Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

Which was true. Except, as it turned out, the price Roland was paid directly affected the amount of information he required. For this payday, Roland accepted the bare minimum of client contact. The whole thing was set up with phone calls from a blocked number, followed by a courier package with those photos of me.

"The package came from Philadelphia," Roland said. "There was no return address, but I was curious, so I called with the tracking number. It originated in Philly. But the client didn't sound like he was from there. He had an accent."

"Foreign?"

"No. Nothing strong. I racked my brain trying to figure out what it was, but I couldn't. I just know it wasn't local."

Roland blathered more about the accent and the package, and it was clear that was all he had. Then, just as Jack seemed ready to say "enough," Roland went still. He swore under his breath. Then he looked over his shoulder at me.

"Say something."

"What?"

"Say something. Talk."

"About what?"

Roland snapped his fingers. "That's it. That's the accent. Oot and aboot. Canadian."

Americans swear this is the surefire way to tell a Canadian from an American--how we say out and about. I can't quite see--or hear--it.

"The guy's accent wasn't as strong as hers, but that's definitely it. He's Canadian." A pause. "Or he has a speech defect."

Given that Aldrich had been Canadian, I was going with option one. A Canadian possibly living in Philadelphia. That wasn't going to lead me to Aldrich's killer, but it could help narrow down possibilities if we found suspects.

"Okay," Jack said. "If that's all you've got, that's what I'll have to take." Jack hunched over and lowered his voice. "My partner up there"--he waved toward Quinn--"doesn't want me to let you go, so you're going to need to make a run for it. I know you can't exactly run, but do your best. I'll shoot wide. I can't guarantee he won't mow you down, but he's no sniper. Got it?"

What the hell was Jack doing?

"I'm going to count down from five. You run straight ahead, into those woods. Don't look back. Got it?"

Roland nodded.

"Five . . ."

Jack slid his gun into his holster.

"Four . . ."

He glanced over and motioned for me to turn away.

"Three . . ."

I didn't understand--well, I did understand the gesture, but I couldn't figure out what he was doing, disarming himself before letting Roland run.

"Two . . ."

He mouthed, "Please." I turned away.

"One."

A grunt as Roland heaved his bulk up, exhaling in sudden pain from his injuries. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack lunge. I glanced over, startled, as he grabbed Roland by the hair, his foot on his back. A stomp and a yank and a crack. Then Roland sagged, neck broken, as Jack called, "Hey!" and, "Son of a bitch!"

I threw in a "What the hell?" and a "Shit!" as Quinn's footfalls pounded down the embankment. He reached the bottom just as Jack let go of Roland's hair and his body crumpled to the ground.

"He tried to run," I said as Quinn came over.

Jack heaved a deep breath. "My fault. He said the client's number was in the car. I asked Nadia to check. Moment she turns her back? He bolts. Tried to yank him back." Jack shook his head and looked down at Roland. "Son of a bitch."