Well, it wasn’t going to happen again.
Jack opened his hand and looked at the badge. His ISO shield in gold-plated bronze looked spanking new, which it pretty much was. He only brought it out on official occasions, of which there had been a scarcity in his time with the Office. Still, he rubbed it with the tail of his jacket before clipping it onto his belt.
Then he pushed through the door and walked out. It closed behind him with a small click of finality. It was a one-way lock.
Jack emerged into the foyer at the back of the staircase, hidden from view. The leader of the tactical team waited for him.
“Sir.” He wore armour of a much more bulky nature, and probably twice as light. “Subject has not moved, nor said anything. We’ve scoped him constantly; nothing’s changed. I swear, he hasn’t even farted once.”
Jack snorted. “What did you expect? He’s British. All right. I’m going out there. I’m not actually expecting trouble, but I wouldn’t put a swifty past him.”
The man nodded and thumbed on his throat mic, then informed his team the operative was heading out. He waved Jack out of cover and crouched, assault rifle at the ready.
Jack stepped out into sight of the foyer. Twenty metres away, Ethan showed no reaction, though Jack knew he saw him. The assassin’s regard came with a certain predatory pressure, prickling the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck, thrumming through him with a sharp spike of anticipation. He had no idea what to expect, and he didn’t like the uncertainty. It didn’t help that Jack had only ever found one way of getting the upper hand on Ethan Blade, a method he wouldn’t be revealing. He could only hope that here, where he was surrounded by his allies, in a place he was confident of his position and job, he would have some measure of command over Ethan.
Yeah. He could hope.
Wish you were here?
Shaking off the doubt, Jack strode forward. Ethan kept still, hands behind his head, sunglasses trained on the floor about two feet in front of himself. Jack stopped precisely there.
“Ethan Blade. Well, isn’t this the worst day of my life.”
Ethan didn’t reply. Didn’t move, barely seemed to breathe.
“Really? You track me down, come all this way, and submit yourself to a dozen highly trained and heavily armed security personnel just to play the silent game? You’re an insane bastard, Blade.”
“Half right, Jack.”
Ah. There was the bemused-tosser accent he hadn’t missed. Now that Ethan was talking, however, Jack had to be doubly careful. Until he knew exactly what Ethan hoped to achieve by showing up here, Jack couldn’t risk giving anything away.
“What’s going on? Why are you here?” Frustrated with looking at the top of Ethan’s head, Jack added, “Look at me.”
Slowly, Ethan lifted his head. “Hello, Jack.” He smiled, and it might have actually been genuine.
Breathing through the surge in memories, Jack said, “Just answer the questions.”
Ethan’s sunglasses finally angled towards Jack’s face. “Unfinished business. To get this out of the way.”
“Jesus,” Jack hissed. “You haven’t changed, have you?”
“No.” Briefly, his tinted glasses dipped down over Jack’s body and back up. “But you have. Nice suit, Jack. If a little cheap.”
Mouth open to object, Jack stopped himself before he could. Arguing with Ethan was where the path diverged. One way was right, the other wrong. Veering onto the right path, Jack merely said, “On your feet, Blade.”
Thankfully, Ethan complied without opening his mouth.
“Arms up. Feet apart.”
More silent compliance.
Wondering when the other shoe was going to kick him in the nuts, Jack stepped up and, starting at Ethan’s shoulders, patted him down thoroughly.
“I’m not carrying, Jack.”
“You expect me to trust you?”
“It did cross my mind that there should be some level of trust between us.”
Hands on Ethan’s waist, fingers itching to dig in and hurt him, Jack scowled. “After what you did to me?”
“I apologised for that.”
The urge to punch him didn’t entirely go away, but it did subside a fraction. As far as he could tell, Ethan honestly believed saying “sorry” was all he needed to do. There was a level of innocence in Ethan somehow both at odds and perfectly aligned with his psychosis. A killer ignorant of just what his actions cost the world.
Teeth grinding, Jack lifted his hands to Ethan’s arms and took his time. “This is so bloody typical of you. There’s a sane, rational choice or a crazy-arse, do-or-die one, and you pick the one most likely to get you dead. Every single bloody time. You’re insane.”
“I have unarguable powers of reason.”
Jack snorted before he could stop himself. He crouched and ran his hands down Ethan’s legs. “Yeah. No one argues with your reason.”
“Except you, Jack.”
“Not anymore, Ethan. It ends here.” He stood and, with only a moment’s hesitation, ran his hands through Ethan’s hair.
The assassin shifted fractionally under the touch, a slight tilt towards Jack, head dropping forward. He jerked back, however, when Jack drew his hands free, taking Ethan’s sunglasses with him.
While Ethan blinked in the sudden brightness, Jack drew his gun. The barrel landed under the assassin’s jaw, shoving his head back so he got an eyeful of bright white light.
“I’m going to inject you with a sedative, Ethan. It’s the safest way to move you.”
“As you wish, Jack.”
With his free hand, Jack pulled the jet-injector from his pocket. As he put it to the skin over Ethan’s jugular, Jack realised he felt guilty. It was a shitty thing to do. Ethan had come in voluntarily and had obeyed every order. He could be trusted to do as Jack said.
But no one would trust Jack afterwards, and if he was ever going to prove his continuing loyalty to McIntosh, he couldn’t mess this up.
“I’ll endeavour to make it as painless as possible,” he said, and Ethan closed his eyes in acceptance.
Jack depressed the trigger and, three heartbeats later, the world’s seventh-most-proficient killer crumpled in a heap at his feet.
Movement on the ridge. Jack tracked it and found the second sniper. Their position was about thirty yards south of the first one. Number three was proving very coy.
On the ground, Blade kept up his end of the bargain. He played tag with the remaining ground troops, evading them while drawing sniper fire. With a quick double retort, he took a soldier out of the game. Blade appeared from the flickering shadows cast by the burning trucks, Desert Eagle in one hand, a long-bladed dagger in the other. It gleamed red, thick drops of blood splashing into the dust at his feet. Silhouetted, he was a deranged image of Death come stalking. Echoing sniper fire rang out and Blade twisted, tumbling to the ground in a controlled roll.
The sniper fire revealed what might have been Sniper Three. Jack scoped the ridge.
There, higher than the others, further away. A brief hint only—could be a nocturnal animal. Ranging it, he found it right at the outer limit of the Assassin X’s capabilities. Not great if he wasn’t certain of the shot.
Blade flipped his knife, caught the tip, and with a negligent-seeming flick of his wrist, sent it spinning into the chest of the soldier creeping up beside him. That left three. Time for this to end. Jack had two definite snipers and one probable. If he didn’t act now, Blade could make a fatal mistake and leave Jack with six against one. He liked those odds about as much as he liked taking Blade’s help.
Jack lined up Sniper One. His finger caressed the trigger. He wished for his old SR-25, a solid, dependable sniper rifle. While he was wishing for things, he might as well conjure up Nigel Kruger, his squad’s best sniper. Man could snipe the wings off a fly at range with a headwind.
Letting out a breath and sending up a fervent prayer, Jack squeezed the trigger.
Someone was listening, at least. Snipe
r One’s head snapped back, a spray of blood outlined against the clear sky. Jack racked the bolt and swung to Sniper Two. Breathe out, fire. The shot missed, sparking off the rock beside Sniper Two.
“Fuck.”
Sniper Two flattened himself and scoped for Jack.
After making an adjustment, Jack fired again. A small jerk and Sniper Two’s rifle toppled over.
A bullet pinged off the tin an inch from Jack’s elbow.
Heart slamming, Jack aimed for Possible Sniper Three. The outcropping of rock he’d marked came into view, and clearly visible now was Sniper Three.
Jack racked the bolt at the same time Sniper Three did. Sending up another plea for divine aid, Jack fired and rolled. A bullet ricocheted off the tin where he’d been lying. Coming over onto his belly, Jack tried to locate Sniper Three again. Couldn’t find the outcropping, so he rolled, the tin roof shifting under his weight. Found the right place this time and saw Sniper Three was down.
Someone opened fire on him from below. Jack shoved backwards, away from the edge of the roof. Five, six shots, then a strangled grunt and no more.
Warily lifting his head, Jack saw his attacker fall at Blade’s feet, throat cut from behind. Blade stood there, a jagged offcut of metal in place of a knife.
Jack settled the Assassin X back into place and took aim. Squeezing the trigger, he took out the last soldier, who’d been creeping up behind the assassin.
Then the roof collapsed under him, leaving Jack dangling from the top of the wall. The sudden wrench jarred the wrist and knife wounds into painful life again.
Blade considered the impromptu weapon in his hand, then tossed it aside. He holstered his Eagle and regarded Jack calmly. “Do you require assistance?”
“No, I’m fine.” Jack decided down was easier, and more beneficial, than up right then. Dangling by his good arm, he judged the drop acceptable and let go. He landed on his arse beside the rifle, sore and tired and just thankful he didn’t land on the stupid thing.
The door opened and Blade came in. He surveyed Jack, the rifle, and the sheets of corrugated tin on the floor, then retrieved his overcoat from under the roofing and shook it out.
Jack cradled his broken arm to his chest, eyes closed. Bitching about his cold bed seemed like so long ago. No matter how many times it happened, it always stunned him how fast an entire life could change. One bomb going off in the wrong place at the wrong time and suddenly he was enlisting in the army. Four bullets fired in under ten seconds and he was one kidney away from needing a transplant. A half-hour briefing on Samuel Valadian and here he was. One shot and he’d saved the life of an unrepentant killer.
Ethan Blade. Horror-inspiring legend; willing to kill anyone, anywhere, for the right price; cold-blooded and calculating. And he stood before Jack, coat over one arm, cleaning his sunglasses on the hem of his shirt. Fresh from wading through a small army, he looked a little lost as he traced a tiny crack in one lens.
“What now?” Jack asked to break the mood, finding the sight of Blade being human disturbing.
Blade looked up, eyebrows raised. “Now?”
“Yes, now. The enemy’s taken care of.” He didn’t want to indicate in any way he might also be an enemy.
“No, he isn’t. Samuel Valadian got away.”
Of course. “So?”
“He is my target. I have to finish the job.”
“Right. The code of the assassin.”
“There is no assassin’s code. I’ve been paid for a job and I will do it. If that’s a sentiment worthy of a code, then I suppose it’s my personal one.”
“And me? What I am to your code? Collateral damage?”
“No. You were bait.”
Jack felt a sudden need to be on his feet. The adrenaline was ebbing, taking with it his will and strength. For a moment, he entertained the idea Blade wasn’t a threat to him. He ignored it, got to his feet and, rifle slung over one shoulder, drew the Desert Eagle Blade had given him.
“Bait?” he enquired calmly.
“I needed to remove Valadian from the majority of his forces. I am good, but not that good. Revealing a traitor amongst his men was the most expedient means of doing that. Thus selling out Nikonov, to help prove there was a spy amongst his people.”
Jack blinked. Blade had taken down a bratva brigadier just to get Mr. Valadian alone? Who the hell was this crazy bastard?
Blade continued. “Once I ‘discovered’ the spy, I knew he would have you brought here, and I would be asked along to interrogate you. Which I don’t do, usually. Interrogation, that is. Once here, it was simply a matter of grounding him and doing the job.” No change in tone, no hint of recrimination. “Had you detonated the charges when I first said, the chopper would not have been able to attain the height to escape. I will have to track him down again.”
No. Blade was not going to make him feel guilty for letting Mr. Valadian get away. He went on the offensive instead.
“You broke my cover? Just so you could kill one man? Jesus Christ! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Fifteen months gathering intel required to bring down his entire organisation, not just this one compound, or one piddling Russian ally, and now it’s all screwed. We’ll be lucky to get anything at all now. Mr. Valadian isn’t going to wait around for you to find him. He’ll be packing up and running. It’ll set him back one, maybe two years, but it’s destroyed any hope we had of taking him down before he makes his intentions known. Fuck me, you’re supposed to be some sort of genius, and this is what you do.” Piling on a mocking British accent, Jack ended with, “Brilliant, old bean. Can’t wait to see what you do for an encore, old chap.”
Blade stood through the entire tirade unflinching. At the end, he simply put on his glasses and coat before walking out of the torture shack.
“Oh no,” Jack muttered. “Did I hurt the cold-hearted killer’s feelings?” Either way, perhaps it wasn’t smart to prod the assassin too much.
That thought in mind, he did a quick ammunition check. Two left in the rifle, a full mag of eight in the Desert Eagle. Enough to take down Blade?
“Jack?”
He brought the gun up to bear and aimed at Blade in the doorway, a white box in his hands. It had a familiar red cross on its top. An even more familiar red dot sat on the assassin’s chest.
“I stole this from the chopper when we landed,” Blade explained, supremely unconcerned about the weapon trained on him. “I thought there would be a good chance of you being injured and needing attention.”
Nonplussed, Jack gaped at him for a full minute before lowering the gun. Totally bonkers.
With a twitch of his head, Blade indicated going outside. “There’s more light by the trucks. I wouldn’t want to miss something in the dark.” He vanished once again.
Jack was following him before he made the choice to. Muttering, “Who’s loonier, the loon or the loon who follows him?” he joined the assassin by the brightest of the burning trucks. The heat made removing his jacket bearable.
“Shirt too.” Blade opened the first aid kit and studied the contents.
Grunting, Jack pulled the dirty and torn T-shirt off over his head. “Don’t try to cop a feel.”
“As you wish. Is your wrist sprained or broken?”
“Most likely broken.”
“We’ll splint it to be sure.” Blade tore open a pack of antiseptic wipes. “Do you wish to do it yourself?”
Sneering, Jack grabbed the pack and pulled a wipe free. He cleaned up his arm. Grime and dust came away from his dusky skin, revealing a slight reddening around the inflammation. Every time he moved his hand, the dull ache sharpened into a throbbing pain that wore down his patience. It needed to be splinted.
Blade produced a roll of SAM splint and a knife. Knowing he couldn’t do this on his own without a lot of hassle, Jack offered up his arm. The assassin measured twice, cut once, and moulded it around Jack’s arm, then secured it with an expertly applied bandage.
“There’s enough left f
or another splint,” Blade said. “Just in case we need to change it.”
Eyebrow rising at the “we,” Jack was just grateful his arm was finally immobilised. Already some of the ache was easing out of it. He wiggled his fingers, making sure he had some movement.
“Any other wounds?”
Jack turned and leaned forward, showing off the knife wound in his lower left side. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
“It requires a bit of cleaning. Do you trust me to do it?”
“Don’t have much choice, do I?”
“There is always a choice.”
The tone of the words caught Jack’s attention. A touch of sorrow? Regret? A hint of a conscience?
“Lie down,” Blade commanded, back to his usual cool self. “I’m going to wash it with alcohol first. That will probably sting.”
Resigned, Jack lay down. “Yeah, probably.”
“Don’t worry, Jack,” he said. “I shall endeavour to make it as painless as possible.”
“He hardly looks worthy of the fuss,” Director McIntosh said.
The screen on the wall showed Ethan’s cell. It held a bed of moulded plastic, unable to be broken down for weapons, and a similarly constructed table with two chairs. There were two buttons on the wall: one to dispense water, the other to reveal the toilet. The walls were pale grey, the floor one solid expanse of pressure padding, and the lighting soft, no exposed bulbs. The door was a smooth panel that retracted into the wall—nothing to grip and use to pry it open.
The assassin sat on the bed, head cradled in his hands, shoulders slumped. The sedative had knocked him around badly, the dosage set to ensure he didn’t wake up en route. While unconscious, he’d been stripped, searched, washed, and dressed in blue scrubs. Any sign he was going to use the garments as weapons would initiate release of a tranq gas into the room.
Ethan’s naturally pale skin looked sallow, his hair lank after being washed and left to drip dry. Out of the tailored suit and in the loose scrubs, he looked like a kid playing dress-up. His feet were bare, which had to be bothering him. Ethan didn’t like bare feet. He kept scrunching them on the floor, a peculiarly endearing action, as if he had to keep reminding himself where he was. As if he’d realised he’d made a big mistake. There was a bruise on the side of his neck, where Jack had injected the sedative. He hadn’t said a word since waking.
Where Death Meets the Devil Page 5