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YOU’RE A SMART KID, Simon. You’ll think of something.
“Easy for him to say,” Simon growled between his teeth.
Even though Fodder had been stabbed in the arm with a drug so potent its symptoms mimicked death, Simon couldn’t help but think that he’d gotten the better end of the deal.
Simon was still rather heavily sedated himself. He was awake and walking, of course, but the chemicals didn’t leave his system so easily. Not only was he too weak to even begin to use his tatù, but his right arm kept spasming with belated bursts of the paralytic. It was all he could do to keep himself standing as he dragged Fodder up the steps to the little bed and breakfast, eyes darting around nervously to make sure that no one else could see them in the inky darkness.
When he got to the top of the steps, he dropped Fodder unceremoniously beneath the porch bench and rolled him out of sight with his shoe. Then, taking care to be as quiet as possible under the circumstances, he crept around to the back of the building and peered in the window.
For the first time since he’d woken up in enemy territory, Simon breathed a bit easier.
Tristan was still passed out cold. Unlike Simon, who had been stabbed with a syringe in the side of his neck, Tristan had been shot with it from a farther distance. The dart was still buried in the skin beneath his ear, peeking out from beneath his dark hair.
Simon decided to leave it there. At this point, it would only bolster his story.
Once he was satisfied that Tristan was still safely sleeping, he circled back to the house and dragged Fodder painfully inside. Along the way, he carefully overturned their kitchenware and random bits of furniture. A chair leg was broken. The table was tipped on its side. The glass pitcher of the coffee maker was smashed across the floor, and Simon raked a few pieces along Fodder’s face for good measure.
He wanted to be ‘dead’ right?” Well, being dead came with a price.
I can’t believe I’m freakin’ doing this.
Simon took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then punched Fodder right in the face. Then he kicked him. Then he punched him again. But that wasn’t the worst of it. For every hurt he inflicted on Fodder, he then turned around and did it to himself.
Punch for punch. Blow for blow.
Blood for blood.
It had to look believable. It had to look like there was actual a fight. A true struggle.
He kept going for at least five more minutes before coming to a sudden stop, panting and wiping drops of blood and sweat from his eyes. Between the ransacked room and the two of their mangled bodies, he had to admit he thought the place looked pretty good.
But the plan wasn’t over yet. There was one thing left to do.
Even though Simon would have given the world not to do it.
With a heavy heart, he picked himself up off the floor and dragged his weary body to Tristan’s room. His trusting partner still lay sleeping in the bed and would for at least another half hour. Simon had gotten assurances of this by Fodder’s men before he left the abbey. The drugs had rendered him in a virtual coma, and he would not remember what came next.
But Simon would. He would never be able to forget.
That is...if he could ever bring himself to do it.
“Come on,” he whispered, trying to steel himself. “This is for his own good.”
It was a hard argument to make, but Simon tried anyway.
“A little lie now to save Fodder’s life, then I can work with him and the Knights to make a better future for everyone. For me, for Beth, for Tristan—for his kid. This is for the greater good here. Get it together.”
But it was easier said than done.
Twice he lifted up his fist, twice he lowered it back down, staring at Tristan’s face all the while, completely unable to cause him any harm. A guilty tear slipped down his face, and he wiped it brusquely away with the back of his hand, staring up at the ceiling as he willed himself to be strong.
Then, with a pain that felt like it might rip him in half, he punched Tristan right in the face.
Hard.
It had to be hard. It had to be believable. Otherwise, there was no point to any of this.
Tristan didn’t move. Made no effort to shield himself, to fight back. He merely lay there, a dash of blood across his cheekbone, a look of sleeping innocence painted across his face.
Simon pulled in a broken gasp, and did it again. And again. And again.
After a minute, the pain broke through the chemicals and Tristan’s body flinched instinctively away. Simon held him flat, positioning him as gently but realistically as possible, cursing and crying all the while.
With every strike, there came a whispered apology.
With every punch, Simon felt like he might never recover. Never sleep, never laugh, never smile again.
As much as Tristan might be hurting right now, Simon was hurting tenfold. When his friend gasped softly in his sleep, Simon felt like something inside of himself flat-out died.
He did as little as he could, as fast as he could. Then he leaned back and tried to assess the injuries objectively. Unless Tristan had been taken out of the fight early on with some devastating blow to the head, he would have stayed in it for a long while. Since Simon was unwilling to do anything that might risk permanent damage, he’d had to settle for racking up all the minor injuries he could while still maintaining some small grip on his sanity.
Multiple contusions. Broken fingers. A smashed wrist. Simon made sure it was on the side Tristan didn’t favor, but it was a small consolation to them both. When he was satisfied with the accuracy of the performance, he carried Tristan out of bed and positioned him carefully halfway down the hall. The walls were already splattered with Simon’s blood from before, so it looked like he could have gone down while putting up a hell of a fight.
Now for the final step...
Without a second’s pause, Simon headed back to the living room, lay down, and started screaming with all his might.
“Tris, wake up! Tristan!”
Nothing happened.
“TRIS!”
Simon glanced at the clock. They were coming up on the half-hour mark. He should be coming out of it any time. Feeling like the devil himself, he pulled in a deep breath and tried again.
“TRISTAN! HELP!”
This time, the words broke through. There was a soft rustling sound, followed by a gasp and a sharp cry. From the angle he was twisted on the floor, Simon could see Tristan open his eyes and stare in disorientation around the hall. Then the pain kicked in and he gasped.
“Simon?” His voice was hoarse and scratchy. Simon had hit him repeatedly in the throat. “Where are—” He broke off, coughing into the carpet until he caught his breath. When he was finished, he hoisted himself painfully up to his feet and staggered down the hall.
Simon lay waiting for him.
“Holy shi—Simon!” He dashed across the room as fast as he could, forgetting his own injuries as he knelt beside his friend. His hands were shaking in pain, and his eyes were over-dilated and hazy from the drugs, but he couldn’t care less. “What...what happened?”
“It’s my leg,” Simon panted. The thing had been strategically twisted at a painful angle upon the floor. “I can’t move it.”
Tristan’s face was white with shock and pain as he quickly examined it. They had each been through a basic medical rotation back at Guilder, but it was rudimentary at best. Neither one of them would have any idea how to deal with half the injuries they incurred in the field.
“I don’t know what happened,” Tristan exclaimed again, fighting off waves of pain and confusion as the drugs slowly lifted from his mind. “Simon, what—”
“Is it broken?” Simon asked through his teeth, shaking in a believable portrayal of pain.
Tristan broke off his line of disoriented questions, and forced his eyes back down. His placed his hands on strategic points above the knee and pressed gently, waiting for a reaction.
Simon cried out, but did so at the precise decibel to get what he wanted. He had been injured enough times to know how to simulate a break, versus a sprain, versus a dislocation. He wanted Tristan distracted here, nothing more. He wanted Tristan to see that he was also hurt.
“I’m sorry. Let me check,” Tristan breathed, removing his hands at once. “I think it’s just a sprain, Simon.”
Simon’s heart broke at the apology, but he shot him a glare. “Just a sprain?” He quoted Tristan’s own words from before in Hungary. “A sprain is a big deal to a lot of people.”
Tristan missed the humor.
After a cursory check to make sure Simon was alright he collapsed on the floor beside him, staring around the room with wide eyes as he struggled to push through the drugs.
“What the hell happened?” he murmured, his broken fingers trembling unnoticed by his side. “I don’t...I can’t remember.”
Simon’s chest tightened again, but he pulled himself together.
“It was Fodder,” he panted, staring across the living room to the kitchen. Tristan had yet to see the body, and the more of his story he could fit in before that happened, the better. “He must have known we were coming for him. Got to us first. You fought him. Damn near beat him, but he shot you with the same kinds of drugs he gave us before.”
Tristan was listening with wide eyes. At this point, his hand drifted automatically up to the syringe still imbedded in his neck. He pulled it out with a shudder.
“I was able to pull him off of you,” Simon shuddered and continued, “managed to take him down.” His eyes shot to the kitchen, to Fodder’s prone body lying on the floor. “He hasn’t moved since.”
Tristan followed Simon’s gaze in alarm, and he jumped in his skin when he saw the man lying on the floor. A spattering of blood fell to the floor as he staggered to his feet, grabbing one of the broken chair legs in the process to use as a weapon.
A weapon that only Simon knew he would never need. As Tristan carefully approached the body, Simon watched with bated breath. It’s better this way, he kept telling himself. Tristan had to see an actual body this time. Not like how it was with the scientist. Not only was Simon unsure as to whether or not Tristan would have believed him without seeing proof, but he didn’t want to consider what it meant that his best friend would be unwilling to take him at his word.
What does that say about our partnership? What does it say about my word?
Every muscle in his body tensed in fear as Tristan bent down and took Fodder’s pulse. The seconds seemed to stretch into hours, each one lasting longer than the last. Then, after what seemed like an impossible amount of time, Tristan stood up, looking suddenly grim.
“He’s dead.”
Simon let out a secret sigh of relief, but pretended to look surprised all at once.
“Are you...are you sure? I didn’t think I had actually...” He let the horror seep into his voice, glancing up discreetly to make sure it had hit its mark. “Are you sure?”
Tristan nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes. He just stared at the body as Simon stared at him.
Simon was suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that the ring he was wearing, one that Beth had gotten him for Christmas, was imprinted in Tristan’s cheek. He hoped like hell that it would fade before Tristan had a chance to notice, but Tristan obviously had other things on his mind.
“Can you stand?” Tristan asked flatly.
A feeling of dread settled in Simon’s chest, but he pushed heavily to his feet. “Yeah.”
What the hell is going on?! What is he thinking?! Did it work?!
Tristan wiped a drop of blood from his face before crossing to the mantel to retrieve his keys. “You take care of the body. I’ll go get the car.”
* * *
THE RIDE BACK TO LONDON was deadly quiet. The hour it took them to get there felt more like four, and by the time they arrived Simon bet they hadn’t said more than ten words to each other the entire time.
The terrifying thing was, Simon had no idea what it meant.
Tristan had turned on a dime when he saw the body. Before that he had been simply shocked, hurting, concerned for Simon’s leg. But after...?
He hadn’t even asked what Simon had done with Fodder’s corpse. He’d just pulled the car in front of the bed and breakfast, and honked twice. Simon had thrown in their bags and they’d hit the road without another word, racing out of the countryside back to London.
Not a word. Not a look. Not a single clue as to what was going on.
“Do you want me to call Dr. Stanton?” Simon asked as they pulled onto their street. “That gash on your face looks serious.”
Tristan kept his eyes on the road. “It’s fine.”
Simon pulled in a deep breath, unable to take the suspense any longer. “Listen, are you mad at me or something, because I...” He trailed off as they rounded the corner of the park and eased up the driveway. A darkly tinted town car was parked out front. A car he recognized well. “What the hell is Masters doing here?”
“I called him from the inn.” Tristan flashed him a look as he parked and pulled open his door. “I want to get this over with as soon as possible.” He started walking up the front steps without another word, leaving Simon uncertain in the car behind him.
He didn’t believe it. The fake body. The fake fight. I made some sort of mistake...and he saw through it.
As terrified as Simon should have been—terrified that he’d been caught in a horrendous lie and now his indestructible boss was waiting in his parlor—he felt guiltier than anything else. If Tristan knew that the corpse was staged, then he knew that the fight was staged as well. And if the fight wasn’t real... then he’d surely deduced how it was he’d gotten so many injuries.
But the drugs work! Simon thought in panic. They’re PC drugs! Best in the business! There’s no way that he could have...
But that look on his face.
Simon would remember it forever. It was like a light had gone out. One he wasn’t sure could ever be relit.
“Are you coming?” Tristan called suddenly from the porch.
Simon looked up with a start, staring through the window in frozen fear, before he nodded quickly and undid his seat belt. “Yeah,” his voice was scratchy, “I’m coming.”
* * *
“TELL ME YOU’RE BLOODY joking,” Masters demanded.
Both boys hung their heads.
“TELL ME YOU’RE JOKING!”
A book slammed on the desk between them, and the two of them jumped.
“Tell me that the Privy Council’s TOP agents haven’t KILLED another target instead of BRINGING HIM IN LIKE THEY WERE DAMN WELL TOLD!”
Simon sucked in a silent breath and held it for all he was worth. The entire debriefing had only taken about five minutes. There wasn’t much to tell. And everything there was to say was a complete fabrication. A combination of lies and falsely planted evidence.
Tristan hadn’t said more than a few words. Which was troubling, as he usually handled the debriefings almost entirely by himself. He’d stared at the floor in front of his feet, flinching only when Masters raised his voice the extra decibel. It wasn’t until the very end that Masters circled around the desk between them and kicked the legs of his chair.
“Speak, Wardell! Make this make sense!”
A cool chill ran down Simon’s spine. He glanced at Tristan out of the corner of his eye but Tristan was staring deliberately forward, a rather blank expression on his face.
“He caught us off guard,” he finally said, speaking in a low, quiet voice. “We fought, he drugged me, Simon took him down. He died in the process.”
Masters took a step back, his face growing very stern as he absorbed this. Stern, yes. But for the first time, Simon could tell he believed their story. Because Tristan said it. It was Tristan’s word.
Finally, when Tristan offered no further resistance and refused to meet his eyes, Masters sighed and gathered up his things. “Well then, I suppose you’re both officially on leave for the next week. Keene will be here in seven days with your next assignment. Until then...get some damn rest.” His eyes swept over them with a slight frown as he headed to the door. “You look tired. You both do.”
The door slammed behind him. Shortly after there was the sound of an engine revving up, and the next second he was gone.
Simon turned slowly to Tristan. They were both still sitting in their chairs, both still staring forward at the wall. He tried several times to speak, but each time the words caught in his throat.
Just say something. Anything. Anything at all.
“Tris—”
“Are you happy, Simon?”
Simon leaned back in his chair in surprise, completely caught off-guard with the randomness of the soft question. To be honest, it was something he hadn’t even considered. Not ever. Not once.
“Uh...what?”
Tristan turned to look at him for the first time, and for a split second his carefully controlled mask slipped. Behind it waged a war of emotions. Each one fighting for supremacy. Each one fighting to be heard. He was angry, yes. And sad. And scared.
But in the end, it was desperation that won out over all.
“You’re happy, right? Here? Doing this?” Their eyes locked, black on blue. While Simon’s held nothing but confusion, in Tristan’s there was a silent plea. “Can you just...be happy?”
He never explained it.
Simon never asked.
A moment later he grabbed his keys and went right back out to his car, heading off to see Mary and the baby at his place in Esher.
Simon watched him go from the window, a line of worry creasing down the center of his forehead, a feeling of dread boiling away in his stomach.
But then, once the car had turned the corner out of sight, he picked up his own set of keys and headed right out the same door.
He didn’t know what was going on with Tristan. He didn’t know what those last words meant or where the two of them stood. But he did know one thing that would make him feel better.
And it was something that was long overdue...
