Double-Cross Express

Serge took immediate command when the young Arab came back around the bed, and the youth seemed content to be dominated. Serge forced him down on his knees on the carpeting between his spread legs and pushed the youth's mouth onto his cock and face-fucked him, not letting him loose until he had taken Serge's ejaculate. Then Serge rose and turned the youth around between him and the bed. He reached both hands down and stripped the sleeping pants off the young Arab and took the youth by his buttocks and raised his body. The youth arched back, palming his hands on the top of the bed to take the weight of his torso and hooking his legs over Serge's shoulders and letting them dangle down the beefy Russian's back. He writhed and moaned and groaned, while Serge brought, first his cock and balls, and then, when the Arab youth had shot his load, the youth's hole in his mouth.

The Arab was begging for the fuck when Serge slowly brought his body down his chest and belly, the youth still arched back, supported on the bed with the palms of his hands, and Serge slid his throbbing cock into a recently well-used, well-prepared hole. The youth gasped and groaned at a taking that was deeper and far more of a stretch than either of the Arabs had given him.

The Russian held the Arab there to his pelvis with just one arm wrapped around the small of his back and raising and lowering the Arab's hips while he stroked in and out deep inside the young man, listening for the sighing and moaning and little encouragements of technique that assured him that he was the best lover this young man had ever had. The sweetness of the youth and of his warm and welcoming hole, his channel walls undulating over Serge's stroking cock, sent the Russian to new heights of arousal and just now, just at this time, he loved his job. The Russian played the young Arab's chest and belly and cock with his other hand, bringing the youth to another flowing, after which all of the tension and movement went out of the youth, and he just lay arched back, moaning and sighing at the working of the Russian's cock deep inside him. The Russian fucked on, fighting the rise of his own semen, not wanting the loving to end.

As Serge felt his ejaculation coming on, he reached over and into his unzipped satchel with his free hand and brought out the syringe he had stashed there "just in case."

At the point of shooting off deep inside the Arab's channel, Serge expertly pierced the youth's thigh with the needle of the syringe and pumped the drug into him.

If the Arab youth knew he'd taken a needle, he said nothing. He was burbling almost incoherently as Serge gently lowered him on the bed.

Serge put his mouth to the youth's ear and asked, "Where is the cell going? What is the mission?" but the young man was already too far gone to answer.

Dressing and retrieving Samir's briefcase, Serge quietly returned to his own cabin two cars farther away from the engine. No one stopped him, and as far as he could determine, no one saw him leave the Arab's cabin. All that came from the surrounding cabins were spent and satisfied snores.

Once in his own cabin, Serge inspected the briefcase, and as he assumed he would, found that it was padlocked. He could not risk trying to open it; he had no idea what other security devices might be attached to it, or whether forcing it open would damage the precious contents. So, he hid it as best he could and spent the remainder of the few hours before they would reach Vienna station cleaning himself in the cabinet and remaking himself into an old Zurich banker.

Discovering in the pocket of his dinner jacket the small bottle of Cognac Samir had given him in the smoking car, Serge decided he deserved a bit of celebration for at least a partially successful night, which permitted him a bit more time to reach the primary objective, not to mention the magnificent fucking with the young Arab, and tossed the contents of the bottle down in one gulp. Then, exhausted, he slipped into a deep sleep, the sleep of the dead.

* * * *

Serge didn't awaken until over twenty-four hours later. He had missed the stop at Vienna station altogether. When he came to the train was stopped, but it wasn't in Vienna. He groggily sat up and looked out of the window. The sign for Bucharest station was staring at him from across the platform.

"Shit," he said.

And then, realizing the knocking he'd been hearing wasn't in his head, he turned and flipped aside the blinds on the window into the corridor and was staring into the red, angry face of Sam Winterberry.

"I was drugged," Serge mumbled as he let Winterberry into his cabin. "The bottle of Cognac the terrorist leader gave me." Serge was using a disguise Winterberry had seen before and Winterberry knew his cabin number, so there was no moment of Keystone Cop running about on that score.

"Well, come along and show me where their cabins are. We didn't see them dismount here in Bucharest, so they must still be in transit."

"But why?" Serge said, getting less confused by the moment. "What are you doing here? In Budapest."

"We couldn't reach you." Winterberry said. "They left one of the cell members in Paris. You should only be looking for four men. And it's not the briefcase we want, I don't think. We're sure now that our agent embedded in the Paris cell was sent to Tripoli to be assassinated there. We must assume that Samir no longer believes what he was told by that agent about electronics. Does Samir have anything that looks like a laptop case."

"God. God, yes, he does," Serge said. "But I got the briefcase. I have it right over here. Needs a key, though."

"Let's see it," Winterberry said, as he extracted a brace of skeleton keys from his jacket pocket.

In a jiffy the briefcase was open and all too soon they found it was stuffed with clothes.

"Where are their cabins?" Winterberry asked. "Me they don't know. And you're in disguise. We can walk right by them and check them out."

The cabins were empty. All but one.

They found the young Arab Serge had fucked and taken the briefcase from. He was lying on his bed, a "Do Not Disturb" sign on his door. The only way they knew he was alive was that he was moaning softly. He was still under the influence of drugs, though—certainly having been drugged beyond what Serge had given him. He was on his back, knees bent and legs spread. His hole looked angry red and slack and had semen dribbling out of it, and there were too many spent condoms on the floor around the bed to be readily counted. It seemed like he'd been fucked by the whole Arab nation.

His cabin was disheveled. If there had been anything here anyone wanted, they had found it.

"Oh, God," Sam Winterberry muttered when he looked down into the face of the young man.

"What?" Serge said. "He's still alive. He can tell us where they went. His comrades obviously got off in Vienna, if your people didn't see them get off here."

"This is no Arab, Serge." Winterberry said, his voice full of bitterness. "This is Jamil Jallud, an American, the son of a powerful congressman even. God, he's been playing amateur spy. And the two of you have been working each other, trying to get secrets neither one of you have. And now we have to backtrack to Vienna to try to find them."

"No. Here. Hungary, the Hungarian parliament," the figure on the bed moaned softly.

"What is that? What did you say, son? Stick with us. You'll be fine. We'll get you patched up." Winterberry was so beside himself, worried over his unit's next appropriation hearings in Congress, that he hadn't fully realized what young Jallud had muttered.

"No. No. I heard them talking as they were gangbanging me," Jallud said, his voice stronger now. "They were getting off the train in Vienna. But headed here, for Hungary. An attack on the Hungarian parliament building."

"Go out on the platform, Serge," Winterberry directed, as he sat down on the bed by the moaning Jamie Jallud. "You'll see men in suits standing out there. Identify yourself and tell him the target and then get someone back here to help this young man."

As Serge ran down the corridor, Winterberry gathered the young man up in his arms and began to rock him back and forth and tell him everything would be fine. He could not help, however, letting one hand slip down and encase the young man's cock. A very nice body indeed, he thought. He would have to have some of that.

"And, Mr. Jallud," he murmured, "welcome to the Agency's special unit."