Where Death Meets the Devil

by L. J. Hayward

  “Minimal deaths? Not up to . . .?” He spun and caught Ethan around the waist from behind. “I’ll show you up to the challenge.” And he wrestled a not-really-protesting man onto the bed.

  “Jack,” Ethan gasped as his shirt was pulled off roughly. “We need food and . . . and . . . your cigarettes . . .” The word trailed off as he thumped back on the mattress, groaning as Jack began a two-pronged attack: lips and teeth against his left nipple and insistent hand on the quickly growing bulge in his pants.

  “No,” Jack growled, “what we need is a better plan.” Bypassing all sorts of niceties, he wrenched open Ethan’s pants and got flesh-on-flesh contact. “There will be no deaths. These are my people. Good people.” He squeezed until Ethan moaned, then teased his thumb over the sensitive spot just under the head of his dick until Ethan was squirming helplessly. “Are we agreed? Absolutely no deaths.”

  Breathless, Ethan managed, “It may not be possi— Jack!” His back arched off the bed as Jack upped the ante.

  Which was the wrong tactic. Not only did Ethan lose the ability to form coherent sentences, but Jack forgot his agenda at the sight of Ethan losing control. Things devolved in the best of ways until it was just the two of them in the bed, moving together. No plans, no traitor, no jobs, no world.

  A long while later, Jack finally remembered why they’d ended up in bed in the first place. He lifted his head from Ethan’s belly, dislodging the man’s fingers from playing in his black curls, and studied him. Sprawled across the bed, so relaxed the hand that had been seconds ago resting on Jack’s head now flopped boneless to the sheet. Eyes closed, breathing slow and steady, he could have been asleep. Asleep and innocent. He was, however, neither of those things.

  Right then, Jack admitted something to himself.

  The plan was dangerous. Parts of it, Jack could see the merit in. They had to get back inside the building and find the traitor before he or she escaped. The Office would be on high alert, security amped up to the highest level. A covert approach would take too long. Surprise was the best option they had, so that bit, Jack could get on board with. The rest . . .? The risk was too high, not just to Jack’s fellow assets, but to Ethan as well.

  That was what Jack had to accept. He wanted . . . no, needed, to protect Ethan. From the Office, and himself.

  Ethan opened his eyes and looked at him. “Jack?”

  “Let me do it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ll take the evidence in and do it officially. If I go back alone, they’ll be more willing to listen. You going back there now will only put them on edge, more so than they already are. Things will escalate needlessly . . .”

  It wasn’t working. As Jack spoke, Ethan stopped being the man he’d just fucked and became the assassin. He didn’t move, but his post-orgasm, languorous mien morphed into the predatory stillness Jack had encountered in the desert, in those moments he’d wondered if he would truly survive. Those moments when Jack had gotten between Ethan and his goal.

  “My job is to eliminate the traitor,” Ethan said, cool and calm. “And I will do my job.”

  Shit. The reminder of just who Jack was dealing with was timely, but even as he held up a hand in surrender and said, “Okay. Just offering an alternative. We’ll go with the shock and awe approach,” he knew it wouldn’t stop him from doing what he had to do.

  Afterglow sufficiently dimmed, they got up and showered together, quick and perfunctory. While Ethan retreated to his work bench to check his gear with the tight, fastidious motions of someone working through a compulsion, Jack ran out his frustrations on the treadmill and devised amendments to Ethan’s plan. In the end, it wasn’t a vast improvement, but he was convinced it was less risky for everyone.

  By evening, with Jack if not happy then content with his alternatives, and Ethan’s psychological needs satisfied, they managed a civil dinner and in bed, even though they didn’t fuck, Jack fell asleep curled around Ethan’s willing and warm body.

  However, as the next day dragged on with no word from Ethan’s “associate” and Jack still had no cigarettes, he got grumblier and grumblier.

  “How much longer?” he demanded at one stage, while Ethan lay under the car, doing something mystical and ritualistic to it, judging by the time and concentration it took.

  “It will take as long as it takes, Jack.” Ethan’s voice echoed up through the engine, which was exposed, the car’s bonnet propped open. “Could you hand me the nine-sixteenths wrench?”

  “The what?”

  “The nine—” Ethan cut himself off with a sigh, pushed himself out from under the car on a little wheeled trolley, and pointed to the tool kit by Jack’s foot. “The wrench with nine-slash-sixteen on it. No, not that one, the other one. The other one. Bollocks. Just let me do it.” He grabbed the tool and rolled out of sight again. “You need a hobby, Jack. Something to occupy your mind and hands.”

  Peering at the engine, Jack grimaced. “Some of us aren’t rich enough to buy sports cars, Blade.”

  “There are other hobbies. I also enjoy fishing.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “I can think of something else to occupy my hands.”

  “Pardon?”

  With a squeal of tiny wheels, Jack pulled Ethan out from under the car. Before Ethan even managed a yelp of surprise, Jack was straddling him, Ethan’s grease-streaked hands pinned over his head to the cement, the wrench clattering free. The trolley rocked as Jack leaned down and nipped at Ethan’s neck. It seemed, deprived of nicotine, Jack’s body was falling back on another chemical rush to ease the tension.

  “I don’t think this is an entirely appropriate hobby,” Ethan murmured, but he tipped his head back to give Jack more access.

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Jack hummed against the warm skin of Ethan’s throat. “I’ll undoubtedly be bored with it by the weekend and shove it in the cupboard, never to be seen again.”

  Ethan’s chuckles vibrated against Jack’s lips. “Undoubtedly.” With a nifty little twist, he freed one hand and skated it down Jack’s ribs and back up, bringing his shirt with it. His fingers ran over the exposed skin, making Jack shiver.

  “You’ll get me all greasy.”

  “And then I’ll wash you off,” Ethan promised in a low, husky voice.

  “It’s a plan.” Jack sat up, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

  Grinning, Ethan waggled his grubby hands in eager anticipation. Then his grin vanished, and he reached into his pocket and fished out a presumably vibrating phone. He tapped it to answer a call.

  “Yes?” The sexy tease was gone from his tone, leaving it flat and businesslike.

  This was it. It had to be.

  An entirely different flush of excitement ran down Jack’s spine. He got off Ethan, watching him as he listened intently. Phone caught between ear and shoulder, Ethan picked up the wrench and rolled back under the car.

  Jack gathered the weapons from the work bench, then stripped and dressed in one set of body armour laid out on the bed. By the time he was done, Ethan was out from under the car, still on the call.

  “Thank you. I truly appreciate this,” he said on his way to the bathroom to wash his hands. “Yes, I understand. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  When he emerged, Jack cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “We have an answer.”

  “And? Who is it?” Jack suppressed an urge to shake him until he spilled the answer. This was it. He was about to learn who had taken money from Valadian and kept him off threat lists for so long. He needed to know, to finally have an end to this. At the same time, he dreaded hearing the name. Whoever it was, it was someone he’d worked with, trusted, relied on. He didn’t want to have that trust ripped away from him, not again.

  Ethan quickly undressed. “I don’t know.”

  Jack stared at him, not seeing the lean, beautiful body. Just another barrier. “Sorry? You don’t know?”

  “Not yet. My associate won’t relay the information over even secure channels
. We’ll get the information when we see her in person.”

  Armoured and weaponed out, they got into the low-slung car. Ethan started it and the engine rumbled into a smooth, rolling purr, vibrating through the entire car in a way that reminded Jack of how Ethan shivered under him.

  Ethan tapped a code into a keypad attached to the black console. As the big roller-door began to open, Ethan gunned the engine and it throbbed with a deep, throaty roar. Sunglasses on, he settled into the leather seat. “Hold on.”

  “To what?” Jack asked, then forgot his question as Ethan slammed the car into gear and hit the accelerator.

  The roller-door was barely high enough for the car to squeeze under it, but they made it with maybe two inches to spare. Ahead, a gate in the fence was opening and it, too, was barely wide enough for the car when they slipped through. The tyres squealed as Ethan put the car into a tight turn that drifted its back end out alarmingly. Hands working assuredly on wheel and gear stick, the assassin straightened the car out. It responded fluidly, engine winding up and up in pitch, then dropping back as Ethan shifted gears, again and again. The industry of Williamson Road blurred by Jack’s window.

  Jack clamped onto the edge of his seat. “Holy Jesus fuck!”

  Ethan laughed.

  They careened south on Williamson Road, swerving around what traffic there was. Ethan handled the car with supreme ease, the sleek vehicle seemingly gliding over the road surface as if there were no traction on the tyres. Even through the closed windows, Jack heard shouts of surprise and alarm and the warning blurts of horns. Ingleburn might have had its fair share of hooligans and hoons, but none of them probably tooled around in an Aston Martin Vanquish S Coupe. It almost made him smile.

  They quickly left the industrial area behind and joined the suburban streets. More traffic here but if Ethan slowed for it, it was barely perceptible. Still, they made it onto the Hume Motorway without anything more troubling than a sudden braking at a roundabout to let a bus lumber by. But once on the highway, Ethan gleefully made up for the lost seconds by unleashing the Vanquish fully.

  Even though it was part of the plan Jack agreed with, he would have protested out of a sense of practicality, but he was too busy reassessing his earlier opinion of Ethan behind the wheel of his car. Appealing? It didn’t even come close.

  Ethan was moulded to the seat as if it were a part of him, as if the car were just another limb he controlled with exacting precision. The intent expression eased into something softer, something more like contentment melded with utter confidence. This, Jack realised, was the real Ethan Blade. Not the killer, or the abused child, or the man acting out a part, but a person who felt completely at ease with himself. He was in control of a fast, dangerous vehicle; he was in command here as he was nowhere else in his life.

  Regardless of how the rest of the day turned out, Jack would remember Ethan this way.

  Naturally, they picked up a cop. Coming from the north, the cop car turned its lights and siren on as Ethan and Jack zoomed by in the opposite direction. They’d passed a lane connection not far back and sure enough, the cop used it to get over to the northbound lanes and work on catching up.

  On an open road, with no other traffic, there would have been no competition between the Vanquish and a cop car. As it was, there was barely one anyway. When it looked like they might lose their pursuer, Ethan slowed to make sure they didn’t, and then it was on again. By the time the Hume became the South Western Freeway, their friends had tripled in number and there was a chopper overhead.

  “What do you think, Jack?” Ethan asked as he took the exit for the M7. “Do we have enough eyes on us yet?”

  All the pre-combat queasiness was gone, replaced with a perfect calm. Jack glanced at the flashing lights following them, and then at the shadow of the chopper pacing theirs on the road.

  “Yeah. No doubt about it. The Office will know exactly where we are.”

  They left him alone for a long time. Far too long to spend surrounded by all the mess of the past fifteen months.

  Valadian was spot on. He was a fool. Those words kept cycling back to the front of his thoughts, alternating with the memory of those kisses.

  It shouldn’t infuriate him. Jack had absolutely no claim on Blade. Didn’t want one, either. They’d fucked; that was all. Blade had gone along with it out of a sense of duty to his job. Jack had simply taken an opportunity, nothing more. They hadn’t kissed.

  Kisses were like hands. Revealing, expressive, intimate—and, also like hands, most people didn’t see how powerful a kiss could be. Several of Jack’s partners had joked about his refusal to kiss their lips, likening it to stories of hookers who wouldn’t kiss their johns. Jack couldn’t disagree. Fucking was just genitals banging together. In mind-bendingly brilliant ways, yes, but that wasn’t love.

  Love grew out of hearts and minds, and those things were most eloquently, most purely, expressed with the lips. In the words a person spoke to show their thoughts, their opinions, their feelings; the way they smiled or pouted or grimaced; the subtle touch of a tongue to a lower lip; downturned at the corners often more expressive than a gesture or walkaway; a bitten lip to keep in a throaty groan. The mouth was the most intimate part of a person and, as with hands, the least guarded.

  Seeing Valadian kiss Blade, seeing Blade kiss him back, twisted Jack’s guts into irrational knots. Not everyone felt as he did. Very few people did, in fact. People would kiss before they’d fuck. Knowing his reaction was unreasonable didn’t stop Jack from seething over it, though.

  So when Blade slid into the room, Jack hissed and redoubled his efforts against the restraints.

  “You fucking bastard,” Jack snapped. “I’m going to kill you. I really am.”

  Blade had that blank look on his face again. He reached to the back of his waistband and drew one of his Desert Eagles. Calmly, he removed the clip, ejected the chambered round, and inserted a single bullet from his pocket. Then he levelled the gun on Jack.

  Jack went still. “You’re really going to do it, aren’t you.”

  So this was how they’d wipe out the information in Jack’s head. At least it would take all the bad memories with it.

  Except Jack wasn’t done. Fifteen months of living in the snake pit, of letting them wind around him and drag him down, and it couldn’t all be for nothing. He had to try.

  “Blade, don’t do this. If this is because of last night, I’m so—”

  “Shut up.”

  “No. I want to—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Screw you—”

  Blade glared. “Shut up.”

  Jack saw it that time. The finger along the side of the gun’s barrel tapped the silky steel.

  Oh.

  Understanding lasted about as long as it took to blink.

  Blade adjusted his aim and fired.

  Pain exploded in Jack’s chest, dead centre. He was rocked back so hard the chair tilted alarmingly. He saw the white ceiling blur and grow dark, the sheer agony in his body stretching the seconds out into hours. Time was relative, Dad used to say. The cloud of black grew and grew until it swallowed him whole . . .

  Coming to this time wasn’t so pleasant. His whole body hurt as if he’d gone ten rounds sans gloves. He felt pummelled and broken, every nerve end throbbing. Pain jolted through him as if he was . . . being carried, fireman style, at a steady jog.

  “Stay still,” that poncy accent murmured as Jack moved experimentally.

  “I will if you will.” But somehow he didn’t think the words managed to leave his head, because Blade didn’t respond to them. Just kept jouncing along as if he hadn’t caved in Jack’s chest with a bullet.

  “Hey!” someone called from behind them.

  Blade slammed to a sudden halt, jarring Jack even more in his uncomfortable position.

  “What are you doing back here?” The tone had the cadence of command about it. One of Valadian’s officers, probably. “Everyone’s supposed to be in the main y
ard.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Blade said, turning slowly. He’d lost his British accent and sounded so perfectly Australian Jack almost coughed in surprise. Lucky he didn’t, because Blade added, “I’m just disposing of the spy’s body, as per The Man’s orders.”

  “Oh, shit,” a new voice said. “That’s him. Valadian’s weird pet killer.”

  “What? No, he’s a Pom and he’s out—”

  The guy never got to finish. With a startled grunt, Jack was dropped to the ground. He tried to roll when he hit, but the burst of pain across his chest pretty much collapsed him in on himself where he landed.

  Blade was already moving, silent and deadly as he lunged into the midst of the soldiers. There were more than two of them, that was for sure, because Jack heard the distinct thumps of two bodies hitting the ground in quick succession, and yet the yelps, grunts, and shouts continued.

  Forcing himself to move, Jack uncurled and shoved to his hands and knees. His chest hurt like a mule had kicked him. When he blinked his eyes into focus, he found the fight moving away from him. Blade’s fluid shape and style was easy to find in the mess of bodies and flying limbs. He had three opponents. Two more lay in the dirt, not far from Jack. Valadian’s troops usually moved in groups of six.

  A knife blade slid across Jack’s throat, not hard enough to cut, but so close to it Jack stopped breathing altogether. His captor’s other hand fisted in the back of Jack’s abused shirt and hauled him back onto his knees, the knife never moving from his neck.

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” the man hissed. “The white-eyed freak was supposed to kill you.”

  Jack lifted his hands, fingers spread, to show he had no weapon. “The work ethic of assassins these days, huh?”

  As he spoke, Jack grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the knife to his throat and pulled it down, locking the man’s arm in place on his shoulder. Jack bit his hand. Hard. While he was distracted, Jack scrambled around the man, one forearm across his shoulders, forcing him to the ground, the other twisting the wrist of his knife hand until it gave up the weapon. Jack snatched it before it hit the ground and acted without thought.