All other characters are exclusive property of yours truly.
As always, my thanks to Regina, beta cum laude!
And to the Puffmeister, slayer of the 'was' monster and keeper of the POV.
Without them, this story would be less.
To him, this was the top of the world. He came here when life disappointed or betrayed him. When the burden of being civilized became more than he could tolerate.
The room bore the musty scent of abandonment. It had been several weeks since he had ventured down into his secret place. Now Hunter flared his nostrils, picking out the familiar scents of metal and gun oil, age and decay, fear and apprehension, hate and anger. Darkness, thick and concealing as a blanket, loomed before him. The darkness held no secrets from him; it inspired no apprehension in his heart or mind. The darkness was his old friend.
He always undressed before a trip to the cellar; there was a freedom associated with it, and his muscles rippled in the dim light. He descended into the darkness naked; confident and prideful of his body, lean and trim despite his age. And he worked hard to keep it this way, since they had given him this body. It had been one of the best things they'd given him. And they used it for their own purposes. Used him like a loyal dog, until he became unreparable, then they cast him aside.
But He had cast him aside long before that.
But soon Hunter would make him pay. Him and his other. Hunter planned to make them both pay. . .dearly.
The man had enemies who wanted him dead. Finding one with the means to fulfill that desire, and the balls to carry it out, took a long time. Hunter had a plan and that enemy had to give him free reign as long as he provided results.
Putting the first phase of his plan into action, it had been so easy to stalk him. So confident in his own prowess, it had been even easier to catch him. So trusting. Love makes you weak. The strong devoured the weak. The weak were prey. And he would devour his prey. But first. . .
He knelt on the cold, hard dirt packed floor, unmindful of the discomfort to his knees. Opening his right hand to reveal a key, he reached forward and twisted it in the lock of the large wooden chest and slowly pushed it open. The old metal hinges protested with a creak. Inside, neatly folded, rested a well-worn set of camouflage fatigues. The old ones. Beautiful in its design, simple and intricate. Almost reverently, he caressed the cloth. Now most opted for the simple form fitting black suits. They gave nothing to movement. It had no artistry in its design, required no skill to make them work. Dressed in black, held no challenge in becoming a shadow in the darkness. They took your soul.
Hunter stood and slipped on the old familiar garments, his eyes already straying to the far end of the bunker where a shadow moaned faintly. They would have to move, soon.
Hunter buttoned his shirt, tucked it into the pants and buckled them. There were boots, as well, but he ignored them, standing barefoot on the cool earth, intent on completing the ritual.
Beneath the clothing lay a small cache of weapons, wrapped in canvas, slick with oil and solvent. Some dismantled, broken down to fit the chest, while others, smaller, had been packed intact. A visual inspection showed him everything secure; the guns and ammunition, extra magazines, the special items he had obtained at no small risk. Accumulating the necessary tools had taken months, years. The enemy's money had helped.
He crouched before the open chest again, his fingers played lovingly over the oily steel. Magnificent! Even in their silence they were lethal, manufactured for a single purpose: to kill. They had taught him how to use these weapons. Trained him how to kill efficiently, effectively, using any means available. They taught him to destroy mercilessly and without conscience. And Hunter became proficient. Then, when his expertise made him a threat, they'd turned another of their weapons on him to eliminate him.
Reaching in a trembling hand, he caressed his private arsenal. The Uzi submachine gun and the smaller MAC-10 Ingram, both 9 mm weapons meant for close-up work. Hot anger seared him as he acknowledged failure in mastering the Eagle. It was as if all models of the gun knew they belonged to him and wouldn't function in Hunter's hands. In his eyes the MAC was no match for the Desert Eagle. His hand moved to the left to finger the Franchi SPAS 12 autoloading shotgun and the little stakeout 12-gauge pump from Ithaca. The well-oiled Colt Commando, compact cousin of the M-16, rested next to it. What he lacked in finesse, he made up in firepower.
The hunter snorted. These were weapons of mass destruction. Weapons for mercenaries, drug dealers, street thugs, assassins. Only butchers learned to love and master this artillery. No operative would use them. No real operative.
Hunter had been circumspect in the selection of his tools, anticipating each eventuality and the reactions of his adversary. His adversary could come with weapons of his own, possessed of martial skills that made him uniquely dangerous, but not invincible. Hunter had surprise and preparation on his side, together with the contents of his secret chest, and it would be enough.
Another groan sounded from the corner.
And if the weapons were not enough to get the job done, he had another tool he wouldn't hesitate to use.
Hunter smiled a cold, humorless smile.
Time to play.
~~~~~
Justin sat on the edge of Choate's bed, watching him pack, trying not to look as dejected as he felt. "Is this for the Councilor?"
"No."
"Then it's something for the Bat Phone Guy?"
"Just an errand, but yes," Choate said softly as he finished his packing.
Justin frowned. "How long will you be gone?"
He watched as Choate stole a speculative glance at him. Justin could almost hear him thinking, 'Justin's behaving better than I expected'. Wondering what would happen next. "If nothing happens, about four days."
A stricken look settled on his face. "That's almost a week?!"
Choate calmly returned to his task. "Give or take a day."
Justin surged to his feet. "No errand should take nearly a week! There's something going on you won't tell me! I thought we'd settled this 'secrets' thing! I guess I was wrong! Well, then, have a good time, Paddy," he said as he strode determinedly towards the door. "I'll see you when you get back."
Choate snagged the trailing edge of Justin's braid and reeled him back. "Is that the proper way to say goodbye?"
Justin struggled against the strong grip. "What do you want, a goodbye fuck?" he sneered.
The Marine tugged on his braid. "That was harsh," he said, his voice sounded almost tender.
Justin sighed. "Damn, it wasn't supposed to be this way." Justin took a deep breath. "No, it's not a proper way to say goodbye, but it's the best I can do right now. Please, Paddy, let me go."
"Is there a problem?"
"No." Justin strained towards the door. "Just let me go, ok?"
"No, not ok." Choate had him close enough now to turn him around to face him. Justin kept his face down. "What's wrong?"
Justin flashed him a look of hurt and anger. "You have to ask?" his voice still oddly inflected.
"Justin, it's not like I'll be on vacation. It's important business for the
Estate."
"I know."
"And there won't be much for you to do while I'm working."
"I know."
"You'd be bored you out of your skull."
"I know, Paddy, all right! But nearly a week!" his voice trembled slightly. "That's a long time!"
"Not really."
"I. . .I'm going to miss you."
"Oh?" Choate sounded skeptical.
"Yes, I will."
"But you'll behave yourself."
"Yes, Paddy," Justin said in a bored, sarcastic voice, "I wrote all the rules down so I wouldn't forget them."
"Maybe I should put a smart-mouthed brat across my knee and make him recite those rules to be certain he knows them all," he said as he backed them towards the bed.
Young Evers pulled back. "No! No, it was a joke! Paddy!"
"It's been a while, and I know how short your memory is." He sat.
Justin studied his lover's face. He didn't look angry. "I'm not trying to be a brat," he confessed, finally, "I just don't want you to go, that's all."
Choate smiled. "So you're really going to miss me then?"
"Come on, Paddy, don't tease about that."
He pulled him down to sit in his lap. "Then, since you're being so honest with me, and I can see you're making an effort to behave yourself," Patrick kissed him on the neck, "and you'll miss me so much," he nibbled on his chin, "Then I guess I'll take you with me."
Justin's eyes went wide as he pushed back with his hand on Choate's chest until he could look into his face. "What? What did you say?"
"You heard me, dulce. Vincent's already packed your bags."
~~~~~~
"You'd planned this all along, didn't you?" Justin asked when the car pulled up in front of the small mountain resort.
Choate turned off the engine. "Yes." Then exited the car.
"Then, why the subterfuge?" Justin asked, following him.
"It was a surprise." He signed them in and the walked on to the elevator.
Justin remained quiet the entire elevator ride, but as soon as they stood in from of the door, he said, "You could've handled it another way, you know!"
Choate paused in the act of putting the key card through the scanner on the door. "As hard as it is to keep a secret from you?"
"It is not!" Justin countered with a look of wide-mouthed indignation.
Choate snorted before opening the door and stepping inside.
"I'm insulted!" his lover declared as he followed the Chief Aide into the room.
Choate snorted again as he walked over to the window and opened the drapes.
"Mmmm!" Justin purred as he slid up behind his lover and pressed his face into his back. "Want to test the bed?" he asked, wrapping his arms around the larger man's waist.
Choate stared out the window at the spectacular view. "Yes, but first I have to meet a contact."
Justin rested his chin between the big man's shoulder blades. "When?" he asked seductively.
Choate turned in the arms surrounding him and smiled down at the small face. "About ten minutes."
"Sh--" Justin looked up quickly, "oot," he finished with a guilty smile.
"Nice save," Choate said as he kissed him on the forehead. "I won't be long."
Justin's eyes went wide with surprise. "You're leaving me here?"
"I'm meeting her on the slopes--"
Justin brightened. "No problem. I have a dynamite ski outfit." The wicked smile delivered along with a 'come-hither' look from beneath lashed lids at half mast.
Barely remembering his mission, Choate recovered enough to ask incredulously, "You were planning on skiing?"
Young Evers scoffed, mildly insulted by his tone. "No." He made a face. "Yeeesh, Paddy! You get all splouchy and windburned, and have raccoon eyes from those stupid goggles."
The amused aide raised a questioning eyebrow. "But you brought an outfit."
"Yes."
Choate waited. "Why?"
Justin gave him that, 'Are you clueless' look and he smiled a smile wicked enough to either get his bottom heated nova or nailed hard and fast to the nearest flat surface.
Choate shook his head. "I'll meet you in the restaurant in about half an hour."
"Can't we have dinner up here?" Justin asked hopefully.
Choate leaned in close. "No. But we can have dessert." He smiled a spine melting smile that told Justin just what the dessert would be.
Justin worried the edge of his lower lip with his teeth. "Ohhh," he groaned.
Choate used his thumb to rescue the bit of flesh from torture then soothed it with a kiss. "Practicing, amante?"
Justin reached up on his toes to beg for more. "Yes," he said, and smiled.
Forty minutes later, Justin rose from his chair in the lobby and went in search of his overdue heartmate.
~~~
Choate pushed off fiercely from the top of the hill, fuming over the operative's indolence. Worse, the information passed to him could've been harvested by any intern. Why would the Estate use him? Shaking his head in confusion, the big Marine let the cold air surge passed him, helping to cool his anger. He crouched lower, increasing his speed, knowing that, no matter how fast he went, there would still be one very annoyed brat waiting for him at the hotel.
He had just come around the corner of the building after taking off his skis, when, among the swarming vacationers, he caught a breathtaking view of high, round globes encased in a pair of skin-tight, blood-red ski pants and a fall of ebony hair that could only belong to the object of his evening plans standing in a small crowd on the terrace patio.
As if sensing his lover's thoughts, Justin looked back and smiled. Suddenly, he lost his balance and tumbled off into the huge snow drift beneath them in a great spray of white.
"ˇMadre de Dios!" Choate cursed, racing to his lover's side, dropping to his knees in the snow. "Dulce!" Tossing his poles aside, he began to dig with both hands. "Corazon de mio, are you all right?" he asked as he uncovered young Evers' head.
"Paddy," Justin said, spitting out a mouthful of snow. "Where were you?"
"She was late," Choate said as he uncovered the rest of him, "You could've waited." The Marine quickly checked for injuries. "Wiggle your fingers. That's it, now your legs. Does your head hurt?" He put his open hand in front of Justin's face. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Four," Justin said crossly, but at Choate's concerned expression, reluctantly, but petulantly added, "One's a thumb."
Relieved to find his imp escaped serious injury, Choate pulled him into a tight embrace. "I should pull down those painted on pants, little boy, to spank you for being smart-mouthed and scaring me out of my wits." He wiped away the white covering the much loved face and kissed the tip of the cold, wet nose. "You look like a snow bunny."
"I wasn't trying to fall, Paddy. Somebody jostled me. And, snowman, I look like a snowman," he corrected indignantly. "I wouldn't be out here at all, if you were on time for your dates." Justin snatched away from the embrace and fell flat on his back in the snow. He flailed his arms to regain his balance for several seconds before Choate helped him to his feet. Slapping his hands away, Justin stumbled angrily up the small drift to the resort.
When Choate caught up to his pouting young lover he found Justin bent over brushing the snow from his legs. The Aide slowly stalked forward until he stood behind him.
Justin straightened abruptly as soon as he felt the hand caress his ass cheeks lovingly. He brushed the groping hands away with impatient swats, a look of annoyance on his face. "No!" he said sternly. Then turned to see the look of determination on Choate's face. "No, Paddy! I'm still mad at you!" He began backing away. "You heard me, no!"
Choate advanced on his objective, his predator smile in place, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
The doors behind Justin opened and he backed inside, followed closely by the big Marine.
"Patrick Choate, you stop right there!"
The older man's advance matched Justin's retreat, step for step. Choate slowed only long enough to snap his fingers at the desk and bark, "393. Keys," then catch the toss the desk clerk made.
Justin stumbled and Choate caught him before he fell, the elevator doors opening to swallow them inside like into the maw of a giant beast.
Choate brought the small body up hard against his chest as he pressed the designation button, and took the exhalation of breath from Justin's mouth into this own.
He didn't release his prize until the doors opened, signalling their floor. By then, he had to bring the pliant form up to and across his shoulder.
Their room was nine steps away.
Once inside, Choate stood a slightly unsteady Justin on a low table and peeled his clothing slowly away, piece by piece, thoroughly worshipping every inch of flesh exposed until he stood naked and trembling before him.
The big Marine smiled. "Do you accept my apology, dulce?"
Justin wavered and his lover caught him in his arms. "I. . .ummm," he began and ended panting, "no."
"No?"
The smaller man shook his head. "No."
"More?"
Justin nodded slowly.
"Ah, to prove I am truly repentant?" Choate said as he carried him towards the bedroom.
"Wait!" As soon as Choate stopped, Justin leaned over one of the strong arms cradling him to dig through the small tote bag resting on the nearby table. Triumphantly, he produced a battered tube of lubricant.
"Not enough, amantito."
Justin blushed, then reached back into the bag and retrieved a brand new tube. Looking shyly into his lover's face, he held it up.
"It's a start."
~~~
An hour later, Justin arched his back high off the bed, his elbows and heels digging deep in the mattress. His thrum had reached its crest long ago.
Choate finally released the now limp form to pool in the center of the bed.
"Enough?"
Justin could barely move his head 'no.'
Choate smiled as he turned the small body on its side facing away from him and brought one of Justin's legs up in a 45-degree angle. Squeezing out a generous amount of lube from the now half empty second tube, he placed his rock hard erection at the entrance he'd given such special attention to for the past hour. First with tongue, later his fingers.
Justin's 'hymen' resisted.
Sweat glistened on young Evers' eager flesh. "Paddy! Inside me! Please!"
"Sssh, dulce," he said as he stroked his fingers inside again.
"No more fingers! I've been ready for an hour, Paddy!" Justin protested as he rocked his hips backward.
"If you make me hurt you, little boy, I won't touch you again for a month."
Justin went absolutely still.
"Good, now relax for me," Choate said as he replaced his finger's with his cock and began to push, gently.
Justin fought his need to surge backward against the delicious feel of that hot, rock hard rod. "Ummm, ah!"
"Hurt?" He asked, slowly down almost to a stop.
"Just a little, Paddy," Justin confessed reluctantly.
Choate moved the mass of hair from Justin's neck and nuzzled just below his ear. Deepening his voice, "Lo deseas?" Choate crooned, rolling his hips, nudging the barrier with minuscule thrusts. "Mmmm. Tan caliente, dulce," he whispered between forward motion. "Es tan caliente. Ssst."
The tone of his lover's voice and the sway of his hips drove Justin nearly insane. "Paddy. . .Please," he pleaded, taking out his frustration on the hotel linen.
"Ábrate para mí, chiquito." Choate nudged again. "Si lo deseas, tienes que dejarme adentro." He rolled his hips harder, changing the angle while sucking on his favorite place on Justin's neck. Finally, the big Marine reaching around in front of the body pressed tightly against him and cupped the small scrotal sac in his hands.
"Uhhhh," Justin drew a deep breath as his lover caressed him, spreading his legs for leverage. "Ahhhhh. Oh!"
And Choate was in.
~~~
After a late dinner, Justin asked Choate to share a long, leisurely shower. Once there, Mr. Evers received a patented "Paddy" shampoo sensuous enough to stir an interest that brought him, by the last conditioning rinse, to his knees in front of his lover.
The one-eyed serpent swayed and jumped as he alternated between flicks of his tongue and butterfly-soft kisses, while gently stroking the basket that hung heavily beneath it.
Choate leaned forward, trying to get closer to the warm mouth that tortured him. Bracing his hands against the wall, he spread his legs wide and locked his knees to keep from falling.
Hardly inexperienced in sexual encounters, Choate had thought himself jaded to the act until he met Justin. The exuberance and enthusiasm the young man exhibited every time they touched, excited the veteran like nothing he'd ever experienced before. The little imp made him feel cherished, precious, as if he were special, worthy and best of all, loved. Justin had placed his mark of ownership on his war-weary soul and renewed the title every time they touched.
Looking down at the dark, bowed head, Choate felt his heart swell.
Justin wrapped one hand around the expanse of hot rod he couldn't get into his mouth and zealously sucked the part he could, deep inside.
Choate groaned as the searing, agile tongue curled around his length and began to move.
As he approached the apex of his completion, he suddenly felt Justin's hand slip between his splayed legs and a slick finger enter him from behind. Before he could protest the intrusion, the little imp found his prostate.
Caught completely off guard, the sensation ripped through him, igniting long forgotten nerve endings along the way.
With a roar that rattled the porcelain tile, Choate pounded the wall with both fists as he surged forward.
ˇMaravilloso! ˇFantástico, dulce! ˇTan bueno! ˇAyyy!" Choate shouted as a shockwave of enormous intensity drew his energy and coherent thought from him with the exquisite suction of his lover's warm and talented mouth.
~~~
They had just gone to bed, Justin snuggling back against Choate's chest, when
the phone rang. The big Marine turned over and snatched it up on the second ring.
Justin turned over in his arms and watched him sleepily.
"Yes," he said gruffly.
"Is he there?"
"'He' who?"
"Don't play coy with me, Choate."
"I've played many things within the last 24 hours, friend. 'Coy' wasn't one of them."
Justin covered the giggle with his hand and received a pinch for his sauciness. "Paddy!" he squeaked softly as he rubbed at his hip and smiled when Choate brushed his hand away to rub it himself. He settled back down on the hard, muscled chest.
"If he's there, just tell me," the voice demanded urgently.
Choate frowned. "Since you know my name, return the favor."
"You don't know me," The voice said, almost angrily.
"Wrong answer. Your time's up, sport," he snapped, impatiently.
"Usher." the caller volunteered quickly. "My name's Jonathan Usher!"
Choate glanced down at Justin, who turned his head until he was looking into his eyes. "Do you know a Jonathan Usher?" he asked softly.
Justin slowly shook his head, no, his hair fanning out across his muscular pillow.
Choate smoothed the hair back from his lover's face as he told the stranger, "Okay, Usher, we don't know you. End of conversation." And leaned forward to replace the receiver in its cradle.
"No! Wait! Winn isn't there?"
He brought the phone back to his ear. "Winn? Why would he be here?"
There was a slight pause, then Usher said,"Because he's not here."
"And where is 'here'?"
Another moment's hesitation."I'm at the Estate."
Choate sat up a little straighter, the action displacing Justin from his chest. "You work together?"he said, cautiously. He looked into the questioning expression on young Evers' face. Shaking his head slightly to reassure him, the Marine pulled the smaller man once again into the circle of his arms, pushing gently at the back of his head until he returned it to the Marine's chest, then tangling his fingers back into his hair.
"Yes," came the equally cautious reply.
"This sounds like more than work," Choate let a little of his suspicion seep into his voice, now releasing his grip in his hair to begin stroking the tension from the muscles of Justin's back.
The man snorted. "You know that isn't allowed."
"Usher, I'm not in the mood to drag information out of you. You've got 15 seconds to interest me or you're a memory."
~~~~~~
Choate thoroughly surveyed the perimeter of the designated meeting place three times before deciding it clear. He moved closer.
Jonathan Usher stood in the shadow of the building, his back to the wall. He looked only a few years older than Justin, Choate noticed with surprise.
Slight of build, with a boyish, bookish face and a shock of dark brown hair that fell in a heavy wave over his left eye, he peered out into the darkness, the street lights reflecting off the wire-rims he wore. He stood there, glancing anxiously around, worrying at his lower lip in a gesture that also reminded him uncomfortably of Justin.
"Usher," he said softly.
The child-man jumped a foot into the air and spun around. "Choate," he said with relief and a short bark of nervous laughter.
The Marine got a closer look that reinforced his earlier assumption that this couldn't be a seasoned field op. "'Comm', 'Acq' or 'Intel'?" he asked gruffly.
Usher shifted and ducked his head a little in embarrassment. "Level six comm."
Impressed with the rank, Choate nodded. The Estate communications hierarchy only rose to seven. "So you and Winn--"
"Are lovers," he snapped defensively, wary about pissing off the larger man. "What? You don't think I'm his type?"
Choate gave him a speculative look. "Like he has a 'type', Usher," he replied mildly. "No need to get your back up. I didn't mean anything," he murmured, thinking the kid really needed a few really hard swats. "What you two do is your business."
Usher swallowed, recognizing the look on Choate's face. "Sorry, Viper," he apologized quickly.
Choate thought, the kid's really scared. "So, you think he's missing."
Usher looked at him with large eyes and corrected insistently. "He is missing."
"And the proof?"
Usher produced a parcel from his coat. "This came for you."
Choate took it. "And you opened it, because. . .?"
"Standard Estate procedure," the young man nervously defended himself. "I had it scanned for explosive devices and recognized this," Usher reached over and pulled out a ring and handed it to Choate. "He's been gone three days, Viper."
"He's been gone before," he said calmly as he held the ring up to the light. Suddenly, he closed his hand into a tight fist.
"Not without telling me," Jonathan said stubbornly. "You recognize it?"
Choate looked down, turning the ring over in his hands. "Yes," he said quietly, a flood of emotions vying for control: fear, anger, hurt, sorry, love. . .
"And there's this." Jon pulled something else from the parcel. A scrap of cloth. "A shirt. There's blood on it." He added sadly, "I had it tested. It's his blood."
The question needed to be asked, although the Marine's reluctance clearly showed. "You think he's been kidnapped?"
"That's what the note said. It's in there,too."
Choate shot Usher a look before reaching inside the parcel for the last item.
~~~~~~
The bloody shirt and ring had been a stroke of genius, as was the typed note giving Choate this location. Never mind false modesty, it had been brilliant; Hunter only wished he had been able to observe Viper's reaction.
So far, the plan worked like a charm. Hunter impatiently ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. Discovery of the pretty little one had been an added bonus. Something to fall back on if the primary plan failed to work.
There was no justice in the world. Once Viper had been the pretty little one. The prize to keep. Now older, stronger, more dangerous, more stunning than pretty, he had found a trophy of his own.
He knew Choate would not -- could not -- turn away. If the bastard's history had taught him anything, it was his loyalty. Hurt something he loved, or held his loyalty, and he took it personally.
This plan had been years in the making. But that's one thing Hunter excelled at, waiting. He had elevated waiting to an art form, picking up the lessons in the military (where he first met Viper). Learning that the soldier could watch and wait in silence was the soldier who survived the endless night. In later years, he had refined his talent, finding skills that would prepare him for the contest of his life. He could sit motionlessly for hours at a time, ignoring the insistence of his bladder, the stiffness in his limbs. He could attain an almost trance-like state in which his mind remained alert, his eyes and ears missed nothing. He had trained himself to wait as if his very life depended on it. . .which it might, before he finished with the Marine.
He had no thought of failure. If he failed, then he would die. It was a simple formula with only one solution: death. Death for him if he failed, death for Viper if he succeeded. Either way, the endless hurt would end.
Hunter didn't know how many hours had passed while he crouched in the darkness waiting. Soon. He could almost smell him. Soon.
~~~~~~
The entire scene screamed, 'trap.' Choate could feel it in the air around him. It crawled down his throat like a living thing and squeezed at his gut. But the note had led him here with the promise of finding Brown.
He parked the rental and set the brake. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled the Desert Eagle from its holster, ready if they tried to take him here. If they were waiting for him, he would play it as it came. Whoever had staged this elaborate game of cat and mouse was staging a deadly scene. A chill crept up the Viper's spine. Someone lived on borrowed time.
He warily circled the car, the Eagle held against his leg, barely visible in the half-light. Checking out the garage would take only a moment, and it was the sort of detail that a savvy warrior never left to chance. The little clapboard structure seemed secure, but Choate walked the perimeter anyway, applying his penlight to the grimy windows, satisfying himself that only roaches lurked inside.
No danger here. At least not the two-legged kind. Choate relaxed a fraction, though he knew it was premature. The house would be his adversary's preference for a trap. It would be easier to take him inside, away from prying eyes. But, then, Brown could also be inside. Hurt, wounded, dying, dead.
As he finished checking out the small garage, Choate thought about his ex lover. Surprised to find the grinding ache that came from the thoughts had faded, dulled in the light of new memories. The emptiness that had inhabited his chest at their breakup had gone, vanished, filled by a long-haired, smart-mouthed imp. Yet, he couldn't leave Brown to die. Not now. Not in this place.
He scanned the trees that stood like sentries, guarding the perimeter of the tiny house. No movement in the darkness there, no shadow out of place. If anyone watched him, they were inside.
Choate crossed the driveway, overgrown with grass and weeds, and angled across the lawn to enter through the kitchen, at the rear. Two steps up, and he was standing on the narrow porch outside the kitchen door. The drapes were drawn on windows to his right and left, and Choate half-expected the dusty panes to shatter with gunfire as he fished inside his pocket for a tool to open the lock.
After several seconds of manipulating, the locking mechanism clicked softly. Choate turned the knob. Alert for any sound of movement from within, he stepped cautiously forward. Nothing. No sound at all. He straightened.
The door swung open at his touch. Choate paused on the threshold, realizing that his silhouette made a perfect target from within. When the silent darkness did not blossom into gunfire, he let his pent-up breath escape from between clenched teeth. Too early to relax, but he could feel the tension easing slightly. Later, after he had checked the rooms and found them empty, peered beneath beds and inside closets, he would relax. Later, when he had Brown safe, they would pour a drink and toast to old times past and paranoia.
Choate stepped inside, his Desert Eagle still directed towards the floor. The empty kitchen mocked him silently, moonlight reflecting off stainless steel and porcelain. The inexpensive dining table with its small brace of broken chairs was planted in the center of the room, the spindly legs affording no concealment for a crouching enemy.
The Marine was alone.
The living room and bedroom next, the bathroom with its curtained shower he would save for last. Relief had sparked a sudden pressure in his bladder, and the soldier would be glad when he finished checking the house and found Brown.
The small sound alerted Choate as he stepped stealthily across the kitchen. From the living room came a thin, metallic grating tone, barely audible, as if some tiny clock was winding down.
Choate recognized the sound from grim experience. Without a second thought or backward glance, he turned and sprinted for the door. Split seconds left, if there was any time at all, and Choate knew if there were, he was racing for his life.
He cleared the doorway, running with his head tucked between his shoulders, like a fighter braced to take the finishing blow. Another step and he would clear the porch.
A few more yards. . .
Too late.
Behind him, Choate felt the shock wave microseconds before it arrived. He was diving forward when the awesome crack of the explosion tore the night apart, the heavy fist of its concussion slamming hard between his shoulders. Airborne, tumbling, he caught a quick, inverted glimpse of the disintegrating house, walls bowed outwards, roof in flames and canted crazily. Instinctively, he closed his eyes against the spray of shattered glass and brick and plaster.
Peppered with debris, he hit the grass and rolled with arms and legs tucked in against his body, like a fetus violently expelled from its mother's womb. A smoking strip of lumber shot overhead and speared the wall of the garage, protruding like a crazy javelin. Around him, bits and pieces of the house rained down, flaming shingles drifting lazily like embers, snagging in trees and setting boughs alight like torches.
For a moment, Choate lay immobile on the lawn, his empty lungs straining for air. At last, a gasp of breath passed the tight constriction of his throat, and he thought, I'm alive. The roaring in his ears was like a swarm of bees amplified ten thousand times; even if his eardrums had escaped concussion damage, he wouldn't hear normally for hours. Vulnerable out here in the open, he had to move.
Gingerly unfolding, the Councilor's Aide rolled onto his hands and knees. Eyes open, he could see the fire's light, even feel its heat. Sudden nausea racked his body, and he vomited the remnants of dinner a puddle in the sparse grass. He fought to keep his arms and legs from trembling as he scrambled to his feet. Struggling to maintain his balance on the second attempt to stand, he lurched in the direction of his rental car. The dark sedan was chalky now with dust and ash. A blackened two-by-four lay square across the hood. Choate raked it off before he climbed behind the wheel. Placing the Desert Eagle on the seat beside him, he put the key in the ignition and turned the engine over.
As he turned the car into the night, he breathed in deep. He was alive. Whether by luck or design, Viper had survived. Either, the kidnapper played games with him, or had made a grave miscalculation in his bomb. Either way. . .Viper smiled.
~~~~~~
"Excuse me."
Rafe looked up from the file on his desk. A small figure, in an expensive pearl-grey, cable knit sweater over fine wool slacks, stood fidgeting nervously in front of him. A silver circle dangled from his left ear making him look very exotic. His sleek black hair pulled tightly back from his face, secured in a thick braid over his shoulder, trailing down his chest, added to the image. Rafe swallowed hard.
"I'm looking for Detective Ellison. They said I could find him up here."
The detective took in the finely-chiseled, softly Asian features. Long, delicate fingers plucked nervously at the buttons of the black leather jacket he held across one arm. "He went down to Central Filing. He'll be back in a minute. Is there something I can help you with?" 'Please?' he thought.
The younger man glanced anxiously around. "Is Blair Sandburg here?"
"No. I think he's at the university."
"Could I wait for Detective Ellison?"
"Sure." Rafe led the young man to Ellison's desk. "You can sit here. Can I get you something to drink?"
"No. Do you know if he'll be long? This is an emergency."
"I could call down and see."
"Thank you."
Rafe picked up the phone and dialled. "Hey, Pete, this is Rafe. Is Jim still down there? Uh huh, okay, thanks." Hanging up the phone, he turned to the small young man watching him intently. "He's on his way up."
~~~
Ellison stepped from the elevator. He usually kept his senses dialled down when at the precinct. Too many bodies. Too many sounds, smells. But something familiar caught his attention.
Rafe met him in the hall. "You have a visitor."
Jim dialled up his hearing just in time to catch the conversations around him.
"Do you know who's sitting at Ellison's desk?"
"Who?"
"Isn't that the Councilor's son?"
"What do you think he wants with Ellison?"
"You don't think Hairboy has anything to worry about, do you?"
Jim stepped into the bull pen. "Justin," he said with some surprise.
The small man turned sharply at the sound of his name. "Oh, Detective Ellison. I was waiting to see you."
Sonnyboy quiet and polite? No way! "Can I help you with something?" Uneasiness radiated off the small body as Jim monitored his heart rate. The kid was scared. Why?
"I need to talk to you. Please. It's about Paddy."
Now Jim was really curious. "What about him?"
Justin looked around the bull pen at the anxious faces watching them. "Is there some place we can talk?"
Jim followed Justin's glance. "Come with me," he said before leading him to interrogation room one. Closing the door, he asked, "What's this all about?"
He lay the jacket across the back of a chair and knotted the fingers of both hands. "He's gone missing."
"Who?"
Flinging his hands wide, Evers began to pace. "Paddy. He left our hotel room yesterday to meet someone named Jonathan Usher and didn't come back."
Jim leaned against the table, crossing his arms on his chest. "Who's Jonathan Usher?"
Justin shrugged as he threw his braid behind him. "I don't know. But he called on the Bat Phone."
"The Bat Phone?" Jim tucked his chin and bit his lip to keep from laughing.
"That cellular Paddy keeps here." He indicated the inside of his jacket.
"The one he uses to call Brown?"
Justin nodded solemnly.
"Why didn't he talk to Brown?"
Justin shrugged again, this time resuming his pacing. "I got the feeling something was wrong with Brown and this Usher wanted Paddy to help."
Ellison adopted his best 'police' voice. "Maybe his agency sent him on a mission."
Young Evers stopped pacing in front of the detective. "I thought of that, too. But Paddy always tells me when he has to go away." Then started the nervous steps again.
The Sentinel caught the distraught young man by the shoulders and held him still. "Maybe he couldn't this time."
Justin shook his head vigorously, bouncing against Jim's grip. "Paddy always tells me. No matter what. Even if it's just goodbye." He turned great, glistening eyes at the detective. "Something's wrong."
Damn, Jim thought, how do they do it? Both he and Blair had the face and eyes that would melt even the hardest hearts. "Justin--"
Young Evers gripped the Sentinel's arm. "I know you don't like me, Detective Ellison, but please believe me, I'm not playing games. Something's wrong."
All the animosities from the gala incident melted away. "What do you want me to do?"
"You're a detective. Paddy trusts you. He likes you. Find him for me." Justin paused for a beat, then added, "Please?"
~~~~~~
Choate opened the door to the hotel, warily scanning the room. The desk
clerk had told him Justin left in a hurry about an hour and a half ago. He didn't
know where his young lover was, but at least he was out of harm's way, for now.
The big man didn't think his adversary would try for him here, but, one never
knew. He had to get Justin out of here and someplace safe, soon. Slowly, the
Marine entered the room. Cautiously checking, as he had the house, all closets,
under the bed. . . nothing. Choate dragged himself into the bathroom, first
retrieving the first aid kit he always carried, from his bag. It was adequate for most
emergencies, except broken bones. Choate had already eliminated that possibility.
The aching and throbbing of his arms, legs and chest were due to bruising rather
than fractures. He couldn't let his lover see him like this.
Once inside the bathroom, Choate opened his pants, lifted the lid and began emptying his bladder. While painful, the stream was clean, no blood. He spent another moment probing his abdomen, his groin and kidneys with the fingers of a medic educated on the field of battle. Satisfied, finally, that nothing had been punctured, torn or twisted, he stripped off his tattered and filthy clothes and stood before the full-length mirror naked.
Wood splinters, bits of plaster, rock and glass had peppered Choate's body, clinging to his clothes and sifting down around him as he stripped. The skin sustained lacerations in half a dozen places, and his back mottled with bruises in a camouflage pattern that would linger for days. His face, too, bore bruises, a smudge beneath one eye would not wipe away, and his eyebrows had been singed. His entire body reeked of fire and smoke.
"What happened to you?"
The quiet question startled the Marine from his inspection. He jumped and spun, reaching reflexively for his gun. Halting the motion when the speaker's identity registered. "How'd you get in?"
"Justin's key." Detective Ellison leaned against the doorframe.
"Good way to get yourself shot." Choate flexed his back and shoulders as he quietly asked, "Where is he?"
"With Blair at the loft. I had a hell of a time convincing him not to come with me. I don't envy you, man." Ellison's face showed amusement, admiration and annoyance. "He's a handful."
Choate smiled wryly. "Yes. He is," he said as he turned back to start the shower.
"Now, want to tell me what happened to you?"
The Marine shrugged a shoulder, then winced. "I got careless."
Jim snorted. "If that were true, we wouldn't be talking."
"I walked into a trap." The big Marine leaned against the tile and checked the water's temperature with his hand.
"Why?"
Choate turned to look at him. "Because that's what I was expected to do." He stepped into the shower and slid the door closed.
"You gonna tell me what's going on?" Jim shouted over the running water.
"No," Choate shouted back.
Jim became animated although Choate couldn't see him. "Where's your backup? The rest of your team?"
"On assignment." He turned his back to the spray, wincing as the water dislodged fine pieces of debris.
Jim heard each grain of sand and glass particle as the water extracted them from his skin and as it hit the porcelain liner of the shower. "Isn't there anybody else you can call?"
"Nobody I trust enough," he called back, reaching for the soap and the lufta sponge.
"You can't do this alone, Choate!" Jim told him, leaning against the wall. "You could've been killed. You need someone to help you on this one."
"Someone. . .like you?" he asked, working up a soapy lather.
"Someone like me."
Gingerly, yet efficiently, the older man ran the sponge over his body. "I don't want you involved."
"That's too bad, I'm already involved." The Sentinel heard Choate's heart start to race as he stretched to wash his back and knew the man was in serious pain. "Justin filed a report with the police."
"You can make it disappear." He stood under the spray to rinse the soap and the rest of the grime away.
Ellison reached for the towel draped over a chair. "I could."
The water stopped and the Marine stepped from the shower taking the towel the detective held out to him. "But you won't."
"Nope."
Choate began drying himself off with quick, precise movements as he avoided Jim's assessing gaze.
"Tell me again why didn't you just pick up that cell phone you carry and call someone else?"
"I tried. No one's readily available and time is of the essence. Whoever planned this little scene timed it perfectly." He wrapped the towel tightly around his waist and stepped around Ellison.
"What about Brown?" Jim asked, following him.
"That's just it. This is all about Brown." Choate opened his suitcase and pulled out a clean change of clothes.
"What?"
Choate pulled on his underwear and tossed the towel into the bathroom. Reaching over into a small case on the bed, he pulled out a packet. Opening it, the Marine held up a piece of jewelry and a bloodied piece of cloth.
Ellison took them. "What's this?"
"The ring belongs to Winn. . ." he paused, looking at Jim. "Brown. The shirt, too."
"How do you know the ring's his?"
Choate studied the Sentinel. "I gave it to him."
"And the blood?"
Choate carefully shrugged into a sweater. "It's his."
"Do you know who has him?"
The Marine shook his head as he pulled on a pair of heavy pants. "It could be anybody."
"Does he have any enemies?"
Choate's laughter came out in a short bark. "Too many to count."
"Someone who could do this?"
Choate shook his head. "If Winn was taken, he didn't think it was an enemy."
"Meaning?"
"Winn let his guard down for this one. He'd never do that with an enemy."
Jim held up the cloth. "And a friend would do this?"
Choate didn't answer.
"Okay, so what's our next move?"
Choate's eyebrow raised at the word 'our'. "We wait."
~~~~~~
Hunter waited until his prey entered the house to approach under in the comfort of darkness, climbing a nearby tree to watch. The trap surprise had been art work, timed to perfection, executed with a mastery of detail. He could easily have finished him off from that vantage point when he passed a window, but Hunter didn't want to make this easy. Although his backers wanted a quick, sure kill, he was determined his prey would suffer first, agonize about his next move, worry if the bait was still alive, if he could rescue him before it was too late. No, Hunter could wait a few more hours--days, at most--to end it all. With final vindication only inches away from his fingers, Hunter stolidly refused to take shortcuts, turn the contest into something base and primitive. Stoop to Viper's level.
Leaving nothing to chance, Hunter had secured his vehicle a block from the trap. He doubled back in the direction of the house next door, in case someone watched him, then went through darkened yards that he had scouted earlier to make certain they were free of dogs. A brisk ten minute walk later, he took up his post and waited.
It had been so easy! The trap was wired with enough C-4 to reduce the house to rubble in a matter of moments. He didn't want to get into a firefight, just enough sound and fury to shake and rattle the pragmatic Viper into making a mistake.
The timing had been critical; he'd had to estimate when Viper would enter,
how long it would take him to scout the house, where he would be at any given
time. Hunter had secured his explosive beneath the floor boards in a front closet.
Close enough to make the attack look real, but, at the same time, giving his prey a
running chance. Not much of a chance, but if the Viper was fast enough, quick
enough, he'd survive. If not, well, the game was over and he'd continue the fun
with his bait. Either way, Hunter won.
The detonator had been chosen for its noise potential, taken out of
production for that very reason. It had the tendency to give the target a few seconds
warning before going off. Sometimes those seconds were enough to escape. Few
professionals used the obsolete devices anymore, but they were still around, for
those who knew where to look.
Hunter knew that Viper would recognize the detonator's whirling sound, a warning as distinctive as a rattlesnake's for anyone with demolition experience.
And Viper had experience in destroying all manner of things. He was an expert at it.
There was potential danger, even with his vantage point, finger on the radio remote control. After all, he couldn't really see his quarry once Viper entered the house. He had to estimate the progress of his prey, calculate his stride, factor in hesitations that a hunted man must feel on realizing he might be walking straight into a trap.
Anxiety made Hunter punch the button early, but it had worked out fine. The Marine had reacted like the pro he was, escaping the explosion with microseconds to spare before it disintegrated the house behind him. Hunter anxiously waited in his perch to see if there had been a disabling injury. Half hoping there was, so he could climb down and finish the job himself.
He watched as Viper painfully dragged himself to his feet and limped to his car.
Hunter wondered where the prey would go next. The Marine would be desperate for answers now, aware that someone toyed with him. And that the game had turned deadly. Cut off all alternate avenues for aid.
That he was lone.
~~~~~~
Hunter stood in the elaborately-styled bathroom and stared at the image in the mirror. Time and hatred hadn't been kind to his face, but his body still ran at peak condition. Things could've been different if only. . .if only. . .fuck! Tearing the soiled clothes from his body, he stepped into the shower's already running water. For several minutes, the man let the harsh spray pelt him with near-scalding droplets, turning slowly letting the water run down his scalp, steaming rivulets down his chest, his back, his ass. Finally, he picked up the bar of plain white soap and began to wash himself with quick, efficient strokes. He washed away the smell of sweat and smoke, but he couldn't vanquish the scent of the revulsion in his memories. Fine. They heated his blood more that the water ever could.
In his mind's eye, he once again saw Viper crouched in the darkness, waiting for death to strike him from the shadows. The explosions had rattled the soldier. He had shaken when he rose, from shock. No, it had been fear! Yes, Hunter had made the great Viper afraid.
Suddenly, Hunter felt arousal stir in his groin. Ahhh. How long had it been? Taking the erect organ in both hands, he stroked it with a firm, almost punishing grip. Too long! He thought of Viper's fear again, and what he planned to do to him when he caught him. . .killed him.
Then he heard a voice call to him from the other side of the bathroom door.
No need to do this alone.
He shut off the water with a sharp twist of his wrist.
~~~~~~
Rupert sat at the kitchen table, calming eating his breakfast when his brother burst into the room. Nigel's face was puffy and his lips were bruised.
"I want out!"
"You want something to eat?" Rupert asked, ignoring his brother's outburst. It wasn't the first time for his complaint.
"I want out, Rue."
"Out?"
"It's too much! We made a mistake. I want out."
"Will you keep your voice down," he hissed at him, making a placating gesture with his hands.
"No, I will not! He hurt me, Rue! Again! Why can't he do you! I don't like him! He makes my skin crawl. I want out of this! Nothing's worth this! Since when did my job become to keep him satisfied," he choked on the word, "sexually."
"Nigel, sit down."
"I can't sit down!" he screamed in frustration. "I told you! He hurt me! All I did was knock on the bathroom door and ask him how much longer he'd be. The man's a maniac, Rue!" Nigel's eyes were moist and wide with fear. "He made me do things! And I haven't had any sleep. He stayed hard so long! Nothing I did--" Now he burst into tears. "I'm going home! Let him have it all! I don't want it anymore!"
"You can't leave me!" Rupert said in horror.
"You do him once, then tell me you want to stay in this."
"Yes, Rue."
Both turned at the voice by the door. Hunter stood there, stark naked, his member rigidly erect.
"Why don't you 'do' me. Better yet, you and your brother both 'do' me." End, part 1
****