This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between characters portrayed and real persons alive or dead is entirely coincidental.

This story will contain scenes of sexual activity including between adult males, and between adult males and a late teenage boy. If you are under 18 or material of this nature is illegal in your present location, please leave now. By continuing to read on, you are confirming that it is legal for you to view the material in this story

This story is copyright to Arapiles, 2019.

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This is my second story for Nifty, so I guess I should be getting better. This is the first chapter of six. This one will traverse some darker themes but hopefully be worth it in the long haul, like Les Miserables but with 100% less singing.

I welcome feedback, please send to arapileswriter92@gmail.com

Thanks

Arapiles

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CHAPTER 1 – MANY MEETINGS

 

In the hills outside Fallujah there lies a grave

I hated waiting. It had never been my strongpoint, ironic I guess given my work over the years. Waiting was one thing I could always look forward to plenty of. Still, I hated it. I hated how it gave me time to think. Ever since the appointment a month ago, I'd hated it even more. I couldn't stand to be inside my head now, listening to the answers and not liking them one little bit. Self-reflection was not my favourite pastime...but I found it impossible to avoid in the long hours of night. The piper was demanding payment, as I always knew he would one day.

In the hills outside Fallujah there lies a grave...

One day, a few years ago, deciding to give myself something to occupy my brain and maybe, just maybe, exorcise some demons, I had begun to write, just try to put my thoughts on paper. I couldn't decide what it was supposed to be though; all I managed to get on the page was the first line. Then my brain stuck fast like a hummvee in a bog.

In the hills outside Fallujah there lies a grave...

I guess I could blame my current assignment for bringing all that back to the forefront of my mind again. One of the many things I could blame Woz for. It would help; I needed to find the hate right now.

How long will the useless fuck take?

The scrape of metal on metal was loud inside the sparsely furnished flat, key moving in a poorly maintained lock. Not much furniture to absorb the sound; not much of anything really. How much he had come down in the world, my Woz. Despite the risks, I had to know why. It was my job. It was also...well, I had my own reasons for wanting to know too. Given where my mind was heading.

Hinges creaked, and the front door opened. I heard him drop something on the small table by the door, a long drawn out sigh that spoke volumes in a language I knew only too well. Then some muttering, something about fucking kids, then the heavy tread of booted feet on the industrial carpet as he traversed the length of the small entry hallway and opened the door to the lounge room. A face poked round the doorway followed by the rest of its owner; a tall, heavily built guy, with sandy coloured hair now slightly greying. I knew the sight, even though there was little light in the flat, all the curtains drawn tight to keep out the sun.

I triggered the light beside the couch with one hand, and bought the muzzle of my Beretta to bear on the man, pointed right at his sternum. Plenty to hit there, and I never miss, not even with much less to hit.

"Hello Woz."

His eyes bugged, wide white saucers of fear and shock, then he reached instinctively for his hip.

"Don't even think about it Woz. Stop right there, don't move, and do as I say. You might just live to see tomorrow."

I could see the look in his eyes. He clearly didn't think living till tomorrow was guaranteed to be a good thing. He was right in that, of course, but something held him back, something wandered across those soulful brown eyes for a second, making him hesitate. I saw it. He saw me, seeing it. Fear redoubled for a moment, its presence clear as day for me, before he calmed his expression, using all the training we both knew. He wasn't calm though; that was all on the outside.

"Good. Now, the Glock...slowly, pull it out and throw it over to me."

Long fingers reached for his favourite, wedged at his hip under his jacket. He moved slowly, glacier slow, and I nodded in approval as he took out the pistol and casually threw it towards me. It bounced off the couch and hit the floor at my feet. I ignored it for now, of course.

"And the Smith and Wesson...at your ankle."

Now he frowned a bit, screwing up his mouth but obeying, once again slow movements so as not to arouse a response. I held the cards, and he didn't know yet how I was going to play them. So he did what I would have done; play along, stall for time. A second weapon joined the first on the floor at my feet. Never taking my eyes off him, I bent slowly, picking them up and dropping them into my jacket pockets.

"Better, now, take a seat and let's have a little talk Woz."

He moved jerkily, like his body didn't want to respond to the commands and only did so with reluctance. I couldn't blame him for that. He knew the jig was up.

"Why did it have to be you Brian?"

"You know better than to ask that Woz. Of course it was going to be me. Who else would Maximilian send? I know how you think. Or at least I used to; I must admit I don't know how much you might have changed in the last six months. Not so much that I couldn't find you though, you stupid asshole. Returning to your old hometown from when you were a kid. Who the fuck tries to disappear by doing that?"

His eyes dropped then, and he looked at his feet. I think the professional rebuke almost got to him as much as the fear.

"So...let's recap shall we. You were sent out on a pretty simple contract, by all accounts. Routine really, as much as what we do can ever be. And you fucking disappear. The guy is still walking around bright as a button, and you are nowhere to be seen. Client fucking pissed, Maximilian worried sick. We thought someone might have tipped off the target from inside; you have no idea what happened before Max was sure he didn't have a leaker. Let's just say a couple of the guys' nuts had an appointment with Mr Sparky there."

"Fuck Maximilian."

Ahhh, defiance. His head was up now, and he was staring at me, right down the barrel of the Beretta. He was angry, really fucking pissed. Good. I loved him like this, if I'm honest. I love him...no, dammit, I loved him like this.

"He'll appreciate the sentiment I'm sure. Last guy to tell him to get fucked was that bodybuilder guy, you remember, Paris, the ex air special forces wingnut? Took him three days to die, so I'm told. Do me a favour and can it, when you get the chance. I don't want to see that happen to you Woz. Even after everything..."

"Really? I'm flattered by your concern Brian you skanky bitch"

"Stop trying to get me to kill you Woz. It's not going to work. Oh, if you force me, I will take out your kneecaps, just to make you nice and compliant, but I'm not allowed to kill you. Maximilian wants to talk to you. He wants to understand why, and what, and who. Think very seriously about telling him Woz. Please."

"You have been just fucking waiting for this chance haven't you..."

"Would you blame me Woz? Would you? You know...you know how I felt...and what you did...what we did..."

He dropped his head again, but it didn't give me any joy.

"I'm sorry B"

"Me too Woz. You waited way too long to say that...once upon a time, it might have made a difference."

"So...is the condemned man allowed a cigarette?"

"Yeah, but move slow...it would be a shame to have to kneecap you now..."

The shaking man reached slowly for his pocket, alert enough though to show me his movements so I wouldn't become concerned. A single pack of Marlboros and an orange Bic...he hadn't changed that much after all. He flicked one cig into his mouth, clicking the Bic a couple of times before it lit, sucking hard on the tip as the end glowed like an angry sun over the desert. Smoke curled into the air, a ghostly third person in our little two-handed play.

"One for you?"

I twitched at that.

"I don't smoke any more. Not since Fallujah. You know that Woz, stop trying to provoke me."

"Sorry...I...really...fuck..."

"Why Woz. Fucking why. If not for Maximilian, tell me. You owe me...you owe me if no one else, at least this. You know in our line of work...you don't just quit your job and fuck off into the sunset. You know that...so why the fuck you asshole?"

"I had my reasons..."

"Then fucking tell me. It doesn't make any sense. You are doing fine, the real hotshot of our little devil's band. Fuck, the moral shitstorm threatens to suck me under every second Tuesday, but I know I can keep doing it, and if I can't, I know better than to just fuck off back to Bakerstown. But you...I never thought you of all of us would get squeamish. You liked the good stuff too much, and you always were a prick with an eye to the main chance. I found that out the hard way..."

"Shows you don't know me after all..."

"...Instead, here you are, working in a fucking warehouse at nights, living in a little dive of a flat in the most roach infested shithole in the country, two thousand miles from your nice big house with your home cinema and your Mercedes and your procession of lingerie models bent over the designer table for a hot fucking. You don't touch your bank accounts, you don't touch any of your stuff at all, and then you make stupid amateur mistakes like visiting your Mom and using your old buddy from highschool to get your forged ID's. Are you fucking retarded? Did aliens kidnap my Woz and replace him with a moron? So fucking tell me!"

"Fuck! Andy! He coughed..."

"Relax Woz. He did so reluctantly...trust me..."

"You asshole Brian. You wouldn't know. You wouldn't understand. I had my reasons. Now fucking get this over with you cunt or shut the fuck up will you. Or do you like the sound of your own voice? You used to when you got your ass pounded, that I remember...ohhh, harder, deeper, yeah, fuck me Woz, yeah..."

He was goading me again. It did get to me, I had to admit. I remembered those days too, more than I wanted. The feel of him, his body, his sweat. His cock. The feeling, most of all, of holding him afterwards. I thought I had cauterised all that, but I knew it was a lie. And here he was, throwing it all in my face again. Why was he so eager to get this over with? Why were his eyes darting all over the room?

The scrape of metal came a second time this afternoon. This one was having as much trouble with the skanky lock as Woz had, key finding the metal hard to budge. I kept my eye on Woz, a question in the tilt of my eyebrow. Now he was terrified. I saw him eye me now, right into my soul, and shake his head a little. Just once...but the message was clear.

The new player managed to get the door open finally, grunting with satisfaction as he opened the door. It was a he, I could tell...the scent of too much deodorant came through before he did. Male...and tall like Woz...and young...

"Dad!"

Dad? What the...Dad? The fuck?

"Dad?"

Another face came around the corner, strikingly similar to the first. My head moved fast side to side, keeping the new target and the old in view at once. This one was tall all right, indeed just as tall as Woz, with the same face and hair, though his hair had purple tips which made me have to forcefully shut down a laugh. Still, he reminded me so much of the Woz I first met, I almost cried out in recognition. This one was lugging what appeared to be a school backpack though, rumpled and dishevelled, wearing grungy street clothes instead of fatigues...

I caught myself remembering our first meeting, my concentration wavering for an instant. I mentally bitchslapped myself and got it together. This was insane. I had pulled the Beretta under my jacket with my right hand, keeping it concealed but close. I could see the tension in Woz's body, every muscle twitching. This was a complication I did not need.

"Dad...who's the..."

"An old friend Mikey. From my army days."

"You don't have any old friends from then Dad...that's what you told me...I thought they were all dead..."

"Hi! I'm Brian young man...and you are?"

The boy blinked a couple of times, looking me over suspiciously. He looked seventeen or eighteen I thought, around the age Woz joined the army. I saw a flash of something when I said my name...but he didn't make any further sign of recognition.

"I'm Michael. I'm Mr Wozniacki's son...I didn't meet him till recent though, my mum never told me about him till then. How long have you known my Dad?"

"A long time young Mike. A long time; he was about your age when we first met. He never mentioned a son though. A lot of things make sense now though..."

I looked hard at Woz. His lips were quivering, and he looked back at me with a mix of pleading and anger. So, my stud had a sprog, and he didn't want his sprog being part of his old life. So, he started a new one...I had to admire him a little for that.

"Mikie, do you think you could run off to the store or something for a while? Brian and me have a lot to catch up on."

"Dad...I really need to talk to you..."

"Mikie, it can wait, whatever it was you did..."

"You got the call from school?"

"Yeah, I know you were suspended, just not why, but it can wait and..."

"No, Dad, I really need to talk. I thought about it all the way here, and I need to tell you myself, now. Before someone else..."

"Mikie, surely it can wait."

"No! Fucking hell Dad, I know you don't like to talk and shit, but I need you! This once, just fucking listen please?"

"Mikie, I'm sure your Dad..." Ok, so parental interactions were something new to me, but I needed this over soon so I thought I would stick my oar in. No chance he was listening though.

"Fuck off! Whoever the fuck you are...just fuck off ok? This is none of your business..."

The boy was angry now, his eyes wide and his chest heaving. He stepped between us, his arms waving. I was about to yell at him when I caught sight of a flash from behind.

"You stupid fucking shit!"

I roared, springing from my seat to my feet. Not fast enough though. I gripped the boy by the collar of his shirt, throwing him to the side and sending him crashing to the floor. He threw out one arm to try to break his fall, catching on my right arm just as I brought it out from my jacket. As we struggled, I realised I was too late.

I had seen the flurry of movement, the flash of denim and boots as Woz used the confusion and cover of the boy's approach to do a fast jump and roll behind the couch. Just as I pushed the boy out of the way, I saw him hurtle through the doorway into the entrance hall. I had enough time to pull out my Beretta finally and let off one round at the fleeing figure, punching a hole in the flecked off white surface of the door. There was no cry, no scream.

Growling, I picked the boy off the floor, his face a mask of terror. One hard slap across the face with the butt of my pistol got his attention, his eyes rolling like billiard balls.

"Get moving stupid shit!"

With a hard grip on the back of his collar, and my Beretta by his cheek, I pushed the boy down the hallway and out the front door into the street.

I was surprised to see Woz still around. He had not gone far, just down the street to his battered old Chrysler. It was far enough though. As we turned on the sidewalk, the boy and me, I saw him pump the action on a Remington he had pulled from the trunk, his eyes wild and nostrils flaring. Fifty yards...maybe seventy-five. Ugly.

I brought the muzzle of my pistol to the boy's temple, all the while looking at Woz. I saw his look, and I knew enough. Now was the time to think...

"Stop right there Woz...unless you want to see your kid's brains all over the sidewalk."

The boy whimpered then, and I smelt urine.

"Fucking leave him alone Brian!"

"I mean it Woz...back off..."

"And if I drop the shotgun, you kill us both..."

"If you come with me, I promise to leave the kid alone."

"Yeah, and Maximilian will go along with that. After all...he's no security threat at all."

The fucker had a point. I had to think...and I had to think fast.