In the Ring Page 4

  “Ready.”

  He bent over the side of the bed, legs apart, his round, hairy ass pointing up, split down the middle. I was familiar with it, having managed to get three fingers and a tongue in it. Now it was about to do the job for which it was created.

  I braced myself with one hand against the bed frame. Usually I can rely on my thigh muscles to provide the support and thrust I need, but after a bad smash and weeks in bed the strength was not there. I lined my cock up with Luiz’s hole, pushed forward and glided in, encountering very little resistance. Once I was in, I could lean forward and put some of my weight on to Luiz’s broad, smooth back. He pressed his ass against me, doing half the work; all I had to do was meet his backward thrusts with my own weak forward motions. We picked up each other’s rhythm, and soon I was fucking him efficiently, if not particularly well.

  Luiz reached around to squeeze my balls. “You’re doing great, Dan.” He used the same phrase during physical therapy sessions. I guess this was just physical therapy-plus.

  Endorphins and adrenaline were deadening the pain in my leg, and I wanted to spin him around, fuck him in every position, take control. This was not to be. When I attempted to stand up and flip him on to his back, a bolt of agony shot from my hip to my knee. My cock slipped out of his ass and immediately started to soften. I swore loudly and bit my lip to stop myself from crying.

  “It’s okay. Sit down. We shouldn’t have tried.”

  “No!” I’m not a quitter. “Bend over that fucking bed. I’m going to finish this.”

  He did as he was told, which was enough to get the blood flowing back to my cock, and after I’d watched him fingering his hole for half a minute I was fully stiff. I held on to his hips, pushed in, and fucked him as if my life depended on it, which I guess it did. Certainly my future employment did. I knew Luiz would report back. “Yes, sir, he showed great resilience in the face of overwhelming odds . . .” For all I knew, they were watching me on CCTV. I’d be surprised if the room wasn’t full of cameras. Okay, Agent Oliver, I’ll give you a show. I’ll fuck Luiz’s ass so you know just what’s coming once I get back home . . . You’re going to regret it when I’m tearing into you, when you’re whimpering and begging me to stop and I just keep on fucking you . . .

  And with those unedifying thoughts swamping my brain, I emptied my balls deep inside Luiz’s guts.

  03

  I’ve only passed through England on my way to other places. Apart from one stopover for a briefing in some soulless satellite town, my experience of English culture is confined to airports. So London, after four and a half months in the hospital and rehab, was a shock. I wasn’t used to crowds, or noise, or traffic, let alone traffic coming from the wrong direction. I was unprepared for the racial diversity; I guess I expected it to be white men in bowler hats. But this was like New York and DC and Boston and Baltimore mixed up with Disneyland, all those famous buildings that I always half assumed only existed in the movies. And the men—everywhere, from immigration onward, the men.

  Being a temporary CIA agent on loan to the British Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, meant that I flew business class and was put up in a nice hotel right by the river. A large room with a view of the Thames, the Houses of Parliament, crowds coming and going along the South Bank, a huge double bed, a massive bathroom . . . Usually my first thought would be to find a couple of friends to share my good fortune with me, but this time I’d been told to keep a low profile and “avoid contact with unknown persons.” That meant not fucking the locals.

  The appointment was at 1000 hours the morning after my arrival. Eastbound transatlantic flights are a bitch, the jet lag is far worse than going stateside, but I’ve spent most of my adult life coping with disrupted sleep patterns, and an early morning workout in the hotel gym, a quick blast of steam, and a cold shower set me up nicely. I managed to avoid getting involved with the young guy who was cleaning the spa area, whose attention to the floor right outside the steam room seemed a little excessive, but I gave him a smile and a wink and a good view of my cock. I got dressed and walked over Hungerford Bridge, seagulls swooping overhead, blue skies, a cold wind, boats passing beneath my feet. My appointment was in a private members’ club a little north of the river, all classical columns on the outside and marble and gold on the inside. I announced myself to the hall porter, and was immediately ushered up the grand staircase.

  “You’ll be in the smoking room, sir.” He held a deeply polished door open. I stepped on to carpet so deep it seemed to suck at my feet. “Mr. Reeve will be with you shortly.”

  I’m used to these tactics. You show someone into an office and leave them on their own for a while. It’s a great way of breaking down the confidence of the person you’ve summoned, and of asserting your own authority. I’ve done it hundreds of times with junior ranks, whether it’s for a briefing, a disciplinary, or a fuck. Get them in and keep them waiting: they’ll be much more obedient even after just five minutes. Try it sometime.

  I’m wise to the game, but it still worked. I was in unfamiliar territory, not just a different country but a different world of privilege and tradition, where I was uncertain of the code of conduct. However much I reminded myself that I was Colonel Dan Stagg, hero and veteran, my palms were getting damp as I glanced around the panelled walls, the leather-bound books, the crazy old furniture that made it look like a movie set.

  I jumped when the door opened, and wiped my hands on my pants.

  “Colonel Stagg?”

  I couldn’t see him too well, just the vague shape of a tall man in a dark suit. The voice sounded—not old, exactly, but certainly not young.

  “That’s me.”

  “That was you, technically speaking. You are now . . . someone else.” He stepped forward, and the light from the windows hit him. My age or older: could be a well-preserved sixty, even. Flat stomach, broad shoulders, neatly cut gray hair, blue eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. A dark gray suit with a slight stripe, a bright white shirt and a tie that, I assumed, announced his membership of some elite. Far too refined to be a military man: all of us, even to the highest ranks, have a coarseness that never rubs off. This one reeked of government.

  “Andrew Reeve. Nice to meet you.” We shook. His hand was warmer and drier than mine. “I expect you’re wondering why you’re here.”

  “I’m too old to wonder about anything.”

  He raised his eyebrows maybe a quarter of an inch. “That implies a readiness for the unexpected.”

  “I’m sure I don’t need to talk you through my CV, Mr. Reeve.”

  “I am familiar with it.”

  “I hope I’m here to be briefed.”

  “Among other things. Please take a seat.” He motioned towards a couple of wing-backed armchairs set on either side of a fancy little table that was probably worth more than I earn in a year. “Coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee, please.”

  He pressed a button on the wall. “I’ll ring for it.”

  “I thought they only did that on TV.”

  “Here, at least, we retain a few of the old comforts.” The door glided open, and a waiter appeared with a tray. He must have been waiting for the signal. “We’ll help ourselves, thank you Radek.” The waiter bowed slightly, arranged china cups and silver pots and withdrew, but not before I’d caught his eye. He was young, early twenties maybe, with cropped blond hair and blue eyes.

  Reeve noticed. He didn’t miss much. “Radek is one of ours.” My turn to raise my eyebrows. “MI6, I mean. We’re keeping this in the family. I trust you’re maintaining a low profile as well, as discussed.”

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “Hotel to your liking?” He poured coffee.

  “Very nice. Not that I’ve had much time there.”

  “And you haven’t . . .” He looked me in the eye.

  “Entertained? No. I see my reputation precedes me.”

  “Your reputation, Colonel Stagg, is why you are here.”

  “I neve
r saw fucking around as a career move, but apparently I was wrong.” See? Always the coarseness. Reeve seemed to approve.

  “I’m going to tell you about the job. Please don’t take notes.”

  “I never do.”

  “I understand you haven’t been in the UK much.”

  “Correct.”

  “You’ve never been to Manchester.”

  “I changed planes there once, twenty years ago.”

  “I can live with that. Most of the people you will be dealing with were barely born twenty years ago. And what do you know about boxing?”

  “You tell me. You’ve read the file.”

  “You’re a black belt in various forms of martial arts, and you boxed a little in your teens and twenties.”

  “More than a little, but yes, that’s about right.”

  “Think you could brush it up?”

  “You don’t forget stuff like that.”

  “Good. And you instructed at various levels.”

  “Tae kwon do, karate, judo. But mainly army combatives.”

  “And you’re good at it.”

  “I am.”

  “You can kill with your bare hands?”

  “Want me to demonstrate?”

  “I have your superiors’ word for it, as well as news reports of various civilian activities which we are trying to suppress.”

  “During my little holiday from the marines, you mean?”

  “Precisely. You were busy, weren’t you?”

  “As a fighter?”

  “Among other things.” He sipped his coffee, perhaps mulling over the details of the report. How much was in there? Who had they talked to? There are plenty of guys who can testify to my talents in the sack, and there’s a trail of dead and wounded to bear witness to the combat skills. “Now, to details. You will be assuming a new identity, and it’s vital that you are absolutely confident in your new persona.”

  “Who am I?”

  “Your name is Greg Cooper.”

  “Did you pick that out of a hat?”

  “We have software for that. You were an officer in the United States Marine Corps, highly trained in combat skills, and you served in several theaters of war.”

  “So far so good.”

  “And you were thrown out of the marines for . . .”

  “Fucking.”

  “This is where we depart from reality. You were discharged for racially abusing a fellow officer.”

  “Oh, I was, huh?”

  “You called him, I quote, ‘an Obama-lovin’ sand nigger.’ Unfortunately, one of your colleagues was filming you. You tried to dismiss it as barrack-room banter, but the authorities disagreed. It became quite a cause célèbre in the media. And although Greg Cooper was disgraced and discharged, he became something of a hero to certain so-called free speech advocates.”

  “On the extreme right.”

  “Exactly. You should see the amount of online coverage you generated. Quite the Twitterstorm.”

  “And you started planting this when, exactly?”

  “As soon as you died.”

  “Very efficient.”

  “We have to be. Now, with this unfortunate reputation, you were in no hurry to pursue a career in the US, and you decided to take an extended holiday in England. Start a new life.”

  “I take it I have family here.”

  “You have an English grandfather. You will learn all about him.”

  “Good ol’ gramps.”

  “You’re looking for work. Your only real qualifications are in martial arts and combat training. You’ll be travelling around, scouting out opportunities.”

  “And I’ll find one in Manchester.”

  “You will gain employment with one Alan Vaughan, a boxing promoter and manager who owns a chain of gyms in the northwest. We believe he is funding an extreme right-wing organization in the US.”

  “And you want proof. That much I have been told.”

  “Hence the need for an agent on the inside. Your mission is to penetrate Vaughan’s organization, find out exactly where the money is coming from and where it is going.”

  “Isn’t that obvious? There’s a lot of money to be made in boxing.”

  “That’s already been pursued. He keeps the boxing side of things squeaky clean. All the money is accounted for, and it goes back into the business. Staff wages, premises and so on. His accounts are spotless. He makes substantial donations to charity from his own income, all completely aboveboard.”

  “But you think there’s more.”

  “We believe so. Vaughan is very careful. If there are other branches of his operation, he keeps his distance from them. We need you to gain his trust, and that of his close associates.”

  “And that’s where my cock comes into it.”

  “Vaughan is gay—discreetly so, but it’s an open secret within the boxing world. He has a sort of Praetorian Guard that deters any investigations. His dealings with the media are highly controlled. He’s a brilliant showman, he does a lot of charity work with disadvantaged young people, raises a fortune from his various celebrity friends. But the public knows nothing about the real Alan Vaughan.”

  “So I fuck my way into his confidence.”

  “We suspect that Vaughan is involved with a serious terror threat in the US. If this turns out to be true, we may need you to execute part of Vaughan’s plan. If it comes to it, you will be in the firing line when US forces intercept the attack.”

  “And if Uncle Sam doesn’t kill me, then someone in Vaughan’s camp will do the honors.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Thanks. And what’s in it for me, apart from a lot of hot young boxers?”

  “We thought that might have been an incentive.”

  “Twenty years ago I would have been tempted. Nowadays I need more than just ass.”

  “You will be well paid, of course.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What’s my future, when I deliver Vaughan? Or are you counting on me dying?”

  “You may continue to be useful to us. Alternatively, you can retire in comfort. You’ll want for nothing.”

  “So if I survive this job, I could be pensioned off?”

  “Very handsomely.”

  “And you know perfectly well that I’d go crazy and kill myself within a year.”

  “We had assumed that.”

  My coffee was cold by now, but I needed something to wash away the nasty taste in my mouth. I was being played. I don’t like the feeling. But it was pointless to deny that the job had its attractions. Secrecy, a new identity, however disgraceful, and a generous supply of young athletes. “What makes you so sure that Vaughan is involved in criminal activities?”

  “We obtained information from a young man who broke ranks with the organization. According to him, Vaughan is involved in everything from prostitution to blackmail. There was compelling evidence.”

  “Can’t he testify?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “You mean he’s dead.”

  “No body has been found, nor has he been reported missing by his family.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “Their investigations were frustrated.”

  “Does Vaughan have friends in high places?”

  “It’s possible that he has a hold over some senior-ranking police officers.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “We assume so.”

  “Fucking, killing, blackmail.”

  “And martial arts.”

  “Silly me. And martial arts.”

  “There’s another thing I forgot to mention. Vaughan has a wife and children. They live in a very posh part of the country, in a nice big house. His youngest, a little girl of five, is disabled. He wheels her out for photo opportunities. That’s made him a sort of saint in many people’s eyes. As far as the popular press is concerned, he’s untouchable. And he’s highly litigious. There are stories about his past, and he has a crimi
nal record from thirty years ago—drug-related. He keeps that very quiet, and threatens to sue if it’s mentioned.”

  “Sounds like a real charmer.”

  “He is, that’s the trouble. Wait and see. Now, if you’ve finished your coffee, we have a private room upstairs where we will be running a few tests.” Reeve pressed the button again, and Radek materialized in the doorway. “Radek will show you up and get you ready. I will join you in, say”—he looked at his watch, a fancy gold number on his tanned, hairy wrist—“twenty minutes.”

  I followed Radek up the stairs, enjoying the view of his ass, little suspecting its central importance in the tests of which Reeve had spoken.

  The upper floors were given over to private rooms—much like a hotel, except we appeared to be in the nineteenth century. Radek opened the door with a large brass key. No swipe cards here.

  “Please.” He stepped aside to let me in. Wood panelling, dark crimson carpets, a fancy antique bedstead, a velvet sofa in the window, old-fashioned casements. I looked out at a view of London rooftops, trees, parks, the river.

  “Very nice. And what are we doing up here?”

  “You will have a shower or bath.”

  “I had one already this morning.” I looked at my watch. “Two hours ago. I didn’t get dirty since then.”

  “These are my instructions.” He picked up a white towelling robe from the bed. “Please undress and put this on.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes please.”

  He stood in front of me, holding out the robe. As you know, I’m always happy to undress for good looking blond boys in their twenties, but I was also mindful of orders. Surely MI6 weren’t so stupid as to put Dan Stagg, or even Greg Cooper, in a hotel room with a young man telling him to undress, without expecting consequences. You don’t put a wolf in a cage with a newborn lamb. Reeve had spoken of “tests.” Perhaps they were seeing if I could withstand temptation.

  “What does Reeve say about this?”

  “He is expecting you to be washed and naked when he joins us in twenty minutes.”

  “And you?”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Is he expecting you to be naked as well?”

  He blushed. “If you want me to be.”