Page 9 of Shrapnel

Several men ran past the open door, looking behind their shoulders and attempting to load their weapons while they ran. There was a sharp shriek of pain followed by a thud. Voices overlapped in a mixture of surprise and terror before another gunshot silenced them.

The old man was staring at the open door. He had completely forgotten about Jackson. Trembling, he stepped towards the doorway. The lights had cut off around the second explosion and an emergency generator had cut on. Ugly yellow light spilled in from the hallway giving the room a jaundiced look.

He stepped into the hallway and looked left and then right. A surprised look registered on his face just before his entire head exploded. Blood splashed against the doorway and the back wall. Thick chunks of brain splattered to the ground as the body collapsed.

Out of the dim light, a man stepped over the body. He swaggered into the room, a sawed-off shotgun resting over his shoulders.

Jamie Weaver was grinning. Half his face was covered in fine blood splatter, but his teeth flashed white, canines protruding.

“Did somebody call for a rescue?”

Jackson groaned. “What are you doing here?”

“Aw.” Jamie affected a pout. “Can’t you at least pretend you’re horny—I mean happy—to see me?”

“No.”

Jamie reached behind him and pulled Jackson’s machete off his back. “I even brought you a present.”

Jackson sighed and leaned back in his chair. He eyed Jamie skeptically. “This isn’t a Weaver Syndicate op.”

The kid twirled the machete around his fingers. “Nah, this is personal.” He set the machete and his gun on the ground by the dead old guy.

“Grant sent you,” Jackson surmised. It was very like the Weaver Syndicate leader to send someone off the record to rescue his old friend.

Jamie’s smile faltered. Briefly, something dark slithered across his face. It cut through the stupid vapid grin and wide eyes. But then the smile was back.

“Believe it or not,” Jamie crooned as hesaunteredover to Jackson. “I am capable of doing things without being told.”

Jackson kept an eye on him, unsure of what he had just seen. He had never taken the time to truly examine the assassin. He was slight, whip-thin, and about average height. His face was average too, not quite as soft or endearing as Elijah’s, and a little too sharp. He wore his shoulder-length curly hair long at the back, wispy dark strands tickling his tanned skin. Normally dressed like the rest of the Lan clones, today he was wearing a black button-up shirt with his shoulder holster cinched tightly. The leather clung to him obscenely.

Jamie let him look. He stood above Jackson and let him take his fill with an expectant sort of tilt to his head.

“Where’s your babysitter?”

The grin deepened. It was too wide now, too forced. He was faking it.

“Elijah is off being in love,” Jamie said with forced flippancy. Too aggressive to be genuine.

Interesting.

Jackson yanked at the bindings holding his hands. “You going to untie me?”

“You going to keep talking about other guys?” Jamie fired back.

He bent at the waist and whispered in Jackson’s ear. “I’m getting awfully jealous, Jackie.”

His breath ghosted over the shell of his ear and Jackson found his irritation growing. The anger mounting in him had not been properly vented and it crawled under his skin. It ached, clawing desperately at him for release. It made his heartbeat quicken and his vision narrow.

Jackson heard himself growl. “Shut the fuck up.”

Jamie slipped into his lap, straddling him with his arms loosely wrapped around his bloody shoulders. He leaned his full weight into Jackson. The wounds on his back rubbed on the chair and he resisted the urge to groan.

“Make me.”

Jackson really wanted to hit him.

“Get off me.”