I Spy a Dark Obsession sa-3

by Jo Davis

  “You won’t. Fuck me, please.”

  “Okay, if hard and nasty is how you want it, fine by me.” Bastian gripped Cory’s slim hips, lined up, and pushed inside. So tight and hot, just the way he loved it. The inner walls clenching around him, squeezing his cock as he slid in to the balls and out to the tip. Plunged in again. Out.

  “Damn, so good. You like being my dirty slut? My whore?”

  “Y-yes! Harder!”

  He obliged, pumping hard and fast, enjoying the staccato slap of their skin. Their balls smacking together. The friction sent him higher, little shocks rippling along his cock. Already close. Reaching around Cory’s hip, he grasped the other man’s cock, surprised that it had lost some of its hardness. He stroked it in time with his thrusts, bringing it to life, hoping to bring Cory as much pleasure as he was getting.

  His orgasm hit hard, and he released Cory’s erection. Buried himself to the hilt and emptied his balls into the kid’s ass. When the last shudder went through him, he carefully withdrew and removed the condom. Tied it off and tossed it in a nearby trash can. Climbing back onto the bed, he saw that Cory was stretched out on his stomach. He turned the kid over and arched his brows.

  “You never came.”

  Cory flushed, not meeting his eyes. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. Happens sometimes. I’d be glad to finish sucking you off.” He grinned and licked his lips suggestively.

  The younger man glanced at the clock. “N-no, I… that’s okay.” “You have somewhere you need to be?”

  “What?” Those baby blues were startled. Guilty.

  “You keep looking at the clock. If you’ve got somewhere to go, I won’t keep you.”

  “N-No. I mean, y-yes.” Cory closed his eyes.

  “Is this thing we have going becoming too domestic for you?” he asked. “If you’re ready to move on, just say so, kid. I’ll be sorry because I really like you, but I’ll wish you nothing but the best.”

  “You like me?” he asked in a small voice.

  “I do. You’re sweet-natured, cute, adventurous in bed. What’s not to like?”

  “Oh, no.” Cory’s face paled, his eyes enormous.

  And with that, the warning bells that should’ve gone off about twenty minutes ago began to clang in his head. “Cory,” he said calmly. “Tell me what you’ve done.”

  “I think they l-lied to me. They s-said you were a d-dangerous criminal. But you’ve been so nice to me. Nothing at all like a criminal.”

  Ah, fuck. “Who said this?”

  Cory sat up, wringing his hands. “A couple of men. They claimed to be undercover FBI. But they weren’t, were they?”

  “Unlikely. I’m the one who’s undercover, and you got played. Get dressed and hurry.” Bastian jumped from the bed and reached for his jeans, removed the gun, and laid it on the chair close at hand. He began yanking on his pants. “Was one of them a big Mexican with a pockmarked face?”

  “Yes,” Cory whispered, pulling on his own jeans.

  “Shit. What did they offer you to lure me here tonight?” He tried to keep the betrayal and bitterness from his voice. He wasn’t lured, precisely, but was a willing participant in his own downfall. Cory was a victim also, too innocent for his own good.

  “Five thousand. I wondered about that, but they claimed the FBI could expense the cost of paying me. But the real FBI couldn’t do that, could they? Jesus, I’m so stupid!” Hands shaking, he pulled on his shirt.

  “How much time do we have?” He jammed his feet in his shoes, palmed the gun.

  “Five or ten minutes. They said they’d take you into custody, then pay me the money.” Cory swallowed hard. “But they planned to just kill us both, didn’t they?”

  “That’s exactly right.” Digging his phone out of his pocket, he placed a call to Michael, cursing when it went to voice mail. “It’s me. I’m at the motel and things have gone FUBAR. They got to Cory and set me up, but he got suspicious of their story and confessed to me. We’re going to try and make it to the compound, but it could be too late to make a clean break out of here. Could use some backup. See you.”

  He pocketed the phone and dug a card from his wallet. Handed it to Cory. “If we get separated, you find a place to lie low and call that number. One of our men will pick you up and take you somewhere safe.”

  “Thanks. I don’t deserve that much.”

  “We’ll discuss who’s the bigger idiot later. Let’s go.”

  Easing the door open, Bastian peered into the night. Nothing moved in the dim light under the awning that covered the row of rooms, nor in the parking lot. He waved at Cory to follow, and stepped out, half expecting to be greeted by a hail of bullets. Even that scenario beat being trapped in the motel room, though, like pigs waiting for slaughter.

  Grabbing Cory’s arm, he took a couple of steps toward his new car — and two forms rounded the corner not twenty feet from them. Both men were big and carried guns. One of them jogged wide, cutting off his route to the car. Tio.

  “Run!” Bastian shouted, shoving Cory in the opposite direction. Bracing his feet, he brought his arm up, knowing in his gut that he was so fucking dead, but someone was going with him. Making a split decision, he fired at the closest man, the one under the awning, as the pair fired back. A bullet whizzed past his face to embed in the stucco of the motel wall, and a punch hit his thigh, burning. The man he hit went down, a dark stain blossoming on his chest.

  As Tio fired again, Bastian turned and bolted in the direction he’d sent Cory. Rounding the corner of the building, he spotted Cory hauling ass across the lot next door, heading for the shadows. Bastian had to buy the kid time to find a hiding place and make the call for help. Using the wall as cover, he lunged around the corner and popped off two shots at Dietz’s favorite lapdog, gratified when the man dove for the ground between two parked cars. If he hadn’t hit the bastard, he’d at least slowed him down.

  Bastian took off, the pain in his leg beginning to register. With every step, agony ripped through his thigh, but he pushed on. Across the street, into an alley next to a dry cleaners that was closed for the night. Emerging from the other end, he limped more than ran across the next street, into another alley, footsteps gaining from behind. His foot snagged something in the darkness and he tripped, landing on his hands and knees in slimy garbage. Lost his gun as it went skittering into the gloom.

  Gunshots erupted at his back and he lurched up, stumbled on, shards of brick exploding to his right. Sweating, breathing hard, he reached the end of the alley — a corridor that ended in a tall, high fence.

  Panting, he braced one hand on the fence and laid the other on his jeans, over the wound. His pants were soaked with blood and now he could feel the warm liquid squishing in his shoe. Dizziness assailed him, and he knew the bullet had probably nicked an artery. He was trapped.

  It was over.

  Putting his back to the fence, he leaned against it, determined to die on his feet. Tio jogged up and stopped a few feet away, gun pointed squarely at Bastian’s chest, crooked smile glinting in the scant light.

  “Where’s your traitorous boss?” Bastian asked.

  “Close. Not that it will matter to you in a moment.”

  “Figures, since you two are practically married,” he taunted. “Do you scream his name when he fucks your ass raw?” His hope was to incite Tio to deliver a quick death.

  The taunt backfired. The big man crossed the space in two strides and slammed the butt of his gun into Bastian’s head.

  The night shattered around him and he fell. Hit the ground and rolled to his side, instinctively trying to protect himself. A boot connected with his stomach and he gagged, tried to scramble away. Another blow caught his ribs, another his chest. They rained down until he stopped moving, strength gone, floating somewhere above the intense pain.

  As though conjured from his worst nightmare, Tio’s silhouette loomed over him. Slowly, he raised his arm, aiming his gun at Bastian’s skull.

  �
��Adios, Chevalier.”

  Distantly, Bastian heard a shout, the deafening explosion of a gunshot.

  Then nothing.

  Thank God he hadn’t sent the team home when Bastian called an end to the op.

  “Hang on, buddy,” Michael said, as Ozzie whipped the surveillance van in a sharp turn toward the motel. “We’re coming.”

  They’d listened just a while longer, grumbling but respecting Michael’s sixth sense. His crazy instinct not to call it so soon. To wait. The kid’s confession had chilled their blood, and when he said Dietz’s men were on the way, Michael and his team had burned rubber.

  Four minutes. That’s all the time it took to reach the motel, but it was four fucking minutes too long. He’d listened to Bastian’s message on the way, having just missed the call. God help him, he hadn’t heard it ringing because they were already roaring toward the motel by then. As they skidded to a stop at the back of the place, behind Bastian’s car, Michael spotted a man lying on the sidewalk.

  “One of Dietz’s.”

  “I’ll check him,” Willis said, climbing out and walking over. Two fingers to the man’s throat, and he shook his head. “Dead. I’ll check the room, too, and get a cleanup crew here.”

  Michael climbed out and ordered Ozzie to keep the van running. Quickly, he walked over to where an exchange of gunfire had obviously occurred. “From the way this guy is positioned, Bastian had to be standing close to the door of his room.” His gaze followed the path from the dead man to the spot where his friend might’ve stood. Crimson droplets were scattered on the walk near the motel-room door, and led from the scene to the corner of the building. “He’s been hit and he’s running.”

  Jumping back into the van, he slammed his fist on the dash. “Go!” he yelled at Ozzie. “That way!”

  The van squealed through the parking lot, and as they came to the front of the building, he caught sight of a huge man ducking into an alley across the street. “Shit, I think that was Tio,” Ozzie said. “I’ll take the next street and try to intercept them.”

  If Tio had Bastian on the run, the situation was dire. The Mexican was a stone-cold killer. Michael willed himself not to panic as Ozzie wheeled the van onto the next street — only to be blocked by white construction sawhorses and a big hole in the pavement where the city had made yet another mess to impede traffic. In front of them, a few businesses down, Tio was just disappearing into another alley.

  “Goddammit! I’m going on foot.” Michael flung the passenger’s door open. “Call for backup and get McKay and his medical team here, fast.”

  “Got it.”

  Michael ran. Gaining the mouth of the alley seemed to take forever. When he got there, he entered cautiously, listening. Shuffling noises, maybe footsteps, drifted from the far end. He heard voices. Pulling his weapon from his holster, he moved forward as quietly as possible, sticking as close to the wall as he could. Wasn’t easy with all the boxes, crates, and rancid garbage strewn everywhere.

  Drawing closer, he could make out the hit man standing. Kicking a form on the ground, over and over. And then his arm angled downward, the glint of metal in his outstretched hand.

  “Adios, Chevalier.”

  “Tio!” Michael shouted, bringing up his own gun. The man spun, and Michael did on pure, honed reflex what he was trained to do.

  He blew the motherfucker’s brains out.

  Lowering the weapon, he reholstered it and jogged to Bastian, avoiding the human feces that used to be Tio. He dropped to his knees. Even in the darkness, he knew his friend was in bad shape.

  One leg of Bastian’s jeans was saturated with blood, as was his face. He wasn’t moving or making a sound. Reaching out, Michael placed two shaking fingers to his neck and found a weak pulse.

  “Oh, my God.” He ran a trembling hand over his friend’s hair. “Bastian? It’s me. Christ, please don’t leave me. Hang on, help is coming.”

  And it was taking too long. Fishing in his jeans, he retrieved his pocketknife, flipped it open, and used it to split the seam of Bastian’s bloody pant leg as far as he could without cutting flesh, then used his hands to rip the material all the way to his thigh. Peering at the wound, he saw a dark stream of blood pouring steadily from the hole. Not pumping in a full-fledged arterial spray, but losing too much all the same.

  Working fast, he cut the torn denim into a long strip and cut it free. Then he wrapped it around Bastian’s thigh, tying it as tight as possible in a makeshift tourniquet. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was all he could do.

  A sound had him reaching for his gun, but it was just Ozzie sprinting toward him. “How bad is he?”

  “Pretty bad,” he said, voice rough. His throat burned, but he had to keep it together in front of his men. “I think the bastard got an artery. What’s McKay’s ETA?”

  “Seven.”

  “That’s too long.”

  “I know, but the nearest hospital is fifteen, even if we took him to the van and drove him in ourselves. And with the gunshot wound, there’s the mandatory reporting.”

  “I don’t care about the red tape with the cops if it means Bastian survives,” he snapped.

  “Our way is still quicker. McKay is bringing the helicopter and setting it down about a mile from here. One of our men is meeting him, driving him here. They’ll stabilize Bastian, take him back to the copter.”

  Michael nodded. The helicopter would whisk his friend back to the compound, shaving off crucial minutes. Time Bastian didn’t have to spare.

  He wanted to pull Bastian into his arms, but didn’t dare risk moving him. He longed to tell the other man just how much he meant to him, beg for forgiveness, and now it might be too late.

  At last, a vehicle stopped at the mouth of the alley. Four men came into view; one was an agent, and the other three were McKay, a male nurse carrying a backboard, and another doctor named Rhodes.

  “Come on,” Ozzie said, tugging Michael’s sleeve gently. “Let’s get out of their way.”

  Reluctantly, he stood and moved back, half-frozen. Katrina was half of his heart… but the other half was pouring his life onto the filthy pavement, unaware that Michael’s soul was screaming in agony. That he’d give anything for Bastian to survive, smile at him again. Give him another chance.

  Give the three of them a chance.

  “I can’t do much for him here,” McKay said grimly. “We need to transport now.”

  The doctors transferred him carefully to the backboard, strapped him down. They lifted their burden and headed back to their vehicle at a steady clip, the nurse holding the IV bag aloft. At the mouth of the alley, Michael started to climb into the van with them, but McKay shook his head.

  “There’s no room for you in the helicopter. I’m sorry, Michael. Follow us, and I’ll let you know something as soon as I can.”

  “I understand,” he murmured. “Take care of him, Taylor.”

  “I will.”

  And then the vehicle roared away, leaving him staring after it, a ragged hole in his chest where his heart should be. Was this how Bastian had felt after Michael had been shot? Like his whole world hung in the balance, as though he’d been plunged into hell?

  “Michael,” Ozzie said softly. “Come on, man. He’ll be in surgery by the time we get there, and I’m sure we’ll know something soon after that. I’ll have someone from the cleanup crew give Willis a ride back from the motel.”

  He shook himself. “Okay.”

  On the interminable ride to the compound, Michael’s phone rang. It was Willis.

  “Boss, we got that kid, Cory. Kelly picked him up and is taking him to the compound. We figured he wasn’t safe going home with Dietz still out there.”

  “Good,” he said numbly. “You guys did exactly right. Take him to one of the empty living quarters and let him get some sleep. We’ll figure out tomorrow what the hell to do with him.”

  Michael knew what he’d like to do to him, especially after listening to the little shit service Bastian — e
nthusiastically — for hours on end. And then the naive brat almost fell for Dietz’s trick. Even though the kid had wised up in time to redeem himself, he might have cost Bastian his life, anyway.

  “Got it, boss.” Willis ended the call.

  Immediately, Michael placed a call of his own. Katrina answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, you! Is the stakeout over? This was the last night, right?”

  “Yeah. Um, listen, baby. Bastian…” To his horror, his voice broke.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” she demanded in alarm.

  “One of Dietz’s men got to him. Can you meet me at the compound’s hospital?” His teeth chattered and he started to shiver. Delayed reaction.

  “Oh, Michael,” she breathed. “I’m on my way. Hang in there, honey.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ending the call, he stared at the blur of lights whizzing past and prayed harder than he ever had. Which was saying something, because he’d never been a praying man.

  Tonight, he was making an exception. On his knees, if necessary.

  Please, God, don’t take him from me. From us.

  Katrina grabbed her purse and keys and hit the door, uncaring that she wore only a pair of well-loved sweat pants, a T-shirt that stated YOU CALL ME “BITCH” LIKE IT’S A BAD THING, and running shoes. She’d gone for a walk earlier and was just about to take a long, hot bath when Michael phoned.

  One of Dietz’s men got to him.

  The heartbreak and terror in his voice got her moving, fast. She’d paused only long enough to make sure she had her ID badge for entry to the compound.

  All the way there, she wished she’d asked for a few more details. Her mind was spinning with all of the possible scenarios, each one more horrible than the last. Three weeks, and not a single appearance from Dietz. The guys were ready to scrap this op. What the hell had gone wrong?

  Okay, enough. No use speculating. She had no choice but to be patient and get the story later. One thing was for sure: tonight effectively put an end to her argument with Michael over her moving to his estate. She’d claimed that such a move would clue in Dietz as to their relationship. He’d countered that the asshole might know already, and she’d be safer at his place. Now Michael would get his way.