|
August
1980, Kabul
Vadim
Krasnorada's nostrils flared at the smell of smoke on the
wind. A whole lot better than the dust and sand of the open
plain, or as open as it ever got in this place. Standing on
his own two feet was better than sitting on a rolling, grinding,
howling tank like a parasite on a bucking animal.
He took
a deep swig of vodka and let some drops run down his chin.
Fuck, yeah. They had arrived. Greeted with tea and shit, those
goat-fuckers didn't have the beginning of a clue, but that
was how Vadim liked them. Jump them full force when they didn't
expect it. The city was in for a hazing. His lips spread into
a grin, and he hitched a ride on a truck, downtown (or what
counted as downtown in Kabul), where he knew the boys were
already setting up a place to crash.
They
had used a tank to smash open a house. It must have been a
shop, Vadim reckoned, they only had to tear out part of the
front. Set up some moonlight vodka, and plenty of soldiers.
After the ride, Vadim was itching to get trashed. The curled
up energy, the power, the tension, and he had expected, no,
wanted a fight, more than anything in his life. After weeks
of being ready, waiting for the deployment back to Kabul,
his skin was crawling with the need to do something, anything,
but Kabul wouldn't do him that favour. Instead, Kabul welcomed
the reinforcements he was officially a part of. Liberators.
And as nice as it was not to get shot at, he felt like a wild
bull that had been penned in for too long. He absolutely needed
a fight, and there was this time-honoured tradition in the
Red Army: Where there's vodka, there's trouble.
He headed
into the bar, pulled off the rag that covered his head and
rubbed his face. Sunburn. If the sun kept going like that,
he'd get skinned alive. What a shithole.
The din
of soldiers having fun. Drinking games, tall tales, everybody
had seen action, been shot at, yeah, right. Losers. If those
tales were to be believed, there was no goat-fucker alive
between Tadjikistan and here. Vadim grunted with displeasure
and headed towards the makeshift bar. The sight of his dog
tags and some roubles bought him a bottle. Turning around,
he watched the patrons and started drinking. Back in the corner
were some of his boys, he could see the same itch in their
eyes. He headed over, was greeted, and they drank, warming
up. Just warming up for the welcome party.
*
* *
Outside,
a man was walking through the streets. Civilian, dressed in
the usual combination of sweat-stained military surplus kit,
worn shirt, and the tell-tale paraphernalia of every reporter
in any crisis centre of the world. Cameras, multi-pocket vest,
shoulder bag and dusty boots.
The man
snorted to himself. 'Dan McFadyen, Canadian Press Correspondent'.
What a fucking joke. Angrily shoving the bigger camera aside,
the thing kept hitting him square in the chest. The goddamned
dust in this bloody place was driving him mad. Settling into
eyes, skin, equipment and every pore alike. He was just waiting
to piss the reddish shit out of his jap's eye. Clothes covered
in this shit, hair dirty, even with a rag around his head.
Fuck, he hated the itching smear of sweat and dust.
Pissed
off, feeling vulnerable carrying no weapons but his favourite
combat knife, walking through Kabul at night. If they had
at least let him take a pistol, but hell, no, it had to be
left at the officially non-existent camp, a truck ride across
this barren piece of shitty land.
"What
a fucking stupid mission," Dan muttered, needing a drink
badly. Parched throat and dried up levels of booze. No decent
fuck in ages, no piss-up in sight. And bored. Abso-fucking-lutely
bored. Nothing to see, nothing to do, nothing to recce in
this fucking place.
*
* *
Inside,
men were fighting and the noise level of drunken soldiers
was ever increasing in the smashed-up shop. One of the soldiers
surpassing anyone else in unleashed violence.
"And
here goes a cocksucker!" laughed Vadim, finishing the
fight with a double-footed kick to the other soldier's face.
The bloody
conscript went down like a .50cal slug had gone through his
head. "Bulls eye!", Vadim shouted, and his men jeered.
That
should teach the bastard to not fucking jump straight out
his way. Granted, the bitch had been drunk as a plane full
of officers, but any excuse would do. Vadim looked down at
the bleeding body, and his stomach tensed in that dark, good
way. Had from the moment he had known there was an excuse
to spill blood. It raised the crimson flood in his veins.
Raised it. Nearly breaking point.
He sneered,
and kicked the guy again, who didn't twitch. Jaw breaking
move. A good one. But also a finisher. Not so good. He poured
some vodka over the guy's face, hoped he'd get up and maybe
have half a fight left in him, but that was the end of the
story. Fuck him. Not enough fun. Not nearly enough fun.
*
* *
The noise
got so loud, it reached the bored man a couple of streets
away. Dan almost stopped dead in his tracks, softly swearing
under his breath. Seemed like he was about to get lucky on
this dead-beat mission at last, with action looming around
the corner. That sort of laughing, shouting and yelling could
only mean Soviet soldiers and the Glorious Soviet Army on
the loose.
He hurried
to get to the source of the ruckus, re-adjusting the camera
once more, slowing down with hands in pockets, casually strolling
towards the drunken noise once he got close. Perhaps the recce
wasn't quite so useless this time.
He had
almost reached the smashed-up building when a multi-voiced
jeer erupted. Light inside, hordes of Russkies. "Bingo!"
Dan snorted, "Gotcha, you bastards." Fingering for
the smaller camera in his trouser pocket, he muttered to himself.
"Let's see who's come to the party."
The camera
slipped out of his grasp first thing, forcing him to stand
still and rummage deeper in the outside pocket. "Bollocks."
Hissed, but grabbed it at last, hurriedly taking pictures.
Shots of the soldiers inside, the mess of bodies, the meddling
of men. Snapping away at all of them, the tall, the short,
the blond, the dark.
He was
standing opposite to the building when a vehicle passed, bathing
him for a moment in light.
*
* *
Inside,
unaware of being photographed, Vadim was tossing back some
more vodka amid the drunken noise. Suddenly narrowing his
eyes and stopping to drink. His comrades were discussing whether
Afghani women were shaved ("Serious, they all are!"
- "No way!" - "They are!" - "They
are not!"), and he knew where that discussion was going.
By finding one to prove the point. They said women here fought
like cats, but he was in the mood for a tiger. Something much
stronger than vodka. "Fuck it, go and find one, but make
sure it looks like it was somebody else." Cut her throat
afterwards, he added with a gesture, but his boys knew that.
They'd done this shit before.
His boys
cheered like there had been a pay rise, as if that ever happened,
and streamed outside. Vadim followed, keeping his eyes on
the quarry. Get the other wolves out of the way.
The man
was tall, broad shouldered, and looked like he could pack
a punch. Dark eyes and hair, but no goat-fucker. There was
something decidedly European about him. Press. Vadim thought
of taking a handful of those camera straps, and twist them,
choking the man. He inhaled sharply.
There.
Hunger.
Vanya
was on the way past him. Good old Vanya, his second. Judging
from the quarry, it might not be all that easy. "Stop",
said Vadim, touching the comrade's arm briefly. Vanya looked
at him, and Vadim saw understanding. They'd been through a
lot at the barracks, and abroad, and anywhere else. Right
hand man. Vanya was always willing to lend a hand. And more,
if asked properly. Bash this peasant's head in, and he was
perfectly willing to give that, too.
Vanya
nodded; non-verbal communication. He started to move in a
circle, intending to flank. Hunting a prey that seemed to
have suddenly become aware of the attention, because the man
was stepping back into the shadows.
Too late.
"Fuck." Dan hissed tonelessly. Sixth sense warned
him he'd been spotted while taking photos of the din. The
sensation he got was like a red dot in the middle of his forehead.
He turned slowly to walk away in the opposite direction of
the place full of drunken Russians, careful not to rouse suspicion.
Strolling
along despite wanting to run. Had to keep up his disguise
of being nothing but a reporter. Red and white maple leaf
crudely stitched on his shoulder bag. Canada. Yeah, that's
what he was. Cursing that sixth sense that was hitting the
pit of his stomach like a sucker punch; this goddamned sense
that had saved his life more than once.
Dan was
unaware of the two Soviet soldiers in the alley, who were
exchanging glances between them. Vanya moved to circle, quick
hand signals, which his body covered.
Vadim
glanced up at the houses. Made from clay and goat shit. Great.
He slipped into the alley, jumped, caught the rim of the house
with his hands, and pulled himself up. Nothing like a little
exercise.
Thinking
in the third dimension, his sniper trainer had called
it. There's always an above, or a below. Never forget that.
Vadim crouched and moved on the roof, careful not to make
a sound, following the man who was moving away from the makeshift
bar.
Good.
People had probably left the immediate surroundings. Or huddled
in hidden places and waited till the ruckus died down. This
place was deserted. Vadim peered over the rim, saw Vanya,
saw the quarry. Dark alley. He pulled a knife, hid it behind
his arm, and jumped down, a good three yards in front of the
man.
Dan felt
the hairs in the back of his neck stand up before he'd become
aware of the movement in front of him.
Shit!
Suddenly danger.
The Russian
bastard had come out of nowhere, and he sensed the other coming
around the corner, not knowing that Vanya kept a length of
wire near his thigh. Silent takedown.
Attack
was Dan's first instinct, but fears were confirmed when he
saw the second soldier from the corner of his eyes. Fuck.
Two. No way back out of the alley. He needed a shitload of
luck to take both of them down. Calm, calm Dan. Assume nothing.
Why should they want to attack a reporter.
Dan opted
for the smokescreen, calling out: "Hey mate, you scared
the living daylights out of me. What's up?" Fake grin,
pretend ease.
He needed
time, his knife and surprise on his side.
The Soviet
bastard smelled of menace like a beggar stank of piss. Not
a joke. No play. The Russian cunt was on the prowl. A predator;
he knew the look, the threatening stance, had been there himself
too many times. Drunken soldiers, rulers of a shitty place
full of nothing but dust; out for a punch-up.
Vadim
moved even closer, the way the man almost jumped, the tension
about him, he was awake, aware, and Vadim could feel heat
trickle down his back. Up this close, the man was potentially
his match, unless the width of his shoulders was all weight
lifting and no fighting. Good, deep chest. He could take a
lot.
The English
made some sense to him, but some words didn't. The grin, anxious,
nervous, the man knew he wasn't here to play. Fuck it. Vadim
walked closer, took another swig of the bottle, acting relaxed
and slightly drunk, then, in mid-swallow, hurled the bottle
at the man's head, smirking.
"Good
evening." In Russian.
Vanya's
signal to strike and slip the wire around his game's head.
Dan caught
the sudden movement in front of him, glass catching a glint
of light, ducked while letting the knife slip into his hand.
Bottle missed its target.
Vanya's
wire missed, too, but Vanya was pretty damn good and changed
the motion into a punch into the man's kidneys, a short, vicious
jab with the left; right hand still leading the wire.
Dan went
down, pain exploding, those Russkies meant business. He lost
his breath, but rolled to the side, gasping. Scrambling back
up onto his feet.
Vadim
caught the man's expert motion. He had seen it a thousand
times and more, knife fighting lessons, real life, barracks
pastime. He moved his own hand forward, blade pointing towards
his elbow, fingers holding the hilt securely, readjusting
it for a quick slash across the other's face, or a threatening
one to imbalance him. The crimson flood moved up several notches
when their quarry came back onto his feet. Vadim's blood tasted
of acid, heart racing like a horse. He grinned like a maniac
as he motioned the man forward with an open hand. "Come
to Daddy", he said in accented English.
"Fuck
yourself, Russkie!" Dan snarled, still breathless from
the punch. He caught himself and spun around, ignored the
taller one who spoke while attacking the closer one. His blade
flew upwards, connected with an arm, felt steel tear into
flesh. Pulled out the knife, grabbed his one and only chance,
tried to run past the first bastard.
Vadim's
nostrils flared, he heard Vanya's curse and more smelled than
saw the blood. The man was a good fighter. Not taking the
bait. But he was wounded. He saw how their prey staggered,
and now was the perfect moment for the second hunter to strike.
The man was still imbalanced, hurting, distracted, and his
synapses had to be burning with pain and fear.
Vadim
closed in, followed the sideways motion, when Dan tried to
run past him. Lunged and met the sprinting body full force,
a no-holds barred tackle, smashing him into the nearest wall.
Dan lost
his breath and orientation. Crushed between man and wall,
air forced out of him.
Vadim
felt the coiled muscle close, smelled the man's adrenaline.
He was in heaven. He grabbed a handful of the dark hair, and
smashed the head into the wall, pressing close, waiting for
the other to lose the fight, keeping the arm with the knife
locked and away. He laughed, breathless. "Said: Come.
To. Daddy."
A voiceless
scream tore out of Dan's chest, split-second blindness when
his head hit the wall. Mind racing, engulfed in pain, instinct
kicked in. Bones: check. Body: check. Knife: fucked.
"And
I said," he gasped out, "fuck you!"
Breath
going hard, Vadim's body changed gear again, one higher, there
was always one higher, more resistance. It seemed he had never
had so much fun. Not in the last months, not since he had
been pulled back after the first mission of securing the airport
and getting rid of the president just last winter.
Dan's
head slammed forward in a Glaswegian kiss. Head butting, but
no space for knee jerking, too close, too fucking overpowering.
Vadim
turned his neck, reaction a matter of instinct. Still, the
forehead hit his eyebrow with a white, splitting pain. That
would have broken his nose. The fucker. He moved to hold the
squirming body, felt the skin as he pressed closer, could
have licked the sweat from the man's upper lip. He was glistening
under the dust, the smell of combat, stress, fear. So intense
it did distract him for a heartbeat, too wrapped up in the
raw physical reality of close combat, enjoying it too much.
Dan was
high on adrenaline and the madness of the fight. He knew he
was losing, yet he'd never give up, would never surrender.
Twisting his leg as far as he could, he slammed the booted
heel right into the Russian's ankle bone.
Vadim's
high boots took most of the impact, but it fucking hurt and
that sobered his mind, cutting through the vodka.
Struggling
for breath, Dan smirked. Delivering sweet fucking pain - short-lived
satisfaction.
Vadim
snarled at the arrogant smirk, pressed the blade to the other
man's throat, his own pupils widening in appreciation of blade
against flesh. Flesh so alive. Eye to eye.
Dan froze.
The Russkie's blade lethal against his throat, had no doubt
the fucker would use it. He felt fear, but not panic. Not
yet. No fucking chance. Thoughts racing instead. Judging his
chances, slim as they were. No situation was ever hopeless.
He was SAS, he'd show the fucker, he'd ...
Fuck!
Dan's eyes caught hold of the other Russian bastard. Remembered.
Two.
Dan's
breath rattled, eyes narrowed, sweat running down his neck.
"What the fuck do you want, Russkie?" Snarled.
Vanya
was watching their quarry's struggle and realisation, touched
his shoulder with his right hand, cursing. "Bastard cut
me", sounding more surprised than angry, then brought
out the pistol and cocked it.
Vadim
knew exactly what his comrade was thinking. Feeling. The hunt
was over. The tension was still there, the man hadn't quite
given in yet, but Vadim listened into the body, listened to
the song of tendons and blood and sweat. Waiting for the shift
of tune, subtle as it was. There was realisation. He could
see that in the man's eyes, narrowing as they were. Brown
eyes.
Vadim
smirked, never answered. Keep him guessing. The fight had
made him hard, the stress. A short, intense burst of energy
surging right into his groin, transforming him into fire.
He needed to destroy, but he was savouring the moment. The
moment of understanding, which still did not change into capitulation.
And as much as he enjoyed that, drawing it out too long was
too dangerous. A trapped tiger. Couldn't let him go. He moved
the hilt of the knife subtly, then lashed out to knock the
butt against the man's temple. Too dangerous to move him like
that.
Dan's
eyes widened, more surprise than shock, then sharp blinding
pain and he slumped over, fell lifeless forward into the other's
arms.
Last
thought before blackness. 'Survive at all costs'.
The way
the body slumped told Vadim his quarry wasn't faking it. A
heavy, satisfying weight against him, the moment broken, dimmed,
the intensity reduced, and he was aching to have it back.
Be eye to eye with somebody as quick and as smart as the man
had turned out to be. Vanya was no challenge. Even with a
gun in his hand, and Vanya having a hundred reasons to hate
him, Vadim never felt afraid. They were comrades, and that
held a world of meaning.
He nodded
to Vanya, gave hand signals. Silent. Retreat. Find safe place.
He hoisted the man up, across and over his shoulders, like
a wounded comrade. Vanya took the knife that had slipped from
his fingers, and they retreated deeper into the alley. Vanya
broke, shoulder first, into one of the buildings.
A quick
scan and search, but the place was so dusty it had to have
been deserted for months. Up a ladder, fucking primitive cave,
dark, but there was light from outside. The moon. Enough to
see by.
Vadim
put the man on the ground, patted him down. Money, a rolled-up
wad of filthy Afghanis, but no ID, not even a press ID card,
no accreditation. It gave him pause. Then again, stuff did
get stolen, and it was entirely justified not to take a passport
or anything that couldn't be easily replaced. It was a hassle
to get into or out of the country without papers. He had probably
bunked up with locals, or some press office place.
He took
his time with the pat down. Even unconscious, there was tension
and power. Held in check. Warm, firm flesh. He rolled the
man onto his stomach, sat on his thighs and took the scarf
off, then tied his hands. Not great, but it would suffice.
"You okay?" he asked Vanya.
"Flesh
wound", said Vanya and took the moment to wash the cut
with vodka, hissing through his teeth. "Fuck. I want
to rip his fucking head off!"
Vadim
grinned. "Get me the oil from the gun kit." Nice,
round ass. He would enjoy this, even more so because he was
bleeding himself. He could smell the drying blood on his face,
and the itch. Seeing the man under him, feeling him alive
and helpless.
He pulled
the knife again and cut the belt, then the knife blade whispered
through the fabric of the camo trousers. Reporter or not,
he wore army gear. Good boots, too, they might take them if
they fitted. His own were starting to get bad, and he didn't
mind keeping a trophy. He inhaled sharply when he realised
the man wasn't wearing any briefs, revealing firm flesh.
Vanya
came closer, watching him with wide eyes. Vadim could see
his comrade was getting hard, he was too drunk to hide it
or probably even notice. Oh yes. He already loved Kabul.
Dan was
half-waking. Murky thoughts rolling, moving, surfacing before
half-dragging down again.
Vadim
squeezed some oil into his hand. Done this before, usually
with somebody who had challenged either of them. Or just somebody
random in the barracks. Sometimes, officer games. Survival
training. Play abduction and interrogation. The young ones
never spilled the beans. It was perfectly acceptable to be
terrified of Vadim or Vanya, and nobody guessed how deep some
of that fear ran. How physical it was.
Dan was
surfacing more, sensed touches, movement, voices. Warm hand,
cold steel. Comfortable, rare sensation of hands moving over
his flesh, warmth spreading on ...
Sudden
jerk. Consciousness returned like a sprung coil, snapping
into action without a moment's grace between muddy darkness
and shocking clarity.
"What?"
Dan's voice was strained, dust tickling his lungs and then
heaviness across his limbs. "What the fuck?" Lifted
his head, had to try and know and see and fight. Forced his
upper body off the ground, hands tearing against the restraints.
Twisted within the confines, fighting against the hands on
his body, the blade, the weight, attempting to throw himself
onto his back. No one should be strong enough to have overpowered
him. No one, unless they were killing machines. Like him.
The fight wasn't over yet. Survive, by all means. Victim -
never.
"Fuck
off you Russian bastards!" Not thinking the unthinkable.
Impossible. No.
Vadim
held the man's thighs in a vice, enjoyed the resistance. He
opened his fly as the bastard was starting to move again.
Fucking skull of a fucking mountain goat. The ones with the
long horns, bashing foreheads against each other, recklessly,
while climbing in a vertical cliff. Vadim snarled, but Vanya
already moved, knelt beside them and put one strong hand between
the man's shoulder blades, pressing him down, using one knee
for additional leverage.
"Pistol",
said Vadim.
Vanya
cocked the pistol and pressed it into their quarry's neck,
causing Dan to freeze when the muzzle dug into his flesh.
Breathing hard, harsh, fighting down fear.
Vadim
enjoyed the sight. The sudden stillness, the bucking. And
it hadn't even started. He opened another button, took out
his cock and began oiling himself, seeing Vanya's eyes as
he did. Vanya knew the sight well enough, and there was this
unspoken thing, the savage hunger that they both shared, especially
after an encounter like this. Vanya would suck him off tonight,
remembering what they had done.
Vadim
shifted, enough to bring a slick hand to the other man's ass,
trickling more oil there. "Now. Pray you're not virgin",
he said in a rough voice. The power was heady, the mix of
triumph, and the strength of the victim.
He hoped
he would keep fighting. Please, keep fighting.
Virgin?
The Russian's mockery hooked itself into Dan's mind. Animal
snarls were torn from him because it was not fucking possible
what seemed to be going on. Never believed that kind of shit
really could happen to men. Not to him, not in a dark fucking
alley in fucking Kabul in a rat infested shitty place of a
fucking ramshackle deserted house. No. Just …
No!
He finally
understood what was going on. He got the message so loud and
clear, everything screamed and fought inside against that
insanity that wasn't supposed to be happening. Shocked. Terror.
Focused on what he knew and what he had dealt with before.
Cold steel. Muzzle of deadly force against his neck. Had survived
it. The rest was impossible. Situation unbelievable. Couldn't
happen, no way.
Dan fought
despite the gun. Fuck the recce, fuck the army, fuck the Not-So-Special
Forces. Fought against the impossible; fought until the pistol
pressed so hard against his neck he felt the steel eating
into his brain.
Found
no words to protest, just thoughts of creeping-crawling blinding-bloodied
violence. Death, destruction, slow cutting of the Russkie's
flesh and skin, the baring of bones. Imagined the bastard's
screams of terror and pain. Had to survive, had to kill, had
to destroy. Revenge.
Death
to the Russian bastard.
Virgin,
Vadim thought, or incredibly spirited. He would have to severely
wound the man to stop him struggling, resisting him with all
his soul, all his strength. He moved to kick the legs apart,
used his knees to force them open, spread the man, fighting
him, legs against legs, his cock brushing the naked flesh
every time the man bucked.
He needed
his complete weight to get anywhere, spread him open further,
he was impossibly hard from the struggle, thumb digging into
the flesh to separate it, then followed, pressing cock into
the heat, the tenderness, the man bucking, trying to get away,
even though his movement was as restricted as Vadim could
do it. Closed, tight, pressing, and he could feel the body
yield, yield only in that place, as the rest of the man was
hard as wood with revulsion. Vadim closed his eyes, forced
more in, could hear his own breath, loud, lips open, feeling
the pain and discomfort and the delicious and complete closeness.
Nothing like that, nothing, certainly not Vanya. It was like
trying to fuck a fist, and he was hard enough to do it.
Dan didn't
scream. This pain was too complete, too all-encompassing,
too unbelievable to allow any sounds. Still tried to fight,
thrashed, fought against the impossible intrusion; that which
could not possibly happen.
But it
wasn't enough, never enough against the penetrating force
and the Russian's brutal strength. Dan struggled to buck up
and get away when this 'thing' brutally breached his body.
Continued to fight against the fucking impossibility that
had no name. It couldn't be happening. He was a man, an alpha
male. He was everything and everyone and owned every hole
and he was not and would not and could not and …
No! He
opened his mouth as if to scream but nothing came out, not
a sound.
Like
riding an earthquake. Vadim could feel the man's ragged breathing,
could feel the tension deep inside, inside that raw heat,
still fighting. Some went limp and started crying, and he
sometimes goaded them to see if there was a fight left in
them. Never had one fought him like that, and he needed more
force to get deeper, using his weight, his strength, not out
of cruelty, or maybe that, too, but to savour it the most.
"Leave
me some", whispered Vanya.
Vadim
grinned, felt sweat trickle down his face. Finally, something
gave, and he moved fast and vicious, riding his own adrenaline,
almost resting on the man to get as deep as possible.
Dan was
only pain. Torn apart inside, raw, bleeding, horror so pure
and intense, couldn't put a name on it. This agony had no
name, because it wasn't meant to be done to men. Men like
him.
Vadim's
harsh thrusts ran like fire through his own body, each motion
of their bodies intense, the vodka had drained away, he was
fully here, fully struggling and enjoying himself. The force
of orgasm seared through his body, and a few more, nearly
desperate thrusts brought that message home.
Dan made
no sound; every scream, every moment of terror and hatred
was locked inside in silence. No one would ever know, no one
would ever find out - if he survived, and fuck, he had to
survive, had to destroy, had to wreak his revenge.
Vadim
pulled out, panting, resting for a moment, kneeling, then
drank some more vodka. The vile stuff burned and cooled, soothed
the thirst, and dulled part of this. He pulled his own pistol,
and took Vanya's position, muzzle in the man's neck, staring
into his face. He wanted to see the defiance, the pain, and
the strength as Vanya mounted him.
It was
only fair that Vanya didn't get the best of it. He was left
with the scraps. Vanya actually didn't care much for the whole
thing. He did what Vadim did, emulated him, like something
of a twisted mirror image, and Vadim watched him, then watched
the body being moved by the thrusts, the cock moving in and
out and the still struggling flesh. It would take a platoon
to take fighting out of this one.
Dan hardly
noticed the change from one man to another, but never ceased
to fight, drowned in images of tearing flesh open, stench
of burning skin and terror from his own hand. With every onslaught
of pain the violence in his mind took on a more inhuman form.
Torture, cutting, bleeding and choking.
Killing.
He had to survive to destroy.
Vadim
looked into that face. Absent eyes, but burning with intensity,
only as if he wasn't even in the picture, like the man was
already inside himself, did not let anything, anybody touch
him. The precious moment was gone, he reflected, feeling somewhat
lost now, himself, his body getting heavy and tired, that
pleasant sluggishness of sex and vodka taking away some of
the emotions. Vanya's grunting meant very little, the man
underneath him only struggled on instinct, like he just couldn't
stop. It was gone, that mind-searing flash of something profound.
Or he
was starting to get drunk. Vadim put the uniform in order,
gun still trained on the prone body, and took another deep
swallow. After the battle. He didn't really care.
With
a curse that sounded almost tender, Vanya came as well, and
remained on top, catching his breath. "Ah, my little
bitch", he said, something which seemed almost funny.
It was
over, just like that. Gone.
Vadim
crouched to put the gun into Vanya's hand. "Finish him
off", he said in Russian. "He's press. Last thing
we want is some lies."
"Yes,
Captain", said Vanya in Russian.
Vadim
smirked at the address. A forgivable mistake. He had the rank
on his shoulders, after all. "See you later." Vanya
stared at him, knowing what that meant. Burn off the rest
of the adrenaline. He shared in the kill, and that was generous.
With
that, Vadim left, and walked out into a clear, starry night,
the sounds of soldiers in the distance.
One hell
of a welcome party.
Dan had
been listening to the voices, disjointed words, scraps of
sound. Engulfed in the stench of blood, sweat and fear, and
most of all hatred. This smell would never leave his nostrils
again, no matter how much he'd try to scrub the bastards off
his skin.
No movement
any longer.
Vadim
had gone, down the ladder, left the building. That was the
Captain: Moving on when he saw no point in staying.
Dan's
thoughts gathering, pulling himself back together. Survive
to kill and wreak revenge. Focus slowly returning, ignoring
the pain. Didn't matter. All that mattered was the voice that
trailed off, the steps that were retreating, the man he was
left alone with.
The knife.
Remembered with sudden clarity where it had dropped.
Dan breathed
slowly through his nose, focussed on nothing but the sounds
in his back. He was ready. Needed to fool the remaining bastard
into safety, first.
Let them
believe he was broken.
Vanya
got up, prodded the captive with a boot, but the guy didn't
move. Passed out. No surprise. They'd shown him. He bent down
and untied the knot that secured the scarf around his wrists.
Nothing but a reporter and out cold - no danger.
Vanya
secured the pistol and shoved it into his belt. Above and
first of all, he needed a piss. A good, long, extended piss.
He moved a couple steps away. The simple pleasures in life.
Then shoot the captive and hack off his hands and head and
dump them somewhere outside the city. Medical records, all
that shit. The press didn't like people like them vanishing.
Dead press bad press. Kill a thousand Afghanis, and nobody
glanced up. Manhandle one of those vultures, and the fucking
United Nations came down on you. Or something.
Vanya
sighed contently, shaking off the drops. There. Much better.
Dan listened
to the sound of steps. Registered every single movement with
a clarity beyond anything he'd ever seen nor felt. This was
his chance, he couldn't afford anymore mistakes. Fuck the
Army and his mission, he owned that Russian's life. The bastard's
blood would be spilt for no one but himself. One down, another
one to go. He'd get them both.
He moved
slowly, forcing his body to comply, remembered where he had
dropped the knife. Good. It was there. Hands moved forward,
sensed ahead, until they curled around the well-known handle,
welcoming the familiar steel like a long-lost lover.
He moved
silently, hatred dulling the pain. Crouched, used the cover
of darkness to get closer to the standing shadow. His faint
shuffling noises were easily over-shadowed by the piss that
came out of the Russkie's blood-smeared cock. His blood.
No. Not
thinking.
Then,
at last, an impossibly fast movement, Dan's arm around the
fucker's neck, hand firmly clasped over the mouth. Cold steel
pressing against flesh.
Hissing
into Vanya's ear, "Fuck you, bastard," in Russian.
Vanya
had been just about to turn around. Being grabbed, he thought,
for an almost painful heartbeat, it was Vadim, and he'd come
back to punish him for pissing first, and killing later. Fucking
Captain had the self-control of a fucking robot. But then,
he could clearly feel it wasn't Vadim. Taste, smell, presence.
Vadim had done all the other shit, knife and grabbing him
from behind.
He was
disoriented for a moment, vodka had dulled his responses.
Then suddenly realising who it was. The Russian more than
anything gave it away. He didn't sound anywhere near Vadim.
The pistol
in his belt. Too close to shoot and even hope to hit. Heart
and mind racing. The garrotte. In a pocket. Nothing to say.
He expected the knife to go through his throat, and wondered
if it hurt much. How long it would take him to bleed out and
lose consciousness. He knew that he had known, in theory,
but it was blanked from his mind. A shudder went through his
body, nerves and fibres firing into overdrive. It made him
nauseous with stress. Breathing hard, knowing he might not
be breathing through his nostrils with the next one. Fuck.
Dan didn't
feel the pain anymore, not right now. He felt nothing. Nothing
other than his blade pressing against the throat. The embrace
of the other's body almost tender, loving, if he weren't burning
with so much hatred. Gently whispering the words in Russian.
"Go
to hell."
With
a rapid, precise movement he slit the throat open from one
ear to the other, pushed the body forward and away from him,
avoiding the worst of the blood that erupted from the severed
jugular. He needed the trousers, after all.
Dan watched
the twitching body on the floor dispassionately. Wouldn't
that bastard die already. He had to get back to camp, as fast
as he could, and fabricate a believable lie about what had
happened this night.
Fingers
stiff, he struggled to get rid of his boots and the cut-off
clothes. Crouching beside the body and avoiding the pool of
blood, he hurried to take boots and trousers off, putting
the latter. They were too wide and made from Soviet camo,
but they'd do.
Hissing
between his teeth, how the fuck was he going to pretend he
was physically unharmed. Couldn't possibly ask for medical
attention. No. Fucking. Way! Had to pray he hadn't caught
a disease from those Russian perverts.
Haphazardly
wiping at the sticky shit that was running down his legs,
before pulling the dead man's camo trousers up. Fumbling for
the small camera, he stuffed it into the shoulder bag, tightened
the trousers with the brass-buckled belt, and laced his boots.
He'd make up a good lie about the Red Army uniform trophies.
Dan looked
around, waited, didn't hear a sound. Good. Moving into the
shadows before forcing his battered body to run.
One down.
Another one to go. He'd get the Russian cunt, he'd make him
pay.
*
* *
Vadim
had trotted back to the barracks. Taking in the night air,
not a care in the world. The tension was gone, gone in the
best way possible. Much better than anticipated. He might
get shouted at for general conduct of himself and his men,
then again, the senior officers didn't give a fuck; if somebody
threw a fit, it could just as well be him.
He sorted
out his kit, his bunk, the space was fairly limited. They'd
build more barracks for all the troops being moved here. Tens
of thousands. The juggernaut that was the Red Army in motion.
Not elegant, not pretty, but he'd be fucked if he cared right
now.
He stored
his kit away, sorted out Vanya's stuff as well, debating half-drunk
with himself about how to set up routine in this place, keep
the men sharp and focused. He'd had to work out how the senior
officers ticked. Who was a medal hound, who was a braggart,
who was a complete waste of space, and who didn't get out
of the bottle. The usual stuff.
He had
a wash, the water was rationed, fucking waste of map, this
country, and returned. No Vanya. Fuck him. Had probably gotten
wasted. Vanya just didn't know when enough was enough. But
Vadim was growing restless. Vanya was his second, and they
had served for quite some time together. He had ordered Vanya
to be here, and he wasn't. That was unlike him.
He woke
a driver, who took him back. He found the house with no problem.
The grey light of beginning dawn made Kabul the most joyless
place in the universe, and that included the barren expanse
of the moon. Vadim told the driver to wait, and entered the
house. Careful, even though he didn't know why. He half expected
Vanya to have passed out before the job was finished. Stamina
of a horse, but couldn't hold his vodka.
The smell
of blood sent his hackles up. Proceeding, pistol out and ready.
Upstairs.
The place reeked of blood. He saw Vanya. Bootless, trouserless.
Boots lying close, cast away. That told him everything. There
was only one person who had needed trousers badly enough to
take those of an enemy. He crouched, checked the body for
booby traps, by instinct. Numb inside. Tiredness, and there
was the thought that Vanya would never snore again. Never
taunt, mock, never imitate him again. It used to annoy the
hell out of him, and he had meant to break a couple of his
ribs for it.
He saw
the tracks in the dust, bloody footprints.
Good
seconds were hard to come by. And Vadim would have to write
a report and send a letter to the family. Accident. Vanya
had fallen off a tank, whatever. Nobody ever questioned those
anyway. Vanya would go home in a metal tin. His war was over.
Vadim
had the feeling his own had just begun.
*
* *
A trek
back to base camp for Dan unlike any before. If his stiff
movements weren't so fucking pathetic it would be sickeningly
funny. Could hardly walk from that searing pain.
Dan caught
a ride on one of the ramshackle lorries, crouching on the
back, grinding his teeth. In agony at every pothole on the
dirt track; each jarring thrust tearing into his insides.
Reminding him that nothing had ever happened. Nothing that
made him want to scream in pain. Nothing that required most
of his willpower to shut up and remain silent. Nothing that
made him swear he would get back to Kabul as soon as he could
to kill that fucking cunt. He would find that bastard, maim,
then kill and pay back slowly, with extortionate interest,
what he had not done to him, for what had never happened.
He'd
killed a man tonight, would hunt and take down another. None
of the faces he'd ever killed were haunting his sleep, even
up close and personal. His only remorse that he could feel
no guilt.
This
time it was for revenge, not duty.
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