He stood like a medieval prince surveying his
battling warriors. He was part of them, yet
somehow above them, aloof, an aristocrat among
peasants. Of average height, he looked taller
because of the fit of the form-hugging white
jeans under his long, black coat. The wind blew
the unbuttoned coat open now and again, exposing
the smooth muscularity of thigh and abdomen,
chest and neck. It was the eyes, though, that
made the breath catch in her throat, made her
mouth go dry and her stomach flutter. Those
large, glittering aquamarine eyes that missed
nothing and saw everything. Could they see her
where she hid herself, thinking to be safe?
Could they somehow penetrate darkness, see
through the camouflage of unmarked van and in
through the pinhole sized lens opening of her
surveillance camera? She thought they might very
well do that.
“He can’t see you, y’know,” Jack told her when she
shrank back in her chair. The veteran SAS operative
and liaison with the gangs unit of the Sydney police
hadn’t even looked up from the display on his
computer, but her chair had squeaked at her sudden
jerky movement, and he knew.
“He’s - um - impressive,” she choked out, sitting
back, taking her eye away from the lenspiece. “Are
you sure he’s right?”
The man grunted, which she took for reaffirmation of
his choice, while she shook her head doubtfully. “I
dunno, Jack, I’ve never worked successfully with a
skinhead, they’re too indoctrinated, too convinced
of the right of their beliefs.”
He glanced over, amusement showing for once in his
normally impassive face, “Surely that’s not self
doubt I hear.”
She made a face at him and reapplied herself to the
study of the man standing alone on the little rise
in the park while his “soldiers” rousted and fought
with a group of oriental youths. The melee seemed
pretty evenly matched given that all bore knives,
truncheons, or both, but the lone watcher never
moved from his position of authority or betrayed any
doubt of the outcome of the fight. Once again, she
had the distinct feeling that he knew he was being
watched. She caught the flash of steel as he flipped
open a deadly-looking knife and played with it for a
bit, running his long fingers over the shining blade
and the smooth handle. She realized it wasn’t so
much a weapon at the moment as it was a way to keep
himself occupied. The bastard was actually bored!
She sat back, laughing to herself.
“You got that, did you?” Jack inquired in amusement.
“Good, your eye hasn’t failed you.”
“Did you doubt me?” she teased.
“Not really,” he said dryly. “Okay, the shooter is
in place. Are we on?”
She nodded and returned to her study of the man who
was their target. “We’re on. He’s still there in
plain sight, a child could hit him there.”
“Go,” Jack breathed into his tiny microphone.
Nothing happened for a moment or two, then there
came a slight “pop!” and the imposing figure on the
little hilltop crumpled to the ground. Three shadowy
figures ran silently up to him, seized him by arms
and legs and quickly rushed him out of the open into
the cover of the trees. Less than two minutes later
there came a tattoo of knocks on the rear of the
van, and Jack opened the locked doors.
“Get him in here and fastened down before they miss
him.”
The operatives, who were as camouflaged as if they
were part of a covert operation in the Middle East,
swiftly threw their prize into the back of the van,
dumped him unceremoniously onto a stretcher and
proceeded to buckle him onto it by means of strong,
thick leather straps, one on each ankle and wrist,
and two across his body. “Nice and tight,” Jack
encouraged them, “this boy’s a nasty one, don't want
him to get loose.”
The leader of the ops, who reminded her of a
football halfback, looked up with a flash of perfect
white teeth. “No worries, mate, this larrikin isn’t
going anyplace.” He gave the strap across the
unconscious man’s belly an extra vicious yank,
grunted in satisfaction, and jumped down out of the
van, shutting the doors behind him. Jack relatched
the lock and they drove off through the night with
their unconscious cargo totally unaware of the odd
turn his life was about to take.
Behind them, the operatives melted into the darkness
as if they’d never been there. The battling gangs
continued their combat, although the skinheads,
realizing their leader had vanished, began to panic
and fall back. “Where is he?” they asked one
another. “Where’s Hando?”
That worthy was already far away. Though they didn’t
know it, his gang would never see him again.
He woke all at once - no drowsy, half-sleepy
explorations of the surface on which he lay; no
questioning touches of fingertips against
bedclothes; no curious glances. Instead, the
aquamarine eyes were closed one moment and wide
open, wide awake the next. And angry. His whole body
tensed and thrust outward against the straps,
shaking the stretcher.
She fell back, even though she knew he couldn't get
loose, it still rattled her that he was so strong so
quickly after the dose of sleep drug he'd been
given. A hand on her arm. She glanced up to meet
Jack's amused brown eyes and shrugged, a little
half-smile on her lips. "I forgot - just for a
moment."
The furious blue-green gaze shifted from her face to
Jack's, then back. If anger had been heat, it would
have been well over 500 degrees Celsius inside the
van. "Where the fuckin' hell am I?" he demanded, his
voice hoarse from the drugs. He thrust against the
straps several more times, jarring the stretcher
until she was afraid it would collapse under the
abuse.
"Shut up," Jack suggested in a mild voice, but he
got a grip on the man's chin with the strong fingers
of his right hand, and he leaned down so their noses
were almost touching, keeping his eyes locked to the
glaring eyes of the now motionless skinhead. "You'd
do best to lie still, keep your trap shut and learn
to say 'yes sir' and 'no sir' before you open that
mouth again."
"Yeah?" the skinhead called Hando asked in a deadly
calm whisper, ignoring the grip on his face, "What
are you and your pet pussycat gonna do to me if I
don't?"
Jack glanced over at the woman, who merely blinked
once, as though they had just exchanged some
telepathic message. He looked back down at the man
whose jaw he could have dislocated with one twist of
his wrist. Instead, he let loose of him, moving his
fingers away slowly, in a long, sliding caress of
fingertips against stubbled flesh and bone. Smiling
calmly, Jack leaned down and took that sulky mouth
in a long, deep kiss filled with the promise of
humiliation and delights to come. The jackbooted
feet kicked then stilled as Hando's breathing
quickened in time with his growing outrage. His
bound hands opened and closed into fists repeatedly,
then stayed open, fingers spread like the large
appendages of starfish. His whole body was rigid
except for the rise and fall of the muscular chest.
When Jack finally lifted his mouth off him, Hando
panted like he'd just finished a race. He gazed up
into the cheerful face looking down at him, then
shifted his eyes to the woman's face, as though
seeking confirmation of his situation. "Fuck me," he
muttered when he saw nothing in her eyes but mild
curiosity.
"Exactly," Jack murmured, patting the well-cut pecs
under the black tee shirt. His fingers went right to
the flat, just-budding nipple on the left and rubbed
it through the shirt, then moved to the right one,
squeezing and pinching it. The bound man's breathing
quickened just a bit as his body refused to obey his
brain's instructions to remain detached. Jack
chuckled and patted his chest once more, sliding his
hand down the flat belly onto the bulge in the
crotch of the white denim jeans. He squeezed and
patted there as well, all the while smiling into the
green-blue eyes fringed with lashes any woman would
kill for. "Fuck you is right, Hando."
Hando locked his eyes shut then and willed himself
anywhere but where he was. He wasn't sure exactly
who the man was, and why the woman just watched him
like some kind of laboratory rat in a maze, but he
knew it wasn't going to be easy or pleasant finding
out. "Bloody hell," he whispered, but he didn't open
his eyes again for a long time.
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