by W. J. May
The second Simon saw him he snapped into gear, gathering his briefcase and checking once more to make sure the file they’d stolen for the Council was inside.
Beth followed along, too, sipping an espresso as she hovered in his shadow, gazing out the window with that same frown. “Well...good luck.” She stretched up on her toes for a quick kiss. “I’ll see you after.” Simon nodded hastily and headed for the door, but before he could open it she caught his arm, lowering her voice with concern. “And Simon? Don’t be too hard on him. He looks like shit.”
Simon sighed as the two of them stared out the window together.
Look like shit? That was putting it generously. If Simon didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Tristan was strung out. His skin was pale, his movements were shaky, and there was an intermittent tremor running through his hands. His hair, already a bit longer than usual, stuck out in all directions as if he had run his fingers through it a million times, and the red lines of sleeplessness around his eyes were made all the more prominent by the deep, bruise-like shadows beneath them.
It was hard to believe he was the same adrenaline-filled teenager Simon had broken into a top secret vault with just last night. Truth to be told, gazing down at him from the window it was hard to believe Tristan could even walk straight. What the heck had happened?
But while all of this translated to concern on Beth’s face, it registered only as rage to Simon. He kissed her again on the forehead before striding down the front steps, slamming the door behind him.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, colliding with Tristan in the middle of the street. Up close, he looked even worse off than from in the house.
There was an aura of faint desperation about Tristan, like he hadn’t slept in close to a month, and Simon was fairly sure those were the same clothes he’d worn yesterday.
Tristan held up his hands in preemptive surrender. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Can we just get going? If we leave now, we should still be able to—”
“What the hell is on your shirt?”
Simon pointed, and both men looked down in confusion at the grotesque orange stain running down the front of Tristan’s chest. He blinked at it for a second before ripping it off in disgust, circling back to the trunk of his car to get another. “Shit.”
Simon watched as a pair of women jogging by literally ran into a tree at the sight of him. Tristan remained completely oblivious, rifling around until he came up with something new.
“Sorry,” he mumbled again, yanking it over his head. “I didn’t...” The trunk slammed shut, and he ran his fingers manically back through his hair. “Can we just go, Simon? I’m sorry I’m late.”
Simon stared at him for a second longer, his sharp eyes offering no leniency, then he nodded his head with a curt gesture and got both of them moving. But while Tristan flew around to the driver’s side of his car, Simon stopped him at the door. “No freaking way am I letting you drive. You look like the walking dead.”
If Tristan even considered putting up a fight, it didn’t last long. He simply stared at Simon’s outstretched hand for a second before dropping his keys into it. A minute after that the two of them were streaking down the interstate, out of London.
It was a charged silence if ever there was one, but only Simon seemed to mind. Tristan was leaning up against the passenger window, his eyelids in constant danger of slipping shut. Simon watched him for a moment, making a concerted effort to proceed in the manner of a friend, not an interrogator, before he cleared his throat quietly.
“Is it Mary?” he finally asked, his voice softening just a fraction.
Tristan’s entire body stiffened as his eyes fixed on Simon with alarm. “What do you mean?”
Simon glanced at him curiously out of the corner of his eye. With Tristan’s tatù, he could hear the guy’s heart racing from there. He tempered his voice even more, watching carefully for a reaction. “Are you two fighting or something?”
A silent sigh shuddered through Tristan’s shoulders, and he relaxed back into the seat in relief. “No, nothing like that. We’re good.” It was quiet for another second before he quickly added, “How are you and Beth?”
The sloppy cover-up only piqued Simon’s interest more. While he wasn’t that great at conceding second-best at anything, even he had to admit that Tristan was a better liar than him. In the last few months it had saved both their lives multiple times, and on each occasion Simon had silently marveled at the smooth-talking brilliance of his friend. He’d never known while at Guilder that Tristan had the skill. He’d often figured Tris to be a lousy liar. Things had changed a lot the past year. Probably more than Simon even realized.
How are you and Beth? A hasty diversion? Tristan was better than that.
He cleared his throat again, feeling slightly awkward this time. “We’re, uh...we’re good.” His eyes darted once more across the car as he recalculated. Maybe a little honesty was in order? That’s usually the way lies went over best, after all. When they were coated in a bit of truth. Tristan had taught him that. “Actually, things have kind of been picking up speed lately. For the last couple of months, it’s mainly just been her and me alone at the house, so—”
He cut off quickly, worried Tristan would see it as a jab.
“Not that I’m blaming you for not being there. You’re with Mary, I get it. If Beth lived somewhere on the other side of the city I’d be spending a ton of time there, too. I’m just saying that it’s been a kind of new dynamic for the two of us, you know? Almost like playing house.” An ironic smile lit up his face at the absurd juxtaposition of it all. He had finally left school to pursue life as a supernaturally gifted spy...and that’s when domesticity kicked in? “Anyway, it’s all good stuff. But it’s just a lot, you know?” He waited for a second, but there was nothing but silence from the other side of the car. “Tris, are you—”
Tristan had fallen fast asleep.
Simon glared at him for a moment before returning his eyes to the horizon. He considered slamming on the brakes, hard. Then he thought of Beth and what he would tell her. A second later he gritted his teeth and draped a jacket over Tristan like a blanket, slipping another beneath his head.
Typical. The one time I decide to bare my soul.
Thanks to Simon’s lead foot, they actually arrived back at Guilder with about two minutes to spare before the start of the debriefing. More than enough time for two people with speed tatùs.
“Tris—wake up.” Simon nudged him roughly as he threw the car into park and jumped out.
Tristan jerked awake, blinking several times in confusion as to where they were before he followed suit.
It always felt strange coming back to Guilder. While a lot of agents viewed it almost nostalgically, the time when they were all together and life was simple, Simon hated it. He’d made the most of this school while he could, but the school had given nothing back to him. He’d had to take whatever he’d gleaned from it by force. It gave him no joy to come back now. He wished they could go through the Privy Council entrance a number of miles down the road. It just wasn’t finished being built yet. So they had to come this way, use the tunnels, or debrief in the Oratory.
He and Tristan moved quickly across the lawn, faster than most people could sprint. When they got to the Oratory doors, they paused for a second to regroup. Simon turned off his cell phone while Tristan smoothed down his hair self-consciously, purposely avoiding his friend’s eyes.
“You have the file?” he asked quietly.
Simon nodded curtly, and Tristan finally met his gaze.
“I’m sorry, Simon. Alright? Please, can we just—”
“Don’t be sorry,” Simon snapped. “You can tell me what’s going on, if you want. But don’t be sorry. Sorry didn’t get us here any faster.” He shook his head. “I hate sorry,” he mumbled, “It’s just a bloody excuse. A cop-out.” He stormed off without another word, leaving Tristan to walk a step behind.
In truth, he
wasn’t angry about Tristan being late. He could give a damn about being on time for the briefings; the only reason he’d made an effort was because Masters would be here. What bothered him was the fact that his best friend in the world was obviously hiding something.
Something he either couldn’t or wouldn’t bring himself to share.
Oh, like you’re so much better? You’re leading a freaking double life, hypocrite. Are you going to sit down and tell Tristan what’s been going on in the catacombs beneath the old church? Have a nice little chat?
Simon gritted his teeth and walked faster. That annoying subconscious voice of his was getting harder and harder to stomach. Fortunately, it was also getting quieter as the months went by.
After pushing down the secret lever embedded in the Oratory walls, the two of them headed down the underground pathway to the PC’s debriefing room. Sure enough, both Masters and Philip Keene, their active case manager, were already there. After mumbling twin apologies for making them wait, Simon and Tristan settled down on the other side of the long table.
The first time they had done this it had been one of the longest days of Simon’s life. It had happened right after the laboratory debacle in Munich. Their first ever mission. Instead of safely extracting the scientist in question, the man had ‘died,’ his research ‘lost,’ and he and Tristan had effectively set the place on fire. That alone would be enough for a scathing post-mission interrogation, but the fun didn’t stop there. Shortly after returning to their safe-house, both he and Tristan had been attacked by members of a rogue organization and almost beaten to death. After surrendering the information they’d risked their lives to steal, they were almost killed again by the Privy Council’s own doctor. Killed in the most ghoulish way anyone could imagine, slowly re-living each and every hurt they’d ever experienced while they bled out on the floor.
That was the last thing Tristan remembered from that night: His body being ripped apart in an echo of his catastrophic fall as he closed his eyes at the evil doctor’s feet.
He had no idea what happened next. He had no recollection of Cromfield. Hadn’t seen the giant ‘C’ scribbled on Simon’s hand—the one Simon had been quick to wipe away. He didn’t even know how they had been saved until Simon had lied to him—the same lie he’d used later in the debriefing. That Stein had taken pity on them at the last moment. Regretted what he’d done. Re-healed them before committing suicide. Shooting himself in the head, horrified by his own actions.
If only it had been that simple.
This debriefing didn’t look nearly as bad as that, though both he and Tristan were developing a startling reputation for accidentally setting things on fire. The only thing weighing him down was the sleepless zombie swaying silently by his side.
His eyes flickered to Tristan’s face. Tris usually handled these sorts of things, what with his natural charm and easy way of communicating with people. And the fact that people usually liked him, warmed up to him. But Tristan was either waiting for him, or was on the verge of falling asleep again.
Either way, it was up to Simon to take the reins.
“We got in with no problem,” he said bluntly, glossing over the usual pleasantries that Tristan used to ease into it. “Came down through the roof. In theory, we were supposed to miss the guard shifts entirely, but one saw us and radioed for the others. We were able to take down the contingent and make it to the vault before reinforcements arrived. At that point...”
At that point, I got stuck and had to call for my girlfriend.
But Simon couldn’t, wouldn’t say that. A man could give up only so much pride.
“At that point, we were able to crack into the vault and retrieve the file.” On cue, he took it out of his briefcase and slid it across the table. “That’s all that was there.”
Keene flipped it open and began flipping through but Masters merely stared at the boys, his eyes twinkling knowingly in the soft lighting of the room.
“At which the two of you somehow managed to set off the fire alarm.”
Simon gulped. “Must have been a faulty system.”
Masters’ lips twitched.
“Must have been.”
There was a silent stand-off for a moment before Masters leaned back and Keene suddenly put the file away. Simon watched, surprised. Usually these things lasted much longer than this, and that was when Tristan was the one skillfully navigating them, not him.
Apparently the brevity of the interrogation wasn’t the only surprise that the day had in store for them.
The door flew open, and Jason Archer swept inside.
His dark hair had been pulled back into a hasty ponytail, and his signature leather jacket was slightly askew, as if he had put it on at a sprint. Both Tristan and Simon looked up in alarm. Jason was their Botcher, their trainer, not their case manager. He didn’t attend these sorts of things. But neither Masters of Keene appeared even remotely surprised. Instead they merely gestured to the seat beside them, waiting patiently until he sat down.
Tristan was certainly wide awake now. Something was obviously afoot and he had his eyes trained on Masters, waiting for whatever was coming next.
Simon, however, was still staring across the table at Jason.
It was a habit that was hard to break. Neither boy had really adjusted to Philip Keene being their new handler, the new safety net upon whom they were supposed to rely. Throughout the last few months, on the rare occasions they did get in trouble, they would automatically dial Jason’s number. It had gotten to the point where Jason had threatened to meet with the tech department to see if there was a way he could automatically re-route their calls back to Keene without them waking him up at all hours.
Except neither Tristan, Simon, nor even Jason put much stock in the threat. No matter how many times they called, he always picked up. And then the next minute he was always racing to the airport, ready to hop on another plane and meet them in whatever random country they happened to be stationed. Or train. Or car. Whatever it took.
Jason was protective. No matter how unapproachable he might seem on the outside, no matter how many times he might have beaten them down in the past, it was only to make them strong enough that they would survive once they were at this point. Once they were in the game.
It was because of this that Simon was so nervous to see him there today. Whatever had happened, it must’ve been as bad as it could be to get Jason involved so early. Not to mention the frantic concern simmering in his Botcher’s eyes was enough to set his teeth on edge.
“What is it?” Simon asked quietly, looking to Masters for the first time. “What’s happened?”
Masters stared at him for a moment, before bowing his head. “We lost contact with one of our agents a few days ago. The man was stationed in Budapest, Hungary. A deep-cover assignment for which he was particularly suited. The mission was about to come to a close, the drop-off had been set, but the agent never showed. He missed three mandatory call-ins after that.”
Call-ins were not to be taken lightly. It was a lesson Simon and Tristan had learned the hard way when they were stationed in Greece. Both of their phones had died after an unfortunate fall into the Mediterranean, and they were unable to make the call. When they woke up just two hours later, there was an entire Privy Council brigade knocking down their door.
They had never missed a call-in after that.
“Okay.” Tristan lifted his hand on the table, and Keene slid a stack of documents inside. “So I’m assuming this is some kind of search and rescue.” When you worked for the Privy Council and had already been missing upwards of three days, ‘search and rescue’ usually meant ‘go and recover the body.’ “Simon and I don’t have much experience with this. Why would you think to send us?”
Masters’ face tightened unperceptively as he glanced at Keene. Keene seemed to have trouble meeting his gaze. “We thought to send you because of the identity of the agent.”
Simon and Tristan shared a quick nervous glance, and Sim
on leaned forward. His heart was already pounding in his chest, but instead of looking at Masters he turned to Jason instead. “Who is it?”
Jason wouldn’t sugarcoat it. Jason wouldn’t lie to him. But, truth be told, the way Jason’s fists were clenched white upon the table was already giving Simon a mild heart attack.
Simon shifted in his chair and repeated the question, “Who is it?”
Jason leaned forward, his hazel eyes flashing in the light from the blinking monitors on the wall. His face as dark as a grave.
“It’s Jacob.”
Chapter 4
“HOW THE HELL COULD this have happened?!” Simon demanded, throwing a random armful of jackets into his already-overflowing bag.
Jason sat perched on the edge of the mattress—seemingly calm—but the look in his eyes told a whole other story. Across the hall Tristan was just as upset, packing a bag of his own.
“Seriously, Jason.” He stuck his head into the room, his brown hair swinging wildly into his bright blue eyes. “Why the hell didn’t he have a partner? They sent him there alone?!”
“It was a deep-cover assignment,” Jason answered robotically, better skilled at reining in his emotions than the other two. “He insisted that he do it alone, and he’s been there for six weeks without a single problem.”
Simon’s eyes flashed as he threw his razer towards the suitcase with such force it shattered upon impact. “Until now.”
For the first time, Jason met his eyes. It was enough to stop Simon in his tracks. But the anger there wasn’t for him. In fact, for once they were aligned in exactly the same corner.
“Yeah. Until now.”
There was a sigh in the other room as Tristan, who had been listening in with his advanced hearing, gave up on packing altogether and walked inside, slumping down on the bed beside Jason.