Purely out of form, Ethan checked the final bedroom.
“Hello, brother.”
The Glock’s site was trained on Ten even before Ethan saw Hermann Jäger. He was bound hand and foot, Ten’s arm around his neck holding him up as a shield, a blade pressed against Jäger’s throat. The S&W 500 in Ten’s other hand was pointed right at Ethan.
“Why did you kill them?” Ethan asked.
“Because I was told to.”
And that was all it had ever taken for Ten to do a job.
“Who told you? Was it Zero?”
It happened very fast but Ethan saw the smile flit across Jäger’s face.
Was this a coup? Was Jäger making a play for a leadership position? Why kill three of them if it was just Jäger? Unless it was a joint plan between him and Balakrishnan. And if it had been Zero who’d given Ten the job, then he was part of it as well. Either way, both Jäger and Ten had misjudged this moment, no matter what else their plan was. Jäger might not—yet—be part of the leadership, but his hands certainly weren’t clean, either.
“Not Zero,” Ten answered in his usual monotone. “He has not been trusted since you escaped in Sydney. He’s favoured you one too many times. Orders are coming from higher up now.”
Which meant the bosses were directly interacting with Ten, the last of their loyal assassins. Things must have become desperate.
“Then you made a mistake in your choice of shield.” Ethan shifted his aim to Jäger.
Jäger jerked in Ten’s hold, who only tightened his arm, keeping the man in place. Frowning at Ten, Jäger tried to get free again.
“And your mistake was thinking Jäger was a shield.” Ten slit the man’s throat.
Jäger slid out of Ten’s now loose hold, hands pressing against the gushing wound in his neck. “You said . . . you . . . promised . . .”
All Ten did was step over Jäger’s flailing body and advance.
“Why?” Ethan backed out of the room, keeping as much space between him and his brother as possible.
“To deny you the satisfaction.”
It had all been part of the plan. A coup, and a punishment for Ethan. Take away the targets he had been aiming at for so long. Deny him taking his freedom from his captors. Leave him with an unfinished job—a defeat for Ethan in particular.
Ten followed him out of the room. “You had to be taught that no one ever defies the Cabal, One-three, and this is the only way you ever learned.” He kept up his steady pace, never taking his aim off Ethan. “It’s time for you to accept that and return home.”
That was why Ten hadn’t fired yet. Another brother trying to take him home, but not for personal reasons this time. Ten wouldn’t have cared unless he’d been instructed to. But then Ten wouldn’t care about taking him back wounded, either. Or dead.
Ethan spun and sprinted for the front of the house. Ten’s rapid footsteps followed him. The huge Smith and Wesson boomed and fire blazed across Ethan’s left hip. His leg gave out under him and he dropped to the floor. Rolling he came up against the glass balustrade on the balcony. Another bullet smashed into the glass just above his shoulder, making him hunch down instinctively.
“This did not end well for you last time, brother.”
Ethan reached up and grabbed the top of the balustrade. “Last time wasn’t my choice.” He hauled himself up and over as another bullet—meant to kill—scorched across his ribs.
A single storey drop wasn’t enough time to control his fall and Ethan hit the water badly. He impacted on his injured side, agony spearing through him even as the water engulfed him. He sank, pink tinging the swirling current. Ten peered over the edge of the balcony, his face wavering through the watery screen. Ethan let out bursts of air bubbles, smaller and smaller, until there was no more air. Ten watched him, much as Ethan had watched Ten in the crashed chopper. Ethan’s lungs ached and his throat burned to breathe in, but he controlled his body’s needs. Even after Ten disappeared back inside the house, Ethan held to his subterfuge for as long as he could. When it was no longer possible, he propelled himself across the bottom of the pool towards the far side. Breaking the surface, Ethan dragged in massive gulps of air, grabbing onto the edge for support as his oxygen-starved body quivered.
A familiar gunshot sounded in the house. Spinning, he saw Ten aiming at Jack through a wall of fractured glass.
This plan was lost. There was no salvaging it now. Ten had the upper hand. He’d always had the upper hand. Ethan’s only option was to get Jack and get out. The problem was no one could sneak up on anyone in this place. Ambush was out of the question. Which gave him only one option.
Frontal attack.
The front wall of the house shattered, jagged hunks of glass flying wildly as the orange Lamborghini crashed to a stop in the middle of the lounge room. Jack curled up on the floor, arms over his head, knees to his chest, back to the worst of the destruction. There were a couple of screams behind him as the car or flying glass took out the guards too slow to move. Someone was far enough out of range of the danger zone to open fire on the car.
“Jack, get in.”
Rolling over, Jack took a lightning fast sitrep. One guard was pinned between the back of the car and the inner wall. Another was on the floor, head bleeding from impact from a large chunk of glass. And there was the third, back in the dining room behind the overturned table, firing wildly at the rumbling Lambo. The driver’s side door—closest to Jack—was open and inside, Ethan was scrambling across the console to the passenger seat.
Jack crawled to the car, keeping it between him and the idiot wasting his ammo in the next room. He tossed his Rattler into the car and clambered in behind the wheel.
“Show off.” Jack slammed the door and put the car in drive.
“I do like to make an entrance.”
Snorting, Jack stamped on the accelerator and the car burst out of the glass house. He spun the wheel to get them around the pool, rather than in it. One of the back tyres may have gotten a bit wet, but he got them onto the driveway and headed in the right direction.
“Jack, the gate is that way.” Ethan helpfully pointed behind them.
“And did you see the gate? We won’t be getting through it in anything less than a tank.” Jack drove the Lambo around the side of the house and down to the garage. “Our real getaway vehicle is— Shit!”
Two people dashed out of the garage and across the open space towards the helipad. Instinct took over and Jack jerked the wheel and slammed on the brakes. Ten grabbed Balakrishnan and hauled him out of the way of the car, diving after the tumbling industrialist as the Lambo careened through a juddering turn. It went through a full one-eighty before it came to a stop.
Already moving, Ethan had the window down and the Rattler up. He unleashed the rifle at Ten and Balakrishnan, who scrambled into cover behind the black convertible.
“Keep them pinned.” Jack got out and raced for the helicopter.
It was a Sikorsky S-76. Jack had flown one they’d confiscated off arms smugglers in Afghanistan so he was familiar with it and powered through the start up in record time. As the blades began rotating overhead, Jack yelled, “Ethan! We’re leaving.”
Ethan sent out another burst of bullets, then rolled through the interior of the Lambo and out the side closest to the chopper. He was almost to the aircraft when Ten popped up from behind the black car and aimed his hand cannon at Ethan.
“Ethan, down.”
Ten fired just as Ethan dropped and rolled. The bullet smashed into the side of the chopper. The assassin kept up the barrage so Ethan was trapped on the ground and unable to get into the cabin of chopper.
Well. Fuck that shit.
Jack pulled up the collective and the chopper lifted into the air. Ethan peered up at him, frowning, then smiled when he saw what Jack was doing. Once high enough, Jack tilted the chopper so the lethally whirring blades formed a spinning shield from the bullets. Within their protective barrier, Ethan jumped up and caught the bottom
of the open door. Certain he had a good hold, Jack lifted the chopper, keeping it angled so Ten didn’t have a clear shot. Only when he was on the far side of the house did he right the chopper’s angle and hover so Ethan could finish boarding.
The black car shot out around the house and down the driveway, Ten and Balakrishnan hunched down inside it. Pity the chopper didn’t have any guns.
Ethan dropped into the seat beside Jack, panting, hand pressed to his left hip. Jack tossed a headset at him. When it was in place, Ethan asked, “Do we follow them?”
Jack considered it, then studied Ethan. He was pale and wet, sans sunglasses and sagging in his seat. Weariness was etched in the slowness of his movements, in the cast of his eyes, and the dull tone of his voice.
“No. We’ve put them on the run. That’s good enough for now.”
Ethan looked like he would protest, but after a moment, he just nodded and let his head fall back. His eyes closed. “As you wish, Jack.”
Fishing the glasses Ethan had given him out of a pocket, Jack reached over and slipped them on him, which got him a smile.
“Okay, let’s get out of here.” Jack got the chopper heading in a southeast direction, aiming for the Arabian Sea. There would be fewer witnesses to their flight on the water.
“Where shall we go?”
“Somewhere safe.”
Ethan sighed and shifted uncomfortably. “Is there any place here that’s safe for us now?”
“Just one.” Jack hoped, at least.
“Mm. Good.” Ethan undid the body armour and wrestled it off in the confined space. It clattered to the floor of the cabin behind them. “Do you have a knife, Jack?”
“Bad guys took them all, sorry.” Jack eyed Ethan’s stiff movements warily. “You okay?”
“Mostly.” Ethan ripped a strip of material off the bottom of his wet shirt. He wadded it up and stuffed it down the side of his pants until it sat over his hip. When he pulled his hand out, Jack saw the blood.
“You got hit?”
“It’s not bad. Just a surface wound.”
“Right. Just a surface wound.” Jack coaxed some more speed out of the chopper.
Ethan squeezed Jack’s forearm gently. “I promise, Jack. It’s not that bad.”
Jack grumbled but decided he would put the craft on autopilot when they were on the right heading and insist he check the wound. However, by the time they were over the water and soaring south, Ethan was asleep. Head listing to one side, chest rising and falling evenly, the blush of the dawn colouring his cheeks and putting a touch of red in his stubble, he looked so peaceful Jack couldn’t bring himself to wake him. Ethan needed the sleep and if he felt safe enough with Jack in control of the situation, then that was all Jack needed.
He did have to wake him nearly two hours later when he was preparing for the next step of the plan. Since the Cabal was probably tracking the chopper, they had to ditch it sooner rather than later, and hopefully divert any parties sent after them. While Jack put new settings into the autopilot, Ethan scrambled around the back of the cabin. His cry of success made Jack smile. The utter weariness so soon after the action at the house had worried him, along with the blood. This sign of life was heartening.
When everything was ready, Jack joined Ethan in the back and then opened one of the side doors. Air rushed in in violent swirls. Without the headsets and the words stolen from their lips before they could be said aloud, they fell back on hand signals to coordinate.
The yellow parcel Ethan found went first, then Ethan, and finally Jack. They speared feet first into the water, going deep before popping back up to the surface close to the uninflated raft. Overhead, the chopper was flying onwards, on a trajectory that would take it further out to sea. Eventually it would run out of fuel and drop into the water and hopefully mislead anyone looking for them.
With a pull of the tab, the raft inflated and Jack hauled himself, and a wincing Ethan, into it. Paddling ashore, Jack watched Ethan favour his left side. There was more than the “surface wound” on his hip.
Even though it was an empty beach they washed up on, there was an old man with a truck at least as old as he was who offered them a ride into Mangaluru. He dropped them right at the train station, where they only had to wait a couple of hours for the next train south. There were enough tourists around Ethan wouldn’t have been remarkable, but he spent the time staying out of sight so he wouldn’t be closely associated with Jack. After scouting the station and finding it free of suspicious characters, Jack went back to the secluded corner Ethan haunted with drinks and food. Ethan perked up a bit with the nourishment, but he was quiet and withdrawn even when no one else was around.
Something significant had happened on the second floor of the glass house. Something that had sapped a lot of Ethan’s natural energy and vitality. Jack was familiar with the stooped shoulders, the lax awareness, the dull lilt to the voice. He’d seen it in the mirror, heard it from his own mouth, in the months after Jharkhand. Ethan might have lost another fight to his brother, but he’d lost something else as well. Something more vital than some blood.
Jack boarded the train just after lunchtime. Ethan, assuring Jack he would make it, snuck on at the very last moment. He appeared at the door to the A1 sleeper Jack had booked fifteen minutes after the train pulled away from the station. Jack let him in and Ethan bee-lined for the long seat, which doubled as the lower bunk, sitting with a sigh. His hair had dried and hung lank over his forehead, his skin looking paler than usual against the dark of his stubble and sunglasses.
“All right.” Jack locked the door and drew the curtain across its window. “Let’s look at that surface wound.”
“It’s fine, Jack. I’d really rather just rest.”
A few extra hundred rupees in the right hand had furnished their sleeper with a first aid kit and Jack set it on the bed beside Ethan. “And I’d rather not drag another sick person out of this country. Drop your pants, Ethan.”
There was a hint of Ethan’s usual spirit in the look he gave Jack, who didn’t relent and went after the fastenings on his lover’s pants instead.
“Jack.” Ethan made a weary swat at Jack’s hands.
“You can do it yourself, but it will happen.” Jack waited until Ethan was complying before opening the first aid kit to look through its contents. It was very basic but had enough for him to deal with “surface wounds.” If it was anything more than that, it would give him a good reason to tie Ethan down so he couldn’t do anything stupid for a while.
Ethan undid his pants and pushed them down far enough to expose his hip. Rolling to his side, he let Jack peel back the still slightly damp material of his boxer-briefs to expose the wound. It was a shallow slice running horizontally over his hip, gaping when Ethan moved and still bleeding. Jack prodded it gently, assessing the extent of the damage.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Close call with a bullet.”
“Jesus.” Jack resisted the urge to chew Ethan out. He didn’t need Jack telling him to be more careful. The fact this was the only damage the bullet did meant he had been incredibly careful already. “At least you were right. It’s a surface wound.”
“Of course I’m right.”
“But only because there’s not enough flesh here for anything other than surface, you crazy bastard. Let’s just hope it didn’t hit the bone.”
Ethan scowled, sitting up to twist and look at the wound. “I’m certain it didn’t. It would have hurt a lot more if it had.”
“Yeah, well, it still needs to be stitched.” Jack put his hand over Ethan’s face and gently pushed him back down. “Lie still or you’re going to have wonky stitches.”
Ethan’s indignant “Jack” was muffled under his palm, but he went down and pillowed his head on his arm. “Wonky stitches won’t bother me.”
Any smart response Jack might have had dried up at the return of the lifeless tone. He worked silently while the train rattled and clunked along the track. Occasionally
people passed by their sleeper, talking loudly in a couple of different dialects and sometimes English. Jack kept an ear out for anything that sounded like someone looking for them, but it was all innocent and no one lingered. Ethan was quiet, except for a soft grunt when Jack used a disinfectant spray on the open wound but didn’t move or make a sound when he started stitching. There were two medium sized dressings in the kit and Jack pressed one over the wound when he was done.
“One down.” He reached for Ethan’s shirt. “Show me the other one, crazy bastard.”
At least Ethan didn’t protest this time, lifting his torn shirt up to show a dark, blooming bruise on his ribs. “One of Ten’s .50 calibre bullets to the body armour.”
“Sit up, I’ll bind your ribs in case they’re cracked.” Testing something, he added, “You crazy bastard.”
Again, no protest from Ethan and he sat still while Jack wrapped a bandage around his torso. Once done, Jack let Ethan right his clothes, then leaned over and kissed him. Soft and chaste, just enough to make a connection. Ethan sighed against his lips and touched his cheek, tipping his face forwards to rest his forehead against Jack’s.
“You okay?” Jack asked gently.
“Better now. Thank you.”
“Good.” Jack pulled back, still worried. “Then you can give me my ‘half right, Jack’ now, thanks.”
Ethan stilled. “I don’t think it’s true anymore.”
The dull words tore at Jack’s heart. “Hey, you never were, and you’re still not, a bastard.”
The sound Ethan made may have been amused, or heartbroken. “If my mother even knew who my father was, they were definitely never married.”
“I’m talking about the other definition. Because you’ve always been crazy.”
“Perhaps I have been.”
Jack gave him another quick kiss, then sat back. “Get some proper sleep. I’ll keep the watch.”
He thought Ethan would protest, but after a moment, he just nodded and lay down on his uninjured side—which put his back to the rest of the sleeper.
More worried than ever, Jack sat on the bunk beside him, back to the wall, gun resting next to his thigh, out of sight but close at hand.
When Death Frees the Devil Page 25
