by J. M. Colail
“Great.”
D paused and looked at him, cocking his head. “Hmm.”
“What? Oh god, what are you going to make me do now?”
“Nah, jus thinkin’… maybe can help ya with the sore part.”
“Oh yeah?” That sounded promising.
“Give ya a rubdown or somethin’.”
Jack grinned. “Oh yeah?” he repeated, giving the words a flirty curl this time.
D shook a finger at him. “Don’t get cute. Purely therapeutic, a course.”
Jack sobered, nodding. “Of course. Therapeutic. You got it.”
Out of the body pads now, D stepped closer, shaking his head and smirking. “Damn doctors,” he muttered, then put his hand behind Jack’s neck and pulled him in for a brief, hard kiss before continuing into the house.
D PULLED the car into a vacant parking lot and took out his cell phone. Had to make this brief; Jack wouldn’t buy that it took him half an hour to run out for ice cream. Plus he’d be expected back for CSI.
He dialed the number and waited. “Churchill.”
“Reportin’ in as ordered,” he said, snarling over the last two words.
He heard Churchill sigh. “You know, it’s been a month. You could ease up on the attitude a little.”
“Jack already call ya? He said he was gonna do it tonight.”
“Yeah, just got off the phone with him. He said everything’s calm.”
“Yep. Ain’t seen shit.”
“You almost sound disappointed.”
“Fuck, no.”
“Well, if you’re missing the excitement, I have some news for you.”
D sat up straighter. “Trial date?”
“Yeah. Two weeks from Monday.”
Shit. “That’s kinda… fast, ain’t it?”
“The prosecutors are hauling ass on this one. Jack’s not the only witness, and the faster they can get to trial the less chance one of the others will turn up dead. You’ll need to be in Baltimore on the twenty-third.”
“We’ll have to leave in a week, then. Take better part of a week ta drive it.”
“We could arrange secure transport by air.”
“No. Any secured transport takin’ off or comin’ inta town might be spotted, and I cain’t be seen ta be helpin’ him. Fact, we’ll hafta arrange fer you guys ta pick him up outside a town, like in Frederick or Annapolis, and let me come inta town on my own so he ain’t seen ta be in nobody’s company.”
“Good idea.”
“You shoulda thought a that,” D said, sharply. He was trusting Jack’s safety to this man, to some degree, and the fact that he wasn’t anticipating these kinds of concerns wasn’t reassuring.
“And you’re too damn paranoid.”
“It’s got us this far, ain’t it?”
Churchill was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, it has. Listen, I want you to know that I do appreciate what you’re doing for Jack. We all do. Frankly, we’re not prepared to deal with the kinds of threats that have come up in this case.”
“I know. That’s why I exist. ’Cause y’all ain’t prepared.”
“I’ve spoken to your contact at the Bureau. He says your assistance has saved dozens of lives.”
D sighed, letting his head fall back against the headrest. “Drop in the fuckin’ bucket.”
“He’s hoping you’ll come work for them full time… after.”
“After what?”
“After Jack’s testimony and he’s settled in his new identity. I mean, you can’t continue as a freelancer.”
“That’s for fuckin’ sure.”
“Stan’s been talking to his superiors about creating a position for you.”
“Well, that’s real considerate a him ta do without consultin’ me.”
“You saying you wouldn’t want it?”
“I’m gonna have a shitload a stuff a my own ta deal with, ya know. Whoever it was put me up ta do Jack’s murder still wants me dead. Besides, I uh… got some plans fer the brothers once the trial’s over.”
“They’ll be in jail.”
“Yeah, well I’ll believe that when I see it. Even if they are, it ain’t jus’ them ya gotta worry about.”
“What are you thinking?”
D sighed. “I got no intention a lettin’ Jack give up his name and his career. I aim ta make sure he can keep his name, his life, and still be safe.”
“D, there’s no way… I can’t hear what I think you’re saying.”
“You don’t know what I’m sayin’. You don’t know nothin’. Now listen. The second Jack’s seen in Baltimore the hits are gonna start flyin’ around fast ’n’ furious. You keep an eye out for Petros. You got vitals on him?”
“Yeah, he’s in the Bureau database.”
“You look real hard fer him. Arrest him fer anythin’ ya can think of. Jaywalkin’ if ya hafta. Get him off them fuckin’ streets because he will be their final solution if nobody else gets ta Jack.”
“What’ll you be doing?”
“You let me worry about the other hits. I still got connections, and a few other identities I can whip out.”
Churchill hesitated. “This is really personal for you now, isn’t it?”
D fiddled with his keychain. “Yeah.”
Another silence that felt like questions that weren’t being voiced. “Well… I told Jack about the trial date. He still doesn’t know you’re talking to me?”
“No.”
“What reason is there to keep that from him?”
“Because we’re gonna hafta separate here pretty soon, and he’ll be with you. We’re gonna hafta make a clean break. He’ll be under yer protection then, and he cain’t think I’m still pullin’ the strings.”
“You aren’t.”
D chuckled. “You don’t even think there are strings, do ya?” He hung up and sat for a moment, thinking.
He jumped several inches when the phone rang in his hand. He looked at it, expecting to see that it was Jack, but the number was unknown. A shrill squeal of fear went up his spine. “Hello?”
“Calling phone sex lines again?”
D blew air through his teeth, his relief at hearing that digitally masked voice hitting hard. “Jesus fucking Christ, you scared the shit outta me.”
“I was waiting until you were off the phone.”
D sat straight up, looking all around. X could see him. He could not see anyone, or much of anything at all. It was pitch black out. “Where the fuck are you?”
“Nearby.”
“Now yer creepin’ me out.”
“Sorry. You know how it is.”
“You been here the whole time?”
“No. I’ve popped in a couple of times a week to check up on you. Jack’s getting pretty good at the handfighting, isn’t he?”
D shut his eyes, shuddering at the thought of being observed at their private hideaway, even if it was by a friend. “You gotta spy on us like that?”
“Better me than Petros.”
“He ain’t found us, has he?”
“No. He thinks you’re still in Nevada somewhere. The brothers found out Jack had fled Vegas and he tracked you guys to the cabin. His boys tore it apart.”
D sighed. “Shit. That belonged ta Jack’s father-in-law.”
“Don’t worry; I covered it. Faked an electrical fire and burned it to the ground. Mr. Hapscomb will collect a tidy insurance settlement and be none the wiser.”
D felt surprisingly melancholy at the thought of their idyllic cabin on the lake, where he’d first touched Jack, a smoking ruin of cinders. “Well… thanks, I guess.”
“I do what I can.”
“We’ll be leavin’ for Baltimore next week.”
“I know.”
“Shit, were you listenin’ in?”
“Churchill’s a good guy. You can trust him.”
“You know him?” D asked, perking up at this clue to X’s identity. If he knew Churchill, perhaps he, too, worked in some government chop shop.
“In a way.”
“Look, I gotta get home. Don’t wanna leave Jack fer too long.”
“D… watch yourself.”
“Always do.”
“This is a new situation for you.”
“Avoidin’ crazed killers ain’t no new situation.”
“It is when you’re in love with the man they’re hunting.”
D sat stock still for several beats, his heart thudding against his chest. “Who says I’m—”
“You aren’t fooling me, you know.”
D shut his eyes. “Son of a bitch,” he drawled.
“I have a feeling we might meet face-to-face soon, D.”
“Yeah, same here.”
“And it will probably not be under the best of circumstances.”
“No. But listen… you owe me some kinda debt, and I ain’t never been sure what that is, but it’s just there, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then….” He sighed. “If somethin’ happens ta me, will ya….” He trailed off.
“I’ll protect Jack if you can’t, D.”
D sagged against the car door. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Have a safe trip.”
“Feels like goin’ ta my damn execution.”
“Into the lion’s den.”
“Nah, not that. ’Cause… well….”
Silence. “I know. But you’ll see him again.”
CHAPTER 19
D HESITATED outside the door that led into the house from the garage. Remember, ya don’t know ’bout the trial date. Let him tell ya and don’t forget t’act surprised. He nodded to himself and went in.
“Hey,” he heard Jack say. “What took you so long?”
“I, uh….”
“Well, hurry up. CSI’s starting.”
D shucked off his jacket and went into the living room. Jack was sprawled out full-length on the couch, arms crossed over his chest and the remote clenched in one hand like a sword before a duel, his face turned toward the TV. D lifted up Jack’s feet and sat at the other end, resettling them on his lap once he did so. “You call Churchill?” he asked, hoping his tone sounded neutral.
Jack said nothing, just kept his eyes on the TV, his face stony.
“Jack? Ya hear me?”
He sighed, then muted the TV and looked over at him. “Yeah, I called him.”
“And?”
Jack rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “And he says the trial starts in two weeks.”
D let a few beats pass in silence. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well… then we gotta leave in a week.”
“Yeah.” Jack turned his head back toward the TV but didn’t turn the sound back on. “I ought to be glad,” he said, quietly.
“Glad?”
“To be getting it over with. To have this trial start so it can finish and I can get my new identity and try to move on.”
“Yer sayin’ yer not glad?” Jack just shook his head. “Why not?”
At this, Jack looked at D with a cocked eyebrow. “What, are you fishing for compliments? You know damn well why not.”
D just grunted, staring at the silent TV screen with his hand cupping Jack’s calf where it lay across his thighs. “Best thing fer you is ta get yer testimony over then getcha gone, and good.”
Jack just lay there, blinking. “You could pretend to at least be a little sorry,” he said, his voice rough.
D stared at his profile, silvered by the pale glow of the TV. He toed off his shoes and brought his legs up, then stretched out on the sofa, tucking his body between Jack and the cushions. Jack said nothing, but scooted forward a little to make room. D wrapped his arm around Jack’s waist and slipped his hand under his shirt so it rested on Jack’s warm belly. He slotted his other arm above Jack’s head, his fingers lacing through Jack’s hair. He sighed and let his eyes fall closed, knowing that he couldn’t tell Jack what he wanted to hear.
He pressed his mouth into the crook of Jack’s neck. “Ya think I won’t be sorry?” he murmured, his hand stroking Jack’s stomach and dipping lower, his fingers sliding beneath the waistband of Jack’s jeans. “Huh?” He had Jack’s jeans open now. Jack kept quiet, but his breathing quickened as D stroked him, his hips making shallow thrusts into D’s hand. D wrapped his other arm around Jack’s shoulders, holding his chest close against his own.
Jack reached back and shoved his hand between them to cup D through his jeans, then grabbed at his own and pulled them down. D left off stroking Jack and quickly yanked his zipper down. They didn’t have any lube so he just slipped between Jack’s legs. He wet his palm and took Jack in hand again. “Think I ain’t sorry?” he hissed into Jack’s ear. “Show you sorry.” He barely knew what he was saying; Jack was writhing against him and squeezing him with his thighs. “Fuckin’ sorry….” Jack reached back and grabbed a handful of D’s ass, his head arched back into D’s shoulder, the remote falling forgotten to the carpet with a muffled thump.
A few minutes of thrusting and stroking later and they were both coming with swallowed cries. Jack lay still for a moment, then sat up. “Shit,” he muttered, looking down at himself. He stood up, holding his jeans around his waist. He sighed and glanced down at the couch where D was still lying there. “Yeah, I’ll bet you’re sorry,” he said. “Sorry to lose a warm place to stick your dick.” He stalked off to the bathroom.
D just lay there as the shower started up, staring at the featureless popcorn ceiling, feeling the trial date rushing toward him like a freight train.
One week later…
PACKING DIDN’T take long. Clothes, toiletries, some snacks for the road, a cooler full of bottled water and ginger ale for D.
All Jack wanted was one sign. One indication that this departure was as painful for D as it was for him. All week he’d waited for it. Now, he had little choice but to conclude that this departure simply wasn’t as painful for D as it was for him.
He couldn’t have misread everything. He couldn’t be that wrong-headed. D did have feelings for him. What kind of feeling was less clear, but there was something. There had to be.
He’s shutting himself off so he won’t be distracted by it, he told himself. And you shouldn’t be surprised. He dealt with all those years of killing by detaching from his emotions. No wonder he’s doing it again now. But then he thought he might be flattering himself that D’s feelings for him were such that the prospect of separation was on a level with committing murder, and enough to make him retreat behind the emotional barriers he’d spent years building around himself.
They’d have the road, this cross-country trip they had to make by car for security, and then… that’d be it, probably. D would hand Jack over to Churchill in Frederick, Jack would testify and go into Witsec, and he’d likely never see D again. The thought of it was almost enough to make him say Screw the trial; let’s just disappear.
On top of everything else, D was acting shifty. Ducking off for private cell-phone conversations, probably thinking that Jack didn’t notice. Keeping his phone on him at all times and furtively checking for text messages. Stepping up the amount of gun and hand-to-hand practice they were doing together, not to mention the amount he did by himself.
He’s getting ready for something. Jack sat on the front porch, waiting for D to come out with the last of the metal briefcases they’d retrieved from that bunker in Arizona so long ago. Yeah, he’s getting ready to run from whoever set him up for all this. Probably be on the run for the rest of his life. You may be facing testifying and losing your identity, but once he leaves you, D has a whole new set of problems to deal with.
Jack hated to think of D like that. Hunted, hiding, looking over his shoulder, always wondering, never relaxing. D was the hunter, not the prey. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. Wasn’t your fault somebody set him up. You were just the means to their end. The end of D.
As much as he hated to think of D on the run, the thought of him being caught was too awful to even hold in his mind f
or very long. He saw in his mind’s eye D dead on the ground, shot or tortured or beaten to death, and he felt sick to his stomach. What made it worse was knowing how profoundly helpless he was to do anything about it.
Since that night on the couch when they’d gotten the trial date, their physical relationship had been strained. Jack could still feel D’s breath on his neck as he growled “think I won’t be sorry” while he humped Jack roughly, demonstrating just what he’d be sorry to lose. Jack and D had had sex many times now, but that had been the first time Jack had felt used.
Since then, the bedroom thing had just not been working. D’s close-mouthed stoicism was back in force and it wasn’t conducive to good sex, and Jack’s dejection over their looming departure made everything seem hopeless and doomed. Two of the nights since they’d just slept side by side, not touching. This morning, the last in this house that had started to feel so much like theirs, had begun with D leaping out of bed without a word and Jack lying there trying not to feel abandoned.
D came out of the house with a cigarette clamped between his lips, his mirrored sunglasses on his face, the last aluminum briefcase in his hand. Jack saw with vague dismay that D had also shaved his head back to the quarter-inch of stubble he’d had when they first met. “Let’s go,” he said, going to the car and putting the case in the trunk. Jack got up, looking around. That’s it? Just, “Let’s go?” Not one comment about leaving our house, not one backward glance, nothing? D looked at him from where he stood by the driver’s side. “Lock up, will ya?”
Guess that’s it. Jack tugged the door shut and checked it; it was locked. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and went to the car. They got in their respective doors and put on their seat belts. D started up the car and backed out of the driveway, and then they were gone.
Jack watched out the window as the house receded from view until he couldn’t see it anymore. He crossed his arms over his chest and faced forward. No use looking back. At least, that’s what he’d say. If he were saying anything at all.
HE’D THOUGHT that driving for four days straight with D at his most D-like would be excruciating, but it was surprisingly easy. They sat side by side staring out the windshield, not talking. Jack spent a lot of the trip listening to audio books on his iPod and watching the scenery scroll by out the passenger-side window. He kept waiting for D to ask him to take a driving shift, but he never did.