Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

"Didn't say she could go telling anyone," Jack cut in.

"I'm not anyone, Jack," Quinn said. "If there's a pro gunning for Dee, I sure as hell hope someone would tell me and ask for my help."

"Which is exactly what I did," Evelyn cut in quickly. "I cut through the bullshit and told Quinn because this is not the time for your personal crap. Dee's life is in danger, and his professional skills will be invaluable in tracking down whoever put out a contract on her. That is what's important now. Her life."

I'd be touched, really, if I bought Evelyn's excuse for a second. We all peered at her, trying to figure out her ulterior motive, knowing there had to be one.

"What?" she said. "Do you not agree that--"

"You wanted him in?" Jack said. "Figured I'd argue? You'd have told me you're bringing him in. Not asked. Told."

"You asked me to contact him, Jack."

"Yeah. To back him off."

"Back me off?" Quinn said. "Excuse me? I was concerned--"

"And she had enough to deal with," Jack said. "Without some ex-boyfriend bugging her--"

"Some ex-boyfriend? Oh, for fuck's sake." Quinn walked into the room and slumped onto the couch.

"Yes," Evelyn said. "I agreed to try to keep Quinn at bay, but he wasn't taking no for an answer. He was desperate to see her--"

"I never said--" Quinn began.

"Oh, please. You wanted to 'help out.' Anything you could do to help, but preferably a form of assistance that required your presence. Finally, I decided that was the best way to handle this. Dee could use your help in this matter and the sooner you two get over this angst-ridden relationship crap, the easier it'll be for everyone. Now, do we have work to do or are we going to bicker until someone tries to kill Dee again?"

We brought Quinn up to speed. I even told him about the journal. I just skipped the now-missing section on my rape. I wasn't ready to share that with anyone who didn't absolutely need to know. Quinn and Evelyn didn't.

Quinn had already been trying to track down the car used by Aldrich's killer. Quinn grouses that most people consider U.S. Marshals bounty hunters with badges, but tracking criminals is the main part of Quinn's job, so it made sense when Evelyn assigned him to hunt down our mystery man. The license plate turned out to be a dead end. It hadn't been renewed in years, likely taken from an old junker, and affixed with a fake renewal sticker. The car itself, though, had rental markings. Using the make, model, color, and some minor damage, he was trying to find the agency that owned it.

Our next move didn't require Quinn's help. His skills are extremely valuable, but he's a lousy actor. We could use him in an auxiliary role, though. We just needed to be careful, because . . . well, Quinn and I do have a lot in common. We share a background in law enforcement and a love for it. We share a belief in absolute justice. But while I may wish my motives for contract killing were as pure as Quinn's, they aren't. I do this because something compels me to do it, that deep rage and hurt over Amy's death--and, as I now realize, my own rape. I want justice for victims, but I also want justice for me and my lost cousin.

That rage and that pain means I will never be able to achieve Quinn's emotional distance. It also means I didn't flinch when Jack tortured and then killed that hitman at the lodge. I was fine with it. Quinn would not be. There was a reason his unofficial nom de guerre was "the Boy Scout." Professionally, he only took jobs that righted serious miscarriages of justice. He'd never been known to go after anyone who wasn't a contract, not even to beat information from a reluctant source. At his day job, he was so by-the-book that I think other marshals in his office would have a heart attack if they knew what he did for a sideline.

So we gave Quinn the job that suited him best. The starring role in our scen

ario went to me. It started with me dialing a number and leaving a message with a few cryptic key words.

By the time I got a call back, we were enjoying room service. Okay, enjoying might be the wrong word. It wasn't up to Evelyn's standards so she bitched. Quinn kept trying to make the whole situation less awkward by talking business, which only made things more awkward. Jack and I quietly ate as we mourned the private dinner we'd missed.

So when the call came, I snatched it up. Then I realized it had only rung once and let it buzz a second time so I wouldn't seem too eager.

I answered with a cautious, "Hello."

"It's Roland."

I exhaled in audible relief. "Oh, thank God. I wasn't sure I'd done that right. I mean, Marcos gave me the instructions, but I'd never done anything like this--"

"Are you alone?"

I said I was. He rapid-fired questions, making sure my reference was legit. Marcos was a high-ranking middleman, which meant he moved in circles that Roland didn't. He was also, according to Evelyn, in Europe for six months. Roland wouldn't exactly have a cell phone number for a guy like that, so he couldn't easily contact him to verify. He wouldn't dare anyway--he'd be thrilled that someone so high on the food chain knew his name.

Once Roland was satisfied, I said that I had a problem.

"It's my husband." Then I proceeded to tell him what an abusive dirtbag I'd married. Did he believe my life was in danger? Or did he think it was just an excuse for getting rid of an inconvenient husband? It wouldn't matter. Roland would be accustomed to dealing with laypeople who exaggerated their story in the mistaken belief that they actually needed a good reason to have someone killed.

Of course, in none of that conversation did I actually say I wanted my husband killed. He was just a problem I needed solved. Also, no personal details were divulged. That had to be done in person, so Roland could better assess me and be sure I wasn't a cop.