The Start of a Beautiful Friendship

by Tinnean

  “Seems… seems like it.”

  “How’s the leg?”

  He shrugged. “Hurts like hell, but it’s still here.”

  “But for how long?” the medic muttered. “You’re Vincent?”

  “Yeah.”

  He drew in a breath. “We’ll take care of them.” He didn’t add, “Even though you didn’t,” but I could see he was thinking it.

  I was seriously going to take Sperling apart.

  Stanley must have picked up on it too, because he said, “Hey, Vincent got here after the shit hit the fan.”

  I glared at him. I didn’t need anyone sticking up for me.

  “Huh.” The medic turned to the men with him. “Let’s get ’em loaded up.”

  I KNEW where the Scarlet Chamber’s Prague headquarters were located—some of us did our homework. If Claude wasn’t there, I had some contacts that might be able to give me a hint as to where he could be.

  I lucked out, in a manner of speaking. The place was empty, except for Claude, who lay sprawled on the floor. His brains were decorating a wall—he’d eaten his gun and blown out the back of his head.

  Goddamnit, this was my op. He should have known I’d come get him.

  Well, this was just one more reason for me to go after the Archbishop. As for Sperling….

  Revenge was a dish best served cold. I’d let him think The Boss had me under control, let that notion lull him into a sense of security. When he realized how false it was, it would be too late for him to do anything but die.

  Meanwhile…. I flipped open my cell phone and dialed a number that was supposed to be unavailable to anyone not in the DGSE.

  “If you’re looking for Claude Pluie, you’ll need to send someone to pick up his body.” I gave them the location and then hung up before they could trace the call.

  I WENT into a small, dark pawnshop. The woman behind the counter gave me an indifferent once-over. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve got a ring.” Czech wasn’t a language I was comfortable with—it might as well have been Greek to me. I’d learned the speech by rote.

  “Do you want to pawn it or sell it?”

  “Sell it, though it breaks my heart. It belonged to my grandmother, but I’m down on my luck.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “If you’ll let me see it?”

  “Sure.” I handed it to her.

  “Ah. This is very old. I have a customer who might be interested in it.”

  “Will he give me a fair price?”

  “If it proves to be what he wants.”

  “I’ll have to leave it with you.”

  “I won’t cheat you. Come back to my office, and we’ll fill out the paperwork.”

  I followed her to a dingy room in the back, and as soon as the door was closed behind us, I said, “En français, s’il vous plaît.”

  She nodded and asked in French, “What did you need to know?”

  “Where has the Archbishop gone?”

  She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “His people?” I’d be willing to settle for canceling them until I could get my hands on their leader.

  “Anyone with connections to the Scarlet Chamber has departed Prague.” She studied me intently. “This was a poorly run operation.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me.” I took out a business card with one of my aliases on it and wrote down my cell phone number. “If you or any of your people learn the whereabouts of the Archbishop or the Scarlet Chamber, contact me. Anytime, day or night.”

  “And you’ll drop everything to come here and deal with him?”

  “Damn straight I will. Those were my people he tortured and killed.”

  “It’s easy to talk big when you’re not facing a man like him.”

  “It is, but I back up my words with actions.” I leaned forward and murmured my name in her ear.

  “Truly? I’ve heard of you.”

  “Then you know I won’t let my men go unavenged.”

  She tapped the business card on her desk. “Someone will call you.” She handed me the ring back.

  “Thank you.” I put it in an inner pocket of my suit jacket. “And if you know anyone who can get word to Dieter Abendroth, let him know Mark Vincent will be coming after him.”

  She blinked, seeming startled that I knew the Archbishop’s name, and then she gave a slow smile. “Your reputation is warranted.”

  “When it comes to my job, I’m dead serious.”

  “Or perhaps just dead. Is it wise to warn him?”

  “He’ll be looking over his shoulder. Nervous men make foolish mistakes.”

  “You think he’ll be nervous?”

  “He will be if he’s smart. Thank you again. I’ll wait to hear from you.” Of course, I’d make sure other contacts knew I was gunning for the Archbishop.

  It was just a matter of time.

  PRAGUE was the last place I wanted to be, and I could say the same for Berlin. I still had my rental car, and The Boss had given me two weeks to kill, in spite of the fact it was Sperling I’d have liked to face down.

  I could be in Paris in a little less than ten hours.

  My first Christmas in the WBIS, Mr. Wallace had given me a coffee-table book on the art of the Louvre. I’d take the opportunity to stroll through some of the galleries.

  Yeah, that would work.

  IV

  IF THERE was one thing I hated, it was driving in Paris, so as soon as I arrived, I turned in the rental car. From there, I walked a short distance to a nearby storefront the WBIS had set up. I’d need a passport and credit cards for the identity I planned to use, and some spending cash in francs.

  It didn’t take long, and with that out of the way, I hailed a cab and had the driver take me to a hotel I’d used before, hôtel de l’Espoir.

  “Ah, M. Blaine, bonjour.” I’d decided to use that alias since that was who they knew me as here. “It is good to see you again.”

  “Hello, Alain.” I made it a point to never speak French to him, not even with a poor accent. “It’s good to be here.”

  “I regret to tell you your usual room is unavailable.”

  “That’s okay.” It was my own fault for not calling ahead. I’d been so steamed by what had gone on that it hadn’t even occurred to me.

  He seemed relieved. Had other guests given him a hard time? “Unfortunately, there is one other thing.”

  “You’re not going to tell me you don’t have a room for me after all?”

  “Of course we do, M. Blaine!” He permitted a smile to cross his lips. “However, it is rather small for a man of your height.”

  I brushed that aside. While I was sure I could find other hotels with bigger rooms, I wasn’t in the mood to go looking for them. And besides, hôtel de l’Espoir had always suited my purposes. It was the sort of hotel no one would expect me to be caught dead in. “Is that the only problem?”

  Alain shook his head. “Your room will not be ready until after three.”

  Was that all? “That’s okay. The airline lost my luggage,” I lied easily. “I wonder if you can tell me of a department store that won’t laugh at me when I walk through their doors.” The hotel would dry-clean my suit, and it had a laundry service, but I’d still need to buy some shirts and underwear.

  “Mais oui.” He gave me the directions to a local grand magasin a few streets over.

  “Is there a pharmacy nearby?”

  “You are well?”

  “I’m fine.” I had to pick up a razor, comb, and deodorant. Condoms and lube as well. You could never tell when opportunity would knock, and the only reason why I’d left home without ’em this time was because the job was supposed to last no more than twenty-four hours.

  “Bon. There is a pharmacy just around the corner.”

  “Thanks, Alain.” And I sauntered out of the hotel.

  AFTER I’d acquired everything on my mental list, I had a late lunch and returned to the hotel to check in.

 
I could see why Alain had been concerned. To say the room was small was putting it mildly. A bulky armoire took up one entire wall, making the room seem even smaller. As if to make up for the size of the armoire, the desk fitted between two windows was miniscule. The view was pretty, though, looking down onto a courtyard bordered by chestnut trees seven floors below.

  Across from the desk and the windows were a couple of twin beds separated by a night table.

  I tested the mattresses. They were both firm, but the one on the left was a little firmer, which was good, because I preferred sleeping on the left side. As for the size of the bed, it was no biggie. I’d sleep curled up.

  A door opened into the attached bathroom, which would put a stamp to shame. There was a toilet, a pedestal sink, and a narrow shower. To the side of the sink was a shelf that held the towels, soap, a box of tissues, toothpaste, a couple of toothbrushes, and a glass.

  I examined both rooms carefully for bugs, and not the kind that crawled up walls or into your shoes—those weren’t permitted in hôtel de l’Espoir.

  Satisfied no surveillance equipment had been set up before I’d checked in, I unpacked my purchases and got settled in.

  V

  WHO’D have thought I’d wind up a fucking tourist? Except for a couple of class trips before I’d left for the military academy, I’d never had time to do the sightseeing thing.

  I spent three days wandering through the Louvre. It was a great experience, and normally it would take a lifetime to appreciate what the museum held within its walls, but I was so fucking antsy I couldn’t concentrate.

  So I left the Louvre for other visitors and toured Notre Dame. From there I went to the Eiffel Tower, the Latin Quarter, and finally Père Lachaise Cemetery. In my business, I’d put a lot of men in the ground. It would be interesting to see where those who died of more or less natural causes were buried. Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison were among those who reposed there.

  But even after that, I was still restless. And I still had eight days left to kill. Maybe I’d check out the local meat market and see what was available.

  BECAUSE of my old lady’s drinking problem, I made it a point to limit my alcoholic intake. This evening, I ordered a Coke, ran a casual gaze over the women and a more intent one over the men, and kept an eye on all the exits.

  So I saw him as soon as he walked in. He was about five foot seven, and he wore jeans so snug it was obvious he was sans underwear. His black leather jacket was unzipped, revealing the white T-shirt beneath it. His hair was dark and wavy, but the lighting in the bar was so dim I couldn’t see the color of his eyes. He did have a fine ass, which I noted when he turned slowly to observe the—the men.

  Sweet. The dinner bell just rang, and my mouth began to water.

  He brought the glass of wine he’d ordered to his mouth and took a healthy swallow.

  I ran my tongue over my upper lip, tasting the sweetness of the Coke, and toyed with the idea of taking a step toward him.

  A sly grin curled his lips, and I actually took that step, but then I saw where his gaze was resting. The guy was at the end of the bar. He stood about six feet tall, slim, with classic good looks, and he wore a suit that probably cost three times as much as mine. But then he was probably an honest-to-God businessman.

  As I watched, Leather Jacket approached him with a swagger, and the businessman’s eyes widened and he licked his lips nervously.

  Fucking God, what was I thinking? Leather Jacket was obviously a top, which was a shame—I’d have liked to tap that. For a second I pictured the businessman on his hands and knees, taking my cock up his ass while he mouthed the front of Leather Jacket’s jeans. Leather Jacket would free his cock and feed it to the businessman, and….

  I shook my head. I’d want my cock in Leather Jacket, not the businessman. As a matter of fact, I’d have preferred the businessman not be in the picture at all.

  Although if I’d wanted him, Leather Jacket wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  I put my glass down and tossed a couple of francs onto the bar.

  “Merci, m’sieur.” The bartender scooped up the coins and slid them into a pocket. “Bonsoir.”

  I nodded at him and walked out, but paused on the sidewalk just outside the door. I’d been in the business too long not to recognize the feeling that someone was watching me. I took out a pack of Marlboros—I wasn’t trying to pass for French, so I hadn’t bothered picking up Gauloises or Gitanes—shook out a cigarette, put it between my lips, and struck a match. Then I cupped my hands around it and dipped my head to touch the tip of the cigarette to the flame.

  With my cigarette lit, I extinguished the flame with a snap of my wrist and tossed the match aside. I tipped my head back and blew out a stream of smoke, watching the door from the corner of my eye. Leather Jacket sauntered out of the bar with his hand fisted around the businessman’s tie, leading him like a dog on a leash.

  I’d be damned before I let anyone handle me like that.

  I couldn’t help grinning at the bemused expression on the businessman’s face, though. “Have a good evening,” I wished them.

  “Sans doute, mon ami.” Leather Jacket grinned.

  “What?”

  He smirked and shook his head. “Come along, pet,” he said in French, and the two men walked off into the night.

  It really was too bad he wasn’t a bottom.

  The feeling of being watched was gone. Had it been him? I drew in a lungful of smoke, smiled after him, and stepped to the curb to whistle up a cab.

  “Hôtel de l’Espoir, s’il vous plaît,” I told the driver as I dropped the cigarette to the pavement and crushed it out.

  “Bien sûr.”

  About twenty minutes later—Paris traffic being what it was—he dropped me off in front of my hotel. I handed him the fare and a tip, and went inside.

  “Bonsoir, M. Blaine,” the evening desk clerk said as I crossed the lobby.

  “Good night, Gaston,” I responded and walked up the broad, curving staircase to the first floor. From there I jogged up the narrow stairs that led to the sixth floor. I didn’t care for elevators.

  Once in my room, I stripped down to my skivvies, got in the twin bed I’d chosen as mine, and pulled the duvet over my shoulders. I couldn’t get Leather Jacket out of my mind, though. What an absolute waste of a fine ass.

  I pictured him on his hands and knees on my bed, moaning steadily as I fucked him, and I tossed the duvet aside and reached into my shorts.

  After I came—harder than I’d expected—I fumbled for some tissues from the box I’d placed on the night table, wiped my palm off, then waited for my breath to steady before I walked into the bathroom. I flushed the tissues down the john, washed my hands, and yawned so widely my jaw felt like it was going to crack. Finally I made my way back to the bed and sprawled across it.

  I was asleep in about two seconds.

  VI

  THE next morning I picked up a copy of the Herald Tribune at the front desk and went out to a nearby café for breakfast. Tables were set along the sidewalk, but since it was drizzling, no one was sitting at them.

  I entered the café, found a table, and ordered a traditional French breakfast of bread and butter, a sliced peach, and coffee.

  As I sipped my coffee, something caught my attention. I held the mouthful of coffee for a moment before I swallowed it carefully. “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” I muttered to myself. Leather Jacket had wandered into the café.

  He hadn’t shaved, but the scruffy look suited him, and today he was dressed in unrelieved black. His jacket was slung over a shoulder, and his black T-shirt hugged his biceps and accentuated his pecs with their nipples that begged to be tugged and pinched. Like last night’s jeans, his black trousers clung to his legs—did his balls even have room to breathe?—and did a nice job of calling attention to the bulge at his crotch.

  He hung up his jacket and took a seat at an empty table, all the while scanning the room, and I finally got a glimpse of h
is eyes. They were gray-green. Pretty eyes. Restless eyes. I recognized their expression of unresolved lust as he examined one man after another. Last night hadn’t worked out for him?

  I swallowed a grin. I shouldn’t have felt such satisfaction for a fellow top’s unfortunate choice, but…. Tough luck.

  And if he was as horny as I hoped, maybe I’d be able to persuade him to bend over for me.

  I went back to reading the newspaper, but kept an unobtrusive eye on him, watching as he ordered petit-déjeuner complet. When it was finally brought to him, he downed his juice and dunked his croissant in his coffee bowl.

  And damned if the sight of his tongue slipping out to catch drops of coffee off his lips and fingers didn’t make my cock twitch.

  Abruptly he stilled. He reached for the coffee bowl and brought it to his mouth, casually surveying the area. Had he felt me watching him?

  I crossed my legs and licked a finger myself, but only to turn the page of the newspaper. After a moment I lowered the paper, reached for my cup, and allowed my gaze to wander toward him.

  With a jolt, I realized he was observing me steadily.

  I raised a questioning eyebrow. Let him think I found his regard presumptuous.

  He got up and approached my table. “I believe I saw you last night at Le Petit Homme,” he said in French.

  “Sorry. I don’t understand.”

  He repeated his words in English.

  “Are you sure?” I asked coolly.

  “Mais oui.”

  “I told you I don’t understand French.”

  “Forgive me. I am certain you were there.”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “My name is Louis.” And of course he gave it the French pronunciation, so that it sounded like Louie. “May I join you?”

  “Sure.” I extended my hand, and he took it. His hand was warm and callused, a workingman’s hand, and I liked the way it felt. I nodded toward the chair opposite me, folded the Trib and set it aside, and leaned back in my own chair. “I’m Rick.” I bit back a grin. “Can I order you a coffee?”