Page 95 of Warrior's Cross

As it got later and later, Cameron became more and more worried despite telling himself that everything would work out. Julian would take care of Lancaster and come back, he told himself. What happened after that, Cameron didn’t know. But there was no way he was letting Julian go without a fight. He had to convince Julian that he knew now that what they had was worth it. Worth anything. They’d figure something out. They had to.

He realized now that Julian had beenwhathe was because ofwhohe was, not the other way around. And by asking him to change, Cameron had hurt him more than any bullet or broken foot or dog bite ever could have. He’d hurt himself too, depriving himself of the only man he’d ever truly loved.

Blake wasn’t much comfort as they waited together. The man was almost as worried as Cameron, and he obviously wasn’t thetype who was used to sitting around and waiting for the other shoe to drop. He paced and fidgeted, cleaned glasses that were already clean, peeled the label off a bottle of Bushmills whiskey, sat on the stool next to Cameron and spun it back and forth, then got up and paced again.

Cameron simply kept checking the clock.

Blake finally opened the whiskey and poured, setting one glass in front of Cameron. “Drink it. You look like you need it. Lord knows I do,” he muttered. Confirming his words, Blake poured a glass for himself and took an unusually deep drink.

Cameron sipped at the Irish whiskey, just then seeing the irony in it. “Is Julian really Irish?” he asked Blake as he looked down at the drink.

“I have no fucking idea,” Blake answered in frustration. “I’ve never heard him use that one. I’ve heard British, Boston, Spanish, Kurdish, French, Texan, and surfer dude, but never Irish. Might mean it’s the real one, if he never used it,” he said in a distant, rambling tone.

Cameron blinked at him. “Surfer . . . dude?”

Blake waved his hand around. “You know, ‘Chillax, bra, we just gotta harvest some dead presidents’ kind of shit.” His voice had parodied the SoCal accent he was aiming for. “He only used it on the phone because he couldn’t pull it off in person.”

Cameron nodded, wide-eyed, wondering if there was anyone who truly knew Julian. “I guess it explains some of the weird phrases he used, anyway. Got his accents confused.” He laughed brokenly.

Blake smiled slightly, but didn’t reply.

They sat silently for a full half-hour before Cameron looked up at his boss again worriedly. “How long does it take, Blake?” he rasped.

“How long does it take to... kill a man?”

The older man studied him as he shifted his glass back and forth on the polished bar. “With Julian, I’d say not long,” he finally answered. “But Lancaster is different.”

“He said Julian trained him.”

“From what he’s told me, yes. They both know the other’s strengths and weaknesses. They think the same,” Blake tried to explain hesitantly. “They’re like... waves crashing against each other.” He peered at Cameron, trying to gauge how he would react. “For whatever reason, someone has decided that Julian needs to be taken out of the business. And anyoneinthe business knows that the only man who can do that is either very, very lucky or knows how Julian thinks. Arlo is, unfortunately, both.”

“And Julian?” Cameron asked. His voice was a mere thread.

“Hard to say,” Blake answered. “If he met Arlo here, it means Arlo couldn’t find him physically. He got a message to him somehow, and God knows what he threatened him with,” he mused. “Whatever it was, it hit Julian’s buttons. That’s the only reason he would have come out tonight. He was backed into a corner.”

Cameron swallowed down on the knot of misery and dread. Could the something Lancaster threatened have been him?

“He’s protecting his territory,” Blake continued, putting his hand on the bar in front of Cameron and meeting his eyes. “His reputation, his contacts, his home. And, I believe, he’s protectingyou, kiddo. Or at least the idea of you. The idea that he can have something normal without it being in danger.”

Cameron nodded slowly. “I know,” he said hoarsely, raising his hand to cover his upper chest where he could feel the warrior’s cross warm against his skin. “I hurt him badly, didn’t I?” he asked regretfully.

“Yes,” Blake answered bluntly. “The whole time I was worried about you, but... maybe you’ll get the chance to make it up to him,” he offered as condolence.

Shortly after, Preston knocked gently at the glass doors of the restaurant, and Blake hurried to let him in.

“Do you have him?” Blake demanded excitedly.

Preston merely shook his head as he unbuttoned his coat.

“I lost them both, sir,” he said in sorrow as he followed Blake back to the bar. “He’s on his own now,” he told them as he sat and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

Blake sighed and looked at the clock. It was four a.m. He inhaled deeply and let out the breath in a thin, slow exhale. All they could do now was wait.

The city lay dark and relatively silent in the muggy night. To the casual observer, there was no hint of the deadly game of cat and mouse that had been played in the streets. The sirens of police cars being called to investigate shots fired and the occasional broken window or unexplained alarm were nothing unusual.

Julian walked slowly along the sidewalk, his head down and his eyes focused solely on the next step. He understood why Arlo had made it a game. Julian had trained him, taught him almost everything he knew. They’d worked together. They’d been friends, as close as brothers. Tonight was Arlo’s version of poetic justice. Julian had tossed him out when he became too reckless, something Arlo had never forgiven him for. When Arlo received the contract for Julian’s head, he’d obviously seen the opportunity to prove to Julian just how good he was.

And Julian had to admit, the kid was good. There had been an odd sort of battlefield respect to their war games tonight.Certainly neither wanted to shoot the other in the back. Julian knew Arlo had held off on several killing shots because they hadn’t been... honorable. And, God help him, he’d done the same. But when it came down to it, he’d been forced to take the last shot. It was truly kill or be killed.

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