Made to Be Broken (Nadia Stafford 2)

br /> "Bastard," I said to Jack.

"Just how you like it. Now go park yourself around front and watch for trouble." As I turned to go, he lowered his voice. "I'll make it up to you later."

"Think so?"

A growl of a chuckle as he slapped my ass. "Know so. Now get going."

I headed the way I'd come, behind Fenniger. Jack watched over his shoulder and gestured for me to stand near the corner, where I could watch the proceedings and still see anyone drive into the lot.

When I motioned that I'd broken Fenniger's arm, and mouthed an apology, Jack only nodded, unconcerned.

"What a piece of work," Fenniger muttered when he figured I was gone.

"Watch your mouth," Jack said.

"Hey, no disrespect. I bet she's worth it." A dirty old man chuckle. "She sure looks like she is. Hot little bitch with a temper to - "

"Watch. Your. Mouth."

Fenniger fell silent, struggling to find his footing now, thrown off balance by the edge in Jack's voice. After all, this was the good cop, the one who'd understand him, who'd rescued him from the bad cop. Had Fenniger realized how quickly - eagerly even - he'd fallen for the hackneyed routine, he'd have been horrified. But no matter how many times they see it in cop shows, perps still snap it up. It's the survival instinct. When faced with danger, we run for shelter, whether it's a solid building during a storm or a sympathetic face during an interrogation.

For a minute, Jack let Fenniger dangle in fear that he'd misread the signs, that Jack was not the reasonable colleague he'd believed. Then he said, "My partner takes issue with your new line of work."

In the silence that followed, I could have laughed, imagining Fenniger struggling as hard to interpret the meaning of Jack's full sentences as I did with his three-word ones.

Jack let him flounder in uncertainty some more, then said, "She doesn't like you killing teen moms."

"Oh, right. I-I can see that, her being a woman - "

"I don't much like it, either."

I swore I heard Fenniger suck in the rest of his words. I grinned as I flexed my hands, trying to still the giddy bubbles in my stomach. It was all but over. Now I could just sit back and watch Jack work.

After another thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence, Jack said, "But business is business. I suppose it'd be a lucrative way to make some fast money."

"It is," Fenniger said, words tumbling out. "If you want, I could cut you - "

"Not interested."

Reel him in. Let him drop. Keep him off balance, searching for equilibrium.

"Can I at least ask who I'm dealing with?" Fenniger said.

"No."

An audible sigh of relief. If Jack gave his name, even his street name, that would mean Fenniger would never get the chance to use it against him. By withholding it, calling me "girl," and getting pissy when Fenniger looked my way, Jack was suggesting that while he might intend to kill Fenniger, the matter was still open to negotiation. That was essential - a man who's about to be executed has no reason to talk.

"I suppose it'd be a decent gig, though," Jack said. "If you could stomach it. I can't blame a guy for that. I've done stuff..."

I'm sure Fenniger was barely breathing, eyes screwed shut as if he could mentally swing the pendulum his way. Thoughts of escape wouldn't enter his head. Jack was a pro, at least as good as he was, plus armed, physically bigger, and with a psychotic partner. Fenniger's only escape would come through cooperation. There was no cowardice in that, no loss of face... or so he'd keep telling himself.

"Shit like this?" Jack continued. "Not my style. But business is business, and you take what you can get. If you don't take the job, someone else will."

Ah, hitman justification at its finest. I'd used that one a few times myself.

"The sick fucks are the ones who put out the contracts," Jack said.

Fenniger's nods punctuated every word, though he probably didn't even realize he was doing it.