Hard Justice: A Cobra Elite Novel

by Clare, Pamela

  Quinn sat with Elizabeth in one of the offices that British Intelligence maintained in the building. “Now I know where our tax money goes.”

  A man who introduced himself as Agent Smith—aye, right—sat across from them. “I hear you might have something for us.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Not really. It’s just circumstantial. I don’t know that I would even call it intelligence.”

  She told them about their experience with that bastard Grant and her intuition that he’d learned something about her that worried him.

  “His gaze jerked to me for just a moment. It wasn’t casual. He was laser-focused on me for just a second, and he wasn’t happy. The only thing I can imagine is that he somehow found out I used to be a counterterrorism analyst.”

  Smith frowned. “How would he learn that?”

  “A few people here know. Quinn. You all. Ava Murray and her sister-in-law. Oh, yes, and PC Patel with Police Scotland. Maybe Grant has access to inside sources of information.”

  Smith nodded. “Interesting.”

  “There’s a leak in the police station.” Quinn knew this was outside Smith’s jurisdiction, but he told Smith anyway. “Someone has been leakin’ details about the investigation into Jack Murray’s death to the media.”

  Smith listened, then shifted his attention back to Elizabeth. “I heard that Grant gave you that black eye.”

  Elizabeth told him what Quinn had said and how Leo had reacted. “I took the punch to be an admission of guilt about drug smuggling. Grant was sad about Jack’s death. Of that I’m certain. But he also wanted us off the property the moment he got that call. Why would he be afraid of a former counterterrorism analyst?”

  “I see where you’re going with this. Also, why would the owner of a freight shipping company do background checks on anyone, particularly two people who aren’t doing business with him? That’s all highly irregular—and not something he ought to be able to do, legally speaking.”

  “The men workin’ for him are carryin’ firearms, and the ones we met are all Irish—though bein’ Irish disnae prove anythin’.”

  Smith looked surprised. “Carrying weapons? I doubt they have permits. Did they draw on you?”

  “Naw, but I could see they were carryin’ pistols in concealed shoulder holsters. I do that all the time, so I know well what it looks like. Their jackets were uneven at the bottom, and the way they held their left arms…”

  “I know what you mean.” Then Smith went over some of the details with them. “You went to see him because you thought perhaps he was behind your friend’s murder?”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth filled in the blanks. “He said he had no contact with Jack after their argument, and so far, the data we’ve gotten from Jack’s phones shows he was telling the truth. We haven’t checked the GPS data yet.”

  “The drugs that were planted in your hotel room—that happened the day after you confronted Grant at his place in Troon?”

  “Aye.” It had to be Grant. The bastard.

  Smith got to his feet. “Thank you for sharing this.”

  Quinn and Elizabeth stood, too.

  “I wish we had something more actionable, more concrete for you. I feel a little embarrassed to be able to tell you only that he looked at me strangely and then tried to punch Quinn.”

  Smith smiled. “What you gave us might be more helpful than you realize. You can take the lift back up to your suite.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bond,” Elizabeth said, joking. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

  Smith grinned. “I’m not Bond. I’m Smith. We keep Bond in the cellar. He’s rather full of himself and tends to break things.”

  Back up in the suite, they had a late lunch and a fresh cuppa then sat down again to work on the GPS data.

  Quinn noticed it first. “The two phones—the old and the new—they went to all the same places until the old one disappeared.”

  Elizabeth double-checked, comparing the GPS coordinates, times, and dates. “You’re right. That saves us a lot of effort.”

  They spent the next hour getting organized, grouping locations together, places Jack had gone more than once.

  “All of these locations are in or between Glasgow and Edinburgh.”

  “Aye, he didnae go to Troon. He didnae go to any port towns.”

  “We’ve got nothing here that ties Jack to Grant or his shipping business.” Elizabeth let out a frustrated breath. “I understand now why the police don’t seem interested in Grant.”

  Then they got down to the hard work—matching each GPS coordinate with a destination. They started with the places he’d gone the most—home, the supermarket, the same handful of petrol stations, a bakery, Hannah’s house, the pub, the hardware store, a nightclub, Holyrood.

  He’d run errands for his family after work most nights, errands that would now be left to Ava to manage on her own with two wee ones.

  Poor Ava.

  Elizabeth typed in another location. “That looks like a soccer field.”

  Quinn had more experience with satellite images. “Those are goal posts. See? That’s a rugby pitch—and over here, doll, it’s no’ soccer. It’s football.”

  “Whatever.” She smiled. “It’s all just men playing with their balls.”

  He leaned over, pressed a kiss to her nose. “As I recall, you like men’s balls.”

  After three tedious hours, they were left with a few unknowns—the place he went every Friday night, likely for Whitehall’s social events, and a handful of spots downtown where several businesses shared space in a single building.

  Elizabeth stretched. “We can work on the rest tomorrow.”

  Quinn stood, walked behind her, rubbed her shoulders. “I’ve got a few ideas about how we can spend the evenin’.”

  “Mmm.” Elizabeth’s eyes drifted shut. “So do I.”

  * * *

  “It’s right in front of you, Shields. Why can’t you see it?” Comstock glared at her.

  She looked down at the page. There was nothing but scribbles and gibberish that seemed to be different every time she tried to make sense of them. “I can’t read this.”

  “It’s right in front of you! For God’s sake, look!”

  “I don’t see anything.” Now the page was blank.

  How could that be?

  “You’re better than this. You’re distracted. Focus!”

  Elizabeth sat upright, felt a rush of relief to find that it was only a dream.

  Quinn stirred, raised his head, rested a hand on her arm, his red hair tousled. “Are you okay, Lilibet?”

  She lay back down, her pulse still tripping. “I dreamed I was still in training, and one of my instructors was yelling at me, telling me I needed to focus.”

  “Did somethin’ happen wi’ him? Is he one of—”

  “No. Comstock was amazing. He taught me to get past my expectations and prejudgment to look at things critically, to see what was there and not what I wanted to see. I learned so much from him.”

  “Then it was just a dream and nothin’ more.”

  Maybe. And then again…

  “I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something.” She drew a deep breath, released it, her mind full of GPS locations and phone numbers. “The dream is right in one respect. I am distracted—because of us.”

  She turned to face him, pressed her cheek to his chest, felt the beating of his heart. “What are we doing—you and I? We both know this can’t go anywhere. We knew that from the beginning. One or both of us would lose our jobs.”

  “I dinnae want to think about that, no’ yet.”

  He kissed her then made love to her with his lips and tongue and cock, bringing her to a shattering climax once, twice, three times.

  How could she give this up? How could she give him up?

  As they lay together in the early morning darkness, she discovered she didn’t want to think about their future, either.

  * * *

  Elizabeth stood on the side
walk, her feet freezing, Quinn beside her, rain pelting their umbrellas. “There’s a nail salon. We can assume he didn’t go there.”

  “He liked Indian food, so he might have stopped there for a wee bite.”

  “There’s a sports bar, an Asian grocery, and a pet food shop. Maybe he went to get supplies for the puppy.”

  They had called the breeder this morning and discovered that Jack had, indeed, bought a little Labrador puppy for his daughters. The breeder had been trying to reach him because the little thing was weaned now. Quinn and Elizabeth had arranged to pick up the puppy—a female—later in the week. They would deliver it to Ava and her girls as the surprise Jack had intended her to be.

  Elizabeth pointed. “There’s also a post office branch. Maybe he bought stamps.”

  “When I still lived here, I bought mine at Tesco—the supermarket. It saved me the time and the trouble of findin’ parking. I only went to the post office when I needed to post a package.”

  The ordinariness of it all was infuriating. They’d been all over Glasgow, trying to figure out where he might have gone in those cases in which more than one business occupied the space at a particular GPS location. Apart from identifying the store where he’d bought his new phone, it was a guessing game. Italian for lunch or ice cream? Coffee or a sandwich? Puppy food or curry?

  She’d been expecting something sketchy or unusual.

  It’s right in front of you, Shields. Why can’t you see it?

  She brushed her dream aside. “This was the last known location of the old cell phone. After this, it vanishes off the face of the earth.”

  “Do you want to go from shop to shop, show clerks his photo, and ask if anyone remembers seein’ him?”

  “Why not?” They had nothing to lose. “You take the post office and pet food store and I’ll—”

  “We stay together, aye?”

  Ten minutes later, they had no new information.

  Quinn looked out at the parked cars. “Maybe he met someone here.”

  “Or maybe what we’re looking for was on his work phone.” This was starting to feel pointless. “I thought for sure his phone records would hold answers—threatening messages, repeated calls from some unidentifiable source. But my feet are soaked, and we’ve gotten nowhere.”

  Quinn glanced down at her wet shoes. “You need wellies.”

  He drove her to a store where a kind clerk helped her pick the right size and sold her a warm, dry pair of socks.

  “Now that we’ve gotten that sorted, let’s get some food, aye?”

  Talk of curry had left them both craving Indian food, so they stopped at Quinn’s favorite Indian spot for a late lunch, the food and chai tea warming Elizabeth.

  “You’re no’ lookin’ so scunnered.”

  “So … what?” She couldn’t help but smile.

  “Grumpy, upset.”

  “Maybe because my toes are warm again.”

  “Aye, that’ll do it.” He reached across the table, held her hand, regret and worry in his gaze. “I’m grateful for your help, Lilibet. I’m sorry it’s been so difficult.”

  She looked straight into his eyes. “It hasn’t been all bad, you know. Some of it has been really good—incredible, mind-blowing, fantastic.”

  His lopsided grin told her he’d caught her meaning. He leaned closer. “I love to hear you screamin’ my name.”

  Heat rushed into her cheeks. “I love to feel you, the big tough operator, breaking apart in my arms.”

  He insisted on paying for the meal, and they walked back to the car together, Quinn opening her door. “Where next?”

  “All that’s left is the location in Edinburgh.”

  “Let’s leave that for tomorrow. You’ve spent enough time muckin’ about in the wet. We can see Edinburgh Castle during the day and head over in the evening.”

  Elizabeth liked that idea. “Jack was always there on Friday evenings until late. Maybe that’s what we should do.”

  “Och, well, that’s it then. I’m takin’ you out tonight. Do you have a nice dress?”

  “Yes.” She’d brought a little black dress just in case.

  Not that she’d planned on sleeping with him or anything.

  “I’ll drop you off back at the Fortress and go and get somethin’ for myself. We’ll go after supper.”

  The Fortress was their nickname for their new abode.

  “Go where?”

  He grinned. “To the dancin’, aye?”

  He dropped her off in front of the building, watching until she was safely indoors. Then he disappeared around the corner.

  She took a hot bath and shaved, then did her best to make her stick-straight hair look stylish, tying it in a kind of messy bun. She’d just put on the dress and started on her makeup when she heard him enter.

  He looked in on her. “Och, you’re bonnie.”

  “What did you get?”

  “No keekin’—no’ yet.” He disappeared across the hall.

  She finished her make up and went to sit in the living room, imagining him in a suit like the one he’d worn in Afghanistan while escorting the senator—very GQ with that beard and his red hair.

  It was almost twenty minutes later when he stepped out into the hall.

  A bolt of lust shot through her, making her belly clench.

  “Oh. My. God.” Elizabeth stared.

  He was wearing a kilt.

  * * *

  Quinn knew he was hitting the whisky hard, but, och, he was out dancing in Glasgow with Lilibet, and he felt like celebrating. “I’m goin’ up next. I signed up when you went to the loo.”

  “You’re singing karaoke?” She smiled but shook her head. “There’s not enough alcohol in the world to make me do that.”

  If he lived to be a thousand years old, Quinn would never forget the look on her face when he stepped out of the room wearing the kilt. Her gaze had moved over him, desire naked on her sweet face. Then she’d asked what he was wearing beneath it, and he’d showed her.

  He’d thought for a moment she was going to faint. Instead, she’d dropped to her knees and given him the best blow job of his life right then and there, climax all but making his knees buckle.

  His Lilibet wasn’t a cunning linguist for nothing.

  She’s no’ yours.

  He tossed back the rest of his whisky, tried to ignore that thought. They were together for tonight. She was here with him, not some other man.

  They had already danced together until they were out of breath and sweating, Quinn unable to take his eyes off her, that little dress hiding all the delicious curves he’d come to know so well this past week. He couldn’t wait to get her back to the flat.

  The woman ahead of Quinn finished some tune he didn’t recognize to the cheers of her friends then all but stumbled off the stage, clearly steamin’.

  Quinn kissed Elizabeth hard. “This is for you.”

  “Oh, no, don’t blame this on me!” she called after him, laughing.

  Quinn took the stage. He knew the lyrics to The Proclaimers’ “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” like he’d written the song himself, and he felt every word as he belted it out, his gaze fixed on Elizabeth’s. Och, he really would walk a thousand miles for her.

  He’d give his life for her.

  As he sang the last notes and the club exploded into applause, it hit him.

  You’re in love wi’ her.

  He stood on the stage, stunned, his heart pounding.

  You’re mad wi’ it. It’s just the whisky.

  Naw, it was the truth. He was in love with a woman he had no business loving, a woman who didn’t love him back, a woman he couldn’t have.

  Someone took the mic from him. Somehow, he found his way down the stairs to the dance floor, where Elizabeth rushed up to him and threw her arms around him.

  “I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

  He kissed her, long and hard. “I need a drink.”

  “Haven’t you had enough?” She walked wi
th him to the bar, looking worried.

  Annoyance stabbed at him. “Dinnae worry yourself. I can hold my liquor.”

  He drank another shot and another and another, trying to still the emotional storm inside him. When that didn’t work, he led her onto the dance floor again, the two of them dancing to a bloody awful rendition of some old disco tune—until a man slammed into Quinn, pushing him off balance so that he stepped on Lilibet’s foot.

  Quinn turned, confronted the bastard, fists clenched. “Bolt, ya fuckin’ arse.”

  “Ya want to fight, ya daft bastard?

  “Quinn, it’s okay. It was an accident. Come on. You’re both drunk.” She took hold of his wrist, pulled him away. “Please, Quinn. I want to go home.”

  “Ye’d best listen tae yer American piece there.”

  Quinn didn’t like to back down from a fight, but he didn’t want Elizabeth getting caught in the middle of this. He followed her to collect their jackets and umbrellas and walked out toward the car.

  She stopped him. “Oh, no, you’re not driving. Give me the keys.”

  “Aye, you’re right. Are you sure you know the way back?”

  “As if.” She dropped the keys into her handbag, pulled out her phone, and called someone. “Hi, it’s Elizabeth Shields. I’m terribly sorry to bother you so late at night, but we’re at the Temple. Quinn has had far too much to drink, and I’ve had wine. I’m not sure I can drive without wrecking this vehicle. Thanks so much. We’ll be here.”

  “Who the bloody hell was that?” Quinn wasn’t feeling so good.

  “The security desk at the Fortress.”

  “You called fuckin’ British Intelligence to give us a ride back?” The whole thing suddenly struck Quinn as hilarious. He laughed, a deep belly laugh. “I bet that’s the first time they’ve been called out for that reason.”

  Elizabeth shook her head, her mouth a grim line. “Based on his reaction, I’m guessing not.”

  “Och, are you angry wi’ me, Lilibet?” He didn’t want that.

  She glared up at him. “I was having a great time with you tonight until suddenly I wasn’t. You drink too much, Quinn.”

  He opened his mouth to deny it—but closed it again, afraid he was about to get sick in front of her.