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July 1991, The
Persian Gulf
The heat
outside was nothing compared to the hell inside the armoured
vehicle. Dan was drenched in sweat, his body armour soaked
and the shirt underneath dark with dampness. He could feel
sweat run in rivulets beneath the helmet and his hands kept
slipping off the rifle. Ironic that he should look forward
to stepping into the blinding light of stifling heat under
the merciless sun of Iraq's desert. Anything was better than
the inside of a moving tin can.
Dan got
himself out of the vehicle, head down, rifle in his right,
the left fiddling with the helmet strap. The relief of taking
it off was unlike anything, except for the joy, perhaps, of
getting sweaty feet out of heavy boots. He lifted his head,
slicked the sweat drenched hair out of his face, and looked
around the open space in front of the huts. One of which had
become his 'home'.
Squinting
his eyes against the sun, he tried to make out a figure that
seemed unfamiliar in these surroundings. Knowing all the regular
guys by now, this could be a new addition. Whatever. He'd
find out soon enough if the new guy was good for a fight -
or a fuck. It was far more important to get the armour unbuckled.
He'd probably lost a pound or two underneath from sweating
like a pig.
The vehicle
was moving off, creating a cloud of dust that seemed to swallow
Dan whole for a moment, but he was too used to this yellow-red
shit to bother. It only pissed him off when he had to pick
the sand out of his jap's eye. He had finally opened the straps
and groaned in something akin to ecstasy when the plates fell
open across his chest.
Catching
the silhouette of the man out of his eye again, he wondered.
The guy was still standing just like before, hadn't moved.
Was staring right across the open space. Watching, it seemed,
Dan could feel the gaze in his guts and between his eyes.
He sighed. Alright, alpha male games? He could play them blindfolded
and he'd never lost the game. Not here, not in this camp of
soldiers and insane fuckers - formerly authorized killers
who couldn't fit into society anymore. Close security, what
fun. Better than sectioning the no-longer sanctioned ones.
Dan lifted one hand to shield his eyes, using the helmet for
shadow and froze.
Tall.
Broad. Short-shaved blond. Arms crossed on a massive chest.
Legs apart.
Fuck.
Dan knew
how pale the eyes were; remembered the taste of skin and flesh,
had touched every single inch of that body. Knew pain and
fear, hurt and tears; remembered utter desolation, a feeling
so empty and lost, he needed danger, pub fights, deadly battle
and bloodied fists to anaesthetise the agony.
He dropped
his hands, rifle in one, helmet in another, and body armour
gaping open. Began to walk, a straight line towards the man
who stood like a stature. Dan's dusty boots disturbed red
clouds with every step, until he stopped in front of the man
he had not seen for months. Nearly half a year. Not believed
to ever encounter again. Who had vanished without a word and
elusive to be traced.
He stood,
one step apart.
Two men,
same height.
"You
fucking cunt!"
Dan's
voice cut through the entire camp, carrying danger.
You
fucking cunt.
Vadim
was too surprised even to recoil. They had told him McFadyen's
patrol was due any minute, and he'd get picked up by his team
leader, who would just about return at the same time. He had
passed the time watching the comings and goings, working in
his mind on what he wanted to say, while adjusting to the
blistering heat as much as he could, drinking two bottles
of water while waiting. He'd wanted to offer friendship, ask
for forgiveness, explain himself. It was not much different
than meeting up after months in Afghanistan. There was enough
understanding, enough knowledge, enough
closeness,
to bridge the time. They had done that so often, for so long.
Why then
was that thing Dan called him now a punch to the guts? He'd
expected anger, had expected to see Dan, but hadn't expected
that word. What it was meant to mean, and what it hadn't,
when they had been close. Closer than this. Vadim's shoulders
tensed, lips grew hard, jaw tightened, and fists formed. He
locked his body in place to not give a quarter.
Dan,
covered in red dust, bristling with anger. It was really him.
Surprise, and a familiarity, a feeling of recognizing, of
knowing this man, and now not knowing him at all. Like he'd
misread him all the time, like this man had changed so much
that there was no knowing left, no memories, only the bad
stuff, the stuff when they had been enemies. And that was
something he hadn't been prepared for, didn't know how to
take it, default response was a show of fighting spirit, like
he had always defaulted to that when challenged. He had to
stand his ground or everybody would walk all over him. No
man could take that word without being laughed at, no way
he could accept that. Couldn't. He met Dan's eyes, could feel
the other's breath on his face, facing off a tiger. Knew he
had lost all momentum, couldn't build it up now for a counter
attack, and thought what attack? This is Dan?
Other
soldiers drew close, drawn like flies to sweat, and Vadim
did what he could: stare right into those dark eyes, encrusted
with dirt, and refuse to budge. Refused to move a single muscle,
in anger, or in defeat. I can't answer that question. I can't
move. I can't speak.
Dan's
lips bared his teeth in a snarl. Outraged, out of his mind
with fury, all senses set on one goal only: kill.
"How
dare you." Dan's arm raised by instinct. Rifle moving,
shifting, lifting, aiming without bothering to aim.
Vadim
just stared at the rifle, could almost feel the butt impact,
or, irony of ironies, could see himself stare down a darkness
that not even the Lubyanka had been able to emulate. Shot
down like a dog. Could do nothing but face it, hadn't been
issued his weapons yet.
The safety
was still off and Dan's hand re-gripped the weapon. Some of
the guys who were starting to gather round Mad Dog and that
weird looking newcomer, belonged to Dan's team. One of them
dared to walk up to him, uttering a few quiet words and not
only taking Dan's helmet but prying the rifle out of his hand.
Dan let
go. Too intent on the fucking bastard and the blinding wave
of memory, hurt and pain that crashed upon him. It all came
back, within one second.
"How
fucking dare you!" Dan snarled, empty hands in fists.
Vadim
snarled right back. "What? This your private property?
You fucking walked into my war, now I fucking walk into yours."
"Wrong,
bastard. It's our war. Yours. Mine. It has never ended, just
that you walked out of it without a word, to leave me to rot,
you fucking piece of Russian shit." Dan spit out the
next words, "you fucking cowardly cunt!"
Dan was
losing it, he'd never felt so much rage, not even in the aftermath
of the rape. A lifetime ago. The agony had been less, then.
Less shattered, less broken. He had survived more intact than
now.
Not the
man. Not the man he'd held. Vadim was stunned underneath the
anger, found it near impossible to keep that stoic façade
together, and he moved forward, to go chest to chest. Maybe
invite those punches, allow Dan to vent that anger, have a
fight, and maybe talk later? When Dan was too tired to be
this angry? When he was more rational? He felt a movement
behind him and strong hands grabbing his arms, and a voice.
"Don't. He's not worth it. Don't want to spend your first
days here in the brig, do you?"
"Not
fucking worth it?" The roar that broke out of Dan's chest
was enough to get a couple of his team mates alerted to drop
the suspense of a proper fist fight, and to rush forward,
one on each of his side. "Eleven fucking years not fucking
worth it? I'm going to fucking kill you, Legionnaire, when
I'm done with that Russian cunt!" Dan was about to throw
himself against Vadim, this time no holds barred and death
and destruction blazing from his eyes, when the two guys grabbed
each one arm. They had to struggle to hold him back.
"Get
Mad Dog out of the fucking way. Guy needs a shower. Cold."
Vadim
was pulled back, almost physically lifted, when he looked
over his shoulder. Caught a glimpse of blue eyes like water,
too stunned to do much, saw the guy wore camo, and felt him
release his arms. "You stay. Put."
"Watch
your back, Vadim, I'll cut your chest open, dig your heart
out and let it dry in the fucking desert!" Dan was being
dragged away, all but fighting the guys who were restraining
him. "Keeps you from breaking anymore promises, won't
it, cunt?"
The stranger
stepped between Mad Dog and Vadim, left hand against Vadim's
chest. Vadim stared at Dan, felt a shudder rise in his body,
knew Dan meant it, meant every word, and found himself lacking
the strength to resist. He couldn't win this fight, as much
as he could fend off lightning. Promises. His honour, shit,
yeah, what did his word mean anyway? Had prided himself once
on things like that, but truth was, that had been one of his
many delusions. "Okay, fucking do it. Let's be done with
it."
"I'll
get my chance, bastard. And when I do, you wish you'd never
set foot into a fucked-up place in Kabul, eleven years ago."
Too many people around, but he'd do it, meant it, couldn't
wait to smell the Russkie's blood on his hands. Payment for
pain that was drowning him right now, hurt that had never
left. Desolation, and nothing left. Pain that welled up from
the depths he had shoved it down into. Two years. Then six
fucking months ago, on New Year's Eve.
"Bonne
chance", said the guy between them, dark blond, eyes
as clear as water, tall, broad, Slavic features, a broad,
open face. "Trust me, the brig is even hotter than accommodations."
"Stay
out of this shit, legionnaire." Dan growled, but the
worst spike of hatred was off, now it was just the fucking
pain and memories. "Besides, your new friend hates heat.
You should know that." Dan pointed at Vadim, "he's
one of your countrymen. The worst kind. The kind that does
not keep promises and does not care."
The legionnaire
huffed. "Mad Dog's finished biting, huh? That all?"
Tone light, but the man was ready to fight, much more ready
than Vadim was. "Grab some chow, you're not getting paid
for this shit."
His team
mates were still standing beside Dan, but wary of touching.
"Be careful, Legionnaire, the bastard can't be trusted."
Dan forced himself to turn, ignoring anyone who stepped out
of his way quickly enough, ready to punch those who weren't
fast enough to jump. Storming towards the accommodation block
and the gym.
The legionnaire
looked at Dan's mates, refrained from commenting, visibly,
then looked at Vadim. "It's no use fighting him. Took
on a bunch of jarheads a couple weeks ago. You know. Jarheads.
US Marines."
Vadim
blinked, then met the blue eyes. Odd. Something odd about
the language
? It was Russian. Felt like the bitch who
had changed hands, that's what it had to look like for everybody.
He had taken it lying down, the insults, and then had to be
protected by another man. Shit. And Dan. Be careful Legionnaire.
Like ... handing him over. Impossible. Just impossible.
Russian.
Countryman. He moved away a few steps, was glad when he broke
the touch, didn't want to be touched, only felt guilty and
pained, somehow, strength sapped. All the strength they had
been building up in him. The hard-won pride. Why again had
he bothered? All this, only to be nearly shot down for his
troubles?
Make
him see.
"Welcome
to the Gulf, anyway." The legionnaire began to walk towards
one of the bigger tents. Vadim hoped it held the kitchen,
mess hall, whatever, and followed, glad the other gave him
time to stomach the punch. "You must be Vadim. They told
me you'd arrive today. I'm your team leader. Jean-Pierre,
but people call me Jean."
"Yeah,
right."
"I
can show you my papers. It's all official. I'm Belgian by
birth, French by service."
"I'd
say, central Moscow. You sound like you lived two streets
down from where I lived."
"Ah.
Hobby linguist." Jean grinned. "But at least you
speak a civilised language. It's been ages since I heard Russian."
Shit.
He'd responded in Russian without even thinking about it.
Too familiar, he just switched back into his language, found
it less awkward, and felt stupid and weak because of it, and
didn't want this 'Jean' to have that effect on him. He didn't
want to be reminded. He didn't want to be Russian, look Russian,
sound Russian. He wanted nothing to do with Russians.
Jean
led him to the mess tent, just in time to grab chow. Not much
different from Britain, same kind of food, same kind of company,
only more ragtag, more adventurous. Jean gave him the quick
story, as if trying to build rapport, as if Vadim would have
asked him anything about his past. Jean had joined the French
Foreign Legion and, after his service, had a nationality,
skills and commanded an excellent price on the market. Too
young to retire just yet, had moved on, spent some time in
various places in Africa, then had been hired as a security
contractor. And he used Afganets lingo, the occasional twist
of sentence, the occasional expression. Telling him without
telling him, that he'd been in that hellhole. Brotherhood
of Afghanistan.
Vadim
studied him, wondering about his motive. This man might actually
be a deserter. Just didn't look like a career soldier, even
if he was now, well, a merc, really. This guy gave off the
vibes of a conscript who'd been pulled deeper into the war
than he could have wanted.
Jean
showed up again after Vadim had set up his kit and his bunk
in one of the tin huts. At least he didn't have to share.
He could have all the nightmares in the world and nobody would
notice. Jean brought a 'welcome gift', a bottle of vodka that
wasn't nearly cold enough, but the taste was clean and crisp.
Maybe one Russian thing that Vadim welcomed. According to
Jean, there was absolutely no alcohol while on duty, but Jean
had a day off, and would spend that to show him the ropes
in camp. Allow him to settle in smoothly, and for today and
tonight, Vadim could relax.
Vadim
felt relaxed, dug his heels into the ground, and tilted his
head back, taking the last swallow from the bottle, felt it
burn and calm and warm him. Fuck Dan. Or 'Mad Dog'. Mad Dog
alright. Unless Dan came to his senses, unless this huge mess
sorted itself some way, he would stand and fight. Next time
Dan shouted at him or moved to attack him. It didn't matter
whether he was right or wrong. He couldn't allow anyone to
walk over him like that. Last bastards who'd done that had
been KGB. Maybe he could punch some sense into the man.
"Okay,
Vadya, I shouldn't be saying this."
Vadim
blinked at the affectionate name. "Then don't."
Despite Jean speaking Russian, he kept to English, pointedly.
The legionnaire
grinned and obliged him, also speaking English. "First:
get that Soviet shit out your head. Second: keep the knife
where it belongs. You'll be in trouble here in camp. And I'll
tell you why. Mad Dog started that fight with the 'Amerikanskies'
when he told everybody he prefers cock and ass. And after
the stunt he just pulled in front of everybody? That would
be your ass."
Vadim
shuddered. Cocksucker. Faggot. He couldn't even say it had
been Dan who'd been the bitch. Not with those scars on his
back. Not the way he had failed to stand his ground alone.
Jean, or whatever his name was, had come to the rescue. And
Jean took him under the wing, showing him the ropes, tomorrow,
for everybody to see. Fantastic. Just brilliant.
"Now.
I can't say I like the fucker. I don't actually care. But
I sure as hell wouldn't want to be his ex-bitch in a camp
full of people that either like the size of that bastard's
balls or hate his guts. Got me? Be careful."
"I
was special forces." It just slipped out. Vadim frowned.
"The
camp's full of special forces." Jean paused, as if expecting
protest, then nodded again. "Just make sure you control
that knife."
Vadim
stared at the empty bottle, could feel the vodka already,
which was disgraceful. Half a bottle and it already made him
talk. And think, and that was worse. Dan had provided all
the information that the other mercs could put two and two
together and end up with a twisted version of the truth. Bitch.
Suka. Cocksucker. Liked to have a cock up his ass. He remembered
having liked it, had loved it, had offered, asked, and begged
for it. His body coiled and rolled, didn't even want touch
now. Smelling Dan's breath had been almost too much. Seeing
him, even in that state. Dan. He just didn't know what to
feel. He would have to watch his back very, very carefully.
"Shit. Spetsnaz."
"Means
fuck-all." The legionnaire smirked. "You could be
fucking Vympel, those peasants couldn't tell the difference.
Lots of those have spent their lives hating the Soviets. We're
not the good guys and it gets even worse when we do shit with
the Americans. They'd love a cocksucking commie, ex or not."
Vadim
groaned and leaned his head against the sheet of metal doubling
as their cover and couch. "Aye. What's the worst I can
expect?"
"You're
a bright spark, I can tell." The legionnaire laughed.
"Well, fists. Lots of those. Ever been in prison?"
Vadim
swallowed and made a dismissive gesture. "Cut to the
heart."
"Prove
that you don't go to your knees. Big guy like you should be
able to give them a run for their money. But knives is one
step too far. It will be nasty, but it's not about killing.
You got that?"
He just
wasn't used to that anymore. It felt like fucking drilling
again, only without the benefit of a rank, and nobody knowing
that he liked getting fucked. Had liked. He wasn't sure. Been
long and even thinking about it brought an acidic taste of
shame with it. "Aye."
"And
yes, you walked into his war for real." The legionnaire
half-turned. "I can't promise anything."
"It's
not your job."
"That's
it. Wouldn't help you, anyway."
"Because
then I'd be your bitch."
The legionnaire
eyed him. "I like tits. Truly. Deeply."
Vadim
stood. It was late, his body was still aching from the final
tests and from lack of sleep. Hadn't quite recovered, he really
wasn't thirty anymore, and the conversation went into a territory
that was completely unknown and uncharted, and he wouldn't
make a single step without some serious recce. It was about
comradeship for this man, very likely, about Russianness and
about being Afghantsy. Fabled brotherhood of a sold-out, betrayed
and fucked-up generation. In a camp full of enemies, and Dan,
he could use a 'friend', if he could get across that he didn't
want to speak Russian and wouldn't mention his past. "You
play chess?"
The legionnaire
grinned. "You any good?"
"I
get by." Vadim rubbed his face and scalp. "I need
to crash."
"Won't
walk you to the door."
"No."
Vadim didn't really feel that smile. Couldn't read this Jean,
but the man was not a threat. Unlike everybody else, thanks
to Dan's scene. Just great. Mad Dog's bitch. Dog. Bitch. It
wasn't funny. But he needed control to not make this slaughter.
That was the hard part, the whole warning. Murder was murder,
provocation or not. He was not a loose gun. He was not a psycho.
He had nerves, he knew that, it took a lot to make him flip,
he was not a raving lunatic. He had passed all the tests.
Then why the fuck did he feel so brittle? He'd fought unjust
wars, done nasty shit in his life, then why did this fluster
him? It shouldn't touch him.
Because
the KGB had cracked him open and peeled him alive. Professional
torture. Screaming in the night? Waking shit-scared, sobbing
into the fucking pillow? Sex drive next to nil? Only feeling
he'd left was a little pride and that whole, big, heavy nothing
in his mind that made way only too willingly to fear. There
had been stirrings of something else. Some feelings, but it
was like those didn't matter anymore, like he was sliding
back into the darkness with nothing to hold him but sheer
willpower. He should have stayed away. Or asked to be sent
somewhere else. How fucking naïve to believe Dan would
listen.
He had
wanted to tell him goodbye, let him go, maybe try and make
him understand that he had been fucked up, that he was a different
man now. Then, he had dared to hope, hoped at least for friendship,
no, fuck that, had hoped to return to what they'd shared once.
Love. The willingness to die for each other. Despite the Baroness'
warnings, nothing had prepared him for Dan's rage. He did
deserve it. He shouldn't have come. He couldn't sort this
one out. Dan had meant it, the bit about cutting his heart
out. That was not a metaphor. Dan didn't even know what metaphors
were.
"I'm
so fucked", he murmured. He was tired, above all things.
He'd be ready for the attack, hoped the adrenaline would carry
him through. He'd fight it, the bitch thing, whatever they
said, whatever they did, however many were going for him to
give him a beating just because he'd fucked with Mad Dog,
and that made him less of a man.
He headed
to his bunk, found it hard to sleep.
Awoke
screaming. No surprise there.
*
* * * * * *
After
the encounter, Dan had gone straight to the gym, only bothering
to take the plate armoured vest off, before lifting more weights
than he'd ever done before. Torturing his body into utmost
exhaustion, until his knees nearly made him scream and every
bone in his body, every muscle, protested in pain. At least
the physical pain numbed the agony he was in. Hadn't expected
this. This man. This shock. This pain. The onslaught of everything
he thought he'd buried deep down. The suicidal emptiness,
the bottomless grief, and the sheer unimaginable terror of
having lost all he'd fought for, hoped for, loved and lived
for.
The alternative
to numbing himself with exhaustion would have been murder.
Dan took
a long, hot shower, closing his eyes under the spray. Wished
he had peace of mind. Fat fucking chance with that fuckwit
close by.
If only
he didn't hurt like a torn-open bled-dry motherfucker.
He had
a phone call to make, and he had to do it now, before he might
commit a crime that would end his own life as well. Once he
was washed up and dressed, wearing the shades as always, he
marched into HQ, demanding an urgent phone line to Britain.
Dialling the Baroness, Dan waited impatiently to be put through
to the Margaret de Vilde herself. He didn't bother with introductions,
not this time. She'd know he was on the line, her aide would
have told her.
"Ma'm?"
Straight to the bone. "There is no way I will work with
him. With Vadim Krasnorada." Dan was gripping the phone
so tightly, the scars on his left hand were stretched taut.
"No way, Ma'm, absolutely no way!"
"Dan,
I thought you were a professional." Her voice sounded
impeccable and stern, despite the crackling line.
"Ma'm,
I could say the same for you, or should I ask why you sent
Krasnorada here? Into this camp? Where I am?" Dan was
bristling. "I asked you, before you sent me here, not
to look for him. I thought I'd explained!"
"Are
you saying you question my professionalism and are you suggesting
that there is an ulterior motif to my decision?" There
was a pause in the line.
"Aye,
Ma'm." Dan kept to his guns, "why here, why he,
and why with me. I don't get it. With all due respect, Ma'm,
but to me that feels like interfering, especially since I
asked you not to." He didn't hear anything for a while
until her voice came back, as level as ever.
"First
and foremost, Vadim Krasnorada came to me, I did not seek
out his whereabouts. Secondly, he has proven during Marine
Commando training and SAS Selection that he is still in perfect
shape. He is simply the best for the job, a job like yours.
This is why I have sent him to the Gulf." She paused,
"is this your last word? You will not work with Mr Krasnorada?"
Dan could
not make out what she was thinking, her voice had kept its
usual crystal clear perfection. If she felt anything at all,
it was lost in the precise vowels and consonants.
"Aye,
Ma'm. I wouldn't want a knife to slip on a mission, nor a
bullet to stray." Dan knew exactly what he'd just implied,
wasn't willing to take it back. Fire behind the lines, a knife
meant for an enemy, ending in the body of a different kind.
He couldn't guarantee the bastard's safety. Not now. Not when
he wanted to rip the fucking Russian apart, as much as he
had been torn to shreds, six months ago, and had never been
mended back together. His rage was deep-seated, an all-consuming,
blind hatred where there had been nothing but love before.
"I
understand." She conceded, "I will inform the Officer
in charge of the situation. You will not work in a team with
Vadim Krasnorada, but right now we need his expertise in the
Gulf and I am not willing to send him somewhere else."
Dan frowned,
but he knew her too well. There was no way he could sway her
decision, not yet anyway. "Thank you, Ma'm." Curtly,
Dan put the receiver down without further acknowledgment,
staring at the phone for a while. He didn't know what to think.
Had she done this on purpose? There was no other explanation
and for one moment he fucking hated her as well for what she
had done.
Time
to see if the Yank kid was off duty some time soon. Nothing
but a fresh-faced jarhead to ease the tension.
*
* * * * * *
Back
in the embassy Baroness Margaret de Vilde was putting the
phone down and sighed. Her hand resting on the receiver, she
murmured to herself, "I am sorry, my friend."
*
* * * * * *
"Hey!
Shut the fuck up!" Someone was banging against Vadim's
door. "Some of us need to grab some sleep."
Vadim
lay awake, shuddering, could scoop the sweat in handfuls from
his chest. No idea what it had been, but his heart tried to
jump through his throat. "Fuck you!" he shouted
towards the door. Remembered what the doc had said. In times
of stress. Emotional stress. Seeing Dan obviously counted.
"Ah
fuck me", he groaned, listened to his voice in the tiny
place that was his quarters, field bed, a couple boxes, that
was pretty much it. His body that decided to freak on him.
Wiped the sweat off his chest with the blanket and stared
into the darkness. Checked the time. Two. Three more hours
before he would wake up again, unless the exhaustion claimed
him and he'd wake from the commotion the others caused. Stared
into the darkness, forcing himself to count his breaths, twenty
at a time, then started again until he finally fell asleep.
He awoke
from the others moving, chatter outside. Got his kit and headed
for the showers, paused. Folded the towel around the soap,
improvised weapons were best, slings were one of the things
he could work with, even though he preferred the garrotte
for speed and elegance. Or any other cable. Fighting in the
shower. Now, that would indeed be a throwback. But whatever
happened, he'd never been fucked in any shower, and he was
pretty confident he would keep it that way.
He could
see the glances, none of them friendly. The chatter turned
hostile, no specific words, just a general sneer that was
in the air, grins that seemed inappropriate. Too many eyes
on him.
Vadim
stepped under the spray, the guys left and right changed positions,
moved one shower further away, there was plenty of space this
early in the morning. Vadim kept his face a studied mask,
knew he was being checked, assessed, knew they read the scars.
Hoped they didn't know what they meant. No side of his body
that didn't tell a story. The burn mark right under his throat.
The knife cuts on his back. His neatly kept, nearly hairless
body, shaved neck, short hair. The old tattoo on his arm.
He ran
a soapy hand once over his scalp, getting soap into his eyes
just wouldn't do. Stance broad, balanced, as secure in his
footing as the Hindu Kush, he was fully there and aware, and
he could just feel how they were thinking about ways to take
him on.
He washed
himself with all the calm of a man who had nowhere to run.
Conscious of the wall in his back, even if that wall was not
very solid. He weighed a few snide comments, but didn't want
to be the one who started it. Not that he would be able to
find anybody who'd defend him if an officer caught wind of
it.
He stopped
the water, shook his head and moved to the side to have a
quick towel-down.
"What's
that shit on your back?" London, Cockney-tinged. Squaddie.
Ex. Oh, the sheer bravado of it.
Vadim
dried his hands, didn't want to slip, measured the man. Could
feel others draw closer. He would have to get out of here
without running away too obviously. Fighting retreat, SAS
tactics.
"Hear
me, Russkie?" Bastard was already wearing sports kit,
danced a little around like he was a boxer. He probably was.
That meant a good punch, but an open face. No gloves to hide
behind. And they usually didn't expect to be kneed in the
balls. "What's that shit on your back." Grinning
and leering. Oh, my hero. One of the lads.
"Scars",
said Vadim.
"I
can see that, dickhead." The Cockney stepped closer,
grinning at him, hands at his chest, half closed. Maybe fancied
himself to be a martial artist as well. "Princess like
you getting that shit."
"Aye,
should make you think", said Vadim and remained standing.
More people drew closer. Six, seven. That shave would be close,
if he started the fight now. Pack mentality. They'd be cowards
enough to go for it. Shit situation. He'd get hurt, unless
he defused. If he defused, he'd prove he had no balls. Fighting
naked. Wonderful way to get back into the rhythm of war.
The Brit
obviously didn't get it and there was silence for a few heartbeats,
then somebody slapped Vadim's ass. "Bitch's been screaming
last night."
The London
squaddie was back into his depth again and leered. "I
can make you scream alright." He moved closer and made
a stupid kissy-face.
Being
slapped meant the others were too fucking close. Simple. Safe
distance, neutral distance, fuck it, this was too close, and
they knew it. Vadim advanced and brought his elbow forward,
nice clean sambo move along the lines of 'jaws don't grow
muscles'. Was rewarded with a grunt and the guy spinning off
balance. He could smell blood, then brought his hands up to
place an open-handed heel strike on the next squaddie's nose,
hoped it was the bitch that had slapped him.
And after
that, it deteriorated into a nasty punch-up. No points for
style, it was just plain old dirty hand-to-hand, and he was
outnumbered. Pulled all the tricks in the book, solar-plexus,
head-butting, knee strikes into the short ribs, axe-kicks
to gain space. Slow, but powerful, heel, back of the foot,
elbows. Was nearly brought down by somebody who dropped a
double fist into his neck, felt his body go numb for far too
long, a kick into the lower back pretty much finished the
fight for him, the pain only kept in check by the numbness
from the earlier hit. Fuck - he managed to cover his face,
stagger to the side, too many attacks, was disoriented, then
somebody took his hand by the wrist, pulled it to the side
like that and punched him straight in the face. Numbing, disorienting
pain. Steadied himself against the wall, tasting blood. Fuck.
The fight
ended once he was down on the ground. One of the squaddies
- the first one, Vadim thought, and his hands formed fists
again, stepped up to him. "And I was being nice, cunt."
Vadim
glanced up, saw the man adjust his cock in the trousers, provocative.
Stayed out of reach.
"You
fucking coward", hissed Vadim.
The bastard
didn't move closer, reluctant even that way, instead brought
his leg forward to deliver a kick. It wouldn't have hurt much,
he was only wearing trainers, more a stomp than any fancy
shit. Vadim thought he should take it, but his body had different
ideas. He lunged up and forward, grabbed the guy's leg by
the knee and brought it up hard, shouldering into him and
dropping his weight onto the other man, who didn't have enough
breath in the impact to make more of a sound than his skull
on the floor. Vadim's hand found his pulse under the jaw and
squeezed, hard, pressed the heel of his hand down on the bastard's
voice box, perfectly willing to make him drown in his own
blood. "Fuck you
" he snarled.
He was
pulled off again, freed himself and staggered off, hearing
coughing behind himself. The Cockney would live. This time.
*
* * * * * *
Dan woke
up in a murderous mood. He hadn't had enough sleep, but had
to be on duty. Close security, thus no chance for illicit
booze at night. Being completely sober didn't help with the
sleeping, nothing to stop the thoughts, memories surfacing
unhindered and he'd all but given up on sleep, stewing in
rage instead, when he'd finally dropped off towards morning.
Only to be woken by his alarm half an hour earlier than usual.
Eager to avoid the Russian cunt during the morning ablutions,
Dan had been in the showers before anyone else, then in the
washing block, shaving the first time of twice every day,
and finally frequenting the row of loos.
Waiting
in the line for breakfast, he was getting pissed off even
more, because despite his early morning routine he had been
held up by the Quartermaster, trying to exchange his body
armour that got somewhat fucked the day before. He could have
done without a discussion and a promise 'not to do anymore
crap' with it. Yeah, right. Sometimes, kicking the shit out
of ceramic plates was the best way to avoid killing another
human.
Tray
in hand, brows dark and mood even darker, eyes hidden beneath
the shades, Dan was standing behind Mick, one of his team
mates, and in front of Dave, an Ex-RA gunner, who for once
was refraining from making an arse-groping oh-so-funny comment.
Dan would have his balls for breakfast, and the guy knew it.
Snide
comments raised their ugly heads as Vadim entered the mess.
Dan heard
the voices, could tell the mood without having to understand
the words, made the mistake to look up. Fuck. The bastard.
And there he had been trying all morning to avoid the cunt.
Averting his eyes before he had to take a proper look at the
Russian.
Vadim
was just in time because he hadn't gone for the jog, figuring
the fight had been enough exercise, but of course he looked
like he had had a fight. His lips tingled, swollen and raw,
his back ached badly from the nasty hit into the neck, and
there were a few places on his body where he would most likely
grow bruises. The camo covered most of those, but the face
was difficult to hide. He probably walked stiffly, too, which
was the reason for the comments. The bitch had got it. Haha.
Great fun.
Vadim
kept his jaw muscles clenched, kept just barely from grinding
his teeth. Queued for the food, held the tray and remembered
how to hit and strike with that shape. He was dying to bring
it full force into somebody's throat. Not a bad weapon at
all. But the main thing was not being tripped over or having
the tray kicked or punched from his hands.
He got
an assortment of English breakfast, fat and grease, but surprisingly
good, if his cardiovascular system could forgive him, then
found himself a safe route around the benches, never within
touching, punching or tripping distance. When he reached the
empty table without problem, he knew it would be harder on
the way back. It always was.
Dan had
got his own breakfast, double helpings of sugar laden cereal
and the usual blood-clogging full fry up with stacks of fried
bread on the side of his overflowing plate. Finding a seat
amongst his team mates, he was about to stuff himself and
wash it all down with a jug of coffee. Sod's law, when he
looked up from ladling the food down his neck, he was confronted
smack bang with the man he had tried to avoid. Even through
the dark shades, seeing Vadim was like a shock to the system.
Fucking arsewipe! He had to be doing that shit on purpose.
Dan grunted something vile into his food, shovelled more cereal
down, before forced to look up again to drink his coffee.
Almost choked on the brew, spilling some of it, when he caught
a glance of the bruised face.
Fuck.
What
the fuck had happened? No. Don't care.
Looked
back down again, chomped and chewed on the next spoonfuls
of crunchy sugary stuff as if violently devouring a particularly
evil spell. That fucking Russian be damned. Bastard. Cunt.
Arsewipe.
How the
fuck had he got into that state?
No, he
didn't care. He couldn't give less of a shit. Couldn't possibly
feel that sudden sharp sense of red-raging anger, wanting
to cut whoever was responsible for beating the Russkie up
into thin strips, roasting them over an open fire. Vadim was
his. His to touch, his to hurt. His.
His cunt.
No.
Not any
longer. Dan scraped the last of the cereal out of the bowl
before tearing into the sausages and bacon. He didn't care.
Didn't give a fuck about the obvious signs of a fight. No.
Couldn't afford to feel nor think.
Vadim's
skin was taut, he was ready to stand and fight, could feel
how the place turned against him, the comments, the sudden
change in topics. Cocksucking. Ass. Bitch. Cowardice. Weakness,
groping. What bitches wanted and what they deserved. He ate,
kept his gaze straight ahead, peripheral vision wide open.
No knife. He better not kill or incapacitate. He was not an
officer, this was not the Soviet Army. Fuck. If freedom meant
being ridiculed, he would walk home to the Lubyanka and ask
to be taken back.
He felt
a touch on the shoulder, firm, a tray moved within vision,
all slow, non-threatening. Jean. "You alright?"
The 'Frenchman' asked in Russian and sat down opposite, keeping
his eyes on the area behind Vadim's back. Vadim was grateful,
despite the fact that the Russian made him tense inside. He
knew Jean would signal with his eyes if anybody moved closer.
Saw tousled dark hair and sunglasses two rows up front, shit,
too close, even with five or six men between them. Too close.
"Aye."
"What
happened?"
"Fell
off horse." Vadim sipped his tea. Didn't want to speak
about it, not in Russian, not in a perfectly conversational
tone that Jean had started, and stubbornly stuck to English,
whether Dan could hear it or not. "I broke my wrists
in '72, falling off a stupid horse."
"Both?"
"Aye.
And yes, it means wanking is less fun."
Dan's
head was lowering further into the food. Didn't want to see,
didn't want to know. Of course, the legionnaire. Would make
a good pair; the perfect fucking couple to shoot into fucking
pieces of fucked-up meat on a fucking patrol out there in
fucking Iraq. Fucking bastards!
He tried
to ignore the Russkies' conversation, starting to chat with
Mick, discussing the plans for the day and the route their
armoured vehicle should take. Plotting an alternative route,
never the same one for their charges. Talking, just to drown
out the words that came wafting over from across.
Jean
gave a laugh, which was good. Nobody would assume Vadim was
crying his heart out. "You should hear the rumour mill,
Vadya. The squaddies are yakking, yak, yak, like babushkas."
In Russian. Again. It was beginning to irritate Vadim.
The ex-legionnaire
ate a pile of toast and thick gelatine-covered pieces of spam
for breakfast, and coffee. Clearly less enthused about the
English approach to a coronary.
"And?"
Vadim replied in English.
"According
to the rumour mill, you've slept around and Mad Dog caught
you. Or knows it somehow. While he was risking his life."
Jean laughed again, an unpleasant sound. "Unfaithful
girl betraying her squaddie lover, old story. Rings a bell
with many of these guys."
"And
I thought it might be worse."
"Oh,
it gets worse. That's the story from Mad Dog's mates. The
ones that don't care he likes ass. They hate you because he
does. Hooray for the right to be an individual."
Vadim
laughed. Oh boy, that felt good. It took the pressure down
a notch. "And the other story?"
"Not
much of a story, just planning the next attack. Fucking faggots
need to get their teeth bashed in, cut their faces, cut off
their cocks and balls and all that. It's open season."
"And?"
"When
you turn your back, Vadya." Jean did actually look a
little worried. "Figure I should tell you that. Being
your team leader and all that."
"Yeah."
Jean
finished his last slice of toast. "I liked the bit with
the elbow. Good work." He stood and took his tray away,
seemingly unconcerned about the attention on him. Them. The
bastard had seen the fight in the showers and not interfered.
Vadim glared after him.
Dan had
managed to drown out the conversation, but caught the motion
and despite his best intentions, raised his head to see the
legionnaire standing and leaving the table. Old habits died
hard, had to check what was going on around him at all times.
He was about to point out to Mick and a newcomer to their
table, how they should avoid the recently shot-down rubble
in the Western area, when he caught a glimpse of a man standing
up and waving. Midge. Fuck. Ringleader. He'd broken that guy's
nose twice already and had received more bruises in return
from the bastard's gang during the first two weeks, than he'd
received throughout all of his army career.
"Hey,
Mad Dog!" The ginger merc was shouting over from across
three rows. "Why the dark look? Thought you'd be whistling
today, figured you'd got some man-cunt, now that your bitch
is back."
Dan pushed
the sunglasses off his eyes, a sign for anyone who knew him,
that he meant business. Nothing else could get him to take
off his shades. Placing each palm beside his tray, he pushed
himself off the bench to stand. Ignoring what was going on
at the Russkie's table, refused to acknowledge Vadim's existence.
"Shut.
The. Fuck. Up, Midge." Each word clearly pronounced.
"Unless you want to swallow your own blood. Again."
The cookhouse
fell silent, the reaction was unlike Mad Dog's usual banter,
who took every insult with his piss-taking sharp and nasty
sense of humour, not a threatening seriousness.
Vadim
looked up, this Midge guy was too close, two yards counted
as too close. He kept him in the corner of his eye. The bastard
wouldn't start a fight right here, right now? Would he?
"I
can make you whistle." Vadim said and got up. "That
is what you want, come. I teach you whistling." Too loud
in the silence. But he wouldn't allow Dan to keep acting like
he was his bitch or ex-bitch. His own ground.
Dan couldn't
help it. His head turned a fraction, glancing at Vadim. Fuck.
The bastard sounded and acted like he used to. Unlike that
one night he'd seen him last. He fucking hated the cunt right
now, more than ever. He was about to snarl in anger at Midge,
who was making exaggeratedly camp hand gestures and wiggling
his stupid arse, when there was a sudden commotion.
"Stop.
Immediately." The voice was no-nonsense, un-amused, and
obviously used to giving orders. "No fighting in the
mess. You know the rules, Forces or not. Get the fuck out.
Now."
"Not
fighting. This would be slaughter", Vadim muttered under
his breath. Looking at Midge with all the emotion of a butcher.
He wanted to cut his throat. No, worse, a far darker urge,
one that he hadn't felt in a long time. It would be worthwhile
to make the man scream and break him, once and for all.
Dan visibly
twitched. Had to refrain, bound to keep order, but hated him.
Hated Vadim for making him remember, reminding him of the
knowledge that if they fought side by side instead of being
enemies, they'd be an unstoppable force. Fighting. Fucking.
It hurt to the bone.
Dan turned
his attention to the RSM. Fucking joy. No point to mess with
the Sergeant Major. He could see the man pointing first at
him and then to the exit and shrugged to his mate. Mouthing
'later, vehicle park', before grabbing the remains of his
breakfast in one hand, greasy toasts, last sausage and all,
to weave his way through the rows of tables and benches. No
point in arguing with the RSM. He'd been marked as a trouble
maker long ago, so he better kept a low profile. Successful
mission or not, if he was a destructive force amongst the
troops he'd find himself out of a job before he could finish
a wank.
Vadim
moved, knowing that under the eyes of the NCO nothing could
happen to him. He turned his back on Midge, walked close enough
past him to smell his aftershave, a biting, citrusy concoction
he would be able to identify and sniff out in the darkness,
if it came to that, and put the tray away. Allowing Dan to
move first, then himself, making sure he couldn't get attacked
in the back the moment he stepped outside. Snarling at Midge
on his way past. "That wriggle
good one. You might
have talent as a faggot." Not letting it go, no.
Dan's
shades were dropped back over his eyes before before he stepped
outside, turning his head to check on Midge. "Don't be
stupid." In Russian, to Vadim, without looking at the
cunt, instead keeping the other Merc in his vision. "Time
for work."
With
that Dan turned, tried to stop giving a shit and left both
men behind, the sound of nasty laughter in his ears from the
ginger twat. Whatever happened now, it wasn't his business.
Making his way back to the cookhouse entrance, Dan rapped
his knuckles a few times against the door. He was less than
twenty yards away, trying hard not to listen to the scraps
of sounds drifting over while getting his extra bag of packed
lunch from the cook.
"You
would know all about faggot talents, wouldn't you, bitch?"
Midge glanced towards Dan in the distance, as if he wanted
to make sure Mad Dog wasn't in earshot. Appeared to be wary
while smirking at Vadim. "I'll get you, when you least
expect it, and you'll squeal like a little girl." He
bared his teeth, ugly in his hatred.
"You
mean like your mother when her dog fucks her?" Vadim
turned to face the merc, pose deceptively relaxed, ready to
fight.
Midge
sneered, didn't take the bait. "Good thing me mother's
dead, innit, bitch?" Tension in his stance, once again
glancing over to where Dan had been, only a minute ago. "Just
remember. I'll get you, and it'll hurt worse than a virgin
on her wedding night." Casting another nasty grin, Midge
turned and hurried into the same direction that Dan had vanished
to.
"Your
mother must have died of embarrassment at seeing you after
shitting you in the toilet", said Vadim, loud enough
for Midge to hear it. A bit weak, but hitting the same spot
made sense when the other flinched. And Midge had flinched.
He shook his head and headed towards the armoury. Time to
pick up kit, get fitted with body armour, gear, and the whole
lot. Oh yes, and sunscreen. Protection factor 50 or more.
He could already feel his skin tighten.
Jean
introduced him to the rest of the team. It seemed Jean had
them under control. His style of leadership was exactly what
Vadim had seen from him so far: he seemed laid back, friendly,
open, and led by example, leading from the front like they
were equals on some fundamental level, and he was just happening
to be the leader. Not one to be seduced by the trappings of
power or become a bastard just because he had the command.
On the
next day, out in the field, Vadim could confirm his assessment.
Jean was completely no-nonsense under pressure. Calm like
a bomb. Vadim noticed how Jean's eyes gleamed when he focused,
the way his jaw set. Couldn't help but notice the shape of
his lips, neck. But then, it was security duty, boring as
hell. Sickeningly tense for a few heartbeats, then mostly
the dazing, glaring heat that wore him down, especially in
the armour.
But it
felt so familiar he caught himself smiling. Now, this was
something he knew, something he could do, easily. Finally.
Some semblance of home.
*
* * * * * *
The next
week did not bring any change, certainly not for the better.
Sparring didn't seem to take the pressure down for Vadim.
Fighting with gloves and protection just didn't satisfy. Punching
bags, lifting weights, running, hitting and kicking pads that
Jean held for him didn't satisfy. It merely seemed to make
the dark flood rise, increase pressure, fill the space inside,
and the nightmares stoked the fire. He took the anger with
him into the showers, and the first week was a haze of heat,
dust, punch-ups, duty, training, sleep.
Vadim
never closed his eyes, never turned his back. His body fell
into that rhythm, knowing he was only safe when Jean was around.
The legionnaire had his own gang, comprising of his team and
the friends of his men, presumably people he had worked with
before or shared history with. And as easy-going as he was,
he was also surprisingly sane. Jean stayed around to play
chess (which he would have been good at if he had bothered
to think beyond the fifth or sixth move), and to chill, and
to lift weights.
Vadim
was itching for a fight. No, worse than itching. It was as
dark and cruel a desire as he'd ever felt, much worse than
any itch, a burn, a wound in his flesh, no less painful than
Dan's knife that had carved his back. A proper fight, no holds
barred, he wanted to break and destroy, permanently, wanted
to take something apart in a way that nobody would be able
to tell what it had been, but he remembered the warning about
knives, and didn't carry any when the bitches came for him.
It was
nearly a ritual. They were waiting for a mistake, for him
to be alone and unprepared, and sometimes they managed, or
Vadim sought them out to take the pressure down. Splitting
lips and punching jaws, the pain in return keeping the darkness
away. He got the reputation to pick a fight for nothing but
a sneer, nothing but a crude gesture.
And sneering
there was plenty. He was Mad Dog's bitch, after all. He would
have to fight the whole camp, that was what it felt like,
and he'd rather have cut their throats in their sleep. But
Jean's presence was worse. And the fact he spoke Russian,
as if to do him a favour, but it felt like a knife in his
brain. He detested, he hated that, he wanted to punch Jean
every time the bastard called him 'Vadya', like they were
close, or lovers, or family.
"It's
not getting any better", said Jean, starting to shed
his body armour in the tiny room that was his quarters. Nothing
much in there - it could have been Vadim's room, apart from
the photos blue-tacked to the metal wall near the bed. Vadim
leaned in to have a closer look. It looked like cut-outs from
a fashion magazine, even though he was halfway sure not even
fashion magazines showed their models bent over like on the
first picture. That skirt rode up awfully high to reveal a
glimpse of black slip. Or it was just shadow.
Jean
glanced at him. "C'mon, not like you could do anything
with those."
Vadim
looked at the bed, thought this was the place where Jean jerked
off, staring at the darkness between those legs. Fuck. He
swallowed. The back was slender, a white shirt, pilot style,
open at the shoulder. She couldn't wear anything, not even
a bra, that would have been visible, so Vadim assumed her
breasts were nothing but a handful on her bony, long frame.
Hair was clearly a wig, a sleek chin-length cut, face slightly
turned to look over her shoulder, but the fake hair covered
most of her features. One dark eye, fake lashes, make-up like
a mask, moist glistening reddish purple lips formed an 'o'.
Vadim
could imagine Jean with that girl, who looked something like
sixteen, seventeen, but already in full slut mode. Long fingers
in white silk gloves, splayed on her lower back, an invitation,
she wouldn't dream of pulling the nothing of black leather
skirt down.
"Woah."
"Yes.
Sex on legs", said Jean.
"Who's
she?"
"My
girl."
"You're
fucking joking."
"She
does some modelling on the side."
"This
kind of modelling?"
Jean
lifted the body armour off and placed it near the bed, the
shirt underneath dark with sweat, clinging to his body, showing
off lines and planes, muscle, and his sixpack. "What
do you mean?" Calm, but Vadim detected something like
jealousy. If it hadn't been ridiculous.
"She
doesn't really seem to wear much."
Jean
gave a short laugh and pulled his shirt off, tossed it on
the ground. The sixpack was exactly as imagined. There were
some freckles on his shoulders, a few tattooed lines on his
left pec. 'AB+', in Latin, Cyrillic and what looked like Kanji,
Chinese, Arabic and a few other alphabets. Just in case he
got shot, Vadim supposed, or maybe it was some kind of personal
joke.
"You
mean for wanking material?" Jean seemed relaxed, but
that meant nothing. "Sexy stuff like that, but nothing
worse."
"How
do you know?"
"She
doesn't undress beyond that, not for the camera."
Vadim
could feel the reservation, just knew Jean was hiding something.
He should let it go, accept the half-lie, but it intrigued
him. He imagined that body before him strain against that
ass, imagined Jean's cock take her from behind, like that,
rough, fuck her raw. Probably the exact same thing that Jean
imagined when lying there. The whole purpose of that photo.
"Guess you're one lucky bastard, then."
"You
can say that again." Jean grinned, like mocking him,
that shit-eating, overconfident grin that Vadim had got so
sick of in the last week, and something snapped, pressure
valve exploded. Might have been the image of Jean fucking
that girl, or too much naked skin, or truly that grin, hard
to assemble and align cause and effect, suddenly Vadim shoulder
charged into him, tackled the lighter man, made him stumble
and hooked the legs out from under him. Taking the reflex
punch without feeling it, and came crashing down on Jean,
his whole weight one massive punch that drove the air from
the other's lungs.
The surprise
didn't last, Jean was fighting and Vadim needed his whole
weight to keep him down on his back, no way he could turn
him around. Could feel Jean's hand go for the combat knife,
took his elbow with his hand, lifted it and brought it down
so hard on the ground that Jean would have screamed with pain
if Vadim's hand over his mouth had let him.
"No
knife", hissed Vadim and pushed the weapon away, the
arm useless now. Jean was right-handed, that meant he only
had the left hand to fight with. And his legs, and the torso.
Vadim could smell the stress, shifted his weight to force
the legs apart. Jean's eyes grew wide and he began to breathe
hard through the nose, clearly stress, fear, on top of that
pain.
"I
am nobody's bitch, tovarich. That includes Dan. You hear me?"
Jean,
staring at him with wide blue eyes, sweat beading on his forehead,
nodded against his hand.
"Not
his girl. It was me who had him. I fucked him, in Kabul. And
he loves cock. Can't get enough of it." Vadim used the
sharper angle, forced his knees between Jean's legs, came
groin to groin with him. Felt the man shudder with revulsion,
felt his stomach sweat. "Like I could take you right
now", just breathing that into Jean's ear, grinding against
him, slow, deliberate, using pressure and weight. Enjoying
this more than he should, could come like this, easily. Enjoyed
too much to have Jean under control, the only thing he had
under control. Nothing the other could do. Scream for help?
Unlikely.
Jean's
eyes closed, the pressure of his legs subsided and it seemed
like he was moving against Vadim, probably to get him off
faster, to appease him. He was hard, worked against him with
determination, Vadim's hand moved between them and released
the belt buckle, nearly tore the fly open, snarling with aggression,
freed the other and pushed against him. Jean's cock finding
skin where his shirt was pulled up from the fight, hot, strong,
sweaty, exactly what Vadim needed, needed even worse than
killing. Jean's eyes were closed, whatever he imagined, it
wasn't Vadim, and Vadim wanted to punch him to make him acknowledge
his presence, his identity, as he came already. Managing just
barely to suppress the groan, forced himself harder against
that body until he was spent.
Lying
on top, still keeping the other pinned, Vadim didn't resist
when Jean pulled his hand off his mouth. No way he'd shout
for help, not in this position. It looked too willing. Too
much like Jean didn't mind at all, never mind the bruise that
was forming on his elbow. "Now, that's better",
said Vadim and began to stroke Jean, who shuddered from the
touch, eyes still closed, lips pressed together like he feared
Vadim would try to kiss him.
You won't
hate me for long, thought Vadim, and moved down his body,
saw his cum run along Jean's flank, the smell of it, and the
sweat in the heat of this place.
He took
the cock, but didn't try to finish him off quickly, took his
time, the last bit of power that Jean's body could give him.
And he took it, knew he was probably thinking of that girl
of his and he didn't mind, didn't remind him, not now, took
him deeper and harder, eventually, and made him twitch and
push and cum.
Vadim
stood to find water to wash the taste away and rummaged through
Jean's kit for the bottle.
"I
think I
" Jean groaned and reached for the discarded
shirt with his left hand to wipe himself down. "I think
I understand now why Mad Dog hates you."
Vadim
nearly dropped the bottle, turned to face the legionnaire,
who got up and stepped away, just out of reach, still breathing
hard. "What?"
"You
got me." Jean leaned down to pick up his knife and slid
it back into its holster. Still with his left hand. "I
should cut you open like a pig. Only finishing you off would
be a fucking mercy. And I'm not merciful. Get the fuck out
of here. And if the medic says you broke my fucking arm, I'll
kill you."
"And
you bitch came."
"You
make my skin crawl, Krasnorada. You got what you wanted, now
fuck off to nurse your fucking self-pity and get yourself
killed for some shit. And count your blessings that I have
more fucking honour in my finger than you in your whole fucking
body. Get the fuck out."
Vadim
wanted to protest, but Jean turned around and continued to
change, as if he had already left. He didn't hate the other
man, hadn't actually wanted to fight or fuck him, not his
intention, even though he had wondered about Jean. Had wondered
about how that man insisted on being his friend just on the
basis of the fact they had both been born in the same city.
And were both deserters of some description.
I
understand why he hates you.
That
went deep, turned the buzz into acid. Nothing had gone like
he wanted it to go; he hadn't wanted to do this, if anything,
he'd have taken it slow, or not at all, but somehow, his body
had wanted this man. He had wanted to punch him and have him,
fuck him slow or hard, but have him some way. It felt damn
good to be able to do this, felt good to feel a body shudder
and tense with orgasm.
Suddenly
a soft snort from the legionnaire. "And to think that
Mad Dog warned me. He was right about you. You can't be trusted.
That's the deal about you. You're not afghantsy. You're just
scum."
You're
a predator, devoid of any humanity. An animal, ruled by animal
urges.
Vadim
didn't know what he felt and what he didn't feel. Oddly defenceless
against the hostility and had managed to ruin everything.
Including the developing 'friendship' with the man who called
himself Jean. All gone. Wasted. The only man that had even
attempted to respect him. Nothing was how he had imagined
it to be, when he had contemplated meeting Dan again. Nobody
respected him here, Dan didn't even look at him, they couldn't
talk, Dan just went on living his life. Of course, what had
he expected, he had walked away after all. Couldn't have expected
Dan to wait for him. So, it was over. He'd screwed up and
been defeated in everything that mattered.
Vadim
turned and left. He'd find Midge. Time for another punch-up.
He needed to break something that deserved it.
*
* * * * * *
That
same day Dan was hauled in front of the Officer in Charge.
Uncomfortably reminded of his days in the British Forces,
when he was barely more than a raw recruit and way before
SAS Selection. The sense of doom came rushing back, even though
he knew they had no jurisdiction over him like they had over
the regular troops, and neither had he misbehaved in any way,
not even partaking in one of the many low-level brawls and
secret punch-ups. Still, once a squaddie, always a squaddie,
and twenty years could not wipe a hint of dread away.
He felt
even stranger once he stood in front of the Big Wig's desk,
not having to - nor bothering to - salute. Out of place, but
the niggling discomfort disappeared when he realised he really
was not part of the Forces anymore. Smirking briefly as he
stood while the CO was still looking down, not acknowledging
his presence. Typical arrogant upper-class bastard, but Dan
didn't need to give a shit anymore. Still, he pushed the shades
off his eyes and perched them onto his forehead, the one sign
of respect to the man in charge. His face looked bored, but
his stance showed tension. Legs braced, arms in his back.
Standing like he had done on the day, back in Blighty, when
he'd had to defend his decision to leave the Army after twenty
years and without his full pension. Four years ago.
Dan waited
another moment, but the condescending twat didn't seem to
bother acknowledging him yet, which was oddly amusing in an
entirely sickening way. Even if the CO had spelt it out in
neon letters, his dislike for Daniel McFadyen could not have
been more obvious.
"Sir,
you wanted to see me?" Dan's voice carried a hint of
bored sarcasm.
"Yes,
McFadyen, because it can't go on like this."
"Sir?"
Dan was confused for a moment, what the fuck was that ponce
talking about?
"You
know very well, McFadyen. The situation in camp is unbearable,
the atmosphere nothing but vicious."
Dan frowned.
'McFadyen', again. Fuck that, the arrogant arsehole should
be addressing him with 'Mr', but he let it drop.
"Which
situation, Sir?"
The Officer
stared incredulously at Dan. "You know damn well what
I mean, do not try to play games with me. There has been more
violence in the last week, since you have had that stand-off
with Krasnorada, than ever before. The men have been talking
about that shouting match of yours."
"It
was hardly a 'match', Sir." Dan's jaws squared, "as
far as I remember, Krasnorada hardly returned the compliments."
The Officer
stood up, brimming with rage all of a sudden, almost shouting.
"McFadyen, I do not feel like laughing at all. Drop your
infantile behaviour, it is most inappropriate in this situation."
Dan wondered
for a moment if that throbbing vein on the red-faced CO was
going to burst, before deciding on the most antagonistic course
of action.
"Which
situation, Sir?" He could feel his own dark wave of anger
rising, barely held in check by opposing the big-headed dickhead.
"Which
situation?" The Officer shouted, his face had turned
beetroot red. "Do not treat me as if I were stupid! There
are constant fights, the men are on edge, there is aggression
and violence spilling into the Mess and the cookhouse!"
Dan's
brows, lips tensing into a narrow line. "Does this mean,
Sir, that you are accusing me of being unable to hold your
men in check, due to my mere existence in this camp, which
coincides with the arrival of a new contractor?"
That
was it, the CO was losing it. "McFadyen, are you accusing
me of not having my troops under control?"
"No,
Sir," Dan's lips twitched, revelling in the momentary
satisfaction of having hit that twat, right into the gonads,
"I am merely saying that I cannot see how this situation,
nor any other that is connected to Vadim Krasnorada, should
have anything to do with me; be of my making; could possibly
be influenced by me. What does the recent violence therefore
have to do with me? I was not involved in any fights in the
past week."
"No,
you weren't." The CO snarled, "but you are the root
of it."
Dan felt
a bitterness well up in him that tasted like acid in his throat.
"Sir, with all due respect, how the fuck am I the cause?
Because I'm a fag and everyone knows that? Sir, you have no
jurisdiction over me in that respect. Who I fuck is my personal
matter, I am not a member of the British Forces anymore, am
not committing any crime against the fucking rules, and have
never actively pursed my sexuality in camp." Yeah, and
that poncy bastard hated his guts, he could smell the disgust
at the word 'fag', like he could smell the stench of dried
sweat under his body armour.
"Don't
use that language with me!" The man shouted, trembling
with anger.
"What
do you expect me to do, Sir? Snap my fingers and your men
accept the Russkie as their own? I'm not a fucking fairy with
a magic wand!"
"You
may or may not be a 'fairy', but you and Krasnorada clearly
have a history." The Officer was beyond losing it, both
hands on the desk, leaning forward. "The situation in
camp is not about the Cold War, this is about your past."
Dan tensed,
stood straighter, taller. "Sir, my past is my own business."
"No,
McFadyen, not if it encroaches into the present."
Dan said
nothing, his dark eyes narrowing, jaws working before he answered.
"It
doesn't. There is no present."
The CO
stared at him, long and hard, not buying into any of Dan's
defence, but seemed to realise he wasn't getting anywhere
with him.
"Don't
ever overstep the line, McFadyen or I'll bust your sorry arse.
I don't care what kind of Missions you have successfully completed.
If you go too far, you'll have it." Ponce or not, the
CO let his true colours show. Open hostility, which Dan continued
to stare down.
"Dismissed."
The Officer
waved a hand and Dan turned without another word. He was burning
with anger, needed to fuck or destroy, couldn't have either
and started to run instead. Didn't give a shit he was in combats
and boots, pushed the shades back over his eyes and headed
towards the exit. Let them shoot him down like a rabbit if
he was unlucky. Didn't matter shit. Just the heat in his lungs
and the pain in his knees and running until his body broke
down.
Fucking
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