Where Death Meets the Devil

by L. J. Hayward

  He fired into the pack. The forerunner yelped and crumpled into a heap, tripping up the one behind it. Two streamed around the furry pile, one coming for Jack, the other veering off towards Blade and the pack leader. Blade was trying, successfully so far, to keep the huge dingo from closing in nothing but his hands and feet.

  Scrambling awkwardly over rocks, Jack fired on the dingo charging for him. His shot went wide, the dog cringing and jumping sideways. It slowed down, watching him cautiously, darting forwards in short, unpredictable bursts. Jack took a moment to aim this time, but the animal that had stumbled over the injured dingo wasn’t so reluctant to engage. It leaped over a fallen tree and pounced on Jack.

  The dog snapped at his face as they crashed to the ground. Jack hit hard, dropping his gun, the backpack protecting his spine, his head barely missing the jagged gorge wall. He got his left hand into the ruff of fur around the dingo’s neck—his right, with the splint, he shoved between the slavering jaws. Fangs scritched over the splint as the animal tried to bite down and Jack tried to force it off him. The power in the animal’s shoulders and chest was breathtaking, though, and it pushed back. Front claws digging into Jack’s chest for purchase, it scrambled its rear paws at his legs.

  Crack!

  The dingo jerked in his hold, stiffening for a split second before sagging forwards, limp. A couple of huffs of fetid breath caressed Jack’s sweaty face, and then it died.

  In the chilly silence that followed, Jack slowly realised the rest of the dogs had scattered. He was alone with the dead dingo lying on him in a boneless mass.

  “Jack?”

  The name snapped him out of shock. Jack pushed the dingo off and flipped to his feet. His heart was still racketing around in his chest, dancing with adrenaline and fright and relief.

  Blade stood several feet back, Desert Eagle in hand, breathing hard, eyes glittering. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gaze going to the dead dingo, Blade let his shoulders sag. “I don’t like killing animals.” There it was again, a touch of something lost in his voice, hinting at something deeper in his psyche than his stone-cold killer reputation could account for.

  Jack didn’t like it either, but when it came down to him or them, it was amazing how strong self-preservation could be. He hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to kill another person, either, but he’d learned otherwise very fast.

  “We should keep moving,” he said instead of something patronising. “They won’t have gone far.”

  Blade nodded and moved to put his gun back in its holster.

  The lead dingo flashed out of nowhere and slammed into Blade. They went down in a tangle of arms and paws, the night exploding with the howls of the pack.

  Jack pulled his Eagle, but the mix of man and dog was too confusing to get a clear shot. He leaped over rocks to reach them. By the time he got there, the dingo had Blade on his back, in much the same position Jack had been in moments earlier. The big, powerful jaws were locked over Blade’s left wrist. Teeth stained red dug into the material of Blade’s DPDU. Blade grunted and dug his other hand into the mouth, trying to pry the jaws apart.

  Rather than risking a shot, Jack drove his foot up between the dingo’s back legs. His boot connected hard with the male dog’s bulging balls.

  The high-pitched yelp would have been comical in just about any other situation.

  Mouth springing wide, the dingo released Blade’s arm. Free, the assassin swung a punch at the dingo’s head. His fist cracked against the thick skull, knocking the dog off him. It rolled, whining, and staggered upright. Jack made to kick it again, and it jumped backwards. Head lowered, tail tucked, it turned and ran.

  Not falling into the same trap as before, Jack hauled Blade up and they too ran. In the opposite direction, looking over their shoulders for pursuit that thankfully never arrived. Either they’d convinced the pack to leave them alone, or they’d moved far enough out of the dingoes’ territory to be let go.

  Wordlessly, Blade led them to the cave he’d mentioned earlier. It required a short climb up the wall, but Jack made it gratefully, wanting unscaleable distance between him and the pack.

  The cave had a wide opening but narrowed towards the back and turned sharply, providing a reasonably sized pocket protected from the outside world. A coating of sand smoothed out the rough stone floor.

  Blade balanced a torch in a small crevice in the wall, so its pale glow spread out in a fan covering most of the space. Then he tried to take off his pack. He moved stiffly, holding his left arm out gingerly. Jack helped him slip the straps down over his arms and lowered the pack.

  “Side pocket,” Blade murmured. “First aid kit.”

  Jack pulled it out and opened it while Blade attempted to unbutton his top. The fingers of his left hand fumbled, slicked with blood.

  “Christ,” Jack said. “Let me.”

  He got the top open and Blade shrugged out of it. The white undershirt was stained with blood down his left side. Three long tears in the DPDU top matched three in the shirt, curving down from just under his shoulder blade to over his hip. Grumbling, Jack hauled the shirt off Blade as well, ignoring the man’s soft protests of pain.

  Three long claw marks followed the pattern of rips. The middle one was deep enough to worry Jack as he lifted Blade’s arm and turned him to study the wounds.

  “Shit, Blade.”

  Twisting to look, Blade said, “It’s not bad.”

  “It’s not great, either. Look at the mess I got into with a small knife wound. An animal claw is bound to be dirtier than Jimmy’s knife.”

  Blade huffed a laugh. “I’m not about to act all superhuman and ignore it. Unlike some of us.”

  “Fine,” Jack said frostily. “If you’re going to be like that, you can clean it yourself.”

  “I could, but I would prefer your help.” Said contritely and hopefully.

  Shaking his head, Jack rummaged through the first aid kit for the antiseptic wipes. He cleaned up Blade’s wrist first. The teeth had torn through the top layers of skin only. There were no deep penetration points. Jack slathered his arm in antibacterial cream and wrapped a large dressing around it. Then he turned to the claw marks.

  The outer two were shallow, scraping across the skin, raising long welts. The middle one, however, broke the skin towards the lower half. By the time it had reached Blade’s hip, it had drawn blood, the claw digging through enough epidermis to expose red flesh.

  “This could use some stitches,” Jack mused.

  “Hmm. I have surgical glue.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Jack made sure to clean the open wound thoroughly, holding back snickers at Blade’s muffled gasps and bitten-off moans. Blade had his hands on the rock wall, leaning on it, head hanging between his taut shoulders. The body under Jack’s hands trembled as Blade strained to not jerk away from his rough ministrations. The assassin’s reaction to the pain was oddly satisfying. It proved the man did feel, after all.

  After applying a small amount of the surgical glue, Jack pinched the wound closed and waited.

  The skin against his hand was warm and slicked with a sheen of sweat. After their impromptu bath, Blade’s scent was clean, carrying a light touch of the soap, but mostly it was just that tang of hot skin and natural musk that coiled through Jack like an olfactory drug. It worked its way downwards, drenching Jack’s mouth with want and his body with need, his dick warming with memories of a Blade-induced orgasm.

  Resisting a sudden compulsion to drag his free hand down the curved arc of Blade’s spine, Jack gave in to another impulse and looked. He’d watched Blade previously, had bit his lip at the tight lines of his body and the supple flex of his muscles, but he was closer now, and he let desire direct his gaze.

  Jack had never found military uniforms sexy. How could something he’d sweated in, crawled through mud and scrub and sand in, be considered exciting? Not even a dress uniform on an otherwise mouthwatering body could get him more
than intrigued. The uniforms had been just that: uniforms. They signified work, not play, and the last thing on Jack’s mind when he’d been on a mission had been sex.

  Right now, though, he was having trouble wondering what might look better than those DPDU pants curved over Blade’s arse. No DPDUs? That was a no-brainer. He’d already seen that naked arse, but he hadn’t been close enough to bite then.

  Dragging his gaze and his lowering inhibitions away from that temptation, Jack was caught by the lean back beautifully displayed for him. Every muscle in Blade’s back was tautened with pain. The shape of each one stood out on his pale skin, inviting fingers to follow the patterns from straining shoulders down to narrow waist. Jack couldn’t find one skerrick of extra flesh, just firm skin over sleek muscle.

  There were scars, as well, but they didn’t so much mar the canvas as make it all the more intriguing. On his left shoulder, the entry wound of the bullet that had caused the starburst on his chest, a small dimple only. A thin, ropey knot of scar tissue just above his right kidney, a messy knife wound. And under them, older scars, faded with time. Many, many years of time, if Jack was any judge. White slashes reaching from his shoulders to his hips, from side to side, sunk into the flesh so they didn’t disrupt the otherwise smooth skin.

  Which Jack suddenly realised he was touching. His hand had escaped his control and was skating his fingertips over those old, old scars. They had a stretched quality to them, as if they’d been pulled over time, lengthened. As wide as his fingers in places, tapering off towards the bottom of the strokes.

  Strokes. That was what they were. The leavings of a whip. Stroke after harsh stroke of leather biting into Blade’s back. Blade’s smaller body. Before he’d finished growing.

  “Fuck,” Jack whispered unable to take his hand away now he knew what they were. He spread his fingers wide, pressing his palm over the scars. “You were whipped?” As a kid? But he couldn’t ask that. He knew it, but to hear it might just snap his control.

  Blade froze. The trembling stilled and he even stopped breathing. After a long minute, he shook his head.

  “Blade.” Jack pushed for honesty.

  His head came up, face turning slightly towards Jack. The curve of his cheek was a pale shape against the dark, his long lashes a smudge across his skin. Jack fought down the urge to lean in and taste.

  When Blade spoke, it was quiet and cold, but aching with pain.

  “They called it discipline.”

  Jack ground his teeth against an urge to growl. He wasn’t entirely successful, a small rumble getting loose. At the sound of it, Blade made an involuntary move towards Jack, pressing his spine against his hand.

  Jack let the now solidly glued wound go and ran his hand around Blade’s waist, fingers crawling across his shivering abdomen. Jack closed the space between them, sliding his other hand with the splint up Blade’s back, over his shoulder, and onto his chest. Blade arched against his hands. A low, purring moan came from deep in his throat, and it rolled through Jack with concussive force. He shuddered against Blade, his hard dick pressing into Blade’s arse.

  The hand on Blade’s belly dipped lower. With a gasp, Blade sucked in his stomach, and Jack’s fingers were invited to slip into the new gap between skin and waistband. He hesitated, then settled for cupping his hand around Blade outside of his pants, needing to keep some barriers from toppling over so fast. The handful of hard, thick dick and straining material, however, didn’t help his restraint. Jack groaned, giving Blade a slow, firm rub.

  “Jack,” Blade moaned, his hips shifting in what felt like involuntary ways, pushing his arse into Jack, then forwards, rubbing against his hand. His shoulders strained, trembling with some great effort. Against the rock wall, his fingers curled and uncurled.

  Jack buried his face in Blade’s shoulder, dragging in a lungful of air that tasted like Blade. He pressed his lips to the warm skin, feeling Blade tremble at the touch. He opened his mouth and licked, intensifying the taste and texture. The coiling pressure in his guts tightened exponentially. His dick was so hard he could probably crush rocks, and he ached with the need to relieve the tension thrumming through his body. Unconsciously, he ground his groin into Blade. He closed his teeth over the salty skin and bit down.

  Two days of cautious movements got Jack to Ingleburn. A suburb in Sydney’s southwest, it had a history of commission houses, low education, and high crime, but in more recent times was turning into an attractive locale for new home buyers, young families, and the inevitable hipsters planning on a future investment in “I was there before it was cool.” One thing Jack was grateful for, however, was the relatively large Indian population. He blended in as he headed to the meeting point.

  Hoping he’d interpreted Ethan’s code right, Jack made his way to Williamson Road. It proved to be a street of industrial businesses, and number eighty-three was a warehouse enclosed in a tall wire fence. In a secluded spot, Jack scaled the fence and approached the building. It was a long, low structure with very few windows, all of which held black-glazed glass that wouldn’t reveal the interior no matter how hard Jack pressed his face to it.

  At one end was a wide roller-door with no external lock showing. Next to it was a normal-sized door. This one had a keypad. Given enough time Jack could probably hack the lock, but privacy wasn’t guaranteed, and he didn’t fancy being seen breaking in. He was fairly certain he had the right place. The darkened windows seemed like Ethan’s style, as did the location. Was he expected to wait outside until Ethan appeared?

  Feeling like a dick, Jack knocked and waited. Nothing. He tried again, harder. Still nothing.

  Hanging around like this would look as suspicious as hacking the lock. Jack cursed under his breath. Maybe he had it wrong. Williamson. Eight. Three. Was he wrong? Was Ethan waiting somewhere else for him, as worried as Jack was? What if Ethan had been caught?

  Jack leaned against the door, wondering, for the hundredth time since hitting the water of Darling Harbour, if he’d done the right thing. Not just in terms of his career, or even his continued life outside of a high-security detention facility, but for Ethan as well. If there was one thing Ethan didn’t need, it was Jack double-checking every decision he made. The man had made it through thirty-one years of life before meeting Jack, before Jack had begun to view him as something damaged and then set adrift. He was one of the best assassins, spies, warriors, in the world. And yet Jack worried. Would Ethan have been better off staying in custody? He might have never been released, but he would be alive. Or not. Without Jack’s help, he may have continued with his original plan, and his chances wouldn’t have been as good.

  Going back through that conversation about racing cars, Jack searched for extra information, for a sign he’d misinterpreted.

  Seven.

  Ah. The one he hadn’t been sure of.

  The lock was a seven-digit key. Which seven though? And in what order? Why couldn’t Ethan have given him more to go on?

  Unless he’d given him everything he needed. Jack hit the number seven seven times.

  With a soft click, the door unlocked.

  Chuckling, Jack slipped into the warehouse. Trust that mad bastard.

  Motion-sensor lights flashed on as Jack closed the door and took a step into the space beyond. Rows of gently glowing bulbs along the roof cast soft illumination over the wide-open interior—enough light to see by, but not enough to blind Ethan’s light-sensitive eyes.

  The floor was cement and bare, mostly. To his right, a long work bench, pitted and scarred, sat against the closest wall. There were vices of various sizes, several crucibles, tongs for carrying them, and racks of moulds. Ethan did like to custom make ammunition. Above it on the wall, a series of locked, steel cabinets most likely held weapons.

  Along the far wall was a well-equipped home gym, including an area of sparring mats, a kick-bag, and a martial-arts dummy.

  To the left, a large furnished area took up most of the remaining space. Rugs on the floor, dinin
g table, kitchen, large chairs around a gas fireplace, a long wardrobe, a shower stall of frosted glass big enough for a party, and a bed for the partiers to crash in afterwards.

  In between was a car under a canvas. Jack pulled the cover off and stood back to take a good look.

  Low slung and sleek like a gliding shark, the black Aston Martin Vanquish S Coupe looked predatory as if it were simply giving its prey a head start before leaping into top speed to bring it down. It sent the same shiver down Jack’s spine as seeing Ethan did.

  Jack could easily imagine Ethan in the car. His face intent, hands skilful on the gear shift and steering wheel. Propelling it to its top speed just so he could reassure himself he controlled his actions, his decisions, his life.

  If the idea of watching Ethan drive this thing weren’t so appealing, the whole concept would have been too sad to contemplate.

  Jack covered the beautiful car up and wandered over to the living area. In the kitchen he found a tiny but exquisite coffee machine and row after row of expensive coffee pods. There was milk in the fridge. Jack had made a cup and was about to sip when he remembered Ethan didn’t drink coffee. He was a tea drinker to the core of his dented soul. The bastard had put this in especially for Jack. Confident Jack would end up here, one way or another. Or prepared, just in case.

  Drinking liquid gold, Jack wandered around the rest of the living area. In a wall cabinet he found a large TV and shelves of books. A lot of the authors Jack had never heard of, but he recognised several Matthew Reillys, which made him smile.

  The closet was full of all sorts of clothes, from jeans and T-shirts to casual suits to full-blooded, double-breasted affairs that would cost Jack’s monthly wage. There were also several tuxedos, probably all with hidden compartments and long pockets for weapons. One section was devoted to various uniforms, including police, ambulance, army, nurse, and several others Jack had no idea about.

  At the end of the long closet were clothes too big for Ethan. They were, in fact, Jack’s size. Shaking his head, Jack pulled out a pair of jeans and a shirt, made sure they fit, then headed for the shower.