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Except Jack wasn't here.
To say Jack and Quinn don't get along is an understatement. The problem is ninety percent Quinn's. Jack's uncomfortable with Quinn's hard-core vigilantism, but his real issue is Quinn's complete disinterest in hiding the fact that he thinks vigilantism grants him the moral high ground. To Quinn, I get to share that ground with him because I mix vigilante jobs with "victimless" mobsters-killing-mobsters gigs. To Quinn, Jack's the worst kind of criminal--one who kills for money he doesn't even need.
When it comes to the job, ideologically, I prefer the vigilante work. But I'm still killing people for money. There is no justification that clears that particular moral slate.
I've come to a better understanding of my motives--the deep-seated need for the justice my cousin, Amy, was denied when she was raped and murdered twenty years ago. She wasn't the only one raped that night, and I'm sure there's some of my own rage there. I survived. Amy did not. And now with both her killer and my rapist dead, little has changed. I haven't taken a job since, but I will at some point. I don't kid myself on that. It has become part of me.
That's no excuse. In this, I'm closer to Jack. As a teen he'd been recruited by an organization that made the IRA look like Boy Scouts. He joined because his brothers had, and once the group saw his crack marksmanship skills, they made him a killer. When he tried to get out, they murdered his family. No surprise, then, that the kid who felt he was only really good at one thing--killing people--turned his rage into a career doing exactly that. Yet he never uses that as an excuse. He made a choice, like I did. There is no justification.
Given Quinn's opinion of Jack, it's not surprising he's convinced our relationship is just temporary bad judgment on my part. Really bad judgment. Quinn believes Jack took advantage of a low point in my life, smarting from our breakup and dealing with the truth behind my rape and my cousin's murder. That means Quinn just has to wait for me to come to my senses. And this, not surprisingly, was why we were struggling to keep our friendship from imploding.
"Jack isn't here, as you may have noticed," I said. "But I hadn't told Quinn that and Jack left after Quinn would have arrived. Quinn didn't disable his tracker or 'forget' his appointment. He wouldn't. Ever. If he's vanished . . ." I inhaled sharply. "We need to find him."
"Do you know what he was working on recently? As a Marshal?"
I nodded. "He doesn't give me details but he shares enough that I know what sort of cases he has. Nothing on his current roster is the type where someone would want to . . . to stop him." Kill him is what I meant, but I couldn't bring myself to say the words.
I continued. "First thing we need to know is whether he got on that flight. Can you check--?"
"We have. He didn't check in or cancel it."
"Yet you followed his trail up here anyway?"
"I had to be sure he hadn't bought a new ticket under an alias on a different flight in to keep under Jack's radar. And if that wasn't the case, then showing up here is the best way to get your help. You know him better than we do. You know how his mind works."
And it'd be much harder for me to refuse in person. Which only proved Diaz didn't know how my mind worked either. A phone call would have put me on this trail. Whatever problems Quinn and I had, I wouldn't have considered sitting on my ass and letting Contrapasso investigate on their own.
"When will the Marshals' office realize he's missing?" I asked.
"He's supposed to be back at work Tuesday. We can extend his absence with a falsified call, but I'd rather not."
"So we have about sixty hours before they realize something's wrong. The problem is that it's Sunday and I have commitments here. I can conduct research today, but I can't get away until tonight."
"Understood. I'll get started and meet you in Virginia tomorrow morning."
4 - Jack
First thing Monday morning, Jack was back on the roof. Smoking this time. Not just a cigarette to settle his nerves. He couldn't remember the last time he'd needed that. Work didn't cause him stress. Life did. Work was simple. Life was not.
But today? Today the two melded, and he was already on his third cigarette. Which was a fucking bad sign. He wasn't overly concerned about his aborted call to Nadia. If anything really bothered him about that, it was the fact he'd spent far too much time yesterday coming up with ways to guarantee daily contact, like a second phone or a backup time to call. That was pure selfishness. He had to stick to the plan because a plan is safe. It wasn't a concept he'd ever struggled with before.
He tapped his cigarette on the ventilation shaft and looked down at the cafe. Ten minutes to go. Two hours until he could call Nadia again. It wasn't just about talking to her, however much he liked that. It was about stilling his anxiety better than nicotine could.
It'd been nearly thirty years since he'd spoken to Cillian. Cillian had been a mentor in those days. He'd helped Jack get out of Ireland and set him up with his first jobs. Which meant Jack owed him. Half a lifetime later, Cillian was coming to collect.
As for what he'd ask Jack to do? That was the real reason for the chain smoking.
Cillian knew Jack from the time when he'd pull a hit for any reason--when he didn't even need a reason. As long as it wasn't a family or a kid or an innocent bystander, he didn't give a shit why someone wanted his mark dead. He'd worked fueled by the rage of a twenty-year-old kid who'd gotten his family killed and blamed everyone else, hated the world, but deep down only blamed himself, only hated himself. All the bullets in the world couldn't fix that shit, not unless the barrel was aimed at his own head.
That blind rage had passed. He'd grown up. Calmed down. Within a few years, he'd started needing a reason. But that was a matter of self-protection. He wasn't going to off witnesses for a cartel--that shit comes back on you. Kill a guy's business partner to give him control of the company? No problem. Then he met Nadia, and began scrubbing his client list until, while it might not be up to her standards, he wasn't worried about her scrubbing him from her contact list.
And now . . .
Fuck.
He stubbed out the cigarette and pocketed the butt. This was stupid--worrying about possibilities before he even talked to Cillian. Part of being a pro meant mapping out every contingency and planning a response. Great for the job; bullshit for real life.
While he didn't tell Nadia about his job--she was always safer not knowing--she'd be okay with it. He refused to pull any hit he wouldn't want her finding out about. That vow stood. Even for Cillian.
