"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 underst
and--"
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.
Kelley Armstrong, Double Play
(Series: Nadia Stafford # 3.50)
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