Part III—Horror Theater

JACKSON HAD hooked his phone up to the security system before they'd even left Sacramento. Every time Ellery thought he'd been texting someone in his family, well, he had been, but he'd also been restlessly scanning the cabin and its surrounding areas, including the lake and the shore across the way.

He'd known the minute the helicopter had dropped off Jason's men and they'd moved into the nearby cabin Jason had purchased and then scattered, surveying the surrounding areas.

He knew when the bear lumbered through, obviously grumpy and ready for hibernation, and when a mama deer and her one-year fawn had picked their way across the snow, foraging for the choice green bits hidden underneath a bush. He knew when an owl flew to his home, presumably just a few feet above the camera, because that moment had startled the shit out of him.

And now, Ellery asleep trustingly against his shoulder in a way nobody in his life had ever slept, he knew when the assassin arrived.

"Zz…," he murmured. As in "assassinzzzzzz." As in, "assassins" plural .

As in more than one.

The first one was good. Not, Jackson suspected, Eric Christiansen good, but good enough. He was wearing a white Tyvek suit, and he carried a gun done in a matte metal of some sort. Jackson didn't study guns because he hated the things, but he recognized a special order. This one was made to disappear in snow. The assassin moved quietly on the edges of most of the cameras, not as though he knew where they were but because he naturally gravitated to the least likely places to be seen. He skirted underbrush and whispered behind trees on principle, and Jackson could admire the fluid way he moved.

Jackson had literally pulled up the number of the military contact Jason had given him when he saw the hint of something else while his eyes were glued to the guy moving soundlessly toward the cabin.

Just a breath. Not a white blur but…. Jackson squinted. A dark green sweater, dusted with snow, light-colored pants, fawn boots. Not disguised but subtly camouflaged, and not skirting the cameras, but blending in so thoroughly with his surroundings that the cameras literally didn't see him. Until—oh God.

Jackson was not expecting Eric Christiansen to spot a camera—the one the owl nested above—and turn toward it, fingers to his lips, staring Jackson in the eyes like they were standing across the room from each other.

Jackson stared at him, and his phone buzzed in his hand. A message from Calvin Briggs, one of Jason's men, scrolled across the top of the phone.

Are you fucking seeing this?

Yes. Do you see both of them?

…

…

DO YOU ? he texted, panicking, at the same time Briggs texted, BOTH ?

Jackson blinked. Which one do you see?

The bozo in the gleaming white Tyvek with the ceramic gun.

Oh.

On his phone, in the little corner display, Eric Christiansen rolled his eyes, shook his head, and showed his watch, where apparently Jackson's text string with Lieutenant Briggs was showing up.

I see him , Jackson replied carefully. But hold up .

Christiansen was pointing to Jackson and then pointing to himself and then making his fingers like a duck quacking.

What am I waiting for ? Briggs asked.

I need to have a conversation , Jackson replied, watching his phone screen.

Christiansen nodded.

With who ? Briggs asked.

A friend ? Jackson replied.

On the screen, Christiansen held out his hand and wobbled it back and forth. Suddenly the view on the phone changed, which meant something had activated the motion sensors, and the screen showed the white-coated assassin pausing as though he'd heard something.

Quicker than film—quicker than digital —quicker than blinking, a… what? Blade? A knife? A throwing star? A goddamned batarang ? Flickered through the air like a twinkle light and then flickered away.

The assassin in white Tyvek was lying on the ground, a spreading pool of crimson melting the snow underneath him and congealing into ice as Jackson breathed.

Jackson's screen changed again as Christiansen deliberately activated the motion detectors by pointing at his watch and arching his eyebrows at the camera he was staring into.

Jackson texted Briggs. Give me ten .

The actual fuck just happened? Briggs asked, obviously seeing the body now.

Like I said, give me ten. Jackson wasn't sure how Christiansen had tapped into the system, but he'd been subtle about it, giving Jackson's phone the whole feed and keeping the military out of some of it. Given that he could have killed Jackson and Ellery ten times while Jackson had stared at his phone and Jason's men wouldn't have seen a thing, Jackson was going to take it on a little bit of faith that maybe, just maybe, for this Christmas Eve, the only thing he and Ellery had to worry about was how mad Kaden would have been if Jackson hadn't snuck him a new gaming system in the box under the one carrying the air fryer.

He yawned and stretched and then scooted out from under Ellery, who pouted in his sleep and rested his head on the throw pillow Jackson had pulled from the corner of the bench.

"Where you going?" Ellery mumbled.

"Bathroom," Jackson lied, pulling the blanket up under Ellery's chin. Ellery had been awake for much of the last week, trying to get real office work done in between finding homes for all those kittens in his office, and for that matter, so had Jackson. But Ellery had driven, to satisfy his control issues, Jackson assumed dryly, and the drive was always a little nerve-racking with icy roads, unrepentant logging trucks, bumper-to-bumper traffic, and zero pit stops between Auburn and anywhere else in the Sierras. They'd taken Ellery's Lexus because, frankly, they were a little afraid of the minivan's temperament and figured deep snowdrifts weren't the place to test out the thing's seeming affection for Jackson and his tendency to feed her premium fuel.

And Jackson didn't want Ellery to see the body currently stiffening on the mountainous side of the cabin's property. Jackson paused for Ellery's expensive snow jacket and his own worn water-resistant boots on his way out the door. The jacket would have gloves and a scarf in the pocket, and it was made for skiing, not that they planned to do any this week. Jackson also grabbed a water bottle from the flat of them on the inside door of the foyer, because basic survival said you didn't go anywhere without water, and Jackson wasn't sure if he'd have to run for his life in the middle of the frozen Sierras.

If so, water would be prudent.

Jackson had been to the property in the fall—had, in fact, assisted in an op, using the wilderness setting and uncertain footing in his and Henry's favor as they'd tracked down killers and helped Jason and his boyfriend, Cotton, survive an attack. He wasn't Grizzly Adams, but he did know the places to walk that kept his own face out of the cameras and minimized the footprints he'd leave in the snow. Nevertheless, his phone buzzed.

What are you doing ? Briggs asked, obviously frightened.

Conferencing , Jackson replied. Stay tuned .

It took him about ten minutes to arrive at the copse of trees about a hundred yards south from where the first assassin lay, his blood freezing into the snow.

He spotted Eric Christiansen about the time Christiansen spotted him, and he tried not to let his vanity make a big deal out of that.

"You've got some skills," Christiansen said, but he sounded unsurprised. "Sure I can't tempt you to my side?"

"Positive," Jackson said. "Should I thank you for, uhm…." He gestured into the clearing.

Christiansen grimaced. "Naw," he said, and his measured, cultured tones had faded, leaving the gruff, flat tones of a working-class East Coaster.

Interesting.

"Can I ask what happened?"

Christiansen gave a shrug and gazed off into the distance, and if Jackson didn't know better, he'd say the man appeared… hurt. Christiansen's shoulders gave a jerk and the impression went away, but Jackson filed the expression away for future analysis.

When he spoke again, Eric Christiansen's voice was once more that of the college educated businessman. "I told my employers that it was unwise to take this job. They were… deciding on a course of action when my young protégé decided to carry out the contract anyway." He let out a sigh. "It's not good to let people countermand your orders. You let that sort of thing stand and people think it can happen all the time."

Jackson blinked—particularly over the word "protégé." "He looked young," he said.

Christiansen swallowed. "He was—but only in years. Don't let the sweet little face fool you. He'd done many… unsavory things."

Jackson heard it again. Sorrow. "He was a friend?" he asked delicately.

"I had plans," Christiansen said, the way someone might announce their plans for lunch had been changed. "They involved a motor home, two cats, and some peace."

Oh wow. "That's rough," Jackson said, and he felt a legitimate sympathy for the guy. He'd been willing to lay down his sword, but his partner had picked it up and waved it in his face. "I'm sorry."

"Plans change," Christiansen said, but Jackson might not ever buy his insouciance again.

"I'm sorry," Jackson said softly. "Change is hard." He knew this in his bones. If he hadn't had Ellery to help him change, he wasn't sure he would have had the strength to do it.

Christiansen shrugged. "The kittens will be fine. They're predators, you know. They've already torn the shit out of a couple of catnip mice. We get along."

Jackson grinned, surprised at how much he meant it. "Ours are destroying our house. Enjoy." And then he sobered. "So," he said, "do I need to know about the contract?"

Christiansen's expression was pure disgust. "Alexei Kovacs. Did you know him?"

Jackson's eyebrows went up. " Did I know him? No, I did not."

"Do you know who killed him?" Christiansen asked.

Jackson's blood, breath, entrails—all of it turned to ice, but he kept the expression on his face that of polite interest. "It's my understanding," he said, as though thinking, "that the military took him out."

Christiansen frowned. "See," he said, that working-class accent haunting him again, "that's what I heard too. The op was clean and big. It's what most of my people have been saying all along. But someone seems to think there's some sort of… I don't know. Elite force operating down south. They've taken out meth labs, petty criminals. It's like a quiet law enforcement agency, but I've got to tell you, LEOs are usually not that slick. I mean, entire branches of the Russian mob have just disappeared."

Jackson nodded, agreeing with him that law enforcement was not that slick. Privately he didn't think an auto mechanic, an off-duty military assassin, a psychic, a seven-foot ex-mobster, and an occasional psychopath were what one would term "slick," but he wasn't going to tell Christiansen that. "So the word out is that was us ?" he asked, and the surprise was legitimate. "Ellery and I were involved in our own shit up here when that went down."

Christiansen gave him a long look from those almost colorless eyes. "You were," he said. "But your ‘shit,' as you call it, seems to dovetail nicely with Alexei Kovacs's death. And word is you gave his brother a pretty sweet deal to talk."

Jackson shrugged. "We treated him like a human being," he said. "The guy lost his entire family while he was in a coma. He wanted to smell the ocean. He was willing to talk about the dead so we could put pieces together. Was hardly a sweetheart deal."

Christiansen nodded. "I heard that too," he said, surprising Jackson. He guessed criminals really did talk. "People were afraid of you two. They put out the hit. I said I'd talk to you first. I talked to you, and I said no. My word needs to matter." He glanced out into the clearing again, although darkness had fallen and his, what? Boyfriend? Little brother? Student? Was now hidden from sight.

"I'm so—"

Christiansen shook his head. "Not your concern," he said brusquely. "What is your concern is what you're going to tell the military people who are about to come running for your ass."

Jackson raised his eyebrows. "All of it," he said. "I'll say that the man we know as Eric Christiansen appeared in my feed, that he wanted to talk, and that I came out here to talk to him."

Christiansen regarded him narrowly. "You need to tell them I killed the Snowman," he said. "That needs to get around."

Okay, then. "Of course," Jackson said.

"Are you certain," Christiansen asked, his cold, educated demeanor descending, "that you don't know who killed Alexei Kovacs?"

"Yes," Jackson said. All he knew was that Ace, Jai, and Burton had somehow blown the place up.

Christiansen smiled suddenly. "You're lying," he said, almost jovially. "Excellent. You keep lying like that, my friend, and you'll protect whomever you're protecting."

Jackson shrugged. "As long as I don't end up bleeding out in the snow," he said casually.

Christiansen shook his head, looking wistful. "I don't think so," he said. "Are you certain you… you would like to stay here? In your current situation?"

It took Jackson a beat to recognize this as the come-on it was, and when he did , he was shocked into absolute honesty. "I left him sleeping !" He thought of Ellery's closed eyes and the trusting way he'd curled up on the love seat in the heated porch. Nobody could betray that much goodness. Nobody .

"It's a shame," Christiansen said philosophically. "You and me, we could have had fun."

The blood around Jackson's heart congealed, almost as certainly as the dead man's did in the snow. Would he have taken this offer before Ellery? In spite of a plethora of sexual partners, he'd been so very, very alone.

But the promise of Ellery had been there, he thought with relief. Jackson could hear Ellery's persnickety voice back then, scathing in its superiority. I would have thought even you had better standards than that.

"Probably not," Jackson told him frankly. "But I'm flattered." He shivered, and his watch buzzed unmercifully. "Listen, if you're not going to kill me—"

"I'm not."

That was reassuring. "Then I have to go. But, uhm… I do have a word of advice."

The man appeared ready to listen. "Back in the day," Jackson said carefully, "I spent a lot of time in bars, looking for a way to not be lonely."

"Like you do," the man replied, seemingly unfazed by the cold.

"I didn't find him in a bar," Jackson said. "That's not where people go when they're serious about not being lonely anymore. I, uhm, wherever you found the unfortunate Snowman?"

Christiansen's eyes widened with understanding. "Not the right place to fish," he said.

"No," Jackson told him. "I've got to go tell all the people all the things. Thanks for not, you know."

"Killing you?"

Oh yeah, Jackson had to get out of there. "Yeah, that," he said.

"Thank you for being interesting enough not to kill," Christiansen said.

"Uhm, you're welcome. Merry Christmas."

And with that, Jackson had started the kind of deep shivers that wouldn't stop with a trip to the bathroom. Goddammit, he was going to have to tell Ellery about this. With a little wave, he turned around and started back to the cabin, waving also at the nearest security camera and pointing to his destination.

Since Ellery was going to have to be alerted, everybody might as well come in out of the cold.