The Kite, page 3
“Jesus,” Harry mumbled.
The two men got out and the first man opened the van door. He was in his sixties, had short, grey curly hair. He wore a faded black djellaba and a tight smile. “Mr Asher.”
Asher gave him a warm grin. “Mr Sadik. Thank you so much for your hospitality. This is Harry.”
Harry gave a nod, not any more relaxed.
Asher gave Harry a nudge to get out of the van, which he did, thankfully concealing the gun with his backpack. Mr Sadik watched as Harry unfolded himself from the van and stood to his full height, and Mr Sadik took a small step back.
Harry had that effect on people.
The man who drove the van, a younger man that Asher recognised, had gone to a door and unlocked it. Mr Sadik held his hand out toward it. “This way.”
The room they were led to was more of a self-contained apartment, even if it was small. There was a daybed and small table, a television, a pile of square seat cushions in one corner, and a tiny washroom. The walls were whitewashed, the floor was old terracotta tiles, some broken, the curtain hung crooked across the window. Everything was old and there was a faint smell of some kind of spice.
It was perfect.
“It is adequate?” Mr Sadik asked. He stood alone, timid.
Asher went to him and put a reassuring hand on his arm. “Very much. It is good to see you again, Mr Sadik. Please tell me you’ve been well.”
The older man gave a nod, keeping his head bowed. “Very well, thank you, Mr Asher.” He took a step backward. “I will leave you be. My wife, Malha, will bring you breakfast. Sleep well.”
He disappeared and pulled the door closed. Harry dropped his backpack in the corner by the cushions, though he kept his pistol in his waistband. He began laying some cushions on the floor as a makeshift bed. “How do you know him? He’s scared of you, yet obligated to help.”
Asher chuckled. “No, he’s afraid of you.”
Harry stopped and shot him an annoyed look. “Do you ever answer any questions?”
Asher lay down on the daybed, put his arms behind his head, and sighed. “I saved his life.”
That earned him another glance from Harry.
“Four years ago,” Asher explained. “He’s a pharmacist. He was delivering medicine to a not so nice part of town. There was gunfire, and I pulled him along with me and got him to safety. He’d have been killed for sure.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Did you start the gunfire?”
Asher chuckled. “Possibly. The target had some bodyguards who returned fire.”
“You should have shot them first.”
“And lost the mark?”
Harry grumbled something. “So you saved him but not before he saw you shoot them all dead. That’s why he’s scared of you.”
Asher rolled on his side, facing Harry. He pulled a pillow under his head. Sleep was starting to chase him now. “Scared, perhaps. Indebted, yes. He promised to help if I ever needed it. This will see his debt repaid.”
Harry lowered himself to his makeshift bed, grimacing at his ankle.
“You’ll have to take your boot off eventually,” Asher said sleepily. His blinks were getting longer. He’d only pretended to sleep on the boat; there was no way he was falling asleep in front of Harry Harrigan, being vulnerable and exposed like that. But now he had no choice. He wanted Harry to fall asleep first, but he didn’t like his chances.
“Hm,” Harry grumbled.
Asher studied Harry’s side profile, watching his chest rise and fall . . . such a broad chest, huge biceps and forearms. He had barely an ounce of fat on him. The man was pure muscle. Honestly, if Harry wanted to kill Asher while he slept, with nothing but his bare hands, he very well could.
And so Asher closed his eyes and let sleep claim him, knowing if death was to meet him, he’d rather not see it coming.
Death didn’t wake Asher. A knock at the door did, followed by a woman’s voice. “Breakfast,” she said, her Arabic strong.
Harry was already there and he opened the door as Asher sat up. A stern woman thrust a tray at Harry, not even trying to hide her disdain for him. Before he could speak, she was gone, cursing him as she walked away.
Asher couldn’t help but laugh at the look on Harry’s face. He turned and elbowed the door closed. “You have that effect on everyone,” Asher said, still chuckling.
Harry snarled at him and put the tray on the table, limping slightly. Breakfast, as Mahla had declared, was pancakes and honey, eggs, bread with olive oil, and mint tea. It smelled incredible.
It tasted even better.
Asher couldn’t help but moan as he ate. “I always loved Morocco.”
Harry ate another mouthful of pancakes. “Come here often?”
Asher shrugged. “As good a place as any. What about you? The apartment in Madrid. You have one in Paris also, yes?”
Harry quirked an eyebrow. “You seem to know a lot about me.”
Asher sipped his tea to hide his smile. “I was given a brief when I got your contract.”
“Oh, right. When you were supposed to kill me. How’s that working out for you?”
Asher chuckled. “I can remedy it for you now if you’d like.”
Harry gave him a flat stare as a response. He finished his breakfast and sipped his tea, scrunching his nose at it.
“You don’t like?”
“It’s okay.”
“Mint tea is very good for you,” Asher said.
“It’s not coffee.”
Asher snorted. “Your brief never mentioned anything about you being so grouchy.”
Harry put his tea down and sighed. “Well, I’ve been shot at, jumped off a building, been shot at again, had four schoolboys come to my apartment to try and kill me, had you being a pain in my ass ever since. It’s been a rough twenty-four hours.”
“I’m a pain in your ass that saved your ass,” Asher replied. “And they weren’t schoolboys. Maybe college age.”
“Lucky to be eighteen, any of them.”
“When did they get so young?”
“When we got old.”
Harry’s gaze cut to Asher’s. “Old? I’m thirty-six. How old are you?”
Asher shrugged. “Thirty-three.” More or less.
“We’re not old.”
“That’s retirement age in our industry.”
“Is that why they’re retiring us?”
“Probably.” Asher sighed. “Been in the game too long. Know too much, seen too much. We don’t move like we used to. We become a liability.”
“That’s bullshit. Instinct and experience will win over youth and reckless bravado every time.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
Harry studied Asher for a long moment. “So in your grand plan that I’m not privy to, or that you refuse to tell me about, how long are we staying here for?”
“Until your ankle heals.”
“My ankle’s fine.”
“Then take your boot off.”
Harry scowled at him. “Compression keeps the swelling down.”
Asher understood there was no point in arguing with someone so stubborn. “We’ll be here for a week,” he admitted. “Unless circumstances change.”
“A week?”
“A week to keep our heads down.”
“Shouldn’t we keep moving? Get as far from Madrid as possible?”
Asher made a face, not sure how much to divulge. He knew he’d have to tell him everything at some point. He was actually a bit surprised that Harry was going along with him not knowing anything. But that wouldn’t last much longer, and he knew it, so with a sigh, he relented. “I’m waiting for more information. Then I’ll know which direction we need to go.”
Harry’s steely eyes lasered in on him. “Information on what?”
“On who ordered the hit on us.”
Harry’s brow furrowed, and he blinked. “From who? Who are you getting the intel from?”
“My informant.”
“Your informant? Which agency do they work for? Which government?”
“No agency. No government.”
“Who pays them?”
“The highest bidder.”
Harry blinked, his confusion apparent before something clicked. “Like you.”
“Yes, like me. No agency, no country.” Asher glared at him. His past really was no secret. Those who knew, knew. And Harry had to know. They’d circled around each other for almost a decade, and knowing your opponent’s past meant knowing their weak spot.
The truth was, there wasn’t much to know about Asher’s history. There was no weak spot because there was no past. No country, no family, no nationality. No home.
“You said direction,” Harry continued. “You said when you hear from your informant, you’ll know which direction to go. You want to track someone down?”
“Yes.”
“Who? The person who ordered the hit?”
“Not exactly. Not yet, anyway.”
“Then what are you tracking down?”
“Information.” Asher sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Fuck it all to hell. “I need proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“Proof that you and I have been set up. For years, every job we took, every assignment, was for the wrong team.”
Harry squinted at him. “Wrong team? What team? There are no teams—”
“The bad guys, Harry. We’ve been helping the bad guys.”
FIVE
Asher knew he’d struck a nerve.
Anger darkened Harry’s glare. “My government—”
“Lied to you. Not just your government, but many countries. They tell you each assignment is a terrorist or war monger. But no. We’ve been taking out political chess pieces. Under-the-table deals to line the pockets of politicians and get rid of competition.”
Harry recoiled, offended, hurt.
Asher had to strike while the iron was hot. “You wanted to know why they put a hit out on us? To get rid of evidence. They either kill you or they make you the scapegoat. If it goes public, they’ll say you went rogue and carried out unsanctioned hits to justify your death.”
“No.” He shook his head, disbelieving. Asher saw him mentally flicking through memories, trying to piece it together, looking for proof to say otherwise.
“They used you,” Asher said quietly. “And me.”
Harry’s jaw bulged, his nostrils flared. “What proof do you have?”
Asher took out his phone. “To start, this.” He showed the screenshot of the assignment with their photos, names, locations. “Who knew you were in Madrid?”
He was about to answer, ‘no one,’ Asher was sure of it. But after a pause, he blinked. “My handler.”
“No one else?”
Harry shook his head. “There isn’t anyone else.”
“So your handler knew you were there. They sent me to the same location, then put out a job on both of us, hoping to clean us both up in one fell swoop. They sent me there to kill you, and if your handler was the only one who knew where you were, it had to be them.”
“Maybe they tailed me. Maybe they tracked me. Hell, maybe they’re still tracking me. To here.”
“No one followed you,” Asher said quietly. “No one followed us here. They knew you were in Madrid because your handler either told them or he put the order out himself, Harry. I’m sorry.”
Harry shook his head again. “No.”
Asher opened a document on his phone and began to read. “Emir Yilmaz, shot to death in Turkey, four years ago. Waleed Sadeer, shot and killed outside his family home in Beirut, four years ago. Traeger Mayer, found with a bullet hole in his forehead outside his office building in Munich, three years ago. You’ve been very busy. Paris, also three years ago, Martin—”
“What’s your point?” Harry snapped. “Yes, those are my assignments. What of it? Should we start naming yours?”
“Doctor Emir Yilmaz,” Asher shot back at him. “One of Turkey’s best biotechnicians had just released a study on petroleum engineering which saw the end of a rather large contract with Australia, Japan, and the US.”
Harry was stock-still.
“Waleed Sadeer, financial business manager of National Bank of Lebanon, extensive oil finance portfolio.”
Harry stared at him.
“German biotech genius, Traeger Mayer, was about to launch a renewable energy solution project—”
“Enough.” Harry’s voice was detached, quiet, and final. “I don’t ask for personal information on any assignment. I’m not asking for it now.”
“But these are not terrorists or bad people, Harry. They’re not brokering deals with terrorists or any threat to national security. You can see that, right?” Asher scrolled the page on his phone. “There’s more.”
“No. I said enough!” Harry stomped off into the small bathroom and closed the door a little too hard, and the shower turned on a few minutes later.
Asher wasn’t bothered by the outburst. Or by the size of him. Asher had met plenty of men as big as Harry. Some were even almost as capable. And a few of them had even made Asher wary, but not Harry. He didn’t feel threatened at all.
Plus, he could understand why Harry was pissed off. He had every right to be. He should be angry.
His government had lied to him.
Asher was sure of it.
With more time and more information, he would prove it. He had a plan, and having Harry see the truth and on his side would be incredibly helpful.
So Asher cleaned up while Harry showered. He stacked the floor cushions back in the corner before taking the tray of dirty dishes back to Malha and thanking her again for the breakfast. She scowled at him, and Asher was certain he heard a string of mumbled curses as he crossed the courtyard back to their room.
He smiled in the sunlight, at the incredibly blue sky, and went back inside. The bathroom door was open, so he assumed Harry was done. “Moroccan skies are so blue,” he said, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
Harry stood there, wet and naked except for a very small towel around his waist. It didn’t hide much.
Holy Mary mother of God.
He was tanned, mostly. Huge muscular chest, not much chest hair, defined abs, and he had a tattoo over his heart. A series of stars in the shape of a . . . “Is that some kind of kite tattoo?” Asher asked.
Harry, with his permanent scowl, looked down at his chest. “It’s not a kite. It’s the Southern Cross, the stars on the Australian flag. And I’m not a kite. For fuck’s sake.”
The Southern Cross made sense.
“You are a kite,” Asher said. “Whether you like it or not.” And then he noticed the scars shining silverish in the poor light. Some small, some not, mostly faded, some more recent. On his torso, his arms and what Asher could see of his shoulder. They looked like knife wounds, mostly. Scrapes, and maybe a bullet wound or two. “Jesus,” Asher breathed. “Do you get paid per scar?”
Harry stood there a long moment, silent. “Are you done checking me out?”
Asher looked him over once more. “No. Damn.”
Harry cocked his head. “You like what you see?”
“The fuck is not to like?” Asher waved his hand up and down, from his chiselled jaw to his . . . ankle. It was swollen and purple. Krista! He motioned to the daybed. “Sit down. I’ll go . . . get something. I dunno what, but something.”
Asher wasn’t sure how Malha would receive his request for help, but he had little choice. He walked back across the courtyard and knocked on the door. His Arabic was a little rusty and she’d already accommodated them enough . . .
“Harry’s ankle is not good,” Asher told her. He held out his own foot and gestured it was like a balloon. “Swollen and bruised. Do you have anything? Bandages?”
She glared at him. A small child clutching her leg looked up at him. She ushered the child behind her and closed the door.
Okay then.
Asher went back to their room just in time to see Harry pull up a pair of boxer shorts. He got a very brief, very nice view of his muscular thighs and ass but was remiss that he’d not got a front view.
“Hm,” Asher mused. “No scars on your back. Means you always face your enemies. I like that.”
Harry grumbled something at him as he lowered his huge frame onto the daybed. Asher picked up one of the floor cushions and laid it against the armrest and he patted it. “Lean back and put your foot up.”
Harry glared at him.
“Quit your whining.”
Harry snarled but did as he was told, and Asher knelt by his feet. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and began wrapping Harry’s ankle. Harry tried to pull his foot away, startled. “What are you doing?”
“You need to keep this stabilised,” Asher said, gently pulling his foot closer. “The sooner you get this right, the sooner we can leave.”
“We could leave today if we had to.”
“We could.” Asher shrugged. “But we’re not.”
“You could,” Harry said. “Leave at any time.”
Ah, so that’s what he was implying . . . “Yes, I could. I could have shot you three days ago in Madrid before you even knew I was there.” He wrapped the shirt as tight as he dared and met Harry’s gaze. “But whether you like it or not, we are better off together.” He tucked the corner of the shirt into itself, which would, hopefully, keep it tight.
Harry inspected it, seemingly impressed. “I take it Mrs Sadik didn’t have a bandage?”
“You know,” Asher said cheerfully, “I don’t think she likes us.”
Harry snorted. “Who wouldn’t want two contract killers staying in their home?”
Asher sat back on his haunches and smiled. “Exactly.”
Harry’s gaze went to Asher’s chest, his abs, his thighs. Was he appreciating the view? Was Harry checking him out? “Not one scar?”
“My body is a temple.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Your body is a temple from a distance one kilometre away.”
Asher laughed. “One point eight kilometres, thank you. Eighteen hundred metres is my best shot.”
