Maxwell pushed Jack down into a chair and stood over him. McIntosh woke up each screen in the table and angled them all towards him. They held pictures of Maria’s body.
Was this his fault? Had she been killed just to frame him? Or had she found something she shouldn’t have?
“You liked her, didn’t you?” McIntosh asked quietly. “It was why she was chosen as your handler for the Valadian operation. Did you know how worried she was when you went dark? Quite the stressful time for Maria. She thought you were dead, that she hadn’t seen the danger coming and left you there to die.”
Jack shook his head in mute denial.
“Is that why you killed her? Because she left you out there alone?”
“I wasn’t alone.”
“No, I guess you weren’t. You were with your new ally, Ethan Blade. Did Maria find something out about your relationship with Blade that required her being silenced?”
“No.”
“Really? How can I trust anything you say now, Jack? You’ve already lied about so much.”
He clenched his jaw over the angry response, waiting until it passed. “I’m not lying about this, ma’am. I didn’t kill Maria.”
“Her neck was broken in a single move. Something I know you are capable of. You said it yourself, in your report about your time in the desert.”
The fog of shock was fading fast, leaving Jack’s head clear and sharp. A spike in adrenaline flowed through him, his body trained to respond to threats.
“I didn’t do this,” Jack said calmly. “You know I wouldn’t do something like this.”
McIntosh studied him for a long moment. “Convince me why you had no need to silence her. Explain why you didn’t want her looking into Blade’s movements during the past year.”
“You listened to the conversation we had. My reasons were exactly as I said to her. Digging into Blade’s life is dangerous, even from a distance.”
“Are you saying Blade had something to do with her death?”
“No. He’s locked up.”
“By your own words, Jack, the man’s a meticulous planner. Couldn’t he have planned for this? Perhaps he has an accomplice.” McIntosh eyed him keenly. “Does he?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
The questioning continued in this manner for a long time, circling around the accusation Jack was working with Blade, coming at it from all directions. They were still trawling through the mountains of information Maria had on Valadian and Blade, yet McIntosh all but said she was convinced they’d find the proof in there. Jack kept up a deadly calm throughout it all, the anti-interrogation training he’d had with the SAS and the Office working against those who’d once benefitted from it. McIntosh didn’t resort to anything as crude as threats, though, using repetition as her main weapon. Asking the same questions over and over, couched differently, in random order, trying to trip up his answers.
All the while, Jack searched for clues in her words. Was she the traitor? Had she killed Maria and questioning him was a cover for her own actions? Had he played ever so sweetly into her hands by avoiding the Shadows on the stairs? Jack could only hope his answers were as innocent sounding as her questions.
Five minutes to the deadline, the door to the meeting room clicked open.
Startled mid question, McIntosh snapped her ice-cold glare onto the newcomer.
“So it’s true,” Director Tan said blandly. “You have taken Mr. Reardon into custody.”
Great. Two out of three suspects were here. Maybe Jack could goad them into a revealing argument.
“Not now, Alex,” McIntosh ground out. “This is none of your business.”
“Isn’t it? A murder within the building is everyone’s business.” Tan stood beside her and perused the images of Maria as if idly reading a catalogue. “Certainly looks damning. Don’t forget, Donna, we have a building full of specially trained people who could have done this. Not just this one man.”
“No one else is on record as threatening the victim. No one else has motivation.”
“No? Not even the proven assassin we have locked up downstairs?” Tan tapped at one of the touchpads. “Let’s just make sure he’s still in custody, shall we?”
Perhaps Jack didn’t need to do anything to provoke an argument. Tan was walking a very thin line in regards to McIntosh’s anger, but she maintained a neutral expression as the images on the screens switched to the feed from Ethan’s cell. The assassin sat on the bed, legs crossed, eyes closed. On his knee rested a half-eaten log of green fudge.
“Well, well,” Tan murmured. “Looks like you have some explaining to do, Mr. Reardon.”
Before Jack could espouse his innocence, once again, movement on the screen caught everyone’s attention.
Ethan wasn’t on the bed anymore. He was up and stalking for the table. Gripping one of the chairs, he stood still for a moment, then picked it up and threw it at the door.
Alarms blared throughout the building, the abrupt whoop whoop of trouble. In his cell, Ethan ripped off his scrub top and twisted it into a thick wad with a couple of flicks of his wrists. Moving as if to wrap it around his face, he hesitated.
Sitting in a room thirteen floors overheard, Jack saw Ethan’s chest hitch as if he couldn’t catch his breath. He jerked silently, hands flexing in the material of his top as he staggered against the table.
They’d flooded the cell with knockout gas.
Jack’s chest was tight with tension and fear and surging adrenaline. This was it. The low-level nausea that had been curling through his guts for the past several hours vanished, replaced by the steady calm that meant he was in action, his training kicking in with almost violent force.
“Get him out of here and locked up,” McIntosh snapped at Maxwell, gesturing to Jack.
The head of security grabbed Jack by the collar of his suit jacket, then hauled him out of the chair. Roughly, he spun Jack towards the door and gave him a hard enough shove it threw Jack off-balance.
“No,” Tan growled. “Reardon stays right here, where we can keep an eye on him.”
Maxwell hesitated, torn between the orders of two directors.
Jack used it.
He transformed his stumble into a turn and delivered a double-barrelled kick to Maxwell’s armoured stomach. The security head oofed in surprise and staggered backwards two steps, then recovered. Drawing his Glock, he dodged Jack’s next kick, defending with an upraised arm. Jack twisted, momentum and speed driving his kick into Maxwell’s ribs. The HoS crashed back against the table. Jack’s foot throbbed from the hard connection with Maxwell’s body armour, but he ignored it in the rush of adrenaline.
Backing off, Jack worked his bound hands downwards over his arse. Maxwell charged after him. He came in with a low sweep of his leg, taking Jack off his feet and sending him crashing to the floor on his back. In the moment it took Maxwell to lift the gun and aim, Jack had slid his cuffed hands along the length of his legs and brought them back to his front. All in one smooth motion, he rocked back and up, throwing himself off the ground and right into Maxwell. They crashed into the table, chairs skidding away.
Across the room, McIntosh was shouting into her phone. Tan simply stood back, watching the fight with something close to curiosity.
Jack ignored them, concentrating on Maxwell. The head of security twisted out of Jack’s awkward hold, sending a flying kick towards his gut. Jack shoved himself backwards, his heels hitting one of the fallen chairs. Jumping over the chair, he scooped it up with a foot and tossed it at Maxwell. Not bothering to wait for the outcome, Jack repeated the move with another chair, rewarded with a satisfying grunt of pain from Maxwell as it smacked him in the face. He picked up the first chair in his bound hands, then slammed it down over Maxwell’s head. The chair broke. After adjusting his hold, Jack slapped the remains of the chair against Maxwell’s gun arm. The Glock spun away.
Maxwell growled, lunging forwards with the suddenness and strength of a dump of adrenaline into his system. He ploughed his armoured shoulder into Jack’s ribs, lifting him off the floor and slamming him into the wall. His big meaty fist pounded into Jack’s stomach.
“Fuck . . . you . . .” Maxwell snarled between blows.
“Sorry, sailor,” Jack gasped, his abdomen tensed so hard against the punches he could barely breathe. “You never were my type.” And he brought his knee right up into Maxwell’s nuts.
Christ! They were armouring their junk now. Pain whipped through Jack’s knee and thigh from the hard connection to the solid cup. Still, it distracted Maxwell enough Jack could get his leg back between Maxwell’s. He hooked his knee around the other man’s and shoved at his chest.
Maxwell went over backwards, Jack coming down with his knees in Maxwell’s groin.
Armour was great at absorbing kicks and punches. Not so great at deflecting the entire weight of a tall, well-muscled ex-SAS soldier. While Maxwell shouted in pain and shock, Jack grabbed the sides of his head, lifted it, and slammed it into the floor. Maxwell struggled, his motions becoming wild as Jack repeated the move. Dazed, the HoS couldn’t defend when Jack punched him. Bone snapped and blood gushed from Maxwell’s nose. Before the HoS could recover, Jack swiftly bound him with plastic cuffs from his own utility belt, which Jack unfastened and took with him when he straightened.
McIntosh and Tan were by the window, both with pistols trained on him.
“Stand down, Reardon,” Tan said, cool and collected. “This isn’t what you want to do.”
Jack smiled. “Isn’t it?”
He feinted with the belt, and they both jerked in reaction. Jack hit the deck just as McIntosh fired. He rolled under the desk.
The door burst open, and security personnel poured into the room with fluid coordination. Before Tan or McIntosh could alert them to his position, Jack kicked two chairs out from under the table and into the front ranks. They went down in a tangle of leather upholstery and limbs. Jack rolled out into the mess.
People were shouting. McIntosh commanded them to use whatever force necessary; Tan countered with demands for Jack to be kept alive; security people tried to keep track of Jack within the melee.
Jack used the belt to block blows, to snap guns from hands, to trip his opponents. He kicked and punched and headbutted, almost revelling in the freedom of it, of being surrounded by the enemy. Every body closing in on him was a target, and he let his training move him.
Then suddenly he was free, falling out of the meeting room into the relatively clear corridor. Another security team appeared around a corner, so Jack sprang to his feet and sprinted in the other direction. A shout gave him warning, and he tucked himself into a roll as the newcomers opened fire. Even as they redirected their aim downwards, he rocked up to his feet and jumped clear of the floor as bullets ripped into the carpet. His move propelled him into a wall, and he pushed off it before hitting the floor again and rolling around a corner. After coming back to his feet, he ran.
Alarms continued to blurt. The building would be in automatic lockdown by now, all external entrances sealed tight, the windows going opaque to keep out curious eyes. There were always loopholes in any security system, however, and Jack happened to have one handy.
He slammed through the door to the stairwell and stopped, pushing his back against the door. Going sideways, he activated the copy he’d made of Maxwell’s sec-tab RFID. Instantly, the lock on the door behind him lit up in his implant, recognising the signal. Once all the electronic locks linked to the sec-tab—which was all of those aboveground, bar one—answered Jack’s signal, he overrode their programming with an old one he’d used years ago on a mission with the SAS. Its encryption was military and wouldn’t take long for the Office techs to crack, but it would give him, hopefully, enough time to do what was needed.
Throughout the upper twelve floors of the Neville Crawley Building, every electronic lock opened for one second, two, then shut with a new command. The building was, for about the next ten minutes, Jack’s.
Working fast, he went through the utility belt until he found the key to the handcuffs. After a few twists of his wrists, the cuffs fell off with a clatter. Jack grabbed Maxwell’s phone from the belt, then pocketed it and the key and cuffs, just in case.
As Jack took the stairs two at a time, heading down, he ripped open the secret folds in his suit and pulled free the components he’d sewn into the material.