Notes: Part 3 of 3, after Storm and Fire.
Perhaps today was warmer than yesterday. Or perhaps he was more nervous. Either way, Bryce was sweating copiously. It trickled down the small of his back, tickling. He grumbled and reached his hand around to scratch the back of his neck.
"How are we coming along?" Tony did not look up from his newspaper. "Remember, time is money."
Bryce scratched his unshaven cheek and glared over his shoulder. "Nearly there. I could use a beer."
"All in good time."
He was, indeed, nearly there, and did not have any better ideas about what to do before he got to that point than he did when this all started. He bit his last remaining fingernail down to the quick. That tears it, he thought. He made a decision, and typed for about two more hours. He sighed, cracked his back, and turned around.
"Ready."
xxxxxx
Hillary had slept very badly, plagued by strange nightmares of Simon stealing his watch and running, and eviscerating him when he tried to give chase. He finally left his sweaty bed before the sun came up. He dressed and began his rounds, mechanically cleaning while still pondering the dilemma. Aside from the fact that the man and Bryce knew each other, there simply were no clues. Bryce had rarely talked about his past, and had not given many details when he had.
But perhaps I can find a thousand words elsewhere, Hillary thought.
He walked out to Bryce's trailer. He started to rummage under the cot. A few cardboard boxes held all of Bryce's valuables; important documents, old treasures of dubious identity, and one shoebox full of photographs. Hillary began to flip through the snapshots. Hundreds of Bryces looked back, hundreds of scenes, hundreds of ages. Bryce was the type who changed very little over the years; Hillary had to estimate times from yellowing on the backs and details in the backgrounds. He recognized a picture of Bryce's mother, a stern-faced woman with her grey-streaked hair pulled back in a bun. Bryce looked uncomfortable at her side. Bryce looked more at ease in pictures where friends, perhaps lovers, stared back at the camera with him, and graced Hillary with a broad smile in a few of those snapshots.
But it was not a comfortable or at-ease Bryce who stood in a suit next to a trimly attired man with a plastic smile. Bryce's face was completely blank, despite the man's arm being draped over his shoulders. The man's hair was black and his face held fewer lines, but it was still unmistakable.
Hillary flipped the photograph over. The back was blank. He looked through the box again, but there were no more pictures of this man. He replaced the box under the cot, and carried the photo back to the manor.
xxxxxx
Tony stood behind Bryce, his excitement ill-concealed. "Well, shall we see how well you do? Go ahead, impress me." His smile was predatory.
Bryce pulled himself back up to the computer, and began an elegant dance. His first and best love, computers; he understands them, inside and out. He gently teased out passwords. He passed smoothly into the bank, leaving no ripples in his wake. Accounts were accessed. Money was moved.
A great deal of money was moved.
He finessed assets from certain accounts to his targets. He pulled back, brushing his footprints away as he left. He withdrew, and sat back, hands off of the keyboard, with a sigh.
"Very well done, my boy. Your mother would be proud."
In the reflection at the dark edges of the flatpanel, Bryce saw Tony straighten slightly, and saw his hand move inside of his jacket. And he knew there was no more time. He couldn't wait to be rescued.
Bryce's sweaty hand tightened around the gun in his pocket, the safety clicked off in the chattering of keys an hour ago. He took a deep breath and spun around, pulling the trigger as he came to face Tony.
The look of surprise on the older man's face was almost worth the whole experience.
Blood spattered Bryce, and he could hear nothing but ringing in his ears as Toby crumpled, the gun that he was removing falling from limp fingers. Numbly, Bryce put his own gun back in his pocket and sat back, shaking. Blood pounded in his ears, and he held the arms of the chair tightly.
He felt, rather than heard, the pounding of feet on the stairs. The sound of the shot must have been heard, and whatever his uncle had told whoever else was in on this, he was not willing to gamble that a gunshot is what they had been expecting. He got to his feet, unsteadily, and staggered over to the window, knocking the blinds out of the way. The window was not locked. He slid it open and looked outside. It was after dark, but the streetlamps allowed him to see that he was on the second story of a small, neat house in a small, quiet area. Neatly tended shrubs lined the outside of the house below him.
This was not going to feel very good.
Bryce jumped out of the window, arms in front of his face, and landed in the bushes. Thorns and branches slashed at his body, cutting through his jeans and jacket. His leg slammed into a root as he tumbled through them to the ground, making his breath come out in a gasp. He tore his way out of the bushes, paused on the lawn on his hands and knees as the pain in his leg subsided to throbbing, and then hared it away from the house. He heard voices in the room above him, raised in sharp debate, and he did not want to stay around to meet the owners.
xxxxxx
He slowed to a walk a few blocks later. I ain't in the physical shape for this kind of thing, he admitted ruefully. But a swift walk appeared to be enough, now; he had cut across the lawns of a few dark houses and had slipped through any alleys he could find; he didn't think a pursuit had been effectively organized in what must have been the rather upsetting discovery of Tony's dead body.
And now the adrenaline had time to settle into his veins and turn sour.
He had reached a more commercial area, and found a small, dark pub to slip into. He zipped up his tattered jacket to cover his bloodstained shirt first. Once in the soothingly dim interior, he slid into a booth, and allowed himself to start to shake in earnest. He had killed a man. He had almost been killed. He fisted his hands under the table and tried to breathe.
"Getcha a drink, luv?"
Bryce looked up at the tired-looking blond waitress with the wan smile. He wanted nothing more than a beer. But a surreptitious patting of his pockets reminded him that he had nothing with him. Tony had taken his money in the car, and he had left any ID at the manor. "Could I use yer phone?"
xxxxxx
Hillary waited impatiently at the traffic signal. A light rain tapped soothingly on his helmet. He tossed his head irritably. He was in no mood to be soothed.
The call had come while he and Lara were pouring over the photo and making equivalent amounts of nothing over it. It was terse, and Bryce's voice wavered. "Hil? I'm at the Slug and Lettuce. Come get me, OK, mate?" Click.
So Hillary was on a motorbike, and Lara was in a car a discreet distance behind.
xxxxxx
Hillary pulled up in front of the pub. Before he could shut off the bike and dismount, a haggard-looking Bryce with his coat zipped up to his throat came running out. He grabbed the helmet that sat on the passenger's seat and tried to wrench it off. Hillary pulled Bryce's hands away, removed the helmet, tucked it under his arm, and held Bryce's shaking hands in his gloved ones. "Bryce. What happened?"
Bryce pulled his hands away and grabbed the helmet from Hillary. "Please, Hil'ry, just go." He put it on, sat on the back of the bike, and grabbed Hillary around the waist unnecessarily tightly.
They rode back to the manor, Lara behind.
xxxxxx
The evening had moved into early morning when they returned home. Hillary settled Bryce on the couch, and Lara immediately began to interrogate. "Bryce. What happened? Who was that? What is this all about?"
Bryce leaned back and closed his eyes.
Lara sighed and crossed her arms. "I hate not knowing."
Hillary sat down next to Bryce. "I don't think he's quite ready to tell us."
Lara frowned. "Well, fix him up, would you?" She walked into the living room, sat on the couch, and opened her book to the marked page.
Hillary picked Bryce up, carrying him upstairs for a bath. Bryce settled his head on Hillary's shoulder. "Warn't sure I'd see yeh again."
xxxxxx
Bryce woke to bright sun streaming in through an open window. He started to sit up, and grunted. His body was stiff and sore from neck to feet, and his left calf ached where it had hit the root. Hillary put down the book he had been reading, leaned forward in the chair that he had pulled next to the bed, and helped Bryce to sit up. "How do you feel?"
"Like yeh ran me through the wash, man." He rubbed his eyes.
"So..." Hillary's voice trailed off, and his eyes darted to a chair at the other side of the room. Bryce looked over and saw the clothes he had been wearing last night piled on the chair. His blood-spattered shirt lay on top of the pile.
"Is Lara here?" Bryce asked.
"Yes; she's downstairs having breakfast."
"Let's go down. I don't want to have to explain this twice."
xxxxxx
"Hm. I never met Tony. Your mum did mention him, but not with warmth." Lara took another bite of toast.
"She didn' like him much. One thing we both agreed on."
Hillary's brow was furrowed. "So you did move money for him."
"Yeh, but I din' do a very good job. They should be able to track where the crack came from." Hillary looked around nervously. "No, mate; I mean they'll trace it back to the house Tony were in." Bryce grinned. "Wuz the least I could do for him, after all."
Lara smiled. "So, they'll pick up the conspirators, if they're still around. They'll probably figure those folk are responsible for Tony's death. Argument over money, and all. Did anybody other than Tony see you?"
"Nah. He's a control freak. Was a control freak. Only the driver."
Hillary looked over. "Lara, you're not suggesting that we cover this up?"
"Oh, no, my dear. But I see no reason to submit poor Bryce to a long day of questioning. If MI6 needs more information, they're always welcome to come by."
"No, they're not," Hillary muttered.
"If they come by about this, Hillary, I give you my permission to serve them tea." She brushed off her hands, stood, and held up a warning finger. "One cup." She grinned again, and headed outside.
Bryce reached eagerly for another slice of toast. Hillary stood up and started to pace.
"Killed your first man. How was it?"
Bryce sighed. "It wuz terrible. I don't want to talk about it."
Hillary walked over to the sideboard and rested his hands on it. "Well, it's something you have to get used to, isn't it?"
Bryce looked over. "What are you on about?"
"I think you should leave."
"What the hell are you talkin' about?"
"Lara's killed men. I've killed men. It's the way this..." Hillary gave a humorless chuckle, "...organization operates. Is that really what you want?"
Bryce stood up and walked over. He tentatively put his hand on Hillary's back. It stiffened. "This had nothin' to do with you. It was my own past come back full circle. I can't run away from that, but livin' with you two has given me more of a backbone to face it, see." His hand still sat awkwardly on Hillary's back; he dropped it. "The stuff that you buggers bring in... I'll just have to live with that. I'd rather live with it than without you, yeh know."
Hillary pulled him in for a rib-cracking hug. Bryce sighed. He'd have to live with that, too.