This story is gay fiction. It is copyrighted and cannot be reproduced in any medium without my express permission. If you are a minor in your country of origin, don't read.

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Dave MacMillan





Ian Trell reported to my office two days later. 'You can have more time off,' I told him.

He chuckled. 'I don't think so, Inspector. We need to clean up this case.'

'I can do that. I wasn't wounded.'

He chuckled and sat back in his chair carefully. 'I've been with the force twenty years, sir; and this is the first time I've really felt like a copper since I left Hendon. I wouldn't miss it for the world.'

'Then you won't.' I sat back myself and studied my sergeant. 'What about Pyotr and Maxim? What have they decided?' He had seen the Russians more recently than I had, and I hoped that he had a better feel of their thinking. It had suddenly become important that morning -- the Russian embassy had cut Ilyich loose, waiving his diplomatic immunity. He was now a Crown prisoner, and I intended for him to remain one for a long time to come.

'They both want to remain here in England, sir. As I was leaving hospital yesterday, Pyotr put it rather bluntly -- Ilyich's friends in Russian organised crime will kill them if they ever return. They have to be treated as asylum-seekers.'

I frowned at that bit of news. Organised crime had taken over the Russian federation much as it had ruled the streets of America's cities in the twenties and thirties. Unlike the Yanks though, the Russian mob was all too often led by former KGB people. There were no running gun battles between the cops and robbers of Russia. Too often, the same man ran both operations.

British and American businessmen in Russia who didn't buy protection were increasingly finding themselves kidnapped or gunned down. Western money was disappearing from the country, just when it was needed the most. Pyotr and Maxim may not have been turned by British intelligence, but it was reasonable to assume the crime lords in Russia wouldn't give either lad a British trial. A bullet in the back of the head more like.

'We could stand to learn how the operation worked from the inside,' I mused. I already had Mick and his lads turned Crown evidence. Their evidence would be enough to convict Ilyich, but I didn't doubt the lads in intelligence at M.I.-6 wouldn't like to know more about the working of the gang inside Russia. The Americans too -- if they didn't have some military aide in the presidential office helping the drug traffickers along, as they did during the Reagan years.

Cut loose by his superiors or not, Ilyich would be unlikely to talk. He knew how the game was played, probably had played it for a long time. The mob would come to Britain if they thought he gave information and he would be dead. If he stayed quiet, he could go home to a comfortable pension after he'd been a guest of the British government. Pyotr and Maxim would only be able to give circumstantial evidence against the Russian organisation and that would never be good enough for an English court of law. But it would be more than enough for our intelligence agencies.

'I'll ring up the Home Office later, Trell. Our young Russians should be able to start singing tomorrow.' I took a deep breath and moved on. 'And Richard Bell? Is he out of danger then?'

'It seems so. The hospital in Chichester wants to keep him through the weekend, but they explained that is just a precaution.' He grinned impishly. 'But they wanted Pyotr gone today. I have him and Maxim here in London.'

'Was he chasing the doctors?'

Trell chuckled. 'No. It seemed our Russian was a bit more inquisitive than the lads in Chichester were happy with. Either that or they had got tired of his accent.'


'He followed Bell's doctor around -- from room to room. Either that, or he hovered at the bed and asked questions.' He chuckled. 'I heard one wag say that, if you mentioned Jacob's ladder in connection with that Irish lad, that Pyotr would demand to know how many rungs it had.'

I chuckled. 'Did you see Bell before you left?'

'He was awake. They hadn't got him on his feet yet. He did look a sorry mess, so I don't blame him for opting for more bed rest.' Trell glanced over his shoulder. 'He wanted to know if there was any way we could help the Russian lad stay in country.'

'He knew about the mob back in Russia?'

'No. He said something about having developed a fondness for Pyotr. He'll also have the lad live with him if we can get him asylum. Seems they'd also been chatting about dressing up and Bell thought the lad might do well at this Illusions place he works.'

I did laugh then. The ginger-haired Irishman had nearly died, but his first waking thoughts were of sex and a drag partner. My chuckles died when I saw the troubled look on Trell's face. 'What is it?' I demanded. 'What is it that you're not telling me?'

'Well...' Poor Trell looked like a cornered rat. Instead of tucking tail and running, however, he ploughed on. 'Maxim and I wondered if you might put the little blondie up until the Home and Defence lads have made their minds up about him.'

'Why doesn't he stay where he was living before?' I yelped.

'There's no telling who might decide to look him up, sir.'

'But stay with me?'

'Maxim said that he slept with you and your Yank out at Selsey, Inspector. It'd be just through the weekend -- until young Bell is back in London. Pyotr has volunteered to help take care of him when he's back.' He looked down at his hands. 'We thought you might go for a bit more ménage-a-trois, I guess.'

'I'll have to think...' It struck me then -- what this man had been implying. 'You've become awfully friendly with Maxim, haven't you, Sergeant?'

Trell blushed and wouldn't look up at me.

'Well?' I demanded, drumming my fingers on the desktop.

'I thought that he might stay with me, sir -- to help me with mum, you know.'

I gaped at Trell. It was one thing to suspect and to play cat and mouse to ferret out a confession. It was entirely another to have one's suspicions laid out neatly, confirmed.

'Maxim?' I whispered.

Trell's face was the colour of beetroot but he had become a true trouper. 'We've had some long chats, sir. And last night became quite passionate.'

'At hospital?' I groaned, trying to visualise the scene. Trell? I was having difficulty believing it, much less visualising it.

His blush became darker.

'That American -- wasn't his name Shep...?'

'He helped me to see my true nature, Inspector.'

'I see.' It was all that I could think to say. The randy part of my brain wanted all of the details. I decided it was best to leave some things unexplored.

'He left for San Francisco two days ago, sir.'

'That must have hurt.'

'No, sir. He was my -- my instructor, you might say. I'll always think of him fondly; but I understood from the beginning -- well -- you know ...'

I took a deep breath and sat back in my chair. 'Changing the subject, Trell -- you showed initiative and performed extremely well under pressure in this case.' I smiled and sat forward. 'You've already sat the exam -- what? Last year?' He nodded. 'I've put you in for a commendation -- and a promotion.' I smiled. 'I seem to have several openings. I need a second in command, of course.'

His face went slack for the moment it took him to assimilate that information. 'A -- a promotion, sir?' he finally asked. 'Me?'

'You earned it. It should be official within the fortnight.'

'Me?' he asked again.

'Right, Trell. I'm going to need someone like you to teach the kids how to make the Met proud.'

'The kids, sir?'

'I've also put in a request to transfer our young Hendon graduates to CID. They'll be assigned to us.'

'Us?' He stared at me in disbelief from his chair. 'You want me to continue on with you, sir?'

I chuckled. 'I'm rather partial to men who save my life, Trell. I hope you won't mind working with me on future cases?'

He snapped out of his incredulousness then. 'No, sir,' he said standing. 'Not at all, sir. I rather look forward to it, actually.'

'Good.' I smiled up at him. 'Take the day and help Maxim move in and adjust to your mum then. Just make him understand that having you around all day isn't a regular occurrence.'

He grinned broadly. 'Thank you, Inspector Goodson. I'll do just that.'

I nodded. 'First thing tomorrow then. I suspect we'll have something to sink our teeth into by then.'

* * *

We lay in bed resting, Brett's heel pressed across my buttocks and his other leg between mine. I was still hard and firmly embedded in him, the fingers of my right hand a fist around his still erect cock, and our tongues continued their dance.

Brett broke our kiss, licked the tip of my nose, and smiled up at me in the dim light. His eyes glistened as his finger traced my jaw. 'Think this will last?' he asked, his voice soft.

'It'd better,' I mumbled and leant in to kiss his forehead.

'I'm glad, Phil.'


'Yeah. I put in for classes during the autumn term today.' He smiled again. 'I think I really have fallen in love with you.'

I smiled back. 'I know that I'm in love with you.'

His hand went to the back of my head and pulled me towards him. Our lips touched again and he was instantly trying to devour me. His bottom slowly began to gyrate on my prick inside him. I felt myself growing harder. He broke away, moaning. 'That feels so damned good.'

'For me too, love.'

He grinned. In a small, child-like voice then, he said: 'More. Please, sir, may I have more?'

I kissed him again, our lips staying together, as I began to move in him. He began to rock against me.