by Avril Ashton
Dutch could always be counted on to bring a party down with the doom and gloom. He rolled his eyes and started walking back to the living room, Quinn close behind.
“We found the list.”
“Congrats.” He knew Dutch and his people had been hunting for that list day and night. While they concluded Stavros didn’t have it, they couldn’t say he hadn’t had it at one point. And they were no closer to finding out who’d compiled all the undercover agents’ names and made it available for people like Stavros, either.
Dutch snorted. “No. Because everybody else found it as well. It’s fucking public,” Dutch said gravely.
“Uh, sorry to hear it,” Tek said as he handed Reggie his beer. “What does this have to do with me?” He glanced over at Israel, who had turned the TV to a twenty-four hour news station and was staring at the Breaking News.
“One of my undercover agents has already been identified.”
“Again, what—”
“Donovan Cintron.”
Images of a car exploding played on the TV screen in black and white while underneath the crawl read “Undercover agent, son of Republican Presidential candidate, Senator Mark Dulles, believed killed in car explosion.”
Ah, shit. Israel’s brother was dead.
****
Stavros Konstantinou flicked the lighter on. Then he pinched the blue-tinged flame, extinguishing it. One flick of his thumb and up shot the flame again. And with the thumb and forefinger on the other hand, he smothered the light once more.
It was a habit. One he’d held on to through his teen years.
He sat in the outdoor gardens of his villa in Lisbon. In the dark. The men who guarded his home knew to stay far, far away when he came out here. Something he rarely did. But he’d recently came back from the States and he was… restless.
Time to sell the house?
Yes.
He’d only bought it to be close to Annika. But she was gone now. Along with his father. His stepmother, too. Gone. His lineage had been wiped out by his ex-lover, and it no longer bothered him—if it ever did—that the only person he mourned was the woman he’d loved, but never had.
His affection for Annika had been a weakness he’d never appreciated. One he’d sought to stamp out, any means necessary.
He flicked the lighter again, the shimmer of the moon on the water in his swimming pool catching his eye.
Beauty.
Stavros appreciated beauty. He was called to destroy it, but that by no means meant he couldn’t appreciate it. Like now. He pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and called forth the tiny flame again, putting it to the thin cigarette’s end to catch fire. He took a deep drag and shrugged off the coat, letting it drop next to him.
The smoke filled his nostrils, the moonlight and orange glow from the cigarette the only illumination here in his little corner. He threw his head back and closed his eyes. A man like him didn’t know peace, and likely wouldn’t know what to do with it. But he took this moment for what it was, a reprieve until the next battle began.
Nothing to say where it would come from, or when, but he trusted his instincts. His killer instincts, his father called it. He had a nose for blood and a love for spilling it. Inevitably it would come that he’d be doing the breast-stroke in the crimson liquid soon.
The sound of loose gravel widened his nostrils though he didn’t move. He blew out a small cloud of smoke and grinned up at the moon.
Yes. Sooner than he’d expected, but he could work with it.
Leaves rustled to his left.
He had company. Stavros licked his lips and flicked ash away. “It’s dark and my eyes aren’t what they used to be,” he spoke in a low tone to his unwelcome visitor. “You came all this way, you may as well show yourself.”
No other sound, but a man was suddenly in his line of sight. Directly in front of him. The moon touched his full head of hair, made it shine, but his face was impossible to see. He was tall and skinny, that Stavros knew. And bold, to be where he stood at that moment. Stavros knew a lot of bold men.
None of them were suicidal.
He watched the shadowed figure, eyes hooded against the smoke. “You’re brave.” He spoke with the cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth. “I admire bravery, though I find it a wasted trait.”
“Those things will kill you, you know that, si?”
An ugly voice. Rough and ravaged, like it had been chopped to bits with a dull machete then tossed in a blender. Only one man had a voice like that. Stavros had given only one man that voice.
He rose slowly, mourning the loss of his comfortable seat. Feet planted apart, he jerked his chin and pinched the cigarette, removing it from his mouth. “Mr. Nieto, you’re far from home tonight.”
“I am where I should be.”
He’d always likened Daniel Nieto to a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth to kill. Unstoppable.
“Is that so?” Already Stavros stood in the middle of a war without even noticing when it had begun. He dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe. Then he counted to two and sprang forward, gun in hand.
He never reached Nieto. The sudden burning in his shoulder stopped him, stunned him and as he blinked in slow motion, it dropped him to his knees at Nieto’s feet.
“A little birdie told me you ordered my wife’s death.” Nieto hadn’t moved, save for his glittering gaze as he looked down at an immobile Stavros.
He shivered, cold sweeping up from his toes in one quick wave. He’d thought death would’ve been more than this. Less… anti-climactic. But beggars shouldn’t be choosers, yes? He smiled up at Nieto, shadows encroaching on his vision. “Your bird was wrong. I killed her myself.”
He came back to consciousness with a mouth stuffed with imaginary cotton, his hair wet with sweat and suspended from a concrete roof by a heavy chain around his neck. He gritted his teeth at the pain radiating from his every being and shook his head. That rattled the chains.
A light came on.
He was in a cage, and he wasn’t alone.
The man standing in the corner snapped his fingers, and Stavros was lowered to the ground by a device he couldn’t see. The chain remained around his neck, his hands bound behind his back. His ankles were also shackled so that he couldn’t move more than a few inches on the floor with his ass.
He cocked his head as Nieto knelt next to him.
“Welcome to my world, Konstantinou. I look forward to your stay.”
“You have made me your prisoner?” He barked a laugh despite the effort that took. “How… original.”
The man winked at him. “Originals are the best. You and I, men like us? We appreciate the best.” He touched the chain at Stavros’ neck. “You took my wife, so I’m taking your life. Slowly.”
“It doesn’t matter how long you keep me here, I will find a way out of this cage.” Stavros tried to shrug. “And when I do—” He licked his cracked lips. “When I do, that is when the true war begins.”
The END
About the Author
A West Indian transplant, Avril now lives in Stone Mountain, GA., with a very tolerant husband. Together they raise an eccentric daughter who loves reading and school (not so much school anymore she’s back to loving it). Avril’s earliest memories of reading revolve around discussing the plot points of Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys with an equally book-minded mother.
Always in love with the written word, Avril finally decided to do the writing in August of ’09 and never looked back. Spicy love scenes, delicious heroes, and wicked women burn up the pages of Avril’s stories, but there’ll always be a happy ending; Av remains a believer of love in all its forms.
Addicted to cake, the ID Channel and the UFC, Avril writes Gay and Erotic Romance.
Visit: http://www.avrilashton.com
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