SynTracker | ONC 2021 | MM Romance | Sci-Fi | Complete

Nine: Friday

By the time the sun rose on Friday, Ian hadn't gone to sleep. He'd completed a sweep of his house and nexus for bugs, with no results. It came as no surprise: his skill level wasn't that of a hacker, much less one in SynSec's bottomless pockets. The conversation the day before proved beyond any reasonable doubt they were monitoring his coms.

At random intervals, the rest of the info he'd gleaned crashed into him, ripping him apart afresh like a Nuller shot on a human.

People.

Feeling, thinking, autonomous people. Whom Ian had tracked relentlessly over the course of twenty years. Whom he'd sent into slavery, torture, sexual degradation, conditioning. And those were just the horrors he knew about.

He'd married one of those people, built a life with him, loved him. But what had Quentin gotten out of the relationship?

SynSec's words kept replaying in his mind. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' Was that all there had ever been between them? For all of Ian's self-proclaimed ability to read his husband, had Quentin only been enduring him for ten years?

Quentin's boundless desire, the fire within him whenever they were together, had that been nothing but pre-emptive self-preservation? Needing to take the lead and start something before Ian could, to feel like he controlled some aspect of his life? To make himself forget the best way to remain safe was to be married to a Tracker?

The relentless headache still hounding his every moment made his eyes water.

There were no answers in memory. Only Quentin would be able to tell him the truth, and Ian wouldn't have tried to find him just for that. It was too late for them. The man Ian had made love to, only a week ago, and the injured man he'd pulled his gun on later that night were one and the same — there was no coming back from that, even if Quentin had held any fondness for Ian before. But that wasn't all that was at stake.

Quentin was out there now, still hurt, creditless, on the run. Having left an entire life behind, with no chance to alter his appearance.

And he had no idea what SynSec was about to unleash on him. Ian owed him more than that. He had to get to him, warn him, help him get to safety. That much, Ian could give him. But he had to be smart, or he'd be dead before he ever got to Quentin. He had to trust his instincts.

There was some irony to be found in all the times he'd mused that having a man like Quentin as his husband was too good to be true. Should have trusted his instincts there too, instead of falling too far down to climb back out.

His nexus alarm trilled, reminding him it was five to nine. In five minutes he'd be able to call Travers and try to walk the tightest rope he could imagine. He didn't know which side Travers fell on — ignorant or complicit — but that was irrelevant. Insisting on codes after his meeting would be a rookie move.

He splashed some water on his face, dried it with a towel, combed his fingers through his hair and stared down his reflection in the bathroom mirror until despair receded enough to be concealed by determination, only a hint of it leaking through the cracks. That would have to do.

Travers answered almost immediately. "Morgan! That was some fucking meeting yesterday! You were still in there when I left. And now I have instructions to give the contract to other Trackers?"

Ian showed no sign of weakness. Travers had the codes. He willed the mask to hold, for his words to come out in a way that didn't make Travers or anyone listening in on the call suspicious. "It went... Quentin's not coming home. And SynSec believes I'm too close to be the one dealing with—" he forced the word out, nary a pause. "—the Syn."