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September
1981, Kabul
"Right.
You remember our dear departed president?" The
Major looked so vicious Vadim felt anticipation. He
was Vympel. Or he wouldn't know about the assassination
of the president. Also wore the blue beret of the paras,
but Vadim knew a predator when he saw one. He was far
from good-looking, but the leathery, sinewy, lean, absolutely
deadly body spoke volumes.
The
others in the room looked up and grinned.
"Krasnorada
will command the strike team. We make sure you guys
get in and out like in a well-oiled pussy." The
Major leaned in to Vadim. "You do like pussy, comrade,
don't you?"
"I
prefer my rifle, Sir."
The
Major laughed. "That's the spirit." Vadim
smirked, kept that shit-eating smirk in place while
his heart pumped. Just banter. Just the usual stuff
about sissy-boys. Oh fuck. He was Captain Krasnorada,
leader of the strike force. That was it.
The
plan was simple. Some goat-fucking self-stylised rebel
leader was expected to show up in Kabul. Now, the family
whose ancestor had been killed by the 'rebel leader's'
ancestor had caught wind of that - and sold him for
hard cash to the brothers in Socialism. There were probably
other boons involved. They expected the target to be
there tonight, had been briefed, and it was sufficiently
high-profile that the KGB was willing to send spetsgruppe
Vympel.
They
were kitted out, ran checks, Vadim checked on his team,
his own gear. He'd be splattering brains today. Kill
half a dozen men.
He'd
missed it. Missed how his body responded to the strain.
He was back in training, back to lifting weights, running,
press-ups, pull-ups, back to the shooting range. Took
to it like a fish to water. Too fucking long. He pushed
Gavriil aside when he came back from the shower. He
wanted to keep that tension in his body, wanted to feel
it build up, and he was too tired to play their little
game. Or just too bored.
Then
off in a helicopter, hovering like an insect-shaped
curse over Kabul by night.
The
sniper in the copter shot the guard on the roof. First
class shot.
Vadim
jumped out of the copter. The impact rattled his legs,
hips, impact so hard he thought he had lost an inch
of height, down down down the stairs, light on the rifle
tearing bits of the house out of the gloom that had
settled.
He
heard shouts underneath, through the sound of his breath
rattling in the gas mask. Opened a trap door, shot,
then tossed a smoke grenade in, which began to hiss.
Fired as well to disrupt any incoming fire, was carried
by the momentum, took the sides of the ladder and just
slid down without touching the ladder with his legs.
Vadim
grabbed a shadow in the smoke, somebody with a rifle,
slung a garrotte over the man's head and pulled him
away, broke through the nearest door with a shoulder,
suddenly stood outside, in an alley, saw covering teams
on the corners, heard gunfire, shouts, screams inside.
Held the garrotte, the man's head against his chest.
Wanted to finish this guard and … that guard was
not a goat-fucker.
*
* *
Dan
had been back in Kabul for a month, lingering in the
city rather than organising the insurgents up in the
mountains and villages, or across the border in Pakistan.
That night, he'd been told about this important meeting
of the rebel leader and was sent by his contacts into
the safe house, to act as a Western envoy. He hadn't
been happy with the whole set-up from the start, something
stank and the fishy smell was nothing like an old whore's
pussy. It was worse, but he had no option. Orders were
orders, if he liked them or not.
They
had just arrived in the building, waiting for the leader's
contact to arrive, when Dan froze, listening carefully,
thought he had heard a noise, like an angry wasp of
the deadliest kind. Fucking Russian copters. He didn't
have the time to talk nor warn any of the others before
the light suddenly went off, plunging the whole building
into pitch-black darkness.
Dan
was the first one to react. "Out! Get him out,
now!" He tried to locate the leader, would have
grabbed him to try and take him out of the building,
but the stupid fuck had panicked and moved across the
room. He'd lost the location of the leader, but not
his bearings.
Fuck,
smoke grenade. He didn't have a mask, shit, of course
not, the rag had to do, but he lost precious moments,
covering mouth and nose to keep himself from choking.
Eyes streaming, impossible to see in this hellfire.
He crawled forward, kept to the side, coughing hard,
but kept moving. Suddenly no air, instead a horrible
pressure against his throat, and then an unrelenting
force that pulled him with it.
Dan
was fighting, struggling with every ounce of strength
his body possessed, fought for his life, air, just breathing,
was going mad, fought the force that swept him away
like a puppet. Who the fuck was able to do that! Senses
started to panic, jumbled, broken thoughts, fighting
against his foe and for oxygen. He had it, he fucking
had it this time, but the fight would never be over
until he was dead.
*
* *
Vadim
took a few more steps, the other body fought him like
crazy, then Vadim broke, back first, through another
ramshackle door. Whoever lived in this place had just
cooked, a spicy smell was in the air, and Vadim heard
people scurry away, upstairs. He tore the gas mask down,
dropped the man in the same moment he pulled the pistol.
Dan
fell, knocked out from the fight and just gasping for
air, coughing his lungs out at the same time, unable
to see through blurry watering eyes. Retching and grabbing
frantically with his hands at his throat. Air, air,
air!
Vadim
recognized him before his mind registered. He knew the
face, knew the man. Remembered his smell. Fuck. He glanced
at the door, kicked it shut again, eyes on the man.
The
man he had shared warmth with. The man whose cock he
had touched. The man who had pushed strips of goat meat
between his lips. Who had tortured him until he wanted
to die. The man who had stopped him going into the sauna
forever. Who had distracted the Mujahideen so he could
escape to his own side. The man who had broken his nose
so badly it needed an operation to get back into any
semblance of shape. The man Katya wanted to suffer.
The whole lie collapsed. No team of Americans. Vadim
had repeated the story so often he had almost started
to believe it himself. One man. This. Man. Vadim wiped
his face on the black camo, kept the gun trained on
the coughing bastard.
May
you never see me again, but if you do, watch your goddamned
back.
My
cunt.
Didn't
keep you alive for this.
Vadim
was sweating, every muscle in his body locked, because
his instinct told him to shoot. Shoot him once and for
all, end this sickening thing inside.
And
what would that be? Apart from you having offered to
be his bitch. Like Gavriil? Vadim inhaled sharply through
the nose. No. Never like that. Impossible. It had been
a deal, nothing more. And to see him again, fresh from
the struggle, panting for breath. Wanted him. Wanted
him like he had in the mountains. No, not quite like
that. He was healed, he was pumped up, he was alive,
wanted to be alive, too, wanted to fight.
This
guy was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. He
wasn't the objective. Not the target.
End
this, Vadim.
Dan
couldn't sit up, tried to force his body, needed to
know who the fuck had outsmarted him and had dragged
him through a wall, but he retched again, gagging, eyes
still streaming. Then the touch. The muzzle, cold steel,
warmed from shooting, touching his forehead, right between
his eyes. Breath suddenly didn't matter anymore.
Dan's
hands that had been scrabbling at his throat moved into
the back of his neck on their own. Knew what he was
meant to do, hoped he might have a smithereen of a chance
if he didn't pose a threat. Didn't believe it, though,
didn't try to fool himself, even before he ever laid
eyes on his captor. Fingers interlinked, body complied
at last, and his head was forced up and back and then
…
Silence.
Shock. Moment of recognition.
His
dark eyes opened, pupils widened until his eyes seemed
black. Sweat on his face, running in cold rivulets down
his neck. This was it. This was the end. If it weren't
so fucking ironically pointless, he might have tried
to barter for his life. Anything. But not this time.
With this man, he had nothing to bargain with.
The
muzzle slid down over the nose, down to Dan's lips.
Vadim imagined those lips around his cock. Those cursing,
sneering, spitting lips. He pushed them apart, placed
the muzzle against the teeth, stared down into the dark
eyes. "Wrong place", he said. "Very,
very wrong place to be."
The
steel tasted of brimstone and fire. Welcome to your
very Private Hell, Dan McFadyen. "Guess I didn't
watch my back well enough." Raspy voice from the
coughing. Smoke and fear. Plain, all-encompassing terror.
This
was it. It would be over, and Dan finally found out
what it was like. His mind consumed by one wish, just
one thought, 'over over over, let it be over and done
with'. The tension unbearable.
Vadim
leaned in, crouched, parallel like they had crouched
when shaving. His eyes were wide, intense, could see
the sweat bead.
Insane,
insane, so fucking insane. The man, the touch, death
and fear, and most of all himself. So absofuckinglutely
insane and powerful, Dan was high on physical sensations
and pure, crystal-sharp terror, surpassing any drug
known to men.
Vadim
was breathing hard, this was triumph, this was lust
and desire, and he knew he was playing with a victim,
savouring the moment. It was perfect again. Perfect
like the yielding. He was addicted to this, and he just
got another shot of it. The best painkiller in the world.
Could smell him. Closer, even closer, forced the head
back, brought his face close to smell him, touched his
lips to the man's temple, caught a bead of sweat and
licked it off his lips.
Dan
almost collapsed at the touch of lips, ten thousand
volt of electric shock treatment right into the centre
of his brain, blinding his vision, taking his breath.
Ragged, desperate, nostrils flaring, breathing around
the steel. The gun the only familiar equation in this
moment of utter insanity.
Dreams,
he had had them every night. Memories of the mountains,
until finally giving in to the most powerful image of
all. Wanking off to smell, taste, feel of the Russian.
This Russian.
My
cunt.
But
what he accepted in the darkness, had no place in the
light. This was no fucking dream. "How fitting."
"Fitting?"
Vadim shook his head, tried to pull away, out of the
heat the other man radiated. "You don't give fuck
about me. And that is why I will shoot."
Something
broke. Just cracked and gave away. Something inside
of Dan lost its mind to the insanity, and terror gave
way to an unstoppable laughter. This time manic. He'd
lost his mind and he'd be meeting the fucker in hell.
He laughed, the alternative was to cry.
For
you, my cunt, all for you, and because of you. But you'll
never know.
The
laughter cut Vadim like a knife. He felt mocked, thought
it was defiance, but it wasn't, and it was. This man
would die laughing. He had goosebumps all over his body.
No mockery. This was something else.
Vadim
glanced up as he heard more shots from the other side
of the alley. He should be leading his men, coordinate
the team. He was screwed. Had impressed the Major with
a show of absolute balls, epitome of military bullshit,
and now went AWOL again and cuddled with the enemy.
This
enemy hadn't killed him. Hadn't. Because he wanted water.
Because Vadim had screwed his mind. Touched him, pressed
all the buttons on this man. He breathed hard, remembered
the man's cock in his hand, his hand on his hips, remembered
the way he tilted his head as he shaved him.
My
cunt. Possessive. There had been no reason to not sell
him to the Mujahideen. A promise, but a promise was
nothing between enemies. Everything between men like
them.
Somewhere
up in the mountain, they'd lost something. Lost white
and black and came out with grey.
"Or
maybe I'm kidding myself", Vadim whispered. "I
must be." Stared into those eyes, knew the face
too well to shoot him into the face.
Dan
stilled when pale eyes fixed his own, much darker now
than he'd seen them before, except … except for
that moment, when he could not accept. Just breathed
through his nose, rapid, small breaths. The fear was
back but the insanity remained.
This
was it, then. This was it and Dan wanted it to be over,
could think nothing else but every fibre of his being
screaming for this to end. Now. End it now.
Vadim
moved the gun to the other's throat, let it slide down,
wished it was his lips, taste the sweat, taste the skin,
feel it vibrate under that touch. He didn't want to
touch him with a gun.
Dan
swallowed. Couldn't help it. Fear of death as palpable
as the sweat that was running down his face. He was
just a man, after all. Just a man and all of a man.
Like the other. Who leaned forward, placed his lips
against Dan's and kissed him, not quite like
those men in the yellow streetlight in Soho, but he
wouldn't change places. This insane kiss was his and
so was his life, at least for a few seconds longer.
The
crystallised moment before death intensifying the touch
of their lips, a thousand times and many more again.
His first kiss, his last kiss. If he had any time left,
he'd be addicted.
Suddenly,
he was not envious of those men anymore.
"The
leopard is a cruel lover. His tenderness breaks the
gazelle's heart." Vadim kept his lips against Dan's
as he placed the pistol against the left shoulder, could
feel the muscle, sense the exact right spot, and pulled
the trigger.
Dan
had no time to understand. Muffled sound of a silenced
shot, so negligent compared to the shock-delayed pain
that hit his body, spread from the shoulder and sent
his body onto the floor, instinctively pressing against
the wound, hand coated in blood. Dan screamed in pain.
He
couldn't be dead, he was in too much fucking agony.
Vadim
crouched, watched the other fight the pain. The pain
was winning. "I'm giving you an alibi", he
said, in Russian. 'I'm giving you so much more than
that. I'm giving you your life. My desire.' He didn't
think the other could appreciate it. He touched his
lips, wondered when he had decided to act on that instinct.
Fuck it, whatever.
He
pulled the morphine loose from around his neck, placed
it in that free hand that was desperately trying to
do ... something. He wouldn't inject him. The SAS guy
was perfectly capable to do that himself when the worst
shock had worn off.
Dan
wasn't sure if he understood anything at all. It was
all too fucking insane and it couldn't be. Except for
the pain, that was goddamned real, but then his fingers
closed around the syrette with a will of their own,
desperate to hold onto something. Realised too late
he had reached for the hand, not the morphine. Insanity.
Nothing but insanity.
Vadim
licked his lips again, sweat and a kiss. "I'm giving
myself a fucking alibi."
Alibi.
The word got stuck in Dan's mind, while he pressed his
hand against the shoulder, stared up at the Russian,
and could only see snapshots: Eyes. Lips. Dog tags.
Jaw. Stubble. Camo paint. Lips again.
Vadim
stared at the other man's neck, that neck needed a dog
tag with a name on it. He wanted the other's name. Badly.
Then it hit him. Dan. He had called himself that, with
the dushmans. I'm Dan. I'm a friend.
Vadim
wanted, wanted to take him with him, not leave him here
like this. Wanted to tell him why and wanted to torture
the fucking confession out of him. Wanted to feel him
underneath, wanted to hear him groan with lust, fighting
him all the way, make it so much better for both of
them.
"I'm
at the tea house off the main market in one month. The
one with the mosaics. You can finish it then. And there."
Dan
was breathing rapidly, fighting enough of the pain to
be able to listen. Uncomprehending, but memorising.
Tea house. Market. Month. Mosaics. Too many fucking
M's and he was ready to lose his mind again, but then
there was Morphine, and Mercy.
More
insanity. Vadim rushed through the door, reattached
himself to his unit. Told a story about having seen
a sniper opposite. Just a shadow on the window. Nothing
more.
*
* *
The
Russkie was gone. Dan slammed the syrette into his thigh
and succumbed to the wave that dragged him under. This
shit was strong, but he was alive.
Dan
fell half-unconscious back onto the floor, awaiting
the rescue operation that was no doubt already on its
way, scouring for survivors.
A
month. He'd be there. Had to be.
*
* *
Vadim
was shouted at for breaking away. The Major said he
had good instincts, but was a fucking loose gun. The
Major grinned as he said that, an impossibly frightening
grin that was not arousing at all, it was the kind of
expression that could make men piss themselves. Vadim
just about managed to not do that, but he flushed darker
than a schoolboy found jerking off.
Reduction
in pay. Always hit the salary. Got a load of odious
tasks, even more odious than normal. He wasn't supposed
to wander off by himself, sniper or no sniper. Not without
communicating his intent in some way.
He
did the things, inspections, shouted at people. Nowhere
near good, but he felt he was making progress.
October
1981, Kabul
A
month. One fucking long month for Dan, mostly spent
in a piss-poor place that called itself a hospital,
loitering in a twelve men ward somewhere in Pakistan.
They'd gotten him out, the only survivor. Flown in a
copter across the mountains, they didn't even have to
find the bullet. Close range, clean shot, right through.
He'd regain the full function of his shoulder.
The
questions, though, after he'd come out of surgery, weren't
quite so clear-cut. 'How could you be the only survivor?',
'Tell us, McFadyen, you were found in an adjacent building,
how did you get there?', 'You were strangled, the garrotte
was found in situ, who did this?', 'You must have a
recollection, McFadyen, who shot you, at close range,
and who and why did they shoot you up with morphine?
The syrette was right beside your leg. Russian make.'
On
and on and on, but he stuck to the one answer, the only
one that would save his hide: 'I don't know. I can't
remember. I did not see. I don't know. I am sorry, Sir,
but I don't remember.'
He
did and yet he didn't. Remembered, but no sense. Nothing
made sense, except for the tea house in a month's time,
in Kabul market.
They
left him alone at last, realising the debriefing would
go no further, and he was on his own. Day in day out
utter boredom. Nothing to do except for thinking, remembering.
Scent of sweat, touch of lips, pain of a bullet and
greed and need so intense, he could not help but wank
off under the thin blankets. Stealthily, silent, but
with an inferno in his mind, behind closed eyes.
Three
weeks later, and they let him out of the hospital. Arm
in a sling, stuffed to the gills with painkillers. Full
motor function would eventually return, but they warned
it would take weeks before he was fighting fit again.
He didn't give a shit what they said, exercising relentlessly,
and running whenever he could, even unbalanced.
He
had to be strong. Not sure for what, just a Month. Mosaics.
Market.
*
* *
At
last, another week, and four weeks to the day of the
massacre. Anniversary of the night an enemy had spared
his life. Why. Only to take it? A life, or something
more. Far more.
Dan
had checked the place, knew everything about the market
place in Kabul and the building where the tea house
was situated. Done his recce several times, now walking
towards the market. Usual camo trousers. Army boots.
Inconspicuous t-shirt and long-sleeved jacket. Rag around
his neck. And the goddamned sling that his arm was still
stuck in. More weapons hidden on his body than angels
were singing hallelujah, dangling from a Christmas tree.
He
didn't know what he was doing, nor what he wanted, just
that he had to do it.
To
end it.
Or
a beginning?
*
* *
The
tea house was an unlikely place to meet. Full of what
passed as bourgeoisie in Kabul, shop owners, students.
Dusty from the outside, the inner court a garden with
springs, arcades sheltered from the sun.
Lice-infested
carpets to sit on, and, of course, water pipes. Communal
water pipes were a safe bet for TBC and worse, and Vadim
didn't smoke. He could have gotten into weed, hashish,
stuff didn't cost anything around here, but it required
smoking, and Vadim was partial about his lung capacity.
Always watchful. As if. As if he had ever, ever to compete
again. Swim, hearing the roar of the audience even through
the water. A maelstrom of noise.
After
duty, he went straight there, saw Soviet soldiers walking
patrol. This place was close enough to government policy.
He could drink tea here without getting poisoned. The
owner looked at him with the expression of a doomed
man, still, and it was true that Vadim's presence cleared
out half the place.
He
leaned against the wall, enjoyed the way the garden
cooled the place, mellowed the light. Kept an eye on
his surroundings, and drank black tea, sweet as hell,
and the best drink in this place. Apart from vodka,
but not on duty. His instructors had ripped him a new
one when he had tried. Not something that was worth
making a habit of.
He
glanced up every time somebody entered, then gradually
relaxed, straightened his legs, leaning against the
wall, enjoying peace and quiet.
He
won't come.
Yes,
he will.
You
shot him in the shoulder.
Damn
good shot, too. Didn't scramble his lungs, no bouncing
off the shoulder blade. Fucking first class shot. That's
why he will come. That man only reacts when he gets
hurt.
Debating
with himself, pro, con, then pro, pro, pro again. The
stricken expression. The way he had looked at him, had
been close. The man wanted him. Might not know why,
or when, but there was something, something pure and
wild and feral in this. Something perfect.
And
he wanted this man. Always wanted him, was growing obsessed,
every waking moment he could hear an echo from the time
in the mountains. That long mindfuck. Surviving on his
guts, on his wits, on raw power. And the other …
decency. Mercy. A depth that he could feel, that resonated
with him. That bastard was as screwed as he was. They
were spinning towards oblivion together. As long as
he could control it, everything was good. But Vadim
suspected that he only thought he'd control it. An uneasy
feeling deep in his bones.
The
fact he wanted that man so desperately. Had wanted him
like the bullet, like death, like going home.
He'd
touched those lips, and thought that was it, that was
breaking through, deeper, getting more into him, into
his mind. His own mind, too, twisted and dark as it
was. But it left him wanting more, in a way that Gavriil
couldn't manage. He wanted the danger of this man, wanted
the knife's edge. That uncompromising presence.
One
of them had to give.
And
how far could he go that road? He'd imagined tying the
bastard up and fucking him, hard, all night, for days
and nights, oblivion, sate himself and the other, in
something that would destroy the tension by destroying
the other. Wanted to break him until he had eaten and
drunk and devoured all that strength, all that resistance.
He'd
let him go, afterwards. Leave him, and forget him, keeping
the memory. He'd transform the man into some part of
himself, store him away like childhood memories, a pure
and simple victory. Feed off that for the rest of his
life. Use it to get through the war and the struggle
that was Moscow.
Dan.
That was probably Daniel. SAS.
His
eyes were half closed when he knew he was being watched.
Watched in a way that was not cursory. As focused as
a red dot on his brow. He scratched his stomach lazily.
Heat-dazed Russian in a tea house.
What
could go wrong?
*
* *
Dan
had been standing in the entrance, watching the Russian
across the court. Watching an enemy with the intensity
of a sniper, face, chest, hands, built, body and face
again.
He
didn't know why he had come, realised that a man who
was not fully fit in this shithole Kabul was a target,
and the sling made him into a prey, for all to see.
Prey. He'd never be a victim.
Didn't
know what he wanted except understanding. Needed to
know. What was this thing. Nameless, greedy, coiling
in his guts, poisoning his mind. Had accepted its existence,
but he needed to know. Once and for all.
They'd
end it today. He could feel the familiar steel against
his arm. He'd end it, the unknown. Dan stepped out of
the shadows of the entrance and walked into the light
of the courtyard, eyes on the Russian.
Vadim's
lips moved into a smile, slow, deliberate, just this
side of a smirk. He nodded to the waiter who stood close,
hoping to take his order, hoping he'd get finally lost.
"Two more."
Gathering
himself a little, one leg up to rest an arm on his knee,
Fingers open, dangling in a show of relaxation. Vadim
pushed himself up with his shoulder blades and sat a
little straighter, acknowledging the other man's presence.
Then looked up to meet the eyes. Ah, fuck, he'd rather
leave to be completely alone, to do any of the number
of things he had been imagining. Eyes, intense as always,
the dark skin with that sheen of sweat that made Vadim
want to smell him.
"Please,
have a seat", he said, in English. "I have
ordered tea. One of the few things we should have in
common." The 'we' carried two nations, not two
soldiers. Another smirk. One thing. Not the only thing.
Not by any stretch of the imagination. He counted the
articles in those sentences and was reasonably sure
they were all in place. Plodding through the language
wouldn't do, not now. Not when he tried his hand at
courtesy.
Dan
did not give the Russian a sign of recognition except
for a raised brow. "Lemon in tea is barbaric."
He smirked, didn't elaborate further. Sitting down on
the chair opposite, sliding it backwards and diagonally
away from the other. More room for himself and better
observation. He sat down with parted legs, slouched,
casual, open. Showed himself as someone who was sure
of himself, who had nothing to fear, even in the face
of an enemy and still wounded.
Vadim
regarded him from under heavy lids. He was playing anaconda.
Lie in wait, look relaxed, even sluggish. Saw with some
satisfaction that the man was armed to capacity. He
only carried the bare basics. A small holdout pistol,
a knife, another pistol nestled in the small of his
back. A garrotte behind the belt. Painkillers. Just
in case things went out of hand.
He
waited for the tea to be served, which was steaming
and sweet. The waiter topped up the filled sweets which
were standing on a small plate on the low table. Vadim
wiped his face with his arm. So many ways to start the
conversation. No fight this time. The man wasn't fit
to fight, the arm looked weak, the way he moved was
unbalanced. He had thought about it, had found it hard
to concentrate on his duty up to this point. Yes, it
grew into obsession. Had long since grown. Ah, fuck.
What
do I do with you, Dan? I've said all the things I wanted.
Done a lot of them, too.
Dan
reached for the tea, enjoyed its potent sweetness. Took
a sip and once again his brows raised a fraction. Dark,
sharp shapes in his face, unlike the other's. Dark and
light; night and day, he could piss himself with laughter
at the worn out cliché, if he weren't so busy
staying alive.
"Now
that we are both here …" Vadim took a sip
from the tea glass. "We should use this to get
some things straight." He loved that word for what
it didn't imply. "No shooting, no fighting."
He looked around, implied the witnesses, all the people
here. They couldn't stop them, but the SAS guy tried
to avoid civilian casualties.
"What
a shame." Dan shrugged, "No fighting? That
doesn't seem to leave much scope for 'conversation'."
He took another sip, leaned back again, sprawled and
used up all of his personal space and more. "I
got rather attached to my knife in your presence."
Clear
jibe, veiled hint.
Vadim
touched his hip as if to indicate his own knife was
close. The posture was a challenge, an invitation. He
shifted, leaned forward. "You didn't come to fight.
I've been obvious enough to get shot. Nothing happened.
You are not here for killing me."
Dan
grinned, mixture between a menacing grimace of bared
teeth and a smirk of almighty proportions. It struck
him as insanely amusing that he should have come to
the tea room to kill the Russian. The mere thought was
ludicrous. "I can still change my mind." Sipped
his tea, watched the other.
What
if he was wrong? Vadim thought. Then again, there was
no humiliation worse than what had happened in the mountains.
He had the scars to prove it. "Forget for five
minutes what you are." Vadim nodded towards the
tea. "As long as it takes us to drink. If you finish,
you leave. If I finish, I leave." Trying to lay
down rules. Simple rules.
"You're
talking bullshit, Russkie. Neither of us can forget
who we are, nor what we have done." Dan was toying
with the slim, small glass in his and. The heat was
soaking through his fingertips, travelling into his
arm and through his brain. Heat. Perhaps it was heat
that had brought him here, the heat he had felt night
after night since that booze ridden encounter in London.
What
we have done. That sentence resonated, and Vadim
nodded, agreeing.
"You
have more to lose than I." Dan studied the dark
tea in its gleaming confinement, watched idle tea leaves
swirl against the filtered sunlight. Enemies in conversation,
at least he'd only get into shit, not unspeakable trouble.
"Thus the question is, why are you here?"
He leaned his head back, watched the Russian through
half-lidded eyes.
More
to lose? Possible. Vadim didn't care. This was costing
him what passed for sanity with most people. Peace and
calm and a fucking clear mind. 'I am here because I
want more. More than shooting you. More than kissing
you.' He inhaled, deeply, watched the dark liquid in
the other man's glass. "To make offer." Snake
coils slowly unfolding as he set eyes on his prey. "You.
Me. Alone. No questions. No killing." He wanted
to retract the last two words, even though he meant
them, but it sounded cautious, nervous. As if he could
be misunderstood. He leaned forward, stared into the
other man's eyes. "No questions at all."
Too
many replies in Dan's head. Replies along the lines
of outright laughter, declarations of insanity and most
of all the mockery of telling him to fuck off and die,
and if the cunt really believed he was so goddamned
motherfucking stupid to not believe the Russkie was
out for revenge in ways Dan had probably encountered
before. That one night. The night of Nothing.
He
said nothing, though. Dan sat in silence, watched his
tea, rolled the glass once across his smoothly shaved
face, then tipped it against his lips and emptied it
in one go.
He
had to find out and he'd kill or die trying. "Aye.
Where."
Vadim
left his tea. Too fascinated by the way the other man's
throat moved. "Now, that was hard part", he
said, in English, a joke he cracked by instinct.
"I
rented house." Vadim nodded towards the exit. "Across
market. It has two exits, one front, one to the side."
He smirked. "I'll go in through front, and you
follow me from back. I'll open." Decrepit little
place, but it had space, and relative calm. And close
enough to the busy market to enter and exit with relative
ease and as little risk as possible. Had planned this
as a safe house, in case things went bad again.
'Don't
bullshit, Vadim. You don't do things randomly.' "Plenty
of escapes." He stood, felt anticipation, felt
his body enjoying the idea. "I'll be upstairs.
Lock door."
Dan
dropped his head into his neck, gazed up at the Russian.
"You insult my professionalism." He shook
his head, placed the glass back on the table, stood
up as well. A little unbalanced, but the way he coped
with the weak arm showed that he had been exercising.
"Walk
right into a trap?" Dan's voice remained low, "I
told you once that you are ruled by your cock, but don't
assume the same for me."
No,
because you don't know, do you, Dan? You do not know,
and you are desperate to find out. You sad motherfucker.
Thirty-two years and not a fucking clue. "You have
to do better than that."
Vadim
shook his head. "I don't look like honeytrap, now,
do I?" He laughed. "Yeah, that's me. Stunning
beautiful KGB agent out to entrap poor unsuspecting
enemy soldier." Voice so low it was only breathing.
Saying the word KGB in jest made him suspect he was
drunk or more reckless than he should have been. "I
can't leave city. Or I would have found us nice cave
somewhere." Only half a joke. He had considered
it. Talk about being desperate. Strike that. Obsessed.
"If you have alternative, go right ahead."
And he wondered if he would suspect a trap or just follow.
He would follow. It was too tempting.
Dan's
brows again, raised for a moment, dropped the next.
"I don't know about the KGB agent, but …"
deliberately repeating the 'joke'. "I don't know
about honeytrap either, but I do know about 'unsuspecting
enemy soldiers.'" Dan's words could almost be construed
as a joke on their own, but his face was hard. No doubt
what he alluded do, but he dropped any allusion as soon
as he had conjured it.
"KGB
wears cheap suits", said Vadim. And when exactly
have you become a specialist in male grooming? It was
true, though. Every western reporter wore more expensive
suits that fitted better. He opened his arms for a moment,
indicating his camo, disorderly as it was.
Dan
simply nodded. Hadn't taken long to drop your 'professionalism',
had it, Dan? "I follow."
Insanity.
Pure and complete insanity.
Vadim
paid the tea, then crossed the market place, feeling
excitement and heat that converged in his stomach -
and below that. He walked straight past the Soviet patrol,
leaned against the wall of the house for a moment, a
cheap thing, a hideout, then unlocked the door and entered.
Inside,
he shed his shirt, wiped his face with it, walked through
the building, unlatched the other door. Went into the
kitchen, took a plastic bottle of water from a bucket
with water, opened it, drank deeply, then walked upstairs.
The holster in the small of his back visible against
the undershirt. Closed, of course. He didn't mean to
continue all this shit. Not now. Not today. The stairs
creaked under his weight, he opened the trapdoor, climbed
in. Shutters closed. Drank more water. Last time he
had been this horny had been a while. He knew exactly
when.
*
* *
Surely,
Dan had completely lost his mind and his brain replaced
by an alien, how the fuck could he even entertain the
idea of following that bastard? He wasn't fit for a
fight, and why the hell should he believe the enemy
a single word? He'd tortured that man, cut 'cunt' in
his back, kept him alive, been granted life in return,
and why the hell would any of that be a reason to believe
he'd live?
Perhaps
live, but how? He'd had time to get acquainted with
some of the Russian's psyche and he'd never forget the
answer to his question: Yes, I'd do it again.
"I'm
a fucking idiot." Dan muttered to himself, following
by tracking the movements, but taking a slightly different
route, until he reached the house.
Back
entrance. How ironic and how utterly stupid. Leave,
you must leave!
He
couldn't.
Trying
the door, it was open and Dan drew the pistol, flicked
off the safety and entered the gloomy house. Upstairs?
Perfect place to shoot him.
Every
fibre of his being alert, he expected a shot, kick,
punch, attack of something-anything any moment. Still
he moved forward, into the room, and closed and bolted
the door. Bloody insanity. Ruled by his cock, just like
the other, and he didn't even know where his cock was
taking him.
Fuck,
how pathetic. Thirty-two years, one rape, one touch,
one kiss, one shot.
*
* *
Vadim
waited, drank more water, then pulled his lips away
and splashed it over his face and neck. Cooling. He
let the water drip down his face, stood with his back
to the open trap door. There was a bed, wooden frame,
a thing of ropes and blankets, primitive but sturdy.
He pulled his shirt off, wiped some of the water from
his neck over his chest. He'd kill for a shower. "Still
not biting", he called out in English. "Come.
Be my guest."
He
turned towards the trap door, stayed away, a good three
yards. Non threatening.
Dan
didn't answer except for a small snort. Not biting,
yeah what the fuck ever. Peered upstairs through the
trap door and checked the surroundings. Decided he had
gone too far already to return. The pistol had to go
back into its holster, couldn't climb the ladder without
a hand, the damned arm was still useless.
Step
after step until his head came up above the trap door,
amazed that he had neither been kicked nor shot yet.
Pulled himself up and climbed out until he stood. Eyes
acquainting themselves with the gloomy light.
The
Russian. Standing and grinning, half naked. Dog tags
resting on the bare chest.
Dan
knew the rest of the body, but still stood transfixed,
waging an inner war. What was more intense, the images
and memories he'd used for wanking, or the real thing,
standing there? Was that what he wanted? He didn't have
a fucking clue. Something ... wanted something so intense
he'd burnt his mind on it, scalded his skin and etched
memories into his mind that made him forget wet pussies
and soft tits.
"Not
very ambiguous." Dan tore himself out of the musings,
gestured with his chin to the bed. Bed. Nothing else.
Left no room for interpretation.
Vadim
gave a short, near-silent laugh. Ambiguous? What had
ever been ambiguous about them? Double- and triple-layered.
Ambiguous? Never. Most importantly, this place had no
military authority that could kick them apart like dogs.
He
drank more water, mainly to do something as he waited.
Waited whether the Brit would bolt and run, pull a gun
and tell him he was a pervert, a degenerate, something
vile and disgusting. Or whether the man could be in
the same room with him without shooting, fighting or
otherwise trying to kill him. On equal ground, same
level. For once. Vadim wiped his lips with the back
of his hand, then offered the bottle, plenty water left,
lukewarm. "I did say, no questions. I don't care."
He shrugged, debated whether he should close the distance,
but wasn't quite sure how the other would react. "Ah,
and yes, I am offering."
"Offering
what? Your arse, again? To be my cunt?" Dan sneered,
the army had taught him attack was the best defence.
He let the jacket slip off the injured shoulder where
it had haphazardly hung, and dropped it down the right
arm, delivering a kick to the worn garment once it landed
on the floor.
If
that is what it takes, thought Vadim, and was surprised.
Did he go that far? Did he? Offer potential pain and
discomfort, let a complete beginner do that to him.
He doubted it would feel good. No confidence in the
other's technique.
And
then again, it would even a score. Few men Vadim wanted
to do this, ever, had sometimes thought this was something
he'd done when he was young. Not used to being the army
bitch for some 'granddaddy'. They hadn't tried that
in the army. Too tall, too much fighting spirit. And
during special forces training, he'd been too exhausted
and too wrecked to think much about that kind of activity.
Dan
took a couple of steps towards the other, a safe distance
away from the open trap door, reached for the lukewarm
water.
One
step between them, and the damp skin of the Russian's
bare chest too close. The parameters had changed, but
Dan couldn't fix their position. Hatred the path that
he knew. Put the bottle to his lips, let lukewarm water
run down his throat, all the time keeping the other
in his vision. Wiped spills from his lips with the back
of his hand.
Didn't
know what he wanted, but wanted, needed, goddamned motherfucking
wanted! Hiding insecurity beneath aggression
while treading on unknown ground.
"So,
do you offer, cunt?"
Just
evening scores. When the Brit came closer, the doubt
paled. If that is what it takes. Being the bitch. Vadim
smirked, felt the heat rise. If the other lent a hand,
it might even be good enough to sate him. "Guess
I owe you one."
"Fuck
you." Dan snarled. No, not that easy. He hadn't
been a bitch, the bastard wouldn't make him one by proxy.
Anger flared in dark eyes, lashed out like a cornered
beast. "Fuck you, Russkie, you think it's that
easy?" Dropped the near empty water bottle. "You
owe me nothing, cunt."
Crossing
the final distance, Dan's fist flew into the smirking
face in the motion. He still had one good arm and he'd
put it to use, to wipe that bloody superior sneer of
the fucker's face.
Spooked.
Reminding him of the night they met was not a way to
get into this guy's pants. 'Could have known that, but
you were too keen on being the smartass.' Vadim blocked
the blow with his arm, diverted it, his free hand taking
the fist and placed it against his chest, on his sternum,
held it there. Relishing the fact that there would be
no blow from the other hand. It was still too close
to the solar plexus for comfort, but the comfort zone
with this guy was narrower than a fly's ass crack.
Vadim
leaned in, almost touching the other's face with his.
"I'm offering, Dan. That doesn't mean I won't fight
if you start one." Yes, and saying his name would
put this guy more at ease? He released the man's wrist,
carefully, slowly, as if warning, and placed a flat
hand against the other's chest. Felt like he was trying
to communicate with a spaceman.
Dan?
Since when did the bastard know his name. Dan's arm
was trembling with barely controlled rage. Caged tiger,
unable to fight, anger in his face, dark eyes consumed
by this fire. Heat. Deeply burning heat that was far
more than anger.
"Fuck
you." Hissed, Dan wouldn't relinquish control,
not to the other, too terrified to realise that he had
already lost control of himself. Too fucking close,
could smell the heat of the body, the fresh sweat, the
scent of hardness, demanding, power and strength that
he had been seeking all his motherfucking life and had
never found in any of his encounters with women.
"I
fucking hate you, Russkie." Truth, intense and
pure, pushing the other's hand off his chest, went for
a low angle, intent on slamming his fist into the bastard's
guts. Destroy that what he wanted; safer than to take
it.
Vadim
blocked the punch again, body moving in the short jabs
of Sambo, all strength, some technique, all toughness.
He wanted to stun the bastard, defending wasn't his
style, he attacked. He shook his head, not comprehending,
not sure what pissed that guy off so badly. He had followed
him this far. It wasn't about anything more than just
raw need.
Losing
his patience. So close, within reach, and the other
kept stalling. Vadim forced himself to breathe deeply.
Not kick him through the nearest wall and rape him on
the other side. He stared into the dark eyes, matching
him for intensity. "Hate me. All you like",
he hissed. He stepped one step away and half-turned,
but kept an eye on the man. Another punch, and he would
kick him right through the trapdoor.
"That's
a fucking lot of hatred!" Dan snarled, at the end
of his tether, none of the punches had packed, but the
insecurity had been growing. Heartbeat racing, breath
in short gasps, all the symptoms of fight or flight
and he hadn't been able to do neither. Fuck this! He
knew somewhere in his mind that he had no chance, but
he had to try and beat the shit out of the other anyway.
To
destroy what he wanted; wanted to taste, to bite, to
touch, to grab, to lick, to hurt, to ... to … he
didn't fucking know!
"Cunt!"
Two steps, good shoulder, slammed his body weight into
the half-turned other.
Vadim
laughed. Go body to body when unbalanced. Brilliant
idea. He moved, half turned, allowed the other to slip
off him before making any real impact, then played his
strength, his balance and his full weight and drove
the fucker into the near wall. That might hurt his shoulder,
but he didn't care. Enough was enough.
Dan
caught a yelp in his throat, pain still blinding, but
fleeting, bit his tongue instead, now that hurt worse
than a motherfucker and he swore with every expletive
under the sun. Or moon.
Suddenly
confined, caught, and too near, far too close, scent
overpowering, heat dangerous, wanted, hated, wanted
some more.
Vadim
held him to the wall with his body, legs carefully positioned
to not get kicked in the balls, chest to chest, face
close enough to feel his breath. Groin close, and fuck,
the contact, the resistance of that body felt much better
than what Gavriil could do with any part of his body.
His hands left and right of that body, his right a little
lower to block any punch, just in case.
Vadim
felt the dark flood surge, fought the idea, fought the
memory of knife and pistol. Not now. Not like that.
Not again. It was simpler, force. But the other was
no match with that fucked arm. And for once, that was
not what he had planned. Okay, planned, but he'd much
rather have him willing and desperate.
Dan
had insults in his head, glaring at the Russian, meant
to shout at the bastard, call him a cunt, a wanker,
an arsehole, a piece of shit, a son of a bitch and a
fucking fag, and said nothing.
Just
breathing, almost frantic in short sharp stabs, his
nostrils flaring. Body tense, everything but inviting,
fighting the other, but himself even more. Fighting
with every muscle against the weakening will to yield,
to touch, to taste.
What
do you want, what do you want, what do you want.
"What
do you want?" Dan couldn't stop the words. Lies.
What do I want. Tell me. No.
Show
me, you motherfucker!
"You",
Vadim murmured, voice rough. "Fucking want you,
and you bastard know it. Doesn't take fucking rocket
scientist." Risked more, got closer, groin to groin,
heard his dog tag rustle as he shifted. Red Army. Shit.
It didn't matter.
You.
Word shot across Dan's brain. You. Again and
again. Trapped, cornered, instinct for flight, too fucked
for fight. Deer in fucking headlights for one moment,
before being pressed into action by the Russkie's attempt
to push his legs apart.
"No."
Dan murmured, didn't know why the refusal, wrong. Stared
at the face, too close; body, too hot; groin, too hard,
wanted to invite in return. "No, fucker."
Yes! Fucking yes! Since when had he turned into a dithering
girl. Fuck!
Sharp
intake of breath, anger jumped a notch, flared with
burning consumption. Not at the Russian, but himself.
He was a man, for fuck's sake, not supposed to stand
frozen like a panic stricken bitch. Another breath,
body tensed, ready for the attack.
"No!"
Own body betrayed the word, Dan's good arm came up,
around, pulled, clawed at the naked body. Closer! More
feeling, more friction, could never be enough. Found
his teeth attack damp skin and hard muscle, groaned
with the murderous onslaught of sensations. Hissed in
aggression, lust, greed, and the final knowledge of
his surrender. To what he was, and what he wanted.
This
body; the anger; this man.
Vadim
closed his eyes as he felt the other's fingers digging
into his muscle, and a groan escaped as he pressed in,
groin to groin, feeling his own heat and that of the
other man, reflecting, combining. Victory. The heady
mix of victory and lust.
"Fuck."
Hardly audible, Dan hissed between teeth and flesh,
biting harder into the muscle, dizzy with the taste
of sweat. Fingers clawing at the scars in the back,
brutal handling with aggression fuelled by lust, hatred's
companion.
Vadim's
hand went to the back of the other man's neck, pressing
the mouth against his flesh, wanting more, everything,
while the free hand moved between their bodies. Needed
two hands to open the other's belt, fumbling with it,
the bastards had been designed to make exactly this
less easy, needed all patience and rationality to get
the fucking thing open, almost tore the buttons off,
one hand forcing itself in to take the hot flesh that
was ready and greeting him.
Dan's
hips bucked at the touch, forcing his cock into the
hand, couldn't stop even if he tried. Fucking lost,
conquered by what he wanted, he punished the other's
flesh for his weakness. His teeth biting with reckless
cruelty into smooth skin and muscles.
Stinging
pain only spurring Vadim on, going straight to his groin,
straight to every muscle in his body. He tensed, pulling
open his own belt, pressing into the body with his weight,
knew the other couldn't escape, not this time, wall,
touch, fist, he could feel how sweaty his palms were,
stroked that cock.
Dan
lost it. Pushed, groaned, bit harder, growled into flesh,
attacked the other's back with renewed brutality at
a whimper that escaped him. Hated this weakness, wanted
nothing more than this heady, completely insane weakness.
Addiction.
"Fuck,
fuck, fuck." Dan knew the Russian had won, didn't
care. No, wrong, fuck. Did care, had to, but couldn't.
Body had taken over, sensations unknown and so goddamned
wanted, couldn't get enough, never taste enough nor
fight nor hurt and least of all get enough of the strength
and hardness of the other man.
Vadim
pressed against the body that was still fighting the
fact it was him, rubbed and pushed against the other,
knew that would be enough, like a dog in heat, whatever,
the smell and strength, he had fucking missed this.
Lowered his gaze, saw his hand pump, a quick hand job
in the barracks, yeah, right, fool yourself, not that
he had wanted to touch that cock, would have been willing
to taste it, above all, had wanted that body close,
should have cut his throat, remembered how he'd had
him, and the bite added a spike to it that made him
dizzy, the fact he'd had him, and could have him again.
Man.
Cock. "Shit!" Dan hissed, friction. Heat,
sweat-slippery hand and the insane lust that reached
down to the marrow in his bones. Wanted the fucker.
Hated the arsehole. Fought the cunt and rubbed, pulled,
pushed against the bastard. Hard. Cock. Loved that fucking
feeling of the fucker's cock. Word on repeat, hammering
in his mind, the goddamned baseness of the whole thing,
final understanding what the fuck he was.
Cock.
Man. "Mine!" Growled, didn't realise. Too
much, crashing down and pulling under and Dan would
have nearly screamed, if not for the flesh between his
teeth, buried deep into the neck muscle. The spasms
that shook him with a new dimension of intensity, branded
him finally as what he'd always hated before: a gay
motherfucker.
Dan
threw his head back against the wall so hard, the pain
counteracted the crash-down of his orgasm, groaned between
clenched teeth at the Russian's bite, eyes scrunched
shut for a moment then wetness. Heat. Smell of sweat,
lust, hatred and cum.
He
wanted more.
The
pumping and twitching, the way the man tensed, couldn't
help it, was helpless now, completely and utterly in
his hand, Vadim wanted this heartbeat to last, kept
his hand busy, made him crash hard and good, felt the
wetness up his wrist and arm and against his stomach,
could feel his own climax come down, fought it, pressed
harder into him, hips bucking, hand digging into the
other's flesh, the taut ass, back, muscles shifting,
remembered how the man had broken beneath him and came,
biting down whatever sound was trying to come from his
throat, felt the tension rip and himself crashing and
burning against the other. Then staggered back, just
barely still with all senses together, only just himself,
breathless.
Dan
tore his eyes open wide when the weight and violence
left his own body. Fucking bereft. Blood pumping the
too-fast heartbeat, panting for breath. Stood with his
trousers open, shirt with large damp patches, his barely
softening cock still out.
Stared.
Shit. Holy fuck.
Dan
didn't say a word, knew a defeat when he encountered
one, had never lost a battle - and won - with such high
stakes as this one. Couldn't feel the shoulder wound
pounding yet, but felt the keen sensation of loss. Loss
of weight, hardness and body.
Fuck.
Still
battling for breath, Dan suddenly jumped into action,
pulled the camo trousers back up, fumbled one-handed
with the belt, forgot about the shirt and let it hang
loose. Damp patches and all. Discarded any thought of
the jacket, just had to get out.
Run.
Dan, you fucking loser, running from the scene of your
defeat?
"Fuck
you, Russkie." Spat at the other, before taking
a dangerous one-handed jump though the trap door and
onto the ladder.
Run,
Dan? Where from and to where. You'll never outrun yourself.
*
* *
Vadim
sat down heavily on the bed, wiped his face, could hear
himself panting. Wiped the stickiness on the cover,
could still feel it cling to his skin. Wanted a shower
more than anything, wanted to wash the sweat away. He
wiped himself down, pulled the trousers up, then moved
to the trapdoor and shut it, then back to the bed, sat
down. Fuck.
Could
still smell him, still taste him. Not enough. He had
risked a lot to get this, and it wasn't enough. He loved
how the man battled him and himself, the guilt, the
raw need.
Fuck
you, Russkie. More defiance, even then. He rolled
his shoulder, checked whether he could see the bite.
Couldn't. Oh well, Afghan women bit. Everybody said
that.
He
saw the jacket discarded on the ground. Only proof the
other had been here. Some kind of token of confusion,
maybe fear. He doubted there would be anything in there.
The man wasn't stupid.
The
situation was absurd enough to tickle him. And Vadim
gave a near silent laugh, resting back on the bed.
|
Special
Forces
