"She's my protege."
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 protege."
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. checkin. 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?"