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Title: D-Tech: The Russian
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Black Hawk Down X Bourne Supremacy
Series: D-Tech/ The Long Haul
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Hoot and Sanderson were composites, hence there’s no way they could ever open their own business, so this is obviously fiction, based loosely on some movies I enjoyed. I have plucked The Russian from his environment of origin because he's so darn purdy and deadly. No harm, no foul.
Summary: Hoot and Sanderson, who have gone into business for themselves, run into a certain old enemy.
D-Tech: The Russian
“D-Tech,” Hoot answers impatiently. He hates it when the phone vibrates when he’s on the job.
It’s been a year since they left the army. Half a year since he and Sanderson started their own outfit, specializing in surveillance, recon and the odd intervention. The two of them are currently positioned on a rooftop in Toronto. There is about to be a drop. They need only identify the courier and supply their client with a description. Simple enough.
Simple, except it’s Pride Weekend and the street is flooded with gays, lesbians, bisexuals, transgendered individuals, tourists, kids, vendors, floats, balloons, water guns, drag queens, drag kings, and clueless shoppers who didn’t realize this sort of thing was happening this weekend. How they could not know baffles Hoot, but there it is. Some people take no notice of their surroundings until they’re stuck in a traffic jam they could have easily avoided, or on a sidewalk next to a six-foot two-in-stocking-feet Carmen Miranda impersonator teetering on six-inch platforms.
Hoot’s no longer amused by the oldish suburban guy whom the even older drag queen goosed. They're both hot and tired and not at all pleased with the tone the client has been taking with them on the phone.
“We’ll see you at the rendezvous. Until then it’s best for the operation if we cease contact.” That is, in Hoot’s opinion, the most diplomatic thing he’s ever said in his life. He says it right before he turns off the cell phone.
“Again?” Sanderson asks from his post at the northwest corner. He doesn’t look up from the binoculars. He’s got them trained on the ground beside a bunch of green and yellow balloons tied to a newspaper box. Any minute now, someone will approach the box, open it and take out the second paper from the bottom. Any minute.
“What a prick,” Hoot mutters. “If he doesn’t trust us to do the job, why did he hire us?”
“He’s hiding something, man,” Sanderson asserts. “If this were a simple drop, he wouldn’t be calling so often. This is more important than he’s letting on.”
Hoot shrugs, and struggles to maintain his aura of absolute calm. No use in getting Sanderson riled unless it's necessary. “As long as he pays.”
“He pays. I checked the accounts before we left the hotel.”
Sanderson always takes care of that kind of detail. He’s a genius with finances. A genius at organization. Damn genius at blowjobs, too, but that’s only during off-hours. They’re trying to be very strict about discipline.
Problem is, there’s been a series of these drops throughout the city, and they’ve been working 16 out of 24 hours for days now. After showers and meals, that leaves no time for anything but sleep. Hoot is starting to suffer.
“Fuck me,” Sanderson exclaims.
Gladly, Hoot thinks. “What?”
“No way,” Sanderson mutters.
“What?”
“It’s that fucking Russian.”
“Again?” Hoot grabs the spare binoculars and trains them on the corner in question. Sure enough, it’s him. Tall, spare, drop dead, male-model gorgeous, and dangerous as a rattlesnake.
Kirill pulls out the second paper from the bottom. In spite of his ridiculous good looks, he manages to blend into the crowd well. Plain linen shirt, dark trousers, sunglasses. Just an average guy. Except Hoot knows better. “This changes everything,” Hoot says.
“You think?” Sanderson asks, as they watch Kirill fold the paper and tuck it under his arm.
“That fuck doesn’t do courier work.”
“Does seem a little beneath him.” Hoot has run across the Russian twice before, and neither time was there anything less violent than assassination involved. His presence takes things to a new level.
“There’s definitely more going on here than we were told. I don’t like it.” And that’s saying a lot, when it comes from Hoot.
“Not our job to like it, Hoot. It’s our job to file the report.” They don’t even know who their client is. They’d assumed this was a matter of simple industrial espionage and asked no further questions. “Anything else would be a breach of confidentiality.”
“There’s confidentiality, and then there is national security, Jeff. Don’t you think we have an obligation to prevent a potential disaster?”
“What disaster? He might be knocking someone off in addition to stealing information. Not our problem. We’re not Delta anymore, Hoot. You know that. You knew we’d be dealing with slimeballs when we started D-Tech. You can’t pussy out now.”
Hoot thinks about slamming the binoculars on the top of Sanderson’s head for the ‘pussy’ remark, but that would accomplish nothing except to get Jeff mad at him, and make them both lose sight of the target, which would be unacceptable and unprofessional. “There is nothing pussy about me,” he grits out. “But you can’t leave Delta that far behind. Look at what we know so far – this has gone so international it’s not funny anymore.”
“Everything is international these days, Hoot. The Cold War’s over. Just because a few different countries are involved doesn’t make it a matter of national security,” Sanderson reasons, even though the involvement of the Russian has to make him nervous. Kirill is no small-time player. He’s brought in when something serious is about to go down, even though he seems as casual as anyone else watching the spectacle unfold around him.
“The client is American, the pick ups are in Canada, so far we’ve seen two Englishman, one of whom is ex-MI6, and an Argentinean. Then there’s the Italian guy and one unidentified.”
“I told you, Hoot, he’s Swiss.”
“You’re thinking of a different guy,” Hoot corrects him.
“He shot at me point blank in Mali. It’s a miracle he didn’t take my head off. I think I remember his face.”
“Not the same guy. His legs are too long.”
“And what would you know about the length of his legs?”
Hoot doesn’t answer. Now he’s watching Kirill cross the street. “Okay,” he says. “Fuck patriotism. Fuck dedication to preserving the North American way of life. Fuck national security. If he’s here, someone’s going to die, and we’re here too, on contract. So who do you think all those foreign governments are going to blame when the bodies start turning up?”
* * *
Shit. Yeah. Sanderson had been so busy keeping an eye on Kirill he hadn’t even thought of that. Not that there was any proof that bodies would start turning up. Or proof that, if bodies were indeed to be the result of the op, they would ever turn up. But there were usually bodies involved when Kirill was involved.
“What do you want to do?”
“Don’t know yet. He’s working for the client, so we know the client is not only an asshole, but he’s involved in a whole mess of shit we don’t want to be part of.”
“He’s not working for the client, he’s working for the client’s contact,” Sanderson says. All the packages have been picked up by contacts.
“Nope. The first five were working for the other guys. They picked up boxes. That paper,” he points down at Kirill even though Sanderson can only see the gesture out the corner of his eye, “doesn’t have a box in it. It has information on the other five guys.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“And how would you know?”
“I checked,” Hoot says.
“When did you see what’s in the paper?”
“When the tall black guy placed it in the box at dawn.”
“We were in the hotel at dawn,” Sanderson says.
“You were in the hotel this morning; I got up early,” Hoot corrects him.
“I thought you went down to the gym.”
“I worked out last night.”
“I assumed you were going to the gym first thing when it opened so you could jerk off in private.”
“I’m not that desperate, Jefferson.”
“Well, the size of your cock is saying otherwise,” Sanderson says without even having to look over. He can sense Hoot’s erection from twenty paces.
Hoot looks down. He’s hard. He’s always hard when Sanderson is in close proximity. “If I was gonna jerk off, I would have jerked off onto you.”
That almost makes Sanderson drop the binoculars. Professional that he is, he manages to keep them in his hands and his eyes trained on the Russian. “Out of professional curiosity,” he says with his voice only a few tones higher than it would normally be, having let the jerking-off-on image pass through his brain uncensored, “how did you see what’s in the paper without the black guy seeing you?”
Hoot leans close, gets Kirill in his sights. “I’ve got the target. Look at five o’clock, the row of bums sleeping in the alley entrance.”
Sanderson’s gaze swoops across the street. There are three bums in the alley, one talking to a peculiar-looking man dressed as the Queen, the other two seeming to doze under cover of a ratty blue umbrella. All he can see of the far one is a pair of long, thin legs shod in way-too-expensive loafers below a few inches of dark, exposed skin. “Shit!”
“He’s gonna have one helluva headache after sleeping in the hot sun like that,” Hoot smirks audibly.
Sanderson loves the way Hoot’s accent gets stronger the closer he gets to the physical aspects of the job, but he doesn’t have time to appreciate it. He’s too busy being shocked. “You thought we were being set up and you didn’t tell me?”
“Didn’t know for sure ‘til this fuck showed up.”
“But… what were you planning to tell the client about his employee?”
Hoot shrugs and gestures for Sanderson to take up his post again. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? We have to exfil carefully. First, we have to uncover the identity of our client.”
“Oh, really. That ought to be easy, since we haven’t been able to figure out who he is after three weeks of research…”
“I’ll find out from him.” Hoot jabs his finger in the air in the general direction of Kirill.
Fuck, no!
Sanderson doesn’t have time to protest. Hoot’s gone.
He watches Kirill stand at the corner, waiting for a break in the milling crowd. People swarm the street and sidewalks. It’s chaos. A man dressed in little more than a black leather jock strap and combat boots struts over to Kirill. It was inevitable. Sanderson has to admit, as much as he dislikes the Russian, Kirill is bound to attract male attention in a crowd this gay.
Kirill turns toward the interloper with a look of pure malice on his face, but the slightly sunburnt, drunk and woozy reveler probably thinks it’s some kind of lust. Kirill leans forward, holding the newspaper tightly under his arm, reaches his free hand forward and grabs the man between the legs. He says something.
Man, wouldn’t Sanderson kill for a parabolic dish at this moment.
Sanderson watches the leatherman scurry away, bent over in pain, hand held protectively over his groin. Sanderson almost feels sorry for him.
Hoot appears on the sidewalk, towering over a crowd of topless lesbians. For most operatives, that would be a distraction, but not Hoot. He plows through the chanting dykes and makes his way for the Russian. He looks like a man on the hunt.
Under ordinary conditions it would be dead obvious, but in this crowd Hoot only looks horny and determined.
Hoot stops at the newspaper box and grabs the top paper.
Kirill squares his shoulders when he spots Hoot heading for him. Nowhere to hide. He stands his ground manfully.
Sanderson adjusts his grip on the binoculars. Hoot has a good two inches on Kirill, and at least twenty-five pounds, but that doesn’t count for so much with someone as deadly as Kirill. Hoot’s massive hand lands on Kirill’s shoulder without eliciting any response other than a raised eyebrow.
Hoot looks like he’s propositioning him. Sanderson, already uncomfortably hot from sitting on a sun-drenched roof all afternoon, is now uncomfortably hot and horny. Fuck, but Hoot looks good standing next to Kirill.
Hoot speaks first, and Sanderson knows exactly how his voice must sound. Calm, quiet and utterly hot. He has this way of drawing out the words, unfolding them and pulling on them like taffy. It’s called a drawl, but Sanderson can’t think of it that way. It’s more like caressing the air with his voice. Hoot can sound big and dumb, if it suits his purposes, or dreadfully earnest, but from Hoot’s stance, Sanderson can tell Hoot’s sounding low and seductive.
Now Kirill speaks, and Sanderson wishes for the dish again. When Kirill speaks English, which isn’t often but it’s probably more often now than it was when they first encountered him three years ago, it’s like the bass line of a piece of music. Or like purring.
Hoot has his newspaper folded the exact same way as Kirill’s. What’s he think he’s going to do? Pull a switch on a seasoned professional like Kirill?
To Sanderson’s utter shock, Hoot holds out his newspaper and Kirill hands his over.
Kirill disappears. Completely. Sanderson searches in vain. He can’t figure out how that happened. Maybe the sight of Hoot leaning forward and whispering something in Kirill’s ear short-circuited his cerebral cortex.
Almost instantly, it seems, Hoot is back on the roof next to Sanderson. Like magic.
“What the fuck? How the fuck did you get him to switch papers?”
Hoot grins. “I asked him nicely.”
Sanderson frowns. Hoot has this way of not telling the whole truth.
“Plus, we’re bringing back this copy of the paper with us when we meet later tonight.”
“We’re meeting him later tonight?”
“Yeah. At the baths.”
Oh. Shit.
Hoot
Sanderson
Kirill
Continued in: D-Tech: Preparation
Back to: Soldier Porn
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