by D. D. Marks
There was a sharp crack beside Olesia's ear, like the snap of a whip, and the mirror behind the bar exploded.
It took a moment for the screams to begin. Rostam reached inside his jacket, shouting, "Down, down!" Olesia had already dropped flat, her purse clutched to her chest, the Beretta in hand. "Stay down!"
Another bullet snapped past, this time taking a chunk the size of her fist out of the top of the counter. The front window of the bar shattered and sheared across the tiles. The bar was a confusion of people running, people shrieking, people crouching behind their chairs as if that would somehow protect them. Olesia scrambled behind one of the booths and grit her teeth against the noise. "You see them?"
"I don't see anything!" Rostam was behind a booth on the opposite side of the bar. He'd thrown the satchel bag over his shoulder and drawn something compact and black from his jacket. "We have to run."
"Where?"
"Anywhere!" He looked up over the booth, but only for a moment, and then dropped flat against the bench seating. There was a series of high cracks, and bullets stitched a pattern across the wall. "There are three, outside. One in a car."
"Zero Error?"
"I don't know!" He clicked the safety off. "The back door, behind the counter."
"On three?"
"No. Now." He popped up over the table, gun in hand, and loosed five quick shots across the bar. Olesia didn't wait to see what he was shooting at, or whether they hit. She was on her feet in moments, sprinting as best she could in high heels through the panicked crowds, past the cowering barkeeper, to the door marked STAFF ONLY. She slammed through shoulder first, almost slipping on the polished kitchen tiles. The kitchen was packed with staff in white aprons, and they stared at her as she pushed past the steaming ovens to the back door.
She threw the door open, fell out into the alley, and found herself standing before a man in a white jumper. His face was hidden beneath a hood and he held a silver pistol in his gloved hands, aimed at her chest.
Olesia was moving too fast to stop. Her heels caught on the pavement and she fell, driving her shoulder into the man's collarbone. He fell back with a cry, and before he could stand she'd drawn her Beretta.
She was already squeezing the trigger when she remembered Rostam. "Lucky you," she said, and brought the butt of the pistol down into the man's face. There was a snap of bone, and he went limp. She had just enough time to tuck the Beretta back into her handbag before the back door banged open and Rostam tumbled out into the chill of the alley.
The gun in his hand was smoking, and his eyes were wide. There was a long rip up one arm of his jacket, and he staggered against the brick wall. "My car," he said. "Go."
"Where?"
"Just go!" He led the way down the alley, half-limping, half-running, the gun swinging wildly. The moon was low in the sky and he stood silhouetted against the night sky, sweeping the pistol one way down the street and then the other. "Hurry!"
Olesia kicked off her heels and tucked them under her arm before running, the alley bitumen cold through her stockings. She kept her hand in her purse, curled around the hard plated grip of the Beretta. Her heart was pounding, and she didn't have to fake fear when she caught up to Rostam and squeezed his arm. "Is it safe?"
He didn't reply, pulling her along past empty shopfronts and shuttered tobacconists. Behind them, hotel customers were flooding out into the street in a screaming tide. Sirens wailed in the distance. Olesia glanced back. Three figures in white hooded jumpers were breaking away from the crowd.
"They're coming," she said. In reply, Rostam pointed to a black Hummer parked beneath the eaves of a florist's shop. He beeped the doors open and Olesia scrambled in.
The doors slammed closed. "Belt up," he said, and slammed the accelerator.
Olesia was pressed back into her seat as the Hummer lurched forward. Up ahead, the three men in white jumpers had their guns drawn. There was a flash, but no impact, and then the men scattered, diving aside as Rostam's car slewed across the street.
Rostam's lips drew back over his teeth in a predator snarl. "Suck a dog's dick in hell!" he shouted, and leaned out the window with gun in hand. Five shots rang out - the men in white were falling, but whether he'd hit any of them was impossible to tell. Then he jammed on the accelerator, and they shot away from the restaurant, into the blackness of the Maryland night.
Olesia took a deep breath. Her feet were scratched and her head was tingling and her guts were twisted and there was something burning between her legs, the old excitement that usually only came with aftershocks and tracer fire. "Where're we going?"
"My apartment. It's safe there." Rostam didn't meet her eyes. "You knew those men, Miss King?"
"I've never seen them before! This isn't my fault! Were they-" Her hand flew up to her mouth in mock surprise. "They wanted to kill me."
"You are lucky you know how to run. Many don't." The sirens were fading. Rostam's left hand rested on his satchel bag, and the laptop inside.
Chapter 5
They arrived outside a nondescript Motel 6 ten miles outside the Bethesda limits. Rostam parked in the shadows and scanned the lot with his pistol drawn before leading Olesia across the carpark and up the narrow stairs. He pressed his ear to the door and waited a full minute before turning the key and reaching through the gap to flick on the light. Only once he'd checked every corner did he motion Olesia inside and lock the door behind them.
The room was small and yellowed around the edges, but it smelled clean enough and the bed was freshly made, so Olesia allowed herself to relax. She set her handbag down on the nearest table with the butt of the Berreta within reach, hidden beneath a folded scarf. "Rostam-"
"They might still be following," he said, and flicked the light off. They sat on the bed in the darkness, facing the door, the muscled bulk of Rostam's arm pressing against her side. She felt him twitch when a bird called outside, then relax.
She whispered, "Were you hurt?"
"A cook tried to fight me," he said. "They thought I was the one shooting."
She laughed nervously, then leaned her head against Rostam's upper arm, trying to seem frail. "I was only supposed to make a sale, not get shot at."
"You seem very calm."
"I do?"
"You did very well." He smiled, teeth flashing in the darkness. "So. That was Zero Error."
"God. Who are they?"
Rostam stood. "Another drink?" He crossed to the bar fridge and brought out a bottle, a thin skin of ice obscuring the label. "This isn't the drink of my country, but it's good, very crisp."
"Only a little." She was already measuring up the room. Three steps to the door, five to the window. She glanced out into the Bethesda night - on the horizon was a blaze of light where the Lockheed complex worked overtime. She sidled up to the window, trying to look unobtrusive. It was three stories down, but there was a drainpipe only a foot away, enough to hold her weight. If it came to that...
"Here." Rostam handed her a glass, chilled and slippery in her hand. "To good deals."
"To good deals." She waited for Rostam to down his shot before she drank her own. Smooth, like ice water cut with diamonds. It burned, but only for a moment. "So."
"You are so direct, you know! Not like other women." Rostam sighed. "You want to know about the deal."
"Seeing as it nearly got me killed, yes."
"Then I will begin from the start. I first communicated with Young after he expressed interest on several darknets in selling these schematics. He seemed... we say, like a rabbit. Flighty. That was also when I first heard of Zero Error. You see, what your friend is selling is very important. More important than he knows, maybe. I saw what Zero Error were offering. They were insistent. Your friend was wise, to not deal with them." He hung his head. "If they came to kill me, they probably came to Young first. He may be in trouble."
"Dead, maybe," she whispered.
"Yes, or dead." He was passing the pistol from hand to hand, and Olesia eyed it warily.
He caught her gaze. "Ah. Sorry, Miss King." He set the pistol down on the bedspread. "You aren't worried for Mister Young?"
"He's a client, not a friend."
"Well, it is good to be worried. Zero Error are a gang... no. More like Anonymous, but also the Crips, or Los Diablos. Anyone can join, if they have the internet, but I have heard that nobody really joins. They are just used, and then left to rot in jail when things go wrong. They buy things and sell them on. Some say they are building something more..." He sighed. "Maybe they want to start a war."
"Why would anybody want that?"
"I don't know. But there are people that would, which is why we needed the plans instead. For protection. I assured Young of this." He smiled. "You are stronger than most I know, to be so calm."
"I am?" Rostam's breath was soothing. The heat between her legs hadn't faded, and it was getting hard to keep her mind on the task at hand. Information, she reminded herself. Information, then get the hell out and call the cavalry. "Where is it you come from, where people aren't so strong?"
"A small province. You would not have heard of it."
She nuzzled into his neck. He smelled of sweat and gunsmoke, and it sent little thrills down her spine. "Try me."
"Isfahan."
"A nice place?"
"No, but it is home. I..." He stopped. "What are you doing?"
She'd been breathing in his scent, but now she nipped at his neck, very lightly. "Exploring," she whispered.
"I..." He stuttered. "They could come back."
"You left them a long, long way behind." She knew it was stupid. She knew Jean would be arriving at any moment, with the tracker dots activated inside the SD card. But she still needed answers, and the gunfire had left her more than horny - this was nearly a burning need, a hot, tight clenching in her gut that said fuck me now.
And after all, she thought, wasn't the fastest way to a man's heart - and his tongue - through his zipper?
"Rostam," she said, and traced her tongue up the side of his neck. "Do you have a wife?"
His jaw clenched, but he didn't pull away. "No."
"A girlfriend, fiancée, lover-"
"No."
"That's a shame." She slipped one hand across his chest, teasing the rips in his jacket. "Does it hurt?"
"No. He didn't cut me."
"Let me see," she said, and slipped the jacket from his shoulders. His shirt was torn too, dark, smooth skin showing through the rip. Underneath was the hint of bruised flesh. "Oh no," she said, and undid the top button of his shirt. Rostam didn't move. "Let me see-"
He stood suddenly and pushed her away. The back of her knees hit the bed and she fell in a heap. Rostam was silhouetted in the thin moonlight coming through the blinds.
"What do you want from me?"
"I just got shot at," Olesia said. "That's never happened to me before. I think I've got license to go a little crazy." She pressed her palm flat against the crotch of his suit pants. Inside, the bulge of his cock twitched. "Do you get shot at a lot?"
Rostam hesitated. "It has happened before."
"God, how do you relax afterwards?" She moved upwards along the bulge in his pants until she came to the zip and tugged it down. Underneath his suit pants, Rostam was wearing plaid boxer shorts, and she struggled to keep from giggling. The fabric was taut, and she swallowed hard before tugging the hem of his underwear down and letting his shaft pop out.
It dangled before her, dark and swollen. Not nearly as big as Jean's, but wonderfully smooth in her palm when she cupped it. She ran a fingernail up the underside and grinned as Rostam flinched back. "Oh, please. I'm not going to bite."
"You look like a woman who bites, Miss King."
"Do I?"
"It is in the eyes. You look hungry." He pressed one hand into the small of her back, pulling her in close, so her forehead was against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat through his ribs. "I do not meet many hungry women."
"I'll take it as a compliment. And call me Anita." She still had his length in her hand, and she gave it a little squeeze, smiling at how it stiffened in her palm. "You're tense, see? I told you so."
"I am always tense. It is my job."
"I can help with that."
Rostam laughed. "Now, I know you're not government." He kissed the top of her head as she ran her hand down the length of his shaft, pushing it against Rostam's stomach to place a kiss on the underside. Far above her, he gave a little sigh.
"You like that?" Rostam didn't reply, so she encircled his balls with forefinger and thumb and massaged, tugging just enough to elicit a gasp. "I said, you like that?"
"Anita, in my country, we would call you a bitch."
"Don't worry. They call me that here, too." She licked up the length of his shaft, taking in his musk - not bad, but sweaty, primal, just like Jean's had been those days when they'd fucked in dusty tents halfway across Pakistan - and took the head into her mouth.
Now Rostam groaned. His cock was only just long enough to bump the back of her throat, and she pressed him against the roof of her mouth with her tongue, swirling around the head. Rostam grunted, but said nothing. She glanced up; his eyes were closed.
With her free hand, she reached into her shirt pocket, where the tracker dot was still secure in its square of dissolvable paper. She caught the edge under her index fingernail and brought that hand up to stroke the plain of his belly; then, quickly, she pulled back from his length, darted out with her tongue and licked her finger.
She was sucking again before Rostam's eyes opened. Beneath her nail, the paper fizzed away, leaving only the tiny dot of hyper-compressed electronics. She allowed herself a small amount of satisfaction - no matter how much they chewed her out for sleeping with a mark, there was one part of the plan she wouldn't fuck up. The microSD was probably destined for Mexico, or Germany, but no matter how far Rostam mailed it, Blackrock would always know exactly where he was.
In one motion, she opened her mouth wide and engulfed his cock so far that her nose was pressed flat against his belly, and then pressed her index finger against the pucker of Rostam's anus.
He gasped; the finger slid in smoothly. His eyes opened. "Fuck, Anita-"
She pulled back, letting his shaft rest against her cheek even as she pressed lightly against the walnut of his prostate. "I thought you liked women who bite?"
"Not there! Get out, what do you think I am?"
"Jeez, if it's that big a deal..." She pulled the finger out and inspected her nails, pretending to be dainty. The dot was gone. "You want more?"
He reached down and cupped her cheeks. "Not if you're going to put anything up there again. But..."
Before she could protest he had lifted her to her feet. He leaned down and pressed his mouth against hers. His lips were salty and soft and his tongue flicked against her teeth, but only lightly, and then he pulled back and she fell against the bed, dizzied, as if he'd stolen the air from her lungs.
"Good?"
"Good," she said, breathless.
"You want to fuck?"
"They don't make them subtle where you come from, do they?" She sat back against the bed and arched her spine, eliciting several loud pops. She shook out her hands and cracked her neck. "Show me what you've got, then."
He was on her in moments, tossing her jacket over his shoulder and popping the buttons on her shirt with quick, deft fingers. She laughed, wriggling back across the bed and trying to look coy, but he grabbed her around the waist and scooped her in so she couldn't escape. His stubble scratched her neck as he kissed his way down to her collarbone.
"Shit, no hurry," she said, as he deftly reached around her back to unhook her bra. "Been a while since you last got laid?"
Rostam shook his head. "I always fuck." It was almost magical how quickly he shucked Olesia out of her bra, lifting her arms delicately and slipping the straps over her hands. He took her left breast in his right hand and kneaded it gently, brushing over the nipple with the rough pad of his thumb. "I don't
always get shot at, but I always fuck."
Olesia arched her back, pressing her breast into Rostam's palm. "The life of a spy, eh?"
"I did not say I was a spy."
"Oh, stop being facetious. You're a something, that's for sure. You're not normal. Normal people don't buy classified things and get shot at."
"I am not a spy," he said again. He pressed one finger into the centre of her chest and tipped her back, until she lay flat on the bed. The ceiling was spinning; had he slipped something into the vodka?
Then Rostam kissed her again, and Olesia decided she didn't care. He tasted like ice and musk and scented smoke, and she pressed into him, wrapping her legs around him and pulling him in close. "Condom?" she said.
In reply, he pulled a small packet out from his pocket. "God, you are prepared," she said, as he tore the packet open with his teeth and slipped the rubber on. She wriggled her skirt down over her hips, and Rostam tugged it the rest of the way, baring her ass to the cold night air. Her thong slipped off and was thrown somewhere into the dark corners of the hotel room. Then Rostam lifted her legs, pressing her knees into her chest, and entered her in one smooth motion.
Olesia had to muffle a cry as he pressed into her. She ground against him, and Rostam reached around to brush her hair back from her face. "Is it good?"
"Less talk," she said. "Just hurry up and fuck me."
He grinned, withdrew, and thrust into her again with a slap of skin on skin. There was a growling ferocity in the way he moved, like there was something deep inside her that he needed. Every time he hilted inside her he made a noise in the back of his throat like a tiger purring. His thrusts grew faster, and faster still, and the feel of him inside her made Olesia want to scream.
Rostam rested his palm flat on her stomach and rubbed her clit with the pad of his thumb. "You like?"
Olesia couldn't speak. Her orgasm was swelling up, hot and electric. All she could see was white. There was something different about how Rostam fucked compared to how she'd made love to Jean only the day before. Jean had seemed lazy, like it was something he'd expected. An obligation he needed to fulfil. But Rostam pushed into her like she was his whole world, like if he slowed for one moment then she might vanish. He moved with long, powerful strokes, and each time he pressed deep into her a wave of numb, giddy pleasure rolled up into her lungs, vibrating inside her chest.