Date: 2016-04-05 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Thriller; Novella; Romance; Fiction; Suspense; Short Stories; Crime; Canada; Adult
Description: Life is good for lodge owner and sometime hitwoman Nadia Stafford — a couple of dogs, a job she takes satisfaction in and the man she loves at her side as they literally build a home together. It’s as close to normal as a pair of contract killers can get. Jack knows that sometimes being very, very good at what you do can be very, very bad — for those around him. He’s gone to great lengths to keep his past from catching up with Nadia. He also knows it’s only a matter of time … Jack is halfway around the world when the trap is triggered. They’re coming for Nadia. And he has no way to warn her. N
Publisher: Traverse Press
Rights: Copyright &#x00A9; 2016 by Kelley Armstrong

Double Play

Kelley Armstrong

All rights reserved copyright © 2016 Kelley Armstrong.

Published by Traverse Press
www.traverse-press.com

ISBN: 978-1-62274-108-3
eBooks created by www.ebookconversion.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

1 - Nadia

“So we’re watching this show, about a woman hiring a hitman for her husband, and I tell Hank that’s what I’ll do the next time he leaves his dirty socks on the floor.”

Stella’s pickup rolled alongside me as I jogged down the empty dirt road, her window down so she could talk.

“And he says, go ahead, just make sure you ask Nadia Stafford to do it.”

A moment of silence, filled only by the rumble of the old engine and the pant of the two German shepherds at my side.

“Why?” I asked finally, trying for a laugh.

“Because Hank says that’s what damned fools like me always do. Go looking for a hitman. Hire a cop by mistake.”

I did laugh at that. It was true. Finding an actual hitman is nearly impossible for the average citizen, and people almost always end up talking to an undercover cop instead. It’s not as if you’re going to find a hired killer living down your street. Or jogging alongside your truck.

“Well, I’m not a cop anymore,” I said. “Just keep letting Hank eat at the diner. It’ll kill him soon enough.”

That got a guffaw loud enough to startle Rex. Scout looked at me, rolling her eyes at his puppy nerves.

“How about that new man of yours?” Stella said. “Is he good with a gun?”

“Um, yes . . . but . . .”

She grinned. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to hire him either. Hank was just wondering if he wants to go hunting sometime. He do that sort of thing?”

“He . . . has.”

“Well, ask if he wants to go hunt wild turkeys with the boys next month. Hank said since it seems you’re keeping him around, he ought to be more neighborly. Invite him to turkey shoots and poker games.”

I made a noncommittal sound and said, “How about we have you and Hank to dinner? John’s in the States right now, but he’ll be back by next weekend.”

“I won’t turn down Emma’s cooking.”

“Good. I’ll call you later this week.”

Back at the lodge, I could hear guests slowly waking, roused by the smell of coffee and Emma’s cinnamon rolls. I popped in to grab a roll and dog treats. This never impresses Scout and Rex, who seem to think if dog treats are so great, I should eat them, too. The handbook says not to give dogs human food, though, and I’m very good at following the rules. Well, in some things.

A quick word to Emma—my lodge housekeeper—and then I zoomed off before any guests could wander down and declare they’d like an early morning canoeing lesson. They’ll have my guide services for the rest of the day. This is my time, with Jack’s daily check-in call.

Granted, that conversation wasn’t exactly deep. Any phone call with Jack is almost entirely one-sided—that side being mine. I got used to that in the years we’d worked together. Did I expect it to change when we moved beyond friendship? Yep. Which proves that I’d misunderstood the purpose of the conversations altogether. Jack wasn’t calling to talk. He was calling to listen. Calling to hear me chatter about the lodge, about my day . . . The very average life of Nadia Stafford, ad nauseam. Can’t say I see the appeal, but compared to dating a guy who doesn’t give a shit, I’m happy to oblige.

I headed to the site where we’re building our private chalet. It’s right on the edge of our cell service periphery, intentionally so, because as nice as it’d be to live out of contact sometimes, we really can’t.

I retrieved the cell phone from its hiding spot. Rex nosed around, as if hoping for more interesting buried treasure. Scout sighed. Scout is my white German shepherd, a year old now. Jack bought her for me. I retaliated—I mean, reciprocated—by getting him Rex, a black-and-tan shepherd, for Christmas. Yes, he named his dog Rex. Not surprising for a guy who, when given the full array of cool hitman noms de guerre, went with Jack. He didn’t even need to think it up—it’s what his family used to call him as a diminutive for John.

Phone in hand, I climbed to the half-finished balcony and took a seat on the edge, my legs dangling. The view was perfect. It should be, given how damned long Jack spent picking our building site. He’d actually hauled out a ladder to find the best balcony viewpoint. Hitman perfectionism for you. And it was absolutely right—the morning sun over the lake, leaves whispering in the breeze, not a single structure to mar the illusion that you were in the middle of endless forest. I uncapped my thermos, poured my coffee and took a bite of my cinnamon bun while the dogs snuffled through the forest under my dangling feet. A minute later, Scout let out her “someone’s coming” growl and Rex echoed it. I followed their gazes to see a figure coming through the trees. I checked my watch. Three minutes until Jack’s call at nine.

Shit.

I rose in a crouch, ready to scuttle back inside the chalet. Not very dignified. Or very polite. But I only got these few minutes each day to touch base with Jack and remind myself that no matter how messy my life might be, it was, at this moment, everything I wanted it to be.

I was halfway through the doorway when a man’s voice called, “Nadia?”

I left the doorway. “Hey, didn’t see you. Let me come—”

I stopped. Even in the forest shadows, I could tell the guy wasn’t a guest. Not when he was dressed in a three-piece suit.

“Let me come down,” I said.

As I did, I took my time and turned up the volume on my phone. It was nine o’clock on the dot. If I stalled for a few moments, my visitor would hear the ring and I could excuse myself to answer.

I picked my way through the piles of wood and supplies inside the building.

9:01.

I frowned. Yes, that’s not exactly late, but Jack is precise. Like let’s-sync-our-watches precise.

“Big dogs,” the man called up.

“Don’t mind them. They’re fine.”

To have Scout and Rex on the property with guests, they need to be perfectly behaved. They’re trained to warn of intruders with growls only, and then keep their distance. They’re friendly enough, but they’ll only approach strangers when I give the signal.

I checked the time again—9:02—cursed under my breath and stepped out. I still couldn’t see the man’s face, but despite the suit, I could tell he wasn’t some salesman who’d wandered over from the lodge. He was fit and trim and his right hand rested awkwardly—a man accustomed to having a sidearm within reach.

Law enforcement.

I took a deep breath, plastered on a cheerful lodge-hostess smile and ducked under a tree branch. Then I saw his face.

Diaz.

I don’t know his given name. He very likely was law enforcement, but he moonlighted for the Contrapasso Fellowship, a secret organization of law enforcement officers, lawyers and judges who looked at failures of justice and said, “I could fix that.” So they did. Vigilantes of the highest order. They’d been trying to recruit me for a while and had successfully recruited my ex, Quinn, a US Marshal.

“Nadia,” Diaz said. “I’m sorry to approach you here. I know—”

“You sure as hell know,” I said, bearing down on him. “This is my home. Contrapasso may know more about me than I like, but you are supposed to at least pretend otherwise. You do not show up—”

“It’s Quinn.”

I stopped. “What?”

“It’s Quinn. He’s disappeared.”

2 - Jack

It’d been thirty years since Jack had left Ireland and now, crouched on a rooftop overlooking Dublin, he was counting the hours until he could get the fuck out again. Which wasn’t what he’d expected. Yeah, thirty years ago he couldn’t wait to wash the dust of the city from his boots. But he’d been a kid then. Twenty years old, hating everything about his country, hating what it’d done to his family.

No, hating what he’d done to his family. He could blame the politics, and what it’d done to four young men who’d wanted better than the dirt-poor lives of their parents. Boys who’d wanted what they thought the world owed them. But the world didn’t owe them fuck all. You make your choices. You make your mistakes. And sometimes, those mistakes lead to a boat bound for America with no plans to ever return because the sight of those green hills reminds you of what you did. Of the fact that your family lies cold in their graves and it’s no one’s fault but your own.

Yet the boy at twenty isn’t the same as the man at fifty, and Jack had started looking back on Ireland with something he wouldn’t quite call nostalgia, but definitely a yearning for lush emerald hills and sooty old cities. Back when he and Nadia had become friends and she’d talked of travel dreams, he’d often thought of saying, “How about Ireland?” But he hadn’t, of course. Fuck no. Even when he’d invited her to Egypt, he’d cancelled, buying a hot tub for her lodge instead. Because that’s what people did, didn’t they? Bail on a trip and replace it with a hot tub? Yeah, it’d been a fucking long time since he’d done the friendship thing.

He still couldn’t believe she’d let him move past friendship. Kept waiting to return from a job and find his bag at the door, some higher power correcting a miscalculation that had awarded him a prize meant for a guy who hadn’t spent his life as a hired killer. Instead, the only thing waiting for him was Nadia herself, jogging out to meet him, grinning like he’d returned from a three-year tour of duty.

His phone buzzed, a reminder that in minutes, he could make his daily check in. He smiled, something he did much more readily these days, but still really only for one person.

He paced along the roof, as close to the edge as he could get without casting a shadow below. Tomorrow, he had to meet an old friend at the cafe across the street, to discuss a hit while sipping cappuccinos or some shit.

Fuck, he was getting old. Starting to sound like a crotchety old man, muttering about the good old days, when if you wanted someone killed, you met in a seedy pub and talked business in a dark back room.

The truth was he didn’t mind cappuccinos. Better than some of the swill they passed off as beer. He was just cranky today. He’d been supposed to meet Cillian this afternoon, only to have him call and reschedule for tomorrow, which put the entire fucking job a day behind and left him with busywork like this.

He checked his phone. Three more minutes. He surveyed the street, squinting against the early afternoon June sun as he searched for something interesting to tell Nadia. Know what I saw today? What I heard today? Learned today?

His gaze traveled along the narrow road. Nope. I got nothing.

He exhaled and resisted the urge to pull out a cigarette. He’d been cutting back for years, with no real intention of quitting. It was his outlet for stress and his one vice. Well, his second vice if you counted murder as his first, and he was well aware most people did, but that was work. He was down to a couple of cigarettes a week and at the lodge, he didn’t even need those, though he still smoked them because they were shared with Nadia, and that meant something to him. Those shared cigarettes had been their first step from colleagues to friends, when he offered her his cigarette, seeing that ex-smoker hunger in her eyes. A simple, small act of intimacy that had felt as huge as inviting her into his bed.

Maybe he’d mention that when he called. Something about grabbing a couple of cartons. His brand was still Irish, and it was a bugger to get in Canada. Yeah, he’d tell her that. Not exactly scintillating conversation, but she liked it when he added something, even if he’d be happy spending an hour listening to her talk.

His phone blipped the second alert, but he was already dialing. It was an untraceable number, one that’d reroute a few times before ending up at an equally untraceable phone. Jack didn’t understand the technology, but he trusted Felix, the guy who set it up for them.

The line connected. One ring. Then a soft click, and he closed his eyes and waited for her voice, for the reminder of what he had waiting for him. Nadia. The lodge. The chalet. That chalet was important. So fucking important. It meant he wasn’t just shacking up in Nadia’s bedroom at the lodge. They were building a home together, literally, and he still wasn’t sure it meant the same to her—was as permanent for her—but it was a start in that direction.

Nadia. A home. A life.

The phone rang again.

What the fuck? He’d heard the line connect, hadn’t he?

No, he’d heard a click and jumped on it, like a fifteen-year-old calling his crush, praying she’d answer.

A third ring.

He frowned. Nadia never let it ring more than twice.

Yeah, actually, she did . . . if she wasn’t there to answer. It had only happened a couple of times before, but it had happened. Once, she’d been putting out a fire—an actual fire. Some moronic guest decided it was a little chilly by the lake and started a blaze he couldn’t control. The other time, it’d been a failure of technology.

A fourth ring.

Fuck.

Five.

Jack hung up. Then he paused, his finger over the redial. That was against the rules. His rules, for Nadia’s safety. One call per day at the arranged time. If he couldn’t place that call or she couldn’t answer, then they waited until the next morning.

Still, his finger hovered over the button. The click suggested it just might not have gone through. Another tech-fail. And if he didn’t call, she’d worry.

All valid excuses. Which were exactly that: excuses. He put these rules in place to protect her, and the moment he started making exceptions, he’d never stop. Setting limits and sticking to them was the price he paid for his past, and it was a small price, all things considered.

He pocketed the phone, made one last loop around the roof, checking out the scene for tomorrow’s meeting. Then he headed down to find something he could tell Nadia tomorrow. Something interesting.

3 - Nadia

No call from Jack, and as much as I knew it almost certainly meant nothing, I couldn’t help fearing the worst. I always did. But now I had Diaz standing there, telling me Quinn was missing and that was a big deal.

As a federal agent, Quinn cannot just “take off.” When he does a job for Contrapasso out of driving distance, he has to take vacation time and use Felix’s gadgets to reroute his calls. Hellishly complicated, which is one reason why, like me, he doesn’t pull more than a couple of hits a year.

“Where’s he supposed to be?” I asked Diaz.

“On Thursday he was teaching in DC. After that, he’d booked a long weekend.”

“He was on a job, then. For you guys?”

Diaz shook his head. “I know he was working something—he has to run all moonlighting past us. He was supposed to call in and talk to us yesterday on a separate matter. He didn’t, and we couldn’t get in touch. That’s when we checked out his tracker. We aren’t getting a signal.”

Contrapasso implanted trackers in their operatives . . . usually without them knowing it. Luckily, Quinn discovered that before signing on, so he’d refused the implant. Instead, he’d agreed to an external one, attached with waterproof tape. At the time, I’d wholeheartedly agreed with that. Now, though? Now I was realizing the advantage to the implant. If Quinn had it, Diaz and I wouldn’t need this conversation.

“Let me go warn my housekeeper I’m busy,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the gazebo. Head for the lake. Big body of water—you can’t miss it.”

When I reached the gazebo, I turned the heater on low and served coffee and cinnamon buns.

“So what are you doing on my doorstep?” I asked. “If Quinn’s missing, I want in on the search, obviously. But telephones work, even up here.”

“Your name was on his calendar for Friday morning, along with a flight confirmation number. We thought maybe that’s why he’d taken a long weekend, and that he’d just forgotten our call Saturday.”

“And the tracker?”

“Either it coincidentally died or he removed it temporarily, not wanting anyone to know where he’d gone, which considering . . .” He cleared his throat. “I know you two had a romantic attachment and that Quinn is convinced your relationship with Jack is . . . temporary.”

“So you thought he snuck up here because we’re screwing around behind Jack’s back?”

“I had to consider that. Or simply that he was attempting to change your mind.”

Quinn and I were still friends. Would he come out here unannounced? He can be impulsive, and if he got it into his head that he could fix this “Jack nonsense” by talking to me face to face, he might very well hop on a plane. I highly doubted it, though. Not while Jack was here.

Except Jack wasn’t here.

To say Jack and Quinn don’t get along is an understatement. The problem is ninety percent Quinn’s. Jack’s uncomfortable with Quinn’s hard-core vigilantism, but his real issue is Quinn’s complete disinterest in hiding the fact that he thinks vigilantism grants him the moral high ground. To Quinn, I get to share that ground with him because I mix vigilante jobs with “victimless” mobsters-killing-mobsters gigs. To Quinn, Jack’s the worst kind of criminal—one who kills for money he doesn’t even need.

When it comes to the job, ideologically, I prefer the vigilante work. But I’m still killing people for money. There is no justification that clears that particular moral slate.

I’ve come to a better understanding of my motives—the deep-seated need for the justice my cousin, Amy, was denied when she was raped and murdered twenty years ago. She wasn’t the only one raped that night, and I’m sure there’s some of my own rage there. I survived. Amy did not. And now with both her killer and my rapist dead, little has changed. I haven’t taken a job since, but I will at some point. I don’t kid myself on that. It has become part of me.

That’s no excuse. In this, I’m closer to Jack. As a teen he’d been recruited by an organization that made the IRA look like Boy Scouts. He joined because his brothers had, and once the group saw his crack marksmanship skills, they made him a killer. When he tried to get out, they murdered his family. No surprise, then, that the kid who felt he was only really good at one thing—killing people—turned his rage into a career doing exactly that. Yet he never uses that as an excuse. He made a choice, like I did. There is no justification.

Given Quinn’s opinion of Jack, it’s not surprising he’s convinced our relationship is just temporary bad judgment on my part. Really bad judgment. Quinn believes Jack took advantage of a low point in my life, smarting from our breakup and dealing with the truth behind my rape and my cousin’s murder. That means Quinn just has to wait for me to come to my senses. And this, not surprisingly, was why we were struggling to keep our friendship from imploding.

“Jack isn’t here, as you may have noticed,” I said. “But I hadn’t told Quinn that and Jack left after Quinn would have arrived. Quinn didn’t disable his tracker or ‘forget’ his appointment. He wouldn’t. Ever. If he’s vanished . . .” I inhaled sharply. “We need to find him.”

“Do you know what he was working on recently? As a Marshal?”

I nodded. “He doesn’t give me details but he shares enough that I know what sort of cases he has. Nothing on his current roster is the type where someone would want to . . . to stop him.” Kill him is what I meant, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

I continued. “First thing we need to know is whether he got on that flight. Can you check—?”

“We have. He didn’t check in or cancel it.”

“Yet you followed his trail up here anyway?”

“I had to be sure he hadn’t bought a new ticket under an alias on a different flight in to keep under Jack’s radar. And if that wasn’t the case, then showing up here is the best way to get your help. You know him better than we do. You know how his mind works.”

And it’d be much harder for me to refuse in person. Which only proved Diaz didn’t know how my mind worked either. A phone call would have put me on this trail. Whatever problems Quinn and I had, I wouldn’t have considered sitting on my ass and letting Contrapasso investigate on their own.

“When will the Marshals’ office realize he’s missing?” I asked.

“He’s supposed to be back at work Tuesday. We can extend his absence with a falsified call, but I’d rather not.”

“So we have about sixty hours before they realize something’s wrong. The problem is that it’s Sunday and I have commitments here. I can conduct research today, but I can’t get away until tonight.”

“Understood. I’ll get started and meet you in Virginia tomorrow morning.”

4 - Jack

First thing Monday morning, Jack was back on the roof. Smoking this time. Not just a cigarette to settle his nerves. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed that. Work didn’t cause him stress. Life did. Work was simple. Life was not.

But today? Today the two melded, and he was already on his third cigarette. Which was a fucking bad sign. He wasn’t overly concerned about his aborted call to Nadia. If anything really bothered him about that, it was the fact he’d spent far too much time yesterday coming up with ways to guarantee daily contact, like a second phone or a backup time to call. That was pure selfishness. He had to stick to the plan because a plan is safe. It wasn’t a concept he’d ever struggled with before.

He tapped his cigarette on the ventilation shaft and looked down at the cafe. Ten minutes to go. Two hours until he could call Nadia again. It wasn’t just about talking to her, however much he liked that. It was about stilling his anxiety better than nicotine could.

It’d been nearly thirty years since he’d spoken to Cillian. Cillian had been a mentor in those days. He’d helped Jack get out of Ireland and set him up with his first jobs. Which meant Jack owed him. Half a lifetime later, Cillian was coming to collect.

As for what he’d ask Jack to do? That was the real reason for the chain smoking.

Cillian knew Jack from the time when he’d pull a hit for any reason—when he didn’t even need a reason. As long as it wasn’t a family or a kid or an innocent bystander, he didn’t give a shit why someone wanted his mark dead. He’d worked fueled by the rage of a twenty-year-old kid who’d gotten his family killed and blamed everyone else, hated the world, but deep down only blamed himself, only hated himself. All the bullets in the world couldn’t fix that shit, not unless the barrel was aimed at his own head.

That blind rage had passed. He’d grown up. Calmed down. Within a few years, he’d started needing a reason. But that was a matter of self-protection. He wasn’t going to off witnesses for a cartel—that shit comes back on you. Kill a guy’s business partner to give him control of the company? No problem. Then he met Nadia, and began scrubbing his client list until, while it might not be up to her standards, he wasn’t worried about her scrubbing him from her contact list.

And now . . .

Fuck.

He stubbed out the cigarette and pocketed the butt. This was stupid—worrying about possibilities before he even talked to Cillian. Part of being a pro meant mapping out every contingency and planning a response. Great for the job; bullshit for real life.

While he didn’t tell Nadia about his job—she was always safer not knowing—she’d be okay with it. He refused to pull any hit he wouldn’t want her finding out about. That vow stood. Even for Cillian.

Fuck, Cillian. Know I owe you. And I do. But I’m getting out. Retiring. Can’t do that kinda shit. Too dangerous. Still owe you. But not that.

Then he’d walk away. Because he could—that was the reward for being at the top of the food chain. He’d owe Cillian an explanation for his refusal, which was more than any other client would get. But if Jack said no, Jack meant no. End of discussion. That was the rep he’d earned.

At five minutes to eleven, Cillian strolled around the corner, and all Jack could think was, “Fuck, he’s gotten old.” Which was, sadly, what he thought about most of his former colleagues these days. Cillian couldn’t be more than seventy but fuck if he didn’t look eighty-seven. A long and hard life.

He was about to do one last perimeter check when he saw Cillian nod, as if to someone passing on the street. Except there was no one on that particular stretch of road.

Fuck.

Jack strode to the roof edge and adjusted his position so neither he nor his shadow would be spotted. Then he peered into the dark alley below and . . .

Fuck.

A guy stood in the shadows. Youngish—early thirties, Nadia’s age. Young compared to him, a fact of which he was not unaware.

The guy leaned casually against the brick wall. Just a guy enjoying a smoke. Nothing to see here. His sight line, however, lined up perfectly with Cillian’s table.

Fuck.

Don’t pull this shit, Cillian. Tell me you just got nervous. Asked one of your boys to keep an eye on this meeting because, hell, it’s been thirty years. You don’t know me anymore, so I’ll allow the backup, even if I’m kinda insulted.

The problem? The really big problem? If that guy in the shadows wasn’t just there to protect his boss.

Fuck.

Jack crossed to the other side. He hopped from the roof to the fire escape balcony. Okay, yeah, “hop” was pushing it. He was in fucking good shape for fifty-one, but still not at the age where one “hops” off roofs. Still, he managed the descent easily enough and took no small amount of satisfaction in that.

Off the roof. Down the fire escape. Hop onto a Dumpster. And that was a hop, being only a two-foot drop. A little more than a hop in the descent to ground level. Then through the back alley, heading toward the one hiding Cillian’s thug. When he reached the corner, he peeked around. The guy was still there, still looking toward the road.

Jack sized up the distance between them. Thirty feet. There was another trash bin, maybe ten feet this side of the guy. He flexed his ankle, the one he’d broken last spring. Just a little sore from jumping to reach the fire escape. A necessary reminder he wasn’t twenty anymore and couldn’t pull stupid twenty-year-old shit.

He took three careful steps across the alley, then three quick ones to get into the shadow of that trash bin. He climbed onto it with surprising ease—Don’t get cocky, Jack—and held his breath for two seconds, making sure his target hadn’t caught the movement.

The guy checked his watch.

Yeah, I’m late. Give me a minute . . .

Jack eased along the trash bin, each step taken with extreme care so the metal didn’t creak underfoot. Now the tricky part. Step up to the edge, crouch and . . .

He leapt and hit the guy in the shoulder, knocking him down. Then he grabbed the guy’s leg and hauled him behind the bin, which might have been the toughest part—the guy was not small. He wasn’t too fucking smart, either. Instead of going for his weapon, he just flailed, as if he could throw Jack off.

Jack tossed him behind the bin and the guy finally remembered he had a gun. He didn’t even get it out before a barrel pressed against the back of his neck.

“You got anything to say?” Jack asked.

“What?”

He spoke slower. “Got anything to say?”

“You fucking—”

Jack slammed his foot between the guy’s shoulder blades. “That’s a no.” He patted the guy down, taking a gun, two knives and brass knuckles. People still used brass knuckles?

He shook his head and pocketed the weapons along with two cell phones. The guy squawked, saying, “Private property, you—”

Another slam sent him face-first into the dirt.

“Last chance. Anything to say?”

“Just that you’re a—”

Jack didn’t wait to find out what he was. He already knew. Just like he knew this guy wasn’t giving him answers and he didn’t have time to beat them out of him. He hit the guy again. No anger behind it. Just shutting him up so he could speak, because he really hated to repeat himself.

“You’ve been put down,” he said. “By a guy old enough to be your father. That’s humiliating. But you know what’s worse? Telling your boss about it. You can cross that road with me and do it. Or . . .”

Jack stepped back. The guy pushed to his feet and looked Jack up and down in hopes of saving his ego by seeing that Jack was younger than he’d heard, bigger than he’d thought. The result of that onceover said Jack didn’t look that old and he wasn’t small. But nor was he twenty-five and six-foot-four. The guy grunted and crossed his arms.

“Take off down the back alley,” Jack said.

The guy said nothing, but when Jack stood his ground, he stalked in that direction. Jack watched him go, then turned toward the street.

As Jack walked away, he kept his ears attuned for any sign the thug decided to circle back behind him. His attention, though, was on the guy’s burner phone. On the text message the guy had received from Cillian.

Make sure you’re ready.

Jack exhaled. He’d still been giving Cillian the benefit of the doubt. Presuming he’d only told his boy to protect his back. But Jack was not an optimist. His gut had said the Cillian he remembered would never admit he was concerned about a meeting with an old friend.

Jack knew his own reputation, too. It came partly from prowess. He was damned good at his job. But more than that, he was fair and he was trustworthy. Cillian would know that much. Which meant he knew Jack would never double-cross him.

And that meant Jack was the one being double-crossed.

Fuck.

The thug’s phone buzzed with another text.

Where are you?

Jack sent the reply. Pissing.

Get the fuck back to your post.

Jack picked up his pace to a jog. He headed back the way he’d come. Down two alleys. Circled another building. Exited far enough from the thug’s post that it wouldn’t look suspicious. When he reached the sidewalk, he slowed to a purposeful stride.

As Jack approached the cafe, Cillian looked up, his head tilting as he squinted. Then he went back to his newspaper. He hadn’t recognized Jack. Not surprising after thirty years, but even less surprising given that Jack wore a disguise as he always did for a client meeting.

Jack pulled out the chair across from Cillian.

“That’s—” Cillian began. Then another squint over his reading glasses. “Jack?”

Jack sat without a word. He endured the obligatory appraisal, that onceover from an old friend that wasn’t so much seeing how he’d changed as seeing how much he’d aged, while hoping the answer was “more than I have.” A tightening of Cillian’s lips said he couldn’t have that satisfaction.

Jack wondered if all people did this. Go to a high-school reunion and size up your classmates, hoping they showed their age more than you. Or was it just guys like them? Guys who needed to reassure themselves they were still men to be reckoned with.

“You look good,” Cillian said with obvious reluctance.

“Not here for a date.”

Cillian snorted a laugh and reached for his cigarette, burning on the side of a small plate.

“You know they don’t allow smoking here?” Cillian said. “Even on the patio? Fucking world, huh?”

Jack set one generic, unmarked allergy capsule in front of Cillian.

“What the fuck’s that?” Cillian said.

“A choice.”

“What?”

“Cyanide pill. Gun. You pick.”

“Gun?” Cillian’s gaze followed Jack’s arm and registered the gun was under the table, pointed between his legs. He shoved back his chair.

“You move,” Jack said, “I fire. Pull that chair in.”

Cillian did, sweat breaking out on his upper lip as he said, with a hint of a whine, “What the fuck, Jack? This better be some kinda dementia—you getting paranoid in your old age. Because threatening me—”

Jack tossed the thug’s burner phone on the table. “He’s not taking a piss.”

Cillian went still. That beading sweat formed droplets, sliding down the side of his ruddy face. He reached for his coffee, and then stopped as he noticed his hand trembling.

Fuck. You haven’t just gotten old, Cillian. You’ve gotten soft. Lost your nerve. No excuse for that. There just isn’t.

“Third option,” Jack said. “You talk. Tell me what’s going on. Might still shoot you. Might make you take the pill. Not going to let you walk away. But . . .” He shrugged. “Options. I’m flexible. Convince me not to shoot.”

“It isn’t what it seems, Jack. I’d never—”

“Skip the bullshit.”

“But you gotta understand. It isn’t—”

“Don’t care. You wanna make me happy? Talk. Fast.”

“I got into some trouble, Jack. Things have changed. It’s not just about knowing the other guys in town. Everyone’s global these days, and I’m just an old boss trying to run—”

“Give me facts. Not excuses. You owe money. Favor. Yes?”

Cillian swallowed and nodded.

“They found out you know me,” Jack said. “Can call in a favor. You’ve bragged. Fucking disrespectful. But you did it. No changing that now.”

“I needed credibility, Jack. It’s all about who you know, and you’re somebody. Being able to say I helped you get your start? That’s gold.”

“Someone told you to get me here. Why?” He peered up at the surrounding buildings. “There a rifle pointed at my head?”

“No, nothing like that. You’re no use to anyone if you’re dead.”

Which Jack knew. People wanted him for his skills.

If you want revenge for a hit, you go after the son of a bitch who called it. Jack was just the faceless guy behind the gun. Still, there was always a chance. He’d known that when he walked over. Also known that the sun’s position would make it a tough shot. Not impossible—Nadia could do it—and maybe knowing that, he should have walked away. But if someone wants you dead, you’ll be dead. He knew that better than anyone. You want to stay alive? Tackle the problem that’s going to get you killed.

“Talk,” Jack said.

“They want to hire you.” Cillian rambled after that, appealing to Jack’s ego, as if that might nudge aside the bullet currently aimed at a place he didn’t really want to get shot. He said Jack was the best. The absolute best goddamned hitman alive. Which was bullshit. Jack figured he rated about third. That’s what Evelyn told him, which was supposed to incite him to do better. First, third, tenth, what did it matter? Who the hell figured out the rankings anyway? Market research survey? On a scale of one to ten, how do you rate your satisfaction with the services of the following hitmen . . .

Cillian kept nattering on. Jack was such a big name, and if someone wanted his services, well, it wasn’t easy to do, was it? Cillian himself had to jump through hoops, and he was an old friend. But he understood. Yes, he did. A man like Jack had to protect himself. But Jack also had to understand how that could lead people to take desperate measures to get his attention.

“Stop talking.”

Cillian’s mouth shut with a click of his teeth. He was sweating enough now that Jack could smell it. Letting him ramble hadn’t been a kindness. Jack had been allowing the older man to dig himself deeper, getting increasingly anxious as he struggled to explain and Jack’s expression didn’t change. Now Cillian sat there, breathing out of his mouth, panting slightly as he waited for Jack’s next command.

What the fuck happened to you, Cillian? I was scared of you back in the day. Scared shitless. Wanted to be like you. The tough bastard nobody screws with.

“They want to hire me,” Jack said.

“Don’t ask me details about the job. These people aren’t like you and me. If they want something, they get it.”

“So do I.”

Cillian shifted. “Sure you do, Jack. I didn’t mean it like that. Yes, they want to hire you. They’ll pay your going rate.” A nervous laugh. “I don’t even want to guess what that would be. Off my pay scale. A few years ago, I thought of asking if I could sell that favor you promised me. Would have made my retirement, I’m sure. A guy like you—”

“—is not someone you fuck with.”

Sweat dripped into Cillian’s coffee.

Jack continued, “Don’t care about the job. I’ll tell them to fuck off. Better yet? You’ll tell them. That’s how we’ll handle this. You tell them fuck no. They don’t like the message?” Jack shrugged. “Say it nicely. Maybe that’ll help.”

“You—you don’t understand, Jack.”

“Yeah, I do. I understand my old friend fucked me over. I understand he might not survive that message. And I don’t give a shit. Can’t.” Jack rose. “Also, tell them—”

“They’ve gone after your girl.”

“What?” he said, slowly and, he hoped, calmly.

“Your girl. The hitwoman. The one you trained.”

“Dee?”

A short laugh. “You’re fucking more than one? Lucky guy.”

Jack’s cold stare made Cillian shift. “Sorry. Yes, Dee.”

“She’s my protégé.”

Ever since word got out that he was Nadia’s mentor, everyone presumed sex was part of the arrangement. Otherwise, why the hell would you bother with a girl? They couldn’t entertain the possibility Jack might have trained her because she was good. Easier to say he was sleeping with her. Now that he was, it got tougher to work up righteous indignation, but he still managed enough that Cillian ducked his gaze and muttered, “That’s what they think. Whether it’s true or not—”

“Not.”

“That doesn’t matter, Jack. They’re going through her to get to you. Well, through Quinn first.”

“Who?”

“Quinn. The Boy Scout. That’s what they call him, right? Fucking vigilante—”

“What about him?”

“I only know what these guys told me. I don’t keep my ear to the ground the way I used to—”

“Quinn. Dee. Connect them.”

“Okay, so these guys know—uh, presume—you’re sleeping with Dee. Only, apparently, getting to her is almost as tough as getting to you. But she’s rumored to be pals with this Quinn, and he’s much easier to contact. So that’s their plan. Set Quinn up. Take him hostage. Bring Dee running. Use her to make you do whatever they want. Complicated, I know, but this shows how badly they want you, Jack. The lengths they’re willing to go.”

Don’t panic. Don’t fucking panic.

I can fix this. Will fix it. Dodged a bullet. A fucking well-aimed bullet, but consider it dodged. Nadia is fine. She will continue to be fine. I just need to make that call . . .

That call . . .

The unanswered call. The click on the line.

Jack’s head jerked up. “When is this supposed to happen?”

“Now, Jack. It’s happening now.”

Jack yanked out his phone. Then he stopped and switched to the thug’s prepaid.

“That won’t help,” Cillian said. “They know the number you were dialing. Her phone won’t accept incoming calls unless they place them.”

He hit the numbers anyway. The phone rang. A soft click. Then it continued to ring. He hung up and started dialing the lodge only to stop himself again. They could get access to the phone record and trace any call he made.

He’d have to get to a payphone. Or buy another cell.

Was that safe?

He’d make sure it was. He’d stop this before Nadia was in danger.

This is exactly what you always worried about. Exactly what you convinced yourself wouldn’t happen. How long did it take, Jack-o? Six fucking months.

“It’s too late, Jack,” Cillian said.

Jack turned to him. That’s all he thought he did—swung his gaze to the guy. But whatever Cillian saw in that gaze made him jerk back and the legs of his chair skittered on the ground.

Cillian swallowed. “I’m going to help you, Jack. Anything I can do, I will. I regret this. I really do.”

“You have not fucking begun to regret this.”

Cillian flinched. “I-I know but—”

“Talk. Make it useful.”

“R-right. S-sorry. I know you’re trying to figure out how to contact her, but it’s too late. They took this Quinn fellow Saturday. Last night, that phone you use to contact her started moving.”

“Bullshit. GPS is disconnected.”

“Right. Or they could have used it to find her. That’s smart, Jack. Got some high-grade tech there. Can’t even imagine what that costs.”

“Stop. Start again. Facts.”

“They know she made a few calls on the phone last night. Which suggested she knew about this Quinn guy and was doing some research. Whatever you’ve got installed won’t tell them where her calls are coming from. But they can tell the phone’s on the move.”

Because Nadia was going after Quinn.

Didn’t matter. She’d have her real cell phone. She needed it to contact the lodge and—

And Felix had programmed that high-tech phone to let her make and accept calls to her legitimate cell number . . . while still rerouting that signal so she couldn’t be traced.

If these guys knew the number Jack used to call Nadia and her real number went through the same device, could they block that? Fuck if he knew. He’d have to contact Felix—

Yeah, Felix, who was a known confederate of his. Same as Evelyn. Same as anyone who could help him get in touch with Nadia. If he called them, that call could be monitored.

Fuck!

There had to be a way. It was a fucking phone call. Or he could send a text. An e-mail. Something. Anything.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Cillian said. “You can’t take the chance. You know that.”

Jack turned that look on him, the one that made Cillian quail.

“You want to be fucking useful?” Jack said. “Tell me something fucking useful.”

“Just do the job. Your girl will be fine. She’s busy chasing this Quinn fellow, and as far as these guys know, you and I are talking about a hit you’ll do for me. You’re supposed to spend a day or two on research, me having you check out this fake mark. As soon as they get your girl, they’ll come and tell you what’s what.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Jack. It’s real easy. You take a couple of days off. Hell, anything you want, it’s on me. Whiskey, girls, horses . . . not a bad way to spend a couple of days.”

“So I do that. Drink. Fuck. Gamble. Wait until they take her. No big deal.”

“Exactly. Live it up at my expense and—”

Jack leaned across the table. “I lied. She’s more than my protégé.”

Cillian only gave a sweaty smile. “Okay, so you really will be worried. But all the more reason to indulge, right? Get your mind off it. I know a couple girls—twins—who’ll get your mind off pretty much any—”

“Take the pill.”

Cillian blinked.

“Count of three,” Jack said. “Take the fucking pill. Or I pull this fucking trigger. It won’t kill you. Just make you wish I had.”

“But—”

“Pill. Now.”

“Jack, please. I—”

“Anyone watching?”

“W-what?”

“Are there fucking eyes on us?”

“N-no. Just my boy.”

“Take the pill. It’s slow-release cyanide. You’ll have an hour. Swallow the pill. Walk with me. Tell me what I want. Everything I want. I might give you the antidote.”

Cillian stared at the capsule.

“Take it. Now.”

Cillian picked it up, put it in his mouth and took a swig of coffee.

“On your feet. Walk.”

Cillian obeyed. Once they were in the alley, Jack spun and slugged him in the stomach. Cillian went down, gasping and hacking.

“What the fuck, Jack?”

“Making sure you swallowed it. Now get up. Walk.”

5 – Nadia

I spent the rest of Sunday looking into the case Quinn was working. Well, that and conducting my lodge-hostess duties. I couldn’t escape those, no matter what else was going on. The lodge is my real job. I never forget that.

So I skated between responsibilities all day. Show guests the budding wildflowers. Grill Diaz on what he knew. Give shooting lessons at the range. Call Evelyn for background on Diaz. Take a group white-water rafting. Research the background on Quinn’s case.

Yes, maybe calling Evelyn wasn’t absolutely necessary. Maybe I’d mostly been checking in to see if she’d heard from Jack. She’s a retired hitman and his former mentor. If I claimed Jack is the closest thing she had to a son, she’d treat me to a diatribe about the uselessness of children while getting in a few digs at Jack on the way. But theirs is the longest and closest relationship either of them has ever had. That didn’t mean he would call to chat, not unless he needed her help. He hadn’t.

Diaz knew the basics of the case Quinn had been working on the side. As I researched, I could see why Quinn had jumped at it. Those with a vigilante bent often lean toward specific crimes. For me, it’s ones involving women and children, not surprising given my history. Quinn’s focus is similar, without the personal experience to explain it. If I whipped out my psychology credits and analyzed, I’d say it’s the frustrated family man in him. He had been married once, to his teenage sweetheart. They’d split before having kids, which I’m not sure is as much a symptom of the problem as a cause. Quinn comes from a tight-knit family and grew up expecting that for himself: wife, kids, house in the suburbs. It hasn’t happened, and while I think part of what he channels into his vigilantism is what made him become a cop, as it is for me, another part is that frustrated instinct to protect.

It had been that sort of case that started Quinn’s vigilantism. A family friend’s daughter had been murdered by her abusive ex. When the ex was acquitted, the man asked Quinn to “help him find justice.” Quinn refused. The father killed the ex-husband and went to jail. His wife committed suicide. Quinn blamed himself.

For the case Quinn was now investigating, take that old one and multiply it several times over. An abusive husband had murdered his wife, and everyone in his town knew it. Yet the police couldn’t dig up enough evidence to charge him. His wife’s brother had tried to take matters into his own hands. The perp shot and killed the brother, and the DA decided it was self-defense. The perp remarried and started knocking around wife number two. She disappeared. Again, no one could pin it on him. Then his daughter from his first marriage accused him of sexually abusing her. He accused her of fabricating a story because she blamed him for her mother’s death. The police didn’t press charges. The daughter killed herself.

It’s easy to blame the cops in a case like that. But if the police can’t find the evidence, they can’t lay charges, as much as they might like to.

For Quinn, this was a local case, about a hundred miles from his home. He’d have known about it and almost certainly would have thought, “I’d like to take that bastard out.” When someone came and asked him to do exactly that? He’d have accepted the job. No question.

My research ensured Diaz was being straight with me—the case existed and it was one Quinn would take. Jack doesn’t trust Contrapasso—we butted heads with them on our last investigation—so I was extra cautious. Yet from everything I dug up, this was on the level.

I also made sure Quinn really was out of contact. I phoned his personal cell. Phoned his work cell. E-mailed. Texted. I was careful in all of that, the calls going from the phone Felix gave me, which would scramble and reroute. Even then, I left no messages on voice mail, and my text and e-mail were vague, “Hey, you around? Call me.”

I left the lodge right after dinner, but hit a post-weekend backup at the border and missed my flight. Diaz rebooked me on the first morning one, and I found a hotel for the night. I woke in the middle of the night to a text from Jack.

Fucking tech. All fine. Home as planned.

After a few years of knowing Jack I’ve become fluent at text shorthand, because that’s the way he talks most of the time. From this message, I interpreted that he was having trouble placing outgoing calls on his phone. He didn’t like texting—it left a permanent record of a conversation—so he’d only make this one exception. I wouldn’t hear from him again until he got home “as planned.” But I hadn’t thought he’d set a date for his return. The last time we spoke he hadn’t gotten his job details.

I puzzled on that until I decided I was overthinking it. He’d said he expected to be a week at most. Evidently, that was still all he knew. He’d make contact when he landed.

Knowing not to expect a call didn’t mean I wasn’t hoping for that nine a.m. check-in. My flight was due to land at 8:30. A delay in takeoff meant we were still descending at 8:56. I turned on my phone early and, yes, felt guilty about it, despite knowing it wouldn’t send the plane into a tailspin. I got service at 8:57. By 9:08 we were unloading. No call from Jack. I sighed, pocketed the phone and prepared to disembark.

6 - Jack

Jack took Cillian three blocks before finding a suitable building to shove him into. The section of Dublin they’d met in was an old one, mostly empty, with sporadic attempts at “revitalization.” He took three blocks to choose a spot because he was trying to figure out what the fuck he was going to do next. A rare bout of indecision, rising from the pounding knowledge that he’d fucked up. Fucked up so bad.

He’d spent a year telling himself he couldn’t make a move on Nadia, that on the very offside chance she actually reciprocated, he couldn’t endanger her by advancing their relationship. Then he’d told himself as long as he took precautions—scrubbing his list of anyone who might be even a remote concern—she’d be fine. But that didn’t help against those who were trying to get on his list, did it?

As he walked, he kept telling himself the same thing he’d told Cillian. Stop whining. Give me something useful. Yet all he could think about was how to contact her. Anything he did would be risky. But he had to warn her. Had to.

Do you?

Of course he did. Fuck, what kind of stupid question . . .

Except it wasn’t a stupid question. Because Nadia wasn’t stupid. Yes, she’d go after Quinn. But that didn’t mean blindly chasing leads into a trap. She cared about Quinn. But, fuck, Nadia cared about people, in a way he admired, even if he couldn’t fathom it. He’d seen her do something dangerous because she’d been focused on saving a victim, and he’d given her proper shit for it, in a rare fit of temper. But even then how much danger had she actually been in? Minimal. He just didn’t like her taking risks.

Nadia knew what she was doing. And Quinn was not some helpless victim. Like Nadia, he could take care of himself.

Moral of the story, Jack? Chill the fuck out.

Jack prodded Cillian to a building. They walked in and Jack squinted against the near darkness.

“Back there,” he said.

“Here’s good. There’s some light and—”

“Back there.”

Cillian’s shoulders slumped and he made his way to the back room Jack had noted. He paused in the doorway, looking around, and Jack had to give him a shove inside. The second room was darker, filthy and full of crates and debris. The condition of the room wasn’t the issue. It was what that room said—that it made a really good place to dump a body.

“How’s it going down?” Jack asked.

“What?”

“Letting Dee know Quinn’s gone. How’s that happening? Can’t just wait around. Hope she figures he’s missing. Not fucking happening. Not on this timetable.”

“Uh . . .”

Funny what a difference time and perspective makes. Thirty years ago, Cillian had been almost twice Jack’s age and to Jack, he’d seemed the ultimate ball-busting, take-no-prisoners tough guy. The reality? Cillian was a third-rate thug, a big fish whose small pond dried up years ago. A complete fucking moron who’d gotten where he’d been through brute strength and brass balls, and when one failed, the other took over.

Cillian had no idea how these guys planned to lure Nadia in. Apparently, he really had just figured she’d magically realize Quinn was missing. This was, of course, the same guy who believed an antihistamine pill was slow-release cyanide.

What was that old saying about never meeting your heroes? It also applied to not re-meeting them thirty years later.

Of course Jack didn’t drop it at that. He kept asking. He shattered Cillian’s kneecap. And fuck if he didn’t feel bad about that. But he had to be sure he was getting honest answers, and he’d always found that rather than threaten to do a thing, you should just do it.

“Fine,” Jack said. “Forget their fucking plan. Which you should have asked about. Due diligence.”

“You—you broke my goddamned knee,” Cillian heaved between gasps of pain.

“Yeah, but at your age? Probably need it replaced. Easier now.”

“You’ve lost your soul, you know that? All those years of killing, and it’s gone. Just gone. What would your brothers think? Or your parents?”

There’d been a time when invoking his family’s memory would have hurt. Hurt like hell. But Jack hadn’t lost his soul. Yeah, he’d misplaced it for a while. Lacking a soul meant you knew the difference between good and bad, you just didn’t give a shit. But Jack knew and, in this case, he felt bad. However . . .

“You fucked me over,” Jack said. “Did nothing to deserve it. All about you. What you wanted. So now it’s about me. What I want. To protect Dee. Who’s only in this mess because of us. Your backstab. My carelessness.”

“But she’ll be fine. That’s what you aren’t understanding here, Jack, that if you just do what they ask—”

Jack walloped his pistol against the old man’s busted knee and then shoved his jacket over Cillian’s mouth to stifle his screams.

“That’s a no,” Jack said. “Suggest it again? You’ll need both knees fixed. If I give you the antidote.” He checked his watch. “Thirty minutes left. You feeling it yet?”

Cillian swallowed and nodded.

“Useful information,” Jack said. “That’s the key. What’s the timetable?”

“Uh, I keep you busy for a couple days doing recon work. They contact me as soon as they have her, and that’s when I give them an address and they move in to talk to you.”

“You have contact info?”

Cillian nodded. “But you can’t just call—”

“Give me everything. I’ll decide what to do with it. When are you due? To contact them?”

“They’ll call when it’s clear on their end.”

Which meant no one expected to hear from Cillian.

“How’re they making contact? Your phone?”

Cillian nodded. Jack patted him down and took the phone.

“They Irish?” Jack asked.

“Fuck, no. They’re from—”

“We’ll get to that.”

What mattered right now was that, not being Irish, they’d only expect to hear an older man with an Irish accent when they called.

“Contingency plans?” Jack said, and when Cillian’s face screwed up, he couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t know the word or because he didn’t understand the concept. Both seemed equally likely.

“Backup plan? If they don’t get her? If I refuse your job? If I refuse theirs?”

Cillian blinked, and Jack fought the urge to sigh.

“Start with the first,” he said. “If they don’t get her?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I suppose, then the plan fails and they’ll just kill that Quinn fellow.”

Jack considered that, maybe longer than he should. But, no, Quinn’s death would not be a positive outcome. It would upset Nadia.

“If I refuse your job?” he said. “Walk away? Or quit? Or never showed up here?”

“Uh . . .” Cillian paused before seeming to realize all the questions led to the same general conclusion. “I’m supposed to make sure you stay.”

“But if I don’t?”

“I’m supposed to make sure,” he said. “By any means necessary. That’s what Petey was for.”

“But now Petey has walked away. What if I do the same?”

More blinking, as Cillian propelled his mental wheels faster. Then his eyes glinted, a hint of that crafty thug coming back as he said, “Then I call them, and they know where you’re staying, and they’ll come get you, and it’ll go bad then, Jack. Really bad.”

“Bullshit. If they knew my hotel? They’d know how to get to me. Avoid all this crap.”

Cillian kept insisting they could get to Jack. Covering his ass because the truth was that they hadn’t said what they’d do if Cillian failed. The answer was obvious. Cillian failed, Cillian died, so he was trying very hard to convince Jack there was no escape here.

As for the last question—what if Jack refused their job—he supposed there was no need to ask that. They’d take it out on Nadia. Compel him to accept by threatening her. By torturing her.

Which meant there was only one answer here. Only one variable he could control.

Get the fuck out of Ireland and find Nadia.

7 - Nadia

There are places you hear about so often that you can picture them. I remembered when Jack and I talked about going to Egypt, seeing everything we’d read and heard about. I have images of all those historic sites. The reality would probably be a disappointment because I can’t help but picture them in a historic setting, with endless sands and smog-free skies.

Yet I have mental images of other places, too. More personal places. Quinn’s condo is one of them. He’s never talked about it specifically. My images come from scattered bits of conversation.

You’re painting the lodge? Yeah, I need to do that, too. My walls are builder beige . . . and I’m the second owner.

Hold on, I’m moving into the living room. Someone’s having a BBQ out back and they sound like they’re on their third case of beer. Let me close the patio door first. That might help.

Nearly broke my neck on the stairs today. Who the hell carpets stairs?

Trust me, you don’t even want to see my basement. There’s one corner for my weights and the rest is floor-to-ceiling crap. When my family needs to store a few boxes, they bring them to my place.

I moved through Quinn’s condo, and it was like being in a dream version of a place I’ve visited a hundred times. Not quite right, but familiar enough.

Diaz and I came here to hunt for more information, but I’d taken a few minutes alone to orient myself. It was uncomfortable, being here. I’d never visited before, and even if that had been my choice and not his, this felt like an intrusion. This place was unmistakably Quinn’s, in a way I wouldn’t have imagined. I suppose homes are always a reflection of whoever lives there. I’d just never experienced it so strongly before.

I walked through his condo and I saw him there, felt him there, swore I could even smell him there. When a voice spoke from a distant room, I spun, for a moment thinking I was hearing him, too.

The voice was Diaz’s, of course. I hadn’t wanted him here. Hadn’t even wanted him in Virginia with me. As a cop, I’d been accustomed to new partnerships, but I’ve grown spoiled, and if it’s not Jack or Quinn at my side, I’d rather work alone. Yet Diaz wasn’t just some random guy tagging along. He was a professional. A professional what? No idea. Contrapasso agents don’t share their backgrounds. Hell, I don’t even dare ask his first name. I did know he was a skilled investigator, like all their agents. Which meant I couldn’t afford to refuse his help. I’m not sure that was even an option.

Our search centered on Quinn’s desktop computer. He had a laptop, but that was for his work—his legit work—so anything he’d kept on this job would be on the desktop. His security was set up by Contrapasso, another condition of employment. They said it was to guarantee he had the best security possible, but he knew it was so they had access. It was one of the things that had kept me from signing up. Today, I was glad they’d done it.

Their security didn’t make the computer accessible remotely. Quinn’s data was completely fire-walled. That left him safe from cyber attacks. It also explained why we were in his condo, rather than connecting to his home network from some safer location.

Quinn’s search history showed he’d definitely been doing research on his target. Hours of prep work, digging through every news article and cross referencing wherever possible. He’d found a home address, vacation home address, work address, cell numbers, car license and registration.

“One thing I’m not finding?” I said. “Any record of that plane ticket.”

“Here,” Diaz said. “Let me try.”

He ran a few things across the screen, his fingers flying as fast as Evelyn’s when she was working her Internet magic. He pulled up some piece of software I’d never seen, one that apparently hunted for deleted data on the hard drive.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ll get someone on that. We confirmed the ticket existed and was in his name, but we didn’t dig deeper. I’ll find out how it was purchased and from where. Good catch.”

That was the advantage to working with Contrapasso—as good as Evelyn was, they had access even she couldn’t match. That’s what happens when you have attorneys, judges, FBI agents, CIA agents and more on the payroll. Part of the price for those members joining is providing that access, even if it risks their jobs. Contrapasso isn’t about furthering a career or padding one’s income. It’s an ideological choice. Which is why I struggle with not joining. I share their ideology. I’m just not ready to take the leap and risk the rest.

We finished the search, and I compiled my notes, checking for any gaps.

“Okay,” I said, straightening as I turned to Diaz. “Show me the last place your GPS picked him up.”

I was in a coffee shop, sitting by the window, watching the building where Contrapasso had lost contact with Quinn. I’d told Diaz I needed to do this alone, to focus on my thoughts, but that was bullshit. Even if he’d have sat and said nothing, I’d have felt obligated to talk to him, to hash this through with him. And he wasn’t the person I wanted to hash it through with.

I checked my phone. No call from Jack, which I expected but still . . .

I fingered the numbers on my cell. Maybe a quick call?

Except this wouldn’t be quick. Nor was it important enough to break the rules for. I just wanted to talk to him.

I pocketed the phone and sipped my coffee as I gazed at the building. It housed the office of a private investigator the family of Quinn’s target had hired when the daughter took her own life. It made sense that Quinn would have gone there. It also made sense the GPS tracker stopped working late at night. This wasn’t a Marshal case—Quinn wasn’t going to walk in, flash his badge and question the investigator. He’d have been breaking in to copy the files. Quinn needed to be absolutely sure his target was guilty before he began figuring out how and where to pull the hit.

So all that made sense. But the rest . . .

Damn it, Jack. I wish you were here. I really need someone to talk to.

No, I need you to talk to.

Then talk.

I heard his voice, that laconic tone, as if even those two words had to be pulled out by force. I looked up at the chair across from me. Of course he wasn’t there. But I could picture him. He’d sit with his back to the building because that didn’t concern him. This was my job. He’d do what I asked, but otherwise he’d be there only as a sounding board. He’d drink his coffee, comfortable in the silence, waiting for me to break it.

I checked the phone.

Nope, gotta do it this way. Just don’t talk out loud. Makes people wonder.

I smiled and shook my head.

What doesn’t make sense? The job?

No, it was exactly the kind of opportunity Quinn would jump at.

Yep.

That’s all he’d say, but even in my imagination, I heard more in that word. Enough that it made me stop and think.

It seemed tailor-made for Quinn, didn’t it?

Yep.

And what about the airline ticket? I can’t say Quinn would never pull a stunt like that . . .

Jack snorted.

Yes, he might. But there was no reason to do it now. He didn’t know Jack was away. I hadn’t hinted we were having problems.

Yeah. Why now? No point.

If Quinn hadn’t bought that ticket, who had? The obvious answer? The people who’d “discovered” it. Contrapasso.

According to them, Quinn had been wearing a GPS tracker that his attackers somehow found and disabled the moment they grabbed him.

Either way, suggests one thing.

That if that tracker really had been disabled, whoever took him knew it would be there.

My cousin’s killer had turned out to be the lawyer who helped get a “not guilty” verdict for her alleged killer. A lawyer who’d turned his attention to activism, which got him recruited by none other than the Contrapasso Fellowship. He turned out to be only one of a handful of rotten apples. One of his confederates who’d walked away clear of the whole mess? The same guy who came to visit me just before my missed call from Jack. Diaz.

8 - Jack

Jack stepped off the plane in Baltimore and turned on Cillian’s phone, holding his breath until he confirmed he hadn’t missed any texts or calls. In other words, the goons hadn’t grabbed Nadia yet.

With some trepidation he switched on his own phone. Part of him wanted to see a message from Nadia. But part of him feared that, too—if she found a way to make contact, it might attract the attention of her pursuers.

There were no messages from Nadia.

He did, however, have a voice mail and two texts from Evelyn. Nothing more than, “Call me,” and maybe the frequency of those made it seem urgent, but that was just Evelyn. If she wanted to speak to him, goddamn it, he should be available to speak.

He sent back, “Busy,” and headed to the car rental area, his carryon slung over his shoulder. His bag held nothing suspicious—he kept his work gear in storage or purchased it on-site.

He was in the car rental line when Evelyn called. He let it ring three times, enough to earn him, “Aren’t you going to get that?” glares from the others waiting to be served. Then he answered, grunting a hello.

“Good to hear you too, Jack-o.”

“Busy.”

“Yes, I got the message. Minimalist, even for you. I know you’re working, but I want to talk to you about Dee.”

He stiffened. Before he could speak, Evelyn said, “I’m concerned about her going after Quinn. I understand she’s worried but—”

“Fuck this phone.”

“What—?”

“Damn tech. Never fucking works. You still there?”

“Yes, I’m right—”

“Hello?”

“I said—”

“Can’t hear a fucking thing. Goddamn it. Look, I’m busy, okay? Working. You got a problem with Dee? Call Dee.”

He hung up. Then he switched his phone off and headed back into the terminal. He found a payphone, turned on his cell, and sent Evelyn the number. It was encrypted, of course. Some code she’d made him memorize years ago. He could still remember bitching about that. Fucking codes, Evelyn? I’m a hitman, not MI6.

Like the tech, the codes seemed like overkill and most of the time they were. Nadia got a laugh out of hitmen in books and movies—top-notch assassins trained in every imaginable martial art, Olympic-level marksmen who carried the kind of tech found only in sci-fi movies. They could kill anyone, anywhere, and leave no trace.

The truth was that your average hitman killed by walking up to a target and shooting him. That was getting tougher these days, with cell phone and street security cameras. But that was still the most common kind of hitman. Jack wasn’t that kind. He was a helluva long way from the Hollywood version, though. Today, he was damned happy for that code.

It was twenty minutes before the phone rang, which told him Evelyn had driven to a payphone herself. Meaning she understood the seriousness of the situation.

“I fucked up,” he said when he answered the phone.

“I’m not your damn priest, Jack. What the hell is going on?”

“Just told you.”

“Just confessed, you mean, which means Dee is in trouble, because that’s the only person you’re going to feel guilty over. But unless you’re the one who took out Quinn—and some days, I wouldn’t blame you—I have no damn idea what’s going on.”

“It was a trap.”

“For him? Her? You? Can you use a few more words, Jack? If Dee’s in trouble—”

“It was all a trap. My job in Ireland. Taking Quinn. Getting Dee to go after him. It’s connected. I’m overseas. Kidnap Quinn. Lure Dee out. Grab her. Get me to take a job.”

A moment’s pause as she pieced that together. “All that to hire you? Whatever happened to picking up the phone? Oh, wait. I know. Someone is inching toward retirement, shutting down all avenues of contact so he can play Grizzly Adams in the middle of nowhere with Jane.”

“Tarzan.”

“What?”

“It’s Tarzan and Jane. Not Grizzly Adams.”

“Do you actually want my help or do you want to test my pop culture knowledge first?”

“Getting old. Gotta check.”

“Fuck off, Jack. The point is—”

“Point is you’re wasting time. Giving me shit. Yeah, that’s always fun. But save it. This job? Wouldn’t have taken it. Even before Dee. Cillian says it’s cartel shit.”

Evelyn let loose a few creative curses. She also stopped hassling him. She was the one who’d counseled him to keep his distance from cartels. The mob had rules and codes of conduct. Sometimes fucking stupid rules and codes of conduct. But they had honor. If the cartels had honor, it didn’t extend to people like Evelyn and Jack.

“Need you to call Dee,” he said. “Tell her—”

“No.”

“Don’t pull your shit. Not now. Call Dee. Warn her. Find out where she is—”

“So you can run to her rescue?”

“Doesn’t need rescue.”

“Exactly, which is why you are going to stay the hell away from her. You want to blame yourself for this? Fine, but don’t compound the problem by running to her side. She’s a helluva lot more careful than Quinn. That’s the advantage to being a woman. We don’t go striding into danger, King Shit, thinking we can handle all comers.”

Jack snorted a laugh.

“You got something to say, Jack-o?”

He didn’t answer. She was right about Dee and Quinn. However, as a generalization, the rest was bullshit. Evelyn herself was the one who’d stride in, guns blazing, while Jack hung back and assessed. Not as much a gender disparity as a difference in personality.

“You’re right,” he said. “About Dee.”

“Good. So she’ll make it tough on them, which means they’ll need to keep her under surveillance, which means you cannot show up or, being a cartel, they’re liable to get pissy and just shoot her to punish you for screwing up their plan.”

“Fuck.”

“Yes, fuck, Jack. At the very least, they’ll realize their scheme is ruined and Quinn will have outlived his usefulness. Maybe you wouldn’t be too broken up by that, but you wouldn’t be dancing on his grave either. More importantly, Dee would blame herself. Because she’s good at that, kind of like someone else I know. Dee won’t want Quinn dead, so it’s best not to let Quinn die, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Slow down and think. I know you aren’t being reckless—otherwise, you’d have called me from Ireland or, worse, called her. But for you, this is panic. Just stop and think it through. All the way through.”

He shifted the receiver from one hand to the other, trying to squelch that roiling in his gut that said he was already moving too slowly, that Nadia was in danger and goddamn it, he was only a couple hundred miles away and—

He inhaled sharply. Panic. That’s what he was feeling. The last time he’d even come close . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut and swore he could still smell the smoke.

He’d gone to get cigarettes. His shift at the mechanic’s had ended, and he’d walked halfway home before remembering the cigarettes. His brother, Tommy, was out, and he didn’t like Jack’s brand, and it wasn’t like he could run and grab a pack himself. Not after he’d nearly lost his leg in the mission that got their two other brothers killed. The mission that made Jack tell the guys in charge to go fuck themselves. He’d warned them their plan wasn’t safe but who the fuck was he? Some kid whose only fucking talent was killing people. He’d quit the group and refused to go back, and all he’d wanted that day was to get cigarettes for Tommy. So he’d gone back for them, and when he returned to that same spot, a mile from home, he saw the smoke. He dropped the cigarettes and he ran because it didn’t matter if he couldn’t see where that smoke came from. He knew. He just knew.

“Jack?”

“Yeah.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. You’re right. But I gotta let her know. Gotta figure out a way—”

“I’ll tell her.”

He shook his head. “Can’t use her phone—”

“I have a plan.”

9 - Nadia

“I’m going home,” I told Diaz as I met up with him in the parking lot.

“What?”

“My caretaker called. There’s a power-supply problem at the lodge and if we don’t get it fixed by Thursday—when we’re fully booked with a corporate retreat—we’re screwed.”

“Okay . . .” he said slowly. He was at his car, talking over it, his hands on the roof where I could see them.

“I wanted to help,” I said. “I still do, and if I can, I’ll come back, but really, you guys can handle this. You have actual investigators. I’m just an ex-cop who never even made detective.”

“But you’re good. Damned good. We could really use—”

“I can’t, and I feel like shit about that. But my real-life job comes first. I understand that’s an inconvenience, me coming here and then cutting out on you . . .”

He shook his head. “I’m glad you came, and of course I wish you could stay, but you’re right about the lodge. It’s important for all our agents—and potential recruits—to have an outside life.” He stepped back. “Can I give you a lift to the airport?”

“I have my rental,” I said, pointing at it.

“I know. But I’m guessing you’re flying out of DC and traffic’s a bitch this time of day. With two of us, we can take the commuter lane. I can have the rental agency pick up your car.”

I shook my head. “I’ll be fine, thanks.”

“Let me write down some alternate directions for you. Back roads. They’ll take you a bit out of the way, but at this time of day, it’ll be worth it. I’d suggest not booking a flight until you’re there, to be safe. They run frequently enough that you’ll have no problem getting one.”

I thanked him as he wrote out directions. Then headed for my car. As I was getting in, Diaz called to me, “Wait! That gun I lent you—”

I shut the door, fired up the car and, with a friendly wave—pretending I couldn’t understand what he was mouthing—I drove from the lot.

Diaz was tailing me. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was there. Because the chances he’d sent me on these back roads to the airport just to be helpful? About zero.

I was now on a truly back road—a dirt one. It was empty, which at least made it tough to tail. As I drove down a dip, I spotted a car in the distance behind me, its running lights off. It looked gray or silver, nearly invisible in the daylight. Diaz’s car had been dark. Was he behind that one? Or had he switched vehicles?

My work phone rang. I grabbed it so fast I nearly dropped it.

“Hello?” I said. Please, Jack. Please be—

“Where the hell are you?” Evelyn said.

Damn it. “This really isn’t the time, Evelyn. Can I call you—?”

“Everyone’s so busy today. A woman tries to be helpful, and that’s all she hears. I don’t know why I bother.”

“Because if we’re busy, it probably means we’re doing something interesting, and you’re bored. Like those nosy old ladies who sit on the front porch and yell at the neighborhood kids.”

“I wouldn’t yell at them. I’d shoot them.”

I smiled. “Look, I can’t talk but . . . you said everyone’s busy, does that mean you were talking to Jack?”

“No. Bastard gives me shit if I call him on a job. Says I’m interrupting him. Like he’d even have those jobs if it wasn’t for me. I suppose he talks to you.”

“Not this trip. He’s having phone problems. I was hoping maybe he’d resolved the issue.”

“So that’s why you answered so fast. Well, I’m sure he’s fine. About you, though . . .”

I glanced in the rearview mirror to see the other car zooming up in a cloud of dust.

“I really have to—” I began.

“You went after Quinn, didn’t you? Weekend’s over so you can leave that damned shack of yours and go chasing after the Boy Scout who obviously was not prepared.”

The car was fast closing the gap between us.

“Can we talk about this later?” I said. “I’m—”

“I’m coming to help,” she said.

“What? No. I—”

“I’m bored. You want me to admit it? Fine, I just did. I’m bored and you’re out there alone, with no backup, Jack having fucked off to Ireland.”

“I worked alone for years, remember? I’m fine. Really.”

“Are you in Virginia?”

“Yes, but I honestly don’t need your help.”

“I’ll call when I get there.”

She hung up. I glanced in my mirror. The car was still coming fast. I shoved the phone into my pocket, took out the gun and wedged it under my thigh.

When the car drew close enough, it turned on its signal. See? I’m just an ordinary citizen, signaling my pass. No need for panic.

I could see two men in the car—driver and passenger. Dark hair, brown skin, clean shaven . . . which also matched Diaz’s description.

The car veered out. I slammed on my brakes, and it shot past. The driver started to swerve at my car before he realized it wasn’t beside him. He hit the brakes, and his car went into a fishtail. I geared into reverse, punched the gas and zoomed backwards to what looked like a laneway heading into the forest. The other driver had come out of his fishtail and was getting turned around. I steered into the laneway, car rocketing over the rough dirt road, which I quickly realized was not a driveway so much as a turnoff spot for hunters or hikers to park.

The trail narrowed as it headed farther into the woods, and I kept going, totally violating my rental agreement. Another good reason never to use my real credit card.

The 4x4ing would have been easier had I been driving an actual 4x4. But one advantage to the compact car was its size. The driver of the other vehicle—possibly accustomed to smaller vehicles—hit the gas and made a valiant effort to follow me down the narrowing trail, plowing down small saplings before getting wedged between two trees. I’d have found that far more amusing if I did not, at that moment, reach the end of my own trail, which soared up the side of an embankment that only an ATV could scale.

I braked hard. Then I snapped off my seatbelt and, gun in hand, peered around the headrest. The other guys were already getting out of their vehicle. Shit.

I cracked opened the driver’s door, then inched over to the passenger seat and kicked the driver’s door wide. I fired a shot through it. As they took cover to return fire, I threw open the passenger door and rolled out.

I ran into the forest. It didn’t matter that I made a racket—what counted now was getting as far from these two as possible. When I was out of reasonable firing range, I hit the ground. Then I rose on all fours and crawled quietly to my left.

I could hear them speaking Spanish, which wasn’t helpful, my vocabulary limited to please, thank you and, “Where’s the restroom.” I could, however, track their voices. One was coming my way while his partner circled around.

I surveyed the playing field. Further to my left was a hunting blind. It was in rough shape, likely a decade since anyone used it. But it gave me something to aim for, and I crawled that way while periodically turning to throw rocks or sticks in the other direction. My pursuer fell for the trick while I continued to the blind and hunkered behind it.

A hunting blind is made for rifles. Also for deer, who aren’t the smartest beasts in the forest. This provided temporary shelter, nothing more. What I needed was . . .

I looked up. The tree was climbable above about ten feet. That meant if I could use the blind as a ladder, I could get up there. I would, however, be exposed while climbing.

I checked my options again. I’d lost sight of the guy circling around. His partner was about twenty feet away—too far for a decent shot through dense forest.

I threw another rock, but now that he was closer, he only looked around instead of following the sound. I crouched motionless behind the blind until I heard the tramp of his feet again.

When his footfalls stopped, I peered through a hole in the blind to see he was looking in the opposite direction, bobbing and weaving as he tried to see something he thought was me.

While he walked toward the stump, I scaled the blind. I was putting my foot on my third and last piece of frame when the rotted wood gave way. I grabbed a branch overhead before I fell, but my foot knocked hard against the blind, the sound as loud as a shot.

The guy spun. I swung into the tree, getting up among the leaves. They hid me, but the guy now knew roughly where I was.

He lifted his gun. He didn’t fire. A handgun isn’t an MK-47—you can’t just spray wide and hope to hit your target. As good as that leafy cover was, some part of me must have showed, because his head swung up, his gaze and gun lifting and—

He dropped with a bullet between his eyes. I exhaled and allowed myself a smile as I lowered my gun. While a handgun is less than ideal for sniping, it’ll do the job if you can get into a clear position . . . like up a tree looking down on your target.

The gun was a Smith & Wesson 9mm, which meant I had ten rounds and no backup ammo. Not ideal, but at the risk of sounding cocky, with one remaining target and nine shots, I felt okay about it.

Now all I had to do was figure out where the other guy—

A twig crackled underfoot. Behind me. The guy was right there, ten feet away, his gun rising. I fired but I wasn’t ready. My bullet hit him in the shoulder and I didn’t have time for another. I jumped from the tree. He fired just as I leaped—three rapid-fire shots, the first flying over my head, the second whipping past me and the third . . .

I tried to twist in mid-flight, get out of whatever path he expected me to fall. I twisted too blindly and while the bullet only hit my arm, my head struck the blind, cracking against the frame as I went down. A moment of gray. Then a very hard landing jolted me awake.

I tried to scramble up but nearly blacked out. I crouched on the far side of the blind and blinked hard.

Damn it, focus!

Gun. Where was my gun?

I must have dropped it when I grayed out.

I looked around. I could hear my assailant tromping toward me, breathing hard, obviously injured worse than I’d thought. Good. Yet he was still coming and my damn gun must be on the other side of the blind.

I pulled out the knife I’d picked up while following Quinn’s trail. Jack’s rule: Never leave home with only one weapon. I just needed to get in a position to use it.

I pushed to all fours, gritting my teeth against my throbbing head as I crawled. I peeked around the blind while keeping my head as low to the ground as possible. The guy was headed my way with his gaze fixed on the blind. My gun lay three feet away, just out of reach.

My fingers clenched the knife, but I couldn’t stop eying the 9mm. It was the safer bet. Getting to it, however, was not a safe bet. Nor could I leap up and charge him with my knife before he could turn and shoot. Hell, I might not be able to leap up. Blood ran down my arm. My head swam. My eyes kept losing focus.

Only one option, really, as imperfect as it was. I shifted into a sprinter’s start and the world swayed.

Focus, just focus.

The thug started moving around the blind. My muscles tensed, but I held still, waiting until he was completely out of sight and then—

I dashed to my gun and swung it up as he cursed in Spanish and raced around the blind and—

A shot. As I was still squeezing my trigger. I fired and dropped. Not that it would do much good. Bullets don’t move in slow motion. But then—two seconds later—I saw the thug’s muzzle blast, his gun pointing up, shot going wide as he fell.

My shot had hit him in the chest. As he fell, I saw blood on his face. There had been another shot. Another shooter.

That shooter may have killed my opponent, but I wasn’t lowering my weapon to high-five him, whoever he was. I ran deeper into the forest and hit the ground in a roll. I did not intentionally hit the ground in a roll. Nor did I intentionally stop running. My brain betrayed me, dipping into unconsciousness just long enough for me to stumble.

I came to on the ground and scrambled up on all fours.

“Dee?”

It was Diaz’s voice. I went still and carefully shifted to sit, facing him, my gun ready.

“Obviously, I’m not here to shoot you,” he called. “I just killed the guy who was trying to.”

I said nothing.

“Okay, I know you’re not going to take my word for it,” he continued. “Even if I did just save your life.”

I tried not to snort at that. He grunted, and I could see a shadowy figure near the blind. Another grunt and a thump, as he moved the thug’s body.

“I see you didn’t actually need my help. Nice shooting.”

I shifted position, squeezing my injured arm with my free hand to stop the bleeding.

He continued. “I knew something was up. We did—Contrapasso. The plane ticket was purchased in Mexico, with a card number Quinn no longer uses. I knew all that before I came to see you.”

He took a few steps, looking around. “Contrapasso thinks you might have been involved in whatever happened to Quinn. That’s why they sent me. I disagreed—I don’t see a motive. But that ticket meant someone was linking you to Quinn’s disappearance, which bore investigating. When you wanted to come back and hunt for him, I realized that might have been the point of letting us find the ticket—getting you involved. Luring you out. They knew you flew into Buffalo, so they bought Quinn a ticket there. But they didn’t actually know where to find you.”

I still said nothing.

He continued. “I suspected you’d pick up a tail as soon as you went to check out Quinn’s last known location. You did. They probably hoped you’d go into the building, where they could grab you. When that failed, they followed your car. That’s why I sent you down these back roads. To give them a quiet spot to cut you off. I was behind them. That’s also why I didn’t come after you to get back the gun.”

He went quiet, looked around, and then sighed. “Tell me what else you need, Dee. You suspected something was up—that’s why you cut out early. You obviously thought I’d set you up. I didn’t. Let’s figure out who did. Together.”

I waited.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m putting my hands up. My gun is holstered. Tell me what else you need.”

I waited until he had his hands raised and I could see they were empty. Then I rose just enough to peer around the area, looking for any sign he wasn’t alone. The forest was still and quiet. I opened my mouth . . . and caught a movement to Diaz’s right, a dark shape slipping through the trees.

Son of a bitch! Double-crossing—

Sunlight glinted off a gun. A sawed-off shotgun. Very clearly not pointed at me.

“Diaz!” I shouted. “Get—!”

The shotgun fired. Diaz went down. I was halfway to my feet. I froze and had to lock my knees to keep from dropping so fast I’d be spotted. Gaze fixed on that shotgun, I lowered myself slowly back to a crouch. I almost fell doing it, my head swimming, as if in delayed reaction to jumping up. I blinked hard and rubbed my face with my free hand. Then I hunkered there, my gun poised, trying to get a clear shot, but the guy was on the move, walking toward Diaz, who lay moaning on the ground. The gunman walked right up to Diaz, aimed the shotgun and—

I fired. Even as I pulled the trigger, I knew my angle wasn’t good enough. The gunman staggered back, the shot catching him in the side. He swung the shotgun in my direction. He fired. I hit the ground hard. A couple of pellets ripped into my shoulder and side. I raised my gun. A blur of movement as Diaz grabbed the guy’s leg.

Damn it, no, Diaz. Don’t—

I fired mid-thought. So did the guy with the shotgun. He swung it on Diaz and fired and my bullet hit him a split-second later, catching him square in the chest and he went down.

I pushed up—too fast—and nearly passed out. Teeth gritted, I stood and staggered toward them, my gun ready, my gaze on that shotgun, still in the guy’s hand. The barrel lifted, barely half an inch, shaking hard. I was about to squeeze my trigger when the shotgun fell and the guy let out a long hiss and went still.

I continued toward them, slowly and carefully, still aiming in case the shooter was faking. When I was close enough, I kicked the shotgun. It fell out of his hands. I checked for a pulse. None. Then I turned to Diaz.

There wasn’t any need to check for Diaz’s pulse. The guy had aimed that shotgun at his head, point-blank range. I swallowed and turned away. Even that movement seemed too much, as if my body had hit its limit. I tried to lower myself to the ground and got halfway down before collapsing.

I blacked out for a second. When I came to, it took a few more seconds to orient myself. Then I saw Diaz and remembered what was happening. I needed to get out of here. Those three guys weren’t working on their own—they were very obviously hired thugs, and their handler would be tracking them by GPS. When they didn’t call in an update—

As if on cue, a phone vibrated from the pocket of the guy with the shotgun. I fished the cell out. The caller ID only said “Juan,” but I knew it wasn’t a buddy calling to see if he wanted to come over and watch the game.

I pocketed the phone. I needed to get out of here. Just get up and . . .

Halfway to my feet, I swayed, the world dipping and darkening. I quickly lowered myself again.

I might be able to get as far as the cars, but neither vehicle was in any condition to get me out of here, and I didn’t know where Diaz left his.

I just needed to get someplace temporarily safe. Someplace I could rest and assess my injuries.

I took the guy’s belt to use as a tourniquet and checked his pockets for anything else I could use. A wallet—probably fake ID, but I grabbed that. A pocket knife. Might as well take it, too.

I put the small stuff into my pockets and crawled to Diaz and the other guys. I emptied their pockets, taking cell phones, wallets, car keys and weapons. That’s a lot to carry, but if I had to hunker down in rough shape, preparing to fend off more attackers, I was building an arsenal.

With everything stashed and the shotgun in hand, I rose at the rate of a ninety-nine-year-old with bad knees. At least the slow movement kept my head from swimming. I got upright and then continued at that pace, cutting a careful path, not leaving footprints on open ground or mowing down undergrowth to betray my route. Focusing on that task seemed to help, and my head remained clear for about fifty paces. Then I started to sway. By that point, I was almost where I wanted to be—a particularly thick stand of trees with lots of bushes. I got in there and huddled down like a rabbit in a thicket.

And then I just cut out, as if I’d expended every last bit of energy. I had to grit my teeth and struggle to stay conscious as I bound my arm. I’d lost blood. I was afraid to even calculate how much, but I suspected it contributed to that light-headedness.

I got the belt on for a tourniquet. The wound didn’t seem bad. Just messy. I was trying to get a better look, twisting to see it on the back of my biceps, when my phone rang. As proof of how out of it I was, it took at least five rings before I realized what I was hearing. Then another two rings as I thought, “That’s right, Evelyn’s coming. I should have called her for help.” And yet another ring before I grabbed it, thinking, “Shit! My phone is ringing. Loudly.”

In my confusion, instead of answering, I solved the latter problem by turning my phone to vibrate mode. Of course, by that time, Evelyn had hung up.

I went to call her back and . . . And I couldn’t. It was as if I truly had drained even the last dregs of strength, and I sat there, staring at the phone, thinking, “What was I doing?” as the world grayed and then came back . . . grayed and then came back.

Call Evelyn.

Yes, I needed to call . . .

How did I call . . .?

Redial. Hit—

The phone buzzed softly in my hand. I stared at it.

Focus, Nadia. Answer the phone.

I hit the button and as I did, everything dimmed, just for a second. But I came back, hearing Evelyn saying, “Dee? Are you there? Dee!”

“Yes.” I slurred the word and struggled to focus. “I need . . .”

That graying again, as if someone was fiddling with the world’s brightness dial.

“Dee? Where are you?”

“Shot . . . I got . . .”

“Dee? Where are you?”

I tried to blink back the mental fog, but the world kept dimming as I struggled to remember the name of the road. Just give her the name of the . . .

Darkness.

10 - Jack

Jack was still in DC. Well, technically, he’d crossed the Virginia state line, but only because finding a roadside motel in Washington had proved to be a pain in the ass. Or that made a good excuse. Of course, when Evelyn landed, she’d given him shit, saying she was sure he could have found a place between Baltimore and Washington. She didn’t push the matter. She knew he had to get closer to Nadia, to feel he could swoop in if something went wrong. The fact that he was holed up in a motel and not at Quinn’s condo, searching for clues, was really as much as she could expect under the circumstances.

It took over an hour after she landed at Dulles, though, before she was at his door. He’d been checking out the window at every car door slam, and he had the door open before she could knock. He expected a sarcastic comment. She just walked in and handed him a pack of cigarettes.

“What the fuck?”

“You’re welcome, Jack. Really, you are. And we won’t even mention what a pain in the ass it was for me to find your damned brand without detouring over half the city.”

“I was just in Ireland. Brought back a carton.”

“Which I’m sure you left in your locker when you picked up your supplies. You’re going to need them to get through the next few hours. In fact, I suggest you have one right now.”

He shook his head and tossed the pack on the bed. “I’m fine. You called Nadia? Got an address?”

Evelyn walked over, picked up the cigarettes, took one out and handed it to him. “Smoke. I’ll pay the cleaning fee.”

He loomed over her. “You did talk to her. Right?”

“Yes.”

He exhaled. She tried to pass him the cigarette again. He shoved it back into the package. “Where is she?”

Silence. He turned to Evelyn. “You talked to her . . .”

“I think so.”

“What? How can you fucking think—?”

“I called her and someone answered, and I’m ninety percent sure it was her. But she was . . . in rough shape. I don’t know what exactly happened, but she was trying to answer me and then she just couldn’t. The line didn’t go dead, and I kept trying to talk to her, but there was no answer.”

Jack grabbed his jacket and strode to the door. Evelyn caught his arm, releasing it before he could throw her off. She sidestepped in front of him, blocking the door.

“What exactly are you going to do, Jack?”

“Find her.”

“How? You have no idea—”

“Felix,” he said and reached for the doorknob, but she slammed her hip against it, wincing slightly, the move not quite as easy as it would have been fifty years ago.

“Fine,” she said. “You’re going to call Felix and hope he can help. So call him. From here.”

Jack shook his head. “On the road.”

“Slow down.”

He met her gaze. “No.”

She returned the look. “Yes, Jack, because as guilty as you feel now, you’re going to feel a helluva lot worse if you get her killed by wasting time running off half-cocked to find her.”

“Wouldn’t do that. I’ll be careful. Just—”

“Do you even have your weapons?”

He had his main gun holstered, as usual, but hadn’t taken his backups. He glanced over his shoulder at the duffel bag from his Washington locker. When he turned back, Evelyn had her own gun pointed at him.

“Slow the hell down, Jack,” she said. “Or I swear, I’ll put a bullet through your leg.”

“That’s not my leg.”

“Close enough. Now call Felix and see what he can do.”

Jack glowered at her, but the truth was he’d only been heading to his rental car so he could feel like he was taking action. So he could drive farther into Virginia and get closer to wherever Nadia was. It wouldn’t make much difference. It would just make him feel better. Wouldn’t do any harm, either, but he knew better than to call Evelyn’s bluff. She’d shot him before.

He called Felix. “Dee’s phone,” he said when Felix answered. “I need to track it.”

“I’d make some smart comment about the lack of pleasantries,” Felix said in his perfectly-articulated English, “But I know you’re not asking because you forgot where you’re supposed to meet her for lunch. I presume there’s a problem?”

“Yes.”

“And you need to know where she is. But the thing about making a phone that doesn’t register on GPS, Jack? It doesn’t register on GPS.”

“There’s a back door.”

“I don’t believe I ever said—”

“There is. You have the key. Open it.”

“It’s not that simple. If it was, anyone with a little knowhow could do it.”

“Just open that door. Whatever it costs. Bill me.”

“I’m not trying to justify a higher price, Jack. I’d hope you’d realize that. Nor am I stalling. I’m at my computer working on it as we speak. But it’s going to take time, and if Dee’s in trouble and you have any other way of locating her . . .”

“I don’t.”

“Then let me do this, and I’ll phone you back.”

Jack grunted his thanks and hung up. Evelyn waved him back toward the bed, her gun still trained on him.

“Put that away,” he said.

“Not until I’m convinced you won’t run out the door.”

He snorted and backed up to sit on the bed. “Wouldn’t run. Just knock you out of the way. You’re old.”

“Fuck you, too, Jack.” She holstered her gun but kept her tailored suit jacket open for easy access. “My role here is to make sure you keep it together, and if that means putting a bullet in you, I will, because I sure as hell don’t want to deal with you if you lose her.”

He shifted on the bed as he tried to shove that thought from his head. Really not the way to calm him down.

“This is what you need to fix,” she said. “Not making sure she’s safer. You’ve done everything you can short of locking her up at that damned lodge of hers, which, by the way, I don’t suggest you try, however tempting it might be.”

He gave her a look.

She continued. “You don’t need to make her safer. You just need to calm down. You love her. Which is a pain in the ass, as you’re about to discover. Life’s a whole lot easier when you don’t give a shit about anyone. But this is your choice. So deal with it. Get off that hamster wheel of this-is-all-my-fault-and-I-have-to-save-her. She’ll save herself.”

“She’s hurt.”

“We have no idea what happened, and as frustrating as it is to sit on our asses and wait for Felix to give us her location, that’s what we have to do.”

Before Jack could answer, a phone rang. He grabbed his only to see that the screen was dark. It was Cillian’s, over on the nightstand. He started to scramble for it. Then he stopped, inhaled and closed his eyes for a split second before answering.

“Yeah,” he said.

“We have her,” a voice said in a thick Spanish accent.

Jack ramped up his own accent as he said, “Wha?”

The man spoke slower, as if communication was an issue. “We have his girl. Dee. She took the bait. We grabbed her.”

Jack’s heart pounded, but he only grunted. “Now what?”

“Where is he?”

Jack resisted the urge to give another short answer. Cillian liked to talk. So he said, “He’s doing the job I set him on, like we agreed. I’ve been having a fuck of a time with it. He’s not a fucking amateur. He wants to get done and get home, and I keep having to find new fucking things for him to do to keep him here.”

“We are paying you very well for any inconvenience, so do not whine to me, old man. Your part is almost over. Call him in. Have your men disarm and disable him. I will call in two hours to speak to him.”

“Two hours? I’ll be lucky if I can even get hold of him in—”

“That is your problem, and I would not advise you to make it ours. Two hours.”

“Make sure you have the girl.”

“What?” the man said, his voice sharp.

“He’s going to want to speak to his girl before he believes you have her.”

“Do not tell us how to do our job.”

“I’m just warning you. I know Jack and—”

“And you will control him and convince him to do as we ask. He will speak to his girl when we are ready. We have much experience in these things and we do not appreciate some drunk mick thug—”

“Hey! I’m—”

“A thug. A blunt instrument. Do not attempt to think. You will only strain yourself. Two hours.”

The line went dead. Jack stood there, holding the phone, eyes closed.

“So they have—” Evelyn began.

He raised his finger, asking for a moment. To his surprise, she actually stopped talking.

“All right,” he said when he opened his eyes. “They seem to have her. But she’s okay. Alive. They won’t hurt her. Not unless I refuse their job. I have two hours.”

“They won’t have left her cell phone on, Jack,” Evelyn said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “They probably wouldn’t even take it with her.”

“Yeah, but it’ll tell us where she was last. That’s my only clue. I’ll take it. I just need to set an alarm.” He took out his phone and did so. “Two hours. Gotta make sure there’s no background noise.” He pocketed it. “Now can we drive? Get into Virginia?”

Evelyn nodded, and Jack retrieved his backup weapons and kit.

Twenty minutes after they left the motel, Felix called with a GPS location. The current one. Her phone was still on. Felix had tried calling but gotten no answer. That was troubling—both the lack of an answer and the fact that the phone was still active. In the meantime, Felix wanted to know what was going on. Jack was driving . . . and feeling even less talkative than usual.

“Put Evelyn on,” Felix said. “I’m trying to help, Jack, not merely satisfy my curiosity. I can tell by the number you used that you’re on a backup phone from one of your lockers. It’s a safe connection, yes?”

It was. Jack had disabled the phone he’d used in Ireland. He hated doing that to his only possible connection to Nadia, but it was the safe move. He passed his phone to Evelyn. She left out the details of where Jack had been and who he’d been working for—most of which Jack hadn’t shared himself. Then she put Felix on speaker.

“So the client who brought you overseas, Jack,” Felix said. “You knew him?”

“From years back. Owed him a favor. Open chit.”

“And he conveniently chose to close it at a time when you’re trying to cash all those in.”

“Yeah. Guaranteed I’d come.”

“Where’s he now?”

“Tied to a bed.”

Felix chuckled. “Did you leave him a bowl of dog food and water? I’ve heard that’s a specialty of yours.”

“Something like that. He’s fine. Not going anywhere. Gotta figure out how to handle it. What to do with him.”

Evelyn made a noise that said the answer was clear. Cillian had to die.

“If you need someone to handle it for you . . .” Felix said.

“If it needs doing, I’ll do it. Only right. Anyway, he’s alive. Needed that. Just in case.”

“Agreed, but you’ve made sure he can’t tell this cartel you’re coming for Dee and that’s the important thing right now—that he is incapacitated. As for the cartel . . . Evelyn is right, this scheme is a lot of effort to hire a pro. That means they need the best. No substitutes possible. I’m going to guess it’s political. That is, sadly, becoming more common for the cartels. If they can’t bribe a politician, they take him out of office—permanently. To need you on the job suggests it isn’t some village mayor they want killed. We’re talking serious political assassination.”

“Doesn’t matter. Not doing it.”

“No, but the point, Jack, is that it will help if I can find out what they want you to do. That will tell us who’s pulling the strings, and then Evelyn and I can scour our contact lists for someone who can get inside information. Go through the back door.”

“Right,” Jack said. “Okay. Good. Appreciate it.”

“I know you do, and while I won’t turn down a return favor, this is mostly for Dee and Quinn. Yes, I know you aren’t a fan of Quinn’s, but he’s saved my skin a few times. I owe him. Let me see what the news is on the grapevine for cartels and political assassination jobs.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Evelyn? Let’s put our heads together on this while Jack drives.”

As soon as they neared the GPS spot, Jack knew what had happened. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to read the signs. Skid marks suggested a hard braking on the road. Then tire treads led into a partly overgrown laneway, the undergrowth mowed down. When Jack slowed driving past, he could peer down that lane and see the rear bumper of a car.

“They ran her off the road,” Evelyn said.

Jack kept driving. “No. She led them off. That’s not her car. Too big. Not a rental either. She made them. Braked. Drove down there. They got stuck.”

“And you’re doubting that she can handle herself?”

“Never said that. Everyone can use help.”

He found another pull-in farther down and drove the rental in as far as he could and then pulled off to the side, rolling over the rough ground until he was sure the car couldn’t be spotted from the road.

“We need to be ready for a trap, Jack,” Evelyn said as he opened the door.

“Know that. But her phone’s on. Gotta be a reason.”

The reason he hoped was that Nadia had known she was about to be taken and ditched the phone so Evelyn would contact Felix and unlock the GPS. But there was also a good chance that whoever took her had left that phone on intentionally, to see who might come looking.

Jack checked his watch. Just under ninety minutes until the cartel goons would call “Cillian” again.

He got out and looked around. Everything seemed quiet, but that didn’t mean shit. He started in the direction of the GPS signal, his own phone out, using a tracker Felix had installed remotely. Evelyn followed. They were about five hundred feet out from the signal now.

They’d barely gone another dozen paces before voices floated over, men speaking Spanish. Evelyn tried to catch his eye, but he ignored her. The men weren’t whispering so it wasn’t a trap. Maybe they’d come back for Nadia’s missing cell phone. Or a missing comrade she’d killed. Trap or not, Jack would still approach with care.

He covered half the distance to the voices. He’d picked up some Spanish over the years—couldn’t really avoid it, living in the States—but fuck, it wasn’t like he’d studied it or anything. He wasn’t like Nadia, who learned new things just because she found them interesting. While he was more likely to pick up a novel than turn on the TV, he’d never been good at school. He’d dropped out to become a mechanic. That’s what he was good at—figuring out stuff like engines. Or how to kill people without them knowing they were about to be killed.

From what he could pick up, the men were hunting for something or someone, which he’d already guessed. He looked at Evelyn. She knew more Spanish, but she was frowning, head tilted, and he suspected it wasn’t so much a language barrier as the fact she couldn’t hear the voices as well as he could. She was too vain to wear a hearing aid until her doctor recommended one. Which meant she got along fine in day-to-day conversation. But ask her to decipher one a few hundred feet away and she struggled.

Jack hunkered down. Evelyn motioned to say she wanted to get closer. He raised his hand, telling her to hold on. He picked apart the voices and the sounds of movement. Two men talking. What sounded like a third searching without adding to the dialogue.

He lifted three fingers and then pointed in each direction. Moving to the side, he scanned the best view of the playing field. Then he indicated a route they’d take. Evelyn didn’t argue, which was as sure a sign as any that she needed to rely on him to hear from this distance.

Jack aimed for the silent guy first. When he drew close enough, he motioned for Evelyn to continue toward the other two, in hopes she’d overhear their conversation better, though he knew not to say so. Pointing out Evelyn’s weaknesses was like intentionally stepping on a tiger’s tail.

He slipped through the woods until he could see the third man. It was a young guy, maybe mid-twenties. Not Hispanic, which may have explained why he wasn’t joining the conversation—most likely local hired help, not considered a real part of the team. He was clearly hunting for something, doubled over and pulling back shrubs and undergrowth. Paying absolutely no attention to his surrounding. That preoccupation meant Jack could get within ten feet. He lined up his shot and put a bullet through the back of the guy’s head, dropping him to the ground with a thump no louder than the suppressed shot. His two comrades continued talking, oblivious.

Jack pulled brush over the dead man’s head to hide his light hair. As for the guy himself, the only thought Jack spared him was to wonder, for a moment, whether he ought to spare him a thought. Whether Nadia would. You couldn’t be a philosopher in this job. Or much of a humanist, for that matter. Only now that he was with Nadia did he pause to contemplate what she’d think. Because that was still the only criterion that mattered. Not whether it was right or wrong, but whether it might bother her. This wouldn’t. Yeah, the guy was young, but he wasn’t a child. He knew what he was getting into, and if he didn’t believe it could cost him his life, that was just stupidity. No cure for that.

Jack remembered the first time he’d really understood the risks himself. He’d been sixteen when the group recruited him, and all he’d cared about was showing his brothers he wasn’t a little kid. Second mission, he took out his mark with ease and then realized one of the other recruits had been made. Jack killed the guy who made him, but not before the guy popped off a shot. Wasn’t fatal, and Jack dragged his comrade into an empty building. That’s when his handler came along, decided the guy needed serious medical care and popped him two in the head.

The kid had been six months older than Jack. Signed up because his infant daughter was sick and he needed money for medicine.

“Too fucking bad,” his handler said when Jack protested. “He wanted safe? Shoulda stayed on the farm.”

That was when Jack realized that not only could he die, but if he fucked up, his termination papers would be the permanent variety. And all he’d taken from that lesson? That he had to make himself less disposable. Had to be so fucking good that if he’d been shot, they’d have gotten him to a fucking hospital.

As for the rest? Well, if he wanted safe, he could go back to being a mechanic’s apprentice, making a couple bucks an hour and praying the boss’s rusted hoist didn’t drop a car on him. You make your choices. You live with them. Or die with them.

Jack was on the move again, sliding through the forest as he made his way to Evelyn. When he reached her, she typed out a note for him on her phone to avoid speaking.

They’re looking for something. That’s all I know. Chatter is just macho bullshit about sisters they want to screw. Seems the gals are holding out for wedding rings.

Jack grunted. Picking off one of these two would be tougher, given how much they were talking and how close together they walked. Jack surveyed the situation. Then he took Evelyn’s phone and tapped out his plan. She adjusted it, of course, not because it needed adjusting but because she had to put her fingerprints on it. Jack let her. He didn’t play the pissing game with Evelyn—or with anyone else. No fucking time or energy for that bullshit. As long as the core plan hadn’t changed, she could have her tweaks.

Jack slipped off. He’d take the long route around. The tougher route. The one better suited to the younger guy, which was a bit of a laugh, all things considered but, hell, kinda nice to be “the younger guy” once in a while.

He had to dart across open patches without being seen or heard. He managed it easily enough, and gave Nadia credit for that. In the early days, he’d meet her out in the forest and sneak up on her. He’d pretended, of course, that the subterfuge was accidental—that’s just how he moved. And it was, in a way, but part of it had been a game, too, surprising Nadia in her own element, the forest. Also, yeah, some ego there too. Showing off, though he’d never admit it.

It’d taught him how to move better in the woods, which stood him in good stead now. He was about to cross the last patch of open ground, near what looked like a broken-down hunting blind, when one of the men turned and Jack ducked fast. His hand shot out to steady himself against a tree and it touched something slick. He looked to see blood spray and flecks of a substance that would make most people look closer, wondering what it could be. But no one who made a living shooting people in the head would ever ask that. It was brain matter.

Jack saw the sheer fucking quantity of the shit—on the tree, on the undergrowth. That much didn’t come from a normal bullet to the head. This was from a shotgun.

Shotguns were for thugs who enjoyed their work, liked to make a fucking mess. Jack might not be one to claim he had standards, but using a shotgun was just fucking disrespectful. It didn’t only make a mess—it killed slower and . . .

And Nadia did not use a shotgun.

He grabbed the tree again to keep himself steady because Nadia did not use a shotgun. Which meant . . .

It meant nothing. Maybe she took it from the thugs chasing her.

That’s when he saw the body. An outstretched hand on the ground. A man’s hand with a wedding band. His gaze traveled from that wedding band to the perfectly manicured fingernails to the Bulova watch to the suit jacket cuffs.

Jack eased to the side to get a better look. It didn’t help much—the guy had been shot in the face and, fuck yeah, that was just not the way to do it. Really wasn’t. From what Jack could see, the guy seemed Hispanic, but the thug kid Jack shot had been in jeans and a leather jacket. From the glimpses he’d caught of the other two, they were similarly dressed. What was with the suit?

If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say the guy had been shot by the thugs. Nadia wouldn’t do this.

But who the hell would the thugs have shot if not Nadia? The suit screamed “Federal Agent.” Someone from the Marshals office tailing Quinn? Fuck, they really didn’t need that.

Jack continued to close in on his target, pausing only to text Evelyn a warning.

Body. Looks fed. Marshals?

He’d never known Feds to travel solo, and he considered changing his plan in light of that, but the woods were silent. If that was indeed a dead agent, his partner would have been on the phone the moment the shot pellets hit and by now the woods would be crawling with Feds. More likely Jack just had to worry about stumbling over a second agent’s body.

He moved in behind his target and waited for Evelyn’s signal. It came as a shot as the second of the thugs went down and Jack’s target wheeled toward the noise, his gun rising.

“Stop,” Jack said.

The thug, of course, did not stop. Not until Jack put a bullet through his knee. He went down screaming, the pain apparently enough to make him temporarily forget he was armed. Jack fixed that by knocking the guy’s gun from his hand. Then he kicked the injured knee, setting the guy both screaming and falling. Another kick convinced him to stay down.

Evelyn showed up a moment later. The guy lifted his head, saw her and seemed to decide that the sight of a little old lady meant he really shouldn’t be giving up so easily. He started to rise. Evelyn shot him in the side.

“By the way,” she said as he writhed in pain. “I didn’t miss your heart. That comes next. Unless you tell us what we need to know.”

The thug swore in Spanish. Evelyn waited him out and then replied in the same language. Jack focused on the guy’s body, watching for any sign he was going to bolt and ignoring the urge to try to figure out what they were saying, even when he heard the words for “woman” and “brown hair,” meaning they were talking about Nadia.

He kept his ears attuned to the sounds from the surrounding forest. When he heard a soft groan, it came from his left, past the old hunting blind. The undergrowth rustled. Evelyn didn’t hear it and kept questioning their captive, her voice sharp. Jack motioned that he’d heard someone and backed off in the direction of the noises.

As he approached, the noises stopped. He could make out a figure nestled in a thick patch of undergrowth and bushes. The figure half rose, carefully and quietly, and said, “Stop right there.”

When he heard the voice, he did the exact opposite, jogging forward, his gun lowered.

He could see more of her then—the auburn curls, the heart-shaped face, the stubborn chin, and even if he couldn’t see the rest, his memory imprinted it. Hazel eyes. Freckles over her nose. Thin scar on her neck. And dimples, though she definitely wasn’t smiling. He was. He was grinning like an idiot and—

“I said stop,” Nadia said. “One more step, and I’ll—”

“It’s me,” he said. Then added, because it seemed prudent, “Jack.”

He moved around the bushes to see her crouched in the undergrowth, and he wanted to rush forward, drop his gun, scoop her up and hug her, as tight as he could. Like some movie reunion scene. Crush her against him and say, Thank God. I was so worried. Instead, his grin fell away and he stood there, awkwardly holding his gun at his side, as he said gruffly, “You okay?”

“I think so.” She started to straighten, swaying, and he could see blood on her arm, which was bound with a makeshift tourniquet. He said, “Slow down,” but she was already up . . . and that sway turned into a topple. He rushed forward, his gun shoved in his pocket as he caught her.

“Or maybe not . . .” she said with a chuckle, and he heard that laugh, as wry as it was, and he gave her that fierce hug he’d imagined, her face against his chest until he heard a stifled hiss of pain and quickly moved back, saying, “Fuck. Sorry. Fuck,” but she drew him into a hug as tight as his own and said, “Thanks for coming,” and he had to chuckle at the way she said it, as if he’d done her a favor, possibly inconveniencing himself in the process. Hey, thanks for coming by. Sorry about all the trouble.

“Gonna get you—” he began, and then heard Evelyn’s “Goddamn it!” followed by a shot. Nadia grabbed the nearest tree for support and pushed him off, saying, “Go.” He cast a quick glance around, making sure the area was clear. Then he ran back to find Evelyn standing over their hostage, blood pumping from his chest.

“Fuck,” Jack said.

“He’s still alive,” Evelyn said.

Barely. Jack glanced at Evelyn. She didn’t explain what had happened, just kept her gaze on the downed man, and that was all he needed to see. That she wouldn’t meet his eyes. He also noted dirt on her left knee and mentally filled in the rest of the story.

She’d lost control of her captive. Maybe she’d heard Nadia’s voice. Maybe she’d just turned to see where Jack had gone. In years past, that wouldn’t have made a difference. But these days, a quick shove was all it took to put her down. She’d had to shoot fast and blind. Which meant they now had a dying hostage.

“Shit,” a voice said behind him. He turned to see Nadia making her way toward them, moving from tree to tree. He strode over, but she waved him off. “I’ve got it. Just a little woozy. Good thing you guys got here, or I might have staggered right into their path.”

Jack doubted that, but he only said, “Fill me in?” as he walked to the dying man.

11 - Nadia

I watched Jack take control of the hostage as I struggled to keep my brain on track. It was still fuzzy, like I’d woken from a deep sleep. I kept staring at Jack, thinking I was imagining this, I had to be, that I’d fallen unconscious and was dreaming he’d arrived.

He glanced over. I got the message. Talk. He had a hostage living on borrowed time.

“Not sure how much you know already,” I said. “Quinn was kidnapped. Diaz came to tell me.”

“Diaz?”

“The Contrapasso guy. Who is . . .” It took a moment for me to remember. Then I turned, seeing an arm on the ground through the trees. “Over there.”

“Fuck,” Jack said. “Turned on you? Or helping you?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I thought the former, but I think it was the latter. He knew something was amiss with Quinn’s disappearance, so he let me take off as bait. That trap caught three guys, who are now dead.”

Jack grunted, as if this didn’t need to be clarified—of course they’d be dead if they came after me.

“Hispanic?” he said.

I nodded. “But I’m not sure if that’s significant.”

“Yeah. It is.” Jack kicked the man on the ground. “Isn’t it?”

The guy only groaned.

Jack hunkered down. “You want us to help you?”

The guy nodded. I started toward him. Jack saw that and said, “Evelyn?”

It took a moment before she blinked and then patted the guy down and removed his weapons, which was indeed what I’d been going to do. The fact that Jack had to prod her meant she wasn’t quite herself either. Evelyn rarely ventured into the field these days and she says that’s because she’s retired, which is true, but I’m sure she also doesn’t appreciate any reminder of her age. She must have been holding the hostage when she’d been forced to shoot him, which had thrown her off her game.

I watched that pat-down carefully, in case she was too distracted to do it right. She wasn’t, of course. She removed a knife, gun, wallet, cell phone and then did a second pat before backing away.

“You want help,” Jack said. “We want answers. Which cartel?”

The man said nothing.

“Let’s try that with more words,” Evelyn said. “Which cartel do you work for?” When he still said nothing, she switched to Spanish. Jack gave him about two seconds to reply before a kick had the guy whimpering in pain.

“I—I do not know,” the man said, his voice halting and heavily accented. “I was hired. Me and my . . .” He weakly turned his head. “My brother. He is dead?”

I would have pretended that his brother may have survived his injuries, but Jack said, “Yeah. So you were hired. By who?”

“I do not know. They went through my brother. He took the orders. Go there. Do this. Come here. Do that.” The man let out a slow hiss. “I need help. Now. Or I will—”

“Help’s coming,” Jack said. “They told you to come here. And do what?”

“Find the woman. Others had followed her. They did not report back, and so we were to come and see what had happened. See if she was still here.” He glanced my way and his eyes narrowed as he said, “She was,” as if I’d caused his brother’s death by not jumping up sooner to announce my presence.

“They’re holding someone else hostage,” I said. “A man. He’s around my age, about six-two, big guy.” I didn’t add more, not knowing what disguise Quinn might have been wearing. “Do you know anything about that?”

Jack’s hands flexed on his gun. He eased back, just a half inch, but I got the message. He didn’t really care where they were holding Quinn. Well, yes, he’d have gotten to that part eventually, but right now, knowing what these guys had in store for me was more important to him. I understood that. I appreciated that. But I wasn’t in danger right now. Quinn was.

“Answer,” Jack said, in a quasi-reluctant growl when the guy glanced up, as if checking for the go-ahead to respond, because, you know, it was just the chick asking, so it probably wasn’t important.

“He is in a building,” the man said.

“Really?” Evelyn said. “I thought they’d hold him hostage in the middle of the damned highway. Do better.”

Again, he glanced at Jack, ignoring the fact that the old lady asking was the one who’d shot him in the chest.

“He is alive,” the man said. “I had to take him food. He did not eat. He talked to me. En Español. My brother heard and he was angry, said the man was trying to get information about our employer, but he was not. He only talked, asking about me.”

Getting to know the low man on the totem pole. Forming a relationship. Which meant Quinn was fine, just sitting tight and trying to figure a way out. Exactly as I’d expect.

The man grimaced. “I really need—”

“It’s coming,” Jack said. “This building. Where is it?”

The guy didn’t know—they’d been taken to and from it in the back of a van. They really were only hired muscle. Jack did manage to get details about the building and the immediate vicinity. That was as far as he got before the guy started going into shock and when he did speak, it was incoherent babble about his mother and his brother and his girlfriend.

“Dee?” Jack said. “Can you head out? See if any help’s arrived?”

Evelyn frowned, not comprehending. I nodded and turned away. I’d gone about a half-dozen steps when a suppressed shot fired behind me. One through the side of the head. An instant kill.

Jack didn’t send me away so the guy would think I was bringing help. I’m sure the guy had thought I was, which was good—one last moment of hope before everything went dark.

Having me turn away was partly Jack saying, “I don’t want you to watch me do this.” But it was also, by projection, “I’d rather not do this.” He couldn’t turn away, so he asked me to. Jack didn’t promise the guy would be fine. He didn’t promise we’d save him. He said he’d help. Which he had—in the only way he could, by administering a merciful and quick death.

When the shot came, I turned back quickly, because hesitating would say that I needed a moment to collect myself and slap on an “it’s okay” face. I didn’t. I said, “We should get going. They’ll send more as soon as these guys don’t call in.”

Jack nodded. Then he looked around, saying, “The other guys . . .”

“I’ve cleaned them out.”

Another nod. “Good.” He walked over and put his arm around my waist, supporting me. I said, “I’m fine,” but he said, “Humor me,” so I did, leaning on him.

As I turned, I caught a blur in the forest. Jack did too, at the same moment, his hand going to my back, shoving me down. I stumbled, caught off guard, but his mouth opened in an oath, and there was a near-comical moment of Jack trying to steady me and then remembering why he’d pushed me down and mouthing another “Fuck!” By that time, I was already halfway to the ground of my own accord—and yanking the leg of his jeans to get him down beside me.

That’s when I remembered Evelyn, who could not drop nearly so easily. I saw she’d swung against a tree, her gun out. I looked at Jack. He nodded, saying she was fine. Through the trees we could make out two men heading toward us. Two men in suits.

I whispered “Contrapasso,” to Jack, who nodded. Like the cartel thugs, when Diaz didn’t check in, his boss would have sent reinforcements to his last known location.

The two men continued forward, guns leveled in our general direction, but well over our heads. They’d seen or heard something but been too far out to actually spot us.

“Stop,” Jack said.

The man in the lead slowed, his head tilting as if not sure he’d actually heard a spoken word, which is one problem with Jack being so terse.

“Stop right there,” I said.

“Dee?”

“Identify yourself, please.”

Jack’s lips twitched at the please.

“There are three guns trained on two of you,” I said when the man didn’t respond. “There are also seven bodies on the ground around you, which means we’re a little tired of being chased and ambushed. Two more won’t matter, but if you are who I think you are, I’m not eager to add yours to the count.”

“Haskell,” the first man said. “Contrapasso. We’re here for Agent Diaz. We know he tailed you to this location, and he’d damned well better not be one of those seven bodies.”

“He is,” I said. “I’m sorry. I came in here to avoid being run off the road. Two guys pursued. Diaz followed them. We took out the pair, but apparently there was a third party we hadn’t seen. He got Diaz. I finished him. Then three more came looking for me. And I’m going to guess they won’t be the last, so if you two will drop your weapons and raise your hands . . .”

Haskell snorted. “Not a chance. You’ve accounted for the seven bodies, but not the two other guns you say are trained on us.”

“That’d be me,” Jack said.

“And you are . . .?”

“Take a fucking guess.”

Haskell’s partner eased to the side, trying to get cover as he moved slowly.

“Jack,” Haskell said. “Diaz’s report said you were abroad.”

“I’m back.”

“Conveniently.”

“Meaning?” Jack said.

“Quinn disappears with clues leading us to Dee, who jumps at the chance to come find him. And then you suddenly reappear.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “We kidnapped Quinn. Then came to rescue him. Got bored. Needed action. Can’t find it? Make my own.”

“If you’re suggesting you two lack motivation for kidnapping Quinn—”

Jack cut him off with a snort.

“Diaz told me Contrapasso suspected me,” I said. “But unless there’s some motive I can’t see, Jack’s right—it makes absolutely no sense for us to take Quinn and even less to come hunting for him if we did.”

“We don’t know what your game is, but there’s obviously a game.”

“Obviously,” Jack said.

Haskell’s face mottled. “Just because we can’t see your motivation—”

“Not the point. You don’t know exactly why? Fine. But no fucking clue?” Jack shook his head.

“We have ideas.”

“Name one.”

Haskell started to bluster. No one paid him any attention, because we were watching his partner creep around the side. Not watching him directly, of course, but aware of him. Waiting while Haskell thought he had us distracted.

I considered the options, relying on what I knew of Contrapasso. Then I walked to Evelyn, leaving Jack on his own. Sure enough, the partner headed to Jack. A thug would grab the old lady mentor or the girlfriend and use us to threaten Jack. Whatever Contrapasso’s faults, they weren’t going to even pretend they’d hurt Evelyn or me. And they were bright enough to go straight for the biggest threat.

Jack pretended not to notice and kept goading Haskell. I feigned boredom with the proceedings—a pissing match between alpha males—and started whispering to Evelyn, asking her when they’d arrived, how they’d found me. Pointless crap that did have a point, in that it gave Haskell’s partner the confidence he needed to get right up behind Jack.

Jack’s gaze flicked my way. I hesitated. I thought I knew what he meant. But I wasn’t entirely sure he’d put that much faith in me until—

The partner took two final steps, bringing him right up behind Jack.

I spun, gun up, snarling, “Stop!” It startled the guy enough that he did exactly that, as Jack wheeled and slammed his fist into the guy’s gun arm, knocking the weapon to the ground. I was there in a few running paces, kicking the gun away. The guy danced back as he went for a secondary weapon.

I was already turning on Haskell, who’d been caught off guard. Evelyn turned, too, and stumbled, dropping again to one knee. I started after her, but Haskell was faster. He lunged after the easy hostage . . . and found himself with a gun pointed at his groin as Evelyn recovered from the pratfall.

“Drop it,” she said.

He hesitated. She fired a shot between his legs. He lowered his weapon.

“Drop the gun and put your hands behind your back.”

He did. In the meantime, Jack had the partner down and was relieving him of his weapons and cell phone as I stood guard.

Once they’d patted down the two and eased back, I said, “We have no reason to take Quinn, and Quinn has no reason to fake being taken. You seem to think we lured Contrapasso in, but that’s just paranoid bullshit. Diaz knew it. He still did as he was told, testing me. I passed. While he’s not alive to confirm that, unfortunately, the battleground should speak for itself. Unless you guys are hooking up with cartels, we’re both caught in a trap. I have no idea what the purpose of that trap is . . .”

I trailed off as I saw Jack’s expression. I turned to him. “You do.”

“Yeah. Hiring me.”

“Kidnapping Quinn is about hiring you?”

“Daisy chain,” he said. “Take Quinn. Lure you. Take you. Get me.”

“Grab Quinn to lure me away from home and then take me hostage to convince you to do a job. Cartel work, I’m guessing. Because you don’t take those jobs.”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a little complicated?” Haskell said.

“Not if you want Jack badly enough,” Evelyn said. “Obviously it’s a big job. Important enough to go through the hassle.”

“Political?” I said.

“That’s our guess,” she said.

I turned to Haskell. “The fact it seems so damned complicated should suggest it’s true. We’d make up something a lot simpler. And if you know anything about Jack’s work history, you know that’s not his line of work—cartel or political assassinations. Meaning he’d need a very big carrot to do it. But you two are just Contrapasso lackeys, so since we have some idea what’s going on here, we’re going to leapfrog over your heads.”

Evelyn took out Haskell’s cell phone. I reached for it, but she pretended not to notice and placed the call herself. She did have more contact with them, and where I’d have dialed a number in Haskell’s recent call list, she dialed one from memory.

“Edgar?” she said. “Evelyn. I’m with Dee and Jack. I’m sure you know what’s going on, so I’ll skip to the update. Diaz is dead at the hands of the people who took Quinn. We have Haskell and his partner. If you want them back, you’ll give us everything you know about Quinn’s kidnapping, and then back the fuck off before you lose more agents. Understood?”

She listened for a few moments and then said, “You do that. We’ll call in two hours for an exchange: your agents for your intel.”

Jack had the hostages sit back-to-back while Evelyn and I watched him. Then he jogged off, presumably to get bindings. And, yes, he did return with those, but he secured the men as fast as possible and then opened the first aid kit he’d brought back.

He didn’t ask me to remove my jacket and shirt. Didn’t tell me to either. That was implicit. I did, and he cleaned my wound and dug out the shotgun pellets. Evelyn grumbled that I was obviously in no danger of bleeding out and we really needed to move before more thugs arrived. It was a half-hearted complaint, stopped by a single look from Jack.

I added my protest, more fervently. My injuries, far from life-threatening, should not take precedence over a speedy escape. But, well, having someone care enough to make sure I was okay before we went another step? It meant something. I’d spent a lot of years being that person for others—strangers even, at the lodge—while feeling as if I didn’t deserve the same in return. So I appreciated it . . . though I still did hurry the process along, well aware that I didn’t want us facing more danger because I enjoyed being fussed over.

The bullet wound was tissue damage, nothing serious, as gunshots went. Jack had Evelyn take a look to confirm his diagnosis. Then he bound it and tried to check my head, but I insisted that was fine and we got our hostages up and moving. That’s when his phone vibrated. He cursed and waved for us to watch the hostages while he took a phone from his pocket. Someone else’s phone.

“No,” he said when he answered. “I don’t fucking have him, all right? I told you I couldn’t do it in two hours. I left a message through his answering service, and I’m expecting a call back any minute now. If you give me a number—”

Pause.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Fucking paranoid bastards. Fine. Have it your way. Call me back in an hour.”

Pause.

“Two hours then. Fine by me.”

Pause.

“Yeah, yeah. If I don’t have him, you’ll kill me and my dog. Too bad I don’t have a dog. I’ll have him by then, okay? He might be busy, but he’s not going to ignore my message.”

I didn’t look to Evelyn for an explanation. Jack was using full sentences and had dialed his faint Irish accent up to eleven, which meant he was impersonating someone. Likely connected to the job he’d been doing overseas. He’d explain later.

We relocated Haskell and his partner about a kilometer deeper into the forest. They’d be safe there—any thugs wouldn’t hunt that far past the bodies. When they glowered over their gags, I reminded them that we’d tried to play fair and they blew it. They would suffer some discomfort for a few hours. They’d survive. Probably.

We got my overnight bag from my rental and wiped down the steering wheel and doors, though it’s not as if that’s a serious issue with a rental car. If it was, I’d have worn gloves. Then we left the car where it was. Wouldn’t be the first time, which is why we use credit cards that aren’t linked to our aliases.

Next we headed to Jack’s rental. He said he had a motel room closer to Washington but declared that too far and unsafe.

“Got our stuff,” he said. “No reason to go back.”

Evelyn argued—it wasn’t that much further and as long as the room was paid for . . . Jack said nothing, which was his usual way of winning a fight with Evelyn. He just didn’t acknowledge the dispute.

I cleaned up in the car as he drove to the first gas station and bought me two bottles of root beer and a bag of Skittles.

“I’m hungry too, Jack,” Evelyn said.

“You didn’t pass out from blood loss.”

“I think it was more the blow to the head,” I said as he climbed into the car.

“Combination. Eat. Drink.”

I smiled. “Be merry?”

“Sure.” A half-smile my way. Then he glanced at Evelyn. “Can ask her to share. Be nice, though.”

She flashed him the finger.

Jack drove us to a hotel off the highway and checked in while we waited in the lobby. Then he walked over and handed Evelyn the key.

“Getting food,” he said. “Dee’s hungry.”

“I don’t believe that’s possible,” Evelyn said. “Given the sheer quantity of sugar she just consumed.”

“She is.”

“Which she communicated to you telepathically?”

He turned to me. “When’d you last eat? Proper meal?”

“You know, Jack,” Evelyn said. “Women don’t really like it when you make presumptions about what they do and don’t want.”

I shook my head. “He knows that if I’m not hungry, I’ll say so. We’ll go eat. I’d offer to bring you back something, but McDonald’s isn’t really your style.”

She looked around the chain hotel, nose wrinkling. “Nor is any room service this place provides. Why don’t we drive—?”

“You can,” Jack said, and he steered me away before she could continue. We’d gone about halfway across the lobby when he said, “How hungry are you?”

“I could do with that”—I nodded at the vending machines—“and a quiet corner to talk.”

He pulled a key card from his pocket. “Got a second room. Talk there? Or . . . whatever.”

Jack didn’t even give a suggestive brow raise at the “whatever.” He only accompanied it with a laconic shrug, as if he meant I could nap or take a shower. I knew better, though.

“I’ll take whatever,” I said.

His “Good” hardly rang with enthusiasm, but I grinned, as if he’d accompanied it with the smuttiest suggestion imaginable. We walked to the vending machines. He took his time making selections and feeding in the money. One root beer. One Coke. Two packets of Skittles, one of Starburst chews and a bag of licorice. He handed me all of it.

“What are you eating?” I said.

“Whatever you don’t finish.”

I shook my head and fed in a five, getting peanuts and a Snickers bar for him. I handed them over. “Energy,” I said. “You’ll need it.”

Without the barest hint of a reaction, he put the snacks in his pocket, and we headed for the elevator. Silence as we waited for it to arrive. More silence as we got on. He hit the floor and then the Close Door button and only then did he glance my way, just for a split second.

“Hold the elevator!” someone called.

Jack reached out and jabbed the Close Door button again. A middle-aged businessman rushed over as I feigned checking my phone and prayed for the doors to shut faster. He managed to grab the door, and Jack’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. He glanced at me and then back, and shifted his weight, as clear a sign of annoyance as if he’d cursed.

I stood on the right side of the elevator car. Jack was at the left, near the front. When the guy walked on, he was looking at me, and he hit his floor without noticing Jack, too busy checking me out. And I was busy checking out my arm, making sure there wasn’t blood showing, presuming that was what caught his attention.

“Here on business?” he asked.

I was wearing jeans—muddied at the knees—a denim jacket, a T-shirt and my sneakers were even more mud-caked than my jeans.

“Uhhh . . . ” I said.

“We are,” Jack said, and the guy jumped about a foot.

Jack didn’t do anything except say those two words and turn a completely expressionless stare on the guy. But there’s an edge Jack can flip, like a switch, and I have no idea even what it entails—stance, expression, eye contact or just a combination of all of the above. But the guy took one look at Jack and decided standing at the back of the elevator seemed a whole lot more comfortable. The far back, in the corner, putting the maximum distance between me and him.

I quirked a half-smile at Jack. He gave just the faintest roll of his eyes. The elevator stopped. He waited for me to get out first and then walked beside me down the hall. We reached the room. He put in the card, still taking his time.

He opened the door. Held it for me. Followed me in and fastened the locks. Keycard placed on the entry table. Then he glanced at me. It was a careful glance, a cautious check, because, you know, despite my signals, I might really have just wanted to come up here and talk and eat candy.

I shrugged off my jacket and laid it aside. My shoes followed. He just stood there watching, the kernel of doubt and, yes, disappointment shadowing his eyes, blinked back quickly because he was going to be a gentleman about this. I’d had a hellish day—chased, shot, hit my head . . .

Even when I walked over, coming within an inch of him and looking up, he held himself very still. I put my arms around his neck and said, “Missed you,” and then I smiled and that was what he’d been waiting for—that smile.

His arms went around me, pulling me to him so fast I gasped, that gasp cut short as his mouth met mine in a kiss that knocked every other thought from my brain, knocked every worry from my brain. There was always that moment, when he came home, when he didn’t immediately drag me off to bed, when he acted like it was the last thing on his mind, that moment when I wondered if the separation had given him time to reconsider, time to think this wasn’t what he really wanted. I knew better. I knew him, and I knew this was just him, that perfect control waiting, teasing even, drawing out that reunion. Still, I worry every damn time that this time might be different. And then he kisses me.

He kissed me and it really was no exaggeration to say I forgot everything else, from the events of the day to the pain my arm. Hell, I wasn’t even sure what was going on at that moment, just that kiss, that deep and hungry kiss and the next thing I knew, I was falling back onto the bed, without even realizing we’d moved from the front door. I was on the bed, and his shirt was off and then mine was, and I did notice that, kinda hard not to, with his hands on me, his touch making me gasp again.

Then jeans off and me pushed back on the bed, up to the pillows, and he was over me, still kissing me, hands everywhere they needed to be, and I wrapped my fingers in his hair and pulled back enough to say, “I really, really missed you,” and he said, “Yes,” and I could laugh at that. I would, later. Shake my head and laugh. But I knew what he meant, and I knew that was all he could give, maybe all he could ever give, and I was fine with it. Even if he could never tell me how he felt, he showed me, and that was what counted, and when he said, “Yes,” he kissed me again and pushed into me and showed me, as best he could.

We lay in bed afterward. Jack was on his back, his arm around me, eyes closed. Not asleep. For Jack there are about ten levels of relaxation. This was the stage right before sleep, though, when he was chill enough to close his eyes, his muscles not quite slack. Chill enough, too, that I could prop up and watch him and not make him feel as if an enemy loomed. I could even brush sweat-soaked hair from his forehead and he didn’t tense, his eyes didn’t open.

I looked at him. The angular face that wasn’t quite handsome. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. The shallow lines around his mouth. Gray cautiously invading his black hair. He grumbles about his age, but most of that discomfort can be chalked up to his career, which isn’t that different from a star athlete, where retirement comes so much sooner than it does for everyone else. He’s still nowhere near ready to be put out to pasture. He knows it; he just likes to grumble. Professional concerns aside, he looks damned fine for fifty, and I’ll admit how much I enjoy this part, just watching him, running my fingers over his biceps, his stomach, his chest.

There’s a surgically erased tattoo on his biceps. That’s from those early days in Ireland, when he signed up to fight for what others believed in, because his brothers did and because, at sixteen, sometimes you’re desperate enough for change and adventure and validation that you don’t give a damn about the rest.

He’d spent his first big paycheck post-Ireland getting that tattoo removed. He’d eaten canned food and slept in parks because the check barely covered the surgery and he wasn’t living with that tattoo a moment longer. I can still see the ghost of it. I once told him it can be more thoroughly removed now, but he only shrugged and said it was fine. Which meant he didn’t want that ghost taken away. Didn’t want the memory erased completely.

There were other marks. Scars and old cigarette burns. When I asked him about the burns, he just shrugged and said, “Part of the job.” Just work. It happens. No big deal. Not to him, anyway, not beyond the fact that they too would signify mistakes he’d made. He’d survived. Survived and learned and improved and that, he’d say, was all that mattered.

He opened one eye and said, “I’m sorry. What happened. Targeting you. I’m really, really—”

I put my finger to his lips. He made a face and said, “Just wanted you to know—”

“Do you honestly think I don’t? I understood the risks before we got together. How many times have people tried to hire us for the same thing? If you need to make a statement to a man, go after his wife, girlfriend, lover. We’ve discussed this. And discussed it . . . and discussed it . . . and discussed it, which mostly consists of you telling me and me saying, ‘I get it.’”

He made that face again, the one that said he’d like to say it again. Apologize again. Deeply and profusely apologize because he wasn’t sure how else to deal with it. But it’s not as if it’ll make him feel better. Self-recrimination only drags you down into the tar pit of self-blame. I know that as well as anyone. So does he, which was why, after a moment, he nodded and reached for his Snickers bar. He couldn’t quite reach it on my side of the bed, so I opened it, and then gave him the Coke.

“Recharging my batteries?” he said.

I smiled. “I don’t think we’ll have time for that.”

“Make time.”

He took a bite of the bar, chewed and then settled in.

“You want to know?” he said. “Details? What happened over there?”

“I always want to know, Jack. It’s a question of whether you’re okay with telling me and if not, I understand. Since you’re offering, though, I’m guessing you are. So, yes, tell me what happened.”

He did. Until now, I’d only known that he had gone to do a job as repayment for a debt owed to someone who’d helped him get his start. It was no coincidence that Jack had been in Ireland when this all went down. His old colleague had double-crossed him.

Jack told me exactly who Cillian was and what he’d done for Jack in the old days. Then what he’d done to Jack now. He told the story matter-of-factly. Just business. But I knew this hurt. Jack was a man of his word, treating his colleagues and clients fairly. And I got the sense Jack had really looked up to Cillian, that thirty years ago he had hoped for a relationship that might mellow into friendship, and that hadn’t quite happened—Jack had permanently relocated stateside—but he’d still felt a nostalgic bond there. Which Cillian had blown to hell.

Worse, while Jack never said it, I knew he’d have to kill Cillian. I would gladly do it for him, but I knew enough not to even offer. Instead, I leaned over and kissed him and he pulled me on top, and I set about doing what he would allow—showing him that I understood and I cared.

12 - Jack

Nadia was sitting up in bed, munching on Skittles, occasionally tossing one his way, grinning when he caught it, which he always did. Before he met her, Jack couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten candy. Real candy—the kind that’s pure sugar and chemicals. It was a reflection of the side of Nadia that first made him fall in love with her. The vulnerable side. The innocent side. The genuine side. Not childlike, but open in a way he hadn’t been himself in so many years.

Nadia never had any shame in admitting her love for candy, and she’d light up when he bought it for her, the way other women might light up over diamond rings. He’d get that same look every time, no matter how often he showed up with candy in his pockets. A grin that wasn’t so much for the candy itself as for the gesture—genuine surprise and joy that he’d gone out of his way to get her something, even if it entailed no more than stopping at a shop. Such a small thing, one that explained so much about Nadia.

He watched her, sitting naked in bed as she talked between candies, and he knew he loved her. He hadn’t said the words. He wasn’t sure how to, because he never had, not even when he’d been fifteen and dating a girl whose name he’d long since forgotten and when he’d try to slide his hand up her shirt, she’d stop him and say, “I need to be sure,” and he’d known she hadn’t meant she needed to be sure she wanted sex, but that she needed to be sure he loved her. Except he hadn’t. She was just a girl he liked, and he wouldn’t lie about that, even if it meant getting sex before his sixteenth birthday.

But now he did feel that way, and he had no fucking idea how to say it. He’d started to, many times, after they made love, but that seemed the wrong moment, like she’d think it was just part of the afterglow. He’d considered saying it before sex, but what if she didn’t say it back? He didn’t care—it wasn’t a test. But if he said it and she wasn’t ready, she’d panic and then feel bad and . . . yeah, definitely gonna spoil the mood. But when the hell do you say it? And why the fuck was it so hard to figure this out? He wasn’t fifteen anymore.

Just do it. Say it and then say something else, fast, so it doesn’t hang there, waiting for a response. Say it and then . . .

And then say more. Not just, “I love you,” but more about how he felt, which would take away any obligation because it would have moved past a response, and he’d get the chance to say more, because he had more to say, and that would be the opportunity. Get the words out. All of them.

“Hey,” he said, and she gave him that breath-taking grin that made him understand the meaning of that overused phrase because that one really did take his breath away.

“Hey,” she said back.

Okay, keep going. You’ve got her attention. Just go. Three, two, one—

“I—” he began.

“I’ve been—” she said at the same time and then stopped. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Nah, go on.”

She hesitated, but he motioned for her to continue, and she said, “I’ve been thinking about Cillian and the cartel and this whole setup. Besides being hellishly complicated, does it bug you at all? Any of it?”

“Yeah,” he said, and he exhaled the word on a breath of relief, almost as great as if he’d actually gotten those other words out. He’d been thinking this himself—that it bothered him—but he’d pushed it aside, feeling like he was just being paranoid.

“Yeah,” he repeated. “It does.”

“Good,” she said. “So I’m not overthinking it.” She lowered herself to lie facing him. “Okay, tell me what’s bugging you.”

He did.

An hour later, they were in Evelyn’s hotel room, looking at an image on her laptop. An image of the building where they thought Quinn was being held. And they’d been able to find it online. Just sitting there for anyone to see, like many places were these days. You type in the location, and up pops a street view on your screen. Fucking amazing. Of course, the picture could be a couple of years old, so it didn’t erase the need for on-site surveillance. But it sure as hell helped.

Finding the location had been a matter of putting together the puzzle pieces—the information the thug provided on the building together with what Felix had found from Quinn’s phone and the results of Contrapasso’s own investigating. Yeah, Contrapasso came through, turning over at least part of what they had. They still weren’t entirely convinced Jack wasn’t involved, but he knew that was a matter of prejudice rather than any actual cause for suspicion.

It would be Jack they blamed, not Nadia. They liked Nadia. They understood her drive for justice. They’d made it clear they’d hire Jack, too, but he knew that was mostly for Nadia’s sake, knowing they were more likely to get her if they accepted him. Accepted, not embraced. No matter how good he was at his job, they saw him as Quinn did, and in their view he’d never rise far above the very guys they devoted their lives to hunting.

But they had come through. While they told Nadia that they’d lost track of Quinn in an office building—where his GPS tracker had been disabled—that wasn’t entirely true. His captors had only zapped it. That was Jack’s explanation. Felix had explained it in more technical terms. Point was, Quinn’s captors hadn’t discarded the tracker—Felix figured they wanted to study the tech. The problem was that the signal hadn’t disappeared immediately. It just started to fail. That meant Contrapasso had two locations to work with: the office where Quinn’s kidnappers grabbed him and the spot where the transmitter finally died twenty minutes later. Put the two points on a map, and Evelyn had been able to follow that trajectory, factor in the rest of the information and find a location.

Jack was less than ten minutes from their destination when Cillian’s phone rang. He checked his watch. Shit. He’d forgotten all about the callback. Obviously they’d jumped the gun earlier, calling Cillian as soon as their goons caught up to Nadia. Now . . . Well, he wasn’t really sure what the fuck they’d do now, but he was ready.

Jack answered to hear Cillian himself, breathing hard and saying, “It’s me. Don’t hang up, Jack. Please don’t fucking hang up.”

Jack said nothing.

“I’m sorry I got away,” Cillian said, then gave a strained laugh. “Jesus, am I really apologizing for escaping? Fuck, this is such a mess. Such a damned mess.” He took a deep breath. “Some guy found me. I made up a bullshit story, and I didn’t report it or anything. I don’t blame you for doing that. Don’t blame you at all. I’m just lucky you gave me the antidote for that cyanide. You’d have had every right not to, after what I did.”

He waited, as if expecting Jack to say it was all right. When he didn’t, Cillian prodded with, “You still there, Jack?”

“Yeah.”

Cillian cleared his throat. “Like I said, I understand why you did that. But as soon as I got free, I contacted a few people. Called in favors. Huge favors—the kind I’ve been saving all my life. Like yours.”

Pause.

More throat clearing. “Anyway, I know a few things now. Things that can help. You’re stateside, right?”

Jack changed lanes. Didn’t answer.

“Hope so,” Cillian said. “I hope you found your girl and everything’s okay.”

“No,” Jack said. “Still looking.”

“Fuck. Well, all right then. I can help. I’m going to set this right, Jack. I’ve called in the biggest favor I’ve got. A guy who can fix this for you. He knows the cartel—he’s the one who put them in touch with me. If you’re looking for your girl, you must be in the DC area. I asked my guy to get there right away, spare no expense, I’ll cover everything.”

More silence as Cillian still failed to get the enthusiastic—or even grateful—response he obviously expected.

“I’m going to give you an address,” Cillian said. “I need you to get there right away. This guy won’t wait forever. I can’t afford that.” A strained laugh. “You get to him, and he’ll give you everything you need, and he’ll offer to help you fix this. You can just take his information if you want, but I’m going to strongly suggest you let him help. He’s as good in his field as you are in yours.”

“Which is?”

“Huh?”

“His field.”

“A fixer.” Cillian gave a short laugh. “Which is what we need right now, huh? Someone to fix this whole fucking mess. That’s what he does. Helps people connect with others and solve their problems. Which he will do for you, and I’m footing the bill. My way of saying how fucking sorry I am. And I really hope . . .” Another throat-clearing. “I’m not just trying to save my ass here, Jack. I really am sorry.”

“Address?”

“I’m texting it to your phone—well, my phone. You need to get there fast. I mean that, Jack. He—”

“Got it.”

Jack hung up. He glanced over his shoulder at Nadia, who’d ceded the front passenger seat to Evelyn. He’d had the phone on speaker and they’d both been silent as they listened in. Evelyn opened her mouth but stopped, seeing where Jack was looking.

“He’s paddling as fast as he can,” Nadia said. “Which could mean he knows exactly how much trouble he’s in and he’s trying to save his life. Or . . .”

“Or he wasn’t rescued by a random passerby?” Evelyn said.

Jack snorted.

“Yes,” Nadia said. “I’m sure you didn’t leave him somewhere that would be likely to happen. Someone went looking for him and found him, and the fact that he’d lie about that says he’s not—unfortunately—trying to save his life. Well, yes, maybe he is, but not from you.”

Jack grunted.

Nadia smiled. “Sorry. As badass as you are, the cartels beat you, hands down.”

True, and he wouldn’t argue the point. What Cillian could expect from him was two to the head. Quick. Efficient. Merciful, in its way, at least compared to what the cartels might do to him.

“We still like the cartel for this?” he asked.

He directed that one to Evelyn. Nadia didn’t even try to answer—it wasn’t her area of expertise.

“We do,” Evelyn said. “Felix has been sending me his findings. There are a few high-level political hits on the market. He’s also narrowing it down to those who employ outside contractors.”

“Not many, I’m guessing,” Nadia said.

“No, not many at all.”

Jack made a noise in his throat. Evelyn didn’t notice, but Nadia caught his eye in the rearview mirror. They exchanged a look.

“So are you ignoring the summons?” Nadia asked.

“Can’t. Best way to get answers. I’ll go. You two hold tight.”

“And not go after Quinn? Despite being reasonably sure we know where he is, which is not likely to last much longer?”

“She has a point,” Evelyn said. “Any minute now, they’ll find those dead thugs, which means Dee is still in the wind. Once they realize you’re in the area, they’ll move Quinn.”

Nadia leaned forward against the seat back. “If this meeting with Cillian is bullshit—and they even suspect I’m with you—they’ll expect me to stick close. It’s the perfect time to grab Quinn and end this.”

Jack grunted.

“Yes, I know,” Nadia said. “Getting Quinn doesn’t end this. It ends when we figure out what was going on and put a stop to it. But with Quinn safe, they can’t hold anything over our heads, right?” She paused and then added, “On the other hand, maybe we should stick close while you go to this meeting. I can provide backup—”

“No,” Jack said. “It’s a trap? Trap’s more for you than me.”

“They’ll expect you to go with him, as you pointed out, Dee,” Evelyn said. “Better if you’re as far away as possible. Jack can handle this.”

“But you’ll stay in touch, right?” Nadia said.

“Course.”

13 - Nadia

I had all audio on my phone turned off, which included the vibration that would signal an incoming message. So I kept checking it as I headed to the building. I didn’t expect to hear from Jack—he’d dropped us off barely a half hour ago—but I checked anyway.

I’d seen no signs of a trap so far. There were guards outside. Not overtly watching the building—two guys in a car near the front entrance, another two near the back, with two more inside according to an infrared device from Felix. The gadget was good; the gadget wasn’t perfect. It told me how many warm bodies we had just inside the walls, as we’d circled the perimeter. To actually find Quinn, I’d need to get a lot closer to him . . . and possibly closer to more cartel goons.

I entered the building without raising a single alarm. There seem to be three basic city settings for underworld activity—offices, warehouses and industrial areas. If the buildings can be abandoned or under renovation, that’s a bonus. In this case, it was neither. It seemed to be an office building, though all the blinds were drawn. A sign on the front door, as viewed through binoculars, simply and politely declared it private property.

This was no high-rise building, though. It was old, in an area where it looked as if most of the former “offices” had been repurposed. In other words, no one would bat an eye at the closed blinds and lack of business signs. Right now, as night fell, the entire block seemed deserted.

Being an old area also meant the buildings were close together. Getting in only required using the one entrance the thugs hadn’t thought to cover: the roof. It wasn’t exactly a cakewalk getting there. But as a sniper, I’m always looking for the highest point, which means I have a lot of experience scaling buildings and crossing from rooftop to rooftop, even if it takes a leap and a prayer to get there.

Needless to say, Evelyn didn’t join me on my aerial voyage. She stayed below, covering the guards and waiting for news from Jack.

I broke open the roof door, used the infrared to scan the area and then whispered, “I’m in,” through my earpiece before making that a reality.

The roof door opened, not surprisingly, to a set of stairs. I headed down them. At the bottom, I scanned again and thought I picked up a faint blip to my right . . . and then nothing. I tried repositioning a few times, but the device brought back nothing. Felix had warned me not to rely on it. Jack wouldn’t even use one—and hadn’t been thrilled that Evelyn brought it. To him, any reliance on gadgets meant less reliance on your senses. I knew the device’s limitations, though. In an old building like this, with thick walls and rats’ nests of wiring, it was even less useful than usual. But it helped.

As I moved, I kept the device in one hand and my gun in the other. At each corner, I added the infrared to the usual list of checks before I stepped around it. That blip kept appearing and disappearing, and by time I reached the stairwell, I decided the device was too distracting. I pocketed it and settled for listening and looking.

I covered the fifth floor. It wasn’t a large building. Empty, too. I saw signs of renovation that reminded me of our chalet at home—the piles of wood, boxes of nails. What was missing was the smell—no hint of sawdust from cut wood or drywall from putting up new walls or even dust from cutting through old ones. And the signs of renovation were oddly random. Tools in this room, wood in that one, nails in another . . .

I couldn’t tell what was going on, and there was no time to stop and ponder. I kept moving, tucking those thoughts into the back of my mind as I continued down the stairwell. At the bottom, I whispered an “all clear, still searching” to Evelyn, who told me Jack had checked in ten minutes ago saying he was at his destination, nothing to report yet.

I was about to step from the stairwell when I decided to use Felix’s device for a quick scan. Sure enough, it was giving me that blip, stronger now but still not holding steady. I put the device away and searched. Empty rooms here, too. One had a sawhorse. Another had a drop-sheet and a can of paint, but again, there was no smell of actual work. The paint can had been opened and, when curiosity compelled me to check, I pried off the lid to see it was half-empty, but there was no scent of paint fumes in the air nor anything actually newly painted nearby.

On the third floor, the blip came stronger. Someone was definitely here. I found more of those signs of renovation without any actual reno. Three levels of sporadic materials and tools.

I could ask Evelyn to help me puzzle it out, but she’d just snort and tell me to stick to the job. This was the job, though—the circumstances were too odd to be happenstance, so they meant something.

I looked at another drop-sheet and partial can of paint.

Any ideas, Jack?

I chuckled to myself. Hey, it worked the last time. This time, he remained silent, even in my head. Silent because he would be puzzling it out. He’d take the time to consider the implications.

Okay, I’ll do that, then.

Fake signs of renovation. Why?

In case someone came in and wondered why the building was empty?

Possible, but lots of buildings stood empty, either as investments or awaiting a purpose.

Because someone was visiting and they wanted it to look as if the building was being renovated?

Why? A scam? If so, they could at least slap some paint around, rip out a few floorboards. Why not bother with those basic extra steps?

I got nothing.

Untrue. I had questions, and those were almost as important as answers. Questions meant something was wrong here, and I needed to pay extra attention—

A floorboard creaked. I zipped behind the door. A moment later, a man walked by. Hispanic. Thirties. Big guy with a gun in his hand. A thug doing his rounds.

He continued past the room without slowing and went straight to the stairwell. Even after the door clicked shut, I waited for his footsteps on the stairs, to be absolutely sure it wasn’t a fake out. Once his boots sounded, I slid out and silently jogged to the stairwell. It sounded as if he was heading up, but I wanted to be sure.

The door on the next level shut and his boot steps faded down the hall. I crept into the stairwell and went down to the second floor. I did a faster survey of that level. There were boxes on this one—cardboard and wood. Most were empty. A few were stuffed with random office items, like paper. And I do mean “stuffed,” as if someone just dumped the supplies in, rather than actually bringing them packed for storage or use.

Nothing else on the second floor. The first level was the trickiest—I didn’t need to check Felix’s device to expect guards on that one. The stairs continued down another level, and I decided to just skip the first floor. At the bottom of the steps, I checked the device. Two blips together, flickering in and out, likely the guys on the first floor but I wasn’t taking any chances. What interested me more was I was now picking up one steady sign of life. In the basement. Which was the best place for stashing a hostage.

The problem with the device is, of course, there’s no way of seeing the actual layout of the building. So when I finally drew close to the blip, I found myself on the opposite side of a wall from it. I continued along that wall, looking for a door, but had to circle through a couple of rooms before I got reasonably close to the blip again. When I did, I found a crudely cut hole in the wall, almost like those used for passing food to prisoners in ancient dungeons. I bent to peer through it. Directly across from me, dim lighting reveals a tall guy with a light brown crew-cut sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, pretending to be asleep. I say “pretending” because short of a serious blow to the head, he wasn’t going to nap while being held captive.

“Sleeping on the job?” I whispered through the opening.

Quinn’s eyes snapped open.

“It’s Dee,” I said.

He pushed to his feet fast, something metal clattering to the floor. It looked like a spoon. Behind him, I could see signs where he’d been digging at the mortar in the brick wall.

“Nice escape plan,” I said. “It’ll take you a while, though.”

“I’m not digging out,” he said as he walked over. “Just freeing a weapon—a nice solid brick.”

“Ah. Smart.”

He opened his mouth to say something else. Then he stopped, his eyes widening. “Dee. Shit. No. You need to get out of here.”

“Nice to see you, too. Yes, I know, this is a trap for me. Don’t worry—me springing you wasn’t actually their plan, and I have backup. Let’s just get you out—”

“No.” He practically flew to that opening as I stepped away. “Don’t— The door. You can’t open the door. You need to get out of here. Now.”

“If the door’s locked from the outside, I have tools. We can—”

“No. Look.”

I followed his finger to see a door on the far side of the large room. And I saw why they’d cut out this opening—way over here—for communicating and passing food. Quinn hadn’t just used his spoon to try prying out a brick. He’d removed the outer board from a box over the door. Inside that box? Enough explosives to bring down the whole damned building.

14 - Jack

Jack was supposed to meet Cillian’s “fixer” in a motel, not unlike the first place he’d rented earlier in the day. The only difference was that this place was closed—permanently, it seemed. In an apparent burst of optimism the For Sale sign had recently been replaced, but that was as far as it’d gone, the owners not even bothering to weed the parking lot.

He’d spent the last twenty minutes scoping out the situation. His options were limited. Extremely limited. The motel might be deserted, but it sat on acres of empty land, leaving no way to sneak up.

He’d spent the drive here weighing all the possibilities for what was really going on. As soon as he saw this motel setup, he knew the answer. And maybe, just maybe, he’d always known. Just hadn’t wanted to believe it. He could play the hardened criminal, and ninety percent of it wasn’t an act. But ten was. Maybe even closer to twenty. That’s the part Nadia saw, the part that allowed him into her life, even as he told himself he had no fucking idea why she’d do that.

That part of him had not wanted this outcome. Suspected it and feared it.

But just because he hadn’t wanted it to turn out this way didn’t mean he hadn’t considered it. Didn’t mean, either, that he hadn’t mentioned the possibility to Nadia while they’d been lying in bed. Now, while there was still a chance he was wrong, he prepared as if he wasn’t. Then he walked to Room 7, as per instructions, and knocked.

“Come in,” a voice said, deep, with an American accent.

Jack pushed open the door. The room was dark, blinds drawn.

“Keep the lights off,” the voice said. “Step in, shut the door and then move away from it.”

Jack did.

“Turn around. Take out your phone and weapons, and push them back behind you. Then put your hands up.”

Jack set down his holstered weapon and his ankle gun, along with his knife and cell phone.

“All your weapons.”

Another gun, from inside the waistband of his jeans.

“If I have to ask again—”

He took a knife from his other ankle.

“Fucking arsenal,” the man said with a snort. “You got an AK-47 somewhere, too?”

“Wouldn’t fit.”

Another snort. The man patted Jack down. Then he backed away and turned on a lamp. When he said, “You can turn around now,” the voice and the accent had changed, and Jack had to remind himself he wasn’t supposed to expect this. So he feigned shock, tensing, and then turned slowly—as if uncertainly—and when he saw Cillian standing there, he said, “Fuck,” with the right degree of muted shock and consternation, and a shake of his head.

“I came to help you,” Cillian said, his voice rising, eyes rounding. “Honestly. I was so upset about everything that happened that I hopped on a plane and flew here to make it right. Because I want to make it right. For you, Jack.”

Cillian gave an ugly laugh and slouched into a chair. “You never did grow into that ego, did you, Jack? Or should I say your brains never quite caught up to it. Did you really think I’d fallen that far? Gotten that goddamned stupid?”

Jack wisely didn’t answer that. The truth was that Cillian had never been particularly bright, having only that feral kind of criminal intelligence they called street smarts.

As for thinking Cillian had fallen so far? No, Jack hadn’t realized how far Cillian had fallen from the man he’d been. Not until he saw the proof of it here. If there was one thing Cillian had prided himself on in the old days, it was loyalty. Playing fair. That’s where Jack got it from. The one part of his career that came from Cillian. The one truly good part.

Except, when forced to face this possibility earlier, he’d dug deeper into those memories. Dug past the rose-colored tinge of nostalgia to the truth. Which was that, in Cillian, Jack had seen the veneer of honor, of loyalty. A man who’d worn those traits like platform disco shoes, to lift him above the crowd and flash at every opportunity the message, “I’m a fair man. A reasonable man. Not like those dirtbags.”

Cillian had wooed Jack with those fancy shoes, the perfect enticement for a bitter young man who felt his only place in the world was at the business end of a gun, but who still held onto something that hoped he could find more in such a future. That he could be, like Cillian, fair and loyal. Then he’d caught Cillian shortchanging him on jobs and lying to him about targets. That’s when Jack got out. He’d squared up, thanked Cillian and caught the next boat for America. And this was what Cillian had really taught him—if you’re going to don those shoes, own them . . . and maybe tone down the glitter, just a little.

“Come on, Jack,” Cillian said. “I know you don’t talk much. Better to keep your mouth shut and thought a fool than open it and remove all doubt.” He snickered. “But you must have something to say to me now.”

“What’s the game?”

Cillian blinked, clearly expecting outrage or at least a muttered curse. Then he forced another chuckle. “What? You didn’t figure it out? Surprise, surprise.”

Actually, Jack had. The main thrust of it, at least. But he said nothing.

Cillian reached over and opened a laptop on the nightstand. On the screen was a grainy surveillance camera video of Quinn, on his feet, clutching something silver as he looked around.

“Huh, sounds like the Boy Scout has heard something. You don’t know what that could be, do you, Jack?” Cillian flipped to a still photo time-stamped twenty minutes ago. Nadia creeping down a semi-dark hallway.

“Seems she found him,” Cillian said. “Excellent detective work. Excellent timing on my part, too. Having a very expensive pair of eyes in that idiot Contrapasso group helped. It still took some serious coordination, let me tell you. Of course, I had backup plans in case you hadn’t found the location or decided not to head there.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “You’re proud of yourself. I get it. Move on.”

Cillian’s face mottled. “Do you know how fucking hard this was, staying one step ahead of you when you kept screwing everything up?”

Couldn’t be too hard, given how stupid Jack was. He didn’t say that. Wasn’t even tempted. He might not be a genius, but he seemed like one compared to Cillian.

“Oh, look,” Cillian said. “The Boy Scout is pretending to be asleep. Those footsteps must be getting closer.”

Jack pushed back the panic with a reminder that Nadia would be prepared for this. When Cillian gave the signal, his thugs would swoop in to grab Nadia, but she’d be ready. Evelyn would be ready. Hell, with Nadia this close to Quinn, she could get his door open and hand him a gun, and between the three of them, they’d be fine. Not that Jack intended to let that happen. Keep Cillian talking. Get the whole plan. Then sound the alarm, warn Nadia and end this.

“You seem very calm,” Cillian said. “Not so worried about your girl after all? Personally, I’d agree. She’s a looker, but I’d worry she’s a little too interested in freeing that young, burly Boy Scout.”

Jack said nothing.

Cillian looked at him and shook his head. “No fool like an old fool. You didn’t used to fall for the ladies, Jack.”

“You want a job. A big one.”

“Is that what you think this is about? A job? You already owe me one. So why the hell would I—?”

“A bigger one. Too big for your chit.”

“Nothing should be too big for my chit, Jack,” Cillian said, eyes narrowing. “You cannot repay what you owe me. I made you. Everything you are now started with me.”

“Nah. You helped. But it started with—”

“They only put your feet on the road. Made you a killer. I made you a hitman. A professional. And how did you repay me? Fucked off to America. I told myself it was temporary. You’d come crawling back. But you didn’t. You stayed there and found yourself a new mentor. A woman. Do you have any idea how much shit I had to put up with for that? My prize student dumps me for a skirt?”

“Wasn’t like that. Moved on. New country. New contacts.”

“You owed me, Jack. Everything you are—”

“I paid you back. Before I left. Even you agreed I had. Walked away with an even score.”

“I agreed that we were settled temporarily. And then I spent ten fucking years expecting you to come back. Watching your star rise and telling myself you were just busy, making a name for yourself, and you’d come back and work for me. Repay your debt. But you didn’t.”

Jack struggled to drum up some sympathy. Maybe even a little guilt. But for once, he couldn’t find it. Cillian didn’t look like a man who’d been cheated; he looked like a scorned lover. The idiot who keeps waiting, telling himself she’ll come back, even after she’s cleaned out her closet, settled their bills and walked away with a handshake. It had been a clean parting. Jack had no doubt of that. Even that chit was a favor; more a thank-you than an obligation.

But if this wasn’t about a job . . .

Scorned lover.

Jack wheeled toward the laptop. On the screen, Quinn was rising. He said something to someone off screen, relaxed as he talked.

“Your girlfriend has arrived,” Cillian said. “Maybe she’ll do more than rescue him. Maybe in the heat of the moment they’ll be unable to resist doing more than exchanging a hug.”

Jack looked at Cillian.

Cillian laughed. “Do you really think I brought you here in hopes you’ll have to watch your girl screw another guy? I owe you more than that, Jack. So much more. You’re going to watch her rescue him. All she needs to do is open the door . . . rigged with C4. That, Jack, is how I’ll repay you.”

Cillian pulled out his gun and backed up, ready for attack.

“Okay,” Jack said.

Cillian stopped moving. “If you’re calling my bluff—”

“No.”

“There’s no negotiating here, Jack. I can’t stop that explosion. The minute she opens the door—”

“Got it. You’re gonna kill her. You win.” Jack sat on the edge of the bed and checked his watch. “Shouldn’t be long. Then I can go, right?”

Cillian blinked.

Jack continued. “You got your revenge. I liked her. Gonna feel bad. There. You win.”

Jack turned to the laptop and checked his watch again. Quinn was almost out of sight now, only his back visible as he presumably talked to Nadia through the wall. Jack resisted the urge to check his watch again—and resend the double-push that transmitted an urgent message to Evelyn, the one that said, “Stand down now!” He’d done it twice already. By now she’d have told Nadia, and that was undoubtedly what she was discussing with Quinn—Nadia saying she had to leave but she’d come back.

Unless she decided she could free him first.

Jack double-tapped the watch again, just in case. Still, he trusted Nadia. As tempting as it would be to find and open that door, if he’d sent the double-tap, she’d know it meant get out immediately.

Quinn started backing up. Nadia was leaving.

Good. Perfect. Now just—

“You want me to hurry this along, Jack?” Cillian said. “You got places to go?”

“Nah. Nothing like that.” He looked over. “You said no negotiating. You sure? You could send a guy in. Stop her from opening the door.”

Cillian smiled. “A little more concerned than you want to let on?”

Jack shrugged. “I like her. A lot. Yeah. If we can figure out something—”

“You want to negotiate, Jack?”

“Yeah, I do.” Jack stood. “Tell me what you want.”

Cillian took a cell phone from his pocket. “I want you to suffer, you arrogant son of a bitch. No negotiations. No more waiting, either.”

Cillian raised the phone and Jack knew that was the detonator. He lunged. He didn’t care about the gun pointed at him. He flew at Cillian and knocked the detonator from his hand. The gun fired. The bullet went offside. Jack wrested the gun away and pointed it at Cillian’s forehead. Cillian smiled. Just smiled, and as Jack saw that smile, his gut went cold. He glanced over his shoulder at the laptop and on the screen, he saw only the fuzzy gray-white blur of a lost signal.

15 - Nadia

As soon as I saw the C4 rigged over the door, I took a slow step back.

“Yep,” Quinn said with a wry smile. “This is not the place you want to be right now.”

I didn’t ask if he could defuse it. If he could, he would have. Neither of us had ever used bombs. Nor had Evelyn or Jack, so there was no use contacting them.

“I’m going to get help,” I said.

“If you can, yeah. If you can’t . . .” He shrugged. “I’m the idiot who stepped into a trap.”

“I’m going to get help.”

The smile returned, still crooked, but his eyes lighting with it as he stepped toward the hole. “Thank you. For trying. I know I’ve been a bit of an ass. Okay, more than a bit. I’m having a hard time with . . . If it was anyone else . . .” He straightened. “The point is that I appreciate that you haven’t cut me loose. I’ve given you plenty of reason. Coming after me like this? Honestly, I wouldn’t have expected it.”

“Then you’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, someone may have told me that before. But I do appreciate it. Whatever happens. And if something does happen, I just want to say—”

“Dee!” Evelyn said through the earpiece, loud enough that Quinn must have caught the buzz of it and stopped. “Out now!”

“I—”

“No. Now. Jack wants you out.”

“There’s C4 rigged—”

“And that’d probably be the reason.”

I turned to Quinn. “You need to take cover.” I looked around the room, thinking how pointless that was.

“Got it,” he said. “Now go.”

“You—”

“Go, Nadia.”

He reached through the hole to give me a shove. I caught his hand and squeezed it.

“Dee!” Evelyn said. “Tell me you’re running your ass off right now. Jack just sent a third—”

“Gone,” I said, gave Quinn’s hand one last squeeze and then turned and ran. I made it to the end of the hall when Quinn shouted, “Nadia! Down!” and I dove, hitting the floor as the building exploded.

16 - Jack

The car didn’t go fast enough. It just didn’t. Jack flattened the pedal, not giving a shit if he brought a squadron of police cars in his wake. He didn’t see any until he reached the scene—police, ambulances, fire trucks, all pulling up in front of the building.

When he first spotted the building, there was a moment when he thought Cillian had tricked him. That Jack had seen some prerecorded image. Because despite the emergency vehicles, the building seemed fine.

The building was not fine.

It might not be a pile of dusty rubble, but it was as if someone carved out the middle, the remaining outer walls tottering around nothing.

He’d lost contact with Evelyn after the explosion. He didn’t want to think what that meant. As he roared up, though, he saw her, stepping from behind a vehicle to flag him down.

She waved him to a spot around the corner, away from the knot of first responders. As he flew out of the car, he could see she was covered in dust and hobbling. Blood dripped from a cut on her cheek.

“You okay?”

“A fucking building didn’t fall on me, Jack. Right now, that means I’m fine.”

He started toward the building. She caught his arm. He tried to shake her off, but she said, “No, Jack. You go that way and they’ll stop you, and then you’ll pull your damned gun and this will turn into an even bigger cluster-fuck. Come around back. They’ve got the scene cordoned off, but there’s more chaos there. We can get through.”

As she led him, he said, “Have you heard—?”

“I would have told you if I had. But that only means the explosion knocked out the damn signal.”

He’d keep telling himself that was all it meant.

“Here.” Evelyn gestured to a gaping hole in the side of the building. “No one’s gone in yet. Those walls aren’t going to hold and they’re already dealing with the two guys they found on the first floor. They’ll need more equipment before they go searching for more survivors.”

Jack nodded and picked his way through the rubble toward the opening.

“If they do go in, I’ll tell them she’s trapped,” she said. “To hell with what happens after that.”

Jack nodded again and looked around, trying not to assess the damage. Just find a path down to the basement.

The basement. Under a building’s worth of rubble, because it had collapsed and she was down there and he’d been chatting up Cillian, so fucking confident—

“Jack,” Evelyn said.

When he only nodded, she gripped his arm, tight. “Keep it together, Jack.”

Another nod.

“I was just saying that if I can get them to search, I will, screw the consequences. I know that’s what you want.”

He started for the nearest hole. Then he stopped and said a gruff, “Thanks. I—”

“Just get down there before someone sees you.”

The building hadn’t entirely collapsed. That’s what he kept telling himself as he pushed through the rubble. The walls still stood. Most of the building still stood. Whatever Cillian had planned, it hadn’t quite worked as he’d intended.

Fucking shock of the century.

When I find her, I’ll make him—

Forget that.

No, don’t forget the first part. When I find her. Not if. He would, and then he’d take care of Cillian, whom he’d left in the motel room.

Never in his life had it been more difficult not to kill someone, not to put as many bullets in him as he could. A blinding moment of rage, unlike anything since that moment he’d walked into his house thirty years ago and found his family. He’d always thought that if one of their killers had been there, he’d have emptied his gun in him. But he hadn’t with Cillian. He couldn’t afford the delay. And he wasn’t giving that bastard such an easy way out.

Jack heard knocking. Someone hitting a pipe. He exhaled, seemingly for the first time since Cillian hit the detonator.

He made his way toward the sound. That wasn’t easy. He had to crawl through impossibly small spaces. He fit, though. He made himself fit. Finally, he could see a jean-clad leg ahead. A leg pinned under a slab of concrete. He crawled through the wreckage until—

“Quinn,” he said. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, not who you’re looking for.” Quinn twisted, grimacing as he tried to lift the slab on his leg. “Go on. Find her. Just tell someone I’m here.”

Jack almost did exactly that. Then he heard a creak and looked up to see a section of the wall teetering over Quinn.

“Fuck,” Jack said.

Quinn looked up. “Well, that would solve one of your problems, huh?”

Jack crawled through and grabbed the chunk pinning Quinn’s leg. “On three.”

Quinn helped lift, but the slab barely moved.

“Go on,” Quinn said.

Jack surveyed the concrete and the surrounding debris.

“Just go, Jack. I take back the smart-ass comment about solving a problem. You tried to rescue me, I appreciate that. Now go find her.”

“You’re not my problem,” Jack said as he moved aside rubble. “You’re hers. She’s trying to stay friends. You say you want to?” He shoved a steel rod under the slab. “Don’t act like it. Act like a sore fucking loser.”

“Thanks, Jack. That’s really what I need—”

“You want to be her friend? Get your shit together. Otherwise? Get the fuck away. Only making her feel bad.” He looked at Quinn. “And that’s my problem.”

He finished wedging in the rod and said again, “On three.”

This time it worked. They got the slab shifted up enough for Quinn to wriggle his leg out. When he did, Jack said, “Broken?”

“Doesn’t seem to—”

“Good. Then help me find her.”

17 - Nadia

I don’t know how Quinn got that advance warning. Presumably something flashed on the explosive device. He’d saved my life, though, because when he shouted, I had just enough time to dive into a doorway. The hallway collapsed around me, leaving that doorframe standing.

I hadn’t come away unscathed. Pieces had buffeted me, setting my injured arm ablaze and pinning down one foot and filling my lungs with dust that I suspected was very old and very toxic. But I was alive. I got my foot free, and I pulled my shirt over my mouth and nose to breathe.

And then I heard Quinn.

Well, I told myself it was Quinn. Someone was banging a pipe, and I doubted those cartel goons had rescue mission experience and knew that banging a pipe or ventilation shaft was a whole lot more effective than shouting.

The next step? Getting to Quinn. Which would be so much easier if I could get anywhere.

I was free and mobile, but when I say the hall collapsed around the doorway, I mean that literally. I was in a virtual cage, completely enclosed by broken wood and brick and concrete. I took a moment to assess. Two of the “walls” around me weren’t exactly stable. Through a third I could see a faint flashing light from an approaching emergency vehicle.

I started clearing that side. It was not a speedy process. I heard sirens and shouts as the rescue crews arrived, but no one seemed in much of a rush to do any actual rescuing. Checking stability before leaping in, I assumed. Quinn kept periodically banging the pipe, but no one seemed to hear him.

I painstakingly dug my way out. With every large piece of debris I removed, I stopped and made sure the whole thing wasn’t going to fall on my head.

I finally had a hole cleared that was big enough for me to wriggle through. I came out in a section of hall still mostly intact. I’d just started down it when Quinn’s clanging stopped.

I went still. If he’d been seriously injured and weakening, I’d have heard that in the rhythm of his clanging. Either someone had found him or he was taking a break. Still, I picked up speed, focused on the direction I’d heard the—

Something moved off to my side. I spun and reached for . . .

Shit. My gun. It’d been in my hand when I’d been running before the blast. Long gone now.

A shape lunged at me. I twisted out of the way. Fingers grazed my arm. There was just enough light for me to see a big, burly Hispanic guy covered in dust and bloodied cuts.

I backed away, my hands raised. “Look, I’m unarmed. You’re unarmed. We’re in a building that just blew up and is probably going to collapse at any second. I’d suggest working together, but that may be pushing it, so let’s just get our asses out of here, okay?”

He said nothing, just snorted like an enraged bull. I struggled for the few words of Spanish I knew. Before I could find any suitable ones, he said, “This is your fault, you fucking bitch.”

No language barrier apparently. “I didn’t blow up the damned building while I was still inside, okay? Your boss did that. Because killing me was, apparently, more important than warning his own men to get clear. If you get out of here, you can let him know what you think of that—”

He swung at me.

“Seriously?” I said as I danced out of the way. “The building is going to collapse. We survived an explosion. Let’s just get the hell—”

Another swing. This time, in ducking, I hit the wall and a chunk of the ceiling fell. As I darted aside, he caught my arm. I yanked free but stumbled, and as he swung again, I kicked him in the leg, because hey, if I was going down, so was he. Keeps the playing field fair. It also gave me easy access to my ankle holster.

I didn’t pull the gun right away. He was unarmed, and he might be bigger than me, but I still hoped to reason with him. I’m an optimist. Not the best character trait in this game, but not one I’m letting go of without a fight. Speaking of fight . . .

We grappled. I managed to get hold of his chin and force his head up.

“Did you not notice the renovation stuff everywhere?” I said, grunting as he pressed down on me.

“Sure,” he wheezed as I kept forcing his head up. “We brought it in.”

“What’s it for?”

“Renovation. You really are a stupid—”

“I’m not the stupid one. There’s no renovation. It’s for an insurance claim. When the place blows up, they’ll find the renovation supplies, and the owner can claim it was under construction. It’s a half-assed scheme by someone who’s not too bright himself, but that is the plan. Blow this place up. Cash in on the insurance. And if you guys get in the way . . . Well, someone probably has insurance on you, too.”

Sound reasoning, but it was like waving a red flag. He knew I was right, and it pissed him off, and since his boss wasn’t here to bear the brunt of his rage . . .

Lucky me.

The guy exploded, ripped from my grip and slammed his fist into what should have been my stomach, but I’d twisted to grab my gun. I pointed it at him.

“Fine,” I said. “Have it your way. If this is the only language you understand—”

He tried to take the gun. I kicked him and partially wriggled from under him.

“I really don’t want to—” I began.

He pulled back his fist . . . and a two-by-four smacked into the side of his head. I looked up to see Jack standing over me.

“Thank you,” I said. “I really didn’t want to shoot him. He wasn’t armed.”

Jack shook his head. The thug started to rise. Jack whacked him again, almost off-hand. Then he reached down to help me up.

“You okay?” he said.

“Better than him,” I said, nodding at the thug lying prone on the ground. “We need to get—”

At a sound, I turned to see Quinn hobbling toward us.

“I was moving too slow,” he said. “Jack gave up on me.”

“Rescued you, didn’t I?” Jack said.

“Which you are never going to let me forget.”

“You smarten up? I’ll never mention it again.”

Quinn rolled his eyes and gave me a one-armed hug. “Let’s get out of here before the whole place comes down.”

Leaving wasn’t easy—back-tracking the way Jack came would have been too dangerous and we’d need to avoid any potential rescuers of the official variety. So we found a new route. At one point, we had to crawl through a narrow gap. Jack barely fit. Quinn did not.

“I’ll find a way around,” Quinn said. “Keep going.”

Jack ducked back to the hole and said, “Go left. Saw a spot there. We’ll wait.”

When he straightened, I said, “Thank you,” and hugged him. It was just meant to be a quick embrace, but he returned it with a fierce squeeze and then lifted my chin, saying, “Long as we’re waiting . . .” and kissed me, a deep, passionate kiss that told me just how worried he’d been.

When he pulled back, he said, “Love you. You know that, right?”

I smiled. “I do.” Then I whispered it back in his ear and kissed him until we heard Quinn making his way in our direction.

We escaped and managed to sneak off without being seen. Then I called 911 to anonymously report the guy in the basement. He’d have killed me if he could have, but that was no reason to let him die. Jack agreed, not about the “doesn’t deserve to die” part, but because the thug’s survival helped us. It left someone alive who knew what Cillian had done.

Turned out the cartel angle wasn’t a total fake-out. Cillian had teamed up with a small one he’d worked with before. That was how Evelyn suggested we handle this: set the cartel on him.

She was right. I didn’t want Jack going after Cillian. Not because he’d have to kill an old friend. Cillian was no longer that. But Jack was more than pissed off. He was downright furious, tapping into a wellspring of rage that ran even deeper than my own. Set him on Cillian, and he wouldn’t deliver a quick death, and that’s what I didn’t want—for Jack to vent that rage and then look back on what he’d done and suffer the guilt of acting on his anger. I knew what that was like.

Evelyn would work it so that everyone would know setting the cartel on Cillian had been Jack’s revenge for coming after me. He’d sentenced Cillian to a far worse fate than a bullet to the head, and if that’s what he’d do to an old friend, imagine what he’d do to a stranger who tried the same ploy.

Quinn would deal with Contrapasso. They obviously had a leak, likely part of the issue they were still cleaning up from last fall, when we’d exposed rot in their ranks. Someone must have seen a nice opportunity for payback here.

Quinn and I talked. A long talk. I won’t say he’d settled his issues with Jack. That won’t ever happen. But being with Jack was my choice and Quinn agreed to finally shut up about it.

By Wednesday morning, Jack and I were heading home. Being midweek, the lodge had only a few guests, all on business and not interested in my wilderness guide services. That’s normal at this time of year, and at Christmas I’d finally broken down and made it official lodge policy that in the off-season, while I do offer those services, they aren’t guaranteed. That frees me for “emergencies” like this one . . . and for time to myself, or with Jack.

I still spent the first couple of hours working, making sure the guests were happy and everything was running smoothly. Then Jack and I escaped to “work on the chalet.” Which meant sex in the chalet, where we kept sleeping bags and dreamed of the day when there’d be an actual bed.

It wasn’t so much sex as making love. There’s always been that—the more raucous fun mingled with the slower, more tender times. Normally it’s the first followed—after some rest—by the second. This went straight to the slow and achingly tender, both of us expressing what came so hard in words.

Afterward, we found we had guests, the dogs having snuck in, but staying in the next room. As soon as the noise turned to quiet talk, they were there, getting pats and curling up and snuggling in around our legs.

When we heard the distant voices of wandering guests, we rose to dress.

“Know you don’t want to talk about it,” Jack said as he pulled on his jeans. “What happened. Mistakes I made. Danger I put you in.”

I reached for my shirt. “No, let’s talk. Or, rather, let me speechify. I knew exactly what I signed up for, Jack. From the start. All this tells me is that I need to be more careful. Be more suspicious. Always consider the possibility I’m being set up, especially if you aren’t around. We also need alternate forms of contact. The only excuse for missing contact should be that we’re physically unable, which is a big flashing red-alert. That’s where we failed here. When we couldn’t make contact, we presumed all was fine.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“So if you insist on apologizing again, fine. Take me to dinner tonight. Other than that . . .” I twisted to face him. “We’re building something here, Jack. Literally building something.” I waved at the chalet. “For us, not for me. I need to know you’re going to stick around. That you won’t decide you put me in too much danger and the best you can do for me is to leave, and all that complete and utter bullshit. If you aren’t sure, let’s stop building for a while. Take some time and work it out.”

He nodded. Then he reached for a hammer and a handful of nails, walked to where we’d left off and got back to work.