Chapter Text
Zurich was falling. Jack’s ears were still ringing as he dragged himself up to a sitting position. Cement chunks, broken pieces of rebar and shattered glass littered the floor. He felt the pin-pricks of needle-like shards all over his back; his ribs were broken, the sharp pain muted under the layers of panic and fear that flooded his system. Zurich was falling, but that all seemed distant to the pounding in his heart that told him he needed to run. He needed to find Gabriel.
It should have been impossible to move; there was glass embedded in his skin and it tore the muscles with each movement. His leg was crushed beneath a block of concrete, the bones shattered. A piece of rebar was pressed tightly against his left arm, the rusted, sharp edge embedded into the floor inches from his own chest. He was in enormous pain, but years of fighting and violence and a nasty concoction of whatever-the-fuck they pumped into him all those years ago made it easy to ignore what would’ve paralyzed anyone else.
It was a struggle to remove all the debris and destruction off of him, even more so to get himself up in a halfway-crouch before he realized his broken leg was not going to hold him. Crawling it was then. He hadn’t done that since the Crisis.
He didn’t have time to think about it as he set forth, trying to remember where he was, what he had been doing before the ceiling fell on his head. It was coming back to him slowly, in disjointed and shattered fragments.
Gabriel had stormed into his office livid, his face contorted in anger. They had been screaming at each other. That seemed to be all they did nowadays. He couldn’t remember what they had been arguing about, the words were a garbled, tangled mess in his head. In truth, they were probably arguing about a million things. Jack remembered Gabriel snarling with his face twisted in rage, turning heel and slamming the door behind him. Jack had contemplated following him, dragging him back so they could talk ; they hadn’t had a civil conversation in months. In his indecision, the walls around him quite literally crumbled and collapsed.
Gabe , his mind reminded him. You have to find Gabriel.
He had stormed away from Jack not even a minute before the explosion. He couldn’t be far, though Jack wished he was. Perhaps that would mean he was safe. Better than the uncertainty in Jack’s gut that pushed him forward, nudged him to keep moving, keep searching.
Smoke and ash clouded his vision, faded outlines and black spaces making it difficult to see, difficult to know where he was going. All he hoped was that he was getting closer to Gabriel. He would know what to do; he would know how to get them out of here. Whenever Jack was lost, he had always turned to Gabriel. Now would be no different; he just had to find him.
Please be okay. Goddamnit, please be okay.
Jack didn’t know how long he had been searching. It could have been minutes or hours. Time didn’t follow the natural rhythm, or perhaps his distress had begun to turn manic. Jack couldn’t tell; all he could think was that he had to find Gabriel, make sure he was safe. They could survive this, they had to. Half-blind, surely bleeding out and fueled with raw desperation, he pushed forward.
It was like a moment of clarity when Jack rounded the corner; his vision returned to him, eyes burning as everything rapidly came back into focus in sharp, hyper-detail. It took him a moment to realize what he had stumbled across, what he was looking at.
There he was; Gabriel propped up against a large slab of concrete, his head bowed down to his chest, arms resting unmoving by his sides. A thick piece of rebar was impaled through his abdomen. Red pooled around him.
Jack was moving without thinking, tripping over the debris and rubble to get to him. I have to save him . I can still save him.
Despite the fires blazing around them, Gabriel was cold to the touch. Jack shook his head in disbelief, tears welling up in his eyes as an awful sound tore through his throat. With one hand, he searched Gabriel’s neck for a pulse point; with the other, he grabbed his limp hand, the fingers stiff and unmoving. He squeezed the other’s hand tightly, hoping to get a response.
Please move, please move.
“Gabe, come on. It’s me. Look at me. Come on, Gabe , please ,” Jack said repeatedly, his voice weak and shaky. He could feel the hysteria kicking in, his breathing becoming irregular but he couldn’t stop the panic coming over him, overwhelming his senses.
This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be happening.
Gabriel was supposed to be untouchable, indestructible; he had survived SEP, survived the Crisis. They both had. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. They paid their debt to society, put their lives on the line. Gabriel was supposed to be safe, unharmed.
He ripped his hand away from Gabriel’s, hastily wiping the tears blinding his vision, but it was no use, his vision was fading again, quickly growing cloudier, darker.
No, no! I need to see him!
He gave up the search for the pulse as he took Gabriel’s downturned face in both hands, cradling his jaw, his cheeks, rubbing his thumbs along the scarred skin, the bristle of his goatee, lifting his face up and-
A choked sob left his throat as he saw dull, lifeless eyes looking back at him, dried blood resting on his lips. His mind refused to see—to understand—what was right in front of him.
“Gabe, please. Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me. I can’t- Gabe, Gabe, Gabe .”
He was like a broken record now; couldn’t stop saying his name. Each time he got no response it was like a knife stabbing him in the chest. He got more and more desperate, hands growing more insistent as he shook the body before him.
Maybe he was just sleeping . Rationally, he knew otherwise, but he had to cling to some sort of desperation, some sort of way to undo this. Gabriel couldn’t be...he couldn’t even bring up the word. Saying it, thinking it would make the reality too real, too harsh. Jack’s heart was already shattered, his common sense thrown out the window.
Wildly, he thought he’d rather die in stubborn ignorance than live on with the harsh reality.
Even with no response, Jack couldn’t let him go, curling around Gabriel as if to protect him from any further damage. He had no mind for the dangerous piece of rebar sticking out of the man before him, barely felt it as it pressed against his shoulder in his effort to crowd closer, bring warmth to Gabriel’s cold body.
“Please, please, please.”
He was crying now, tears openly running down his face. His eyes were open and he couldn’t see much of anything now. Just shapes and dark patches. His fingers knotted themselves into Gabriel’s hoodie, sticky with red but Jack ignored it. He anchored himself in place and refused to move. Refused to leave.
They always had each other’s backs, even in the worst of it, even with all their fights. No matter what happened, no matter the words they said to each other, Jack always would have Gabriel’s back, always stand by his side. ‘But you don’t fucking trust me.’ Gabriel’s harsh last words rang in his ear.
“I’m sorry,” Jack whimpered, moving impossibly closer, almost as if he were trying to crawl inside Gabriel. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. ”
Too little, too late .
There was a gaping hole in his chest now. Metaphorical to Gabriel’s literal one. His mind was spinning; too many regrets, too much guilt, swallowing him up. If he had just kept Gabriel in his office for one more minute—a measly sixty more seconds—maybe he’d still be breathing.
But it was too late. He was always too late. And now, he’d lost the most important person in his life, his partner, his best friend, his other half. Over half his life had been dedicated to being by Gabriel’s side, being each other’s lifeline. But now Gabriel was gone and Jack felt every part of himself go with him. There was no point in moving on, in living . Not without Gabriel, not with Jack now a shell of an existence, all life drained out of him.
He closed his eyes tight and pressed his face into Gabriel’s shoulder, muffling his sobs. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, how long he would stay there.
“Shhh, shhh, now,” a voice whispered mockingly in his ear; rough, almost mechanical, a hint of familiarity just a tad too distant for Jack to recognize from where, “ no tears from the Strike-Commander. This is your fault.”
Jack reeled away, eyes flying open. Instead of the ruined Zurich base or the faded vision of muted swirls, he saw a red tinted world of sandy deserts. Before him, Gabriel still rested, body still impaled but he moved now, head lifting without Jack there to help. Instead of Gabriel’s lifeless face, Jack was faced with a stark, bone-white mask of a barn owl, dark holes where eyes should be drilling holes into him.
“This could have all been avoided if you had just listened to me.”
“No!” A new panic was rising in his chest. He went to reach for Gabriel but before his hands could grab any part of him, he faded away into smoke and vapor. “No, no, no! ”
Sharp talons dug into the flesh of his neck, yanking him to his feet. He scrambled to find purchase, a way to gain his balance instead of hanging solely by the deadly grip around his throat. There was pressure on the center of his back, cold gun metal pressed unforgivingly. The hard edge of a mask pressed into his shoulder, smoke drifting around him.
“Right here, Jack.”
Pain erupted from a wound long healed. Panic clogged the old soldier’s throat as he struggled with his sleeping bag, frustration growing as it twisted around him further until he started ripping it to shreds. His back was burning, flaring up in pain and he needed to run, needed to get out, needed to-
Before he could sit up and throw on his visor, there was a firm, insisting pressure on his chest, cold hands on his face.
Dead hands, his mind immediately thought as his own came up and grabbed thin narrow wrists, ripping them away from his face.
“Jack,” a sharp, firm voice broke through his panic. “Jack, stop .”
That voice was not Gabriel’s nor was it Reaper’s. Adrenaline left his body immediately and he went limp under the body on top of him. His breathing was still ragged, still uneven and he struggled to bring it back to an even, measured pace. He tried to hold back his trembling, fighting to regain control, but the more he struggled, the more his body wouldn’t cooperate. He was coming apart at the seams; the feeling of Gabriel’s lifeless body in his hands, the earth shattering ache in his chest, all of it tearing him to shreds.
“Breathe, Jack,” the voice—Ana—said above him. Her cool hands were back on his face, pressing against his forehead and cheeks. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m fine,” he rasped back. It was a lie and they both knew it.
Ana didn’t say anything until his breathing was back to normal, his pulse returning to its normal rhythm. It was only then that she got off his chest and sat on the ground beside the shredded remains of his sleeping bag.
“You were screaming,” she said, voice quiet, soothing, like she was speaking to a spooked animal. “Was it the same one as before?”
Jack didn’t want to speak, but he knew Ana wouldn’t leave until he did. “Close enough.”
He couldn’t see her. He still didn’t have on the visor, but he could see the blurry, dark shape of her perched beside him. He could feel her eye on him, critical and searching.
“You can’t continue on like this.”
“I know.”
Ana let out a frustrated sigh, clearly unhappy with his passivity. “You aren’t sleeping. ”
“I get enough.” He had never gotten much sleep, not since joining the army at eighteen and resigning his existence to serving and protecting. “I’m fine.” Saying it again only made it sound less true. He had always been a shit liar and Ana had always been far too skilled at seeing the cracks in his composure. Her skill had only been out-matched by Gabriel.
He saw Ana’s shape move, standing up to full height and moving away. The farther she went, the less her shape held until she blended into the gray and blurry world around him. He had to rely on his other senses to track her, his ear picking up the rustling of jars and tools. He knew what she was getting. Relief fell on him; melting the tension out of his bones, the promise of peace—however temporary—right there.
“Just this once,” she repeated the same sentiment she said every time she gave him the sleeping aid.
“Just this once,” he repeated, knowing that it wouldn’t be the case.
It was a simple syrup, thick and tasteless. She yielded and gave it to him three times before now. Each time it had brought him hours of dreamless sleep. He wanted it every night but Ana refused. She could say it was because the ingredients were difficult to get or having him so comatose was dangerous if their position was revealed, but he knew the truth was she didn’t want him to get addicted to it. Addicted to the numbness it brought, the blank wall it provided between him and everything that haunted him. The fog that would clog and suffocate the guilt and pain of Gabriel.
Ana came back from the blurry abyss, her figure growing firmer, more solid as she came closer. He followed the movement, though he knew his eyes were glazed and unfocused.
He held his hand out expectantly when she approached, but there was hesitation as she held the glass vial away from him.
“Tomorrow you are leaving.”
Dread instantly replaced the relief in his chest. “Why-”
“You are useless like this. You need time to rest. Time to get your head on straight.” She crouched down before him, her cool hand cradling his face. “I won’t have you dying on me a second time just because you are too stubborn.”
“Our mission-”
“-can wait until you get back. You’ve waited six years, one week will be nothing.” Her voice was deceptively soft. There was no room for argument. “One week, Jack. Go and rest. Sort out your mind in solitude and decide.”
He didn’t know what she meant by that but he knew she wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t let him do anything but what she wanted.
“Okay.”
He could hear the smile in her voice, his mind providing a distorted version from an era long past. “Good. We’ve been too busy planning and preparing to let us both reflect. We need time.” You need time .
He didn’t want to continue the conversation and held out his hand for the vial once more.
Ana relented this time, pressing the small glass container in his hands.
“Remember your promise, Jack.”
He didn’t want to remember, but he nodded his head as he uncorked the vial. He poured it down his throat, ignoring its cool, nothing taste, eager to forget. Even if it was momentary.
Forty-eight hours later, Jack stood in front of a faded-red door halfway across the world. As the sun began to set behind him, he couldn’t help but remember a time the door’s ruby paint had been fresh and bright. The red-orange tint of his visor was a mimicry of its old appearance and he couldn’t stand to look at it long.
It had been six years—probably more if he was being honest with himself—since he had last set foot in this apartment. He no longer had a key, but after a quick look under the ratted, faded door mat, he found the spare untouched by time.
He held the metal key in his palm with unease. He would have thought the apartment had been sold immediately after his death, but evidently, that was not the case. The potted plant that had once sat beside the door was gone, but the cracked pot’s remains were still there and the little Halloween bats were still stuck to the door, time preserving them far better than the tape that initially held them in place.
It was a piece of his old life, preserved in a film of dust and old age. Just like him, really. Ana had told him to figure his shit out and Jack could think of no better place to do it. Or worse; he hadn’t really decided. It all sounded like a fine idea when he boarded the plane from Cairo to Los Angeles, but now that he stood before the door, he was unsure.
Part of him wanted to leave, get on the next bus out of the city and land himself in the middle of nowhere until his flight back to Cairo in a week. That would be the easy thing to do. Maybe better for the storm rolling around in his head. It was safer and easier to lock down the hatches and weather the pain and destruction than to leave the windows and doors open and vulnerable.
But, a small part of him, fragile and broken, wanted to open the door and get lost in what was. He could almost picture it now, closing his eyes and seeing that freshly-painted red door with the potted porthos spilling onto the porch. Halloween bats stuck to the door despite it being April. He could smell warmth and spices, drifting from the kitchen through the door. He wanted there to be a warm, sturdy embrace on the other side.
It was that thought that pulled him from the memory as quickly as he fell into it, made that small part of him crack and nearly shatter. Everything else he’d be able to replicate. He could repaint the door, get a new plant, learn to cook...he could even bring someone new into his life, but that wouldn’t be the same. It would never be the same.
His hands clenched around the key, shaking. This was a mistake. Ana was wrong. There was no way he could get his head sorted. It was safe to say it had never been sorted. Maybe that concussion back in basic fucked him up for life. Maybe he was still knocked out and none of this was real. That would be the dream.
A door opened on the landing below him, reminding Jack just where he was. This cozy little suburb in Los Angeles was safe and residential. It had been the reason they had picked this as their little getaway house in the first place. Soldier: 76 had no business there, which was why Jack left everything of that identity locked away in a duffel bag slung across his shoulders. The only identifiable piece on him was his visor.
Hearing the distant chatter of one of his neighbors sprung him into action. He could deal with his emotional crisis once he was behind closed doors.
The locks were rusted from disuse and difficult to turn. With a little more force than was probably necessary, Jack managed to unlock the stubborn door and pull himself inside.
When he had last left the apartment, Jack had closed everything up with shutters to protect this little safe haven as much as possible. Time left it relatively unchanged, just a thick layer of dust and stuffy air.
Locking the door behind him and dropping his stuff by the door, Jack slowly made his way through the apartment. It was small, basic, never used for more than a few days at a time. A living room, kitchen, single bedroom with an attached bathroom and a balcony. It had been perfect at the time, a sweet little nest for lovers.
A pit opened up in Jack’s stomach at the thought. This had been a mistake, he reminded himself as he looked around, eyes narrowing on everything that reminded him of Gabriel: pictures in delicate frames, a blanket over the back of the couch his mother had made them, a small table in the corner with a worn deck of cards. It was a slew of mementos, all ranging from sentimental to daily necessities but Jack could only look at every item with an ache in his heart.
He spent an hour traversing through the living room, examining each and every object but never touching. Everything had to remain timeless, undisturbed. This place was a single piece of history that Jack didn’t want tarnished, didn’t want ruined. He did the same maneuver through the kitchen, taking note of the outdated and moldy spices in their cabinet and the two dust-covered mugs abandoned to dry in the sink.
When he had made his sweep of the main living area, his eyes turned to the single door leading to the bedroom. A new pain raced through his body, wrapping around his heart and squeezing with so much pressure it would surely pop. The last time he had been in that room, slept in that bed, it had been with Gabriel, when there was love in each other’s eyes instead of the hate that would fester in the coming days—no, minutes, after leaving the apartment.
This place had been more than a vacation home. It had been their reprieve from everything. Any arguments they had in the outside world faded away the second they stepped inside. It had been Gabriel’s idea.
“I’m done fighting, Jack,” he had said, exhaustion weighing down on him. “I can’t keep going like this or I’m going to crash and burn.” With a heavy sigh, decision had filled Gabriel’s eyes, locking them with Jack’s. “Let’s just leave it all outside. No more fighting, no more arguing. Just for a little, while we are here. We can forget the rest of the world for one night, can’t we, Jackie? We deserve that at the very least.”
Jack had nodded his head all too eagerly. This was the first time in months since they were able to get away together. He didn’t want to waste what little time they had. “No fighting, no arguing ,” Jack agreed willingly, drawing Gabriel closer, tangling their fingers together. “Just us.”
The smile on Gabriel’s face had made Jack’s heart race. Now it only made it hurt. “Just us.”
Perhaps it had been part of the problem, bottling up all those emotions and acting as if everything was fine. If they had taken that time to talk instead, maybe, just maybe, this all could have been avoided.
He shook those thoughts away, burying the memory down with all the rest.
Jack looked at the couch with consideration. Perhaps, he wouldn’t enter the other room, leave it locked away with the safe, happy memories it held. A mausoleum of better times. The weaker part of him needed to look inside, needed the reminder that it had been real.
He crumbled under the pressure and entered the room.
It was the same as he remembered it: a large king-size bed taking up most of the space with two nightstands hugging either side of the bed frame. Opposite of the bed was a long dresser with a mirror propped in the center. It was utilitarian, stripped of any frivolous things. The only touch of personality was a single photo on the nightstand on the side Jack used to claim. It was an old picture of Jack and Gabriel back when they first met in SEP. They were both young, reckless, and far more innocent then.
Jack didn’t hesitate crossing the room and grabbing the frame, holding it close as he studied it.
His face was much rounder then, still going through his first injections. His eyes were bright and his smile even brighter. His arm was wrapped tightly around Gabriel’s shoulders, his cheek nearly pressed right up against the other’s. Gabriel’s own face was open , something Jack wouldn’t have thought when he had first met the man. However, after knowing him for years, seeing how Gabriel truly looked when he closed himself off, Jack could only see it as honest and open. His face was clear of a few scars he had yet to earn and his smile was reserved, secretive.
He had to beg Gabriel to take this photo. Jack’s mother had requested it, wanting to see him and ‘that boy you keep talking about’ . After an hour of begging and guilt-tripping— ‘Come on, Reyes, you are gonna break that poor woman’s heart. Are you that cruel?’— he finally managed to pull the other aside and snag the photo, even getting Gabriel to smile ; a feat no one had managed until that point. There had been a bet going on. Gabriel had taken one look at the photo, rolled his eyes, then said ‘Do I at least get a copy of this shit?’ Jack readily supplied him an actual, physical copy three days later. It was the same one that sat in the frame; the edges were worn and frayed from years of being carried around, hard ceases down the middle where it had been folded and held safely. Gabriel had kept it all that time.
Jack bit his lip hard, eyes clenched shut. God, I miss him.
Without thinking about it, Jack sunk down onto the bed, cradling the picture in his arms as if it were the most delicate thing in the world. So many years had passed since this photo had been taken, so many years of hardship and loss. Guilt and regret weighed down on Jack’s shoulders, threatening to crush him entirely.
Setting the photo aside, Jack stood up from the bed. Without Ana and her sleeping potions or calming teas, Jack needed to rely on a different old friend. He made his way back to the living room, crouching by his previously discarded duffle bag. It contained a few sets of clothes, his gear, and enough supplies to last him a day or two. He dug around, hands wrapping around the cool glass of what he was looking for.
It wouldn’t be nearly as effective as the concoction Ana made, but a bottle of whiskey would work just fine to numb the pain.
He uncapped the bottle and immediately downed three large gulps. His system would burn through the alcohol if he took his time with it. To get what he wanted, he had to down the bottle as quickly as possible; overload his system so he could get some success. It was halfway gone by the time he stepped foot back in the bedroom.
He could feel the effects already taking hold: tension unhooking its claws from his muscles, white noise filling his ears, any ambition he had not to disturb his home was gone as he slowly began to shed off his clothes, taking a lengthy sip from the bottle with each piece he removed until he was down to his boxers, visor, and the chain around his neck.
Jack crawled onto his side of the bed, mindful to not disturb Gabriel’s side. Taking another lengthy sip, he turned to face the photo he had studied before. The ache was still in his chest, but the whiskey was burning it out until it was only a phantom of a feeling.
Clumsy, numb fingers reached absently for the chain around his neck. Two half-sets of dog tags and a ring. His fingers drifted over the engraved words of the dog tags. He could barely feel the lettering but he knew them by heart. As his fingers fell on the ring, he pressed it against his skin. He only had half the set as well. Jack wondered if Gab- Reaper carried the other half of these three belongings.
Probably not, he thought to himself, bile rising in his throat. If it wasn’t lost in the explosion, he’d have long ago gotten rid of it. Maybe he hadn’t been wearing them at all. Jack wouldn’t blame him if he had, he should do the same. Take off the chain and chuck it out the window. Hell, some lucky kid could make a fortune on finding Strike-Commander Morrison’s dog tag from the Crisis. Gabriel’s would fetch a high price as well. Though, the tarnish from his Blackwatch career wouldn’t hold it to the same esteem, Gabriel was still the hero of the Crisis and Los Angeles would never forget him. This was Gabriel’s city, after all.
He had the ball-chain necklace off before he could think about it any further, holding the metal tags tightly in one hand. Reasonably, throwing them out would only raise suspicion. Throwing them out together would be leagues worse. Chucking them where no one would find them would be better. Though, Jack knew he wouldn’t ever be able to part with them. Not really. At the end of the day, he was still the same old sentimental fool Gabriel used to call him all the time.
Turning over on his side, Jack now faced the empty expanse of the bed. It felt far bigger without another body there. Gently, he laid the chain, dog tags, and ring in the middle of the spot that had once been Gabriel’s.
Sentimental fool, indeed.
Polishing off the last of the whiskey, Jack dropped the empty bottle over the side of the bed before fumbling to remove his visor. Drunken sorrow rocked up against his emotionally exhausted mind, twisting around until unconsciousness pressed against him, forcing sleep to take over. Eyes mostly blind in the darkness of the room, Jack could only pretend the dark shadows were Gabriel, returning from some other part of the apartment to finally join him in bed.
There was no warmth, no skin-on-skin contact, no weight of another person laying beside him, but he would pretend. Let himself drift off into another memory.
It had been years since Gabriel Reyes was alive, a few additional years since he had stepped foot in this quiet little suburb of Los Angeles. With Gabriel dead, Reaper took on the path instead, shifting through the night and hiding in the shadows. He drifted up the concrete steps of the apartment building before materialize in front of the flaking and faded red door. It had been Reyes’ idea to paint it red, Morrison had agreed willingly.
Morrison .
The name reminded him why he was wasting his time here. Shifting into smoke once more, he pulled himself through the bottom crack of the door and slipped inside.
Years of disuse left the air stale. Reaper didn’t take the time or care to examine the remains of two dead men’s home. He stepped with purpose, avoiding the upturned duffle bag, though noting the pulse rifle and sidearm laid secure in its depths. As he approached the bedroom door, he withdrew his shotguns. It was time to end this. Finish the job. Put his mind at ease. Jack Morrison was supposed to be dead. Reaper would correct the error.
He ghosted through the crack of the door. Undoubtedly, the hinges would creak if he tried to open them. Best put the old man down when he least expected it. Far more humane than he deserved but it was a sacrifice Reaper was willing to make.
As he solidified on the other side of the door, shotguns raised and ready to pull the trigger, he was given pause.
Stripped of all of his gear and most of his clothing, Soldier: 76— Jack —laid bare on the bed. On the floor, where his clothing laid thrown about and disorderly, was an empty bottle.
Pendejo .
Lowering his shotguns, Reaper drifted closer, leaning over the bed to observe the sleeping man. Curled up on his side, facing the expanse of the bed but sticking to only half of it. Anger boiled in Reaper’s gut as he turned his gaze to the other side of the bed. Not nearly as empty as it should be.
He didn’t need to examine the objects much closer to know what they were.
Suspicion rose up in Reaper’s shoulders. There had to be something going on. Soldier: 76 had been a thorn in Talon’s side for nearly six years; there was no way he was getting stupidly sentimental now . After what? After their confrontation in Giza?
Holstering his shotguns, Reaper drifted to the other side of the room, standing before the empty spot left for the man he used to be.
Was this some ill-conceived trap? Was Ana lurking in the shadows? What was the end game here?
Puzzled, maybe more than a little curious, Reaper dematerialized; slipping out the sliding door that led to the balcony, through the miniscule cracks left in the shutter and repositioned himself to the next building over.
No, Jack Morrison wasn’t stupid. Woefully ignorant and naive, yes. Cripplingly weak and sentimental, absolutely. But stupid? Never. There was more going on here. More than what met the eyes. Morrison had always been sneakier than he let on, more underhanded and vicious than he’d let the public believe. But Gabriel knew better, Reaper knew better.
So Reaper would sit and wait and strike later.