This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
When Death Frees the Devil
Copyright © L.J. Hayward
Smashwords Edition
Cover Art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com
Editor: May Peterson, maypetersonbooks.com/editorial
Sensitivity Reader: The Shrinkette, theshrinkette.com/2017/02/21/sensitivity-reading-services/
Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author at www.ljhayward.com/contact.html
ISBN: 978-0-6484460-6-4
First Edition
December 2019
Also available in paperback, ISBN: 978-0-6484460-8-8
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
About When Death Frees the Devil
Part One: Ethan
Chapter 1: The Tower
Chapter 2
Chapter 3: Three Months Earlier
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7: The Tower
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two: Jack
Chapter 11: The Hearing
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Three: Ethan and Jack
Chapter 21: India
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42: The Hearing
Coda: Three Months Later, Jack
Acknowledgments
Also by L.J. Hayward
About the Author
Ethan is finally free. He’s left the Cabal behind and embraced a civilian life with Jack, the man he loves. The only problem is that the Cabal isn’t willing to let him go. A call in the middle of the night and a threat to Jack’s family, and Ethan is back in the game. The only way out is to take on the organization that spent years warping his life.
Jack’s boyfriend has a way of vanishing on him, but this time Ethan’s disappearance is more frightening than ever. A trail of mysterious clues, a hit against his family, and the handprint of the Cabal on everything means the greatest test of love and determination Jack has ever endured.
Torn apart by forces greater than they are, Jack and Ethan must fight harrowing battles to get back to each other. The Cabal is the greatest foe either of them has had to face. Ethan is willing to throw away everything to bring an end to the Cabal’s evil. And Jack is willing to do the same to make sure Ethan comes out the other side alive.
Blast.
Blast, bother and bollocks. This wasn’t how the plan was supposed to go. If Ethan was honest, he hadn’t expected it to work perfectly, but this was what he got for letting someone else do the planning. Maybe if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here right now.
Here, in the pitch black and the cold that permeated the air, the stones under the balls of his feet, and the chains that suspended him from the ceiling. He was stretched out to the point of discomfort, pulling at the rough stiches in the wound in his hip so they felt like claws slowly ripping through his flesh. His feet only just touched the floor, making him strain to take some pressure off his arms. The shackles around his bruised and tender wrists were warmed slightly from contact with his body, but the longer he dangled there, the more the chill seeped back into them. Into his skin and flesh and bones. He couldn’t tell anymore if the burning ache in his arms was from the strain of taking most of his body weight, or the random shivers that wracked him.
Ethan couldn’t hear much past his own laboured breathing and the faint thump of what might have been his heart struggling. The silence and the cold felt subterranean. Strung up and underground. This wasn’t the plan. It was in no way any part of the plan. He shouldn’t have trusted it. He hadn’t worked it through himself, hadn’t assessed and researched and accounted for all possibilities. This was his own fault for not taking charge, for letting his emotions overrule his training. He should never have done that, never have done that. He shouldn’t have trusted anyone other than Jack.
The jittering discomfort started in his gut and his fingers itched for something he could straighten or untwist, something that needed fixing. Or a knife to flip, a familiar, repetitive motion to occupy his body so the chaos in his head didn’t overspill and he could settle it down.
He concentrated on that thought. On imagining he had his tactical knife and it was turning in the air and landing perfectly in his hand. Tip to grip to tip to grip. It worked, and the rushing thoughts slowed and settled until he could focus on his body again. On keeping it ordered and still and concentrate on dragging in the few gasps of air he could. At least it was stale, tinged only with the sweat of his own body. No blood, thankfully, and no stench from the rotting corpse of whoever had last been cuffed up like this and forgotten about.
It felt like he’d been forgotten, even as he told himself this was just another one of their tactics. The dark, the suspension, the cold, the endless passing of precious time. All elements Ethan had used himself. Methods he’d been taught to resist through repetition as he grew up. He hadn’t let them beat him then, and they wouldn’t now. He was better than that, even though he had to bite back a bitter chuckle at the thought of all of his victims having the last laugh now because this wasn’t training. It wasn’t a test. They wanted him to crack, to be scared and vulnerable. It wouldn’t work. The dark had always been Ethan’s sanctuary and the waiting and cold could be ignored. The suspension was another matter.
He’d been here for at least four hours. Long enough that breathing was getting harder and harder. His lungs felt strained and flat, his ribs pressing too tight to them like a vice. A couple of times he’d relieved the pressure on his chest by flipping upside down and holding onto the chain with his feet.
Needing the flood of oxygen again, Ethan stretched up just that bit further and grasped the chain above the shackles. Lungs now burning, he curled his thighs up to his chest. Even though it pulled the stitches in his hip in new directions, it did offer some reprieve, so he held it, dropping his forehead onto his knees.
In the privacy it afforded him from the inevitable cameras watching him, Ethan allowed himself to think of Jac
k. His beautiful, stubborn, funny and endlessly contrary Jack. He could ignite so many different feelings in Ethan with a single look—love, laughter, frustration, fear, peace, lust—and yet they didn’t overwhelm him anymore. His head and his heart could be still when it was just the two of them tucked away in a secure place.
How long had it been since he’d last seen him? Not much past the four hours he’d been awake in this cell? Or a day? Two? Longer? Was Jack a captive like him? Was he—
Ethan cut that thought out before it could form. Jack was all right. Safe the last time Ethan saw him, and he’d been reassured he would stay that way. So long as Jack didn’t do anything stupid—not necessarily a given when Jack’s heart was involved. Not that Ethan’s decision-making paradigm had been much better of late, for the exact same reasons.
Would this never be over? All Ethan wanted now was to be with Jack. He’d thought he’d had that, and then . . . this.
Light flooded the cell.
Ethan startled and dropped from his precarious position, sensitive eyes burning. The sudden weight hanging off his shoulders jarred his whole body, setting him to swinging on the chain so he couldn’t gain traction on the slick, cold stone floor. He scrambled for equilibrium, gasping for air while his eyes watered and his heart pounded in surprise and confusion.
He should have been expecting something like this. Should have been preparing for it instead of losing himself to memories of Jack. That he hadn’t was humiliating. Frustration curled through him. Shame. Confusion. Surprise. He didn’t like those feelings. They were weak. They meant he wasn’t skilled enough or prepared enough. They meant someone else had the upper hand, and that was how one failed.
Ethan caught the edge of one of the floor stones with his toes. Muscles tensing, he froze his swinging and got his other foot on the ground as well. Eyes closed, he forced everything else aside and focused on his other senses, which he strained to their limits, needing to find the threat, work out what it was, and how to neutralise it.
Just in time to hear the lock on the door clunk open and someone enter. Just a few steps before they stopped.
Not yet ready to test his eyesight in the light, Ethan kept his eyes closed and listened. Muffled, distant voices, so soft he couldn’t make out words, or even a language. Beyond them, nothing. No hint of traffic or birds or radio to give a clue as to where they were. The air wafting into his stale cell was sterile and warm, feathering his cool skin.
“Hello, One-three.”
He had no chance of stopping the quiver that rolled down his spine, giving away his surprise.
The speaker gave a soft hum. A sound Ethan was incredibly familiar with. More than anything else in his childhood, that sound had shaped him. More than a mostly absent mother. More than Two’s confusing blend of affection and abuse. It was a sound he had once cherished—and now feared.
“You know I’m disappointed, don’t you?” the Doctor murmured.
Shame churned Ethan’s stomach but he locked everything else down. Expression, limbs, breathing. Not that he had much control on the last, now he was suspended once more. But he wasn’t going to struggle for air. Not in front of the Doctor.
Once, disappointing the Doctor had been the most terrible pain Ethan understood. It would curl him up in humiliation and agony until he’d redeemed himself, then he’d bask in the Doctor’s pleasure. It hadn’t just been him, either. All of them had, to varying degrees, lived and breathed by the Doctor’s good word. It had taken Ethan a long time to get beyond that conditioning. A lot of time and distance and Jack.
“Of course you do. How could you not? You always were the smartest of the group, One-three.”
Ethan struggled to not react.
“Oh, come now. Don’t be like that.” Another step and the Doctor’s voice lowered, warming, so it wrapped around Ethan like a hug. “Look at me, One-three.”
He tried, desperately, fiercely, not to obey. Froze everything this time. Even his laboured breathing.
The Doctor came closer, well within range of Ethan’s capability to harm—and kill. “One-three, look at me.”
When he refused, there came that little, dissatisfied hum again. It twisted like a knife in Ethan’s chest. He could resist, though. He didn’t believe the Doctor held all the answers anymore. Now, he knew otherwise.
“All right,” the Doctor murmured, disappointment clear in the soft tone. “I see how this is going to progress. You’ve learned some bad habits since you left the group, One-three. Or should I call you Ethan?”
It was easy to not react this time, because “Ethan” had never been one of the Doctor’s tools. The jobs given to the group and the names they had worked them under had nothing to do with the Doctor’s goals. “Ethan Blade” hadn’t been the Doctor’s creation, then or now. It had taken a lot of time and some tough lessons, but One-three had finally made himself into a man he could live with, and Jack had named him in a moment of love and connection. He’d taken the word “Ethan” and made it into a name, something that defined him as a human and lover.
Letting the name and all it meant wrap around him, Ethan had no trouble resisting the Doctor’s next words.
“Do you honestly think he loves you, One-three?” When the words didn’t get a reaction, the Doctor continued in a soothing tone. “You know better than that, mon doux garçon.”
The familiar words, in that voice, in French, nearly pierced Ethan’s armour, but he steeled himself against it. He’d believed those words once, when he’d been desperate for something familiar, something soft and warm and comforting. Now, though, he knew it had just been a lie, so he kept still, didn’t open his eyes, didn’t let the Doctor know it still affected him.
His efforts were rewarded with a gentle chuckle. “Oh, I’ve missed you. Your stubbornness was always what defined you. Even when you stopped resisting, I knew it was just a ruse. The others might have believed you, but I knew the truth. You were simply biding your time, and when it came, you certainly surprised them all. But not me. Never me.” A couple of steps brought the Doctor right up to Ethan, almost touching, minty breath wafting across Ethan’s face in a whisper. “You may have shocked the others when you killed Two, but not me. I always knew you had it in you.” A pause, then, “Paul St. Clair.”
That broke his resolve. Never had the Doctor used that name, not even when Ethan had thought of himself as Paul. The shock of it wracked his shoulders, making the chains clank and his toes scrabble at the stones to regain their lost purchase.
The Doctor didn’t push him. He never did when he found a chink he could exploit. He would wait to see just how he could manipulate the weakness he found in his subject, to judge the best way of using it to get what he wanted. So he left the cell, the sound of his even pacing marking his exit, leaving Ethan fighting an anticipatory shiver as the door opened, closed and locked.
Alone again, Ethan found comfort in the darkness. This had been his life for the first six years, unending black occasionally touched with the red of a light shone directly into his tissue-covered eyes. He had been able to see for the vast majority of his life, but those formative years hadn’t left him entirely. He knew the dark and how to move in it. If he’d had to make the killing blow on Two with his eyes open, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to do it.
Despite the Doctor’s claim.
They left him alone for perhaps another quarter hour, then the door opened again. A single, silent man entered, the thump of his boots on the floor indicating he was large, though the fluidity of the steps meant it was probably all muscle making up his bulk. He moved around the outer edge of the cell, circling Ethan entirely, moving back and forth until he finally settled into position behind and to the left.
Ethan knew what was coming, even before the soft slither of leather over leather. Even before the man gave the short whip an experimental crack against the stone floor.
He was being punished. He’d disobeyed the Cabal. Run away. So they were punishing him and it wasn’t entire
ly about causing pain. It was barely that, honestly. All of them had been made aware of what it meant to be wounded on their back—cowardice, weakness, betrayal.
As the first lash landed, a smarting snap across the taut skin of his back, followed by the sudden, sharp pain a second later, he wondered if this would end in scars again.
A second and third in quick succession, layering one on top of the other. No delay in feeling the pain now. It was instant, deep, and radiating. Ethan gritted his teeth against the urge to cry out. He wouldn’t let them think they’d won. Not this time. He bore the bite of the leather silently and thought of Jack. Of the day they’d spent at the hidden waterfall in Vietnam, swimming, playing, rutting together under the sugary spray of water until they were gasping in shared pleasure. Of how Ethan had told Jack about Plutarch and his theory that scars were a sign of life. To have faced a danger and survived was a victory.
Ethan didn’t want any more signs of survival. He was done with fighting. That life was supposed to be behind him now.
He should have known this plan wouldn’t work.
The whip snapped across his spine, overlaying several other strokes. Fire lanced through his skin and muscle and a strangled cry erupted from his throat. Ethan bit back the whimpers that wanted to follow it. The one sound, though, was enough to encourage his torturer.
A series of rapid lashes, and it wasn’t until they were over that Ethan heard his own gasps and grunts, realised the dampness on his face was sweat and tears. Even though it felt as if the skin on his back had been flayed off, every wet trail stung like a thousand needles, which meant it was salty sweat, not blood. Yet.
But the person didn’t strike again. Between his heavy, pained breathing, Ethan heard the leather sliding against itself, then footsteps. The door opened, the torturer left and, after a moment, the lights went out.
There was no hope of relieving the strain on his arms and chest by flipping upside down again. Every little movement, including dragging air into his lungs, sent flashes of intense agony through his body. Simply hanging there was pure pain. He didn’t even try to lose himself in thoughts of Jack. He couldn’t associate the best thing in his life with this.
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