The Deadly Kiss (WIP)

by Elayna

notes, warning and other information at the bottom of the page

~ Part 1/? ~

"Quinn. John Quinn." He flicked his lighter, a bright flame shooting out as he spoke the words.

The young man leaned over slightly, his cigarette catching the fire as he breathed. Exhaling, he responded, "Kendricks. Benjamin Kendricks."

"Pleasure to meet you," Quinn said civilly, evaluating the younger man as he spoke. Both were dressed in black tuxedos with white shirts and black shoes, but Quinn recognized the subtle signs indicating that Ben's tuxedo was bought off the rack. The material wasn't quite as fine as his own, the sleeves a quarter inch too long. Though not arrogant, Quinn's tuxedo was tailor made to his figure and he knew it fitted him perfectly.

If this party were just a normal party, Quinn would have been happy to linger with this stranger who had asked for a light, to flirt and make his acquaintance. Despite the mediocre tailoring, the tuxedo looked superb on Ben's trim figure, the reddish gold of his hair slightly long, calling to Quinn to run his fingers through it, the crystalline eyes beautiful, the cleft in his chin entrancing. A handsome man… but not a wealthy one.

Which meant that he wasn't a close acquaintance of their host. Paul Valentine only hobnobbed with the richest or most distinguished individuals in the world. Most likely Ben was just a friend of a friend, disguising his excitement at being brought along to a wealthy man's party. Quinn had larger concerns than picking up a handsome young fling for tonight.

He nodded politely, giving a meaningless smile, and drifted off, searching the crowd for the handsome young man he would be delighted to see. Derek had stopped reporting in several days ago. If he was here, then Quinn's alarm had been unnecessary. Several times before, Valentine's excessive security measures had caused Derek problems checking in with headquarters.

If Derek wasn't at this party…

With the practice of years, Quinn shoved worrying thoughts to the back of his mind, concentrating on the here and now. He studied the crowd, the rich women in their elegant and sometimes blatantly exhibitionistic gowns, the men primarily wearing black tuxedos. Several had started dancing to the classical strains of the small orchestra, but most were mingling and nibbling on appetizers, sipping wine or champagne. The rotund Valentine was holding court at the bottom of the stairs just past the foyer, expansively welcoming the arriving guests, his white tuxedo making him instantly noticeable in the crowded room.

Quinn walked around the room, nodding and smiling, stopping for a brief exchange of words here and there with famous faces that he recognized from TV, newspaper and magazine articles, constantly scanning for Derek. As Valentine's personal assistant, Derek could be anywhere, socializing with the guests or supervising the staff. He wasn't anywhere.

Stopping by the orchestra, Quinn watched as if admiring the musicians' excellence. Discreetly, he pushed two buttons on his watch. A tiny light flashed on the face. Derek may not be here, but he had managed to hide something, something that Quinn needed to retrieve.

Quinn headed for the main food table, then veered to the right, bearing toward the hallway at the back of the room. The gentleman who stopped him was polite but determined; Quinn wasn't going to be allowed exploring. He was redirected to the bathroom, his pretended interest.

It took another quarter hour of scouting while mingling before Quinn escaped out the side of the mansion into the garden. The scent of the golden yellow roses was heavenly but the thorns bit into Quinn's palms as he climbed the trellis. Reaching the second floor, Quinn feared to open the windows. Closed and locked, they were undoubtedly wired. Tapping his toes against the stone wall, small blades snicked out the front of his shoes. With the trellis ending, the blades combined with fingers dug into the grooves between the bricks gave him the support needed to climb to the third floor where he finally located a window left negligently open.

Even on the third floor, Quinn walked with precise steps, alert for hidden floor alarms. He reached the second floor safely. This part of the house was quiet, the sound of the party muffled by the thick walls and plush carpeting.

The watch detector brought him to a bedroom. Cautiously, he tapped it open to discover a girl's bedroom, opulent compared to his niece's, and certainly cleaner, the bed made and no clothes scattered about, but with touches of a pre-teen, Barbie dolls, school books, a few stuffed toys, and posters of one of those manufactured boy bands on the wall.

Quinn smiled as he stepped close to the poster. Derek liked to joke that he should quit Her Majesty's Secret Service for a second career as a male idol, and indeed, his deceptively baby face and white-blond hair attracted many a young female.

Lifting the frame away from the wall, Quinn quickly found the small computer disc taped to the back, with the microdot attached that would alert the detector in Quinn's watch to its presence. The discovery worried Quinn even more than Derek's non-appearance. His fellow agent would only have taken the trouble to hide this disc if he had reason to fear his cover was about to be blown.

Tucking the disc into an inner pocket, Quinn replaced the frame. The important task now was to return to the ballroom and leave the house so the information on the disc could be examined. Finding Derek would have to wait. He stepped out of the bedroom and almost jumped. Benjamin Kendricks was standing in the hallway, swaying ever so gently.

"Hi!" Kendricks smiled, his arms coming up to rest on Quinn's shoulders. "It must be my lucky night to run into you again."

"Mr. Kendricks."

"Please, Benjamin," he said huskily, his body inclining toward Quinn's.

"Benjamin. We should return to the ballroom."

"Yeah, right," he replied, stroking one finger down Quinn's jawline, feeling the short brown beard. "I was looking for… what was I looking for?"

Though well-muscled, Benjamin's lack of height must make him a lightweight, Quinn decided. Certainly he had managed to get well sloshed already, his smile charmingly over bright, the scent of champagne coming from his lips as they covered Quinn's. Aware of the other man's attractiveness and deciding that a romantic tryst would be a reasonable excuse if discovered, Quinn let himself respond, his arms slipping under Ben's jacket, closing around his waist, pulling their bodies together.

Ben's kiss was sweet, sweeter even than the flavor of champagne that lingered on his lips. Quinn rubbed his hips against Ben's body, feeling the answering thrust of slim hips, Ben's hands smoothly exploring Quinn's chest.

As blood pulsed to his cock, Quinn realized this was madness. Covering up his excursion was one matter; trying to escape discreetly from the mansion while hiding an erection was another matter entirely. He gently disengaged from Ben's embrace, murmuring, "We should return to the ballroom."

"Yeah, right," Ben smiled again, staggering a bit as he turned to walk in front of Quinn. He started down the long hallway, Quinn trailing a step behind. As they reached the top of the stairs, Ben circled sharply, one elbow coming up to slam into Quinn's arm. Quinn lost his balance, starting to fall down the stairs, desperately catching the balustrade.

There was a gun in Ben's hand before Quinn realized it, and he fired at the glass in the French doors at the end of the hallway, shrill alarms shrieking as the window shattered. Before Quinn could right himself, Ben barreled out the doors onto the balcony, the thin wood splintering. As he got his feet under him, Quinn patted his pocket, afraid of what he would find… or not find.

The disc was gone. Cursing, he lunged for the French doors to follow Ben, but was stopped by a yell. He checked back to see one of the tactfully tuxedoed guards running up the stairs, gun in hand and pointing at him. He halted, raising his hands. Better alive and able to provide a description of Kendricks to his superiors than shot in the head. Pasting a worried expression on his face, he quickly prepared his cover story, a dalliance with another guest who was surely mad and pulled a gun.

He swore at himself mentally even as he prepared to lie to the guard. A pretty face had fooled him. Derek had disappeared; the disc he had hidden was stolen.

Quinn was going to find Kendricks and make him regret this night.

~ end part 1 ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Part 2/? ~

By the time Quinn stalked into the director's office five hours later, he was tired, hungry, and irritated. The exhaustion and hunger didn't bother him unduly. Quinn was accustomed to living, fighting, and running to the limits of his physical reserves. The irritation was harder to ignore. Valentine's guards had been marginally polite, but they had been thorough. Detained, searched, and questioned, Quinn could only grit his teeth and hang onto his pretense of being an innocent bystander until they had given up and released him.

Alex Rodgers was still at his desk, a fact that did not surprise Quinn. The common rumor was that A.R. never left the building, and secretly slept on a cot in the janitor's room. A small, fussy man, A.R. seemed an unlikely choice to head Her Majesty's Secret Service, his initials giving rise to the typical joke that anal retentiveness was his main job qualification. Indeed, that attention to detail and devotion to his job made A.R. the perfect manager for the service. His knowledge of world politics, terrorists, and criminals was extensive and his ability to recall that information and make correlations was almost frightening.

A.R. gave a small sniff as Quinn entered, his normal acknowledgment of the other's presence. He was hunched over his computer screen, studying a file, every inch of his gray suit and tie perfectly in place despite the late hour.

"Alex," Quinn said briefly, continuing without a pause to the crystal decanter on the credenza and pouring himself a healthy swallow of Irish whiskey. Though A.R. was never seen indulging in his own physical pleasures, he understood the stresses his agents faced, and provided whatever form of sustenance they needed. The whiskey was on display, but rumors abounded of secret caches of cigars, chocolate, and other goodies that Alex doled out to different agents, none of whom would confess the type of treat they received for fear of appearing weak.

"Quinn. How was your evening?"

"It was a complete cock-up. I didn't find Derek. He left a disc behind and some fresh-faced pup stole it from me."

"Hmm. Shame that. Very careless of you."

"Bloody irritating, is what it is." It was a great deal more than that, but something about A.R.'s fastidiousness always made Quinn keep his language cleaner than he would have in other company.

"Who knows what Derek might have put on a disc? Perhaps pages and pages of encrypted data regarding Valentine's illegal activities. Or perhaps the meeting date and location for Valentine's next deal."

"Perhaps," Quinn said briefly. 'What we might have learned' speculation did not interest him. And then he stared at Alex. Idle guessing had never intrigued his boss either. Alex always based his suppositions on solid facts.

Swiftly, he crossed the room to stand behind Alex's desk, looking at the file directory on the computer screen. Leaning over Alex, he placed his hand on the mouse and clicked on the 'readme' file. It opened to reveal four words - 'Sally's. Tuesday. Eight. D.' He clicked the file closed, randomly opening one of the other files in the directory to see a series of scrambled figures and numbers. Garbage files or… code? "Where did you get this?"

The large chair on the other side of the desk had been facing the wall, but now it swung around, propelled by a push from Benjamin Kendricks' leg. "He got it from me."

"You!"

"Yes, Mr. Kendricks has been most helpful."

Quinn growled, "Why? Why steal it from me and bring it here?" Relief at having the disc back warred with his anger at being fooled, and he stalked over to Benjamin, glaring down at him.

"I didn't intend to bring it here," Benjamin said coldly. "I intended to trade it back to Valentine for Derek."

"Fortunately for us, Mr. Kendricks reconsidered after examining the information. Now sit down, Quinn. Your posturing isn't scaring anyone."

Calming down enough to sit proved impossible, but Quinn backed off, pacing over to the decanter to pour another drink. Glass in hand, he leaned against the credenza. "Explain."

"Mr. Kendricks is Derek's brother."

"Derek doesn't have a brother."

"This will go faster if you don't interrupt, Quinn," A.R. chided. "Their parents were married when the boys were young but they died several years later in a car crash together. As you know, Derek was raised in a series of foster homes. Mr. Kendricks went to live with his grandmother. The two stayed in touch over the years and regard each other as family. Derek, apparently, has provided more information about our operations to Mr. Kendricks than perhaps was wise." A.R. gave an irritated sniff, and Quinn almost smiled. Derek would be royally raked over the coals for improper disclosure. As soon as they found him. "Mr. Kendricks began to worry when he didn't hear from Derek and invaded Valentine's party to find him, just as you did."

"You knew who I was," Quinn said slowly. "When you came up and asked for a light."

"I've seen a picture of you," Benjamin replied carelessly, as if knowing the name and face of a secret undercover operative was not a major violation of confidentiality. Anger entered his voice as he continued, "Only you weren't really looking for Derek, were you? You found that disc and you were going to leave. You would sacrifice Derek to bring down Valentine. But I won't. I want my brother found and I want to help."

"I don't need an amateur meddling in my work."

A.R. spoke before Benjamin could snarl back at Quinn. "Unfortunately, Quinn, you've got him. Mr. Kendricks and I made a deal in exchange for the disc. You will investigate Valentine's activities and search for Derek, and Mr. Kendricks will help you."

"This is absurd."

"I can assign another agent, Quinn, if you don't want to work with Mr. Kendricks."

Though filled with resentment, Quinn bit off the words he was going to say. He was a wise enough man to know when Alex was pushed too far. "Very well."

"Good. I will have Encryption begin working on the disc in the morning and provide information to you as soon as it is deciphered. I will leave it to you two to arrange your working partnership."

The term 'working partnership' made Quinn want to growl. Quinn worked alone, Alex knew that. Everyone knew Quinn's stance on partners, though few were privy to the background. Many years ago, he had worked full-time with a young agent, training him and developing his skills, an experience that scarred him for all future when the agent went rogue and tried to kill him. Since then, Quinn preferred to rely on himself unless absolutely impossible.

In the very few limited circumstances that demanded two people, Derek had proved a tolerable temporary partner. He was intelligent, quick-thinking, dedicated, and had a sense of humor. But to take on his stepbrother? To trust his life to the hands of an untrained stranger?

Quinn examined the young man with a discerning eye, noting more than how good he looked. His body was lean and trim, indicating an athletic ability. Though a little long, his hair was well styled and his nails trimmed, showing a conscientiousness about his personal grooming. His jaw was firmly set, the cleft in his chin made more pronounced by the tight facial muscles.

Very well. He would either be useful or Quinn would find some way to send him off on a wild goose chase. If he couldn't dump or outwit one irritating stepbrother, it was time for him to retire. "Tomorrow. One o'clock. Be back here."

With that command, he stalked out.

~ end part 2 ~

~ Part 3/? ~

Benjamin forced himself not to flinch when the door slammed as Quinn exited. Even if the older man wasn't here to see Ben react, he wouldn't show weakness in front of the agent's boss.

Alex smiled with a twist to one corner of his mouth. "You'll have to forgive Quinn. He's accustomed to getting his own way."

Rising smoothly, Ben replied, "That's fine. As long as it's my way too. He may have more experience, but I don't intend to be a yes-man." His air of confidence was misleading, butterflies fluttering madly against the lining of Ben's stomach. Derek had spoken of Quinn several times - and in great enough detail that Ben understood the agent's deep commitment to his job, and how determined he could be when convinced of the righteousness of his mission. And how demanding of his partners. 'Quinn would dress down God himself,' Derek had said bitterly once, 'if he thought the Almighty was mucking up the security of Her Majesty's government.'

"You two will have an interesting time, I'm sure. Be back at 11:00 tomorrow."

"But - "

"Paperwork, Mr. Kendricks. Employment papers, tax information, liability releases, emergency contacts. If you're working for Her Majesty's government, it will be done properly."

"But I don't - "

"Yes, Mr. Kendricks, you do. Ask for Miss Billings when you arrive. She'll have everything ready for you to fill out and sign. Now go. You'll need a good night's sleep if you're going to face Quinn's testing tomorrow."

His stature may be small and his movements fussily precise, but Benjamin could see the sheer strength of personality that allowed this man to overrule the more obviously intimidating Quinn. "Yes, Mr. Rodgers."

Just as Benjamin was about to walk out the door, A.R. commanded, "And don't forget your passport."

"My passport?"

"There's only one Sally's, Mr. Kendricks, and it's not in London." A.R. waved dismissal.

Then what country was it in? Feeling ignorant but grateful that A.R. had left this exchange until after Quinn departed, Benjamin escaped with a solemn nod of respect, dignity still intact but badly dented.

At least he only appeared young and naïve when Quinn wasn't in the room. In the end, Ben was far more interested in Quinn's impression of him than in any opinion of Alex's.

Feeling overall relieved and satisfied with how the evening had gone, Ben settled into the driver's seat of his silver Triumph TR6. The Triumph was well preserved but shabby looking, small nicks marring the once sleekly polished surface, the color of the upholstery dulled by use. Anyone looking at the car would assume Ben was a man of moderate means with a desire to be flashy, a careful man who bought a sporty older car for a reasonable price and out of frugality, kept it running long past its time.

That assumption was exactly the one Ben wanted people to make.

A short distance outside of London, Ben pulled into a long curving driveway before stopping in front of a gothic monstrosity of a house, discreet lighting illuminating the gray stone façade adorned with huge winged gargoyles ferociously staring down at visitors. Despite its age, the mansion was in pristine condition, the stone repaired to prevent crumbling, and the evidence of modern lighting, electricity, and central heating deliberately hidden to maintain the historical exterior.

Anyone looking at this house would assume its owner was vastly rich, wealthy enough to pay exorbitant death taxes and still spend money on all necessary renovations.

This assumption would be correct.

But then, only those people Ben trusted were allowed to see this segment of his life.

The hallway was quiet and deserted as Ben entered, the heels of his shoes faintly echoing on the marble tiling. Lloyd met him promptly, emerging from the butler's closet like a jack in the box, his normal daily attire of a neat black suit exchanged for flannel pajamas, a robe, and leather slippers, the only concession Benjamin won when he began his various late-night prowls and Lloyd insisted on waiting up for him. At least Lloyd would be comfortable, even if sleep-deprived. "Hello, sir."

"Hello, Lloyd." He held out his arms as he spoke, letting Lloyd remove the cufflinks.

"Did you find Mr. Derek, sir?"

"No, Lloyd. But I found a lead." Though disappointed at his failure, his tone reflected the excitement he couldn't hide. Benjamin had known that finding Derek tonight was unlikely, but a clue and the chance to work with John Quinn were beyond his wildest fantasies.

Cufflinks deposited for safekeeping in his pocket, Lloyd pulled Benjamin's jacket off his shoulders, replying, "Very good, sir."

"Do you know where Sally's is located, Lloyd?"

"I believe it's a very famous brothel in Paris, Mr. Benjamin."

Shaking his head with amusement, Benjamin wondered again how an elderly man who spent his days puttering around the mansion and working in his beloved garden always knew everything. Everything. To the sad youth reluctantly coming to live with his formidable grandmother after the death of his parents, Lloyd had seemed the most amazing of adults, wise about adult things but also equally knowledgeable about more important things, like the latest model of toy Dalek being introduced for the Christmas shopping season. "Then it appears I will be going to Paris soon. Please have a bag ready."

Trailing Benjamin up the stairs, Lloyd asked, "What kind of clothes, Mr. Benjamin?"

"Unknown, Lloyd."

"Very well, sir. I shall pack an appropriate selection."

And Lloyd would, Benjamin knew. For someone who never traveled outside his native country, Lloyd had an instinctive ability to guess what Benjamin would need. Walking up the stairs, his footsteps muffled by the Oriental rug attached to each step by an elegant gold bar, Benjamin asked, "Aunt Grace?"

"Sleeping, Mr. Benjamin."

Benjamin fell silent and Lloyd respected his desire to think over the events of the evening, remaining quiet as he followed Benjamin into the huge master bedroom and helped him remove the remainder of his clothing. With a brief goodnight, Lloyd departed, leaving Benjamin in his underwear and a black Turkish cotton dressing gown.

Too restless to sleep, Benjamin padded up the next flight of stairs, to the third floor, off-limits to all but him, Lloyd, and Derek. His stepbrother had laughed when he first saw Benjamin's plans, the bedroom walls knocked out to create one giant room, wiring installed for the massive Cray computer, laboratory equipment for forensic evaluation, the extensive gym equipment installed to keep Benjamin in top shape.

'You read too many Batman comic books,' the Derek in his memory chided.

'I want to help,' Benjamin said stubbornly. Even to Derek, he didn't tell the full reason behind his actions. Let Derek think it was childish fantasy. Better that than the truth.

'Then join the Service with me. You'll get the proper training and have access to all of the government's resources.'

'No. I've spent enough time obeying someone else's dictates. I'll do things my own way.'

Derek hadn't argued any longer. Once he had confided to Ben in a guilty whisper that he felt like the fortunate one of the two. Even the series of usually well meaning but occasionally neglectful foster families had been better than the few visits allowed to this mansion, trying to have fun with Benjamin under the disapproving and disagreeable eye of his grandmother, a cold woman who valued blooded family to the point of abandoning her daughter's stepson to the mercy of the government.

Benjamin walked by his various equipment. Tonight wasn't a night for work. He wanted to think, think about what had happened, what might happen. Meditation would clear his mind. He walked to the door even Derek didn't know existed, the handle a mere bump in the surface of the wall, the door sliding noiselessly on its runners.

The room was small and narrow, a large recliner its only furniture, the simplicity of the decorations overwhelmed by the mélange of pictures covering the walls. The mural started by the door with the accident, the newspaper articles pinned next to pages copied from the confidential and official police report, a picture of the happy couple on their wedding day in the middle, wearing simple clothes befitting a second wedding, Benjamin's mother in a knee-length cream gown decorated with pearls on the sleeves and around the neckline, Derek and Benjamin beaming in their blue suits matching that worn by Derek's father.

Benjamin drifted around the room, studying the pictures and articles on Paul Valentine next, his rise to fame and fortune as a multimillionaire businessman. Was he the one responsible? Had he rigged the crash, killing their parents? Derek would examine the police report, shake his head, and point out that an accident was an accident. 'They happen. Let it go. Don’t brood on the past.'

But Benjamin wasn't going to release his pain, not without an answer. He had overheard things, small things, bits and pieces of information that his young mind hadn't understood, but which later led him to realize the timing of their parents' death was too coincidental. Some day he would know the truth.

He reached out, brushing his hand over the next pictures, the growing collection that was crowding out the past. It had started as a lark, following Derek, seeing if his self-taught skills could deceive a trained secret agent. He had intended to show Derek the telephoto pictures as soon as he developed them, crowing with his success.

Then he swung the lens to snap a picture of Derek's partner as the two jogged in the park and saw John Quinn, sweat beading along his forehead, his brown hair and beard lightly touched with gray, the blue eyes watchful even while exercising, his white tank shirt and black running shorts revealing a disciplined and beautiful body.

And Benjamin fell into lust, hard and completely; shifting uncomfortably on the park bench as his cock perked up with interest. Lust wasn't new to Benjamin, but this reaction was certainly the most extreme he had ever experienced. This was the Quinn that made Derek rant? The stern taskmaster that demanded absolute perfection? The self-righteous lecturer? Why the hell hadn't Derek ever mentioned the face and form of a noble god?

Probably because Derek's tastes ran to fluffy female blondes, petite, silly and uncomplicated. Which was very good, as the brothers had never competed romantically, and Benjamin didn't want them to have to start.

He traced the thin lips that he had finally tasted tonight, the lower one only a tad fuller than the upper, but both so indescribably delicious in their masculinity. He was going to taste them again, and more. As soon as Derek was found safe.

Benjamin twirled the recliner to face away from the pictures of the past and toward the montage of Quinn: Quinn in his exercise clothes, Quinn in suits, Quinn in his tuxedo, Quinn firing a pistol, Quinn punching a man, Quinn smiling at Derek in one of his rare relaxed moments. Still wearing his dressing gown, Benjamin curled up on the recliner, muttered a sleepy, "Lights" to the computer, and fell asleep to dream of Quinn.

~ end Part 3 ~

~ Part 4/? ~

His fingers were suffering from cramps caused by the minutiae of forms when Benjamin strolled into the exercise room promptly at 1:00 the next day, but his shields and composure were restored after last night's lapse.

The sight of John Quinn wearing a karate gee stretching in a sideways lunge, evidencing more flexibility than such a large man had any right to display, almost ruined his impassive facade. Benjamin took a slow breath, quelled his body's instinctive reaction, and sauntered forth.

"You're on time."

"Promptness is one of my many virtues."

Quinn grunted at that response, eyeing Benjamin's tracksuit. "Are you ready?"

Too wise to be rushed into exertion, Benjamin said, "Let me stretch."

Nodding, Quinn continued his own stretching, shifting to a sideways lunge to the left. "Whenever you're ready."

Benjamin kept his routine short but thorough, ensuring that his body was warmed and flexible before advancing to the center of the mat.

Silently and with intense purpose, Quinn rushed at Benjamin. The younger man tensed preparing to roll to the side, but at the last second caught Quinn's sudden drop to the floor, his legs sweeping out in a fierce kick to the right. Benjamin leaped up and to the left, avoiding the attack, as Quinn rolled and came up in a crouch.

"Not bad," he said grudgingly.

"You'll have to do better than that to catch me," Benjamin challenged.

The pretense of a "test" was quickly abandoned for full-out battle, neither man willing to concede defeat. Both displayed an extensive range of skills, combining wrestling moves with martial arts, tossing in an occasional dirty punch straight out of a back alley fight. Neither was trying to seriously injure the other, but Quinn was determined to test Benjamin's ability to defend himself, and Benjamin was equally intent on proving his strength.

Benjamin used his gymnastic talent freely, leaping, diving, and flipping out of Quinn's grasp numerous times. Ultimately, the older man's experience and size won out, and Benjamin found himself pinned to the mat, Quinn's sheer brute strength holding him down. Both were panting heavily, sweat staining their clothes and beading on their foreheads, their bodies marked with the beginning of bruises.

"I win."

Benjamin glared at the declaration, throwing his weight at Quinn, trying to buck him off. Quinn smiled, keeping Benjamin pinned with the full use of arms, legs, and torso. "Concede, little one."

"Don't call me that," Benjamin snapped, using his last reserve of energy in another futile attempt to escape before collapsing limply on the mat.

Quinn's smile expressed his amusement at Ben's offended dignity, but he conceded. "Very well. You're a good fighter."

Though reluctantly granted, the approval warmed Benjamin and for the first time, he relaxed enough to become conscious of Quinn's masculinity, their bodies plastered tightly together. He flushed as he felt himself begin to react to Quinn's sexual dynamism, then wondered in amazement as Quinn seemed about to respond, the blue of his eyes darkening as he licked his lips and began to lower his head.

"Excuse me, Mr. Kendricks, you forgot to sign the back of the medical liability release form." Miss Billings' squeaky voice interrupted the moment, Quinn effortlessly rolling off Benjamin and giving him a hand up.

Fortunately, the disturbance dampened Benjamin's enthusiasm, leaving him with no embarrassing sign to hide. He stood up and took the offered form politely from Miss Billings, signing it without reading.

"Can you shoot?" Quinn asked as the secretary minced out.

"Yes."

"Then let's see if you're as good at marksmanship as you are at fighting," Quinn said, heading for the door without requesting assent.

Relieved to have passed his first trial, Ben followed Quinn, eager to demonstrate that while he had developed his own training and sought out his own teachers, he was as capable as any member of her Majesty's Secret Service.

* * *

Ben fired with absolute precision, the Beretta in his right hand, stabilizing his grip with his left hand cupped under the right. Nine shots, quickly but evenly spaced in timing, all ripped through the location of the paper dummy's heart. His experience showed in his steadiness and the minuscule flinch he allowed himself at the gun's recoil.

Taking off the mufflers, he hit the button that would bring the target sailing down the range toward him. Poking his finger in the single hole, he asked coolly, "Is that satisfactory?"

"If you can shoot that well outside of the firing range, it'll do," Quinn conceded.

"Now I'll suppose you'll do a smiley face on one, showing me how much better you are." Ben's tone was light but definitely challenging.

In response, Quinn pulled his mufflers back on, taking the Beretta from Ben's hand, stepping forward to the next lane. His posture was firm but relaxed, his comfort with the weapon apparent from his rapid firing. He duplicated Ben, firing nine shots before bringing the target closer. Two shots had created eyes on the face, but the other seven made a frown, giving the dummy a forlorn expression. "I'm not Mel Gibson, and this isn't a movie. If you think a stunt man's going to take your place when it gets dangerous, you can just go home right now, damn whatever Alex says."

"If Derek gets killed, he'll come home in a box, not go on a publicity tour. I understand the stakes."

The sternness of Quinn's face relaxed, and he gave Ben a half-smile. "Good. One more stop to get you kitted out. Then we've got a plane to catch."

Ben followed Quinn's lead down the long corridor, walking quickly to match the taller man's long stride. Despite being apparently accepted, the need to affirm his equal status was strong. Side by side, they entered a spacious room filled with lab equipment, the floors and walls white. "Doctor?"

Quinn spoke just as the man in front of them whipped around. A banging noise exploded, a silver spray shooting forth, and a male mannequin was covered with a shiny netting. Neither Quinn nor Ben flinched, watching as the cobweb tightened, digging into the mannequin's plastic face.

"Good, good! But not quite there! Sorry, didn't get you did I?" The Doctor was a tall man with curly brown hair, dressed all in white with a long white scarf wrapped several times around his neck, waving a small pistol-shaped device in his hand as he brushed at Quinn's gee.

"He's disintegrating," Quinn observed.

"Precisely! Quite fine if you want to get rid of someone, but not so good for interrogations, is it?" Sticking the device in his pocket, he pulled out a bag. "Licorice?"

"No thank you," declined Quinn. The Doctor held the bag out to Ben, who took one out of politeness. The consumption of sweets had been forbidden by his Grandmother, though he vaguely remembered eating licorice sticks on one of his secret escapades with Derek, and even earlier, before he lost his parents. The candy was sweet and chewy, sticking to his teeth.

"We need equipment for my partner," Quinn added, making Ben choke momentarily.

"Partner, hum? Very good to have a companion. I'm glad you're finally listening to my advice. Come along, come along, I've got finished tools in the other room." The Doctor strode off, the ends of his long white scarf trailing on the floor. Ben shot Quinn a questioning glance, but reluctantly followed the Doctor when he received only an unflappable look in response.

Despite his unease about the Doctor, Quinn's small smile and grudging acceptance lightened Ben's heart, making him feel giddy with relief. Quinn had made him sweat through the testing, and undoubtedly would continue judging him while they searched for Derek, but Ben had satisfied the older man's initial expectations.

They were beginning their first mission.

~ end Part 4 ~

~ Part 5/? ~

Perfect. She was as absolutely stunningly perfect as good genes, proper diet, vigorous exercise, designer clothes, an extensive array of cosmetics, and surgery could make her. Black hair drifted lovingly around her head, neither too sleek nor too tousled, giving her coiffure an alluring, 'Don't you wish you could touch me' look. Her make-up was light, accenting her splendidly fair complexion, dark brows, and lush lips. She made a moue at herself before adding a beauty mark to the right side of her face, inviting an admirer's attention to the kissable lips.

Smoothing her hands down her form-fitting purple evening gown, she studied the delectable swell of her bosoms over the plunging neckline and the slimness of her waist. As a final coup de grace, she slipped her contacts out of their case, changing her blue eyes to a solid purple matching her dress.

Perfect. She was the embodiment of perfection. And she always intended to remain so.

A rap on her door disturbed her toilette, and she called impatiently, "Entrez!"

The man who entered was small of stature, with black hair and cold black eyes, but first glance revealed a wise individual would not cross him. He might be physically unprepossessing, but the darkness of his soul radiated from his eyes.

"Mademoiselle."

The woman known as Sally faced him, speaking coyly, her English laced with a French accent, her facetiousness apparent. "Jacques, mon ami, how pleasant to see you. I wasn't expecting a visit."

Jacques never bothered with niceties; his manner was simple and brutally direct. "I want Claudette. She is my girl, not yours."

"Mon ami, you know Claudette's too good for the streets. She will earn much more money here, servicing the wealthy tourists."

"Money for you, not me."

"You bore me, Jacques." She turned away from him, painting her already red lips with a thick base coating of beige, adding another layer of a deep blood red.

"You Americans. You come to our country, think that you deserve the best of everything, take what you want."

Her tone softened to light chiding. "We did save your derrieres, darling. You'd be eating sausages and speaking German if it wasn't for us."

"The war was a long time ago. It doesn't give you the right to take my most attractive girl. I need Claudette."

"Jacques, Jacques." Sally dabbed at her lipstick delicately with a tissue paper before sauntering to stand in front of her fellow pimp. She looked him in the eyes, purple meeting black. "Let us kiss and make up. You can have Claudette back if you really want her. Never let it be said that Sally isn't a generous woman."

Jacques' eyes searched the sparkling purple of hers, reflecting his suspicion at her easy agreement, but he let her lean forward, and press those blood red lips to his in a lingering kiss. He didn't bring his body close to hers, preferring to keep some distance between them. A charming viper was still a snake, and Sally was known for having the ruthlessness of a barracuda.

Sally was smiling as she stepped away, strolling back to her vanity, wiping off the remains of the beige base coat and the blood red lipstick, careful not to get any on her skin.

The French pimp swayed dizzily, his hand touching the smear of red on his lips. "Pourquoi - ?" But he didn't manage to finish his question, collapsing in a heap on the floor.

Watching his convulsions in the mirror's reflection with an avid fascination, Sally reapplied the red she'd worn previously, a lighter color that was still striking and complimented her looks. When Jacques finally stopped convulsing, his eyes glassy in death, Sally kicked the body, her fake French accent subsumed completely by her normal Southern twang. "Sally's not generous, and she's not stupid, honey. Claudette's much more valuable in my place than on the streets. Pierre!" Her bodyguard, a huge hulk of a man with a bald head and a thick neck, entered obediently to her summons. "Take out the trash, will you hon?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle." Pierre hefted the body over his shoulders, taking it away for disposal, as Sally admired herself one last time. Jacques had always been a loathsome little frog, eking a pathetic living selling his blowsy whores on the streets for a few francs. Someone else would step forward to claim his girls and take over his business, Jacques fading to a distant memory, but what a wonderful opportunity he'd provided to test her new lipstick. Sally was the Madam now, she no longer had to let the customers get her mussy unless she desired it, but the business was risky and a girl couldn't always count on her loyal Pierre being available. Having such an effective weapon of her own was perfect.

Perfect Sally, perfect weapon, and undoubtedly the start to a perfect evening.

~ tbc ~

Title: The Deadly Kiss

By: Elayna (Elayna88@comcast.net)

Pairing: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Rating: NC-17

Archive: M&A, my page, anyone else please ask.

Category: Drama, romance, action, extreme AR.

Feedback: Please! Any amount any time.

Dedicated: To Hilary for the spy AU plot bunny.

Thanks to Van and Norma Jean for the betaing and encouragement.

Summary: To find a missing friend, a master spy is forced to take on an apprentice.

Disclaimer: The boys belong to the majestic George Lucas. With all the lawsuits going back and forth, I have not a clue who owns James Bond, but no infringement is intended.

Notes: I resisted but shades of the Dark Knight entered the plot. Also, spy movies frequently have a beautiful villain and always have a gorgeous damsel in distress. This will definitely have the villainess, and probably the wimp. She (or they) will have the dazzling looks and figure of a supermodel, but will not take over the story, save the day, or boff either one of the boys. I promise.

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