Job Hunt (32 page)

“I’d love to tie Mitrovic to the stabbing.”

“Wouldn’t we all? I’m happy to go digging for any connection between the two, but Lisa’s not really fond of my way of working.”

“I don’t think she cares.”

Since when? What had happened to make Lisa drop the book she usually adhered to so carefully? There weren’t too many options, and Jack pulled the phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial keyed to Clive Baxter.

“What do you need, Jack?” came the detective’s voice through the receiver a moment later.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit warmed over, why?”

“I was… just wondering.”

“That’s why you’re ringing? Really? Stop that, it’s creepy.” Baxter sounded incredulous, and well he might. It wasn’t every day that Jack called him just to ask how he was. Jack got that.

“I know. Sorry. Take it easy, will you? I’ll talk to you later.” Jack closed his phone on Clive’s annoyed huff. Baxter would take it easy when hell froze over. He was very much like Jack that way. But if Clive was as okay as he could be after being stabbed, it made Lisa’s strange request more worrisome.

“Why doesn’t she care?” he enquired, not really expecting an answer.

Alex’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. “You might not know this, but Lisa also has a history of playing bait. She didn’t start as early as you did with your mother’s killer, but she’s done it a lot in the past, and she’s considered very good at it.”

“I didn’t get the impression that Mitrovic had any use for women,” Jack posed, pragmatic.

“Maybe not.”

She didn’t elaborate, and since it wasn’t a conversation Jack wanted to have, he didn’t dig. “Fine. I’ll see what I can find,” he said when Alex’s power drill stare started to grate on his nerves. “Give me an hour?”

“That would be excellent.”

G
ARETH
RAISED
his head from the avalanche of papers on his desk and watched Jack walk in with a mug of tea in one hand and a large jug of water in the other. He took the steaming mug Jack held out to him, grateful as much for the break it signified as for the stimulus it promised, while Jack made his way around the desk to the lemon trees.

“Alex said they weren’t self-sustaining,” Jack explained as he watered each tree. “Apparently you forget about your plants when you’re distracted.”

“And I suppose she told you I am. Distracted, that is.”

“Yep.” Jack set the empty carafe down and crossed his arms. “Not that I’ve noticed, but then maybe she knows you better.”

“Better than who?”

“Dunno? Me?”

Gareth didn’t know what to make of the strange tone in Jack’s voice. “Jack? Whatever it is… just spit it out.”

“Lisa has a thing for Clive.”

“Yes, and?”

“She asked Alex to help her interrogate Gary Downs. And Alex in turn asked me to find her some dirt to work with.”

“Which you did, I assume?”

“Sure.”

“And now you’re bothered by hypocrisy?”

“More disappointed, really.” Jack meandered aimlessly around the office, hands jammed into the back pockets of his jeans. He looked out the windows at the view, inspected the rows of herbs growing on the windowsill and the spines of books without—Gareth would have sworn to that—retaining a single image. Gareth remembered nights like this, when they’d tried to make sense of arcane bits of intelligence Jack had turned up in his searches, and Jack had needed to move while his mind processed. The appearance of a bowl of juggling balls on Jack’s desk hadn’t surprised Gareth one bit, and he was ready to listen when Jack suddenly stopped walking.

“I’m bothered about all this suddenly becoming personal. That never ends well.”

“I thought it was personal for you.”

Jack shook his head. “Not like that. I don’t want revenge or justice or whatever else Lisa is after.”

“That’s not what you said the night Lisa called us into Scotland Yard.”

“I know.”

Jack settled himself on the edge of Gareth’s desk, close enough for Jack’s jeans-clad thigh to touch Gareth’s arm and for Gareth to feel the warmth emanating from Jack’s body. Close enough for Gareth to hope that this search for contact was entirely deliberate.

“I was torn up about Ricky,” Jack confided. “I needed someone to blame besides myself. So yes, right then I wanted a head to nail to the wall. Now, it’s different.”

“Could be Lisa’s at the feeling guilty stage.”

“It’s not her fault Clive went into that club.”

“You don’t know that. They could have had a fight. You won’t know why it’s personal unless you ask her.”

“Do you think she’ll give me an answer?”

The Lisa Tyrrell Gareth knew was headstrong, determined, and very, very sure of herself. She was also very loyal. “Probably not.”

And just like that, Jack’s shoulders relaxed, and the frown lines between his brows disappeared. “I’m gonna go see Nico and Daniel,” he announced.

“What about…?” Gareth waved his hand around the room in an attempt to encompass the conversation they’d just tried to have.

Jack was already half out of the door, but he stopped at Gareth’s words and looked back over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure I watch my back.”

Gareth sat, mug still in hand, staring past his avalanche of paperwork at the half-open door. He wondered what Jack’s sudden appearance had really been all about and vowed with quiet determination that Jack watching his own back was a thing of the past.

T
HE
CRY
was deafening in the dark, quiet room: a high, pain-filled wail dying away to a terrified whimper. Jack was up before the scream reached its peak, and he was wrapped around Nico before the boy’s sobs started.

Just like Jack had all those years ago, Nico clung to his knife as if to a lifeline. But utterly unlike Jack, Nico allowed himself to be touched, to be pulled close enough to be comforted.

Jack had expected Nico’s reaction. The evening had been too quiet and mundane for the dark-haired teen to process. Nico’s mind couldn’t marry the recent horrors with teasing banter around the dinner table, with the boys washing dishes under Mrs. Flynn’s careful gaze while Jack talked about chasing leaks and ribbed Skylar about his fashion sense and apparent fascination with purple eyeliner. There had been no mention of self-defense, the boys’ daily knife practice, or the fact that Skylar had started to teach them when Jack was needed elsewhere.

Skylar Payne was quite the enigma: a highly paid, highly sought-after stylist and makeup artist who didn’t look out of place next to his celebrity clients but who, if the information Jack had found was even close to the truth, freelanced as an expert investigator and close protection specialist. And who also put phenomenally lethal knife skills to use when needed. Judging by the constant stream of insults, taunts, and bickering, Skylar and Raf Gallant had history, though Skylar was surprisingly innocent when compared to the rest of the safe house’s occupants.

For that reason alone, Jack was grateful that Skylar wasn’t close by when halting, strangled words emerged from between Nico’s sobs. The words froze Jack’s blood and twisted his mind into a wellspring of anguish, though nothing Nico revealed was unexpected. Not the imprisonment or the beatings, the abuse or depravities the boys had been forced to endure. Nico had paid attention, had caught and remembered names, recalled small details that made his tale harrowing in its vividness. Jack didn’t interrupt. He held the shaking, sobbing boy and rubbed calming hands over Nico’s back and shoulders. He made soothing noises when Nico faltered, let him catch his breath and gather his courage to give voice to the horrors once more.

In those quiet moments, Jack wondered about the lack of sound and movement from the other side of the large double bed. Daniel slept so lightly that Nico’s scream should have woken him. And yet, the blond boy lay curled on his side, unmoving and seemingly fast asleep. The rest of the house was just as silent, poised on the edge of the abyss Nico’s words created, the occupants holding their collective breaths while Nico sobbed out his anguish.

Jack focused on Nico’s weight in his arms, tried to tune out the boy’s halting words or at least obscure their meaning in favor of hearing nothing but
sound
. It worked as well as it ever had. The words slipped through his defenses like acid dripping into his soul until Jack could smell stale beer and bitter aftershave and feel the bite of the lash on his back once more.

“Mrs. Flynn says that talking about bad stuff is your brain’s way to get rid of it,” Nico confided once the storm had passed, and only the occasional hiccup broke his voice.

“Hmm,” Jack hummed. He’d been told that particular bit of wisdom too, and if it helped Nico, he was all for encouraging the teen to believe it. Jack wasn’t wired that way. He had never shared the details of his imprisonment with anyone and had even learned—after Rio had explained to him what PTSD was and how it worked—to deal with the flashbacks on his own. Rio had offered to help, but Jack had never asked.

“When you were….” Nico’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. “Did you ever think of killing yourself?”

“No, never.” Not then, and never once since. “I was thinking of ways to get out,” Jack explained. “I never considered suicide.”

“I didn’t either,” Nico whispered, and Jack didn’t need cat ears to hear the fear in Nico’s voice. “Daniel does, though.”

“Not anymore,” Daniel said softly from the darkness, confirming Jack’s suspicion that the blond teen had been awake all along. “Not anymore, Nico. I promise.”

“S
HIT
,
MAN
,
are you okay?” Raf waited in the hallway as Jack stepped from the master bedroom, concern like a cloud around him. Jack had no idea how to respond to Raf’s concern or to the quiet sympathy in Gareth’s mother’s eyes as she took his place in the boys’ bedroom.

Nico had fallen asleep the moment Jack had tucked him in, exhausted from telling his story. Daniel had taken a while longer to relax. He’d clung to Jack and Nico, tears on his cheeks that he wouldn’t wipe away, until sleep finally claimed him. Jack had sat by their bedside for a while, needing space to breathe before he faced Raf and Skylar and people yelling demands into his ear. He needed the time to restore his defenses, resurrect the detachment that most people took for coldhearted professionalism, but that was his shield and armor.

Jack didn’t believe in any higher powers to invoke in prayer. He knew that he couldn’t promise complete safety. All he could do was go out and fight another day, make sure the rats were cleaned off the streets more often than not. That was all anyone could ever do. Which wasn’t to say that accepting that fact was easy. Not in the face of Nico’s anguish. Or in the face of Jack’s own rage.

“Tell me you got all that,” Jack begged Raf as he headed for the kitchen. He needed a drink. Just one, so he’d not get on the bike and go inflict damage in some club.

Raf nodded, the concern in the hazel eyes not lessening one iota. “We got it, annotated and witnessed. Skylar says it will clean up perfectly.”

“Make sure Lisa and Clive get it. They need it most.”

“You didn’t need it at all, did you?” Raf muttered while Jack found the whisky in the kitchen cabinet and splashed a generous mouthful into a glass. “You were right when you said Nico would break.”

“Nico
did not
break,” Jack snarled. His professional facade could go right to hell. “He’s one of the most courageous kids I’ve ever met. Most grown men wouldn’t survive what he and Daniel have been through, so don’t talk to me about breaking. Not after he’s given you everything you need to nail Mitrovic to the fence!”

The whisky bottle thumped onto the kitchen counter, and Raf took a step out of the direct path of Jack’s wrath, hands in loose fists up in front of his face. “Go ahead, blow off steam,” he invited, “but keep in mind it’s 2:00 am.”

“Fucker.” Jack drew a deep breath, not placated but recognizing Raf’s actions for what they were. He didn’t need a mirror to know that he looked like an angry hurricane trying to keep a lid on a smoldering volcano. Precisely the reason he’d come down and gone for a bottle.

The whisky burned his throat, but it warmed and soothed as it went down. Jack relaxed his shoulders and took another sip, smaller this time, appreciating the flavor. He had a taste for Islay Malt, the soothing burn, the blend of soft and salty, the bite of peat behind the smoke. It did its job, easing the churning in his gut and taking the edge off the angry buzz in his mind.

“Where is everyone?” The quiet in the house suddenly seemed ominous, despite the late—or early—hour.

“Mrs. Flynn’s traded off with you,” Raf answered without hesitation. “Skylar is making the rounds outside. You should get some sleep.”

Jack shook his head. “Not happening. You can go get some shut-eye if you want. I’ll keep watch.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Raf pulled another glass from the cupboard, picked up the bottle, and waved at Jack to precede him into the living room. “I’ll keep you company. You look like you could use it.”

Jack settled against the sofa cushions and cradled his drink, surprised to find that he was grateful for Raf’s presence when, usually, he worked best alone. He kept his own counsel, made his own choices, and dealt with the consequences alone. He wasn’t used to people offering to watch his back or fight his battles, and he wasn’t sure he liked the idea. Fighting alone had advantages he didn’t want to give up. For one, he never had to worry about anyone else getting hurt.

Right now, though, having company was good.

C
HAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
C
ATCH
AND
R
ELEASE

M
ORNINGS
WHERE
even the Gixxer’s throaty rumble irritated Jack were rare. He rode faster than was safe in the dim light and pouring rain, just to make it to the quiet haven that was his desk. Every winking traffic light intensified the snowstorm of pain behind his eyes. Every squeal of tire on wet asphalt or impatient blare of horn increased the tension in his back so that he welcomed the cool, empty darkness of Nancarrow Mining’s underground garage with much more enthusiasm than it warranted. Feeling like shit warmed over and with Nico’s words still wreaking havoc in his mind, he sought his work as a condemned man seeks absolution.