Kelley Armstrong - Made to Be Broken

Evelyn did not go home. She insisted on staying to see the contact through. Was she being a responsible go-between and protecting her reputation? Or just having fun pushing my buttons? I didn't care. At that moment, I had two main concerns. One, preparing for this meeting with the Byrony Agency contact. Two, convincing Quinn I wasn't an irrational bitch.

Fortunately, task two was simple. He was confused, nothing more. We went out for a walk and I explained a version of events that skirted the more "interpersonal" issues, like Jack and Evelyn's clash over my mentorship, which would only confuse him all the more.

I also left out any mention of the Contrapasso Fellowship offer. He'd be as excited at the prospect as I was trying hard not to be. There are guys who go vigilante because they like killing people and it gives them an excuse they can live with. Quinn wasn't one of them.

Evelyn once said the difference between us was that, for Quinn, the drive to see justice done came from the head. For me, it came from the gut. She had only a casual interest in his cerebral vigilantism. What she wanted to mold was my fire, my passion.

Maybe, but I suspected if I told him about the Contrapasso Fellowship, he'd want in, and I wasn't ready to deal with that – either his hurt when she refused him or the guilt of getting him entangled in her web if she accepted.

What I did tell him was that Jack had gotten Evelyn involved in Sammi's murder case by asking her to find a hitman who matched our profile. The expectation was that, because she owed him plenty and they were close, she'd do it with no obligation to me. Today I'd found out otherwise and, spooked, I'd reacted by wanting nothing more to do with her "help." The story made sense to him, so he let it go at that.

Before I left to meet the client, Jack took me aside for a few words of advice. I tried not to notice the roll of Evelyn's eyes.

We walked behind the hotel again, to the delivery lane, and again he pulled out his cigarettes.

"Still want that story?" he asked as he lit one, cupping the flame against the wind.

"Only if you want to give it to me. And if it won't reveal anything that could compromise your privacy."

He waved me to our spot on the curb and sat beside me. "Nah. Wouldn't care." He exhaled the smoke through his nose. "I trust you. Happened after the job anyway."

He took another drag, then passed me the cigarette before continuing. "Backyard hit. Went down fine. Getting out? No problem. Big yards. Estates. Full of trees and shit. Had my path mapped out. So I'm moving. Not running. But moving. Then there's this wall. Maybe…" He lifted his hand about three feet off the ground. "Knew it was there. No surprise. So I'm coming to it. Lots of time. Could stop. Climb over. But no. Gotta jump it."

He took the cigarette back and inhaled, letting the smoke swirl out as he shook his head. "So I jump. Don't clear it. Foot hits the wall. I topple over. Face-plant into the fucking tulips."

I swallowed a laugh, but not before some of it escaped.

Jack waved the cigarette at me. "See? Told you. Boring and embarrassing. No close call. No fancy trick. Tripped over a fucking garden wall."

"So you miscalculated. That's easy enough to do."

He took another drag. "Nah. Didn't miscalculate. No excuse but age. Mind's willing. Body says 'fuck that.' " He tapped the side of his head, ash tumbling to the grass. "Up here? Still thirty. Top of my game. The rest?" A slow shake of his head. "Starting to disagree. Young man's game. I'm on the side of the hill that goes straight down."

"I don't think you're ready to be put out to pasture just yet, Jack."

"Fifty next year." He slanted a look my way. "Since you'll never ask. But pasture? No. Not yet. Still, gets me thinking. Remember Saul?"

I nodded. Saul was a hitman I'd met last fall, a colleague of Jack's who'd retired only after he'd bottomed out.

"Seeing Saul? I feel…" He toyed with the cigarette, rolling it between his fingers. "Not contempt…"

"Disdain?"

"Yeah." He handed me the cigarette, like a prize for guessing right. "Disdain. Guy held on too long. Rep u ta tion went to shit. Forced to retire. His own fault. Got no time for that. Tell myself 'not me.' But then…" He shrugged. "Maybe it's ego. Bigger than I like to admit. Gotta slow down. Not retire. Just slow down. But like Evelyn says, I'm not good at sitting around."

I handed him back the cigarette and he smoked it to the end, then ground it out against the curb and dropped the butt into his pocket.

"So, when I'm helping you on this job?" he continued. "It's like the rest. Me coming around, teaching, giving you advice. It's not that I think you can't handle it. It's just… something new. Different. Interesting."

He rubbed his thumb across his lips, silent for a moment. "Like those ATVs. Not saying you need me to fix them." He glanced at me. "You know?"

"Actually, I do need you to fix them. Owen's been tinkering with them since we got them at auction last winter, and I think they're in worse shape than when he started."

"Yeah. Maybe. But you know what I mean."

"I do. But if you want to come back for a couple of weeks after this is done, get your fill of apple pie and get those babies running for me before the summer crowds start, I certainly won't argue."

"Then I'll do that."

I met the client at three, in a neighborhood park. I wasn't thrilled with a daytime meet. It meant there was no easy way to disguise the fact that I was female.

I dressed as a jogger, making it easy to bulk up. Also an excuse for oversized sunglasses and a hoodie pulled tight. Under the hood I wore a blond wig, with a few strands slipping out, as if by accident.

Because the hood covered my head, Jack wanted me to wear an earpiece. Quinn agreed. I was insulted. I reminded myself that they'd worn them to the Keyes house, but that had been my case, so it made sense that I'd want to have a say in the interview questions. To suggest I needed help meeting with a client, and having them both jump in, quick to presume I'd need it? That rankled. I won't deny it. So I refused.

I also refused their offers of backup. It was a public place and a midday meeting with an "amateur" client. There was absolutely no reason I needed my friends hiding fifty feet away, ready to pounce. Having them there would only increase the risk. People were more likely to notice male strangers hanging around a park. And the client might notice them, too.

Even having them there might make me act different. Same with the wire. Better to let me handle it while they waited off-site.

To my relief, neither offered any resistance. Quinn cast a sidelong glance at Jack and, seeing he wasn't arguing, presumed I was right. They agreed to wait in a coffee shop down the street, a phone call away if anything went off track.

I'd scouted the park before arriving. It was maybe three acres, all open. Stretched across the front was one of those bright red and yellow plastic playground structures that had replaced the wooden ones of my youth. Two older swing sets sat forlornly in the corner, one for children, one for babies, both with several of the swings wrapped over the top and a couple of others broken from their chains. Behind that was a brick box that I supposed housed equipment for the ball diamond.

I jogged around the block to work up a sweat so, to any onlookers, I'd seem like a real runner. Not that it mattered. It was a chilly midweek afternoon and the park was empty.

I headed for the bleachers – far enough from the playground that I could talk without whispering, should any parents show up. As I looked around, I realized I wasn't alone. A man stood behind the equipment building, wearing an overcoat, slacks, and dress shoes, his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders pulled in as if against the chill.