Jack of Spades

by Diane Capri

  She’d kicked him solidly in his sensitive regions a couple of times before he’d wacked her in the face. She’d practically torn his ear off with her teeth while he was bent over holding his balls, too. More blood was trickling down the side of his neck than pooling in her eye socket, which was just fine with her. Too bad he still had another ear. But she wasn’t done yet.

  The storm had been building in strength since Oscar pulled her away from Shorty. The wind howled louder as it passed over the café. They’d lost their opportunity to leave a while ago. If she was going to take him down and escape, the battle would be fought here. But the only weapons she had were the cheap flatware and her wits.

  When they first arrived at the café, she’d tried engaging Oscar in conversation, but he wasn’t the least bit chatty. Which meant he’d told her nothing. At this point, his plan seemed to be to wait out the storm unless one of the other toads ordered him to do something else.

  Which was fine with her. As long as they were inside the café with a few other customers as witnesses, Oscar wasn’t likely to kill her. She’d still have a chance to get away. Or kill him first, if it came to that.

  She’d never killed anyone in cold blood before. Could she do it? She’d had the chance once. Turned out she hadn’t needed to execute the guy, because Reacher had been there to do it for her.

  She’d half expected Reacher to show up long before now and solve her problems again. He’d told her he was watching them. What was the point of watching if that’s all he did?

  But maybe he was helping Shorty. Which was fine with her. She could take care of herself. Shorty was less ferocious. He needed the help. Reacher had made the right choice.

  The longer Oscar held her here, the more she expected to learn how cold-blooded she actually was. She’d had time to think about the situation. She figured their plan was pretty simple. After Shorty handed over the duffel, Owen would kill him. Oscar would kill her. The three amigos would fly off into the sunrise. Or something like that.

  Keeping the duffel away from these goons was the best chance they had. Shorty would understand that, too. He wouldn’t give it up unless he was forced to.

  Oscar had put his phone on the table to be sure he heard it when his brother called. For more than an hour, it had lain silent. Oscar wasn’t the least bit fidgety. He sat there like a mannequin, stone still.

  The café door opened and the howling wind blasted into the room before the door closed again. Oscar didn’t bother to turn his head. Patty couldn’t see the door, but she wondered who would be crazy enough to come out there in such weather.

  She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  Shorty came into her periphery as he approached from the side. He was holding a gun. Several of the customers gasped and screamed and moved aside, as if Shorty might shoot them. Which, of course, he wouldn’t do.

  He stopped advancing ten feet away, pointed the gun at Oscar and said, “Let her go.”

  Like a thick-necked hippopotamus, Oscar turned his head toward Shorty and blinked slowly.

  “Let her go, or I’ll shoot you. I promise,” Shorty said.

  While Oscar’s head was turned, Patty grabbed a fork in her right fist and stabbed Oscar’s hand with it. She shoved the fork straight down into the web between his thumb and first finger. The tines punctured his tough skin and stuck into the wooden table beneath. Blood trickled from all four punctures.

  He lifted his left arm and backhanded her hard enough to bounce her head off the wall behind her. Then he pulled the fork out and threw it on the floor.

  She fell off her chair, seeing stars, ears ringing. Her head began to throb.

  Oscar shoved his chair back and it clattered to the floor.

  Shorty pulled the trigger. The gun’s blast added to the storm’s noise. Customers screamed and scattered to hide under the tables.

  The bullet struck Oscar’s torso, below his ribs and above his pelvic bone, traveling deep into his flesh. If the bullet exited on the other side of his thick body, Patty couldn’t see where. Blood rapidly soaked through his shirt. Oscar howled louder than the storm and then charged toward Shorty.

  Shorty tossed the gun toward Patty. He turned and ran outside, with Oscar in hot pursuit.

  The café door banged open and slammed shut in a matter of moments.

  When Patty closed her eyes, she saw flashing lights. Her ears were ringing and her head throbbed from the two hard blows, one when Oscar hit her and the other when she hit the wall. Her teeth felt a little loose on that side, too.

  But she couldn’t wait until she could see straight. If Oscar caught up with Shorty, he’d kill him.

  Patty scrambled to find the gun and push herself off the floor. She staggered to the door and pushed it open using the full weight of her body. She was already unsteady on her feet and the gusting wind shoved her backward.

  She was drenched in seconds by the cold rain and ocean spray. She used the building to stay upright as she moved, sliding her back along the wall. When the wall ended, the wind’s full force pushed against her body while the rain pounded harder.

  She struggled to see clearly through her left eye. The right one had swollen completely shut.

  Fog and mist covered the pier, limiting her visibility to about thirty feet ahead between the big waves that crashed over the wide plank rails.

  She couldn’t see Shorty or Oscar or much of anything else. She struggled to hold onto the gun and keep her balance. She turned her back to the railing along the pier and kept moving toward the beach.

  Up ahead, she heard noises that might have been Shorty and Oscar fighting. She moved as quickly as she dared. Oscar’s broad back came into view. He had Shorty up against the opposite rail and stood over him, landing blow after blow. The railing was already damaged from the repeated pounding of the waves and a big chunk of it was missing. The rest would have been weakened by the surf’s constant battering.

  “Shorty!” she screamed as loudly as she could. If he heard her, he didn’t answer. And Oscar, as usual, held his focus.

  Patty held the gun as steadily as she could manage and squeezed the trigger. The shot landed somewhere on Oscar’s body, but she didn’t have time to assess the damage. A wall of water headed straight for the spot where Shorty was leaning against the broken wood.

  The huge freak wave crashed down, completely covering Shorty and Oscar and everything ten feet on either side of them. A second big wave followed almost instantly. And a third.

  The third wave crashed through the damaged guard rail and demolished the side of the pier.

  When it receded, the ocean had taken Shorty and Oscar along with it.

  Patty screamed, “Shorty! Shorty!”

  The next round of waves were less punishing. She left the guard rail and fell onto her hands and knees. She crawled along the slippery concrete toward the big, gaping hole in the other side of the pier.

  Before she got there, a tiny Asian woman ran to her, wrapped her arms around Patty’s waist, and pulled her back.

  “Come on! Come this way!” she yelled, pulling Patty along a narrow section of wet concrete, away from the destroyed section of pier, toward the beach.

  “Shorty! He fell into the water! We can’t leave him!” Patty shouted, even as she knew there was no way the two women could find him now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Monday, February 28

  11:45 a.m.

  Siesta Beach, California

  Kim managed to get Patty back to the beach, fighting the storm all the way. They’d been battered by waves and pelted by rain. But they made it.

  When they reached the end of the pier, the gates were closed and locked. Cell signals were weak on the pier but closer to shore Kim was able to call 9-1-1.

  Patty was emotionally and physically wrecked. But she held herself together long enough to tell Kim what had happened inside the café. Until she reached the part in her story where Shorty and Oscar were swept out to sea. She stopped there, unable to r
evisit the harrowing experience. It was too fresh. Too raw.

  But Kim didn’t need to hear about it. Because the storm was unrelenting, she didn’t see Shorty and Oscar captured by the ocean. But she had witnessed the damage to the pier firsthand. She’d been on the beachside of the three big waves that took out that section. She’d narrowly escaped being swept away along with them.

  First responders arrived to open the gate and help carry Patty the last few feet to the beach. Paramedics loaded her into the ambulance and took her to the hospital.

  Rescue teams were on the way to evacuate the café. Kim reported Shorty and Oscar missing and was assured teams were on the way to find them, too. They’d keep looking as long as they could, they said. But Kim had the impression they had little hope of finding Shorty alive.

  She found her personal cell phone and called Gaspar. The Boss and Finlay and anybody else who wanted to listen to the call could have at it. She didn’t care.

  When Gaspar picked up, she said, “I’ve lost Jake. Ping his cell phone. I’ll wait.”

  Gaspar sighed. “Probably wouldn’t get me anywhere to remind you that I no longer work for the FBI, right?”

  She waited.

  Gaspar clicked keys on a keyboard. After a couple of seconds, he said, “Looks like he was about six blocks from where you’re standing. He’s entered a moving vehicle traveling along the main street.”

  “Moving in what direction?” she asked.

  “Toward the windsurfing shop. Maybe five minutes out,” Gaspar replied. “Before you ask, I can’t get eyes on him. There’s still too much cloud cover. Your Boss has access to satellites that could see through, maybe.”

  “Anyone else been near the shop since I left it?” she asked.

  “Can’t say. Can’t see it. No surveillance cameras in or around the place I can tap into, before you ask,” he replied.

  “I’ll head back there. Thanks.” She disconnected, dropped her phone into her pocket, and located her gun. She quickened her pace along the wet, hard-packed sand. The wind was at her back now, pushing her along.

  The gray midday weather cloaked the windsurfing shop in foggy semi-darkness. There were no lights on inside. A black sedan pulled up to the curb.

  Jake got out of the back seat and walked toward the shop.

  A smaller man she didn’t recognize exited from the driver’s seat. He held his right arm bent at the elbow. She couldn’t see whether he held a gun in his hand, but smart money would bet on yes. She was too far away to hear any conversation between them.

  Jake reached out to turn the doorknob. He pulled the door open. Once again, the wind caught it and banged it back against the wall.

  Shorty had locked the door before they left to find Patty. Someone had unlocked it.

  The man waved Jake inside with his weapon and followed him. He pulled the door closed behind them. They flipped a light on.

  Kim hustled to the shop. She looked in the window. Owen Brady, the man she’d killed earlier, was gone. The Boss probably found a way to remove him. She didn’t see Jake and the guy with the gun. If the place had a back door, she hadn’t seen them use it to leave the bungalow. Which meant they’d probably moved upstairs.

  She turned the knob on the front door and opened it only wide enough to slip inside. She kept a good grip on the knob until she could latch the door securely again. Then she turned and moved toward the staircase.

  On her way past, she briefly examined the area where the dead man had fallen. Most of his blood had been wiped up, but some had been smeared around in the process. The Boss’s people would have been more thorough.

  She heard footsteps overhead in the apartment. The two men were walking from room to room. Like they were searching for something.

  She started up the steps, as quietly as possible. About half way up, something heavy hit the floor. She dashed up the remaining steps and shoved the door to the apartment wide open.

  “Don’t get up,” Jake said, barely breathing hard. A wide gash on his forehead dripped blood down the side of his face like a horror movie.

  The smaller man was bleeding, too. His nose was a pulpy mess in the center of his face.

  She assessed the situation instantly.

  A brass candlestick lamp lay near the sofa.

  The smaller man was on the floor. Jake stood over him like a towering colossus.

  Jake had punched him hard enough to knock him to the floor, but not before the guy had hit Jake a couple of solid blows to the side of the head with a blunt object.

  Neither one of them looked her way. They were too hot-blooded.

  Kim saw the next move before Jake did.

  The man rolled to his left, pulled his right arm from under his torso, and lifted his gun to point it at Jake.

  “Gun!” Kim yelled, a split second before the man squeezed the trigger.

  The timing was enough.

  Jake fell sideways. The bullet zinged past him, through the sofa, and embedded itself into the bungalow’s wall.

  Smoothly, the man rolled toward Jake and aimed to fire again.

  Kim fired first. Three rounds. Three head shots.

  The man’s arm fell to the floor almost at the same time his head exploded.

  Kim waited until her breathing evened out before she searched the guy’s pockets to find his car keys.

  “Let’s get you to the hospital, Jake. Looks like you need some stitches.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Tuesday, March 1

  11:45 a.m.

  Siesta Beach, California

  The storm finally ended and sunny California weather had returned. From her hotel room, she saw the ocean’s enormous waves had deposited tons of kelp and debris on the beach. Heavy equipment was down there now to handle the cleanup.

  The pier was still closed. The morning news reported it would take months to repair the damage done by the storm. The owner of the café had said, “When these gates are closed, our business doesn’t exist. The mayor’s promised the pier will reopen as soon as possible.”

  No doubt. Tourism was a big segment of Siesta Beach’s economy and the pier was a significant reason tourists came to this particular beach. When repairs were completed, Siesta Beach would resemble all the cheerful chamber of commerce photos she’d seen online before she’d arrived.

  In a few months, only those who had lived through it, fought against it, lost because of it, would know the storm’s fury had come and gone. Until the next storm. And the one after that.

  As it was, Kim was battered and bruised and exhausted. She felt like she could sleep for a solid week. She left the room and let the door slam behind her.

  A line of taxis were waiting at the valet stand. “Siesta Beach Hospital, please,” she said.

  The doorman called one up and opened the door for her. She sank into the back seat. The doorman closed the door for her and told the driver her destination. The taxi rolled easily into traffic.

  She had news she wanted to deliver in person. Jake had been admitted yesterday. They’d kept him overnight for tests and observation because of his head injuries and the blood he’d lost through the knife wound.

  The taxi dropped her off at the front entrance. “Want me to wait?”

  “Thanks. That won’t be necessary,” she replied. She paid the fare and hopped out, moving quickly to the front entrance.

  She spent a few minutes figuring out where Jake was and finally found him in a private room on the fifth floor with a view of the ocean. She knocked lightly on the door.

  “Come on in,” he called.

  He looked like an oversized child for sure lying there dressed in one of those hideous hospital gowns, stitches closing the jagged cut in his forehead. But it was the big grin that capped the illusion of youthful enthusiasm in his case.

  “You look pretty happy for a guy who almost died yesterday,” she said, grinning back at him because it was impossible not to.

  “Nah. That guy was no match for me. I’ve been in worse
fights. I always win.” He saw the look of skepticism on her face. “I do appreciate you helping me out, though. From what I hear, it takes a while to recover from gunshot wounds. And I’ll be out of here tomorrow at the latest.”

  She nodded. She handed him one of her cards. “I stopped by to tell you to keep in touch. There’s a private number on the back of that card. If you need my help, call me. But use a disposable phone. I don’t want those calls traced.”

  He looked at the card, front and back. “Thanks.”

  “One more thing.” She paused briefly before she said, “We’ve confirmed that Joe Reacher was your father. We expedited DNA samples from his autopsy and compared them to yours and your mother.”

  The grin disappeared and he asked quietly, “No question about it?”

  She saw he was conflicted about the news. He’d loved David Reacher as his father for his entire life. Now, both David and Joe Reacher were dead. But she couldn’t change the facts and neither could he. “It’s a one hundred percent certainty.”

  He took a few deep breaths before he blinked and raised his eyes to meet hers. Solemnly, he said, “Jack Reacher came to see me last night. He was on his way out of town, he said.”

  She nodded. She wasn’t surprised. He’d been in touch with Patty and Shorty last week, too. The only thing she’d wondered about was why he hadn’t helped them when they needed it, since he’d told them he would.

  “What did he have to say?”

  “He’s the one who moved Owen’s body.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “He thought maybe Shorty or I had been the one who shot him. He said he didn’t want to see our lives ruined because of that. Owen had it coming, he said.” He grinned again like the Jake she’d first met. “His exact words were ‘No reason to ruin your life over a dead asshole like that.’”

  She smiled. “Sounds like something he’d say.”

  Jake nodded. “But doing that, moving Owen, meant he couldn’t help me with Trevor. And it made him late getting out to help Patty and Shorty at the pier.”