Jack needed some distance. Wished he could be back in the desert, under that vast dome of stars, feeling unattached. Here, everything was too close, too confining. He was trapped in this building, in the middle of something he didn’t understand. And the one person he thought he might be able to trust was the one person he couldn’t talk to.
After bumming a smoke and lighter off Miller, Jack, with Tall and Silent in tow, trotted up the three flights to the roof. They came out into a warm summer day. Finding a spot in the shade, Jack slouched against the side of a huge air-con unit, feeling its vibrations creep into his back. Tall and Silent stood guard several feet back, perfectly positioned to watch him. Drawing his knees up, Jack used them as a windbreak to light the smoke. On the first deep inhale, he tilted his head back and looked upwards.
Ribbons had been put up here as well. Colour had been abandoned, however. It was all black-and-white streamers over his head, twisting and turning, tying themselves in knots. A thick black ribbon had looped itself around a satellite dish. Stretched out, it would be decidedly longer than any of the others. No wonder it had become caught up.
Jack let out a long, smoky breath. The nicotine was doing nothing for him, not that he really needed it to. It was just an excuse to be here, outside, away from all the plots and secrets. He expected these sorts of games out in the field, not here in his home base. Here was supposed to be a safe place, somewhere he didn’t have to be on constant alert, looking over his shoulder and searching for hidden meanings in every little move and word. He wasn’t supposed to be used by McIntosh against their own people.
He took another long drag on the smoke and watched the black-and-white ribbons in their chaotic, uncoordinated dance overhead. One of them, a long, knotted white streamer, snapped sharply in a sudden gust. It broke free, then tangled briefly with a black ribbon before whipping away into the air. Jack tried to trace its flight for freedom but lost it quickly against the bright blue sky.
That was how he felt. Untethered. As if one more nudge might disconnect him from the only thing keeping him anchored. His loyalty was doubted and he had no operation to occupy his mind, no real reason to come to work other than to offer advice no one needed.
On top of that, both McIntosh and Tan had secret agendas, making them act contrary to what Jack knew of them. And the catalyst?
Ethan Blade.
Jack had a good inkling of why Ethan was here, but did McIntosh or Tan? If Jack’s inkling was right, and the directors knew . . . then that meant Ethan was most likely right. It also meant that more than Ethan’s freedom was on the line. More than Jack’s career. The security of not just the Office was at stake, but that of the whole Meta-State.
If Ethan was right and if the directors were aware of it, then who did Jack trust? The man who’d betrayed him in the desert, or the people whose hands he’d put his life into countless times without a doubt?
This was it. Jack was back at the place where the path split. He’d been used and manipulated in the desert, and it had taken a long time to recover from that. He wasn’t going to let that happen again, especially not here. Jack chose a path.
His first step was to talk to Ethan and find out what the plan was.
“What the hell, Munoz?” Maxwell bellowed from the doorway.
Tall and Silent jerked, hand going for his gun, then dropping guiltily when he focused on his boss. Not guilty for going for his gun, though, if the look he threw his boss was an indication.
“Does this place look at all secure to you?” Maxwell stalked towards his man, all but snorting and blowing like the charging bull he resembled. “Reardon’s under building detainment. Is this what you call being confined inside the building, Munoz?”
“He was having a smoke, sir.”
Jack held up his butt helpfully.
Maxwell grunted. “Get back inside, Reardon.” He glared at Munoz. “You’re relieved of guard duty. Go downstairs, hand over your gear, and keep out of my way for the rest of the day.”
As Jack ambled back towards the door, Munoz loped past and went inside, head hanging. Maxwell was still growling when he caught up to Jack.
“Imbecile,” he muttered under his breath as he closed the door behind them, making sure it locked. He even double-checked on the sec-tab on his belt.
The small security tablet allowed Maxwell to control most of the electronic security systems in the building. As a security specialist in his cover life, Jack was familiar with the functionality of the sec-tab. It took biometric confirmation, voice command, and an alphanumeric key-code to access. A dedicated hacker could break into it, but that would take longer than any rational person would like, and you had to be within a couple of inches of the device to access it.
“Don’t be too harsh on him,” Jack said as the HoS hustled him down the stairs. “He had me under close enough watch.”
“Don’t push it, Reardon. You knew better than to go out there.”
“What can I say? I’ve been cooped up in here for too long. I just needed to see the sky. And have a smoke.” He nudged his shoulder into Maxwell’s. “You can understand that, can’t you?”
Maxwell eyed his shoulder, where Jack had touched him, then Jack’s, before snorting. “And don’t try to pull that shit, either. You had your chance.”
Jack laughed. “I’m not pulling anything, Gerard.” He let a couple of flights go by before adding, “Though I have been locked up here for over a day now. And yesterday was my birthday.”
Maxwell almost choked on a startled guffaw, stumbling to a halt on a landing between floors. “Seriously, Reardon? This is your big escape plan? Seduce me?”
“Not working, huh?” Jack patted Maxwell on his armoured chest. “Don’t worry; you’re safe from me. Can we stop by McIntosh’s office? I need to ask her something.”
Maxwell allowed it, though it was Miller Jack dealt with, as his director was otherwise occupied. However, Jack’s request was granted so fast he guessed McIntosh had preapproved it. Within minutes, he was in the sublevels, outside of Ethan’s cell.
“Please go to the wall opposite the door. Spread your legs and put your hands on the wall.”
On the screen beside the door, Ethan rolled off the bed and obeyed. The minute between then and when he was actually allowed in dragged at Jack like an anchor. He was finally doing something, not for McIntosh or the Office, but for himself. As the minute drew out into what felt like an hour, Jack marvelled at how easily he’d decided the only person he could trust in this entire building was the one man they had locked up in one of the most secure cells in the world.
An eternity later, the door swished open and, once more leaving his second-guessing policy in the corridor, Jack went in. The door closed behind him.
“Hello, Jack. I didn’t think I would be seeing you again so soon.” Ethan turned and lounged back against the wall.
“It’s not an official visit. It’s all still being recorded, though.”
Ethan made a silent ah expression. “If I’d known you were coming to chat, I wouldn’t have eaten all the fudge.”
“I told you to ration it.”
“Do you think I didn’t? In any other circumstances, that log wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.”
Jack smiled. “I’ll have them bring you a toothbrush.”
“It would be appreciated.” Head tilted, he regarded Jack critically. “What’s wrong, Jack?”
Trust Ethan to get right to the heart of it. Well, nothing else for it.
“I thought I should apologise,” he began, trying for words that wouldn’t be picked up by the analysts.
“For?”
“I feel like I’ve . . . betrayed you.” Jack scratched his head with his right hand. “You helped me out in the desert. I would have died without you. I certainly wouldn’t be back here if you hadn’t nursed me back to health.” A swipe at his face this time.
Ethan smiled. “Well, yes, as I said then, I was directed not to endanger you.” He brushed at his sleeve. “I merely had a job to do.”
Shit. Jack’s inkling was right.
“Shall we sit?” Ethan asked.
Jack nodded numbly, and they settled into the same seats they had for the interview.
“So, tell me,” Ethan said as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “How is Sheila?”
The question prompted a startled laugh out of Jack. “I don’t know. She was good, last time I saw her. Little footsore, but okay.”
Ethan chuckled. “She was a good ride. Not as smooth as Raquel, though.”
“Remind me about Raquel.”
“The BMW Z8 Roadster. Interlagos blue. I had her out on the track a couple of weeks back. She drove like a dream.”
“You know, I still can’t credit you as a rev head.” He watched Ethan closely for a sign.
“Truly? I should think it rather obvious. I like going fast, and I like dangerous things. And I love fast, dangerous things.”
Jack snorted. “You love being in control of fast, dangerous things. Gives you the impression you’re in control of yourself.”
“Haven’t you grown tired of trying to psychoanalyse me yet?”
“Doesn’t seem like it. And I’m right. You know it. It’s why you nearly flipped out when I insisted on driving.”
“Flipped out?” His tone was mildly condescending. “Your argument is flawed. I let you pilot the chopper.”
“The half-crippled chopper. Sheila on a bad day was faster than that POS.”
Ethan laughed. “True.”
“If I remember correctly, you didn’t so much let me as order it. Just something else for you to control.”
Which was the wrong thing to say if Jack wanted to keep a level head during this conversation. With all the other issues from his time in the desert rearing their ugly heads, the last thing he needed was to remind himself how well Ethan had played him back then. Was potentially—probably—playing him right now.
Ethan’s mask slipped a fraction, a quick hint of a deeper hurt, and then it was back in place, smooth and perfect. “If that’s what you believe, Jack.”
The silence was stilted. It had started out so well, as things with Ethan often did. Then they usually went pear shaped in a spectacular fashion. Jack had to steer this back on track. Praying Ethan was on board, Jack said, “You said your car here was an Aston Martin. I don’t know much about them.”
“She’s a Vanquish S Coupe. Black. V12, six-speed transmission. Took me seven months to restore her.” The assassin adjusted the cuff of his right sleeve. “I call her Victoria.”
“And this is the car you put in one of the most traffic-congested cities in the western world. Seems pointless.”
“Only because you don’t know where to take a car like Victoria.”
“And where’s that?”
Ethan eyed him shrewdly. “Have you heard of a private race track at Kulnura?” His hands stayed still on the tabletop.
Jack frowned. “No. Should I have?”
“I suppose not, since you are a vehicular heathen. How about the Sydney Motor Sport Park?” When Jack didn’t immediately exclaim familiarity, Ethan added dryly, “It’s in Eastern Creek.”
Working to not roll his eyes, Jack said, “Yes, I’ve heard of that one. What about it?” Again, no gesture. Did Ethan understand what was going on?
“I have raced at Kulnura. It’s a nice track, but the SMSP is much more accessible. The last time I was there, I raced against a very good driver.” Ethan drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table, as if trying to spark a memory. “Williamson, I believe his name was.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“You raced him in the Vanquish?”
With a little smirk, Ethan said, “Victoria, yes.”
“Did you win?”
“That time.” A brush of his hand over the table, as if clearing away nonexistent specs of dirt. “It was an eight-lap challenge. He dominated for the first four, but I caught up and was in the lead for the last three.”
There was more than a touch of pride in Ethan’s voice, and it distracted Jack momentarily. He found himself smiling at him, feeling that pull towards Ethan he’d experienced in the desert. The involuntary fascination with the human behind the coolly detached killer.
Before Jack could move on, Ethan did.
“Not all of my cars are race ready. Victoria is, of course. As is the Maserati. The Camaro’s in about twenty different pieces at the moment, so she won’t be running for a while yet. My favourite to race, however, is the Lamborghini, naturally.” As he listed off his harem of expensive speed machines, Ethan absently flexed his right wrist, as if working out a kink.
“Naturally,” Jack echoed, then leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out under the table. “Would you like more fudge?”
Ethan smiled. “I would. Could I try a different flavour?”
“Sure. Any requests? Remember, I have to get it past the guards.” He tapped Blade’s leg twice.
“I am partial to mint.”
“They do a great mint-choc swirl. I’ll get you a log.”
“Perhaps two?”
Snorting, Jack said, “How about four? Or five? Don’t forget you can’t exactly run up and down the stairs to burn it off.” He tapped three times.
“No, two is enough. I promise to ration these ones and make them last at least five hours.” He nudged Jack again, then with a quirk of his left eyebrow, added, “Actually, get three. Keep one for yourself.”
“Gee, thanks for your generosity.”
“You know, Jack, you do remind me of Sheila sometimes.” Another raised brow.
Jack frowned, both at the words and the arch of that brow. “Hirsute and lumpy?”
“No.” Though he did chuckle evilly. “Contrary yet reliable.”
Getting it, Jack stood. “And on that insult, I’ll let you get some rest. I’m sure there will be another interview soon.”
“I look forward to it.”
At the door, Jack waited while the guards told Blade to get against the far wall. When the door opened, he stepped out, resisting the urge to say “good luck.”
Walking away from the cell, Jack tallied up the information passed between them.
A traitor. Here, in the Office. The target Ethan had truly been hunting in the desert, and that person was one of the directors.
Then there was the plan. Using two logs of fudge, Ethan was going to break out of the cell, then take out the two guards and however many more were between him and the door to the surface, three flights of stairs up. Jack’s part seemed simple in concept if not execution. He was taking Sheila’s place—a diversion—in this crazy scenario. Then there was the mention of seven, with no hint as to what it was. Williamson, eighty-three as the location. The cars as . . . transport?
And it was all going down in five hours. Five hours until Jack irrevocably screwed everything he’d worked so hard to get. All for Ethan fucking Blade.