by RJ Scott
“I have to do this,” Deacon said.
Rafe shook his head. “Please.”
“I got these,” Felix announced as he arrived back, and Rafe couldn’t see, but he couldn’t move either as rope was twined around his legs and the heaviness of something had him near stumbling. Felix stuffed the cloth back in Rafe’s mouth, taking careful pleasure in pushing it deep.
Rafe tried to plead with Deacon with just his eyes. If only Deacon could help him, they could both get out of this.
“On the edge,” Deacon ordered.
“Right on the fucking edge,” Felix added gleefully.
Felix tied the rope around his hands, behind his back, pushed the fabric even further into his mouth, then looked him right in the eyes. “Bye, fucker.”
And then he stepped away, and it was Deacon screwing on a silencer and aiming the gun at him, Deacon narrowing his eyes, aiming. His expression was dead – no emotion, no compassion.
And for the second time that night, Rafe closed his eyes.
* * * * *
The explosion of pain hit him so hard he knew he was dying, the force of it pushing him back into the water. The weights pulled him down, breath vanishing, his body nothing but a dead weight, and his last conscious thought was that at least he’d get to see his mom and dad again.
* * * * *
He was cold. That was all he could think. Death was cold. And it hurt like hell.
“Stay still, stop fighting.”
The words sounded like his mom. Even though he’d never known her or heard her voice, he knew this was his mom, as an angel, in Heaven or Hell, looking after him.
“Jesus, we need to get him to a hospital.” Another woman’s voice.
Was it possible he was alive? The pain told him that he hadn’t let go of life. If anything, the pain was screaming at him that he wanted to live.
“We have to hand this off,” voice one said. She’d spoken a lot, close to him, talking at him, to him, about him, and all he wanted to say was that everything hurt.
“Ops won’t like this.”
“I don’t give a shit; we don’t know what he knows.”
I don’t know anything. I didn’t find anything.
“I need you to clear the room.”
This time a man was speaking.
“I’m not leaving,” said voice one, the angel.
There was some banging, some cursing, and then the pain left him and he was in a blessed peace.
* * * * *
They made Rafe change his whole life – his name, his date of birth, his family history – and they made Craig Jenkins from the remnants.
Evie was his point of contact, a cop. She had taken a special interest in him, explained that they’d been monitoring the house and seen him go into the water. She’d rescued him, and he was grateful. So damn grateful.
He hated Evie by the end of his time with her, with the questions and the demands of what he should and shouldn’t remember.
“Why do I need a new name? I want to go.”
Evie showed him a video – a feed recording of Felix in a cell, his eyes wide, cursing and tearing at his hair, then stopping and looking right at the camera. “I’m coming for you, fairy. One day. One fucking day, you’ll be mine.”
Rafe watched the recording over and over; the man was insane, but when he said those words, he uttered them with absolute clarity and focus.
“I have notebooks,” he admitted. “Stories my dad wrote down, about his suspicions that my mom was murdered years ago. Would it help to have them?”
Seemed to him that as soon as they sent someone to the bank deposit box, he could shed the last part of Rafe Ramirez.
That was when, with no other family and nowhere to go, he allowed Evie to mold him into someone new.
“What is your name?” Evie asked for what seemed like the hundredth time this hour alone.
“Craig Jenkins,” Rafe answered, as he did every time.
“Date of birth?”
“September third.”
“Where were you born?”
“Seattle.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
Over and over they made him say it, and for some parts of it Rafe actually opened his eyes.
Chapter 6
Three years later
“Beer?” Mac asked, and passed over a bottle before Deacon could say yes or no. Mac was good like that; he didn’t ask questions when Deacon turned up at his door at the ass-crack of dawn, and he certainly didn’t turn Deacon away.
He had encouraged his partner, Sam, to go back to bed; apparently Sam had only just come home from doing something to do with trees up on the mountain. He was bleary-eyed, but he managed a smile and a fist-bump before padding upstairs.
Mac opened a bottle for himself and led Deacon into the den, which had mostly sofas and a huge flat-screen TV. Mac didn’t make Deacon talk; he simply sat on one of the sofas, put his feet up on the coffee table, and swallowed a healthy mouthful of beer.
Deacon didn’t open his; he picked at the label and then, with a muttered curse, took a seat opposite Mac and hunched over his knees. The intel he’d received just after midnight had been enough to pour ice through his veins, and all those memories of three years ago had flooded him.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said, and picked up the beer, cracking the lid and taking a drink even though it was the last thing he needed right now.
“Are we killing someone?” Mac asked in a frighteningly calm voice. He did that kind of shit, with his utter focus and his sneaky Marine ways.
“No. Fuck, no.” Deacon wanted to keep someone safe, not kill them. Not this time, anyway.
“Okay, so no killing, then, but I’m guessing you’re not here looking for a bed and wanting bacon and pancakes for breakfast.”
Mac’s stomach grumbled at the thought; he was hungry, he didn’t need beer, and he carefully placed the bottle on the table.
“It’s all fucked-up,” Deacon began. Because Mac would understand that; he knew fucked-up better than most men.
“How fucked-up? Are we talking as in personally fucked-up, or as in a huge conspiracy to take out the White House fucked-up?”
“You remember when I helped you with Sam and I said I’d just come off something intense?”
Mac nodded.
“I was undercover, a long time, finally managed to get into the Martinez family.”
Mac whistled. “That was you?”
Deacon nodded. “My team, Evie and Lewis, and I were working the long game, had a tenuous link to the mayor’s scandal from a few years before. Turned out Arlo was pulling the strings, had his hands in trafficking; drugs and human. He was a killer, and his son wasn’t any better. They left a trail of bodies between them, but the son, Felix, he was mentally deranged, or that was what his lawyer had used to convince a jury. None of the murders could be pinned on him, always his dad, and he was put away for evaluation.”
“Carry on.”
“This kid shows up, right? Well, not a kid – he was in his early twenties, Arlo’s nephew, had some plan to get inside his uncle’s place and prove that Arlo killed his parents.”
“I don’t recall that part of it.”
“You wouldn’t. I killed him; took Rafe out of the equation before his name could be attached to the case.”
Mac didn’t blink an eye, didn’t judge, only waited for more. That was what it was like to have known someone since they were in grade school; open and easy trust between them.
“At least I had to make it look like I had.” Deacon patted his shoulder. “Aimed here.”
“Your aim was always good.”
“Long story short, my team placed him in witness protection, right? He’s got some teaching gig about two hours from here.”
“New identity, WitSec?”
“Yeah.”
“So it’s fucked-up how?”
“Felix Martinez, Arlo’s son, and his twin Chumo, they
got light sentences. Arlo took the fall for most of what had happened; died in prison third day of incarceration, heart attack after he learned that Chumo had died.” Deacon pressed a hand to his side. “Chumo got a shiv, here. Someone didn’t like his face I guess. Felix was locked up on psych ward, and he’s gone.”
“Gone.”
Deacon still couldn’t wrap his head around the lax security, the incompetence in the face of Felix Martinez, who was fucked in the head. His father had admitted guilt for everything, just to save his sons, but Deacon knew Felix had to have been responsible for so much more than anyone knew.
“And?”
Deacon reached into his pocket for his phone and scrolled to the image, passing it across to Mac, who looked at it carefully.
“Cambridge Falls Teacher, Craig Jenkins, Wins District Fight For LGBT Youth Club,” he read out loud, and looked up at Deacon. “This is your teacher, on Facebook, the local media.”
“Yeah.”
“What the fuck was he thinking?”
“I don’t know, but then I got a call. There’s been an accident, a hit-and-run in his hometown, and he’s in the hospital.”
Mac’s expression suddenly sharpened. “You think Felix saw the article, tracked down your teacher, this Craig Jenkins guy, and tried to kill him? How the hell would he have done that?”
Deacon didn’t know what to say. “The cops are all over it. Even so, I don’t like this.” He hated to admit to Mac that he felt out of his depth, but Mac wasn’t looking at him as if he was an idiot. He knew not to discount the feelings that Deacon sometimes had, that sixth sense that had got him out of sticky situations before.
“What do you need me to do? I can work the manhunt from my end. You take the teacher.”
Deacon briefly closed his eyes. This was what he needed; someone to tell him he wasn’t overreacting and that he had to be with Rafe, or Craig as he was called now. That was going to take some getting used to.
* * * * *
The hospital security was easy to get through with technical help from God knew who, passed on from Mac. Something to do with some agency called Sanctuary that Mac sometimes did work for. Deacon wasn’t going to ask any questions or look a gift horse in the mouth.
He waited until dark to make his move to remove Rafe from the hospital. Within ten minutes of getting inside the entrance, he was up on the wards and had already assessed where Rafe – Craig – was being cared for.
He had to think of Rafe as Craig, had to recall the man was in WitSec and calling him Rafe would blow his cover.
Craig, his name is Craig. Not Rafe. Don’t even think the word Rafe. Craig. Craig.
He’d discovered that Craig was pretty dosed up, with a broken leg and a missing spleen after internal bleeding. With a doctor’s jacket and ID that he trusted no one would look too closely at, he was outside Rafe’s door and steeling himself to push inside.
He could no more think of Rafe as Craig than he could kill him. He just had to be sure never to use his name. This could go one of two ways, just like most things in Deacon’s life. Rafe could yell bloody murder, or he could maybe not recognize Deacon at all.
Deacon pushed a hand through his hair, longer and more styled than Rafe would recall, and certainly blonder – his natural color, not the dark blond-brown from when he’d been in character with the Martinez family. And he had less of a beard now; more like styled scruffiness, if that made sense to anyone but him.
His one regret from his time undercover was that Rafe’s last look at him had been from the wrong end of a gun.
“He can be moved,” a voice said in his ear. He had a comms device linked to Mac, who’d dug into medical records with help, and that was the message he needed to hear.
His plan was pretty simple. If Rafe needed to stay in the hospital, then Deacon wasn’t leaving his side. If Rafe was okay to leave, then they were getting out now. Steeling himself, he opened the door, the wheelchair he was pushing banging the jamb. The room wasn’t brightly lit, and Rafe seemed to be asleep, not stirring at the clattering of the wheelchair.
Deacon pushed the door shut behind him, and for a few moments he collected his thoughts and looked at the man lying in the bed. Gone was the softness of the twenty-three-year-old he’d known; this man was thinner, his features relaxed in sleep, his hands curled into fists on the covers over him. There were no cannulas, no machines, he was merely sleeping. Deacon moved closer, skirting the wheelchair, and leaning over Rafe. He pulled out the syringe in his pocket, a soft sedative, and injected it into the sleeping man’s upper arm, the prick of it more than enough to make Rafe open his eyes, but they were unfocused as he blinked in the dim light.
“Wha’?” he said, flexing his arm and turning his head slowly to see what had woken him.
“Shhh,” Deacon encouraged, and slipped a hand under Rafe’s head, realizing his hair was way shorter. Gone were the layers and soft waves, and in their place his hair was short and prickly at the neck against his hands.
Rafe struggled, apparently aware of something being wrong, and then nothing – he was limp and pliable. Deacon maneuvered him into the chair and covered him with the blanket he’d stolen.
“You’re clear,” Mac instructed. “Take a left from the room, the service elevator, the car is in the loading bay. We can only give you ten minutes.”
Mac sounded so reassuring, the tone of his voice enough to quell the fear in Deacon that at any moment someone could walk in and find out what he was doing.
He pushed open the door and looked outside. Nothing. Then, with feigned confidence, he followed the instructions he’d been given and kept a hand on Rafe’s shoulder to stop him from slipping. There were cameras in the hall, but he had to trust Mac when he said they weren’t recording him kidnapping a man from the hospital.
They made it to the loading bay without seeing a single person, and Deacon sent a small mental thank you to whoever Mac was working with who’d made this possible. Getting Rafe into the car was another thing altogether; he was so limp, and the cast got caught in the chair. In Deacon’s head, ten minutes were ticking down.
A hand helped, and he looked left into Mac’s face. Mac nodded grimly. “Three minutes – get out of here,” he ordered, belting Rafe in. “Directions are in the GPS.”
He remembered where Mac lived – that was the easy part – but he guessed it wouldn’t hurt to have the soft voice telling him which way to turn if his worry for Rafe wiped out his ability to recall directions.
With only seconds of the ten minutes to spare, Deacon was on the road and away from the hospital, the engine of the SUV a soft, steady hum and his hands fixed firmly at ten and two on the leather steering wheel. Steepleshend, and Mac’s place, was maybe two hours from here. He hoped the sedative would stay in place. Rafe breathed steadily, his head falling forward a little. Deacon pulled over when he was far enough out of town, and adjusted Rafe’s seat to recline it, shoving his jacket between the window and Rafe’s head as he slept the sleep of the drugged. As cars passed, their headlights shone into the SUV and highlighted Rafe’s face.
He hadn’t changed that much, apart from looking thinner. His lips were still the same, his ears, the faint marks of freckles over his nose. Deacon pushed his shirt aside. The bullet scar there, high on his chest, right into the fleshy muscle, as far from his heart as Deacon had been able to manage. He couldn’t see the scar in detail, but it felt clean to touch.
When Rafe woke up he was going to kill Deacon.
And quite possibly Deacon would let him.
Sam was waiting as Deacon pulled up and went directly into Mac and Sam’s garage. He came straight to the passenger side and cautiously opened the door, holding out a hand in case Rafe slipped.
“This is Rafe?” he asked, likely more for something to say than actually wanting to get confirmation.
“Craig – we need to call him Craig.”
Deacon climbed down and went around, assisting Sam in getting Rafe out of the car, and between th
em they got him into a room near the back of the house. When they pushed open the door, there was a medical set-up in there, and a man sitting on a hard chair with his head tipped back and his arms crossed over his chest. He looked as if he was sleeping, but he moved quickly enough at the sound of them coming in, and between the three of them they got Rafe in the bed.
“Give me some room,” the man ordered, and reached to touch Rafe.
Deacon covered his hand and stopped the movement. “And you are?” he asked, without holding back on the suspicion.
“Kayden, a friend of Mac’s.”
“Kayden’s okay,” Sam said. “Let’s get a coffee.”
Deacon released his hold and looked directly at Kayden, hoping to hell his expression was enough to ask him to look after Rafe.
Kayden gave a sharp nod, as if the message had been received, and Deacon was reassured that Kayden had this under control. He followed Sam out and into the kitchen.
“Who is he?”
“A medic for the organization Mac works for, Sanctuary. Kayden is a good guy.”
Deacon subsided a little. If Mac trusted this Kayden, and he was a medic, then Deacon needed to be cool with it. They’d said he could take Rafe out of the hospital, but he looked deathly pale and his leg was in a cast. When he’d got a good look as they’d placed him in the bed, Rafe’s entire body had been a mass of bruises and skin abrasions from where he’d scraped along the blacktop. He was seriously lucky not to have been killed.
Guilt suffused him, but he was there to keep Rafe safe, and not allow the guilt of what he’d done before distract him.
He’d been doing his job. Because of what had happened that night, he’d gained Arlo’s trust, and that had quickly escalated. Within three months, he’d been able to bring the whole thing down – Arlo, his two sons, all locked away. Job done.
But he’d never forgotten what it had taken to get there. Couldn’t lose the final image of a terrified Rafe falling into the water.
Kayden came into the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, his shirtsleeves rolled up and a look of grim determination on his face.