“Oof!” His bleeding bollocks ached with fire and pain. A size sixteen military boot can do that, hurt, just a bit, enough to seize the wind from a man’s exhausted lungs, send a searing pain arrowing up to the sore crown of his skull, inside his battered head, until he sees stars and comets, and make him want to give it all up and lie down to rest already.
That’s what this fucking bugger wanted, for Feeney—now completely devoid of weapons, and possibly his manhood—to lie down and take a bullet to the back of the ear.
Feeney. Down. Forever.
Curiously, of all the things that could be and should be coursing through his fatigued mind, Feeney heard Lis Stovicek laughing to tears at the scenario of someone, anyone demanding Feeney “The Fiend” lie down, like a whipped dog, with his bollocks kicked flat, waiting to be “put to sleep.”
“Oof!” Same “oof.” Fucking hell.
Time always slowed for him in heightened crises, as if something within him automatically knew he needed to perceive what normally couldn’t be seen when all things—people, actions, bullets—flew at speeds, at which even a Jai-Alai player would cringe to tears.
Time slowed now, as Feeney’s mind raced, as he went with his done in body’s hurt, “allowed the pain,” and didn’t fight it, despite having been taught all his fierce life and violent career to “fight through the pain.”
Ignoring the pain had been the one thing in his many years of training that he’d always gotten a bad mark on.
He found it almost never worked when he truly needed it, not for him, not for some fucked up reason the psych squad had said was a “flaw” in him.
So hard ignoring something that hurt him to his core, like “fighting the pain,” seemed to make it worse to him, make the blood flow faster, and the throbbing, excruciating bits more so.
Lis’d laughed at that, too. At Feeney’s “flaw,” and had single-handedly fixed it.
“Accept the pain, Feeney, my fine fiend. It’s your friend, a constant and reliable companion. As long as you feel her, and hold her dear, you know you’re alive, me boyo.”
“ ‘Pain’? My ‘companion’? What the fuck’re you, now, Lis, a swami-yogi?”
“Yeah, you stupid Irish shit. Exactly.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Fuck you, you stupid O’McShit,” a grinning Lis had said, while polishing that nonreg Sicilian stiletto that’d taken more than one man’s pride, and/or life. You never fucked with Lis Stovicek when Stovi had that stiletto, or any sharp object in hand. Never. Lis was the best knifeman and backup in a tight squeeze that Feeney’d ever had, air or ground, but Lis liked to fuck with people, then fuck them up.
Yeah. Lis would laugh at this “old school” guy with the albino white hair, who’d just kicked Feeney’s nuts nearly out his own arsehole.
And Lis would feel a cringe of sympathy for Feeney, but still laugh at his unfortunate situation. Yeah. Lis Stovicek would.
Stovi had a special leeway with Feeney that he didn’t allow anyone else, whether they served equal to, above, or below him. Lis was Lis. Lis was a pain, just like a fucking size sixteen boot to the bollocks, but Lis had a fine balance of skills and sense of timing you couldn’t buy nor find easily, skills in odd things and eerie timing—that’d saved lives.
Had saved Feeney’s life, before, when Feeney couldn’t save himself, when no one else in The Regiment or elsewhere could’ve.
So, Mad Lis could call Feeney whatever Lis wanted.
“Fucking, mixed blooded, bastard Czech, where the hell’re you?” his mind grumbled, as he managed half a solid breath, and forced his mind back to where training and self-preservation demanded it be.
In slow motion, while he kneeled like a victim about to be executed, as the size sixteens approached. The semi-automatic handgun was cocked. And Feeney’s breaths wheezed. And extraneous blood and sweat found and burned his eyes.
Oh, yeah, and that infernal, too slowly receding, still radiating pain, through his tender prostate and up his spine.
And a dim, self-pitying thought that he’d never have as many kids as his parents, nor any more like his Danny, or—.
He took another half a gasp, behind a cracked and bruised rib, to breathe oxygen and to focus.
He accepted the pain, whether of scrotum or of his life to this point that he was about to lose; his life, his “other” life; not this life that belonged to guns and danger. And dying.
He pushed back all the thoughts, all fears, all divergent concerns for warm wife, soft bed, happy family, and drunk friends; and detained, laughing partners and focused on....
Step. Step. Gun cocking, and coming down—.
Yet, one more thing came, unbidden, a bit of stray remorse, “I spend too much time away, no wonder Rhianna threatens divorce when I’m there, always hearing ‘Stovicek said’ this or ‘Lis did’ that.”
And, yes, one full thought on point.
“God, I’m fuckin’ dead exhausted. I just wanna lie down, for Christsake,” but—.
Krasny’s size sixteens and his modified semi-automatic “Polish Makarov” were nearly on top of him, as Feeney’s exhausted, woolly mind abruptly rang with one clear silver bell of Stovicek softly chuckling and whispering into his mind’s ear, “You’re a dog, Feeney. No. A fucking wild, Irish wolf. Rollover and lick your bollocks goodbye, or roll—.”
Feeney felt Krasny, his killer, behind and to the side and, abruptly, Feeney rolled. He dropped so he’d duck below the direct muzzle sight and rolled tight, warding off the gun with one arm, and kicking hard, for all his own combined size thirteens were worth.
Kicking stone hard Krasny off balance, as Feeney brought his iron fist to the fucker’s throat at full tilt.
Everyone’s Achilles’ Heel.
There was an audible crack, and a feel like bamboo giving, and then a wheeze of breath, misplaced through a shattered corridor of human windpipe, and, oh yes, his spine’d snapped, too.
The look in Krasny’s bruised and swollen eyes said it all, as the big man fell to his knees, as his weapon fell and Feeney took his time retrieving it, as Krasny, the assassin, choked and wheezed.
But now there were more footsteps, light and running, and the door kicked in, followed by a tiger roll and Feeney met this new attacker; retrieved gun to rifle, “Polish Pounder” to H&K MP5.
The new guy was covered toe to head in assault gear, but Feeney relaxed, he knew this killer, who now pointed the H&K muzzle at Krasny, splayed out on the floor at Feeney’s feet.
“What’s with him?” The mellow voice asked, as the relentless, Polish exKGB man, turned assassin for hire, was sipping his last air for all time, soulless blue eyes staring. Feeney made a fist to throat gesture.
“Ah, rats. I missed that? I love when you do that. It’s so ... manly.”
Feeney plopped back on his ass, with a grunt, then squirmed.
“What’s with you, Fiend?”
Feeney sighed and didn’t fucking care, as he rubbed his nuts.
“Whoa, not when I’m in the room, man!”
Feeney took a breath and volunteered the info; Lis’d find out anyway.
“In the bollocks? Ouch. With those whoppers, eeh.” Followed by mad Stovicek laughter, eventually followed by, “Hey, Feeney. Your guy’s stopped wheezing.” And. “Sweet. In the throat. Fucking hell, I’d liked to’ve seen that.”
“You’re seriously ill, y’know, you fuckin’, insane Czech.”
“Czech American Brit. And yet I still get paid to do this wild shit, to come and rescue your ball-less ass.”
“Fuckin’ shet up, Lis.”
Stovicek laughed to tears, as Feeney rubbed his sore manly parts, and laid down to rest.
It didn’t matter to Sue Tommy, not then and not later, as to what road she’d been on and exactly where on it, when the accident had occurred. Crenna, her three year old, was asleep in her backseat child seat, secure in dreamland as mommy drove to auntie’s.
The accident had been quite minimal, in damage to the autos and in trip time loss; the man had been apologetic, deferential, concerned, and informative; if not apparently a tad bit anxious, but he’d given his name, address, contact numbers, and insurance information, without hesitation. And taken hers.
He’d asked about little Crenna in the backseat.
“My Crenna can sleep through thunderstorms, that one.” The man had smiled and had said, “how cute the little dear” was, and that he was “sorry and had to hurry on to hospital,” his wife was “quite ill and was now having an emergency c-section.” So, he was due to “have a sweet little Crenna” of his own, “perhaps within the hour.”
Goodbye. Good luck.
He’d driven off just, as the sirens of the police and emergency vehicles could be heard. Evidently, another passing driver had called it in.
Sue’s insurance company’s van had driven up not two minutes after he’d left, and the police and emergency had arrived, as well. Fine and excellent service, she’d thought. Quite worth the taxes and high premiums.
They’d taken her info, asked questions of her, and taken the info about the man and about where he’d gone off to and why, in leaving the scene of an accident.
“Yes?” One of the Emergency Medical Techs was sitting on the backseat, beside Crenna, and had promised not to startle the child.
“We need to waken your child, Miss.”
“Please, just to be certain.” And something in that voice and the look in those eyes....
“Crenna? Darling wake up. Wake up for Mommy. Crenna? Crenna!”
* * *
It hadn’t matter to Sue Tommy, not then and not later, as to what road she’d been on and exactly where on it, when the accident had occurred, while her Crenna was asleep, on the road to auntie’s.
It hadn’t mattered, not until the sleeping child had been discovered to have a concussion from the minimal collision, as if she’d been held and abruptly, violently shaken.
It hadn’t mattered, not until the man had been sought and no wife or any woman nor teen had been found to have been scheduled for nor had received a c-section in the hospital mentioned nor the surrounding three.
It hadn’t mattered, until the man’s IDs, contact numbers, and insurance information had all proven false.
Little Crenna Tommy’s life had quietly slipped away in her sleep when her mother’s car had collided with another on the M5, collided with an auto driven by a “nonperson”; driven by a ghost.
“So, little brother, you still got a ball left to make our Mam a granny?”
It was the biweekly family gathering, and Feeney’d missed most of them in the past couple of months—away “on business,” but it was Mam’s birthday. He never missed that. With or without bollocks.
“Mam’s already a granny, you dolt. And I’m killing Lis for telling—.”
“About telling the true nature of your ‘infirmity’?” Feeney’s kid sister, Caroline said brightly, as she brought out more salad.
“Fuck. Does everyone know?” Car patted him on the shoulder.
“Lis was kind enough to inform us all. Unlike you, always keeping secrets all hush hush about your comings and goings, and how you got this scar and that. Drives Mam and Rhianna mad.”
"Didn't I tell you to stay away from Lis?"
"Yes, but you're my always missing brother, and a dinna listen to yah. Plus, I like Lis, a lot."
Great! He thought. Lis ... and Caroline, what was that?
_End for now.
Our hardcore main line
[sensuality is R, NC17, X, XXX]
medium and hard erotica / sensual romance / romantic erotica
Our softcore line
[sensuality is PG13, Soft R]
soft erotica / sensual romance / romantic erotica and general fiction
Our nonfiction line
[PG13, R, NC17, X, XXX]
Other projects Neale Sourna has written and have been published beyond PIE.
Copyright 2020 Neale Sourna
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