“I didn’t expect there to be any alphas there,” he said. “They usually like their surroundings more…upscale.”
Besides which, as far as he’d ever been able to verify, there were only sixteen alphas he’d been able to document. If there were more than that, they’d managed to keep themselves thoroughly hidden.
“Twenty of those ugly bastards should be a piece of cake,” Tobias said with more confidence than the situation warranted. “A little well-placed gunfire and we should be home in a couple of hours to get some rest before tomorrow morning’s board meeting.”
Damon only hoped it would actually be that easy.
* * *
Zachariah’s white-knuckled grip on the armrests of his seat eased off once all of the plane’s wheels touched the ground, and he didn’t let out the breath he’d been holding until he felt the plane actually begin to slow down as it taxied toward the gate. He forced his eyes open as the breath escaped in a rush, and pain darted through his hands as he let go of the armrests and wiped his palms over the thighs of his jeans.
“Nervous flier?” Ashton asked.
Zachariah shrugged. “More like nervous lander,” he said. “And with takeoff, too. Always been that way.”
Ashton smiled at him then, and Zachariah took a second to admire the way the man’s face lit up with the expression. He really needs to smile more, he decided. It showed whole new facets of his personality, facets that Zachariah found highly attractive. “That’s funny,” Ashton teased. “Big, bad tough agent guy is scared of a little plane crash.”
Zachariah rolled his eyes. “Plane crashes aren’t ‘little,’” he protested. The seatbelt sign blinked off, and the other passengers began to get up to retrieve their belongings from the overhead compartments. He and Ashton both stayed seated to wait for most people to disperse. “Plane crashes tend to end in fire and explosions and burning. No thank you.”
Ashton chuckled and shook his head. “You are something else, you know that?”
Zachariah shrugged. “I do my best.” He looked toward the front of the plane, watching their fellow passengers disembarking for a moment, before asking, “So, since we’re heading to the same place, do you want to share a cab?”
Ashton looked at him for a moment, and he could see the suspicion in the other man’s eyes. He was trying to read him, trying to figure out Zachariah’s game, trying to guess what he was up to. Zachariah stared back at him and waited, patiently, for him to answer. He was daring him, challenging him to defy the rules, to discard what he’d been taught by his handler about spending unnecessary time with other field agents.
Finally, Ashton let out a long, slow sigh to rival the one that Zachariah had expelled when the plane had landed and scowled, cutting his eyes away from Zachariah to stare out the window at the darkness beyond, before saying, “In the interest of being environmentally friendly and expedient, yes, we can share a cab.”
It was after their bags had been collected and their taxi hailed and after they were on their way to the Agency headquarters that Ashton spoke again. And when he did, his voice was oddly uncertain, like he was concerned he was about to ask a stupid question. “Were you serious about the whole…drinks thing?” he asked.
Zachariah raised an eyebrow. “Of course I was serious,” he said. “You must not get out very much if you can’t tell that an offer to hang out is genuine.”
Ashton hesitated again and looked out the window alongside him at the passing scenery. “I don’t know. I don’t exactly hang out with my coworkers,” he said.
Zachariah raised both eyebrows then and looked him over, examining the man’s wrinkled jeans and rumpled button-up shirt. “Not with your coworkers but with civilian…ladies, am I right?”
Ashton snorted. “No, not the ladies,” he corrected.
“So the gentlemen, then.”
“No, not them, either.” When Zachariah turned the disbelief he felt onto Ashton full force, the man raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “What? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m twenty-nine and a level ten field agent, which puts me ahead of every agent who’s hit level ten by about, oh, three years. I’m literally the youngest level ten agent in the organization. That should probably tell you how much of a workaholic I am. So no, I really don’t get out very much.”
“You poor thing,” Zachariah said. “Your life must suck tremendously.”
“My life is just fine.”
“Not if you’re not having any fun in it,” he replied. “You know that old saying about all work and no play?”
“My work is enough fun and excitement for me, thanks,” Ashton grumbled.
Zachariah studied him for a few minutes, watching how the man slouched in his seat, obviously peeved with him and his line of questioning. But despite the man’s insistence that he was perfectly fine with his workaholic ways and his antisocial, nonexistent social life, the intense loneliness that was hidden in the man’s eyes was as clear as day. It touched something in him that he hadn’t even realized was there. “You would be surprised at how much a little bit of a social life changes your perspective on pretty much everything,” he told him. “You should try it sometime. That’s why you should come hang out with me next time we’ve both got a little downtime.”
“I’ll think about it,” Ashton grumbled, “but only if it doesn’t risk me getting into trouble with my superiors.”
“Understandable,” Zachariah agreed. He glanced out the window to see how much longer it would be before they got to their destination; it wasn’t much farther, maybe a few blocks. He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes so he could think without any distractions.
Despite his cheerfulness and joking around with Ashton, and despite the attraction he felt toward the handsome man, Zachariah still hadn’t dispelled all of his wariness of him. The ache in his arm—a persistent, nagging pain that hadn’t let up even with the painkillers he’d taken both before and during the flight—served as a constant reminder of just how close the man had come to killing him, and the soreness from the beating he’d taken at Ashton’s hands had only emphasized the point. Ashton had kicked his ass effortlessly, and he hadn’t even hesitated when he’d shot him. The man was dangerous, a thoroughly trained killer so far up the ladder from himself that he was amazed he’d come out of the scuffle alive.
How stupid was he, asking a man who could kill him with so little effort out for drinks? He’d probably end up dead in a ditch before the night was over.
But Ashton had looked so sad…
Damn me and my fucking bleeding heart, Zachariah thought. It’s going to be the death of me one of these days.
Ashton hadn’t spoken a word as Zachariah mulled over his idiocy, and he remained silent as the taxi pulled into the Agency’s parking lot, stopping near the front doors. As he climbed out of the taxi, Zachariah took a few seconds to scan the building before him.
It was twelve stories of pure office building, sitting on a prime plot of real estate in Washington, D.C. Disguised as an investment firm—the Agency even employed some stockbrokers and financial advisers to maintain its cover—the glass-fronted building had the distinction of boasting its own parking lot, a rarity in such a busy city. But for those who knew to look close enough, the game gave itself away: there were security cameras everywhere, both overt and hidden, and the glass of the windows had the faintly hazy look of thick, bulletproof glass.
“Home sweet home,” Zachariah muttered sarcastically. Then he turned to the rear of the taxi to retrieve his bag, which Ashton had hauled out of the trunk. Once the taxi driver had been paid and had pulled away from them, they stood side by side near the entrance, their bags at their feet, unsure what to say next.
“Well,” Ashton said, his voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat and turned to Zachariah, extending a hand toward him. “It was nice meeting you,” he said. Zachariah grasped his hand, giving it a firm shake.
“Yeah, it’s been rather…interesting,” Zachariah agreed. Asht
on let go of his hand, and he grinned and added, “My arm certainly thinks so.”
Ashton laughed and leaned down to pick up his bag. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that, but…hey, call it reflex.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” he replied. He picked his own bag up with his left hand. “I’m off to the med ward to get it looked at. I’ll see you again sometime, maybe.” He smiled slightly. “My offer for drinks still stands.”
Ashton nodded, and they both walked into the front doors of the Agency. Then Ashton turned right, and Zachariah turned left, and they walked away from each other.
Four
Brandon Hall was frowning at his computer screen with obvious displeasure when Zachariah walked into the man’s office an hour after being discharged from the med ward with a diagnosis of, “You’ll live.” Zachariah halted just inside the door, unsure if he was interrupting anything, and tightened his grip on the folder in his left hand.
“You look busy,” he commented. “Should I come back later?”
Brandon didn’t look up from his computer screen, just motioned to the chair across from his desk. “Sit,” he ordered. “I’ll be done in a moment.”
Zachariah crossed the office and dropped down into the indicated chair, relaxing into it and propping a booted foot against the edge of the desk. He waited patiently, flicking his thumb over the edge of his folder, until Brandon turned the monitor off and looked at him with a smile.
“What can I do for you, Zachariah?” Brandon asked.
Zachariah returned the smile and tossed his folder onto Brandon’s mostly empty desk. “My report from the Tesla job,” he explained. Brandon flipped the folder open, and he added, “Mission accomplished.”
“I think I’m the one who’s supposed to determine that,” Brandon said. He plucked a pen out of the cup on his desk and leaned over the report, starting to read and make notes on its pages. Zachariah tried to be patient, but he couldn’t help but watch the pen as it danced across the sheets, underlining in one place, writing in the margin in another. Finally, after ten minutes had slowly ticked by, Brandon tossed his pen on top of the report and rocked back in his chair. “All of this is true?” he questioned, motioning to the report. “Every word of it?”
“Yeah, of course,” Zachariah replied. Brandon’s eyes narrowed, and Zachariah felt something in his stomach turn over. Had Ashton sold him out? Had he told his own handler what had actually happened on the assignment?
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Zachariah said, trying to maintain his calm façade.
Brandon stared at him for a long moment then picked up his pen again and started to sign the last page in the report. “Which bank account do you want the money wired to?” he asked.
Zachariah let out a breath and felt a smile spread across his face. He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and passed it across the desk to Brandon. “This one,” he said. Brandon tucked it into the folder, and he added, “So, does this mean I get my promotion?”
“Not quite,” Brandon said.
Zachariah sat forward, dropping his foot to the floor. “What? But you said—”
“I know what I said,” Brandon interrupted, “and I’m well aware that you’re not only due for a promotion, but successfully accomplishing this assignment would have given you one. But powers higher than mine have demanded you do one more thing before you get that promotion, and there’s nothing I can do to override that.”
Zachariah gritted his teeth and asked, “Which powers?”
“The highest,” Brandon said, pointing toward the ceiling to indicate a floor somewhere above his.
Zachariah knew who he was referring to now: Damon Hartley, the director of the Agency. He sighed, tried to loosen the tense muscles in his jaw, and asked, “So what does he want me to do?”
“Play courier,” Brandon said. Zachariah gave him an incredulous look, and he waved a hand dismissively. “I know, I know. That’s an assignment for level ones, you’re way past that, your skills are being misused, blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before, from agents who are much higher ranked than you are. But you can’t turn this one down.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out an envelope. “This is what you’ll be delivering,” he said, holding it up for Zachariah to see. “You’ll be stationed in the Westin downtown. Across from the Westin is a bar. It’s in the bar that you’ll meet with your contact, take payment, and make the delivery.”
“Simple enough,” he commented.
“Not as simple as you might think,” Brandon responded.
“Who’s my contact?”
“You’ll find that out soon enough,” Brandon said. “There’s one more thing about this assignment that you should know.” He paused, as if for effect, then added, “You won’t be doing this alone. You’ll have some backup, just in case things go sour.”
“Oh?” He sat forward slightly, raising his eyebrows in curiosity. This assignment was starting to sound a little more interesting. “Are things expected to go sour?”
“It’s a possibility,” Brandon said. “The man you’ll be dealing with is on the more unsavory end of the spectrum than I’d personally like. I hear his bodyguards are particularly trigger-happy.”
“Sounds exciting,” he said. “So who will I be working with?”
“Someone that you’ve had the opportunity to get recently acquainted with,” Brandon said, and the slightest smirk nudged at his lips. “I believe his name is Ashton Miller.”
Zachariah raised an eyebrow. “You trying to make this the most interesting assignment I’ve ever been on or something?” he asked.
Brandon snorted. “You can’t tell me you actually find that workaholic stick in the mud interesting,” he said. “‘Ashton’ and ‘interesting’ are two words that I don’t think have ever occurred in the same sentence.”
“Are we talking about the same person?” he asked. “Because when I met him, he didn’t seem much like a stick in the mud.”
“What did he seem like to you, then?”
“Very dedicated to his job,” Zachariah said. “And a bit of a workaholic. But not so much that he wouldn’t at least entertain the idea of having a little fun.”
“Is this something you’ve experienced firsthand?” Brandon asked, a note of mischievousness in his voice.
“No,” Zachariah said, then he muttered, “Not that it’d be any of your business.”
“Anything involving my agents is my business,” Brandon retorted. “Especially when it involves something that potentially breaks the rules.” Zachariah scowled at him, and he sat forward in his desk chair, resting his elbows against the desktop as he changed the subject. “Look, Zachariah, I’m suspicious about what’s going on here,” he said. “There’s no reason whatsoever that two agents need to go on this assignment. It’s just a basic drop off, something a level one could do by himself. I’m suspicious that they’re doing this to have someone watching you. Have you done anything lately that you shouldn’t have done?”
He raised his eyebrows. “What? No, of course not,” he said, even as he struggled to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “I follow the rules to a T.”
“Funny,” Brandon commented, and Zachariah could barely suppress his grin. “Go on, then. Your new partner, as such, is supposed to be getting briefed right now. You should meet up with him and see if you two can start working on a plan.”
* * *
“So what did you think of him?”
Henry asked the question as Ashton was in the process of sitting down in the leather chair across from his desk. He felt a slight ache in his limbs and back that was only a little distracting, probably from the fight he’d had with Zachariah, but it was nothing compared to some of the pains he’d had in the past. He shifted in his seat to get comfortable and shrugged a shoulder carelessly. “I assume you’re talking about Mr. Lawrence,” he said.
“How’d you guess?” Henry said dryly.
As
hton shrugged. “I’m just that good, that’s how.” He crossed his right leg over his left, resting his ankle against his knee, and reclined in his chair to watch his handler curiously. “Why do you ask about Zachariah?”
“Humor me,” Henry said. “What did you think of him?”
He rolled his head to the side, feeling his neck pop and crack as the muscles stretched, and repeated the motion in the other direction before he responded. “He has a mean right hook,” he said. “He’s pretty good in a fight, or so the bruises I feel coming up say.”
Henry chuckled. “I should have known that the first thing you’d do when you saw another agent was pick a fight with him.”
“Hey, what can I say? It’s how I operate.”
“Could you work with him again if you were asked to?” Henry prompted.
“I didn’t work with him,” he muttered. “We just happened to be in the same vicinity of each other on the same assignment. That’s not the same thing as working with someone.”
“That’s true, but you got a little bit of a taste of how he works,” Henry said. “Do you think you could work with him if you two were given the same assignment and told to work jointly on it?”
Ashton shifted in his chair and tried to think it over, tried to ponder how a partnership like that would work, but all he could think about was Zachariah himself, as a person, not as an agent—the way he smiled, the way he talked, that flicker of interest in his eyes—and he knew that it would be next to impossible to keep any potential feelings, physical or emotional, from interfering with any job they might be given.
He wasn’t an idiot. He knew his limits.
Henry was still staring at him, waiting on him to answer the question. It wasn’t a question that should have taken so much thought, even from the normally thoughtful Ashton, and he was sure his handler was starting to wonder what was taking him so long to answer. But Henry didn’t say anything, just stared at him, patiently, waiting for him to finish working things out in his head. Finally, after several too-long moments, Ashton sighed and brushed a hand through his hair.
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