Two days of cautious movements got Jack to Ingleburn. A suburb in Sydney’s southwest, it had a history of commission houses, low education, and high crime, but in more recent times was turning into an attractive locale for new home buyers, young families, and the inevitable hipsters planning on a future investment in “I was there before it was cool.” One thing Jack was grateful for, however, was the relatively large Indian population. He blended in as he headed to the meeting point.
Hoping he’d interpreted Ethan’s code right, Jack made his way to Williamson Road. It proved to be a street of industrial businesses, and number eighty-three was a warehouse enclosed in a tall wire fence. In a secluded spot, Jack scaled the fence and approached the building. It was a long, low structure with very few windows, all of which held black-glazed glass that wouldn’t reveal the interior no matter how hard Jack pressed his face to it.
At one end was a wide roller-door with no external lock showing. Next to it was a normal-sized door. This one had a keypad. Given enough time Jack could probably hack the lock, but privacy wasn’t guaranteed, and he didn’t fancy being seen breaking in. He was fairly certain he had the right place. The darkened windows seemed like Ethan’s style, as did the location. Was he expected to wait outside until Ethan appeared?
Feeling like a dick, Jack knocked and waited. Nothing. He tried again, harder. Still nothing.
Hanging around like this would look as suspicious as hacking the lock. Jack cursed under his breath. Maybe he had it wrong. Williamson. Eight. Three. Was he wrong? Was Ethan waiting somewhere else for him, as worried as Jack was? What if Ethan had been caught?
Jack leaned against the door, wondering, for the hundredth time since hitting the water of Darling Harbour, if he’d done the right thing. Not just in terms of his career, or even his continued life outside of a high-security detention facility, but for Ethan as well. If there was one thing Ethan didn’t need, it was Jack double-checking every decision he made. The man had made it through thirty-one years of life before meeting Jack, before Jack had begun to view him as something damaged and then set adrift. He was one of the best assassins, spies, warriors, in the world. And yet Jack worried. Would Ethan have been better off staying in custody? He might have never been released, but he would be alive. Or not. Without Jack’s help, he may have continued with his original plan, and his chances wouldn’t have been as good.
Going back through that conversation about racing cars, Jack searched for extra information, for a sign he’d misinterpreted.
Seven.
Ah. The one he hadn’t been sure of.
The lock was a seven-digit key. Which seven though? And in what order? Why couldn’t Ethan have given him more to go on?
Unless he’d given him everything he needed. Jack hit the number seven seven times.
With a soft click, the door unlocked.
Chuckling, Jack slipped into the warehouse. Trust that mad bastard.
Motion-sensor lights flashed on as Jack closed the door and took a step into the space beyond. Rows of gently glowing bulbs along the roof cast soft illumination over the wide-open interior—enough light to see by, but not enough to blind Ethan’s light-sensitive eyes.
The floor was cement and bare, mostly. To his right, a long work bench, pitted and scarred, sat against the closest wall. There were vices of various sizes, several crucibles, tongs for carrying them, and racks of moulds. Ethan did like to custom make ammunition. Above it on the wall, a series of locked, steel cabinets most likely held weapons.
Along the far wall was a well-equipped home gym, including an area of sparring mats, a kick-bag, and a martial-arts dummy.
To the left, a large furnished area took up most of the remaining space. Rugs on the floor, dining table, kitchen, large chairs around a gas fireplace, a long wardrobe, a shower stall of frosted glass big enough for a party, and a bed for the partiers to crash in afterwards.
In between was a car under a canvas. Jack pulled the cover off and stood back to take a good look.
Low slung and sleek like a gliding shark, the black Aston Martin Vanquish S Coupe looked predatory as if it were simply giving its prey a head start before leaping into top speed to bring it down. It sent the same shiver down Jack’s spine as seeing Ethan did.
Jack could easily imagine Ethan in the car. His face intent, hands skilful on the gear shift and steering wheel. Propelling it to its top speed just so he could reassure himself he controlled his actions, his decisions, his life.
If the idea of watching Ethan drive this thing weren’t so appealing, the whole concept would have been too sad to contemplate.
Jack covered the beautiful car up and wandered over to the living area. In the kitchen he found a tiny but exquisite coffee machine and row after row of expensive coffee pods. There was milk in the fridge. Jack had made a cup and was about to sip when he remembered Ethan didn’t drink coffee. He was a tea drinker to the core of his dented soul. The bastard had put this in especially for Jack. Confident Jack would end up here, one way or another. Or prepared, just in case.
Drinking liquid gold, Jack wandered around the rest of the living area. In a wall cabinet he found a large TV and shelves of books. A lot of the authors Jack had never heard of, but he recognised several Matthew Reillys, which made him smile.
The closet was full of all sorts of clothes, from jeans and T-shirts to casual suits to full-blooded, double-breasted affairs that would cost Jack’s monthly wage. There were also several tuxedos, probably all with hidden compartments and long pockets for weapons. One section was devoted to various uniforms, including police, ambulance, army, nurse, and several others Jack had no idea about.
At the end of the long closet were clothes too big for Ethan. They were, in fact, Jack’s size. Shaking his head, Jack pulled out a pair of jeans and a shirt, made sure they fit, then headed for the shower.
Inside the shower stall, he discovered why it was so large. It was actually the entire bathroom enclosed in the frosted glass. Vanity and cabinet at one end, toilet in the middle, and open shower at the other. Surprisingly, there was an old-fashioned lion-clawed tub opposite the shower nozzle. In the cabinet, Jack found all the supplies he could ever need. He shaved eagerly. A beard might help to disguise him, but he’d probably rather go to prison than put up with the itching.
Bypassing the tub, Jack stood under the hot, massaging spray of the shower for a long time. When he finally turned off the water and looked around, he laughed. The entire bathroom was fogged up, steam curling out over the glass walls. He padded on wet feet to the vanity, then grabbed a towel from the cabinet, dried off, and cleaned his teeth.
Another coffee later and he was feeling the effects of four days of high stress, little to no sleep, and a shitload of emotional confusion and trauma. Despite the heady swirl of caffeine in his blood, Jack found himself aiming for the bed.
It was the scent of strongly brewed tea that woke him, however long later. It had never happened before, and yet it felt normal to roll over, lift his head, and find a steaming mug of black tea on the bedside table.
Pushing himself up further, he looked around, finding clouds of steam spilling over the top of the bathroom wall.
The last curl of tension in Jack’s gut eased, and he flopped back to the mattress.
Ethan was here. He was all right.
The frosted glass, further occluded by steam, hid Ethan from Jack’s sight, but it was all too easy to recall that body. What it looked like, how it felt, the way it moved against him. How Jack’s own body responded to even the slightest hint of interest from Ethan. Rested and secure, it responded now, just at the mere idea Ethan was here. It wasn’t even the thought of him naked and wet that did it. Just that he was here and safe.
Christ. Jack couldn’t afford to think like that. It was a bad road to go down. He was already in enough trouble because of Ethan. Adding to it by giving in to his body’s wants was a sure-fire way to ruin whatever he might be able to salvage of his freedom when Ethan invariably disappeared again.
Jaw tight, Jack refused to let himself do anything stupid. Like go into the bathroom, shove Ethan to the wall, and rut against him until all the objections were ground away and the only thing left was the here and now. Immediate gratification, delaying the inevitable betrayal. Feeling so bloody good that for ten minutes he forgot all the pain.
He thought of all the unpleasant things he could to banish Ethan and his lean, supple body from his head. Thought about what would happen if Ethan was wrong.
Being accused of treason. The trial sure to follow. A stint in prison. Unemployment afterwards. His sister’s inevitable visit to simply confirm her first opinion—this was what happened when you waged war. You fucked with karma; it fucked with you.
The death of a potentially innocent person.
It worked all too well. By the time the shower turned off, Jack was out of bed, pacing between bathroom and kitchen, and incredibly angry.
Goddamn, if Ethan was wrong and whoever he’d infiltrated the Office to kill wasn’t guilty . . .
The door to the bathroom opened. Jack, hands tangled in his black hair, chest heaving in an effort to calm himself, stumbled to a stop, thoughts dying mid rant.
Pale skin damp, hair tousled and glistening with water droplets, towel around his slim hips, Ethan was everything Jack remembered and a little more, right down to the socks. Jack swallowed hard against a resurgence of lust. Those strange eyes blinked at him sleepily, mellowed by the hot shower. His mouth turned up in a small smile. The smooth expanse of his chest tapered down to the low-hanging towel, muscles so well defined Jack didn’t have to imagine too hard what it would feel like to touch them. All the scars he remembered, plus a small healing cut over his left eyebrow. As he twisted slightly to secure the towel, Jack saw the remains of the dingo-claw marks. Most of them were gone, faded over the intervening year, but a puckered red scar remained where the middle claw had dug in deeper. The wound Jack had glued closed, had held together while it dried, while he gave in to temptation and touched.
Shit. This wasn’t going to happen. Jack spun away and kept pacing.
“Jack? Are you all right?”
Grinding his jaw against the need to yell, he shook his head. He didn’t hear Ethan come up behind him, but he felt him. Could sense the proximity of his heat, smell his skin, the scent wafting off him with the steam of his shower. It happily duck-dived from his nose right down into his belly, setting about eroding every very good reason Jack had for not letting this happen.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
Ethan fell quiet, watching Jack run a groove into the hard floor.
He couldn’t think, couldn’t rationalise anything while Ethan was so close. He’d thought he could control this. They were here to finish the job, nothing else. But he just couldn’t go beyond the fact Ethan was here, happy to see him.
And that was his problem. He wanted to believe he’d betrayed the Office for the right reasons. For the chance to discover who the traitor was, expose them, and then watch justice being done.
What if that was just the excuse, though? What if he was really here because his dick liked Ethan Blade so much it was making all the decisions? It didn’t want to hear about all the lies and betrayal. It didn’t want to remember that Ethan had pointed a gun at him and pulled the trigger. Or that little display put on for his benefit in the compound, Jack tied to a chair, Ethan and Valadian before him, side by side.
All very good reasons to have left Ethan in the cell at the Office. And yet . . . here they were, and Jack had no idea why.