Job Hunt (39 page)

I
T
TOOK
an hour before Raf called to confirm that it was over. They’d rescued four boys, bagged a couple of no-longer-so-eager customers, and had called social services and the local law to the scene to deal with the bureaucracy for the second time that night.

“Thank God for small mercies,” Lisa breathed as she pushed the sliding doors of the loading bay just wide enough that she could slip out into the early morning. The light was still thin and watery, but traffic noise filtered into the estate, growing louder the longer she listened. The fine mist that had started earlier turned into a more serious drizzle, but Lisa stayed where she was. She needed space and air. Needed to hear something other than Goran Mitrovic’s moans and labored breathing. Needed to see something other than a motionless, hollow-eyed Jack Horwood clinging to the wall.

She wrapped her arms tight around her torso, struggling to hold back a bone-deep shudder that had nothing to do with the early morning chill and everything to do with her mind accepting how scary Jack Horwood really was.

The man had been a tightly coiled bundle of energy all night, moving with focus, purpose, and more grace than should be allowed. Jack’s experience shone through in the way he handled distractions, blended into the crowd, and never once lost sight of the target.

Lisa couldn’t wait to find out what other information Jack had collected during those hours at the dining club. Rumors credited him with a photographic memory and mad skills in catching patterns before anyone else did. Clive had merely told her to enjoy watching Jack work and prepare for arresting scumbags from here to Easter. Having seen Jack in action, she was more inclined to believe the hype.

Jack Horwood was all about control. He’d been running on adrenaline and rage, but he’d had himself well in hand until she’d found the hiding space inside the tobacco bales. It was then that Jack had changed. Lisa couldn’t imagine what it took for Jack to withdraw so completely into himself that even his eyes looked lifeless. What it took for Jack to turn into someone who was prepared to torture to save a group of boys from more suffering. And do it outside of any capacity that could exonerate or even protect him. Jack was a civilian. His actions, if misconstrued, would land him in jail for the rest of his life.

It was the most fucked up version of an eye for an eye that Lisa had ever witnessed. She should be revolted and yet….

“What you told him in there, is it true?” she asked in barely more than a whisper when Jack closed the sliding door and came to stand beside her in the street.

Jack looked steadily into her eyes as he nodded. “I am Ricky,” he said, voice so calm it sent new shivers flashing across Lisa’s skin. “I am Daniel and Nico and any boy those bastards have ever laid hands on. Only difference is, I stole a knife, and I got away. I was lucky, and I’m putting that luck to use.”

“That’s a job for the law,” Lisa told him, voice quiet.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Then why—” Lisa didn’t get far before Jack interrupted her.

“Because I made it out. Because I owe someone up there for that alone.” He regarded her from the corner of his eye, considering, then went ahead with what he wanted to say anyway. “If you had arrested Mitrovic in the dining club as you wanted, we would have lost the boys. They would have disappeared into another hellhole, and we’d never have got them back.”

“We could have kept the arrest quiet.” That had been the one point of contention between them while they planned the takedown. She’d argued the matter hotly, but when Clive, Raf, Nell, and even Walshaw took Jack’s side, she’d conceded and agreed to Jack’s plan.

“You’re deluded,” Jack maintained, just as he had done before. “Men like Mitrovic keep ears everywhere. And I’m not the only hacker out there.” He took a few steps away from her suddenly. Over his shoulder he said: “I usually go in alone for a reason….”

“You regret that I saw you. You’re sorry you had to torture Mitrovic.”

Jack turned and stared at her, half twisted around. A smear of blood was drying on his cheek, and his T-shirt, hands and even his phone were streaked red. He looked like a barbarian warrior after a gruesome battle, but his eyes were clear and wide with disbelief. “I’m
what
?”

“You’re sorry you—”

“I heard you the first time.” Jack looked down at his blood-smeared hands. Held them out and turned them over this way and that as if he might read his answer in his palms. “You’re so wrong, it’s hilarious,” he said and his voice held the resonant silence Lisa associated with the white-tiled horror of the morgue. “This wasn’t about the pimp. This is
never
about the pimp.”

C
HAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
D
ECOMPRESSION

I
F
IT
hadn’t been for the fleet of squad cars and the sea of flashing blue lights, Raf would have driven right past the small estate. The place was too nondescript to attract even a second glance from anyone passing.

His clearance let him drive close to the loading bay where Lisa leaned against the wall, the previous night’s schoolgirl fantasy now a tired illusion. The gray jumper drooped off her shoulders, the fluffy wool turned limp by the soft drizzle, and the hat was missing. Strands of dark hair escaped from their plaits and spilled untidily around her, while a tartan blanket draped her shoulders and let her huddle into the warmth and shelter it provided. And while Lisa was aware of Raf’s approach, she never took her eyes from Jack Horwood.

Jack stood next to a police car, tablet in hand and eyes riveted on the small screen, ignoring the flashing lights, the milling officers, and the discomfort of drying blood all over him. He didn’t appear hurt, but Raf thought it better to make sure.

“Any of that blood his?”

“No,” Lisa got out before she flattened her lips into a tight line and breathed deep and slow.

Raf had wondered how Jack had extracted the brothel’s location so quickly when they had failed to find the place by trailing the boys. Hard-as-nails Lisa Tyrrell looking faintly green next to a blood-spattered Jack Horwood answered that question.

“That bad, eh?” He pulled Lisa close and pushed her face against his shirt, letting her breathe the familiar scents of laundry detergent, aftershave, and leather until the nausea passed.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said, trying to keep her voice low enough that Jack wouldn’t hear. “He didn’t even get angry. Not loud, I mean. It was strange. He was so detached… clinical….” She scrubbed a hand over her face. “Elsewhere.”

“And that bothered you.” It wasn’t a question, and Lisa didn’t treat it as one. She just nodded.

“Let’s get you two out of here,” Raf decided. He returned to the car and pulled a clean long-sleeved top from a bag on the passenger seat. “Horwood?”

Jack looked up from the tablet, and Raf waved the shirt at him. “You done?”

“Sure.” Jack handed the tablet back to the officer in the car with a nod of thanks and stripped his bloody T-shirt off on the way to Raf’s car, not bothered by the chill, the drizzle, or the audience. He found a relatively unstained corner of fabric to scrub at the drying blood on his face and hands before he pulled the clean shirt over his head.

“I need a shower.”

“Hospital,” Gallant instructed, not in the least surprised when Jack shook his head.

“No need.”

“Hospital,” he reiterated and backed Jack against the SUV, crowding him until Jack gave in and stopped arguing.
Elsewhere
was a good description of Jack Horwood right then. Raf wanted to make sure that was really all. And not just because Gareth Flynn had threatened him with any number of unpleasant fates should he fail to take care of Jack.

Jack buckled himself in and leaned his head back with a deep sigh. “Waste of time,” he mumbled and closed his eyes. His breathing grew deep and even before the warehouse had disappeared out of Raf’s rearview mirror.

“He is unreal,” Lisa said while Raf fought his way through London’s morning rush-hour traffic, and Jack slept peacefully in the backseat, apparently unbothered by the night’s events. “There’s nothing in his file that even hints at… I underestimated him.”

“You’re not the first,” Raf replied. “And you won’t be the last. I’ve been talking to a few people, and they’ve all told me the same thing. If you’re not ready to reap storm, don’t call Jack Horwood. Not in a case that involves children.”

“H
ORWOOD
. W
AKE
up, we’re here.”

Raf’s voice drew him from his nap. A hand touched his elbow, and Jack responded to the pressure. He moved until he had both feet on the concrete and blinked sleepily at the lights. A row of police cars was parked in his line of sight, and that didn’t make much sense at all. Not that anything else did. He’d been in a nightclub… no, scratch that. Warehouse. He’d followed Mitrovic to the warehouse where the man kept his smuggled goods. Yes. And Lisa had—

“Jack!”

He flinched at the sudden shout, not prepared when arms wrapped around him, and he was engulfed in a hug forceful enough to threaten his ribs.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

What the fuck?

A scent like fresh water and freesias, unruly blonde curls, and eyes like molten chocolate—it took time for Jack’s tired mind to put the clues together.

“Don’t, Gill.” He tried to push the woman away. “I’m filthy.”

“And?” Gillian Kent only hugged him harder. “Crap doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“Didn’t get under my skin,” Jack mumbled, still only half-awake and not filtering what he was saying. “Washes off.”

“There you go,” Gillian snorted. “Plenty of soap and water where I hang out. Now let me tell you what you did.”

“Can I have coffee first?”

“How about a shower?” Raf interrupted.

“That too.” Jack stretched, waking up enough to take notice of his surroundings, to recognize the underground parking garage of New Scotland Yard. “I thought you were dragging me off to St. Thom’s?”

“You wanna go there?”

“Hell no.”

“Good.” Raf tossed him a duffel bag Jack recognized as his. “Let’s go. Shower, then debrief.”

Coffee, it seemed, had to wait.

The shower was welcome, though. After three rounds of soap, scrub and rinse under a torrent of blissfully hot water, Jack’s skin felt like his own again. Untainted by Mitrovic’s filth. Shame he couldn’t scrub his mind clean as easily. Jack stretched under the water and closed his eyes. He had kinks in his back from falling asleep in the car after over twenty-four hours on his feet. Working each one out, slowly and methodically, helped him relax.

“You know she can run in those heels?” he asked randomly, convinced that Raf was close by. They had all looked at him as if he needed guarding. Jack scrubbed at the dried blood under his nails with a brush and conceded that, maybe, he did.

“She can kick ass wearing them too,” Raf drawled back.

Jack’s mind replayed the image of Lisa restraining the guard. “I know.” Lisa Tyrrell could kick ass. She could also keep it together. He didn’t dwell on the fact that she’d looked almost green in the early morning light. Instead he remembered her brief touch in the club and the intent teal gaze full of tears that had pulled him out of the worst flashback he’d had in years.

“She makes a damn fine partner,” he decided once he was dressed and drying his hair.

“Well, color me surprised. She’s usually like you. Works alone.” Rafael Gallant sprawled on the bench, long legs out in front of him and hands laced together behind his head. But for the shadows in his eyes he was a picture of ease.

And he didn’t fool Jack for a moment.

“Give me the extras,” Jack requested. Raf raised a brow, and Jack shrugged. “Whatever you’re not going to mention in debriefing.”

“What makes you think—”

“Gallant.”

Raf looked sheepish. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a memory stick, and tossed it in Jack’s direction. “Place had an office,” he said in a voice so low that Jack almost had to read his lips. “I copied this while we were waiting for social services and the police to show.”

“Customer data?”

“Maybe nothing. I didn’t look.”

“Baxter see you?”

“No. Neither did Flynn.”

Jack shoved the tiny key into the front pocket of his jeans and waited for Raf to continue speaking. “And?” he prodded, when nothing was forthcoming.

“Nothing.”

Raf chewed on his lower lip and contemplated his feet until Jack let it go. He pulled on his boots and rummaged in his bag until he found a fleece top to wear over his long-sleeved tee. It would help ward off the shivers left over from the flashback and excess adrenaline.

“I’ve ordered a new phone,” he said. “Someone will bring it by. That a problem?”

“Nah. We’ll swing by the front desk on our way up. You okay with debriefing over breakfast?”

“Anything that gets me out of here sooner.”

T
HE
MAIN
reception area was busy with both uniforms and civilians, allowing Jack to blend into the crowd without a problem.

His new phone—courtesy of Rio—was waiting for them when Rafael checked, and Jack dismantled the thing as soon as he’d sat down at the conference table, ignoring Baxter, Gillian Kent, Nell, and even Raf beyond a quick wave hello. Jack trusted Rio as much as he trusted anyone, but his leaving MI6 had changed many things, and Jack was taking no chances.

Coffee and breakfast appeared as he switched SIM cards, and he downed the first mug of black gold while he sent a check-in text to Gareth. He was working on the second mug along with a bacon sandwich when Lisa came in, showered and changed into tight jeans and warm wool.

Jack surprised himself when he got up and grabbed her into a tight hug. “Thanks,” he said, voice low. “It was good to have you at my back.”

“Don’t make it a habit,” she begged in an equally low voice. “But call me if you need help, okay?”