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“Lane’s out.”
“Like what? On parole?”
Benji knew the comment hadn’t been the most appropriate. But in his defense, Ethan could have phrased it better. Maybe added an ‘escaped’ into the short sentence or something. And to be fair, it had all felt a bit ridiculous. Lane wasn’t out. He couldn’t possibly be out. He was locked up tight in a deep, deep hole in England–
Luther fast-forwarded the footage. They all watched as something in Lane’s straitjacket failed. A loose strap. Perhaps tied down wrong. Something. The point was, Lane got loose. Then, broke the neck of the guard in front of him. Luther paused the video.
“Huh.”
Solomon Lane. A chapter Benji had truly thought over and done with. Hell! They’d already beaten him twice! Which was more than he could say about most major criminals they went up against. Most didn’t even make it to a jail cell in the end. Even on the instances where Ethan gave them a chance. The egos always got in the way. Too narcissistic. Too full of themselves. Too incapable of admitting they’d lost. Which in Lane’s case was doubly ironic. Considering that last plan had all hinged on a suicidal plot. Yet even that he’d survived despite his best efforts and despite how Ethan’s track record with most terrorists and arms dealers had been against him.
“Hey, we’ve got experience at least in this area. Third time’s the charm.” Luther groaned at the joke. Ethan gave him a look like ‘really?’ But if anything, they really should have expected it from him. It was just his way of processing all this.
Lane was supposed to be locked up. Forever. The British government had stuck him so far underground it had taken Luther longer than seven minutes to confirm where Lane’s cell was. Seven minutes! That was like an eternity for Luther!
But nope. Against all odds the maniac was walking around. Free as can fucking be.
Benji was handling it just fine. Fucking perfect he was. Like he’d said. They had experience with Lane. The man was smart, but anger was his Achille’s heel above all else. All they needed to figure out was the angle Lane was going for. Some runner up to the Syndicate and the Apostles? Another terrorist group? What grand plan did he have in mind? Who was he hoping to hurt? What region did he hope to destroy? Or was perhaps Lane the goods and not the mastermind in this? Even with Britain taking official custody over him, he’d managed to piss off a lot of countries and people. Maybe someone was after him for revenge for a change rathe than wishing to use him like Walker. Wouldn’t that be funny?
Benji focused on trying to get a working theory. On trying to figure out how Lane could have escaped custody while Luther scoured satellite images around the world in search of the man.
He tried very, very hard not to think about the rope around his neck or the bomb on his chest.
That had been. Had been on his chest and had been on his neck, Benji mentally corrected himself.
He was ok. He was. He really was. By this point, he’d arguably been in worse, more harrowing situations than either of those scenarios. There was even a bit of pride in Benji about the whole thing. Sure, the second instance he probably wouldn’t have survived without Ilsa’s help, but still. He’d gone toe to toe with Lane. Even managed to get a few punches to connect. Not many of the people Lane had crossed could say that. But then, that was the concern. Wasn’t it? Maybe it would be Lane’s luck that ran out with a third encounter, but what if it was Benji’s? Because as much as he would like to accredit his survival to his skills, he hadn’t hacked his way out of that noose. He’d gotten lucky.
As he and Luther worked all night, going at the problem from different angles, Luther seemed to pick up on some of that anxiety.
“Hey,” Luther murmured. “You can be the van guy on this one.”
Benji actually snorted at that. A smile moved over his face. “Now who’s making inappropriate jokes?”
“I mean it. Just focus on figuring out how he escaped in the first place. We can handle the rest.”
“That’s not what a team does. Seriously, it’s appreciated, but I’m fine,” Benji forced out. “Besides, I’ve been inside his head. Not many people who can say that. Makes me invaluable on this one.”
Luther managed a slight smile. “And you did a damn fine job with that. But know it’s ok if you want out of this. It’s your choice, Benji.”
“Well, I choose to be here. Besides, realistically, what are the chances that I’ll end up facing off against him? Really? I’d say it’s about time Ethan have a turn.”
Luther rolled his eyes at that.
Benji rubbed at his face. After hours of nothing, it was all starting to come together. Lane hadn’t had any visitors during his imprisonment. Hardly anyone had known he was there. Neither had he made a fuss. He’d been a model prisoner all things considered. Benji couldn’t even remember a moment where Lane had said a word on the footage he’d watched. The man had followed all given directions. Ate on command. Shit and showered when told. Walked from point a to point b. Only one instance had stood out.
A guard who’d apparently gotten too forceful leading to the one instance where Lane had retaliated with a sudden, harsh headbutt.
And then several days later, when they’d removed him from solitary confinement-though could it really be called solitary when his entire sentence was pretty much solitary-he’d broken a guard’s neck and managed to escape.
Benji had gone down that rabbit hole while Luther got a few promising hits from satellite imagining, geo-profiling, and CCTV. After forty-eight hours of tireless work, they had the how. Someone had gotten to that guard. A large sum of money had appeared in his account the day after he’d gotten headbutted by Solomon Lane. And that headbutt had all been for show. An act to hide the passage of an object into Lane’s clothes. The guard wasn’t involved beyond that. A lengthy list of gambling debts showed he’d simply been the prime candidate to blackmail for whoever had been working to get Lane out.
That who was still a mystery but on Luther’s end, he’d managed to narrow down a where. Tracked an image with a eighty-nine percent match to Lane in a few places in Eastern Europe. During all this, Ethan had spoken with a few European contacts. Managed to figure out there was a hacker being scouted in the area. A man with similar ideals and even the history of being a disavowed MI6 agent thanks to intel from Ilsa. Whether or not him and Lane had crossed paths before now was uncertain, but he certainly had the skills that Lane would be interested in no matter what he was planning. There was a meeting occurring on a train. A train a man looking like Lane had gotten on. A meeting they had a chance to intervene in if they moved fast enough.
Which had led them here.
Which was why Benji was about ready to tear his hair out.
He looked to Ethan. “And explain again why you can’t do it?”
Ethan looked apologetic, though it was Luther who spoke out. “Because the company who owns this train works with black market dealers and war lords and a whole host of bad faith actors on the regular. We need someone who has the technical knowhow that they can bluff their way through whatever conversation Lane is planning to have with this man. No offense, but Mr. Flipphone over here would get caught immediately, and even if we were able to keep up with the train on the outside to maintain constant communication, there are specially designed cabins meant to block all outside wireless signals. No bugs. No comms.”
“Ok, but what if we both get on the train,” tried Benji. “Then we wouldn’t have to worry about a signal getting lost, and I’d already be on the inside. I could feed information to Ethan through an earpiece–”
“You really think Lane’s gonna be dumb enough to overlook an earpiece?” asked Luther. “And that’s not even addressing the fact that would mean we’d need to find a suitable candidate to replace. Something which we don’t have the time for. I’d go if I could. But…” Luther gestured at the photograph of their target.
Benji stared. His mind spinning as he blamed his big fat mouth. What were the chances that he’d have to face Lane again? What were the god damn chances?
“We’ll figure something else out.” Ethan’s voice had Benji jumping slightly. “We can follow on satellite. Figure out where Lane gets off and try and track him from there.”
Benji slowly breathed out his nose. The concern was appreciated. It really was. And as far as backup plans go, it wasn’t terrible, but…
“What if we lose him though?” Benji said. “And in this scenario, we won’t even have an idea as to what his plan is. This way, I can figure out what he wants from this guy. Maybe even ID some of the people Lane’s working with. It’s the only way.”
Ethan’s lips parted but Benji quickly interjected.
“Besides, if all goes according to plan, he’ll never even know it was me he was talking with.”
Nothing ever went according to plan. Why had Benji jinxed himself by saying ‘if all goes according to plan’? At this point, he was asking to get shot in the foot.
It was too late to back out though. He was already on the train traveling about three kilometers per minute away from where Luther and Ethan had left him. There was no plan to intervene either. No way for either of his friends to jump aboard and save him should something go wrong. There was an exit strategy. A last ditch effort and a hidden parachute sewn into his luggage. But Benji really, really didn’t want to go in for the death defying acts. That was more Ethan’s specialty anyways. There was a tracker in Benji’s neck though. The same trick they’d actually pulled with Lane back in London. Its signal was on a twenty-four hour delay. So his friends would hopefully know where Benji was if things went wrong and he disappeared, but that still wasn’t a completely comforting thought. A lot could happen in twenty-four hours.
Benji just needed to stick to what he was good with. Focus on the numbers. On the tech. It helped that it seemed the man he was impersonating wasn’t one for small talk either. They’d managed to get a few videos of him. Ones from all the way back in his MI6 days thanks to Ilsa, plus a few interrogations over the years. Granted, how one talked in an interrogation wasn’t how one talked in normal company, but it was all Benji had a chance to study before going in.
The message the man had received had instructed him to wait in his cabin, so that was what Benji did. Every now and then he glanced at his see-through reflection in the window. The mask was perfect. Voice modulator in place. No way for anyone to know he wasn’t the guy.
Unless he and Lane had known each other in another life and had some kind of secret handshake. Then Benji was pretty much screwed. Though luckily, Lane didn’t strike him as the secret handshake kind of guy.
He sat on the train for about thirty minutes. Completely alone with just his thoughts as company. The other three spots in the cabin were empty, and likely by design. He mumbled to himself. Nerves and also just to get used to the voice that wasn’t his own.
He could do this.
He had to do this.
Benji really, really didn’t want to do this.
The moment a knock had sounded on the door, Benji’s heart had leapt into his throat. But it wasn’t Lane standing there. No, that would be ridiculous. Benji didn’t immediately recognize the guy, but he did do two, purposeful blinks. The information was just being stored at the moment. No way to wirelessly send it off this train. But once Benji was off, he and Luther could hopefully ID any and all people who’d surrounded themselves with Lane. Besides the delayed tracking device, the lenses were the only other piece of tech they’d deemed a low enough risk to have on Benji’s person.
He didn’t even have a weapon. Not that it would have mattered. They’d searched him and his luggage thoroughly when he’d gotten on. Thankfully, the hidden parachute was installed well enough it hadn’t tipped them off, though he did have to leave it behind when he was directed out of the cabin. He walked through several passenger cars. A sleeper car with slightly larger rooms. Then a half full dining car that seemed to only be serving tea and coffee and crumpets at the moment. He was pretty sure he recognized a couple of people off of Interpol’s and the CIA’s Most Wanted, but he wasn’t here for them. At the back of the dining car was a man and a woman waiting. Also not Lane, though these people Benji took the time to take pictures of as well. He was searched again. By the woman. She was quick and thorough and made Benji want to jump out of his skin.
“Allez-y.”
Benji followed the instruction. He moved forward. Passed into the space between cars. There was a curtain over the windowed door of the other dining car. No way to know what he was walking into. No one had followed him either though. The door behind him clicked with a sudden, harsh snap. He allowed himself just a moment to shake out his hands. Breathed in deep. Then, slowly let it all out.
By the time his hand came up to slide open the next door, he wasn’t even shaking.
Benji walked into the second dining car. There was a bar in this one, but unlike the last, no other travelers besides one. Not even guards at either entrance and the curtains pulled down on the doors. Complete privacy.
The man stood behind the bar. Back straight as he helped himself. He looked different from the image Luther had managed to tag. Must have had a chance to clean up. He almost looked like the man back in 2015. Thin, black glasses sat on the edge of his nose. Near identical to the style he’d had back then. His hair was less wild too. Cut shorter and any waviness smoothed out. Perfectly in place and his beard now only an inch thick. His hair had largely gone silver. Only small streaks of dirty blonde peppered throughout. His clothes were also nice. A silver blue suit and black turtleneck underneath. Like Lane had made an effort.
The Lane of 2018 had struck Benji as a man who just didn’t care anymore. His own death had been part of the plan after all. He’d wondered if that suicidal ideation had remained or even grown worse in the last years, but the opposite had seemingly taken place. Less animal and more refined.
Benji didn’t know if that came as a relief or scared him more.
Lane poured a second glass. What looked to be whiskey. Benji could just barely feel the train rocking underneath them as it took a slight curve in the tracks. The outside trees were a blur of greens and browns. Some of the bottles behind Lane clinked together, but they were set in sturdy little alcoves that kept them from spilling unless the train was just straight up derailed.
The second glass was slid to the curved up edge of the countertop. Lane’s gaze met his.
He may have cleaned up, gotten some new clothes, but that gaze was the same one that had put a bomb on Benji. It was the same gaze of a man that had tried to hang him as Ilsa watched. But Ilsa wasn’t backup in this scenario and Ethan wasn’t here to try and pull a risky gamble. But also, Benji wasn’t here either. He had to remind himself of that. Lane’s gaze wasn’t for him but for the mask.
Benji managed to keep his gait nice and smooth. One foot in front of the other. He approached the other side of the bar. Picked up his glass. He’d just watched Lane pour it, so it was unlikely that it was poisoned, but not completely impossible. There were a couple of tricks he could have pulled. Benji swirled it around. The color looked right. No weird smell. Though someone like Lane would’ve obviously thought to hide any tells like that. Benji watched as Lane downed his own glass in one swift, smooth motion. He poured himself another. Sipped at it before staring at Benji over the rim.
He knew.
He knew.
He knew–
Benji forced himself to remember that those eyes weren’t for him. It was for the face he was wearing. He thought about the mannerisms he’d studied in the videos. He swirled the glass again without drinking from it. Made his cheek do a slight tick. Not a smile or a frown. Just a tick. Seeing as Lane didn’t seem interested in starting the conversation, Benji took a leap of faith based on the similar background and the way Lane was looking at him like he wasn’t a stranger.
“It’s been a while,” Benji spoke in a voice not his own.
Lane cocked his head to the side. It reminded Benji of how he’d cocked his head while approaching him in the hotel room in London. Not a noise escaped Lane. Everything he said was with a micro expression hidden in those large, blue eyes.
The correspondence hadn’t held anything of use beyond a time and place. Nothing concrete to go off of except for the fact that Lane and the character Benji was playing shared a penchant for mass acts of terrorism.
Benji ran his mind through the videos once more. Mannerisms. Patterns. Though what did Ethan always say? If you thought too long and hard about copying a pattern down perfectly, then it went from being natural to being easily spotted as fake. Benji thought about how he’d slipped into Lane. The moment where he’d stopped imitating and had simply…been.
But Benji didn’t know this man like he knew Lane. Certainly not as intimately. He hadn’t had enough information going into this. This man didn’t come naturally like the idea of pretending to be Lane did.
So, Benji didn’t try to copy the videos piece by piece. Putting reactions from one scenario and forcing them into a completely different one. Besides, even with these two having met in the past, years had gone by now. No one stayed perfectly the same. He didn’t intentionally do so, but a bit of Lane slipped in as Benji fell into a more natural speech.
“You used to get right to the point.”
Lane moved one hand out. Not to touch Benji, but to simply hold that hand out for seemingly his own viewing pleasure. He twisted his own wrist. Curled his fingers inward. Despite cleaning up so well, the truth of his recent years could be seen in the nails. Slightly yellowed and cracked. Signs of possible malnutrition. Lane had always been slender, but looking at him in his suit, it could be argued he was a bit too slender.
“No moment is exactly the same,” Lane finally spoke, “but they can blur together when done in monotony. Boredom. The worst torture a body can undergo.” He retracted his hand. Allowed his gaze to meet Benji’s again. Swirled the whiskey in his glass once more. “Excuse me if I take time to…relish a change of scenery.”
Benji was not feeling sorry for Solomon Lane of all people. No way in hell. His own actions had directly led him to that prison cell. No one else’s.
But he also knew that sometimes doing nothing proved to be more harmful in certain scenarios. If anything, Benji should be lucky Lane hadn’t gone absolutely mental and set off the first bomb he could get his hands on or something equally disastrous.
“You’ve relished enough while I sat in my own space of boredom,” drawled Benji. He set his still full glass down. The whiskey gently rocked with the movement of the train. He moved around the bar. When Lane went to sip from his second drink, Benji acted quick. A rash motion that was hopefully in keeping with what little he knew about the target. His hand snatched the glass out of Lane’s. A silly sleight, yet it emboldened Benji at interrupting the man’s actions. He thought about breaking it. He thought about pouring it down the bar’s drain. He chose the last option. A liquid shot of courage. At least he knew this one was good considering Lane had already drunk from it. Benji slammed the glass down. He waited for the burning sensation to hit his stomach before he spoke again. He had to look up, now that they were closer together. Lane cocked his head to the side once more. “You called me here for a reason. Or do you really plan on waxing poetry until I get to my stop?”
Lane’s gaze traveled over him. Careful. Analytical. His hand moved across the bar. At first, Benji thought to take the glass away. Instead, his fingers found Benji’s.
It took everything Benji had not to jump out of his skin. The touch was feather light. He forced out a clipped response. An immediate assumption that he hoped was wrong. “We’re on a train.”
“Astute,” whispered Lane.
“A vehicle that requires you pass through each connected car to get from one end to the other. And we’re in the second dining car.” This couldn’t be real. Benji tried to move his hand out from Lane’s grip. An icy grip that suddenly snatched Benji’s hand with a far tighter hold than before. His brow furrowed. The strangeness of the grip momentarily taking a front seat to the strangeness of this entire interaction. “You’re cold.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Lane simply replied. He stepped more into Benji’s space. Not quite crowding him. There was technically the opening right behind Benji that he could step back in. If he really, really wanted to, he could even head towards one of the exits. Go to the next car and simply say he was done with Lane’s games. Maybe the person he was pretending to be might have even done the same thing. Tired and fed up and unsure of what Lane was asking of him.
But despite how Benji could feel his own skin crawling beneath the mask, his own curiosity had piqued as well. He looked over Lane again. No longer focused on what was familiar but what was unfamiliar. Aspects that neither matched the Lane in the hotel room or glass box, or the Lane in the underground tunnels or Kashmir. Benji took another leap. There hadn’t been any information implying this in Britain’s records, but he also hadn’t been trying to look through the medical files. His voice instinctively went soft.
“You’re sick.”
“That’s what the psychologists said.”
“Not what I meant,” snapped Benji. His gaze flickered back down as Lane’s hand still hadn’t left his. Thumb now moving back and forth over Benji’s knuckles. He didn’t even have the luxury of the touch technically being on top of fake skin. The only fake skin was on his face. This was just his own hand. He remembered the last time his hands had felt Lane. Rough. Full of violence. Fists closed tight and muscles burning as he choked Benji out with that rope.
Feeling the opposite here was like a shock to Benji’s system. Like a part of him had prepared for this to inevitably turn violent only for his brain to short circuit at the opposite occurring.
When Lane took his left hip, turned his body against the back side of the bar, all words failed Benji. His body stilled under the change in contact. Or most of his body did at least. His libido betrayed any sensibility. In passing, he might have thought it hadn’t been that long. But now he felt how long it had been as his body simply reacted. He also felt how long it must have been for Lane. Not even in a sensual way. Simply the lack of touch from any soul beyond one planned headbutt. There was a hunger to the movements. Not even necessarily trying to get a reaction out of Benji-though he was doing that. There seemed to be a high in just touching another warm body. Fingers pushing deep through Benji’s clothes and into his tissue. It almost tickled, the way Lane touched his side, and an unbidden gasp left Benji’s lips.
He’d prepared for talk of computer viruses and ways to down global banking systems or upending a plane full of passengers. He’d expected to be forced to listen and nod while internally he sat in horror listening to whatever plan Lane had sat on for the last three years in isolation.
Benji did not expect his body to rock against Lane’s as his hands gripped the bar on either side. He blamed it on the motion of the train, but that was hardly strong enough to cause the action Benji had just followed through with.
He wasn’t really one for one-night stands, but if he thought of it like that, then it wasn’t that bad. Only he wasn’t on a random train and this wasn’t a random, touch starved passenger interested in performing whatever the train version of the high mile club was. This was Lane. Solomon Lane and Benji wasn’t even himself in this moment. It made the whole thing wrong on even more levels. Lane was probably the last person in the world that deserved Benji’s concern and sympathy, but he felt it towards the man all the same. This went a step further than simply lying to a target. Than tricking them into giving him information. There was a violation here. Something that if directly asked, Benji would have never agreed to. He was sure other agents had been put into similar situations. Both with or without disguises as complex and technologically impressive as masks. But it was a line Benji would have drawn for himself.
A line that was being crossed as Benji felt Lane growing hard against him. As the taller body rutted into his thigh like an animal in heat. One hand now holding the back of Benji’s neck and the other slipping lower from his hip. Gripping his buttocks like a deep tissue massage that had another gasp leaving Benji’s throat as a thrill went up his spine and had his knees going weak.
There was the underlying fear of Lane trying to touch his face. The mask was good. It not only looked like real skin, but felt like it too. But any pressure put upon it wouldn’t make the skin blush and turn proper red. It would pull past an unnatural point until the adhesive grew loose and it warped in a way where it would quickly become obvious it was a mask–
“Turn around.”
Ok, so Benji wasn’t going to have to have nightmares of Lane trying to kiss him. He supposed that was a plus.
His grip on the bar loosened. A thick swallow moved down his throat. “Lane–” But his attempt at convincing the man this was a terrible idea disappeared as Lane’s fingers found his belt. This was wrong. Immoral even if Lane didn’t deserve that kind of concern from Benji. Fear ran through Benji’s bloodstream. At least, he tried to claim the adrenaline was brought on by fear of this close proximity.
Benji didn’t stop Lane. He didn’t move from his section of the bar as he felt fingers undoing buttons and oh so slowly dragging his zipper down. He shivered at being exposed to air. Then, groaned as Lane’s calloused hands wrapped around him. Hands strangling him. Hands striking him. Hands now pumping his cock and making Benji wish he could call the knot in his chest unpleasant but it was anything but.
“Turn around,” Lane repeated.
He was trying to keep his cover for the mission. That was all this was. Benji was maintaining his own cover. But that excuse didn’t make up for his own body’s reactions. It didn’t change the thrill traveling through Benji’s gut.
When he turned around, he spotted his still full glass of whiskey that he’d refused to drink from. He took it now. Downed it with a sudden desperation as the warmth in his stomach doubled and he felt Lane moving his pants and underwear lower over the curves of his body.
“This is unhygienic.” The words just kind of escaped Benji’s lips. His eyes slipped shut as Lane’s palm moved from base to tip. A rough friction without even spit to lubricate the touch as Benji ached in Lane’s grip.
“Do you really care?”
No. Benji really didn’t.
Lane touched him and he was reminded of the house in Kashmir. Lane’s chest against Benji’s back as Benji struggled to breath. He struggled to breathe now as his toes curled in his shoes and his stomach tightened.
It didn’t happen instantly. Lane introduced his fingers first. But it stung and ached without any proper lubrication. Though in a warped way, Benji almost preferred this. It would have felt even more wrong if Lane was suddenly gentle and considerate all of a sudden. No, the man was very clearly chasing his own needs as Benji was pressed against the bar. His own exposed cock rubbing against lacquered wood and cool metal that made Benji jump when he touched it.
He pressed back and into the unfamiliar fingers. Pressed until Lane was slipping out and pressing his cock into his still too tight hole. Benji hissed. His knuckles turned white against the edges of the bar. Pain mixing with pleasure as Lane didn’t build up to the moment but simply slammed his hips against Benji. Desperate in the motions as he pushed against Benji’s shoulders and bent him forward. Benji’s spine ached from the uncomfortable position. He pushed back slightly. Breathed in deep as he got his hand around his own cock. He moved with and against Lane’s own motions. Grinding against his own palm and then onto Lane’s cock as the man practically panted in Benji’s ear.
The moment of release was sudden and ugly. Not too unsurprising considering how clearly touch starved Lane was as he came inside Benji and pressed his nose to the back of Benji’s jacket. Benji gasped at the sudden increase in pressure. The feeling of Lane’s cock leaking inside him. His own hand sped up. His hips pressed and grinding into Lane’s softening cock as weak, little mewing sounds escaped Lane’s lips. Benji could feel smaller, far weaker spurts of cum managing to release inside him. Lane’s cock twitching as his body trembled and Benji got himself to his own release in desperation. His entire body tightened. Including his hole leading to another filthy groan from Lane. His own hand shook as he ejaculated between his fingers and against the bar. His toes still tightly curled and body trembling at the continued presence of Lane’s cock inside him.
He felt Lane toying with the collar of his jacket. His fingers flicking at the material. Benji didn’t think much of it. Not until Lane spoke heavy words that made Benji’s blood run as cold as the poor circulation in Lane’s fingers.
“I’m glad it was you.”
Benji breathed in deep. Tried to get a hold of himself as he finally let go of his own cock. “What?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all our unfinished business.”
When Lane’s fingers slipped beneath the collar, Benji didn’t move. He couldn’t. Still feeling Lane’s softening cock inside him and the man’s cum just barely leaking between his thighs. He didn’t fight the motion when Lane’s nails picked at the edge of the mask.
“My funny little friend.”
Benji braced himself against the bar. He held his breath only to release it as a strangled gasp once the mask finally came off. Strands of hair fell in front of his own face. His entire body shivered as he felt Lane pulling out. Felt the remnants of him more readily dripping between his thighs.
“Turn around.”
Benji listened, just like before. He couldn’t think of anything else to do except a singular sentence over and over again.
He’d known.
He’d known.
He’d known–
Benji’s hands shook as he pulled his pants back up around his waist, but he didn’t bother properly putting himself together. His back hit the bar again. Now face to actual face with Solomon Lane. Any momentary sympathy Benji had felt, any concerns over morals and right and wrong, went out the window. Lane’s short hair hung a little looser around his sweaty face forehead. His glasses had slipped to the edge of his nose. He smiled that awful little half smile that made his lips tremble and showed his teeth, just like in London.
“How?” gasped Benji.
“Because I knew the IMF couldn’t stay away. I knew where to let myself be found. Picked up on cameras and the like,” whispered Lane. He too was still out of breath. A slight tremble moving through his bones as he pressed Benji against the bar. An added roughness to his already gravelly voice. “I knew out of your little team, there would be two likely people who replaced Markus Booker.”
Then Lane had known since the moment Benji had walked into the car. He’d known from the start that Benji wasn’t who he claimed to be. So, what? This had all been a game? A way to toy with Benji? But then, he’d said two likely options. The only other one that would have made sense would have been Ethan, so Benji had to ask, “When? When could you have possibly known it was me?”
“When you stepped closer, and I got a better look at your eyes,” whispered Lane. He took Benji’s chin in his cold fingertips. Dug his nails into Benji’s skin. “I could never forget your eyes.”
A shiver ran up Benji’s spine. Mixed with pride and something else. Benji would have always characterized Lane’s eyes as striking. No matter how he physically changed, his eyes had remained very much the same. Windows to his soul, and that black soul had haunted Benji after London. After Kashmir despite his best efforts and brushing off remarks. Yet here Lane was. Being able to immediately tell that it had been Benji under the mask by eye color alone. Had he haunted Lane’s mind? It would seem so, considering his rehash of old words spoken to each other.
Lane continued to touch him. Body and exposed cock still pressed against Benji’s own. An amused smile flickered over his lips. “No questions?”
Benji shuddered. Then, snatched at the hand on his face like he’d snatched at the glass before. He could feel the half-moon indents in his skin from where Lane had pressed and pressed hard. Lane broke the grip with ease though. Grabbed both of Benji’s wrists and pinned them against the bar. He leaned in close. Lips brushed by Benji’s cheek. He momentarily thought of biting the man’s ear lobe. He could cause some serious damage. Force Lane to slacken his grip and–
And what? For all intents, Lane had beaten him in their last hand to hand encounter. It was only because of Ilsa he’d managed to survive, and she wasn’t here right now-thank god she wasn’t here right now. There were no weapons either beyond a few glass bottles and a hose for the bar. A hose that Benji felt would be just as likely to get wrapped around his own neck before he even had a chance to use it against Lane. But the hypothetical fight stayed hypothetical as Benji realized Lane wasn’t just being a creep but was actually whispering into his ear.
“Don’t you want to know?”
“No.” The word shot out. Benji’s only real act of defiance that he could currently muster.
Lane chuckled in response. Benji hated how he could feel it move through the man’s body. “I think you do. I think you’re curious.”
“We’re bringing you in. That’s all that matters,” Benji hissed back.
“No. I don’t think it is,” Lane’s low, rough voice responded. “Because right about now, you’re starting to wonder why I’d purposefully try to trick an IMF agent into coming all this way. You’re wondering why I’d want yourself or Ethan right here, when I could have simply slipped off unnoticed or planned this meeting with Booker in better secrecy. You’re wondering what role the IMF plays in my plans.” Lane pulled back. Enough that Benji could gaze into his eyes again, but still so close their noses were practically touching.
Benji threw out a guess. A simple idea that didn’t fit with Lane’s slow buildup. “A hostage.”
“Nothing that dull,” whispered Lane. “Want to find out?”
Benji was very thankful for Luther’s idea of tagging him with the delayed tracker. Something told him they were very much going to need it. The mission wasn’t over despite his blown cover. They still needed to figure out exactly what Lane’s angle was. Who had even helped him to escape and why. “Yes,” whispered Benji.
Lane’s fingers slipped from Benji’s wrists. He jumped as they suddenly touched him. Tucking him in and doing up his pants while Lane’s unblinking gaze remained on his own. Benji winced slightly. Sucked in a breath as Lane tightened the belt a notch too far.
A shuddering sigh released from Lane. The man’s eyes slipping shut for a moment as his fingers lingered on Benji’s waist. “You don’t realize how long I’ve waited for a conclusion.”
Actually, Benji felt he had a pretty damn good idea. But he didn’t say anything, instead watching in silence as Lane finally took a step back and fixed himself as well. Benji allowed himself a full body shudder that stopped just short of him actually shaking out his limbs in revulsion.
Lane smiled. “Best put the mask back on. No one else knows you’re here right now.”
That…was interesting. Was it because Lane wasn’t working with the people who’d helped free him? Or did they simply have opposing objectives? And why did he want the IMF involved? Why had he set things up in the hopes that it was Benji who came? Despite himself, Benji was intrigued. He was curious. And he was down right fearful. “This doesn’t mean we’re working together,” hissed Benji.
“Au contraire, my funny little friend. That is exactly what we’re doing.”