Wild Justice

CHAPTER 8

Jack won. Again. In the early stages, it was close, but the more we drank, the more it became obvious that I wasn’t in his league for short-range shooting. With every hit from the whiskey bottle, my aim got worse. Jack had to get almost halfway through it to even affect his aim. And that’s about all the effect it had. When he drinks, he doesn’t get any louder, any more talkative, any more open, and his aim stays good. He just gets a little unsteady. Which is how we ended up on the ground.

We abandoned the bottle and ran out of bullets around the same time. I’d used up my ammo first, so I was stumbling around the forest, finding our shot-up cans to throw for him, drunk enough that even that was a chore.

“Passed one,” Jack called.

I looked back, squinting at the ground. Or it looked like the ground. When it comes to drinking, I’m a lightweight. I was plastered, and I was not seeing the can, even with his directions.

Finally, he made his way out to me. Then I caught the glint of metal and bent to pick it up. Just as he came up behind me, I stood, smacked into him, and down we went, with me on his lap. Which would have been a whole lot sexier if I wasn’t dead drunk.

“Damn,” I said, craning my neck. “It’s a long way up.”

“Then don’t get up. Not sure I could.”

I laughed and leaned back against him for a moment before pulling away. “If we’re going to pass out in the forest, at least let me find my own spot to do it before I crush you.”

“Nah.” He put his arms loosely around me. “You’re light. Also, warm. Getting cold.”

It was, and he was warm, too, warm and solid, propped against a tree. If he wasn’t going to argue, then this was a perfectly comfortable place to pass out. Which I promptly did.

When we woke, it was morning and we were still sitting on the forest floor. And I was still mostly on Jack’s lap. I felt him stirring and I tensed, ready to jump up, mumbling apologies. But he only yawned and patted my leg. “You awake?” he asked.

“Yes, and I’m getting up before you notice the damp spot on your shirt, which, by the way, is dew, not drool.”

A chuckle and another leg pat as I rose. He then groaned softly as he pushed up.

“Too old for that shit,” he muttered, rubbing his lower back.

“The boozing or the sleeping on cold ground?”

“Both.” A faint shiver. “Fucking freezing.”

I walked back to the log and retrieved his jacket, which he’d taken off after a few hits from the bottle. As he shrugged it on, he looked over, studying me, and I tensed. He was going to ask what I’d decided, and I braced for the question.

“You remember where we left the car?”

I smiled. “Follow me.”

As we walked back, I realized he wasn’t going to mention Aldrich. Not now. Maybe not ever. He’d found him. He’d told me what he thought I should do. He’d related his own experience. The ball was now in my court, and if I chose to quietly slip off the field, he wouldn’t comment.

“I’m going to do it,” I said.

He looked back at me.

“Aldrich,” I said. “You’re right. If I don’t, I’ll be constantly scouring the news, worrying that he’ll go after another girl.”

He stopped walking. “You rather I never found him?”

I shook my head. “If Amy was here, she wouldn’t tell me to turn the other cheek. She’d want him to pay. He’s had twenty years of freedom. Time to end this.”

One would think that having made the decision, we should have proceeded amicably into planning and execution. Didn’t happen. In fact, the first thing we did was argue.

“You doing it?” Jack asked as we pulled onto the highway. “Or you want me to?”

“I am. Thanks for the offer, but there’s no way I can justify—”

“Don’t need to justify. I’m offering.”

I took a deep breath. “I don’t feel any overwhelming need to pull the trigger myself. It isn’t about killing him—it’s about seeing him dead. But I don’t have an aversion to doing it, so that’s best.”

A few minutes of quiet driving. Then, “If I disagree?”

“I’m not going to screw this up, Jack. I won’t see his face and flip out and—”

“Never said that. But I presume you plan to look him in the eye. Tell him why he’s dying. Might bring shit up.”

“Bring shit up?”

“Stuff you’ve forgotten.”

I stiffened. “I know it’s going to bring back memories, Jack.”

“Do you?” He glanced over. “Really?”

I glared at him. “Yes, really.”

He said nothing more until he turned off into the city. “I’m not a shrink. Never been to one. Shot a couple. Don’t think that counts. Point is, I don’t know how this works. Memories and shit. Better off confronted? Or buried?”

“Confronted,” I said. “I’m sure there are things I’ve forgotten or repressed that might come back when I see him. But I choose to take that risk. I choose to deal with it.”

“You gonna remember that?”

Another glare aimed his way. “If you’re asking me to remember my choice if it all goes to hell, I will.”

“Know that. Just . . .” He looked over now as we paused at a stoplight. “I want this to help you, Nadia. Make things better. If it makes them worse? Really do not want that.”

“I know,” I said, and we resumed driving in silence.

I called Emma to say I wouldn’t be home for the weekend. It was Friday, and we couldn’t pull this hit until Sunday at the earliest.

The next step was disguises. In Michigan I’d been wearing a variation on my usual hitman outfit. Not leather and stilettos, as much as I’m sure that would fulfill someone’s idea of a female assassin. I go the polar opposite route. I wear no makeup and sweats with padding to add an extra thirty pounds. My own hairstyle doesn’t exactly rock the fashion world—shoulder-length auburn curls—but the wig is worse, nondescript brown hair trimmed with scissors to give it that “I cut my own hair” look. Middle-aged nobody. The invisible woman.

It’s a lot harder to be invisible when there’s two of you. So Jack usually picks our disguises, which have two basic variations, depending on the locale. Aldrich’s neighborhood was nice enough that the biker-and-bitch combo we sometimes use wasn’t going to work, so we went with working-class guy and second wife.

I got straight, dark hair and dark contacts. Jack got gray-free hair and contacts that turned his dark eyes hazel. He also got dark beard stubble, which he didn’t need to fake, having not been near a razor in a few days. He added a small tattoo on the back of his hand, some youthful whim that I’m sure his character regretted now. I added bright red glasses. The tattoo and glasses were “distinguishing features.” They’re what people notice, often at the expense of more mundane but important things like face shape and body size.

We set out to Newport, where Aldrich worked. To pull a good hit, you need to know the target’s routine. That’s not how every pro operates. In fact, contrary to what Hollywood shows, your average hitman isn’t a skilled assassin, slipping up on his target in some clever disguise, killing him in some endlessly creative fashion before vanishing into the night. The average hitman is just a thug who doesn’t mind killing people. He finds his target alone, walks up, and pulls the trigger.

I located a vacant apartment over a shop across from the police station. Judging by the dust, the apartment had been empty for months, maybe years, and the owners had given up trying to rent it.

We took turns using binoculars. It was nearly noon when I spotted Aldrich coming out of the station.

Jack worried that seeing Aldrich might be too much for me. But as I watched him coming down the steps, I didn’t see the man who’d raped and killed my cousin. I saw a target. Any emotional reaction had come when I’d seen his photo in Jack’s folder.

I watched Aldrich walk down the stairs and I thought He’s gotten old. And, He’s put on weight. And, He’s favoring his left leg. The observations of a predator sizing up prey.

“That him?” Jack said, squinting out the window.

“It is.”

I handed him the binoculars, but he didn’t take them, just studied my expression.

“I’m fine, Jack. I had my freak-out yesterday. Now all I’m thinking is that he’s gotten old and slow.”

“Yeah. Know what that’s like.”

“Believe me, it’ll be a long time before you’re that old.”