Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

The story wasn't the most plausible Jack had ever concocted. It wasn't meant to be. It was enough that he'd bothered to give Quinn an excuse that his conscience could accept. I appreciated that, even if Quinn wouldn't.

So Roland was dead. There was a reason Jack broke his neck instead of shooting him--and why he'd kicked him instead of kneecapping. No bullet wounds. Jack and Quinn wrestled Roland's bulk into the passenger seat of his car. I even managed to snake around and get his seat belt on, my hands covered to avoid fingerprints. While Quinn and I moved the rental cars onto the road and erased the tire tracks, Jack pried the bullet from Roland's car tire and found the casing. In the entire hour we'd been there, not a single vehicle had passed. As Jack speculated, it might be a while before they were found.

CHAPTER 27

"Can we swing by that bar again," I asked as we reached the highway on the way back to the hotel.

Jack looked over at me.

"No," I said. "That's not my way of saying I really need a drink . . . though I wouldn't turn one down right now. I want to see if my phone survived. Roland's bodyguard chucked it across the roof. It's probably dead, but I'd like to check."

"All right."

I eased back my seat and tried not to wince as I changed position. By morning my body would be one giant bruise.

"Okay," I said. "So we know--"

"Blood," Jack said suddenly.

"Um . . ."

He glanced over. "I smell blood."

His gaze flew to the strap peeking from under my jacket sleeve. The edge was dark with blood.

"What the fuck--?" he began.

"You know the problem with strapping a knife on your leg? Getting the knife off without losing fingers--or slicing open your arm."

"Shit!" He veered into the right lane, as if ready to take the next exit.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Not if I can smell the goddamned blood, Nadia. How bad is it?"

"I'm still walking and talking, and not feeling light-headed, so obviously I didn't lose a dangerous amount of--"

"Or it's just bound tight. Fuck. Call Quinn. Tell him to get your phone."

"I--"

He met my gaze. "Call Quinn now."

I did.

Jack didn't take me to the hospital, though he made it clear that would be on the agenda if first aid wasn't enough. He had his kit in the back, with his duffel, but since my arm was adequately bound, he took me to the hotel room, where he could work with clean water and decent lighting.

The cut was worse than I hoped, but not as bad as Jack feared. He had butterfly bandages in his kit--the small strips that could be used in place of stitches for minor cuts. This didn't quite meet his definition of "minor," but the wound had closed and the butterfly bandages did the job.

After that he made me change into my jogging shorts and T-shirt. Then he checked me over, me sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands running down my legs, the adrenaline from the night still pumping, and, yes, I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy that, even if he was all business. I seemed to be fine. When he noticed my breathing catching as I inhaled, though, he started checking my ribs again.

"I might have cracked one," I said. "But if so, there's nothing that can be done about it."

"Cracked, okay. Broken? No."

"If it was broken, I'd have noticed."

He ignored me and touched my ribs through my shirt, trying to see which one hurt. It was an imperfect method and when it failed, he fingered the hem of my T-shirt, making a motion to tug it up.