“He was having a smoke, sir.”
Jack held up his butt helpfully.
Maxwell grunted. “Get back inside, Reardon.” He glared at Munoz. “You’re relieved of guard duty. Go downstairs, hand over your gear, and keep out of my way for the rest of the day.”
As Jack ambled back towards the door, Munoz loped past and went inside, head hanging. Maxwell was still growling when he caught up to Jack.
“Imbecile,” he muttered under his breath as he closed the door behind them, making sure it locked. He even double-checked on the sec-tab on his belt.
The small security tablet allowed Maxwell to control most of the electronic security systems in the building. As a security specialist in his cover life, Jack was familiar with the functionality of the sec-tab. It took biometric confirmation, voice command, and an alphanumeric key-code to access. A dedicated hacker could break into it, but that would take longer than any rational person would like, and you had to be within a couple of inches of the device to access it.
“Don’t be too harsh on him,” Jack said as the HoS hustled him down the stairs. “He had me under close enough watch.”
“Don’t push it, Reardon. You knew better than to go out there.”
“What can I say? I’ve been cooped up in here for too long. I just needed to see the sky. And have a smoke.” He nudged his shoulder into Maxwell’s. “You can understand that, can’t you?”
Maxwell eyed his shoulder, where Jack had touched him, then Jack’s, before snorting. “And don’t try to pull that shit, either. You had your chance.”
Jack laughed. “I’m not pulling anything, Gerard.” He let a couple of flights go by before adding, “Though I have been locked up here for over a day now. And yesterday was my birthday.”
Maxwell almost choked on a startled guffaw, stumbling to a halt on a landing between floors. “Seriously, Reardon? This is your big escape plan? Seduce me?”
“Not working, huh?” Jack patted Maxwell on his armoured chest. “Don’t worry; you’re safe from me. Can we stop by McIntosh’s office? I need to ask her something.”
Maxwell allowed it, though it was Miller Jack dealt with, as his director was otherwise occupied. However, Jack’s request was granted so fast he guessed McIntosh had preapproved it. Within minutes, he was in the sublevels, outside of Ethan’s cell.
“Please go to the wall opposite the door. Spread your legs and put your hands on the wall.”
On the screen beside the door, Ethan rolled off the bed and obeyed. The minute between then and when he was actually allowed in dragged at Jack like an anchor. He was finally doing something, not for McIntosh or the Office, but for himself. As the minute drew out into what felt like an hour, Jack marvelled at how easily he’d decided the only person he could trust in this entire building was the one man they had locked up in one of the most secure cells in the world.
An eternity later, the door swished open and, once more leaving his second-guessing policy in the corridor, Jack went in. The door closed behind him.
“Hello, Jack. I didn’t think I would be seeing you again so soon.” Ethan turned and lounged back against the wall.
“It’s not an official visit. It’s all still being recorded, though.”
Ethan made a silent ah expression. “If I’d known you were coming to chat, I wouldn’t have eaten all the fudge.”
“I told you to ration it.”
“Do you think I didn’t? In any other circumstances, that log wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.”
Jack smiled. “I’ll have them bring you a toothbrush.”
“It would be appreciated.” Head tilted, he regarded Jack critically. “What’s wrong, Jack?”
Trust Ethan to get right to the heart of it. Well, nothing else for it.
“I thought I should apologise,” he began, trying for words that wouldn’t be picked up by the analysts.
“For?”
“I feel like I’ve . . . betrayed you.” Jack scratched his head with his right hand. “You helped me out in the desert. I would have died without you. I certainly wouldn’t be back here if you hadn’t nursed me back to health.” A swipe at his face this time.
Ethan smiled. “Well, yes, as I said then, I was directed not to endanger you.” He brushed at his sleeve. “I merely had a job to do.”
Shit. Jack’s inkling was right.
“Shall we sit?” Ethan asked.
Jack nodded numbly, and they settled into the same seats they had for the interview.
“So, tell me,” Ethan said as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “How is Sheila?”
The question prompted a startled laugh out of Jack. “I don’t know. She was good, last time I saw her. Little footsore, but okay.”
Ethan chuckled. “She was a good ride. Not as smooth as Raquel, though.”
“Remind me about Raquel.”
“The BMW Z8 Roadster. Interlagos blue. I had her out on the track a couple of weeks back. She drove like a dream.”
“You know, I still can’t credit you as a rev head.” He watched Ethan closely for a sign.
“Truly? I should think it rather obvious. I like going fast, and I like dangerous things. And I love fast, dangerous things.”
Jack snorted. “You love being in control of fast, dangerous things. Gives you the impression you’re in control of yourself.”
“Haven’t you grown tired of trying to psychoanalyse me yet?”
“Doesn’t seem like it. And I’m right. You know it. It’s why you nearly flipped out when I insisted on driving.”
“Flipped out?” His tone was mildly condescending. “Your argument is flawed. I let you pilot the chopper.”
“The half-crippled chopper. Sheila on a bad day was faster than that POS.”
Ethan laughed. “True.”
“If I remember correctly, you didn’t so much let me as order it. Just something else for you to control.”
Which was the wrong thing to say if Jack wanted to keep a level head during this conversation. With all the other issues from his time in the desert rearing their ugly heads, the last thing he needed was to remind himself how well Ethan had played him back then. Was potentially—probably—playing him right now.
Ethan’s mask slipped a fraction, a quick hint of a deeper hurt, and then it was back in place, smooth and perfect. “If that’s what you believe, Jack.”
The silence was stilted. It had started out so well, as things with Ethan often did. Then they usually went pear shaped in a spectacular fashion. Jack had to steer this back on track. Praying Ethan was on board, Jack said, “You said your car here was an Aston Martin. I don’t know much about them.”
“She’s a Vanquish S Coupe. Black. V12, six-speed transmission. Took me seven months to restore her.” The assassin adjusted the cuff of his right sleeve. “I call her Victoria.”
“And this is the car you put in one of the most traffic-congested cities in the western world. Seems pointless.”
“Only because you don’t know where to take a car like Victoria.”
“And where’s that?”
Ethan eyed him shrewdly. “Have you heard of a private race track at Kulnura?” His hands stayed still on the tabletop.
Jack frowned. “No. Should I have?”
“I suppose not, since you are a vehicular heathen. How about the Sydney Motor Sport Park?” When Jack didn’t immediately exclaim familiarity, Ethan added dryly, “It’s in Eastern Creek.”
Working to not roll his eyes, Jack said, “Yes, I’ve heard of that one. What about it?” Again, no gesture. Did Ethan understand what was going on?
“I have raced at Kulnura. It’s a nice track, but the SMSP is much more accessible. The last time I was there, I raced against a very good driver.” Ethan drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table, as if trying to spark a memory. “Williamson, I believe his name was.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“You raced him in the Vanquish?”
With a little smir
k, Ethan said, “Victoria, yes.”
“Did you win?”
“That time.” A brush of his hand over the table, as if clearing away nonexistent specs of dirt. “It was an eight-lap challenge. He dominated for the first four, but I caught up and was in the lead for the last three.”
There was more than a touch of pride in Ethan’s voice, and it distracted Jack momentarily. He found himself smiling at him, feeling that pull towards Ethan he’d experienced in the desert. The involuntary fascination with the human behind the coolly detached killer.
Before Jack could move on, Ethan did.
“Not all of my cars are race ready. Victoria is, of course. As is the Maserati. The Camaro’s in about twenty different pieces at the moment, so she won’t be running for a while yet. My favourite to race, however, is the Lamborghini, naturally.” As he listed off his harem of expensive speed machines, Ethan absently flexed his right wrist, as if working out a kink.
“Naturally,” Jack echoed, then leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out under the table. “Would you like more fudge?”
Ethan smiled. “I would. Could I try a different flavour?”
“Sure. Any requests? Remember, I have to get it past the guards.” He tapped Blade’s leg twice.
“I am partial to mint.”
“They do a great mint-choc swirl. I’ll get you a log.”
“Perhaps two?”
Snorting, Jack said, “How about four? Or five? Don’t forget you can’t exactly run up and down the stairs to burn it off.” He tapped three times.
“No, two is enough. I promise to ration these ones and make them last at least five hours.” He nudged Jack again, then with a quirk of his left eyebrow, added, “Actually, get three. Keep one for yourself.”
“Gee, thanks for your generosity.”
“You know, Jack, you do remind me of Sheila sometimes.” Another raised brow.
Jack frowned, both at the words and the arch of that brow. “Hirsute and lumpy?”
“No.” Though he did chuckle evilly. “Contrary yet reliable.”
Getting it, Jack stood. “And on that insult, I’ll let you get some rest. I’m sure there will be another interview soon.”
“I look forward to it.”
At the door, Jack waited while the guards told Blade to get against the far wall. When the door opened, he stepped out, resisting the urge to say “good luck.”
Walking away from the cell, Jack tallied up the information passed between them.
A traitor. Here, in the Office. The target Ethan had truly been hunting in the desert, and that person was one of the directors.
Then there was the plan. Using two logs of fudge, Ethan was going to break out of the cell, then take out the two guards and however many more were between him and the door to the surface, three flights of stairs up. Jack’s part seemed simple in concept if not execution. He was taking Sheila’s place—a diversion—in this crazy scenario. Then there was the mention of seven, with no hint as to what it was. Williamson, eighty-three as the location. The cars as . . . transport?
And it was all going down in five hours. Five hours until Jack irrevocably screwed everything he’d worked so hard to get. All for Ethan fucking Blade.
The bucket of water was for Jack to wash with. As grateful as he was for the chance to sponge away the sick-sweat, he grumbled through the process, annoyed at how weary he still was. It didn’t help that Blade stuck around, ostensibly fixing dinner, but in reality watching with a concerned eye, undoubtedly ready to catch Jack should he topple over. By the time Jack put his jeans back on, he felt as if he’d been through assault diving training again. Exhausted, he slumped onto the improvised chair and hauled the sleeping bag around his shoulders. The heat of the day was fading fast, revealing a sharp bite to the air that would soon turn into a bone-deep chill.
Blade had a small camp stove, and he heated tins of baked beans and canned vegetables. Jack ate with a desire to regain strength, not hunger, and afterwards dozed while Blade counted ammunition. It was when the assassin began assembling a frightfully diverse arsenal Jack remembered the world and all its issues beyond the walls of the stable.
He’d been out of it for three days, four including the one that had just passed in idle laziness. How had Blade handled that, considering his eagerness to get the dune buggy? There certainly appeared to be no resentment in him regarding the new delay, but then it had taken pushing Blade into a mild loss of control to get him to show some annoyance over Jack’s screw-up at the torture shack. Was that the way to get anything honest from him? Needle and push until he got angry enough to break his rigid control?
One way to find out.
“How’s the schedule looking?” Jack asked innocently.
Blade looked up, eyebrows raised. “Fine.”
“Really? You’ve been nursing me for three days. Did you account for that in your plan? Are you that perfect?”
“I thought we’d already covered my ability to make mistakes,” Blade said mildly, thumbing what looked like hollow-points into the magazine for the Assassin X. “But as it were, finding the buggy was very fortuitous.”
Finding the buggy? Jack snorted. “Yeah?”
“Indeed. It not only allowed me to carry you here while your infection had you incapacitated, but reduced the travel time by exactly four days. We are perfectly on schedule.” He dropped the filled mag into a bag and began on another. “That is, if you’re feeling up to continuing on in the morning.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Will I get to drive?”
“You may if you wish. So long as you know how to steer a camel.”
Jack gaped. “We’re not taking the buggy?”
“Oh no, it’s far too conspicuous.”
“And two blokes on a crazy camel isn’t?”
“It won’t be, under the right circumstances.” The twitch to his lips promised circumstances Jack probably wouldn’t appreciate.
“I’m not getting on that stinking, spitting, devil-spawned creature.”
Blade shook his head. “Devil-spawned? What has poor Sheila ever done to you?”
“Besides try to deafen me with its tongue?”
“Yes.”
Jack floundered. “Well . . . I’m sure it’s plotting something. It looks at me like it wants to step on me.”
Blade put the second mag into the bag and stood, stretching his lean body. “Of course she wants to step on you. You took her bedroom. Not to mention my attention for two days straight.”
“You’re saying it’s jealous of me?”
Blade patted his cheek as he passed. “Only a little. And please, she’s a she, not an it.”
Jack scowled but thought better of picking on the camel any further. “So, what’s the next step in your plan, then? What will be expected of me?”
Clear in his memory was Blade saying they would “hit” the compound. Blade certainly had enough weaponry here to accomplish a halfway-decent assault, but Jack could only hold two guns at once, and he was fairly certain Blade wouldn’t be able to handle more than that. Unless he was planning on arming the camel.
Jack shook that thought away before it could gather any momentum. Right at the moment, he couldn’t be sure Blade wouldn’t use the camel as an assault vehicle.
“Hopefully nothing too strenuous,” was the reply as Blade stacked crates opposite him. “But just in case it goes haywire, I thought I could teach you a few things.” He sat and faced Jack.
“Teach me what?” Jack eyed him warily.
Blade smiled reassuringly. “Nothing untoward. You needn’t look so worried.”
Jack looked away. It wasn’t right, sitting here with this man, wanting to return his smiles and teasing. Maybe he’d spent too long amongst the snakes. Become a little too used to the relaxed morals of a criminal lifestyle. Hell, he hadn’t had to force a laugh at Mr. Valadian’s humour for damn near a year. Had, in fact, come to appreciate the wit and cunning insights.
Now, with Blade,
he could see something similar starting to happen. The man wasn’t what Jack had imagined when contemplating a highly successful assassin. He had a sense of humour dry enough for Jack to enjoy and, oddly, an approachable openness. Odd because the man was insanely cryptic at times, which drove Jack crazy. And it certainly didn’t help that he had the sort of tight, trim body that usually drew Jack’s attention.
Jack swallowed hard, then muttered, “What is it, then?”
If Blade noted anything awkward, he didn’t show it. “A means of passing information while in suspect company. It’s fairly easy, as it entails actually saying what you want to pass on, just mixed up in an otherwise unrelated conversation. The important words are signified with various gestures.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It really isn’t.” Blade had put his dress shirt back on with the setting of the sun, and he presently unrolled the sleeves and did up the cuffs with quick, practiced motions. “Say I wish to pass on a location for us to meet up at later. I would start a conversation about, hmm, places I’ve visited in the past. For example, I do enjoy Johannesburg in autumn, but it has nothing on Darwin in the summer.”
“Really?” Jack raised two sceptical brows. “Darwin in summer?”
Blade pursed his lips. “It’s an example. However, I do like summer in the gulf. Wonderful fishing opportunities. Back to the matter at hand. Which city would we be meeting in?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll repeat it, shall I?” He did so, shaking out the rumples in his left sleeve as he did so.
“Jo-burg?” Jack hesitated, thinking he’d detected a slight emphasis on the name.
“And again.”
Naturally, Jack said, “Darwin.”
“Yes, but without resorting to the process of elimination, tell me why you would have picked that one.”
“No clue.”
“Clearly.” A patient little sigh, and Blade pointedly held out his hands. “I indicated the city I had chosen by motioning with my left arm. I did it all three times. Did you really not pick up on it?”
Where Death Meets the Devil Page 14