Where Death Meets the Devil

by L. J. Hayward

  He left then, hoping she considered his warning for what it was: an honest plea she back down for her own good. If he could keep everyone else out of Ethan’s path, he would consider it a best possible scenario.

  Back at his desk, he found the next part of the plan waiting for him. Two logs of mint-choc swirl fudge, dutifully fetched by Lydia Cowper this time.

  This was it. The moment Jack delivered them to Ethan, the plan would be in irrevocable motion. Without it, Ethan wouldn’t make a move and Jack could keep hold of whatever remained of his job. Maria wouldn’t be caught up as collateral damage. Ethan would be a prisoner of the Office for as long as he served a purpose, after which it was doubtful they’d let him go even then. Ethan had come in knowing that, trusting Jack to not let that happen.

  Wish you were here?

  Swearing under his breath, Jack pushed back from the desk, not sure what he was going to do but knowing he had to do something.

  Ping.

  A message appeared on his computer screen. From Director Harraway.

  Meeting room 10B. Five minutes.

  Well. It would complete the set.

  Watchdog front and back, Jack headed back up the stairs. Was that why Maxwell kept coming back on Jack-duty? His people were complaining about running up and down stairs all day? It amused Jack to think so, at least. The door to the meeting room was open when Jack and the Wonder Twins reached it.

  Harraway, seated at the table, waved him straight in. “Leave the bodyguards outside, son.”

  Shrugging at his shadows, Jack closed the door in their faces, then turned to the Intel director. “More questions for me, sir?”

  “Indeed. Sit, get comfortable. Not sure what Donna thinks she’s going to achieve, having you trailed like that. Confined to the building should be sufficient punishment, I think, for preserving your life.”

  “Sir?”

  “Ethan Blade. If I had him after me, you wouldn’t see me for dust, I reckon.”

  “I get it, sir, but he’s not really after me.”

  “Still, can’t be comforting, being known to one of the longest-serving names on the John Smith List.”

  “It’s a little startling. Is this all you wanted to talk about, sir?”

  “No. I’ll leave the Blade obsession in Alex’s hands. I’m more interested in Samuel Valadian.”

  This was a new angle. “What about him?”

  Glen Harraway smiled encouragingly. “Well, let’s look at him. A somewhat ambitious organised-crime man with his hand in all sorts of illegal activities—nothing unusual, nothing to concern us. Then suddenly, he has this compound in the middle of the desert, a three-thousand-strong army, and a weapons stockpile large enough to threaten a city.”

  Jack shifted a bit uncomfortably. “It wasn’t suddenly, sir. He’d been using the compound as a cover for years. We just weren’t aware of his direct connection to it until ITA traced some of his weapons smuggling to it. And it wasn’t until I got in there and was trusted enough that I saw everything he had going on.”

  Harraway waved aside Jack’s correction. “You should know by now, son, if we haven’t been tracking it for at least a year, preferably two, then it most definitely is suddenly.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said dryly. Of course, suddenly discovering the full extent of Valadian’s operations in the desert was thanks to someone here, in this building, covering it up.

  True to his word, Harraway wasn’t interested in Ethan. Instead he spent an hour digging deeper into Valadian’s movements and motives. The Intel director didn’t have a screen up or a tablet to refer to; everything he needed was already in his head. Another interesting point was that when Harraway had to mention Ethan, he used “Blade” or “the assassin,” not Omega Subject. Either he found the tag a bit on the nose or felt Ethan wasn’t that important to the overall situation.

  After dissecting Valadian’s ruthless solution to his Link Rindone problem—concluding Valadian had only done what was best for his organisation, even if it’d earned the ire of several Golden Triangle drug cartels—Harraway sat back in his chair with a little sigh. “I believe that leaves us just one more question, Jack.”

  Weary of the constant rehashing of events he’d worked so hard to leave behind, Jack asked, “Which is?”

  “Why Blade?”

  Jack blinked, surprised at the sudden turnaround in topics. “Why Blade what, sir?”

  Harraway waved a hand as if to encompass their prior discussion. “Valadian wasn’t a reckless operator. He did precisely what was needed, when it was needed. So why bring in such an expensive and notorious assassin to merely interrogate a spy? No offense to your skills, son, but it feels like overkill, and Valadian was too cautious to err on such a small thing. So . . . why Blade? You spent ten days or so with the assassin. Surely he said something about Valadian’s plans for him.”

  “No, sir, he didn’t. Nothing beyond finding out what information I may have passed on.” Then, because in under three hours he’d have little left to lose, he asked, “Do you have a theory about it, sir?”

  The older man contemplated him for a long moment. “Not a theory as such. More of a . . . curiosity. Something I was hoping you could help me shine a light on, Jack.”

  It was as far from a ‘curiosity’ as it could get. Harraway had a firm idea about why Valadian had secured Ethan’s services. And, considering just what Valadian had done to do so, Jack had to admit Harraway was right. Valadian wouldn’t have done that just so Ethan would interrogate a possible spy. As director of Intelligence, Harraway had access to every morsel of information moving through the Office. He undoubtedly knew far more than Jack, but what put the shiver down Jack’s spine was that Harraway was probably leaps and bounds ahead of McIntosh and Tan, as well.

  Over Harraway’s shoulder, through the window, Jack fixed his gaze on the next building. Blue, yellow, and red streamers twisted together and apart, around and around. Once more, he felt like one of those ribbons, pulled against his will into a tangle of plots he had no control over.

  Harraway knew something none of the rest of them did. Even if he suspected there was a traitor within the Office, even if he could help Jack puzzle out McIntosh’s and Tan’s motives without resorting to freeing Ethan from his cell . . . Harraway was still a director. He was still a suspect.

  He focused on Harraway’s hopeful expression. “Sorry, sir. I can’t help you.”

  After a moment, the director shrugged casually. “Oh well. It was worth a try. Of course, if you think of anything, come to me with it. Thank you for your time, Jack.”

  Jack awoke with a soft grunt of confusion. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. After his not-so-subtle declaration to Blade, he had wanted to wait and watch, see what sort of response he got. Instead, he had fallen into a deep sleep. Which, he had to admit, had done him a lot of good.

  He felt much better. A dull ache in his lower back—probably more a result of the bed than anything else—and a lingering thirst, but that was it. Praise be to Blade’s nursing capabilities and his stock of antibiotics.

  The room was dark, only a faint brush of light falling through the doorway. It was also unusually warm—and pungent. Both of which were probably symptoms of the snoring, camel-shaped lump taking up the other half of the room. Apparently, Blade had lost the argument with Sheila about where she would sleep.

  Jack snorted softly.

  Lifting his head, Jack found Blade. He was sitting in the outer room, in sight of the door. The assassin was curled up on the improvised chair he’d made for Jack, wrapped in a sleeping bag, mug of something steaming in one hand, worn and dog-eared paperback in the other. A small torch cast gentle silver light across him so he could read. The light cut the curve of his cheek out of the darkness, softening the shadow of his unshaved chin. It sparked in his strange eyes as they darted back and forth across the page. Glinted off the tin mug as he raised it to drink, then didn’t, caught up in the story. The mug lowered, rose, then was put down so he could tur
n the page.

  Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d read for pleasure. Couldn’t even remember the last book he’d really enjoyed. Growing up with a modern-lit lecturer as a father had pretty much ensured Jack’s fate as a reader. His strongest childhood memories were of sitting on Dad’s lap, lost in a haze of imagined worlds and characters as his father read him The Jungle Book. It hadn’t just been the stories, either, for Dad, but the books themselves. The texture of the book, the smell of the paper, the tactile pleasure of turning a page. He hadn’t eschewed e-readers, just preferred a printed book. With the clarity of hindsight, the first sign of his father’s illness had been when he took his beloved books out into the street and set them alight.

  Shoving those memories into the bulging filing cabinet, Jack focused on Blade. He seemed to have forgotten his drink, free hand poised at the top corner of the book, ready to turn the page as soon as he’d finished reading it. Jack couldn’t see the title of the book, but it had to be good.

  Not the image of a bloodthirsty assassin.

  Could the two sides of Ethan Blade—the entranced reader, animal lover, and dedicated carer; the remorseless killer and deadly warrior—exist within one body?

  Jack hoped so. With the flick of a switch, he’d killed thirty-six Taliban soldiers in a barracks. Two days later, he’d been celebrating Lionel’s birthday in camp. It wasn’t as if he’d set those charges for purely personal reasons. He’d just been doing his job.

  Two weeks later, back in Australia, he’d gotten so drunk he started a brawl and ended up decompressing in a holding cell on base.

  How did Blade decompress? With a cup of tea and a good book? Did he need to? Or was he really an unfeeling, cold-blooded killer?

  Jack had been in the service for nine years, and the accumulated psychological trauma was still a thick layer of scar tissue over every inch of his life six years later. They’d been an intense nine years, though. First East Timor, then Cambodia, followed by three tours in Afghanistan and ending with the epic clusterfuck in India.

  Blade had been in the business for sixteen years. Half his life. At least, that was how long the name Ethan Blade had been active, whether or not this man so entranced by his book was actually the Ethan Blade. How did anyone cope with that much scar tissue?

  Scar tissue.

  The term sparked something in Jack’s memory. He curled up on his side, watching Blade, and explored the thought. Scar tissue . . . Something to do with eyes. A condition that left the eyes all but colourless, covered in a coating of tissue that had to be cut away from the iris. Which, in turn, stopped the iris from expanding and contracting as it should.

  Shit.

  “I know what you are.” The words were out before Jack realised he was even going to speak.

  Blade looked up from his book, dark brows raised. “Pardon?”

  Struggling up, sleeping bag held as a buffer against the cold night, Jack repeated, “I know what you are.”

  The assassin smiled tolerantly, an adult patiently listening to a child’s wild theories. “And what is that, Jack?”

  “A Sugar Baby.”

  Blade went perfectly still, as he had moments before killing three men.

  Continuing the theme of this entire madcap experience, Jack carried on recklessly. “A child born to a female Sugar addict, one who doesn’t inherit a dependency on the drug but is born with a thick film of tissue over the eyes.” He was pretty much quoting the text from memory. “Surgery to correct the defect often leaves the child permanently blind. Those who retain their sight are unable to adjust to extremes in light gradients, but develop a heightened night-vision capacity. You’re a Sugar Baby.”

  The other man remained motionless for a long minute, then slowly looked back down at the book in his hands. His expression remained blank, but he blinked several times in succession, the only reaction to the revelation. Blade closed the book, smoothed down the cover, and put it aside.

  “And does that explain everything about me?” he asked calmly.

  Wondering, once again, why he dared push this man, Jack shrugged. “Not everything, but it clears a few things up.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as . . . I think I heard somewhere a recent study debunked one of the more common beliefs about Sugar Babies. About thirty-odd years ago, when the affliction became relatively well known, it was thought Sugar Babies were also sociopaths. Some with violent tendencies, but all with certain . . . incompatibilities with normal social behaviour.”

  Suddenly, Blade was on his feet. Throwing off the sleeping bag, he stalked into the inner room. His eerily colourless eyes picked up the faint light of the torch, burnished predator-bright and silver.

  “Is that what you think I am? A sociopath incapable of normal social interaction?”

  Shit. Jack had to learn to keep his mouth shut. He scrambled to his feet, feeling the stinging need to be ready to fight.

  “No.” He kept hold of the sleeping bag, to be used as a weapon if necessary. Or to at least cushion him from anything Blade might try.

  “Then what? I know you don’t trust me or believe me. So tell me, Jack, what am I?”

  “I don’t know. I know some things, but not what you really are. Or even who you are. I’m at a disadvantage here, Blade. You know everything about me.”

  “Not everything.” His tone was frosty but held a touch of hurt that, like everything else he’d seen of Blade, confused the hell out of Jack.

  “All right, I’ll bite,” Jack said tersely. “What don’t you know about me?”

  Blade dipped his head and looked at him through a veil of long lashes. It was oddly coy, but the glittering white of his eyes was a chilling contrast.

  “There is one thing,” the assassin said softly, and then he was moving, coming for Jack.

  Jack reacted on instinct. He tossed the sleeping bag and, before Blade could knock it aside, followed it. Jack crash-tackled Blade, the sleeping bag between them. Blade twisted in mid-fall, getting a foot against Jack’s hip. They hit the ground hard, Blade on the bottom, but with leverage. He shoved Jack off and rolled clear of the bag, but Jack was ready for him. Scissoring his legs, Jack swept Blade off his feet. The other man turned the fall into an elegant flip so he landed, perfectly balanced, crouched on his toes.

  On his feet, Jack backed up, wary. He was, at present, outclassed. Still weakened, hampered by the low light and, plain and simple, bloody impressed by Blade’s moves.

  Blade didn’t press the attack, watching Jack with a closed, icy expression.

  “You made the first move,” Jack reminded him.

  “I did,” Blade agreed.

  Getting it now for what it had been, Jack lowered his hands, forcing himself to relax. “Did it tell you what you wanted to know?”

  “Yes.” Again, that hint of hurt. But it was quickly banished as Blade stood. He flexed his fingers, shoulders losing tension, shifting from kill-ready to calm as quickly as he’d gone the other way. He waved at the bed. “You should sleep. We’ll be on the move again tomorrow.” He turned and went back to his improvised seat.

  And Jack was left in a stable, with a soundly sleeping camel and no more information than he had at the start.

  Christ!

  Muttering under his breath, he wrapped the warm bag around his body and shuffled out to Blade.

  “I’m sorry.” Though he didn’t know why. He certainly didn’t owe Blade anything.

  As if he could now read Jack’s mind, Blade asked, “What for? Everything you said is true. I’m a Sugar Baby. I spent the first six years of my life blind, and even now I can’t see in direct light. And ever since I was old enough to understand, I’ve been told I’m a monster-in-waiting. A psychological time bomb. Even I believed it for a long time. I can’t blame you for thinking the same thing.”

  Jack leaned against the cold bricks. “I suppose not. For the record, I don’t think you’re a sociopath. I mean, you have a camel for a pet.”

  “Sheila’s
not a pet,” Blade said blandly. “More a casual acquaintance.”

  Suppressing a snort of laughter, Jack muttered, “Not doing your reputation any good by admitting that, Blade.”

  Lips twitching, he looked up at Jack. “I guess not.”

  The touch of humour fled as Jack met those strange but now explainable eyes. “I mean it. I don’t think you’re a sociopath. But I still don’t understand you.”

  Blade stood, putting him closer to Jack than he had been when he attacked. “Do you really want to?”

  Swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat, Jack could only shake his head.

  Shockingly, Blade smiled, a surprisingly innocent expression that nearly reached his eyes. “Then stop trying to psychoanalyse me. It’ll get you nowhere and only cause you grief.”

  There was truth in those words, and Jack vowed to live by them.

  Being this close showed him a new side of the unstoppable killer. There were dark smudges under his eyes and a stretched quality to the skin of his temples.

  “How long since you slept?” Jack asked.

  “Three days, give or take. I didn’t want to leave you unattended in your illness. Sheila offered but her bedside manner is rather deplorable.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” About both statements. “You go sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

  “You’re still not—”

  “No arguments. I’m fine. You need to sleep.”

  “But—”

  “Shut the fuck up and get into bed!”

  Blade took a startled step back, eyes wide. “I have a sudden urge to salute.” It sounded only about half joking.

  “Blade.” Every ounce of warning Jack could muster turned the name into something closer to its literal meaning.

  “If you insist.”

  Blade slid past Jack and entered the inner room. Jack snatched up the sleeping bag the assassin had left behind and tossed it in after him. He was rewarded with a muffled gasp of surprise when it hit Blade in the face.

  Jack had settled into the crate-chair, his own sleeping bag around his shoulders, when Blade spoke.