Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

He continued as if I hadn't spoken, "This part's important. Relevant. You should know."

He paused and eyed the whiskey bottle, left at our feet.

"Do you want--?" I reached for it.

"Later. Get through this." He finished the cigarette, then ground it out. "Told you some stuff. About me. When it's relevant. Grew up in Ireland. Three older brothers. Not much money. Thing is . . . At the time? Circumstances? Poor and Irish. Easy to blame the English. Doesn't mean they're not responsible. But still . . ." He trailed off.

He lit another cigarette. "My brothers joined a group. Not IRA. Smaller. Regional. Less organized." He paused. "Worse." Another pause. "Brothe

rs felt the IRA didn't have what it took. The balls. These guys did. You're young? Action is important. Don't think it through."

He shifted, getting more comfortable. "So my brothers signed up. Our father was all for it. Our mother? Not so much. But they were adults. She only made them promise one thing. Don't get me involved. I was furious. Felt left behind, like always. The baby. Came up with a plan. I was good mechanically, apprenticed to a mechanic. Good with a gun, too. Not distance, like you. But I hit what I aimed at. Hunted for my family. Brothers left? Hunted more, practiced more. One day? My brothers bring guys to dinner. Leaders in this organization. They drive up? I'm shooting. Planned it, of course. Got their attention. Took me aside. Said when I turned eighteen, come to them. They'd train me. Wouldn't be a grunt like my brothers. I'd be an assassin."

A long drag on his cigarette. "So that's what I did. Fuck my family. My da was dead by then. Heart attack. He's the only one I would have listened to. Rest could yell all they wanted. I was an adult. I signed up. Got trained. Started missions. Pretty soon? Best fucking hitman they got. Which wasn't saying much. But I was full of myself. Comes a day, I don't agree with a mission. Too risky. My brothers would be there in the line of fire. Didn't think it was safe. Told the guys in charge. Got my ass kicked. Mission comes, I'm outta commission. Mission goes to hell. Two of my brothers? Dead. Other one? Nearly got his fucking leg shot off."

He said it matter-of-factly, but he didn't look at me when he did. He just stared into the forest, his gaze empty, his whole face empty. I wanted to say something, but words seemed meaningless, so I just shifted closer. He glanced my way, then squeezed my knee briefly, surprising me. Then he lit another cigarette before continuing.

"Got out after that," he continued. "Took my brother and told those guys to go to hell. They didn't like that. Thought I owed them. They didn't care about my brother. A cripple now. But I was valuable. They'd let him go; I had to stay. Told them to fuck off. Told them, if they came after me, I'd put a bullet between their eyes. Tough guy." He gave a harsh, humorless laugh. "Fucking stupid kid."

He passed me the cigarette. I tried to refuse, but he seemed to want me to take it--or want the pause it afforded. Only after I passed it back did he continue.

"Never came after me. Never said one more word. Week later? I come home from the mechanic's. House is on fire. Find my mother. My brother. Dead. They'd tied them up. Couldn't escape." He stubbed out the cigarette. "My fault."

"You--"

His hard look silenced me. "Know what I mean. Better than anyone. Yeah, I was young. Didn't see it coming. Didn't kill them myself. But I fucked up. Over and over I fucked up. Joined when my mother begged me not to. Didn't warn my brothers about the mission. Wasn't on the mission because I shot my mouth off. Didn't haul my ass out anyway and make goddamned sure I was there, no matter what shape I was in. Could have saved my brothers. Protected them. I failed. Then what did I do? Told off the bosses again. Fuck 'em. Don't owe them nothing and if they think I do, they can fucking come and take it from me. Which they did. Whole family's dead. My fault. No one can ever convince me otherwise." He looked at me. "Can they?"

He was right. He'd made youthful mistakes, as I had with Amy, and he'd feel the full weight of responsibility.

"I went after the guys in charge," Jack continued. "Fucking useless. Gave up. Knocked around Ireland. Then England. Hired myself out. Didn't give a fuck. Didn't feel anything. Made the job easy. After a couple years? Cross the ocean and Evelyn finds me. Trains me. Turns me into a pro. Not a two-bit thug with a gun. But deep down? That's still what I was. Didn't give a shit. To her? Made me a better hitman. Cold. Ambitious. But I never forgot." He glanced at me. "You know why I go by Jack? That's what they called me. My family. My father was John. Came from a line of Johns. Didn't want it for his sons. Gets his way with three boys. Then I came along. My mother insisted. Thought the tradition was important. They compromised. Named me John. Called me Jack."

I stared at him. The possibility that Jack was his real name--or even a version of it--had never occurred to me. Given how security conscious he was, he'd never do that. Unless it was too important to give up.

Jack finished the cigarette, tossed the butt. "Told you once you wouldn't have wanted to know me then. Meant it. Did shit I won't ever forget. You ever find out? Might understand I'm not that guy anymore. Or maybe it wouldn't matter because I was that guy. Cold and empty. Sooner or later?" He shrugged. "Something's gotta give. Realized that's not what I wanted. Only one way to fix it. Go back. Get revenge. Get justice. Or something like it."

"So you did?"

"Yeah." He picked up the bottle. He didn't uncap it, just held it, staring out into the forest. "Did it make me a good person?" He snorted. "Obviously not. Still in the game. Don't want out. But I'm not that guy anymore. Not dead anymore." He met my gaze. "Needed to be done."

"I know what you're saying--"

"Not asking you to change your mind now. Don't even want to discuss it. Just think about it. You're not me. Same kind of guilt. Different kind of damage. But I think I know you well enough to say it's not going to get any better until Drew Aldrich has paid for what he did. Until you know he's not a danger. To anyone."

I twisted to look at him and I wanted to say . . . There were a lot of things I wanted to say, and none of them seemed quite right. Tell him I was sorry for what happened to him? He didn't want that. Tell him I understood? No one can understand another person's experience--they can only sympathize and, sometimes, empathize. He didn't tell me the story for that. He told me his deepest secret because he wanted to convince me to kill Aldrich, and I couldn't even give him that.

He glanced over and when I looked at him, I didn't see my mentor, my sometimes partner, sometimes friend. I saw Jack, a real person, with a past, with a name.

"Thank you," I said.

He turned toward me, and I saw his face in the dim moonlight, the familiar angles of it, the familiar dark eyes filled with something that wasn't familiar. Haunted eyes, looking backward, but also a wariness, an uncertainty. I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to . . . Oh, hell, I knew what I wanted to do. Lean over and kiss him and make everything else go away.

I dropped my gaze before he saw that. I looked away and when I did, I felt his touch against my jaw, his fingers rubbing along it, gently turning my face back to his. My heart hammered. His fingers hesitated, then pushed my hair back behind my ear. I looked at him then. His gaze was lowered. Then he straightened, uncapped the whiskey, and took a hit. A long hit, before passing it to me.

"I really do appreciate--" I began.

"Drink." He stood. "Got your gun?"

"Always. But--"