by BWWM Club
Black And White Ops
A fast moving military romance
A fast moving military romance, brought to you by Aaron Steel of BWWM Club.
If Monique knew her teaching job in Russia would end in her fleeing for her life, she just might not have taken it!
Caught up in the middle of a US military assassination attempt, she now finds herself fighting her way out of Russia and back to safe grounds.
With only agent Rick Wilson by her side, a hunky agent on a black ops mission, at least she has a capable and surprisingly caring man looking out for her.
Rick Wilson is an independent operative for a secret American government intelligence agency.
During an operation to take out a hacker threatening US security, he’s forced to seek shelter with Monique Harrison, an English teacher at a school in St. Petersburg.
Despite their obvious life threatening situation, he can't help but be drawn to this curvy beauty.
What follows is a fast moving whirlwind romance, with feelings between the two greatly enhanced by their life threatening situation.
But will they be able to survive long enough to give this romance a real chance?
Find out in this new and exciting black ops romance by Aaron Steel of BWWM Club.
Suitable for over 18s only due to sex scenes so hot, you'll want to find your own military man!
Tip: Search BWWM Club on Amazon to see more of our great books.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
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Chapter 1
The cold winter nights near St. Petersburgh were a constant reminder of how far north the city was located. Built by Tsar Peter in the seventeenth century it had the same latitude as the Hudson Bay in Canada. Canada had no major cities in Hudson Bay. Russia needed a port opened to the sea and the only place Tsar Peter could find was Finland Bay, where St. Petersburgh would soon be constructed. He willed a great city to be created at this location and today it is the most modern of Russia’s larger cities.
Monique Harrison had taught English at St. Michael the Archangel Gymnasium in St. Petersburg for the past five years. She had accepted a job with the school after graduating from the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia and not been impressed with any of the teaching jobs she was offered in the state. The Russian Gymnasium, a private school for older adolescents, was willing to pay off her student loans and give her a stipend to teach English to the children of the new business class which was emerging in Russia. A curvy black woman from Philadelphia, Monique was looking for a new adventure after graduating.
So she had to get used to being called Devoshuka Harrison by her students. Monique had only heard Russian in the Northeast part of Philadelphia and never had a reason to learn the language. But soon after taking the job, she found it important to learn it unless she wanted to appear lost and confused to the people she lived around. The school found her a place to stay in an apartment building next door, where many of the other teaching staff found themselves housed.
Over the years she had learned what she needed to know and could converse on a need basis with the average Russian on the street. She became used to the stares she would get from the average person, but the people who lived on her street knew who she was and didn’t bother her. Every now and then a drunken day laborer might start yelling at her and any other foreigner, but there were plenty of people who would intervene on her behalf. It didn’t bother her any more than being shouted out by uneducated rednecks in the county areas outside Philadelphia.
As time went on she had added the curves to her already tall body. Monique had played basketball in high school as she was one of the tallest girls in her class. Her mother had seen to it that she was the best student in her school and in line for a scholarship when one became available. Her financial aid money hadn’t paid for everything and she was forced to go into debt to support her education. This is why the job with the school was such a Godsend.
It was late in December when she heard the familiar sounds of an English speaker in a coffee shop off the Nevsky Prospect. It was a tiny little place which reminded her of some of the Center City Philadelphia places she used to hand out in Philadelphia. Monique was sitting in a chair at a table reading her smart phone’s news report. She was in the process of sipping a cappuccino in a small cup when she heard the man talking. She turned her head to look at the speaker on the other side of the room. She nearly fell out of her chair at the gorgeous man who was conversing with a Russian woman.
The shop wasn’t large and was filled mostly with Russians who were getting up for one reason or another on a cold Sunday morning. From the look of it, many of the couples had just met the night before. Monique stayed as far away from the club scene as she could. She wasn’t the standard rail-thin ice queen beauty most of the local men were searching for. Furthermore, she had no desire to end up on someone’s bucket list. She had overheard enough men in St. Petersburg talk about capturing an “African Flag” to keep her away from them. Once she had enough money saved up, she planned to resign and return to the United States. No matter how messed-up America might be at any given moment, it was still the only home she knew.
The man appeared to be in his early thirties and had a two-day growth of beard on him. Like the woman he was with, the man was white, but he had the look of someone who had spent a lot of time outdoors. His head was almost shaven to the point of a military haircut. She wondered about the relationship between him and the young woman he was with, but unlike the other couples in the coffee shop who were crawling all over each other, he was formal and keeping his distance. She tried not to stare too closely at him as just being in his vicinity was giving her a little bit of excitement between her legs.
The woman he was with looked to be about twenty years of age and had long blond hair with ice blue eyes. She couldn’t weigh more than one hundred pounds and was hidden in a tight sweater with stylish ski pants on her legs. Monique noted with approval the Coach handbag she had slung around her shoulder. It was impossible to understand what they were discussing at her distance, but it had to be important from the hushed tones he was using with her. Her nails were manicured to perfection and she wore a set of designer glasses on her face. Likewise she had time to put on her makeup and the woman’s face was a walking advertisement for a cosmetic supplier.
As she sipped her drink and looked at her phone, Monique saw the man’s hand slide out of his pocket and hand the woman something that was green. Whatever the amount of money, it was substantial as she slipped it in her ski pants pocket the second he gave it to her. They talked for another five minutes and then the man kissed her on the cheek. She gave him a hug and left the shop while he continued to drink the coffee he’d ordered for himsel
f.
Monique watched the man get up from where he had been sitting and turn to look at her. She tried her best to stay invisible, but didn’t succeed. He had noticed her. She had been living in St. Petersburg so long that it no longer bothered her when someone stared, so long as they didn’t make a racial remark. Monique went back to her smart phone. Then she saw him with her peripheral vision rise up from his table and begin walking in her direction. Damn, she thought, I’m in a tight spot. No way to ignore him now. The man walked over to her and pulled up a chair across from her. She could feel the warmth from his body where she sat.
“Are you an American?” he asked in a smooth baritone voice. The way he rolled his letters made her wet between the legs.
Monique looked up from her smart phone and smiled. “Yes I am, by way of Philadelphia,” she told him. “And what brings you here?”
“Business,” he told her. “I saw you looking up at me when I was talking to Tatiana, the woman I was with. Not that many Russians speak good English. I didn’t think you were from here, so I assumed one of the East African countries when I stepped in the door with her. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. Do you work here or are you just visiting?”
He wore a leather jacket over an expensive pair of pants. Monique stayed on top of the styles in the US and noticed the label on his jeans. It wasn’t one of the cheap brands. His boots were tooled western wear, not cheap either. She saw a pair of gloves in his side pocket which matched everything else he wore.
“Working,” she told him. “I didn’t catch your name Mister….?”
“Rick,” he told her. “Rick Wilson. I didn’t get yours either.”
“My friends in American call me Monique,” she replied. “Monique Harrison. I teach English on the other side of St. Petersburg at a private school.”
Monique suddenly became aware of the condition of her hair. It was almost impossible to find a cosmologist in St. Petersburg who knew how to take care of African hair, so she was forced to do her own hair most of the time. The only one who knew how to cut and style her hair was around the corner. She had made and was going to keep an appointment at Mr. Serge’s in another hour. It was the one indulgent thing she allowed herself.
“So what kind of business are you in Rick?” she asked him, putting her cup down. He was leaning toward her, making Monique feel very sexy. A sensation she hadn’t had in a long time.
“Believe it or not, I deal in coffee,” he told her. “I hook up the small distributors in Russia with big suppliers in the gulf states. I can get them the best quality roasted coffee they can afford. I see you like your coffee strong. The brand you are drinking was supplied by my firm.”
Monique leaned back and gave him a sultry look. She hadn’t been with a man since leaving Philadelphia. The only time she had been back was for a family visit two years ago and didn’t have the opportunity to look up any of her old boyfriends. It appeared this man was being handed to her on a silver platter. But she had to be careful. Her momma didn’t raise a fool and the wrong decision could mess everything up for her.
“So, Rick,” she said. “How do you like your coffee? I like my coffee with lots of cream and sugar.”
“Black,” he told her. “I like my coffee dark roasted and with a flavor of rare oil in the background. I like to take my time sipping it too, that way I know I’ve got the full enjoyment out of it. I like to put the cup to my lips and slowly feel the flavor on my tongue. I like to use my tongue on my coffee to make sure I can tease the flavor out of it. I like my coffee strong too, so strong that it just swallows me up. How do you like yours?”
Rick Wilson had been in St. Petersburg for the past three weeks. The agency had contacted him last month about the latest job they had waiting. It would pay well and not involve the kind of risks he'd had to endure when he was in Argentina ten months ago. Rick didn’t care about the risk so long as it paid well. He was hoping for Brazil this time as the women down there were legendary. He’d never fallen in love once in his life and hoped it might change if he went down to Rio. But no luck this time. To Russia it was to be.
Rick had been recruited right out of college by someone with the agency. Officially, it was known as the National Agency of Inquiries, or the NAI. But everyone connected called it simply “the agency”. It served the purpose and got right down to the point. The agency was one of many small government offices most people had never heard about and fewer even cared if they did. The agency preferred to keep a low profile. It provided the executive branch of the government with all the information it needed to make the quick decisions. Maybe not always the best decisions, but no one had every called the agency’s intelligence reports into question.
And the agency had to carry out clandestine activities on occasion too. Since keeping a field agent active was so expensive, the agency had decided early in its fifty-year existence that the best thing to do was use freelancers. They didn’t suck up taxpayer money when the mission ended and wouldn’t be adding to the expense account with pensions. Plus, there was always the ability to use “plausible denial” if anything did go wrong out in the field. The occasional archaeologist might need a grand to help him or her get through till the next paper was published. In return, they might have the chance to go check out what was happening in the military zone next door and let their casual employers know if the unfriendly government was buying surface-to-air missiles from a third party.
In Rick’s instance, he had been a foreign language whiz kid at high school with the ability to pick up a new tongue unequaled by anyone they had ever seen. By the time he was fifteen, Rick spoke ten major languages fluently. He had a working knowledge of another ten and was conversational in six more. It was a calling as far as he was concerned. The study of languages opened up the world to him. He had come of age in a household where every family member spoke a primary language other than English. His mother was German, his father Russian and his mother’s Ukrainian mother stayed with them. At age three, the Spanish grandfather on his father’s side moved into a spare room in the house. When he was five he asked his mother when he was going to get his own private language.
With such ability, he was bound to attract some kind of Foreign Service agency or international corporation. But Rick had decided to become an airborne ranger at eighteen after he qualified for jump school a few months into his army career. The international situation became very hot after he enlisted and Rick found himself flown to all kinds of remote places. His knowledge of languages was handy to have when the platoon found itself dropped into some area that spoke some version of a language hardly anyone knew. Within a few days, Rick would be the man they’d use to communicate with the elders at the village.
After he’d mustered out of the army, Rick had looked into several jobs that interested him, all of which had to do with international security, but no one wanted to pay him what he felt he was worth. One day a young woman had walked up to him at a bar in Manhattan and introduced herself. She told him a special branch of the government had saw his resume on line and wanted to talk to him. They had a job in mind for him. It was temporary, but the pay would offset any long term concerns he might have. All they wanted him to do was report to an address which she handed him on a card. She also handed him a brochure about the agency. Rick thanked her then went home and looked up the agency on line.
He was impressed what he read and, from the description about it, Rick assumed it would be some kind of technological assessment job where he would translate obscure journals for congress. He called the number, made an appointment, and showed up on their front door a week later.
His first clue about the agency’s real mission was from the field office where he reported. It was not some bright and clean chrome office building, but a run-down office in a strip mall in a bad area. If someone had wanted to conceal an obscure agency of the government, they couldn’t have picked a better place. It was completely at odds with the way the agency had presented itself as a benign branch t
hat assessed foreign technological developments.
When Rick sat down with his interviewer, he was surprised they knew so much about him. They even knew about the Basque girl he’d dated in college because he wanted to practice her language. Rick was one of the few outsiders who had mastered Basque, with its words that relied on X’s and K’s since it was not related to any other European language. The relationship never went anywhere, but Rick continued to look for a woman who could match his expectations. They also knew his grandfather had fought on the Carlist side in the Spanish Civil War. They mentioned a few other facts about his family and asked him if he was still interested in the occasional job.
By then, Rick was intrigued enough to find out what they wanted out of him. If these people could find out so much, they had to have some grand job out there which paid good money. So he continued with the interview and found out what they were willing to pay per assignment. When they waved the figure in front of him, Rick was sold. He could have been sent to a desert full of scorpions for the kind of money they were talking. He quickly agreed and filled out a stack of papers for them. He was given a number and told to call it in another week.
The money showed in his bank account a few days later and Rick was excited when he called the agency when he was supposed to. They told him to come in the next day to a completely different office where they would discuss his first assignment. The new address was some place in the financial district, more to his liking.
Rick made an appearance the next day, eager for work. He gave the secretary at the front desk his name and she sent him down the hall to a conference room. When he opened the door, two men and a woman he’d never seen before were waiting to greet him. They told him to be seated and listen to them.
Before Rick could ask any questions, a video projector was produced and a series of images were shown on a screen at one end of the office. Rick was told about an obscure religious leader in Turkey who might have received plans for a biological weapon from some contacts he had inside the Syrian rebels. They needed him to go into Turkey and try to locate the plans. If they existed, he was to take them and destroy any thing which might have recorded them. Since Rick spoke Turkish and Arabic, he was ideal for the job.
