Warrior's Cross

by Abigail Roux

  Inside, Cameron was a mess. He’d trusted that there hadn’t been any others while Julian was with him, and he still believed that, perhaps naïvely so. The man was just trying to get a reaction from him. But he didn’t want to think about who might have come after him. A man like Julian could have anything and anyone he wanted. And that, more than anything, was what hurt. That after he’d driven Julian away, he could have been so easily replaced.

  Trying to shore up what courage he had left, Cameron collected the ticket, slid it into a leather folder, and went to get rid of them. He needed them gone so he could go find somewhere to fall apart again, worrying about the man he’d given up the right to love.

  When Cameron returned to his customers, Lancaster was still leaning over the table, looking at Julian intently. “So,” he was saying in a low voice, “who gets to leave first, eh? Do you want the advantage of time, possibility of losing me and running back to that hidden fortress of yours? Or would you rather I go first, give you the rush of wondering if there’s an ambush waiting?” he asked with relish. “So many ways to die tonight,” he mused almost serenely.

  “You shouldn’t enjoy what you do too much,” Julian advised. “It makes you stupid.”

  Lancaster threw his head back and laughed.

  Cameron slid the leather folder onto the table, collected the other plates and flatware, and stepped away from the table, trying his best to keep his eyes off both men and avoid their attention as he placed the dishes on a waiting tray.

  Lancaster sat back and put his hands behind his head, watching Cameron in amusement. “I’ll go first then,” he decided after a moment, still looking at Cameron speculatively. “You’ll want to say goodbye, after all,” he said as he stood and buttoned his suit jacket. He smirked down at Julian, who sat unmoving, watching him. “This was fun,” he announced. “I’ll let word get around,” he promised in a lower voice, leaning over Julian and placing a hand on his shoulder as he spoke into his ear. “They’ll know you were man enough to pay for your own last meal.”

  Julian nodded slightly. “You do that,” he muttered.

  Lancaster took a step away from the table, stopped short, and put his hand on Cameron’s arm. Cameron flinched. “My condolences for your loss,” Lancaster offered seriously, ignoring Cameron’s reaction, and then he turned and began walking away.

  Cameron didn’t move as he watched him leave the restaurant. He wasn’t sure what to think anymore, except that Julian was in a hell of a lot of trouble. Visibly shaken, he turned to face Julian.

  Julian was shaking his head as he stood and pulled his black leather billfold out from his breast pocket. “Fucking wine,” he whispered, still in the Irish accent. Cameron was beginning to think it was real. He’d never seen Julian quite so unraveled.

  He met Cameron’s eyes briefly before looking back at the money in his hands. “He was lying,” he added as he began counting out the money to pay the bill.

  Cameron watched him, aware of the longing and upset in his expression and not caring about hiding it anymore. “Lying about what?” he asked in a pained voice.

  Julian looked up at him as if surprised that he’d actually spoken. “There being anyone other than you,” he answered bluntly.

  Cameron inhaled sharply and wrapped his arms around his middle, his eyes remaining locked on Julian the whole time. He had to step back, or he’d never be able to look away. And he realized with a painful jolt that this just might be his last chance. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “For what I said.”

  Julian looked at him closely and gave a slight jerk of his head to the side in response before looking back down at the money he was counting. “Is that because I’m about to die?” he asked calmly.

  Cameron couldn’t stop the soft whimper this time. “No. Because I was afraid. Because you didn’t deserve it,” he said pleadingly, willing Julian to understand.

  “Yes, I did,” Julian assured him with a small nod. He placed the rest of the bills on the table and then looked up as he buttoned his jacket. He looked heartbreakingly sad, which scared Cameron even more. “Will you tell Blake something for me?” he asked softly.

  Cameron gave a small nod.

  “Tell him to run like hell if I don’t come back.”

  Cameron swallowed on the knot in his throat and nodded again. “He’ll be waiting for you, won’t he? Lancaster. He wants to kill you.”

  Julian nodded minutely. “Tell Blake I’ll come here if I’m able,” he requested hoarsely.

  Cameron could see the tangible defeat on Julian’s shoulders, and it made him angry. Julian had always been strong and stoic, and this ghost of who he had been was wrong. So very wrong.

  “You’ve given up,” he said accusingly. “What happened to ‘I’m good at what I do’?” he demanded.

  “He’s good at what he does as well,” Julian responded calmly. “There’s a price that comes with doing what I do,” he explained distantly. “We all pay it in the end. Just tell Blake,” he requested, barely able to say the words.

  Cameron was struck speechless by the mixture of defeat and longing and fear in the black depths of Julian’s eyes. His heart broke with an almost physical pain as he realized what he had truly done to the man, a man who had once been so magnificent. It had never been Julian who’d been capable of breaking anything in their relationship, Cameron realized. He’d had all the power all along.

  Julian opened his mouth as if to say something more, but then he bowed his head slightly and turned, walking out of the restaurant without a backward glance.

  Cameron stared at the glass doors where Julian had exited until Blake appeared shortly thereafter, obviously having been forewarned that this little meeting was going to be taking place. Cameron realized his boss had been hiding all these months, and he had no reason to hide now that Lancaster had somehow found Julian.

  “Cameron?” Blake murmured to him.

  The waiter turned to look at Blake. “He said he’d come back here if he was able,” he said woodenly. “He said if he didn’t that you should run like hell.”

  Blake nodded, looking pale and drawn, and he looked at the door as if he could somehow see what was happening somewhere out in the city through the glass. He looked back at Cameron and let out a slow, shaky breath. “Did he say anything else?” he asked worriedly.

  Cameron’s reply was a bare whisper. “He said he was about to die.”

  Blake saw the last guests out just after midnight, not much later than usual. Leaving the cleanup to the other employees for once, Cameron joined him at the bar.

  “Are you waiting for him?” he asked shakily.

  Blake nodded as he wiped down the bar. He looked up at Cameron and nodded again. “If he said he’d come here, then he will. And if he doesn’t, it’ll be Lancaster coming after me. If he wants me, he’ll have to walk through a double barrel to get to me,” he said determinedly, and Cameron noticed the shotgun leaning against the bar. He was surprised by its sudden appearance, but he told himself that after Julian, nothing should really shock him anymore. “Julian didn’t run like I begged him to,” Blake said grimly. “I won’t either.”

  Cameron stared at him in stunned silence for several moments as he came to a decision. “Can I wait with you?” he finally asked.

  Blake looked up at Cameron sadly. “It won’t be pretty, no matter who comes back,” he warned. “He might kill you, too, if he has the chance.”

  Cameron merely nodded in return. That scenario was out of his hands, and he knew it. If Arlo wanted him dead, there was nothing he could do to stop him.

  As it got later and later, Cameron became more and more worried despite telling himself that everything would work out. Julian would take care of Lancaster and come back, he told himself. What happened after that, Cameron didn’t know. But there was no way he was letting Julian go without a fight. He had to convince Julian that he knew now that what they had was worth it. Worth anything. They’d figure something out. They had to.

 
He realized now that Julian had been what he was because of who he was, not the other way around. And by asking him to change, Cameron had hurt him more than any bullet or broken foot or dog bite ever could have. He’d hurt himself too, depriving himself of the only man he’d ever truly loved.

  Blake wasn’t much comfort as they waited together. The man was almost as worried as Cameron, and he obviously wasn’t the type who was used to sitting around and waiting for the other shoe to drop. He paced and fidgeted, cleaned glasses that were already clean, peeled the label off a bottle of Bushmills whiskey, sat on the stool next to Cameron and spun it back and forth, then got up and paced again. Cameron simply kept checking the clock.

  Blake finally opened the whiskey and poured, setting one glass in front of Cameron. “Drink it. You look like you need it. Lord knows I do,” he muttered. Confirming his words, Blake poured a glass for himself and took an unusually deep drink.

  Cameron sipped at the Irish whiskey, just then seeing the irony in it. “Is Julian really Irish?” he asked Blake as he looked down at the drink.

  “I have no fucking idea,” Blake answered in frustration. “I’ve never heard him use that one. I’ve heard British, Boston, Spanish, Kurdish, French, Texan, and surfer dude, but never Irish. Might mean it’s the real one, if he never used it,” he said in a distant, rambling tone.

  Cameron blinked at him. “Surfer… dude?”

  Blake waved his hand around. “You know, ‘Chillax, bra, we just gotta harvest some dead presidents’ kind of shit.” His voice had parodied the SoCal accent he was aiming for. “He only used it on the phone because he couldn’t pull it off in person.”

  Cameron nodded, wide-eyed, wondering if there was anyone who truly knew Julian. “I guess it explains some of the weird phrases he used, anyway. Got his accents confused.” He laughed brokenly.

  Blake smiled slightly, but didn’t reply.

  They sat silently for a full half-hour before Cameron looked up at his boss again worriedly. “How long does it take, Blake?” he rasped. “How long does it take to… kill a man?”

  The older man studied him as he shifted his glass back and forth on the polished bar. “With Julian, I’d say not long,” he finally answered. “But Lancaster is different.”

  “He said Julian trained him.”

  “From what he’s told me, yes. They both know the other’s strengths and weaknesses. They think the same,” Blake tried to explain hesitantly. “They’re like… waves crashing against each other.” He peered at Cameron, trying to gauge how he would react. “For whatever reason, someone has decided that Julian needs to be taken out of the business. And anyone in the business knows that the only man who can do that is either very, very lucky or knows how Julian thinks. Arlo is, unfortunately, both.”

  “And Julian?” Cameron asked. His voice was a mere thread.

  “Hard to say,” Blake answered. “If he met Arlo here, it means Arlo couldn’t find him physically. He got a message to him somehow, and God knows what he threatened him with,” he mused. “Whatever it was, it hit Julian’s buttons. That’s the only reason he would have come out tonight. He was backed into a corner.”

  Cameron swallowed down on the knot of misery and dread. Could the something Lancaster threatened have been him?

  “He’s protecting his territory,” Blake continued, putting his hand on the bar in front of Cameron and meeting his eyes. “His reputation, his contacts, his home. And, I believe, he’s protecting you, kiddo. Or at least the idea of you. The idea that he can have something normal without it being in danger.”

  Cameron nodded slowly. “I know,” he said hoarsely, raising his hand to cover his upper chest where he could feel the warrior’s cross warm against his skin. “I hurt him badly, didn’t I?” he asked regretfully.

  “Yes,” Blake answered bluntly. “The whole time I was worried about you, but… maybe you’ll get the chance to make it up to him,” he offered as condolence.

  Shortly after, Preston knocked gently at the glass doors of the restaurant, and Blake hurried to let him in.

  “Do you have him?” Blake demanded excitedly.

  Preston merely shook his head as he unbuttoned his coat.

  “I lost them both, sir,” he said in sorrow as he followed Blake back to the bar. “He’s on his own now,” he told them as he sat and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

  Blake sighed and looked at the clock. It was four a.m. He inhaled deeply and let out the breath in a thin, slow exhale. All they could do now was wait.

  The city lay dark and relatively silent in the muggy night. To the casual observer, there was no hint of the deadly game of cat and mouse that had been played in the streets. The sirens of police cars being called to investigate shots fired and the occasional broken window or unexplained alarm were nothing unusual.

  Julian walked slowly along the sidewalk, his head down and his eyes focused solely on the next step. He understood why Arlo had made it a game. Julian had trained him, taught him almost everything he knew. They’d worked together. They’d been friends, as close as brothers. Tonight was Arlo’s version of poetic justice. Julian had tossed him out when he became too reckless, something Arlo had never forgiven him for. When Arlo received the contract for Julian’s head, he’d obviously seen the opportunity to prove to Julian just how good he was.

  And Julian had to admit, the kid was good. There had been an odd sort of battlefield respect to their war games tonight. Certainly neither wanted to shoot the other in the back. Julian knew Arlo had held off on several killing shots because they hadn’t been… honorable. And, God help him, he’d done the same. But when it came down to it, he’d been forced to take the last shot. It was truly kill or be killed.

  He stopped and leaned against a decorative column for protection, shivering as he tried to dispel his morbid thoughts. The shot had been taken; there was no use lingering over it. He looked up and down the road, knowing that Arlo might still be out there. Julian thought he’d killed him. He was pretty sure. But he, of all people, knew that unless he carried his enemy’s body parts with him when he left, the enemy might still be out there.

  Julian pushed away from the wall and kept moving. After what seemed an eternity of slow, slightly dragging steps, he came within sight of the high-rise that hosted Tuesdays on its top floor. Julian stared at it gratefully for a long moment before soldiering on. He slid in through the revolving glass doors and stumbled to the elevators. He was relieved to find that they were still on and working even though it was late, and he leaned against the inside of the car as it soared upward.

  When the elevator stopped with a jolt, Julian lurched and groaned with the sudden change of motion. He was exhausted, almost physically unable to put one foot in front of the other. The doors opened silently, and Julian stood staring at the floor blankly. Finally, he pushed away from the mirrored wall of the elevator car and began walking toward the glass doors of the restaurant.

  “Is he really Irish, Preston?” Cameron asked tentatively as they sat at the bar and waited.

  “He is today,” Preston answered wryly before taking a small sip of the whiskey in his hand.

  Cameron sighed and let it drop. Preston obviously had the same theory as Julian when it came to straight answers. They answered your question, but not in any useful way.

  They were managing to make conversation, though. Nothing important or heavy, just idle discussion, anything to force the time to pass. Cameron was hard-pressed not to ask Preston more questions he knew the man wouldn’t answer.

  But the later time the clock displayed, the more frightened Cameron got. Julian had seemed to have no confidence in his ability to make it through the night, and Blake and Preston were both somber and worried. Cameron didn’t know anything about Julian’s abilities; he was forced to take his cues from the men who did.

  He was taking a drink of water when Blake raised his head and half-stood to look out the glass front of the restaurant. Cameron turned, dropping his glass of water on the flo
or in his haste, where it shattered and sent pieces skittering across the marble floor.

  Julian wasn’t walking quickly as he headed for the doors. It was obvious he could see them through the glass, but he didn’t even raise a hand to acknowledge them. He merely kept his head down, his left leg dragging a little as he limped gamely toward the doors.

  Cameron almost fell over as he stood from the stool to get a better look. Julian reached out and put his hand on the locked glass door, like a little kid peering through a storefront window at a coveted toy. Cameron stepped away from the chair and moved toward the door, Preston and Blake both at his heels, heading toward the foyer to unlock the doors. Julian’s hand slid down the glass as they came closer, leaving behind it a smeared streak of blood in the shape of his palm. He took an unsteady step away from the glass, reached out again as if trying to steady himself, and then crumpled to the ground.