Date: Sun, 11 Nov 2007 16:34:12 -0500
From: Tinnean <tinneantoo@embarqmail.com>
Subject: Mann of My Dreams 4: A Man Not to Be Crossed

Notes: The Nimda Virus was first discovered in 9/18/01. Scarfing is not
condoned by the management, and neither is drug abuse. Call me a
spoilsport. This is for Gail, who beta's and cheers me on.

A Man Not to be Crossed
Part 1/1

Someone had discovered I was keeping a file on Quinton Mann.

Going on the premise of hiding in plain sight, I had it buried in the
recesses of the computer in my office, surrounded by so many firewalls and
fail safes that if anyone tried to access it, a DFWM worm was triggered. A
little something I had come up with, it was so insidious it made the Nimda
virus look like a stroll in the park. There had been no howls from the
Internet community, so I knew my security hadn't been breached.

But some of the information from a disk I hadn't had the opportunity to
wipe *had* been accessed. I'd returned from a bullshit meeting with the
director of PR to find the lock on the door of my office had been jimmied
and the disk copied. There were no prints, and the security tapes revealed
nothing. Fucking pieces of shit.

It happened once, but I was goddammed if it would happen again. I went down
to R&D and had Romero whip up a little something for me.

In the meantime... Someone in the WBIS thought he could stroll into my
office, copy my files, and get away scott-free? I went ahead and
reformatted the disk, wiping the information from it, and tossed it in with
the stack that would be reused.

Shouldn't be a problem... *Wouldn't* be a problem. I'd take care of it. As
the virus indicated, *nobody* fucked with me!

As soon as I got back from Paris, I was going hunting!

****

Once I was back home it didn't take long for me to plot my strategy, but
before I could implement it, The Boss ordered everyone in the WBIS to get a
tetanus shot.

Now here I was in the men's room, puking up my guts.

I shouldn't have come in to work; I was feeling like shit. It couldn't be
food poisoning; I was only trying to hack up a lung. So I figured it had to
be a reaction to that fucking shot. Which was odd, because I'd never had a
bad reaction to a tetanus shot, not even swelling or heat at the site.

I leaned against the wall of the stall, trying to catch my breath before
the heaves started again. I swallowed rapidly as saliva flooded my mouth. I
wouldn't have been surprised if Quinton Mann had something to do with
getting a doctored vaccine sent to the WBIS.

No, all right, I didn't really believe that; he was a spook, but he was an
honorable spook. I was just pissed that he'd somehow discovered it had been
me who'd interviewed his mother. And how the fuck had he learned that
February 25th was my real birthday? I'd made sure that July 4th, which was
actually my father's birthday, was in the files anyone could access. I
still hadn't figured that out.

He'd asked me to dinner, then surprised the hell out of me by wishing me
happy birthday.

On top of that, he had followed me into the men's room of Raphael's, locked
the door, and sucked me off. What the fuck was up with that? Sure I knew
Mann was bisexual. It was buried deep in his file, and anyone not as good
as me would have had no luck finding it. No point in false modesty. I was
damned good at what I did.

But Mann hadn't had a relationship with a man, even of the one night stand
variety, in so many years that I kind of had to admire him. The feel of a
cock massaging your prostate was the most amazing thing, and not something
easily given up. Well, look how many supposedly straight men got caught in
the men's room with their pants down, and not because they were taking a
dump.

The memory of Mann on his knees before me, that hot look in his eyes,
sucking my cock - why *my* cock? - watching with satisfaction as he'd
finally made me moan, was so fucking arousing I jerked off to it every
night.

It didn't throw me off balance. Nope, wasn't gonna happen, not in this
lifetime. I never permitted anything to throw me off balance.

What was bothering me was the leak, and whether it was in my department
specifically, or the WBIS. Either way, it was imperative that I find it and
plug it, with extreme prejudice.

****

I had just finished retching and was reaching for a handkerchief to wipe my
face and mouth when the door to the restroom opened.

"Anyone in here, Michael?"

"Nah. No need to look. Vincent isn't in today. He's out sick, and he's the
only one I'd check under the stalls for."

I bit down hard on my back teeth, fighting down a surge of nausea that
would have given me away.

"Are you sure? He could be on his deathbed, and he'd *still* show up to
work. The WBIS is everything to Mark Vincent, friend, lover, wife! *And*
he's one devious son of a bitch to boot!"

Shaw dismissed his friend's warning. "I think friend, lover, *husband*
would be a better way to phrase it!" He giggled. Was he trying to show what
a wit he was?

Well, he was half right.

"You like to live dangerously, don't you? I'd look anyway, if I were you."

"That's your problem, Wills. You're *not* me! I'm on the fast track to the
top."

"Last time I looked, Vincent was still above you. Shit, he's above all of
us!"

"Not for long, Willie boy!"

"I hate when you call me that." But it was said without heat, as if he'd
long given up hopes on it ever getting through to the other man. "Michael,
just please tell me you didn't have anything to do with Mr. Vincent getting
sick!"

"Okay, I won't." But the smug tone in his voice said otherwise. I'd look
into that. If I found Shaw was responsible for my wretched condition, he'd
be begging to die by the time I got done with him!

"Jesus, Michael!" the other man growled. "You're going to get yourself
killed!"

I heard the sound of zippers being undone and then the hiss as they
relieved themselves. "I don't think so, Wills! I've got something on the
high and mighty Mr. Mark Vincent that is guaranteed to get him tossed on
that lily white ass of his!"

"I don't want to know! Vincent is one tough cookie. Even Mr. Wallace is
careful around him."

Really? The Boss was a good man, unlike some of those shits who had
overseen my department. There weren't many I'd put my neck in a noose for,
but Trevor Wallace was one of the few.

"Yeah? Well, Wallace is a fool!"

"Michael!" The other voice was low, urgent. "This place could be bugged!"

"Not a chance! I scanned it myself earlier! And when that corner office of
Vincent's belongs to me, maybe I'll let you come enjoy the view every once
in a while! Hey, why don't you come by my office later? You can get under
my desk and suck me off! You always had a sweet mouth." He chuckled, flies
were zipped shut, and water ran in a sink. "Mr. Sp... Someone I know told
me that's how Vincent *really* got to be a special agent! He isn't anything
special!"

William Matheson groaned again. "Drop it, Michael!"

"Jealous because I'll be getting that corner office before you, Willie
boy?"

"Don't be an asshole. You're my friend, and I don't want to see you get
hurt! Besides, you know I don't care two fucks about a corner office."

"I can believe that. You hardly use the one you have anyway."

I could hear the shrug in his voice. "Because mostly I'm out of
town. What's with you and the freaking corner office anyway?"

"I... I need something to take my mind off this fucking town."

"If you're so unhappy here, why don't you resign and go home to Cambridge?"

"I'm not *that* unhappy!"

"Then... "

"Drop it, Wills. Listen, I'm going clubbing tonight with some friends."
There was the sound of a balled up paper towel landing in the trash. "He
shoots, he scores, and the crowd goes wild!" After making the sound of
thousands cheering - yeah, right - he asked, "Why don't you join us?"

"It's a work night, Michael."

"So what? You want a bit of advice, my friend? Take that stick out of your
ass and join the human race."

"Fuck you, Shaw." Matheson's voice was cold, and Shaw must have realized
he'd gone too far.

"Aw, geez, Wills, don't be like that. We are friends, best buds."

I didn't hear how Matheson responded to that; the door shut behind them. I
leaned over the bowl to allow whatever remained in my stomach to spew
up. Tears streamed down my cheeks from the force of my vomiting. I panted
shallowly and wiped my face again.

So, Michael Shaw thought he had something on me? We'd just have to see
about that, now wouldn't we?

****

It was so easy I was almost tempted to be ashamed of myself. Almost.

I'd gone to Shaw's office. Even in my most junior position at the WBIS, my
office had been larger than Shaw's.

"Yes, Vincent?" His tone was belligerent, and he didn't rise to acknowledge
my senior status.

As senior special agent, I was entitled to be called Mr. Vincent by the
junior agents and support staff. Only my equals - and there were damn few
of them - and my superiors called me Vincent.

And Quinton Mann, when he wasn't calling me Mark, trying to confuse me.

I wondered how Shaw saw himself. *I* saw a young man of average height,
average build, brown hair, brown eyes, nothing really special. But trying,
oh, so hard to be more than he ever could be. I cleared my
throat. "Something's going on here at the WBIS, Shaw."

"What?"

My eyes darted around the small cubicle. "It... wouldn't be safe to talk
about it within these walls."

He lurched to his feet, his face getting pasty. "Are you saying my office
is bugged?!"

I shook my head. "No... I don't... " I drew in a deep breath. "I couldn't
say, Shaw. I'm... I'm not sure what's happening, but I think I'm under
surveill... I can't talk about it here! Please, you've got to meet me on
the outside somewhere!" My voice had been getting strident, and with an
effort I lowered it. I ran my hand through my hair, leaving it disheveled,
and scrubbed my face, making sure I was starting to look distraught.

I shot a glance at him, wondering if I was overplaying my hand, but no, he
seemed to be buying it.

"Where?"

"There's a little bar off Massachusetts Avenue. The Six Nine." I made it a
point never to hit bars. When your old lady is a lush, you tend to avoid
what made her that way. But I had gone there every December 31st since I'd
come to DC to ring in the New Year. Christ, how many years was that now?

"The Club Sixty-Nine?" In spite of his best efforts to conceal it, I had
succeeded in impressing Shaw.

"Yes. If that's not suitable," I rushed to tell him, "we could go somewhere
else, your choice!"

Triumphant color flooded his cheeks, and his eyes gleamed. "Oh,
no. That's... that would be fine."

I sighed with faked relief. "Thank you. I'll meet you there after work,
okay?"

"Yes, that'll be fine. Um... uh... can you give me directions?"

"Sure, Shaw." I gave him the address and the easiest way to get
there. "I'll see you later. And... thanks!" I squeezed his arm, turned on
my heel and left his office, and hurried down the corridor. There was
always the possibility that I was being watched, and it wouldn't do for
someone to tell Shaw how relaxed I actually was.

Once back in my own office, I sat before my computer, flexed my fingers,
and got cracking. //Thought he had Mark Vincent by the short and curlies,
did he?// If Drum had seen the way I was grinning as I keyed in the
misinformation, he would have recognized it as trouble. If Mann had seen
it...

I suddenly wondered if he would have tried to kiss it from my lips.

****

At night, in DC, it didn't pay to use public transportation. You took a cab
or you drove. I didn't expect to need a car.

I was sitting at the far end of the bar. Waiting. Before me was the lone
bottle of Sam Adams that I permitted myself and a half-filled glass.

When I saw Shaw enter the bar and stand hesitantly in the doorway, I caught
his attention, then signaled the bartender, who brought me a scotch on the
rocks. I kept my eyes on Shaw, making sure he didn't see my hand linger
over his drink, and by the time he reached me, everything was ready.

I examined him surreptitiously. There was a hectic flush on his cheeks now,
different from the high color of earlier this afternoon.  Then it had been
the rush of power, but now... Someone, apparently, had hit reply to all
when sending an e-mail, and the details of Shaw's involvement with a CIA
agent, *not* Mann, of course, had been sent to the heads of pertinent
departments in the WBIS. He was in such deep shit he wouldn't even remember
that I had asked him to meet me here because *I* had a problem.

"I took the liberty of ordering you a scotch, Mikey. I can call you Mikey,
can't I?" I offered him the drink.

"Thanks, Vincent." He took the glass and tossed down the amber liquid so
fast he choked and his eyes teared up.

"Sorry. I should have told you to take it easy. This is Glenfiddich."

"No, 'sokay, just took me by surprise!" he gasped, and then his eyes
widened. "The expensive stuff?" He drew in a deep breath and mopped at his
cheeks with his sleeve.

"Yeah. Rough day?" I asked compassionately. He finished the last few drops
of his drink and slid it across the bar. I nodded toward the bartender.

"It was a bitch on wheels! I don't know what went wrong. The operations
I've been charting...This morning they were perfect; this afternoon, they
were all shot to shit!"

I rubbed his shoulder, a motion that started as soothing and went to
sensuous. "That's... too bad, Mikey." My fingers dug into the muscles at
the base of his neck, and he dropped his head and groaned.

The powder I had slipped into his drink was acting in record time, giving
his libido a shove in the right direction. His eyes were closed, and his
soft moans were lost in the general commotion of the after-work crowd at
the bar. "Jesus, that feels good!"

"Hey," I said very quietly, so that he alone could hear. "How do you think
I got to be a senior agent?"

He looked at me over his shoulder, his expression a little dazed. "How?"
His voice was tight with excitement.

I leaned close enough so that my breath fanned over his mouth and ran my
tongue over my lips. He watched avidly. "I got on my knees for them,
Mikey. Want me to get on my knees for you?"

"Why...why would you do that?"

"It's called quid pro quo. You save my ass, I give you something in
return." I leaned in even closer.

"I... I haven't done anything to save your ass."

"But you will, won't you, Mikey? You'll help me find out who's passing
information about me to the CIA?"

Shaw licked his lips. "You'd give me your ass?" I could see that it wasn't
just the drug that was turning him on. The idea of having a senior agent
made him seriously horny.

"If that's what you want."

He dragged his eyes up to mine. "Yes." That was all he said. "Yes."

I smiled and made my voice low and hot. "Let's go, then, baby." I pulled
out some bills and left them on the bar.

He wavered for a second, and I wondered if it was the drug or the alcohol,
or the combination of the two that was getting to him. I steadied him, then
steered him toward the door. His car was parked around the corner, and it
was a good thing I knew my way around the nightmare that was the Capital's
traffic pattern, because he was in no condition to drive.

I felt his jacket for the car key, but it wasn't there, so I had to pat
down his trousers, which was where the jerk-off had it on a ring with his
apartment key. I reached in, and he turned his body so that I got a handful
of dick.

"All for you, honey," he murmured.

Yeah.

I tucked him into the passenger seat and buckled him up. Traffic was
letting up, and I had no trouble in driving to the plain, uninspired
apartment building that he called home. The drug would be wearing off any
time now, but I wasn't worried about that. I had something else up my
sleeve.

Shaw needed some help getting into the elevator. He slumped against the
back wall while I pressed the button for the fourteenth floor.

"You really gonna let me fuck you, Vincent?"

"My ass or my mouth, Mikey. Whatever is your pleasure."

"I'm really good at fucking, you know."

I leaned against him and let him feel how ready I was. It took the image of
me having Mann up against the wall in that elevator, but that was something
the little prick here didn't need to know. "Are you?"

Shaw nodded. "I'm like a Hallmark card, when you care enough to give the
very best!" He giggled.

Fuck, that was an annoying sound! My dick began to lose interest. Quickly I
thought of Mann on his knees in that restroom, and sighed at the
predictable results. I definitely had to find a way to disturb Quinton Mann
as much as he disturbed me.

Shaw was nuzzling sloppily against my neck, and his hands were reaching for
my cock. The bastard would have had me unzipped and out in a public
elevator.

Well, I'd have been tempted to allow it if it was Mann here with me.

"Not yet, baby." I manacled his wrists with one hand and urged him into the
corridor.

We arrived outside his door. I slid the key into the lock and finally got
us inside.

His apartment was small, not much more than a studio. He made good enough
money that he should have been able to afford someplace on Dupont Circle. I
knew he was blowing a portion of his salary on nose candy, but what about
the rest?

I shrugged it off. Beyond the fact that he was selling me out to the C
fucking I fucking A, it wasn't my concern.

I sat him down in the breakfast nook but he bounced up, then staggered.

"No. I gotta piss. Don't you go anywhere!" He waggled his finger under my
nose and wavered through a door that led to his bathroom. Even half out of
it as he was, he washed his hands when he was finished. "Now," he wavered
back, "what're we gonna do?"

"What ever is your desire, baby. But first, I've got something really
special here for you, Mikey." I took out a silver mirror and laid it on the
table, then pulled a twist of paper from an envelope and shook out the
powder it contained.

I didn't even need to make a suggestion. Before I could put the envelope
back in my jacket pocket he was diving into it, a finger pressed to one
nostril, inhaling deeply, noisily. When he was done, he dampened a
forefinger and wiped it over the metal, then licked the residue from his
finger.

"Mmm." His eyes slid closed as he savored the high. "My bed's over there."
He gestured and almost unbalanced himself, but I steadied him. I didn't
want him killing himself. That was going to be my pleasure.

He rose to his feet and managed to make his way over to his bed without
landing on his ass and possibly damaging his brains. I stopped him before
he could fling himself backwards on the bed.

"You need to get naked, baby. Let me help you with that," I murmured. I
stripped him of his clothes, then let him go. Shaw lay sprawled out. I
observed him dispassionately as I removed my suit jacket and put on latex
gloves. This was going to get messy.

There was lube in the night table beside the bed, and I squirted some into
my palm. I started jerking him off, and he spread his legs wide and humped
into my strokes.

"You like this, Mikey?"

"Oh, yes." He was lost in the power of the cocaine. It seemed a shame to
waste such high quality stuff of him, but hey, whatever was needed to get
the job done. "My friends call me Michael. Why do you call me Mikey?"

I wasn't about to tell him that Michael was the name of archangels. Instead
I answered his question with a question of my own.

"Ever scarf, Mikey?" I squeezed the base of his cock, delaying his climax.

For a second I thought it would shake the thrall of the drug from
him. "Scarf? No. It's too dangerous." But he was looking regretful.

"Not if there's someone with you, watching over you. Then it's the greatest
fucking orgasm of your life!"

"Have you tried it?"

"Sure," I lied. I wasn't stupid. "There isn't anything I haven't tried. How
about you, Mikey? Want to give it a try? I'll be right here."

"You'd do that? You're okay, Vincent."

"Yeah. I'm a peach of a guy. Anyone'll tell you that."

He licked his lips. "And you'll suck me off while I'm... " He gestured
toward the light fixture. Apparently he'd given this some thought.

"Sure." I stripped off the gloves, making sure they were inside out, and
tucked them into my suit jacket, then pulled out a fresh pair and put them
on. It wouldn't do to get lubricant on anything.

I took the long silk scarf I had brought with me and looped one end around
the light fixture. Shaw was leaning up on his elbows, stroking his cock,
watching as I carried a chair over from the breakfast nook. I helped him
onto it and wrapped the other end of the scarf around his neck in a noose.

I went back to masturbating him.

"Aren't you... aren't you gonna suck me?"

"Sure, baby."

"When? Wanna... wanna come in your mouth." In his dreams.

"We've got all night."

His head was flung back, his eyes were squeezed
shut. "I'm... I'm... almost... almost there!" His mouth gaped wide as he
drew in panting breaths.

And I released him and kicked the chair away.

I watched indifferently as his fingers scrabbled at his throat and his legs
kicked spasmodically.

Before I left I made sure all traces of a second person having been in the
apartment were erased.

****

Mr. Wallace stood beside me as we waited to view the body in the little
funeral home in Alexandria. "Very sad, Vincent."

"Yes, sir. They're listing it as a homicide?" I asked casually.

"Yes, a home break-in gone tragically wrong. I thought it was best the
family not be informed it was actually autoerotic asphyxiation."

"I understand, sir. That's very kind of you. It will be easier for them to
believe their son died trying to defend his home rather than how he
actually did."

The Boss rested his hand on my shoulder as we stepped up to the
casket. Whoever had prepared the body hadn't done too good a job of it. The
lips were pressed tightly together, and Shaw
looked... pissed. Mr. Wallace's lips moved silently, and I wondered if he
was saying a brief prayer, or cursing the young agent under his breath.

We moved on to let William Matheson take our place. He was pale, and I
wondered idly how the loss of his friend would affect his work. Matheson
wasn't in my department, but maybe I'd keep an eye on him.

There were other coworkers behind him. The WBIS always made a good showing
when one of our own passed on.

Shaw's parents were standing just to the side, a little distance away from
the coffin, and Mr. Wallace paused by them. "Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, my deepest
condolences. Michael was a good worker. He'll be missed."

Mr. Shaw accepted The Boss' hand. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much we
appreciate everything your company has done to help us get through this
very difficult time."

While Mr. Wallace embraced Mrs. Shaw, I shook her husband's hand and
murmured some inane platitude.

"We're having everyone back to the house after the cemetery. Would you two
gentlemen be able to join us?"

I waited patiently to hear what The Boss said. Whatever he wanted was fine
with me.

"Thank you so much. Of course I'll be there. I'm afraid Mr. Vincent will
need to return to the office, however."

They were flattered that the head of the company was willing to see their
son into the ground. Mrs. Shaw pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, and her
eyes flooded with tears. We moved on, and they turned to William Matheson,
who was struggling to keep from betraying his emotion.

Mr. Wallace touched my arm and walked out with me to the parking lot.

The Boss removed his glasses and polished them on a handkerchief. "I don't
anticipate anything earth-shattering while I'm out of the office, Vincent,
but you'll handle everything back in DC." It wasn't a question.

"Of course, sir."

"Good man." He patted my shoulder and went back into the cool, cloying
atmosphere of the funeral home.

I couldn't prevent a shudder. The ceremony that surrounded the burial of
the dead made me uncomfortable. I hoped I was taken out in the field when
my time came. Or a high-speed car chase; that would be good. I knew there
would be no mourners at my funeral. Although Drum would probably show up,
if only to make sure I really was dead.

Maybe I'd leave instructions that I was to be cremated. That would make
Drum nuts - he'd never be sure it was really me in that urn, or whatever it
was they'd put my ashes in.

Grinning, I turned to walk to my car, and was pulled up short by the sight
of the figure at the far end of the parking lot.

What the fuck was Quinton Mann doing at the funeral of a WBIS agent?

I sauntered across the black-topped area wondering if this was a figment of
my imagination, but Mann remained where he was standing.

"Nice to see you again, Mark," he said before I could challenge his
presence there.

"Mann." He looked good, too damned good. I wanted to shove him up against
the tree he was standing in front of and trace the shape of his cock
through his pants until I'd made him come. I wanted to wind my fingers in
that dark hair of his and position his mouth just so, and then I wanted
to... I cleared my throat. "Did you know Shaw?"

"Shaw?"

I gestured toward the line of limos that were parked in front of the
funeral home. People were coming out now, waiting for the hearse to come
around from the back of the building with its sad burden. At that point,
the cortege would start for the cemetery.

"Ah. No, I didn't have the pleasure. Accept my condolences, please. It's
difficult when someone so young passes on."

'Someone so young?' There were less than a dozen years between them.

"If you didn't know the dearly departed, what are you doing here, Mann?"

"*Quinn*. There's no need for formality between us, Mark. Not after
our... dinner on your birthday." His voice dropped, and he looked at me
from under his lashes. //And that little episode in the men's room
afterward.// He didn't say it, but I could hear him thinking it.

"How did you find out about my birthday, Quinn..." I caught
myself. "... Mann?" I was not going to let him and his CIA ways get to
me. I was *not*!

He stood there, shaking his head, the ghost of a smile on his face. "Mark,
Mark, Mark!" he admonished. "You have to let me keep *some* little
secrets. After all, I don't ask *you* how you found out that my mother's
butler is really her bodyguard."

No wonder he was coming after me! I should have known he'd take it
personally. It wouldn't have mattered a hill of beans to me if anyone had
tried to find out about my old lady, but the men she'd brought home, who'd
been kind to me...

Mann took a step toward me. He could have had a pistol in the hand he
raised toward my face, but I was so intent on the way his eyes were gazing
into mine that he could have blown my fucking head off, and I would have
held still for it. Instead, his fingers touched my cheek, and I wanted to
lean into them.

//Snap out of it, Vincent.// I scanned the area quickly, not permitting
myself to relax until I was sure we were not being observed. //You are
*not* seriously fucked!//

"Look, Mann, I have to get back to the Capital. Traffic is going to be a
bitch, especially with all that construction going on around the
Beltway. It's been... interesting talking to you, but like every CIA
officer I've ever met, you're full of shit. I'll see you around. Maybe."

"Oh, count on it, Mark."

In spite of my best effort to resist, I glanced back over my shoulder at
him, to see that small smile on his face, and I was suddenly,
embarrassingly hard.

Fuck, fuck, *fuck*!

And the day had started off so well, too. Dammit.

Okay. Things were under control. *I* was under control.

And I was going to get to him if it was the last thing I did!


~End~