After submitting his amended reports, taking possession of two logs of fudge, and swapping Maxwell for an even more impossibly muscled security shadow, Jack wandered into one of the break rooms around midnight. His watchdog remaining outside, he found Lewis’s second, Lydia, on the top bunk. She was curled around the pillow, so deeply asleep his arrival didn’t even stir her.
After undressing down to his boxers, Jack lay on the lower bunk, hands under his head. In the dim glow of the light coming in under the door, he could just make out the frame and springs of the upper bunk. They felt about two inches from his nose, close and discomforting, as if they were about to fall in on him. He wished for the wide, impossibly high arch of a desert sky at night. The breathless expanse of stars curving over the world, jewels nestled on pillows of black satin. Out there, when he’d been walking towards that endless horizon, everything had felt so far away. Untouchable, unobtainable, inconsequential. As if nothing he did mattered.
If only that had been true.
Upstairs, the directors were meeting to discuss the situation. It was clear Ethan was only going to talk to Jack, and the upper echelons weren’t sure if it was worth it. If McIntosh didn’t back Jack, he’d never be allowed in the same room as Ethan again. It all depended on how much they wanted whatever the assassin might have to give them. Which in turn depended on just what Ethan hoped to achieve here.
With all the memories of those weeks returning, Jack’s body was falling back into old habits. He dropped into sleep almost immediately, but woke when Lydia’s phone buzzed, calling her back to the operations room. She mumbled apologies on her way out. Jack grunted in what he hoped was a “no problem” manner and rolled over. Threat assessed and dismissed he fell back asleep the moment the door closed.
A ping from his implant woke him next time. Shocked by the immediacy of the sound inside his head, he shot upright, fumbling for a weapon and finding nothing. Dark-adjusted eyes scanning the break room, he breathed deep to ease the racing of his heart. Damn Ethan. Jack had just regained his equilibrium, and now he was jumping at shadows and reaching for a gun again.
Ping.
Jack groaned, then muttered, “Reardon.”
“They’re ready for you.”
“Thanks. I’m on my way.” He cut off the call and sat for a moment, elbows on knees, head hanging. Today wasn’t going to be any better than yesterday. Why he thought it would be was beyond him right then. If history was to be trusted, he should never have expected otherwise. Birthdays. Fuck ’em.
A time check said it was 0537. Just about exactly twenty-four hours since he’d left home, thinking, despite the date, it would be a rather typical day. Head out to see Dad before work; come into the office feeling frustrated and angry, the usual issues after seeing his father; maybe a drink or two after work; a painful rendition of “Happy Birthday” and then home. He’d dared throw in the possibility of finding a companionable body to spend the night with. Never did the idea of seeing Ethan Blade again, of having to deal with the fallout of then, enter into his scenarios for how his day might progress.
Now he was expected upstairs to face whatever decision they’d come to.
Wish you were here?
Jack dressed in his slightly rumpled suit from the previous day, picked up his silent shadow at the door, and stopped by the toilet on his way upstairs. In front of the mirror he scrubbed at his teeth, pushed wet hands back through his tousled black hair, and dug the grit out of his eyes. He looked like shit. Drawn, red eyed, a decidedly grey undertone to his light-brown skin, ready to snap necks if he didn’t get caffeine before attempting human interaction. There was no time for the niceties, though. McIntosh and her cronies were expecting him.
The halls of the building were empty but for him and his watchdog, their footsteps softened by carpet. Cool air cycled against Jack’s skin, yet he couldn’t help but feel like he was back in the desert, lost, on the back foot, heading into the unknown. The mix of dread and anticipation curled through his stomach, familiar and comforting for all that it made him sick with tension. He’d come to trust the sensation during his years with the Unit. It meant he was ready and alert, ramping up to that level of hyper-awareness needed to get him into and out of dangerous situations.
He took the stairs up two flights to the tenth floor and, at the door to the conference room, stopped, straightened his suit, brushed his hair back and, with a deep breath, knocked.
The door opened, revealing McIntosh. She stepped back and gestured. “Come in, Mr. Reardon.” She at least sounded neutral.
While his watchdog remained in the hallway, Jack went in and took a moment to make a sitrep. Tasteful prints on one wall, a huge screen on another, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbour with its ferries and spreading wakes. High-backed leather chairs around the table. Each position had a small screen recessed into the tabletop, able to be pulled up, angled, and swivelled as needed. The vague lines of touchpads marked the smooth surfaces before the screens. Only one was activated, in front of the chair McIntosh resumed. Her fingers danced lightly over the keys, images and text flickering over her screen.
Around the table were the three Sydney Office directors. McIntosh from Internal Threat Assessment, of course; Glen Harraway from Intelligence; and lastly, Alex Tan from External Threat Assessment. He was McIntosh’s opposite, looking outwards while she looked inwards.
Jack had never heard of a review meeting having all three directors in attendance—which could not be a good thing. This meeting was going to be three times as long and, most likely, three times as tedious. No matter the ideals behind the Office, it was a bureaucracy, and bureaucracies would do what they did best—drown the good work with red tape, endless forms, and committee meetings.
Shit. Jack was starting to sound like Ethan, now.
McIntosh waved him to a chair at the end of the table. “This is just a preliminary meeting, Mr. Reardon, to discuss the revised information in your reports on the Valadian operation. In the following days, we’ll have more questions for you. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that your full cooperation during these initial talks will be beneficial during the official hearings, if it comes to that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sat, the queasy pre-combat feeling easing. The wait was over. He was in the thick of it now.
“As you are aware, the sudden appearance of the man calling himself Ethan Blade has caused quite a stir.” McIntosh flicked her screen content to those before the other directors. “We have your amended statements, Mr. Reardon, but if you could once again tell us how you encountered Ethan Blade.”
The constant repetition wasn’t unexpected. Jack had been through enough operation reviews, objective assessments, and conduct hearings to be resigned to the endless recitation of facts.
Calmly and clearly, he once more explained his part in the Valadian operation, how his cover was blown, and the events of the torture shack. McIntosh and Harraway seemed keen on Jack’s judgement of Ethan’s actions during the fight at the shack, while Tan studied his screen. After nearly an hour and a half, Jack was about to move on to later events when Tan finally spoke.
“Why did you keep Omega Subject’s identity from your initial report, Mr. Reardon?” he asked, fingers steepled over his touchpad. Tan was a small Singaporean national working in Australia as part of the Meta-State Agreement. He had grey swathes over his ears, stark against his black hair, skin a shade lighter than Jack’s own mixed heritage, and a predator’s mien. A lion sitting in plain view while the gazelles wandered by. Relaxed, bored even, but ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness.
Jack internalised a wince at the tag attached to Ethan. Clearly someone’s idea of humour. “The man had saved my life. I felt I owed him. He’d also just taken out a vastly superior force. Anyone would have given him anything at that stage, just to keep him happy and themselves alive. I also told him that if I ever saw him again, I’d do everything in my power to bring him in. Which I did.”
It went on in similar fashion for another couple of hours. By the time everyone seemed satisfied, Jack was hoarse and his head ached with the revelation of so many secrets—and still, he didn’t tell them everything. If they didn’t ask, he didn’t say.
“Thank you for your patience, Jack,” McIntosh eventually said. “I think we all have a clearer understanding of what happened. If we are ready to move on . . .?” She raised a questioning brow at the other directors.
It was a look Jack had been on the receiving end of countless times. Basically, she was only asking out of politeness, and any contrary opinions would be wrong. Jack did experience a little spurt of satisfaction as both Tan and Harraway agreed without hesitation.
“Right, our next point of discussion. How Omega Subject discovered us here.”
Another hours-long grilling that went in endless circles. Jack managed to keep his temper under control even as his loyalty, intelligence, and training were dissected in painful detail. He simply kept reminding himself this would be nothing compared to what he would undergo if this mess escalated to formal hearings. Surprisingly, it wasn’t McIntosh questioning Jack’s anti-interrogation tactics or Harraway implying Jack was all brawn, no brains, that snapped his patience. It was Tan’s occasional yet unsubtle intimations that Ethan wasn’t the Ethan Blade.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jack said in the wake of Tan’s latest insinuation, “but you clearly doubt who he is.”
“Mr. Reardon,” Tan said, “I honestly find little in your report worthy of any misconduct hearings. Your actions at the time of the events are, I feel, the best you could have done with the information available to you.” Despite the supportive, if patronising, nature of Tan’s initial statements, Jack felt like the man was about to pounce. “However, you appear to be unduly convinced this man is Ethan Blade, and while we have a man capable of serious damage in our custody, I see no real evidence he is Ethan Blade. Why are you so certain?”
It was a good question and Jack knew he couldn’t answer it convincingly. He had to, though. “I saw him in action. He went up against thirty enemy troops and came out unscathed. He took me down, hand to hand. If anyone could be Ethan Blade, it’s him.”
“I think, son,” Harraway said mildly, “that isn’t what my colleague is questioning.” Heading towards retirement, the Intel director looked like a genial grandfather—full head of salt-and-pepper hair, eyes that crinkled with the least provocation, and a personable management style. In his senior years, he had developed a laidback, nearly blasé attitude towards his job, but nothing got by him. “Perhaps there are other, less physical, reasons you believe Omega Subject to be Ethan Blade.”
Jack squashed down a swell of guilt. “The psychology fits. He’s a meticulous planner, highly intuitive, and has obsessive tendencies. Once he fixates on something, nothing stops him. Anything that gets in his way is removed without remorse.” He suppressed a shiver at the memory of deliberately putting himself in Ethan’s path.
“Any number of subjects fit that profile,” Harraway said softly, as if letting Jack down gently.
“I know. There’s also his knowledge of the hits attributed to Blade.”
“Hardly top-secret information.” Unlike Harraway, Tan didn’t care about Jack’s ego. His tone was dry and on the edge of condescending.
Jack pulled in a deep breath. “Yes, sir, I know. But there are things that we don’t know. Things known only to the man who perpetrated the hits.”
This caught Harraway’s attention. He leaned forwards eagerly. “Such as?”
“Such as the US Marines in Colombia.”
“We know those men were poisoned,” Tan reminded them all.
“But not how.” McIntosh turned to Jack. “He told you how it was done?”
Over the past hours, Jack had been under the microscope. His actions, his words, his thoughts, all cut apart and examined like a corpse on the autopsy table. However, right now, he finally felt as if he really had their attention. He resisted the urge to laugh.
“Well,” he hedged. “Not exactly.”