“Stop!” she cried.
But he wouldn’t stop, and the panic reached a fever pitch and her breathing grew shallow and rapid, and she did the only thing she knew to do: she reared her head back and butted him right in the face.
He cried out, and Quinn felt his grip on her loosen as she scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door.
It was all she needed. A head start. A lead on him, so she could run. Because while kicking the shit out of the enemy was what she wanted most, often the best thing to do with a large attacker was to defend yourself just enough so you could run and find help.
Once at the door, Quinn stopped and turned around. Wyatt lay on the floor, blood streaming from his nose. He had a smile on his face.
“I’m gonna get a nice ole bruise from that one.”
“You deserve it,” Quinn said, rubbing the back of her head, still high on adrenaline from the tussle, and resentful at Wyatt’s pushing things that far. And at how much stronger he was than her, for no other reason than his being male. “I told you to stop!”
Wyatt got to his feet and grabbed a t-shirt to wipe the blood from his nose, sweat glistening from his muscular chest covered in tattoos, including one that read “Westgate” in ornate black letters. “Them guys won’t stop in real life, girl.”
“So what! When I say stop, stop.”
He shook his head. “You wanna learn, you gotta learn my way.”
That was Wyatt. He always took everything too far.
And still he grinned as he came closer to her with his hands up, as if to reassure her that the training was over for now. Then he came even closer, pressing himself against her, Quinn feeling his body heat and moist skin on hers.
“You did good today,” he said. “Sometimes you gotta use your head like that. Whatever it fucken takes to hurt ’em good so you can get the fuck away.”
Quinn rubbed the back of her head again, which still hurt a little, but the pain was quickly lost in how turned on she was, especially when Wyatt kissed her, their sweat and blood commingling as he yanked down her shorts…
Quinn shook her head as she walked down the street, the intense sun glaring at her and her nose dry from the hot, arid winds. Still no sign of rain, and it would reach 130 degrees that day.
Don’t think about Wyatt.
But she’d been thinking about him all morning, and ever since she’d left Noah’s place late last night. She wasn’t sure why. Noah was nothing like Wyatt.
She couldn’t shake the wisp of guilt that hit her. She’d had a good time with Noah again. Too good. The wine was delicious and the food tasty and the view gorgeous. How could she not appreciate such luxuries? Yet, she felt guilty about enjoying them at someone else’s expense, and she wondered if Noah believed she’d slept with him for those reasons.
She hadn’t. She loved the treats, but she wasn’t one of those women who chased higher-class men for the luxuries they offered. She didn’t want a man to buy her luxuries. She wanted to get to a place where she could afford to buy them for herself. It’s what she’d always wanted.
Wyatt would harangue her for days if he knew she’d been dating a guy like Noah, enjoying the gifts, instead of dating her own kind. But she’d had enough of thugs—they’d always managed to hurt her, and she had nothing in common with them anyway. Besides, Wyatt couldn’t hassle her about anything. Wyatt was gone, and had been for years.
Stop. That’s the past.
She liked Noah. She liked his intelligence, that he got things other people didn’t get. She liked that he cared about things that mattered. And… she liked the way he looked at her, and the way she could return to his place without fear and lay her weapon-laden jacket on his dresser, forgetting about it until it was time to leave.
When she’d gotten up to dress herself and head home, Noah had put his strong hand on her naked back and asked her to stay. She said no. But for a mere moment, she’d considered saying yes.
She pushed those thoughts away, too.
Quinn knew where she stood. They’d enjoyed one another’s company, and that was it. There was no mention of him calling her this time. Sure, he’d tossed out some ludicrous bet about her seeing another Blue Banner, but it was never mentioned again the rest of the evening. By now, he’d had his fill of her and would move on.
Quinn arrived at Hole and found an empty corner booth, perfect for making secret plans. She pulled out her computer to read through the notes she’d already drafted for the Borelli job. After a few minutes, she checked her watch. Jones was late.
Damn it, what was it with these people? Daria, for all her imperfections, was never late. If anything, she always got there first.
Ten minutes after the hour, Jones joined her in the booth, his face stretched taut.
“You’re late,” she said, giving him the evil eye.
“I know,” he growled. “I got caught up.”
“Caught up? You do realize how much is riding on this job, right? And you can’t even be—”
Anger flared in his eyes. “I got caught up. It was a family issue. I won’t be late for the job, alright?”
Quinn was about to retort, but she saw something in his eyes, something hovering behind the anger. Pain. She stopped harping on him and pulled out her notes. Normally, with thugs, you had to be super tough with them, or they would interpret your ease as weakness and take advantage. It was the thug way.
“So. The job.” When he nodded, indicating for her to go on, she filled him in on the details about the Borelli job. “Borelli’s is a little family-owned Italian place that’s been in Midtown forever, since before the drought. Linden—the restauranteur who owns all those nice seafood restaurants—is trying to push him out. Linden wants the property for his new joint. Borelli’s is in a good location, and Linden probably wants a piece of that quiet family money there.” She glanced at her notes again. “We need to find a way to target Linden. From what I can tell so far, he’s on the move a lot. You know how complicated home invasions can be, and this job’s already complicated. So… I was thinking we jack him at one of his restaurants on a busy weekend night, when no one will notice if he’s gone for a few minutes—” She stopped, seeing Jones’s scowl. “What?”
“This is a shit job.”
“Of course it’s a shit job! What do you think, they’re going to give me a prime one?”
“But this shit’s complex. Guy like Linden’s gonna have training—”
“Yeah, he is. But it’s a job and at least it’s for a good cause—”
“It ain’t a good cause,” Jones groused, leaning back in his chair and crossing his meaty, inked arms. “Borelli’s a dick and I don’t like workin’ for dicks.”
“What do you mean he’s a dick? How would you know?”
“I dropped by his joint last night. For recon. The asshole didn’t want to serve me ’cause of how I look. And he was a dick to his workers, too. I watch that shit…”
Quinn’s hands balled into fists. “You went to Borelli’s? You let a client see you and risked getting dimed? Especially when you stand out with all that ink?”
Jones rolled his eyes. “Calm down. He ain’t a target. I always do recon on the client. You never know.”
Quinn shook her head. It wasn’t a terrible idea, actually, but she hated it. She hated that he just did it, without consulting her first. “Don’t fucking do stuff like that without talking to me, man. Just don’t. And what did you expect, anyway? You look like a damned thug. You can’t just march into some Midtown restaurant dressed in cargos and a tank top!”
It probably wasn’t the best idea to taunt him and make things worse, but she couldn’t help herself.
Jones eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t be gettin’ all judgmental, girl. You’re just as fucken low-grade as I am, despite tryin’ to pretend you aren’t.”
Quinn gritted her teeth, the desire to pull Jones from the job and tell him to go fuck himself bigger than ever.
But she said nothing. He was her last cha
nce and she needed him. She needed this. She took a deep breath.
It’s temporary. It’s just one job. Get through it, and everything will get better.
“Yes, it’s a shit job,” she finally said. “I’m not happy about it either. But we don’t have much choice, do we? So let’s stop talking about what’s wrong with the job and focus on how to get it done.”
Jones gave a slight nod, putting aside his own irritation. “Which joint you wanna jack him at?”
“Voila. It’s one of his nicer restaurants, near the theater district. We can meet there for recon.”
“Tomorrow night?”
Chapter 17
Quinn put on a smile, reminding herself that her Downtown scowl wouldn’t do at a place like this.
There was plenty to smile about. Voila was beautiful, with white tablecloths, soft lighting, real wood trim, and green plants in tall cobalt blue pots. And in the middle of it all was the showpiece, a small atrium behind glass, featuring water-conserving but very real cacti that received the sunlight they needed from the skylight above. The place smelled like a delicious mixture of grilled meat and garlic.
And the sounds. The hum of conversation, alive with the excitement of an evening out. The tinkling of silverware hitting white plates. Soft music piping through the speakers.
Quinn wore her dress, her favorite red one that she’d worn on her date with Noah, newly cleaned. She never thought she’d wear it twice in one week.
When Jones arrived, on time, Quinn took one look at him and cringed. Despite dressing in jeans, a clean sport coat, and a hat, he looked conspicuous with that swaggering Downtown male walk. God, she missed Daria, who dressed up nicely and could look upper middle class so easily.
Jones joined Quinn at the bar and they ordered a drink but nothing else. They couldn’t afford even an appetizer at a place like this, much less dinner. And even if they could, neither could get a reservation at Voila, especially on a Friday night.
Suddenly, Quinn thought of Noah, again wondering what kind of pull he had to get a table with a view at Angel’s. A flash of fear ran through her at the thought of running into him here. But no… Voila was out of even Noah’s reach.
“Fuck, this place is pretentious,” Jones muttered after the bartender delivered their drinks.
“I wouldn’t mind being able to afford a little pretentious.”
“Why?” he scoffed. “Who needs this shit? What’s wrong with pizza, or a burrito?”
“You wouldn’t understand. And get that snarl off your face, or you’ll give us away.”
Jones relaxed his face, putting his hand on her back briefly, like they’d talked about. He leaned in. “You spotted him yet?”
Quinn forced a smile, as if she enjoyed Jones’s caress, and spoke into his ear. “No.”
They sat for a while, nursing their drinks, trying to make them last so they wouldn’t have to fork over more money for another round. Then Quinn had an idea. She went to the hostess stand, donning her best smile.
“Is Mr. Linden in tonight?”
The hostess shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Oh, too bad. I work in seafood sales and he promised me a tour of the kitchen. Is there anyone who could spare a few minutes and show me around?”
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to talk to Gary about that.”
“Thank you,” Quinn said.
She headed back to the bar, annoyed. If Linden wasn’t there, it was the perfect time to explore the back of the house and find out where his office was. But it looked like that wasn’t going to happen.
Then she spotted him. Mid-fifties, tallish, charming smile. Gary Linden. Quinn took a deep breath, heading over. It was showtime. As she approached, she brandished her best smile and all the confidence she could muster.
“Mr. Linden,” she said, holding out her hand. When he put his hand in hers, she held onto it for a couple of moments and patted it with her other hand. “I can see you’re busy tonight, but I wanted to tell you that I was here last week and the sea bass was the best I’ve ever had. Better than Georgio,” she added with emphasis.
Linden lit up a little at that. “Why, thank you, Miss…”
“Miles. Tara Miles.”
“Well, Miss Miles, any day I can outshine Georgio is a good day for me.”
Seeing that others were standing by, vying for Linden’s attention, Quinn wished him well and returned to the bar. Jones had a confused look, and she smiled as they paid for their drinks and left the place.
Outside, Jones turned to her, anger in his face. “What the hell was that? You knock me for doin’ recon on Borelli and then go talk to our target?”
“To establish facial recognition. I have a feeling this guy has really good mind training, and you know how long that can take… and we won’t have much time. Now, when I link with him, he’ll recognize me as a friendly. It’s not foolproof, but in my experience it can make things go a little quicker.”
Jones looked impressed for a second, but then his expression returned to its usual hardness. “It better work, darlin’…”
“Stop calling me that, thug.”
Jones rolled his eyes and they continued to the subway station in silence.
Over the next several days, Quinn and Jones gathered more information on Linden’s life: his comings and goings, which restaurants he visited and when, his home, with whom he associated. They stayed with Quinn’s original plan, to jack Linden at his Voila office. Quinn never managed a tour of Voila’s kitchen, and it was far too risky to ask the target for one and risk triggering suspicion. However, a few sneaky phone calls made it clear that Linden did have an office there. They would have to find it on game night.
That day, Quinn sat at Hole, sipping her diablo while Jones ordered nothing again.
“You don’t want something?” she said after Soo disappeared.
He shook his head.
She sighed in annoyance. “I’ll spring for it.”
She didn’t want to buy Jones a drink. She didn’t want to spend her limited funds on him when he’d done nothing to earn it, especially when her rent was due yesterday and she wasn’t able to pay it. But she thought buying him a drink might help ease the tension between them. But again, he shook his head.
“Fine,” she said. “Back to business. We still have one trouble spot. We need a way to get Linden back into that office, wherever it is, on a busy Saturday night. Without anyone getting suspicious.”
Jones leaned forward on his elbows. “I’ll put in a fake call, say it’s his wife. He’ll take the call in his office.”
Quinn shook her head. “He could talk to her anywhere. We need something more pressing, something important enough to warrant privacy.”
Jones considered that. “I got it. Fake a call from the Protectorate. He’s a former client, so that oughta get him listening.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Why not?” Jones said with a hint of defensiveness.
“Because it’s risky. It could tip him off.”
“Nah. He knows them, they know him, and it ain’t like he’d know who I really am over the phone—”
“I don’t like it.”
Jones leaned back and crossed his arms. “Of course you don’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His blue-green eyes stared into hers. “It means you ain’t gonna listen to any idea I got because it ain’t yours.”
“Bullshit,” she scoffed. She lowered her voice, leaning toward him. “Do you think I got this far by being a hack?”
“Yeah? And where’s that? In a position where you gotta take some shit job for shit pay in order to get back into the Protectorate’s good graces again?”
“Look who’s talking! Where’s that data again?” she said, referring to the data he’d lost on his last job.
Jones’s eyes flared with anger. He looked away, shaking his head, and Quinn grabbed her diablo and took a long drink. Just then, a woman in short shorts nearb
y bent over, a bit of ass cheek peeking out as she did. Jones stared, his eyes fixated on the sight, for longer than what seemed necessary. At that moment, Quinn missed Daria more than she ever had.
“See something you like?” she taunted.
Jones looked at her again. “You wanna get this done or not? Getting that rich asshole back in that office by pretending to be the Protectorate will work. Unless you got a better idea.” He eyed her, daring her.
She didn’t. She didn’t have a better idea. Jones’s idea was a fine idea, but the truth was, she didn’t want to listen to his ideas because she didn’t trust him. She imagined the worst: Jones on the phone with Linden, talking like some low-class thug and Linden catching on, botching the job and threatening her own goals. And it wasn’t like Jones was good with the words, either. She’d make the call herself, but she risked Linden recognizing her voice.
She gritted her teeth, hating every moment of this. She hated working with Jones. She hated the tats, the attitude. She hated that he wasn’t Daria. He was probably like every thug she’d ever known, except possibly Wyatt—the kind who picked fights, who hurt people and groped women, knowing his size meant he could get away with it and the victim couldn’t do shit about it. But she didn’t have time to evaluate who Jones was in his spare time. She needed to get this job done.
Quinn sighed. “If you do this, what would you say to him?”
Jones shrugged. “Anything. ‘Mr. Linden, we had an incident occur with so-and-so, from your previous work with us. Has he contacted you, or have you received any unusual calls or problems?’”
Quinn raised her eyebrows. Okay, the thug could stop sounding like a thug when he wanted to. Too bad he didn’t do it more often.
“Fine,” she relented. “We’ll do it your way. As long as you sound like that. Otherwise you’ll give us away.”
“This ain’t my first rodeo, darlin’.”
She eyed him.
“This ain’t my first rodeo,” he repeated.
“Okay then. We’ll come up with a believable premise, and you’ll make the call. As far as getting in goes, Voila has a back door. It’s locked, but we can break in. And I have an idea in case anyone happens to see us.”
Mindjacker Page 9
