Wild Justice

CHAPTER 27

“Can we swing by that bar again,” I asked as we reached the highway on the way back to the hotel.

Jack looked over at me.

“No,” I said. “That’s not my way of saying I really need a drink . . . though I wouldn’t turn one down right now. I want to see if my phone survived. Roland’s bodyguard chucked it across the roof. It’s probably dead, but I’d like to check.”

“All right.”

I eased back my seat and tried not to wince as I changed position. By morning my body would be one giant bruise.

“Okay,” I said. “So we know—”

“Blood,” Jack said suddenly.

“Um . . .”

He glanced over. “I smell blood.”

His gaze flew to the strap peeking from under my jacket sleeve. The edge was dark with blood.

“What the fuck—?” he began.

“You know the problem with strapping a knife on your leg? Getting the knife off without losing fingers—or slicing open your arm.”

“Shit!” He veered into the right lane, as if ready to take the next exit.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Not if I can smell the goddamned blood, Nadia. How bad is it?”

“I’m still walking and talking, and not feeling light-headed, so obviously I didn’t lose a dangerous amount of—”

“Or it’s just bound tight. Fuck. Call Quinn. Tell him to get your phone.”

“I—”

He met my gaze. “Call Quinn now.”

I did.

Jack didn’t take me to the hospital, though he made it clear that would be on the agenda if first aid wasn’t enough. He had his kit in the back, with his duffel, but since my arm was adequately bound, he took me to the hotel room, where he could work with clean water and decent lighting.

The cut was worse than I hoped, but not as bad as Jack feared. He had butterfly bandages in his kit—the small strips that could be used in place of stitches for minor cuts. This didn’t quite meet his definition of “minor,” but the wound had closed and the butterfly bandages did the job.

After that he made me change into my jogging shorts and T-shirt. Then he checked me over, me sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands running down my legs, the adrenaline from the night still pumping, and, yes, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy that, even if he was all business. I seemed to be fine. When he noticed my breathing catching as I inhaled, though, he started checking my ribs again.

“I might have cracked one,” I said. “But if so, there’s nothing that can be done about it.”

“Cracked, okay. Broken? No.”

“If it was broken, I’d have noticed.”

He ignored me and touched my ribs through my shirt, trying to see which one hurt. It was an imperfect method and when it failed, he fingered the hem of my T-shirt, making a motion to tug it up.

“Okay?” he asked.

I quickly tried to recall which bra I was wearing. Yes, that should be the absolute last thing on my mind, but let’s face it, it wasn’t. Sadly, the chance that he’d pull up my shirt and catch a glimpse of a really sexy lace number was zero. My collection ranges from new and plain to old and plain. I was just hoping today’s was at the newer end of the spectrum.

I tugged my shirt up, being careful to keep it below bra level, just in case. Jack checked my ribs, the usual “poke, does that hurt, inhale” routine. So we were doing that, with me on the edge of the bed, shirt up, Jack on one knee in front of me, feeling my rib cage, when the half-shut bedroom door swung open, and Quinn walked in . . . and stopped dead.

Jack tensed in a split-second pause. Then his jaw set, as if to say “I’m not doing anything wrong, so I won’t act as if I am,” and he pressed one of my ribs again, saying, “That one?”

“Nope. Pretty sure it’s only the one on the left.” I glanced up at Quinn. “One cracked rib. Not bad for being thrown from a car.”

“You were thrown?” he said, moving into the room now and handing me my phone. “What happened? The trunk popped open?”

“No, I popped it open, thank you very much. I was mere seconds from making my daring escape, rolling onto a deserted highway, armed only with a knife. But my timing sucks. I popped the trunk just as Jack was firing at the rear tire.” I grinned at Jack. “I bet that was a shock.”

“Yeah.”

“You . . .” Quinn turned on Jack. “You shot out the tire? With her in the trunk?”

“He didn’t know I was opening it.”

“That doesn’t matter. He shot out the goddamn tire with you in the trunk. What the hell were you thinking? You could have killed her!”

“Not in a closed trunk,” I said. “Yes, I could have got the crap knocked out of me, but Jack’s car couldn’t keep up and as far as he knew, I was bound and helpless in the trunk. The second they got away, they’d have pulled over and shot me.” I glanced at Jack. “He took a risk, and I’m absolutely fine with it.”

“Well, I’m not,” Quinn said to Jack. “I don’t care if you take idiotic risks yourself, like driving in front of a train, but you don’t take them for others. That’s not your call.”

Jack just watched Quinn, his eyes narrowing, a look in them that would have made me shut my mouth. Quinn didn’t.

“You could have killed her with a stupid cowboy stunt—” Quinn began.

“And where were you?” Jack said, his voice quiet.

“What?”

“Where the fuck were you, Quinn? So I didn’t have to make that choice. So you could cut Roland off instead. Where were you?” He didn’t pause for an answer. “Right. Waiting for the fucking train.”

“Do you know how close you came to decorating the engine of that train, Jack? Seconds. You were seconds from getting cut in half by it.”

“Didn’t need to cut so close. But had to go around someone else. Who was sitting there. Waiting.”

I figured out the scenario. They’d been caught at that crossing where I’d heard the train coming. Quinn had stopped. Jack had gone around him and over the tracks. That’s why he’d been so far ahead of Quinn when he shot out Roland’s tire.

“Hey, look, my phone’s working,” I said, pushing off the bed. “You know what I could use? A drink. To celebrate the survival of both me and my cell. If you two want to join me to discuss what Roland said, that’d be great. But if you feel the need to keep snarling at each other, I will be downstairs in the bar.”

Quinn backed down first, which was rare. “Sorry. You’re right. However it happened, you’re fine, and that’s all that counts.”

He snuck a look at Jack. The comment was as close to an apology as he could manage, but it was a damned sight more than usual. Yet it was like when Jack pretended Roland had tried to escape—they could never see when the other was making an effort.

Jack strode into the front room and started packing his first-aid supplies. I waved Quinn out of the room and got changed. When I walked into the front room, Quinn was standing there, awkwardly, as Jack fussed with his kit.

“Ready?” I asked Jack.

“Nah. Go on.”

I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “Jack . . .”

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “Just tired. Go. Fill Quinn in about Roland. Get your drink. Relax.” A pause. “Have fun.”

I glanced at him sharply, seeing if he was being sarcastic.

“Mean it,” he said, his voice soft. “Go on. I’m fine.”