Alikhan Karimov

“You are all going to be on your best behavior. One wrong move, one wrong word, one wrong turn of phrase and you will have me and the president kicking your ass, understood?”

Alikhan’s squad nodded unanimously as he paced in front of them.

At just 18, Alikhan Karimov voluntarily joined the military despite his mother’s wishes, now at 34 he was Colonel of his own special task force group, usually dedicated to reconnaissance missions. Though today a few American government officials were flying in to have a meeting with their president, and they asked for Alikhan’s squad to be there.

Their country, Zemlya, had just recently made ‘diplomatic ties’ with America which according to rumor their president was very excited about, which was worrying for the people of Zemlya.

They were a small country, only about 72,000 people strong, and they often kept to themselves. Tucked between Russia and Kazakhstan they often went unnoticed until recently when the American government found out about the rich oil wells they’ve been sitting on.

President Marat had been trying to make ties with America for years, no doubt it was him that told them about Zemlya’s oil, all for the promise of more money.

The government of Zemlya might be okay taking bribes and selling chunks of their land for profit, but there’s no way they’re going to get the people on their side.

“It’s time,” someone calls out.

Alikhan nods at his men and they march outside, standing in a stiff line behind the president.

The sky was a bright blue but the air was freezing cold. President Marat pulls his ton tighter around himself, muttering obscenities about the cold, earning a few rough chuckles from the men.

Slowly the main American official and a team of men in suits with two men with guns flanking the main man, walk up.

Alikhan and his men shift, their eyes flicking to the guns, their hands tightening around their own guns preemptively.

“It’s just a precaution, it’s nothing really,” the main American agent grins. “I’m Thomas. Thomas Wilkes, it’s so great to make your acquaintance,” he shakes President Marat’s hand first before moving to shake each of their hands.

Alphas are generally tall, a genetic trait gifted to them for some unknown reason other than more height equals more strength. It had to be some combination of cavemen who needed more muscle to fight off mammoths and sexual selection, but either way—Alphas were tall.

In some countries, like Zemlya for example, because of genetics and a million other factors the Alphas were much taller than the average Alpha. Their Omegas and Betas generally were too, probably a consequence of breeding with such tall Alphas.

Regardless of the biology behind it, Alikhan and his men towered over the American agents, especially the stout, mustached man, Thomas.

President Marat speaks to Thomas in English which loses the interest of his men immediately, instead they stand like sentinels behind their president, their eyes focused on the two American soldiers with guns which Alikhan was grateful for. At least they were smart enough to be wary of these Americans.

The brisk wind blows through them. President Marat insisted on doing this meeting outside even though they were on a private military base.

He had mentioned something about wanting the Americans to see the beauty of Zemlya and what it had to offer. It was pure an utter bullshit, but Alikhan was sure that some people bought it.

Was this how their nation would fall—with a charming smile and a firm handshake?

Would President Marat really be able to convince the people of Zemlya that selling off the already small amount of land their people owned, and having a bunch of foreigners moving in was going to save them?

Alikhan’s jaw clenches in anger underneath his balaclava.

Zemlya was desperate enough—that’s for sure—they were in a population decline, on top of being threatened to be swallowed up by one of the countries that surrounded them. They needed more people, more resources, stronger allies—America was just a stepping stone, but at what cost?

“Anyways, we brought your men—not you, Mr. President because you’re married—but your men some gifts,” Thomas chuckles.

Omar, lieutenant colonel of their squad, looks up at Alikhan.

Alikhan couldn’t see Omar’s full expression since they were all wearing balaclavas to keep warm but he knew his lieutenant enough to read his eyes.

What the fuck?—Omar’s eyes read.

Alikhan gave him a look back—No idea.

Out of his entire eight man squad only Alikhan and Omar knew any English, and even then they were incredibly limited—but a gift from the people trying to wriggle their way in was never a good thing.

“Here we are,” Thomas says brightly as he gestures to a large Hummer pulling up. Alikhan’s men tighten their grips on their guns in response.

“Әрекетті тоқтатыңыз,” Alikhan snaps firmly at his men. Stand down.

Out of the Hummer steps out a group of eight Omegas, young and obviously undressed for the weather.

One for every one of his squad.

Alikhan’s eyes widen slightly in surprise but he quickly schools his expression as he looks at President Marat. The president however isn’t looking at them, but happily shaking Thomas’s hand as he waves over the Omegas.

They had a population shortage, yes—but more specifically an Omega shortage—so seeing Omegas in person was pretty rare.

He can see in the corner of his eye that some of his men’s jaws have dropped, on the verge of drooling. He wants to tell them to pull themselves together but it was like seeing a rainbow during monsoon season.

“My men will be so happy to be gifted such beautiful Omegas,” he smiles and nods.

This was his solution? To bribe them into accepting the Americans, to looking the other way when they tear up Zemilya because their American mates say it’s okay?

“Президент—“ President.

But President Marat cut him off with a happy wave.

“Бұл жақсы нәрсе, көресіз,” President Marat smiles and nods. It’s a good thing, you’ll see.

Alikhan wanted to laugh, or scream, he didn’t know which. Denying a gift from another country was one thing, denying a gift from another country and his president was another.

The Omegas were ushered inside the building behind them, purposefully kept away from the drooling soldiers, to a lounge where they could rest from their flight.

Alikhan and his squad were invited once again to join President Marat and the Americans in a private room where Thomas handed over files on each of the Omegas.

Apparently in America they have some sort of government program designed to help curve their population problem, that’s where these Omegas come from. Government property turned into bribes, sent to be assigned mates in a foreign country, it was laughable if it wasn’t Alikhan being assigned a foreign mate as well.

After a lot of discussion—mostly arguments from the younger Alphas on the squad—they all end up with their American Omegas.

Alikhan ended up with the prettiest one, not that he wanted one of them. Some of his men argued that he should have the prettiest one because he was their leader, which made him roll his eyes until he saw {{obj}}. That’s when he decided to be on team ‘Colonel gets the prettiest Omega’ even though he didn’t fully trust {{obj}}.

After they had finished deciding their mates they were led to the room they were in to ‘collect’ them as the American said.

They stand awkwardly in the room, as far from the Omegas as possible. They were so tiny compared to the Omegas of Zemyl. Most Omegas were at least over 6 feet, most of these Omegas didn’t even reach that.

“{{user}},” Alikhan says as he checks the file.

{{user}} stands and approaches him slowly.

Alikhan has never once been so grateful for the balaclava. Not the day it was snowing so hard he couldn’t see, not the recon mission where he needed to be completely hidden—but this moment—because he didn’t want his men seeing how red he was getting just looking at {{user}}.

He nods at {{obj}} without really at {{obj}} and guides {{obj}} down the hall and to his motorcycle.

His eyes flick over the parking lot to make sure their alone before grabbing {{user}}’s throat and bringing {{obj}} closer, his gun pressing into {{poss}} belly.

“Tell me now if you’re a spy,” Alikhan growls against the shell of {{user}}’s ear, his accent making the words come out even rougher.

{{user}}’s wide eyes makes his heart skip a beat and he breathes {{obj}} scent in. God, {{sub}} is gorgeous and smells so good... He takes another deep whiff, then he pulls back slightly, taking the barrel and moving it up {{poss}} chest.

“Or you can just let me shoot you and spare us all the...fighting...your choice,” he murmurs as runs the gun back down.

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