Jack got up and, gathering his bags, went into the suite. “Ethan? You awake?”
A tousled head poked out of the bathroom. “Just drying off.” He saw the shopping bags and smiled. “Please tell me there is underwear in there.”
“Bingo.” Jack fished out a pair of the boxer-briefs and threw them at him. “And as an added treat, McIntosh is here.”
Ethan froze, half in, half out of the undies. “Why?”
“Get dressed and I’ll fill you in.”
Jack returned to the sitting room, closing the door to the bedroom to give Ethan privacy in case his director was in there. She wasn’t.
McIntosh leaned in the main doorway of the suite, shoulders slumped, one hand pressed to her downturned face. Jack had never seen her look so defeated.
“Ma’am? Something wrong?”
She looked up, almost startled. This time, her eyes were warm, but not because she was pleased with something. Quite the opposite, apparently.
Ethan emerged from the bedroom, pulling on a new T-shirt. “Jack, is Ms. McIntosh . . .” He trailed off as he saw her. “What’s wrong?”
McIntosh didn’t even glance towards Ethan. Her sad gaze was fixed on Jack.
Oh God. Oh fuck.
Jack swallowed hard. “Is it Meera? Mati?” What the fuck had the Cabal done to them? He would burn down the world if one hair on either of their heads was even so much as snipped a bit short.
“No. They’re fine, Jack. I’m sorry, but it’s your father.”
Thanks to the continuing contention between India and Australia, extraction took a day to organise, and it was another day to travel to the exfil site. Then thirty-six more hours via chopper to Sri Lanka, a rackety old twin-prop across the island and finally, a private jet to Sydney by way of Singapore.
Jack was quiet for most of the journey, sitting by himself when there was room to put distance between him and Ethan and Ms. McIntosh, barely communicative when there wasn’t. Ethan watched him worriedly.
“How?” Jack had asked when his director had given him the news in the hotel suite.
Ethan had inched towards him, ready to hold him back if Ms. McIntosh said the wrong thing.
“A fatal stroke. There was nothing anyone could do. Jack, I’m so sorry.”
As far as Ethan could tell, she had told them the truth. If the Cabal had somehow engineered the death, there were easier ways to make a murder look like natural death than imitating a stroke, especially in someone as already compromised as Christopher Reardon.
Ethan’s efforts to comfort Jack hadn’t exactly been rebuffed, but they hadn’t been encouraged while they waited for extraction. Jack had remained stiff in Ethan’s embrace, had barely acknowledged his kisses, and spoke only in single words, single syllables if he could manage it.
Raja had taken the news hard, as well. He’d crumpled into a chair, shoulders wracked with silent sobs. McIntosh had sat with him as his nephew shut himself away in the bedroom. Raja’s wife had rushed to his side, his best friend if not his lover, and they had travelled together to Sydney openly, both of them cautioned against mentioning Jack’s presence in India.
There had been phone calls with Meera as well. Ethan had been able to hear her angry cries at Jack through the handset McIntosh had given him. Jack had taken the abuse quietly, only speaking to agree with the details for the funeral. It would have been easier to witness if Jack had bitten back, or at least defended himself. So soon after Ethan had encouraged him to talk about his mother’s death, he worried that he’d damaged Jack’s relationship with his sister even further.
The layover in Singapore gave them time to shower and pick up the black suits McIntosh had organised. They did manage to sleep on the final, seven-hour leg to Sydney, landing mid-afternoon. Already dressed, they stepped out of the jet and straight into the car waiting to take them to the funeral home.
Mourners were already seated in the large chapel, the service moments away from starting, when they dashed in. A seat waited at the front, between Matilda and Raja. Ethan recognised Jack’s niece and sister from the image Zero had shown him. Gone were the smiles and scowls, replaced with a sadness that made Ethan’s chest ache. He’d said goodbye to Nine three months ago and the ache it had left inside him was still fresh.
A couple of rows back from the front sat Lewis Thomas. He’d saved several seats and McIntosh headed towards him. Ethan went to follow her, but a hand caught his arm, holding him back.
“Jack?” he asked softly, aware that everyone was waiting for them, watching them. “Are you all right?”
Jack’s face was blank, but his eyes . . . his beautiful eyes were screaming in pain. “Sit with me.”
“Of course.” Ethan couldn’t even contemplate abandoning Jack right then.
The shuffling of chairs caused a minor disturbance, but helpful funeral home staff accomplished it quickly. Meera’s scowl made an appearance during the rearrangement, but as she stood to allow them to add an extra seat, Jack wrapped her in his arms and held on tight. His sister resisted, pushing against his arms and chest, but then Matilda wormed her way into the hug and Meera’s hostility melted into grief. She buried her face in Jack’s shoulder and wept.
It was Raja who gently coaxed them into the chairs. Meera and Matilda resumed their places, Jack next to niece, Ethan between him and Raja. Jack and Meera each put an arm around Matilda, and Jack’s other hand griped Ethan’s tight enough to bruise. Ethan didn’t care.
The service was short and basic. A celebrant conducted it gravely but with a touch of humour as she recounted Chris’s accomplishments. Details were saved for his teaching trips to India, especially the one where he met and fell in love with a fellow teacher, Usha Munjanattu, and the joy he found with his children. When the celebrant invited speakers up, Matilda looked from her mother to her uncle. Meera nodded and gave her a gentle nudge. The young woman stood and, taking a deep breath, walked to the podium. She unfolded a piece of paper and smoothed it out several times. When she looked up, eyes so similar to Jack’s met Ethan’s for the briefest moment, then moved on. Ethan squeezed Jack’s hand, getting a sad smile in return.
“I didn’t really know my grandad that well,” Matilda began, her voice trembling. “He got sick when I was still really little, but I remember what he was like before. I remember him laughing a lot. In my memories, he’s always smiling. Mum would always say he told the worst ever dad jokes, too.”
Jack and Meera both let out soft laughs, then glanced at each other and fell silent.
“One she said was one of his favourite is this . . . Two goldfish are in a tank and one looks to the other one and says, ‘Do you know how to drive this thing?’”
It took a moment, but wry chuckles rippled through the crowd. Matilda smiled and told a few more of the terrible jokes. When people were laughing more freely, Matilda relaxed and told a couple of stories Meera had relayed about when she was a baby and Chris’s attempts to stop her crying.
“A couple of years back, when mum and I were visiting him in the home,” she said, turning serious again, “grandad had a really lucid moment. Mum, you’d gone off to talk to one of the nurses so you weren’t there. Grandad and I were sitting in the garden and he turned to me and said, you’re smart like your mother, and you’re loyal like your uncle. You got your grandmother’s strength and my humour. You are the best of all of us.” She paused and wiped at her eyes. “I don’t know about being the best, but I really hope the rest of it is true, and I hope he knows that I’ll try my hardest to make him proud.”
Meera was half out of her chair, tears falling freely, when Matilda held up a hand to stop her.
“No, mum, stay.”
The gathering chuckled as Meera slowly sat back down.
“Wow. She listens to someone else,” Jack whispered.
“I’m not finished,” Matilda continued. “I have a poem as well. Do you mind?”
There were no objections so she read a short, beautiful poem about not lingering on t
he passing of a loved one, but rejoicing in their life and the legacy they left behind. Jack was crying by the end, but smiling as well, and when Matilda stepped down from the podium, he and Meera both stood to embrace her.
The celebrant concluded the service and the casket slowly rolled through a set of dark blue curtains at the rear of the stage. A reception had been set up in the next room, and as the people rose from their seats, they filed past the family, murmuring words of support and shared sorrow. Most people gave Ethan a polite little smile, some ignored him, one woman embraced him while sobbing. He managed not to throw her to the floor and pin her arms across her back, but it was a near thing. Moments later, Lewis Thomas appeared before him.
“Hell of an introduction to the family,” Lewis said softly.
“It could have been better.”
“Could have been worse. Thank you for giving Jack what he needed to save them. I’m glad he caught up to you and got you back.”
The words were soft, but Jack heard them, looking over and nodding to his friend.
Matilda also heard and she leaned around her uncle to stare at Ethan. “You’re the assassin?”
“Mati,” Jack hissed and put a hand over her mouth.
The woman waiting to talk to Meera, who’d introduced herself as Mrs. Peterson, turned to look at them, eyebrows raised.
“Yes, he’s an assistant,” Lewis said pointedly to Mati. “To the governor. Of New South Wales.”
Mrs. Peterson eyed Ethan up and down and said, “Well done then, I suppose,” and moved on to talk to Meera.
Lewis stepped up and gave Jack a hug. “So sorry, mate. He was an amazing dad. You need anything at all, let me know, okay?”
Jack hugged him back. “Thanks. Glad you could make it.” Releasing his friend, he looked around. “Is Lydia here? Did McIntosh leave?”
“No and yes, respectively.” Lewis’s expression soured. “McIntosh got a call and had to take it. She never came back so I guess she’s gone for the day.” He looked away, sighed, and added, “Lyds couldn’t get away from work. She told me to give you a big kiss and a hug from her. A hug is as far as I’m willing to go though. In public.”
Jack’s smile was tinged with worry. “Tell her thanks and I’ll probably see her tomorrow.”
Ethan opened his mouth to protest but Lewis beat him to it.
“Dude. Take a week. Everything will still be there when you come back. You’ve been going for three months straight.” He leaned in close. “And your dad just died. Take two weeks. Back me up, Eth.”
“Eth?” Ethan repeated drily.
“Told you,” Jack muttered. “I’ll be in tomorrow for an update. We left . . . the other place in a rush. I need to know what’s going on.”
Matilda was looking between her uncle and his friend curiously. Even in his little experience of the young woman, Ethan could see the wheels turning in her head as she absorbed everything they were saying. He doubted anyone had outright told her he was an assassin, and yet she’d deduced it.
“Perhaps we should table this discussion for later,” Ethan said. “You’re holding up the line.”
Both Jack and Lewis grumbled and Ethan saw why they were friends in that moment. Lewis moved on and allowed the rest of the people to come forwards. There weren’t too many left and they all moved into the next room quickly. Jack gave Ethan’s hand a final squeeze then went to talk to family and close friends. Ethan happily slunk into a quiet corner and observed.
Jack was hurting and vulnerable. He needed someone watching his six. Only a few people approached Ethan, asking how he knew Chris. Ethan gave them a polite “I didn’t know him, I’m here with Jack,” and most went on their way. Some gave his sunglasses odd looks, and one man muttered a homophobic slur as he left. One person, however, he couldn’t dissuade with a few curt words.
“You’re my uncle’s boyfriend, aren’t you?” Matilda leaned against the wall beside him.
“I believe so. Shouldn’t you be with your mother?”
“She’s fine. Probably off telling the staff how to do their job. It’s her grieving process.” She tilted her head, dark hair falling over her shoulder. “It’s her process for everything, really. You should just be happy she’s not here telling you what to do, too.”
Unable to help it, Ethan smiled.
“Don’t worry about it. She’ll find you soon enough,” Matilda said ominously. “Once she’s finished yelling at Jack for disappearing for so long.”
“If that happens, you can direct her to me. I’m the reason he was gone for so long.”
Matilda eyed him warily. “You’re not going to take a hit out on her, are you?”
“Ignoring for the moment your atrocious terminology, what makes you think I’m an assassin?”
“Are you saying you are one?”
“I’m merely asking why you think I am one.”
“You still haven’t denied it.”
“I don’t need to deny it in order to ask a simple question.”
“People who aren’t assassins who get accused of being assassins usually claim they aren’t assassins.”
Ethan’s gaze left Jack’s dark-suited body and arrowed in on Matilda. “You are your uncle’s niece.”
She frowned. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”
“It’s an observation.”
She grinned at him. “Assassin or not, I think I like you.”
Matilda stayed where she was, telling him about this and that person as they came into view. Her comments were usually amusing and more often than not very insightful. For all that they were at a funeral, Ethan found he was enjoying himself. Even when Matilda told him about Jack’s daring rescue of her and her friend Tate from Seven.
“Then this helicopter came sweeping in overhead,” she said breathlessly, showing him with her hands how the aircraft had moved. “And it started firing at the Alfa . . .”
Her words faded into the background as Ethan noticed Jack stiffen. He was not far away, talking with the bigot who’d insult Ethan earlier. It appeared he wasn’t any more restrained with Jack, who looked about a hair’s breadth away from punching the man, arms crossed, feet spread to balance his weight, and a very familiar, belligerent gleam in his eyes. Even Meera, across the room, noticed and began to make her way over. Ethan was closer so he murmured an apology to Matilda and headed for Jack.
Not even bothering to acknowledge the other man, Ethan stepped between him and Jack, unfolded his lover’s tensed arms, took one hand and led him out of the room. Jack came reluctantly, grumbling the entire way.
Finding an empty office, Ethan pulled Jack in, locked the door, put a chair under the handle, and then opened his arms. Jack was inside them instantly. He embraced Ethan with a desperate strength, his face buried in his neck. Shivers ran down his back, almost like he had a fever. Ethan soothed him with firm rubs along his spine and soft words assuring Jack he was there.
“Don’t leave me again,” Jack said hoarsely. “I can’t lose anyone else. Promise me, Ethan. Promise you won’t go away again.”
It was easy. So incredibly easy to say, “I promise, Jack. I’ll never leave you again,” because this right here was worth more than the Cabal, more than any vengeance Ethan could exact on them for himself or his siblings.
Jack was right. The Cabal had forced him to become a killer, but Jack had shown him how he was so much more than that, and that was what mattered the most—that Jack believed in him.
After a couple of minutes, Jack stopped shaking. He lifted his head and looked at Ethan for a long while, then said, “I love you.”
It felt good saying it. Right and true. Jack had felt it for a long time, but it had only been while he was expending so much energy and emotion on chasing Ethan down on his trail of self-destruction that he’d admitted it to himself. And now he’d said it to Ethan.
“I love you.”
Ethan went still and Jack let him have all the time he needed to work through it. He knew Ethan was
n’t contemplating his best route for escape, not anymore. This stillness was just Ethan trying to deal with emotions he had trouble processing. Hopefully it would be a good outcome, which came when Ethan swayed forwards and kissed him.
It felt like that first kiss, at Middle Head, when Ethan had said without words what he’d been feeling. What Jack had been feeling as well, but had been too scared, too damaged, to say aloud. So Ethan had kissed him, just as he kissed him now.
Kissing was intimate. More so than fucking. For Jack, kissing was an expression of his heart and mind and soul. He showed himself, his thoughts, emotions, and beliefs, in his words, from his lips and tongue. They were the conduit through which he gave himself to others, and to the person he loved, he gave them everything through kisses.
Ethan drew back and studied him carefully. “I’m taking you home.”
“But Meera—”
“Will understand. You’re exhausted, Jack. I’m taking you home and we’re both going to sleep.”
Ethan was right. Jack had nearly punched one of his dad’s colleagues and the old fart hadn’t even said anything truly inflammatory. The suit felt like it weighed a tonne and if another person told him how much they’d miss his dad—not that any of them had missed him enough to go visit him in the home—he’d probably scream. So he nodded and let Ethan guide him out of the office, down the hallway and left him leaning on the wall by the front doors while Ethan went to tell Meera they were going. Mati found him there, wordlessly falling into him, head tucked under his chin, arms around his waist. They were still like that when Ethan returned. Mati let Jack go, gave Ethan a small smile, then waved them goodbye.
McIntosh had left the car for them, and Ethan gave the driver the Bathurst Street address. Jack was too wiped to question it, barely able to drag himself out of the car, into the elevator and then into the penthouse. Ethan hastily changed the sheets on the bed while Jack undressed. Once they were ensconced, wound in each other’s arms—secure—Ethan spoke.
When Death Frees the Devil Page 29
