The kite, p.2
The Kite, page 2
“You were here to kill me?” Harry asked. “I was your assignment? Three days ago?”
Asher nodded, almost cheerfully. “Yes.”
“So why didn’t you do it?”
Asher shot him a wary look and chewed on the inside of his lip for a second before he concentrated on the traffic for a moment. “Because it was you.”
Harry stared at Asher, at his gorgeous profile, at the hint of a smile on his lips. “I never realised you were a fan.”
Asher laughed, not entirely a happy sound. “Not quite. But I thought about it, what it meant that they wanted you dead. I knew you wouldn’t have done anything wrong, which means they’re cleaning house, and if they’re getting rid of you, then I had to be next.” He shrugged again. “Then my informant sent me the picture this morning. I can only guess they sent me to kill you so we’d be in the same place at the same time. Convenient to have us both taken out.”
Harry thought about what Asher was saying. It made sense. Except . . . “You knew I wouldn’t have done anything wrong? So you are a fan.”
Asher rolled his eyes. “We’ve been doing this a long time, you and me. I’ve followed your work. Keep-your-enemies-closer kind of deal. And anyway, there’s a reason you’re the second best.”
“The second best?”
Asher looked right at him and laughed, and Harry hated that he found him attractive.
Christ.
“You never received an assignment for me?” Asher pressed.
Harry shook his head. “No.”
“Shame,” Asher mused. “I’m a little disappointed they never sent you to try and kill me. It would have been fun, no? To finally see which of us would win.”
Was he enjoying this? He certainly looked like he was, like this was all a game.
Harry glared at him. He had more confirmed kills than Asher, and they both knew it. Asher was renowned for sniping, clean and efficient, from a distance; no one ever saw him. The man was an enigma. Harry was better on the ground, close combat. Oh, he could do stealth when he had to, but he had no problems backing himself in close quarters. “What’s in Morocco?”
Asher shot him a look. His jaw bulged. “It’s not Europe.”
Both men were quiet for a while. Traffic was light as they left the city. The weather was good. Harry did his best to ignore the pain that was now radiating through his ankle and foot and up his shin.
“How bad is it?” Asher asked.
“How bad is what?”
“You’re injured. You took pills before and you have sweat on your brow.”
Goddammit.
He couldn’t let himself be a liability. If he slowed Asher down, Asher would simply rid himself of the deadweight. Harry knew this because he’d do the same.
“I’m sure it’s just a sprain,” Harry admitted. It felt worse than that, but he’d never admit it. Anyway, he’d endured worse.
“When you jumped off the roof,” Asher deduced. “That was stupid, by the way.”
“It was jump or be shot. I’d take my chances with the jump, thanks.”
They were quiet again, the miles flying by.
“So,” Harry said eventually. “What’s your plan? You didn’t just not kill me when you had a chance. You saved my ass. And I’m not buying the whole us-against-them bullshit.” He waited for Asher to look at him. “What do you need me for?”
THREE
The pills took the edge off the pain in Harry’s ankle, but they made him feel a little nauseous. He tried to ignore it. The nausea, the pain, the unusual mix of tension and ease with which he sat next to Asher.
Every fibre of Harry’s body was against the idea of trusting him. Not just Asher, but trusting anyone. Especially Asher. But for a reason he couldn’t explain, he felt comfortable with him.
Maybe it was because they were so similar.
They had vastly different upbringings, from the little Harry knew of Asher. But now as grown men, as assassins, they were alone, trained to be invisible, trained to kill, trained to never look back.
There was a solidarity in that.
When Harry had asked Asher what he really needed him for, what he’d saved his life for, Asher hadn’t answered.
He’d just sat there, as casual as if they were going for a leisurely evening drive. He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting over his crotch, almost between his legs.
Harry hated how hot that was. He hated Asher for being so relaxed, so confident.
Maybe it was easy to be that way when he was the one with all the information. He was the one with the plan, and Harry was just . . . doing what he was told?
He took a phone out of his backpack, causing Asher to cast him a wild look. “It’s not traceable,” Harry said. Like he would be that stupid. “This will ping my location as Paris. No matter where I am.” He began to type out a message, then thought better of it. It’d be best if they thought he was dead. Although the four dead bodies in his apartment might tell them otherwise. But every hour, every mile they gained was a bonus.
Would they know he and Asher were working together?
All Harry had was questions.
“I need you to tell me what you know,” Harry said.
“I know you were Australian Specialist Response Group. Highly trained operatives for the Australian Special Forces,” Asher replied. “You were too good at your job and your particular skill set was put to better use. At the age of twenty-five, you were put into the field in Europe as an operative for the Australian government.”
Christ.
“Not what you know about me,” he shot back. Harry didn’t even want to know how Asher had intel on him. “About this. About why you saved my ass and who you think wants us dead. And how you know any-fucking-thing about me.”
Asher smiled, and good fucking lord, Harry hated him. “I want to put a gun to your head,” Harry mumbled. “So fucking bad.”
And what did Asher do? He laughed.
Harry pulled his pistol. “Tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet in you.”
Asher didn’t even flinch. In fact, his smile became a smirk. Unbothered. Unbelievable. He changed lanes and took the exit ramp. “We need fuel.”
The tank was below a quarter. They’d been driving a while, but still. “Jesus. Why didn’t you fill it?”
Asher cut him a glare. “Because I was too busy saving your ass. Now put your gun away or you’ll scare the locals. And give me some cash,” Asher said as the petrol station came into view. He drove up to a bowser, took the money, and pulled a cap on his head. “And stay in the car.”
Harry did a quick recon. It was getting dark now. Traffic was constant with workers heading home. The car at the next bowser was a woman with two kids in the backseat, the van at the end bowser was being refuelled by a man in his sixties, at least.
Harry kept his pistol in his hand down between his knees.
He also checked the glove box and centre console while Asher went inside to pay. He didn’t know what he was looking for or expecting to find, but both were empty.
The next vehicle to pull up was a farm truck towing a horse trailer. It blocked half his view of the store, of Asher.
Fuck.
The driver, a man wearing farm clothes, got out and went to the petrol bowser and the passenger, a teen boy, went to check on the horses. Harry could see two horses in the trailer, but not much else.
Fuck, fuck.
Still holding the gun down between his legs, he chambered a round. Watching. Ready. Wondering what the hell was taking Asher so long.
Had he bailed? Was Harry a sitting duck? Was this a set up?
The boy at the trailer came around swinging a . . . window washer. He began cleaning his dad’s windshield, and Harry’s heart rate took a few beats to calm down.
And then Asher appeared, walking over as casual as anything, with a bag full of snacks.
For fuck’s sake.
Asher climbed into the car and dumped the bag of purchases onto Harry’s lap. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Asher started the car and headed back to the highway. “Sandwiches, sports drinks, and water. There will be no dinner service on the boat to Morocco.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome.”
Harry rifled through the bag, pulling out a chocolate bar and a small tin of mints. “And these?”
Asher snatched the mints. “These are mine.” He grinned. “And I don’t share.”
Harry looked in the bag. “There are three more packs of them.”
Asher shrugged as he popped a mint into his mouth. “Some people smoke. I eat these. Would you prefer I smoked?”
“No.”
“And I got ibuprofen for you. Reduces swelling. You’re welcome twice now.”
Harry hated that he felt gratitude toward him. “I’ll say thank you when you tell me what the fuck we’re doing.”
Asher laughed and merged into the fast lane. “I’ll take the pastrami.”
Rage burned in Harry’s chest. He wanted to punch that freaking smirk right off Asher’s stupidly handsome face. Instead, he unwrapped the sandwich and handed it to him. “Hope you choke on it.”
Asher bit into his sandwich and grinned around his first mouthful. “You’ve been alone too long. Your people skills are terrible.”
Harry hated that he really needed the sandwich, and the water, and the ibuprofen. He hated that his ankle hurt, that his whole body hurt. He hated that Asher drove for another five hours and barely even blinked when he, the infamous Harry Harrigan, had trouble keeping his eyes open.
He hated that he felt comfortable enough to sleep in Asher’s presence. He hated that he felt comfortable around him at all. Did he expect Asher to pull his gun on him at any second? Yes. Did he think he would?
No.
If Asher wanted him dead, he’d have been dead days ago.
Asher needed him for something. He’d tell Harry eventually. He’d have to. Or Harry could beat it out of him.
He wouldn’t mind going a few rounds with him.
Gibraltar came soon enough, and Asher drove them down to the fishing docks. The night was dark, the water inky black. “I will do the talking,” Asher said. “You try and not look so mean.”
“You want me to smile?” Harry gave a fake toothy grin that probably looked worse by the dashboard light.
Asher looked aghast. “Christ, no. Just don’t speak. And try not to look so big.”
Harry would have rolled his eyes if he didn’t spot a man approaching from the dock. “A friend of yours?”
“Not exactly. This is a transaction. He takes us to Morocco, he gets the car.” Asher popped the boot of the car and got out. Harry quickly followed and regret flared through his ankle like a knife.
Fuck.
He took his backpack and saw Asher grab a duffle bag from the boot before he closed it. The man approached, a beanie pulled low, his face in shadow. Without a word, he got in the driver’s seat and drove the car away, and Asher headed toward the darkened jetty.
Harry fell into step beside him. He was sure his ankle was only sprained. Badly, but not broken.
A face flashed in the dark from the back of one of the old fishing boats. Another man, older with grey hair underneath a beanie, a fishing coat. He unwound the mooring with no more than a nod, and Asher climbed aboard.
Harry followed, down below deck, into a small and dimly lit room that stunk of fish and saltwater. There were two long wooden bench seats. Asher sat on one, Harry on the other.
“How’s your ankle?”
“Fine.”
“Bullshit.”
The engine on the boat rumbled loudly and the boat began to move. The noise, the rocking of the ocean . . . Harry couldn’t decide if it was unnerving or comforting.
Asher slid his duffle bag up one end of the seat and lay down, using it as a pillow. He closed his eyes. “We’ve got two hours. Get some sleep.”
Asher clearly had no issue in trusting Harry. Enough to close his eyes and sleep while Harry sat just two feet away. Well, it was either trust or Asher fancied his chances against him.
Harry was too tired to care.
Using his backpack as a pillow, he lay down, slowly lifting his foot up onto the seat. He hissed at the pain, and he knew that boot wasn’t coming off for a while. Having it raised was a good relief though.
He’d never minded a little pain. He actually liked a bit of it. It reminded him he was alive. What he hated was being a hinderance. Being a liability. He felt like a wounded animal that needed to recoup in its den until it healed.
There was no safety of a den now. And no time to heal.
He tried not to think about how his handler had made no contact. Did they assume he was dead already? Had they really cut him loose without so much as a fucking word? Had they put a contract out on him? After all he’d done . . .
Knowing no answers would come tonight, Harry closed his eyes.
FOUR
Asher watched Harry sleep. Much like he’d watched him these last three days. Much like he’d watched him these last eight years. Harry had been on the scene for two years when Asher started, and he’d known of him by reputation before he’d ever laid eyes on him.
He’d never forget when he first saw him. Six-foot-three inches tall, three-feet wide. The man was a mountain. A ruggedly handsome mountain. How he’d remained off-radar was beyond Asher. He wasn’t exactly difficult to miss.
He had sandy blond hair cut short and blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass. His nose had been broken at some point. He had a scar above one eyebrow. His whole face had healed nicks and bumps, evidence of a decade of war.
It just made him more attractive.
Asher had considered, very briefly, in fulfilling his contract to kill Harry. Driving to Madrid, he was certain he could do it. Just another job. Safe distance, sight the target, pull the trigger. Easy.
Until he saw him.
What Asher had told Harry was the truth. The fact they wanted Harry dead meant Asher was also on that list. Of that, he had no doubt. Then he got the assignment screenshot. Seeing the French mercenary follow Harry into the street had put Asher into motion without him even realising it. His mission, his entire life, changed in a single heartbeat.
He’d wondered if Harry would try to kill him on sight. Sure, Harry had put his pistol to Asher’s temple, but he was never going to pull the trigger. Asher’s words had struck a chord. Not to mention the fact he’d saved his ass.
Seeing his eyes flash with recognition, with steel, had been unexpected.
Pressing him against the wall in the dark was another bonus.
Dangerous, exciting. Hot.
He looked like a different man asleep across from him now. Still annoyingly handsome but . . . smaller. Peaceful. That harsh set to his eyes was gone. The permanent scowl was softened.
It was almost a shame to have to wake him.
Except he didn’t have to. The man driving the boat made the mistake of opening the door with a thud, and in a split second, Harry was on his feet, pistol drawn, aimed at the intruder. The poor man fell backward in shock and Asher couldn’t help himself.
He laughed.
He motioned for Harry to back off, helped the man to his feet. “That’s why I didn’t want to wake him,” Asher said. “He’s a little grumpy.”
The man backed away, mumbling something about ten minutes to land, and Asher turned back around to see Harry slowly sitting back down with his left foot slightly raised.
“You could have started with good morning,” Asher said.
Harry shot him a filthy glare. Wow. He didn’t even need the gun. He could just kill everyone with that look.
Harry snarled and put the gun beside him on the seat. Asher hadn’t even seen the gun while Harry slept or where he’d pulled it from.
“We land in ten minutes.” Asher relayed what the man had said. “How’s your ankle?”
Harry replied with another glare. “It’s fine.”
That was a complete lie, but Asher wasn’t about to argue. “We’ll have to walk a fair way.”
Harry levelled a stare at him before he blinked his anger away. “I’ll be fine. I won’t slow you down.”
Asher raised an eyebrow and shrugged as if he didn’t care. He hid the truth well. “We land near Ezzahra. From there we will be driven to Tangier.”
“What’s in Tangier?”
“A place to lie low.”
If Harry was surprised, Asher couldn’t tell. He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his jeans, took his backpack, and pulled out a chocolate bar. He looked at it, then offered it to Asher.
Asher smiled at him. “You have it. I have these.” He took a tin from his pocket and tapped a mint onto his palm before popping it into his mouth. “I’ll go up and check on the captain in case you gave him a heart attack. Bathroom, first door on the left.”
Harry gave a nod and nothing else.
Asher took his duffle bag and left him to it. The captain of the ship was fine, if not a whole lot warier than he had been, and very happy to see the two stowaways get off his boat. The private jetty was covered by the jet-black night, not even moonlight to guide them.
It took a second for Asher’s eyes to adjust to the dark as they made their way to the road. It was a bit of a walk, a rocky incline no less, and Asher wondered about Harry’s ankle. He never complained though, never even made a sound. For a big guy, he sure was quiet.
Once on the road, a pair of yellow headlights up ahead flashed in the dark. On and off again. It was an older van, two figures sat in the front. The passenger got out and opened the sliding door and Asher knew, without even turning around, that Harry had his pistol in his hand.
“Calm down,” he said quietly over his shoulder. Asher climbed into the van and Harry followed. He kept his backpack between his feet and his pistol, still in his hand, by the side of his leg.
Asher rolled his eyes, but not a word was spoken the entire way. Probably just as well. They drove into the city, past all the fancy hotels and expensive cars, and headed through the narrow streets, some lit, some not. The van pulled into a compound of sorts, the gate closing behind them. Completely enclosed, it was three sides of living quarters with a large courtyard.
