Cut and Run 09 Crash & Burn (24 page)

“Isn’t it?” Liam asked with a laugh.

“Shut up,” Zane snarled. “I’m so fucking sick of you and your stupid accent and . . .” Zane trailed off with an honest to God growl and made a throttling motion with both hands in Liam’s direction.

Liam chuckled quietly.

“Why did you try to kill him?” Zane asked.

“Pardon?”

“Ty! You’re here claiming you’re helping us again, but the last we saw of you, you were trying to put an armor-piercing round in his heart.”

“It weren’t me, mate.”

“Bullshit!”

Liam slammed his hand against the table, startling both Zane and Kelly with his sudden vehemence. “I didn’t switch those bullets!”

“Why should we believe you?” Kelly asked.

“You weren’t there,” Liam snapped at him. “I had no reason to kill Tyler then, and I have no reason to lie now.”

“Prove it,” Zane grunted.

Liam barked a laugh, shrugging with both hands outstretched. “How?”

Zane raised an eyebrow. “Be creative.”

“Look, I’m not discounting that I may have made a mistake. I don’t make them often, and I don’t think I mixed those bullets up. But I didn’t mix them on purpose, and if someone did, I’m betting it was on your end.”

“Our end?” Kelly asked, bristling at the implication.

“Only a few people had access to those bullets before I loaded my gun.”

“Yeah,” Zane huffed. “You. Me. Ty. Sidewinder. That’s about it.”

“You’re right.” Liam crossed his arms and sat back like he’d just proved his point.

Zane and Kelly exchanged a quick glance. Zane couldn’t help but wonder if Liam was actually telling the truth. Not necessarily about a Sidewinder switching that bullet, but about him being innocent of it. He seemed to be genuine, but then, he could have declared the sky was green and done so with complete sincerity.

The door to the salon burst open before anyone could say more. Zane lurched to his feet, hand immediately going to his hip even though he wasn’t armed.

Nick was holding the phone up, his green eyes wide and sparking. “Ty’s alive.”

Zane took an impulsive step toward him, his breath catching in his chest. “Who is that?”

“It’s Cross,” Nick said, and put the phone on the table.

“Gentlemen,” Julian Cross said over the speaker.

Zane gripped the edge of the table and leaned in. “You know where Ty is?”

“I heard from Preston just an hour ago. Grady was taken to Langley.”

Zane met Nick’s eyes, confusion and relief and terror all sweeping through him. “The CIA has Ty?”

“He has accepted a position with the Company in exchange for their help.”

Zane ran both hands through his hair and bent over the table, feeling ill. “Oh God, Ty. You idiot.”

“Are you saying the CIA is declaring war on the Vega cartel?” Nick asked in disbelief.

“Not just the cartel, mate,” Liam told them. “If they snatched Tyler up, they’ve declared themselves against the NIA as well. This just became a government pissing match.”

“Why are they invested?” Zane asked Julian.

“I don’t know. Preston said the Agency was on the lookout for signs of life from you. He knew if there was the slightest chance of you reaching out for help, I might hear from you, so he rang me up.”

“Ty’s okay?” Zane asked shakily.

“I’m not sure making a deal with the CIA could be classified as such.”

“How do we find him?” Kelly asked. “Can you get a message to him?”

“That I don’t know. Preston’s gone dark so there’s no reaching him again. I’ll be flying into DC; don’t be late picking me up, hmm?”

He ended the call before they could grill him further. Zane sank to the bench nearby, staring at the phone. “How long will it take us to get to DC?” he asked Nick.

“On the
Fiddler
? Three to five hours, depending on the Patapsco tides. We’ll set off as soon as Johns and Digger get here.”

“Good.” Zane picked up the phone. “I got a few other people might want a piece of this too.”

Ty went to the marina first, only to find an empty slip where the
Fiddler
had been. The harbormaster had no record of her leaving, and no idea when or where she’d gone.

That meant Nick had gotten out alive, if no one else. Ty had no way of reaching him, though, so he called Detective Alan Hagan of the Boston PD. He discovered that Nick’s partner had put out a missing person’s report on Nick and was tearing Boston apart trying to find him. Ty asked to be kept in the loop, then hung up, feeling guilty for not letting Hagan know Nick was alive out there somewhere.

Ty would give anything for a call like that about Zane.

Without anywhere else to turn, he headed for his row house.

He sat for hours in the driver’s seat of a vehicle parked a block away, observing from a safe distance. The crime scene had been cleared surprisingly quickly. Either that was really good or really bad for him. There were two officers left guarding his front door, and probably one or two watching the back.

As he pondered where else they might be stationed, he realized it was a trap. The men on his front stoop were both smoking cigarettes. There were no cones to keep traffic away from the car where the CIA claimed Nick and Liam had massacred two cartel thugs. There were no flags denoting evidence, there was no crime scene tape. These weren’t city cops. No. This was either the cartel or the NIA. They’d set two men out front like shining beacons for Ty to see, knowing he’d try to avoid them and sneak in another way.

God knew what awaited him inside.

But he had to get into the house. The CIA had provided him with
almost
everything he would need for the next two weeks. The last item was inside.

He glanced up at the sky. It was overcast and dreary, and the sun would be setting soon. Down the street, gaudy Christmas lights were hanging off one of the upper balconies. He was one of the only people in the neighborhood who didn’t mind the frat boys who lived there. He’d spoken with them a few times, letting them know that if they stayed in line, he wouldn’t rig their kegs to explode when they had parties. They were decent guys.

Ty smiled as an idea formed. When night fell, he’d be able to get into his house.

He wrapped his thin coat tight and hunkered down in the cab of his borrowed truck. When Preston had given him open access to Langley’s fleet, Ty was pretty sure no one had expected him to ask for the landscaper’s old Chevy. That was one thing he had to look forward to for the rest of his useful days: confounding baby CIA agents.

He snorted. As long as you did what the CIA told you to do, they were good employers. Of course, if Zane found out about this . . .

Ty cleared his throat, his eyes burning. Zane was alive. He would continue to believe that until he saw a body.

Warmth seeped in on Ty as he grew tired. Idle time was dangerous during missions. You let your guard down, allowed your mind to wander and your body rest, and the adrenaline died away.

His thoughts strayed to Zane again and he sniffed. All the things he’d said and done, all the lies he’d let blacken his soul. He’d never deserved something as good as Zane in his life, but somehow he’d managed to find it anyway. And Richard Burns, the very same man he’d always credited with giving him Zane, with giving him a reason to stay with Zane, was the man who’d torn him away, even from beyond the grave.

He was surprised to find his eyes burning when he closed them, and warm tears slid down his cheeks into his several days’ worth of beard when he opened them again. He wiped at his face with his coat sleeve, shaking his head. He had to concern himself with trivial things like not getting killed before he could ponder Zane and what he would do if his husband was really dead.

He shifted and glanced down the street at the unmarked patrol car. It was a BPD car, not the standard-issue sedan or SUV most of the alphabet soup agencies would drive. Either the BPD was in on the hunt for him, or somewhere two poor patrol officers were tied up or dead.

When the darkness was almost upon him, Ty pulled away from the spot by the curb and watched in the rearview mirror as he drove away. The cop car didn’t move, and Ty took the first turn. He headed for the ABC store several blocks away, and ten minutes later he tossed his haul into the bed of the truck and headed back toward his house. He parked as close to the house with the Christmas lights as possible. They were having a party, and Ty had come bearing gifts.

When the kid opened the door, Ty smiled widely and tapped the toe of his Converse against the keg he’d set on the stoop. “I need a favor,” he told the kid, who was grinning at him, slightly glazed.

As two giddy pre-med students hauled the keg inside, the kid who’d answered the door led Ty up the two flights of stairs to the top floor. All these row houses were built pretty much the same. The kid was so buzzed he didn’t even ask questions as Ty stepped out onto the rooftop terrace and glanced up the street.

“Thanks, kid,” Ty said as he stepped closer to the railing.

“Hey, can I video this for YouTube?” the kid asked. He stepped up next to Ty and looked over at the next balcony, probably thinking that Ty actually planned to try jumping it.

“Sure, why not,” Ty answered with a small groan. He didn’t want the kid to get suspicious about why Ty was choosing to climb from rooftop to rooftop to get into his house instead of just calling a locksmith or something.

The houses along the street alternated between having a third-floor balcony and a rooftop terrace. Which meant to get from terrace to terrace, you had to climb over whatever partition the owners had chosen to put up. To Ty’s relief, the way was mostly clear. A few potted plants and a privacy fence, and he would have access to his own home.

He didn’t give the neighbor kid time to go back and get a video camera; he leaped over the partition and scuttled across the next terrace, keeping his silhouette low.

In a matter of moments, he was climbing down to the third-floor balcony of his home, three stories above the heads of the men loitering on his stoop. He tried to ease the door open, but it didn’t budge. He scowled at it, pushing the handle harder. The latch moved, which meant it was unlocked. But it wasn’t going anywhere.

Ty cursed as he remembered the warped doorframe he’d been meaning to fix. He’d put it off, and put it off, making excuses whenever Zane mentioned it, ignoring it like he had all the time in the world to address it. He gritted his teeth, his eyes watering as he shoved his shoulder into the door. It rattled, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

“Really, Beaumont?” he said under his breath. He stared at the wooden boards of the balcony, at the flower pot where they’d discarded cigars and filters after smoking. He couldn’t even break into his own house. How the fuck was he supposed to function in the fucking real world if he couldn’t even break into his own god damn house?

He wiped his cheek on his shoulder, taking a deep breath. Then he pushed the handle, lifted the door so it would fit in the frame better, and pushed with all his strength. The door flew open, and Ty went tumbling into the attic room. He sprawled on the floor, blinking at the ceiling and wondering if just giving up was an option.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, and he hefted himself off the ground.

The first thing he did was move into the spare bedroom on the third floor and open up the wardrobe there. He searched through the array of boxes, some of them wooden, some of them metal, all of them antique and given to him as gifts. He kept all the odds and ends from his cases in them, a closet pack rat. It would serve him well now.

He found the box that held the makeup they’d used on him when he and Zane had been forced to assume the identities of Del and Corbin Porter on a cruise ship full of people who’d wanted to kill them. Inside was a leftover scrap of the synthetic skin graft they’d used to cover his tattoo. He smiled grimly as he palmed it and the glue that went with it.

He closed up the wardrobe and left the room, creeping down the stairs to the second level and their bedroom. He changed clothes quickly, but got stuck when he pulled out the closest T-shirt. He thought he was grabbing a plain drab-green shirt, but it had two panda bears wrestling on it, and under them in dramatic lettering it read WWF.

Zane had given it to him as a joke after Ty had forced him to donate a thousand dollars to the World Wildlife Fund so he could get a stuffed tiger. Ty put the shirt to his lips, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, letting the ache settle low and hard. Then he shook the pain off and yanked the shirt over his head, grabbing his duffel that always remained mostly packed from the closet. Zane had stolen things out of it, damn him. Ty had never restocked it after Zane had taken it, and now he might pay for it.

He looked around at the bedroom, feeling cold all over. The sheets were tangled, the covers tossed aside. Was that the last time he’d ever be able to hold Zane? How could it be, when they’d done so little to make it special?

Again, he shook the thought off and took down the lockbox from inside the safe at the top of his closet, then opened it. His gun was gone. Fuck! Zane had cleaned him out. How had he gotten so complacent he hadn’t made sure everything was back in order?