Hard Justice (Cobra Elite Book 3)

by Pamela Clare

  “It gets dark so early here.” Elizabeth watched the city roll past her window, the sun almost set, and it wasn’t yet four in the afternoon.

  “We make up for that in summer when the sun doesn’t set until about ten p.m.”

  “That must be nice.”

  “That’s new.” Quinn looked out the windshield at an ultramodern glass building. “I barely recognize some of these streets.”

  “When were you last here?”

  “That would have been when I helped Jack and Ava move into their house about five years ago. Afore that, I came for their wedding.”

  He’d said his father was an alcoholic, but he hadn’t mentioned his mother or anyone else. “Do you have family here?”

  The moment the question was out, she regretted asking.

  His expression darkened. “I dinnae know.”

  “You don’t know?” That wasn’t the answer she’d expected.

  “My da died about six months after I joined the army, and my mother… I’ve no’ seen her since I was fourteen. She left, took my little sister, Paige. I’ve never tried to find them.” His voice was calm, but he was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white. “I dreamed about it last night—the night she left.”

  So that’s what his nightmare had been about.

  Elizabeth rested her hand on his shoulder, her heart hurting for him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Dinnae bother yourself. I found my true family in the army—and with Cobra.”

  Jack had been a part of that family—and now he was gone.

  But it was clear that Quinn didn’t want to talk about his family or his bad dream. It wasn’t her business anyway. Having sex with him didn’t entitle her to his life history. Still, what he’d told her raised more questions than it answered.

  How could any mother walk out on her own child? Why had she taken his sister but left Quinn with his father? Had she been an alcoholic, too? How had he turned out to be such a caring man without a good male role model or a relationship with his mother?

  No wonder he’d joined a gang—and the military. Everyone needed to have someone they trusted, someone who believed in them, somewhere they belonged.

  Elizabeth’s life had been so ordinary and almost idyllic by contrast. She’d grown up in the suburbs with two younger sisters, Sarah and Julia, a mother who was a teacher, and a father who was an urban planner and worked for the city government. Her parents were still together. Her sisters were both married, and Sarah had a two-year-old daughter. They lived scattered around the country but stayed in touch and got together for Christmas every year.

  What would it have been like to grow up without that stability and support?

  “You can quit psychoanalyzin’ me.” Quinn glanced over at her, a grin on his lips. “Aye, I know that’s what you’re doin’. I dinnae fault you for it. You cannae help it.”

  “Actually, I was thinking how lucky I was growing up. We don’t get to choose how we come into this world—or who our parents are.”

  “Aye, that’s for damned sure.”

  “Somehow, despite your rough start, you became the incredible man you are. You should be proud of that, Quinn.” She couldn’t tell whether her words touched him.

  They drove the rest of the way to the hotel in silence, then ordered room service, eating in front of Netflix and watching a BBC special on Scotland’s standing stones that Quinn had found for her. She thought it was all fascinating.

  “I can’t believe that some of these Neolithic sites are older than the pyramids.”

  Quinn seemed less impressed. “What the fuck is a henge anyway?”

  “I guess no one’s quite sure.” She turned off the TV and crawled onto his lap, facing him, her hands resting on his shoulders. “They certainly are phallic, jutting up out of the ground, hard and thick and long.”

  He grinned, lifted her sweater over her head. “Like I said, you’ve got a way of bringin’ history alive. If you’d been my teacher, I might have learned a thing or two.”

  They made out on the sofa like a couple of teenagers, his hands and mouth on her breasts, her hands inside his jeans. Then he carried her to her bed and made long, slow love to her until they were both utterly spent.

  What was she going to do without him once they got back to Denver?

  She didn’t want to think about that now. She didn’t want to think about anything.

  Quinn broke the silence. “Tomorrow when I go talk to this Leo fella, you should stay here. I’d feel better if I knew you were out of harm’s way. If Jack didnae trust him, then I dinnae trust him. It could get rough.”

  She raised her head, looked up at him. “Oh, no. No, no. That’s exactly the situation where you need me. Will you be able to tell whether he’s lying?”

  “If Wilson follows me, he willnae be able to arrest you for interferin’—”

  “I told you I wouldn’t give up on you or Jack. I meant it. It’s my choice, Quinn, not yours. Besides, didn’t I just prove that I enjoy taking risks?”

  He made a noncommittal hmph. “I’ll be callin’ the shots while we’re there, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He kissed her hair. “That’s more like it.”

  12

  Quinn drove southwest on the M77 toward the port town of Troon, a light rain falling. Elizabeth had located Leo Grant’s business and pulled up Google satellite images of the place for Quinn to study. From a tactical point of view, it was a tricky landscape, offering cover to potential adversaries, with a rectangular warehouse and several small cargo ships moored along the wharf. He thought he’d seen a security fence, too—a potential obstacle if they needed to leave in a hurry.

  He wished Elizabeth had listened to him and stayed at the hotel. It would have given him one less worry. Though he’d brought the Glock, he hoped to fuck he didn’t have to draw. He didn’t enjoy killing.

  As he drove, Elizabeth shared what she’d found online. “According to the website, they ship coal, lumber, aggregates, construction materials, construction and farm equipment, livestock, and other goods to the smaller ports on Scotland’s west coast, the Scottish islands, and Northern Ireland.”

  “It wouldnae be hard for him to smuggle drugs up and down the coast.”

  “It’s the perfect set up for any kind of smuggling—drugs, people, weapons. It says here that Leo Grant, the owner, worked for the company as a young man and then bought it four years ago when its original owner retired.”

  “He probably did that with money from sellin’ drugs. Run a load of lumber up the coast and drop off a dozen kilos of smack along the way. That could turn a tidy profit.”

  “This is all speculation. Don’t convict the guy before he’s been arrested. For all we know, he’s never smuggled a thing.”

  “Ava said Jack was suspicious of his business dealings. Maybe Jack knew somethin’ incriminatin’, and Grant wanted to make certain he didnae talk.”

  “If Jack knew something incriminating about Leo, why would he meet him in a dark alley in the middle of the night? I know you want to find Jack’s killer, but you should at least try to be objective. You won’t help yourself if you walk up to Grant angry and ready to fight.”

  Aye, Lilibet had a point there. But how the fuck was he supposed to be objective when a man who’d been like a brother to him was lying dead on a slab? He wanted answers, and he wanted them last week.

  The rain had stopped by the time they reached Troon Port, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds.

  Quinn parked next to West Scotland Shipping. His phone buzzed—a text message from Lewis saying they’d raised enough money now to pay for military honors for Jack’s funeral and asking whether Quinn wanted to be part of the honor guard and a pallbearer.

  Fuck. What a thought.

  Of course, Quinn would do that.

  “It’s just Lewis workin’ on the military honors part of Jack’s funeral,” Quinn told Elizabeth, texting his answer. He put his mobile phone away.
“If I say go back to the car, you’re to go wi’out arguin’. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” She saluted.

  They stepped out of the car, a brisk breeze blowing in off the water, catching Elizabeth’s hair, gulls crying overhead.

  She closed her eyes, inhaled. “I love the smell of the sea.”

  But Quinn was focused on their surroundings. There was, indeed, a high security fence. There were also surveillance cameras, which meant they were being watched. A guard stood at the open gate. Quinn probably outweighed him by two stone and was a good four inches taller, but Quinn could tell that the bastard was armed, the pistol in his shoulder holster making his jacket hang unevenly. He was also wearing a radio.

  Och, he should have refused to bring Elizabeth along. There was no one he respected more, but she wasn’t a fighter. She shouldn’t be here.

  Quinn approached the guard, Elizabeth beside him. “I’m Quinn McManus here to speak wi’ Leo Grant.”

  “Does he know you’re comin’?” The guard answered with an Irish accent.

  Elizabeth answered. “It’s a surprise.”

  The guard’s gaze slid over her. “American?”

  The bastard

  “Is my accent that obvious?” She smiled.

  “I’ve got cousins in Chicago.”

  “Really? That’s amazing. Where in Chicago?”

  Och, she was laying on the charm, but the bastard fell for it, the two of them chatting about the weather in Chicago and how his cousin owned a pub there and how she had Irish ancestors. She was like a secret weapon, using men’s vulnerabilities and expectations to disarm them.

  A dark-haired man in a gray suit jacket stepped out of the warehouse and walked toward them. He was a near match for Quinn in height but slightly overweight with a pug nose and hard face. He walked with the confidence of a man used to telling others what to do. Quinn recognized him at once for what he was—a predator.

  “Ryan, where are your manners?” he called to the guard. “Don’t leave the lady standin’ out in the damp.”

  “Yes, sir. These people are here to see you, sir.”

  Leo Grant walked through the open gate, studied Quinn’s face. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Quinn McManus. Jack Murray was my best friend. We served together in the Special Air Service.”

  “What does that have to do wi’ me?”

  Quinn opened his mouth to answer, but Elizabeth beat him to it.

  “We’re heartbroken about Jack’s death. We know the two of you were friends. We’re just here to see if you can shed any light on what happened.”

  Grant looked from Elizabeth to Quinn and back again. “If you’re police, you should know I’ve already spoken wi’ the Detective Sergeant.”

  “Wilson? Aye, he’s an eejit. But we’re no’ police.”

  Elizabeth held out her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Shields.”

  Grant held her hand a little too long. “From America.”

  Elizabeth beamed. “Yes.”

  Quinn followed her lead and held out his hand, too. “Quinn McManus, Glasgow.”

  Grant shook his hand, motioned for them to follow him. “Let’s get indoors afore it starts rainin’ again.”

  Elizabeth followed Quinn and Grant into the warehouse, stopping at the front desk, where he introduced them to Dorcas, a middle-aged woman who worked as his assistant.

  “Dorcas will need to see your IDs,” Grant said.

  They hadn’t anticipated this, but Elizabeth couldn’t see how it was a problem. She took her wallet from her handbag and handed Dorcas her driver’s license. “I didn’t bring my passport. I hope this is enough.”

  Quinn did the same, the two of them watching as Dorcas wrote down their names, dates of birth, and license numbers. Was Grant doing a background check?

  If they’d been in the Middle East, Elizabeth might have been concerned. She didn’t hide the fact that she’d worked for the CIA, and there were parts of the Middle East where any association with the Agency could be a death sentence. But they were in the UK, an allied nation.

  When they’d got their licenses back, Grant led them into his office.

  Elizabeth took it in at a glance. The Scottish flag in the corner. A large map of the coastlines around the Irish Sea. A poster that read, “Free Scotland. Vote YES on Indy Ref #2.” Framed photos of different cargo ships on the walls. A photo of a woman and three children on a shelf beside a row of plastic binders. Cigarette butts in an ashtray. A station with a coffee pot and paper cups.

  Grant gestured toward two office chairs. “What do you want?”

  Elizabeth had coached Quinn on how to ask the questions he wanted to ask in hopes that a softer approach might get them more answers.

  “I grew up in Glasgow, like Jack. He ran with your gang—the Young Boys. I ran with the South Bank Boys.”

  Grant grinned. “Och, those fuckers. We bashed their heids a time or two.”

  Quinn chuckled. “And we returned the favor.”

  Come on, guys. Let it go.

  “Jack and I met during recruit training and went through the SAS selection process together. We were the only Scots in our unit, both of us from Glasgow.”

  “I understand why you became friends—two boys off the streets of the Dear Green Place.”

  “I live and work in the States now. Private security. When I got the call that Jack was dead, I couldnae believe it.”

  “Aye.” There was grief in Grant’s eyes—and anger. “I warned him not to work for that cunt—Whitehall. The fucker sold out his own country to the English. I even offered Jack a job as my chief of security, but he refused. He chose that bastard over me. Where do you stand on Scottish independence, McManus?”

  Quinn met Grant’s gaze straight on. “I voted for it, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

  “A true Scotsman.” Grant nodded, his brow furrowing. “You’re here wantin’ to know if I killed Murray—or whether I know who did. The answer is no. I’ve no’ seen him or spoken to him since the day we argued about his job. If I knew who’d killed him, the bastard would be lyin’ at the bottom of the Irish Sea by now. Jack and I disagreed about Scottish independence, but he was a Young Boy and a good friend. I would never raise my hand against a brother.”

  There was the grief again—and the anger.

  “Thank you for being so honest with us,” Elizabeth said. “The police say they think Jack was dealing drugs. We find that hard to believe. Do you think that was possible? Would he do something like that?”

  Grant laughed, a harsh sound. “Wilson is an eejit, so he is. Jack drank, but he never touched drugs. Even when the rest of the Young Boys were smokin’ grass, he’d refuse. He was a right smug prick about it.”

  “Do you think he changed?”

  Grant shook his head, laughed again. “If that’s what the police are sayin’, they’re full of shite.”

  Elizabeth was about to ask whether Grant knew anyone who might have a grudge against Jack when Grant’s phone buzzed. He answered, his gaze darting to Elizabeth for the briefest instant before moving away.

  “Thanks.” He hung up, stood, but something had changed. Fear. Uncertainty. Rage. It was all there in his eyes. “I’ve answered your questions. I’m a busy man, so I’m afraid that’s all the time I have, even for friends of Jack.”

  The door opened, and two men in dark suits entered.

  “My men will see you out.”

  Elizabeth stood, walked with Quinn toward the office door.

  Then Quinn stopped, faced Grant again.

  Oh, no.

  “Do you smuggle drugs?”

  Hoping to diffuse the situation, Elizabeth stepped between the two men just in time to catch the full impact of Grant’s fist against her cheek.

  Pain. Dancing lights. Darkness.

  She fell backward into Quinn, who caught her.

  “You fuckin’ bastard.” Quinn sounded far away—and very angry.

  Quinn’s going to kill him.

&
nbsp; She tried to tell Quinn she was okay, but she couldn’t form the words. She couldn’t even open her eyes.

  “I didnae mean to hit her.” Grant sounded afraid. He should be. “You all saw that. This bastard insulted me, and she stepped in between us.”

  “Aye, boss. You want us to teach him a lesson?”

  “I want you to help him get her out of here!” Grant was shouting now. “Bolt, McManus! I dinnae want to see either of you here again.”

  “There’s nothin’ lower than a man who hits innocent women.”

  “It’s her own damned fault, ya daft bastard.”

  Elizabeth felt herself being carried, felt the sunshine on her face, but still couldn’t open her eyes, men’s voices and angry words drifting over her.

  Quinn sat on the sofa in Elizabeth’s hotel room, holding the ice bag to her cheek, her head resting in his lap. She’d refused to let him drive her to A&E, certain word would get back to Wilson. So, he’d driven her to the hotel, given her some paracetamol for her headache, and settled her on the sofa. “You’re goin’ to have one hell of a black eye.”

  “We’ll be a matching set.” She touched her fingers to the bruise on his cheek. “We need a cover. I’ll tell everyone I slipped and fell and hit my face on something.”

  He brushed a strand of hair off her cheek, a part of him wanting to throttle her. “You shouldnae have gotten between us. I could have taken that blow.”

  She glared at him. “I would have let him hit you if I’d known that’s what he was going to do next.”

  At least her smart mouth was intact. Her silence as he’d driven away from the wharf had scared the living shite out of him.

  “Then why the hell did you do it?”

  “Your question surprised me. I was looking at you, not at him. I thought I could stop the situation from escalating. I was going to tell him that you didn’t mean it like it sounded, that you were just upset about Wilson accusing you—or something like that.”

  “I needed answers.”

  “We didn’t learn anything that way—except that he hits really hard.”

  Quinn felt a hitch in his chest. “I shouldnae have let you come wi’ me.”