From his precarious position, Ethan couldn’t see anything more than the paved driveway and the precisely trimmed edges of the lawn on either side. He was trusting Jack’s judgement on where it would be the best place for Ethan to drop down and let the car move on without him. They’d talked about somewhere between the gate and main house, but the car didn’t slow down, the signal for Ethan to detach, for several minutes. Unless Jack had misjudged the distances on the satellite photos and the house was further away than they’d thought—which Ethan doubted—then there possibly wasn’t a good place for Ethan to leave the car without being seen.
The dark under the car got lighter as they angled up a steep part of the drive, growing to a point where Ethan wished his backup sunglasses weren’t in a pocket he couldn’t reach right then. By the time the road levelled out again, he had his eyes narrowed so far all he could see was a very narrow slit of light most people would probably find barely adequate to see by. And this was where Jack decided to come to an almost complete stop.
Hoping that this was the signal, Ethan let himself drop from the undercarriage and the moment the car had cleared him, he rolled blindly to the right, hit grass and a second later, dropped. Stomach lurching, Ethan tumbled down a sharp decline, his passage somewhat soothed by the fact it was lush, manicured grass under him and not rocks. Then he crashed to a stop against thicker foliage. Scrambling onto his belly, he wormed his way into the plants, rough woodchips under his hands. Under cover, he put on the spare glasses and looked around.
He was in a garden bed of ferns, broadleaved plants and palms of various heights. The groundcover was thick enough for him to hide in, but not so bad he couldn’t move easily. In a crouch, Ethan surveyed the area. Jack had continued around the house and down the far side of the hill to the garage. In front of the house was the pool, sunk into the slope of the hill, its exposed side made of rock covered in vines and flowers. The water within glowed crystal blue thanks to submerged lights. The house itself was something else altogether.
Jack’s description of “It’s just glass. All glass,” hadn’t been entirely correct. The rear wall was brick and the rest of the framework of the house was thick, mahogany-coloured wood, as were the floorboards, which could be clearly seen through the glass walls. Front, sides, and interior walls in the two-storey structure were glass, as was the roof. The ground floor was lit up, letting Ethan see all the way through to the garden on the far side. There was a kitchen in the rear of the house, dining and lounge rooms, what was probably an office, and in the centre of it all, what might have been a Zen garden with sand, rocks and a small tree that extended up to the second storey. The rooms on the second floor were shrouded with thick curtains, presumably bedrooms afforded some privacy.
Sneaking up on anyone on the first floor would be hard. And there were people inside. A half dozen men in dark body armour were spread throughout the ground floor and a dark-skinned man—possibly Balakrishnan—stood in the central garden with a phone to his ear. There was no sign of the three Cabal leaders on the ground floor.
Ethan slowly made his way around the building until he found the garage. It was as wide as the house with four bays undercover and room for several more cars on a flat expanse where trees had been cleared to make way for a helicopter pad, a white chopper sitting in its centre.
The Audi was parked next to a pair of dark-coloured 4WD on the driveway. Inside the garage was the Lamborghini Huracán that had led them here, a silver Porsche Cayenne and a sleek black 1969 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray.
Jack was standing in the middle of the empty bay, legs spread and arms raised as a guard patted him down, removing the array of weapons he’d been carrying. A second guard stood watch, SIG Sauer MCX Rattler covering Jack. The situation looked routine rather than alarmed, so chances were good they hadn’t seen through his disguise.
Using the 4WDs for cover, Ethan moved around to the far side of the garage, slid to the ground and rolled under the Porsche. Next to it, the Stingray didn’t have enough clearance for him to move under, so he crawled around its rear end and paused between it and the Huracán.
The pat down ended and the guards warily watched Jack unbutton his shirt, having already removed his leather jacket. They were checking him for wires, which they wouldn’t find, but the moment Jack took off his shirt, they would know he wasn’t Ten.
Ethan tensed, readying himself. On the far side of the supercar, Jack shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and, letting it dangle from one hand, turned to show off his wireless torso.
The first guard to see the St. Thomas Cross tattoo frowned and asked something in Hindi, alerting the other man, who didn’t bother with asking questions. The barrel of the Rattler came up, aimed directly at Jack.
Ethan sprang up and slid across the bonnet of the Huracán. Jack was already moving, swinging about and flinging his dangling shirt into the gunman’s face. The man flinched, then flew backwards as Ethan’s feet ploughed into his stomach. Hitting the cement floor of the garage, Ethan rolled and flipped to his feet, USP in hand.
Jack had closed with the other guard, that man’s rifle trapped between one of Jack’s arms and his side, while he pounded his other fist into the guard’s face. Leaving that guard in Jack’s more than capable hands, Ethan pounced on the other one, who was dazedly trying to aim his rifle at Ethan. Ethan kicked the Rattler away and then dropped, knees first, onto the man’s chest. The man cried out in pain as his body armour compressed his ribs, the sound choked off when Ethan slammed the butt of the USP into his nose. It was fast and easy to then break his neck.
One enemy down, Ethan stood and turned. The other guard was on the ground, the hilt of a knife protruding from under his jaw, the blade sitting inside his head. Sightless eyes stared at the bland ceiling of the garage.
“Nice timing.” Jack removed the knife from the body, contemplated the bloody blade and used his own shirt to clean it off. “I was starting to wonder if you were stuck under the car.”
Ethan crouched and began undoing the fastenings on the body armour of the man he’d killed. “I took a moment to do a quick recon. You’re right about the house. It won’t be easy to move around unnoticed.” Surmising that his own pants were similar enough to those of the guard, Ethan only swapped out his shirt for the dead man’s and his armour.
Likewise stripping his target, Jack stretched the guard’s shirt across his chest, frowned, and looked at Ethan, swimming in his stolen clothes. Wordlessly, they swapped.
Once fully dressed and carrying the Rattlers, they approached a door, which probably led into the house. Jack crouched and studied the keypad for the electronic lock. After a moment, he said he could hack it and went sideways into his implant. Ethan kept watch over him and their surrounds, thankful that Jack still had his implant active and that he was very well versed in most security systems. It took longer than Ethan was comfortable with, but Jack finally shook his head and stood.
“I couldn’t crack their codes, but I did manage to put a new one in. It should get us through any lock in the place.” He made sure Ethan was watching, then typed in the code. The red light on the keypad went green and the lock clicked open. “Can you remember that? Seven sevens?” Jack smirked at him.
“Very funny, Jack.” Ethan slipped past him.
“If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.”
“I hope you realise I chose that code for the entire purposes of making it easy for you.”
Jack snorted and followed Ethan into the house, but all levity was forgotten the moment the door closed behind them. The area they came into lit up with motion sensor lights, illuminating a narrow, brick-walled staircase leading upwards. Rattler at the ready, Ethan went first, Jack ascending backwards to keep a watch on their six.
At the first landing, there was a door, unlocked, and with Jack covering him, Ethan slowly eased it open. Beyond was a dim, narrow space opening into the kitchen. Gleaming stainless-steel appliances nestled into cabinets made of the sa
me rich mahogany as the house’s frame. Between that and the glass walls giving an unimpeded view of the surrounding greenery, it gave the appearance of the house having grown around these metal intrusions. It was an incredibly surreal sensation.
“There is a study opposite the kitchen,” Ethan whispered to Jack, motioning behind them. “Directly in front of us is an internal garden. Sand, rocks, single tree. It extends up to the roof, I believe. On either side are lounge and dining rooms. There were six guards twenty minutes ago, and a man who could be Balakrishnan.”
“Did you see Ten?”
Ethan shook his head. He would know his brother from a distance.
“Right. I’ll take this floor then.” Jack settled his sunglasses back in place and slung the Rattler from its strap under his arm. “Keep them down here while you go up to the next floor.”
A small measure of the tension in Ethan’s shoulders let go. At least he wouldn’t have to fight with Jack about what was about to happen. If the Cabal leaders were here, they were most likely on the second storey. And they would not be leaving it alive.
Ethan gave Jack a firm nod, then started up the next set of stairs. The door closed quietly between him and Jack. Locking away his worries—Jack was smart and incredibly well trained, he would be perfectly fine on his own against six others—Ethan focused on the task ahead.
This was it. What he’d fought so hard for over the past months. His goal, finally within reach. Three out of five leaders of the Cabal, those who had been the ultimate conductors of the ruin of his childhood and that of twelve other innocent lives. People who believed their wealth—and the power that went with it—gave them rights over the lives of everyone else, to manipulate and exploit on such a wide scale it encompassed whole countries. All to gain more money—more power.
The door on the second storey landing had a keypad. Ethan pressed seven seven times and the light switched from red to green, a soft clack signalling the unlocking of the door. As with the floor below, this door opened into a small, secluded space so as to not interrupt the aesthetic flow of brick and glass. All he could see this time, however, was a curtained glass wall. Which of his tormentors was behind that thick emerald velvet? Mylonas? Seaver? Sakamoto? It didn’t matter. They would all be facing the monster of their own creation tonight.
Rattler held diagonally across his chest, Ethan stepped out into the open. There were guards outside of three of the four doors along the central hallway. The space was interrupted by the trimmed upper branches of the tree in the garden below, extending almost to the glass ceiling. The closest guard was Caucasian, his bare, massive arms crossed over a wide, muscular chest. A tattooed winged skull and Force Recon banner was prominent on his left biceps. The next one was Japanese, medium height, lean, dark haired, scar puckering his left cheek, and had a pair of long bladed knives sheathed at his sides. Across from him was a tall Nordic woman Ethan found familiar but couldn’t quite place.
The male guards both eyed Ethan warily, but it was the woman who recognised him, either personally or as a threat. She drew a Glock 17 with a silencer and pointed it at Ethan, turning side on to present a slimmer target. Instantly, the men came on guard.
Rushing forwards, Ethan used the tree for cover from the woman, bringing himself into range of the Marine. The big man was uncoiling himself for combat and Ethan sprang up and kicked out sideways. His boot caught the man in the solar plexus. Gasping in surprise and pain, the Marine staggered backwards, hitting the glass wall. The scarred guard came forwards, knives in his hands. Ethan threw himself in the other direction, keeping the tree between them. Putting himself directly in line with the woman’s gun. Diving to the floor, Ethan rolled under a suppressed gunshot, the sound still echoingly loud inside the glass walls. Shoving with his hands, Ethan slid into her legs. Or into the space they would have been if she hadn’t dodged away.
The corridor between the rooms ended in a balcony. Ethan’s boots hit the glass balustrade, the glowing water of the pool all he could see. He immediately pushed off again. Glock’s boots landed where he had been, but her gun tracked him nevertheless. Ethan flipped over backwards, coming up onto his knees, just in time to fall flat on his back under the scything pass of a knife. Continuing the tumble, Ethan scissored his legs up and over, knocking the blade from Scar’s hand, and kicking him in the face.
This time, when Ethan sprang to his feet, it was right into the waiting arms of Marine. As those meaty weapons locked around him, Ethan smiled.
Time to get serious.
The door closed softly behind him and Jack hoped Ethan found the peace he was so desperately looking for up there. Unfinished vengeance was a weight that dragged everything down with it, compressed the heart and mind until there was little room for anything else. Jack had had his need for revenge very soundly beaten out of him. Hopefully Ethan wouldn’t experience that same gutting disappointment.
If he had any chance of helping that not happen, Jack needed to keep these guards from rushing upstairs the moment a ruckus started.
Two of the six guards turned as he entered, Rattlers coming up to ready. Jack, face schooled into his approximation of Ten, merely looked from one to the other, supremely unconcerned with them and their weapons. They hesitated, then checked in with the suited man sitting in a chair in the lounge room that opened onto the garden, his view of Jack clear through the pristinely clean glass walls.
He appeared to be Mahavir Balakrishnan, in his late fifties, designer suit, tie missing and top buttons of his shirt undone. He held a small tablet in one hand and a tumbler of amber fluid in the other. His dark eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses skated up and down Jack, and then he gave a slight nod.
Guessing it meant he’d been accepted as Ten, Jack returned the nod and checked back with the guards. The pair that had come alert relaxed, but then moved further away from him. Like those on the gate, they seemed to have developed an understanding of what Ten was. Using that, Jack moved towards the garden in the centre of the house. Like water parting before a boat, the guards peeled away into the rooms on either side.
“Any sign of your counterpart?” Balakrishnan asked in Hindi, sounding bored.
“Negative,” Jack answered.
“Maybe he’s not as determined as you claim.”
Jack gave him Ten’s bland expression and a corner of Balakrishnan’s mouth turned up in a sardonic smile before he went back to reading.
Close to the tree, Jack could hear only faint noises from the second storey. Footsteps, then a patter of more rapid ones, a few muffled thumps, then a silenced gunshot.
Everyone on the ground floor heard that. The guards turned, weapons raised, eyes going to the ceiling, then to Balakrishnan, who in turn looked at Jack.
Jack held up a hand in a “wait” gesture. Above, there were thumps and crashes, grunts and an exclamation in what might have been Japanese.
“Ten?” Balakrishnan stood, tablet forgotten as he peered upwards.
The sounds of the fight clattered from the back of the house to the front.
Around Jack, the guards started moving restlessly towards the stairs.
“Ruko,” Jack said in Hindi, wondering how far he could push the quasi-authority Ten seemed to have here.
The guards obeyed and stopped but there was definite doubt in their expressions.
“What is this about?” Balakrishnan strode toward him, apparently very confident as he questioned a known psychopathic killer.
Again, Jack used the “wait” hand. Balakrishnan paused, frowning.
Shit. Time was running out and the sounds from above were only amping up. Jack had to do something decisive, and soon.
With a startled grunt, a body dropped down through the tree’s hole. A big white man with tattoos thumped into the sand, head narrowly missing a large rock. After a moment, the man lifted his head and looked up at Jack with a shocked expression.
In two strides, Jack stepped down into the garden and went to one knee beside the huge man, Rattler aime
d at his head. Down but not out, the man knocked the rifle aside. However, he missed the long-bladed knife Jack rammed into his neck from the other side. The man convulsed once, life bleeding out of him swiftly. Jack jerked his knife out of the body and stood, red droplets plunking into the sand.
“That was Seaver’s bodyguard,” Balakrishnan said. “Why did you—” His eyes went wide and recognition—or lack thereof—crossed his face. “You’re not—”
Jack threw himself at the man, catching him around the thighs and taking him to the floor. He was spry for his age, but Jack was faster.
With Balakrishnan face down, Jack planted a knee in his back, the point of his bloody knife against the base of his neck, and the business end of the Rattler directed at the suddenly converging circle of guards.
“Guns down and back up,” Jack said to them. “Or Money Bags gets it.”
“Do it,” Balakrishnan said, tone curt if a little shaky.
It worked and the guards stopped advancing. Jack gestured with the rifle and they retreated into the dining room.
Uncaring of the knife at his neck, Balakrishnan turned his head so he could see Jack from the corner of his eye. “I should have recognised you quicker. I’ve been waiting for you and One-three to show up all night.”
Jack snorted and, keeping a watch on the corralled guards, let his Rattler hang from its strap while he fished some plastic restraints from a pocket. “Sorry, we got delayed looking for just the right shade to highlight my eyes.”
“It’s a masterful job.”
“You, of all people, shouldn’t be surprised at his talents.” Jack bound the industrialist’s hands behind his back, then turned to his ankles.
When Death Frees the Devil Page 23
