Curtain Call: A Marble and BlackStar Adventure

Part Three and Epilogue

There have been many times in Scott's memory when he could feel the duality of his nature. It's what made him a good agent, one of the very best--his ability to separate himself from the job. On the one hand, he was Scott Hoying: socially awkward, sensitive, and almost childishly optimistic. On the other hand, he was Agent BlackStar: maddeningly confident, strong, and cold.

As BlackStar, Scott could remember many times when his body took over and left his mind on the sidelines. Many instances where things played out perfectly, and all went according to plan. Time would slow down, and his muscles would obey his will and his enemies would fall at his feet. These moments had one thing in common--they were void of any personal consequence. He could shut off emotion and concern, because he had nothing personally invested in the outcome.

This was not one of those times.

He couldn't be cold and unfeeling today. There was too much on the line. He was supposed to stand there calmly and decide which of his boys he would allow to be killed. It would be easier to surrender one of his own hands.

He looked at Alex, so strong and so beaten. And Mitch, so dear to him and so resigned. They had both said goodbye to him with their eyes, had accepted this ending, this death. Each had mutely agreed to be killed to save the other, and not strictly for any love they bore each other. They made that decision, separately, to spare Scott the pain of living without the other.

As if he could allow as much as another hand to be laid on either of them. No. There was a way out of this. It would be messy and it was most certainly going to hurt.

Scott let his face continue to show despair and indecision while his eyes swept the large room. The goons he'd seen on his way in were likely tied up with Kirstie's tactical squad that waited outside. Nate's broken body laid several yards to the east--oh right, he'd killed a boy. That was going to bother him later, but he forced himself to focus now. Conrad and Felipe were the only bad guys here. One against two was much better odds than he was used to. It could be two on two if he could get Mitch's attention. But the silly boy had his eyes closed, waiting for a bullet.

He tucked his index finger under his thumb and popped the knuckle; Mitch's eyes flew open at once. Scott hoped that his expression was conveying everything he wanted to say and that Mitch could read him as always. As if I'd let him hurt either of you. Get ready, stupid.

Scott put his face into his hands, slowly, acting the part of a heartbroken lover. Partway through this pretense, his left elbow came up in a lightning fast strike to Conrad's chin, at the same instant his right hand covered Conrad's right hand, which held the gun. His finger slid into the trigger guard and squeezed, sending the solitary bullet flying exactly where he intended: between Alex and Mitch and into Felipe's shoulder. The impact sent him staggering backward, and in that moment, Mitch grabbed Alex by the hand and hauled him toward the exit. With his gun rendered useless, and his plan hijacked, Conrad turned to the next line of defense: his deadly fists. Scott took a hard hit to the side and let out a groan.

"Felipe, get them!" Conrad yelled.

"I'm hit!" the big guy replied, holding a hand to the red stain on his shoulder.

"A flesh wound. Christ's sake, I have to do everything!" Although Scott had probably six inches of height on Conrad, the shorter man was a shockingly good fighter. He hooked a foot around Scott's ankle and sent him sprawling across the concrete, dazed. Then he took off running in the direction Mitch and Alex had run.

No, Scott thought, scrambling to his feet and hurrying after him. He pressed a hand to his earpiece, praying the frequency wasn't compromised.