by Hank Edwards
Pearce pulled on the door handle, but it remained in place. He tugged again, harder, but the door remained shut. Was it stuck, or had someone jammed it from the other side?
His heart pounded, and several terrible thoughts spread through him like cold waves. Mark was in trouble. Mark would be hurt, or worse. Mark was just getting back to himself after Barbados, and now he'd regress.
"No," Pearce said and braced a foot against the wall as he pulled with all of his might.
The door didn't move.
From the main room of the bar, Pearce heard Mark's voice rising as he talked to someone, followed by two gunshots in rapid succession.
"NO!" Pearce screamed and threw his shoulder against the door.
39
Mark took a step back and moved his hand still holding the rusty paring knife behind him. Morgan's hair was long and pulled back into a ponytail. He was thinner than Mark remembered from their brief encounter in the abandoned house so many months ago. The weight loss was apparent in his gaunt face, which made the deep acne scars even more prominent, especially on the right side, which faced the lantern.
His eyes were very blue, like the sky on a clear subzero winter day.
"You don't look happy to see me," Morgan said. The barrel of the gun looked massive, like the entrance to a tunnel bored into a mountainside.
"Imagine that," Mark managed to respond, and was glad to hear his voice didn't shake even though it felt like every one of his muscles—hell, even his internal organs—was trembling.
"I'm disappointed," Morgan said. "After all, you've been looking for me for so long now." He flashed a chilly smile. "By the way, would you mind dropping the knife in your hand? I'm a little behind on my tetanus vaccinations. Wouldn't want me to get lockjaw, now would you?"
Mark hesitated.
Morgan let out a heavy breath of impatience. He aimed the gun at Calvin who remained sitting in the chair, his eyes wide and staring blankly back.
"How about now?" Morgan asked. "Does this convince you?"
Mark regretfully tossed the knife aside, trying to track its position from the clatter it made upon landing on the floor.
"Very good." Morgan shifted the gun to point at Mark once more. "I see you and Aaron got my messages."
"You mean the notes you left in the hands of your murder victims?" Mark asked.
"One way to look at it," Morgan replied. "I knew I'd never be able to get you two apart there in DC, so I thought I'd lure him back here. And look, you trotted right on after him, like a happy little husband."
"What's your goal to all of this, Morgan?" Mark asked, ignoring every impulse to run or fight. He just needed to keep Morgan talking long enough for Pearce to return.
"My goal is to see the two of you sprawled out beside each other with bullet holes in your foreheads." Morgan smiled. "But first, I'll take care of a tiny loose end."
He lowered the gun and fired twice, putting two bullets in the back of Manny's head. Manny's hand twitched and then lay still.
"No!" Mark shouted.
Calvin screamed and got out of the chair so fast he knocked it over backward. Morgan raised the gun, taking aim at Calvin's back as he ran toward the bar.
Instinct took over. Mark's muscles knew the defensive moves from the exercise DVD and the classes he and Pearce had taken. The rhythm of the moves and their intensity carried him forward. He struck out at Morgan with his fists, the pain of his broken finger something off in the distance that he was able to put out of his mind. A hard kick directed at the side of Morgan's knee made him curse and crumple to the floor. Even as he fell, Morgan still managed to fire off a shot.
A splash of blood erupted on Calvin's shoulder as he fled, distressingly bright in the cold white lantern light. Calvin cried out, stumbled, and fell hard to the floor.
The distraction of Calvin being shot had provided enough time for Morgan to recover from Mark's attack, and he lifted the gun. Mark dove aside, hearing the bang of the gun behind him and waiting to feel the burning punch of the bullet. Apparently he'd moved fast enough because the feeling never came. He landed on his belly on the dirty floor and slid across it, glasses miraculously still on his face and his arms outstretched, fingers groping for the knife he'd been forced to toss aside.
"Drop it, Morgan!" Pearce's voice boomed through the bar, filling Mark with relief. It was over.
His relief was short-lived as he heard the sound of someone frantically crawling toward him. He turned just in time to see Morgan reach for him, and though he tried to get away, it was too late. Morgan grabbed hold of him and slid around behind. Mark winced at the hard press of the gun against his temple, and then he looked up at Pearce. In the white light of the lantern, Pearce's face lay half in shadow, but what Mark could see of it sent fear coursing through him. Pearce's gaze was hard and cold as he stared at Morgan over Mark's shoulder.
"Let him go," Pearce said. "Now."
"Seems like old times, doesn't it, Aaron?" Morgan's breath was hot against Mark's ear and neck. "Just like Hostage Negotiations class. Remember how I used to talk you out of killing all those poor innocent classmates of ours?"
Mark thought back to the house in Detroit, how Morgan had held him captive in just this manner. Mark had escaped that time by jabbing a splintered chair leg into Morgan's gut. Trouble was, he didn't have that advantage here. He sat on the floor, Morgan half lying, half sitting behind him, the gun tight against his head.
"It's over, Morgan," Pearce said. "You and I both know it."
"Oh, it's not over, Aaron," Morgan said with a horrible, humorless laugh. "What we've got between us will never, ever be fucking over. Even if you manage to kill me, you know I'll still live inside your head. You'll hear my voice whisper to you at night when you're feeling most alone. And it'll be my voice that berates you when you fuck something up. You know it, and I know it. And this one—" Morgan pressed the gun harder against Mark's skull, making him wince and pushing his head to the side a bit. "He's going to pay the ultimate price for getting to know you."
Mark dropped his gaze from Pearce's face and looked around the floor. Just a few inches away he saw the knife lying amid the debris. He looked back at Pearce and very slowly slid his hand toward it.
"Let. Him. Go." Pearce said. "I'm not going to kill you if you just let him go. You'll be locked up and invited to speak with all the behavioral science team at the Bureau. I know how much you love to talk, especially about yourself. Doesn't that sound better than a bullet in your head?"
"Oh, Aaron," Morgan replied with a chuckle. "You sweet talker. You think I'm going to fall for that old line? I know the cold depths of the heart that beats within your chest. I know the dark urges that sometimes rise up within you and which you're constantly fighting back."
Mark paused for just a moment as he reached for the knife. Dark urges? What kinds of dark urges did Pearce have to fight back? Was this just Morgan talking shit, or was there something honest layered in there?
"You're a terrible liar," Pearce said. "Come on, let's end this. I can hear more agents outside already. They're going to come in here, and you'll be way outnumbered. There's nowhere for you to go."
Morgan let out a long, hissing breath that left Mark's neck and the skin behind his ear damp. The click of the gun's hammer being pulled back pushed Mark into action. In a long, sweeping movement, he grabbed the knife in his left hand and swung his arm to the side and behind him. He felt the muscles in his shoulder and back scream in protest at the position of his body and the frantic, awkward movement.
The thump of his tightly closed fist striking Morgan in the side reverberated up his arm and into his shoulder. The hot splash of blood across his hand felt like a kind of reward, and coupled with the scream that set his right ear buzzing, Mark knew he'd struck a good blow. Morgan's arm around his neck loosened enough for him to wrench himself free. Mark dropped flat to the floor as a single gunshot boomed inside the bar.
40
Pearce resisted watching Mark
slowly reach for something on the floor. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on what he could see of Morgan's face over Mark's shoulder. It was too close for him to take a shot. He needed to keep Morgan talking, let Mark do what he needed to do to give them a chance. All he needed was a second, that was all.
And then Morgan had brought up his dark urges. Pearce had seen Mark hesitate at that, his hand stopping and his expression changing to surprise and concern as he looked across the bar at him.
Fucking Morgan. Pearce felt like he'd been dealing with Robert Morgan all of his adult life. Not always in person, but the emotional traps Morgan had set up inside Pearce's mind were still there and active. He wasn't about to let Morgan take the one person in the world Pearce actually needed. But to stop that from happening, both he and Mark needed to focus. He had to keep Morgan talking while he reassured Mark.
"You're a terrible liar," Pearce said, and touched on the backup that had to have arrived by now, all of it to keep Morgan's attention so he'd remain unaware of Mark's movements.
But then Morgan had pulled back the gun's hammer. That move, along with the glimpse of the wickedly gleeful expression on Morgan's face, put Pearce's heart in his throat. He couldn't find the words to talk him out of it, to keep him from putting a bullet through Mark's head, destroying that amazing, complicated brain, and taking Mark from him forever.
Mark moved fast. He twisted his arm around behind him in a wide arc. The glee on Morgan's face morphed to pain, and he jerked. His arm around Mark's neck loosened. The gun pulled away from Mark's head. Mark fell flat on the floor, leaving Morgan open, and Pearce didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger.
A red spot erupted on the left side of Morgan's forehead. His head snapped back, and he sat there for a moment with a surprised expression. His face went slack and fell backward. It seemed to take a long time for him to fall flat on his back, arms out to either side. Pearce heard the gun in Morgan's hand thump against the floor.
"Mark!"
Pearce kept his gun on Morgan as he moved to stand above him. He kicked the gun from Morgan's hand, then turned and dropped to one knee beside Mark to help him up. There was blood on Mark's hand, and Pearce felt a tremor of fear.
"You're bleeding."
"It's not mine," Mark replied. "I stabbed him."
Pearce put his hands on either side of Mark's face and looked into his eyes. "Are you okay? Tell me you're okay."
Mark's shaky smile sent relief rushing through him. "I'm okay," Mark said. "I am. I'm okay."
"FBI!" someone shouted from the hallway.
"I love you," Pearce said, and kissed him softly on the lips. "I love you."
"I love you, too," Mark said.
"Ready?" Pearce asked. "It's about to get even crazier."
"Crazier than living with you?" Mark grinned. "I doubt that."
"Smartass," Pearce said. He held his hands up and shouted over his shoulder. "This is Special Agent Aaron Pearce! I have secured the suspect."
A number of agents entered the bar. One agent checked Manny's pulse, then shook her head. A few more approached Pearce and Mark.
"Are you injured?" the man asked.
"We have two injured," Pearce said as he got to his feet and reached down to help Mark stand. "He will need some attention, but there's an agent down in the bathroom, and Calvin is…?" He looked around. "Where'd he go?"
"Oh no," Mark said, his face going pale. "Morgan shot him!"
Mark hurried across the room, and Pearce followed. Calvin lay sprawled on his belly, half hidden behind the bar. They turned him over, and Pearce checked for a pulse, nodding to Mark when he found it.
"It's weak, but he's alive."
"Thank God."
Paramedics arrived, and Pearce stepped back, pulling Mark with him to give them room to work on Calvin. From the hallway, he heard another agent shout a curse about the smell in the bathroom and couldn't hold back the chuckle.
The chuckle felt good, even standing in the midst of such confusion and death. He allowed himself to feel the full extent of it, savoring it. It was over, all of it. Morgan was dead. His trail of abuse and death was done. Something within Pearce had shifted, and he liked how it felt.
"What's up?" Mark asked.
"Just letting off some adrenaline, I think," Pearce said.
Mark nodded. "I get it." He looked away, then back again. Leaning in, he lowered his voice. "We're going to talk about those dark urges of yours."
Pearce rolled his eyes. "You're going to believe anything that psychopath said?"
"I have an open mind."
Pearce nodded. "We'll talk. I promise."
Agent Bata approached and looked at each of them in turn, then at the bodies of Robert Morgan and Manny. "I assume you can succinctly explain all of this?"
"I'll do my best, sir," Pearce replied.
"I'm sure you will. Good work closing this case." He looked at Mark. "Both of you."
Bata walked away, and Pearce frowned down at Mark. "Don't get any ideas. You're not joining the Bureau."
"Why not?" Mark waved toward Bata. "You heard him. That was practically an invitation. He may as well have handed me a job application."
"That's not really how it works."
"Maybe not for you, but I think Bata would make an exception for me." Mark shrugged, then winced.
"What is it?" Pearce's good humor changed quickly. "You're hurt?"
"Pulled a muscle I think when I reached around to stab him." Mark held up his right hand to show his little finger jutting off at an odd angle. "And I forgot about this, too."
"Ouch. All right, come on, let's find a medic." He put a hand on Mark's shoulder, squeezed a couple of times, and directed him toward the hallway and the exit.
41
It was late by the time they returned to the hotel, and Mark was pretty much dead on his feet. He wordlessly followed Pearce from the parking structure situated behind the hotel and into the side doors. The elevator seemed to take forever to arrive and twice as long to carry them to their floor. He was too exhausted to even try to put together a sentence, and he knew Pearce had to be feeling the same way if not worse. They leaned against opposite walls of the elevator, staring at the numbers above the door. When they reached their floor, Mark led the way down the hall to their room where it took him five attempts to get his key card to work.
"Fucking key cards," Pearce grumbled as he trailed Mark into the room.
Mark braced himself on the wall and kicked off his shoes, watching Pearce hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle before closing and bolting the door.
"I need a shower," Pearce mumbled. "I feel gross."
"Me, too," Mark said, though he just wanted to fall into bed.
Pearce looked at him. "This is going to sound like foreplay, but that's not how it's intended, okay?"
Mark grinned as he carefully pulled his right hand with the splinted little finger through the sleeve of his jacket. "Don't worry. I couldn't get hard if I wanted to."
"If I was a lesser man, I'd be offended," Pearce said. "Anyway, I propose we shower together just to avoid one of us falling asleep in there and keeling over."
"Showering together for safety." Mark nodded. "I like it."
They lingered under the hot water, each of them using copious amounts of bodywash to sluice away the dirt and odors. The heat and pressure of the water helped ease a bit of muscle tightness as well. Despite each of their protests about foreplay, Mark was not surprised to find he did get hard, especially when Pearce ran his lathered hands around and along his cock. The insistent poke of Pearce's erection against Mark's ass proved he might not be as exhausted as he claimed.
After the shower, they dried off and stood side by side to brush their teeth. At the window, Mark pulled the heavy blackout curtains before they both fell naked into bed. Pearce gathered Mark close, strong arms wrapped tight around him, and kissed the side of his neck.
"I love you," Pearce whispered into his ear.
"I lov
e you, too," Mark said through a yawn.
And then sleep took him down into a dark, dreamless hole.
When he awoke, Mark felt disoriented. He had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there. It took several moments for everything to come back to him, and even then, he had to look at the metal splint on his broken finger to convince himself it had really happened.
A sense of relief went through him like a wave at the sudden realization that Robert Morgan was dead. It was over. Not just this case but all of it. They had nothing more to fear from Morgan ever again.
He rolled onto his opposite side. Pearce lay on his back, lips slightly parted as he breathed deeply. Mark watched him for a time, happy to see his face so relaxed. Maybe now they could both get past not only Barbados but all the bullshit that Robert Morgan had put them through. It was time for both of them to move on.
Mark slowly got out of bed so as not to wake Pearce, then headed for the bathroom to pee. Afterward, he brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face. When he left the bathroom, he paused to do some stretches in the short entryway before returning to bed where he found Pearce had awakened and lay on his side watching him.
"Hi there," Mark said, sliding into bed beside him. "I hope I didn't wake you."
Pearce's voice was scratchy when he replied. "You didn't."
Mark gave him a quick kiss. "Sleep well?"
Pearce covered his mouth through a massive yawn before saying, "Like a fucking rock at the bottom of the ocean inside an old treasure chest from a shipwreck centuries ago."
Mark's laugh surprised him and, it seemed, Pearce as well. It proved infectious, and soon both of them were laughing way too hard. Their laughter faded out to snickers and ended with heavy sighs. Pearce threw the covers aside and stomped off to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth. When he returned to bed, he pulled Mark up next to him and gave him a soft kiss.
"How about you?" Pearce asked. "Did you sleep okay?"