“And you think that’s your job.”
That was one thing about Quinn. He was loyal to a fault.
“Aye.”
“How can I help?”
“If I give you his number, can you track the mobile or look at his phone records to see where he’s been and who he’s called?”
Elizabeth couldn’t have heard Quinn right. “You want me to track his phone or hack his service provider?”
She wasn’t a cryptographer, but she’d taken all the training the Agency had offered and had some skill with the computer side of intelligence work. She’d put those skills to work for Cobra on many occasions, monitoring enemy communications, tracking GPS signals, even hijacking a drone or two.
“You’ve done it many times afore.”
She laughed. “Yes—with the proper authorization. Hacking into his phone records without permission would be a crime. You know that. I want to help, Quinn, but I’m not going to spend the next twenty years in a Scottish prison.”
“But you can track it, aye?”
“I’d need the number associated with its SIM card or the IMEI number, but the service provider isn’t going to give them to me just because I ask nicely. If Ava has them on file somewhere, I can give it a try. If not—”
“I dinnae want to ask her. I cannae find it in me to tell her that he lied about his mobile. I dinnae think she could bear that just now.”
“Then there’s nothing I can do. I’m really sorry, Quinn.”
“I understand.” There was disappointment in his voice. She hated letting him down. “If you think of anythin’ or get any ideas, you’ll ring me, aye?”
“Of course. Just promise me you won’t do anything illegal or stupid.”
“Och, you know me.”
She did—and that’s what scared her.
* * *
Quinn left his hotel later that afternoon, bought a few things he’d need from a tool shop, and dropped a few quid on a supper of bangers and mash at a pub near his hotel. Knowing he’d need his wits, he kept himself to one wee pint. Then, when it was dark, he made the drive back to Jack and Ava’s house.
Och, he had to be mental to have asked Elizabeth to hack into Jack’s phone records. She wasn’t the kind of person to bend the law, much less break it. Quinn didn’t want her to end up in the nick for his sake. He would have to manage this on his own.
Aye, he’d done intelligence work in the past. After leaving the SAS, he’d gotten retrained and spent two years analyzing satellite and drone images for MI6, something he did for Cobra when needed. But he didn’t have Elizabeth’s skills with electronic gadgets—computers, phones, tablets. For that matter, he didn’t have her facility with languages or people, either. She was trained for sophisticated intelligence work, while he was little more than an expert killer.
But a well-paid killer, aye?
He turned onto Cumbernauld Road, parked down the street, then grabbed the small paper bag of tools, and started up the walk, a sense of guilt niggling at him. Ava hadn’t wanted police to search the place, and she likely wouldn’t be pleased if she learned that Quinn had broken in and poked about. But it was either this—or tell her about the phone.
That he just couldn’t do.
She need never know he was here. He would jimmy the door lock, bypass the security system, and search for records that might have the SIM or IMEI number for Jack’s mobile. If he were lucky, he might even find the phone. Then he’d leave the place just like he’d found—
A flash of light.
It had come from the upstairs bedroom.
Quinn stopped, saw a beam of blue light moving in the darkness.
Someone was up there.
In a heartbeat, Quinn’s training kicked in. He moved soundlessly toward the door, saw that someone had broken the lock. He nudged the door open, found the house dark and the control panel for the security system forced open.
Bloody hell.
A wee pair of night vision goggles just now would have been brilliant, not to mention body armor and his Glock. At least he’d brought his knife. He set the paper bag of tools aside, bent down, drew the knife out of its ankle rig. Holding the blade, he moved down the hallway toward the stairs.
He took the stairs quickly, quietly, the sound of footsteps and rustling coming from Jack and Ava’s bedroom.
Squeeeeeeek!
The sound could have woken the dead.
Fuckin’ hell!
In the dark, he’d stepped on a fucking toy.
Whoever was up there now knew he was here. There was no doubt about that. The rustling stopped, and the house fell silent.
Aye, Quinn would give his bollocks for a firearm right now.
Keeping his gaze on the bedroom door, he backed down the stairs, not wanting to get caught by an armed assailant in such a narrow space.
A dark shape emerged from the bedroom.
“Who the fuck are you?” Quinn flicked on the light. “What’s your business here?”
The man was dressed entirely in black, a balaclava covering his face. He flew down the stairs straight at Quinn, hurling something as he ran.
Quinn ducked, a metal torch grazing his cheek before crashing to the floor behind him. It was just a distraction, a way of trying to take Quinn’s attention off the blade in the fucker’s right hand. But Quinn saw the knife and blocked the blow with his left arm. He thrust with his right, chibbed the bastard in the face.
The attacker grunted, staggered back, and fled, gloved hand raised to his left cheek. It was only then Quinn noticed the black bag hanging over the man’s right shoulder, something heavy inside.
“What are you stealin’?” Quinn ran after him, but the bastard disappeared through the hedge in the neighbor’s front garden. If Quinn followed, he might end up with his throat slit, too. “You fuckin’ bastard!”
Rage thrumming in his veins, Quinn walked back inside, shut the door, glanced about. In the light, he saw that the place had been ransacked. Whoever the man was, he’d been here for a good while before Quinn had arrived. He’d gone through everything—DVDs, kitchen drawers, the pantry, the refrigerator.
Then Quinn saw it.
Blood.
A trail of crimson drops led to the door.
Quinn must have got him good.
Naw, ya eejit. That’s your blood.
The prick’s knife had cut deep into his left forearm.
He walked to the kitchen, grabbed a bit of kitchen roll, pressed it against the gash to staunch the bleeding. He needed to call the police. But before he did that, he would have to hide his knife and the ankle rig, as well as the lockpick tools he’d bought. He couldn’t risk rousing the suspicion of investigators, who might search him.
He wiped the blade, sheathed it, and stuck it in Jack’s tool box with the lockpick tools beneath the kitchen sink, then took out his mobile and dialed 101.
What the hell would he tell the police? What would he tell Ava?
I came here to break into the place, but someone had beaten me to it.
He would tell them that he’d come to check on the house because he’d worried that the killer might have the address. From there, he could just tell the truth. He’d noticed a light moving in the upstairs bedroom, walked to the door, and found that someone had broken in. He’d been jumped by a man, who’d swung at him with a knife before running off into the neighbor’s yard with something in a pack.
That’s what he’d tell Ava, too. The police would notify her. She’d be afraid and face the added trouble of cleaning up this mess.
“This is Quinn McManus calling to report a burglary.” He gave the woman on the other end Jack and Ava’s address. “I’m a friend of the family come to check on the house. I saw a light movin’ about inside and walked up to the door to find that someone had broken in. I guess I startled the gobshite because he ran, but no’ afore slashin’ my arm wi’ his blade.”
As he recounted the confrontation, one thing stood out for him.
W
hoever he was, the bastard moved with uncanny speed and knew well how to wield a knife.
* * *
It was almost noon in Glasgow when Elizabeth checked into Quinn’s hotel. For all her expertise in predicting human behavior, she often didn’t understand herself. She’d wanted to spend her vacation relaxing on a tropical beach. Instead, she’d flown to Scotland where it was dark and rainy and cold because she knew Quinn would end up in trouble without her.
Damn it, Quinn!
Her one shot at a beach vacation this year, and she was going to spend it babysitting a rough, hard-charging operative whose big heart might land him in prison. Instead of drinking daiquiris, soaking up the sun, and watching the waves roll in, she’d be freezing her butt off and not understanding a single word anybody said.
She was fluent in four languages, but Glaswegian wasn’t one of them.
Leaving her computer and other electronics in their suitcase, she unpacked her clothes and took a shower to refresh herself. The hot water didn’t help as much as she would have liked, but then she hadn’t yet gotten over the long flight home from Kabul. She blew her hair dry and put on a little mascara and lip gloss, ignoring the dark circles beneath her eyes. Then she dressed in jeans and her black V-neck cashmere sweater.
Feeling a little more human, she tucked her room key into her pocket, took a notebook and pen, crossed the hall to his door, and knocked. She hadn’t told him she was coming, perhaps because she couldn’t believe it herself. But here she was.
She heard his footfalls, saw a shadow move over the peephole in his door.
He opened it, wearing only a pair of jeans, astonishment on his handsome face. “Lilibet? What in God’s name are you doin’ here?”
A jolt of heat shot through her, her pulse picking up.
Holy freaking heaven.
Defined pecs dusted with freckles and auburn curls. Flat tan nipples. A trail of curls bisecting his six-pack. Broad, strong shoulders. Thick biceps. Scars.
“I…um…” She’d never seen him without a shirt before and was so distracted that it took her a moment to notice the dark bruise on his face and the bandage on his left arm. “I came to keep you out of trouble. It looks like I’m late.”
He motioned her into his suite, locking the door behind her. A half-empty bottle of whisky sat on the coffee table, the TV muted on some news channel, a bloody T-shirt hanging on the door handle to the bathroom.
“Tea?”
She turned to face him, willed herself to keep her gaze on his eyes and not to ogle him. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’m brewin’ myself a cuppa, so it’s no’ trouble.”
“Okay. Fine. Tea. Thanks. What happened?”
While he brewed the tea in the room’s kitchenette, he told her how he’d gone to break into Jack and Ava’s house to search for information on the phone, only to find someone already there. Rather than calling the police, he’d gone inside alone—of course, he had—to confront the culprit. He’d stepped on a squeak toy, alerting the intruder, who had run at him down the stairs, thrown a flashlight at his head, and tried to stab him before running off, a bag over one shoulder.
Chills skittered down Elizabeth’s spine. “He had a knife?”
“Aye, but I caught the blow wi’ my left arm and got him in the face wi’ my blade.” Quinn grinned, held up his left arm. “The police made me to go A&E—Accident and Emergency—afterward. Six stitches.”
Elizabeth gaped at him. “Quinn, he might have killed you.”
“Och, well, he didnae, did he?”
Dear God, give me patience.
“Not this time.” She’d worked with special operators all of her adult life. Their confidence in their own abilities was well-founded, but sometimes it got them into trouble. “You should have called the police and waited for them to arrive. They might have been able to arrest him, and we’d know who he was and why he was there. What if by rushing in you let Jack’s killer escape?”
Quinn carried two cups of tea to the coffee table, his expression troubled. “Aye, I’ve thought of that. There’s sugar if you’d like.”
“No, thanks. What did the police say?”
“Mostly, they yelled at me and asked questions.”
“I can’t blame them.” Elizabeth wanted to yell at him, too.
“They asked why I was there. I told them I’d come to check on the house because I knew Ava wisnae home. They called Ava, asked her to come. Jack’s brother-in-law, David, drove her in from Paisley. The color left her face when she saw the place. The only thing missin’ as far as she could tell was Jack’s laptop. She’s right afraid, she is.”
“Can you blame her?” Elizabeth sipped her tea. “Someone murdered her husband, and now a man with a knife broke into her home, ransacked it, and attacked her husband’s idiot of a best friend.”
“Och, I know what I did was daft, but some murderin’ bastard took Jack from us.” Grief mingled with rage in Quinn’s eyes. “When I saw the light movin’ in his room, I couldnae just stand there. I had to do somethin’.”
Elizabeth couldn’t hold that against him. It was hard-wired into his DNA to charge into danger when other people ran away. “I’m just glad you’re not dead. Do you know how pissed off I would be if I’d given up a beach vacation and come all this way only to find you in the morgue?”
Quinn grinned. “Are you sayin’ you care what happens to me, Lilibet?”
The way he said “Lilibet” had always made her knees weak, but the accent and the bare chest together were too much.
She kept her expression professional. “Put on a shirt, and let’s get to work.”
4
Quinn could scarce fathom that Lilibet was here in Glasgow in his hotel room.
It disnae mean what you wish it meant, man.
She lifted her cup to her lips, sipped, her red-gold hair hanging over her right shoulder. He could tell she was fighting jet lag, dark circles beneath her blue eyes, but she looked as lovely as ever to him.
She set her cup on its saucer. “I had time to think it over on the flight. The best use of my skills might be to take all the information you have on Jack’s murder and start picking it apart, looking for anything investigators might have missed. We can also try to reconstruct the last few weeks of Jack’s life and see what we learn.”
“That’s no’ a relaxin’ way to spend your holiday.”
“You can make up for that by showing me around Glasgow.”
“Aye, I can do that.”
“Just remember I was a counterterrorism analyst, not a detective. I’ve never tried to solve a crime. I’m not sure I’ll be any help.”
“I trust you afore I’ll trust that bampot Wilson.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “You’re sweet to say that, but what’s a ‘bampot’?”
Quinn couldn’t help but laugh. “A bampot is an eejit, a numpty, a stupid person.”
She smiled. “So, I could say that you were a bampot last night when you went into that house alone, right?”
There was that smart mouth again, the one he’d imagined kissing.
“Aye, so you could.” He changed the subject. “Where do we start?”
She stood. “We have to go to an office supply store. I need something to write on, something to use as a whiteboard.”
“We can do that, but I promised I’d help Ava and Hannah clean up the house this afternoon. Ava said she’d feel safer wi’ me there. Also, I need to get my knife back. I hid it with my lockpicking tools under their sink in Jack’s toolbox.”
“That’s fine. I’ll help, too. It will give me a chance to meet Ava.”
When Elizabeth had retrieved her raincoat, they rode the lift down to the main floor and retrieved the Crossland from the car park. Quinn drove her to Alba Office Supply, amused by her gasp when he turned right into the left lane.
“Dinnae worry yourself. I learned to drive this way.”
“I’d crash in the first five minutes.”
They bo
ught some dry-erase markers and a small, portable whiteboard that folded and just managed to fit in the back, stopping at a florist shop along the way so Elizabeth could buy flowers for Ava. Then they made the drive to Jack and Ava’s house, going over everything Quinn knew about the murder once again.
“Tell me about Ava.”
Quinn shared what he knew. Ava was English. She and Jack had met when she was assigned to him as his physical therapist after he injured his shoulder in combat. They’d gotten together when they ran into each other two years later and had been together since. She had an older sister, who was caring for their ailing mother. Both she and Jack had wanted children, so Olivia and Isla had come along quickly.
“Somehow, she brought Jack back to earth, brought him home from the battlefield. He stopped drinkin’ so much and became a family man.” Quinn glanced over at Elizabeth, who seemed to be taking all of this in, a thoughtful frown on her face. “Have you ruled her out as a suspect?”
Elizabeth shot him a look. “You bampot. The more I understand about her, the more I’ll be able to see this through her eyes.”
Quinn turned onto Jack and Ava’s street. “She’s devastated, she is. Jack loved her wi’ all of his heart, and she loved him. She told me she disnae know how she’s goin’ to live the rest of her life wi’out him. She wants answers. She wants justice.”
“Those answers might not bring her the peace she wants.”
Even as he understood Elizabeth’s meaning, Quinn rejected that thought. “I know what it looks like wi’ him lyin’ to her about his mobile, but I cannae believe he’d sell or use drugs.”
Would you bet your life on that?
Aye, so help him God, he would.
“Dinnae you say a word about that phone to Ava, aye?”
“I promise.”
They arrived at the house to find Ava and Hannah already there, Ava standing in her kitchen, looking overwhelmed, while Hannah made tea.
Quinn introduced Elizabeth, who gave Ava the flowers.
Hard Justice: A Cobra Elite Novel Page 4