by D. D. Marks
"We're professionals, Mister Orion." She tucked the card away. "So, you want me to poke him until he tells me who he was planning to sell to."
"Exactly."
"And the information?"
"Destroy all copies."
"Naturally. But, I have to ask... what was this tarball?"
Orion scowled. "Is it necessary?"
"If you want me to pressure him without sounding like an idiot, yes."
Orion stood, hands clasped behind his back, and turned to look out the window onto the wide sweep of the grassy forecourt. "Schematics and code-"
"For what?"
He sighed. "A proprietary missile defence shield. We've spent eleven years developing it and what Young stole is more than enough to give a competitor a leg-up. It's worth a lot to us, and we don't want to lose this tender, let alone the investment. We especially don't want to see it taken overseas and appropriated." He ducked his head. "I currently have two security personnel watching his house. We'd like this wrapped up by tomorrow evening. Silently. If word gets out to shareholders, or, god forbid, the DoD..."
"We'll be discreet."
"You'd better," Orion growled. "If you fuck this up-"
"Like I said. We're professionals." She reached across the desk to shake Orion's hand, but he didn't move. "We... we'll call you."
Olesia retreated into the corridor and made her way to the elevator, the SD card clasped so tight in her palm that it cut into the skin. It wasn't until she was back out in the parking lot that she began cursing. "Stupid asshole, thinks I can't interrogate a guy without telling the whole fucking neighbourhood... blew up half a city block, I could blow his office all the way to the fucking moon..."
Jean was waiting by the car. "Hey. You look pleased with yourself."
"The world is choked with assholes, Jean." She sagged into the passenger seat. "I'm tired of people treating me like a lackey."
"You are a lackey." He turned the key, and the Camaro purred. "We're all lackeys. You're just high enough up the ladder to see how far up it goes." They pulled out of the lot, and the security guards waved as they rejoined the highway. "This is why you can't do jobs forever. Not for Blackrock, not for anybody. Got to have an exit strategy."
"Please, Jean..." She rubbed her temples, trying to massage away an oncoming migraine. "I don't need a lecture. I really just want to get to my hotel, drink a beer and have a shower."
Jean was supposed to be watching the road, but she noticed how his gaze flicked down to her long, pale legs, crossed beneath her skirt. "You sure you want me to drop you at the hotel? I mean, I've stayed there, it's nice, but I've got a place out in the suburbs."
Slowly, delicately, she uncrossed her legs and stretched. Her smooth skin flashed in the sunlight. "Got a wife to go with that house?"
Jean raised one eyebrow. "Not my thing, Olly. You know that. Beer, on the other hand, is my thing. Got a great case of Belgian imports at my place, a few trappists..." He caught her stare. "What?"
"It's nothing." She tried to hide her smile. Once again, she remembered the days spent by the river in DC, the exorbitant room service bills and the bruises left on her thighs, the pattern of his fingers squeezed into her left wrist like a bracelet. "I just never saw you becoming a connoisseur."
"Yeah, well." He gripped the wheel tight with his big, calloused hands. "Some things are worth holding on to."
* * *
Thirty minutes later, those broad hands were wrapped around Olesia's waist as Jean lifted her up on to the dresser beside his bed. It creaked beneath her weight, and she tried to wriggle free but Jean had her pinned. He pressed her against the backing mirror and kissed her deeply, his lips hot against hers, and she gasped as she pulled away. "Couldn't wait, could you?"
"Olly, I've been missing you for two years now. You think I'm going to wait another minute?" His stubble scratched against her cheek as he kissed down her neck to the collar of her shirt. He popped the buttons open one after the other, and Olesia arched her back as he reached inside the cloth and ran his fingers down her spine. "You missed me too?"
She purred under her breath. "Don't call me Olly."
He laughed, a rumbling laugh that came from deep in his belly, and pulled her in until his chest pressed against the bare skin of her stomach. "You sure haven't changed."
"Shame I'm only here on business."
"Yeah. Shame." He squeezed her right knee, and then eased her legs apart. His fingers danced up the inside of her thigh. "Think you can take some time off?"
Olesia grinned. "This isn't very professional."
"Fuck professional." Jean dropped to his knees and kissed her left knee, then her right, before nibbling his way up the inside of her thigh. His lips were warm, tingling against her skin, and she laughed as she pushed him away. "Jean, come on! I told you-"
"You told me what?" He looked up at her with his big, dark eyes, and then bit the inside of her thigh. She gasped, and then blushed at her own reaction. "See?" he said. "You missed me."
"Maybe." She tried to look coy as Jean wriggled her skirt up over her hips and teased her underwear aside with his teeth. "I thought you were turning over a new leaf when you started being a supply-guy. Settle down, find a nice lady?"
"Nice ladies don't work for me. I like the ones with a bit of kick in them." He grinned up at her before running his tongue along the inside of her leg, stopping just short of her most private of places. It felt as if he'd just pressed a battery to her skin, sparks shooting in all directions. "There's something on your mind. Tell me."
"God, now?"
"Now."
She swallowed hard, trying to keep her thoughts straight. "There's a man - an engineer, for Lockheed - selling off some stolen schematics for..." She couldn't see what he was doing, but she could feel the pressure of his tongue. It sent strange tingles all the way down into her toes. "It just doesn't make sense. There's no reason for Blackrock to get called in just to broker a deal with a wannabe spy. He-" She gasped as his tongue darted in deep, a hot twitch that made her squeeze her legs together around Jean's head. He pulled back, red-faced. "Shit, Jean, I'm sorry. You okay?"
"Never better." Jean grinned and licked his lips. "More?"
"The dresser is hurting my butt, sorry." She hopped down, and was suddenly aware again of how tall Jean was, how her head barely reached his collarbone. Then again, that had always been the part of him she liked the most. How he'd been able to pick her up and toss her across the bed with one arm, grab both her wrists in one wide hand and pin her no matter how she wriggled or howled...
There was a heat building between her thighs, and one glance at Jean's pants let her know that he was on the edge as well. She pressed one palm against his crotch and felt him harden beneath the fabric. "Been holding this in for long?"
"Only a few years, Olly."
"Call me that again and I'll bite it off." She tugged his zipper down and reached inside, curling her fingers around his length. It throbbed in her grasp. "And don't get sweet with me. Years? You've probably got fifty girls on rotation."
"Honest, I don't! Sure, there's a few nice ladies around town, but they never stick."
"Not like me?"
"Not like you."
She grinned, tugging Jean's pants down from around his hips. His cock hung before her, thick and pale, just a bit longer than her palm from fingertip to wrist. Silky smooth from end to end, with a tuft of black hair curling around the base of his shaft.
It begged to be touched, to be licked. She opened her mouth wide and ran her tongue up the underside of Jean's shaft, all the way from the base to the head, taking in his musk. He tasted odd, almost peppery, and it made her head spin.
Jean groaned. Olesia said, "You like?"
"Fuck yeah, I like." Jean rested a hand on the back of her head. He wasn't pushing her down - just a gentle pressure that made it so easy to open wide and take him deep into her mouth. He grunted as she closed her lips around his shaft, and she reached up to run her fingers
down Jean's stomach, letting her nails drag around his bellybutton. It was easy to fall into a rhythm, and she closed her eyes as she bobbed her head back and forth, tracing the lines of his hardness with the tip of her tongue.
Jean made a noise like he'd been punched in the gut. His cock twitched against the roof of Olesia's mouth, and she pulled back long enough to ask, "You want to come?"
"I can't stop," he gasped, and she enveloped him in the heat of her mouth, massaging, teasing. Jean grunted again. His hand twisted in her hair as his cock twitched, and suddenly she was swallowing, his load salty and sticky on the back of her tongue. His balls tightened in her hand. She risked a glance up; Jean's head was thrown back, eyes screwed shut with pleasure.
Then, finally, he was done. She swallowed again and kissed his length from top to bottom, relishing his taste. "Hey, boy. How're you feeling?"
Jean made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. "Good."
"You weren't lying. That was about two years of blowjobs, right there." She stood slowly, pins and needles flooding through her legs. The heat between her legs throbbed, and when she reached down she realised she was soaking wet. "Got another round in you?"
Jean blinked. His eyes cleared. "Yeah," he said, in a throaty growl that made Olesia quiver. "I think I do."
He bent down to kiss her, and she let him lead her to the bed and push her down on her stomach, nudging her legs open with the toe of his boot. She cried out as he entered her, stretching her, pinning her in place. Her first orgasm roared up from somewhere dark and forgotten.
After that, it was all fireworks.
Chapter 3
She woke with the sheets tangled around her hips, sunlight playing across her bare breasts. Jean was gone.
She rolled over and groped for the alarm clock. Six AM. Only idiots were awake at six AM. She closed her eyes, but with Jean's half of the bed so conspicuously empty it was impossible to fall back into her dream, so she tossed the sheet away and padded naked through Jean's house, following the bleating sound of a television. The terracotta tiles were cold beneath her feet and the unfamiliar corridors led her first into a bathroom, white towels folded neatly on a rattan chair, and then through a laundry that led into a garage. A single bare bulb washed over Jean's Camaro, as well as a blue Ford Focus - the standard issue vehicle for Blackrock employees who valued economy and low repair bills over speed and flash.
She flicked the light off and retreated, this time passing by a shadowed study lined with empty bookshelves, and another room left completely bare, the carpet dusty and the paint faded. She frowned at that, but continued on, finally turning a corner into the living room where a wide, plush couch faced a flatscreen TV nearly the size of the entire wall. The TV spat early morning news, something about a local theft, a car crash, a far-reaching investigation.
Jean was silhouetted before the blue glare of the newsroom, his bald head shining in the light. He turned when Olesia came in, and smiled. "You're up? Thought you'd sleep for a week after that little session."
"Easy to bed, easy to rise." She yawned, teasing the knots out of her blonde hair. "What's on?"
Jean shrugged. He jammed on the remote and the TV blinked off. "Couple days ago, some kids jacked a truck headed for the Silverado gun show, up in Marlboro. Took off with a hundred grand worth of submachine guns and ammo. Still can't find the bastards. Probably already selling them in Washington or Detroit... Gang economy."
She settled beside Jean on the couch and curled into the warmth of his body. He was naked, and his bare skin tickled against hers. "Someone else's problem?"
"Sure as shit isn't mine. If I wanted to stop that sort of low level junk, I'd have joined the PD. Nope, my philosophy is the same as it's always been."
"Step light, and watch the skies?"
"Exactly."
"Didn't help you in Pakistan."
"Ha! I didn't learn it until after Pakistan. Twelve weeks with your arm in a cast teaches you a lot." He ruffled Olesia's hair. "Don't you have a job to do?"
"God, don't remind me. Where's my bag?"
"Where ever you left it, sweetheart."
She grumbled at that, and when she pushed off the couch Jean smacked her on the ass hard enough to sting. For a moment she considered smacking him back, but then she heard the familiar beep of headquarters calling, and she ran for her phone. Her bags, along with her skirt, thong, jacket, stockings, heels, necklace and bra, were piled by the dresser where she and Jean had fucked the day before. It already seemed like weeks ago, the memory of his sweat and pleasure a distant haze.
She plucked her phone from the tangle of clothes. No missed calls, thank God. "Hey, Sparks. Why're you up so early?"
"Alleycats and... Eight-Oh-Six, stop skipping the protocol!"
"The sun isn't even up, you think I'm going to play that game?"
A string of obscenities were muffled by the speaker. "The Lockheed security staff watching Young's house just called in. They said he's been running around, making a real fuss. Lots of noise."
"Anyone else in the house?"
"Nobody in or out. He's probably getting ready to run."
"Must have spotted the spotters. Fucking amateurs... Okay, okay, I'll be there." She hung up, already shimmying into her bra. "Jean!" she called. "I need to borrow your car."
Jean's reply was barking laughter, echoing the whole way through the house. "The Ford, right? No way are you touching the Camaro."
"I'm in a hurry!"
"Sure, isn't everyone? I don't trust anyone with that baby, not you, not my own mother."
She scowled as she tugged her skirt back over her hips. She still smelled of Jean's sweat but there wasn't any time to freshen up. The SP-01 was loaded, and she adjusted her shoulder holster beneath her jacket, wincing at how the magazine ruined the cut of the fabric. "Remind me why I like you so much?"
"My winning personality, Olly," came the reply from the living room. "And my dick."
* * *
She took the Ford, grumbling all the way. Young's house was one of several identical, white-washed two-story units facing out on to a nature reserve, and it wasn't until she saw the car parked conspicuously on the far side of the street that she knew she had the right place. The car was a little black import with a trunk like a ghetto-rapper's butt, and two men sat inside, having an argument. They straightened up when Olesia passed. Black suits, white shirts, black ties. Security staff always dressed up like X-Files extras when they were out on assignment, she thought. Typical.
She parked around the corner and walked the rest of the way, the SP-01 a comfortable weight against her ribs. Young's place, number forty-three, squatted behind a wrought-iron fence, the grass cut neat and the windows shuttered. She watched the glass for any sign of Young, but the house was still.
Olesia sidled up on the passenger side of the black car and rapped sharply on the window. The man behind the glass glanced up. He looked young, almost too young for security, with a dusting of stubble and his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. The window slid down and he leaned out. "Ma'am, if you're after directions-"
"I'm the contractor." She let her jacket swing open wide enough to show the butt of the pistol protruding from the holster. "Is Young still inside?"
The two men looked at each other, then nodded. "Went out for coffee an hour ago, then came back and stayed in. He usually sits upstairs in his study. That's the room facing us." He pointed at the second story of Young's house. "What do you need us to do?"
"Just cover the door. If he runs, I don't want to have to chase him in heels. You got a key?"
They drew a paper packet out from the glove box. It jingled as Olesia tore it open and poured the keys out into her hand. "You boys have a lovely day," she said, and went across the road to number forty-three.
She watched the large bay windows carefully as she unlocked the gate. There were no signs of life behind the curtains, but even so, she reached inside her jacket and flicked the safety. The front yard stank of fres
h fertiliser and she held her breath as she unlocked the front door, wincing as the locks clicked back. Only after a count of twenty did she nudge the door open and step inside.
The house was dark and cool. The aircon whirred on full, loud enough to block out any creaking or footsteps upstairs. Leather lounge, IKEA coffee table, fake fireplace. A paper cup of something brown sat on the coffee table, but when she pressed the back of her hand against the cup it was cold.
She crept through to the kitchen. It was empty, as was the laundry by the back door. She glanced through the window into the back garden. Rows of potted plants and a small wooden bench, but no sign of Steven Young.
Upstairs, then.
She peered up the staircase, into the shadows. She could just make out the entrance to Young's study, light breaking through beneath the door, and she made her way up with one hand on the butt of her pistol. A fat tabby cat was asleep on the landing, but woke as Olesia climbed the final step. She nudged the tabby away and it regarded Olesia with baleful blue eyes.
She pressed her ear against the study door. Inside was a faint humming of computer fans, but no sound of typing, no muttering or hushed breath. She drew her pistol and knocked on the door. "Mister Young?"
There was no reply.
Again, she rapped on the door. When she breathed deep she was sure she smelled something like sour milk, or vomit. "Mister Young, we know what you're planning. I could have you arrested, but I'm here to make you an offer instead. Place your hands on your desk, spread wide-"
No sound came from inside the room. She caressed the trigger, counted to three and shoved the door open. The study was bathed in sunlight, a bank of four flatscreens lit from behind in silhouette. An office chair lay overturned on the ground, and the carpet around it was soaked black.
