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“For the final time, get the fuck out of here!” Yassen ordered, his voice harsh from an unhealthy combination of exhaustion and pain. “I can hold them.”
“Sorry, that last explosion left me a bit deaf,” Ian countered, bringing down one of their opponents with a snap shot that he would have been rather proud of if he’d been able to spare a thought for anything beyond the immediately serious business of staying alive.
“That line wore thin at least six months ago, Rider. Now do the sensible thing, for once. You’ve got a nephew to bring up, remember?”
“I remember.” At least he did most of the time. “You might be able to hold them, but you won’t be able to get out of here by yourself.”
Not with a badly twisted ankle that wouldn’t bear his weight and a bullet wound to the left thigh. A through and through, from what he’d seen before packing the wounds with a dead man’s shirt and securing the makeshift padding with a belt. The words went unsaid. Yassen didn’t need reminding of his injuries. He’d no doubt catalogued them all by now and adjusted his chances of survival accordingly.
“Let me worry about that. You still owe me dinner in Paris. I won’t let that debt go uncollected.” Yassen shoved the Sig Sauer into his belt and grabbed the AR-15 he’d taken from one of the guards in their mutual target’s tasteless mansion and promptly dropped one man with a terrifyingly accurate headshot from an almost impossible angle.
“I never took you for the noble, self-sacrificing hero type …”
“Good, because I’m not. Now fuck off.”
“You only swear when you’re really worried.”
Yassen shifted position fractionally, squeezed the trigger as calmly as a target shooter on a range, and prevented another private military contractor from receiving a retirement bonus.
“I do not. I swear when you are a stubborn pain in my arse.”
“Don’t worry, when I finally get near your arse, I’ll make sure it’s not painful.”
For a split second, Yassen took his eye off the game, letting Ian get in a lucky shot from an equally bad angle to take down the sniper that had them pinned down. “Rider, I do the flirting, remember? You’re too serious for flirting.”
Ian grinned. “Sorry, didn’t hear that, either.”
Yassen shot him a tired smile. “Does that mean I’m finally on a promise?”
“Maybe, but not if you’re dead. I draw the line at necrophilia.”
“You’re MI6. Don’t try to fool yourself, you galloped past any lines years ago.”
There was some truth in that, but with at least six unreasonably competent mercenaries still to deal with, a debate about the morals of their respective employers would have to wait. “Up and get your arm round my shoulders. I’ll take your weight. Can you hop and shoot that piece of Yank crap at the same time?”
“We’re about to find out …”
****
“I knew it was a mistake letting you watch Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
Despite Ian’s light-hearted words, the barely suppressed grunts of pain from his passenger had told him all he needed to know as their stolen Range Rover tore up the dirt tracks in France’s absurdly picturesque Gorge du Tarn region.
“What’s your problem? We’re alive, aren’t we?”
“More than can be said for that bunch of cut-price muppets.” Yassen sniffed disdainfully.
“One of those cut-price muppets put a hole in your leg.” The PMCs had actually been pretty good, and had come very close to turning their mad dash into a suicide run. Only Yassen’s almost preternaturally fast reactions had managed to even the odds, and the last three decided they didn’t like the odds and had backed off.
“Ricochet. That one was too brainless for a direct shot.”
“Well, he was when you’d finished with him. A 9mm soft-nose tends to have that effect on the cranial cavity. Did you get what we came for?”
“There is no ‘we’ on this mission, Rider. We’re on opposite sides.”
Ian took the turn onto a metalled road on two wheels and floored the accelerator. “Have it your own way. At least all Blunt can do is send me a stuff memo. I imagine your lot express their disapproval in slightly more permanent ways.”
“I’m more valuable to Scorpia alive, but I do have a large bonus riding on this one.”
“Then can you manage to avoid bleeding to death for at least an hour?”
“If I can’t, you can have the memory stick.”
“Thank you, Yas. That’s kind of you.”
While Ian concentrated on not losing control of the vehicle, Yassen closed his eyes and started to draw in slow, deep breaths. Forty-five minutes later, Ian was confident that they hadn’t picked up a tail. In that time, he’d changed vehicles twice, ditching the Range Rover as quickly as he could in case it had been fitted with a tracker. When he swung off the main road through a village called Bertholène on the N88 onto a farm track, Yassen finally opened his eyes.
“Are we there yet?”
“No, but it’s a good start.”
“MI6 safe house?”
“Holiday cottage I rented here last year when I took Alex on a walking holiday. It’s a safe bet the owners haven’t changed the code on the key safe. Even if they have, breaking in won’t be too taxing.”
He was right, and ten minutes later, Ian had put the stolen car in the garage, let them into the converted barn using the code and got the central heating going. While a kettle was boiling, he found the well-stocked first aid kit that the owners kept for their guests and practically had to stand over Yassen while he swallowed two paracetamol with the aid of a hefty slug of whisky.
“There aren’t any stronger painkillers, and the next bit is going to hurt.”
Yassen rolled his eyes. “I have had bullet wounds before. As you well know, it’s an occupational hazard.”
“I’m going to have to cut those trousers off.”
“Go ahead. I’m not sentimentally attached to them.” Yassen pushed himself up from the kitchen chair. “This would be better done in the shower, no?”
Ian held back a smile with some difficulty. When Yassen was tired or injured, his normally impeccable Home Counties accent fractured and a hint of his origins slipped through the cracks.
“Lean on me,” Ian offered. To his surprise, Yassen accepted the help.
The removal of his blood-stained clothes took some time, with Ian depositing each item in the bath to await disposal until Yassen stood naked in the large shower, leaning on the white tiled wall, his weight on his good leg as Ian examined the blood-stained remnants of the dead guard’s shirt. He eased them away until he was able to see the damage underneath.
A straight through-and-through from a handgun rather than a rifle, towards the outside of Yassen’s toned thigh. No damage to any major blood vessels and probably not much muscle damage. The contract killer had got off lightly.
Ian studiously avoided looking at Yassen’s cock, even when he was on eye level with it. Treating gunshot wounds couldn’t be classed as foreplay, even by their somewhat warped standards of behaviour.
“I’m going to clean this with water then bandage it. I’ll strap that ankle up properly as well. I think that’s all you need, unless there’s anything else you’d like to tell me about.”
Cool fingers carded through Ian’s short hair. “Maybe many things, but not now.”
Ian looked up and for once, Yassen’s blue eyes held warmth, without their usual cloaking veneer of ice. “The USB dive is in the left-hand pocket of my former trousers. I’m sure I won’t notice if you happen to take a copy of it.”
“What about your bonus?”
“I never promised exclusivity.”
Ian smiled. “Good, you’ll need that bonus when I pick the most expensive restaurant in Paris for date night.”
“Since when did date night become a thing between us?”
Ian rested his forehead against Yassen’s hip for a moment, his own exhaustion washing over him like a cold tide. He was sick of MI6 and their constant demands. He’d already missed too much of Alex’s life. Fun outdoor holidays didn’t make up for not being there to help with homework or go to parent-teacher evenings or make him hot drinks if he was poorly. Alex was growing up and Ian didn’t want to come home one day and find they’d become strangers to each other.
“Ian?” Yassen’s voice was uncharacteristically soft and his hand continued to stroke his hair, damp now from the spray of the shower.
“I’m fine,” he lied smoothly. “Just tired. Come on, let’s get that leg bandaged.”
“You need to get clean as well. There’s almost as much blood on you as there was on me.”
“Most of it was yours.”
“And some of it wasn’t.”
Ian let Yassen tug him upright with the collar of his shirt like a cat picking up a kitten by the scruff of its neck. Bowing to the inevitable, Ian stripped off, setting his knives and Glock 17 next to Yassen’s weapons on the shelf at the end of the bath. Strong arms slipped around Ian’s waist and pulled him close. Taking care to avoid Yassen’s injured leg, Ian let himself relax into the embrace, his head resting on Yassen’s shoulder as warm water cascaded over their shoulders and down their backs.
For once, there was no teasing, none of their usual flirtation. They were both exhausted and hadn’t expected to make it out of the mansion complex alive. The slow seepage of adrenaline from his system had left Ian felling cold, despite the warmth of the water. He was bone weary and wanted to sleep for a week. Eventually, he drew away, pressed a light kiss to Yassen’s lips and turned off the water.
“We’re probably going to owe the owners a new set of towels,” he commented.
“And a bottle of whisky, some clothes and no doubt the contents of their kitchen cupboards.”
“We’ll toss a coin tomorrow to decide whose expense account it goes on.”
Once they were both dry, with all injuries checked and treated, Ian quickly cooked a meal of tinned soup followed by corned beef with tinned potatoes and peas, then – armed with a large glass of pretty decent single malt – they retired to bed; sharing the double bed in one of the three bedrooms, piling it high with fleece throws to keep out the chill, as lighting the stove might send an unwelcome signal that the cottage was occupied. Despite its isolation, they couldn’t discount the possibility of watchful locals.
Before sleep finally claimed him, Ian felt the light press of Yassen’s lips to his shoulder, breath warm on his skin as light as a moth’s wings, and a soft voice murmured, “Give this life up, Ian, before it claims you the way it claimed John.”
Ian felt a shiver dance down his spine, then a warm arm settled around his waist, driving away the chill. He turned and kissed Yassen equally lightly on the lips. “You too, Yas. He never wanted this life for you.”
Yassen’s arms tightened around him, and Ian knew that was all the answer he was likely to get.
He’d learned to pick his battles. But he knew he had one of his own still to fight, and he hoped it wouldn’t be against Yassen.