Where Death Meets the Devil

by L. J. Hayward

  McIntosh quirked a brow at him.

  “A bribe, ma’am,” he admitted. “Don’t worry, Maxwell’s already scanned it six ways from Sunday. Blade won’t be able to use it for any nefarious means.”

  And if they believed that, then they hadn’t been listening to his description of Ethan’s skills.

  He was dismissed then so the directors could argue in seclusion. Outside, his watchdog had morphed back into Maxwell.

  “You really are a sucker for punishment,” Jack said as they headed down the hallway.

  “Yeah, and I like whips and chains, too,” the HoS muttered sourly. “I have things I’d rather be doing than babysitting your arse, Reardon. Like paperwork.”

  “Hey, I was happy enough with the other guy. Feel free to send him back anytime.” Jack smirked as he opened the door to the stairwell. “At least he didn’t think Old Spice was the only cologne ever invented. Or is it the only one powerful enough to cover the smell of seaweed?”

  “Not the time to be talking about someone else’s personal hygiene, soldier.” Maxwell added a pointed look up and down Jack’s wrinkled suit. “Plan for today?”

  “Right now, breakfast,” Jack said, though he didn’t really feel like eating. Not while he had a talk with Ethan hanging over his head. A potentially problematic undertaking at any time, but with McIntosh and the other directors watching for the slightest hint Jack was less than loyal to the cause? Queasy didn’t begin to cover it. “Do you still smoke?”

  Jack hadn’t smoked in years. Had, in fact, only smoked while on deployment. The nicotine had become part of his pre-op ritual. Half a dozen chain-smoked just before going active. Outside of those times, he’d never craved a smoke, but if he missed it before an operation, he felt incomplete and dangerously underprepared.

  “Not for years. Miller does, if that’s your choice for breakfast.”

  Miller was two flights back up, sitting at his desk outside McIntosh’s office. It was a flimsy excuse but good enough to convince Jack he didn’t really need the nicotine.

  “Coffee will do.”

  The eighth floor was buzzing with the usual workday chaos as Jack and Maxwell weaved their way to the tearoom. Lewis and Lydia were already in there, bickering over the last slice of birthday cake.

  “But I’m hungry!”

  Lydia slapped Lewis’s hand away from the plate holding the lonely wedge of sponge, cream, and rather wilted-looking strawberry-half. “Cake is not breakfast food, Lew. Besides, it’s a day old. Who knows what these slobs did to it overnight.”

  “I didn’t touch it,” Jack offered on his way to the coffee machine.

  “I actually went home last night,” Maxwell said as he sat at the table. He nonchalantly shrugged off three death glares.

  While Jack waited for his coffee to trickle into a mug, Lydia snatched away the cake and handed Lewis an apple. The unit leader scowled at it, but bit in regardless.

  “How’d the meeting go?” he asked when Jack sat opposite him.

  “Same as usual. Endless repetition, couple of questions, and a ‘thank you for now, mwhahaha.’” Jack cast Maxwell a sidelong glance. The HoS usually wasn’t present for the asset-level dissection of these situations.

  There were two nods of sympathetic understanding and one mildly raised eyebrow.

  “Maria was here earlier,” Lydia told Jack, wincing as Lewis crunched through the core of the apple. “Looking for you. She was wondering if she’ll be given access to Blade.”

  “Omega Subject,” Maxwell corrected.

  “Eventually, maybe,” Jack hedged. “He’s not talking to anyone at the moment.”

  Lewis snorted. “So we heard. Apparently he won a staring contest with Tan last night.”

  Jack nearly spat out his mouthful of coffee, but managed to swallow it without choking. “Tan spoke to Blade?”

  Giving Maxwell a wary side-eye, Lydia said, “Well, he tried. According to Maria it was a one-sided conversation.”

  “Yeah, for once, he didn’t get results.” Lewis snickered with a total disregard for Maxwell’s presence.

  The HoS merely gave him a withering look, then got up to get more coffee.

  While Maxwell’s back was turned, Jack leaned closer to his friends. “Did Maria say what Tan was trying to find out from Blade?”

  Lydia shook her head. “She said she only saw some footage, no sound, but that Tan looked pretty pissed when he left the cell, too.”

  Jack suppressed a smile. Ethan could irritate a saint with nothing but politeness, and Tan was far from a saint. Of all the directors within the Office, Tan was the one with the biggest reputation for ruthlessness. He was the very embodiment of “the ends justify the means.” While Jack had little experience of Tan personally, he had run afoul of the man’s methods a couple of times. Namely ETA field operatives with job parameters so wide they were barely any better than the bad guys they were hunting, and anything short of open warfare on the streets in front of a dozen news cameras was retroactively approved. Basically, when Tan wanted something, he got it, with very little regard for the cost.

  He probably would have gotten Jack when he offered him a job with ETA, as well, but for one very strong reason why Jack would never have accepted it.

  “I bet,” Lewis said, his voice lowered so much Jack had to lean even closer, “Tan’s after something connected to the Valadian op. McIntosh got you inserted so quick no one else knew about it, and when Tan found out, it was like WW3 here. He claimed McIntosh’s rash actions would endanger some of his own operations.”

  Lewis had a talent for intuitive leaps that proved correct, but this wasn’t even a stretch for Jack to credit. Valadian’d had a lot of contact with criminal organisations outside of the Meta-State, and some of those organisations would be on Tan’s watch list. Jurisdiction on such cases could get messy and usually required some level of collaboration between ITA and ETA. If Tan hadn’t known about Valadian before Jack was sent in, that meant McIntosh had bypassed even more SOPs than Jack had initially suspected.

  On top of that, if Tan had been so pissed off he’d abandoned his usually reserved attitude and confronted McIntosh openly, then whatever connection he had to Valadian had to be something very important.

  While trying to work out what McIntosh’s angle was, Jack now had to consider that Tan was involved in it all beyond sitting in on a review meeting.

  “There’s no other way,” Blade whispered. “We’ll have to take them out.”

  Lying beside him, looking through the night-vision scope from the Assassin X, Jack had to agree.

  They’d continued their silly game down the gully, hopping from rock to rock, trying to outdo each other. Jack, happily, could jump the farthest. Blade, however, could make the tricky jumps with greater ease. After ten or so minutes of this, Jack had realised he was having a good time. His squad mates had laughed at him for running obstacle courses for fun. He preferred the courses that presented him with problem-solving tasks as well as physical challenges, and chasing Blade across the tops of scattered boulders had combined both aspects.

  Then Blade had come to a stop, going still like an animal sensing a predator. Years working with a team had taught Jack to trust his fellows’ skills and instincts. He’d immediately come alert, sliding into the deeper shadows on the walls of the gully. The Desert Eagle had settled into his hand with reassuring weightiness.

  Slowly, Blade had moved forwards, forgoing the joyful bounds for a stealthy slink, disappearing into darkness just as Jack had. Jack waited, concentrating. The breeze had flurried, curling through the gully, bringing with it the scent of smoke. Lifting his head, he’d drawn in more of the smell. Not just smoke. His stomach had rumbled so loud he was certain it had given them away. There was definitely meat in there. Meat and potatoes. His mouth had watered desperately.

  The most obvious conclusion was it came from some of Valadian’s men.

  Jack had crept forwards, noting Blade pacing him on the far side of the gully. After
an eternity of excruciatingly slow movement, they’d come to the end of the gully. Before them was more flat land, a mirror image of what they’d left behind on the western side of the ridge. Except that here there was a small fire, dug into a pit in the ground. Four men lay around it, sleeping. Another two paced on sentry duty at a fifty-yard line. A darker shadow hulked behind the fire. It wasn’t until Blade had passed over the NV scope that Jack had recognised it as a dune buggy, covered in a canvas to provide shelter for the men.

  They’d been watching the camp for half an hour, tracking the sentries, detailing the landscape, and judging distances. It was impossible to sneak around them.

  “We could wait here,” Jack whispered, so close to Blade he barely had to give the words sound. “Going on yesterday’s standards, they’ll pack up at dawn and leave without searching the area.”

  “Maybe. We shouldn’t trust to general stupidity, though.”

  “Probably not. We wait, see what they do. If they come in here, then we take care of them.”

  Blade studied the camp for several more minutes, then nodded. Wordlessly, they began to back up into deeper cover. They retreated past the point at which they’d first become aware of the search patrol, to make sure they were out of easy detection range.

  Settling in to wait under an overhang, Jack watched as Blade began assembling the sniper rifle again, muffling the distinctive clicks in the folds of his coat. Smiling, Jack had to admit the poncy thing was coming in handy.

  “Don’t laugh at my rifle,” Blade said.

  “I’m not. At least, not anymore. It performed better than I thought it would last night.”

  “Of course it did. You’re just a weaponist, Jack.”

  Jack stifled a snicker. “A weaponist?”

  “Like a racist, but against certain weapons.”

  “And you never met a weapon you didn’t like.”

  “A couple, actually, but that was more personality differences.”

  “Hah! No. You’re just a weapon slut. There’s a difference. I’m a weapon monogamist.” He considered that, then added, “Well, maybe a very limited polygamist.”

  “You haven’t returned my Desert Eagle,” Blade noted dryly.

  “It’s lonely out here and I’m a man with needs.”

  Blade scrunched his face against a laugh. His hands kept snapping parts together, though, working through muscle memory and long familiarity. When he was in control again, the assassin sat back, Assassin X resting across his knees. Hand out, he said, “Scope. And you’re not comfortable with the Eagle. You think it’s too big for our purposes.”

  Jack jerked in shock at having his private thoughts spoken aloud by this man. He didn’t miss the “our,” either. A progression on that “we,” or an insinuation Blade thought they were on the same career path?

  “Yeah?” Jack’s attempt at blasé came off as slightly challenging. “If you know everything, tell me what pistol I prefer.”

  Blade regarded him with half-lidded eyes, as if assessing the real reason behind the question. “Show me your hands. Left hand, at least.”

  Cautious but curious, Jack held his hand out for inspection. Blade looked it over, turning it this way and that, curling his fingers, flexing his wrist. It was odd, having someone else touch him like this. Jack was not a touchy-feely person. Not because he was wary of people in his personal space—which he was—but more because, to him, hands were something intimate.

  A lot of people paid no attention to what or how they touched, or just how expressive hands could be. A tender touch often said more than an entire speech. A slap expressed a deeper emotion than yelling. Reaching out to help or offer comfort or to give pleasure. Holding hands, a powerful image of solidarity. Flipping the finger, immediately satisfactory and insulting. A salute to show respect. Hands pressed together in prayer. Holding the scalpel that cuts out the tumour. A pat to reassure an upset animal. A final wave at the airfield to the soldiers departing on deployment. A silent signal for your squad mates to scatter, to find cover, to save lives.

  On the other side of the coin, hands could kill, with or without a weapon, intentionally or carelessly. Jack had learned that very quickly in basic training.

  Right now, Blade opened Jack’s hand and pressed it to his, palm to palm, fingers aligned. The assassin’s hand was slightly smaller, his skin paler. Jack contemplated the contrasts, fascinated as he always was by the different shades, by the definite line between his skin and Blade’s. If he closed his eyes, those differences would be gone.

  “Mm,” Blade mused. “I would say . . . a Heckler and Koch. USP.”

  Jack took a moment to gather his thoughts. Hand still pressed to Blade’s, he considered the similarities this time. Different colours, but sharing the same callouses, earned in the same way. Soldier, assassin. Both killed at the behest of another. Both were paid for doing so. Did Jack’s belief he was doing it to protect his family and friends make it any more right? His sister didn’t think so. From the moment he’d joined the army, Meera had been opposed. He’d believed she’d come around, that she’d just been reacting from grief. Dad had said she needed time to accept and understand. When Jack had been deployed for the first time, to East Timor, Meera had agreed to come see him off at the airport—only to be arrested for protesting their involvement in a foreign power’s conflict. She hadn’t called him an assassin, but “murderer” had rung in his ears throughout the entire deployment.

  “Jack? Am I right?”

  Pulling his hand back, Jack held out the scope. “Yeah. HK USP. How did you work it out?”

  Blade smiled and clicked the scope into place. “Weapon slut, remember. I know them all intimately. It’s easy to guess what a person would feel most comfortable with when you see their hands.”

  “Neat trick,” Jack whispered.

  “It rocks at parties.”

  Jack laughed silently.

  There was nothing for it but to wait. Blade slithered out every now and then to check on the camp. Sentries changed, but little else did. The scent of cooked food kept drifting past, and Jack had the satisfaction of hearing Blade’s stomach complain as well.

  “I miss food.” Jack moaned. “Like the thick, juicy steak I had last night. So good.”

  “For the right price, I can make it your last meal.”

  Jack frowned at him.

  “Too soon for jokes? All right. I miss . . . wine. A sparkling Moscato. Or a rich, thick Muscat.”

  “Sweet wine? Never would have pegged you for one of those sort.”

  “I like a good cab sav, but it has to be good. Mostly, I have a sweet tooth.”

  “Honestly, me too. There’s this patisserie I like, makes the smoothest, most delicious fudges you’ve ever tasted. Their salted caramel is divine. Perfect blend of sweet and salty.”

  Blade groaned. “I miss it too.”

  “You’ve never even had any.”

  Blade arched a dark brow at him. “How do you know that?”

  “Well? Have you?”

  After a moment, the assassin sighed. “No, I haven’t. But,” he added before Jack could smirk in triumph, “it is entirely possible to miss something you’ve never had.”

  It was said lightly, in keeping with the moment, so perhaps it was hunger causing Jack to imagine the hint of bitter undertone.

  Real or fanciful, it vanished as Blade scrubbed his tongue across his front teeth. “Actually, I miss my toothbrush.”

  “With your tastes, I could understand that.”

  “Ha ha. But what I’d really like now is that buggy.”

  “Oh yeah, that would be nice.”

  “No, it would be convenient. Nice would be Raquel.”

  Jack goggled. “Raquel?” A girlfriend? Another assassin?

  Blade smirked. “Yes, Raquel. A 1999 BMW Z8 Roadster. It took me a long time to restore her to her former glory. Most of that was tracking down the correct shade of blue paint. Interlagos blue. But she’s a beautiful ride now. Races like a dream.”
>
  The only response Jack’s addled brain came up with was, “You named your car.”

  “I’ve named them all, actually. Raquel is the newest, though, so currently my favourite.”

  “All?”

  Which was an opening Blade had apparently been waiting a long time for. He launched into an obsessive recitation of his many cars, ranging from those Jack had a clue about—Camaro, yellow; Porsche, silver; Ferrari, red—to those he barely caught the model name of—Lamborghini Huracán, white; Maserati Quattroporte GTS, blue. Then he outlined various issues with restoring the older ones to pristine condition, admitting along the way he did all the work himself.

  Most of it went right over Jack’s head, and not just because he knew as much about cars as he knew about horses—how to steer them and what fuelled them, basically. It was more that as Blade spoke about his vehicular harem, he became animated. He smiled unconsciously, his hands gesticulated broadly, and his voice, already a pleasant husky timbre, got warmer. The man himself was simply more alive. More . . . human.

  And that was where Jack’s credibility dislocated.

  Ethan Blade the assassin had been active for sixteen years, involved in work not suited for someone with a healthy conscience. Not at the beginning and certainly not after so long in a bloody, deadly game. It most definitely shouldn’t leave a person so passionate about a topic that they talked excitedly about it for fifteen minutes straight. It shouldn’t allow him to light up from the inside as if a fire had been unleashed in his chest. It shouldn’t make him look young and innocent and completely honest. It shouldn’t, but it did, and it made Jack reassess this odd creature with his lethal hands and small neuroses. It made him want to know more.

  Finally, the assassin seemed to register the shocked expression on Jack’s face. Sheepishly, he trailed off. “Sorry. I do tend to get carried away. It is very rare anyone shows an interest in my hobby.”

  Which Jack hadn’t, really.

  As if realising that, Blade laughed. In a more subdued tone, he said, “Of course, none of my cars would cope with the terrain out here. The buggy is the ideal transport for the desert.” It carried the distinct tone of covering a lapse and being a distraction.