“Gun,” Jack called.
I lifted the knife and even from fifteen feet away, in the near dark, I saw his eyes narrow. He’d rather I had a gun. There was no time to find one. Chances were, mine was in the pocket of the man I was limping toward.
“Hey!” a voice called.
It was Quinn, jogging down the embankment.
“Go with her,” Jack called, pointing at me. Then, “Hands back up, Reggie. Now!”
I continued to the bodyguard. Quinn called for me to hold up, and I did slow, but I could tell the bodyguard wasn’t going to leap up and attack me. He’d gone through the windshield, apparently being enough of a badass not to wear a seat belt. He’d then plowed headfirst into another tree. It seemed that whatever good luck I had during the crash had been siphoned from his reserve.
The impact of skull against tree at a high rate of speed . . . well, let’s just say there was no chance this guy was getting up again. Still, I was careful as I dropped beside him, just in case your head could splat like an egg and you could somehow survive. I think that proves I may have been suffering from a tiny bit of shock.
“He’s dead,” I said.
“Um, yeah . . .” Quinn said.
I straightened—as best I could, which was about 75 percent.
“You okay?” Quinn asked.
“Sure,” I lied. “Change of plans here, obviously. Roland knows who I am, so there’s no sense in me staying out of the interrogation. I’ll help Jack if you can stand guard.”
He nodded, then asked again, “Are you okay?” and I knew he didn’t mean physically. He was taking my word at that, having not seen what actually happened and presuming, I suppose, that I’d climbed from the trunk postaccident. He meant how shaken up was I over the abduction, the accident, and Roland knowing my real identity. That was harder to lie about.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I should go help Jack.”
“Right.”
He glanced back at the road and seemed ready to start toward it, then walked to me instead, giving me a one-armed hug, as I bit my lip so I didn’t let out a hiss of pain.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We should have been more careful.”
“I’m the one who got caught.”
“You shouldn’t have been alone. Not after what happened.” A quick kiss on the top of my head. “We’ll make this right. It won’t be a problem.”
“I know.” I also knew that he didn’t mean killing Roland. What else can you do to guarantee he’d keep his mouth shut? Nothing, but Quinn would try. Part of me wants to respect him for that and part of me feels, well, it’s a little naive. Idealism is a tricky business. It’s bright and it’s beautiful, and I love that about him and I wish I had more of it but . . . well, that light can be blinding, too. When it comes to my own personal safety, I think I’ll take the darker road of realism.
As he turned to go, I kissed his cheek and murmured, “Thanks.”
He nodded and left. I found my gun on the bodyguard’s body. My binoculars, too. I took a moment to lament the loss of my gadget phone. Then I returned to Jack.
CHAPTER 26
Jack was exactly where I’d left him, with Roland still in the car, hands on the dash, facing forward. I could tell by Roland’s expression that he hadn’t figured out yet who was holding him at gunpoint. He was thinking about it, though. Thinking hard about who would know him by his old name. And stealing glances, but he couldn’t see over the top of the broken window, meaning he was only getting a nice view of a gun and a leather jacket.
Jack didn’t ask if I was okay. He knew I wasn’t. His gaze traveled over me, his face tight, eyes dark with worry, trying to assess the damage in the darkness.
“He can take you,” he whispered, nodding toward Quinn. “Get you help.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Another concerned once-over.
I mouthed, “I’ll live,” and he could see that was the case—I was up and walking, with no obvious signs of trauma, so he returned to Roland.
“I’m going to open the door,” he said. “You’re going to get out and then lie on your stomach, hands behind your back.”
Roland stiffened. It was the first time Jack wasn’t barking orders but speaking in a normal voice. Not his normal voice—there was no trace of his accent and his speech patterns had changed—yet it was his usual work voice.
“No,” Roland whispered. “Fuck, no.”
“Fuck, yes,” Jack leaned down to the window. “Now get out of the car, Reggie, or I’ll haul your fat ass out and kneecap you for the inconvenience.”
Roland seemed to move as if in a trance, and he kept peering at Jack, blinking hard, as if trying to wake from a nightmare. I’m sure that’s what he thought this was. He’d taken some ex-cop Canadian lodge owner captive, then gets into a serious accident, and is ordered from the wreck by the hitman who terrorized him almost twenty years ago. Clearly, he was unconscious and dreaming. Or dead and in hell.
Then, as he was lowering himself to the ground, he sucked in breath.
“The bar,” he said. “You were at the bar. Sitting by yourself in the corner.”
“Yeah.”
That’s when he realized this was no nightmare. He tried to heave himself up and run. Jack didn’t kneecap him. He didn’t even move all that fast, probably because Roland wasn’t, either—it took him at least five seconds to push his aging bulk off the ground, and Jack waited until he was up. Then he aimed a swift kick at the back of his knee. A crack. Roland yowled and went down.
“I have a question,” Jack said. “Since you’re the local here. Exactly how busy is this road?”
“What the fuck?” Roland said as he heaved for breath.
“I’m wondering how long it would take someone to find the wreck. Especially if we cleaned it up, got rid of the skid marks and such.” He looked around. “It’s not thick forest, but the grass is long enough, and the embankment is steep. I haven’t heard another car since we got here. I imagine it would be a few days. If I put you back in that car and kneecapped you . . .”
“No.” The rage evaporated from Roland’s voice, fear seeping in. “No . . .”
“Nah, you’re right. Too risky. I’d need to get you farther in. That looks like a field over there. Lots of long, dead grass. I could stake you out, nicely hidden. Sure, the wreck would be seen, but the driver’s over there, dead. They’ll wonder what’s up when they trace the car to you, but they won’t put much work into the investigation. Offed by that thug”—he gestured at the bodyguard—“who hid your body and stole your car, then spun out going too fast on a bad road. Not used to the power.” Jack hunkered down beside Roland. “Does that sound like a good plan to you, Reggie?”
“You . . . you sick fuck. You goddamn . . .” Roland continued raging, but his voice was pitched high, rant fueled by terror.
Jack put his boot on the back of Roland’s injured knee and stepped down. Roland screamed. Jack leaned over and said, “Shut up.” I don’t know how Roland could hear through his own screams, but he clamped his mouth shut fast.
“Here are your options,” Jack said. “Either you answer my questions promptly and courteously or I stake you out in that field and come back in three days. And there’s no sense calling my bluff.” Jack bent, meeting Roland’s gaze. “Because you know I’ll do it.”
Roland swallowed. “What do you want to know?”
“Not me,” Jack said. “My client.”
Roland’s gaze rose to me, standing silently by his shoulder.