had

  attempted to kill Andrei. That faction was a complete mystery.

  GORGON had identified the bodies—hired muscle, no hint as to who

  had sent them. They could have been Zaitsev's men, or hired by any of

  Zaitsev's business rivals who'd tried to disrupt Zaitsev's operations.

  Killing the lawyer who ran the offshore companies and bank accounts

  was a pain in the ass, no doubt, and it sent a message.

  When the hit hadn't worked, Zaitsev had tried to finish it, but

  Chris didn't think he was behind the original attempt. What, then, had

  changed in the meantime that Zaitsev had wanted his own lawyer dead?

  Maybe he'd thought that Andrei would sell him out. Or had already

  sold him? To whom?

  Maybe a third party?

  Zaitsev had no clue that Andrei hadn't been saved by his enemies.

  Zaitsev didn't know he was now with GORGON, so he might have

  assumed that Chris now worked for a third party—one of his rivals. Or

  maybe just about anybody who wouldn't mind spitting into his broth.

  So he tried to have Andrei killed to tie that loose end.

  Then how did Nikita fit into this? Chris didn't think he worked

  for Zaitsev. That talk about loyalty? Didn't fit. If he worked for Zaitsev,

  and Zaitsev wanted Andrei dead, then Nikita shouldn't mind the fact

  that Andrei was dead. Well, officially, and for all Nikita knew.

  So the very fact that Nikita had showed up meant that there was a

  third party taking a keen interest. And, Chris thought, they'd likely sent

  their very best to look into matters. And they assumed he knew. Well.

  He'd made it clear that he'd been just a hired gun. He'd rather shoot

  himself than sell Andrei to those Russian fuckers.

  Still. He wanted to know how Nikita had tracked him.

  Somewhere in the chain, some bird had sung, and Nikita was piecing

  the whole story together. A methodical, inquisitive mind. Getting Chris

  to cruise him, then taking him to a private place to continue the

  questioning. The fact that Nikita persisted told him he wasn't satisfied.

  Not with the answers, and not with just one fuck.

  John was right. He should report the whole episode to GORGON

  headquarters, pack up Andrei's shit here, and get the hell out of Dodge,

  Hackney, and the wider London/Kent area.

  He finished his vodka—lukewarm by now, while Chris preferred

  it ice cold, like Andrei drank it. He grimaced against the oily burn and

  dropped the glass off in the kitchen. All brushed designer steel, stylish

  kitchen island, the kind of kitchen that cost almost as much as the silver

  Jag in the double-sized garage.

  He'd bet a year's salary that Andrei had actually never cooked in

  here, despite the fact this thing had a special sliding drawer to keep

  fresh herbs in. Like Andrei had handed over a bag of cash to an interior

  designer and told him “Do whatever you'd put in yourself. I don't give

  a fuck.” And that was exactly what had happened.

  Chris fished a bottle of water from the bottom rack in the

  enormous American-sized fridge and padded upstairs to the bedroom,

  where he slid under the duvet and dimmed the light to off.

  Lost in a semi-sleep state, he became aware of a body but didn't

  think much of it. Might just have been John or Andrei heading off to

  the bathroom. He dug his face into the pillow and then felt something

  heavy between his legs, fingers between his cheeks, warm and strong,

  slippery.

  Chris grinned into the pillows. He curved his spine a little, spread

  his legs, offering. He was languid, passive as he came more awake, but

  he enjoyed where this was going. Andrei sometimes did that when he

  got horny at night. They invariably woke John up when they fucked

  like that. A body lowered down on him, something pressed hot against

  his ass. Cock. Chris gave a small moan when the head slid in,

  breaching him, slowly, tenderly. John? John was more controlled than

  Andrei.

  He opened further, wanted more and all of it. The body on top

  supported himself near his head but brushed him full-length, no doubt

  making an obscene picture in the mirror on the wall. That was the

  kinkiest thing in this house—a mirror that allowed Andrei to watch

  himself fuck. Chris turned his head but found his view blocked by the

  pillow, and it wasn't really all that important because that big cock slid

  deeper into him, hitting his prostate now, and Chris felt himself tighten

  up a little at that pleasant shock. God, yeah. Best way in the world to

  wake up. Second best, maybe, but it was a close race with a blowjob

  from both John and Andrei.

  Wait.

  John and Andrei weren't here.

  Rational thought became harder with each slow thrust of the thick

  cock in his ass.

  So nice….

  Not John or Andrei. No one else knew he was here. Almost no

  one else.

  Oh. That in-stroke was harder, hit the sweet spot and sent a shock

  through him.

  His own dick rubbed the soft Egyptian cotton sheets with each

  movement.

  Use the big head now, Skippy.

  He moved his arm, fingers beneath the edge of the down-filled

  pillow. “Care to guess the odds of my having a gun handy?”

  The expected snort of contempt suggested who the intruder was.

  The accented voice confirmed it.

  “Doesn't matter.”

  Nikita pulled his cock out, straddled Chris's lower back, his balls

  hot and heavy on Chris's flesh.

  Chris caught a glimpse of the short military knife an instant

  before the serrated top edge pressed against the skin over his inner

  elbow.

  “So many important things in this area, ligaments, tendons,

  muscles, of course. Severing any one of them is an inconvenience;

  severing them all renders you obsolete.”

  The Russian turned, the blade nicked his skin. “You won't make

  me cripple you, will you?”

  “Let's not be hasty. You can put the knife away and fuck me first,

  then I'll decide.”

  “The knife stays in my hand, but I'll fuck you anyway.”

  “I suppose that could work.”

  Nikita laughed—a low, arrogant, thoroughly evil laugh—and

  Chris felt his cock leak in anticipation.

  He had no fear Nikita would kill him, not yet. He wanted more

  answers on Andrei. Did his gut tell him his crush was still alive? If so,

  Chris would convince him otherwise. His thoughts skidded to a halt

  when Nikita leaned down, lips skimming his shoulder, tongue snaking

  out to swirl in a lazy circle over his shoulder blade, then back up.

  “Fuck!” Chris cried when Nikita bit.

  Nikita laughed that wicked laugh and shifted to kneel beside him.

  “On your back.”

  Chris turned over, his attention going to the knife. He wouldn't

  put it past the fucker to castrate him over some transferred disgust of

  his own latent urges.
To his surprise, Nikita placed the knife in its

  leather sheath, though he still held it in his hand.

  “The woman cried the first time I pricked her, but she grew to

  like it. She came to beg for it.”

  “Women are fickle that way. I know this shit. I'm bi.”

  “You shield yourself with that sharp tongue, but the uncertainty is

  nonetheless there.” Nikita placed the tip of the sheathed blade at the

  base of Chris's throat. He drew the knife slowly down from throat to

  the base of Chris's cock, ran the tip of the sheath in a semi-circle.

  “That a threat? You planning to slice it off?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Chris closed his eyes, ran through his options for attack, balanced

  them against likely injury.

  At least he did until Nikita slid the knife down and under, turned

  it so the side of the blade was facing up, and lifted Chris's softening

  cock.

  “How close were you to him?”

  “I'm still close to him.” Chris patted his dick. “Mr. Johnson and I

  go way back. Please don't tear us apart.”

  A flick of the wrist was all it took for Nikita to unsheathe the

  blade and hold it to Chris's throat.

  “Stop your games.”

  “If you mean Voronin, we were friendly. You ever been a

  bodyguard? You know how it is.”

  “Yes.”

  He drew the word into a hiss, lifted the knife and nicked Chris's

  chin while his free hand stroked over Chris's cock, bringing it back to

  life. “You'll ride me like a whore.”

  “You really know how to seduce a guy.”

  Nikita squeezed his balls. Chris gritted his teeth against the pain

  but refused to cry out. “You want to. I want you to.” He punctuated the

  words with quick touches of the knife tip along Chris's abdomen,

  leaving pinpricks along the way.

  Chris looked down, watching the beads of blood form over each

  tiny cut. His balls tightened, his cock throbbed. God help him, he was

  liking the burning kiss of that steel on his skin.

  Nikita lay on his back, felt around for the lube he'd dropped on

  the bed, and coated his stiff dick. “Get on.”

  Chris knew he should make his move, go into attack mode, but

  fuck it all to hell, he wanted to ride that thick pole. He straddled the

  Russian's hips, reached under himself to guide Nikita's cock into

  position and then slid down, working his inner muscles along the way.