Hard Justice (Cobra Elite Book 3)

by Pamela Clare

  “No, it’s good I came along.” She sat up, took the ice bag from him, pressed it to her head. “He’s grieving for Jack, too, but he’s also hurt. He values loyalty above all else. When Jack chose to work for Whitehall instead of him, it felt like a betrayal.”

  “Do you think the bastard killed Jack over it?” Quinn trusted her judgment, her ability to read people beyond his understanding.

  “That’s the strange thing. Up until the moment his phone buzzed, I would have said no. He meant it when he said that he would put Jack’s killer at the bottom of the Irish Sea. But then…” Her words trailed off, her brow furrowed. “Then he picked up the phone and something changed. His gaze flickered to me for just a second and—”

  “I saw how he looked you up and down when you introduced yourself.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I mean. That call—I think it was about me. They took our driver’s license numbers and our birthdates. I figured they were running some kind of background check. He learned something he didn’t like. As soon as he hung up, he ended our meeting.”

  “What if he found out you’re former CIA?”

  She moaned, closed her eyes. “That’s not ideal, but why should that matter?”

  Had she really just asked him that question?

  “Och, he really hit you hard, doll.” The fuckin’ bastard. “You’re no’ yourself. You’re no’ thinkin’ clearly. Tell me. Where are we?”

  “I know where we are—the Dakota hotel in Glasgow, Scotland.”

  Now Quinn was truly worried. “What’s just across the water from us?”

  “Norway?”

  “The other direction.”

  Her eyes flew open, her gaze meeting his. “Northern Ireland.”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you think he’s mixed up somehow with the IRA?”

  “I dinnae know what he’s doin’, but those boys workin’ for him were Irish. The IRA has used Glasgow as a route to England in the past.”

  “I read a paper recently about how Brexit has made those tensions flare again. MI5 held a conference about it, I think.” She stood, ice bag in hand, walked to her computer, and booted it up. “What if Jack’s misgivings had nothing to do with drugs at all? What if he was worried that Leo was supporting terrorists?”

  She sat, started to read through the document, but stopped. “I can’t look at the screen. It hurts too much.”

  Quinn was done fucking around. “I’m calling for a doctor.”

  He settled her on her bed and then called the front desk, making up a story about how they’d been walking in Troon and some bastard had tried to steal her handbag and punched her when she wouldn’t let go. “Naw, she disnae want to talk to police. She disnae want to see a doctor either, but I think a doctor needs to take a look at her.”

  “They’re going to think you did it,” she said when he hung up the phone.

  Quinn’s stomach knotted at the thought. He’d seen his mother lie for his father a hundred times. “I’d rather face their suspicion and accusations than see you sufferin’.”

  A paramedic arrived almost an hour later, saw her black eye, and turned to Quinn, his gaze resting on Quinn’s bruised cheek. “I’d like to examine her in private, please.”

  “Aye, of course.” Quinn stepped into the hall, memories he wished he didn’t have filling his head—his mother’s screams, his da’s shouting, his own terror.

  If you dinnae have my meals ready on time, I’ll find some other cunt to do it.

  I’m sorry! I’ll do better.

  Stop hittin’ her, Da! Stop! You’re hurtin’ her! Can ye no’ see that?

  Get out of here, boy, or you’ll feel the sting of my belt.

  How many times had he done nothing while his da beat his mother, leaving her bruised and battered?

  No wonder she left you.

  The door opened again, and Quinn was allowed to enter.

  “She’s got a concussion and needs rest. I’ve given her somethin’ stronger for the headache.” The paramedic went through a list of things Elizabeth should avoid along with symptoms that indicated she needed to go to A&E. “I’ve suggested she go in for a CT scan, but she refused.”

  Quinn took a card from him. “My thanks.”

  “She swears this isnae your doin’, and I’ve no choice but to believe her.”

  “I’d never hit her or any woman. I’d have stopped the bastard if I’d seen the blow comin’. I couldnae go after him because I was holdin’ her.”

  “It seems the two of you have had a rough time of it.” The paramedic eyed his bruised face again then handed Quinn a business card. “Dinnae hesitate to call, aye?”

  Quinn held the door for him then locked it and walked to the bedroom.

  Elizabeth was sound asleep, a brochure about resources for victims of domestic abuse on the bed beside her. He covered her with a blanket, picked up the brochure, then crumpled it in his hand, overwhelmed by disgust. Why hadn’t anyone helped his mother? Why hadn’t he done more to protect her?

  Then he turned off the light. “Sleep sweet.”

  13

  Elizabeth woke the next morning feeling a little light-headed from the pain pill the paramedic had given her, her headache mostly gone. Her spirits sank to find herself alone. She could have sworn Quinn had been there during the night, but he wasn’t beside her now. He’d been angry with her, and she supposed she couldn’t blame him, though she hadn’t meant to get punched in the face.

  She climbed out of bed, found herself still fully clothed, and walked to the bathroom to shower and brush her teeth, glancing out at the living area as she passed.

  Her heart melted.

  Quinn lay, shirtless and sound asleep, on her sofa. He was a mountain of a man, and the sofa was small, his big feet sticking off the end. That couldn’t be comfortable.

  Then she saw it—the almost empty whisky bottle.

  Oh, Quinn.

  She’d never thought of his drinking as a problem because she’d never met an operator who didn’t drink hard. But she’d spent enough time with Quinn now to know that he was self-medicating. Not that he didn’t have good reason to want to blunt his emotions with Jack lying in the morgue. But how many times in the past few years had she heard him say that he just wanted a wee swally?

  She walked to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and got a good look at herself for the first time. “Shit.”

  She’d never had a black eye before, and this was a bad one—or a good one, depending on how a person felt about it. Her left cheek was swollen, a dark bruise spreading across her temple and around her eye.

  You look like a raccoon, girl.

  She stripped and stepped into the shower, hot water and shampoo clearing her head, reviving her. She rinsed her hair, opened her eyes, gasped.

  Quinn stood in the doorway, leaning up against the door jamb, arms crossed over his bare chest, his gaze sliding over her, a mix of concern and lust on his face. “I didnae mean to startle you. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay bein’ in here by yourself.”

  “I’m fine—and you’re free to stay and watch or join me if you like.”

  His lips curved in a slow smile that she felt deep in her belly. “I like.”

  He shucked his jeans and boxers, opened the glass door, and stepped into the shower, his gaze darkening when he looked at her cheek. “I should have killed him.”

  “He would have killed you right back.” She got her hands soapy and ran them over his wet skin, aroused by the sculpted feel of him, his chest hair rasping against her palms, his nipples tightening under her touch, his erection jutting up between them.

  He did the same, lavishing attention on her breasts, belly, and ass, his hands spreading fire over her skin, fueling the blaze between her thighs. “Your skin is so soft.”

  It turned her on just to see how much touching her turned him on, his brow furrowed, his blue eyes burning as his gaze moved over her.

  She squeezed a bicep. “You’re s
o hard—all of you.”

  They rinsed, water sluicing over their skin.

  Quinn kissed her, soft butterfly kisses. “I want to go down on you.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Don’t feel like you’re obligated.”

  “Obligated?” He laughed. “I want the taste of you on my tongue.”

  Shivers.

  No man had ever said that before, most acting as if giving her head was just the price they had to pay for receiving, a sexual quid pro quo.

  Quinn drew her hard against him and kissed her, his tongue doing wonderful things to hers. Then he turned her so that her back pressed up against the cold tile wall and knelt before her, lifting one of her thighs over his shoulder.

  “God, I love the look of you—so fuckin’ sexy.” He parted her, explored her with a few slow licks. “Mmm.”

  Her fingers slid into his wet hair, and she watched as he tasted her, flicking her clit with his tongue, the sensation and the intensity on his face making her belly clench. Then he took her clit into his mouth and suckled her.

  Her fingers balled into fists, the pleasure of it almost unbearable, his head moving in and out, his lips stroking her, his mouth maintaining suction. “Fuck!”

  She fought to hold onto her self-control, but what he was doing felt so fucking good. She cursed, cried out, called his name. “Quinn!”

  Then he slid two fingers inside her, thrusting to match the rhythm of his mouth and she couldn’t speak at all, every exhale a moan, her thighs quivering, pleasure drawing tighter and tighter inside her—until it exploded.

  She cried out, arching against the tile, climax flooding her, drowning her in bliss.

  Quinn drew out her pleasure, making it last, staying with her until she was weak and breathless. Then he lowered her foot to the shower floor, stood, the raw emotion in his eyes making her pulse skip. “Lilibet.”

  He claimed her mouth in a deep, hard kiss, his lips wet with her taste. Then he cupped her ass with his hands and lifted her off her feet, bringing her face to face with him. “I cannae get enough of you.”

  He thrust into her, fucking her slowly, sending her over the edge again, his gaze never leaving hers, not even when he came.

  Quinn read through the files Elizabeth had pulled up for him, all of them relating to the risk of renewed violence as a result of Brexit. “JTAC—that’s the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre—has set the threat level at severe in Northern Ireland.”

  “I remember seeing that.” She lay on the sofa, resting to fend off a headache brought on by spending a fruitless hour online researching all the businesses surrounding the alley where Jack was killed. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves again. We have no evidence that he’s involved with terrorists. Leo has Irish workers? So does this hotel. He favors Scottish independence? So do you. He doesn’t like the fact that I used to work for the CIA? Neither does my sweet old hippie grandma.”

  “Your gran is a hippie?” Quinn grinned.

  “Woodstock, protests, teach-ins—you name it.” Elizabeth stood, walked to the white board. “Jack has a bad night on October eighteenth. He comes home upset and seems tense to Ava. Jack calls you ten days later using a phone he told Ava he’d lost. He’s found murdered the following Saturday in the early morning, killed by a single slash wound to the throat. Investigators find cocaine and heroin residue on his hands and in his suit pocket.”

  “Aye, but neither I nor that fucker Grant believe Jack was dealin’. If he and I agree, that has to mean somethin’, aye?

  “Grant might say that to deflect suspicion. How could he be selling drugs with Jack if he doesn’t believe Jack sold drugs?”

  “Aye, I can see that.” But Jack hadn’t been selling drugs.

  “We’ve talked to Clive MacDonald, who had an adrenaline reaction when I asked about Jack but who could not have killed him. There could be reasons for his reaction.”

  “He disnae like the police.” Of that Quinn was certain.

  Elizabeth nodded. “His daughter tried to cover for him, helped him make up a story for why he’d done what he’d done. She was afraid, too.”

  Aye, he’d seen that. “Could she no’ simply be afraid of her da?”

  “Possibly. I wish I could talk to her again without him present.”

  “You want to go back there?”

  She didn’t answer, focused instead on her train of thought. “We’ve also met with Leo, who is grieving Jack’s death and pissed off about what he saw as Jack’s betrayal. But his grief doesn’t necessarily mean he was sad that Jack was dead. It could mean he feels sad about having to kill Jack.”

  “What about what he said—about putting the killer at the bottom of the Irish Sea. You said he meant that.”

  “I did, but I could be wrong.”

  “I doubt it.” He’d never known Elizabeth to be wrong.

  She thought about this for a moment. “Leo has a history with gangs and drugs, and he tried to punch you for asking whether he was smuggling. That’s a pretty clear indicator of guilt. He didn’t want to punch you when he knew we’d come to ask him whether he’d killed Jack. In fact, he brought that up himself.”

  Aye, that was strange.

  “He also got a call that I think had to do with me, a call that made him want to get us off his property immediately. We assume he found out that I used to work for the Agency and reacted to that, but it could be something else.”

  “Like what—your taste in music?”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. “I just don’t see a man with Jack’s training turning up in an alley at three a.m. with drugs in his pocket to chat with a man he no longer trusts—unless they were dealing drugs together and he felt he had no choice.”

  “What if Grant tried to push Jack into dealing drugs for him but killed Jack to silence him when he refused and then planted the drugs on him?”

  “Or maybe they were conspiring together to sell drugs, and Jack somehow found out that Leo was involved with the IRA. Jack wouldn’t betray the nation he’d served.”

  “He would have reported him.” Quinn knew that for certain

  “Leo said he would never harm a brother, but in that scenario, he might have felt he had no choice.”

  “Or maybe he no longer considered Jack a brother.”

  “This is pointless. We’re just making things up here.” She walked over to the sofa, sank down onto a cushion, discouragement written on her bruised face. “If this were a job and I had the authority of Cobra and the Pentagon behind me or the cooperation of British Intelligence, we could get somewhere. As it is, we’ve got nothing on Leo and no real leads on Jack’s murder—and the police are suspicious of us.”

  Quinn closed her laptop, went to sit beside her. “I could contact my buddies with MI6, tell them what happened wi’ Grant, and see what they say. Maybe they have access to records on him.”

  She shook her head. “We have no evidence, not one shred of proof, no real reason to suspect him.”

  Then there was no other option. “I’ll call Ava, explain that we’re gettin’ nowhere, and ask for her help getting Jack’s phone records.”

  Elizabeth threaded her fingers through Quinn’s. “I thought you were against that.”

  He wasn’t happy about it. “We’ve no choice. It’s like you said. Without those records, we’ve got nothin’.”

  Elizabeth’s gaze was soft with sympathy. “I can speak with her if you’d like.”

  Quinn nodded. “Thanks.”

  He took out his mobile and called Ava.

  While Quinn went to get a dinner of fish and chips, Elizabeth sat in the hotel’s business center, printing out all of the data from Jack’s two cell phones dating back to the beginning of October—incoming and outgoing calls, text messages, data transfers, and GPS locations. Ava trusted Quinn so completely that she hadn’t asked any difficult questions, except, perhaps for one.

  “The police already have all of this,” she’d asked on speaker. “Do you think you’ll find something they haven
’t?”

  “I won’t know until I have time to analyze it,” Elizabeth had answered. “I look at things differently from the police. They want evidence that will stand up in a trial. I look at patterns of behavior—what drives people.”

  “Please find the bastard who did this. He took Jack from us. He destroyed my life and that of my little girls.”

  “I’ll do my best, Ava. I promise.”

  It had taken the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon to help Ava claim the phone account—she didn’t know the password because Jack had always paid the bills—and talk her through how to access the necessary data. In the end, getting the data this way had been easier than hacking the account and one hundred percent less likely to land Elizabeth in prison.

  With a month’s worth of data from two phones, there were almost a hundred pages, and it took a few minutes to print. Elizabeth’s gaze drifted to the nearby TV and the news broadcast. More fighting over Brexit. Strikes at universities over pensions. A man stabbed in a car park robbery.

  Then Jack’s face appeared on the screen. Elizabeth recognized him from the photos she’d seen when she’d spoken with Ava.

  “There is evidence that illegal drugs played a role in the murder of former SAS trooper Jack Murray, it has been revealed. Murray, who was found dead in a Glasgow alley early in the mornin’ of November third, worked as part of the private security team of MSP Alastair Whitehall.”

  Poor Ava. It must be hell on her to lose the man she loved and then watch another side of him emerge in the media. Not that Elizabeth was certain Jack had been involved with drugs. But if she’d been asked to assess the probability, she’d have put it at a solid ninety-five percent, and that was tempering it by Quinn’s faith in him.

  The footage cut away to an older dark-haired man in an expensive suit. So that was MSP Alastair Whitehall.

  “Jack Murray was a hard-working member of my team. If he were found to have been selling illegal drugs, I would be quite surprised, indeed. My thoughts are with his family during this trying time. Thank you. No further comment.”