[TIER 10] IATL: Chapter 13

Warning for death, bodily torture and rape (object penetration)

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"Michael."

The blue-eyed man smirks. "You look good for a dead man." Michael's eyes are intent on Lucas's face, his hands steady as they rest on top of the table. The muzzle of the Colt trained at his chest. He looks relaxed, laid back in Lucas's chair.

Lucas narrows his eyes at Michael, his heart resumes a steady rhythm. Oddly enough, seeing Michael again, in his office of all places, does not jarred him as much as he thought. He was surprised, yes. Shocked, not so much. Lucas looks him over, being obvious about it. He lets his eyes trail down Michael's perfect face with his strong dark brows to his broad chest, and takes in the fitting black t-shirt he had on underneath a dark brown leather jacket. Typical Michael dress code. Simple, subtle, not attention grabbing. He's here on a job.

Lucas curls the corner of his lips. A cold smile complementing the gleam Lucas knows is in his eyes like he's amused. He tilts his head, watching as Michael's cocky expression shifts a little. A flash of something behind his steel blue eyes. With a nonchalance he doesn't have to fake, he saunters towards the desk, one sure step after the other. Their eyes locked on each other, intense and cautious. An impromptu standoff.

Apart from the slight narrowing of his eyes, Michael remains motionless as Lucas settles into the chair opposite him. The whole time, his finger rests on the trigger. Leaning back in the seat, he puts his elbows on the armrest and crosses his fingers in front of him. Then, he hooks his chin above his thumbs. "How did you find me?" he asks, curious.

Something like amusement and familiar exasperation dance in Michaels' eyes as he huffs. The look sends his stomach into chaos. Like a thousand butterflies had decided to take off at once. …Butterflies? "Cocky as always. I see you haven't changed one bit since the last time I saw you."

"You mean the time where you tried to kill me?" Lucas snaps. He meant to sound aloof, detached but instead it came off biting, hurt. He tries to calm himself down, smoothen out his face. If he doesn't get a grip on his emotions, he might as well show his hands. Which will not do. Lucas doesn't want Michael to see how much he affects him.

Something in his expression must be off, though because Michael flinches. The action is not pronounced. More a flicker than anything. If Lucas hadn't been watching him as intently as he did, he would have missed it. Before he could read too much into it, Michael smirks, a small twist at the corner of his lips, leaving Lucas to wonder if he had seen the flinch at all.

"You're still pissed about that?" Michael has the audacity to roll his eyes.

A muscle at the side of his face twitches as he tries to stop the retort he can feel waiting to lash out. A slow dread fills him. Michael is acting like this isn't a big deal. Like this was just one of their petty fights. Like maybe he'd drank from his coffee cup instead of putting a bullet in his chest.

"It was a hit. I'm just doing my job. You know how it is." Michael waves his free hand in a vague gesture.

Oh, he knows how it is alright. They were partners. Hitmen. Assassins. Gun for hire. Or whatever you want to call someone who kills people for a living. It's what they do. It's their job. They get a file containing the target's information and a set of instructions and they follow it to the T. From day one, he knew what Michael was. But he never thought he'd be standing at the end of the barrel of his gun one day.

Unlike Michael, he hadn't started out as a killer. When he turned eighteen, he left the halfway house to join the army. He was a natural. Survival is second nature for him. He didn't survive the system by being soft. He did it by being the alpha. Before long he was promoted to special forces where he served for two years. It was then that the lines started to blur. There's no white or black anymore. Just gray.

And the things he had done in the name of his beloved country. The one he swore to protect and serve. He didn't know how torture and extortion contributed to any of that. He didn't know when his life became a string of lies, manipulation and violence. Every day that passed left him a little colder, less caring. Emotionless. Numb. He had to be in order to cope. He had to be an unfeeling foot soldier, ready to act at every bark of an order. Soon, it became routine.

It wasn't until his last assignment that he came to question everything. Question his actions, doubts niggling at the edge of his mind. His mission was pretty cut and dry. Seduce, infiltrate and report back. A recon. His target was Duarte Saverin, a wealthy businessman from Lisbon, Portugal. According to his superior, he was part of an intricate, almost impenetrable syndicate worldwide. A string of webs and connections that layered into every level of financial and political hierarchy. Because of its sensitive subjects, the organization as a whole is still shrouded in darkness, sub to core members unknown. Lucas was tasked to uncover it. Their only lead was Duarte.

Going by the cover, Noah Palicki, his orders were clear. Duarte had a daughter, Isabel Saverin. Based on the intel they had, she was not involved with her father's activity and was oblivious to his involvement with the syndicate. Lucas was to approach her, seduce her and get her father's trust. It seemed easy enough. It wasn't his first rodeo. The fact that he rarely felt any romantic inclination worked in his favor.

What he hadn't expected was that Isabel turned out to be a strong independent woman with a heart of gold. He was enamored by her kindness, her love for life in everything she did. She volunteered at the grief recovery support group twice a week. It was decided that he is to make first contact there, under the guise of losing his wife and child to a drunk driver. Their relationship progressed steadily just as planned, but his feelings for her developed throughout the months as well. Until one day, he realized that he'd fallen for her.

On the work front, he was well on his way to acquiring Duarte's confidence. And when wedding plans were made a year later, he was finally taken into the fold. Duarte had told him he wanted someone he can trust, someone who could take over the business. And not just the one for the public. He'd told Lucas about the syndicate then, keeping it vague, gauging him, testing him. He wanted to see if his future son-in-law had what it takes for the task at hand.

Months into the wedding, he was systematically introduced into the ranks. It was slow work, but he had been gaining intel, observing and reporting back. The syndicate had been bigger than they thought, their network reaching worldwide level. So deep in his cover, it was terrifying and stressful. And his relationship with Isabel blossomed more than ever, her support and love was what kept him going. Even though he knew one day, the truth will surface.

The day came sooner than he'd thought. Someone from his own side betrayed him. A mole. And his cover was blown. He was ambushed, confronted in a room with Duarte and his brother, Andreas who had been against him from the very start. Untrusting and jealous. Jealous that Duarte favored him. The situation was dire; he knew there were men stationed outside the door and as soon as he opened fire, they would rush in. But he was trained for this type of situation. Lucas drew out his gun and shot, hitting Duarte in the chest. He went down but not before both brothers managed to squeeze out shots of their own. He was hit. But it wasn't fatal.

Men rushed in and it was chaos. Bullets flew, brain matter splattered on the walls, men toppling over to their death. In the midst of all that violence, Isabel ran in. And it was reflex, well worn into him, that had him raise his gun and shoot at the newcomer. The stunned look on her face as she stood, still for a moment before she toppled backward still haunts him. The dribble of blood trickling from the wound in her head down her straight nose. He froze. Unable to react, unable to think. All his training hadn't prepared him for this. Hadn't prepared him for the murder of someone he loved. He was overpowered within minutes.

The next time he woke up, he was in captivity. The one person he saw was Andreas. And occasionally his men. The months he spent in Andreas's hand was hell, his day passed in a haze of pain and humiliation. Every single day, Andreas would come up with a new form of torture to torment him. He had been drowned and revived. Bludgeoned with blunt objects. Had his bones broken and healed and broken again. His nails tore from their place on his fingers and toes.

After several months of that, Andreas had decided to get more creative. He started abusing him sexually, forcing object after object into his anus. He was torn open with the blunt head of a baseball bat. The handle of a sniper. Cracked beer bottles. And one time, for the thrill of it, Andreas shoved a colt inside him and played Russian Roulette with the one bullet he left inside. It had escalated to the point where he couldn't remember what it was like to not feel the wetness between his asscheeks. He had bled into his dirty stained boxers for the rest of his captivity.

There was nothing but time and pain in that cell; to reflect, to think. Someone had betrayed him, and his people had left him here to rot in his own blood and feces. After all that he had done, after all that he had sacrificed. He can't see the point anymore. The first few months, he had burned with a deep hatred, had vowed revenge but as the days wore on, the anger dulled into resentment. And in time, defeat. He had no energy left to harbor such strong feelings. He was going to die alone and broken in this cell anyway.

Or so he thought, until one day, the door opened and it wasn't Andreas at the entrance but Michael. The man had looked at him with steely blue eyes, mouth in a firm line, head tilted. Thinking that he was another one of Andreas's men, came to torture him some more, Lucas stared up at him, unflinching from the corner of the room. The floor is dirty with bodily fluids, piss and excrement but he doesn't care. His dignity is long gone. He wasn't afraid of Andreas anymore, by then he just wanted to die. So he kept staring.

Michael had saved him from that hell hole. He had taken Lucas back to his home, tended his wounds and took care of him until he was able to stand on his own two feet. Until broken bones healed and bruises faded. It took him three weeks for his anus to stop bleeding. He felt humiliated every time he sat down and blood seeped into his underwear. Michael never said a word when he noticed the stains and for that, he was grateful.

Two months passed, and he was starting to look like himself again. He was glad Andreas's preferred method of torture did not include the knife. There's not a scar on his body to remind him of his time in hell. But put him behind an x-ray and it will tell a whole different story.

Michael hadn't said it, but during the months when he was healing, he had left a few times. Staying away for a few days at a time. And each time, he would pack a bag. Lucas had packed enough provisions in his time to know what that bag meant. He didn't comment on it, until one day, Michael approached him with a set of photographs. They were the men who had tortured him. He hadn't said anything, just laid them down on the table and fixed him with those damn blue eyes. Asking but not asking.

He knew then that Michael was on the job the day he met him. Knew that Andreas is dead. He felt a pang of regret that he wasn't able to kill the bastard himself. But he went after all the men that had taken part in his torture and dehuminazation with a fervor. A single-minded focus, sparing no thoughts or sympathy as he shot them down dead, one by one. Ever since then, he was Michael's unofficial partner.

Their working relationship slowly developed into a sort of kinship. Not exactly a friendship. But you don't go into the battlefield without some kind of bond and trust with the person having your back. Living in the same house, sharing the same space, traveling together, they were inseparable. They have learned each other's habits and quirks, falling into step with one another.

While Lucas's methods are more instinct-based, Michael is the complete opposite. He is clinical and meticulous with laser sharp precision, calculating his every move. He treats each assignment with the same level of commitment, his eyes on the prize. He went through kills like drill. Lucas knew this, and he admired Michael's professionalism and conviction.

So yes, if Lucas was the intended target, Michael wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through his head. Funny how he'd known that but it still hurts anyway. The betrayal sings in his blood. Staring at the man in front of him, he sighs. "What do you want, Michael?"

Michael continues to stare at him. Then very deliberately, he lifts his finger from the trigger, flips the safety on and places the colt on the table; muzzle faced away from the both of them. Lucas glances down at the colt then back up at Michael, frowning. "You're not going to shoot me?" he asks tonelessly, ignoring the stirring in his guts at the gesture.

"Why would I? You were presumed dead. My work is done," Michael shrugs.

Lucas narrows his eyes at Michael's words. He knows that is not quite the truth. To end every assignment, they need proof of death. Usually a picture or a death certificate. And he had none. Michael seems to be hiding something behind those words and if given the time, Lucas would analyze it further, but there are more pressing matters at the moment like- "You haven't answered my question. How did you find me?"

"I didn't find you," he says, enunciating the word 'find.' "I thought you were dead." His words are soft but stoic. Michael's gaze wavers for a brief second before they harden into an icy pool of water again. He slides a file across the table. Lucas stares at it, frowning when he realizes that it's not one of his.

"Go ahead. Read it."

He hesitates, staring at Michael, trying to figure out what he's playing at. When he sees nothing outwardly, he reaches for the file. Opening it, he recognizes it immediately for what it is. This is a target. His eyes widen as he sees the photograph. That's the man that assaulted Gabriel.

Lucas scans through the information in the files, eyes flitting through the page. Gordon Walker. Age 39, Black, 6ft tall. Right-hand man for Madden Kubrick of Bleeding Vamps, a gang in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Arrested for possession of drug with intent to sell, aggravated sexual assault and suspicion for first-degree murder. He was not charged on any of those arrests on reasons that they were dropped or thrown from court because of a technicality. The more he reads about this man, the angrier he becomes. He closes the file calmly and leans back in his seat.

"I want in."

Michael considers him for a moment, his blue eyes prodding. "I've been tracking Walker's movement for a while now. I knew he would be in town. So I've been lying in wait. Three days and nothing. But then, I heard about the attack at the truck stop." His eyes are shining bluer than ever now, piercing. "Imagine my surprise when I saw you at the hospital. You were so furious; you didn't even realize I was there."

His heart skips a beat. Was Michael at the hospital? His blood runs cold at the thought. The fact that he was so close to Michael and not knowing. The hair at the back of his neck stands. They stare at one another across the table, trying to see who can outlast the other. The silence in the room is near suffocating. Then-

"Gabriel Ward."

"What about him?"

"What is he to you?"

Lucas sneers. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

"You think I wouldn't find out?" Michael challenges.

Lucas shrugs. "I've long since cared what you do or don't do, Michael."

Michael blinks, his cocky expression falters. If Lucas doesn't know better, he'll say that he looked stung. Then, his face turns stony. "Fine," he bites out, reaching out for the colt. Just as his hand clasps over the piece, Lucas whips his hand out and closes it on top of Michael's, holding them down. Michael snaps his eyes up, blue eyes blazing.

"I want in," he repeats.

"Why?" Michael spits out. He looks angry, spiteful. His beautiful face twisted in fury. …Beautiful?

"He hurt someone I cared about. I want to hurt him back. That's what you call having a person's back. A notion I doubt you understand." Seems like Michael isn't the only one feeling spiteful tonight. Add petty into the mix as well.

Michael looks like he's about to snap back at him, the way his eyes glare dagger into him. So he's surprised when Michael smiles, albeit a mirthless one, cold and hard. "Fine," he says in a fake light tone. "If you want to be partners again, Luke. All you have to do is say so," he shrugs and before Lucas could come back with a retort for that, Michael snatches his hand back from under him, the colt firmly in his grip. He pockets it, giving him a small smirk.

"I never said I wanted to be partners again. And don't call me that." Anger unfurls in his chest, spreading its flame through his body, lighting him up.

"What? Luke?" Lucas narrows his eyes at the nickname. "Oh come on." Michael rolls his eyes.

"You lost the right the minute you decided to kill me."

"You're not dead, are you? Stop being such a drama queen. You've suffered worse. What's a little bullet wound?"

"You're right. I did suffer worse. I just didn't expect the same treatment from someone I considered a friend-" he stops then, abrupt. Lucas hadn't meant for that to come out. It's too late now. Gritting his teeth, he glares at Michael.

He doesn't look too cocky anymore. In fact, he looks devastated, eyes pained. He opens his mouth as if to say something but closes them again, mouth in a thin line, a defeated slump to the set of his shoulders. He takes a moment to compose himself, his face reverting to its neutral calm even as his eyes retain that haunted look. The sight fills him with a petty satisfaction. But then Michael had to ruin it all by saying, "You're right. I'm sorry."

Lucas blinks. Did Michael say he was sorry? Michael? The 'I am always right' Mr. Know-It-All saying he's sorry? That comes as a surprise. He never expects Michael to apologize for what he did. And to hear it, it startles him. But then again, he wasn't apologizing for the shot. He's apologizing for making light of it. There's a difference. Trying to hold onto the anger that's slowly slipping away, Lucas announces. "It's late. And I'm tired. Let's talk about this tomorrow. How does nine in the morning work for you?" He knows Michael is an early riser but him, not so much.

"Nine is fine," Michael agrees, standing up. Then, he holds out his hand. Lucas stares at it, deliberating. Then, he stands too and takes Michael's hand, giving it a firm shake. He can't help but feel like this is a huge mistake.

Michael's presence is giving him a lot of mixed feelings, and he isn't sure if he likes it. He ought to hate the man. But he doesn't. Instead, he's feeling butterflies. Seeing Michael again stirs something inside him that had laid dormant for the past six months. Something he kept hidden. Buried. Emotions that never see the light of day. Feelings that he doesn't care to explore. Conflicted sentiments and warring intuitions. He needs to stay the fuck away.

So no one is more surprised than he is when he hears himself saying, "One job. And then we're done, Michael." He tells himself that this is for Gabriel. That he wants to exact revenge on the person that had hurt him. Nothing else.

That haunted look is still lingering around Michael's eyes, casting them in shadows. A ghost of the brilliant blue they can be. The simmers of the sea. The promise of a clear blue sky. Lucas must be more tired than he thought if he's waxing poetry about Michael's eyes. Michael gives him a small but genuine smile.

"Deal." He gives Lucas another firm shake of the hand. And if there's a tingle racing up his arms from where his hand is closed around Michael's, then it is no one's business but his own.