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"Don't thank me. Just stop this killer before he hurts Angela."
Chapter Ten
Jack
Men never checked the back seat of their cars before getting in. Some women did. Not all, mind you, but the percentage was vastly higher than with men. Women had heard too many stories of attackers lurking in the back seat. Men heard the same tales--and figured it didn't apply to them. Which Jack had always found very convenient.
He'd been surveilling Forrest for the past hour, and when the man headed for the parking garage, there was little doubt of his destination. Jack had already located Forrest's SUV and broken in, searching for clues, so he hurried around and got in position.
He waited until Forrest backed the vehicle from its spot. Then he put a gun to his head. Forrest jumped clear off his seat. Didn't hit the horn, though. They never did, the shock of that gun barrel blasting through common sense.
"Drive," Jack said.
"T-take the truck. Just let me out--"
"Drive."
Forrest glanced in his rearview mirror. His gaze went straight to the gun, lowered but still pointed at his head.
Forrest let the vehicle roll through the dark covered parking lot. "Whatever this is about--"
"Mindy Lang. Albert Kim. Sara Atom."
"W-what? Did someone hire you--?"
"No one hires me, Mr. Forrest. Now drive."
Jack directed Forrest to a densely wooded spot. Tropical jungle, Jack guessed, and any other time, he'd have admired the beauty. Right now, though, he was kinda busy.
He ordered Forrest out of the SUV and made him walk into the dark jungle. Jack wore a disguise, but if he could add shadows, he always did. When they were far enough in, Jack walked in front of Forrest.
The man's gaze tripped over Jack and stuck on his biceps, which weren't overly intimidating, but they were a helluva lot bigger than Forrest's. Jack suspected, though, that it wasn't the muscles that gave Forrest pause. It was the scars. They were fake. Jack had scars, but he'd added more impressive ones to fit his look of the day. He'd blackened and gelled his hair. Bought jeans that were really too tight for comfort. The mustache might be overdoing it. The fake gold rings definitely were. It was a caricature of a middle-aged mobster. But a guy like Forrest, though--with his low-end luxury SUV and ill-fitting expensive suit--wasn't likely to have much contact with actual organized crime, and the look on his face said Jack's outfit worked just fine.
"L-look," Forrest said, his hands going up. "Whoever hired you, I can pay more."
"Hired me?" Jack let a Russian accent underscore his words. "Hired me to do wha
t?"
"I--I don't know."
"I said, no one hires me, Mr. Forrest."
"O-okay . . ."
"Do I look like I am for sale?"
Forrest hesitated and then gave a wary, "No?"
"I am the person who hires men who are for sale. And I want to hire you."
"Wh-what?"
"I need to take care of some . . . pests. Preferably with explosives. I have heard you are the man to see."
Forrest's eyes bugged. "I don't know what you're--"
"I would prefer explosives. Yet I can be flexible, and I have heard you are a very flexible man. Cars, bullets, things that go boom . . . Such talents are valuable in my business."
