And here's the climax (so to speak). Thanks to all you awesome people who are reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following. You guys are wonderful and your support means so much to me.
And that's enough sap. On with the story!
/*/*/*/*/
Greg Kingston watched with an infuriatingly familiar feeling of bitter jealousy as Inspector Sheridan passed out warm congratulations to the men who had heard and understood the conversation so precipitously dropped into their laps. His resentment was exacerbated by the fact that he wasn't one of those men. It was no consolation at all that he'd been too far away to hear everything and by the time it had clicked, everyone else was on the trail and a comedy routine straight out of a circus had ensued.
So he stood in the back of the room, where he'd been more and more often of late, seething with anger as others were praised for actions that he wasn't getting the opportunity to try. It was a far cry from the favoured Senior Sergeant he'd been five months ago, but ever since that damned slave ring, his prestige had been slowly but steadily dwindling.
To add insult to injury, the two men in question were able to provide a description of the 'reporter' they'd spoken to, and the inspector had been – well, 'bemusedly smug' was the best description Greg could think of. He'd wondered at that, but Hugh Collins' soft "Miss Fisher's interview, Sir?" had answered that.
Here came the frustration, because heaven only knew he wasn't unhappy enough. No, a major clue in this case had to be discovered by someone who wasn't even an officer, while the rest of them had been reduced to staring at the blank walls of an office and getting into a fight about the appropriateness of a detective inspector using his people as collaborators in a crime.
And there was the sharp bite of betrayal.
He'd known that Caffrey wasn't happy with him, but they'd never been all that close. Oh, they got on well enough, but they weren't really friends. Hopkins, though . . . that hurt. He and Nicholas Hopkins had risen through the ranks together, attended each other's weddings, and they and their wives sometimes dined together.
For Nick to turn on him . . .
The sound of the door closing jarred him out of his thoughts and Greg gave a quick shake of his head as he looked up, noting with surprise that the room was empty other than himself and the inspector.
Who was staring at him.
He said nothing and after a bit, Greg began to feel nervous. Sheridan's face was closed, his eyes shielded, and his arms crossed. Greg suddenly felt like he was seven years old again, being reprimanded by his father for ruining the man's favourite pair of shoes by seeing if they'd float in a full bathtub.
The comparison broke his paralysis and Greg cleared his throat before asking in a steady voice, "Is there something you need, Inspector?"
Another minute of silence ticked by before the older man sighed and looked away, running a hand through his thick hair as he absently dropped into the chair behind the desk.
"Now that you ask, Sergeant, yes," he began, his voice teetering between sarcasm and annoyance and making Greg flush, but he continued immediately, "I'd like your attention on this case, if it's not too much trouble."
Now he was being patronized, and Gregory Kingston reached his limit.
"I fail to see what difference that would make," he snapped, taking a long step away from the desk and crossing his arms in an effort to hold back his anger. "You haven't wanted my attention on cases for months! I'm not actually sure why I'm here," he added bitterly, his irritable gesture encompassing City South. "It isn't like you'll listen to anything I say, so why bring me?"
A heavy silence, weighted down with anger, broken trust, and unspoken resentment, ensued. It took no time at all for Greg to hate the sound of silence but he refused to be the one who broke it, and so he waited out the torture, his chin tilted defiantly.
In less than a minute, Sheridan had also had enough and he sighed again before looking up with an unexpectedly open expression and quietly saying, "It isn't that I haven't wanted you on cases, Greg. It's that you haven't voluntarily been that close to me for longer than a minute and it's hard to work together when your partner refuses to be in the same room as you."
Greg opened his mouth to object but was spoken over before he got that far.
"I haven't said anything because you're a grown man and I honestly thought that you'd get past what happened with Nelson. Apparently, my expectations were too high," he finished bitterly, his eyes shadowed with disappointment.
A frisson of fear went through Greg but he ruthlessly quelled it. So they were having this out here. Good. It wasn't ideal but it was long past time and he was itching to unload his anger, his frustration – his betrayal – on the man he'd looked up to, respected, trusted.
"Well, I thought you respected me – us – your officers," he amended, since he hadn't been the only one there. "So it seems we're all doomed to disappointment."
"No," Sheridan returned forcefully, his eyes narrowing. "You're the only one who has a problem. And yes, you are," he added firmly when Greg started to protest that. "I've talked with the others and while none of them are happy with my decision, they understand why I made it, the necessity of it. For God's sake, man!" he exclaimed, emphatically waving. "I didn't want to do it! But at that moment in time, there was literally nothing else that might have worked; Robinson was too far gone."
"You —" don't know that, Greg started to say, but again was cut off.
"And I refuse to justify myself to you any longer. You honestly think that I don't respect you and if that's the truth, Greg, then there is nothing I can say – or do, for that matter – to change your mind. So this is what's going to happen."
A stunned Sergeant Kingston stared at his DI in open-mouthed astonishment. This was a side of the man that he'd rarely seen, and never had it been directed at him.
"You are going to keep your feelings about me and my decisions under wraps while we solve this case and find those men and their captors. When we get back to Inverness, I'll call around and see who has an open posting for someone with your rank and experience. And you will go, with no argument and no complaint, because I will not force a man who doesn't trust or respect me to work for me, and I sure as hell am not putting up with it. Is that clear?"
It was, but Greg's attention was caught by that last 'respect.' Sheridan had given the group an overview of Miss Fisher's interview with the maid and she'd mentioned that the head buyer's people respected her.
This sparked a thought.
"Her men respect her," he abruptly stated, trying to tease the aforementioned thought into coherency.
"What?" Sheridan asked, startled, his anger draining away to be replaced by bewilderment.
"The maid – whatever her name is – said that this woman's people respected her," Greg began, still feeling his way through the idea.
"Right," the inspector said slowly. He was clearly confused, but he also knew his sergeant, and thus understood that this wasn't a random tangent.
"So, given that that respect must be profound for her to see and identify it from a distance, it stands to reason that she'll either be lodging in a hotel or on the ship. Staying in the same building they're holding our men would be the height of stupidity."
"Plausible deniability," Sheridan breathed, looking gobsmacked. "That's brilliant! And since we know she's from New Zealand —"
"We do?" Greg interrupted in surprise.
"Hmm? Oh. Yes. I got that little tidbit from Wayne Nelson just before we headed down here," Sheridan absently explained, distracted by writing down these new conclusions.
"New Zealand," Greg mused softly. Well, it made sense. Close enough for relatively easy access, far enough away to avoid suspicion.
Lord, he hated smart criminals.
"Excellent," Sheridan suddenly said, startling him. "I'll send Hawkins – or, no, it's not safe for him. Damn. I'll send one of Robinson's men with you to the Harbourmaster; we need to know if any ships have come in from N.Z., when they got here, and when or if they left. Give me a few minutes to find someone," he told an astonished Kingston before leaving the office.
Greg had just fallen into the other chair when Sheridan poked his head in the door, looked him dead in the eye, and said with utter sincerity, "That's good work, Greg, This could well be a solid lead."
Kingston had no chance to reply before the DI was gone again, but a spurt of pride swelled in his chest. Good work.
The feeling sank like a stone when he remembered that five months ago, it would have been Sheridan going with him. But now – now, it was a nameless man from another station and Greg himself would be transferred very shortly after they got home.
And Greg . . . suddenly found that he was surprisingly all right with that. He would miss some of his mates, but there were fewer of them now, and getting away from the never-ending tense atmosphere would be a lifesaver.
And he would have the chance to start over, to forge a new history with someone. He would always respect Wesley Sheridan's skills, but this case had driven home the knowledge that he'd never fully trust him again and in police work, that was deadly.
No, it was better to start over with a clean slate.
(and if a part of him was crying like that seven-year-old boy, well, tough. His fellow officers were right about one thing: it was past time he grew up.)
But first . . . first, they had to find the person who thought she could kidnap three policemen with extreme prejudice and no consequences.
It was time for Little Red Riding Hood to meet the big bad wolf.
And all his friends.
/*/*/*/*/
Phryne was in a positively cheerful mood when she arrived at City South, though she did her best to hide it; there were still those at the station who didn't approve of her or her relationship with Jack, and it made no sense to deliberately antagonize them.
Well, not at the moment. When her lover was returned to her, all bets were off. She cared not a whit if they liked her, but she was damned if she would continue to put up with their sneering disrespect . . . especially given how careful they were to keep it away from Jack.
But.
That was neither here nor there. Phryne had evidence that could help find her missing men and right now, that was the only thought in her head. Wesley Sheridan came around the corner as she was heading for Jack's office and he blinked at her wide smile but said nothing about it. Instead, he caught her hand and gave it a slight squeeze before quietly asking her to wait at the front desk. She arched an eyebrow at him but agreed despite her curiosity.
As she turned the corner, a man she vaguely recognized brushed past her (she was Phryne Fisher; of course she looked back) and entered Jack's office at Wesley's invitation. Her curiosity exploded to dire proportions but luckily, Hugh Collins was waiting for her. He took one look at her face and sighed, then told her, "Sergeant Kingston may have come up with a lead, and the inspector wants Senior Constable Drury to accompany him."
Phryne blinked. Well, that was unexpected, but it was most definitely good to hear.
"What lead?" she inquired as she took off her gloves and tucked them in her reticule.
"Dunno," Hugh replied with a shrug. "But Inspector Sheridan said that we'd have a full briefing as soon as you got back."
Surprised, Phryne said, "Without Sergeant Kingston?" as she paused in the middle of removing her coat.
Hugh shrugged again, but a dark look in his eyes warned her that there was something she was missing. Something big. Before she could ask, though, Wesley walked up behind her and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Is everyone ready?" he asked the young man, subtly drawing Phryne back to Jack's office.
"Yes, Sir," Hugh said smartly, falling in beside them as he called, "We're ready!" into a currently-unused office. The hall was immediately filled with four more men and Phryne suddenly found herself the filling in a fairly good-looking, extremely competent sandwich.
And again, it did nothing for her. Well, if anyone wanted proof of her feelings for Jack, there it was: she fully appreciated the beauty and intelligence she was surrounded with but she wasn't attracted to any of it in the slightest.
If Mac knew, she'd bust a gut laughing.
Sheridan directed the lot of them into Jack's office, which was once again crowded to capacity, but no one objected; they all knew how sensitive this operation was and even though they were fairly sure there wasn't a leak or plant, it was still prudent to be cautious.
"Have you found anything else, Miss Fisher?" Sheridan asked, cutting through the chatter like a knife through butter and making her the target of a dozen eyes. She was a bit surprised at his perceptiveness but rallied quickly.
"As a matter of fact, I did," she replied, pulling the papers Lin had given her out of her clutch and handing them to the Inverness DI. He read them quickly, his face surprisingly expressive as he assimilated the information, before handing them to Graham and gesturing to the no-longer-as-blank paper on the wall by the door. As his sergeant began writing down the basic facts from the papers, Sheridan indicated that Phryne should come to his side.
Curious, she obeyed, and was a bit startled to see that every man in the room was now holding a notebook and pen. This was a vastly different situation than the ones she generally found herself in and it was unnerving; as a rule when she was working with the police, it was with Jack and Hugh only. So being included in the official briefing and planning of a mission was new, especially when she factored in the outside officers.
Still, if it helped find Jack, she'd make nice with that arrogant berk George Sanderson. And thus far, these men had treated her with respect (confused respect, to be sure, but that was to be expected).
"Will you give us the highlights while Graham's laying it out?" Wesley prompted her after a moment of – well, nothing.
"Of course," she replied with an abashed smile. She received a few understanding grins in response, which helped put her at ease, and she quickly gave them the gist of the information Lin had provided before adding in what little she'd learned from Maria Russo.
Once she'd finished and answered the few questions presented, Wesley said, "Thank you, Miss Fisher. This is excellent information, and it ties in perfectly with the lead Sergeant Kingston is currently chasing down."
"Oh?" she inquired, giving him an arched eyebrow. He managed to swallow a smile but his eyes crinkled with amusement.
"Indeed," he said, looking back over the room. "Your witness mentioned that our main suspect has the respect of her men, so he thinks that she'll either be bunking on the ship or in a hotel nearby, which will give her an easy escape route or plausible deniability should either be needed."
Phryne drew in a sharp breath at that, feeling another piece of the puzzle snap into place.
"Why, that's brilliant," she breathed in unwitting admiration; these people were the scum of the earth, but by God, they were intelligent scum.
(and now that she'd thought about it, that seemed rather unfair. Wouldn't intelligent nice people be more practical?)
"It is," Sheridan confirmed. "And Nelson let slip that she's from New Zealand; I've sent a telegram to confirm, but that will take time we don't have. In summation: Kingston's talking to the Harbourmaster to see if any ships from there have docked; if they have – God willing – he'll get her name. Regardless, we now have the presumed location of where our boys are being held, with confirmation that at least some of their captors are also there, and we have a moderately-solid description of either the head of this ring or someone very high up on the ladder."
Approving noises filled the room at this succinct summary and Sheridan allowed it for a minute before calling them back to the most pressing problem.
"So: we need a plan to infiltrate and rescue," he announced. Dead silence ensued for several seconds before the buzz of thoughts, ideas, and notions shattered it. In the middle of this madcap burst of planning, the door opened and a constable she recognized after several seconds as Lestrade ("no relation, dammit!") leaned in the room, finding Sheridan with his gaze and silently asking him to come over. His expression inquisitive, the inspector did; Phryne (who was also curious; Mac had once accused her of feeling upstaged by the cat her mother had acquired shortly after she'd become titled) was right on his heels.
"Yes?" Sheridan asked sotto voce once he reached the door, absently positioning himself to keep their faces out of view of anyone in the corridor. Phryne wondered about that for a moment before mentally shrugging. Just because she wasn't a naturally cautious person didn't mean she disapproved of the practice itself (well, mostly) and if it would help Jack, then they would do whatever was necessary, up to and including sign language.
"Sergeant Kingston called, Sir," Lestrade said in a low voice, leaning in so he could keep the conversation private while including Phryne. "He said he's got a name, Wendy Doolane, and the most recent sighting was her heading in the direction of the harbour about forty-five minutes ago. He and Drury are heading that way now."
"Excellent!" Sheridan breathed, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and a hint of feral anticipation. "Thank you," he said absently to the young man before turning away – only to be stopped by a hand on his arm. The blank face and arched eyebrow would have intimidated most people, but Lestrade was Mason's constable. He merely straightened and lifted his chin defiantly, meeting the inspector's eyes without fear.
"We should be here, Sir," he said softly, but in a voice filled with resolve. "We were in Inverness, too, and it's our DI and sergeants she's taken. It's only right that we help bring them home."
Sheridan tilted his head and studied Lestrade for a long moment in silence, his expression now thoughtful. The boy – no, Phryne corrected herself, the young man – held his gaze without flinching. Approval slowly warmed Sheridan's eyes and he nodded. "All right," he agreed. "Go get Shepherd, Wilkins, and Parsons, and be back immediately."
Lestrade nodded and disappeared. Sheridan met Phryne's gaze and huffed in amusement, a tiny smirk curling his lips. "Loyalty should always be rewarded," he remarked quietly.
She considered that for a moment before slowly shaking her head.
"Not loyalty," she countered. "Fealty."
The satisfaction in his eyes flared and he inclined his head to her.
"You are very wise, Miss Fisher," he murmured. "Jack is a lucky man."
"As am I," she replied in the same tone, knowing he would take her meaning.
The anticipation she'd glimpsed earlier suddenly eclipsed everything else, and it was more than a little feral.
"Then why are we talking?" he said, inviting her to join him back at the planning board as the door behind them opened to admit the final members of their task force. Their return went as unnoticed as their exit had been, though Hopkins gave them both a narrow-eyed look when he glanced up and noticed the four additional men. In an uncharacteristic display of patience, Phryne said nothing as she watched Sheridan make the announcement of this new information and saw the rest immediately working to implement the knowledge into their existing pool of data.
No, she said nothing, but it was truly a struggle to hold back a premature feeling of satisfaction.
They were going to find Jack. They were going to find him, and Mason, and Page, and they were going to obliterate this ring, and – well, truthfully, she was looking forward to it far too much for anyone's liking, had they known.
But just as Jack had nearly killed Wayne Nelson for harming her, Phryne fully intended to repay the favour with this woman.
With interest.
And preferably – no, definitely – with her bare hands.
/*/*/*/*/
Mentally cursing himself for not carrying a lock pick (unlike Phryne, his brain snidely pointed out), Jack gave a frustrated yank on his shackle in a futile effort to loosen the wall bracket. When nothing happened but a sharp pain in his wrist, he heaved a giant sigh and slumped back against the (still) filthy wall, feeling panic start to press in and at a loss of what to do. As long as he was attached to the wall, he wasn't going anywhere, which rather put paid to his escaping this disgusting, claustrophobic room.
The door scraping open startled him out of his thoughts and Jack's head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise – it had only been about an hour since his last meal, and it was too early to be his designated 'relieve yourself' time, so with his luck, his captor was visiting again. Lovely. Juuust the person he wanted to see.
Richard Mason stuck his head in the door and gave a relieved smile on seeing his DI, who was gaping at him in absolute shock.
"You all right, Sir?" the other man asked, sweeping Jack with a quick once-over. "Not hurt, ready to get out of here?"
Luckily, Jack's wits had recovered and he said, "In order: yes, no, and oh, hell, yes!"
An understanding grin was his answer before his sergeant stepped into the room and said over his shoulder, "Make sure the hall stays clear, Kyle."
The relief that flooded through Jack actually made him a little light-headed; his men were safe – well, free – and in what seemed to be good condition. Mason was favouring his left arm a little as he crossed the floor, but it didn't seem debilitating, so Jack said only, "You two all right?" as Mason competently slipped a pick into the lock on the shackle and released his detective inspector.
"We are," was the brisk reply as he was gently but quickly helped to his feet. "Apparently, we couldn't be sold if we were damaged."
Jack was surprised at how little bitterness there was in the other man's voice, but then he remembered that Richard Mason was one of those (occasionally irritating) people who are completely accepting of everything, so long as the world isn't ending.
Of course, he then had to wonder how the man didn't consider being bought and sold to a slave ring as the world ending, but right now, Jack honestly could not have cared less.
"Small favours," he agreed as Mason opened the door and cautiously poked his head out, twisting both directions before asking the still-unseen Page, "Clear?"
"Clear," his other sergeant answered crisply. Mason nodded and stepped through the door, gesturing Jack to follow even as he plastered himself to the wall.
It was amazing, he mused, how easily he slipped back into the patterns of stealthy movements. He hadn't used them for over a decade, but apparently his body hadn't forgotten. Page, who seemed to be disheveled but unharmed, took point; Jack followed, and Mason fell in silently three paces behind him. How on earth Page knew where they were going, Jack couldn't fathom, but he sure as hell wasn't going to ask.
"We've been looking for you for a while," Mason murmured behind him, nearly causing him to stumble (his nerves were still a bit – alright, a lot – on edge). "So, we've searched – well, every room in this hall, and checked the main exits we found. Once we had the way out, we memorized it and marked it."
Marked?
No. He still wasn't going to ask. He'd find out soon enough.
A sudden low rumble of voices started a soft curse from Page, who promptly made for the nearest door. Finding it unlocked, he pushed it open with quick, economical movements and then ducked inside.
"Quickly, Sir," he hissed, catching Jack's arm and yanking him forward. As he was still off-balance, both mentally and physically, from his unexpected rescue, Jack promptly tripped over nothing and very nearly face-planted on the floor (his mind absently noted that it was just as filthy as his cell floor had been; clearly, it was time to replace this building's cleaning staff). He was saved by Mason getting a fistful of his shirt and jerking back.
Miraculously, the material didn't tear and Jack quickly found his footing, twisting around in time to see Mason push the door shut with dangerous haste, only to stop it at the last second and close it almost soundlessly. He then positioned himself at the optimal place to do damage should someone try to enter the room and, as Jack watched in utter amazement, pulled out what had to have been his own arm shackle.
"I know," Page said from beside him, giving his friend a look of combined affection and irritation. "Mine was glued to the damn wall, I swear, and Mase gets the one attached by two threads and a prayer."
Since Jack had had very similar thoughts about Phryne and her ability to get herself into – and out of – trouble, he could only shrug.
"It's better than a battle of wits," he pointed out. Page gave him a pained look but said nothing (Jack hoped it was because he understood and conceded the point, but more likely, it was the result of hearing what sounded like a small platoon of troops tromping by).
Once the group had passed, they all let out deep breaths of sheer relief. Mason slumped against the wall while Jack and Page sank down on the cold, hard floor (they chose to bypass the mattress entirely, given that it was nearly the same colour as the concrete it was covering). There were a few moments of silence before Jack stirred, gave both his men a thorough once-over, and quietly asked, "Is it just us?" in a voice filled with tension. The two exchanged a look before Mason nodded.
"As best we can tell, at any rate," he confirmed. "Like I said, we checked every room in this hall and you were two from the end."
"Also," Page chimed in, "Since Mason got captured two days after I did, and you were two days later, it —"
He noticed Jack's dropped jaw and stuttered to a stop, blinking a few times before understanding broke across his face.
"Right. One of the men who brought food mentioned it to someone by the door when he left; I don't think he knew I heard him," he explained. As Mason didn't react, Jack could only surmise that they'd already had this conversation.
"So," he continued when it clear that Jack wasn't going to say anything, "I – we – think that once they got you, someone at City South put two and two together and made three. Also, it hasn't been a full two days yet, which seems to be their time frame, so either way, the odds are good that it's just us."
Jack took a few seconds to process this.
God, he loved being surrounded by intelligent people.
He gave them both approving smiles before nodding at the door. Mason swallowed and then carefully edged the heavy metal open a bare few inches before contorting himself into a position to ensure he remained unseen that made Jack's bruises throb in sympathy. His caution paid off, though, as a single person suddenly walked by, his (her?) steps quick but not rushed. There had been no outcry yet, but on reflection, that wasn't surprising. After the single visit from the woman, and not counting the men who brought his meals and slop buckets, Jack had seen no one. It stood to reason that Mason and Page had gotten the same treatment, so unless they gave themselves away, their escape would likely (please God) go unnoticed long enough for them to actually get away.
Mason's soft rasp of "It looks clear" startled him but in that regard, Phryne had been good for Jack's nerves; it took a great deal more than an unexpected sentence to elicit an external reaction.
"Well, then, let's go!" Page quietly urged from behind him. This was a sentiment Jack heartily agreed with and the two of them came up to press themselves against the wall, Page stepping in front of his DI, while Mason carefully closed the door until there was barely an inch of open space (wherein Page took over Door Duty) before slipping in behind Jack. Despite their collective mounting impatience, Page still waited another full minute before opening the door and easing out.
Twisting his head in both directions, he made one final check to ensure the hall was empty before gesturing Jack and Mason to join him. Once the three of them were in the open, Page started walking. His entire posture abruptly screamed 'I am King of This Hall and you WILL bow down to me' and Jack couldn't help but give Mason a disbelieving look. It was returned with a shrug and a whispered, "If we tiptoe, we'll just look suspicious. If we act like belong here, we're less likely to be caught out on a first look."
Which Jack knew, of course; he just hadn't expected Page to pull off monarchial arrogance so very well. It seemed he'd been practicing.
Huh. Maybe he should send Collins out with Page a few times; after all, it wasn't like the boy could get any less forceful.
To his surprise, they made it out of the building with no difficulty and into a surprisingly cool, cloudy day. Page blew out an enormous sigh of relief as they cleared the door (marked with a partial bloody thumbprint) and Mason gusted out a soft laugh. Jack had just started to trust the situation enough to let his triumph show when the sound of a gun being cocked uncomfortably close behind him made him close his eyes.
"And this, Inspector, is why I don't like spirit in my men," purred a voice he despised in spite of only being forced to endure it once.
He didn't have the chance to come up with a good (well, any) retort before another voice spoke, a voice he wouldn't have imagined hearing in a hundred years.
"We have you surrounded!" Detective Inspector Wesley Sheridan announced to the world at large from wherever the hell he was stationed. "And we have your men in custody, Doolane. You've lost. Step away from the inspector, place your weapon on the ground, and remain kneeling with your hands behind your head."
It seemed that Melbourne stopped breathing so it could hear her response.
When it came, Jack honestly couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or cry.
"More trouble than it's worth," she said so quietly that Jack was the only one who heard.
"Drop. Your. Weapon!" Sheridan bellowed.
And Jack knew. He wasn't going to get yelled at by Phryne for not taking that last step of commitment or scolded for letting himself be kidnapped. He wasn't going to get to see her smile with delight or bask in the satisfaction of solving a case, or simply glow with life.
He'd never again get to hear her say, "I love you, Jack Robinson."
And he wasn't going to get to tell her that he adored her, that he wanted to give her every bit of happiness the world had denied her, that she was the reason his heart beat in his chest.
Rage suddenly washed through him, because if this bitch thought she was going to win, she had another think coming. If he had to die today, then by God, she was going with him.
The same icy calm he'd felt while dealing with Nelson's ring fell over him and Jack softly exhaled, catching a movement from the corner of his eye. He dipped his chin as he closed his eyes, clenching both hands into fists and flexing them back out, his fingers loosely curling while he drew in a breath as shallow as the one he'd let out. He would only have one chance.
"NOW!" his Inverness counterpart – his friend – thundered, sounding apoplectic . . . and he heard it. It was minute, but the catch in her breath and the scuff of a shoe told him she was off-balance. He moved.
And his world became the sound of a gunshot.
/*/*/*/*/
