Crime and Punishment by Ellison Wonderland Part VIII ac found the director and Li Ann in Ophelia's dressing room, as good a place as any, he presumed, for the lies that were about to be told him. Vic slid into a fourth chair a few minutes later, his limbs encased in the tight leather trousers that Mac had laid out for him to wear. He gave Mac a megawatt smile that had Li Ann and the director blinking, but its target simply nodded shortly and looked pointedly at their boss. Giving him a puzzled shrug, Vic also turned to face the director. "I'm glad you could join us, gentlemen," said the director. Her cold eyes seemed to pierce Mac to his soul, as if she were laying bare every secret insecurity he'd ever had and found him wanting. Twisting his fingers in his lap where the others couldn't see them, he met her stare for stare, knowing that he knew and that she knew he knew...or something like that. Vic and Li Ann were going to help Michael, and they were going to keep Mac out of it. In everyone's best interests, of course. Because Michael was on the side of the angels now, the instrument to end the Tang family's decades of crime and bring it into the light. Mac wanted to barf. As if the family could ever change. As if Michael could be anything other than a murderous, blood- soaked piece of slime. But yesterday he had made love to Mac so gently he could have wept at the pleasure of it. Swallowing his nausea, the ex-thief tried to concentrate on what the director was saying. "...and his name is Gerald Pouchie," she concluded. They all looked at Mac expectantly. "Pouchie?" he said, trying to cover the fact that he hadn't heard a word she'd said. "What hell kind of a name is that?" "It's a Hugenot name," snapped the director. "Not that it makes a shred of difference to the point at issue." "Which is?" said Mac in polite inquiry. Good—sarcasm, inattention, who could tell the difference? "The point is, Mac," said the director with obvious irritation, "that our other operatives have confirmed that Pouchie, an assassin of the highest order, murdered the actress who was playing Ophelia before Li Ann, not to mention her understudy as well." "So they didn't run off together?" asked Mac, playing up his obvious disappointment, trying to maintain the front that everything was normal with him. "No torrid lesbian love affair?" "I think murder is fairly torrid, Mr Ramsey," came the cold reply. "What's this got to do with me?" he asked. His enigmatic boss didn't answer him but instead extended her hand towards him, holding out a gold foil-wrapped chocolate. "For me?" he grinned, trying to ignore Vic's expectant smirk. The candy was too small to be booby trapped, surely. Shit—it was empty, just the wrapper. "That's Pouchie's calling card. Vic found it in one of the unoccupied dressing rooms a couple of hours ago." "So?" asked Mac. "Lotsa people eat candy. It's probably Rosa's." "Don't be stupid, Mac," sighed the director. "Victor and Li Ann are going to check out our last known sighting of Pouchie and one or two of his possible - er—employers tonight. I need you to keep watch here, especially during tonight's rehearsal. I don't want any more actors going `missing'. And keep an eye on the dressing rooms. Pouchie may have already cased the place but he could come back. If you see him, shoot to kill." Right. As if there was a Pouchie to shoot in the first place. A few smooth lies and a candy wrapper? That was the extent of what the director considered necessary to fool him in front of the others? It was quite insulting really. He cast Li Ann and Vic a look of bitterness, which Li Ann deflected with her usual air of calm composure. Vic, on the other hand, was starting to look a bit rattled. And so you should, Mansfield. Your ass is toast. "Go to it, people," instructed the director. "Mac," said Vic, restraining the thief with a firm grip on his arm as the others went out the door. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" "Nothing, Victor," hissed Mac. "Why don't you go chasing assassins and leave me to do the real work, heh?" "You are such an asshole," said Vic, throwing Mac's arm away so hard that the younger man almost lost his footing and fell. "If you can't deal with a blow job, how the fuck do you expect to handle anything more?" "It's not the fucking blow job!" shouted Mac, heedless of who might hear them in the other dressing rooms. Vic was looking at him carefully, a guarded expression on his face. "What is it then? Is it what happened with Michael? I don't want to fuck this up - whatever this is." Mac felt sick to his stomach. "I'm turning and I'm turning and the guns are all pointed at me," he whispered. "I don't know who to trust." Vic was silent and when Mac looked up at last, he had never seen such an open expression of hurt on his partner's face before. "I thought you trusted me Mac," said Vic coldly, before turning and walking out the door. "I don't want to fuck this up—whatever this is," said Mac, repeating Vic's words slowly, pondering their meaning. But the this was Mac's life, and it was already fucked up, long before he met Victor Mansfield. Giving his partners a short head start, Mac tailed Vic and Li Ann to their cars and then followed them as they drove through downtown Vancouver, heading towards Chinatown. Whatever confrontation was going to take place between Michael and the rebel Tangs, it looked like it was going to happen there. And no way was Mac Ramsey going to be left out of it. The only uncertainty was whether he was going to blow Michael's brains out or beg him to fuck him again. Only time would tell. Keeping a safe distance behind, he watched his partners park their cars and make their way into one of the seedier nightclubs. Rumour had it that this particular club was on the Tang books. Looked like the rumour was true. Keeping to the pools of darkness in the dimly lit alley, Mac made his way towards the club. He just hoped that the director hadn't been double bluffing him, and that no actors were being choked to death on candy wrappers, as he entered the club and edged his way around the outer wall, staying out of the light as much as possible. The music was deafening at first but his ears soon adjusted, setting his feet to itching and his cock to swelling. Mac Ramsey's body knew what you did in a nightclub. You got your pretty ass out on that dance floor, you wowed some hot babe, and then you took her home (preferably to her place) for some more dancing between the sheets. And you tried not to think about your green-eyed partner or wish that it was his mouth that was sucking your cock. Focus, Ramsey, he hissed at himself. Tang shooters. Four up on the balcony. Another three over by the bar. They stuck out like a sore thumb, the only people not gulping drinks and having a good time. There was Li Ann, making her way over to the guy whom Mac assumed must be the leader of this breakaway faction. He was sitting at the bar, looking as if he owned the place. Mac couldn't remember his name, and decided to christen him `pipsqueak'. That anaemic little runt wanted to step into the godfather's shoes? Not in Mac's lifetime. He wished he knew what Li Ann and Michael had set up, how this was supposed to go down. There was Vic, boogieing on the dance floor, blending into the crowd but with eyes that were watchful and alert, no obvious target for a Tang shooter. Mac felt a surge of pride and affection. That was his partner out there, so much classier than these Hong Kong assholes. Li Ann seemed to be arguing with the guy at the bar now, and Mac tightened his grip on his gun, trying not to look obvious as he sauntered in her direction. He had found out years ago that if you carried a drink above everyone's heads, looking like you were trying not to spill it, almost nobody took any notice of you. It was the perfect cover. He just wished that he could take a few gulps of the drink he was nursing so carefully. Not long now, he was sure. As if on cue, Michael Tang entered the nightclub, drawing a lot of eyes in the process. He looked stunning in his tailored suit, swaggering arrogantly as if he owned the place. Which, if Mac's suspicions were correct, he did. The crime boss filled the bar with his presence, making it feel too small, too crowded, as Mac made his slow and careful way towards the centre of the action. He was six feet away from Li Ann and holding, no one appearing to have noticed him, avoiding the attentions of a six-foot drag queen who seemed determined to either dance with him or steal his drink, Mac wasn't sure which. But it was all helping his cover, so he swivelled his hips and danced, drink in one hand, fingering his gun with the other. Michael's arrival was the spur for action. He looked over at Li Ann with a look of betrayal, as if she had set him up, which Mac was sure was part of the scenario that they had planned. When the shooting started, the drag queen got the drink at last (full in the face) as Mac pulled his gun and dove to the floor, shooting up and over at the three goons at the bar, taking down at least one of them and injuring another. Somehow, Pipsqueak had got Li Ann in his clutches, and Vic was trying to circle to the left and cut him down, sparing Mac a cold angry glance as he did so. Mac was not supposed to be here, after all. But Li Ann was more than capable of rescuing herself, as she spun out of her opponent's grip and backhanded him against the bar. The bullets seemed to whirl around the smiling face of Michael Tang as the gun battle heated up, and Mac fired at some of the Tang killers behind his former brother, wondering all the time if his shaking hand would slip, and he would put a bullet right through the man's black heart. Where was Vic? Where was Li Ann? Why was he covering Michael, of all people? But the new godfather had spotted him, had seen what Mac was doing, and Michael's eyes were alight with triumph as he fired his pistols and slaughtered his former lieutenants. The drag queen chose that moment to stand on Mac's hand, surprising a yelp of pain and fury out of him, even as he tried to get to his feet and take cover behind the bar. It was getting a bit too exposed for comfort on the now emptying dance floor, as those whose business wasn't killing made a terrified retreat to the nearest exits. Fuck. He had forgotten about Pipsqueak at the bar. The man was confronting him with a look full of fury, and an armful of hostage—a beautiful, terrified looking young woman. Mac pointed his gun at the ceiling and held out his other hand to show that it was empty. The woman looked at him with frightened, pleading eyes. "Just let her go," he said, heart hammering, hoping that one of his partners was gonna save his butt here. "Drop the gun, Ramsey," hissed the other man. Shit. The Pipsqueak knew who he was. There was a momentary lull in the firing as people took better cover and watched the drama unfolding at the bar. Mac dropped his gun and stepped forward, rewarded (to an extent) when Pipsqueak threw his hostage aside and grabbed Mac instead, one arm around his neck and the barrel of a gun against his temple. Perhaps it was better this way. He would never have to know that Michael was lying to him. He would never have to face that inevitable look of disappointment in Vic's eyes, when he finally realised just what a poor bargain he was getting in Mac. Never have to admit that Li Ann didn't love him any more. Although he would keep his life if he had the option. He was funny that way. Mac watched in silence as Vic, Li Ann, and Michael began to circle his captor, triangulating the two men with weapons raised and murder in their eyes. Pipsqueak must have been aware that he was being surrounded, moving Mac by nudges with his knees so that at least two of the three couldn't shoot him without the bullet passing through the ex-thief first. The third would simply have to be deterred by Pipsqueak's gun in his ear, Mac concluded. He flashed on his vision, of course, the current feeling of being at the centre of a triangle lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. It was uncanny, spooky, and Mac just didn't do supernatural. And he couldn't shake the conviction that the real danger to him didn't come from the man whose pistol was bumping his head, but from one of his would-be rescuers. Three guns pointed at him. Always circling. Unable to choose. Unable to let go. Mac shivered, and knew by Pipsqueak's slow laugh that he had mistaken it for fear. Asshole. "Let him go," called an authoritative voice. Michael. "You don't want him, you want me. I'm the boss of this family. Ramsey is nothing." Too true, but it still hurt to hear it. Michael was walking slowly towards them, guns safely pointed at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on Mac's with a knowing glint in them. Possession. Michael was saving what was his. Mac shuddered in Pipsqueak's arms, and again he felt the other man's foolish triumph. Michael's strategy was an old one. They had used it before, back when they were a team. Give your mark a more attractive target, then take him out when he goes for it. The timing, the choice of what would be the most tempting target, the hair trigger reactions, all things that were necessary to carry off such a risky ploy, were old friends to Mac, Michael and Li Ann. The ex-thief steeled himself not to tense as the game neared its critical point. Soon. Michael was putting down his guns. Standing straight again now, with a stare of supreme arrogance fixed on both captor and hostage. And all the time, that hard, knowing smile. Not yet. Almost... A millisecond after the gun started to move from his temple to point at Michael, Mac caught Pipsqueak with an elbow to his ribs that had the other man doubled over, his gun discharging safely into the air. The agent finished him with a quick kick to the head, stretching him out cold on the barroom floor. As if this was the signal for mayhem, the gun battle was on again, Vic and Li Ann firing over his head as Mac went scrambling for his own weapon. Too late, he heard Michael's warning shout, and realised that Pipsqueak wasn't unconscious at all but instead aiming a gun right at him. And then bullets from the new godfather's gun settled the issue once and for all, sending Pipsqueak crashing into the bar in a bloody heap, and Mac was left panting and alone in the middle of a deserted floor. It was finally over, the Tang rebels were all dead. Slowly they converged on him, like figures from his dream, Michael, Vic and Li Ann. But it wasn't to him that Li Ann was going. Mac watched in quiet bitterness as she was enfolded in Michael's arms. The godfather brushed a quick kiss over her lips, smiling at her with an almost gentle expression. Mac tried to quench the feelings of jealousy and fear that clamoured in his head, noting and avoiding Vic's attempts to catch his eye. Michael looked over Li Ann's shoulder and released her, extending his hand towards Mac, the hand that had fired the bullets that saved his life. Reluctantly, unable to look away from Michael's dark, inky eyes, Mac took the outstretched hand in his own and squeezed it, his feelings so chaotic and conflicted that he could not have spoken a word if his life depended on it. What was there to say? But nothing could match his astonishment when Michael raised his clasped hand to his lips and kissed it. Li Ann took a step backwards, bemusement and horror on her face. Smiling at Li Ann and then at Vic, Michael turned Mac's hand over and began to nibble on his index finger, alternately sucking it and nipping it with small bites. Mac was shuddering continuously now, unable to accept that this was happening, but also not able to pull away. "You two were lovers?" came Li Ann's voice, its tone harsh and full of surprise. But he couldn't look away from Michael's eyes to see the expression on her face. "No," Michael corrected her, his tone gentle. "We are lovers. I had Mac yesterday at his apartment." Michael explored a second finger with his tongue, favouring Li Ann with a mocking smile. "It was always about the three of us, Li Ann. Didn't you know that?" "No, I didn't," hissed Li Ann. But her tone of anger, her look of reproach, were directed at Mac, not Michael. "How could you not have told me about this? How could you have slept with him while you were sleeping with me?" As if this was the trigger he needed to finally sort out which of his roiling emotions was uppermost, Mac let his anger take control. "No, you didn't know, did you?" he said, voice cold, years of suppressed rage and hurt evident, he was sure, in the eyes that now looked away from Michael and locked with the angry brown eyes of Li Ann. "You didn't know because that was the way we both wanted it." "What do you mean?" asked Li Ann, looking honestly perplexed. Her gun was suddenly in the godfather's face. "Michael, take his damn hand out of your mouth or I'm going to blow your brains out," she ordered. Mac had never seen the icy Li Ann so discomposed in all her life, except during sex. Michael let the wet fingers slide out of his mouth with an audible pop, but he didn't let go of Mac's hand. Li Ann's gun was pointed at Mac now. He could no longer read the expression in her eyes. "Tell me what you mean," she repeated. Mac's head sank to his chest and his eyes closed. He felt defeated, and wished that Pipsqueak had just pulled the trigger. "You didn't notice the bruises?" he asked quietly at last. "You didn't notice the cuts? The burn marks? The intricate patterning of the scars? The way I sometimes couldn't sit down? I was walking bowlegged, for fucksakes. You didn't notice any of that?" Li Ann's gun swung back to cover Michael. "You didn't know about the beatings? The butt plugs? The rapes?" Mac continued. Li Ann gave a half sob. Her finger tightened on the trigger but it still didn't quite squeeze hard enough to fire. "I thought it was the training. The initiations. The practice fights. I thought it was nothing—nothing serious..." she said. "You didn't want to see it," said Mac, "because you were fucking him yourself." He wondered if he were to let the cap off his anger, his stored bitterness, whether there would be anything left of any of them when the storm was over. "You got the gentleness, I got the real Michael." "Why did you let him do it?" she asked slowly, shaking her head. "Why did you let him do those things to you?" "Li Ann..." said Michael, but he was cut off when her gun was jammed against his throat suddenly. Even so, he didn't seem in the slightest bit perturbed, still smiling and squeezing Mac's hand gently, as if offering support. The real support though, the thing that was stopping Mac from howling in anguish, was Vic's hand on his arm. "Because if he was doing them to me, he wasn't doing them to you," Mac answered her question. "That was our bargain, our—arrangement." His quiet admission seemed to suck the anger out of Li Ann. "I never knew," was all she could say, shaking her head helplessly. Mac couldn't tell if she really believed him. Michael raised Mac's hand to his lips and kissed it again. "Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum," he murmured. "Let's go home, Mac, back to my—to our—rooms at the Grand." Vic stepped back at that, his comforting touch gone from Mac's arm. The ex-thief shook his head at his `brother'. "No, you're wrong," he said. "That brother thing's about Ophelia, not me. Go love her if she'll have you. I don't forgive and I don't forget." "I saved your life," whispered Michael, his eyes hot with an emotion that Mac couldn't name. "And I saved yours," said Mac. "Doesn't mean I'm not gonna kill ya." "You want me," responded the godfather flatly. "You're hard right now. You know you need me, Mac." Humiliation piled upon humiliation. Time to up the ante. "I'm hard because Vic had his hand on my arm," said Mac with as much dignity as he could muster. "I'm hard cos Vic was close enough for me to smell his sweat. I'm hard cos I always am whenever Mansfield gets within three feet of me." He didn't dare look up to see how this was received, until he noticed that Vic's hand was back on his arm again, joined by another that had wound its way round his waist. Li Ann was looking as if she had been poleaxed for the second time that night. Michael's eyes were dark with fury. Mac shivered and his partner gripped him more closely. "Take me home, Vic," he said quietly. He had no qualms about leaving Li Ann with Michael—it wasn't Li Ann who was the one in danger in the deserted nightclub. Vic steered him out the door without a word, his hand gripping Mac's arm in a way that, unlike Michael's, did not seem to be staking a claim to possession. And out of the corner of one eye, Mac could see a small, secret smile on Victor's face. Part IX Mac was quiet on the drive back to his apartment, content to abandon his car in Chinatown and let Vic chauffeur him home. The ex-cop had his uses, after all. The silence remained unbroken as they climbed the stairs to the apartment, and even persisted after Vic had poured them both whiskies and settled Mac on the couch. For all the world as if he were a protective mother hen, and the ex-thief were his chick. Not exactly the sort of feelings that Mac wanted to inspire in Vic. But at the moment he was too drained and empty to care. It seemed as if he'd been living on nerve endings and whiskey for so long, ever since he awoke in a hospital bed to find himself still alive, no thanks to his friendly local assassins. The nightmares, the death of the godfather, the resurrection of Michael; all had followed in quick succession. Mac closed his eyes in exhaustion and, he had to admit, self-pity, leaning back on the couch and sipping his drink. Letting its fire warm his mouth and belly, melting a little of the ice inside. And that other Mac inside his head, the one who spun constantly in the centre of a triangle of guns, now paused in front of a ghost-like Victor Mansfield. Was this the one that would pull the trigger? "I wonder if I'm still entirely sane?" he spoke to the empty air. "I wonder if you ever were," came the low reply, much closer than he'd expected. Opening his eyes, Mac took in the still form of his partner, seated right next to him on the couch. Victor. "What happens next?" he asked. Perhaps the ex-cop had the answers that Mac's brain was too tired to formulate. "Next," replied Vic, "I'm gonna take you to bed, and make you very very happy." Mac chuckled. Now that sounded like a plan. He leaned a little closer, sniffing Vic for the smell of sweat and aftershave, the heady musk that turned him on and made him hard. "I want you, Vic," he confessed. Don't talk, his brain hissed at his mouth. Don't fuck this up! Sensible advice. Mac settled for nuzzling Vic's neck and throat instead, before pulling the other man down for a gentle kiss. His lips touched Vic's with feathery caresses, before deepening into a battle of tongues and saliva. At the end of it, Mac was panting and breathless, hard with need and high on Mansfield, desperate to get fucked. "Bed," he hissed. Who cared if he was fragile and in need of nurturing? What Mac wanted was a good hard fuck. And that's exactly what he was going to get. Vic let himself be dragged off the couch by his hand, his fingers entwined with Mac's as though he would never let go. It was a good feeling, one that promised the eventual laying of Michael's ghost. If only Mac could still avoid laying the real thing, that was. Do not think about Michael, Mac cursed himself, feeling his erection wilt a little where it pressed against his trousers. This was about Vic. No Tang ghosts in the room. Just one sexy man with emerald eyes and a sneer that melted Mac's bones. Oh shit. He hadn't changed the sheets, funky with sweat from last night's restless sleep. "Let's do it on top of the covers," he suggested, breaking a particularly passionate kiss to push Vic on to the bed, while tugging off his own clothes as fast as he could. "You're so romantic," replied the ex-cop, his lips quirked in the usual sardonic half-smile. "You'd better believe it," said Mac, sure that his own grin was rivalling that of the dopiest lover in a Disney film. Still smirking, Vic reached up to unbutton his shirt but Mac batted his hands aside, taking over the task himself. "Let me do it," he whispered. "Life is a box of chocolates, remember. I want to unwrap you." Vic's gurgle of laughter rumbled in his chest, where Mac began to lick each newly emerging inch as he undid button after button. Finally, pushing the material aside to expose the cop's nipples, he began to suck one gently with just his lips and tongue, while tweaking the other one with biting fingers. Vic groaned and Mac redoubled his efforts, finally coming up for air when he felt a hardness pushing against his hip, looking down at his partner and grinning at his obvious arousal. "You are so fucking beautiful," he hissed as he reached for Vic's zipper. The ex-cop lifted his hips so that Mac could ease his jeans and underwear down, almost taking out an eye when his erection sprang free and hit Mac in the cheek. Laughing soundlessly, the thief began to tease his prize with his tongue, licking carefully around the base and up the sides, but leaving the leaking head to bob frictionless in space. "Suck me," urged Vic at last, grabbing Mac's head with strong hands and forcing his mouth down on the huge erection. Vic was a very big boy indeed, and Mac was a happy man. Sucking and slurping noisily, the ex-thief gobbled Vic's meat, teasing it from time to time with slow, gentle licks, before swallowing it again and deep throating him with equal skill and enthusiasm, drawing back every time he felt those heavy balls begin to tighten for orgasm. Vic never stopped moaning softly, whispering words of encouragement and stroking his hands over Mac's hair and shoulders. Desperate to connect with every part of the man on the bed, Mac laid his body fully on top of Vic's legs, heedless of his weight and any discomfort for the man under him. He needed to touch every part, every inch of Victor Mansfield, exhaustion forgotten in a haze of lust. He released the cock from his mouth at last so that he could rub himself over the full length of Vic's body. Mac didn't even realise that he was weeping until Vic brushed his tears away with gentle fingers, rolling Mac over on his back so that he could kiss his face and lick the trace of salt from his cheeks. "It's alright, Mac," whispered Vic. "I'm here. It's alright." The words seemed so small, so insignificant, and yet they warmed Mac inside where nothing else could. Superimposed on the smiling face of the man above him, Mac saw the Vic of his vision, now offering Mac his gun and proposing a most unusual use for it. Mac found himself laughing, heedless of the concerned look this earned him, bending over in his vision, face buried in Li Ann's shoulder, while Vic fucked him with his gun. And like a Disney villain, Michael gibbered with extravagant rage in the background but couldn't do a thing about it. Not a fucking thing. "Mac, what is it, what's wrong?" asked Vic, his voice tight. "Don't make me slap you for hysteria, you stupid prick," he added, very Mansfield in his threat, half joking, half deadly serious. And all sexy. "It's alright," laughed Mac, unconsciously echoing Victor's words. "I'm just happy, that's all. It's just that sometimes, a gun isn't always a gun, if you know what I mean." "I haven't a fucking clue," admitted Vic, his lips thinning with annoyance. Way to break the mood here, Mac thought to himself, swallowing his laughter and reaching up to jam his lips on Vic's and end the talking. No good ever came of talking, in Mac's experience. After kissing Vic till the tightness disappeared from his face, replaced by an air of languorous pleasure, Mac began to rub his groin against his partner's leaking erection. "Fuck me, now, please," he whispered, trying to convey to Vic just how much he needed this, needed him. Perhaps words were the way, after all. "I need it, need you inside me, please," he begged, loving his obvious effect on Vic as the other mans' eyes grew hot and his cock twitched as though it had a mind of its own. "Alright, since you asked so nicely," growled Vic, rolling him over and dotting his buttocks with small kisses and licks, before suddenly breaching Mac with his tongue and making the thief howl with excitement. Vic tongue-fucked Mac till he was begging for more, clawing the headboard in his excitement, and squirming so much that he almost knocked the ex-cop off the bed. "Rubbers and lube," Vic moaned in his ear, a spit-slicked finger having taken the place of his busy tongue, his other hand in the small of Mac's back, fighting to hold him still. "Top drawer," said Mac, pushing himself up against the invading finger. "Left or right," roared Vic, impatience evident in the savage way he jammed another two fingers in Mac's ass. "Left, right, who the fuck knows?" groaned Mac, unable to think about anything except those fingers pistoning in and out, rubbing his prostate with clever jabs. Mac could hear the sound of cursing and a crash, as one of his drawers clearly hit the floor, the rough fingers never once pausing in their work, until suddenly there was the coolness of gel and a much less brutal, more sensuous feeling of gliding in and out of his anus. "Oh yeah," he breathed. "Fuck me Vic, give me more, I need it now." Mac had always been vocal during sex and his partners never complained. Vic was no exception, chuckling savagely, the sound punctuated by the tearing of a condom packet and then total silence, as a fourth finger joined its fellows at their hard work. "More," he moaned, suddenly empty as Vic jerked his fingers out, slapping Mac's ass with his free hand, hard sharp blows to each buttock in swift succession. "Make me hot for it," screamed Mac, as Vic's hands continued to punish his ass, alternating the hard slaps with swift jabs into his anus, punching his prostate and then beating his buttocks with real force. In the end, Mac came from the finger fucking alone, but Vic clearly didn't realise it as he jammed his full nine inches inside him suddenly, and began to rut with all the strength of his powerful frame. Mac, who never lost his hardness for a second, began to chant "fuck me, fuck me," in time with Vic's thrusts, the sound of cop balls slapping against his ass as music to his ears. Working up to a second orgasm, Mac ground his cock against the bed as Vic fucked him, pile driving into him without mercy or restraint. "Harder," he shouted, "Vic...Vic...Vic..." And both men climaxed with shudders that reached their toes, Mac for the second time that night, Vic with his teeth in Mac's shoulder and one hand whacking the shit out of the thief's pink ass cheeks. "Don't pull out," were the first words Mac managed, wanting to keep the other man inside him forever. Or at least till morning, whichever came first. "I won't," came a sated voice in his ear. "You don't get away from me that easily, Mac Ramsey." Mac lay there in silence, feeling truly at peace for the first time in many weeks. He knew that, despite his words, Vic was gonna have to pull out soon so that he could remove the condom. But Mac wanted the moment to last as long as it could. He was going to feel so empty without Vic inside him. Rudderless again. He closed his eyes and sighed with contentment. The triptych was gone from inside his head, it seemed, a helpless Mac no longer pirouetting against his closed eyelids, turning from Vic to Li Ann to Michael and back again. This was where he belonged. Now if only he could be sure that his cop partner felt the same way. He groaned and shook his head when Vic finally pulled his softening cock out with an audible plop, stripping off the rubber and tossing it in the bin with the ease of the true sportsman. "Good shot," he murmured. "Both times," he added with a wicked grin. "How is it that you can still talk?" demanded Vic, shaking his head with a weary smile. He gripped Mac's piping hot ass flesh in both hands suddenly, making the younger man yelp. Laughing in triumph, Vic leaned over and began to lick Mac's buttocks with slow, lazy strokes, cooling the heated skin and sending tingles straight to his groin. "Fuck me again," begged Mac, grinding his face into the pillows. "I can't right away," murmured Vic, before resuming his licking motions with his usual tenacity. Both men groaned, though, when the bedside phone rang, shrilling into the room as though to emphasize the lateness of the call. Since Vic showed no disposition to stop eating him, Mac groped blindly for the phone himself and jabbed the speaker button, so that he didn't have to move. "Hello Mac," came the director's voice. "Life is a box of chocolates, is it? Sometimes, though, you only get the empty wrappers." "One day, I'm gonna kill that bitch," growled Vic quietly. "Now now, Victor, is that any way to talk to mama?" said the director with sugary sweetness. Mac shrugged an apology for the effectiveness of his phone system in picking up Vic's whisper. The ex-cop gave him a twisted smile and resumed his oral attack on Mac's buttocks. "Yeah yeah, chocolates, wrappers, spy bosses who should leave the private lives of others alone if they know what's good for them," said Mac. "So what?" "More specifically, Mr Ramsey, empty chocolate wrappers here at your little rehearsal theatre," replied the director. "Where you were supposed to be tonight." "Oh shit," said Mac, sitting up suddenly and dislodging Vic's face from his ass. "Yes indeed," came the motherly tones of a barracuda. "But you knew..." he began before trailing off. She had known that he wouldn't be there, hadn't she? He hadn't imagined it, that she'd wanted him to find out where Vic and Li Ann were going tonight. What the fuck was going on here? "What I know, Mac, is that another actor is missing and there are candy wrappers in his dressing room," said the director. "Get down here now, and bring Victor with you." "Which actor?" he asked, but she had already hung up. "Shit," Mac repeated, swinging off the bed and reaching for his pants. "You already said that," pointed out Vic, smiling at him sardonically from the bed, muscles sweat-slick and features relaxed in the afterglow of sex. Great, mind-blowingly hot sex, in Mac's opinion. "Get dressed," was his only response. But he knew that his eyes were answering Vic's smile with a hard, hot promise of their own. "When we get back, I'm gonna suck your brains out through your cock," said the ex-cop calmly, springing off the bed with lazy grace and mooning Mac as he searched for his trousers on the floor. Mac's heart almost stopped at the sight, and he licked his lips. What was he doing? Oh yes, shirt, a shirt would be good. "Are you alright, Mac?" asked Vic when he still hadn't moved a few seconds later. "Yep, fine," Mac replied. He knew that he had to be grinning inanely, and wished that he could wipe that I've-just-been-fucked-by-Victor- Mansfield expression off his face. "Just thinking that I'm lucky to have what I've got." Fuck. That had slipped out without his meaning it to. Picking up his shirt and tugging it on, he became suddenly, senselessly alarmed at Vic's continued silence. "I have got what I've got, haven't I?" he asked. Double fuck. He needed to sew his lips together, where was that goddamn needle and thread? Vic was smiling but it was an unreadable expression. "Perhaps I've got what I've got," he said at last, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that might have been meant as a joke. Mac felt his fingers curling into fists, and contemplated smacking the over-confident sneer right off that arrogant face. He would have done it, too, if the phone hadn't rung again, urgent in its summons. Sure enough, he recognised the throaty deep breathing when he pushed the speaker button. "What do you want now?" he demanded angrily, almost punching the phone in frustration. "We don't have time for this little talk-fest boys," said the director. "Mac, Victor likes you a little bit, and your body a lot. He likes your fuckability most of all." "Fuckability—that's not even a word," snarled Vic, white-lipped with rage. "And Vic," continued the director, "Mac and his needy asshole had better be down here in fifteen minutes, or I'm holding you responsible." There was a click from the phone and a sudden silence. "Let's get going then," said Mac, not meeting Victor's eyes. He made it as far as the door before he was shoved up against the wall, a hand at his throat and hot, angry eyes boring into his own. "What you've got is me, you stupid twat," snapped Vic. "Against all- comers. And don't you fucking forget it." By the end Vic was whispering, and clearly unprepared for the kick that knocked him halfway across the room. Wiping his hands with a satisfied smile, Mac grabbed a jacket and was almost at the elevator before Vic caught up with him. They waited for the lift in silence, Mac wondering whether the other man was as unsure as himself about what to do, how to handle all of this. When the elevator arrived, it had Mac's elderly neighbours from upstairs. They looked disapprovingly at Mac and his companion, not liking (as he knew to his cost) that anyone under 60 was living in their building. They had started three petitions to get him out. Something about loud music and even louder screams (probably the orgasms), or something like that. When Mac looked over at Vic at last, the other man pinned him with an incendiary stare, and licked his lips, slowly and deliberately. I want a public declaration, thought Mac as the elevator doors closed. Ignoring the gasps of his neighbours, he grabbed Vic's hand and tugged it savagely, singing in a passable Cher imitation, "I've got you to hold my hand..." He waited hopefully. Vic's eyes were alight with laughter and something else. "I've got you to understand," the ex-cop cooed back, his voice terrible. So he can't sing, shrugged Mac, before crooning, "I've got you to fill my ring..." He got no further though, as Vic roared with laughter, catching Mac up in his arms in a most un-Mansfieldlike PDA, and kissing him full on the lips. "You're fucking crazy, Mac," he spat at last, pushing his partner away as the doors opened. "If you ever do that again, I'm gonna cut off your head and use it to stuff the Christmas turkey." They stepped out of the elevator, just two government agents on their way to a mission, a proper professional distance between them as they made their way to Vic's car. If the elderly neighbours followed them out, or dropped dead in the elevator car, Mac never noticed. "I like it when you talk about stuffing things," he murmured slyly. Vic laughed all the way to the theatre. Part X The small theatre was deserted when Mac and Vic arrived, well after midnight, in search of the director. "I just hope we don't have both directors," muttered Vic, looking tired and clearly remembering Rosa's wandering hands. "Buck up," said Mac encouragingly. "Too bad for you that she likes her men with a bit of meat on their bones." "That explains why she's not interested in you," snorted Vic with a withering look. "Hey, we should all be so slim," grinned Mac, patting his partner's shoulder in a gesture of mock sympathy. "Get your hands off me," growled Vic, shrugging him off without the slightest hint of good humour. Vic didn't like to be touched in public, unless the circumstances were exceptional. Still remembering how his partner's arms had encircled him at the nightclub, Mac decided that he could cut Vic a little slack and be more considerate of the other man's foibles. After all, it wasn't as if he needed public acknowledgement of their—well—whatever it was. On the other hand—Mac goosed Vic as the ex-cop reached for the doorhandle, and then started to run, relying on his knowledge of the floor plan to keep him out of range of retaliation. So long as his choked laughter didn't give him away, he could stay just ahead of Vic for hours, taunting him from comparative safety. It would drive his partner mad. "I'm not gonna play your childish game, Mac," called Vic before pushing the doors open and heading into the auditorium. Damn, thought Mac, rebuttoning his shirt. He'd been planning to strip as he ran, leaving items of clothing for Vic to follow him by. And when he got down to his boxers, well, he had no intention of running forever, that was for sure. Mac supposed, looking back on it later, that he should have expected the clout around the ears that greeted him just as he stepped through the doors. Ears ringing, he launched himself at Vic, wondering in the still functioning part of his brain, how much of their very hands-on fighting in the past had just been an excuse to touch each other. But before he reached Vic, the slim form of the director interposed itself between them, pulling him up short with a sharp smack to the head with her riding crop. "Boys, boys," she snarled, "play nicely, or mama is going to have to give you some tough love.' She whacked the crop on Vic's backside for good measure. "Follow me," she ordered, leading them out of the auditorium and round to the dressing rooms, Mac trying hard not to feel like an obedient puppy as he followed along in her wake. "Woof," he mouthed at Vic, who didn't seem very amused by it. But Mac couldn't help himself. "Do the words manic depressive mean anything to you?" he scolded himself, fighting to keep his grin from taking out an eyebrow. Sure Michael was off somewhere with Li Ann, and Mac had spent the evening shooting Michael's enemies instead of shooting him. And his partners had both planned to help the new Tang godfather behind his back. Another actor was missing, probably dead, and that was his fault too. But the cause of his current high was walking right alongside him at the moment, scowling steadily and constantly throwing back those strong, sexy shoulders. Mac just wanted to laugh, and hope that it didn't come out as hysteria. Not many takers for that bet, he suspected. "Vic, Vic, Vic," he chanted to himself. "What?" demanded the other man, glaring at him in irritation. Fuck, did I say that out loud? thought Mac. "Just seeing how many words rhyme with prick," he smirked, enjoying the almost involuntary quirk in Vic's lips. "In here," snapped the director, darting into one of the dressing rooms. The two agents followed her more cautiously, checking out the empty room for signs of threat or clues. There was nothing—Mac couldn't even begin to guess whose room it might have been. No costumes, no clothing, absolutely nothing, except for the gold foil wrapper that the director was twisting between her fingers. "So Pouchie's real then," he drawled, enjoying the sight of her possibly genuine discomfort. "Of course he's real," said the director, grabbing his arm with her talons and shaking it. "Do you think that I make these things up?" "Oh, I think every now and then, you might feed us one of your famous lines of bullshit," replied Mac. Now was so not the time for this confrontation, with Vic standing there listening, but the ex-thief just couldn't help himself. He was not responsible for what had happened here tonight, and he was damned if he was just going to sit back and take this woman's shit any more. "If I thought for one moment," snarled the director, "that you would just go running off without arranging for this to be covered..." "Yes you did," said Mac, his voice cold, seeing it clearly now. "You thought that that was exactly what would happen. You claim to know me. And now I want to know why you did it?" Vic was looking from one to the other with a puzzled face. "What's all this about?" he asked. "Did you think I just turned up at a Chinatown night club by chance? A Tang club? Come on, Vic, you're better than that," said Mac. Vic flushed at the taunt. "For all I know, you hang out there every night, trawling for women. It's just your kinda place. Cheap, dirty, and easy." Fuck! Vic wasn't pulling any punches tonight. Mac ignored his partner, concentrating on the hard brown eyes of the director. "So whatever happened here," Mac continued, "you wanted me out of the way so that it could happen." "That's ridiculous, Mac," came the rejoinder. "You're not thinking straight. Why don't you calm down and have a seat. That is, if you're not too sore to sit down." Mac felt himself go red at that one. He seated himself on the chair in front of the mirror, denying her the pleasure of seeing him squirm with the discomfort, and lazily crossed one ankle over the other. "Who's missing?" he asked, when he was sure that he had the undivided attention of his small audience. A little wiggle and a sigh. Just a well-fucked man taking his ease. Another wiggle, a gentle groan. Vic and the director were beginning to sweat just a little, he could tell. "Simon Fong," said the director at last. At Mac's blank look, she rolled her eyes and added, "You probably know him better as Laertes." Shit. That cute Asian guy. The one Mac had made cry at rehearsal. He only hoped that nothing worse was happening to him now. Mac squirmed on the hard chair and let out another breathy moan. Two identical swallows. Excellent. "Leads on Pouchie?" he inquired. "Victor," said the director, tearing her eyes away from Mac at last, "check out this address. It's the last known address of a Pouchie associate, possible employer, and definitely likely to know something. I want it done tonight." "What's Mac gonna be doing?" demanded Vic. Oh yes, there was a definite air of proprietorship there. Mac smiled and wriggled again, lifting one cheek slightly off the chair so that he could rub it with his hand. His audience sighed right along with him. There was nothing much to this acting gig after all, it seemed. "Mac is going to find your other partner," said the director, "who so far hasn't answered her cell phone or responded to my messages." "Li Ann's missing?" asked Vic. Oh sure, now he shows concern. "Not missing, so much as not answering, I think," said the director. "No need to file a missing person's report just yet. Now run along, Victor." "It could be Pouchie, after the new Ophelia," responded Vic, eyeball to eyeball with their redoubtable boss, refusing to back down by so much as an inch. Mac could have fucked himself with a dildo right then, and his partner wouldn't have noticed a thing. Did Vic still love Li Ann? When the chips were down, was the loyal ex-cop still in love with their exotic partner? The man had a hard time letting go of anything. It seemed so very coldly logical to Mac. "She's with Michael," he said tersely. Vic swung around to face him as though he were now the enemy. "How do you know that?" the former cop demanded. Oh yes, interrogate me Mr Cop Man, thought Mac with a humourless grin. "Where else would she be?" he replied with a casual shrug. "Much as I hate to admit it, Mr Ramsey is right," said the director. "I kept an eye on your little rumble tonight. According to Dobrinksy's report, Ms Tsei entered Michael Tang's hotel room two hours ago. Neither of them have been seen since. But I rather need her here, the naughty girl. So be a dear, Mac, and go fetch her." "I'll do it," said Vic with finality, thrusting the paper with the address on it at Mac. "These assignments are not open for swapping," came the director's cool observation. "Mac is not going near Michael Tang again, if I have anything to say about it," said Vic, his voice even cooler than the director's. The woman in leathers sidled up to Vic and began to stroke his face with her long, brightly lacquered nails. "Much as I like it when you get masterful, Victor," she purred, "my orders stand." She looked a little startled when Mac wrenched her hand away and held her wrist in an iron grip. "Don't touch what isn't yours," he murmured with an insouciant smile. "Oh but it is, Mac, you are all mine," replied the director. "Do you really need to be reminded of that?" "Here's a little lesson for you in 90s motivational management," said Mac, still smiling as he tightened his grip. "You don't handle Vic. You don't handle me. You don't interfere in our private lives. And I do everything you tell me to. Deal?" "Did you happen to find his balls, Victor?" asked the director in a conversational tone. "I wondered where they were, of late." "Deal?" repeated Mac, ratchetting up the pain another notch. "Let go of me right now, and I'll think about it," said his opponent, her smile hot with promises of vengeance. "Fair enough," he said with a lazy smile, pushing her away with more force than was strictly necessary. Massaging her wrist with her other hand, the director turned to survey Vic with a glittering smile. "Mac and I need to have a little chat. You have your assignment," she said. Vic looked from one to the other as though he could not decide which of them he was the angrier at. In the end, he gave a short nod and stalked out the door. Mac put no dependence on his not listening from the other side of it. The thought made him feel strangely relieved. "He doesn't love her any more, you know," began the director. "In case you were wondering." Was he an open book to everyone, or just to this woman? "And no, before you ask, I don't think he loves you, either,' continued his nemesis. Mac sighed. "Why did you do it?" he asked at last. "Why didn't you arrange for someone else to cover things here? You knew I would go after them, you had to have known that." "There is a reason for everything I do," said the director. "I may not choose to tell you what it is, but you can rest assured that there is one, and that it serves the interests of the Agency." "But..." "Don't push me too far, Mac," she continued. "I'm willing to tolerate your little fuckfest with Victor. For the meantime. Right now, I want Li Ann here, and then I want Pouchie found." "And Simon?" "Who?" she looked at him blankly. "Never mind," Mac sighed again. "A bit tender down there?" asked the director sweetly. "Wish it were you?" he replied, eyes alight with mockery. "I've already had Victor. Not worth having twice," came the response. Mac was on his feet again before he realised it, stalking towards her. "No you haven't," shouted a voice from the other side of the door. "Run along, Victor," she called, tapping Mac lightly on the thigh with her riding crop. "In fact, you're the only one I haven't had," she continued, massaging his groin with her whip. The door swung open with considerable force. "And you're not having him now," snarled Vic, grabbing Mac by the arm and dragging him out of the room. "But I need answers," protested Mac as his partner tugged him down the hallway. The last thing he heard, as Vic pulled him out of the theatre, was the director's mocking laughter echoing down the corridor. Mac waited in the lobby of the Grand Hotel for fifteen minutes, before he was satisfied that Vic really had driven away to check out the address given him by the director. They had argued about it in the car, Vic maintaining that he was Mac's backup and that the thief was not allowed anywhere near his former "brother" in any case. Mac had replied that he was Li Ann's backup, that the two former thieves could look after themselves as well as each other, and that in any case there was a poor actor in greater need of rescuing than Mac was. Vic's response had been to ball up the piece of paper with the address on it and eat it. After Mac had finished his laughing jag, the responsible one of the duo admitted that he had in fact memorised the address before chewing and swallowing. In the end, Mac had played the "don't you trust me?" card to good effect, and Vic had driven off with a squeal of tyres, leaving his partner in no doubt of his thoughts on the matter. And now, gun at the ready, Mac was preparing to burst into Room 703, very unsure of what he would find there. The lock took seconds to pick and he was in, waving his gun at an empty room, not slow to pick up on the low sounds of groaning coming from the direction of what had to be the bedroom. Either some one was in a great deal of pain, or... And there were no Tang shooters in the main room, or anywhere else to be seen. Did Michael have no guards? If the desk clerk had been given the wrong room number, or Michael was using this room as a decoy, then he was back to square one. Padding over to the open bedroom door on silent feet, Mac surprised a bodyguard coming out of the bathroom. A quick chop to the man's neck with the barrel of his gun and it was all over, the disarming and immobilising of the gunman done in absolute silence. This man was either part of the front, or he was guarding the noisy couple in the other room. Time to find out which. Li Ann was stretched out on her back in the large four-poster bed, her breasts jiggling in time to the thrusts of the man labouring between her legs. Michael's buttocks were clenching and relaxing as he fucked her, occasionally earning a faint groan in response to a particularly savage thrust. Li Ann had always been a quiet lover, in great contrast to Mac, who had been the more flamboyant of the two. Even in bed. He watched his rapist make love to his partner in silence, his gun pointed unwaveringly at Michael's anus. He knew that he was a good enough shot to bury a bullet deeply between those straining buttocks. Li Ann's eyes were closed, she didn't seem to sense his presence in the room. But Michael had always been preternaturally aware of him. His beautiful face, eyes heavy and hooded with lust, looked over his shoulder and smiled at Mac as he stood in the doorway. "Come on in," grunted the godfather. "I was hoping you would come." "Always with the cheap puns," grinned Mac, wondering if he could also shoot Michael's balls off without hitting Li Ann. "You wound me, Mac," smiled his brother from the bed. "I might do," admitted the thief, walking further into the room. "You don't need the gun," said Li Ann, her eyes wide as she watched him approach. "Michael, stop." "He's not real good at doing that," observed Mac in a friendly fashion, stroking Michael's buttocks with the barrel of his gun. "I want it to be the three of us," murmured Michael, stilling his thrusts in obedience to Li Ann's command. "Don't look at me like that, Mac," said Li Ann, her voice and expression unreadable. "You fucked him first." Michael chuckled. "No he didn't—but he could tonight." "What do you mean?" demanded Li Ann. "Why did you do it Li Ann," asked Mac. "To hurt me? To hurt Victor? Or to convince yourself that he's not really the bastard you know him to be?" Incredibly, he was pointing his gun at Li Ann now. His hand shook. He had never, ever threatened her before. Mac looked down at his own weapon in shock, before throwing it hard against the wall. He only wished that he could knock himself out the same way. "I want you to take me, Mac, while I make love to Li Ann," murmured Michael, his voice a husky parody of seduction. Mac stared down at the couple on the bed in astonishment. It had always been the other way around, he had never been allowed within six feet of Michael Tang's ass (except with his tongue, of course). But he could tell, from the look in the other man's eyes, that he was deadly serious. For a moment, Mac Ramsey actually considered doing it. Forcing his unlubricated cock inside Michael with one push. Raping him till his ass bled. Doing all the things to Michael that Michael had done to him. But only for a moment. All it would do, he knew, was prove him to be the asshole that everyone thought he was. Perhaps he was finally thinking clearly at last. Li Ann," he said tonelessly, "the director wants to see you when you're done here. I'm going now." When he turned to walk away, Victor Mansfield was standing in the doorway, gun in one hand, a small black bag in the other, an almost feral look in his eyes. "If you're not gonna do it, Mac, then I am," said his partner, striding past him towards the bed. This couldn't be happening. It was a scene from a nightmare. Mac pinched himself desperately, to see if he would wake up. When nothing changed, he pinched Vic for good measure. "Ouch," said the other man, looking at him in astonishment, his gun remaining fixed on Michael Tang. "What did you do that for?" "Just checking that this is real," he whispered. He just knew that his own eyes were the size of saucers. Vic gave a sharp laugh. There was no humour in it. "This is real, alright," he said, turning back to the bed. "Vic, I don't believe this," snapped Li Ann, clearly very far from orgasm. "This has gone far enough." "You see, I don't think so," replied Vic, unzipping the black bag and taking out an enormous butt plug. It was about six inches long and started out an inch thick at the tip, before widening rapidly to a broad five inches at the base. Grabbing Michael's head by the hair, Vic jammed the butt plug into his face, holding the gun to the other side of his head. "This is smaller than the ones you made Mac take," the ex-cop said conversationally, "but we'll work our way up to those ones." "Vic, this is crazy, stop this," screeched Li Ann. Michael just looked amused, his eyes slightly challenging. "I don't much care for your taste in fiancées, Li Ann," he said gently. "Mac," she said calmly again, her eyes neutral, "don't you think you should tell Vic the truth? I love you like a brother, but you lie like a thief. I should know, I was one, remember?" Mac couldn't meet her eyes. "I never even told him about—about the plugs," he mumbled. Vic's voice was very gentle. "You talk in your sleep," he said. "Sometimes you—you cry—when you're sleeping, too." Mac hung his head in shame. Shivering, he remembered the feel of Vic inside him. "I'm going now," he repeated, turning his back on the bed and walking over to the door. "If you waste one more minute on that piece of trash, then you're gonna be walking home, Vic." Smiling faintly, he let Vic's car keys dangle from one finger, having lifted them when he pinched the other man's butt. "I'll get a taxi," growled Vic. "I don't think so," said Mac, shaking his head in mock apology as he displayed the man's wallet in his other hand. "You picked my pocket?" asked Vic in disbelief. "Once a thief..." murmured Li Ann. Despite everything, she seemed to be trying hard not to laugh. "Of course," Mac added, "I'm not very reliable with cars. Who knows what might happen to it." Vic gaped at him, looking rather comical, holding an enormous butt plug, with a poleaxed expression on his face. "You're not taking my car, Ramsey," he said, threateningly. "What are you gonna do? Plug me?" Mac asked sweetly. "Besides, we have places to go, criminals to catch. Li Ann, the director's waiting. And she's pissed." "So he gets off, just like that?" demanded Vic, gesturing at Michael with his gun. "I don't think he did get off," said Mac, begging his partner with his eyes. "Twice tonight, actually," offered Michael. "Mac, what will it take to make you believe, to get you to trust me again? That's all I want, so that together we can restore the Tang family name and carry out the godfather's dream." "Should I use spit or just jam it right in?" Vic asked of the room in general. "I don't suppose," said Li Ann wearily, "that you boys would be willing to leave the room while I get dressed." Vic looked at her at last, his body stiff with anger and disapproval. Mac was glad that that look wasn't directed at him. "I don't understand you, Li Ann," her ex-fiancée said at last. "How can you sleep with this piece of shit?" "You don't know what I know and you don't know what I am," said Li Ann coldly. "Don't presume to judge me." "I'll judge whoever the fuck I like," snapped Vic. Mac cleared his throat. Three pairs of eyes turned towards him, two hot with rage, the other cool with amusement. "A man returns from the dead," he said casually, tossing Vic's wallet up into the air and catching it with one hand. "He has three enemies. Well, a lot more than that, really, but let's just stick to the three for now. And those three enemies start fighting amongst themselves. Who benefits from that, do you think?" Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. Silence. Finally, Michael said calmly, "I am not your enemy. I love you, Mac. You and Li Ann. You'll understand that, in time." Mac had a sudden memory, triggered by Michael's words. They'd just finished the Amsterdam gallery heist that bagged them the Rembrandt. The adrenaline had been pumping through his veins, and, for the first time, ever, Mac'd grabbed Michael in his arms and kissed him on the lips. The Tang heir didn't usually like to be kissed. But he'd allowed the caress, and afterwards, he had seemed almost tender when he whispered, "I love you, Mac," in the thief's ear. Michael had fucked him extra hard that night, gagged so that Li Ann wouldn't hear his screams from the hotel room next to theirs. "I love you," Michael had murmured sleepily for the second time, as he gave up the battle to undo the hard knots and fell asleep next to his partner, tied spreadeagle on the bed. He'd been in agony by the time Michael untied him in the morning. The conversation had been instructive when the gag was removed. "If you loved me, you wouldn't do those things to me," Mac'd said. "How do you think Li Ann would look with a scar on her left breast?" had been the only response. He hadn't complained again. Shaking his head, Mac pulled his mind out of the past. The love of Michael Tang was an ugly thing, and he wanted no part of it. Unbuttoning his shirt, he showed Li Ann the thin white scar on his left pec. Vic watched in silence, hefting the butt plug as if it were a weapon. "You got that in the knife fight in Amsterdam," said Li Ann, pulling on her clothes while Michael watched them from the bed, one eye clearly on Vic's gun, the other on them. "There was no knife fight," said Mac, shaking his head slowly. "Michael did it. And unless I did everything he wanted, he was going to do it to you too." "Michael is a boring lover," replied Li Ann. "He likes his sex very vanilla." The figure on the bed stiffened slightly. Mac's lips twitched. "I could have done with more boredom in my life," he replied. They both looked over at Michael, who smiled blandly up at them. "I will find out the truth," Li Ann said finally. "One of you is going to be sorry when I do." Vic leaned over and clubbed Michael on the head with the butt plug. "I already know the truth," he said. Glaring at Vic, Li Ann hastened back to the bed and examined the new godfather's head with gentle fingers. "He's out cold," she said at last, "but I don't think there'll be a concussion." "Pity," said Vic. "Shall we go?" He led the way out into the main suite, but paused when Li Ann opened the hallway door. "I need to use the bathroom," he said. "Mac, the car's where I dropped you off. I'll meet you there." Li Ann shrugged, clearly not bothered, and said "Let's go, Mac," taking his arm with her slender fingers and steering him out the door. Mac stared at her in confusion. Didn't she care? He just wished that for one minute, he could understand one of his partners half as well as they seemed to understand him. When Vic joined them in the car five minutes later, no one commented on the fact that he no longer seemed to have the butt plug. Part XI Mac woke to a very pleasant sensation between his legs. Hmmn. Though barely conscious, it didn't take much brainpower to determine that there was a head bobbing away down there. Oh yes. That was good. His fingers reached down to stroke through the closely cropped hair. So soft and satiny. Possibly the only soft part of Victor Mansfield. There was nothing quite like a hot wet mouth on your cock. But he wanted, needed more. "Coffee," he groaned. The busy mouth went still, before spitting out his cock in a passable imitation of Jonah and the whale. Not that Mac prided himself on his size, or anything. "What did you just say?" demanded Vic. His hair was tousled from Mac's fingers, his eyes were slightly blood shot, and, given that he was very much in Mac's face round about now, the thief could smell his morning breath. Unable to resist the temptation, Mac leaned forward to jam his lips against Victor's, a kiss that went incendiary in five seconds flat. It took five more seconds before the ex-cop shoved him away, glaring with such a look of wounded outrage that Mac couldn't help it—he had to laugh. Vic's lips quirked in an unwilling smile. He planted a hand on Mac's chest and shoved him into a sitting position, hard against the headboard. "Don't move," he ordered, jumping off the bed and padding naked out into the living room. "My bladder is very full," called Mac, squirming around on the bed and wondering whether he should take matters into his own hands. "Don't move or I'll cuff you," came the low growl from the other side of the door. "And if you touch your cock while I'm gone, I'll wrap it up in fancy paper and give it to the director for her birthday. You won't necessarily be attached to it when she gets it." Mac grinned. Who would've thought that Victor could be so—playful? He was no longer grinning after five long, frustrating minutes. "What the fuck are you doing out there?" he called at last, wondering if he could come and still get it up again, without Vic noticing. "Making coffee," came the exasperated response. Coffee. Right. Would he never learn to keep his mouth shut? He was just starting to stroke himself when Vic appeared in the doorway, a steaming cup in his right hand, a pair of handcuffs in his left. Mac released his cock instantly and put his hands in the air. "I'll go quietly, officer," he promised. "Oh, there'll be nothing quiet about it," said Vic with a grin, waving the cuffs at him. The logistics of this troubled Mac. "If you cuff me," he complained, "how am I supposed to drink my coffee?" "You don't get to drink it," explained Vic slowly, as though talking to a moron. "I just wanted you to have to smell it." What an asshole! "I want my attorney," said Mac, the fragrance from the cup just starting to tease his nostrils. "I have a right to a phone call. Better yet, can we do a plea bargain? I drink, then I suck. How about that?" Vic gave him a low laugh, and took a sip from the cup, his hot eyes never leaving Mac's. "That tastes good," the cop sighed. How was it possible to grin and drink at the same time? "This tastes better," said Mac, waving his neglected erection at his partner. "I told you not to touch it," said Vic, taking another sip of the coffee. "I'm not gonna beg," said Mac, knowing that he would if he had to. Vic's grin just kept getting bigger. Another sip of coffee, and then the damn man began to rub the cuffs against his own cock, which was pointing straight at Mac and looking very swollen and angry indeed. Mac licked his lips—whether for the coffee or Vic's cock, he couldn't have said. Vic was close to the bed, now, and the smell of both was driving him crazy. "Who knew?" said Vic at last, teasing Mac by holding the coffee cup just out of reach. "Who knew that all I had to do to keep you in line was use coffee?" But the man took one step too close, concentrating on waving the cup at him, giving Mac the chance he needed to lunge forward and swallow Vic's cock to the root. Only the most co-ordinated of men could have managed it, thought Mac with glee as he started to suck Vic off with noisy slurps. The ex-cop's whole body went rigid with the shock of it, and the coffee splashed everywhere. "Fuck, Mac," he shouted angrily, "watch what you're doing!" Mac ignored him and continued to suck, knowing that the coffee hadn't landed on him, anyway. He teased Vic's hard flesh with licks and nips, pulling right off from time to time to swallow his large balls and suck them vigorously. Vic was leaking like a faucet, and groaning away, no hands free to control the pace of this blow job unless he let go of either the coffee or the cuffs. Knowing Vic as he did, Mac was sure that the ex-cop would see the folly of doing either. A loud groan from above, and Mac could see out of the corner of his eyes that the grip on the cuffs was loosening. Taking just the head of Vic's cock in his mouth, the thief began a steady suction, his hand ready to catch the restraints the minute they slipped out of lax fingers. Polishing with his tongue, sucking with his mouth—the louder moans told him that Vic was getting close. Suddenly, Mac swallowed the whole erection, deep throating it with all the enthusiasm that doing this to Vic caused in his horny brain. The cuffs were released with the semen, Mac taking both with considerable finesse. Vic's state of orgasmic afterglow lasted long enough for Mac to cuff one of his wrists to the headboard. When the ex-cop finally realised what had happened, Mac was still sucking him dry and stroking his taut buttocks with long, slow caresses. "Fuck, Mac," he said weakly, the hand holding the coffee shaking slightly, to the ex-thief's great satisfaction. "Just a blow job, thanks," said Mac, reaching out and taking the coffee from nerveless fingers, before sitting on the bed with his legs spread. If Vic slid the cuff far enough down the headboard, he could now kneel between Mac's legs and finish the job he had started earlier—and Vic was nothing if not thorough. Smiling tauntingly, Mac took his first sip of coffee. Oh yes. That was good, even if it did wash away the taste of semen with a new bitterness of its own. Would he or wouldn't he? Vic was clearly weighing his options here, pondering his chances of escape. "Not gonna happen," said Mac with a broad grin. "You suck me off, then we talk terms for release." Vic's answering grin was very unpleasant. "You are gonna be so sorry," he said at last, but even so, he was licking his lips as he looked down at Mac's erection. "Or," said Mac, "I could just take care of it myself. While you watch. Yeah. I could shoot on your stomach and then lick it off. My come and your sweat. Or I could just lick you all over." Vic's free hand formed a fist. "Are you sure you want to get that close?" he asked sweetly. Mac grinned and scooted back on the bed, sitting out of range of the ex-cop and his fists. He sipped his coffee and began to masturbate languorously, with slow, deliberate strokes. Vic swallowed. Mac brought precum-coated fingers up to his own lips for a taste. Vic groaned slightly. "So, Vic, let's talk about our feelings," grinned Mac, wanking in time to the clenching and unclenching of his partner's jaw. "Are you all tied up in knots over me?" Vic spluttered and then his lips tilted in a sardonic smile, turning away to try picking the locking mechanism on the handcuffs. This gave Mac a close-up of his mighty fine ass. The thief tried not to give his partner the satisfaction of an audible response. "You want to talk about feelings?" Vic said conversationally. "I thought it might be a good time," explained Mac. "You know, while you can't run away." "Okay," said Vic with a very pleasant tone that made his partner nervous. Mac gulped. He didn't really want to talk about feelings. "Or you could suck my cock," he offered, jacking himself slowly. "You could go get the key, then I could suck your cock," said Vic. "Or I could tell you about my feelings. Let's see. There's your pouty fuck-me mouth, I quite like that. Then there's your nice tight ass, which, I'm sorry, might as well have `fuck me' tattooed on it. Your legs—well—I think Nathan might be right about those. I still like `em though." Mac, who'd been fingering the ass in question, looked up in indignation at that and said, "What does Nathan say about my legs?" Vic grinned. His eyes travelled the length of Mac's legs from toe to groin and back again. The grin widened. "Then there's the things I'm not so keen on," he added. "I could leave you there all day," said Mac, nodding in contemplation of the idea. "Or until the director comes looking for you." Vic pursued his lips. "What do I hate most about Ramsey?" he asked, as though speaking to an imaginary audience. "Where to start? It's such a long list." "She'd come in with those long, long nails, looking for something to scratch," smiled Mac. Both men were masturbating now. How weird was this? "I hate the fact that Michael Tang has Ramsey strung so tight that you could pluck a fucking symphony on him," said Vic. "If you wanted an example of something I hate." Mac looked over at his partner uncertainly. Vic grinned at him, a hungry, unsettling grin. "Scoot over here and I'll show you some more of what I like," he offered. This didn't feel like a game any more. Not since Vic had used the M- word. Mac got off the bed, erection forgotten, and walked over towards the door. "Where are you going?" asked Vic in astonishment. "To get the key," he replied evenly. "Get back here," snorted Vic. "What do you expect, Mac? Sands through the hour glass?" Mac's hands clenched into fists. He wondered if he'd have scruples about beating up Vic while the latter was semi-restrained. Probably not. "No I don't want Days of Our fucking Lives!" he shouted. Once, when the director had been particularly angry with them for not following orders, she had locked the whole team in a room and made them watch 12 hours of back-to-back `Days of Our Lives', no time off for good behaviour. And when Vic had finally put his boot through the screen, she had simply smiled and said, "I'm watching it with you. Doesn't that tell you something?" All that it had told Mac was that she was a masochist as well as a sadist. He still didn't know what point she'd been trying to make. Nor was he sure what Vic was trying to tell him now. "One hand tied behind my back," said Vic, displaying his cuffed wrist to the advancing Mac. "I can take you with one hand tied behind my back. Bring it on, Ramsey." Mac paused, wondering if this was such a good idea. "If this were Days of Our Lives," he said, stopping just out of range, "I would probably tell you that I'm shit scared at the moment." Vic looked at him steadily. "If this were Days of Our Lives, you'd be a lot prettier," he replied. Mac grinned. "You'd have big hair," he snorted. "You'd have abs." "You'd have a mother called Brandy, who I'd also be screwing," said Mac. Vic seemed to shake himself at that. He was silent for a moment, then said, "You can, if you want." "Can what?" asked Mac. "Screw me," said Vic, his eyes shuttered. Vic didn't like to be fucked. Mac had realised that from the outset. It may not have been Shakespeare, but the offer told him more than a thousand flowery speeches. He smiled at Vic. It felt like the first genuine smile of his whole life. "How about you suck my cock instead, Brandy?" was all he said, sitting back down on the bed and spreading his legs so that Vic could kneel between them. Vic smiled back and leaned over to kiss him, a long gentle, drawn-out kiss that left Mac panting for breath and feeling as if his heart would burst. When the other man slid down to his knees and began to nibble his cock, it almost felt like an anticlimax. He had never understood the appeal of kissing before. Just a distraction before you got to the main event. But with Vic... Shit. He had just been swallowed to the root—and it felt fantastic. Vic was slobbering wet kisses all over his thighs and balls, then back on to his stiff cock again, going at it as if there were no tomorrow. Mac groaned, impossible to remain silent under this kind of onslaught. He was almost there, almost ready to shoot. When Vic pulled back and looked up at him, letting his hand take over the work, the two men shared soppy smiles and Mac felt that he just might puke. If he weren't enjoying it so much. He wondered if you could come from someone smiling at you? If you'd had a lot of stimulation beforehand, of course. "Give me your load, Mac," said Vic, before going down on him again. What a romantic! Mac laughed as he came, spurting his semen down Vic's throat, enjoying the incredible rush of pleasure and satisfaction, the hot sweet feeling of orgasm. He stroked Vic's hair until his partner climbed up his body for another kiss, sharing Mac's semen back and forth until they both had enough to swallow. To Mac, it felt like a covenant of some sort, a promise that they might even keep. "So, have I earned my freedom?" murmured Vic, trailing light kisses down his jaw. "Shouldn't we take care of him first?" asked Mac, pointing at Vic's swollen cock. "I think he wants inside somewhere hot and tight," whispered Vic, nibbling Mac's ear with light teeth. "But you're gonna have to let me go. Unless you want to do it standing up." Mac shoved Vic away from his ear and bent down to caress his cock with long, slow licks. "If we were on `Days of Our Lives', would you tell me that you loved me?" he asked, replacing his tongue with wet fingers. "If we were on `Days of Our Lives', I'd ask you if you loved him," said Vic. "Oh, I love him, alright," grinned Mac, proving it with big, smoochy kisses to the glowering purple head. "He's so big and strong—just what I need." Mac cast a mock-helpless look upwards, before teasing the dripping cock head with lips and tongue again. "No, I meant him," growled Vic, pushing Mac away and glaring at him. Mac pretended to misunderstand. "I love Brandy," he said soulfully. Vic gave him a shake, which was not easy given that one of his hands was still cuffed to the bed. "A trained detective notices things," he said coldly. "When he walks into a room, your pulse and respiration rate go up. Measurably. And it's instant hard-on time. Your eyes go all sort of hot and smoky. You start to talk in your old drawl. You send out I-want-to-be-fucked signals. What's a trained detective supposed to think about that?" Mac licked his lips. "I think I love you," he said. It wasn't what he'd meant to say, so both of them regarded it in some surprise, splashed out in front of them like morning-after vomit. Vic looked uncomfortable. "You still want him," he accused, ignoring what Mac had said. "What I can't work out is if it's involuntary, old responses that were knocked into you and can be knocked out again. Or if he's gonna take you away from me." Mac grinned. This, he could deal with. Balling Vic's fingers into a fist, he captured the other man's hand and smacked it lightly against his ass. "Knock it out of me," he murmured, voice deliberately sultry. Vic looked horrified. "I didn't mean that literally," he choked. "Sure you did," said Mac. "And I want you to do it." Vic pulled his hand away, shaking his head slowly. "I can't be him for you, Mac, if that's what you're looking for." "You're the one in handcuffs," he pointed out. "You can't do a damn thing that I don't want you to do. You're gonna fuck me, hard and fast. Unless you still want me to screw you." Mac was unsure about which of them was going to give in, when a loud knock at the door solved their dilemma. Vic paled a little. "Get the fucking key," he snapped, "And don't let whoever that is in before..." The sound of the apartment door being opened cut him off, followed by Li Ann's voice, calling "Mac." Vic looked furious. Mac shrugged. "She has a key," he explained, somewhat redundantly. The man in handcuffs looked even angrier, if that were possible. "Mind telling me why?" he snapped. Mac just smiled and snagged a robe, enjoying Vic's embarrassment and evident jealousy. Vic jerked his head at the door and Mac obliged him by going out to meet their partner, slapping the cop's ass on the way out. It was a good, hard slap, but Vic clearly didn't want to make a scene so he let it pass. His eyes, though, they promised retribution at no late date. Grinning broadly, Mac stepped out into the living room. Li Ann was clearly surprised by his expression. She had not, he suspected, thought that she would get such a friendly greeting. "Hi, Mac," she said, her voice neutral as ever. The awkwardness of the night before was still with them; their battle to save Michael, Mac's revelations, and her unwillingness to believe them. And then she had slept with Michael herself. Mac wasn't sure about why she had done it, or what he felt about it. All he could think about was Vic, chained naked to his bed in the next room, hard with need and jerking himself off. "Coffee?" he asked, pouring them both a cup. She looked surprised again. "Mac, we need to talk," she said at last, when his usual motor mouth remained firmly shut. "But first," she added, "we found Simon Fong. He turned up in Vancouver General this morning, a little bit the worse for wear but basically alright. Whoever took him from his dressing room used cholorform—he didn't see anything. And then they dumped him in the ER a couple of hours later." "He's really alright?" asked Mac in disbelief. "Nothing worse than a broken wrist. He won't be able to do the fight scenes, but other than that he's fine. He can still go on as Laertes." The day was getting weirder. "So all that talk about an assassin with empty candy wrappers as his calling card, that was just crap?" "I don't know," admitted Li Ann. "Two people are dead, remember. Is Vic still in bed?" Mac glanced around the apartment suspiciously. There were no telltale signs that its single occupant hadn't spent the night alone. "What makes you think Vic's here?" he asked. "I was engaged to you both," pointed out Li Ann. "I know how you make coffee. And I know how Vic likes his. You didn't make this coffee." Mac grinned. "Perhaps I've gone soft in the head, and started to make it the way he likes it, even when he's not here." Li Ann looked at him with horror. "We've got to be at rehearsal in half an hour," was all she said. "Ah," said Mac, wandering back into the kitchen and retrieving the key to his handcuffs from their hiding place next to his third gun. "I don't see the Rembrandt," Li Ann commented, heading towards the bedroom. "Is it in here?" "Are you crazy?" spat Mac hastily. "It's under lock and key in a secure place. Of course I don't have it up on my walls." "I thought you might," murmured Li Ann, pausing at the bedroom door. "He would be watching over it, and, in a kind of way, watching over you." Mac shook his head in rejection of the whole idea. "Sit down, I'm gonna grab a quick shower and get dressed." He headed back into the bedroom quickly, closing the door rather firmly in Li Ann's face. Vic was eyeing him with cold fury from the head of the bed, but caught the key with easy grace when Mac tossed it, his anger replaced by a look of surprise. Well, he was just astonishing the hell out of everyone this morning, wasn't he? C'mere, Vic gestured with his head, while Mac hunted up clean clothes. Somewhat warily, Mac approached his newly freed partner. If Vic tried to cuff him, he would beat the crap out of him. Instead, the ex-cop pulled him into a long kiss that took his breath away and left him achingly hard again. And then Vic kissed him on the forehead - it was almost tender, and Mac was both startled and touched. "Li Ann and I will be out of here as soon as I'm showered and dressed," whispered Mac, teasing Vic's ear with his teeth as he did so. "I'm coming with you," said Vic shortly, putting on Mac's discarded robe. It was too long for him and too narrow across the shoulders—and even so, it made him look so sexy, like he'd just stepped out of a hot tub and was ready to fuck. Grabbing the startled thief's hand, Vic pulled him out into the living room. "Hi Li Ann," he said calmly, "we're gonna grab a shower. Be with you in ten." Mac and Li Ann were running very late by the time they got to the theatre. Vic had surprised him again when he fucked him in the shower, shoving him roughly up against the wall and doing him hard, just like he wanted. And then Vic had dropped to his knees and given him another slow blowjob, his face beautiful with his lips stretched wide and hot water cascading down his hair. But it made them late, Vic cursing and Li Ann barking orders, with Mac just drifting around the apartment, a dreamy smile on his face. In the end, they both slapped him, leading to a somewhat comical debate between Vic and Li Ann over who had slapping rights. Mac had settled the fight by whacking them both hard on the backside, then running for the street as fast as he could, waving to them from the back of a taxi as it sped away. He still had to retrieve his car from Chinatown—ah well, there would be time for that after rehearsal. Li Ann was cool and composed when she finally turned up, her billowing Ophelia costume ready for an actual dunking in water this time, to see how it would look as she drowned in style on the night. "Thank god you're both here," wheezed Rosa. "Get back down to wardrobe and attach your posies," she ordered Li Ann, while putting an arm around Mac's waist and propelling him out onto the stage. He nearly belted her with his fake sword when her fingers slipped a little lower, but she stepped quickly away when she saw the look in his eyes. After being touched so intimately, so lovingly, by Vic that morning, Mac didn't want anyone else to spoil that feeling by pawing him as if he were theirs. "We need to rehearse the fight scene," said Rosa, bestowing a large smile on him. "You've heard about poor Simon's injury? So unfortunate. But there, no harm done really. We can use a stand-in to do the actual fighting. We already have the masks, and if we get the lighting right, no one will realise the difference." Mac felt a bit bewildered, as two Laertes came towards him, one with a plaster cast peeking out from under his ruffled sleeve. For a moment, he didn't realise what was happening, but then he looked at the eyes above the mask of the stand-in, and stood rooted to the ground in mingled anger and alarm. "Mac Ramsey, this is Michael Tang," said Rosa. "Mr Tang is the main sponsor of our little play, though that's not widely known. Mr Tang prefers to keep his philanthropy under wraps." "Well under," snapped Mac, fingering his sword. Rosa looked at him a little doubtfully. "Erm—yes—well, when Mr Tang heard about our little problem, he very kindly offered to step in and help us out. Being a master of the martial arts, and such." Mac's face was smiling placidly but his brain was racing. Michael had been behind the play all along? Michael had arranged for the original Ophelia and her understudy to disappear? It had to have been him, and how convenient that the director should then send Li Ann in to play Ophelia. Not to mention arranging for Mac to be out of the way last night so that Simon Fong could have a little accident, leading to this substitute, now facing him with a masked face and a sharp- looking sword. Fuck! What did it all mean? Michael was always one for the grand gesture, the OTT imagery. He might deliver his messages by a brick through the window, but the brick would be wrapped in a Zen tapestry. The new godfather was trying to tell him something, standing there in a relaxed pose, preparing to fight Mac with his sword. The thief was no fool - he had listened to the rehearsals and understood the play, at least as far as he could come to grips with the complex language and word pictures. `Hamlet' was all about the murder of fathers, the betrayal of brothers, and the death of lovers. Laertes, who now stood facing him, had lost his father to Hamlet, murdered by mistake while hiding behind a heavy curtain. And Hamlet's own father had been betrayed by his mother and murdered by his uncle. Ophelia, Laertes' sister, was Hamlet's lover till he abandoned her, leaving her to madness and suicide in the wake of the murder of their father by her faithless lover. Michael was Laertes? What did that mean for Li Ann? Or for Mac, who was (in this scene at least) the man who had murdered their father, and betrayed both brother and sister? Too late to try to work it all out now. Michael was coming at him with his sword. With his heart in his stomach, Mac took one look at the gleaming blade and knew that it was a real one. He also remembered that Laertes had murdered Hamlet with just a scratch, having dipped his sword in poison. Fuck! Hoping that his fake sword would go the distance, Mac swung and parried, as the audience of actors and directors clapped and shouted encouragement. Just a nick, and he could be dead. Was this how it was going to end? Mac, Michael, and a couple of swords? Stupid fucking vision had been wrong, after all. And he couldn't even walk away from this, no matter how public it all was, because all it would take was a quick jab the moment he lowered his guard. And he would be dead. One riposte pulled the two men close together, Michael's eyes shining in the stage light. "You killed him, you know," whispered Michael, before whirling away and coming at him again from a different angle. "Killed who?" panted Mac. "Our father," replied Michael, lunging at him with a low blow that Mac barely struck away in time. "He never really got over your betrayal. He went soft, trying to take the family legit. But doing it without the necessary safeguards." Mac's eyes were wild, his pulse racing. Michael blamed him for the godfather's death? That was what this was all about? But the play had been set up, and Mac and Li Ann tricked into it, long before the shooting in front of the Grand Hotel. So that didn't make sense unless... Shit. Michael almost got him with a thrust that would have skewered his groin. Mac skipped out of reach of another killing sweep by the madman's sword. Michael had known. He had set up this little scenario about the death of fathers and the betrayal of brothers, because he had known that the godfather was going to die. Which could only mean... Mac had no time to scrub the moisture from his cheeks. He blinked, trying not to let it blind him. Michael had had their father murdered, so that he could take his place. And they had helped him to do it—the Agency, Li Ann, Victor, and last but not least, Mac himself. "You killed him," he gasped. "And we put you in his place." Michael's eyes were laughing at him. "Of course I didn't kill him, Mac," said the new godfather, closing with his opponent in a flurry of quick blows. "You did that, when you made him weak. But do you know something? I forgive you." And with that, he broke through Mac's guard and carved a slash across his chest, just above the heart. It was a light wound, barely a scratch. Mac gaped down at it in horror, watching bright beads of blood well up and trickle down his front. He swayed, light headed with shock and a fresh sense of betrayal. He only hoped that the poison was fast acting. He couldn't bear for Michael's face to be the last thing he would ever see. "Li Ann," he whispered, hoping she was nearby somewhere. Michael caught him in strong arms, lowering them both to the floor. "He's alright, just a bit faint," he called to the worried crowd. Mac lay in Michael's arms, unable to move a muscle, a strange lassitude tugging at his limbs and dragging his eyes closed. Michael whispered soft words of comfort and reassurance. It made him sick to his stomach. "What kind of poison?" he hissed. "Poison?" asked Michael. "There's no poison. I don't want to hurt you, Mac. You're just going to go to sleep for a little while, that's all. And when you wake up, everything will be back to normal. The way it should have been." Part XII Mac was vaguely aware of pain when he recovered consciousness. His arms, wrists and shoulders seemed to ache, but there was a fog in his head and he couldn't see, so it took some time before he was sure that he was hurting. And then he was sure of it with a vengeance. His wrists were secured somehow above his head, but he could move his legs. There was no way, though, that he could get the blindfold off any time soon. At least he wasn't gagged. Not that he was going to shout for help without knowing a little bit more about where he was, and what sort of attention he might be attracting. Mac tried to take a step and discovered that his legs were restrained as well. He could stand comfortably on both feet, and move them apart a few inches each way, but that was it. From the feel of the chill, clammy air on his skin, he was definitely naked. That didn't bode well. Mac licked his dry lips and tried to ignore the pain in his shoulders and arms. He was clearly someone's prisoner. Now if only he could remember what had happened, he might come up with a clue as to what to do next. Or at least how to handle it when his captor or captors returned. That was as far as his thinking had progressed when a blast of ice- cold water hit him full in the face. Fuck! That certainly drove the cobwebs away. Wonder what sort of drug they'd used? Shivering, he waited for something else to happen, his body tensed. His mouth felt like it was stuffed full of cotton wool. He was just opening it to speak when a second blast of water hit him. "Shit!" he heard himself shout. "Ah, back with us at last," came a low, sibilant voice. Michael Tang. He was Michael's prisoner. As if the voice had unlocked a door in his mind, it all came flooding back. They had been rehearsing the fight scene, with Michael as Laertes' stand-in, and he had been drugged by a scratch from Michael's sword. He remembered lying in Michael's arms, the world spinning like it did when you were drunk, but without the fun part first. No more fun parts for him ever, he suspected, if he was right about what was going to happen. And there was more. The Director was in on it, he was sure of that, and Michael had killed his own father—and even worse, blamed the man he now had tied up in the middle of wherever this was. Well that was just great. "Let me go, Michael," he stated flatly. It was worth a try. Mac started again when he felt a gentle touch to his dripping hair. The unseen fingers explored his scalp and face with soft caresses. Mac decided that it was unwise trying to bite his captor at this point, so he remained totally still. As if all this was happening to someone else. The fingers wrestled with his blindfold for a moment, and then he could see again. He had to shut his eyes against the sudden brightness, even though the room was dimly lit—he'd been in the dark for so long. About so many things. Michael was standing in front of him, dressed as usual in a conservative business suit. Saville Row probably. Mac was not impressed. The godfather reached out to resume stroking his face, the blindfold still hanging from his other hand. Mac glanced around casually, taking in the large room with its high ceilings - an industrial feel to it, another goddamn abandoned warehouse. Why was he always ending up in those, and never to his advantage? Michael was stroking his lips now but he refused to bite. It was too soon in this twisted little game for that sort of response, if he was to have any hope of getting out of here alive. "I'm glad to see you proving the Discovery Channel right, as usual," he said with a big grin, as Michael stroked his cheeks with rough fingers. "And how am I doing that?" asked the godfather, smiling calmly. "A leopard never changes it spots. Saw that the other night. Same night they had the documentary on fratricide. A very unattractive crime." Okay. Unplug mouth, reboot brain. "I'm not going to kill you," replied Michael. His busy fingers had dropped to Mac's exposed groin. Despite himself, Mac tried to close his legs and prevent the other man's access, but it was impossible with his legs secured by what looked to be very thick ropes indeed. He could move a little, but not enough to make his cock inaccessible to questing hands. It hurt him somewhere deep inside, this touching of his cock by Michael Tang. Shaking with anger, cold, and possibly in reaction, Mac hawked and spat full in his brother's face. His butt clenched in anticipation of the blows to come, but Michael just stood there and pulled his cock with light and lazy strokes. Reaching up with his other hand, the godfather wiped the spittle from his face and then sucked his fingers clean, smiling all the while. Mac shuddered. An involuntary surge of pleasure from between his legs made him gasp. His cock was starting to get hard. I don't want this, he told himself fiercely, trying to will his growing erection to subside. "I'm going to take you home, to Hong Kong," said Michael at last, reaching behind Mac to stroke his buttocks lightly with his free hand. "We're going to be a family again." Nausea churned in Mac's stomach. He didn't consider himself to be a coward. He'd faced people with guns and knives, killers of every shape and description, without more than the usual fear of imminent death. That just got the adrenaline going and, in the end, didn't stop you from standing firm and pulling the trigger, throwing the punch, or whatever. But now he felt a different sort of terror, one that made him weak with self-disgust, wanting to scream itself out in hoarse cries of fear. "Vic and Li Ann will find me," he said at last, when he could get it out between chattering teeth. Mentioning their names might have been a mistake. Michael's grip on his cock turned savage, yanking and twisting until Mac cried out with pain. As soon as he broke enough to scream, the torment to his cock and balls stopped instantly. Michael was nodding in satisfaction, as though Mac had learnt a valuable lesson. "Yes, they will indeed find you," he said. Waving his arm around the empty, echoing room, he added, "That's kind of the whole idea." "What do you mean?" demanded Mac when he had his breath back. Michael didn't answer him but walked away, behind him where Mac couldn't see, no matter how much he craned his head around. "Just getting some lube," called Michael in what might have been meant as a reassuring voice. Mac swallowed, his throat dry. "Tell me what's going on," he repeated through clenched teeth. It was so cold, and the blood that should have been warming his extremities seemed to be concentrated in just one of them. Michael walked back into his range of sight, carrying a large tube in one hand and a gold-foil wrapped chocolate in the other. He unwrapped the candy with deliberate slowness, clearly savouring Mac's anxious attention as he let the wrapper flutter to the floor. Leaning forward, he popped the chocolate into Mac's mouth and gently forced it closed. There was an explosion of sweetness on his tongue and he tried not to choke on it, as Michael resumed his slow masturbation of Mac's cock, his hands now slippery with lube. "So you're Pouchie?" Mac asked when he'd swallowed the disgusting confection. He wasn't going to spit at Michael twice, since it had already proved ineffective as a tactic for rattling his captor. Didn't make him feel much better, anyway. "Pouchie is dead," replied Michael, reaching round to probe his anus with one, lube-slick finger. "Your director and I are allies in the fight against him, though. You should have seen her, Mac, shit scared when she thought he was after her. She was practically shaking. You would have enjoyed it." A single, warm finger eased its way inside Mac, no matter how hard he tried to clench his buttocks and keep it out. Keep him talking, thought Mac. He can't fuck me while he's talking. "The director knows Pouchie?" he asked, voice ragged. "Knows him?" said Michael with a low laugh. "She is him. Or rather, he was her, but she came first. Do you want to come, Mac?" Two fingers now, sliding in and out, rubbing against his prostate every time. "Enough with the Zen bullshit. Just tell me what you mean." He was rather proud of that even tone, in view of the havoc that was being wrought between his legs. At least he no longer felt so cold. "Pouchie was once your director's top assassin," said Michael. "She trained him, taught him everything she knows, but then he went freelance. A whole lotta deaths on that thing she calls a conscience. She was pathetically eager to take my help against Pouchie. Oh, and to score the coup of making the Tang family a legitimate business and a tool of the Agency, all in one blow. So eager, in fact, that she agreed to give you to me—you and Li Ann." "She wouldn't do that," said Mac. He could hear the doubt in his own voice, just like he could hear the anger and desire simmering behind Michael's softly spoken words. "Oh but she did, my brother," said Michael, poking a third finger inside Mac with less gentleness now. "I killed Pouchie a year ago, before I reinvented myself. He was sent to kill me, and I returned the favour. But it was easy enough to get your director to believe that he was still alive, and that the Tang family could help her stop him." "Use a killer to stop a killer," said Mac with contempt, swaying slightly as he pulled away from the invading fingers, only to force his cock harder against Michael's palm. "Precisely," grinned Michael. "And all I wanted in return was my family back again." As his fingers pistoned in and out, the godfather began to strip off his shirt and tie, seemingly heedless of the stains from lube-covered fingers as he did so. "And now she will pay the price," he added, tweaking his own nipples. "What price?" gasped Mac, as the other man moved behind him, removing his fingers and replacing them with something hard and plastic. The butt plug from last night, Mac was sure of it. "This is going to hurt a little, sweetheart," murmured that low voice in his ear, as Michael shoved the plug in with all his strength. Mac screamed and pulled uselessly against the ropes holding his arms and legs. Michael began to push the butt plug in and out, twisting it savagely from time to time. Mac threw back his head and whimpered at the well-remembered pain, tearing his insides once again with gouts of fire. "No, please," he whispered. "Perhaps you'd rather have me in there instead," whispered Michael in his ear, pulling the plug all the way out and then forcing it back in brutally. "Tell me you want me inside you, and the pain will go away." Mac sobbed, useless tears streaming down his cheeks. "Bastard," he screamed, despite the pain. "They'll be here in a couple of hours," whispered Michael, shoving the butt plug all the way in and holding it there, letting the pain dull to a steady ache. "They think they're ambushing Pouchie here. It wasn't too hard to convince Li Ann that Pouchie had taken you from the theatre. She trusts me now, you see. She trusts the new Michael. You do too, don't you Mac?" "No," sobbed Mac. His tormentor leaned hard against the plug in response, already as far in as it could go, or so Mac had thought. "It's up to you," whispered Michael. "When they get here, the director and Victor Mansfield will die in an explosion. The hunt will be on for Pouchie soon after. Pity he's already dead." "What about Li Ann?" said Mac, trying to fight off the pain in his aching shoulders, the much sharper pain buried deep in his bowels. "That's up to you," whispered Michael, turning the butt plug round and round, making Mac scream with the pleasure-pain as it scraped his prostate. "If you co-operate with me, be the loving brother you always should have been, then we all go back to Hong Kong. If you don't, then you still go back to Hong Kong. But Li Ann dies here, today. What do you say, Mac? Going to co-operate?" Michael started to hammer the butt plug with his fist, as if it were a nail driven into fleshy wood. Mac screamed again, his mind unable to concentrate on anything except the pain. This couldn't be happening. "Vic," he whimpered. "Don't say his name!" shouted Michael, letting go of the butt plug to pound Mac's torso with his fists. Mac swung helplessly with the blows. Vic was going to die. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. The plug oozed out, too thick to stay in without something holding it, and plopped onto the floor. But the relief was offset by the punches to his kidneys, sending sharp pain lancing through his side. "Stop," he begged. He had to think. Vic was going to die. There had to be something he could do about it. "I'll do it," he shouted. "I'll do it. But you gotta let Vic and Li Ann go. Make it look like I die in your explosion." The punches stopped at once, replaced by soft caresses to his back and thighs. In a way, they were even harder to bear. And when he found himself leaning into the comfort of those caresses, Mac wanted to puke with rage and grief. "How very noble of you, Mac," said Michael, his voice warm with approval. "A credit to your upbringing. A pity to waste it on Mansfield." Mac wanted to spit out his fury. He wanted to curse Michael for the murder of their father, the man who had taught him what was right and wrong, in his own twisted way. But the lives of Vic and Li Ann were at stake. Could he keep up the act for long enough, till he and Michael were on a plane to Hong Kong? And then one day, when his guard was down, Michael Tang would get a bullet to the head, before Mac ate his own gun. "Tell me you want it," murmured Michael in his ear. "I want it," Mac repeated obediently. "You'd better make me believe it," growled Michael, "or Li Ann will curse your name as she dies." "What bad bit of theatre did you get that line from?" said Mac, tensing for a blow that never came. "I like how you make me laugh," said Michael, stroking his buttocks, putting his damn hands wherever the hell he wanted to. "Now beg for it." Mac swallowed. He could no longer feel his hands, so he couldn't tell if they were curled into fists or not. He was about to become a willing participant in his own rape. His life as Mac Ramsey was over. Whoever or whatever walked on to that plane with Michael Tang, it wouldn't be him any more. "Fuck me," he whispered, remembering how Li Ann had smiled at him when he brought her white roses. "Did you steal them?" she had asked, only half joking. "I need you inside me," he moaned. Michael liked it when he moaned. Another memory caught him, almost cleft his tongue to the roof of his mouth, as he pictured the first time that Vic took him, slapping his ass in a way that drove them both crazy with excitement. "Fuck me," he begged. Li Ann liked to read philosophy in bed. "Inside me." Vic liked to hold his hand after making love. "Now." Vic's sardonic smile. "Please." Li Ann's ice-cold beauty. Michael drove home with a single thrust, tearing all the nerve endings that were still on fire after the assault from the enormous butt plug. Mac was sure that he had to be bleeding, coating Michael's cock with his dark red blood. He could feel the swish of expensive silk against the back of his legs as Michael pounded him, not bothering to remove his trousers, reminding Mac of who held all the power in this room. "Keep begging," ordered Michael, delivering another punch to Mac's kidneys, without missing a beat as he fucked him. "Vic," he whispered, trying to be somewhere else in his mind, wishing that he could die and that this would all be over. No more pain. No more Michael. Nothing. Michael hit his head hard with the barrel of a gun. Presumably, he'd had it tucked in his suit trousers. "Do you want me to kill you?" asked Michael, thrusting savagely with his hips. The pain was excruciating. And yet, still his cock was hard as Michael jerked it roughly with his other hand. No. He had to stay alive, so that Michael wouldn't kill the others. Besides, if he died now then he would lose his chance to rid the earth of a scum-sucking lowlife called Tang. "I love you, Michael," he whispered, hating himself with every fibre of his being. "I know you do, sweetheart," laughed Michael, battering Mac's prostate with his cock. "And now you're going to come for me, just for me." He increased the pace of his thrusts, while masturbating Mac in time with them, and Mac's traitorous cock exploded at last, his mind numb with hatred morphing into loss. He could feel Michael's orgasm deep inside him, the spurting of semen into his bowels. The man had fucked him bareback, something he had wanted to share only with Vic. Just another reason to kill Michael—and it was already a long list. "That's a good boy," said the godfather, pulling out roughly, his cock red with Mac's blood. "I'm going to let you down now so that you can lick me clean. But if you try anything, then I will shoot your balls off. And I know how to do it without killing you, so don't worry that you'll miss out on our life together. You will trust and love me one day, Mac, I'll see to that. Besides, if you're not on your best behaviour, then Li Ann's going to join your buddies in the explosion. We don't want that, now, do we?" "Put your hands up and back away from him," came a savage roar from their left, causing Mac to jerk in shock and almost dislocate his shoulder. Vic and Li Ann were standing just feet away, obviously much earlier than Michael had planned. But too late for Mac, all the same. His life was over, whether someone pulled the trigger now or later. He sagged against the ropes, hanging there as Michael, Vic, and Li Ann levelled guns at each other. As he had always known he would be, he was at the centre of their triangle. He never imagined, however, that he would be staring down at a pool of his own semen. "I'm gonna rip your fucking head off," said Vic, choking on what might have been a sob. On the other hand, it was quite dusty in the disused warehouse. Mac didn't look up to see the expression on his face. "Where's Pouchie?" he heard Li Ann say. "Right behind you," came a fourth voice. And then the firing started. "Vic," Mac screamed, as he felt an explosion of pain in his side. The last thing he saw was a fountain of blood, knowing that this time there were no fake blood packs to account for it. Then the noise of gunfire and screams sang him to a gentle sleep, as Mac felt himself drifting away from friends and enemies alike. Mac stared out the window of the plane, looking at nothing in particular. He tried not to move around too much, as his body still ached from the fading bruises and the flesh wound in his side. No more bandages—the doctors had pronounced him a hundred percent cured. Wasn't that just peachy? He could even sit down now, with only twinges of discomfort. The flight attendant announced another delay over the loud speaker and he sighed, watching the scurrying ground crew and taxiing planes. In a few minutes, he would be leaving Vancouver, perhaps forever. He was certainly in no hurry to come back. Mac didn't look up as he felt a body sliding into the empty seat next to him. The whiff of familiar aftershave, however, made his gut tighten in a way that it hadn't since the warehouse. "What do you want?" he asked at last, when the other offered no conversation. "Just going to New York," said Vic. "Why am I going to New York, by the way?" Mac continued to stare out the window. He really didn't have the strength for this. "It's been four weeks, Mac," said Vic. "You have to talk to me some time. You may think you can just walk away from me. And you can. Doesn't mean I'm not gonna follow, though." Mac said nothing. He had not seen Vic or Li Ann since the `incident'. You thought sometimes that your past was just that, the past, and that you didn't need to be punished any more, and then you were back there again in the blink of an eye. How could he let Vic touch him, after that? He could not bear the thought of their pity, their grief. He couldn't even handle his own. They'd offered him counselling, of course. Like he was gonna let the Agency shrink anywhere near his head. The only one to see him had been the director. She'd been there every day - his orders to the hospital staff could keep the others out, but not her. She sat beside his bed in silence, and passed him a tissue every now and then. Surprisingly, she had not judged him, cajoled him, or—god forbid—made one of her usual passes at him, never even said a word. In the end, he'd almost come to enjoy her visits. Especially when he'd run out of tissues. They'd given him lovely pink pills, after he tried to stick a syringe in his heart and pump it full of air. They just didn't understand the symmetry, the necessity of that act. He flushed the pills sometimes, and the director smuggled them out for him at others. Now and then, she made him swallow one, when she thought he needed it. It became a sort of unspoken pact between them. If his hands were shaking more than usual, then he had to take a pill. There was a pack of them in his hand luggage somewhere; perhaps he needed one now. "Kick-ass Ophelia," said Vic into the silence. Mac had to turn at that, looking at his partner for the first time. Vic had a cane propped up next to him, courtesy of a bullet to his left leg. He was reading from a newspaper, and continued, "Li Ann Tsei kicked ass as Ophelia in this year's summer Shakespeare. In fact, it's a wonder that it was her and not Hamlet that ended up in the river, by the time she'd wiped the stage with him." Vic looked up and grinned. Embarrassed to be caught looking, Mac turned back to his window. "Hi," came a young voice, followed by a giggle. Mac stole a quick glance. A teenage girl was ogling Vic from the aisle with a hopeful look. He felt his stomach lurch again. So, he could still feel jealousy, could he? Wasn't that fan-fucking-tastic? "This seat's taken," said Vic, with a big, false grin, patting the empty seat next to him. Mac sighed. Of course it was taken. "Where's Li Ann?" he asked. "Back at the last checkpoint," said Vic. He actually looked sheepish. Mac quirked an eyebrow at him. "She—er—had a bit of trouble with the metal detectors. I wanted time to talk to you on your own." "How did you do it?" asked Mac with professional curiosity. "Like I'm telling you my tricks," snorted Vic. It was almost like their old banter, were it not for the hollow look in Vic's eyes. Mac turned back to the window. What was the use? "So, why are we going to New York?" came the persistent voice from next to him, almost in his ear. Did Vic have to sit so close? Not a lot of room in an airplane. Even so... "I'm going to the Met," said Mac. This was met with puzzled silence. "And that would be because..." prompted Vic. "I'm going to see the Rembrandts," replied Mac, waving his ticket in the general direction of his partner. "I have an open ticket. Round the world. She said—she said she owed me. For giving..." He couldn't go on. "He's dead, Mac," said Vic. "Two bullets from my gun. One from the director's. He's not coming back this time." Which of you shot me? It was not a question Mac could ask. It didn't matter anyway. "She owes all of us," said Vic at last, when it was clear that Mac wasn't going to say anything. "So we're going with you. To New York. Where are we going after that?" Mac studied the busy ground crew. "I'm gonna see every Rembrandt. Every single one. No matter where." "Why?" asked Vic, his voice almost a whisper. Mac didn't know the answer to that. He just knew that it was something he had to do. "You're not going to steal any of them, are you?" came an amused drawl. Mac smiled his first smile in a month. "I can't be with you right now," he whispered. "I'm just gonna be around," said Vic. "No pressure. Not with you, exactly. Just in your general vicinity. Recuperating. I've been ordered to take it easy. I might need help, till my leg heals properly. Someone to lean on." Oh, that was a low blow. Make Mac feel sorry for him. "Ladies and gentlemen, this flight will be delayed for another thirty minutes," said a hearty voice over the loudspeaker. "In the meantime, please relax with a free beverage. Also, we would like to play you the following song, which has been requested by one of our passengers." Mac smiled again as the sounds of Cher's throaty voice filled the air, telling Sonny that she'd got him, babe. This was possibly the silliest thing that Victor Mansfield had ever done. He risked another sideways look. Yep. Vic was red with embarrassment. "Honey, they're playing our song," murmured Mac, enjoying the look of discomfort on his partner's face. Idly, Mac wondered what the straight-looking couple across the aisle would think about the sight of two men holding hands in public. wonder2001@yahoo.com.au

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