Gone One Knows Not Where
Alex blinked at stars inside his head. The slap had caught him
totally off guard, snapped his head around so fast his neck tendons pinged.
"You do not disobey me, Alex," Peskow said. His voice was soft
now. Heat was beginning to rush back into Alex's face in the shape of the
old man's hand. His own humiliation. Rage. He opened
his mouth to protest and Peskow slapped him again. Backhand this time, other cheek
and heavy knuckles impacted the bone hard enough to knock him back a step.
"I said 'don't speak'." Peskow's voice still soft. In the three
months since Alex had come to live in Peskow's private apartments, training under
his watchful eye, Alex had yet to hear him raise his voice in
anger.
Like he couldn't be bothered to waste his breath... Alex's teeth
ground together hard.
"You fucking son of a—" Iron fingers drove hard into his solar plexus and Alex crumpled to his knees. Agony so cold he
thought
he was going to lose control and nothing could get air into his
lungs.
He closed his eyes, folded in around the pain to protect himself from
the follow-kick that never came.
Heavy boot heels walked away across the creaky floorboards.
Leaving
him there. Leaving him to die. Fucker. Fuck.
Alex
wanted to pound his rage into the floor with both his fists, wanted to scream,
spit—pulverize the old man, shove him up against the wall and slam and slam...
He gasped, gulped at air—against his will. It hurt so
much. Wheezing gasps brought only tiny lungfuls. Not enough to live
on, but his body kept on trying. He heard the footsteps again but
couldn't
turn his head to look. They didn't come near him. Creak of
Peskow's
chair, the dull clink of a gun being dissassembled. The smell of gun
oil. His own wheezy, gurgling breaths. The room was so quiet
every sound seemed rimmed with gold. Alex's vision still blurred with tears of pain and rage took in the swath of faded
carpet
under his knees, the wedge of matte gold sunshine. Somehow it
seemed
unearthly beautiful. This wasn't fair.
It had been such a little stupid thing...
Peskow wouldn't even have known about it if Alex hadn't told
him.
And what was it? Nothing, a little rough trade. A little
hand
to mouth. Peskow already knew him for a whore, had sent him
out to catch that cop's—Renko's—attention in the first
place.
He'd only done his job if it came to that—so why this
bullshit.
Alex managed a deeper, sobbing breath, raised his head. The room
tilted roughly and he sagged back onto his heels.
Because he'd 'disobeyed'. Because Peskow's precious orders had
gone unheeded, for once.
Get him away, Peskow had said. But don't get
close.
He mustn't be able to identify you later. But Peskow hadn't
been
there, had he? For a middle aged man, the cop had been fast.
Enough to keep Alex within sighting distance every second of his
pursuit.
And persistent—through the fucking knee deep snow, across the train
tracks, into the park. And Alex getting tired (and lost as
the trees got thicker, though he'd never tell Peskow that) and the cop
still dogging him, closing. He'd made his choice where the woods
got deep.
//Turned and stopped, breathing hard, hands on his knees, as if ready
to run again. But no intention of running. He could, he
knew,
take the man down with two quick blows. Even kill him, he
supposed.
It was what he'd spent the last four years learning how to do. But
that would not have done. And besides, the cop had stopped when he
stopped, stood there watching him in the fading light, ragged puffs of
steam rising to envelope his head.
//"What do you want from me?" Alex had called over to
him.
The cop had merely laughed. He was not so old, Alex realized now
that they were closer. And the bulk was mostly coat and
muscle,
not desk-fat. He was city militia, not KGB. But he was not
acting as he should.
//"I wanted to find out why you ran", the cop answered.
His Russian was aristocratic, as was his angular face, blonde hair.
//"I ran because you chased me," Alex said.
//"Are you a criminal? the cop had asked. "Are you carrying
stolen goods?" He still seemed to be laughing, not taking this
seriously
at all. Russians, Alex thought. All of them bug-fuck
nuts.
But he didn't think he believed it of this one. There was a
look there, familiar as his own face in the mirror. Alex felt
himself
stir under the cold, thin denim of his pants.
//"Why don't you come and search me," he said. And
watched
for the spark of fire in the other man's eyes. There? Not
there?
Hard to see in the deepening twilight, and there was a beating in it or
worse if he'd judged wrong.
//"Turn around," the cop said, motioning with his head.
"Hands against that tree." Alex had felt his heart kick,
and
turned his body slowly, not taking his eyes off the cop, even as he
leaned
against the tree. Rough cold bark under his fingers and
palms.
The sleeves of his too small jacket rucked up on his wrists. He
was
bareheaded, underdressed for the Moskow winter in his knock-off jeans
and
plastic-soled shoes. The sudden warmth at his back nearly made him
writhe with pleasure. Large, strong hands ran his ribs, hips,
thighs.
Brushed light and hot along his obvious arousal. Heat of a warmed
body in an open coat and the unmistakeable brush of hardness against his
ass and this time he did writhe, pressed himself back shamelessly.
//Rabbit punch to the kidneys drove him hard against the tree.
He scraped his chin going down as his knees gave out. Alarm
bells ringing too late in the wreckage of his head, and he was yanked
back
by his collar, spun on his knees. Cold wetness of snow soaking
through,
right to the bone maybe.
//Big hand grabbed his head, rubbed it hard against hard heat of the
man's groin—coarse wool of his pants, clean smell of bleach and
aroused
man underneath. Alex aching despite his fear. Because
of it. The hand tightened in his hair, too long now, by half—
pulled
his head back hard. With his other hand the cop opened his fly,
pulled
himself out. Pale violet wand against the melding darkness of the
woods—his cock was long and slim, steaming in the cold air.
//"Take it," he hissed. "Go on..." Alex
opened
his mouth and was impaled. Choked. The long cock slipping
past
his teeth, down into his throat in one smooth thrust. Alex
gagging,
tried to pull back but the big hand held his head. Thrust deep and
hard, battering, tearing at him. Sputtering and choking, tears
running
from his eyes. He clutched at the cop's coat, hands spasming
wildly
unable to hold still. The big hand held him while the cop pulled
back just far enough for Alex to grab a ragged gasp of air. Then
thrust again, impaling him—hard and fast. Deep into his throat,
he felt the tissues swelling sending little rivulets of sickly-sweet
pleasure
through his limbs. The pressure grew. Hard as rock in his
thin,
tight pants and he dropped one cold frantic hand to struggle his fly
open,
shove his hand to take himself.
//Ratcheting up and up as he struggled to catch breaths between
rounds
of thrusting. Never enough air and the night had starting to
grey
and sparkle at the corners of his eyes. And still the cop kept on
and on and Alex found himself rocking, rocking and suddenly up on the
edge
of someplace wonderful and dark. And suddenly higher still and
coming
hard enough to crack bone, split stone, head bursting, pouring out his
cock. The night world gone from grey to sparkling black.
Swallowing
and drowning, come rushing up to fill his sinuses, full his lungs.
Big hand still holding his head and he was going to drown in come and
cock
and he didn't even care.//
Alex found the pain had lessened somewhat, he could manage enough
air
to feed his starving muscles. He struggled up onto his knees
again.
"It was dark," he blurted out, his voice so odd and raspy he sounded
like an old man. "He won't remember me."
Long silence, but the quiet clank and scratch of gun-cleaning
stopped.
Alex closed his eyes, wondering if the bullet would come now. The
gentle touch of fingers on his head took him by surprise. He
opened
his eyes to find Peskow leaning over him, brushing his long hair out of
his eyes.
"He'll remember you," Peskow said, and his other hand moved and Alex
saw the gun and blanched with sudden, depthless terror. But
Peskow's palm was open on the butt, holding the gun out to him, not
at
him. The old man's expression almost tender as he spoke words that
Alex knew almost before they were even said:
"So now you will have to kill him."
Learning to Love the Hawk II
by The Spike
Vassily Peskow's apartment
Garden Ring district
Moskow, U.S.S.R
January 3, 1984
