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“SIMON—ON YOUR LEFT!”
There was a loud crash, followed by a muffled cry as a body-shaped indent suddenly burst through the brick wall. Tristan grimaced apologetically as bits of plaster settled around him.
“—Your other left!”
Simon Kerrigan whirled around, his fists held high. The ground behind him was littered with the bodies of countless security guards, some with ink, some without it. All had recently felt the wrath of the new tatù Simon had picked up just a day before. One that was coursing with dangerous delight just beneath his skin.
“I swear on everything good and holy, Tristan,” he leapt high into the air and spun around with a lethal kick, felling a man running towards him, “the first thing we’re going to do when we get back to the Oratory is ‘Directions 101: Left versus right.’” He ducked down to avoid a swinging crowbar and grabbed the attacker by the wrists, flipping him upside-down before smashing him into the tile floor. “I’ll have Jason write up a course outline for you.”
A trickle of crimson seeped out from the man’s mouth, and Simon took a step back to avoid getting it on his shoes. Across the narrow hallway, Tristan was fending off attackers of his own, albeit with a bit more leniency than Simon.
Tristan caught one in a choke-hold and used the momentum of his body to sprint in a looping arch straight up the curved wall. The men he left standing on the floor were still staring up in wonder as he flipped through the air and came down behind them, knocking them all senseless with a single roundhouse kick.
Perfect form. Flawless execution. And they would wake up from it in a few hours. The men Simon had fought...? They might be a slightly different story.
“You turned around,” Tristan panted, grinning despite the fact that one of the guards had just pulled out a semi-automatic weapon. Before the barrel was loaded Tristan had the thing disassembled, tossing each piece back in the man’s stunned face before knocking him to the ground with a searing blow to the forehead. “It was on your left just a second before.”
Simon shook his head, ignoring his friend’s excuse. There was a new group of men racing towards him now, and without stopping to think he dug his hands inside the wall itself and pulled out two bricks—using them like boxing gloves to knock his opponents down, one by one.
It’s pathetic really, he thought as he gazed down at them. How weak they are. This was the best security the firm had to offer? It’s like swatting at flies.
“A likely tale, but you’re not fooling anyone.” Simon body-slammed a sixth man into the wall before grabbing the final one by the neck, lifting him effortlessly into the air. “I’ll have to write it on your hands for you. A big ‘L’ for left and big ‘R’ for right. That way, we leave nothing to chance.” He squeezed slowly, savoring the look of terror that clouded the man’s eyes. He could feel every broken layer of hurt in the man’s throat as his hand tightened. The torn skin, the bruised tissue, the stymied veins trying desperately to pump the life-saving blood. Trying and failing.
“Simon,” Tristan said quietly.
Simon looked around to see his friend watching him from across the hall. All the remaining security guards had been successfully neutralized, and Tristan barely had a scratch on him. But that didn’t mean he looked at all well. In fact, he was staring at Simon with a slightly foreboding expression. In the twelve months they’d been working together, it was already an expression that Simon had come to know and dread.
He dropped the man quickly, stepping back as he slumped unconscious to the floor.
“Sorry,” he muttered, not meeting his friend’s eyes.
Then, with methodical precision, he knelt down and began rolling up the mangled guards’ sleeves one by one, careful not to touch their skin.
He didn’t want to pick up anything accidentally. Not until he knew how good it was.
A faint line of disapproval creased Tristan’s forehead as he watched his friend go through his post-battle ritual. He would never say anything outright—Simon’s eclectic collection of ever-changing tatùs had saved his life too many times over the last year they’d been working together for him to complain about it now. But the thought of ‘copying without permission’ unsettled him. It always had. The two of them had established an open-door policy out of both friendship and professional partnering. The men at the agency volunteered their abilities for use. But total strangers? Tristan saw it as a violation.
Fortunately for Simon, he cared about his friend more than he did for the rights of strangers.
“Find anything good?” Tristan asked in a clipped voice.
Simon shook his head. “Nothing better than this.” He flexed his arms again without even thinking about it, feeling the raw, primal power coursing through his veins.
It was rare that he found an ability he liked fighting with better than Tristan’s. He had gone through a ‘flame-thrower phase’ with Beth’s some months back, after he finally got over his holdups about copying her ability from her. But the damage caused by such a fire proved more hassle than was worth and not only did Tristan have one of the most powerful abilities Simon had ever seen, but he had also grown to know it like the back of his own hand.
Today, however, was a bit of an exception. Today, they had been tasked with breaking into a vault in the heart of the London underground. A vault that could only be opened with either a passcode they didn’t have, or sheer brute force.
Simon had opted for sheer brute force. And fortunately, there was a man who worked for the PC who had just such an ability on hand.
At first, Simon thought it had been a joke when the guy volunteered. He was only seventeen, after all, and was about as scrawny as they come. What could he possibly have to offer? But Jason, ever the teacher, had stepped back with a wry grin.
“Tell you what, Simon,” his eyes twinkled with anticipation, “just take the ink. If you can.”
It was then that Simon realized what the tiny reverberating fist tatùed on the kid’s arm was able to do. After the third time he’d been thrown through the practice room mats, he lifted his hands in surrender.
“Okay,” he’d panted, shaking his head, “you win.” The kid puffed up his chest proudly, but no one looked more excited than Simon. “Now give it here.”
Like all good ink, it was worth the pain to acquire it. It had certainly come in handy already.
“Probably for the best anyway, right?” Tristan remarked off-handedly, flexing his wrist in front of him with a bit of a wince. “We’re going to need it for the vault door.”
“If you can get us there,” Simon challenged, eyes flickering with a grin. Then he nodded at the wrist. “You okay? Did something get you?”
Tristan lowered his hand with a quick nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Simon shot him another teasing glance from the corner of his eye as the two boys made their way cautiously down the hall. Injuries of all shapes and sizes were basically a part of their job description. But after the excruciating, near-fatal encounter the two of them had back in Munich last year, they had been forced to regard them with a wry, if sometimes bitter, sense of humor.
“You sure? We can take a break if you need it. Maybe lie down. Elevate it.” Simon cocked a finger back the way they’d come. “There was a smoothie place just outside that looked—”
There was a sudden crunching sound, and Simon’s eyes snapped shut in pain. By the time he’d opened them again, Tristan was already standing back by his side. He never broke stride and was looking ahead so calmly, it was hard to believe he’d just snapped Simon’s wrist.
“There,” Tristan flashed his friend a sweet smile, “now we’re like twins.”
Simon raised his eyebrows and acknowledged defeat. “Well played, well played.”
He massaged it gently as they continued down the labyrinth of identical hallways, before coming to a sudden stop. As one both boys tilted their heads upwards, staring at the sheer slab of titanium that stretched a hundred feet into the air. Perched at the very top was a lever that was meant to unlock the door carved into the side. The one that led to the vault.
Once they did that, Simon’s newly-acquired strength would take care of the vault itself and they’d be home-free, early enough to pick up a celebratory pizza before the shop closed down.
That was...if they could get that lever pulled down.
“Well, it could be worse,” Simon remarked, tilting his head to the side as he examined the impossible feat his friend was about to attempt.
Tristan tore his eyes away from the wall long enough to shoot Simon a hard look. “Yeah—how’s that?”
Simon shrugged. “It could be covered in lava.”
A reluctant snicker escaped his friend’s lips as he moved a few steps backwards, gazing up at the colossus before him. “You’ve already been at this job way too long...” His blue eyes dilated with concentration as he considered the trajectory, the momentum, the angles, and precise bursts of speed that would be required to pull this thing off. A faint frown shadowed his face, and he moved back several more steps. Then several steps after that.
“What’s the holdup?” Simon taunted. “You said you could do this when they showed us the blueprints a few days ago.”
Tristan gritted his teeth, still focused in absolute concentration. “Of course I said I could do it. Masters was in the room. I would have said I could do anything.”
Simon grinned but held his tongue, watching with sympathetic fondness as Tristan backed away a little farther still before beginning his run.
It was an incredible thing to watch. Not that you could really see it.
Stripped of his usual sensory awareness, Simon squinted as his hair whipped past his face. It was like standing on the sidewalk when a car raced by. By the time you registered it, the thing was usually already gone. Tristan was the same way.
Simon could see bits of color. Maybe the blurred outline of a man? Mostly, he could feel the vibrations coming off the wall as Tristan sprinted vertically, tearing towards the lever with all his not-inconsiderable might.
Only, for one of the first times...his might wasn’t good enough.
There was a soft cry as he flung his body as far as he could, hand stretching up to catch the metal bar, but even from where he stood Simon could tell it wasn’t going to work. Instead, his fingers closed down upon nothing and his feet scrambled against the slick surface as he began to fall.
He hit the ground with a painful gasp, but rolled out of it. Ready to try again.
And again. And again.
On the fifth attempt, it became clear that it wasn’t going to happen. No matter the desperation of his will Tristan’s body was quickly tiring, and the latest attempt had been the farthest one from the lever. He landed in a defeated pile at Simon’s feet, glaring up at the thing like it was his own personal Everest.
“One more try,” he panted, sensing what Simon was about to say. “Just give me one more try. I can do this.”
“No one can do it,” Simon said lightly, offering him a hand up. “That’s exactly why they built it exactly that high. They must have had a guy with wings or something on the payroll.”
“No, let me try.” Tristan shook him off, backing up for one more attempt. “Maybe if I can kick off from the wall, I can—”
“Wait a second!”
Simon caught him by the arm in a sudden burst of illumination as he soared past. Usually, that wouldn’t have been nearly enough force to stop him, but with Simon’s newfound strength Tristan jerked back to his side like a rag doll.
“Shit!” Tristan cursed, rubbing his shoulder. “Be careful, would you? You’re like a freaking cave troll.” When Simon ignored him, Tristan smacked him in the arm for good measure. “You’re getting rid of that ink the moment we get back to the house—”
“Listen!” Simon clapped a hand over his mouth, pointing to the stone wall beside them. “What if I gave you some footholds?”
Tristan yanked the suffocating hand away, but his eyes lit up as he considered Simon’s plan. “I think it could work.”
Without saying another word he lifted his hand and pointed at three strategic locations, zig-zagging up the wall. Simon nodded mutely and dug his fingers into the granite, pulling out three small handfuls of stone. Tristan watched in fascination then shook his head as he paced back once more, ready for a final attempt.
There was a silent nod followed by a whoosh of air, and then they were off.
Simon whipped around and hurled the rock at the wall with as much force as he could. In a way, it was a little terrifying. If he accidentally hit Tristan instead, it would most likely be an impact that his friend could not survive. But they’d done risker things than this. They’d learned to trust each other. Even with their lives. Even with something this irrationally crazy.
There were three deafening booms as the rocks made contact one by one. As they did Tristan leapt lightly upon them, using each one as leverage to push himself higher up the wall. By the time he launched himself off the third, he was finally within reach of the top.
His fingers closed upon the lever and he swung his body from it, yanking it down with all his might. There was a mighty groan as the thing gave way.
The next second, the tiny metal door swung open.
“Trist, you did it!” Simon called, elated with their success.
Tristan flashed him a tight smile then dropped back down to the ground for the last time, somersaulting halfway across the floor before he was able to stop. “It’s not fair,” he panted when he finally got up, “that you got the warlock. I should be the one throwing rocks, while you have to flip around like a circus freak.”
“Hey, don’t say that.” Simon patted him casually on the back, the force of it collapsing him to his knees. “You do the freak thing really well. Everyone says so.”
“You’re a bastard.” Tristan grinned, pulling himself up painfully. “Everyone says that, too.”
A wicked smile flashed across Simon’s face as the two of them ducked through the hidden door and headed down the final hall. “They’re not wrong, you know. I am a bastard.”
Not a minute later, they found what they were looking for.
The vault. The reason for all their suffering and, coincidentally, the target they had beat out no less than three other teams to be assigned to cracking.
It looked exactly as the blueprints had described it—the only piece of furniture in an otherwise barren room. A single keypad on the silver paneling allowed for access inside.
“Well,” Tristan crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, “you’re up. Time for you to do some heavy lifting for once.”
Simon snorted sarcastically as he approached the door. “The forty guards I took down on the way in here wasn’t ‘heavy lifting’ enough for you?”
“It was not that many.”
But the banter stopped as Simon ran his fingers lightly over the surface of the door. He didn’t know what was inside. Nor did he care. He was there for one reason, and one reason only: To gather up whatever documents lay inside and deliver them back to the Privy Council.
If only it turned out to be that easy...
First he simply touched the door, hoping to gauge the thickness and strength. Then he dug his fingertips suddenly against the surface just as he had with the stone, trying to force his way inside. When that didn’t work he leaned his entire body against it, half a minute later panting with strain.
“Having some trouble?” Tristan gazed down from his high horse with mock sympathy, watching as his friend panted and pushed against the vault. “Funny, that door’s a lot smaller than the one I had to do.”
“Would you shut up?” Simon gasped, finally pulling back a step to wipe a drop of sweat from his brow. “Or would you like to try to dig your way through titanium?”
“Have you noticed that our conversations have started getting really weird?”
“I’m serious, Tris. This isn’t working—”
“So don’t dig through it then.”
That message was clear.
Simon pulled in a sharp breath, already wincing with anticipation before he attacked the vault door suddenly with his fists. Again and again he struck it, his arms blurring with the speed, his knuckles leaving little bloody streaks in their wake. He stopped a few minutes later, stepping back to catch his breath as he examined his headway.
He hadn’t even made a dent and his hands were aching, along with the broken wrist Tristan had given him.
The corner of Tristan’s lips twitched as he reached slowly into his pocket. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
Simon caught on a second later, and shook his head viciously. “No. No, we’re not nearly there yet. Just give me a little time—”
“We’re out of time.” Tristan glanced at his watch, unable to contain the little grin that was creeping up his cheeks. “The second guard shift will be here in less than thirty minutes.”
“So let them come,” Simon insisted, pounding at the door with all his might. “We can handle another round of—”
“Simon.”
There was that look again. That ‘good-people-don’t-revel-in-unnecessary-violence’ look.
Simon dropped his arms in defeat, glaring at the bloody door in front of him. He knew he should have taken a different tatù before the mission. There was this little blond kid at Guilder who had the power to manipulate metal. Granted, he didn’t have his tatù yet, not for at least another ten years at least. But his father had it, so both Simon and Jason were sure the ability would be the same. Simon had spent hours with the kid, trying to extract the dormant power early so he could play with it. He had to stop when he burned the kid’s arm too badly. Now he wished he’d tried longer. Of course, he couldn’t tell Tristan any of this.
“Fine,” he snapped, running his fingers down over his face with a groan, “but you know they’re going to be freakin’ insufferable for the rest of the week.”
Tristan clucked his tongue chidingly as he brushed a layer of bloody plaster off the tiny screen. “This is what you get... mixing business with pleasure.”
“Just shut up and type,” Simon growled. He hated it when Tristan was right, but had been working very hard to control his increasingly-volatile temper. Instead, he redirected it to something smaller. “I don’t know how the hell you have reception down here anyway.”
Tristan smirked, gazing down at the screen. “Dude, I know you’re all about open rebellion and everything, but hate the power, not the phone plan. I have reception, because, unlike some people who shall remain nameless, I wasn’t an idiot and opted to go with the company phone.” His fingers flew over the tiny keys. “It comes with perks.”
A second later there was a cheerful beep, and Tristan looked up with a grin.
“Oh good. They finished early and they’re in the area. Be here in ten.”
Simon sank down against the wall with another groan. “Perfect...just perfect.”
He refused to say another word until backup arrived. He spent the time running through tatùs he liked and ones he wished he had. One day he would figure out a way to manipulate them. He’d find a way to make the ultimate tatù that he could mimic and never need another again. One day...
Exactly ten minutes later he heard footsteps echoing up from the hall. The footsteps were followed by long shadows. Shortly after, there was the sound of muffled laughter.
Simon’s eyes snapped shut with a painful grimace as Tristan stood up with a grin.
“Hello ladies,” he greeted them, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans. “Thanks for coming.”
Beth and Jennifer came to a stop at the same time, moving with an ingrained synchronicity that had come from months of side-by-side training. Most days Simon found it intriguing, wondering if he and Tristan moved the same way. Today it simply grated on his nerves.
“Well, look who it is.” Jennifer tossed back her long hair with a mischievous wink. “Tristan Wardell and Simon Kerrigan.”
She and Beth exchanged another grin, the latter stepping forward with a chiding frown, cocking her head teasingly to the side.
“What kind of trouble have you boys gotten yourselves into this time?”
