“So it’s true,” Director Tan said blandly. “You have taken Mr. Reardon into custody.”
Great. Two out of three suspects were here. Maybe Jack could goad them into a revealing argument.
“Not now, Alex,” McIntosh ground out. “This is none of your business.”
“Isn’t it? A murder within the building is everyone’s business.” Tan stood beside her and perused the images of Maria as if idly reading a catalogue. “Certainly looks damning. Don’t forget, Donna, we have a building full of specially trained people who could have done this. Not just this one man.”
“No one else is on record as threatening the victim. No one else has motivation.”
“No? Not even the proven assassin we have locked up downstairs?” Tan tapped at one of the touchpads. “Let’s just make sure he’s still in custody, shall we?”
Perhaps Jack didn’t need to do anything to provoke an argument. Tan was walking a very thin line in regards to McIntosh’s anger, but she maintained a neutral expression as the images on the screens switched to the feed from Ethan’s cell. The assassin sat on the bed, legs crossed, eyes closed. On his knee rested a half-eaten log of green fudge.
“Well, well,” Tan murmured. “Looks like you have some explaining to do, Mr. Reardon.”
Before Jack could espouse his innocence, once again, movement on the screen caught everyone’s attention.
Ethan wasn’t on the bed anymore. He was up and stalking for the table. Gripping one of the chairs, he stood still for a moment, then picked it up and threw it at the door.
Alarms blared throughout the building, the abrupt whoop whoop of trouble. In his cell, Ethan ripped off his scrub top and twisted it into a thick wad with a couple of flicks of his wrists. Moving as if to wrap it around his face, he hesitated.
Sitting in a room thirteen floors overheard, Jack saw Ethan’s chest hitch as if he couldn’t catch his breath. He jerked silently, hands flexing in the material of his top as he staggered against the table.
They’d flooded the cell with knockout gas.
Jack’s chest was tight with tension and fear and surging adrenaline. This was it. The low-level nausea that had been curling through his guts for the past several hours vanished, replaced by the steady calm that meant he was in action, his training kicking in with almost violent force.
“Get him out of here and locked up,” McIntosh snapped at Maxwell, gesturing to Jack.
The head of security grabbed Jack by the collar of his suit jacket, then hauled him out of the chair. Roughly, he spun Jack towards the door and gave him a hard enough shove it threw Jack off-balance.
“No,” Tan growled. “Reardon stays right here, where we can keep an eye on him.”
Maxwell hesitated, torn between the orders of two directors.
Jack used it.
He transformed his stumble into a turn and delivered a double-barrelled kick to Maxwell’s armoured stomach. The security head oofed in surprise and staggered backwards two steps, then recovered. Drawing his Glock, he dodged Jack’s next kick, defending with an upraised arm. Jack twisted, momentum and speed driving his kick into Maxwell’s ribs. The HoS crashed back against the table. Jack’s foot throbbed from the hard connection with Maxwell’s body armour, but he ignored it in the rush of adrenaline.
Backing off, Jack worked his bound hands downwards over his arse. Maxwell charged after him. He came in with a low sweep of his leg, taking Jack off his feet and sending him crashing to the floor on his back. In the moment it took Maxwell to lift the gun and aim, Jack had slid his cuffed hands along the length of his legs and brought them back to his front. All in one smooth motion, he rocked back and up, throwing himself off the ground and right into Maxwell. They crashed into the table, chairs skidding away.
Across the room, McIntosh was shouting into her phone. Tan simply stood back, watching the fight with something close to curiosity.
Jack ignored them, concentrating on Maxwell. The head of security twisted out of Jack’s awkward hold, sending a flying kick towards his gut. Jack shoved himself backwards, his heels hitting one of the fallen chairs. Jumping over the chair, he scooped it up with a foot and tossed it at Maxwell. Not bothering to wait for the outcome, Jack repeated the move with another chair, rewarded with a satisfying grunt of pain from Maxwell as it smacked him in the face. He picked up the first chair in his bound hands, then slammed it down over Maxwell’s head. The chair broke. After adjusting his hold, Jack slapped the remains of the chair against Maxwell’s gun arm. The Glock spun away.
Maxwell growled, lunging forwards with the suddenness and strength of a dump of adrenaline into his system. He ploughed his armoured shoulder into Jack’s ribs, lifting him off the floor and slamming him into the wall. His big meaty fist pounded into Jack’s stomach.
“Fuck . . . you . . .” Maxwell snarled between blows.
“Sorry, sailor,” Jack gasped, his abdomen tensed so hard against the punches he could barely breathe. “You never were my type.” And he brought his knee right up into Maxwell’s nuts.
Christ! They were armouring their junk now. Pain whipped through Jack’s knee and thigh from the hard connection to the solid cup. Still, it distracted Maxwell enough Jack could get his leg back between Maxwell’s. He hooked his knee around the other man’s and shoved at his chest.
Maxwell went over backwards, Jack coming down with his knees in Maxwell’s groin.
Armour was great at absorbing kicks and punches. Not so great at deflecting the entire weight of a tall, well-muscled ex-SAS soldier. While Maxwell shouted in pain and shock, Jack grabbed the sides of his head, lifted it, and slammed it into the floor. Maxwell struggled, his motions becoming wild as Jack repeated the move. Dazed, the HoS couldn’t defend when Jack punched him. Bone snapped and blood gushed from Maxwell’s nose. Before the HoS could recover, Jack swiftly bound him with plastic cuffs from his own utility belt, which Jack unfastened and took with him when he straightened.
McIntosh and Tan were by the window, both with pistols trained on him.
“Stand down, Reardon,” Tan said, cool and collected. “This isn’t what you want to do.”
Jack smiled. “Isn’t it?”
He feinted with the belt, and they both jerked in reaction. Jack hit the deck just as McIntosh fired. He rolled under the desk.
The door burst open, and security personnel poured into the room with fluid coordination. Before Tan or McIntosh could alert them to his position, Jack kicked two chairs out from under the table and into the front ranks. They went down in a tangle of leather upholstery and limbs. Jack rolled out into the mess.
People were shouting. McIntosh commanded them to use whatever force necessary; Tan countered with demands for Jack to be kept alive; security people tried to keep track of Jack within the melee.
Jack used the belt to block blows, to snap guns from hands, to trip his opponents. He kicked and punched and headbutted, almost revelling in the freedom of it, of being surrounded by the enemy. Every body closing in on him was a target, and he let his training move him.
Then suddenly he was free, falling out of the meeting room into the relatively clear corridor. Another security team appeared around a corner, so Jack sprang to his feet and sprinted in the other direction. A shout gave him warning, and he tucked himself into a roll as the newcomers opened fire. Even as they redirected their aim downwards, he rocked up to his feet and jumped clear of the floor as bullets ripped into the carpet. His move propelled him into a wall, and he pushed off it before hitting the floor again and rolling around a corner. After coming back to his feet, he ran.
Alarms continued to blurt. The building would be in automatic lockdown by now, all external entrances sealed tight, the windows going opaque to keep out curious eyes. There were always loopholes in any security system, however, and Jack happened to have one handy.
He slammed through the door to the stairwell and stopped, pushing his back against the door. Going sideways, he activated the copy he’d made of Maxwell’s
sec-tab RFID. Instantly, the lock on the door behind him lit up in his implant, recognising the signal. Once all the electronic locks linked to the sec-tab—which was all of those aboveground, bar one—answered Jack’s signal, he overrode their programming with an old one he’d used years ago on a mission with the SAS. Its encryption was military and wouldn’t take long for the Office techs to crack, but it would give him, hopefully, enough time to do what was needed.
Throughout the upper twelve floors of the Neville Crawley Building, every electronic lock opened for one second, two, then shut with a new command. The building was, for about the next ten minutes, Jack’s.
Working fast, he went through the utility belt until he found the key to the handcuffs. After a few twists of his wrists, the cuffs fell off with a clatter. Jack grabbed Maxwell’s phone from the belt, then pocketed it and the key and cuffs, just in case.
As Jack took the stairs two at a time, heading down, he ripped open the secret folds in his suit and pulled free the components he’d sewn into the material.
“Shit,” the soldier muttered, a strangely worried expression crossing his face. “What are you doing here?”
Jack stayed still. “Having a bath, clearly.”
The soldier looked his dripping, naked body over quickly. “Yeah, I can see that.” His gaze flickered away and came back, narrowed. “Is that mad bastard with you?”
“He’s around.”
“Shit,” he hissed. “Shit, shit, shit.” The rifle wavered slightly.
This obviously wasn’t going the way the soldier thought it should, which confused Jack. Mr. Valadian was looking for him and here he’d been found, but his discoverer didn’t seem at all pleased by it. Unless . . .
“You alone?” Jack asked.
The soldier glared at him, jaw clenching tight, rifle steadying.
It all screamed yes. So that was his issue. Alone, and somewhere out there was Blade. Jack wouldn’t want to be in this guy’s position.
“Don’t move,” the man snarled, finger caressing the trigger of the rifle. “Don’t open your mouth, either.”
Jack simply spread his empty hands and obeyed.
This was going to be a waiting game, then, between the soldier and Blade. Would the man panic and shoot Jack before Blade came looking for him?
Jack didn’t have the patience for either outcome. His orgasm had left him jittery and eager to move, to work through the last of the endorphins. Coming once always filled him with energy, usually to fuck again. But this would do as an alternative.
Jack dropped under the field of fire and rolled forwards. He came up under the rifle, knocking it aside before the soldier could even shout. Twisting the man’s rifle arm under his own, Jack spun and put his back to the soldier’s chest, arm and weapon trapped between them. He elbowed the startled man in the face twice, in rapid succession.
Jack found it almost too easy, despite his recent illness. Even when the soldier regained some wits and fought free of him, trying to sweep Jack’s legs out from under him. Jack flung himself out of the way, then came back in immediately, double-barrelling his foot into the soldier’s chest, then his face. Advancing again, he wrenched the rifle from slackening fingers and tossed it away.
Jack was burning to use his hands, to feel in complete control again, to know he could rely on his body. To reassure himself he wasn’t a slave to its mindless lusting. So he forced the hapless soldier back into the trees, kicking, punching, weaving through the feeble return blows. Blood splattered the man’s face and the front of his clothes. He fumbled for a knife, and Jack knocked it from his hold before he could raise it past his belt. Jack realised somewhere between one kick and the next punch he was playing with the man, taking out his frustrations and anger on him.
This wasn’t the SAS way. Fight when necessary and within mission parameters. They didn’t abuse their opponents, just eliminated the danger they posed.
Giving up his anger, Jack moved swiftly, closing with the soldier. Sensing the fight had changed, the man redoubled his efforts, blocking blows and dodging kicks. Now that Jack wanted it over, the man was finally fighting for his life.
Jack backed off, as if now wary. Snarling, the soldier shook blood and sweat from his face. He swayed on his feet but dragged in deep gulps of air, preparing for the next bout.
After feinting one way, Jack spun around and leaped onto his back as the soldier turned. As they fell, Jack twisted and got the man under him when they hit the ground. Knees clamping the soldier’s arms to his sides, Jack grabbed his head and wrenched it up and to the side.
The man’s neck broke with sickening crunch.
Jack knelt there for a long time, breathing hard. Whether it was a lack of oxygen to his brain or the swamping waves of adrenaline, Jack couldn’t form a firm thought until his heart slowed from rapid-fire pace to something a bit more normal. Even then, the only thing that sang clear through his mind was Blade.
Jack raced back to their little camp. At his approach, Blade, who’d been kneeling by a pack, twisted and rolled. He came up on his knees, the two Eagles aimed directly at Jack. The instant he recognised Jack, the barrels of the guns jerked skyward.
Flowing to his feet, Blade tossed a gun to Jack. “What happened?” He immediately began scanning the surrounding trees.
“One of Valadian’s men. He was alone, though others can’t be far away.”
“You neutralized him?”
“Yeah.” Jack breathed it out like it was a humiliating defeat. Still, he let the gun settle into his hand with a little sigh of relief.
“I suspected it might happen this close to the compound. Get dressed.” He indicated a pile of material where he’d been kneeling. “I’ll keep watch.”
Edgy, Jack dressed swiftly, donning a DPDU the same as Blade was wearing. The uniform had been meant for Blade, being too short in the legs and sleeves and a little snug across the chest, but it was better than careening around naked. Clothed and armed, he joined Blade in scanning for enemies.
“What now?”
“Now, I fear we’ll have to take the long way around,” Blade said calmly.
Blade whistled shrilly for Sheila, and by the time she lumbered back into their clearing, they had the small packs on their backs and Jack had added tough combat boots to his ensemble. Blade strapped the big bags upright on the saddle so that from a distance they would look like two people riding the camel. Jack watched bemusedly until he worked out what it meant.
“You’re sending her off on her own? She’s our transport!”
“A secondary benefit only. Her real purpose is as a decoy. We didn’t bring the buggy because it couldn’t drive itself home. Sheila, however.” Blade stroked her neck, then stepped back and slapped her sharply on the rump. “Home, Sheila. Home!”
With a startled grunt, the camel jerked into a trot, heading for the narrow path they’d arrived by, her fake passengers wobbling. Blade watched her go with a small worried frown.
Jack grudgingly admitted it was a good idea. When Valadian’s men came looking for their lost fellow—and found his body—they would see camel tracks leading into the gorge, camel tracks and theirs inside the gorge, and camel tracks leading out. If they followed and caught sight of Sheila in the distance, it’d look as if Blade and Jack were fleeing back the way they’d come.
“We go this way.” Blade indicated further into the gorge.
They backtracked to the pool, and Blade moved them onto the rocks surrounding it so they wouldn’t leave any footprints. On the far side of the waterfall, they clambered over damp rocks and squeezed through a very narrow gap in the cliff, coming into another opening a few minutes later. Unlike the previous one, this space wasn’t fed by an underground stream and it was drier, the plants brittle and hard. The floor was sandy and Blade avoided it, jumping from rock to rock, even swinging between the thin, papery trunks of the stunted trees. It was warmer here, the heat of the desert not held at bay by a curtain of moisture.
Neither of them
spoke beyond Blade warning Jack about a wonky rock or cracking branch. They fell into a natural rhythm of working together, Blade on point, Jack constantly checking their six. Jack had only ever felt such symbiosis with other military-trained personnel, people who’d had the same commands and actions drilled into them. Occasionally, Jack found himself falling into military hand signals, and Blade responded in kind. He supposed it shouldn’t shock him, but tallied up with everything else, and the whispering echo of Blade’s voice—“I have a sudden urge to salute.”—Jack didn’t like the conclusion he was drawing.
He kept his thoughts to himself. Right now wasn’t the time to confront Blade about his past.
They kept moving through the narrowing and expanding gorge for several hours, leaving behind all hints of life and returning to the dead nothingness. The further they went with no sign of trouble, the more Jack wondered what the hell was going on. Valadian’s army wasn’t a sternly disciplined, regimented group, but it wasn’t a stupid rabble, either. Jack and Blade shouldn’t be getting away with this. And yet, it seemed as if they were.
Darkness came quickly in the gorge. The moment the sun dropped out of sight of their narrow view of the sky, shadows crawled down the walls and spread like ink over the ground. Jack put his sunglasses away and took the hat from his head, needing as much light as he could get. Ahead, Blade removed his hat but left his glasses on for longer. He finally took them off when the sun was over the horizon, leaving them in true darkness.
“No torches,” Blade whispered. “Keep close to me.”
Cold flooded down the gorge on the heels of the shadows. The sweat pooling at the base of Jack’s spine began to cool uncomfortably.
Abruptly, Blade stopped, looking up at the rock walls closing in on them.
“What is it?”
Blade gestured. “There’s a cave up there, big enough for us to bunker down in. I’m wondering, however, if we should keep going. There’s another shelter at the far end of the gorge. I think we can make it by dawn. Or not long thereafter.”
Where Death Meets the Devil Page 19
