Wild Justice

CHAPTER 26

Jack was exactly where I’d left him, with Roland still in the car, hands on the dash, facing forward. I could tell by Roland’s expression that he hadn’t figured out yet who was holding him at gunpoint. He was thinking about it, though. Thinking hard about who would know him by his old name. And stealing glances, but he couldn’t see over the top of the broken window, meaning he was only getting a nice view of a gun and a leather jacket.

Jack didn’t ask if I was okay. He knew I wasn’t. His gaze traveled over me, his face tight, eyes dark with worry, trying to assess the damage in the darkness.

“He can take you,” he whispered, nodding toward Quinn. “Get you help.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Another concerned once-over.

I mouthed, “I’ll live,” and he could see that was the case—I was up and walking, with no obvious signs of trauma, so he returned to Roland.

“I’m going to open the door,” he said. “You’re going to get out and then lie on your stomach, hands behind your back.”

Roland stiffened. It was the first time Jack wasn’t barking orders but speaking in a normal voice. Not his normal voice—there was no trace of his accent and his speech patterns had changed—yet it was his usual work voice.

“No,” Roland whispered. “Fuck, no.”

“Fuck, yes,” Jack leaned down to the window. “Now get out of the car, Reggie, or I’ll haul your fat ass out and kneecap you for the inconvenience.”

Roland seemed to move as if in a trance, and he kept peering at Jack, blinking hard, as if trying to wake from a nightmare. I’m sure that’s what he thought this was. He’d taken some ex-cop Canadian lodge owner captive, then gets into a serious accident, and is ordered from the wreck by the hitman who terrorized him almost twenty years ago. Clearly, he was unconscious and dreaming. Or dead and in hell.

Then, as he was lowering himself to the ground, he sucked in breath.

“The bar,” he said. “You were at the bar. Sitting by yourself in the corner.”

“Yeah.”

That’s when he realized this was no nightmare. He tried to heave himself up and run. Jack didn’t kneecap him. He didn’t even move all that fast, probably because Roland wasn’t, either—it took him at least five seconds to push his aging bulk off the ground, and Jack waited until he was up. Then he aimed a swift kick at the back of his knee. A crack. Roland yowled and went down.

“I have a question,” Jack said. “Since you’re the local here. Exactly how busy is this road?”

“What the fuck?” Roland said as he heaved for breath.

“I’m wondering how long it would take someone to find the wreck. Especially if we cleaned it up, got rid of the skid marks and such.” He looked around. “It’s not thick forest, but the grass is long enough, and the embankment is steep. I haven’t heard another car since we got here. I imagine it would be a few days. If I put you back in that car and kneecapped you . . .”

“No.” The rage evaporated from Roland’s voice, fear seeping in. “No . . .”

“Nah, you’re right. Too risky. I’d need to get you farther in. That looks like a field over there. Lots of long, dead grass. I could stake you out, nicely hidden. Sure, the wreck would be seen, but the driver’s over there, dead. They’ll wonder what’s up when they trace the car to you, but they won’t put much work into the investigation. Offed by that thug”—he gestured at the bodyguard—“who hid your body and stole your car, then spun out going too fast on a bad road. Not used to the power.” Jack hunkered down beside Roland. “Does that sound like a good plan to you, Reggie?”

“You . . . you sick fuck. You goddamn . . .” Roland continued raging, but his voice was pitched high, rant fueled by terror.

Jack put his boot on the back of Roland’s injured knee and stepped down. Roland screamed. Jack leaned over and said, “Shut up.” I don’t know how Roland could hear through his own screams, but he clamped his mouth shut fast.

“Here are your options,” Jack said. “Either you answer my questions promptly and courteously or I stake you out in that field and come back in three days. And there’s no sense calling my bluff.” Jack bent, meeting Roland’s gaze. “Because you know I’ll do it.”

Roland swallowed. “What do you want to know?”

“Not me,” Jack said. “My client.”

Roland’s gaze rose to me, standing silently by his shoulder.

“No, she’s not the client. Someone hired me on her behalf. She has important friends.”

So Jack was going to spin a story. One that didn’t connect me directly to a hitman. Which meant either he did intend for Roland to survive . . . or he just wanted Roland to think so. Killing a middleman could be trouble, and if Jack could explain away our connection, I’d remain Nadia Stafford, ordinary citizen. I glanced down at the gun in my right hand and the knife in my left. Well, relatively ordinary.

“You’ve probably figured out that your hitman is dead,” Jack continued. “He made a mistake, taking that job without doing his research. You, however? You made an even bigger mistake by sending him out there, and I’m trying to figure out what you are. Terminally stupid or actually suicidal?”

“What?”

“Should I use smaller words?”

I choked back a laugh.

“Do you know who frequents Ms. Stafford’s establishment?” Jack asked. “A certain family from Jersey.”

“What family?”

“A nice one with two kids and a dog. What the hell kind of family do you think I mean?”

“I know that. I mean, which one?”

“Do you really expect me to answer? Either you know, which would be the suicidal explanation. Or you had no idea what you were really being hired to do, which would be the stupid explanation. I’d strongly suggest you cop to stupid.”

“Look, the job was simple. Find out if this Stafford woman was the one in the photo and if she was, kill her.”

“Why?”

“How the fuck—?”

Jack stepped on Roland’s shoulder this time, just enough to make him yelp. “I said courteously. That is not courteously. In most cases, a client will provide at least an excuse, true or not. What did this one tell you?”

“Nothing. Only that he wanted her dead.”

In other words, he wasn’t the usual kind of client who got the middleman’s number from a friend of a friend. He understood how the business worked and that you did not need an excuse.

“All right,” Jack said. “The question remains. Why target Ms. Stafford? My client believes it has something to do with a get-together planned at her lodge. If your pro didn’t know what was really going on, and you don’t know what’s really going on, then I’ll require the name of your client. Along with contact information.”

“I don’t have it.”

Jack set his boot on Roland’s back. The big man tensed, but Jack didn’t put any weight on it. He just left his foot there.

“Let’s try that again,” Jack said. “Bear in mind that as you know, I’m not an amateur or a fool. You’d never accept a job without some information on the client.”

Which was true. Except, as it turned out, the price Roland was paid directly affected the amount of information he required. For this payday, Roland accepted the bare minimum of client contact. The whole thing was set up with phone calls from a blocked number, followed by a courier package with those photos of me.

“The package came from Philadelphia,” Roland said. “There was no return address, but I was curious, so I called with the tracking number. It originated in Philly. But the client didn’t sound like he was from there. He had an accent.”

“Foreign?”

“No. Nothing strong. I racked my brain trying to figure out what it was, but I couldn’t. I just know it wasn’t local.”

Roland blathered more about the accent and the package, and it was clear that was all he had. Then, just as Jack seemed ready to say “enough,” Roland went still. He swore under his breath. Then he looked over his shoulder at me.

“Say something.”

“What?”

“Say something. Talk.”

“About what?”

Roland snapped his fingers. “That’s it. That’s the accent. Oot and aboot. Canadian.”

Americans swear this is the surefire way to tell a Canadian from an American—how we say out and about. I can’t quite see—or hear—it.

“The guy’s accent wasn’t as strong as hers, but that’s definitely it. He’s Canadian.” A pause. “Or he has a speech defect.”

Given that Aldrich had been Canadian, I was going with option one. A Canadian possibly living in Philadelphia. That wasn’t going to lead me to Aldrich’s killer, but it could help narrow down possibilities if we found suspects.

“Okay,” Jack said. “If that’s all you’ve got, that’s what I’ll have to take.” Jack hunched over and lowered his voice. “My partner up there”—he waved toward Quinn—“doesn’t want me to let you go, so you’re going to need to make a run for it. I know you can’t exactly run, but do your best. I’ll shoot wide. I can’t guarantee he won’t mow you down, but he’s no sniper. Got it?”

What the hell was Jack doing?

“I’m going to count down from five. You run straight ahead, into those woods. Don’t look back. Got it?”

Roland nodded.

“Five . . .”

Jack slid his gun into his holster.

“Four . . .”

He glanced over and motioned for me to turn away.

“Three . . .”

I didn’t understand—well, I did understand the gesture, but I couldn’t figure out what he was doing, disarming himself before letting Roland run.

“Two . . .”

He mouthed, “Please.” I turned away.

“One.”

A grunt as Roland heaved his bulk up, exhaling in sudden pain from his injuries. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack lunge. I glanced over, startled, as he grabbed Roland by the hair, his foot on his back. A stomp and a yank and a crack. Then Roland sagged, neck broken, as Jack called, “Hey!” and, “Son of a bitch!”

I threw in a “What the hell?” and a “Shit!” as Quinn’s footfalls pounded down the embankment. He reached the bottom just as Jack let go of Roland’s hair and his body crumpled to the ground.

“He tried to run,” I said as Quinn came over.

Jack heaved a deep breath. “My fault. He said the client’s number was in the car. I asked Nadia to check. Moment she turns her back? He bolts. Tried to yank him back.” Jack shook his head and looked down at Roland. “Son of a bitch.”

The story wasn’t the most plausible Jack had ever concocted. It wasn’t meant to be. It was enough that he’d bothered to give Quinn an excuse that his conscience could accept. I appreciated that, even if Quinn wouldn’t.

So Roland was dead. There was a reason Jack broke his neck instead of shooting him—and why he’d kicked him instead of kneecapping. No bullet wounds. Jack and Quinn wrestled Roland’s bulk into the passenger seat of his car. I even managed to snake around and get his seat belt on, my hands covered to avoid fingerprints. While Quinn and I moved the rental cars onto the road and erased the tire tracks, Jack pried the bullet from Roland’s car tire and found the casing. In the entire hour we’d been there, not a single vehicle had passed. As Jack speculated, it might be a while before they were found.