Santino Hassell

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[smoxtart]

commissions for @thatdudesantino this is art for a book “HARD WIRED” that you can buy here or you can support the author on patreon

[thatdudesantino]

HARD WIRED art!

[ais-n]

Live now - writing Hsin/Boyd come join us it’s fun probably!

Hey guys the livestream interactive (sort of) Hsin/Boyd story is now live! We just started and are currently lamenting Sonny’s lack of caffeine and my issues opening tumblr in chrome. It’s very exciting. But we will totally soon start the actual writez!

Find us here: https://www.twitch.tv/aisness

[smokesinatra-deactivated2017092]

after a night of vigorous love making, boyd now watched as his boyfriend attempted and repeatedly failed to open a wrappered candy. it was a perfect birthday.

happy birthday, boyd ( ^ ^ /

[thatdudesantino]

180 Proof Vega - ch 10

Scott’s claim about keeping his material alive seemed more legit after Emilio met Douglas Fergusen. If there was ever a guy more undisciplined than Emiio at the Agency, it had to be the cyclone with the Australian accent who charged into the narrow room they had been assigned to share.

Doug stood several inches taller than Emilio’s 5'10", had about thirty more pounds of muscle corded along his body, and a ruddy face made boyish by wild black curls and explosively blue eyes. Jerk-off material. Easy. Or he would have been if it wasn’t for the minor detail of him having a voice like a surround sound speaker with too much bass. Between Doug’s broad body, loud mouth, and his presence, the room suddenly felt overcrowded.

“Who the fuck’s this?” Doug hollered, pointing at Emilio as if he was the chupacabra.

Emilio looked up from the map he had been drawing and glanced over Doug’s shoulder. No one else appeared. “Who the hell are you talking to?”

“I dunno.” Doug planted his fists on his hips, glowering like a pissed off bull. “What the fuck’re you doing in my room?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, you stupid piece of shit?”

“Oi!” Doug’s eyes opened up wider. “Just who do you think you’re mouthin’ off to, little boy?”

Emilio rolled his eyes and turned back to the sheet of paper he had stretched out across the bed. Max, Anwar, and even Drakos had backed up Scott’s claim that Doug was some kind of combat genius, but Emilio was having a hard time reconciling that with the overgrown cartoon character looming over him. And Emilio had more important things to worry about. Like figuring out how to get the hell out of the training complex so he could access a phone. It had been almost a month and a half since he’d failed to cross over the Mexican border, and the unknown was gnawing at him with sharper teeth every day.

What were his men doing? Had they accused a rival group of snagging him? It wouldn’t make any sense. There would have been a ransom demand by now unless the guys began to suspect it was a simple execution. Even Angel would flip if he thought there was a fraction of a chance that they would find Emilio’s decapitated head somewhere in the desert. Angel’s rich boy upbringing gave way to a ferocious violent streak when someone he cared about got hurt. It was then that the others in the gang, the ones who quietly muttered about a couple of pretty boys running Mara Tres, took a step back and realized how dangerous Angel could be once his flip switched.

“This kid seriously just turned his fuckin’ back to me!”

Emilio frowned down at his sketch of the compound. It was based on the one memory he had of walking from the Tower to the training complex, but there had been so much to take in that Emilio knew he’d missed key details. Exits, focal points for the guards, the most and least populated buildings—

The flimsy piece of paper was snatched off the bed and into the air.

“What we got here?” Doug boomed. “A real pretty picture. Or maybe… ohh… maybe it's—”

Emilio spun on his heels, pushed with his thighs, and bolted upright with both fists together. He slammed them into Doug’s chin with enough force to make him stumble and drop the map, but it wasn’t enough to put him on the back the way the move had done to Drakos earlier that day. Instead, Doug twisted and transitioned to an angled kick that caught Emilio in the side. He staggered, caught himself, but then crashed into the wall after Doug rotated again and sent another flying kick to the side of his neck.

Instead of letting him slide to the floor, Doug grabbed him, did a hip throw, and had Emilio pinned to the floor in a headlock. He struggled out of it after a breathless moment of his face being pressed against Doug’s, but the escape was brief, nearly nonexistent. Doug accounted for the movement by sweeping Emilio up into a flip that ended with his arm being twisted back and up, with Doug’s thighs sandwiching his head.

“You done, baby?” Doug asked with a breathless laugh.

“Fuck you.” Emilio’s voice pitched higher when Doug twisted his arm hard. “Argh—motherfucker!”

“Tap out, and I’ll let you go.”

Emilio grit his teeth together. He pressed his head back against the floor and squeezed his eyes shut. Pain radiated up his arm like a thousand tiny explosions going off beneath his skin, but giving up to this guy…

“C'mon. If I break your arm, you’re bloody useless, and you know what that means.”

“Fuck!” Emilio slapped his hand against the floor. Doug released his arm, and Emilio rolled onto his side, cradling it. “You’re lucky I just got here, you fucking gorilla. Give me a couple of months—”

A booming laugh interrupted Emilio’s tirade.

“You think the Agency taught me what I know?” Doug squatted down beside Emilio, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t think so, baby. I was a cruiserweight champ in kickboxing before this place came callin’. Had a competition coming up in November for fifty big ones and everything…”

Emilio stared up at Doug through a halo of disheveled hair. It was almost as if they had not even been in a fight. Doug was frowning down at Emilio thoughtfully, thinking back on his exciting fighting career.

“So then what the fuck are you doing here?”

Doug shrugged and stuck out a hand for Emilio. Emilio ignored it, and Doug got to his feet with a grin.

“I killed a couple of opponents during matches, and it was this whole big thing. Anyway, who cares about that. Why the fuck’re you in my room?”

Emilio pushed his shoulders back against the floor before rebounding to leap to his feet. “It ain’t your room, psycho. It’s our room. And if you don’t like it, you can take it up with one of the assholes that run this joint.”

“Fuck all that.” Doug surveyed Emilio critically. “What’d they bring you in for, anyway? You’re a pretty looking Spanish cunt, but what good is that in a fight? Unless they’re gonna make you a valentine.”

“I’m not Spanish, you fucktard.” Emilio folded his map into a neat square, gritting his teeth against the pain that was still blazing up his arm. “What’s a valentine?”

“An Agency slut.”

“You’re just full of useful information, ain’t you?”

A sly look crossed Doug’s face, and he nodded at the piece of paper disappearing into Emilio’s pocket. “Got way more than you from the look of it.”

Emilio’s gaze skewered Doug to the spot. “I don’t care how big you are, fucker. Don’t think I won’t fuck up your whole world if you mess with me.”

“Aww, you’re a paranoid little bitch, aren’t you?” Doug took a step forward, hand on Emilio’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, mate. We can be—”

Emilio cut Doug off by grabbing his upper arm, sliding around him, and locking an elbow around Doug’s throat. Emilio jerked his elbow up sharply and slammed his free hand to the small of Doug’s back, causing him to fall back and hang himself further on Emilio’s crooked arm.

“Listen up, douchebag.” Emilio dragged Doug backwards, relishing in the man’s strained gasp as his arteries were cut off. “Tell anyone about that map, and I’ll cut your throat in your sleep. You feel me?”

Doug nodded. His knees buckled, and Emilio released him.

“Shit,” Doug gasped. “That was totally un-fucking-called for. Another couple seconds, and I’d have been out cold. Didn’t even think they were teaching you cunts that shit already.”

“Yeah, well, the Agency didn’t teach me everything I know either.”

Doug harrumphed and plopped down on the floor, glaring up at Emilio through his wild black curls. He looked like a big kid.

“If we’re gonna be rooming together, you need to be a little bit nicer to me. Got it, baby?”

“Stop calling me baby. What are you a fucking homo or something?”

Doug’s face creased in a scowl. “Um. No. Just spent weeks on the Fourth tryin’ to convince one of the guards to give me some pussy. But anyway, there ain’t nothing wrong with being a homo. I knew a guy who was gay, was about to sign a contract with a new team and everything, but they found he liked the cock so—”

“Do you ever shut the hell up?”

Doug shrugged. “Not really.”

Emilio shook his head slowly, not looking away from Doug’s bright eyes. In a way, he reminded Emilio of a younger, goofier Moisés. Big as a truck, but unexpectedly charming and endearing despite all of the shit talk. Even so, Emilio kept the mean mug on and curled his lips into a sneer.

“I ain’t gonna say nothin’ about your sorry-ass map,” Doug said, rolling his eyes. “Jesus. It’s not like it’ll be any help to you, anyway.”

“How do you figure that?”

“‘Cause gettin’ off the compound ain’t as easy as hopping a fence. There’s cameras everywhere, and you got to know the patterns. Getting around the patrols is only part of it.”

“What are you, an expert?”

Doug flashed a mischievous smile, all white teeth and dimples. “As good of one as you’re gonna find. Why’d you think I was on the Fourth?”

Emilio gave Doug a skeptical once over. This time, he caught a glimpse of red welts beneath the man’s crew neck shirt, and the distinct outline of bandages on his torso.

“You got out,” Emilio said flatly. “And they brought you back.”

“Yeh.” Doug got to his feet, still running his fingers along his neck, as if it were the worst of his injuries. “Not the first time I got out, either. Punishment was worse this time round. I dunno what the big fuckin’ deal is. It’s not like I’m trying to escape or nothing.”

“Then what the hell are you leaving the compound for, you big idiot?”

Doug tilted his head to the side, looking at Emilio as if the answer should be obvious. “To score some pot, man.”

Emilio stared. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Totally serious.” Doug flashed a thumbs up, all smiles again. “Why, want some?”

“You still have it?”

“I stashed it, but once I get on the other side of the gate again…”

The guy was either a lunatic, or the most ambitious pothead Emilio had ever met. And he had met many. The most interesting part was Doug had clearly proved himself to the Agency if he was getting this much leeway. Even after multiple escape attempts, Doug was allowed to leave the Fourth and return to training with nothing more than some battle scars. Whatever torture Doug had endured had clearly not been savage enough to prevent him from future escapes in the future.

“I got a proposition for you.”

Doug smirked. “That makes me think something dirty, just so you know.”

“If that’s how you want to play it.”

Doug’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair but before he could respond, Scott appeared in their doorway. He observed the signs of a recent scuffle—Doug’s reddened throat and Emilio’s disheveled clothes and unruly hair.

“Everything all right in here?”

“No,” Doug snapped, switching right back to his complaining. “Who told you to put this bossy little slut in my room? I think I deserve some rest and relaxation after what I’ve just gone through!”

“You wouldn’t have gone through anything if you would stop acting like a nineteen-year-old frat boy.”

“Fuck off, Fields. A man has needs.”

Scott’s mouth twitched, but he suppressed a full smile, his expression becoming remote when he jerked his head at Emilio. “You’re late for your appointment with Ms. Streets.”

Doug’s face lit up. “You got deportment classes? Me too, bro!”

“Wow!” Emilio enthused. “Maybe we can study together. You read the chapter on indoctrination or death, and I’ll read the one on fifty ways to avoid being too ethnic!”

“Oh, whatever.” Doug crossed his arms over his chest. “Jackass.”

Scott snorted. “Okay Vega, let’s go.”

Emilio allowed himself to be led out of the room but, before going through the door, he glanced back at Doug and mouthed, “Think about it.”

[thatdudesantino]

180 Proof Vega - ch 9

Emilio counted the seconds two more times as Anwar, and then Max, were summoned. He stopped counting only when he had remained alone in the room with Scott for nearly thirty minutes. The tedium had set in two hours before, but Emilio had held off on moving or speaking before now. People who fidgeted were seen as nervous, and he wasn’t nervous. He was restless, anxious, and trying to keep his head together even as his brain hurled different scenarios at him at a rapid-fire pace.

He paced, ran his hands through his hair, bounced on the balls of his feet, and ultimately began shadowboxing. Through it all, Scott said nothing.

“You all scared for your babies?” Emilio asked, feinting a punch at the wall. “I didn’t think you really gave two shits.”

Scott rubbed his chin slowly, staring without comment.

“I guess I can relate. I’m pretty worried about my men back in Monterrey, but some motherfuckers won’t even let me make a call.”

“Emilio…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I ain’t special. I get it. But… seems kinda weird that y'all want to cut me off from my group. Kinda stupid. Like y'all ain’t thinking long term and what not.”

Scott released a barely audible sigh. “You’re like a dog with a bone, kid.”

“Alls I’m saying it—”

“And what happened to all of those deportment lessons you spend so much time at?” Scott stopped rubbing his chin, dropping his hand so it dangled by his side. “I thought Ms. Streets was doing her best to scrub the slang from your vocabulary?”

“She tried.” Emilio swung both fists in a three punch combination that worked better on his shadow than actual people. For all that he’d kicked and bitten his way through the childhood, Emilio had a long way to go when it came to being efficient with his movements and methodical in the course of a fight. It was Scott’ primary criticism of his skills. “Just ‘cause I can switch back and forth, don’t mean I’m going to turn into one of your little Agency clones.”

“I don’t think that’s possible even if you sounded like the whitest WASP to cross through the compound’s gate.”

“Imma take that as a compliment.” Emilio stopped swinging and turned to face Scott. He’d worked up a sweat and expended some of the restless energy that had accrued during his wait. “Wouldn’t it be some shit if you were stuck with just me?”

“It wouldn’t only be you.” Scott looked at the door again. A line appeared between his brows. “Doug will be back this week, and the female will be with us next week.”

“The druggie chick?”

“The other R&D probie.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Emilio watched as Scott began to pace around the room, checking weapons and materials. Obviously on edge. “Man, you’re way softer than I thought. Shouldn’t you be used to this shit by now?”

Scott picked up a small remote control from the desk wedged into the corner. “Emilio, leave it alone.”

“Fine.” Emilio counted the seconds. He got up to three hundred before speaking again. “I thought the Agency burned all of the feelings out of you people? What the fuck do you care if all of those suckers are dead in a fucking bin, ready to be rolled to the incinerator? I bet that’s what happened.”

Scott dropped the remote so hard that it clattered. “I said leave it, kid.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“So say something else,” Scott exploded. “You want to get under my fucking skin, Emilio? You want to piss off one of maybe three people who don’t want to see YOU being thrown into a bin? Then keep. fucking. talking.”

“Whoa, you’re getting pretty emotional.” Scott speared Emilio with a venomous look, and Emilio held up his hands in surrender. “I’m joking, okay? Damn, man. Chill the fuck out. I’m just trying to kill some time.”

Scott huffed out a scoff. “Bad choice of words.”

The instructor’s sensitivity was as appealing as a hammer shoved sideways up Emilio’s ass, but he left it alone. Instead, he stood by the door and peered into the corridor, waiting for Cameron to reappear, and wondering why it seemed like Serrano was taking longer than everyone else. By the time Cameron came striding down the hallway, Emilio had almost begun to think that he was, for some reason, being left out of the evals.

“Took you long enough.” Emilio didn’t stand up from his slouch. “I was starting to feel lonely.”

Cameron stopped only when he was a couple of inches away, well into Emilio’s personal space. He was close enough for Emilio to inhale the clean scent of soap on the man’s skin. But Emilio didn’t back away. He lolled his head against the frame, raised his eyebrows, and waited for Cameron to do something besides look markedly unimpressed with everything around him.

Cameron’s eyes skimmed Emilio and moved away dismissively before he said, “Instructor Scott, I’m taking Vega.”

Scott did not reply.

Cameron looked at Emilio again, as unreadable as he’d been during their first meeting, and nodded towards the corridor. Taking the cue, Emilio slid his hands into his pockets and sauntered down the hall. He could feel Cameron’s eyes burning into his back the entire time.

There was no sign of the other probies, but there were also no damning signs of murder. Not that that meant anything in and of itself. If the Agency wanted to get rid of some people, they were more than equipped to make the bodies disappear. They probably had secret tunnels and passageways leading to different buildings; a way to get around while remaining unseen.

Emilio stopped walking when they reached the cluster of private rooms and slipped into the closest one after Cameron waved him inside.

“So, what’s good, Cam? How you been since I last tore up and whooped your ass?”

Cameron shut the door behind them. He stood in front of it like a sentinel, still scouring Emilio with that steady gaze.

“Man, this evaluation is going to be super invigorating. What happened to the other guys? Did you bore them to death?”

“Shut your mouth.”

Emilio shut his mouth more out of surprise than a desire to comply with the order. He’d expected Cameron to take the professional approach, to pretend like they’d never fought like alley cats, but the edge in that voice was just as threatening as it had been in the van. And that rubbed Emilio the wrong fucking way.

His hands curled, fingers digging into the skin of his palm. “Let’s get this over with.”

Cameron pushed away from the door, crossing the room in two strides. “General Connors wants you dead.”

“I wish I was surprised by that.”

“He’s wanted you dead from the beginning. I convinced the Marshal to give you a chance.”

Emilio gave the appearance of caring little about that information, and boosted himself up to sit on top of a metal supply cabinet.

“I don’t see why you’d go out of your way to keep me alive.” Emilio planted his hands flat, leaning back. “Considering I can’t fucking stand you.”

“Your opinion is irrelevant. I defended you because you can be an excellent agent.” It was a compliment, but it didn’t sound like one coming out of Cameron’s mouth. It sounded more like he was repeating a weather report. “You’re strong, fast, and attractive. Connors doesn’t like you personally, and that is coloring his judgment.”

“Scott- seems to like me just fine.”

“Scott’s opinion is worth as much as yours,” Cameron replied. “If you want to live past the next couple of months, I suggest you clean up your act. You’re not in the favela anymore, Vega. And you’re not consorting with a group of smugglers that came together from every dark, crime-riddled hole in Latin America—”

“Fuck you.” Emilio pushed himself off the bin, dropping to his feet. Resentment radiated through him, wanting to manifest in raised fists and thrown knuckles. “You want to talk all that shit about my people, but you got your fucking ass beat by me, didn’t you?”

Cameron’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Are you proud of your accomplishment?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty pleased that I got to kick you in the balls. Makes me all tingly.”

They stared at each other in a stretch of silence that was filled with Emilio’s shifting feet and quickening breath. He was getting pissed and Cameron knew it. Cameron was deliberately drawing it out of him.

“Do you want to hit me?”

Instead of replying verbally, Emilio launched into the three punch combination he’d practiced only minutes ago. His right hand slammed into Cameron’s temple, the left got him in the chin, and then Emilio brought his right hand back in a mean arc that should have nailed Cameron in the kidneys. The blows exploded out of Emilio faster than they ever had before, but Cameron caught his fist on the third swing and snapped it backwards.

Emilio bit back a cry of pain and accounted for the attack by bringing his knee up to Cameron’s solar plexus, driving it up hard and fast to knock the wind out of him. It didn’t work.

Cameron released Emilio’s hand with a violent twist, and shoved him against the wall with so much force that Emilio’s head snapped back against it. It was jarring, and Emilio could feel the sensation in his teeth, but he struggled through the spots dancing before his eyes.

“Are you done?” Cameron asked.

“Not by a fucking long shot, bro.”

The evaluation was forgotten in favor of a fight that should have ended in moments, but lasted upward of ten. With the heat of anger simmering Emilio’s blood, he couldn’t think straight enough to execute moves that he’d worked on for weeks. Instead of thinking three steps ahead and attacking in a fluid dance of skill, Emilio surged at Cameron with a flurry of spontaneous attacks that were meant to exploit openings and possible weaknesses, instead of the strategic targeting that Scott wanted him to learn.

Emilio was frustrated even as they fought, but he kept at it.

Flying kick to the chest, uppercut to Cameron’s stone face, another knee in the kidneys, and enough bites and gouges to scandalize both Serrano and Anwar. Both men were big on honor. Whatever the fuck that was.

But through it all, Cameron barely reacted. He countered attacks, fended off others, and targeted nerves that ripped involuntary reactions out of Emilio. It was a disaster.

They wound up on the floor with Emilio pinned. One of his arms was twisted behind his back while the other was caught in Cameron’s iron grip. He was splayed out and helpless, sweat-damp hair clinging to his face and mouth, as Cameron crushed him against the floor. They were pressed tight enough for Emilio to feel every bulge of muscle, every hard line, and to feel breath when Cameron spoke directly into his ear.

“Do you feel better now, bitch?”

Emilio bucked his hips up, rolling his eyes back. “Can’t get off with just foreplay.”

Cameron’s breath caught. He pressed himself against Emilio tighter. “You’re a slut.”

“And your dick is hard enough to punch a hole in your pants.” Emilio lifted his head again, grinding up with a ragged smile. “Just how hard up are you?”

“Hard up enough to come down that whore mouth of yours again.”

Emilio’s body reacted to the words even as his brain sprinted in a totally different direction. Or tried to. It was hard to think straight once Cameron was rubbing the flat of his thumb against Emilio’s lower lip, tugging it down and pressing against it. His gaze was fixed on Emilio’s mouth.

“Why’d you want to keep me around, Cameron?” Emilio arched his back, spreading his thighs, and rolled up in a way that was more than suggestive. It was an invitation. “Word on the street is that you could give less of two fucks about anyone here. You rough up the probies, drop 'em off, and go back to business as usual. What’s so special about me?”

Cameron either wasn’t interested in an exchange of secrets or he wasn’t paying attention, because his response was to shove Emilio’s head back and suck on his throat. The feeling of hot suction and the graze of teeth was so unexpected that Emilio released a ragged moan. His cock pulsed, body overheating, and an ache built in his gut that had nothing to do with being injured from their fight.

This wasn’t the plan. Exploiting Cameron’s overeager cock and strange fixation was the plan. Get him hot and then turn on him, the way Emilio had done in the alley. Or get him hot and then seduce the fucker into doing Emilio a few favors. And finally, beat the living fuck out of him once it was all said and done. A fantasy about forcing Cameron to his knees before fucking his throat had kept Emilio up at night for the past several weeks.

Kissing hadn’t been in the fantasy, but Cameron seemed dead set on doing it.

He sucked Emilio’s throat, nipped at it, and then kissed the stinging spot all while Emilio lay beneath him, shaking and confused by this turn of events. Maybe a fist fight actually was foreplay for Cameron. Maybe each punch just served as a knock to his cock–the same kind of trigger Emilio had had since he’d been too young to understand it. Fighting almost always led to fucking, and pain was almost involved in sex.

Cameron ripped his shirt up and clamped down on one of Emilio’s nipples, worrying at it and sucking, driving Emilio insane with the dual sensations.

“Fuck,” Emilio gasped. “Fuck—stop.”

“You want it, slut.” Cameron reached between them, gripping the outline of Emilio’s dick through his armor. “I bet that dick is leaking.”

“So lick it up, white boy.” Emilio’s rolled back when Cameron squeezed his wood harder. “You owe me a fucking blowjob.”

“Next time.” Cameron licked up Emilio’s throat before swiping his tongue across Emilio’s mouth. “I have something else in mind.”

Emilio was still trying to process the “next time” when Cameron’s weight abruptly vanished, and he was suddenly being hauled to his feet. He tried to snap himself out of the daze of lust, but his body was thrumming with the need to get off, regardless of who was doing it.

He didn’t protest as he was shoved against the cabinet, slightly bent over with his elbows braced against the metal, and Cameron pressed against his back. Every neuron in Emilio’s brain was hyper focused on the need to touched, fucked, to bust, so he didn’t protest when Cameron ripped his pants halfway down in one clean tug.

Cameron shoved Emilio down lower, slamming the side of his face against the cool surface of the cabinet, and the bite of fingers digging into his arms roughly, of the short electric shocks of pain, had Emilio trembling with anticipation. It didn’t matter who Cameron was or what he’d done or whether Emilio hated him—all that mattered was the thrill Emilio got out of being used hard.

Cameron slid his hand down the bared swatch of skin before squeezing one of Emilio’s ass cheeks. The tips of his fingers tickled Emilio’s crack, and his ass clenched up.

“Who else have you been fucking?”

Emilio was reduced to open mouthed pants as he clutched at the edges of the cabinet. He barely heard the words until Cameron smacked his ass, jolting out of the red-tinged haze of lust.

“I asked you a question, bitch.”

“No one,” Emilio growled.

“I think you’re lying.” The sound of Cameron spitting filled the room, and dampness trailed down Emilio’s crack. “You need to be fucked like other people need to breathe,” Cameron said, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Emilio’s hole. He slicked it with his saliva. “Tell me.”

“Fuck you.”

The words had barely left Emilio’s mouth before Cameron’s fingers rammed into his hole. Pain radiated from Emilio’s ass, but it only made his dick harder, especially once those ruthlessly thrusting digits began to hammer his sweet spot.

“Oh shit.” Emilio squeezed his eyes shut, brows arched up, and clung to the cabinet. His toes curled in his boots. “Right there, fucker. J-just like that…”

Cameron hissed out a breath, added a finger, and started fucking Emilio deep enough for half of his hand to go up his ass. The constant impact against his spot had Emilio sobbing out nonsense words, his eyes tearing from the exquisite mix of pleasure and pain, but somehow, it still wasn’t enough. A chance of more more more started up in Emilio’s head, resounding and echoing even though he couldn’t make the words form on his lips.

“You want my dick, Vega?”

Emilio nodded blindly, releasing some pathetic, keening noise.

“Beg me for it.”

Somehow, it was those words that cut through Emilio’s jumbled thoughts.

“You wish, motherfucker.”

A low sound met Emilio’s grunts, and he realized distantly that it was laughter. Cameron was chuckling as he plowed Emilio’s hole with nearly his entire fist. The sound nearly doused the kindling burn in Emilio’s body, but another precise thrust made his nuts seize up, and Emilio felt the rush of near panicked ecstasy that proceeded a violent release of cum.

He was almost there, almost at the peak, when the door to the training room burst open.

Scott  framed the doorway, his white with rage and lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl.

“Get the fuck off him, Russell.”

“I don’t think he wants me to.” There was no inflection in Cameron’s voice, nothing to indicate that he was even remotely concerned about being caught in act of screwing a probie. “Do you want me to stop, Vega?”

Emilio savaged his lower lip, trying to stifle the ragged cries that were trying to erupt from his mouth. That exquisite burn was still building, and he could only look at Scott with agony-glazed eyes. He thought it must be obvious that he was practically gagging for his ass to be used, but Scott didn’t take it that way.

“Step away from him, you sick fuck. Or I will end you. Right now.”

Emilio pressed his forehead against the cabinet and took a deep breath, but his ass reflexively clenched around Cameron’s fingers when they slid out of his hole.

Cameron smacked Emilio’s ass hard enough to sting and jerked Emilio back by a handful of hair. In a move that was likely more for Scott’ building rage than Cameron’s own enjoyment, the senior agent licked the side of Emilio’s face before shoving him aside. He stumbled, pants caught around his hips, and tucked his still semi-hard dick into his underwear.

“Get dressed, bitch.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Emilio snarled.

Someday, he was really going to kill Cameron. After the asshole finally got him off.

“So,” Scott said, not sparing Emilio a glance. “This is why you’re doing the 'evaluations’,” he used air quotes, “And not Captain Thomas.”

“Your skills of deduction are impressive, Scott,” Cameron said. He adjusted the crotch of his black cargo pants. Shameless. It made another little thrill of heat shoot through Emilio as he fixed his clothing. “Captain Thomas is dealing with situation, and I volunteered to take his place.”

“How generous of you.” Scott closed the space between he and Cameron with a few long strides. His arms were loose at his sides, but Emilio could tell his instructor was coiling for a fight. “If I see you putting your hands on my material again, I will tear you apart, you psychotic piece of shit.”

Cameron looked unmoved. “Technically, my hand was in him.”

Scott’ nostrils flared. His hand twitched. “I’m reporting you.”

Emilio held up his hands. “Hey now—”

“You might regret it if you do,” Cameron said mildly.

“You think you fucking scare me, Russell?” Scott took a step closer, his face brushing Cameron’s. “I trained you. I will own you.”

“All right, y'all bitches need to calm down.” Emilio’s erection was non-existent at this point, and the wicked burn of need was replaced by an expanding bubble of irritation. At Scott. “If you’re gonna report this psycho, you can leave my name out of it.”

Scott’ head snapped in his direction. “Whether you want your name in it or not, he used his clearance and history with Agency training to assault a trainee. And whether it affects you or not, it may affect others who this fuck will target—”

“He didn’t target no one,” Emilio snapped. “It was my fault, okay? I told him I need out of this prison so I can touch base with my people, and his price was a little gayer than I anticipated. No harm done. Now calm your fucking tits.”

Emilio could feel Cameron’s cool gaze on his profile, but Emilio kept his attention on Scott. The training instructor seemed very close to having a meltdown. Or killing both he and Cameron. And, for all that Cameron was a cyborg, Emilio thought Scott could do it. He’d been one of the forces that had turned Cameron into an unstoppable machine.

It made Emilio look at Scott with new eyes and appreciation, but he’d just blown his shot at Scott returning the sentiment. The guy looked ready to knock his teeth out, and he kept glaring at Emilio even when Cameron snorted, no longer interested in the argument, and left the room. Once he was gone, Scott released a slow breath.

“I try so hard to keep my material alive, but you’re starting to make me wonder why I fight Connors about your potential termination.”

“Because I’m awesome?”

Scott shook his head in disgust and turned away. “One more mistake, and you’ll find your awesome ass locked on the Fourth. Mark my words, kid.”

Emilio said nothing in return, watched Scott storm out of the room, and sagged against the wall. He very belatedly wondered what exactly he’d been evaluated on.

[thatdudesantino]

180 Proof Vega

Chapter 8

For all that the Agency gave the impression of being a well-oiled machine, there were enough squeaky hinges and sluggish cogs to, someday, bring the entire infrastructure to a screeching halt. Running at one hundred percent efficiency required all material to not only be viable in the long run, but to also be a valuable use of resources in the present. Investing in "what if" and "maybe" projects was not, in Connors' opinion, an economically savvy decision. Unfortunately, Marshal Van Owen had become comfortable enough in his position to waste everyone's fucking time.

Connors slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks and kept his eyes on the monitor stretched across his desk. Emilio Vega's image stared back, all bronze skin, wild hair, and indelible eyes. There was no doubt that the boy was an uncommon talent, but he was one that would only be useful if he exhibited some command of his impulses. Impulses that had already gained him mark after mark for insubordination and spars that had turned to thuggish brawls.

But Van Owen wanted the boy in his stable of field agents, and there was nothing Connors could do about that short of cutting Emilio's throat in his sleep or arranging for an unfortunate accident during training. Neither option was worth the fallout, so Connors could do nothing more than accrue more data on how unmalleable the boy actually was.

"General Connors, Ms. Streets is here to see you."

Connors flicked a finger against the button to unlock his door, not looking away from the monitor even when Streets entered.

"Jacob," she greeted him, her low drawl filling the cavernous space of his office. "My domain would have been as effective as yours. There are decidedly more creature comforts there."

"Mmm." Connors looked away from Emilio's smirking face to focus on Streets. "Yes, I suppose there are."

The woman in charge of deportment training—the process in which probie agents were indoctrinated to Agency protocols and standards—looked like more of a soccer mom than a master of covert conduct and mien, but that, of course, was because she was not a master. After working together for more than a decade, Streets had grown on Connors but that did not detract from the reality that she was a jumped up civilian. Another product of Van Owen's sweeping, experimental gestures. Albeit, a more personal one.

Streets sat in the chair opposite his desk, and he tilted the monitor sideways so she could see Emilio's file.

"I suspected this was about him," Streets said.

"Oh?"

"We only meet regarding the probationary agents if there are special circumstances," she said. "Last time, it was regarding Douglas Fergusen."

"Correct. But the difference between Emilio and Douglas is that Douglas has an array of skills that pave multiple entry points to the Agency's staff whereas Emilio has none outside of being a field agent."

Streets crossed her legs at the knee, hands folded in her lap. One of Streets' more pleasing attributes was her lack of hesitation when being brutally honest with Connors, but it sometimes landed her an arrogance that set his teeth on edge.

"You think he will fail," she said. "Rather cynical, no?"

"He has no discipline."

"Emilio grew up on the streets surrounded by violence." Streets nodded at his picture. "He has more discipline than most people with his background and lack of education. I dare say he has more discipline than Doug, who was raised by an affluent family."

"And as I stated," Connors said, slowing his words, "Doug is a master of multiple forms of martial arts. He has other uses should he fail at being a fieldie."

"Fair point." Streets pursed her lips, pale blue eyes steady on his face. "If you can access the session I had with Emilio earlier today, there is something I would like to show you."

"Something you can't verbally describe I suppose," Connors said drolly.

"I prefer for you to observe for yourself."

"My skills of observation don't need a test, but I'll play along."

Streets only smiled, and he tapped his fingers against the inset keyboard, navigating through the Agency's network to gain access to surveillance files. They populated in dozens of columns, titles displaying the times and dates. As Emilio's deportment session had only occurred an hour past, his was at the top of the list.

"Skip to the portion twenty minutes in," Streets suggested.

Connors fixed her with a chilly stare, but he skipped to the section she had indicated, watching as the video came to life with vivid clarity. The session had taken place in Streets' office rather than the small classrooms she used for group sessions, so Emilio was slouched in a velvet chaise lounge rather than the desk and chair Connors had expected.

It had been years since he'd bothered to meet Streets in her quarters but even now, the sight of such unnecessary opulence made Connors' teeth grind. The Agency's finances were hardly his concern, but if Van Owen had stooped to lavishing Streets in gifts, the man was further off his game than Connors had thought.

"—hardly expect to beat him every time, Emilio," Streets' throaty voice came through the speaker. "Max has exceptional combat skills and extensive training. He was Delta Force before coming here."

"So?" Emilio was sucking on his knuckle. His long, lean body was nearly sliding off the lounge. "I whooped bigger motherfuckers than that before."

"It's not a matter of size."

Emilio rolled his eyes extravagantly and tilted his head back with an explosive sigh. "Aiight, whatever."

Connors leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together. "If this exorcise was meant to impress upon me how much like an immature teenager he is—"

"It wasn't," Streets interrupted. "Have patience, Jacob."

Irritation flooded Connors, but he lit a cigarette rather than say what had crossed his mind. The woman's connection with Van Owen had given her delusions of grandeur that could only be explained by lunacy or a complete misreading of her station. But he didn't say that. Instead, Connors blew rings of smoke at the monitor and watched as on-screen Streets used a holographic projector to display a mirror image of Emilio in the middle of her office.

The youth leapt to his feet, grinning, and circled his double.

"I'm so fucking hot," Emilio proclaimed, jerking a thumb at the projection. "Damn Streets, how you managing to keep off me right now? I bet you're into that cougar shit."

"I have exceptional restraint." Streets' voice was dry, but there was amusement in her tone that was alien to Connors.

"I thought at least you would not be charmed by him," Connors said, a measure of disgust in his tone.

"But he is charming, and that cannot be denied."

Connors did not bother to reply to the statement. Instead, he kept watching the recording, noting that Streets was doing her "you could have a better life with our help" spiel, but focusing more on the acquisition of skills and connections, and access to wealth than social standing. She'd quickly deduced that the latter meant nothing to Vega.

"When you say unlimited resources, you mean, like, I get fuckin'—"

"Repeat yourself."

Emilio blew out another loud sigh and stood next to the holograph. "When you say the Agency has unlimited resources, do you mean I get paid?"

"Of course. Did you think this was an indentured servitude of some kind?"

"I dunno what that means, but probably." Emilio put his hand through the holograph, watching it waver and distort. "I figured y'all was just gonna—"

"Emilio."

"Oh my fucking God, woman, I'm not on a mission. Who gives two shits about how I talk?"

Streets walked into the range of the camera and stood next to Emilio with her arms crossed over her pale pink blouse. She was just as tall as the teen, but between her ash blond hair, slim build, and Puritanical features, she was completely at odds with all of his tattoos and bad attitude.

"You've been through a lot in your life, Emilio."

"Here we go with this bullshit."

"It's the truth. I have read every word in your file and it wasn't difficult to fill in some of the blanks." Streets brushed her hands over Emilio's wrinkled t-shirt, tugging at the collar before moving hair from his face. "You've overcome every barrier the world has put in front of you no matter how tall and wide."

"I know where I came from, lady." Emilio didn't push her hands away as she fussed over him. "But a little rain ain't never made by back hunch lower. I always get through hard times, and I'll get through this shit too."

It wasn't uncommon for Streets to play the maternal role with her material, but it was the first time Connors had seen a hint of genuine warmth in her face.

"It doesn't have to be hard for you here," the on-screen Streets said quietly. "Your life can improve. You'll have your own money, your own apartment, and anything else you need to feel at home. The circumstances of your employment with the Agency are not pleasant, but your tenure here can be."

Emilio didn't look convinced, but a gleam of interest flashed across his face at the mention of money.

"Is this what you wanted me to see?" Connors asked. "A heartwarming moment between you and the urchin?"

"Keep watching."

Connors exhaled smoke through his nose, contemplated cutting this farce short, but ultimately resumed his unimpressed observation. On video, Streets had disappeared off screen to interact with the computer that was controlling the holograph. Connors was familiar with the program. Its purpose was to show probationary agents alternate versions of who they would be if they adapted to the Agency's standards, and it was also used as a model for what they should aspire to.

In the past, Connors had assumed the exorcise was at once asinine and sophomoric, but he had never seen it in use. Streets had programmed the holograph to look like standard Agency material—Emilio Vega with a crew cut, clean shaven, black body armor, and correct posture. He looked older, fiercely dangerous, and his expression had been programmed to look focused enough to lead a team of agents on a storm of a terrorist cell's base.

Connors began shaking his head. On the tip of his tongue were proclamations about Emilio not having the temperament to get far enough in rank for this to become a reality, but the holograph shifted again, and Connors paused.

Now, the holograph was programmed to be wearing a black suit, his hair trimmed and brushed back carelessly from his face, and that wide mouth stretched into a provocative, half-smile. On the screen, the real Emilio demanded use of the program and began cycling through more variations of himself.

Emilio in the casual, designer clothes of a model, then in biker leathers, what looked like a police uniform, and finally a shorts and cardigan combination that Emilio could not stop cackling over. Emilio had found amusement in the many incarnations of his appearance, but the gears of Connors' mind were grinding away.

"He had never touched a computer before this point," Streets noted when Connors paused the video. "His ability to visually learn and apply skills has not been paralleled by any other agent. His IQ is over—"

Connors cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. It wasn't only Emilio's ability to mimic actions and apply knowledge that had caught his attention. It was the chameleon-like transformations his appearance and demeanor could undergo. The way changes in posture, expression, and attire could turn Emilio from a defiant teenager to a sophisticated and sensual young man.

"How is his literacy?"

"Fields has only recently approved a shift in Emilio's training schedule," Streets said. "The tutoring will begin tomorrow."

"Heh." Connors brought the cigarette to his lips, watching her through a drifting curtain of smoke. "And you anticipate glowing success?"

"Not with me, no. Teaching an individual how to read and write fluently is not one of my talents."

"Then who?"

For the first time, Streets shifted under the weight of his stare. She smoothed her hands over the knee-length skirt she wore, then flicked away a barely visible piece of lint.

"Agent Camille Miley."

Connors laughed; a short, ugly bark of a sound.

"Prior to being vetted by the Agency," Streets went on, undeterred, "Camille was a certified teacher. She worked part-time as a literacy coach and intervention specialist between military tours."

"I'm more than aware of Camille's background." Connors stubbed out his cigarette in the glass astray sitting at the corner of his desk. "But she won't agree. She will think you're trying to relegate her duties as rank 10 field agent, accuse you of sexism, and then storm into this office demanding the assignment be lifted from her duties. We can force her, of course, but I am reluctant to threaten a valuable agent with termination just so Van Owen's eighteen-year-old urchin can get through a copy of Green Eggs and Ham."

"His ability is not as low as that, but he isn't fluent, and his spelling is abominable."

"That," Connors said with precision. "Does not detract from my point."

Streets tilted her head to the side, choosing her words. "You implied earlier that multiple people have fallen for Emilio's charm. I assume you meant Van Owen, Scott Fields, several other instructors, the guards..."

"An unfortunate reality that does not change the course of this conversation."

Impatience tightened the corners of Streets' mouth. "You listen poorly, Jacob. Allow me to finish speaking."

Connors reclined in his chair again. "By all means."

They looked at each other for a stretch of silence, a silent exchange made heavy by years of resentment between them, before Streets nodded.

"I spoke to Camille already, and she reacted exactly as you described." Streets smiled. "Until she learned the identity of her pupil."

Connors eyes narrowed to slits.

"Then," Streets continued, smugness seeping in. "She was intrigued and more than willing to spend a few hours a week with young Mr. Vega."

"You mean to imply—"

"I imply nothing. When I inquired about the change in demeanor, Camille stated that if she was being forced to tutor, she was happy to have a bonus. Emilio made an impression on her during their brief time together."

Connors scoffed. "He made an impression on her loins."

"And Cameron Russell's as well," Streets said. "Camille indicated that I should keep her involvement with Emilio confidential. That Agent Russell may become... territorial."

"Of her?" Connors demanded. "I have no patience for these—"

"No." Streets pointed at the monitor again, the tip of her finger tracing Emilio's high cheekbones and pillowy lips. "Of him."

Connors followed the route of her finger, and the sapling of his earlier idea flourished.

"Emilio has a rare ability to get beneath people's skin." Streets leaned forward. "He has already, in one way or another, seduced several of our staff. In some cases, it wasn't even intentional."

The memory of Emilio's intake flooded Connors' mind; the way Cameron had stood over Emilio as if in a trance, his typically vacant eyes alight with unconcealed desire, and the anger that had overcome the senior agent when Connors had recommended termination.

"You are correct," Connors said finally. "And in that way, I can more than make use of him."

***

It had been well over a month since Emilio had seen Cameron, but the sight of the man was like a punch in the gut. Or a shot of adrenaline.

   Their eyes locked once, briefly, and Emilio's pulse was already thundering. Now that he was faced with the object of his obsession, a sense of anticipation snaked through Emilio, though he couldn't identify what it was that he was anticipating.

A showdown in front of the other trainees? A wild brawl? A confrontation now that they were on equal footing, and Emilio wasn't hogtied in the back of a van? Or maybe he just wanted some acknowledgment. More than that one glance. Something to indicate that, after all they'd gone through together, Cameron was just as fixated on him.

The other trainees talked about Cameron like he was the bogeyman, but Emilio doubted they'd actually fought the man. Drakos and Serrano may be good at hand-to-hand combat, but Emilio was good at running and hiding—disappearing in a cramped urban landscape and pitching himself across rooftops because a plummet to the ground was preferable to captivity.

Maybe they'd struggled against Cameron, but Emilio didn't think  they'd taken the senior agent for the same kind of ride.

Nah. Emilio had been the exception, and he wanted some fucking recognition. Something to prove that Cameron had spent the last few weeks thinking back on their wild chase, remembering the smell of sweat as he'd hauled Emilio into that motel room, and the feel of Emilio's mouth wrapped around the root of his cock. He'd been lost in that blowjob, and Emilio knew that Cameron had wanted more.

Emilio shifted on the floor of the training room, bringing his knees up to his chest. He rested his chin against his knees, dark hair falling over his face, and watched Cameron from beneath his lashes. People were talking, probably about something important, but Emilio didn't hear a word.

   Since that morning on the La Linda border, he had replayed his interactions with Cameron on a daily basis. The events were etched into his mind, but there were times when he'd doubted the sharpness of his memories. Had he psyched himself out? Had his failure to escape Cameron turned the man into a larger than life super soldier in his mind?

   Was Cameron as tall as Emilio remembered? As strong? Had Cameron really moved that quickly? Aimed that accurately while leaping rooftops? Had his face been that blank and cold? Was he really that psychotic? That sickeningly hot?

   As Cameron stood before the knot of probie agents, the answer to each of those questions popped into Emilio's head.

   Yes, yes, and goddamn yes again. The motherfucker stood ramrod straight, his body ripped with muscles that were clearly visible beneath skintight, Agency-issued armor, and that stone cold face of his was a thing of wet dreams. Emilio had never been ashamed of the crossed wires in his head that made him crave filthy, reckless pain sex, but the fact that Cameron had the ability to make his dick pulse was an unfortunate reality.

   Even if Emilio had enjoyed having Cameron's cock in his mouth, it hadn’t exactly been fair play.

   "Wake up, Vega."

   Emilio wet his lips, glanced at Asher, and gave a curt nod. Asher looked knowing, but Emilio wasn't about to confirm any of his suspicions. Being the guy who would suck a dick for a favor was a lot different than being the guy who panted after sociopathic savages with pretty faces.

   "Long time no see, Agent Russell." Drakos rolled his shoulders and the veins in his upper arms stood out in relief to his olive skin. He flashes one of his horrible, sardonic smiles. "Can't say I missed you."

   Cameron did not even deign to look at the man.

   There was enough bitterness in Drakos' tone to indicate an untold story, but Emilio bargaining for information from the bulky ex-cop was more likely to end in a bloodbath than a trade of favors. Over a month in, and they still fucking hated each other.

"Senior Agent Russell is here for your quarterly evaluations. Apparently Captain Thomas is indisposed." Scott made "apparently" sound a lot more like "allegedly". "You'll go one-by-one with him into the private sparring room."

"Why aren't you evaluating us?" Anwar looked as thrilled to see Cameron as Drakos had. "You're our instructor."

   "That's why I'm not evaluating you."

   "Aw, Fields, does that mean you're not impartial?" Max dimpled at their instructor, but his smile was strained. "We've grown on you!"

Scott just shook his head.

Drakos jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the corridor that led to the private rooms. "If we fail, what are the odds of us coming out of there in one piece?"

"High," Cameron said flatly. "You'd be terminated outside of the training complex."

Silence met the statement. With a handful of words, Cameron had wiped all traces of forced jocularity from the tiny group. For all that the probies tossed around warnings about what the Agency was capable of, even after whatever they'd witnessed with Kayne, they seemed unprepared for the worst.

Emilio couldn't relate. He spent most of his time expecting the worst.

"Drakos." Scott nodded at the door. "You're up first."

Drakos rose from the floor in one movement, his shoulders back and head held high, but for the first time since Emilio had met the man, he was without a comment or an insulting joke. Cameron led Drakos down the corridor, and a soberness fell over the rest of the group. Even Scott was tense, cracking his knuckles and rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flit to the door every few minutes, sweat dampening his forehead and his lips tightened to a slash.

"Fuck, I'm next," Asher whispered. "He's going to kill me."

"You don't even know if this is a combat eval," Anwar pointed out. "It could be a review of your data."

"Yeah, and my data is fucked." Panic made Asher look younger, his blue eyes large as coins in his thin face. "My combat skills drag me way down. I'm behind all of you."

"It's not a competition." Max shook his head, frowning. "Just because you're not on par with us doesn't mean you don't have what the Agency needs. Besides, you're going to be a geek not a fieldie."

Asher didn't look comforted. He rubbed his hands together, lip caught between his teeth, and stared at the corridor as if he was waiting for Drakos to reappear. Emilio found himself doing the same thing albeit for different reasons. If he could grill Drakos on what the evaluation had included, he could get a leg up and plan for... whatever it was that he wanted to do. Emilio was still unsure. For the past month, he had envisioned their reunion ranging from either a public fight somewhere on compound, or a targeted attack—Emilio slipping into the man's apartment and getting the drop on him while he slept. Similar to what he'd done to Asher, but with more pain.

There was no clock in the room, no way to track the time, so Emilio began counting seconds. He was well over two thousand when Cameron returned to the training room. Alone.

"Where's Drakos?" Anwar seemed to regret the question as soon as it left his mouth, but he simply set his jaw and kept expectantly looking at Cameron.

Cameron didn't even look in his direction. He stood by Scott, expressionless. There wasn't a mark on him or a hair out of place to imply that he'd been in a fight. No clues as to how Drakos' evaluation had gone, or where he was now.

"Hawkins. Let's go."

Asher got to his feet. He shot Scott a slightly panicked look before following Cameron out of the room.

[thatdudesantino]

180 Proof Vega

Chapter 7

"Go!"

The word was a gunshot in Emilio's ears.

"¡Vámonos!", "Vamos!", "Go!"

It was an indicator of coming danger. A signal for self-preservation. Throughout his life, that single word had translated to an order to run. Escape.

At the Agency, it meant a different kind of escape.

"Vega, what the fuck are you doing? Go!"

Emilio blinked, snared by a thousand memories. He was only distantly aware of Scott approaching, but the back of a hand clapping across his face more than caught Emilio's attention. Scott had hit him with so much force that he staggered to the side. Blooded filled his mouth.

"You missed your mark, hot shot. Your mission would have failed."

Balling his hands into fists, Emilio took a breath that should have calmed him but didn't.

Scott rocked back on his heels with fists planted on his hips. There was anger in Scott's face, but Emilio could also read apprehension in the pursed lips and flickering eyes. Sometimes Emilio forgot that his performance didn't just matter for him. It was also used to judge Scott. Must have been a shitty life for the guy—worrying that his toe tag would be lined up next to the punk ass kid who'd failed to perform.

"My bad," Emilio guttered out. He tongued at the blood seeping from the torn flesh inside his cheek. "It's not my day."

"It won't ever be your day if you keep it up." Scott shoved Emilio in the direction of the wall. "Sit it out and have your shit together in ten. They're watching you."

Emilio's back straightened. He cast a quick look at the dome camera in the middle of the ceiling—the eye in the sky that would eventually help Connors decide whether Emilio was worth the month of training they'd already spent on him. Scott claimed the decision wasn't just up to Connors. He said that if Emilio proved himself to be valuable material, the Marshal wouldn't let him get shoved down the incinerator chute like the suckers who failed to pass muster.

The trouble was, Emilio didn't think the Marshal gave enough of a damn about him to prevent that from happening. There was also the issue of Emilio losing interest and the ability to care about what a bunch of suits thought. His investment in their process had faded in the thirty days it had taken him to fall into a routine. If Emilio hated anything, it was a fucking routine.

A month didn't seem like much when he'd given himself half a year to master their training, but it was long enough for restlessness to seep into his skin. For Emilio, restlessness was poison. A corrupting agent that agitated him, and planted frequent wonderings in his head about whether he really wanted to go through with this song and dance, or if he should just go.

Go.

That was the word that had started this most recent bout of cabin fever, and it was a word that swirled in Emilio's mind during each deportment lesson, each tactical drill, and at each meal when he sat down in the mess hall to eat bland food that had been chosen by a nutritionist who'd condescendingly commented that he wouldn't be getting any fucking enchiladas 'round these parts. It was almost like the Agency staff wanted him to flip out and kill them all. Or maybe that was just his impatience prodding him to deliberately fuck things up.

The antsy feeling had first set in after training had expanded to include mission tactics and strategy. The Agency was really big on maps, blueprints; on their agents internalizing multiple access points to a target and multiple ways to get out. They called them egress routes.

Scott used the phrase so much that it had begun to ricochet in Emilio's brain. Scott had been really impressed with the way the lowlife street urchin had picked up the Agency's lingo. He'd been further dazzled by Emilio's ability to glance at a map and identify the best routes without analyzing it for twenty minutes like Asher and Anwar. Maybe it had never occurred to Scott that running and hiding had been a reoccurring theme in Emilio's youth. He knew for damn sure that Scott had never expected lessons on egress points and safe, discreet routes back to the Agency's receiving area to activate Emilio's desire to find egress points off their fucking compound.

"What's up with you?"

Emilio looked up to find Max Serrano approaching with his usual loose-limbed amble. The guy had apparently been a Delta Force bad ass before the Agency came calling, but he looked more like an actor on a telenovela. Handsome in a corny, typical way, and always flashing a big cheesy smile. But all things considered, Max was hard to hate. Emilio had certainly tried.

"Not in the mood for the bullshit today."

Max dropped down onto the floor beside Emilio. His dark eyes remained locked on the mock mission their squad members were currently playing out in the habitat room. The enormous space was, so far, the most intriguing part of training. The Agency managed to create realistic environmental simulations for the probationary agents' mock missions. Today, they were focusing on forest terrain.

"You're usually a boss at running field missions," Max commented after an extended pause. He was frowning at Asher, who was straggling behind. "But today you were in La La Land."

"I told you I ain't into it today."

"Vega, this isn't a hobby you picked up for fun. They'll kill your ass like they killed Kayne."

Emilio had heard them reference the Kayne incident so many times that he'd already lost interest. The little bitches were too scared to give him details. At this point, it was relegated to the same mental file where he'd shoved childhood stories about El Cucuy.

"And... why do you care about what happens to my ass?"

Max looked taken aback. "Why wouldn't I? We're both going to be agents. We're in the same training squad."

"Uh, yeah, I got that. But check it—this ain't the Delta Squad, pendejo. The way I got the Agency figured out, it's like every motherfucker for themself."

"I don't think that's true."

"Then you're a fucking idiot." Emilio resumed watching the other probies. Like he and Max, Asher had been tapped out. He looked near tears. Emilio had a hard time figuring out what the guy brought to the table. "See, look at Asher's faggot ass. Perfect example."

Max cringed. "Please don't."

"Please don't want?"

"Don't start with the gay slurs. He gets it enough from Drakos."

Emilio shot Max an incredulous look, but quickly checked himself. He'd kept a lid on his bisexuality for the past month, and it was going to stay that way. Max had no way of knowing that Emilio got off on four dudes running a train on his ass. He'd already used numerous fantasies about his lame-ass probie squad taking turns on him to get off in the middle of the night. Or day. The guys weren't the best material given they were all boring as toast compared to Emilio's pals in Mara Tres, but his dick didn't care about how crappy his situation was. It still reared up at the slightest breeze grazing the front of his pants.

"Fine. Just look at his worthless ass," Emilio corrected himself. "The fucker is their field nerd, and Drakos and Anwar left him to die. They couldn't have completed the mission without him, but since he'd already, y'know, fulfilled his function, they're more worried about their egress. He's only valuable material while he's being used."

"But on a real mission—"

"On a real mission you can bet your sweet ass that they wouldn't have even looked back. I dunno how many black marks it takes for us to get yanked out of training, but I'm pretty sure fucking up a real mission once we're real agents will get us killed real fucking quick."

Max dropped back against the wall, and his shoulders thumped the tile. "Damn. You're right. I could tell Anwar wanted to go back, but he probably wouldn't have even considered it if this were real."

"Is that why you got tapped?"

"No." Max drew his knee up and ran his thumb along the shiny, black fabric of his body armor. "I chose an alternate egress route that took two minutes longer. It doesn't make sense, though. Drakos' route would have taken us closer to civilians in a real world scenario. I know there will always be collateral damage, but why take the chance if you don't have to? That's exactly the kind of shit that fucked us up in—" Max balked, flicked a quick glance across the room at the staging area, and said, "I just didn't think it was that big of a deal."

"What doesn't make sense is them being so fuckin' by the book in the first place. Someone needs to shake things up in here."

Max cracked a smile. "You look like the type of guy to do it."

"What makes you say that?"

"Look at you, man." Max grabbed a handful of Emilio's hair and tugged sharply. "We may be the squad of misfits, but you're the rock star. Scott takes so much shit from you that you must really be something special, even if you're slacking off now."

"Heh." Emilio saw Scott attempting to catch his eye, but chose to ignore it. "Ain't nothing special about me."

"Bullshit. I heard you speak Spanish, Portuguese, and Chinese."

"It's Cantonese, dumbass."

Max snorted. "And I also heard you put a hurting on Agent Russell. That guy is a monster. The first time I saw him fight—"

Emilio bolted upright. The first flare of excitement swelled in his chest since he'd begun judo training weeks ago. "When did you see him fight? Does he come here?"

"Sometimes. They use him as an example of what we should be striving for, even though he's rank ten. Most probies go into the field around four or five, but everyone in our squad will probably jump to seven or eight. Asher's lucky that he's set to go to R&D—"

"Fuck all that noise, tell me more about Cameron." The demand earned Emilio an odd look, but he was so jazzed about coming across some accidental Cameron intel that being sly was the furthest thing from his mind. "How often does he come?"

Max shrugged, still scrutinizing Emilio. "They don't exactly give me the guy's agenda, Vega. I get the same amount of info as you."

"Yeah, I got you." The very thought of seeing Cameron again unloaded a barrage of varied emotions that hit Emilio in the gut like shrapnel. He wet his lips, shifting on the floor. "What do you know about that fucker?"

"Just that he has dead eyes like a sociopath. Asher probably knows more since he is all up the butt of various top dogs on the compound, but do you really need to know anything else?"

"Nah." Emilio locked in on where Asher had retreated to the corner of the room. "I guess not."

***

Asher was the only one on the squad to score a single room. Emilio temporarily had one while Douglas Fergusen was cooling his heels in a detainment cell on the Fourth, but Asher had been given a real sweet setup for no real reason that Emilio could discern.

When it came to physicality, Asher was barely getting by. He looked like a fit little twink on the outside, but he had zero stamina. The guy couldn't even run across the staging area in the habitat room without huffing and puffing. Worst yet, he was a coward. Constantly cringing and flinching, his lower lip trembling when Drakos when out of his way to make sure they would be assigned to spar.

Asher bragged about having a higher IQ than all of them combined, but Emilio failed to see how that would help the little asshole on an actual mission. Maybe R&D agents didn't go on the field as much as Scott claimed, and all of this was just a scare tactic or a way to root out anyone who would have multiple uses. If so, Asher was not going to be used as a field agent unless they had need for pretty, blue-eyed jailbait with come rape me mouths.

Emilio had thought of another purpose for his scrawny ass, though.

Instructor Scott didn't live in the training complex, but it was minded by a guy named Agent Larson in the evenings. There was also a small crew of guards who spent their night circling the perimeter and hanging out in the surveillance room. They'd caught Emilio lurking around after hours on more than one occasion, but they were more prone to make conversation with him than write him up. They seemed to get a kick out of his shit talking, and were always eager to share a story about who they'd fucked or fucked over on the greater part of the compound. Emilio wasn't really interested in their likely exaggerated tales, but he was interested in getting chummy enough for them to do him a solid.

Such as turning a blind eye while he stole down the hallway in the middle of the night. Which they did. Nobody confronted Emilio as he slipped into Asher's room.

As there were no windows in the training complex, the room was only illuminated by the fluorescent light streaming from beneath the door. It took a moment for Emilio's eyes to adjust to the darkness.

For all that Drakos had crowed about Asher's luxurious single dorm, it turned out to be narrow enough to resemble a storage closet. Asher was curled up on a bed that looked child-sized. Maybe the width of half a twin mattress. It gave Emilio pause as he stared down at Asher from the end of the bed.

Had it all been hype? Were the rumors of Asher's mysterious favoritism and connections exaggerated? Was Emilio about to risk his shaky position on the squad by hassling Asher? After all, something similar had happened with the mysterious Kayne dude...

Asher exhaled softly in his sleep and rolled onto his back. In the gloom, Emilio's eyes fell on a smooth bare chest and the V of a solid torso. His dick stirred in response, and a new plan clicked into place in Emilio's mind.

To Asher's credit, his eyes opened as soon as Emilio knelt on the mattress.

"What—"

"Shut the fuck up."

Asher tried to sit upright, but Emilio shoved him down to the mattress with an open palm.

"What are you doing?" Asher tried ineffectually to shove Emilio away. "Get out of my room!"

"I said—" Emilio straddled Asher so their crotches were aligned, and pinned his flailing arms above his head. Asher swallowed loudly, and Emilio leaned down so they were nose-to-nose. "—to shut. Up."

At the sound of ice in Emilio's voice, Asher stopped talking. His breath came out in ragged bursts, lips brushing against Emilio's face every time he trembled or shifted around. The proximity was more than Emilio's overactive libido could take, and soon he was hard enough to justify this change of plans. Outing himself to Asher was risky, but there was no hiding the length of steel snaking down the thigh of his black shorts, anyway.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

Asher's eyes shone damply in the darkness. His lips parted, but they brushed Emilio's again, so he shook his head rather than speak.

"I killed for the first time when I was ten." Emilio felt Asher stiffen beneath him, and not in the fun ways. Lowering his face further, Emilio pressed his forehead against Asher's. His hair fell around them like a curtain. "This little girl... about my size. She was barefoot and dirty. Carrying a knife."

"W-where..."

"Brazil." Emilio squeezed his thighs on either side of Asher's narrow body. "I dunno how she knew I had paper. I was lookin' just as raggedy as her. But she did, and she went at me like a fuckin' alley cat, bro. She was quick, but I'd been taught how to fight by a mass murderer so I could handle myself better. Y'know what I mean?"

Asher chest rose and fell quickly. "N-not... really. Why are you telling me this?"

Emilio pressed their faces together harder, grinning when Asher emitted a low whine of fear.

"Because I want you to know that when I say I'll cut your fuckin' throat if you tell anyone what happened in here tonight, I mean it. I ain't frontin' like that clown Drakos. He might have capped some Arabs in the Gulf, but he ain't never looked in another person's eyes up close and personal, and made the decision to take them out."

The shaking escalated to a full-body tremble.

"What's going to happen?" Asher's tenor was hushed, strained, and an octave away from being thick with tears. "I didn't do anything to you!"

"It's not about what you did to me, sweetheart. It's all about what you're gonna do. ¿Comprende?"

Asher nodded slowly. His eyelashes brushed Emilio's face with each motion of his head.

"You tell me what I want to know about the fuckers running this place." Emilio rocked against Asher suggestively. "And I'll make you come so hard that you'll still feel it in your balls tomorrow."

Asher went still beneath Emilio, his eyes opening wide. "Are you messing with me?"

Emilio answered by sliding his tongue into Asher's mouth. It didn't really stoke his fire given Asher laid there like a terrified lump, but the wet velvet of his mouth was a good enough sensation to send Emilio's sex drive into warp speed. He needed to get off with another person like he needed to breathe, and it was a goddamn shame that this bit of action probably would not be leading to reciprocation.

In the past month, the familiar empty ache of unfulfilled lust had scraped at Emilio's insides until he felt hungry and raw. The urgent need to touch and be touched had plagued him like a reoccurring illness ever since he'd hit puberty, and had led to him fucking or getting fucked sometimes two or three times a day ever since. Angel said he was a nympho, but Emilio thought it had more to do with his wires getting crossed due to being oversexed so early.

"Oh, fuck," Asher panted against Emilio's mouth. "This can't be real."

Emilio broke the kiss and grinned when Asher strained upward, seeking more. Maybe it would be interesting after all.

They writhed against each other in a way that would have been more fun if they were both naked.

"What do you want to know?"

"Which one of the brass are you fucking?" Emilio tempered the question by reaching between them. He slid his hand in the slit of Asher's boxers and fondled the stiff length of meat. "Connors?"

Asher's eyes rolled back as he shook his head.

"Cameron?"

"God, no!" When Emilio paused, Asher whimpered. "Fuck, please, don't stop. It feels so—"

"Then who? Tell me. Now."

"Oh fuck, shit..." Asher's mouth gaped open as Emilio milked his dick with one hand, pumping it until the tip wept. "Archibald. He's, like, the inspector."

"Inspector? The fuck does he be inspecting?"

"I dunno. Covert stuff..."

Emilio withdrew his hand and sucked pre-cum off his fingers while Asher whined in protest.

"So this Archibald cat likes pretty boys?"

Asher nodded. His mouth was still ajar, damp lips shining in the dark. "He um, I—"

"Get them words out or you'll go to bed with blue balls tonight, sweetness."

"Shit. Fuck. I met him after I got expelled from MIT, okay?" Asher gritted. "I'd set up these, like, chat rooms—"

"Chat room?" Emilio's nose wrinkled. "What’s that?"

"Places to talk online, stupid," Asher said testily. "I created these chat rooms on the MIT network, and students and professors would, like, log in and... Well, they used it to cruise gay guys on campus and pay them for hookups."

If Emilio hadn't been simultaneously anxious for sex and information, he'd have laughed.

"I got caught, some parents made a big deal about it, and I got expelled. After that, Archibald appeared. Um, I'm not sure why. He said he read about me in the paper and was intrigued."

"So he rocked your world and then brought your simple ass to this hell hole."

"Yeah. In a nutshell."

This time, Emilio did laugh.

Asher bristled and slapped Emilio's ass. "Are you going to make me come now? I told you what you wanted to know."

"Yeah, aiight. Like I'm going to suck your dick for that shitty information. Keep dreaming."

"What then? You can't just—"

Emilio sealed his lips around the quaking knot in Asher's throat. He sucked lightly, moving against Asher again, and didn't stop until Asher had melted against the bed in compliance.

"He still fuck you?"

"Sometimes," Asher said. "But it's hard when I'm trapped down here. He—he said he'll get me an apartment in his residency building if I make it through."

If.

Heh. Emilio wondered if Asher was even aware of his own choice of words.

"He talk in bed? Most rich fuckers like a stupid little slut to lay there and massage their balls while they either brag or rant about their struggle."

"Sometimes he does, yeah," Asher said breathlessly. "He hates Marshal Van Owen and that Cameron guy."

"Why Cameron? Ain't he just a fieldie?"

"Yeah, but..." Asher swallowed audibly. "He has issues. The Agency picked him up when he was like twenty—after he got an ODPMC discharge from the Marines. His file says he has some kind of personality disorder. Eliott—I mean Archibald—thinks he's a sociopath. AKA, he's bad news bears for the Agency because he can't tell the difference between right and wrong. Understand?"

Emilio pictured Cameron's pale, emotionless eyes. The look on his face while he'd watched Emilio shower.

"So, is he gonna get terminated?"

"Nuh uh. That's why Archibald hates Van Owen so much. He never takes his advice. The Marshal likes, um, hard cases. Like you."

"Right." Emilio had almost forgotten to fondle Asher. His thoughts had flown away to wrap around memories of Cameron's cock sliding in and out of his mouth. Amazing how the image could make him want to jizz and slit someone's throat at the same time. "What else you have for me, pretty boy?"

"Nothing. Archibald doesn't let me get near Cameron."

"Yeah? Why not?"

Asher watched Emilio from beneath his lashes. "Probably for the same reason that you're so desperate to get info on him."

Emilio's eyes narrowed. "So's he a known rapist?"

"Did he rape you?"

"No one fucks me unless I let 'em."

Asher's face hardened. "I don't know what childhood trauma warped your tiny brain, but that's not how rape works, you moron."

"Yeah, whatever. Is he known to be a fucking pervert, or what?"

"No." Asher's gaze flicked away. "But Cameron fixates on people, and he's dangerous. So... who knows what he's capable of?"

Emilio grabbed Asher's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Who is he fixated on?"

Asher smirked. "Are you jealous?"

"Don't get snuffed, bitch. Just tell me what I want to know."

"About what?"

"The compound. This city. Whatever. Everything."

Some of the tension eased out of Asher's body. "We're in Lexington, Pennsylvania. It's a pretty typical city from what I know, and the compound is located in the northern part which is a little wooded and removed because we're near this big park. This compound used to be the headquarters of this company called Johnson's Pharmaceuticals. The Agency still uses that as a cover for being here. Also, for the high security."

"So the government doesn't know this place is here?"

"Nope. Archibald says it's a total shadow organization. Maybe some people know about it, but not many. The local cops and government in Lexington just knows this place has some kind of federal protection and is off limits to them."

Emilio mulled that over. He was torn between apprehension and being impressed with the level of invisibility the Agency possessed.

"So these people that work here—if they get capped by the brass or just on a mission, what does their family get told? Or is everyone kidnapped and blackmailed like me."

Asher's brows rose, gaze skimming Emilio curiously. "How'd you get here?"

"Just fuckin' answer."

Asher rolled his eyes. "It's all covered up. People like you will just disappear and no one will ever know what happened to you, and people who were vetted in more legitimate ways, and who have outside connections, have a cover story. My parents think I'm in some kind of government-sponsored criminal rehabilitation program that will get me a real job since I blew my chances with college. But most people are said to be working for a private military company in some capacity."

"Even you?"

Asher shook his head. "Since I'll be on the compound doing R&D stuff, my cover will be that I'm a programmer or a techie for Johnson's Pharmaceuticals."

The details of the Agency filled in slowly, painting a more complete picture of how they operated. For all that they were allegedly invisible to the outside world, they depended on a fair amount of cover stories and lies to continue existing in their present location. There were enough vulnerabilities to exploit if Emilio decided to go that route in the future. Right now, his primary concern was getting in touch with Angel. He'd figure out the rest later on.

"How do people get off the compound?"

"You can't. They do fingerprint and retina scans at the gate. Only full-fledged agents can come and go, and even some of them have restrictions."

"What about the gate along the perimeter?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Asher retorted. "Does it look like I'm trying to go scale the gate and escape into Lexington?"

"Nah, I guess you're happy to be here sucking some old fuck's dick."

"Fuck you." Asher bucked his hips up. "I've told you everything. Now, are you going to get me off or what?"

Emilio knew there was more he should be asking. Asher was an untapped little fount of Agency knowledge just waiting to get turned out, but Emilio was antsy, and horny, and at the moment all he was interested in was Cameron.

"I got you right now."

Emilio threw himself into it and sucked Asher off wet and sloppy, moaning around his dick and playing the slut card just enough to plant notions of repeat performances at the back of Asher's mind. And Emilio enjoyed it. Fuck yeah, he did. He straddled Asher's thigh, humping it while deep throating, and nearly creamed himself from the taste, the musky smell, and the sound of Asher panting his name.

Emilio forgot that this was a trade-off. Forgot he was at the Agency. Lust took over, and he dismissed any lingering thoughts of giving Asher his payment and moving on. He played with Asher's ass until the kid wailed and exploded, releasing a load so big that Emilio couldn't swallow all of it down. He let Asher's swollen dick slide from his mouth and then leaned up for a kiss, giving Asher some of the leftovers.

They tongued each other like frantic teenagers; Asher's fingers in his hair, and Emilio jerking himself off. When his balls seized up and his toes curled, Emilio shoved Asher backwards onto the bed, stroked himself twice more, and shot his cum all over the kid's face.

Emilio's mind blanked out, white noise filling his ears like a television with a broken antenna, and it took several minutes of violent panting for him to climb down from the high of his orgasm. His eyes focused, and Emilio realized Asher was swiping jizz from his face with a finger. He sucked it off.

"You're nastier than I gave you credit for." Emilio collapsed onto Asher with a grunt. "I was trying to treat you like a no account slut."

"Maybe I like being a no account slut."

"Yeah, that's prob why the Inspector likes your bitch ass."

Asher finished cleaning himself up. He was shameless about it. It earned him a couple of notches of respect points on Emilio's invisible score card.

"Just 'cause we had a good time don't mean I won't open your throat if you do me dirty."

"The only way I want to do you dirty is by playing with your ass sometime." Asher tugged Emilio's hair back so they could see each other from beneath the inky mane. "Or if you... tell Archibald."

Emilio nodded, tilted his head to the side, and let the pieces click in place. It dawned on him like a police paddy wagon driving up the side of his head with sirens blaring—but the warning came too late.

"Shit, motherfucker. Archibald had that Kayne dude killed because you fucked him, didn't he?"

Asher grimaced. "Yes. One of the guards walked in on him nailing me."

"And you said he fucking raped you."

"No!" Asher pressed his palms against Emilio's chest in a blunt shove. "I didn't. That's just what Archibald told himself to feel better. No one was interested in what I had to say."

"Damn, man. That old bastard must be really sweet on you to be pulling moves like that." Emilio sat up fully, his eyes sweeping the room for signs of a camera he knew he wouldn't find. Shockingly, none of the dorms had cameras. But the realization had raised his hackles fast, and the need to get out of dodge was strong. "You could have told me that before I sucked your dick. I'd say you owe me an answer to any question I ask just for setting me up like this."

"I would have answered anyway," Asher drawled. "You were just quick to whore yourself out. Who am I to say no?"

"Fuck you."

"Gladly."

Emilio flipped the kid off but, despite his newfound paranoia about Archibald having him hung, didn't feel any real annoyance at Asher himself. Asher seemed to sense the vibe, because he reached around to grab a t-shirt from the floor, and used it to wipe some of the dampness from Emilio's face.

"Can't have you going outside looking like a well-used whore."

"Yeah, can't have that."

Asher bit back a grin, but his dimples gave him away. "I don't get you, Vega. Why did you do all of this just to get a little bit of intel on Cameron?"

"Because when it comes down to it, people are all the same." Emilio rose from the bed when Asher stopped fussing over him. "He might have training and experience, but people are weak when you get to their core. We can all be manipulated and taken down, and he ain't no exception. I just have to find his weakness."

[thatdudesantino]

180 Proof Vega

Chapter 6

Emilio expected Cameron to be the one to lead him out of his cell, but the douchebag was nowhere to be found. Emilio found himself in the hands of yet another suit. Instead of having icy indifference to Emilio's continued existence like everyone else he'd met so far, the new guy—Instructor Scott Fields—seemed to be in a perpetual good mood. The type of person who would watch you get water boarded with a dimply smile.

"So, what do we call you?" he asked as he swiped a card across the elevator access panel.

There was no button, no intercom, and no other way off the Fourth. It seemed to be a heavily restricted place. More was happening up there than the vetting of potential new material. The knowledge gave Emilio a chill. He ignored it. Nothing could be worse than where he had come from. The words were a comfort even if he didn't really believe them.

He'd lived for years in squalor amongst the other barefoot street urchins, clutching weapons in small, grubby hands; acting as couriers, and dodging vigilantes who saw them as overgrown rats. But he'd understood those men. He'd known how to evade them or how to con them, and the same went with the Feds. This place was something different.

Emilio had quickly noticed that everything was linoleum and metal. It was easier to clean blood from slick surfaces. He'd been in the murder business for years thanks to his father, but this was the first time Emilio was encountering a corporation dedicated to turning men into killing machines, and getting rid of them if it didn't work out.

"Your name isn't going to work," Scott said when Emilio failed to respond.

"The fuck you mean?"

"I mean the Agency isn't the most racially diverse place on the East Coast, and an ethnic name adds to the bullseye. That hair isn't going to work either. Too fucking much of it, and it makes you stick out more than you already do."

"You ain't touching my hair."

Scott just smirked.

"And whoever doesn't like my name can suck it. I'm more concerned with when I can get in touch with my people on the outside. They're probably shitting bricks after the scene Cameron and Camille made."

Emilio knew he could count on Angel to hold the crew down until he figured out what was going on, but Moisés' wrath would rain down on all of their rivals like a blitzkrieg attack until he figured out who had snatched their leader. Hopefully sense would be talked into him before he got half of Mara Tres killed. The crew was too small for wide-scale warfare.

"There's no outside for you anymore. That's over."

The elevator slid open with a soft whoosh, and Emilio was confronted with a sea of pale faces. White people with crewcuts and varying shades of wheat-colored hair. Wearing suits, skintight body armor, or the all-black ensembles of Hollywood spies. They stared at Emilio like he was an alien in his ragged t-shirt, holey jeans, and with his shaggy, shoulder-length hair. It was no wonder if the entire place had borne witness to an Aryan invasion.

Emilio hung back, uneasy, and snarled at Scott when the man shoved him inside. Emilio collided with one of the Cameron-clones and drew himself up to his full height. It still left him at a few inches’ disadvantage, and Emilio recalled the image of he and Cameron side-by-side in the motel room, their reflections in the mirror, and how he had felt so abruptly like a boy.

Emilio crossed his arms over his chest. The sharp angles of his shoulder blades dug into someone's chest. The guy muttered a complaint.

"Tone it down, hot shot," Scott said as the doors slid shut. "Rule number 1, don't start shit with the full-fledged fieldies. You'll find yourself in a world of hurt and a cozy cell back on the Fourth."

"How about if they start shit with me?"

"Put on your big boy shorts and take it." Scott stood with his back to the doors, facing the elevator full of agents. "Because it will happen."

"New meat?" a deep voice asked, booming into Emilio's ear. "I give him a month."

"That's all I need to train well enough to fuck me up some fieldies," Emilio said without looking back. "But I like it when people underestimate me. Makes my dick hard."

The man laughed in his ear. Not malicious, but dismissive enough to claw at the tower of Emilio's ego.

The elevator emptied in a bank on the ground floor, and Scott led Emilio through corridors that were excessively wide for the sparse number of people passing through each archway. The size of the place grew from large to vast once they exited the skyscraper, and Emilio took in the full stretch of the Agency's compound. Enough buildings dotted the sprawling campus to resemble a small village. A rolling, green courtyard dominated the center of the property and trees crowded a perimeter gate, separating them completely from the outside world. The overall affect was not unpleasant, but Emilio would bet that was the intended purpose. To make this life-or-death sentence feel a little like home. Keep the assassins happy.

Emilio's eyes darted from place to place, trying to file away bits of information regarding exit points and the formation of the gray-uniformed guards. There was too much to take in. Crowds of agents casually dressed but still looking as sophisticated as a fashion advertisement drifted around while more serious looking characters—clearly suited up for some kind of assignment—strode in the direction of the skyscraper or a squat, wide building further down one of the wide pathways.

Everyone was beautiful and everyone was armed.

"How big is this fucking place?"

"Bigger than we need." Scott paused at the bottom of the steps. He nodded at random people entering the building. Every one of them looked sidelong at Emilio. "The Tower is the hub of the action, as you can see. That's where you'll do your briefings and debriefings, go to the Med Wing, see the brass on the administrative levels, do your personal training, and so on."

"So what the fuck is all of this shit?" Emilio waved at the grassy knolls and different sized structures. "This place is lookin' more like Harvard than killer academy."

"Heh." Scott began to walk across the courtyard. "The property was once owned by a corporation called Johnson's Pharmaceuticals before the Agency took over. A lot of the smaller buildings are no longer in use, but the larger ones are residences, a larger medical building for long-term care and extensive procedures, the training center, and of course the artillery facility. I have a feeling you'll like it there, Mr. Arms Smuggler."

"Yeah, maybe." Emilio shoved his hands into his pockets and lagged behind Scott. He scanned every face he saw until they began to look the same, but there was still no sign of Cameron. "Do y'all live here or something?"

"Most of us. The higher your rank the more freedom you have, but the compound is large enough to accommodate every staff member."

"Oh yeah?" Emilio locked eyes with a woman sitting on a wrought iron bench beneath a cluster of leafy trees. Blond hair, dark eyes, and a long fit body. Camille Miley. "How many agents are there?"

Camille arched an eyebrow. She smiled.

"We're about four hundred strong," Scott replied. "One hundred and fifty field agents, and the rest are non-combative staff. The geeks—our research and development agents, support staff, and the professional types make up the bulk of the number. You won't see much of them for a while. Training is overseen by Captain Thomas, so you'll be limited to interacting with him rarely, but mostly me and the other probies."

Emilio puckered his lips at Camille. He wondered if he could ditch the suit and go chat her up. She'd probably know exactly where to find Cameron. Not that Emilio would confront him now. Naw, that could wait for after training. After Emilio could destroy him. See how Cameron liked being shoved around. The very idea was enough to make Emilio's pulse race. He licked his lips, and the gleam in Camille's eye betrayed her interest.

***

Scott ran a gauntlet to figure out where to place probationary agents. Lowest skilled at the beginning of the gauntlet, hard-asses at the end. Mixed gender (although there were only two women) and varying heights and builds. The probie pool wasn't exactly representing all the colors of Benetton, but there were a few non-white faces besides Emilio's. It was more than he had expected, but every single person in the room still looked like they'd been handpicked from a freshman orientation. The probies were less polished than the Cameron-clones on the compound, but Emilio had a feeling they'd conform to the shine once they finished their training. Assuming they made it.

According to Scott, success rate for probies was somewhere around 5%. He didn't say whether trainees died due to their own errors or if they were deemed unfit and killed behind a shed somewhere, but Emilio assumed it was a mix of both.

The gauntlet probably weeded out a fair amount of dead weight on its own. The exercise had to be terrifying for a normal person. Even someone with self-defense or combat training didn't necessarily know how to handle getting dogpiled. A one-on-one fight was nothing compared to getting jumped by a group of people who wanted to break you just to prove they could. Or in this case, because it was an expectation that they show no mercy. Maybe it was a test for them as well as Emilio.

The agents at the start of the gauntlet were so green that Emilio barely broke a sweat. They knew how to swing, but he knew how to land a blow in vital areas that would immobilize or devastate. He glided through the first quarter of the gauntlet like a figure skating queen in sequined tights, and punched his way to the middle where he promptly went into turtle mode.

Emilio deflected attacks that could have tripped him up, blocked punches or kicks meant to stun, and focused on pushing through the tunnel of violence. It took longer than he expected, and he soon realized that taking down his attackers wasn't the point. Scott had to be paying attention to his endurance and pain tolerance. How long would it take for him to fold? Where were his weak spots? How could they be exploited? At least, those would be the questions Emilio would have asked himself if he was the one running this shitshow.

His body was wearing down from blows landed by the slightly more experienced folks who knew more about cheap shots than talent. But cheap shots were the way to survive. That was how he'd gotten by in Rio for so long; knowing how to duck into someone's space and wage one-on-one guerilla warfare before vanishing like a phantom in the shadows of the favela.

He liked that the Agency didn't teach their agents how to fight with honor. Honor meant nothing if it left your balls rotting off in a ditch on the side of the road.

Emilio made it to the last quarter of the gauntlet before a six foot something Middle Eastern dude knocked him out. He woke up in the training center's infirmary.

"Let me run it again," he slurred through a mouthful of iron-flavored cotton. "I can take that motherfucker."

"Calm down, hot shot," Scott said. "You don't get a do-over. It's done."

"Nah. Fuck that." Emilio pushed away from the metallic slab he'd been stretched out on. His hands betrayed him and slid along the slick surface, his head swimming with each jerky movement. "I can beat him."

"It wasn't a competition. There's no prize." Scott planted his hand against Emilio's chest and shoved him down. "And no one has beat Anwar except for Doug."

"Who's Doug?"

"Don't worry your pretty head about that. Get yourself together. You're meeting your novice group in a few hours. You'll have your chance at another sparring session."

Emilio white-knuckled his way through a tour of the training center. Scott's voice was a distant warble that Emilio drowned out in favor of simmering in leftover humiliation. He hadn't been knocked on his ass since childhood. It stung. It stung worse than Cameron's smug assault on his mouth. At least that hadn't happened with an audience present. Anwar had flattened him in a room full of people who now thought Emilio had a glass jaw.

"You'll be bunking with Doug," Scott said. "He's detained right now, but he'll be back soon. Enjoy the silence while you have it."

"Detained for what?"

Scott smiled, tantalizing Emilio with bits and pieces of information about a guy who was supposed to be even more of a warrior than the one who'd knocked Emilio unconscious with one punch. It was a tease. Plain and simple. Maybe Scott liked to keep his rookies competitive.

"Training starts tomorrow at five a.m."

"When do I get to go outside?"

"You don't. Not until you're ready."

"And how fucking long does it take people to be ready?"

"The cut-off is a year."

Emilio looked down at his hands. They were swollen, and dry blood stained his busted knuckles like chips of red paint. The throbbing wasn't as bad as the bright bursts of pain searing up from his tailbone, or even the consistent pang that jabbed at him when he moved his jaw, but without his hands, he was worthless. And if he needed recovery after one exercise, he was toast.

"I'll be ready in six months."

Scott didn't even try to stifle his laughter.

The tour ended with them reconvening with four other probies, all of whom had been present in the gauntlet. Max Serrano, a lean, muscular guy with sandy skin, wavy hair, and a snake tattoo twining around his torso. Theodorus Drakos—or Drakos as everyone seemed to refer to him—was blond and had a trim beard. His eyes were already skimming over Emilio with scorn. The third guy was Asher Hawkins, and he was nothing like the others. Pale, freckled, and he had moist eyes that looked huge in his slim face. Asher was the type of twink who would get used hard in Mara Tres. Judging from the way his gaze slid over Emilio, he'd like it.

The fourth probie was Anwar Salib. A few of inches taller than Max and Emilio, he had a broad muscular body and a face so striking that Emilio forgot to hate the fucker for a moment. There weren't very many people who Emilio thought could rival himself in the looks department, but Anwar was stunning. Pillowy lips, long dark lashes, fine black hair, and russet skin that was completely unblemished. No scars. Emilio wondered where the Agency had snagged him. Judging from the half-assed introduction, none of them had been in training for more than a month.

"You'll be together for a year if you all make it through," Scott said. "So learn to tolerate each other. This group will be seven strong when Douglas gets off the Fourth and after the next rookie gets out of detox."

"They're letting Ferguson out?" Drakos had an accent that Emilio tried to place. Definitely Northeast. Maybe New York. "They oughta terminate that dumb Aussie and get it over with. Everyone knows he ain't gonna make it."

Max rolled his eyes but clapped Drakos on the shoulder instead of commenting. Asher nodded empathetically. Judging from the side-eye he was receiving from Drakos, his support wasn't winning him any brownie points. Poor bastard. Faggots didn't stand a chance in a place like this, even if people had fun with them when no one was looking.

Men in paramilitary outfits were too busy measuring their wood to consider getting off with another guy in their squad, even if it was easier than tracking down a piece of pussy. It took time to break down those walls. In Mara Tres, the guys had accepted Emilio's sexuality because they'd known he'd cut their throats otherwise. He hadn't hidden who he was and they'd eventually gotten so comfy about it that half the crew learned how to benefit from the situation once they were all drinking and dabbling with the white powder.

Maybe it would have gone down differently if Emilio had been full-on homo instead of bisexual, or maybe not. He'd learned early on that men, regardless of how they acted in front of others, were just as willing to come in his mouth as a woman's. And once they found out how hard he could rock their worlds, they'd seek his attention even while pretending it was only because the lights were out.

Regardless, Emilio wasn't going to try it within the white and chrome corridors of the Agency, where every wall was fixed with a camera and there was a constant disinfectant smell.

Commanding respect and making allies would be impossible if he started out by stacking odds against himself, and he already had marks. Latino, probably the youngest; he was an unapologetic criminal in a sea of ex-military bros, and his wide mouth and dainty features tended to make him an immediate target for assholes.  Adding cocksucker to that list would guarantee some serious harassment that would put him on the shitlist.

Nah. They didn't need to know that equal parts of him wanted to shank and fuck Cameron within an inch of his life. Not yet, anyway.

"Where'd they find this fucking guy," Drakos muttered, jerking his chin at Emilio. "I didn't know the Agency recruited from the Latin Kings or Ñetas. I can tell by the tats alone that he's affiliated with that thug life bullshit."

Out of the corner of Emilio's eye, he saw Anwar frown.

Emilio smirked. "I'm affiliated with the cartels. But don't be scared, homie. I won't bite."

Drakos' fingers twitched. His hand went to his waist as if seeking the comfortable weight of a gun. Maybe he'd been a cop. Or Border Patrol. He definitely had a grudge.

Asher shifted from foot to foot, uneasy. "Why is the new guy in detox?" He had a nasal voice with a higher than average pitch. "Is he a druggie?"

"The new guy is a new girl," Scott replied, ignoring Drakos. "She'll probably be on the R&D route like you, but she goes through the ringer just the same. R&D isn't safe from the field all the time."

"A woman?" Max frowned. "Where will she bunk?"

"Maybe they'll put her with Asher," Drakos sniggered. "She's safe with him."

Asher looked down.

"She's safe in general." A storm passed over Scott's good-natured non-expression. "Unless one of you wants to end up on the Fourth. I don't care what other instructors allow. You toerags are my material, and you'll conduct yourselves properly. Psychopaths and uncontrollable sadists end up sliding down the incinerator like Drakos' good friend Kayne."

"That was a fucking setup and you know it. Asher and the Inspect—"

Scott cut Drakos off with a look. Asher kept studying his feet, but he otherwise did not react to the implication that he was involved in another man's death. Anwar examined his nails, immune to the bitching around him.

On first impression, the Agency looked like a high dollar organization that owned the soul of made-in-the-shade white boys with transferable skills, former-spooks, and soldiers, but they were a lot more dysfunctional than that if they were arguing over how some guy had got himself cremated. And they did it in front of the fresh meat without the decency to front. If a group of guys who'd only been in training for a month were participating in this conversation like it wasn't no thang, Emilio could only assume they had already seen some heavy shit.

The standoff between Scott and Drakos lasted for only a heartbeat, then Drakos backed down as if the Instructor had pulled a gun. His shoulders slumped, and Scott turned away.

"Time to work."

Work consisted of hours of sparring. Lower tier probies started off with circuit and strength training to get them into shape, but everyone in Emilio's group was assumed to be beyond that basic point. Despite being knocked out by Anwar, Emilio had still made it to the top tier based on his skills, which meant they were likely to be ready for the field sooner. The training program cycled new lessons every day, so Emilio wasn't completely clueless about where to begin.

They watched Scott and another instructor mime attacks while lecturing about combat science and auto kinematics. The philosophy behind the Agency's combat training was ruthless, but it wasn't all cheap shots and dirty tricks. It was strategic, and Drakos muttered that it was similar to how SEALs were trained.

By the time they were assigned their first mission, field agents were expected to become masters at anticipating the response of the human body. At that point, they would have a slew of brutal attacks ready to unleash on their opponent. The expectation was for them to think several steps ahead with no wait time or planning in the midst of a fight. No matter how internalized an opponent's self-defense strategies were, they would be no match for someone who could predict every jerk, twitch, and reflexive crouch of their bodies. It was like fighting a psychic, and Emilio got his ass torn up by Scott every time they paired up in the next few days.

Scott was average as far as build and size, but there was power behind his movements that Emilio hadn't expected. He threw himself into the spars until Mara Tres and even Cameron drifted from his thoughts, but no matter how well he pressed an attack, he found himself on the receiving end of a more vicious one from their instructor.

"Sloppy," Scott would snap when Emilio mixed up a combination of moves. "You need to focus. Discipline," he'd add after Emilio's temper visibly lit.

They switched partners one day, and Emilio found himself with Drakos. They were working on ground-fighting, but being pinned not once but three times by the leering New Yorker catapulted Emilio into street fighting mode. He went for soft spots with his knees and fragile flesh with his teeth. Emilio tore out chunks of Drakos' ear and completely abandoned the calm and calculated strategies he had just been taught.

No one stopped them when the blood flowed. Scott defaulted to an observer until time was up.

Panting and drenched with icy trickles of sweat, Emilio wound up half-pinning Drakos to the floor but with his torso caged between the man's thighs. Emilio extended his arm for a strike to Drakos' face, but Drakos read the movement and caught his arm, pinning it to the side of their bodies. A swell of frustration exploded in Emilio. Again, he abandoned instruction. His free hand darted to Drakos' crotch. Emilio squeezed his scrotum until shouting filled the sparring room, and Drakos kicked him away.

They both rebounded to their feet. Drakos was markedly slower.

"Fucking bitch," he snarled.

Emilio flipped Drakos off, grinning. It earned him a glob of spit splattering across his face. Anger sliced through him like a knife, and he was on Drakos in a blur of motion. Nearly a week of combat training evaporated. Training was traded for a killing instinct he'd been born with.

Drakos, still suffering from the assault on his nuts, was unprepared for such a ferocious attack. Scott didn't step in until Drakos was flat on his back with his nose caving in beneath Emilio's heel with an audible crunch. The instructor hauled Emilio out of the training room as he screamed insults in three languages; a patois spoken only in fits of rage that usually transcended humiliation.

Scott tossed him into a smaller room meant for one-on-one fights. Emilio's back hit the cold stretch of the wall, and he snarled at Scott like a feral cat.

"Do you want to die here?" Scott asked without malice. "Because if you can't show them that you can control yourself, you will."

"Fuck you," Emilio breathed. He tossed his head to the side, wet hair flipping out of his burning eyes. "You don't know me. You don't know what I been through to get me where I was before y'all picked me up and brought me here. I ain't gonna take no shit from some piece of shit ex-cop."

Scott peered at him, head tilted to the side. "How do you know he was a cop?"

"Man, I can smell bacon a mile away."

"Heh." Scott stepped forward, angling himself away from the camera wedged into the corner of the wall. "You're right. He's an ex-SEAL, but he's also an ex-cop. He lost his badge after a confrontation in a NYC housing project that left four perps and two civilians with bullets to the skull."

Emilio sneered. "Fuckin' scumbag."

"Oh, like that's the worst guy you've ever met? Give me a break, hot shot." Scott crossed his arms over his chest. "You're smart. You're intuitive. You're a mean bitch in a fight. But right now you're more fit for what you were doing before than what they want you to do in the future. And that doesn't sit well with me."

"I can do anything they can do, and I can do it fucking better," Emilio said flatly. "Just watch."

"I want to, but you're going to screw the pooch before you make it past a month. I see it, and I know Connors sees it."

Connors. AKA Shark eyes. The guy in the steel-colored suit.

"So, what—he's gunnin' for me?"

"Yeah. He is. He told me point blank to boot your ass for the first infraction." When Emilio only stared, Scott let a breath hiss out. "I'll put it to you like this—the third-in-command of the Agency thinks you're a waste of resources. And if you give him an excuse, he can make you disappear whether it's sanctioned by the Marshal or not. Lacking discipline is the best excuse you can give him, Vega."

Adrenaline had built in Emilio for the past few days. A crescendo that spiked while sparring and settled at a slow climb in the evenings when things were supposed to be still. But Emilio had never been still. His thoughts were always racing between training, learning, and the anticipatory fantasies of seeing Cameron again. He hadn't come off his high until now.

Now the rush of constant violence and tension sucked out of his chest. He was left sagging like a marionette that had been cast aside. He felt young and small again. Stupid for forgetting about the other factors at play in the Agency, about the fact that this wasn't really a goddamn academy where he would prove himself with a test in a few months. Someone was always watching and waiting for him to fuck up. Connors wanted to see his blood splashed across the linoleum before the traces were wiped away with only the disinfectant smell as a reminder.

"Fine," he gritted. "What do you want me to do?"

"Stop being a punk," Scott said plainly. "You think we don't get it, but we see you. All of us do. You're not like the others. This isn't a step up or an escape for you. You think you're going to use the Agency to get stronger and somehow go on your merry way with all of your fancy new skills."

Emilio stiffened. Scott smiled.

"Yeah, hot shot. If you're intuitive, they've got actual telepathy. It's scary sometimes, but they're never wrong."

"That's real special," Emilio snapped. "So what the fuck you want me to do?"

"I won't tell you to forget your grandiose if unrealistic plans for the future. If you want to hold on to pipe dreams, at least let them motivate you. It won't work. I've been here long enough to tell you that now." Scott jerked a thumb at the camera. "They're always watching even if they can't always listen. They know everything. But even so, if you want to live long enough to try to go through with your stupid ass plan, get your shit together. Do what I tell you, and you'll survive."

"And what's it to you anyway?" Emilio challenged. "Why do you care if I survive? Connors sure as shit don't want some dirty street kid on his turf."

"That's Connors." Scott turned to the door. "You're my material, and my probies don't die."

[thatdudesantino]

180 Proof Vega Vol. 1 - Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

1993. Lexington, PA

The Vega boy did not look like a teenager nor he did not look like a man. His limbs were long, his body hard and packed with lean muscle, and his flesh was mottled with scars that told a tale the papers in his file did not. Puckered skin that had healed over gunshot wounds in the left shoulder and right thigh, curdled flesh from cigarette burns on his inner forearms, eight healed stab wounds, and a full set of teeth marks that had faded to a mere blemish on his neck.

The new wounds—the five stitches in his right eyebrow and ten along the left side of his mouth—were Cameron's handiwork.

But despite all indications that Emilio Vega seemed to be living the life of a hardened criminal twice his age, he had a very pleasing face. Wide mouth, long lashes, a russet complexion, and streams of jet-black hair that was silky to the touch. While unconscious, he looked innocent, curled in the fetal position with his injured lips parted.

Jacob Connors touched the purple bruises on Emilio's throat and pressed his fingers against the marks. They were a near perfect fit.

"Did you try to strangle him?"

Cameron failed to respond, and Jacob looked up. Cameron was in a trance. Staring at Emilio. His long fingers were curled in the white sheet, and he was tracing the boy's face with fascination. Evidence that Connors' recommendation to have the lunatic terminated should have be honored years ago.

Connors snapped his fingers in front of Cameron's face. The man looked at him with careless indifference.

"What?"

"It took us two years to track him," Connors said. "What part of us accomplishing that goal manifested in your depraved brain as an attempt to kill him?"

"He's not dead, is he?"

Connors pressed his fingers against Emilio's throat again, then dragged his hand up to finger his damaged face. Cameron would not have been able to hide his envy if he'd pulled a paper bag over his head.

"Did you fuck him?"

Connors rubbed his thumb over Emilio's lip. Cameron swallowed visibly.

"No."

"Did you try?"

Cameron finally gave his commanding officer his full attention. The glaze of lust drifted away, and he was alert once again. Aware that in the confines of the Agency's compound, Jacob Connors was the Chief General and third-in-command. If Cameron pushed too hard, he would give Connors an excuse to be rid of him. At last.

"He fought me," Cameron said instead of responding to the question. "And he escaped. Twice. If not for that, I would have returned the bitch unharmed."

Connors eyes flew back to Emilio. His brows had puckered in sleep, and he made a soft sound at the back of his throat. It would have been endearing if Connors was the sort to be endeared. He could hardy spare an ounce of affection for his toddlers, let alone a teenage criminal and killer.

"Why wasn't he drugged?"

"I didn't think it was necessary."

"More like you enjoyed him awake." Connors watched Emilio curl in on himself further. He was well-built but lean—the kind of body only adolescents and Europeans could pull off. "How did this creature manage to fight and escape a rank 10 field agent?"

"He's clever."

"Meaning you gave him an opening," Connors said shrewdly. "Twice."

Cameron's expression didn't so much as flicker. His eyes were dead, giving nothing away. Agency staff often claimed that the organization drew the life out of field agents. Cameron had come to them that way.

"He's here now," he said.

"Yes, he is." Connors smiled an ice and daggers smile. "And if he says you raped him, I will have you terminated. Your proclivities have no place on my compound."

"I'm not a rapist." A pause. "And it's not your compound."

"Not yet."

Connors jerked his head to the door, and Cameron obeyed the silent command. He left the room with Connors right behind him.

The Tower stretched out before them, white, silver, and gleaming. It was the crowning jewel of the Agency's compound—a sprawling 100-acre stretch of land in northern Lexington. The Tower had the technology of a Soviet space station and the sterile quality of a mental institution, except the Tower's walls bore witness to espionage that, Berlin wall or not, indicated the Cold War was nowhere near a defrost, and psychotics like Cameron Russell roamed free and were entrusted with matters of national security.

Connors slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks and took the lead. The Tower's fourth floor housed the Agency's interrogation and detainment centers, and right now young Mr. Vega was isolated in his own cell for observation. He'd been given sedatives while the transfer from the Med Wing was made. Cameron, their primary acquisitions agent, was normally tasked with briefing the new material but that was seeming more like an unwise decision every day. The man needed to be stuck on a long term undercover mission STAT. Preferably out of the country.

"Agent Russell won't be performing the introductions for our little hooligan," Connors said as soon as he joined his superiors in the observation room connected to Emilio's cell. "His objectivity is compromised."

Cameron did not bother to deny it. Marshal Van Owen and Inspector Archibald, the first and second in command respectively, did not appear concerned.

"Where's Agent Miley?" Van Owen asked. He was flipping through Emilio's dossier. It was practically anemic. "She can run the briefing."

"Camille was called away just after we entered Texas," Cameron said.

Van Owen grunted. He was a gruff man and more suited for a storm and siege with weapons strapped to every inch of his body than a suit and an office at the top of the Tower. But he'd worked his way to the highest rank, and he would stay there for as long as he could.

He handed the dossier to Connors.

"The pleasure is yours. I expect not only a briefing but a debriefing, as well. There are holes in that file, and I want them filled. I'm intrigued by this one."

His intrigue was made apparent by his presence alone. Connors was sure the Marshal had more pressing matters than surveying the intake of a smuggler and arms dealer who had enough drugs in his system to flatten half of the Agency's personnel. A drug habit and a pretty face should have made Emilio Vega a perfect victim in his world, but somehow he had fashioned himself as a small-time crime boss. It was intriguing, but Connors had little use for curious cases and interesting men. What he did have use for was the intake of viable agents.

Connors sought Archibald's eye for help, but found only the placid expression of a man who wouldn't start squawking about indignities until someone else opened the line of complaints.

"Sir," Connors said. "What do you hope to find out? The resources you have spent tracking Vega aren't justified in that file. If we wanted to begin collecting criminals to work in this franchise, we could have started with more significant figures than an eighteen-year-old boy from a South American slum."

"Jacob," Van Owen began in the same tone. He flashed his teeth in a way that would have frightened a shark. "Your worldview is too narrow. A stable of white field agents with military or intelligence background can only get us as far as Europe. Open your eyes to the rest of the world. The eighteen-year-old from the South American slum can get into places that have been out of reach."

"And he has connections," Cameron added. "With the Triad, the cartels…"

Connors opened the file and pretended to scan it. Really, he just wanted to hide the vein that had to be throbbing in his temple. There were gems in Emilio's dossier, but Connors had acknowledged those the first time the file had landed on his desk. They did not make up for the yawning gaps in the logic of vetting a gun-running street urchin with no formal training or education to take part in a covert organization. But Connors would play along.

"Rouse him," he said briskly. "I have other things to do with my time."

***

The guards had moved Emilio from his cell to an interview room. He was cuffed to the bolted down table rather than the stiff pad of the bed, and the transparent mirror was replaced by a dome surveillance camera mounted into a corner of the ceiling. When Connors slipped into the room, Emilio's eyes strayed from the camera to him. Connors could detect no glazed quality or cloudiness from the sedatives. High tolerance. Could be useful or problematic in the future. Assuming there was a future.

The boyishness of Emilio's sleeping countenance was wiped away by careful blankness and a shrewd stare. His height was emphasized, as were his broad shoulders, and the hardness of his face. The distinguishing markers of Emilio's youth were the moue of his down-curved mouth and a prettiness only found in young boys. The stuff of a paedosadist's dream. Connors tucked that information away for later use and took his place on the opposite side of the table.

Emilio's head tilted, chin lifted.

"Hello, Emilio."

Emilio sat up straighter, tattooed shoulders thrown back, and said nothing.

"I trust you have questions, and I'm here to answer them as well as to ask some of my own."

The burning coals of Emilio's eyes traced Connors' face, his steel-gray suit, and then his hands. The corner of Emilio's mouth twitched. He tugged, almost absently, at the cuff around his wrist.

"Why don't you start," Connors stated. He dropped Emilio's file on the table between them.

"Fine." Emilio's voice was low, gravelly. "Where's my shit?"

"What shit are you referring to? The ragged clothing or ill-fitting boots?"

"My beads, motherfucker." Emilio dropped his elbows onto the table and leaned halfway across the table. "Where they at?"

"Ah," Connors said. "The filthy rosaries. The staff in the medical wing removed that mess."

"Give 'em back."

Could the elusive boy smuggler they'd hunted for months really be this attached to a religious symbol? At the Agency, the Directors who controlled them all from behind the scenes were the only gods they knew, but the sentiment fit the boy's background. The people of Latin America appeared to cling to the hope that a god would some day save them from the mess imperialism had left behind. Judging from the rosary beads Emilio was so concerned about, and the cloaked tattoo of Christ the Redeemer on his back shoulder, he fit the mold.

"Religion has no place here. Forget the beads."

"I don't even know where here is, fucker."

Emilio's accent was interesting. He drew out the first syllables in his words and spoke with a lilt that sounded more East L.A. than Brazilian or North Mexican. Intel on the Vega family put them in LA for only a blip of time, but it must have been long enough to influence Emilio's speech patterns. Unless he'd lived there later.

"Here is the Agency. Agents Russell and Miley brought you in so I can determine whether or not you're ideal material for what we do here."

"Material?" Emilio looked around as if seeking someone to share his incredulity. "Motherfuckers got me mistaken for some shit off the trade ship. I think you're in the wrong century, homes."

"There is no racist subtext to the term." Connors folded his hands in front of him. "We refer to all agents as our material, particularly probationary individuals such as yourself. Assuming you make it to that point. From this moment on, you belong to us and we will mold you as needed."

"Yeah?" Emilio's tongue flicked out to graze his split lip. "Like you molded Cam?"

Cameron had come to them with an extensive background as a former Navy SEAL gone mercenary with a tendency to fixate on people who were not afraid to challenge him. Lately, it was Camille. Now, the Vega boy.

Connors bared his teeth in a tight smile. "We cannot take full credit for Agent Russell."

Emilio's eyes flashed, but he did not speak. Unfortunate. Connors could have used intel on the exact details of their drive across the country.

"Do you know why you're here, Emilio?"

Emilio dragged his whitened knuckles against the desk. Silent, but not breaking Connors' stare. There was not a sliver of unease in Emilio's expression. This was a person who was prone to dismissing authority, even when his life hung in the balance. He was either cocky or stupid. Connors was willing to bet on both, but he stayed silent as well. He would play the game until he got sick of it, and then Emilio would be marked for termination and this farce would be done.

There was no indication of time in the stark white room, so Connors counted the seconds of silence. He memorized Emilio's twitches and learned a dozen tiny ticks even if they did not turn out to be tells. Emilio could stare down a white man in a starched suit without bothering to ask what covert organization he was being recruited for, but he could not sit still. His feet tapped, his fingers flexed, and he kept tonguing at the stitches intersecting his lips.

Nearly ten minutes had past when Van Owen's tinny voice came through the ear piece of Connors' comm unit.

"Tell him we have his belongings."

Connors' teeth grit, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

"Your belongings are secure," he said, ending the standoff with no ceremony. "I recommend cutting the shit before I end this interview earlier than is healthy."

Emilio smiled so wide that it was disarming. "You ain't gonna hurt me just yet. Your boy Cam went through too much trouble to snatch me."

"If you fail to cooperate, the expenditure of his time and energy means very little to me."

"Depends on what you consider cooperation. I already told Cam that I ain't no snitch."

"It is readily apparent that you are not the sort to cooperate with authorities. Your kind rarely is unless it yields a more satisfactory opportunity."

"What kind is that?" Emilio drew his leg up to rest his foot against the chair, his knee nestled beneath his chin. The pose was too childish for a man presently promising murder with a smile. "Your racist shit don't faze me, son. I heard it all."

"The kind of person who grew up in a favela in Brazil and has spent their adolescence committing crimes ranging from theft to smuggling to murder."

"I ain't never killed no one that didn't have it coming," Emilio confided.

"I'm sure." Connors tapped the file against the table. "And I'm sure you inherited the trait from your father Christian Vega, who is presently serving multiple life sentences in San Quentin for a triple murder."

Emilio didn't even blink. "Is he? I wouldn't know. Haven't talked to the fucker in a while."

"Not since he shot your mother in the head and—"

"Don't bring up his sisters."

There was no doubt in Connors' mind that Cameron was feeding Van Owen advice, and Van Owen was parroting it in his ear. Never in Connors' career at the Agency had an acquisition gone in this manner. The material they selected as potential agents, whether for research and development or the field, were either professionals who responded to the paramilitary atmosphere or were disposable enough to terminate if they did not play by the rules. There were no kid gloves. No pussy footing. Or there never had been until now.

Emilio's eyes had narrowed to green slits. He was coiled tight, his muscles flexing. A cobra ready to strike. He had to know it wouldn't end well, but he seemed reckless enough to not care. The sort of person who lived by self-prescribed rules and codes, and who had perhaps promised himself long ago to slit the throat of anyone who dared desecrate the memory of his dead sisters.

Rash. Sentimental. Emotional.

None of it belonged in the Agency, and every characteristic should have already caused his file to be cast aside in the pile designated for candidates to be terminated, but it wasn't happening.

"—dropped you off in Brazil? Or was it years later when you emerged on the grid in eastern Mexico with ties to MS-13?"

"I was never MS. Gangs are for lost kids lookin' for a friend."

Connors raised a single brow. "Intel says otherwise."

"Your intel can suck a dick. Just because I said I was in it doesn't mean I was in it, if you catch my drift."

"So you gave the appearance of being loyal to MS-13 to please your father," Connors summarized. "Is that why you separated yourself so soon after the reunion?"

Emilio snorted. "My issues don't got nothing to do with my daddy. Nice effort, try again."

Exhaling through his nose, Connors looked into Emilio's eyes and saw nothing but hostility thinly veiled by a mocking smirk. No fear. No trepidation. It was probably the same expression he wore during an arms deal. Vega was very sure of the outcome of this meeting. Very sure of his worth despite not knowing who the Agency was or what they wanted with him.

Connors didn't have to open the file to extract key bits of information and turn it over in his mind. He knew Christian Vega had been part of MS-13 seemingly since birth, that he'd had a disastrous marriage with the daughter of an Ecuadorian businessman and a Brazilian model—Yaritza Aguilera Ferreira Vega. They'd spawned three children before Yaritza went insane and killed their twin girls. Christian had intervened before she could kill Emilio.

After that, Emilio had disappeared from the grid until his picture and name had popped up in a Time Magazine article about Brazilian death squads. His life hadn't been the main topic of the article, but he'd been featured as one of the many street children who were regularly targeted by the roving bands of vigilantes.

"There are holes in your file," Connors said, repeating Van Owen's wording. "And my superior is intrigued enough by your past to want them filled in."

"Your superior, eh? Who signs your checks? Tell me about him."

"Tell me about you."

"What do I get if I play nice?"

"Your shit back and a steadily beating pulse."

Emilio dragged his tongue over his bottom teeth. His nostrils flared.

"What happened between the time you were dropped off in Rio de Janeiro and your appearance in Mexico six years ago?"

"What you think happened?" Emilio's lip lifted. "Spent a few years letting people touch my dick before I was old enough to get turned on by it, and dodging the cops. Mostly the off-duty ones. It was only a matter of time before my luck ran out once Scuderie le Cocq was hired to exterminate my ass. A pissed off tour company gave them my name and a promised price of fifty bucks if they got me off the street and away from the tour routes."

"Robbing the tourists?"

"Ripping off fat white people was way better than selling my ass."

Connors studied Emilio's expressionless face. "Fifty dollars seems like a lot."

"Going price was ten. Usually light-skinned kids were a little more expensive. I was somewhere in the middle."

How he'd survived for so long while facing those odds was a mystery Connors had no interest in exploring. Van Owens could get those tidbits since this was his pet project.

"How did you get to Mexico?"

Emilio's mouth tugged to the side before his face smoothed again. "Hitched."

Connors smiled. "How did that work out for you?"

"I'm sure you can guess, fucker. But I got there all right. Made my way back to the Vegas and found my pops."

The pieces fell together easy enough after that—through the connection with MS-13, Emilio had gotten involved with the cartels. First the Zetas then the Sinaloa Federation. Through them, he'd gained access to the Triad, who'd started supplying Sinaloa with drugs and weapons shortly after Emilio's emergence. How he'd made those connections as a teenager and forged the path to running his own smuggling crew by the age of fourteen, was unknown.

"How was Mara Tres born?"

"Man, you must not got shit in that file. How'd you pendejos even find me?"

The words were light but there was an edge in the undercurrent. Like Emilio was starting to smell a rat. If the Agency was too incompetent to figure him out, had someone in his crew sold him out? It would have been fun to let that suspicion drag, but Connors knew Van Owen wanted the connection with Mara Tres. The Marshal suspected the Mexican border would inevitably become an access point for terrorists and insurgents, and he wanted an agent on the inside who could make connections. Better yet if they came with those connections already in hand.

Connors flipped the dossier over and handed it to Emilio. "Review it yourself."

Emilio opened the file and appeared to skim it, but something was off. For as expressive as he was, even in tiny ways, he was blank even though he had opened the folder on his sisters' autopsy report. None if it triggered him except for another slight twitch of his mouth and a faint furrowing of his brow.

Connors' eyes slit.

"I'm not reading all this shit," Emilio said, snapping the file shut. "And I don't see why I got to tell my whole life story. You're the one who brought me into this crazy house. So quit playing games. Who pays your salary, and what do they want with me?"

"You must have a theory."

"My theory is that you're some kind of spook."

"Your theory is flawed. Consider your surroundings, the manner in which you were secured, and Cameron. Does it seem like we are with the Feds?"

Emilio looked him up and down before casting a knowing glance at the camera. He flipped it off.

"Aiight, so you're claiming you don't got anything to do with the government. Fine. But from where I'm sitting, it looks like y'all got deep enough connections to have tracked me down based on a file that's too thin to even wipe my ass with, and enough street cred to slap Border Patrol in the face with your dicks. The technology seems to be topnotch judging from the shit Cam had in that van, and you have guys working for you that be like T-1000 from Terminator 2. So… some kind of shadow government group or an anonymous organization that is just grimy enough to want something from a scumbag like me."

The kid was more intuitive than Connors had given him credit for. Most people assumed they were a branch of the CIA or a private military firm—mercenaries.

"You are correct. The Agency is indeed an anonymous organization. One could say that our goals align with those of the government in that we have the best interest of the United States at the forefront of every operation, but in terms of securing national interests domestically or abroad, we take measures that visible branches of the government will not and cannot, in order to arrive at the end goal."

Emilio processed that, nodding slowly. He didn't look intimidated. Everything from his sudden stillness, to the dip of his dark brows, and the purse of his lips, Connors read as intrigued.

"So, covert ops and assassination?"

"That is only a fragment of what we do at the Agency. We also combat terrorist cells and infiltrate hostile factions."

"Ha. Real shit? If you just ran around stopping bad guys, you wouldn't have dragged me out here and threatened my life." Emilio tugged at the plastic cuff on his wrist again. "So what can I do you for? I got connections, but so do a lot of people. And if this was about interrogating me to get info, it would have happened already. I got something you want, so what is it?"

The cocksure demands were throwing off Connors' alignment. He stared at Emilio, groping for an appropriate response when his first reaction was to wipe the arrogance from Emilio's face. And he would have if the Marshal was not watching.

Lips tightening at the side, Connors spoke again. "We collect rare talent to work with us, and the Marshal believes a teenager from the depths of hell who managed to form his own lucrative smuggling outfit, create ties to international criminal organizations, and who, I assume, can passably speak at least four languages, is a rare talent."

"I also busted Cam's ass a couple of times." Emilio winked at the camera as if he knew, somehow, that Cameron was watching. "On a regular day, I'd tell you to kiss my ass. If you did your research, you'd know I'd rather risk my life than have a gang of pale faces in nice suits run it. Feds have tried to flip me on more than one occasion, and it don't work. But this time, you got me. I'm bored."

"Bored," Connors repeated.

"Bored enough to be interested." Emilio shrugged. "I'm especially interested in getting trained like Cam. But better."

"Ah." Connors searched for a sign of something. Trauma. Resentment. Hate. He found nothing but carefully crafted cavalier charm. "Did you have an enjoyable journey to this side of the country?"

There was only the briefest of pauses before the disarming smile appeared again. Too dazzling to be genuine but not strong enough to reach his eyes.

"It was just swell."

Unconvinced, Connors left the topic alone and returned to the observation room. Van Owen's satisfaction was transparent. Cameron was typically blank, not that his opinion held weight, but Archibald's expression was sour and his mouth pressed into a slash.

"I recommend termination," Connors said without delay. The look Cameron gave him was surely intended to stop his heart.

Van Owen smiled faintly. "Because he controlled every portion of that meeting?"

Connors sneered. "He is impulsive, emotional, and immature."

"Agreed," Archibald said, full of bluster now that someone else had started the conversation. "He doesn't have the capacity to respect the integrity of the Agency's cover, let alone maintain one of his own. Everything from his accent to his appearance stands out. And he has a drug habit, which means he will be sloppy."

"Yet he has evaded the authorities for his entire life," Van Owen noted. "And he had the capacity to link the cartel with the Triad in terms of drug supply and weapons."

Connors looked at the screens. Emilio stared back.

"He cannot read." The proclamation was met with silence. "I suppose he can manage well enough to get by, but he could not decipher his own file without a good deal more time and concentration."

Van Owen was not moved. "He can be taught."

"So, we're recruiting tutors as well?" Connors returned scornfully. "The amount of rehab and deportment training—"

"—is evened out due to the lack of time needed to train him physically," Van Owen interrupted. "I would say his skills are already on par with a rank 9 agent. He simply needs discipline."

Connors scoffed. "And if he can't be disciplined?"

Van Owen was already moving for the door. Over his shoulder, he said, "Then at that point, he will be terminated."

[thatdudesantino]

180 Proof Vega Vol 1. - Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The van had been moving for some time, but it barely registered to Emilio. When the motion jarred him and rattled his wrist  against the rail, he didn't react. He didn't react when the rosary beads knotted around his wrist snagged on the cuff. He didn't look up when the sound of horns honking permeated the walls of the van, or when Cameron muttered a curse from the driver's seat.

Emilio's eyes were focused on his boots. They were covered in dust, the soles cracked, and the laces still undone. The steel at the toe was dented, and the screws that held the metal plate in place were crooked.

He'd been wearing the same boots for the past three years. He had more than enough money to buy another pair, but he refused to replace them. He liked his boots. His father had given them to him before they'd parted ways. This time by choice. Emilio's choice. Because his father was an evil fuck, and the reality hadn't matched up to the childhood memory.

He did not know why he'd kept the fucking boots.

But he did know why he didn't reach over and cut through the tendons and muscles in Cameron's neck for making the mistake of talking about Marissa and Veronica. One—Emilio was cuffed to the wall of the van. And two—he didn't have anything sharp.

He wet his lips and exhaled slowly. His eyes closed, and he tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, and the way every instinct was telling him to yank and pull until his skin scraped off and his wrist got bloody, because he had to get that cuff off. He had to get out of this van, and away from the unknown destination they were hurtling toward. The faint sense of curiosity and distant twinges of boredom at the repetitiveness of his activities with Mara Tres had faded once the anger took over.

Whoever it was that Cameron was taking him to knew a lot. Too much. There was a file on him somewhere that included more than just his name and the name of his gang. There was background info. Lots of it. Stuff no one should know, like about the twins. Marissa and Veronica, barely six-years-old with the same big, moss-colored eyes and glossy, black hair that had hung straight down their backs. The three of them had slept in the same bed as children. Played together in the room that wasn't far enough away from smoke and weapons and drugs and fucking.

Emilio had protected them as best as he could, even when their father had started prepping him for gang initiation when he'd turned eight. They'd been his only friends. Innocent, trusting, with sweet smiles, and tiny, grubby fingers that had clutched at his slightly larger hand every time the voices outside their room had gotten louder.

There was a lump in his throat because somehow he hadn't thought of them in years. Now all he could remember was the way they'd screamed when their mother had started stabbing them. And then all he could see was the way his mom's head had exploded when his dad had walked in and unloaded his sawed-off shotgun into her.

There weren't a lot of rules that Emilio lived by, but family had always been off-limits with him. Somebody's mom, their wife or kids—he'd never gotten those kind of bystanders involved in the violence that had flourished around him after he'd grown up from being a little man into a full-fledged criminal. And when the worst of the worst in his gang disobeyed him and went after an enemy's family, that was the end of their fucking story because Emilio didn't roll that way.

He opened his eyes and stared down at the metallic floor of the van.

He wondered who these people were, how they even knew anything at all about him. His social security number had been inactive for years, and he had so many aliases that some of his own people did not know his real name. He avoided media, didn't take pictures, and never said enough to a Fed or a cop to hint at who his father had been, or where he'd come from.

Apparently all of those precautions had been in vain, and he wondered what else was in the file. How much did they know about him, his family, his life in Brazil, and the journey through Central America and into Mexico that had landed him with MS-13? How much did they know about Hong Kong and the pet project he'd developed at fourteen that had grown into something international and was now known as Mara Tres?

Was Angel in trouble? Was Moisés in a ditch somewhere because he'd caught a glimpse of these fucker's faces and plates?

Emilio wet his lips and looked up at his wrist. Tender, raw, and the beads were twisted up and stained with blood from the scraped off skin. He wasn't religious but most of his guys in Mara Tres were. They adorned themselves with rosary beads, crosses and tattoos of saints. Whenever someone in the crew died, someone in his inner circle, it had become a habit of his to take their beads. Send the body to their family if it could be recovered, but keep the rosary. Keepsake, memory, memorial. No one else cared about people like them, but he didn't plan to forget.

"I want to make a fucking phone call," he said in a low, even voice. The words were nearly lost with the increasing sounds of traffic.

"Maybe later."

Grinding his teeth, Emilio reached up with his free hand and fiddled with the cuff. He hated flexicuffs; they were worse than metal. No give, no way to rip them or pick them. No way out without wire cutters or a goddamn flame.

They drove for hours, only stopping for gas, until the burning, midday sun sunk below the horizon. Cameron made it clear there would be no bathroom breaks, no stretching legs, and no more food anytime soon. Enough bullshitting, enough wasting his time. They drove until the heat went from dry to the thick, unrelenting Floridian humidity. Emilio couldn't see out the window, but he would recognize that level of damp anywhere.

By the time it got dark, he stank of sweat and his t-shirt was soaked through. They hadn't exchanged three words in twelve hours, but the rage was still there. Molten, intense; a fire that Emilio fed by replaying the words in his mind as he pictured Cameron casually looking at autopsy photos and descriptions of his sisters' slaughter.

If the man had wanted to push a button, he'd pushed the wrong one. Emilio went from baseline to pissed off on a good day, and now his temper had leapt from pissed off to explosive. He wanted to skin the man alive so Cameron would learn to keep talk of family out of his mouth.

The twins were an untainted memory. One of the few that Emilio had. Using them in this filthy power game was as close to sacrilege as someone could get with him, and he wanted to teach Cameron what happened when you fucked with the family of Mara Tres.

He seethed until weariness wore the inferno down into a simmer, and by then his entire body ached from spending the entire day coiled and tense. By the time the cocoon of darkness and silence in the back of the van was disrupted, he'd reverted to listlessly slumping against the side of the van.

He didn't know how long he stayed in that state, but a violent jolt sent him flying forward, and he was brought back into sharp alertness.

"Motherfucker," Cameron swore.

There was a screech of breaks, and another harsh thud. When the van rocked back into place, Emilio saw movement in the dark corner. He watched as Cameron's duffel bag slid across the floor. He stared at it and waited for Cameron to notice, but the other man kicked his door open with a snarl and jumped out of the vehicle.

Emilio ignoredg the sharp pain that dug into his wrist and extended his leg. Looping the toe of his boot in the strap of the bag was easy. Almost too easy, but he said fuck paranoia and dragged the bag closer. The pain in his wrist was enough to make his eyes tear, but he kept stretching.

Excitement and adrenaline took over. His hands shook as the duffel bag came closer. He could hear angry voices outside as he tugged at the zipper. It was snagged, and he couldn't get the bag all the way open, so he started blindly fumbling inside.

The disappointment was almost heartbreaking when he realized there were no weapons. It should have been expected, Cameron wouldn't be that stupid, but it was crushing.

Breathing hard and straining to look through the windshield, Emilio's fingers clumsily opened a box. He felt something spongy, heard crinkling, and goddamn if it wasn't a medical kit. He jerked out a small jar of petroleum jelly and felt around until his finger was pricked by a slim pair of scissors. The door jerked open in the front.

Emilio shoved the jar and scissors under his thigh, ripped the zipper down and kicked the bag back across the van.

"Learn to drive, pendejo," he drawled.

Cameron slammed his door with more force than was necessary. "I got rear-ended, smartass."

"So did you kill him?"

Cameron's eyes flicked up to meet Emilio's in the rearview mirror. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Emilio tensed. He couldn't read the other man at all, and he wondered if somehow Cameron knew what he'd just done.

But then the blue eyes refocused on the road, and Cameron shook his head.

"I'm going the scenic route. Tired of this shit."

Emilio didn't respond, but he kept his eyes on Cameron. He used his one free hand to smear Vaseline across his face, neck, and sloppily tried to get it on his arms. It took some creative maneuvering and rubbing his forearms together as the van got darker when the other man turned off what had likely been I-10.

The scissors were a joke, but Emilio tucked them between his knuckles anyway.

The vehicle slowed down again about twenty minutes later. From what he could see out the windshield, they were on the shoulder of a more deserted highway surrounded by trees. There was light emanating from a rundown gas station and shack-like store nearby, but other than that, it was pitch black, and completely quiet.

Emilio crouched against the wall. Cameron watched the movement, but his expression didn't change. He showed no signs of weariness after the long day of driving. The guy was a fucking machine.

"Piss break, water, and we're on the road again."

"I know you think you're not a real human, but like, if your simple ass crashes and kills me because you're tired, I'm pretty sure someone, somewhere will be annoyed."

"It won't fucking matter if we're both dead, now will it?"

Emilio shrugged. "Whatevs, bro."

Cameron exited the van, and Emilio tensed. His heart pounded in the dark gloom of the van, and adrenaline caused his breath to come quicker. This moment had built up in his mind for the past several hours, and a part of him was so amped that he wanted to release a half-hysterical laugh of anticipation.

The side of the van slid open, and Cameron climbed in the back. He hovered near Emilio and used a pair of wire cutters to snip the cuff that bound Emilio to the side of the van.

Cameron reached down to grip Emilio's forearm, but his fingers slid along his skin without finding purchase. There was a brief pause, and Emilio looked up to meet the mildly confused gaze. He didn't know if it was exhaustion finally setting in for the other man, or if Cameron really just did not put it together.

Emilio reared his hand back, and swung out with a violent right hook. Cameron evaded, but his back hit the side of the van as Emilio lashed out again.

This time it was with the scissors that were still tucked between his knuckles. Blood spilled down Cameron's face when the sharp edges tore open the skin above his eye, and he swore loudly. He lifted his fists and swung despite the fact that one eye was temporarily blinded, but what should have been a devastating, knockout blow slid clumsily along Emilio's jaw.

"Gotta learn how to grease up before a fight, bitch."

Cameron responded by slamming into him, going for brute force, and pinning Emilio to the floor of the van. They tumbled across the narrow space until they bumped against the opposite wall. Cameron had a handful of Emilio's shirt, but he couldn't get a grip. The t-shirt just tore, and Emilio's skin was too oily from the Vaseline.

The scissors had been knocked away at some point in the struggle, so Emilio brought up a knee and smashed the other man's balls. Cameron released a sound that was a half-growl and a half-breathless shout of pain. Emilio scrambled out of his grasp.

His boots hit the dirt on the shoulder of the road, and he took off running into the darkness. There was a steep hill that dropped down a few feet from the highway, and then nothing but blackness and trees. He crossed the distance to the trees, slipping on damp earth but panting as he pushed himself to get distance from Cameron.

The other man was more skilled in a fight, but Emilio was faster. He had no idea where he was going, but he didn't hesitate as he bolted blindly between the tall, spindly trees that shot up into the dark sky.

There was almost no cover. He couldn't hide behind the thin tree trunks, and the branches were so high up that he couldn't pull himself up into one of them. But his boots were splashing in mud that was becoming increasingly thinner, the sound catastrophically loud, and he didn't stop moving.

The sound of water in the distance caught his attention over the pounding in his ears, and he stumbled in that direction. The sound of waves grew louder, and was joined by the pungent odor of the sea. He was hoping to find people in that direction; fishermen, beach houses, someone with a vehicle he could boost, but before the idea fully formed he heard the echo of footsteps behind him.

Emilio didn't panic. He didn't freeze up or look around wildly. He simply threw himself down, rolled in the mud, and flattened himself in the brush that was exploding out of the ground in a tangle of green and brown.

Keeping still and silent wasn't easy when being hunted, but he'd perfected it in the gutters of the Rato Molhado favela as a child. He'd made it an art form when dodging the cops that would drag him off to Padre Severino, and the black-clad, death squads that would simply put a bullet in his head. Being invisible, or making yourself invisible, was second to breathing when the vast majority considered you to be subhuman.

Waiting, watching, hiding, planning from the shadows—it was what Emilio was good at. He'd had to become good in order to survive all of this time. But Cameron wasn't dangerous just because of the gun he was armed with; he was danger.

He walked through the marsh slowly, movements silent and spectral in the darkness. There was no relief except from the stars and the moonlight that slanted through the trees, but Cameron didn't falter. Each movement was measured, no excess of energy, no panic or worry.

They were close together, close enough for Cameron to smell the reek of sweat coming off Emilio or hear the way his heart was pounding. Close enough for Cameron to step on him or stumble over him. But neither of those things happened.

Instead, Cameron looked straight at Emilio. He was wearing night vision goggles.

"Enough of this bullshit, Vega."

Emilio rolled out of the brush and pressed his shoulder blades against the groundto his feet. He landed in a crouch and watched Cameron as wet hair clung to the sides of his dirty face.

"Go fuck yourself, white boy."

Cameron didn't move. It was impossible to see his expression in the darkness.

"If you run again, I'll shoot you in the legs and then rip your fucking teeth out with a pair of pliers. You won't get away. I'll always catch you, and you'll never beat me."

There was no doubt in his voice, no hesitance. Just complete goddamn self-assured calm. He knew he was better. There was no doubt that he was better, and it set Emilio off like a switch being flipped.

His plan to keep running until he could find people and play the innocent teenager card was out the window before he'd even decided to discard it. His temper made him stupid. Cameron made him stupid.

His lips twisted to the side in a grim smirk, and he launched himself at Cameron. The motherfucker might be better, but Emilio Vega didn't go down without a fight. It didn't matter that he probably couldn't get away, that Cameron would either catch him or track him—he had to try.

It was obvious that Cameron didn't expect the attack, but he deflected it anyway. Emilio went for his kidneys, followed with a kick to the knee, and while neither of the blows landed, Cameron was distracted enough for Emilio to rip the goggles from his face.

Cameron's advantages weren't as heightened in the dark. Emilio was able to dodge faster, evade more, and get in more dirty low-blows that had Cameron panting and snarling before the fight erupted into another wild chase through the trees.

Emilio feinted to the left at one point, ducked, and then reached out to grab the skinny trunk of a tree. He swung himself around, boots slamming into Cameron's face before he flipped back to land on his feet. Cameron fell backwards but recovered quickly, crawling forward to grab one of Emilio's ankles as he started to dart off again.

They tangled together, rolling and punching. Cameron's blows still not landing solidly and Emilio releasing a flurry of dirty attacks that Cameron never quite seemed prepared for. He was a fighting machine, but Emilio had his fucking number. Cameron was military, well-trained, and probably always sparring, training,  preparing for combat, but not the kind a street kid from Rio would give him.

At one point he sank his teeth into the side of Cameron's neck, digging in and breaking skin until blood filled his mouth. Cameron's answering scream echoed in the darkness. He flung Emilio from him, and he went rolling down a hill until the dirt gave way to a sandy embankment.

His head struck against a rock, and the pain was stunning. For a moment Emilio stared at what he'd fallen into. A beach, dunes, white sand and shimmering water. The moon looked huge in the sky, and there were twinkling lights in the distance. His fingers dug into the warm sand, but he couldn't force himself up. His head was spinning, and his vision was splitting. The sound of rushing water and waves crashing against sand was confusing, garbled, and he realized there were two moons in the sky.

"Vega!"

Cameron's shout cut through the tranquility of the scene, and Emilio looked over at the dark tangle of trees and brush. Cameron's lean form burst out of the darkness, but he skittered to a stop when he saw Emilio. The moonlight washed over his tanned face, and Emilio clearly saw the way those blond eyebrows drew together, and the way the mouth curved down.

"Fuck."

Cameron jogged over and crouched down, one hand pressing against the side of Emilio's face. It slipped over his cheek, down his jaw, and then up into his hair. Emilio realized that his hair was wet. When Cameron drew his hand away, it came back bloody.

"Don't fuckin' touch me."

The brief, dazed trance Emilio had been in gave way to anger and the adrenaline that was still buzzing through him. He tried to sit up, but Cameron pushed him back down to the sand. He was on his knees in front of Emilio, face drawn in annoyance.

"Just stay still, you little idiot. You have a head injury."

"Your concern is touching."

Cameron scoffed, and tilted Emilio's head to the side. "Well it can't be that bad if you're together enough to be a pain in the ass. You stupid fuck, what were you thinking? Where did you think you were going with the ankle monitor on?"

Emilio's head thudded back, and he looked at the sky. Good question, too bad he didn't know the answer. It would have been smarter to knock the goggles off, regain the equilibrium, and then keep running. But he'd stopped to fight, to hurt, to rip satisfying growls of pain out of that perfect mouth.

"Don't talk about my fucking family."

"That's what this is about? Jesus Christ, you emotional little bitch."

The rage returned and washed over Emilio in a way he couldn't control. Spinning head be damned, he cocked a fist back and slammed it into Cameron's face with a satisfying thud. The other man swore and pinned Emilio to the sand, straddling him.

A large hand encircled Emilio's throat, and hair tickled his nose as Cameron leaned forward to press his mouth against his ear.

"Stop it. Or I'll make you fucking sorry."

"So do it." Emilio's lips twisted up in a mockery of a smile. Even with the damage his body was taking, the adrenaline caused blood to scorch through him. "Do it."

"I should. I should beat the shit out of you. And then fuck you until you nut."

Emilio tensed, but all he did was pant against the side of Cameron's face. He could taste sweat and blood and heat-warmed skin. The taste combined with the pressure of the hard, long body was something his dick wanted to react to despite the anger and the pain. Because his body was a traitor, and his brain was undeniably fucked up.

"I'm gonna kill you someday."

"You wish you could, kid."

Cameron shifted so that they were nose-to-nose, and ran his tongue along the seam of Emilio's lips. Emilio jerked his head away, vision spinning with the motion, and Cameron ground their hips together once before sitting up. He put a hand around Emilio's neck, and he squeezed.

The pressure on his windpipe caused Emilio to snap out of his lapse of weakness, and he began to struggle again. He gripped Cameron's forearm, scrabbling at it as he bucked his hips and tried to get the other man off, but it was in vain. The more he struggled, the tighter that hand squeezed, and the more his vision dimmed.

The last thing he saw before everything went black was Cameron's blank, unfeeling face.

[thatdudesantino]

180 Proof Vega - Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Spring, 1993. San Antonio, Texas

The exposed bulb above the sink cast he and Cameron in a flickering, gold light. Seeing their reflections caused him to lapse into silence. There weren't room for jokes and sarcasm in the small, dingy bathroom. As they stood nearly pressed together with Cameron's pale empty gaze focused on his abused face, it hit Emilio that he was completely at somebody else's mercy for the first time in years.

With his hair tangled, face bruised, bloody, and mouth still damp from being freshly used, it was too much like looking at an younger version of himself. With Cameron standing inches above him, all sharp hard angles and self-assured calm, Emilio looked like a boy in comparison.

He wondered if that thought also crossed Cameron's mind. He wondered if that was why the older man's mouth was twitching into a small cruel smirk. Why he was content to watch Emilio stand there, helpless, with no way to actually wash up even though that was the obvious intention.

Emilio's eyes narrowed, fingers flexing where they were crushed together by the cuffs.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

"Figure it out."

"You're a psycho. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yes."

Running the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, Emilio ignored the bitter, salty taste that chased the motion. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a moron too? How am I supposed to—"

Cameron grabbed a handful of Emilio's hair and shoved his head down. His mouth slammed into the side of the faucet, and blood filled it. Water gushed into his face as Cameron forced it beneath the faucet.

He twisted away, gasping, and slammed his boot down on Cameron's instep. He released Emilio, and he jerked upright with a gasp.

"I thought you were going to behave yourself."

"Fuck you."

Emilio glared at his reflection. There was a gash in his lip.

"Don't like not having the power, do you? Seems like you've been top dog since you were a kid."

"You don't know shit about me."

Cameron wheeled Emilio around without a response. He thumped his hands against Emilio's back in a short, blunt shove. He staggered forward, tripped, and crashed to his knees. Emilio bit back the grunt of pain that almost spilled out, and winced when Cameron pushed him forward so his face was pressed against the side of the tub.

"I think…" Cameron dragged his fingers through Emilio's hair, down the back of his neck, and lower. "That you'd rather be fucked than pushed around."

"Yeah?" he panted. "That what you think?"

"Yeah. That's what I think."

"Who gives a fuck about what you think?"

"You should, because we're alone for the next few days. And you might be some criminal prodigy in your world," Cameron drawled, the words rolling off his tongue with heavy sarcasm. "But in mine you're nothing. Just a kid with a tight ass, dicksucking lips and no Moisés to protect you. So if you want something, ask nice, and behave, or I'll  keep reminding you that you're not in charge anymore."

He pressed down harder one last time before pulling a blade from his pocket. Emilio stiffened, waiting to feel it against his skin, but instead there was a snap and his hands were freed.

"Now wash yourself before I add another scar to that pretty face."

Emilio thrust his shoulders back sharply, pushing Cameron away from him. The other man complied, and Emilio got to his feet. He swallowed, hands balling into fists, and tried to ignore the need for violence that momentarily blinded him. He didn't see the tub, or the bathroom, or the flickering gold light. Emilio just felt the pain in his face, in his wrists, and the heat of Cameron against his back. It didn't matter that he'd just wanted Cameron's dick in his mouth. Or that he had practically begged to be jerked off. Sex was nothing. It was one body part touching another.

This game Cameron wanted to play with him? Making him feel helpless and small? Telling him he was nothing and no one?

That was bullshit.

"I'll fucking kill you."

"Keep dreaming, kid."

Emilio inhaled slowly, and tried to find a sliver of self control. Something to keep him from spinning around and slamming his foot into the blond bastard's throat. Cameron was stronger, more skilled, he had weapons, he wasn't fatigued and abused. Emilio was alone, weakened. No backup. None of his crew. No weapons. Vulnerable.

"Maybe not now, but I will." Emilio turned to face Cameron. "I've killed bigger motherfuckers than you."

They looked at each other as laughter in the room next door, a truck backing up, and other insignificant sounds filled the background. Cameron reached around Emilio to wrench the knob of the shower with a squeak. Water crashing against the tub overtook the ambiance.

"Wash up," he said gruffly.

Emilio faced the shower and ripped off his clothing. The filthy shirt and jeans hit the floor, and he felt eyes on his ass as he peeled off his tight red briefs. It felt like he was putting on a show, and the way Cameron's eyes burned into his back made it obvious he liked what he saw. Fingers ghosted along Emilio's spine and dragged down to brush against the cleft of his ass before he stepped out of grabbing range.

“Fuck, you’re such a pervert.”

Cameron gave Emilio another prompting shove, which caused him to stumble over the side of the tub. His face careened towards the tiled wall before he caught himself with a grimace.

"Mess with the face again and shit will get realer than you want it to."

Cameron was unmoved by the statement. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. When it became obvious that he was going to stand there the whole time, Emilio stepped fully into the spray of the shower.

His cold fury was replaced by water scalding his sore body. He palmed the hard soap, and rubbed it against his skin. His wrists were aching, raw and swollen, but he ignored that in order to get clean. When the blood, cum, and grime was gone from his skin, Emilio slumped against the wall.

He turned his face up to the spray and let it beat against his skin. He stayed that way for several long minutes, and only opened his eyes when the heat of steam in the enclosed space became stifling.

His gaze fell on Cameron. The man was staring at him with obvious want. It was surprising only because Emilio had been working under the impression that the dude just got off on the power thing—shoving him around, threatening him, making it all a big deal. But now it seemed like there could be more to it.

Something that could be useful later on.

Cameron was less menacing from this distance. Not much different than the men in Rio who'd paid to fuck Emilio and had never expected the viper that was unleashed if they pushed too far.

“Take a picture, my man.”

“Unless you want me to fuck you now, stop showing off.”

“I thought you was so sure I wanted that cock in my ass."

“I didn't say you wanted it. I said you liked it.” Cameron shut off the shower and grabbed Emilio's bicep. “Out.”

Emilio yanked his arm away and stepped out. He stood in front of Cameron, not missing the way those light blue eyes took in every bead of water that trailed down his body. But Cameron didn't try to touch him, didn't seem interested in much else than looking, and broke the standoff in order to march him out of the bathroom.

Once in the bedroom, Emilio slid back into his underwear. Not bothering with the rest of the clothes, he sat on the edge of the bed. It was soft beneath him, and his body wanted to collapse back onto it, but he couldn't. Not with a threat looming nearby.

Cameron sprawled in an armchair by the window and snagged a protein bar from his bag.

"Get some sleep. We're not stopping until we hit Florida tomorrow."

Emilio swung his legs up on the bed and rolled onto his side. They stared at each other, but neither of them spoke. It was a prime opportunity to ruin a peaceful silence with smart ass comments and insults, but he was running out of steam.

The heat from the shower had relaxed his tender muscles, and with that came exhaustion. His limbs felt like they were made of lead, and his eyelids weren't much better. It was difficult to keep his eyes open, but Emilio forced them to. He watched Cameron through his lashes, refusing to fall asleep first.

Cameron chewed and swallowed mechanically, never breaking his stare.

The wrapper to the bar crinkled as Cameron balled it up and tossed it into the nearby wastebasket. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head back against the cushion. His expression mirrored Emilio's—eyes mostly shut but a hint of color visible beneath his lashes.

A couple of times, Emilio felt himself drifting into a sleep, but he awakened with a jolt each time. Cameron never moved. He remained sitting still as a statue.

"Go to sleep, kid."

This time when Emilio's eyes slid shut, they didn't open again until the next morning.

Sunlight was streaming through the window and there was a rustling sound in the room. There was a brief moment of hazy confusion before everything snapped together, and Emilio remembered where he was, and who he was with.

His wrists were still raw and angry from having been cuffed for so long the day before. Every sore muscle and wound was a brilliant, fiery ache that he tried to ignore.

Taking a deep breath, Emilio shifted and glanced down at his ankle. There was a device cuffed to it. Some kind of tamper-resistant ankle monitor. Great.

Making a face, Emilio rolled over. Cameron was already awake, and looking through his duffel bag.

“Tengo hambre.”

“You really are a whiny little bitch.” Cameron removed a pair of jeans and a shirt from his bag. “You can eat a granola bar just like I did.”

“I’m eighteen, you dick. I need real food.”

Cameron tossed the clothes at him. “Not my problem.”

Emilio picked up the shirt and let it dangle from his finger. It was plaid, and the fabric was scratchy. “What do you fuckin’ shop at Wal-Mart?”

“Get dressed and shut the fuck up.”

“I’ll trade this piece of shit for your T-shirt.”

Cameron stared at him.

“C’mon, bro. I don’t like plaid. It clashes with my everything.”

“Do you remember when I said I would cut that pretty face if you said the wrong thing?”

“All I’m saying is, you be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to you.” When he saw Cameron’s eyebrows tick up, Emilio frowned. “Not like that, you scumbag. I meant I’ll stop being a pain in your ass, not that you can be a pain in mine.”

Cameron ripped his t-shirt off. He flung it at Emilio’s face and put the plaid shirt on. It stretched taut across his broad shoulders, and he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows while watching Emilio dress.

The shirt smelled like Cameron, but Emilio ignored that. He also ignored the fact that Cameron had a sickeningly hot body. Why was he incapable of not wanting to fuck people he'd likely have to kill later on?

“Where are we? San Antonio?”

“How’d you know that?”

Emilio snorted. “Pretty sure I spend way more time in Texas than you do, white boy. I'm just guessing by how long we drove for.”

“Fair enough.”

“Anyways, if you don’t let me eat, I’ll start screaming that you kidnapped me.”

“No one would believe that anyone would willingly abduct you.”

“Oh please. There's all sorts of scumbags just like you who would want to capture my fine ass.” Emilio flashed another shit eating grin. “And you was the dumbass almost letting me escape 'cause you got excited over the idea of banging me.”

“I’ll bang the fuck out of you anyway if you don’t stop talking.”

Emilio crossed his arms over his chest. “Your choice, white boy.”

He could almost see the gears in Cameron’s head turning. Likely weighing the pros and cons of fighting with Emilio or letting him eat, or just saying to hell with it and knocking him out. Surprisingly, he conceded.

“Breakfast,” Cameron said. “But if you start whining about lunch, I will sedate you for the rest of the day. Understood?”

“Sure.”

Cameron gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “And just so you know, I’ll find you if you try to run off.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Ankle monitor, deformed face, what the fuck ever. Can we eat or are you gonna stand around trying to put the fear of your cock into me all morning? I’m not gonna run off, dickface. I’m not stupid. I do still want my goddamn phone call though.”

There was a pause as Cameron regarded him. Then he grabbed his duffel bag and swung it over one shoulder.

“Eventually.”

Emilio gritted his teeth, but didn't argue when Cameron opened the door.

Bright sunlight flooded the room, and Emilio winced. He stepped into his boots, not bothering to lace them, and followed Cameron outside. He looked around and saw that they were at the Red Roof Inn. There were several semis parked in the lot, and a minivan being loaded by a family with two toddlers.

Cameron tossed his bag in the van and pushed Emilio in after. A new set of cuffs were attached to one of Emilio's wrists, and he was once again attached to the side of the van. He grimaced when Cameron shut him inside. Everything went still and quiet for several minutes without him returning to the van.

Emilio yanked at the flexicuffs while scanning the interior of the van. He spent five minutes trying to extend his leg to reach the black duffel bag, but it was too far out of reach. Undoing the cuff wasn't going to happen unless he had something sharp, and even then, he wouldn't be able to go anywhere unless he managed to remove the ankle monitor. If he wanted to escape, he'd have to kill Cameron. Too bad he seemed like more of a match than Emilio was ready for.

Emilio knew his limits. He'd been around street fighting killers for most of his life. Murderers, gang bangers, rapists—people who thought nothing of getting their hands dirty. It was part of his life; something that was in his blood and could be traced back through every generation in his family. Emilio could be lethal and heartless when he had to be, but he knew a guy who fought like a motherfucking ninja was not someone he could mess with. It wouldn't be the first time he was outmatched, and that was where his other assets came in. Speed and capitalizing on good looks and a high tolerance for perversion went a long way.

Cameron returned twenty minutes later with a greasy paper bag in one hand. He shut the sliding door to the van, sat on the floor, and pulled out a foil covered sandwich. Emilio smelled bacon and eggs, and for the next five minutes he stopped thinking about anything else as he ate with his one free hand. When it was gone, he reached for the paper bag and found a similarly wrapped sandwich. He frowned when Cameron took it away.

"One is enough."

"Nuh uh."

Cameron got to his feet. "I'm continuously fucking amazed that you're the infamous Emilio Vega."

"Since when am I infamous? And what the fuck were you expecting?"

"Yes, infamous. Even though your people like to believe you stay below the radar, more things than not leave some kind of trail. According to the profile we have on you, you've been involved in weapons smuggling for years and got in through your connection with MS-13 and the cartel, which you became involved with due to your father. However, you're known to be a genius at manipulating and negotiating which is why someone so young is so high up on the food chain, and you got your own crew after you managed to develop inter-gang relations and black market trade between organized crime syndicates in Mexico, the United States, and China." Cameron kicked Emilio's booted foot. "With that resume, I expected someone less like an immature horny teenager."

"You'll get over it, Blondie."

When Cameron continued to stare, Emilio flipped up his middle finger.

There shouldn't have been a paper trail of any of the things Cameron had mentioned. All of the unknown variables in this situation were alarming. It sounded like the type of sting the Feds would carry out, but Feds would have identified themselves by now. And they wouldn't have sent one sadistic freak to drive him across the country.

"I'm starting to wonder if the immature teenager thing is just an act. When you get angry and those pretty green eyes narrow, I see more." Cameron paused before saying, "More of what I'd expect from someone who saw his twin sisters and mother murdered in front of him."

Emili froze. No words came to his lips, no smartass retorts sprang to mind. The only sounds were the rushing of cars along the Interstate, and the sliding of the van's door as Cameron got out.

[kalamos]

fem!icos (14/?): harriet stevens

[ais-n]

Julian Files, chapter 1

Julian Files is a series set in the past for In the Company of Shadows. It contains MAJOR SPOILERS for Fade, so do not read until you have finished Fade! I am not putting spoilers above the cut below.

I will continue to post a chapter or more every month on the third Saturday. I’m starting with 3 chapters because some of you probably already read the first one ages ago.

Julian Files, by Ais

One

Thursday May 12, 2005 Lexington, PA

Even on the far end of Crandall Park’s sprawling playground, shrieking kids disrupted the otherwise calm morning. Julian’s fingers twitched and he resisted for the third time reaching for his pack of Winstons. He’d have gone for it anyway if the adulterating mom across the way didn’t give him the evil eye every time he touched his pocket.

Jennifer Groves, twenty-seven years old. Whitebread America mistressing it up with a certain Latino charmer named Joaquin Padilla. Julian doubted she knew he was the PI who had given her husband the racy photos of the two of them going at it like horny teenagers against a window of the White Oaks, but being as she recently stopped smoking she knew a fellow nicotine addict when she saw one. Not that her attempt to go clean living was liable to last long, once good ole Chris Groves was done raking her through the divorce proceedings.

It never ceased to amaze Julian how stupid so many people were. What made them think being in a mid-range hotel made the windows any less transparent when they decided to play out their little fantasies? And so many of them had the receiving partner facing the window, too. Made his job a whole hell of a lot easier to get the money shot.

He considered whipping out a smoke anyway just to fuck with her, when he noticed Cedrick approaching.

The man was a conundrum. He wasn’t bad looking by any stretch, but he easily could have been forgettable. Stocky build, average height, brown eyes, brown hair… Nothing stood out at a glance. In a photo, he would have been the guy in the background no one thought to look at twice.

The gift of anonymity.

Julian wished he had the same, at times.

But in motion, that was when all the little bits came together and made Cedrick recognizable. His easy, loping gait. The smile that seemed ever ready on the edges of his lips, and that goddamned infectious grin that popped up at the least expected moments. Made his whole face light up like a Christmas tree, and at times even made Julian fight a grin in return.

The trademark Beaulieu not-yet-smile was in place as Cedrick strode toward him slower than normal, and when all the trees and kidlets were out of the way Julian saw why.

He raised his eyebrows and flicked a glance down at Cedrick’s side.

“Brought the kid, huh?”

“Couldn’t get a babysitter.” Cedrick rested his hand around Boyd’s skinny little shoulders, pulling him against his thigh like some sort of tall dog. The fond smile aimed down at him probably wouldn’t have looked out of place in those circumstances, either. “Can’t say I’m sad about it, though. I don’t get enough time with him as it is.”

Cedrick dropped easily onto the park bench next to Julian, and soon it was the both of them who stared at Boyd.

Truth be told, the kid creeped Julian out. Like Cedrick, his photo op impression was different than his video. He was a cute kid by looks alone: fine blond hair, huge eyes an unusual amber; a skinny little thing with pouty lips. He hovered in that childlike androgynous zone of not seeming resigned to any gender entirely.

Maybe if he smiled once in a dinosaur’s age it’d be fine but he was like a little alien. He stared at people like he was dissecting their motivations, filing it away in some five-year-old version of Enemy vs Friend, or maybe he was just trying to figure out what the fuck was going on around him. Julian might have thought he was slow but he’d seen the kid write and draw well beyond his nephew who was four years older. And when the kid talked, which wasn’t often, there were times his sentence structure and astute observations were like he was twice his age.

Julian sometimes wondered if the kid was going to turn into a serial killer someday. If so, Julian should probably make sure he wasn’t on the kid’s hit list.

Keep reading

[ais-n]

Julian Files, Chapter 2

Julian Files is a book set in the past of In the Company of Shadows. DO NOT READ JULIAN FILES IF YOU HAVE NOT FINISHED THROUGH FADE!

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR ICOS!

Julian Files by Ais

Two

Friday May 13, 2005 Carlisle Windsor School, All Saints neighborhood Lexington, PA

“That child is there again.”

The man said it flatly, and Boyd got nervous. He ducked back into the hallway, wondering if he was in trouble now.

He hadn’t meant to see the man again, but the man and his friend always went to one of the back classrooms in the unused building on the corner of campus. Since Austin put Boyd’s backpacks in weird places like that, Boyd always had to go there before he left. He’d done his best to stay quiet and unseen like always but he must have done something wrong.

Boyd was just debating if it was worse to go home without his backpack and have his mother angry with him or to interrupt the man and his friend, when he realized a third, very tall man had come up behind him.

Boyd’s heart clenched. He looked up and up and up, into angry eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Boyd said, not knowing yet what he’d done wrong but thinking it was probably good to let them know right away he knew it was his fault.

“Bring her in,” said the man inside.

Keep reading

[ais-n]

Julian Files, Chapter 3

Julian Files is a book set in the past of In the Company of Shadows. DO NOT READ JULIAN FILES IF YOU HAVE NOT FINISHED THROUGH FADE!

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR ICOS!

Julian Files by Ais

Three

Friday, June 24, 2005 Lexington, PA

“Come on, come on,” Julian muttered under his breath. “Turn…”

The sandwich bag crinkled with every shift of his ass, which had fallen asleep long ago. He longed to step out of the car and stretch until every vertebra popped, but he couldn’t until Junko fucking turned already.

Just as she started to tilt her lovely little head, the jackass who’d been courting her from the bar finally won. Junko’s whole back shifted to Julian and she was soon out of his sight as the two of them headed upstairs.

Julian scoffed and tossed his camera to the empty passenger seat. Just great. The one time he wasn’t on cheater duty he got a perfect shot. He snagged the remnants of his sandwich out of the bag and moodily chewed it, glowering out the window.

He was about to consider sleeping when he heard his phone trill. He hardly glanced at the name on the screen before bringing it up to his ear.

“Hey Fin,” he said around a mouthful.

There was a distinctly displeased pause. “I told you not to call me that.”

“What? But everyone else calls you it. You’re saying I’m not blue enough for your brotherhood? You wound me.”

He could imagine the eye roll he got out of that one.

Keep reading

[smokesinatra-deactivated2017092]

“How have I fucked up? You don’t even know me.” “I know enough to have expected you to be the smart one.”

@thatdudesantino‘s chase. a psychic of unimaginable ability

[thatdudesantino]

This is fucking epic artwork for INSIGHT--the paranormal romance coming from @riptidepublishing in the nearish future.

[thatdudesantino]

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