“I’m giving it retroactive authorization,” Hartley said. “You’ll get five hundred thousand for your successful rescue of one of the Agency’s assets but no reimbursements for travel expenses. I’ve heard enough. Now get out of here. We have another meeting to conduct.”
Ashton took a respectful step backward and turned away from him. Zachariah was looking up at him from the leather chair, leaning forward so Vanessa could unlock his handcuffs, but he looked oddly wilted, his green eyes wide with worry. Ashton paused long enough to grasp his shoulder and give it a reassuring squeeze before he slipped into the hallway.
He headed toward Henry’s office, hoping to find some quiet so he could stew over his thoughts and maybe send up a prayer for Zachariah. But, much to his disappointment, Henry’s doors were locked. Unable to get in, he picked a spot on the carpet beside the door and slid to the floor, leaning back against the wall and resting his head on his knees.
Ashton hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until a hand shook him awake. He forced his eyes open to discover Zachariah kneeling in front of him, a concerned expression on his face. Ashton’s eyes widened, and he lurched forward, catching the man’s face between his hands before he even realized he’d done it. “Are you okay?” he asked, studying his face closely, looking for signs of distress. He didn’t see any; the man just looked tired.
“I’m fine,” Zachariah said. He lifted his hands and pressed them against Ashton’s before slipping them down to his wrists and tugging his hands away from his face. “I just need more sleep. Maybe some painkillers. In the meantime, Director Hartley wants to meet with us.”
“He just did,” Ashton said lamely. His brain felt sluggish, like it still hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of his body yet.
“No, he wants to meet with us again,” Zachariah said. “Just us. No handlers.” He paused before adding, “It’s about what I saw in that cellar in Bolivia.”
“About the…?”
“The wolf, yeah,” Zachariah confirmed. “I had to tell him about it.”
“How crazy did he accuse you of being?” Ashton asked.
“Actually…he didn’t,” he said. “He just looked really interested, cancelled the rest of the hearing, and told me to go find you because he wants to discuss something with the two of us.”
“This doesn’t sound promising,” Ashton commented. He levered himself to his feet, scrubbing at his face to wake himself up, then nodded to Zachariah. “Come on, let’s get this over with. Maybe we’ll both come out on the other side of this in one piece.”
* * *
Zachariah felt like his stomach was trying to crawl out through his throat as he followed Ashton back to the conference room. His back was still killing him, and a headache had settled immovably into his skull. He thought longingly of the painkillers that Ashton surely still had in his suitcase, but those were gone—the security guards had taken it from them the moment they’d walked into the building.
He’d give his left arm for a dose of Advil right then. He wouldn’t even consider what he’d give for something stronger.
Director Hartley was the only person still in the conference room when he and Ashton returned. The director had his chair tilted back, his feet propped on the table as he used one thumb to type something on his BlackBerry. The sight was so incongruous with the way he normally saw the man that Zachariah almost laughed out loud. He managed to hold it in as Hartley looked up from his smartphone and locked his disturbingly dark gaze onto the two of them.
“Ah, you came back,” he said, as if he’d expected them to do otherwise. He shifted in his seat to drop both of his feet to the floor and gave them both a strangely cheerful smile. “Come with me,” he ordered. He stood and circled the table, passing by them as he exited the room. Zachariah and Ashton glanced at each other, and Ashton shrugged before they followed.
Director Hartley didn’t speak to either of them on the trip to his office, but once they were inside with the door shut, he turned to them and dropped into his desk chair. After observing them for a long moment, he motioned to the two chairs across the desk from him then fetched a file folder from a desk drawer and tossed it onto the edge of the desk closest to them. “So,” he began, folding his arms and resting his elbows against the edge of the desk. “Werewolves, huh?”
“Nobody said anything about werewolves,” Ashton said.
Hartley gave them both a knowing smile. “Zachariah did in his hearing just now,” he said, and Zachariah raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“I did? When?” he asked, frantically running the prior conversation through his head and trying to remember when he’d brought up werewolves. His memory came up empty.
“You didn’t use the word ‘werewolf,’ but you described one,” Director Hartley clarified. “You described being attacked by a wolf and how you killed it. But before you left that cellar, you said it wasn’t a wolf anymore but a man. You probably think you’re crazy, don’t you?”
“I think what’s more important is whether you think I’m crazy,” Zachariah muttered. “You call the shots on whether or not I get to keep my job, not me.”
Hartley sat back in his seat and gave Zachariah a critical look. “I don’t think you’re crazy,” he said. “In fact, I believe you.” Zachariah raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Hartley gestured to the folder on the edge of the desk. Zachariah snagged it and flipped it open, leaning sideways so Ashton could see what was inside, too.
The folder held what looked to be a case report, and a glance at the date in the top right corner revealed that the report was almost fifteen years old. A quick skim of the document’s cover page told Zachariah that the acting agent who had filed the report was Damon Hartley.
“This was yours?” Zachariah asked, nodding at the folder’s contents even as he took a peek at the next page. “Whoa,” he commented. “Brandon, too?”
“Wait, what?” Ashton said. He snagged the folder from him and started to read as Director Hartley replied.
“Yes, Brandon and I worked together on some assignments several years ago,” he confirmed. “They were specialized ones that I wasn’t going to risk doing by myself.”
“But you were the director then,” Ashton spoke up, barely tearing his eyes away from the file. “You shouldn’t have been doing any field work. I mean, if I remember correctly, the director swears an oath to not directly participate in any duties that are reserved for field agents.”
“You remember correctly,” Director Hartley confirmed. “But tell me, where in your job description it says you are to hunt and kill vampires, werewolves, and demons?”
Ashton did look up from the file then, and his incredulous look matched Zachariah’s. “Uh, nowhere?” he said.
“Precisely,” Director Hartley said. He rocked back in his chair and examined them both before launching into his story. “There are four of us involved in all this: me, Brandon, Henry, and Deputy Director Ismay. The four of us had, at one time or another, had some nasty run-ins with supernatural creatures, and when we compared notes, we realized it was a growing problem. So, when I became director, I started a secret initiative that mandated taking care of the problems once and for all. Unfortunately, it seems to have taken much longer than any of us expected. And now you two appear to have gotten involved, and I find myself facing a dilemma.”
“What sort of dilemma?” Zachariah asked, feeling a nervous stirring in his gut.
“Whether or not to kill you two for finding out the secret,” Hartley said, his expression serious.
The nervousness in Zachariah’s gut exploded into alarm. “Okay, that’s it, I’m out of here,” he said, pushing himself half out of his chair.
“Sit down, Zachariah,” Director Hartley barked out, even as Ashton closed his hand around Zachariah’s wrist. “Don’t you know a joke when you hear one?”
Zachariah dropped back into the chair; the movement jarred his back, and he winced. “Not after what I’ve been through,” he muttered, feeling more
than slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t realized the director had only been joking.
Hartley chuckled and rocked back in his chair again. “I suppose, in light of everything you’ve been through over recent weeks, it’s no surprise that your sense of humor has left the building.” He paused to study them again before saying, “Well, considering the close encounter you’ve had, it would probably make sense to pull you both in on the initiative.” He gave Zachariah a small, crooked smile and added, “You are, after all, the first person I’ve ever met who managed to kill a werewolf with nothing but a chair leg.”
Zachariah gave him a small shrug. “I aim to please,” he said, as if it wasn’t a big deal that, just two days before, he’d shoved the jagged end of a broken chair leg into an animal’s chest, as if a werewolf was something he encountered every day.
“Well, you will most certainly get the opportunity to do so again,” Hartley said. He shifted in his seat and actually propped his feet on the edge of his desk, crossing his legs at the ankles. “I have to commend both of you on your attempts to have Nathan Chambers killed,” he said. “Though if I’d been anywhere in the vicinity, I’d have told you not to bother. He doesn’t die that easily.”
“And why is that?” Ashton asked.
“Because the entire Chambers family is made up of werewolves,” Director Hartley explained. “And you can’t kill a werewolf just by shooting him and blowing up his car.” He drummed his fingers against his knee before asking Zachariah, “Mr. Lawrence, how badly do you want Nathan Chambers dead?”
“So bad that I can practically taste it,” he said.
“Then how about I give you the opportunity to make that happen?”
“You can’t possibly think that he can take on someone like Nathan Chambers alone,” Ashton protested. “Not if Chambers is as dangerous as everyone says he is. He’ll get himself slaughtered!”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself!” Zachariah snapped, twisting in his chair to glare at Ashton. “I’m a fucking level four. Basic assassinations are a level three job!”
“Nathan Chambers isn’t a basic assassination,” Ashton argued. “Somebody like him would require more than what a level four could offer, even if he wasn’t a werewolf. This isn’t a Tesla kind of job.”
“He’s right,” Director Hartley spoke up. “Which is why you’re not going in alone, Zachariah.”
“I’m not?” Zachariah repeated in surprise.
“You’re not,” he confirmed. He glanced between Zachariah and Ashton, the expression on his face thoughtful. “You two appear to work well together,” he added after a moment.
Ashton nodded slightly in agreement. Zachariah continued to stare at the director, wondering exactly what he was getting at.
“I believe that perhaps it would be a good idea to continue that arrangement,” Director Hartley added. “Especially since it seems to be so beneficial to you both. Agent Miller, you could use some time around someone else to learn how to loosen up. Trust me, it will improve your job. And Agent Lawrence, I’m sure that more time around a level ten agent will teach you a thing or two.” He shifted in his chair again, dropping both of his feet to the floor with a thud muffled by the thick carpeting. Then he dug into one of his desk drawers again and pulled free another folder, this one swollen with papers, unlike the first folder he’d offered them. “This has everything we’ve ever discovered about werewolves in it,” he told them, leaning forward to offer the folder to Ashton. Ashton took it and set it on his lap, and Zachariah could see his fingers dance over the cover, as if he were itching to open it and look inside at what it contained. “Study all that you find in there, plus everything in this.” He offered Ashton another folder, this one blue, signifying a completed assignment. “Do whatever you need to do to take out Nathan Chambers. If you can deal with any of his family, too, that’s even better. Fewer werewolves in the world is always good.”
Ashton nodded again, and Zachariah mimicked the gesture, gripping the arms of his chair tightly. There was a stir of emotions in him, mixed and twisted together until he couldn’t tell what was what. Part of it was a need for vengeance, intertwined with the horrible memory of what had been done to him in Bolivia. Among all of that was a tangle of relief that Ashton would be there to help him—and worry over how the man would react once he started to address any potential fallout from what they’d done on their last assignment three months before. But that was something to deal with later, he decided. So long as it didn’t interfere with their current new assignment—which would involve much kicking of asses and taking of names—then it wasn’t important.
“Before you two get started, though,” Director Hartley was saying to Ashton when Zachariah tore himself out of his rumination, “you really need to take Agent Lawrence to the medical ward and get him examined. He looks like he’s about to wilt right out of his chair.”
“Of course,” Ashton agreed, and he tucked the folders under his arm and stood, offering Zachariah his arm for support. Zachariah stood without taking it, rising under his own willpower unassisted. Though he was aching in every muscle in his body and exhausted beyond description, he didn’t want to be interpreted as weak in Director Hartley’s eyes. He stood as straight and as tall as he could manage.
“I’m fine,” he said steadily, squaring his shoulders. “Ashton did a good enough job of patching me up.”
“That wasn’t a request,” Director Hartley replied. “It was an order.” He picked up a pen and took a notepad from a desk drawer, writing as he continued. “I want you to get a full physical exam, including bloodwork. Only then will I be reassured that you’re completely fit to do your job.” He tore the page off the notepad and extended it across the desk to him. “Give this to the doctor.”
Zachariah took the paper without comment and shoved it into his jeans pocket. Then he turned—almost too fast—and started toward the door. He could hear Ashton murmuring something to Director Hartley that sounded like an apology. Then he was following him out the door to the elevator outside the director’s twelfth-floor office. Zachariah was already jabbing the down button before he remembered that a key code was required to use it. he growled and slammed his palm against the buttons in frustration.
Director Hartley appeared at his shoulder then and, without a word, punched the code into the keypad. He stepped aside to let them board the elevator, giving them a slight wave in farewell, and the doors slid shut between them.
“What’s your problem?” Ashton asked once the elevator started its descent to the third floor’s medical facilities. His face was creased with concern, despite the veneer of annoyance and incredulity his words would suggest. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not,” Zachariah snapped. He sagged back against the wall of the elevator and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t want some fucking…stranger to have his hands all over me.”
Ashton grasped his forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I understand,” he said, his voice hushed. “I’d suggest skipping it if you weren’t under orders from the director to go. Believe me, he’ll find out if you do otherwise.”
“I just wish he’d let me go of my own accord,” Zachariah said. The elevator slowed to a stop with a soft ping. “But I wasn’t even given the illusion of a choice in the matter, and that just pisses me off.”
“I know,” Ashton said. The doors slid open, and he stepped out of the elevator. Zachariah hesitated before following him. “Don’t look so worried. I’ll be waiting on you the minute you get out of there.”
Sixteen
After Zachariah went through the doors into the medical ward, Ashton settled into one of the moderately comfortable chairs in the waiting area, picking a spot that was reasonably secluded but offered a clear view of the doors Zachariah would emerge from.
He was worried about the other man. There was no ands, ifs, or buts about it. Zachariah had been through too much—the beatings that he’d obviously taken had been incredibly brutal, even by
Ashton’s liberal standards. Frankly, he was amazed the man hadn’t already had a total meltdown yet.
It was coming, though. That much, Ashton knew. It was only a matter of time before the man crumpled under the pressure. Ashton knew this as surely as he knew the sun set in the west. He had, after all, been there himself.
Three times.
Ashton shook his head and looked for something else to focus his mind on. Thinking too much on his past—what he knew of it, anyway—risked dredging up too much stuff that he’d long-ago put to bed. The thick file folder of Damon’s research beckoned to him, so he flipped the folder open and rested the stack on his knees.
The material was surprisingly well organized, with dividers tucked between sheaths of paper that were categorized by subtopic: “history,” “anatomy and physiology,” “known werewolves,” “suspected werewolves,” and “dispatch methods.” As tempting as the last section sounded, he flipped to the section labeled “history” and began to read.
The information inside the folder was surprisingly dense but thankfully easy to read, a testament to Damon’s teaching abilities, which he’d experienced firsthand. Most of it was information that could have been gleaned from horror movies and novels: full moon, humans turning into ravenous animals and eating the hearts out of their victims, one bite being all it took to become one.
Damon had even taken the time to give a gleaning of information on the historical origins of the werewolf legend, including all its conflicting theories and rumors. Ashton only gave that section a quick skim; while it was fascinating, it wouldn’t help him and Zachariah out in the field, and it was that information that mattered the most. So as much as he wanted to keep reading the historical information, Ashton flipped instead to the section that detailed how to kill werewolves.
He’d been reading and committing the information in that section to memory for nearly an hour when the door he’d been keeping an eye on finally swished open. Zachariah stepped out, looking uncertain and more than a little lost, and the door swung shut behind him before he spotted Ashton in his chair near the corner. Ashton saw him at the same moment, and he straightened the file’s papers before folding the cover shut and standing.
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