The Stone (Lockstone Book 1)

by Seb L. Carter

  You’re not alone.

  Patrick’s stare was comfortable. His warm stare spoke of concern—real concern—enough that Liam felt safe to submit.

  When Patrick reached for the bracelets on Liam’s arm, however, Liam tensed.

  “No,” Liam said. He pulled his arms close, wrists hidden.

  “It’s okay,” Patrick said.

  “I don’t want you to remove those.”

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Patrick said. “I saw them in the hospital.”

  Liam stared up at him. “I can explain.”

  Patrick shook his head. “You don’t have to.” But Liam kept staring. “Later,” Patrick said finally. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

  Liam relented, and he let Patrick unclasp the blood-covered bracelets to put them on the counter. Then Patrick reached down and lifted Liam’s shirt over his head. He went over and turned on the shower and touched the water. Liam watched him with his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t self-conscious of his body, not too much. He’d been one of those blessed with good enough genes and a high metabolism that kept him slim and moderately toned. Not gym rat level, but he still had pecs and the hint of abs achieved despite a penchant for baked goods and salty foods. Standing there in the bathroom, such a small space with Patrick so close to him, there were other reasons to be self-conscious, however. He lowered his hands to cover himself. He was embarrassed that he should feel sexual attraction on a day when everything else had gone so wrong.

  Patrick came back to him, and he paused. Liam had the feeling Patrick was looking him over, which only caused a heat to rush into Liam’s cheeks because he was fairly certain Patrick knew what Liam was trying to cover up. Patrick put his hands on Liam’s shoulders, and that was enough to cause Liam to shift even more where he stood. “You should take a shower,” he said.

  Liam nodded.

  “It’s in your hair, and your clothes are tacky with blood.”

  Liam nodded again.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Patrick said, though he seemed reluctant to leave. Liam sensed it was more out of worry than anything else. Patrick turned to leave.

  Liam’s own blood rushed to his ears. His heart thudded in his chest. “You can stay.”

  Patrick stopped. He turned back to face Liam. “Do you want that?” Patrick asked him. The bump in Patrick’s throat worked, and Liam wondered if Patrick was just as nervous as he was.

  Despite his embarrassment and the length of time since he’d been with another man, this was what he wanted. He wasn’t sure if it was the best idea in the moment. Maybe it was a way to let off some of the tension and to get his mind off the events earlier in the day. He couldn’t really know right then. He didn’t have enough perspective.

  But, put simply, he did want Patrick. And he had a good sense that Patrick felt the same. “Yes,” Liam said. His voice was hoarse.

  Patrick stepped closer to Liam, uncertain at first. And with good reason. Doubt lingered if this was a good thing, especially if this was the right time. Liam met Patrick’s gaze and gulped down his nerves. Then Patrick finally closed the gap between them, and he kissed Liam on the lips. It was a tender kiss at first, a tentative kiss, one to test the moment to ensure Liam was truly ready.

  And he was.

  Liam reached up and put a hand on Patrick’s face and moved in closer, close enough that the cloth of Patrick’s shirt tickled against Liam’s bare chest. And Patrick’s hands encircled around him so that he felt Patrick’s warm touch on the bare skin of his back. It was Liam who leaned even closer and engaged in the kiss more.

  As if Patrick waited for that invitation, he engulfed Liam in his arms—strong arms, comfortable arms, arms in which Liam felt truly safe from harm. Patrick bent enough that he was on the same height as Liam.

  Their mouths opened in the kiss, and Liam took in Patrick’s breath.

  They worked at one another’s clothes, Liam with only his blood-soaked jeans, but Patrick pausing long enough for Liam to pull his shirt off, caught up in the heat of the moment and the desire to feel his hot skin.

  Then Liam got a look at Patrick’s naked torso. He placed a hand on the swell of Patrick’s chest. There were scars that Liam touched beneath the palm of his hand. “What happened?” Liam asked in a husky voice.

  Patrick glanced down at where Liam’s hands touched. “Battle scars,” he said.

  They were rough under Liam’s palm, a long and angry strip of mottled skin. It wasn’t unattractive. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Patrick was perfect in every other way. Liam couldn’t believe a man who looked like Patrick was willing to spend this kind of time with him. But the scar made him more real, more relatable, and Liam bent down to kiss the scar on Patrick’s chest. “Some battle,” he said.

  Patrick laughed. “Yeah, it was.”

  They kissed some more.

  This time, it was Patrick that paused. “You should know from that,” he said, “I’ve seen a lot too.” He put his hands on either side of Liam’s head and looked directly into Liam’s eyes. “I mean it when I say you’re not alone.”

  Liam kissed him once again. “I know,” he said. He held Patrick’s gaze until a rush of emotion ran through him. “I trust you,” Liam said.

  Patrick’s eyes grew intense then. Not threatening, but like a storm happened behind them. Liam watched him, close enough that he could feel Patrick’s heartbeat against his own. “You can trust me,” Patrick said. “You can always trust me.”

  With that, Liam knew why he was doing this with Patrick now. Liam kissed Patrick again, and they moved in unison toward the running shower. This was a confirmation of what they experienced the first time they’d seen one another. With all the magic that had taken place throughout the day, this was one magic moment that they both shared.

  Was it predetermined? Liam had the sense that it was.

  But he really didn’t care, especially when it felt so right.

  Seventeen

  Chicago, IL - Near West Side

  Patrick lay awake in the dark motel room while Liam slept next to him in the bed. It was only a little past midnight. Outside, the traffic moved by. The walls weren’t thick in this place, and it was like sleeping out next to the street. But Patrick took some comfort in it. It had been a long while since he’d spent this much time in a city—a western city, at least. The sound was oddly comforting.

  Liam slept soundly, and Patrick watched him. It was surprising after everything that happened to him. But all that he’d been through was very likely the reason he was able to sleep. He’d been through a lot. Quite simply, Liam’s body and psyche had no other choice but to demand sleep. People handle trauma differently.

  Patrick, on the other hand, found himself unable to sleep. The traffic had nothing to do with it. Or the grimy hotel room they slept in. He’d slept in much worse conditions.

  It was what Patrick said to Liam. He played the words on repeat: You can trust me. When he said them, he meant it. Truly, he did. There was no question in his mind he wanted to take Liam into his arms and keep him safe from everything out there wanting to do him harm.

  But he still had an undeniable obligation to his team, the two remaining SEAL team members who were still in captivity. Mick with a wife and new baby, and Hawk, who had talked about retiring to finally settle down with his wife. They kept him awake. He’d given both of them his trust too.

  According to Cyril, it was totally within Patrick’s power to set them free. If only he did as he was told, which, Patrick assumed, was handing Liam over to him. And that wasn’t something he could do. There was no explanation for it. He simply knew it deep in his gut, in his soul. And it was already decided.

  This wasn’t a crush. This wasn’t a one-night stand. He wasn’t a victim of puppy love. This wasn’t a silly romance movie.

  There was something else with Liam, a bond that went deeper than his previous obligations. He had the sense he’d been on this quest all his life to find Liam, that hi
s talent was given to him for this purpose alone. And now that he’d done it, his talent made more sense to him.

  He hadn’t given up on them, on Mick and Hawk. They weren’t dead yet, at least as far as he knew. And they were strong, solid fighters for the U.S. Military. If anyone could survive what they were going through, it was them. Even if, after this, he knew he could never go back with them. If they found out what he was doing right now, this decision he’d made that didn’t put the team first above everything else, they would never trust him again. And they would have every right not to. Even a consideration of leaving them behind, a mere passing thought, was enough for them to lose trust in him. He shouldn’t be taking this as lightly as he was.

  None of this was light-hearted. He faced a situation in his life where everything he knew had changed. And it all came back to Liam.

  He turned onto his side and put his hand on Liam’s naked chest, the warmth of his skin beneath his hand. And that oddly comfortable exchange of power. It caused Liam to stir and mutter in his sleep before settling into a peaceful rest again. And the exchange of power between them calmed Patrick too.

  A conduit. They were plugged into one another in such a way that didn’t make sense no matter how long he tried to put it into perspective. Liam had, after only two days, become unquestionably important to him.

  And now, Patrick had had to do everything in his power to keep Cyril from getting his hands on Liam. He would keep Liam safe from harm even if it meant sacrificing himself in the process.

  He took hold of Liam’s hand and peered at it beneath a stray sodium-vapor light that spilled in through a part in the window curtains. The mark was still there, the tracker Patrick attached to him the first day they met. He picked at it with his fingernail, but it didn’t come off. He pinched at it lightly until Liam stirred in the bed and pulled his hand away. Whatever the tracker was made of, it was attached to Liam’s hand. There was no simply removing it.

  Cyril needed to be dealt with. He had no idea where the man was located or how he could even find him—trying to find Cyril using his talent was among the first things he’d tried, even back in Dubai when they first came into contact. But Patrick would use everything he knew outside of his talent, every connection he had, to figure it out. Cyril would die at Patrick’s hand if that’s what it came to. And Patrick had every reason to believe that it would.

  He needed to prepare.

  Carefully and quietly, Patrick extricated himself from the tangle of Liam’s arms and legs. Reluctantly, he left the warmth of their bed, and he dressed. As Liam’s clothes were still covered in blood, he pulled an extra set of clothes from the bag he’d brought with him and left them folded neatly on the round table for Liam along with a note:

  Went out to get supplies. I’ll be back by sunrise at the latest. -Patrick

  He put the gun in the waistband of his blue jeans, and he left the room.

  Patrick drove the car they’d come by to a street outside a train stop. He didn’t like driving a car connected to a murder scene, so he parked it on a dim side street. He wiped down the steering wheel and door handles, then he left the keys clearly visible in the ignition. It wouldn’t take long for a car like that to end up in the wrong hands—and disconnected from Liam in any way.

  As Patrick walked on the street, moving from pools of the streetlights into shadowed sidewalk, he made a phone call.

  “Jack’s Lawn Service, this is Jack. Do you know what time it is?” the sleepy male voice said when he answered. His real name was Lance Osgood. He worked in the CIA’s Office of Technical Service.

  “Hi Jack. Yeah, I know what time it is. Sorry for calling so late. This is Rudy Taggart,” Patrick said. It was the name of the legend he was using, and Patrick was sure it was being checked out as he spoke. They were probably running voice recognition on him too to verify his identity and to ensure that the name given matched the agent it belonged to. He didn’t like going semi-official with this request, but he really didn’t have much choice at this point. “I’m calling about a bush I need planted in my backyard. I’m in Chicago right now, and it’s important I get it done before the weekend. Can you help me?”

  There was silence, a tapping like on a keyboard. “Chicago, huh? Hmm.” More tapping as Patrick waited. “Yeah, I know a guy. Real good guy too. He’s located on the South Side. Kind of expensive, though.”

  “I need this bush planted bad,” Patrick said. “I can pay.”

  “All right then. Can I text you the address?”

  “Yeah, that’d be fantastic,” Patrick said. “I only got a cheap phone, though.” That was his way of saying he couldn’t receive encrypted transmissions.

  “All good, buddy. Standard rates?”

  “I don’t have a checkbook,” Patrick responded.

  “No checks. Got it. You take care of yourself, all right?”

  “You know I will.” Patrick hung up the phone. It wasn’t long after that he received the text message on his phone. It was an odd-looking address, but Patrick knew from his training that it wasn’t that simple. Because his phone couldn’t take encryption, the address was sent encoded. Normally, if it was a typical mission, he’d have a key issued to him. But every agent had a standard key memorized. It wasn’t very secure, but it worked in a pinch. He paused long enough to figure it out. Chicago was the only part of the address that he knew was real. Everything else required some mental math. Before long, he had the real address, and he was on his way.

  His destination was 79th street in the south of the city. He was well aware that it wasn’t a safe part of town, but gangland in the middle of Chicago wasn’t the worst place he’d walked into. He had his gun easily accessible just in case. Last thing he wanted was to go down at the hands of some gangster looking to make a couple of bucks.

  The Red Line train was underground at the North/Clybourn station, the platform empty and quiet except for one sleeping homeless person on a bench. He didn’t have to wait long before the train arrived, heading south toward 95th/Dan Ryan. Like the platform, the train car he stepped onto was nearly empty and very quiet. It made him a little uneasy, a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach that he chalked up to nerves about what was coming up, what he knew he had to do. This was a train heading into the city as it had to pass through the Loop to get to the South Side. Even at this late hour, he expected there to be at least a few people riding home from a club or after a late night at work.

  By the fourth stop, he’d settled into his seat and watched as the people waiting in the stations all filed into the other cars while his remained empty aside from himself. Had he gotten onto a train car that was out of service? None of the signs indicated that this car was closed. But, as he looked through the space between the cars, out the windows into the other cars, there were crowds of people, some even standing.

  At the fifth stop at Roosevelt, he stood from his seat and watched people as they waited. Even those who stood near the doors of the car he was riding on made the last-second decision as the train was pulling into the station to move toward the crowded cars. The doors to his car would stop close to where they were standing, and the waiting people would crane their necks back and forth to peer into the full cars then choose one or the other, leaving his empty car alone as if it wasn’t even there for them.

  “Something wrong, Mr. Rowe?”

  Patrick whirled around to find a man standing at the far end of the train as the train doors closed and the train started moving again.

  Not just any man, but Cyril, the man Patrick was supposedly working for.

  Patrick pulled his gun out and aimed. Cyril barely even acted as if he noticed the gun. He simply stood in the center of the aisle with his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, not the type many would see on a late-night train headed to the South Side of Chicago. “What are you doing here?” Patrick demanded.

  “I’ve come to ensure my investment is intact,” Cyril said.

  “Is th
at what I am? An investment?” Patrick gripped the gun.

  “You’re a means to an end, Patrick. And one with which I thought we had an agreement.”

  “Free the rest of my team,” Patrick said. “I’ve done what you asked.” He decided to leave out the part where he went to the house to free Liam, for all the good it did. Liam seemed to be doing pretty good at getting out on his own, so he didn’t quite feel responsible for freeing him.

  “Oh Patrick, we’re just getting started. Why don’t you put down the weapon and let’s have a talk, shall we?”

  Patrick didn’t lower the gun. The train jostled as it turned a corner, and Patrick had to adjust his stance to maintain his balance. But he stayed where he was. Cyril, of course, appeared unfazed by the jagged movements of the train car.

  “What do you want with Liam, anyway? What has he done to you?” Patrick asked.

  Cyril chuckled. “It’s not what he’s done to me. It’s what he’s going to do for me. Liam is the key to unlocking a very profound set of truths in this world, the very thing that is going to restore the balance.”

  Patrick’s brow furrowed. Was Cyril some sort of nut job? “Balance? What does that even mean?”

  “It means we live in a world that is moving headlong toward destruction,” Cyril said. “A destruction caused by certain imbalances that we are working to restore.”

  “So, you’re like what, a member of Greenpeace?”

  Cyril chuckled. “Our methods are far more potent with a much further reach. We are not a group restricted by politics or stymied by the pitiless actions of a few uneducated world leaders. Liam is one of the final blocks to us achieving our goal.”

  The train rumbled along as Patrick tried to make sense of what Cyril was telling him. “And killing him is going to help you achieve this goal of saving the world.”

  “There have been many who gave their lives to bring this world back to what it was truly meant to be.”

  Patrick still held the gun. He could shoot him. Kill him, and all this would end. He took aim, and he let loose a bullet aimed right at Cyril’s head.