Exit Strategy (49 page)

When that first spark ignited, Quinn’s tongue darting into my mouth, testing, hands sliding to my rear, a low, almost inaudible groan rumbling up from his chest, I knew if I wanted to stop it, this was the time. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to close my eyes and drop…and I couldn’t.

I didn’t break the kiss, but I must not have reciprocated the way he’d expected, because he pulled back his head, eyes glazed and hooded.

“No go, huh?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, disentangling myself.

“Not your fault.” He sat up, concentrating on tucking in his shirt. “If you don’t feel it, nothing you can do about that.”

I gave a ragged laugh. “Oh, I feel it.”

His gaze shot to mine, lips curving slightly. “Yeah?”

I kissed him lightly. “Trust me, that’s not in question. But our timing really sucks.”

He laughed, put his hands around my waist and pulled me onto his lap. “The others wouldn’t appreciate it if we showed up tomorrow too tired to pull this thing off.” He nipped my earlobe. “And something tells me, if we start this, the night’s not going to be over anytime soon.”

I shivered and tried hard—really hard—not to think too much about that. He ran his teeth up my ear, and I ducked away.

“Enough.” I laughed. “I’m trying to be responsible here.”

“One of us needs to be.”

He slid his hands under the hem of my sweatshirt, tickling my sides, his grin threatening to take his hands farther north. I scrambled backward. He grabbed my hips, toppling me down on my back, then moved over me, on all fours above me, crouched there, grinning.

“Not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“That depends. Am I
close
to getting a yes?”

“That depends. Can I be upstairs in about thirty minutes? Before Jack comes looking for me?” I arched my head back and pointed at the suitcase on the floor. “And before Felix wants his room back?”

“Shit. Forgot about that.” He tickled his fingers across my belly, where my sweatshirt was riding up. “Hmmm. Part of me is screaming to take what I can get. But there’s that other part that’s saying if I do, that might be
all
I get. Thirty minutes isn’t really enough to make a lasting impression….” He met my gaze. “And I want to make a lasting impression.”

Something inside me flip-flopped and I’m sure I blushed.

His lips lowered to my ear. “We could just make out for a while. Hands-over-clothes rule?”

I sputtered a laugh. “I haven’t heard that since high school.”

“I have maturity issues, in case you haven’t you noticed. Is that a yes?”

“Hands over clothes it is.”

“Does it still count if I take
mine
off ?”

I put my hands on the back of his neck and pulled him down.

Quinn did manage to get his shirt off, but I didn’t complain. Otherwise, he stuck to his rules—just kissing, a relaxed, sensual intimacy that, in some ways, I needed more than sex.

After about ten minutes, Felix unlocked the door, but the chain stopped him from opening it. He must have figured out what was going on and called that he’d be in the lounge, and for Quinn to come get him when he was “un-occupied.”

We lay there for another minute, Quinn’s hand resting on the curve between my waist and hip.

“When this is over…” he began. “I know I can’t exactly ask you out to dinner and a movie, but I
would
like to keep in touch. It doesn’t matter how. Cell phone, e-mail, whatever you’re comfortable with. I just want…I’d like to stay in touch, whether anything comes of it or not. It’d just be nice. To talk sometimes.”

I smiled. “It would be. Nice, I mean.”

“Good.” A light kiss, then he pulled back.

“I should go,” I said. “Jack’s probably pacing by now, figuring I’ve done something stupid again and wound up in a ditch somewhere.”

“More like figuring I’ve
put
you in a ditch somewhere. Go on then. Get a good night’s sleep.”

FORTY-SEVEN

By the time I got upstairs, it was past one. I opened the door. The sitting room was dark. As I slid inside, I realized this was Jack’s room, now that I’d moved in with Evelyn. I started to back out, but before the door closed, I remembered something else, namely that I didn’t have a key card for the other room.

I tiptoed to the door joining the other sitting area. As I drew near, I heard voices. Typical hotel—you can shell out for big suites and nice views, but don’t expect soundproofing. It was Evelyn talking, though I could only hear snatches of the conversation.

“…to do about it?…sit back and feel sorry…”

A low rumble. Male, probably Jack, but too low to hear clearly. I considered knocking, but didn’t want to interrupt. Maybe I could watch TV, turn it up loud enough so they’d know I was here, in case they were waiting for me. And the blare of a TV would be less intrusive than a polite knock?

Evelyn again. “Fine,
brood,
not sulk…”

Jack answered, still unintelligible. As I reached out to knock, Evelyn’s voice grew louder, her words coming clearer. I rapped anyway, but she continued. “…need to
take
what’s yours.”

Another rumble.

Evelyn sighed. “…not yours, then. So change that.
Do
something.”

I took the handle and turned it, slowly, checking whether the door was open. It was. One final knock.

Evelyn continued. “If you think
he’s
going to let this blow over, and just walk away afterward, you’ve got a hell of a shock coming—”

As she spoke, I eased open the door, then gave one last, loud knock, and she stopped in midsentence. I poked my head through the opening.

“Sorry,” I said. “I tried knocking, but I guess you couldn’t hear me. I just wanted to let you know I’m back. I’ll wait over here…”

Evelyn pulled the door open and I nearly fell in. Jack stood across the room, arms crossed.

“Everything…okay?” I asked.

Jack uncrossed his arms, but Evelyn beat him to an answer.

“No, everything is not okay,” she said, looking at him. “But, apparently, it won’t be fixed anytime soon. Not that it matters. Fuck up this chance and I’m sure one will come around again…in another twenty, thirty years.”

“The plan, you mean?” I said as I closed the door behind me. “Has something gone wrong? Quinn hasn’t heard from Dubois, so—”

“The plan is fine…or as fine as we can make it at this point.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Quinn and I discussed something, a possible change.”

I told them our thoughts on the “final” solution.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Been thinking that. It’s a problem. Not just Wilkes getting off. He’s arrested? He’ll talk.”

“About you and Evelyn. Damn it, I didn’t think—”

“Doesn’t matter. We can handle that. Cops know we exist. You? Still an unknown. I want to keep it that way.”

“Fine, but I still say you guys are in more danger. He won’t hesitate to use whatever he knows as leverage and, if that fails, he’ll just give it away to make your lives difficult. That settles it, then. We can’t hand him over to Dubois while he’s in any condition to talk.”

“Easy enough,” Evelyn said. “We amend the plan so we hand over a corpse instead of a suspect. No big deal. You kill Wilkes, and Dubois will claim he did it in self-defense.”

And there it was. Easy as could be. “You kill him, Nadia.” I didn’t even have to suggest it.

I said, “With the ambition angle, we have some leeway. Dubois might see the danger of bringing in a dead man, but he’ll see the advantages, too. ‘Top federal agent takes on notorious serial killer in a fight to the death…and wins’ makes a lot better copy than ‘Top federal agent apprehends suspect.’”

“No need to decide anything until morning, so let’s take the night to think about it. In the meantime…” She glanced Jack’s way.

Jack hesitated, then looked at me. “You tired? Got a smoke or two left.” He took the pack from his pocket. “Should get them gone.”

My gut twisted. I knew what he really wanted—to finish our argument from earlier, the one I’d walked away from.

“When the hell did you start smoking again?” Evelyn asked Jack.

“Never stopped,” he said.

“I haven’t seen you light up in years.”

“Don’t do it in front of you.”

“But you’ll do it in front of Dee? You really
do
know how to treat a lady. Take her outside in the middle of the chilly night, so you can blow smoke in her face? At least find someplace warm. There’s a lounge downstairs. Order a drink, relax, have your smoke if you need it….”

I shook my head. “I don’t drink before a job. And I’m beat. I’m just going to go to bed, okay?”

I didn’t wait around to find out whether it was okay, just grabbed my bag and headed for the bathroom. When I came out, Jack was gone.

Evelyn started for the bathroom, but I stopped her.

“You know what Quinn does, don’t you?” I said. “His angle.”

A small smile. “The Boy Scout?”

“Is that his other pro name?”

She moved back into the room and sat on her bed. “Yes, but I wouldn’t suggest you use it unless you want to piss him off. Seems vigilante types have this odd aversion to having it thrown in their face.”

I ignored that and pressed on. “But if this is his angle, vigilantism as you call it, and he’s obviously far more into it than I am, why not take him?”

She grinned. “If I were thirty years younger, Dee, I’d take him in a second. But that’s just libido talking. As a student? He’d be…adequate. Nothing more.”

“But he
is
a vigilante. And a true believer, not just some guy taking advantage of an underserviced wedge of the market.”

“Still trying to wriggle out of this without making a decision, Nadia?”

“Of course not,” I snapped, a little harder than I meant, annoyed by her switch from Dee to Nadia. I covered it by continuing. “You said you want me because you’re interested in this ‘angle’ of mine. But Quinn has it, so I think I’m entitled to ask a question or two.”

“And make sure I’m not misleading you? Tricking you into something?”

“I’m being careful.”

“Good girl. So why you and not him? Fair question. For Quinn, it’s all up here—” She tapped her head. “Cerebral. He sees injustice and, as a cop, as a moral man, he’s outraged. But there’s no fire here—” She patted her stomach.

“But Quinn’s good. Even Jack admits it.”

“Technical skills, attention to detail, creativity, brains, all that can make you a damned fine hitman, and Quinn has it all. But to be better than fine, to be
legendary,
you need that drive. Me, I had some, but not on your scale. I’ve only ever seen that kind of fire once, a different sort—the worst case of ‘fuck the world’ rage you’ve ever seen. Without training? Suicide. You take too many chances, trying to dowse those flames. You burn yourself up.” She met my gaze. “Seen any symptoms of that lately, Nadia?”

I said nothing. She pushed to her feet, muttering about her knees, then wished me good night and headed to the bathroom.

I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. That never fails. If you have a big day coming, and you know you need your rest, then you won’t be able to find it, and the longer you lie there, the more anxious you get, which only keeps you awake.

What really kept me awake that night, though, was my conversation with Jack. I believe in honesty. Always have. But brutal honesty is, well, brutal. It rips the scabs off wounds you’ve tried so hard to heal.

He hadn’t said anything I didn’t already know. No matter how hard I’d worked to get my life back on track after Wayne Franco, that track was closed to me forever now. I’d never be a cop again. Marriage, kids, a house in the suburbs—none of it had ever ranked very high on my list of life goals, but there’s a difference between not wanting something and not being able to have it.

Sure, I could find a guy willing to overlook my past—I’d had plenty who’d offered—but I wasn’t as willing to let anyone try, not after Eric. And I was never bringing a child into this world to grow up under the shadow I’d cast. If I really wanted those things, I could move to another country and start over, under a new name, but that was something I’d never more than fleetingly considered.

There were people who would give a damn if I didn’t come back from this trip. Emma and Owen and a handful of friends, like Mitch and Lucy. A pitiably small group, none of the ties as close as those I’d once had. I no longer let people get close, not after everyone who should have stuck by me didn’t. My mother, my brother, my lover, my friends, my extended family—some tried to hang on after “the Incident,” but none tried very hard and when I’d finally packed up and left, I’d heard a collective sigh of relief.

If I died on this mission, I couldn’t help wondering whether my funeral would be like Kozlov’s, where news cameras outnumbered the mourners. That’s a shitty thing to realize…and a shittier thing to make someone realize.

Damn Jack.

After two hours of tossing and listening to the hitches in Evelyn’s breathing as my restlessness disturbed her sleep, I grabbed a pillow and blanket, crept from the room and set up on the sofa.

About thirty minutes later, I drifted off. But when sleep came, it didn’t come soundly, and the moment I lost consciousness I slid right into my nightmare.