You're Only Dead

by Jack Parker

  "Seventeen," he replied at length. "And few are combatants."

  Emery nodded, looking at Kurt and Georgie. "Then we'll need to recruit the right sort."

  "This is not possible," Ludkov said mechanically as he collected the weapons from his downed enemies and allies alike.

  "There's a way, Aleksei," Georgie tried.

  Emery took another step forward. "The Dutchman and your superiors plan to decimate Hennessey's gang. How much of a chance do you suppose he's got against their combined forces?"

  "None," Ludkov said without looking up. "His numbers may be great, but they are disorganized and stupid."

  "So imagine if someone could organize them. Even the stupidest herd of cows can exact a devastating stampede under the right set of circumstances."

  Ludkov slowly looked up at him with distrust. "You are speaking of an alliance."

  "I am," Emery agreed. "You might not care much for Hennessey, but he's not the one who stormed in here and shot up all of your mates. Hennessey might not care much for you, but you're not the one who planned to steal his weapons' stash. These scales can all be tipped. Hennessey ought to know what he's up against, and what he's in danger of losing if he shuns his very last olive branch. He could use your help. You've got money. You've got reputation. You've got an intimate knowledge of the Bratva's inner workings—names, faces, connections. You've also got a tactical team consisting of a quadrilingual spy, a technological mastermind, the deadliest mercenary this side of the planet, and the greatest bullshitter in all of London." Emery laid a hand over his chest. "Between our accumulative knowledge and Hennessey's brute force, the Dutchman and his new friends wouldn't stand a chance. Beletski isn't just trying to take you out; he's trying to sweep you under the rug. Don't make it easy for him. Show the bastard that if he wants you dead, he's going to have to do it himself."

  Ludkov was looking on at Yuri's body, features cold. Then he turned back to Emery and looked him up and down. "Bold convictions for such a small man."

  Emery shook his head, eyes daring. "I'm only small on the outside."

  Ludkov's face broke into a smirk and he tucked the gun he was holding into his waistband, taking one more look at Yuri. "I must admit that at first I was surprised to learn you had managed to survive all of this time. A rich boy who suddenly finds himself with no money…he does not typically last long. You are not typical, Mr. Fletcher. In another setting I think you could have done very well in my organization."

  That didn't bring Emery any pride, but he took it in as complimentary a fashion as one could. "Does that mean you're on board?"

  Ludkov nodded, a glimmer of vengeance in his gaze.

  * * *

  It was very fortunate for Kurt—for all of them, really—that he had made the choice to murder Keller. In doing so and inheriting his position as Thompson's relative second in command he had come to learn a great many things that would be a boon to their efforts in thwarting him. The people he was targeting, the operations and businesses he had absorbed, the identities of his secret allies and pawns. Kurt had mixed feelings about thrusting Hennessey into the head of power in London's underbelly, but he was undoubtedly the lesser of two evils and the only one with the numbers to pose a threat. Ludkov had issued no objection to the alliance. It appeared that his wrath outweighed his pride, and this was to their advantage. Shortly after their encounter with him he dismissed them, gathering what was left of his forces and heading to another safe house, the location of which he divulged only to Faraday, oblivious to her treachery, and went on his way.

  Kurt hadn't slept since his return and didn't think he was able. Last night he'd merely paced the flat for its full duration, gun in arm's reach, checking the windows and doors periodically for the second night in a row. He told himself it was a logical precaution, but the truth might have been that he was still too shaken to close his eyes. He drank a very large cup of black coffee as he stood at the table with the others and relayed as much of his experience with Thompson as he could.

  "He was recruiting men of my like in great numbers," Kurt explained. "There's no spontaneity about the man and he is not an opportunist. This means that the intention has been to overthrow both of these organizations for some time. Years. He's ceased to become insidious about his actions and has emerged from the shadows fully armed."

  "What can you tell us about the man from before?" Georgie asked.

  Kurt replied without looking at her. "I met him seven years ago through another contact. A man named Shaun Hodgkins I once did business with referred me to him and afterwards it became a semi-regular occurrence. As I've said, Thompson was an investigator. His niche was being hired out to uncover well-kept secrets or locate missing persons for various purposes. From what I can gather this is the method by which he's been amassing information, quietly filing away allies, pawns, and enemy secrets whilst they think he's still a friend."

  Victor rubbed his beard contemplatively. "Do you know his real identity? His name? Where he's from, when he came here?"

  Kurt shook his head. "If he's better at anything than digging up secrets it's burying his own. I suspect him to be Norwegian. Other than that I can't say."

  "Are there pictures of him?" Emery asked. "We ought to at least know the face of our enemy."

  Kurt sighed softly. "No."

  "He's tall," Georgie supplied. "Freakishly so. Over two meters, all skin and bones. He and I probably share a weight. Gaunt face, his hair is either gray or blonde, a bit hard to tell. Sunken in eyes. His hands are what I remember most. Nearly as long as my forearm. Might have had his thumbs broken—they're a bit off."

  Victor, who was picking idly at the nails on one hand, looked up contemplatively, staring at the wall. "How so?"

  Georgie shrugged. "I don't know. Bent strangely."

  Victor leaned forward. "Uh, so he's tall and thin. Long limbs? Really long? Would you say his arm span exceeds his height?"

  Kurt blinked down at Victor seated beside him. "Why?"

  "Humor me," Victor pointed a finger at him. "Has he had any chest surgeries since you've known him?"

  Kurt's brow furrowed and he glanced around at the others before looking back to Victor with interest. "He has a scar. I don't know how old it is, but I've seen it in passing."

  Victor nodded. "And weird hands. Okay. I mean that sort of sounds like Marfans." The others looked to him without understanding before he elaborated. "Marfan Syndrome. It's a uh, some kind of connective tissue disorder. It affects the heart and a lot of these folks go through at least one surgery in their lifetime to correct a valve or something. Causes joint pain, teeth crowding, but—fuck, my point is that it's a good identifier if that's the case. It's a manageable condition but he'd be seeing doctors regularly. That's gotta leave a trail."

  "He has a personal doctor," Kurt said.

  Victor was silent for another moment. "Does he use the heroin himself?"

  "I haven't the slightest."

  "It would treat the pain," Victor mused. "Maybe that would explain why it's his drug of choice."

  "I don't see that this does us much good," Kurt decided.

  Victor threw his arms up in an overly emphatic shrug. "So what does he want?"

  Kurt swallowed the last of his coffee and pushed the cup aside. "London. Every bit of it. He's got a tether on prosecutors, city officials, investors…decent society is already within his grasp. His next step is to eliminate his competition, and all that's left is Hennessey. There are already spies surrounding him who Thompson implemented into his ranks several months back. They inform him—that's how he knew about the contents of the warehouse."

  "Why doesn't he just assassinate Hennessey?" Emery asked. "Can't be too hard if his boys are as unruly as all that."

  Kurt shook his head. "Hennessey is too valuable a detriment to his own cause to kill. An organization like Thompson's is a serpent—cut off its head and the rest will wither and die. Hennessey's gang is more akin to the hydra. Having their leader killed would send
them into a frenzy and perhaps have the adverse effect of unifying them. Thompson needs Hennessey to remain in power, making stupid decisions based purely on his bravado and blindly driving his own men to the slaughter."

  "What are we even supposed to do if by some miracle we actually manage to recruit Hennessey?" Victor groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. "How do we find Thompson? How do we get to him?"

  "We'll attack him at his stronghold," Kurt said.

  Victor huffed. "Don't you think he'll have moved with you being loose?"

  Kurt again shook his head. "It would take him weeks to move all of his men and supplies. Any action that monumental would draw more attention than it's worth, and it would make him look nervous to the Russians, which he cannot afford. Our window of opportunity is small. Thompson will be hunting me down as we speak, and he will find me. It's only a matter of time. The only possible defense in this scenario is a fast offense." He looked around the room and stood. "The fiasco at Hennessey's warehouse was a significant blow. The men I was charged with were a specialized team I was training to massacre Hennessey's brutes as quickly and efficiently as possible. Their deaths are a setback that buys us what may be just enough time. While we wait for Ludkov to regroup we need to shore up our defenses. We should begin patrols in shifts."

  All bodies began to rise from the table and Kurt wandered off to refill his coffee. He took another long drink of the hot liquid and tried to begin planning the next day or so in his head as much as he could. Two could patrol at once to look for signs of Thompson's men, one could sleep, the other would remain with them as the lookout. He would volunteer first for patrol. He'd had too much caffeine to sleep now, but he was beginning to calm somewhat. The reality of his rescue was settling in layer after layer. There was no need to let Emery out of his sight now. This was a great comfort. He looked over at Emery, who was standing, leaning over the table on a palm as he poked at his mobile.

  He was wearing a tight, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of well-fitting pants that did little to hide the firm lines underneath. Kurt hadn't fully realized how well Emery's body had recovered from his appendicitis until just then. How his muscle had all come back, his figure taught, his skin no longer so pale. How his hair, well-groomed but having gone uncut in the front, laid tousled locks over his eyes when he bent over. It seemed to be darkening with age. Perhaps that was just because he saw so little of the sun anymore. Either way he was a sight, a divine specimen of man and it had just been so bloody long and Kurt wanted nothing on this earth more than to stake his claim again, bend Emery's strong back forward and jackhammer that perfect little ass until he couldn't remember his own n—

  "Kurt?"

  Kurt's eyes dragged themselves numbly over to Victor, who was staring at him, suddenly nearby. "Hm?"

  "You okay?"

  Kurt cleared his throat. "Of course. What is it?"

  "I asked you to hand me the coffee."

  Kurt dumped a stream into Victor's cup, who toasted to him before sipping at it.

  "You said that Thompson has spies in Hennessey's gang. How many?"

  "Three that I know of."

  "And you have their names?"

  Kurt nodded.

  Victor stretched his back a little and sighed. "That's something. You think Hennessey will believe us if we tell him that?"

  "Difficult to say," Kurt replied, his eyes lingering for a long moment on Emery's back before they pulled away.

  "So I was thinking," Victor said, wiping his mouth. "Georgie and I are gonna head out first. Leave you and Em here for the first shift."

  Kurt shook his head. "I'll go."

  "No way. You need the sleep more than we do. Plus I can't take seeing the two of you making sex eyes at each other anymore because it's making me uncomfortable as all fuck. While I appreciate the hell out of you keeping it in your pants while I'm around, you couldn't cut through the tension in this room with a chainsaw. So maybe do us all a favor and…I don't know…deal with it."

  Kurt blinked at Victor. "That's not—"

  Victor held up a hand. "Begging two dudes to fuck is already the weirdest thing I've ever done. Don't make me do it twice."

  Kurt tried to muster some sort of response, but Victor was already walking away. Instead he simply stood there with his cup half-raised looking like an idiot.

  "Okay," Victor said, taking Georgie's wrist and pulling her to the door. "Let's go. Whatever you two dicks get up to, keep your phones on. We'll be back in eight hours."

  "You're going first?" Emery asked, looking up from the table curiously.

  "Yeah."

  "But—well, wait a moment, at least let me get my things," Georgie said, reaching for her bag and barely grabbing it before they were out the door.

  Emery watched it shut with mild surprise and shook his head, slipping his phone into his pocket. He looked back at Kurt and turned around. "Alright, now I don't want to hear an argument this time. You're going to sleep first. I know you haven't yet. You've hardly eaten, either—would a hot meal help you relax?"

  Relax? Now was not the time for relaxation. Or distraction. Kurt rubbed at his face and set his mug down on the counter. "No."

  Emery flexed his healing shoulder and ran his hand along a firm bicep, oblivious to the way Kurt's eyes lingered there like he was watching a striptease. "Well I'm going to make you one anyway."

  Kurt felt a cold sweat forming. He cleared his throat, shaking his head. "Later, perhaps. I'm not hungry, but I'll lie down for a moment if it puts you at ease."

  "You need to lie down for more than a moment. You need to catch up on the sleep you've lost or you'll really start to feel it and I need you alert."

  I need you. Kurt tried not to think about how many times he'd woken up to that sentiment whispered in his ear, hands groping him. "I'm not tired. Or hungry. Just…"

  Emery bit his lip a little in worry and the skin of it flushed red and…sod it.

  * * *

  Emery was just about to suggest Kurt take a hot shower or something when the man lurched forward and attacked him savagely. Lips crashed against his and hands snatched his waist, squeezing hard, making his eyes widen and his face blush. Alright. Alright, if this was how Kurt wanted to unwind, Emery would do his best to oblige. He'd do whatever it took, he could do that for him, he…was fucking lying to himself; he wanted this just as badly. God, yes. He still smelled the same. Tasted the same. Felt the same. Gloriously, achingly fucking familiar and wonderful and he'd drop dead if he had to live another minute deprived of his kiss. He bit Kurt's lip and arched against him hard, gripping his shirt in tightly clenched fists.

  With one swipe Kurt's powerful arm sent a chair sprawling to the floor across the kitchen out of their way as he hoisted Emery up by the shirt and slammed him down onto the table, leaning over between his legs to continue plundering his mouth. Emery shook with the overwhelming fire rising up from his loins where Kurt ground against him and gasped when teeth clamped down on his earlobe, but being pressed against the hard wood of the table was agony on his shoulder. "Not here, no," he managed. "No, please."

  "Anywhere," Kurt rasped hungrily in his ear as he kept kissing and biting. "Anywhere you want, but it's got to be now. Now."

  "Take me to bed," Emery ordered shakily.

  Kurt yanked him up off of the table and Emery clung to his arms to hold himself upright, clumsily pushing forward to resume their kiss. He'd desired sex before. He'd needed it before. He'd felt like he might die without it before. But not like this. This was the sort of encounter he felt like might change his bloody life. It was fucking spiritual. Sacred, even…Oh. Jesus, Victor was right. Emery sputtered against Kurt's mouth suddenly, unable to stop the laugh as it wrenched its way up. Kurt didn't even care enough to ask. He slapped Emery's rear hard and successfully destroyed any trace of humor in his brain, which fizzled immediately back into unbridled lust.

  Getting to the bedroom felt like it took ages, but once there Emery pulled his wits together and stepped back, st
ripping away his shirt and standing there panting. Kurt's eyes raked over him with such reverent longing that it made Emery feel like a god being worshipped. Kurt pulled off his own shirt in one fluid motion and began unbuckling his pants, showcasing the slight dampness of his shorts from an already leaking cock. Emery felt like he might absolutely snap. His brain hadn't had time to prepare, it had been so long, so, so long, and he hadn't even known if he'd ever get a moment like this again, but here it was. He jumped back onto Kurt, sucking his lip, moaning freely as he thrust a hand down into Kurt's boxers. His bollocks felt full and heavy, swollen with disuse and he massaged them sympathetically. Kurt tugged down Emery's pants and grasped handfuls of his behind with that incredible strength he so well remembered. He stumbled out of the pants crumpled around his feet as Kurt pushed him back.

  Emery swiftly got to his knees on the bed and laid his chest down to the mattress, raising his backend in shameless supplication, trembling wildly with anticipation. Kurt didn't waste time. He quickly mounted up, slicked himself with saliva, and began to carefully work in with helpless, quaking curses. Emery felt damned sensitive. It had been too long since he'd been touched there and every nerve ending came alive to alert his brain of simultaneous pain and ecstasy. Kurt went in slow and settled for exactly as long as he was able before the urge to thrust was too great. Emery's heart pounded and his limbs all shook. This was what he needed. To be fucked into oblivion. Feelings were complicated, plans were worrisome, hopes were too fragile to consider, but sex was beautifully straight-forward. He clenched his teeth as Kurt's pace picked up.

  Everything felt tingly. He couldn't bring his hand to stroke himself because it refused to move, holding the sheets beneath him in a death grip as Kurt urgently drove into him. Hands clawed his back, slapped his backside until it badly stung, gripped his thighs until they bruised. It made him crazy. Every muscle quivered, his blood felt like it might burst out of his veins, the sensations building in a way that was so intense it was almost frightening. Kurt kept on and Emery's jaw dropped slightly as he felt it. He didn't even know Kurt's hips were capable of this kind of speed, that anyone could do that, Jesus, he'd never felt like this, he was going to die, stop, stop—oh no, no, no, don't stop, oh god, oh fuck, oh—"Oh, Kurt!" Kurt's hand was only an instant too late, wrapping around his cock just as the first stream burst forth. Emery buried his face into the bed and screamed himself hoarse. It was too much. He thought he might pass out. He'd never had an orgasm that he could feel in his teeth before. The hand kept stroking him, helping his climax stay strong, but Kurt's breath was hitching, hips moving unbelievably faster.