First Blood

by Aleksandr Voinov

  one of the access points of the black ops team that had to be ready to

  pounce.

  The light from that enormous crystal chandelier was dimmed, and

  the conversations dimmed accordingly to murmurs. Chris glanced

  around, keeping his eyes on in-house security, access points,

  Timofeyev. Once the cargo was on board and the selling had begun,

  they could step in, but no sooner. And he did expect a battle—those

  bodyguards weren't all posers. He also hoped that they were

  professional enough not to fire at civilians, not to panic, and generally

  to know when they'd lost.

  Nikita stepped forward, murmured something to John about the

  restroom, and was dismissed with a wave of the hand. Great. Nikita

  could go topside, have a look at making sure the helicopter couldn't get

  away when the raid happened.

  A guy stepped on the stage, welcoming them to the auction,

  praising the quality of the merchandise that nobody had seen so far,

  mentioning how this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He could

  have been selling horses or cars. After a lengthy welcome, the curtains

  parted, and the first girl emerged, completed naked, long hair trailing

  down her back, exposing her completely. God, she was young, breasts

  barely formed, a Lolita-style nymph with narrow hips, eyes downcast.

  Definitely jailbait even in the more liberal jurisdictions. She could be

  Indian, Pakistani, something from that area. Three of the dozen guys

  flashed their bidding passes.

  He'd seen it all, seen worse, even, and yet it never failed to turn

  his stomach that anyone could get off on this kind of shit.

  Another girl of similar age was called up, followed by a lanky

  teen boy whose buyer looked exceptionally pleased, like he couldn't

  wait to sample his goods before leaving.

  Come on, Johnny. Give the signal. Call in the cavalry already.

  Chris scanned the room, planning his course of action for which

  goons to neutralize when the order came. Fat French fuck would go

  down first, he had bad taste in matching belt with shoes. Euro-trash

  bastard with the thinning hair on top and lame ponytail was next for

  being twenty years out of style.

  A ripple of excitement went through the crowd, and Chris turned

  his attention back to the stage. Holy fuck.

  Next up were matching sets. A pair of twin teen girls, short black

  hair tipped with red, eyes heavily made up. They were wearing black

  panties and strapless bras. Behind them were a boy and girl, tall and

  thin. Nordic-looking, maybe not twins but siblings definitely. Their

  terry robes were tied at the waist but perfectly parted to give a glimpse

  of pale, untouched skin. A trio of Chinese girls in babydoll nighties

  brought up the rear.

  The auctioneer had them back out, then called the first set back.

  Sultry jazz drifted softly from the sound system, and the girls in the

  spotlight reached for one another, giving their prospective owners a

  taste of what twisted entertainment they could provide.

  Chris's stomach churned, and he looked away, scanned the crowd.

  Nikita was coming back down the curving narrow stairs. His little

  friend Georgi sought him out, and the two of them took a step into a

  shadowy corner behind the stairs.

  What the fuck. Chris rubbed his palm on his leg. He didn't want

  to, but if push came to shove and the Russian chose the wrong side,

  well, so be it.

  Chapter 14

  “WHERE have you been off to, Nikita Sergeyevich?”

  “Getting some air. I don't like this kiddie shit.”

  “Yes. you like all manner of other interesting things, do you not?”

  “It's no concern of yours.”

  Georgi grinned, his dark eyes cold, calculating. “I have a great

  many concerns, Nikita. My biggest right now is you and your party.”

  “United Russia is doing an admirable job of governing the

  Motherland. I see no reason for concern. Unless your Mr. Timofeyev

  has political as well as business aspirations these days?”

  Nikita didn't flinch when the Makarov prodded his side.

  Georgi leaned in, pressed the gun barrel further into his flesh.

  “Let's go somewhere a bit more private to discuss these politics of

  yours.”

  “Fine.”

  Georgi withdrew the gun, and though Nikita knew he could snap

  the man's neck in an instant, here might not be the wisest place. Taking

  the position of the whipped dog, he stepped past Georgi and started up

  the stairs, taking note of Chris Gibson's attention in the reflection of

  one of the stairway mirrors.

  Chris had to stay with John and Andrei, though. Those men

  needed protection. Nikita could take care of himself. He wouldn't

  jeopardize the rest of the mission.

  Georgi led him down the corridor, muzzle pressed against his

  spine, promising him a wheelchair for life if he resisted. “What are you

  doing here, you cunt?” Georgi asked.

  Nikita stiffened for a moment, fighting the urge to turn and attack

  him for the insult, but possibly Georgi was asking for that so he had an

  excuse to shoot. He attacked me was a better reason than no idea what

  he did here but I knew him from ten years ago. “Fell on hard times,” he

  ground out.

  Georgi laughed. “They kicked you out? What for?”

  “Cock-sucking.” Nikita tasted that outing on his tongue and felt it

  wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be.

  “What?”

  “You got me. I fucked a man. And yeah, he liked it.”

  The gun barrel fell away. “Turn around. Look at me and say that.”

  Nikita turned, looked Georgi straight in the eye. “You heard me. I

  was drunk and let a guy in a bar pick me up. I sucked his cock in the

  alley. Was seen by rookie on foot patrol with high ambitions and a big

  mouth.”

  Georgi's expression was half sneer, half smirk. He cupped

  himself. “I should make you suck mine.”

  “Ask nicely. I prefer to be romanced.” It hadn't been much of a

  gamble. If the criminals intended to break a man, they'd “turn him into

  a goat” or “lowered” him, as they called it. It was rape, or sexual

  slavery, pure and simple. That was how they thought. While a guy

  who'd been raped lost all respect, a homosexual was even worse in

  their eyes.

  Georgi licked his lips. “Down the hall, second door from the end.”

  Nikita turned and headed that way, going over the many

  soundless ways he could kill Georgi. The question was whether he

  should do it with the least amount of pain or the worst.

  “Fuck.”

  Nikita stopped and glanced back. Georgi was getting a

  communiqué via his earpiece. “Looks like I'll have to wait for that

  blow job. I'll see you later.”

  “Sure.”

  Georgi turned, and that was when Nikita sprung into action,

  grabbed the guy's throat and pulled him back so hard that his head

  banged against the gold-plated wall. Dazed, he let the gun go, and

  Nikita rammed his head against the wall again an
d then dragged the

  man off toward the room he'd indicated, where he broke his neck and

  stowed him in a tiny closet that even had a couch bed and cushions and

  nothing else.

  The place smelled of the perfume that had rubbed off on Chris

  just a few hours ago. So typically him to find this little opportunity for

  sex during a mission. He pulled Georgi's trousers down and made him

  look asleep, which wasn't too difficult, then left the little room to find

  the helipad.

  Off in the distance, Nikita thought he heard the sound of a motor

  launch. His suspicion was confirmed when the guard manning the

  uppermost deck overlooking the helipad broke out a handheld spotlight.

  “Hey,” Nikita called. “You got a cigarette?” He bounded up the little

  ladder and got between the man and the sound that had died down.

  The gangster frowned. “Timofeyev doesn't let us light up on

  board. Too afraid we'll litter his baby. Bastard.”

  Nikita laughed. “Yeah, like my boss. Chinese fucker. Makes me

  take my shoes off every time I go to his office, even if it's just to step

  inside for a minute.”

  “I'm going to be top man one day,” the gangster boasted.

  “Yeah,” Nikita said with a laugh. “But not today.”

  “Wha—”

  The man barely formed the word before the knife caught him in

  the heart. That was a pretty painless death, and Nikita draped him

  against the helicopter as if he'd sat down for a smoke or just because he

  was tired of standing. Two gangsters down, two dozen more to go.

  He activated the micro. “I'm at the helicopter.”

  Chris didn't respond, but Nikita had no doubt he listened. “Two

  men down, should have a couple more minutes before people will

  notice.” He slipped into the helicopter.

  CHRIS couldn't help but smile. Damn, that was hot—in the time it took

  to sell one waifish kid, Nikita killed two men seemingly without raising

  any alarms. Of course he couldn't know if Nikita still played by the

  rules or whether he was pulling his leg. Maybe some mobster was

  holding a pistol to Nikita's head and forcing him to say that. The way

  Nikita's voice hardly ever betrayed stress didn't help. And Chris

  thought he could read him by now. A little, at least.

  Kazakov is not the white knight cop he makes himself out to be.

  He’s taken their money.

  Shit. Timofeyev's goons didn't even have to capture and force

  Nikita. It was enough to pay him off. Chris still wasn't sure what to

  think of that. Deep down, he hated the thought that Nikita had played

  all righteous and wrathful about him “killing Andrei” while he himself

  was a dirty cop. Was there anybody in the world who didn't have a

  price?

  I hope they paid you well, bro, Chris thought.

  Whatever was going on topside, the guests at least didn't hear or

  see anything, still captivated by the goods on display.

  There. Timofeyev got up from his seat to the side, frowning as if

  thoughtful. Or maybe he'd signaled something. Chris touched his knee

  to John's, and John nodded, reaching inside his jacket to, no doubt,

  finally press the button calling in the troops. There was now enough

  money on the table to bust the casino, so to speak. He breathed deeply,

  calming the rising stress.

  Any minute now.

  Out of nowhere, all hell broke loose.

  The black op boys had crossed the threshold in the garage area.

  Girls screamed behind the curtain, muffled gunshots rang out.

  Three GORGON agents tore through the curtain, shouting “Police!

  Don't move!” each in a different language.

  Goons hustled their bosses toward the exit, while others went for

  the cops. John and Andrei hit a couple bodyguards, GORGON boys

  and Chris took a few more.

  Timofeyev. Where was the fucker? Chris caught a gleam as one

  of the mirrored wall panels clicked back into place. The helipad. Fuck!

  Chris darted toward the stage, jumped up, bounded over, and shot the

  fuck out of where the door lock would be.

  A mobster shot down at him, the secret stair mirrors shattering

  and shooting glass shards. Chris shielded his eyes and shot back. He

  took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the screams, shouts, and gunshots

  ringing out behind him. John and Andrei would help secure the guests

  and take control of the ship. His job was Timofeyev.

  He pushed on through the trapdoor on the helipad, kept his head

  down, and spotted Timofeyev and a pilot near the helicopter, facing off

  with Nikita, who had his pistol out and pointing to the sky, head

  slightly tilted as he listened to Timofeyev.

  “…fool, Nikita Sergeyevich, I will make you rich beyond your

  wildest dreams. Want a boat like this? She's yours, and all the girls you

  can fuck…,” Timofeyev wheedled, and pushed the pilot toward the

  helicopter like a human shield.

  Nikita didn't show any response but stepped to the side, letting

  the pilot and the criminal pass.

  “Nicky, what the fuck do you think you're doing?” Chris snapped.

  Nikita gave him nothing, just that cold motherfucker stare that

  could make Chris weak and hard all over.

  Chris pulled his gun. “Listen, Nicky….” God, he really, really

  didn't want to shoot this man. Dirty or not, he didn't want to see him

  dead. “We're supposed to bring him in, whatever other deal you have

  with him.”

  Nikita stared at him while the pilot started the helicopter and the

  rotor began to turn. Explaining to GORGON how Timofeyev had

  gotten away would be damn near impossible. Another black mark,

  another failure, proving Stefan right, and John too.

  Faster than Chris had anticipated, Nikita fired. The bullets passed

  so close that Chris could feel them. He dropped to his knees, but he

  couldn't feel any impact on himself. Turning, he saw a bodyguard

  crumple to his knees, clutching his spurting throat wound. Jesus, what a

  shot.

  Nikita holstered his weapon, eyes still on Chris, betraying

  absolutely nothing as the helicopter behind them began to take off.

  “Ten, eleven, twelve,” Nikita counted to himself. He broke into a

  trot and dove down onto Chris, covering him with his body.

  “Thirteen, fourteen, fift—”

  The helicopter that hadn't risen higher than maybe ten, fifteen

  yards exploded into a fireball. Angry debris hurled toward them. Nikita

  grunted when stuff rained down all around them. Chris felt the

  heatwave pass over them and dared to glance up. A trail of oily black

  smoke traced the way down to the water.

  His ears rang from the explosion, and his forehead made contact

  with the helipad. “You bastard,” he cursed, and tried to free himself,

  cold anger making his heart hammer in his throat. Nikita held him

  pinned for another moment, then let him go and stepped away.

  Chris noted a black ops guy climb out on the helipad and murmur

  into his microphone.

  He looked up. “Timofeyev?” he asked Chris.

  “Exploded. F
eeding the fish.” He pointed toward the water, where

  debris floated.

  “Fuck,” the black ops guy said. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  Chris brushed his suit and shot Nikita a baleful look. The Dragon

  Lady would have his ass on a platter for this, and not in the good way.

  Chapter 15

  IT TOOK a couple more hours to wrap up the mission on board.

  GORGON handed the situation over to Europol, but Nikita noted how

  some of the guests were secreted away in their cabins while others were

  led away. To cut a deal? Entirely possible. He checked in on the kids

  that had been saved. They huddled together, most of them looking

  utterly forlorn.

  Nikita gathered a few bathrobes from the suites and handed them

  out, then fetched food and water. He'd heard stories like the ones they

  would tell the authorities a hundred times—if they could talk. They

  didn't look badly abused, but he preferred not to look too closely lest

  he discovered the tell-tale signs of “seasoning,” usually extended rape

  and beating to break their spirits. He remembered Katya like that, wide-

  eyed with fear, emerging from a seedy massage parlor in South London.

  He'd never in his life have imagined she'd ever trust a man again, but

  she did. She'd learned, just like him.

  When he felt he had nothing else to do, he went abovedeck and

  leaned on the railing, feeling the heaviness of burned-off adrenaline

  gather in his veins and muscles. After a mission, he always thought he

  wanted to sleep for twenty-four hours, but he was usually up and about

  six or seven hours later.

  We’re supposed to bring him in, whatever other deal you have

  with him.

  Lucky guess? Nikita bared his teeth in anger. Fuck it.

  “What happened to the helicopter, Mr. Kazakov?” John. Nikita

  didn't turn, just glanced down, seeing two pairs of shoes. Pinstriped

  and gray trouser legs. Andrei and John.

  “It exploded.”

  “Why?”

  Nikita wasn't sure if that question meant the helicopter or his

  motive. “Chances are, somebody hot-wired the copter's electronics

  system and its fuel tank, causing a fatal spark in the fuel system.”

  Nikita grimaced and then straightened, turning to look at Soong.

  “When we look at the wreckage, will we detect foul play?”