rifles, flak vests, assorted spy stuff.
“GORGON doesn't have an armory?” Nikita asked.
“You're too concerned about things you should know nothing
about,” somebody said from the door. It was the Asian guy, Chris's
teammate, ex-lover.
“Hey John. What do you think, is Nikita a Beretta kinda guy or
maybe a Colt 1911?”
“What about Sig Sauer?” John leaned against the wall, and Nikita
could feel his hostility despite the blank face.
“Where's Andrei?”
“Picking up some food and paperwork.”
“Is Stefan coming?”
John shook his head. “He's at HQ.”
“Good. He's a pain in the ass I don't need.”
John shrugged and glanced pointedly at Nikita. “Mr. Kazakov,
this is a cooperation at the highest level, but you're not privy to the
internal workings of our side. In fact, Chris here is directly responsible
for any of your actions. He's gathered a few black marks because of
you already, so you should be as cooperative and as unobtrusive as you
possibly can.”
“I'm a team player,” Nikita said, calming himself down with the
thought that John was most likely simply jealous. Rubbing in policies
and more-secret-than-thou bullshit meant the man was engaging him on
terms of hierarchy. And Nikita, right now, had the weapon at his
disposal that stood him in good stead in Moscow law enforcement:
yawning indifference. “Will I be briefed too?”
“Strictly on a need-to-know basis. And I don't particularly feel
you need to know a bloody thing.”
“You're acting team leader, I gather.”
“You gather correctly, Mr. Kazakov.” The tone said, “And I hate
your guts.”
“Which is to say it's his ass if I step over the line anymore,” Chris
announced. “John can be very protective.”
“I gather that.” Nikita stepped to the side to study the weapons.
His Makarov was fine, but it was also his official weapon and could be
traced. And he tried not to travel with too much hardware while he had
to use planes and didn't always have access to a Russian diplomatic
pouch or the embassy network to get some vital gear in and out.
The gleam of gold caught his eye, and he gave Chris a long look.
“Tell me you've never actually used this.”
“Hell no, never would, not unless I felt a drag queen moment
coming on.” Chris picked up the big gold-plated Magnum and took aim
at an imaginary target in the rear of the storage closet. Shaking his head,
he replaced it in its spot. “It was a gift. Long story. Don't ask.”
Nikita smirked and looked over the arsenal once more,
considering a stainless steel .45 caliber with a wooden grip but
bypassing it for a less flashy Beretta similar to Chris's own.
“Awww, aren't you a sweetheart,” Chris said with a grin. He
grabbed a box of ammunition and pocketed it. “Let's hit the firing
range so you can get the feel for my baby.”
In the underground parking garage, Chris unlocked the black
BMW and slid behind the wheel. He pulled out his cell phone and
brought up a Google page. “The day's still young, and we can hit any
number of ranges. Which one, which one….”
He turned his head and flashed a grin at Nikita, who felt the
man's sexual power down to his balls. “The closest?” he offered.
“Nah. The least crowded this time of day.” Chris winked.
“Blasting shit makes me horny, and I just might want to do you at some
point.” He laughed and turned the key in the ignition, hitting the play
button on the high-end car stereo as he backed out of the parking slot.
IT TOOK a few rounds for Nikita to get accustomed to firing the new
weapon, but he was up to his usual accuracy in no time at all, matching
Chris bull's-eye for bull's-eye. While he couldn't say that generally
“blasting shit” made him hard, shooting with Chris Gibson certainly
did. The man was very hot indeed with that single-minded intensity.
The way concentration tightened his jaw, straightened that strong back
and narrowed those brown eyes. The man was far too appealing for his
own—or anyone else's—good.
They did indulge in a bit of mutual masturbation in the men's
room prior to leaving the shooting range, more a quick release than
anything, a way to take off the edge and give more time to build the
anticipation that grew stronger between them with each passing hour.
Chris Gibson was a complication to his simple life he hadn't seen
coming. He felt increasingly unsure of how to deal with this, the
unusual tug upon something inside as certain things replayed
themselves in his mind. Their first encounter, the impulse to stake his
claim upon Gibson's flesh.
“Do it again.”
“Cut you?”
“The way you did. The exact same thing.”
This is mine.
On the drive back to the condo in Montreaux, Nikita reclined his
seat, closed his eyes, and lost himself in the pounding rhythm of
American music, leaving the thinking and the decision making for
another time and place.
But the relaxation was immediately gone when they returned to
the condo and John opened the door. There was something even more
reserved about him, stiff and unyielding.
The reason became clear when Nikita caught a glimpse of a blond
man, short hair, bluish eyes. He seemed… more together than he'd
been when he'd lived in London. Cleaner, maybe, or maybe it was the
fact he got more sleep and worked less than he had as a high-flying
corporate lawyer. The changes in his appearance were profound enough
to give him a “new” face, but unlike the surgically lifted, sculpted and
Botoxed elite, Andrei Voronin still looked perfectly natural. He looked
like his own distant relative. Andrei glanced at him and paused, staring,
expression searching, half-empty.
Chris had told him that Andrei didn't remember. Nikita had been
dubious about that, but he suddenly realized that that was exactly what
was wrong with Andrei, and the fine hair in his neck stood up. Second
chance?
John was watching them both with keen interest and withheld
belligerence, so Nikita did nothing. Andrei nodded as if he'd reached a
decision and came toward him. “Hi. I believe we've met before.”
“Yes, we have.”
Andrei gave a pained grin. “I don't remember.”
“I believe you.”
Andrei's eyes flashed. Irritation, maybe, or a memory? This felt
like walking on eggshells.
“What did you do? What happened?”
Nikita sat down, giving up his advantage, but he figured anything
that put Andrei at ease would be good. “Would you prefer to speak
Russian?”
Andrei shook his head. “What happened? We didn't… do
anything, did we?”
“No.” Nikita smiled. He hoped Andrei saw it as a friendly gesture.
“You were a source of information. You copied me everything you had
on Za
itsev's business dealings. We could freeze all his assets the same
moment I pulled the trigger and killed him. You killed his power, I
finished off his body. Maybe that is a bit of a consolation for what he
has done to you.”
Andrei gave a slight nod, more a gesture of acceptance than one
of triumph.
Chris had excused himself to the bathroom when they'd arrived,
and he returned now, clearing his throat louder than necessary. “I'm
starved. What say we have dinner before talking business—or as much
business as John is willing to cut loose?”
John shot him a cold look, and Nikita settled back in the leather
armchair, crossed one leg casually over the other.
“We have food, right?” Chris asked. When John nodded, Chris
smiled. “Awesome. Come help me, Johnny, no one's as quick with a
knife as you. Well, almost no one,” he added, smirking in Nikita's
direction.
Nikita answered in kind, watching from the corner of his eye as
Chris tugged John Soong's sleeve and coaxed him from the room.
Nikita turned to watch them go, smiling to himself when Chris flipped
him the finger as he disappeared through the swinging door.
It came as no surprise when John propped open the door so he
could keep watch.
Nikita looked to Andrei, who sat doing everything to avoid his
gaze. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he said softly in Russian. “And I
apologize for not realizing you'd be in danger when you left London.
My resources are not as expansive as your new employer's.”
The stiffness of Andrei's posture eased. “I understand. It might
have happened even if you hadn't gotten involved. The mafiosi….” He
made a small gesture, leaving what they both knew unsaid. He glanced
toward the kitchen, smiled, and then turned back. “All things
considered, it was a blessing. A little frightening but with far more
good than bad.”
Chris's voice echoed out, an innuendo-laden commentary on
John's selection of vegetables, and Nikita couldn't help but smile. “Is
he ever serious?”
“About his work, always. Well, mostly. It's his way, I suppose.”
Andrei stood. “Would you like a drink? Vodka?”
“Of course.”
Nikita watched him pour the vodka into glasses, the alcohol so
cold that it was nearly viscous, and then took the glass when Andrei
handed it to him. He wondered if Andrei had come that close to see
how he'd react.
We didn’t do anything, did we?
No. They were two different men. One stressed, scared, brittle,
this one thoughtful and possessing a strange calm. The lawyer had
challenged Nikita to be broken and forced into compliance. This man…
didn't. He was attractive enough but didn't trigger the same responses.
Which was a strange relief, when he thought of Chris.
Nikita pondered saying anything else, anything more, but Andrei
seemed to be okay with the silence. Or maybe just thinking. Finally he
blew out a breath. “Anything you want to know from me?”
“How different was I?”
“You were haunted. Spending a lot of money on fast cars. Drugs,
parties… just what you'd expect from a lawyer. Cocaine, mostly,
possibly speed.”
“You know fine lawyers.”
Nikita laughed. “The job probably doesn't give me a
representative sample of the total population.”
He wanted to laugh even more when John Soong appeared with a
plate of finger foods, hit him with a look that was clearly meant to be
menacing, and leaned in close to Andrei, asking if he was all right
being out here.
“It's fine. We're okay.”
John left without further comment, but his lingering suspicions
seemed to be carried out of the kitchen upon the tantalizing scents of
cooking. Nikita popped one of the cocktail shrimp into his mouth and
chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed, washing it down with a sip of his
drink. “Do you remember anything of your life before?”
Andrei shook his head. “Bits and pieces mostly, flashes of things.
One night John and I were going through photos and online videos of
Russia, and I remembered some things. Not so much people or events,
but feelings, the emotion connected to places.”
“THEY keep speaking Russian. I don't like it. I don't trust him.”
Chris shook his head and tossed the salad in the cut glass bowl.
“John, babe. His native language is about the only thing Andrei really
remembers about home, can you blame him for wanting to speak it
once in a while?”
John shot him yet another pissy look. “I still don't trust Kazakov.”
“You could give him a chance.”
“You're insane.”
Chris smirked. “Almost have to be to kill bad guys for a living,
don'tcha think?” He carried the salad bowl out to the dining table and
came back in to check the steaks in the oven broiler.
“So what new side of yourself has Kazakov shown you?”
“That I like my apartments well furnished.”
“Chris…,” John said, still clearly pissy about Andrei being alone
with Nikita and him only understanding every thirtieth word or so. If
that. Andrei had made some rather cute attempts to teach John Russian,
but they didn't get much further than “I love you,” and “fuck me, baby,”
Chris assumed.
Chris prodded the steaks. What was the saying? If they felt like
cheek, they were raw. If they felt like nose, they were medium. Chin
was cooked through. One guy had told him if they felt like hard dick,
they were cooked, but that was something he really didn't want to
connect. Besides, cooking a steak through was a sacrilege.
“Nikita and I have a lot in common, okay?”
John studied him, and Chris hoped that John didn't know him that
well. Not well enough to read his mind.
“I get off on his style of sex.”
“Did I ask for details?”
“There's no „fuzzy' in his kind of handcuffs, if you get what I'm
saying.”
John's jaw sagged open. “Your leg. He cuts you.”
“Once, okay, and that was when he thought I offed Andrei. Geez.”
John gave him one of those holier-than-thou looks, and Chris
flipped the steaks and slammed the broiler drawer shut. He drummed
his fingers on the stove top twice and then turned the oven off and
pulled the pan out, transferring the steaks to the waiting platter.
John stepped into his path before he reached the kitchen door. “I
really hope you know what you're getting into with him.”
“I do, Mommy Dearest, now let's eat.”
The mood was still tense but bearable when John decided to give
them a clue as to what was going to go down.
“My Chinese contact, Yang Ka-Fai, has set me up as one of the
bidders at the auction aboard an ultra luxury yacht setting off from Bari
in a few days.”
“I have an idea of who this yacht owner is,” Nikita said. He
sipped his wine. “Yevgeny Anatolyevich Timofeyev.”
&nb
sp; John frowned. “Yes.” He cleared his throat and sipped his own
drink before continuing. “Timofeyev was one of the first tycoons to
spring up after the socialist regime fell. Evidently he's going a bit too
far in thinking he's invulnerable to the current administration's laws,
and someone contacted our side, and that's all I know.”
“More like all you're willing to admit to,” Nikita muttered.
“How much do you know, Nicky?” Chris asked.
Nikita took his time piling salad onto his plate. “That guy is dirty
but used to be untouchable. He made his fortune smuggling nickel and
aluminum in the early nineties, then moved into Moscow real estate, all
backed by his contacts in the old and new government and protected by
gangsters he hired as cheap guns. That's how he knows Shkadov—and
a number of other underworld figures. After they cancelled the auction
at Tempelhof, I imagine Shkadov asked his old friend to arrange the
auction elsewhere. And even with Timofeyev's contacts, he can't just
say no to a vor. Shkadov is too powerful.”
“So if he's untouchable, why can we have him now?”
“Maybe there was a shift in power high up, maybe he has
neglected paying his bribes, maybe the government has decided that his
assets will be divided up some other way. Maybe one of the new
loyalists really wants that boat.”
“New loyalists?”
“That's what we call the oligarchs that are paying their taxes and
keep their noses clean. They end up buying British football clubs and
enjoy a longer life than their peers. Untouchable, whatever other shit
they're pulling.” Nikita glanced to John, the look clearly challenging
John for a quid-pro-quo.
“And they are selling women at their auctions?”
“Yes, women and girls,” Nikita confirmed. “This is pretty sick
stuff. Maybe worse than the usual.”
Chris frowned. “What do you mean?”
Nikita pushed his plate away. “Of the many thousand women that
are trafficked every year, most end up in massage parlors, as escorts, or
street walkers. Some get freed in raids, others are turned loose when
they get older than about thirty, some run away, some become victims
of violence from their clients or pimps, or kill themselves.”
He stared at the plate, his cold eyes seeing something that Chris
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