First Blood

by Aleksandr Voinov

  he felt a strange ache inside.

  Not wanting to dwell on it, he slipped out of bed and washed his

  hands. When he returned, John and Andrei welcomed him home with

  an incredible tandem blow job.

  He was numb by the time they'd finished, hardly aware that his

  bandage had come loose.

  John gasped when he saw the many little cuts. “How the fuck did

  this happen?”

  Chris nudged his hand away. “It's a long story. Nothing

  important.”

  “It looks like… writing?”

  “No. That's crazy.”

  Andrei switched on one of the bedside lamps. Chris squinted

  against the glare.

  “It's Cyrillic. They are words.”

  Chris raised up on his elbows. “No shit.”

  Andrei nodded, something odd in his eyes.

  “What does it say?”

  Andrei hesitated, glanced to John, whose expression took on a

  worried cast.

  “What. Does. It. Say.”

  Andrei hesitated further. “Basically, it means, This is mine.”

  “Fuck.” Chris got off the bed, not sure whether he'd sleep on the

  couch or grab the next plane to Heathrow and then shoot Nikita.

  He’s the best. He heard Katya's voice again and thought of that

  expression in her eyes. Fuck. He wasn't headed the same way. He

  wouldn't turn into anybody's fucking doormat.

  Do you object?

  No.

  And that was the problem, wasn't it? There was no comfort zone

  with Nikita, no safety net, no failsafe. The man was a booby trap, a

  fucking landmine disguised as a human being.

  “It was that Russian? This… Nikita? Are you fucking crazy,

  Chris?” John asked, British accent clipped and angry. So precise. “You

  did go out and meet him again? Knowing full well he's one of the guys

  who tried to kill Andrei?”

  “That's guesswork. We don't know that. Besides, Nikita is too

  keen on Andrei's ass to want to kill him.”

  “Hey, I'm in the same room,” Andrei said.

  A three-way fight was the last thing Chris was now in the mood

  for. “And besides, he came to me that night.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He figures I killed Andrei. I keep feeding him the party line.

  He'll get sick of it eventually.” Chris pulled off the bandage, irritated

  that those little words had given it all away. “And I'm okay, thanks for

  asking.”

  He headed down the stairs to get some food, uncomfortable at

  how John's gaze followed him. Don't you dare drive me into a corner,

  he thought as he began to rummage around the refrigerator. When he

  set down the rest of the fruit salad from the evening meal at the kitchen

  table, it wasn't John who stood there, but Andrei.

  “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” Andrei switched the water kettle on. British and

  Russian response to stress. Have a cuppa tea first. “You said he knows

  me?”

  “Yeah. He kept asking what our relationship was like. I told him

  you hired me as a bodyguard after we met in hospital. Then I betrayed

  you and shot you. It leaves out all the stuff about GORGON.”

  “So you risked the wrath of some Russian avenger on my behalf?”

  Andrei asked, and he prepared two mugs for tea.

  “He seemed to know a fair bit of that when he came to me. He

  definitely had some kind of working hypothesis. And I'm okay with

  taking one for the team.”

  Andrei grinned at the pun and poured hot water over the teabags.

  “Do you have photos?”

  “Yeah.” It might jog Andrei's memory, but almost nothing did.

  He had the occasional flash of déjà vu, but GORGON's doctors had

  declared his memory loss pretty much permanent. It wasn't likely that

  anything would come back now.

  Chris went to get the laptop. Andrei stood behind him, hand

  resting on Chris's shoulder while he peered at the screen. A double-

  click opened one of the “decent” images. Nikita was mostly dressed in

  that one, and full frontal.

  “Rings any bells?”

  “I think I know him, but I don't know from where.”

  “Good or bad feelings?”

  Andrei paused. “Both, I think.”

  Chris closed the window. “Well, he seemed to have quite a bit of

  unrequited lust for you, my man.”

  Andrei sat across from him at the table. “The feeling wasn't

  mutual, that much I'm sure of.”

  “Why?”

  “I don't like the look of him. Add in what he did to you, to

  callously mark that on anyone, mark anything on another person….”

  He left the rest unsaid, allowing a tense silence to descend

  between them. Still, Chris had no trouble filling in the blanks.

  Who in their right mind would want to be treated that way?

  Who, indeed.

  Chris pushed his half-eaten salad away and stood. “I'm going

  down to the gym. Go get some sleep.”

  Andrei stood, tried to reach out. “Chris—”

  “Goodnight.”

  HE PUMPED iron until his muscles ached, wanting him to stop, and yet

  he pressed on. With each rep he tried to make sense of this insanity that

  gripped him, only to come up short.

  Back in the condo, alone in the shower of the guest room

  bathroom, it almost made sense.

  This is mine.

  Maybe that was it. The possession, the belonging. An only child,

  an Army brat, he'd been moved from base to base like clockwork until

  his mother couldn't take it anymore and split. Real smart move, that.

  From bad boyfriend to worse boyfriend she went, dragging him along

  on her downward spiral until Children's Services put him with a foster

  family whose time and patience was stretched to the limit.

  They were good people. They tried to give, but with their own

  kids and a handful of fosters, they could only give so much. The ROTC

  visitor at sophomore year career day came just as Chris was exploring

  his fluid sexuality. The good-looking sergeant never overstepped his

  bounds, but he did befriend Chris and steered him into an ROTC

  scholarship and a stint in the military. He met up with his dad in

  Germany.

  The old man was none too happy to see his only son go beyond

  being a mere non-com, and with the fact that Chris looked enough like

  his mother to dredge up the painful past, they never really connected,

  and the military began to lose its charm.

  GORGON provided much-needed stability as well as an ample

  paycheck and the honing of his sniper skills. It also provided John

  Soong, a very calming, stable influence in a sea of too many partners,

  too much adrenaline, too many hits taken on.

  But then came Andrei Voronin, another lost soul in need of a

  permanent place. Whatever he'd been before, he was a good man now,

  a decent, dependable man. But even coupled with John, Chris now

  knew that stability wasn't all he was lacking in life.

  He needed the rush of danger, the threat that life hung in the

  balance, and GORGON could only go so far in providing that.

  “Fucking pro
cedures,” Chris muttered, turning his face up to

  cascading water.

  Nikita was all danger, no sanity. He felt like the mad rush of the

  first job, and he certainly didn't seem to have any issues with the fact

  that Chris killed people. He only had issues that he'd killed Andrei.

  Of all people, a criminal, possibly a slave trader. God fucking

  damn it. While his morals were as fluid as his sexuality, he couldn't go

  that far. In a world full of grays, he could still tell black when he saw it.

  And that kind of shit was pitch black.

  He finished the shower, topped it all off with an electrolyte drink,

  brushed his teeth, and went to sleep in the guest room. He didn't want

  John's accusatory looks, he didn't even want Andrei understanding and

  rationalizing things. Fucking lawyer… that was how the profession

  worked: analyze and break any situation down into important facts.

  Comparing that to Nikita's bad boy appeal, he knew who came out on

  top. Same guy that always came out on top, by the looks of him.

  Chapter 6

  “HELLO, Andrei Alexeyevich.” Nikita sat down on the bench facing

  the Thames. The lawyer coughed into the chicken sandwich he’d picked

  up from Pret a Manger opposite the office.

  Small coughing fit aside, Voronin shifted slightly to the far end of

  the bench, even though Nikita hadn’t even begun invading the man’s

  personal space.

  “Napkin?” He offered from the lawyer’s plastic bag.

  “Who… are you? What do you want?” Voronin regarded him

  with distaste from head to toe, as if a tramp was asking him for change.

  “Enjoying the early spring sun. Like you.” Nikita leaned back,

  arms on the rear of the bench. “It’s good to be alive, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.” Voronin dropped his sandwich into the carton, as if

  suddenly queasy. He picked up his paper coffee cup. “Well, have a

  good day.”

  “Unlike this poor devil.” Nikita reached into his pocket and

  dropped a photograph on the bench. “Know him?”

  “What? No!”

  “You haven’t read the news of the suspected gangland killing of

  this lawyer? I thought people like you kept an eye on others of your

  kind.”

  “What… that’s… him?”

  “Yeah. I guess the newspapers didn’t get these.” Nikita studied

  the semi-naked body with all the bullet holes. He’d chosen the best

  photo. Where they showed the fact the corpse was missing the

  fingernails on both hands. “I do think that was excessive. He probably

  talked even before they did this. Leaves revenge rather than

  interrogation. Of course, it doesn’t show he was raped with a broom

  handle, too. I think I have another photo….”

  Voronin stared at him like he was a lunatic escaped from Arkham

  Asylum.

  “What do you want?”

  “I thought you might want to know what happened to your

  predecessor.” Nikita lifted an eyebrow.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Voronin snatched the

  remainder of his lunch and turned to leave.

  “Ah, but Andrei Alexeyevich. Even your six-figure basic salary

  and generous bonus package isn’t enough to buy all those expensive

  cars recently. Some very marked changes in behavior. I’m always

  interested in such drastic changes. You party like there’s no tomorrow.

  Because there simply might not be. You’re a very rational man. It’s sad

  to see you go off the rails, but under that kind of pressure… who

  wouldn’t?”

  Andrei paused. “Who are you?”

  “Nikita Kazakov. I’m here to make you an offer of my protection.

  Why don’t you invite me to your office, where we can talk in private?”

  The lawyer had listened to the proposal, growing paler by the

  minute until Nikita feared he might faint or spew up that half-eaten

  lunch of his. Neither were attractive outcomes.

  Nikita rose from the leather chair and walked to the wide office

  window. He peered at the wide sluggish river through the vertical

  blinds and cracked his knuckles before turning to face the anxious

  lawyer. “That concludes my offer. All that’s needed is your acceptance.”

  Voronin scrubbed his face with his hands. Under normal

  circumstances he was a handsome man, presented himself with an air

  of confidence so sadly lacking at this moment.

  “Since we’ve just met, I’ll do you the courtesy of letting you know

  I never make a business proposal twice.”

  “I… can’t.” Voronin stared at him, ducked as if expecting to be

  hit. “You’ve… seen what these men do. I can’t sell a client. I just… I

  just can’t.”

  “I know where you live, Andrei. I know enough about you.”

  “Did you kill… did you do that?”

  Nikita walked back to the desk. Voronin cringed away from him.

  For a moment Nikita thought he’d used too much force against the

  lawyer’s ego. Shattered rather than broken him. Not necessarily

  counterproductive, as he well knew.

  “I need, I need to think about this, I can’t just make a snap

  decision like that….”

  “Maybe if I show you more photos?”

  “No!” Voronin jumped up but stood frozen in place. “I can’t

  decide this.”

  “You can. And you have. You’re scared. You’re looking for

  protection. I’m the best bet you have.” He reached slowly out, saw the

  wide eyes, that terrified, pale expression, and closed his hand around

  the man’s shoulder, stepping slowly closer.

  To his surprise, Andrei lurched forward and suddenly clung to

  him, shoulders shaking. His aftershave smelled like moss and leather

  and wood. Nikita paused a moment and then placed an arm around

  Voronin, who shook in his half-embrace like a man condemned to die.

  He abhorred weakness, especially in men, and yet something

  about Voronin’s emotional collapse tempered his disgust. “Stop this at

  once.” The phrase was clipped, but the tone was soft, more a strong

  suggestion than a direct order. “Get hold of yourself and do it quickly.

  Think with that rational lawyer’s mind of yours, Andrei Alexeyevich.

  You know I tell the truth. Circumstance has chosen your course. You

  will follow it to the best of your abilities and leave the rest to me.”

  Voronin pulled back, took several deep breaths to compose

  himself, then nodded, the look in his eyes resigned. He was undoubtedly

  relieved the decision had been made for him. What an interesting

  subject, so willing to follow a strong leader. So many possibilities in

  that.

  Nikita straightened Voronin’s tie, brushed the wrinkles from the

  shoulders of his jacket, and swept the loose strands of hair back from

  his sweat-dampened face.

  “What—what do I do now?”

  “Now, you will continue as you did, but you will get yourself back

  under control. Get back to how you were. You cannot appear as a

  liability to them, or they will replace you. And you’ve seen what that

  means.” Nikita kept his gaze lock
ed on Voronin. “Meanwhile, you will

  give me the full set of data, the whole file. Everything you work on for

  Zaitsev. The more complete this is, the sooner you’ll be rid of him.”

  “And if they ever suspect….”

  “No. I will be there to protect you. I’m protecting my sources.

  You don’t have to worry. Nobody in my care has ever died, do you

  understand?”

  “And if I… have to reach you?”

  “Here.” Nikita noted his phone number on a card. “Call me

  whenever. E-mail me the files, do it today, or I’ll meet you tomorrow

  for lunch.”

  “Lunch. Tomorrow. I know a place.”

  And so they’d met, and Voronin turned over an incredible amount

  of data, all neatly categorized and filed onto a USB drive. He handed

  the drive over immediately and seemed to relax once the data left his

  possession. He was affable during their shared meal, charming even.

  Attractive, definitely, and it stirred things inside Nikita he never much

  liked to dwell on.

  “BUT that was then. This is now,” Nikita whispered before tossing the

  surveillance photo of Voronin into the large glass ashtray in the run-

  down rented flat in East Berlin that served as his current base of

  operations.

  Stirring tempered desires was the last thing he planned to do for

  the foreseeable future. Work was a priority, and crushing Zaitsev was

  as much a job as it was a private quest for vengeance. He'd never failed

  at fulfilling his objective, whatever it had cost him.

  He'd simply not expected anybody to try to kill Voronin while on

  holiday. It seemed absurd to be shot in Monaco. And his own resources

  had been spread too thin—he'd not expected an attack on Voronin,

  because his sources in Zaitsev's inner circle didn't mention the lawyer

  falling out of favor.

  As far as assassination attempts went, this came out of the blue,

  and he thought he should still have known. Should have anticipated.

  Maybe read it in a fucking crystal ball. The lawyer didn't deserve to die

  for what he'd done—or for the people that were his clients.

  Even not approaching law enforcement was forgivable. Nikita

  wasn't particularly impressed with the Brits' willingness to tackle

  imported crime. They seemed to think if perps didn't speak English as

  their first language, paid their taxes, and killed only their own kind, it