Evenfall (103 page)

"How sweet, even with your night job you followed me around during the day. Do you like me that much?" Boyd felt the man's arm tighten to hold him more securely but he did not speak as he led him further into the dark.

The shadows fell around them more completely, the tall buildings cutting off the view of the sky, the ambient light that came from it and streetlights. Sounds were conversely muffled and more prominent; the men talking at the warehouse became a distant susurration, the occasional loud laughter from the street in front of the building sounding far away, unattainable. Yet every time Boyd's sandals scraped the floor, each pebble kicked and as the fabric of their clothing rustled, it seemed impossibly loud. He was entirely aware of the warm breath at his ear, the strength of the arm holding him tightly, the edge of the blade held steady and firmly to his throat even as they moved.

When they were near the dead end of the alley where the shadows seemed like a second night, the man turned him until he faced the side of the alley. Faster than Boyd could react to, he was shoved roughly until he was trapped between the wall and the man's chest, while a knee was used to keep his legs spread. The position gave him even less of a solid stance and he had no way of successfully getting away. The brick scraped against Boyd's cheek as he turned his head and the man kept the knife trained at his jugular. Between one released breath and the next inhale of the scent of stale brick and dirt, Boyd felt another arm snake around his lower body and suddenly the sharp tip of a second knife was pressing against his groin. Boyd froze completely as he felt his heartbeat thunder. The individual edges of the bricks pressed uncomfortably against him, the inconsistencies in the building material making some parts feel like little daggers stabbing into him. Blood and adrenaline rushed through Boyd's body but he had nothing to expend it on; he kept himself still and instead concentrated on getting a handle on the situation.

"Do something stupid and you become a eunuch," came the murmured threat. "And I doubt your lover would be thrilled with that."

Despite the man's taunts and the almost casual, amused tone he used, there was an undercurrent of danger in his voice. Boyd knew there was no question that the man could actually follow through with his threat. Being trapped was bad enough and having knives in play was not helping matters but his arms were free at least so he tried to think of it as only being temporarily detained, even if it seemed like the man could take him out before he got half a step away.

He concentrated on breathing evenly and trying to slow his automatically racing heart as he tried to analyze the comment. It made him wonder exactly how much the man knew. He very well could have just seen them when they were wandering the city at some point; their behavior at the restaurant or how they acted together at Lunar could have given anyone that idea about them. But if this person had been following him more than the few times that Boyd had actually noticed then it was possible that he also knew where they lived, had maybe even looked through the studio while they were gone. He was certain there wasn't anything at their place that could blow their cover that wasn't properly hidden but once again, he wasn't sure if this man would be easily fooled.

"What do you want?" Boyd asked finally, dismissing all the sarcastic remarks that came to mind first.

Another burst of breath near his ear as if the man couldn't help but laugh at the situation. "
You
didn't catch
me
peeping into
your
house,
pendejito
," He drawled, gently prodding Boyd's testicles with the tip of the knife. "What do
you
want?"

Holding himself as still as possible to avoid the knives, Boyd knew Kadin well enough to say sarcastically, "World peace?"

"You have some
cojones
,
chico
," The man said and Boyd could actually hear the smirk in his tone. "But keep fucking around and you won't have any left." The knife pressed harder against Boyd's crotch as if to emphasize the point. "Are you alone?"

The man would most likely know if he was lying and Boyd knew at that point it was in his best interest to comply. "Yes."

"Ah, I see," came the low drawl. He didn't know if the man sounded disappointed or pleased by that knowledge. "Where's your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend," Boyd said, lifting one shoulder just enough to shrug. "But I don't know; somewhere else. I don't keep track."

"Interesting." The man drew out the word. "You seemed like a couple of
maricones
to me."

"I dunno what that means so I can't say," Boyd replied unconcernedly.

Another snort of amusement and then the man seemed to get serious, as if suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be interrogating Boyd and not making idle chitchat. "Why are you hanging around here?"

Boyd could have answered that any number of ways but he opted for being disarmingly honest. There was no point in messing with a man who could cut off his testicles with one flick of his wrist. "I want to know what's in the crates. Mind telling me?"

"Why are you interested in what's in the crates?" came the fast retort. "What business does a seemingly unemployed artist have looking into my warehouse?"

This was something he'd thought of well in advance of ever staking the place out. He'd actually conceived a few cover stories but given the man's attitude, he knew which to go with. Boyd didn't have enough time to properly feel out the man's personality and figure out exactly what type of person he was dealing with, but since sarcasm hadn't gotten him anywhere he thought it would be best to tell the story that was just stupid enough to be true. As he'd learned in his months at the Agency, fact was sometimes dumber or stranger than fiction.

"Well, first I was just checking Monterrey out, you know, drawing the interesting places and scenery, trying to get a legit job which is hard as fuck around here, and the restaurant was nice so I hung around a few times. Then I noticed the crates and I wondered what was inside, just 'cause everyone was all hush-hush about it, moving it at night and acting all weird, and I thought, hey, who'd give a shit if it was a bunch of ingredients or some shit, right? You know," Boyd added as a casual aside, "I heard there's a pretty good racket in Monterrey for stolen and counterfeit art. A person can make a lot of money selling that shit, like if they had some source of it and they put it in a gallery and said it was real... There's a building four blocks over, great lighting, the landlord's ready to sell cheap 'cause her son just died and— Well." He shrugged idly with the shoulder the man's head was not hovering over. "When I noticed the crates were the same size and, far as I could tell, weight as those sorta boxes I've just happened to see in passing, I was curious what was up."

There was a long, almost incredulous silence and finally the man released him, spinning him around and shoving him violently against the wall in one quick movement. Although they were technically face to face the man was silhouetted by the faint light from the opening of the alley, his features cast entirely in shadow. He seemed to be wearing a hood so Boyd couldn't even tell what hair length he had or even the color of his skin. All he knew was his height and that he seemed well-built, which certainly explained his strength.

"There's bread in the boxes," the man informed him in a tone that made it obvious that he was lying. "And I'm the baker. I get very touchy--" The blade rose to Boyd's throat again. "--When people touch my bread."

There was a hint of movement in the shadows and Boyd could barely make out the man tilting his head to the side, obviously staring at him intently. "So don't be a constipator. Don't fuck with my shit and I won't be an unhappy baker."

"Alright, alright," Boyd said, seeming a mixture of shaken and annoyed as he lifted his hands harmlessly in front of himself and tried to give off an aura of innocence. "I won't touch your bread, sorry. It's just... I mean, I don't got a job, so I just thought I could, you know. Help. That's all."

"Uh huh." The voice didn't sound convinced but there was once again a hint of amusement. "If I catch you sneaking around here again I really will cut your prick off. Got it,
cabrσn
?"

"Yeah," Boyd said, then paused and eyed him. "Does that mean I can't go to the restaurant either? They got good food..."

There was another snort and then suddenly he was being wrenched away from the wall and shoved unceremoniously down the alley. "Enough.
No me chingues.
"

Boyd stumbled but caught his balance and turned. He tried to get a better look, but the shadows were too deep to tell him much. Something glinted as the man shifted his weight, but Boyd could not tell what it was other than some sort of necklace. He didn't know what '
no me chingues
' meant, but he was going to assume for the moment that it meant not to follow or bother him.

"Who are you, anyway?" he asked, because he honestly was very curious.

There was a brief silence. "
Lo mαs chingσn
," came the reply, drawled once again in Spanish.

"The— what?" Boyd asked, but a loud crash behind him caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder and saw one of the men stumbling against the building. The crate he had been holding tipped and hit another; both looked ready to topple and spill their contents. But before anything could happen, men swarmed over to steady the crates and rapidly yelled something to the worker in Spanish. Boyd didn't know what they said but it sounded irritated.

He looked in front of him again, towards the man he had been talking to, but no one was there. Boyd blinked in surprise and stared at the shadows. It was a dead end alley with the only exit past Boyd and the walls of the surrounding buildings were straight up with no way to climb them. Where the hell did he go? Boyd hadn't heard even a whisper of movement. Granted, there was the commotion behind him, but that shouldn't have mattered.

Boyd didn't spend much time on it, though. He just shook his head and muttered to himself in Kadin's drawl, "The fuck is he, the Mexican Batman?"

He didn't stay long enough to see if anyone else would arrive to threaten his genitals and inquire about his day. Slipping past the men hauling the crates, he wandered out into a crowd of partiers half a block down outside one of the alleys. Walking with them for a bit to draw less attention to himself as a person alone in the early hours of the morning, he broke off at the proper street and headed back to the studio.

Even if he didn't think the man was following him, he still wasn't going to be stupid. As a precaution, he wound through Monterrey to return home. By the time he returned to the studio the adrenaline had bled out of him, leaving him tired from the day. When he silently entered, at first he thought the studio was empty, but as he quietly closed the door he heard paper rustling. He paused, just in case the man had somehow beat him to the apartment and was lying in wait even if he really didn't think it was his style, and Boyd silently slipped further into the room until he could follow the source of the noise without being observed. Sin was seated in a sprawl on the floor on the other side of the love-seat as he flipped through a dark-covered book. It took Boyd a few seconds to recognize it as his filled sketchbook.

Boyd blinked then stared, the tension leaving his shoulders. "You must have been very bored to pull that out."

Sin glanced up at Boyd through his bangs and raised an eyebrow. "You are a talented artist."

Raising an eyebrow in return, Boyd gave him a look as if he thought he was joking. He kicked his sandals off and walked over to Sin; the fuzzy rug was enjoyably warm and soft beneath his bare feet. He narrowly avoided a bag of chips Sin had resting next to him and crouched down.

"Seriously, were you that bored?" He didn't care that Sin was looking through the book; after all, it had been carelessly thrown on the living room table weeks ago. He just couldn't understand why Sin was even bothering; a lot of the drawings were of buildings, and while the point of sketching them was to have a good idea of different areas in the city, they were not very helpful without the context of where Boyd had seen them and the strengths and weaknesses of each site. It was done that way on purpose, so that if the sketchbook was found by unfriendly people it wouldn't compromise their mission but that also meant that it wouldn't be particularly thrilling to flip through.

Sin shrugged. "Yes and no." He turned the sketchbook over and pointed at a charcoal sketch that appeared to be of himself, smoking a cigarette and standing in front of Lunar. "You drew many pictures of me. Why is that?"

Shrugging, Boyd dropped to the ground, letting his legs splay in front of him. "You were really captivating that night," he said simply. "Other times I was bored or you caught my attention." He tilted his head and studied Sin's face, though he seemed to be viewing him as an artist more than someone interested in his expression. "Your features are intriguing and I suppose I like to look at you, so it only seems natural to record it."

Sin raised a skeptical eyebrow. "If you say so." He looked down at the picture again.

"I do say so," Boyd said matter-of-factly. He leaned back, digging his fingers idly into the fuzzy rug while he watched Sin thoughtfully. "What does
'meri'
— no, that's not it. '
Maricones'
mean?"