Swordfall (The Fall Trilogy, #2)

by Devaux, Olivette

  “Ahhh. So good.” Don licked his lips. “You’re a marvel, Adrian.” He leaned over to kiss his partner’s cheek.

  Sean sipped the rich, sweet, fragrant brew and closed his eyes without meaning to. It made him relax some more. The realization alarmed him. He couldn’t afford to relax. There was too much at stake. The man he’d caught was out, a loose cannon bent on revenge, and he could pop up anytime. Just like last time. In fact, Sean reflected that he shouldn’t be drinking at all. He set the glass down and pushed it discreetly a few inches away. Not far enough to reject the offering and offend their hosts, but far enough to keep reaching for it without thinking twice. He jerked his head up as Don broke the uneasy silence.

  “Now on a more serious note – we have business to discuss. From what we know, that fire was attempted murder. Sean, you had some messages from Frank Pettel on your cell phone. What were they?”

  Sean dropped his eyes for just a second. Don’s gaze was searching, putting the spotlight right on him, and Sean felt as though he was on the witness stand all over again. “I didn’t check messages while overseas. The roaming fees were crazy high – and the police have it now.”

  “Okay,” Don said, regrouping. “So we know he did call you once he broke out, and we know there were several messages.” He leaned back and turned his hawk gaze from Sean. “What did he say?”

  “The usual.”

  “Enlighten us,” Don prodded.

  “Well, you know... he’ll be back, he’ll attack me and make it worse than before, he’ll kill me. Jealous of Asbjorn, too, it seems.” Sean glanced at his coffee, then back up to survey his audience. “This asshole is downright monotonous.”

  Nobody laughed.

  Sean observed the way Don and Adrian were looking at one another. There were layers and nuances as their body language shifted. Their expressions seemed unchanged, but an entire conversation took place right before Sean’s eyes.

  “Okay, then,” Don said once he focused on Sean again. “So that’s settled. You two will stay here until this whole situation is resolved, and we’ll do all we can to attend to your comfort and safety.” He paused and cleared his throat. “And privacy, of course.”

  Sean glanced up at Don, taking in his silver hair and his deceptive age. He was broad in the shoulders, and fit, and more than ten years older than Adrian for sure. He’d seen Don fight at the Warehouse and knew he was a lot tougher than the soft, manicured lawyer he portrayed during his workday. Sean tried very hard not to see him naked in his mind’s eye, and he bit his lip as the image of Don’s broad hands sliding over Asbjorn’s pale skin popped into his mind. He blushed.

  “We know only one thing for sure,” Sean said, focusing on the immediate and urgent situation. “We know that he swore he would kill me for putting him away. And that he’ll get even with Asbjorn for stealing me from him.”

  “You still have his number?” Adrian asked.

  “Committed to memory – but only the old one.”

  “Good,” Adrian said. “Even if he ditched it and got a burner phone, someone close to him might still have the old one.” Adrian looked at the detective. “Mark, we don’t want to put you in a compromising position here. If there’s anything you can’t keep to yourself, we can discuss this later. If on the other hand, you happen to have information which would help a bunch of us wanna-be bounty hunters in the recapture of Frank Pettel....” Adrian Rios’s eyebrow rose. There was no need to elaborate.

  “If you plan to do anything illegal, don’t tell me,” Mark growled. “You know how it goes. I can’t be part of whatever you’re up to, and that includes going after a skip. And before you get all hot and bothered trying to catch this guy for the generous bounty offered by three states, keep in mind that he’s considered armed and dangerous.”

  “So are we,” Asbjorn growled.

  “You’re all a bunch of morons,” Mark said as drained his glass. He wiped the whipped cream foam stuck to the sides of the glass with his finger and licked it. “You don’t know the first thing about bounty hunting!”

  “Actually,” Don interjected, “the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is one of eight states that does not require training or licensing for bounty hunters.” He smiled like a cat over a bowl of cream. “Bail bonds people need to be approved by the Superior Court, but we aren’t out to get the guy bailed. We’re out to get him off the streets.”

  “You’ll get shot in the ass,” Mark bit off. “Fucking amateurs! You think being ex-military and fighting in the Warehouse twice a month is going to get you qualified to trace this guy and apprehend him? Especially with his new Uki mob friends around? Just the three of you, while juggling school and work? Think again!”

  “The four of us,” Sean said. “There’s no way I’m sitting this one out.”

  “Like hell.” Asbjorn turned on him. “I got to sit the last one out while you made a fucking target of yourself for fucking six weeks, parading yourself around and playing bait! An’ that’s when you had the element of surprise on your side, sunshine, an’ now he knows you’d like nothing better than to separate all his major joints from his body. An’ don’t forget what I told you before all this shit went down. I told you you’re naïve and need to broaden your style.”

  “Which I’ve done,” Sean barked back. “And you’ll recall how well your überalpha protective bullshit went over last time around!”

  Silence fell around the table.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Asbjorn said in a voice so soft Sean could barely hear him. “And I’m sorry I made some choices I wouldn’t make again.”

  They looked at one another before they both studiously glanced down at their hands. Sean was surprised that his fists were clenched – and so were Asbjorn’s. He remembered their last blowup only too well. They broke up for a whole week. It had felt like eternity. Asbjorn returned with bruises and a hangover and apologies for the night he spent right here, enjoying Adrian and Don’s attentions.

  The silence was so tense, Sean thought it would break and ping like a rubber band.

  Adrian’s low and melodious voice did no such thing, however. His effect was soothing. “I have my own sources, Mark,” he said in a consoling tone. “No need for you to get compromised. I work with street gangs, remember? Some of those kids have their eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “I don’t fucking worry about getting compromised, Adrian!” Mark’s voice was an enraged hiss at the insinuation. “Y’know that I can’t wait to retire from the force and go private, so getting compromised means squat to me. I just don’t want you guys to get your chests ventilated. Some Uki thug will pop one in you on principle alone, just to keep you from snooping around.”

  “You know where he is? ’Cause if you do, you ought to be fucking going after him, getting him off the streets.” Asbjorn’s voice was clipped, but his former agitation, the kind that made Sean wonder whether he’d explode entirely, was gone.

  “We don’t know for sure,” Mark admitted. “Of course, there’s water-cooler talk. Nothing official, mind you.”

  “Is that so.” Asbjorn’s voice was all business now, cold and detached.

  “Yeah. Word is Mad Dawg Hatalsky is pretty smart, but not smart enough to run everything nice and smooth. He has a tricky fellow in his employ who does the day-to-day for him. We don’t have a name on him, but his street name is Redfish.”

  “STUPID NAME. WHAT IS he, sushi?” Sean scoffed.

  “No. Our people think he’s a Russian guy working with the Ukrainians. Tall, bright red hair. Sly. A hit man but doesn’t leave any traces. Like a fish, I guess.” Mark stopped speaking and reached for a cigarette, looked around, and stuck it in his mouth, then removed it again in a self-conscious gesture. “I ain’t lighting up. Just an old habit.”

  “Redfish,” Asbjorn repeated slowly. “We need to find out whatever we can on this guy.”

  They all turned to meet his arctic blue eyes, one by one, all of them surprised by the intensity in his voice.

  “I
don’t know what it is, but I have a bad feeling about this fella,” Asbjorn said. “It’s stupid, but....”

  “Gut feelings should never be discounted,” Mark said, his voice quiet and his expression troubled. “We have little else besides. I’ll see what I can roust up.” He got up and headed for the door. “You guys take care. I don’t want the local gangs dragged into this, Adrian.” He looked back, fixing Adrian Rios with a weighty stare. “I’m supposed to be off-duty, but I gotta stop back by the station.”

  Asbjorn pushed away from the table. “Sorry for getting carried away. Here, let me walk you out.” Once they stood in the frigid Boston air on the front steps of the elegant stone house, he put his hand on Mark’s shoulder. “An attempted murder?”

  Mark nodded. “He had every reason to believe you two were up there, already asleep. It was sheer luck the other tenants were out partying at the time.”

  “Where can I find this Frank Pettel?”

  Mark looked up at Asbjorn. Only the light of street lamps reflected back in his eyes. “I don’t know anything. I haven’t been here, I haven’t spoken with anyone. And you’re not letting Sean near the guy, unnerstand?” His Boston accent thickened as he made his emphasis. Then he leaned over and whispered a few words in Asbjorn’s ear.

  “I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE our stuff is pretty much gone.” Sean’s voice carried through the darkness as he lay next to Asbjorn on the wide bed in their hosts’ guest room.

  “All of my things, except what I have with me,” Asbjorn said. His stoic armor began to crack the smallest bit, his voice threatening to betray him with the slightest quaver. “Textbooks and clothes and shit can all be replaced, but there was other stuff.” Dead people stuff. “My dad’s picture. Tiger’s picture. My black belt, for crying out loud! All of my wooden weapons. My gi. The kosode and hakama I got from Nell that used to be Tiger’s. Shit, Sean. My gun!”

  “Your sword too,” Sean intoned softly. “I’ll help you get a new one if it’s the last thing...”

  “I was lucky in this regard,” Asbjorn whispered, interrupting Sean’s torrent of words. “I left my sword case at Ken’s. He wanted to mess around with wrapping that hilt some more, make it match the wakizashi I was gonna buy from him.”

  “Oh, Asbjorn.” Sean rolled toward him, wrapped his arms around his lover’s broad shoulders, and buried his face into Asbjorn’s neck. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What about?”

  “Your belt. It was starting to look so worn.”

  “Yeah, I know. Damn. Now I’ll have to order a new black belt online and break it in all over again. I got that old one from Tiger too. Shit.”

  Sean rose on his elbow and peered at Asbjorn. “You can have my black belt. Then you give me the new one and I will break it in for both of us.”

  Asbjorn looked at him. “You got that belt from Burrows-sensei.”

  “Yeah.” Sean shrugged in the dark, and a hint of herbal shampoo drifted down. “But the new one will be from you. All I care is about having you, Asbjorn. As you said before, stuff can be replaced. People can’t.”

  Asbjorn snaked his arms around Sean and pull him into an even tighter embrace. He took succor in his warmth, in the familiar taste of his brief kiss. They just stayed like that, silent and alert, waiting for their minds to still so they could finally fall asleep. No more words needed to be exchanged that night.

  Asbjorn’s thoughts spun in his head well until the small hours. There was a time, not too long ago, when he used to trust the system. He believed in it and in the wheels of justice that apprehended the guilty and released the innocent. When he was in the Navy, he needed to trust the integrity of the command structure around him, and that implicit trust got transferred into his civilian life.

  He lost that trust when he learned of Frank Pettel’s escape. The system failed once more. Even the man who used to call himself Joe Green, and whom Asbjorn had recognized as the ex-navy dropout Frank Pettel, was captured again, he would never feel secure, and neither would Sean. Now they knew the man had the means and the skill and the ornery grit to bust out of jail and go hunting for Sean’s head – and that would never do.

  Asbjorn thought back to the seas crashing against the barrier reefs and the deck rolling under his feet. He recalled the salty, clean tang of the Indian Ocean and the prevailing winds of the Strait of Malacca. The winds, currents, and the tropical sun bore witness to 60,000 ships that transported one-third of global trade through the Strait – past small archipelagos that served as a foil to local pirate gangs.

  He had been there for a while, escorting ships with critical cargo and taking part in “clean-up missions.” That was one time when he saw the wheels of justice fail – international pressures, sovereignty concerns of local Malaysian and Indonesian countries, China’s resistance against US presence in the region. That’s why the mission lacked an official and easy-to-find file. Someone had to do the dirty work.

  He had done the dirty work once before, and his stealth and cunning saved both ships and lives. If necessary, he could do it again.

  His last thoughts were of the exploded boxes of ammunition in his apartment. The ammo was there, yet Mark had said no gun had been found. Asbjorn continued to weigh the pros and cons on his own homemade scale of justice. He did not come to a decision that night, but he did manage to drift off to uneasy sleep.

  His dreams were haunted by the stench of rotting fish, spent gun power, and blood. He saw a tall, blue-skinned woman and her dog in his dream, and as he peered into the churning tropical waters, they turned cold and deadly. It was but a dream, hazy and ephemeral, but he thought he caught a glimpse of a red salmon swimming up a cold, arctic stream.

  CHAPTER 7

  Asbjorn got off the phone with Ken Swift. The conversation with his sword teacher left him both eager and cautious. He walked from the guest room to the kitchen and helped himself to a fresh cup of coffee, added sugar and cream, tasted it, and added even more sugar before he parked his butt against the kitchen counter and wrapped his fingers around the warm mug.

  The scent was soothing and familiar and he yielded to the sensation, closed his eyes, and inhaled. The scent of lemon dish soap settled him – it was familiar, common.

  Nothing unexpected there.

  The coffee was a known quantity in his hands. The scent of Don’s aftershave, however, reminded him of unexpected acts long gone, and Asbjorn rejected it. Old guilt threatened to inveigle its way into his mind and undermine his resolve. He shook his head, opened his eyes, and took a sip.

  There was no other way. The most secure path was predetermined, like a planetary orbit, steady and predictable. He didn’t have to like it. Once again, he looked for a way out. There was none.

  Asbjorn finished his coffee and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He walked over to the living room while dialing Nell’s number.

  “Heya. Nell. It’s Asbjorn.... Yeah.... Yeah, I know, terrible... thank you.” He paused, listening to Nell Thorpe express her horror and her sympathy. An accidental fire would have been bad enough, but a firebombed apartment was disastrous. He pictured her in her kitchen, little Stella on her hip and her dissertation all over the kitchen table. She and Tiger were his first teachers, and he used to think they were perfect – and now he could clearly see that the tough, resilient Nell couldn’t get her paperwork together. It made him smile.

  “Hey, Nell, I need you and Dud to take over the karate classes... no, Sean can’t babysit.”

  Sean looked up from his textbook and gave him a look, which he ignored.

  “Nell, this guy’s going after people close to us. We can’t afford to infect our friends and students with his interest.... No.... No, really, we’re being careful. I can’t tell you where we’re staying, but our cell phone numbers are the same....”

  He was forced to listen some more.

  Asbjorn noted the way Sean, Adrian, and Don exchanged looks, smirks, and raised eyebrows as Nell’s strident, high-pitched voice spilled out of the phone and
buzzed into Asbjorn’s ear. He figured they got few of the key words that drifted through, such as “crazy” and “caution” and “no way” escaped. The gist of her tirade was clear: she was extremely concerned.

  More time passed with Asbjorn’s hip leaning into the living room entryway. He was focused and his ear was fully occupied.

  “Yes, Nell. I love you and I would never do anything to endanger Sean or myself, or you... I know you’re trying to help. Actually there’s one thing you could help with.”

  A pause.

  “Since all of my stuff burned down, could I borrow Tiger’s old compound bow and hunting camos?.... Yeah... the late archery season opened on New Year’s and there’s that place in the Berkshires.... No, not alone... I’m okay with the weather, you can track them better that way. I’m going with Ken-sensei. Just two days, before school starts.”

  Another pause. Nell’s agitation was palpable.

  “Please, Nell? Look, even my fucking black belt burned up. Everything I had is gone! I’ll have to go underwear shopping, and you know how I hate the stores. This isn’t some crazy lark, y’know. I spent the holidays with my family, and after all this, I just need to get away from people. I’ve never hunted with Ken before, but we’ll mesh well, I think....” There was a pause and then more buzzing of Nell’s voice. Asbjorn smiled. “Okay? Thanks! Can I pick up the gear today? You’re a doll. Yeah, I owe you babysitting! My kisses to Stella! Punch Dud for me.... Okay. Later.”

  He hung up and slipped his phone back in his pocket. Then he looked up and met the expectant faces of his new housemates. “I’ll be going hunting,” he announced. “I’ll be gone for just two days.”

  Silence greeted his announcement.

  He ignored it and grinned. “I’m so excited! Finally something normal to do, you know? Tiger and I always hunted together.”

  “I thought you already got your deer, Bjorn,” Sean pointed out.