Page 52 of Crocodile Tears

They grappled with each other, kissing, biting, panting, and scratching. This wasn’t the first time they’d had angry sex – these days, they often needed the anger to get hard. Neil seemed to enjoy it as much as Alex did, perhaps because it was the only passion he could arouse in him.

Shoving Neil face down beneath him, Alex reached for the lube. Above them, Hudson Brink emerged from the fire, his golden body burnished by the flames. Grabbing Neil’s hips, Alex closed his eyes and imagined he was fucking that beautiful movie star instead.

Chapter Nine

OCTOBER 2095

Josiah

It was nearly 2a.m., but Josiah was in no mood to go to bed when he returned home. He glanced at his holopad and was unsurprised to find a slew of new documents awaiting him.

“Youhavebeen a busy boy, Cameron Reed,” he murmured, selecting Elliot Dacre’s credit report to study first. He sat down on the sofa, kicked off his shoes, and began to read.

Undoing his belt to be more comfortable, he felt the press of the little silver box against his ribs and remembered the morsel of chocolate he’d rationed earlier in the day. He popped it in his mouth and gazed absently at the screen as the salted caramel melted deliciously on his tongue. He knew of investigators who drank too much, and others who kept stashes of croc or other recreational drugs to help them through difficult cases, but he didn’t drink and had never taken drugs. Chocolate was his only vice.

“And bare-knuckle fighting,”Peter whispered silkily in his ear.“You’re not exactly standing on the moral high ground, my love.”

Josiah grunted, feeling suddenly very alone. He flicked his fingers through the documents in front of him, then frowned and flicked back again, his interest piqued.

“So, Elliot Dacre, it seems you weren’t as wealthy as the big house, fancy duck, and expensive IS imply,” he murmured.

Dacre’s bank accounts showed he was in considerable debt and his house was mortgaged to the hilt. “Maybe this isn’t about the IS after all. Maybe it’s about the houder.”

He wished Hattie was sitting beside him, drinking in every word. She’d loved being talked to, often cocking one ear and sighing contentedly in response. Perhaps he should get another dog, but how could any dog compare to Hattie?

He realised he hadn’t eaten anything except chocolate since breakfast, so he called for a takeaway. Half an hour later, he was sitting on his sofa with a box of hachée on his knee, courtesy of the local Dutch restaurant.

He ate absently, pondering his conversation with Alexander in the interview room. The indie was puzzling in so many ways: one moment blank-faced, the next challenging – and then seeming like a completely different person at the end of their conversation. Who wasthatman he’d glimpsed? Was that the real Alexander or yet another disguise?

He finished his stew and dozed off on the sofa. Just before dawn, an old, familiar dream stole into his mind, like an unwanted guest.

He was walking towards a red car, humming to himself and carrying five cups of tea in a cardboard tray. Suddenly, the tray flew high into the air and the cups arced gracefully towards the sky, tea spilling everywhere. He heard a ragged scream in the distance, saw blood spraying out in staccato beats onto a car windscreen, smelled the raw, primal stench of it … and woke up shouting.

He glanced around, disoriented, but the room was silent and empty. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry, and he could still smell the sickening odour. He hadn’t had this particular dream in some time – so why now? Perhaps, because it was the anniversary of Peter’s death, or perhaps because of the sight of all that blood at the crime scene earlier. Or both.

He felt nauseous, the hachée sitting queasily in his gut. He made a run for the toilet and threw up repeatedly.

Finally, exhausted, he returned to the sofa and curled up on his side. He knew these demons all too well, and the best way of dealingwith them was to drown them out with happy memories – like those early days in Northern France.

They spent a few days in Reims before the convoy set off again. Josiah used the time to get to know the soldiers under his command. There was Corporal Piper, known to all as Big Jen, a plain woman with thick dark hair, who exuded an air of capability and calm that made her a valuable asset to the unit. She wasn’t particularly tall, but had got her nickname because there was also a Little Jen, a diminutive blonde woman with flashing green eyes and a volatile temper, who could fight like a demon.

Then there was Barry Chang, a laid-back time-server who’d clearly joined the Peacekeepers thinking it would be an easy gig, and Justin Banks, who nursed an unrequited love for Little Jen as well as a talent for finding the negatives in any given situation. They were the biggest characters in the unit, but Josiah took the time to get to know the whole company, even the quieter ones, such as Frankie the cook, who rarely spoke a word but made the best meals Josiah had ever tasted in the army.

The Peacekeepers were shambolic compared to the regulars. Long periods spent travelling alone through dangerous territory, guarding the massive amphibious trucks, meant they had developed a certain maverick quality – Josiah suspected they took their lead from Captain Hunt.

On their first night out on the road, Hunt called Josiah to his tent for what would be the first of their regular evening briefings, going over the route for the following day and checking on the condition of the trucks.

“Cigar?” Hunt opened a box in front of him.

Josiah shook his head. “Can’t stand the taste, sir. Also, it’s illegal.” He hadn’t meant to sound so disapproving, but Hunt just laughed.

“How about a drink, then?” he asked, brandishing a half-empty bottle of whisky.

Josiah shook his head again. “I don’t, sir.”

“Never?”

“No, sir.”

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