Secret Allies

by Max Hudson

  “Secret Allies”

  M/M Gay For You Romance

  Max Hudson

  © 2017

  Max Hudson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is intended for Adults (ages 18+) only. The contents may be offensive to some readers. It may contain graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations. May contain scenes of unprotected sex. Please do not read this book if you are offended by content as mentioned above or if you are under the age of 18.

  Please educate yourself on safe sex practices before making potentially life-changing decisions about sex in real life. If you’re not sure where to start, see here: http://www.jerrycoleauthor.com/safe-sex-resources/ (courtesy of Jerry Cole).

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Products or brand names mentioned are trademarks of their respective holders or companies. The cover uses licensed images & are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are simply models.

  Edition v1.00 (2017.08.22)

  http://www.maxhudsonauthor.com

  Special thanks to the following volunteer readers who helped with proofreading: Ann Attwood and those who assisted but wished to be anonymous. Thank you so much for your support.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  He found the former SS Officer, Emmerich Hubar, in one of the smaller pubs in the heart of Stockholm, where the ocean had woven itself around large patches of land. Many German immigrants lived in this area of the city, so the German language was prominent on the signs of shops and in the whispers of gossiping bystanders. The sea air felt thick and cold, which made the warmth of the cramped German pub all the more inviting, despite the putrid smells of vomit and stale beer which practically simmered from the floor.

  Senior Agent Martin Murray closed the door behind him. To keep his intentions inconspicuous, he kept his eyes on the bartender rather than on Hubar, who was leaning heavily against the front counter as he downed a glass of booze—not his first, Martin felt certain of that based on Hubar’s hunched posture and quivering form.

  Manipulating drunkards could either be extremely easy or extremely difficult.

  Hubar was a young man of twenty-five, and he was also a skinny man. Martin couldn’t predict his tolerance level from the distance he was away, though the file on Hubar claimed he drank all the time—even before he fled his home country.

  Martin tugged at his jacket and shifted on his feet, eyes still roaming the pub. Act like a man who was comfortable yet uncertain about his surroundings, and people ignored you like they did the birds. They would just assume that whatever he was uncertain about, he would find a way to be certain about it.

  He strolled over to the bar counter and stood a few feet to Hubar’s left.

  Hubar smacked his empty glass on the counter with a burp. “Another one,” he slurred in German.

  The bartender, leaning against the shelves of booze in the corner, reached up with one hand and took down a bottle which looked more like a wide jar. After he took the lid off, he gently pushed himself off the rack and leaned over to pour the contents of the bottle-jar into Hubar’s glass.

  “I’ll have the same,” Martin said in German with a reserved smile.

  “Money?” the bartender asked.

  “Money,” Hubar mocked, snorting and swaying on his seat. He smacked his palm against the counter before taking another sloppy swig of his beverage.

  Martin—eyeing Hubar’s display—took out his wallet, and then placed a few bills on the counter. As the bartender grabbed the same drink, Martin said to Hubar, “You seem like a true German.”

  Hubar choked on his drink and sneered, dark liquid dripping from his bottom lip and chin. “The fuck? You—shitty, stupid—” He garbled something more in a hateful tone, a white-knuckled grip on his glass. “Nothing you know!”

  The bartender slid a full glass to Martin and then took the bills.

  Martin sipped from the glass—a tangy flavor with a sharp aftertaste—as Hubar continued with his drunken rant. Easy to manipulate, clearly. Easy to understand?

  When Hubar took a break from speaking by chugging his drink, Martin gently amended, “I meant no offense. The truth is, I haven’t been a true German in years, and lately…” He shook his head. “A true German isn’t an honorable thing to be anymore, I don’t think. An unpopular opinion, I know, so perhaps you’re right: Nothing I know.” He smirked.

  Hubar lowered his glass from his lips, his shoulders slumping and his facial muscles going slack. He muttered something to himself.

  “Do you think things will ever change?” Martin asked, taking another sip from his beverage.

  “No,” Hubar said. “Never.”

  “Never?”

  Hubar frowned at his glass, his lips quivering and his eyes watering.

  “But what if that isn’t true? What if you could make things change—make people change? Would you do it?”

  “I’d die.”

  “But you could save so many other lives.”

  “Me, me, me—” Hubar huffed and glared. “You cannot do the saving, hm? How about you go risk your life, accomplish nothing, and then die. Leave. Me. Alone.”

  “But—”

  Hubar flipped him off—with his middle finger and his ring finger for some reason, but the sentiment came across obviously enough. “If they want to murder the fucking world, then the world’s going to die. Accept it. And drink.” He drank.

  Martin sighed, his fingers wrapped loosely around his bottle. He bit his tongue and reassessed the situation.

  They had no plans on being honest—not completely honest, at least—but Hubar wasn’t responding to the light coaxing, and Martin got the feeling he wouldn’t respond to heavier coaxing either.

  Martin took out his wallet again and handed the bartender several more bills. When the man blinked owlishly at the notes, Martin requested that he leave them alone for a few minutes.

  Hubar lowered his drink and furrowed his brow.

  The bartender took the money and exited the pub. With the tables either empty or covered with sleeping drunks, he wouldn’t miss much in regards to customers.

  “The fuck do you really want?” Hubar asked, leaning away. “What are you doing? What—?” He smacked his lips together, fear flashing in his dark eyes.

  “I’m with the OSS,” Martin said quietly.

  “The what?”

  “The Office of Strategic Services.”

  Hubar stared blankly at him for a few seconds. Then he stiffened. “American.”

  “Yes.”

  “You…but…” Hubar’s gaze lowered to his glass, his mouth hanging open. The color rushed out of his face.

  “If the Nazis succe
ssfully develop any form of nuclear technology and weaponry…” Martin let the silence hang between them—let the implications blossom in Hubar’s head. “We can’t let that happen.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. The OSS has the tools, but you have the access. We need to infiltrate enemy grounds and learn how knowledgeable they are in nuclear physics. If necessary, we’ll sabotage what we can to stall any further developments.”

  Hesitating for a long moment, Hubar took a much smaller sip from his glass before placing it on the counter. He blinked hard at nothing, expression pained. “You think I—” He burped, then cleared his throat. “—I have access? I’m hated.”

  “You’re misunderstood. We can manipulate your status back up.”

  Hubar slowly turned and met Martin’s eyes. “I fuck men. You know that, don’t you?”

  He did. He was aware of the trial back in Germany—aware that Hubar had been found “not guilty” despite being completely guilty. Regardless, his gut rolled at Hubar’s blunt confession. “You can’t do that while undercover.”

  “Or what?” Hubar smirked, eyes darting all over Martin’s face. “You’ll take me out back and shoot my fucking head off?”

  Martin hardened his gaze. “No. Then you’ll blow your cover, and an SS Officer will take you out back and shoot your fucking head off.”

  Hubar’s face fell, and he returned his attention to the counter. He bowed his head somewhat, a shaky breath escaping his lips.

  “You said it yourself,” Martin said. “Given the chance, the Germans will murder the world. There won’t be any place left to hide, left to get drunk in, left to fuck whomever you want. What will you do then?”

  “Be dead.”

  “Or worse.”

  “Worse?” he repeated, a bitter smile coming over him. “Yes.” He pressed a palm against his eyes. A wetter burp gurgled out of him before he swallowed, both hands falling to the counter. “What do you need me to do, OSS?”

  “Martin.” A first name basis wasn’t unheard of, especially with a name as common as ‘Martin.’

  “Martin,” Hubar repeated. “What do I do?”

  “You go back to your apartment, get some sleep, and sober up.”

  “That’s it?”

  Martin took out a pen and a scrap of paper from his jacket’s inner pocket. “That’s the beginning.” He scribbled an address and a time, then he stuck the paper in one of Hubar’s front pockets. “Set your alarm for eight o’clock in the morning, and then read that note.” He patted the pocket. “Understand?”

  Nodding, Hubar glanced at Martin’s hand.

  Martin took a larger swig of his beverage. “It was nice speaking with a true German.” On that note—loud enough for others to hear but not loud enough to raise suspicion—Martin rose and exited the pub.

  Chapter Two

  Martin had gone into a neighboring shop and called a cab for Emmerich Hubar.

  Then he returned to his hotel room on the other side of the city. There, with the blinds closed and the black, blocky phone carried to the center of the room, he called his overseer back at the New York office and updated him on the successful recruitment. Phase One was complete.

  “After tonight,” Charlie said, voice hushed—the static of the phone marring it further. “Bossmen One through Four want you to be wide-eyed. Understand?”

  They wanted him to basically babysit Hubar, not give him so much space.

  “Understood,” Martin said.

  “Papers can be torn and burned.”

  Emmerich Hubar was expendable.

  “Understood,” Martin said.

  “Follow through with initial plans, and once we’ve reeled in the fish, your mission parameters will be updated accordingly.”

  “Understood.”

  “And lastly: Sleep tight, Marty,” Charlie said, serious tone tinged with cheekiness. “You probably won’t get to again in a long time.” He hung up.

  Martin hung up next, eyes stinging with fatigue as he stared at the phone. He never slept well. Regardless, he got ready for bed, its scratchy covers and damp sheets tormenting his skin for hours before he lost consciousness.

  ***

  Saint Gertrude’s Church. Martin sat in one of the back pews, a Bible in his lap and his eyes focused on it. A few people had wandered in and out over the past hour—some going up to the red candles up front by the large cross, others sneaking off to the side where the confessional stood—but none of them had been Emmerich.

  Occasionally, Martin looked up at the faded white walls and forced his eyes to water. A devout person in a personal crisis. Most would avoid someone like that, except for perhaps a priest, but he currently occupied the chipped confessional in need of some fresh paint.

  Martin struggled to keep his fingers from twitching, even as his heart rate increased.

  Emmerich had probably lost the note.

  Or he was drunker than Martin had realized the night before and he just forgot about this arrangement.

  Martin bit the inside of his cheek.

  He strode out of the church doors, shoulders raised and tensed. As his mind raced to come up with alternative plans, Hubar bumped into him.

  “There you are,” Hubar breathed, his hands snatching Martin’s forearms. Alcohol and sweat emanated from him, and Martin wrinkled his nose. “Been waiting forever. What kind of agent are y—?”

  “You’ve been drinking,” Martin snapped, keeping his eyes on Hubar but listening to the few bystanders around them; no one came closer. They were either uninterested or unnerved by Martin’s display. Good. “You should go to confession when you have the chance.” He yanked his arms free. “And don’t touch me.”

  “Wh—what?”

  “You missed mass last Sunday, too. What would Mama say if she was still here?” It was the first lie that came to his head, but the anger rising in his torso and squeezing his clavicle—that was genuine. “You promised to give this church a chance, but you never come. Maybe you’ll never come now. How about that?”

  Hubar gaped at him. “I don’t…what?”

  He grabbed Hubar’s arm and dragged him away. “Let’s go somewhere else to discuss this privately.” He led Hubar—steps wobbly—into a nearby alley, spacious as it was and with a ground of stone and weeds.

  With the buildings on the street so short and scarce, and with the foliage so flimsy, the area wasn’t all that hidden. However, the gentle shivering and lapping of the ocean nearby was loud enough to potentially mask Martin’s whispers. So long as no one in the adjacent buildings opened their windows and peeked out—

  Not releasing Hubar, Martin glanced around at said windows and saw that they were all closed. Then he hissed, “When I tell you to meet me at a specific place and a specific time, you better damn well do it. This isn’t a game.”

  Hubar sighed, alcohol-breath ghosting over Martin’s face. “Look, I read the note a little late, but I was waiting on the front steps. You’re the one who—” He hiccupped, coughed into his fist, and then he turned his head to spit on the ground.

  Martin clenched his teeth. With a great deal of self-control, he released Hubar. “I guess you’re here now. But if you screw up again, we could both die. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “So, you have to stop drinking and take this seriously.” When Hubar’s eyes widened and his mouth opened, Martin raised his hand and silenced him. “Listen, the plan is to get you back in the Nazi party’s good graces, and the best way to do that is to make them think you want to redeem yourself for your past…transgressions.”

  “Trans—” Hubar garbled the next part of the word, his eyes narrowing.

  “It’s not common for them to be forgiving, but it’s not unheard of, especially when you work hard to represent their values.”

  “Values.”

  Martin glanced over the OSS’s latest asset: wrinkled and stained clothes, pinkish eyes full of bitterness, and scratched-up shoes. Martin took a deep breath.
“If you want your vengeance against the people who hurt you, then you need to lie to them so you can get close enough to stab them in the back. You can do that, right?”

  “What if I can’t?”

  “You have to.”

  Hubar snorted, hitting Martin’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “You sound Nazi enough. Why can’t you do this?”

  “Because the OSS can’t falsify my records fast enough or accurately so that they’ll say I was born in Germany. I would have to enter the country as an immigrant from Sweden, and even then, I wouldn’t be trusted. I probably wouldn’t be tolerated all that much either.”

  “Poor you.”

  “Emmerich, this is dangerous. Once we’re in enemy territory, we can’t leave until we’ve accomplished the mission. I need to know you can handle things so that you don’t get yourself killed.”

  “I could do everything right,” Hubar said, eyes glazing over and lips curling into a manic smile, “and I might still get killed. Talking over and over won’t keep us safe.” He stumbled back and leaned against the wall, gaze lowering. “I’ll do what you say. That’s what you want to know, right? Well…yes. I’ll do what you say.”

  “That so? Then stop drinking.”

  Hubar had the decency to wince. He opened his mouth—probably to argue—then he bent over and vomited on his shoes.

  Martin pinched the bridge of his nose.

  It took a long, long time to go through the early stages of the plan with Emmerich.

  Chapter Three

  Martin was the first one to fly to Steinrole, a city in Western Germany. It was adjacent to the countryside, made up of rolling hills and a few wineries and farms. Out there, Hubar’s parents lived on a large property, near the Hubar Winery.

  But Martin wasn’t going there—never was, lest SS Officers catch onto him.

  “Martin Ek,” a security officer said at the Steinrole Airport, right in front of the locked gate which kept travelers from leaving the building and entering Steinrole. Martin’s falsified passport was in the officer’s hands. He frowned at it, glancing between Martin and the photo in the passport. “It’s a dangerous time to visit. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but we are at war.” It felt as if an accusation was hidden in the statement.