Rather than look disgusted at the idea, Adam merely nodded. “One benefit of being a Sugar Baby is an incredibly high tolerance for most illicit drugs and alcohol. But that doesn’t excuse his abusers,” he added hastily when Jack glared at him. “Look, from what you’ve said, it sounds logical. Anyone suffering that sort of abuse isn’t going to survive unscathed. You said he had obsessive-compulsive tendencies. He doesn’t like being touched in public, does he?”
Jack gaped at him. “No, but I thought that was—” Unable to say exactly what he’d thought that was due to, Jack finished lamely with, “because of me being gay.”
Adam shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Does he get upset when he can’t completely control a situation?”
“God, yes.” It was like a weight off his shoulders. “He gets stiff and silent, like he’s having this internal debate.” A lot of the time, Jack suspected he was debating which weapon to go for.
“He probably is. I’d guess he’s not exactly impulsive, either.”
“No. Given a choice, he usually has everything planned down to the nth degree.”
“And when he doesn’t have a choice?”
So it went for the next several drinks. Adam kept them lubricated in between asking questions that had Jack spilling his guts about Ethan’s quirks and idiosyncrasies. Even as his words became slurred and Adam’s attentive face grew fuzzy, Jack made sure to keep his comments as platonic as possible. He might be discussing Ethan’s personal issues, but he wasn’t about to reveal the intimacy of their relationship.
Much, much later, as they stood on the footpath waiting for taxis—neither was fit to ride—Adam said, “Your friend. He’s gotta see someone, profreshnly. The man is sick, Nishant.” He frowned. “Nishant? Nishy? Nisha?”
Jack blinked at him. “What?”
“What what?” Adam threw an arm around Jack’s neck and pulled him close, nearly toppling them both over. “Are you ready to kiss me yet, Nisha?”
He was so close Jack couldn’t focus on him. Or he was too drunk to focus on anything. Either way, Jack’s gaze caught on the sloppily leering mouth, and for a moment, he was ready. He’d been getting ready for a while now. To take that last step. To leap over the final bridge and burn the hurdle behind him. All the barriers were down now. He wanted to kiss . . .
Jack got a hand over Adam’s face and shoved him away. “Not you. Call Toomey if you want to kiss.”
Adam made a scoffing motion. “He’s okay, I guess. ’Snot you, though. Come on, don’tcha wanna fuck my mouth again?”
Not so drunk he missed the startled looks from a few other people on the footpath with them, Jack shushed him. “You need to go home before someone hits you.”
“Home’s stupid Melbourne.” Adam exaggerated a pout. “If I lived in Sydney, I’d be home already.” His face lit up. “I could buy a home here. I’m going to buy a home here. No! I’m going home with you.”
“Not tonight, tiger.” A taxi pulled up, and Jack steered Adam into the car. As Jack gave the driver the name of the hotel, Adam hauled out his phone and pulled up Toomey’s contact.
Unsettled, like something was wrong with the whole situation, Jack watched the taxi pull away. Knowing Adam was actually calling Toomey for a fuck bugged him, but not because he was jealous. He wasn’t. Not in the least.
Another taxi arrived and Jack piled in, giving his own address and tuning out for the ride home. By the time he was trudging up the two flights to his apartment, the uneasy sensation in his belly had turned to full-on dread.
What the fuck had he done? He shouldn’t have told Adam anything about Ethan. Christ. He was such a dickhead. Ethan would kill him for it. Maybe literally.
Hoping like hell Ethan wasn’t home, or already asleep, Jack crept in. Unfortunately, the lamp by the balcony door was on and Ethan was standing opposite it, staring moodily out at the city lights. When Jack closed the door, Ethan turned and his white eyes were unmistakable in the dim light.
“Jack, you’re late.”
Very carefully walking to the fridge and making sure he pronounced his words properly, Jack said, “I never said what time I’d be home.”
Ethan was quiet while Jack got a bottle of water. He was still wrestling with the cap when Ethan spoke.
“I hope you didn’t ride home in this state.”
Oh God. Another man in his life who saw far too much. And knew just how to open him up like he was filleting a fish. Jack had to get out of this conversation pronto.
“Got a taxi.” Giving up on the water as too complicated, Jack beckoned Ethan over with a sexy tilt of his head. “Missed you, baby. Let’s fuck.”
It didn’t have the expected response. Instead, Ethan took a step backwards. “Jack? Are you all right?”
“I’m great. And horny. Come on, let’s go to bed.”
After another uncomfortable silence, Ethan eventually nodded. “Yes, Jack. Let’s go to bed. You’re clearly coming down with something. You only call me ‘baby’ when you’re sick.”
“I don’t,” Jack scoffed.
With a patently sceptical expression, Ethan approached, deftly avoided Jack’s grabby hands, and manhandled him into the bedroom. Getting undressed was also kept strictly functional. Ethan encouraged him to drink the water, then refused to get under the sheet with him, sitting on the side of the bed and trying to feel Jack’s forehead instead.
“I’m fine,” Jack grumbled. His distraction wasn’t working. “I’m just drunk.”
Keeping his hands to himself at last, Ethan considered him patiently. “You went drinking with Adam, I suppose.”
Jack rolled over so he wouldn’t have to look at him and cave under that expressionless expression. “He’s part of my job. Gotta pretend to be his friend.” Except it was past pretending now. Jack liked Adam. Not the same way he liked Ethan, though maybe once it could have been that way.
“That’s all right, Jack. I understand. I was, however, hoping you could spend tomorrow with me.”
“Can’t. Working. You know that.”
“Could you take a day off? Don’t you Aussies pride yourself on taking ‘sickies’?”
Jack groaned. “I’m on an important case. I can’t just pretend to be sick for you.” Christ, would this interrogation never end? The sooner Ethan left him alone, the sooner he could put that night’s massive betrayal into the filing cabinet and stop feeling so fucking guilty.
“I’ve booked track time at Wakefield tomorrow. It takes a couple of hours to get there, so going is a whole-day endeavour. I’d very much appreciate it if you would come with me.” His voice was tightly controlled, and the hand he put on Jack’s shoulder was hesitant and light. “I need to drive, Jack, and I think I need you there with me.”
Fuck. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. The very thought of being inside the tight confines of the car with Ethan for hours just to get to there was terrifying right then. To then sit in a mixed state of panic and exhilaration as Ethan lit up as he raced, becoming so bloody glorious and peaceful it would break down Jack’s walls like nothing else. He was barely keeping them up as it was. There was nothing between him and Adam and Steph. They were getting to know him, and now Jack had pushed down one of the few remaining barriers just to get Adam to talk to him about Ethan.
God fuck it. If Ethan ever found out what Jack had done, he’d leave at best, fight to kill at worst. His past was something he was so careful about revealing, doling out tiny portions, judging Jack’s reaction warily, forever poised to run if Jack made the wrong move. Jack couldn’t risk Ethan finding out.
“I’d like to go with you,” he said, voice rough with both the truth and the coming lie. “I can’t, though. Things are at a vital stage of the case.” They were actually stagnating to the point Jack thought McIntosh would call it off sooner rather than later. Jack fumbled till he found Ethan’s hand and tugged it in for a kiss on his knuckles. “You go. Do a lap for me, too, okay.”
Ethan didn’t answer for a long time, then his hand went slack a
nd slid out of his hold. Standing, he murmured, “As you wish, Jack,” and walked out of the bedroom.
Relieved he hadn’t said anything incriminating, Jack fell asleep within moments.
Jack cut off the call from Lydia and pressed his forehead to the back of the seat in front of him. He breathed in deep, trying to kickstart his brain with fresh oxygen. How the fuck could he so viscerally feel like he was being torn in two when there was no blood?
Steph was dead. Oh God. She had a family, a grandchild she looked after at least one day a week. Smart, tough, dedicated Stephanie. And the fucking Judge had killed her. What was her sin in his eyes? Being too good at her job? Too close to catching him? Jack dredged his memory for the note left with her body.
She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.”
Could it be as simple as that? Steph had seen the Judge as he killed her, obviously, but that didn’t feel deep enough. What else had Steph seen? Who had she seen? Or perhaps, who had she spoken to? Or had spoken to her? There were still too many unknowns for Jack to guess at what it meant. Christ, they needed Adam and his insights.
At least Adam was alive. Or had been thirty-six hours ago. But the fact he’d been taken from his suite, not killed there, meant whoever had him wanted him alive. For what, though? The Judge was a killer, not a kidnapper. Unless it wasn’t the Judge who’d taken him.
Jack straightened sharply. Lydia said Toomey had also gone missing. Adam’s comment about Toomey being a stalker had just been a joke. Hadn’t it? If anyone was going to see through a public façade to the true person underneath, it would be Adam. What if . . .?
Christ. Jack was grasping at straws. If there was something off about Toomey, Adam would have seen it sooner rather than later, considering the amount of time they’d spent together. After a couple of hours with Adam, Jack had been scrambling to batten down his personal hatches in an effort to keep the man’s intuition out. He doubted Toomey would have found it any different.
The more likely scenario was the Judge had come for Adam after killing Steph and found Toomey there as well. Both men were probably the psycho’s prisoners. At least they were together. Jack knew what it was like to be in desperate circumstances on his own, and with allies. The latter always made it easier to deal with the situation.
Pulling in several more deep breaths, Jack sat back. Reacting wasn’t going to help him here. He had two potential abductees to find and rescue now, as well as an errant assassin to track down and convince to come back to him. A thought that sat easier in his heart now he knew Adam wasn’t the Judge’s latest victim—or Ethan’s first after coming out of retirement. It was time to act. And being hauled into a police interrogation room and not let out until he’d confessed to everything wasn’t going to be part of the plan.
He was squirming his plastic-cuffed hands down over his arse when his implant pinged.
“Kinda busy,” he grunted once he’d answered the call.
“Yeah, I bet,” Lewis said dryly. “What’s your current sitrep?”
“Still in the back of a cop car, but. . .” Jack strained and got his hands over his booted feet and back on the most useful side of his body. “But about a minute away from getting these fucking cuffs off.” He began searching the hem of his pants for the pin he always carried for just these sorts of situations.
“Maybe you could hold off on that for a bit. McIntosh is already on her way to Surry Hills to give Dumay another serve. She’s got the minister on hold.”
“Too late.” Jack twisted his wrists around, working the fine point of the pin into the ratchet-lock of the cuffs, pushing the plastic teeth apart. “I’m pretty much out of the cuffs. My bike’s not far from the car. Once I’m out of here, I’ll—”
The sudden rev of a powerful engine cut Jack off mid-escape plan. He flinched at the deep, gravelly roar, like an off-pitch rock slide.
“Jack?” Lewis asked cautiously.
“Something . . .” Jack looked around and sure enough, found the source of the sound.
He’d been pulled over at the base of the off ramp, and the cops had shut the exit while they sorted out Jack’s mini arsenal. About a hundred meters further along was an intersection with a cross road. Beyond the intersection was the on ramp to the highway. At the intersection, a canary-yellow Monaro with black racing stripes had come to a stop. A bonnet with twin scoops faced the conclave of four cop cars. The car rumbled at them menacingly.
All eight cops currently inspecting the contents of the panniers stopped and turned as one towards the car, like a gang of meerkats sensing danger.
The car growled again, the engine revving so hard the front end bounced on the bitumen.
“Secure these,” the senior officer snapped, shoving the panniers at one of the others. The sergeant gave out more orders, sending four of them to their cars, the remaining three taking up positions behind the other two cars, including the one Jack was in.
As the Monaro challenged them again, the sergeant faced the vehicle and, one hand on his holstered weapon, held the other one up, palm out. Walking slowly forwards, he yelled, “Please turn the vehicle off and step out of the car.”
“Jack?” Lewis tried again. “What’s happening?”
Jack held his breath. Did he dare think Ethan had come for him? Who else would face down so many cops in a souped-up car? And if it was Ethan, was he here to help Jack escape, or kill him?
“Please turn the vehicle off and get out of the car,” the sergeant commanded again, getting closer to the Monaro, which settled into a steady growl, the whole chassis vibrating visibly. “If you fail to comply, I will be forced to—”
With a sudden roar, the back tyres of the car spun, smoke curling up from the bitumen, rear end shaking from the power of the revs.
“Move, man,” Jack hissed a second before the driver unleashed the car and it leaped forwards.
Shouting wildly, the sergeant dove for the side of the road. A bright yellow blur raced through the air he’d just vacated and sped between the parked cop cars so fast it was gone before Jack had fully comprehended it was even there.
The Monaro went the wrong way up the empty off ramp, and about halfway, it came to a shuddering, black skid-mark-birthing halt and appeared to . . . wait.
The cops emerged from cover, warily watching the Monaro as they gathered to strategize.
Up on the ramp, the yellow car’s tyres began smoking again. The police started to scramble, but before they got too far, the Monaro lurched into motion. From a standing start, the car drifted in a tight circle until it was pointed back at them. Rear fishtailing, it slammed into motion and charged forwards.
It had to be Ethan. The coincidence of finding another crazy car nut right here, right now, was too bloody great.
Contrary to its first pass, the Monaro didn’t fly by at top speed this time. Just before it reached the parked cars, it braked sharply, then spun and drifted sideways between the police cars. Officers scattered again, unable to know if the driver was in control or not. Jack didn’t flinch as the bonnet of the yellow car came within mere inches of the vehicle he was in. He trusted Ethan’s control implicitly. Once beyond them, the Monaro straightened up again and rocketed away. It pelted through the intersection, dodging cross traffic, and disappeared up the on ramp.
“Go!” the sergeant yelled at the men in the cars. “Go, go, go!”
The police got their cars underway in an impressively short amount of time, but they were still miles behind the Monaro as they gave chase. The sergeant sent a third car after them, leaving just the one with Jack in it behind. One car and only two cops. Much better odds than he’d had previously.
“Thank you, Ethan,” he whispered, only remembering the open line to Lewis when his friend demanded an explanation.
“Blade,” Jack said tersely, getting back to work on his cuffs. “He just drew off most of the cops for me. I’ll be out of here in minu
tes.”
There was a speculative pause. “Are you saying he helped you, rather than tried to collect his money with your head?”
“Yeah, or he’s waiting to get me on my own.”
“Or that. So get moving. Do you need anything?”
Jack finished uncuffing himself, out of sight of his two remaining guards, both of whom were on their radios, furiously calling for backup. “I should be able to get the bike, but the weapons are a bust. I’ll need to restock. I’ll let—”
Another throaty rev cut him off.
Surely Ethan wasn’t so good he lost his pursuers this quick?
Jack scanned for the new disturbance. Likewise, the sergeant and his remaining constable went on alert. Even as they found the red motorbike charging for them, black-clad rider holding a gun up and pointed right at them, the constable was hit. He staggered back, looking more stunned than hurt, then slowly toppled over.
Gun out, the sergeant shouted at the rider as he moved to stand over his fallen mate. The bike whipped past him, and he tracked it. As the car had done, the bike travelled a little distance up the ramp, then skidded around and came back towards them. Sergeant and rider exchanged fire, and the officer got lucky. A bullet hit the front of the bike, and it wobbled wildly.
The bike twisted into a skid, then overbalanced and crashed to the bitumen. Momentum carried it towards the sergeant, trailing sparks. The rider had rolled before it hit the ground, tumbling over and over across the hard surface. She sprang to her feet, guns in both hands, and got off a couple of rounds before having to duck for cover behind the now still bike. The sergeant had got behind the bonnet of the remaining car and was taking shots when he could, all the while yelling at her to desist and surrender.
“Jack!” Lewis demanded once more.
“Can’t talk,” Jack said, working on the lock of the car door.
Why the Devil Stalks Death Page 20
