CHAPTER ONE

At least she's not still openly hostile. We seem to have moved into the stoney silence phase. I can deal with that. That could be okay.

Alex glances up from the salad that he's just been pushing about his plate since they sat down at the table a long, predominately silent, ten minutes earlier, and catches Jess' scowl. It's not directed at him, but there's no way that the salt shaker in the middle of the table can have possibly done anything to piss her off that much. He, on the other hand… Well, that's kind of a given.

Important life lesson to teach Olivia: never ever tick your auntie Jess off, because that woman doesn't just hold a grudge, she engraves it in a stone tablet and hangs it above her bed. Nearly two years after the fact, and Jess is still just as sour and unapproachable as she'd been on first hearing the news that Alex and Laura were going to give things another go. Alex has more or less gotten used to it, and he and Jess see each other so little that it's not something he's ever felt that compelled to fix- particularly once it became abundantly clear that Jess is quite keen to hang onto her issues with him.

What's it about impending weddings that make people want to interfere with broken, yet perfectly still workable, relationships?

It isn't like Alex got on Jess' bad side on purpose. He hadn't really been thinking of what her opinion would be on the whole situation when he and Laura had got back together. He hadn't known just how happy Jess was for her little sister when Laura and Alex started dating, that she'd found someone she loved and who loved her back. He hadn't realised how fond Jess had been of him- something that no doubt made what had happened between him and Laura that much worse. Now, 'fond' is definitely not the right word to use.

Laura reaches for the salt shaker and dispenses a scant few white grains over her plate. She isn't really a big seasonings person, and pays so little attention to what she's doing that Alex knows it's not about the flavour. Jess' death stare on the shaker hasn't just been noticed by him. With nothing left central to pick as her focal point, Jess' stoney eyes drop to her own plate; it's still just as full and untouched as Alex and Laura's.

This is a terrible idea. Mending bridges? Fine, yes, brilliant, mend away. But Alex can't help but wonder: how do you mend something that doesn't even exist any more? It seems like less of a mend, more of a rebuild, and he isn't certain that forcing the three of them into the same room to suffer through a silent dinner together is the best way to achieve that. If anything, it'll just test how good they all are at holding their tongues and enduring awkward silences.

Olivia starts crying; soft little wails that don't really need to be investigated filter through the monitor that's ended up in the middle of the dining table, alongside the pepper shaker. Alex isn't even halfway out of his seat when Laura is up and at the door, calling over her shoulder, "I've got her." Alex knows she'll be upstairs for a while, as long as possible without seeming suspicious, like she's setting things up. And she is, of course. Olivia's timing is impeccable; can a ten month old be talked into co-operating in a scheme like that?

Now it's just him and Jess, sitting across from each other with an oak table, several serving platters of food, and the decision for Alex and Laura to get back together separating them. Alex settles in for what he's sure will be at least five minutes of tense silence until Laura comes back, but Jess almost immediately sets her fork down, folds her hands together and plonks them just in front of her plate. She actually raises her head to meet Alex's eyes. He knows his are guarded, wary. Hers are too.

"I don't like you," she says, straight to the point. Her fingers unlink, hands splay, and she extends them to her sides as she shrugs. "You can't really blame me. You break my little sister's heart, then for some reason you end up back together, and I honestly can't even imagine, let alone see, why the hell that happened."

Alex is starting to see into Jess' head a little bit. She sounds angry, and annoyed, yes. And clearly she is. But Alex knows what breaking up with Laura did to him, and he can imagine Laura was much the same; it wasn't something that either of them had taken lightly. He knows how close Jess and Laura are, how protective of her Jess is. She must have just finished picking pieces up and trying to figure out how to reassemble them into a better situation for her sister when Laura told her not to bother, she and Alex were back together. And of course she couldn't have explained why, which definitely wouldn't have sat well with Jess.

She sounds scared. Worried. And there's an implied question in there. Alex wants to reassure her, wants to start trying to build that new bridge, but he isn't sure he knows where to start. Everything he can think of to use as an explanation is either written in contract for him to not mention, or just makes things sound even worse. He struggles for what has to be less than half a minute but feels like an absolute eternity, with Jess' hard eyes not wavering from his, silently demanding answers that he knows he can't give. Eventually he stops thinking of explanations and tries to brainstorm a response- any response, even just a single word to use that might get some conversation happening, or at least make things a little bit less painful to sit through- but his head is empty. He's got nothing, and the half a minute ticks to a full, and Jess goes back to glaring at her salad, and the opportunity is gone.

Laura returns, the tentative smile on her face fading as she sees things left much the same, if not slightly worse, as when she left. She slowly lowers herself back into her seat at the end of the table, Jess to her left, Alex to her right, her very limited ideas about resolving the tension now all evaporated.

It's going to be a very long meal.

Their target address is a short walk along the street and then a left turn into an easement. The night is dark and quiet with heavy cloud covering the moon, and as soon as they're off the road and away from the street lights they're forced to pause and slip on their infrared goggle sets. Hex counts eight back gates cut into high wooden fences, then stops at the ninth. It's a six foot high obstacle, the wood smooth and varnished with- judging by the faint smell still lingering- a fresh coat of lacquer. Not ideal, but they've certainly had worse points of access before.

The small amount of information that Hex was given barely a couple of hours earlier didn't include anything about a dog, but for some reason not everyone in Intel thinks that's a detail that needs disclosing- something that Hex discovered on his last job when he popped over a back fence and was greeted by a very large, very unhappy Doberman. He got the fright of his life, the job didn't get done, and the dickheads who'd compiled the background got an absolute earful of expletive riddled abuse, so it's with some measure of hesitation that Hex prepares himself for the fence assault that night.

"I've brought some dried liver," Kit says with a grin as they take a couple of steps back in preparation. "Just in case."

Hex pats one of the pockets in his jacket. "Schmackos." He doesn't mention the pepper spray keeping the ziplock bag of treats company.

The two step run up gives them a bit more propulsion and momentum and, with gloved hands grasping for the top and sturdy boots kicking into the fence, the pair are up and over, dropping into the backyard, in a matter of seconds. They land and instantly freeze, taking in their surroundings and waiting for any developments that mean they need to bail straight back out again. The house is silent and dark, the yard doesn't contain a dog. So far so good.

"So who exactly is this guy?" Kit asks in a low voice as they move through the garden to the back door of the house. She's thinking of the suburb, her eyes taking in the three level house, the carefully landscaped and cultivated garden they're trying not to tread all over.

Hex shrugs. "Someone," he says. "Zan didn't tell me much more than the address and window."

"Helpful."

She is, though- normally, anyway. Their boss isn't some fast tracked overachiever parachuted in to reign over them. She's worked damn hard, she's been in their shoes before, and she doesn't normally throw them last minute, under prepared jobs like this one because she knows firsthand what a pain in the arse they are. It makes Hex feel uneasy; they contract jobs regularly for the Secret Service, and those are obviously on the quiet and need-to-know, but this sort of last minute toss into the abyss… That's brand new.

"Must be for spooks, then," Kit says.

Hex groans. "You sound like Fletch."

"Just looking at the circumstances." She shrugs, seemingly unperturbed at being compared to their very young, slightly paranoid colleague. Kit glances about suddenly, like she's only just realised it's just the two of them. "Speaking of Fletch… Where is he?" They're normally a triple act, with the younger and more inexperienced Fletch being their eyes and ears, stationed in one of the vans where he can't touch things and disrupt carefully laid schedules.

Hex makes some vague sound, spending far too long rummaging about for a lock pick in his bag considering that it's actually very easily accessible on his belt instead. He's expecting Kit to sigh and ask what Fletch has done now, so when all he gets is silence, his rummaging pauses and he glances over at her with a suspicious frown.

She's avoiding eye contact, pretending to inspect the back door like it needs a thorough assessment before they proceed any further. Her gaze flicks briefly back to Hex, just out of the corner of her eye, and when she realises that he's eyeballing her with a silent request for an explanation, she sighs, resigned to the fact that the impending conversation is going to happen and it's all her fault and she wishes that she'd just never opened her mouth in the first place. "You don't have to take it out on him, you know."

"Huh?" Not the sentence Hex is expecting.

"Fletch. You've been really short with him lately." Kit shrugs, very matter-of-fact. "Just because you're stressy about seeing your ex again-"

Hex's jaw gets that little bit tighter than normal, and he is immediately on the defensive. "I'm not stressy," he says, then realise that probably makes him sound like he actually is. Far more aware and deliberate about his tone of voice, he adds, "About anything," but the attempt is ruined barely a second later by him then asking, "And who told you about that?"

Silence.

Hex actually growls. "Fletch. Remind me to kill him when I get home."

There's pause as Kit hesitates, like she's tossing up whether to let the conversation die there or push it just that little bit further, see how really awkward things can get. Her curiosity wins out, and she says, "So… You're not even slightly… apprehensive?"

"No. No, I'm not." The denial is out of Hex's mouth before he's even finished processing the question, and he doesn't allow himself to pause for long enough to wonder if his answer is accurate. "I'm really looking forward to it. She's still my best friend, Kit; she's just not my girlfriend any more."

Ah, so simple. So easy. Such a wonderful little summary of his shitty love life that's not even remotely accurate. Judging by Kit's dubious expression, she knows it as well as he does, but she doesn't press the point, something for which Hex is beyond grateful. He's spent more than enough time obsessively dwelling over everything, and work is so far proving to be a good distraction- well, when he doesn't have other people starting D&Ms in the middle of jobs. And the very last person in the world he wants to be talking about Amber with is Kit, anyway; that's a fantastic way to just really ramp up and max out the uncomfortable meter.

"Ready?" Kit's already tackled the lock while Hex was zoned out in his own head. Her hand is on the door knob while she checks he's back in full focus of the job ahead.

He's totally not. For anything. "Ready," he says, and she swings the door open.

The alarm's second control panel is just inside the back door, on the wall to the left. It's a black box about the size of a book, and a menacing red light in the corner is pulsating as Hex heads straight for it. He's got more than enough time to play with, but he still doesn't want to waste a second. The jammer is a tiny blob of electrics encased in plastic, with a reusable adhesive backing. All Hex has to do is prise off the alarm's cover and stick the jammer in amongst the wires and cables, effectively scrambling the system and forcing it into a reset. As Kit secures the back door behind them, the red light flashes twice then reverts to green; Hex leaves the cover of the box off, as a reminder to remove the jammer before they head out again.

The back door has opened straight onto a spacious, open plan kitchen/diner. There's a large dining table off to their right, and beyond that an archway leads to what looks like a sitting room; the back of a leather couch is just visible. Kit has already dumped her pack and is pulling out cases and boxes, decanting what equipment she actually needs into her pockets and smaller tool kit strapped to her belt. She's keen to just get things done and get out of there, but despite himself Hex can't help but be just a little bit curious about who it is that they're actually bugging.

The kitchen is an arrangement of two long benches running parallel to each other- 'galley style', he thinks he's heard it called before. Or something equally as nautical. There's a large bowl sitting in the middle of the island section, and tucked up amongst some apples and bananas is a fistful of mail; his mother isn't the only one who groups correspondence and fruit as likely roommates. The apples and bananas turn out to be made of glass, but the letters prove to be useful.

"Linden Frost," Hex says to Kit. She's up on one of the bar stools, fiddling with the cover of a light, a screwdriver clenched between her teeth.

"Huh?"

"I think he's our guy. Ever heard of him?"

She shakes her head and mumbles something around the screwdriver that Hex doesn't quite catch. She concentrates just on the light for a second then, when she's got the cover off, passes it and the screwdriver to Hex. "Should I have heard of him?" she says again.

Hex shrugs. "Dunno."

"Have you?"

"Not that I can remember."

Kit doesn't seem bothered by this discovery. She fishes about in her pocket and finds the bug she's searching for; the techies would have a heart attack if they saw her lackadaisical treatment of their hard work and dedication. Hex might not always like how boring they make his job, and how up themselves the basement-dwellers can be, but he at least has the background to appreciate what sort of hours and headaches and RSI goes into creating the kit that they all use; he finds himself cringing as Kit puffs a couple of times on the tiny bug, ridding it off some lint that it's picked up from its brief stay in her jacket pocket.

"Are you actually going to help?" Kit asks as she turns back to him, hands out, requesting the items back that she'd given him to hold.

He waves the light cover and screwdriver. "I thought that's what I was doing?"

Kit just raises her eyebrows and opts not to comment, although she does clear her throat rather pointedly as Hex neglects to pass her back the two things he's holding on to. As she concentrates on fixing the light cover back in position, Hex decides he probably should get a move on; Intel has said that they have- quote unquote- 'all the time in the world', but he's opting to take their recommendation on time management with a grain of salt. Or a tablespoon. Streaming on his phone, he has a feed into a CCTV camera out on the street corner, that gives them as best vantage point as possible to see anyone who might be coming and going. It's no substitute for actual eyes and ears stationed in a van, but with the short notice (and Fletch being more of a hindrance than a help at the moment), it's the best that they can work with. The street is clear and quiet. So far, Intel's actually done their job.

Kit heads into the hallway with her bar stool, while Hex fishes about in his own backpack for the gear he needs. He suddenly becomes aware of how quiet the house is. The silence is total. Unnatural. Normally there's at least something: the hum of a fish tank filter, the soft tick from a clock, but this house is a silent, encased bubble that nothing permeates. Hex's own footsteps on the tiles sounds deafening as he makes his way from the kitchen/diner to the sitting room. When he reaches the carpet that designates one zone from the other he's almost relieved, as his steps become muffled thanks to the floor covering- but the feeling lasts for about half a second, which is how long it takes for Hex to realise that something is touching his foot.

Slowly, he shifts focus from forwards, where he's been getting a feel for the living room's layout, down to his boots. The infrared goggles catch two white paws batting at the laces of his boots; one of them has come loose and is trailing on the floor. The paws retract suddenly, and a bell starts tinkling as the cat dashes off back out of sight. Hex takes a couple of breaths, and scolds himself for being so jumpy; aware is one thing, but unnecessarily paranoid is counterproductive.

Focus.

He's forgotten a bar stool, so heads back to the kitchen to retrieve one to use as a step so he can reach the light fitting in the living room. There, almost absentmindedly, he checks the feed to his phone again, not entirely paying attention since he's not expecting to see anything different- which is why it takes several seconds longer than it should for him to process the fact that a dark car has just pulled up to the kerb outside the front of the townhouse. For a moment Hex just stands there, quietly dumbfounded, like he can't process what he's seeing. Common sense is screaming at him to do something, to move, to warn Kit and get them the hell out of there, but his brain is far slower on the uptake. It's late, he's got other things occupying his head, and it's all building to the inevitable moment where their target opens the front door and knocks Kit off her bar stool.

It's that image playing in his mind that finally has him shaking off the stupor. "Kit!" he hisses, carefully replacing the stool before- far less carefully- flinging the gear back into the backpacks. Screw the techies. "Kit!" He half zips the backpacks, does a quick scan of the area to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything, then tosses the bags in the general direction of the back door for them to snatch up on the way past. Time isn't something he has to spare, and he knows that the most important thing is for him and Kit to just get out of the house, but he takes just a second to review the feed; maybe he's being unnecessarily paranoid, and maybe there's no need to panic.

There's a figure at the front gate, undoing the latch, swinging it open, starting up the garden path.

They need to be out of the house, over the back fence, hightailing it back to the van, as of about thirty seconds ago.

Giving up on a verbal warning, Hex darts to the hallway, surprising Kit just as she's setting her feet back on the ground, having installed her second bug. Her slightly perplexed expression turns to one of alarm as she catches Hex's urgency, and she whips around to stare at the front door. Is that a key in the lock, or just his imagination? He doesn't pause to wonder, grabbing the bar stool in one hand and Kit's wrist in the other, dragging both back into the kitchen. He sets the stool down with as much care as he can given that they're pushing a dangerous deadline, while Kit makes a beeline for the backpacks, shouldering one and hugging the other to her chest. She's out the back door as Hex draws level with her, only at the last second remembering the alarm casing. There's no time to reset it properly; the best he can do is wrench off the jammer and push the cover back on. It doesn't look right, it hasn't clicked back in properly, and he's ninety nine per cent certain he not only broke the jammer but didn't get all of the adhesive backing either, but they're so far out of time that, in the moment, he doesn't care and it doesn't matter.

The front door opens just as Hex slips out the back, careful to make it as quiet an exit as possible when all he really wants to do is run for his life. With no pack and the full, albeit short, length of the back garden as a run up, Hex easily clears the fence in one smooth movement, springing over and dropping down into the gravel easement beyond.

His heart is pounding. He can hear it in his ears and feel it in his chest, like it's trying to beat its way out. Kit's leaning up against the fence beside him, hands to her cheeks as she heaves in breaths. Everything sounds incredibly loud to Hex, but it mustn't be too much as he can clearly hear the tinkle tinkle tinkle coming from the back garden he just escaped from. Kit must be able to hear it too, because she slowly turns to him with a look very close to horror on her face.

"The cat," Hex says with a grimace. "The bloody cat must have gotten out."

"That's alright, right? Cats get out all the time. It's not a big deal. It's not suspicious."

Tinkle tinkle tinkle. The bell is followed by a mournful meow.

Hex is still grimacing, not at all reassured by Kit's efforts. "Only if he thinks he left the cat out," he says, a hope that proves to be unfortunately false as they hear the back door open.

The bell tinkles again as the cat presumably makes its way back inside, accompanied by a rather baffled male voice questioning how Sushi found herself outside. The door shuts. There's silence.

Kit shuts her eyes and drops her head sideways, forehead coming to rest on Hex's shoulder. "I'm pre warning you," she says, "that next time you ask me to come and help you on a job last second like this, my answer is going to be no way in hell."

"What if that job involves ripping shreds off of Intel?"

She straightens up. "That I can get on board with."