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She left the shops behind, the street turning into a wooden walkway that resembled a dock. It wound down to the water and continued along the beach. She came to a break in the walkway and a section of stairs that led to the beach and bent to take off her shoes.
The sand was cool on her feet as she made her way toward the water line. It was still too cold for sunbathing in Alexa’s book, but a handful of bronzed people lounging in bathing suits seemed to disagree. She made her way past them and dropped onto the sand near the water, far enough away from the surf that it wouldn’t get her wet but close enough that the sound worked its way into her bones, smoothing out the stress of the phone call with her mother.
Her parents were a problem for another time. She couldn’t do anything about them now, and she turned her thoughts to Nick instead. He’d been quiet and brooding ever since the incident at MIS’ office when someone had left the picture of Alexa and Samantha.
She believed him when he’d said he wasn’t angrywith her for going to the office alone. Nick was hardly ever angry with her, and when he was it was only because he was worried.
She couldn’t help feeling guilty. The truth was, Nick wouldn’t be in this situation if not for her. He’d be playing rugby or lounging on a beach warmer than this one, waiting for the AG’s office to wrap up their investigation of MIS so he could get back to work. Instead he was chasing some obscure former associate of a man no one knew anything about except that he was a henchman for Frederick Walker, that he’d almost killed Nick in the hotel parking lot in Boston.
He would say it wouldn’t have mattered, that even if they hadn’t gotten involved his curiosity, his need for justice, wouldn’t have allowed him to let Leland Walker off the hook once he learned the scope of Leland’s crimes.
But she wasn’t so sure. MIS didn’t go after every criminal in the world. They waited to be paid or approached by someone with no money but a cause that spoke to them. If not for Alexa, Leland Walker would just be another politician, albeit the kind Nick didn’t like, the kind who’d never worked a day in his life, who won by pumping money into campaign ads and glad-handing the public with aperfect smile instead of working to make their lives better.
Now he was chasing after Erno Kovaks, a man who might very well be as dangerous as Matis Juska, when he was barely recovered from the gunshots that had almost killed him. His family and their business were under assault from all sides, and if anything, even more attention was on the business because of his relationship with Alexa.
She didn’t blame him for brooding. None of it was sustainable: the situation with her parents and their feelings about Nick, the scrutiny of MIS, Nick’s love of family and her own feelings of inadequacy over not being able to have children, and lastly, the Walkers, who from the looks of things had no intention of letting Nick and Alexa ride off into the sunset even if they were able to overcome all the other obstacles.
If she was honest with herself, it was hard not to see her relationship with Nick as a house of cards built on sand. She couldn’t help thinking that sooner or later it would shift, washing everything they had into the sea.
10
Nick leaned against the crumbling stucco facade in the alley, his eyes on the man standing at the counter inside the shop. He was at the edge of the city, far from the yachts, luxury hotels, and designer boutiques that surrounded the marina. He’d dressed for the occasion in an old pair of jeans and a beat-up leather jacket, sunglasses hiding his eyes. To anyone passing by he’d look like just another ruffian in one of Gibraltar’s lesser-known neighborhoods.
His mind wanted to drift to Alexa, to his new fear — one that had been exacerbated by the incident at the office before they’d left Boston — that this had all been a mistake. That he should have left well enough alone, that Alexa would be better off she’d never met him.
But he couldn’t afford to indulge those kinds of thoughts. Not now when he was tailing Erno Kovaks unassisted. He had no backup, and while Kovaks didn’t look hard to tame, Nick knew looks could be deceiving. Kovaks had worked with Matis Juska, and Nick had stared down the barrel of Juska’s gun, had seen the cold calculation in his eyes as he’d shot Nick in the chest.
He forced himself to focus on the man inside the store, watching as Kovaks bought two packs of cigarettes. He slipped one of the packs into the pocket of his jacket and tapped the other on the counter before pulling the plastic tab to open it. Dropping the trash on his way out the door, he lit one of the cigarettes with a lighter he pulled from the pocket of his jeans and started down the narrow alley without a glance at Nick.
Nick waited a minute, then stepped in behind him, his eyes on the man’s shoulders, clad in a nylon jacket that looked like it had stepped out of the eighties.
He knew the precise second Kovaks became aware of him. Nick sensed rather than saw the hitch in the other man’s step, the millisecond of hesitation in his gait, the tension in his shoulders as he fought against the urge to look behind him.
Nick kept his footsteps even, his body coiled and ready to move. He got the chance a second later when Kovaks dropped the lit cigarette and started running.
Nick didn’t have to command his body to follow. It knew what to do, both from his time with the BPD and the jobs he’d worked at MIS when Ronan had pulled him into the field.
Kovaks was fast, reaching the end of the alley with almost as much space between them as they’d started with. He rounded the corner without stopping, sliding on the tiny rocks that dotted the crumbling pavement in this part of town. For a split second, Nick thought he might go down, but Kovaks rallied, righting himself with a burst of speed as he rounded the corner.
Nick forced himself to slow enough not to suffer the same fate — time lost slowing was better than time lost falling — then picked up the pace when he was safely around the corner.
They were on another narrow street, almost identical to the one where he’d been watching Kovaks. Faded and crumbling apartment buildings rose up on either side, laundry fluttering on lines overhead, but the street was empty and strangely quiet. Even the sounds of the city had seemed todisappear, leaving Nick with only the sound of his own breathing and his and Kovaks’ footfalls as they both raced over the potholed pavement.
They were about half a block from another corner when Nick started gaining on Kovaks. He pushed his legs to move faster and watched the distance between them shrink, wondering if Kovaks was cursing his smoking habit.
Kovaks pivoted to make the turn around the corner and Nick braced himself for what might be on the next street. He’d gotten lucky so far — lucky none of Kovaks’ friends had come to the rescue, that none of the locals decided to join in for the hell of it.
Then he saw Kovaks wobble on his feet, saw the way he tried to reduce his speed to keep from slipping, having not learned his lesson from the first corner.
Whoever he was, Erno Kovaks was out of practice. Good to know.
He went down fast, his arms shooting out to catch his fall as Nick covered the last few feet between them.
He dropped hard onto Kovaks’ body, not wanting to give him time to gather his wits. Nick had no idea if the other man had a weapon, and he had no desireto find out, no desire to use his own in such a tightly packed neighborhood.
He slammed his fist into Kovaks’ nose instead and was rewarded with a gush of blood that sprayed scarlet over the other man’s dingy white T-shirt. He grabbed ahold of the fabric and used it to lift Kovaks’ upper body a couple inches, slamming it back onto the pavement until the man’s eyes went wide with shock and pain.
His body went still.
