Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

"Get in the car."

My hand instinctively slid under my jacket to my gun.

"Get in the fucking car."

I heard the faint brogue and stopped walking.

The car was a nondescript economy model, the cheapest kind you can rent. Through the lowered passenger window, I 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."