“Ashton,” Damon commented after he’d closed and locked the door. He strode to the foot of his bed and stood there for a long minute, looking him over, studying him carefully. “You look better than I expected.”
“I feel like I’ve been run over by a dump truck,” Ashton said. “So trust me, I don’t feel as good as I look.”
Damon chuckled. “At least your weird sense of humor is still there.” He seemed to relax, then, sliding his hands into his pants pockets, taking on a more casual stance as he cocked his hip and rested it against the plastic footboard of Ashton’s bed. “So, you two managed to kill Nathan Chambers,” he began, his tone carefully neutral. “I have to admit to being impressed. How did you manage it?”
“Two in the chest, one in the head,” Zachariah replied nonchalantly. Ashton glanced at him and saw he had his phone in his hand and was typing something into it, not even looking at the two of them. Ashton fully expected Damon to come down on the younger agent hard for not paying attention, but to his surprise, Damon continued on without addressing it.
“You two did good work,” he said. “I had a team go in and confirm Chambers’ death. It was most assuredly confirmed. So I’m authorizing three million dollars to go into each of your accounts as payment for a job well done. In addition, I’m putting Zachariah forward for a promotion to level five considering the complicated nature of the assignment.”
“That’s very generous of you, Director Hartley,” Ashton said.
“I have my moments,” Damon acknowledged. “So now that you have not only faced down a werewolf but have managed to kill it—two of them, in Zachariah’s case—what are your thoughts about the supernatural in general?”
“What, is there more out there besides werewolves?” Zachariah asked, sitting up straighter and lowering his feet to the floor.
“There’s plenty more out there besides werewolves,” Damon told him. “Getting into the litany of what Tobias and I have found over the years would take entirely too long, but suffice to say…we’re in over our heads.”
Ashton raised his eyebrows. That was something he’d never thought he would hear his boss say.
“There are only four of us to deal with the problem of these creatures, but we also have duties here that keep us bound primarily to D.C. and our desk jobs,” Damon explained. “We could really use two field agents who have more mobility to help us with these problems when they crop up, especially outside of Washington.”
Ashton stared at the director for a long moment, trying to figure out if the man was joking. Unfortunately, all he saw were signs of total seriousness. So he looked to Zachariah, wondering what the other man was thinking, and saw that he actually looked intrigued by the prospect.
“What sort of pay will be involved in this sort of work?” Zachariah asked.
“Certainly not the type of pay you’re getting for dealing with Chambers,” Damon admitted. “We have to skim the money for this venture off the operating budget without anyone noticing, so the pay will be much lower than what you’re used to. I figure this is the kind of thing you’d do on the side between your regular jobs.”
“You mean during our downtimes,” Ashton said.
“To make up for that, I would double the lengths of your downtime,” Damon offered. “Two months between your regular Agency assignments, and one of those months would be used to handle the supernatural problems.”
Ashton looked at Zachariah again and found that the other man was already staring at him, as if he were trying to assess how Ashton felt about the offer. Ashton wondered what was going on in the man’s head, but he didn’t dare ask with Damon in the room.
“What can you offer to sweeten the pot?” Zachariah asked, cutting his eyes to Damon.
“What, two months off between assignments isn’t enough of a sweetener?” Damon asked.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Zachariah retorted.
Damon sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it up and giving him a slightly disheveled look that Ashton normally didn’t see on him. “Fine,” he said, letting out another sigh. “Two months off between assignments and you get to work together on anything that doesn’t involve your normal Agency-related duties.”
Ashton and Zachariah looked at each other again, and Ashton said, “Deal.”
A grin came across Damon’s face, and he lightly patted Ashton on the leg. “Good,” he said, and the relief in his voice was palpable. “You two take the next month off, recover from whatever you went through with Chambers. I want you to report in in a month so we can get you squared away and sent on your first official assignment on your new unofficial jobs. We’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do.”
Damon didn’t bother waiting for either of them to dredge up a response. Instead, he simply turned and walked out of the room, letting the door fall shut behind him with a thud.
Ashton looked at Zachariah and let out a heavy sigh. He was exhausted, his head was starting to hurt, and he could feel an ache settling firmly into the wounds in his right shoulder. But all that was really on his mind was a single question that he voiced to his apparent new partner with all the dread he felt.
“What in the hell have we gotten ourselves into?”
Twenty-Two
Two Months Later
* * *
Six a.m., the alarm clock started going off.
Ashton startled as the racket jarred him from him sleep, disrupting the rather pleasant and more than mildly sexual dream he’d been having. He let out a groan of disgust and frustration as he realized where the racket that had woken him up was coming from. He rolled over, flopping onto his back, and yawned as he slapped out with his right hand to hit the snooze button. The alarm silenced, and he rubbed his hands over his face with a scowl.
Why did he even bother setting his alarm, especially this early in the morning? He didn’t have anywhere to go or anything to do. He’d been officially on leave from his job for nearly two months now, mainly thanks to Chambers’ attempt to rip his collarbone out through the skin with his claws. Fortunately, he hadn’t managed, but between that and the bullet Zachariah had put in his shoulder, he’d torn up enough ligaments and muscles that he’d had to have surgery to repair the damage and physical therapy three times a week.
He was ready to go back to work. Downtime this long was driving him insane.
Ashton forced himself out of bed, despite the incessant urge to roll over and burrow back under his blankets. The room was cold—he’d forgotten to adjust the thermostat before he’d gone to bed the night before—and he shivered and crossed the room to the attached bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, he studied his face in the mirror over the sink. He looked haggard, like he hadn’t slept well in the nearly two months he’d been out of work. And honestly, he hadn’t. He never slept well when he was idle, when he had nothing to distract him from the pressures his own brain exerted on his life.
And that wasn’t even addressing the problem of Zachariah himself. Everything that had happened between them on their last assignment—Zachariah’s rescue from the drug cartel, the takedown of Nathan Chambers, the sex—had cemented the start of what appeared to be a good friendship.
Or so Ashton had thought.
After their meeting with Damon, after Ashton had been dosed with more painkillers and gone back to sleep, Zachariah had left. And since he’d gone out on medical leave to work on his physical therapy, to get himself up to field work level again, he hadn’t heard a word from Zachariah: not a phone call, not an email, not even a text message. He’d even tried calling him at one point, but the call had gone straight to voicemail. He hadn’t left a message.
Ashton spat into the sink and rinsed then dropped his toothbrush back into the holder on the sink. He retreated into the bedroom again, trying to shake loose thoughts of the other man. It wouldn’t do him any good to dwell, especially not when the man was incommunicado. The only thing he’d do was stew on the possibilities that wouldn’t have a chance of happening.
<
br /> Especially not when thoughts of the man inevitably turned to thoughts of the one and only time they’d had sex.
“You are pathetic,” he said out loud, admonishing himself as he dug clothes from his closet and dumped them on the bed. “Absolutely pathetic. Why the hell are you even dwelling on that? It’s useless. It was a one-night stand that will never happen again.” He paused in his perusal of his dresser drawers and scowled. “And why the hell are you talking to yourself?”
It was official: being on medical leave was driving him insane.
His phone rang, saving him from having to answer his own question, and he dropped the shirt he held and went to the cellphone on his bedside table. It wasn’t a number he recognized—he didn’t have it saved in his contacts list, anyway—but with the fleeting thought that it might be Zachariah, he answered it as quickly as he dared without trying to seem too eager.
“Hello?”
“Ashton, so glad you’re awake,” Damon said from the other end of the line. Ashton’s shoulders sagged as he realized it was only Damon and not the man he’d hoped it would be. “I almost didn’t expect you to be conscious this early in the morning.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ashton asked.
“Well, considering you’re on med leave, I figured you’d be sleeping in while you could,” Damon commented.
Ashton snorted and shook his head, pacing across the room to the bed to retrieve the clothes he’d dumped onto it. “Me, sleep in? You’re kidding, right? I’ve never slept in a single day in my life.”
“Yes, I know, I know. You’re too responsible to do something so mundane as sleeping in,” Damon said with a chuckle. “I did a bad job training you, I think. You should consider loosening up, especially on your downtime. You’re going to wear yourself out before you’re thirty.”
“I’ll be fine,” Ashton tried to assure him. “I handle stress better than the average person.”
“Yes, but that will eventually add up on you and you’ll snap. And I have a feeling you’ll make a mess when that happens.”
Ashton sighed and started folding the clothes in his arms for lack of anything better to do. “I’m sure there was a reason you called beyond haranguing me about what I do or don’t do on my downtimes.”
Damon cleared his throat, and Ashton heard the creak of leather, like the other man was shifting in a chair. “Have you heard from Zachariah lately?”
“Not since I was in the med ward,” Ashton admitted. “They knocked me out with some pain meds, and when I woke back up, he was gone, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“That’s what I thought,” Damon said. “He’s in Dallas.”
“What the hell is he doing in Dallas?” Ashton asked.
“That’s where he’s from,” Damon said. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but he isn’t answering his phone. I thought maybe, since you’re on leave and he trusts you, you could go down there and make sure everything is okay.”
Ashton raised an eyebrow. “You want me to fly down to Dallas just to knock on his door?”
“Essentially,” Damon admitted. “Everyone else is tied up, on assignments or whatever, and you’re the only one free that I can spare at the moment.” There was another creak of leather, and he added, “I can call this an official business trip and have the Agency pay for the plane ticket if that sweetens the request any.”
Ashton sighed. “It’s not a matter of cost,” he said. “I can afford the ticket. I’m not poor. I just dislike the suddenness of this. A little forewarning is always nice.”
“Well, if you’d like to wait a few days before leaving, you’re more than welcome to consider this your forewarning call,” Damon suggested. “I don’t care when exactly you leave, just that you get down there within the week to make sure he’s still breathing.”
“What makes you think he wouldn’t be breathing?” Ashton asked, a flutter of alarm roiling through his gut at the suggestion.
“Considering what he went through in Bolivia…” Damon trailed off, and Ashton’s gut clenched into a knot at the implication. “Well, he’s vastly inexperienced compared to someone like you, and stranger things have happened.”
Ashton’s gut tightened even further, and he grasped the edge of the dresser to steady himself. “I’m cleared to use the Agency card for my plane ticket?” he asked, seeking clarification.
“Yes, and a rental car if you need it,” Damon confirmed.
“I’ll head down there as soon as I’m able,” Ashton promised. After a little more addition information on where exactly he’d be most likely to find Zachariah in Dallas, he hung up the phone then made a beeline for his computer.
He had a plane ticket to buy and a rental car to reserve, because he had every intention of going to Dallas as requested and kicking a certain someone’s ass.
* * *
Dallas was hot, much hotter than it normally was in June in Washington, D.C., and as he stepped out of the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, dragging his rolling suitcase behind him like every other douchebag in the airport, Ashton sent up a silent prayer of thanks that it was a dry sort of heat and not the damp, muggy heat that always made him feel ill. He adjusted his sunglasses and ran a hand through his dark hair—it had begun to get too long and fairly shaggy while he’d been on leave—and started toward the car rental facilities, intending to pick up the SUV he’d reserved before leaving D.C.
He had no difficulties getting the car, and within an hour, he was on the road, driving toward the heart of Dallas, Texas, following the instructions the GPS unit gave him toward what he hoped would end up being Zachariah’s apartment. Despite the heat, it looked to be a lovely day; he couldn’t see a cloud in the sky when he glanced up through the sunroof. He wished it was slightly cooler so he could go out and enjoy it. He’d spent enough time penned up in his guest house or stuck in doctor’s offices and physical therapy rooms over the past two months to drive himself crazy. As a compromise, he pressed the button to open the sunroof, letting some fresh air into the car.
Two-point-eight miles away from Zachariah’s apartment building, Ashton spotted a small sporting goods store, part of a strip mall set back from the road by a parking lot. He thought of the two pistols and the empty magazines in his suitcase and made the split decision to stop off there. Twenty minutes later, he returned to his rental, carrying a heavy bag containing four boxes of ammunition; he retrieved his pistol and three spare magazines from his luggage and started once more for Zachariah’s apartment.
He didn’t call Damon until after he’d parked in the garage attached to Zachariah’s building. The phone rang three times before Damon answered.
“You find him yet?” the director asked without preamble.
“I just got to his building,” Ashton said. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t have any new information for me before I go knocking down his door.”
“Nothing new,” Damon reported. “Haven’t heard a word. So have fun knocking down that door. Just don’t get shot.”
Ashton raised his eyebrows. “You expect me to get shot?”
Damon only let out a snort and hung up.
“Well, that was reassuring,” he muttered, stuffing his phone into his pocket. He took a few minutes to load the magazines with ammunition, pop one into the pistol, and chamber a round; then he tucked the pistol into the back waistband of his jeans—in his rush to pack, he’d forgotten his holster—and tugged his shirt over it before exiting the car to make his way to Zachariah’s door.
The apartment building wasn’t one Ashton would have ever chosen to live in willingly. The hallways were dark and loud; behind every door he passed, he could hear the occupants’ activities as clearly as if the door had been open. The carpet that covered the floors stank of piss, vomit, and spilled beer, along with other odors he couldn’t identify—and he wasn’t sure he really wanted to. He couldn’t believe Zachariah lived here, especially considering the money he made at his job. In fact, he distinctly remembered the man making
a comment regarding his intentions to purchase a house with the money he’d earned on the assignment during which they’d met. He wondered what the hell had happened with that plan.
He also wondered, momentarily, if Damon had given him the wrong address.
Ashton shook himself from those thoughts as he approached Zachariah’s door. It was the only door on this floor behind which he could hear no noise. He lifted a hand to knock, but he hesitated, wondering if it would be better to let himself in. He cast quick glances in either direction, making sure he was alone in the hallway, then pulled his small lock-picking kit out of his pocket, took out the tools he needed, and dropped to a knee to start picking the lock.
The lock released, and Ashton rose to his feet, tucking his tools back into his pocket and turning the knob at the same time. The door cracked open, and as he fully regained his feet, he found himself face to face with the business end of a pistol.
“Oh hell, it’s you,” the person holding the pistol said, and it took Ashton a second to realize the person aiming the gun at his head was Zachariah. Zachariah let out a slightly disgusted noise and lowered his weapon, then opened the door wider, grabbed Ashton by the front of his shirt, and hauled him inside, slamming the door behind him. “What are you doing here?” His voice was hard, irritated, and there was an undercurrent of something in it that Ashton couldn’t readily identify. It was dark in the apartment, too, so dark that Ashton couldn’t see the other man clearly.
“Ah, Director Hartley sent me,” he tried to explain. “I think he got concerned because you weren’t answering your—”
Zachariah cut him off. “Maybe because I didn’t want to talk to him,” he said. His words came out rushed, jittery, almost staccato. Ashton frowned and continued.
Nightfall Page 23
