Backlash

by Jack L. Pyke

  So with the last name on the list out in the open, Kes returned the kiss, and MI6 had now found their own operative’s body on British soil a month ago, throat slit. Case closed.

  Kes paused by his apartment, checking the position of the lock. He left it a half-turn to the left, even though it should rest in the twelve o’clock position. The door would also only open for a half an inch before a timing device was set off. Tension on the lever acting as a doorstop initiated the countdown, and only the code he kept in his head stopped the bomb’s detonation. It was enough to kill a man, a little too obvious for his liking, but anyone wanting in on a slum was one dangerously disturbed individual.

  The lock remained where he’d left it, and as Kes eased the door open, the lever broke, initiating the countdown. He had time to step through and finger in the code on the desk to stop being blown to pieces.

  It wasn’t much, just a room, a bed, a corner with a cooker and one worktop where his coffee cup and kettle sat. The sink was next to that, offering a will to piss on any fire but still send the rest of the slum up in flames because of it. A two-seater settee coated more in the stench of cat piss than foam almost tried to outdo the lingering smoke and its stains that made a pretty, localized pattern up the wall, onto the ceiling.

  Kes came with no weapon, always preferring to draw from his environment. And as his target lived above him, both smoke stains and exposed wiring to the cooker gave him all he needed.

  He’d be here for another hour, no more. Upstairs, his target was already home, the yelling to his kids and dull thud on the ceiling having kept Kes awake for two nights now.

  Nobody seemed to sleep here, even the night lit up with the grunts of sex that had been made limp by the gut-full of alcohol. He was grateful he could remove his hearing aid of a night although that deep thud from music still thudded in his chest.

  He paused before he reached the unit with the kettle, now rubbing thick fingertips into his temples. The lack of sleep was beginning to show, as was his age. He’d not heard his own name called in a lifetime, it seemed as distant as Israel, almost lost and distorted on the heat rising from the pavements. The aging that his bones counted down couldn’t be ignored. He was surprised Kidon hadn’t... retired him years ago. It wasn’t a young man’s game, but not exactly an old one’s either; he’d been doing this for thirty-five years, making his career choice older than the young man on the next floor. Add another twenty on with how his body ached, he was one of the longest-serving Kidon agents alive. No retirement plan came with this job, not with the secrets he knew, and it only remained to be seen how much longer he’d be allowed to draw breath before someone younger took him out.

  Part of him expected it to be Raoul, but Raoul was only one of many. You could never tell who was out there. Watching. So precautions were always taken.

  He made it over to the kettle, but a reach forward saw his hand distort slightly. The slum swam and he shrugged it off, more than a little aggravated at the noise playing around his walls. A move over to the rucksack under the bed saw him pull out two paracetamol. The headaches weren’t unusual; he rarely slept, more napped. But that spike in the need to get out, that was something new.

  The kettle was his next stop, and he held it under the water, letting it fill. Again life blurred, but this time the high-pitched tinnitus that came with it had him looking down.

  Drops of blood mingled on the dirt-stained steel of the sink, and he lifted a hand up to his nose. More stained his fingers, thicker, with a dark red clot that rolled so easily between his thumb and finger.

  He caught the streetlamp just below. Next to that was the only offer of a supermarket, its windows given glass bars and a door that stated a firm 9:00 p.m. lockdown. In the top left hand corner sat a box, small, no bigger than any normal house alarm. Only this alarm was always aimed at a certain age demographic, and it came with a bite to the hearing that earned its name: Mosquito device. He’d seen a thousand in his lifetime, mostly offered in populated areas, where teens would gather in gangs and run the risk of causing trouble. This device had been designed to irritate, to get the teens to move on, to produce a noise with a frequency high enough to—

  “Son of a bitch,” he spat in Hebrew, staggering back, and trying to tear his hearing aid out.

  Life blacked out for a moment, but a calm grip under his jaw forced him up against the wall. He tried to reach up, tear the grip away, but the screaming sensation in his ears from the Mosquito device and choke on blood wouldn’t allow any coordination, just a pathetic gurgled noise that bubbled up from his throat as he tried to get air into his system. The piss soaking into his jeans didn’t offer much dignity either.

  A gentle draw of breath across his cheek forced more white-hot pain bone-deep into his skull, and blue eyes came briefly into view. He was dying; the deep-sea gaze that held his merely counted it down, drawing him down into the drowning.

  “Muh-muh-muh—” Kes repeated, trying to get Mosquito device out, but his mind and mouth couldn’t fit around the words, and all he could manage was, “Muh-muh-muh—”

  “Nos da.”

  No sound came, Kes read it on those lips.

  “For them.”

  In the background, Kes caught sight of light grey eyes, also the smirk hidden there.

  “For him,” breathed someone closer.

  Kes nodded, hating how this had been made personal. The device didn’t hurt in his head anymore, but the anger didn’t fade: how he’d lived by business but now faced death looking at a whore, one who was petted by a man who had enough class to know when the bad in life should be culled.

  But in with that class, the grip around Kes’s throat said that Raoul liked to play sides; somewhere along the line, he’d lain down with only one over the years.

  And the look of one animal bled through into another, always making this personal. He hated how all of this had turned personal on his final draw of breath....

  Andrews reached over from the passenger’s side and opened the back passenger door for Gray. Making sure Martin kept his head down, Gray pushed him into the back seat, rechecking the cuffs securing his wrists. When Gray got behind the wheel, Andrews slipped the specialised Mosquito device back into the little box at his feet, his look on the small supermarket.

  Gray knew the original device was back in place, same covering, same three dents where youths had thrown bricks at it to shut it up. Andrews had installed the replacement during the night, but it had been by Gray’s design.

  “Doesn’t surprise me that France uses these,” Gray heard him say as he slipped his seatbelt on. “Suburban ghettos offer dense populations.” Andrews looked out the window. “Especially this one. Mosquito devices are the shop owners answer to everything nowadays.”

  The anti-loitering device usually found a safe place behind a security cage, but it looked as if the supermarket owners hadn’t been able to afford the extras. The cast zinc casing was pretty durable, enough to withstand the reaction of the smarter teen who knew what these devices did. Anti-social behaviour in general cost the taxpayer thousands in revenue, so the Mosquito device came into play. Unless the listener hadn’t undergone age-related hearing loss, those over the age of twenty-five couldn’t hear the frequency and duration of the high-pitch sound wave. To a young adult it was like tinnitus, sometimes leaving them with a headache, but enough to cause discomfort in general and disband the clusters of youth. The ethics behind it was always questionable: did it infringe on human rights? Did it prejudice against a certain age demographic? Could it cause damage in early childhood? But it was counterbalanced by the right to run a business and keep customers safe. Not many in the UK knew it was used on their streets too.

  Gray didn’t care too much for the politics. The Mosquito device just served its purpose today. Amplification in any hearing aid can cause extra loss of hearing, but tie it into a device that already has the potential to cause internal harm, ask A-Branch technicians to go wild with making sure it targeted a specific he
aring aid, then cause haemorrhage and burn a few brain cells in the process—

  “Accidental death,” said Andrews, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Although it will be grudgingly given by Mossad, especially as you’re officially in Wales for the holiday, sir. Shame you missed out on this.”

  Gray turned the engine over on the beaten-up Renault, then took the envelope off him. “Who gave you this?” said Gray, turning the unmarked envelope over as Andrews lit up a smoke.

  “He said you’d know.”

  Gray felt along the ridges and frowned at the shape he fingered. He opened it up and caught the coin that slipped out.

  He thumbed distractedly at the silver, lined with Welsh inscription.

  Andrew’s raised a brow. “Payment for the Ferryman? Who from?”

  Gray slipped it into his pocket. It was his father’s trademark as head of MI6: crossing his agents’ palm with silver once the job was done. Or as Andrews rightly stated: Payment for the Ferryman now he’d crossed life over to the other side, and come back unharmed.

  It was as good as job well done, son. A message had now been sent that what Kes had done wouldn’t be tolerated, but it couldn’t come from MI6. Mossad would know they were behind it somehow, but for the damage done, plus how they’d gotten what they needed with the death of the MI6 ops... Kes’s loss of life would have already been judged as... unavoidable. Or so the unofficial communication would state: Business.

  The return kiss of accidental death merely let others know the Kidon signature mark was known.

  Gray felt the press of the coin against his thigh, not for what was done but where it had come from.

  “You’re smiling, sir.”

  “Hmm?” Gray glanced at him.

  “You’re in a goodish mood. Scary.”

  Gray snorted a smile. “I’m just ready for home. More than ready for home now.” Then he fished out a note from the envelope, along with something else he’d already caught in there: a cigar.

  Martin was wrong; Gray had smoked many years ago. Lately he took his kick from kissing Jack and stealing his habit. Giving a frown, he tugged out the note.

  A son? You’re a father? Congratulations.

  Movement came from the back of the car and Gray heard a sniff before Martin peered over his shoulder.

  “Oooh.” He yawned, the rattle of handcuff keeping him grounded now making itself known. “A boy...?”

  Gray got such a wicked smile.

  “Is he... legal?”

  Gray shifted into gear, forcing a curse out of Martin as he was jostled about. “Jan’s waiting at the hotel. You remember that, right? And he said You’re welcome, Mart.”

  “Don’t start that head-fuck shit. I’m healing here.” Martin lost his smile a touch, instead opting for sniffing and looking out the window. “He never fucking shuts up, sits there, and never fucking shuts up about Jack and gives those... those sad eyes, I just wanna pull them out of his face with a fork.”

  Gray found a smile. “Progress.” He glanced back at Martin. “And mention anything to do with my son again, and I’ll show you just how tough real bastards get.”

  “Yeah...?” Martin leaned forward. “Bring a few armed bastards like your friend here. That’ll really get the fuck-fest started, right?”

  Gray glanced in the mirror to Martin. “You just get me from here on in. Keep that heads-up real close.”

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  Author’s Notes

  The ending to Backlash kind of snuck up on me. After the finish of Antidote, I really wanted to see these three guys settle and be happy, and the alternative ending to this saw them head towards just that. But the one element that really played with me was Martin.

  There are no easy cures for Jack’s disorders, and that in turn has to go for Martin too. So to have them all together and face Martin, potentially allow him the space to heal and see that Jack’s in a good place, with the best kind of lovers, it hopefully opens up a whole new form of healing for both Jack and Martin.

  But whether Martin plays ball with that or not is another question!

  It means the series itself has almost come full circle. Gray’s in much the same position as he was when he first handled Jack in Jack’s teenage years, facing all of Jack’s complications through Martin, only Martin is so much darker than Jack. The saving grace for Gray now is Jan.

  Jan... he’s such a sweet and soft-hearted soul, but there’s that hard bite of strength, too, as he’s gained a stronger footing and started to piece his life back together. By the end of Backlash, there’s that core unit there between him and Gray that Gray’s own quiet reserve feeds and takes strength from, and vice versa for Jan. There’s that sense that they know Martin, and that they’re prepared for any angle he may pull in their future.

  It’s also been my time for the shared world project, with the very talented Ms Lynn Kelling and her Deliver Us series. A trip over to the states in Kelling’s Forgive Us saw Jack, Gray, and Jan introduced to Ms Kelling’s world, and Backlash now sees a return visit from Lynn’s characters in the Don’t... world. I don’t think Trace, Gabe, and Dare could have come at a more perfect time. Gray has a lot to deal with, and I think it’s what keeps him going, but a lot of that intent is misguided with just how much confidence he’s lost with being around Jack. Trace, Dare, and Gabe become his buffer zone, giving him a clarity and emotional stability he wouldn’t ask or expect from anyone else. Kelling’s characters have a strength of their own, Trace being a good focal point. Overall they’ve been such an ABSOLUTE pleasure to handle, and I’m going to thank Ms Kelling (so deeply) for agreeing to share her characters with me. Thank you!

  Trace, Dare, and Gabe come from Ms Kelling’s Deliver Us series, and couldn’t be a more highly recommended read on my part.

  As usual, I’ve also had such stunning help from various sources, especially insights into certain specialist fields: Dr. Kaufman, who specializes in fictional psychological character profiling over at Archetype writing; Dilo Keith, erotica author and BDSM consultant, who still shows stunning patience and stays with me to continue to provide absolutely excellent conceptual and technical guidance into Jack and Gray’s world; also the staff at Forbidden Fiction, especially my editor, Rylan Hunter, who... well... he knows when things get tough.... Three really special mentions have to go out here: to Vicki Howard, who, as always, is a tireless line editor, dark content consultant, and general good friend who always pushes me forward when I feel like stepping back; and to a new member to my consultant team, one who’s knowledge on Government protocol, specialist equipment, and computer terminology still leaves my jaw dropping—the scarily knowledgeable: HP Strangelove (M/M author). You’ve been tireless, HP! Also to Amanda, Abby, and Natalie—my Welsh-language gurus! Thank you! I get the best of help!

  And as always—a huge thanks to you, my Don’t... series readers. Whether you’re telling me you cried, laughed, loved—wanted to throw something at me (I learn to duck quickly!) —you make all of this worthwhile. I love writing about these guys, but I love being able to share them with you more and see where they take you.

  The question here, then, is: so where does this leave the Don’t series? Where does it leave Jack?

  Well, where ever it may go, I’m sure Martin’s got some... wicked games for Gray, Jan... and maybe, just maybe... Gray’s son.

  —Jack L. Pyke

  About the Author

  Website: www.jacklpyke.com/

  Jack L. Pyke blames her dark writing influences on living close to one of England’s finest forests. Having grown up hearing a history of kidnappings, murders, strange sightings, and sexual exploits her neck of the woods is renowned for, Jack takes that into her writing, having also learned that human
coping strategies for intense situations can sometimes make the best of people have disastrously bad moments. Redeeming those flaws is Jack’s drive, and if that drive just happens to lead to sexual tension between two or more guys in a D/s relationship, Jack’s the first to let nature take its course.

  ForbiddenFiction works by Jack L. Pyke

  Don’t...

  Don’t 2: Antidote

  Don’t 3: Breakdown

  Don’t 4: Backlash

  Broken Ink

  The Society of Masters

  In the shadows, behind the scenes of the world you know, exists a secret world of professional domination and submission. All over the world, there are men who love men, who also love pain and discipline. Some are masters; some are willing slaves. Others… not so willing. One thing they all have in common is a desire to seek others of with their inclinations, to seek respite and satisfaction among the society of masters. The Society of Masters is an overlapping, multi-author universe exploring the men of this world.

  In the world of The Society of Masters, major “players” include:

  The Masters’ Circle is an exceptionally discreet English gentlemen's club, with members placed in the highest positions in British government and society.

  The Company is an American criminal cartel, supplying prostitutes to rich men and women with exotic tastes and hardcore fantasies.

  Diadem is a fetish club and pornography studio.