by Incy Black
“Evening, Jack. Good of you to drop by. Walter will be beside himself with delight.”
Chapter Nineteen
Patient Peter pointed his snub-nosed pistol not at Jack but at Lowry’s head. “Now, start depositing your weapons, Ballentyne. Very, very carefully on the floor.”
“Untie her first.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. She’s drugged right now, but when she awakens, which might be any moment now, I’d prefer to avoid the risk of her lashing out.” Patient Peter lifted his other hand and frowned at the pristine white bandage binding it. “It never ceases to amaze me how some woman react when I touch them.”
Jack hid his revulsion, focusing instead on the rush of warmth as his awe for Lowry’s courage hit new heights. This animal had once raped her, terrorized and disabled her, and yet she’d still fought back.
Her lip was split. An angry bruise, discolored and swollen, marred one side of her beautiful face. A spear of white-hot heat gutted him. The bastard had hit her. For that alone, he would die.
“Your weapons, Ballentyne. Don’t make me ask you again.”
Jack reached to the small of his back, removed his Sig, and slowly lowered it to the floor.
“Kick it over here.”
He complied, and the gun spun across the tiles. He tracked its path. He might need it shortly. He also removed his cell phone, subtly setting it to record before sliding it across the floor.
“And the rest.”
Jack eased down into a crouch. Not once did he lift his eyes from the pistol Patient Peter trained unwaveringly at Lowry. Not even when she gave a muted groan and tugged weakly against her bindings.
He lifted free his back-up gun, his knife too, and scooted them across the floor, each in a different direction. He noted exactly where each came to rest. If it came to a messy fight, he wanted to know exactly where his best friends were.
“Now kneel. Hands behind your head.” Obedience was getting on his nerves, but Jack held himself in check. Were he alone with the deviant, he’d surge up and rain down violence on the bastard, gun or not. But he wouldn’t risk Lowry’s life just because his pride was offended.
But he would poke, provoke, and distract. Aggravate Patient Peter into launching an attack on him. “Have you any idea how sickeningly ridiculous you look, Forsythe? Those garters do absolutely nothing for your legs. Little wonder the ladies are unimpressed.”
The pistol rose a smidgen. Fired. The bullet shattered one tile to smithereens and fractured its neighbors. Acoustically enhanced by the tight confines of the underground cell, the noise was so shocking, he had to glue his knees to the floor to stop from leaping up to shield Lowry’s ears.
“Watch your mouth, Ballentyne. Next time it’s her head.”
Lowry moaned again. The shot must have roused her. “Jack?”
“You okay, sweetheart?” He dropped in the hated endearment to rile her, to remind her that the man with the gun had once called her that, too. Doing so had him wanting to rip out his own tongue. But he needed her furious. He’d even settle for scared, because when he freed her, he wanted her to run and keep running until she was safe.
He didn’t want her watching or anywhere near when he took Patient Peter apart with his bare hands. If she were to witness that, she’d never look at him in the same way again.
And he didn’t want her viewing him through blood-tinted glasses. God, his chest ached. What if he lost her? What if he never got the chance to convince her that he could be the man she deserved?
“She’s fine…for now. Can’t answer for how she will be feeling a few hours from now, though. With what’s she’s cost me, I deserve a little fun, a little entertainment. I like to play.”
Jack looked at the man with absolute loathing. “You sick, sick fuck. Why do you do it? Or don’t you even know?”
“Because I can. It’s as simple as that. And you needn’t look so disgusted. You and I, we’re not so very different. Both killers and very good at what we do. Both playing a dangerous game, because if we’re honest, we need the challenge. The rush it gives us. To feel alive.”
“I am nothing like you.”
“I hunt. I hurt. I kill. So do you. Where’s the difference?”
“I don’t kill innocents. I don’t abuse women. I do what’s right. By anyone’s definition, you do everything wrong. And, I’m sure as hell not insane.”
The vein that dissected Forsythe’s temple filled with blood and started to throb violently.
The corners of Jack’s lips tipped upward in a slight smile. He’d just found the freak’s weakness. Patient Peter was vain. He didn’t like it when his sense of superiority was attacked, when imperfection was implied. “You’re broken, Forsythe, damaged beyond repair.”
The man’s laugh curdled his blood. “And yet, I still bested you. Tell me, how did it feel to have your picture in the paper? Was it fun? It sure gave me a kick. All it took was one press of the send button and…whoops, your life was over.”
Lowry moaned again, her eyes fluttered open. He made sure to capture her dazed stare and gave the silent order for her to keep still. “Don’t add underestimating me to the catalogue of mistakes you’ve already made, Forsythe.”
“Mistakes? What mistakes? You’re the one on his knees. She’s the one tied up. I’m the man with the gun.”
“Killing Wainwright wasn’t smart. Nor was framing Lowry for it. And as for failing to dispose of that security tape properly…” Jack laced his laugh with ridicule.
“The security tape was no mistake of mine,” Patient Peter rejected coldly. “And Wainwright served his purpose. His death scared the hell out of her, and besides, the pleasure his screams gave me—”
“You evil, psychotic bastard.” Jack tensed at Lowry’s furious interruption. She sounded ready to spring. Did she have to disobey his every order, even the unspoken ones?
“Tut, tut, tut, my sweet girl. Language. I’ll be kissing that potty mouth of yours soon. Please bear that in mind.”
The sudden glint in the man’s eyes, the way the tip of his tongue shot out to moisten his lips, stoked Jack’s revulsion. He had to get Forsythe’s attention back on him and away from Lowry.
“Tell me about the other girls, Forsythe. You’ve done this before haven’t you? Brought them here, tied them up, killed them. How many?”
“One or two. Okay, I admit I lie. Make that ten or eleven. Maybe more, lots more. As said, I like to play.”
“But not on your own. You had help. Who?”
Patient Peter tapped the side of his nose and chuckled. “Now if I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”
The man’s laughter at his own wit near peeled the flesh from Jack’s bones. Lowry struggled against her restraints. Jack fixed her with an anxious frown before returning his attention to Forsythe. “You mentioned a brother. What’s his involvement in all this?”
“He likes to watch first and play later.”
“So you two are close?”
Patient Peter made a rude noise. “Hate him, always have, but he had his uses.”
“Who’s he?”
“Oh you’ll meet him soon enough, Ballentyne. I’m giving you to him as a reward for services rendered. He’ll salivate at that. You actually know Walter rather well, though you know him better as—”
A sharp retort cracked the air.
Jack lunged sideways, rolling fast. He curled his fingers round his knife and hurled it with deadly precision as two more thunderous shots rang out.
With Peter Forsythe down, he spun, ready to go hand-to-hand with whoever stood in the doorway behind him. And relaxed. “Smith, where the bloody hell were you?”
Not waiting for an answer, he crossed to Lowry and frantically started on her bindings. He wanted her out of here. Now. She seemed incapable of dragging her eyes away from Patient Peter, who lay slumped on the floor, three bullets to his chest and Jack’s knife buried to the hilt straight through his heart.
“I was supposed to take him down, Ja
ck. Me not you.”
Her whisper wasn’t intentional, he was damn sure. It was just all she could manage. “You wouldn’t have been able to do it, Lowry.” He tapped his two fingers against the left side of her sternum. “This would have stopped you from taking him down, even to save your own life. He didn’t change you, because here, in your heart, your sense of due process is pure and too damned strong.”
Her eyes flooded, and tears spilled down her cheeks. She buried her face into his chest. “For pity’s sake, get me out of here, Jack, before he taints me from beyond the grave. I don’t want to fight him and his evil anymore.”
He slipped his arm beneath her legs and straightened. Holding her close. Knowing she was safe. This was as close to perfection as he’d ever got. And he was damned if he’d ever let her go. He just had to find a way to convince her to look beyond the temper and bloodstains to see him.
He cocked his head at the faint sound of sirens. “That’ll be the reinforcements, Smith. Go be a hero again, and make sure they don’t come in guns blazing.”
Smith, his face grim, nodded, and then retreated.
Jack followed minutes later. When he entered the hall, Lowry still held tight in his arms, it was already crowded with men made larger by body armor. He snapped at them to put their damn weapons away. Lowry needed no reminder of the violence she’d witnessed.
“There’s a drawing room at the end of the corridor. If you take her there, it will be quieter.”
He frowned. How the fuck would Smith know that? He dismissed the niggle. If Smith had been able to free himself from wherever it was he’d been held, he’d have cased the joint in his search for Lowry.
…
“Got it, Jack. Forsythe’s confession. I take it you deliberately triggered the tape mode as a ‘just in case.’ I’m keeping your phone. It’s evidence.”
Jack slapped Marshall on the back and grinned. “It’s all yours. But you should know that as a second ‘just in case,’ I forwarded through a copy to Richard. There’s no telling what might happen once that phone disappears into the Cube.”
Marshall nodded. “We will get the other rat bastards, Jack. The investigative broom has already started sweeping.” He shifted his gaze to Lowry. “She all right?”
Jack glanced over to where Lowry sat huddled on an overstuffed crimson and white striped sofa. And he promptly swore a full spectrum of blues in his head. By now, she should have been packed in a private ambulance and on her way back to central London.
He’d argued with himself that his reason for keeping her at his side was sound. That he hadn’t wanted her crossing paths with Forsythe’s body when it was recovered from the cellar. He’d wanted to spare her that. But in truth, he hadn’t been able to let her go. He was not yet ready to let her out of his sight. He wasn’t sure he ever would be.
He looked down and was relieved to see his fingers were rock steady. The way his insides still quivered, he’d have expected his hands to be vibrating hard enough to power up half of London. “She’s fine. I’m waiting for a car to take us both back to London. Shouldn’t be long now. Is the…ah…clean-up completed?”
“Yeah, but you need to get her out of here, Jack. She’s horribly pale.”
“She’s also got excellent hearing. And, Jack’s right. I’m fine.” Her voice was stronger. Jack felt his guilt recede. New sensation that—not the feeling of guilt itself, but acknowledging it. Oddly, he found it quite empowering. He doubted it would stop him doing what he had to do, but facing his own demons had to be easier than running from them—as long as Lowry had his back.
“The bruising to your face is fairly horrific, though admittedly you look kind of cute in Jack’s jacket,” said Marshall, flatly.
“Thanks for the ‘fairly horrific’ comment. I’ll add it to the list of compliments I received from the medics who checked me out. And before you go and interrogate them, no I don’t have a concussion, and the after-effects of the drug that bastard gave me are short lived and probably already out of my system.”
“Told you she was fine,” said Jack, dropping a hand onto Marshall’s shoulder.
Smith joined them. “Your lift is waiting, Marshall, and yours will be here in fifteen minutes, Jack. Was it really necessary to insist on a separate vehicle?”
…
Funny that for a man who had shared her ordeal, Smith was remarkably together. He had certainly gotten lucky in the bruising stakes. There wasn’t a mark on him.
She creased her brow. God, even now, with Patient Peter dead, her mind was still clouded with suspicion. Jack had insisted good men worked for the Service too. She was inclined to agree. Her father, Jack, Marshall, Will, others she didn’t know, but who were probably just as loyal.
But Patient Peter had rallied supporters. Bribing, enticing, blackmailing even. But who?
Her head throbbed; the familiar taste of panic soured the back of her throat. There had been another man in the van, the one who had whistled. Who was he? Where was he?
She shot an anxious glance at Jack, her blood chilling as he reached forward to shake hands with Smith—a man she knew he disliked profoundly.
“I owe you, Smith, for what you did for Lowry, for what you did for me. If ever you want to reconsider giving up that desk of yours for a return to the field, you’d be welcome to join The Assassins.”
She pressed deeper into the soft clutch of the sofa cushions. She was being ridiculous. Despite what the medics had said, that drug she had been given was probably still flowing through her blood, making her paranoid. And who wouldn’t be spooked and edgy after all she’d been through? Jack was a good judge of character; he had an innate ability to spot the good in men. It was almost as if he sought out and cultivated the very qualities he denied in himself—a respect for rank and order, empathy, compassion, the restraint that came from having a conscience, though he’d likely shoot her before admitting it.
She trusted Jack. If he felt confident enough to extend an open invitation for Smith to join his team—the highest accolade he could give—how irreparably damaged was she still to doubt? Fuck Patient Peter. Yes. Fuck. Him. Because even in death, he still tainted.
She expanded her lungs against the weight bearing down on her chest, the fierce sting behind her eyes, and adjusted Jack’s leather biker jacket across her shoulders, pulling the lapels together. Its weight was comforting, and it carried his scent. She’d keep it as a reminder. A memento of what might have been.
Because, if nothing else, it was clear from what Jack had said to Smith that he would be returning to the Service and the life he loved. That he’d find a way to deal with a back row seat, somehow. And she was thrilled for him.
No, she bloody well wasn’t! She hated the idea of him going back. Hated the idea of him settling for less than he needed to be. Hated that he’d even contemplate working for an organization that had let him down. But, for his sake, she’d pretend.
Lucky Service. They got to keep him. She’d lost him for good. He might be able to forgive the Service. She never would. It would always be a reminder of the deep trauma she’d been through.
When she looked up again, Smith was at the door, hovering on the threshold as if waiting for something. Jack, standing over beside the fireplace, was scowling at her as if she done something wrong.
“What?” she asked, her vocal cords straining to sound halfway normal.
“Smith said good-bye. You ignored him.” That’s because she’d been thinking of him. Jack. And steeling herself against the pain she knew would slam into her when she said good-bye.
“Oh. Sorry. Miles away.” She shuffled onto her knees, ready to turn and apologize for her unintended lack of courtesy. A soft, thready sound froze her mid-movement. That whistle. Similar to the one in the van. No, not similar. Exactly the same. And that tune…something about two little boys having two little toys, wooden horses or something. Half thoughts collided then crashed into order. Smith: bruise free, his suit still immaculate. His fortuitous appearance
. Just in time to shoot Patient Peter dead before he revealed the identity of his accomplice. And that mindless whistle.
She threw at desperate glance at Jack. He immediately straightened, his muscles going taut. Lousy timing, but she knew then he’d never question, never doubt her instincts again. “Smith,” she mouthed silently.
His nod was barely perceivable.
She continued to turn around, not wanting Smith at her back. And found herself looking down the barrel of a gun, its appearance made more terrifying by the ugly fat silencer lengthening its end.
“Jack?” she croaked.
“Lowry. Don’t move. What the fuck, Smith?”
The man stepped more fully into the room, reached backward, and closed the door. He kept the gun firmly pointed at Lowry, but spoke to Jack. “You know the procedure: lose the gun, the one at your back. The one on your left ankle, too. No need for me to ask for your knife, we both know where that is.”
Her heartbeat lost rhythm as she watched Jack follow Smith’s instructions. Marshall had left, so too the other reinforcements. She and Jack were on their own.
“Have I ever told you how much I loathe you, Ballentyne? Of course not. You never gave me the opportunity to do so. You rarely deigned to speak to me. In your eyes I was a lessor man because rather than run around waving a gun in the air, I chose to become a desk jockey.”
“No, I didn’t deign to speak to you because I didn’t like you. Still don’t.”
She gaped. Was Jack crazy? Couldn’t he just pretend nice? Just this once?
“And yet, you just invited me to join your team,” Smith gloated.
“I never let how I feel get in the way of business. You impressed me earlier. You didn’t hesitate to kill. The invitation has been withdrawn, by the way.”
Smith smirked at that. “Why would I hesitate? I may not favor guns, but I’m damn handy with a knife. Had a lot of practice as it happens. A little hobby Peter and I shared.”
“I labeled your brother a sick fuck. That goes double for you, Smith.”
