“Shirt too,” Gerard Maxwell, the head of security, commanded.
“Just don’t cop a feel, sailor.” Jack unbuttoned his blue dress shirt. His suit jacket already lay on the table in the small prep room off the foyer.
Maxwell grunted. “You aren’t pretty enough, soldier.”
Like Jack, Maxwell was ex-military. When they’d first met, there had been a spark of solidarity. Then Jack had discovered Maxwell had been a chief petty officer with the navy. Traditionally, army and navy weren’t the best of mates, but Jack had been ready for a fresh start when he joined the Office. Maxwell, too, by the way he’d bluntly propositioned Jack a month into their working relationship. Despite Maxwell being neither physically nor intellectually attractive to him, Jack had considered it for about half a second because it would be sex and sometimes, casual sex could be great sex. The need to not screw up the new job, however, had made Jack turn him down.
Maxwell hefted a set of body armour off its frame in the corner. “I’ll warn you, this shit’s heavier than it looks. Thin so as to be concealed better, but dense. Latest hard armour evolution.”
Shucking his shirt, Jack eyed the armour sceptically. “I’m pretty sure I’m not going to need it.”
“McIntosh says you wear it, you wear it.” Maxwell ran his gaze over Jack’s torso, presumably to check for the fit of the armour. When he got to the small cluster of entry wounds where Jack’s right kidney would have been if it had survived the bullets, he gave a short, impressed whistle. “That is some awesome precision. Who’s responsible?”
“Taliban. Had a bee in his bonnet about something. Maybe he didn’t like us raiding his weapons cache.”
Maxwell gave an evil chuckle and nodded appreciatively. “Nope. They didn’t like that much at all.”
Jack lifted his arms to let Maxwell slide the armour on and wrap it around his chest and back.
“This one?” the HoS asked, coming around to Jack’s left side.
“Thug by the name of Jimmy O’Dowd. Dirty knife. Looks small, nearly killed me though.”
“Always the way.” Maxwell buckled up the armour under Jack’s left arm. “It’s the small ones you gotta watch. Have a habit of creeping up on you, right?”
“Right.” Holy Jesus. Maxwell wasn’t wrong. For something almost as thin as his cotton shirt, the armour pulled down on his shoulders like a whole suit of cement. “You wear this stuff every day?”
Maxwell was built like a fireplug: sturdy, thick thighs, square shoulders absolutely bulging with muscles. Jack could understand it if this was what he carried every day.
“Nah. This here is the tuxedo of armour, special occasions only.” Slapping Jack’s back, hard, he added, “Don’t be a bitch. You can handle it.”
Jack staggered, wheeling his arms to keep his balance.
While Maxwell watched critically, Jack dressed again. He slung on an underarm holster and picked up his department-issued handgun. McIntosh had signed off on his firearm re-qual, trusting Jack hadn’t let his skills atrophy during the eleven months he hadn’t been allowed to carry. She’d handed over his Heckler and Koch USP and a mag with one bullet in it, her intention clear. Betray us and you only get one shot. Use it wisely. Wryly, Jack slapped the mag in and chambered his single round, then slid it into the holster. Over that went his jacket.
“Tie?” Maxwell asked, holding up the dark-blue cheapie.
“No. I’ve heard what he can do with one.” He picked up his official ISO badge. “I will take this, though.”
“Reckon he can’t kill you with it?”
“Pretty sure he could, but I think this is sort of a formal occasion.” Rapping his knuckles on his armoured chest, Jack smiled. “Got the tux and all.”
Maxwell opened the door and ushered him out. “Good luck, Reardon. We’ll be watching.”
Jack nodded and started down the short corridor towards the foyer. Maxwell peeled off and entered a smaller version of the situation room. At the door to the foyer, Jack stopped and took several deep breaths. He still couldn’t decide how he felt about this. Apprehensive, certainly. What would Blade say or do? One wrong word and Jack could kiss what was left of his career goodbye. Angry, possibly. How dare Ethan put him in this situation. After everything Jack had done for him, this was how he was repaid? Confused, ah, yes. When was he never confused around the crazy bastard? Upset? Scared? Annoyed? Yes, yes, yes. But beyond all the obvious emotions, one twisted from yes to no and back again with rollercoaster intensity.
Excitement.
Several more deep breaths. Remember what Dr. Granger said. Emotions don’t have to rule you. Don’t act on them rashly. Think them through. Be rational.
Ethan Blade was a wanted criminal. He belonged in prison. A high-security prison for the mentally unstable. He was nothing more than that. It didn’t matter what he’d said in the desert. He couldn’t be trusted. That was the rational path. And yet . . .
Operative admits to feelings of sympathy for the subject.
The one line in his initial psych evaluation upon coming back that put the brakes on his return to the field. Eleven months of inaction because of an irrational impulse to mention how he’d come to like Mr. Valadian.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen again.
Jack opened his hand and looked at the badge. His ISO shield in gold-plated bronze looked spanking new, which it pretty much was. He only brought it out on official occasions, of which there had been a scarcity in his time with the Office. Still, he rubbed it with the tail of his jacket before clipping it onto his belt.
Then he pushed through the door and walked out. It closed behind him with a small click of finality. It was a one-way lock.
Jack emerged into the foyer at the back of the staircase, hidden from view. The leader of the tactical team waited for him.
“Sir.” He wore armour of a much more bulky nature, and probably twice as light. “Subject has not moved, nor said anything. We’ve scoped him constantly; nothing’s changed. I swear, he hasn’t even farted once.”
Jack snorted. “What did you expect? He’s British. All right. I’m going out there. I’m not actually expecting trouble, but I wouldn’t put a swifty past him.”
The man nodded and thumbed on his throat mic, then informed his team the operative was heading out. He waved Jack out of cover and crouched, assault rifle at the ready.
Jack stepped out into sight of the foyer. Twenty metres away, Ethan showed no reaction, though Jack knew he saw him. The assassin’s regard came with a certain predatory pressure, prickling the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck, thrumming through him with a sharp spike of anticipation. He had no idea what to expect, and he didn’t like the uncertainty. It didn’t help that Jack had only ever found one way of getting the upper hand on Ethan Blade, a method he wouldn’t be revealing. He could only hope that here, where he was surrounded by his allies, in a place he was confident of his position and job, he would have some measure of command over Ethan.
Yeah. He could hope.
Wish you were here?
Shaking off the doubt, Jack strode forward. Ethan kept still, hands behind his head, sunglasses trained on the floor about two feet in front of himself. Jack stopped precisely there.
“Ethan Blade. Well, isn’t this the worst day of my life.”
Ethan didn’t reply. Didn’t move, barely seemed to breathe.
“Really? You track me down, come all this way, and submit yourself to a dozen highly trained and heavily armed security personnel just to play the silent game? You’re an insane bastard, Blade.”
“Half right, Jack.”
Ah. There was the bemused-tosser accent he hadn’t missed. Now that Ethan was talking, however, Jack had to be doubly careful. Until he knew exactly what Ethan hoped to achieve by showing up here, Jack couldn’t risk giving anything away.
“What’s going on? Why are you here?” Frustrated with looking at the top of Ethan’s head, Jack added, “Look at me.”
Slowly, Ethan lifted his head. “Hello, Jack.” He smiled, and it might have actually been genuine.
Breathing through the surge in memories, Jack said, “Just answer the questions.”
Ethan’s sunglasses finally angled towards Jack’s face. “Unfinished business. To get this out of the way.”
“Jesus,” Jack hissed. “You haven’t changed, have you?”
“No.” Briefly, his tinted glasses dipped down over Jack’s body and back up. “But you have. Nice suit, Jack. If a little cheap.”
Mouth open to object, Jack stopped himself before he could. Arguing with Ethan was where the path diverged. One way was right, the other wrong. Veering onto the right path, Jack merely said, “On your feet, Blade.”
Thankfully, Ethan complied without opening his mouth.
“Arms up. Feet apart.”
More silent compliance.
Wondering when the other shoe was going to kick him in the nuts, Jack stepped up and, starting at Ethan’s shoulders, patted him down thoroughly.
“I’m not carrying, Jack.”
“You expect me to trust you?”
“It did cross my mind that there should be some level of trust between us.”
Hands on Ethan’s waist, fingers itching to dig in and hurt him, Jack scowled. “After what you did to me?”
“I apologised for that.”
The urge to punch him didn’t entirely go away, but it did subside a fraction. As far as he could tell, Ethan honestly believed saying “sorry” was all he needed to do. There was a level of innocence in Ethan somehow both at odds and perfectly aligned with his psychosis. A killer ignorant of just what his actions cost the world.
Teeth grinding, Jack lifted his hands to Ethan’s arms and took his time. “This is so bloody typical of you. There’s a sane, rational choice or a crazy-arse, do-or-die one, and you pick the one most likely to get you dead. Every single bloody time. You’re insane.”
“I have unarguable powers of reason.”
Jack snorted before he could stop himself. He crouched and ran his hands down Ethan’s legs. “Yeah. No one argues with your reason.”
“Except you, Jack.”
“Not anymore, Ethan. It ends here.” He stood and, with only a moment’s hesitation, ran his hands through Ethan’s hair.
The assassin shifted fractionally under the touch, a slight tilt towards Jack, head dropping forward. He jerked back, however, when Jack drew his hands free, taking Ethan’s sunglasses with him.
While Ethan blinked in the sudden brightness, Jack drew his gun. The barrel landed under the assassin’s jaw, shoving his head back so he got an eyeful of bright white light.
“I’m going to inject you with a sedative, Ethan. It’s the safest way to move you.”
“As you wish, Jack.”
With his free hand, Jack pulled the jet-injector from his pocket. As he put it to the skin over Ethan’s jugular, Jack realised he felt guilty. It was a shitty thing to do. Ethan had come in voluntarily and had obeyed every order. He could be trusted to do as Jack said.
But no one would trust Jack afterwards, and if he was ever going to prove his continuing loyalty to McIntosh, he couldn’t mess this up.
“I’ll endeavour to make it as painless as possible,” he said, and Ethan closed his eyes in acceptance.
Jack depressed the trigger and, three heartbeats later, the world’s seventh-most-proficient killer crumpled in a heap at his feet.