Page 156 of Broken (Otherworld 6)

In mid-wave, I caught a glimpse of the driver. Dark-haired. Male. Features shaded into near-obscurity by the tinted glass, but the shape of his face familiar enough to warrant a double-take. The man leaned toward the window, so I could see him a little better.

"Jack?" I mouthed.

He nodded. I stopped the truck, but he'd already pulled away, message conveyed. He wanted to talk to me, but no such conversation would take place until the sun set.

Jack. In the world of professional killers, there are a million shades of mysterious. In my own zeal for secrecy, I'd be considered borderline paranoid. Compared to Jack, though, I might as well be advertising in the Yellow Pages with a photo. In the past two years, Jack had visited me over a dozen times and I'd never seen him in daylight. If he wanted to visit, he'd phone pretending to be my brother, Brad, which worked out well, since Brad himself last called me in 1999.

For Jack to just show up meant something was wrong, and I was sure that "something" had to do with the Moretti hit.

BROKEN

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