Dirty Deals: Olesia Anderson Thriller #1 Free Epub Edition (6 page)

Rostam shook his head. "I always fuck." It was almost magical how quickly he shucked Olesia out of her bra, lifting her arms delicately and slipping the straps over her hands. He took her left breast in his right hand and kneaded it gently, brushing over the nipple with the rough pad of his thumb. "I don't always get shot at, but I always fuck."

Olesia arched her back, pressing her breast into Rostam's palm. "The life of a spy, eh?"

"I did not say I was a spy."

"Oh, stop being facetious. You're a something, that's for sure. You're not normal. Normal people don't buy classified things and get shot at."

"I am not a spy," he said again. He pressed one finger into the centre of her chest and tipped her back, until she lay flat on the bed. The ceiling was spinning; had he slipped something into the vodka?

Then Rostam kissed her again, and Olesia decided she didn't care. He tasted like ice and musk and scented smoke, and she pressed into him, wrapping her legs around him and pulling him in close. "Condom?" she said.

In reply, he pulled a small packet out from his pocket. "God, you are prepared," she said, as he tore the packet open with his teeth and slipped the rubber on. She wriggled her skirt down over her hips, and Rostam tugged it the rest of the way, baring her ass to the cold night air. Her thong slipped off and was thrown somewhere into the dark corners of the hotel room. Then Rostam lifted her legs, pressing her knees into her chest, and entered her in one smooth motion.

Olesia had to muffle a cry as he pressed into her. She ground against him, and Rostam reached around to brush her hair back from her face. "Is it good?"

"Less talk," she said. "Just hurry up and fuck me."

He grinned, withdrew, and thrust into her again with a slap of skin on skin. There was a growling ferocity in the way he moved, like there was something deep inside her that he needed. Every time he hilted inside her he made a noise in the back of his throat like a tiger purring. His thrusts grew faster, and faster still, and the feel of him inside her made Olesia want to scream.

Rostam rested his palm flat on her stomach and rubbed her clit with the pad of his thumb. "You like?"

Olesia couldn't speak. Her orgasm was swelling up, hot and electric. All she could see was white. There was something different about how Rostam fucked compared to how she'd made love to Jean only the day before. Jean had seemed lazy, like it was something he'd expected. An obligation he needed to fulfil. But Rostam pushed into her like she was his whole world, like if he slowed for one moment then she might vanish. He moved with long, powerful strokes, and each time he pressed deep into her a wave of numb, giddy pleasure rolled up into her lungs, vibrating inside her chest.

With his fingers on her clit and his cock teasing against her g-spot, she knew she couldn't hold out much longer. She reached out blind until she found Rostam's hand and wound her fingers through his. "I'm going to-"

He squeezed her hand tight, not losing his rhythm. He growled in the back of his throat. "You are beautiful," he said.

"Fuck, it's not time for flattery! I'm about to-"

He pulled out of her until the tip of his cock was just resting against her pussy lips, and Olesia was about to cry "No fair!" when he bucked back into her. A jolt of heat rolled up her spine and exploded behind her eyes. She arched her back, wailing soundlessly as her orgasm took her. Her toes curled and her fingers bent back into claws. There was light and electricity boiling inside her, and she squeezed down on Rostam's girth, desperate not to let it go.

Rostam was saying something but his words were all a blur. She reached up to paw at his chest. Her fingers were numb. "Good," she said, "good, good," as if she'd forgotten the rest of the English language. "So good."

Rostam pulled out of her and let her legs unfold. She took a deep breath, and the haze lifted from her eyes. She said, "Did you finish?"

Rostam didn't reply. He was rooting around at the foot of the bed, in one of his bags.

Olesia stretched, raising her arms far over her head, feeling her spine pop. Everything from the waist down was tingling. "You really know how to fuck."

Rostam looked up. His eyes were blank, and there was something in his hands. "I have practice."

"You've got a Masters degree in dicking, that's what you've got." She rolled over on the bed, feeling the sheet cling to her sweaty skin. "You want to go again?"

"No." Rostam stood suddenly. "I want you to answer my questions."

The thing in his hands shone in the moonlight.

Cuffs.

Olesia rolled away, reaching for her handbag, but it was already too late. Even as her fingers brushed the leather he was pulling her back, his strong fingers squeezing her wrist so hard she screamed. The cuffs clicked around her right wrist, and then he dragged her across to the foot of the bed and slapped the other end of the cuffs around the iron railings.

She tried to pull away but the cuffs were too tight. "You fucker!"

There was no smile in Rostam's eyes. "Your name is not Anita King. You are Olesia Anderson, and you are a Blackrock contractor. Or am I wrong?"

"Untie me," she hissed, "or I'll dig out your eyes and shit in the sockets."

In reply, he took a second set of cuffs from his bag. Olesia kicked and wriggled but he managed to grab her left foot and close the cuffs around her ankle. That set of cuffs was latched around the other end of the bed, leaving her stretched out across the length of the mattress. She yanked as hard as she could but the cuffs didn't shift.

Finally, she gave up. "Okay, you win. What do you want?"

Rostam sat on the end of the bed, just out of reach of Olesia's teeth. He had her handbag, and he picked through it carefully, like he was defusing a ticking bomb. "Beretta PX4. I like this gun. Excellent balance. And this?" He held her lock-drill out at arm's length. "They do not issue us with these. But, Blackrock is not government, and you are not a proper spy, are you? Not like your parents."

She froze. "Who told you?"

"I know you are the daughter of CIA and KGB agents. Your father was Gregory Anderson. Your mother, her name is protected. They met in Chicago. They died when you were fifteen. Now you do as they did, but for a private enterprise. I know all about you, Miss Anderson, and if you want to leave here you must tell me all you know about Zero Error."

Olesia scowled. "I don't know anything. Why do you think I fucked you, for the fun of it?"

"I had hoped, yes." He turned away. "Young is dead, isn't he?"

"Yeah. Shot."

"I knew, when I saw you at the bar." He took the MicroSD out of his bag and held it close to his face. "He is dead, and you still bargain."

"It's not my data. I don't care what you do with it. Now let... me... go!"

Rostam sighed. "Zero Error... there is more to them than the boys they hire to shoot and steal. We thought maybe they were a branch of your CIA, but if you have never heard of them before..."

He stood and vanished into the bathroom. Olesia called after him. "Hey! Hey, asshole! This hurts, you know. We can cut you a deal! You don't want to end up on the wrong side of-"

He came out from the bathroom with something in his hand, and Olesia froze. A roll of black tape.

"It was good to work with you, Miss Anderson. I wish it would happen again some day, but I think we live on different sides of a very wide line."

He unrolled the tape, and Olesia began to scream.

Rostam got dressed and left her there, stretched across the bed. Once the door was shut Olesia tried breaking the chains on the cuffs, but they were too strong, and she only ended up peeling the skin from her wrists. Then she attempted to shake the bed apart, but it was built solid, bolted to the ground. Even with her free hand she couldn't reach her handbag or phone, not without tearing her left arm from the socket.

Bastard
. At least he hadn't touched her after taping her mouth shut. Small mercies. All she could do now was wait, and she did.

It seemed a very long time before there came a knock at the door. Olesia tried to shout through the tape but all that came out was a muffled groan. The knocking came again. Then a whisper: "On two-"

The door burst open, swinging hard on its hinges and slamming into the wall. There were two shapes there, men hidden behind the glare of their flashlights. She saw, below the flashlights, the shimmer of black steel. Pistols, pointed at her.

One man nodded to the other and they came through the door in perfect time, one covering the bathroom entrance and the other the far window. "Clear!"

"Clear." The first man flicked the lights, and Olesia blinked in the sudden brightness. "Eight-Oh-Six is bound but not injured."

He leaned over to tear away the tape, and Olesia spat to clear the taste from her mouth. "Not injured? I can't feel my fingers! Get this shit off or I'll show you not injured!"

The Blackrock agent didn't smile as he took a lock drill from a pouch on his belt. The drill groaned and sputtered as it worked through the hard steel, but finally the cuffs fell open, and Olesia sat up, balling her hands into fists and wriggling her toes. Her fingernails were purple, and she massaged them until the colour returned. "Motherfucker. Where're my clothes?"

But the two agents had already spread into the far corners of the hotel room, turning over cushions and snapping blacklight photos of the bedspread. Olesia staggered across the room to where her skirt and jacket lay in a crumpled pile. The carpet seemed a hundred miles away, and the hotel walls floated around her, expanding and contracting with every breath.

"Fucker," she whispered. "Fucking asshole dogshit bastard." Her phone was buzzing. Sparks, as she'd guessed. "What?"

"Olesia?" Sparks sounded hesitant. "Are you-"

"I'm fine. Peachy. He took my gun, my wallet and my dignity. I'm going to skin him alive."

"Calm down, it's not that-"

"Calm down? Fuck you, Sparks! You're not here!"

Sparks went quiet. There was only static on the line. Olesia ducked her head. "Sorry. It's just... not been the best day."

"Yeah. Sure. And when you're done pitying yourself and pissing off your friends, you can chase him down. The tracker dot is working. I'm watching him swing west right now."

Olesia straightened. "You're seriously tracking his butthole?"

"I'm... what?"

"Don't worry. I need my equipment. SP-01, vest and a fast car. Get Jean to bring them over."

A pause. "Jean isn't answering, but the men you're with now have more than enough gear. Are you going to try something stupid again?"

"How is it you always read my mind? Synergy, that's what it is." She clicked her fingers, summoning one of the agents to her side. "Got an iPad?" He nodded. "Gimme. Sparks, can you send that tracking data to-"

"Way ahead of you. Google maps plugin, easy as pie."

"Mwah mwah." She set the phone down and cracked her neck, her spine, her sternum. Something like a smile played across her lips. "Rostam, your ass is mine."

* * *

The two agents insisted on riding along - a call to headquarters confirmed that they weren't to let Olesia out of their sight. "For your own safety, Eight-Oh-Six. Your performance over the past days hasn't been perfect-"

She'd hung up at that point, preferring to concentrate on the iPad propped up against the windshield. Rostam was leading them east, out of town, past the mud fields and the last of the gas stations, into the wild tundra of Maryland. Fifty years before this might have been cropland, but now it was industrial dirtscape, a shining plain of beercans and rotten tires, burned out VW beetles resting on rusted axles.

She had a pistol in her lap with two spare magazines, and she loaded as she drove, steering with her knees. The blue pin on her map that was Rostam was accelerating. "Listen up. He's either going to keep on driving until he hits DC, or he's going to make a drop. The buyer is just as important as him, so you two, whatever your names are-"

"Melton and Paul, Miss."

"Melton, Paul, stay in the car and chase that fucker down. I'll take Rostam."

"You sure, Miss?" Melton sniggered. "He seems pretty handy."

"Want me to put this pistol down your throat?" She chambered a round and flicked the safety. The accelerator was cold under her toes; the men hadn't brought any spare pairs of shoes, and she didn't want to have to run in heels. Another glance at the iPad showed that Rostam's car had come to a stop ten miles ahead. She dialled Sparks. "Situation?"

"Yeah, I see it. He's pulled over at what looks like an old airfield."

A drop, then. "Change of plans. Melton, if there's a plane coming in, ground it."

"How?"

"Improvise! Drive the car into it, I don't care." Far ahead was a flash of blue: a signal flare, she guessed. Two blinking red lights were swooping in low. Some light aircraft, already preparing to land. She slammed the pedal down. "Get ready!"

The flare was still flickering when they pulled off the road. The airfield was down a dirt track, and the car rattled as they bounced over potholes and divots. The pistol leaped about in Olesia's lap. Overhead was a burring noise, and then a shadow shot in low, less than twenty yards above the ground. A Cessna, cabin windows dark. "Melton, did you see the numbers on that thing?"

"Didn't see shit!"

She grit her teeth. The plane was already on the ground, and they still had half a mile of bad ground to cover. Over the tall grass she could just make out blinking tail lights, and Rostam's flare sputtering and dying.

Then, in the mirror, she caught a flash of headlights. "Sparks, did you send backup?"

"Not me, Eight-Oh-Six."

"Did Jean get the message?"

"Haven't been able to reach him."

She flung the phone away. "New new plan. Melton, you keep that plane on the ground. Paul, you deal with whoever's following us."

"Got it."

"Got it!"

The dirt track came to an end, and the car skidded across gravel as they crossed onto the airfield. It was less a proper landing strip than a section of the scrub burned flat and badly paved. At the far end the flare was spitting the last of its light. Rostam was a silhouette against the night sky. Beside him, the plane had already turned and was preparing to take off.