When Death Frees the Devil

by L. J. Hayward

  Chosen? Jack bit back the snarl that word inspired. It was a clear provocation from Simmons to incite Jack into something stupid. Something Simmons could use to discredit him, and that would make everything they’d worked for worthless.

  “Number seven on the JSL isn’t mediocre,” Jack said instead. “But what changed for Ethan this time was that he wasn’t working for the Cabal in any capacity. This time, it was personal.”

  “Personal? How so?” Simmons asked.

  “Frankly, sir, because I and my family had been put in danger by the Cabal. But since I know that won’t be enough proof for you, if you care to look at the images attached to each of the assassination files, you’ll note something similar at each scene.”

  Simmons scowled. “I’ve seen what you’re referring to. A bloody EB marked at each scene. Ethan Blade. I don’t see how that will convince me of anything other than his guilt.”

  “His guilt isn’t in question, sir.” A little thrill went through Jack as he got to feed Simmons some of his own bitter medicine. “His motive is. And it wasn’t EB, but EB13. Not Ethan Blade, but Experimental Boy Thirteen. That’s what the Cabal designated him. EB13 is a message to the Cabal, letting them know he’s coming for them. The only other time EB13 was found at an assassination, it was a Liechtenstein duchess who’d taken a ticket out on Ethan.”

  Apparently unable to find a suitably demeaning response to that, Simmons moved on. “Take us through the victims of Ethan’s personal revenge campaign, Mr. Reardon.”

  For this, Jack had to refer to his notes, so he used the time it took to take them from his case to shove as much of his personal feelings into the filing cabinet. Not everything got in there by the time he was ready, but he’d just have to deal with the rest on the fly.

  “To be absolutely clear, we don’t believe these victims had hurt Ethan personally, only that they were steppingstones on the way to discovering who the bosses are,” Jack explained. “The first victim was Franco Sosa. Argentinian. He was a CEO of an up and coming R&D tech company. Killed in his bedroom in his mansion in Córdoba. Single gunshot wound to the head. No witnesses at all. It turns out he had under-the-table ties to the next victim, Paulo Oliveira, Brazilian foreign trade minister. Poisoned while attending a symposium in Halifax, Nova Scotia.”

  “I understand you believed you were close to catching Ethan in Canada,” Simmons mused.

  “I thought we had a good chance. Thanks to the symposium there was a lot of extra security on site and even as we flew up from South America, other agencies were closing in on him. However, he slipped through their net and left via a boat and, as best as can be determined, landed on the Maine coast.”

  “And while he disappeared into the US, you spent a further week in Nova Scotia.”

  Jack ignored the blatant patronising tone. “Yes, sir. The FBI were on Ethan’s trail in the US, as were the CIA, I believe, though they claim otherwise.” With no authority to work on domestic soil, the CIA had kept their part in the hunt very quiet. As had MI6 and the Russian SVR. “We remained in Nova Scotia to confirm the intelligence we had on Oliveira. The minister had connections to several suspect organisations across South America, which, very quickly after his death, began to fall apart thanks to internal upset. We’re still tracing connections, but it is highly likely that these organisations were all, in part or fully, controlled by the Cabal through Oliveira. Once he was gone, the lines of communication broke down and things disintegrated.”

  The trail had gone cold after that. Jack had suspected Ethan was too busy avoiding all the letter agencies chasing him across North America. Unable to justify their presence overseas, Jack and the field team had returned home. Three weeks later, a Russian dignitary “fell” off a yacht in the Bahamas.

  “I understand there wasn’t enough evidence to link it to other deaths,” Simmons said.

  “There was some doubt about the validity of the ‘EB13’ found at the scene. The team and I believed it was real, but Director McIntosh wouldn’t approve the travel.” Jack had thought he could depend on McIntosh to listen impartially and trust his instincts, yet she’d not only stopped him from going to the Bahamas, but then stopped communicating with him altogether. It still stung, but there was little point worrying about it now.

  “I can only assume that Ms. McIntosh’s leave of absence was a relief for you.”

  That bland statement almost did what nothing else today had—get Jack to forget why they were here and launch himself at the minister. Yes, McIntosh’s seeming disregard for Jack’s instincts had hurt, but fuck Simmons if he thought he was going to use it against him.

  “No, sir, it was not.”

  Simmons cocked a sceptical brow. “Not even with the appointment of your friend, Lewis Thomas, to the position of acting director? Wasn’t one of his first actions to authorise your visit to the Bahamas?”

  Jack took a moment to settle his stomach. Yes, it had felt like a boon when Lewis was promoted, even temporarily. They’d celebrated, Lewis had disappeared for a week of training and Lydia had taken over as unit leader of their team. Despite working together for years, and being a couple for nearly as long, Lewis and Lydia did not have the same leadership style. Lewis’s philosophy was to live and let live. Lydia’s was not. Between them, they ran one of the most successful teams in the entire Office. Separately, it wasn’t quite the well-oiled machine it had been. Information hadn’t flowed smoothly, causing their investigation to stumble in the Bahamas and after. A lot of the blame had been put on Lewis’s shoulders as he trial-and-errored his way into his new role, but they knew now that intelligence-sharing had once again been stymied from inside the Office.

  “Yes, sir. We did confirm the victim as one of Ethan’s. The trail led back to several bratva groups in Russia, a couple with tenuous links to organised crime in Europe and China. The Office had already linked Cabal activities to Hong Kong triads and mainland black societies, but at the time we hadn’t realised the mysterious group at the end of the trail was the Cabal. If you wish to insinuate I used my personal connection to Lewis to further my own agenda, sir, you should also remember that as acting director, Lewis had to filter most of his decisions through Directors Tan and Wells. And DIC Lund would have surely stopped anything that wasn’t appropriate. In fact, sir, isn’t that why DIC Lund is allowed to be part of this review board? Because there was no actual misconduct on Lewis Thomas’s part in anything that happened.”

  Lund leaned forward to speak, but Simmons beat him to it.

  “Need I remind you, Mr. Reardon, that this hearing is about your conduct, not Mr. Thomas’s or anyone else’s?”

  “No, sir, you don’t.”

  “As I shouldn’t. Just as I shouldn’t have to remind you of the severity of your actions. Or that two of the Office’s most valuable assets are dead as a direct result of them.”

  Jack cringed and his chest tightened. “Of course not, sir.” Jack forced his fists to relax. They had a long, long way to go before he could do anything other than let this man walk all over him.

  Director Chan leaned over to Lund and whispered in his ear. The DIC nodded and in turn, spoke quietly to the minister.

  “I’m fine to continue,” Simmons said loud enough for Jack to hear clearly, “but if you feel it’s necessary.”

  “Thank you, minister.” Lund stood and nodded to Jack. “We’ll break for fifteen minutes. Go stretch your legs.”

  The board left by a door at the back of the room and Jack by the one he’d entered through. He was getting a bottle of water from a vending machine when Lewis found him.

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope it’s over?” his friend asked as the plastic bottle clunked down into the bottom of the machine.

  Jack snorted and retrieved his drink. “Not by half. Fuck Simmons. Does he even know how to read? I’m pretty much just reciting the reports he’s had for how long now?” He had a long drink to sooth his parched throat.

  “Don’t let it get to you. It’s all a dog a
nd pony show anyway. They’ve made their decisions already, before we were even called up for these hearings.”

  Agreeing with a wry nod, Jack looked his friend over carefully. “How are you doing?”

  Lewis wore a dark suit, the strap of a satchel filled with his own reports slung across his chest. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his hair was messy, as if he’d been running his hands through it. Which he proved by doing again.

  “My torture session hasn’t even started yet. Apparently my inquisitor is ‘held up in a meeting.’” His air quotes were about as sarcastic as they could be. “Because I’ve got nothing better to do than hang around this place all day waiting to justify myself to someone who can only get it up for a dollar sign.”

  Jack smiled, though it was as weak as his mate’s attempt at humour. “I didn’t mean this here. I meant . . . you know.”

  Lewis shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I’m getting there? It’s just taking some getting used to, I guess.”

  “Yeah.” Jack squeezed his shoulder compassionately. “It gets easier.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me.” He shrugged again, then sighed. “I miss her so much.”

  “I know. Me too.” Jack felt terrible. He hadn’t been there for Lewis. His friend was hurting—they all were—and Jack knew he should be giving Lewis the support he needed. “Let’s go get a drink afterwards. We haven’t done that in, fuck, so long.”

  “Thanks, but it’s okay. I know you’ve got your own things going on.” Lewis threw on a ghost of his old grin. “I’ll drag Fabes out. He needs to be socialised.”

  “Lewis Thomas on a bender is not the socialisation that kid needs. Look, let’s—”

  “Mr. Thomas?” The woman who’d shown Jack to his hearing appeared from a doorway further down. “They’re ready for you now.”

  “I guess someone got a birdie on the ninth hole,” Lewis muttered under his breath. “See you later, mate.”

  Jack sent him off with a nod and a “Good luck.”

  Ten minutes later, as Jack was pacing back and forth across the hallway, he was called back into his own hearing.

  The board were settling back into their seats, murmuring amongst themselves as they set out folders, cups of coffee, and phones. Except for the Quiet Man. He slouched in his chair, working his tongue over his teeth, and watched Jack as he came in and sat down.

  “Right.” Simmons cast an enquiring look at his fellows at the big desk. “Are we ready to continue?”

  The door they’d exited and entered through opened again and that same blonde woman came in. Simmons pushed his chair back slightly as she approached him. She leaned over to talk quietly to him, then handed him a small piece of folded paper. As she left, Simmons unfolded the note, read it, shrugged and handed it over to DIC Lund. The Office director in charge shook his head minutely, then passed it on to Chan.

  “We should tell him,” Chan said, not too loud but not so quiet Jack couldn’t hear her.

  “Why?” Simmons pulled his chair back into place. “It has absolutely no bearing on what we’re discussing here today.”

  Dismissed, the note was put aside and the committee turned their full attention back on Jack.

  Simmons shuffled through his papers. “Where were we?”

  “The Bahamas, sir,” Green supplied like the good little sycophant he was.

  “Yes, of course. I believe you travelled directly to the Netherlands after the assassination of a Syrian diplomatic attaché in The Hague. Where you remained while Ethan also killed the President of the International Criminal Court. A serious failure on your part, since you predicted Lucas Van Dijk would be the next victim.”

  “I didn’t predict anything.” Jack’s patience strained. “Van Dijk was on a list of potential targets and we were in the midst of assigning extra security to him. We were too slow. Ethan’s always managed to stay two or three steps ahead of us. This time, he managed to get into Van Dijk’s office, interrogate him, kill him, and get out, all without being seen.”

  Ethan had seen Jack, though. Couldn’t have missed him. It was all there on the CCTV footage they combed through after finding Van Dijk’s body. Jack had watched it over and over, replayed the moment in his head. Talking with the head of security of the ICC, less than five meters from the door to the President’s office. A team of four security guards marched past on their routine sweep of the floor. The final man in line had been Ethan fucking Blade. An arms-length of space. That was all that had been between them. Ethan had been in disguise but Jack hadn’t. He was there in his capacity as an ISO specialist, the best cover they had for getting into the ICC because it was real. There was absolutely no way Ethan would have missed Jack.

  Not that Jack had expected Ethan to throw himself into his arms then and there, but he had, foolishly, expected some acknowledgement. A note slipped into a pocket. A gesture caught on camera that Jack could interpret as “I’m okay,” or “I’m lost,” or “fuck off forever.”

  But there had been nothing. Just an immense frustration and a growing sense that perhaps Ethan didn’t want to be stopped. That he didn’t even want Jack’s help.

  Before Simmons could make a snide comment about any of that disastrous affair, Jack continued. “Van Dijk’s death was, however, a massive break for us. It allowed us to pinpoint Ethan’s next target. Hermann Jäger, a German national and heir to his family’s textile fortune. At first glance, he doesn’t seem to fit the bill for a Cabal gold star flunky. He’s not in control of his family money, he doesn’t hold an influential position and he’s not about to inherit a small European country. However, he does occupy his time flying to every corner of the world, supposedly to hobnob with the rich and famous and spark scandals with the daughters of dukes. He’s the perfect courier for the Cabal. A messenger boy no one would suspect.”

  Simmons smirked. “What made you so certain he was Ethan’s next target?”

  “The fact that Jäger had been seen in the company of Duchess Alessia Banzer of Lichtenstein about ten years ago. He was apparently comforting her over the brutal murder of her riding instructor, and rumoured lover, at the hands of one of her security personnel. Motive enough to take out a ticket on someone even ten years later.”

  “Supposition on your part only,” Simmons reminded him smugly.

  “Yes, but it was enough for Lewis, and through him, Director Tan, to authorise us to go after Jäger before Ethan got to him.”

  “And where did you find him?”

  Jack sighed. “In the worst place he could have been right then, considering everything that was happening here with the deputy prime minister.” Between that mess and Jack’s own feelings about his mother’s homeland, it was a wonder he ever agreed to follow the trail. “Jäger was in India. Mumbai, to be precise.”

  Mumbai in spring wasn’t the most pleasant place to be. At least on the waterfront the smog wasn’t so bad, given room to escape out across the ocean. However, it didn’t lessen the humidity or the heat any, and sweat rolled down the back of Ethan’s neck, soaking into the pale blue cotton of his kurta. Likewise, his lower face under the mask was rather warm. He didn’t risk taking it off, however, and not just because it helped disguise him. The air pollution alone was enough of a reason for the mask.

  He stood at the very tip of Nariman Point, camera hung around his neck and backpack dangling from one shoulder. The camera had photos of all the monuments of note in South Mumbai—the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, Flora Fountain, the Gateway of India. From the majestic arch, he’d walked across the island to here, where he took pictures of the curve of the land around the water with a telephoto lens.

  Around him, locals gave him weary side-eye, from the blond hair—a wig he could rapidly ditch if he needed to escape pursuit—to the camera and his scruffy sneakers. He was the very image of a tourist, right down to wearing the kurta over his cargo pants.

  Leaving the point, Ethan walked northwards, along Marine Drive, stopping to snap photos every no
w and then. The sun was sinking over the water, casting a dark gold tinge into his pictures as he made his way to the Oberoi hotel. The white façade and crisp shape of the buildings were muted and softened by the haze of smog, but it was clear this was an exclusive establishment. The hedges were perfectly manicured and the tall windows on the foyer were pristine even in the blanketing pollution. Audis and Mercedes pulled up at the entrance while Ethan watched from across the road. Richly dressed people slid into and out of the expensive cars, returning after a day of sightseeing or business, or going out for the evening. The valet staff flowed around the patrons like award winning ballroom dancers, never in anyone’s way and always exactly where they were needed.

  Then a familiar sound caught Ethan’s attention. A hoarse, gravelly engine that even in low gear conveyed a sense of imminent power and speed. The orange Lamborghini Huracán rolled into the driveway of the Oberoi and eased to an idle at the entrance. Heads turned to look at the low, sleek vehicle. Even at a high priced hotel like this, such a car stood out. The valet’s expression was openly lustful when he got out of the supercar, yet the Oberoi had some of the best service in the world and the man’s face was schooled into politeness when he handed the keys over to the waiting driver.

  Hermann Jäger didn’t look much older than the last time Ethan had seen him, although it had been nearly ten years. From a distance, it appeared as if his hair was still golden blond and thick, swept back from his strong brow and high cheekbones in perfect waves. Intense blue eyes that had lingered in Ethan’s memory for years were hidden by black sunglasses and his lean frame was stylishly immaculate in a tailored Savile Row suit.

  It had felt both surprising and inevitable when Van Dijk had spat out Jäger’s name moments before he died. The connection made perfect sense. Ethan had never been able to work out why he and Two had been sent to Duchess Alessia Banzer in Lichtenstein. It had made even less sense when, after it all went haywire, the lady would turn to a German playboy billionaire heir for help. The then thirty-year-old Jäger had swept in and proceeded to clean up the body, calm the hysterical duchess, and generally swan about the place as if he owned it.