THE HITMAN AND THE ESCORT
A DARK ROMANCE RUSSIAN MAFIA THRILLER
Copyright © 2016 by Natasha Stevens
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Cover image from Depositphotos -- Tverdohlib and Egorrr
WARNING! This book contains graphic content that some may find objectionable. Recommended for mature readers.
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PART ONE
Chastity
One of my clients recently joked that I was the best, highest-paid escort in the world.
I don’t know how you’d figure out something like that, though.
First of all, there are no official listings of rates and people understandably keep such numbers as private as they can. Plus, my hourly or nightly rate doesn’t reflect the gifts that I get from my clients, or the airfares, and so forth.
Okay, there are some websites and forums with unofficial anonymous ratings, of course.
And I am very highly rated, there, it seems.
But, I mean really, what’s an escort, or a whore, when you come right down to it?
I mean, do trophy wives count? They end up with far more money than me.
But then again, if you average out it by the hour, maybe not. When I’m not working, I’m not working, you know?
And there have been a few people who auctioned off their virginity, for bids of hundreds of thousands of dollars. I never got offered anything like that for one night, but then again those were probably mostly hoaxes, scams, and marketing ploys.
Suffice it to say I’m paid well for what I do, which is not just fucking.
It’s spending time with people – men and women, of course – and making them feel good for a while. Being good company.
And then fucking them.
But I make people feel good any way I can.
And I mean, how would you judge who is the best escort in the world otherwise? Best at sex?
I mean, I’m good, but I don’t think I have supernatural abilities or anything.
People fuck for all kinds of reasons, most of them for no money. The talented amateurs, the semi-pro party girls, and everything in between.
But I enjoy it, and that’s more that a lot of escorts can say. It’s not just an act with me.
Not all of it, anyway.
More of my clients joke about the name Chastity, in relation to my job involving so much sex.
I’ve learned to smile and make clients think it’s the first time I’ve heard that joke.
I’m good at my job.
Vladimir
One of my victims recently joked that I was the best hit man in the world.
I don’t know how you’d figure out something like that, or even why you’d want to.
People kill other people for all kinds of reasons, good and bad, and most don’t make money from it. Extremely accomplished professional killers in the military and intelligence services, as well as in crime organizations and mafia groups, commit highly skilled assassinations and don’t get paid much of anything.
And there are people who kill their wives or husbands or parents, and manage to make it look like an accident or whatever, and end up with millions of dollars.
I’ve never made THAT kind of money for a hit.
But of course, I am well paid for what I do.
But the best?
How should I know?
I mean, I’m a good marksman, excellent at hand-to-hand combat, skilled at all kinds of surveillance and counter—surveillance and intelligence gathering.
But the best in the world? I mean, by the nature of the business, the best assassins in the world are the ones nobody knows about at all.
Really, it’s not exactly rocket science to walk up behind somebody and shoot them in the head.
It’s the stuff after the killing that gets complicated.
You make sure you get rid of the weapon, make sure that there were no witnesses, and try to minimize any other physical evidence. (Most of the stuff you see on TV about Crime Scene Investigation is exaggerated – there are DNA and hair fibers from everybody laying everywhere. Unless they already know who might have done it, it doesn’t help much.)
But I do have a few other specialized skills, I should say.
I’m the guy you call – or rather my contract organizer calls – when you DON’T want it to look like an accident.
When you want somebody to die unpleasantly.
The guy that joked about me being the best assassin in the world was an acquaintance, a guy who provided computer-related technical support for my contract organizer.
Nonetheless, I was paid to kill him, so I did.
I strangled him.
It takes about four minutes to kill somebody by strangulation, but I choked him for a couple minutes at a time, and then let him regain consciousness, before repeating the process.
He was brain-dead, and shit and pissed himself before he died, just as my employer requested.
Apparently, the guy was trying to blackmail my contract manager.
Bad idea.
Anyway. I’m good at my job.
Chastity
Tonight, I’m going to fuck a Russian billionaire.
Russian billionaires are some of the better kind of billionaires to fuck. They tend to be in good shape and not bad-looking, with high cheekbones and a nice tough Alpha-dog manner about them.
(As opposed to American tech billionaires, who are big blubbery babies in my experience, or Middle Eastern billionaires, who are big slobs of the first order.)
Of course, fucking Russians brings back a few bad memories.
But that’s nothing I can’t deal with.
I’ve fucked this one a few times before. With his close-cropped grey hair, Arctic wolf eyes and the finest suits, he’s everything an escort could want in a Russian billionaire.
Clean. Polite. Generous. Well-hung, but not so well-hung as to be … problematic.
To my surprise, he’s brought his trophy wife with him. She’s only a few years older than me – a former Miss Russia, if I remember correctly from the new stories. They hired a bunch of popular singers to play at their wedding, paying them millions of dollars a song. That made the news.
I look her over, smiling, and she looks back, with crystal blue eyes and beautiful fair skin, platinum jewelry and precious stones dangling in her deep cleavage. She’s a true beauty.
But then so am I. I’m not intimidated.
Like all too many Russian beauty-queen whores, she has the eyes of a predatory animal and the seething sexuality of a predatory animal, as well.
But then my own sexuality begins to turn on, the scent of money and power and hot hot sex filling my nose and brain, and making my pussy and nipples tingle.
I’m going to enjoy this.
I’m sitting across the table from them, in a private booth in a corner of the restaurant connected to a monumentally expensive hotel, making small talk. I just finished a salad – I never eat much of anything when I’m with clients beyond salad, nothing oily, heavy, or stinky -- and I’m drinking a club soda. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in nearly ten years, and I consider being sober a matter of professionalism as well as just a plain matter of staying healthy and sane.
Speaking of bad memories.
But then again, I don’t ACT completely sober. A little giddy giggly behavior goes a long way.
But only a little.
Unlike the Russian bitch, my smile is warm and genuine, and my panties are already wet. I lick my full lips as I look over at her.
The securi
ty guards are sitting a couple tables away. Two of them. I’ve been with enough rich guys that I’ve gotten pretty good at spotting security. It’s not their fitness or their size, it’s their eyes, which are checking out the room – and checking out everybody, not just the women.
His wife is wearing a short silver dress and my eyes are again drawn to her high firm tits cleft deeply in the décolletage of it. They’re real, or they’re as expensive and high-quality as everything else she wears.
The billionaire notices where I’m looking and he loosens his tie a bit.
Vladimir
Tonight, I’m going to kill a Russian billionaire.
Fucking Russians.
My countrymen.
Although it’s been a while since I lived there.
I think I’ve killed more of them than any other.
But if you must kill people for money, let it be Russian billionaires.
They are more insect than human, in my experience. They live to feed on the world, and that’s about it. Businesses, products, resources, women, men. Everything is there only for them to use.
Oh sure, they might sponsor a charity project or two to make sure they’ve got some support in their home town, maybe. Or to make sure there are good roads and sanitation and schools in the cities where their mistresses, baby mommas, and relatives live.
Otherwise, their vacuous lust for consumption is matched only by vampire bats and lamprey eels.
This guy is a particularly vile specimen, having made his fortune in buying up privatized state industries cheaply in Russia’s bad old days, with money he made from various illegal acts which included sex trafficking of Russia’s most abundant natural resource, hot and slender young women.
When the government finally started to turn on him, he fled the country, buying residence in America and investing in various vapid attention-seeking pastimes like sports teams as well as investment houses that figured out ways to steal money that were only legal because they were so complicated nobody had figured out how to make them illegal yet.
I’m going to enjoy killing him.
He’s been on TV a lot recently, talking about the corruption in the Russian government. Maybe that had something to do with the contract on him, I don’t know.
Of course, he has security out his ass, but that probably makes him overconfident. He likes to fuck girls in his limo, while driving around the city, and that’s a big vulnerability. If he was doing it in a well-guarded house or apartment, or even a hotel, I wouldn’t be able to get him.
But the limo, while armored, has several advantages for me which are disadvantages for his security.
Obviously, he doesn’t want his security in the back of the limo with him watching him fuck. He’s not THAT kind of a kink.
So there are two guys in the front seat, one driving. Both highly-trained armed security, and the limo is bulletproof and rigged up with the usual alarms and such.
There’s a rotating team of four of them, and I’ve been watching them for a week or so.
Chastity
Of course, I’m a great conversationalist.
I have to be.
But that’s not hard, with most guys.
Smiling and nodding appreciatively is about all that’s required. And telling them how big their cocks are, of course.
Tonight, the conversation, as often with Russians, revolves around expensive shit they’ve bought recently. It’s not a subject of world-shattering interest to me, but I like clothes and shoes and handbags as much as the next girl and I make it my professional business to keep up with the latest information about it. Her high-heeled pumps cost more than our waiter makes in a month, probably.
Underneath the table, the former Miss Russia is rubbing her feet against my bare legs.
And fuck is it turning me on!
I mean, rubbing legs under the table, that’s so high school, right?
Maybe that’s why I’m enjoying it.
She’s kicked off her expensive top-dollar spike-heeled pumps and is running her delicate little well-manicured toes, clad in expensive silk stockings, up and down my bare calf.
After she finishes her second bottle of champagne, she asks me if I’m worth what they’re paying me.
“Your husband buys only the finest things, so why should I be any different?” I say, batting my eyes at her.
She smiles at me for the first time.
Her little foot is rubbing between my knees now; I slide my dress up a bit, and spread my legs, and she slides her warm silky foot down my thigh until it’s pressing against my moist, black lace panties.
The billionaire is too much of a … well, too much of a billionaire to bend down under the table and look, although I’m sure he can tell by looking down at his wife’s legs what she’s doing.
“And do you like that, Chastity?” he asks.
I blink my eyes and lick my lips, letting a look of barely-contained lust be my answer. I squeeze my thighs together around her foot as she gently pulsates it against the lace covered mound between my legs.
He smiles with his even white teeth. Unlike his wife’s tits, I’m sure they’re not real, but I’m sure they’re top quality and very expensive.
Like everything else he owns.
Vladimir
It doesn’t take much effort to poison two of his security guys.
I put a toxin on the door handle of the tail car, while it was parked in the parking area nearby. That was easy enough. Getting close to the limousine was harder, but I managed to do it during the dinner hour rush.
Nothing deadly; just a botulism-derived toxin embedded in an emulsifying agent, DMSO, to spread it into their bloodstream from contact. They’ll all be coming down with symptoms similar to food poisoning in a couple of hours. Fever, diarrhea, that kind of thing.
The limo is parked in front of the hotel while the billionaire has dinner. Two are inside with him – probably just beginning to feel feverish and nauseous -- and two are waiting in the limo.
I’m in a simple disguise – a curly wig and glasses. I’ve grown a short beard for the occasion. I have a drink alone in the bar near the restaurant, pretending like I’m doing important stuff with my tablet computer, but I’m using it to occasionally access the live video feed to the camera I’ve installed outside near the limo.
It’s not even the stupid wig and glasses that make me blend in. I’m very good at disappearing. At 6’0 and 180 pounds I’m just average-sized enough to not stand out, and I disdain the pumped-up chemically-enhanced muscles so many men strive for these days. My strength is what it needs to be, built of thousands of reps of sit-ups, pull-ups, and push-ups, but I’m not swollen like a circus attraction.
Also, I’m good at appearing clumsy, uncoordinated, and ultimately forgettable. Perhaps because that’s what I was as a child. Who’d have thought it would come in handy?
I see the billionaire and his trophy wife, and then her. The escort, blonde hair spilling down her bare shoulders.
That’s all I dare to let myself see of her.
I make a point of not giving them more than a cursory glance, because his two guys in the restaurant will be looking to make sure nobody is checking out the boss. Or his women.
But the escort, I have other reasons for not wanting to look at.
I push that distraction from my mind and concentrate on work, and try not to think of her bare shoulders.
Finally, one of the security guys gets out of the limo to use the toilet – which he is surely going to do in the bathroom of the lobby of the hotel. I’ve seen him do it a couple of times before, and I gave both of them a slightly less-concentrated dose of the same toxin I used on the others. I knew one of them would have to go eventually.
I go into the toilet first. This toilet is usually empty, as it accommodates only one at a time – this is a classy place, after all, and there’s another larger one in the bar and restaurant area. It’s perfect for my purposes; first you walk into a large room with a sink, and then t
here’s another door to the toilet.
I go into the toilet, past the second door, and wait.
When the security guy comes in, he has the usual reaction anybody has when they walk in on an occupied toilet: He looks away and tries to close the door.
And that kills him.
I hit him in the throat with the edge of my hand before he can close the door and pull him by his collar into the toilet stall, closing the door behind him. He gurgles and chokes, but doesn’t make much noise.
I lock my forearm around his neck and lock my hand in the crook of my elbow, cutting off his oxygen as well as the blood flow to his brain, and he begins to lose consciousness within a few seconds.
I hold him for the full four minutes until he’s dead.
I always feel a little twinge about killing security guys, but they knew the risks when they took the job.
And no telling what this guy had done for his boss.
Or his bitch wife.
I let the body settle onto the very clean marble floor of the toilet, and put on his uniform. It’s just a black jacket over a white shirt; but he does have a fucking chauffer cap.
How stupid.
The guy was a bit taller than me, but we’re about the same shoulder width. It’ll work just fine.
Have to ditch my beard quickly, though, and a few passes with a battery-powered electric razor from my computer bag does that easily enough.
I leave him there, and go out, locking the door with a copy of a key which I’d stolen from the maintenance department a few days previously.
Just to complicate the matter a bit, I take a tube of super glue from my pocket and inject some into the lock.
No cameras on the entrance to the bathroom; this is a classy joint, like I said.
I go back to the limo, get inside it, and as the driver turns to me I shoot him twice in the head with my silenced 9mm handgun.
Now silencers, or suppressors as they are more accurately called, are not as quiet as they look in movies. They’d don’t make that little pneumatic PHUT PHUT noise.
It sounds more like a hand clapping.
The Hitman and the Escort Page 1