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“No one’s answering,” Quinn said unnecessarily. He took out his phone and typed in his passcode.
Jericho hopped down from the porch and circled the house, ducking to see underneath. It was enough for a large man to crawl under, and there wasn’t even any skirting.
As he walked further down the property, he spied three figures on the beach, under the moonlight. Two were on the sand, standing with their shoulders touching. The third—William McMahon—was in the water with a beagle jumping around him.
If Jericho wanted to, he could have taken out his gun and shot all three of them from here. The third would have been more difficult after they realised the other two were down and scrambled, but it wasn’t impossible. There was no security whatsoever on this side of the house. As though there were any out the front either. And there was enough vague light that the darkness wouldn’t be a deterrent.
“Something wrong?” Quinn asked.
Their arms brushed as Jericho half turned. “This place is too open. Anyone with a rifle and a scope would have a field day picking off targets.” Even without a scope, they wouldn’t have too much difficulty.
“Neither of the victims so far have been shot,” Quinn pointed out. “They’ve both been close encounters.”
“And so, what? You think that means they aren’t capable of using them?”
“It shows a pattern of reluctance to use distance as a weapon. They’re making it personal.”
“How very cop of you,” Jericho drawled. And clever. He wasn’t wrong. It was something already mentioned in the profile they had been building on the killer, but it didn’t mean they had to offer an opportunity like this on a silver platter.
“And what exactly are you, Jericho? Not a cop. Not military. Black ops is a vague term and could mean anything.”
“Who said black ops?”
Jericho smirked when Quinn didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
“We’re the shadows that clean up messes that no one else can,” he offered, unsure why. He didn’t owe Quinn an explanation.
“That’s not an answer,” Quinn remarked.
“The man that I killed? He may not be the mastermind of this, but he wasn’t Australian of the Year either. He’s done stints in prison for attempted murder, robbery, numerous counts of assault, and rape. His name was David Carltone. Why don’t you look him up tomorrow at work?” Jericho curled his fingers in the pocket of Quinn’s jacket, resting the weight of his hand in it. “He has no family, no friends, no connection to the world outside of the victims of his crimes. You would have arrested him, talked to him until you were blue in the face, realised that you hadnothingto hold him with, and been forced to let him go.” His lips caressed the shell of Quinn’s ear. “I don’t think I need to tell you what happens next,” he whispered as Quinn shivered just enough for him to feel it. “He’s a serial offender. The next woman that he goes for, or the next attempted murder that succeeds, how do you justify that? What are you going to tell their families? It’s okay, we did what we could, we upheld the law, we did therightthing?”
“That doesn’t make whatyoudid right,” Quinn said. The hoarse gravel of his voice made Jericho’s heart skip a painful beat. His voice had been made for sin.
“The world is a better place without him in it. The end. No discussion required.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
Jericho couldn’t help himself. He brushed his nose against Quinn’s beard, feeling the bristles against his skin. His insides twisted. “I admire who you are, Quinn. You want to see the good. Youarethe good.” He kissed the underside of Quinn’s jaw, unable to resist even while knowing he was skirting a dangerous line and that he needed to take a healthy step back. Quinn was not only not his; he was someone else’s. Multiple someone else’s. “But nothing is black and white, and two of the men you love live in the grey, so you need to get used to it.”
“And you know that because you live there too?” Quinn asked. He didn’t pull back but tipped his head up, their lips almost brushing.
“Precisely.”
If he tilted forward and took a taste of those lips, would Quinn welcome him, or would he get hit? It was tempting to find out.
Except they were being watched, and maybe their actions were obscured enough not to be completely obvious, but he also knew that whatever William or Peyton did would hurt a hell of a lot more than whatever Quinn could throw at him. It took a certain person to do the proper amount of damage. Sebastian boxed, but he used it as stress relief and a form of defence. It was vastly different from actually intending to put someone down.
Jericho knew what the two younger men were capable of and the raw strength that Will hid behind that surprisingly lanky frame. He had barely healed bruises to prove it and a scar on his upper arm that had yet to fade from the grazed bullet wound.
He forced himself to step backward, away from Quinn’s allure.
The shallow wooden steps that led down to the beach were sandy and had a comfortable slope to them, unlike the steep drop a lot of tourist destinations had.
Nothing in Jericho’s hindbrain was telling him to be cautious as he approached, and that made himmorecautious. It was a rare individual that didn’t turn that part of his brain on. He’d learned early on to be wary of everyone. A threat until they proved otherwise. The last time he’d seen William, Jericho had been shot and arrested, and the last time he'd seen Peyton, his handiwork had shown how dangerous he was. Sure, Sebastian was a lawyer in a fancy suit—he was wearing it even now on abeach—but Jericho wasn’t into underestimating anyone.
Peyton’s focus on Jericho as he approached was heavy and loaded. His loose-fitting shirt and dark cargo shorts hid his raw strength. His porcelain face and dirty-blond locks were a trick that masked his true nature. That kind of espionage appealed to the darker parts of Jericho’s soul.
“Jericho,” Peyton said in greeting. He moved subtly to shield Sebastian. It was a tactic that Jericho approved of. Of the two, Sebastian had less chance of defending himself than William.
