by Anderson, S
He shakes his head. “No, they didn’t. No one else has made note that she even called in a distress.”
I feel like I’m about to throw up. I don’t know what any of that can possibly mean.
“There’s something else,” I say. “Something that happened after you left… well, two somethings.”
He motions for me to continue.
“First, Marko disappeared.”
He nods once, keeping his eyes trained on the road.
That’s weird. He’s been so fixated on Marko’s situation, pushing me to tell him what went down with the accident and how none of it added up. I expected him to be a little disturbed at least that the man went poof.
“Second,” I say with reluctance, “I was attacked by the same guy who drove us off the road.”
That gets a curious side-glance. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you get a good look at him? Anything identifiable?”
He looked exactly like Nikolai. I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. The more time that passes, the more I know I’m just going insane.
“Hard to say. It happened fast, and then Countess—”
“She was still there?”
I nod. “She shot him, but he got away. Then she booked it to a mission.”
“Aye, my suspicion was right then.”
“Suspicion?”
He doesn’t elaborate, too focused on his route now. We’ve crossed back over into Manhattan, and I note that he’s using a technique Nikolai taught us with circling and doubling back to hide our tracks.
Eventually, we end up in a quiet looking section of SoHo. He pulls into an underground garage and enters an access code.
“This isn’t a hotel,” I say.
“Aye.”
He drives to a marked stall as if he’s done it a thousand times.
“Do you have an apartment here?” I guess as we climb out of the truck.
He doesn’t respond, leading me to an elevator a few feet from where he parked. He selects floor fifteen and turns to me. I’ve never seen a more serious look on his face. “Shade, I’m about to let you in on something no one else knows.”
His knife is out spinning in his grip. The handles flip open and closed.
“You know I’m good with secrets,” I say.
“Aye.”
His focus is detached, his mind absent as he stares at the closed doors. I watch his knife, the way his hand won’t let it go, and the controlled flex of his wrist. He’s nervous.
“You know there’s nothing you can’t tell me, right?”
“You say that now.”
The elevator stops and the doors slide open with a hiss. I’d be lying if I said I’m not the least bit afraid as I follow him. We enter an industrial loft set up the second we’re off the elevator. It’s a huge, open space surrounded on three sides by windows. He secures a gate in front of the elevator, locking it in place with an Everlast.
My muscles twitch at the sight. I don’t like having my only clear exit locked.
We make eye contact, and he tosses me a ring of keys. “The smallest one unlocks the damn thing.”
I’m holding the gun he gave me downstairs and the keys awkwardly, wishing like hell the CIA believed in providing clothes with pockets.
He’s still flipping his knife. He shifts his feet, scanning his eyes around anxiously. So I do the same. The place isn’t as cold and empty as most industrials feel. Rugs of all shapes, sizes, and colors cover the concrete floor. He’s splashed paint on the walls under the windows and along the few columns spread throughout the room—a dark amber color that makes the place feel warm. He’s sectioned off pieces to be 'rooms', though there are no walls between them. I see his kitchen in the far corner, and we’re standing in the living room. He’s mounted a 52-inch plasma on the wall.
I give him a look, and he shrugs. “I like my toys.”
I don’t see anything for him to be worried about. He’s got a life, a home. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. It is a vulnerability that Nikolai warned us to not take on lightly. If you have a base then you have a routine. If you have a routine, you can be followed, watched, and eliminated.
He’s offering me a hell of a lot of trust by showing me this space.
I turn to ask what gives when I catch sight of the 'bedroom' area of the loft. His bed is huge, possibly bigger than a king size. That’s not what grabs my attention, though.
Holy shit.
“Marko?” I say, running to bed.
He’s unconscious, uncovered from the chest up, and his skin is cold and clammy to the touch, but it’s him.
I’m relieved in some way I don’t understand. I haven’t let myself really worry that he was gone. Disassociation is something I picked up after I lost Nikolai. I didn’t let myself really feel anything for Marko’s condition or his disappearance.
I couldn’t.
But somewhere in me, I did feel it, and that place eases now as I look at his beautiful face.
“Gave me scare, punk,” I whisper, kissing his cheek. “Don’t do that again.”
I look to Claymore, and he’s still standing in the living room, flipping his knife. If it weren’t for the hand moving his blade round and round, I’d think he’d turned to stone. “How did he get here?”
Then I get it. He’s the one who took him from the hospital.
“Why did you kidnap him?” I ask, checking Marko's vitals. His pulse is thready, his breathing weak, but he’s alive. “You know he was shot a few nights ago, right? You could have killed him!”
A big bandage covers his right shoulder and part of his arm. Blood’s soaked through the gauze. He’s got another gash in his abdomen. Its bandage is gone, revealing the stitches. I remember the glass, remember when he was cut.
“He needs a doctor,” I say.
Claymore remains frozen with his twirling knife.
“MacNeal,” I shout. “What the hell are you doing with him? He could die!”
“He won’t,” Claymore finally says. He flips the knife out, tucking it back into the handles and returning it to his pocket. He doesn’t move any closer, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “It was a bitch of a run getting him out, but he was okay, awake.”
“Well, he’s knocked out and barely hanging in now.”
Claymore shakes his head. “No, he’s fine. I’ve checked him. He just got overworked from the running.”
Running? Marko ran somewhere?
“When did you get an MD?” I ask.
“I have basic field medical training,” he says, glaring at me.
I laugh. “The same basic field medical training I have, and I can’t work band aid properly most days.”
“He’s fine.”
“You need to get some help—”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Someone is already on the way to retrieve him.”
Marko moves his head so he’s facing me. His eyes are closed. I know he’s not aware of anything going on.
“Who’s coming to get him?”
“His mum.”
I’m confused as hell, not even sure where to begin. I go back to the standby I refuse to drop. “Why did you take him?”
“It didn’t add up,” he repeats. “I was confused as to why you were attacked and then double confused that Ace was in town.”
“Are we catching a rerun or can we skip to the end of this conversation we just had?”
He gives me a murderous look. “Did you know Ace didn’t find you?”
“You told me he did.”
“No, I played along with Ace’s explanation of how you were found, but I read the report. You were found by EMPs almost a mile away from where Ace was looking.”
That’s easy enough to explain. “So he was looking where my coordinates were.”
“No,” he says with a heavy sigh. He looks like he’s about to tell me Santa Claus isn’t real. “Your coordinates would have taken us to the bridge. He wasn’t looking at the br
idge. He was looking at the actual crash site. He was looking for the car.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Wouldn’t it be logical to find me at the car?”
“How did he know where to look?”
I run my brief examination of the crash site through my mind. There were skid marks on the road, torn up dirt at the ledge, and a shit ton of crime scene tape, but that was after the fact. The skid marks and torn up dirt wouldn’t have been dead giveaways.
I’m still missing why he’s so suspicious. “Explain your thought process to me.”
“I don’t think Marko was the target.”
Again his familiarity with Marko unbalances me for a second. I’m not used to sharing Marko with anyone. It’s odd that my closest friend has known him, too, and I had no idea.
“Well, Marko was the only public figure in the car.”
“Aye,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure they were after the secret one.”
I flinch. “Me?”
“Aye.”
Aye. I hate that word. He makes me want to pull his tongue out every time he says it. It’s filled with more than just agreement. It’s like he’s congratulating me on finally catching up.
“More explanation, MacNeal.”
“I planned on sticking around, keeping watch over both of you, but then Justice showed up with the giant stick up his ass.”
“Don’t remind me,” I say. “So you disregarded his order?”
“Obviously,” he says with a smirk. I think it’s meant to break the tension, but I only feel further unstable. These insights he’s giving me are termites, eating away at the ground I need to stand on. “I made a split decision. I needed to figure out if you or he was the target. So while you got your head shrunk, I stole myself a hot Russian diplomat.”
I try not to react to the word 'hot'. I’ve always known Claymore is a pretty open person when it comes to sex. He’s never come right out and said it, but I’m not blind. And I know even a blind man would call Marko Veltriv hot.
“And left me defenseless for a possible fight?”
“You lived.”
I flip him off.
That breaks some of the heavy air between us. He unwinds his arms and slips his hands in his pockets, turning fully toward me.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, resting my hand on Marko’s leg. It moves slightly under my touch. I feel like an idiot for wanting to celebrate the tiny movement.
“And my suspicion was correct. You were attacked.”
“Yeah, but only because idiot here was missing.”
“No, I think if he were the target, I would have been tracked. You’re just the bodyguard. There’s no point in killing you.”
“I’m a witness,” I say.
“True, but one who already gave a testimony. Guys like that who want to shut you up make sure they do it before anyone finds your body. You know that. You do that.”
I do. It’s my gift. Ending life.
“Okay, so I was the target… why?”
“I have a theory.”
I rest my elbows on my knees. “Spill.”
“Prizrak,” he says, mangling the Russian pronunciation with his Scottish accent.
“What attacked Countess? How is it even related?”
“I’ve heard of the ghost before.”
I laugh. It’s not humorous. It’s frustration. I drop my face in my hands and scrub hard. “We work in espionage. At one point or another, we’re all called ghosts.”
“Aye.”
Aye. I consider taking my shoe off to throw at him.
“You’re tired,” he says, motioning toward the other side of the bed. “Get some sleep.”
“You gonna kill me when I close my eyes?”
I’m only half joking. I’ve only ever trusted one person with my unconsciousness.
And I’m dreaming up that guy killing me now, too.
“Scott’s honor, you’ll live to kill another day.”
Scott’s honor. His little joke. He and Ace used to call me the Girl Scout in basic. He came up with his own version of scout’s honor to tease me.
I’m too tired to care if he is planning my demise. I retrieve the gun and the keys from the bed, dropping them on the nightstand. Marko is lying in the dead center of the giant bed, but there’s plenty of room on either side of him. I lie down on top of the covers, fully dressed down to my boots.
Claymore doesn’t say boo about it. I hear his muffled steps as he moves away from the bedroom. A second later, I hear subdued noise from the television clicking on. He’s watching some kind of game show. I can tell from the constant cheering and clapping.
I roll onto my side, staring at Marko. This isn’t the first time I’ve watched him sleep. He’s kind of like a cat. He prowls around, gets his kicks, and then naps until his next hankering. I run a finger along the curve of his cheek. He’s got a few scrapes, but they’ll heal. If a scar does form, it’ll fade quickly.
Or he’ll pay a plastic surgeon to fix it immediately.
I’m confused. I used to think I’d reach a point in my life when I didn’t feel like this. When I had answers for everything. But the older I get, the more stuff doesn’t make sense to me.
I’ve never promised Marko anything, and likewise from him to me. We have fun. We let loose. We help each other escape whatever it is in our souls that threatens to keep us trapped. But we don’t owe each other anything. I wonder if I should feel guilty for not obsessing over his whereabouts half as much as I have over whether Nikolai is alive or not.
Then I think about Nick… I’m a heartless bitch.
I rest my cheek on the back of my hand and stare at Marko until my eyelids are heavy and sleep pulls me under.
I dream about panic and fear.
I dream about failure.
I dream about ghosts.
Beware the Daeva, young one…
Not all ghosts are dead.
“Shade!”
Claymore’s shout wakes me up.
I’m disoriented for a second. That sleep was deeper than I expected. The clock on the nightstand tells me I’ve only been asleep for about an hour.
I’ll take it.
I leave Marko to his uninterrupted slumber and follow Claymore’s bellow. He’s sitting on the sofa in the living room area, still watching TV. “What?”
He points to the plasma. CNN is reporting on special assignment in Moscow, Russia. A building is in flames, people running in every direction with terror on their faces. That’s not what troubles me. A face is plastered on the screen—Countess.
Not good.
“They made her?”
“Aye. That breaks every protocol of our cover. The only one with the authority to do that is—”
“The council.” The couch is a few feet in front of me, and I barely make it there in time before I fall on my ass. “Why?”
“They’re saying she’s dead,” he explains. “She was found at the scene. They’re blaming the fire on her.”
I calculate the hours in my head. Countess wouldn’t have even been able to travel to Moscow by now if she was on a plane the minute she left my hospital room. She couldn’t have possibly gotten there earlier and caused all that. Not to mention the fact that she had sent a distress hours ago. She wasn’t on a plane when she did that.
“She wasn’t there,” I say.
“I know.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t—”
He’s interrupted by a sound from the bed. I’d recognize that groan anywhere. Marko is waking up.
Claymore is on his feet in a split second, rushing to the bedroom. He plants one knee on the bed, keeping one foot on the floor as he leans over to check on Marko.
I’m not usually one for revelations. I look at a cabinet, and I see every separate piece that fits together to make it. I know every bolt, screw, slab of wood, and piece of glass that adds together for the finished product. Generally, people are no different. I see the faca
des they put off. I see the hair pieces and the pushup bras. I hear the bravado that hides insecurities and the silence that masks strengths. I’m a good judge of character.
And though I knew Claymore had a preference for men, I never once considered the fact that we might be fucking the same guy.
His face softens, his hand skimming Marko’s cheek with tenderness I’ve never seen him possess. “Hey.”
Marko tries to stretch and hisses. “Forgot about that.”
His voice is weak and rough, like he hasn’t used it in years. Something inside of me eases at the sound of it, though.
“Don’t try to move,” Claymore says. “You’re okay. I got you.”
I got you.
He used to tell me that in basic. Don’t worry about it. I got you.
I can’t help the stupid grin plastered on my face. I’m being a voyeur. I’m not apologetic about it. It’s a numbered amount of moments in my life anymore that are this touching and sweet. Even though it’s not really my moment, I’m going to enjoy it.
Marko has this lazy look on his face that’s doing things to my insides. I can see it’s doing the same to Claymore’s from the way his lips part.
“You sure do,” Marko says, tugging the front of Claymore’s shirt until he tips forward and lands on him. Their lips meet, and I’m forced to bite mine before I make a noise.
Claymore’s uncomfortable, that’s plain to see. I know he feels my eyes on them, and I want to assure him it’s all good. I’ve always known Marko had other lovers. It doesn’t bother me at all to know he’s one of them.
The Russian idiot finally lets him go, humming as Claymore pulls away. He’s keeping his eyes fixed on Marko.
Is that a blush I see on his cheeks?
“I’ve missed that tongue,” Marko says. His eyes close, and he inhales so loud I can hear it from where I sit. He does it again, and again. His brow scrunches as he opens his eyes.
“Why do you smell like Penelope?”
My turn to blush. I didn’t realize I had that strong of a signature stink.
Claymore looks straight at me, and Marko follows his line of sight. His face splits into a wide grin when he sees me.
“Whatever drugs they have me on are fucking awesome. I’ve always wanted to do a three-way with you two.”
Claymore starts choking on air, and I jump to my feet. “Okay, that’s not going to happen,” I say, shaking my head when Marko nods his. “No. Never. I don’t ever want to see MacNeal naked… again.”