by J. Calamy
The room faded and Graves let it go; there was nothing to be awake for, anyway.
*
When he woke again, the windows and doors were open, and the air was cool and damp. Dawn was breaking. And they were out to sea. Graves rubbed his face.
“This isn’t my ship,” he rasped.
“No, but we are on our way to her now,” Bishop said. The old soldier was sitting in a chair by the bed, his feet propped up and tablet on his lap. He was in an old Auckland jersey and sweats, his short hair scrunched off to one side. The jersey made Graves think of Nick and his heart sank.
“Have some coffee,” Bishop said softly. He waited for Graves to haul himself up and handed him the cup. It was strong and sweet and Graves let his eyes sink closed again.
“How do you feel?” Bishop asked. Graves rubbed his face and rolled his shoulders.
“Better,” he rasped. “I woke up, and Nick was there. A hallucination.”
“A sweet one,” Bishop said.
“Yes. But I admit now I’m a little disoriented.” Graves took a deep breath. “Hip is better. Much better, by God.”
He pushed the sheet down and saw the bandage over the incision. It was much smaller than the one he had woken with at first. He blinked in confusion.
“Here you go,” Bishop said and handed him the little jar. Graves shuddered. It was the one Nick had showed him. Or… No. It must have been Simpson?
“Ugly,” he said, looking away. He hated seeing the shrapnel. It made him feel ill. For a man who supposedly waded through blood he was quite squeamish when it came down to it. He kept the shrapnel in a box at home. Home.
“Did you say we are rendezvousing with Scimitar?”
“Aye, I took the initiative,” Bishop said. “We’ll rendezvous with her in the Bay of Bengal. The lads and I were sick and tired of Singapore. If we never go back, it will be too soon.”
“I agree,” Graves said. “Let’s deal with this business in Sri Lanka then go. It’s time to go home.”
“Poor Alex. That won’t take long. Home, home?”
“Yes,” Graves said. He stared out the window. Home was Scimitar. But what Bishop meant was back to Myanmar. Back to the hills in Shan state. Home, home. “Christ, yes. Let’s go home.”
They drank their coffee in silence. The idea of home. Graves closed his eyes at the thought. His piano, his books. His dogs. Titi the elephant! And an empty bed. Everyone off with their wives and children. And Graves up in the big house, watching the mist move over the valleys…
“We can’t go to Hong Kong,” Bishop said flatly.
“Who said anything about Hong Kong?”
“Your face did,” Bishop said. “You’re thinking about home. And you want our Nick to be there too.”
“He’d like it,” Graves said. He shook his head. “Damn it all.”
“Sonny,” Bishop said. He seemed to choose his words carefully. “Do you ever think about…retiring?”
Graves flinched. The silence stretched.
“God, yes,” he whispered. “Since Colin.”
“What if,” Bishop leaned forward and Graves turned sideways so they could be eye to eye. They were best friends. They were brothers; they were almost the same person. They were thinking the same thing.
“We take care of our people,” Graves said.
“We let Roma and Anatoly manage the guns,” Bishop said.
“We grow only enough dope for our own selves.”
“Keep the ruby mine.”
“We dig a little jade. Set up some artists, maybe.” Graves thought of the little pipe from Chiang Rai. Jeanne would know who to support.
“Sell the docks in Yangon, liquidate the shipping line.”
“Is that enough?” Graves asked seriously.
“Yes,” came a voice from the door. It was Russ, with Charlotte and Tony coming in on his heels.
“Off the top of my head, it’s more than enough.” They didn’t question Russ. No one else knew the logistics anyway.
“I want to go home,” Charlotte said. “This has been…” she shrugged, didn’t finish the thought. They understood. Tony came and curled in Bishop’s lap.
“I want to go back to Tangiers,” he said. “With Fatimah and Jules.”
“Will you still run the cyber center?” Graves asked. Bishop had his face in Tony’s hair. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t going to try to talk Tony out of it. The boy wanted to be back in the sun.
“Yes,” Tony said. “If I don’t bother the CIA, then who will?”
“Indeed,” Graves said, his voice rougher than he wanted. He put his face in his hands.
“What should I do?” he asked. “How do I get him back?”
“I have a plan,” Bishop said. “But it bound to get messy, eh.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
When Jeanne had told Nicholas that the real party was in Hong Kong, Nick had not given it much thought. After all, Singapore was wealthy, glamorous, and the New Year’s party at the Palladium had been like something out of a movie. But now, standing to the side in his new tuxedo, he understood what she meant.
Jeanne looked ravishing in a long red gown, glittering with diamonds and gold. She wore a ruby at her throat that twisted Nick’s heart every time he saw it. He had carefully pushed away the memory of Graves’s hands doing the clasp behind her pale neck. The party was happy and intimate—no more than a hundred people—the region’s superrich and the odd politician and celebrity mixed in. Nick had run into Donnie Yen at the bar and grinned like a fool at the poor man until he wandered away to be with his wife.
The mainland Chinese influence here was stronger, though the wealth was as dramatic as it had been in Singapore. But this was a closed community. Jeanne moved easily in the crowd—she was a known entity. But Nick had no one to talk to, and he was feeling the lack. Especially since his usual friend—the person he turned to when Jeanne was busy—was Graves. Nick missed him. Even simply in that capacity of quiet friendship—that solid presence. But he is a murderer.
And what of it? You were sitting in a prison cell this time last year—for killing three people.
That isn’t the same.
Isn’t it?
Nick found himself scanning the entrance, where a wooden bridge wound through a stone and glass garden before opening onto the main dining room and the outdoor rooftop garden. All the sliding doors were open to the night sky. It was a beautiful series of rooms and the party matched the decor. Everything was draped in red and gold. The band was playing jazz and popular songs from the forties. Nick tried to shake the thought of Leon’s—when Graves had played the piano. And all the times he had played the piano for Nick since.
The party was in full swing, dancing and laughing and flashing cameras. Nick looked around for Jeanne and saw she was leaning tipsily against Donnie Yen of all people (clearly flirting with Yen’s stunning wife, however). Nick felt a lump in his throat. Suddenly, it was all too much: the wealth around him, the glamorous women in their diamonds, the men in their expensive tuxedos, the endless servants and security personnel, the waiter asking Nick what fucking year of champagne he wanted. Nick went to the corner by the bar, away from most of the people.
He wanted to leave. He was lonely, completely out of his depth, and every man he saw was the wrong one. This whole time, the whole time Graves was the head of Red Sky. He blew that police station. He was the reason all those CIA were in Bangkok. Him. So why would I give anything for him to come get me? He always rescues me when I need him. But now I don’t need rescuing anymore, and I still… I’m so stupid.
He fought down a lump in his throat, wishing he was back in the US, at his aunt’s and uncle’s ridiculous New Year’s Eve costume party. Except none of them want you. You wouldn’t be invited, you loser. Poor Roger was right about that. I’m garbage and no one wants me.
He had to get out. He worked around the edge of the main room and out onto the patio. The garden was an intimate, tropical space with paths and lantern
s leading to quiet corners. The wind was fresh up here, though the air in Hong Kong was much dirtier than Singapore. Up here it wasn’t so bad. The upper floors of the Peninsula rose above him, two stories of VIP penthouses and the restaurant at the top under the helipad. Nick felt himself calming in the damp smell of leaves and living things. There was a hard lump of sadness and worry in his ribcage, but there was nothing to do about that now. He just needed to get through the next day or two, and then he could text Graves—maybe?
He saw a movement to his left and turned to see a man in tux looking at him. He was familiar, but Nick couldn’t quite see him in the shadows.
The man smiled at him, a slow, sweet molasses smile. A cowboy without a hat or spurs.
Aw, hell, you’re one of them smart ones.
It’s flip-flop guy. Mac.
The big bear touched two fingers to his forehead and turned away, walking deeper into the garden and out of sight. Nick almost started after him but stopped.
It’s like a weird dream. But maybe it wasn’t him.
No, there was no mistaking Mac, even in a tuxedo. His big shoulders and short shaggy hair with the first traces of gray, the big brown eyes had been clear in the light from the party.
Suddenly uneasy, Nick went back inside. He felt he should tell Jeanne at least. Easier said than done. He went back in and found himself alone by the bar again. Everyone was gathered toward the other side of the room, dancing and counting down. It was almost midnight.
There was no way to catch Jeanne. She was in her crowd, in the rich glamorous people. Nick couldn’t even make himself approach. He shifted awkwardly. Alone. Alone in a strange place. He missed Graves. Wanted him desperately. No matter what his mind, his rational, logical mind knew—he desperately wanted Graves to come get him. Get me out of here.
His heart twisted. He had been so stupid. Stupid to have missed the signs in the first place. And now it was dawning on him that he was stupid to have missed his chance. No one else wanted him. He had no other place to be. No family, no friends. Sure, he could go tend bar in some Vietnamese tourist dive. But he would be as alone as he had been back home. All he had ever wanted was someone who…
“You’re supposed to kiss someone at midnight Nick, so you’ll have good luck all year,” came the deep English drawl behind him, and Nick’s heart exploded in his chest. His breath burst out of him in a gasp of pain. It was Graves. Graves was there and somehow everything else fell away. Red Sky, the embassy, questions of orientation and morals and all of it—gone. Here was this man, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners, hand shoved in his pockets. Nick’s heart was galloping in his chest. The pain under his sternum, was gone. Replaced with a kind of reckless joy.
He is a murderer. How can I be so happy to see him? He is everything. Everything I want. Who else could I be with but another murderer anyway? He wants me. He wants me enough that he came here?
Distantly, he felt tears in his eyes, and when he saw the warlord? Kingpin? What even is he? roll his shoulders—he is nervous and worried; he thinks it was a mistake to come here!—he couldn’t help the sob that escaped his clenched teeth.
“I thought you couldn’t come,” Nick said, aware his voice was shaking. Graves ran a hand over the back of his head. He was in a tuxedo, of all things, as if he could just attend the party like it was nothing. As if he could just waltz in! He looked incredible, of course, the bastard, impossibly well-tailored, his big shoulders and deep chest making it hard to focus. Why is he doing this? Why is he here? This is too dangerous, even for him.
“I certainly should not have come,” he said. “And I can’t stay. But I had to see you.”
Had to. The words hung in the air. Bishop and Russ were both there, standing with their backs to Graves, clearly watching the room. Rook was by the bar. She glanced over her shoulder at Nick and rolled her eyes in the boss’s direction, as if to say “You see this idiot I have to deal with?”
“Well, here I am,” Nick said, sucking in a breath and dashing the tears away from his eyes. Suddenly, the room exploded into cheers and shouts. Both men jumped. But it was only midnight. The orchestra burst into song, and everyone was kissing and laughing and throwing confetti. The sound of a bell tolling came over the speakers.
Nelson Graves took a deep breath and caught the back of Nick’s head in one hand, pulling him up into a kiss. For a split second Nick could only gasp, but then he was kissing Graves back, clumsy, stumbling forward up onto his toes. He fell against the murderer…murderer…murderer and kissed him with his whole heart. Graves grunted and caught Nick in his arms.
The kiss deepened, Graves licking Nick’s upper lip, coaxing his mouth open until they were clicking their teeth together and trying to get better angles, messy and terrible. Everything tasted like champagne and smelled like coffee and opium. Nick could feel Graves’s pulse pounding against his palm, and he wrapped his other arm around his neck, pulling himself up and tracing fingers along the smooth skull. Graves’s fingers tightened painfully in his hair, and he shoved Nick hard against the wall. He was wearing a bulletproof vest under his shirt, the edge of the plate digging into Nick’s clavicle.
Oh shit. It’s that dangerous—they put him in armor.
They pulled back and Nick tried to get his breathing under control. Graves was staring down at him, wide-eyed. His back blocked out the entire room, giving them a private place of their own. His lips were red and swollen and wet and Nick wanted to reach up and kiss him again.
“I have to go,” Graves said—his voice cracking with strain. “I cannot be here. Do you understand, Nick? I have to get to my ship, and back to Myanmar.” He ran his hand down Nick’s face. “But I had to come for you. I had to. I’m retiring, Nick. I’m giving it up. All of it. Well, most of it. I’m giving it up.”
“Really?” Nick said, trying to focus. Something wasn’t right. Something nagging in Nick’s mind…
One of them smart ones…
“He’s here!” he blurted. “Oh my God. It’s him. It’s a trap.”
He spun, looking —there was no sign of the agent.
“What do you mean, darling?” Graves said. “Who’s here?”
“Mac! He was that agent! From before! He took the pictures of us. He’s here! You can’t be here. It’s—
It’s a trap. And…and I’m the bait. Oh, Christ!
His instincts revved into gear, intuition driving him now. He pushed Graves, grabbed Bishop’s sleeve.
“We have to go. Mac is here. It’s a trap. You have to go now!”
“I won’t leave without you.” Graves snarled.
Nick threw himself forward, wrapping both arms around Graves’s neck, crushing their bodies together.
“Yes! Take me with you, get me out of here,” Nick said. Graves’s arms convulsed around him, tight enough to crack ribs. The ceramic plate of the bulletproof vest dug hard into Nick’s shoulder.
Their mouths came together again, still clumsy as they stumbled to the door. Over Graves’s shoulder Nick saw Jeanne watching them. She raised her champagne in a toast and made a shooing gesture. Nick pushed Graves but he wouldn’t budge and was staring down at him, looking stricken.
“Boss, we need to go. We need to go now,” Rook said, shaking them both.
Bishop was more direct. “Now, Lord Graves.”
“Nick—”
“Let’s get out of here,” Nick said, holding Graves’s eyes. “You can tell me all about retirement later.”
“Yes, all r-r-right,” Graves said. “Let’s go d-d-down—” Graves was visibly pulling himself together, scrubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. Bishop’s radio crackled to life, shouting voices on the other end.
“They’re here,” Bishop said. “Shit fire, Boss, this is it. HKPD is already here.”
“Up! R-ruh-roo—rectangle! D-david!” Graves pointed up and jerked his chin to the exit, still too overwrought for clear speech.
“Don’t talk, you wanker. I have us,” Bishop said. “Let me do my
fucking job.” He kicked in the door to the emergency stairs. It banged open, all the lights went out, and the screams started.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The emergency stairwell was dark, illuminated by flashing red emergency lights. Alarms were sounding in the hallways, muffled through the doors. They could hear shouts below and smell the first traces of smoke. It was acrid, a strange mix of burning plastic and sulfur.
“It’s four stories to the roof, Boss,” Russ shouted. “We will have to clear it so the bird can land!”
Graves grabbed Nick and pulled him in close.
“You hold the back of m-my jacket and stay behind me,” he snarled. “M-m-move when I move, turn when I turn. You stay behind me always!”
Nick wasn’t afraid. He felt ice cold, everything crystal clear, details obvious to his eyes. He felt anger, but not his usual reckless, heedless fire. Instead he was calm, firmly anchored in the present. He held a hand out to Bishop who hauled a handgun from behind his waist and slapped it into Nick’s palm.
He had never held a gun in his life, aside from hunting rifles with his uncles. But he flicked the safety and held it in both hands without even thinking about it. Whatever was happening, his higher intellect was safely parked, his body and instincts completely in charge.
“Good lad,” Graves said approvingly. He touched Nick’s face, a brief press of fingers. “We’ve got you.”
They met the first resistance at the turn, a hail of fire pinning them against the wall. Charlotte counted three, two, one, and leaned out, placing two precise shots and ducking back. After another count, she did it again. This time a body fell past them. They rushed up one more turn, passing two more bodies. Somewhere above them a door banged open. There were shouts and clattering boots. The stairs were in a tight square spiral above and below, difficult to see up or down, bullets zipped and snapped past them, clanging on the metal railings or kicking little chips of concrete from the walls. Smoke was rising from below; it stung Nick’s eyes.
They moved smoothly, in a bounding overwatch up each turn of the stairs. The horsemen kept Graves between them. Nick stayed glued to Graves’s back. The shots were deafening in that small echoing space. His friends’ faces appeared and disappeared in the flashing red lights and spiraling smoke. Bullets zipped up and down. Bishop’s covering fire kept the police below them from getting too close.
