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# House Hunt

By Jackie Keswick

The Power of Zero: Book Three

Jack Horwood hates owing favors. But when a simple day out to treat Gareth to the best oysters in England leads to a discovery of drugs and counterfeit money—things that neither Jack nor Gareth have the jurisdiction to handle—he has to call in help. Help that doesn't come cheap, and that forces him to do something he promised himself he'd never do again—walk away from Gareth and the family he's starting to make for himself.

Three months undercover is a long time. After missing Gareth's birthday, Jack is determined not to miss their first anniversary. But coming home and being home are two very different things. So when he is asked to assist with a corporate espionage investigation, Jack can't say no, despite knowing it will impact his already straining relationship.

Except, of course, he's walking into a trap....
First of all, I'm grateful to everyone who asked after Jack, Gareth, Nico, and Daniel—and had the patience to listen to me rabbit on endlessly about cars, USB sticks, and far too much food. It only needs a single question at the right moment to breed a whole posse of fluffy plot bunnies!

Beyond the inspiration, I owe a huge crate of thanks to Jack's very own cheerleading squad—Aviva, Kate, GK, and Rai—who never stopped pushing until the story was submitted and kept cheering me on even after, and to Dreamspinner's editing team—Sue, Jacky, Liv, and Andrea—who really had their work cut out on this one.

Finally, this is for Steve, and for one amazing birthday treat that came back to inspire this story.

# Part I: Oyster Run
# Chapter ONE

DAMN THAT brat and his stupid surprises! It was 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, and Gareth stood in the kitchen with his second cup of tea. Despite the early hour, he was fully dressed and ready to go out, though his mood veered between expectant and mildly annoyed. He didn't object to early mornings, not even on a weekend. He did object—rather a lot as it turned out—to waking up in an empty bed and having breakfast by himself just as he was getting used to having Jack around.

It made him cranky when Jack returned to his Wimbledon home after work instead of staying with him. For one, he'd discovered that he slept better wrapped around Jack than he did when he had his large bed to himself. For another, Jack was prone to spend all night glued to his computer screens, drinking coffee, listening to the most unexpected music, and poking his nose into places he had no call to even know about. More than once had Gareth swung by Jack's place on the way to work and found Jack still wearing the previous day's clothes and without so much as an hour's sleep to his name.

None of the late nights ever stopped Jack from doing his work—the man was far too professional for that—but when Jack chased windmills, Gareth started to worry.

It couldn't be argued that Jack needed that chase as much as he needed food, or that his windmills turned out to be bona fide dragons more often than not. Or that, compared to other ways to spend free time, Jack's was a worthwhile pursuit. Despite all that, Gareth hated that each chase dragged Jack back into a mire he'd barely escaped. He liked it even less when Jack's preoccupation forced them to spend the weekend apart.

Dealing with the aftermath of Ricky's death and helping Nico and Daniel recover from their imprisonment in a brothel wasn't easy on Jack. He put on a good front, but Jack was haunted by failures. Especially his own. The moments when Jack remembered the courageous teen he'd known so briefly were growing less frequent, though no less painful. Some days, Jack sought refuge in loud music and long sparring sessions. On other days, he found his solace in Gareth's hot tub, often in the middle of the night when he could be alone with his thoughts, the clouds, and the chimes of nearby church bells.

Christmas had been a turning point. Seeing Nico grow more confident dealing with a roomful of detectives and Daniel step up and confront his parents had helped Jack relax. He started to believe that he could have his own family made of people he chose, and began to trust what was between him and Gareth instead of second-guessing everything either of them did or said.

He and Jack worked as well together as they had while they served, and Gareth was growing to love the time they spent away from work, with or without the two boys they were working to make part of their family.

Nico and Daniel had started school again. For most of the week, they lived with Gareth's mother, who was their official foster parent while the courts considered Jack and Gareth's guardianship application. Weekends and odd days were spent at Gareth's home or Jack's, and over the last four months, they had found a comfortable routine doing perfectly normal, mundane things like shopping, cooking, or crashing out on the couch watching movies.

The two boys grew more comfortable around strangers. Nightmares became rare occurrences rather than the norm, and Jack slowly lost the watchful, wary look. He laughed more often, and Gareth loved to hear it, though neither regular hours nor good food, cozy nights in, or great sex lessened Jack's determination to chase down every person involved in Ricky's death and Daniel's and Nico's imprisonment.

Gareth poured a third cup of tea while he kept one eye on his driveway and the other on the kitchen clock, glad that Jack wasn't there to see him fidget. They had never discussed Jack's need to dish out justice or Gareth's misgivings about Jack involving himself without regard for his emotional or physical well-being. Gareth had never mentioned his dread that Jack wasn't there to stay, that one day he'd realize that being with Gareth stopped him from doing what he wanted to do. Even without those discussions, Gareth knew something was brewing.

Jack had been twitchy for the last couple of weeks, vacillating between chasing child molesters, trying to identify the recipients of the data that Nancarrow Mining's former finance director had leaked, and working to fend off hacking attacks while tracing their sources. Jack's low-key mutterings and the helpless smiles of Donald Frazer, his partner on Nancarrow Mining's network security desk, made it clear that Jack had been unable to settle on any of his tasks. The only time Jack focused was when he was in the gym, beating the crap out of the company's legal counsel, Aidan Conrad, who had become his favorite sparring partner.

So when Jack had suddenly suggested a day out, Gareth had agreed without hesitation. If Jack needed a change of scenery to spill what bothered him, then Gareth was all for it.

A deep, throaty rumble broke the quiet of the morning and Gareth frowned. It didn't sound like Jack's beloved Gixxer, and anyway, he had been told they were not riding to... wherever it was they were going. The sound neared and settled outside his house, and when Gareth opened the front door and walked to the end of the drive, he came face-to-face with Jack Horwood—in a way he'd never seen or imagined him before.

He was used to Jack in skintight jeans and with a screwdriver between his teeth, bent over desks, or crawling into spaces rodents would have found restrictive. He was used to Jack in leather, astride his bike, and Jack in sleeveless tops and jogging bottoms moving through kata with grace and precision. He was even used to Jack the tease, meshing leather, music, and suggestive moves until Gareth thought his skin would catch on fire. Jack appealed to him whatever incarnation he chose, and this time around he had surpassed himself.

Long, low-slung, and roofless, with sexy, graceful curves, the deep green two-seater sparkled in the early morning sunlight. Jack sat snugly ensconced in magnolia leather, a dark green fleece top and matching ball cap complementing the color of the car. Fingerless driving gloves of soft black leather and aviator sunglasses added to his rakish look. He grinned from ear to ear, revving the engine, playing with the throaty sound.

"Come on, Flynn, the morning's wasting."

"What the fuck is that?"

"Transport. Get your gear and get in before I wake the neighborhood," Jack sniped at Gareth's question. "This isn't a sound you can ignore for long."

Gareth had to agree. The deep bass notes of the car's engine rippled down the street and back again. He quickly ducked inside and reached for wallet, phone, and keys before he grabbed a jacket from the rack and sunglasses and a ball cap from a drawer. Moments later he stood beside the car's passenger door and frowned at the lack of a visible door handle. Surely Jack wasn't expecting him to vault over the door?

Jack's laugh, carefree and enticing, bubbled up over the engine's rumble, and without Gareth being able to see what he did, the passenger door popped open, ready for Gareth to climb in.

The seat was a surprisingly long way down. And once he sat, all he could see were acres of creamy hide and gleaming walnut trim, with a tiny slice of glittering green bonnet stretching out in front of him.

"Where did you get this monster?" he asked as he pulled the seat belt across his chest and Jack peeled away from the curb with a deep V-8 growl that was sure to rattle windowpanes along the quiet cul-de-sac.

"It's mine. Well, half of it is."

"Who owns the other half?"

"Melanie Rookes."

Gareth couldn't help but stare. "What? How the hell did that happen?"

Jack's smile was so wide even the crinkles at the corners of his eyes took note. "Old hat," he confided, voice indulgent. "We were on assignment together and I sent her to find us some wheels. This is what she came back with." He patted the steering wheel as he turned a corner and drove toward Kew Gardens. "I called her every name in the book, but we had so much fun with the thing, we kept it after we were done with the assignment. That woman's one seriously talented mechanic, so Arnie stays with her most of the time."

"Arnie?"

"I wanted to call him Tyson, but Mel wouldn't let me. She has anger management issues."

A surprised laugh burst from Gareth's throat at that most absurd of understatements. Melanie Rookes was a talented mechanic, no doubt about it. She was a seriously talented sniper, too, provided that temper of hers didn't land her in trouble. Gareth had served with her husband. He'd heard a few of the stories. "I can't imagine the two of you together on assignment."

"Don't even try. It wasn't pretty."

Jack's relaxed mood shifted to something darker, like the sun slipping behind a cloud. Gareth had seen far too much of that in the last six months. He stretched his hand across the center console and skimmed his fingertips over the tattoo on Jack's left temple, skipping over the arm of the aviators in the process. "Don't go there. Tell me instead where you're taking me."

Jack's grin returned. "You keep whining about the lack of decent oysters, and I'm sick of hearing it. I'm going to get you some of the finest oysters in England, and then I'll watch you eat them until you pop."

"You don't even like oysters."

"So not the point," Jack shot back as he smoothly filtered onto the anticlockwise side of the M25, slid into the outside lane, and floored the throttle. Traffic was light that early on a Sunday and he clearly hoped to be off the road to hell before that changed. "The real point here is that oysters are one of your favorite foods. And you whine about the bloody things even when you're at Simpson's eating them. So now you won't have to."

The engine in the deep green car didn't just produce speed. Gareth could feel the V-8's rumbling growl through the soles of his boots and the seat of his jeans. The acceleration pressed him into the cream leather bucket seat, the wind tried to rip the cap from his head, and they garnered more than a few envious looks as they shot past much of the early Sunday traffic.

It wasn't until they reached the junction with the M2 that Gareth got a clue. "Whitstable," he pronounced, gaping. "We're going to Whitstable."

"Yes. I told you."

"You did not."

"Some of the best oysters in England...?" Jack repeated his words from earlier and Gareth was sure that, safe behind his sunglasses, Jack was rolling his eyes. "Where else would I take you?"

Gareth hadn't planned on a day by the seaside. He hadn't planned on oysters or on Jack being in such a mercurial mood... but he wouldn't change it for the world. So he relaxed. He let himself be hugged by magnolia leather, pushed his sleeves up, leaned his head back, and enjoyed the sunshine, the company, and the deep throaty rumble of a powerful V-8.

EVEN THAT early in the day, Whitstable was a zoo. Cars and pedestrians clogged the narrow streets and traffic moved at an excruciatingly slow pace toward the seafront. To Gareth's surprise, Jack knew which of the tiny back roads to take to get out of the snarl. It didn't make their journey much faster, but listening to Jack grumble and swear at speed bumps and extra-tight turns was unexpectedly entertaining. Just as much as finding that his ears rang with echoes of the engine's purr even after Jack had stopped in a small grass-covered space that could hold at most half a dozen cars. The three that were already there were a battered van, an even more battered Land Rover, and a Volvo estate car with a roof rack full of surfboards.

"That's some smart transport," he commented, watching Jack retrieve the roof from the car's boot and fit it in place.

"Driven right, it turns your guts to jelly." Jack nodded. "It's unfortunate that these days I can't demonstrate that and keep my license."

"The advantages of being a spook...."

"...are few and far between." Jack blipped the locks and turned toward the beach. "Come on, then, Flynn. Breakfast awaits."

"It's heading towards eleven. That makes it brunch, heathen."

"Whatever. It's food."

The negligent wave was pure bait, and Gareth wanted to reach for Jack and pull him into a hug. Jack had a habit of skipping out on displays of affection when he was most in need of them, and this morning was no exception. Instead of asking for what he needed, Jack headed for the beach, upping his pace when he spotted a blond man who waved from the door of a sprawling, sky blue hut.

He was tall—taller than both Jack and Gareth—and his broad shoulders and muscled arms radiated strength. The bleached streaks in his thatch of pale hair were bright enough to be visible from half a beach away, and as they drew closer, Gareth noticed deep blue eyes that reflected the light off the water. The striking eyes weren't what caught Gareth's attention, though. No. Gareth Flynn was taken aback by the sheer joy that lit up the man's face as soon as Jack drew close.

It was... disconcerting.

As was Jack's reaction.

Jack, who was usually so protective of his personal space, held up his palm to be slapped before allowing the other man to pull him into a hard, tight hug and hold on to him longer than strictly necessary.

"You made excellent time," the man praised, his voice a pleasant, low rumble that wouldn't have sounded out of place in Jack's TVR. "I didn't expect to see you much before lunch."

"Nah. We got out early and far enough down the M26 before it got crazy," Jack explained, stepping out of the man's hold and giving him the once-over. "You're looking good."

"So are you." Something unspoken passed between them, and then the deep blue gaze flicked to Gareth, who was silently debating if he had cause for concern. "I'm Dave. And you must be the guy suffering from oyster deprivation."

"Gareth." He took Dave's outstretched hand. "And yes, you're right."

"No worries. I can fix you right up if you follow me." He led them around the side of the hut and onto a small deck overlooking the pebble-strewn beach, where a table was laid for two with plates, glasses, finger bowls, and napkins. The hunger-inducing aromas of brine, wood smoke, and roasting garlic wafted from the open door of the shack.

"Beer or fizz?" Dave asked, despite it being early for lunch, and turned an appraising look toward Jack. "Or coffee?"

Gareth raised an eyebrow in question, but Jack, already stretched out in one of the comfy padded chairs, just waved. "Go ahead, I'm having far too much fun driving."

"Fizz." Gareth wasn't surprised when Jack added a request for coffee a moment later. Jack would perish without a constant supply of caffeine; Gareth was sure of it.

The drinks arrived in due course along with a huge platter of oysters for Gareth and a plate of freshly smoked mackerel, a pint of griddled prawns in garlic and parsley butter, scallops Mornay, fresh bread, and smoked-salmon-and-asparagus flan for Jack.

"You're not even gonna try one?" Gareth teased once he'd tested the supply and found it worth the early start to their morning.

"Not unless I'm starving and there's nothing else around," Jack said with conviction. "I prefer my food dead." He waved at the selection of smoked and griddled fish on his plate. "And sort of cooked."

"So you'd eat a grilled oyster?"

"Oysters po'boys, devilled oysters, even oyster stew, I'll eat. Live ones... no."

Gareth stared until Jack grew uncomfortable and shifted in his seat.

"What?"

"Just thinking how long I've known you and how much I've yet to find out," Gareth picked up another oyster shell and tipped his head back. The salty tang hit his throat and he shivered as his body remembered a similar sensation that had nothing to do with oysters, but everything to do with Jack. "I had no idea you'd own a car like this," he said quickly to distract himself.

"Half," Jack corrected. "And I wouldn't own even that much if Mel wasn't such a nutcase. No sane person would consider going undercover in that thing. But it made total sense to her."

"Like nobody would think of becoming a spy with a tattoo on their face?"

"Oh, shut up." Jack leaned his head into his hand, hiding the reminder he'd inked on his left temple seven years earlier.

"Do you see much of her?" Gareth didn't admit that the idea alarmed him. Strife followed Melanie Rookes wherever she went, and Jack, who had seen enough strife for several lifetimes, didn't need to get dragged into more of it by hanging with the wrong crowd.

"Gatting and Mel's handler, Khandi, ran in a pack for a while," Jack said while he ate. "We got roped into a lot of crazy stuff back then."

Tom Gatting had been Jack's handler during his time with MI6. He was the one who'd loaned Jack out to other agencies and who'd dragged him into cases Jack should never have been part of. Aidan Conrad had choice words to say whenever Gatting's name came up, and Gareth wasn't sure he wanted to meet the man. On the other hand, he'd never heard of Khandi, but knowing he was Mel's handler didn't inspire much confidence. Or too much.

"You're wondering how he keeps Mel on the straight and narrow, right?" Jack smirked.

He did that sometimes, got right into Gareth's head and rooted around in it as if it were his own damned attic. It was disconcerting as hell. Gareth didn't answer, just raised the champagne flute to his lips and enjoyed the soft bite of the bubbles on his tongue.

"You are," Jack maintained. He balanced a piece of flan on his fork, seemingly admiring the contrast of bright green and soft pink. "It's not that difficult, actually. Khandi's no stickler for protocol and he gives her a long leash. Provided she doesn't attract too much of the wrong attention, he has her back."

Jack's voice sounded wistful and Gareth frowned. "Gatting didn't have yours?"

"Don't make me laugh. The only ass Gatting looks after is Gatting's. Everybody else is collateral damage."

"Then I'm surprised you stuck it out as long as you did," Gareth said, fizz and sunshine and excellent oysters momentarily forgotten.

Jack didn't answer for a long time. He fished a scallop out of its creamy grave and devoured it with relish, mopping up the Mornay sauce with a chunk of crusty french bread. "It's not wise to get on the wrong side of a hacker," he said eventually. "Once he'd learned that, Gatting was okay."

"Right." Gareth refilled his champagne glass and watched Jack from the corner of his eye. "One more question and then I'll stop asking, I promise," he said. "Is that why you joined MI6? That they gave you more opportunity to do what you love doing? It's just that I'm getting the feeling you'd have been bored had you stayed in the Army."

A little smile curled the corners of Jack's mouth. "I didn't leave the Army because I was bored. You already know that. Neither did I join the service because I needed entertainment. I've always been plenty able to amuse myself. And you know that too," he said. "Now ask your question and then shut up."

"What did you do to keep Gatting in line?"

Jack considered him for a moment, green eyes narrowed and teeth digging into his lower lip while he thought. Then he nodded. "I tripled his mortgage."

Choking on an oyster, even if it was one of the best in England, wasn't an enjoyable experience.

# Chapter TWO

"THAT WAS one spectacular brunch," Gareth sighed, mellow and content, as they wandered slowly along the beach. He hadn't just eaten oysters until he was ready to pop and washed them down with a bottle of creamy, lemon-scented fizz. They'd also been ordered to stop by the shack on their way home to collect a cooler full of freshly caught, baked, and smoked goodies to take with them. And Jack, who took orders as well as a mule, hadn't said a word against the edict. Now the surf was a soft rattle of pebbles and hiss of foam sinking through sand, the sun caressed his skin, and the salty breeze was surprisingly pleasant. It wasn't summer warm, but nowhere near chilly either. "And this... this is perfect."

The day got better than perfect when Jack shed his green fleece, showing off the steel-gray sleeveless top he wore underneath. Gareth feasted his eyes on the long, elegant line of Jack's back and slid his gaze across wide shoulders down to strong, muscled arms and capable, long-fingered hands.

For someone who always complained about Gareth's teasing, Jack wasn't doing a half-bad job of it himself. He looked edible standing on the pebble beach, framed by the endlessly shifting gray-green wash of the sea and with the soft blue and white of an April sky above. Gareth could have sworn that the air around him grew just a tad warmer as Jack stretched his arms up over his head and arched his back, seemingly to work out the kinks, but drawing Gareth's gaze inevitably to his pert ass and long legs, encased in snug black denim.

After over two weeks of drought, Gareth's body took immediate notice of the display, especially when Jack pushed his aviators up to rest amid his dark choppy hair, tipped his head back, and basked in the sunshine. Having seen in the past how quickly Jack's skin caught the sun—he had looked like a local after a mere week in the desert—Gareth knew that he would be asked the following morning if he'd had a good holiday. But that wasn't what made Gareth's jeans grow uncomfortably tight. No, that reaction was due to him imagining Jack spread out on their bed, his skin gleaming golden in soft lamplight, and with the same blissful look on his face that he wore right then.

Damn the brat for playing his little games in public! Gareth drew a deep breath and then another, trying to calm his heart and mind. Of course it didn't work. Wishing the beach and everyone on it into the second circle of hell had no effect either.

"Perfect. Just... perfect," he grumbled, catching up with Jack.

"Told you. Best oysters in England."

As if that was what he'd been talking about. Still, he'd take any distraction right about then. "How would you know if you don't eat them?"

"I eat them once they're dead. And cooked," Jack shot back. "Dave used to beat it into me that Whitstable oysters are the bees' knees and have been prized for their taste and quality since Roman times. So how would I dare contradict him?"

The smile in Jack's voice as he related history was entirely too indulgent. Gareth's mind switched tracks, from good and mellow to wondering once more if he had need for concern, if what had made Jack twitchy these last weeks was somehow connected to the tall blond man with the striking blue eyes. "How do you know the guy, anyway?"

"I was here on assignment for a couple of months. I worked for him."

"At the Oyster Shack?"

"Yep."

"And you don't eat oysters."

"Live oysters. Weren't you listening? Would you believe he cooked an honest-to-God oyster stew for my last night here? Old family recipe, handed down from father to son since the Conquest and all that." Jack's grin was wide and wicked. "Not that I got a chance to taste it. I don't even remember them scrambling the air ambulance to get me out of here."

"What happened?"

Jack's face went blank. "Oh, you know. Food poisoning or something."

"Leave any scars?" Gareth asked sourly, not surprised when Jack smirked.

"Poison rarely does."

THEY WANDERED along the beach, soaking up the sun and letting their brunch settle while they speculated how Nico and Daniel were getting on flying helicopters with Aidan, and talked about mundane things. After two weeks of almost silence, Gareth enjoyed the return of their easy banter. Jack made him chuckle with his pungent observations about the people in their vicinity. He had a mouth on him when he was in the mood and hearing his scathing comments on some kid's fashion sense or choice of music couldn't fail to lift Gareth's spirits.

Despite this, Jack's earlier words lingered in his mind, so when they swung by the Oyster Shack on their way back as instructed, he kept an eye on Dave, wondering if he'd been involved in Jack's assignment or just involved with Jack. Given the comfortable interaction the two shared, either scenario was possible.

Not aware that Gareth was watching, Dave flirted openly with Jack, his smile bright and inviting. When Jack reached for the cooler full of food he had put together for them, he brushed his hand up Jack's bare arm, and just as Jack started to turn toward the shack's open door, he slung his arm around Jack's shoulder to stop him. Wariness crept into Jack's stance, and seeing Jack step out of the loose embrace before it could grow into more eased Gareth's misgivings just a little.

"So... home?" he wondered when they were packing Dave's box of goodies into the TVR's cavernous boot. Wrapped in foil and Tupperware before being buried in ice, the delicate cargo had a good chance to make it home unscathed. Gareth was already taking a mental inventory of his culinary resources and planned the week's dinners, from grilled prawns with lemon mayonnaise when they got home to chili-laced crab cakes with coriander, and smoked mackerel and avocado salad after work the next day. "Or did you have plans for the afternoon?"

"I did, actually." The sudden tension in Jack's shoulders turned the easy tone into a bald-faced lie. "I'd love to take Arnie into the Weald and find somewhere peaceful to go for a walk."

Gareth spoke Jack fairly fluently on a normal day, but this was code he had trouble deciphering. It didn't help that Jack wasn't meeting his eyes.

"I'm surprised you even dare go near the place," he said, only half joking. "Remember that exercise where it pissed buckets for five days straight?"

"God, yes!" Jack's tight stance relaxed. He slipped into the driver seat, and the engine roared to life. "It took me weeks to get the iron filings out from under my fingernails."

"And then you got lost in the Romney Marshes."

"I did not!"

"You were so late returning to base, we almost sent out rescue teams."

"Bullshit. Weston broke his ankle, if you remember, and that slowed us down." Jack pulled out of the little car park and took corner after corner and speed bump after speed bump until they reached the main road. "I kept dreaming of flares for the longest time after," he said, shaking his head. "And now that you've reminded me, I probably will again. Damn you, Flynn."

"Only thing for it is for me to keep you awake. And you know what? I have a few ideas how to manage that."

"I'm sure you do."

The tilt of Jack's head was pure provocation. Gareth suddenly hated the snug bucket seats and the leather-clad center console that stopped him from putting his hands on Jack. The traffic surging around them was equally obnoxious. Why did people have to be out and about on a Sunday when Gareth wanted nothing more than a quiet, lonely corner to molest his lover in private?

The traffic thinned the farther inland Jack drove. Soon, the deep green car purred its way through rolling hills and tiny villages that snoozed in postlunch languor, and where only occasionally a dog decided to query their presence. Once more, Jack seemed to know where he was going, confidently picking his way through the Weald, taking smaller and smaller lanes without hesitation.

So far, their unexpected day out hadn't brought Gareth any kind of enlightenment. As he had in the previous weeks, Jack vacillated between distracted and provocative, unable to settle and equally unable to explain what drove him or what he needed. Asking wouldn't produce any answers and would only send Jack further into his shell. Pushing would send him running. All Gareth could do was possess himself in patience and wait. For sudden insight. For Jack to crawl out of hiding and decide to speak. For pigs to fly, even.

When the car's growling engine stopped, Gareth found himself surrounded by woods in a corner of the Weald he'd never been to before. The small car park was deserted except for a handful of cars, and Gareth heard only birdsong, the rustle of the breeze in the trees, and the faraway drone of a plane. They hadn't passed any villages or farms during the last leg of their drive, and nothing around him hinted at human habitation.

The car park didn't even have a sign.

"You know where we are, right?"

"Would you believe me if I said we're eight miles from Canterbury?"

It was hard to imagine that a city full of tourists, bars, and shops was in hiking distance of this deserted corner of Kent. The air held the bitter, musty scents of pine and damp leaves and—barely detectable—the savory smell of mushrooms. Most of the oak and beech trees surrounding the small, graveled car park were just starting to unfurl their leaves, giving the afternoon sun almost unhindered access.

Jack unlocked the boot, ready to get out of the car and retrieve the TVR's roof. Before he could move, Gareth wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him closer until the center console got in the way. Jack didn't fight. He braced his elbows on magnolia leather and leaned across the barrier into Gareth's touch. Their kiss was slow and languid, more teasing than enticing.

"Really not the car for that," Gareth commented when he leaned back to put space between them. "Though I could imagine spreading you across that bonnet."

"Yeah, let's scandalize the locals," Jack agreed and popped the doors.

It was the third time and Gareth still hadn't figured out how it was done. Not that he'd been paying particular attention to the TVR's doors. Though now that he'd started thinking about the acres of bonnet, he could see that the car had potential. He turned to look for Jack, but despite having opened the boot, he wasn't anywhere close to the car. He stood in the center of the car park, staring at a beat-up green Rover.

"What's the matter?"

"Not sure." Jack's voice was distant. "Thing gives me the creeps."

"How?"

Gareth couldn't see anything that might have set off Jack's warning bells. The N-plated Rover 400 showed every one of its seventeen years of hard work. Flaking paint marred the sides, hinting at rust-eaten bodywork, and one of the car's wings had been replaced with one of a slightly different green. It wasn't a car that invited a second look from anyone, but somehow it had immediately drawn Jack's attention.

"Jack?"

He stared a moment longer before he shrugged and turned back to Gareth. "I don't know," he said, sounding apologetic. "Probably nothing at all. Fancy a walk?"

"Since that's what we came here for...." Gareth wanted to reach for Jack, whether to distract him or shake him hard enough to rattle some sense back into that busy brain of his, he couldn't have said. "Was there anywhere in particular you wanted to go?"

"Just... around," Jack said as he found a narrow path that led into the surrounding woods.

"Liar. And crappy at it, too. How'd you ever make it as a spook?"

Gareth had merely meant to tease, but a dark flush crept up Jack's neck, and he hunched forward. "I wasn't that kind of spook," he mumbled when Gareth caught up with him.

"No?" Gareth wrapped his arm around Jack's shoulders and felt him flinch at the contact. Jack was suddenly so tightly wound he was close to taking off. And that wasn't something Gareth wanted to deal with right then. He cast around for something, anything, that could serve as a distraction.

"So, what's going on with you and that Dave character?" he settled on, glad when Jack's head shot up and he stared, caught out.

"Nothing's going on. He's straight."

"Bullshit. He was all over you."

The vehemence in Gareth's tone brought Jack's head around. The frown dissolved and the smirk appeared. "That jealousy I'm hearing, Flynn?"

Gareth felt the rush of heat in his neck sweep up the sides of his face. He held Jack's disbelieving gaze regardless. "Would you blame me?"

"Wow!" Jack's eyes grew dark. He got right in Gareth's space until he could wrap his fingers in Gareth's belt loops and tug his hips forward. "That's kinda hot. You wanting me like that," he whispered.

And that quickly, much of Jack's strange behavior made sense. For a couple of breaths and a few rapid heartbeats, Gareth wavered between annoyance and relief. Then relief won out. Relief that he understood. Relief that he could fix what was wrong. Sometimes, working out what drove Jack was next to impossible. This time, the brat just deserved a solid smack or two for being an idiot!

"As if you weren't aiming for just that," Gareth grumbled, and pulled Jack tight against his chest. He didn't care that he touched Jack in full view of anyone who might come down the path or that they entirely blocked the narrow trail down to the car park. This wasn't Whitstable with its milling crowds of sun seekers. In this deserted corner of the Weald they'd be hard-pressed to meet one or two people even if they obstructed the path all afternoon. So all Gareth cared about right then was holding Jack close and kissing him until they ran out of air.

As distracted as Jack had been over the last weeks, they'd not done much more than fool around in the shower once or twice. And the last couple times they actually had had sex, Gareth had been content to let Jack call the shots. Which might have been the beginning of the troubles, the start of Jack doubting himself and what they had together. Gareth filed that thought for later and focused on Jack's warm weight in his arms. Seeing his lover all eager turned him on. It always did.

It was Jack who pulled away. "Not what I'd intended when I talked about a quiet walk," he said, and reached for Gareth's hand. "Come on, I know a place."

He started up the path, and half an hour later, the place he knew turned out to be a small, secluded clearing with a beautiful weeping willow at its center. And an extremely convenient pile of logs close beside it.

Right.

Gareth was about to comment on the uncanny coincidence, when Jack slowed and looked over his shoulder as if to make sure Gareth was still following him.

The two of them stood under a soft blue sky, on a hillside in the Kentish Weald, but from one moment to the next Gareth struggled to find enough air. The edges of his vision darkened and closed in, as if he looked down a long tunnel at Jack. And Jack's eyes were a green so bright it lit the space between them with desire, naked want and... hope. So much hope it hit Gareth like a punch in the gut.

Two fast steps took Gareth to Jack's side; another step brought them into full body contact. Jack wound his arms around Gareth's neck and brought their mouths together for a kiss that was pure hunger. Messy, too, with tongues and teeth clashing without regard to propriety. Jack practically devoured Gareth's mouth.

And Gareth had no problem with letting him.

Jack wasn't timid in bed, but it was rare that he let himself go completely. He always held back just a little. Seeing him so out of control was six shades of hot. There was a lot of trust in that display, trust that Gareth hadn't realized he'd earned. If anything, that made it an even bigger turn-on.

"Thank God you had brunch," Gareth gasped as they drew apart briefly to find air. "Just imagine you were hungry."

Jack shoved a fist into his shoulder in reply, then gripped his elbow and dragged him across the clearing to the pile of logs. "This'll work, won't it?" He stuck a hand into his pocket and pulled it out holding a foil square. "It's got lube on it."

"Really." They'd given up on the condoms well before Christmas, so for Jack to carry one around meant he'd planned this.

"What can I say? I just... need it."

Gareth dragged his lover close and bit down hard on Jack's earlobe, relishing the indignant squawk that turned into a soft, drawn-out moan. He cupped Jack's crotch and squeezed, holding Jack immobile, while his other hand got busy with Jack's belt buckle and the buttons on his jeans. They popped one by one and then... commando, of course.

"There's nothing wrong with needing it," Gareth growled. He made no secret of the fact that he was pissed. "There's also nothing wrong with having sex like a civilized person... in my bed. But no. You have to drag my ass to Kent at ridiculous o'clock on a Sunday to parade your ex-boyfriend... and then you just find a convenient pile of logs for me to bend you over? How stupid do you think I am?"

"He's not my ex-boyfriend."

"And I don't care." Gareth shoved Jack forward and yanked his jeans down at the same time. "Ass in the air, brat."

Jack caught himself on his hands and complied. He made a stunning enough sight—all tan skin and firm round flesh—that Gareth almost lost it. The deep purr rumbling out of Jack's throat didn't help him keep control either.

"And silent." A sharp swat to Jack's ass enforced the command and rocked Jack into the woodpile. "Not a sound until I tell you." Red bloomed against tan skin, and Gareth had to bite his lip to stop himself from voicing his appreciation. He left Jack like this—bent over, exposed and waiting in silence—while he dealt with the condom, endlessly turned on by the shivers washing through Jack's frame.

There was no doubt that Jack needed a good fuck. And a little reminder of his place in Gareth's life.

It wasn't surprising given Jack's past, but sometimes he fell back into that space where he thought he was worthless. It had happened before, back in February after Jack had helped Lisa build the prosecution case for the last of those involved in Mitrovic's child prostitution ring. He'd grown edgier the longer the work had dragged, and the matter had come to a head around Valentine's Day. Jack and Gareth had spent the day looking after Nico and Daniel to give Gareth's mother a chance to throw a party. Gareth had booked them a few days in a lighthouse keeper's cottage afterward. Somewhere remote, where they could leave the windows wide open to listen to the sea batter its fury against the cliffs. Somewhere nobody heard Jack scream when Gareth drove him crazy enough to let go.

Gareth draped himself over Jack's back, one arm around his chest, the other hand palming Jack's erection.

"There's never a moment in any day when I don't want you," he breathed, lips just skimming the edge of Jack's ear. "And when you need something, you come to me. I don't care if you want to rant, need advice, or want me to bend you over my desk. You need... anything... you come to me."

Gareth rocked his slick, latex-covered cock along Jack's crack, doing little more than driving him insane with the touch and teasing pressure. His teeth scraped over every sensitive spot on Jack's long neck, and his fist squeezed until Jack squirmed in his hold. "Do you hear me?"

A shuddering sigh. A nod.

It was enough for now. Gareth's fist moved fast and sure, working Jack the way he liked it. His tongue teased at the tender spot behind Jack's ear that pushed Jack to the edge faster than anything else Gareth had yet discovered. And it worked as well as it ever did. Jack shook in Gareth's hold, and then his muscles started to tense. He drew in on himself, curled forward, and buried his face in his arms, the cotton of his T-shirt between his teeth to stop himself from making any sound.

Gareth found a nipple to squeeze, and just as the first shudder wracked Jack's frame, Gareth shoved deep into his lover's body, aiming to let the high of the orgasm temper the burn of the intrusion.

Jack shivered and Gareth gave him no time to sort out the conflicting sensations. Jack's body was tight and hot, the buildup had been intense, and Gareth knew he wouldn't last. Not with the look and sound of Jack begging for it burned into his mind. Not with the trim body writhing against his.

He set a fast, hard pace, working Jack through his orgasm and into a level of sensation Jack never knew how to handle. His fingers twined into Jack's silky hair and pulled his head up until Jack's neck and back stretched at an angle that looked awkward, but allowed Gareth to hit all Jack's hot buttons when they kissed in a messy scrabble.

They rocked together, hard and insistent, Jack's mouth open in a soundless moan. He reached up and back, lacing his hands behind Gareth's neck. The shift drew Gareth impossibly deep, and with a few more hard strokes, Jack lost himself.

Gareth was right there with him. His body froze as the lightning in his veins poured out of him in a rush that left him gasping and nearly sightless. Only Jack could make him this mad and desperate, could make him lose himself so thoroughly in the inferno of heat and passion they created between them. It was something Gareth cherished. Something he had no intention of giving up anytime soon, whatever Jack or fate decided to throw at him.

FIXING THEIR clothes took a matter of moments once they had their breaths back, and then they settled into the dappled shade of the willow in a boneless sprawl, sated and content.

"Thoroughly fucked looks great on you."

"Feels great too." Jack draped himself over Gareth. His fingers idly traced the defined muscles of Gareth's chest and abs, loving the way the T-shirt hugged his torso. Gareth wasn't one for overly tight clothing. Most days he hid the cobbled abs under loose rugby shirts or tailored suit jackets. Not that Jack had anything against the jackets, of course. Not when they showed off that perfect vee of Gareth's back, from the wide shoulders and muscled biceps all the way down to the narrow waist. But there was something enticing about being able to skim his fingers down Gareth's chest and feel the ripples, of tracing down the ladder of ribs until his fingertips met hip bones. And settled peacefully in the sunshine, Jack took full advantage. He relished the languor that coiled through him like liquid smoke, and the total silence in his head. "Better than a bottle of whisky and no hangover." Nobody but Gareth had ever been able to do that to him—but Jack was careful to keep that bit of news to himself.

"Is it really so hard to talk to me?"

Heat surged through Jack, half incredulity, half anger. He drew breath for a stinging retort... and stopped himself before the words on his tongue could spill out into the air. How could Gareth know that he found it well-nigh impossible at times to sort out needs from wants from reality? Jack had never told him.

"Yeah, it is," he sighed, struggling to get the words out. "When I get like this, it's...."

"Okay."

Gareth's fingers massaged his nape, and Jack relaxed once more when he realized that Gareth wasn't going to make him spell it out. Not this time.

"Just want you to know that it's scary for me to guess," Gareth said. "Imagine what could happen if I guessed wrong. Maybe we need a code."

"Like a safeword, you mean?" Jack chuckled.

"Something like that." Gareth was serious. "Something that tells me what you need when you can't say it. Something neither of us can misinterpret."

Jack thought about this while his body calmed and grew heavy, while his mind had a clarity he rarely achieved. Like many of Gareth's ideas, this was a good one, and he was contemplating how he could communicate his needs, when Gareth's arms wrapped tightly around him once more.

"You don't have to decide now," he murmured, face buried in Jack's hair. "Just give it some thought."

Jack managed half a nod before his eyes closed, and all he felt was home.

"ARE YOU ready to tell me now?" Gareth asked much later when the sun had shifted from warming all of Jack's back to heating nothing more than his calves and ankles. Gareth's arms were still wrapped around him and his voice was so calm and casual that Jack wondered if he'd agonized over nothing.

"Aidan asked me out to lunch," he mumbled, not moving.

"So he tells me." Jack raised his head a couple of inches and glared until Gareth shrugged and added, "He wanted to know if you'd be interested in freelancing for him. Obviously, you're more difficult to read than you give yourself credit for."

"If you say so." Jack dropped his head back onto Gareth's chest and listened to the steady thump-thump against his ear. He should have considered that Gareth and Conrad were tight. Should have known that the lawyer wouldn't blindside a man he respected and relied on.

"You're not, you know," Gareth interrupted his thoughts.

"I'm not what?"

"Getting sloppy."

"And you read minds now?"

"Yours. At times." Gareth's fingers wound in Jack's hair and pulled his head up. The grip smarted, but the look in Gareth's eyes—a mix of warmth and amusement—made up for it. "Remember that I'm one of the handful of people who can read you at least a little," he counseled. "Aidan wouldn't have waited that long to talk to you otherwise. He was trying to find the right time and asked me when he couldn't work it out. The same goes for Alex."

"If you say so." Jack shrugged, not really concerned about that one way or the other. He thought that Alexandra Marston could puzzle out anyone given enough incentive. The woman had that kind of mind. So either he wasn't sitting that high on her list of priorities—and as far as he was concerned, that was a good thing—or she wasn't as good as the rumors would have it. That idea needed some consideration, but Jack was too comfortable right then to bend his mind to the task.

"So are you gonna tell me about it?" Gareth prodded again.

"Do you really wanna know?" Jack pushed himself upright and crossed his legs. Almost immediately, he missed Gareth's warmth and the peace they'd had between them for the last hour. "You're part of it, aren't you?"

Gareth crossed his arms behind his head and kept his eyes on Jack. "I am part of Dwight & Conrad," he agreed. "I run ops for Aidan's cases and—at times—I go out with them on assignments. If you're gonna be working with Aidan too, then it'd be useful to know what you agreed with him, so we don't cross our wires."

It was said with such care that Jack winced. "Am I really that skittish?"

"You can be, yes."

Jack had to own that one. When events overwhelmed him, he had a tendency to escape to a safe distance, somewhere he could think. It made total sense to him, but those around him often misinterpreted his actions. Gatting had done it all the time. Even Khandi, who understood Jack better than anyone else apart from Gareth and maybe Rio, had stood in a supermarket car park once, yelling blue murder at him. Given that, Gareth's request was... reasonable.

"Well," he began, grinning down at the gorgeous man stretched out in the grass beside him. "Meeting Conrad meant I had to get dressed."

# Chapter THREE

Three days earlier

"DAMN, HORWOOD, you clean up well."

Jack settled in the suede-covered carved oak chair the waiter held for him and merely quirked a lip at Aidan Conrad's comment. The ornate chair and the immaculately turned out waiter were on a par with his surroundings. When he'd seen the address on Aidan's invitation, Jack had known that skintight jeans or his favorite leather trousers were attire so unsuitable for the exclusive private members club that it would get him turned away at the door. And while he regarded the relaxed dress code at Nancarrow Mining as a perk of his job, and happily lived in black denim, turtlenecks, and sports jackets every day, that didn't mean he'd forgotten how to dress.

Judging by Aidan's reaction, his move toward the expensive side of his wardrobe had been an accurate choice. The charcoal suit was tailor-made and fit like a glove, showing off his trim figure without drawing attention to it. The silver-green shirt matched his eyes, and his narrow tie was such a deep green as to appear black unless the light caught it just right. He'd taken time styling his hair and selecting his cuff links, and Aidan's appreciative stare amused him no end.

"Amazin' what addin' a bit of starch can do," Aidan drawled when the waiter had dropped off the menus and left them alone in the oak-paneled splendor of the small, private dining room.

"What do you mean?"

"Well...you look smokin' hot in jeans, but in a suit...."

Jack didn't even blink. "You don't swing that way, Conrad."

"I've got eyes. And nowhere is it written that I can't check out the menu, even if I go dine elsewhere."

"Gareth isn't here to get riled by anything you say. So... wasted effort." Aidan's deep chuckle was contagious and Jack quirked a lip. "Not that I don't appreciate the chance to show off my wardrobe in such refined environs, but what's this all about?"

"Straight up, eh? I really can't see you as a spook."

"If you equate spooks with power games, political bullshit, and conversations that dance around each topic then I certainly don't fit," Jack agreed. "I trend towards the class of spooks that gets shit done."

The waiter returned with their drinks and they placed their orders, Jack opting for ragout fin followed by a well-aged ribeye and hand-cut chips. Gareth was out of town with Julian Nancarrow, and Jack had plans for a long night doing what he did best: finding information that other people thought they'd hidden. Starting out well fed would be useful when 3:00 a.m. rolled around and he was close to drowning in coffee.

"Tell me what you've done." Aidan's voice interrupted his musings, and Jack huffed.

"You know where I worked," he evaded, unexpectedly uncomfortable.

"I do. And that wasn't the question. I asked what you did."

"I'm a.... traffic analyst," Jack offered, taken aback when Aidan roared with laughter.

"Nice," he said when he had his breath back. "Need to remember that one. Okay, give me a short list, then. What haven't you done?"

"Gunrunning, homicide, terrorism."

"So you're all about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, eh?"

Jack had not heard his work chasing pimps, human traffickers, drug dealers, and organized crime lords described that way before, but he nodded. "Yeah."

"Undercover?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Too long."

"Surveillance?"

Jack leaned out of the way of the waiter placing his ragout on the table. Fragrant steam curled up from the scallop-shaped dish, and Jack sighed in happy anticipation when he caught the scent. Growing up hungry had taught him to relish food, and having Gareth and his kitchen fetish in his life had expanded his palate to almost gourmet levels. He really didn't mind the extra hours in the gym. In his book, food was worth almost any sacrifice, and good food... well, Gareth's food was almost worth committing a crime for.

He realized that Aidan was still waiting for an answer, and drew his brows together. "Daft question," he said.

"Why?"

"I'm a hacker. I watch people do stupid shit for a living. Do you know how many systems out there still use 'root' for a root password? That's no more surveillance than walking through an open door is breaking and entering." He ate a forkful of ragout, followed that with a bite from his toast triangle, and chewed thoughtfully. "When was the last time you changed your e-mail password?" he asked a few moments later.

"This morning, actually."

"Six hours too late, Conrad," Jack informed him. "You've used that password for eleven weeks and four days. And it was easy to guess."

"Why you—"

"You started it."

"I did," Aidan admitted. He didn't say anything more until the waiter had taken their plates and refilled their wineglasses. "I assume you were trying to make a point there?"

"I sort of was. But I'll wait until I've heard you out. No point theorizing ahead of my data."

"Smart."

"Just sensible. I've no desire to put my fingers in a hornet's nest."

"And yet, you do it all the time."

"With adequate preparation." Jack thought of a frantic midafternoon phone call he'd taken the previous September and all the mayhem that had followed. He'd broken his own rules that afternoon and so much in his life had changed as a result. "In most cases," he amended, and then listened as Aidan told him—over a perfectly grilled rare steak, hot salty chips, and more red wine—about a case where a client had been framed for embezzlement and would have gone to prison if the documents detailing what really happened hadn't been found and produced in time.

Aidan was a good storyteller, drawing Jack into the unfolding tale and spinning a tight yarn, making Jack root for the client until he caught himself and smiled. "Smooth, Conrad, real smooth. I'm sure the juries just love you."

Aidan smiled, unrepentant. "Questions?"

"Plenty."

Aidan's dark eyes narrowed in pleasure at Jack's response. He set his knife and fork on his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. "Shoot."

"What exactly do you do? Besides holding a raft of company directorships, I mean."

"Personally, I practice law. Yes, I'm on the board of various companies and look after their interests, but mainly, I'm a barrister." Aidan handed a stiff, cream-colored business card across the table. "Dwight & Conrad" was embossed in script on the front. "When the law needs help," read the strapline underneath.

Jack took the card. "When the law needs help." The various possible interpretations of that sentence intrigued him. "Continue."

"This, being a barrister, isn't my first career choice. You know I served." Aidan hesitated. An expression close to pain passed across his face, there and gone before Jack could analyze the reasons. "I watched a friend get sent down for something he didn't do, just because all available evidence pointed that way," he explained. "I couldn't stomach that, so I started to study law hoping that, one day, I could make a difference."

Even without the clues in Aidan's voice and posture, Jack could see where that one was headed. He wasn't sure whether he was surprised or not.

"I tend to take cases that aren't what they seem. In the case I told you about just now, the client would have gone to prison for a good long time had he been convicted. All the available evidence pointed to him being the guilty party, yet I believed the story he told me and searched for evidence that supported his belief that he was being framed. Cases like this one are how it all started. And it's still the bulk of what comes across my desk."

Aidan fell silent and Jack rested his chin on his folded hands and waited. This wasn't something he was going to ask about. Aidan had to tell him. They both knew it.

"Over the years, we've acquired a reputation," Aidan continued once they'd both been served coffee and snifters of brandy. "I have access to a wide range of skills at short notice, and while most of my clients are referred by their legal teams, sometimes the police, or even the prosecution, ask for my help."

Jack didn't comment. He was content to listen to Aidan and enjoy the exceptionally good coffee. It made sense to him to share resources to get stuff done, even though in the past—in their hunt for personal glory—many of his bosses had disagreed with him. And Jack had gone and done what he felt was right regardless of politics and protocol.

"Do you get off on politics?" he asked when Aidan had grown quiet and contemplative once more.

"No, I don't," Aidan replied. "I'm as allergic to bullshit as you are. But—just like Alex—I'm damn good at it if I need to be."

"Then tell me what takes precedence: truth and justice or keeping the shit from hitting the fan?"

"You really have to ask that, kid?"

"I really have to ask that." Jack smirked. "Seeing you're in bed with Alex an' all."

Predictably, Aidan choked on his coffee. Jack dodged the fist that came flying at his head and his smirk grew more pronounced. He liked that about the big lawyer. Aidan wasn't even remotely stuck-up and his glare was a good match for Alexandra Marston's power-drill stare.

"Strictly speaking, I'm not in bed with Alex," Aidan continued once he'd recovered his breath.

"Yet."

"Shut up."

"Yes, sir."

"Jackass. And as for your question: truth always takes precedence, and only once have I had to make that choice. The senior civil servant in question is serving time. And you, you annoying piece of spook-trained crap, knew that before you asked!"

Jack had known that. For one, Aidan Conrad had intrigued him from the moment they met. For another, it wouldn't do to turn up for a private, confidential meeting with the man without having done his homework. So he merely nodded and raised his snifter of brandy in something that could have been an apology. Or a salute.

"And since you dragged Alex into this conversation... yes, at times we're asked to do jobs for your old crowd. Usually stuff even they can't be seen doing. You already have a reputation for that sort of shit, so I thought you'd be a good fit for Dwight & Conrad."

Jack didn't comment on Aidan's conclusion. "Who is Marcus Dwight?" he asked instead.

Aidan's expressive face clouded over and he stared into the amber depths of his brandy, as if the answer was hidden there. "Friend of mine," he said after a time. "We served together. We planned this business together. I'd deal with the law, he'd oversee the... other side. We had it all set up and ready to go."

"Then what happened?"

"His last mission went goat fuck. They never recovered a body and Marcus is still listed as MIA."

"How long ago was that?"

"Six years."

"Want me to look into it?"

For just a moment, Aidan looked startled. Then the mask slid back into place. "Would you wanna?"

"Sure. Poking my nose in where I've no business to be's my specialty." Jack left unsaid that he felt he owed Aidan. When Jack had been embroiled in a Scotland Yard investigation within hours of starting his job at Nancarrow Mining, Aidan hadn't even asked to have his back. Like Gareth and Rio he'd simply stepped up and offered support. Jack didn't have many people in his life who bothered to do that.

"Just... be sure," he cautioned.

Aidan scoffed. "Think I can't handle the truth?"

"Most people can't. You should know that."

"I do. But Marcus isn't a traitor. And that's...." He hesitated. "To learn he'd sold out is the only thing I'd find impossible to handle. Everything else will hurt like a bitch, no doubt, but... I can learn to live with it."

"Okay." Jack wondered for a second or two where to start his search. "You have mission details?"

"Some. The stuff that's not classified and a few rumors."

"I'll need those. And anything else you hear."

"Does that mean you're in?"

The hint of eagerness in Aidan's tone drew a smile from Jack. "You're good for my ego, Conrad. But remember that point I was trying to make earlier?"

Aidan nodded.

"I've been doing something similar—more focused on pimps and child molesters perhaps, but similar—since I was fourteen years old. I've had a few close calls, most notably the one last September, but for much of the time I do what I do and nobody is any the wiser."

"That's what we do."

"No, it's not. Not if it takes me mere minutes to hack your personal e-mail account. You may have some protection, given your background and position, and Alex may be able to smooth out some of the wrinkles with her clout and resources, but I'm assuming that most of your team are neither police nor serving. They'll catch heat if you don't have their backs. And you can't have their backs if you're sloppy with your security."

"You really don't take shit from anyone, do you?" Aidan chuckled. "That's one of the things I like about you. Would you say it needs a hacker to hackerproof what we do? If it does, I'll hire you right now as a consultant. Regardless of whether you choose to come on board or not."

Jack quirked a lip and gave a tiny nod. He could live with that.

Jack took his time in telling the tale. The woods around them were devoid of human voices. The humming of insects, birdsong, and the gentle swish of barely unfurled leaves surrounded them. He'd migrated from sitting opposite Gareth to resting against the willow's trunk, close enough that he could feel Gareth's warmth against his side. He leaned his head against Gareth's shoulder, kept his eyes on the sky and the pale green leaves above, and recounted everything that had passed between Aidan and him, more to straighten things out in his own mind than because Gareth needed to know every detail.

"Have you ever met the man?" he asked eventually.

"Marcus Dwight? Yes, I knew him."

"Opinion?"

Jack paid close attention, but Gareth neither flinched nor hesitated. "Straight as a lance. What are you thinking?"

"Nothing, yet. Wondering where to start looking. Whether he may have been a target. Who might have been interested... that sort of stuff. You came on board to do his job, right? Run the operational side of the business?"

"Mainly. Right now, Conrad goes out as often as anyone else, especially on the hairier assignments. But he doesn't get any younger."

"And he needs to cover the law side of things."

"That too."

Jack was beginning to recognize the contemplative tone in Gareth's voice, and it amused him. "You really want to see him shacked up with Alex, don't you?"

"Why not? They deserve each other—and I mean that in the nicest possible way," Gareth defended himself. "They've been dancing around each other for years."

"Have you tried locking them in the stationery cupboard?"

Gareth groaned and Jack couldn't get over the image of Gareth Flynn, matchmaker. The guy was working so hard to get his two friends to admit they had feelings for each other it was actually hilarious.

"Seriously, though, do you know what's stopping them?"

"Aidan's daughter."

"She's what—twenty-three or so? And she objects to her father—?"

"No." Gareth rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, as if he could rub away the embarrassment. "Emily doesn't object. It's Aidan. He never thought of remarrying after his wife died. Emily was four or so and he was still serving. It must have been hell when he was deployed. He still looks out for her, like the overprotective oaf he is."

"I can see why the two of you get on so well," Jack commented before he jerked upright. "What was I thinking? I'll have both of you snapping at my ass all the time! No way will that work."

He was flat on his back before he'd even finished speaking, with Gareth pinning his wrists to the grass beside his head. "You will not back out of that deal," Gareth growled, his eyes narrowed to slits and the corners of his mouth tilted down. "I'll not let you. Not over something so ridiculous."

Jack hadn't laughed so hard in weeks.

# Chapter FOUR

THE AFTERNOON slipped gently toward evening when they returned to the car park. Two other cars were left beside Jack's TVR, one of them the beat-up green Rover that had attracted Jack's attention earlier in the day. And just as it had then, the battered heap gave him the collywobbles. Earlier, he'd been too tightly wound to focus on much beyond Gareth. It had helped him brush off the feeling of dread growing in his gut. Now, Gareth was no longer such a distraction and apprehension drew his stomach into a tight, hot ball. He stepped closer and circled the car. One of the front tires was flat, which might explain why the car had been left here. Or then again, it might not.

"The boot lid's not properly shut," he called out.

"So the lock's broken."

"Would you leave your car in a public car park with a broken boot lid?" Jack queried. "Not to mention that it would rattle like a son of a bitch while you're driving."

"Not everyone is as OCD as you are."

"I'm not OCD."

"Says you."

Jack turned his back on Gareth's teasing and took the last few steps to the old car. As far as Jack was concerned, Gareth could tease all he wanted. It wouldn't change that the hair stood up on the back of his neck. Or that a battalion of butterflies played hockey in his guts. Instincts were instincts for a reason. And Jack's were at DEFCON 2.

He pulled the knife from the sole of his right trainer and carefully slid it along the edge of the loose boot lid. Nothing caught or snagged, so he angled the blade to go under the lid and walked around the back of the car again, moving much more slowly this time. The tension in his gut grew like a wave, hanging suspended and ready to crash over him, and he knew without a doubt that something was wrong with this car. He tasted blood, realized his lower lip was bleeding, and made a conscious effort to relax his jaw and unclench his teeth. Maybe he should have called the bomb squad, rather than play this by ear. Gareth was standing a few meters behind him, and if this all blew up in his face, Gareth would be caught in the blast too.

He wanted to shout a warning, but he shoved his teeth back into the cut in his lip and swallowed the words. Telling Gareth to leave would not produce the desired result. Jack knew that much without asking. If anything, it would bring Gareth to his side only faster.

The toe of his shoe touched the rear tire of the Rover, and Jack stopped. Even angled in, his blade had found no obstruction, nothing that prevented him from lifting that lid. And if he put aside his sudden panic about Gareth's safety and thought about the matter logically, his instincts didn't shout bomb at him, anyway. He'd been in that situation and knew what it felt like. This... this felt more like an installment of Dead Body in the Trunk.

Jack took a deep breath, curled his fingers under the metal rim, and pulled.

The lid rose at a touch and Jack snorted at the wave of disappointment that washed through him when he saw that the space was nearly empty. Was he really so bored that he was disappointed nobody had planted a bomb or a dead body in this car?

"Satisfied now?" Gareth called from across the lot before Jack had leaned in to take a proper look.

Jack flipped him off, not even looking over his shoulder to do it, before he focused his attention on the contents of the boot. Two boxes sat on the grimy green carpet. One held small plastic packets filled with a white substance. The other one was about a third full of money. Tens and twenties, mostly, with a few blue fivers mixed in for color and variety.

"Shit!" Jack shoved both hands into his hair and yanked in frustration. And that quickly Gareth was across the car park and by his side.

"What is it?"

"Just what we needed. The local drug dealer's honesty box." He made room for Gareth to take a closer look, wishing for once he'd ignored his gut feelings and left well enough alone. Trusting his instincts was one thing. Ruining a great day out and being dragged into yet another police investigation was something entirely different. "What do you reckon? Call it in or wait until the driver shows up?"

Gareth knelt by the car's flat front tire. "Jack?"

"Hm?"

"I don't think you're gonna find the driver. Look." He inserted his little finger into a hole in the tire's sidewall, and Jack drew a ragged breath.

"This is getting better by the minute. God, please let it be a shotgun slug or we'll never get home." He groaned. "Can you get it out?"

"I can try." Gareth felt around the back of the tire for an exit and, when he didn't find anything, pulled the Leatherman from his belt and opened it. "If I can't get it out we may have to take the wheel with us. Do you have boot space for that?"

"Plenty." Jack pawed through the money, now and then holding one of the notes up to the light. "Though maybe we need to put the roof on. I'm not leaving all that seafood behind. And anyway, I'd better check that we don't get all wound up over washing powder or baby formula."

He shoved the tip of his knife into one of the plastic packets and then touched it gingerly to his tongue. Soft, lingering cold spread through his mouth as if he was sucking on a mint. Then the bitterness caught up with his taste buds and almost made him gag.

"Definitely not washing powder." He spat once, twice, and made a face at the numbness that crept along his tongue and lips to join the bitter taste. The mix was either unusually pure or full of lidocaine or something similar.

Great. Just... great.

He stepped around the car and placed a hand on Gareth's shoulder. "Leave it," he said apologetically. "We need to call it in. This shit's nasty."

It was comforting that Gareth didn't question his decision. He just stood and wrapped an arm around Jack's waist, watching him scroll through his phone's address book. "Who are you calling?"

"Lisa. I don't wanna have to explain this to some overworked bobby just back from duty on the beach." And with a deep breath and half a prayer, Jack pressed the Call button.

He didn't have long to wait.

"How d'you feel about Class A drugs and counterfeit money?" he asked as soon as Lisa answered her phone.

"Horwood? It's Sunday afternoon. Evening. Where are you?"

"Kent."

"And you just happened to find some drugs?"

"Sarcasm, which I don't deserve. But yes, I just happened to find some drugs. And a stash of money, some of which is fake."

"Get the local law on it."

"You're missing a vital point here," Jack replied. "Neither Gareth nor I have any jurisdiction. And I'll be damned if I let myself be arrested by PC Plod on a Sunday evening."

"They won't—"

"Yes, they will," Jack interrupted. "You'd arrest two strangers who turn up with cocaine and fake bills in their car claiming they've found them. We're so not going there. And if you insist that I call the local law, I'll ask Gareth to call Aidan Conrad first and you can sort out the resulting mess."

"Did you arrest anyone?"

"I'm standing in an empty car park in the middle of the Weald. We've not seen another living soul all afternoon, and the closest village is about four miles away. So no, I did not arrest anyone. I came out here for some peace and quiet."

"So how'd you end up finding drugs and fake notes?"

"One of the parked cars was giving me the creeps."

"You're a fucking menace, Horwood."

"I'm also starting to feel trashed and I've barely touched my tongue to the tip of my knife. For something out of an honesty box, it's damn nasty shit. You don't want that out on the street, Lisa, believe me."

"Fine," Lisa capitulated, whether at Jack's report or his tone he couldn't have said. "Tell me where you are. I'll get a team out to you."

THEY MADE it back to Richmond just after ten that night, by which time Gareth was as grateful for small favors as Jack. Lisa had sent a truck and four men in place of the expected team of officers, crime scene techs, and a raft of questions. They didn't disturb either the drugs or the money, just loaded the whole car onto the truck, threw a tarp over it, and took off back to London. Jack seemed to have shaken off the effects of the cocaine taster by the time Lisa's troop arrived, but he was taking no chances. He sat in the passenger seat, downing bottle after bottle of water while Gareth drove them back to Richmond.

"Does it help?" Gareth waved at the water in Jack's hand. "Getting rid of the cocaine, I mean."

Jack shrugged. "It's more for my head than anything else. I didn't snort any of it. I just hate the idea of having that shit anywhere near me."

"You've never been tempted?"

"Why? I grew up surrounded by the crap."

"Exactly. It's easy to stay away from drugs if there are none."

"I never saw the point. My mother was a bitch when she was jonesing and she didn't improve much when she was high. Jericho would... drug me... at first...." Jack's voice died away into nothing. After a moment he visibly pulled himself together and took another sip from his bottle of water. "So, no. Not a temptation. Ever."

Gareth reached across the center console to touch Jack's cheek gently with the back of his hand in a wordless apology. Jack wasn't as closed off about his past as he used to be—not when talking to him, at any rate—but Gareth couldn't imagine that remembering would ever be easy or painless.

Jack leaned into the caress and let a small smile curl the corners of his mouth. "It's okay."

They parked the TVR beside Gareth's Range Rover. Jack fitted the roof and locked the car, while Gareth brought the large cooler of fresh and smoked fish inside. They were barely indoors with the front door shut when Jack pulled Gareth into a tight, frantic hug, and hands and lips went everywhere. Gareth let himself enjoy the pleasurable assault for a few moments, but when Jack showed no sign of letting up, Gareth pushed him back.

"Jack, what the fuck?"

A snarl was his answer, and Jack was doing his best to get back into Gareth's space. "I'm trying to apologize here!"

"Apologize upstairs." Gareth kicked off his shoes. "I'm too old for sex in the hallway."

"You're thirty-six."

"I know."

"That's not old."

"After the day we've had... it kinda is."

"Fine."

Jack ripped the fleece top over his head and stomped up the stairs, leaving Gareth to shake his head and smile. Jack behaved as if he was nine instead of twenty-nine at times. And it didn't say much for Gareth's state of mind that he invariably found it amusing. He paused just long enough on the way upstairs to stow Dave's box of fresh seafood in the fridge and grab some extra water.

Jack was still enticingly riled when Gareth came through the door. A pair of socks and the green fleece top lay in a heap on the carpet and, just as he had imagined earlier, the tan skin of Jack's bare arms gleamed golden in the soft light from the bedside lamp, inviting Gareth's lips and an edge of teeth.

"What do you want?" Jack's biceps bunched as he yanked on his belt buckle, short-tempered and intent to move on to the hot and sticky part of their evening.

"What do I want?" Gareth had visions of Jack stripped and facedown on the bed, but he wisely swallowed the words. Jack hated being pinned facedown to any flat surface, just as much as he hated being tied up. Without an escape route, Jack got antsy. And while the image in Gareth's mind was an enticing one, Gareth was happy to wait. They had plenty of other ways to enjoy one another.

Gareth took a step deeper into the bedroom and smiled. "If you're serious about this being an apology, then I want something slow. Very. Slow. I want to remind you what you've been missing while your head was in the clouds these last couple of weeks. Do you think you're up for that?"

Jack didn't answer. He stopped working to remove his clothes, stepped around Gareth, and fell backward onto the bed, stretching out on the covers.

Gareth's grin spread wide and heat coiled in his gut like a lazy fire. He straddled Jack's hips and leaned over until he could rumble right into Jack's ear. "Nice." He chuckled at the shiver that washed over Jack's skin. "Just what I was thinking. So let me tell you what we're going to do. First, I'm gonna get all these clothes off you. With my teeth." He suckled Jack's earlobe into his mouth and teased it with his tongue until Jack squirmed. "Then I'm gonna drag you into the shower, wash all that sweat and salt air off you. And then...." He slanted his lips over Jack's, teasing and nipping until Jack surged up and took charge of the kiss.

"And then what?" Jack demanded when he had kissed them both breathless.

"Then I'm gonna stretch you back out on the bed and taste every inch of you. Slowly. I'll start from the back of your neck and work my way down to that ticklish spot you have just behind your knee. And you will lie there, as still as anything, and let me do what I want. Even when I'll spread you apart and take a bite out of you."

Gareth's hands had found their way under Jack's gray top. They slid over hot skin and rubbed circles over Jack's nipples. Jack tried not to squirm under the onslaught of sensations, but he fought a losing battle.

"And then?" Jack's voice was breathy with want. His fingers dug into Gareth's thighs. His teeth mauled the cut in his lower lip, but he was doing his best to stay still and pay attention.

"Then I'll flip you over and start from the hollow of your throat." Gareth leaned in and suckled on Jack's lower lip, rescuing it from further damage. "Or maybe from that silky spot just behind your ear. Yeah, that's a better idea. I'll tilt your head back and skim my lips along your neck. Then I'll drag my teeth all along your collarbones and let your heart beat against my tongue. Yeah, I think I like that."

He drew the words out, feeling the shudders that coursed through Jack, hearing the breathy chuckle in a voice as dark as midnight, and let them raise answering shivers in his core.

He had an idea what Jack had been forced to endure as a boy after his mother had sold him to her pimp, much like Daniel had been sold. Gareth had read the transcripts of Nico's deposition, the very information that had helped convict Mitrovic. He'd stayed at Aidan's house that night, and had gotten so drunk he woke up at three the following afternoon, unable to recall anything that had happened after eight the previous night. Coming home to find Jack waiting on his doorstep had almost sent him running. He couldn't understand how Jack could take any pleasure in what they did in bed. How Jack could even entertain the idea of letting anyone close enough to lay hands on him.

Jack hadn't asked any questions. He'd taken the front door keys from Gareth's hands, had opened the door, and had guided him inside. He'd made tea and promised to order them curry later if Gareth was hungry. He'd waited, quietly and patiently, for Gareth to drain his mug, and then he'd dragged him upstairs and into bed.

Wrapped tight in Jack's arms, so close that there was no air between them, and with Jack's bare skin under his hands, Gareth had learned about the stolen knife, and twelve-year-old Jack's choice to take his chances sleeping rough rather than stay with the pimp, Jericho, a moment longer than he had to. Jack spoke about stealing food and picking locks, about a too-large parka with a fur-lined hood, and about years of keeping the knife within reach whether he was awake or asleep. He told Gareth about finding a house in Clapham with a bright red door and a classic convertible in the drive, and about a dreadlocked Jamaican hacker who never asked questions, but offered Jack a place to stay and taught him how to fight.

Jack's voice was calm, almost disinterested, as if he was repeating a story he'd heard a long time ago, not horrors he'd lived. Gareth had realized that this was the only way Jack could tell this story without reliving it, how he distanced himself from events. It choked him up. It humbled him too, and soothed his mind and his soul. Jack wasn't one for obvious displays. He rarely could be made to talk about his feelings, but he wouldn't have shared that darkest, most deeply hidden part of his life if he didn't feel that Gareth was worth it.

That what they had between them was worth it.

Their lovemaking that night had been fierce. Intense and tender and so much more than just incredible, satisfying sex. They'd both been aware of it, though neither thought to mention it come morning.

And just as he had that night, right now Gareth had to make sure that Jack knew he was wanted. The previous weeks had shown him that the past hadn't completely lost its hold on Jack. If Jack could still doubt the strength and reality of what they were building together, then Gareth was doing something wrong.

The thought hurt enough to temper Gareth's arousal, allowed him a tiny sane space to breathe and refocus on the flushed body beneath his. Glints of green teased from beneath Jack's long lashes, and the tight grip he had on Gareth's thighs relaxed the longer Gareth merely watched him.

"Out of ideas already?" Jack asked, impatient with the sudden silence. His voice had dropped another couple of notes and the husky rasp was sexy as hell.

"Not for a minute, brat." Gareth needed another moment and a deep breath. "I was imagining counting your heartbeats on my tongue."

"Right." Jack's derisive snort turned into a long, low moan as Gareth's weight shifted slowly over Jack's crotch. "I can do slow," he grated when Gareth did it again, "but stop with the fucking teasing."

"Yeah? That's what you want?" Gareth went back to running his tongue over Jack's earlobe while he whispered suggestions. "Fine, then. I've always wanted to take a bite out of your belly button, you know that? So that's what I'm gonna do before I sharpen my teeth on your hipbones. I know how you love me doing that."

The hitch in Jack's breath told him exactly how much Jack loved him doing that. Jack wasn't really ticklish, but there was something about Gareth dragging teeth over the defined edges of his hipbones that drove Jack wild.

"I know I've gotta hold you down while I do it," Gareth whispered, letting more of his weight rest on Jack's body to keep him still. "But it will be good preparation for when I suck some new marks into the inside of your thighs."

Jack's body bucked sharply at Gareth's words, but with most of Gareth's weight on him he had little leeway. And however much he tried, there was no friction. "Yeah, I thought you'd like that idea." Gareth ignored the hiss and barely audible snarl as he had ignored Jack's attempts to wriggle free. Jack was barely holding it together, breathing harshly and trying to stop the tense thrumming of his muscles. It looked hot as hell, but if Gareth wanted to get past the talking to the doing stage, he'd better push on.

"I love putting marks on your thighs," he said softly, nothing but truth in his words. "Remind you where you belong, you know?"

"You're evil, Flynn. Just... evil."

Jack's breathing was erratic and his eyes were almost black, but he didn't move much now, didn't try to get away. The smile on his face was like a beautiful sunrise, a sultry promise of heat to come, while he watched from half-lidded eyes as Gareth sat up and pulled his hands out from under Jack's T-shirt.

"You were the one who wanted to apologize."

"And I so will. But you could start by fucking me first and then doing all that stuff you talked about."

Gareth bent and took Jack's mouth in one long, thorough kiss that left them both breathless. "Not a chance in hell, brat," he said when he drew back. "Not. A. Chance."

# Chapter FIVE

"AND THE car had drugs in it?" Daniel's eyes were as wide as saucers. His grip on the vegetable knife was tenuous, and Jack, potato peeler in hand and beer within reach, considered pointing out that they weren't getting any dinner prepared while Daniel stood there gaping.

He couldn't bring himself to do so, though. He was far too content sitting at the kitchen table while Daniel did a credible Gareth impersonation and Nico rustled around in the living room.

It felt homely.

Normal.

After the mental gymnastics of the last couple of weeks and the previous day's adventures, Jack needed normal.

He and Gareth hadn't seen Nico and Daniel all weekend, and Jack was itching to find out whether they'd enjoyed staying with Aidan. So he had made the executive decision to leave work early and pick the two up from school. Gareth was still back at Nancarrow Mining or maybe stuck in traffic, and Jack had suggested that they should surprise him with dinner when he got home.

As usual when it was the three of them, Daniel was in charge of food, and he'd promptly decided to make his favorite baked chicken and mash recipe. Jack kept him company, even offered to peel potatoes for the mash, and it wasn't long until Daniel had wheedled all the details of their surprise discovery from Jack.

"Why did you even look?"

Jack wanted to know that too. Life would be so much easier if his intuition took a running jump at times. "Because it gave me the creeps. You know that feeling you get when you know something isn't right?"

Daniel turned back to the leeks and carrots on his chopping board. "Nico gets that sometimes. But only with people."

"I get it with all sorts, and I couldn't leave it alone. So there we were... boot full of drugs and fake money."

"How did you know it was fake?" Nico yelled from the living room.

"It looks and feels different."

"What? I can't hear."

"Then get your ass in here. I'm not yelling," Jack shouted back.

It was a good thing Gareth wasn't home yet, or they would both have caught a lecture. Or at the very least a raised eyebrow. Nico knew it too. He bounced into the kitchen, grinning like a loon.

"Did you know Aidan's helicopter can fly sideways?"

"Sideways as in—" Jack moved his flat palm through the air in front of him.

"No, sideways like so." Nico demonstrated the helicopter flying with rotors perpendicular to the ground. "He let me sit in the open door with my feet hanging out. Like a sniper! It felt so weird."

Jack remembered the sensation. The glare of sunlight on pale sand and the furnace-hot air in his face. The pull of the harness straps and the noise of the blades whipping air into a frenzy. Imagining Nico in that scenario made his chest grow tight. "Don't tell Gareth," he cautioned.

"Don't tell me what?" the man in question asked from the doorway and Jack couldn't have stopped the smile blooming on his face had he tried. Gareth Flynn, who'd left the house that morning looking sleek and suave, now appeared deliciously rumpled. His tie was at half-mast, the top three buttons of his shirt were open, and his suit jacket hung half off his shoulders. He was clearly in the middle of shedding his workplace armor, and it was a damn fine look on him.

"Don't tell me what?" Gareth queried again as he came into the kitchen, socked feet near silent on the tile. He ruffled Daniel's hair on the way to peeking into the oven, and on the way back, dipped a finger into the salad dressing Daniel was mixing up. "If it's about Aidan's stunt-flying skills, don't bother. He's treated me to video of Nico hanging out of the chopper looking half-terrified. And chucking his guts up after."

"Traitor! He promised he wouldn't film it." Nico was bright red with embarrassment. "And he said everyone throws up the first time."

"He's right about that, most people do," Jack soothed. "Question is, did you enjoy it?"

"The throwing up?"

"The flying, you dolt."

"Yeah," Nico breathed. "Even the chucking up was sorta... I dunno... made it real?"

"What about you, Daniel?" Gareth queried.

"I didn't think helicopters were that loud. But flying was cool," he said, mind still half on his salad dressing. "And, did you know? Aidan has a bread oven in his garden. We made pizza in it!"

Jack met Gareth's gaze across the kitchen, not surprised to see Gareth's eyes crinkle at the corners and his lips twitch. Jack knew the feeling. He was trying just as hard not to laugh. When they'd found them seven months earlier, Nico and Daniel had acted like perfect clones: one always in sight of the other, most of the time close enough to touch. They checked with each other before speaking, never offered an opinion or disagreed on anything. Over time, that had changed. Slowly, two distinct individuals were emerging from the united front. Two boys who loved very different things.

And every time he saw it, Jack wanted to cheer.

"ALL SERENE." Jack returned to the living room twenty minutes after Gareth had called an end to their evening and Jack had shooed Nico and Daniel upstairs to get the two ready for bed. Dinner had been delicious, homework without drama, and they'd all four spent the rest of the evening talking about flying and discussing whether there was space for a bread oven in Gareth's garden. Now the two boys were tucked up in their bed, reading, while Jack wanted to share a final glass of wine with Gareth before calling it a day himself. "Weather's gonna be good tomorrow, so we can do the school run by bike." He flopped onto the far side of the sofa, then toppled sideways, his head coming to rest on Gareth's thigh. It was a much-practiced move. One, moreover, that straightaway got him what he wanted: Gareth's fingertips carding through his hair.

"You really don't like taking the car, do you?"

"Too slow, too cumbersome, too much traffic. And I have to keep looking at them to make sure they are okay."

"But you can take both of them at once."

"Yeah, I know." Comfortably stretched out on the cushions, Jack reached up to trace the line of silver along Gareth's jaw. He had a thing for Gareth's coloring—the silver hair, the golden tan, and the deeper amber of his eyes—and he'd long stopped feeling embarrassed about it. Gareth Flynn was made from gold and silver. The sheer glow of the man, only enhanced by dull green fatigues, had snared Jack's attention the first time they'd met. Even years later he still looked for that glow, that light, whenever he lost sight of Gareth. Rubbing his fingers over the glitter on Gareth's cheeks was a nice reminder. "Did Conrad share anything else besides embarrassing pictures?"

They'd laughed themselves silly when they'd seen the Magna Carta of notes they'd compiled for Aidan. Covering anything from food preferences to the early signs of flashbacks and how to deal with nightmares, the sheaf of paper looked like the plans for an invasion. Given that Aidan was the one who actually had a kid of his own, it was somewhat ironic.

"No nightmares. The only drama was Daniel being upset when Nico got sick after flying. Didn't take long to sort out."

"Was Aidan okay?"

"He didn't shut up for half an hour. So... yeah, I think he loved having the two around."

"Did he mention the guardianship application?"

Gareth shook his head. "I asked. He hasn't heard anything, but he reckons that's good news."

LISA'S CALL came early the next morning. Jack had just settled at his desk after finally making it from Nico and Daniel's school in Kingston to the Strand. He had a large mug of steaming coffee at his elbow and was so immersed in the data on his four screens that he didn't realize the phone on his desk was ringing until Frazer threw a pen at him.

"You were right," Lisa said without preamble as soon as he answered.

"How's that?" Jack switched tracks with some difficulty.

"The drugs you found? It's an unusual cut. Very potent. It's been linked to three deaths in the last month alone."

"Where? The deaths, I mean?"

"One in Dover and two in Brighton."

"It's just coming in?"

"No. We've been aware of it for a few months now."

Jack doodled patterns on his notepad while he waited for Lisa to say more. They'd worked together long enough that Jack was sure she hadn't called just to give him an update.

"Are you busy?" she asked suddenly as if she'd made up her mind about something that had bothered her. "Or could you meet me for coffee?"

"Yes and yes," Jack shot back. "Where?"

"I'm at Charing Cross," Lisa replied. "Do you know anywhere around here that's quiet with good coffee?"

"Yeah. Come up and see me. The cafeteria is empty this time of the morning."

"You're serious?"

Jack snorted. Was it surprising that he preferred to have meetings where he could enjoy excellent coffee and didn't have to worry about who heard what they discussed? "Do I sound as if I'm joking? They have great danishes too." He dangled the bait and wasn't surprised to hear Lisa laugh.

"Sold. See you in ten."

Lisa's dark gray trouser suit, teal shirt, and heels suggested she was ready for a day of putting the fear of God into London's criminal element, but the tired slump to her head and the tension across her shoulders told a different story. Jack felt a twinge of guilt as he watched her trudge through the glass doors and blink a little owlishly at the opulent surroundings she found herself in. He'd gotten a glimpse of the size of her workload over the last few months and didn't like that he had to add to it.

"Here," he said, after crossing the marble floor to her side and holding out a visitor's pass, "I've got you all signed in."

"Thanks, Horwood." She set her briefcase down and clipped the pass to her jacket. "I'm sorry it's short notice, but—"

"Shut up. You're talking to me, not some civil servants with their heads up their asses, okay?" Jack led the way through the lobby, giving Lisa ample time to look around. The reception desk with its gleaming countertop of Brazilian rosewood wouldn't have looked out of place in a five-star hotel. The ornate wrought-iron-and-glass doors at the far side were as ostentatious as the building's grand ceremonial entrance. But once they entered the heart of Nancarrow Mining, the architectural excess morphed into clean, stylish design augmented by the rich, warm scent of freshly roasted coffee.

"Gods, this is where you work? I'm starting to see why you chose life as a corporate drone."

"I know, right?" Jack played tour guide, grin wide and arm movements expansive. "Perfectly roasted, freshly brewed Java—in the same building as my desk. Plus danishes, croissants, sandwiches, and even what Flynn calls 'proper food.' And there's a gym in the basement."

"We have a gym."

"Well, I raise you a sauna, then."

"I was sold when I smelled the coffee. Where do I sign?"

"You know that I can't let you do that. Not that we wouldn't appreciate your skills, but who would I call to rescue me when I got myself into a mess?" Jack spoke lightly, but he wasn't joking. And they both knew it.

A tiny, red-haired woman—she needed heels for her head to reach Jack's shoulder—was setting out pots of coffee, cream and sugar, and the large plate of pastries and sandwiches Jack had asked for on a table in the cafeteria's far corner. Jack smiled as he did each time he saw her, whether he wanted to or not. She was like a ray of sunshine, warm and bright, and her unhurried demeanor spread calm wherever she went. According to Gareth she'd been known to quieten stand-up rows in the boardroom with just her presence and a smile.

"Thanks, Sara."

"No problem, ducks. Let me know if you need anything else. And before I forget, Mr. Flynn asked me to remind you that you have a two o'clock."

The cafeteria manager always called Gareth "Mr. Flynn," and hearing it cracked Jack up every time. "Didn't know you were his PA now," he teased.

"I'm whatever is needed around here, you know that."

"I know. I'll consider myself duly reminded." He pulled out a chair and waved at Lisa. "Sit down, grab coffee."

Lisa had a cup to her lips before her butt touched the chair and Jack had the coffeepot ready to pour a second cup as soon as she set it down. Up close he could see the thick layer of makeup she wore to hide the dark circles under her eyes. The two broken nails she'd not yet found time to repair felt like another punch in the gut, another reminder that he hadn't even stopped to think before dragging her into this.

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"You're clearly in the middle of something yourself. You didn't need me piling on more crap."

"You couldn't have walked away from that car. Not once you knew what was in it."

"I could have listened to you and called the local cops."

"You'd still be down there now. Conrad would be standing over you like an avenging angel and the trail would go cold while everyone argued."

The second cup of coffee finished, Lisa reached for a sandwich with one hand and her briefcase with the other. "Don't ever apologize," she said gruffly. "I know I snark and snipe at you, but there are damn few men like you, and I owe you from here to kingdom come."

"Not sure how you'd figure that," Jack mumbled around a bite of apricot danish. "I'd imagine that the shoe's on the other foot."

"Yeah, well... we each have hang-ups, right? Let me bring you up to speed on this one, because at some point today, I need to crash." She pulled a stack of papers from her briefcase and pushed them across the table. "Like I said earlier, it's an unusual cut, most likely Brazilian but believed to come in on the North Africa route. It surfaced about five months ago in East London, selling at a much higher price than usual. Rumors say it's offered with a guarantee."

"Of what? How high it will take you? Everyone reacts differently."

"There's been a lot of inferior shit on the streets lately, cut to death with all manner of toxic crap. This dealer offers a purity guarantee."

"Is it that pure?" Jack could guess the answer to that question. What he'd tasted the other night was the strongest powder he'd ever come across.

"Pretty much, yeah. There's a bit of lidocaine and a trace of a hallucinogenic I can't pronounce, but that's it."

Jack wasn't an expert on cocaine. He'd specialized in tracing distribution routes and retail networks. "That hallucinogenic is what makes it identifiable, right?"

"Yes. Apart from East London, we now have evidence from Essex, Kent, Sussex, and Surrey. There may be one occurrence in Suffolk, but the seized drugs had been tampered with, so...."

Jack flipped through the pages of seizure reports, reading a word here, skimming a few lines there, checking he had dates and places for each seizure as his brain spun into old, familiar ways. "You're lacking a pattern or a name?"

"Both. That honesty-box scheme is a thing, apparently. The guys were chuffed with your find."

"If you want me to find patterns, I need more data to cross-reference. Anyone run fingerprints?"

"Honesty box, remember? Everyone and their dog had their paws in there."

"Yes, and?"

"Do you know how much fingerprint data there is from all those seizures?"

Jack shrugged. He snagged an almond croissant from the plate and bit into it, not minding the cloud of icing sugar that dusted all over Lisa's papers. "I really don't care. 'S not the first time half a smudged thumb got you an arrest."

"Are you sure?"

"Stop the crap, will you?" Jack wiped his hands on his jeans. "If we're going back to pussyfooting around my involvement, then you can stop right there. If you trust me, then give me what you have and let me sort it out. If you don't, then don't bother wasting your time or mine. I don't need to know what you do. Ever."

Lisa sighed and rubbed both hands over her face. It didn't do her makeup any good, but she seemed too tired to care. "I'm sorry," she said. "I love you forever for finding that honesty box. Really. As soon as I've had some sleep."

"Gareth's office has a lovely, comfy sofa," Jack offered, serious. "And absolutely nobody would think to look for you there."

"I wish," Lisa sighed. "But I gotta get back to the Yard to brief my boss. So let's finish this." She held her cup out with a hopeful look. "Top me up?"

"LOOKS LIKE Lisa roped you in to help," Gareth observed as Jack arranged his laptop, two tablets, and an inch-thick stack of official-looking paper forms at one end of the large kitchen table. He had traded his tweed jacket for the deep green fleece he'd worn on their excursion into Kent, and his motorcycle boots for a thick pair of knit socks, leaving him looking positively homely as he contemplated the mountain of work. If Gareth hadn't seen it happen before, he'd have been astonished by Jack's transformation from restless, unfocused, and cranky, to sleek, relaxed, and in charge.

Jack took the beer Gareth held out with a grateful smile and swiped at the moisture dewing the glass. "Seems only fair," he said after draining half the bottle with one long draft. "Seeing as I landed her with that crap in the first place. Might as well see if I can make sense of what they have."

"Why you, though?" Gareth bent to rummage in the fridge for dinner ingredients, grateful that he'd remembered to throw the huge box of fresh king prawns they'd brought back from Whitstable into a bowl of lemon, garlic, and chili marinade before they'd set off to work that morning.

While their weekend and the evening they'd spent with Daniel and Nico had done Jack the world of good, Gareth wouldn't say the same for himself. Yes, it was good to know that Jack was back to being Jack, and he'd enjoyed having sex again more than he'd ever admit aloud, but seeing Jack drawn into yet another police investigation raised worries he'd rather not contemplate after a day full of meetings that had been designed to test his temper. In truth, Gareth was so on edge he could barely hold a conversation. He wanted his dinner, a couple of drinks, and a long soak in the hot tub, all of the above preferably with Jack close by. He'd not planned on Jack burning the midnight oil over their unexpected find.

"Why me?" Jack picked up their conversation, when Gareth surfaced with his hands full of spring onions, coriander, avocados, and a bag of salad potatoes. "Finding patterns in mountains of dross is what I'm good at. And yes... before you ask... I offered when Lisa came to see me this morning. You'd have too. She looked like she hadn't slept in a week."

"She was guilt-tripping you."

"Maybe. Doesn't matter. According to Lisa, this particular cut of cocaine has been around for five months. They have a string of deaths linked to it. It's time they got it traced and the source taken out."

"Why haven't they yet?"

Jack sorted the papers into piles and didn't look up. "Not sure yet. Too little data, too much data—who knows?"

Silence reigned between them while Jack read and Gareth chopped and mixed. It wasn't until the potatoes were boiling, the grill was hot, and Gareth had grabbed his largest salad bowl and mixed a dressing that he continued their conversation. "Explain what it is you do," he requested, more to help him stay focused than because he hoped to understand what Jack was on about.

"I'm looking for pattern-based leads," Jack said simply. "We know roughly how and where the drugs are coming into the country. There's a pattern to the way they are distributed once they're here and I'm comparing that to other distribution patterns we have seen in the past."

"Why?"

"Because people are predictable. You prefer even numbers to odd ones, you know that? Your most frequent number choices are four and twelve. If there are no other criteria, you pick a rectangle or square over a triangle or a circle, which is actually weird, given you're such a control freak."

"What?" Gareth tried to find the sense in Jack's words, but he was either too tired or nobody but Jack was able to see that logic. "That's...."

"Don't argue with me, Flynn," Jack smiled and slid out of his chair to find himself another beer. A waft of cold air tickled past him when Jack closed the fridge door and came to stand beside him. "How many prawns did you just throw on the grill?"

Gareth counted, and stared, stunned. "Twelve. But I didn't...."

"You didn't count them, no. You just grabbed as many as looked right to you." Jack pointed at the utensils hanging from their hooks beside the hob. "Twelve. And four pans... even though you have plenty of others in the cupboard and there are empty hooks. You do it with the pens on your desks, your socks, the way you organize people into teams, even when you fight."

"That is worrying."

"Only if your opponent is as good as I am at spotting patterns."

Gareth kept an eye on the sizzling prawns while Jack set the table. He sprinkled ponzu over the pan as the prawns cooked, delighting in the sour-salty aroma that joined the briny tang wafting through the kitchen. It reminded him of cooking on the beach, on a tiny camping stove with only seawater and lemon juice for flavoring his meal, even if he couldn't remember how many prawns he'd thrown onto the grill pan back then. He didn't return to their earlier conversation until they faced each other across the dinner table and he'd downed half of his own beer.

"Am I really as predictable as that?"

"No," Jack said immediately. The tiny smile still curled his lips. He pulled a prawn apart and dipped it into the chili and lemon mayonnaise Gareth had mixed up, visibly enjoying the flavors. "I see it because I know you, and I notice it more because I find it cute."

"Cute?"

"Shut up and listen. I didn't say you do it all the time, right? You don't. There are days when you buy three avocados, or five bananas, or you assemble teams of two or six. But over time, and when nothing restricts your choices, you tend to go for evens more than odds. So if I found a pattern like this in the way the drugs are distributed, I'd put you on the list for Lisa's people to lean on. Does that make sense?"

Gareth thought about it while he ate. "So you're trying to find a pattern that's new, right? To identify the dealer with the honesty box."

"You're assuming he's a new player. It could just as easily be someone we're already aware of, but he's trying a new way to conduct his business. In that case, I'd spot a familiar pattern in the honesty-box schemes. To start, I'm just looking for dealers with priors and a known MO. Everything else comes later."

HEARING THE truth could be disturbing. Especially if it was a truth the subject had never contemplated before. Jack knew that, but seeing Gareth look so troubled at the thought of being predictable was odd. He let the subject drop and enjoyed his food. The chili and garlic butter that made his nose run and mouth water turned the salty sweetness of the prawns into a taste he couldn't get enough of. And while he'd never have believed that potatoes and avocado would make an interesting salad, he had quickly been convinced by the creamy, soothing blend that set off the hot, spicy prawns to perfection. No two ways about it, Gareth made damn fine dinners. Even when he was irritated almost beyond reason.

That afternoon they had sat through a two-hour meeting with the new manager of the exploration department. Jonathan Moseley was young for the job, just a couple of years older than Jack, and the word compromise was missing from his dictionary. He moved and spoke as if everyone in his vicinity was there to do his bidding, and his imperious manner tried Gareth's temper whenever they were forced to be in the same room together. Jack had found himself entertained by the long list of unreasonable demands that poured from Moseley's mouth as if it was a broken tap. The same couldn't have been said for Gareth, and Jack had intervened before the discussion degenerated into a brawl, peddling diversions to take the heat off his boss. It had helped end the meeting more quickly, but hadn't done much for Gareth's mood.

"Why don't you let me deal with Mr. I-Must-Have-This-Yesterday-Or-The-World-Will-End from now on?" he asked lightly when Gareth laid his utensils down. "I'm not gonna sell Frazer to him, whatever he offers."

"You shouldn't have to," Gareth sighed. "Deal with him, I mean. I don't even know why he rattles my cage. Entitled asshole."

"Could be the tone of his voice. Could be the way he looks at you over the top of his glasses." Jack shrugged. "It doesn't need a reason. Just look at me. Moseley doesn't bother me at all, but put me in the same building as Walshaw and I develop homicidal tendencies. Just the way it goes."

He took in the tired slump in Gareth's shoulders, the fingers that curled loosely around the beer bottle, and the uncharacteristic look of defeat. There was more going on here than Gareth being tired after a long day or riled after an antagonistic meeting with Jonathan Moseley. Gareth was in a proper strop. And that was damn rare.

When Jack needed to unwind, he cranked up the music and hit the gym. Gareth tended to resort to a bottle of red and the hot tub in the garden. The first time Gareth had suggested it, Jack had been incredulous, then dubious. Over time, he'd learned that taking time out under the stars with nothing but steam, wine, and soft music for company could be as effective as a long session hitting a bag. Right now, with Gareth looking close to losing his rag, the tub sounded like a great idea.

"Why don't you grab us a nice bottle and head for the hot tub? I'll clear up here and join you when I'm done."

"Weren't you planning a late night?"

"Not really." He stacked plates and bowls and moved across the kitchen to load the dishwasher. "It's too early for late nights. I'm new to the case, so right now I'm just familiarizing myself with the data we have. Once I've got a better idea I can work on a plan."

"Can I help?"

"If you wanna, sure. But later. Right now, I want you to go and relax." Jack shooed Gareth from the kitchen and spent the next twenty minutes turning it back into the pristine space that was Gareth's pride and joy, before he got ready for a spot of relaxing himself. He even remembered to grab a soft jazz playlist from his laptop on the way out to the garden.

"Why is it that you're so relaxed about this?" Gareth asked later, when the burgundy was almost gone.

The neighborhood was growing sleepy around them, and not for the first time, Jack wished that he could stay where he was, lounging in the hot water with wine, music, and Gareth by his side. The twinkle lights that draped the hedge looked hazy in the steam rising from the tub, the world beyond them remote and its problems insignificant. And while honeysuckle and rambling roses would weave a fragrant veil around their small sanctuary later in the year, the early spring breeze only brought scents of wet earth that evoked no memories.

"I was expecting you to go off like a firecracker as soon as Lisa called."

"That's why you were all in knots? Because you expected me to work late?"

"You did when you were hunting Mitrovic."

"That was.... Come on, Gareth, we're talking coke here." Jack felt Gareth's gaze on him and sighed. Now that he'd opened his mouth, he'd have to explain. "It's different. Not... as immediate. As urgent. When I'm hunting a pimp like Mitrovic, I know that there are children out there, scared, being hurt. Kids like Daniel and Nico. Kids like me." He reached for his glass, found his hand intercepted by Gareth's instead, and wove their fingers together. "It's knowing what it feels like to be in that place that makes me work like crazy. Chasing a drug dealer's not the same for me. Never has been."

"So no late nights and caffeine overdoses?"

"I didn't say that. There are bound to be a few late nights when I get properly stuck in. Just not yet."

# Chapter SIX

IT TOOK a surprisingly long time for Jack to get "properly stuck in."

Over the next three weeks, his laptop screen grew to look like the web of a psychedelic spider, acquiring multicolored patterns that not even Frazer, Nico, or Daniel could disentangle without using fingers, toes, and sixteen crayons. Jack diligently followed lead after lead, added lines, and intersections to his map, and reported the results back to Lisa and her team.

Periodically, more data would turn up on his desk or land in his in-box, and as time passed Gareth noticed that the information no longer caused the excitement it had brought in its wake when Jack had started working the case.

At first, Jack would print out the details Lisa sent him and bring them home. He would spread out his computers on the kitchen table, turn the music up, and get Nico to help him input the latest figures and draw connections while Daniel and Gareth saw to dinner.

Now, new facts were added to Jack's web while Jack was at his desk, while he frowned, bit his lips, and was sullenly silent.

Then late nights turned into all-nighters. Jack's caffeine consumption picked up, as did his number of weekly sparring sessions.

And then Jack started juggling.

"Something's bothering you," Gareth said one Wednesday evening when they were by themselves and Jack drew patterns on the table with his fork instead of eating his dinner.

Jack didn't deny it. "I have this idea, but I can't think of a way to verify it that won't get me thrown in the clink."

"The itch-in-your-brain kind of idea?"

"You said it." The fork drew an increasingly complicated pattern, but Jack barely noticed what he was doing, too caught up in his line of thought. "You see, we don't have an inkling yet who the dealer is, but I think I know where he keeps his stash."

"And?"

"I can't rightly explain why I think that." He gestured to the laptop sitting open on the corner of the table. "Not sensibly enough to convince a magistrate to give Lisa a warrant."

Gareth recalled a stone-faced Jack declaring that he didn't give a toss whether the evidence he turned up was admissible in court. "You're suddenly going by the book because...?"

Jack didn't appreciate being pulled from his abstraction. His eyes narrowed and his brows pulled down in annoyance. "We're after a drug dealer," he said. "And I'm not talking about hacking e-mail or a bank account. This would be actual breaking and entering, which isn't something I'm all that good at. Lisa would have my ass if I were caught. And rightly so."

"Breaking and entering? Where?"

"A lockup under the railway arches in Southwark."

"Why would the dealer keep the drugs stashed there?"

Jack flushed, embarrassed, but he forged ahead anyway. "Because the pattern says so."

"Right. I see your problem." Gareth had no reason to doubt Jack's predictions, just as he was sure that Jack was making matters unnecessarily difficult for himself. By the time he had refilled their wineglasses, the fork had resumed its dance around Jack's plate, and Gareth decided to lend a hand. "You don't need to eat that if you don't wanna," he said, holding a hand out for Jack's almost untouched plate. "But assuming you know which lockup you're after, is there a reason you can't hire a locksmith?"

It took twelve seconds for Jack to catch on. Gareth knew, because he counted.

The fork clattered to the table.

Then Jack's chair hit the floor in his rush to reach his phone.

"Sorry, I know it's late," Jack said, when he'd dialed and put the call on loudspeaker. "But I could do with some help, and you said you have skills on hand at short notice?"

"A good evening to you too," Aidan's voice rasped from the device. A murmur of conversations and soft clink of glasses could be heard in the background, indicating that Aidan was somewhere public. Then the sounds died away and Aidan spoke once more. "What do you need?"

"A burglar. Or a pickpocket? Actually, I may need a cross between the two. Someone who can get into anywhere but can disappear into a crowd while he does it?"

"You know what, Horwood? You're just full of surprises."

"That's not news. Can you help?"

"When and where do you need him?"

"Tomorrow evening. Southwark station. I need to get into a lockup," Jack said and lunged for his plate of food before Gareth could remove it from the dinner table.

FOR MUCH of its history, Southwark had been London's dirty little secret. The place across the river where upstanding citizens could indulge their illicit pleasures, where the rich and famous rubbed shoulders with the down-and-outs. Most things—legal, illegal, and illicit—could be had in Southwark, and while London had grown and spread over time and Southwark was becoming trendy these days, that one characteristic hadn't changed. Why else would Jack and Gareth stand in this warren of bars, clubs, and galleries, dressed and kitted out for their own bit of lawbreaking?

"Bending. Just... bending," Jack muttered to himself, while keeping a close eye on the steady stream of people exiting Southwark underground station. Diesel fumes hung in the air, mixed with cigarette smoke when nicotine-craving commuters lit up as soon as they cleared the station building. Waves of cologne and perfume swept past them with the pedestrian traffic, and now and then Jack caught the scents of frying chips or brewing coffee on the breeze.

The evening was warm enough that he would have been comfortable in just a T-shirt. He shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to get some air at his sweating back while he watched a noisy group of teens in the skimpiest fuck-me clothes this spring's fashion could dictate. He had no idea who Aidan was sending to help them, but he hoped the man would be able to spot them before Jack's patience ran out.

Or Gareth's did.

Right now, Gareth gave the perfect impression of a man out to enjoy a quiet evening with friends. He leaned against the railing, legs crossed at the ankles and benign expression on his face as he kept an eye on people and traffic alike. Beyond Jack sharing Aidan's e-mail detailing the arrangements with Gareth, they hadn't discussed how this evening would go. They hadn't made plans or considered options. When Jack had started to get ready, Gareth had simply followed suit as if this was an everyday occurrence that needed no words. Having Gareth at his back felt right, and comfortable—until Jack started to consider the implications of what he was dragging Gareth into.

That's when he started to tense up.

Jack's need for autonomy and Gareth's need to protect were at odds with each other once more. But this time Jack kept quiet. Gareth hadn't made any demands, hadn't issued orders or placed restrictions. In fact, Gareth kept to the letter of their accord, and Jack would feel like a hypocrite if he suddenly complained about that.

Of course, that was the moment when he got it, when he understood—deep in his gut—that fierce need to shield and protect that characterized Gareth and had made him such a good commanding officer. For Jack it was an instinct more than a feeling, but it chimed right, true... and it screwed up Jack's certainties. Gareth had the right to make his own decisions, sure. But Jack was leading Gareth into a mess not of his making, one moreover that could get Gareth into trouble with the law. And in which universe did that make sense?

"Yo." The voice came a second before a touch to his shoulder sent Jack's head whipping around. Then Raf Gallant pushed into the space between Jack and Gareth, in the way only a man sure of his welcome would dare to do.

"What the...?" Jack stared in disbelief at the hazel-eyed firearms officer he'd learned to consider a friend over the last few months. Rafael Gallant was brisk, efficient, and—away from his job—extremely good company. Despite that, he was the last person Jack had expected to run into that Thursday night.

Southwark was not Jack's usual hangout. And he hadn't expected it to be Gallant's either. Raf was most at home in a traditional pub that served a good selection of microbrewed ales and tasty bar snacks. Coffee shops might feature on his work schedule, but wine bars and artsy galleries designed to appeal to tourists didn't fit Raf's image.

They didn't fit his and Gareth's image either. They were dressed to blend in, wearing jeans, dark T-shirts, and leather jackets, but they couldn't have been any less a part of the happy-go-lucky Thursday night crowd had they tried. Jack's motorcycle boots were stocked with the usual selection of knives and wire. He carried lockpicks in the inside pocket of his jacket along with a drug test kit, microcameras, motion sensors, and a high-powered, custom-built slate. Gareth was similarly prepared. And hanging out with Raf hadn't been anywhere near the night's agenda.

"Don't fuss." Raf reached for Jack's arm and pulled him closer so he wouldn't have to yell. "Aidan said you needed help."

"You're the burglar? Fuck me!"

"Later." Gallant's grin was wicked. "Work first."

"Hands off, Gallant." Gareth's knuckles skimmed the back of Rafael's head. "This one's mine."

"Will you two just stop with the bullshit?" Jack's limited supply of patience ran low as the banter answered none of his questions. "Come on, I need a beer." Jack shoved his hands into his pockets and stalked down the road to where a noisy party spilled from the brightly lit interior of a small pub. It didn't take long for the other two to catch up with him.

Of course Raf couldn't leave it alone. "What's crawled up your ass, Horwood? Got cold feet?"

"No." It wasn't that. Jack had been prepared to work with anyone Aidan sent, secure in the knowledge that they understood the risks. But the moment he saw Raf all those thoughts had gone out the window. Uncertainty weighed him down, made him wonder why working with backup was supposed to be a good thing, when all it did was confuse him.

"Listen." Raf wrapped a hand around Jack's bicep and jerked him to a halt. "Stop with the doom face, okay? I've been at this game longer than you've been a spook, and I have never been even close to getting caught. I know the reputation you have as a hacker. I have a similar reputation doing what I do. And another thing: Aidan never orders. He always asks. Okay?"

"Okay." Jack drew a deep breath and blew it out, dropping his shoulders. He turned his head and caught Gareth's gaze on him, watchful and maybe even a little amused. "Let's get this beer and work out what we're going to do."

The little pub had an intriguing menu that featured horse, wild boar, and a range of fancy burgers and sausages that held even Gareth's attention for longer than a moment. They found a quiet corner and since it was early—not even eight o'clock yet—they decided to sample the wares while they made plans and waited for the crowds to thicken.

"Did Aidan tell you it's a lockup?" Jack asked when he came back from the bar with three pints and a numbered wooden spoon.

"Yes. Standard lock?"

"Can't say. I've not been near it yet, and the surveillance camera in that road is just about good for face shapes." Jack handed out the beers and slid into the booth. "I was hoping we could check it out and decide what to do based on what you find."

"We can do that." Raf settled more comfortably into his seat, fingers curled loosely around his glass. "Aidan had nothing for me beyond the fact that it's a case you're working with Lisa. She wasn't around to ask, so tell me what you're expecting to find in that lockup and why you can't go through official channels."

Gareth scoffed, Jack glared, and Raf didn't take long to catch on.

"That bad, eh? Let's wait until the food's here, then. I listen better when my stomach's not gnawing on my spine."

Jack explained while they ate, assured that Gareth was keeping an eye on their surroundings. Raf paid as much attention as he would during a Scotland Yard briefing, and he asked about as many questions. Burgers and sausages disposed of, they left the pub and wandered down the street where the focused rush of commuters had been replaced by slowly milling crowds in search of relaxed entertainment.

"Is there a nightclub around here?" Gareth appraised the stream of revelers wearing barely enough clothes to prevent themselves getting arrested for public indecency.

"Old warehouse, just a couple streets over. We raided that a while back." Raf snorted. "Ecstasy. And... more ecstasy. You wouldn't believe the scenes. I don't understand the kids who take that crap."

"They can't see themselves when they're high," Gareth offered.

"Yeah, more's the pity."

They drifted with the crowd, turned a corner, and followed the long line of the railway embankment toward the Shard. Jack wasn't overly fond of the sudden building spree that threatened to clutter central London with high-rises, but he had to admit that the Shard looked impressive all lit up. Judging by the number of cameras pointed at the skyscraper and pedestrians stopping in the middle of the road to ogle, the people surrounding them agreed—and not all of them were tourists.

"It's over there." Jack waved a hand down the road, where strings of twinkle lights outlined the entrance to a small wine bar that was tucked into one of the arches under the railway embankment. "Two down from the bar. Next to the one with the blue door."

"Gotcha."

Raf crossed the road as if intent to check out the menu pasted to the wall next to the bar's entrance, while Jack and Gareth followed more slowly.

"You weren't worried about dragging me into this." Gareth's voice spilled into the comfortable silence between them. "Did you notice?"

"What?"

"You heard me. When Gallant told you that Aidan sent him, you almost lost your shit, but it didn't bother you when I decided to tag along." Gareth brushed their shoulders together as they walked. It wasn't a gentle shove, either. "And before you start tying yourself in knots, I like it that you didn't. A whole fucking lot."

Standing gaping in the middle of the street was undignified, so Jack refrained. But it was a close-run thing.

"You were wondering if you could work with Aidan, admit it."

"I admit it." Hiding from Gareth was tricky, seeing how well the damned man knew him. It spoke volumes for Jack's poker face that Gareth had caught his misgivings at seeing Raf, but hadn't noticed Jack's earlier preoccupation with Gareth himself. But to find he'd unexpectedly made Gareth happy by not mentioning it.... Jack wanted to throw his hands up in frustration and growl. Really, working alone was so much easier.

"I had no idea Gallant was... did... that," he said. "He comes across as so... straitlaced and by the book."

"He's not by the book when it counts," Gareth argued, and Jack remembered that it had been Gareth and Raf who'd found the brothel Mitrovic ran in East London.

"Did he break in?"

"Wasn't as if we could knock on the front door. Raf actually went up the side of the building and in through an attic window. Pretty sleek."

Jack sighed and pouted until Gareth laughed. "You can't wait to see him do it, right?"

"Yeah." There was no point denying it when he felt a frisson of excitement running down his spine. It was a familiar sensation, something he felt when he slipped into someone's protected data stash to ferret out information that shouldn't see the light of day.

Gareth's chuckle was as soft as a caress. "It was obvious before, that you and Gallant worked well together. But who'd have thought that you two are kindred spirits at heart? Couple of delinquents."

They sped their steps when they saw Rafael wave, catching up with him at the next crossroad.

"Piece of cake," Raf reported. "If you hadn't been the one telling me, I'd never have believed there's anything worth hiding in that lockup. So, do you wanna see? We can do it tonight. Hell, we can do it now!"

"You did see the camera, right?" Jack asked and tapped his pocket. "I can take care of that."

"There's really no need," Raf assured him. "A clumsy three-year-old can open that lock. It will look, to all intents and purposes, as if we are in possession of a key."

"Let's get it done," Jack decided, more curious to watch Raf work right then than to see the contents of the lockup. "We all have work tomorrow."

"Right."

Raf didn't move, though, and Jack looked at him expectantly. "What?"

"What are you planning to do if there are drugs in the lockup?"

"Depends on what else we find. If there's enough info there to ID the dealer, we call it in. If there isn't, we'll lock the place up again and keep eyes on it. Why?"

"Just uncomfortable about leaving drugs lying around," Raf admitted. "What if the surveillance bombs?"

"It won't," Jack said confidently and patted his jacket one more time. "I'll put eyes in the lockup, along with motion sensors. They'll alert me if anything moves. I'm keeping eyes on the feed too."

Raf turned and wandered back the way they'd come. Jack and Gareth followed closely, heads together as if the three were chatting while they walked. Despite Raf declaring it unnecessary, Jack redirected the surveillance camera as soon as he got within range. The handful of seconds it took him to do so cost him the front-row seat. Jack never saw Raf at work. One moment Gallant stretched out a hand for the padlock. The next moment he was sliding open the metal door to the lockup and then they were inside.

"Fuck. Can you do that again?" Jack pulled the door closed behind them and reached for the flashlight in his inside pocket. "Remind me to drag you along the next time I get locked up."

"You've gotten yourself locked up?"

"Don't pretend you don't know. I got out all by myself too. Just... not that fast."

"That's the difference between an amateur and an expert, Horwood," Raf drawled, just as Gareth found the light switch.

"If you say so. Oh my.... Shit!"

"Agreed."

The lockup wasn't just used for storage. It was a carefully set up workspace. From metal bins stacked with packs of empty plastic ziplock bags to the stainless steel workbench that ran along the back wall of the lockup, the space had been meticulously planned. LED strips illuminated the workbench with bright light. The box of razor blades, placed on one side, held enough sharp-edged metal to keep a battalion of soldiers looking smooth for a year. Half a dozen digital precision scales were set out at regular intervals along the bench, and right in the middle of the space sat the jackpot: a red plastic crate holding shrink-wrapped bricks of cocaine.

That he'd been right about the location of the dealer's stash barely registered with Jack as he stared in fascination at the wooden table set at right angles to the stainless steel workbench.

"What is it?" Gareth queried from his left. "You look like Christmas came early."

Jack didn't bother explaining that he felt exactly like that. He'd known that there'd be drugs in the lockup. He'd hoped to find additional information that would allow them to identify or at least track the dealer. He'd not expected to be handed a pot of gold. So he stood in the middle of the lockup and stared at... a small printer.

"You want me to grab that?" Gareth asked, and Jack roused himself enough to step closer. "What can you possibly get from a crappy piece of shit like that?"

Jack waved his fingers at the printer, entirely too buzzed by his find. "See that little blinking light? That's Ariadne's thread."

"So we're leaving it here?"

It was fortunate that Gareth spoke Jack, and Jack loved that he didn't have to explain. "Oh, yeah, we're leaving it here. I'm just gonna...." He pulled the slate from his jacket pocket and scanned the neighborhood. It took seconds to connect to the printer and plant an exploit. He didn't even have to touch the thing to get it done.

"Do you have any idea how much coke there is here?" Raf stood over the red crate.

"Five kilos or so?" Jack guessed after checking the size of the crate. "Try not to touch anything. Lisa thinks it's Brazilian. If it is it will stain worse than marker smoke."

"What?"

"Security measure. Some of the cartels spray the wrapped bricks with a chemical that stains before they ship them out. If you touch 'em and they're dyed, we need to take 'em with us."

"And that would be bad because?"

Jack waved at the printer with its blinking red light. "We've just found a door into the distribution network. I'd sort of hate to brick it up before I've even cracked it open enough to stick my nose through."

In slow motion, as if it took a lot of thought and even more determination, Raf stepped away from the workbench and the red crate. "You promise," he began, then stopped.

Jack bumped shoulders with him. "I promise."

"Okay. Now what?"

Jack turned to Gareth, who was pulling tools from the inside of his jacket. "Now we'll add eyes, and then we'll get out of here. Someone keep an eye on the clock."

"Three minutes down," Gareth replied promptly and Jack smiled, grabbed a small drill and a miniature motion sensor, and set to work.

A short while later, Raf secured the padlock to the door as easily as he'd opened it, and the three walked away from the lockup. The whole operation had taken less than fifteen minutes, and they'd come away with photographic evidence and had installed Jack's various surveillance measures. They stepped into the small wine bar and grabbed a table by the window. Its location was perfect to keep an eye on the lockup for a little while and allow Jack to restore the settings on the surveillance camera in comfort.

That accomplished, they dragged Raf home with them to Richmond.

Still buzzing and grateful for a safe place to talk, they huddled around Gareth's kitchen table while Gareth fixed them all a late meal and Jack fired up his laptop.

"Now we might actually be getting somewhere," Jack decided, connecting to his newly installed cameras and setting up alarms with quick keystrokes.

"Only you would discount ten pounds of cocaine." Raf was still sore about leaving the drugs behind.

"I'm not discounting it. But if they don't lead us to the dealer, they're nothing more than another drug seizure statistic. And so much paperwork." He turned the laptop so Raf could see the inside of the lockup. "On top of that, Lisa wants the suppliers, and I'm trying to be helpful."

"Can you actually be anything else?" Gareth muttered from where he stood over the stove and Jack ignored that.

"Have you thought about starting with the owners of that lockup?" Raf asked.

"Been there already. Management company," Jack replied shortly. "This particular lockup has supposedly been empty ever since a pipe burst two years ago."

"Is someone taking a closer look at the management company?"

"Lisa." Jack pushed the laptop to the furthest corner of the kitchen table to make room for glasses, plates, and cutlery. "How old were you when you started?"

"What? Lock-picking?" Raf leaned back in his chair and smiled in a way that made Jack want to hit him. "Seven. You?"

"Started to learn when I was twelve. But, like I said, I'm only about okay at it. And I've never tried to pick anyone's pockets."

"Want me to teach you?"

The hollow clang of the empty frying pan hitting the counter and Gareth's soulful swearing stopped Jack from having to answer that.

# Chapter SEVEN

JACK HORWOOD owned at least half a dozen fully functional laptops. Plus a similar number of tablets in various sizes and specs, and a couple of machines he built and destroyed on a weekly basis. Gareth was also familiar with the static setup that resided in one of the bedrooms in Jack's Wimbledon house, and that would have made a good number of scientists jealous. So he could be forgiven for staring when he found Jack on the living room floor, surrounded by sheets of wallpaper and boxes of crayons.

"What the hell?"

It had been two weeks since their break-in, two weeks since the first time Jack's tablet had alerted him to activity in the lockup in the middle of the night. Back then, he'd rolled out of bed as if the sheets were red-hot and had disappeared into the spare bedroom he used for a study, almost at a run. He'd come back later, while it had still been dark outside, grumbling about rats and false alarms under his breath and shoving freezing cold feet against Gareth's hot skin. The result had been instantaneous and memorable, but when the alarms kept coming—fake and real, both—Jack had grown steadily more intent.

On Raf's advice he'd told Lisa about the lockup, the drug stash, and the possibility to tap into the dealer's network. And as usual when the two worked together, Lisa was excited by the results and shook her head at the way Jack went about obtaining them.

After just two weeks, they had images of six men cutting and packaging the drugs. They had names and addresses and, in three cases, rap sheets. Gareth knew, because the pictures decorated one wall in the study, along with reams of yellow Post-its covered in Jack's scribbles.

They didn't have a name for the man behind the operation yet.

They didn't have the supply routes figured out yet.

And Jack sat on the floor, drawing.

Gareth stepped closer. The output of Jack's artistic efforts resembled the network diagrams they used at work, though the thing sported many more colored lines and loop-backs than the ones Gareth was used to seeing.

"Care to share?"

Jack shrugged and grabbed a green pencil from the box by his side. "Representation of a paranoid mind," he said, looking down at the intricate mess of colored squares and connecting lines, with the odd triangle or circle thrown in to break it up. "It's gorgeous, really—if I take the time to admire his handiwork, that is."

"And in English that would be?"

Jack laughed, then straightened up and stretched. A jaw-cracking yawn overtook him and he climbed to his feet. "Is it dinnertime yet? I'm starving."

Gareth wrapped his arms around Jack's waist and pulled him flush, charmed when Jack gave him his weight and leaned against him, loose and boneless. "It's long past dinnertime, actually," he admitted. "I had a meeting with Julian and Aidan and we got talking. How about I fix you something and you educate me on—what was it again?—paranoia?"

"It's a trade."

JACK STEPPED out of the elevator into the deserted twelfth-floor corridor and took a deep breath. It did nothing to unravel the tight knot between his shoulder blades. New Scotland Yard wasn't his favorite place, and he was grateful for Lisa's offer to meet late in the evening, when there was less chance of Jack running into people he knew. It made an uncomfortable situation a tiny bit better.

"Flynn will kill me for even suggesting it."

Lisa's voice drifted down the corridor. She sounded resigned to her fate rather than frightened by the thought. Jack had no idea who she was talking to, but he could guess at the topic under discussion. The knot of tension in his back coiled closer. He wasn't sure what he hated more: people talking about him where he could hear, or everyone knowing what an overly protective ass Gareth could be at times.

Having a good idea what this sudden summons was all about didn't help either.

Jack stretched out a hand and knocked on the half-open door. Best to get it over with.

"Jack! Come in."

Lisa waved at him to enter and, once through the door, he spotted Raf Gallant at his desk on the other side of the room. That made it easier.

"I just said to Raf that—"

"Flynn's gonna kill you. I heard." Jack settled himself in the other chair. "Maybe shut the door before you go suggesting murder plots. And yes, chances are good that he will. At least, if you're going to ask me to go undercover for an unspecified period of time."

"You are an arrogant shit, Horwood."

"And that's news?" Jack fought the urge to park his feet on Lisa's desk just to underscore this point. As much fun as it might be to see her face, he wasn't fourteen anymore. "Are you really trying to tell me you don't have a single suitable hacker on the payroll?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"Yes. Good hackers are not a commodity in short supply. Not these days."

"Good hackers with law enforcement training and undercover skills are," Lisa said softly. "Especially undercover skills."

"Then take one of your undercover guys and teach him how to hack a server. It's not rocket science. We know what kind of server it is. Or have one of your geeks back him up remotely."

"You know that's bullshit."

Jack knew it. They had a name for the dealer now—Dimitri Kiriyenka—and the beginnings of a profile. Jack had filled in some of the characteristics himself. He knew that the man wasn't just cautious when communicating online, he was downright paranoid. Precisely because of that paranoia, Kiriyenka's operation ran like clockwork: accurately, safely, and shielded from sight.

Using the printer in the lockup as a gateway, Jack had gotten close to Kiriyenka's base of operations. Close, but not inside. Kiriyenka hosted his own network and kept everything offline except for brief bursts of communication—orders and money transfers—at random intervals. Even those short, randomly timed messages were sent around the world a few times in a mad chase. Mad enough that neither Jack nor Lisa's guys had yet been able to trace a message to its destination. Getting through the server's firewalls and screens to work on the source needed time and a delicate touch. And while Jack was prepared to work byte by slow byte, as quietly and gently as he knew how for however long it took, Kiriyenka's servers were never online long enough for him to gain a foothold.

So yes, Jack knew what the next step needed to be if they wanted to take down Kiriyenka and his suppliers. He just didn't want it to be his task this time. He had walked away from all of that. He had a new job, a brand-new life that he found unexpectedly enjoyable, with people in it he wanted to keep there. He didn't want to go back to looking over his shoulder 24-7, to policing each word he spoke and each expression he let appear on his face. Not for a few kilos of coke.

"Jack, can you at least think about it? We've had eight deaths so far and that needs to stop." Lisa pushed a thick folder across the desk toward him as she spoke. "Up-to-date surveillance results and everything else we have on Kiriyenka," she said. "I know I can't order you, but—"

"You can make the rest of my life damn difficult?"

"Fuck you, Horwood."

"Yeah, right."

"If I were hunting a pimp, you'd be begging me for the assignment."

It was the truth. Not that it made Jack feel better about any part of this fucked-up situation. He clearly remembered telling Clive not so long ago that since he'd chosen to be a detective, he didn't get to choose what to investigate. By the same token, since Jack had opted out of law enforcement, he should have left that car alone. Now he'd forfeited the right to walk away.

Karma really was a bitch.

Without another word Jack pushed himself out of the seat and left Lisa's office. He was in the elevator when he realized he'd taken Kiriyenka's dossier with him.

"THE BOSS wants to see you." Frazer clomped past Jack's desk on the way to his own, and Jack shot a confused glance at the door to Gareth's office. It was closed. Had been closed for the last three days, ever since Gareth had dropped what he'd been doing, grabbed the go bag from his car, and caught a private plane to Scotland. He was working a case for Aidan, something covert that allowed for a brief text message every night at ten, but neither phone calls nor e-mails. Jack wished he'd taken Aidan up on his offer sooner. Maybe then he wouldn't be out of the loop. Maybe then he'd be able to keep an eye on Gareth, or even help him with what he was doing. As things were, he could only sit tight, look optimistic, and wait for ten o'clock like a lovesick teenager.

He hated it. Almost as much as the idea of Lisa sending him to infiltrate a drug dealer's network.

"Earth to Horwood," Frazer intoned. "I said the boss wants to see you."

Jack dragged his thoughts back to the present. "I heard you. And he's out for the week."

"Not Flynn. The boss." Frazer tossed his head back and glanced upward.

"When?"

"Now?"

Frazer didn't roll his eyes. It was a close-run thing, though, and he most likely only stopped himself because Jack would wipe the floor with him in training the next morning, otherwise.

"Going. I'm going...." Jack escaped into the stairwell, mentally reviewing his open projects as he made his way upstairs. They'd stopped the finance leak—and the company's former finance director was awaiting his trial. Jack wasn't happy with the status quo, though. Gorish was keeping mum and Jack wanted to know who had received the leaked information. He kept plugging away on the leads he had whenever he wasn't fending off attacks or building defenses. Or working on the drugs case he'd dragged Lisa into. The one that was promptly coming back to bite him on the ass.

Jack took the last few stairs to the executive floor, smiled at Julian's PA, and was waved straight through into the corner office.

The head of Nancarrow Mining was not at his desk. He had coffee and cakes set out on the glass table by the window and he leaned nonchalantly against the soft couch cushions, waiting.

Jack was immediately suspicious.

Julian didn't keep him on tenterhooks for long. He poured coffee for both of them—even though Jack knew that the man preferred green tea—offered the plate of cakes, and then came straight to the point.

"I am told that you have been asked to take an undercover assignment to apprehend a drug dealer."

He should have expected that. "Correct."

"Can I assume that you have done such work before?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is Flynn aware?"

"I've... not yet decided whether I'm accepting the request or not."

"Right."

The single word was laced with sarcasm so thick it brought a frown to Jack's face. He tipped his head to the side and studied Julian Nancarrow's intent expression, suspicion sneaking poisonous tendrils into his mind.

"There is no need to pretend with me, Horwood. You are not the kind of man to turn down a request for help just because it is inconvenient."

Once more, that wasn't what he'd expected to hear. Jack took a breath to try and calm his suddenly far-too-rapid heartbeat. "You're giving me too much credit," he managed to reply. "I'm not nearly as altruistic as you made that sound."

It was true that Jack had never refused any requests for his help. There'd been no need. Chasing traffickers and drug dealers had been his job and he hadn't had anything in his life worth holding on to. Now there were good things in his life that he didn't want to lose, and it complicated everything.

"Somehow I cannot picture you perpetually at loose ends." Julian's gaze softened and he relaxed a fraction deeper into his seat. "But if this was indeed a consideration, then there is one thing I want you to understand: You signed a contract of employment with Nancarrow Mining last September. You have become a valued member of my staff. You do this company credit, and unless you choose to resign from your position, this undercover assignment will be treated like any other sabbatical. This means—" Julian let the words hang between them and his gaze sharpened to the point that Jack thought he could feel the burn on his skin. "—that I expect you back at your desk as soon as you have completed your work for the Metropolitan Police. Keep that in mind while you're... out there."

Jack nodded, words beyond him in that moment. It had been confusing enough the previous September, when complete strangers had stepped up to support him as he prepared to hunt down a pimp who ran a string of underage boys. Now the CEO of Nancarrow Mining was telling him he had Jack's back.

Returned to his desk and mind still spinning after that revelation, Jack decided to cut himself an early afternoon. He'd promised Daniel and Nico that he'd take them to Elephant & Castle for proper motorcycle boots, and now was as good a time as any.

"DID YOU fight?"

Jack pulled his gaze from the stack of leather samples in his hand. He'd been engrossed in holding sheets of copper-colored leather up to the light and imagining what the material would look like hugging Gareth's muscular legs, when Daniel had disturbed him.

"What?"

"You and Gareth—did you fight?"

"No, why?"

Daniel looked puzzled. "Because you're distracted and you can't keep still. You do that when you're working on something exciting, but you haven't smiled once all afternoon. And if you're excited about something, you smile. So?"

So much for a relaxing afternoon away from the mess in his mind. Jack dropped the sample folder back on Hotshot's workbench and gave Daniel his full attention. Daniel had always been the more perceptive of the two boys, with Nico content—for the most part—to follow his lead.

Out of confinement and slowly shaking off the fear and nightmares of their past, the two had become a tight team, trusting each other to keep each other safe. Where the endless trust they offered Jack had come from, Jack wasn't entirely sure. He just knew that he'd do nothing to jeopardize it. Lying to Daniel so he could keep stewing in his own discontent wasn't even an option.

"You know Gareth is away," he said carefully, turning Daniel toward the main room of the workshop, where Hotshot displayed the boots he made and from where they could hear Nico's voice. "We haven't been fighting. But you're right, there's something that bothers me. Let's get your boots ordered and then I'll tell you about it, okay?"

They ended up at Jack's place, settled in front of the fire to ward off the sudden chill, with pizza and ice cream and ginger ale. As far as Jack was concerned, the latter was disgusting, but he lost that argument two to one. Adding a hefty dash of rum might have made it more palatable if he didn't have to drive the two back home later. So he resigned himself to drinking coffee and watching the boys yell and argue their way through the latest anime Jack had downloaded for them.

It was a comforting sight.

Jack had no trouble remembering a time when the two were reluctant to speak to anyone. Seeing them like this, even hearing Daniel call him on his bullshit, was better balm for his nerves than he ever thought possible.

When Daniel asked for the second time what bothered him, Jack didn't hesitate. He just picked up the story of the drugs in the battered Rover from where he'd left off before. He told the two about the rising death toll that drove Lisa's crusade, about his evening breaking into a lockup, and explained that the dealer was too protective of his operations to be easily caught. Daniel and Nico made an appreciative audience, and neither showed surprise when Jack told them he'd been asked to go undercover to help shut down the man's operations.

"And that bothers you? That Lisa asked you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I don't wanna do it? I could be out there for weeks."

"Okay, that sucks. But it's not as if you're gonna lose your family if you go, right? We're all still gonna be here when you come back," Daniel said patiently and Jack froze.

Trust a kid to nail the issue with a single sentence. No, not a kid, just Daniel. Daniel, who—like Jack—had never really been a child, but who could see what bothered others and was smart enough to know what was important and what was not.

Jack was proud of the teen. And grateful that neither of the two had asked whether Jack's job was going to be dangerous. He blew out a long breath, made an effort to release the tension he'd been holding across his back and shoulders for days, and pulled Daniel into a tight hug. "Thanks for reminding me."

HE DROPPED the boys off with Gareth's mother far too late for a school night, but apart from a raised eyebrow he didn't catch even a whiff of reproach from Roz. He returned the favor by fixing the broken light in the fridge without being asked, before reaching for his jacket and shoes.

Sneaking out never worked with Gareth's mother around. Not unless he wanted to climb out the window, and even Jack wasn't that desperate. He expected questions about what they had done all afternoon, where Gareth had run off to, or admonishments about timekeeping now that the boys had started going to school, but she didn't say a word. She waited until he'd zipped up his jacket, and then she wrapped him in a hug.

"Be safe out there and come back when you're done," she said, arms tight around him.

Jack had no idea which of the two boys had told her, and he couldn't push Roz Flynn aside, race upstairs, and find out, but he resolved that the next time he saw Daniel and Nico, he was going to strangle them both.

WHEN JACK bought his four-bedroomed Victorian terrace house in Wimbledon, it had been a soulless, mutilated wreck. Jack had spent a lot of time and effort restoring the house to something close to its original splendor. He had lavished sweat and elbow grease on the place, and the owner of the corner store had become accustomed to Jack's late-night quests for beer, dip, and oven chips.

Jack had enjoyed restoring the old house. He recalled weekends haunting architectural salvage yards to find replacements for the original fittings the previous owners had carelessly ripped out and discarded. The cast-iron fireplace surrounds with their gleaming cobalt, moss green, and maroon ceramic tiles had been easy finds. Locating the red and black tiles covering both the floor of his hallway and the path to his front door had proved more of a challenge. And it had taken him almost two years to find the Victorian stove that took pride of place in his kitchen, and that had sent Gareth into something close to rapture.

Jack loved his home, the period features, soothing colors, and plush upholstery, though these days it felt more like a place he'd outgrown than the sanctuary it had once been. Unable to settle after yet another failed attempt to break into Kiriyenka's server during the scant minute the node was accessible, he crashed on the couch, staring at the intricate pattern of the stucco ceiling rose while his mind whirled.

He tried to think of other ways to accomplish his task, dreamed up and discarded possible exploits at a rapid rate, and was, at the end, left with nothing better than a ludicrous idea to impersonate one of Kiriyenka's men to get access to the server and the information on it. This, of course, was a plan achingly similar to Lisa's undercover scenario.

His phone, beeping a text alert, interrupted his growing frustration. He reached for the device and, for the first time since his meeting with Lisa, managed a smile. The text was from Gareth, but it wasn't the impersonal check-in notice he'd grown used to seeing over the last three days. Instead he got a tiny image of a landing plane followed by:

Is it too late?

Not at all. I'm in Wimbledon. Come on over and I'll order curry he texted back, glad for something to do that was normal and untainted by thoughts of drug dealers and undercover assignments. He wondered briefly what clothes—besides a navy suit—Gareth had hanging in Jack's wardrobe upstairs, then ditched the thought. They were much of a size and could share anything but fitted dress shirts and Jack's made-to-measure leather trousers. If Gareth needed clothes, they'd find something in the morning.

His phone beeped again and the reply put the seal to his good mood.

Perfect. With you in 20.

GARETH LEANED against the side of the porch when Jack opened the door, deep creases between his brows and fatigue drawing a web of fine lines around his eyes.

"You look like shit. Are you okay?"

"Just tired." Gareth's reply was a cross between a growl and a grunt, the words muffled when he bent to unlace his shoes.

"D'you need to go back?"

"No, it's done. We got what we came for and Aidan's happy."

Jack stowed Gareth's duffel bag under the stairs and caught Gareth's jacket before it could hit the tile. "Come on, kitchen. Food should be here any minute."

They had time to share a hug before the curry made an appearance. Grateful for the chance to relax his tired muscles just a little before his mind put his body back on the rack, Jack buried his face in Gareth's neck, found a tiny trace of the spicy cologne he loved between Gareth's ear and his hairline, and let days' worth of tension seep from his frame. He'd long given up apologizing for loving this, loving Gareth's tight hold and his warmth and the simple feeling of something right.

He loved that Gareth relaxed against him in return, and loved the long exhale of breath against his throat just before Gareth's arms wrapped even tighter around his waist. It was all sorts of perfect, and that, of course, made everything difficult.

The doorbell offered an escape he didn't have to explain, and after that there was food, and Gareth entertained him with descriptions of the pompous, irritating, and awfully boring people whose company he'd been forced to endure for the last few days. Jack reciprocated by talking about his afternoon boot shopping with Daniel and Nico and described the impromptu treasure hunt that had broken out in the corporate security office on Tuesday afternoon. It had involved two hours of mayhem with Lloyd Mason's mobile phone and Frazer's access pass among the props. Jack hadn't gotten to the bottom of the incident yet, but it had been fun to watch.

They'd finished dinner, cleared the table, and were sprawled across the living room sofa when Jack finally found the words he'd been looking for.

"Remember that discussion we had in the Weald about a code word?"

"Yes?" Gareth raised his head from the arm of the couch and looked at Jack. "You thought of one?"

"I could do with one right now," Jack said softly, pulling loose threads from a rip in his jeans.

"Because of your undercover assignment?"

"You already know about it."

Gareth sat up and his voice was careful when he answered. "I had four messages on my phone when I landed."

"Do you want me to guess?"

"Julian, Raf, Lisa, and my mother. Not necessarily in that order."

"Fuck." Jack hated that everyone thought his business was theirs, but then something struck him. "Were you gonna say anything?"

"Not until you told me yourself." Gareth's hand wrapped around Jack's nape and pulled him in for a soft brush of lips. "Until you tell me, it's not real. You know that, right?"

Did he know that? Jack reveled in the touch, realized that he'd missed it during the days that Gareth had been gone. Not just the curling up in bed together at night and waking up wrapped around Gareth in the morning, but the little moments they shared in a day. Gareth putting a mug of coffee at his elbow when Jack had gotten too tangled up in what he was doing. Jack restoring e-mail and bookmarks Gareth had accidentally deleted before Gareth could even ask. Instructing Frazer in hand-to-hand while fighting each other. And Jack had no idea if Frazer ever learned anything in those training sessions that were more snark and bait and provocation than fight. What he did know was that evenings got interesting after they'd riled each other mercilessly during the day, and he was going to miss that like hell when he was gone.

Jack froze and Gareth's hands stilled where they'd insinuated themselves under Jack's T-shirt. "Jack?"

"What did you mean, until I tell you?" Jack queried, breathless from the revelation. "Did you think you had no part in that decision?"

It was Gareth's turn to stare wide-eyed, and the fact that Gareth wasn't thinking any further ahead than he was made it a balm for Jack's fraught nerves.

"It's a joint decision, idiot. Well—" Jack had the urge to create distance, sit up, move away—would have done so but for the effective deterrent of Gareth's tight hold on his hips. He settled for returning to contemplate the rips in the knee of his jeans. He licked his lips and drew a breath. "—I'd want it to be a joint decision."

The next kiss was liquid fire, like fine malt whisky, chili, and chocolate heated to perfection. Gareth wasn't holding back, and Jack's skin was singing with static when they drew apart.

"Decisions when drunk. Not recommended," Jack quoted Gareth, with a measure of exactness he felt, though neither of them had had more than one beer. "Maybe we should continue this discussion another time."

Gareth pulling him in for another kiss signaled agreement with Jack's plan. So Jack went willingly, returning Gareth's attentions with interest. They eventually made it upstairs, and Jack lost himself in the lemon scent of his sheets and the spice of Gareth's cologne, in hot skin and skilled hands, in deep kisses and soft moans. It was one of those nights, where they fit as if they'd been made for each other, where they needed no words to agree that sleep was overrated. Watching the sky turn from gray to pink to salmon to rose while lying wrapped around each other in softness and warmth was much more rewarding.

# Chapter EIGHT

REALITY DIDN'T intrude until breakfast time. By that point—showered, dressed, and facing Jack across the kitchen table—Gareth was sure that the decision had been a foregone conclusion. Jack had simply refused to see it. Gareth couldn't let that go without hearing all the details.

"Lisa said that you can't get into that server," Gareth commented three cups of tea later, when Jack had spilled the whole story from the rising death toll to the extent of Kiriyenka's paranoia.

"Untrue," Jack corrected. "I can get in. But brute force will only announce that we're there and send him running." Jack leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. "Lisa wants Kiriyenka and Kiriyenka's suppliers. Preferably with full names, addresses, and rap sheets. Then she wants the whole supply network taken down. There's little chance of doing that, but we should be able to throw a bag of spanners." He took the plate Gareth handed him, but then ignored it in favor of watching Gareth make more toast and refill his pot of tea. Ever since the night of the nightclub raid when he'd escorted Jack home, Gareth had felt as comfortable in Jack's kitchen as he was in his own. And never once had Jack complained about it. "Disrupting his lines can't be done from the outside without making him suspicious," he said, when Gareth had sat down again. "He's so beautifully paranoid, Conrad should take lessons."

"And Lisa has nobody else who can do that for her?"

"My question exactly," Jack griped. "She says not, and I can't be bothered to dig through the Met's personnel files just to prove her wrong."

"You saw that coming."

"Yes."

"So why the gyrations? Why not just accept it and get it done?"

Jack poked at his bacon and eggs. He struggled for words and finally settled on "Walking away, it bothers me."

Before Christmas, Gareth wouldn't have known what to make of that comment. He hadn't known then that Jack had never wanted to quit the Army. That he'd walked away from a life he'd loved because he'd believed he'd put Gareth in danger. Now that Gareth knew the story, something in his chest drew tight enough to hurt whenever he thought about it. Jack had never said straight out how he felt about the two of them, together. And Gareth had never asked. Had never said the words himself. Had never suggested they expand what they had, go beyond spending nights at each other's houses and sharing the responsibilities for Nico and Daniel. He'd never dared to broach that topic, too used to being told that he wasn't... enough. But hearing Jack agonize over leaving, when all they were doing was discussing an assignment... that was heady stuff.

"Explain how you are walking away from anything." Gareth tried to keep his voice calm and even. There was no need to give away how much Jack's response meant to him. No need to make it harder for Jack. "It's an undercover assignment to take down a drug dealer. Seems to me you're stepping up, not walking away."

A dull flush spread over Jack's cheeks. "'S not what I mean," he muttered.

"No?"

"No. I've just... I've never had a family before. I don't want to lose it over a job. And you know that, so stop baiting me."

"Why? You're cute when you're all embarrassed."

"I'm what?" Jack's gaze was hot enough to burn toast, but at least the brooding, despondent look was gone.

"Cute," Gareth repeated, but then he leaned closer to Jack, totally serious. "You're agonizing over nothing. None of us are going anywhere. But you'll never forgive yourself if you turn down that job, and we both know it. So go do what you need to do. And then come home."

LISA WASN'T surprised when Jack called her with the news. Neither was she gloating. She simply started planning his mission in a way that commanded Jack's admiration. She kept constant surveillance on Kiriyenka, adding reams of information to the man's profile. Headquarters, hangouts, known associates, favorite foods, even the betting shop Kiriyenka frequented daily made it into the dossier. It was the kind of knowledge that Jack would need to make himself part of the dealer's inner circle, data that was vital to keep Jack alive.

They rented him a studio apartment close to Kiriyenka's base, set up a bank account, and started building a cover story. Jack spent an afternoon furniture shopping, then went home and shoved clothes into bin bags before handing them to Lisa's team. He made a grocery list, knowing that the cupboards would be stocked with stuff he could actually eat when he moved in.

It wasn't the first time Jack had been asked to infiltrate an organization. As always, he read everything he was given, and then went off to find more information on his own. This time, he roped Frazer in to help him, still hoping to find a way into Kiriyenka's network without actually having to go near the man and his gang of smugglers.

They attacked the problem from various angles, tossing ideas back and forth. Donald Frazer never complained about the extra hours they were putting in, but he was as irritable as a cat with a sore tooth, and Jack couldn't work out what had rattled his cage.

"Will you do me a favor and tell me what's pissed you off?" he asked one morning, when Frazer had put so much ire into their hand-to-hand training that Jack was going to go home with bruises. "Is it me taking that assignment and leaving you to hold the fort?"

"What? No. You couldn't not go, right? Not once they'd asked you."

"You didn't answer my question."

Frazer flushed a deep red and mumbled something under his breath.

"Say that again where I can hear it? It also helps if you don't clench your teeth." Jack tossed a towel in Frazer's direction and stretched out his aching muscles, pleased with the way the training session had gone. Six months ago Donald Frazer couldn't have fought off a sleepy kitten. After he'd tried to confront the company's finance director over a small matter of fraud and had ended the day with a gash in his head that needed stitches, Jack had decided to teach Frazer self-defense. Six months later the Scot was still reluctant to do damage, but he was getting a hell of a lot better at dodging.

"I'm not letting you off without getting an answer. You know that, right?" Jack asked when Frazer didn't expand on his mumbled explanation.

"It's nothing to do with your assignment, okay?" Donald's voice changed from anger to embarrassment. "I don't like the idea of you gone, but it's what it is."

"Then why're you spitting mad?"

"It's Mason," Frazer admitted. "He's winding me up."

"How? Why?"

Frazer shrugged. "I don't know why."

"Okay, then tell me what he's doing." Frazer wasn't looking at him and his shoulders were stiffer than they should have been after their workout. "Frazer. Talk!"

"He keeps dissing you."

Jack had to strain his ears to hear the answer. Then he had to strain his brain to understand it. "And?"

"It irritates me. Obviously."

It made no sense, but Jack had incentive to fix it. He'd come to rely on Frazer, on the way they continuously sanity-checked each other. If he wasn't going to be around for the next few weeks, and Frazer was going to be pulling double duty, the least he could do was remove any distractions. After he spent time with Daniel and Nico and made sure they understood his decision and were okay with him going.

It was shocking how much Jack's life had changed. How many threads were suddenly bound up in his days and nights. He remembered other assignments, when his preparation had required little more than him locking his front door and handing over the keys for safekeeping. Now, there were people that needed to be informed and reassured. There were tasks that needed to be redistributed until he returned. And in the midst of all of that, he had to convince himself each morning when he woke, wrapped around Gareth, that he wasn't making the biggest mistake of his life.

Relocating his computers to Gareth's study, shutting up his house, and putting his Gixxer into secure storage finally made it real for Jack: he was taking that assignment.

THE CORPORATE security office at Nancarrow Mining was never quiet. On any given day, people could be found by the coffee machine or the window-ledge herb patch talking shop, discussing rugby scores or dinner recipes, making plans for nights out, celebrating the completion of successful projects, or bemoaning the latest unreasonable demands made by the new head of the exploration department.

Gareth Flynn didn't expect cathedral-like silence when he entered the office. But he'd never before encountered noise levels more suited to a football stadium when he pushed the double doors open. Nor had he ever found the members of his team clustered around the corner desks of Jack Horwood and Donald Frazer, alternately cursing and cheering at the tops of their lungs.

It was shocking how much noise eight men and four women could produce when they put their minds to it.

"Fuck! You're losing him."

"Rio. He's in Rio."

"Gods, that bugger is fast."

"Here. Got him. He's in Seoul!"

"Shenzhen. Get here. Horwood!"

It sounded for all the world like a playoff in the latest gamer championships, if Gareth could have believed any of his mostly handpicked staff to be that unprofessional.

"Could someone clue me in on what we're doing?" he asked politely as he reached the back of the crowd.

He wasn't surprised that most of his team hadn't noticed his arrival or were too focused on what they were watching to hear his question. None of them were ex-military, so the lack of situational awareness was maybe understandable. Gareth would have been disappointed beyond belief had he been able to sneak up on Jack. But despite the noise, data scrolling over four screens, and both hands furiously busy on his keyboard, Jack was aware and heard the question. He lifted one hand from the keys, waved it over his head in a wait gesture, and went right back to typing at breakneck speed.

"Nagano. No, crap! Where the fuck is he gone?"

"Vilnius. A... bank?"

"Stop it, all of you." Jack's sharp tone broke through the excited babble of voices, stilled them to almost silence. "We won't catch him running. He's too fast and too far ahead of us. Frazer. You tag. I paint."

"'Kay." Don Frazer's voice was taut with concentration. The beat of his fingers on the keyboard changed, became a loose rhythm that Jack's fingers followed easily, almost without thought. In no time at all, they tracked the transmission around the world, highlighting and tagging while the crowd around them got noisy once more.

"Will you all shut up? You're worse than a bunch of screaming fangirls at a boy band reunion."

"We've never seen you catch a thief before."

"You won't see me catch one now, so why don't you go do what you were doing?"

"Oh? Is he too good for the great Jack Horwood?"

Gareth turned his head to identify the speaker. Interactions in his team didn't come with that level of jealousy on a normal day. The image of Jack's feral grin—all teeth and snarling menace—reflected in the large window, and Gareth mentally prepared for damage control. The scathing comment he expected to hear never came.

"The thief's not here," Frazer said, fingers never losing the rhythm he'd started, the rhythm that was guiding Jack, helping him do... whatever it was he was doing. "We're just following his footprints. And I started this. Not Jack."

It didn't need another quick wave from Jack for Gareth to realize that that comment had been uttered for his benefit. As if he'd ever get into it with Jack about Jack's hacking. Though it was oddly sweet that Frazer thought he might.

It took another twenty minutes before Jack leaned back in his seat. By then, everyone had returned to their desks and only Gareth remained, resting against the back of Jack's chair and watching him work.

"I'm sorry," Frazer offered when his hands stilled on the keys. "I should have listened to you. I just thought...."

"Hey." Standing right behind him, Gareth could no longer see the expression on Jack's face, though he could hear the smile in his voice. "You don't apologize for having fun. Ever."

"We didn't—"

"We got close." Jack tipped his head against the backrest and met Gareth's gaze. He looked content, the crinkle at the edge of the green eyes almost smug.

"Close isn't good enough. That's what you always tell me, remember?"

"You got more than close," Gareth realized, and needed to hide a smile at the sudden hope on Frazer's face.

"Really?"

"If you run too fast, you're more likely to trip," Jack agreed.

"It was programmed!"

"Not right at the end, it wasn't."

"Really?"

"Really, really. So now we have a couple of links we didn't have before." There was more to that statement than Jack was letting on, but before Gareth could ask, Jack spun and threw one of his juggling balls across the room. The leather sphere hit Lloyd Mason's forehead with a thud, raising snickers in his corner of the office.

"Oi, loudmouth," Jack called. "We got a lead, so Frazer's earned that bottle, wouldn't you say?"

Frazer's cheeks were pink, his ears an even darker red. "Don't, Jack, it's not necessary," he protested in a barely audible voice.

"Yeah, right." Jack scrunched up his face as if he'd smelled something unpleasant. "You've no idea how necessary this is."

The tone sent shivers down Gareth's back. And not the good kind. Before the matter could escalate or Jack could fish a knife from his boot and throw that next, Gareth had made up his mind.

"You two. My office. Now."

Once through the door, Jack headed straight for the coffee machine and the row of mugs parked beside it. "Don?" He held a mug up and tipped his head to the side.

"Please."

Gareth nodded too, and Jack came across the room with three brimming mugs, cream, and sugar on a tray.

"You wanna tell me what all that was about?"

"Rivers in Egypt," Jack said after he swallowed his mouthful of coffee. "That, and the fact that Frazer hasn't got a clue how to deal with sexual frustration."

"What?" Donald's face glowed such a bright red he could have done double duty as a traffic light.

Jack blinked at the sight. "You didn't realize he was hitting on you? That makes it even funnier." He set his mug down and leaned elbows on knees. "Mason thinks we're corrupting the baby," he clarified, more for Frazer's benefit than Gareth's. "And since he believes that I already have an unfair advantage, sleeping with the boss an' all, he's being an ass. Nothing to worry over."

Gareth focused on the youngest member of his team, who was punching so far above his weight where their work was concerned that it was easy to forget his age and the fact that he didn't have a mean bone in his body. "Is he giving you grief, Frazer?"

"Not me. He just keeps sniping at Jack."

"Like I said: it's nothing to worry about. Leave it alone," Jack counseled. "I can solve that one any time I want to."

"With a fist?"

"I was thinking I could pin him to the wall and kiss him. That'd make an impression."

Gareth hoped that Jack was joking. Right then he really couldn't tell. Something brittle had crept into Jack's mood. Something Gareth didn't like. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Leave it alone, boss, really. It'll sort itself out."

"I'm not convinced," Gareth said. "These things are never that straightforward. Frazer, straight answer, no bullshit: do you need help handling Mason? You'll have enough on your plate while Jack is gone, I don't want you to—"

"It's fine. I just didn't realize why he was suddenly so—"

"Deluded? Jealous? A moronic asshat?"

"How is that a mature, considered response?"

Jack showed him a mature, considered response: He stuck his tongue out. Then he went back to his coffee. "Anyways," he said after a moment, levity gone as if it had never been. "Looks like I'm off day after tomorrow. So we best make sure we know where we are with everything."

The flash of bright, hot pain in his chest stunned Gareth. Two days. Not even. He closed his eyes on a deep exhale, then reopened them and focused on Frazer's stricken expression and outraged wail.

"Why the fuck did you let me talk you into that chase?"

"Why not? It was fun. I needed fun." Jack's expression was guarded, the look in his eyes hard to decipher. "We got a little closer to finding where our leaked data was ending up. And you got a bottle of Glenfiddich out of Mason. Don't forget that."

"Does anyone else know you're leaving?" Gareth interrupted, directing them onto a track he hadn't planned to be on for a few weeks yet.

"Julian knows. I have no idea if he's told anyone while you were gone. Hell, I don't even know how he found out, but I'd bet on the usual suspects."

Aidan and Alexandra, then. That he could handle. "Nobody in the team apart from Frazer?"

"No. I didn't need it broadcast."

"Agreed." Gareth turned his head and contemplated the Scot. "Are you okay with keeping this quiet?"

"Of course." Surprise at Jack's offhand announcement had bleached Frazer's cheeks, but he worked to hold it together. He even managed to look mildly offended. "What's the story?"

"Research sabbatical?"

"Mason will roast you alive when you come back!"

"He can try." Jack's tone made it clear that neither Mason nor his cover story held his interest. He woke up his slate and projected his to-do list onto the display board on the wall in front of them. "We've reassigned all my priorities as we thought best while you were out," he said, waving at the list. "I think Janet should take over some of Frazer's stuff."

Gareth contemplated the list, impressed with the effort the two had put into their plan despite the limited time they'd had available. At first glance, all critical areas had been covered in great detail.

"Does Janet have the skills and can you work with her?"

Frazer looked to Jack as if to confirm an opinion, then turned and faced Gareth. "Yes and maybe?"

"You can't please everyone, kid. Just stop taking shit from people and tell 'em what to do." It sounded like a tried and tested conversation. "It doesn't matter who it is, remember that."

"I'll try."

"And I'm not gonna say it." Jack rose and stretched. "Are we done? They want me at the Yard."

"Go. We'll finish up here," Gareth managed, even though the thought of Jack out of his sight had become intolerable when he found that two more days were all they had before Jack had to leave.

"AND WHAT else?"

They sprawled on a heap of blankets and cushions in front of a blazing fire in Gareth's living room, careless of the hour, with wine glasses close and Jack's favorite Touhou jazz soothing their minds. Gareth had broken out bottles of his most comforting red, and Jack had shared as many details of the upcoming assignment as he could. Gareth knew now that Jack would remain in London, that he'd live in a studio apartment over a jazz club and that he wouldn't be working. Not in a traditional nine-to-five job at any rate.

"Word is, he's recruiting enforcers," Jack said in reply to one of Gareth's questions. "He's lost a couple of shipments and some of his runners are getting fresh."

"Will you need to use? Or sell?"

"I'm cleared to use if I have to, but I'd rather not. I've no idea how long I'm gonna be out there. As for selling—hell no, unless it's my absolute only way in."

Jack's voice was matter-of-fact, his mind already far away. The change in him since he'd accepted the assignment was both obvious and jarring. Gareth had seen it before, when Jack had raised a defiant eyebrow in response to Gareth's direct order to leave him, had straightened up to his full height, snipers be damned, and shoved a boot into Gareth's shoulder to stop the bleeding. There were still nights when Gareth dreamed of Jack standing over him like that, rifle gripped in bloody hands.

"Where did you go?" A warm palm cupped Gareth's cheek, turned his head until his eyes met a deep green gaze. One that saw far too much, given that Jack dropped his hand and brushed his fingers over the faded scar on Gareth's shoulder. "Not the same," he said.

And Gareth believed him and went back to his questioning. "What else?"

"He likes men, you know. That Kiriyenka character. He likes men."

"That could be useful."

"Yeah. No need to screw girls on snooker tables to be one of the boys."

"That something you've done on past assignments?"

Jack shrugged. "Let's just say it's a good thing that I toe the line on either side. I can find something to like wherever they send me."

"So I was right. Your mark liking men's gonna be useful."

He was still teasing, but this time around, Jack made a face. "I'm not fucking James Bond!"

"I should hope you're not fucking him." Gareth grinned. "Wikipedia says the man is married."

"Oh, screw you, Flynn!" Jack rolled onto his stomach and mashed his face into the blankets. His next words were muffled. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

"Good. Is it working?"

"No."

"Ah well. Must try harder."

JACK CHECKED all his pockets one last time. His house keys joined his phone and wallet on Gareth's dining room table. Lisa had a new phone waiting for him at the Yard along with a driver's license and keys to his studio apartment. He was reaching for his bag when something occurred to him. Yanking off his right boot, he opened the hidden compartment in the sole and extracted a credit card and a micro SD card, adding them to the small pile of possessions on the table.

"I check in with Lisa once a week. I've asked her to keep you in the loop," he reminded Gareth as he picked up his bag and angled toward the front door.

Gareth pulled Jack close once more and Jack let himself lean against Gareth for just a moment. Even in threadbare jeans and an ancient T-shirt, Gareth Flynn was a solid wall of heat, warding off the shivers in Jack's soul. He was everything Jack had ever wanted. So why was he about to walk away? It hadn't ended well the last time he'd tried it.

"Shit." Jack dropped the bag. He slid his arms around Gareth's waist and buried his face in his shoulder, relieved when Gareth wrapped him into a tight embrace. Gareth gave wonderful hugs and Jack wanted to stay like this, close to Gareth's warmth. Walking out that door was too much of an effort. And a chance he was nowhere near ready to take.

"I hate walking away," he mumbled into Gareth's shirt, comforted by the scent of the spicy cologne he loved. "I promised myself I'd stop doing that after I met you again."

Gareth tightened his arms around Jack until Jack could barely breathe through the pressure. It was perfect.

"You're not walking away," Gareth reminded him sternly. "It's just an assignment. I expect to see your ass back here as soon as you're done. In one piece."

"Just my ass?"

He got a swat on said ass in reply, and suddenly it was that easy. One more tight hug. One more deep breath. Then Jack picked up his bag and waved a hand over his head as he strode to the door, the motion nonchalant. He might have fooled anyone, but Gareth Flynn knew better than that. Jack felt Gareth's gaze on his back while he walked out the door and down the drive to the car idling by the curb.

"Dinner'll be waiting," Gareth called as Jack opened the passenger door and climbed in.

Jack took it as a promise.

# Part II: Restless
# Chapter NINE

WITH ALL the information that Lisa's team had compiled about Kiriyenka, getting an in had been blissfully straightforward. All it had taken was a late-night game of darts—or rather knives—in the backroom of Kiriyenka's favorite pub. Jack hadn't even needed to put himself forward. He'd simply joined an ongoing game and won. He'd won the rematch, too. And the challenge after that.

It might have helped a little that he'd not been knocking back vodka shots half the night, or that none of the liberally dispensed taunts had riled him in the slightest. Whichever it was, by the end of the second week he'd met Kiriyenka three times, had been offered a job as enforcer, and had accepted.

Yes, getting in had been straightforward. Being part of Kiriyenka's setup was anything but.

The man owned a legitimate tuning shop that he used as a front for the shady side of his business. It was a bright, cheerful space with a reputation for sports car restoration that attracted customers from across the country. What went on upstairs, though, and what Kiriyenka's employees had to sign up to, didn't just border on paranoia.

Being issued with a cheap, stripped-down company phone that could be used to make and answer calls, tell the time, and little else—and being forced to hand over his own as soon as he'd shaken hands with Kiriyenka—was only the beginning. Since then he'd been followed on his daily rounds and had his mail intercepted. Being patted down when stopping by the office was par for the course, as were the occasional strip searches and requests at odd moments to hand over his phone to be checked or to turn out his pockets. He was invariably woken at five thirty every morning from what little sleep he had managed, just to watch two of Kiriyenka's goons search and sweep his small apartment for hidden listening devices, bugs, and other unauthorized electronics.

Dimitri Kiriyenka had a very good grasp of the latest surveillance measures. He knew exactly how he could be caught, and he protected himself against those threats with a ruthless attention to detail that commanded Jack's respect.

Not much else in his setup did. Not Kiriyenka himself, not the men he surrounded himself with, or the snowstorm of cocaine he unleashed on the south and east of England. And certainly not the man's way of conducting business.

At some point in the past, Kiriyenka had decided that an honesty-box scheme reduced confrontation and made for smoother business transactions. Three weeks into his assignment, after he'd been asked to back up Kiriyenka's conviction with a hefty dose of violence, Jack agreed that the strategy was sound. And after he'd showered twice and spent an extra fifteen minutes scrubbing the blood from under his fingernails, he'd made sure that Lisa's team would spread the word.

They had enough deaths on their slate already. They didn't need any more.

LISA WAS going to spit nails if she found out.

Jack didn't care. He'd been woken at five thirty by Kiriyenka's goons, after catching barely an hour's sleep, and he was cranky as hell. Had been ever since his last check-in call, when Lisa had admitted that she'd not spoken to Gareth in ten days. The one thing he'd asked for before he agreed to take her undercover assignment was a gossamer-thin thread of communication to reassure Gareth, the boys, and himself, and it had turned into nothing more than a mirage six weeks into the job. He'd ended the call without another word, too furious to have anything resembling a rational conversation after that revelation.

For a few hours, he had contemplated packing up and calling it quits. Lisa had broken their agreement. That meant he could do what he wanted, right?

Only problem was, Jack didn't quit jobs before they were completed. It wasn't how he was built. Nor how he'd been trained. And he'd have to go home and explain to Gareth that he'd walked out before he'd done what he'd agreed to do. Because he'd been pissed at Lisa.

Yeah... no.

Even if he could justify his reaction, and he was sure that he could, walking out just wouldn't wash. Still grumbling, Jack had taken a deep breath and made an effort to calm himself. He would stay until his work was done, pretending to be the unsmiling enforcer who had no patience for idiots and was quick with a knife. Even when he had to sacrifice his privacy, put up with random strip searches, and have his apartment tossed on a daily basis. Or when he had to deal with horny, eye-candy drug dealers while devising ways to wreck their business.

If Lisa couldn't provide the reassurance he needed to handle that crap, then he just had to find it himself.

Jack drifted with the pedestrian traffic toward the corner bakery that was one of Gareth's favorites. He couldn't remember the number of times they'd stopped there on their way to the Strand to pick up a box of pastries. Chances were good that Gareth wouldn't be able to resist the baked cheesecake and morello cherry custard danish. Not today.

Lisa might have forgotten when Gareth's birthday was, but Jack certainly hadn't. And he wanted to see Gareth so badly he ached.

Breaking character while undercover could be fatal. Jack knew that. Even angry, he had no intention of compromising the work he'd already done, the time he'd invested. He'd come prepared, and he wasn't planning on making a big production of Gareth's birthday.

He just wanted a glimpse. Maybe a touch. Even if Gareth never knew.

Jack was on his third amble past the bakery when he spotted the familiar blue Triumph pulling up to the curb. A few short steps altered his direction and speed until he collided accidentally on purpose with the tall, leather-clad man just dismounting from the bike. For a moment they swayed, off-balance. Then Jack put his arms around Gareth's shoulders, allowed himself a single deep breath, a single heartbeat to touch his palm to Gareth's neck, and then Jack was gone, sucked into the press of pedestrians with a brief, murmured apology.

He didn't turn around. He didn't look back. Instead he took off the trilby he wore and tossed it into the first bin he passed. He shrugged out of his black jacket while he walked and turned it inside out before sliding his arms back into the sleeves and folding the black stand-up collar inside. Now the jacket was gunmetal gray and complemented his dark jeans and pale gray T-shirt. Gareth had laughed his ass off when he'd first seen Jack's extensive collection of reversible coats and jackets, calling it proof that Jack had truly turned into a spook.

That was bullshit, of course. Reversible jackets had all sorts of uses and Jack didn't just wear them when he was working. Not that Gareth had believed a word of his protestations. He'd called him spook all weekend.

Gareth. The man had felt good against him in the brief moment Jack held him. Warm and alive. And Jack was grateful that—for once—he'd given in to an impulse. He felt more grounded than he had in weeks. And Gareth was still entirely too predictable.

Jack slipped into the nearest coffee shop and ordered a large Americano to go. And just before he stepped back into the persona of the taciturn enforcer with a short fuse for bullshit, he raised his cup in a quirky salute: Happy birthday, Gareth.

"I WANT you in my bed."

As every Friday night, Jack had presented himself at Kiriyenka's apartment to discuss outstanding payments and plans for the following week. On other Fridays he'd found the man in the middle of making dinner or watching boxing matches on the big screen while drowning in beer. And always before, their talks had been short and to the point.

This week he wasn't that lucky. Dimitri was clearly in the process of getting ready for a night out. Or a night out staying in, as it turned out. The drug dealer opened the door in a shirt so tight it seemed painted on. He'd left the buttons open to reveal collarbones, and the deep maroon silk highlighted golden skin, a muscled chest, and sculpted abs... and Dimitri wasn't at all shy showing off for Jack.

"I want you in my bed." He repeated his greeting when Jack didn't react.

Jack didn't even bother looking. "Not happening." He shook his head. "You hired me to watch your back. I can't do that when I'm fucking you."

Technically, he could. And when that thought stirred a tendril of hilarity along with a wash of nausea, Jack knew he needed to get out.

Six and a half weeks undercover and so far, no end in sight. He focused on the information he needed to find and the connections he needed to make, but each day it became a little harder to remember how to put one foot in front of the other without tripping himself. He wasn't sleeping. He was constantly on edge, and seeing the kind of man he was working with, he'd known that one day he would be asked to make other, much less palatable, choices.

"What if I offered to fuck you?" Dimitri queried, hopeful, as he got right into Jack's personal space.

Jack didn't move an inch. "Not happening. You hired me to work for you. I never mix business and pleasure. It doesn't work."

It wouldn't work anyway. Jack might be undercover, living on the wrong side of London, focused on a job that kept him away from his family, but he knew whom he belonged to. He'd known that since he was seventeen, and now, when Gareth Flynn was a reality and not just a fantasy he indulged in to comfort himself when he was lonely, Jack craved amber eyes and silver hair. He craved broad shoulders and spicy cologne and the safety and peace he only ever found with Gareth.

Jack wanted this fucking job over so he could go home.

"Maybe if I fired you...."

"Give it a rest, Dimitri." Jack stepped out of reach. "I'm not looking for a fuck. And you want that money collected."

"Actually, you're right."

The blond switched track as soon as money was mentioned, and Jack breathed a sigh of relief. The man might be horny, he might want Jack, but he still wanted his money a lot more.

THE EARLIER rain had lightened to a steady drizzle. The kind that hung in the air like scented smoke, that softened edges and obscured much of the city's inherent ugliness. The gentle drizzle always triggered memories. Memories of a time when Jack had lived on the streets, cold and scared but safer than he'd been for years. The drizzle drove people inside, left shop assistants drowsy and inattentive, and market traders inclined to look the other way when grubby little hands reached for an apple or a banana their owner had no means to pay for.

The city was quieter when the rain turned to drizzle, and Jack heard the soulful sounds of a saxophone drift through the night while he was still half a street away from the jazz club and the small courtyard where he lived. He walked slowly, savoring the peace of the night, even though it was nothing more than an illusion born from longing.

It was beyond late when Jack made it home to the tiny studio that had served as his base for the last several weeks. He checked his alarms, kicked off his boots, and shed most of his weapons before he stripped off his sodden jacket and went in search of a towel to dry his hair.

He was beat, the exhaustion a bone-deep ache. Only his stubbornness was holding him up. It was Wednesday and he'd finished the list Dimitri had handed him five days earlier. Dimitri had his money and hadn't bothered him when he delivered it. Jack's rounds had been trouble-free and he had even managed to turn up a new name.

Now he had almost two days to himself to dig around in Kiriyenka's past and present. Time to make plans and toss ideas around. He looked forward to speaking to Lisa in the morning. Despite the trust issues between them, her voice was like a drop of sanity in the crazy train that made up his life right then.

Dimitri's offer had rattled him. Not because of the even finer line he'd be walking from now on, but because it had reminded him once more of what was missing from his life. Gareth had been on his mind almost constantly since then, and Jack knew how dangerous it was to let emotions interfere while undercover.

Every time they intruded, Jack pushed the thoughts aside as well as he could. He didn't acknowledge the hollow ache in his chest or the loneliness that started to weigh him down. Undercover assignments used to be easier than this. Despite the need to be on his guard and maintain a persona different from his own, Jack used to regard them as a welcome chance to get out of the office and make use of his skills. And while his need for justice was as strong as ever, living a lie while trying to find a way to take down a drug dealer's network felt like a chore these days.

Jack pushed those thoughts aside too. Hair mostly dry, he swept his place for bugs, checked again that nobody had been there while he was out, and then went to grab a beer from the fridge. It wasn't likely, but a beer might help him relax enough for a nap.

As he shut the fridge door, he caught sight of the calendar on the wall.

It was August 14.

His thirtieth birthday.

BY 3:00 a.m. the jazz club in the courtyard had closed its doors. Only the purple neon lights framing the building were still lit, their glow steady now instead of flashing a syncopated beat in time to the music playing inside. It was a time of day Jack loved. His corner of London was quiet, or as quiet as it ever got, and nothing illuminated his small apartment but a crescent moon and the glow from the club's lights, lining the corners of the room with shadows of purple-black velvet.

Some nights, when sleep eluded him more thoroughly than usual, he would drag his comfortable armchair in front of the open floor-to-ceiling windows and wish for his guitar, but right now he had more important things on his mind. Things that required the windows to be tightly shut and the apartment secured against snoopers and eavesdroppers.

"Tomorrow." Jack's voice was crisp and decisive as he spoke the single word into the mobile phone he pressed to his ear.

"Negative," the voice on the other end replied. "We won't be able to cover you adequately during the first part of the operation. Suggest we wait until his men are busy with the next shipment. Two weeks, that's all."

"Tomorrow," Jack said again. "I had a window and I've seeded the server backups. They're running as we speak." The hissing inhale told Jack what Lisa thought of that bit of news. Not that he cared. Lisa Tyrrell hadn't been standing in Jack's place that morning, five feet from a paranoid drug dealer and with his mission target, the coveted server and its line into the dealer's distribution network, close enough to touch. She hadn't had to make a decision in a blink. "Don't give me any crap. The plans have been in place for weeks. You have thirty-two hours. Be ready."

He ended the call, unclipped the back of the phone, and extracted the SIM card. He dropped it into a stone mortar, crushed it with the heavy pestle, and carefully collected the pieces. He wrapped the phone in lemon-scented antiseptic wipes and scrubbed the handset's outside surfaces several times, before he slid it into a plastic bag, covered it with a pillow to muffle the sound, and smashed it with a rolling pin. In the back of his mind, like a ball of warm fuzzies tucked away as a secret treat, he could hear Gareth's voice commenting on his unconventional kitchen skills.

If all went as intended, this would be the last time he had to destroy a brand-new mobile phone to stay one step ahead of one excessively paranoid drug dealer. Though wanton destruction of property was the least of his worries. Undercover work was never clean and clear-cut, whatever he'd been taught. He rarely had contingencies to cover his contingencies. For much of the time, he flew by the seat of his pants, reacted to events by instinct alone. He'd long ago given up wishing for situations where he could let his mind shut up and his training take over. He was wired and on edge all the time and had to police his reactions more and more stringently the longer the assignment lasted. Even so, the course of action he'd just embarked on was a tad reckless. It held a hint of impatience that could cost his life.

Jack didn't care. As he changed into tracksuit and running shoes, readied himself to go out into the night to dispose of the phone and SIM card ahead of being woken at sunrise by Kiriyenka's goons for their daily search of his apartment, his gaze kept straying to the calendar over the fridge.

Tomorrow was September 18.

And he had somewhere to be.

THE MINGLED scents of hot oil and petrol fumes proclaimed the high-end tuning shop open for business. One of the large metal bay doors had been pushed back and hazy sunlight slanted into the garage. Traffic noise drifted on the breeze, and from somewhere close by came the inane chatter of Capital FM's favorite DJ. It was what Dimitri Kiriyenka would undoubtedly call a good day to die.

Jack's stint as an enforcer for the drug dealer at the top of Lisa's most-wanted list was coming to an end. His tenure had been largely uneventful, if he discounted the fact that he hadn't been managing more than short naps for the last twelve weeks. No major wars had broken out with other dealers' networks, no fights for territory, and he'd only had to settle a few disputes over deliveries and payments.

He'd had almost too much time to focus on his target, with the result that the mission parameters had shifted each time he'd delivered new information about the network Kiriyenka had built to obtain and distribute his drugs. The original mission objective—to shut down Kiriyenka's operation in the city—had expanded in scope and now also required him to disrupt Kiriyenka's supply lines. Translated into clear English this meant that Jack got to wreak havoc in cyberspace. He never minded that.

A mezzanine walkway ran the length of the building and overlooked the street-level workshop. Jack stood, arms comfortably draped over the metal railing, and watched as two of Dimitri's men pushed a bright red AC Ace into the workshop's main bay. The overhead lights sparkled in the car's flawless paint and bright chrome, and Jack felt a pang of regret. During the last few weeks he'd watched the Ace transformed from a neglected husk into a gleaming, roaring bit of muscle car fun. And though he wasn't a classic car fanatic by any stretch of the imagination, he'd even played with the idea of rescuing the red toy and taking it home to surprise Gareth.

It would be a toy, a pure summer car. Great for exhilarating days out when the weather was good, and a few runs across London at midnight each year. For racing up Box Hill on Sundays, meandering around Richmond Park or through narrow Surrey lanes at dusk. Owning a car like this would be nothing less than indulgence, but Jack had seen the gleam in Gareth's eyes when he'd driven the TVR home the night they'd found the drugs stash. So when he had seen the red Ace in the workshop, connecting the dots had been easy.

It was a pity that Jack's mission had moved faster than the car's restoration. Or that the car's restoration lagged behind Jack's sudden need to be gone. The AC Ace—despite its perfect looks—was still without shocks, brakes, and parts of its transmission, and therefore useless as a getaway car. While a few more days in the workshop would change that, Jack was out of time and patience. So, along with the workshop and everything in it, the red Ace was fated to die.

The fiery exit strategy hadn't been Jack's idea. He'd been content to take his chances among the ten million people who called London home. With the fake ink gone from his arm and chest and his own tattoo restored along with his eye and hair color, he didn't think that anyone would connect Jack Horwood, systems security specialist for Nancarrow Mining, with David Gibbins, one-time enforcer for a north London drug dealer.

Lisa had disagreed. She wanted a permanent end to Jack's assignment. She wanted David Gibbins to disappear in a way that wouldn't allow for him to be resurrected the next time someone found it useful. The moment she'd said this, Jack had stopped arguing. He hadn't asked for her reasons—though it was obvious that she had them—and he'd accepted the plan, going so far as helping to work out the details.

By now the barrels of petrol should be ready for Jack to release, and Jack's backup should be waiting for his call. The fire brigade should be on standby, ready to put out one fierce blaze caused by an unnoticed petrol spill, a blaze that would claim the life of one David Gibbins.

Heat spiked up Jack's spine, the rush of adrenaline sharpening his senses and making his skin tingle with static. He fought the urge to move and kept his eyes on the men working on the red sports car, until his cheap, stripped-down, Kiriyenka-issued phone beeped an alert. Only then did he straighten from his slouch on the railing. After three months of watching Dimitri and his crew wreak havoc on unsuspecting clubgoers, after three months of watching his words and his back, it was time to go and wreak a bit of havoc of his own.

DIMITRI KIRIYENKA'S private office on the mezzanine level—the workshop business had a separate office and reception area downstairs—was cool and dark, with the blinds drawn over the windows. Facing away from the street, the large room with its four desks was quiet; the faint whirring of the four desktop computers' internal fans the only sound in the dimness. Electronics had been Jack's bread and butter ever since Rio Palmer had offered him a home and Jack had shown a distinct aptitude for screwdrivers, motherboards, code, and remotely sneaking into places he had no business being near. He'd been twelve back then, much too young by anyone's standards but Rio's. The Jamaican hacker had taken the chance and had taught him well. Jack had worked for the government in one capacity or another since he'd turned fourteen. Disrupting a drug dealer's lines of communication wasn't that tricky a job once they'd gotten close to the dealer in question, but this time Jack aimed to push things further. With practiced ease, he hooked the crappy phone he'd been given when he joined Kiriyenka's squad into the network and started to upload several files he'd prepared.

With one eye on his phone, Jack pulled the comm unit from the sole of his boot and fitted the bead into his ear. Wearing a wire while in Dimitri's domain was risky, but Jack took a chance. The Russian would be out all day, and Jack had made sure to arrive at the workshop at the same time the guards did. Amid the banter and the need for coffee they'd contented themselves with a cursory pat down and a slightly more thorough check of his phone for unauthorized software. As if anyone would go to the hassle of modifying that ridiculous piece of crap. Or as if Jack was incapable of hiding any code he didn't want found.

"Raf?"

"I've got your back," Gallant's voice replied so promptly that Jack smiled. He'd not spoken to the man for three months, but Rafael Gallant hadn't changed. He was there when he was needed and punctual to boot.

"Last job running."

"Roger that."

They already had most of the data on Dimitri's main server, swiped by Jack in tiny increments on an almost daily basis, and that server was rigged to blow a few hours from now. Yet there was more to this job than just taking down Dimitri. Jack had waited patiently for the right day to get at Dimitri's suppliers too. Dimitri's latest orders waited on that server, ready to be sent. The Russian had a thing for scheduling tasks—e-mails, bank transfers, backup, grocery deliveries, you name it—that Jack found weird but didn't hesitate to make use of. During a quiet half hour on the previous day, he had seeded the backup programs with a sweet, compact little virus that should be all over Dimitri's widely spread network by this point, propagated in the shortest of bursts whenever the servers came online. When he destroyed the computers in the workshop, and the node dropped from the network, the virus would corrupt the rest of Dimitri's data wherever he kept it. And right now, with e-mail orders waiting to go to Dimitri's suppliers, Jack had a chance to make a mess on their servers too.

"Incoming," Raf's voice sounded in his ear. He was close by, monitoring the outside of the building. "Petrovich just arrived."

"Shit." Ilya Petrovich was Dimitri's accountant—an unassuming face in a nondescript suit hiding a mind like a hacksaw—and he had as little call being on site today as Jack had reasons for being in Dimitri's office. Jack's gaze dropped to his phone. The transfer was a little over half complete. Given the phone's abysmal Wi-Fi range, making a dash for it and finishing his work from a distance was out of the question. Neither did he want to start over, even if he'd been able to.

There was a reason Jack had taken the chance to seed the server the previous day. A reason that had nothing to do with unraveling Kiriyenka's setup.

Jack wanted today to be the day he got to go home to Gareth. He'd already missed Gareth's birthday. He wasn't going to miss the first anniversary of the day they'd met again.

He quickly grabbed a few sheets of paper from the stack on Dimitri's desk as if he was planning to do a stock check, and slipped out of the office and into the neighboring storeroom.

Not a moment too soon.

Safe on the other side, Jack heard Petrovich's key in the lock and then the door creaked open. A thud... briefcase being set on the desk. A rattle followed by another, longer creak... Ilya settling himself into the chair before the desk. Shuffling sounds... unpacking his briefcase, maybe?

Jack checked the phone again. Two-thirds of the data had been transferred. The files weren't that large, but despite the urge to hurry, Jack kept the transfer rate low. The server bristled with security protocols and he couldn't afford to trigger even a single one of them. He couldn't allow himself to forget that Dimitri Kiriyenka was paranoid. Not only were his servers never online for more than a minute or two at a time—the main reason why Jack had to go undercover to infiltrate his organization rather than just hack his way in—he had also protected himself against most known types of cyberattack. His business was widespread and lucrative enough to afford that high a level of security and Kiriyenka extended it to everyone who worked for him. Jack's crappy stripped-out phone—only useful if he wanted to call for a pizza—was a case in point. As were the strip searches and daily checks of his apartment for unauthorized electronics. Breaking Kiriyenka's security protocols, while giving the impression that he didn't even own a laptop, had been the sort of challenge Jack relished. It had taken him a while to come up with a workable plan, but he'd finally found a way to do damage.

Because the one thing Kiriyenka hadn't been prepared for was someone like Jack getting hands-on cozy with his kit.

A muffled yell ripped Jack's concentration and he frowned at the closed door. Groans and strange gurgling sounds drifted through the wood and Jack debated if he really wanted to know what was going on next door. It sounded vaguely as if the accountant was being strangled, but Jack had walked in on Dimitri's sex games once too often to be seriously alarmed.

"Did you see anyone else enter the building?" he whispered into the comm.

"Negative," Raf responded promptly, and Jack decided that ignorance was bliss and concentrated on his file transfer rate. In time, the disturbing sounds died away, leaving the background hum of fans and electronics.

"Let me know when Petrovich is leaving," he requested in a low voice. The man shouldn't have been in the office today. If he'd just come in for a booty call, maybe his visit would be a short one.

"Will do."

The file transfer completed, Jack decided to use the time while he was trapped to do a little more snooping. He'd already liberated stacks of confidential data from Dimitri's server, but that didn't mean he'd found all there was to find. He pulled the keyboard from the server rack and tilted the screen to a comfortable angle. His fingers moved almost of their own accord, and all Jack had to do was copy any interesting looking data and keep an eye and ear out for disturbances.

"Horwood?"

"What?" Jack was taking an unhealthy interest in some of Kiriyenka's old bank statements when Raf's voice interrupted his industrious morning.

"You're screwing the schedule if you don't move your ass."

"Petrovich?"

"Haven't seen him."

"Shit. Do you think he's fallen asleep after he got off?" He didn't wait for a reply. The question had been rhetorical, anyway. Gallant had no more information on Petrovich's activities than he had himself. And a look at his watch confirmed that their schedule really was under threat if he didn't get out of the storeroom and on with the main event.

He carefully replaced the keyboard and screen as if the whole room wasn't scheduled to turn into a fiery inferno in less than three hours from now. He opened the door into the neighboring room the tiniest crack, then yanked it wide and took three fast steps inside.

Ilya Petrovich was slumped in his chair. His forehead touched the papers he'd set out on the desk and the documents, desk, and even the floor beyond were spattered with crimson.

A lot of crimson.

Too much crimson to make calling an ambulance a worthwhile effort.

Jack circled the desk until he was directly behind the motionless accountant. Behind the man's chair, the blood spatter was negligible. Most of the real mess was in front, with some spray toward the right side of the wide desk, where the document stacks were no longer neat, where corners and edges were crumpled and torn.

Jack had never worked a murder case. Looking at the gory mess, he didn't really want to start now. He pushed his sleeves up to avoid getting blood on his clothes and touched fingertips to the hinge of Petrovich's jaw. The skin felt waxy, but by no means cold. Of course, there was no pulse for Jack to find. With that amount of blood on and around the desk, the thinnest streaks already dried to deep maroon and even the bigger splashes clotting, there was simply no chance that Petrovich would still be alive.

Jack just somehow couldn't... not check.

"Shit!" He stepped away from the desk and tapped his comm. "I think we stepped into something here."

"What is it?"

"While I was stoking that server, Petrovich had his throat cut."

"What? Didn't you hear anything?"

"Yes, I heard something," Jack said, annoyed. He now wished he'd been a little more curious and a little less focused on finishing this assignment. If nobody had come in with the accountant, then he had to have been killed by someone already here. "Didn't bother looking 'cause I thought he had one of the mechanics on his knees."

"What?" It took Raf a second to catch on. "Oh. That's...."

"Exactly," Jack agreed sourly. "I've walked in on him before. With Dimitri, actually. And even thus occupied, he'd have questioned what I was doing in the storeroom. Man had that sort of mind."

"Shit."

Gallant's comment was heartfelt, and as Jack listened, Raf did his best to embellish the sentiment with as much creativity as he could find that early in the day. Jack didn't mind. He knew that Gallant lost control of his mouth when his brain was working overtime.

"Can you undo what you did to that server?"

Jack knew the answer, but faced with an unexpected dead man, he checked his watch, then the clock on the blood-spattered desk to make sure. "Not anymore."

"Then we have to get you out of there. No argument."

"'M not arguing. I wanna get out of here more than you can imagine. But I can't just ignore this. Raf, I was maybe fifteen feet away when Petrovich died." He had enough presence of mind to keep his voice low and half his attention on the two doors and the window.

"And the man who did it was someone you know... I realize that. Can you stash the body somewhere it won't burn?"

Jack slumped against the wall and exhaled. "You'll lose any and all evidence."

"Yeah. Fuck, I need coffee. I sure as hell didn't need this."

"Seconded. Get your coffee and give me a few. Maybe I can dream up something to get us out of this mess."

FOR ONCE, even the idea of coffee held no appeal for Jack. It would later, he was sure of it, but right now he tasted rust in the back of his throat, and as the sun rose higher and the corrugated metal roof warmed, the strange scent in the room—dust and paper and recently spilled blood—took over where the thin draught from the windows failed.

Not having been trained as a crime scene tech, Jack did the only thing he could. He took pictures of the room, Petrovich's body, and the spilled blood from every angle, hoping the cheap phone would hold up. The battery had been fully charged when he left home, but the handset's memory card wasn't big enough for a toddler's first phone. While he snapped image after image, Jack wondered whether it might be acceptable to use the murdered man's phone to take pictures of his corpse or whether Lisa and co might consider that disrespectful. He paid special attention to the crumpled papers on the right-hand side of the desk, and even pulled Petrovich upright, so he could take shots that recorded his face and—more to the point—the cut across his throat that had ended his life.

The edges of the wound were smooth, suggesting a sharp blade without serrations. Whether the knife was a switch blade, a combat knife, or a medieval dagger... well, someone else would have to work that one out since it appeared that the blade had left the room with the murderer and Jack wasn't even qualified to guess.

Which led Jack to wondering which of Kiriyenka's men had wielded the knife. And why Ilya Petrovich had had to die. The man had been an efficient, sharp-eyed accountant and eternally polite. Not someone Jack would ever turn his back on or share confidential information with. Apart from that, Jack knew little of Petrovich that would explain his sudden, violent death.

Of course, all Kiriyenka's men were dangerous. Many had a criminal record, and all were well capable of using a knife when called upon to do so. Though that line of thought wasn't getting him anywhere either.

The door handle moved quietly under Jack's grip and he slipped out of the office and back onto the mezzanine walkway, still no clearer about what to do with Petrovich's body and uncomfortably aware of time running out. The virus was loose, the fire service was on standby, Raf and the rest of Lisa's team were in position, and the moment he took a call from his bank, Kiriyenka would know that his network had been compromised.

Jack wanted to be out of the building when that happened. He wanted to be on the other side of London if he had a choice, preferably having dinner in Gareth's kitchen, or soaking in the hot tub in the garden with only Gareth, a bottle of wine, and some music for company. Simply arresting Kiriyenka seemed such a futile end to a lot of work. And it generated a damnable mountain of paperwork.

He'd never be able to say afterward whether the gods had been with him or against him that day. All he knew was that he cursed soundly when he turned toward the warehouse's exit and saw Dimitri Kiriyenka standing at the top of the stairs, his hands and chest streaked red.

There was just no way it was going to be as easy as all that.

Despite that conviction, Jack kept walking toward the blond drug dealer.

They'd been dancing around each other almost from the day Dimitri had hired Jack. Dimitri had never understood why Jack wasn't in the least bit interested in his overtures. In the beginning, the invitations had been subtle. Later... not so much. And they had rattled Jack's cage more than anything else he'd been asked to do in the last twelve weeks.

When his focus was on business, Dimitri wasn't hard to work for. At times he was even likable. And, built like a swimmer with long lean lines, wheat-blond hair, and gray eyes, Dimitri Kiriyenka was eye candy. Even in jeans and a blood-spattered T-shirt, haloed by light and dust motes, he looked like a painting. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown as if he'd indulged in some of the goods he peddled, and Jack wanted to shake his head and call bullshit. What came out of his mouth was something entirely different.

"You killed Petrovich?"

"Bastard was stealing from me."

Jack didn't think that at all likely, but he was too tired to argue. Petrovich wasn't supposed to have been in the office this morning, and Jack had no idea why Kiriyenka was even in the building when he had appointments on the other side of London. Whatever had been going on between those two, he didn't want to know. He was done with Kiriyenka's shit.

He must have let some of his thoughts show in his eyes, because Kiriyenka suddenly moved. And he had a knife in his hand.

Jack hated his life in that moment: The stupid jobs people kept asking him to do. Idiotic accountants who got themselves killed when all Jack wanted was to get out of a mess not of his making. Most of all, he hated arrogant, eye-candy drug dealers who thought they owned London and, by sheer geographical proximity, the man they knew as David Gibbins. A man whose real name was Jack Horwood, and who couldn't even do what he wanted most in that moment: wipe the stupid grin off Kiriyenka's face with the knife sheathed at his hip.

At least he wouldn't have to go far for a weapon, though seeing that Kiriyenka had just committed murder, the Taser in his boot was probably a better option. One that wouldn't immediately rain down hellfire and brimstone on his ass the way a quick bit of knife work might.

"I like you, David. I really like you. But I can't let you leave," Dimitri said in his rolling accent, blocking Jack's access to the stairs. "You've seen too much."

Yeah, right. Why don't you write me a fucking poem? Jack was so done with this shit, it wasn't funny. He drew a breath to focus, calculated angles, and put on his most guileless expression. "I thought you trusted me."

"I trust no one."

That was sort of obvious, and really didn't need spelling out in neon. But Kiriyenka wasn't in his right mind—the blown pupils were a dead giveaway there—and Jack hadn't made the comment because he believed the sentiment. He needed a distraction, and getting Kiriyenka spouting platitudes seemed to do the trick.

Jack feinted a push toward the stairs, sidestepped, and dove for the carpet, whipping past Kiriyenka in an instant. Before Dimitri could turn, Jack had palmed the Taser. He even managed a sheepish grin as he straightened.

"That was stupid," Kiriyenka chided. "There is no way out for you. And nobody is here to hear you scream."

"Stop talking in movie quotes. It's creepy."

And yeah, the narrowing gray eyes looked damned sexy. If the rest of the package hadn't been stamped "asshole" in big bold letters, Jack might actually—no, scratch that. He was still pig sick of the whole mess.

He was out of patience too.

A kick to Kiriyenka's knee made the Russian stumble. And without further delay Jack stepped close and rammed the Taser into Kiriyenka's side, just above the belt of the man's blood-spattered jeans.

# Chapter TEN

KIRIYENKA FOLDED in half where he stood and Jack caught his shoulders in time to lower him to the floor of the mezzanine. Their boots squeaked on the nobbed metal, and Jack was sure he'd rattled the ceiling ninja-rolling across the mezzanine walkway. He waited for one of the tuning shop's crew to come query the noise.

Nothing moved.

Maybe Dimitri hadn't lied about nobody being close by.

Jack confiscated the knife. He pressed fingers to the hinge of Kiriyenka's jaw, relieved to feel a fairly even pulse. Not DOA, then, despite being shocked while he was high and passing out. Jack wasn't fond of electroshock weapons, but he couldn't argue that they did their job. Kiriyenka was out cold, and Jack hoped the man would remain that way for a time. He couldn't deal with any more pointless exposition. Not when he had bigger problems now than getting out of the warehouse without blowing his cover.

Jack flicked his phone open and took more images, this time of an unconscious drug dealer in blood-soaked jeans and T-shirt, and one nondescript knife. Then he activated his comm. "Gallant?"

"Finally." Raf's relieved sigh came through Jack's earwig, clear as a bell. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"I was having kittens, man. What took you so long?"

"Oh, I dunno. I solved your murder."

"You what?"

"I bumped into a bloody drug dealer. Literally," Jack explained, looking down at the passed-out blond. "Who should not have been here today."

"And who nobody reported coming in," Raf added, sounding as pissed off as Jack felt. He was going to have words with someone about that one, Jack could tell. Short, loud, unpleasant words. "Is he alive?"

"Out cold, but breathing. A few thousand volts did the job. Think you can make him good for something?" Jack shoved the toe of his boot into Kiriyenka's ribs. The man barely stirred.

"Can you dump him somewhere away from the fire?"

Jack thought of the almost completely restored red sports car in the workshop below. Last time he'd seen it, the crew had been working on the transmission. While the Ace wouldn't drive, it should at least move when pushed. The idea of rescuing the AC Ace was appealing. The image of Kiriyenka—blood-soaked T-shirt and all—in the car's black leather bucket seats was not.

Jack didn't hesitate.

"I'll leave a red AC Ace out front. With a trussed Kiriyenka inside. Do me a favor and get to it before the rain moves in and ruins the leather seats. And don't fuck it up. I've just spent three months watching it being restored."

"You want the car?"

"If it's going spare. It won't drive, so don't try. Any special instructions for Petrovich's corpse?"

"In the car with his murderer?"

"Hell no!" Jack didn't need to tax his memory to recall the blood-and-gore-covered mess that was the late Ilya Petrovich. He couldn't be blamed for wanting said mess as far away from the nearly restored car as possible. Kiriyenka's blood-spattered clothes were enough of a challenge. "I'd have to drag him across the shop without being seen and that's not the best way for me to keep my head down." Jack leaned against the wall, Kiriyenka at his feet, and chewed on his lower lip. "I'm thinking of tossing him into the cistern. What d'you reckon?"

"Yeah, g'head," Raf's voice grumbled in his ear a moment later. "The coroner's fine with anything that keeps him out of the fire. Especially if you have the murder weapon. You're absolutely sure he's dead?"

Jack sent one of the photos he'd taken earlier.

"Shit! Okay. The cistern it is. How long d'you think you need?"

"Gimme half an hour. I'll yell if I hit a snag." Without another word, Jack got to work, grateful that the place really was deserted. Either the men had seen Kiriyenka in his chain saw massacre outfit and had fled the premises, or the drug dealer had offered powdered treats to keep them quiet and out of his hair. Either scenario suited Jack just fine.

He scrounged a blanket and a handful of cable ties from the downstairs office and used them to immobilize Kiriyenka before settling him in the passenger seat of the AC Ace. Then he pushed the car out of the garage door and to the end of the forecourt.

"One drug dealer, unconscious, trussed, and arranged for your pleasure," he announced over the comm, as he disappeared back inside the workshop and pushed the metal doors closed. "Now for the disgusting and messy parts of the program."

"Understood. I've just been told that four men left the place about an hour ago and headed to the nearest pub for a late breakfast. They're still there. Oh, and get this: Kiriyenka apparently turned up at the workshop before you and the guards did."

"See now, I didn't need to know that. It's not as if I could have tripped over him at an inopportune moment, right?"

"It's in hand." Raf's voice promised painful retribution for someone.

"I'm sure it is." Jack climbed back up to the mezzanine level, wondering where Kiriyenka had spent the morning. He felt that he owed a candle for not finding Dimitri at his desk when he'd snuck into the man's office. That would have been... interesting. "Did anyone else arrive with Kiriyenka, before or after?" he asked, wondering whether it was a rhetorical question or he really wanted to know.

"Apparently not, but watch your back all the same," Raf shot back.

"Wasn't that supposed to be your job?"

"I'm busy kicking ass right now."

"Understood." Jack didn't believe that for a moment. Raf was justifiably furious, but he wouldn't bow out mid-op. That wasn't how he ran. Jack thumbed the comm off and stood for a minute on the walkway outside Kiriyenka's office, just breathing. It was twenty-three minutes past ten o'clock. The virus he'd so painstakingly designed had just emptied Kiriyenka's bank accounts—all six of them. The orders had gone out and the embedded virus should be busily corrupting every file it encountered on the Brazilian cartel's server. Jack had planned for it to spread farther into the network with each transmission from that server, and he wondered idly how far it would reach, and if he'd ever feel curious enough to trace its path. Right now, all he could think about was the two jobs he had left to do: secure Petrovich's body in the cistern, then douse the warehouse in petrol and set it alight.

After three months of work, after being stuck in a tiny apartment over a jazz club without company, sleeping in snatches, and constantly looking over his shoulder, after keeping eyes on a drug dealer while Gareth, Nico, Daniel, and everyone he knew enjoyed the summer, the end to his assignment was strangely anticlimactic. Without Kiriyenka cutting Petrovich's throat, there would have been no drama at all.

THE CISTERN lived on the far side of the warehouse, high up in the roof space. Supplying all the water the place had need of from the shower in Kiriyenka's private bathroom to the jet wash in the garage workshop below, it was sufficiently large and deep. And fully covered.

Prizing the lid up with a dead weight slung across his back was going to be impossible. More impossible than maneuvering Petrovich's corpse out of Kiriyenka's office and up the rickety ladder to the cistern.

Sometimes Jack's mind took no notice of his body's limitations. Though the cistern had been a good idea. It was as far away as it could be from the blaze Jack was going to start, and he had hopes that the firefighters would contain the flames before they came anywhere near Petrovich's corpse. If they didn't, it would be Jack's ass in the line of fire, and he had decidedly different plans for the rest of his day. And his anatomy.

He draped the body over the railing that ringed the cistern's access way, ignoring the way tacky smears caught on the skin of his neck and arms. The cistern's lid was secured with bolts in three places, and Jack's internal clock started to blare in warning as it took him longer than expected to free them. Whatever Kiriyenka had told his men to get them out of the way, it was unlikely they'd be gone for the rest of the day. Not without securing the workshop. He needed this over before anyone came back.

He yanked on the last bolt, barely noticing when the bracket sheared off under the strain. The strip of flying metal ripped a hot trail across his bicep that he ignored, too focused on pushing the cistern's lid aside, retrieving Petrovich's body, and dropping it into the inky darkness. A brief splash, evened out by the undulation of the water's surface, and Jack yanked the cover back in place.

"Final stage," he said into his comm as he slid down the ladder at speed, ankles wrapped around the handrail as a guide. He landed with a thump and crossed to the other side of the warehouse at a run. The canisters of flammable liquids, mostly petrol judging from the smell, were exactly where Jack expected to find them, half-hidden between two skips at the back of the shop. He grabbed four cans and raced up to the mezzanine and into Kiriyenka's office, returning the way he'd come only minutes later.

It needed six round-trips to soak the back of the warehouse, and the smell of petrol grew overwhelming as he emptied the final two canisters. Jack took care to stay off the saturated floor, balancing carefully along the railing and metal steps. When he reached the far side, he swung himself up the side of the warehouse's steel frame to straddle the main roof beam.

"In position," he said softly, glad when the hatch over his head opened and a black-gloved hand reached down. He took hold of the hand, got his feet on top of the beam, and pushed up. A moment later, Raf's face loomed over him.

"You okay?"

"Yep." Jack patted down his pockets. "Fuck. Do you have a lighter?" he asked a few moments later, annoyed that he was unable to locate his own.

"Here." Raf held it out and Jack unwound the cord from his forearm. He lit the end, waited patiently until it burned steadily, and then looked at Raf.

"Ready to run?"

"Yes. Take it down."

Jack dropped the burning cord into the petrol-soaked darkness. Raf slammed the trapdoor shut, grabbed Jack by the collar, and dragged him to his feet. Bent low, they raced through the crawl space toward daylight, no longer concerned with stealth. And they had just made it out when the warehouse went up in an inferno of flames.

THE SLASH across his bicep he'd so cavalierly dismissed needed stitches. Only five, but in Jack's sleep-, food-, and caffeine-deprived state, those five stitches were going to hurt a lot more than they had any right to. He could accept the local anesthetic the doctor kept offering, of course. But only if he wanted to feel jittery all afternoon and make this whole mess drag on for hours. So he asked for an anesthetic spray, gritted his teeth, and pictured himself going home.

Stitched cut bandaged, and antibiotic and tetanus shots given, Jack slid off the table in the treatment room. The artificial chill made him shiver and wish for clothes. Briefs, hospital slippers, and a thin, knee-length robe of sprigged cotton were no match for the arctic blast the air-conditioning unit over his head was putting out. The clothes he'd worn that morning—jeans, T-shirt, flannel shirt, and even his boots—had been taken away as evidence, bagged and tagged before he'd been allowed to hit the shower to wash Petrovich's blood off his skin.

"Hey, gimme that." Raf's voice came through the door and then the man himself stood there, Jack's boots under one arm, a bundle of clothes in one hand and—Jack almost wept at the sight!—an outsize Starbucks mug in the other.

"I liberated your boots," Raf said, hip-checking the door closed. "The doctor said there's no reason why you can't have coffee, so... here you go. Triple-shot Americano. Black. Fuck ton of sugar."

"Thank you."

"If that's sarcasm I'm hearing there, Horwood—"

"It's gratitude, jackass. Gimme." Jack held his hand out and had the mug to his lips almost before his fingers had a firm grip. The coffee was scalding hot and sweet enough to be disgusting. Jack forced it down, ignoring the taste as best he could but relishing the heat and jolt of pep it gave him. He could dream of proper coffee later. Now he needed out of here.

He set the half-empty mug down and reached for the T-shirt on top of the pile of clothes Raf had dumped onto the exam table.

"Thanks for those too," he said, pulling the shirt over his head. He shook out the much-washed 501s next and stepped into them. Despite the weight he'd lost, they fit closely enough to leave no doubt that they were his. "You just happened to have my go bag in your car?"

"I thought this thing might end messily." Raf leaned his back against the door as if he was guarding it. "Though I was imagining you steeped in petrol rather than ketchup."

"I wouldn't have minded petrol. Not so much, anyway. Any news on my new car?"

Raf chuckled a little. "We got it away safe. And dry. It's currently being drooled over by the coroner and the crime scene techs. Oh, and a bunch of firefighters, of course. They reckon they should have first dibs on it since they rescued it from a fiery grave."

"Didn't."

"I know."

"What's next?"

"Food. For you. You're skinny as shit, you know that? Oh, and your blood work came back clean."

"That surprised you?" Jack didn't stop lacing his boots. He didn't look up either. Raf didn't reply and their standoff continued until Jack was fully dressed and upright. "That surprised you?" he asked again, pinning Raf to the door with his glare until the man relented.

"Seeing how scrawny you look, and how the bags under your eyes are deep enough for a grocery run... yes, it surprised me. I'm glad I'm wrong, though."

"Yeah. 'Cause an unreliable witness would be an embarrassment, right?"

The smack echoed in the quiet exam room. "Stop being an ass and try to remember that you're back home," Raf said, lips tight and shoulders tense. "I'm glad I got to phone the clinic and cancel your place in rehab. I'm glad that all you need is a shower, five stitches, and some decent food. Just in case you were wondering. Idiot." He added the insult like an endearment before he turned and yanked the door open.

The forecasted rain had arrived while Jack had gotten patched up. The soft drizzle coated every surface like pearly dew and hung in the air like a fine mist, cool enough to raise goose bumps on Jack's bare arms.

"Sorry," Jack managed once they were outside, taking deep gulps of damp air.

"Yeah. Shut up already. What do you wanna eat?"

They ended up at the edge of Chinatown in a tiny Korean place Raf liked, where the owner plied them with tea and brought soup and rice and dish after dish until Jack set his chopsticks down and admitted defeat.

"Can I go to sleep now?" he wondered, draining the last of the jasmine tea from his glass. "Or call a taxi?"

"'Fraid not. Fun time's over for the moment."

"You want to debrief now? Fuck. I thought you were babysitting me until you were sure I wasn't gonna keel over from the shots."

"No such luck." Raf paid the bill and started to walk toward Shaftesbury Avenue to flag down a taxi. "Without the murder crap, maybe. With... no chance."

Jack kept his thoughts to himself. He'd been undercover for three months, not long enough to go native. Just long enough to feel... weird at not having to play a part, having to watch each word and expression. At least they'd taken the time to get him patched up and fed. That was a clear improvement on the last time he'd come off a UC assignment. How the rest of the day would go was down to him. The more he cooperated, the sooner they'd let him go. And while that was a comforting thought, it also started enough butterflies rioting in his stomach that he felt eating anything had been a bad idea.

HALFWAY THROUGH the third iteration of Petrovich's murder, Jack's mind disconnected. Raf noticed it first. He called a break, phoned down to the canteen for coffee and doughnuts, and left Jack to pace the long conference room like some beast that had been caged too long.

Jack counted strides. Paced from one side of the room to the other. Tried to slow his march, stretch ten steps to eleven, then twelve. Hit the wall at thirteen. Turned. Tried again. Failed once more. His skin itched, too tight. His muscles twitched with excess energy as if he'd stuck his fingers in a socket. For one crazy moment he wondered whether his hair was standing on end. Whether anyone else could see how close to the edge he was. Whether Kiriyenka, Petrovich, or any one of their goons had slipped him something after all. Stopped caring about that too. Kept pacing, pacing, cursing himself for sixteen kinds of fool.

Arms wrapped around him from behind, the hold strong enough to halt his forward momentum. For the space of half a dozen heartbeats, he stood there, suspended in more than time, feeling even breaths on his nape and warmth all along his back. Then he spun in Lisa's hold and returned the embrace.

Being wrapped around another person was soothing. The conference room's bright lights and the hiss-hum of the air-conditioning faded from his awareness. He breathed, matching his rhythm to Lisa's, smelled coffee, chalk, and flowers with an undertone of something warm.

"Let's finish this," he said when he straightened, focus restored. "I need to get out of here."

This time, as he went over the day's events in minute detail, his voice and attention didn't falter. He still felt raw and exposed. Still felt as if he'd snap at a breath, at a mere look. Still felt the fear deep in his gut like a pool of molten metal.

But for the time being, he held the chaos at bay.

"Shall I call Gareth?" Lisa asked when Jack was signing his name to the last sheet on the stack of reports. Reports that covered much more than just Petrovich's untimely demise. It had grown late, and Jack was exhausted. He'd hung on, stubborn to the last, determined to finish the assignment as professionally as he knew how: with all t's crossed and every i dotted, not leaving any gaps that could later raise doubt.

And he'd done it. He wasn't sure how, just that he had.

"Shall I call Gareth?" Lisa asked again, and this time Jack looked up and answered.

"No. But you can lend me a car."

# Chapter ELEVEN

JACK HAD run on autopilot during the day, focused on getting his tasks completed, finishing the assignment the way they'd planned. Even though Jack was sure he was fine, Lisa had put her foot down on Jack driving himself and Raf had offered him a lift. Jack hadn't argued and as he stepped out of Raf's car onto the quiet, familiar Richmond street where Gareth lived, the doubts that had been brewing in the back of his mind all day almost overwhelmed him.

Was he a total idiot to come here? Today of all days?

The decision that sent Jack undercover had been a joint one. That much was true. Though back then, neither of them had known that it would take so long for Jack to discover the identity of Kiriyenka's suppliers or devise a way to sabotage his servers and thereby the supply network. He'd been gone for three months without so much as a text or a phone call. Three months when Gareth had no idea whether Jack was alive. Actually, scratch that. Lisa had kept Gareth informed just as she had passed news of Gareth, Nico, and Daniel to Jack, but still... three months was a long time. And Gareth's had been the shittier end of the bargain. Jack had had a job to do. He'd had little time to worry about Gareth, life, or the universe.

Gareth on the other hand.... Jack wouldn't have been surprised had the man found other entertainment. Nor would he blame him if that were the case.

He hoped he wouldn't.

Jack's steps dragged as he made his way up the familiar drive to Gareth's front door. The rain had stopped. A fine mist hinted at the coming of autumn, as did the hint of woodsmoke that hung in the still air. Gareth's Triumph was parked alongside the Range Rover. Water beaded on the polished metal, reflected the streetlights in a myriad of tiny sparkles. Jack trailed fingers over the Triumph's seat, remembering runs to the coast and racing Gareth to the Strand before morning rush hour. His prize possession and favorite mode of transport had been in safe storage for the last three months, and he couldn't wait to liberate the Gixxer once more.

Yellow light seeped from around the drawn curtains in the living room, proclaiming that Gareth was home, and Jack wondered if he could find a taxi this late if matters went south. Maybe he should have called first. Maybe he should call now, before he rang the doorbell. Give Gareth an out if he needed it. For all Jack knew, Gareth could be having company.

His fingers hovered over the seat of Gareth's bike. He was stalling, preferring soothing memories to cold reality. It worked as much as it always did. He never dealt well with uncertainties, so now that he was here, he should just get it over with.

Jack took the last few steps and raised his hand to the doorbell as if it might bite if he made a hasty move. He heard the chime and his breath got stuck somewhere between his breastbone and his throat. It took forever until Jack heard footsteps. Keys rattled in the lock and finally the door swung wide and Gareth stood on the threshold.

"Jack? Did you lose your keys?"

Jack remembered emptying his pockets on the morning he left, his keys hitting the kitchen table in a jangle of metal alongside his wallet, phone, and other items he couldn't take with him. So no, he hadn't lost his keys.

Not that he could say that. His vocal cords weren't cooperating. Standing on Gareth's doorstep, he found that he couldn't look up. Or breathe. His heart beat so fast there was no room for breath in his chest and Concorde practiced takeoff and landing routines in his guts.

By comparison Gareth's hand, holding the door open, didn't even shake a little bit. He seemed so completely unaffected that Jack had the sudden urge to hit something. Or to apostrophize himself as the greatest idiot who ever lived, turn on his heels, and leave.

"I didn't want to presume," he finally found an answer, hating the fact that he sounded so hesitant. "It's been three months, Gareth. All manner of stuff could have happened."

Gareth held out his other hand. "Could have, but didn't," he said softly, guiding Jack inside and closing the door. And all of a sudden Jack felt home and safe in a way he hadn't experienced in weeks. Twelve weeks, to be precise.

The house looked and smelled as it had three months earlier: warm and inviting and delicious. Jack unlaced his boots, pulled them off, and set them on the wooden rack beside Gareth's motorcycle boots. He hung his leather jacket on its accustomed peg next to Gareth's, wondering all the while why some part of him had expected change.

The door to the living room stood open and Gareth waited for him inside. He was dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and a fleece top and had lit a fire, even though it wasn't that cold outside yet. What little skin Jack could see glowed in the golden light from the fire in a way Jack had only been able to dream about for three months. Jack's favorite Touhou jazz played on the sound system, and Jack struggled to breathe around the lump in his throat. He offered a careful smile, part hopeful, part apologetic, and felt his insides melt when the corners of Gareth's eyes crinkled into spiderwebs as he returned it wholeheartedly.

"I was sitting here celebrating," the deep voice rumbled even as Gareth slung an arm out and indicated the squashed cushions and rumpled blankets on the sofa a little sheepishly. "It's silly, but... your interview was a year ago and... I even got your favorite single malt."

"Islay? Mind if I have one?"

Gareth poured without another word and offered the glass in silence. Jack raised it to his lips and resisted the momentary urge to drain it in one. He felt as awkward and unsure as he had the night Gareth escorted him home after the nightclub incident. But when he set the glass down, Gareth was right there, waiting for him. Their mouths met, slow and soft and almost chaste: a brush of lips, barely a touch, the aroma of peat and malt between them. And warmth, so comforting that Jack's tight shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit.

"Are you hungry?"

"Starving," Jack said simply. It wasn't a lie. Raf had fed him a huge lunch and Lisa had supplied more coffee and doughnuts than even he could handle in a day. But none of that mattered because Jack... was starving.

"I should...."

Before Gareth could leave Jack's side, move off the couch and toward the kitchen, remove the warmth and closeness with the aim of providing other, less transient, kinds of comfort, Jack pushed him back into the sofa and straddled his lap.

"Definitely. You should." He twined their fingers together and brought their joined hands to his face. Soft lips brushed knuckles. A tiny edge of teeth dragged. And Gareth's eyes went from golden amber to dark honey.

"You'd better be careful there, brat."

Jack smirked. Not... likely. He leaned down and claimed Gareth's mouth in a kiss. Deep and messy as if he were trying to devour the man, and Gareth was all sweet and hot and... gods yes, he remembered this. The softness under his lips tempered by the rough prickles under his fingertips, the spike of heat running up his spine, the bone-deep shiver when Gareth's teeth caught his lower lip for just a moment. Oh yes, he remembered this. Only his memory was clearly for shit, because this was so much better than his mind's attempts at playback. Breath became an unimportant consideration until Gareth took command of the hungry kiss and unwound it into something slower, more sensual.

"Yes, I can see you're starving," he said huskily when they broke for air.

Before Jack could answer, Gareth's phone buzzed, and Jack buried his face in his lover's shoulder and groaned. "No. Please. Just... no."

They had a history of phone calls interrupting more heated activities. So much of one that Jack sometimes wondered why he still carried a phone. This, at least, was just a text message, but if it resulted in Gareth having to move from this couch, he would consider something drastic. Gareth slipped a hand from Jack's waist and Jack felt him reach to pick up the phone from the coffee table, heard him tap the screen and then chuckle.

"Glad to hear Horwood is back," Gareth read aloud. "Take the rest of the week. I have rescheduled the board meeting for Tuesday. Julian."

Jack raised his head, vacillating between pleased and incredulous at how fast news traveled in Gareth's vicinity. How impossible it seemed to keep secrets.

"Sweet," he pronounced after giving the issue a moment's thought. "So it won't matter if neither one of us can walk straight tomorrow?"

The phone was tossed on the nearest chair and Gareth's arms closed tightly around him once more. "Walk? You'll be lucky if you get out of bed, brat."

JACK WOULD have been happy to fall straight into said bed, or have Gareth bend him over the back of the couch if it came to that, but of course Gareth had to feed him first. Not that Jack really minded, despite his token protest. Being back in Gareth's home and having Gareth close enough to touch felt... awkward. He had no reference for the feeling, or tried and trusted ways to handle it. He'd been on other undercover ops. He'd never come home to anyone before.

The butterflies in his stomach subsided while he ate. Just spending time in Gareth's presence, sitting at the kitchen table across from Gareth as if three months had never been, helped to settle his unease. As did the hot sandwiches stuffed with roast beef and chilies and oozing cheese that Gareth rustled up for him while he watched.

Talk didn't come easy. They were careful with each other, trading glances more than actual words. Now and then Jack caught himself staring, comparing details he could see to images in his mind, hoping to spot changes. Now and then he caught Gareth's intent gaze, checking him over just as closely.

Seeing that Gareth felt just as unsettled helped ground Jack and let him relax a little more.

"Why didn't you call me? When you got out, I mean." Gareth broached the topic that seemed to bother him the most. "I could have had a proper dinner ready for you. I promised I would."

Jack indicated his plate. "That's far nicer food than I've been eating. And if you're still desperate to cook tomorrow, I'll eat."

"Don't think I didn't notice you avoiding the question."

"Didn't dream of it," Jack mumbled and swallowed his mouthful of beef and cheese before he explained. "I just don't know what to say. I wanted to be here today. But I had no idea if I'd make it, or when, and it seemed wrong to...."

"You wanted to be here today?"

"You're not the only one who owns a calendar." The sudden tight grip on his biceps made him flinch. Then Gareth was shoving his sleeve back and Jack was swearing under his breath.

"What the hell?" Gareth stared at the bandage around Jack's arm, the faint traces of red beginning to show through the fabric. "You didn't say you were hurt!"

"'M not. It's just a cut." Jack felt heat flash across his face and neck. "My fault," he admitted and tucked his chin to hide the blush.

"How is this your fault?"

"I got... bored."

"Bored." There wasn't a shred of emotion in Gareth's voice.

Jack could picture the stern disapproval in Gareth's face even without a visual, so he didn't bother looking up. He set his knife and fork down and leaned out of Gareth's range. "Impatient, rather. I wanted to get the assignment finished and come home. I hadn't planned to end up in the middle of a murder investigation."

"You... what?"

"Yeah," Jack sighed and went over the details of his day for the fourth time that afternoon.

"So we now own an AC Ace?" Gareth asked when Jack was done.

"It's evidence, so it's up to Lisa. I called dibs on it."

Gareth had migrated to Jack's side of the table during the recital under the guise of adding more food to Jack's plate, and they were now pressed together from knee to shoulder. Gareth's summary dismissal of murder and investigation amused Jack as much as he liked the we in Gareth's comment. The unconscious confirmation of something solid between them.

"It still needs work." He turned his head, caught a hint of glitter along Gareth's jawline, and smiled just because. "And we don't have to, you know... keep it. You can look at it and tell me I'm crazy."

"Will it outrun your TVR? Once it's finished?"

"Competitive, much?" One of Gareth's hands had found its way into Jack's hair and Jack leaned into the touch. A sound—half groan, half purr—bubbled up his throat as the fingers started to massage his scalp.

"Good?" Gareth chuckled softly.

"Gods, yes. Be better on the sofa, though. With my head in your lap."

"That can be arranged. Let's take care of that cut first. You're bleeding through the dressing."

Jack sat up with a sigh. He didn't argue when Gareth got supplies from the bathroom and tended to the cut. The wound wasn't bleeding anymore and the swelling around it was already going down. For a crazy second Jack missed the ink. A barbed wire and skulls tattoo had wound around his arm for the last three months, as fake as his enforcer persona. He'd obsessed about the bloody thing at first, worrying that it might come off at an inopportune moment. The longer his assignment dragged the more he'd hated it, and now he was startled to find it gone. His fingers flashed up to his temple and he fought the urge to get up, find a mirror, and check that his tattoo—the reminder of things that mattered—was back where it belonged.

"Stop fidgeting."

Gareth's tone held him in place until the cut was cleanly wrapped once more. Then Jack dragged them back to the fire and the sofa. He lost himself in touch and warmth, the soft, soothing tones of piano and saxophone and the rumble of Gareth's voice as Jack asked about news of Daniel and Nico only to hear about school reports, sports days, and outlandish things like electives. Gareth recounted an epic battle between science and humanities that had been settled with a compromise, and he spoke of Skylar stepping in to help train Nico and Daniel in knife work. Jack soaked it all up. He was thoroughly looking forward to seeing the two boys and finding out how much they'd changed, but that was a job for the next day.

Right now, curled around Gareth and with the man's words in his ear, Jack was coming to believe that he was home. The fire crackled and popped. Reflections and shadows danced over the walls in ways he remembered from other nights. Jack listened more than he spoke, asked only the odd question, content to be where he found himself. They shared Jack's favorite whisky and chased the taste on each other's lips. And for the longest time, Jack floated in a state close to happiness as he watched the fire with his head in Gareth's lap and Gareth's fingers combing through his hair.

"What about you?" Jack wanted to know when Gareth had finally brought him up to speed about Aidan, Julian, and Frazer's daily battle with hacking attacks.

Gareth shrugged. "Not a lot of news. I did a couple of jobs for Aidan. And Julian's somehow got me to agree to teach a set of workshops. In Cardiff. I've still no idea how he managed that." He shook his head, and Jack knew that he wouldn't get anything else out of him. Not tonight. And maybe not later either. Gareth was just as good at being evasive, even if he wasn't hiding in the shower with a bottle of hooch that night. The memory triggered a smile and Jack settled back into Gareth's hold.

"Did you sleep at all?" Gareth asked softly, not missing the moment when exhaustion dragged on Jack's awareness, and tension spiked through Jack's body like a lightning strike in response.

"'Course not," Jack mumbled, the sudden shot of adrenaline making him shiver. "I managed a few naps most days, almost two hours sometimes. So it wasn't too bad."

"Think you can sleep tonight?"

"Gods, I hope so." The comment was heartfelt and honest, even if Jack didn't think it at all likely that sleep would be that easy to attain. In his experience, it took a while to snap out of the mindset he had when on missions, especially single undercover stints. "Fancy helping? You could wear me out some."

"You know? I was planning on doing just that."

"Good." The tension in Jack's body shifted, softened from unrelenting awareness into a wave of arousal as Gareth's touch changed from soothing to demanding, and their kisses grew hungrier.

"Can we sleep down here? It'd be a shame to waste the fire."

"You're such a boy scout," Gareth laughed. But he didn't argue. Just helped Jack move the coffee table out of the way and added a couple of quilts and a stack of pillows to the thick rug in front of the fire.

"Do we need provisions?"

Jack shook his head before his mind had properly caught the question. "Only lube," he said, flushing until he thought his ears were on fire. "I just... couldn't bring myself to...." He looked everywhere but at Gareth. "I'm sorry."

"For not screwing around?"

Gareth sounded merely mildly curious, which made no sense to Jack's tired mind. He looked up and his gaze got trapped in glowing amber eyes. "I told you before I left that Kiriyenka liked guys. He... sort of liked me. I might have been back much sooner if I'd played his game."

"Mm," Gareth hummed. He hooked a finger into Jack's belt loop and pulled him closer. "There's never any guarantee of that. And while you being back sooner might have been nice, I'd rather you didn't have to do anything else you didn't want to."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. What the hell did you expect me to say?"

"That wimping out on my job isn't professional?" Jack muttered the reply under his breath, realizing as he said it that he was talking to the wrong man. Gareth realized it too, and his arms tightened almost painfully around Jack's waist.

"Someone needs his ass kicked, but let's leave that till tomorrow." Gareth's hands slipped into the waistband of Jack's jeans. Or tried to. The disgruntled look when he didn't get far despite the weight that Jack had lost was so unexpected that Jack couldn't help it. He laughed. Before he popped the buttons on the 501s.

"That better?" Ideas of teasing Gareth skipped through his mind. He shelved them for later. Delayed gratification had its own rewards, but not right then. He was far too keen to get things moving. And far too distracted by the man standing in front of him.

Without further ado he shimmied out of his jeans and pulled the shirt over his head. The quilt was soft and cool under his back, and when Gareth turned off the lights, the glow from the fire was all the illumination in the room. He watched Gareth strip, anticipation ratcheting tighter with every sliver of skin revealed, and the moment had a taste of first times about it that made Jack smile helplessly.

And then smile wider when Gareth's growl cut through the unexpected and, for him, wholly unusual sentimentality.

"Since when have you taken to wearing silk briefs?"

Gareth ran his hands over Jack's legs and ass with the kind of possessive intent that would have made Jack scoff on a normal day. Right then he relished the attention, the catch and slide of silk against skin as much as the bruising grip that followed.

"They're supremely comfortable," he ground out, already halfway lost in pleasurable sensations: the touch of lips, the flick of heat, and lingering chill of openmouthed kisses, the sting of soft bites on the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.... Teeth scraped across his hip bones and blunt nails dragged down his sides until he squirmed. Gareth Flynn knew him entirely too well. And Jack didn't mind that at all.

"They look a bit snug to me," Gareth finally passed judgment on the briefs, and by that point he was probably right.

"What do you know?" Jack smiled when Gareth decided against an argument in favor of getting rid of the briefs altogether. As soon as he was free, Jack rolled over and started to stack the cushions into a pile along one edge of their makeshift bed, draping himself over them like he would over a giant body pillow.

Jack screwed his eyes shut and tried to even his breathing. Gareth stretching out along his back, all heated skin on heated skin and hands going everywhere, did nothing to help him regain his control. The fire's warmth caressed his face while Gareth's firm, intent touch made him shiver and shift restlessly, nearly overwhelmed. He wanted the time to enjoy Gareth. He wanted his own chance to touch and taste, to raise shivers and moans.

He needed to get a grip or this night would be over before they got properly started.

And even three months apart were no excuse for that.

THEY WERE still awake when the fire had burned nearly to embers, and Jack relished the quiet sigh that made its way out of Gareth's throat when they settled in to sleep, tangled together as they used to do.

"God, I've missed you!" Jack's voice was whisper soft and velvet dark. "Three months without your cooking and hearing myself apostrophized as brat... really, they should pay me extra."

Gareth chuckled. "Well, if that's all...."

Draped over Gareth like a blanket, Jack skimmed his fingers down Gareth's side to the patch of rough skin he'd noticed earlier without paying it too much attention. He shifted so he wasn't blocking the last of the light and raised his head, only to find that the rough patch under his fingers was scar tissue. Fresh scar tissue, still pink and the skin still uneven.

"You didn't tell me you were hurt, either," he said, his voice a little louder than it needed to be in the soft silence. "What happened?"

"Went through a window. Edge sliced the skin. Nothing major."

Jack wanted to argue, ask questions, hear all the details despite the forbidding note in Gareth's voice. He knew better, though, knew that Gareth wouldn't cooperate right then. And when a yawn overtook him, he rescheduled the interrogation. "Tell me about it in the morning," he requested. And fell asleep with his palm protectively over the newly healed wound.

GARETH HAD never considered how much firelight could flatter and conceal. They hadn't bothered to draw the curtains the previous night, and the early morning light wasn't in the least forgiving as it highlighted the toll that three months' undercover work had taken on Jack's body.

Jack was a mess: cheekbones sharp enough to cut, ribs obvious enough to count, hip bones jutting like knife blades, and the bandage on his bicep once more showing a faint pink tinge. Gareth had been able to tell by touch alone that Jack had lost weight. Seeing how much weight he'd lost was chilling.

Gareth snatched a jumper from the back of the couch and escaped to the kitchen before his fury could wake Jack, now that he was actually sleeping. The phone on the edge of the breakfast bar felt like a lifeline. He snatched it up, fingers moving before his brain caught up.

I so need to hit something. Distract me.

His phone rang moments later.

"Breathe," Aidan said, as matter-of-fact as if he'd been waiting for Gareth's call. "Don't lose your shit now that he's back."

"You haven't seen him!" Gareth mumbled, phone clamped between ear and shoulder while he yanked a jumper over his head. "He looks like—"

"I suppose he hasn't been sleeping. And he's most likely been living on coffee and fresh air. You told me he can't cook for shit, remember?"

A voice spoke up from somewhere behind Aidan and Gareth frowned. "Is Gallant with you?"

"Yeah. Hang on, I'll pass you over."

"Yo." Raf's voice came through the tiny speaker moments later. "Sorry I didn't warn you, man. He didn't want me to."

"I know. I didn't mind the surprise. Until I got a good look."

"About that," Raf said quietly. "I know he looks like shite, but he just needs food and sleep."

"You mean—" Hope could be so incredibly painful. It made no sense at all. "He didn't use?"

"No, he really didn't. Both tox screens came back clean. Oh, and I wouldn't ask him about it. He nearly ripped my head off when I did."

Gareth didn't need to hear the wry note in Raf's voice to believe it. It warmed him like few things had done in the last three months. Just knowing that, though the time undercover had made him sound and act in ways that were not entirely what Gareth was used to, Jack was still Jack underneath it all. And that he'd done his job without compromising what was important to him. Gareth didn't know many men who valued themselves highly enough to make their own lives harder.

Calmer than he'd been since waking, Gareth ended the call, got the coffee machine going, and then started to cook.

"DID YOU do something to the bathroom mirror or do I really look like shit warmed over?"

Jack stood just inside the kitchen door, barefoot, faded 501s barely clinging to his hips, and rubbed at his wet hair with a towel. He'd removed the bandage from his arm before showering, and Gareth was glad to see the gash looking clean, with most of the redness and swelling gone.

"Mirror's the same it's always been," Gareth said and reached for the first-aid kit that still sat on the edge of the kitchen counter after the previous night's impromptu cleanup session.

Jack stood still while Gareth dusted his arm with antiseptic powder, placed a new dressing over the wound, and taped it in place.

"That explains it," he said, and Gareth looked up from the strip of pristine white against the tan skin of Jack's arm, where faint bruises and scabbed-over scrapes vied for space.

"Explains what?"

"Gallant assuming I needed rehab," Jack answered promptly. "Is there coffee?"

"Coffee and breakfast, both." Gareth moved back to the stove, where he had enough food on the go to supply a battalion. "Gallant wasn't the only one thinking that."

"No?"

When Gareth turned around, Jack was by the coffee machine, pouring black gold into a mug with a look that was too blissful to be genuine.

"I almost had a meltdown when I got a look at you this morning," he admitted. Despite Raf's suggestion, he didn't think that hiding his misgivings from Jack would get them anywhere. And anyway, Jack had mentioned rehab first.

"You could have woken me and asked."

"Yeah."

Jack settled at the kitchen table, the glass carafe from the coffee machine at his elbow. "That's why you were treating me like glass last night, right? Because of the way I looked and the crazy conclusions you drew from that? And you didn't even get to see the ink they decided to give me." He smirked, rubbing a palm over his chest and down his left arm where the fake tattoos must have been. "I would have totally understood you freaking out at that sight. Barbed wire and a skull... can you believe it?" He shook his head in disgust. "Wanna tell me what you did instead? Assuming the meltdown didn't happen."

"I called Aidan," Gareth grumbled and then fixed Jack with a glare. "Who are you and what have you done with Jack?"

Jack blinked once, twice. "Why?"

"Because the Jack Horwood I know hates anyone considering him less than perfect. Or fussing over him."

"You always fuss." Jack was grinning. "You know you do. And I'm not stupid enough to start a fight before you've fed me breakfast. Baggy 501s are so not stylish."

Gareth took the hint and started to fill the kitchen table with an assortment of Jack's favorite breakfast treats while Jack sat with his elbows on the wood and chin resting on his folded hands, and watched with a tiny, contented smile.

"So, when did you end up getting clumsy?"

"What?" Gareth looked up and found that Jack had lost his smile.

He gestured toward Gareth's side. "The fresh scar you didn't want to talk about last night?"

"Ah." Gareth shrugged. "It's nothing. Just after you left, Aidan had a case that went a bit.... It was barely a cut, anyway."

"That's not what it felt like."

"True, though. Just a shallow slice. Didn't even need stitches." Gareth turned back to his dishes. He hated putting that concerned look on Jack's face when Jack had been the one undercover. He shouldn't have to deal with everyday bullshit or old news. At least Lisa had kept her promise and hadn't said anything to Jack during one of his check-ins. He owed her for that.

Jack's hair caught his attention when he placed their plates on the table. Much longer than Gareth had ever seen it, the strands flopped down over Jack's forehead. The Jack of old would have run wax or gel through his hair to make it spike up in an unruly mess that looked smart and had the saving grace of keeping his vision clear. The Jack who sat in the kitchen now merely flipped his head a little now and then to get the long strands out of his eyes.

"Are you gonna keep your hair like this?"

"The length or the color?"

"You've had it dyed?"

"Honestly, Flynn. Are you awake yet?" Jack oozed from his chair and crossed the kitchen to stand by the window. "Or do you need your eyes tested?"

In direct light, Jack's hair wasn't nearly as dark as it had been. Auburn flashes wove through the choppy lengths, along with shades of dark chocolate and streaks of warm hazelnut. "Firelight," Gareth mumbled, realizing that the copper he thought he'd seen when they made love might actually have been there. "It suits you," he said, running fingers through Jack's hair until he could cradle the back of Jack's head in his palm. "The coppery bits."

"Yeah?" Jack let himself lean and smiled. "I'm not convinced. They tell me it's fashionable."

"I wouldn't know from fashion." Gareth smirked and pulled Jack in for a soft touch of lips. "But with the copper in there, it's almost like I can see the way your brain is wired."

"Aaaand... that level of slush's my cue for going back to the original."

They kissed leisurely, there by the window, warm and soft, just slides of lips and the occasional flick of a tongue, until Jack's rumbling stomach reminded them that breakfast was getting cold while they were messing around.

After that, everything was easy.

"SHOULD YOU do push-ups like that?" Daniel's voice was high and worried. He watched Jack raise and lower his body like a machine, while keeping an anxious eye on the strip of cotton wrapping Jack's arm. The answer to Daniel's question was probably not, but after three days of nothing but sleep, food, sex, and conversation—even if not necessarily in that order—Jack needed a change of scenery.

Going running with Nico and Daniel, and completing the fitness trail some bright spark from the council had designed and installed along the edge of the park, seemed just the ticket. The air held late summer warmth, the ground was soft enough for some rough and tumble, and if he tore his stitches he'd deal with it later. It wouldn't be the first time and they could just put in new ones when it happened.

He finished his set of fifty and straightened up, smiling at Daniel. "Don't fuss," he begged. "I've been doing a lot of exercise while I was away. It's difficult to sit still for so long, so suddenly." Not to mention that he was still running on far too much adrenaline and was wound tight enough that he could snap at the slightest provocation. It was fortunate that loud noises didn't bother him. The same didn't apply to sudden movements in the periphery of his vision. Going out with Nico and Daniel was a good distraction. It gave him a chance to blow off steam in a way that was almost safe for everyone around him.

"Why?"

The voice came from behind him and it was sufficiently different from the voice he remembered that Jack turned his head to make sure it was Nico who had asked. The tone had wavered halfway between a snarl and a squeak and the accompanying blush made it clear that Nico's voice wasn't completely his to command.

"Why what?"

"Why did you do so much exercise?"

"I was bored. And forever on my guard, so working out seemed a good way to make sure I was in shape for... whatever."

"What did you do for workouts?" That was Daniel, the mastermind of the two, skillfully avoiding subjects he knew Jack couldn't talk about, and no doubt taking notes for their own exercise schedule. Between boxing lessons with Gareth, knife work with Skylar, football at school, and whatever gym sessions they could fit in, Daniel and Nico had changed a lot. No longer the skinny, underfed runts they'd been a year earlier, high on drugs forced on them and covered in bruises, they'd put on weight and—if the last half hour was any indication—an impressive amount of speed and stamina.

Jack raised his arms over his head, hands joined, and stretched out his back, popping vertebrae as he went, one quiet sigh at a time.

"Ten-mile run in the morning," he said when he was done. "Then a few hours' weights or combat training. Karate in the evening when I wasn't working." It had bugged him no end that he was too well known in London's kendo circles to attend the excellent kendo school that was in walking distance from his studio. It would have been great to train there on more than the odd occasion.

It would also have blown his cover to Mars and back in minutes.

There were many reasons why undercover work sucked. Not the least was the fact that he couldn't return to that school at any time in the near future. Lisa Tyrrell's slate was growing longer by the minute. She'd better not quibble over the red car that Gareth had taken a liking to.

"You still don't like boxing, do you?" Nico put his fists up and Jack grinned and matched the stance.

"Never really have," he said, jabbing lefts and rights at Nico's blocks. "Boxing's Gareth's thing."

"He was miserable while you were gone."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Daniel's voice dwindled to almost nothing. "You know that grin he has, when he just pulls his lips wide and shows his teeth as if he's scary, but his eyes stay all cold and lonely? He was looking like that. A lot."

Daniel was a little shit.

Jack had been sure of it when the kid was still scared as all get-out and hiding behind Nico. He was even surer of it now.

Jack had spent the last three months trying not to worry about Gareth, or Nico and Daniel. He'd avoided thinking about his actual job or the guardianship application they'd filed in January. Working an undercover assignment had been harder than before, when he'd not had any ties, but he'd kept his head down and his mind focused on his job. He was David Gibbins and David Gibbins didn't have a life beyond his job for Kiriyenka and the studio over the jazz club. Jack Horwood surfaced once a week for his check-ins. The rest of the time, Jack stayed in character, thought of himself as David, and did his damnedest to forget about his other life.

He hated that Daniel had to go and put ideas in his head, pictures of Gareth struggling through their separation, or worrying about Jack. While it warmed his mind and lit an answering spark of heat right in the middle of his chest, it wasn't something he should focus on or even know about. It wouldn't help one iota the next time someone came knocking on his door.

And there would be a next time.

There always was a next time.

Jack had learned to live with that.

# Chapter TWELVE

PARKING HIS bike next to Gareth's in the underground lot of Nancarrow Mining felt strange. Scratch that. Having the bike again felt strange. They'd liberated the Gixxer from storage on Friday morning, and Jack had given it a thorough service before racing Gareth around the park in the afternoon sunshine. Three months of enforced idleness hadn't done his favorite toy any harm. It was Jack's mind that hadn't yet readjusted to being home. He'd gone so far as to leave Gareth's house without his bike keys that morning and had to go back in and get them while Gareth laughed himself silly.

Why that memory made him smile was anyone's guess.

"I told you that I'm in Cardiff from Wednesday until Friday night, right?"

"Right. And you have a board meeting Tuesday. I heard you."

"Just checking."

"Right."

Jack rolled his eyes, but he didn't move away when Gareth slipped a palm around his nape for just a moment. Then the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted across from the cafeteria, and all the strangeness vanished. He was definitely back home.

"HEY, YOU'RE back!"

Jack staggered under the impact of a hundred and forty pounds of ginger-haired Scot as he stepped through the door into the open-plan corporate security office. He held on to his backpack with grim determination—not wanting to have to replace three laptops and a slate on his first day back—and only realized, once he'd found his balance, that breath was hard to come by. The arms around his ribs were doing a damn good job of trying to strangle the life out of him.

"What the fuck did I do?" he wheezed, and it must have been the right thing to say, since Frazer let him go and stepped back.

"What?"

"What did I do that I must be strangled on the doorstep on my first day back?"

"Jackass!" Frazer blushed crimson and Jack laughed.

"Horwood, actually. You got it almost right. Now explain yourself."

"Can't I just be pleased that you're back? Especially given that you didn't want to go, and I kept seeing stuff about exploding warehouses in the news?"

"You were that worried about me? Damn, that's sexy," Jack mock-growled, getting a fist in his shoulder for the effort.

"Cut it out, jerk," Frazer flushed with embarrassment, but he didn't back down or retract the words. "You know I don't swing that way."

"Sorry." Jack wasn't sorry at all. "I'm still a bit behind."

"On what? Enough sex to switch on your brain-mouth filter? Talk to Flynn about that, not me."

Jack couldn't help the startled laugh that escaped him. He'd hoped that Frazer wouldn't struggle too badly picking up Jack's slack and keeping his secrets, but this new, confident persona was so much better than anything he could have dreamed up.

As long as it wasn't defiance.

The Scot had changed in the three months Jack had been gone. Still slight, he carried a bit more muscle and moved around the corporate security office as if he owned the place. Jack would have applauded the change wholeheartedly if he hadn't had the feeling that something was wrong. And that he was not going to like it when he found out what it was.

"Okay, explain it to me," Jack said after Frazer had spent two hours catching him up to speed on current threat levels, project work, the state of the servers, and the improvements he'd made to the network.

"Explain what?"

"The frown lines between your brows, the extra muscle, and this rather abrasive coating you've acquired while I was gone."

"You told me not to take shit from anyone."

Jack leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his head, and went so far as to prop his feet on the edge of the conference table. None of it riled the Scot and that alone was telling. Having been brought up the youngest in a huge family, Frazer usually was a stickler for manners. "I'm glad to see that you don't. Just how much shit did you have to deal with while I was gone?"

Frazer deflated a little. "I hate all that emo crap."

That was a surprising comment out of Frazer's mouth. "What emo crap? Has Mason been bugging you?"

"No, it's not that. Mason is an ass, but he's not bothering me."

"Then what is?"

Frazer rubbed his face, looking older all of a sudden. "You know... attacks I can handle. Industrial espionage and break-ins and spam and attempts to headhunt people or bribe them. But that family is like... a train wreck. Hurtling down the track, not even thinking who or what might get in the way, and with no idea where it's all gonna end up. Making people do stupid stuff and then throw them away. Like Gorish. He's going to prison, did Gareth tell you? And you know what's the worst? The boss lets them get away with it. Every single time. It's driving me mad."

Jack digested that. Even after the hunt for Mitrovic was over and Jack had settled into his new job, he'd rarely bothered himself with anything relating to Julian Nancarrow's annoying family. Frazer knew the ropes and the history, and he had a good idea who needed an eye kept on them and who was blustering but harmless. Jack had backed him up whenever Frazer had asked, though he'd not really paid attention. Maybe it was time to change that.

"Let's make a deal," he said slowly.

"What sort of a deal?"

"I owe you a few. For picking up my slack while I was away. For putting up with annoying sods like Mason without backup. So let's forget about specialties and crap for a minute. If there's one task on your schedule you could ditch, something you could hand over to me... what would it be?"

Predictably, Frazer flushed a deep red from his collar all the way to his hairline. Equally predictably, Jack ignored it. He reached for his mug of coffee and waited for the Scot to organize his thoughts.

"Do you mean that?" Frazer asked eventually, and Jack almost smiled. The kid was an ace when it came to securing a network. When it came to reading people's hidden—or even not so hidden—motivations, he was as out of his depth as... well, as Jack trying to understand family matters.

"I mean that. Can't let you get wrinkles. You're too young for those."

"Oh, fuck you, Horwood."

"You wish."

Jack's assault had been perfectly timed. Donald Frazer spat his coffee across the table and howled with embarrassed laughter. The troubled look was gone by the time he'd gotten his breath back, and Jack, paper towels in hand and smirk curving a corner of his mouth, waited for the man to speak.

"Deal with Julian's effing family, will you? And don't tell Flynn I said that... other thing."

"I will," Jack pronounced solemnly, saluting with the wad of sodden towels. "And I won't."

DESPITE THE general edginess that plagued him after the undercover assignment, Jack had little difficulty settling back into his routine. The main thrust of his work hadn't changed. His tasks were varied, familiar, and comforting, while the extra project was enough to add a little spice to his day.

He removed every single piece of paper labeled Nancarrow from Frazer's desk and reassigned all online directories, just so the Scot wouldn't be distracted. While Frazer policed the network, Jack read about Julian's extended family and trawled their profiles and finances. He reminded himself of the briefing Julian Nancarrow had given him months ago about attempted takeovers of Nancarrow Mining, a rather impressive number of which had originated with Julian's family. And while none of the attempts had ever succeeded, Jack thought it best to understand the where, what, and why of each.

None of it made pretty reading. Julian had inherited the company from his grandfather and father. He'd worked damned hard from a young age to grow it into the successful mining corporation it was today. Most of the Nancarrows vying for space and influence, by comparison, had never done a day's work to advance Nancarrow Mining's fortune. All they wanted was to reap the rewards of seeds they'd neither sown nor tended.

Jack had his own, rather drastic, views on that kind of behavior. He read diligently and quizzed Gareth at night over dinner about a raft of details he'd collected.

Two days passed the way Jack loved his days to pass.

Then Wednesday arrived.

Gareth headed off to the corporate security workshop he'd agreed to teach with a scowl so black it needed a severe weather warning, and when Raf called him just before lunch, Jack knew his honeymoon period was over.

"Can you meet me after work?" Raf asked from a place so noisy that Jack could barely make out his words. Loudspeaker announcements, echoes, and metallic screeching and rattling sounds made Jack think of a busy hospital.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. No. Can you meet me?"

If the man wanted to be mysterious, Jack was happy to let him be. "Feathers?" he inquired, raising his voice to be heard. "Or do you fancy that little Mexican place by the station?"

"Feathers. You may have to shove me into a taxi later."

Jack didn't like the sound of that, but he didn't push. "Crap day, eh? Go do what needs doing. I'll see you later."

Raf was waiting for him when he made it into the Feathers just before six that night.

"I'm gonna quit," he said before Jack had even had time to fully slide into the booth.

"Quit what?"

"The Met."

"Okay...." Jack drew out the word, not sure exactly what response Raf was looking for. "Any particular reason, or is it today's spur of the moment decision?"

Rafael Gallant stared into his almost-empty beer as if the answer lay hidden there. His shoulders slumped until his head almost touched the rim of the glass. Crappy days were not unusual in a job like Raf's, but this went beyond anything Jack had ever seen from the older man.

"Raf?"

"Kiriyenka is dead."

"They let him out?"

"No." Raf closed his eyes, rubbing at the puffy dark circles that told of too many hours without sleep. "He was on remand. Wasn't considered a suicide risk. Had been searched and searched again."

"But he offed himself regardless?"

"That seems to be the official line."

Jack set his glass down. He rested his chin on his folded hands and contemplated Raf's tired face. "Want me to chase it down?"

"What's the point? It's rotten and I'm sick and tired of it." Raf held the glass up toward the bar, in a silent entreaty for another beer, and didn't look at Jack when he continued. "I owe you an apology, Horwood."

"For?"

"I was the one who pushed for that undercover gig. Not Lisa." He knuckled his tired eyes and groaned. "S'pose I owe her an apology too. We'd only had glimpses of Kiriyenka for months, and it was driving me demented. We all thought that wrecking his setup would make a huge difference. And I thought... I thought he'd cave when pushed... I thought we could get even further. And, shit! I just... I owe you, okay?"

"If I asked you not to quit your job?"

"Don't. I might do something I regret."

Jack considered that while he finished his Guinness and ordered another one along with plates of nachos, chicken wings, and chips. Raf needed something to soak up all that beer he was determined to drown himself in and Jack had skipped lunch. Not to mention that Gareth was out of town and he had to find his own dinner before the man called and reminded him to eat.

"Is it Kiriyenka's getting out of it that bothers you, or the fact that you think it's an inside job?" he asked when he returned to their booth.

"You sayin' it's not bothering you?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Bullshit."

"Not. I did what you asked me to do. Kiriyenka's out of the picture and his suppliers will need time to rebuild their routes. We've pulled some of that powdered crap off the streets. That's all I was focused on. If Dimitri hadn't slit Petrovich's throat, who knows when you would have laid hands on him?"

"And the inside job? Plus the fact that someone was about to hang you out to dry? Someone knew Kiriyenka was in the warehouse and didn't say a fucking word about it. You think it's all just conjecture?" Raf moved beer glasses aside when their food arrived, picking up a chip when Jack pushed the basket in his direction.

"You do remember where I used to work, right?" Jack reached for a piece of chicken. "Dimitri wasn't the type to commit suicide. He was too full of himself," he said around a mouthful of food. "He'd have expected to wiggle out of any charges. Unless he fried his brain just before he killed Petrovich," he amended, remembering the blown pupils and beads of sweat on Kiriyenka's face. "All things considered, suicide doesn't fit his profile. And since he'd been inside barely long enough to take his shoes off...."

"Yeah." Raf wasn't looking any more cheerful. At least he was eating instead of drinking his dinner. "I can't deal with rats. Never could. That's what pisses me off most."

"Then leaving is your best bet. Any ideas of what you're going to do? After, I mean?"

"I've been spending more and more of my spare time working jobs for Aidan. Now that Flynn is running ops, I might as well make it official."

"That's not your only option, right? How about the National Crime Agency? They must be about ready to go operational."

"They've been up and running for about a week. I've thought about calling even before all this stuff blew up. I know people there, of course, but... it would just be more of the same for me and... wouldn't they be more up your street, anyhow? You've done most of what they're responsible for. Cyber and organized and child protection... eh, is that why you left the service?"

"No, it's not. I left because I'd had enough of the politics. Crap gets in the way of actually solving crimes. You know that."

"But you knew about the NCA? A year ago, I mean."

"Yeah."

"And you weren't even tempted?"

"Not much. I've been doing this since I was fourteen. I must have tasted every flavor of red tape in existence. Twice. And there comes a time...."

Raf drained his beer. "I hear you. Which is sort of why I appreciate what Aidan does. I still get to investigate, and help people and—"

"It's not gonna be that different from your day job. You realize that, right?"

"It's not the job that bothers me. It's the red tape and the rats I have an issue with. If I'm working for Aidan, I'll have people around me who I can trust," Raf argued.

"Unless you're asked to do jobs for my old crowd. In that case, watch your back."

"I don't think we do that many jobs for them. I've never done one that I know of. But I'll keep it in mind."

"You do that." Jack nodded seriously, finishing his second pint. "Now tell me something else. Were you there when Gareth got hurt?"

JACK HADN'T been exactly happy with Kiriyenka's untimely demise, whatever he'd told Raf. It wasn't his job to decide how Dimitri paid for peddling drugs and cutting Petrovich's throat. It had been his job to ensure the investigation was finished cleanly. He didn't relish learning that they'd missed a whole string of links. Links that ended right in their midst, no less. It had riled him enough to sympathize with Raf's frustration.

Raf detailing Gareth's mad dash across a lawn and straight through a window had riled him a lot more. According to Raf it had been one of those ops, the kind where nothing went the way it had been planned. Gareth, who'd been the closest when the situation had disintegrated into violence, had reacted the only possible way. He had managed to get to the victim before she was hurt. And had taken out one of the men they were watching along the way.

Jack remembered the look and feel of fresh scar tissue on Gareth's body. He was convinced that the rescue could have been achieved in a much less dramatic fashion. Not that he could say that to Gareth Flynn. Or to Raf, if it came to it. Seeing how he had motorbike chases and torched warehouses to his name.

He wasn't in the best of moods, therefore, when he made it to work on Thursday morning. Gareth being away at his workshop in Cardiff meant he'd gone back to his own home in Wimbledon, not wanting to face the empty kitchen or the equally empty bed they'd shared for the last week. It hadn't helped. Despite lying in his own bed for the first time in three months, fairly well lubricated at that, he'd gotten very little sleep. The effects of the previous night's indulgence clung to his mind like cobwebs, and he was honest enough to admit that he was missing Gareth. At the very least he missed sitting at the same table and teasing him over the bacon and eggs.

All that put together, and Jack didn't even sit down at his desk when he arrived. He simply dropped off his bags and relocated downstairs to stock up on caffeine, carbs, and protein.

The day didn't improve after that. As soon as he logged himself in, Nancarrow Mining's e-mail system screamed blue murder at him. Judging by the number of pings and flashing lights that went off across all four screens, he and Frazer had either gone totally overboard when they set the alarms, or World War III had broken out and someone had forgotten to tell him. At first glance, it looked as if the company's whole e-mail system had been compromised.

Which was less likely than World War III breaking out.

He turned off the annoying alarms before Frazer arrived and got blinded by the kaleidoscope of warning lights. Things became clearer when he started to look more closely. They also became messier the longer he read.

And then everything went to shit.

As usual.

"Do you have a moment?" Jack knocked on Aidan Conrad's door two hours later, balancing his biggest slate on a stack of paper. "It's kinda urgent."

"Then come in and close the door."

Jack settled himself in the visitor's chair before Aidan's desk and came straight to the point. "We have a problem."

Aidan simply groaned at the news. "Horwood, it's fucking Thursday. You've been back at work for less than a week. How can you already have problems?"

"I'm peachy, thanks. If you'd screwed in your hearing aid this morning, you'd have heard that I said that we have a problem. Frazer's waded through this mess all by himself for months. So I thought it was time I earn my pay and give him a hand."

"Of course you did," Aidan scoffed. "And you found... what? A stack of paper?"

"That stack of paper is for you, Mr. Hotshot Lawyer With An Electronics Allergy," Jack said. "Frazer made some comments about Julian's family that piqued my interest. So I told him to hand the crap over, which he was happy to do, by the way."

"Was he struggling?"

"Not like that. Technically, he had it covered and then some. But conflict makes him uncomfortable, and Julian's family's a bunch of drama merchants. Drove him nuts." Jack shuffled the papers in his lap. "You know we monitor communications, right? Especially since the thing with Gorish. Well... I caught a rather interesting conversation this morning."

He set his list of e-mail messages out on the desk in front of Aidan. "I'd usually brief Gareth on these first, but he's in Cardiff until tomorrow evening, and I don't think this can wait. Frazer said that Julian is overseas?"

"Yeah. Gone until the end of the week," Aidan muttered while he read. "Has he been getting these?"

Jack shook his head. "No. Which is why I'm talking to you. After Gorish, Frazer and I put a crimp in the e-mail system. All messages in or out are scanned for certain words and phrases. Suspect e-mails are flagged and their delivery is delayed."

"I thought Gorish had a... whatcha-call-it... secondary operating system on his laptop." Aidan uttered the phrase as if it had the capacity to bite him, and Jack smiled. Aidan flew helicopters with unrivaled precision and skill. He argued complex cases in front of a judge and jury. And he preferred to communicate by writing with an old-fashioned fountain pen on sheets of paper. Go figure.

"He did have a secondary OS," Jack confirmed. "He still needed the e-mail system to forward the financial reports, and every time he switched on the Wi-Fi or docked the laptop, the system would sync to—do you really want me to give you the tech spiel on all that? I can see your eyes glazing over." He got a sheepish little wave in reply and continued. "Suffice it to say that we monitor all e-mail. This morning, that lot there got caught in the crimp. There are four messages altogether. And yes, they are all like this one: not-so-subtle blackmail threats."

Aidan didn't seem in the least surprised by the messages Jack had intercepted. He didn't even get angry.

"Do you think the timing of these is coincidental?" he wondered aloud once he'd finished reading.

"How do you mean?"

"I wonder if they would have moved had they known that you are back."

"Not everyone thinks as highly of me as you do," Jack scoffed. "Frazer would have caught them just as surely. The crimp's been in the system since last October. Added to that, I'm not a threat to any of them. I'd be surprised if I'm even on their radar." He remembered the presentation Gareth had made him give to the board of directors almost a year ago, and the thin blonde woman who'd almost run from the room at the end of it. "The only one who might be vaguely aware of me is Cecily Nancarrow."

"And she's a stupid cow if there ever was one," Aidan sighed. "What is it with blonde, entitled bitches this week?"

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, nothing. Ignore me." Aidan waved, as if he was aware that he'd swerved into another conversation. "I had a visit from a potential client this morning. Titled, entitled, and.... Skylar has a thing for her sneer, or something."

"What's the matter with her? I thought you don't take divorce cases."

"She's convinced her other half's trying to kill her."

"O... kay." Jack drew out the syllables, wondering where he'd lost track of their conversation. "Is there a chance it's true?"

"Fuck me if I know."

Aidan's sigh was long, deep, and heartfelt, and unease prickled down Jack's spine. "What the hell's the matter, Conrad?" he demanded. And then he remembered the date. It was the anniversary of the day that Marcus Dwight had gone missing. "I'm sorry," he said. "I forgot about Marcus."

"Fuck, you're good."

"I have a good memory, is all. Should I leave you in peace?"

"No. This crap needs dealing with. Julian's whole damn family needs dealing with. Can you find a way for us to talk to him that can't be intercepted or overheard?"

"Yes. Before I do that, I have a few questions you may not want to hear. I can find the answers elsewhere, but I'd rather not go digging and raise flags all over the place."

Aidan chewed on his lower lip, eyes hooded. He'd not worn his imperturbable court facade since Jack had stepped into his office and closed the door. "Shoot."

"How long's Nancarrow Mining been working with MI6? Was the link made voluntarily or under duress? And how good is the relationship?"

"Why is any of that relevant?"

"From all the stuff I've been reading this week, it seems to me that Julian puts up with a lot of unnecessary crap. Which makes me wonder what he's protecting."

Aidan waved a hand at the assorted messages on his desk. "Himself, by the looks of those threats."

"Yeah, right. Unless he's changed dramatically in the last three months, Julian's too smart and not greedy enough to dabble in organized crime. So chances are that he's protecting the company's link with the service or he's protecting his stupid family from being taken down. Any idea which it is?"

"The organized crime connection isn't as farfetched as you think," Aidan said slowly. "It just didn't happen the way the message says it did. Or for the reasons given."

Jack considered that. "Do I need the history lesson to do my job?"

"Not right now."

"Then let's not bother." He pulled one final sheet of paper from his stack and set it in front of Aidan. It was a copy of a contract draft that could have come from no other place than the safe in Julian Nancarrow's office. "This was attached to one of the e-mails. Could be deliberate bait. Could be a red herring. Though I have the feeling this is the real threat and the blackmail notes are just there to muddy the waters."

Aidan sighed. "Seems we need the history lesson after all, so pay attention. Julian has an uncle, Vincent, who once upon a time owned a 12 percent stake in Nancarrow Mining. He also had a habit of gambling too much with the wrong people and ended up owing a very substantial sum to a syndicate of... let's say unsavory people."

Conrad was too careful with his words and Jack's scalp prickled with unease. "Let me guess," he said. "Vincent tried to take over Nancarrow Mining and use the company's assets to pay his debt? Or did he make over his shares to the mob?"

"Both, actually. He wrote over his shares as security and then tried to take over Nancarrow to finance the rest of his debt."

"So there's the organized crime connection. A 12 percent stake wouldn't have given them much leverage."

"Well, Vincent owed a lot more than his 12 percent stake and a mining company is a useful asset."

"So Julian went to the service? Couldn't he have simply reported his uncle?"

Aidan hesitated. He got up and poured two mugs of coffee from the glass pot on the warmer, before holding one out to Jack. "Remember last Christmas, when you asked me how much family relationships meant when pitted against crime and punishment?"

"Not my exact words, but yeah, I remember." Jack drank his coffee. After that introduction, and Aidan's very careful tone, he could imagine where this tale was headed. He'd heard plenty of similar stories in his previous job. After worrying how Daniel might react if Jack had his parents sent to prison, this one might actually make sense instead of leaving him confused as tales of family drama often did.

"Julian's grandfather had handed over Nancarrow Mining to Julian not long before all that happened. He knew of Vincent's gambling problems and used his majority holding to bypass the succession, so to speak."

"And Vincent resented that."

"That's an understatement. The takeover attempt was impeccably timed. They had the documents delivered to the board two days before the old man had to go for heart bypass surgery."

"They wanted Julian distracted."

"You bet." Aidan's frown was impressive, the case clearly hitting a sore spot. "Back then, Julian was a bit like you. Everything in his orbit was his responsibility, was his fault when it went wrong. He was so busy beating himself up for not seeing it coming, he almost didn't realize that he didn't have to take it lying down."

"What did he do? No... let me work it out," Jack requested. The biggest disadvantage to having quit his previous job was the lack of intricate, multilayered problems that crossed his desk. This one was a little more up his street. "Well, if I were CEO of Nancarrow Mining, I'd throw Uncle Vincent to the wolves. I might buy out his stake in the company if I felt charitable and then leave him to sort out his debt problem by himself. Julian isn't me, of course. And the old gentleman might have felt guilty for not giving his son a chance. So.... No debtors prison for Vincent."

Jack was looking around for suitable objects to juggle with when the solution came to him. "I know. If Vincent has given his shares as security, then the mob now has a 12 percent stake in the company. I can't let that happen. I need to buy the shares back, provided the mob were prepared to sell, but by dealing with an illegal organization I'm breaking the law myself. So I have to find another way to get them back. I contact the service and explain my predicament. I offer to help them take down the gang and neutralize Vincent in a way that won't land him in jail. In exchange, I get the shares back and agree to let them use the company as a base for foreign operations. How's that?"

"Surprisingly close."

"Only Vincent hasn't been shut down as thoroughly as everyone thought, I suppose. Donovan's his son, right?"

"Right. And you think it's the same crowd, trying again."

"It'd be too much of a coincidence if it wasn't. Nancarrow Mining isn't that high profile, and the odds for it being a random, unconnected organization are... somewhere on the scale from zero to ridiculous. Donovan's holding a grudge. It's safe to assume that he's contacted Dad's old pals for help. So, given all that, I now wanna catch the twerp who's going through Julian's stuff and see where he fits into all this."

"You think there was a break-in?"

"Nope." Jack popped the p, and it sounded menacing rather than cheerful. "I think we have us a rat."

"And you know who it is."

"I have a suspicion. Let me confirm it before I take him down. Can you deal with this?" Jack waved at the contract and the assorted blackmail threats. He waited to see Aidan nod before he turned. "Yell when you want to talk to Julian and I'll hook you in to a secure line." Jack paused on his way out, hand on the door handle. "I know we had this discussion a while ago and then shit happened," he said. "But my offer still stands. Do you want me to go looking for Marcus?"

Aidan didn't even look up from the copy of the contract on his desk. "Let's take it one crisis at a time, eh? You may not realize it, but you're a prime resource, Horwood. We can't spread you too thinly."

JACK SLID the bike into a tiny parking space right outside Rachel Whitestone's deli on Richmond High Street. Friday traffic had been thicker than usual, but Jack's mind was busy dissecting clues, so he'd followed the stream of cars heading west from the Strand sedately enough, eventually reaching his destination a few minutes before the shop was due to close.

That fact didn't bother Jack. The fewer customers who were left in the place the better, because he wasn't just here to pick up a few last-minute groceries.

He pulled off his helmet, enjoying the cooling touch of a light breeze on his cheeks and hair. Despite the early morning mists that sometimes hung around until lunchtime and the odd heavy shower, the weather had stayed enjoyably warm. Jack dawdled a little, wondering whether Daniel, Nico, and Gareth would be up for a picnic by the river or a hike on the Ridgeway or whether Gareth was so stressed after his training course that he'd want to hide in the kitchen all weekend. In which case it'd be him and Nico finding things to do, because Daniel would never pass up a chance to learn a new recipe or try out ingredients he'd never seen before. He checked his phone, glad to see a message from Gareth. It was time-stamped 3:46 p.m. and simply read Leaving now. Are you gonna be around?

At home, Jack typed without a second thought, and then he stopped and stared at the phone in his hands as if it was an alien device. A few beats later he backspaced over the message and typed In Richmond before he pressed Send.

When he checked the traffic on the M4, he was doubly sure that his idea to make dinner was a sound one. The long stretch of road between Cardiff and Richmond was a snarling mess of congestion and roadwork warnings and there was little chance that Gareth would make it home before seven.

He activated the tracker he'd added to Gareth's Range Rover many months ago and was glad to see that Gareth was across the bridge and past Bristol. The path through Somerset and Wiltshire seemed clear and maybe.... The chime on the deli's door reminded him that sitting outside wouldn't get him any dinner and he grabbed his bag and headed inside.

Simply stepping into the deli got him a smile so wide it made him fear for Rachel's ears. "Oh, my God, Jack! I haven't seen you in ages! How are you?"

"Fine." He leaned over the counter to give her a one-armed hug. "And in need of some help. You know how my kitchen skills are sort of...."

"Lamentable? Nonexistent?"

"Yeah. Gareth is on the way home from Cardiff, the M4's a mess, and I'm thinking he might appreciate dinner when he comes in. So...." He smiled rakishly. "You think you can sort of help me out there?"

"Well—" She sighed playfully, looking around her domain. "—this is a deli, so you've come to the right place. What do you want to eat?"

"I dunno. Food?"

"You're hopeless."

"And that's news? Come on, Rachel... you know how well I can't cook. Gimme something that I can't ruin and that Gareth will like to eat when he comes home late and hungry and most likely cranky as hell."

"You've got it." Rachel disappeared through the beaded curtain into the backrooms of the shop she'd grown from a tiny bakery and teashop to one of the best places to buy food on this side of London. She stocked a huge variety of ingredients as well as homemade, oven-ready fresh and frozen dinners, feeding tourists and tired, starving office workers alike.

While Jack leaned on the counter out front, Rachel was opening and closing cupboard doors and rummaging in drawers in the back. When she returned, she set a basket full of comestibles in front of him.

"Here," she said. "Do you know how to turn on the oven?"

"I'm not that bad. I can also drive a microwave, if that was going to be the next question."

"It's not. Gareth hates food that goes ping."

"And I know that. So what did you come up with?" He tried to dig through the basket but got a slap on the wrist for his efforts.

"Hands off the merchandise. Let me show off a little, okay?" She pulled two baguettes from the basket and waved them under his nose. "Starter's easy. Garlic bread... just needs to go into a medium oven for ten minutes. Medium is around 150 to 170 degrees. Set the timer and check after seven minutes, okay?"

Jack nodded dutifully to indicate that he'd heard. She didn't need to know that he was recording their conversation.

"Salad to go with the garlic bread." She placed two bags of multicolored leaves next to the baguettes and added a bottle of dressing. "Add the dressing when you're about to sit down to eat. No sooner or the leaves will wilt. Just shake the bottle and pour it over."

"I think I can manage that." Jack waved at the other items in the basket. "What's all this?"

"Steaks, coleslaw, and potatoes. And chocolate and morello cherry tart for pudding. Now, you need to start the potatoes baking as soon as you get in. They take about an hour and a quarter. And you need a hot oven, that's 200 to 220 degrees. So turn that on first and then get the potatoes ready. Wash and dry them, stab each one once or twice with a fork to make space for the steam to escape while they cook, and then rub them with a little olive oil and salt before you put them in the oven. That gets the skins nice and crisp. Makes sense?"

"Makes sense."

She held up a large jar next. Unrecognizable, multicolored bits and pieces floated in oil and when she shook it, the jar looked like the culinary version of a snow globe. "This is the marinade for the steaks."

"You remember that I can't cook, right?" Jack eyed the jar with trepidation. In his limited experience, oil meant frying pans and chopping things up and—more often than not—burning them beyond recognition.

"I'm sure you know how to take a bath."

"We're discussing dinner, not personal hygiene."

Rachel had the kind of laugh that eased headaches and put smiles on people's faces. It was one of the reasons Jack frequented the deli when food shopping was so much more easily done online. The other was that she knew Gareth's tastes almost better than he did. And that she was never fazed by questions.

"It's no different, really. I think you don't cook because you've convinced yourself it's difficult when it's really not."

"I don't cook because I almost burned down a curry house the last time I tried," Jack corrected her, just because he wanted to hear her laugh again. She'd already been told the story of how a random, work-related text message had distracted him in the middle of the cookery class, and he had completely forgotten what he was meant to be doing.

"Well, you're not burning anything this time," she soothed. "All you need to do is find a dish large enough to lay the steaks out flat. Don't use a plate. You want something deep enough to hold the steaks and the oil. You put the steaks in the dish, shake the jar, and pour the contents over the steaks. Turn them over a couple of times while the potatoes cook. There's no need to time anything. Leave them in the marinade until you're ready to eat. Hey, you can do everything else and leave the steaks for Gareth if you're worried about overcooking them."

"Staying in that oil for too long won't hurt them?"

"Not at all. It's steak, not sponge. The oil just makes them tastier. And while Gareth cooks the steaks, you can put the garlic bread in the oven and—hey, presto!—dinner."

"No instructions for baking the cake?"

"It's a tart. You eat it cold with cream. Really, Jack... stop pulling my leg!"

"What can I say? I like hearing you laugh."

"Right." She dismissed him with a wave. "Now grab your food and get out of my deli. It's time I head home and commune with a bottle of Shiraz."

TIRED, HUNGRY, and so fed up he couldn't find words to voice it, Gareth stepped across his threshold at twenty past seven. Only to stop in confusion with his hand still on the door handle. Warm, beguiling scents wafted toward him when he hadn't expected his home to smell at all inviting. He'd seen the black bike parked outside, but Jack being home didn't usually equate to work being done in the kitchen—unless it was by the coffee machine.

He couldn't detect the smell of brewing coffee over the mouthwatering aromas of garlic, herbs, and potatoes. Lights were on, something melodic with a severe bass line and vaguely oriental-sounding lyrics spilled from the sound system, and when he popped his head around the doorframe, he found Jack two-stepping around the kitchen in a ratty anarchy T-shirt, thick socks, and his most disreputable jeans.

"There you are." He smiled when he caught sight of Gareth, and set the salad bowl on the island counter. "I saw that the M4 was a nightmare and thought I'd start dinner."

"That's enterprising of you." While Jack's assumptions about the state of the M4 had been correct, Jack thinking about preparing food was so unexpected that Gareth struggled to wrap his head around the news. "What are we having?"

"Nothing fancy. Garlic bread and salad for starters. Spuds are in the oven and should be done in... oh... fifteen minutes or so. There are steaks, which you can burn to your liking if you want to. And Rachel's given me a morello cherry and dark chocolate tart for treats. Sound reasonable?"

"Sounds perfect." Gareth smiled and caught Jack's elbow as he drifted past. "And awfully domestic of you."

Jack didn't fight the hug, but he didn't lean much either.

"Go change," he said and nudged Gareth toward the hallway. "I've just thrown the garlic bread into the oven, and Rachel tells me it needs eight minutes. Don't know about you, but I'm starving."

Gareth's stomach growled loudly in answer, leaving him no room to argue with Jack's plans even if he'd wanted to. And he was sick of that suit and all its connotations. If Julian wanted to network and have his company seen as helpful, he could go himself next time. Gareth had had enough of the inane rubbish. Not to mention that every time he was stuck down there, something went wrong at home. It was as if the bloody place were cursed.

The suit was a crumpled pile of expensive wool when Gareth realized where his thoughts had strayed. He'd not told Jack, and probably wouldn't ever, but the one time he was down in Cardiff while Jack was on his undercover assignment, he'd almost lost his shit to the point of ditching everything and driving home ahead of time. All because some part of his mind had convinced him that Jack was in trouble. He still owed Lisa for waking her at 4:00 a.m. to demand an update. And he hoped to God that she never told Jack about that either.

"Flynn! If dinner ends up burned, I'm gonna end you!"

"Take it out. Take it out. I'm coming!" The grumpy tone in Jack's voice banished any and all maudlin thoughts. Gareth had hoped for pizza, or maybe his favorite curry. He'd never dreamed of Jack attempting something like a three-course dinner. Just the idea boggled his mind. And made him grin like a loon. He grabbed a pair of jeans from his wardrobe and a T-shirt from the pile on the dresser, and clattered downstairs.

Jack had laid dinner on the kitchen table and the baking garlic bread smelled heavenly.

"I've left the steaks for you," Jack said, standing over a large bowl of what looked like frisée, oak leaf, and watercress leaves, vigorously shaking a bottle of dressing. "They're in this dish over there, drowning in funky oil. Do with them what you want."

"How long have they been in the marinade?"

"Since I got home. Two and a half hours. Just over. Rachel said they wouldn't spoil."

He sounded a bit anxious there at the end, and Gareth couldn't help himself. He snuck up behind Jack and wrapped his arms around him. "Shhh. Don't fuss." He touched his lips to Jack's nape just to feel him shiver. "I wanted to know whether they could go in the oven while we start on the garlic bread. How much longer do the spuds need?"

Jack leaned out of his embrace to catch sight of the slate he had propped against the coffee machine. Its screen showed multiple countdown timers and a clock. "Eight minutes," he said.

"In that case, your timing is perfect. Drown the leaves. I'll put the steaks in the oven."

He let deeds follow words and was done when Jack set the salad bowl on the table and took his seat. "What made you think of cooking dinner?" he asked, reaching for bread as if he were starving. Which, since his last meal had been breakfast, he probably was.

"The state of the M4."

"You know, I almost called you to ask for pizza, but I had no idea when I'd make it in and cold pizza's the pits."

"To you, yeah." The smirk Gareth loved was out in full force. "Cold pizza was never an option. I knew exactly where you were and how heavy the traffic was."

Jack's words were so matter-of-fact that Gareth couldn't help but put two and two together and come up with the correct result. "You put a tracker in my car."

"Months ago. I keep tabs on Julian, Aidan, Alex, and the other execs as well. After the crap with Gorish... do you think I'd let any one of you run around without one?"

"And you never said."

Jack didn't answer. He merely stared at Gareth or—more to the point—at Gareth's chest. His grin grew wider and wider until he couldn't hold back a laugh. "Did you dress with your eyes closed?"

"What?"

"You're wearing one of my T-shirts."

Gareth dropped his fork and yanked the shirt over his head, not even trying to read the print upside down. He really had just grabbed the first T-shirt he'd laid hands on and not paid any attention to it beyond the facts that it was clean and fit him. "Fish fingers and custard are cool. 1 out of 11 doctors agree!" the shirt proclaimed proudly, and Gareth groaned. "Only you could find that funny. Teaches me not to pick the top one from the pile."

"You're decorative enough without a shirt. You know that, right?"

"Decorative. Just what I was going for."

"Well, I could have said something else, but then we won't get to the steaks or the tart. So, decorative it is. For now."

"Not touching that." Neither was he going to mention how neatly Jack had evaded his question. He had no intention of letting his dinner get cold and start a fight. Not so soon after Jack had gotten back.

"WHY ARE there socks in the dishwasher?"

They'd eaten their dinner interspersed with trivial conversation, mostly sharing news they didn't want to discuss while Nico and Daniel were around. Jack had told him about his night out with Raf, and Kiriyenka's death. Gareth had talked about the course he'd taught at the workshop in Cardiff and had dutifully refrained from mentioning the courier that had arrived late on Thursday night, bearing copies of leaked contracts and blackmail messages.

"What?" came Jack's voice from the living room.

"I'm asking why there are socks in the dishwasher."

"Oh, is that where I put them? I was wondering where they'd gone. I had to nick a pair of yours in the end."

He wandered in, mostly empty wineglass in hand, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world. It had been a long time since he'd fooled Gareth, though.

"Something is bothering you," Gareth pointed out when the last of the dishes were in the dishwasher and Jack was drying his hands.

Jack didn't reply in words. Not at first. He stalked across the kitchen, stopped right in front of Gareth, and rubbed his fingers over the fabric of Gareth's tee, circling the ring in Gareth's nipple.

"Something is bothering me," he agreed a few beats later. "The fact that we're standing in the kitchen, while there's a perfectly good bed in the house."

"Is that so?"

"Hm-hm."

"Then I suggest we relocate to said bed."

"That's a damn fine idea."

Jack grabbed a fistful of fabric and turned, dragging Gareth after him, out into the hall and toward the stairs. Gareth didn't mind. Until Jack decided which of his thoughts and ruminations he wanted to share, he could work with pretending that it was merely sexual frustration that bothered his lover.

# Chapter THIRTEEN

"THIS IS Gallant. Make it snappy."

"Abrupt. Nice. I suggest you change your messaging service. This one won't win you any business awards," Jack said into his headset. He was mic'd up, fingers busy on his keyboard and eyes on the detailed architectural drawings on his four screens. "Whatever. Call me when you have a moment. I need to pick your brain."

"Jack?"

"Oh, you're there, are you?"

"Do I sound like a fucking robot? I was here the whole time," Raf grumbled into Jack's ear. "What is it?"

"Touchy. D'you have time to talk me through breaking into this place?"

"What? Which place? Where are you?"

"My desk. And what are you doing that you shouldn't? I've never heard you so out of breath."

"I just realized that I'm late heading to Heathrow." Raf's breathing evened out a little, making him easier to understand. "I'm supposed to pick up Payne. He's coming in from LA. And he's gonna skin me if he has to wait."

"Don't exaggerate. He's more likely to get you drunk and dye your hair green while you're passed out."

"You have no idea." A car door slammed and then engine noise took over. "If you don't mind where you pick my brain, you can come with me. I'm just leaving Waterloo Station."

"I don't mind." Jack secured his screens with one hand and reached for his backpack with the other. He was antsy enough that getting away from people for a while seemed like a good idea. And Raf could relate to how Jack felt. He would cut him some slack should he need it. "I'll be downstairs in five. What are you driving?"

"The Ranger."

"See you in five, then."

"SO WHAT is this about breaking into Nancarrow Mining?" Raf wanted to know as he turned onto the Heathrow Spur Road. The heavy clouds that had weighed down the city all day had finally decided to shed some of their load, and the roads grew slick with the sudden moisture. Jack wound the window down, pulling in deep lungfuls of cool, rain-scented air. He'd lost most of his agitation sitting in the quiet car beside Raf, not in the least bothered by the mess on the road. They'd been fighting nose-to-tail traffic until Jack had taken to pointing out the rat runs and shortcuts on what was his usual way to and from the Strand. That he hadn't been along the route for three months hadn't impaired his knowledge. "So. Nancarrow?"

Jack leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs while Raf followed the signs for arrivals and short-stay parking. "I want to know if it's feasible for someone to break in and out of the place without getting noticed or caught," he said. "And I want an honest-to-God assessment. If you believe that you could do it with prayers and a following wind, or even if you merely think there's a reasonably good chance that it might work, I need to know."

"You gonna tell me why?"

Jack's first instinct was refusal. But he and Gallant would be colleagues of a sort. If he couldn't trust Raf, then what was the point? "I'm about to go postal on someone's ass," he said. "I need to make sure it's warranted."

"Fair enough." Raf backed right off as if he'd felt Jack's reluctance. "Is there a helipad on the roof?"

"Yes. Roof perimeter has motion sensors and a laser grid. Floor-level access is gated, guarded, and monitored. Underground garage has free access to the outer lobby and secure access to the basement," Jack rattled off without hesitation. "Lobby entrance into the building is guarded, secured, and monitored. And all the windows in the building are on a controlled circuit. Won't open wider than ten centimeters."

"Anyone ever tried to jump out?"

"I doubt it. You'd need to be an eel to get out of that."

"Vents and crawlspaces?"

Jack waved his slate. "I've got the drawings. All access points are monitored or locked down."

"That's clever of whoever built the crate, but only rookies or film stars ever go for access points. You're not that predictable."

Jack returned Raf's grin. B and E wasn't his specialty, not the way it was Raf's. He wasn't as fast or as silent as Raf when it came to locks. He didn't consider access routes to a building in the same way Raf could and did. But hand him anything electronic and he could wreak havoc at the drop of a hat. Working with Raf—once Raf had quit the Met—would be as easy as falling off a log. And a lot more enjoyable. Not to mention that Jack's habit to make the strangest requests out of the blue hadn't bothered the soon-to-be-ex–firearms officer even once.

They circled the short-stay car park nearest the arrivals hall and found a parking space in sight of the gate, which was almost a miracle in itself seeing how late they were.

"I need to give that some thought and look at your drawings," Raf said as he slid out of the driver's seat. "How about we settle down at Payne's place to work this out? He's bound to be stupid from jetlag. Someone has to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't drown in the bath or something. And he has the best food delivery service I've ever seen."

Jack slung his bag over one shoulder. "After the crap I've been wading through, I'm in the mood for a flamethrower curry," he said. "If that's an option, I'm game."

The space around the arrivals gate was packed, and while Jack joined the nearest Starbucks queue to procure much needed caffeine for all three of them, Raf leaned on the barrier within sight of the gate. His shoulders were rigid with the same tension that had been in his voice when he had answered Jack's call. He'd been more relaxed on the drive, letting Jack relax a bit in return. Now the tension was back, and it prompted Jack to look for threats, for reasons, and triggers. Not a healthy preoccupation in his present state of mind. And apart from the fact that they were in a crowded arrivals hall in Heathrow Airport, nothing was apparent.

Travelers—tired, elated, and relieved—passed through the gate in an endless stream, and Jack had barely handed Raf his coffee when a slim man stopped in front of them and blocked their view of the doors.

Raf's eyes grew visibly wider, and then he opened his mouth before his brain was in gear. "Copper? What the fuck? How many times a day do you change your fucking hair color?" Three seconds later his face lit up like a stoplight, while Skylar Payne stood gaping at the unconventional greeting.

Jack snorted coffee, amused by Raf's predicament. Raf rarely commented on someone's appearance. Not even Jack's when he was dressed as jailbait. Or Skylar's when the stylist was out to be noticed.

Skylar's latest look had taken Raf by surprise. With good reason. Even jetlagged and short of witty repartee, Skylar looked spectacular in skintight, ripped jeans, a light gray V-neck, and a navy blazer to pull the outfit together. His shiny, copper-colored hair stood out like a beacon, matching the copper bangles on Skylar's wrists, the gleaming Italian loafers, and the smart carry-on luggage. Not to mention the artfully smudged liner that turned Skylar's expressive eyes into something quite spectacular.

Yes, Skylar was out to be noticed. And he didn't relish disparaging comments.

"Don't pay him any mind." Jack stepped in to avoid bloodshed, holding out the third Starbucks mug like a peace offering. "He's got a strop on. Give it an hour and it'll wear off."

Skylar bypassed the mug and threw an arm around Jack's neck. "Horwood—you're back! How long have you been back? How are you, anyway? And does that mean that Flynn has stopped sulking?"

Jack extricated himself from Skylar's stranglehold without spilling coffee everywhere, and stepped out of reach. "He wasn't that bad. Was he?"

"Yes, he was. Actually, no—he was worse."

Skylar drew a deep breath, and Raf, reading the signs as well as Jack, quickly held his hand out for Skylar's laptop case. "We should get going. Traffic's a bitch."

"Sure." Skylar took the coffee Jack was still holding for him. "Did he insult your hairstyle too?"

"My what?"

"I could understand it if he did," Skylar continued, peering at Jack's head. "What nitwit gave you that cut?"

"I have no idea. Someone Lisa dragged in before I left."

"You mean you've gone around looking like this for the last three months?"

"Well, yeah. It doesn't look too bad."

"It doesn't look too bad," Skylar parroted as he climbed into the backseat of Raf's Range Rover and ran his fingers through Jack's choppy hair. "Horwood, honestly? You used to have style. Now you just look like you're trying way too hard."

"What the fuck does it matter what he looks like?" Raf queried as he started the car and joined the stream of traffic trying to leave the crowded airport car park. "It's not as if he's running around trying to get laid."

"How do you know?"

"I... I—"

"Just drive, Gallant. Much safer than trying to use your mouth."

"DOCKLANDS?" JACK winced as he looked around at the tall buildings ringed by water. The short lived showers had moved north and the whole area gleamed freshly washed. Late afternoon sunlight glinted off canals and puddles, and reflected in acres of glass. "You live in Docklands?"

Skylar nodded and directed Raf through the barriers into the underground garage. "I love it. Wait until you see my living room. It will make perfect sense."

"I doubt that," Jack grumbled and got out of the car. He followed the other two up to the lobby and into the lift, frowning at the raft of sensors and cameras watching his every move There were a lot of them. Far too many for comfort, though the view from Skylar's living room out over the river did go a long way to alleviate the creepy feeling he got every time he set foot into this part of town. Alleviate it—not remove it.

Jack wasn't a hermit who lived on a remote mountain to preserve his privacy. Far from it. He was well aware of the benefits of hiding in a crowd and blending into his surroundings. He made use of them on a daily basis. But hiding in a crowd and living under a microscope were two entirely different things.

There were obvious benefits to Skylar's choice of abode. He'd been in the States for almost four weeks this time, and yet his fridge was fully stocked, his plants alive and well, and not a speck of dust marred the gleaming kitchen worktops or the polished surfaces in the living room. As soon as they got in, Skylar threw all his laundry into a pile and within half an hour it had been collected, to be returned washed, ironed, and ready to wear the following morning.

Judging by the raft of menus on the kitchen notice board, Skylar could simply pick up the phone and order from the downstairs restaurant when he wanted food—like ordering room service in a hotel. On top of that, the area was overrun with takeaway places, offering anything from pizza to Mexican to Thai. Not to mention the pool, gym, sauna, and spa Jack had spotted on the ground floor and which seemed to be open to residents 24-7.

It was a sweet deal Skylar had here, really. And if Skylar had a desire to sequester himself after his travels, he could go a long while without having to leave the building.

"The view's the best thing about this place, of course. But even without, it's perfect for the sort of life I'm leading," Skylar announced proudly. "Twenty-four-hour concierge service. Twenty-four-hour security. Can't beat it."

"I beg to differ." Raf stretched out in the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, ignoring the stunning views in favor of watching the newly copper-haired stylist. "Security is not nearly as good as you'd like to think."

"Prove it."

Raf's smile was wide and delighted. "Challenge accepted."

Jack watched them, only just stopping a groan from making it out of his throat. Twenty-four-hour security. What the fuck was Skylar thinking? Couldn't he see how easy that convenience could turn around and bite him in the ass? Jack drained his beer in something close to despair. He'd thought Conrad was the sloppy one. But no. It was Jack who needed to have his head examined for even contemplating to work with oblivious amateurs.

And yes, he'd just said that aloud.

"You're paranoid, Horwood."

"Really." Jack didn't even flinch. If Payne wanted a fight, he'd give him one. "How long have you lived in your apartment?"

"Eighteen months or so. Bit over."

"Okay. And in that time, you've had how many hairstyles? Six, seven? Have you changed your color?"

"Well, yes. Sure. 'S not as if I look the same from one end of the year to the other."

"Of course not. You're also not the corporate uniform type. You know: two suits, six shirts, and regulation haircut? You wear both formal and informal to please yourself and match the occasion. So what makes you think that after eighteen months they don't have an entire catalogue of your every conceivable look on file? You turn up on a camera anywhere in London, they know exactly who you are."

Skylar looked so appalled that Jack was inclined to feel sorry. It didn't make him take back his words.

"I thought surveillance tapes are overwritten after a few days."

"A long time ago, maybe," Jack said, a little more gently this time. "Back when there were tapes and the buggers were expensive. But even then you couldn't ever be sure. I have surveillance data going back fourteen years. I use it too. These days...." He opened another beer and handed it to Skylar. "As data storage becomes cheaper and computers get faster, there's less need to choose what to keep. Surveillance cameras don't record anymore. They stream their data now, so it's easiest to just keep everything."

"Shit."

Jack needn't have worried that Skylar didn't understand the implications of what he was being told. His face said otherwise.

"I need to go shopping. As soon as possible." Skylar's hands found their way back into Jack's hair, lifting a strand here and there and inspecting it critically before moving on to the next one. "You need a haircut. New color too. This shade is all wrong for you."

Jack rolled his eyes. Skylar had been fiddling with his hair all the way on the drive from Heathrow, and he still couldn't let it go. "Why don't you fix it if it bothers you so much?"

"You're sure?"

"Well, yeah. Saves me a trip to the salon. Besides, I'd have no idea what to ask for anyway."

"Liar."

"Not. Color's never bothered me before. And Raf's promised to help me work out whether or not someone can break into Nancarrow Mining, so...."

"So I get to fix your hair." Skylar nodded. "You're buying the curry."

Jack reached for the menu Skylar held out to him and grinned. "How much heat can you handle, hotshots?"

"WHAT THE fuck's the matter with you, Flynn? Spit it out or swallow it, but stop making that face."

"Nothing's the matter." Gareth's gaze explored the bottom of his whisky glass. This late of an evening, Nancarrow Mining was quiet; the muted hum of processor cooling fans, the dry rustle of paper, and the two men's quiet breaths were the only sounds in Aidan Conrad's spacious office. Aidan's PA had left hours ago, and only then had he and Aidan started to work on the blackmail notes.

They could have done it during the day... after all, the door to Aidan's office had a perfectly serviceable lock, and Aidan's PA could be trusted to keep out anyone Aidan had no wish to be bothered by, but both found comfort in quiet surroundings and the hours of darkness, especially when it came to picking through other people's dirty laundry.

Assessing employee records and cross-referencing e-mails was something both of them had to do with annoying regularity for a number of reasons. There were faster ways of classifying data, but even Jack and Frazer agreed that computers had little discernment. Algorithms, however cleverly designed, just helped whittle down the probabilities before they needed a human mind to call each case.

They'd spent three hours going over file after file. Three hours that had left Gareth no time to worry just where Jack might be and what he was up to. Now, though, the worry was back, and with it the annoyance. "Jack is driving me insane."

"And in other news?"

"He's not talking."

"Are you surprised?" Aidan waved the bottle in his direction and Gareth shook his head. He didn't want to leave his car at Nancarrow and call a taxi to get home. If he felt the need for another drink, there was time later.

"Yes, I'm surprised. No. I'm pissed, actually. He's struggling to settle after coming home from Lisa's job. I get that. Now something's bothering him, and of course he has to fix it all himself. I've no idea if it's to do with the mess here, or if he's already got himself mired in something else. If anything were to happen to him, I'd have no idea where to even start looking. And I thought... I really thought we had something better than that."

"You're an ass, Flynn," Aidan said. He wasn't rolling his eyes, but it was a near thing. "You can read a crowd to a T, but when it comes to Horwood you have a blind spot as big as a football pitch. You were fucking moping while he was away. Now you're moping because he takes his time coming back? Grow a pair, man, and tell him."

"What?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Use your noggin. Horwood's independent to a fault because he had to look out for himself since kindergarten, and this shit job he had alongside Gatting wasn't helping. Remember last Christmas? You finally started to get it into his head that families could be a good thing. Ever since, he's made an effort to share stuff and accept help the way normal people do. Now that undercover job has taken him right back to where he's come from. Doesn't mean he's nixed what you have together. Just means that you can't pick up where you left off in June. You've got to start over. How difficult is that to grasp?"

Gareth thought about that as he nursed the last of his whisky. About Jack's hesitant expression when he stood in the doorway late at night. About the way he never used the keys Gareth had made for him when Gareth was actually home. About terse notes and short text messages instead of conversations as if he didn't quite trust anything he heard and saw.

Then he remembered Jack rushing to finish his assignment so he could be home on the day they'd met a year prior. He remembered Jack recording Rachel's instructions of how to make dinner without burning the house down, and Jack's tablet leaning against the coffeemaker with four countdown clocks on the display... one for each of the dishes he was making and one counting down the time until Gareth got home.

Maybe Aidan was right, and Gareth simply couldn't see straight.

Maybe he projected his own fears and judged Jack by their abysmal glow.

Maybe they needed to start over, rebuild the easy interaction they'd had before Jack left to infiltrate Kiriyenka's network.

Or maybe all he had to do was stop second-guessing everything Jack said or didn't say and look to Jack's actions. Those that spoke louder than any words.

And push the annoying brat until he actually talked to him.

GARETH'S COUCH was the epitome of comfort. Jack shifted against the cushions and crossed his arms behind his head. The soft leather of his trousers made barely a sound as he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. He had plans for this evening. Plans that involved the man who currently presided over the kitchen, sparing nary a thought for Jack: the man who was responsible for creating the mouthwatering aromas that drifted into the living room and made Jack's stomach growl loudly and insistently.

He had learned over the last year that disturbing Gareth when he was in culinary experimentation mode only got the man riled.

And not in the fun way.

So when he'd realized that Gareth was cooking, as soon as he'd opened the front door in fact, he had merely called a greeting, shucked his boots and helmet, and settled on the sofa, intent to catch up on some sleep.

Sleep wasn't cooperating. His mind spun aimlessly through the events of the week, examining and discarding thoughts and impressions and not settling on anything long enough to be useful. Frazer's dismay over all the Nancarrow family's drama, blackmail threats and pilfered documents, Raf's decision to quit his job, Kiriyenka's sudden demise, the changes he could see in Nico and Daniel after three months away, even the layer of dirt he was working to add to Skylar Payne's knife skills, all whirled and eddied like leaves in a stream.

Exertion did little to stop Jack's mind. Alcohol didn't help much either. But Jack was fortunate enough to have the near-perfect remedy. One that stood tall, looked entirely too alluring, and went by the name of Gareth Flynn. And while he'd been careful not to impose on his lover, today he was determined to entice Gareth into helping him relax.

Jack never noticed when he drifted off into a doze, and waking up to being groped should have been alarming. But the touch on his leather-clad thighs was familiar, as was the hot amber gaze that greeted him when he opened his eyes.

Gareth's face was exactly what Jack had hoped for as he contemplated Jack in bare feet, bare arms, and figure-hugging leather.

"You're such a damn tease, Horwood." Gareth chuckled and nuzzled his face into Jack's neck, breathing deeply.

"There you go insulting me," Jack huffed, "when all I did was fall asleep on your couch."

That wasn't the whole story, of course. Jack knew exactly how he looked with his arms behind his head, the gray-green T-shirt riding up to show his abs, and his legs casually crossed. He wanted Gareth riled. Scratch that. He needed the man riled or his brain would never shut up and let him rest.

Jack pulled an arm out from behind his head and wrapped it around Gareth's shoulders. "Talking of teasing, who put those beers on the coffee table just too far away for me to reach?"

"Guilty," Gareth admitted and sat up. He picked up the dewy bottles and held one out to Jack. "Dinner's in the oven and will be about an hour. And we need to talk."

Jack took the bottle. "About?"

"Whether you actually still want to be here."

There was nothing wrong with Jack's hearing. His brain was another matter. Only a major malfunction could explain that none of what he'd just heard made sense.

"What?" It was all he could come up with, strung out as he was. Unsurprisingly, Gareth found the reply wholly inadequate.

"Don't what me," he barked. "You've spent barely any time here since you've come back. What do you expect me to think?"

Jack sat up from his comfortable sprawl. His focus sharpened with that hint of tunnel vision he associated with threats. He'd done something to piss Gareth off. That much was obvious. But Gareth being mad because he wasn't home when Gareth expected it, was... a ludicrous reason. It wasn't as if he had a curfew. "You're not making sense." He decided on blunt honesty. "Gareth, I did my damnedest to be home in time for our anniversary because I'd already missed your birthday. How the fuck does that say I don't want to be here?"

"Then why aren't you? I've been in bloody Cardiff for half the week, and I've still seen you more at your desk than anywhere else."

"That little thing called work?" Jack stopped himself before he said something decidedly snide. Gareth's comment had put him on the defensive, and he felt the need to lash out, fight back. A deep breath made sure he did none of that. Another deep breath gave him the words he needed. "Being back is... tricky. Remember how you tried to put handcuffs on me at Christmas and I clocked you one? Well, the last few days I might have done that without quite so much provocation. Coming here when I'm like this is... I don't want to take advantage of you."

Gareth gaped. "Fucking Conrad," he muttered under his breath, not making any more sense than he had earlier.

If it hadn't been Gareth he was facing, Jack would have thought the man was looking for reassurance. That was even more ludicrous than thinking Gareth was upset because he wasn't home on time.

"And turning up when you need something and leaving me hanging the rest of the time isn't taking advantage?"

Shit. Jack got to his feet and snatched his phone from the coffee table. Tension coiled in his back and neck, wrapped around his ribs tight enough to make breathing tricky. He was suddenly glad he'd not even had a taste of his beer. He needed to get out. "I can't win that one, can I? I'm damned whatever I say. I've no idea what the fuck you want me to do here."

"Talking to me would be a good start. I'm crap at mindreading."

That startled a chuckle out of Jack's throat. He had no trouble remembering a similar conversation he'd had with Aidan shortly after he'd joined Nancarrow Mining. Seemed he hadn't listened as well as he thought.

"I'm happy to amuse you," Gareth ground out. "I find it far from entertaining how you bury your head up your ass all the time. You're not the only one affected by your three months away. Everyone around you had to deal with that somehow. Just as we all have to deal with you coming back. You're not a fucking island, you know?"

"I do know. I came straight here, didn't I? I've gone right back to work too. I'm not hiding. I'm talking to people. I'm there for Nico and Daniel. What is so wrong with me keeping out of the way when it gets rough?"

"Because that's not the way it's supposed to be!" And yes, Gareth could still yell. "You're supposed to share that crap. Just as you share the good stuff."

"No. No way." If this was what Gareth expected him to do, then he was out of here. So fast, he'd be leaving a contrail. "I'm not gonna inflict any temporary emotional crap on anyone I care about," he said. "I'm not gonna take the chance that I'll hit you or the boys just because I'm seeing something that's not even there. I'm not gonna swear at people when I'm getting antsy, and I'm not gonna fling insults at anyone around me when my mind takes five minutes or a week to chase a spot of paranoia. I'd be no better than my mother if I did that. So. No. Fucking. Way."

"Jack."

He was halfway to the door when Gareth's hands on his biceps stopped him. He considered fighting against the restraint, decided that that would be as pointless as their discussion, and stood still and waited while Gareth loosened his tight grip and stepped around him. Gareth's gaze was serious, but his mouth was no longer the angry slash it had been earlier.

"Where's your knife?"

Jack wanted to question Gareth's sanity. He wanted to ask what he'd been drinking or who had filled his mind with all these strange notions. His body had other ideas. Adrenaline rush was fun. The slump that followed wasn't. It left his mind lethargic and his muscles leaden. Added to the previous days' lack of sleep, all he wanted as the excitement drained from him was somewhere to stretch out. And come to think of it... was that why Gareth had started this?

"Horwood, focus." Gareth's fingers cradled his chin and lifted his face. "Where's your knife?"

Jack shrugged out of Gareth's hold. "Do you really think I'm irresponsible enough to carry a knife when I'm like this?" he asked tiredly. "I have one on the bike, but it's in the tool box under the seat. Nothing I can reach in the heat of the moment."

The hug was unexpected. Did it mean the fight was over? That there was no need for Jack to find the keys to his bike and head off home to sleep?

"We're so good at talking at cross purposes, we should win an award." Gareth chuckled as he guided them back to the sofa and shoved Jack down into the cushions. "When I said you're supposed to share any crap, I didn't mean you had to come here and start throwing fists. Telling me how you felt, so I have a clue what's going on... now, that's what I was after. Think you can handle that?"

"Why ask about my knife?" Jack was still stuck at the last crazy turn their conversation had taken.

"Just checking."

The woolly sunset blanket that lived on the back of the couch settled over Jack. Gareth even tucked the edges in as if Jack were six. Had anyone actually ever done that? He had no idea, and it mattered little anyway. What mattered was Gareth brushing a kiss over his temple before he straightened up.

"I'll call you when dinner is ready."

# Chapter FOURTEEN

"JACK? JACK, are you there?"

"Daniel?" Jack pressed the phone closer to his ear, trying to make out what the boy was saying over the spirited football discussion being conducted in the middle of the office. It was just past lunchtime. Not the usual time for either of the boys to call him. Or for Daniel's voice to be clogged with tears, the tone edged with hysteria. "What's up?"

"I know we're not supposed to call you. That you need time to settle back into being home... but Nico is... and I don't know... and there was blood and—Jack, I'm so scared!"

Jack was up and at the door in an instant. Daniel wasn't given to hysteria. He was much more likely to hide in his own mind, withdraw into himself. Getting information out of Daniel when he was upset was like pulling teeth, and it mattered little what the teen was upset about.

Jack slipped the headset into his ear and the phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. He took the stairs rather than bothering to wait for the lift, sliding down the banisters and vaulting the last few feet of each flight. Hands down it was the fastest way to the underground garage where his bike was parked.

"Daniel, listen to me," he said as calmly as he could while he moved. "I said you can call me any time you need me and I meant that. Ignore what anyone else says, okay? Now tell me what's wrong."

The teen wasn't able to do so. All Jack could make out between sobs and hiccups and gasping breaths were Nico's name, something about a fight, an ambulance, and being told to go back to class.

"Where are you now?"

"Home. I ran all the way."

"Okay." Jack thought about that as he slid down the last flight of stairs. Daniel's first instinct when afraid was to find Nico. Then he hid in his bed. "You're in your pajamas, right?"

No answer.

"Get dressed. Wear a thick jumper over your T-shirt. Grab an extra fleece, your jacket, and your shoes and wait for me. I'll be right over, okay? Keep your phone close and if anything happens... call me. You okay with that?"

A small sniffle, then a tiny "yes."

And then Daniel hung up.

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Daniel could be a phone hog, unable to let go of what he perceived as his lifeline. That he ended the call himself was a good thing. It left Jack free to dial Roz Flynn's number next.

The phone rang three times before the voice mail kicked in.

"This is Jack. It's... quarter past one. Can you call me? Thanks." He hesitated beside his bike, wondering if he should call Gareth out of his budget meeting. The heads of department had been locked up all morning in Julian's boardroom, not even coming out for lunch. Gareth wouldn't appreciate being bothered needlessly and Jack was inclined to leave him be. Still, they were supposed to be in this together and Gareth had insisted, forcefully, that they share the shitty stuff just as they shared the good. Besides, Nico getting hurt wasn't trivial, and Jack needed help finding out what had happened.

He hit the speed dial. Gareth answered on the second ring.

"Did anyone call you with news about Nico?"

The phone went silent for a heartbeat, then a few muffled sounds drifted through his earpiece. "No. Why?"

"Can you find out where he is? He's been in a fight at school and was taken away by ambulance. I'm on the way to get Daniel. They didn't let him come with."

"Any idea how badly Nico's hurt?"

"No. Your mother's phone goes to voice mail and Daniel's not coherent. He says there was a lot of blood."

"Well, he should know," Gareth muttered. "I'll call you back. Go carefully."

JACK WAS almost in Kingston when his phone rang. "Listening," he said. He dropped his speed a fraction and focused on Gareth's voice.

"Kingston Hospital," Gareth said, coming straight to the point. "He's in surgery. They brought him in with head trauma. That turned out to be no more than a couple of gashes, looking worse than it was. Surgery is for a ruptured spleen. I'm told he's stable, but with the shit in his past, they're not too sure how he'll react to the stress. Best get your ass over there. They know you're coming."

"Thanks. I'm almost to Daniel now and I don't want him out of my sight. We'll head over right away. Oh, and can you make sure your mother knows? I've no idea if they've even called her."

Gareth muttered something under his breath that sounded like a bunch of curses. "Apparently they tried and couldn't reach her," he growled a moment later. "She's in court today so her phone's bound to be off. Not sure yet why they then didn't immediately call one of us. I'm looking into that. You focus on Daniel and getting to Nico. I'll meet you there."

Jack was about to hang up when Gareth said something else. Something Jack couldn't quite make out over the noise of the bike's engine. "What?"

"I said thanks for calling me. I'll see you shortly."

DANIEL WAITED on the doorstep as Jack pulled into the driveway of Roz Flynn's home. He wore everything Jack had told him to wear, clutched his phone and a knife, and looked as forlorn as a lost puppy.

If Jack got hold of the bastard who'd put that wide-eyed scared look back on Daniel's face, they were going to wish he'd only beaten them bloody.

Daniel wrapped himself around Jack before Jack was even properly off his bike. He clung like a koala, sobbing his heart out, and there was no way Jack could turn around and head to the hospital without delay as he wanted.

Reasoning with Daniel was impossible. The boy was beyond the ability to listen. Desperation swathed him like a heavy shroud and kept him clinging to Jack as he used to do when the nightmares had come calling.

That had been a year ago. In the months since, Daniel had learned ways to cope with his fears. Jack was glad to see he had his knife, though he didn't cherish great hopes that Daniel would be able to defend himself if someone attacked him right then.

Baby steps, he reminded himself. Baby steps. Despite his fear—and the boy was so scared he could barely breathe—Daniel had remembered his lessons. He had his knife, he'd come home and—most importantly—he'd called Jack.

Everything else they could deal with later.

Not bothering with words, Jack simply led Daniel inside. The kitchen was a large and welcoming space that boasted a deep, padded window seat. He settled Daniel against the sunshine-yellow cushions and gently disentangled himself from the boy's death grip.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly, despite being certain that Daniel could neither hear nor understand him over his frantic sobs. "Just stay there for a moment."

He threw some ice into the sink and ran cold water after. This wasn't going to be pretty, and might be unnecessarily rough perhaps, but he needed Daniel coherent. He needed him coherent now.

When the sink was half-full, he turned to find Daniel where he'd left him, in a little huddle of misery, sobbing and breathing in such short, shallow gulps that just watching him was painful. Gritting his teeth, Jack pulled Daniel across the kitchen and shoved his head into the sink.

Daniel yelped and sputtered. He thrashed in Jack's hold and Jack let him come up for air. He let him take a couple of deep breaths, then shoved his head down again. After the third dunking, Daniel started to argue, and Jack let him go.

"Better?" he asked, keeping a supporting arm around Daniel's shoulders and using a dishcloth to wipe the water from his face and hair.

"Why did you do that?" Daniel's throat was clogged with tears. His eyes were rimmed in red, the lids swollen. He could barely breathe through his nose, but when he spoke, he sounded a little more like himself. His voice was no longer the high, wailing pitch that Jack associated with hysteria, and while he leaned into Jack's touch, it was for comfort. Had Jack withdrawn his arm, Daniel would have stood on his own.

"To wake you up," Jack explained. He found another terry cloth in a drawer and rubbed it over Daniel's hair to get the water out. "Remember how you can be so scared that your mind shuts down?"

"You said a loud noise would help wake me up."

"Today, you were the loud noise," Jack teased. "You didn't hear yourself and you didn't hear me. So I had to do something different. Can you hear me now?"

"Yes."

"Good. Stay with me and listen. Nico is in Kingston Hospital and we need to go there now, so he doesn't wake up all alone, okay?"

"There was so much blood."

"Daniel. Stay here. Nico will be fine. He's got a couple of cuts on his head. That's where all the blood came from. He also got a ruptured spleen and they're repairing that right now. Did you see if he got kicked?"

"Yeah."

The boy's voice was whisper soft and Jack wanted to curse. "Daniel!" Sharp as a snap. "I'll shove your head back in that sink if you don't stay with me. You'll catch your death on the back of the bike, and look like a friggin' icicle in a bobble hat when we get to Nico, but you know what? I don't even—"

A soft giggle interrupted Jack's rant. Daniel straightened. "Can I go get a hat?" he asked, cheeks a little pink. "Then we can go."

Jack nodded and Daniel raced upstairs. He was back a few moments later wearing a dry jumper and fleece. A bright blue bobble hat covered his damp hair and he held a small backpack.

"I've got the book I'm reading and Nico's slate," he said as he held the pack out to Jack. "And another hat. Do you think... do you think they shaved his head?"

Some days, usually the ones when he could neither sleep nor settle to anything constructive, Jack cursed his magpie mind. At other times, he was... not grateful, exactly... but content enough. More often than not, it was useful. It let him take things in stride that would have floored Gareth.

"Gareth has been told that Nico has two gashes in his head. If they needed stitches then yes, they would have shaved his head."

"So can I bring the hat?"

"You can bring the hat."

Daniel was bouncing now and Jack wanted to curl into a ball and curse up a blue streak. Or go and wring the neck of the nitwit who had separated the two when Nico got hurt. And who hadn't called Jack right away. In the state Daniel was in now... all brittle and glitter... he was a danger to himself. Getting Daniel to trust himself again was gonna be evil with a capital E. Especially if, and Jack was really too focused on getting to the hospital to ask that question right now, Daniel had been the reason for Nico's fight.

"I'M SORTA grateful we picked a school that keeps surveillance," Jack said from the backseat of Aidan's Jaguar, fingers busy on his laptop keyboard. He was itching to get back to the hospital, where Gareth was hopefully keeping watch over Nico and Daniel, but Aidan had been adamant that they find out for themselves what had happened to Nico, rather than take the school's explanation for gospel. The easiest way to do that was to check the school's surveillance footage. "Their security is for shit, though. We should maybe point that out."

"Isn't that something you should be grateful for?"

"Reboot your logic software, Gallant. If I can get into the network and yank out the data I need, who's to say that any pimp or other asshat out there can't do the same. We're in the friggin' car park, for fuck's sake!"

"Horwood, focus," Aidan cut into his tirade. "You can fix the world's troubles tomorrow. Right now I need to know who Nico was fightin' with and what happened to leave him needing surgery."

"That I can show you."

Jack pushed the laptop to the side, leaned between the front seats of the Jag, and propped his slate against the windscreen. For the next several minutes, all three had a ringside seat when a blocky teen confronted Daniel and Nico, and Nico took issue with whatever was said. Nico had told Jack, as soon as he'd woken reasonably coherent, that he had started the fight. So it mattered little that the security tape lacked sound to accompany the footage. They had a clear visual of the confrontation, saw the moment confrontation turned into a scuffle. Flat-palmed shoves became flying fists and then Nico curled to his knees around a punch to the gut.

That's when it got ugly, because Nico's opponent didn't just keep going. He actually shoved and batted Daniel out of the way to get to Nico. The punches turned to kicks, not stopping until a teacher intervened.

By then, Nico wasn't moving.

An ambulance arrived, and while the three men in the car still had half an eye on the video footage they were already scanning the area in front of the school.

"There." Aidan spotted him first and pointed to a small group of boys where Nico's opponent stood out like a sore thumb.

For a sixteen-year-old, the boy was huge, bigger than all his contemporaries. Jack was quietly impressed with Nico's pluck. Nico had started that fight despite his opponent being almost a head taller, as well as wider and heavier. And judging by the black eye and bruised jaw the boy sported, he had managed to do a fair bit of damage despite his lighter weight and shorter reach.

Jack was proud of Nico. He wouldn't be shy to say so when he caught up with his two kids in the hospital again. First, though... first he had to deal with the boy who stood oblivious among his peers. He pushed the door open and had one foot on the pavement when Raf's hand on his arm held him back.

"You can't just scare the kid."

"Watch me."

"Jack."

There was a clear warning in Raf's tone and Jack rolled his eyes. "As if I'd be that stupid. And he isn't a kid. He's almost seventeen. They let you enlist at that age, which tells me that someone out there thinks he's old enough to know what he's doing."

With that, Jack was out of the car and across the lot. He didn't stop when he reached the little group. He pushed right into the middle and up to the boy he'd come to confront.

"Listen, you little shit," Jack said, moving forward step by slow step until the boy stood with his back to the wall and Jack was right in his face. "You will not run your loud mouth over something you know nothing about. Do you understand me?"

"I don't even know who you are!"

"So what? I know who you are and that's what matters. If your parents are too busy to teach you manners, I'm perfectly happy to step in and do it for them. The next time you call someone a fag and a whore, I'm gonna be the one who kicks your ass. Do. You. Get. That?"

He waited a few seconds. When nothing happened he took another step closer and dropped his voice until it was more vibration than sound. A tactic as obvious as that would have earned him nothing but derision in his old job, but the teenager in front of him didn't know any better. He still thought he needed fists to intimidate.

"If you're deaf, I'm happy to carve a note into your forehead," Jack offered politely. "In mirror script, so you're reminded every time you catch sight of yourself. Do you hear me now?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." Jack stepped back. "I hope your memory is better than your hearing."

"You're threatening me. I'm calling the police." The teenager tried for defiance while his fingers plucked nervously at the bottom seam of his hoodie. Then he straightened up, surer of himself all of a sudden, as if the addition of a few adults to the mix would tip the scales in his favor.

Jack wasn't surprised when a bulky shadow flanked him on either side. Nor was he surprised when the wannabe bully's eyes grew big once more, the moment he realized the newcomers weren't teachers. "No need to call. He—" Jack pointed to his right, where Raf stood close enough their shoulders were touching. "—is the police. And this gentleman—" Indicating to the left where Aidan loomed, more menacingly than a man of the law should be able to. "—is a solicitor, and one of Nico's legal guardians. And if you couldn't work that out for yourself, I'm the other one."

His statement wasn't strictly correct. After all, the courts hadn't made a decision on his and Gareth's guardianship application yet. But Jack didn't think that Aidan would quibble over the fact that Jack had stepped up, or even that he'd named him as one of Nico's guardians. After all, Aidan was one of the team keeping the two boys safe and neither he nor Raf looked as if they'd ever support bullying. The boy got that too. He stared at the three of them from wide eyes, tongue sneaking out now and then to lick at dry lips.

"You'd better come with us," Raf said. "We need to talk to you about Nico Rivers."

"He started the fight."

"So he tells me. After you ran your mouth. Are you saying you couldn't defend yourself sufficiently without almost killing him? That you had to kick him over and over when he was already on the ground? Regardless of who started what, that kind of behavior is unacceptable. I've called your parents and they'll be meeting us at the police station. So come along."

JACK LEFT Aidan and Raf to deal with the wannabe bully. He'd said his piece and he'd be keeping an eye on the teenager for a good long while. After spending the night in a chair by Nico's bedside listening to his labored breathing, he was too grumpy to be of any further help and too short-tempered for lame excuses.

He and Gareth had watched Nico sleep and wake and sleep again, had watched Daniel's tears dry to silvery streaks before he too settled in to rest. And while Gareth had been careful not to encourage Jack when he started to plot revenge, he'd been far from casual about the bruises to Nico's face and the bandages on his head and torso. Memories of other hospital vigils had raised their ugly heads, and Jack had gone so far as to apologize to Gareth for calling him out of his meeting. He'd earned himself an incredulous look and a swift clip around the ear for that one, but he'd seen the white knuckles Gareth was trying to hide and knew that he remembered too.

Catching a glimpse of Gareth's broad back through the half-open door to Nico's room eased the small curl of worry in his mind. Gareth, ever practical, had left the hospital early that morning to get them all fresh clothes and check in at work while Jack stayed with Nico and Daniel. Roz had come after breakfast and had been with Nico and Daniel when he left midmorning to meet Aidan and Raf to tackle the school. And since she'd been due back in court later, Gareth had promised to be there before she had to leave.

Jack stopped in the hallway outside Nico's room. It made no sense that teamwork should be so exhausting. They'd divided all tasks with barely any need for discussion. Raf was taking care of the bully. Aidan was dealing with the school. Roz handled social services while Gareth stood watch over Nico and Daniel like an avenging angel, making sure the two felt safe... leaving Jack to marvel at the effortlessness of it all.

Last year, when the two boys had needed help, he had stepped up without hesitation and almost without thought, had made himself the steady center that Daniel and Nico could lean on while they recovered and made a fresh start. In January, he and Gareth had taken their involvement a step further and had applied to become the boys' legal guardians. He'd also made sure that others would be there for the two should he be unavailable, and he'd done all of that—he would have sworn—without any undue sentiment. So why was he so surprised that the arrangements he'd set up so carefully swung into action as soon as they were needed? Was it really a matter unexpected enough to leave him standing poleaxed outside Nico's hospital room?

Nico and Daniel's room, really, since nobody had objected to Daniel effectively moving in with his foster brother. The nurse on duty had simply rolled in another bed and asked Daniel what he wanted for dinner, all while Nico had still been half-asleep and on fifteen-minute watch. Gareth probably had had words with the relevant people before Nico was even out of surgery. He was good like that.

He pushed the door open wide enough to slip through and Nico looked up from his slate.

"I didn't think you'd be back so soon," he greeted, taking care not to move too much from the pillows that supported his back. The bandages that had swathed his head that morning had been replaced by two simple dressings. Jack took that as a good sign, especially since Nico seemed to be feeling comfortable enough to read. The teenager was voracious when it came to books. The stack of paperbacks beside his bed grew by the day, just as the library on his slate did.

"I can leave again if you want."

"I didn't mean that," Nico disagreed immediately. "You know I didn't mean that."

The bruises on his face had really taken hold in the last few hours. So much so that Jack fought the urge to turn around and find the little shit who had inflicted them. Only the memory of equally colorful bruises on the other boy's face kept him in the room.

That and Gareth's wry smile.

The damned man knew exactly what Jack was thinking. He'd had the same thoughts the moment he set foot into the hospital room, Jack would swear to that. And most likely Gareth regretted not being able to act on those thoughts as much as Jack did.

"I know you didn't mean it," Jack reassured him. "And yes, I'm back sooner than I said I'd be. Raf and Aidan are doing the talking. I didn't stay."

"Did you find the video? Did you see what happened?"

"Yes to both. I also saw his face. He looks as battered as you do."

"Really? I got a hit in?" Nico brightened right up at that and Jack cheered. Inwardly. Inaudibly. But it was a cheer. A damned big one.

"You got in more than one hit. I'd say you held your own."

"Until he got me in the gut."

"Yep." Jack unbuckled his boots and pulled them off before he settled himself cross-legged at the foot of Nico's bed. His leathers creaked, caught on his skin, and pulled tight across his hips. Used to that when he wasn't wearing jeans under his gear, Jack simply shimmied until he was comfortable. "Next time, twist out to the side when you see the punch coming. That way the force of the blow goes across your abs. I'm sure Gareth can show you."

"You just don't want to get punched," Gareth opined, at the same time as Daniel squeaked, "Next time?"

Jack didn't argue about Gareth's assessment. He just grinned. "You're fifteen, Daniel," he said in answer to Daniel's indignation. "Do you think you'll make it to ninety without ever having another fight?"

"Yes, please," Daniel muttered, returning to his homework. They had kept him out of school on the understanding that all his homework would get done and handed in on time. Daniel took that seriously. So seriously, he'd even asked for Gareth's help.

Jack had had no idea that Gareth was good at secondary-school physics, but he found it adorable that the two sat there, diligently working out problems in mechanics, while Nico—excused from studying by the previous day's surgery—spent his time immersed in yet another David Gemmell novel he'd scrounged from Jack's collection. On the face of it, they were both bouncing back remarkably quickly.

Nico set the slate aside when Jack had settled in, and Jack reached for Nico's hand to inspect the bruised, scuffed knuckles. When he'd first seen them the day before, Nico's hands had been swollen and a hot, angry red, but Jack had been told that no bones were broken. After a night of ice packs and anti-inflammatory drugs, most of the swelling was gone. Jack moved the fingers one by one, checking mobility, reassured when Nico didn't complain at the gentle touch.

Not that he ever did.

Jack was ready to wager that bruised knuckles didn't even register on Nico's scale of hurts and injuries. The thought stirred recollections that swirled like dark storm clouds in the back of Jack's mind. Images of Nico and Daniel surfaced from the maelstrom: the two boys huddled together on a hospital bed, silent and with eyes downcast, flinching back in terror when someone approached.

The taste of failure, acrid and bitter like ashes and burned coffee, rose to his lips, and Jack closed his eyes and breathed. It was almost exactly one year since Nico and Daniel had escaped the hell they'd been living. One year since they'd started to step out of the long shadow the pimp had cast over their lives. A year of struggles and progress. Of successes and setbacks. Of Jack being gone for three whole months.

Even with his mind on the job he'd been sent to do, he'd missed the two boys. The boxing and knife work and watching over the two from afar. He'd missed the random queries arriving by text at all hours, posing questions from the mundane to the bizarre in ways that often made sense only to Jack who'd been through a similar hell. And Jack, who had focused twenty years of effort on being self-contained and self-sufficient, had found that there were suddenly things in his life that he wouldn't want to do without. Be without.

Only to come home to this.

Guilt choked him, like a vat of hot bile spilling over inside of him. Guilt that he hadn't been there when he'd been needed. That he hadn't anticipated stupid boys and their need to show off and bully those around them. That he hadn't—

"You know they took my spleen out," Nico interrupted Jack's musings. "It's quite big, the size of your fist or so. We looked it up while you were out. So is there a hole inside me now where that used to be?"

"You're a Hollow, that's what it is," Daniel said brightly, distracted from his homework. "Only they were missing their souls. So maybe you're not a real Hollow. What do you become when you lose your spleen?"

"Half a pound lighter, for starters." Gareth grunted and pushed the book back under Daniel's nose. "Get that finished, will you? Stuff's making my head hurt."

"That's your eyesight doing that. Reading glasses, Flynn. Get some," Jack baited, picking the pen Gareth threw at him in retaliation out of the air with barely a backward glance. "Right now, there's an empty space where they took out the spleen," he told Nico. "Over time everything else—your stomach and diaphragm for example—will spread out a bit to fill up the space."

"Why couldn't they give me a new spleen?"

"I'm told we don't really need it."

"But you always say that nature doesn't waste anything. So why should I have a spleen in the first place if I don't need it?"

"Good point. Let's ask the doc when he comes by."

"You're a doctor. Why can't you tell me?"

Jack made a face. Here was the drawback of letting himself be known. Nico had picked up on his mood and was trying his damnedest to distract him. However stupid the questions got.

"Because I'm a computer guts kind of doctor and your insides are not made from wires, motherboards, and cooling fans. Now tell me about that argument that landed you in here."

JACK AND Gareth left the hospital after eight that night, trading off with Gareth's mother, who had insisted on taking the night shift after spending the day in court. Gareth had tried to argue, tell her they had it covered, but in all the years he'd known her, he'd maybe won a handful of such arguments. Today's hadn't been one of those.

Jack hadn't been any kind of help. His conversation with Nico had cheered him to the point of him skipping out of the hospital to pick up a bucket of fried chicken for Nico and Daniel's dinner when they'd pulled faces at the bland hospital fare. Even now Jack was positively floating, his grin so wide his ears had to be feeling the strain. It was a surprisingly sexy look on him, one that made him seem younger, softer, and less serious than usual. Gareth enjoyed seeing it, even if he had no idea where all that joy was coming from. They raced each other back to Richmond, and it wasn't until they had settled in the kitchen for a late dinner that Gareth voiced what he had wanted to say hours ago. "We need to have words with Nico."

"Oh, definitely!" Jack was almost bouncing in his seat. "I'm gonna skip right past that fucking fruit basket and get him the biggest stack of games he's ever seen. And half a library of books."

"Jack."

"And a new pair of boots."

"Jack."

"What? You think I should get him the new Xbox, too?"

"I think you're having totally the wrong response here. Nico was fighting."

"Exactly."

"He landed himself in the hospital."

"I know. But right now, I don't care about that so much, becau—"

"Daniel does."

"Of course Daniel cares! And I'm not stupid enough to say anything to Nico where Daniel can hear it. But still, I'm so fucking proud of Nico right now, I just can't—"

Some of the appalled fascination Gareth felt must have made it onto his face since Jack froze midrant.

"You don't get it," he accused, disappointment roughening his voice. "You don't realize how much courage it took for Nico to start this fight when someone called him names and told him he was worthless!" He snarled the last words, body tense and all his weight resting on his hands, flattened on the tabletop. A moment later he jumped up, too riled to sit still a moment longer. Gareth stopped him on his way to the fridge when he finally caught on to what had Jack so elated.

"Wait. Jack, wait."

Gareth had no trouble remembering what Nico and Daniel had been like a year earlier, how they'd shrunk into each other in panic when someone came close, how they'd barely raised their voices above a whisper, and avoided meeting anyone's eyes.

Sometimes at night, when sleep eluded him, he recalled Nico's voice sobbing the same words over and over, horrified that he'd stabbed the man who'd tried to abduct them. And he heard Jack's voice, a soothing presence in the heart of the storm.

You can't put your arms around a memory.

No, Gareth hadn't forgotten any of that. He'd just been blind to what it meant.

Daniel's brittle brightness and puffy, red-rimmed eyes came back to him. The way he'd chosen his homework spot so Nico was always in his line of sight... until Jack settled on Nico's bed and blocked his view... and Daniel had let him.

"No, I didn't get it," he said slowly, eyes never leaving Jack's until the tense shoulders relaxed by a bare fraction and the narrowed eyes widened to show their green irises once more. "It's difficult to understand what I can't even imagine. You share a past with Nico and Daniel. You know how they think and feel because you've most likely thought and felt the same. I've never had an experience like that. I need help to understand. So, no, I didn't get why you were so happy that Nico started a fight."

He stepped into Jack's space and put his arms around his waist. "But I do now."

"IF THIS is makeup sex, I might just develop a fondness for arguments," Jack purred later, all of his earlier ire and edginess gone.

They lay sprawled across the bed in a sweaty, sated tangle of limbs, and Jack all loose and relaxed was a sight to behold. It took no effort for Gareth to sweep his fingers down Jack's spine and across the thin, faded scars that marred his back. Just as it was easy to lose sight of horrors that hadn't touched his own life. Gareth thought he needed the reminder. Jack like this—with his face buried in a pillow—was a huge turn-on for him. Always had been, though it had little to do with Jack's elegant back, pert ass, and long legs, and more with his knowledge of Jack's past and the trust he was being offered.

Jack rarely shared his history. He didn't parade his scars, but Gareth couldn't let himself forget their existence. If he'd remembered, if he hadn't just thought Jack was still edgy from his assignment, he might have understood immediately why Jack was so elated over Nico standing up to a bully.

Even if he would never be able to empathize or even see things the same way Jack saw them, at least he could be right there with Jack. And maybe temper the excesses without making Jack feel that his reaction was inappropriate.

Jack's low moan drew him from his abstraction. He'd added lips and teeth to his exploration of Jack's back without being properly aware of it and had landed on the sensitive strip of soft skin in the small of Jack's back.

"If you wanna go for round three, you need to give me at least half an hour to recover," Jack informed him a little breathlessly, voice muffled by the pillow.

"That long. Really?"

"Or I could just lie here and let you do all the work."

"That would be the day," Gareth murmured, tracing his fingertips over the swell of Jack's ass and down the inside of his thigh, adding pressure on the way back up to hear Jack's scandalous moan. Jack didn't disappoint. And the restless shifting of his legs made it clear that other parts of his body were waking up too.

"So... wanna buy a house?" Gareth didn't stop the slide of his hands across Jack's skin as he asked, though his heart picked up speed as he waited for Jack's answer.

Apart from arching into his touch like an overgrown cat, Jack didn't react to the question at all. The confused look over one shoulder that Gareth expected didn't materialize. Neither did the argument.

"Where?" Jack asked finally, as if that was the only detail that needed to be resolved.

"Dunno. Kingston Hill, maybe, or somewhere over your way.... Haven't really thought about it much beyond the fact that it would be nice to come home to you every night."

"Yeah," Jack agreed, so softly that Gareth wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't paid attention.

There were other words Gareth had meant to say first. He'd never told Jack how much Jack had come to mean to him, had never told him that he cherished what they had, that he wanted more of it. He'd been waiting for the right time, or the right mood, or the right kind of courage... and then Jack had been forced to leave on assignment and Gareth had buried the words before they could spill out and distract Jack while he was gone.

Only to blurt out the least important of all the words he'd meant to say while Jack was struggling to settle back into normality after his undercover stint.

And for Jack to find them logical. Acceptable, even.

It was hands down the strangest conversation he'd ever had, and that included a mid-op argument about the ability of an octopus to steal boots. It didn't resolve their differences, nor did it miraculously return their interaction to the ease it had had back in June. But knowing that Jack, who guarded his privacy like a miser guards his gold, was not in the least bit rattled by the idea of buying a house with Gareth settled something inside him that Gareth hadn't known was riled.

And Gareth was okay with that.

# Chapter FIFTEEN

WHEN RIO Palmer had introduced Jack to the world of shadows and revenge that existed beneath the mundane exterior of everyday life, Jack had been twelve. He'd also been as distrustful as an alley cat of anyone who came near him, whatever their intentions.

Rio had never minded Jack's prickles, or the knife he kept close wherever he was. He'd taken the scrawny, homeless boy as he found him, not asking questions or making demands as other adults were wont to do. He'd simply observed his unlikely houseguest and when he'd realized that Jack was endlessly intrigued by anything electronic, he'd made sure Jack had the space and means to explore.

The moment Rio had started to teach him about surveillance, Jack had seen his chance to strike back at those who had hurt him and were still hurting others. Rio had approved of Jack's plans to use his newfound skills to get even. From then on, he'd made it a point to teach Jack not just how to break the rules, but how to keep out of harm's way while he did it.

By the time Jack was fourteen, he was becoming a competent hacker. Prompted by Rio, he'd started to build his own network of informants and in the years since he'd never stopped expanding it.

Most of Jack's sources had no idea they provided information, of course, and Jack was inclined to keep it that way. It made him no less diligent when checking for news. Not even when it was 2:00 a.m. and he should have been fast asleep.

Gareth, by now well used to his nocturnal meanderings, cracked open an eye the moment Jack slid out of bed. He looked too sleep-rumpled to be properly awake, but he waited for Jack to shake his head before he let his lids hide the meager light in the room once more. If Jack didn't come back to bed before the alarm went off, there'd be double the quantity of coffee waiting alongside breakfast later.

Things had worked this way before he'd gone off chasing Kiriyenka—Jack feeding his need to know and chase, and Gareth feeding his need to look after Jack—and nothing seemed to have changed.

It really wasn't Jack's fault that Lloyd Mason chose that night to break into Julian Nancarrow's office. Though when he woke Gareth to explain, Gareth looked as if he was ready to take Jack's head off.

"And I'm only finding out about this now because...?"

Jack made sure his equipment was recording every move Mason made. He'd positioned his brand-new, high-end cameras in a way that allowed him to see exactly which documents Mason copied and which files he downloaded.

"I had no proof."

"Those cameras say you knew it was going to happen."

"No, they don't. I took a look at the data we knew had been copied, and extrapolated... that's not knowledge. It's advanced guesswork at best. The cameras are there to collect the proof for or against. And seeing how many days nothing happened, I was almost ready to rip them back out and start over."

"Yeah, right." Gareth leaned on the back of Jack's chair and watched the screen. "You had a suspicion it would be Mason."

Jack didn't deny it. "Seeing how I don't like the dumb shit, I also had twice the reason to make sure it was him before I hit him like a ton of bricks. I even sat down with Gallant to see if anyone could break in and out of Nancarrow without getting noticed."

"And what are the odds on that?"

"For an outsider, 4.5 percent. The odds on it being Mason were in the high seventies. Nobody else in Nancarrow scores that high except for Aidan."

"Aidan?"

"Yeah, well. Mason has money troubles and there are a couple of blots in his timeline that I'm still breaking my teeth on. They'll fall out given time."

"Aidan?"

"You sound like a broken record." Jack had to point that out. "Aidan scored seventy-eight. He beat me by 2 percent and you by five."

"You scored yourself on the probability that you were stealing Julian's data?"

"There's no point in doing it if you don't do it properly."

"Did you check Julian?"

"Of course."

"It's his office, his safe and his papers. Why isn't he scoring close to 100 percent? He has opportunity."

"He has that. He also has little motive, a lot to lose, and neither the right skills nor the right personality profile. Not to mention that the only way he communicates with Donovan these days is through his lawyer."

"You're sure about that?"

"Very."

"Gods, you're a devious little shit."

Gareth spoke with so much emotion that Jack burst out laughing. "You've known that ever since I scored us all an extra week's leave. And that was over ten years ago."

"It hits me for six each time you let it show. Maybe it's a good thing you hate to tell me anything."

The laughter died and the silence between them stretched like taffy. Jack's ears were hot and his chest felt tight. He knew it bothered Gareth that he kept so many secrets. He just hadn't realized how much. "Keeping secrets.... It's not something I do on purpose," he offered when he'd pushed down both the embarrassment and the sudden flash of anger. "It's just... difficult to remember sometimes... that it's safe to talk, I mean."

"I know," Gareth replied equally softly. "I should just ask. After all those years, getting away from the need-to-know mindset isn't easy either."

Jack spun away from the screen, dislodging Gareth in the process. "D'you think we're always gonna be like this?"

"Like what?"

"Not talking. Guessing. Assuming. Jumping to conclusions...."

"We've gotten better with the jumping to conclusions thing."

"Have we?"

"Well, yes." Gareth's sudden smile had Jack melt into his chair with relief. "I don't think you're having an affair when you go all stumm on me."

"And that's something you've previously—"

The rest of Jack's query turned to garbled nonsense when Gareth's mouth came down on his. Gareth wasn't gentle and Jack relished the possessiveness. It gave him a strange thrill when Gareth went Neanderthal and he couldn't explain why. He fought when Gareth tried to make decisions for him. He second-guessed himself endlessly when it came to Gareth watching out for him, but Gareth making no secret of wanting him... that made him feel like he belonged.

It was fortunate he liked wearing turtlenecks.

"Do you need to watch that?" Gareth gestured to the screen behind Jack when lack of air had forced them apart again.

"Why?"

Gareth shrugged with fake nonchalance. "I'd rather go back to bed and talk."

"Talk, eh?" There had been enough promise in Gareth's tone to raise goose bumps all over Jack's skin. Part of him didn't care whether he missed the theft of the crown jewels, but his professional side didn't let go as easily. He needed that proof. Just as he needed to know how far Mason was taking those thefts.

He spun his chair around, checked that his cameras were streaming data, and that every second was being recorded. He set an alarm in case anything stopped working and even checked twice that the directory receiving the data stream had enough storage space and a sufficient overflow.

Jack could feel Gareth's gaze like a touch on his nape, and he smiled as he stood and stretched suggestively. "So... what was it you wanted to talk about?"

JACK CAUGHT up with his surveillance data the following morning and came down to breakfast with his mouth in a disgusted line. Gareth suggested he work from home, not keen on a confrontation between Jack and Lloyd Mason, but Jack disagreed.

"It's too early for me to call him out," he said, attacking his breakfast. "I checked the roster and he was on duty overnight, so he won't be in anyway. It's also likely that he has a perfectly good explanation ready for why he was in Julian's office. I don't want excuses. I want to pile up all the evidence before I confront him. And then he goes down."

"But meanwhile he goes on stealing."

"I'm intercepting outgoing mail on all his e-mail addresses, even his private ones. The only information that's vulnerable to dissemination right now is anything he prints out and hands over."

"Why is it you're still not convinced? After seeing the recordings from Julian's office, I mean."

"I've worked too long where I did, I suppose." Jack gathered his thoughts. "I also detest the guy."

"Shouldn't that motivate you to convict him?"

"Yes. And no. Do you remember the time I came back from a night's leave with skinned knuckles and bruises?"

Gareth's skin prickled at the memory. "Five weeks of early morning close-combat training," he said, smiling.

"That one, yes. I'd gone after a john that night, and he got in exactly one good hit. Unfortunately, it was in a place you wouldn't miss, so I took the punishment as my due for being too compassionate."

"What's that got to do with Mason?"

"That john benefited from a mistake I'd made a year before that. And so's Mason," Jack said slowly. "I used to hang out in clubs a lot, marking pimps and men who went after kids, taking them out when and where I could. There was this guy I couldn't look at without feeling as if someone had stepped on my grave. He was greasy as hell, and he had a mouth on him as if...." Jack swallowed and shook his head to dislodge the memories. "All of that. One night I went after him, even though I had nothing ironclad. Just impressions and gut feelings."

"What happened?"

"It got ugly. And he turned out to be a cop."

"Cruising?"

"No such luck. Undercover. All that grease was real. And harmless. Rio helped me straighten it out. Taught me to make extra sure I have solid evidence to back up my gut when I'm about to do something drastic."

"What happened that night you came back with bruises?"

Jack reached for more toast, and Gareth topped up his coffee mug without having been asked. He remembered thinking just the other night how rare it was for Jack to offer any kind of glimpse into his past, and he didn't want to interrupt now that Jack was sharing.

"I had a bunch of street kids I was sorta looking after. Even once I was serving they knew they could call me if they needed help and I'd show as quickly as I could. That night they texted me about this guy who was hanging around the local kids. He was offering twenty pounds and a Big Mac for a fuck."

"Jesus!"

"Tell me about it. My kids were clever, though. They had found bait... a new kid who just didn't fit. Too lah-di-dah, you know. Tossed out by his family for being gay, most likely. Fifteen and clueless. He didn't belong on the street. Wouldn't have survived long had he stayed. My kids told him that I could get him somewhere safe and he agreed to be bait. Did right well too. Led the perv right to me."

"Did you see him safe?"

"Sure. There used to be a place just outside Guildford that looked after kids like him. Long gone now, of course."

"Then what?"

"Then I read the bastard the riot act. But I waited long enough to hear his excuses. And get hit."

Gareth had no problem remembering the man Jack had been when they'd first met: quick and smart, with enough idiosyncrasies to fill a wheelbarrow and enough anger to drown in. Encouraging Jack to shed that anger had been his personal challenge. And Jack had responded suitably and put up a good front that kept everyone guessing. Right up to the day he walked out.

That Jack told him this story now, that he shared stuff he usually kept firmly to himself even though he knew how much his silence bothered Gareth, could only mean that Jack was listening. That he wanted them to have a chance. The thought warmed Gareth better than a third cup of hot, sweet tea.

"So you've been hunting pimps and johns since... when?"

"Since I was fourteen," Jack answered readily enough. "Jericho was the first. But the pimps are just the headline act."

"What?"

"Oh, think about it! You can have the most enticing product there is. If there are no buyers you'll have no business."

"I never thought that you'd consider pimps the lesser evil."

"Not quite that. More like the tip of the iceberg. Pimps are easier to take down than what Aidan calls upstanding citizens, while they do less damage by comparison."

"Jack!"

"What? It's true. You walked into Mitrovic's place, didn't you? It wasn't the pimp doing the fucking, now was it?"

Jack's phone rang and he answered before Gareth could gather enough breath to reply. He'd never thought of the matter in quite that way. Instead he'd done the obvious. He'd blamed restaurants for people getting fat. And then the thought disappeared, washed away by the delight on Jack's face.

"That was your mum," Jack informed him. "They're happy to let Nico go home, provided someone's there to look after him for a few more days to make sure he rests as much as he needs."

"So you're working from home after all. Mum's in court again today if I remember rightly. With that blonde girl—Kayla?"

"Yeah. Hope she wins, too. That kid's mother needs locking up."

"So who is picking up Nico and Daniel?"

"Skylar. He's already there. And he has the day off after that long photo shoot he's been doing. If you want me to come to work, I can do that."

"But you'd much rather be with Nico and do your work, than at your desk doing your work." Jack didn't deny it and that was something else that Gareth liked. He wasn't embarrassed to admit that he enjoyed the teens' company. Or that he taught them all sorts of stuff that most adults had no knowledge of.

"You've got that right," he said as he stood to clear the breakfast table. "I'll be chatting with him regardless. Just to keep him sitting down, of course."

"I get it. Go keep an eye on Nico. I'll square it with Frazer."

"Hey, no need for that. I am working. And don't worry. Julian knows not to leave anything sensitive in the office overnight. And I'll dissect what Mason's been doing while I'm watching over the kids. We should be able to close this out by the end of the week."

"I THOUGHT getting to see you hacking would be more exciting," Skylar complained. "All you're doing is watching some guy in an office."

Jack shrugged, not about to apologize for doing his job. When he'd come in and set up two laptops and a slate on the dining table, Skylar had been as intrigued as Nico and Daniel. Two hours later, the intrigue had clearly worn thin. Daniel was reading a history textbook for his next homework assignment, Nico was nodding off on the sofa, and Skylar leaned on the back of Jack's chair watching along with him. When he wasn't complaining about nothing happening, of course.

Jack paused the recording to check off the next copied document against the list of documents in Julian's safe that he had open on the other laptop. Mason wasn't slavishly copying everything there was. He went through the contents of the safe, found specific documents, and copied those only.

Someone had given him a shopping list.

And wasn't that interesting?

"I thought you'd be breaking into somewhere or stealing something," Skylar complained, and Jack laughed.

"How do you know that I'm not?" he asked. "Hacking isn't glamorous. And this isn't Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. I'm not helping Coulson break into a building. I'm not opening doors or turning off security cameras and crap. I'm not talking you through it keystroke by keystroke, either."

"But you could, right?" Daniel said from behind his textbook.

"What, talk?"

"Open doors. Turn cameras off."

The book was in Daniel's lap now and Daniel was pouting. Jack rolled his eyes. "I can't make a car fly or launch rockets out of silos, let's leave it at that, okay?" He straightened and stretched. "We should have some lunch. Is Nico asleep?"

"Looks like."

"Ah, let him sleep, then. He can eat later."

"I never thought of it that way," Skylar said at some point in the afternoon, "but hacking is about as glamorous as my job. You put in hours of boring work in order to achieve a result that wows crowds." Nico had woken up by then, and Skylar was busy cutting his hair into a style that looked smart while hiding the bald spots around the healing gashes.

Jack agreed, but he didn't get to say so. He was watching Mason pack up and tidy Julian's office, watched him return all the documents to the safe and close the thick door, watched him collect the handful of USB sticks he'd pulled from his pocket earlier and thread them on a ring.

Eight USB sticks.

Eight.

When he'd only brought seven.

"Horwood! Do you maybe want to tone that down?"

Jack had been busy jumping screens, running one tiny segment of his recording over and over even as he verified some earlier chatter that had made no sense before he'd finished watching Mason's exploits to the end. He hadn't realized he was swearing like a sailor. "No, I fucking well don't!" he bit out while he yanked up the zipper on the protective sleeve and stuffed the laptop into his backpack. His movements were jerky and sharp, and he wouldn't have been surprised to see a zipper rip or strap break under the violent handling. The silence from both the boys was just as telling. No curious questions, no noisy speculation. Just two sets of concerned looks.

"Are you okay to stay here until Mrs. Flynn gets back?" Jack asked. "I need to go in."

Being a freelance stylist had advantages. One of which was that Skylar made his own hours. And right now, nothing more important than Nico's hair, and speculating what had prompted Jack to almost lose it, demanded his attention. "You go do what needs doing." He waved airily. "I'll hold the fort."

JACK DIDN'T knock.

He'd ignored all speed limits on the way across London and he wasn't in the mood to bother with greetings and conventions. He simply slapped a piece of paper filled with an assortment of letters and numbers on Alex's desk. "Tell me that's fake."

When Alexandra Marston started swearing as viciously as he had earlier, he knew it wasn't. Nor was he surprised when the demands started coming immediately.

"We need to get that back. Do you have any idea...?"

"I have an idea, all right," Jack replied. He wished he'd taken the stupid sod down months ago when he'd first felt inclined to do so. Spending time around Gareth, Aidan, Raf, and Lisa had turned him into a bleeding heart. Once upon a time, he used to do what needed doing, stupid rules and laws be damned. Now... now he wasted air justifying to Gareth why he wasn't home for dinner every day. And why he wasn't hitting Mason over the head as soon as he saw him step out of line. Justifying it with something that had happened years ago too. Was he really that desperate for Gareth's approval?

The thought nagged at him, and he pushed it away. He had more pressing problems than wondering about his relationship with Gareth Flynn. Or wondering how pathetic he'd become.

"Lloyd Mason has been breaking into Julian's office to copy confidential information and pass it on to Donovan Nancarrow," he said tersely. "I've watched him. He had a shopping list for documents. He also pulled all the USB sticks from Julian's safe, laid them out on the desk, and then put them back one by one when he was done copying them."

"Except for the encryption key."

"Encryption keys don't copy like normal files. They throw up an error midway. He set the key aside when that happened and then picked it up with his bunch of USB sticks when he was done."

"Do you think he's aware of what he has?"

"Not sure. I can't decide whether he pocketed it by accident or to show whoever he reports to. Someone knows what it is, though. They're offering it for sale."

"You didn't say it was on the market."

"Didn't I?" Jack held on to his temper with both hands. "There were a couple of kinks in Mason's timeline that I hadn't unraveled yet. He owes about £25K, but the lender was tricky to locate. Until this morning." He snatched a pen from Alex's blotter and wrote two words onto the pristine white surface: Outlander Project.

Outlander was a highly classified, multinational initiative that targeted organized crime. Jack had been supporting the team for two years, until his handler decided that he preferred a raft of successfully completed short-term projects on his résumé rather than a long-assed slog where the credits had to be shared with all manner of people.

Jack knew that Alex was aware of the initiative, and that she would understand what he was telling her. "I don't think they'll restrict themselves to selling the thing just once."

"We can't let them sell it at all."

Jack fell into one of the deep red chairs and contemplated the flowering Datura that had recently appeared beside Alex's desk. The trumpet-shaped blooms were the faintest shade of pink, a promise of something beautiful to come rather than a discernible color. They were gorgeous, and yet all Jack's mind focused on was poison, aids to coercion, and interrogation. He could have written half a dissertation about the extraction of reactive components, each component's usage, and the resultant physiological reactions in the test subject. For each plant in Alex's spacious office.

Not that any of his musings would return that damned encryption key to their possession. And he was decidedly not in the mood to brew something to lace Mason's coffee with. Even if he'd known that it would help.

Jack had watched the recording from Julian's office four times since he'd caught wind of the key being offered for sale, and each time he'd concluded that Mason had not replaced the key in the safe with the other USB sticks. Whether Mason had kept hold of it by accident or design was almost a moot point.

For the key to be of any use, Mason would have to pass the USB stick to the syndicate that let him work off his debts in exchange for information. He and Alex had to get it back before that happened. Or, failing that, before some boss with delusions sold it to the Russians or the Chinese or whoever was ready to shell out.

Nancarrow Mining was a small cog in the giant wheel that churned the shadows, a mere postern gate in the defensive wall. But where a rat could slip in, the rat catcher would soon be lying in wait. Jack, who considered breaking into secure networks a personal challenge as well as the best entertainment ever devised, knew that better than most.

"Stupid question: why was the key in Julian's safe?"

Alex had her face buried in her palms. It looked like the ultimate pose of defeat, but Jack had learned that she simply liked to block out external stimuli while she thought. After a few moments' silence, her voice floated up through her fingers: "I thought it would be safer there than in mine."

Right. Hoist by their own petard. How lovely.

"I'm not convinced that Mason knows what he has," he decided. "He's not exactly Einstein when it comes to electronics. I think he simply copied all the memory sticks he found and kept the one that wouldn't copy to let someone else have a go. He was on the phone while he did it, too, so I guess he'd read out the error message to someone. The fragments are distinctive, so his handlers put the word out immediately."

"You're saying Mason isn't aware that what he's stolen is an encryption key. And his handlers may have told him to pick it up, but might not yet have told him to hand it over."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"So, if it's still in Mason's possession, where would it be?"

Jack shrugged. "Here. Desk, locker, his briefcase. Failing that, somewhere in his home."

"I want you to find it and retrieve it."

"Of course you do." Jack didn't bother with sarcasm. Neither did he point out that he was no longer part of the agency. He knew what havoc an encryption key could wreak if it fell into the wrong hands. How many lives would be at risk if the agency's communications were compromised. On more than one occasion he'd been one of those people. He'd relied on others to keep him protected when he went undercover. Returning the favor was the least he could do. Not to mention that Nancarrow Mining would be in trouble the moment word got out that it acted as a front for MI6. A mining company was a useful cover when inserting operatives into hostile or simply unfriendly territory, but only so long as nobody knew about it.

"No word to anyone," Alex ordered, taking his silence for acceptance. "I'm declaring this an operation covered under the aegis of the Official Secrets Act."

So far, Jack had gone along without offering a single argument because he believed that retrieving the key was a necessary task. Now he felt like swearing from the bottom of his soul. Not only did Alex want him to retrieve the key, she wanted him to do it gagged and with his hands tied behind his back? Where was the justice in that? More to the point... where was the fucking logic in that?

"You're jeopardizing the outcome of this mission if you prevent me from requesting help when I need it." He used his Whitehall voice: professional, emotionless, and 15,000 percent pissed off. "You realize that, right?"

"If it comes to that we can... discuss the matter."

"When it's too late, you mean?"

"Horwood."

"I hear you. I want it on record that I object to the course of action you've imposed on me. You're putting the retrieval at risk." He pointed at the two words he'd scrawled across her blotter. "Especially given those connections."

Alex had to know that. She was far too smart not to. So there was another reason for her reluctance to let him handle the problem as he saw fit. And wasn't that just like old days? Wheels within wheels, knots within knots, and bloody personal agendas when you really didn't need them.

Alex didn't reply. Jack hadn't really expected her to. He left Alexandra Marston's office without a word and without a backward glance. He was even professional enough not to slam the door.

# Chapter SIXTEEN

DINNER HAD been late, long, and leisurely, going a ways to make up for the day's irritation. Jack basked in contentment, making the most of a feeling he knew was destined to end in too short a while.

They hit the middle of the mattress in a heap and the bed frame groaned under the strain of their combined weights. Jack chuckled at the sound. "We need a new bed," he said. He grabbed his phone and opened the notepad app to add a bed to the growing list of requirements he'd started to compile ever since Gareth had suggested they buy a house together. "Something sturdy. Larger too."

"And a dojo, where I can kick your ass."

"Gym."

"I never figured you for a running machine kind of guy."

"Am not. Weights. And a punching bag."

Jack typed and Gareth leaned back against the headboard with that helplessly besotted smile that usually got him everything. Especially things he didn't ask for.

"Have you looked at these?" He waved a sheaf of estate agents' particulars in Jack's direction.

Gareth had talked to Steph Vernon, his estate agent friend whose husband ran the dojo they trained at with the boys, about helping them find a house. Flyers had begun arriving in the post or miraculously turned up on Gareth's sideboard, but Jack had been too focused on Nico and Daniel to take much note. "Not yet. Anything interesting?"

"Well...."

"Well what?"

"I asked Steph to send me a mix of properties to get an idea of what's available around here and she did. You said you've done up a cottage and a Victorian, so... would you maybe like something different? Like a Georgian rectory? Or something art deco? Or go totally modern?"

Jack narrowed his eyes. Apart from him not being overly fond of mustard yellow and murky green, Georgian wouldn't be too much of a challenge. Not as much as an art deco house. "I wouldn't have thought there's that much real art deco around," he said slowly. "Not without us robbing a bank first. Still... I love the shapes, so I'm game to go look if you have one. What else from that stack floats your boat?"

"This one." Gareth passed a thin brochure to him and Jack stared.

"What's that supposed to be? Film set for The Addams Family? Look at all those turrets!"

"Aren't they grand? You could have one for your study. Another one could be our bedroom. Nico and Daniel could have one each if they wanted... and have you seen the kitchen?"

"Now we're getting to why you wanna see this place," Jack teased and opened the double foldout.

It was impressive. The kitchen and dining room took up most of the ground floor, along with a utility area the size of Jack's current kitchen, two walk-in larders, a range fit for an Army base, a fireplace, and even a former meat locker with a rough stone drain. "You can run a catering business from that place."

"Do you mind?"

"I like eating what you cook. I like watching you cook, too. And judging from this shot here, the kitchen has window seats...."

"Which is the important bit, of course."

"Of course." Jack handed the brochure back. "We've gotta start somewhere and I'd be happy to go see that one."

"Tomorrow? Steph has a lunchtime appointment free."

"You have a board meeting," he pointed out.

"I know." A hint of pink dusted Gareth's cheekbones. "I've also sort of fallen in love with this place. There's something about the way it looks."

"I hope you don't mean the outside," Jack snorted. "That green trim is hideous. That's the first thing I'd change if I was going to buy that. Lick of paint all over and replace that trim with something less... gothic."

"I'd have no problem with you doing that. But I don't want to go see it if you don't at least think it's worth a chance. So if you check it out tomorrow, we can go back at the weekend with Nico and Daniel for a proper look around."

Gareth sounded so hopeful that Jack howled with laughter. "If you've got it all arranged, why didn't you just tell me or send me an invite?"

"Because simply sending you an invite is something I might have done before you went after Kiriyenka and came back all clammed up again."

Jack wasn't going to touch that. Not when Gareth was right. Or when Jack knew what to do and say to erase the concerned looked from Gareth's face. He opened the calendar app on his phone and looked expectantly at Gareth. "When?"

HEADING BACK to work, when all he really wanted to do was curl up beside Gareth and go to sleep, wasn't easy. Not when he couldn't even explain where he was off to and why. Gareth wasn't stupid. He'd be able to guess that it had to do with the thefts from Julian's office. He just wouldn't know why Jack kept that knowledge to himself. Jack had expected the Spanish Inquisition, but Gareth didn't ask a single question. And that made everything worse.

"We made an agreement," Gareth said almost as if he could hear Jack's rebellious thoughts. He looked unbelievably distracting in soft sweats and a clinging T-shirt.

"You're doing that on purpose."

"Just a reminder...."

"Of what?"

"What you're missing out on." Gareth hooked his fingers into Jack's belt loops and pulled him close. His hands came up to frame Jack's face and the kiss that followed was half hunger, half sweetness, and hot enough to melt Jack into a puddle on the polished wooden floor. "Or what you've got to come home to."

"That's so fucking unfair."

"Yes, it is." Gareth pouted at him.

Pouted! That was so many shades of wrong that Jack just couldn't deal with it. He grabbed his bag and turned his back on the walking temptation named Flynn.

"Check in when you can."

Jack waved a hand to indicate he'd heard and disappeared down the road in a rumble and a cloud of tire smoke.

Getting from Richmond to the Strand, where Nancarrow Mining lay quiet, but certainly not deserted, took less than twenty minutes.

"Something up?" Jack queried as he signed the register and noted a longer than usual list of names on the out-of-hours page.

"They had a delivery to the core store this afternoon. Some of the rock doctors are down there drooling over samples. Alex Marston is working late and Frazer's only just gone home. Nobody else up above the tenth."

And wasn't that a useful bit of luck. He didn't want to have to hide what he was doing from Frazer. The Scot deserved his trust as much as Gareth did. At least Gareth was accustomed to working under need-to-know conditions and his ego wasn't as fragile as Frazer's seemed at times. Or maybe Jack had it all wrong to begin with and this cloak-and-dagger stuff was going to bite him in the ass big time.

He was still grouching over Alex's decision to gag him as he disabled the security cameras on the thirteenth floor.

It took mere moments.

Picking the locks on Mason's desk took only a few seconds longer.

And boy was the man a slob! Not that Jack considered himself the poster child for neat and tidy, but there was casual and then there was mess. Drawers in which papers, Post-it notes, uncapped markers, and half-eaten granola bars mixed into indefinable clumps belonged firmly into the latter category. Jack felt an urge to reach for latex gloves... and fingerprints had absolutely nothing to do with that.

Dissecting said mess to his satisfaction took him half an hour, by the end of which he was sure that the encryption key was nowhere in or near Mason's desk.

The man's locker proved just as unhelpful, and turned out similarly messy.

Jack's hope of making it back to Richmond before midnight evaporated like dry ice.

He set the coffee machine to brew a large batch of chemical assistance and pulled up blueprints for Mason's apartment building in Tower Hill. Getting this damned key back was going to take some doing.

Provided Mason still had it.

Which wasn't something he was going to worry about just yet.

"IT'S HORWOOD."

"I can hear that," a voice slurred in Jack's ear. "What the fuck do you want at—what is it now?—four o'clock in the fucking morning?"

"A set of Thames Water overalls that fit over my leathers."

"What?"

Jack didn't repeat himself. He was tired. His head ached from lack of sleep, excess caffeine, and eye strain. He was pissed off and he was entirely out of snarky comebacks. So he just waited.

"When?" came the next question a few moments later, presumably once his contact had extracted his brain from its cocoon of sleep-induced fog.

"Now."

"How tall are you?"

"Six one."

"Okay. Gimme twenty?"

"I'll be there." Jack was about to hang up when the man spoke again.

"I still don't take credit cards."

"Really?" Jack rolled his eyes, aware the man couldn't see him. "It would be a bigger surprise if you did." He hung up and reached for his jacket and backpack. His disguise was sorted. The next job on the list was working out how to misappropriate a Thames Water van. And a clipboard.

EVERY NETWORK or organization, however secure, had its vulnerabilities. Mostly those weak spots were people. Rio had taught him the basics of social engineering—enticing people to break security protocols or give him information he needed without realizing they were doing so—when Jack was fourteen. At the time, he learned enough to make sure he could spot and evade attempts to manipulate him by anyone. Only later, while trawling the local clubs for pimps and pedophiles, did it occur to him that he could use the techniques Rio had taught him just as easily to further his work.

It hadn't come easy to him. Other people's motivations, especially those based purely on emotions, tended to baffle rather than enlighten him. Even after six years with MI6, social engineering wasn't Jack's best skill, nor his favorite tool. He wasn't a people person, didn't relate to others like Raf, who excelled at blagging his way into places and out of tight spots. Frazer, having grown up the youngest in a huge, boisterous family, was just as good at getting his way. What saved Jack was the fact that people were predictable. And that he was good at spotting patterns.

So when he presented himself at a secure apartment block at seven in the morning, just as people were getting ready for work, dressed in overalls and waving a clipboard, and claimed to be responding to an emergency callout... chances were good that he would be let in with only the most cursory of checks. Had security been tighter, had the guard phoned the water company to check his credentials, it wouldn't have tripped him up either. The person whose name and employee number was on his photo badge did actually work for the company. He just didn't look like Jack.

Photoshop had its uses.

Getting access to first Mason's apartment building and then the apartment itself hadn't been difficult. He'd simply waited in the service bay down the corridor from Mason's front door until Mason left for work before picking the lock on the front door to Mason's apartment. Searching the place hadn't been tricky either. Making sure he left it looking as if nobody had ever been there, on the other hand, had taken far too much time. There was only so long he could spend pretending to find and fix a leak without attracting undue attention, and all the double-checking and detailing made him grow tenser the longer it took. It was past ten o'clock when he finally got out of the building ready to tackle his next tasks: returning the van without being caught doing so, and losing the overalls where they wouldn't be found.

There was a reason why retrieval ops like this one were usually done in pairs, and not for the first time that morning did Jack wish that Alex hadn't gagged him quite so efficiently and that he could have called Raf.

Because now he was late.

He hated being late.

And the encryption key was burning a hole in his pocket.

He should have taken the shortest route to the Strand to drop it off. He knew that. But had he taken the detour, he'd never have made it to Kingston Hill even close to the agreed time.

The Gixxer's rear tire slid out to the side as Jack braked hard, turned off the road, and swung down the wide, graveled driveway. He'd be lucky if Steph hadn't given up on him despite the very hurried text he'd sent her an hour ago.

He parked the bike and set his helmet on the Gixxer's seat. After spending all night chasing down the stolen encryption key and digging into Mason's unsavory connections, he really wasn't in the mood to view a house. Several times he'd thought of canceling the appointment. But every time the thought rose up, he recalled Gareth's face when he had handed over the particulars the previous night. Between glossy photographs and dry descriptions, something about this house had caught Gareth's imagination, and Jack would feel like shit if he didn't at least take a look.

The turrets and ornate deep green trim did make the house look a bit like a film set. Just not as creepy as the Addams Family one. A bucket of pale cream masonry paint would go a long way to give the house a more inviting feel. And before he did anything else, he'd definitely paint the trim a less garish color. Lead maybe, or a deep reddish brown that would catch the sun on a nice day.

The driveway was promising. Plenty of room for Gareth's Range Rover and both their bikes. Enough space when Jack finally gave in and bought a car... or if Lisa gave him custody of the red AC Ace. The double garage over to one side seemed to have space for more than storage, and the carport next to it would make a decent area for Jack to tinker with his bike and teach Nico and Daniel at the same time. Well, probably just Nico. If he was reading things right, Daniel would be hanging out in the kitchen with Gareth, learning to cook.

It made sense to him. Nico was much like Jack. There were a few things he wouldn't touch, like raisins or pickled beetroot, but most of the time, he ate what was available when his body demanded food. Daniel, by comparison, was seriously picky. And still much too thin, even after a year of being fed by two generations of Flynns. Nico had told Jack that even during their time with Mitrovic, Daniel would rather go hungry than eat something that turned his stomach. So Gareth teaching Daniel how to cook was... sensible, necessary... a good thing.

The level of privacy the house offered was another point in its favor. Privacy had, in fact, been close to the top of their list of requirements.

Tall shrubs screened the property from its neighbors, and a gate blocked access from the drive to what Jack assumed was the back garden. According to the property's particulars, it was spacious, sunny, and already divided into usable areas rather than just landscaped or laid to lawn as was common for properties in the area.

Just before he'd gone to Nancarrow Mining the previous night, Gareth had mumbled something about growing vegetables that had left Jack standing in the hallway literally gaping. He had a healthy imagination. One that had never contemplated Gareth puttering among the carrots. The image was just too crazy to contemplate.

The memory finally brought a smile to his face. He'd never considered buying a house with Gareth, either, so what did that prove?

In a slightly more accommodating frame of mind, he passed Steph's Renault Laguna on his way to the front door, and the woman opened it moments after he'd rung the bell. She was smartly dressed in a pale suit and deep blue blouse, far smarter than Jack was used to seeing her when she helped out in the dojo. It reminded him that this, selling houses, was her actual business. Not taking care of the bloody noses, sprains, and scrapes that a bunch of clumsy kids inflicted on each other every week.

"Sorry I'm late," Jack apologized. "Traffic."

Steph said something suitably soothing in reply, but Jack didn't hear a word of it. His eyes were glued to her waist where—shielded from anyone's view but his—her hands formed signs he'd painstakingly taught each person who regularly spent time with Nico and Daniel.

Signs that right then spelled "hostiles" and "five."

"I THOUGHT I had asked for all phones to be turned off or muted," the CEO of Nancarrow Mining complained when a loud, persistent beeping interrupted his presentation of the company's financial results.

A heavy, carved oak chair thudded to the carpet in answer, knocked over in Gareth Flynn's heedless sprint from the boardroom. The door slammed, leaving Julian Nancarrow to frown in consternation. The head of Nancarrow Mining's Corporate Security division might display the occasional streak of temper, but he was not usually rude. Walking out on the man who employed him without a word of apology in the middle of a board meeting did not fit Gareth's profile. Not at all.

"We're taking a ten-minute break," Julian announced and left the room, not surprised when Aidan fell into step beside him before he'd even reached the stairs. The barrister had a nose for trouble that rivaled Gareth's. And he'd been quivering all morning.

"What do you think happened? That sounded like a pager," Julian said slowly, trying to unravel the mystery. "I wasn't aware that Gareth even had a pager."

"He doesn't. That was the bat signal."

"The what?"

"Emergency alert."

"So his phone was turned off?"

"Yep."

Sounds of loud sobbing greeted the two men as they exited the stairwell on the thirteenth floor. The reception area outside the corporate security office was deserted, but the door to the large open-plan space stood ajar. Julian reached for the handle just as it was yanked away from the inside. A quick sidestep saved him from being bowled over backward by a fiercely scowling Don Frazer.

"What's happening, kid?"

Frazer stopped in his tracks and his head tilted upward, meeting Aidan's questioning gaze. He turned back toward the center of the room, where Gareth stood as still as a statue beside a smartly dressed blonde woman sobbing into a crushed handkerchief, as if to remind himself of events and reasons before he considered the men who had accosted him. He bopped a short nod as if both Julian and Aidan had passed some test before he spoke.

"Jack Horwood has been kidnapped."

# Part III: House Hunt
# Chapter SEVENTEEN

AIDAN PULLED the phone from his pocket and tapped a speed dial key. "Horwood's been kidnapped," he growled into the phone the moment the call connected. "Get the boys. Bring them here. To the Strand, yes." He didn't wait for a confirmation.

It was midafternoon and about half of Gareth's team was at their desks. They didn't pry, but their eyes were on their boss, ready to swing into action. Tension saturated the air, but it was a tension born from caring, from common goals, and from the team spirit that Gareth Flynn knew so well how to build and nurture.

Gareth's talent for forging a disparate group of highly independent individuals into a tightly knit, efficient unit had been one of the main reasons why Aidan had sought the man out, even before Gareth had thought of leaving the Army. The other had been Gareth's skills at planning and running operations. And with Jack in jeopardy, those talents and skills would be needed.

"Back up, Steph. Don't rush." Gareth wrapped his arm around the shoulders of the woman, comforting her. In her need to get the words out as quickly as possible, Steph didn't care that she had an audience or that her makeup was a mess. Gareth had to be as anxious to hear what had happened as she was to share the news, yet he kept slowing her down. "Don't rush, Steph. Take your time. You're sure they were waiting for you?"

"Him. They were waiting for him." She shook her head stubbornly at something she saw in Gareth's face and took a deep breath. "Listen. I got there early. I usually do, so I can check the property before I show anyone around. Especially when it's a property that's standing empty. Jack had texted me that he was on the way, but running a little late. When the doorbell rang, I thought it was Jack, but these guys just crowded into the house as soon as I opened the door. There were five of them and they had guns!"

She started to shake and Gareth's arm tightened.

"Don't rush," he cautioned again, sounding far more composed than the tense lines around his eyes suggested. "Even small details are important. Take your time. Try and remember as much as you can."

She nodded and drew another deep breath to steady herself. Then she straightened her shoulders and started over. "They had guns," she said slowly. "I've never... I wouldn't know... but they looked real. The boss of the five had a northern accent. Newcastle, maybe? Or Sunderland? The others didn't speak. They were all dressed the same. Black overalls and black T-shirts."

"Any logos or labels on the overalls?"

"No. Just black."

"Hoods? Caps?"

"No." The woman shook her head again. "The main guy, he was the biggest, had his head shaved. The others... sorry, I can't really remember. Short. I'm sorry, I—"

"Shhh. Don't worry," Gareth soothed. "It will come back. Tell me what happened next."

"They took my phone. The big guy... he just sort of broke it in half, right there. Then he told me not to make a sound or alert Jack. He called him Horwood, as if he didn't know his first name. He also said they would let me go if I did everything they told me to." She looked up at Gareth, eyes wide with remembered fright. "I didn't believe him."

"Why not?" Aidan asked.

If she was startled to have a larger audience than Gareth Flynn all of a sudden, she didn't give any sign.

"They weren't hiding their faces," she said simply. "When Jack arrived two of them hid behind the door and they made me go and open it."

"Were you able to warn him?"

"Yes." She huffed a short breath that could have been a mirthless little laugh. "I always thought Jack was paranoid, you know? With all the security measures for Daniel and Nico, I mean. All the signs and stuff he made us memorize? I never thought I'd need any of that... but I could tell him."

The tears were back with a vengeance then, and she looked up at Gareth imploringly. "He saw. I told him there were five men in the house. I told him they were hostile. He understood. I swear he did! But he didn't run away or call the police or... anything! He just came in."

"He's trained to do that, Miss...."

"Stephanie Vernon," she sniffed. "And he should have stayed outside."

"He wouldn't leave you there, in danger," Gareth said matter-of-factly and Aidan wondered if the woman could hear the strain in Gareth's voice as clearly as he could. "That's not the way he's built. Or, as Aidan just said, the way he's been trained."

And wasn't that the truth? Problem was, one of the men responsible for training Jack to face danger head-on was Gareth. So he didn't really have anyone to blame when Jack responded accordingly. If anything were to happen to Jack, Gareth would need a scapegoat. A fucking huge one.

"What happened then?" Better keep the woman on track and Gareth from thinking too much. At least until they had all parts of the story.

"I'm... not sure. Jack came in and sort of pushed me against the wall beside the door. Suddenly they were all fighting, and I couldn't see Jack. A gun went off. Something broke, like glass or a mirror? Then Jack was there again. He grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the door. He told me to run for the car. He came after me, but...."

A note of hysteria entered Steph's voice and Aidan could see her knees shaking. He reached for her shoulder to get her into a chair. Gareth got there first. A woman Aidan had seen around the corporate security office brought a mug of tea. Aidan approved, though he would have opted for a stiff drink himself.

"You're safe here. Take your time." Gareth kept up the soothing voice, though the tension in his shoulders and the tight lines at the corners of his eyes told Aidan that he was well past calm.

"They have Jack. How can I—"

"You'll be of no use to him if you panic, Steph. You're the only one who saw what happened. We need all the details you remember to help us find him. Keep it together, please."

People listened when Gareth used that voice.

Stephanie Vernon was no exception.

"It's so stupid," she said when the mug of tea was empty and her hands had stopped shaking quite so much. "I thought he was coming into the car with me. But he stopped to pick up my handbag when I dropped it. He opened the door, threw it into the car, and told me to get the info to you and... then one of them jumped on his back and he yelled at me to drive and... the last thing I saw was all of them coming at him and...."

"You did the right thing coming straight here, Miss Vernon." Julian joined the conversation for the first time since they'd stepped into the corporate security office. "Thank you."

"How can it be the right thing when they've got Jack? I didn't do anything to help him!"

"If you hadn't done as he said, if you hadn't come here right away, we wouldn't even know that something had happened to him. It'd be hours until he'd be missed. So don't say you didn't help."

"We'll get him back. Don't worry about that," Gareth added. "I'll get someone to drive you home. When does Paul get in? Six? Do you want me to call him?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm fine, Gareth, really. You have to find Jack. Should I call the police?"

"No. We'll do that. I don't want you driving. You're shaken up and I want you home as soon as possible. Leave your car here. The police may want to take a look at it. Frazer will take you. And don't say it's unnecessary—we'll drop your car off later. Okay?"

Steph Vernon didn't argue. She let Gareth organize everything, accepted the pack of wipes one of the women brought her to clean the ruined makeup off her face while Gareth spoke to Frazer and then called who Aidan thought was the woman's husband.

For a civilian, untrained and unused to sudden violence, she'd done a sterling job. The wealth of detail she'd recalled was impressive and would undoubtedly prove helpful. Most of all, though, Steph Vernon hadn't panicked even when faced with guns and fighting men, but had done as Jack had told her. If Jack had to get himself kidnapped, he could have done worse.

Aidan turned from the center of the large room and started to explore its edges while Gareth dealt with the logistics of getting Steph Vernon home. Keeping witnesses and bystanders safe and out of the line of any action was something that had been drilled into them both. Gareth did exactly what needed to be done. He looked calm too, and gave the impression of being fully in control, but Aidan suspected that that would change. He needed to be ready when it happened.

Even though he wasn't much calmer himself.

It was a good thing that everything that grew in the corporate security office was edible, since Aidan couldn't keep his hands still. Sitting around waiting wasn't his thing, and he was grateful to Gareth for providing an alternative to the usual paper shreds and pencil shards. He decimated a small pot of basil that grew alongside some late tomatoes and tried some vaguely lemon-tasting leaves he didn't know the name for. Then he slid off the windowsill, deciding that tarragon was not his thing, and moved on to test a row of greenery that looked like mint.

Despite the culinary experimentation, Aidan's focus was on Gareth Flynn. He was expecting Gareth to start swearing as soon as Stephanie Vernon left the room under the care of a solicitous Frazer.

Yet Gareth did nothing of the sort.

He simply stood in the middle of the open-plan office, hands on hips, and stared at the carpet, before suddenly swinging into action.

"Nico and Daniel—"

"Are on the way here. Skylar's watching over them."

Gareth breathed out. Nodded his thanks. "We need eyes on the house. Can you send someone to check it out?" he asked before Aidan had a chance to offer.

"Do you expect them to—"

"Not expecting anything. But we need to know how much of Steph's story is real. You know what witness statements can get like, especially if the witness is stressed or frightened. I want to know if there is actual evidence that the kidnappers are armed. How did they get there? When did they get there? Were there any witnesses? Though seeing where the place is, I doubt it. And what happened after Jack got swamped?"

"You've got it."

"Tell them to be careful."

"They know."

"Tell 'em anyway."

Aidan dealt with that while Gareth called Jack's phone. Neither man was surprised to find it turned off with all calls going straight to voice mail. They checked Jack's mailbox next, finding that it held no useful information and neither did the three e-mail accounts that Gareth knew about and had access to.

"What did I say just the other day?" Gareth queried. "He gets himself in a mess and I don't even know where to start looking." He pulled up a flipchart and grabbed a black marker while the people in the office watched him closely, waiting for orders. "With anyone else it'd be easy to figure who wants to take them out. Jack? He needs a fucking list!"

"Don't knock him, Flynn. You'd warrant a list too."

"And you," Gareth grunted, eyes on the chart. The first name Gareth wrote down was on both of their minds: Goran Mitrovic, the pimp Jack had helped take down a year earlier. The man was in prison, but neither Jack nor Clive nor Lisa had taken chances with Daniel's and Nico's security, had always considered that one of Mitrovic's men might try to snatch the two boys back. A revenge attack on Jack couldn't be ruled out.

The late Dimitri Kiriyenka's successor was next, plus whatever drug cartel Jack's virus might have irritated to violence.

"That one's a long shot," Aidan said as he watched Gareth write notes. "They'd have to know that Jack got out of the warehouse alive, not to mention his real name."

"If there is a rat at the Met as Gallant suggests, then it's possible."

"Granted. But could they have found Jack and followed him without Jack noticing? Jumpy as he still was? And how did they know where to wait for him?"

"Yeah, okay... it's a long shot."

They were staring at the list, trying to think of other names, when Julian took the marker from Gareth's hand and added his cousin's name to the lineup, his steely-eyed glare daring both Aidan and Gareth to argue.

Neither man did.

"You think he's that vindictive?"

"We have no idea what Horwood found, do we? We know he's been working on the break-ins. We know he didn't leave the building until half past four this morning." He waved his phone to indicate how he had learned about that. "If he's uncovered something overnight that could get Donovan in serious trouble and Donovan's aware of it.... Well, he's bound to take measures to protect himself."

"Including kidnapping someone at gunpoint?"

Julian shrugged. "I do not know. I do not know him well and I have never understood what drives that man."

"You've protected him."

"I have. But if I find he is involved in this...."

"Understood."

Donovan Nancarrow's name stayed on the list, and Julian left to finish the interrupted board meeting. Aidan didn't go with him. And Julian didn't insist.

WHETHER HE was at the center of the action waiting for orders or sitting on the sidelines waiting for news, Gareth hated waiting. Always had, and always would. Even when he did his damnedest not to let his impatience get the better of him, when he kept his composure in front of everyone... the waiting gnawed his nerves to ragged shreds. He had turned his back on the expectant glances of his team in the end and had taken refuge at one of the wide windows, only to find that his mind ignored the view and played tricks on him.

Fat raindrops hit the roof of the van. The sound bounced, rattled around, and grew as if a malevolent god were throwing pebbles at them. They were parked in a cemetery, among ancient carved gravestones and carefully manicured shrubs—a van full of men, all tired and filthy and worn out. Hungry too, and keen to get back to base. To a civilization that promised hot food and hot showers and maybe a soft mattress and the chance to stretch out until sunrise.

They all wanted to get moving, but leaving the cemetery and returning to base was impossible. They were one man short, and coming home as an incomplete troop meant that they'd failed the exercise.

Gareth's patience was running so low it was practically gone. What they'd been asked to do wasn't rocket science. Nor was it the first time they'd done it. Given that, Horwood should have been here waiting for them—and he wasn't. He should have checked in—and he hadn't. His phone was off. He wasn't carrying a tracker. And as matters stood, none of them had any idea where to even start looking.

They had just decided to retrace their steps in the hope of locating their missing team member when the van's back door slid open and Horwood stood there. Sopping wet, with bloodstains down the front of his hoodie and a tiny apologetic smile quirking one corner of his mouth.

"Sorry I'm late."

"And why the fuck am I remembering this now?" Gareth inquired of nobody in particular. He knew why, of course. He recalled the boatload of trouble Jack had landed himself in all those years ago for stopping to help at the scene of an accident. When questioned, Jack had pointed out that training wasn't combat. That he understood priorities, and if the Army thought a training exercise more important than saving a life, then he'd made the wrong career choice. After that he'd refused to say anything more on the subject and had simply taken his punishment in silence.

Gareth leaned both hands on the windowsill and watched the river, mind still half spun into memories. It wasn't dark. It wasn't raining, and this time around, Jack had asked for help. After most likely letting himself be caught to help Steph get away. Witnesses and bystanders first. It was a rule that governed much of their work, and Jack had followed it to the letter.

It didn't stop Gareth from wishing that Jack would step through the door as if it were the most normal thing in the world and quirk an apologetic smile at him. If he gave credence to Steph's tale, that outcome wasn't likely, but part of his mind clung to a shred of hope. Jack used to outscore his whole team in escape skills and Gareth was sure he'd kept up with that part of his training regardless of where he'd ended up working. His skills would serve him well... provided he was in a condition to use them.

Aidan's phone rang and Aidan joined him by the window, switching to loudspeaker and holding the phone up between them.

"The place is empty, boss, but it most likely happened as your witness said."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. They've made an effort to tidy up. Otherwise... yeah...."

"Did they have guns?"

"At least one. Fake handguns don't leave bullet holes in the wood paneling."

"What about outside?" Gareth wanted to know.

"No obvious blood and guts anywhere," the man told him. "The driveway is gravel with hardcore under. They wouldn't have been able to clean that up well enough. So they most likely knocked him out. No sign of a car besides the one your witness drove. There are tire marks that look like a bike was parked alongside the car, but it's gone."

"Stay close by for a bit and keep an eye on the area. Maybe we get lucky," Aidan instructed before he turned to Gareth. "If he's been fighting as Steph described and they didn't take him out...."

"...they might want him for something, I agree. Unfortunately, that leaves all our suspects in the running."

"Boss?" Simone waved from where she was watching traffic footage. "This is Steph Vernon driving up to the house," she informed them, pointing at her screen. "Here's Jack, twenty minutes late and ignoring the thirty limit. And here we have Steph leaving in a hurry about ten minutes later. No sign of Jack's bike after that."

"Anything else suspicious?"

"Nothing that jumps out at me." Simone had come to Nancarrow after leaving the Metropolitan Police. She had good instincts, but she wasn't clairvoyant. "It's a busy roundabout. We have no idea what the kidnappers were driving. What do you want me to say?"

"You're right. I was just hoping that they'd... I dunno. Got sloppy. Obvious."

"Yeah." Simone pulled the tie from her hair and shook it out. "I'll watch it again. I also think there are security cameras on that building site up the other end of the lane. Some of them should point toward the road. When Frazer comes back, we can tackle those. See if they've gone the other way."

"What's this about Jack getting himself kidnapped?" Alex was following Julian into the office. She looked unusually agitated.

"He didn't get—"

"Can it, Flynn," Aidan cut in. "He was going to view a house as Julian has no doubt told you," he rehashed for Alex's benefit. "A bunch of armed hostiles were waiting for him. He got the estate agent out of the picture unharmed, then got swamped. We haven't got a clue yet who they were, what they wanted, or how they knew where to wait for him."

"Julian said he worked through the night and left early this morning. Did he come back here before he went to see the house?"

"Not to my knowledge. Why?"

Alex hesitated in the middle of the room. It was so unusual a reaction for her that Gareth stopped pacing. When she nodded toward the open door to his office, he moved without a word, not in the least surprised to see Julian and Aidan do likewise.

"I asked whether he'd come back here before he went to see the house because he was doing a job for me earlier today," she said when they were out of everyone else's earshot.

"I thought he was working on the break-ins. He didn't say that he was doing anything for you."

"He couldn't," Alex admitted. "I invoked the OSA."

"You did... what? What kind of job was it?"

"Retrieval."

"Retrieval. Gagged and handcuffed? Explain. This sounds like shit waiting to happen."

Gareth couldn't believe what they were hearing. Since when was Jack doing jobs for his old crowd? He'd barely recovered from his undercover stint for the Met. "What backup did he have?"

"None on the ground. He went alone and he didn't call me for help." Alexandra didn't apologize or make excuses. It didn't earn her many favors in Gareth's book.

"The whole story. From the top."

"You know that Jack's put cameras in Julian's office?"

"Yes. He caught Lloyd Mason going through Julian's safe yesterday morning," Gareth confirmed.

"Yes. What he didn't tell you is that Mason—accidentally or deliberately, we're not sure—acquired the encryption key we use to secure communications with the agency. Jack saw it offered for sale and... well, he knows how these things work and how they're tagged, so he knew it was ours. I asked him to look for the key and retrieve it if possible."

"Why was it in my safe?"

"And he was happy about the gag and handcuffs deal?"

Julian and Aidan spoke almost as one. Aidan sounded three seconds away from an explosion. Julian's eyes were narrowed to slits, and while Gareth didn't feel like playing peacemaker, he needed intel to find Jack. He mustered a tight smile for Julian and wrapped a hand around Aidan's arm to calm him down. "Was he happy about the gag?" he repeated Aidan's question.

"He was not. But he understood that the theft had to be kept under wraps and that it was imperative we retrieve the key."

"I'm sure he did. Who are the potential buyers?"

"That's classified."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Aidan tapped a pen against his thigh in a slow, steady rhythm that was supposed to help him keep his temper. Not that it was. Gareth tightened his grip on Aidan's arm and readied himself to intervene if Aidan got into it. "We haven't asked you for names," he said calmly.

Alex sighed. "Jack thought that Mason was just the messenger. Coerced because he owes a lot of money. He was investigating the loan shark's links and he found a connection to organized crime. We don't know exactly who is involved. Word's only just gone out. Potentially—" She broke off when Gareth swore. "What?"

"He found it," Gareth said. "He had it on him when he went to see the house."

"How do you know?"

"Because he slipped it to Stephanie."

"What?"

Gareth turned to face Aidan. "Remember what she said? He stopped to pick up her handbag and threw it into the car after her. He had to open the door again to do so. And he said—"

"'Take the information to Gareth.' Shit. Who can get there first? Can we call Gallant?"

"What is it?" Alex looked in confusion from Aidan to Gareth.

"We've just sent Frazer to take Steph Vernon home. She's got that fucking key on her... and if they don't find it on Jack they might go after her."

Alex had her phone to her ear in an instant and Gareth appreciated that. "This is Marston. Give me dispatch. This is an emergency. We have merchandise and bystanders under threat," she continued once she'd been put through. "I need an intercept. Now."

She read out the make, model, and registration number of Frazer's car and Steph Vernon's address from the tablet Gareth handed her, and then requested, "Patch me into the check-in loop." She tapped details into the notepad app. "Got it, thanks."

Aidan got right in her face the moment she sat down to wait.

"What the fuck were you thinking starting shit like that? We don't send one of ours out without a lifeline. Ever. I don't give a fuck whether you pull the national security card or not. What you did to Horwood sucks!"

Gareth agreed, but he kept silent. Since Julian stood ready to intervene should Aidan lose his temper, he took the tablet from Alex, put on a headset, and listened to the comm channel of Alex's retrieval teams while he paced. He was itching to go after Jack, but he'd been a soldier long enough to understand priorities. Retrieving the encryption key was their top priority right then. Jack had put himself in the line of fire to see the key safe and Alex had reacted immediately when faced with Gareth's news. Even though Alex hadn't asked—or maybe she had and he'd not picked up on the covert phrase—Alex's colleagues were coordinating with police patrols in the area. He imagined pulling up to the Vernon house only to be confronted with a row of police cars. Even just sitting there, lights flashing, they'd be a deterrent. Hopefully one that was good enough.

"We've got them safe," a voice reported in his ear not twenty minutes later and Gareth released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He was trusting that Jack could look after himself. He had to trust that, but he'd never found it an easy task to stand idly by when his men went into danger and he wasn't there with them. He didn't find it easy now. But he didn't lose his focus. "Can I talk to Steph, please?"

"Sure."

The line crackled and then Steph's voice was loud in his ear. "Gareth? What's wrong?"

"We think that Jack put something in your handbag. That's why he picked it up. And that's why he asked you to come and see me. Could you look, please?"

Rustling sounds. A bit of clatter as Gareth imagined Steph emptying her handbag onto the bonnet of a police car.

"There's a memory stick here that's not mine. Would that be it?"

"Could you give it to the officers, please? If it isn't what we're after, they'll return it to you. And Steph, I'm sorry you got dragged into this mess."

She ignored his apology. "Have you found Jack?"

"No. Not yet." They had to concentrate on retrieving a damned memory stick first. Gareth didn't have much hope that having the thing back would lead them to Jack.

"Jack stayed behind because of me. You have to find him," Stephanie implored, voice high and agitated.

"I know. We will find him. I promise." Gareth found it in himself to reassure her. But he didn't tell her not to worry.

"Looks like we've got the key," he said as he turned back to the room. "Or something. One of your teams is bringing it here."

He barely got an acknowledgment for his words. Julian hadn't relaxed his taut stance and Aidan had never looked so close to ripping someone's head off. From the way the two squared off in his office, nobody could have guessed that Aidan had a soft spot for Alex Marston. For all the tension coiling between them, they could have been mortal enemies.

Gareth was keeping his temper firmly locked down. He would have his own fight with Alex. Later. When Jack was back and the kidnappers were dealt with.

Aidan was the most volatile right then, and Gareth was so intent on watching him pace and snarl under his breath that he almost didn't see it when Julian moved. He touched Aidan's arm and the big lawyer's angry growl stopped in midsentence. Julian's voice was steely when he took over.

"The association between MI6 and Nancarrow Mining has always been intended to be beneficial to both sides," he said, not taking his gaze from Alexandra's, to make sure there was no chance to misinterpret his words, no chance to think he wasn't completely serious. "The next time you send one of my employees into danger without giving him a chance to decline the assignment, without informing at least someone at the company, and without providing backup, I will not hesitate to terminate Nancarrow Mining's agreement with your agency. I trust I am making myself clear?"

Alex nodded once, and Gareth thought he saw a flash of surprise in her eyes before she hid it.

"Jack stopped working for MI6 eighteen months ago. He is no longer yours to manipulate," Julian continued. "He's part of Nancarrow Mining now. And we look after our own."

Alex's gaze slipped between the three of them and one corner of her lips curled up just a tiny bit. "I can see that."

"Good." Aidan was gone on the word. The door slamming in his wake emphasized the silence he left behind.

Julian, meanwhile, settled himself in one of the visitors' chairs before Gareth's desk, and contemplated the flowering lemon tree, seemingly waiting for the moment Aidan would come storming back into the room, encryption key in hand.

"Gareth?"

He wanted to ignore Alex when she called his name, but he just wasn't built that way. Neither did he miss the tiny hint of hesitation in her voice. He pulled the headset off and turned toward her. "What?"

"I have to report Jack's kidnapping."

"Why? What the fuck have your lot got to do with it?" He rubbed both hands over his face and shook his head. "Sorry. I'm not even making sense to myself. Do whatever. I can't stop you anyway."

"There's no need for that."

"Isn't there? Tell that to Jack. You've fucking hung him out to dry when it suited you. Don't talk to me. Just... don't."

"Your loyalty does you credit, Gareth."

Gareth had a scathing insult right on the tip of his tongue. He bit it back. He was better than that. He'd keep it together until Jack was back with them. Then they could decide—as a team—what they wanted to do about Alex and Nancarrow and all the other crap that kept invading their lives when they least needed it. Right now he'd slip into mission mode and deal with any shit that came down.

It took a surprisingly short amount of time until Aidan came in and placed a tiny USB stick on Alex's knee. He moved slowly, carefully, as if he were holding himself together with a great deal of effort. "There's your key. I hope you're happy now."

"Did you ask the team to keep an eye on the Vernon house until it's over?"

Aidan's glare grew hot enough to cut through steel. "I do make a habit of looking after the people who help me," he got out through gritted teeth, the disgust in his tone pronounced enough to make Alex flinch.

Aidan Conrad had seen much in both his careers. Enough that he tended to cut most people a lot of slack. He had few hard limits. But with that one question, Alex had hit one. And it showed.

"Anything else?" Gareth interrupted the brewing explosion.

"We've got to meet with Gatting." Aidan turned his back on Alex and faced Gareth, his expression an odd mix of anger, disgust, and resignation.

"Gatting. As in...."

"The spineless prick who used to be Jack's handler, yes."

"Why?"

"To assess whether Horwood's abduction could be in any way connected to his previous assignments investigating organized crime and whether or not that makes him a national security risk." Aidan was clearly reciting something he'd just been told.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"Wish I was. Especially as I can already picture Gatting's response."

"In that case, are you sure you should be coming with?"

"Very."

"Fine. Let's get it done." Gareth reached for his jacket. "Where are we going?"

"Westminster Old Library."

"Don't tell me." Gareth checked his watch just to make sure. "Cocktails?"

"How did you guess?" Aidan's sneer was a thing of beauty.

"I know the Cinnamon Club. Food's good. But it's a bit early for dinner, so...."

"Yeah. Fucking bureaucrats."

WESTMINSTER OLD Library was familiar to both Aidan and Gareth. The cocktails were good, the bar was exceptional, and the food had Gareth coming back each time the menu changed. It was a place for business breakfasts, networking lunches, and negotiations over dinner, and if you didn't spot at least one person you recognized, you were most likely a tourist on his first trip to Britain.

In a quiet pinstripe suit and unobtrusive tie, Tom Gatting blended into the background. Or he would have if he'd not been holding a violently pink concoction with an umbrella sticking out the top.

"And that just fucking figures," Aidan grumbled. But he made his way up to the mezzanine floor and settled across from Gatting, his greeting barely more than a sulky grunt. When the waiter came up to them, he ordered an East India Cocktail while Gareth continued his flirtation with Japanese single malt that he'd started several months ago, and Gatting simply waved his almost-empty glass.

They sat in silence, waiting for their drinks. Neither Gareth nor Aidan were in the mood for small talk, and Gatting was busily nodding to people he knew. It was rather strange behavior for a spook.

"So Horwood's working for you now?" Gatting considered Gareth and Aidan over the rim of his glass as if that tidbit of information was news to him. "I never understood why he quit. He was a pain in the ass and impossible to work with, but his success rate was phenomenal. He was quite the star."

"Then why did you let him go?"

"Precisely because I didn't understand him. Most men respond to either threats or coercion. Horwood doesn't. And since I have never been able to work out what makes him tick, I had nothing enticing to offer him. When he handed me his resignation, his mind was made up."

"And you had to send him on leave immediately."

"That too."

"Has he done any work involving organized crime?"

Gatting took a second pink cocktail from the waiter. "He's worked on an initiative," he answered when he held it and both Aidan and Gareth had been served their drinks. "I can tell you that much. It was several years before he left. Unless, of course, he decided to do stuff off his own bat."

"Considering the work he did do, even if it was years ago, can you think of anyone who might want to kidnap him?"

"Any number of people, seeing he's such an arrogant whoreson. He had a knack for pissing people off."

"Do you have anything more specific than spite?"

Gatting's suddenly red, blotchy face looked even less attractive than the sneering facade he cultivated for daily wear. "Nothing spiteful about it," he said and took a rather large gulp from his glass. "If you don't know that Horwood does what Horwood wants, and guidelines and rules be damned, then you haven't worked with him for long enough. You can't imagine the messes he forced me to clean up because he couldn't follow rules or stick to protocol."

Gareth caught Aidan's eye, and while neither man smiled, they were in perfect agreement. Gatting's description of Jack's way of working wasn't all that wrong. It was also exactly the reason why they'd wanted Jack in their team. And since neither Nancarrow Mining nor Dwight & Conrad were slaves to the rule book, his tendency to poke around where he wasn't wanted just because something had caught his eye wasn't ever going to cause a problem.

Unlike the fact that Jack had been kidnapped.

"Let's do that again," Aidan said in his best courtroom voice. "Can you think of anything in his past projects that would make him attractive to a kidnapper? Any information they could try to obtain?"

Gatting finished his second pink cocktail and waved for a third. "As far as his official assignments go, I'd say no. The organized crime data he worked on is too far out of date to make him exploitable now. But as I was trying to point out, Horwood often investigated incidents and people because he felt like it. So who knows what he dug up?"

Gareth couldn't find even a shred of concern in Gatting's tone or his expression. The man wasn't hiding the fact that Horwood had stopped being of interest to him the moment he'd stopped being useful to Gatting's career. The only reason he'd even agreed to talk to them was because he'd been ordered to. Tom Gatting truly couldn't care less whether Jack was dead, alive, or a risk to national security. Gareth now understood why Aidan never mentioned Gatting's name without swearing. Despite the refined environs of the Cinnamon Club, he was close to it himself.

"If you don't consider Horwood a security risk, you won't have any objections to us sorting this out, correct?"

A languid wave answered Aidan's question. "Knock yourself out. It won't earn you his gratitude or his support, if that's what you're hoping for. I wasn't joking when I said he had a knack for pissing people off, you know. He really did."

Gareth had been content to let Aidan do the talking, but Gatting's spitefulness deserved a response. He set his glass down when Aidan did, and both men stood as if their movements had been choreographed.

"You should know what he had a knack for," Gareth said as he turned to head down the stairs and out of the restaurant. "I hope the prices in here aren't ruinous enough to leave you short on the repayments for your mortgage."

# Chapter EIGHTEEN

GARETH WAS still spitting nails by the time they made it back to Nancarrow Mining. The walk from Westminster to the Strand had done nothing to calm him. "What a fucking waste of time."

"Fucking waste of oxygen too. That's taxpayers' money at work right there."

"And doesn't that make you want to emigrate. Or plan a coup d'état. Unfortunately, you can't even vote that lot out of office."

"No. When Gatting goes, he'll go with a fat pension, more's the pity. Which reminds me: that comment you made as we were leaving, what was that about?"

"Jack being Jack." Gareth smiled. "He hated Gatting treating everyone around him like collateral damage. So he came up with a little scheme to make the oaf take note of him and do the job he's paid to do."

"You're sounding entirely too smug. What did he do?"

"Apparently... he trebled Gatting's mortgage."

Aidan's laughter echoed up and down the elevator shaft. It broke the tense anger that had held them both in thrall since they'd found out why Jack was in trouble. Reminded them of what they had maybe forgotten or pushed aside: that Jack was a survivor. That he was resourceful, adaptable, and unexpected.

And that he wasn't above fighting dirty.

It gave them hope.

"HOW DID they know where to wait for Jack?" Skylar queried a while later. He'd brought Nico and Daniel to Nancarrow Mining as instructed and had met up with Aidan and Gareth freshly back from their meeting with Gatting. Skylar was pragmatic, the boys clearly worried about Jack, and Gareth had made a point of briefing all three of them in detail.

Now he narrowed his eyes at Skylar. "That's a damned good question. One that all that pussyfooting around politics has stopped us from answering for long enough," he said before he turned to the door. "Frazer!" His bellow echoed across the office and promptly brought the Scot, who'd returned after taking Steph home. "I need a list of all of today's phone calls, in and out. Also the access logs for the shared diary and for Jack's personal one."

"Two minutes."

Frazer disappeared and Skylar continued to pose questions. "I suppose someone has checked that house, right?"

"Yeah. It's empty."

"Did you expect him to be there?"

"No. Fucking brat needs a leash," Gareth said. "At the very least couldn't he carry a chip like any normal operative on assignment?"

"Don't start." Aidan growled from the other side of the conference table. "Even if he'd wanted to, he couldn't. Not with the Official Secrets Act in force. That'd be the same as shouting about it."

"His phone?"

"Stripped."

"Gareth?" Daniel's voice was hesitant, but he didn't back away from the anger in the room. Jack's influence was showing and Gareth found a smile. And a softer tone.

"Yes. What is it?"

"Did they take his bike away with them? He put a tracker in that before he put it in storage. I don't think he's taken it out yet."

Daniel had barely stopped speaking when Gareth was on the phone. "Lisa? Can you track Jack's bike? I need to know where it is right now." He took a deep breath and cut into the questions Lisa posed. "He's in trouble. Kidnapped, maybe. Call me back when you have something? Yes, I'm here."

Gareth paced, feeling as if his skin were too tight. Knowing that Jack was smart and resourceful didn't allay the bone-deep fear that it was already too late. That Jack had taken one assignment too many, had been manipulated once too often. It wasn't a scenario that he'd considered whenever he thought of Jack disappearing from his life.

He had no idea how he hadn't lashed out at Alex. Only the firm belief that he didn't know the whole story had stayed his hand and his tongue. Jack had been exceptionally good at being a spook. Even Gatting had admitted that. Jack understood the way wheels ran within wheels and half-spoken words acquired meanings not immediately intended. Maybe he'd heard something in Alex's words that Gareth had missed, something that had prompted him to go out without backup and with a gag in place.

"Yes?" Gareth snarled at the next interruption, relaxing a fraction when Frazer appeared in the doorway. "Do you have the access logs?"

"I was just pulling those when I got a strange phone call. It sounds like Jack?" He traced a finger over his tablet and a voice filled the room.

An incomprehensible message made from vowel-drenched syllables and rough edges filled the room. It was only a few seconds long, but Frazer was right. It did sound like Jack.

"Oooh," Skylar purred when Frazer played the short clip again. "That's one seriously pissed-off Jack Horwood right there."

"Do you think he cut someone's throat? For real?" Daniel's eyes were wide and he swallowed.

"Wouldn't surprise me," Skylar said and both Daniel and Nico nodded assent.

"What the fuck are you three on?"

"You've never heard him say that?" Nico asked back. Despite the careful way he moved he was even bolder than Daniel, not intimidated by Aidan's snarl or Gareth's frown. The only one he stayed away from was Alex, who had settled on one corner of the sofa with a laptop and was quietly tapping away in a manner that reminded Gareth too much of Jack. At any moment now she'd jump up, declaring she'd found the crown jewels King John had lost in the Wash, or that now was the best time to buy some obscure currency since the market would collapse the day after tomorrow.

"Gareth?"

And yes, he was losing the plot. "No, I haven't heard him say that," he answered belatedly. "What does it mean?"

"Without shaking," Daniel answered at the same time as Skylar pushed his chair back and demanded: "Why is that even relevant?"

"Because we want to find him, nitwit. Any details may be important."

"You have a phone," Skylar suggested helpfully.

"The call didn't come from his phone," Frazer said from the doorway.

"Of course not. Your phone is the first thing they take away from you and smash," Daniel piped up again. When he recited what had been drilled into him, he sounded just like Jack. "But most men don't consider destroying their own phones, so if you want to be found, use theirs."

All conversation in the room ground to a sudden halt.

"God, he's a sneaky bastard," Frazer sighed. "While I don't have the brain capacity to qualify as the village idiot. Why didn't I think of that?" He pulled a chair up to the conference table and attacked the keyboard on his tablet, fingers quick and decisive. "Actually, he's even sneakier than that," he commented after a burst of staccato tapping. "He's hooked the phone into some kind of live stream. That guy will have a heart attack when he sees his phone bill!"

"And of course I care about that," Aidan drawled.

"How long does it take to do... whatever he did to that phone?"

"Half a minute. Minute, maybe."

"And then he made the phone call."

"Yeah. Why?"

"If he had a minute, why didn't he get out?"

"Maybe he couldn't."

"Or there was something left undone," Skylar added thoughtfully. "If there's one thing I've learned about Horwood, it's that he hates loose ends and unsolved mysteries. Hates them."

"Or someone pissed him off and he wanted to cut their throats."

Daniel sounded uncommonly gleeful. So much so that Gareth shot him a concerned look. "What's with the bloodthirsty attitude, kid?"

"Nothing," Nico intervened. "He's being an ass. Jack plays that song when he thinks we're not assertive enough." He made a hash of mimicking Jack's voice, but he was laughing as he did it. "He has a fight routine that goes with the music, and he always cuts Skylar's throat when he says that line. It's dead funny."

"Not if you're me, it's not," Skylar complained, but he was smiling too. "I just can't catch the damned SOB. He's too bloody fast. And that phrase is like... bait."

"And you're all trying to distract me."

"You need to give Frazer time to do his stuff, but you're already pacing."

"You know me too damn well, annoying whelp."

Gareth's phone rang and he listened. "Repeat that address?" he requested. Aidan held out a pen, but Gareth just shook his head. "Thanks, Lisa. I owe you. What? By all means. It's... kinda gags and handcuffs at the moment, but...we take any help we can get." He didn't say that he would call on her anyway if they didn't find Jack within the next few hours, OSA or not. They both knew it.

"Jack's bike is on the next property along," he reported once he'd ended the call.

"Shit. I was hoping they'd taken it with."

"Yeah, me too. Lisa's guys are keeping tabs on it. We'll know if someone moves it."

"Good."

"Back to the diaries. Who gave away his location?"

Frazer was still huddled over his tablet doing God knows what. At Gareth's question he looked up for just a moment. "Lloyd Mason," he said.

"Of course." Gareth nodded. "Do you know how?"

"Yes. He accessed Jack's personal diary. That's where he found the address. There was a call to Mason's mobile at the same time. Around eleven o'clock, I'm still tracing that."

"Good work. Let me know when you have something."

"You know it could be a throwaway. Or have its chip removed," Frazer cautioned.

Nobody was paying any attention to Alex, so everyone jumped when voices came from her corner of the room. Angry voices.

"Where did you leave that USB stick, you stupid piece of shit?"

"Where I told you I would. In the cutlery drawer in the kitchen." That was Lloyd Mason. Pissed off and on the defensive, hissing the answer into his handset. It was a tone Gareth had heard too often in the last weeks not to recognize.

"It's not there."

"Of course it's there. I put it there this morning!"

"Don't start shit with me, dickface. There's a fuck ton of USB sticks in that drawer, but not the one you're meant to deliver."

"That's hogwash."

"You got it on you, haven't you?" The voice on the other end of the phone was losing patience.

"No. I left it in the fucking kitchen like I said. Maybe you need your eyes tested."

"Or maybe you're a bigger fuckwit than we gave you credit for." A beep sounded in the background, and then the stranger's voice was back. "Recognize this guy? We met him in your building. When we stepped out of the lift on your floor, he was so far down the corridor he could only have come from your apartment or the one right across from yours."

"Horwood?"

A pause. The beep must have been signaling an incoming message. Gareth imagined Mason peering at his phone screen, brows pulled close together. "It's Horwood."

"Who?"

"Works here. Ex-spook. Nosy piece of shit who claims to be some hotshot hacker."

"Shouldn't he be at work?"

"No. He's got a late lunchtime appointment with an estate agent."

"Where? Come on, man, it's gone eleven. We don't have all fucking day!"

Mason read out the address of the house on Kingston Hill, and Gareth cursed himself for the rules he enforced. Rules that required the full address and postcode to be entered into the diary for all offsite appointments. A rule that Jack had followed for the parts of his day that lay outside of the task Alex had given him.

"What about my IOU?" Mason inquired a moment later. "I did what you asked."

"You fucked up, you numbskull. You made yourself suspicious. So suspicious that someone knew you had taken that memory stick and came to get it back. Now we have to chase all over London to find the damned thing, and you think you're in the clear? You haven't paid what you owe. Not by a long shot!"

The call cut off. The large room was quiet as everyone stared at Alex.

"We monitor all employees' phone calls inside the building," she pointed out. "Once Frazer identified the phone number calling Mason I just had to find the right recording."

"I know." Gareth threw a look at Aidan. "So.... Mason. Strike two."

"I'm gonna go wring his scrawny neck. Right now."

"Don't. We have what we need for now. And at least it's coming together in a way that makes sense. We know that Mason was breaking into Julian's office, copying information that ended up with Donovan Nancarrow, who has maintained or revived his father's connection to the mob. Jack watched Mason take the key. He retrieved it from Mason's home and then became the target. All that makes Mason our best link to Jack's disappearance. Let Mason think he's in the clear for now. We can take him down later. And we can lean on Donovan if we don't locate Jack."

"Why fucking wait?" Aidan didn't sound convinced.

"In case we need a bargaining chip to get Jack back?"

"Flynn...."

"What?"

"You've just fucking reminded me why I wanted you in my team."

"Good for you. Can we get on now? We don't have all day."

Frazer's excited yell made them all jump. "Boss! The phone's there too!"

"In English, Frazer."

"You said Jack's bike is next door to the house he went to see, right? The phone Jack called from is there too."

"You're sure?"

"Sure as I can be. I ran it twice."

"Fuuuck!" Aidan yanked the tie from his hair in frustration. "That's why the woman didn't see another car and why Wilco found only tracks of her car. Frazer, find the plans for the house next door, and find out about who lives there."

"They might take him back to the first house to confuse everyone," Nico said suddenly.

"What?"

Daniel had an arm around Nico's waist, clinging in a way he hadn't in a long time. "Goran did that when the police raided the clubs or the house where he kept us," he said quietly. "He'd take us out and keep us in a van until they were gone, and then he'd take us right back in."

"He always said that lightning wouldn't strike twice," Nico added. "And he was right. Nobody ever came back to check a second time."

"Clever." Gareth stared at the map that covered his desk as if it could give him the answers he sought. "Frazer, keep an eye on that phone. I want to know the moment it moves."

His mind ran scenarios, planned contingencies, calculated probabilities for option after option. "That's actually a clever play for something they had to pull from thin air at short notice," he decided. "They would have learned from the estate agent that the place is standing empty. So there's no need to find a safe space in a hurry or drag a kidnap victim through the countryside. All they had to do after Steph got away was hide Jack for a while in case someone came and checked."

"Won't they get suspicious if no police turns up?"

"They might think the woman was too scared to report it."

"Or that nobody believed her?"

"Or the guy who called Mason is at Steph's house," Frazer said at the same moment as both Alex's and Gareth's phones went off.

"The spooks have arrested a man trying to break into the Vernons' house," Gareth summarized for everyone when he'd ended his call. "They're going to take him in and question him. Let's work on the assumption that Jack's being held somewhere in or near the Kingston Hill house. I'm heading over there. Frazer, Conrad, I'll need maps and blueprints. And updates."

"Wilco still has eyes on that place," Aidan added. "He hasn't called yet to say that anything has moved."

"Maybe they have a tunnel."

"You two are full of unexpected wisdom today," Skylar snarked only to have Nico turn to him a little more aggressively than he would have done even a week before. Bruises bloomed across his face, ugly splotches the color of pain, but he stood his ground without flinching.

"If all this is about a tiny memory stick, then why didn't Jack just put his boot on it and crush it? They're not indestructible. Memory sticks, I mean. Why all this... stuff?"

"That's a rather good—"

"He was trying to save my neck," Alex interrupted Skylar. "If we'd retrieved the key without any drama, nobody would have known we'd lost it in the first place."

"Surely you'd have reported it," Gareth suggested.

"Jack was leaving me the option."

"Spooks," Aidan grumbled, but he didn't say anything else and Alex continued.

"Seeing Gatting was such an ass, I've called Khandi. He's going to help you infiltrate that place and find Jack. He's bringing Mel."

"The sniper girl?" Daniel recognized the name and his eyes grew big as saucers. "She's coming here?"

"Is, kid," said a voice from the doorway. "Is here. Nice to know I'm famous."

Daniel spun and stared at the woman, who wasn't much taller than he was himself. Her light blonde hair was in hastily gathered pigtails, and she grinned as if she'd just been told the best joke ever.

"You went and got Arnie for a getaway car. That's seriously cool!"

Some days, Gareth had to remind himself that Nico and Daniel were only fifteen. At other times they did it for him.

"Mel," he greeted. "What are you doing here?"

Despite being five foot six to Gareth's six one, Mel somehow managed to look down her nose at him. "I thought you asked for help from above."

"That's why I'm here," a deep voice interjected.

"Ha. The day you're the help from above is when I'm Arthur the Angel."

Gareth looked over Mel's shoulder and met the coffee-colored gaze of another stranger. This one much more casually dressed than Tom Gatting. And not holding a pink-umbrella'd drink.

"I'm Khandi. And you must be the guy whose contingencies have contingencies."

"What?"

"Horwood's former CO? That's how he used to describe you."

"Did he?" Gareth shook hands. "What's the word?" He watched Khandi exchange a glance with Alex. Before he could question that, Khandi turned back to him.

"The guy we caught at the Vernon house is a bullyboy for a local loan shark. Sounds as if they haven't found the key they were sent to get, and Horwood's not cooperating, so they thought they'd go put the screws on Steph Vernon."

"He was trying to kidnap her?"

"Or threaten her, maybe. He didn't get in spitting distance and they aren't done questioning him yet. Important point is these guys are small fry. Breaking a few fingers or wrecking a home is more their style than kidnapping. We think they're acting under orders."

"Figures," Gareth said, more concerned with practicalities than motivations. "Jack's managed to get his hands on a phone and send a message."

"If he's loose, then I'm surprised he's not out already. Are we going over?"

"You bet. You have night vision gear?"

"Sure."

"I can even lend you a rifle, oh poor civilian," Mel offered with a grin that reminded Gareth of Jack.

"You can't take out a handful of goons by yourself?"

"Oh, sorry. I thought you'd wanna be the white knight who rides in to rescue your boyfriend," she riposted. "He might be very appreciative if he's impressed."

"Does your husband know you've got eyes for Horwood?"

Mel laughed and Gareth felt his lips curl in answer. The woman was irrepressible. "Oh, I've got more than eyes for Jack. You would too, if he'd saved your ass twice in an hour," she said. "And yes, my husband is aware. He also knows that he's got no reasons to worry. So, are we going?"

"We're going."

"Flynn!"

Gareth spun at the clear command in Aidan's voice, ready to rip the big man's head off if he dared to object. Instead of an objection, he got a faceful of Kevlar that Aidan had pulled from the cabinet under the coffee machine where Gareth kept gear.

"Take that."

"I don't need—"

"Don't be a dumb fuck. We don't want any friendly fire incidents, now, do we?"

"I heard that, Conrad," Mel hissed, glaring at the bulletproof vest Aidan had thrown to Gareth.

"I'm sure you did, cupcake," Aidan drawled, grinning. One of these days Gareth would get the barrister drunk enough to learn what history the big man shared with the sniper. It seemed that he was the only one who hadn't worked with Mel Rookes.

"I'm gonna get you back for it too."

"Yeah, yeah." The barrister waved. "Next time I'll stick an apple on my head to make it easier for you."

"That was fun," Mel replied rather unexpectedly before she declared that she had need of coffee and disappeared out the door.

# Chapter NINETEEN

JACK'S MIND started to catalogue his surroundings before he was properly awake: The scents of coal dust and damp earth. The annoying echo that folded the relentless trance beat into itself over and over until the music turned into so much garbled nonsense. The sheer volume of that music, which pushed his headache into spikes sharp enough to curl his stomach. And really, what was this? Torture by DJ?

He slitted his eyes open, glad when he encountered no bright lights to add to the firestorm in his head. The room was dim and echo-inducingly empty, with rough stone walls on the three sides he could see. Some kind of drain ran along the bottom of each wall. Nothing more than slabs of stone buried at an angle and cemented into place. The rest of the floor was paved in blackened yellow brick laid in a fishbone pattern. Trying to trace out the pattern was a bad move. It didn't enlighten him about his location. Just earned him a swimming head and a mouthful of bile.

He had no idea where he was or how long he'd been out. The bricks looked old. The masonry looked older. And the light filtering under the nail-studded door was too yellow to be daylight.

He screwed his eyes shut again and focused on the music until his stomach settled. The pain in his head congregated behind his right ear, and as soon as he realized that, his memories returned.

Alex was going to kill him.

Or maybe Gareth would do the honors.

No, most likely Alex would get to him first. She'd rip his balls off to have on toast for involving a civilian in a closed op. Never mind that he'd gotten Steph out of harm's way.

At least he hoped that Steph had gotten away. That she'd driven straight to Gareth and raised the alarm. That Alex had been there when Steph told her story and realized that Jack had slipped her the key.

There were a lot of ifs and maybes in that scenario, and Jack tried not to think too closely about the mess he'd made. He hated to screw up. But he could think about that after.... After he got loose. After he'd pieced together who those guys were, how they'd known where to wait for him and whether they were after the encryption key or wanted something else.

Gareth would have something to say about Jack letting himself be overpowered to help Steph escape, rather than get away himself and return with proper reinforcements. Given that, it was safer that Jack didn't admit to the hefty dose of curiosity that had prompted him to do so. Curiosity that had been entirely justified as it turned out.

First, they'd blindfolded him and emptied his pockets. Then they'd started dragging him around. Not wanting to draw attention to the fact that they'd left his hands free, Jack hadn't fought. He'd kept his hands out of sight, had counted footsteps and breaths, had waited until he'd been left with just one man to guard him. The blindfold had come off as easily as the guard had gone down. And Jack had used the man's phone to send a message to Frazer.

He'd been about to slip out of the room when the other four had come back. They hadn't been impressed to find him loose and one of their number out cold in a corner. He vaguely recalled being dragged across an expanse of dark garden and shoved down some stairs. He remembered fighting when they stripped him of his jacket and shirt and pulled his leathers and boots off, leaving him in just his jeans.

He was missing some time after that.

And a few memories.

The beat of the music changed and Jack swallowed bile. He was used to headaches, but this one had to be the mother goddess of the lot of them. It flared unexpectedly until he could barely see through the pain and his stomach threatened to join in the fun at any moment. Sitting with his hands tied behind his back, unable to curl forward and put his head between his knees, didn't help either.

Could he get out?

Maybe.

Possibly.

If he could fight down the headache long enough to see and keep the nausea to a level where he didn't throw up all over himself the moment he moved.

Not that there was enough light to see by....

Or enough in his stomach to throw up....

Actually, he was damned hungry. Or was that thirsty?

An ice-cold beer would go down well right about now. With a large handful of headache pills. The pink ones preferably. They took away the pain and made him sleep.

Yeah, he could do with stretching out for a bit. Only he couldn't. Why couldn't he move? His toes curled when he told them to, so why—?

He needed coffee. That's what it was.

Gareth had made a habit of keeping him in food and caffeine. So where was the man when he was needed? Hadn't he gotten the message Jack had taken such pains over? The grin felt strange on Jack's face. Almost painful. The room grew dim and distant. But he could just imagine Gareth's face trying to decipher that chant....

THE LIGHT was different the next time he noticed. It was a sluggish gray instead of the yellow he remembered. There was more of it, too, seeping around the edge of the door that had been left just slightly ajar. It was blessedly silent, and for a long moment, Jack sat still and breathed.

He had a confused memory of waking to trance music and yellow light, to a splitting headache, queasy stomach, and thoughts of Gareth. Whether that had been reality or dreamscape he had no way to decide. The headache and all the jumbled memories suggested a concussion, but if he'd really been out for hours he had no time to waste on speculation. He was awake. He was aware. It was time he got out of this place before he took another hit to the head.

The damp chill in the room raised goose bumps all over his bare torso.

The bricks felt like shards of ice under his feet.

The discomfort kept him alert and Jack welcomed it. As much as he appreciated that the headache had dwindled to a dull throb at the back of his head and the nausea was gone.

He wriggled his hips and bright hot pain flashed across his shoulders and upper back. He'd been so busy taking stock that he'd almost forgotten that this time they had tied his hands behind his back. Alarm shot through him when that fact registered, hot and quick, and he breathed past the sudden panic. This wasn't like... those times. He had plenty of space to move, his feet were free, and he could hear anyone coming down the corridor. This... was different. Jack took a deep breath and focused. He twisted his wrists and stretched his fingers until the tips brushed smooth cord. Then he noticed something else: the cords wrapped around his wrists.

Only his wrists.

What were these guys on? They went around toting guns—and hadn't that been a bit of a surprise?—so he could hardly be the first person they'd ever tied up, right? If Gareth found out he'd let himself be caught by a bunch of amateurs, he'd never hear the end of it. Unless... unless it was deliberate. A ploy. If so, what game were they playing? And could he make use of it?

"He was stirring when I checked on him ten minutes ago, sir," a voice floated through the open door. "He should be awake now."

Jack settled back squarely on his chair and schooled his face. His focus narrowed to his task. Here was his chance to gather intel. Getting out of his shackles would have to wait.

THE CHUG-CHUG of the Range Rover's engine was too loud in the quiet darkness, too close on the heels of Khandi's Jeep. Gareth took the last two miles slower, intent on widening the gap between the two cars and making their approach sound harmless in the sleeping neighborhood. The center of the town might still play host to the late-night pub and club crowd, but out here not just the birds had gone to sleep. Even the traffic sounds from the nearby roads had dwindled to the occasional vehicle. Gareth parked his Range Rover a ways down the lane and took a moment to breathe, to savor the brief respite.

Everyone had suddenly wanted a piece of the action, and getting away from the Strand had taken far too long for his liking. Worried about Jack, furious with Alex, and trying to keep both emotions hidden so as not to alarm Nico and Daniel any further, he'd felt as if there'd been steam coming out of his ears by the time he'd managed to line everything up.

Now Lisa had units guarding Steph and was standing by to help if help was needed. Aidan kept eyes on Mason while Alex was scrambling backup to meet them at the house as soon as they called for it. Frazer monitored phones and the location of Jack's bike. And Nico, still weak after the recent surgery, had eventually fallen asleep on the sofa in Gareth's office, thereby keeping Daniel occupied and sparing Gareth and Skylar the expected argument about the two of them coming along.

"We're here. All quiet," he said into his headset before he got out of his car and joined Khandi and Mel in theirs.

"Nice corner of Surrey, this," Khandi commented as Gareth settled himself in the passenger seat. "You're never far away from a good golf course."

"You play golf?" Gareth knew little beyond Khandi's name and the fact that he was Mel's handler and had at times looked out for Jack. He came across as competent and levelheaded, and Gareth appreciated that. He would have struggled to work with an officious oaf like Tom Gatting. "You play golf?" he asked again.

"No," Mel cut in from where she was stretched out on the backseat. "He plays spook. Golf is his main occupation. He just doesn't get paid for it."

"Golf courses are great for picking up useful information," Khandi defended his choice of hobby.

"You must have interesting golfing partners if they discuss terrorism, drugs, and whatever else it is you do during a game."

"Mostly organized crime, which is why Alex called us in." Khandi shrugged. "And I golf with a lot of bankers. Organized crime is usually about money and moving it around."

"Alex mentioned that. Do you really think there's a link between Jack's kidnapping and organized crime?"

"Jack was the one who found the link when he was trying to work out what Mason—was it Mason?—was doing."

"Mason owes money."

"Yeah. And Donovan Nancarrow is cozy with the shark. Or in hock to him, of course. I get it. But not every loan shark is a mob boss. In my experience, most loan sharks tend not to tangle with the agency. So that whole rigmarole with the encryption key makes no sense unless there's another player."

"Is that why she gagged Jack? Because it made no sense?" Mel asked the question that was foremost on Gareth's mind. "Because gagging Jack was a stupid move. And Alex isn't stupid."

"She didn't explain herself," Khandi admitted. "She didn't tell me exactly what Jack said, either."

And wasn't that annoying. Gareth understood the principles of need to know. Of course he did. He also knew, better than many perhaps, that a lack of intel got people killed.

"We'd best get ourselves situated," he said, striving for calm. "Did you see Wilco's car as you drove up?"

"Yep. Car's parked up by the building site at the end of the lane. No idea where the two of them are hiding out."

A shadow outside Mel's window answered that question.

"Five or six hostiles. They're keeping to the downstairs rooms and the curtains are drawn," Wilco said as soon as he'd introduced himself. "Red Vauxhall turned up just before you did. One guy in a suit and two minders."

"Did you get pictures?"

"Only on my phone. Wasn't planning on a surveillance job when I left home this morning."

"It's fine." Khandi pulled up his phone and held the screen so Wilco could see it. "Send them to that number, if you would?"

The man complied and Gareth sent him and his partner to keep an eye on the top end of the lane.

"I'll do a loop and then find a perch," Mel decided. She was dressed in dark colors, wore a headset that matched Gareth's, and had a pair of night vision goggles hanging around her neck. "If you're going in, leave some for me?"

"Promise."

She disappeared silently, and Gareth got ready to make his own circuit of the place. Jack was inside that house. Guarded by men with guns. Alex, Aidan, and Frazer were working on the why. He, Khandi, and Mel just had to find a way to get inside and get Jack out.

BRICK FLOORS carried sounds and rough stone walls were made to channel echoes. Jack guessed at six pairs of feet coming toward his room and was pleased to find that he'd not been too far off. Five men walked in: two in black overalls, two in jeans and leather jackets, and one in a beige suit ugly enough for a charity shop to turn down.

"You're awake," the suit greeted with a surprisingly pleasant smile. "Good. I'm here for the key."

Jack gave him his best blank look. "What?"

"The key," the suit pronounced carefully, as if Jack was hard of hearing. Or totally dumb. "I want the key."

"Have you checked my jacket pockets?"

The suit loomed over him, smile wilting around the edges. "Don't get smart with me, Horwood. I don't care about your house keys, your bike keys, or whatever else there is on that bunch we found. I want the USB key you took from Mason's kitchen yesterday morning."

Okay, this was better. "Oh, that key," he said. "It wasn't his. It's not yours either."

"And possession is nine-tenths of the law. Hand it over."

"You've searched me. You've taken my clothes. The fact that you haven't found it should tell you something."

He had no way to duck out of the way of the blow. It stung his cheek, but that was all. Daniel was hitting harder despite his aversion to hurt anyone. Really, what was the matter with those guys? Something wasn't adding up. Unless... unless they were waiting....

"Key. Now," the suit demanded as if a single, limp-wristed slap was all it would take to change Jack's mind.

Jack didn't move.

The suit stepped closer. Jack snapped at the hand near his face, catching skin and starched cuffs between his teeth, and bit down. Hard. The suit yelled, fabric tore, and Jack earned a properly motivated backhand to his jaw this time. One that made him see stars as his head rocked back. He didn't mind so much, though. For while it looked as if he was checking if his jaw was broken and his teeth still fit, he was carefully hiding the button he'd torn off the shirt cuff under his tongue. The other button had rolled into a corner and Jack resolved to retrieve it later that night. Buttons were useful things to have around. Especially metal ones.

Jack didn't think his teeth had left more than a scratch. Nothing serious enough for the man in the beige suit to carry on as if he'd been shot, that was for certain.

The whole mess was starting to grate on Jack's nerves. Fuckwit, he fumed silently. Wearing fancy shirts while doing dirty work. I wish I had rabies. That would make your fucking day.

While Jack had been in a few strange situations in the past, this one took the cake. He was cuffed, but not tied to his chair. His feet were free, too, and he was surrounded by five men who seemed strangely reluctant to make him hand over what they wanted. What the fuck were they waiting for?

"We were trying to do this the easy way," the suit enlightened him, and Jack wanted to groan at the cliché. "But since you don't seem to appreciate our efforts...."

The next moment Jack had a fist in his hair and a knife at his throat.

"Let's play our version of Russian roulette."

WHEN THE estate agent's brochure had caught his eye, Gareth had looked forward to viewing the house on Kingston Hill like a potential buyer: listening to traffic, checking for sun and shade, wondering where to put the sofa, and what to grow in the vegetable patch.

He had never expected to see the house at three in the morning while he lay facedown in the dirt, the turrets Jack had joked about outlined in the green glow from his night vision goggles. He'd not thought to see it with a soldier's eyes, judging approaches, angles, and fields of fire as if he were planning an armed assault. But Jack was being held somewhere in the house Gareth had hoped they might share, and he pushed his attraction to bricks, mortar, and garden aside and focused on entry points, weak spots, and lines of sight.

"Don' do anythin' rash," a softly accented voice spoke in his headset.

"Rio? Rio Palmer?" Gareth had met Jack's charismatic mentor a handful of times over the last twelve months. The Jamaican lilt in the man's voice was hard to mistake for anyone else.

"Yep." The hacker sounded smug. "Alex called me and Ah'm hangin' with your kid Frazer. He's got some nice moves, yanno?"

"Jack says he's good."

"Jack'd never say tha'! This kid here, he's ace. Jack knows tha'. Listen, though, Ah mean' what Ah said. Don' do anythin' stupid. Stakes have jus' gone up. Word is that they've sold it on. To people you don' wan' to mess with."

"You expect reinforcements?"

"No' jus' yet. Ah imagine tha' the bullyboys didn' wanna damage Jack while they were waitin' to hear if there was any interest for the merch. Now they have a buyer, tha' may change. They have to deliver, yanno?"

"We should extract Jack ASAP. He can't give them what they want."

"He wouldn' give 'em crap even if he could," the Jamaican opined, perfectly sure. "If you can go in without Jack gettin' hurt, go for it. Otherwise, hang back. Jack's good at gettin' out of places."

Gareth had experienced Jack's escape skills firsthand. He didn't need reminding every few minutes.

Or maybe he did.

"Hey." Rio's lilt was soft all of a sudden and full of concern. "Jack's been through a lo' of shit, right? Whatever they throw at him doesn' even compare. Try and remember tha', yeah?"

It wasn't a comforting thought, but Rio knew what he was talking about. He'd been the man who'd offered an unstable, scared, prickly twelve-year-old Jack a home, no questions asked. Who'd taught him how to defend himself, how to use a computer, and how to use his skills where they could do the most good. He was also the man, if Jack was to be believed, who'd put his life into the hands of a teenage hacker. Jack had been the same age as Nico and Daniel the first time he'd backed up Rio on a mission. And from listening to the two share snippets over drinks, that one had been nasty from the start.

Gareth exhaled frustration and breathed in calm. "I hear you, Rio. We'll tread softly."

"We're righ' here. Your backup's standin' by at the bottom of the hill. Five minutes tops to get to you. We've thrown a net over the house. Anyone usin' a phone or computer, we'll know abou' it."

"Can you listen in?"

"Affirmative. And the momen' Jack gets his hands on anythin' electronic, we'll know."

"Thanks, Rio. Keep an eye on Frazer. He can get a little...."

"Don' you worry."

The line went dead and Gareth went back to scoping the outside of the house, the green glow like a distant reminder.

SAVED BY the bell.

How trite.

Jack kept his gaze on the hanks of expertly dyed hair on the floor around his bare feet while he listened to the slap of hurried footsteps disappearing down the passage. The worried babble of voices, triggered by a ringing phone, wasn't letting up. For a little while at least, his captors should be occupied.

Unlike the five men who had invaded the house and waited for Jack, the two who were minding the suit hadn't needed to wave guns to be dangerous. Their game of Russian roulette had been more about fear and humiliation than serious pain, but they knew how to hit and didn't mind doing it. In between wielding the knife and asking the same question until Jack grew sick of hearing it, they'd worked him over pretty thoroughly.

Though if he had to put money on it, he'd say they'd pulled some of their punches.

Yes, he hurt. Yes, there'd be bruises. But if they'd really wanted to make a mess of him, they could have done a much better job.

They hadn't. And that fact had kept Jack curious enough that he hadn't fought much. He'd waited and let himself be hit... and now he had his reward.

Skype call. Mr. Weinstein.

A name was a good start, even if Jack had no idea who the man was. The fact that there was a laptop or a slate in the house, a device that was being used to communicate with—conceivably—the suit's boss, was an opportunity Jack wasn't going to let go to waste.

After he got loose and knocked some heads together.

Or played some Russian roulette of his own. Maybe a version that wouldn't just involve fists and a knife.

He stretched as much as he was able, loosening his aching muscles, glad that he'd gotten through the last hour with nothing more severe than bruises, shallow cuts, and a ruined hairstyle. If the suit and his two minders had been serious about getting the encryption key, matters might have ended differently.

He slowly pushed up from the seat, moving his shoulders and elbows from side to side until he could pull his arms over the back of the chair. The chair legs scraped on the bricks and there was a distinct rattle when they settled back, but nobody came running to check.

Climbing backward through his linked arms until his wrists were in front of him rather than behind his back took three tries, a few grunts, and a curse or two. Sitting in one position for hours wasn't helping with keeping flexible.

Jack stepped behind the nail-studded door and slid down the wall. They'd taken his belt, but with his hands in front he had no problems undoing the top button of his 501s and reaching the inside seam of the waistband. A little picking freed one end of the sharpened wire he carried, and not long after, he was sawing through the cord on his wrists, one end of the wire under his knee, the other between his teeth.

Exactly as Gareth had taught him all those years ago.

The memory almost raised a smile. Rio had guided his early training. He'd taught him how to get in and out of places without getting caught, as well as basic knife skills. There'd been nothing basic about Rio teaching him any possible way under, over, around, and through a computer system, of course. Rio had a reputation as one of the very best in the trade and Jack had done his damnedest ever since to live up to that.

Gareth's training, once he'd joined up, had been a lot more straightforward: boxing and hand-to-hand combat, field craft, and active surveillance, evasion and escape, survival and self-sufficiency. Jack had soaked it up as he'd soaked up Rio's instructions. He'd loved life as a soldier, had basked in Gareth's attention... until the December day when it had all gone to shit.

And he really needed to stop obsessing over that or Gareth would kick his ass.

The rope fell apart. Jack unwound the pieces and stood. He had two choices. He could get out and find reinforcements. Which would entail finding a ride or at least a phone and then convincing Alex that his speculations were worth her while. Or he could go after the laptop that was already in the house. Use it to check in, then see if it could tell him how Mason's loan shark was connected to one of the largest crime syndicates in Europe. And how Donovan Nancarrow fit into that whole mess.

He'd caught a mere glimpse of the web when he'd followed payments from Mason's bank account. The moneylender's account was a gold mine for someone like him, who didn't bother with warrants and evidence trails. Without Jack having to dig much, the account had yielded two names he was familiar with. One of those names headed arrest warrants in a score of countries and had featured in Aidan's history lesson as the man who'd accepted a 12 percent stake in Nancarrow Mining from Vincent Nancarrow in part payment of a gambling debt. The other name could be found on ballot papers during a general election. Seeing both names in the same place was a mess waiting to happen, the sort of mess that Jack used to get paid to prevent. Or make disappear.

He was fairly sure that the men who had accosted him were the loan shark's. Nobody else had known that Mason had taken the encryption key from Julian Nancarrow's office. Unless half of Nancarrow Mining owed money to the same loan shark, only Lloyd Mason could have provided the information that Jack had an appointment to view an empty house.

So far, so peachy.

Jack slipped out of the windowless room and turned toward the source of the pale light. His bare feet slid over cold, slightly damp bricks. His fingers counted joins in the mortar while he squinted into the gloom and strained his ears to find out where the house's other occupants might be. He couldn't afford to be caught again. Not now when he finally had some control over the situation. He needed to get out or he needed to get his hands on the laptop. And he didn't have much time to make that choice.

It was feasible that the loan shark's men had treated him with kid gloves because they hadn't known that the key was a physical object. They'd been afraid to damage him, in case he needed to be made to talk. The suit and his two minders hadn't been as careful. They'd known that the key was a USB stick. They'd tried to intimidate and humiliate. But they'd still been far from forceful.

Which meant that there had to be another player in the mix. Someone tentative. A possibility rather than a certainty. A buyer, maybe?

Jack stopped by the back door and tried the handle, not surprised that the door was locked. He hadn't planned on using it. If this was a game for four players, then getting his hands on the laptop was more important than getting out. Knowing it was dawn was helpful, though, and maybe a spot of misdirection wouldn't go amiss.

Cracking two of the small glass panes that made up the upper half of the back door was the work of moments. Removing the glass without making too much noise and without cutting himself was trickier.

Bastards couldn't have left me a T-shirt, could they now?

With the raft of shallow cuts all over his torso, any T-shirt would have been reduced to a shredded rag. He knew that. And the rope he'd cut off his wrists did just as good a job when he wrapped it around his hands. He left the glass shards artfully arranged on the floor, and the door looking as if it had been used as an escape route, while he made his way back down the corridor the way he'd come.

He had a laptop to liberate.

# Chapter TWENTY

GARETH WANTED to pace. As usual when he felt that urge, he stood as if he'd been rooted to the spot, moving not a single muscle. The hillside came alive around him while he fought with himself. Birds called their early morning check-ins and the trees that served to hide them from sight released a shower of minute droplets onto his head as the breeze picked up. His fingers clenched around the mug of hot, sweet tea that Khandi had handed him, and he drank it slowly, counting each inhale, exhale, sip, and swallow. They'd explored the house and garden under cover of darkness, noting all entry and exit points. Now that it was growing light they had to keep their distance to ensure they were not seen. Khandi had brought his Jeep closer to the house. They'd spread a map out on the bonnet and Khandi looked entirely too comfortable, leaning on the car with a thermos flask at his elbow and a mug in his hand.

"You do that a lot, eh?"

"More often than I'd like." Khandi shrugged. "Usually it's raining, Mel is bitching in my ear, and the op is one enormous waste of time. Nice that I can leave all the ops crap to someone else for once."

"How can you not want to know what's going on?"

"I do know what's going on. Horwood's wreaking havoc inside that house. You and Mel are wreaking havoc out here, and Palmer is making sure nobody sneaks up on us. In a couple of hours, the cavalry will come flooding up the hill. We'll leave them to sweep up the mess while we head out to find breakfast before someone tortures us with paperwork. And then I'll take two days off to go and play golf like a civilized person."

"Right." Gareth took a final sip of his tea. "That doesn't quite tally with the stories I've heard," he said. "The ones about you yelling at Jack in a car park?"

"Did happen, admittedly. But I'm only inclined to do that if he sets fire to the house or lets my suspects escape."

The latter was unlikely. Melanie had found Jack's bike on the neighboring property, alongside the car the kidnappers must have used to drive up.

"They won't be using it to get away," she reported gleefully. "I've dug the plugs out."

She'd taken care of the saloon parked in the driveway in a similar fashion, and Gareth was glad that at least one of them was having fun. He hadn't gotten a look at any of the men inside when he'd made his rounds. All the lower-story windows had their blinds pulled down and the upstairs rooms lay deserted. Going in without knowing where exactly Jack was—

"Would they have taken his jewelry, do you think?"

"Jack doesn't wear jewelry."

"I suppose you've never seen him in the shower," Khandi said matter-of-factly. And Gareth almost spat his last mouthful of tea across the lawn.

"That's better," Khandi chuckled. "No need to claw the ceiling. Not what I was talking about, anyhow. Unless he's changed drastically since he started to work for you, he has wire in the seams of his trousers and knives in his boots."

"I know about the boots. Can't see that they'd have left him those."

"Heads up," a strident voice came through their headsets before Khandi could answer him. "Someone's turned on the light."

"Where?"

"East corner, second floor. Small room. Study or something."

Gareth raised his binoculars, but found he didn't have enough of an angle to see. "Can you see inside?"

"If I shoot a hole in the blinds...."

"Rookes."

"What? You asked a simple question. You got a simple answer."

Gareth rolled his eyes and Khandi chuckled. "You were the one who asked for help from above," he reminded him, then ordered: "Radio silence, Rookes."

"So you don't wanna know that I have eyes on Horwood?"

"What? Is he alive?"

"Since he just threw that guy into the wall, I'll go with yes."

"Have you got a shot?"

"Since when Imma gonna shoot Horwood?" Melanie complained. "He's one of ours. 'Sides, have you ever tried to shoot a whirling dervish?"

"Hostiles, Rookes. How many?"

"Moving? Six. Five. Oooh, nice move. Definitely five."

"Give him a hand if he needs one," Gareth ordered. "Don't kill anyone."

"Sure thing," Mel replied, and a moment later, the east corner window exploded in a shower of sparks. "Two down, four to go. And why the fuck isn't he wearing a shirt?"

"I'm with Mel," Gareth decided, pushing away from the Jeep. It didn't sound as if Jack needed help, but it wouldn't hurt for Gareth to be close enough to move in and lend a hand should that change.

"Rats. Sinking ship," Mel chimed in, just as Khandi's phone rang.

Gareth scanned the perimeter. A flash of movement made him turn to see a man in a beige suit slipping out of the door leading from the kitchen to the herb garden.

"That's a dick move, my friend," Mel advised.

"Don't kill him."

"Nah. I'll let him do it himself" came the sarcastic response, a bare second before a section of garden exploded with a muffled sound. By the time the soil was more or less back where it belonged, the beige suit was little more than a motionless blob in the early morning gloom.

"What the fuck?"

"I booby-trapped the garden," Mel replied brightly. "You didn't say you minded."

"Rookes. Destruction of civilian property. Collateral damage. Noncombatant bystanders. Those ring a bell?"

"Yeah. But they laid hands on Horwood."

"He's online! He's alive!" Frazer's voice burst Gareth's eardrums before the conversation with Melanie could get any weirder.

"Indoor voice, Frazer. I'm not deaf.

"Sorry, boss. He just called to say he's fine. And he's found a laptop. I thought you'd want to know," the Scot apologized and Gareth could hear Daniel and Aidan in the background, yelling incomprehensible things.

"Let 'em have their party." Rio's voice cut through the babble. "You're gettin' company. There's a mobile outside the house, callin' for reinforcements."

"I thought you're blocking all calls."

"Ahm, too... which is how Ah know this. He's no' gettin' through, but he doesn' know tha' and he's yellin' at someone to hurry it up as if there's a rendezvous planned. Frazer's keepin' an eye on the roads."

"Warn Jack."

"Already done."

"And get a crew up here. Neither Khandi nor I are driving a bus, and there are half a dozen goons need rounding up."

"Ah told you your backup's in place. Jus' keepin' out of the way for the minute. We wan' as many of the buggers as we can lay hands on, yanno?"

"Take a gander at this." Mel cut into the conversation. "That your reinforcements, Palmer? Roundabout at the bottom of the hill."

Gareth raised the binoculars in the indicated direction until he spotted a maroon car exiting the roundabout. Though calling the thing a car was a clear case of false advertising. The vehicle might have started life as an SUV at some point in the distant past. Then someone had put it on steroids, had added a lift kit and ridiculously oversized tires until the cabin balanced on the hefty wheels as precariously as a wasp on a wheel of cheese. And if that wasn't enough, the glowing purple wheel rings were visible even through the undergrowth. "What's that supposed to be?"

"No idea. Maybe Horwood was looking so scary they called for a tank."

"Got something to stop 'em with?"

"Sure. I didn't stick all of it in the lawn. Try the pocket in the passenger side door."

Gareth retrieved the small gray brick and a string of wire. "Eh, why kill 'em with kindness when you brought C-4?"

"That's the spirit, Flynn. Now hurry the fuck up. They're not hanging about."

Khandi was right beside him as they raced through the trees, not bothering with stealth and concealment. The finest veil of thin gray mist hung between the trees and dabbed leaves and grasses with a hint of moisture. Pale gray light, growing brighter by the minute, made it easy for both of them to keep their footing. The chug-chug of a diesel engine drifted up the hill as they slid down the bank and skidded on the gravel on the top of the driveway.

"You'll have a landscaping job on your hands if you decide to buy this place," Khandi said as he helped Gareth string wire across the drive. "How much plastic did she leave you?"

"Enough to turn the Tonka toy on its roof," Gareth grunted, connecting wires to fuses. Khandi's comment had reminded him why Jack had come here in the first place. Without all the drama they would have spent the previous night at home discussing Jack's impression of the house. They might even have been on the phone with Steph to arrange a longer, more detailed viewing for all four of them.

Now?

Seeing their prospective new home through the green glow of night vision goggles and the business end of a scope had skewed his perceptions. He knew the building's defensible points as he knew its weak spots. He couldn't have said whether or not he wanted to live here.

They finished setting their trap and hurried into the shelter of the garage and the shadow of the garden wall.

"You know he's got it covered," Khandi said simply. He didn't seem at all surprised when Gareth pointed first at Khandi and then toward the far side of the herb garden and the unmoving clump of beige suit, nor when he then pointed at himself and the open back door into the kitchen. He just nodded and slipped through the archway in the wall.

"Khandi's grabbing the guy on the lawn. I'm gonna go drag Jack out of the house. Can you keep the Tonka toy pinned down?"

"Go right ahead. And find a shirt for Horwood. All that tan is blinding me."

Gareth didn't even have the patience to laugh. He heard engine noise approaching as he ran down the driveway to the gap in the wall that led to the back door.

"Don't step on the grass," Mel reminded him as he ducked around the side of the house, where glass, gravel, and garden soil covered the paving slabs. The mixture crunched under his boots all the way to the kitchen door. He ignored it just as he ignored Mel's instructions guiding Khandi around the traps on the lawn. The door to the kitchen stood wide and Gareth slipped through and raced for the stairs. The spacious kitchen had been the house's prime attraction for him. Now, focused on finding Jack, he spared it hardly a glance.

Light spilled down the hallway and muffled sounds drifted from open doorways like soundtracks from some weird TV show. At the bottom of the staircase he found two men in jeans and leather jackets. Unconscious.

They might be out for a while. Or they could wake in the next two minutes. Gareth wasn't willing to take chances. He pulled zip ties from his pocket and secured the two.

"Jack!"

Gareth took the stairs two at a time. His soft call got lost in the screech and tear of abused metal, the high whining scream of an engine pushed to its limits, and the sounds of a heavy object hitting the drive.

A knife sang past him as he approached the last door on the landing, the blade embedding itself in the far plaster wall.

"Jack!"

"Don't fucking sneak up on me!"

The irate voice was definitely Jack's, and Gareth took a single moment to breathe, to soak up the knowledge that Jack was alive. It had been a while since he'd needed to do head counts, but the wave of relief that came from knowing those under his care were safe was as strong as it had always been.

"Not my fault if you're not paying attention." Gareth leaned around the doorframe. The room was narrow and bare except for a battered desk, an empty bookcase, and a lot of broken glass. The blind that had covered the window lay in tatters among the glass, all its cords ripped out. Four men in black overalls and dark T-shirts were propped against the wall beside the door. In various states of dazed and unconscious, they were bound hand and foot with the cords from the blind. A heap of mobile phones formed a disorderly pile on one corner of the desk where Jack was bent over a laptop. He was shirtless, bruised and bleeding, but his fingers were busily tapping away at the keys and he barely looked up to acknowledge Gareth's presence.

As reunions went, theirs was anticlimactic.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"'Cause Alex got first dibs on my balls?"

"What?"

"Don't pretend you wouldn't have tried to rip me a new one if I'd called and compromised your position while you were scoping the place out," Jack snapped. "I called Frazer... both times... because I had the best chance of catching him in an office."

"You knew I'd be here."

Jack turned toward him then, and Gareth bit his tongue at the sight of vivid bruises and bleeding cuts. "All superficial," Jack placated, correctly interpreting the look. "Of course you'd be here. Provided Steph had made it to you, there was no chance you'd not work it out." He threw a look over Gareth's shoulder, out into the garden. "Thanks for taking care of the reinforcements," he said. "I had to let the suit go to nail down these four. And their fancy truck was too far out of Wi-Fi range for me to stop them."

"We've got the suit."

"Excellent. I would have hated losing him. Just about as much as I'd have hated losing all this."

"This?"

"A stack of proof we'll need to lock up a few interesting people, including Donovan Nancarrow. Not likely, I know...."

"Why not?"

"Julian. Politics. But it's good stuff regardless." Jack suddenly stiffened and frowned. "Is Gatting out there with you or just Khandi and Mel?"

"How did you—"

"Answer the question."

"Just Khandi and Mel."

"Good. I don't mind him and Mel getting the credit. But I'd be pig sick if Gatting got decorated off the back of this."

"Explain."

"Can't," Jack replied briskly even as his fingers made the field sign for later. He turned back to the laptop and resumed his typing.

"How did you know Khandi was here?"

"Because Mel is."

"How?"

"Windows don't disintegrate on their own. Nor can I think of many people who drag a brick of C-4 around. Did she blow up the entire garden?"

"Just the herb patch," Gareth said, stepping closer. "Actually, it was the suit who did that. Walked right into it."

"Serves him right," Jack replied, not looking up from what he was doing on the laptop. "Full of stupid questions that one, and not smart enough to clear his call records or history files properly. Some of the names here... yeah, I can see Rio and Khandi drooling already. They'll love me forever for finding this.... And that lot there—" He waved fingers at the four trussed-up men in the corner. "—belong to the loan shark. They didn't have a clue what they were in for. Is Steph all right?"

"Yes. She came straight to me and raised the alarm." Gareth stood close enough to see Jack's fingers tremble as they moved over the keyboard. Cold, adrenaline, or shock, Gareth couldn't tell. "Status?" he asked.

"Functional," Jack replied promptly. "Let me copy all this stuff to Rio just in case the suit's smarter than I think he is. It was Mason who shopped me, right?"

"Yes. Someone sent him a photo. You must have been seen leaving his place."

Jack looked up for a moment. He waved a hand at the four trussed men in the corner. "Met three of them in the hallway on Mason's floor. They must have been headed in to—"

He broke off, but Gareth simply nodded. "Alex explained about the key."

"Yeah. She's gonna chew my balls off when I get back." Jack rubbed a hand over his hair. Hair that stood up in all directions. Hair that was... messier. And shorter. "But she's right. I couldn't have screwed this up any better had I made an effort."

"How?"

"I should have dropped the key off at the Strand before I came out here," he explained. "But I was miffed about her sending me in alone when I really could have done with someone else alongside, and I was running late...."

"And you didn't want to disappoint me."

"That too."

Jack's voice was quiet, contemplative almost. Gareth wondered if they'd ever catch a break. "We need to send you on a course," he decided.

"What?"

"You're exceptionally shitty at saying no, you know that? Doesn't even matter if someone asks or not."

Jack typed one last comment into an open chat window and then shut the laptop down. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked as he turned, the now silent brick of electronics cradled against his chest.

"Remember the exercise where we were ordered to rendezvous in a graveyard in Croydon and you turned up two hours late because you'd stopped at the scene of an accident to help?"

"No?"

"Really? You don't? You told the brass during debrief that if they considered completion of a training exercise more important than saving a life, then you'd made the wrong career choice."

Jack scrubbed a hand across his face, up through his hair, and ended massaging his neck. He clearly had a headache and Gareth ached to reach out and help him ease it. But Jack was also under a full head of steam. And when he was that furious, he hated to be touched. So Gareth stood near enough that he could count Jack's lashes and judge the severity of the knife slashes that covered his skin, and stopped himself from moving closer.

"No wonder you think I'm a lost cause. Clearly haven't learned a fucking thing," Jack ground out.

"Why are you pissed?"

"You really didn't trust me, did you? To get myself out of shit I'd gotten myself into."

"That's not it at all," Gareth disagreed. "Alex invoked the OSA. I wouldn't expect you to ever take that lightly. She sent you into this mess without backup and without enough time for adequate preparation. I was merely evening the odds she'd skewed." He believed every word he said, and as he watched Jack breathe, he caught the moment when Jack accepted that, when he let go of his fury and softened his stance. "And another thing"—he slid his palm over Jack's bare shoulder to his nape and felt the chill of his skin—"whether you'd dropped off the key at the Strand before coming to see the house or not, that sorry bunch there would still have been here waiting for you. They'd have taken Steph hostage regardless. And I can't see you leaving Steph in danger. It's not the way you're built." He let his fingers rub slow circles over Jack's nape, relieved when Jack leaned into the touch with a soft sigh. "Me being here? That has less to do with trust and more to do with the fact that I love you. When you love someone you go help when they're in trouble. Regardless."

Gareth hadn't meant to blurt it out so bluntly, but all of a sudden, the words had been there and needed to be said.

Jack didn't even flinch. His lashes rose and his green eyes pinned Gareth with a direct stare. "Regardless of what?"

"Regardless of whether they can get out of the mess by themselves or not. It's just the way it works."

"Is it, now?"

"You bet."

# Chapter TWENTY-ONE

AIDAN, NICO, and Daniel caught up with them in the hospital car park. Jack, now in a long-sleeved top he'd borrowed from Gareth, didn't flinch or protest when Nico and Daniel threw themselves at him, wrapping him in a hug so tight it threatened to suffocate him. He simply hugged back in wordless reassurance.

The two boys didn't say much, but they didn't move from Jack's side while he was being checked over and patched up. They even managed to follow him into the X-ray suite and sit in a corner while the radiographer took image after image. Jack didn't mind. He was sore as hell, but he felt oddly smug when he was told that he had a mild concussion, a bevy of scrapes and shallow cuts, plenty of bruises, but no broken bones.

"I told you they were pulling their punches," he apprised Aidan when he stepped back into the consulting room where Aidan and Gareth sat with the doctor.

"Won't get them out of trouble," Aidan pointed out. "Not that, and not the fact that they were careful with their knives. They know it too." Khandi and the backup team Alex had sent had rounded up the seven men. They wouldn't breathe fresh air for quite some time. The knowledge didn't stop Aidan from wondering whether Jack ought to bring charges for assault.

Jack couldn't care less what happened to the seven. "I'm more interested in stopping Mason rifling through Julian's safe," he said. "But even that will keep until tomorrow. Preferably after food, sleep, and a handful of headache pills." He was losing the comforting rush of adrenaline to the point where every muscle hurt and exhaustion blurred his vision. He'd showered and changed. He'd been x-rayed and had every single one of his cuts checked and cleaned. They'd even almost given him another tetanus shot before he could convince them that he'd just had one. All he wanted now was a bucket of fried chicken, a mountain of greasy chips, and a beer. Sleep would not be a problem afterward.

Gareth and Aidan didn't argue, though fried chicken was a little hard to come by at breakfast time. Jack shrugged and declared that the golden arches would do. Nico and Daniel scoffed doughnuts and pilfered Jack's fries, Gareth and Aidan stuck to coffee, and Jack had enough food on his tray to feed three of his size.

Nobody was surprised when he didn't say much while he ate. Or when he passed out in the back of the car on the way home with Nico and Daniel watching over him.

"LOVED THE way you came up those stairs," Jack murmured as he ran his fingers up Gareth's chest. He had slept all day and woken in time for dinner well rested, hungry, and blissfully free from headaches. He moved carefully, and his array of bruises was starting to look as spectacular as Nico's, but he'd declared the discomfort minor and easily treated with good food and a couple of cold beers. After dinner he'd Skyped with Nico and Daniel, assuring them that he was fine and he would see them the next day, and then settled beside Gareth on the couch. "You looked damned hot in all that gear."

"Since when do you get off on uniforms?"

"I don't. What turns me on is Mr. Don't-Fight-Angry looking truly evil. Actually—" He raised his head and squinted a little. "—you'd have looked even hotter without all that gear. And made a bigger impression."

Gareth swallowed hard, knowing that the teasing words were Jack's way of hiding his disappointment. Jack still worried that Gareth hadn't trusted Jack to get himself out of the mess he'd slithered into. Jack, who looked too young and too vulnerable with his dark spikes roughly shorn.

"God, I wanna kill the bastards who did this," Gareth growled and pulled Jack close, holding him as if he never wanted to let go again.

"Too late." Despite the residual exhaustion, despite the bruises and cuts and missing hair, Jack sounded content and relaxed. That lazy laugh Gareth adored was in his voice and on his face as he hugged back. "I did the honors myself."

Jack hadn't actually killed any of his attackers. Well aware that witnesses were more valuable alive, he'd taken care to incapacitate only. Khandi had been ecstatic when he found out. Or as ecstatic as Mel's stoic handler ever got.

"You never need my help, do you?"

"Remember who trained me to be that way? 'Survival is an art. An art based on self-sufficiency. Always act as if you are without external aids and unable to get help,'" Jack quoted Flynn.

Gareth dropped his head back against the couch cushion and groaned in defeat. Damned brat even had the inflection right, drat him. Gareth couldn't argue with him. He'd drilled that mantra into everyone who'd ever served with him. It was just that none of those men took matters to the extreme the way Jack did. Never having had the civilizing influence of a loving family had left its marks.

When would he stop forgetting that Jack never reacted the way anyone expected him to?

"You're driving me crazy. I love you, Jack, and all I wanna do is make sure you're safe, show you that life can be a little more fun than you're used to. But every time I try, you push me away. Or you run."

"I know." Jack's voice was soft and he draped himself over Gareth's broad frame and pillowed his head on Gareth's chest. "I'm screwed up that way. Things get too close, I simply react. I need to be at a safe distance to think." He slid a hand up to cup Gareth's cheek. "But by then, it's often too late."

"It's never too late when it's me. I hope you know that."

"I do know that," Jack conceded. "It's just... how many times can I put you through it and not have you give up on us? How many times can you watch me screw up?"

Gareth swallowed around a lump in his throat. Jack was entirely too serious. "As many times as it takes, brat," he said quietly, conviction in his voice. "Provided I hold your leash. And it's bungee cord."

He earned a huff for his efforts and a slap to his bicep, but other than that, Jack didn't move. His breathing was even, and if Gareth hadn't known better, he might have thought that Jack had drifted off to sleep. But nothing was further from the truth. The gears were spinning madly in Jack's head, and there was no way of predicting what the results would be.

"Just for the record," Gareth continued after a moment, "in all the years I've known you, I've only seen you screw up one single time."

"When I almost got you killed."

The bitterness and self-loathing in Jack's voice were so thick that Gareth's answer was sharper than he wanted it to be. "I really wish you'd stop thinking that. You were finishing a task we'd been sent to complete, and even if you'd done that a few seconds faster, I would not have been out of the sniper's range. Neither would you. The important point is that once I was hit, you did everything you could to save my life. Including risking your own. That's no screwup, that's something that earns you a medal."

"So when did I screw up?"

There was a new tone in Jack's voice, almost curiosity, and hope flickered deep in Gareth's mind. He wondered how best to phrase his reply and decided to be blunt. Jack would hear it if he tried whitewash. "When you thought you were a liability and left the Army." Gareth rubbed Jack's back, offering comfort and reassurance. He waited for the snap, the snide remark, the defensiveness. But there was nothing. Just Jack in his arms and a soft breath on his neck.

"I was a scared kid," Jack said after a long time. "I had no idea how to deal with having a home, a family, a...." He sighed and all the fight went out of his frame. He melted against Gareth, soft and pliant. "You getting shot... I suddenly had an excuse, you know. To cut my ties, to run. I should have known it wouldn't work."

"God, Jack, I love you."

The chuckle was unexpected, bright in the soft semidarkness. "I like hearing you say that. It's nice to know."

"Is there a reason you can't say it back?" Gareth was fishing. He'd be the first to admit that. But he had seen Jack's face when he told him, back in that tiny bare study, and he could have sworn the sentiment was there. Right there. He thought it might be his stupidest move yet, but he just couldn't let it go. "Maybe... it's not the same for you?"

Jack shot upright as if stung, then grimaced when his bruised muscles protested. "I told you," he ground out. "I told you the first morning I woke up with you. I fell in love with you when I was seventeen, Gareth, when I hadn't the first clue what it was I was feeling. That has never gone away and it has never changed."

Gareth stared back at him, struck speechless for a moment. "And you've waited all these months to hear me say it," he whispered.

Jack's anger disappeared as quickly as it had blown up. "Not at all. After all those years, and you suddenly turning up when and where I least expected it... it was something I needed to say."

"But not hear?"

"I heard you just fine. Words are.... You've had my back ever since, whether I wanted you to or not. I heard you."

"When... when did you feel it was a done deal? Between us, I mean?"

Jack didn't even need to think about it. "Christmas. When you made me realize that I'd already begun making my own family. That I just hadn't seen it for what it was."

Speechless didn't cover it. Gobsmacked was closer to the mark. Gareth realized he hadn't listened. Not then and not later. Not even after he'd told himself to look to Jack's actions. If he felt like a pathetic oaf right then, it was no more than he deserved.

THE NEXT morning didn't bring clarity, but it brought sunshine. A cheerful brightness that highlighted Jack's bruises and, more obviously, the haphazard barber job that had turned Jack's smart hairstyle into a mockery. Jack frowned at his reflection, shoving the remaining hair this way and that.

"You want me to call Skylar?"

"No need," Jack decided. "It's too uneven to do anything with. Do you have clippers? I think I'm just gonna buzz it all off. Skylar can try his hand again when it's grown back."

In the end, Gareth was the one who took the clippers to Jack's hair. A half-inch cut smoothed over the devastation, and the resulting look was pretty amazing. Jack's green eyes seemed larger and the contours of his face sharper. For maybe the first time ever, the tattoo on Jack's temple stood out like a statement, rather than the subtle tease it usually was.

"Wow. That is one sexy look."

"Convict does it for you? Really?"

"You don't look like a convict."

"Hooligan?"

"Noooo." Gareth propped his chin on Jack's shoulder and contemplated the image in the mirror. His arms around Jack's waist held him in place, though he was careful not to brush over the cuts. "More like, I dunno, essence of Jack. What you're left with if you strip all the protective layers and disguises, all the armor and bullshit you surround yourself with and hide behind."

"That sap isn't contagious, is it?"

Gareth ignored the insult. He tightened his arms and turned his head so his lips just grazed Jack's ear. "There's just one thing missing."

"Which is?"

Gareth's finger drew a line along Jack's throat. "A well-worn strip of embossed leather," he whispered. "You haven't worn it in ages. Even before you went undercover."

Jack briefly lifted the shoulder Gareth wasn't leaning on. "I don't need it anymore," he explained.

"I don't understand."

"You're here. Close enough to touch most of the time. Or at the end of a phone when you're not. That's all the reminder I need."

"That's what that was... a reminder?"

Mischievous sparkles danced through Jack's green eyes. "What did you think it was? A sign of my abject submission?" he asked just as Gareth blurted out:

"A leash."

"Seriously, Flynn, get help. Of the professional variety." He turned his back on the mirror and wrapped his arms around Gareth's neck. "And didn't we agree last night that the leash was bungee cord?"

"Yeah, we did." Gareth wanted nothing more than to drag Jack right back to bed, but their to-do list this morning was a full one. And right at the top of that list was Lloyd Mason.

"What about Alex?" Gareth wanted to know as Jack stuffed a laptop and two tablets into his backpack, almost ready to leave.

"What about her?"

"I remember you once telling me you liked her."

"I do like her."

"But?"

"I was starting to trust her to have my back. Like you and Aidan and even Julian have my back. That's not her fault, mind you. It's mine."

"Trust isn't a bad thing."

"It is when it gets you screwed over. And when I really should have known better."

Gareth didn't try to change Jack's mind. He probably wouldn't do so later either. "So does that mean we're back to keeping secrets?"

"No. It means that next time someone waves the OSA in my face, I'll run a mile."

"That's something I'd like to see."

"Maybe one day you will."

IT SHOULD have looked ridiculous: Jack in black jeans, turtleneck, and leather jacket, a little battered around the edges and with his hair buzzed off, flanked by Aidan and Gareth both in impeccably tailored pinstripes.

It looked badass.

Jack caught sight of their reflections in the elevator's mirrored side and whistled, a broad grin stretching his mouth. "I look like something out of The Godfather. How did that happen?"

"You're clearly naturally stylish," Aidan quipped, straightening his cuff links while Jack scoffed at the pronouncement. "I thought Flynn and I were going to look as if we're escorting you to court."

"Or jail."

"Well, we will be going that way later. We'd better look the part."

The elevator came to a halt on their floor and Jack quickly hit the button that stopped the doors from opening. He'd done a lot of crazy stuff in his time, but he'd never officially arrested anyone. He wasn't going to do it today either, however much fun it was to imagine shoving Mason's stupid face into his blotter while adorning his wrists with cuffs.

"You brought a warrant?" he queried.

"What?" Aidan smirked. "Are you getting cold feet about your data?"

"In your dreams. Mason, Donovan Nancarrow, thefts from Julian's office... that's a solid chain of evidence. With video. I have no problems submitting that anywhere. And I brought handcuffs. But I'm not gonna show up two company directors in front of the whole department, now, am I? And I don't have the jurisdiction. So one of you'll have to do the honors."

"Technically speaking, none of us has jurisdiction," Aidan pointed out. "And it would look more symmetrical if you did it."

Jack shook his head. "Not happening. I'll go commune with Frazer and leave you to have fun."

Aidan held him back before he could leave. "Explain."

Jack shrugged. "I have no real idea what Mason has against me," he said, "only Frazer tells me that, before I called him about a job, Mason had wanted to move into network security. No clue if that's all there is to it. No clue if there's anything else. But I don't feel like escalating matters. Not after being away for three months and coming back only to wreak havoc. Some of the others might get the idea that's all I'm good for... walking in and making their lives hell. Besides, I need to go and let Alex rip a few strips off me."

"She won't."

"She has reason," Jack reminded him.

"She won't," Aidan repeated.

Jack didn't argue. "If you say so."

THE HUM of traffic in the distance didn't mar the peace of the neighborhood. The house Gareth had taken a liking to after seeing a sales brochure, the house that Jack still thought of as a film set for The Addams Family, drowsed in the late midday sunshine. Traffic in the area would be thin, and cyclical at best, restricted to morning and evening rush hour and school run times. It was an ideal area to bring up a family. Or teach someone to drive.

Delivering Mason and the evidence detailing his thefts to the relevant authorities had left Gareth angry and out of sorts. Jack had fared better during his long and strangely mutually apologetic discussion with Alex, but the look on Gareth's face when he'd returned to his desk had made him reach for his phone. Half an hour later, he'd dragged Gareth out of the office, into the car, and down to the river for a lazy lunch at the Boat House.

Now he stood where he'd been standing two days earlier. The sleepy atmosphere was the same, as was the muted hum of traffic. This time, he wasn't frazzled because he was late. There was no encryption key burning a hole in his pocket and tainting his interest in viewing a house. Steph wasn't waiting to flash urgent signs in his face.

Gareth was standing beside him instead, and the wide-eyed astonished look on his face tickled Jack pink.

There was good reason for the look. Gareth had only really seen the property's particulars. Glossy photographs that showed the house and garden to its best advantage. After that, there'd been the green glow of night vision goggles, and then the previous dawn's low light had hidden most of the house and much of what had happened in and around it.

The herb garden was a ruin. Mel's booby trap had left an impressive crater in the corner farthest away from the house. An old buddleia bush, heavy with panicles, had been a casualty of the suit's attempted escape. The buddleia's long, whippy branches, tipped by bright purple flower heads, scattered across the ruined lawn like a funerary arrangement.

The front lawn, where the Tonka toy SUV had ended up on its roof, didn't look fit to grow dandelion, and a number of windows besides the small study and the back door Jack had sabotaged were lacking the glass in their frames.

Jack didn't care.

Despite the fresh damage and the abysmal paint job, the house looked pretty inviting with Gareth standing in front of it. So inviting that he made up his mind on the spot.

"So... do you fancy buying this place and doing it up?"

# More from Jackie Keswick

The Power of Zero: Book One

You don't greet your new boss dressed like an underage rent boy. But when Jack Horwood—ace hacker and ex-MI6 operative—opens the door to Gareth Flynn, he's too busy to worry over details like that. And anyway, his potential new boss is his former commanding officer – the same guy Jack has had a crush on since he was seventeen. So he should understand, right?

When he applied for the job in Nancarrow Mining's corporate security division, Jack had hoped for peaceful days repelling cyber attacks. Maybe a bit of corporate espionage on the side. His plans didn't include rescuing abused children, hunting pimps, or dealing with his overly protective and hot-as-hell boss, Gareth Flynn.

Walking away is not an option. Jack never takes the easy way out. More than that, meeting Gareth raises old ghosts that Jack needs to put to rest. Rescuing kids. Taking risks. Saving the day. Jack can do all that—but deciding what to do about his attraction to Gareth isn't the sort of cloak-and-dagger game Jack plays well. Yet Gareth, strong and smart and always on hand when needed, might be Jack's salvation.

The Power of Zero: Book Two

Jack Horwood doesn't do families. Or Christmas. From the time his mother sold him to her pimp to the moment he walked out on the man he loved, Christmas has always been about change and painful choices. This year seems no different. Helping Daniel and Nico recover from their imprisonment and hunting down those responsible puts Jack in a frame of mind he doesn't want to inflict on anyone. Least of all Gareth and the tentative relationship they've started to rebuild.

But Gareth, for whom Christmas is all about new beginnings, won't let Jack take the easy way out. He makes him face his ghosts instead. Even when said ghosts invade their bedroom.

When Daniel's parents are found, Jack is determined to settle the matter without involving Daniel at all. But fate decrees otherwise, and it's Gareth who helps him finally understand that the strongest bonds are those forged together. Once he gets that, Jack can step up and make a decision designed to lay his ghosts to rest—for good.

# Readers love the Power of Zero series by Jackie Keswick

Job Hunt

"This book was fun to read and damn hot. Just reading it set my sheets on fire."

—MM Good Book Reviews

"This book was much more than I expected. It's the author's first novel, and I sincerely hope it's not the last."

—Romance Novel News

"...Job Hunt is a very well-written, fast-paced, action-packed, thrilling piece of entertainment that kept me glued to the pages."

—Prism Book Alliance

Ghosts

"Ghosts was an enjoyable book with a strong emotional punch... a must read for anyone who loves Jack and Gareth and their amazing relationship."

—Joyfully Jay

"I was really impressed by the amount of emotions that I felt as I read this story. I could feel what each character was feeling. A wonderfully written story."

—Crystal's Many Reviewers
JACKIE KESWICK was born behind the Iron Curtain with itchy feet, a bent for rocks, and a recurrent dream of stepping off a bus in the middle of nowhere to go home. She's worked in a hospital and as the only girl with fifty-two men on an oil rig, spent a winter in Moscow and a summer in Iceland, and finally settled in the country of her dreams with her dream team: a husband, a cat, a tandem, a hammer, and a laptop.

When she's not working or writing, she... doesn't exercise. Instead, she cooks and researches English history and traditional English recipes. She has a thing for green eyes, suede, and tight cyclists' butts, and is a great believer in making up soundtracks for anything and everything, including her characters and the cat. And she still hasn't found the place where the bus stops.

For questions and comments, not restricted to green eyes, bus stops, or recipes for traditional English food, you can find Jackie Keswick in all the usual places:

Website: www.jackiekeswick.com

Twitter: @JackieKeswick

Facebook: www.facebook.com/JackieKeswick

# By Jackie Keswick

THE POWER OF ZERO

Job Hunt

Ghosts

House Hunt

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Published by

DREAMSPINNER PRESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA

www.dreamspinnerpress.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

House Hunt

© 2016 Jackie Keswick.

Cover Art

© 2016 Maria Fanning.

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dreamspinnerpress.com.

ISBN: 978-1-63477-137-5

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63477-138-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015960369

Published March 2016

v. 1.0

Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents

Blurb

Dedication

Part I: Oyster Run

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Part II: Restless

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Part III: House Hunt

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

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