Although Connor was a light sleeper, there were nights things drifted into his dreams and had unintended consequences. Several years before it gave him the old scar in his shoulder, and five months earlier, a near bullet wound.
Connor didn't have anyone. No one to warn him, no one to say good morning to or make breakfast or murmur goodnight to. He was alone here, on the other side of a world he had stopped caring about.
A crash split through his dream and jolted him awake. Muscles moved without thought, pulling at the pistol from his nightstand and aiming it at the door. Light filtered in through the hallway, coming from the living room. Another crash, this time it sounded like glass shattering.
The hallway flooded with light as he switched the light on. Markus appeared from nowhere, hands free of all binding. Another stranger, a woman with fierce dark eyes and a wicked blade in her hand. It wasn't the traditional bowie knife or throwing dagger. This blade, if Connor could remember, was called a khopesh and it gleamed dangerously in the artificial light.
Markus dodged a swift strike to the left and towards Connor. His eyes were trained on the other assassin woman who glided across the floor. Connor trained the gun on her head.
"No!" Markus said. "Don't kill her."
What? She was trying to kill them. Why? Connor attributed it to the injuries and blood loss. His arm didn't waver. "She's trying to kill you, why shouldn't I?"
Markus' eyes flickered with alarm, the first sign of emotion Connor received from him. "No, she's trying to rescue me."
Connor looked back at the woman, her face construed into an unbreakable determination. A sword wasn't the most versatile weapon, nor was it the most useful and effective. But Connor wasn't in the business of believing in good.
"North, get out of here!" Markus hissed, glaring at her.
Curious name, unique, he supposed. Not that he cared. Connor stalked forward. "Don't move an inch."
Markus shifted in front of Connor, blocking the gun. "Both of you, stop."
And for the life of him, Connor didn't know why he listened. But he did, and so did North. Markus' voice commanded him and there was such power and authority it struck a chord inside him. It was innate, built into every kid. That tone of voice officers used, or parents who had had enough. And whoever heard was compelled to listen even if it wasn't aimed at them.
Connor lowered his gun, but he kept his finger on the trigger. Being caught off guard wasn't his style. "What is this about?"
Markus motioned at Connor to tuck away the gun. "We should talk, weapons away."
North snorted. "As if, this dude was going to sell you for cash. What's he worth to you?" She sent  a hard stare at Connor. The malevolence had vanished, but she wasn't quieted.
Markus sent North an unreadable stare. Connor shuffled forward, never crossing his feet. The soft slither of noise brought the two out of their staring contest and back to Connor. North slid her khopesh into its sheath with a wary glance at him. Markus' shoulders dropped.
Confusion aside, Connor didn't trust any of this. Manipulation was their chessboard and he hated being forced to play. Guns and behavior he could learn and trust to go one way or another. Emotions? They were the plot twists he couldn't see coming.
They settled in the living room. Settled was a stretch; Connor sat rigid in the one armchair and North glared at him continuously. Markus managed to look relaxed while two of the three people in the room wanted to kill each other. It was a miracle someone wasn't dead.
"Connor," The way Markus said his name—with such gentleness and yet with an unrivaled power. And he knew it, because Connor couldn't help but admire the man before him. This is what he had expected when he caught Markus. Confidence, power, a high chin and determined eyes.
Connor had lost whatever control he'd had. There, resting on his, his chair, he had gone from the top to the bottom of the food chain. What kind of game they played, where the chess pieces changed from queen to pawn in minutes.
Doubt crawled in Connor's throat, but he refused to show any such trepidations. Markus had said no death, but North was intent on blood by the line of her mouth and the vehemence in her eyes. The window, the single window this house contained, stood to his left. Escape would be easy, but he needed Markus, and North wasn't going to let him take him. Not his way.
"I know you wish to sell me and I know why."
That caught Connor's attention. He inclined his head to the right, a habit of his when he was trying to hide something, "I highly doubt that."
"Hank Anderson, listed for a DUI and a public nuisance. Your father. Quite the hole he's dug himself in, with all that alcohol. Let's not bullshit around the reason, Connor. He needs therapy and you need money to support him and yourself. Ten million would be plenty."
"So you've done your research." The words may have had a bitter edge, but Connor had a sharper edge. The knife tucked in his boot to be exact. If he could reach it in time, he might be able to kill the North woman and get Markus out of here.
North pulled his focus back up. "Why don't we kill him and leave? We don't need him for the client. I can do it myself, I'm fully capable."
Connor watched Markus and North carefully. An obvious history was shared, some disaster had brought them together, destruction always does. His suspicions were correct, Markus needed him for something. This something was becoming clear, the fog dissipating from the temple. But there was a haze around the borders, indecipherable.
"We talked about this. Connor will do the job," Markus said, standing up. "It's been decided, and North, I advise you stay away from this one."
Connor leaned over, as if to itch his leg. "It might have been left out, but I don't work for you," He twisted the blade out of its holster at hurled it at North, he expected a fight, a grimace or even a growl from North, but what he received was nothing like it.
"Please, Connor. Weapons aren't necessary." Markus held the throwing knife by the hilt, studying it before handing it back. "Remember that."
Connor didn't think he would forget. He scowled and shoved the blade back into his boot. "What do you want then, Deviant?"
Markus flinched at the name. A sore spot? Interesting. "I will make a deal with you. During the next three months as I recuperate outside the village of Pérouges with you, you will do a job for me. Once I'm healthy enough, we can travel back to New Jersey and you'll get your ten million."
Connor looked at the cheap phone he'd yet to toss. There was an address as promised. A quick clink revealed it to be three miles out of Pérouges. How?
"Simon is a mutual friend, Connor. So, the deal."
Connor traced the edges of the phone, snapping the damn thing in two. Markus was too right, too intelligent. His cards had been shown, but he knew more were hidden behind layers of mist and corners. Connor's deck was laid out on the table a couple minutes.
A trap, for sure. Death, uncertain. Money? Damn well. "Fine. I'll take your deal as long as North stays far from me and you. I don't need her exposing us."
Before North had the chance to curse him down to hell and back, Markus sent her a hard look, quenching the wild animal in her. Connor spotted the exhaustion again, as Markus implored North to back down. The ache of living on the run, of crashing and burning again and again, the loss of sleep taking and taking.
Stop that. You need Markus for money and that's all he is. A check waiting to be written with the perfect pen.
An end goal.
Connor preferred the apathy in moments like this, where emotions were struggling against each other in order to get out. There was the fury, the distrust, the relief, the acceptance, and the gritted teeth. All in opposition, all at war.
Markus had a hand on his shoulder. The cold radiating off Markus' skin begot a worry in Connor, though he didn't want it. Connor's shirt was thin, he hated overheating at night. But it meant he felt the cold, papery thin skin.
And then Markus collapsed again, his breath rattling against Connor's ear as he held him up. And before he could stop himself, he said, "You're hurt and you need sleep. You've proven yourself enough."
"As if you care, dickwad."
Connor ignored North and laid Markus down on the couch. He wasn't going to give up his bed. Connor didn't have a new found devotion to the Deviant, just a self preservation instinct with a side of need.
He turned to North, "Get the hell out of my house."
She brought her hand to her khopesh, but didn't draw the blade. A threat. Not very subtle. With a confidence in her walk, she disappeared into the darkness beyond his door. Streetlights splashed dingy yellow beams across cracked pavement and dying grass.
With one lingering stare out into the maze of which he found himself stuck in, Connor closed the papery thin shades over the window. Markus' breath had turned harsher, audible in the pin drop silence.
Connor slipped past him, not caring if he was awake or asleep, or somewhere in between. The clock read a glaring two forty two in the morning. There wasn't a point in attempting to sleep. He'd have to get up as soon as he fell asleep.
The one possession he retained throughout his travels, the one reminder of home or whatever that was anymore. It slid off his wrist, the pseudo leather strap rubbed raw and fraying at the ends. The clock's face has shimmying cracks originating from the lower right.  He'd gotten the gift from Hank on his tenth birthday.
He should take Markus with him, but Connor had had enough of the man's face for one night. Where the nagging feeling of distrust usually sat, he felt exhaustion. People were hard enough to communicate with, much less at two in the morning.
Connor ran a hand through his hair. There was a job to be done, and that was that. No excuses, no second chances. Though Markus' little speech had sounded vaguely like one.
——
The drive was quiet. Markus sat in the back seat, shuffling with a deck of cards that had appeared from thin air. The soft flutter of cards grated against Connor's ear. Maybe the quiet did too, but he felt no inclination to break it.
Words were used when necessary. And if they weren't, Connor didn't use them. It made it easy for him to walk away and forget about people, the kind he couldn't stick around. Connor had a bad habit of bringing trouble wherever he went and it had gotten people hurt in the past. Not again. He wrung out a hand, he'd been white knuckling the steering wheel unconsciously.
"Connor?" Markus sounded hesitant, counteracting what he'd heard and seen the night before. Or the really early morning of.
"What?"
"Is this Gavin trustworthy enough?"
Connor's immediate reaction was a hell no. He trusted Gavin about as much as he trusted Hank to stop boozing. But the man was good at his job and he could trust Gavin to get the job done. After that, Connor was going to make sure he wasn't going to be telling any secrets.
"He's good at fixing people up. And you don't need to worry about him blathering on about you to the feds."
Whether or not he understood the implied undertone of Connor's words, Markus nodded and went back to staring out the window, head leaning against the glass. Condensation formed, whispering down the window.
The airport was chock-full of businessmen and women with leather bags and fancy shoes, clomping on the tile floors. And then there were the tourists, in cargo shorts and hand me down hiking boots or tennis shoes, eyes wide, taking in all there was to offer.
An airport was an airport, no matter what country. Connor didn't understand the gawking, but there were a great deal of human behavior he failed to see the purpose of.
There, in terminal three, stood a dark, disheveled man, slightly shorter than Connor. His greying blue eyes swept over Connor with distaste. A higher air collected itself around Gavin, giving the illusion of authority. A single carry on bag hung from Gavin's shoulder.
"Gavin," Connor tried to keep out his casual threatening undertone.
"RK. Pleased to see you didn't forget. Where will we be headed?"
Connor pinched his lips, took a deep breath, and reminded himself not to rile the man up before they'd even got to the car, "You know I can't tell you that."
Gavin halted. "I'd like to know where your shuttling me off to. Hate to get cold feet and leave before my work is done."
"It'd be a pity for you to get here, only to be left stranded alone without any money, wouldn't it Gavin?" Connor turned his icy, apathetic eyes on him, smiling.
Gavin rolled his eyes. "You people and your threats." He resumed walking and Connor didn't reply.
Markus was in the car, head bowed and out of sight. Connor hadn't wanted him out in public for fear of cameras or security. Gavin slid into the backseat.
"So this is the golden boy, huh?"
It was going to be a long drive.