When Death Frees the Devil

by L. J. Hayward

A boot slammed into his gut, throwing him back against the glass wall. His leg twisted under him. This time he screamed. Then Ten was there, right in front of him, fist driving for his face. Ethan pushed off the slick glass and slid downwards. Ten’s knuckles crashed into the wall above his head. Ethan brought his good leg up between Ten’s, knee aiming for his cock and balls. Flinging himself away, Ten rolled one way and Ethan went the other.

  The throbbing in his leg was intense, pressure building in the tissues. Any weight on it was impossible. That was the sort of pain he couldn’t ignore, couldn’t grit his teeth and work through. He tried to get away when Ten came for him again, but his able-bodied brother was faster. Two strides and he was over Ethan. Ten came down on one knee, letting his weight and gravity drive his fist into Ethan’s solar plexus. Something snapped inside and fire lanced through his chest, air bursting out of him so hard it felt like it was made of razors. Ten punched him in the jaw, twice, three times, and stars flared in his greying vision. Ethan tried to knock aside the blows, but there was too much pain when he moved his right arm and Ten slammed punch after punch into his gut.

  “Stop.”

  The fist coming for Ethan’s face halted, inches away. Even Ethan froze with the ingrained obedience at that voice. Zero pulled himself closer, powerful shoulders and arms holding his torso up, useless legs dragging along behind him. His face was stony as he stared at Ten.

  “I don’t have to listen to you anymore,” Ten said.

  “You barely listened to me in the first place.” He nodded to Ethan. “Why are you attacking your brother? There’s no one left to give you orders.”

  Good question. Ethan was very interested in the answer, but he was also interested in the shard of glass just beyond the tips of the fingers of his right hand. It felt like he was breaking every rib on that side with each millimetre he moved but he . . . was . . . almost . . .

  “I don’t need orders. I want to do this,” Ten said in the lifeless tone that sent shivers down Ethan’s spine. Not even now, when he was doing this because it was something he wanted, did he show any spark of humanity.

  So there was absolutely no qualm about ramming the shard of glass into his brother’s side. Ethan’s scream as agony tore through his ribs and lung drowned out Ten’s startled yell, and the solid thwack of Zero’s fist punching into Ten’s jaw. He tumbled off Ethan, the improvised glass knife ripping out of his body in a spray of blood. Hand pressed to the gushing wound, Ten scrambled to his feet and backed away. He didn’t need to run. Neither Ethan nor Zero could follow him. Ten’s face lost any sign of pain, falling back into his neutral, emotionless mask—no, not a mask. It was his true state. The Cabal had surgically removed every morsel of empathy and sympathy Ten might have been born with. If he lived, Balakrishnan would be right. The Cabal would always exist.

  Ethan dragged himself after his brother. Zero came with him, his face just as determined. Ahead, Ten stooped and picked up a gun and continued. Then he stopped, raised the pistol, and fired.

  Bang!

  Jack’s wordless, tortured yell froze Ethan’s heart. Had Ten driven the final knife into Ethan’s chest?

  But then he saw Jack, tall and lean and beautiful in his burning rage. He stalked towards Ten, eyes narrowed, teeth barred, fist clenched. He was lethal and intent, no doubts as he came to kill.

  Ten fired again and Jack was punched backwards. He hit the floor in a graceless sprawl of limbs and didn’t move.

  “Jack.” Ethan tried to get up but his leg simply wouldn’t let him. Everything was pain and his body just couldn’t do what he needed it to do.

  “Don’t,” Zero commanded. “One-three, don’t.”

  Ten glanced back at him, adjusting his grip on the gun, as if he was considering putting a bullet through Ethan’s head as well. He lifted the weapon, then went down with a startled cry as Jack swept his legs through Ten’s, taking them out from under him.

  “Body armour, you fuckhead,” Jack snarled as he flipped over and slammed a fist into Ten’s face.

  Ten blocked the next blow and rolled away, coming up on his feet. He grunted as he did so, hand automatically covering his injured side. Seeing it, Jack pursued him and targeted that spot relentlessly.

  Jack’s fighting style wasn’t pretty. It was messy and unconventional, but it got the job done. Ten was on the defensive, backing up with every blow and kick. Ethan had been on the receiving end of those once, knew the strength and sheer determination Jack could pack into a single punch, especially when he was angry, and right now, he looked incendiary. Ethan had barely kept ahead of him, and he hadn’t been bleeding from a jagged wound in his side.

  “You fucking piece of goddamn rotten shit.” Jack punctuated each word with a punch, the last three landing right on the open wound. “You killed her. You killed her.”

  Did Jack know about Keira? Or had something else happened?

  Either way, Ten was beaten. He couldn’t hold his hands up anymore, his head sagged, and his feet stumbled until he hit the glass wall. Blood poured freely from the hole Ethan had made and already his dusky skin looked paler. He would be dead from blood loss soon. Jack didn’t appear to care. He seemed lost in his rage, as if throwing punches because it was the only thing that felt effective.

  “Jack.” Ethan’s voice was weak, his own body feeling like it was still being pummelled. “Jack.”

  But somehow Jack heard him. He stopped mid punch and, one forearm against Ten’s throat, he turned and looked at Ethan.

  “End it. Please,” Ethan whispered.

  Ten was his brother, but Jack was his future and it hurt to see him like this. Jack was passionate and reckless, but he was never cruel.

  Light returned to Jack’s brown eyes and he turned back to Ten, who met his gaze directly and didn’t resist when Jack broke his neck.

  Then Jack was on the floor beside him, his hands gentle even though his knuckles were ragged with torn skin and oozing blood. “Ethan, where does it hurt? Are you bleeding?”

  Something inside Ethan let go. The final bit of strength he’d been living on to get this far, to find freedom at last, gave way. It ebbed and took the pain with it. He couldn’t feel his broken leg anymore, or his busted ribs. Not even the light was hurting his eyes because it was dark and getting darker.

  Ethan smiled. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  “Oh fuck, don’t say that. Come on, Ethan. Tell me where it hurts.” Jack’s hands got frantic as they ran over his body. “Oh god. Don’t do this. Ethan, don’t leave me. You promised you wouldn’t leave me ever again.” His eyes were sparkling and he leaned down to kiss him. “Please,” Jack whispered against his lips.

  Everything was calm. His heart had slowed from its wild clamouring while watching Jack fight. He felt good. Jack was here and he didn’t hurt anymore. “I love you, Jack.”

  “I know. I love you so much. You’re going to be fine. The navy’s on the way. You’ll be okay. Just hang on for me. Hang on to me.”

  Jack was worrying for no reason. “It’s all right, Jack. It’s over. They’re gone and I’m free.”

  The encroaching darkness surrounded him and Ethan let it take him.

  Silence filled the hearing room. No one could look at Jack as he finished speaking. Which was good because if anyone said anything less than one hundred percent supportive right then, he was liable to rip their head off.

  Three days. It had been three days since Donna McIntosh was shot and killed right in front of him. Three days since Jack had let pure rage and grief guide his hands in beating a man past defeat and into cruel abuse. Three days since Ethan had slipped into unconsciousness in his arms. It was still raw and bleeding inside and he’d had to sit here with this gaping, open wound and talk about everything that led up to it just so they could finally put this all to rest. Simmons was lucky Jack had let it go on this long, but they’d had to do this. The final part of McIntosh’s plan. Jack just had to keep it together long enough to get the “nod.”

  “W
hat happened then?” Chan asked gently.

  Taking a deep breath, Jack said, “The Blackhawks from the HMAS Mackay arrived. They found more Cabal troops trapped in underground tunnels by the explosions. Most of them surrendered without a fight. They also found reports from psychiatric experiments conducted on Ethan’s group of Sugar Babies. A Dr. Isaac Deland was the author. Originally from the UK, his licence to practice was revoked after allegations of misconduct were proven. Working for the Cabal was the only way he could continue his research on Sugar Babies. They let him experiment on the children they turned into their assassins. He had free rein to do anything he wanted, so long as he provided, and I’m quoting from his notes, ‘viable products.’ The doctor wasn’t on the island and we haven’t been able to find him since.”

  It was gratifying to see everyone, including Simmons and the Quiet Man, wince at the words. Jack had read the recovered digital records that morning and it had taken Lewis to calm him down. These were the monsters who’d made Ethan and the others. The quick deaths they had gotten were too good for them.

  “And Ethan?” Lund’s tone was strange, almost as if he didn’t dare ask.

  “He was choppered down to the frigate in a Blackhawk and thankfully the medics on board could save his leg. He had compartmentalisation syndrome that had been caused by trauma from the broken fibula. There was further internal bleeding in his abdomen that they discovered when he went into cardiac arrest from blood loss. They kept him alive until he could be flown to Perth for surgery. He came through that lot of surgery okay and when he was stable, they were going to transport him here, but I haven’t heard anything since yesterday afternoon.”

  Jack was desperate to get this over and done with so he could find out where Ethan had ended up. But Simmons wasn’t finished with him yet.

  The minister leaned forward and clasped his hands together, as if trying to portray intimacy or concern. “I’m very sorry to be the one to tell you, Mr. Reardon, but we got word earlier in this hearing that Ethan Blade succumbed to his injuries last night. You have our deepest condolences.”

  Jack pushed away from the table so fast and violently his chair skidded backwards and fell over. Hands curled into fists and pressed to his forehead he tried to absorb the information. A note saying Ethan was dead. A note Simmons had put aside saying it had no importance on the current proceedings.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “Jack?”

  He pried his eyes open and found Director Chan in front of him. She held out several tissues and he took them as gently as he could. Pressing them to his damp eyes, he pulled in a deep breath, and another, and another, letting them out in shaky little bursts.

  “I’m so incredibly sorry,” Chan murmured. “How about we recess for a while so you can . . .” She trailed off, probably realising how futile fifteen minutes would be in order to deal with that fucking bombshell.

  Jack wiped his eyes and shook his head. “It’s fine. Let’s keep going. Get this shit over with as soon as possible.”

  Her dark eyes brimmed with concern, but she nodded and returned to her seat at the table. While she murmured to the others Jack righted his chair, sat down and worked really hard at not going over and smashing Simmons in the mouth.

  Ethan dead, and it wasn’t important enough to interrupt the proceedings. Jesus fucking Christ, the man was lucky Jack had learned some restraint in the military. Though this felt worse than what had happened at Jharkhand. Felt bad enough he could do worse than knock loose some teeth.

  He was half out of his seat when the door behind the review board opened and the blonde assistant appeared. She slipped in but remained by the door, unnoticed by everyone except Jack. When she met his gaze, she gave a small nod.

  Jack sank back down. This was it. Time to end it. He probably wouldn’t get to hit Simmons, but this might be just as satisfying.

  Simmons began gathering his papers. “We understand you will need some time to come to terms with the death—”

  “Actually, sir,” Jack said, voice rough from resisting the urge to shout a lot of nasty words at the man, “I’d rather we just finish this now.”

  One eyebrow cocked, Simmons said, “I still have a quite a bit of information to go through, Mr. Reardon. Perhaps we should continue this tomorrow. Or the day after.”

  “No. I think you’ll find there’s only one more piece of information we need to discuss.”

  “Which is?”

  Jack reached into his case and withdrew a generic black thumb drive. “How this made its way from AFP evidence and into the hands of the then deputy prime minister.”

  Lund and Chan exchanged frowns while Greene began a mildly frantic search of his records.

  Simmons smiled vaguely. “I believe you said Donna McIntosh was the one who—”

  “I said that she knew how Nelson had acquired it, not that she gave it to him.”

  At last, the smug air around Simmons evaporated. His mouth pinched and his hands crumpled the gathered paper. The silent assistant slid in behind him, eyes narrowed behind her tinted glasses, limbs loose and ready.

  “We have evidence, sir,” Jack continued, “confirmed by the Office, ASIS, and the AFP, that you were the one who obtained the data stick from the federal police. That you gave it to John Nelson and suggested that he use it for a leadership challenge, so you could get a man in the PM’s office whom you controlled. Then you would have gone to your contact within the Cabal and used that connection to gain an audience with the bosses.”

  Simmons spluttered objections but Jack spoke over him.

  “That’s why Donna McIntosh had to move as fast as she did once she discovered what you were doing. She took your plan and used it herself to gain access to the Cabal so we could wipe them out. And so we could then expose you for being the lying, greedy, manipulative traitor that you are.”

  “I am not a traitor.” Simmons surged to his feet. “I did it for this country. To use their resources to protect us. God knows, the fucking Office isn’t doing its job. You’re the ones who had the traitor in your midst. I did it so that wouldn’t ever happen again.”

  Calmly, Jack turned to the Quiet Man. “Is that enough of a confession?”

  “It’s a start. We’ll get the rest out of him no worries.” With a nod, he motioned the assistant forward.

  Simmons started to turn but the blonde woman was faster. She had him face down over the desk, arm twisted up behind his back far enough he screamed in pain before Jack could even get out from behind his own table. He walked over and crouched down so he could meet Simmons’ teary gaze.

  “This is Seven. She’s one of the thirteen kids the Cabal tortured into becoming a killer. The group you wanted to be part of. If that’s the sort of thing you can excuse in the name of defence, then we don’t need your brand of protection.”

  For the first time since Jack had met Seven, he saw her smile.

  Swiftly, Seven had Simmons cuffed and she and the Quiet Man—Jack still wasn’t sure which agency he was with—took him out of the room. Greene watched them go, suddenly pale and sweaty, and a moment later, he sprinted for the door, hand pressed over his mouth.

  Lund and Chan both started asking questions and Jack merely shoved his case at them, saying it was all in there, and for more information, they would have to deal with Alex Tan.

  “I quit,” Jack told them as he backed away. “I know the Office isn’t as bad as the Cabal, but some days, it’s hard to tell.” And he left.

  Lewis met him outside the building. “How did it go?”

  “We got him,” Jack said grimly. “He confessed in front of Lund and Chan, so it’s pretty solid. How did your hearing go?”

  “Easy peasy, mate. I just threw so many spreadsheets at them they couldn’t wait to give me the all clear.” Lewis’s smile went from smug to worried. “Um, I think they might make me director permanently, now that McIntosh . . .”

  Jack’s chest tightened. God. Apart from combat talk, the la
st things he’d said to her were that he was pissed and that he was quitting. She’d used him, and Ethan, one too many times for her own ends. Her goals might have been good, but that didn’t make it much easier to deal with. Especially when it hurt them like this.

  “You should take the job,” Jack said firmly as they trotted down the steps to the footpath. “You’ll be really good as a director.”

  Lewis shrugged. “Are you going to her funeral tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. I want to, but I don’t know if I’ll handle it well.” Jack hurt when he remembered McIntosh hitting the floor of the tower, blood splattering her white blouse, blue eyes frozen in death. At the same time, he couldn’t forget everything she’d done to him and Ethan. “It’ll depend on . . . you know.”

  Nodding in understanding, Lewis changed topics. He gestured to the still banged-up black Vanquish parked right in front of the government building. “How has this not been ticketed?”

  “No one dares touch this car now.” Jack smiled sadly and unlocked it. “You coming?”

  “You want me there?”

  “Yeah. Just in case.”

  Lewis got into Victoria and Jack drove them out to Mosman. Not to Middle Head, but to HMAS Penguin, the naval base next to it. They were passed through the gates and directed to the Balmoral Naval Hospital. Inside, a nurse guided them down long corridors to a secure section guarded by two navy police officers. Again, Jack and Lewis were allowed in and eventually, came to a room with another officer outside.

  Only Jack got past this gatekeeper. He stood for a moment by the door, looking at the still body on the bed.

  Jesus. For a moment when Simmons had told him that Ethan had died, Jack had wondered if was true. Despite all the hard work by the medics on the HMAS Mackay, Ethan had been in a very critical condition when they airlifted him off the frigate and to Perth. He’d arrested a second time before they got him into surgery. So the decision had been made.

  Ethan Blade would die on the operating table in Perth.

  Ethan—Jack’s Ethan—would be transferred when stable to this secure hospital in Sydney, where once he recovered, he would get a new name and a new life.