“Honestly, I’m not sure he is,” Ashton admitted, taking a beer for himself and cracking it open. “He won’t talk about it. I think he’s in that stage where he’s pretending like it didn’t happen.” He took a swallow of beer before adding, “I think it’s safe to say that that’s not exactly a healthy thing to do.”
“He has something to focus on right now,” Damon said. “Giving him the opportunity to take vengeance on Nathan Chambers—if he can—will help him work through a lot of shit. Then he can face up to the emotional results of it once you two are done with that.”
“Speaking of Chambers,” Ashton started, “why exactly did you have us give him Donald Tesla’s client list?”
Damon chuckled and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I was wondering when you were going to bring that up,” he said. “I have to admit that I’m honestly not all that surprised that you two looked. In fact, I was banking on it.” He sighed and took another swallow of beer. “Truthfully, the client list wasn’t my idea, and I’m not the one who authorized it. The United States government works under the table with several arms dealers, mostly so they can move weaponry to groups they feel deserve help without actually having to go on the record to do it. Tesla was getting into things he shouldn’t have been getting into and pushing buttons he shouldn’t have been pushing, so we were ordered to send someone in to take him out—that would be Zachariah—and someone to get ahold of his client list—that would be you. The government tapped Chambers to take over Tesla’s list, but they didn’t know what I knew about Chambers and his…nature.”
“So you sent us with the client list, knowing we’d look at it and hoping we’d try to take Chambers out,” Ashton said. “Nice plan, but poor execution.”
“Not exactly,” Damon said. “I wasn’t aiming for you two to try to take him out. There was a GPS tracker in the thumb drive. I was hoping to track him using that, but when you blew up his car, it took the tracker out, so that option was gone.” He sighed. “When I found out for sure that Chambers was still alive—which I’d expected—I arranged to have Zachariah sent in on an undercover assignment to gather information on a drug cartel that was intimately connected with him. A relative of his controls it, and I was hoping for any information I could glean about the family in general, maybe even a tip-off on a location for Chambers. Except Zachariah got caught, which I hadn’t planned for.” He looked down at his bottle, flicking his thumbnail against the corner of the bottle’s label. “That was all my fault. I probably should have sent someone else.”
“Yeah, you probably should have,” Ashton snapped, his anger rising as he began to comprehend what Damon was saying. “What were you thinking, sending an inexperienced agent who was barely a level four into a situation like that and expecting him to not get caught? If it was that important, you should have sent someone in with more experience.”
“Like you?” Damon asked.
“You’re damn right, like me!”
Damon chuckled and shook his head. “I figured that’d be your reaction once I told you about all of this,” he said. “I can’t say you’ve disappointed me.” He took another swallow of his beer.
“I should smack the shit out of you for all this,” Ashton said. “Why did you drag me into this garbage? I trust you, Damon. You’re like a father—” He broke off and shook his head. “I wouldn’t want any part of this under normal circumstances, but I guess I don’t have a choice anymore, do I?”
Damon stared at him for a moment then set the mostly empty bottle of beer onto the kitchen counter. “You have everything you need, so I’m going to get out of here. I have a home of my own to return to and a level six to deal with who isn’t playing nicely with the other children.”
“Anyone I know?” Ashton asked, not bothering to pursue his previous line of questioning. That conversation was over and done with; Damon had already indicated as much, and he knew the man well enough to know not to keep going with it. He set his own beer bottle down and started collecting the dishes left on the dining table.
“Probably not,” Damon said. “Riley Walker hasn’t exactly gone out of her way to endear herself to other agents. She’s a wild one, I’ll tell you that.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Damon started for the door then paused just before opening it, turning to look at Ashton. “You two be careful, okay? Don’t get yourselves killed. I have plans for you.”
“Dare I ask?” Ashton questioned.
“Best not. You might not like the answer I give you. I’ll be up at the house if you need anything.” Then Damon ducked through the door, shutting it behind him. Ashton hesitated for one long moment, as if he expected Damon to make a reappearance, before he went to the door and locked it once more, turning the deadbolt and setting the chain.
After taking the time to clean the kitchen—he refused to go to bed with the task left undone—Ashton treated to his bedroom, already shedding clothing as he stepped into the room. A quick glance down the hall before he shut the door revealed that the guest room’s door was likewise closed, and he assumed Zachariah was still sleeping. He tossed his clothes into the hamper in his closet, took care of his pre-bed business, then climbed into the queen-sized bed, flopping onto his back with an exhausted sigh.
It had been a long, miserable day full of entirely too much information for him to take in, and his brain hurt just trying to think about it all. He sat up enough to fluff his pillow and collapsed back on it, closing his eyes and trying to relax and not think about everything for a while.
After an indeterminable amount of time spent lying on his back with his eyes closed, floating in a hazy space somewhere between a doze and actual sleep, the soft squeak of the bedroom door’s handle turning and the shush of the door against the carpet met his ears. As much as he wanted to do otherwise, Ashton managed to remain perfectly still, breathing slowly and steadily, as if he were asleep and not fully awake and aware of someone’s presence in the room. The person was easing across the carpet, obviously trying to stay quiet, but they were trying too hard, and it was making them that much more noticeable. Then the side of the bed opposite from Ashton dipped down, as if the person was sitting on the edge of it, and he slowly counted to thirty before cracking his eyes open and turning his head just enough to look alongside him.
Zachariah was laying on the bed beside him, stretched out on his side on the very edge of the bed, his back to him. His shoulders and back were tense, as if he were exercising all manner of restraint simply to keep from falling off the bed to the carpet. His back was still covered with the marks of the beating he’d taken in Bolivia, his otherwise pale skin littered with bruises and scrapes and cuts, the crisscrossing lash marks marring whatever part of his back that wasn’t already injured.
Ashton reached toward him to touch his shoulder, but he aborted the movement before he made contact. Instead, he asked, quietly, “Couldn’t sleep?”
Zachariah startled; he obviously hadn’t realized Ashton was awake. He didn’t roll over to look at him, though. He just said, “Yeah.”
“Me, either,” Ashton said. He didn’t mention that he’d been almost asleep when Zachariah had chosen to slip into the room.
“Do you mind me coming in here?” Zachariah asked. “I can leave if you want.”
“Nah, you’re fine where you are,” he replied. He shifted and fluffed his pillow again, tucking his arms under it before adding, “You look a bit chilly. You know there are blankets on this bed, right?”
Zachariah sighed and shifted to wiggle the blankets down lower on the bed long enough to slip underneath them. They lay silently for a long moment, the only sounds between them their breathing and the hum of the central air conditioning system kicking on. The moment passed, then Zachariah said, “So we’re really going to do this, huh?”
“Yeah, we are,” he said.
“How?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure yet,” Ashton admitted. “Director Hartley brought me a bag of weapons earl
ier. I have no idea if it’s stuff we can actually use that will work on a werewolf—” He broke off and let out a laugh. “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m saying all this.”
“I can’t believe I’ve seen it,” Zachariah said.
They both fell silent again; Ashton couldn’t decide what sort of tension lay between them on the bed, the kind borne of memories of when Ashton had all but accused Zachariah of being crazy over this whole wolf business, or the kind that was just plain sexual tension. He could handle the first kind of tension; the second? Well, he wasn’t too sure about that.
“Did I say thank you for coming to Bolivia and rescuing me?” Zachariah asked.
“I think you might have when we were in the motel,” Ashton replied.
“Huh.” Zachariah shifted again, rolling onto his side to face Ashton. “I don’t remember that.”
“You were in the process of getting doped up at the time,” Ashton said.
“I think I remember that,” Zachariah murmured. “Not my idea of a proper thank you, though.”
“I can imagine what your idea of a ‘proper’ thank you is,” Ashton said, “and whatever it is, it’s not going to happen. The thanks you’ve already given me is plenty enough.”
Zachariah slid closer to him, and Ashton tensed, barely refraining from rolling away and right off the bed. “Relax,” Zachariah said softly. “I’m not going to molest you or anything.”
“That’s not something to joke about,” he murmured. Despite his words, he shifted onto his side to face Zachariah, propping his head against his hand as he studied the younger man closely. “You know you need to talk about it eventually, right?”
“I’m aware of that,” Zachariah replied, and his green eyes cut away from his face, looking anywhere but at him.
“Zach, anytime you want to talk—”
“I don’t,” Zachariah said emphatically.
“But if you want to—”
“I said I don’t!” Zachariah snapped. “Don’t even suggest it again, because if you do, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
Ashton closed his eyes and nodded. “I understand,” he said quietly.
“If you understand, then stop suggesting that I talk about it,” Zachariah said. “Right now, I don’t need to talk. I need to do.”
Ashton stretched onto his back again, shifting to get more comfortable, and tucked his hands underneath his head. “Well, right now, I’d suggest you get some sleep, then. I’m mapping out our return trip to Bolivia in the morning, and we’re taking the first available flight out, via a friend of mine who owns a small plane.”
“Small plane?” Zachariah repeated, his words muffled by a yawn.
“Yeah, small plane,” Ashton confirmed. “The same plane and the same pilot that helped me get you out of South America. I can get him to take us back. It’ll cost me, but with that man, everything costs me.”
Seventeen
The air in Bolivia was just as hot and humid as Zachariah remembered, and as he disembarked from Ashton’s friend’s Cessna, he felt like someone had slapped him across the face with a wet washcloth. Sweat started to bead at his hairline under the press of sunlight, and he immediately dug a band out of his pocket and started raking his hair back into a ponytail.
“Fuck, it’s hot,” he grumbled to Ashton as the older man joined him, shouldering their duffel bag full of weapons. “I forgot what a shock to the system the heat could be.”
“Yeah, it’s a bit warm, isn’t it?” Ashton commented. He stopped beside Zachariah and held out a pair of sunglasses, which Zachariah accepted gratefully. Ashton looked completely unruffled by the heat, his skin dry and unflushed. Zachariah could barely contain his jealousy, but he managed to shove it aside for now and focus on the important things.
“So now that we’re back in this hellhole, what’s the game plan?” Zachariah asked. The pilot set his overnight bag on the tarmac beside him, and he nodded his thanks before continuing. “Are we just going to play tourist until we stumble across Nathan Chambers?”
“Sort of,” Ashton said. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, folded in half and clipped together with a black binder clip. “I got us a room at a resort, not too terribly far from the cartel leadership’s last known position.” He gave Zachariah a grin that almost qualified as cheeky. “We do, after all, have to blend in,” he added, passing the bundle of money to the pilot. “There’s more coming your way so long as you’re here when we’re ready to leave, Anthony,” he said to the pilot.
Anthony ruffled the cash, grinned, stuck it in his pocket, and withdrew a set of keys. “The car is waiting in the parking lot for you,” he said. “You’ll need to bring it back or I’ll be up shit creek with my boss.”
“If the car doesn’t come back with us, I’ll pay for it,” Ashton said. “Plus interest.” He clapped Anthony on the shoulder and said, “Thanks for hauling our asses way the hell out here,” before turning back to Zachariah. “Grab your bag. We need to get moving so we can settle in at the resort and iron out a real plan.”
The drive to the resort was longer than Zachariah had expected; it took them two hours to journey from the airstrip where Anthony had landed his plane to the resort at which Ashton had gotten them a room. The resort was picturesque, full of laughing families that were clearly foreigners; most people in Bolivia didn’t have the money to visit places like this. As Ashton checked them in at the reception desk, Zachariah watched a group of kids splash around in one of the resort’s swimming pools, laughing and giggling as they played games with each other. The sight made Zachariah feel wistful for his own childhood—probably the last happy moment of his life, before he’d joined the Agency looking for excitement and the chance to travel to places he couldn’t otherwise afford to see.
“Got the keys,” Ashton announced, and Zachariah turned to see him holding up two key cards with a smile on his face. “Shall we go to our room and get settled in?”
“Definitely,” Zachariah said, returning Ashton’s smile, mindful of the fact he needed to keep up appearances of one half of a happy couple of vacation. “I’m ready to put my bag down and maybe take a shower. This humidity is already getting to me.”
The room was just as classy and touristy as the rest of the resort, but pleasantly so, with a large, king-sized bed and a stone-tiled bathroom with granite countertops. The shower was a massive stall with glass walls, a glass door with a stainless-steel handle, and stone flooring and walls. The bedroom’s floor was covered in a reasonably soft but completely utilitarian dark gray carpet, and the comforter covering the bed was one of those mass-produced styles seen in every hotel worldwide. Zachariah dumped his overnight bag on the side of the bed closest to the nightstand and unzipped it, intending to get a change of clothing out so he could take that shower he’d been looking forward to from the moment he’d stepped off the plane.
“I’ll be here when you’re done,” Ashton said. “I’m going to inventory what weapons we have so I know exactly where we stand.”
Zachariah gave him a mock salute and carried his clothes into the bathroom, dumping the pile onto the counter by the sink before stripping off everything he was wearing and stepping into the shower stall. After spending too long fiddling with the single knob in the shower, he finally got the water running, and it immediately sprayed onto his back, nearly eliciting a gasp of pain as it pounded against the wounds there. Rather than back out of the water, he braced his hands against the stone wall and hung his head, reveling in the pain because it reminded him that he was still alive.
Zachariah didn’t stay in the shower long, just enough to wash the sweat out of his hair, before he dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and returned to the bedroom, carrying his clothes back in there with him. He intended to enjoy the air conditioning as much as he could before he had to get dressed again.
While Zachariah had been in the shower, Ashton had emptied everything out of the duffel bag the director had given him and lined it up on
his side of the bed. The amount of weaponry that had been in the bag was impressive, and he couldn’t help but stand at the end of the bed and gawk at it all. There were handfuls of bullets coated in silver next to holstered pistols, and in a neat column below it all were four machetes, the sharp edge of each blade coated in a sheen of silver.
“What the hell is all of that?” Zachariah asked. He dumped his clothes onto his side of the bed and stared at it all with his eyebrows raised.
“That would be the weapons we’re going to use to kill us a werewolf,” Ashton answered. “Just like Director Hartley promised.” He looked Zachariah over, blatantly, and when his eyes returned to his face, he gave him a tentative, crooked smile. “You plan on putting any clothes on anytime soon?”
Zachariah shrugged. “Maybe, after I finish cooling off. The thought of putting more clothes on right now in this gloriously air-conditioned room is too horrible to even contemplate.”
Ashton’s smile widened. “Well, then, by all means, feel free to remain in a towel for as long as you care to.” He chuckled before adding, “You won’t hear me complain, even if you do make me feel like a dirty, lecherous man in the process.”
Zachariah laughed at that, though he kept his eyes on the weapons on the bed between them. He didn’t dare look at Ashton; he was too scared the other man would be able to read what he felt right now in his eyes too easily. “So, ah, maybe we should talk about that night,” he said, broaching the topic almost timidly. He felt a compulsion to clarify which night he was referring to but managed to refrain.
Ashton didn’t seem to have any similar compunction. He looked at Zachariah with an innocent look that was obviously faked and asked, “What night?”
“Oh, come on, don’t pull that shit,” Zachariah snapped. “You know full well what damn night I’m talking about.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think right now is a good time for us to discuss it,” Ashton said. “We’ve got too much going on right now to worry over stuff like that.”
Nightfall Page 18
