Last Line (3 page)

Pressing his hands against the base of his spine, Michael stretched the moment out a few seconds longer. Then he nodded and gestured to the door.
On my way up.

“About bloody time.” John reached to grab the sash. Then he paused and flashed a grin that reached Michael through all the shadows of the square. “For the record?”

Michael thought at first he wouldn’t bother. He was tired from his run, and John’s childish contest over who could make it fastest up the stairs would die out sooner if Michael didn’t keep encouraging him by shaving the odd second off his time. But the teasing challenge in his partner’s voice suddenly grabbed him—warm and infectious as his laughter—and Michael seized the rail and took the first five steps at a bound.

He didn’t stand a chance, of course. He’d turned thirty last July, and in the three years since leaving MI5 had finally put on a little weight to match his height. He was solid. It pleased him. He felt more akin to the earth now, less likely to burn up and vanish. He could outrun John on an assault course, stay staunchly ahead of him when John had worn out his sprint and fallen back. Over the short stretch, though—not a chance. John, with his dancer’s frame, deceptively elegant over tempered-steel bones, would beat him every time.

But it was always worth a try. Exploding up out of the stairwell, Michael tore silently down the corridor, feet slipping on the worn linoleum. Three yards shy of the staff room door, he put on the brakes, dropped to a nonchalant walk, and strolled in, picking invisible fluff off the front of his T-shirt. “Morning.”

John turned round from the counter. The kettle was fizzing dangerously on its stand behind him. One shaft of sunlight had found its way across the rooftops, apparently just for the purpose of striking agate green flare from his eyes. “Morning.” He glanced across the room. Their timing equipment was hardly Olympic standard—the second hand of a battered kitchen clock on the peeling wall. “You’re way off. My old granny could get up those stairs faster than that.”

“Yes,” Michael returned amiably. “I suppose an orangutan could.”

John stared at him, straight-faced, for almost five seconds. Then a snort of laughter escaped him. “Just fix the bloody kettle, will you?”

Michael shouldered him gently out of the way. He picked up the kettle, which promptly stopped fizzing, and settled it back on its base. “What did you do to it?”

“Nothing. Touched it. Is it okay now?”

“Fine. Sit down before you have an aneurysm. I’ll fix you your jet fuel.”

He was distantly grateful when John obeyed him. There were mornings—whole days, sometimes—when anything less than three feet of distance between them threatened to bring Michael’s world down in flames. Mornings like this one, when John had clearly thrown himself out of bed five minutes before he had to leave his flat and was still wet from his shower, his hair in soft otter brown waves down the back of his neck, the tang of his ridiculously expensive aftershave mixing with the spice of his damp skin. Gritting his teeth, Michael concentrated on spooning instant coffee into mugs. By the time he banged them down on the stained staff room table, his heart rate was normal again—and John, feet up on a chair, apparently absorbed in that morning’s
Times
, looked almost normal too, or at least sufficiently human that Michael could cope. Tousled, unshaved. His exquisite Amosu shirt badly in need of a press. “What’s on the agenda today, then?”

John yawned enormously, raising a belated hand to cover the perfect tonsils exposed. “Frigging paperwork again. We don’t trace back the contacts in the Irving case, Webb’s gonna have the aneurysm, not me.” He reached for his coffee, downed it scalding. “Mm. You’re a beautiful man, Michael South.”

Michael shook his head in wonder. “You’re a gannet with a throat of asbestos. Seriously, desk work again? We’ll both go blind at this rate.”

“Be honest with you, I could use an easy day. I thought I’d call in at the Vineyard last night—just on the off chance—and I ran into this guy I’d never seen there before. Not much to look at, but the biggest bloody—”

The buzzer by the door went off. Michael met John’s eyes. They shared a moment. Michael’s relief at being spared the details, John’s contrition for having been about to inflict them. Knocking back the rest of his coffee, John unfolded his long graceful limbs and went to lift the receiver on the wall-mounted phone. He listened for a few moments, then said, “Thank you, sir,” and hung up.

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Paperwork off, then?”

“Oh yes, my son. Grab your coat. We’ve pulled.”

Chapter Three

“So. This guy’s credentials were how big exactly?”

Negotiating traffic on Holland Road, John shot Michael a sidelong glance of amusement. He sometimes suspected his quiet, clean-living partner not just of putting up with his off-duty ventures but trying to take an interest in them, like a parent tolerating a kid with a weird hobby. John was touched, if puzzled. “You don’t really want to know.”

“Not at all. But it takes my mind off the pileup you’re about to cause. Slow down, Griff. The Met have got the place surrounded.”

Griff
. John smiled. He wasn’t sure why that soft voice scraping over the first part of his surname was such a knee melter. “Bugger the Met,” he suggested cheerfully, balancing the little Jaguar XKR deftly over chevrons and into the bus lane. The May wind was whipping his hair dry. His drop-top dream car was purring beneath him, and Mike was in the passenger seat. All was well with his world. “You know we’re London’s last line of protection.”

“Webb said it was one guy they’ve got pinned down in there, not an army.”

“Yeah, I know. Not sure why we got the call-out. This is small-time, isn’t it?”

“Webb must reckon it’s got links to something bigger. Anyway, he’s keen to bring this guy in, so…” Michael leaned forward, stuck one arm out the passenger window, and gestured for permission for the move John was about to make anyway, a scything sweep across two lines of traffic and onto the Westway ramp. “So let’s live long enough, eh?”

That was fair enough by John. Once out on the main road, away from the keen pleasures of carving up rush-hour traffic, he was content to let the Jag settle at a comfy eighty-five. Such mornings didn’t come too often—open road and the prospect, for once, of an easy, police-assisted hunt. Usually he and Mike were hurtling into action with no other resources than their own wits and their deep-laid faith in one another. That was the point of Last Line—the freedom it granted its agents. Limitless investigative powers in return for their willingness to deny all links with government and police when things went wrong. Liberty with no safety net… A weird, heady mix, and only a handful of men could live with it.

It suited John down to the ground. He and Mike had had three years of it now, sailing through the London streets, the luck of the devil attendant on them. Serving up plausible deniability to ministers, politicians, even the MIs 5 and 6. They were the secret agents’ secret agents. Even Sir James—especially Sir James—would wash his hands of them if they screwed up. John grinned, tapping a button on the XKR’s stereo so that Sigur Rós swept from the high-end speakers, completing the effect of the joyride. He could cope with any amount of high-wire work if Mike’s hands were ready to catch him.

“Did you hear back from Quin’s school?”

John made a face. Last thing he wanted to think about on a sunny morning. But that was the downside of a perfect partner with outstretched, responsible hands. “If it was his school anymore. They kicked him out.”

“You’re kidding. Another one?”

“Yeah.” John saw the exit signs for Kensal Green and shaved a little off their speed. “It’s okay. With a bit of luck I can buy him into the Prince William Academy in time for summer term. They welcome gifted bloody nutcases.”

“Prince William?” Michael whistled softly. “Gonna cost you, sunbeam.”

“Tell me. Still, what is this grossly inflated salary for, if not to waste on my baby brother’s education?”

“It’s not a waste where Quin’s concerned. And the salary…” John glanced across in time to see Michael’s face become shadowed. “That’s to make up for the fact that one day you’ll be asked to do something you really, really don’t want to do.”

John drew a breath. He was ready to take anything Last Line dished out to him, he thought. After all, he’d signed his life away. But sometimes it seemed to him that Michael had forgotten more about life and its dark necessities than John could ever hope to know. Certainly more than he’d ever confide. Occasionally John minded it. Mike was only his own age, and they were meant to be partners. Mostly, though, he suspected he just ought to be grateful.

No time to think about it now. The exit road had taken them down into a tangle of Acton streets, and the satnav began to reel off instructions as fast as he could follow them. HQ hadn’t specified a number, just a street name and postcode, but he supposed their target would be obvious enough once they came within sight of it.

Yes. The police-siege circus had come to town. Fortune Terrace was blocked at both ends and blazing with blue lights. Depressingly, broadcast news vans were gathering too. Didn’t the world have anything better to watch or do? Pulling up at the barricade, instantly attracting the attention of an armed sergeant, John searched for the vortex, the eye of the storm. “Looks like that church down at the far end,” he said, idly waving his ID at the officer. The gesture had its usual effect. Instant access, a respectful touching of black-brimmed hat. John supposed the novelty would one day wear off, but for now it was still fun, and he steered the Jaguar coolly through the tangle of squad cars and into a back alley. “There. Decent line of sight, and we’re out of the way. Do we go straight in, or…” He fell silent. Michael was staring at the church. The healthy flush his morning run had given him had faded. “Mike? You okay?”

“What? Yeah, of course. It’s just…” He shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll tell control we’re here.”

The radio crackled before he could reach for it. Picking up, he exchanged a wry glance with John. Their boss had an uncanny gift for knowing exactly where they were at all times. He thumbed the transceiver, and Webb’s uncompromising Belfast growl filled the car. “Griffin? South?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said demurely. “Both here.”

“It’s about damn time. Have you received a go from the Met to enter the building?”

“Not yet, sir.” Michael frowned, surveying the street. “I…wasn’t aware we had to wait for one.”

“Well, this time you do. You’ll know it when it comes. Until then, stand by and mind your own damn business.”

The connection snapped shut. Michael hung up the transceiver, handling it like a tetchy snake. “Charming.”

John fanned himself with one hand, brushed away an imaginary tear. “I’m so touched.” Clearing his throat, he shifted his Liverpool accent a hundred and eighty miles northwest across the Irish Sea. “Morning, boys.
Tap
o’ the mornin’, in fact. Lovely to talk to you, boys. Lovely to know you’re off on another kamikaze mission for Sir Jimmy’s Last Line.”

The impression was perfect. Michael broke into laughter. “Pack it in. He’s probably still listening. Looks like we wait, then.”

“Yeah, looks like.” John sighed. Adrenaline was building in him, the sort that would only be discharged by a good fuck or a gunfight. He didn’t like waiting. The bright May morning was clouding over too. As he watched, a drop of rain landed on the XKR’s windshield. “Oh, upholstery. Help me put the top up.”

“Oh,
upholstery
,” Michael echoed, grinning. “You really are a pansy when it comes to this car, you know, Griff.”

“I know.” The roof mechanism was electric but needed a guiding tug to bring the catches into their slots. John caught an inviting brush of unshowered male as Michael reached up and across him. Then the top was in place, and they were sealed together in the peculiar intimacy of soft leather under the rain.

John took a deep, careful breath. His feelings for his partner didn’t often give him trouble. It had been three years, plenty of time for him to accept that no meant no, and to learn to channel off his frustrations into a series of dark-eyed, lean-muscled substitutes. This morning Michael smelled so good, though, and the car was small…

“What did they expel him for, then?”

John blinked, then came back to surface, grabbing the question with relief. “He ran away. Again. They said they couldn’t be responsible for him anymore.”

“Where was he off to this time?”

“That’s just it. He doesn’t even bloody know. He’s meant to be some kind of prodigy, but I swear the little bastard’s a few bricks short.”

“You’re a fine one to talk.”

John snorted faintly. “Ta, mate.”

“Not about the bricks. You know what I mean.”

John did. He stared out of the rain-streaked window. Quin, at fifteen, was barely a year younger than John had been when he had made his own blind run—away from home, school, family, into a half-legal berth with the Merchant Navy. He’d got away with it, grabbing his qualifications and a place in a private maritime-security firm, toting a gun on some of the highest-risk waterways in the world. “Least I knew where I was headed.”

“Mm. Ten years overseas, with daily chance of capture by pirates. That what you want for him?”

“Of course not.” John shifted uncomfortably. He hated talking about Quin. Then, Mike was the only soul in the world with whom he
could
discuss the little sod—and God knew it had the beneficial side effect of quelling his incipient close-quarters erection. Good as a cold shower. “But I don’t know how to stop it. Don’t know what to do for him at all.”

“Well, if you ever wanted him closer to home—and I sometimes think that’s all he wants, John, to have family, not a top-class boarding school—I’d give you a hand with him. You know that.”

John nodded unhappily. And Michael was the only human being who could inspire Quin to good and respectful conduct. Whether it was Mike’s MI5 background or quiet poise around the boy, John didn’t know, but Quin adored him, and in his presence turned into something approaching a normal teenager. “It isn’t that I don’t want him, Mike. But it was bad enough when he was just my little brother. Now Mam and Dad are gone, I…can’t be a parent to him too. Anyway,” he added defensively, patting the wheel of the car which had cost more than three years at Prince William, “I like my life the way it is. Fast rides, irresponsible sex in clubs. Where does an orphan teen fit into that?”