could have been any inner city from London to Sydney to New Orleans. But dark skin glistening through the haze of smoke, the cut of the clothes, the babble of a language he couldn’t understand, the flashing smiles and uninhibited laughter, all said Africa. Some country teetering under the assault of rebels with a cause. Terrorists bent on jihad, greedy bastards intent on taking over gem and mineral profits, or simply fanatics who got their kicks from rape and genocide. People who needed weapons so they could play king of the mountain, spraying their AK-47s in an arc of hate until no one was left standing.
Heat. Humidity. Hashish. And a home brew Sergei could only hope had enough alcohol to overwhelm the germs. Govnó , but he wanted out of here! Wanted to bolt for the cargo plane he’d come in and be back in civilization in time for a shower, a slug of scotch, and a night between clean sheets in a first-class hotel. If this miserable excuse for a country had one.
But business was business, and he had to be sure this new client would become a regular customer. Sergei always escorted the first shipment himself. Good PR. And he had a gift for sniffing out anomalies. If he found one and couldn’t pin it down, that was it. No more shipments. Better to lose a bit of business now than put the Organizatsiya at risk.
But this run had been textbook, and he wasn’t about to blow it by insulting his buyers. So here he was, slumped on a sagging couch, sipping God only knew what kind of poisonous brew, and breathing in enough hashish fumes to scramble the brains of an elephant. Communication was a problem. The only guy who spoke any language he knew had disappeared into a bedroom with the female Sergei had picked out for himself. The remaining women didn’t inspire him to get up off the couch, let alone get up anything else.
He sipped. He tried to smile and look friendly. A ring of dark faces smiled back. The woman next to him giggled, laid her long slim fingers over his flabby dick, flashed him a come-hither look impossible to mistake. Sergei summoned the full force of the Tokarev charm as he politely shook his head.
The girl pouted beautifully, though obviously not seriously distressed. She turned to the handsome young man on her right, saying a few words Sergei couldn’t understand. The young man threw back his head and guffawed, strong white teeth flashing through the haze of smoke. Impugning his virility, no doubt. He had to get out of here before he popped somebody and blew the whole deal.
The young man—with a body like a Mr. Clean made of dark chocolate—stood up, nodded to another young warrior, just as well built. With many grins and winks they dragged him up from the sunken, nearly springless couch and propelled him toward a back room, where they waved him inside and, still grinning broadly, shut the door, leaving him alone.
Huh? Maybe they thought he was dampening the party spirits. Whatever. A few hours’ sleep before he took off would rid his head of the buzz. The divan-style bed that took up most of the tiny room looked surprisingly inviting. There was even a pillow and a brightly colored woven blanket.
Sergei dropped onto the low bed, concentrating on removing his boots—the damn laces tended to go in and out of focus. Not exactly a plus to be thrown out of the celebration, no matter how good-natured the eviction, but what the hell, in a few hours he’d be airborne. Civilization, here I come.
He was having the wet dream to end all wet dreams. His cock pulsed with the mother of all hard-ons. His body twitched. Soft hands touched him . . . everywhere. Eyes shut, he reveled in it. Bozhe moi , he was going to go off like Vesuvius.
Too many hands, too many places. Sergei liked women, but only one at a time. He had no taste for kink. His eyes flew open. He gagged.
He was looking straight into the wide dark eyes of a boy not more than nine. A boy with his mouth filled with cock. The soft fingers and warm
Heat. Humidity. Hashish. And a home brew Sergei could only hope had enough alcohol to overwhelm the germs. Govnó , but he wanted out of here! Wanted to bolt for the cargo plane he’d come in and be back in civilization in time for a shower, a slug of scotch, and a night between clean sheets in a first-class hotel. If this miserable excuse for a country had one.
But business was business, and he had to be sure this new client would become a regular customer. Sergei always escorted the first shipment himself. Good PR. And he had a gift for sniffing out anomalies. If he found one and couldn’t pin it down, that was it. No more shipments. Better to lose a bit of business now than put the Organizatsiya at risk.
But this run had been textbook, and he wasn’t about to blow it by insulting his buyers. So here he was, slumped on a sagging couch, sipping God only knew what kind of poisonous brew, and breathing in enough hashish fumes to scramble the brains of an elephant. Communication was a problem. The only guy who spoke any language he knew had disappeared into a bedroom with the female Sergei had picked out for himself. The remaining women didn’t inspire him to get up off the couch, let alone get up anything else.
He sipped. He tried to smile and look friendly. A ring of dark faces smiled back. The woman next to him giggled, laid her long slim fingers over his flabby dick, flashed him a come-hither look impossible to mistake. Sergei summoned the full force of the Tokarev charm as he politely shook his head.
The girl pouted beautifully, though obviously not seriously distressed. She turned to the handsome young man on her right, saying a few words Sergei couldn’t understand. The young man threw back his head and guffawed, strong white teeth flashing through the haze of smoke. Impugning his virility, no doubt. He had to get out of here before he popped somebody and blew the whole deal.
The young man—with a body like a Mr. Clean made of dark chocolate—stood up, nodded to another young warrior, just as well built. With many grins and winks they dragged him up from the sunken, nearly springless couch and propelled him toward a back room, where they waved him inside and, still grinning broadly, shut the door, leaving him alone.
Huh? Maybe they thought he was dampening the party spirits. Whatever. A few hours’ sleep before he took off would rid his head of the buzz. The divan-style bed that took up most of the tiny room looked surprisingly inviting. There was even a pillow and a brightly colored woven blanket.
Sergei dropped onto the low bed, concentrating on removing his boots—the damn laces tended to go in and out of focus. Not exactly a plus to be thrown out of the celebration, no matter how good-natured the eviction, but what the hell, in a few hours he’d be airborne. Civilization, here I come.
He was having the wet dream to end all wet dreams. His cock pulsed with the mother of all hard-ons. His body twitched. Soft hands touched him . . . everywhere. Eyes shut, he reveled in it. Bozhe moi , he was going to go off like Vesuvius.
Too many hands, too many places. Sergei liked women, but only one at a time. He had no taste for kink. His eyes flew open. He gagged.
He was looking straight into the wide dark eyes of a boy not more than nine. A boy with his mouth filled with cock. The soft fingers and warm
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