didn't want to guess at.
“Conservative estimate says that human trafficking in Europe is a
five billion euro industry. You can buy a woman for a few grand—you
pay some to those that lure them into that life, then costs, bribes, forged
papers. And then you put them to work, recouping your expenditure
within a few months. Of course, you can use them any other way too.”
By now, Nikita's voice held no inflection. “Some pimps treat
them like wives. I know of marriages. Children. Anyway. For these
heavy hitters to be interested, they are trading something special.
Underage virgins, or maybe girls that end up killed during or after sex.
Or both. I never got that far up.”
“You're onto the „something special',” John said. “Yang wasn't
sure what the „product', as he called it, was, but the guest list was
exclusive.”
Chris took a forkful of braised carrots. “Going to make your job a
bit tough then, won't it, John? How are you going to pull off being an
interested buyer if you don't know what you're supposed to be
interested in?”
“I'll work it out,” John said, casting a glance from Nikita back to
him. “You always say I've got the gift of bullshit.”
Chris raised his glass to his teammate. And a pissy way of keeping
your cards close to your vest.
The meal passed quietly, and afterward John and Andrei went out
for a walk. Chris pulled out his laptop and kicked back on the sofa. “I
know that name, Timofeyev,” he said, bringing up a search engine.
“Now I remember.” He clicked an older video link. A brief report on a
newly launched private “floating palace.”
“This our mark's boat?” he asked as Nikita came from the
bathroom.
Nikita crouched beside the sofa, his suit jacket off, tie gone, shirt
partially unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to expose his thick lower arms.
“That's him. Such a fucking show off.”
“Five hundred million for a boat?”
“One of the other oligarchs paid eight hundred recently. It's a
dick-waving contest. But few invite a camera team in to show the full
extent of their bad taste.”
“You're not much of an interior decorator, either, Nicky.” Chris
grinned. “You have a hell of a lot to learn about being gay in style.”
Nikita pointed at the gallery. “Print the images out. At least we
can familiarize ourselves with the layout.”
“Anything else about this guy we should check? What else do
you have on him?”
“I could never touch him,” Nikita said in a low voice. “So, no.
Nothing.”
“Okay.” Chris saved the pics and sent them to the networked
printer across the room. As the printer kicked on, he watched Nikita at
the dining table pouring himself the last of the red wine. Now why did
he have the nagging feeling he hadn't gotten a complete answer to his
question about this Timofeyev guy?
He set the laptop on the glass-topped cocktail table, went to the
desk, and waited for the pictures to finish printing. Nikita came up
beside him, stood close enough to touch at arm and hip.
“Look at that shit. Crocodile hide walls, platinum plumbing
fixtures. A fucking vegetable garden for his five-star chef.” He tossed
back the wine and set the glass on the desk. “I'm taking a shower,
okay?”
“Help yourself, big guy. Guest room's all yours… and mine, too,
if you don't mind. Or I can crash on the couch here, no biggie.”
“Your house, you take the room.”
“What, no sharing? Or are you allergic to real beds with frames
and springs?”
“How about I fuck you into that mattress and show you how
allergic I am?”
Chris grinned, trying not to acknowledge that nagging feeling that
something was off. “We'll have to be all vanilla. Wouldn't want to
disturb Mama John in the next room if we do.”
“I'd just have to gag you,” Nikita said.
But he didn't. Still, it was intense, passionate enough that Chris
had to remember that they both had to be silent (even though he
suspected that John and Andrei were doing pretty much the same thing).
Vanilla in their case meant that Chris fucked Nikita, then Nikita him. It
worked for them both, and there was always the thrill that, in theory at
least, there was always a knife close, or a piece of rope, or really
anything that Nikita's inventive mind could turn into a toy.
Afterward, Nikita placed his head on Chris's chest in a strangely
vulnerable gesture, idly tracing the lines of his pecs, sternum, ribs, and
abs with light fingers. But they shifted positions before they drifted off
to sleep, with Nikita spooning him. The Russian was a study in
contrasts, like he was two men in one, and Chris wondered how many
people ever saw the guy inside. Strange to see how human the big guy
really was, but he found he didn't mind.
Chapter 13
THE next day began a whirlwind of activity: going over all the intel
they could gather, picking up and testing unobtrusive audio and video
recording devices to gather evidence once inside.
Chris decided there was no time like the present to make
additional use of the special ops budget and insisted they take a quick
shopping expedition to Paris for some new threads. Even practical John
had to agree the right look would go far in helping them infiltrate the
high-rolling trafficking ring.
But damn, Johnny was looking like he was going to blow a brain
artery from the stress of heading such a big gig. Of course it was
understandable, since he was ultimately responsible for rookie Andrei,
black sheep Chris, and wild card Nikita as well as making sure they got
enough evidence to arrest and convict dangerous, well-connected
scumbags.
The poor guy had barely touched the hella awesome dinner they'd
gone out to eat, leaving before they'd finished dessert, saying he had a
last minute meeting to get to. Chris was pondering how to help his
buddy chill and enjoying the occasional glimpse of Nikita and Andrei
making nice and having some male bonding chitchat when John came
barreling into the apartment.
“Sssshhh. Tone it down, dude.”
“I need to talk to you, Chris. Privately. Now.”
Chris let John tug him to the bedroom and found himself both
amused and ticked off at the way John stopped and gave him a deer in
the headlights look. “Where's Andrei? Where is he at?”
“In the other bedroom.”
John gaped, tensed, and Chris dove to grab him before he barged
back out. Chris shut the door, blocked it with his body. “Chill, dude.
Seriously. It's all right. They're talking, laughing, even. Give it a rest.”
John frowned, swiped his hand through his black hair. “I need to
tell you something.”
Muffled raucous laughter sounded from next door, and Chris
moved to open the door to the bathroom connecting the bedrooms. The
door to the mast
er was opened all the way, and Chris let his side open
just enough to see. John came up behind him, pressed in close, tense as
all fuck.
“What. Are. They. Doing?” he whispered.
Chris looked at the men concentrating on the laptop before them.
“Who knows? Checking the box scores, watching Russian porn, who
cares?”
“I do.”
John tried to shove Chris aside, but Chris planted himself,
grabbed one side of the doorframe. He stayed put until John stepped
back and then turned to face his friend, who'd taken a seat on the edge
of the bed, head lowered, hands tugging his hair.
“Don't make yourself bald, dude,” Chris said softly. “Are you
jealous?”
John's head shot up. “No, yes. I don't know.” He stood and paced
the floor. “I need to tell you something—”
“Ssssh. Come here, check this out.”
The Russians were smiling, looking at something on the laptop.
They shared a laugh, and Andrei got up, let Nikita sit, and bent to look
over his shoulder. Andrei pointed at something on the screen, and when
he pulled his arm back, he let his hand rest on Nikita's shoulder.
John made an odd sound, almost a whimper and growl combined.
“Give it a rest,” Chris said. “Andrei is crazy about you. Aren't
you glad he's made a friend?”
“That man is no friend of mine or yours, either, he—”
“Ssshh,” Chris said.
He stepped back, moved behind John, and placed his hands on the
shorter man's shoulders, half to hold him in place and half to gauge the
tension in his muscles. “Damn, you're tense as hell. Andrei didn't pay
much attention to the massage lessons, did he?”
He rubbed the top of John's shoulders, letting his thumbs press
and stroke the hard muscles. He inhaled, loving that Chinese cologne
John wore. It was so unique, damn near intoxicating the way it mingled
with the man's own masculine scent.
“He wants to seduce Andrei, rape him, maybe.”
Chris tried not to laugh as he pulled John's jacket off and ran his
hand down the length of the stiff spine. “Andrei isn't exactly a bruiser,
but we both know he wouldn't have passed his training if he'd failed
the hand-to-hand requirements. No one could rape him, and Nikita
wouldn't do that.”
“You can't be sure.”
“I think I can.” Chris kissed John's shoulder and kept kneading
away the tension from the knotted muscles. “But look at them. They're
hot together. Definitely some chemistry there.” And undoubtedly what
had drawn Nikita to using Andrei as a mole.
Chris was fascinated by the men's simple interaction. So platonic
yet so fucking edged with a physical attraction it was evident they both
felt and fought. Nikita stood abruptly when Andrei squeezed his
shoulder. Andrei backed off, muttered something in Russian, an
apology most likely.
Nikita waved his concern away and gestured for Andrei to retake
the seat and continue with whatever game they'd been playing or site
they'd been surfing. Nikita pulled over a side chair and sat beside
Andrei, each man stealing sidelong glances.
“God, I wish they'd kiss.”
“Chris, no.”
John gasped when indeed they did give one another a long look
and then both leaned in, unable to resist the magnetism they shared.
John tensed, but Chris gripped his waist.
“He's not really Nikita's type. Let them get it out of their system.”
John sucked in his breath, and Chris let his hand brush the front
of his friend's pants. Yeah, Johnny was as turned on as Chris was.
The kiss ended quickly and developed no further. Nikita stood,
picked up the empty beer bottles from the desk, and left the room.
John breathed a sigh and softly shut the connecting door. “Chris, I
need —”
He broke off as the guest room door opened and Nikita entered.
“Excuse me.”
“It's all right. We were just talking,” John said. He broke away.
“Goodnight.”
“Wait a minute. You needed to tell me something. We'll talk in
the kitchen.”
John waved him off. “It can wait.”
“Okay.”
Chris's attention was already focused on Nikita by the time John
shut the door behind him.
“He despises me still,” Nikita said, pulling off his T-shirt,
exposing that broad chest and those tight abs.
“It doesn't matter.” Chris stepped forward, stopped in front of
Nikita, and fell to his knees, palms sliding over the bulge of Nikita's
semi-arousal. He undid Nikita's belt and fly, pulled down the jeans
enough to free Nikita's cock and balls.
The big guy had been going commando a lot this week. They
both had, taking every opportunity for a quick suck or fuck whenever
they could, as if it would tide them over when the job ended and they
parted ways.
Chris teased Nikita's now-rigid cock with his tongue, unzipped
his own pants and pulled his dick and balls free. He gently gripped
Nikita's hips and looked up, giving himself over to the desire to be
dominated.
“Fuck my mouth. Use me however you want. Make me your
bitch.”
NIKITA wore him out, made him collapse and fall asleep as soon as
they were done. Chris woke during the night, went to the bathroom to
clean up, and almost tripped over John, who was sitting there in the
dark on the edge of the tub.
“What the fuck?”
John shot to his feet, grabbed Chris's arm, and tugged him close.
“You need to be careful. Please don't fall for this guy. He's bad news.”
Chris pushed the bathroom door closed with his foot. “I've had
enough of this shit, John. You're not my mother.”
John leaned in closer, his breath hot on Chris's ear. “I'm your
friend, and I care for you. I don't want to see you hurt. Kazakov is not
the white knight cop he makes himself out to be.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“He's had dealings with Timofeyev's organization in the past.
He's taken their money.”
“No way.”
“The intel came from on high, but they want him in on this
anyway.”
It was worse than a punch to the balls. He glanced at the closed
door, tried not to feel the pain tearing at his insides. “What are we
supposed to do?”
“The job. We play our parts and do what we have to do. Whatever
we have to do to come out in one piece.” John cradled Chris's face in
his hands. “You can do this, can't you?”
Chris pulled away, shoving down all feelings and putting on his
game face. “You know I can. The job comes first. I'll play the part to
the hilt.”
THEY certainly dressed the part. John's light gray suit stood out
against the darker gray pinstriped suit of Andrei, his “interpreter,” and
Chris and Nikita's severe black suits that clearly marked them as
bodyguards in anybody's eyes. Nikita and he were also wire
d up with
earpieces to coordinate security and sported guns strapped to their
shoulders. A charter plane took them across the Alps to Milan
Malpensa, the most God-awful airport in Europe, then down to Naples,
where they switched to helicopter for the last leg to Bari on the other
side of the Italian peninsula.
“Holiday in Rome after this?” Chris asked Nikita under his breath.
Nikita drew up his shoulders. “I'll have to file a lot of paperwork.”
There was a reason why Chris liked GORGON. For all the pen-
pushers and bean-counters that stood between him and complete job
satisfaction, government jobs or police would likely be so much worse.
“Do it in the hotel.”
“We'll see.” Nikita pressed his shoulder and then leaned back in
the seat.
Chris knew he was clutching at the possibility of “more” after this
mission, more of Nikita, more of their games, that intensity that burned
him up, the mad thrill of being made to submit. His mind raced, trying
to find a way to pull that off. This wasn't a casual fuck; it had already
lasted way too long for that, occupied far too much of his mind and his
time.
But he'd be damned if he showed just how bad it was. Not on a
mission, not while at work.
THE white, gleaming Libertine was safely anchored in the harbor, and
when they arrived, other guests were waiting for their designer
suitcases to be unloaded from a fancy car. John waited with the air of a
man who found the hold-up very nearly unbearable, while Nikita and
Chris played the stoic bodyguards. Finally, a liveried servant with
pristine white gloves took their suitcases and assured them that they
would arrive at the cabin momentarily.
“Welcome, Mr. Yang,” stated another servant, who bowed to
them. She looked like an aged model, still gorgeous but no longer
beautiful in that superficial way. “I hope you had a pleasant trip.”
She ushered them onto the yacht while their luggage vanished
down some other corridor, possibly to get fleeced and scanned, if the
head of security was any good. Chris tried not to stare at the decoration,
but the carpets were hand-woven silk, every square yard worth an
average monthly salary, and the walls were richly coated with gold leaf.
Whoever the interior designer was, he deserved to be shot after torture.
First Blood Page 20
