mouths teasing his torso belonged to two girls not much older than the boy. All three jumped back as Sergei surged to a sitting position, head in his hands, struggling to convince himself this was all a nightmare—he’d look up and the kids would be gone.
He shuddered, opened his eyes. The three kids were staring at him—the giant white man—fear shining from their eyes. He was displeased. They had failed.
Sergei swallowed hard. Ignoring the nausea that threatened, he forced himself to speak quietly. Not that they could understand his words, but he hoped his tone would get through. He told them it was all right, he was not displeased. Reaching for his wallet, which, even when buzzed, he had sense enough to keep under his pillow, he gave each of them enough money to support their families for the next six months. He put his fingers to his lips, shook his index finger in what he hoped was universally understood as “Never tell a soul.” Then he shooed them out.
The three children, eyes gleaming with the extent of his largesse and acknowledgment of the secret to be kept, backed away, finally turning to scramble through a curtain he hadn’t even noticed at the rear of the room. He could only hope that anyone who might have been listening accepted that he was pleased. The big white man who brought automatic weapons, RPGs, and plastic explosives would go away happy and bring in another load soon.
Sergei sat on the edge of the low bed, knees up to his chin, and fought back nausea. He’d just been fucked by children . The fact that he hadn’t actually come didn’t matter. A child, a boy child, had gone down on him. The sight was seared into his brain forever. He’d never be the same.
Bozhe moi, Bozhe moi, Bozhe moi! What had he done? How could he have gotten himself into this mess? Play on the Dark Side long enough . . .
No, fuckit, no! This wasn’t part of the plan.
Nick’s eyes snapped open. Somehow he expected to see the wall hanging from the hospital. Christ on the Cross. Instead, it was Ms Frosty, looking remarkably hot and bothered. He dragged in a deep, shuddering breath. There was something about a woman wearing nothing but transparent lavender froth and a shiny black nine mil that really turned him—
Govnó! His dream slammed back. Horror. Shame. Nausea. He closed his eyes and shook. In spite of the cool night, he felt sweat dripping down his forehead.
“Nick! Nick, it’s just a dream. You’re on the island. Safe.” Frosty’s fingers touched his shoulder.
He knocked her hand away. “Don’t touch me! I’m filth.”
“Nick, wake up! Whatever you saw, you have to tell me about it.”
In pithy Russian he told her what she could do with that idea.
“Pay attention, idiót ! she barked, giving the epithet the Russian punch on the last syllable. Your nightmare could be a memory. And that’s what I’m here for, remember? I don’t care what you’ve done. I care about all the people who may die if you don’t get your memory back. So stop making like a panicked mouse—which doesn’t suit you at all—and tell me what you saw before the spigot turns off and it’s all down the drain.”
“No way, no how.” He didn’t even open his eyes. Frosty shoved his legs toward the center of the bed and plopped down beside him. Shitty little bulldog.
“Nick. Now . Before it’s gone.”
He slitted one eye open. With hands clasped, face anxious, long blonde hair not quite covering boobs a pole dancer might have envied, Valentina Frost looked like a cross between an avenging angel and a sex goddess. Both images made him sick. Much too good for Sergei Tokarev, who’d done it with children.
“Too late,” he muttered. “You know how dreams are. Overactive imagination gone wild. The little that lingers isn’t worth telling.”
She stashed the Glock on the far side of the bed, then leaned over him, hands propped on either side of his waist. “Out with it, Nick. I’ll take any little thing I can
He shuddered, opened his eyes. The three kids were staring at him—the giant white man—fear shining from their eyes. He was displeased. They had failed.
Sergei swallowed hard. Ignoring the nausea that threatened, he forced himself to speak quietly. Not that they could understand his words, but he hoped his tone would get through. He told them it was all right, he was not displeased. Reaching for his wallet, which, even when buzzed, he had sense enough to keep under his pillow, he gave each of them enough money to support their families for the next six months. He put his fingers to his lips, shook his index finger in what he hoped was universally understood as “Never tell a soul.” Then he shooed them out.
The three children, eyes gleaming with the extent of his largesse and acknowledgment of the secret to be kept, backed away, finally turning to scramble through a curtain he hadn’t even noticed at the rear of the room. He could only hope that anyone who might have been listening accepted that he was pleased. The big white man who brought automatic weapons, RPGs, and plastic explosives would go away happy and bring in another load soon.
Sergei sat on the edge of the low bed, knees up to his chin, and fought back nausea. He’d just been fucked by children . The fact that he hadn’t actually come didn’t matter. A child, a boy child, had gone down on him. The sight was seared into his brain forever. He’d never be the same.
Bozhe moi, Bozhe moi, Bozhe moi! What had he done? How could he have gotten himself into this mess? Play on the Dark Side long enough . . .
No, fuckit, no! This wasn’t part of the plan.
Nick’s eyes snapped open. Somehow he expected to see the wall hanging from the hospital. Christ on the Cross. Instead, it was Ms Frosty, looking remarkably hot and bothered. He dragged in a deep, shuddering breath. There was something about a woman wearing nothing but transparent lavender froth and a shiny black nine mil that really turned him—
Govnó! His dream slammed back. Horror. Shame. Nausea. He closed his eyes and shook. In spite of the cool night, he felt sweat dripping down his forehead.
“Nick! Nick, it’s just a dream. You’re on the island. Safe.” Frosty’s fingers touched his shoulder.
He knocked her hand away. “Don’t touch me! I’m filth.”
“Nick, wake up! Whatever you saw, you have to tell me about it.”
In pithy Russian he told her what she could do with that idea.
“Pay attention, idiót ! she barked, giving the epithet the Russian punch on the last syllable. Your nightmare could be a memory. And that’s what I’m here for, remember? I don’t care what you’ve done. I care about all the people who may die if you don’t get your memory back. So stop making like a panicked mouse—which doesn’t suit you at all—and tell me what you saw before the spigot turns off and it’s all down the drain.”
“No way, no how.” He didn’t even open his eyes. Frosty shoved his legs toward the center of the bed and plopped down beside him. Shitty little bulldog.
“Nick. Now . Before it’s gone.”
He slitted one eye open. With hands clasped, face anxious, long blonde hair not quite covering boobs a pole dancer might have envied, Valentina Frost looked like a cross between an avenging angel and a sex goddess. Both images made him sick. Much too good for Sergei Tokarev, who’d done it with children.
“Too late,” he muttered. “You know how dreams are. Overactive imagination gone wild. The little that lingers isn’t worth telling.”
She stashed the Glock on the far side of the bed, then leaned over him, hands propped on either side of his waist. “Out with it, Nick. I’ll take any little thing I can