In the next twenty minutes, while the light got lower and the air got thicker with the coming weather, they found and eliminated two more mercs. One went down silently to a thrown knife. The other made a run for it, Jack taking him out with a sweep of automatic fire from the AKM, which alerted the remaining two to their position.
They clashed about three hundred metres from the house, the mercs caught between them and their destination. The action devolved into a pitched firefight, Jack and Ethan covering each other as they tried to circle around the remaining enemy.
Things were going nowhere fast and only working to deplete their limited store of ammo. Down to his last mag for the AKM, Jack had resorted to single shots, waiting for a chance to at least wound, if not outright kill. Ethan, too, played conservative with his weapons, but he depleted one rifle quickly, dropping it and pulling up the second one.
“We have to get around them.” Jack pressed his back to a tree as the bad guys unloaded on the poor thing.
“Agreed.” Ethan, about ten feet away and similarly positioned, risked a look at the mercs. Then he made a series of gestures at Jack, who nodded and, on the go signal, rolled around and unleashed the last of his mag on full automatic.
Leaves and bark sprayed in a wild cyclone as bullets tore through the vegetation. All opposing gunfire ceased. Ethan tossed his remaining rifle towards Jack so it thumped down at his feet. Then, knife between his teeth, Ethan scaled the tree he was hiding behind and vanished into the low hanging canopy.
Knowing he was about to run dry, Jack crouched and scooped up the second rifle. Stock tucked under his left arm, he started firing it the moment his own clicked on empty. Hitting something was secondary to distracting the bad guys right then. He did grin when one of them cried out in pain, though.
Of course, the ammo ran out remarkably fast and the moment it did, Jack dived back into cover. He rolled and came up with the P8 even as the bad guys, after a couple of seconds to realise Jack was done, opened fire again. When he didn’t return it even with single shots, they got cocky.
First one, then the other moved out of cover, prepared to advance on their enemy.
Boom!
The second merc, slightly behind his fellow, was thrown back to the ground, the .50 cal bullet ploughing down through the neck hole of his armour, fired from where Ethan perched in the treetops.
Jack spun into the open and fired at the last, stunned merc. Most of the bullets ricocheted off his armour, but one went through his shoulder, twisting him around and tossing the rifle from his grip. Still alive, he crashed to his knees, useless right arm hanging by his side. Even as Jack advanced on him, P8 trained on his face, the man scrabbled for another weapon, coming up with a handgun. The barrel swung up toward Jack, the merc yelling at him in a torrent of Burmese.
“Drop the gun,” Jack shouted back. “Drop it!” He wanted a live prisoner, someone who could tell them exactly what the hell was going on here. Besides, he was down to a single bullet and didn’t want to waste it.
The man didn’t understand or didn’t care, and he fired. Prepared for it, Jack dropped and rolled. The merc’s bullet ripped through the air Jack had just vacated.
“Fucking drop it,” Jack commanded, moving into a crouch, gun trained on the merc.
Again, he refused. Again, he aimed at Jack and—
Jack was thrown sideways, crashing into the undergrowth. Having pushed Jack aside, Ethan charged right towards the gun. The merc yelled wildly and fired but Ethan dove to the ground, rolling over his shoulder. He came up on one knee right in front of the injured man, arm sweeping to knock the weapon aside.
Even with the gunshot wound, the merc was good. He rolled with the blow, bringing his knee up into Ethan’s unprotected side. Both men tumbled over, the merc landing on top and throwing punches with his good arm into Ethan’s ribs.
Jack scrambled back to his feet, P8 with its final bullet trained on the fight. Ethan caught the merc’s arm and, holding it aside, punched the man right in his wound. The merc screamed and Ethan rolled, knocking him off.
With the combatants separated, Jack advanced, weapon trained on the downed merc. The man twisted, foot scything towards Jack’s legs. Jack leaped backwards and, given some space, the merc sprang to his feet. Ethan swept back in with a flying kick at his stomach. The merc stumbled backwards and Ethan followed with another kick and a flurry of punches and jabs. Between attempts to return blows, the merc pulled a long-bladed knife and, staggering from the assault, made a clumsy thrust at Ethan.
Dead-eyed and detached, Ethan calmly dodged the knife and caught the man’s arm. With an upward blow from his other hand, Ethan broke the merc’s wrist. The knife went flying. Ethan deftly snatched it out of mid-air, spun the handle to fit into his palm, and plunged the blade into the merc’s neck.
Another person burst out of the dense foliage, all clumsy legs and flailing arms.
Without pause, Ethan twisted, bloody knife tearing free of the dead man, blade arcing for the neck of the surprised intruder.
“Ethan!”
Jack launched himself at the assassin. He was too late, though. The knife sliced, its point cutting across a hastily raised arm. A second later, Jack caught Ethan around his thighs and took him down. With a terrified wail, Tom staggered back, falling over his own feet and crashing to the ground.
Ethan fought Jack’s hold. He was silent as he twisted and kicked. The brief glimpses Jack got of his face showed a deadly mask, cold and distant. He was so far gone Jack saw nothing of the man he’d been with that afternoon. Yet there was no hesitation when he crawled up Ethan’s body, fighting against fist and knife.
“Ethan, it’s me.”
Instantly, Ethan stopped struggling. He didn’t drop the knife or give up completely. Body still tense, he focused on Jack.
“It’s okay,” Jack said. “It’s only Tom.”
Nothing changed in Ethan’s expression, as if everything else was still a threat, no matter what Jack said.
Jack got off him, confident despite the expression, and went to where Tom had fallen. The poor kid was curled up in a ball, arms wrapped around his head. The cut was bleeding freely. God, he was fucking lucky he got his arm up in time. Otherwise the knife would have cut right across his…
…Harry pulled back the collar of his shirt. Blood pumped from a deep wound just over his collarbone…
…throat.
“Fuck,” Jack hissed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Frantically, he pulled off his shirt and pressed it to the cut on Tom’s arm. It wasn’t that bad, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to stop the bleeding. Had to make sure Harry . . . Tom was okay. The boy whimpered and tried to curl up even tighter.
“Hey, Tom.” Jack kept his voice calm even as his heart racketed around under his ribs. He wasn’t going to lose anyone else. “It’s Mr. Reed. Remember me? I’m not going to hurt you. Come on, sit up for me.”
It took some coaxing, but eventually Tom unrolled enough for Jack to sit him up and get the shirt wrapped around his arm properly. Tom quivered the entire time, chin ducked to his chest, eyes squeezed shut. He was absolutely terrified, his cheeks streaked with new and dried tears, his pants damp from a loosened bladder. His clothes were different from the day Jack met him, thankfully, so he hadn’t been with the mercs since then.
With the desperate need to make sure Tom was okay appeased, Jack stood. Ethan was gone, hopefully not too far and not too lost in his head to abandon Jack and Tom in the jungle.
Jack got Tom to his feet and keeping the boy close to his side, went in search of Ethan. He found him not long later, standing in a small clearing, fastidiously checking the Eagles. Head bowed over his quick, skilled hands, he nevertheless noted Jack and Tom’s arrival.
“We should be clear to the house,” he said, tone cold. “I’ll take point.”
Tom trembled, his eyes wide with shock as he watched Ethan walk away. Jack’s heart, tight with the anticipation of emotions he knew would catch him when they were safe, clenched even further. Already scared witless, Tom had probably rushed towards someone he saw as safety. A friend. A mentor. Only to have that person come within inches of killing him.
“It’s okay,” Jack assured him. “He won’t hurt you. It was just a mistake. Come on.”
Tom didn’t say a word all the way back to the house. Neither did Ethan. Jack was just grateful they moved fast and didn’t encounter anymore opposition.
The rain hit just as they came into the clearing around the house. The horses, left in the yard for the day, were skittish. They didn’t know if it was from the storm or intruders, so Jack and Tom kept to the trees while Ethan scouted ahead. Fifteen minutes later, he waved them out of cover and led them to the house.
Unlocking the door, he motioned Jack and Tom inside. “I’ll get the horses settled.”
Jack agreed and guided the wilting boy inside. Tom was shivering from shock and the rain, his eyes glazed and head hanging. Jack got him in the shower, warm water washing over his listless body, while Jack found something for him to wear. Warmed up and dressed in a pair of Ethan’s shorts held up by a hastily adjusted belt, Jack carefully cleaned Tom’s arm, gently probing for what had happened with the mercs. In broken English, Tom explained that the strangers had come looking for someone who knew where the hidden house was. Locals had sent them to Tom. Loyal to his friend, Mr. Saint, the boy had refused, but he was a kid against ten mercenaries, and they forced him along. The washed-out road had stopped them going directly to the house, and because Tom didn’t know how to get there, otherwise, the bastards started searching on foot, dragging the boy along with them as a hostage.
Leaving Tom tucked up in the big bed, Jack went back downstairs. Ethan had come in and was making up one of the couches with sheets and spare pillows.
“Are we secure?” Jack asked, wary of getting too close. Ethan still had his killer-mask in place, his movements short and sharp.
“Yes. Even if there are more of them, we’re safe in here.” He finished with the sheets and stepped back. “For you. I’ll take the watch.” Turning on his heel, he stalked to the dining table and turned a chair out. There was already an arsenal laid out on the table top.
Ignoring the couch, Jack followed him. “I think we’re good for now, at least.” He told him Tom’s story.
Ethan nodded once and settled in for his watch.
The rain had washed some of the camouflaging dirt off and Ethan must have attempted to clean more away in the stable. A few smudges remained around the corners of his jaw, the side of neck and across the exposed portion of his chest. Jack dampened a washcloth in the downstairs toilet sink and held it out for him.
Ethan stared at it for a moment, then put down the Eagle and took it. While he wiped at the last of the dirt, Jack set the kettle on the stovetop and the coffee maker to humming. His hands shook a little bit as he set the mugs on the granite countertop, the withdrawal of the adrenaline leaving him in that weird limbo between excitement and collapse. Opening the cutlery drawer, his heart thumped at the sight of the knives, images of other knives sweeping over soft flesh swamping him for a second.
“Jack?”
Blinking, Jack focused on the drawer he’d involuntarily slammed shut. “Shit.” He leaned on the counter, waiting for his heart to settle.
“Jack?” Ethan came up beside him. The Eagle was back in his hand, but the other was free and raised towards him, as if he wanted to touch but wasn’t sure.
Feeling exactly the same way, Jack turned back to making the drinks. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
After a moment, Ethan tucked the gun into the back of his pants and fetched the milk. In silence, they finished preparing their drinks and returned to the dining table. Jack surveyed the gathered arsenal—which included an RPG-7 launcher complete with PG-7VR warhead—and found a box of ammo suitable for the P8. Falling back into something he knew so well it numbed his thoughts, he fed bullets into the gun’s mags. Once that was done, he checked over a couple of carbines.
“Will Tom be all right?”
The quiet words stalled Jack’s part-curious, part-wary reach for the shoulder-mounted RPG launcher. Ethan focused on cleaning one of the Eagles, the other lying whole and ready, close by his hand. He hadn’t put his glasses back on and at this angle, all Jack saw of his eyes were fans of black lashes against his pale cheeks.
“Yeah,” Jack answered, just as softly. “The cut will heal fine, as long as it doesn’t get infected.”
Ethan nodded, but said, “I meant, is he going to be all right after being taken hostage and . . . hurt by me.”
“It was an accident. He knows that.”
Motions snappy and curt, Ethan shook his head in mute denial.
“Ethan, it’s not your fault. It was a bad situation. Tom shouldn’t have rushed out like that. As much as we all wish it wasn’t, friendly fire is a thing we have to deal with.”
Ethan flinched. For the barest second, he touched fingertips to the scar on his chest, an exit wound from a bullet fired at his back. Silently screaming for an explanation, Jack just filed it away with all the other things he knew Ethan wasn’t ready to tell him.
“It was a mistake,” Jack continued calmly. “That’s all.”
Lips firming into a tight line, Ethan nodded. He concentrated on running a cleaning brush down the barrel of the Eagle. They worked quietly for a while, sipping drinks quickly going cold, listening keenly to the rain beating on the roof, alert for any sound that would indicate they weren’t alone on the mountain.
“It wasn’t,” Ethan murmured, clicking the Eagle back together. “I knew exactly what I was doing. We were under attack and that’s what I do. Eliminate threats. It’s all I know how to do.”
Jack stared at him. He wanted to say, “It’s not,” and “Don’t be stupid,” and “You’re so much more than that,” but in that moment, he finally understood what he wanted from Ethan, what he needed in order to move forward with him. So instead, what popped out was, “Live with me.”