Wild Dogs

The fluorescent lights of the MI6 temporary task force office hummed with a low-frequency vibration that made the back of Caleb Reeds’ teeth ache. Around him, the "professionals" moved with a stiff-collared urgency that he found both hilarious and exhausting. They wore their suits like armor and their badges like shields, yet none of them seemed to understand the man they were hunting.

Caleb leaned back in his ergonomic chair, boots propped up on the edge of a mahogany desk that definitely didn't belong to him. He was supposed to be cross-referencing ballistic reports, but the data was dry, clinical, and utterly devoid of the soul of the man behind the trigger.

"You look bored, Cerberus," a passing agent remarked, his voice dripping with the disdain the British intelligence community reserved for the "consultants" they dragged out of prison cells.

Caleb didn't even look up. He just smirked, his long black hair falling over his shoulder. "Bored is a generous word. I’m currently contemplating whether it would be faster to catch the Jackal or to wait for the heat death of the universe. Both seem equally likely at the rate you lot are moving."

The agent scoffed and kept walking. Caleb waited until the footsteps faded before he reached for the thick, physical file tucked under a stack of digital printouts. This was the "Deep Background" folder—the stuff that hadn't been digitized yet, salvaged from old military archives and dusty boxes in Hereford.

He opened it, and his breath hitched just a fraction.

He told himself it was professional curiosity. He told himself he was looking for a pattern, a psychological tick, a weakness in the armor of Alexander Duggans. But as he flipped through the grainy, black-and-white photos from fifteen years ago, the excuses began to feel thin.

There he was. Alex.

In one photo, he was standing with his squad in the desert, the sun bleaching the edges of the frame. He was younger, his face less lined by the cynicism of the mercenary life, but those eyes—even in a low-res photo, Caleb could feel the intensity of those green eyes. His red hair was cropped close to his skull, and even through the black and white, Caleb could imagine the constellations of freckles that dusted his skin.

He flipped to the next one. This one was candid. Alex was shirtless, glistening with sweat after a training exercise, a canteen pressed to his lips. His throat was arched, the muscles of his chest and shoulders taut and defined. He looked like a weapon carved out of marble and grit.

Caleb felt a slow, heavy heat coil in the pit of his stomach. He’d spent his life around dangerous men, but Duggans was different. There was a precision to him, a terrifying focus that Caleb found perversely attractive.

He traced a finger over the line of Alex’s jaw in the photo. "You’re a ghost, aren't you, Alexander?" he whispered to the empty room.

The office was quiet. The night shift was thin, and the nearest agent was three rooms away, buried in coffee and spreadsheets. Caleb felt a sudden, reckless impulse. It was the thrill of the hunt, he told himself. The adrenaline of the chase.

He shifted in his chair, his hand sliding down from the desk to the button of his trousers. His eyes remained locked on the photo of the sweating, younger Jackal. He imagined those large, calloused hands—hands that could disassemble a sniper rifle in thirty seconds—touching something other than cold steel. He imagined that focused, methodical mind directed entirely at *him*.

Caleb’s breath hitched as he began to move his hand. He closed his eyes, the image of the red-haired man burned into his retinas. He pictured the way Alex would look if he were cornered—not with fear, but with that icy, calculating calm. He imagined the friction of that athletic body against his own, the heat of the man who had become his obsession.

It was a dangerous game, fantasizing about the man he was supposed to be putting in a cage. But Caleb had never played by the rules. He liked the edge. He liked the way his heart hammered against his ribs as he moved faster, his thoughts a chaotic blur of green eyes, freckles, and the lethal grace of a predator.

He was so close, the tension in his muscles reaching a breaking point, when the air in the room suddenly changed.

It wasn't a sound. It was a shift in pressure, the feeling of a shadow falling across a grave.

"I expected the police to be incompetent," a calm, melodic voice said from the shadows of the doorway. "I didn't expect them to be quite so... distracted."

Caleb froze. His heart didn't just skip a beat; it felt like it hit a wall at a hundred miles an hour.

He snapped his eyes open. Standing in the threshold of the darkened office, leaning against the doorframe with an air of impossible nonchalance, was Alexander Duggans.

He wasn't the boy in the photos anymore. He was older, his face sharper, his presence more grounded and lethal. He was wearing a dark tactical jacket, his red hair slightly dampened by the London rain, those green eyes tracking Caleb’s every movement with terrifying clarity.

Caleb’s hand scrambled out of his pants, his face flushing a deep, dark red that he hoped the dim lighting would hide. He slammed the file shut, nearly knocking it off the desk.

"Duggans," Caleb gasped, his voice cracking slightly as he struggled to regain his composure. "You’re... you’re supposed to be in Paris."

Alex stepped into the room, his movements silent and fluid. He didn't look like a man on the run; he looked like the owner of the building. He walked toward the desk, his gaze dropping to the closed folder and then back to Caleb’s flustered face.

"The police are looking for me in Paris," Alex said, his voice a low, steady hum. "Which is exactly why I’m here. I find that people rarely look for the wolf inside the sheepfold."

He stopped a few feet from the desk, his eyes narrowing as he took in Caleb’s disheveled state. A slow, mocking smirk touched the corners of his mouth.

"You’re Cerberus," Alex stated. "The man who sold his soul to MI6 for a clean slate. I must say, I’m disappointed. I expected a rival, not a... fan."

Caleb felt the heat in his cheeks intensify. He tried to summon his usual sarcasm, but his brain was still reeling from the transition between a fantasy and the cold, hard reality of the man himself.

"I was just... reviewing the evidence," Caleb managed, straightening his shirt and trying to look like he hadn't just been caught with his hand down his pants. "You’ve got a very colorful history, Alex. I like to be thorough."

Alex reached out, his hand hovering over the file. Caleb instinctively moved to block him, but Alex was faster. He flipped the folder open, revealing the photo of his younger self, shirtless and sweating in the sun.

The silence that followed was agonizing.

Alex looked at the photo, then at Caleb. He didn't look angry. He looked amused, which was infinitely worse.

"This was taken in Jordan," Alex said quietly. "I had just finished a twenty-mile march with a fifty-pound pack. I was exhausted, dehydrated, and quite possibly the most miserable I’ve ever been."

He looked back at Caleb, his green eyes dancing with a cruel sort of light. "And you found it... stimulating?"

Caleb cleared his throat, leaning back and trying to regain his 'Cerberus' persona. "I find the psychology of a killer interesting. It’s a study in discipline. Or lack thereof."

"Is that what we’re calling it now?" Alex stepped closer, invading Caleb’s personal space. He smelled of rain and something metallic—gun oil, perhaps. "You’re a criminal, Reeds. A hitman. You and I are the same breed. Don't pretend this is an academic interest."

Caleb looked up at him, the height difference more apparent now that Alex was standing over him. "We aren't the same. You do it for the money. I do it for the... well, okay, I also did it for the money. But I’m the one with the badge now."

"A temporary badge," Alex reminded him, his voice dropping to a whisper. "A leash. They’ll throw you back in a hole the moment I’m dead or caught. And yet, here you are, wasting your time with old photos when the real thing is standing right in front of you."

Caleb’s pulse was a frantic drumbeat in his ears. "Are you going to kill me, then? Or did you just come here to critique my taste in photography?"

Alex reached out, his fingers brushing against Caleb’s jaw. The touch was light, almost clinical, but it sent a jolt of electricity through Caleb’s spine. Alex’s thumb traced the line of Caleb’s lower lip, his gaze dropping to the dark man's mouth.

"I should kill you," Alex admitted. "You’re a nuisance. You know how I think. You’re the only one in this building who isn't a complete idiot."

"But?" Caleb prompted, his breath hitching.

"But," Alex said, leaning in until his lips were inches from Caleb’s ear, "I find the idea of a fair rivalry... intriguing. And I’ve never been hunted by someone who wanted to fuck me quite so badly."

Caleb shivered, a mix of terror and desire clashing in his chest. "I’m going to catch you, Alex."

"Perhaps," Alex whispered. "But not tonight."

Before Caleb could react, Alex pulled away. He moved toward the window with a speed that defied his athletic frame. He paused at the ledge, looking back over his shoulder.

"Keep the photos, Caleb," Alex said, his green eyes flashing in the dark. "But if you want the real thing, you’ll have to work a lot harder than that."

In a blur of motion, he disappeared into the night, leaving the window slightly ajar and the curtains fluttering in the cool London breeze.

Caleb sat in the silence of the office for a long time, his heart slowly returning to a normal rhythm. He looked down at the photo of the young soldier in the desert.

He reached out and slowly closed the folder.

"Bastard," Caleb muttered, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

He wasn't bored anymore. Not by a long shot.