Missed Opportunities - Chapter Three
Jan. 31st, 2011 12:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Face/Hannibal
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: A year after the jailbreak, the three members of the A-Team are hired under the table by the DoD to take down the two men responsible for the as-yet unresolved theft of the Treasury plates - ex-CIA agent Vance “Lynch” Buress and former Spec-Ops officer Templeton “Faceman” Peck.
“You sure about this, Face?”
“Unmistakable, Vance, darling. The bastard’s in it deep.”
“I need confirmation before we...”
“I’ve got confirmation, my guy in Texas found the memo. Now I’m just trying to figure out whether or not if he’s working for the government or...”
“I don’t fucking care if he’s working for the Vatican, Kim Jong Il or the fucking Thundercats. Take care of the problem.”
“You coming tonight?”
“Hell no. It’s your show.”
“Scared?”
“Fuck you.”
“Working late tonight, so probably...”
“Stop thinking with your dick, Face, and get your head in the game.”
Face paused. It was early afternoon, a few hours until everything was due to start, the hotel staff had been briefed or bribed as appropriate, and fuck, so what if he’d gone out for coffee? There were three Starbucks within a five minute walk of the Fullerton, and one, the one he’d gone to, about an hour away. Somehow, the walk in the sticky afternoon had made him feel better.
Shit, it wasn’t like he really expected that banker, Singer, to show up.
Well, not right away, anyway.
He’d show. Face knew that for a fact. Guy like that, rich, single, corrupt, always looking for something different, and the conman had yet to meet a businessman who didn’t come to Asia looking for sex.
But that Mark Singer didn’t seem like a banker, some high-rolling asshole. It was why Face was interested, really. The guy reminded him of his first CO, actually, his first one out of school. He’d been an asshole too, though.
Interesting.
“Relax, everything’s taken care of.”
Pause. Then. “Is Terry going with you?”
That ground his brain to a halt again. Terry, one of his old buddies, an Australian he’d brought on as part of his detail for this job. Security was always a nightmare when this kind of money was involved, and it was hard to trust anybody in this business. He trusted Terry. Probably a mistake, really, but still. “Of course he’s going to fucking be there.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, sweetheart.”
“Anything for you, darling.”
“Good. Here’s what I want you to do.”
Face listened, hurmorless, and then told Lynch he’d take care of it. Flipped his phone shut. Took a mental note to look into whatever the hell it was the former CIA officer was doing with his friend.
Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good.
+++++
Hannibal paused at the door to Room 349.
Didn’t knock quite yet.
He’d left BA off at Murdock’s room, told him to meet him upstairs
This was a mistake. Somehow, this was a huge mistake. Why would Peck give him his room number? Why would he would he actually accept?
I wouldn’t, the colonel told himself fiercely, and wondered what Harmon would have said about this. All the lectures he’d given the kid about sleeping around, that time he’d picked him up from some strip club downtown, the disappointment he’d thrown at him, the discussions about how to make a woman happy, how it should be... I wouldn’t
“Mr. Singer, how lovely to see you.”
No, Hannibal knew. He wouldn’t do this.
Not if he didn’t need to know.
“Mr. Peck.”
That lithe body, appearing suddenly from somewhere down the hall, leaned up against the door. A key card flashed out into the younger man’s hand, twirling idly.
Grinning.
Beautiful, really, Hannibal thought to himself, and shook that off. No, no, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t think about that. He hadn’t thought about, hadn’t come here for...
“Did you need something, Mr. Singer?”
But he needed to know.
“Wanted to know why you gave me this,” the older man said easily, waving the card at Lynch’s henchman. “Room 349, come alone. What the hell does that mean?”
“Means nothing...”
“If I don’t want it to?”
Peck laughed and swiped the door open. Let it hit his hip, balancing between the room and the hall, between wherever he was and wherever Hannibal was going, if he did this, if he...
“It means nothing anyway,” the kid said, and bumped the door open wide as he sauntered in. “Unless I misjudged your... interest.”
Hannibal hesitated a moment more. He remembered the report, the murdered agent in Fukuoka and her blue-eyed assassin. This kid didn’t look like a killer.
But he felt like he had to be sure. Eyes could change, hair and skin and clothes. Tattoos, on the other hand...how else was he supposed to be sure?
That was the thought that had been growing in his head all day, since that morning, seeing him. But if that was true, if this was the man he’d come here to kill. The guy who’d shot his lieutenant.
His guts twisted at the thought. He’d loved Harmon like a son. “And what interest would that be?”
Peck caught the door with a hand and looked Hannibal up and down. “None, I guess.” He bit his lip, that grin wavering a little, and he tugged at the older man’s lapel. Pulled in and pulled close. “It’s too bad, Mr. Singer. If you need a hooker while you’re here...”
“This was a mistake,” Hannibal said, feeling that hand against his chest for the second time that day.
“...let me know first. Never know what kind of diseases those boys are carrying around here,” Peck said seriously, and then the door snicked shut.
Hannibal stared at it for a few moments, something hard and cold and bitter gathering up under the skin.
Why had he come here?
Had he really come here, just to see?
+++++
“Be on alert, BA,” Hannibal growled as they made their way into dining room of the hotel top’s restaurant, sat at the tabe assigned to them per the directions left at the room that morning. It was almost completely empty, except for a dozen or so scattered groups, none of them within earshot of the others. They’d been patted down at the door, and Hannibal thanked a probably non-existant god for his corporal’s handiwork with microcamera technology.
At least one of them had a productive hobby.
The plan was simple.
The plan was painfully simple.
Hannibal knew this was going to lead to adlibbing later on. He hated working like that, but he didn’t have enough information, which meant he could only go with stage one. Stages two to infitinty would have to be worked out later, upon them not getting made tonight.
“Always, boss,” BA grunted back, doing his best to look intimidating. Hannibal almost caught himself smiling at that. Like the big guy needed any help in that department. Especially since Harmon’s death.
The plan, Hannibal reminded himself, and tried not to appear as though he was glancing around the tragically well-appointed dining room. Eyes were on him, too, though, so maybe this was part of Lynch’s game.
Only helped his plan. His incredibly, fatally simple plan.
Find out who was bidding, find out who was going to win, steal the plates back from whoever that person happened to be. Sosa, for all her wonderous government resources, hadn’t been able to make the other potential buyers or any of their financials. He was going to have to do it for her. “Fucking incompetent woman,” he growled under his breath as the waiter showed them to their table.
“You doing okay, boss?”
“Fine, Bosco. But I don’t like this any more than you do,” he said, and glanced around again as their glasses were filled with something rich and red, recommended by the waiter. “Recognize anyone?”
“I don’t think...”
Hannibal sipped at his wine. As expensive as the decor, really. “I think we’re being encouraged to look around.”
“Size up the competition. Nice,” BA said grudgingly.
“Let everybody lay eyes on everyone else who was bidding, do our homework, register a winning bet based on those assessments. Smart. Laying eyes on the competition probably means better numbers,” the colonel mused. “Think the tables are bugged?”
The corporal nodded slightly, and Hannibal made a show of opening his menu.
The appetizer course was a subdued affair, conversations in five or six languages carrying on around them in muttered tones. Hannibal and BA didn’t talk much themselves, but at one point, the colonel caught BA’s gaze settling, and tapped the table in front of him.
The big black man shook himself and went back to his salad. “That guy, in the back, the Israeli?”
Israeli? Hannibal lifted his eyes in that direction. “Looks like he’s same as you, security detail.”
His voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s Uri Natal. I worked with him...”
In Riyahd, and Hannibal wanted to groan. “Fucking Jews,” he said instead, and BA’s flash of anger at the insult softened a bit as he realized what Hannibal was trying to do, trying to shut him up, and he nodded back.
Just about then, before either of them could say any more, a man rose at one of the tables and rang his water glass with the side of a knife. “Gentlemen, may I have your attention please?”
The soft chatter in the room fell silent, and chairs were turned for better angles on whatever announcement they had come here to hear. Hannibal felt something cold run through him as he followed suit, and saw who it was who was standing up.
Big blonde guy, broad and trim under the thousand dollar tailored suit, something casual and violent in his stance as he set his glass back down. “Hello, everyone, thank you for coming.” The faintest trace of an Aussie accent.
But those things could be faked, and only a swift kick under the table, BA’s disapproving shake of head, kept Hannibal in his seat.
Shit, that anger lately.
Blonde. Like in the dead agent’s report.
“We’re very appreciative that you came all this way, just for this meeting.”
“You okay, boss?”
“Fine.” And he forced his fist to unclench.
“US Treasury prinitng plates. Still the most stable currency in the world. As much as you want, as often as you want. Each one of you in this room has been screened. Everyone in this room has the means of paying and the means of utilizing this resource.” The blonde paused and Peck rose from his seat right next to him, briefcase in hand.
He flicked it open, and held up one of the plates. BA’s eyes were like flint, no doubt remembering when they brought that container back to base.
“Bidding starts at two hundred and fifty million, US. You have twenty four hours to return your numbers to my associate here. We will take an additional twenty-four hours to review the bids and make a final determination.” The blonde paused again, and his eyes roamed the room. “I suggest you make your bids carefully. There are no second chances with this offer. Thank you again for coming, and enjoy the rest of your meal.”
He nodded to Peck, and the kid snapped the case shut. The two of them strode confidently out of the restaurant, and Hannibal caught a glimpse of a semi-automatic .9mm holstered against the blonde’s ribs. The accountant, Peck, kind of smirked as he walked by Hannibal’s table, dragging the colonel’s eyes with him, all the way, out, away, and then they were gone.
The waiters were bringing main course now, and BA tapped the table again. “What are you thinking, boss?”
Hannibal just shook his head and picked his menu back up, trying not to think about the kid. Failing to not think about the kid, the kid’s offer, how much he wanted to... “What are you going to order?”
BA, probably sensing his mood, didn’t press the issue.
Until later, anyway.
+++++
“Where you going, boss?”
“Out.”
“Why?” And that was Murdock, glancing back and forth between BA and Hannibal, obviously looking for some kind of sign of whatever this was, of whatever had happened that evening.
“You boys have the photos from tonight?”
BA shrugged. “Uploading now.”
“Good, good,” Hannibal said with a nod. Let’s run it, see if we can figure out who any of these people are, and try to get an ID on the blonde who was speaking.”
The corporal took a step towards him, up off the sofa where he’d collapsed after their return from their insanely rich, insanely long dinner, tie askew and face pensive. Strained, just a little, and Hannibal wondered if that was his fault. “You don’t wanna stay for this?”
Hannibal paused. How the hell was he supposed to explain this? What, exactly, was he supposed to explain? How could he explain this to himself? He was irritated and hot and pissed at Sosa for dragging him into a business deal where he had to smile at the man who slaughtered his best friend, his lieutenant, pissed at himself for taking it. Murderously pissed. “You’re security and Murdock’s the pilot. It would look suspicious if I stayed.”
“Right,” the captain drawled slowly. “Because we ain’t worth your time as some rich asshole banker.”
“Murdock...”
The pilot waved him off and turned the volume up on the Chinese soap opera he was watching. “Go do whatever you gotta do, bossman.”
“We’ll meet up in the morning,” Hannibal promised, but they barely looked at him, BA loading one of the databases, and he left the room quietly.
Time was, Hannibal reflected as he navigated the maze of hallways and stairs, he wouldn’t have handled it like this. He would have stayed, would have apologized and gotten a bottle of whiskey from room service and rented some crappy movie and they all would have sat around in the little suite and laughed and joked and gone through the photographs and all would have been right with the world.
But nothing was okay anymore.
Hannibal couldn’t fix it. He knew that. His attempts to interject normalcy in the situation thus far, since the warehouse in Germany had failed. Seemed to make it worse, actually. BA would go quiet and Murdock, Murdock would play along for so long before slipping into a depression, sometimes so deep...
Don’t you fucking dare tell yourself you’re leaving for their sake that voice in his head said, and Hannibal ground his teeth, hating himself, telling himself that this was okay, because this wasn’t the guy who’d... and knocked on the door.
Room 349.
It opened almost instantly, right after his first rap. Like Peck was waiting for him.
Like he knew.
The younger man pushed mussed caramel hair out of his eyes and grinned that knowing grin that seemed to be a permanent feature on his too-pretty face. His suit jacket was off, that pale cerulean shirt unbuttoned and a white wifebeater between him and what had to be a toned, tanned chest. He wasn’t wearing shoes. The television was on in the background, muted, the only light in the room. “You need me to set something up for you, Mr. Singer?”
“Call me Mark,” Hannibal growled, and grabbed the front of that wifebeater and tugged himself in closer, “Peck.”
“Ooh, I love the way you say that, all growly and sexy,” Lynch’s accountant said, and practically threw him into the room. “So you can keep calling me Peck.”
“Not Templeton?”
“Fuck my first name,” the younger man said, those blue eyes flashing dangerously in the low, muttering light. He slammed the door behind him and threw the bolt, all very smooth again, something predatory in the way he moved...
Hannibal tried to smirk back, hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he suddenly felt. What was he doing? Why didn't he want to leave? “Rather fuck you.”
“That’s not what you came here for.”
What? “No?”
And then Peck was on him, one hand on his shoulder, skinning his jacket off him, slowly backing him up. Those blue eyes got darker. “No, Mark, you don’t want to fuck me.”
Hannibal heard his jacket hit the ground, felt his back hit the wall. “I don’t...”
“No, Mark. You really, really do.”
It came hard and fast, after that. Hard and fast and almost brutal.
Peck flung Hannibal around, smashed him into the wall. The colonel barely caught himself on his palms, feeling the smoothness of the paint there, let his cheek brush against, felt the younger man press full length up his back. Strong abs, flexing against him, strong hands ripping his belt loose, his pants falling away, ass exposed, the none-too-gentle slide of he younger man’s cock, right up between...
“Oh, god,” Hannibal groaned, the sensation so familiar, so, so distant in any of his memories as to be almost new again, his own dick hard, so, so hard...
“You like that?” Peck asked coyly.
“Fuck...”
“That’s the idea.” Hissed in his ear, low and sensual, followed by a light nip, and Hannibal shivered, bucked back into the man behind him and was rewarded with another push into that wall. The cock was gone, replaced by a finger, slick with something that was probably lotion or massage oil, circling his entrance, just barely pressing in. “I’m guessing you’re tight.”
Hannibal felt his breathing quicken. When was the last time he’d let anybody do this? Why he was he letting this happen now? Why...
“Tight and hot and deep, everything just held in...” two fingers plunged in, all the way in, and Hannibal bit his arm to keep from screaming. “That’s what I love about bankers...” those fingers twisted, scissoring, those teeth working on his neck in between soft little words. “Big international types, everything at stake, so repressed, denying yourselves...”
“You always talk this... oh, fuck! right there, right...” White lightning shot up behind his eyes, prostate grazed, and Hannibal shuddered against the barrage, and then it was gone, replaced with the kid’s cockhead, condom-wrapped and still so, so hot...
Husky and low, in his ear. “You want this?”
“...yes...”
“Prove it.”
Something he was going to regret later, Hannibal knew. Barely stretched, too tight, it was going to hurt, but it wasn’t the pain that made this a huge fucking mistake, some kind of... but before he could get a handle on whatever that bubbling thought was, his hips rolled back. Of their own volition, he tried to tell himself.
Yeah, right.
But he didn’t care.
“Oh, oh, goddamn...” and his forehead hit the wall as the kid moaned, grabbed his hips and slammed the rest of the way in. A hand ran slickly up his spine, under his shirt, anchoring them still, together and motionless.
Just a moment.
The pace was punishing. The grip on his hips alone was going to bruise, and with every thrust, the colonel felt himself colliding with the wall, hard and fast and brutal. He couldn’t feel it, though, couldn’t feel anything but the kid. Right then, he couldn’t feel anything but that cock, rock hard, driving into him. It hurt, but even that didn’t matter.
Not when Peck found his prostate and stuck with that angle, not when a hand wrapped around to give his own unattended erection the pressure, the attention it needed, not when he felt that coil building in his gut, his toes curl, his balls pull up, flood out, empty, splattering the wall and the hand and collapsing his entire body, pinned and held as the man behind him shuddered through his own climax, and everything turned to heavy panting and nonsense sensation.
Hannibal felt his over-sensitized ass protest as Peck withdrew, and he turned around, careful of the mess he’d made, leaned against clean space, desperately trying to catch his breath. He was sweaty and exhausted and the aftershocks of his orgasm echoed under his skin, rippling outward and back in again. He pulled his eyes up enough to meet the kid.
What he saw there... what did he see there?
The kid was just kind of standing there, dick still out and soft against the sinfully fitting trousers, naked, condom off, breathing hard, taking him in. “Was I right or was I right?”
Hannibal was not about to admit that to this, this.. impetuous infant. He hadn’t had anything like that in years, at least years. Maybe ever. Hadn’t come that hard, hadn’t been driven that far over the edge. Maybe ever. What the hell was this young man, to do that to him? “Fuck you.”
“Maybe next time,” Peck said, his exhaustion doing nothing to erase that fucking smirk. His hair was soaked, plastered to his temples.
Hannibal stared. “What makes you think there’s going to be a next time?”
Peck walked over to the bed, condom hitting the trash can, and wiped his hands on one of the pillowcases, ass wriggling in those trousers as he did so, and Hannibal wondered if he wasn’t doing it on purpose as he puled himself . “Because, Mark, you’re going to be in town for at least two more days, possibly more if your bid comes up winning.” He strolled back over, still out, smirk wider. “And like I said, I know your type.” Started on his buttons.
Fuck that.
Hannibal snorted, took a step forward, and slapped the younger man’s hands away from those buttons, those expensive buttons, and started slipping them through those perfectly sewn holes. It was Peck’s turn to look confused. Good, the colonel thought to himself, and made sure he brushed the kid’s chest a little as he went. “What type is that?”
“The type that comes back for seconds.”
He finished at the kid’s waist, tucking him back in, smoothing the shirt down in there. “You’re an arrogant prick.”
“Yeah, and it just pounded your ass through the wall.”
Hannibal ignored that. “Off for business?”
“Something like that.” Peck stared at him for a moment more, and then his face dropped, eyes away. “Look, I’m not...thing is...you’ll be back, tomorrow night?”
“Not a chance,” Hannibal said, something sick in his stomach telling him it was a total lie.
Peck grabbed Hannibal’s jacket from where it’d hit the floor, tossing it over, the colonel catching it automatically. “I’d feel better if I saw you out of my room now. Hate to think that you came here to seduce the information on your competitors out of me.”
“I did see their faces.”
The door was open now, Peck holding it with one bare foot. “What can a face really tell you about a person, Mr Singer?”
Hannibal made it as far as his room. As far as his own room without anything looking odd. Just a businessman, he told himself, some rich asshole here to make some corrupt deal for selfish purposes. He barely registered it as he keyed into his room and fell, fully clothed, onto his bed.
Laid there, saw nothing.
Just felt that kid’s cock deep inside, filling him with something other than the fury and despair he’d carried over the last year, burning it away, shining too bright for anything else to be seen.
And not even sleep could shake that from his mind.
+++++
Face took his cufflinks off, noting that one of them was loose from earlier. How had he missed that?
Didn’t matter. He started rolling up his sleeves.
Shit, he hated doing this sort of thing in a civilized place like this city. And it was going to absolutely ruin this suit. Of course, the way Singer and he had been after it, there were probably a few ripped seams already. His body was still humming from the orgasm.
And that was weird. He could still feel the American banker against him, the muscles of the guy’s back working in synch with his own, the shudder on every thrust. Electric. Like it was... but fuck, it didn’t mean anything. Old guy probably hadn’t gotten laid in a while. And it had been a while since he himself had gotten to top anybody.
Meant nothing.
Except for the way the guy had looked at him after. Not shock, not wonder, but something, something that ran deep through, all the way down...
Face pulled himself back to the moment.
Back to the file he’d seen on his computer this morning.
“I do okay tonight?”
“Yeah, fine, man.”
“This guy you work for’s an asshole.”
“Tell me about it. But, you know...I got no idea why he wanted you to present that, thought it was my show.”
The blonde shrugged, nodded, and Face grinned again.
“Get him ready for me, would you, buddy?” he asked the other man, bored already. He hated it like this, locked up and chained and confined. Just wasn’t any fun at all.
“Fucking hate the Israelis,” the big Australian replied, and kicked the huddled mess at his feet. “Moussad motherfucker.”
“Yeah, well, we knew shit was going to come up somehow or another. That’s why you’re here.” He knelt down and yanked the poor bastard’s head up, modulated his accent. Why the fuck not? “How you doin’, Uri?”
“I do not know any Uri...”
“Don’t give me that shit, buddy. Wasn’t that hard to make you. We both know who you work for. I just can’t decide if your government wants to makes a legitimate bid for the plates or if you’re helping the Americans.”
The Jew stared up at him. Face had given strict orders not to touch the guy unless it was absolutely necessary. Aside form the restraints and raw knuckles, he looked okay. Pissed, but fully functional, everything intact.
Not for long.
That’s why they were in Chinatown. Benefits of being drinking buddies with one of the triad bosses in Hong Kong. Those bastards had their fingers in a lot of pies. Good work spaces.
“You are American,” the Israeli said. “Military.”
“Ex. It’s much more fun.”
Looking around, Face could tell the guy was taking in the space. An old warehouse, one of those places that the government inexplicably allowed to stand, not yet demolished for a shopping mall or high rise. A single light on, overhead. Lit up the chain very nicely. Face hadn’t decided if he was going to let Terry use that or not. “Physical or psychological?” Uri asked, smiling a little.
Face took a knee next to him. “I thought we’d get the physical out of the way first. But don’t worry, Terry’s just here to assist. I believe in doing things myself.”
“Ex special operations, then.” It was calm, cool, probably the same way he would have acted,if he was on the other end of this thing. Professional. Face respected that.
“Whadda ya know, we have that in common, too, Uri.” The conman stood. His shirt was going to get absolutely ruined, and right then and there, he decided he was going to charge Lynch for that, too. Why the hell not? Wasn’t like he wanted to torture the guy, after all. Not personally. It was all just business. “Hey Terry, go get me the coax.”
Chapter Four
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: A year after the jailbreak, the three members of the A-Team are hired under the table by the DoD to take down the two men responsible for the as-yet unresolved theft of the Treasury plates - ex-CIA agent Vance “Lynch” Buress and former Spec-Ops officer Templeton “Faceman” Peck.
“You sure about this, Face?”
“Unmistakable, Vance, darling. The bastard’s in it deep.”
“I need confirmation before we...”
“I’ve got confirmation, my guy in Texas found the memo. Now I’m just trying to figure out whether or not if he’s working for the government or...”
“I don’t fucking care if he’s working for the Vatican, Kim Jong Il or the fucking Thundercats. Take care of the problem.”
“You coming tonight?”
“Hell no. It’s your show.”
“Scared?”
“Fuck you.”
“Working late tonight, so probably...”
“Stop thinking with your dick, Face, and get your head in the game.”
Face paused. It was early afternoon, a few hours until everything was due to start, the hotel staff had been briefed or bribed as appropriate, and fuck, so what if he’d gone out for coffee? There were three Starbucks within a five minute walk of the Fullerton, and one, the one he’d gone to, about an hour away. Somehow, the walk in the sticky afternoon had made him feel better.
Shit, it wasn’t like he really expected that banker, Singer, to show up.
Well, not right away, anyway.
He’d show. Face knew that for a fact. Guy like that, rich, single, corrupt, always looking for something different, and the conman had yet to meet a businessman who didn’t come to Asia looking for sex.
But that Mark Singer didn’t seem like a banker, some high-rolling asshole. It was why Face was interested, really. The guy reminded him of his first CO, actually, his first one out of school. He’d been an asshole too, though.
Interesting.
“Relax, everything’s taken care of.”
Pause. Then. “Is Terry going with you?”
That ground his brain to a halt again. Terry, one of his old buddies, an Australian he’d brought on as part of his detail for this job. Security was always a nightmare when this kind of money was involved, and it was hard to trust anybody in this business. He trusted Terry. Probably a mistake, really, but still. “Of course he’s going to fucking be there.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, sweetheart.”
“Anything for you, darling.”
“Good. Here’s what I want you to do.”
Face listened, hurmorless, and then told Lynch he’d take care of it. Flipped his phone shut. Took a mental note to look into whatever the hell it was the former CIA officer was doing with his friend.
Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good.
+++++
Hannibal paused at the door to Room 349.
Didn’t knock quite yet.
He’d left BA off at Murdock’s room, told him to meet him upstairs
This was a mistake. Somehow, this was a huge mistake. Why would Peck give him his room number? Why would he would he actually accept?
I wouldn’t, the colonel told himself fiercely, and wondered what Harmon would have said about this. All the lectures he’d given the kid about sleeping around, that time he’d picked him up from some strip club downtown, the disappointment he’d thrown at him, the discussions about how to make a woman happy, how it should be... I wouldn’t
“Mr. Singer, how lovely to see you.”
No, Hannibal knew. He wouldn’t do this.
Not if he didn’t need to know.
“Mr. Peck.”
That lithe body, appearing suddenly from somewhere down the hall, leaned up against the door. A key card flashed out into the younger man’s hand, twirling idly.
Grinning.
Beautiful, really, Hannibal thought to himself, and shook that off. No, no, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t think about that. He hadn’t thought about, hadn’t come here for...
“Did you need something, Mr. Singer?”
But he needed to know.
“Wanted to know why you gave me this,” the older man said easily, waving the card at Lynch’s henchman. “Room 349, come alone. What the hell does that mean?”
“Means nothing...”
“If I don’t want it to?”
Peck laughed and swiped the door open. Let it hit his hip, balancing between the room and the hall, between wherever he was and wherever Hannibal was going, if he did this, if he...
“It means nothing anyway,” the kid said, and bumped the door open wide as he sauntered in. “Unless I misjudged your... interest.”
Hannibal hesitated a moment more. He remembered the report, the murdered agent in Fukuoka and her blue-eyed assassin. This kid didn’t look like a killer.
But he felt like he had to be sure. Eyes could change, hair and skin and clothes. Tattoos, on the other hand...how else was he supposed to be sure?
That was the thought that had been growing in his head all day, since that morning, seeing him. But if that was true, if this was the man he’d come here to kill. The guy who’d shot his lieutenant.
His guts twisted at the thought. He’d loved Harmon like a son. “And what interest would that be?”
Peck caught the door with a hand and looked Hannibal up and down. “None, I guess.” He bit his lip, that grin wavering a little, and he tugged at the older man’s lapel. Pulled in and pulled close. “It’s too bad, Mr. Singer. If you need a hooker while you’re here...”
“This was a mistake,” Hannibal said, feeling that hand against his chest for the second time that day.
“...let me know first. Never know what kind of diseases those boys are carrying around here,” Peck said seriously, and then the door snicked shut.
Hannibal stared at it for a few moments, something hard and cold and bitter gathering up under the skin.
Why had he come here?
Had he really come here, just to see?
+++++
“Be on alert, BA,” Hannibal growled as they made their way into dining room of the hotel top’s restaurant, sat at the tabe assigned to them per the directions left at the room that morning. It was almost completely empty, except for a dozen or so scattered groups, none of them within earshot of the others. They’d been patted down at the door, and Hannibal thanked a probably non-existant god for his corporal’s handiwork with microcamera technology.
At least one of them had a productive hobby.
The plan was simple.
The plan was painfully simple.
Hannibal knew this was going to lead to adlibbing later on. He hated working like that, but he didn’t have enough information, which meant he could only go with stage one. Stages two to infitinty would have to be worked out later, upon them not getting made tonight.
“Always, boss,” BA grunted back, doing his best to look intimidating. Hannibal almost caught himself smiling at that. Like the big guy needed any help in that department. Especially since Harmon’s death.
The plan, Hannibal reminded himself, and tried not to appear as though he was glancing around the tragically well-appointed dining room. Eyes were on him, too, though, so maybe this was part of Lynch’s game.
Only helped his plan. His incredibly, fatally simple plan.
Find out who was bidding, find out who was going to win, steal the plates back from whoever that person happened to be. Sosa, for all her wonderous government resources, hadn’t been able to make the other potential buyers or any of their financials. He was going to have to do it for her. “Fucking incompetent woman,” he growled under his breath as the waiter showed them to their table.
“You doing okay, boss?”
“Fine, Bosco. But I don’t like this any more than you do,” he said, and glanced around again as their glasses were filled with something rich and red, recommended by the waiter. “Recognize anyone?”
“I don’t think...”
Hannibal sipped at his wine. As expensive as the decor, really. “I think we’re being encouraged to look around.”
“Size up the competition. Nice,” BA said grudgingly.
“Let everybody lay eyes on everyone else who was bidding, do our homework, register a winning bet based on those assessments. Smart. Laying eyes on the competition probably means better numbers,” the colonel mused. “Think the tables are bugged?”
The corporal nodded slightly, and Hannibal made a show of opening his menu.
The appetizer course was a subdued affair, conversations in five or six languages carrying on around them in muttered tones. Hannibal and BA didn’t talk much themselves, but at one point, the colonel caught BA’s gaze settling, and tapped the table in front of him.
The big black man shook himself and went back to his salad. “That guy, in the back, the Israeli?”
Israeli? Hannibal lifted his eyes in that direction. “Looks like he’s same as you, security detail.”
His voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s Uri Natal. I worked with him...”
In Riyahd, and Hannibal wanted to groan. “Fucking Jews,” he said instead, and BA’s flash of anger at the insult softened a bit as he realized what Hannibal was trying to do, trying to shut him up, and he nodded back.
Just about then, before either of them could say any more, a man rose at one of the tables and rang his water glass with the side of a knife. “Gentlemen, may I have your attention please?”
The soft chatter in the room fell silent, and chairs were turned for better angles on whatever announcement they had come here to hear. Hannibal felt something cold run through him as he followed suit, and saw who it was who was standing up.
Big blonde guy, broad and trim under the thousand dollar tailored suit, something casual and violent in his stance as he set his glass back down. “Hello, everyone, thank you for coming.” The faintest trace of an Aussie accent.
But those things could be faked, and only a swift kick under the table, BA’s disapproving shake of head, kept Hannibal in his seat.
Shit, that anger lately.
Blonde. Like in the dead agent’s report.
“We’re very appreciative that you came all this way, just for this meeting.”
“You okay, boss?”
“Fine.” And he forced his fist to unclench.
“US Treasury prinitng plates. Still the most stable currency in the world. As much as you want, as often as you want. Each one of you in this room has been screened. Everyone in this room has the means of paying and the means of utilizing this resource.” The blonde paused and Peck rose from his seat right next to him, briefcase in hand.
He flicked it open, and held up one of the plates. BA’s eyes were like flint, no doubt remembering when they brought that container back to base.
“Bidding starts at two hundred and fifty million, US. You have twenty four hours to return your numbers to my associate here. We will take an additional twenty-four hours to review the bids and make a final determination.” The blonde paused again, and his eyes roamed the room. “I suggest you make your bids carefully. There are no second chances with this offer. Thank you again for coming, and enjoy the rest of your meal.”
He nodded to Peck, and the kid snapped the case shut. The two of them strode confidently out of the restaurant, and Hannibal caught a glimpse of a semi-automatic .9mm holstered against the blonde’s ribs. The accountant, Peck, kind of smirked as he walked by Hannibal’s table, dragging the colonel’s eyes with him, all the way, out, away, and then they were gone.
The waiters were bringing main course now, and BA tapped the table again. “What are you thinking, boss?”
Hannibal just shook his head and picked his menu back up, trying not to think about the kid. Failing to not think about the kid, the kid’s offer, how much he wanted to... “What are you going to order?”
BA, probably sensing his mood, didn’t press the issue.
Until later, anyway.
+++++
“Where you going, boss?”
“Out.”
“Why?” And that was Murdock, glancing back and forth between BA and Hannibal, obviously looking for some kind of sign of whatever this was, of whatever had happened that evening.
“You boys have the photos from tonight?”
BA shrugged. “Uploading now.”
“Good, good,” Hannibal said with a nod. Let’s run it, see if we can figure out who any of these people are, and try to get an ID on the blonde who was speaking.”
The corporal took a step towards him, up off the sofa where he’d collapsed after their return from their insanely rich, insanely long dinner, tie askew and face pensive. Strained, just a little, and Hannibal wondered if that was his fault. “You don’t wanna stay for this?”
Hannibal paused. How the hell was he supposed to explain this? What, exactly, was he supposed to explain? How could he explain this to himself? He was irritated and hot and pissed at Sosa for dragging him into a business deal where he had to smile at the man who slaughtered his best friend, his lieutenant, pissed at himself for taking it. Murderously pissed. “You’re security and Murdock’s the pilot. It would look suspicious if I stayed.”
“Right,” the captain drawled slowly. “Because we ain’t worth your time as some rich asshole banker.”
“Murdock...”
The pilot waved him off and turned the volume up on the Chinese soap opera he was watching. “Go do whatever you gotta do, bossman.”
“We’ll meet up in the morning,” Hannibal promised, but they barely looked at him, BA loading one of the databases, and he left the room quietly.
Time was, Hannibal reflected as he navigated the maze of hallways and stairs, he wouldn’t have handled it like this. He would have stayed, would have apologized and gotten a bottle of whiskey from room service and rented some crappy movie and they all would have sat around in the little suite and laughed and joked and gone through the photographs and all would have been right with the world.
But nothing was okay anymore.
Hannibal couldn’t fix it. He knew that. His attempts to interject normalcy in the situation thus far, since the warehouse in Germany had failed. Seemed to make it worse, actually. BA would go quiet and Murdock, Murdock would play along for so long before slipping into a depression, sometimes so deep...
Don’t you fucking dare tell yourself you’re leaving for their sake that voice in his head said, and Hannibal ground his teeth, hating himself, telling himself that this was okay, because this wasn’t the guy who’d... and knocked on the door.
Room 349.
It opened almost instantly, right after his first rap. Like Peck was waiting for him.
Like he knew.
The younger man pushed mussed caramel hair out of his eyes and grinned that knowing grin that seemed to be a permanent feature on his too-pretty face. His suit jacket was off, that pale cerulean shirt unbuttoned and a white wifebeater between him and what had to be a toned, tanned chest. He wasn’t wearing shoes. The television was on in the background, muted, the only light in the room. “You need me to set something up for you, Mr. Singer?”
“Call me Mark,” Hannibal growled, and grabbed the front of that wifebeater and tugged himself in closer, “Peck.”
“Ooh, I love the way you say that, all growly and sexy,” Lynch’s accountant said, and practically threw him into the room. “So you can keep calling me Peck.”
“Not Templeton?”
“Fuck my first name,” the younger man said, those blue eyes flashing dangerously in the low, muttering light. He slammed the door behind him and threw the bolt, all very smooth again, something predatory in the way he moved...
Hannibal tried to smirk back, hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he suddenly felt. What was he doing? Why didn't he want to leave? “Rather fuck you.”
“That’s not what you came here for.”
What? “No?”
And then Peck was on him, one hand on his shoulder, skinning his jacket off him, slowly backing him up. Those blue eyes got darker. “No, Mark, you don’t want to fuck me.”
Hannibal heard his jacket hit the ground, felt his back hit the wall. “I don’t...”
“No, Mark. You really, really do.”
It came hard and fast, after that. Hard and fast and almost brutal.
Peck flung Hannibal around, smashed him into the wall. The colonel barely caught himself on his palms, feeling the smoothness of the paint there, let his cheek brush against, felt the younger man press full length up his back. Strong abs, flexing against him, strong hands ripping his belt loose, his pants falling away, ass exposed, the none-too-gentle slide of he younger man’s cock, right up between...
“Oh, god,” Hannibal groaned, the sensation so familiar, so, so distant in any of his memories as to be almost new again, his own dick hard, so, so hard...
“You like that?” Peck asked coyly.
“Fuck...”
“That’s the idea.” Hissed in his ear, low and sensual, followed by a light nip, and Hannibal shivered, bucked back into the man behind him and was rewarded with another push into that wall. The cock was gone, replaced by a finger, slick with something that was probably lotion or massage oil, circling his entrance, just barely pressing in. “I’m guessing you’re tight.”
Hannibal felt his breathing quicken. When was the last time he’d let anybody do this? Why he was he letting this happen now? Why...
“Tight and hot and deep, everything just held in...” two fingers plunged in, all the way in, and Hannibal bit his arm to keep from screaming. “That’s what I love about bankers...” those fingers twisted, scissoring, those teeth working on his neck in between soft little words. “Big international types, everything at stake, so repressed, denying yourselves...”
“You always talk this... oh, fuck! right there, right...” White lightning shot up behind his eyes, prostate grazed, and Hannibal shuddered against the barrage, and then it was gone, replaced with the kid’s cockhead, condom-wrapped and still so, so hot...
Husky and low, in his ear. “You want this?”
“...yes...”
“Prove it.”
Something he was going to regret later, Hannibal knew. Barely stretched, too tight, it was going to hurt, but it wasn’t the pain that made this a huge fucking mistake, some kind of... but before he could get a handle on whatever that bubbling thought was, his hips rolled back. Of their own volition, he tried to tell himself.
Yeah, right.
But he didn’t care.
“Oh, oh, goddamn...” and his forehead hit the wall as the kid moaned, grabbed his hips and slammed the rest of the way in. A hand ran slickly up his spine, under his shirt, anchoring them still, together and motionless.
Just a moment.
The pace was punishing. The grip on his hips alone was going to bruise, and with every thrust, the colonel felt himself colliding with the wall, hard and fast and brutal. He couldn’t feel it, though, couldn’t feel anything but the kid. Right then, he couldn’t feel anything but that cock, rock hard, driving into him. It hurt, but even that didn’t matter.
Not when Peck found his prostate and stuck with that angle, not when a hand wrapped around to give his own unattended erection the pressure, the attention it needed, not when he felt that coil building in his gut, his toes curl, his balls pull up, flood out, empty, splattering the wall and the hand and collapsing his entire body, pinned and held as the man behind him shuddered through his own climax, and everything turned to heavy panting and nonsense sensation.
Hannibal felt his over-sensitized ass protest as Peck withdrew, and he turned around, careful of the mess he’d made, leaned against clean space, desperately trying to catch his breath. He was sweaty and exhausted and the aftershocks of his orgasm echoed under his skin, rippling outward and back in again. He pulled his eyes up enough to meet the kid.
What he saw there... what did he see there?
The kid was just kind of standing there, dick still out and soft against the sinfully fitting trousers, naked, condom off, breathing hard, taking him in. “Was I right or was I right?”
Hannibal was not about to admit that to this, this.. impetuous infant. He hadn’t had anything like that in years, at least years. Maybe ever. Hadn’t come that hard, hadn’t been driven that far over the edge. Maybe ever. What the hell was this young man, to do that to him? “Fuck you.”
“Maybe next time,” Peck said, his exhaustion doing nothing to erase that fucking smirk. His hair was soaked, plastered to his temples.
Hannibal stared. “What makes you think there’s going to be a next time?”
Peck walked over to the bed, condom hitting the trash can, and wiped his hands on one of the pillowcases, ass wriggling in those trousers as he did so, and Hannibal wondered if he wasn’t doing it on purpose as he puled himself . “Because, Mark, you’re going to be in town for at least two more days, possibly more if your bid comes up winning.” He strolled back over, still out, smirk wider. “And like I said, I know your type.” Started on his buttons.
Fuck that.
Hannibal snorted, took a step forward, and slapped the younger man’s hands away from those buttons, those expensive buttons, and started slipping them through those perfectly sewn holes. It was Peck’s turn to look confused. Good, the colonel thought to himself, and made sure he brushed the kid’s chest a little as he went. “What type is that?”
“The type that comes back for seconds.”
He finished at the kid’s waist, tucking him back in, smoothing the shirt down in there. “You’re an arrogant prick.”
“Yeah, and it just pounded your ass through the wall.”
Hannibal ignored that. “Off for business?”
“Something like that.” Peck stared at him for a moment more, and then his face dropped, eyes away. “Look, I’m not...thing is...you’ll be back, tomorrow night?”
“Not a chance,” Hannibal said, something sick in his stomach telling him it was a total lie.
Peck grabbed Hannibal’s jacket from where it’d hit the floor, tossing it over, the colonel catching it automatically. “I’d feel better if I saw you out of my room now. Hate to think that you came here to seduce the information on your competitors out of me.”
“I did see their faces.”
The door was open now, Peck holding it with one bare foot. “What can a face really tell you about a person, Mr Singer?”
Hannibal made it as far as his room. As far as his own room without anything looking odd. Just a businessman, he told himself, some rich asshole here to make some corrupt deal for selfish purposes. He barely registered it as he keyed into his room and fell, fully clothed, onto his bed.
Laid there, saw nothing.
Just felt that kid’s cock deep inside, filling him with something other than the fury and despair he’d carried over the last year, burning it away, shining too bright for anything else to be seen.
And not even sleep could shake that from his mind.
+++++
Face took his cufflinks off, noting that one of them was loose from earlier. How had he missed that?
Didn’t matter. He started rolling up his sleeves.
Shit, he hated doing this sort of thing in a civilized place like this city. And it was going to absolutely ruin this suit. Of course, the way Singer and he had been after it, there were probably a few ripped seams already. His body was still humming from the orgasm.
And that was weird. He could still feel the American banker against him, the muscles of the guy’s back working in synch with his own, the shudder on every thrust. Electric. Like it was... but fuck, it didn’t mean anything. Old guy probably hadn’t gotten laid in a while. And it had been a while since he himself had gotten to top anybody.
Meant nothing.
Except for the way the guy had looked at him after. Not shock, not wonder, but something, something that ran deep through, all the way down...
Face pulled himself back to the moment.
Back to the file he’d seen on his computer this morning.
“I do okay tonight?”
“Yeah, fine, man.”
“This guy you work for’s an asshole.”
“Tell me about it. But, you know...I got no idea why he wanted you to present that, thought it was my show.”
The blonde shrugged, nodded, and Face grinned again.
“Get him ready for me, would you, buddy?” he asked the other man, bored already. He hated it like this, locked up and chained and confined. Just wasn’t any fun at all.
“Fucking hate the Israelis,” the big Australian replied, and kicked the huddled mess at his feet. “Moussad motherfucker.”
“Yeah, well, we knew shit was going to come up somehow or another. That’s why you’re here.” He knelt down and yanked the poor bastard’s head up, modulated his accent. Why the fuck not? “How you doin’, Uri?”
“I do not know any Uri...”
“Don’t give me that shit, buddy. Wasn’t that hard to make you. We both know who you work for. I just can’t decide if your government wants to makes a legitimate bid for the plates or if you’re helping the Americans.”
The Jew stared up at him. Face had given strict orders not to touch the guy unless it was absolutely necessary. Aside form the restraints and raw knuckles, he looked okay. Pissed, but fully functional, everything intact.
Not for long.
That’s why they were in Chinatown. Benefits of being drinking buddies with one of the triad bosses in Hong Kong. Those bastards had their fingers in a lot of pies. Good work spaces.
“You are American,” the Israeli said. “Military.”
“Ex. It’s much more fun.”
Looking around, Face could tell the guy was taking in the space. An old warehouse, one of those places that the government inexplicably allowed to stand, not yet demolished for a shopping mall or high rise. A single light on, overhead. Lit up the chain very nicely. Face hadn’t decided if he was going to let Terry use that or not. “Physical or psychological?” Uri asked, smiling a little.
Face took a knee next to him. “I thought we’d get the physical out of the way first. But don’t worry, Terry’s just here to assist. I believe in doing things myself.”
“Ex special operations, then.” It was calm, cool, probably the same way he would have acted,if he was on the other end of this thing. Professional. Face respected that.
“Whadda ya know, we have that in common, too, Uri.” The conman stood. His shirt was going to get absolutely ruined, and right then and there, he decided he was going to charge Lynch for that, too. Why the hell not? Wasn’t like he wanted to torture the guy, after all. Not personally. It was all just business. “Hey Terry, go get me the coax.”
Chapter Four
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Date: 2011-01-31 08:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 01:14 pm (UTC)