Why the Devil Stalks Death

by L. J. Hayward

  Tai chi was something Jack had learned in the army, using it as both a low-impact exercise and a destressing technique. He hadn’t practiced in years, but the moves came back quickly, his motions only seconds behind Ethan’s. Focusing on his breathing, in with the rise, out with the sink, took his mind away from not only the video, but the more disturbing aspects of the Judge case. By the time Ethan shifted gracefully into a final position, Jack was blissfully relaxed.

  “You had a long day,” Ethan commented as they put the furniture back into place.

  “Ah, yeah.” Jack spent an extended moment ensuring the couch was the perfect feet-resting distance from the coffee table.

  Should he tell Ethan he saw the video or not? When informing Jack he wouldn’t ever be sucking his dick, Ethan hadn’t given a reason and Jack hadn’t asked for one, not wanting to risk Ethan running away. He was reasonably sure that if he mentioned knowing why now, Ethan wouldn’t scramble out of the country, never to be seen again, but was it worth bringing up the memories? Jack had tried to inspire some good memories in his father by taking him to Middle Head and had instead made them both sadder. He couldn’t imagine making Ethan confront what had happened in Athens would end any better.

  “Long debrief.” Satisfied with the furniture, Jack suggested dinner, and after a rummage through the fridge and pantry, they resorted to the stack of menus from places that delivered.

  “Not Indian.” Ethan firmly put aside those menus. “If I’m going to eat butter chicken, you will have made it.”

  Jack hid a smirk. Butter chicken was one recipe of his mother’s he’d perfected. Cooking was a turn-on for some, and everyone liked butter chicken. During the six months of Ethan’s intermittent visits, Jack had learned to keep the dish for those times Ethan was around, as he was rewarded very enthusiastically afterwards for his culinary efforts—or the following day if Ethan overate.

  Settling on burgers and salad from a local café, Jack lounged on the couch with a beer while Ethan padded about on silent feet, tidying. Jack couldn’t really see what needed neatening up, but letting Ethan fiddle with minor things had become second nature to him. Having no firm thoughts on why something should be here or there, Jack had no desire to derail the behaviour.

  At one point, Ethan stopped in the middle of transferring a framed photo of Jack’s parents from one shelf to the other. It was Jack’s favourite memory of his parents together. Usha was smiling sedately at the camera, primly posed in a white and gold sari which set her dark skin to glowing, masses of black hair curling around her slender shoulders. Chris lounged back beside her, his dinner suit rumpled, looking not at the camera, but at his wife, his face split by a wide grin and his love and absolute devotion to her shining in his crinkled eyes. Ethan gazed at the image for a long moment, expression closed down. Before Jack could decide if he needed to say something, dinner arrived and Ethan disappeared into the hallway while Jack answered the door. Ethan emerged once the door was closed and locked and Jack had set cardboard boxes of salad and heavenly smelling burgers on the coffee table.

  Seeing the casual arrangement, Ethan’s fingers twitched, but he fetched a couple of beers and sat beside Jack.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Jack wasn’t waiting for an answer. Earlier he’d felt as if he might never be hungry again, but at the sight of the burger he was suddenly ravenous. The first bite caught a bit of every overstuffed filling, and only Ethan’s quick reflexes got the box under it to catch the eruption of sauce, tomato, and lettuce from the other side.

  “Perhaps we should decamp to the table.” Ethan began gathering up boxes of food.

  Jack hastily chewed and swallowed. “Nah, just forgot to get my pinkies into place. See.” He curled his little fingers around the end of the burger and pushed the errant fillings back between the toasted buns. His second bite was more successful.

  Shaking his head doubtfully, Ethan removed a few of the innards from his burger before taking a bite.

  “Cheat,” Jack admonished. “You took the beetroot out.”

  “Beetroot on a burger is something we will never agree on, Jack.” He displayed his debris-free lap. “And at least I’m not wearing half of my dinner.”

  “That’s the whole point of having a real burger. How do you know you’ve enjoyed it if you can’t look at the stains on your shirt and recall how good it was? And no one in Australia will take you seriously until you’ve proudly displayed the purple heart.” At Ethan’s askance expression, Jack added, “A beetroot stain on your shirt.”

  “I’m not wearing a shirt, Jack.”

  Jack leered. “I noticed.”

  “Shut up and eat your messy burger.”

  By the time dinner was finished, Ethan’s pensive mood had been chased away. He was chuckling at an old episode of Black Books when he picked up one of the empty beer bottles and began flipping it absently. Jack had seen him do it with knives in the past, an unconscious habit of keeping his hand busy while his mind was focused on something else. But seeing the bottle turning end over end threw Jack right back into the vision on the video. The boy picking up the cognac bottle, flipping it to get a grip on the neck. What he did with it then. What Moraitis had done with it before he’d turned his back on his drunk, drugged, used trick.

  “Jack?” The bottle was put down, and Ethan touched Jack’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  Contact broke the reverie, and Jack blinked at Ethan. Older, safer Ethan. “Yeah, sure. Of course. Why?”

  “You went very quiet and pale.”

  Jack tried for a snort and got maybe halfway. “I don’t go pale.”

  “You do, Jack.” Ethan’s hand migrated from Jack’s arm to his forehead. “Are you getting sick?”

  Brushing him off, Jack stood and gathered up the empty bottles. “I’m fine, okay?” If he discounted the fact he couldn’t seem to stop replaying parts of the Athens video. He needed a distraction.

  Ethan came into the kitchen, watching him warily. His expression turned to one of surprise when Jack grabbed him by the waist and lifted him onto the counter.

  “Jack!” Despite the alarm in his voice, Ethan’s knees parted to let Jack push in close. “What the devil are you doing?”

  Licking a line from Ethan’s shoulder up the side of his neck to his ear, Jack mumbled, “Think that’s pretty obvious.” He nibbled on Ethan’s earlobe, then abandoned it for sucking on the sensitive spot just behind it.

  Ethan squirmed against him, moaning low in his throat. “Indeed. However, I should probably have asked, why?” Though his hands were clearly on board with current events, stroking up and down Jack’s back. His legs, too, didn’t care why and locked around Jack’s waist.

  “I thought I was the one who was supposed to fish for compliments.” Jack switched sides. “How does ‘you’re so fucking hot I can’t resist’ sound?” Which was, generally, true, but right then Jack’s dick wasn’t quite feeling it. And it hadn’t stopped those bloody pictures from bursting out of the filing cabinet and across his inner eye.

  With an effort, Ethan pulled back and, hands on either side of his face, stopped him from following. His white eyes studied Jack’s for a long moment, a frown creasing his brow. “Jack, something’s wrong.” Gaze flickering beyond him, Ethan asked, almost guiltily, “Was it me? Do you not like me moving your things?”

  God. That stabbed Jack right in the heart. “No. Fuck no. I don’t care about that. You do whatever you need to feel comfortable.” Right then, he would go out and burn down the world if Ethan needed him to.

  After a moment, Ethan nodded, looking neither happy nor sad about the offer. Instead, he traced his thumbs along Jack’s jaw and asked, “Then what upset you?”

  He wasn’t going to give up on this until he got an answer, and Jack knew he couldn’t admit to knowing about Moraitis and Athens. Grasping for something to give him, something that felt real enough to pass Ethan’s uncanny lie detector, Jack found only one thing.

  “It’s this case for work. I’m
so far out of my depth I can’t really process it. I’ve been seconded to a police strike force hunting a serial murderer. Have you ever done that?”

  Ethan shook his head but kept quiet, giving Jack the room to fill up.

  “Jesus, he’s a sick fuck, this Judge. I kill and you kill, but not like this. It’s like he believes he’s doing a good thing by getting rid of these people he doesn’t like.” Too late Jack remembered the conversation he and Ethan had had at the homestead in the desert, about why Ethan did what he did.

  Yes, Ethan had said then, what I do is wrong. But for me, I’m doing it for the right reasons.

  Judging by the slight stiffening in the body against Jack’s, Ethan too was recalling that moment.

  “He’s different from us,” Jack said firmly. “Adam says he’s playing God, like it’s his burden or something. Proof of wrongdoing isn’t required. And he’s so bloody righteous about it, quoting fucking Bible verses.” He barely felt Ethan’s hand slip down over the tattoo of a Saint Thomas Cross on his left shoulder blade. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to help them catch him. I feel . . . useless. All I’ve done so far is tell them shit they already know.”

  Somehow, Jack’s desperate bid to distract Ethan became a real thing. He found himself unloading all of his issues with the current job onto Ethan, right up to his grumbling about McIntosh turning him around too quickly after Bangkok. Jack eventually ended with a mumbled apology for dumping so much confidential stuff on him.

  Ethan pulled him close and kissed his temple. “It’s all right, Jack,” he whispered into his hair. “You can trust me. I’ll help you any way I can.”

  Unwilling to wait any longer, Jack went to see McIntosh. Miller sent him through immediately, so his director had probably been expecting him.

  “Jack, sit.” She gave him a sympathetic look as he did so. “I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this as quickly as we can.”

  He nodded.

  “Yesterday, you seemed inclined to believe Blade would be amenable to helping us. Has something changed since then?”

  “No, ma’am,” Jack admitted. “I had hoped yesterday that Blade would help us in spite of what he thinks I did to betray him.”

  McIntosh’s eyes weren’t cold yet, but he suspected it wasn’t far away. “And did you betray him?”

  “That doesn’t matter if he thinks otherwise.”

  “Indeed.” She glanced at her screen for a moment, then said, “We’re still looking into who bought the second ticket. Hopefully, once we find that out, we’ll be able to neutralise it.”

  “That won’t make a difference. The ticket’s an excuse. If Blade wants to kill me, he will, money or no.”

  McIntosh eyed him thoughtfully. “What about Garrote? If we manage to void the ticket she picked up, will she stop? Or is that personal as well?”

  Jesus. This was almost like the times his mum had gently but painstakingly interrogated him about whatever misdemeanour he’d committed as a kid. It all sounded calm and rational, but by the end, he would be gutted and ashamed of choices that had felt so right at the time.

  “Nothing personal there, ma’am.”

  “Good. What do you propose to do about Blade?”

  Jack gave her a tight smile. “I’m only here to give you the chance to approve it. Either way, I’m going out there. I have to find Ethan and sort this out. Convince him to help us get the Judge, at the very least. I know him; I can get him to give me a chance to talk to him.”

  At least he bloody well hoped so. He was risking an awful lot on the fact he’d once believed that when Ethan looked at him, he didn’t see a target.

  McIntosh nodded. Not an approval, just an acknowledgement. “And Garrote? She’s still a rather large issue.”

  “I’ll deal with it.” Jack was careful to keep his emotions hidden. If she thought he wasn’t steady, there was no way she’d let him out of the building. “I’m not doing any good inside this building. I need to get out there and do what I’m best at. Adam’s probably dead, Stephanie’s missing, and it looks like it might be all my fault. This psycho is after me, for whatever reason. Maybe we should let him get me.”

  “You don’t know who you’d be going up against.”

  “If he’s SAS from my time, then I’m going up against myself. A cracked, unstable version of myself. I can get him. I can beat him.”

  “He might not be SAS,” she reminded him.

  “Then he won’t be a challenge.” How easily it was to slip back into that elite mind frame they instilled in the special forces soldiers. Jack didn’t care. He would need the added grunt it gave him.

  McIntosh studied him, quiet and contemplative. Their working relationship had been improving in leaps and bounds since Harraway’s arrest. That was the only reason he’d come to her now. A year ago, he would have simply got out of the building any way he could—and had—and worry about asking for forgiveness later. This new tactic seemed to be working. She had listened objectively when he knew he wasn’t offering an objective option. The most telling sign was that her eyes hadn’t shifted from warm and soft to hard and cold.

  “Thank you for your candour, Jack. As you aren’t officially under detainment, I cannot stop you from leaving the building.” She gave him a pointed look over the top of her glasses. “I can, however, advise extremely strongly against it.”

  “Duly noted, ma’am. And thank you.”

  Standing, she came around the desk to open the door for him. He was surprised when her hand landed on his arm, warm and supportive.

  “You’re not going out there alone. The Office is behind you. Remember that.”

  The words caught in his chest, and all he could do was nod his gratitude.

  McIntosh gave him a tight, understanding smile. “Stop at the armoury on your way out. I’ll call ahead and authorise anything you might want.” Then, with a hint of her usual hard line, she added, “Within reason, Jack. This is a hunt, not urban warfare.”

  “Of course, ma’am. I’ll leave the RPGs behind.”

  The door was opened and he was waved out with a familiar, curt gesture. It only made her prior support all the stronger.

  “Good luck,” she said as he walked away. The “you’ll need it” was implied.

  As promised, Jack was given—mostly—free rein in the armoury. He was trailed around by a young asset who carried Jack’s selections with a sort of quiet awe. It wasn’t that spectacular an arsenal. A P90 that was easier to hide than his preferred F88S-A2 Austeyr assault rifle. A second USP plus a Springfield XDM Compact as a hidden backup and extra rounds for all of them. He added two tactical knives and a handful of flash-bang and smoke grenades, mindful of McIntosh’s warning about urban warfare. Then he headed into the restricted section. He only took one thing from there, a lightweight, illegal Assassin X sniper rifle. They weren’t great weapons by anyone’s standards but used because they could be broken down into small, easily concealable and all-but-undetectable pieces. All of it went into a pair of panniers for a bike.

  The final piece of equipment he wanted was wearable, and he was stripped to the waist when Lewis found him.

  “McIntosh told me what you’re planning,” he said. “I’m here to give the obligatory ‘are you completely deranged’ talk and see if you need a hand with anything.”

  “You could pass me the undershirt.” Jack pointed to the lightly padded shirt lying on the table next to the door.

  Snorting, Lewis did so. “I meant on the outside.”

  Lewis had been an analyst and, later, an operations manager, with ASIO, much as he did with the Office. He’d had all the field training, though, and when time and work permitted, kept up his hand-to-hand skills. But he wasn’t at the level Jack needed for this.

  “Thanks, but I’d rather have you on this side of the wall, watching the big picture.”

  Expecting the knockback, Lewis nodded. “Are you taking a strike team, at least?”

  “Too conspicuous. I won’t get anywhere with six hea
vyweight champs hanging around me.”

  Office strike teams were some of the best frontal assault units available, baring a full SAS squad, but they weren’t exactly understated. When they spent the vast majority of their work time in the gym or knocking in doors with battering rams, subtlety wasn’t too high on their skill list.

  “All right. How about one guy, then? Someone to have your back?”

  There really was only one person Jack wanted at his back these days. And he was part of the reason why Jack needed someone at his back.

  “Too risky.” If he ended up clashing with the Judge, or Garrote, and if he couldn’t have Ethan there, then he didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else. He’d need all of his focus on keeping himself alive.

  Jack pulled on the undershirt, then motioned for the body armour. It was thinner than the usual hard-plate vests, but denser and therefore heavier, and wasn’t as obvious under regular clothes.

  “At least turn on your active tracking.” Lewis helped Jack buckle up the armour.

  “Yeah. Give me an hour first, okay? There’s something I need to do.”

  Pausing in picking up Jack’s button-down, Lewis raised an eyebrow. “Something personal?”

  Jack grabbed his shirt and slung in on. “Just something I have to check, and I’d rather not have any prying eyes on me. You can rant all you want, I’m going to do it.”

  “Ranting is Lydia’s contractual obligation, not mine.”

  “Why do you think I’m avoiding going back to the eighth?”

  Lewis smiled proudly. “And they said you were all brawn.” Getting serious, he added, “One hour, not a second more. If you don’t turn on your tracking, I’ll get McIntosh to authorise an override.”

  Remote access was an element of the implant Jack wasn’t particularly fond of. There was a clause in his work contract specifying the Office could only actively access the implant during field operations, and then only in extreme emergencies. Like so many clauses, the definition of “extreme emergency” was left to the discretion of the overseeing director.