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July - August
1991, The Persian Gulf
Completely
unaware of the stand-off between his new-found more-than mate
and Vadim, Dan had refused to take notice of the accident
at breakfast. Doing all he could to ignore the Russian - and
failing miserably at night. When the world quietened and the
adrenaline died down, the images were coming back. Memories,
touches, and most of all the promises.
The desert
at night, in a tin room full of shadows, held eleven years
inside, like Pandora's box.
After
a fairly uneventful day at work, Dan returned bang on time
with a couple minutes to spare. Doing the usual routine of
signing the weapons back into the store, airing his body armour
and dealing with the laundry of his sweat-drenched kit, he
finally relished the best moment of the day: washing the sticky
cover of sweat, red sand and dust off his skin.
After
his hot shower, he went to get some scran, famished as ever.
Sitting first with his team mates, chatting about the events
of the day and planning the route for the following day, until
it was time to get a second or third helping of sticky toffee
pudding. Taking a seat amongst Jean's team after that, laughing
and joking while wolfing down his dessert. Glancing at Jean
with a grin, Dan made a rude gesture and an entirely inappropriate
comment that let the guys break out into roaring laughter.
Sure, Mad Dog, the self-professed fag, and Jean, the uber-stud.
Made everyone piss themselves.
Half
an hour later, while dusk was settling, Dan was talking to
Jean as both of them carried a two litre water bottle, while
smoking a companionable cigarette on their way towards Jean's
hut.
Jean
paused, seemingly thoughtfully twisting the cigarette in his
hand, glancing at the glowing point, half-turning, a movement
that allowed him to have a quick overview of who was close,
with one face, one presence especially unwelcome, but Krasnorada
was nowhere to be seen. He nodded for Dan to get in, flicked
the cigarette away, followed into his microwave oven and padlocked
the door. Pulling his shirt off right at the door, he looked
at Dan with half-closed eyes. "I think the pieces are
all set." Idly adjusting himself in the camo trousers,
grinning, left hand against his groin, pressing in a little,
glancing at Dan with a friendly challenge. "I could use
a cocksucker", he murmured. "Or just a hand. Flexible
here
"
"Funny
you should say that," Dan grinned, "I was thinking
to myself today," taking his own shirt off and tossing
it onto the bed, "while securing that particularly deserted
piece of land", popping the button of his shorts and
pulling the zipper down, "and guarding this particularly
annoying piece of Big Wig shit," dropping the shorts,
he stepped out of them, kicking them towards the bed as well,
"that I could do with a body."
He suddenly
pushed hard against Jean's chest, making him stumble backwards
and against the wall. Grinning all the way, especially when
he ground his naked body into the other's.
Jean
groaned, full-on-contact, part wrestling, not that he wanted
to fight, really, a vague, but nagging lust turning into heated
desire at the touch, the grinding. He pushed against Dan's
groin, felt the heat against himself, fumbled with the belt
and buttons to get the trousers down, growing breathless.
Would be fast, a quick release, fine with him. Touching and
kissing and lying there resting, later. "Any body?"
He teased, kissing Dan's neck. "Of course
as long
as he's strong, and willing
" he murmured into
Dan's ear. "And has a big cock you can suck
you're
game
" Toneless laughter.
"Sure,
any body." Dan smirked, moved his head, away from the
lips on his neck and towards the other's face. "And that
would be almost everybody since no one can resist my charm."
Biting along the jaw line while pushing Jean's trousers down.
Cock against cock now, heat and desire that had been simmering
all day.
Dan's
right hand got hold of both their cocks, trapped between their
bodies, starting to stroke, push and grind.
Jean
suppressed a curse, not quite what he had expected, but he'd
be damned if he didn't roll with it. Feeling the other's cock
so close. Nothing like Krasnorada. Krasnorada had loved the
fear. Dan loved the lust. Fuck it. Nothing like the Russian
granddaddy. Lips opened, he was starting to pant, push forward,
hard enough to force Dan to use more strength, which, in turn,
made Jean even hornier.
"If
I didn't know you're such an arrogant twat," Dan's voice
was husky and breathless, lips working their way towards Jean's
mouth, "I'd tell you, you have a fucking great cock to
suck." Delving in for the kiss, harsh and demanding.
Jean
groaned into the kiss, liked the compliment, loved the kissing.
Hand on Dan's shoulder, digging into the muscle. Tongue wrestling
his, no fight, not at all, a weird sense of rhythm and harmony,
like the other read his body much too clearly.
Then,
suddenly, something banged hard against the door, just a yard
away from where they were standing. "Jean? Got a minute?"
The door rattled. "Hey, you in?"
Dan almost
jumped out of his skin, first reaction to delve for cover
at the attack and aim his weapon, when his violent jerk head-butted
Jean's chin.
Jean
glared at him and touched his chin, grinning, face gleaming
with a sheen of sweat. "Pascal", he mouthed.
"Fuck!"
Dan muttered, still standing close, reluctant to step away
from the heat of their cocks. Could feel an insane bubble
of hilarity welling up inside him, despite his heart racing
in the sudden adrenaline rush.
"What's
up?" Jean bit his fist to stop himself from laughing,
face twitching, eyes brimming with humour at the fucking stupid
situation.
"You
got time?"
"Bad
timing, Pascal. I'm
busy right now."
"C'mon,
man."
"Sorry,
mate, just fucking a tied-up Mad Dog on my bed. Not sure you'd
appreciate the sight. It's a bit of a massacre." Jean
fought full-out laughter while speaking. Grinning like a devil
as he took Dan's hand and made him stroke him again. "Yeah,
baby, just like
that."
Dan immediately
started to stroke, adding the grinding of his body into the
mix. Harder than before, while biting into Jean's shoulder
muscle to stop himself from laughing.
Stunned
silence. Then: "You're hitting the fucking bong again."
That
was too much, too fucking hilarious and Dan lifted his head,
shouting: "Sure thing, mate, coz Jean got it all wrong.
Must be fucking delusional, that teamleader of yours, seems
to be mistaking his own arse being pounded with mine."
Dan delivered a particularly vicious stroke, that made his
own cock twitch and his body shudder, adding an unmistakable
huskiness to his voice. "Yeah, bitch, you're as tight
as a fucking fist."
Jean
almost came with that, giving a groan that shouldn't have
come out, not like that, lust, desire, needs. Just barely
managed to laugh at Dan's game of dare, eyes closed, panting
against Dan's shoulder. "Finish me off", he breathed,
in Russian, probably so Pascal had no chance to get what he
was saying, but Jean was too fucking close, needed to come,
whatever the situation. Teeth locked in Dan's shoulder, body
tensing up with the onslaught as Dan obliged, thank god, and
Jean gave another groan.
Dan shuddered,
different, memories. Suffocating. Burning. Language and man
and shadows of blond hair and angular planes of muscles and
jaw and cock and
stroking furiously with a renewed
viciousness. Needed to come as well, to eradicate the image
of another man.
"Yeah
right, you bastards are taking the piss", grunted Pascal.
"Got it. Have the shit for yourselves."
Dan knew
he shouldn't shout, too breathless, but the weed was a brilliant
excuse. "You can always join us for a threesome, I'd
be willing to pop the cherry of your virginal arse."
Dan laughed, but only for a brief moment, had to bite hard
into Jean's shoulder to stop himself from groaning. Forgetting
about the marks he left, his own mauled in return, stroking
so hard and brutal it bordered on pain. He came hardly a second
later, right after the legionnaire, convulsing and grinding
into Jean. Whimpering against the sweaty skin, biting hard
into muscles to stop himself from making too much noise.
"Uhm.
See you guys later, then." Pascal sounded flustered,
probably at the laughter and the shared joke he wasn't privy
to. Rapped against the door as a goodbye.
Jean
laughed, breathless, helpless, just didn't seem able to stop,
even though his knees were weak and he seemed eager to collapse
on the floor or bed or anywhere. "Fucking brilliant voice-acting",
he laughed, giddy from climax and the fucking risk. Hand running
through Dan's hair, taking a handful to force his head into
a kiss. "Reckless fucking sexy bastard
"
"And
you're a kinky motherfucker." Dan grinned, let himself
be drawn into the kiss, bodies still grinding against each
other. Contact too good to leave yet. He liked kissing that
guy, Jean was good, different to Matt, even though he liked
kissing the kid. Jean was somewhat distinguished, somehow
deeper-intense. Entirely unlike to the only other man he'd
ever kissed, whose kisses had reached into the depth of his
soul and had
No. Dan
broke the kiss, breathlessly chuckling, covering up his thoughts
with a smirk. "Want to get stuck to me?"
Jean
glanced down between them and gave another laugh. "No
fun in that
but I guess we could make the most of it."
He broke the contact to reach for his discarded t-shirt and
wiped himself down first, then handed the shirt to Dan. "And
whatever Pascal says, I'm not smoking pot in camp. Not on
duty."
"I
didn't expect you to. You're not an idiot." Drugs meant
getting chucked out, no matter what; while alcohol on duty
warranted a severe warning. Dan took the shirt, eyed it for
a moment before wiping himself down, then handing it back.
"Make sure no one sees your laundry. Interesting white
stains." He grinned, not that it mattered. They'd all
wanked into an item of clothing, after all.
Jean
picked up the bottle that he had set down and drank, deeply.
"The medics say I will probably be all set next week.
Swelling goes down nicely, and the joint seems to be alright.
With a little luck, I'll be on your flank in a week."
"That
would be good." Dan waited for Jean to finish drinking
before taking the plastic bottle and chugging the water down
his neck. "Let's sit down for a while before I need to
grab some shut-eye. I demand some of your after-sex speciality."
He pulled away from the other and sat down on the bed, inviting.
Jean
grinned. "And that would be
?" He sat down
while Dan merely grinned from ear to ear. Jean was leaning
against the wall, adjusted the sling, then raised his hands.
"Docking permit granted, Sir. Welcome aboard." Laughing
again. "I would have loved to see Pascal's face. Holy
shit."
Dan let
himself fall back across Jean's thighs. He rather liked the
'grooming', that human touch that he had missed for two and
a half years. The Yank kid was great, but was a kid after
all, and the depths of non-verbal communication just didn't
exist with him. Dan settled in, grinning upwards. "He'd
have upchucked his supper, but who knows, he might have joined."
"I
doubt there's enough space for three in your hand
"
Jean idly traced the hairline with his fingers, then ran them
into the dark hair, smirking. "I thought chess was a
game for two players, but then, there's still poker."
"Never
played that kind of 'poker'." Dan closed his eyes, grinned
lazily, "sounds interesting, though."
Jean
went down the temple to the jawline, touch almost minimal,
just the fingertips, it was still too warm. "And he's
too much part of the rumour mill. No. Good long legs though.
He did a lot of marching and running."
Dan chuckled,
"I'm not fucking stupid. The less anyone knows the better
- in this case." He let his arm dangle off the bed, revelling
in touch, heat, satiation. "I meant to ask you something.
How in god's name did you get into the legion? What shit happened
back in Afghanistan?"
"I
was unlucky enough to turn eighteen in the Soviet Union. Got
drafted, of course. A couple months later I was sitting in
a mountain fortress, scared shitless and homesick. Didn't
help I caught typhoid fever
polluted water, and logistics
were appalling. I mean, you get used to being hungry, right?
You steal and barter enough to stay alive, share stuff with
comrades
of course, all illegal. You were not supposed
to do that, but the fucking system fucked us up the ass, every
fucking day."
Jean
inhaled while Dan listened attentively, with closed eyes.
Didn't he just know it. He remembered supplies he had brought
back for an enemy, to keep that man alive.
"War
at a discount. Save money. No idea. I only know that there
was hardly a day I had enough food to not be fucking hungry.
They say it was the same in all the barracks, the Soviet Army
likes to keep her bitches lean, but we were combat troops."
Jean's hand rested against Dan's cheek. "That's what
I remember of Afghanistan. Being hot. Being cold, being hungry,
and finally, being sick." He paused, as if waiting for
Dan to tell him to stop.
But Dan
didn't. Not a word, just opened his eyes at Jean's pause and
nodded.
"The
medic in our unit. The only man I ever respected in that army.
He'd get his steel helmet, get kitted like the others, like
the fucking special forces, and raid the trucks with them,
for medical supplies, never for anything else. Most of the
booty vanished in the deep dark pockets of the officers and
the specwar types, especially bandages, syringes, and morphine.
Sure, they could use it, too, but they also traded it. So,
the medic goes out with them, carries his own shit, laden
like one of those fucking bend-legged donkey, takes off the
helmet, washes his faces and hands, gets the clean and new
gloves, and while everybody else is still squirreling away
the booty, he starts operating."
Dan frowned,
dark brows steep over equally dark eyes. He had suspected,
never known, and sure as shit never asked. He was still silent
when Jean shifted to reach for a packet of cigarettes, pulled
one out with his teeth, let it hang between his lips. "Anyway.
I caught the fever. No drugs to treat the shit. I got isolated,
and that was it. I got the feeling they were just waiting
for me to die. Medic could do nothing. Officer didn't care.
That bitch almost killed me, so I decide to leave. And I did.
I don't remember much of that. By all rights, I should have
died. I ended up with some villagers that thought higher of
hospitality than revenge. There were Europeans, too. Could
have been CIA, or reporters, or anybody, really. Those had
drugs, which kept me going until I could cross the border
to Pakistan. I recovered in a small hospital near Peshawar.
But before they could put me on a plane to Moscow, I could
walk again, and I was on my way. Went West, did some crazy
shit." He laughed and Dan grinned, murmuring, "I
bet."
"Ended
up in East Africa, working any way that would fill my stomach.
Happened to stumble across a recruitment office. I needed
a new life, a new name, and the Legion offered that, so I
thought fuck it, can't be worse than the Soviet Army. Signed
up for my five years, got shipped to Castelnaudry in France,
learnt French, and did the whole tour."
Dan nodded
again, "I did the whole Afghan war, but on the other
side." He shrugged, fished for a cigarette for himself.
"Did your five years, or more?"
"Almost
nine. Got shot after the first two years, could apply for
citizenship one year earlier than anybody else, sure as fuck
I did. I learnt a lot of useful things, and I liked being
a hard bastard. Still like it." Jean grinned darkly.
"But I heard how much private security people make. So
I left, could have had a nice pension after fifteen years,
but I did the numbers and figured I'd try being on my own.
Met Solange right after leaving and was just having a one-man-and-lots-of-women-party
in Paris. Thought I could do better with my languages and
experience, and figured being a merc was more interesting
than the goold old 'march or die'."
Dan lit
his fag, inhaling deeply. "Seems you fell on your feet
in the end. Good for you, mate. Thousands didn't make it."
"Mainly
the officer's fault. I watched it, on CNN. The bandits getting
better, the speeches of the general secretaries getting grander,
the fucked idea to launch an offensive in the Panjir. But
the worst thing were the granddaddies. Bitches like Krasnorada.
Officers could do whatever they liked. I've seen men being
beaten to death for stealing food. I don't believe the numbers.
Any numbers. No cause of death. I stopped being Russian in
Afghanistan. Calling me Russian was a good reason for me to
kick somebody's teeth in. I'm French. France has treated me
like a human being. Not always, but most of the time."
Dan said
nothing, smoking quietly and staring at the ceiling of the
tin hut, past the other's face. Eyes not seeing anything other
than too much of the past. "Aye, they were gods. At least
they thought so." Inhaling deeply, he stalled, feeling
the hot smoke enter his lungs, then slowly exhaling. "Vadim
Krasnorada is a human being. Always has been. In some corner
of their fucked-up minds they all were. Family dads, husbands,
sons, and shit like that." He shrugged, felt suddenly
drained and sat up. He couldn't gather the energy to try and
explain and it was probably of no consequence, no matter what
it felt like inside.
"He
is. He screams in the night. He bleeds. I guess that counts."
No real malice in Jean's voice, just a tired bitterness.
Dan twitched.
The screams. Jean mentioned it again. No. No, he didn't care,
he couldn't care or it would kill him. Again. "Whatever.
Who cares. The war's officially over, but guess it never will
be for the survivors." He craned his neck and suddenly
bared his teeth in a humourless, dark grin. Feral and close
to nasty. "I sleep and never dream. My only guilt is
that I have none." Taking another drag, Dan inhaled quicker
this time, switched unexpectedly back to the piss-taking,
fun-loving Mad Dog everyone knew. "At least this shit
here pays damn well. Enough to keep your lady happy and enough
to make me stacks of dosh to turn my farm in New Zealand into
Crystal Palace."
Jean
grinned. "And as many needy guys in camo as you can wish
for. Like a great white shark trawling the coastline. Something's
bound to show up." His hand returned to Dan's chest,
idly stroking the skin, following the lines. "I don't
feel guilt, either. It's not like we get forced to do what
we are doing, and Iraq is evil, so Kuwait is good. We're helping
the good guys, and that makes us heroes."
Dan started
to laugh, leaning against the wall to allow the stroking of
a hand that damn well knew what to do with a body. "Black
and white, eh? If you ask me, there are no goodies and there
are no baddies. Just a great big fucking mass of shades of
grey. It's all a matter of who is worth more, and fuck, the
Gulf is filled with oil. Or do you think the bloody Yanks
are doing this shit for the greater good of mankind? Fuck
them," he shrugged and finished his fag. "Fuck them
and their 'policing of the world'. But as long as that pays
me fucking shitloads of dollars or pounds, I don't give a
fuck why I'm doing this. I'm a war junkie; I'm a soldier.
That's what I do. I chase adrenaline and I risk my life. In
return I used to get my countries 'thanks'," Dan snorted,
"and now I get paid enough to live a comfortable life
when I'm too old and my body belongs to the scrap heap."
"Amen,
brother."
Dan grinned
humourlessly, "I've paid enough for the 'honour' of earning
fat zeros behind numbers. I've paid with my blood, my pain,
my health. I've survived until now, I've got a few more years
in me." He turned to Jean and smirked. "But I probably
won't if I don't get some shut-eye now. Double shift tomorrow,
it'll half kill me. So no cocksucking Mad Dog tomorrow night,
I'm afraid."
Jean
nodded. "Well, there's the weekend. And I'm fucking bored,
so drop by whenever." When Dan got up, he leaned in to
whisper again. "And if Pascal asks, don't tell him just
how much I begged you to fuck me. He's still in my team."
Pressing his lips right on Dan's. "See you after your
ass-kicking, Mad Dog. Kill a towelhead for me."
Dan winked,
stood up to find his shorts and t-shirt, even the flip-flops
had to be somewhere. He never lingered long and was at the
door, working the padlock once he was dressed. "Maybe."
Opened the door. "Maybe I won't tell - maybe I will."
He was still laughing when he kicked the door shut behind
him.
*
* * * * * *
Couldn't
bear it. Just couldn't. It was a grinding pain in Vadim's
guts, like somebody had shoved a hand into his innards, grabbed
a handful of the stuff and pulled and twisted. Vadim went
to bed with how Dan looked, how he moved, how he spoke, but
it was too often how he laughed with Jean. Too often when
he'd seen him, it was with the legionnaire. It was so damned
obvious; all of it. He was amazed nobody saw it. He could
imagine them together, entwined, sweating, cursing, fucking
each other's hands, wondered if Dan fucked Jean, didn't quite
think it was the other way round, assumed Dan still didn't
like it, unless he did it out of spite. Because Jean had never
harmed him, never forced him.
Had the
legionnaire spilled the beans? Vadim waited for it, but it
didn't happen. Jean kept shut. Good. Bad. By now, he knew
he could only end this one way. And he lay awake and thought
about it. Thought about it all the time, before duty, after
duty, worked hard to be too tired to think.
But he
was alone in his room, alone with the darkness. Knew Dan was
less than a hundred yards away. Knew Dan was probably right
now sucking the legionnaire, and that made him hard, but in
the most desperate, wretched way. Knew too well what that
felt like, what Dan looked like on his knees. Knew all of
it, the kinds of sounds he made, turned, restless, didn't
want to think, didn't want to remember, and couldn't help
it.
Fuck
SAS, fuck Royal Marines, fuck everybody who had put him back
together. It didn't matter. He was unable to deal with it,
one ambush, one pounding, one artillery strike that rattled
him, rattled heart and mind, and he clutched at thoughts and
memories, and they broke when he touched them. What amazing
bad idea to come here. What utter stupidity to walk into Dan's
war, thinking just because he could walk again, the other
would once more accept him as an equal. Dan had found a man
who wasn't broken, for fun and laughter, and that was it.
Why drink salt water when you could have something entirely
more healthy?
Something
that quenched the thirst. That easy laughter. Vadim groaned,
turned again, felt the anger and pain mingle, like puss and
blood. Just couldn't stop worrying that wound. But one question
was answered. What he felt for Dan. He had learnt that here.
The rage, the fucking loneliness, the helpless anger, the
envy. And the pain.
He wiped
the sweat off, heard jeeps arrive, checked the time. Ah, the
late shift returned. Dan. He knew what Dan did, and where,
his duties, his team. Of course he did.
There
was only one solution to the pain. He dreaded it. Dreaded
it almost as badly as the pain itself, but maybe he could
stop prodding at that wound. Maybe the twisting in his guts
would stop. Permanently.
He stood,
slipped into his boots, the vest, still wore the trousers.
And the knife. Reached for the moonshine, emptied the bottle.
Felt the alcohol kick. Again.
Made
his way through the dust, saw people, didn't greet, didn't
pause to chat, People tended to jump out of their skins when
he had tried. You make my skin crawl, Krasnorada. He'd
heard that a few times, different words, sometimes only as
much as a surprised "fuck!" when he showed up. The
man who smashed glasses in his hand without provocation. The
bastard who had knocked people out in hand-to-hand. The hardass
who stood his ground even against the gay-hating crowd. Who
asked for the fight. Who got it, every time, and who refused
to lose. Who got up when he fell, just to absorb more pain.
Who didn't give any quarter when he was winning.
Now,
the last fight in this camp. He saw Dan head for the showers.
*
* * * * * *
It had
been a bloody bone breaking double shift. Dan was completely
shattered when he finally returned just after midnight, but
the reason for swapping the shift had made it worthwhile.
At least the desert was cool now, and the sweat had dried
on his body, encrusted with that vile mixture of sticky sand
and dust. Having signed his weapons back into the store and
exchanged a few words with the QM, Dan dropped his helmet
and body armour in front of his hut, to let it dry out from
the inside. Shirt and trousers discarded, boots drying as
well, he was in his running shorts. Towel slung over one shoulder,
soap bag in his hand, he walked towards the shower block,
whistling to himself. Tired, but content. If he worked his
body to the bone until he was so tired he couldn't stand anymore,
then he didn't have to think. No memories for him tonight.
Entering
into the shower block, Dan hit the light switch. The place
was deserted, everyone else had hit them either first thing
or was long past their bedtime anyway. Stepping out of his
shorts he kept the flip-flops on as usual, the best protection
against the dreaded athlete's foot that loved sweaty boots
far too much. Sorting his soap bag then dropping the towel
over a hook, he turned towards the first set of showers. Almost
asleep on his feet and doing the mechanics of cleaning automatically.
Vadim
glanced around, saw nobody in the showers, followed like the
hunter. Tiles. Blood. Water. The room in the Lubyanka. Tiled.
Buckets of water that turned the blood pink that brought him
back around, staring at the swirl of colour in the water running
from his head.
Yes.
What's good enough for the KGB sure as hell is good enough
for me.
He followed,
saw Dan, saw sudden tension between the other's shoulder blades,
saw him turn around.
Dan was
staring at Vadim, fucking defenceless. Naked. Bone tired,
but suddenly all his senses were alert. Checked the situation,
the man - drunk, the danger. Glanced behind, but had the tiles
in his back. Fuck. No way out.
The darkness
came up like bile, Vadim wanted nothing but to scream, scream
like his body normally did, instead pulled the knife. Needed
to end the pain, couldn't see him any longer. Just one more
fight and I'll be free. No more screaming, no more pain, no
more.
Dan couldn't
even reach for the towel. Had nothing, razor too far away.
Just his fists and his sober senses. Adrenaline kicked in,
with no where to go, except forward.
"Get
a weapon", Vadim said, in English. "Let's finish
it. You or me. Think you can ignore me? Think again."
Moved closer, teeth bared.
"Fuck
you, Russkie." Dan snarled, in Russian as well. Attack
the best defence. Vadim was unhinged, lethal, and he believed
him when he said he would finish it. "You want to use
a weapon in camp? Think again, bastard."
Vadim's
grip around the blade was light, insecure, yeah, whatever.
He didn't plan to win. Lost ages ago. The battle, the war,
and everything else. "Fucking camp mattress. Russian
and blond, and that's enough. Fucking your way through the
camp, deserters and anybody else. Leaving me to rot, you don't
even care enough to fight me. Make me feel one last time,
Dan. Come on. I'll cut you open and fucking strangle your
bitches with your guts. Don't doubt me for a heartbeat, because
I will."
"You
fucking cunt!" Dan hissed, seeing red-hot anger. "How
dare you, fucktard. Pissing off without a word, not giving
a shit. Two years and you just fucked off. Fuck you,
bastard. You want to kill me? Try it, loser. Try it and suck
it and see!" Dan's heart was racing, his naked body in
the best fighting stance possible. Would have to deflect the
blade, possibly grab the towel and flick the knife out of
the lunatic's hand. "I fucking hate you, Russkie. Fuck
out of my life for good. How dare you. How fucking dare you!"
No lust
for bloodshed. Vadim would go into this fight with no thrill.
Had to be done. Just another task. Work. Function. I want
to function, Sir. What a waste of effort. Dan's hatred
hit him square in the chest, deeper, pressure wave. Couldn't
say that he had been broken. Couldn't admit the weakness.
Didn't want pity. Didn't want any more ridicule. Inched closer,
saw the body he had been so desperate to have, recoil, tense,
ready to defend and counterattack.
"Sorry
for not being your bitch straight from prison
sorry
for needing some time to fucking get my head straight",
Vadim hissed. "Jean does that quite nicely, the bitch
part, huh? Almost as tall, almost as strong. And he's so funny,
our legionnaire. Such a sunshine. Pretty boy, too. Not like
that piece of cunt you discarded. Tiger and mountain lion,
fuck you. Fuck you for getting me out. You should have shot
me. But you didn't have the guts to do it. Too weak. You just
didn't care enough. You waited two years, and then you stopped
to fucking care and tear out my fucking heart. Come on. Promises,
Dan. Keep them. Cut it out. If you're a man. Make me scream
if you can."
Dan jerked
as if punched. Words. Fucking words. Pain. Punches un-pulled.
Words that hit, deeper, harder, drilling down into every memory,
every thought and each feeling he'd ever had. Words. Torture.
Words. Death. Words. Hatred and accusations and guilt and
pain.
"No."
Dan snarled, stunned and debilitated with a pain like the
one back in Finland. Pain, like the day he had been listening
to the tick-tock of the clock, counting towards his lover's
death. "No, Vadim. Fuck you! You won't make me into who
you are." He kicked out, aimed at the hand with the knife.
Smashing his heel against the wrist to disarm the Russian.
The knife
sped away, clattered over the tiles. Killing a man without
a weapon was too hard work. Dan had failed once to tear him
to bits. In the mountains. "Who I am? A walking corpse?"
"A
liar, Russkie, that's what you are." Dan hissed, brimming
with rage and pain, it suffocated him and turned his voice
into a snarl. "Breaking promises, forgetting any- and
everything and not having a fucking idea what feelings really
are. Loved me? Liar. Fucking disgusting useless pathetic liar!"
Vadim's
face twitched, the mask of rage almost falling apart. Needed
to deliver one more blow. Maybe Dan would still do it. "You
don't have the guts. For nothing." He turned around.
"Last chance. Or I'll take you apart. And I'll start
with Jean. And then your other friends. I'll destroy you so
completely like nothing has ever been destroyed."
Dan took
a step forward, his whole boding shaking. "You already
did that, cunt. Six months ago. You can't destroy me twice."
His fists were useless now, trembling too hard. "You
touch them and I fucking take you apart and then let you live."
Failure.
It hurt. Vadim wanted to scream. He wanted to fall to his
knees and die. Please fucking kill me.
Don't
kill me. We're soldiers.
We're
nothing.
Vadim
nodded, and walked away. No more strength. He didn't scream
that night, but he wished he could.
Dan watched
him leave. Stood. Turned on the water. Stepped under the shower.
No sound. No gesture. No reaction. Turned his back to the
room, didn't give a shit if Vadim returned. What did it matter
if he were stabbed like a pig, bleeding out under the water.
He stood,
letting the water drum onto his skin and blind his eyes. Leaning
forward, one palm resting against the tiles, he hung his head.
Water mixing with salt as he cried.
No one
heard. No one saw. No one knew.
*
* * * * * *
Jean
checked the watch. Ten hours should be enough. Besides, it
was getting too warm to sleep, he could tell from the sweat
gathering in his bandage. He headed over to the tin huts,
whistling to himself, flipping the finger to somebody asking
whether he was bringing his 'stud' some tea - as long as it
was not Krasnorada, it would just be the finger.
He rapped
the door, which stood ajar to catch what feeble breeze might
err in this direction, then stepped in. "Wakey wakey.
Coffee." Not that the Nestlé shit deserved that
name, which was the reason why he'd dunked three heaped spoonfuls
in there. If his taste buds were going to be in pain, make
it proper pain and a caffeine punch to the guts.
He'd
seen guys in their morning glory before, but Dan wasn't there.
The soap bag was still there, but so were the combat boots.
That could mean the tracks, or the gym. He'd have to deliver
the liquid there. He headed out again, strode across to the
gym. The clatter of metal disks on the ground and against
the bars. Comrades helping each other, making sure the big
weights didn't crush a chest first thing in the morning.
Dan was
in the corner on one of the weight machines. Doing butterflies
while letting out grunts that sounded positively offensive.
He'd put more weights onto the machine than he usually did
and was forcing his body into yet another push. Sweating like
a pig, he'd already done the leg workout and the rest of the
upper body, winding down the torturous routine.
"Don't
pull up that shoulder", said Jean, completely useless
comment, but Dan was overdoing it.
"Huh?"
Dan hadn't quite understood the words nor registered the newcomer,
letting his arms move back slowly, wrists resting on the padded
bars. Feeling his muscles tremble with over-exertion. He ached,
would hurt like shit in a day, but fuck, did that feel good
right now.
Jean
put the coffee down on the seat of the next butterfly machine.
"Breakfast." He eyed Dan, had a quick sweep of the
gym. No Krasnorada. Like most biblical plagues, Krasnorada
entered when least expected, and Jean did expect him.
"So?"
Dan's grin wasn't quite the same as usual, fading too fast.
"I grew up with porridge and stale tea. That was the
scran at home, the army was worse." Flashed his teeth.
"Don't think you got better in the Glorious Soviet Army,
eh?"
"No."
Jean crossed his other arm in front of his chest. "How
was the shift? Alright?"
Dan shrugged
evasively. "Aye." Looked around, too many blokes
in the gym. He gestured with his chin to the towel out of
reach. "Got to tell you something. Will be re-deployed."
Jean
picked up the towel, stepped closer to hand it to Dan. His
credentials as team leader were going to hell. He placed the
good arm on the padding of the machine and leaned in. "Ah.
Already fed up with Disneyland Kuwait City?"
"Not
quite." Dan wiped the sweat off his face and neck, his
t-shirt drenched so badly he had several stages of white salt-lines
of sweat, dried, and the freshest one on top, wet. "Fed
up with some of the company, rather."
He slung
the towel around his neck and came out of the machine, chucking
the coffee down in one go and the Styrofoam cup into a nearby
bin. "I'll request transfer later."
Jean
glanced around. "Let me guess." He paused, looked
straight into Dan's face and knew the answer before he asked
the question. "You're fed up with the twohundred-something
pounds of shit that is doing his damned best to win the popularity
contest against Saddam Hussein?"
Dan's
grimace said it all, he didn't bother to nod. "I had
a visit last night, aye. Am not going to put up with that
shit anymore. Too much history." Walking towards the
exit, he expected Jean to keep up. He needed a shower badly,
and they had too many witnesses in the gym for their conversation.
"Anything at least ten thousand miles away will do."
Jean's
face darkened. He nodded, seemingly thinking unpleasant thoughts.
When they left the gym, he murmured: "Something I should
know as his team leader?" He glanced to the side.
Dan was
shaking his head. "No. It's up close and personal."
What else. It could never be anything else.
Jean
nodded, decided on a different angle. "You know, I have
some shit on him. Some pretty bad shit. I'd rather not bring
it up, but he's on probation and he's been acting like a loose
gun."
"Shit?"
Dan stopped dead in his tracks. "What shit? What the
fuck did the cunt do?" The tight line of his lips betrayed
the sudden tension.
"That's
confidential. No permanent damage and word hasn't spread."
Jean inhaled. "I can return him to sender. He's here
on my goodwill. CO will bust his ass if I talk to him."
Dan's
fist clenched, 'damage'. Not 'permanent damage', but damage,
after all. There was only one kind of damage he truly remembered.
Bastard. Finally looked at the other, silent for a while.
"Vadim has nowhere to be returned to." At least
he, himself, had a farm, a friend, medals and honour, and
a country that would pay him a pension if he made it to fifty-five.
"I
can just about manage to keep my heart from bleeding for him",
said Jean. "And I'm sure there is some nice dictatorship
somewhere that buys his kind wholesale."
"No!"
Dan's answer came fairly quickly, but then he paused once
more. Why the fuck did he keep defending that Russian cunt?
Why? Damn. His face was thunder and lightning. "No."
Calmer, he shook his head. There had to be a rational explanation
for it all and he'd cling to it. The rest would fade away
again once he was thousands of miles away. "There's too
much history, too many memories here. Everyone would remember
the madman. I have to leave, go somewhere where I can't be
traced. I am sure my employer will make certain of that."
"Damn
shame", murmured Jean. "Yeah, I guess it's an option.
I'd prefer it the other way, though." He allowed Dan
to step into the showers first, then followed. The place was
empty. Still no Krasnorada. Jean hoped the Russian would get
shot up today. A car bomb would do just nicely. "You're
an asset, he's not."
Dan had
already stripped and was turning on the water, realised too
late he had forgotten his soap bag. Just water would have
to do, at least the sweat was fresh. "You never know,
he might become an asset." Dan huffed dryly, wondered
if hell froze over before that happened.
Jean
glanced at Dan, then slipped out of his wifebeater and the
shorts and stepped into one of the showering stalls, separated
by a thin partition from the other. Talking to a naked man
under a spray of water when dressed looked a bit awkward.
He took the sling off and began to remove the bandage, rolling
it into a dusty ball of fabric. Prodded at the elbow, slowly
straightened the arm, but made an effort not to move it or
use it too much. The round scar on his thigh became visible
as he turned. "Let me know when you get your new posting."
"I'd
rather not." Dan stepped under the hot stream, tipped
his head back and closed his eyes, letting the water run over
him before moving his head back out of the water to continue.
"Vadim has
ways of getting information when he
sets his mind to it. You know the old motto 'know as little
as you absolutely need to know and you're less of a target'."
"Good
motto." Jean leaned against the partition and watched
Dan, thoughtfully. "But I'm not exactly Red Riding Hood
that gets ambushed by the evil black wolf. If he does so much
as look at me funny, he's right outside the camp gates, with
no security clearance to return." But he didn't ask again,
instead turned the water on to cool down in the heat.
Dan was
still shaking his head with a weary chuckle. 'Little Red Riding
Hood', indeed. Yet it would be better for everyone concerned
if no one knew where he got sent to. He'd have to tackle the
issue straight away, then contact the kid to explain and to
meet him later. He'd have to turn the regular shag into a
good-bye fuck-fest. Possibly with a bottle of booze. For him,
not the Yank.
He washed
quickly, didn't bother to wipe down with the sweaty towel,
slung it around his hips and waved to Jean before he left.
"See you later, mate."
*
* * * * * *
Later
that morning, exactly one week after he got hauled in front
of the goddamned CO, Dan requested an international phone
line, once more waiting for the Baroness' aide to let him
through to her. It took several minutes, before he finally
heard her speak.
"Dan?"
Her voice gave no clue what she might feel. It probably didn't
matter. He'd trusted her, like he had trusted another, once.
Fat good that had done him. "How are you, Dan?"
"Not
good, Ma'm." He cradled the receiver in his hand, stared
at the wall, then his boots. "I need you to get me out
of here."
There
was a pause and the line was dead for a long moment.
"Why,
Dan?" As if she didn't know and Dan huffed quietly, but
said nothing. Enough to make her continue. "Vadim Krasnorada?"
Dan nodded
even though she couldn't see him. "Yes, Ma'm. Who and
what else." He lifted his eyes only to stare at the bare
wall once more. "Ma'm, with all due respect, you shouldn't
have sent him here, shouldn't have interfered. It's
"
hesitation, deeper breath, admitting defeat was painful. "It's
unbearable, Ma'm."
The line
fell once more silent and Dan wondered if she would ever reply,
before she finally spoke again.
"I
am sorry, Dan." Her voice as posh and classy as ever,
but he imagined he heard a different dimension in it. Emotion.
A rare occurrence. "I made a mistake. As you so rightly
said, I interfered, believing what I was doing was for the
better. For your good." A slight hesitation, "I
realise now that I was wrong and I apologise. Deeply, and
from my heart. I consider you a friend, Dan. As close to a
friend I will ever have, and I am devastated that I have hurt
you."
Dan didn't
know what to say, couldn't answer at first, had to swallow,
then cleared his throat. "No need to apologise, Ma'm,
but I thank you nevertheless." He pictured her nodding,
in her economic style.
"I
will get you out, Dan." She spoke again, firm and convincing.
"But it might take a while. Will you be alright in the
meantime?"
He realised
she hadn't even argued, nor asked why she shouldn't simply
take Vadim away instead of sending him as he had requested,
and he was thankful for her immediate acceptance.
"Aye,
Ma'm, as long as I know you'll get me somewhere else, whenever
that's convenient. Guess there are enough war zones in the
world where I might be needed."
He fancied
he could hear her wry smile in the voice. "Too true,
Dan. Sad, but too true, and it's our business to deal with
truth."
He nodded,
drawing formless shapes against the wall with his fingertip.
"Guess I'm good at something, even though that's war."
"You
are good for a lot more," her answer came without a moment's
hesitation, "I have faith and trust in you."
He smiled,
"I know, Ma'm." She didn't answer, except for a
gentle huff, and he continued. "Good bye."
"Good
bye, my friend." A click in the line told him she had
put the phone down.
*
* * * * * *
A few
hours later, Dan made his way to the safe house. Unlike any
of the other times he'd ventured out of camp, he was unsteady
on his feet. Swaying, occasionally hitting a wall of one of
the buildings with his shoulder, before zig-zagging for a
couple of steps towards the centre of the road. Catching himself
again, he managed a few more strides that were more or less
moving forward. He'd be the perfect target for anyone wanting
to shoot up another of those Brits, Yanks, or whoeverthefuck
the war had brought into the Gulf.
He finally
made it to the safe house, let himself in after some lengthy
fumbling with the lock. Matt wasn't there yet and Dan grunted
as he flopped onto the bed, reaching for one of the unopened
water bottles. Luke warm, but didn't mater jack shit, might
stop the carousel in his head and the pain in his chest. Maybe.
Possibly. If he was goddamned lucky.
Dan had
fallen to the side, curled up in an awkward foetal position,
when the door opened again and the jarhead slipped inside.
Oblivious to the sounds the Yank was making, Dan slept on,
drunkenly, which stopped Matt in his tracks once he'd locked
up behind him.
Unbelievable,
the carelessness, especially from an old dog as Dan, and Matt
frowned as he walked closer. Taking the risk of getting jumped
at, he shook Dan's shoulder. "Hey, buddy! You wasted?"
With
several snorts and grunts, Dan was coming back to himself,
blinking sluggishly. "Aye
" yawning, he pushed
himself up to sit, swaying, before looking at Matt with a
distinct lack of focus. "Good ... to shee
see
you. Last time. Gonna be gone."
"I
know." Matt pulled the only chair close, plonking himself
down, right in front of the rat-assed Dan. "You told
me. Want to tell me why? Can't imagine, like, that you'd be
thrown out or stuff. Except for the shit you're pulling right
now, bud."
Dan blinked
again, then tried an uncoordinated grin, which failed miserably.
Waving his hand about as if shooing imaginary flies. "No.
No shit. Off duty." His head almost hit the wall when
he nodded and tried to sit up straight at the same time. "Just
so much crap."
"Hm?"
Scratching the back of his neck, Matt put a booted foot onto
the edge of the bed, leaning with his elbow on it. Moving
forward to study the drunken Dan. "What the fuck's up
with you?"
"Not
me. Nuh-huh." Heaving a heavy sigh, Dan shuffled upwards
to sit at last in a mostly straight way with his back against
the wall. "Shit's up with Vadim."
"Vadim?"
"Aye,
Russian cunt."
"Russian?
Cunt?" Matt shook his head, completely lost by now. "You
better tell me what the fuck you're on about, buddy."
Dan blinked
at him again, then nodded awkwardly. "Aye." Nodded
again. "Tell you."
And that
he did. Despite his pissed-up state, or perhaps because of
it, Dan told his baby-Yank the whole story. Everything, except
for the very first and very worst secret that no one know
except for one dead Russian, whose throat he had cut, and
two men: Vadim and himself. The rest he told as it had happened.
Eleven years of pain and pleasure, hatred, sex, lust and love,
and deepest understanding - until the terror of the end and
the ultimate price he'd thought he'd paid, until it all began
and ended again. In one single day. Then nothing. Until now,
and the unbearable sense of being; being close.
Matt
was quiet all the way through except for an occasional grunt,
and he remained silent for a long while after. Long enough
for Dan to nearly fall asleep.
"Do
you hate him now?" Matt asked quietly.
Dan opened
his eyes to stare at the opposite wall, unseeing, unfocussed
in his drunken state. "No." At last, "I can't.
Can't hate him, even though you hate what you love, aye?"
He huffed with a half-arsed wry smile. "But I hate him
for what he did to me. No, shit. Not him. Don't hate him,
hate what he did, but can't hate him. Cut me the fuck open
and left me to fucking rot." Dan's eyes closed again,
"Two and a half years. Just fucking hurt."
The last
words more slurred and mumbled than the ones before. Dan dropped
his head, staring at his hands which seemed strangely empty.
"What
are you going to do now?" Reaching for one of the water
bottles, Matt kept watching the drunken man. Expecting an
answer, but nothing happened.
Dan kept
staring at his hands as if he hadn't heard the question. Suddenly
moving into action with a jerk, he clumsily patted his shirt
down, looking for his fags, but couldn't remember where the
fuck he'd left them. Hands dropped onto his thigh, his body
weaved to and fro as he tried to sit upright once more, blinking
to focus on the Yank.
"You
know what, kid? I wanted to die
" pausing, "but
one's not s'posed to, and I promised Maggie." He drunkenly
waved his hand. "You know, Baroness." As if he'd
ever talked about her before. Expecting Matt to understand
and ignoring the kid's confused sounds. "The diplomat,
you know, the one I'm working for. Promised her I wouldn't
go on a suicide mission."
Matt
interfered with three quiet words. "But you did."
"No.
I ...," Dan closed his eyes, hand waving about before
dropping on top the covers, beat. "That's open for in...
intra... interpretation."
"I
see." Matt pushed the water bottle into the discarded
hand, but it never made it to Dan's lips. "That's, like,
the most fucking amazing love story I've ever heard."
Huffing
with an uncoordinated movement of his head, Dan forgot about
the bottle, gripped Matt's hand instead. "Some 'love'
story alright."
"But
you do still love him, don't you, Mad Dog?" Matt leaned
closer.
Dan ignored
the question, his hand surreptitiously opening and closing
around the kid's for a long time. "Tell you what
you can be strong and keep going for so long, and then ...
then all hopes and wishes just die. Shatter. And all of the
nightmares, too. " Shaking his head while looking onto
his flexing hand. "The day they let Vadim out ... that
night he left. Just walked away. No note, no sign, nothing.
I knew he wasn't the same, I could see it, feel it, even smell
it. But he just walked. No chance, I didn't get one. I would
have done anything. Any fucking thing. But no chance."
Dan paused again, lifting his head slowly, and when he looked
at Matt, he wasn't aware that he had tears in his eyes, unable
to stop their flow. "I never knew anything could hurt
so much."
Matt
stared into the face before him, and it was too much to bear.
Sliding onto the bed, he sat beside the other. "Hey,
buddy
" Trailing off, his hand clenched tightly
by Dan's. "And what now?" Quietly.
Dan shook
his head, again and again, while those goddamned boozed-up
tears kept falling onto the blanket. Like a stupid bimbo,
crying like a girl. "Don't know." He finally murmured.
"Just don't know. Fucking hurts. All of it."
"So
you do love that Russian." A careful statement,
not any longer a question.
"Aye."
Whispered, "how the fuck could I not."
Matt
sat with Mad Dog for a long while. A kid, offering silent
comfort to a weary old soldier, who'd seen one battle too
many, and had lost himself in the final war.
*
* * * * * *
Dan had
left the safe house after a couple of hours. Still unsteady
on his feet, despite litres of water and a session, that had,
after all, ended in sex. Predictably. But he'd make his way
back to camp even if he had to crawl all the way. He'd proven
it before, and almost managed to get himself thrown out of
the job for it.
Matt
was tying his boot laces while thinking about everything Mad
Dog had told him. He couldn't get his head around the whole
fucked up situation. How anyone could still love such an arsehole
and how that arsehole could have once loved the other. Was
a mystery to him. Strange thing, that love. Unlike his own
relationship, wholesome, simple, if it weren't for him being
in the military. Ken, his boyfriend, back home. Safe, sound
and normal. Matt huffed, stood up and stretched. The night
hadn't quite turned out as intended, but he'd got some pretty
damn good sex out of it in the end, so he wasn't going to
complain. And fuck, he liked Mad Dog, and being buddies meant
sometimes to listen. He'd miss that crazy Brit.
He checked
the room and turned off the light before slipping through
the door into darkness.
Vadim
came down on him like a ton of bricks, his elbow hit Matt's
neck, and the jarhead went limp, stunned, unconscious. "Surprise",
murmured Vadim, spared a glance for the surroundings, grabbed
the Yank by the collar and pushed him right back into the
safehouse. Third dimension. Sniper. Ambush. Jarhead never
saw it coming.
He closed
the door with a controlled kick, then sat the kid down on
a chair. It looked solid enough. Weaved the boy's legs back
under the chair, flexcuffed them to the legs, hands bent back
enough to put pressure on the hips and back, flexcuffed those
as well, double-checked the stability of the position. He
pulled the cover from one of the pillows, stuffed it in the
kid's mouth, took the scarf off his neck and secured the gag.
Glanced around, could still smell Dan's sweat here, like a
shark tasted blood in the water.
He checked
the soldier over, but he was still out cold. Waited a little,
then thought he could start with the psychological part of
his. Unbuttoned the tunic, pulled it down over the overstretched
shoulders, pulled up the shirt underneath. Nice sixpack. Good
definition. Fitness freak. The skin was soft, vulnerable.
Vadim felt his face twitch. Fuck you. Fuck you, Dan. Tore
open the other's belt, bared the briefs, reached inside and
pulled out that cock. Thought Dan had touched it. Sucked it.
Less than an hour ago. Fuck. His head spun, the anger came
back. He stepped behind the kid and waited, just waited for
a change in breathing.
Matt's
next thought after stepping out of the door and closing it
behind him, was the feeling of heaviness in his body, discomfort,
and a sharp pain in his neck. His breathing quickened and
he tried to move. Completely disorientated. Groaned, but found
himself biting down on something obstructing his throat, had
to cough - unable to cough. Began to panic in that state of
utter disorientation. Fuck. He'd been caught. Iraqi insurgents.
He forced his eyes open.
Vadim
checked his watch. Twenty minutes. Not bad. Well within the
time frame. He stepped close to his prisoner and placed both
hands on the kid's shoulders. "Welcome." His voice
so low it would be hard to identify him. He didn't care. "You
are in my control now. If you want to breathe, I need you
to understand that I will cut your throat if you scream. And
I mean it. No shit."
Full-blown
panic set in. Matt couldn't breathe, couldn't cough, couldn't
swallow and most of all couldn't understand what the fuck
was happening. Who was that bastard who touched him and talked
in a weird voice and ... oh God! Only then realised the way
he was tied to the chair. Naked. The important parts. Felt
air on his genitals and on his abs. He tried frantically to
calm himself down by remembering all they had told them in
their training.
Matt's
breathing was sharp and noisy. Mad Dog. Where was he, what
happened? Not someone he knew, the voice. No American, no
Brit either. Fuck. No. Panic. Sweat broke out on his forehead,
but remembered he had to acquiesce his captor. Nodded. Just
nodded. Would stay silent, but needed to breathe. Get out.
Survive.
Vadim
moved to the side, just allowed Matt to see the glint of the
blade. Turned the knife so it definitely caught the light,
then brought it up to the kid soldier's face, cut the scarf,
pulled the pillow cover free with the left hand, point of
the blade touching the corner of those lips. Lips Dan had
felt on his body. Lips that had gasped, maybe cursed.
Matt's
eyes followed the blade, as if staring at the steel made the
weapon less lethal. Repeating in his mind 'calm, calm, calm',
had to keep his senses about him. Breathing desperately, in
large gulps, once he could, before coughing and moistening
his lips. Trying to catch a glance of his captor, who didn't
sound like anyone he'd ever heard, but sure as hell it wasn't
an Arab. Couldn't stop the sweat that was running down his
face.
Vadim
stepped into the kid's back, rested the blade against the
jaw line. "There. Let's make this quick. I'm sure you
want to return to your unit on time, yes?" He smirked,
didn't feel a scrap of humour, felt nothing.
"What
the fuck do you want. Who are you!" Matt's voice was
raspy, trying to ignore the panic. Fear burning like hot coal
in his stomach. Vulnerable. Exposed.
"Stuff
the bravado, Yank. You will cooperate. You are meeting a man
who is called Mad Dog. You're fuck-buddies."
Matt's
eyes widened. Mad Dog. What? What the fuck? He tensed, nostrils
flaring with every breath. This was an interrogation and he
didn't have an idea why and what for. Mad Dog. His buddy.
"No."
"Wrong
answer." Vadim moved closer, placed his hand around the
kid's throat, allowed him to feel the strength in his hand.
Enough strength to squash the voicebox. "I have seen
you. I know. Try again."
Matt
finally managed to get a good look at his captor and he forgot
to breathe for a moment. Tall. Blond. Blue eyed. The accent.
That man. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck! Hadn't thought
his fear could rise anymore notches until he realised who
that madman was. Had to be the Russian Mad Dog talked about.
"No."
Matt
forced the word out, had to be strong, couldn't allow himself
to break down, but that hand, oh God, he'd do it. He'd just
slaughter him like a pig or let him suffocate slowly. From
what Mad Dog had told him, that man could be mental, absolutely
fanny-fuck crazy.
Vadim
smiled at the reaction. The muscles did everything to make
it a smile, at least. The baby soldier's fear came from the
stories, the rumours, his reputation.
"What
do you want?" Desperate, Matt tried to hide the fear.
Vadim
leaned in, met the other's eyes. "Let's start with what
I don't want. I don't want to have to hack off your head and
hands with just a combat knife, then put your bits and pieces
into plastic bags and bury them somewhere out in the desert."
He read the fear in the kid's eyes, could smell it on his
ragged breath, saw the sweat rolling. "Making men vanish
is hard work and I don't get paid for this. Because this is
a personal matter."
Matt
stared at the madman, followed every movement. Personal matter.
Oh God, oh God have mercy. All he'd done was have fun with
Mad Dog and make the man laugh while having a great time in
return. Mad Dog. His idol.
Vadim
glanced at the kid's name tag. "Donahue. I know you're
fucking with Mad Dog." He brought the knife down, let
the blade scrape over that smooth chest, touched the nipple,
watched the old poetry of skin against steel. Magical.
Matt
shuddered, tried to follow the blade but couldn't lower his
head enough. Believed every single thing he was being told.
Everything. And worse.
"I
will release you, unharmed, if you tell me the whole story."
Vadim grinned, again, without emotion. He used to enjoy situations
like this, but it was as technical as planning how to take
a building. A man's mind was nothing but a room with a closed
door. "You will tell me everything Mad Dog has told you.
Every word. Every
touch. I want to know the whole story."
Matt
shook his head. No. No he couldn't. No no no no no! Had given
his word. Couldn't do it. Breaking his word, no way, no. Even
though he was sweating like a pig with fear.
The knife
rested against the taut stomach and Vadim looked at the blade,
thoughtfully. "I have made tougher men than you talk.
Scream, even. I can make you vomit with pain, Donahue. I can
destroy you so completely even your experts will have trouble
reconstructing how you died
or what you looked like."
"I
can't." No. Just can't. Fucking fucker of a fucking
madman. "Fuck off." Had forgotten the Russian's
name. Just remembered what Dan had told him, and those fucking
tears that he promised he'd never tell anyone about. The anguish,
a buddy in pain, a man who didn't deserve that shit and ...
trying to prep talk himself while so frightened, he wanted
to spill the beans. Everything, but couldn't. He'd be a swine
if he did.
Vadim
paused, stared into the kid's eyes. What did inspire him to
do this? Love? He recoiled, then hit the kid in the face,
a bitchslap that made the head turn, and another one, for
symmetry. Snarling, faced with a sudden bout of feeling. Anger.
Jealousy. "Too fucking bad, then."
Matt's
head exploded. Once, twice, felt the bruise in his neck protest
and his face hurt like fuck. Nothing in his training, not
even the worst of his Drill Sergeants, had ever been like
that.
Vadim
inhaled sharply, turned the knife in his hand and brought
the blade around to Matt's balls. "Not very dignified,
bleeding to death with your cock in your throat", he
murmured, toneless. "Guess it can't be helped."
Matt's
whole body tensed, he almost shrieked with panic. "No!"
Oh God please no! He was praying now. "I can't tell you!"
Tried instinctively to pull his knees together, fighting against
the restraints. "I gave my word!"
Vadim
stared at him. Strange, it was getting difficult. Word. Honour.
The world according to a baby American. As if it mattered.
As if anybody cared. "Do you think you're harder than
Mad Dog? You're not. You will break. I promise, you will break.
And nothing will keep me from what I need to know. It's simple.
He wouldn't want you to die for his secrets. He knows me,
Donahue. You stand no chance in hell."
Matt
could hardly swallow, sweat stinging in his eyes. "Why
me. I don't understand." Didn't beg, not yet. "Mad
Dog's my buddy." Couldn't say it. Couldn't admit to the
sex.
Understanding
did not matter. No why. Just how. Above all: when. Vadim shook
his head. "Brave little soldier boy. Willing to die for
a blowjob. You are so willing to die, you children."
"I
don't want to die!" Matt started to fight against the
restraints with all his strength, while trying to stay away
from the blade as much as possible. "No! I didn't do
anything. Let me go!"
Vadim
moved in, pressed his hand to the kid's mouth, shut his nose
off, too, waited whether the kid would be able to topple the
chair. Matt was breathing hard against the hand, felt like
suffocating, but still thrashed wildly, using all his strength
until he ran out of air.
Vadim
allowed the kid to fight, for a little, the adrenaline would
work in his favour. Steadied the chair when it rocked, with
a knee between the kid's knees. "Wrong company, Yank",
he said, calmly, clearly, to allow the information to register
properly and sink in. Allowed him to breathe through the nose,
but kept the head pushed back so harshly that he stretched
the kid's throat. He liked the view of that, healthy, strong
flesh. Could imagine the kid arch like this when he came.
Damn unlikely he'd ever see this.
Matt's
breath came in frantic, sharp gusts, trying to remember everything
he'd ever been told in training. How to survive, how to fool
his captor, how not to break. But they'd never told him about
a madman who was not playing by any rules.
Vadim
wasn't in the mood for sex, forced or not. He wanted to know.
Needed to break into another man's mind, not his body. There
was no struggle involved.
How far
are you willing to go, Vadim?
As far
as I have to.
Copy
that.
He hammered
the knife into the chair, close to the kid's balls and Matt
jumped within his bonds, half-muffled yelling against the
hand. Vadim then took the pillow cover again. "You don't
want to talk. Fine. No screaming, no talking. But you have
to understand, Donahue, that thing like mine and Mad Dog's
does not end like this. Not by you nor deserter stepping between
us. Yes, you are pretty, and deserter is such nice man, but
it won't end like this. If I am going crashing down, I'll
take Dan with me. His life is mine. It cannot be separated.
We are like Siamese twins sharing heart of a killer."
He gave a laugh that only increased the tension in his chest.
Matt's
eyes grew wider with every word. Insane, fucking insane. Completely
unhinged, impossible to judge and no way to survive according
to any rules he'd ever learned. He almost whimpered when the
Russian continued.
"Believe
it or not, but one of us will die. I know you are hoping right
now it's me. You might as well be right. It won't matter,
because I will destroy Dan on the way down. You, Donahue,
are just collateral. Ah. I thought you'd understand that concept.
You're Yank, after all." Vadim took his hand off, then
forced the pillow cover back into the baby soldier's mouth,
pushed the teeth apart when Matt tried to protest and resist,
brought his lips close to the other's face. "I can smell
your fear, Donahue. I know you want to talk. I can hear it
in your breathing. But you won't. That's where I will fuck
you up."
Matt
was swallowing on the fabric, sweaty, uniform stained, whatever
of it was still on his body. He stank of fear and loathing,
while Vadim stepped back, then took off his watch, slipped
it into his pocket, watched the young soldier fight his fear.
Looked a lot like neither would budge. The kid had guts. Too
bad the deck was stacked against him.
Vadim
took off the vest, neatly folded it on the bed. Where those
two must have fucked just an hour ago. Dan and the kid. He
stared at the sheets, remembered a room like this. Remembered
a lust that had destroyed his career. Worth it. Fuck it. He
was crashing down, had been for nearly three years now. Maybe
the day Dan had been blown up. Changed everything. He hadn't
been able to stand what he was. Spetsnaz, officer, invader,
fuck it. The lies. The subterfuge, treason, committed a hundred
times, every time he had left Dan, had allowed Dan to leave.
Had denied what he felt. Had not put everything on that card,
that fucked-up feeling of belonging. Of love. This feeling
was to love what a ravenous wolf was to a dog puppy. He wasn't
even sure it fitted the bill. He pulled the shirt off. He
paused for a moment, glanced at the kid. "I don't want
to have to explain your blood on my camo at the gate",
he clarified, and allowed his lips to curve into a lazy, dismissive
smile.
Matt
moaned against the cloth. Couldn't help but stare at the crazed
bastard, fighting against the restraints once more. Had to
get away, please, not die, not like this, couldn't do it anymore.
Wanted to break, to give up, but hated himself for that very
same thought.
Vadim
loosened his belt, opened the fly, fully frontal to the kid.
Part of the game. Showing off the body, the engine of destruction.
Showing the implements of torture before the torture, a time-honoured
tradition. Just wearing his briefs, black, clinging, he placed
the camo on the bed, took an extra moment with that. He had
time. The kid's time frame was now different. Minutes were
hours, trapped like this.
Matt
just concentrated on breathing, as hard as that was. Panic
went up a notch. Sheer, unadulterated fear of dying like a
dog.
Vadim
closed the distance again, placed the knife against the kid's
left nipple, cool perfection against something just too weak.
Tilted the blade and pulled it across the skin. Felt the resistance
only in his fingertips, saw a line open, and swell. Matt jerked
and whimpered, tried to see what was happening, felt pain,
too much, too sensitive, and he started to fight embarrassing
tears.
Hardly
more than cutting into the dermis, but the kid had no fucking
clue. Would heal without a scar, and looked like a scratch.
"Ah. I guess I'm already drawing blood", said Vadim,
and smiled. Not enough to bead, or even run, but it did have
an effect, he could see that in the Yank's eyes.
He brought
the knife lower, and Matt shuddered, stilled, breathed harshly.
Vadim placed the knife into the ridge between two muscles.
Loved the contrast. "The Mujahideen, as you called them
to us, they were just bandits
they had something
we called the 't-shirt'. They liked killing our men like that.
Skin the torso of a man, pull the whole shit up, and knot
it over his head. We found a few that were still alive, barely.
Amazing what the human body can survive." He slowly pulled,
another shallow cut, but long, and Matt nearly screamed into
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