by David Horne
Curtis shrugged. “You’ve got a bit of a point there. Besides, I’d much rather be playing paintball than spying on Triads. Which sounds a bit weird now that I say it out loud, but screw it, this is going to be all of the fun!”
“You haven’t even heard the best part yet,” Hartley grinned. “You’ll never guess what the winning team gets.”
Curtis frowned, initially confused, but that frown soon curled into a grin as it dawned on him. “Don’t tell me…”
“The winning team gets the chance to run…” Hartley paused for dramatic effect. “The Invictus.”
The name “Invictus” was spoken of only in hushed voices of fear and awe, especially in the areas of intelligence gathering and espionage, and also that of special and black military operations. The Invictus was the legendary obstacle course created by the JW Grom, the infamous Polish Special Forces Unit. The Invictus was rumored to be the hardest obstacle course on the face of the planet Earth and was so named because the word Invictus was Latin for “Undefeated”. Quite literally, the set record for the Invictus had never been beaten since 1992.
It was sort of a collective dream amongst soldiers and special agents to one day be able to run and set a new course record for The Invictus. It was the best, and perhaps the only, way to immortalize oneself in a world where everybody was the best. Special agents are inherently the best, as top tier agencies such as Columbus and Cicada only take the best. Being on a team of superstars, a whole agency of prodigies makes it hard for one to make one’s mark. But defeating the undefeatable Invictus? That was certainly a way to do it.
Curtis had always thought of the Invictus as his own personal Kobayashi Maru, like from Star Trek, only he planned to beat it fair and square, as opposed to cheating his way to victory.
“Facing the Invictus,” Curtis murmured out loud. “That would literally be a dream come true for me. I can’t even put it into words.”
“Me either,” Hartley seconded. “And this seems like the perfect opportunity to prove that...you know…”
“We’re worthy of it,” Curtis finished.
“Yeah,” Hartley agreed. “This game is a big deal to Columbus, as well. We plan to source most of our new recruits from the pool of people who do the best. You know, draw contingents from the USMC, FBI, Army Rangers and the SEALs.”
“Do you tell them that you’re poaching their best guys?” Curtis laughed.
Hartley snorted. “Why on Earth would we tell them that?”
Curtis suddenly stopped laughing and fixed Hartley with a calculating stare. “Wait. Your brother’s not coming, is he?”
Hartley’s older brother was another proud operative working for Columbus as a Technical Analyst under the command of Chief Agent Florida. Valon Erose, or Agent Miami as was his codename, may have been Hartley’s brother, but there was no love lost between him and Curtis because Curtis had heard of the way that Valon had cold-shouldered his brother when Hartley had come out as gay. Hartley had always been gay and known he was, he couldn’t remember a time when he had liked girls or thought he had. The problem had always been finding a way to come out to his Christian parents. He’d managed it in the end; they hadn’t been happy about it, but they’d accepted it.
In hindsight, Curtis could understand why it might have been difficult for Valon to accept; the Erose family had religious roots that stretched back further than the brothers themselves had even been alive. And even though he had long since forgiven Valon for his treatment of Hartley, there was already too much bitterness there for them to ever become bosom friends.
Where he’d once felt contempt and anger, Curtis just felt awkwardness, wherever or whenever Valon was concerned. He did his best to steer clear of him wherever or whenever possible.
“Yes, Valon is going to be there!” Hartley said indignantly. “And you two had better play nice! Or I’m going to do what my Dad used to do to us when we argued. Knock your heads together!”
Curtis looked alarmed. “Your Dad used to knock you and your brothers’ heads together?”
Hartley nodded. “Not that hard!”
Curtis still looked concerned. “I think that might be child abuse.”
“Huh,” Hartley said, mildly interested. “Well, look how well I turned out!”
Curtis laughed at this. “Right.”
Hartley smiled back at him. “It’s really good to see you, Curtis. I feel like we haven’t done this in ages.”
Curtis shrugged. “That’s because we haven’t!”
Truth be told their relationship had always been more than what the public ever saw, it was a secret between the two of them.
Hartley had first felt the spark between them during basic training; he’d never seen Curtis with a girl, and he didn’t make the same crude, sex-orientated jokes that the other guys tended to. The two had become closer, and closer, and eventually, become lovers. It all started with sneaky glances, building to sly touches and when their lips had finally met it all fell together so easily.
They were lucky that their relationship had blossomed so naturally and for Curtis, it helped that he already knew Hartley. It made it more comfortable for him instead of having to explore his sexual desires he had someone he knew and trusted. Hartley wasn’t shy about his sexual preferences, and although he didn’t exactly make it such a big deal due to the others possibly rejecting him, he didn’t feel the need to hide that he was gay. Curtis, on the other hand, had never taken that plunge. In fact, he’d never actually admitted to Hartley about being anything. He refused to label himself. He just liked what he liked, as he so eloquently put it once when Hartley had pressed the matter. That was before Curtis had dropped out of the program and gone back to the UK to join Cicada.
Hartley had assumed that that was the end of them, but each and every time that they saw each other, they both discovered, to their surprise, that the spark was still as fiercely lit as it had ever been.
The relationship Curtis had with Hartley was one he didn’t have with anyone else, he felt right when he was with him. It was odd and refreshing at how simple it seemed to be together when they got the chance. Curtis could remember the shy glances Hartley used to give him, winking at him now and again, slightly teasing him. The idea of them being together seemed strange to Curtis at first but Hartley was patient and gentle with him, helping him become more expressive and accepting. It wasn’t that he had anything against being gay but he just didn’t know that was something he wanted until he met Hartley and once he had opened that part of himself up he was confident as ever.
Hartley glanced back up the aisle momentarily, checking that Milwaukee was still occupied with the jet’s instruments before he got up from his seat strode around the coffee table and sat right in Curtis’ lap. He looped his arm around his friend’s neck comfortably and embraced him like he hadn’t done in months, bordering years. “You smell like dead animals,” he observed, giggling.
“Yeah, I was chained to a chair in a butcher shop,” Curtis smiled. “Tends to have that effect if you know what I mean.”
Hartley ran his fingers through Curtis’ dark hair, the tips of their noses so close that they were almost touching. Then he leaned in and their lips met. The smell of Curtis’ breath, the feel of his lips, were like greeting an old friend. Hartley’s hands snaked down Curtis’ chest, down to his hips and found his belt. Curtis started as he felt Hartley unclasping the belt without even looking. “Here?” he whispered into Hartley’s ear. “Now?”
Hartley couldn’t mask the mischievous smile that he cracked at the question; he was so used to their dynamic being the exact opposite of this, with him being the shy one and Curtis being the confident one. It was a fresh experience for him to be on the flip side of that coin, and it excited and turned him on even more.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, already planting kisses along Curtis’ neckline. “Don’t worry, he can’t even hear us from the cockpit unless you shout. Or, you know, scream.”
Curtis had his reservations
about doing this with someone twenty-five feet up the aisle, but there was no stopping Hartley now, he was already grinding his hips on Curtis’ lap, and Curtis could feel the crotch of his jeans tightening at a rapid pace. He let out an involuntary gasp, one that was a few echelons higher than he’d meant to. Hartley couldn’t resist giggling at the effect he was having on Curtis. He shifted his weight back slightly, then reached down and slipped his hand into Curtis’ jeans, using his slender fingertips to stroke Curtis’ cock inside his boxer briefs.
Curtis gasped out loud again, longer this time, and Hartley “shushed” him hastily. He slipped off of Curtis’ lap and dropped to his knees, using both of his free hands to push Curtis’ knees apart, about as wide as they would go. Placing a finger to his lips quickly, he gave Curtis’ jeans a gentle tug, and they slipped down over his thighs past his knees to come down to his shins. Next, Hartley used both hands to stretch back the waistband of Curtis’ boxer briefs. As soon as he did, Curtis’ cock sprang out, thick and veiny. Hartley wrapped his hands around and began stroking, gently, but not too gently. Firmly, but not too tightly. Curtis was panting very erratically; not loudly, it was taking all of his self-control not to raise his voice above the current volume. His breathing, however, was uneven, patchy, sporadic. Almost as though he couldn’t get his breathing under control.
Hartley ran his tongue across his palm and then used his lubricated hand to stroke Curtis’ cock. The added wetness started making a slopping sound as Curtis, seemingly involuntarily, began thrusting his hips gently to match Hartley’s strokes. For a moment, that was all that could be heard in the cabin, although very quietly: the gentle sound of Hartley’s even strokes.
Hartley waited patiently and kept the stroking up until he sensed that Curtis was close. Curtis glanced down and locked eyes with the blond, and as he did, Hartley lowered his head very gradually, making sure to maintain eye contact, and flicked his tongue over Curtis’ balls. Curtis jolted uncontrollably, which was immediately followed by a sharp, gasping breath. Hartley smiled; Curtis hadn’t changed a bit.
He flicked his tongue across Curtis’ balls again, getting the same sharp, jolting reaction, and then began to suck on them gently. Curtis’ sporadic heavy breathing had now turned into sporadic heavy panting, and Hartley could tell that he was ready to pop at any second. He moved his back up, flicking his tongue up along the length of Curtis’ shaft as he did, and then slipped his lips around the head of his cock. Curtis let out a long gasping breath as Hartley did this, and then the next second, all that could be heard was the gentle sound of Hartley gagging just a tiny bit each time Curtis bucked his hips to thrust his cock to the back of Hartley’s throat.
Hartley could feel Curtis swelling and tightening inside his mouth. He stroked his fingers across Curtis’ balls one more time, and that did the trick. Curtis was suddenly shooting out cum, and a lot of it. He groaned involuntarily as he fired off at least five or six spurts into Hartley’s mouth. Hartley kept his lips tightly sealed around the base of Curtis’ cock and waited until he was finished. Then he opened his mouth as wide as it would go to show Curtis what he’d just left in his mouth before he swallowed it all. Curtis was slumped back into his chair, an extremely satisfied look on his face.
“I love it when you do that,” he whispered.
Hartley couldn’t resist giggling at this. He slid back onto Curtis’ lap and pressed his lips against Curtis’, making sure to gently bite his bottom lip as he came away. “That was a lot,” he murmured. “How long’s it been since, you know?”
“I haven’t,” Curtis shook his head. “Not since the last time.”
Hartley was shocked at this. “Wow. Really?”
“Is that a bad thing?” Curtis suddenly looked so alarmed.
“No, no!” Hartley shook his head straight away. “I’m just surprised. I bet you’re tired after that.”
“How could you tell?” Curtis smiled.
Hartley rolled his eyes. “Lucky guess,” he kissed Curtis on the forehead. “Get some sleep, you look like you need it. You’re not going to have much chance once we’re on the battlefield.”
At the thought of the upcoming battle simulation, Curtis smirked a devilish smirk just moments before he drifted off. “Can’t wait,” he murmured.
Then the black oblivion of sleep claimed him, and it didn’t relinquish its grip until they landed.
Chapter Three
There really was no place like California. Unless, of course, you were from literally any other state or city in the entirety of the United States of America, then there was no place like that aforementioned state or city. Fill in the blanks where appropriate. It was and is a well-known fact that one hundred percent of Americans cannot agree on what “the greatest city in the world” is. Sure, if you went to New York, most of the New Yorkers would tell you that you were standing in the greatest city in the world. But then again, talk to some New Jerseyans, they’ll have a thing or two to say about New York before they slink off back to Newark with their white picket fences and lawnmowers that have cupholders.
The really advanced Americans can put together a well-constructed argument about why their city is the greatest city in the world, and again, one hundred percent of the time, it involves the words “convenience” and literally any mainstream fast food restaurant. McDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, you name it.
You would never have caught Hartley Erose dead eating that quote-unquote, so-called “food”. Hartley would just as soon eat out of his toilet. He was very much one of those people that grew up on chicken nuggets that probably had four percent of chicken in it, then sees one documentary about fast food factories and then spends the remainder of their life judging people for eating it. Everyone had to have a hobby, right, and Hartley’s was finding new and creative ways to be superior to the people around him.
Or rather, finding new and creative ways to make the people around him think that he was superior to them. Same difference, at the end of the day. It was the whole “potato, potah-to” thing all over again. So, yeah, suffice it to say that Hartley Erose was not a big fan of the whole “eating fast food” thing, and instead devoted his time to spreading conspiracy theories that Whoppers were made out of Horse lips.
He wasn’t too big on drinking water out of the tap, either, which an alarmingly large number of people do on a daily basis. But what Hartley did love, was a good comedy. Laughing was such a nice experience, and at the end of the day, don’t we all want a good laugh?
Just over ten hours after Hong Kong, after a much-needed nap, the private jet touched down at another private airfield. Instead of a foreign, Mafia-run country, however, this airfield was in the aforementioned best state in the US. Officially on home soil. Well, for Hartley it was home, and for Curtis, it was pretty much another holiday.
Base Camp Pendleton, a Home Operating Base in San Diego, California, was a base that was technically run and maintained by the United States Marine Corps. But the Base Commander, General Piers McCaffrey, was nice enough to lend out large chunks of the base to US intelligence services such as Columbus whenever they needed it. And by “nice enough”, that meant that he was under clear and concise orders to lend out large chunks of the base to US intelligence services such as Columbus whenever they needed it.
Hartley shook Curtis awake as the jet plane taxied off the runway to the taxiway.
“You two awake?” Milwaukee was calling back to them from the cockpit. He was an absolute soldier - twelve hours straight at the helm, with barely any bathroom breaks. But you didn’t have to tell Hartley how resilient Milwaukee was, it was the reason why Hartley had chosen him as his protegee, so to speak. It was strange to think of him as a protegee, given that Hartley was so much younger than he was, but that was how Columbus worked. Ranks, titles and privileges were given out to the most capable, regardless of seniority, or age. And that was how it should’ve been.
“Yeah, we’re up,” Hartley said back. “We’re here already?”
>
“Base Camp Pendleton,” Milwaukee said like he was some kind of air hostess. “In Sunny San Diego, California. Congratulations, boss. You made it home in one piece.”
Hartley couldn’t resist smiling widely at that. There was no better feeling than returning home after a mission and returning with a big, fat ‘W’. The feeling that you got was a mixture of elation and euphoria, and it was guaranteed to put a smile on pretty much anybody’s face, even the surliest of people. And speaking of surly people, two very familiar faces had just arrived.
“Is that who I think it is?” Curtis asked, pressing his nose against the window as the jet slowed to a crawl before coming to a complete stop on the airfield tarmac.
“Yes, sir,” Hartley said, a touch of exhaustion in his voice. “That, my English friend, is the Vice President of Columbus himself.”
This was a pretty big moment for Curtis. He’d never actually met the man behind the entire organization, the elected official who kept the agency itself going, but he’d heard from Columbus agents, mostly Hartley—who idolized him—that he was a big shot. Curtis had seen pictures of him and thought that he looked more impressive in the pictures. The man himself, Deputy Director Jack Ramirez, was fairly short for a man, specifically one of his age. He was about 5”5, maybe 5”6, with a touch of Hispanic about him.
Most of his hair was jet-black, apart from some streaks of stone gray and stark white about his temples. From the telling, he was about forty-nine years old, give or take a few years on either side. What struck Curtis as odd, however, and something that definitely did not help at all with the “looking impressive” department, was his attire.
Deputy Director Ramirez wore a colorful, short-sleeved, Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and Birkenstock sandals like he’d just come back from the beach. The look was extremely out of place, especially here on this military base, but Ramirez looked one hundred percent at ease like he owned the place, which was entirely possible on his salary. Or at least it would be if his salary was anything like the Cicada Chairman’s, a fact that Curtis was bitterly aware of.
