“I think, son,” Harraway said mildly, “that isn’t what my colleague is questioning.” Heading towards retirement, the Intel director looked like a genial grandfather—full head of salt-and-pepper hair, eyes that crinkled with the least provocation, and a personable management style. In his senior years, he had developed a laidback, nearly blasé attitude towards his job, but nothing got by him. “Perhaps there are other, less physical, reasons you believe Omega Subject to be Ethan Blade.”
Jack squashed down a swell of guilt. “The psychology fits. He’s a meticulous planner, highly intuitive, and has obsessive tendencies. Once he fixates on something, nothing stops him. Anything that gets in his way is removed without remorse.” He suppressed a shiver at the memory of deliberately putting himself in Ethan’s path.
“Any number of subjects fit that profile,” Harraway said softly, as if letting Jack down gently.
“I know. There’s also his knowledge of the hits attributed to Blade.”
“Hardly top-secret information.” Unlike Harraway, Tan didn’t care about Jack’s ego. His tone was dry and on the edge of condescending.
Jack pulled in a deep breath. “Yes, sir, I know. But there are things that we don’t know. Things known only to the man who perpetrated the hits.”
This caught Harraway’s attention. He leaned forwards eagerly. “Such as?”
“Such as the US Marines in Colombia.”
“We know those men were poisoned,” Tan reminded them all.
“But not how.” McIntosh turned to Jack. “He told you how it was done?”
Over the past hours, Jack had been under the microscope. His actions, his words, his thoughts, all cut apart and examined like a corpse on the autopsy table. However, right now, he finally felt as if he really had their attention. He resisted the urge to laugh.
“Well,” he hedged. “Not exactly.”
They set out just after sunset, moving south. During his afternoon watch, Jack had seen no trace of the search party Blade had tracked earlier. Which didn’t comfort him. It didn’t seem possible, given that there were formally trained soldiers and officers in Mr. Valadian’s army, that the cave had been missed. It was well hidden but not invisible to an alert searcher. Whoever was organising this search was acting like he knew nothing. Or, what he thought he knew was different than what Jack thought he himself knew.
He hadn’t shared his thoughts with Blade. The other man certainly wasn’t telling him everything. As much as Blade might assure Jack they were allies, it didn’t mean he felt any sort of loyalty to Jack. Or that Jack should feel any towards him.
Hours passed in silence. Well, not true silence. A gentle breeze sighed through the stubby leaves of the scrub; a few hardy insects chirruped in the cold night; their shoes shuffled over rock and sand; dislodged stones clattered down the slope. It all had a dull, subdued feel to it, though. The vast space around them seemed to drink up the sounds—an empty sponge soaking up the spill of life, as if it had never been there in the first place.
It was an eerie sensation. During the day, the heat had made the world seem close and tight, like a fist curling around Jack and wringing him out. Now, the world had opened up, the jaws widening, preparing to swallow him whole. The flats spread out from the ridgeline, empty and endless. There was an almost hypnotic draw about all that open space, as if it offered the only chance of ever letting all his problems go so they’d drift away and get lost.
Over it all, a clear sky watched them through a million twinkling eyes, throwing the land into stark shades of silver and grey. The moon was rising, gibbous and bright, but cold, its light a mere reflection.
Jack recognised the moody thoughts for what they were and shoved them aside. He needed a hot shower, a cold beer, and a hard fuck. Not necessarily in that order, and possibly all at once. Fifteen months undercover, living and breathing a monumental lie, had left him tired.
Zipping up his jacket, Jack trudged after Blade, keeping his eyes on his companion’s lean frame rather than the tempting emptiness to his right. He had to concentrate on getting through this alive. There was an implant full of information in his head that needed to get to the right people. Even if Blade succeeded in killing The Man, Jack had intel on his associates, weapons caches, and smuggling routes that was still valuable. And if Blade failed? Then Jack needed to know where Valadian ran to.
An hour or so off midnight, right around the twenty-four-hour mark into this madness, Blade turned them back towards the ridgeline and scrambled up the slope.
At the top of the scree, Jack saw what Blade had been aiming for. About thirty metres up the wall was a groove cut into the rock face by a long-dead creek.
“It’ll take us over the ridge.” Blade flexed his arms and fingers. “Save us a long walk or a higher climb. Do you think you can make it?”
“No sweat.” If he hadn’t had a broken arm. Still, he wasn’t going to let that stop him.
“Good.” Blade grinned. He didn’t have his sunglasses on, exposing his strange eyes. The expression made them seem less weird, maybe a very pale blue if you were reaching for something normal to cling to. If anyone could be bothered to look past the incredibly long, thick, dark lashes. “Race you to the top?”
Jack wasn’t given a chance to answer. Blade turned and, with barely a moment’s consideration, reached for handholds on the rock face. He was several feet off the ground by the time Jack could swallow the sudden clot of confusion in his throat.
Shaking off the moment, Jack contemplated the ascent. He wasn’t keen on rock climbing for work or pleasure. Jack had done it in training and the few times required on the job, but otherwise, if he could chopper up there, that was how he’d go.
He was hampered by the splint, his fingers unable to dig into small cracks with any sort of confidence, and any pressure on the wrist sent a spike of pain up his arm. It grew tiring after a while, forcing his way through the ache. The knife wound dragged on his other side, making reaching too high problematic. It all conspired to slow him to a crawl up the rock face, and it didn’t help that his stomach had been cramping with hunger pangs for the past couple of hours.
He’d gone hungry for long periods during his time with the Unit, but had lost whatever tolerance he’d had for it over the last years. These days, if he missed a meal it was a colossal tragedy. Dinner the night before seemed a long way in the past.
Jack concentrated on the task at hand, forcing the hunger pangs from his immediate thoughts. He slowly and painstakingly made his way upwards. The burn in his left side increased, and he thought he could feel warmth creeping across the skin under the dressing. Fantastic. He’d opened the wound.
He kept an eye on Blade as they climbed, half to make sure he didn’t try anything dodgy, half to watch for hand- and footholds. Blade sped upwards with stupid ease. His long coat billowed out behind him, looking for all the world like it would hold him up if he fell—residual wings on a fallen angel. Every now and then, Blade would stop and look over his shoulder, checking on Jack with a mix of worry and encouragement in his expression. It was hard to imagine him tearing his bloody way through twenty-five-odd enemy soldiers.
Everything from the night before had the sheen of distance on it already. A defensive mechanism, giving Jack the space to keep moving forwards without having to deal with the immediacy of the combat. It was getting easy to forget who he was with. Ethan Blade, the longest serving name on the John Smith List. Surely no one man could have done all the things attributed to Blade. Which the man above him had admitted to, sort of. He claimed no responsibility for the soldiers going missing in the Dashti Margo. Did that mean Ethan Blade didn’t kill those soldiers? Or that the man with Jack now wasn’t Ethan Blade?
Either way, the man calling himself Blade was an accomplished killer. It wouldn’t pay to forget that.
At the top, Blade hauled arse over the edge and rolled out of sight. Jack scrambled up the last distance, not keen on losing sight of the man for too long. Who knew what was wai
ting for Jack out of sight?
It turned out to be an eastbound gully, which cut a gentle slope downwards, small-to-medium boulders cluttering the narrow space.
“This gully will take us down the back of the ridgeline,” Blade murmured as Jack joined him. “Shortcut.”
“And then?”
“We move north again. I have a stockpile of supplies a couple of day’s walk south of Valadian’s compound. We can resupply and then hit the compound.”
Jack swallowed a snort of surprise. “Hit the compound? Two men against three thousand. You really must be Ethan Blade if you think that’s doable.”
Blade’s forehead creased between his dark eyebrows. “You don’t believe I’m Ethan Blade? Valadian told you, even.”
“Don’t get me wrong, your display at the torture shack was very impressive, and I guess somewhat convincing.” Jack had no idea what suicidal impulse prompted the words, but between the questionable actions of Valadian’s troops, the whole debacle at the shack, and the general over-the-top aspect of the Ethan Blade stories, he was starting to doubt a lot of things about the whole situation.
“Somewhat?” It was sceptical inquiry, not homicidal incredulousness, thankfully.
“Yeah. A lot of people are good in a gunfight.”
“Truly, Jack?” Now it was injured disbelief. “I went against twenty-five opponents, and that’s all you can say? Any gunman could have done that?”
Jack pressed his lips together. This was almost fun. “I guess not any gunman, but it’s hardly a unique talent. What about that makes you Ethan Blade? I mean, your job, supposedly, was to kill Mr. Valadian and look how that turned out. We three were all alone in the shack together, perfect opportunity, and now we’re having to walk across a bloody desert just so you can finish the job.” Too late, he realised he may have gone too far.
Blade leaned away from him, eyes wide in disbelief. Then they narrowed and he shrugged, turning his attention eastward again. “Killing Valadian wasn’t the only objective. I am not responsible for your beliefs, Jack. I have no cause to lie to you, but whether or not you believe that is up to you. Can I at least trust you to help me track down Valadian?”
“Sure. It’s in my best interests too.”
“Thank you. I think we should keep going. Valadian may still have search parties out here.” He started down the gully, clambering with barely a whisper over the rocks.
Jack wondered if he’d actually managed to penetrate the layer of crazy protecting Blade from reality. Probably best not to poke too hard, in case he did break through. He set off after Blade.
They’d gone perhaps fifteen minutes before Jack reached the top of a large boulder and found Blade waiting for him. He sat on the rock opposite, arms crossed, frowning.
“What?” Jack asked, looking around for something he may have missed.
“You don’t believe me.”
“Look—” Jack sighed “—if I turned up wearing a red suit and white beard, would you believe me when I said I was Santa Claus?”
“No. Santa Claus is not real.”
Jack spread his hands in the universal well-there-you-go gesture.
“That’s hardly proof, Jack.”
“Neither is ‘Mr. Valadian said so.’” Jack crossed his arms. “If it’s that important, prove it. Tell me about the Marines in Colombia.”
“One professional to another?” Blade smirked and got to his feet. Brushing down his arse, he surveyed the path ahead. “Guess.”
Jumping from his rock to Blade’s, Jack said, “Just tell me.”
“Shall I give you a hint?”
“No. Tell me. Prove it to me.”
“Ah, but I could tell you anything and that would be proof of nothing.” Blade hopped to the next rock.
“Or, I could give you a feasible scenario and you could say that was it even if it wasn’t.” He jumped to a different rock, ahead of Blade.
Blade bounced past him, as if it were a game of checkers and he’d just snatched up two of Jack’s pieces. “Also proving nothing.”
“Except that you’re a liar.” Jack judged the distance, backed up, ran forwards, and cleared two rocks, coming to a shaky landing on the boulder next to Blade’s.
“Or you have the mind of a professional assassin.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Or that I’ve been associating with one.”
Blade’s face lit up in a big smile. “You do believe me!”
“I believe you’re an assassin, but are you Ethan Blade? That, you still have to prove.” Jack kept going, suddenly enjoying himself.
Blade came alongside him quickly. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fine. What’s the hint then?”
“I knew you would see it my way.” With a wicked tilt to his grin, Blade intoned seriously, “Your hint is this. What underrated commonality did the Marines all have in common?”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Blade snickered evilly and carried on.
“That is the world’s worst hint, Blade.” Jack scrambled after him. “They were a team of Marines. An easier question would be what they didn’t have in common.”
His only answer was an echoing laugh as Blade raced ahead.
“That’s it?” Harraway asked, incredulously. “‘What underrated commonality did the Marines all have in common?’”
McIntosh frowned as she considered it, and Tan, happily, looked just as stumped.
“Well?” the ETA director finally asked. “What’s the answer?”
Jack chuckled. “I have no idea.”
“And yet this is what convinced you that man is Ethan Blade?”
“Amongst everything else.” Jack sobered. “I just know that whatever the answer is, it will stand up as proof.”
None of the directors looked particularly convinced, but then they hadn’t been there, hadn’t witnessed Ethan in action. Hadn’t felt the gut-deep, visceral reaction to his mercilessness. Hadn’t experienced the man behind the assassin.
“We could argue for another year about whether or not our man is Ethan Blade,” Harraway mused. “Short of matching him through DNA to one of his kills, we’re never going to know for sure.”
“Not even then,” Tan interjected. “We have established that not all kills attributed to Blade are his.”
The Intelligence director waved at Tan as if he were a rowdy youngster. “Regardless, according to the boy’s testimony, hopefully complete and correct now”—he cut Jack a playful smirk—“the man we have locked up is an accomplished assassin. Even if he is simply operating under the guise of being Blade, he is very good at what he does. And a man in that position is likely to have information we can use.”
Amongst the round of agreeing nods, Tan settled even further into his chair. “Then it appears we’re all on the same page. The interrogation of Omega Subject will commence at once.”
Jack fought down the instinctive reaction to the word “interrogation.”
“Which brings us to the next item.” McIntosh crossed her hands over her flat stomach. “Namely, negotiation of terms with Omega Subject. Usually we offer pardons in exchange for information. However, the subject is a professional killer. We have to consider the ramifications of releasing such a person back into the public.”
Repressing a need to roll his eyes, Jack merely said, “He’s not an uncontrolled psychopath. He doesn’t kill for pleasure.”
Tan steepled his fingers again and said dryly, “But he does kill for profit.”
Jack swallowed the urge to bite back. “My point is that given the opportunity, Blade might surprise you.”
Tan regarded him for a moment longer, expression unreadable. Jack didn’t have a lot of experience of the man. The only other interaction of any significance was a job interview when Jack had been recruited for the Office.
Discharged, unemployed, and drifting, Jack had been headhunted by the Office. Courted, he sometimes joked. As such, he’d had some flexibility in where he ended up. His CV had
been handed out to every division, and those interested had set up interviews. Tan had been the first taker, offering Jack pretty much anything he wanted in order to take a field operative position with ETA. Even without the benefit of any other interviews, Jack had refused the offer, and not just because the man had turned him cold with his calm description of the work and results he’d expect from Jack. Two days later, he’d met with McIntosh and had yet to regret the decision to join ITA.
Harraway cleared his throat. “Regardless of the outcome, any information gathered from him will have to be confirmed before anything can be granted.” The Intel director sighed. “Which can take years, sometimes.”
Christ. What had Ethan got himself into this time?
“The subject will have to give us something up front, in good faith,” McIntosh said. “Once we have an idea of what he knows, we can begin to negotiate then. For now . . .” She turned to Jack. “I’m sure you know what we’re about to ask you, Mr. Reardon. It’s apparent Blade will only interact with you. Of course, every interview will be monitored and behaviour patterns scrutinised.”
Another piece in McIntosh’s game fell into place. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Donna McIntosh had admitted she wasn’t convinced of his fidelity to the Office and the Meta-State. Now she was trusting him with the sensitive questioning of an important subject. Was this just a test of Jack’s loyalty? Or something more?
Jack wasn’t an analyst. It wasn’t his job to look for patterns. He just acted on what the analysts gave him.
“Well, son?” Harraway asked. “Are you willing to interview the subject or not?”
Jack wondered what they would do if he said no. He was sorely tempted to refuse, to see which way McIntosh turned, but decided against it. If he was going to work out what his director was up to, he needed more information.
“Of course. Anything to help.”
“Will you require anything for the interrogation?” Tan asked.
Really disliking the man’s continual use of that word, Jack shook his head. “No, sir. I already have everything I need.”
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