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Fingertip shaped bruises are spawned on my thigh and waist.

The table rattles heavily against the tiles beneath me, my panting coming in jittered bursts as he mercilessly thrusts into me, my cheeks reverberating against his slamming body. Still I yearn for more. Through the relentless depths. My spots ruthlessly decimated I scream out as my body tenses and releases through storm after storm, orgasm after orgasm.

I never want this to fucking end. Embodied ecstasy, the hitman’s whore and I wear it like a fucking crown when it feels like this. Charging towards our crescendo at a hundred miles per hour he pushes me back on the table and climbs on top of me, my knees at his elbows and his forehead on mine.

The new angle renews every sensitivity and throws me over the edge within seconds, and does the same for him as his whole body tenses almost convulsing and he lets out a single long, low groan. His soaking body almost collapses on mine - thankfully he holds his own weight - I take just enough to turn my monster into a muscle-bound, weighted blanket. I feel his heart pounding through his chest and onto mine as we battle to catch our breaths.

I bring my hands to his neck, and run my fingers through his beard until I find his jaw and cup it in my hands. The demon is gone from his eyes, and I’m just left with my Nik. Pulling him in I plant a single kiss on his lips. As I explore his beard and move into his hair, he pushes his head into my fingertips, reminding me of a large predatory cat. My panther apparently appreciates pets.

“Got ya” I tease with a half smile and wink

“I caught you…” in a confused whisper

“Pspspsps”

Twenty Eight

Nik

It’s eleven fifty-five, I wasn’t expecting him until twelve. But early is better than late. Opening the front door, I lead Craig to the dining table. He’s got a rucksack, which I presume has everything I told him to fetch. He seems skittish, it raises my bullshit detector. But then last time he was here he didn’t have a great time. I file it away as something to keep an eye on. The clanking sound the bag makes when it’s set on the table is another good sign.

I open the bag and inspect the contents. First and foremost, a gun; likely the one with Sawyer’s prints on. I call her in to cautiously confirm that this is the one from that night. Sealed brown envelope with a burner phone, and some cash. I check the phone, it’s got the one number I expected it to have plus Craig’s.

I raise my eyebrows and show my upturned palms to Craig in an unspoken invitation to speak. Through his fear, he spills some details. Not much, but an address for where Harry is hunkered down and some details about his routine. He leaves the house fairly infrequently, and always with a security detail now.

“So… that’s it, right? I’m done… I can go?” he asks, stuttering with a level of fear that’s making him audacious. I contemplate for a second. I’d prefer to keep him on the hook, but much more fear and he’s going to run back to Harry and tell him everything.

“Yep, that’s it. You’re all done. Good job. Keep feeding Harry the usual stuff: I’m happy and behaving and recovery is just taking a little longer than planned”

With a courteous but cold farewell, he disappears leaving me at the table with my fingers interlocked. I crack my knuckles and think a while, Craig only confirmed what I already suspected. It’s going to be easier to hit Harry at home.

Deep in thought, I almost pull my beard from my face as my hand works from my jaw, running through plans and possibilities. I reluctantly look at the phone. Making the call feels ominous, like some kind of threshold is going to be crossed. I just stare at it. I know I have to, that does not mean I am enthusiastic.

Sawyer floats around the kitchen pottering about for a few minutes before she joins me. A plate of biscuits and a cup of tea land in front of me before she takes a seat, leaning back with her arms crossed. She mirrors my furrowed brow before sighing deeply.

“So, who we killin’?” she asks, with a comical lightness in her voice, drawing a confused stare from me before recognising that she is, actually, joking.

“You aren’t killing anybody” I inform her.

“Oh, no murder for me! Boo, drat and blast” her usual sarcasm accompanied by an old-fashioned faux-exasperated swing of her arm and fist before settling into seriousness “What’s going on…? You expecting the phone to ring?”

My brow stays furrowed. I don’t want to tell her anything more than I have to. It’s an operational liability. I also recognise she’s willing to step into all this shit, and no matter how I think of her - she’s not a civilian to them, any more.

So I tell her an abridged version of the plan. Fortunately she’s heard of the Bastards. Everyone’s heard of the Bastards. One of the biggest motorcycle clubs, or MCs, in the world. Forsaken Bastards MC. Ruthless, wild, outcasts, smugglers and killers. Good blokes, most of the ones I’ve met.

It’s not the Bastards I’m worried about calling, it’s my old brother in arms. I trust him with my life without hesitation, my sanity is, however, a somewhat different proposition. It is entirely comical that the only reason Harry couldn’t just shoot me himself is that the Bastards are the only remaining arms dealers left in Greater London area that will still sell to him. Shooting me would be politically somewhat inconvenient, hence manufacturing a way for me to meet my Gods in a more convenient way.

The dial tone feels like it takes an eternity before the line comes alive, with no response. Standard counter-intel. I open with our old call codes, a standard way of making sure we know who we’re talking to before we incriminate ourselves. Caller always goes first, identifying themselves and using the codeword, they respond with a certain phrase, then tell you who you’re talking to.

“Arctic Four-Two. Eggs beaten”

Almost instantly I get the proper response first “Never broken. Go for Grim One”, followed quickly by “Well fuck me, he’s alive. The fuck do you want?”

“Reaper, you old Bastard. I need a favour” I tell him

“Obviously”

“Wanna get in some shit?”