Determined to end the fight quickly so he could slip back out of the base before the entire situation became a debacle, he strode forward with his blade at the ready. A massacre on a US military base would bring attention that neither he nor the Clan needed.
Masters’s arm blurred as the SEAL retrieved something from the coffee table and twisted to fling it at him. Black parried the incoming object with his blade, sending a dive knife spinning away into the shadows of the darkened room.
This has gone on long enough, the annoyed assassin thought as he vaulted the cheap sofa and lashed out with his blade in a bid to pop the annoying navy man’s head from his torso.
He was surprised when his target lunged at him instead of retreating, blocking the blade by planting his shoulder into the striking arm. Then came a piercing pain and sudden pressure in Black’s belly. He grabbed the navy man by the throat and squeezed, only to feel more pain and pressure as the man jerked his hand upward.
There was a sudden rush of sensation that reminded Black of voiding himself, only from the wrong direction, and a spatter of liquid hit the carpeted floor. He grimaced, feeling the strength leave his arms. He tried to squeeze Masters’s neck harder but found his arm knocked clear from the navy man’s throat.
Black staggered back, falling into the sofa he had just jumped over as the SEAL climbed to his feet. Suddenly he found himself looking up at the man he’d come to kill.
“You’re bleeding all over my couch,” Hawk Masters growled, his second dive knife gripped tightly in his hand. “Don’t suppose you’d care to explain why the hell you tried to gut me?”
Black just stared at him as Masters stepped on his wrist and plucked the curved kukri blade from his grip.
“No?” Masters asked idly, not expecting anything as he looked over the dark blade in the filtered light streaming in from the streetlamps outside. “I suppose it was too much to hope for. You’re human, or at least you bleed like one.”
Black stayed silent as Masters walked across the room and flicked on a light. He could hear engines roaring in the distance, sounding farther away than he would have expected. Everything did, actually, once he considered it.
Masters returned to the couch, yanking the coffee table back a foot so that he could sit across from the dying man. “You look human, but you’re stronger than any man I’ve ever met. If you’re not one of those bastardized abominations from across the veil, who — and, more importantly, what—are you?”
Black closed his eyes, not quite believing that he’d been killed by this ignorant mongrel. The matriarch is going to have my line purged for this failure.
The man in front of Hawk Masters died just as tires squealed to a halt outside his place. The MPs burst in a moment later, M16 rifles leading the way as they came to a stop and stared in shock at the dead man lounging on the sofa.
“Throw down your weapon!” They snapped out of their shock, shifting their aim to Masters.
He tossed down the knives, keeping his hands in sight.
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Harold Masters,” he said. “This is my house.”
“We’ll check on that,” the lead MP said, eyes scanning the rest of the house. “Is there anyone else in here?”
“If there is, shoot them,” Masters growled. “I should be alone.”
“Right. We’re going to need NCIS,” the MP said, looking back. Then the man sighed. “I’ll wake the brass.”
Masters snorted. “Better you than me.”
Dawn was breaking when Judith Andrews pulled her car to the side of the street, eyes widening at all the flashing lights adorning the street outside Lieutenant Commander Masters’s assigned living quarters. She shook her head, killed the engine, and climbed out of the car. Another glance at the sheer number of MPs and official vehicles parked around the building left her both stunned and annoyed.
This is supposed to be a covert operation, damn it, she thought as she crossed the road and flashed her ID at the MP who was trying to stop her. “Where’s Lieutenant Commander Masters?”
The man stiffened. “Inside, ma’am. He’s with NCIS.”
“Perfect,” she muttered, stalking forward.
She shouldered through the men at the door, pushing inside to where an older man in a suit was glowering at Masters and asking him questions.
“Captain Andrews,” she said, stepping on the interrogation. “This man is part of a national security operation, agent. You can’t question him without a SOCOM representative.”
The NCIS agent turned to glare at her. “The name is Biggs, Captain. Your man here gutted someone like a fish, and laid him out on his sofa. You trying to tell me that was an authorized mission?”
“I suppose that would depend on the identity of the corpse, Agent Biggs,” she countered, shooting a glare at Masters. “You have anything back on that yet?”
Biggs scowled, but shook his head. “No prints in any database we can access. We’re sending samples for DNA analysis, but that’ll take weeks.”
“Until you get that information back, I’ll thank you to restrict your questions to scheduled sessions with proper supervision. That is, unless you think the lieutenant commander lured the man into his home at three a.m. in order to kill him,” she snapped out coldly.
“Yes, ma’am.” Biggs closed his notebook, sparing a glare for both Masters and Andrews. “Still, this is a crime scene, and you’ll both have to leave.”
“Fine with me.” Hawk shrugged, getting up. He picked up a bag from beside the table and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m not coming back here anyway.”
“You can’t take that.”
“This is my bug-out kit. It’s got jack all to do with any of this,” Masters growled.
“I don’t care, it’s evidence,” Biggs snapped.
“Jesus, did you use lube to shove that stick up your—”
“Commander!” Captain Andrews cut him off, pulling the black bag from his shoulder and dropping it on the table. “Agent Biggs, feel free to search the bag. If you find something you like, by all means, feel free to keep it. Otherwise, I think it’s reasonable for the lieutenant commander to take a few personal effects.”
The agent scowled again, but opened the bag and rifled through it. He unfolded the shirts and pants, shoving them back in messily, and ignored the shaving supplies. After a moment he paused and withdrew a wickedly curved kukri blade with mottled patterns in the steel, raising an eyebrow at Masters.
“A souvenir.” Masters shrugged. “It’s from Turkmenistan, twelve years ago.”
Biggs seemed to consider that for a long moment, then finally dropped the knife back into the bag and roughly zipped it up before tossing it at Masters. “Get out of my crime scene.”
“Yes, sir.”
Andrews grabbed Masters by the back of the collar and pulled him out the door.
Outside she pushed him over to her car, watching as he walked around and settled himself in the passenger’s seat before she climbed in behind the wheel.
“What the hell was that about?”
“I don’t like NCIS,” Masters replied.
“Not that, you idiot. The dead man in your housing unit.”
“Oh, that.” Hawk shrugged. “Dunno. He broke into my place and tried to kill me. I have no idea why.”
“You’ve never seen him before?” she asked, unbelieving.
“Nope.”
“While I have no problem understanding why people who know you would want to kill you, Lieutenant Commander,” she told him sarcastically as she drove, “I’m a little skeptical that even you can rouse that kind of ire from people you’ve never met.”