CHAPTER ONE
It was nearly a month before the funeral took place. There was the investigation into the events at the ISO HQ, review meetings with the military, endless discussions with various government officials and a debrief session with the prime minister, as well. When everyone and their fucking uncle were convinced everything that could have been done had been done, and done as well as it could have been under the circumstances, they finally released Harry McGill’s body.
Jack, Lewis and McIntosh travelled to Auckland for the funeral. It was a huge affair. Harry had been loved and well respected. There was an array of different people: a vastly extended family; friends from school and uni; his old cricket and footy teams; and, nearly every cop in the city, a veritable army of blue dress uniforms. It didn’t matter Harry hadn’t been a cop for two years. Or that he’d moved to Australia for a job no one in the crowd knew about. That was just who Harry was . . . who Harry had been.
Jack had never met any of Harry’s family but he’d heard enough to recognise them. His mother, a tiny, sweet woman with a smile for everyone; his father a quiet giant of a man, a steady foundation for everyone around him; his younger sister, Sally, devastated and clinging to her husband, the newborn niece Harry hadn’t even met not in evidence.
“Jack,” Harry’s mother said when he went to pay his respects. He hadn’t even had to introduce himself. “You’re exactly how Harry described you.” She took his hand in both of her small ones, firm but soothing.
“As are you, ma’am.”
“You get to call me Libby,” she said and pulled him down and kissed his cheek. Then Libby held his face and touched her forehead to his, holding them together for an impossibly long moment. Jack hadn’t cried but he nearly did right then, looking into her clear brown eyes, so like Harry’s. So much like Harry’s when he’d stared up at Jack, life bleeding away and Jack couldn’t do a goddamned thing to stop it from happening.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“No.” A hard edge came into Libby’s voice as she tightened her hold on him. “You don’t get to blame yourself. They told me what you did for my boy. You were there with him. You did everything you could. They told me that, Jack.” Libby’s lips quivered, then firmed up and fiercely she said, “They told me you killed the man who hurt my son. Thank you.” She kissed his forehead, then let him straighten, reclaiming her hold on his hand.
Jack had barely cared when the initial hearings had cleared him of any misconduct during the whole thing. But hearing Libby’s words, feeling the honesty behind them, soothed the sharp edges in his chest.
“He was a good man,” Jack managed, throat tight. “One of the best I’ve ever worked with.”
Libby beamed. “Of course he was. Now tell me the rest.”
“Rest?”
“Yes! He could be an annoying little shit, too. I don’t think you wouldn’t have noticed that.”
Jack smiled for the first time in weeks. “Ah, yeah. He could be a pain the arse, and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t half as funny as he thought he was. But I wouldn’t have wanted to work with anyone else. Without him there . . . that day, we wouldn’t have got all the hostages out alive. They . . . We owe him everything.”
Libby’s bottom lip trembled, but she shored it up and gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you for that.”
He had to move on before she broke him down completely. Jack kissed her cheek, gently extracted his hand and faced Harry’s father.
“Sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances,” Stan murmured after introducing himself. As Libby had done, Stan held Jack’s hand in both of his, swallowing it whole. “Thank you for being there for our son when he needed you.”
“He would have done no less for me. For anyone.”
“Always knew my boy would be a hero.” He reached up and touched the medal pinned over his heart, a bronze medallion on a red ribbon. A Bravery Medal awarded posthumously to Harry and presented to his family the week before.
Jack could only nod, suddenly feeling wrung out and exhausted. He had nothing but admiration for the McGills, standing strong together in the face of not only their own grief, but that of half of Auckland as well. Jack’s family hadn’t coped with the loss of his mother, fracturing under the pressure.
Before Stan let him go, he said, “We wanted you to know that Sally named our granddaughter Moana Harriet, to honour her uncle.”
There were no words, so Jack just nodded again, mute with raw pain.
By the time Jack was back in Sydney, he’d successfully stuffed it all in the lowest drawer of the filing cabinet and proclaimed himself ready for work. McIntosh put him on two weeks leave. Non-negotiable. Enforced.
Four days into his exile, Jack had just emerged from the shower after his morning routine of beating the shit out of a kick-bag in the building’s gym, when someone knocked on his door. Towel around his waist, he checked the screen by the door. A courier fidgeted on the other side, a slender envelope in one hand, his PDA in the other. Jack had undergone mandatory counselling after the ISO incident and he knew his alert level and reaction instincts were still heightened. Part of why he was currently at home. So, he didn’t go for one of the guns he had hidden around his apartment and opened the door.
“Jack Reardon?” the courier asked hopefully.
“Yeah.”
“Letter for you.” He held out the slim cardboard envelope printed with the courier company logo. “And just a signature here.” The PDA was presented.
Jack signed and took the envelope, wondering what the fuck it was. He closed the door without acknowledging the courier’s parting, “Have a good day.”
Whatever it was, it could wait until he was dressed and had something other than bile in his belly. He tossed the envelope on the kitchen counter and marched to his bedroom. Before he even got there, he turned on his heel and went back to the kitchen and stared at the yellow rectangle for a good minute, daring it to be important. Satisfied it couldn’t be, he went and got dressed. Glaring at the fucking intrusion to his supposedly peaceful time off, Jack made lunch and went and sat in front of the telly. He was determinedly working his way through the remaining episodes of Strike Back, ignoring the niggling reminder he was supposed to watch it with Ethan. Ethan wasn’t here, didn’t want to be here, so screw him.
Even before the opening credits were finished, Jack was back in the kitchen, fists planted on either side of the envelope.
It was stupid. Fucking stupid. He knew it was from Ethan. Knew this was the communication he’d begged for over a month ago. Had it arrived back then, he would have opened it, greedy for whatever Ethan could give him. Even a week ago, he’d have savoured the contents, knowing Ethan had heard him. Not now, though. Not after the funeral. Not after having gone through that without knowing Ethan was close by.
His eyes had been opened. It had been foolish to believe they could have something normal. Or even close to normal. Coming to rely on Ethan for anything more than randomised visits was insanity. This was all Jack’s fault for thinking otherwise.
No. To be fair, part of it was Ethan’s fault. His visits hadn’t been for work. They’d been for Jack. Ethan had expended a lot of effort and time on sneaking into the country just to see Jack. He’d installed a security system in Jack’s apartment so he would feel safe. He had set up a precedent for Jack’s expectations for something more than sex. More than unwanted backup. So, it wasn’t entirely Jack’s fault for thinking Ethan might actually care enough to be there for him.
Maybe the contents of the envelope would tell him why Ethan didn’t.
Jack ripped it open and tipped it up. Several pieces of paper fell out. One was a plane ticket, leaving Sydney for Hanoi, Vietnam, the flight booked for the next day. Another was a receipt for a local Hanoi service to drive him to somewhere called Cao Bằng, where, a note in Ethan’s precise hand writing said, he would be met. By whom, there was no indication.
That was it. A fourteen-hour journey with no hint as to what was at the other end. He could guess, but guessing with Ethan was never a smart move. The only thing that kept him from outright believing it was all a trap was the initials at the bottom of the note.
P StC.
Unless that little confession Ethan had given him about his real name—Paul St. Clair—at the homestead in the desert was another lie, Jack took it as a sign this was legit. That this was personal, not professional.
The question now was, did he go? Why the sudden switch up in procedure? Ethan had proven he was willing to come back into the country after a scramble. It had been a month since Canberra, so surely he could sneak back in now, if he wanted.
Or maybe it wasn’t just about wanting to see Jack, for whatever reason.
Each and every visit over the past six months had been Ethan coming to Jack. Ethan taking all the risk of sneaking into the country, of finding Jack and being wherever Jack was. Perhaps he’d decided it was time Jack went to him for once. Maybe that’s what he meant when he said he hadn’t been going to visit for a while.
Jack was packing before he’d even made the conscious decision to go. Even as he stared at a half-filled bag, he knew he would go. He needed to find out what the fuck was going on. Did Ethan still want whatever they had going? Or did he just want to break it off in person? Even if it was a goddamn trap of some sort, Jack had to go. Didn’t mean he had to spring the bloody thing, though.
Leaving behind the ticket Ethan had sent, Jack jumped on the first flight available out of Sydney, setting down in Ho Chi Min City ten hours later. The connecting flight to Hanoi didn’t leave until the following morning, so he got a cheap room in a hotel near the airport and made sure he wasn’t being followed. Clean of pursuit, Jack spent the night organising alternative transport to Cao Bằng.
It all went smoothly and at one p.m. the following day, Jack was standing on a dirt-strip airfield nestled in a shallow valley in the middle of northern Vietnam surrounded by lush green and melting in humid, thirty-plus degree heat. Sydney in winter wasn’t something he missed terribly, but when his t-shirt was soaked with sweat after ten minutes in Cao Bằng he wasn’t sure about this place, either. Over the tops of the surrounding hills, bruise-dark clouds gathered on the eastern horizon, saturating the air with sticky warmth so it felt like he was all but swimming through it. Behind him, the small cargo plane he’d hopped a ride on was busily being unpacked by the two-man crew, stacking crates up on the grassy edge of the landing strip. No one was here to collect it, but considering the airstrip wasn’t on any map Jack had seen, he suspected it was smuggled goods, so hadn’t expected a big welcoming committee. Wasn’t quite sure that finding absolutely no one was so great, either, though.
This was what he got for ignoring Ethan’s planned itinerary, but at least he was here on his terms. Here but not summoned.
Snorting at his own delusion, Jack hefted his bag to his shoulder and started down the only road—or rather, the only narrow, barely there pair of wheel ruts. The signal his implant was picking up was weak, but it was enough to give him a GPS location. He was only ten or so klicks north-east of Cao Bằng city itself.
While in Hanoi that morning, Jack had got his hands on a HK P8, a modified USP, so it was a familiar weight at the base of his spine. The jungle here wasn’t exactly like that of the Chota Nagpur plateau in India, but like it enough that Jack was wary of attack, from all types of native wildlife.
He’d stopped to take a drink from a bottle of water when he heard a car or truck coming toward him, from the direction in which he was going. Jack moved off the track and into the trees. Crouching, he drew the gun and watched, implant on to catch anything he might miss in the moment. A late 1960s or early 1970s era Jeep, complete with camouflage-pattern paintwork, barrelled into view not long later. It belted along, engine growling smoothly, big tyres digging into the narrow path of the rough track, ploughing down plants unfortunate enough to have taken root between the shallow wheel ruts. Over the engine, music blared, too loud and too fast in passing for Jack to make it out. It was definitely pop, though, a bright, flouncy rhythm full of synthesised sounds and high-pitched voices. Not the choice of any smuggler Jack had had the misfortune of crossing paths with.
The Jeep was gone before Jack got a good look at the driver, so he replayed the recording from the implant. The slowed down footage showed the driver was a kid, twelve or thirteen at most, of Vietnamese descent. Skinny arms barely reached the steering wheel, equally thin legs having equal trouble reaching the pedals. How he managed it, Jack couldn’t see, but somehow the little shit was driving well enough to not crash at the ludicrous speed he was going.
Maybe this was how the smugglers operated here. Send in the most unlikely perp and blame the misjudgements of youth if he was caught. Though, even as he stepped back out onto the track, another idea popped into Jack’s head, so silly it had a chance of actually being right.
Sure enough, barely ten minutes later, the Jeep was coming back, its arrival announced by the music and roaring engine. This time, Jack stayed visible. The Jeep came to a dusty, screeching halt beside him.
“You Mr. Reed?” Leaning across the bench seat, the kid peered at Jack through locks of black hair. He was about as skinny as one of Jack’s legs, wearing cut-off jeans and a Real-Madrid t-shirt with the sleeves torn off.
Jaidev Reed had been Jack’s cover identity with Valadian’s group. Ethan had known right from the start it wasn’t his real name, but he had clearly remembered the alias.
“And you are?” Jack asked, partly fascinated, mostly wary. On one hand, this was classic Ethan. On the other . . . well, Jack was always wary of the other hand.
“Call me Tom.” The kid grinned ear to ear. His teeth were brilliantly white but crooked as all hell. He held out a hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Reed.” His accent was thick, but his pronunciation precise, like he’d been schooled in these exact sentences.
“Likewise, Tom.” Jack took his hand, Tom’s thin fingers barely getting around Jack’s much broader palm. “I suppose you’re my ride, huh.”
Tom nodded enthusiastically. “Mr. Saint sent me.”
Mr. Saint was presumably Ethan, which meant that he had somehow discovered Jack’s alternate travel plans. Typical.
Jack tossed his bag into the back of the Jeep and climbed in. “This beast is yours?”
“Bought and paid for,” Tom announced proudly. “Mr. Saint help with engine, but all mine. I take you on tour, Mr. Reed! Competitive prices, just ask.”
An entrepreneurial little shit. Jack grinned. “Where did Mr. Saint find you?”
“In the phonebook. Under local knowledge,” Tom said in that singsong, rehearsed cadence. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Tom wasn’t quite as sublime as Ethan in his ridiculously expensive Aston Martin, but impressive nonetheless. Seat cranked all the way forward, several cushions under his butt so he could see more than the dash and blocks strapped to the pedals so he could reach them, the kid looked cool and confident. He even took a pair of aviator sunglasses from a pocket and put them on with a grin.
As he started the engine, he said, “You came in that thing? You’re braver than I thought,” and hit the accelerator.
Jack cackled as they rocketed away.