This story is based on two homosexual men. You must be above the legal age of 18 (or as stipulated by your country/state) to read this story. If this story is illegal in your area, PLEASE DO NOT READ IT. This story is a work of ficition. Any similarity of the characters to any person is clearly a coincidence. All other usual disclaimers apply.
Please send your feedback or critisim to mikeinstudio9344(at)yahoo(dot)com.
The Game
Chapter Three - Twice Broken, Twice Shy
"Cameras in place, Ghost." McCall reported into the cell phone to his commander in Canberra. "Covering the entire perimeter every two yards, fences and in the garden. Two on each roof corner, with immediate heat-dectector relay to me. Sentinel alarmed so they can't be disabled. A three-second relay to home base, and to me within fifteen. He can't get away.
"Good work, Flipper." Anson used his code name McCall hated with all his usual curtness. It referred to McCall's SEAL background but he felt like he should make dolphin noises when Anson calls him that.
"Don't leave the subject - 24/7 watch. Wildman's stationed two miles south, Braveheart two miles north, Panther the other side of Russell. Heidi's west of the Bay, in the market village. Each has a ten-minuts deadline to reach you."
Perimeter covered as always, even in a one-man op - every contingency covered, including his death. The watch over his radial pulse sent satelite updates every ten minutes back to base. If he went down, the team moved in to protect the subject.
"Roger that, boss. I'm good to go."
"Subject update."
"Sleeping." The heat detectors in the roof cameras flashed two unmoving objects - three if you count the puppy his kid had sneaked in after his father went to bed.
McCall grinned. Yeah, he could relate to that. He'd always done the same with the neighbourhood stray after his old man fell into a drunken stupor or went out on the boat for night fishing, leaving him alone. Funny how that sour-tempered old mongrel's presence had been so reassuring to his eight year old mind, after his mom had left with Meg. He'd even grown to love the unwashed stink of the dog. The smell was a reminder, even sleep, that he wasn't alone.
So Jake's son was a lonley kid too, even though his Dad had stuck around, and obviously loved him.
Yeah, Jake Silver seemed the original earth father. Through the silvery radiance of moonlight pouring through Jake's windows, he could see a house filled with mellow redwood furniture, bare flooring and fireplaces, loads of scatter rugs and comfy sofas. Homemade touches like cross-stitch pictures and paintings, scattered pieces of pottery. Pictures of Jake with his son, the boy now named Danny. The boy who looked enough like Robert Falcone to be his son, Robbie.
He sensed Jake Silver would be a tiger when it came to protecting his son. He'd lie, cheat, - maybe even kill - to stop anyone from taking Danny from him. He'd only get the kid only over Jake's dead body.
A good thing he wasn't after the kid. What he did want was the graceful, handsome body warm and alive. Hearing him cry his name when he -
'Yeah, as if you're gonna get that anytime soon, when he refuses to even recognise you. Face facts, McCall he was slummin' with you ten years ago, and he ain't gonna contaminate himself or his precious son with the down boy again.'
The garden outside the house filled the place with the scent of blood roses and ferns, touches of gardenia, earth work and ... man. This was a modest, lovely home with a hint of untamed heart in the rolling hills surrounding the properity. Even the old, moss-covered craters of long-dead tiny volcanoes that dotted the whole northen island seemed to fit the deep-hidden, slumbering fire of the man who lived inside here.
The rustic beauty of his home suited the picture Jake had told him he wanted one long-ago night - "A pretty little cottage I can take care of myself, with a rose garden. My own house I can take care of myself, away from all the people and servants and fuss." His eyes had glowed with a young boy's extra-ordinary dreams.
For his wants to be so meager had seemed strange to the point of alien to the half-wild gang-kid from the docks of L.A. His upbringing, his homes, everything about him was as lofty as a high-ranking Brazilian diplomat's son could be - and he deserved every care and luxury. Things he could never have given him back then, and still couldn't now. He could give a man comfort, but never first class. He'd never be rich.
But they were things he obviously still didn't want. He'd made his simple dream come true.
A blip alerted him before he saw it. A vision passed by the window a moment later, fairy-like in his simple boxer briefs, a t-shirt and barefoot. Sihouetted by the soft light of the glowing coals in the open fireplace, some parts of his body were lighted and his golden body and package were in sweet shadow... and he ached like hell, watching him. Like a siren, he was there one moment, taking his breath with his otherwordly loveliness, and gone the next.
He'd frozen in midcount, dragging in a breath. Incandescent loveliness in the tender moonlight pouring through window...
'Get a grip, McCall!' He willed his hormones to subside, but he found himself watching, waiting for him to pass the window once more. Then his body aching and pounding inside those fire-scorching chains of the wanting he couldn't conquer after a decade, he left the perimeter. Blowing out a mist-heated breath of frustrated need, he headed to the doubtful comfort of his bedroll, damp from the rain leaking into his motorbike's pack. The closet to a cold shower he'd get. Standing naked in a glacier wouldn't do a thing to douse the fire burning him alive.
From behind that triple-locked door, behind the peephole, the man who still felt like a ghost inside his own life after years of hiding, sagged against the wall, and breathed again. Jake ran an unsteady hand across his forehead. Why ? Why had he looked? Why, when he knew he'd only lose himself in the sight of him?
Twice now, he'd done the impossible to him. Last time, he'd loved Brendan in minutes; now, within a day, despite all he knew about him, McCall had gone from his deepest terror to his darkest sentiel, fascinating him with a child's fear of the night - a night he walked in with ease and grace, as if he belonged to it, or the night belonged to him. Even a prosaic task, such as opening a bedroll, took on a life of it's own.
For some reason a line of poetry danced through his mind, slightly corrupted: 'He walks in beauty like the night.'
'Fool.' He sighed and returned to his bed. When it came to McCall, a fool was all he'd ever been.
And though the thicker wool of his cushioned bed enfolded him more closely than the thin pallet McCall had rolled himself into, he found no comfort, no rest or release from the heated nidnight dreams, lush as black silk and just as terrifying.
His peaceful life here in New Zealand with his son was over. Out of the shadows and into the fire - a fire that would consume his son alive. All his plots and strategies , all his sacrificies were both worth nothing if Falcone got to Danny. And if he got to him -
He shuddered. McCall might suspect, or think he knew, but he couldn't prove a thing . He held the only proofs, just as he held Falcone's life in his hands. A double-egded sword meaning death, and so Falcone had kept his search low-key, discreet. But if Falcone got him, he knew excatly what Falcone would do - what he wanted to do for the tweleve years, since he'd reached the age of consent at sixteen. And he'd take his son back.
It wasn't happening to Danny. His little boy would live and grow and play soccer in peace, become a man like his grandfather, and his honorary grandfathers, and if he had to sacrifice his life for that to happen, so be it.
His sleepless eyes watched dawn break over the tiny harbour across the road, knowing that McCall was doing the same, laying aside his wildness like a folded cloak and slipping into the persona of humanity he shed with the fall of the night.
He rubbed his eyes. He definitely needed more sleep if he was indulging in dawn fancies, turning McCall into a creature of twilight. He wasn't after his blood to keep himself alive. He was just a man, about to betray him and his son the sane way he'd betrayed his country and for the same reason.
'Money.' It was cold and as crude as that.
McCall pushed open the door of his studio and walked in. He didn't question it, didn't wonder if he should keep watching from across the road, as he had all morning. It had nothing to do with the afternoon rain drenching him. The coolness soaking him through was refreshing after hours of his body aching from super-heated dreams, waking and sleeping: dreams of slipping that wraithlike shealth from Jake's golden skin, and burning alive with him in the inferno their loving would create.
No, the ache had grown unbearble and he accepted the simple fact. He needed to see Jake, talk to him to ease it. As simple and as damn complicated as that.
"Good afternon, Jacob Silver." He had to keep playing the game until he gave him a sign, let him into his world, and hand over the evidence he knew in his gut was here somewhere.
But Jake barely nodded at him. No politeness today, no sword-thrust to his verbal parries - and he could now see what watching him from across the street didn't show. Jake's mouth dropped as he worked; his hands were barely steady enough to mold clay. The defences he'd erected against him yesterday had come crashing down - for now.
"Did you get any sleep last night?" He asked and looked for any little indication to the answer he won't provide.
A no-sleep op was okay with him. Even if he hadn't been SEAL trained, he could get by on two or three fifiteen-minute snatches of shut eye through the night, as he'd done for most of his life. But the stress on Jake's pale face was delicately obvious. His tiredness made him lovelier than ever, as appealing as that briefs he'd been wearing last night and as haunting, even in his Levi jeans and light blue shirt.
"Did 'you' sleep?" His soft, cool voice was gravel in his sleepless state, hitting him hard and low and fast with a jolt of hot need. "A sleeping bag on the grass can't be comforatble." His eyebrows lifted, the challenge seeming stronger. "You do realise that stalking me by day and watching me at night, sleeping outside my house, does nothing to reassure me that you're a member of the teddy bear's picnic?"
Jake had a point. He made himself shrug, thinking fast. "I've run out of money?"
Jake's chin lifted. His barriers were coming up, and clicking into place. "I don't think so."
Aiming to charm him, his mouth quirked up. "Um, I really want that teapot fo my mom?"
"If she exists." Jake sighed. "Can we stop this, please? If I see you outside my house at night again, I'll call the police."
"And say what?" he growled. "A man's asleep on public ground across the road? That's not a felony in New Zealand."
"I saw you last night. Touching my house. Trespass with the intent, I think that's what that particular felony is called isn't it? And since you're well versed in New Zealand law, Mr. Tourist-just-here-for-two-weeks, maybe you can tell me what byelaw it's part of, so I can tell the police when they get here"
McCall swore beneath his breath. He'd well blown his cover as a tourist by his knowledge of international law and Jake was no longer the handsome prince, he was tense and tight-stanced, ready to fight.
"Are they coming now?" he asked with a dark growl. Not that it mattered. With one call from Anson or a high-ranking police commander, they'd back down fast. But Falcone had paid off people in authority before and his men were already in the South Pacific. He didn't want to tangle with more authorities than he had to because it put Jake at risk.
"Not yet." A hand came up from behind the counter; wiped clean of wet clay, it held a cell phone. "I've punched in the number. You have ten seconds to convince me not to complete the call."
'Damn, didn't Jake know better than that?' "You shouldn't give intruders warning of your intensions. Ever. They could disarm you in tens seconds." It would take him four, tops.
"I wouldn't try it. Your sexual organ would be in question in seconds." Jake's other hand lifted, holding a heavy baton. "I know two different types of martial arts."
He didn't doubt it. It was obvious in his tight, controlled stance, his legs splayed and arms tense, ready to attack. Jake wasn't a fool, just too angry to care - or maybe, beneath his projected fear and mistrust, part of him knew he was here to protect him, so he was giving him a chance to explain himself.
"And if I don't puch a security code into my alarm system every half hour, the police will be here within two miuntes, and the security cameras installed into the ceiling have already relayed your image to the firm." Jake went on with his eyes hard.
"Why would you be telling me all this if you thought I was going to attack you?" He asked softly. "You wouldn't. Not unless you believe in your gut that I'm not here to hurt you. So this whole farce is unnecessary."
Jake glanced at his watch. "Nine. Eight. Seven."
'Damn it. His mission was top secret -'
"Six. Five."
He couldn't tell Jake everything, but he could play one ace.
"You already know why I'm here," he murmured, low with masculine tension. "You've known since the moment you saw me, no matter how well you hid it. Even though I had to let you go with them that night you knew I'd come back for you one day."
A moments silence. "It's time for your medication, McCall. Unless you were brought up in Dunedin, or have been here in the past couple of years, I don't know you." When he didn't answer, Jake shrugged. "Perhaps you should just tell me what it is you really want from me."
"You know what I want, Jake." He let the sensual he used the name sink in. "Just like you knew my name before you saw it on my credit card."
Folding his arms across his chest, he stood silent, waiting.
Was it a trick of the half light of the storm outside or did Jake's cheecks get warm? "I thought that was what it was," Jake said in a would-be casual voice. Shaking beneath.
He moved closer, all man now, the Nighthawk in him shot to hell at the gentle lovely scent of Jake's fresh-washed hair, the glowing golden skin skin, the aura of the man beneath the coolness Jake projected.
"What? What is it?" he whispered.
Jake moved his face, as if in denial. Denying his question, or the raw male need straining from every pore, screaming at him to take him, to find release from this unbearable need, this half-crazed tension inside his warm, golden loveliness?
Jake's answer, when it came was unsteady. "I'm afraid you've crossed the world on a wild goose chase, Mr. McCall. I'm not who you're after. I'm Jacob Silver."
He put down the baton and the phone and moved to the potter's wheel, switching it on and reaching for his clay, kept in the double-thickness plastic bag.
Finding steadiness inside the familiarity? Was Jake so scared of him?
'Not you fool! - you represent his losing his anonymity and freedom, he thought with a flash of insight. He doesn't know if I'm working here alone or of Falcone is close behind.'
And he couldn't tell Jake the truth until he got clearance or verification nof his identity. Lives hinged on his obedience to the Nighthawks mandates.
"My mistake," he said slowly, testing him. "You look so much like a guy I once knew."
But the time was coming - and soon - when he'd have to force Jake out of the shadows. Already the credit card slip Jake'd given him was being fingerprint tested for any criminal records; the photo he'd taken of his face matched against all recorded shots of Jacob de Souza. Jake had hours to hide in his cloak of anonymity.
"So long as you don't believe it." As he kneaded his clay, added water, his face grew calmer; as he spoke with that otherwordly calm. "Don't tell me - the model, right? The one who died a few years back in a car crash? People used to mistake me fo him all the time. I was even photographed a few times, and put in trash magazines. You know, the 'Elivis is till alive in South America' stuff except substitute Delia, and New Zealand." Jake looked at him, his face filled with cool pity. "If you cared about him, I don't blame you for hoping I was him - but the body was there, Mr. McCall. Accept facts. Jacod de Souza is dead. There won't be a resurrection."
The quiet finality in Jake's words sent a creeping shiver down his spine. What was Jake telling him - that he was Marcus de Souza or that, in his eyes Jake had died long ago?
"I know, but he meant a lot to me, and you're so much like him."
Testing him. Would he react?
He merely shrugged. "I'm sorry, Mr McCall. Much as I'd like to earn what he did, I'm just Jacob Silver, an average single man bringing up his son, alone."
"Never average. You've never known what average is" he murmured huskily. Taking another step, he felt Jake's body respond, and not in fear. deny it as he would, the current of desire moved back and forth between them from him to Jake, Jake to him, with a life of it's own, warm and aching and needy.
Jake gulped. The movement was quiet, intrinsically gentleman-like, yet his throat still convulsed, as if his words hurt him.
"Maybe I want to know. What average is, I mean." Jake said it as if he had been thinking of something else he wanted to know.
What they both wanted to know. What 'they wanted', ached for.
'Keep your mind on the assignment, or he'll be gone by nightfall.'
"Average men don't have security system to rival Fort Knox." he suggested. Probing.
Jake kept his averted, not enough to be interpreted as fearful. More like he was looking over his shoulder. "I have my reasons. None of which should concern a complete stranger."
He couldn't think, couldn't act like a Nighthawk, standing in the warm intimacy of Jake's studio with the man who drove him out of his rational mind with blood-pounding want.
"Am I a stranger, Jake?" His voice grew huskier. His body was hard and tight with the flaming brand of aching need that being within three feet of Jake engendered in him, "Can you look me in the face and tell me that I'm a stranger?"
A little shrug. "What's hard about that? We met yesterday. You're a stranger."
Yet Jake didn't look at him and his voice held a telltale quiver. As if his heart rebelled against the half lie he told. As if he was fighting for his very life... and if he was Jacob or Marcus de Souza, that's exactly what he was doing. He knew, understood, even apperciated Jake's spirit and fire and guts, fighting alone to save himself and his son.
But everything in him, heart and gut and man rose up in equally dark hot rebellion. Like a tiger crouched in the dry grass ready to pounce on it's prey, he took the final steps to Jake and put his hands on his shoulders. He felts Jake's start, ready to bolt that moment.
"Look at me - look me in the eye and tell me you don't know me."
Jake's fists clenched so hard he could feel his arms shaking beneath his hands. Jake didn't turn his head.
"We were never strangers." he muttered, rough and hard, yet keeping his hold gentle. Thrilling to the touch of him, even beneath a baggy shirt, to that quiet attractive scent filling his head, because it came from Jake. "From the moment we met - no matter when we met - it was there."
Jake finally turned his face, and his eyes locked on his. Jake was nothing like that star-being now, just a man in a desperate quest for truth. "Who are you?" he whispered.
"You know who I am." he growled, wishing, willing Jake to hear his heart, his gut-deep need.
Jake shook his head - a tiny movement, yet with plenty of power. Fighting still, but he lay passive beneath his hands, allowing him to touch him.
'Jake may not trust me, but he wants me. I can use that to Nighthawks advantage, to save lives...'
What a crock. He'd never heard such a pathetic crap in his life. He almost heard the universe laugh at his self-delusional thought.
"Tell me. Please." Jake's voice cracked, turned husky, a warm, lingering echo of the throaty alto he'd hungered for in years. "What are you? Who are you? Why are you here?"
"You tell me" he commanded, using the magnetic pull he knew Jake felt to make him answer. "Tell me who you think I am."
"It's not your name - it's -" Jake's lovely eyes filled with desire and distress, and a heart-deep terror that made him want to touch him, hold and comfort him. "Why are you here? Who do you work for? Who paid you to find me and to watch over me? Why are you doing this to me? What did I do?"
"Maybe I'm here for me." He moved another half inch, and the current of heat hitched up another notch. Dangerous power, a firestorm waiting to unleash. "I waited for you to call, for you to come to me." He released a sigh. "I gave you my private number. I didn't change it for six years. I kept the phone for that long, until I gave up on waiting fro you to call. Didn't you know I'd have helped you leave him if you needed it?"
"Leave who? You don't know me. You don't know Danny's father, or mother - how could you help me?" Yet his voice held no strenght. His face was pale, his nostrils flared, like a doe about to bolt - the flight-or-fight response he suspected he'd lived on for years. "I don't know you. I don't want to know you. I don't believe in anything or anyone. I don't trust anyone." Yet as though he lay helpless in a trap, he didn't, or couldn't move away from under his touch. "Especially not a man who tells me nothing about himself, yet expects my private confindences in return."
A flickering, fading defiance that still slammed him in the guts. Someone with Jake's whole life history couldn't afford to let a man into his world who didn't tell him anything, or give him any reason to take him on, let alone tell him the whole damn truth.
'So give him what you can.'
"Ex-Lieutenant Brendan McCall of the U.S. Navy SEALs, at your service, sir." He made a tiny, self-mocking bow.
Silence for a moment. "Why ex?"
Oh man, Jake knew where to hit... and he had tread carefully here. If this man was Jake de Souza, he might know why he was "ex" Lieutenant McCall. Jake's father would have had him investigated for sure.
And the utter truth of that left him speechless and his head spinning.
Why hadn't he thought of that? The proverbial had hit the fan ten years ago, and it was only now that he finally got it.
'His father had me investigated. That's why he Jake never called me. That's why he has been looking at me like I'm a monster. He thinks I'm a triator to my country, in Falcone's pay now.'
Ghost would have his hide for this, and strip him off his commander rank, but he had no choice. He couldn't wait for clearance now. If he put Jake off now, he'd slam the emotional door and never open it again.
"I was dismissed." A bald, blunt statement that in no way hid the lingering shame. Even though it was a top-brass decision for the greater good, and he'd agreed to it for international security, the sting still whipped him with merciless taunts - always your father's son, McCall - especially if he'd lost Jake because of it.
There was no going back: his reputation as a SEAL, one of the white knights of national security, had shattered years ago. He couldn't go back to the States without dismantling a decade of lies, and blowing apart assignments that hinged on his being able to infiltrate illegal rings that accepted him as one of their own. He had to remain a seeming criminal for the sake of international peace and security. He couldn't go home, could never see anyone he knew or cared for again...
'Yeah', a little voice jeered. 'There are so many of them'. That's why he'd taken the job with Nighthawks, and accepted the cover that ruined his reputation. He had nobody to hurt. Besides, his old SEAL buddies, there was no one to give a toss that he's apparently sold secrets to the enemy just before a war.
Ten years later, he wondered if the price he'd paid was higer than he knew. The whispers that somone in the SEALs had sold out had been nudging around before he took the op; Ghost had used the story to give his appearance credence.
Had Edurado de Souza put two and two together and made an equation that spelled disaster for his heart and Jake's?
He couldn't tell Jake. It would clear him in his eyes, yeah, but it would condemn his beloved father as a snob who'd torn his son's life apart for the sake of bloodlines and unacceptabililty of who he was. For Edurado de Souza had been Brazilian ambassador to the U.S.A., with the resources to find the truth, He could have easily verified the stories, discovered that Lieutenant McCall was a man with full military honours and an open offer from his admiral to return to the SEALs anytime he tired of playing international spy.
To clear his name - to restore Jake's trust in him - would be to destroy his father's memory.
"Touchy subject, I think?" Jake's soft voice broke through his inner blackness like a half rainbow in a storm cloud. "You don't want me to ask you why you were dismissed."
The unexpected understanding made his hands tighten on Jkae's shoulders. "No, I don't. Thank you." he said quietly. Few people in his life had respected his need for privacy and silence.
"So then, are you going to tell me why you were in my garden at two in the morning?" Far from belligerent, Jake's voice was low, musical with rich but gentle slur, a siren's song.
He took the final step, putting his body within an inch of Jake's. "Did I terrify you? Do I terrify you?" His heart out a different insistent rhythm.
'Trust me, Jake.'
Jake looked at him, then away, leaving a flsh of incandescent blue behind that burned in his memory. "Yes, you terrify me..."
But it hadn't been terror in his eyes then. Temptetion slammed in his guts, leaving him under it's command. Jake's face - that unforgettable face, those amazing eyes, filled with desire and need - need for his touch...
Jake wanted it as bad as he did. Wanted him.
It would shoot all the Nighthawk rules to hell, rules he'd followed to the letter with the fanaticism of a zealot since joining the spy group ten years sgo. If Anson knew, he'd turf him out of the Nighthawks, but now, he didn't care. He didn't give a damn. With a low growl he reached for Jake...
"No!" A quiet word, weak and shaking but combined with muddy hands that trembled and eyes filled with sudden, doe-like terror, it held all the forces of a Mack truck.
He dropped his arms as if Jake'd use the baton on them.
"Don't be scared of me, Jake." he said softly. "You know I'd never do anything to hurt you."
Jake turned away, concentrating on his sodden, shapeless lump of clay as if it held the secrets of his life.
"I don't know anything about you, McCall. Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know. I just want you to leave. Get out of my life."
He took the blow in silence. still and cold. Well, what had he expected - that Jake would actually give a damn if a guy like him lived or died?
Oh, he had friends, the guys on his old SEAL team had never believed the rumors of treason. To a man, they'd still eat a bullet for him. His navy seniors would return his rank to him, and give him a new team any day he asked. His fellow Nighthawks would jump out of a plane, chopper, ship or a moving train to save him, but because of the necessity of absolute anonymoity in the job, when he went home, he was alone.
Nothing new. It had been that way since he was eight years old. He'd been alone his whole life. Just the way it was.
He thought he'd learned to live with it. Obviously not since he'd returned to Jake's life, and the strange thing was it didn't matter to him right now if he was Jacob de Souza or not. He needed Jake with the same gut-burning intensity he'd felt ten years ago and hadn't known since.
"Yeah, sure. I'll go." His voice grated a little, so what? It wouldn't happen again. This wasn't anything he wasn't used to. He'd get over it. Get over Jake.
There was no other choice.
He turned at the door, hoping to God his face didn't mirror the torture he was going through inside him. "But I'll be back."
He walked out, willing his gut to untwist enough so he could breathe again.