First Blood

  please let me know.”

  The suite was all blue and silver and cream. From what Chris

  could tell, the furniture was antique and the oil paintings originals.

  Then he stepped closer to the wall and touched it. “What the hell is

  that?”

  “Looks like bleached snake leather of some kind…,” Andrei

  murmured. “Or young crocodile.”

  “Stingray skin,” John said.

  Chris rubbed his fingertip against the raspy skin. He leaned into

  Nikita. “Don't even try fucking me against that.”

  Nikita pulled back. “Not on the job.”

  Chris glanced around the room, certain it was bugged and

  monitored. And not around any of your old comrades either, right? He

  stepped over to look out the circular window, still unable to wrap his

  mind around John's declaration. Nikita wasn't a dirty cop. If he was,

  why did he go after Zaitsev? Why had he wanted to nail Shkadov?

  Oh, Skippy, you are losing your touch. Why wouldn’t he go after

  them if his mobster friends wanted a piece of that action?

  Fuck.

  “I doubt the goods are on board,” Nikita said as he leaned against

  the cabin door.

  “I don't pay you to think, do I?” John shot back, playing his part

  for the prying eyes and ears.

  Nikita bowed in apology and let himself out.

  John turned a cold look on Chris. “Find out the dinner menu.”

  With a curt nod, Chris left as well, donning his sunglasses as soon

  as he hit the corridor. It was partly for effect, partly for necessity.

  Timofeyev had the place loaded with mirrors, glass, crystal light

  fixtures, anything and everything reflective.

  Chris speculated it was as much for defensive purposes as bad

  taste. The more reflections of Timofeyev's “guests,” the easier it was

  for his security to keep an eye out for possible attack, which meant that

  the security might not be as extensive or skilled as it could be.

  “You keep an eye on Yang, I'll have a look around.”

  Nikita nodded and pulled his sunglasses from his pocket.

  Standing in front of the door, he did look like a bouncer. Next thing

  he'd do was assume the “ball-warming” position. Down the corridor,

  the woman from earlier appeared and looked at him questioningly. “Mr.

  Yang would like to see the menu.”

  “Of course.” She vanished into a room and returned a little later.

  The menu was bound in leather with gold trim. He flashed her one of

  his best grins and returned to the suite to drop off the menu. Andrei and

  John were watching a guide for the ship's guests on a plasma screen

  that had lowered itself from the ceiling. Chris only watched for a few

  minutes, but the place was completely crazy. Clearly, Timofeyev had a

  massive hard-on for this ship.

  One swimming pool was enough for any sane man, but this crazy

  motherfucker had three, and in addition to the vegetable garden, there

  was the saltwater holding tank for the fresh catch of the day and a little

  fenced-in, grassy yard for his cat to take a shit and chase yarn balls in.

  After circling around the deck and snapping discreet pics of some of

  the other highrollers with his minicamera, Chris went back below.

  The dining room damn near blinded him when a ray of sun

  dipped below the edge of a window shade and started bouncing off the

  glass walls and crystal light fixtures.

  “May I get you a drink, sir?”

  Chris turned to the dyed blonde barmaid, all silicone boobs and

  gleaming, veneered teeth. Her Russian accent added to the mix and

  made him think of Katya. “Just some water, baby. I'm working.”

  He leaned on the end of the glass-topped bar and chatted her up,

  pushing out all the charm and pick-up lines he could. Her relief came to

  take over for the dinner shift, and she offered to give Chris a tour of the

  ship, which led straight to a plush little closet of a room she called the

  “Love Box.”

  Being bisexual certainly came in handy on jobs like these, and

  Chris wrapped little Oksana around his sticky fingers after sucking and

  rubbing her to multiple climaxes. She offered to do him back, his

  choice, and didn't bat an eye when he asked her to take it up the ass. It

  was release without satisfaction, but it did the job. When Chris helped

  her straighten her uniform and smoothed back her hair, she slipped him

  her cell number after disposing of his used condom and said her every

  spare moment was his if he wanted it.

  When he came back to the suite, John and Andrei were just going

  through the menu, with Nikita on the couch studying the “virtual tour”

  of the ship; he was feigning indifference toward any kind of camera,

  but Chris felt his intense concentration.

  Chris sat down on the couch and noted how Nikita gave him a

  sideways glance. “Have a shower. You smell like a cheap whore.”

  Chris stared, thrown for a moment, not sure if that turned him on

  or actually affronted him. “Just because you can't get any,” he muttered.

  Nikita flipped him the finger and went to the mini fridge in the

  corner. “May I, Mr. Yang?”

  John gave him a dismissive wave and returned to the menu.

  Chris picked up the remote and cycled through the available

  entertainment options while watching Nikita surreptitiously test the

  bottled water with one of GORGON's nifty little gadgets shaped like a

  toothpick. The color remained unchanged, signaling the water was free

  of drugs or poisons.

  It wasn't likely Timofeyev would want to off any of his paying

  guests, but in this business you could never be too sure. “Yo, big guy,

  toss one here.”

  Nikita aimed for his head. Fucker. Chris smiled and twisted off

  the bottle top.

  The hostess who'd greeted them popped into a corner of the video

  screen via closed circuit camera and announced that pre-dinner drinks

  and hors d'oeuvres were being served on the top deck.

  Showtime.

  Chris found himself struggling to control the grin when they

  followed the invitation. Nikita was goddamned perfect as the scary

  bodyguard, and Andrei and John simply had beautiful chemistry. There

  was something professional and caring about Andrei, with an

  understated sex appeal that wouldn't have seemed out of place on a

  priest or a doctor.

  John, on the other hand, seemed very nearly untouched by the

  good looks of his entourage, which was just funny. The only one

  hundred percent gay guy on their team had to play straight and appear

  totally unaffected. Chris pondered whether or not them fucking would

  arouse suspicion, but he assumed that criminals of their caliber could

  do pretty much whatever they wanted, including dress up in Nazi

  uniforms and do public flagellation, like that British racing dude,

  Mosley or whatever. Hmmm, maybe he could orchestrate a foursome.

  Would be one guy more than he'd ever dealt with, but he certainly

  wouldn't say no to the chance.

  Coming up on deck, they saw the guests had arrived and the boat
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  was leaving the pier. Females were exclusively hostesses in high heels

  and short skirts, showing a lot of surgically enhanced cleavage, but

  Chris could appreciate a boob job well done.

  The food was ridiculously pretty and very, very good, with tiny,

  barely thumb-sized savory things resembling little pizzas and shrimp

  fried in parmesan cheese, tropical fruit that Chris had never seen before,

  and chilled rosé and white wine to wash everything down. Of course

  the bodyguards ate only after they'd been allowed, while John and

  Andrei chatted amiably, with Andrei talking about an entirely made-up

  skiing holiday in St. Moritz.

  The captain kicked the engines into high gear, and Bari was soon

  in the distance.

  John played a little grab-ass with one of the hostesses, sending

  her giggling away to continue her drink rounds. He then chatted up

  some Middle Eastern sheikhs who wandered over to sit in the empty

  deck chairs nearby. The sun was setting, and the ship was making good

  time in open waters when Chris's barmaid fuck-friend came around

  with another tray of fruit.

  He peered over the top of his sunglasses and gave her a wink. She

  came over, served the Arabs, then John and Andrei, and finally

  approached Nikita and him. Chris had barely finished saying “Hey,

  baby” when he caught sight of two mobster types headed their way.

  Chris pushed the girl to the side and took two steps forward, Nikita

  right in step, their hands slipping inside their jackets to block access to

  John.

  The stockier goon greeted Nikita in Russian, and Nicky, true to

  bodyguard form, told him to fuck off.

  Andrei stood, placed his well-manicured hands on Chris and

  Nikita's shoulders, and coaxed them apart to slip between them. He

  addressed the goon in Russian, then switched to English. “Mr. Yang

  would be honored to meet our esteemed host.”

  Chris and Nikita fell in step behind John and Andrei, who were

  behind the mobsters. The Russians led the way to the uppermost deck

  overlooking the helipad. Timofeyev was seated in what was more

  throne than chair, and Chris wouldn't have been at all surprised to see

  the fur-trimmed crown of the old czars on his head.

  He was fiftyish, with the barest touch of gray at his temples. He

  seemed a bit above average height and with a solid build, something of

  a cross between a goon and a college professor.

  Chris scanned the area. In-house security was mostly up here, and

  if their cover had been blown, if someone onboard really knew Yang

  and had tipped Timofeyev off, they were in deep shit. They were

  banking on the fact that Yang was a known recluse and usually wore

  shades and hoped the old stereotype of “they all looked alike” would

  work in their favor.

  Nikita and Chris hung back a bit as John and Andrei approached

  and nodded to Timofeyev. They exchanged greetings in Russian,

  Andrei being the go-between, switching off to Cantonese to translate

  for John until Chris picked up the mention of English.

  “Yes, Mr. Yang speaks English.”

  “I had a British tutor in Hong Kong when I was a boy,” John said.

  “So I've heard,” Timofeyev said, steepling his fingers. “Your

  family did well when ownership reverted to the mainland.”

  “Very well, much as you did when change came to your country.”

  Timofeyev looked pleased and motioned for one of his lackeys to

  produce a chair for John.

  And Johnny Soong, the King of Bullshit, was off and running.

  He motioned for Andrei, Chris, and Nikita to back off, and they

  wandered over to the top rail, Nikita and Chris assuming the usual

  positions, Andrei leaning against the railing, each of them casually

  scanning the area, using their snazzy little spy cams to record the scene

  and people below. John would be getting the audio, though Chris

  doubted anything incriminating would be said.

  “Head of security getting a call,” Nikita said.

  “Maybe about the ETA of the goods.”

  “That's my guess.”

  Chris glanced away when John snapped his fingers. “Dimitri.”

  Andrei scurried to his side like the perfect lackey while John pocketed

  a numbered silver oval on a short chain that was just under his seat

  cushion.

  At a word from John, Andrei reached into his suit jacket, removed

  his billfold, and handed a folded paper to John, who slipped it under the

  cushion where the silver oval had been. John and Timofeyev stood,

  shook hands, and one of the Russian's goons came over to remove the

  chair.

  The paper John had left was a check drawn on a fake account set

  up by GORGON: the deposit “Yang” was required to put up to buy his

  bidder's pass, which he'd just taken possession of.

  “Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen,” Timofeyev called.

  “We will. Thank you,” John said, casting a sly grin to his team.

  MUCH to Chris's annoyance, as the hired help, he and Nikita were

  relegated to a lower lounge area with a simple buffet while John and

  Andrei were escorted to the main dining room and the full five courses

  of epicurean delight.

  Still, the buffet wasn't half bad, though much of it was picked

  over by the time Chris and Nikita went to the table. They'd decided to

  hang back and let the other players' security be the guinea pigs in the

  event any of the food had been tampered with.

  They made sandwiches of thick-sliced crusty bread and paper-

  thin slices of rare roast beef, grabbed bottles of water, and went back up

  on deck to where Timofeyev's security was stationed.

  The sun had set while they'd been below, and the moon hung

  deep and full, the dark blue sky dotted with countless glittering stars.

  The air had cooled, and it blew over them, carrying the tang of salt.

  This was the life, and Chris easily pictured himself taking the

  bills he'd banked over the last eight years and buying himself a yacht,

  nothing as tacky big as this but….

  Nikita leaned in close, his pale eyes intense and alive with sexual

  hunger. He darted his hot tongue out to lick away the dribble of meat

  juice that had trickled from the corner of Chris's mouth. Chris popped

  the last bit of sandwich into his mouth and wagged his index finger as

  he chewed and swallowed. “No hanky panky, my man. What would

  your home boys say to see one of their own all out and proud?”

  Nikita snorted. “As if I care.”

  “Yeah, well, Mr. Tall, Buff, and Slavic at seven o'clock sure

  seems to care about what you're up to. He's been checking you out

  since we came up here.”

  Nikita drained his water bottle and moved to toss it in a nearby

  trashcan that gave him a better view of the man in question.

  Chris's stomach twisted when Nikita returned, the desire in his

  eyes replaced with a definite look of Oh Fuck.

  “Your cover's blown. Do we need to haul ass?” Chris pulled out

  his cell, ready to hit the preprogrammed button that would alert

  GORGON that
they needed to abort the mission.

  Nikita touched his arm to stop him as the man in the distance

  came forward, his hand raised.

  “Nikita Sergeyevich?” he called about fifty paces away.

  “Don't worry. I can handle this.” Nikita smiled at the approaching

  man and stepped past Chris.

  “I bet you can,” Chris muttered as he stepped back to take a seat

  in one of the deck chairs. He pulled out his cell as if to check missed

  calls, instead snapping a few pictures of Nikita and his little mobster

  friend.

  Fuck.

  He sipped his water, trying to wash away the bitter taste of

  betrayal that clogged his throat, pushing his hurt aside when he noticed

  that the yacht was slowing. He scanned the darkness and made out a

  faint light in the distance growing steadily brighter, moving forward.

  And that would be the human cargo arriving. Smart move bringing

  them onboard in open water. If they were somehow busted, they could

  claim the smaller vessel had been in trouble and they were merely

  rescuing innocent travelers.

  Nikita and his friend came toward Chris. Nikita kicked the leg of

  the chair. “Come. Georgi got us front row seats for the show.”

  “Then let's rock.”

  John or Andrei would have made a convenient trip to the john to

  send a stand-by signal to the black ops team floating around out here

  waiting to make their move when the bust went down.

  The show was being held in the “ballroom” —a very sizeable, all-

  purpose room done up in mirrors, glass, marble, and expensive, finely

  grained wood surfaces, with an enormous silk carpet filling the room

  out. From what little Chris could spot, it had a custom-made pattern,

  images from Russian history, with wild-eyed Mongols, stern-faced

  Vikings, and even dying Germans at Stalingrad.

  The chairs were very comfortable and arranged around a half

  moon-shaped stage. Rich, dark red brocade curtains with gold

  threadwork shielded the accessway for the cargo. From studying the

  documentary and the tour with Oksana, Chris knew that behind the

  ballroom was the garage of the ship, holding three smaller boats for

  expeditions which could be lowered into the water or simply anchored

  inside. It was the best access point for the boat with the cargo, too, and

  one of the access points of the black ops team that had to be ready to