by James Lear
Oz had turned up at my house in the early hours of yesterday morning, fucked up on drugs, beaten and bruised. He’d been with a client, and taken—or been forced to take—a large amount of GHB. He’d escaped with his life, and come to me for help, but had either thought better of it and fled, or been forcibly removed by persons unknown. Somehow he’d got hold of a gun, and turned up at the house of one of Vaughan’s wealthy associates where he knew he would meet the person or persons he was looking for, making threats and firing a shot. He’d then been killed. Maybe the first shot was a setup. Maybe Oz never had a gun at all, and the weapon I saw lying near his hand had been placed there for my benefit. Was I meant to be a witness? Had they been keeping Oz there until the very last moment, when they let him out, fired the gun, and then shot him in the back? An execution, pure and simple, dressed up to look like a botched attack.
I had a list of questions that kept getting longer, each leading to another. Why did they need Oz’s silence? Who was threatened by him—Vaughan, or one of his clients? I’d taken Oz’s place in the “wrestling match”—was I now about to take his place in a more deadly game? What had prompted this sudden trip to New York? Why not New Hampshire, where Vaughan had just been? Was that misinformation? And what of Lukas—was he a victim, or a perpetrator? I’d heard so many times that he was stepping out of line—but this, too, could be a smoke screen. The date of the suspected terror attack was close with the date of the hastily arranged fight, if it existed . . .
Around and around I went, trying to figure it out, flashing on the image of Oz, dead, his blood on the marble floor, and the cool, handsome, dark-haired police officer putting something away in a suitcase.
Finally, at four a.m., I fell asleep. The car arrived at five. A black Mercedes, with one of Vaughan’s drivers. Lukas was already in the back. He mumbled a greeting, and stared out of the window. We had a long flight ahead of us, a nice little holiday in New York City, plenty of time to get to know each other. I would get my dick back into his ass before the sun set over the Hudson River, I promised myself. And with that pleasant thought in mind, I closed my eyes and let myself be carried along. Just to be on the safe side, I’d slipped a tracking device into my own ass before I left, and emailed my details to MI6. You never know when it might come in useful. I had plenty left. Perhaps I’d get one into Lukas. I was getting hard thinking about it. I lay back in my seat and closed my eyes.
Time passed. I dozed.
“Greg. Hey! Greg!”
A hand on my arm. “What?”
“We’re at the airport, man.”
“Shit.” My dick was sticking straight up in my pants. Lukas kept glancing down at it. “Fuck. Morning wood.”
He gave it a squeeze. “Better get that down before we go through security.”
Perhaps Lukas and I could make a good team. Vaughan hadn’t counted on that. He must have thought that Lukas would still be furious about last night’s party. Perhaps he was. But his love of getting fucked was stronger. He wouldn’t be the first arrogant macho dickhead I’ve turned into a compliant subordinate. That’s the good ol’ USMC training.
We checked in, got through security, and found coffee.
“Excited about the fight?”
“Excited? Fuck off.”
“What?”
“He hasn’t paid me for the last one yet. And this one is crap. He knows it, and I know it.”
“Then why are we going?”
“When Vaughan tells you to do something, you do it.”
“What’s he got on you?”
“Same as he’s got on everyone.”
“You mean he filmed you fucking.”
“Yeah. Fucking bastard.”
“Who?”
Lukas shrugged. “Some guy that used to work for him when I was starting out, four or five years back. He was supposed to be a personal trainer at the gym, but you know . . .”
“That wasn’t what Vaughan really employed him for.”
“Yeah.”
“Like me.”
“I suppose so.” Lukas sighed, as if his world was ending. “Oh, it’s all so fucked up. Why did I ever sign with him?”
“Believe me, he’s no worse than the rest of them.”
“I just wanted to fight, that’s all.”
“And you’ve done well. You’re famous. You go to all the right parties, and you date all the beautiful girls.”
He said nothing, just stared into his coffee as if it was a deep dark well that he wanted to jump down.
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you, Lukas? Jesus. There are boys out there who would sell their fucking souls to have what you’ve got.”
“And that’s what they do, isn’t it? All those kids who think they’ve got a shot at the big time. Vaughan chews them up and spits them out.”
“Guys like Oz, you mean?”
Lukas said nothing for a while. “That was him, wasn’t it? Last night?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, shit.” Lukas’s voice was shaky. It took a few seconds before I realized he was crying.
“I’m sorry, Craig. Did you like him?”
“He was a sweet guy. He didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Do you have any idea what happened?”
“No.” He put his huge hands over his face, rubbing the black stubble on his chin and cheeks. “Oh, fuck. Fuck. This is my fault. It’s all my . . .” He couldn’t talk any more. People at other tables were starting to glance over. This wouldn’t do; Craig Lukas had a reputation to uphold. Someone would recognize him, photograph him, and it would be all over social media. Boxing star cries like a baby at airport.
“Let’s go for a walk.” I pulled him to his feet and marched him around the departure lounge. “Tell me exactly why you think this is your fault.”
He blew his nose. “Because if it wasn’t for me Oz would never have become part of Vaughan’s organization.”
“You mean because he admired you?”
“Yeah. He was a . . . I don’t know. A fan.”
“And did you . . .?”
‘Christ, no. Not at first, anyway. Not until he was working for us. And then . . . yeah, I let him do stuff that he wanted to do. I told you, I liked him. Oh, Jesus . . .?”
“Don’t start crying again, Lukas.”
“I’m sorry.” He blew his nose.
“I liked Oz too. And I’ll find out what happened to him.”
“What makes you think you can do anything? You know what those guys are—Vaughan’s associates. Senior policemen. Lawyer. Judges. It’s hopeless.”
I thought it best not to mention MI6 or the CIA just yet. “When did you last speak with Oz?”
“The day before yesterday. He phoned me in the evening. He was drunk. He sounded confused. He said Vaughan had sent him on a job that he didn’t want to do.”
“What time was this?”
“About nine. I was out at a party.”
“What did he want?”
“He wasn’t making much sense. He kept asking me to go and get him.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. He kept repeating himself. He was on his way to see a client. He didn’t want to go.”
“Did he say anything at all about where he was going, or why he didn’t want to go?”
“He said a lot of things. It was hard to make it out. I should have listened to him.”
“Had he ever made calls like this before?”
“He used to ring me up in the middle of the night. I was actually going to block his number, he was becoming a nuisance. He’d say all sorts of shit, like he wanted to be with me and stuff.”
“He was a lonely, frightened boy.”
“Oh, fuck, Greg, don’t make it worse.”
“And you don’t know where he was going?”
“No.”
“Who sends the boys out on jobs?”
“Bill Brett, usually. Sometimes Jackson.”
“And is Vaughan blackmailing his clients as well as chargi
ng them for services?”
“He’s capable of anything.”
“Including murder?”
“He’d never have the courage to do it himself, but he’d put people in a situation where they had no alternative but to kill.”
“Who do you think killed Oz?”
“It could be anyone.”
“It’s happened before, hasn’t it?”
Lukas said nothing. We’d done one full circuit of the lounge by now, and started another.
“How many times?”
“I don’t know. It’s better not to know.”
“You just concentrate on the fame and the money and the women, and you don’t care if a few young guys get killed.”
He stopped and turned on me. “It’s not like that!” His face was red, and a vein was sticking out in his forehead.
“And then one day, out of the blue, it’s you.” That took the air out of his balloon. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Think you’re too important? Think again.”
“He wouldn’t touch me.”
“You keep bitching about the money, and threatening to walk out on him, and see what happens. Vaughan is afraid of you. You know too much, and people will listen to you. Wouldn’t it be in his interests to arrange an accident for you? Perhaps on foreign soil, where it’s easier to make you disappear.”
“Oh, come on, Greg . . .”
“Maybe he’s sending you out there with the assassin he’s paid to kill you.”
Now the blood was rushing away from his face. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s not true either. But did it not occur to you that Vaughan wants both of us out of the way?”
“It’s not like that. It’s a chance to generate some publicity . . .”
“Before the big fight in December. I know all that. It’s not true.”
“Why?”
“Who organizes a fight like this with two days’ notice? No time to get anything organized. He just wants us out of the way. And I bet you, when we get there, plans have changed. We’ll be sent on some wild goose chase.” I was thinking New Hampshire. “The fight won’t happen.”
“Then I’ll be really pissed off. I’ll talk to the first cop I can find. I’ll tell them everything.”
“Don’t be so fucking stupid. And don’t get any ideas about talking to the media either. Or tweeting anything. Let’s find out what’s happening, and then you have to let me make the plans.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“If you do as you’re told, I’ll fuck you again.”
I walked ahead; he had to jog to keep up. “Okay, Greg. Okay. I’ll do as you say, right? Just . . . you know, it takes me a while to . . . to get my head around it . . . I didn’t realize what was going on . . . I swear.”
I let him ramble on for a while, confident in the knowledge that his ass was now taking control of his brain. When the gate number was announced, I interrupted him. “I need the bathroom. Come on.”
I got him into a cubicle, locked the door behind us, and pulled my dick out. I really did need to piss. Lukas watched for a while, then joined me, crossing streams, getting as close to me as possible, splashing over the edge of the bowl. When we’d both finished, our cocks seemed reluctant to be put away.
I snapped my fingers and pointed to the floor. “On your knees.”
He didn’t argue. He dropped down like a good soldier and took hold of my balls. His mouth opened, his tongue slid out like a welcome mat, and I was in.
For a straight celebrity, Lukas was a pretty good bathroom cocksucker. We’d have to watch that. Don’t want any entrapments. His hand was down his pants, working away.
“Get up,” I said, when I was close. There was no room to fuck him in there, and I couldn’t be bothered with condoms and all that jazz, but I turned him around, pulled down his pants, bent him over so I had a good view of his hairy ass, and stuck one wet finger inside him. Lukas sighed, and started shooting his load all over the bathroom floor. What he didn’t notice was that I’d managed to insert a tracking device. With luck, that would last all the way to New York and beyond. Once he’d finished, I span him around again, pushed his head down and managed to get into his mouth just as I started ejaculating. He took the lot, and swallowed. I pulled him up, kissed him long and deep, then cleaned myself up with a wad of toilet tissue.
There were other guys using the bathroom when we came out of the cubicle, our faces flushed and (in Lukas’s case) sticky, but nobody dared say anything.
We boarded the plane, and Lukas had a smile and a friendly, flirtatious word for all the cabin crew. I was ignored. I guess they thought I was his bodyguard. It was as good a cover as any.
We slept for most of the flight. Only our tracking devices remained awake, and working.
13
It took me a second to recognize the man in the chauffeur’s uniform holding the COOPER sign. Uniforms, as I know very well, obliterate identity. The cap was pulled low over the eyes, and even they were covered with dark glasses, so it was the mouth I recognized first, and with good reason, if you cast your mind back.
Luiz, who’d done a great job of sucking me back to health in the Navy Med.
“Captain Cooper. I’m your driver for today. My name’s Aurelio.”
“Yeah, of course it is.”
He picked up Lukas’s suitcase. Everything I owned was in a backpack.
“The car is this way, gentlemen.”
“We’ll follow.” I watched his ass, rounder than ever in his tight chauffeur’s pants. The efficiency of the CIA, or the FBI, or whoever was giving Luiz his orders these days, was impressive, right down to the details.
If there had been a flicker of recognition on my face, Lukas didn’t notice it.
There were envelopes on the back seat of the car with our names on them. “Mr. Vaughan asked me to give these to you,” said Luiz/Aurelio, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Welcome to New York.”
“How thoughtful,” I said. There was a guide book, some refreshing wipes, an energy bar, and $200 cash in each package. And a shiny new smartphone. “Mr. Vaughan thinks of everything. Doesn’t he, Craig?”
Lukas was already playing with his phone, swiping through the apps, checking his contacts. “This is brilliant! I can text my Mum. Look, I’ve taken a photo, you can see skyscrapers and everything. I’m sending that to her.”
I checked my email app. The encrypted stuff was all there, including an email telling me that Lukas and I—or, rather, the tracking devices in our asses—had successfully crossed the ocean.
I improvised some small talk with Aurelio, trusting his training to make the right inferences.
“How’s the weather?”
“Warm for the time of year.”
“Looks like there might be a storm coming.”
“There’s one forecast in a couple of days.”
“Oh, yeah? Here in the city?”
“The reports say it’s coming down from the northeast.”
“Then coming here?”
I glanced at Lukas to make sure he hadn’t picked up on the subtext of our weather talk. He was happily oblivious.
“Not sure about that yet.”
“We’d better get some winter clothes then, just in case.”
“You’ll find everything you need at the apartment, sir.”
“Mr. Vaughan again?”
“Just as before.”
“It’s good to know we’re in such safe hands, Aurelio.”
“We didn’t want to think you’d been forgotten.”
What I really wanted to know was what Vaughan had sent us over here for. Was the fight real, or were we being used for something more sinister?
“So, Aurelio, where are you taking us?”
“You’re staying at an apartment in midtown.”
“One of Mr. Vaughan’s?”
“It belongs to a client of his.”
“He has some pretty fancy clients.”
Luiz said n
othing.
“And who do you work for, Aurelio?”
“I’m just a driver for the limo company.”
“I see. Did Mr. Vaughan book you, or his client?”
“I came through the agency.”
That was as clear as he could make it without screaming “I work for the CIA.” Lukas probably wouldn’t have understood or cared, but Luiz was trained to be careful.
“That must be useful if another driver has to cancel unexpectedly.”
“Funny you should mention that, sir. Your original driver was taken ill very suddenly. Had to go to the hospital.”
So the CIA had hacked into Vaughan’s emails, found out who was supposed to be collecting us from the airport, abducted him or otherwise put him out of action, and sent Luiz in his place. Vaughan would never know. The CIA had ways of ensuring that limo services keep quiet—like, for instance, threatening a visit from the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement to check up on their drivers’ paperwork. The CIA was running me now. The Brits had plenty to deal with—keeping an eye on Vaughan, investigating the death of Oz Rafiq, protecting the rest of Vaughan’s boys, and, in the fullness of time, handing over a big fat file of evidence to the police. That was something to look forward to. I’d given them what they needed. Now we were in unknown territory.
Luiz dropped us on Third Avenue, near Grand Central Station. One of those anonymous apartment blocks that used to look shabby and full of transients, but now have fancy security systems and rents that only crooks can afford. It said a lot about Vaughan’s American associates that they had an empty flat in east midtown empty and waiting for us. The place stank of organized crime.
We showered, fucked, showered again, ate, and slept. There were two bedrooms, but we only needed one. By the time we woke it was early evening, New York time. I’m used to crazy time zone shifts. I can get by on coffee. Lukas, on the other hand, was groggy and disorientated, possibly because he wasn’t used to getting so much dick up his ass. In boxing terms, he was punch-drunk. Fuck-drunk, I guess. He was only calm when he had my cock. The rest of the time he was nervous and bitchy, complaining about Vaughan, endlessly telling me he wanted to find new management, worrying about tomorrow’s fight but also dismissing it as a waste of time.