“No, she’s not the client. Someone hired me on her behalf. She has important friends.”
So Jack was going to spin a story. One that didn’t connect me directly to a hitman. Which meant either he did intend for Roland to survive . . . or he just wanted Roland to think so. Killing a middleman could be trouble, and if Jack could explain away our connection, I’d remain Nadia Stafford, ordinary citizen. I glanced down at the gun in my right hand and the knife in my left. Well, relatively ordinary.
“You’ve probably figured out that your hitman is dead,” Jack continued. “He made a mistake, taking that job without doing his research. You, however? You made an even bigger mistake by sending him out there, and I’m trying to figure out what you are. Terminally stupid or actually suicidal?”
“What?”
“Should I use smaller words?”
I choked back a laugh.
“Do you know who frequents Ms. Stafford’s establishment?” Jack asked. “A certain family from Jersey.”
“What family?”
“A nice one with two kids and a dog. What the hell kind of family do you think I mean?”
“I know that. I mean, which one?”
“Do you really expect me to answer? Either you know, which would be the suicidal explanation. Or you had no idea what you were really being hired to do, which would be the stupid explanation. I’d strongly suggest you cop to stupid.”
“Look, the job was simple. Find out if this Stafford woman was the one in the photo and if she was, kill her.”
“Why?”
“How the fuck—?”
Jack stepped on Roland’s shoulder this time, just enough to make him yelp. “I said courteously. That is not courteously. In most cases, a client will provide at least an excuse, true or not. What did this one tell you?”
“Nothing. Only that he wanted her dead.”
In other words, he wasn’t the usual kind of client who got the middleman’s number from a friend of a friend. He understood how the business worked and that you did not need an excuse.
“All right,” Jack said. “The question remains. Why target Ms. Stafford? My client believes it has something to do with a get-together planned at her lodge. If your pro didn’t know what was really going on, and you don’t know what’s really going on, then I’ll require the name of your client. Along with contact information.”
“I don’t have it.”
Jack set his boot on Roland’s back. The big man tensed, but Jack didn’t put any weight on it. He just left his foot there.
“Let’s try that again,” Jack said. “Bear in mind that as you know, I’m not an amateur or a fool. You’d never accept a job without some information on the client.”
Which was true. Except, as it turned out, the price Roland was paid directly affected the amount of information he required. For this payday, Roland accepted the bare minimum of client contact. The whole thing was set up with phone calls from a blocked number, followed by a courier package with those photos of me.
“The package came from Philadelphia,” Roland said. “There was no return address, but I was curious, so I called with the tracking number. It originated in Philly. But the client didn’t sound like he was from there. He had an accent.”
“Foreign?”
“No. Nothing strong. I racked my brain trying to figure out what it was, but I couldn’t. I just know it wasn’t local.”
Roland blathered more about the accent and the package, and it was clear that was all he had. Then, just as Jack seemed ready to say “enough,” Roland went still. He swore under his breath. Then he looked over his shoulder at me.
“Say something.”
“What?”
“Say something. Talk.”
“About what?”
Roland snapped his fingers. “That’s it. That’s the accent. Oot and aboot. Canadian.”
Americans swear this is the surefire way to tell a Canadian from an American—how we say out and about. I can’t quite see—or hear—it.
“The guy’s accent wasn’t as strong as hers, but that’s definitely it. He’s Canadian.” A pause. “Or he has a speech defect.”
Given that Aldrich had been Canadian, I was going with option one. A Canadian possibly living in Philadelphia. That wasn’t going to lead me to Aldrich’s killer, but it could help narrow down possibilities if we found suspects.
“Okay,” Jack said. “If that’s all you’ve got, that’s what I’ll have to take.” Jack hunched over and lowered his voice. “My partner up there”—he waved toward Quinn—“doesn’t want me to let you go, so you’re going to need to make a run for it. I know you can’t exactly run, but do your best. I’ll shoot wide. I can’t guarantee he won’t mow you down, but he’s no sniper. Got it?”
What the hell was Jack doing?
“I’m going to count down from five. You run straight ahead, into those woods. Don’t look back. Got it?”
Roland nodded.
“Five . . .”
Jack slid his gun into his holster.
“Four . . .”
He glanced over and motioned for me to turn away.
“Three . . .”
I didn’t understand—well, I did understand the gesture, but I couldn’t figure out what he was doing, disarming himself before letting Roland run.
“Two . . .”
He mouthed, “Please.” I turned away.
“One.”
A grunt as Roland heaved his bulk up, exhaling in sudden pain from his injuries. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack lunge. I glanced over, startled, as he grabbed Roland by the hair, his foot on his back. A stomp and a yank and a crack. Then Roland sagged, neck broken, as Jack called, “Hey!” and, “Son of a bitch!”
I threw in a “What the hell?” and a “Shit!” as Quinn’s footfalls pounded down the embankment. He reached the bottom just as Jack let go of Roland’s hair and his body crumpled to the ground.
“He tried to run,” I said as Quinn came over.
Jack heaved a deep breath. “My fault. He said the client’s number was in the car. I asked Nadia to check. Moment she turns her back? He bolts. Tried to yank him back.” Jack shook his head and looked down at Roland. “Son of a bitch.”
The story wasn’t the most plausible Jack had ever concocted. It wasn’t meant to be. It was enough that he’d bothered to give Quinn an excuse that his conscience could accept. I appreciated that, even if Quinn wouldn’t.
So Roland was dead. There was a reason Jack broke his neck instead of shooting him—and why he’d kicked him instead of kneecapping. No bullet wounds. Jack and Quinn wrestled Roland’s bulk into the passenger seat of his car. I even managed to snake around and get his seat belt on, my hands covered to avoid fingerprints. While Quinn and I moved the rental cars onto the road and erased the tire tracks, Jack pried the bullet from Roland’s car tire and found the casing. In the entire hour we’d been there, not a single vehicle had passed. As Jack speculated, it might be a while before they were found.
CHAPTER 27
“Can we swing by that bar again,” I asked as we reached the highway on the way back to the hotel.
Jack looked over at me.
“No,” I said. “That’s not my way of saying I really need a drink . . . though I wouldn’t turn one down right now. I want to see if my phone survived. Roland’s bodyguard chucked it across the roof. It’s probably dead, but I’d like to check.”
“All right.”
I eased back my seat and tried not to wince as I changed position. By morning my body would be one giant bruise.
“Okay,” I said. “So we know—”
“Blood,” Jack said suddenly.
“Um . . .”
He glanced over. “I smell blood.”
His gaze flew to the strap peeking from under my jacket sleeve. The edge was dark with blood.
“What the fuck—?” he began.
“You know the problem with strapping a knife on your leg? Getting the knife off without losing fingers—or slicing open your arm.”
“Shit!” He veered into the right lane, as if ready to take the next exit.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Not if I can smell the goddamned blood, Nadia. How bad is it?”
“I’m still walking and talking, and not feeling light-headed, so obviously I didn’t lose a dangerous amount of—”
“Or it’s just bound tight. Fuck. Call Quinn. Tell him to get your phone.”
“I—”
He met my gaze. “Call Quinn now.”
I did.