Okay I admit it, I’m almost older than dirt. I grew up during the height of the Cold War and remember having those in school air raid drills in case the Evil Awful Russians came to get us!!!1!
And of course me being the twisted thing I’ve always been, I wanted them to come get me. Why wouldn’t I? I may have been a kid but I knew a hot guy when I saw one and man, that Illya Kuryakin, the smug Russian spy from TV made my little fangirly heart go pitter pat.
I thoroughly blame my Internet bud Aleksandr Voinov for reawakening my love of Russian bad boys and inviting me along on the wild ride that’s been creating our own U.N.C.L.E.-ish world with a heavy slash spin. First up is our Clean Slate out now from Dreamspinner Press and we’re nearing the 60,000 word mark on a follow up pitting a suave and snarky American spy against a Russian adversary with a nifty knife kink that would certainly make old Illya and Napoleon blush.
Here’s a taste of the assassination, amnesia and elaborate charade, we call Clean Slate:
They moved forward. Still two shooters unaccounted for, plus their mark. Stairs suspended in the middle of the house led to a second level. Another corpse on the way up: attacker number three. Further up, a bedroom with a large bathroom. In the bath, spread out over the tiles, the body of a young dark-haired woman, naked and very beautiful, limbs angled uncomfortably. Chris paused for a moment, noticing faint surgery scars under her too perfect, large breasts before he turned around.
A final gunman lay sprawled near the bed, shot twice, in throat and chest, at short range. Crumpled behind the bed, their mark, Andrei Voronin, naked and covered in blood. His left wrist was broken, a shard of bone poking angrily through the skin.
John moved to crouch near the body.
“He’s bought it,” Chris told him. “And the hooker too.” Chris patted his teammate on the shoulder. “Looks like our work here is done.” He’d already stepped away when John’s voice made him stop.
“Not for long. He took it in the head.” Chris turned and lined up the shot. Chest, throat, face should do it. No need to make the man suffer. “I’ll just finish him.”
John stepped into his way. “He’s alive. We need to get him out of here. Stat.”
“We’re here to kill him, John. What the fuck are you thinking?”
“They said neutralize,” John reminded him in that prissy don’t even think of fucking with me tone. “But if you feel better about it, I’ll call in.”
“A couple bullets is a good way to accomplish that,” Chris groused while John pulled out the phone and pressed fast dial. A warning glance told him not to shoot the mark before John stepped to the side. It did give Chris a few moments to study the mark’s body, all toned like that of a habitual runner, his light eyes staring into nothing while the brain connected to those eyes was likely dribbling out of the temple wound. Three-day stubble, blond hair wet and shoulder-length. Nice-sized cock. If the man was a grower, that hooker had at least gone out with a smile.