Limbo Man

by Blair Bancroft

  He sipped. He tried to smile and look friendly. A ring of dark faces smiled back. The woman next to him giggled, laid her long slim fingers over his flabby dick, flashed him a come-hither look impossible to mistake. Sergei summoned the full force of the Tokarev charm as he politely shook his head.

  The girl pouted beautifully, though obviously not seriously distressed. She turned to the handsome young man on her right, saying a few words Sergei couldn’t understand. The young man threw back his head and guffawed, strong white teeth flashing through the haze of smoke. Impugning his virility, no doubt. He had to get out of here before he popped somebody and blew the whole deal.

  The young man—with a body like a Mr. Clean made of dark chocolate—stood up, nodded to another young warrior, just as well built. With many grins and winks they dragged him up from the sunken, nearly springless couch and propelled him toward a back room, where they waved him inside and, still grinning broadly, shut the door, leaving him alone.

  Huh? Maybe they thought he was dampening the party spirits. Whatever. A few hours’ sleep before he took off would rid his head of the buzz. The divan-style bed that took up most of the tiny room looked surprisingly inviting. There was even a pillow and a brightly colored woven blanket.

  Sergei dropped onto the low bed, concentrating on removing his boots—the damn laces tended to go in and out of focus. Not exactly a plus to be thrown out of the celebration, no matter how good-natured the eviction, but what the hell, in a few hours he’d be airborne. Civilization, here I come.

  He was having the wet dream to end all wet dreams. His cock pulsed with the mother of all hard-ons. His body twitched. Soft hands touched him . . . everywhere. Eyes shut, he reveled in it. Bozhe moi, he was going to go off like Vesuvius.

  Too many hands, too many places. Sergei liked women, but only one at a time. He had no taste for kink. His eyes flew open. He gagged.

  He was looking straight into the wide dark eyes of a boy not more than nine. A boy with his mouth filled with cock. The soft fingers and warm mouths teasing his torso belonged to two girls not much older than the boy. All three jumped back as Sergei surged to a sitting position, head in his hands, struggling to convince himself this was all a nightmare—he’d look up and the kids would be gone.

  He shuddered, opened his eyes. The three kids were staring at him—the giant white man—fear shining from their eyes. He was displeased. They had failed.

  Sergei swallowed hard. Ignoring the nausea that threatened, he forced himself to speak quietly. Not that they could understand his words, but he hoped his tone would get through. He told them it was all right, he was not displeased. Reaching for his wallet, which, even when buzzed, he had sense enough to keep under his pillow, he gave each of them enough money to support their families for the next six months. He put his fingers to his lips, shook his index finger in what he hoped was universally understood as “Never tell a soul.” Then he shooed them out.

  The three children, eyes gleaming with the extent of his largesse and acknowledgment of the secret to be kept, backed away, finally turning to scramble through a curtain he hadn’t even noticed at the rear of the room. He could only hope that anyone who might have been listening accepted that he was pleased. The big white man who brought automatic weapons, RPGs, and plastic explosives would go away happy and bring in another load soon.

  Sergei sat on the edge of the low bed, knees up to his chin, and fought back nausea. He’d just been fucked by children. The fact that he hadn’t actually come didn’t matter. A child, a boy child, had gone down on him. The sight was seared into his brain forever. He’d never be the same.

  Bozhe moi, Bozhe moi, Bozhe moi! What had he done? How could he have gotten himself into this mess? Play on the Dark Side long enough . . .

  No, fuckit, no! This wasn’t part of the plan.

  Nick’s eyes snapped open. Somehow he expected to see the wall hanging from the hospital. Christ on the Cross. Instead, it was Ms Frosty, looking remarkably hot and bothered. He dragged in a deep, shuddering breath. There was something about a woman wearing nothing but transparent lavender froth and a shiny black nine mil that really turned him—

  Govnó! His dream slammed back. Horror. Shame. Nausea. He closed his eyes and shook. In spite of the cool night, he felt sweat dripping down his forehead.

  “Nick! Nick, it’s just a dream. You’re on the island. Safe.” Frosty’s fingers touched his shoulder.

  He knocked her hand away. “Don’t touch me! I’m filth.”

  “Nick, wake up! Whatever you saw, you have to tell me about it.”

  In pithy Russian he told her what she could do with that idea.

  “Pay attention, idiót! she barked, giving the epithet the Russian punch on the last syllable. Your nightmare could be a memory. And that’s what I’m here for, remember? I don’t care what you’ve done. I care about all the people who may die if you don’t get your memory back. So stop making like a panicked mouse—which doesn’t suit you at all—and tell me what you saw before the spigot turns off and it’s all down the drain.”

  “No way, no how.” He didn’t even open his eyes. Frosty shoved his legs toward the center of the bed and plopped down beside him. Shitty little bulldog.

  “Nick. Now. Before it’s gone.”

  He slitted one eye open. With hands clasped, face anxious, long blonde hair not quite covering boobs a pole dancer might have envied, Valentina Frost looked like a cross between an avenging angel and a sex goddess. Both images made him sick. Much too good for Sergei Tokarev, who’d done it with children.

  “Too late,” he muttered. “You know how dreams are. Overactive imagination gone wild. The little that lingers isn’t worth telling.”

  She stashed the Glock on the far side of the bed, then leaned over him, hands propped on either side of his waist. “Out with it, Nick. I’ll take any little thing I can get. The clock’s ticking toward another 9/11, and you may be the person who can stop it.”

  “Take my word for it. Not with this dream, even if it was real.”

  Vee repressed the urge to touch Nick’s bare arm, wipe his sweaty forehead, yet the need to comfort persisted. He was lying, she was certain of it. Hurt, vulnerable, and obviously horrified by whatever images he’d seen, Nick was like a cornered animal. Snarling. Fighting for his life. She didn’t want to feel sorry for the miserable gun-running son of a bitch, but it was hard not to.

  Yet if she touched him, he’d probably send her flying into the wall. So . . . walk softly—she already had the big stick. She was the cop; Nick, the prisoner. She’d lied when she told him he wasn’t.

  In a warm, gentle tone little above a whisper, Vee said, “Nick, you’ve been given a wedge. Call it a key to unlock the door. I’m no psychiatrist, but I’d be willing to bet that if you talk about what you dreamed, you can firm it up in your mind. Other things could start to come back. Important things. But if you clam up and don’t even try, it could be weeks, maybe months before we get another break. And by then it will likely be too late.”

  Green eyes blazed. Vee was already scrambling back when he grabbed her, shook her, and tossed her toward the end of the bed. “Idiot woman! Go away. Get out of my sight. You do not want to know this, I promise you. I will tell no one. Ever. It goes to my grave.”

  “That could be any moment now.” Using both hands, Vee pointed her Glock straight at the center of his forehead, where beads of sweat still lingered. Thank God he didn’t sleep commando but was wearing the black tee and matching briefs he’d chosen at Target. A naked Nick would have been the coup de grâce. She was naked enough for both—

  “Oow!” Her butt took the brunt of the hit as she thudded to the floor. Vee raised her eyes to the sight of her precious Glock dangling from Nick’s hand and his hard green eyes regarding her with something that almost looked like pity.

  “Foolish little Feeb, when will you learn your only power is what I give you?”

  Vee made no effort to get up. If neither common sense nor fear of disa
ster got through to him, maybe playing the pity card would. Not hard to sound vulnerable when her bottom was going to be black and blue for a week—nor sound defeated when she’d offered Nick a chance to save lives and he hadn’t even tried.

  Hadn’t tried. Why? She didn’t get the feeling he was part of whatever plot they were chasing, so why would he refuse? Fear? The shouts she’d heard, the look on his face when she burst into the room had been horror, pure horror. Was it possible Mr. Macho Tokarev was actually afraid of something?

  “Coward,” Vee taunted, glaring up at him. “Scared of big black shadows, the bogy man under the bed. Big strong Nick and his pal Sergei. So fragile they can’t face up to a nightmare. Fraidy cats, the both of you.”

  Nick didn’t even blink. He handed her the gun. “So shoot me.”

  Vee levered herself off the braided rug, knee-walked toward the bed. Nick was crouched back on his haunches about a foot from the edge. “Nick,” she vowed, “I’ll never tell another soul as long as I live, but you have to trust me. Turn the key, see what happens. You do want to remember yourself, don’t you?”

  “The last place in the world you want to be right now is on your knees in front of me.”

  Vee vaulted onto the bed, hastily putting her back to the scrolled maple footboard. Once again, she’d been made painfully aware how poorly prepared she was for this particular type of undercover work. With emphasis on undercover. Twenty-four hours ago she had thought herself a sophisticated hotshot, the Special Agent who was a cut above. Today she’d eaten so much humble pie it was a wonder she didn’t look like the Goodyear blimp.

  Nick put his back to the headboard, stretched his legs out in front of him, parallel to hers.

  “The worst part,” he told her, “is that it wasn’t a nightmare. I know—somehow I know—it was a memory. I don’t want to be Sergei Tokarev, but it looks like I am. And it sickens me.”

  Silent, immobile, Vee waited, afraid the slightest twitch might put a stop to the story that hovered on his tongue.

  “But I will tell you—because I am not a coward. And I am not a man who wants people to die because he did not make the effort. Konyeshno?”

  Vee curled up at the foot of the bed, giving him space. Nick leaned back, hands fisted in the hand-quilted bedcover. Eyes shut, he recounted every shocking detail, sparing himself nothing. Somewhere in the distance, a fog horn blew, adding a fitting, mournful note to the gloom.

  “Nick, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I was drunk and zoned out, playing “Hail, fellow, well met,” with a bunch of stone cold killers. Just so we’d get their next round of business.”

  The poor guy looked almost as bad as when she’d hauled him up the stairs that morning, but, dammit, she couldn’t afford to coddle him. “You turned down a couple of women. What did you expect them to think?”

  Nick groaned. “They might have sent some gay blade. How in the hell could they think I wanted . . . I mean, not even Sergei would consider a kid.”

  “That’s right,” Vee responded evenly. “Sergei is the gun-runner, not Nick. It was Sergei in bed with the kids.” She watched his face as that bit of specious reasoning sank in. Casually, she added, “What did you do after you sent the kids away?”

  “Rousted the chopper pilot out of bed and slunk off in the middle of the night.”

  “Did you blow your business deal?”

  “No, they were anxious to buy, and I didn’t have to go back again. Time for the peons to take over.”

  “How long have you been playing Sergei?” Nick stiffened. His eyes snapped shut. Oh-oh, too much of a leap. She’d messed up. “I mean it,” Vee assured him. “I’ll never tell. And keep remembering it was Sergei the kids went down on, not Nick, or whatever the hell your name is.”

  “Think you’re so clever,” Nick muttered. “Ms Smarty who’s going to pick my brain even if she has to use a crowbar.”

  “Did you dream that last bit about the chopper?”

  “No,” he ground out. “That was a memory. It came to me right here, right now. Satisfied?” he jeered.

  “Excited,” she countered. “We’ve breached the blank wall. That’s a biggie.”

  “Yeah, right. Just what a man wants to know about himself. Kids!” Face distorted with pain, Nick dropped his gaze, studying the bedcover as if he planned to take up quilting in the morning.

  “Stop beating yourself up over something you can’t fix. It’s a wedge, Nick. Use it.”

  “Bozhe moi, I’m afraid to close my eyes.” And as for you, I don’t know if I want to kiss you or kill you. Get out of here before I use you to erase the kids. What’s the matter?” he added as she continued to stare at him. “Never fucked a monster? And I don’t just mean the one on the outside.”

  “Go ahead, feel sorry for yourself,” Vee said as she shoved herself off the bed. There was, after all, only so much bravado a girl could fake. “You’re a strong man in the prime of life, who’s holding the key to himself in the palm of his hand. Don’t chicken out on me now.”

  “Dammit, woman, what if the next dream is worse?”

  “Not an easy act to encore,” Vee said, “but whatchagonnado once you’ve made the crack? Jam your finger in the dike?”

  Nick’s eyes widened, darkened to smolder. Vee suddenly realized she was standing with her back to the light, wearing nothing but lavender lingerie fabric that didn’t extend beyond mid-thigh. Oh, shit! Pointing the Glock at the floor, she dashed to the door, down the hall, and locked herself in her bedroom. For good measure, she propped a chair against the door. Nick—or maybe it was Sergei—had a definite gift for opening locks.

  Now that she was safely barricaded—from assault or from temptation?—excitement flooded through her. Some of it, she had to admit, from the lightning bolts that zinged between Nick and herself, the intensity increasing every time they clashed. The remainder of her inner glow was triumph. The good guys were winning. The great white blank wrapped around Nick’s brain was giving way.

  And when it did?

  For a moment—one swift nostalgic moment—Vee thought longingly of Florida’s welcoming warmth. Of Cade, the man she knew she could trust with her life.

  Instead, she had Sergei Tokarev, a miserable, skirt-chasing excuse for a human being, and Nick, the mystery man. Nick, the shadow who animated the arms smuggler. The granite behind the Tokarev charm.

  Nick, the man who lived in Limbo. Next door to Hell.

  Chapter 7

  Vee woke to Nick shouting, pounding on her door. Another dream? Another memory? Her feet hit the floor running, only to be brought up short by the chair under the door knob. “What?” she called as she snapped on the light.

  “Look out the window!”

  Vee charged back across the room, thrust the draperies aside. She grabbed the sill for support, as air whooshed out of her lungs in a huge sigh of relief.

  “Vee!”

  Let him panic. Served him right. Getting her out of bed twice in one night. Shaking her head, Vee removed the bentwood chair, turned the old-fashioned key in the lock. She pointed to the chair. “Sit.” Meekly, Nick obeyed, the look in his arrogant green eyes reduced to something close to sheepish.

  “That,” Vee told him, thrusting an index finger toward the window, “is a trap rock barge.” She held up her hand, palm out, to stop the obvious question, resuming her explanation with patience bordering on exasperation. “It’s a special kind of rock used in foundations. Trap rock from here is at the base of the Statue of Liberty. It’s brought down by train from the quarry a few miles north, then loaded onto the barges. Tugboats take the barges wherever the stuff is needed. And, yes, I can understand you didn’t expect to see a boat pulling a long string of barges, the whole thing lit up like a Christmas tree, right outside your window. But, honestly, Nick, it isn’t as if you don’t see that kind of thing in the city. Manhattan is also an island, remember?” Or maybe he didn’t.

  “It looked like an invasion,” he muttered. “Iwo Jima, Normand
y, Inchon—that kind of thing.”

  Selective memory, Vee noted. Weird. But useless to be angry with him, to expect more than Nick could give at this point. And no surprise to discover neither he nor Sergei took a scolding well. What could she expect from a macho male reduced to little more than an invalid, amnesia or no amnesia? “So you’re a history buff,” she said. “Chalk up another memory.”

  “Screw memories. I’ll settle for being able to sleep.”

  “Me, too,” Vee returned with considerable irony. And then, as she stared at him, willing him to his feet, she took another look, and blew it. This was Nick, her responsibility, with the arrogance and smug defiance knocked out of him. Nick, projecting chagrin and defeat. There he sat, his battered body still well-muscled enough to overwhelm the delicate bentwood chair. A man whose inner strength overcame the bandages on his head, the numerous stitches and bruises on the long expanse of arms and legs not covered by his black tee and skimpy brief. Obviously, he hadn’t slept since his nightmare, or he wouldn’t have seen the string of trap rock barges gliding by outside his window. And she was sending him back to dream some more.

  “Okay.” Vee sighed. “You helped me earlier. No reason I can’t return the favor.” But as she marched around to the back of the chair, her lavender gown flouncing up, flirting with where the sun don’t shine, she caught Sergei’s lascivious gleam re-emerging in Nick’s dull eyes. And why not, idiot, when that’s why you bought it. Told yourself it was for the job, but truth is, you wondered what it would take to rock the man back on his heels.

  Unfortunately, what she was discovering was that when Nick got rocked back on his heels, he turned into Sergei. Nonetheless . . . if she was standing directly behind him, he couldn’t see her. And this much she owed him.