Exit Strategy Part 36

In a flash, he was back in that house, in that hall, seeing Jack down the hall illuminated by the moonlight. His face hard. Emotionless and cold, as if he knew he'd make his shot. Jack hadn't feared starting a gun battle in an empty house because he knew he'd instinctively cover all the contingencies, that even if he wasn't hunting a mark, he'd have covered his traces.

So d.a.m.ned perfect. Jack wouldn't have panicked and crawled into this van, bleeding.

Wilkes shook off the thought. He'd leave this as an unmarked killing, and he'd be safe. That meant the Helter Skelter killer couldn't strike in or near Vegas tonight-couldn't take the chance of the murders being linked.

It didn't matter. He'd make up for it. Something bigger. Better. Splashier. Let the Feds think he'd been pulling their strings with the train hit, making them dance. He'd do it right next time.

Then he'd take care of Jack.

FORTY.

We searched for longer than we should have. If I needed further proof that Jack was as frustrated by this "interruption" as I was, this was it. After a thorough sweep, we should have left, in case the dozing guard awoke. Even more dangerous was our pursuer himself, possibly holed up somewhere, gun poised, ready to blast if anything crept past his hiding spot. That I I realized this first-when the black fury over losing our prey lifted long enough for me to take stock of my situation-proved how furious Jack was. realized this first-when the black fury over losing our prey lifted long enough for me to take stock of my situation-proved how furious Jack was.

When I did realize it, I felt a lick of fear, worried that if I suggested we should quit, he'd turn that anger on me. Yet I didn't get more than a whispered "Jack, I think-" out before he was nodding and nudging me to a quiet spot, where he said the very words I'd been ready to speak, as if he'd already realized we should leave and had just been holding out a few minutes longer before surrendering.

And it did did feel like surrender. Jack said our target had probably left, and I agreed, but we both knew neither of us believed it. Even if we suspected it, we wanted to be sure, to cover every square inch, hunt until dawn drove us off. feel like surrender. Jack said our target had probably left, and I agreed, but we both knew neither of us believed it. Even if we suspected it, we wanted to be sure, to cover every square inch, hunt until dawn drove us off.

It was a silent drive to the hotel.

Instead of letting me sink into my black thoughts, the quiet refocused my attention. Jack was just as angry, just as frustrated as I was, and what I felt was the overwhelming need, not to join him, but to pull him out of it. Help him as he'd helped me last night, after the opera.

Yet last night, he'd initially seemed uncertain how to help, leaving my room to buy a bottle. Only later did he hit on the perfect diversion-And so now I sat there, wishing I knew him better, knew how to help.

When we finally reached the hotel and got inside, I said the only thing I could think of.

"You got him. Shot him, I mean. For all we know, he's holed up, dead."

Jack shook his head, tossing his keys on the dresser, rattling as they collapsed in a heap.

"f.u.c.ked up," he said.

"You? I never even got off a shot."

He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the chair then, with a glance my way, picked it up and laid it neatly across the back. I watched him, measuring the set of his jaw, the force of his footfalls as he crossed the room. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, vertebrae crackling. Then he kicked off his shoes, thumping one-two on the carpet.

"f.u.c.ked up," he said again, as if he'd never paused the conversation. "Back at Little Joe's place. That punk. Message wasn't enough."

"We don't know that. This was more likely Gallagher's man-"

"Doesn't matter." He lowered himself onto the bed, springs squeaking. "Ten years ago? Would a put a bullet in him. Never thought twice. Punks like that? Can't let them think they bested you."

Another neck rub. "But like I said tonight? Ten years ago? Don't much like who I was then. Things I did. These days? Try to find other ways. Sometimes? Go too far."

"Even if you had killed that guy the other day, that's not to say the Nikolaevs wouldn't have sent this one...if that's who did send him."

Jack opened his mouth, as if to argue, then said, "Gotta get some sleep."

"Can you? I mean, I'm not sure I I can so if there's anything I can do..." can so if there's anything I can do..."

He paused and I could tell he was ready to lie and say "Nah, I'm good," but then he glanced my way, hesitated a few more seconds and said, "Talk to me."

I managed a wry smile. "Now that I can do, as you well know-though, after I get going, you probably wish I came with a shut-up b.u.t.ton."

He met my gaze. "Never."

I felt my cheeks heat. Didn't know why, but felt the blush anyway as I stumbled on. "If it's war stories you're looking for, I'm afraid I can't match yours. Mine are all pretty much 'find Mafia thug, kill Mafia thug.' Good for putting you to sleep, though..."

"None of that s.h.i.t. Just tell me..." He shrugged. "Talk about the lodge. Your plans. Where you want to be in five years."

"Still open for business."

A quarter-smile. "Yeah. I know. You will be. Must have plans, though."

"Tons of them."

"Tell me."

And so I did. Babbled on about the lodge, my plans for it, and he listened, even prolonging the conversation with questions and suggestions. Absolutely meaningless drivel that we managed to invest with all the gravity and consideration we gave to our investigation plans.

After ten minutes, we were stretched atop our respective beds, heads on the pillows. Jack had his shirt off, jeans still on, half ready for bed but not prepared to make the full commitment. Another twenty, and his questions came slower, as he relaxed, lack of sleep from the night before catching up with him. Ten more and he was gone, snoring softly, as if exhausted.

I slipped from bed, tiptoeing, knowing how easily he woke. I took a blanket from the closet and laid it over him, as he'd done with his jacket the night before. Then I changed into my nightshirt, turned off the lights and crawled into bed.

"Nadia..."

Running. Lungs on fire. Heart pounding. It hurt. Hurt so bad. Pain ripping through me. Couldn't think about that. Couldn't think about me me. All that mattered was Amy. Gotta get home. Gotta tell my dad...

Hands grabbed me, strong hands. I fought, kicking, biting.

"Nadia..."

Arms going around me, holding me still. Restraining me. No! Wouldn't let him touch me again. Wouldn't let him- "Nadia!"

I slammed awake, head flying back, gulping air. For a moment, I seemed to hang there, between sleep and waking, not sure where I belonged. Then I felt the arms around me, bare skin hot against mine. I blinked. A face appeared, black eyes, tousled black hair, black beard shadow framing a frown...Jack.

I jumped, arms flailing, one catching him in the jaw hard enough that the smack resounded through the tiny room.

"Oh, geez," I said, scrambling up. "I'm sor-"

"Deserved it," he said, rubbing his jaw. "Shouldn't have startled you."

He sat on the edge of my bed, still dressed only in his jeans.

"You were having a nightmare," he said.

Wisps of the dream fluttered back to me. "I was. I'm sorry. I didn't mean-Did I wake you?"

"Yeah. That's what I'm worried about. Losing a few hours of sleep." He met my gaze. "Seemed like a bad one. You were...screaming."

I rubbed my eyes. "Sorry."

"Stop that. f.u.c.k." He shook his head and went silent, as if considering something, then, slowly, turned to meet my gaze. "You were calling for your cousin."

"My-?" The word jammed in my throat. "You know."

"Yeah. Evelyn."

Of course. I'd already suspected she'd found the case. It wasn't difficult-almost any article on the Franco incident mentioned my past.

I rubbed my throat. His gaze went there, and stayed there. I yanked my hand away.

"That's where you got it," he said. "Isn't it?"

His fingertips brushed the faint scar on my throat.

"N-no," I said, backing up and instinctively ducking my head, covering the mark. "That's just-Kids' stuff. You know. Goofing around, doing what our parents always tell us not to do. I learned my lesson. Anyway, I'm sorry I woke you and-"

"Papers don't say anything about you."

"Papers?"

"Your cousin's murder. The articles. Said you escaped unharmed."

"Amy-" I swallowed. "She was prettier, more mature. So he picked her first and..."

"Left you alone?"

I met his gaze. "Yes."

In the silence that followed, I sat there, mouth slightly open as I struggled for slow, easy breaths. He stared out across the room, and rubbed his lower lip. Twice his gaze swung my way and I froze, certain he was going to ask another question.

The third time, his gaze came to rest on my throat and I struggled to keep my chin up, letting him look.

"What'd you do?"

"Wha-?" The word came out as a squeak. I coughed. "What?"

"The scar. Looks like a knife wound."

I managed a laugh, a little too high-pitched, but he didn't seem to notice, his expression unchanged.

"If anyone asks, that's exactly what it is," I said, forcing a smile that felt like baring my teeth. "It'll give me some street cred. Truth is, I sliced it open climbing a barbed-wire fence."

"Huh."

"Stupid kid tricks, huh?"

I pried my grip from the bottom sheet, twisted to sit up more and found myself caught in the covers. I looked down to see them tangled around my bare legs, my oversized T-shirt bunched up around my stomach, underwear on full display.

I yanked my shirt down. "I think I need more roommate-friendly sleepwear."

He didn't answer. Just sat there, studying me, then after a moment, his gaze dipped away and he shrugged, gesturing at his bare chest. "I'm not any better."

"Well, between the two of us, we're fully dressed."

"Yeah."

He stayed there, gaze fixed on something across the room. I tried not to stare...but, well, he was sitting right there, in front of me, so he was all I could could see, his head tilted slightly, face in shadow, strong jaw set, dark beard stubble somehow emphasizing the planes of his face, making it rougher, s.e.xier. Yes, s.e.xier, as much as I hated to admit it, even to myself. He looked d.a.m.ned good half naked, with the muscled chest and arms of someone who stays in shape because he has to, not necessarily because he wants to. Nothing showy, just lean and hard and s.e.xy as h.e.l.l. see, his head tilted slightly, face in shadow, strong jaw set, dark beard stubble somehow emphasizing the planes of his face, making it rougher, s.e.xier. Yes, s.e.xier, as much as I hated to admit it, even to myself. He looked d.a.m.ned good half naked, with the muscled chest and arms of someone who stays in shape because he has to, not necessarily because he wants to. Nothing showy, just lean and hard and s.e.xy as h.e.l.l.

And here I'd been lying in bed beside him, my shirt riding up around my stomach, more than half naked, and he hadn't so much as snuck a second look...if he'd even noticed at all. That stung.

As I pulled back and tugged the covers over my legs, he looked over sharply, as if startled.

"You tired?" he said.

"No, and it wouldn't matter if I was. Once I start having the nightmares, they don't end until I stop sleeping."

He nodded. I adjusted the sheet some more, but he still didn't get up. His hand moved to the s.p.a.ce between us, bracing himself, and his bicep flexed. The skin there was rough, unnatural, and when I looked closer, I could make out the ghost of a surgically erased tattoo, a symbol of some kind, invisible from more than a few inches away.

My gaze slid off his arm to another patch of disfigured skin over his breast. A star-shaped pattern of quarter-inch circular burns. I'd seen marks like that before, and knew immediately what they were. Cigarette burns-the lit end held against the skin, applying enough pressure to scorch but not to put out the flame. A crude torture tactic. These marks were old, the burns faded to skin color.

Jack followed my gaze before I could look away.

"War wounds." His mouth opened again, as if considering saying more. It shut, then reopened, but he only said, "Old."

"So I see."

Again, that hesitation, lips parted, debating the urge to say more. Again, he stopped himself. Again, he restarted.

"Hungry?"

"What?"

"You hungry? We could get breakfast. Catch an earlier flight."

Figures. Here I am, waiting for a great personal revelation, and he's just trying to figure out whether it's too early to suggest breakfast.

"Well, I'm up," I said. "But you're the one whose sleep was disturbed, so if you'd rather catch another couple of hours-"