by Abigail Roux
Brandt finally caught him and threw him to the ground in a move Carl was
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pretty sure came straight from wrestling on television, and he beat out the flames with his hands as they all looked on impassively.
Carl looked around at the other three men and smiled at the fact that not one
of them had moved to help. Either they were all slightly sadistic, or they trusted Brandt to handle the situation. Carl was pleased to realize that the coherency they needed to work as a team was already forming. Perhaps they’d get out of this place sooner than the allotted two weeks after all.
They gathered around in the smoky kitchen to look down at Remy and
Brandt, who were both on the floor breathing heavily, their clothing slightly
blackened and singed in places. Thiago went to the window over the sink and fought with it, trying to open it. Nikolaus turned and headed back into the living room after rolling his eyes.
“Tsk, tsk,” Shawn offered in disappointment as he looked down at Brandt.
Carl was briefly reminded of being scolded as a boy when he was naughty.
“Wasn’t me, mate,” Brandt responded in amusement.
“Sorry,” Remy said as he shook the now crusty mitt from his hand and sat up
slowly. “Didn’t know it would do that exactly.” Carl put out a hand to help one of them up, and Brandt grasped it firmly and pulled himself to his feet.
“Thanks, Trigger,” he said softly.
“Uh huh. You all right?” Carl asked automatically.
“Mmm,” Brandt practically purred. “Was a nice flare up,” he answered as he
looked at the stove wistfully. Carl gave him a wary glance and turned to Shawn, who was helping Remy carefully to his feet.
“Your back okay?” the man asked quietly.
“Yes,” Remy answered curtly. “Like a fucking trip to the chiropractor.”
Before they could question why Remy’s back wouldn’t be okay, Nikolaus’s
voice called out uncertainly from the other room.
“Gentlemen? The list. It’s up.”
They moved quickly into the other room, curious about the reason for
Nikolaus’s strained tone of voice.
“What have we got then?” Shawn asked as he leaned over Nikolaus’s
shoulder. Nikolaus sat back and gestured to the screen.
“We’ve got eleven agents at the top of the list, each of whom has worked
with every single agent that is known to have turned in the past year,” Nikolaus told them for the benefit of those who couldn’t see the screen clearly. “We’re each on it.”
“What?” Remy asked in shock as he squeezed in between Carl and Thiago to
see the screen. “That can’t be a coincidence,” he mumbled as if he were talking to
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himself.
“See those markers there?” Nikolaus asked as he pointed to a row on the
screen with three red symbols in it. “Those indicate a deceased agent. The green ones indicate an agent on an active mission. You’ll notice none of us have a green
indicator.”
“They don’t want anyone knowing we’re out here,” Shawn murmured with a
nod.
“So that just leaves the two suspects?” Carl suggested hopefully.
“No. That leaves the eleven,” Thiago said grimly.
“Surely you don’t still suspect one of us?” Nikolaus asked him in
exasperation. Thiago’s jaw clenched and he had the good grace to look slightly
ashamed. Remy stared at him intently, and Carl watched in fascination as the younger man squared his shoulders in front of Thiago and stood almost nose-to-nose with him.
“If one of us was a double agent,” he said in a smooth, icy voice, “don’t you
reckon you’d be dead by now?”
“Dixie,” Shawn chastised in a soft voice. Again, Carl marveled at the change
in the young Cajun and the control Shawn exerted over him when he seemed about to snap. Remy immediately relaxed and any hint of the dangerous man Carl had just
caught a glimpse of was gone.
Remy looked Thiago over calmly one last time before returning to his former
position, leaning over Nikolaus’s other shoulder and looking intently at the screen.
“We can’t assume that the dead agents are out of the picture,” he said softly.
“If it were me I would have faked my death in order to throw people off.”
Carl had to agree with that logic. He didn’t like to think of the possibility
that one of these five men was the man they’d been sent to kill, and he decided he would follow Remy’s logic on that matter as well. If the Archer were among them,
surely he would have tried to rid himself of their presence by now.
“Do any of you know of these other five?” Nikolaus asked as he eliminated
their own names from the list, leaving the names and designators of the other five agents on the screen.
“McTiernan,” Shawn breathed in disbelief. The red marker beside the name
glared back at them, and Carl’s heart hurt for the man. If Sir John McTiernan really was dead, then Shawn had just learned of the loss of his mentor. Carl saw Remy give Shawn a worried glance before looking closely at the list once more.
“I have a contact who worked with Kincaid in Central America on a job,”
Thiago offered as he pointed at one of the names. “Gray Kincaid. He’s a Class One as well. Based around the Gulf Coast, I think. Florida and the Caribbean. Very good at what he does. One of the best in the Organization, from what my man told me.”
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“Never heard of him,” Remy muttered almost sulkily, as if he were insulted
that someone else might be one of the best.
“Evan Washburn works out of Tokyo mostly,” Brandt offered after a
moment. “Worked, that is,” he added, taking note of the red marker beside that name as well. “He was a class 10 sub something or other. Did audio stuff.”
“Sub Five,” Nikolaus provided with a nod.
“Yeah, that,” Brandt agreed in a tone that clearly said he didn’t care.
“Always bitching about the decibel level of the explosions.”
“Fletcher Barclay is a cleaner,” Shawn told them in a slightly gruff voice as
the others studied Brandt warily for any signs of impending madness. None came,
though, and Shawn went on. “Class Three. He works in Scotland and Ireland mostly.”
“He moonlights as a hitter too,” Carl supplied absently. Shawn looked at him
curiously and Carl smiled back abashedly. “We made a mess of it in Glasgow last
winter,” he said by way of explanation for his association with the cleaner. “A right massacre. Needed the services of a sweeper.”
“Why would a cleaner moonlight as a hit man?” Nikolaus asked as he tapped
a pen nervously against the arm of his chair.
“I never asked,” Carl responded vaguely. “I couldn’t hardly understand what
the bloke was saying most of the time.”
“Lydia Ashton,” Remy provided absently as he pointed at the screen.
Nikolaus swatted his hand away before his finger could touch it, and Remy looked at him with a wounded expression.
“No touching,” Nikolaus said sternly as he gestured toward the charred
remnants of the oven mitt on Remy’s hand. Remy looked down at his blackened
fingers and wiped them on his jeans absently as he refocused his attention on the screen.
“Lydia’s a piece of work. A real bonne fille. She’s one of those,” Remy
looked back and smirked at Carl, “sexy women in the skimpy red dresses Carl is so fond of,” he fi
nished. “Class Six, that is. I can’t believe someone could have gotten to her,” he added almost sadly as he gestured at the red designator by her name.
“Where was she based?” Thiago asked.
“North America. Atlantic seaboard, for the most part, around D.C. Used her
on a political assignment once.”
“You actually met a mark you couldn’t seduce?” Shawn asked in mocking
amusement.
“Long story,” Remy mumbled.
“Hasn’t it been confirmed that the Archer is a man?” Nikolaus asked
curiously.
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“Nothing’s been confirmed until we confirm it,” Thiago said authoritatively.
They had to give him that at least, and Carl was more than willing to make the
concession. He wasn’t fond of the idea of going on information provided by a
questionable source, and there was no doubting the Organization’s files were
questionable. The Archer had already proven himself a clever opponent; Carl had
little doubt that the man could hack into their files just as easily as Nikolaus did.
“This is getting us nowhere,” Brandt said irritably. “Who’s to say the Archer
actually worked with all the agents he’s turned? Maybe he’s networking.”
“Networking?” Carl snorted in amusement, but he took Brandt’s point all the
same. It was entirely possible the Archer had turned only one or two agents, then let it spread like a disease throughout the Organization. Brandt nodded, and Carl sighed in frustration.
“So basically, we’ve got nothing to go on that’s concrete?” Carl asserted, not
really expecting an answer.
“Well,” Nikolaus said defensively, but he couldn’t come up with a response.
Carl let his shoulders sag. “Who’s got watch tonight?” he asked, giving up
the hunt, for the moment, to exhaustion.
“I do,” Remy said absently as he pointed for Nikolaus to return to the screen
with the Archer’s last message on it.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Shawn corrected commandingly. Remy straightened and
looked at the man defiantly. Carl wondered if perhaps he should back away so as not to be caught in a spat. But Shawn’s pose wasn’t threatening, and he smiled at the younger man rather than puffing up combatively. “You didn’t sleep last night,” he reminded Remy. “I’ll take watch.”
“You didn’t sleep, either,” Brandt observed with amusement.
“I’ll take watch,” Thiago muttered irritably. Carl watched him stalk over to
the couch and take hold of Remy’s blanket. “I’m a little wired anyway,” he huffed as he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. Carl watched him curiously as he went about stoking the fire and then made himself comfortable on the couch.
“Who’s got Spark Duty?” Carl asked in amusement as he tore his eyes away
from Thiago to look at Brandt curiously.
“Go get your sheepskin, Trigger,” Brandt ordered with a cheeky grin.
“We’re just leaving this?” Remy asked in disbelief as he gestured at the
screen that once again displayed the message from the Archer.
“There’s nothing for it tonight,” Shawn answered with a shrug.
Nikolaus slid out of his chair and trudged over to the couch to flop down
beside Thiago and stare into the fire. Obviously computers were more exhausting than Carl thought they were.
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Brandt shrugged and grabbed Carl’s arm, yanking him toward the hallway
and pulling him close to whisper in his ear.
“I need a word with you, Trigger,” he said softly.
Carl wondered how serious Brandt was about being treated with sex every
night for being good, as Shawn had put it, and thought how ridiculous it was for the man to expect it. But then again, Brandt was certifiable in Carl’s opinion, and he certainly didn’t want him upset. It wasn’t like it was all that great a sacrifice, right?
“What, uh….”
“Shh. A word,” Brandt hissed, and he practically threw Carl into his
bedroom and slammed the door behind them. Carl didn’t mind being roughed up a
bit; it was actually quite fun if done right, and Brandt was certainly an acceptable partner. But something wasn’t right, and it made the hair on the back of Carl’s neck stand up.
He stood stock still in the middle of the room, watching Brandt warily and
tensing almost unnoticeably.
“Down, boy,” Brandt whispered in amusement. “I’m tired. Besides, the stove
wasn’t entirely the Ragin’ Cajun’s fault,” he added with a grin. Carl cocked his head in confusion as Brandt sat down on the bed and rested his head in his hands. He
thought about prompting Brandt to speak with a question, but then thought better of it.
He sat beside the man and waited impatiently. “I don’t know about you, Trigger,”
Brandt said softly after what seemed like an eternity. “But I don’t trust him.”
Carl’s brain whirred to life once more and his senses went into overdrive. To
whom was Brandt referring? Had he picked up on something Carl missed? Was he
trying to smoke Carl out and see if he had his own suspicions about one of the others?
Carl wasn’t accustomed to mind games. He simply killed who and when he was told.
Carl believed Brandt was the same way. He decided to trust his instincts and have faith that Brandt wasn’t into the games, either.
“Who?” he finally asked.
Brandt looked up, his eyes registering surprise that Carl hadn’t been able to
read his mind, but then he gave him a wry grin and looked away. He was silent for some time, staring into the distance, and Carl was afraid he’d lost him. Finally, Brandt turned to look at him once more, and his black eyes flashed dangerously as he spoke.
“I don’t trust him,” he claimed. “He’s too damn quick. And he’s too eager to
please everyone. He’s just too goddamned easy.”
“Who are you talking about?” Carl asked impatiently.
“Honestly, Trigger, you’re the only one I trust out here,” Brandt murmured.
Carl gaped at him. “We’re from the same mold, you and me. Those blokes, they’re
too used to playing the game,” Brandt went on, unconsciously echoing Carl’s
thoughts from just moments before. “I’ve got a bad feeling about him. He gives off
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a… I don’t know. Vibe. Too damned perfect,” he repeated disconsolately. “Every
reaction is too fucking perfect. Like he knows what we’re thinking before we do it, and he plays right into our expectations.”
Carl was still trying to grasp the fact that Brandt apparently trusted him and
no one else, but he was slowly beginning to realize which of their companions Brandt was talking about.
“Do you trust me, Trigger?” Brandt asked suddenly. Carl snapped back to
the present and looked at the man intently. The gleam was nowhere to be seen. Carl decided to go with his gut once more.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Brandt said, genuinely pleased. “Do this for me? Take Spark Duty
every night.”
Carl opened his mouth to question the request, but Brandt stopped him. “If
Remy is the Archer, or even one of his men, then we’re in danger. I’ll watch your back, you watch mine.”
Carl was silent for a moment, considering his options. Finally, he nodded
slowly, and a slow smile began to spread over his face. “Right then,” he said
decisively. “So they’ll just think you really enjoyed my
company, yeah?”
“What makes you think I wouldn’t?” Brandt asked with a truly frightening
grin.
“Well, I hear Australians are very stupid,” Carl answered with a sad shake of
his head, “you may not be able to comprehend just how good I am.”
Brandt grinned, and Carl found himself intrigued by the predatory way the
man moved.
“Are you a screamer, Trigger?” Brandt asked in a low voice that had Carl’s
entire body tingling with anticipation.
“Not normally,” he managed to respond with difficulty.
“You will be tonight.”
X.
SHAWN cocked his head at Remy as they stood facing one another, left alone by the others. Neither man had so much as twitched since the others scattered. Shawn knew the best thing was to wait Remy out. The younger man had a bug up his ass about
something, and it was obvious to Shawn that he wanted to discuss it. But this was the game they always played, a game in which each man challenged the patience and
sanity of the other, and so Shawn waited.
Finally, Remy rolled his eyes and his shoulders sagged as he looked back
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toward the computer. 'Like clockwork,' Shawn thought with what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. Remy usually didn’t have the patience to wait him out, especially when he had something important on his mind.
“Quit grinning like a bioque,” Remy mumbled as he tried to hide his own
smirk. Shawn reached out and pulled Remy to him, forcing them closer together, and affectionately ran his nose along the stubble of Remy’s cheek.
“Something I can do for you, lad?” Shawn purred.
Remy shivered theatrically as Shawn’s breath gusted over his ear. Shawn
glanced over at the sofa where Thiago and Nikolaus sat talking quietly, wondering how much privacy he and Remy could hope to find. Remy’s hand slid under his chin
and gently pulled his attention back.
“What about this message?” Remy asked almost petulantly as he held
Shawn’s chin firmly with one hand. Shawn’s gaze slid to the computer screen briefly before returning to rest on Remy’s perturbed countenance. He loved psychological