July 1993. State of Nganda*.
Andrey didn't show any outward sign of his annoyance - he just barely pursed his lips. But their guide, seeing what was left of the farmer and his family, turned grey and ran out of the barn to puke.
What can I say? They're late.
"The devil!" Sam spat next to him. Andrey just shook his head - the African heat quickly taught him to conserve moisture at any cost. And if his American friend allowed himself to spit, it meant that even this seasoned special forces soldier was moved by the sight that unfolded.
Andrey himself, of course, showed no emotions. Compared to him, as everyone who knew him told him, even an iceberg could be called a model of temperament. And considering his appearance: a short hedgehog of dark-brown hair, chopped facial features and light-gray eyes - he created the impression of some kind of creepy golem, who felt no emotions or regrets.
Of course, like all people, Andrey was not completely insensitive, but that was his character: steadfast, Nordic - I think that's what it's called. And professional deformation coupled with many years of experience in hot spots around the world made themselves felt, so that it was rarely possible to read anything on the man's face.
But this time, even his ice shield showed a small crack: you don't see such cruelty every day, even with his lifestyle.
In any war, drunken soldiers killed civilians and raped women. And this girl had clearly been used more than once or twice before being brutally killed. But why they had to cut off her breast and impale her alive on sharpened rebar was beyond his comprehension.
"They wanted him," Sam nodded, as if reading his thoughts, toward the corpse of the farm owner crucified on the nearest wall, "to give them the location of the OAN camp**.
Andrey's companion was black. Not as jet-black as the local population, more of a pleasant chocolate shade - but the fact remained a fact. He was dressed, like Andrey, in khaki camouflage without identification marks, a Panama hat and combat boots of the same color.
"Which he couldn't possibly know," Andrey shrugged. "More likely, these bastards just like torturing white people. Or not black enough," he clarified, remembering that the skin of the farmer's dead daughter was more suitable for a mulatto than for local girls or, especially, Europeans.
Andrey's brain automatically analyzed this information, concluding that the unfortunate farmer's wife was one of the women of the local tribes - because he himself was white. He was.
They found the machete-slashed body of the farmer's youngest daughter, a girl of about eight, behind a residential building. She had apparently tried to escape into the jungle along one of the paths, but was overtaken by a powerful blow that cut her fragile, dark body almost in half.
By the time they had collected the bodies in one place, the guide, a young man with jet-black skin whom Sam had found in one of the villages near the border with South Africa, had more or less recovered. More precisely, he had simply vomited up the meager contents of his stomach, and so, although he looked unwell, he was holding up better than at the very beginning. Which was good: he still had to help them make their way through the jungle and help them navigate the savannah.
Having thrown the mutilated bodies into a ditch dug by someone, they doused them with gasoline and set them on fire - fortunately, for some reason the raiders did not touch the farmer's pickup truck and the canisters for it.
They didn't linger at the ruined farm: they still had almost half a day to make their way through the savannah and forest, in search of that very camp of the Nganda Liberation Army - or rather, its remnants, which were trying to break through to Botswana, thereby escaping pursuit.
To be honest, Andrey did not go on this peculiar expedition entirely of his own free will. More precisely, of course, no one forced him, and he went completely of his own free will! But he was here simply because he wanted to pay off an old debt to his friend Sam - the operation itself did not concern him.
And what operation could concern him now? The state he had served for so many years no longer existed. And in the new Russia, as she had thickly hinted to him, a former KGB operative on special assignments had nothing to do. Andrey was tolerated alive and relatively free only and exclusively because of his "peculiarities" – but it was not worth being particularly impudent either. The office, although disunited and oriented by the collapse of the Union, still remained a serious force and a threat – it was not worth provoking it once again.
As for his abilities and "rank"...
"Special assignments", yeah. That was the name of all the cases that had to do with various kinds of paranormal stuff - and, of course, they were all top secret! This greatly limited the freedom of those who dealt with it... and at the same time untied their hands. As already mentioned, they still didn't dare to liquidate him. And Andrey wasn't sure that even one employee of the Russian special services outside of his department remembered his existence.
Andrey had never thought about where he got his ability to see . Now, of course, he found out, but he didn't specifically strive for it. Just as he didn't strive to delve into the strange manipulations of his superiors or the amazing abilities under their control. All of this was a given for him. The examples of those who tried to dig up something beyond what was permitted were too sad to repeat.
But the fact remained: he saw ! What ordinary people did not see. That very paranormal, like all sorts of evil spirits, undead or...
Or strange people.
However, such people were extremely rare. And if they were, Andrey had clear and unambiguous instructions not to bother them without special orders.
He didn't interfere. He simply served his Motherland silently. And since Andrei was executive, professional, moderately proactive, he served it well. Having risen to the rank of captain of state security at the age of thirty-five.
Secret operations - and what other kind could the KGB have? - all over the world. Afghanistan, Southeast Asia, Latin America, Africa and even Europe - wherever he hadn't been. Most of them were concerned with that very same paranormal stuff. Strange disappearances, unknown - and invisible to ordinary people - creatures, objects with amazing properties.
In the Office they avoided saying the word that united all of this. But sometimes, to himself, Andrei allowed himself to name the phenomenon that described all of this devilry.
Magic. It was all about magic. And magicians, naturally.
Of course, no one told him about this, no one instructed him. Moreover: open conversations about these people were, and probably still are, a strict taboo among former colleagues! And this was quite clear to Andrei: by indirect signs, he had managed to become imbued with the capabilities of the "paranorms" - that's what he called these... magicians. Nobody wanted to wake up one morning and discover that you can't remember the last couple of months of your life - or even a whole year!
So even if it suddenly turned out that surveillance of him from the Lubyanka had suddenly ceased - and it had recently been only indirect and not very active - Andrei still would not have started chatting about anything like that .
His own people might not remember him. But these people could well be interested. And it is not in his nature to talk much. They say that chatter shortens life. And sometimes quite radically.
Without further ado, they set off at a brisk trot to the northeast, to the border of Botswana. According to their information, that was where the refugee camp was located, fleeing the genocide of the white population and those who sympathized with the whites that was taking place in Nganda. The new government of the country, however, stubbornly called this group of desperate fugitives an "army." And not a Liberation army, as the fugitives themselves had done before, but a White army, by analogy with the European race that was now "undesirable" in Nganda.
Andrey would have laughed at such amusing analogies with the history of his own country - but it was not funny. Because the scenes they witnessed on that farm were probably repeated in different variations all over Nganda!
They reached the camp of the "White Army" already at dusk - and Andrey heard Sam barely audibly breathe out with relief. Because, by all indications, the troops of the dictator Gift Kumalo - already nicknamed the Hyenas of Kumalo, or the Black Hyenas, as trite as it may sound - had not yet reached here.
Oddly enough, he didn't have to hand over his weapons. At all. Apparently, Sam was well known here. Moreover, they were counting on him!
And yes: Sam Patrick Dillinger was a 100% African-American, a New Yorker, and... a CIA operative. And also a friend of Andrey's.
In Langley, by the way, he had the same rights as Andrei himself had at Lubyanka. Sam could see ! In fact, it was this common feature that allowed two fighters from opposing structures to meet and - something unprecedented for the special services! - to start communicating and even becoming friends. To mutual advantage.
As already mentioned, many restrictions were imposed on people like them. But liberties were also allowed that were unthinkable by the standards of ordinary operatives.
An hour later they were sitting by a regular fire and enjoying dinner. If the words "stew" and "enjoy" could be used in the same sentence.
Andrey grinned. He remembered Marinka, his ex-wife. An athlete, mountain climber, poetess and bard, she sincerely enjoyed – or, as is now fashionable to say, "got a kick out of" – such camping trifles. Which any seasoned soldier, who has been through fire, water and trench mud, would happily exchange for banal home comfort. Marinka did not understand how one could devour ordinary home-made borscht, cutlets, herring under a fur coat or even just mayonnaise with such pleasure! In her understanding, all this was ordinary ! City! And she wanted "camp romance".
Andrey never told her about his work. For secrecy, yes. Well, also because he knew Marina wouldn't understand.
She didn't even understand. That all her climbs into the mountains and hikes into the taiga, descents into caves, as well as sword fighting and other "adventures" in the style of stuntmen that have become fashionable lately - for him, they were a pitiful shadow of the true War. That War, the flesh of whose flesh Andrey himself became. Because for him, all these "adventures" were too easy and unreal. Too... toy-like.
She never understood. Although they parted, it seems, quite peacefully.
"What, Andrew ?" Sam said, slightly emphasizing the English version of Andrey's name. "What are you thinking about?"
He spoke Russian very well and was also well aware that Andrei did not like it when his name was mangled. But he had no intention of teasing: it was not worth it for those around him to know that there was some strange Russian here with the "military consultant from the USA". Andrew being Andrew was not the first time.
- Just... thinking. About the fate of the world, - Andrey tried to smile. Without much success - as already mentioned, expressing emotions was not his strong point.
"It's just right for people like us to think about the fate of the world by the fire!" Sam chuckled slightly.
"Or about why you started all this," Andrey waved his hand vaguely around. "It doesn't look like your boss's initiative."
Sam chuckled and rubbed his neck, clearly thinking about what to say. Then he sighed and said:
- Well... they know. And they're not against this... vacation.
They were silent for a while. And then Andrey asked, looking closely into his friend's eyes:
- Who are they to you? These refugees, - again a circular gesture with his hand.
- Consider it unfinished business, - Sam winced. - My Office left here and abandoned these people. And I can't do that, - he shook his head with a hairdo to match Andreeva's. - It's in the Office's interests for Hell and carnage to break out in Nganda - it will be easier to put pressure on that damned Kumalo and his gang later. Now that the Soviet Union is gone... - he glanced sideways at Andrei, but he didn't react at all. - When there is no pole of power opposite to the States, these scum have nowhere to go. You know how such cannibals loved to maneuver between our countries, hiding behind the "principles of freedom and democracy" and the "building of socialism." And now they won't be able to hide behind the back of a major power - they'll make trouble and then come back to us "under their wing." But how many people will die before that... So I decided to save at least someone. Although this is only a small part of what could be done.
They sat in silence for a while. Each was thinking about his own thing. Then the black CIA officer said seriously:
- Listen, Andrew... Are you sure about your choice?
Andrey winced. Here we go again. How much more can this go on?!
"Sammy…" he shook his head mockingly, feigning mockery on his face. Which he didn't really feel.
"You know I hate being called that!" Sam frowned. "I didn't force you to join my adventure, but it's a pretty standard job for us. What you've got planned..."
— "It's not my fault, he came himself!" — Andrey laughed more sincerely. His usual indifference and boredom let him go a little. Not for long, however. — Sam, — he sighed, becoming more serious. — Understand, this is my family. The only one left! Even if I don't know him, even if…
"Man," Sam said, glancing sideways at the conductor, who was sitting down and dozing, the whites of his eyes sparkling against the background of his dark face. "I can understand everything: you're an orphan, and all that…"
"An orphanage," Andrey said, shrugging his shoulders. Sam knew almost all the details of his biography anyway - what was there to hide?
"Okay, the orphanage one," the black CIA officer threw up his hands. "But these are… those guys , remember? Are you sure you want to… get involved in shit like this?"
Those guys - that's what the Americans called these people . Andrey knew very well that at the beginning of the twentieth century, certain circles in the US government tried to force the communities of magicians to open up - and in the end, it didn't end up with anything worthwhile. Just like with the Soviet government - but of course, no one ever revealed the specifics to ordinary performers, even with special abilities.
And now he wanted to get into a completely closed secret society, and on the territory of the "former" conventional enemy, at the moment of the aggravation of the crime situation in this very society. Moreover, to dig into the very epicenter of this "criminogenicity"!
Andrey's face, previously completely impassive, became animated. He sensed the proximity of War!
He didn't know what it was connected with or how it worked.
He was never interested in the small goods and pleasures of life, like money, food, alcohol or women. Marina, I remember, also complained that he was "like a robot-jackhammer" in bed, stupidly working off his shift. Although Andrey himself always thought that an hour of sex without a break was the dream of all women. But, apparently, he did not understand something.
He had never been afraid of pain or deprivation: why should he? He was used to them. Service in the Soviet army, endless training, and then the war in Afghanistan - all this simply excluded such fears. And the transfer to the KGB and the continuation of studies with intensive training - there was no place for fear here at all.
And the ambitions and desire of his fellow students to "rise up" caused a certain amount of… not disgust, no. Bewilderment. Andrey was probably the only one who understood why they had gathered here, in the Office — to fight a certain Enemy! It didn't matter who it was: the "treacherous" West, the Afghan Taliban, or even aliens from Planet X — who cares! The main thing was the fight! And all these whispers, undermining, and career changes were boring and alien to him.
But on the battlefield... On the battlefield, the "special assignment officer" simply came to life!
Andrey involuntarily touched the Kalashnikov lying next to him. Not the outdated mass-produced stuff that the local blacks used, but the latest, special version that he had managed to get for him and Sam. After all, in the conditions of Africa, the Kalashnikov was the ideal option.
But the point was not in the weapon itself. But in its presence!
Even just empty-handed, Andrei felt much more confident here, on the battlefield! Although this temporary camp hardly resembled one, the general hostile environment, the field conditions and the proximity of weapons - this created for Andrei the illusion of... home.
But only an illusion. There was not a drop of true WAR in this operation he agreed to ! But in that adventure he had conceived…
Besides, he had one more thing. Family.
Those who have never known orphanhood and life from early childhood in an orphanage - do not understand the craving of an orphan for a real family ! Any resident of an orphanage dreams that one day his mom and dad will come to him, declaring that he got there by mistake, that now they have found him and are taking him with them!...
Naive and stupid.
Andrey understood that this was the case. But he couldn't do anything about it.
- Sirius Black, then, - Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose. - En... Andryusha, - the CIA officer suddenly spoke clearly in Russian, ignoring all and any rules of conspiracy. - You know, this is the stupidest, most crazy undertaking imaginable! Looking for your brother in this British snake pit is more expensive for yourself! Especially since, as we understand, he is an outlaw there!
"You know it yourself, Sammy," this time the black agent didn't even wince at the irritating name. After all, he hadn't asked to be called "Andryusha" either, "I wouldn't have asked if it weren't for…"
— ...Important to you, — Agent Langley nodded seriously. Andrey nodded silently. — Okay, man. We have a deal. Britain, then… — Sam Dillinger leaned back on the log he was sitting on, apparently thinking about something. And then he straightened up abruptly and looked Andrey in the eyes. — Only I have one condition.
They were silent for a while. Andrey - sullenly, Sam - with a radiant snow-white smile, especially visible in the darkness on a black face, smeared with dust and dirt.
"You'll take me with you!" Sam proclaimed triumphantly...
July 1993. Great Britain.
- Yoo-yo-hoo-oo-oo-oo!!!!! Yes, baby, faster, faster!!! - Helen squealed, sitting on the seat of the "Harley Davidson" behind Megan, tightly hugging her waist with her legs, dressed in pink fishnet stockings, visible from under short leather shorts.
They were driving along the highway away from the city. Not "somewhere," just away!
Away from this dust, dirt, smog and the boring, hateful grayness of South Helens! Into the distance, beyond the horizon - as all the performers of the near-romantic direction sing in a row.
On the sides, emerald meadows and hills flashed by, groves of trees could be seen in the distance: all this rushed past, forcing Megan to bite her lips and restrain herself from the urge to close her eyes - so intoxicating was the combination of these colorful flashes, the wind in her face, the roar of the engine and the feeling of Helen's hot body, with her slender legs folded on her hips!
A little later, in a town northwest of South Helens, they dropped into a nightclub. There, behind the bar, they spotted a muscular black guy.
"Hey, baby," Helen drawled casually, sitting down next to the guy with a flexible movement. "Want to have a nice evening?..."
Megan looked at the spectacle she had become accustomed to over the last six months with a wry smile. Helen was a professional prostitute for good reason - she could find and seduce a client anywhere and anyhow!
On the other hand, Megan herself chose the "client". Using the skills of an experienced investigator, observation and suddenly discovered intuition. A "client" who is hardy, attractive, ready for contact and has a fairly large penis - a simple set of parameters to easily identify a male who is potentially suitable for a wild night. In this sense, a young black guy in his early twenties was just right...
And just half an hour later, the three of them were already tumbling around on a double bed in a seedy motel room not far from the club.
Hot, flushed and covered in beads of sweat, Megan, squatting and resting her palms on the abs of the "picked up" guy, repeatedly sank down with force onto his huge cock, swaying the wide, juicy hemispheres of her ass. She moaned softly, clenching her teeth and grinning like a wild animal! The guy's black skin in the area of his hips and lower abdomen was shining with the juice flowing from Megan - she didn't even know that it was possible to cum so often and abundantly.
A muscular hand squeezed her rather large breasts with force: sometimes trying to grab the sweaty, juicy and slippery flesh, sometimes blindly pinching the nipple with a strange tattoo in the form of a jagged, distorted sign of gender.
"Blindly" because Helen was sitting on the guy's face at the time.
Megan suspected that the wild, primal excitement she was experiencing from sex was not only due to the presence of a large penis in her vagina – and the active movement of it. A large part of it was due to the sight that stretched out before the woman!
Unlike her own ass: albeit quite firm, but wide and lush - Helen's nut was neat, chiseled and somehow... light. So she easily moved this nut over the guy's face, allowing his tongue to slide inside her. At the same time, she was turned with her back to Megan - as if trying to show her lover all the perfection of her sculpted ass in motion!
Helen made forward movements as if she wanted to swallow her partner's chin and mouth with her vagina, kiss his mouth with her labia passionately. It is not surprising that the guy's face, neck and shoulders were also literally flooded with vaginal fluid!
They stopped only towards morning. Only when Megan and Helen finally felt that perfect feeling of lightness and... satiety that they had come to love so much. And when their casual partner was completely exhausted.
"S-shit…" the boy muttered, getting up from the bed a little unsteadily and freeing himself from the arms of his partners. He glanced unfocused at his wristwatch lying in a pile of clothes nearby and groaned, "Shit! I have to go, girls. It's my turn to drive the truck in the morning, so time is running out. But I must say," here he finally focused his dreamy gaze on Megan and Helen, who were sprawled on the bed, "this was the best night of my life!...
They still had almost nineteen hours before their room rental expired, so there was no need to rush.
Helen, curled up under Megan's arm, fell into a sweet sleep. Officer Cornhill herself could not sleep, smoking a cigarette right in bed - contrary to all and any fire safety rules and just common sense.
Perhaps, when the great masters of the Renaissance sculpted their sculptural masterpieces according to the principle "remove all that is superfluous – Perfection will remain", they had exactly this in mind. Grayness.
Remove the dullness, the tedium, the boredom from your life - and you will see the image of that true life, which is the only life a person should live!
So Megan Cornhill, after many years of an absolutely gray, meaningless life, finally found for herself that very outlet that allowed her to "let off steam" a little - that's what it's called, I think? When your whole life is going wrong and twisted, when you catch the pitying glances of those around you, which seem to hint: you, Megan, do not have and will not have a normal relationship, normal sex, any pleasure, or life at all!
It was infuriating. It was infuriating! Especially when even what you used to consider an outlet - your career - is being taken away from you!...
…"Meg, listen to me," her boss, South Helens Detective Superintendent Woody Tallwood, had told her with a sigh a couple of days ago. "I can't, excuse me, 'expose my rear' by removing you from an important investigation! Believe me, there are people who can stand at the barricades in this stupid showdown. And there's absolutely no place for… professionals like you."
The pause before the last phrase sounded especially false. He probably meant "there is no place for women in war" – then he wouldn't have lied! But Woody always knew how to find evasive phrases. No wonder they predicted a career as a regional politician for him.
Woody was a fairly ordinary-looking man, Megan thought: a lanky, balding, grey-haired man with a thin, hooked nose, dressed in dark uniform trousers, a long-sleeved grey striped shirt and old-fashioned suspenders. His eyes were unidentifiable in colour – anything between light grey and deep blue. And his lips… Thin, like the edges of a dried chicken butt, pale lips, forever clutching his pipe of astringent tobacco.
And he had always been - for the entire time Megan had known him - a confirmed prude, insipid in his expression of emotion. It was all the more pleasant to make such an impression on him!
She had worn tight jeans before, but never with such an effect! Perhaps the impression was added by the leather jacket with an open neckline - with her bust size and bright makeup, all this created a real sensation! The high-heeled boots served more as a finishing factor.
But what all this failed to convince Woody of was that a "granny," no matter how professional, combative and experienced, could be allowed to do real work.
- Megan, listen, - Tollwood swallowed and turned away, blushing. And took a drag on his ever-present pipe. - The Steel Destroyer investigation is also important - and it's been entrusted to you! There's no need to get involved in this shit with gang wars...
The Steel Smasher. That was the idiotic nickname the local papers gave to a bandit - or bandits - who repeatedly smashed cash machines in several towns north of London. Including South Helens, Teddingale and Little Whinging. The criminal - or criminals - were brazen, brutal, and yet they left no trace! Just a rectangular piece cut out of the side of the cash machine and the gutted insides - that's all.
Nine ATMs in several towns had already been robbed in this manner. Nine! And there was not a single witness, not a single trace of the mysterious robber. Although, given the manner of the robbery, the sparks from the opening of the ATMs with a grinder should have reached the sky!
Of course, the case was quite interesting and important, but the thing is that it concerned not only South Helens, which meant that Megan was only one of the investigators on this case. It was headed by a Superintendent sent from London, who immediately upon arrival made it clear that he needed the representatives of the local police assigned to the investigation only to bring him coffee - nothing more. What can we say about the only female detective in this company...
Megan hissed in annoyance, stood up, and walked over to the panoramic sliding window in one wall of their room. Sitting down on the chair backwards, so that her bare chest was pressed against the back, she lit another cigarette.
While she's wasting her time on this arrogant London ass, a real local war is unfolding on the streets of her hometown! A local authority nicknamed Lord has a falling out with Pakistanis from the outskirts of the capital, and now shooting is heard every now and then in the gateways and abandoned courtyards of South Helens, traces of blood and even corpses are found on the asphalt. An armed * has been sent from London
rapid response team - in case the conflict finally enters the hot phase and spills out onto the city streets.
Every cop, from the patrolman to the detective, was counted - and that idiot Tollwood sent her to look for the ATM ripper. Just brilliant!
At some point, Megan realized that her thoughts were starting to get confused – the painful excitement was rolling in again. The woman's gaze fell on her chest, pressed against the back of the chair. A chest on which a chain of strange tattooed runes was visible, linking six larger symbols. Mystically appeared on her body on the day she met Helen...
Through the excitement that was rolling in, the thought flashed through her head that all this petty fuss around the ATM robber and even the gang war was complete bullshit compared to the mystery of these tattoos. But either out of habit or for some other reason, she continued to cling to her gray everyday affairs instead of revealing the real secret!
The secret that Helen was somehow connected to...
This strange affair of theirs with a prostitute from the slums was something out of the ordinary. That time, when she first called Helen and they met in the same high-rise building, only this time in the prostitute's apartment - she didn't say a word about money. She just sucked Megan in a kiss and pushed her onto the bed.
And then it was more like dating than hiring a whore - although Megan did give Helen money. But it looked more like she was giving funds to her... girlfriend. Well, yes, I suppose you could call Helen that - although Officer Cornhill had no doubt that she was still doing her job.
Anger flared up in her head, piercing the haze of excitement. Not only was this bitch somehow connected to that mysterious green-eyed boy, about whom nothing had been found out, but she was also fucking someone without Megan's knowledge!
Not quite understanding what she was doing, Megan climbed onto the bed, turned the sleeping Helen over onto her stomach and roughly twisted her arms behind her back.
- Ow! - Helen, still half asleep, didn't immediately understand what was happening. - Baby, what's wrong?! What are you doing??!
Having lifted the prostitute up so that she was standing on all fours, her face pressed into the sheet, Megan pressed her girlfriend's legs with her knees, spread her buttocks and ran her fingernail over the anus that was exposed to her. Taking the cigarette out of her mouth, she exhaled the smoke onto Helen's bottom.
"How would you feel about a little pain?" Megan asked, smiling wryly and tilting her head slightly to the side.
- Baby, what are you doing?!... A-a-a-a!!!! - Helen thrashed in her lover's arms and screamed in pain. All because Megan, with some kind of painful grin, spread Helen's already rather developed anus and... slowly plunged a burning cigarette into it.
- Shut up, bitch! - She stepped on her lover's face with one foot, ignoring her attempts to break free. Following the cigarette butt, her fist sank deep into Helen's ass - she was no longer screaming, only crying from pain. - How do you like this?!
After a minute of tormenting Helen's burned anus with her fist, Megan realized that she was no longer sobbing, but breathing intermittently and quickly. One more push... and the prostitute came violently.
Megan released her victim and Helen collapsed exhausted onto the sheets.
"You… you're a crazy scumbag…" she breathed out, somehow even admiringly. "But, damn, how good…"
"It's my turn now!" Megan growled, settling herself between Helen's legs and starting to rub against her...
As a result, they continued to fuck for another two hours. But not the way they usually fucked each other, and not even the way they did with guys they had picked up before! They bit each other until they bled, bit each other's short hair with force, almost taking their scalps off, shoved their fists into all the holes - in general, they tried to cause each other and themselves as much pain as possible!
However, despite this sudden unhealthy obsession, they tried to do so as not to cause too much harm.
In the end, both women, breathing heavily, exhausted, covered in small wounds, bite marks and bruises, lay sprawled tiredly on the dirty bed.
"Damn it!" Helen cursed, climbing unsteadily into the shower. "It's going to be hard to explain the blood on the sheet."
"We'll explain," Megan waved weakly at her, lighting another cigarette – the second to last one in the pack. "After all, I'm a damn police officer! Maybe we're having this… investigative experiment here!"
Giggling hysterically, the prostitute disappeared into the shower.
- Damn! - Megan lightly hit the wall behind her with her head, cursing, listening to the sound of water coming from behind the door. - Some kind of fucking obsession! And the further it goes, the worse it gets! Should I go to a shrink? - she asked the space a rhetorical question. Of course, she wasn't really going anywhere.
The lethargy was slowly fading, replaced by her usual concentration. Satisfaction with life burned with an even light in her chest - with renewed vigor! As if for the first time, like then, on their first night with Helen.
And with that focus came the understanding that whatever it was, whatever madness had taken hold of her, the only answers she would get were when she found the boy with the green eyes. It seemed Andy had called him Angel the last time they had seen each other a year ago, when Megan was still able to walk into their dump.
Officer Cornhill narrowed her eyes. To hell with the fucking ATM case, to hell with the fucking gangsters and their fucking showdowns - and all her colleagues with the same ass faces and brains! Megan had found a more interesting secret. And, as her intuition told her, more important than all the other secrets!...
...As they were driving back along the highway toward South Helens, a traffic jam appeared ahead. A policeman in a reflective road jacket was directing traffic around a major accident: a huge trucker's semi had crashed into a concrete barrier between the lanes and, jumping over it, crashed into the windshield of an oncoming car.
"Wow," Helen whistled, looking at the row of bodies. "It's not every day you see something like this in real life!"
"Sergeant Dawkins!" Megan called out to the officer, putting her motorcycle on the kickstand. "What happened here?"
The constable knew Officer Cornhill, and she knew him – after all, this section of the highway was already under the jurisdiction of the South Helens police, so it was not surprising that he was one of her colleagues. Looking curiously at Helen, who was lounging on the seat of her bike, the sergeant replied:
"The trucker lost control, ma'am," Dawkins shrugged. "Looks like he fell asleep at the wheel, that happens to them. Except..." The policeman frowned. "Something's up with this trucker, officer," he said, lowering his voice a little. "We're waiting for the medical examiner to see what the hell's going on here... You better take a look for yourself, Officer Kerrigan's in charge."
Megan had absolutely no desire to cross paths with anyone else - and Dawkins had already seen her in the company of a slutty-dressed girl! The last thing she needed was questions and dirty hints - rumors about her passions had been circulating around the department for months.
But her intuition - and lately this feeling had become very acute in Megan - was screaming that she absolutely needed to look at the corpse!
Approaching the bodies covered with opaque plastic, piled in the shadow of a broken truck, she bent over one of them. Strangely, no one called out to Megan or detained her: apparently, no one particularly wanted to be near the corpses until the experts arrived. And why? The bodies were outlined, everything was recorded, all that was left was to put together the overall picture. If it weren't for that "strangeness," they wouldn't have called the medics.
The third corpse turned out to be needed. Throwing aside the plastic, Megan shuddered!
Even though the body was strangely disfigured, she recognized the trucker. It was the same guy she and Helen had sex with that night! Only the once strong, muscular body was a memory.
The grey, dry skin was brittle, covered with scabs and cracks - like a mummy. The strong hands that had been squeezing Megan's chest for literally several hours had turned into withered thin twisted branches. The face was distorted - as if at the last moment the unfortunate man had smiled...
"Megan?" a surprised voice came from behind her. Slowly putting the plastic back in place, the woman stood up and turned to the speaker - Officer Kerrigan. "What are you doing here?!"
Richard Kerrigan was a man of average height, with short reddish-brown hair and gray eyes. It wasn't that they communicated actively - they worked in different departments, after all - but they knew each other.
"Oh, Rich, I was driving by and saw Dawkins," Megan shrugged, trying to smile casually. "And he said it was an unusual accident, some kind of devilry…"
"You're telling me," Kerrigan frowned. Megan sighed unnoticed: she had no questions about the girl riding with her yet. "And there's no one to ask! That driver's number two is also dead. The ambulance has already arrived, but what's the point… five corpses," he spat. "The witnesses only saw the accident itself, only the driver's replacement could tell the cause, and he… oh, yes, I already said," he rubbed his forehead wearily with his palm. "Okay, Cornhill, go on. This is my headache. Maybe at least the damn experts will dig up something…"
Mega's intuition at the mention of "experts" was back, like a warning bell on the edge of consciousness. She quickly said goodbye to Kerrigan and headed back to the bike.
"Are we leaving already?" Helen drawled, looking at the scene of the car accident with curiosity and some kind of childish delight.
"Yes. Something tells me it's better to do this quickly," Megan muttered sullenly, pulling on her helmet and starting the engine.
Уже объехав перегороженный участок и выйдя на открытый участок шоссе, Меган почудилось, будто позади раздалось несколько странных хлопков, сопровождаемых изумленными возгласами. Но все та же интуиция вновь ожила — и Меган Корнхилл лишь стиснула зубы и выкрутила рукоять газа…
London. Early August 1993. Heathrow Airport.
"The purpose of your visit to Great Britain?" the blonde girl at the reception desk smiled sweetly at Andrey.
"Searching for a family," Andrey answered honestly.
— Are you carrying weapons or drugs with you?...
He lifted the corner of his mouth: as if anyone in their right mind would admit to carrying something like that! And even more so, a professional would never actually do it: the chances of detection are too high with modern technical capabilities - from metal detectors to a banal search.
Why? In most countries, there are plenty of opportunities to buy weapons right on the spot, without bothering with complicated delivery schemes from abroad. The main thing is to know where.
Andrey knew. And Sammy, who was checking in a couple of counters away from him, was also aware of many similar opportunities both in London and in a number of other cities. And so Andrey was not worried about it.
As for the main plan…
Even if Andreev's suitcase and he himself were searched from head to toe - which the local cops are unlikely to do without special grounds - no one would find anything suspicious. Several sets of business and casual clothes, toiletries, a wallet with a small amount of cash in pounds and US dollars, as well as a couple of credit cards. Well, and a newspaper folded several times - American, but not at the level of the New York Times, thinner. An ordinary person would not even remember the name of it, even if he spent several hours turning it over in his hands, looking for a catch.
But the "paranormals" or those like him and Sam — "seers" — would see a very specific and extremely strange newspaper with the English title "Daily Prophet." However, the title, as well as the font and design, were quite banal — at least for a provincial newspaper. Everything in it was ordinary. Except for the photographs.
The photographs were moving! Of course, it was "magic" — or "spiritual-energetic program," as those who studied paranormal activity in the department where Andrei served used to call it. The word "magic" was much shorter than the official name and much more beautiful than the crude abbreviation DEP — but, as already mentioned, mentioning it out loud was fraught with danger. So Andrei preferred the abbreviation — after all, he was a professional, and he was not going to get caught in such stupidity.
But what was more interesting were not the moving pictures on the amazing newspaper. But its contents!
A shaggy man with long black hair, standing against a full-length ruler and holding an identification plate, grinned and silently screamed at the readers from the front page. The plate read in official font: "Sirius Black, November 3, 1981, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, UK."
And no, the newspaper was not old - there were a huge number of them at Lubyanka. Their department - quite modest in number, it must be said - was also engaged in, as best it could, tracking what was happening to these people . With varying success, of course, but thanks to rare interactions with representatives of the wizards and such indirect and outdated scraps of information, it was possible to follow the wizards quite well - and even, albeit extremely rarely, prevent various incidents. A completely thankless and hellish - but necessary job.
So, the newspaper was brand new! Dated only mid-July of this year - two weeks old! For the secret services of ordinary people - an unrealistic achievement. But Sam tried his best...
..."You know what I noticed while observing this… society of theirs?" Sammy said back in Africa, without naming any names or titles, when they were planning their trip to England. "Their little world is pretty small – not so small as to lead to complete degeneration, but essentially it's one big village. So," he leaned towards Andrey then, "with all that, their special services are very limited in their capabilities! Can you imagine? There are a pittance of people, and these guys are essentially incapable of organizing normal surveillance or even just operational work. Don't ask how I figured that out!" the black CIA officer raised his hands, forestalling Andrey's questions. "Indirect signs, guesses… intuition. Do you believe me?"
Andrey nodded in response - he believed. People like him and Sam, "seers", took such a concept as intuition very seriously. When dealing with devilry and paranormality, it was the only thing you could rely on sometimes!
- This is connected not least of all with the fact that in this society a lot depends not on laws, obligations or even banal money and influence! Individual... paranormal power plays a very big role there, - he then looked meaningfully at Andrey. - Try to catch some bastard according to the law or according to our methods - and he will tell you: "And I have a nuclear bomb in my pocket - go to hell!" And you will go, Andrey, like a good boy! A crude comparison, of course... - Sammy hesitated a little. - But did you understand the analogy?
"I understand," Andrey shook his head. "Get to the point."
"I have a way out for one… lady," the American grinned without a hint of embarrassment. "The woman comes from a family of ordinary people, but when she turned eleven, she was invited to a private British school…"
The word "Hogwarts" was not spoken, but both were aware of the name and understood what was being talked about.
"Now this lady is raising a daughter, Angelina," Sam continued. "Who will be entering her fifth year at this... school in September."
"Okay," Andrey nodded without showing his interest.
- Our legends are already prepared, - Sam nodded at this. And then he glanced uncertainly at Andrey and sighed: - Listen, Andrey, I understand everything, but to show up in magical Britain with a surname that is known not only by any bloodhound of their hidden Ministry, but by every ordinary person?! At a time when they are all catching fucking Sirius Black and their entire paranormal law enforcement system is on its ears? Are you sure that we will find him before their special services or the cops?
Andrey didn't answer anything then. He had decided everything for himself.
Hide, conceal, set up ambushes? He knew how to do it. And even better than many of his colleagues, both on his side and on the side of the "probable enemy". But now all this was inappropriate. It was necessary to strike!
And his announcement under his original name - the name left to him by his parents who abandoned him in an orphanage - was also a kind of blow. If the local wizards spotted him, if they tracked him, if they saw him... they would be shocked by the fact that a person with such a famous name had come here. Moreover: he had come, being a Squib! That was what they called in Europe those who were born into wizarding families, but did not directly inherit the gift of magic. That is, those very "seers", like him and Sam.
They will start running, jumping, fussing - but at the same time they will treat him with disdain and inattention. Both will become their weakness!
Using all these factors, Andrei was going to distract them from Black, who had escaped from Azkaban prison - it was this escape that was written about in the newspaper. He needed to find and save his brother, no matter what he got himself into! Find out where he was and what was wrong with him, how to help him, whether his parents were alive. Even though he didn't remember them, he always wanted to find them and ask...
Ask - why did they throw him out, essentially, into the street? Not according to the dry and meager analytical summaries of the Office about the society of "paranorms", but personally. Face to face!
And Sirius Black will help him with this, whether he wants it or not...
…— Sir? — the blonde girl at the reception desk asked a little more insistently.
Andrey perked up and returned to reality.
Unforgivable! Of course, he was in control of the situation even when distracted, but to think like that… it wasn't worth doing. His work had taught him one simple truth: constant vigilance! It wasn't worth betraying that truth.
- Um... sorry, I got distracted, - he smiled sparingly at the girl. - Did you say something?
"It's okay, it happens to everyone," she smiled sweetly. "Your documents are all in order."
"Wonderful!" Andrey exclaimed, already intending to leave. Only the voice of the receptionist reached him:
- Welcome to the United Kingdom, Mr. Dolokhov!
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