Authors: Jackie Keswick
“We’re in this together, you know.” Gareth had gotten his breath back, though his heart was still beating up a storm. “I might have had a couple relationships that lasted longer than a weekend, but you’re the first guy I’ve ever wanted to wake up next to. That sort of makes us even.”
“Yeah? I think it just shows what you don’t know,” Jack snarked. He rolled over and pillowed his head on Gareth’s shoulder. “Explain to me why this shit’s in my head just before I’m supposed to go out and take down a pimp.”
“Nerves?”
“Do I know what that’s supposed to mean?”
“You’re nervous?”
“Because of Jericho? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Who is Jericho?” The way Jack froze at the simple question was uncanny. Like a rabbit caught in headlights or however that cliché went. “Jack?”
“Shit.” Jack sat up and rubbed his face. “I can’t believe I missed this.” He leaned into his hands and breathed slowly in and out until his shoulders relaxed once more. “Don’t ask,” he said softly as he sat up. “Just… don’t.”
And with that he rolled off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom.
T
HE
DOORBELL
rang while Jack hid in the shower. Jack might have called it something else, but Gareth knew. He also knew that he couldn’t call Jack on it. Not when Jack needed to get his head in the game. The doorbell was just another unnecessary distraction.
Gareth waited, hoping the caller would give up and disappear, but the ringing continued unabated until Gareth gave in and went to open the door.
He came face to face with a dark-skinned man, who wore attitude like the latest fashion accessory. Skinny jeans with strategic rips, orange hi-top Converse, and a psychedelically colored Henley teamed with gleaming, shoulder-long dreadlocks to create what Gareth considered the perfect disguise. Nobody could look that authentic and not be undercover.
“Ah’m lookin’ for Jack,” the stranger drawled. He pronounced it
Jacques
, with even a hint of an
e
at the end. It sounded damned sexy.
“He’s busy.”
“He’ll wan’ this.” Long flexible fingers dangled a keyring in front of Gareth’s face. On it hung a tiny black memory stick.
Jack hadn’t mentioned informants; neither had Lisa warned them of a delivery. The dreadlocked man would fit either category.
“Come in?” Gareth moved aside and pushed the door wider, and the man stepped through without hesitation.
“You’re Gareth?” he asked once the front door was shut.
“Yes.”
Coffee-colored eyes traced from his head to his bare feet and back up to his face. The scrutiny was disconcerting, as if the man was checking the veracity of existing information.
“No’ at all what I was expectin’,” the stranger concluded.
He was older than Gareth had first supposed from the trim build and deep chocolate hair. Fine lines creased his forehead and the corners of his eyes. And those eyes had seen a lot.
Before Gareth could ask for clarification, the stranger’s gaze slipped past him to the hallway door, were Jack stood in barely buttoned jeans and a knife in each fist. To Gareth’s relief, the knives landed on the sofa as soon as Jack caught sight of their visitor.
“Rio.”
The man crossed the room in three long strides and turned Jack bodily into the light to inspect the fading bruise on his ribcage. “Jesus! Didn’ I teach you anythin’?”
Jack accepted the touch without protest. The corners of his lips quirked up. “Don’t sound like Flynn. And for the record, you might have been teaching, but whether or not I listened is anyone’s guess. What are you doing here?”
“Bearin’ gifts.”
“Gifts?” Jack’s voice held a world of skepticism.
“Fine. I caught some rumors and did a little work on your target. He has a sideline smugglin’ tobacco, which he keeps in a warehouse not too far from the dinin’ club.” Rio held out the USB key. “Blueprints, access codes… you know the drill. Ping me when you’re ready to question him, and I’ll arrange for a little trouble at the warehouse he’ll wan’ to go check out.”
Jack was never more than a few steps away from a computer, so he simply took the key, plugged it into his laptop, and scanned the information, while Gareth watched both men with avid interest.
Rio had access to classified data and the resources to propose and stage a diversion. And Jack was angry, but he trusted this man enough to ditch his weapons and turn his back on him. They had history of a sort, and Gareth would have loved to ask questions. Matters grew more interesting when Jack stopped reading and raised his head, offering the dreadlocked man a terse nod.
“Thank you.”
“You don’ wanna know why?”
“Beyond the fact that you and Alex Marston are thick as thieves, and you told her my business? I recognize an apology when I see one, Rio.”
“How’d you know?”
“You were the only person who knew about… Jericho.” His eyes slid to Gareth. “Until recently. Now there are what? Two more? Four more?”
“You’re pissed.”
“It’s my past, Rio. If I wanted MI-bloody-6 to know, I’d have told them.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Sure. And Alex runs a knitting circle.”
Jack’s tone cut like a whip and his movements were short and sharp, like he was failing to leash his temper. That he allowed himself to show this much emotion told its own story. As did Rio’s calm acceptance, the way he took the barbs and agitation in stride. He’d clearly dealt with a riled Jack before.
“She’s tryin’ to watch your back, Jack,” he said, sounding like the voice of reason.
“Yeah. Hard to wrap my head around that, you know? She works for the crowd I just walked away from. As do you.”
“Doesn’ make us the enemy.”
“No it doesn’t,” Jack sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “I’m not stupid enough to turn down your help, either,” he said and pointed over his shoulder at the blueprints on his laptop screen. “Provided these did come from you?”
It was telling that the Jamaican—Gareth had finally managed to place the accent—didn’t even blink at the suspicion in Jack’s tone. He merely held Jack’s gaze and answered.
“Mine. I didn’ alert them to anythin’ I was doin’, either. You give the word, you have a safe place to question the man.”
Jack saw Rio to the door and didn’t object when Rio curled an arm around his shoulders for a moment. Whatever he said to Jack was too low for Gareth to make out, but Jack nodded and straightened up as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders.
“I’ll need it,” he replied, voice firm.
The two shared a final gaze, then Rio was gone and Jack locked the door behind their guest.
“You’re looking more cheerful,” Gareth commented as Jack came back into the living room and went straight to the laptop, once more reviewing the information that Rio had brought.
“I have reason.”
“How so?”
“Didn’t you hear what Rio said?”
Gareth shook his head, then realized that Jack couldn’t see him. “No, I didn’t.”
“He told me that I’ve got a pass if I need it.”
“He has the clout to offer that?”
“Oh yes.”
Jack’s answer came without hesitation, and Gareth found that more comforting than he could explain.
C
HAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
E
NDGAME
J
ACK
SWALLOWED
the tail end of an appreciative whistle as Lisa stepped from Baxter’s car. Thigh-high black suede boots, schoolgirl plaits, and a black trilby combined for a damn sexy picture. The pleated leather miniskirt added allure, the simple gray jumper—engulfing her slim frame—the innocence. As she stood in the orange glow from a streetlight, Lisa Tyrrell simply rocked the schoolgirl fantasy. And if Jack’s memories of theme nights were true to life, she’d fit like icing on a wedding cake.
“Yep, I can see exactly why she caught your eye,” Jack decided. Gareth loved facets and layers. He’d always been attracted to anything that wasn’t what it appeared to be. And right then, Lisa Tyrrell fit that description to a T.
“What?”
“Don’t even go there, Flynn. Don’t try and deny it.”
“Wasn’t going to. I just realized how scary you really are.”
Jack flushed. “Not guilty,” he defended himself. “I swear I’ve not been digging. Just… the way you two are around each other, it’s obvious you have history. And not the kind you forge across a conference table.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Gareth said quietly. “History.”
“It’s okay,” Jack assured him. “I don’t mind.” Maybe he did. A little.
“Nice look,” Lisa complimented as she came across the street to stand beside them. “James Dean fan?”
“More Brando, but I couldn’t find the hat,” Jack grouched, plucking at the frayed hem of the white sleeveless tee he wore with leather trousers and motorcycle boots. He’d planned to team it with a chunky leather jacket, but it didn’t look right without the hat, peaked cap, whatever. The snafu annoyed him since he had an inkling that the hat was gone, sacrificed to the greater good during his last mission. How had he forgotten that?
“Do you know he owns a gladiator skirt?” Gareth baited, as if he knew that Jack was in need of a distraction.
It had been entertaining to see Gareth go through his leather collection. For a very brief moment, Jack had even considered wearing the gladiator outfit, but half the strips were suede, the other half raw leather, and getting blood out of either was a bitch. It was also obvious that Gareth had never tried to kick someone’s ass wearing sandals.
“I also have a genuine tartan kilt in the wardrobe, but I didn’t see you drool over that one.”
“That’s ’cause you were in the shower.”
“Your tattoo is gone,” Clive interrupted, leaning close to inspect Jack’s temple. “Don’t tell me that thing’s not real.”
“Fine. I won’t tell you.” Jack avoided the punch Baxter tried to throw. “Don’t hurt yourself, there, Inspector,” he admonished. “Doctors tend to get bitchy if you come in with ripped stitches.”
“Don’t remind me,” Clive groaned, recalling the event Jack alluded to. “She was scary.”
“Yep. But you had that coming.”
Clive’s smile died and his mien grew sober. “I wish I could go with you.”
Jack didn’t. He wanted to be alone when he questioned Mitrovic. He’d accepted that having her help in the club would be useful, but just the idea of Lisa close by when he made his move on the pimp made his gut clench and what-if scenarios rear their ugly heads. Jack worked alone for a reason.
He was grateful when Gareth drew him aside without spouting pointless reassurances or admonitions to be careful. As situations went—Gareth seeing Jack off—this was a new one. At least Jack thought so until his mind taunted him with the image of a cold, clear morning, of Gareth standing in a patch of sunlight and Jack walking away without a backward glance.
No.
Jack kicked his wayward mind to the curb and into a bucket of chemical waste for good measure. He focused on the pattern of broken tiles on the pavement and breathed until there was nothing on his mind but the layout of the dining club, the location of cameras, and the man they were hunting.
His lips pulled up a little as he caught Gareth watching him. “Don’t wait up.”
“As if,” Gareth huffed in mock annoyance, and the world was right again. Gareth and Clive would be with Raf. With three cars between them, they’d be able to react to whatever transpired in the club. They could follow any of Goran’s boys, if he moved them, or they could go check out whatever address Jack and Lisa obtained. All without alerting anyone on Mitrovic’s payroll until it was well past useful.
The brief touch of Gareth’s hand on Jack’s nape was a promise. One that Jack acknowledged with a nod.
Lisa joined Jack under the streetlight as the others got into their cars. She clinked softly as she moved, and Jack raised a brow in question. Smirking like the cat that got the cream, Lisa slipped her hand into the top of her boot and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“Nice.”
“Girl’s gotta be prepared.” She tossed the plaits and struck a pose.
“And it stops them digging deeper.”
“’Course.”
Lisa’s attitude made Jack laugh. They had their differences. He owed her a favor, and she could land him in a mountain of shit at a moment’s notice. But despite all that, he found that he liked her.
“Let’s get this done,” he suggested, shoved balled hands into pockets, and found just the right level of swagger. Cocky, but still wet behind the ears. He sank into the persona and watched as Lisa did the same. It made her look even younger.
“I’ll be fighting blokes off you all night,” he groaned.
“That’s the general idea, isn’t it? You looked too damned memorable the night we met. Tonight, I’m taking the spotlight.” Lisa’s hand stopped him under a streetlamp. “Can I ask you something?”
Jack waited.
“What you used to cover the tattoo… does it last?”
“It’s synthetic skin. Unless you take a knife to it, it’s fine.”
“Why didn’t you use it the other night when you went into the club?”
“No time. Clive only called me at six that evening and asked me to go in.”
“Does he do that a lot?”
“Call me or give me no notice?” Jack saw the irritation in Lisa’s gaze and waved. “Don’t bother. And no to both. This was a special case. He’d gotten a sudden tip. He’d hadn’t been able to get a handle on Mitrovic, and the rumors were… well, you’ve seen. So he called me.”
Lisa considered that. “You haven’t asked me why I’m doing this.”
“Everyone has reasons.”
“You don’t want me here.”
“No, I don’t.” Jack kept his eyes on Lisa’s as he answered. “I’m not used to working with a partner. To having backup on standby. Or anyone ready to bail me out.” He wasn’t used to watching out for others, either. He wasn’t sure he wanted the vulnerability or the responsibility that came with having a partner.
Lisa understood him anyway. Her teal green eyes glowed like chips of ice. “This isn’t… it’s personal.”
“I know. That’s why it bothers me.”