Chapter 3

From John Kill 10: One Last Kill, directed by Chad Reeves, starring Jason Mirelli and Colby Kent.

They're on the run in Venice, on the run with each other, global supervillain organization hot on their trail, separated from the rest of the team but planning a rendezvous; John turns from a window, paces, restless. He's never liked waiting. An itch builds under his skin.

"Sharpen a knife or something," Cam says without looking up. His head's bent over his laptop; his hair's standing up in ridiculous dark waves, drying from the safehouse's tiny shower. It makes him look younger, softer, more innocent. John's seen him take out six henchmen with deadly grace, and coax an enemy vault to self-destruct with a single line of code, and crack supposedly unbeatable security in under a minute. All within the last two days.

Cam adds, "You're making me nervous," and pokes something on the laptop. He's trying to find chatter about the missing superweapon. Sales. An auction. A gathering of certain important names.

"You're not nervous." John circles around to him. "Unless you are. Should I be worried?"

Cam looks up. Their eyes meet.

Everything they are and aren't hangs on a knife's point in the middle of a run-down once-lavish hotel. Salt and water scent the air. The edge of a bruise is visible on Cam's arm, beneath a shoved-up shirtsleeve.

Cam's saved him once and pretended to betray him once. That plan had worked.

Cam's beautiful and brilliant and worth every drop of his reputation. That's all true. His reputation had also mentioned that he was young and amoral and charming. He'd been friends, in the way of the underworld of spies and quasi-official secret agents and hacker networks, with Brent. And Brent had died saving them all, months ago—had left them a name, a contact, and had sworn they could trust him, this young man with a drop of water sliding down beside his left eyebrow and the fate of the world currently depending on his fingertips…

There's also the fact that they've had sex. Twice now. Enthusiastically. Explosively, to borrow a description.

John shifts weight, not off balance, because he isn't, but needing to move. The air crackles.

"That depends." Cam's fingers, on the other hand, don't move: calm over the keys. "How much do you trust me?"

"I trust Brent."

The flicker in blue eyes says Cam's heard the present tense. "That's not an answer about me."

"Isn't it?"

"You trust me enough to bring me to Moscow and let me turn you in and then rescue you," Cam says. "You trust me enough to fuck me. Twice. But not enough to tell me so."

It'd been heart-pounding, pulse-thumping, wild and glorious. It'd been exhilarated and exhilarating, the first time: an escape from enemy organization clutches, a plan gone right, giddy laughter and triumph and adrenaline streaking through their veins like scotch and silver. They'd made it out and made it to safety and caught each other's gazes, and John had pushed him up against a bunker door and kissed him, hard and fierce, hands going to Cam's belt buckle, tugging it loose.

The second time had been here, this safehouse, this morning. They'd fallen asleep the night before, exhausted; they'd woken, and shifted to look at each other. John had touched the bruise on Cam's arm, earned while getting him out; Cam had smiled and reached up and pulled him close.

They hadn't talked much, either time.

"I don't not trust you," he says. "It's just that trusting someone…you earn that." Other specters rise and hover: old treachery, former lovers, dead and living, here and gone. He'd had a fiancée once. The rest of the team knows not to mention Victoria's name.

"I know. And I know what you've heard about me. That I never used to care who I worked for. That I did…what I did, and who, in Paris." Cam's voice stays even, though his chin lifts slightly. "I know you know all that."

"I've heard about it. I also know Brent told us to find you." He says it again: "And I trust Brent. He thought you'd end up on the right side."

"That sounds like him. Having faith in people." Cam runs both hands through his hair, sending a few last water-drops flying. "Not like us. If—hang on."

"What?"

"Stop leaning over me, your shoulder's in my way.—Ah. Well. Not good."

"What's not good?"

"Someone knows about this place." Cam's eyes meet his, calm but aware of the situation. "Two minutes."

"Then we're moving." Up, grabbing guns, grabbing their stash of money and passports. "We'll go out the back—if we get split up, head for the third location on the list—"

"I'm not leaving you." Stubborn, this time. "He told me you'd need help. You need me."

"Cam—" What? I don't need you, I do need you, you've saved us all half a dozen times already and I barely know you but I know the way you look when you come, as if all those edges end up surprised by pleasure? I want to know you? I want to believe in you?

If Cam really did plan to betray him, those blue eyes would say the same thing, about not wanting to leave him. John knows that.

He says, "I'm not planning for us to get split up. Just in case. The third, got it?"

"Yes." Cam gets up, yanks on his boots—he'd been barefoot, out of the shower, and something twists in John's chest for a second—and dives for the laptop. "But—"

A crack splits the afternoon in two. A bullet. Gunfire.

They both drop behind the sofa. More bullets sear the air.

"Two minutes?"

"They're faster than I thought! They must've had someone already here—"

"Never mind. I'll cover you. Get to the door."

"About that…might be a problem…"

John starts to demand why; the question dies on his lips. Cam moves a hand, shaky. Blood on his fingers. Across his stomach. Above a hip.

John Kill, veteran of a hundred impossible missions, doesn't have an answer. Every one of his unspoken words screams in silence, in that second.

His hands, though, are practiced. They move. Pressure over the wound. Torn fabric. Cam's face is pale, but he pants, "I'll live. I think. If we get out of here and do something about it."

He's not wrong. It's bad but not immediately fatal. Not promising, but the placement could've been worse.

"You'll be fine. We'll get you out of here, okay?"

Cam manages a grin. "Not without you, I said. You need me. Or at least my laptop."

"Wouldn't be nearly as much fun with your laptop and not you. Can you still aim?"

"Probably. From the angle and the speed…their shooter should be close enough. I can handle that." Cam fishes out a throwing knife. "On three?"

"On three." He slides an arm under Cam's body, preparing. Cam's not really heavy: nicely muscled, but slender. Easy enough to support. He hopes Cam can stand up.

Cam's blood's very red against the blue of his shirt. His hair's still damp, an incongruous reminder of what they'd been doing to require a shower. He tips his head against John's shoulder, breathing faster.

"Cam?"

"Here. Sorry. Kind of hurting a lot. Just got shot, you know."

"Oh, did you…so you weren't just trying to get me to carry you around…" Ready. Both of them. A count.

And motion: abrupt, whirling, himself scooping Cam off the floor—running for the door, knowing the gun will be firing—knowing the fire will indicate a position—

Cam's hand moves. Silver snaps outward. It's a small knife, made for this. And the shooter's nearby. And Cam, as always, has exquisitely calculated aim.

Silence lands like a body going down, like bullets dropping. Cam's quiet also, too quiet, hand falling. He's falling too: sagging into John's arms.

"Cam—"

"Still…here…ow, though…hey, that was…a fucking awesome throw…tell me you saw that."

"Yeah, you're saving our asses again. Come on, I've got you, you're okay." He's carrying Cam now, cradled in both arms. Running.

"I'm fine…for a given value of fine…I want my knife back. I like that knife. Oh, ow, stairs."

"I'll get you a new set. Something shiny and expensive."

"Oh, promises…best way to a man's heart…" Cam's actually pulling out a mobile phone, one of his many mysterious modified collection; he's checking something, panting, coughing. He's still got the laptop, because it'd been in his shoulder bag along with another knife or two. "Okay, good, that tracker's still running…hey, do you know anything about someone named Celia Bloom, because that name keeps—"

"Her name's Elizabeth, or it used to be, and she works for La Fantomina." Eliza. Fuck. And Cam's still trying to work, trying to protect the mission—bleeding and unable to stand and trying to help, because John doesn't trust him and he needs to prove himself—

But. But John does need him, needs to trust him, needs to make sure he's safe and alive and still here—

He keeps Cam cradled against his chest. More stairs. He's in good shape. He can do this. He can get them out of this. He can get them to the next safehouse, and call in a favor, use any debt he's owed, beg someone to come and look at Cam and make the bleeding stop.

He can't lose Cam. He just—he can't. Not another person, and not now, not Cam, not when they're—if they're—whatever they are, whatever they might be, dangerous and tantalizing as every possibility is. He can't lose this. He won't.

He feels each breath in his lungs, feels Cam's weight in his arms, Cam's head resting more heavily on his shoulder. Three flights of stairs to go. He scrapes out, "Stay awake. Talk to me."

It's not about the mission, or Eliza, or any of that. That's a problem for the future. He's saving Cam right now.

"I'm awake." Clearly true, but Cam's voice sounds weaker. "Looks like Celia…Elizabeth…doesn't like you. I mean…like…personally."

"Not a surprise."

"You want to…tell me that story…sometime?"

"Maybe later. It's not pretty."

"I don't mind…not pretty…and, hey…I like you."

"Delirious. Blood loss. We're almost there. Private dock right out this door. How do you feel about stealing a boat?"

"It's not my first choice of…getaway vehicle…but we're in Venice, so…it'll do. Nice and romantic."

"Now you're just saying words." Down the stairs, getting breath back. Cam's blood's soaked across them both. John's own shirt's sticky with it.

Somewhere close, he thinks. A friend. Henry Wu, maybe, who's retired and will complain but will help—that should be reachable, once they get out of here—close enough—

He says, "I've got you, you just hang on, okay?" and kicks the door open, Cam in his arms.