Rockhounds 2: Diamond in the Rough Page 3

* * * *

  Which brings us to the present day, give or take a few twists and turns along the way, and now I'm staring at the latest incarnation of Sheriff Clemson Daltry to cross my path. I'm older now, wiser. I've grown plenty, beefed out some, learned my way around, if you know what I mean.

  And still, there's something about me that these little bastards just love to knock down.

  "So, friend, what's it going to be?” One gold eye, one brown, both running over my form like they already owned it. “Do we have an agreement or not?"

  * * * *

  Last time I walked away from a deal like this, Lucas was already dead. Nothing I could do would bring him back, as much as I might want things to be different.

  Now, though, it wasn't Lucas on the line. It was Matt—who was more than a partner to me. The sun rises and sets on that boy for me, and I don't say that easy. I love him more than I've ever loved anybody. Ever. Period.

  "You got a deal, John."

  He smiled, and stood up, reaching for me. I stopped him, one finger held up. “But if this don't work—if we don't come back from this with Matt, alive and in good shape, I swear to God I'll kill you.” There was a small smile still dancing around the corners of Crazy John's mouth, and it took all my willpower not to knock it clean off of his face. “Dead. With my bare hands, if need be."

  At least I had the satisfaction of seeing that smile fade away.

  * * * *

  "Boys, we've got a job tonight.” A ring of professionals, none of them two decades old yet, squatted in a circle, staring intently at the map Crazy John had unrolled in front of them. “GI's buddy here got himself snatched by a street rat gang. They're holed up here.” His finger indicated a house at the end of a dead end street—a strategic nightmare, one way in, one way out, with civilians in every direction, but that didn't seem to bother Crazy John none. “We're gonna hit them here, here, and here."

  "Since our budget,” he continued, pausing to eye me lasciviously, “doesn't allow for placating the authorities, we're gonna have to keep this quiet. Handguns and knives. No rifles, no grenades.” He turned one stern eye on a scarred little bastard, near on stocky as him. “Absolutely no flamethrowers, Firebug."

  "But boss,” the cocky little sentry protested, “what's the fun in that?"

  A quick cuff to the side of his head was the only answer.

  "It's not supposed to be fun, sport,” one of the pros told him. I'd place him at sixteen, maybe seventeen. “Besides, you'll be too busy watching our backs to worry about getting bored."

  "Well, you'll be bored for a couple hours at least.” Crazy John stood up, stretched to his full height of five foot three. “Operation won't start until nightfall. I want the streets to be quiet before we head into town. Until then, GI here and I are gonna go inside and finesse the plan a bit. We don't want to be disturbed, understand?"

  A quick look ran round the circle, followed by a flash of knowing grins. It wasn't the first time Crazy John had collected payment in this fashion, apparently.

  "We got you, boss man.” One of the older boys tugged on his beret. “We won't be coming in, no matter what happens."

  And God bless ‘em, they were as good as their word.

  Chapter Seven

  The door to Crazy John's place was a sheet of corrugated tin, hung on strap hinges and pulled into place with a leather thong. The bottom of the sheet traced through the omnipresent African dust, stirring up miniature cyclones of despair.

  "I think,” Crazy John said, casually slinging his sidearm into the easy chair, “that we've got just enough time to get acquainted, don't you?"

  "I guess.” I shrugged, fully aware that I was already as acquainted as I wanted to be. “What do you want?"

  "Let's get you out of them clothes, GI. I want to see what I'm getting paid for this little adventure.” He sank down onto the ratty bed, eyes gleaming. “Give me a show."

  "A show, huh?” I turned my back on him. “I'll see what I can do."

  Every last one of them buttons on my shirt stuck, refusing to slide easily through the buttonhole. The T-shirt was tucked securely beneath my belt, and I had to tug awkwardly to get it free.

  Didn't matter. By the time I had my torso bared and turned around to face Crazy John, he'd managed to shuck his own pants and had the situation well in hand.

  "Been a while since I had me a white boy,” he purred, rasping his hand up the side of his shaft. “Much less a big boy like you."

  "Mmm."

  The thought crossed my mind that if I buried my boot in the tender flesh just beneath his balls, I could put the little bastard out of commission for a week. Close on that thought's heels came the realization that he still had an AK in easy reach, which would put me out of commission permanently.

  I'm sorry, Matty. My belt buckle was never so difficult before, the leather never so unyielding. So goddamn sorry.

  "Would you look at that pretty prick?” Crazy John's mismatched eyes were riveted on my crotch. “Touch yourself. I want to see you get hard for me."

  This ain't nothing. Softer than a feather pillow, that's me. You've been playing with yourself since you knew you had a pecker. Just close your eyes and think of...

  Christ, don't think of Matt. That's never going to work. Flaccid flesh agreed.

  "Come on, boy, get it up."

  Think about that little bastard, on the wrong end of a rifle. Think about that little prick, teeth flying across the room. Think about that cocksucker, on his knees, begging for his life...

  "That's better.” I heard him getting off the bed, the step toward my little display. Smart man would have opened his eyes, at that point, but I'm none too smart. We might have established that somewhere along the line here, if I recall proper. Which means I didn't see the slap coming, just felt his palm flattening against my cheek.

  It felt all the world like a belt cracking on my flesh, strong and sharp and bright-edged pain. Believe you me, it's not a comparison I make lightly. Crazy John's hands were hard as leather and twice as strong.

  "Let's see a little more enthusiasm here, boy.” He chuckled. “Act like you're enjoying yourself."

  My eyes flew open. “You want me to enjoy myself?"

  It was his turn for his eyes to get wide as my hands went round his throat. “Well, this seems like it'll be fun."

  Now, I'm strong. Stronger than most, actually. I can bench my own body weight—hell, I do reps holding Matt up, just for fun.

  That's when I'm not angry.

  At this point, it's fair to say I was a little pissed. Naked as a jaybird, trapped in Crazy John's cabin, the wise thing to do would have been to go along to get along.

  Again, we've established that wisdom is not my strong suit.

  For a little guy, he was pretty aerodynamic. When he hit the ramshackle crate of AK's, the impact pulled the wood free from the nails, leaving him in a splintered pile of weaponry. Not necessarily the best place to put your enemy, but he didn't have an opportunity to take advantage of the situation.

  I'm not going to go into a blow-by-blow description of what happened next. Suffice it to say that a soldier's always supposed to remain in control. A soldier's supposed to know exactly how much force he's exerting, and what that force is going to do. Losing your head in the heat of battle is supposed to be avoided.

  Let's just say I wasn't a very good soldier at that moment.

  * * * *

  After, I carried him out of the shed. You're not supposed to do that, especially if there's a good chance someone's got a neck injury, but I did it anyway. I threw him down in a heap smack in front of his boys, and took a minute to marvel at how all of Crazy John's limbs were at a funny angle.

  "So here's the deal, boys.” I looked them all right in the eye, especially the scarred one. He was a little twitchy. “Your boss and I were ... talking. We came up with a list of options."

  Crazy John moaned something, but we didn't pay it no mind.

  "Now, y'all can fight me. I'm ready, and
if I gotta kick all of your asses, I will.” Crazy John groaned again, and I reminded him of the wisdom of silence with a gentle booted nudge to the ribs. “Or you can help me get my friend back. The money I will pay you will be more than enough for a doctor.” A couple of them looked puzzled, so I continued, “to put his sorry ass back together."

  They looked at each other, a few hand gestures and raised eyebrows shared among them. The scarred one looked at the kid, who turned to me.

  "Ok, GI, we're in.” He looked down at his feet, strangely sheepish. “But..."

  "What is it, boy? Spit it out!"

  "Don't you think you ought to put on some pants first?"

  Chapter Eight

  If I was Matt, I might say that the actual rescue was rather anti-climactic. That it lacked a certain element of over-the-top adrenaline fueled savoir-faire.

  However, I'm not Matt. So I'll just say the way things went down was a big freaking relief.

  We'd gone out loaded for bear. At this point, I was not terribly concerned what the authorities would say about our little operation: if I had my way, we'd be on a plane out of the asshole of Africa before midnight. I'd even let scar-boy bring his flamethrower.

  They'd all seen the embassy receptionist's son's picture, and more importantly, Matt's. “These two come out alive.” I was very clear, making sure they totally understood. “Far as I care, you can kill the rest."

  That's not the type of orders I was trained to give, but I think we can take it as a given that I still wasn't exactly acting as the ideal soldier at this point.

  Night fell. We waited long enough to let the streets clear. Little sentry picked up on one of the street rats coming back to the joint with a bucket of water, and gave me the nod. I waved in two of the bigger boys, following close with scar-boy at my side.

  When we kicked in the door, the street rats looked up, saw their death coming in, and took off running. The leader, the one who'd talked all big and bad with a pistol at my temple, went headlong through a side window and hit the ground sprinting like an Olympic champ.

  "Oh, man.” The little sentry, despite all orders, had followed us in. “Does this mean we don't get paid?"

  "Find Matt, little friend, and you all get paid."

  They fanned out like pros, sliding open doors and poking into cabinets. At last, I heard, “Hey, GI! This your moffie?"

  * * * *

  Matt was sitting in the bottom of a closet, knees pulled clean up to his chin, elbows tied together behind his back, a filthy t-shirt wrapped round his head as a blindfold. There was a big wad of fabric shoved in his mouth, gagging him.

  I've never seen such a beautiful sight in my life.

  * * * *

  "Baby? It's me.” The gag came out easy, but the blindfold was knotted so tight I couldn't pull it free. “I've got to cut this shit off of you, so don't move."

  "Parker...” His voice was dry, cracked and weak. “Thank God."

  His eyes were bright but there were no tears when I finally got the blindfold off. He was too dehydrated for tears.

  "Get me water!” I bellowed, sending the little sentry skittering to the kitchen. “It's okay, Matt, I'm here.” He was so light in my arms, so frail. “It's okay now."

  "I know.” His words were soft against my chest. “I know."

  * * * *

  Settling up after the operation actually took longer than the operation itself. Crazy John's boys had learned well: they collected full price, and balked like mules when I wanted their weapons.

  "Friends, I cannot have you coming after me for revenge once we are done our business.” I folded my arms, flexing my biceps subtly. “Your boss man, he's not too happy with me."

  They laughed, ceding the truth of what I said. A pile of rifles collected at my feet. When it came to scar-boy though, it wasn't happening.

  "You're not getting my baby,” he told me, fingers protectively wrapped round the half-melted stock. “We've been through a lot together."

  I eyed the flame-thrower and the billowing roses of scar tissue that framed his eyes. “I can see that. You give me your word as a man that you're not going to burn my ass with that thing?"

  His smile was lightning quick. “Not your ass, not the rest of you either.” He held out his hand. “My word, my friend."

  Chapter Nine

  "We are never, ever, ever doing this again.” I'd planned on blowing out of Sierra Leone that night, but there was no way Matt was ready to travel. He had enough bruises on him that you'd think he'd been in the ring with Ali, and a nasty cut on the side of his temple that he insisted was nothing. “I'm not willing to lose you this way."

  "Can you talk just a bit more quietly?” he winced. “I promise I'm listening."

  I sank onto the bed beside him, wrapped my arms around him. “I'm sorry, baby.” My words were but a whisper, delivered directly to his ear. “I just don't want to lose you."

  "I thought I was lost,” he said, turning toward me. Our lips—his still chapped, despite the liters of liquid I'd forced into him—met, and it was the best feeling in the world. “But I knew you'd come for me."

  "Always.” Our next kiss was deeper, stronger. “Nothing will stop me."

  His neck went back, one of the few places on his body free from other men's marks. I had to kiss him, to have the taste of his flesh on my tongue, to drink him in. “God, baby,” I murmured, feeling the thick, heady pulse of his jugular against my lips, “I was so scared."

  "Me, too.” His arms were tight around me, steel bands. “Me, too."

  After that, there were no words. We moved slow—he was sore everywhere, and I might have strained a few muscles in the past few days myself.

  But God, I'd missed his shoulders. The hollow where his collarbone met his neck. The way his nipples stiffened under my tongue.

  More than that, I missed the sounds he makes. Those throaty little groans, the half-choked words. The music of indrawn breath, slowly released sighs, a symphony of sound, played just for me.

  When his fingers slid through my hair, gentle tips bumping along the surface of my skull, I swear there were no tears at the marvel of it.

  All right. Almost none.

  His belly was a band of bruises, indigo blossoms spread from ribcage to pelvis.

  "We don't have to do this, babe,” I told him, searching for an unmarked inch to kiss. “If it hurts too much."

  "It'll kill me,” he replied flatly, “if you stop."

  He's tough, my Matt. Careful as I was, I know there were times my touch caused pain. Still, by the time my lips reached the hollow of his hips, he was rising to meet me.

  "I love you, Rockhound.” One quick kiss, before I got to work. “So much."

  "Me, too, Parker. Me, too."

  * * * *

  There's something powerful about taking your lover in your mouth. Took me a long time to come to that realization—too much time on the receiving end of Sheriff Daltry's attentions made it hard to see what pleasure could be had. Matt had done that, with his long, slow kisses, his middle-of-the-night surprises.

  And then, of course, I had to see how he'd respond when I did it to him. Now, I can't imagine life without it.

  I love the way his thighs lock up, getting stiff as boards, as he tries to push further into my mouth. I love the way he pulls on my hair, tugging my buzz cut out to what he calls ‘normal person’ length.

  The way his breath gets deeper, faster, louder—especially the closer he gets to coming. The most beautiful thing—he reaches a point where he forgets everything, forgets that ivory league education, forgets all the years with Sean that taught him to be quiet, forgets every thing except me and him. That's when he shouts, right out loud, “Jesus, Parker! Fucking fuck me now!"

  Sometimes I do.

  Sometimes, like today, I just keep sucking on him, letting my tongue wrap round the base of his cock and squeezing. His balls fit in my hand something perfect, and if you give a little tug at just the right moment, he loses all ability to ta
lk. Even obscenity fails him. It's just,

  "Fuu..uuu..."

  as he comes.

  I love that.

  * * * *

  "I feel,” Matt said, rolling up onto one side, “much, much better."

  "That's the idea.” I was already zipping into my pants, sidearm back at my belt. There's something about this country that just doesn't sit well with me. “You ready to blow this taco stand yet?"

  "More than ready.” He shuddered. “I don't want to go through that nightmare again."

  I struck a pose, the affronted lover. “You said you enjoyed that!"

  He threw a pillow at me. “You goof! You know what I mean."

  I laughed for a minute, then became serious. “Yeah, I do.” I pulled back the curtain, checked the crowd walking the street. “We've got to find you another line of work, darling."

  "Believe it or not, there are plenty of ways for me to work with stones that don't require this amount of adventure,” Matt replied. He started to count options on his fingers. “I could go on a lecture tour again, I could write another book, I could work as a buyer for the jewelry market."

  "Just pick something,” I said, “something safe. Because,” I continued, dipping in for a kiss, “your adventuring days are over."

  "That sounds good to me,” he replied. “Wonderful, in fact. But there's just one little problem. What are we going to do about Big Dom?"

  * * * *

  "I say we let him rot.” That wasn't what Matt wanted to hear, but at this point, I was out of patience. I'd been through enough: nearly losing Matt, dealing with Crazy John, an armed raid on African kidnappers. Sean's fate was not high on my priority list.

  "We made a promise, Parker.” Matt shook his head. “To Big Dom and Rocco. Sean's not the issue here—they are. They're not the type of men you can just forget about. They're not going to let us forget."

  "Babe, I spent our money.” My boots were in sorry shape. The toes were scuffed to hell, and I think those speckles round the laces came direct from Crazy John's innards. “To hire them boys to get you back."

  "So we don't have enough cash to hire a guide to go back country and find a stone."