Why the Devil Stalks Death

by L. J. Hayward

  “Don’t worry,” Garrote said over the growl of the bike, slipping an arm around his waist as he turned the Interceptor onto the road. “I’ve been told you’re off bounds.”

  Her hand, however, settled low on his abdomen, under the lower edge of his armour and a few fingers width from things he’d rather she not get any closer to. The gun pressed into his lower back, also below his armour.

  Garrote directed him with little taps of the hand on his abdomen, indicating which corners to take as they raced away from the lone sergeant. They avoided the highway where, presumably, Ethan was still giving the police merry hell. Which brought Jack to the next revelation. Ethan had to be working with Garrote. There was no way they’d both show up at the one spot so close together, with the same goal.

  To help Jack escape the police.

  If Garrote wanted him dead, she would have shot him instead of getting on the bike with him. There was the possibility she was fucking with him, as Ethan had done in the desert. But something about this felt different.

  Pretty certain she wasn’t going to shoot him like this, Jack silently dictated a quick message to the Office. When he tried to send it, however, a jolt of pain lanced through his head.

  “Fuck!”

  The bike wobbled as Jack reflexively tried to curl up and protect his head.

  “Careful,” Garrote yelled, pressing closer to his back so she could grab the handlebar and keep the bike going. “I’m not dying for this job.”

  The pain faded almost as quickly as it came. Jack blinked his eyes back into focus, feeling the late-afternoon rays bite into his retinas. They were coasting along just fast enough to stay upright, Garrote steering them into a partially empty carpark of a small row of shops. As they came to a stop, Jack got a foot down to keep them from toppling over.

  “What the hell?” he ground out, rubbing at his temples. An echo of the searing pain lurked behind his eyes.

  “I would have told you sooner, but I didn’t think you’d be bold enough to use the implant while riding with a gun at your back.” Garrote’s tone was exaggeratedly patient. “So I’ll tell you now. Don’t try to use your implant. I have a jammer with me.”

  “Assassins and their gadgets,” Jack muttered under his breath. Louder, “Messaging while riding with a gun at my back is nothing. I can even walk and talk at the same time.”

  “You’re going to be fun. I like it when my toys bite back.” The gun shifted against him but didn’t pull away. “Now, how about you hit that kill switch you boys come equipped with and we’ll be on our way again. We really shouldn’t linger out in the open. The cops know you have this bike now.”

  There was no doubt. Ethan had to have told her about the kill switch in Jack’s implant. He had accepted that the supposedly secret neural implants given to the SAS weren’t all that secret anymore. The kill switch the Office had programmed in, however, was. Jack had never specifically told Ethan about it, but he had to have worked it out for himself, considering the jamming device he’d used in the desert hadn’t affected him after Jack killed the implant.

  Knowing Ethan and Garrote were working together still didn’t answer the most vital question though.

  Were they going to kill him or not?

  If he had Ethan on his own, he’d do anything to get the truth across and convince the man to drop the ticket. Garrote, however, was a whole other risk category, one Jack wasn’t quite ready to take.

  “Fine,” Jack grumbled. “Just give me a minute to get into a trance state.”

  “Pull the other one, handsome. I know you don’t—”

  Jack slammed his head back and his skull connected solidly with her jaw, pain cracking through the back of his head this time. Garrote wasn’t expecting it, though. She rocked backwards, unbalancing the bike, the pressure of the gun disappearing from Jack’s back. Foot already planted, Jack swung his other leg up and over, knocking the woman the rest of the way off the Interceptor. He lunged after her as she hit the bitumen of the carpark. They landed hard, Jack on top, Garrote’s head bouncing off the ground, dazing her. Jack grabbed the hand with the gun and twisted her wrist. The weapon popped free, and he scrambled away with it.

  By the time he had some distance, gun held ready and pointed at Garrote, she had pulled another weapon and had it trained on him from her lying position.

  Panting, they stared at each other.

  Eve Garrote was probably around Jack’s age, lean and ropey with small but taut muscles. Her skin was darker than his and possibly of Cape Coloured ethnicity, a sleek pixie cut of black hair capping her head. She had a wide, full-lipped mouth, magnificently high and sculpted cheekbones, and eyes hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses. A faint scar ran down the left side of her face, over her jaw, and ending in what was probably a very close call next to her jugular.

  Her dossier said she was a markswoman, most of her confirmed kills either sniper shots or point-blank hits in close quarters. Jack wouldn’t discredit her in a fight, though. She looked tough and capable, and just because no one had witnessed her taking a target down hand to hand didn’t mean she couldn’t do it easily. One of the things Jack had come to know during his relationship with Ethan was that the information any organisation had on Ethan Blade was far from comprehensive. Underestimating him would prove deadly, and Jack got the same feeling from Garrote now.

  Somewhere to Jack’s right, a woman gave a startled cry, then, “They’ve got guns,” and the clatter of shoes on concrete.

  Shit. If Jack closed with Garrote here and now, not only would he probably not survive, but there was a big chance of civilians getting hurt, or worse, in the process. His best option was to just pull the trigger.

  Yet, for some reason, she still hadn’t pulled hers.

  His thoughts must have shown in his expression because Garrote said, “You know she’s on the phone to the cops right now. We have to get out of here.”

  “We?”

  Surprisingly, Garrote lifted the business end of her gun skyward. “Yes, we. I didn’t go to all the trouble of getting you away from the cops just for you to run right back to them.”

  Jack didn’t take his sight off her. “I was doing swell on my own. With or without you I would have gotten away. Now, though, it’s going to be without you, one way or another.”

  Garrote shook her head. “You’re being an idiot.”

  “Not the first time I’ve been accused of that. Your choice, Garrote. You let me get on the bike and leave, or I shoot you and leave, anyway.”

  “You can’t face him on your own.”

  What the . . .? Did that mean she and Ethan weren’t working together?

  “You’d be surprised at what I can do.” Jack got to his feet and backed up to the Interceptor. “See. Walking and talking at the same time.”

  Another bark of laughter and Garrote sat up, casually crossing her arms over her knees, gun dangling from a finger by the trigger guard. “You are fun.” The amusement vanished with her next words, though. “He’ll kill you.”

  Now Jack really didn’t know what to think. Was she worried Ethan would get him first and rob her of the money? Then why not kill him now? Garrote had never been squeamish about public kills in the past.

  In the distance sirens sounded. Now wasn’t the time for guessing games. If they were still here when the cops showed up, things would probably go tits up faster than they already were.

  Backing up the last step, Jack threw a leg over the bike seat, still keeping the gun on Garrote, though she’d made no move to aim at him again. She just shook her head in an it-was-nice-knowing-you way. Her entire attitude was baffling. He was halfway convinced she wasn’t going to kill him. He’d felt the same way about Ethan when they first met, and sure, Ethan hadn’t killed him, but Jack doubted he could win this woman over with some mind-altering sex.

  The sirens were growing louder, but Jack hesitated to turn on the bike. He was probably going to regret this, but . . .

  “The ticket you picked up
on me. Who bought it?”

  The mirrored panes of Garrote’s sunglasses didn’t waver. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Probably, but they want me dead. I think I have a right to know.”

  Garrote gave a mildly conceding shrug. “Perhaps. Ask me again, the next time we meet.”

  A loud blurt of a siren was probably a cop car demanding right of way through an intersection, and close enough to be just around the corner.

  Time had run out. Jack turned the key, and the Interceptor roared to life. As he kicked off, Garrote gave him a jaunty salute with her gun. Back prickling as he deliberately put a predator behind him, Jack headed away from the sound of sirens. Just before he turned a corner, he looked back at the carpark. Garrote had vanished. He doubted he’d seen the last of her.

  Quickly gaining his bearings, Jack headed, in a roundabout way, for the nearest drop point for the Office. Clear of Garrote’s jamming device, he sent a message to Lewis, got a confirmation in return, and when he reached the drop point, had to wait for barely a half hour before his contact appeared.

  He was surprised when he instantly recognised the voice singing “One Night in Bangkok.”

  “Lewis?”

  His friend appeared out of the dark tunnel, wheeling a new bike. “Holy crap, are these things heavy, and that’s not the correct response. How do I know you’re my contact if you don’t give me the right response?”

  Jack scowled and grumpily trotted out the required line. “Happy now? Jesus.”

  “Very happy,” Lewis said patiently. “All right. Tell me all about it. How did you escape Miss Trigger Happy 1999?”

  Between taking drinks from a water bottle Lewis supplied, Jack told him everything. Lewis absorbed it all, nodding in places, grimacing in others. No doubt he was analysing it all in conjunction with what they knew about Eve Garrote and the ticket.

  “Yeah, it’s hard to tell,” Lewis said when Jack finished. “We’ve got absolutely no hints of Blade and Garrote teaming up in the past. Garrote did work with that Ugandan warlord and a couple of ‘liberation’ groups in Africa, but Blade’s always been a solo operator. You said she said, ‘You can’t face him alone.’ Does that mean she’s willing to go against Blade for you?”

  “I have no idea. If she’s anything like Blade at all, then she’ll enjoy making cryptic little comments and hints.”

  Lewis frowned. “Why would you think she might be like Blade?”

  “Our information is far from complete. I know for a fact there are jobs Ethan pulled that no one has ever attributed to him.”

  His friend’s frown went from confused to quizzical, and Jack cursed himself silently. “Ethan” was too familiar for a subject of one of their operations. It personalised him, made him human, and that was often a detriment to getting the job done—whatever that might entail.

  Jack was making too many slips. All of his walls were crumbling around him, just as they had in the desert when he’d let a dead-eyed assassin into his head and heart. The moment he’d done that, he should have quit the Office. It had only destabilised the foundations of every other wall he’d built to protect himself, professionally and personally. The walls were falling, and the filing cabinet was busted.

  Lewis studied him for a moment longer, then asked quietly, “Did you tell Feitt about these unknown jobs of Blade’s?”

  Of all the walls Jack had built, the one that was crumbling between him and Lewis now was the one Jack should have knocked down himself. Or perhaps never built in the first place. Its foundations had been there for a long time, but after Canberra, Jack had slapped those bricks into place so fast and high he hadn’t recognised the darkness for what it was.

  Guts twisting up in instinctual fear, Jack shook his head. “I didn’t tell Feitt, and I won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Even in the dim light of the tunnel, Jack could see his friend’s expression struggle to stay neutral. Jack had just admitted to withholding evidence in an ongoing investigation. It was more than enough for Lewis to report him. Charge him, even. More than enough to have him dragged back to the Neville Crawley Building and kept under forceful detainment.

  Lewis was his friend, though. Had been the entire time they’d been with the Office. They’d worked jobs together, done them well and successfully. They’d drunk together, eaten together, teased and laughed at each other. Jack was the first person Lewis had told about his growing feelings for Lydia, had shared his worries about working and living together. If Jack told Lewis everything, this wouldn’t be another Canberra.

  It could be worse.

  Not wanting to make things any worse, Jack struggled for something to say that would smooth over the edges between him and Ethan.

  “How did Victoria go?” As long as he was complimentary or interested, the Aston Martin was always a safe topic of discussion.

  “Very well. I believe I sorted out the timing issue when she gets into sixth.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Mm. It is.”

  More uncomfortable silence. Jack suddenly wished he’d paid more attention when Ethan talked about the car. Fuck. He’d mentioned something about a new clutch cable, hadn’t he? Or was that for the Roadster? Or Ferrari?

  Christ. He didn’t need to talk about the fucking car. All he had to do was be honest.

  Before he could act on that thought, Ethan said, “Perhaps we should go upstairs and talk somewhere a little more private.”

  The garage would give them plenty of room if it came to a fight, but Ethan was right. It wasn’t very private with people coming and going in their cars, as well as the few residents in the gym. And if Ethan wanted privacy, maybe he really wanted to talk. Whenever Ethan had spilled about his past or secrets previously, it had been when he felt safe.

  Jack agreed and they headed upstairs. It was a quiet walk, but not as uncomfortable as it had been facing off in the garage. They’d made this walk enough times lately to be familiar with each other’s pace and habits. Jack would open the door, Ethan would go through and wait for him, falling into step again. Sometimes, their hands would brush together, and occasionally, Ethan didn’t pull away. Sometimes, Jack intentionally “accidentally” touched him and Ethan let it happen. He didn’t try this time, but Ethan’s perhaps purposeful proximity was welcomed, and by the time they got into the apartment, Jack wasn’t angry anymore. He was resigned.

  Jack had fucked up, and guilt had coloured his reactions. Ethan was a keen observer. He read people every day—read his targets—and he knew Jack better than anybody else did. Of course he knew something had happened behind his back.

  While Ethan slid out of his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, Jack steeled himself for the truth, only realising he’d put the kitchen counter between himself and Ethan when he leaned on it, bracing for impact.

  “Okay.” He figured if he offered up his mistake, it would look better than Ethan exposing it.

  “Please, may I go first?”

  Startled, Jack looked up. He’d expected Ethan’s killer voice. The flat, neutral tone that meant all emotions had been switched off, or buried so deep they may as well not exist. Instead, he got a soft, hesitant query, something expecting to be shot down or laughed at.

  Jack nodded.

  Ethan leaned back against the dining table, arms crossed, and seemingly stared at a spot on the floor between him and the kitchen counter. He still had his sunglasses on, even though the only light was the dull glow of the setting sun through the closed blinds on the balcony door. He wore jeans and a royal blue T-shirt, hair still messy from the helmet he wore while racing, dark strands around his neck a little damp from sweat. Jack would never forget just how lethal Ethan was, but right now, he looked nothing like an accomplished assassin. He just looked . . . lost.

  Jack’s chest grenade went off, but it wasn’t the burst of heat and light he had grown used to. Had come to want so badly. This time, it wasn’t an explosion, but an implosion, sucking all the warmth out
of his body, leaving him hollow and stunned. Not even when Ethan had talked about leaving the only life he knew to come here had he appeared so vulnerable.

  And Jack had done this to him.

  “I want to be here,” Ethan said into the silence. “I came with the expectation that this was it for me. We’d be together and nothing else would matter.” The corner of his lips curled up, but it wasn’t the sign of fondness it usually was. This time, it was bitter and sad. “I should have known better. There are things that can’t be escaped, and the past is one of them.”

  Jack’s mouth was open, to apologise for hurting him, or to reassure him, or both, but without lifting his gaze, Ethan stopped his words with a raised hand.

  “I’m trying. I really am, but I don’t know what I’m doing. You know your place in the world. You have your work, which you believe in, and a family you want to protect, no matter how distant they are. You have friends that care about you. Right now, all I have is you.”

  What had Ethan said that first night? That he knew he couldn’t replace one crutch with another. What was Ethan about to tell him? That he had gone back to killing for money? Please, God, if he had, let there be money involved. Jack had spent too much time learning about people who killed for their own twisted pleasure to not make connections between serial murderers and assassins. Specifically, between Ethan’s history of abuse and that of most serial murderers.

  “I thought I could do this. Be what you wanted. Needed. But clearly, I’m failing.”

  Nothing had hurt quite like this. Not being shot or stabbed or believing his army CO had deliberately sent his squad into a no-win situation. Not even watching Hamish walk away had felt so much like his heart being ripped in two.

  “Ethan,” Jack choked out, but whatever else he was going to say was blown to atoms with Ethan’s next words.

  “Are you sleeping with Adam Quinn?”

  His heart froze mid-cleave. “What?”

  Ethan took off his sunglasses and pinned him with his cold, white eyes. When he spoke again, his tone was the steely hard paid-killer one Jack had expected earlier.