Chapter Five

“The beauty of this,” Peterson said gleefully, “is I don’t even need to transfer you now.”

He tapped the picture. Nick and Nelson Graves smoking pot on the loading dock. Nick’s head thrown back, blowing a blue cloud up. Lord Graves sitting back on the crates with his legs out straight, just lighting his pipe.

“I can just fire you and have the Marines walk you right onto a fucking plane.”

The photo was from a folder held by the other person in the room. Nick was completely numb, but he caught the sympathetic look the man gave him. He looked like a bear, with shaggy brown hair and warm brown eyes. His mouth was a grim line under his beard. He was wearing fatigue pants and flip-flops. The gun in a holster over his Hawaiian shirt looked old and well worn: the real thing. One of these no-name mercenaries and CIA agents fighting Red Sky in Thailand.

“Come on Geoff,” he said in a slow drawl. “What was the kid supposed—”

“Leave it, Agent Macaulay,” Peterson snapped. “This solves all my problems.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Nick blurted, kicked out of his stupor. “He’s Lord Graves! He was the VIP!”

Peterson grinned, showing all his teeth, and picked up his phone. Soon enough a Marine came in.

“Escort Mr. Erickson to his desk to collect his personal effects and escort him off the property. He is to turn in all his badges.” Peterson turned to Nick. “Once you have your things out of your housing, we are putting you on the first flight back home. We’ll send Sergeant Townsend once we’ve booked it.”

Nick didn’t know what happened next. He was in a blank haze. He had barely slept the night before anyway, his dreams full of screeching tires and the stench of blood. Now his mind felt like a bird trapped in an attic, frantically beating itself against pointless ideas over and over, trying to think of a way out of his situation. Home. They were sending him home. There had to be a way…something…someone…

He had a sudden memory—so intense it froze him where he stood. In the jail, still splattered in blood, making call after call—no one answering. No one came for him, no one stood by him. The phone ringing and ringing… No one is gonna come for you, boy, not after what you done. The guard had been right of course. The only people to speak to Nick Erickson had been the public defender and Father Anderson. His parents, when Fred Anderson had cornered them, had admitted their shame, their anger—the death threats that hounded them since the media had identified Nick the first night.

“Sorry, lad,” Father Anderson said, sitting behind Nick in the courtroom. “I tried.”

Nick had stared at the courtroom doors anyway. Amber, Tim, his sister Courtney, his parents, his swim coach…no one.

The memory was so powerful Nick didn’t even notice the contractor had followed them out.

“Hey, kid, I’m real sorry,” Agent Macauley said. Nick stepped around him, trying to get his temper under control. But despite his blank fear, he had real reason to be angry.

“Sorry? Sorry? You fucking…you snitch,” Nick snarled. It was the worst word he knew. A word from prison, a word that led to fighting, sometimes killing. Macauley must have sensed that—he took a step back.

“I had no idea he would jump on it like that,” he said. “I was just askin’ who was at the door, and Peterson saw it and lost his shit and called you in.”

The man was tall and wide—and armed. So Nick forced himself to breathe deep—push the anger away. It wouldn’t help him now. He scrubbed his face with both hands.

“You know what? Never mind, man. Never mind.” Nick let out a bark of laughter. “He was going to find a way—no matter what.”

“I still feel jus’ awful,” Macauley said. He ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No thanks,” Nick said dully. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a mercenary.”

“Hey, I ain’t no mercenary,” Macauley said, his drawl even more pronounced. “I consult, but be damned if I pull triggers or kick doors for any of those assholes.”

“You just tell them what doors to kick,” Nick said dryly. The man blinked at him, then grinned.

“Aw hell, you’re one of them smart ones,” he said. He reached up and ruffled Nick’s hair before Nick could bat his hand away.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Nick said and turned back toward the main door. The Marine was waiting.

*

He walked down the drive with his box, following the fence as he had the other day. He tried to fight off the memories that swamped him. Home. The waitress who refused to serve him, the store clerk who spat on him. He remembered his parents’ faces. You have to stay away. We’re getting death threats.

Again the screech of tires, but this time Nick couldn’t react—numb and slow. An SUV. And a familiar face.

“You again!” Bishop said, leaning out the window. “Quite a dangerous crossing for you, isn’t it?”

Nick just blinked at him. Bishop frowned and got out of the car, waving to the driver to wait.

“Hey, you all right?” he said. “What’s this?” He pointed to Nick’s box. It was almost empty. But it had the photo of him and Reverend Bob, his sweater and coffee mug. The plant Lena had given him. Nick shook his head. Somewhere in his tired brain anger was brewing again, but he didn’t have the focus for it—couldn’t even seem to summon it to help him.

“Your boss got me fired,” he said. He regretted it immediately. Bishop was rubbing his chin again.

“Get in the car,” he said.

“I can’t,” Nick said bitterly. “They are putting me on a plane.”

“Don’t be stupid, eh,” Bishop said. “They can’t touch you if you’re with us. Get in the car, boy.”

The logic was horribly flawed, but Nick wasn’t in a position to apply logic. He got in the car.

*

They took him to a boat. Or yacht—Nick supposed it was called a yacht. A big yacht. Docked at the end of a wide stone pier. It sat alone, far past the rows of other, smaller ships, the water under it the dark blue of the deep-sea channel. Nick didn’t know people lived on yachts in Singapore. He thought they were all sky-high apartments and “good-class bungalows” in Queen Astrid Park. But this…

He trailed after Bishop, still clutching his box, up a gangway past a couple of armed men and up a short flight of stairs onto a wood deck. It was sheltered and had sweeping views of the sea and the rising green hills behind Singapore’s skyline. There were a couple of deck chairs and tables—one had a chess set—clearly midgame. And there was Sang Soe Jeanne Kyaw seated at a round wooden table, having breakfast.

Nick made a faint choked-off noise and felt himself blush. Ms. Kyaw was wearing a white robe, and her hair was in a loose braid over her shoulder. She looked tousled and sleepy and was clearly just starting her morning, never mind that it was ten o’clock.

“Oh hello, David!” she said, smiling. “What have you brought us?” She peered at Nick over her cup.

“This is the boy his lordship nearly ran over in the Bugatti the other day. Apparently, he lost his job because of us, as well,” Bishop said, throwing an arm over Nick’s shoulders.

“Le pauvre!” Jeanne said and gestured to the table. “Would you like to join us for breakfast?”

“Uh, no, ma’am,” Nick said, good manners taking over. “I already ate. And I am so sorry. I am not sure why I’m here. I was just walking, and Mr. Bishop stopped by me and—”

Her laughter cut him off.

“David! Did you—

A loud, snarling voice from inside cut her off.

“You tell Chan that he had better see that ship into port himself! Not his brother, not his partner, himself! Personally! Or ask how his wife will feel getting her daughter’s head in a box! You tell him that I…”

The voice faded as the speaker moved away, but all three of them on the deck were frozen in place. The cries of seabirds were loud in the silence. The voice had been instantly recognizable, even if the tone of it made all the hairs on Nick’s neck stand up. Bishop shook his head.

“That kind of morning?”

Jeanne Kyaw recovered next.

“Yes,” she said softly. “The pain is very bad and there is a…problem…in Hong Kong.” She glanced at Nick who was still staring at the sliding doors. He snapped his mouth closed.

“Nick,” she said. “That was your name wasn’t it? Please sit down at least. Tell me all about how you lost your job. It happens I am in need of an assistant. Do you speak any French by chance?”

Nick made himself sit and admitted that while he had taken French in college, he had never learned more than ‘Ou est la bibliotheque?’

“Well never mind—I can still keep you,” Jeanne said. “Bishop, why don’t you go and see if Monsieur le Comte is in a fit state for breakfast.”

It was a polite hint and Bishop took it as such, patting Nick and heading inside. Nick told Jeanne Kyaw the barest possible bones of the story, leaving out everything except the fact that he had been seen smoking pot with Lord Graves and so had lost his job and was being sent home.

“Today,” he concluded glumly, patting at the plant in his box. “They will put me on the plane today or tomorrow—to make sure I go.”

*

Bishop joined Graves just as he threw his phone onto his desk. If Stinton didn’t get his damn…

“Heads up, Boss. There’s trouble,” Bishop said.

“What now?” Graves snapped. Then he caught the mischief in Bishop’s eye.

“A damsel in distress,” Bishop said. “Except you’re the bloody distress.”

“What?”

“Your little American ginger’s lost his job for smoking with you,” Bishop said. “Better move fast before Ms. Jeanne steals him.”

“He’s here?” Graves was already moving, caught out by his own eagerness.

“He is, best fix your tie.”

Graves paused a moment at the top of the stairs. Sure enough, there was Nicholas Erickson. But something was clearly off. The boy who had threatened Graves, laughed at him, made him laugh, talked his ear off… Where was he? Sitting by Jeanne, clutching a box with a plant in it, was a tired, confused, and defeated man, every line in his body sagging. Nelson Graves was perhaps the biggest sonofabitch in Asia, the most ruthless Baron this side of the dark ages, but he had a code. He took care of his people. Look at the poor sod. Is no one taking care of him at all?

“Good morning, Jeanne. What’s this I hear about you stealing my American?” Graves said coming out onto the deck. The heat was starting and Graves breathed deeply. The heat made his shoulders relax, like sinking into a bath—the hotter the better. His hip felt better than it had in weeks. The only hitch was Nick glaring at him, clutching his box in a white-knuckled grip.

Graves wore a crisp pale-blue shirt, gray trousers and vest, dressed down to the cuff links and gold watch. It was important to start the day as one wished to continue, and Graves had business to attend. Never mind what the little American thought. He was wearing sunglasses but took them off to shake Nick’s hand. Nick started at his eyes and Graves frowned. Why was he so jumpy?

“I didn’t steal him, cheri,” Jeanne said, tilting her face up. Graves turned away from Nick and gave Jeanne a long, deliberate kiss. His hand covered her whole throat, his thumb dragging along her jawline. He heard Colin’s laugh in his head— Who you showing off for, Major? Graves shook himself. Nick was staring off at the marina, blushing pink to his hairline.

“You look beautiful this morning, darling.” Graves said to Jeanne.

“Stop, I look a mess.”

“A beautiful mess.”

Graves poured himself a cup of coffee, studying Nick closely.

“David tells me you were sacked because of our little interlude,” he said. The boy nodded, looking resigned.

“What good luck for you, Jeanne,” Graves went on. “Do you speak French, Mr. Erickson?”

“Look, there is nothing you can do,” Nick said. His voice was low and angry. He sounded miserable, wouldn’t meet Graves’s eye. “They will put me on a plane—send Marines to get me; it’s just not—” The idea that a low-level, petty bureaucrat like Geoffrey Peterson would be able to send armed men and ship this boy off made Graves livid. His free hand clenched before he could stop it.

“Be damned to that!” Graves exclaimed and sat up. “As if I would let anything like that happen to you.” He pulled out his phone and made a call. “John! It’s Graves,” he said. He held Nick’s eyes and blew through Ambassador Young’s yapping platitudes.

“John, I’m borrowing one of your staff for a few days. For Jeanne. Speaks French. Indeed. He is already here. Yes, he is. Excellent! I’ll have Delphine send the paperwork. No need, I’ll sign for it personally. All right. Enjoy your weekend.”

And that was it. Nick sagged back in disbelief, his blue eyes huge. Jeanne beamed at Graves who toasted Nick with his coffee, inordinately pleased with himself. Was anything better than making his people happy? What’s the point in engaging in government corruption if you can’t use it to your own ends?

Jeanne squeezed Nick’s arm.

“Now we will send the form to Peterson, and there is nothing the old vulture can do about it,” she said with grim satisfaction. “How I detest that man.”

“Thank you,” Nick said. “Thank you so much. I can’t begin to say what this means.”

The hope on his face, the way his back straightened—Graves pushed the heel of his hand into his sternum, rubbing out the sudden twinge.

*

The turnaround in Nick’s life was so fast he could barely understand it. He was driven to his old place in Jeanne’s little Mercedes by her security chief. The head of Jeanne’s personal security was an old Shan soldier who barely reached Nick’s chin. But Sao Jeong Jo—Jojo to everyone but his mother-in-law—was as wide as he was tall and hard as iron. He reminded Nick of a barrel. He was positively delighted at the idea that there may be Marines trying to take Nick away. When Nick brought it up, Jojo barked in laughter and rubbed his hands together.

“I hope so,” he said. “I have been very bored this month.”

Nick wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he felt reassured by Jojo’s confidence in the matter.

As it turned out the only person who came was Morris, who burst in on him while he was packing his few belongings.

“You lucky bastard!” he shouted, grabbing Nick around the shoulders. “I don’t know how you did it, but Peterson is foaming at the damn mouth. Tell me everything! You have to call us every week. I cannot believe this! You lucky dog!”

Nick told Morris about nearly being hit by Lord Graves and about Bishop taking him to Jeanne.

“She was there on his ship. They’re together, I guess. “

“Damn, I ain’t surprised. He is built like a brick shithouse and richer than God. He shook my hand, and I felt like a goddamn baby.”

“Aw, Morris, you got a crush?”

“Would you say no? That much money? That life? I’d be gay as a goddamn parade in ten minutes.”

“Seriously?” Nick laughed.

“Don’t be so close-minded, Erickson!” Morris laughed.

“I’m not—you can be as gay as you want.”

“It ain’t gay to want a guy like that. He isn’t in the usual categories, man. My wife would totally understand.”

“Pfft. If you say so.”

“Sure! Now where are your books? I know you got a ton of books.”

“By the closet. Well, he seemed pretty cozy with Jeanne Kyaw, man, so I don’t think he’d take you up on your sudden gay conversion.”

“Tragic, man. My GS12 ass could use a bonus yacht,” Morris said musingly as he stacked Nick’s books into a box. Nick had stuffed his clothes into his backpack and took a minute to look around.

“I think that’s everything…” he said.

“How is that everything?”

“I don’t have much. I only been here like two months,” Nick said. Two months or not, he was suddenly swept with nostalgia for their little group. These guys brought me out of my shell. They’re the first friends I’ve had in three years.

“Hey, Morris,” Nick said, holding out his hand. “I gotta say thanks, man. You’ve been really good to me.”

Morris rolled his eyes.

“You ain’t dying, asshole. You’re just gonna be across town!” he said and dragged Nick into a brisk hug. “All right then—you have my number; you have Lena’s number; you still have your passport. I made sure that was part of your deal with Ambassador Young and Jeanne Kyaw. You are still a federal employee; you still get your regular pay and time. Fuck Peterson, man. He didn’t drug test you.”

“Yeah but he has pictures,” Nick said, remembering.

“Not anymore,” Morris laughed. “That CIA guy took those photos with him. And all them contractors are on their way to Thailand, anyway. Chasing Red Sky. There was some kind of massacre in Chiang Rai last week, and the place is a warzone now.”

“Shit! Glad I ain’t there.”

“Yeah, post in Bangkok’s up to their ears in CIA. Shit! That your car?” Morris whistled as the sleek little Mercedes pulled up by them.

“Yep.”

“Oh, it’s Jojo! Hey, Jojo!”

“Mister Morris, how are you?” Jojo said and shook Morris’s hand.

“I’m great, Jojo. Okay here is Nick Erickson. He’s my friend so please take care of him.”

“Okay, Mister Morris. No worries.” Jojo put Nick’s stuff into the car and they were off, waving back at Morris on the sidewalk.

He assumed they would go to Jeanne’s, but Jojo took him right back to the yacht again. Bishop met him at the gangplank. There was a younger man at his elbow, with floppy black hair and large dark eyes. Taller than Bishop but skinny, wearing a too big T-shirt and shorts, he had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

“Welcome aboard, Nick,” Bishop said. “The boss says until Peterson gets the direct from Young, he may still try and send Marines or whatnot for you. Oww— We ain’t gonna let that happen, eh. You can go to Miss Jeanne’s later in the week. Until then, you get to stay with us.”

“Oh, okay,” Nick said. The skinny guy stuck his hand out.

“Antoine Zidane,” he said. “Call me Tony. I heard all about you. I’m supposed to show you around.” His accent was faintly French; Nick guessed Tony was North African. He couldn’t help but smile back at Tony’s grin.

“You’re in good hands, Nick. Our Tony is our tech guru. He knows this ship in and out. All I track is tea at six, chow at eight,” Bishop said. He ruffled Tony’s hair. “All right then, Tony? Make sure he is where he needs to be when he needs. You in charge of him, eh.” He gave Nick a nod and went down to the pier, calling after Jojo.

“Okay, follow me,” Tony said and trotted down the same walkway Nick had seen before. Instead of going up, they stayed on the same level.

They passed through a living room with a huge TV, a dining room with a long table, and into a hall with a series of doors on either side.

“Okay, this is what you need to know,” Tony said. “It’s really simple. The boss lives upstairs, and no one goes there unless it’s for ‘a bloody good reason.’” Tony’s impression of Graves was a good one, and Nick snorted, covering his mouth. “But he is gone to Luzon, so don’t worry about that now.”

“This is the main floor. It’s all horsemen. That’s us. Me and David Bishop and Russ and Charlotte Rook. And now I guess you are an honorary horseman.”

“The five horsemen doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Nick said.

“Gym through there; if the door is locked, it means the boss is there, but he keeps strange hours, so it will probably be clear when you want. Downstairs is all the technical stuff like the galley and the ops room and the stewards and their quarters and all that. So you don’t have to worry about down there. You are going to use my room.”

“I’m not putting you out, am I?” Nick asked. Tony shook his head, still leading Nick forward. His neck went dark red, and he gave Nick a sheepish grin over his shoulder.

“No. I’ll share with Bishop,” he mumbled. “Well, okay, here it is.” Tony pushed open a door at the end of the hall. Nick wasn’t sure what he expected, some little box with a porthole he supposed. But the room was the size of the one he had just left, with a big bed, a desk covered in computer parts and a large wardrobe. The sun was shining through a row of windows and the dancing reflection of the water made green patterns on the ceiling.

“Wow, this is nice! You live here?” Nick asked. Tony rolled his eyes.

“This little canoe? God, we are practically standing in each other’s shoes in this place. No, we live—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “Well, never mind,” he said. “Let us just say it’s a bigger place.”

That night, Nick had dinner at the long table—it was the horsemen, Jojo, and a bunch of other security types. Graves was nowhere to be seen. Nick was cautious at first, letting the mix of thick Kiwi accents, Malay, and French wash over him. He ate everything they passed his way. They were drinking gin, mixed with fizzy drinks he didn’t know. Paired with the spicy food, it was perfect, and soon Nick loosened up enough to talk.

The man with the scarred face was Russ, who was apparently married to Charlotte and leaned around her to shake Nick’s hand. He had short black hair and a nose that had been broken more than once. While the scar pulled his mouth into a strange shape, his eyes were warm, brown, and clearly full of good will.

“Sorry about the other day, boy,” he said. “We saw you throw hands on the boss just as we rounded the corner.”

“Hey, the end result is my being here, so it all worked out,” Nick said. “I can’t really believe it, to be honest.”

“The boss is a giant pain in my arse,” Bishop called from across the table. “But the man is fair. I’ll give him that.”

“The freckles don’t hurt though,” Charlotte said dryly, and their end of the table fell apart in laughter. Nick stared at them in bewilderment. Tony had to hide his face in Bishop’s chest, beating on the table. “What? What does that mean?” Nick asked.

“Never you mind,” Bishop said. “Rook is just teasing.” He winked and kissed the top of Tony’s head. Whatever was between them made no sense to Nick. Bishop had mentioned his wife and a couple of sons. But he and Tony were clearly…something. They pushed and shoved like friends but also occasionally kissed. Bishop seemed to keep a possessive hand on Tony always, clearly more relaxed now that he was off duty. Nick was in no position to judge or care. If they want to explain it, I guess they will. Otherwise it ain’t none of my business. It’s kinda sweet, really.

*

That night, Nick lay awake thinking about this twist of fate. His face ached from smiling. Jeanne had called to say she would get him in the morning to help her set up a show.

He couldn’t sleep at first, trying to sort through his feelings. What had even happened? Was it over? He tried to think of how Peterson or anyone from the embassy could get to him. Impossible.

“Graves would eat them alive,” he said to himself. No, he was completely out of reach now. He had no idea what being Jeanne Kyaw’s assistant meant. But he was fairly confident he could do it.

“She’s nice,” he said. “And she’s as much of a big gun as Graves is here.”

Slowly his body relaxed. A fresh start. A real fresh start. He had deployed to Asia hoping for one—but his troubles had just dragged after him. But now? He remembered Graves’s apparent anger. “As if I would let anything like that happen to you.”

Someone did come for me. Someone stood up for me. Long as they don’t find out the truth—I just keep my head down, and I can be safe for a little while.

The ship had a faint living movement, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t on land. He drifted off to sleep between one breath and the next, warm, and safe. He didn’t dream.