“Any other news?” As he asked, he noticed a red motorbike westbound on the highway. It was weaving through the traffic, clearly doing far more than the posted speed limit.
“Actually, yes. The police finally coughed up a report on Quinn’s suite. Apparently, it was disturbed before they got there. A physical altercation.”
Jack listened with half an ear. He flashed quick looks at the speeding bike as it whipped past him, going in the opposite direction. Once it was behind him, he checked on it in his rear-vision mirror.
“They found blood splatter that turned out to be Quinn’s. Jack, it looks like—”
In the distance, the other bike’s brake light flared, and the rider threw it into a tight turn. Barely missing being taken out by a car, the bike left the road and, dirt spraying up behind it, cut across the grassed divide between the highway lanes.
“Fuck!”
“Jack?”
“Got a situation here,” Jack said aloud. It would be muffled on Lydia’s end, but right then he didn’t care. “Suspicious red bike, was heading west, is now on the eastbound lane of the M7, coming up behind me. Fast.”
Cutting the connection so he wouldn’t be distracted, Jack revved the Interceptor’s engine and shot away. Behind him, the other rider kicked their bike into high gear and chased him.
It was entirely the wrong time of day to be having a high-speed chase on one of the main arterial roads into and out of the inner city. There was slightly less traffic heading east than there was going west, but that didn’t make it any easier to evade both crazy commuters and crazier pursuer. Jack forgot everything else and concentrated on dodging cars, risking quick looks for the other rider every thirty seconds or so. Despite Jack’s efforts, they were rapidly gaining on him, taking risks he wouldn’t, pushing speeds he would only dare on an empty road. Whoever it was, they wanted him bad.
Who was it? The Judge? Garrote? Although Ethan had never said outright, Jack was certain he could ride, and probably at a skill that matched his pursuer. Anyone with as big a fixation on fast, dangerous things as Ethan had would know how to ride. Besides, being proficient with all sorts of vehicles would only benefit an assassin. Similarly with soldiers. Which didn’t narrow down his options any.
He checked over his shoulder. The red bike was relentlessly closing the distance between them.
Without a second thought, Jack pushed the Interceptor faster and, planning his moves three cars ahead, shot into the thicker traffic. It was wild and very risky, putting his trust in so many unknown quantities, but he knew his own instincts, his own reflexes. It was like running a new obstacle course. Just faster. Much, much faster. Leaving the other rider behind, both literally and figuratively, Jack flew through the cars, their shapes blurring in his periphery, his awareness expanding out as it did in combat situations.
A car braked and he went left, swinging out in front of a small truck, throttling back to keep from smacking face first into the SUV in front, then revving forwards into a widening space in front of the car he’d just passed. He cut through a narrow gap between two more cars and, spying a wide gap between another two, rocketed up between them. In front of him, the highway opened up, a rare distance between this pack of vehicles and the one ahead.
Jack roared into the relatively empty space and risked a look over his shoulder.
“Fuck!”
Red was still on his exhaust. Not close enough to be a danger, but closer than they had been when Jack took off. Coming into the clear, Red powered up and the gap started to get smaller.
Jack reached the next pack of traffic, and he dove into another obstacle course. He took bigger risks and cut through smaller spaces and kept his speed right up there. A few grey hairs later, he shot back out into the relative clear.
Red sidled up beside him.
Shit.
There was nothing he could do. The traffic ahead was thicker and slower, and Red was right there, keeping pace easily. Experimentally, he dodged left and they followed, matching his move perfectly. He slowed, so did they. He moved right, into their space and they waited until the last moment before moving over as well. Fantastic. Synchronised motorbike manoeuvres. He hoped the people in the cars around them were enjoying the show.
The rider wore a full-face helmet, as Jack did, a set of black riding leathers and a pair of big boots, black of course. They were shorter and leaner than Jack, smaller than Ethan.
Red unzipped the front of their leather jacket. As they reached under their arm, probably going for a gun, the sides of the jacket flapped back and the wind of their speed outlined breasts. Small but definitely there.
Eve Garrote.
Jack was almost glad to have her show up at last. And fucking hell, he was impressed. She could ride.
Sure enough, she pulled a gun. A compact piece she could handle easily while steering with one hand. Something that wouldn’t be immediately visible to the commuters around them. Jack had to get this off the highway, away from all these potential victims.
Garrote had the same idea, apparently. She held the gun on him steadily and eased over, forcing him to the left. Garrote made little hurry-up gestures with the gun, urging him to speed up. There was an exit coming up, and she clearly wanted them to take it.
Following the little instructions, Jack increased his speed, Garrote keeping pace perfectly. She had them in the left lane, approaching the exit, and Jack dutifully veered towards it, speeding up again. The assassin matched him, perhaps a second behind. The car in front of them sped up, taking the relatively clear exit. Jack moved into the space it created, throttling up even more. Garrote was right beside him, the gun giving him a don’t-mess-around motion. Another gap opened up on the ramp, and Jack raced into it. This time when Garrote pulled in beside him, the gun was fully visible, pointed at him directly. No more games.
So Jack stopped playing.
He sped up, once more, threatening to ram the back of the car before them, and Garrote matched him, the gun jerking out, ready to shoot. Then Jack touched the brake, lightly, but enough so Garrote rocketed ahead. To a chorus of alarmed car horns, Jack swerved over to the left and out of the direct line of traffic. Ahead, Garrote had also braked, but she was locked in between two cars and couldn’t do more than come to a complete stop.
Given a couple of seconds, Jack throttled the Interceptor back up and, when a big enough space opened up, he darted back into the traffic. He turned right sharply, planting his foot onto the road and skidding the back tyre of the bike around in a tight turn. Straightening up, he jetted back down the ramp, heading towards the highway, in the wrong direction. Another assisted turn and Jack was back on the M7, heading east with the rest of the evening traffic.
Of course, all Garrote had to do was continue up the ramp, cross the intersection, and take the on ramp back to the highway. Under the cover of the overpass, Jack cut back to the westbound lanes and tore off in that direction. He took the first exit he came to and rode right into a convoy of cop cars, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
He was disarmed, cuffed, and sitting in the back of a patrol car when the implant pinged.
“Jack?” Lydia sounded frantic yet relieved. “Where the hell are you?”
“In the back of a cop car. Possibly in North Rocks.”
She sighed wearily. “Not a great move, I have to say.”
“I didn’t have a lot of options, and I figure a phalanx of armed and angry law enforcement might keep Garrote away. She’s shown up.”
There was a bunch of swearing and muffled chatter, and then Lydia came back clearly. “That’s just the cherry on the crap cake, then. You might not find the police very happy with you right now.”
Jack groaned, letting his head thump back against the uncomfortable seat. “What now?”
“Well, as I was saying before you rudely cut me off, we got the report on Quinn’s suite. They found, naturally, Quinn’s DNA, but also that of two others. One was yours, Jack.”
“That’s no grea
t revelation,” Jack countered. “We were working together at his place. Who was the other one?” Was the last one Ethan’s? Left behind when he . . . Jack cut off that thought savagely.
“The other one was, oddly enough, Constable Richard Toomey.”
Jack let out an explosive breath. Not Ethan, thank God.
“Makes sense,” he thought to Lydia, relief letting him sag back, his cuffed hands pressing into his lower back. “I know he and Adam had gotten . . . friendly.”
“Yeah, friendly. I guessed from where they found the DNA.” As she continued, her tone got serious. “But the thing is, Jack, they can’t find Toomey now. He’s gone missing too.”
Now he understood why being in the back of a police car wasn’t a great place to be right then. One of their own dead, two missing, and their best suspect currently causing havoc all across the city. They weren’t going to let him go so easily this time.
Then his brain caught up to Lydia’s exact words. “Wait. What do you mean, too?” He spoke aloud in surprise.
“It was in the conclusion of the report on Quinn’s place. It looks like he was taken from his suite, alive. It’s Stephanie Phelps who died in the Surry Hills LAC.”
Jack set down the next round and sank gratefully into the booth opposite Adam. “Fuck me. I’m exhausted.”
“Both things me and my hotel room can help you with,” Adam said cheerfully.
Absurdly, sitting most of the day reading and talking on the phone was draining Jack’s energy, while it appeared to invigorate Adam. He no longer slumped into the LAC later than everyone else, but showed up first thing, bright-eyed and eager to keep going with the hunt.
Jack scowled. “Jesus, anyone would think you’d gotten laid.”
Which was part of his current problem. The ready supply of sex at home had all but dried up. Ethan’s mood swings had continued, and when Jack tried to talk to him about it, he got the cold-hearted killer treatment. If Jack didn’t pry and waited patiently, then Ethan came around within a couple of days and things got back to normal—for a while. Then it would all begin again, usually when Jack tried to start things in the bedroom. Or living room, or bathroom. At times, Ethan reciprocated his advances, and events would progress in a naked, fun direction. Sometimes it got to the messy, happy end. Other times, Ethan would pull away and get distant, and Jack would be back to waiting. Not knowing which conclusion he would get made Jack reluctant to try over the past week.
Adam winked over the rim of his tumbler. “What if I said I had? Would you be jealous?”
“No.” He held out his glass, and Adam clinked his to it. “Cheers. Must have been a good one.”
“Meh.” The dismissiveness was ruined by Adam’s grin. “Just okay. He didn’t have much fight in him, but you know, he was there and his arse was . . .” He grunted and made squeezy motions with his hands.
Trying not to laugh, Jack asked, hesitantly, “Do I dare ask who the poor bastard was?”
Adam’s grin passed wicked and hit positively debauched. “You get three guesses, but I’ll give you a hint. You know him.”
Jack’s eyes rolled. He had developed a certain dislike for hints after Ethan’s cryptic little efforts. Still, the clue narrowed the potential victims drastically. There were very few men in the small overlap between his and Adam’s acquaintances. Jack went with the most absurd in the hope it would make Adam just spit out the name.
“Connors.”
Whisky sprayed across the table as Adam spat the wrong thing out.
Finding something to smile about, Jack called, “Bib here!” to the bartender, who looked over with a tolerant smile. They’d become something like regulars in this little bar, and the guy currently tending bar was on most nights.
“Or him?” Jack nodded towards the young man behind the bar as Adam mopped up his face and the table with their serviettes.
Adam glanced over. “I wish. Straight as a bloody arrow, that one. One more guess.”
Willing to throw away his last chance, Jack went with the next most ludicrous option. “Constable Toomey.”
Smile going a little bit strained, Adam merely held his glass up for another toast.
“Holy shit. Really?”
Adam nodded, suddenly very closed-mouthed.
“Wow. My gaydar’s on the fritz.” Jack couldn’t imagine the tall bloke expressing much of anything, let alone responding to Adam’s brand of club-to-the-back-of-the-head flirting.
“Right?” Adam took a fortifying drink. “Since you decided to piss off early last night, leaving me alone to carry the burden of hunting down this remorseless—”
“Get on with it.”
“Fine. I was on my own and Toomey comes in, asking if I need anything. I’m tired and annoyed, so I say, ‘Someone to suck my dick’ . . .” Adam’s eyebrows very eloquently finished the sentence.
“Jesus,” Jack hissed. “And that worked?”
“I was surprised, too. Less so when he got up and bent over the table, though.”
Jack’s bourbon nearly went down the wrong pipe. “I worked at that table today.”
“Don’t worry, he didn’t come on it.”
Christ. Jack shook his head in disgust, and then the snicker he was fighting got through. Moments later, he and Adam were roaring with laughter.
“So,” Jack asked when he could, “when’s the wedding?”
Glaring at him, Adam muttered, “If he turns out to be a stalker, I’m blaming you.” Leaning across the table and in a softer tone, he added, “You really aren’t jealous, are you.”
Jack sobered instantly. “No. Amused but not jealous.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Adam about Ethan. About how he had a solid and good thing happening. And it was a good thing. Despite Ethan’s current issues, Jack was happy to have him in his life more completely than fleeting visits. Whatever was going on with him was something they could deal with because what they had was worth it.
“Hmm,” Adam mused, “I’ll have to find another excuse to turn him down if he comes at me again.”
“You could have just not fucked him in the first place.” Though Jack was a fine one to talk.
“I suppose, but I’d still be horny as hell if I hadn’t. Again, your fault.”
“That’s getting old.”
Adam shrugged and changed the topic. An hour or so later, Jack finally found the guts to ask something that had been lurking in the back of his mind for a while.
“Do you know much about Sugar Babies?” He felt like he was betraying Ethan just for asking, but the strange moods, occasional paranoia, and bruises were bothering Jack.
“Sugar Babies?” Adam sucked in a deep breath. “Not really. No one much cares about studying them anymore. Poor bastards were picked on enough thirty, forty years ago. With the in-utero treatments these days, I think the instances of true Sugar Babies are pretty negligible. Why? You don’t think the Judge is one, do you?”
“No, I was just curious.” And wrong. Studies had proven Sugar Babies were no more likely to be sociopaths than anyone else. Jack didn’t know if it predisposed them to any other mental issues, but the angle he should have tried was childhood trauma. No matter the physical defects Ethan may have been born with, the abuse he’d suffered as a child had to be the source of some of his problems.
Adam’s gaze turned keen, studying Jack with the razor-sharp insight that saw far too much, even as he lifted his beer and drank the last of it down. When he finished, he stood and picked up Jack’s mostly empty bottle. “This is going to require more alcohol.”
Jack cursed himself while Adam was gone. He should have known better. An ill thought out question was like blood in the water to Adam. Jack could go before he got back. But he was Adam’s ride, and abandoning the man wasn’t in Jack’s nature.
“Right,” Adam said when he returned with beers and bourbon. “No one thinks about Sugar Babies anymore. Why do you?”
Jack scowled. “God, you’re such a psychiatrist. Can’t you turn it off?”
Hand over his heart, expression solemn, Adam said, “I can’t just stop caring about people, Nishant. Especially people I really, really, really like.” He finished with an exaggerated wink and leer. Then, serious once again, leaned forwards and lowered his voice. “Come on. You asked for a reason. Now tell me the truth.”
Fuck it. Jack was here, Adam was persistent, and getting some advice could only help Ethan, surely.
“Fine.” Jack threw back the bourbon, chased the burn with some beer, and leaned in. “It’s someone I know. He’s a Sugar Baby, but I know that doesn’t mean much compared to his other problems. Or maybe it does, I don’t know. All I do know is he’s having some trouble at the moment. Bouts of paranoia, obsessive-compulsive tendencies. He closes himself off and doesn’t talk, for days sometimes.”
“Is he seeing anyone professionally?”
“No.” Did Jack know that for certain, though? Ethan kept disappearing and wouldn’t tell Jack where he was going or what he was doing. He’d claimed he was aware of his issues, so perhaps he was getting help and just didn’t want Jack to know. Jack couldn’t convince himself of it, though. Ethan had been isolated for too long to suddenly want help from a stranger.
“Then perhaps you should suggest it to him. I can talk to you about him, but that won’t help him. I know some good people in Sydney I can recommend.”
Jack was shaking his head before Adam had finished the sentence. “If he’s not going now, he won’t just because I ask him to.” He’d probably only get even more closed off and erratic.
“You really should try, nonetheless. For his sake.”
“Can’t you just tell me what to do to help him?”
Adam slumped back in the seat. “It doesn’t work like that. I can’t counsel by proxy.”
“All right. Fine. Then just help me understand what he might be going through.” Now he’d stepped onto this path, Jack couldn’t seem to steer himself off it. “He was abused as a kid. Horrifically. Physically and emotionally. I know he lost his mother when he was very young, and he’s never mentioned a father. It was after he lost his mum that he was hurt. I don’t know by who, but I think they forced drugs on him as well.” The memory of watching that kid take the booze and Sugar Moraitis offered swamped Jack for a moment, making his hands curl into fists and his teeth grind, until he got it back into the filing cabinet.
Why the Devil Stalks Death Page 19
