Exit Strategy (Nadia Stafford 1)

And looked down at the bloodied shirt he'd stripped off.

His gut went cold.

He fought the panic back. He'd been careful. Even the shirt was folded, unbloodied side down. But if he made this an HSK kill, the Feds would rip this van apart. A single blood drop. A single hair. Even an eyelash. They'd comb the building site, too, and he knew from Jack's words that he'd dripped blood somewhere.

He swallowed. Fresh rage enveloped him.

In a flash, he was back in that house, in that hall, seeing Jack down the hall illuminated by the moonlight. His face hard. Emotionless and cold, as if he knew he'd make his shot. Jack hadn't feared starting a gun battle in an empty house because he knew he'd instinctively cover all the contingencies, that even if he wasn't hunting a mark, he'd have covered his traces.

So damned perfect. Jack wouldn't have panicked and crawled into this van, bleeding.

Wilkes shook off the thought. He'd leave this as an unmarked killing, and he'd be safe. That meant the Helter Skelter killer couldn't strike in or near Vegas tonight--couldn't take the chance of the murders being linked.

It didn't matter. He'd make up for it. Something bigger. Better. Splashier. Let the Feds think he'd been pulling their strings with the train hit, making them dance. He'd do it right next time.

Then he'd take care of Jack.

* * *

FORTY

We searched for longer than we should have. If I needed further proof that Jack was as frustrated by this "interruption" as I was, this was it. After a thorough sweep, we should have left, in case the dozing guard awoke. Even more dangerous was our pursuer himself, possibly holed up somewhere, gun poised, ready to blast if anything crept past his hiding spot. That I realized this first--when the black fury over losing our prey lifted long enough for me to take stock of my situation--proved how furious Jack was.

When I did realize it, I felt a lick of fear, worried that if I suggested we should quit, he'd turn that anger on me. Yet I didn't get more than a whispered "Jack, I think--" out before he was nodding and nudging me to a quiet spot, where he said the very words I'd been ready to speak, as if he'd already realized we should leave and had just been holding out a few minutes longer before surrendering.

And it did feel like surrender. Jack said our target had probably left, and I agreed, but we both knew neither of us believed it. Even if we suspected it, we wanted to be sure, to cover every square inch, hunt until dawn drove us off.

It was a silent drive to the hotel.

Instead of letting me sink into my black thoughts, the quiet refocused my attention. Jack was just as angry, just as frustrated as I was, and what I felt was the overwhelming need, not to join him, but to pull him out of it. Help him as he'd helped me last night, after the opera.

Yet last night, he'd initially seemed uncertain how to help, leaving my room to buy a bottle. Only later did he hit on the perfect diversion--And so now I sat there, wishing I knew him better, knew how to help.

When we finally reached the hotel and got inside, I said the only thing I could think of.

"You got him. Shot him, I mean. For all we know, he's holed up, dead."

Jack shook his head, tossing his keys on the dresser, rattling as they collapsed in a heap.

"Fucked up," he said.

"You? I never even got off a shot."

He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the chair then, with a glance my way, picked it up and laid it neatly across the back. I watched him, measuring the set of his jaw, the force of his footfalls as he crossed the room. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, vertebrae crackling. Then he kicked off his shoes, thumping one-two on the carpet.

"Fucked up," he said again, as if he'd never paused the conversation. "Back at Little Joe's place. That punk. Message wasn't enough."

"We don't know that. This was more likely Gallagher's man--"

"Doesn't matter." He lowered himself onto the bed, springs squeaking. "Ten years ago? Would a put a bullet in him. Never thought twice. Punks like that? Can't let them think they bested you."

Another neck rub. "But like I said tonight? Ten years ago? Don't much like who I was then. Things I did. These days? Try to find other ways. Sometimes? Go too far."

"Even if you had killed that guy the other day, that's not to say the Nikolaevs wouldn't have sent this one...if that's who did send him."

Jack opened his mouth, as if to argue, then said, "Gotta get some sleep."

"Can you? I mean, I'm not sure I can