“Hey, check that out,” Damon murmured, nodding his head toward the car. They watched as it idled a moment more, and as it sat there, Ashton emerged from the club and crossed the street right in front of the car. The distinctive flash of a camera lit up the backseat of the BMW for a split second, and then Ashton was across the street and into the hotel, and the BMW started driving again, pulling away from the hotel and club and continuing on around the corner.
A hushed moment settled over the car, and Tobias broke it by asking, “What just happened?”
“I don’t know, but it can’t possibly be good,” Damon said. He reached for the key and twisted it in the ignition, starting the engine. “Come on, let’s see if we can follow that car. I have a suspicion that might be the man we’re after.”
Seven
The first thing Ashton did when he got back to his and Zachariah’s room was take his cell phone out of his pocket and dial Angelique Rosseau’s number. It rang several times before she answered, and when her French accent filled his ear, it was the very definition of annoyed.
“What?”
“Nice to talk to you, too, Angelique,” Ashton said, starting to pace almost without realizing he was doing it. “You busy?”
“No, not at all,” Angelique replied. “I’m just taking a day off and chilling in D.C., after spending half of yesterday explaining to a man for the millionth time why I can’t assassinate a sitting United States senator. You?”
“Oh, just trying to figure out a way to assassinate yet another arms dealer,” he said almost flippantly. He stopped pacing and sat down on the desk chair, spinning it around so he could face the rest of the room. He shifted in his seat and propped his feet against the corner of his bed, rocking his chair backward a bit.
“Was Tesla you?” she asked. Her curiosity was obviously piqued, if her tone was any indication.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
“Nothing important. Look, I need to ask you a favor.”
Angelique groaned. “The last time you asked me for a favor, I ended up swimming in the Potomac while trying to avoid the Secret Service guys who were shooting at my ass.”
“I promise this won’t end up with you in the Potomac this time,” Ashton swore.
“Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it,” she retorted. “What’s up?”
“How would you like the opportunity to nail one of the worst people in modern history?” he asked.
“Sorry, sweetie, Hitler’s already dead. Try again.”
“Nathan Chambers,” he said simply, not bothering to elaborate.
“Oh no,” Angelique groaned. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all,” Ashton replied. “We have a potential opening, and I need someone to take it.”
“Why not you?”
“Because I’ll be busy elsewhere,” he said. “I have to make it look like I’m not involved in his death at all. Same for my partner.”
“Partner?” That seemed to catch Angelique’s interest. “What sort of partner is this? Is it the good kind?” She gasped dramatically. “Oh, tell me that Ashton Miller has finally decided to get a life and indulge in a little something on the side.”
“I have a life,” he said, feeling a stirring of anger, left over from his small confrontation with Zachariah. He quickly pushed it back down. “And it’s not that kind of partner. Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s a work thing.”
“Since when does work—”
“Do you want the job or not?” Ashton interrupted. He didn’t feel the need to get grilled by this woman. Not when he had enough going on in his head as it was.
“Nathan Chambers, huh?” Angelique murmured. She made a humming noise, as if she were thinking it over, then asked, “If I succeed, what’s in it for me?”
“Two million dollars and bragging rights.”
“Two million? For killing a man like Chambers?”
Ashton sighed. “Fine, three million. But I can’t offer any more than that. I don’t have that kind of money, and I’m paying out of my own pocket, not my boss’s.”
“Eh, I’ll take it easy on you and say two and a half, then,” Angelique said. “Usual rules apply?”
“Yes, usual rules,” he said. “Do it however you want to do it. Just don’t do it in any way that traces back to me. If you can make it look like an accident, that’s even better.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Ashton hung up his phone after that and tossed it onto his bed, watching as it bounced on the center of the mattress. He stared at it for a minute, thinking over the conversation he’d just had with Angelique, then sighed and dropped his feet to the floor with a thud. He had several options for the rest of his evening: he could take a shower and go to sleep; he could borrow Zachariah’s computer and get a little work done; or he could go back across the street and meet back up with Zachariah and maybe apologize for his bratty behavior earlier.
He pushed himself from his chair and went to the window; he’d noticed earlier that it faced the street that he and Zachariah had crossed to get to the bar, and he hoped he could see said bar from their room’s window. He brushed the heavy curtains aside and peered out into the brightly lit street below. From his perch twelve stories up, he couldn’t see anything of significance; indeed, most people looked almost ant-like from his lofty height. The distance seemed vast, and he frowned as he looked at the sidewalks and street below. It seemed insurmountable, and with as tired as he was, he really didn’t feel like going all the way back down to the ground level and across the street to search through the crowded bar to find Zachariah.
He let the curtain drop and turned away from the window, heading instead toward the bathroom. The more he thought about it, the more enticing a shower and bed sounded. And afterward, the minute Zachariah walked back into the hotel room, he’d be posing a few questions that he needed to know the answer to.
* * *
Zachariah stumbled into the hotel a little later than he’d meant to. Okay, a lot later than he’d meant to, he acknowledged as he glanced at his watch while stepping off the elevator. It was almost four in the morning, and he’d been gone for hours. He yawned as he made his way down the long, carpeted hallway toward his room, fumbling his key card out of his back pocket where he’d tucked it before going out. He hoped Ashton hadn’t waited up on him; he was sure that, if he had, he was going to be in a very sour mood.
The key slid into the slot on the door easily, and the light above the knob flashed from red to green. He couldn’t suppress the sigh of relief he let out at the sight; he always had an irrational fear that, one day, he was going to show up to his hotel room and discover that his key didn’t work, and then he’d be stuck out in the hall, separated from his bed by his own sheer dumb luck or stupidity. He pushed down on the knob and shoved the door open, trying to be quiet about it, but his somewhat drunken state meant he was probably louder than he’d intended to be. He pushed the security latch to and turned to stumble his way to his bed.
A hand closed into the front of his shirt and swung him around, practically lifting him a few inches off his feet. Well practiced in the art of keeping his mouth shut, Zachariah managed to not make a sound as he was half-dragged into the dark bedroom area and shoved against the wall. A hand closed around his throat, not tightly enough to choke but just firmly enough to keep him rooted to the spot he stood in.
“I take it you’re not very happy with me right now, huh?” Zachariah said. The hand tightened almost imperceptibly before loosening again.
“You have been gone for hours,” Ashton said, almost growling the words out. “Where the hell have you been?”
“At the bar, having fun,” he replied. He reached up then, fumbling at the hand on his neck, and grasped the man’s wrist in an attempt to tug the hand away. “You know, something you could probably do with having occasionally.”
Ashton shoved him more firmly back, and
his head bumped against the wall. “Why do you have to make cracks about my personal life like that?” he demanded.
“I don’t mean anything by it,” he said. “It’s just a joke, Ash.”
“Nothing fucking funny about it,” Ashton snapped back. “I know how to have fucking fun.”
As he spoke, Zachariah caught a whiff of…was that whiskey on his breath? He raised an eyebrow. “Have you been drinking?”
“Room service is very accommodating,” he replied without directly answering the question. “You planning on doing something about it? Because I don’t think I need to point out that you’ve probably been drinking more than I have.”
“Yet you point it out anyway.”
“Yeah, I do,” Ashton said, his voice dropping, becoming warmer and a little rougher. “What else did you do while you were out? You don’t seem drunk enough to have spent the entire six hours you were gone drinking.”
Zachariah shrugged, becoming more fully aware of the fact he was pinned between an apparently drunk Ashton and the wall as the other man edged a little closer to him. “Hung out with the bartender,” he said. “He showed me a few tricks.”
“Dare I ask what sort of tricks?” Ashton asked.
“Nothing like what you’re probably thinking,” he said. “Then again, if you’re thinking like that, I’m sure you could show me a trick or two.” Ashton’s hand glided over his side as he spoke, and he suppressed a shudder—barely—as the man tugged the pistol underneath his shirt free; a thunk on the floor followed the man’s action. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Most certainly not getting my balls shot off,” Ashton growled, then the man hooked one of his hands around the back of Zachariah’s neck and dragged him forward.
Zachariah let out a surprised grunt that was quickly suppressed when Ashton’s mouth crashed against his in a hard, almost desperate kiss. As their lips met, he could have sworn he felt electricity arc down his spine into his gut, and he dug his fingers into the other man’s shirt, practically clinging to him for balance as his knees went weak. Ashton’s hand slipped from his throat, grasping the front of his shirt and spinning him around so he lost track of where in the room he was. Dizzy, he threw his arms out, flailing as he felt himself falling backward, but he landed on something soft. Bed, he recognized, right before Ashton was on him, grabbing at his shirt, twisting it, and pushing it up his torso without bothering to unbutton it. It barely cleared his head, but with the cuffs buttoned, Ashton wasn’t able to pull it off all the way, and it got tangled around his wrists, trapping them in a mess of fabric. Ashton left it that way.
Zachariah groaned as he felt the man’s hands drag down his now-bare torso, but he couldn’t focus on that as Ashton’s body pressed down against his, pinning him to the mattress. He tilted his chin up, searching for Ashton’s mouth again, but instead of finding it, he felt something cold, hard, and metal press against the underside of his jaw.
“What the fuck?” he breathed. He squirmed, trying to get his hands free and throw Ashton off of him, but the man had him pressed to the bed so firmly that he had no hope of freeing himself. Despite that, much to his embarrassment, he could feel himself getting turned on, and he scowled.
“Shut up,” Ashton growled, and instead of the rough, almost husky way he’d spoken before, this time his voice was hard and angry. The pistol he’d shoved against the underside of Zachariah’s jaw dug in more firmly. “You’re going to shut up and listen to me, and then you’re going to answer every question I have for you, because if you don’t…” He trailed off and jabbed the pistol more firmly into the underside of his jaw. Message received. “Am I clear?” he asked.
Zachariah nodded. He’d been played, and he knew it, and he wasn’t going to be so stupid as to try to fight back when he didn’t have anything close to the upper hand.
“Good,” Ashton said. “Now, here’s how this is going to go. I’ve got information that you need to know, but in return, you have to give me something.”
“What kind of information?” he asked.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Ashton retorted immediately, and Zachariah clamped his lips shut. “Listen carefully. I’ve been sent here not just to help you with your package drop but to interrogate you.” Zachariah raised his eyebrows as surprise and shock surged through him, and that pit in his stomach opened up again. “You did something. I don’t know what you did, but Director Hartley seems to think you did something you shouldn’t have, and what he thinks matters a hell of a lot more than what I think. What did you do?” He paused for only a split second before adding, “This is the part where you start talking.”
“I don’t know what—” Zachariah started to say, the pistol’s barrel digging painfully into the soft skin under his jaw.
“Oh, did I forget to establish the number one rule in this conversation?” Ashton said. “No lying.”
He swallowed hard. The sinking pit in his gut was making his stomach hurt.
“What did you do that would have Director Hartley suspicious of you?” Ashton demanded.
He let out a slow sigh and closed his eyes. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
“I don’t think you’re exactly in a position to be making demands,” Ashton replied.
“I’m not making demands,” Zachariah said. “I’m making a request.”
“I’ll think about it,” Ashton said. “But one way or another, you’re going to tell me. For the love of all that’s holy, don’t make me get rough with you, because I certainly don’t like doing this.”
“That’s not what I’m noticing from here,” he cracked, rocking his hips upward emphatically.
“Zach,” Ashton said warningly.
He sighed again, slowly, blowing the air out through his nose, then said quietly, “I failed my last psych exam.”
“And?”
“And I broke into the psych’s office and replaced the results with forged ones that said I passed,” he grumbled. “And yes, I’m aware that that’s something that could get me fired. Or worse.”
Ashton let out a sigh of his own. “Is that all?”
“Are you serious? ‘Is that all?’” Zachariah exclaimed. “Jesus, I just admitted something to you that would probably get me killed if the higher-ups knew about it, and all you have to say is, ‘Is that all?’”
The pressure of Ashton’s body against his let up, freeing him to sit up and start trying to work his hands out of the tangle of shirt. One of the bedside lamps flicked on, and Zachariah blinked in the sudden brightness.
“Why?” Ashton asked. He stood beside the bed, his dark hair disheveled and his clothes rumpled. There was a whiskey bottle on the table between the two beds, half empty, and his bed was unmade. He still held the pistol he’d jammed into Zachariah’s chin, a small .22-caliber number, and the sight of it made Zachariah rub the underside of his jaw with a frown.
“Why what?” he asked, massaging the sore spot gently.
“Why did you switch out the reports?” Ashton elaborated, a note of impatience in his words.
“Because I didn’t want to lose my job,” he said. “I like my job. It’s not easy, and some days I wonder why the hell I do it, but I’m good at it, and I can’t imagine doing anything else. I don’t want to lose that.”
Ashton sighed again and paced to the bedside table, setting his pistol on it carefully. “As much as it pains me to say it, I understand completely.”
“What got you into this life?” Zachariah asked, curiosity overcoming any potential indignation at being manhandled so forcefully only moments before.
“Well, it’s literally the only life I’ve ever known,” Ashton said, and something about the way he said the words made Zachariah raise his eyebrows.
“You’re not using the word ‘literally’ metaphorically, are you?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Ashton said, and he sat down heavily on the edge of Zachariah’s bed. “I have amnesia.”
“Amnesia?” Zachariah
repeated incredulously. “You have actual amnesia?” Ashton nodded. “Wow. I’ve never met anybody with that. I always thought it was something in soap operas. What all do you remember?”
“When Damon found me and recruited me into the fold, I was roughly nineteen years old, and I didn’t know anything, not even my name. I still have no idea where I came from or if I even have any family out there. I guess Damon saw potential there. An agent is less likely to have attachments and weaknesses if he doesn’t even know who he is, I guess. So he took me in, gave me a name, and trained me into this life.”
Zachariah stared at him for a moment, amazed at what he’d told him. He felt like he was looking at a walking, talking soap opera storyline, though he could sympathize with the idea of not knowing who he was or where he’d come from. He himself had been adopted as a baby, and he’d never met his birth parents or had any idea who they were or why they’d give him up like they had. “Have you ever tried to find out anything about your past?” he asked after several moments of silence between them.
Ashton shook his head. “No. Wouldn’t even know where to start to look,” he said. He sighed and pushed himself up from Zachariah’s bed, staggering a little as, presumably, the alcohol he’d drank sloshed around in him. “Maybe we should shut this conversation down and get some sleep. We have a drop to plan for tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, his voice soft. He kicked his shoes off and watched as Ashton flopped backward on his bed, sprawling there spread eagle. Then he asked cautiously, “You’re not going to tell the director, are you?”
“About you doing what you felt like you needed to do to preserve your job?” Ashton asked. He paused, like he was thinking it over, then said, “No, of course not.”
“What are you going to tell him, then?”
“That he made a mistake,” Ashton replied.
Zachariah scoffed. “Damon Hartley doesn’t make mistakes.”
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