Wild Justice Read Free

caught the smell of cigarette smoke, a familiar brand, and I thought . . .
You’re not supposed to smoke in a rental car
. Quite possibly the stupidest, most irrelevant thing I could worry about at the moment.
    “Nadia?” The door slammed. “Get the fuck in the car.”
    I glanced over, my mind still swimming upward toward full consciousness. I saw a man. A couple inches under six feet. Average build. Angular features. Wavy black hair threaded with silver.
    “Jack?”
    I stepped backward.
    “Nadia . . .” His voice was low. Telling me not to bolt. Warning me he sure as hell didn’t want to have to run after me, not after he’d come from god-knows-where to find me.
    You’re not real,
I thought.
You can’t be. I’m hallucinating.
    His hand caught my elbow, holding me still, dark eyes boring into mine, the faint smell of cigarette smoke riding a soft sigh.
    “Fuck.” Another sigh. “Nadia? Can you hear me?”
    He took me by the shoulders and steered me to the car. The next thing I knew, I was in the passenger seat and he was pulling the car back onto the road.
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    The tires chirped as the car lurched off the shoulder. “Things went south last night? Should have called.”
    “I didn’t want to bother you.” I looked out at the passing scenery and hiccuped a short laugh. “Which I suppose would have been a lot less bother than this. I’m sorry.” I paused. “Was it Paul?”
    “Paul called Evelyn. She called me.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Stop saying that.” A hard look my way. “What the fuck were you thinking? Didn’t even tell Quinn.”
    “Evelyn called Quinn?”
    “I did.”
    “I’m sor—”
    He cut me off with another look. I
was
sorry, for this, of course, and especially for him having to call Quinn. I’ll be generous and just say they don’t get along.
    “Why didn’t
you
call Quinn?” Jack said. “Thought you and him—”
    “Not anymore.”
    He looked over sharply. “Since when?”
    I shrugged. “About a month ago.”
    “Fuck.” He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Didn’t know about that. Don’t know about this. Never even knew you had a hit. Why?”
    “Didn’t think—” I stopped myself and started again, trying not to copy his speech pattern. “I’d have told you about Quinn the next time you called. As for the hit, it seemed straightforward.”
    “And last night? After it went south. You didn’t think to call?”
    Yes, I did think to call. You’re the first person I thought to call. But getting in touch with you isn’t like just picking up the phone and dialing. It’s a process. Call, leave a message, wait—sometimes days—for you to get your damned messages. And even then, I might as well be talking to voice mail. I’d tell you the hit went bad and you’d say, “Not your fault.” Three words. That would be the entirety of the conversation, and I’d hang up feeling foolish, like I’d bothered you.
* * *
    A half hour later, the car turned and I looked up to see we were pulling into a roadside motel.
    “Oh,” I said. “This isn’t my—”
    “Yeah. Found yours. Twenty fucking miles back. Brought your stuff.”
    “I hid my passport—”
    “Got it.” He nodded at the motel. “Gonna check in. You need rest. I come back, you’ll be here?”
    “I wasn’t trying to run away from you before, Jack. I was confused.” I rubbed my face. “I don’t need to rest. I should head home. If you can just take me back to my rental car—”
    “Car’s gone. Phoned it in.”
    “Then I’ll rent another and—”
    “You’ll stay here while I check in. You bolt . . . ?”
    Normally, I’d joke, “You’ll shoot me?” and he’d make some wry retort. He glanced at me, as if waiting. When I said nothing, he reached over and opened the glove box, then tossed a pack of cigarettes onto my lap.
    “Have one. Won’t be long.” He opened the door, then glanced back. “Can smoke in here. Already did.”
    I fingered the package