Hard Justice (Cobra Elite Book 3)

by Pamela Clare

  He didn’t know anything about Ava’s family, but Jack’s parents were gone—his mother in a car crash, his father of a stroke.

  “I’ve lived here long enough to know what ‘get the messages’ means.” Ava smiled. “My mum and sister live in London. My mum has Alzheimer’s, and my sister is her full-time carer. She’s looking for someone to relieve her so she can stay with us for a few days. Jack’s sister, Hannah, is coming this afternoon to take us to Paisley. I’ll stay with her and her husband and their boys for a while.”

  “That’s good. You shouldnae be alone at a time like this.”

  “I don’t understand. What was Jack doing in that alley? Andrew said he was no longer on duty. The police have no idea—or they won’t tell me.” She reached for a tissue. “Yesterday, the detective asked me whether Jack had behaved strangely of late. I told him he’d seemed tense but nothing too unusual. Then he asked whether Jack had ever used or sold controlled substances. My Jack?”

  “They’re only doin’ their job. We both know Jack would never touch that shite. He was a good and honest man, so he was.”

  Unlike Quinn, Jack had come from honest poverty, his mother a widow on the breadline with four wee ones to raise. Jack had joined the army because he’d believed it was his duty to serve his country. Quinn had thought him a proper bampot at first, the sort of idiot easily lured into the military by lies about honor and glory. It had taken Quinn most of a year to realize that Jack was the real thing—a truly good man.

  Everything Quinn knew about honor and decency he’d learned from Jack Murray.

  “What if they’ve found evidence, a reason to suspect him?” Ava dabbed her eyes. “During the six years we were married, I never doubted him.”

  “Then don’t start doubtin’ him now.”

  Yet, it was strange.

  What had Jack been doing in that alley so late at night? How could anyone have gotten the better of him? Jack had been a skilled trooper, a warrior who could kill as efficiently with his hands as any weapon. But somehow, he’d died from a single slash of a blade—without so much as throwing a punch.

  Ava went on. “If he’d died at war, if he’d been killed in the line of duty, I could at least say he died a hero, giving his life for his country. I might learn to live with that. But to lose him like this… He died for nothing.”

  “In all the years I’ve known Jack, he never did anythin’ wi’out a good reason.” Quinn poured more tea into Ava’s cup. “The police are still investigatin’. When they’ve done their job, we’ll likely find that Jack was in that alley because he thought someone needed help or saw an injured dog.”

  She nodded through her tears. “He was wearing a stab vest. If only the killer had tried to stab him in the chest or back instead, he would have had time to react and fight back. He might still be here.”

  “That’s a piece of bad bloody luck.”

  That kind of knife wound meant that whoever had stabbed Jack wasn’t just trying to get him to hand over his money. The killer had meant for him to die.

  The bell rang.

  “Oh, God, I hope it’s not the press again.”

  Quinn stood. “You stay here. If it’s reporters, I’ll tell ’em to bolt.”

  Reporters weren’t the only people that worried Quinn, and he found himself wishing he’d brought his concealed carry piece rather than leaving it in his hotel room. It wasn’t legal here, but he didn’t care. It troubled him that police hadn’t placed a watch on the house. Whoever had murdered Jack and taken his wallet had surely gotten his address from his driving license. That could bring the bastard here.

  A murderer capable of bringing down a man like Jack in one move would make short work of a woman and two wee girls.

  He glanced outside, saw a man in a tan trench coat, a yellow-and-blue police car parked just behind his rental.

  “It’s the police,” he called to Ava.

  He opened the door, hoping to fuck there was news.

  The man in the trench coat introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Wilson, sizing Quinn up through expressionless brown eyes. “And you are …?”

  “Quinn McManus, a friend of the family.” Quinn stepped back, let the man enter. “I hope you’ve brought answers, detective. Mrs. Murray is in the kitchen.”

  Elizabeth sipped her coffee and read reports about known threats to the Saudi royal family, some in English, some in Arabic. The list of potential dangers wasn’t short. The royal family had around ten thousand members, with forty-three potential heirs to the throne, some of whom hated the current king and crown prince.

  Then there was Iran and the Iran-backed Houthi fighters in Yemen. There were also escaped al-Qaeda and ISIL/ISIS cells hiding inside the Saudi homeland. If that weren’t enough, Libya, Syria, Hezbollah, Bangladesh, Afghanistan, Israel, Thailand, North Korea, and Russia all had scores to settle with the kingdom and its ruling family.

  If Cobra accepted this job, she would be leading a team to audit Saudi Arabian security. Shaken up by an attack on their oil fields, the Saudi government wanted a second opinion on how best to protect its assets and ruling family. It would be an interesting mission and a chance to use her Arabic, but Saudi Arabia wasn’t her favorite destination. Why couldn’t Cobra send her on a mission to Tahiti or Bali?

  She was reading an account of a Houthi attack on a Saudi border checkpoint when Tower stuck his head through her door.

  “Got a minute?”

  “You’re the boss. I have all the time you need.”

  He sat in the chair across from her, dressed as always in a tailored suit. “Corbray spent the morning on the phone with Riyadh. We’ve turned down the job.”

  “We turned it down?” She tried not to look relieved. “Why?”

  “It seems the minister in charge of the audit didn’t want a woman leading the team. Corbray explained that we assign the best people to each task and that the best person in this case was a woman. They couldn’t accept that, so we told them we weren’t interested.”

  Elizabeth gaped at Tower. “That must have been a million-dollar contract.”

  “Almost two million, actually.” Tower didn’t seem bothered by this. “This company won’t let bigotry or sexism determine who’s part of a mission and who isn’t. It’s not fair to our staff, and it’s not who we are as a company, no matter how big the payday.”

  Warmth blossomed in Elizabeth’s chest. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  She’d spent her entire adult life working in a heavily male-dominated field, dealing with everything from subtle chauvinism to groping. She’d learned to fight for herself, to be a woman no one dared to abuse—or ignore. She wasn’t used to others standing up for her.

  Tower stood. “Have you heard anything from McManus?”

  Now why would he ask Elizabeth that question?

  “Not a word.” Okay, so she’d gotten one word from Quinn — two words, in fact.

  Thank You.

  That’s all he’d said.

  Not that she’d expected more. Quinn was dealing with a big loss and was home among friends. Yes, he enjoyed flirting with her and teasing her, but in the end, she was just a coworker.

  “I guess you don’t have to read all of that.” Tower pointed to the stack of reports. “Go play in the snow. You must have lots of personal time after this last mission.”

  Being on a job site often entailed twelve- to eighteen-hour days with occasional all-nighters. The company balanced that out with liberal vacation and personal time in an effort to prevent burnout and maintain peak performance.

  “Thanks, but I’m still going to read it all. I like to stay current, and, believe it or not, I find it interesting.”

  Tower nodded. “I guess that’s why you’re one of the best.”

  He left her to her work.

  Quinn sat on the sofa of his hotel room, a bottle in his hand, images from the day turning over in his mind. Ava in tears. Jack’s wee ones playing, unable to understand that their da was forever gone.
The police detective asking Ava’s permission to search Jack’s belongings.

  “Not without a warrant,” Ava had said, getting to her feet, her cheeks flushing with anger. “You’re supposed to find the man who murdered my husband, not treat him like a suspect!”

  Then the detective had turned to Quinn and pelted him with questions. What was his relationship with the deceased? Where was he the night Jack was murdered? When was the last time he’d spoken with Jack? Had he ever known Jack to use drugs?

  It had taken great restraint for Quinn to answer without resorting to profanity. He and Jack had been best pals since their army days. He’d been in Afghanistan on U.S. government business the night Jack died. He’d last spoken to Jack almost a month past. Naw, Jack was not the sort of man to use drugs.

  “Jack Murray was an honorable man, so he was. If you’re tryin’ to prove otherwise, you’re off your heid.”

  You bastard.

  The detective had asked for Quinn’s address and phone number and then left, his visit leaving Ava done in. Quinn had tried to comfort her, making another pot of tea, listening to her rage. Then he’d helped her pack for her stay in Paisley, waiting with her until Hannah, Jack’s sister, had arrived.

  Hannah hadn’t forgotten him. “Jack would be glad to know you’re here.”

  “I wouldnae be anywhere else.”

  Quinn had carried Ava’s bags to Hannah’s car. “If you need me, you just call. I’ll stay in Scotland as long as I can and come back for the service if I must.”

  Ava had taken his hand. “Thank you, Quinn. I don’t know what I would have done this morning without you.”

  Quinn had watched them drive away before climbing into the Crossland and heading off to meet Lewis for a late lunch. He and Andrew had stopped for a drink and a bite, the two of them talking about arranging military honors for the funeral and sharing memories of Jack. The way Jack’s hand had always shot up when Lewis asked for volunteers. The time they’d come under fire in the middle of Jack’s shower and he’d run outside naked with his rifle. The way he’d removed a tick from Couper’s anus when they’d been on a ten-day reconnoiter together.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Lewis had raised his beer. “He was the best of us.”

  “Aye, that he was. Cheers.”

  Quinn had stopped at a whisky shop and then booked a room at a hotel—the Dakota, one of the poshest hotels in the city. He didn’t care about luxury, but he’d wanted to show the town that had almost broken him that he was no longer the poor boy who’d joined the army just to have a bite to eat and a roof over his head.

  Beyond the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows, the sky was beginning to darken. He’d forgotten how short the days were here. In Colorado, the sun wouldn’t set until around eighteen-hundred hours. Then again, he was still jet-lagged from all the bloody flying he’d done—Kabul to Denver, Denver to D.C., D.C. to London, London to Glasgow. He didn’t know what time it was anyway.

  He set the bottle on the end table and, before he knew it, fell asleep.

  When he woke, it was dark—and he was famished.

  He ordered a steak and chips from room service and ate while watching the news. Another Brexit extension. A cyclist injured in a hit-and-run in Aberdeen. The body of a missing teenage girl found in a ditch at a construction site outside Edinburgh. Then an image of Jack filled the screen.

  “Investigators are no closer to an arrest tonight in the homicide of Jack Murray, a decorated veteran of the SAS who worked as a private security guard for Scottish Conservatives MSP Alastair Whitehall. Murray’s body was found in a Glasgow alley near his car. Police refused to comment, citing the ongoing investigation, but a source close to Police Scotland said drugs might have been involved.”

  Quinn was on his feet, rage pounding in his chest. “Jesus sufferin’ fuck!”

  How could they do that? How could they say that on the television without proof? They were dragging Jack’s name through the mire—and he wasn’t yet in his grave.

  Had Ava seen this?

  Christ, Quinn hoped not.

  Och, Jack, what the bloody hell happened that night?

  Quinn reached for the remote, turned off the telly. He had half a mind to ring up DS Wilson and ask him which bastard at Police Scotland had leaked those details.

  He must have evidence that points to drugs or he wouldnae keep pursuin’ this.

  The first inkling of doubt washed through Quinn, leaving guilt in its wake.

  No. Never. Not a chance.

  Jack Murray could drink until he was steamin’, aye, but never in all the years Quinn had known him had he touched drugs. It was a load of shite—all of it.

  Quinn reached for his mobile phone, navigated to his voicemail, and listened to Jack’s message again, as if listening would help him understand.

  Hey, McManus, it’s Jack. Ring me when you get this, aye?

  After almost two decades of friendship, those were the last words Jack had spoken to him. How could that be? How could those dozen ordinary, everyday words be the last?

  Quinn had lost friends in combat, but this was different. Grief cut him off at the knees, left an ache in his chest. Sweet Jesus, he would give anything to have gotten that call, to have had a chance for a right good blether—and a proper goodbye.

  Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Neither of them would have known it was to be their last conversation.

  Quinn reached for the whisky and tried to drink away his sorrow. It was after midnight when he gave up, set the half-empty bottle aside, and went to bed.

  He held up his phone in the darkness, listened to the message once more. There was something about it, but he couldn’t say what, his thoughts clouded by drink. Worry pushed at the edges of his mind, niggled at him. So, he listened again and again.

  Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put a finger on it.

  You’re off your heid, man.

  He set the phone aside and drifted into a restless sleep.

  3

  Elizabeth had just hit her snooze button when her cell rang. She fumbled for it in the dark, saw that it was Quinn.

  She answered. “It’s six in the morning here, you know.”

  “I need your help.”

  The tone of his voice made Elizabeth sit up. “Are you okay?”

  “Aye, I’m well, but there’s somethin’ goin’ on here. I cannae say whit just yet, but it disnae add up.”

  Elizabeth could tell he was upset because his accent always got thicker when he was under stress. She was about to ask him what he meant, but there was no point in discussing anything until she’d had at least one cup of coffee. “Can you call me back in a half hour? If you want me to think, I need a shower and some caffeine.”

  “Aye. Talk to you then.”

  Elizabeth turned off her alarm, took a hot shower, and went to the kitchen to make coffee, still in her bathrobe, her hair damp. She’d just finished her first cup when her phone rang again. Quinn was right on time.

  “Hey.” She grabbed a notebook and a pen. “Okay, start from the beginning.”

  While he explained, she took notes. His friend, Jack, had been found dead in an alley. He’d been wearing body armor, but the killer had slashed his throat. There were no bruises, lacerations, or other signs of a physical altercation on the body. The murder had taken place at about three in the morning. Someone, ostensibly the killer, had taken Jack’s work and personal cell phones, watch, and wallet, but had left his car. No one knew why Jack had gone into that alley. He’d left his job working as security for a member of the Scottish Parliament three hours earlier, so he hadn’t been on duty.

  “Police have been askin’ his wife, Ava, whether he had a history of usin’ or sellin’ drugs, but Jack Murray would never do that.”

  Elizabeth could understand why investigators had moved in that direction. People didn’t drive into back alleys for the scenery. “How can I help?”

  “Last night, I had a feelin’ that somethin’ wis
nae right, but I’d had a wee swally of whisky, and I couldnae make sense of it.”

  Meaning that he’d been drunk—again.

  Quinn went on. “But this mornin’, it struck me. Ava told me that Jack had lost his personal mobile a few weeks back while on the job and that the killer stole the new one. But when Jack called me a few days afore he was murdered, he called on his old personal phone, the one Ava thinks he lost a few weeks ago.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Aye. There’s no mistake. Ava said the new mobile came wi’ a new number. He called me from the old number.”

  Okay, that was strange.

  “So, he lied to his wife.” That certainly wouldn’t lessen police suspicions. Secret cell phones were exactly the thing you’d expect to find associated with selling drugs. “I know he was your best friend, but it’s possible that he’s changed. Maybe he had problems with post-traumatic stress or—”

  “I cannae believe it. If you had known Jack… I need to find that mobile.”

  “What makes you think the police don’t already have it? I don’t know the laws in Scotland, but I’m sure investigators are able to access the phone records of homicide victims. Wherever that phone is, they’ll be able to track it.”

  “I need to find it first.”

  “Quinn, I know you want to help Jack, but if you were to find that phone and keep it to stop police from uncovering ties to drug dealing, you’d be guilty of obstruction or interfering with a police investigation.”

  “I’m no’ doin’ this to keep Jack’s secrets. I want to find the killer.”

  “So do the police.”

  “Aye, but I dinnae trust the police. The detective, Wilson, is a smug bastard, so he is. The way he spoke to Ava… There’s a leak in his office. Some fucker told the news that police think there might be a tie to drugs. Jack isnae here to defend himself—or Ava and the wee ones.”

  “And you think that’s your job.”

  That was one thing about Quinn. He was loyal to a fault.