CHAPTER 9
Dorian dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his cloth napkin, surprised at how well the evening had progressed. He and Sawyer still disliked each other, but at least they were able to lay the cards on the table so to speak. He glanced over inquiringly at his dining companion, who was deep in thought.
"You didn't finish your 'favorite' dish," the immortal commented.
"Huh?" Sawyer shrugged and placed his spoon back on the table. "Reckon I wasn't all that hungry after all."
"Oh my...I hope it wasn't something I said," Dorian quipped with a wicked smirk.
The young American fixed the vain man with a cold look. Why in the world did God choose this puffed up peacock as his watchdog? His protector? Tom wanted to laugh bitterly at the thought. Dorian Gray was only protecting own his hide, and the spy held no illusions that Gray could ever come to care for another human being. But why was he stuck with him? His thoughts brightened; he may be stuck with Gray, but the immortal was just as stuck as him; the man's eternal destination was in his hands.
Frowning at the slight smile playing at Sawyer's mouth, Gray found toying with the American's emotions tiring. Anyone else would have been a quivering mass of subjectivity after the spoken mental barrage he had masterfully wielded, but not this insufferable youth. The infinite nobleman had to console himself with the conclusion that this 'boy' was obviously not intelligent enough to realize an insult when he heard one.
"May we depart from this...establishment?" Gray asked wearily. "I have traveled extensively the past few days, and not in the manner I am accustomed to. I find myself in need of repose." He rose from the table and pointed towards the spy in a dismissive manner. "Since I am currently without funds, you will have to pay for this evening's meal."
When Sawyer remained seated, the immortal snorted in irritation. "The government does pay you doesn't it?" he asked disdainfully. "Or do you spend it all on your little guns? Surely it's not on your home or wardrobe."
"If you wanna sleep outside 'cause my place ain't good enough, that's fine by me," Sawyer said nonchalantly. "But I'd be stayin' round in one spot though. As sneaky as you are, some folk might think you're a thief or somethin'." The young man paused over his words. "Y'know, they'd be right...you are a thief!"
"Your vain attempts at revilement are tiresome," Dorian sighed impatiently. "Nothing you say will phase me in the least."
Cocking his head to the side, Tom's hazel eyes twinkled. "How about 'welcome to Hell?'" he asked with mock innocence.
His lip curling into a vicious sneer, Gray said nothing, scooping up his cane as he walked towards the front door of the restaurant. How he'd love to show that infuriating whelp a thing or two! The dashing immortal allowed a few nasty thoughts of revenge to echo in his mind, only to be rewarded with the punishing pain he had received earlier. Clutching his mid-section in an attempt to deal with the misery, Dorian hurried out of the building, deciding to wait for his 'charge' in the shadows, away from prying eyes. Besides, knowing the young upstart, he'd have to bask in that foolish woman's praise before leaving anyhow.
Finding a nice spot near a coupling of bushes, Gray blended into the dark night. The sound of crunching footsteps speeding towards the restaurant caught the former nobleman's attention. Surely this man wasn't so hungry to hurry to an eating establishment such as this? As his hand slid near the handle of his sword cane, Dorian watched the newcomer inch closer to the building. Something didn't bode right.
The man was stout and powerfully built, and the strides he took spoke of purpose. Gray couldn't see the man's features, but he could guess how serious they were. Would he be a threat to Sawyer? Literally shaking himself from the idea of even thinking of the young spy's welfare, he still held his weapon at the ready. He could easily imagine that mouthy pup incensing someone enough to garner a negative reaction.
"Thank you again, Miz Aimee," Tom smiled, returning the hug the woman gave him in parting as they stood at the restaurant's doorway. "That sure tasted good."
"Not so good to make you forget the burden that's obviously on your shoulders, dearest," Aimee O'Brien chided softly.
"I'm fine," Tom tried to defend.
"You barely touch your favorite meal, sitting with a gent you surely don't like, and...," she added, cupping Sawyer's chin, "with a look of pure sadness in those beautiful eyes. Just about broke my poor heart, seeing how low in spirits you are." Patting the young man's right hand, she let out a small sigh, her eyes filling with moisture. "I know it's been more'n hard on you...losing sweet Huckleberry, and missing him so."
"Felt like half of me died that day," Tom found himself admitting.
Aimee touched near Sawyer's heart. "But he'll always live in there."
"And here." Sawyer pulled out the journal Huck kept, showing it to the woman.
"Sweet Huckleberry's thinking book!" Aimee cried out, a tear escaping down the side of her face. "I remember that dear boy always scribbling away. Ah, it's right for you to be having it."
"Mr. Sawyer!"
The young man dropped the journal in shock as he looked into the stern countenance of his supervisor, Patrick Malloy, who had appeared out of nowhere. Quickly picking up the diary, Tom tried to push it back into his rear pocket, praying his boss hadn't overheard the conversation, but an iron grip encircled his wrist, stopping the spy from moving it behind him.
"Sir..., I can explain..." Any further comment was hushed as the larger built man drug the younger spy outside, increasing the pressure on the entrapped wrist. Dorian watched the man's tempestuous movements, and began to emerge from the shadows when he heard a female voice bellow after the pair.
"Who do you think you are?" Mrs. O'Brien cried out angrily. "You stop manhandling my pretty lil' Tom this instant!"
A coy smile lit lightly on Gray's lips. Maybe he wouldn't have to get his hands dirty after all. The idea of actually saving the blonde agent wasn't one he found pleasure in. Allowing his blade to rest comfortably in his hand, the immortal watched with amusement.
"Miz Aimee...it's all right," Tom called back, hoping to diffuse the situation before it got worse. Feeling the journal ripped from his grasp, he sighed in resignation. The prized possession would now belong to the Federal Government.
"This does not concern you, Mrs. O'Brien," Patrick Malloy said in a clipped tone, releasing Sawyer's wrist to only grab a hold of the young man's arm. "I don't have the time to argue. He's wanted back at the office."
"And I don't care if you're his boss or not!" The fiery Irish woman fumed. "Don't matter none if you're a good customer...you don't treat my bonny boy that way!" Storming up to the two men, she slapped Malloy's hand hard, pulling Sawyer towards her. "After all this dear one's been through, you come up here bullying..."
"Mrs. O'Brien," Malloy interrupted testily, resuming his grip on his subordinate, "your 'dear one' has disobeyed some rules..."
"Can't blame the lad none, working for a..."
"Miz Aimee...please!" Tom begged, placing a hand on the older woman's shoulder. "I know you're only wantin' to help, and I adore you all the more for it, but it's all right." He managed a cheeky wink as his voice lowered. "I'll set everythin' straight."
With a huff, the woman relented, throwing a warning glare in Malloy's direction. "I best not be hearing of any mistreatment on my Sweet Tom!"
"Goodnight, Mrs. O'Brien," Malloy growled as he pulled Sawyer along with him.
"Thank you, Miz Aimee...don't worry none!" Tom called back with a smile, suppressing the urge to cringe from the hard grip tightening on his arm. Spying a slight movement in the bushes to his right, the blonde agent mouthed a silent 'no' to Gray, knowing it would be the perfect place for the sneaky immortal to hide. Having to explain Dorian Gray's presence would bring even more trouble down on his head.
Jerking open the door of his carriage, Malloy half-threw Sawyer inside, slamming the door shut after entering himself. He then banged on the side of the door, a sign for the driver to begin their journey. Tom felt the rig jump into action as the rhythmic sound of hoof beats was the only sound being made. Malloy sat in silence across from him, telling the agent something was seriously wrong. It was obvious Malloy had come to the restaurant to get him, and finding the journal in his possession was only adding fuel to an already raging fire. What was going on?
"Sir?" Sawyer asked quietly.
Grabbing the young man's upper arms, the supervisor of the Secret Service shook his agent once forcefully, his tone low and dangerous. "If you value your life, boy...keep silent!" he rumbled, the man's brown eyes glowing with intensity. With the ominous message delivered, Malloy sat back down, his stony exterior returning.
'If you value your life...' kept replaying in Sawyer's mind as they continued down the cobbled roads towards the Treasury building in absolute silence. After Huck's death, he was ordered to hand over anything of his friend's that was used during his time with M. Security reasons. He thought back to Dorian's words back at the restaurant, how M killed Huck sooner than planned because he found out something. Tom's gaze fell briefly on the book beside his boss, a sick feeling hitting the young spy down in his gut. Did Huck know he was going to be killed? In his last moments, did his best friend try to warn of M's devious plots? Was his own life in danger now because he had the journal?
Brightly glowing street lamps illuminated the Department of the Treasury building, giving it an almost surreal look as Sawyer steeled his nerves. The journal wasn't going to be easy to explain, especially if he wished to keep Dorian Gray out of it. How could he tell his superior that the man who had betrayed the League in Venice was staying with him now, professing a change of heart, even if it was a forced change.
Malloy snapped the carriage door open and grabbed a firm hold on Tom's left arm, forcing the young agent out to the sidewalk. The grip remained until both men had entered inside the building. Sawyer mutely followed his superior to his office, awaiting a verbal scourging for having Huck's daybook, and the real reason Malloy had followed him to the O'Brien's. His eyes widened in shock when Malloy left the room without uttering a word, leaving him alone. The surprise quickly turned to anxiety when the air suddenly filled with the sound of clanking metal. Tom rushed to the door and tried to work on the handles, but they wouldn't turn, no matter how he tried to manipulate the mechanisms. He then hurried over to the windows, finding them covered by thick, metal sheets when he pulled open the slatted, wood blinds.
Shaking his head slowly in confusion, Tom inched backwards towards his vacated seat. The building was in lock-down mode, used only in the most extreme cases of threat...or...
To keep someone inside from getting out.
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As the Nautilus sailed carefully under the waters of Chesapeake Bay, Quatermain's impatience grew to an uncontrollable pitch. They were in Virginia, close to Sawyer in D.C., but the urgency of their mission was overwhelming the old adventurer.
"Can't you make this bloody contraption go any faster?" the hunter barked out to Nemo.
Taking a deep, calming breath before answering, the Indian captain allowed the rude behavior to pass. They were all worried about Sawyer, and he had to admit to an increased feeling of danger for the young man as they neared their destination. With the bond shared by Quatermain and Sawyer, he could easily comprehend how the deepening tension would be vexing his comrade.
"The water is shallower here, we must proceed cautiously," the captain answered quietly.
"And what good will caution do when the boy's disappeared?" Allan thundered back without thinking.
"It would be better than having the Nautilus damaged, and not reaching him at all," Nemo countered evenly.
Allan clutched Sawyer's Winchester in his hands. "He needs me! I can sense it!"
Nemo stayed silent, unable to find the words that would bring the older man any comfort. Not that there was really anything one could say. He couldn't quell the anxiousness in his own mind, as much as he tried to be more optimistic. How could their young teammate do it? With Tom Sawyer, optimism came as normally as breathing. The captain let out a sad puff of air at the thought, praying that whatever their young friend was facing, his positive nature would help him through it.
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In an absent-minded attempt to control the rising uncertainty inside, Tom crossed his arm over his chest, gently massaging his sore upper arm where Malloy had definitely left his mark. He had never experienced his supervisor's famous temper quite this way before, and that bothered the young man more than the ominous words spoken in the carriage. Was his time with the Secret Service about to end? He knew he was in flagrant disobedience to the agency's policy, but they haven't even heard his side of the story yet. There was no harm done, he never read the journal... Still, a nagging bit of doubt planted itself deep inside him.
Why was he being treated this way? Like he was some sort of traitor. Sawyer's blood turned cold when he finally allowed the thought to fully manifest itself. No! They had to know he would never betray his country. Once he talked to Whitcomb, everything would be fine. The director of the Secret Service understood him as well as Quatermain...
Memories of the League filtered through Tom's mind, a warm feeling of belonging stealing over him. When he had crashed the little party M had planned for the team, he knew without a doubt he would become part of that group. At the time he had chalked it up to his determination to avenge Huck's murder, but by the time they had reached M's fortress, he knew they had solidified into one entity, and he was just as much a player in that as the others. If he was able to sweet talk his way out this situation, maybe he should get in touch...
Sawyer dropped his arm, lowering his head as well. No, he could never go back to the League. One of them was now gone, and in the youth's heart, nothing could ever make it right again. Looking forlornly at the metal sheets that held him captive inside the room, the young spy found comfort in the fact that he could sense Allan was watching out for him, even in death.
