Jax seems disappointed that Klaus isn’t here. I know I’m not much help, but I do try to keep him distracted. When the model-perfect ring girl comes out to hold up a big card announcing the start of the next round, I make a big show of moving the dial on his binoculars to MMW and wiggling my eyebrows.
I don’t know what we’ll do next. Judging by the concentrating scowl on Jax’s face as we approach the third match, he’s plotting something.
The brother of this woman he knew, Lukov, is devastatingly handsome. I take the binoculars again, forgetting they are in see-through-clothes mode, and focus in.
Oops. I can see every muscle. Each bulge.
Yes. Each. Bulge. He’s definitely not on steroids.
I pull the binoculars down sheepishly and switch the modes. But Jax isn’t paying any attention. He’s scanning the people who follow Lukov in. A trainer. Some boy who holds his towel. A couple others. But no women. And not the woman he’s looking for, it seems.
I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved. This woman was Jax’s lover. He apparently cared enough for her to kill a man because she asked him to. That’s no small request. I can’t possibly imagine requesting something like that.
If she is as beautiful as her brother is gorgeous, I’m going to feel very outclassed. Not that the feeling isn’t something I’m used to. It’s just that lately I’ve been more brave. Not trying to disappear into the wallpaper.
Jax takes the binoculars from me and peers intently through them. I can feel the tension in his body, coiled, like a hungry lion. The thought makes heat rush through me. I like him this way. Intense. Professional. Sharp.
The sweet guy taking my hand a minute ago was nice. But this is an entirely different set of muscles contracting.
I want to fan myself.
The match begins. Lukov and his competitor, Growler, are evenly skilled. I keep my cheerleading reined in, although I have to resist shadowboxing as they hit each other in the ring.
The match goes through all three rounds. The judges declare Lukov the winner. When they leave the ring for the next match to start, Jax stands up. “Let’s go,” he says.
I follow him past the cleavage woman and her husband and out the back entrance. Then we’re in the lobby area.
“What are we going to do now?” I ask.
Jax shoves the binoculars into a knapsack. “Follow Lukov. This is a big win for him, and Jovana is bound to call to congratulate him. She might still be in town. She could be in some disguise I can’t spot.”
“Don’t you have one of those heat signature thingies?” I ask. Vigilantes always seem to be able to identify people in strange ways.
His voice is bitter. “She’s a special. She won’t show.” He starts striding rapidly toward the exits. “I want to be out back when Lukov comes out.”
“You don’t think he’ll stay for the other matches?”
“No. I know the drill from my Vegas days. He’ll have some media interviews, then an after-party. I’m betting if Jovana’s in town, she’ll come to that.”
The air is cool as we burst through the doors and into the night. It’s quiet with the matches still going on. Only a lone security guard leans against a pillar, smoking a cigarette.
“How will we find out where the party is?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer for a minute. When we’ve walked a solid block from the arena, he finally says, “I have some fighter friends. I’ll ask them.”
We’ve parked the Aston Martin a good half mile away to make sure Jovana and Klaus don’t spot it, but we pass the turn to the lot where it is stashed.
“Where are we going now?” I ask. I don’t believe for a second he’s forgotten where it is.
“I’m looking for a car to steal,” he says.
I halt. “A what?”
“A car. I can’t exactly drive the car Klaus has used for the past year right to the door.”
Excitement tingles. I like the idea of stealing another car. “What are we looking for?”
“Something fast. And that looks like it’s parked somewhere semi-permanently so that it won’t be noticed as missing right away.”
He points to a posh-looking building. “An apartment high-rise. A lot of them have standard parking for the residents. But most also have additional spots you can rent. That’s where you put your play cars, the ones you don’t drive often.”
Jax is describing a world I have never known. Probably never would have known, except for him.
I could be dating the grocery store sacker right now, planning a small-town wedding and deciding on a charming fixer-upper to buy.
We turn down the ramp to the garage beneath the building. It’s full of normal cars and trucks. Jax heads toward the elevator. We step inside, but he just glances at the buttons and walks out again. “It’ll be the underground level,” he says. “It’s the least convenient.”
I don’t ask why we take the stairs instead of the elevator. Maybe it’s like his poisoned hotel food, a little quirk of Jax’s.
We walk down a level. Here the cars are way fancier. Sporty red BMWs and some older classic cars. Several are under tarps. I recognize a 1965 Mustang. Jax pauses beside it. “Good for power, but I probably need a few modern amenities.”
He peers beneath the cover of a shiny blue sports car. I walk around it.
“What is it?”
“A 2017 Acura NSX,” he says. “I had one of these just before I got the Aston Martin. Amazing cars.”
He pulls off the canvas tarp.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. And it is.
Jax opens his knapsack. Out comes a shiny square of cellophane. I remember it from our escape from the silo. He sticks it to the door and presses one of the icons. The door pops open.
“The nice thing about these cars,” he says as the motor rumbles to life. “Keyless ignition, so once I’m in, I’m done.”
He walks around and opens the door for me. “Your chariot.”
I sit in the low-slung seat. The car smells like pine and leather. I know it belongs to someone else, but I can’t help but want to keep it.
Jax folds up the tarp and stashes it behind the seat. His knapsack drops on top of it, but I notice that he keeps it close. I wonder what sort of weapons he’s carrying in there. Might be better not to know. I picture again the guns beneath my aunt’s house and shudder.
But this car is a dream. I run my hand along the center console. A large ball controls all the electronics in the center. “I feel like I’m in an airplane cockpit,” I say.
“You like it.”
“I do.” I can’t keep my hands off the car. The soft red leather. The cool chrome.
Jax reverses out of the spot. “Then we’ll have to get you one.”
I snap my head around. “What?”
“We can pick one up somewhere. Maybe we can get to a city far enough from my identity that we can make the transaction.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. I pull my hands back from the dash. I can’t even imagine owning something like this.
Jax says nothing more. We navigate back toward the arena.
He pulls around to the back side, where there is a smaller lot. Food vendors and a couple of news vans are parked there, along with a smattering of cars and two stretch limos. A security guy waits by the entrance. Jax pulls up to him and rolls down the window.
The guard steps up and peers in. “You got a permit for this lot?”
“This car is a gift for Growler, one of the fighters,” Jax says smoothly. “I was instructed to leave it in the lot as close to the back door as I could get. I understand his match just ended.”
The guard whistles, stepping back to look at the car. “That’s quite a gift,” he says. But his face is firm. “They should have given you a permit.”
“I understand,” Jax says. He drops the car into reverse. “Of course, I’m not the one who will be upsetting The Cure McClure.”
“This is from The Cure?” The guard looks over the car again. “That
explains it. He’s always doing things for those fighter boys.” He points across the lot. “If you go around the side you can park right up near the back door. They’ll come out of the metal one near the loading dock.”
“Much obliged,” Jax says and nods.
He drops the transmission back into drive and we pull through.
When the window is back up, I ask, “So is coming up with spontaneous lies part of your Vigilante training?”
“Some things just come naturally.” Jax rolls to a stop in a space between a Lexus and a snack truck. We have a good view of the back door.
I frown. He’s a natural liar? I wonder how many things he’s said to me that weren’t true.
Jax sees my face and squeezes my arm. “Only in the line of duty, Mia. And it will be called for over and over again. The longer you’re with me, the more you’ll see.”
I nod, a chill coming over me.
Jax turns on the dash screen. “Civilian cars,” he says with disdain. “At least it’s not tied to me.” He taps an icon. “Text message,” he tells it and gives a number. A cursor indicates it is ready for dictation.
“Thanks for the ride the other night in Vegas,” Jax tells it. “I’m at the fight. Would like to attend party.”
He hits send.
“What ride?” I ask.
“Colt picked me up in the desert in a helicopter,” he says. “I had to ditch my tech and my car.”
I have a feeling there is more to this story, but I don’t get a chance to ask, because a phone call comes through. Jax presses a button, and the car fills with the sound of the arena inside.
“The fight we were talking about during the ride?” Colt asks.
“That would be the one,” Jax says. “Where is the party?”
“Inside the building. Probably minor security,” Colt says. “I can get you in. How far is this going to go?”
“Could be bad,” Jax says, and fear shoots through me.
“All right,” he says. “I assume your people will clean it up?”
“I have no people,” Jax says. “But I’ll try to keep it clean. Like Vegas.”
I’m dying to know what they’re talking about. I want to know everything Jax has ever done.
“Is the girl here?” Jax asks.
Okay, maybe not everything.
“Haven’t seen her. I’ll meet you in the halls. I trust you can get in the building.” Colt’s voice is almost lost to a cheer.
“Don’t worry about me,” Jax says. “I’ll find you.” He hangs up the call.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and touches the screen. “I’m going to sync this car with my phone,” he says. “So that I’m using its identification. You can reach me using the car system. Just act like you are texting yourself and it will come to my phone.”
“Got it.” I am practically bouncing in my seat, then I realize what he’s saying. “Wait. What do you mean use the car system?”
Jax opens his door, bathing us in pale light. “You’re staying here.”
“What?” He can’t be planning to leave me!
“Mia, if Klaus and Jovana are there, they want us dead. You aren’t trained for combat or evasion.”
My shoulders drop. I’m back to being deadweight. “So I’m useless.”
“No. I need you out here, ready to drive. Like Colette does for me.”
I look over the dash of the car. At least it’s a normal one, something I can manage. “Okay,” I say. “What do I do if they come out?”
He grimaces. “Let me get you something for protection.” He turns to the back for his knapsack.
“Aren’t you going to take that in?” I ask.
“No, too obvious.”
“But your weapons. Your stuff!”
“I have plenty of tech on me,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”
From the bag emerges a handle, metallic blue. Then a barrel.
“A gun?” I gasp.
Jax frowns. “It belongs to Klaus. I only carry darts. But this one has bullets, the newest kind, I’d guess, impact charges.” He pops a magazine out. It’s clear, exposing eight cylinders in metallic red.
“They were testing these before I went to prison,” he says with a shake of his head. “When they hit organic tissue, muscle or bone, they explode out.”
I suck in a breath. “So you don’t even have to aim well.”
“Exactly.” He sticks the magazine back in and hands the gun to me by the handle.
I don’t want it. My whole belly shakes just looking at it.
“Vigilantes don’t kill unless they have to,” he says quietly.
I still don’t take it. “Why do you only use darts?” I ask.
“Because most of the poison we use has an antidote, a take-back. A second chance.” He turns the gun in his hand so that it glints in the overhead light. “There is no antidote to a bullet.”
He holds the handle out again.
I take it with trembling fingers. “No safety, right?” I ask.
“No safety,” he says grimly. He takes my hands and turns my fingers so they hold the gun correctly. “Squeeze here to shoot.”
My throat burns. I can barely swallow. “What do I do if they come out? Shoot them?”
“Let them go,” he says. “Only use this if they try to capture you. They tried to kill us before. They will again.”
“How will I know who they are?”
He flips open his phone and hits a button. “This is Jovana,” he says.
I don’t really want to look at the image, but I have to.
Well, hell. She’s beautiful. Dark hair. Petite face. Dangerous and exotic.
“This is Klaus,” he says. He brings up an image of a man with blond hair.
I frown. So this is the man who felt me up in the dark. I still haven’t told Jax about that. I have a feeling I shouldn’t.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” I say.
He squeezes my shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Come here.” He takes the gun and places it on the floorboard. Then he pulls me against him, over the console. “I’m counting on you to be here and ready to get us out. Okay? If I come walking, scoot over and I’ll drive. If I’m running, meet me so I can jump in.”
I look out the window. It’s a good fifty yards to the arena door. “Got it.” I sound more convincing than I feel.
“Good girl,” he says against my hair. He gives me a light kiss on the lips. “Don’t message me unless you need to. It might be a distraction. I’ll send you information on a need-to-know basis.”
“Okay,” I say. I open my door and come around to the driver’s side.
Jax steps out and lets me take his spot.
He closes the door. For a few seconds the interior light stays on, then it fades out.
Jax tugs his hat lower on his forehead and strides toward the back door of the arena.
11: Jax
I hate leaving Mia out there alone, but I can’t bring her inside.
Jovana and Klaus are both trained Vigilantes who want us dead.
I won’t have that on my conscience.
They probably won’t notice her in the car even if they go out to the lot.
If they are even here. This could all be for nothing.
But the prickle down my spine tells me it isn’t.
I head to the back door of the arena. I’m stopped by a security guard, and when a friendly chat doesn’t get me through, I drop him with a pinch to the vasal nerve. He won’t be out long, but by the time he comes around, I’ll be where I need to go.
The corridors are a maze between small dressing rooms and larger spaces for gatherings.
A message beeps through from Colt. I scan it quickly, passing a young woman carrying a tray. She notices me, but her look is more flirtatious than authoritative, so I move on.
Green room, the message reads.
That will be closer to the front. The halls get progressively thicker with people as I head nearer the arena doors. I blend in with groups as we pass the gua
rds who prevent guests and low-level employees from entering the arena floor.
“There he is!” Colt spots me from up ahead. He pulls his own backstage pass off and sticks it over my head. With his face and public recognition, he doesn’t need one himself.
“Let’s head back,” he says. “This way.”
Colt and Parker make a point to gab about the fights as we walk the back halls to the green room. I follow their conversation only in the background, instead scanning the environment.
I pay the thoughtful and classy amenities little mind and focus on doors and layout. Whoever designed this place had crowd flow at the top of the list of concerns.
Easy to move around. Hard to defend.
The noise of the party crowd grows as we approach the entrance to the room. Through a set of double doors lies a decent-sized space filled with people in all manners of dress. Most hold drinks. A few carry small plates with appetizers.
A crowd at the bar keeps the two bartenders busy. A shorter line trickles past the buffet table. Opposite the doors are huge floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. Nashville’s lights dance beyond the glass.
I take all of this in over the course of the few seconds that pass before two men head over to us. They both wear off-the-rack suits that I’m sure they think are suave. One of them scowls beneath a felt fedora. The other has a glossy black mop with a suspiciously even hairline.
Colt groans. “Here comes the sleaze brigade,” he mutters.
They bear down on us.
“Gunner!” the black-haired one cries and grabs Colt’s hand, pumping it vigorously. “And Power Play!” He shakes Parker’s hand as well and claps them both on the shoulders. “Strong as ever, I see! Thinking about going back in for that title again?”
“Ha, no thanks, Benny,” says Colt. “I’m just a pretty face these days. Parker’s the one on a hot streak.”
Parker shrugs. “Finally found the right weight class.”
The man laughs. It’s a practiced, hollow sound. The kind you do on demand. He’s not built like a fighter. A promoter or agent, then. His companion’s only contribution to this exchange is a quick nod beneath the hat.
“And who is this?” The loud one turns to me, his hand out. “Benny Rand,” he says.
The Vigilante's Lover III Page 5
