He had to get out. Go to the embassy. He set aside the mug of tea,
forced himself to sit, and then tried to stand, tried being the operative
word.
He managed to half stand and all but collapsed to the floor.
Before dragging himself up, he reached between the head of the
mattress and the wall, removed the compact submachine gun he'd
stashed there.
Secreting it beneath the blanket, he remained still and
concentrated on getting the pain under control. Where had he gone
wrong, why had that spineless wretch Rochev shot him? The why was
obvious enough—Rochev sought to cover his own treachery in the eyes
of Zaitsev's other men, but he hadn't needed to be at the rear of the
building, certainly hadn't needed to actually hit him. The worm would
be paying for that sooner than later. He always got even.
Chris Gibson… well, damn. He'd most likely saved his life out
there. Was that enough that Gibson should live? Did that pay for
Voronin's life? That was the real question, wasn't it? Gibson had no
motive for helping him but sex. Maybe information, but he was doing a
shit job of getting information out of him. Curiosity, sex. Anything else?
Nikita turned the thought this way and that but couldn't come to any
different conclusions.
Finally the key in the lock, and Gibson returned, carrying several
big plastic bags with food, which he deposited in the kitchen before
coming back to drop some pills in Nikita's lap. “I got painkillers. And
more antibiotics. Don't take them all at once.”
“How many?”
“One each for starters.” Chris nodded toward the kitchen. “I'll fix
us some food.”
Positively domestic. Nikita managed to get the pills from the
packs and swallowed one each dry, then lay back. There was precious
little he could do and that angered him more than anything in recent
memory.
Nikita's ire ebbed with the pain once the meds took hold and the
scent of food drifted from the kitchen. His stomach growled when he
heard something sizzle. Meat. Steak? Gibson had earned the right to
live a little longer.
“You only took one of the Vicodin, right, big guy? You're
looking a little loopy there.”
“I'm quite alert.” He couldn't help but notice where the
American's gaze strayed at that comment.
Gibson came forward, a plate in each hand. “Steak and eggs for
breakfast. Well, steak and eggs for me, one egg and a piece of toast for
you, seeing as how you're convalescing and all.”
“You'll give me half the steak.”
“You hurl because it's too heavy on your stomach and I'm not
cleaning it.”
“I won't „hurl'.”
“Remember that.” Gibson remained standing. “You gonna move
the gun so I can sit?”
“What gun?”
Gibson shook his head like a parent dealing with a child's lie.
“The one you stashed beside you, unless you grew another leg or your
dick swelled to epic proportions.”
Nikita pushed the gun aside. “Steak.”
“I'll give you a bite or two.” Chris settled in and handed him his
plate.
Nikita was grateful Chris didn't offer to feed him by hand. There
was only so much humiliation he could take. He gathered up the toast
and took a bite, adding a little egg. He was ravenous, but solid food did
feel awfully solid, and he took care to chew thoroughly. “Could be
worse.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No. I could be lying in a gutter.”
Chris glanced up, and there was a strange unguarded expression
on his face. Hope? “That a „thank you'?”
“More like „why the hell'?”
Chris shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He sliced
a piece of steak for himself. “Keep in mind that the things I regret most
seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Do you know how to be anything but flippant?”
He finished eating the meat before answering, those brown eyes
of his full of curious intensity. “Life's too short to be too serious.”
“Fair enough. For now.”
They continued in silence. Nikita finished his egg and toast and
took one more piece of the steak from the other dish. Damn the
American for being right about the heaviness of the food in his
condition. He set his empty plate on the floor, settled back against the
wall. “Why were you even there last night?”
Chris finished his food, set his own plate aside. “I heard it was a
jumping new hotspot, and I'm a party kind of guy. I was just making
headway with a cute college-aged kid when you interrupted. Thanks for
the blue balls.”
“Bullshit.” Nikita fell silent again, irritated by Gibson's constant
way of evading him at every turn. Tying him up and beating the shit
and the truth out of him was a fantasy in his current state, but he
indulged in it for a few moments. “You could have stayed.”
“Getting touchy-feely in a panicked stampede isn't very romantic.”
“Oh, you're quite the Romeo.” Nikita sneered.
“Look who's talking.” Chris snatched the rest of the steak off his
plate. “Too good to waste.”
Nikita didn't protest. He simply watched Chris Gibson chew and
wondered just what was going on inside the man's head. What was his
reason for being here? He doubted he'd ever get a straight answer. Of
course there was the embassy. They had drugs that might make him
talk. And yet something about the look in his eyes, the way he watched
Nikita watching him, suggested differently.
He'd have a workaround in place, just the way he had the tools
necessary to remove the bullet and medicate Nikita last night. Gibson
was made up of so much more than he portrayed to the outside world.
Finally he broke eye contact, shifted his attention to the machine gun
but made no move to reach for it.
“Nice piece you got there. H&K know how to get the job done.”
“You use one of theirs to take out Voronin?”
For all of a second, Chris looked genuinely hurt. He raised his
hands, the mask of bravado back.
“I thought we'd put that behind us, Nicky. Water under the bridge,
you know? Can't undo the past and all that jazz.”
Nikita replied with a noncommittal grunt and watched Chris
collect the plates and take them to the kitchen. The sound of running
water brought a faint smile to Nikita's face. Was Gibson naturally tidy,
or was he more concerned with leaving no trace evidence behind? He
decided upon the latter and watched the American saunter out and over
to the whiteboards.
“So whatcha got going on?” Chris asked, looking at the photo. He
turned, his usual mocking expression firmly in place. “Sure you didn't
have a boo-boo last night and hit Zaitsev instead of old Shkadov here?”
“What do you know of Shkadov?”
With an exaggerated shrug Chris slid his hands into his pants
pockets. “The basics, mostly. I like to keep track of th
e major players
on their home court.”
“What for?”
“You never know where the next job's coming from.”
“I thought five million would be a nice down payment for
retirement.”
Chris glanced at him. It visibly irked the man that Nikita kept
referring to the murder of Andrei Voronin. It might be water under the
bridge, but something in Chris flinched every time he mentioned it.
Interesting. Guilt?
“I'd be fucking bored. I get to party a lot anyway. I'd go mad if I
didn't have some kind of job lined up.”
“You could sell me to Zaitsev's people. Might be another five
million in there for you. Or maybe ten if you sell me to Shkadov too.
I'm more of a nuisance than Voronin was.”
“Fuck's sake.” Chris now glared at him, that anger in his brown
eyes real and unmasked. “If I'd have wanted to sell you, I'd have
already done it. But thanks for the suggestion. I'll start considering it.”
Yes. Genuinely hurt. Selling him was a possibility, but Nikita
didn't believe it. What he knew of people suggested otherwise. Chris
wasn't dangerous to him. “You're not a mercenary, so what are you?”
Chris exhaled deeply and looked at the whiteboard. “You're after
“Because of Andrei Voronin. He hired you to kill him, so I killed
him, setting things straight.”
“What about me? I pulled the trigger.”
I don't kill men I've slept with, Nikita thought. I can’t do it. “You
were a means. You didn't make that fatal decision.”
Gibson simply stared at him, and for the first time Nikita felt
discomfort. It was not a feeling he ever wanted to revisit, and he was
glad when the American broke eye contact and stood.
“I need to use the john. Try not to kill me in case you change your
mind. I'd hate to die taking a shit.”
CHRIS closed the bathroom door, his hand balling into a fist. He
wanted to punch a hole through the wood, the wall, the mirror,
something, anything. What the fuck was it with that damned Russian
and his hard-on for Andrei? Was he some closet romantic pining for the
one that got away? What did he think this was, Brokeback Minsk?
He glared at the door. I saved your ass, you stupid fucker.
Inhaling deeply to calm his anger, he took care of his business
and was washing his hands when his cell rang. If it was mother hen
John—
No. It was his Berlin contact. Maybe he would take her up on
those not-so-subtle offers. She, at least, appreciated his attention.
“Yeah?”
“They know you were there. With the shooter. They know you
did a job for Zaitsev. Get out.”
The line went dead, and Chris went into business mode.
Rushing from the bathroom, he kicked the edge of the mattress to
rouse the dozing Nikita. “Time to haul ass, sweetheart. Seems your
master plan had a fatal flaw. We need to get you out of here.” He threw
Nikita's belongings into his duffle and helped Nikita to his feet and into
clothes and shoes and down to his waiting car.
Shit, maybe this was his own fault. He should have ditched the
rental and gotten another instead of making like he'd left it at the scene
following a pick up. They probably had cops on the take feeding info.
Epic fail for thinking with the wrong head. Dumbass.
Nikita popped another of the pain meds as Chris pulled out.
“What is going on?”
Chris checked the rearview. Shit. A dark Mercedes was pulling
up to the apartment building. Chris cut through an alley. “We are a
mere half step away from somebody's goons, Zaitsev, Shkadov, does it
fucking matter?”
“Where are we going?”
“You are going to your embassy, my formerly Commie friend.”
“And you?”
Chris checked the GPS and then glanced over. “Aww, you gonna
miss me?”
“Yes.”
The simple statement hit Chris hard, and he cursed himself that he
was distracted enough to almost ram a spatially unaware cyclist. Last
thing he needed: to kill a cyclist while trying to keep a low profile. He
was at a loss for a comeback.
He hated the way this man kept fucking with his head and, lately,
his emotions. He was one step away from telling Nikita the truth about
Andrei and cursed himself for that unprofessionalism. “Bad timing, bro.
That's really bad timing.”
He weaved the rental into the thick traffic and headed toward the
center lane. With all their aggressive driving, Germans were still
terribly efficient and not nearly as risky or haphazard as the Brits.
While there was always a palpable sense of threat and hostility on
German streets, it never seemed personal, unlike Italy, and a far cry
from the insecure, terrified driving of the Brits.
Chris used whatever evasive techniques he could—weave in and
out, block people's views by getting a truck between himself and them.
At last he thought he'd shaken them off. Not a moment too soon,
because there was the Russian embassy. He drove up as far as possible.
Then he nodded to Nikita. “Can't take you through the gate, you're
alone from here.”
“Fair enough.” Nikita pushed the door open and staggered onto
the pavement. Chris pulled the door shut. He itched to get out and help
him and hated himself for how much he got worked up over this. With
Switzerland
CHRIS lay on the padded mat and stared up at the crossbar of the
weight set yet made no move to continue with a second repetition of
lifting.
Aww, you gonna miss me?
Yes.
Fuck. It had been weeks. Why would that stupid exchange not get
the fuck out of his head?
You know exactly why, Skippy. As if to punctuate the inner voice,
Chris's upper thigh tingled, and he instinctively touched the lingering
marks that bastard Nikita had cut into his flesh. This is mine.
“Define mine, fucker,” Chris muttered before gripping the bar and
lifting. He continued even once his muscles tightened and burned in
protest. Nikita Kazakov was nothing better than a one-night stand, and
he needed to get the Russian out of his head once and for all.
“Chris.”
Fuck. Right now he'd like to get this particular Russian out of his
life; too bad he'd likely take John with him.
“I'm busy, Andrei.”
“I know you don't like to be disturbed, but it's important.”
Chris let the bar settle in the stand with a decisive clang but
remained prone, hands still gripping the rubberized grip. “What do you
want.”
“To tell you to stop hurting John.”
“What. The. Fuck.” He got up, stood toe to toe with the Russian.
“How in the fuck have I hurt John?”
Andrei frowned; then he breathed a soft sigh. “By this behavior of
yours. You're so withdrawn, so angry, ever since you returned from
Germany
. You shut him out, shut us both out these days, and that hurts
John. And John being hurt affects me.”
Chris took a swig from his water bottle. “Like I give a rat's ass if
you have wittle bitty hurt feelings. Get the fuck out of my face,
Voronin.” He went to the tall, hanging sandbag and began jabbing it,
the jabs becoming harder when Andrei stepped behind it.
When the Russian gripped the sides of the bag to steady it, Chris
went all out, punching with everything he had, enjoying each grunt
Andrei made as the bag jarred him.
“What happened to you there?”
“Nothing.” Chris punched harder.
Andrei looked around the side of the bag, jerking his head back
just in time to avoid Chris's fist. “What did that man do to you?”
“Nothing!”
Andrei tried to speak, but Chris marshaled the last ounce of
energy he had and beat the bag with rapid fire punches and kicks until
Andrei backed away, breathing heavy, rubbing the center of his chest.
“I care about you, Chris, we both do, and we want to help.” With
that he left the gym, and Chris kicked the bag one more time before
falling to his knees on the mat.
Chapter 8
“AND don't you dare get up, bitch,” Nikita said, delivering a final
“love tap” to the guy's kidney. The man squirmed on his belly, hands
and ankles hogtied. The whining for a lawyer had stopped, at least.
Nikita watched his colleagues drag out the other bastards.
Granted, hitting this guy's birthday party had been unpleasant of
him. He could just as easily have taken him in tomorrow, while
everybody was still nursing hangovers. It was just that he didn't feel
very charitable to these people.
“Good work, Nikita Sergeyevich,” his superior officer said,
patting him on the shoulder. “Excellent work, as usual.”
“Thank you.” Nikita rubbed his side under the armored vest he
wore. He still felt the impact from the pistol bullet below the vest, and
it had frozen him for a moment. Memories came back, of the one time
he'd been actually shot and wounded. First time he'd spilled blood like
that. It could happen any time in his job. People tended to protect their
ill-gotten gains with everything they had, but then, he'd long accepted
that. He dealt with scum on a daily basis. It colored his outlook.