First Blood

by Aleksandr Voinov

  rifles, flak vests, assorted spy stuff.

  “GORGON doesn't have an armory?” Nikita asked.

  “You're too concerned about things you should know nothing

  about,” somebody said from the door. It was the Asian guy, Chris's

  teammate, ex-lover.

  “Hey John. What do you think, is Nikita a Beretta kinda guy or

  maybe a Colt 1911?”

  “What about Sig Sauer?” John leaned against the wall, and Nikita

  could feel his hostility despite the blank face.

  “Where's Andrei?”

  “Picking up some food and paperwork.”

  “Is Stefan coming?”

  John shook his head. “He's at HQ.”

  “Good. He's a pain in the ass I don't need.”

  John shrugged and glanced pointedly at Nikita. “Mr. Kazakov,

  this is a cooperation at the highest level, but you're not privy to the

  internal workings of our side. In fact, Chris here is directly responsible

  for any of your actions. He's gathered a few black marks because of

  you already, so you should be as cooperative and as unobtrusive as you

  possibly can.”

  “I'm a team player,” Nikita said, calming himself down with the

  thought that John was most likely simply jealous. Rubbing in policies

  and more-secret-than-thou bullshit meant the man was engaging him on

  terms of hierarchy. And Nikita, right now, had the weapon at his

  disposal that stood him in good stead in Moscow law enforcement:

  yawning indifference. “Will I be briefed too?”

  “Strictly on a need-to-know basis. And I don't particularly feel

  you need to know a bloody thing.”

  “You're acting team leader, I gather.”

  “You gather correctly, Mr. Kazakov.” The tone said, “And I hate

  your guts.”

  “Which is to say it's his ass if I step over the line anymore,” Chris

  announced. “John can be very protective.”

  “I gather that.” Nikita stepped to the side to study the weapons.

  His Makarov was fine, but it was also his official weapon and could be

  traced. And he tried not to travel with too much hardware while he had

  to use planes and didn't always have access to a Russian diplomatic

  pouch or the embassy network to get some vital gear in and out.

  The gleam of gold caught his eye, and he gave Chris a long look.

  “Tell me you've never actually used this.”

  “Hell no, never would, not unless I felt a drag queen moment

  coming on.” Chris picked up the big gold-plated Magnum and took aim

  at an imaginary target in the rear of the storage closet. Shaking his head,

  he replaced it in its spot. “It was a gift. Long story. Don't ask.”

  Nikita smirked and looked over the arsenal once more,

  considering a stainless steel .45 caliber with a wooden grip but

  bypassing it for a less flashy Beretta similar to Chris's own.

  “Awww, aren't you a sweetheart,” Chris said with a grin. He

  grabbed a box of ammunition and pocketed it. “Let's hit the firing

  range so you can get the feel for my baby.”

  In the underground parking garage, Chris unlocked the black

  BMW and slid behind the wheel. He pulled out his cell phone and

  brought up a Google page. “The day's still young, and we can hit any

  number of ranges. Which one, which one….”

  He turned his head and flashed a grin at Nikita, who felt the

  man's sexual power down to his balls. “The closest?” he offered.

  “Nah. The least crowded this time of day.” Chris winked.

  “Blasting shit makes me horny, and I just might want to do you at some

  point.” He laughed and turned the key in the ignition, hitting the play

  button on the high-end car stereo as he backed out of the parking slot.

  IT TOOK a few rounds for Nikita to get accustomed to firing the new

  weapon, but he was up to his usual accuracy in no time at all, matching

  Chris bull's-eye for bull's-eye. While he couldn't say that generally

  “blasting shit” made him hard, shooting with Chris Gibson certainly

  did. The man was very hot indeed with that single-minded intensity.

  The way concentration tightened his jaw, straightened that strong back

  and narrowed those brown eyes. The man was far too appealing for his

  own—or anyone else's—good.

  They did indulge in a bit of mutual masturbation in the men's

  room prior to leaving the shooting range, more a quick release than

  anything, a way to take off the edge and give more time to build the

  anticipation that grew stronger between them with each passing hour.

  Chris Gibson was a complication to his simple life he hadn't seen

  coming. He felt increasingly unsure of how to deal with this, the

  unusual tug upon something inside as certain things replayed

  themselves in his mind. Their first encounter, the impulse to stake his

  claim upon Gibson's flesh.

  “Do it again.”

  “Cut you?”

  “The way you did. The exact same thing.”

  This is mine.

  On the drive back to the condo in Montreaux, Nikita reclined his

  seat, closed his eyes, and lost himself in the pounding rhythm of

  American music, leaving the thinking and the decision making for

  another time and place.

  But the relaxation was immediately gone when they returned to

  the condo and John opened the door. There was something even more

  reserved about him, stiff and unyielding.

  The reason became clear when Nikita caught a glimpse of a blond

  man, short hair, bluish eyes. He seemed… more together than he'd

  been when he'd lived in London. Cleaner, maybe, or maybe it was the

  fact he got more sleep and worked less than he had as a high-flying

  corporate lawyer. The changes in his appearance were profound enough

  to give him a “new” face, but unlike the surgically lifted, sculpted and

  Botoxed elite, Andrei Voronin still looked perfectly natural. He looked

  like his own distant relative. Andrei glanced at him and paused, staring,

  expression searching, half-empty.

  Chris had told him that Andrei didn't remember. Nikita had been

  dubious about that, but he suddenly realized that that was exactly what

  was wrong with Andrei, and the fine hair in his neck stood up. Second

  chance?

  John was watching them both with keen interest and withheld

  belligerence, so Nikita did nothing. Andrei nodded as if he'd reached a

  decision and came toward him. “Hi. I believe we've met before.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  Andrei gave a pained grin. “I don't remember.”

  “I believe you.”

  Andrei's eyes flashed. Irritation, maybe, or a memory? This felt

  like walking on eggshells.

  “What did you do? What happened?”

  Nikita sat down, giving up his advantage, but he figured anything

  that put Andrei at ease would be good. “Would you prefer to speak

  Russian?”

  Andrei shook his head. “What happened? We didn't… do

  anything, did we?”

  “No.” Nikita smiled. He hoped Andrei saw it as a friendly gesture.

  “You were a source of information. You copied me everything you had

  on Za
itsev's business dealings. We could freeze all his assets the same

  moment I pulled the trigger and killed him. You killed his power, I

  finished off his body. Maybe that is a bit of a consolation for what he

  has done to you.”

  Andrei gave a slight nod, more a gesture of acceptance than one

  of triumph.

  Chris had excused himself to the bathroom when they'd arrived,

  and he returned now, clearing his throat louder than necessary. “I'm

  starved. What say we have dinner before talking business—or as much

  business as John is willing to cut loose?”

  John shot him a cold look, and Nikita settled back in the leather

  armchair, crossed one leg casually over the other.

  “We have food, right?” Chris asked. When John nodded, Chris

  smiled. “Awesome. Come help me, Johnny, no one's as quick with a

  knife as you. Well, almost no one,” he added, smirking in Nikita's

  direction.

  Nikita answered in kind, watching from the corner of his eye as

  Chris tugged John Soong's sleeve and coaxed him from the room.

  Nikita turned to watch them go, smiling to himself when Chris flipped

  him the finger as he disappeared through the swinging door.

  It came as no surprise when John propped open the door so he

  could keep watch.

  Nikita looked to Andrei, who sat doing everything to avoid his

  gaze. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he said softly in Russian. “And I

  apologize for not realizing you'd be in danger when you left London.

  My resources are not as expansive as your new employer's.”

  The stiffness of Andrei's posture eased. “I understand. It might

  have happened even if you hadn't gotten involved. The mafiosi….” He

  made a small gesture, leaving what they both knew unsaid. He glanced

  toward the kitchen, smiled, and then turned back. “All things

  considered, it was a blessing. A little frightening but with far more

  good than bad.”

  Chris's voice echoed out, an innuendo-laden commentary on

  John's selection of vegetables, and Nikita couldn't help but smile. “Is

  he ever serious?”

  “About his work, always. Well, mostly. It's his way, I suppose.”

  Andrei stood. “Would you like a drink? Vodka?”

  “Of course.”

  Nikita watched him pour the vodka into glasses, the alcohol so

  cold that it was nearly viscous, and then took the glass when Andrei

  handed it to him. He wondered if Andrei had come that close to see

  how he'd react.

  We didn’t do anything, did we?

  No. They were two different men. One stressed, scared, brittle,

  this one thoughtful and possessing a strange calm. The lawyer had

  challenged Nikita to be broken and forced into compliance. This man…

  didn't. He was attractive enough but didn't trigger the same responses.

  Which was a strange relief, when he thought of Chris.

  Nikita pondered saying anything else, anything more, but Andrei

  seemed to be okay with the silence. Or maybe just thinking. Finally he

  blew out a breath. “Anything you want to know from me?”

  “How different was I?”

  “You were haunted. Spending a lot of money on fast cars. Drugs,

  parties… just what you'd expect from a lawyer. Cocaine, mostly,

  possibly speed.”

  “You know fine lawyers.”

  Nikita laughed. “The job probably doesn't give me a

  representative sample of the total population.”

  He wanted to laugh even more when John Soong appeared with a

  plate of finger foods, hit him with a look that was clearly meant to be

  menacing, and leaned in close to Andrei, asking if he was all right

  being out here.

  “It's fine. We're okay.”

  John left without further comment, but his lingering suspicions

  seemed to be carried out of the kitchen upon the tantalizing scents of

  cooking. Nikita popped one of the cocktail shrimp into his mouth and

  chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed, washing it down with a sip of his

  drink. “Do you remember anything of your life before?”

  Andrei shook his head. “Bits and pieces mostly, flashes of things.

  One night John and I were going through photos and online videos of

  Russia, and I remembered some things. Not so much people or events,

  but feelings, the emotion connected to places.”

  “THEY keep speaking Russian. I don't like it. I don't trust him.”

  Chris shook his head and tossed the salad in the cut glass bowl.

  “John, babe. His native language is about the only thing Andrei really

  remembers about home, can you blame him for wanting to speak it

  once in a while?”

  John shot him yet another pissy look. “I still don't trust Kazakov.”

  “You could give him a chance.”

  “You're insane.”

  Chris smirked. “Almost have to be to kill bad guys for a living,

  don'tcha think?” He carried the salad bowl out to the dining table and

  came back in to check the steaks in the oven broiler.

  “So what new side of yourself has Kazakov shown you?”

  “That I like my apartments well furnished.”

  “Chris…,” John said, still clearly pissy about Andrei being alone

  with Nikita and him only understanding every thirtieth word or so. If

  that. Andrei had made some rather cute attempts to teach John Russian,

  but they didn't get much further than “I love you,” and “fuck me, baby,”

  Chris assumed.

  Chris prodded the steaks. What was the saying? If they felt like

  cheek, they were raw. If they felt like nose, they were medium. Chin

  was cooked through. One guy had told him if they felt like hard dick,

  they were cooked, but that was something he really didn't want to

  connect. Besides, cooking a steak through was a sacrilege.

  “Nikita and I have a lot in common, okay?”

  John studied him, and Chris hoped that John didn't know him that

  well. Not well enough to read his mind.

  “I get off on his style of sex.”

  “Did I ask for details?”

  “There's no „fuzzy' in his kind of handcuffs, if you get what I'm

  saying.”

  John's jaw sagged open. “Your leg. He cuts you.”

  “Once, okay, and that was when he thought I offed Andrei. Geez.”

  John gave him one of those holier-than-thou looks, and Chris

  flipped the steaks and slammed the broiler drawer shut. He drummed

  his fingers on the stove top twice and then turned the oven off and

  pulled the pan out, transferring the steaks to the waiting platter.

  John stepped into his path before he reached the kitchen door. “I

  really hope you know what you're getting into with him.”

  “I do, Mommy Dearest, now let's eat.”

  The mood was still tense but bearable when John decided to give

  them a clue as to what was going to go down.

  “My Chinese contact, Yang Ka-Fai, has set me up as one of the

  bidders at the auction aboard an ultra luxury yacht setting off from Bari

  in a few days.”

  “I have an idea of who this yacht owner is,” Nikita said. He

  sipped his wine. “Yevgeny Anatolyevich Timofeyev.”

&nb
sp; John frowned. “Yes.” He cleared his throat and sipped his own

  drink before continuing. “Timofeyev was one of the first tycoons to

  spring up after the socialist regime fell. Evidently he's going a bit too

  far in thinking he's invulnerable to the current administration's laws,

  and someone contacted our side, and that's all I know.”

  “More like all you're willing to admit to,” Nikita muttered.

  “How much do you know, Nicky?” Chris asked.

  Nikita took his time piling salad onto his plate. “That guy is dirty

  but used to be untouchable. He made his fortune smuggling nickel and

  aluminum in the early nineties, then moved into Moscow real estate, all

  backed by his contacts in the old and new government and protected by

  gangsters he hired as cheap guns. That's how he knows Shkadov—and

  a number of other underworld figures. After they cancelled the auction

  at Tempelhof, I imagine Shkadov asked his old friend to arrange the

  auction elsewhere. And even with Timofeyev's contacts, he can't just

  say no to a vor. Shkadov is too powerful.”

  “So if he's untouchable, why can we have him now?”

  “Maybe there was a shift in power high up, maybe he has

  neglected paying his bribes, maybe the government has decided that his

  assets will be divided up some other way. Maybe one of the new

  loyalists really wants that boat.”

  “New loyalists?”

  “That's what we call the oligarchs that are paying their taxes and

  keep their noses clean. They end up buying British football clubs and

  enjoy a longer life than their peers. Untouchable, whatever other shit

  they're pulling.” Nikita glanced to John, the look clearly challenging

  John for a quid-pro-quo.

  “And they are selling women at their auctions?”

  “Yes, women and girls,” Nikita confirmed. “This is pretty sick

  stuff. Maybe worse than the usual.”

  Chris frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Nikita pushed his plate away. “Of the many thousand women that

  are trafficked every year, most end up in massage parlors, as escorts, or

  street walkers. Some get freed in raids, others are turned loose when

  they get older than about thirty, some run away, some become victims

  of violence from their clients or pimps, or kill themselves.”

  He stared at the plate, his cold eyes seeing something that Chris