Deadly Pursuit (6 page)

“Funny.” Her lips thinned with enough irritation
that he knew he’d hit a sore point. So she wasn’t immune to Jack Patterson. Good. “You’re a regular Richard Pryor, aren’t you?”

Chuckling, he took her elbow and steered her to the front door, where he paused to flick out the lights, flip the black and white sign to the
CLOSED
side and snatch her jacket off the coat rack and his from behind the counter before he locked up.

As always, he felt a surge of affection for the Twelfth Street Diner, his tiny kingdom. No one would ever mistake it for a five-star restaurant, but the food was good and the Formica and linoleum were his and his brother’s, bought and paid for. The work was hard and the pay pitiful, but it sure beat the hell out of getting shot at in the jungles of Vietnam.

“I’ll walk you out.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, J-Mart.”

“Great. Think of me as your bodyguard then.”

For a second he thought he was going to feel the business side of her briefcase for sure, but after huffing and glowering she gave up the fight and let him lead her down the steps to the sidewalk. Maybe last night’s experience made her thankful to have an escort to her car even if she was too proud to admit it.

The night was crisp and fresh after yesterday’s sleet, the air still with waiting for tomorrow’s rain. After five or six steps the relentless cold penetrated his bones and he felt the familiar dull ache of his arthritis. If he’d been smart, he’d’ve worn a heavier jacket today, but of course if he’d been smart, he’d’ve moved to Orlando twenty years ago.

The prospect of another winter here in the great Northwest was every bit as appealing as his next
prostate exam. He stepped up the pace to Amara’s black Saab SUV and walked her around to the driver’s side.

“I’ll see you in the morning, girl.”

The wry twist of her lips told him that this additional
girl
was duly noted, but she didn’t call him on it. “Actually, you won’t see me in the morning. I just finished up some paperwork and now I’m taking some time off.”

“Time off? Don’t tell me you’ve got a life …?”

She opened the door and tossed her briefcase inside. “No life. What I’ve got is fifteen vacation days that I’ll lose if I don’t use before the end of the year.”

“Why don’t you use that time over the holidays and go visit family?”

But he knew she didn’t have any family and the telltale flicker of sadness behind her eyes confirmed this before she hid it behind a careless shrug. “I’m not big on holidays.”

“Me neither, girl.” He thought of his daughter Jenny back in Boston, with her buttoned-down corporate husband and big house that had six bedrooms, none of which ever seemed to be available for a broken down army sergeant at Christmas.

Loneliness echoed through him. “Me neither.”

Settling into her seat behind the wheel, Amara shut the door, started the engine and rolled down the window. “Where’d you park? Need a ride?”

“Oh, I’m not leaving. I’ve got another hour of prep work for the morning and then payroll after that.”

“Looks like I’m not the only one with no life, eh?”

“I’m too old for a life.” Grinning, he smacked his palm on her hood, shooing her on her way so he could get back inside where it was warm. “Get outta here.”

With a beep and a wave she rolled off. Taking a
moment to appreciate the purr of a powerful engine, he watched her go until her taillights disappeared around the corner at the light.

Once she was safely gone, he zipped his jacket up to the neck and scurried back down the sidewalk at a pace that had his knees protesting. He fumbled with his keys and got them into the lock by the third try. A rush of blessed warmth hit him in the face as he went back into his haven, but he kept the jacket on for now. With his luck, it’d be noon tomorrow before he got his creaky bones heated up again.

He headed through the swinging door, past the kitchen and down the narrow hallway to his office. Paperwork first, while his mind was still fresh, and then he’d start in on the—

Clink.

J-Mart froze, listening, halfway between the kitchen and the broom closet.

The diner was full of late-night sounds and he knew them all. The hum of the refrigerator, the rumbling grind of the ice machine, the nonstop trickle of the world’s most stubborn toilet, which resided in his men’s room and wasted enough water to fill a small pond. There was no
clink.

Clink.

Shit.

Nerve endings crawled to life up and down the back of his neck and he felt the sudden and still-familiar clammy wetness in his armpits even though he hadn’t experienced it—not while awake, anyway—since he left the mosquito-infested humid heart of hell that was Vietnam.

It was coming from his office. Where a lamp that he’d left off was now on. He could see the narrow line
of yellow light seeping under the door, which was ajar. He’d left it shut and locked because the cash box was in there.

Double shit.

Kids. Why didn’t they learn? Sort of a thug’s rite of passage, was robbing the Twelfth Street Diner.

J-Mart had caught the last two hoods six months ago, and he’d catch this one.

Adrenaline pumping, he hugged the wall and edged toward the office door. At the broom closet he paused to reach inside for his Louisville Slugger, which he kept propped in the corner for just such an occasion.

Holding it cocked and ready over his shoulder—he didn’t want to hurt the kids, just surprise them enough to wet their pants and scare them straight—he poked his head inside the office door and assessed the scene.

The corner lamp was on.

The cash box was sitting, untouched, atop the pile of crap on his desk.

A slight figure stood in front of the tall file cabinet at the far end of the room, the one where J-Mart kept his employee records, trying to jimmy the lock with controlled, efficient movements.

Sweatshirt. Jeans. Knit cap pulled low so no hair was visible.

Purple rubber gloves—the kind the technician wore whenever he had blood drawn—covering small but steady hands.

Those gloves puzzled him. Worried him.

That wasn’t a neighborhood kid.

The burglar made an indistinct noise of unmistakable triumph, slid the top drawer open and, after pocketing the metal tool, began to rifle through J-Mart’s files.

In his surprise—
what kind of dumb fuck of a burglar ignored the cash box so he could rummage through employment and insurance records?
—J-Mart forgot himself and spoke.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The burglar wheeled around.

J-Mart tightened his grip on the comforting weight of his Slugger, but then their gazes connected and his jaw dropped.

It was Baby Blue, the cute little cherry pie eater with the
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
sweatshirt and world-class tits. Only her cuteness had been swallowed up by a cold intensity that had him wondering, with increasing dread, if maybe he should’ve called the police.

“You shouldn’t have come back, old man,” she said, and there was something in her icy eyes that made his bowels loosen.

“What do you want?” If he’d been in his right mind, he’d’ve been embarrassed by his croaky voice, but he had more important things to worry about because he had the strong feeling he was about to die.

“Where’s Jackson Parker?” asked Baby Blue.

Who the hell was Jackson Parker?

For one uncomprehending moment J-Mart stared at her, but then he understood with a sudden violent clarity. There was no Jackson Patterson. It was
Parker.
And here was Jack’s past, caught up with him at last.

She’d broken into the file cabinet to find Jack’s address.

Only—funny thing. Jack’s real address wasn’t in there; the one he’d listed on his employment application belonged to a pizzeria two blocks from here. Jack had told him he’d had some problems in his
past and J-Mart didn’t give a damn about his fake address because he was a fine cook who showed up for work when scheduled.

Maybe he should have asked another question or two about Jack’s troubles, but it was way past too late now, wasn’t it? Now the only thing that mattered was protecting Jack. As long as he didn’t crack, Jack would remain safe from this little demon. And J-Mart had promised he’d help.

The prayer came back to him though he hadn’t stepped foot in church in a thousand years. Whaddaya know. The nuns had drilled a little religion into him after all.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

“I’ve never heard of Jackson Parker.”

This was technically true, not that he expected it—or anything he said or did—to save his life now that he’d seen this woman’s face.

That expression didn’t change. Those wide blue eyes didn’t blink. That small body didn’t have one ounce of mercy in it, but then assassins weren’t known for their tender hearts.

J-Mart thought of Jenny. He thought of children she might one day have that he would never see. He hoped his son-in-law would take care of them.

And he prayed.

The Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women…

Reaching behind her back, Baby Blue produced a weapon and, without hesitation, aimed it at his leg and fired.

Pain exploded through his knee, shooting out the top of his head and through the soles of his feet to the floor. He dropped like a concrete slab, yelling
with agony and pissing himself, curling into the fetal position before he’d even finished falling.

His vision dimmed, went dark, and came back again. Now she was standing over him, looking down with what might have been regret, but you had to have a soul to feel sorry about anything.

Anger slowly penetrated his consciousness. Through the groaning and the slobbering and the agony, one persistent thought gave him strength: he would not go out like this. He was a retired sergeant with the United States Army who’d served two tours of duty in Vietnam and he would not fucking go out like this.

So he unclenched his hands from the bloody and ruined remnants of his knee, uncurled his body, and glared up at his killer. Shaking convulsively, he unclenched his jaw and willed his voice to be clear and strong.

Hail Mary … Hail Mary … Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death … Hail Mary … Mary …

“Fuck. You.”

Annoyed, Payton Jones stared down at the old man. Not because she cared if the crazy fuck bit it on the office floor now rather than in a hospital with prostate cancer or some such shit a few years from now, when his time came naturally. She didn’t.

The problem was: this job was beginning to require a lot of legwork and a fair amount of collateral damage. Collateral damage meant more risk to her. Under normal circumstances she’d lie in wait until she had a clear shot at the target and would never show her face to anyone. This whole
break-into-the-file-cabinet-to-find-Parker’s-address-so-she-could-kill-him-tonight
operation was riskier than she’d been told.

More risk meant she was entitled to more money.

More than the bonus she’d been promised a little while ago if she took care of this Jackson Parker character ASAP.

She’d find Parker. If the old man didn’t tell her before she clipped him—and it was beginning to look like he wouldn’t—then she would surely find him in the file cabinet over there as she’d originally planned, or maybe in the old man’s phone and cell phone records of recent calls.

If
those
turned up nothing, then she had Plan C, pretty little Amara Clarke, to follow up with, and she knew how to find Amara Clarke. But no matter how things unfolded, this job was a lot more work than she’d expected, and the pay needed to reflect it.

Impatient now, she raised her weapon and stared down the length of her arm to the old man, who was now babbling and crying, his face a disgusting mess of snot and tears.

“Hail Mary, Hail Mary,
please—
”

“Let’s talk about Jackson Parker,” she told him.

Luck was with Jack. There was an empty parking space on the street in front of his five-story brick apartment building, and he slipped his battered red Jeep into it. The usual suspects were loitering on the sidewalk despite the late hour: prostitutes who knew better than to approach him over there, drug dealers and their apprentices over there.

They all watched with interest as he unloaded his mountain bike, the only quality thing he owned, from the rack, hefted it over his shoulder and climbed the steps. He could almost see the
cha-ching
of easy money in their greedy eyes as they stared at the bike, which was exactly why he kept it safely inside his apartment.

He’d stayed out longer than he’d planned, but the weather was good and the trails were clear if a little muddy after yesterday’s sleet, and he hadn’t had a day off in three weeks. So, after a sleepless night filled with images of Amara, the images all the more graphic because now he knew the silky-smooth texture of her fragrant hair and the scent of berries and flowers on
her skin, he’d gotten up at the crack o’ dawn, thrown some protein bars, trail mix and water bottles into his backpack and driven for hours up into the mountains.

Now it was after eleven and he was back, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready for a second restless night with a hard-on the size of Plymouth Rock in his pants.

Flipping on the cheap overhead fixture to illuminate the four-walled shit box that was home sweet home, he leaned his bike against the table and tried to be grateful he had a spot to lay his head.

The place had all the comforts: Formica kitchen with harvest gold icebox circa 1962; folding card table with matching chair; one knife, one fork, one spoon and a big stack of white paper plates; a king-sized bed on the other side of the room, close enough that he never had to worry about tiring himself out during any middle-of-the-night hunts for a snack, but also close enough that he could never cook bacon unless he wanted his sheets to smell like pork for the rest of the week.

In pride of place on the wall opposite his one window: a forty-two-inch LCD HDTV with a picture sharp enough to cut diamonds.