Jo Robertson - The Avenger

His pretty face tightened and his blue eyes went hard. "And you know I didn't want our marriage to be over."

"You signed the papers," she reminded him.

"You forced me into that. I told you we could work it out. I offered to go to counseling, whatever you wanted."

She was tired of the old argument. At first she'd worked hard to save her marriage. It'd taken her five years to figure out that Bill was a narcissistic womanizer, completely incapable of being faithful to one person.

"I've always given you whatever you wanted," Bill cajoled.

"Let's not go over that again." Olivia started to close the door. "It's finished, Bill. You have to accept that."

His demeanor changed in a flash. "You stuck-up, cold bitch." His voice was low, but deep with a viciousness she hadn't heard before, and for a moment a sliver of alarm chilled her. He looked around her shoulder to the interior. "You think inheriting a fancy house in a new city makes you better than me?"

Olivia clamped down on her temper and spoke in an even voice. "Get off my property or I'll call the police."

"I taught you everything you know," he snarled, raking his eyes over her. "You wouldn't even let a man get near you until I taught you a few tricks. I can't believe I wasted seven years on you."

She slammed the door in his face, turned the lock and hooked the chain. Her fingers trembled and she balled them tightly at her sides. She reached for her cell phone on the small entry table where she kept her keys and mail. Punching in the "nine" and the "one," she paused, waiting for Bill's next move. A second later she flinched at the sound of a foot crashing against the sturdy door. Shortly afterward, a motor revved up and a car squealed away.

She spent half the night reading the instruction booklet and figuring out how to reset the code on the very excellent security alarm system her grandmother had installed shortly before her death.

After using the only code she was certain Bill couldn't figure out – 101274 for October 12, 1974 – a special birth date in her memory, she was finally able to sleep.

The Judge was too clever to show his surprise, but Jack caught the flare of caution in the faded blue eyes as he brushed past the assistant and stormed into the Invictus office.

"What the -?" Warren Linders, director of Invictus Organization, swiped a hand over his bald pate and quickly pasted a smile on his broad face. "Jackson Holt, son of a gun!" The Judge extended his hand, indicating the seat in front of his desk. "You look great."

Jack watched the keen eyes rake over him, taking in the finely-cut jacket and polished cordovans. He'd started to pay attention to his wardrobe after his first year in the Organization. A homeless boy jockeying for position in a rich kid's club. Or so he'd thought back then.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Warren, after the flight from Tel Aviv my ass can't handle anymore sitting." He looked out the east window at the gentle movement of the Chesapeake Bay and the rich foliage of eastern Maryland.

"The African matter?" the Judge asked.

"It's resolved," Jack said shortly.

"Good." Warren turned to the assistant who'd followed Jack in and closed the door quietly. "Get the fella a drink, Higgins."

Jack shook his head at the offer. "I returned early from Recovery because your message said it was urgent." He allowed the reproof to settle in the air between them.

"Hell, you look like you've been relaxing in Bermuda." The Judge reached for a box in the top drawer and held it out. "The best cigars we can make in this country. Not Cuban, but at least they're patriotic. Try one."

Jack's eyes flickered to the bottom desk drawer where he knew the Judge kept the habanos . "I gave those up years ago." He didn't allow his smile to reach his eyes. "Can't be a warrior and a smoker too."

Warren patted his large gut. "'Fraid I'd have to give up more than cigars to get in your shape."

Jack sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and tried to hide the unexpected surge of energy behind a casual pose. Hoping that Warren wouldn't notice something vaguely off in him, something that'd begun long before he got on that plane from Tel Aviv. "Let's get to the point, Warren. Your message was… cryptic."

The Judge reached for a manila folder stamped "Invictus" in large red printing across the front, and beneath that the initials DLK in capital letters. Without a comment he pushed it across the desk. Jack glanced at the tab.

"Your next assignment," the Judge said.

"The last one was grueling. I need more Recovery before another one." Jack wouldn't voice the fear that had battered at him since the Africa mission. That he couldn't accept another assignment, that something was going wrong in his body that even the drugs couldn't fix.

"I understand," the Judge answered calmly, "but this is an old case, revisited. It'll look familiar to you. Take a look at it, Jack. You don't want to pass it up."

Jack opened the folder and scanned the contents. He removed the pictures from a clasped envelope attached to the inside cover and gazed at them for a long moment before letting them slip from his limp fingers to the glass desktop. The grainy pictures glared in the fluorescent light as a deep sense of foreboding washed over him.

"You didn't get him, Jack," the Judge accused. "He's doing it again. Maybe he's taking up where he left off four years ago, or maybe he's starting all over again. I don't know." He paused before adding, "But if we turn it over to the locals, they'll just screw it up."

"It's the same as the Peterson girl," Jack murmured.

"You need to stop the son of a bitch this time," the Judge retorted. "Permanently."

Jack read the clear subtext beneath the words. What happened four years ago was his fault. He felt a twitch spasm in his jaw as he reached inside his jacket pocket to pull out the vial of small white pills. Three weeks ago he'd begun taking the medication so necessary for his Recovery. They seemed ineffectual so he'd begun increasing the dosage.

He hesitated. "I need more time to recuperate."

"Hell, no one could blame you for washing your hands of the whole shitty mess, but you know the case, the victims."

Jack uttered a muffled curse as he met the Judge's implacable stare. For a wild moment he considered refusing, standing up to Invictus, storming out the door. But resignation weighted his shoulders like a heavy mantle. He replaced the white pills and extracted a slender bottle from his other pocket. The dark red tablets inside gleamed like tiny poisoned apples.

He drew in a deep breath. "When?"

"Body was uncovered two days ago, but the victim's been dead longer than that."

Jack shook a single small red tablet from the bottle, eyed it thoughtfully, knowing it would counter the white Recovery pills. "Where?"

"Utah, near the northeastern Nevada border. A military testing facility located in the Utah salt flats."

Jack popped the red pill in his mouth and swallowed it dry. "Military? That's gutsy."

"No one ever claimed he didn't have the balls of a bull."

"I'll start there. Make sure it's identical to the Peterson killing, not a copycat."

The Judge retrieved a paper from his middle drawer. "If you find another note, there's a woman in California who can translate." He shoved the page across the desk. "The broad's a first-rate linguist and expert in all that Latin and Greek crap."

California? Jack reached for the paper and read the full name – Dr. Olivia Gant. Olivia? Electricity sizzled through his body as he thought of the vision he'd experienced in Tel Aviv.

Olivia? Had to be a coincidence.

Did the Judge even remember the girl's name all these years later? Hell, it'd been a lifetime ago. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask right out, but instead he said, "Ancient Studies."