Friction

by R S Penney

  The words were invested with such scorn, Jack could almost imagine the other man succumbing to the urge to wretch. He had heard the speech many times before. “Being a Justice Keeper was a calling, not something you did for money.”

  Keepers were paid, of course. Those living on Earth, anyway. Leyrians had abandoned the use of currency economics centuries ago. It wasn't a feasible system when life's necessities existed in such abundance that everyone could have access to them. The idea that he would have to pay for his apartment was…Well, it wasn't very Leyrian.

  He turned around.

  Hunching over, Jack pressed a hand to his forehead, then raked fingers through his hair. “One last thing, Sir,” he said. “Ben Loranai was acting under my orders. I hope this incident doesn't affect his standing with L.I.S.”

  “Agent Loranai is not my concern,” Slade replied. “His superiors will deal with him as they see fit.”

  Jack left and found himself walking through long corridors with black floor tiles and gray walls. Suspended with pay. All things considered, it could be worse – he wasn't going to starve – but a part of him had hoped that delivering Petrov on a silver platter would be enough to earn him some leniency.

  Keepers were supposed to be skeptical of authority. Centuries ago, when humans had bonded Nassai for the first time, the very first Justice Keepers had sworn an oath to be a check on power. They had operated for over two centuries with no formal command structure, but as the organization grew, consensus-based decision making became harder and harder to achieve.

  According to the philosophies of the first Justice Keepers, formal authority was a necessary evil, but an evil nonetheless. It was a Keeper's duty to challenge the structures of power. Therefore, defying the orders of a superior officer was not a criminal offense as it would be in more traditional military.

  Just because they couldn't imprison him, however, was no cause to believe that they would let him off easy. Making waves with the boss was never good for your career. But he could live with Slade's ire.

  Sadly, the worst task was still ahead of him. He'd faced his superiors and endured their wrath, but now he had to face his family.

  Chapter 2

  Sausage links sizzled in a pan full of bubbling oil, filling the room with a mouth-watering scent. The tip of a spatula nudged one to expose both sides. “Almost ready,” Jack said. “Just a few more minutes.”

  “You should have apologized,” Lauren grumbled.

  Jack chewed on his lip, his face suddenly burning. He winced and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Apologized for what?” he asked. “Doing my job? Putting a criminal in prison?”

  He turned.

  Dressed in a green skirt and a black sleeveless shirt, Lauren leaned against the wall with her arms folded. Her brown hair was tied back, exposing a thin face with bright blue eyes. “It's not funny, Jack.”

  Jack frowned, closing his eyes tight. He let his head hang. “Never said it was,” he muttered. “But I'll be damned if I'm apologizing for putting a scum bag weapons dealer into a prison cell.”

  Sunlight came in through the door that looked out on Lauren's yard, illuminating a round table where Steve sat with his back turned. So far, the guy hadn't said anything on the subject. Jack couldn't say that he blamed him. Sometimes, there was just no arguing with a Hunter. It was a family thing.

  Lauren scowled down at the floor, shaking her head with a frustrated hiss. “This is your job, we're talking about, Jack,” she said in that lecturing tone she sometimes used on him. “You can't just sass your superiors.”

  “Leave him be, hon.”

  Lauren shot a glance in her husband's direction, her eyes narrowed to slits. “You're getting in on this now?” she inquired. “If you'd grown up with him, you'd know he has a bad habit of pissing off people in positions of authority.”

  Holding a newspaper in front of his face, Steve remained as still as a statue. “That may be so,” he muttered before taking a sip of his coffee. “But I happen to think Jack was right to do what he did.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lauren threw her head back, rolling her eyes at the ceiling. “Men.” Anger flared in Jack's chest, but he resisted the urge to tell his older sister that this had nothing to do with gender politics. When you were already stuck debating one uncomfortable topic, adding another to the mix wouldn't help.

  Dabbing at his face with a paper towel, Jack let out a grunt. “So what would you have me do, Lauren?” he asked, backing away from the stove. “I had a judge on my side, a court order to search that warehouse.”

  “So present it to your CO.”

  “I did.”

  The sausages were well and truly cooked; so Jack removed the frying pan from the burner and added three to each plate of pancakes that he had left on the counter. “I went to him multiple times, sent him multiple e-mails,” he went on. “I cornered him outside of his office with the warrant. He told me to sit tight and wait for his orders. Those orders never came. Breslan stone-walled me for days. Meanwhile, I had Judge Finn and half the Ottawa PD breathing down my neck.”

  “Look, I don't want to argue this with you,” Lauren muttered. He had to suppress another wave of frustration; that was her go-to response whenever he started making too much sense. “Maybe you were right to do what you did.” Maybe. Would it kill her to give him some props? “But once again, you've damaged your professional credibility in the service of your conscience.”

  Jack squeezed his eyes shut, trembling with every breath. “We've had three murders in this city,” he said, covering his face with his hand. “Three people killed in cold blood with Leyrian weapons, and you're worried about my reputation?”

  “Maybe,” Steve cut in, “it's time to change the subject.”

  Jack decided to oblige his brother-in-law. After all, Lauren usually relented when someone started playing peacemaker. He wasn't in the mood to discuss it anyway. If he wanted advice, he'd call Anna.

  They spent breakfast making small talk and enjoying delicious fluffy pancakes. He wasn't much of a cook, but pancakes he could do. Lauren spent most of the meal relaying the details of her new job in the wonderful world of finance. Fortunately, that meant a lot of information about her coworkers and not very much discussion of the actual job. Jack could handle trigonometry and algebra, but balance sheets and income statements left him quivering in his boots.

  Popping a forkful of pancake in her mouth, Lauren chewed thoroughly. She nodded to herself. “That reminds me, Jack,” she began. “I was telling my friend Marie about you, and she seemed… intrigued.”

  Tilting his head to the side, Jack flashed a winning smile. “Why, Lauren!” he said, batting his eyes at his sister. “Have you gone and arranged a match? I do hope she's well-bred with a suitable dowry.”

  Steve chuckled. “I've met her.”

  “Have you now?”

  A few years older than Lauren, the man had a handsome face of olive skin and short black hair with just a few flecks of silver. “She's hot,” he said, nodding. “You might want to let Lauren have her way.”

  Jack lifted a mug of coffee to his lips, taking a sip. He closed his eyes and mulled over the possibilities. “I guess it couldn't hurt to meet her,” he said, setting the mug back down on the table. “No promises.”

  In truth, he wasn't looking for a girlfriend right now. Romance meant sharing the gory details of your life with someone else, and he couldn't imagine trusting anyone else enough to do so. He didn't trust his superiors – not all of them, anyway – and making his reservations known had, as Lauren put it, damaged his professional credibility.

  That didn't bother Jack so much – he was quite willing to drag his name through the mud for the sake of his conscience – but having to explain his mediocre career prospects to a woman was embarrassing.

  The pleased smile on his sister's face sent a chill down his spine. “I'll give her your number,” she said. “I'm sure she'd like that.”

  Oy vey, Jack th
ought. What am I getting into?

  The glow of orange streetlights left a sparkling sheen on the rain-slick surface of a paved city street, puddles stretching across the road with murky waters that rippled. Kids had decorated the sidewalk with coloured chalk, and now whatever they had drawn had run into a smear.

  Harry Carlson's home was a long back-split home with a yellowish porch light shining over the front door. The man had lived here for most of his adult life, having shared the house with his harpy of an ex-wife and his kids.

  Jack stood at the foot of the driveway.

  He wore jeans and a brown jacket over a black shirt, his hair slightly damp from the rain and slicked forward. Messy bangs crisscrossed over his forehead, nearly falling to his eyes. He really needed a haircut.

  Crossing his arms, Jack frowned down at himself. He shook his head with a heavy sigh. “You're really gonna love this, Carlson,” he muttered to himself. “Remember those stories you told me about the politics of law enforcement?”

  He started up the driveway.

  Ringing the bell, Jack found himself staring at the red surface of the door under the weak yellow light. The house had one of those old-school knockers that probably made enough noise to wake the dead. It struck him as odd that he never used it whenever he decided to pay the man a visit.

  The door swung open to reveal a pretty slip of a young woman standing just inside the foyer. Clothed in a sleeveless red dress that hugged her body, Missy blinked when she saw him. “Jack!” she said with a smile that could put the sun's radiance to shame. “Three months. You don't call; you don't write.”

  Closing his eyes, Jack let his head hang. “Missy,” he said, nodding to the girl. “Nice to see you again. How's school?”

  “A girl might think you don't like her,” she teased.

  “Oh for the love of-” a man's voice exclaimed. “Will you just let him in?”

  Missy stepped out of the way to reveal her father standing in the narrow galley-style kitchen with his arms folded. The man wore a pair of gray slacks and a black shirt with the collar left open, his dark hair cut short. “Jack.”

  “Harry,” he said, stepping inside.

  Missy glided past him, moving through the front door. “Stephanie's number is on the fridge,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Dad. Try not to freak out, okay?”

  Harry frowned, cocking his head to one side as he studied his daughter. “Absolutely no drinking tonight,” he barked. “And if you're in trouble, call me. I don't care what time of night it is.”

  “Got it.”

  The door swung shut.

  Jack chewed on his lip, reaching up to scrub a hand through his hair. “Kids today,” he said, blinking. “Is it just me or was she obsessed with baseball and Candy-Crush just a few months ago?”

  “It isn't you,” Harry said, turning around. He marched through the narrow space between kitchen cupboards to the round table on the other side. “She's starting twelfth grade this year. I figured I could handle high school, but all of a sudden…”

  “They develop an irresistible urge to dress like women twice their age and go out to dance clubs?” Jack offered. “Lauren was the same way when we were young. Drove my parents insane.”

  The other man turned so that Jack saw him in profile, lifting a bottle of beer to his lips. “Don't mind her comments,” Harry muttered. “I think she's developed a little bit of a crush on you.”

  Jack went red, slapping a hand over his face. He let out a groan of frustration. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he assured the other man. “Missy's like my cousin or that annoying kid sister I never wanted.”

  Harry was grinning, shaking his head as he chuckled. “Relax, kid,” he muttered. “I know a thing or two about how teenage girls work. You learn the rules after a few years in the trenches.”

  “I was hoping we could talk,” Jack said, dimly aware of the tension draining out of his body. It had been the same when Genevieve used to hit on him at the restaurant; there was always this fear that everyone else would think he had done something to solicit the attention. Was that what it was like for women?

  Harry jerked his head toward the table. “Come on,” he said, turning around so that Jack had a good view of the wrinkles creasing the back of his shirt. “I'll get you a beer. I'm guessing you have a lot to get off your chest.”

  Wasn't that the truth. It had been a week since his dismissal from Director Breslan's department, and all that free time had given him plenty of opportunity to second guess his every decision.

  Summer became tense at the prospect of alcohol consumption. Nassai didn't enjoy the sensation of being intoxicated. Jack reassured her with a few soothing images and a promise to have only one. It would be rude to refuse Harry's offer but outright immoral to subject his symbiont to something she would find painful. After all, it wasn't just his body anymore. That earned him a burst of affection. So long as he restricted himself to a small amount, Summer would be fine.

  Stairs at the back of the kitchen led down to a family room where a couch along the back wall faced a coffee table. One lamp in the corner provided soft illumination, enough to relax with a good book.

  Jack told his host everything: the warrant, the raid on Petrov's warehouse and the consequences of doing so. Harry grumbled when he got to the part about his dismissal and reprimand. That was the hardest bit. Even with the understanding that he had done it all to prevent further murders, there was fear that the other man would judge.

  Sitting in an easy chair with his hands on the armrests, Harry stared off into space. “I understand why you did it,” he said cautiously. “But, Jack, people in a position like yours have to be team players.”

  Jack brought the spout of his bottle to his lips, closed his eyes and took a swig. “I'm well aware of the need to work together,” he said. “But what do you do when the people you work for don't get that?”

  Closing his eyes tight, Harry shook his head. “You have to tread carefully,” he said, pressing his back into the chair. “You brought in one arms dealer, but it will hardly put an end to the flow of illegal weapons.”

  Jack could already see the final stop on this logic train. Taking down every single dealer on this planet would be impossible even with the resources the Justice Keepers had at their disposal. The smartest approach would be to prevent weapons from finding their way here in the first place. That meant using dealers to trace their suppliers. Of course, he could turn the whole thing on its head.

  Bringing in Petrov had demonstrated that the Keepers weren't just blowing hot air when they said they were going to get this problem under control. He'd checked his office e-mail for the first time in a week and discovered two requests for interviews from local reporters. If his superiors were so concerned with keeping up appearances, maybe he could win them over with a little good PR.

  Jack got up.

  Shoving hands into his pockets, he marched across the room with his head down. “I know it's important to be flexible,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “But you have to understand, I don't trust everyone I work with.”

  Harry watched him with a flat expression, sizing him up the way he might size up some perp in an interrogation room. “I think we all have a hard time trusting some of the people we work with,” he began. “Unless it's something specific.”

  “Breslan's reluctance to do his job isn't specific enough?”

  Harry breathed out a sigh. “Jack,” he began, “you've never been the kind of person who works well with an autocrat, but you have to understand that some people don't feel the need to explain themselves to their subordinates. You don't know what Breslan was thinking.”

  A part of Jack wanted to protest that it didn't matter what Breslan was thinking. To his mind, stopping the weapons shipments for good was an admirable goal, but letting a known arms dealer continue to peddle his wares in service of that goal was putting too many lives at risk. He almost gave in to the urge to say as much, but stifle
d it.

  Harry, on the other hand, looked as though he had a lot more to say, but the buzzing of his phone cut him off. The man stood, pulled the device from his pocket and brought it to his ear. “Yeah.”

  Clenching his teeth, Harry shut his eyes tight. He let out a soft hiss, then muttered. “Where did it happen?” At the sound of those words, Jack felt his stomach churn with anxiety. “All right, stay put. We'll be right there.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Another murder,” Harry explained. “Come on. I want you with me on this.”

  It was a cliché that popped up in just about every cop movie, and Harry had sworn to himself that he would never utter these words, but… “I'm getting too old for this.” He really was. There came a point in a man's life where he wanted to stop chasing bad guys and focus on his family.

  The court decision that had taken his kids away certainly didn't help matters. Della's lawyers had argued that as a police officer, Harry was often required to go into dangerous situations and that he would be unable to provide a stable environment for his children. The sad thing about a lawyer's argument was that it didn't have to be true; it just had to be convincing. Now he had to share custody with his ex-wife.

  Raindrops pattered against the windshield of his car, streaking over the glass in thin trails of moisture, each one catching the orange light of passing street lamps. A murder at a convenience store. The last time that had happened, he'd still been a uniformed cop.

  Harry stared through the glass, blinking as he considered the situation. “Lewis says the clerk was flattened,” he said, clenching the steering wheel. “Crushed against the wall like he had been hit by a truck.”

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  Jack Hunter sat in the passenger seat with his head down, a frown on his youthful face. “You're thinking force-field generator?” he muttered. “Or some other form of illegal Leyrian gadgetry?”