stance.
“Don't—”
“Too late,” Chris said, scooping up the bulky Russian and
heaving him half over his shoulder, registering a grunt of pain but no
active resistance. He went into the corridor, closed the door with a foot,
and made his ascent up the stairs, hoping that if anybody came to
investigate, Nikita just looked drunk, even though he smelled of blood.
Second floor was harder than the first, but he could finally set
Nikita down near a door, open the lock, and sling Nikita's arm across
his neck and get him inside.
“Bathroom?”
“Left.”
He maneuvered Nikita into the room and grabbed a towel while
Nikita sat down heavily on the toilet. “Just checking for blood. Wait a
moment.” He went back into the corridor, scanned it for blood, found
none, then looked outside. While there was some on the brick wall in
the alley, he doubted anybody would notice it and think it anything but
a discoloration of the weathered brick.
He ran back upstairs to find Nikita already naked from the waist
up. There was a nasty-looking little hole in his side, seeping dark red
blood.
“I think I'll live,” Nikita muttered, but despite the bravado and the
way he sat there, dark clothes, sturdy boots, he looked pale and sweaty.
“The bullet needs to come out.”
“I imagined that I'd prod around in your guts in a slightly more
pleasant way,” Chris joked.
Nikita shook his head. “Not… what I prepared for.”
“No pliers and ultra-hard painkillers?” From his experience with a
painfully pulled muscle, Chris remembered well that in Germany,
anything stronger than an aspirin wasn't available over the counter.
Britain, no problem, Germany… well. Germany was a bad place to get
shot, period.
“No.”
“Can't take you to a local doc, buddy.” Chris leaned against the
wash basin, arms crossed. “I don't have the contacts here to pay them
off.”
“Not that any place but a hospital is open at this time of day.”
Nikita reached for a towel, folded it neatly a few times, and pressed it
on the wound, grimacing.
Chris watched him think. He didn't believe Nikita had no back-up
at all—he wasn't that crazy—but for whatever reason, he was reluctant
to call upon them. He wondered what would win out, pain or
secretiveness. Of course, he could call upon GORGON, even if the
Dragon Lady would have his ass for that.
“So you think it was worth it?”
“Killing Zaitsev? Yes.” Nikita leaned his head back, eyes feverish
and filmed over. “Fuck it. Get me to the Russian embassy. It's… not
far away.”
Oh, the embassy. That meant government connections. Maybe
Nikita was even a licensed killer. Licensed to kill like 007, all that jazz.
God, that was hot.
“You have booze?”
“Vodka.”
“Way to break down stereotypes, dude,” Chris said, gently
probing the area around the wound. He could feel the slug fairly near
the surface.
“Embassy. Now.”
“Not so fast, big guy. Time is of the essence, and I don't want to
end up in some gulag when they jump to conclusions. Let's get you to
the bedroom.”
Nikita's growl of displeasure as they moved, paused to grab the
vodka, and then moved again was strong and therefore comforting.
Even though he was looking more like shit with each passing moment.
Settling Nikita on the bed, Chris retrieved something from a
zippered pocket inside his coat, took off his jacket and set it aside, and
then pushed up his sleeves. He took the tin he'd removed from his
jacket, slid off the band of black tape and cording covering it, and
opened it to take out a few supplies.
Nikita made that growling sound, groped for the vodka and took a
swig, spilling more on himself than in his mouth.
“Hang on, dude,” Chris said, preventing him taking another swig.
He broke a small pill from one of the two blister packs he'd taken from
the tin and placed it in Nikita's mouth.
“Vicodin. Good shit, but mixed with too much booze, a bad idea.
One sip to wash it down.”
He helped Nikita drink and watched him swallow the painkiller.
“I'm surprised you don't have a pocket survival kit, my man. Guess
you weren't Spetsnaz.”
Nikita grumbled, his breathing heavier.
Chris moved quickly, setting up the mini scalpel, alcohol swabs,
fishing line, and needle at the foot of the bed.
“Condoms?” Nikita asked, eyeing the survival tin.
Chris flashed a forced grin. “Strictly for water storage and
treatment. Scout's honor.”
He took out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the wound,
eliciting another growl of displeasure from the Russian. “My first crush,
ROTC recruiter, was a medic before he had to give up combat duty. We
never did the deed, of course, but we pulled some all-nighters bonding.
Man, he loved to talk shop about the wounds he'd treated back in the
day.”
Chris's cell rang, and he answered immediately. “No, Johnny, not
me. Can't give ya the 411 but I need you to walk me through this. I'm
putting you on speaker phone and turning on the video. You're alone,
yeah?”
“Yes,” John Soong said tersely.
“Great, let's do this.”
NIKITA would have hoped for this to hurt more—enough that he'd
pass out so he didn't have to watch, let alone feel Chris Gibson dig
around in his guts fishing for a bullet.
When it got really bad, he hyperventilated with the pain, almost
passing out, until Chris put a bloodied hand on his chest and told him to
“relax.” The way the man looked at him insinuated sex, and this was a
strange kind of penetration, come to think of it. He wasn't nearly drunk
enough for this shit.
“Right, got the fucker,” Chris said, and he dropped the metal slug
on Nikita's sweat-soaked belly. “Want to keep it?”
Nikita wanted to hurl the bitch across the room but couldn't get
worked up enough for that. It seemed ridiculous that such a small piece
of metal could cause so much pain. And danger. Nikita lay back with a
groan and watched Chris, who followed the advice from the cell phone
and sewed him shut. Brown eyes focused, the short dark hair looked
like something he wanted to touch.
Something had changed between them. He'd never been helpless
in Chris Gibson's hands, and that word alone—helpless—sent a shiver
down his spine.
“You okay?” Chris asked as he finished the last few stitches. He
reached over with one of his bloodied hands and touched Nikita's
shoulder. “We should keep you warm and dry. I'll just put a bandage
on.”
“First-aid pack's in the… ah… bathroom.”
“I know. Relax.”
Chris took the phone with him to the bathroom, talking some
more with “John,” then w
ashed his hands and came back out with the
first-aid kit, covering the wound first. “Okay, you have to sit up so I
can put the bandage on. Last time we move you, promise.”
He offered his hand, but Nikita tried to get up on his own. The
jarring pain wasn't the worst. The weakness was. He gritted his teeth
and then took Chris's arm, pulling himself up before Chris could
support him. He managed to stay upright while Chris bandaged him
and fell back with no small amount of relief when he could lie down
again.
“You're a tough motherfucker. I like that.”
“Leave my mother out of this.”
Chris burst into laughter but fell silent when he realized it wasn't
a joke. Instead he took the blanket, spread it over Nikita's body, and
began to remove his boots, all surprisingly carefully.
He gathered his kit and packed it again in that tin box, which he
wrapped up and slid back into his jacket pocket. Then he straightened
out the blanket. “Get some rest. I'll be here.”
Somehow, Nikita had expected Chris to finish the job and leave.
That offer threw him, but he was grateful that he wouldn't be alone
when he closed his eyes and, despite the throbbing pain in his side,
managed to fall into a sleep as deep and dark as unconsciousness.
FINALLY the Russian was out cold. Chris stepped back from the
improvised bed, hardly more than a mattress with a woolen blanket. He
could still feel Nikita's body under his fingers, shaking muscles, the
controlled but harsh breathing when he'd hurt him.
Shit, maybe his hands were shaking now because operating on a
man was such a power trip. Or maybe it was that Nikita relied on him.
Trusted him.
Don’t get ahead of yourself there, Skippy.
With a grim smile he sat down with the last third of the vodka,
waited until he'd calmed somewhat, and then began to rummage
through Nikita's stuff.
Dark clothes, underwear, nothing special. He must have dropped
the sniper rifle on site. He found the man's Russian passport and
photographed it, sending the message to his e-mail account.
Maybe they could work out whether that identity was genuine or
fake and work it from there, but he knew that GORGON was pretty
weak on the ground in Russia. And he doubted he could wrangle more
resources out of GORGON to try and track Nikita Kazakov's paper
trail.
That Nikita had wanted to get to the embassy didn't even mean he
was working for some official entity, just that he had a backer
somewhere in the government machine. That could be some fat
political cat taking bribes or sponsoring a vigilante, or maybe he acted
as a mercenary/hitman rather than a criminal.
Other than that, nothing. No photos, nothing that gave away
anything about his identity, and his cell was protected with a code.
Great.
Chris studied the whiteboards screwed to the wall, but the notes
were Cyrillic. He could call Andrei and ask for a translation. He
photographed the lot and e-mailed it to himself. If anything, pain in the
ass Stefan might be interested.
He noticed his own photo on the table. Good shot. He had felt
watched in that house, and now he knew why. “Seems like we'll have
to talk about this, bucko,” Chris murmured.
It was well before dawn when Chris's phone buzzed him awake.
He checked the caller ID in the dim light from the partially opened
bathroom door. Mother hen John, of course. “Yeah?”
“You're still with him, I take it.”
“He does need looking after, being shot and unconscious and all.”
John's tense little sigh pretty much spelled out his thoughts on the
matter. “You have antibiotics in your tin, yes?”
“Indeed I do, and I even had the great foresight to slip him one
during the night when he woke for a minute.”
“So enough for a day, day and a half course.” John paused. “He
should get more just to be safe.”
“Already thought that one out. My contact with the hooker scouts
should be able to help me there.”
Again John with his put-upon, tense sigh. “I hope you know what
you're doing.”
“Always. Bye bye, Mom.”
Chris slipped the phone into his pocket and was lying back on the
floor, his leather jacket his pillow, when he noticed Nikita's eyes were
open and he was staring.
Chris sat up and then knelt, felt the Russian's forehead. A little
warm but not feverish, might be the general warmth from being under a
blanket. “Good morning, sunshine. How you feeling?”
“Like hell,” Nikita grumbled, not moving.
“Gun shots do that to a guy.”
Nikita grumbled, closed his eyes, and opened them after a few
seconds. “I have to shit.”
Chris grinned. “Always a good sign, at least it was judging from
how hot the nurses were to get me to take a dump before I could go
home, last time I was in a hospital.”
Nikita tried to sit, fell back down, exhaled. “Help me,” he
muttered, clearly hating to even have to ask.
Chris got him up, helped him to the bathroom, and waited. He
thought of that old parental line, “This will hurt me more than it hurts
you,” and realized that such a thing was indeed possible.
His stomach actually ached at the sight of the dominant Russian
moving so slowly, looking so helpless as he tried to clean himself up
only to meet with weakness and pain.
Chris stepped in, helped him wipe and wash his hands. Then he
flushed and lowered the lid of the toilet. “Sit.” He took a painkiller and
antibiotic and gave them to Nikita. Then he went to the other room and
brought back a change of underwear and pair of pants.
He filled the sink with water, soaped a washcloth, and began to
give the disgruntled Russian a sponge bath. “Bet you wish I had a
nurse's uniform and spiked heels on, eh?” He chuckled. “I'll take that
growl as a yes.”
Chris rinsed the cloth, swabbed off the soap, then dried Nikita
and changed the bandage before helping him dress. “Doesn't look too
bad. You should be grateful.”
This growling reply was accompanied by a nod. Ah, progress!
Chris helped Nikita back to bed and returned to the bathroom and
cleaned himself up a bit.
“Here's the deal,” he said when he came out. “You are going to
keep your cute ass put. I am going to go get my car, try to find out
what's what at the scene, then rustle up some more meds for you.”
“We'll see.”
Chris shook his head. “Dude, don't make me tie you down. I
don't think you'd like it.” Nikita glared. A sure sign of progress toward
being on the mend. “First thing, though, Dr. Chris will see if you have
any food in that little kitchenette of yours.”
The available food would have made any self-respecting cook
weep. There was black tea, a plastic net of lemons, two cartons of long-
life milk, and Nikita's usual rolled oats. Several cans of tomato soup
stood stacked in one cupboard, along with a big tin of protein powder,
flavor Yogurt Lemon. Breakfast of champions.
Chris prepared a tea and brought it over to Nikita's bed. “I have
no idea how you maintain that body on that diet,” he confessed, “but
I'm heading out to get something proper.”
“Go for it,” Nikita said, pushing himself up very slowly and
carefully to drink his tea. “Money's in my wallet. Guess you already
found it.”
Chris glanced over, grinning.
“I'd have done the same,” Nikita added, seemingly more good-
natured now that he'd had a sip of tea.
“Honor amongst thieves?”
“No. I'm not a vor.”
“Yeah, you're lacking the tats. Embassy, huh? Who are you
working for, Nicky?” Nikita only gave him that same, cold stare. “Well,
you're not some hard-ass special forces, that's clear.” Chris stood and
grabbed his jacket. “I trust you'll be here when I come back, yes? We
have a bad track record of that.”
Nikita kept his gaze for a few seconds but said nothing.
I TRUST you’ll be here when I come back, yes? That held an undertone
of pleading. Chris seemed to notice that, too, and rushed out of the door.
Nikita carefully leaned back against the wall, hot tea mug on his
thigh. As long as he didn't move, he felt all right. Able to think, at least,
but not to resist. He should wipe out the notes on the whiteboards, burn
the photos. But Gibson already knew too much. Nikita didn't like
having anybody know anything—he'd learned the hard way how easily
he could be busted if he trusted one man too many. Secrets had a price,
and there was always a seller and always a buyer, at least in his
profession.
And Chris Gibson, who sold a lover's life for five million
American, wasn't a man to share secrets with. He was great to fuck, no
doubt, but Nikita was hardly in the state to take advantage of that. Right
now, it felt like he might not come out on top, either. And his fantasy of
a male lover didn't include taking it up the ass. He'd never thought
about it that much but pushed it away nonetheless. He'd had too much
time to think recently; this wouldn't do.
Still, thinking was all he did as he watched the time pass. Fucking
American had better not be turning on him, bringing the gangsters here.
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