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“Nope,” she said. “Not one bit.”
Chapter 7
IT ONLY GETS WORSE, Justine thought, fighting the queasy feeling building in her stomach as people all around her grunted, moaned, and dropped bars loaded with rubberized weights that boomed and bounced off the rubber floor.
Justine was twenty clean and jerks into the workout, with the prescribed ninety-five pounds on her bar. The big timing clock on the wall was running. Four minutes had passed since she’d started. Impossibly, one of the ex-SEALs had called, “Time,” at one minute forty seconds before collapsing to the floor.
A big part of Justine wanted to lie down there with him and beg for mercy. But a better part of her got angry. She was not giving up. This was a fight to the finish. And she was finishing.
Ten more, little sister, Justine thought before leaning over to grab the bar with both hands. She gripped it, squeezed her core tight, and rose slowly, keeping the weight snug to her legs until the bar crossed her knees. Then she exploded upward, shrugging her shoulders, raising her elbows, creating a moment of inertia when the bar felt weightless. Quick as she could, she dropped beneath the weight, caught it in a racked position, and then exploded again, driving the bar overhead, where she balanced it a second before letting the weight crash to the floor with all sorts of satisfying fury.
Sweat gushed off Justine’s forehead. Almost every muscle in her body burned, but she was grinning. She liked the grunting, the weights crashing, the feeling like you were in a race against time. It was primal, physical in a way she’d never known before.
Nine more, little sister.
“You, lady, are an animal,” Paul gasped minutes later as Justine struggled to get off the floor and to her feet. She’d finished “Grace” in personal record time.
“Thanks,” she panted. “I think.”
“No, seriously,” Paul said. “You just kicked my ass with a heavier weight.”
Justine smiled. “Welcome to Crossfit, where strong is the new thin.”
Paul laughed. “I guess I need to learn to check my ego at the door.”
“That’s what they say.”
Still smiling, she turned away and headed toward the locker room and the showers, thinking how funny it was that she was able to go from Justine the warrior goddess to Justine a little boy crazy in a matter of moments. But he was nice, and self-deprecating. And did you notice? No wedding ring?
“Justine?”
She startled, looked into the lobby. The giddiness faded, replaced by a vague sense of loss. Jack was standing there, looking like he hadn’t slept.
“Jack?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“We caught a case that feels epic. And I need you with me on it. Now.”
Paul passed by. Justine’s eyes flickered to him and then back to Jack. She shook her head. “I’m already swamped. It’s not fair to our other clients, expecting me to—”
Jack took a step closer, murmured, “Thom and Jennifer Harlow.”
Justine blinked. “Give me ten minutes.”
Chapter 8
FORTY MINUTES LATER we were harnessed into jump seats bolted to the interior walls of a helicopter that Dave Sanders had chartered for some ungodly sum of money. The lawyer, a bear of a man in a linen blazer, an orange Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and sandals, sat beside me.
Next to Sanders was Dr. Seymour Kloppenberg, or Sci, the hip polymath criminologist who runs Private’s lab in Los Angeles, and Maureen Roth, also known as Mo-bot. Roth works with Sci as a technical jack of all trades, is even quirkier than he is, and at fifty retains one of the sharpest and best-educated minds I know. Opposite us were Justine and Rick Del Rio, my oldest friend, a fellow ex-marine with a pit bull’s heart. Next to Del Rio were two people I’d heard of but never met before. Camill
a Bronson, a very put-together blonde in her forties, was the Harlows’ full-time publicist. Originally from Georgia, she spoke with a soft, genial twang. The tall, ripped, and red-haired man in his midforties beside her was Terry Graves, the president of Harlow-Quinn Productions.
“What we’re about to tell you goes nowhere without our permission,” Sanders announced as we lifted off and he handed me a folder. “I expect all of your people to sign these nondisclosure forms before we get to the ranch, Jack.”
“Not necessary, Dave, you’re covered under client privilege,” I said, fighting off a general unease that had been growing since we’d boarded the helicopter.
I flew choppers in Afghanistan. I got shot down in a Chinook and a lot of men died. I’ve never been truly comfortable in a helicopter since. I glanced at Justine, who was watching me. Dealing with the memories of the crash was how I’d come to meet Justine, one of the few people I’ve ever let get a glimpse of what goes on inside my head. I glanced at Del Rio, who’d been on the bird with me when it went down, the only other survivor of the crash. I guess I expected him to be agitated, or at least tense, but true to form, Del Rio was stone cold.
“Just the same, we’d like them signed,” sniffed Camilla Bronson.
