Date: Sun, 29 Apr 2018 17:43:59 +0100 From: Jack Dawson Subject: The Mercenary. Part One. Gay: Adult/Youth; Authoritarian The Mercenary. By Jackdaw Part One: Oman 2015 Clovis Favre was still in good shape for his 48 years but his salt and pepper hair gave his age away. He'd kept it in a short buzz cut for decades but his beard was now full. His physical presence was menacing: 6'4'' 200lbs and his skin a deep brown from years in the field. First from 15 years in the Foreign Legion out of Toulon seeing action across North Africa and Francophone West Africa, working alongside UN and African peace keeping forces in the 1990s. And for the last 15 working as a soldier for hire and more recently as private security in the Middle East for royal families rich on oil. Occasionally he'd venture further afield. But always in the developing world where life was cheap and surveillance rudimentary. Favre was an opportunist and had a sharp eye for exploiting the moment. And he didn't like to take contracts that lasted more than 6 months or so. He kept a place in Muscat, Oman. He'd done work for the Al Said family more than once. They respected him - in so far as any kafir was worthy of respect. He was reliable, spoke Arabic reasonably well and was sober in his tastes. Back in France there was an elderly Mother and a half-sister. No other connections. He travelled light. He was good at his job. Handy in a fight - for a big man he was swift on his feet. And he had learnt how to anticipate and read a situation so his reflexes were still as sharp as they had been when he'd been in the Legion. Not much missed his notice. He was like a nocturnal predator: He'd avoid conflict if he could but once he'd decided to hunt he was single-minded and often lethal. And he didn't leave much of a trace. He didn't give himself away: It was Favre. Always. No-one ever called him Clovis. He was professional in all of his dealings and could direct a team well without making attachments. This wasn't the Legion. He wasn't looking for comrades, still less brothers in arms. In any case his colleagues were all on the same page anyway. Foreign mercenaries don't come to the Middle East to make friends. All of them were damaged in some way. He looked at the two men he was on detail with today: Enrique was all nervous energy - a small Colombian 5'9'' black hair and more than a bit of Wayuu blood mixed in with the Spanish: the native reddish hue to his skin, his dark eyes flashing right and left constantly. Biting his lip. Passing comment. Spitting on the ground as frequently as any Arab during Ramadan. He drank. He fought. Wrestling demons. He said there was a family back home. A couple of girls dancing and laughing in the rain in a clip on his phone. Said they were his daughters. No mention of a wife though. Favre couldn't put an age on him. 35? Maybe. And then there was Marko, a taciturn Serb. Spoke even less often than Favre himself. Heavily set, unsmiling and immobile. As tall as Favre but 20 years younger and stronger. Favre had spotted the double-headed eagle and wolf-head tatoo the first time Marko had stripped to wash. Favre knew what it meant. Didn't mention it. Marko's hair was as black as Enrique's but on the rare occasion he took off his sun-glasses it was eyes as blue as the sky above Muscat that cut through you. There wasn't much light behind them. First time Favre met him he asked, "You know how to use a knife?" Marko lifted his head in a nonchalant upward-moving nod and a second later the gecko crawling up the wall behind Favre's left shoulder was struggling on the blade that had pierced it through. "Good," said Favre. And Marko nodded with a downward movement of his head. End of interview. Favre figured a couple more years working for gulf-based businessmen would seem him through. Then he could sell his services as a consultant to any number of private security firms if he needed to. He was rich enough anyway. His outgoings were minimal. No dependants. No taxes. And a Legion pension was generous enough; to say nothing of what his years as a mercenary had earned him. He was good at his job. He didn't have to worry. Life in Oman was cheap. And Favre knew he could live there comfortably. For the Middle East it was surprisingly liberal, too. The Sultan was a faggot. Everyone knew it. No-one said it. And the Sultan liked his twinks. Lots of them. And that suited Favre just fine. Everyone was damaged in Favre's experience and he himself was no exception. A sexual omnivore with a voracious appetite he would fuck whatever came his way. But when he had the time to dedicate himself to the job his deepest desires took over: he liked his boy-fucks hairless and unused. And he was very good at hunting them. This wasn't love. It was never love. It was lust. And Favre enjoyed finding them. Cornering them. Dominating them. Using them. And then moving on. His appetite was as big as his imposing physical presence. And the years hadn't satisfied it. He just knew how to control it better. It didn't control him. He enjoyed the hunt. But there was never any doubt in his own mind: Favre was a mercenary; if he'd earned it, he took it, enjoyed it and moved on. Boys grew up, after all. But Favre had learnt long ago: there was a never-ending supply of newly-ripening boys to be had. And he had become expert in choosing the right one...