Page 1 of Beckoning Liam

Chapter One

Liam

Liam O'Shea's muscles tensed as he sprinted through the labyrinth of the alleys of Venice, his boots slapping against weathered cobblestones. The briny scent from the canals and a heady mix of spices wafting out from waterside cafes was almost enough to make him gag. But Liam's senses were tuned to one thing and one thing only—the man he was chasing: Andrei Sokolov, the lethal assassin who had made a name for himself as a ruthless executioner with an impressive record. It seemed as if Sokolov was finally within reach.

Gawking tourists tried to get out of the way, flattening themselves against ancient walls decorated with flaking frescoes to make way for the two men—one predator and one prey. Liam’s intense gaze locked onto the lithe figure of Sokolov, whose agile form slipped through the crowd like a shadow. There was an elegance to the assassin's movements, a dark dance that Liam knew all too well. It was a tango between life and death, a violent dance where each of them knew the other's steps.

"Scusi!" Liam barked as he barreled past a gondolier, narrowly avoiding a collision with the ornate, floating chariot.The chase was reaching its crescendo, the distance between hunter and prey closing with each pulse-pounding stride.

With the precision of a whip-crack, Liam's hand-to-hand combat skills were primed, ready to unleash the disciplinary force he so often reserved for the controlled environments of his darker sexual pursuits. Yet here in the wilds of Venice, there was no safe word to halt the impending clash.

Ducking under a clothesline adorned with hanging linens, Liam emerged from a narrower, darker alley, his quarry now mere meters ahead. Sokolov glanced back, gray eyes flashing with recognition—and perhaps a hint of respect—before quickening his pace.

"End of the line, Sokolov," Liam called, his voice laced with both threat and promise. The chase was not merely physical; it was psychological, a game of dominance and submission played on a deadly stage.

Sokolov's response was a cold smile before he reached the end of the alleyway and took a sudden turn toward a crowded piazza. Liam followed suit, his body moving with instinctual grace, honed by years of training and missions that blurred moral lines. The danger of the moment was palpable, a living thing that wrapped around them both. This was a hunt where the stakes were life and death. Liam relished the challenge—this was the adrenaline rush he craved.

As they weaved through the throngs of people, Liam could feel the curious eyes upon him, wondering at the nature of this fierce pursuit. But their gazes were mere whispers against the roar of his focus. Nothing mattered except catching or killing Sokolov, the need to capture this ghost outweighed his desire to kill him. A phantom who had slipped through his fingers once before.

"Stop, Sokolov. You’re done," Liam shouted, his voice echoing off the grand architecture that surrounded them.

"Not even by half, O'Shea," Sokolov yelled back, the heavy Russian accent cutting through the noise of the square as he slipped into another alley.

The chase was far from over, but Liam was determined to end this game. Nothing was going to stop him from doing what needed to be done.

Liam's breath came in ragged gasps, the cooling air of the afternoon stinging his lungs as he sprinted after Sokolov. The assassin's footsteps echoed against ancient stone, a staccato rhythm to the chaos of their deadly dance.

Suddenly, Sokolov whirled, a gleaming knife materializing in his hand with lethal speed. The blade arced towards Liam, catching the afternoon sun. Muscle memory and adrenaline surged as he countered, twisting away from the blade.

"Is this the part where you beg for mercy?" Sokolov taunted, lunging again with viperous speed.

"Wrong man," Liam growled.

As their bodies clashed amidst the echoes of the afternoon, Liam felt the sting of the blade graze his skin, but it only fueled his fury and skill. With a deft maneuver, he disarmed Sokolov, sending the knife skittering across the cobblestones. A well-placed strike to the knee brought the assassin down, and another to the jaw ensured he stayed there.

"Got you," Liam breathed out, victory laced with exertion.

"Stand down, O'Shea!" The authoritative voice sliced through his triumph, as shocking as a plunge into icy waters.

Spinning around, Liam saw Marcus Hawthorne, his MI6 handler, flanked by a stern-faced Interpol agent. Their sudden appearance was unexpected to say the least.

"You can't be serious," Liam protested, his grip on Sokolov unyielding.

"Orders are orders," Marcus responded, unflinching. "We just received word from London. You’re to let him go."

The command hung heavy in the air, laden with unasked questions and the stench of politics. Liam's gaze locked with Marcus’, a quiet war waging within the depths of their eyes.

"Fine," Liam spat, releasing Sokolov with disgust. He watched helplessly as the assassin got to his feet and limped quickly away, disappearing into the shadows that had birthed him.

Back in London, the gray walls of MI6 headquarters loomed over Liam like a mausoleum of secrets. Marcus’ refusal to discuss the Venice debacle was the final blow to Liam's wavering faith in the institution he had served.

"Consider this my resignation. Effective immediately," Liam said as he tossed a single type-written piece of paper onto Marcus’ desk. The words fell with the finality of a gavel in the hushed office.

Without waiting for Marcus to respond, Liam walked out, leaving behind a life defined by espionage and subterfuge. The crisp London air greeted him with indifference as he stepped onto the pavement. Across the street, a familiar figure leaned against the building, an island of calm amid the city's hustle.

"Why is it that I’m not surprised to see you?" Liam called out, crossing the distance with decisive strides.

"Because you’re a bright fellow," Robert Fitzwallace replied, his Scottish accent imbuing the words with a hard edge of sagacity. "You ready to come to work for Cerberus?"

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