by Mary Winter
Mission: Carnal
Mary Winter
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2008 Mary Winter
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
ISBN: 978-1-59596-957-6
Formats Available:
HTML, Adobe PDF,
MobiPocket, Microsoft Reader
Publisher:
Changeling Press LLC
PO Box 1046
Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046
www.ChangelingPress.com
Editor: Katriena Knights
Cover Artist: Karen Fox
This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
Mission: Carnal
Mary Winter
Adrian turned his passion for action figures into a thriving comic shop, The Fantastic Five. After spending most of his life in the world of super heroes and aliens, he’s not surprised when the action figure he’s repairing comes to life. He’s more surprised by the instant attraction he feels to the man -- and the fact that it’s mutual. These guys are supposed to be Real American heroes. But right now, Adrian wants him to be his hero.
Mack’s waited a long time for a reward. He’s come back wounded from a brutal mission, but the Toymaker upstairs promised him a new life and a new mission. When Adrian repairs his broken body, his gentle touch also repairs Mack’s broken heart. Now it’s Mack’s turn to repay Adrian, by teaching him about living your wildest fantasies and making your dreams come true.
Prologue
Behind the wheel of the armored personnel carrier, Mack Walker snarled. Even with plugs the explosion pummeled his eardrums. He swerved, narrowly avoiding a barrel rolling into the road. Snipers’ bullets ripped through the windows. Mack ducked as glass shattered around them. Behind him someone cried out in pain. He didn’t have a chance to find out who -- suddenly, a Humvee screeched to a halt cross-wise in front of him and three of the Dragon’s men stepped out, assault rifles already firing.
Mack knew he wasn’t going to get out of this alive. The convoy with General Whittaker was due in less than half an hour. Clear the insurgents out, make sure none of the Dragon’s men were there. His orders had been clear. He’d be damned if he failed now.
In the passenger seat, his buddy Sawyer whooped and hollered. Leaning nearly halfway out the window, he aimed his rifle at the men and got off several quick shots. One of the snipers fell. A second staggered against the Humvee.
Nice shooting. More gunfire sounded -- Brice and Talon in the back seat firing at insurgents racing toward them from the tall, crumbling buildings by the side of the road. “Hang on,” Mack roared. He cranked the wheel.
The vehicle careened. It tilted onto two wheels, righting itself with a rattle of bolts and steel. Someone leapt into the road, spraying bullets in his wake. A quick shot from Sawyer, and another one of the Dragon’s men lay dead in the street. Mack made it to the edge of the road, ready to make a u-turn and take out the remaining enemy.
An explosion shattered the building behind him. The vehicle flipped up, end over end.
“What was that?” Brice yelled from the back, never one to cuss even in the midst of battle. Pretty boy Talon shouted something incoherent, and Sawyer, who always loved danger and excitement, kept on yelling as if he were on a roller coaster. Mack gripped the wheel. When the vehicle came down, if it came down, he’d have to steer it back into the fray.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins.
The car hovered. Mack’s head slammed into the roof of the Jeep. The impact jarred his teeth and made his eyes close. Then, the vehicle fell from the sky as if someone had dropped it. It landed, bounced, the front axle breaking off. Something snapped. Pain blossomed in his ankle and tore up his leg like a fighter jet down the runway. The nose of the Jeep crumpled and all was still.
Mack sat in deadly silence. He opened his eyes, saw jagged metal and broken bits of plastic. Next to him, Sawyer hung halfway out the window, strung out like a clothesline. Mack glanced behind him. Talon and Brice sat in states of shock. Mute.
His left wrist was bent at an odd angle. Right arm worked. Ribs felt okay. He could breathe. Hell, he was alive! His feet. Oh god, he couldn’t feel his feet. He glanced at the floorboard. His boots were twisted well away from the pedals. He had a sinking feeling his feet were with them. With a strangled cry, he reached for the doorknob. His abused wrist screamed as he tried to force the door open. It wouldn’t budge!
“Sawyer! Talon! Brice! Report!” His voice sounded harsher than usual.
No one answered.
“Soldiers, report!” He glanced over his shoulder and stared. White light surrounded them. Distantly he heard crying, felt himself being lifted, the Jeep righted.
“I’m sorry, honey, but they’re gone.” The woman’s voice sounded kind, caring, like somebody’s mother. “You broke them.”
Wails. There was always crying in war. He was used to it, the sounds of glee and adrenaline being replaced by wails of sorrow and frustration. He’d heard it before, usually tuned it out, but one word echoed in his mind. Gone. Darkness surrounded him, and he realized this mission wouldn’t be completed. Ever. He’d failed.
* * *
As quickly as the accident happened it was gone. Mack found himself standing in some kind of waiting area, the edges fuzzy gray. Light permeated everything, giving the place a soft glow. He couldn’t see what he stood on, though it felt solid beneath his feet… wait… his feet… they’d been torn from his body. He lifted his leg to check.
“You don’t want to do that,” a deep voice said from somewhere.
Mack looked around. Gingerly, he straightened his leg. What had seemed solid a moment ago was precarious now. He wobbled and hated himself for it. “Who are you? Where are you?”
“I’m the Toymaker.”
The single statement sent waves of dread through him. The Toymaker, the great manufacturer in the sky from which they all came. “Then I’m…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the statement. The memory of his boots several inches from where they should have been haunted him -- as did the image of Sawyer’s body hanging out the window. He’d looked pulled, as if he wouldn’t quite fit together again. Mack staggered.
A chair appeared out of nowhere. Mack sank into it, not looking into the fog obscuring his lower legs and the floor. “What about the others? Sawyer? Brice? Talon? Are they here too?” His men were his responsibility. They were supposed to clear the area for the General’s arrival. It was supposed to have been an easy mission. Apparently not. His lips twisted in a wry grin.
“They will be taken care of.”
Taken care of. The words sounded so final. “So they’re not here?” Mack curled his fingers into a fist. He raised his hand, though what would he hit? Pounding on things might feel mighty damn satisfying at the moment, but it wouldn’t bring his men back. It wouldn’t change the mission’s outcome. “The General,” he croaked. “Tell me the General made it through.”
“The Dragons got him.”
“Fuck,” Mack snarled. He squeezed his eyes closed. A raw growl erupted from his throat. Rising to his feet, he paced. Wait, he didn’t have feet and what the hell was happening here? He whirled, determined to face the source of that disembodied voice.
“Sit.”
Mac
k knew an order when he heard one. Reflexively, he sat. “Debrief me.”
“Not necessary. You get a second chance, you know. Not many guys get one, but you and your team, you earned it. So we’re sending you back. Dulling your senses, blurring your memories. You won’t remember much until…well, you’ll know it when it happens.” A chuckle followed that damn voice.
“What good am I?” He jerked his leg, not quite able to bring himself to reveal his missing feet. Dragging his fingers through his hair, he leaned back in the chair. Mack closed his eyes, drew the images of his team, of him, as they once were. Whole, healthy, ready for missions. “Why send me back?”
Some of the men spoke about a heaven, a place where the Toymaker dictated their futures and rewarded those who had done well. He’d never believed in such things. Didn’t matter. If he couldn’t feel it, touch it, then it didn’t exist. In his world, he lived and breathed raw intel. Mission schematics, fighting the Dragon’s men, keeping his own alive. Yeah, that’s all that counted for him.
Yet his gut nagged at him that maybe, just maybe, the Toymaker was real. Maybe he was in the heaven for broken toys.
Mack pressed his forehead to his palm. Sending him back. In his state, it was akin to a death sentence. No one wanted a broken soldier.
“Because you’re the right man for the mission.”
He straightened at those words. Determination filled him. He sat a little straighter, held his shoulders farther back. Head high, he fixed his attention on a single point in the amorphous mist. “What are my orders, sir?”
“You’ve shown you’re brave in the face of battle. You’ve shown you can take care of your men. This mission involves a single man. Be brave. Be strong. And fight for what you want.”
Mack opened his mouth to object, and white light pierced his eyes. It filled him, fuzzed out his surroundings with a dull roar. The light faded, as did the fog, and for the first time, Mack saw his wounds. His feet were gone. He gaped at the place where his boots should have been, wondering how the hell he’d been pacing earlier. Before he could think about it, everything dropped to familiar darkness. His mission had begun.
Chapter One
Adrian blinked as the numbers on the spreadsheet blurred. Automatically, he reached for his tepid mug of coffee, wincing at its chill. He’d calculated the numbers backwards and forwards, not liking the decline they showed. Just past January first, he should have showed a boost in fourth quarter sales. After all, they had the holidays, then the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day to spend holiday money. Comics had been flying off the shelves. Several hot new releases had patrons queuing in line even before The Fantastic Five had opened.
Adrian shook his head. His gaze caught, as it often did, on the broken action figure sitting on the corner of his desk. The man sat there, his feet lost probably during some child’s “battle.” One hand had been almost torn from its wrist. Looking at it, he couldn’t tell, but Adrian knew if he picked up the figure, started to move the jointed limbs, he’d find the tear. He’d intended to start working on it tonight.
“Sorry, buddy,” he said, then smiled when he realized he spoke to a toy.
Adrian stood. He reached for his mug, not quite able to pull his attention from the figure. Adrian had found this toy in a box at a garage sale a few blocks over while out on his run. Although the figure had a production date in the mid-nineties, something about it had drawn Adrian. Normally, he wasn’t overly fond of the modern figures.
The plastic soldier sat there, stubble covering his cheeks and jaw. It gave him a surly look, as if he were a grizzled soldier who barked orders at his men all day. Short, dark brown hair was cut with military precision. His brows were dark slashes over his piercing blue eyes. Broad shoulders, perfectly muscled body, he looked like the real American hero his now long-gone packaging had declared him to be.
“As soon as I get through these numbers I’ll take care of you.” Adrian frowned at his nearly empty mug. The clock on his computer told him it was after ten p.m. Way too late to continue the caffeine drip he’d been on all day. If only he could pinpoint the source of the store’s drop in earnings. Then, he’d have some answers for his friends and partners.
Not that they needed them. Dean would be leaving for a windsurfing vacation tomorrow. Van and Hugh trusted him with the day-to-day operations of the store. Hugh worked on marketing and promotion. Van provided legal assistance and spent a lot of his time scouring for action figures to restore. The Field Medic operated as a subdivision of their store, restoring vintage and modern action figures.
With a shake of his head, Adrian went to the kitchen. Moments later he returned with a cold bottle of water.
“Forget about the numbers,” a whisky-rough voice said in his mind.
Adrian stared at the figure. He’d been known to make jokes about what toys would say if they were real. But this was real enough as to be spooky. The voice sounded exactly like he guessed the toy would sound, a kind of Tommy Lee Jones commanding tone that always made Adrian’s cock stand at attention. He debated about answering, but decided what the hell, he was only talking to a toy. No one needed to know. “I’d like to,” he replied. “Then again, if you were real, there are a lot of things I’d like to do.”
Adrian allowed his mind to wander, imagining the figure as a real flesh and blood man. He figured he slipped deeper into a sex-deprived insanity with his musings, but it’d been ages since he’d been laid. Adrian knew he would drag his fingers through the man’s silken hair. The figure’s broad chest demanded an exploration with lips and fingers. Long, muscled legs and a tight ass. Just thinking about how he would look had Adrian’s cock hardening. He reached down and cupped his hand over it. His erection strained the denim.
“What do you want to do?” That gravelly voice filled his head again.
Adrian wanted to put those lips to better use. He shook his head. Damn it, he had numbers to go over and a plan to create. He didn’t have time for idle fantasies.
“Give me half an hour, all right?” Adrian arched an eyebrow at the mute figure.
“All right,” the voice barked back.
Adrian gulped half the water bottle down. Capping it, he turned away from the figure that had possessed so much of his thoughts. He should be focusing on his business. He must be losing it if he were having a fake conversation with a broken action figure. Rubbing his eyes, he vowed he’d get through these numbers come hell or high water. Or the distractions of a certain action figure sitting on the corner of his desk.
What he needed was to get laid. His dick swelled just thinking about a wet, willing mouth. The heavy length of a tongue stroking him, watching a man hollow his cheeks as he sucked hard. Adrian sighed. Yeah, that was exactly what he needed.
“Me too, man,” the gravelly voice replied.
“Will you stop it?” Adrian asked. He snarled, realizing he’d copied the same column of figures three times. “Focus. You can do this.”
“I could do you.”
Adrian whirled in his desk chair. He was going fucking nuts! Some claimed masturbation caused dementia and blindness. Perhaps that was his fault. He’d hand-jobbed himself into a psych ward. He snorted, thinking his friends would laugh at that. They were always telling him to quit being so picky and just pick up a man. They teased him that he was like the profit and loss sheets he worked with.
Okay, that was it. One more pass through the numbers, and that was it. He had to get out of here.
He had to get laid.
Adrian laughed as his thoughts circled to their inevitable conclusion. He finished up the calculations in record time, determined not to worry too much about the slight sales slump. It was the economy. He’d bounce ideas off his friends. Upon hearing them, Hugh would create the most dazzling marketing campaign so that gangly teens, and men who still acted like them, would rush through their doors in search of the latest comic or gaming manual. And why not? He ran The Fantastic Five and it was the most… well… fantastic game in to
wn.
He scooped up the figure and carried him into the small room he used as his personal workroom. Various projects sat in states of completion, from the table he had been wanting to refinish for over a year to a large, three-foot-long model of the USS Enterprise he was putting together for his store. Geek, him? Adrian chuckled at his foolishness. He laid the figure on the table and removed its khaki colored pants. Turning on the table lamp, he examined the figure.
Just as he thought. Both legs needed to be replaced at the knees. The ankle hinge had broken off inside, making it impossible for him to attach a new pair of feet. The hand would have to be replaced from the elbow down. He gathered the parts and his tools.
“Sorry, buddy, this is going to hurt,” he said as he fired up the handheld rotary tool. He worked carefully, wincing as he drilled out the peg holding the elbow joint together. It didn’t take long for the small piece of plastic to fall out. Carefully, he smoothed out the remaining plastic with a file, then put in a new lower arm and hand and clamped a new peg through the hole in the elbow joint. A bit of glue, some testing, and it was as good as new.
“One down, two to go,” Adrian said. Talking to himself while he worked kept him from thinking too hard about the mechanics. If it were a real person instead of a plastic toy, he’d be hard pressed to do any sort of medical work. A bandage was about his limit. And he’d had enough minor accidents in the workshop to need more than his share. He gritted his teeth as he removed first one lower leg, then the other. “Better you than me,” he muttered to the toy.
He could have sworn he heard a harsh laugh. “Been through worse.”
“Suppose you have.” The foot injuries were easy enough to explain. The plastic shoes didn’t give well, and the feet tended to stick in the shoes when they were being pulled off. The hand might have a similar explanation. Perhaps too-rough handling when trying to place an accessory in the hand. Maybe a twist while removing a shirt. A part of him hoped that the injuries hadn’t been malicious in nature. The result of too-rough play was easier to take than a child deliberately damaging a toy.