Disclaimer: I don't own anything and I'm not making any money off of this. You know the drill.
A/N: I know it sounds repetitive, but thank you again to all of the people who have reviewed this story! Reviews are my virtual crack; I'm thoroughly addicted.
I picked up the pace a little bit with this chapter and glossed over a few things, so I hope it works. Lots of Jackson and hints of his tormented past here. I just can't help it, I love the angst. Enjoy!
After sleeping soundly through the rest of the morning and half of the afternoon, Jackson felt refreshed and ready to face his quarry.
Well, mostly ready, he thought as he stood outside the room he'd set aside for her.
He knew he was treading on dangerous ground already, especially after their early morning tussle. This wasn't a paying job, it wasn't just business – it was personal. Emotional. Illogical. Rife with opportunities for him to lose control of the situation
Temporarily pushing those thoughts aside, Jackson took a page out of Lisa's book and turned the key in the lock as quietly as possible. In order to prevent her from making any foolish attempts to ambush him when he opened the door, he'd had it re-hung to open onto the hallway instead of into the room. The resulting configuration would be less resistant to a determined assault from within, but he doubted that Lisa was quite that strong. He cracked the door open and, perceiving no immediate threat, ventured into the room.
Jackson was surprised to see Lisa curled up on the bed with her back to the door. After softly closing the door behind him, he approached cautiously, his body wound as tight as a spring in anticipation of a ploy. But when he circled around to the other side of the bed, Jackson found that her breathing was soft and regular, her features relaxed in sleep. The tension seeped out of his muscles.
Planning it all out had been the easy part – it was a simple thing to remain detached when running through hypothetical situations and contingency plans, and he'd spent many a long, painful night fantasizing about his revenge. But now, as he stood over his adversary, finally able to study her at length in close proximity, it was hard to summon up the dark images.
It was impressive, really, that she could tease out the lingering shreds of his humanity by just lying there.
In the beginning, it was just a job: strong-arm some girl her into using her clout as a hotel manager to facilitate the assassination of Charles Keefe, deputy director of Homeland Security. Jackson had presented several alternatives to the client – different ways of getting the job done with considerably more grace and less margin for error – but the Russians had wanted none of it. It had to be spectacular, and what was more spectacular than a great, big explosion? he thought with a sneer. The decision rankled, of course. But he was a professional, and the best in his field; if anyone could pull it off, it would be Jackson Rippner.
So he watched the girl for two months, taking detailed notes of her movements and attachments. It was like studying a subject under a microscope – he looked at her from every angle with clinical regard and condensed her life into the most basic set of triggers he could use to manipulate her. Let the Russians have their missile launchers – he would take these intimate weapons above theirs any day. He explored every option, every visible facet of her life and personality. She would acquiese quickly; he was sure of it.
Unfortunately for Jackson, there was more to Lisa Reisert than he thought.
His troubles began in the ticket line at the airport – his extensive observations had prepared him for her beauty, but not for her vivacity. Lisa was a practiced conversationalist, with a ready answer for every wry comment he made, and he found himself engaging her with enthusiasm. It was easy to be charming with her, but Jackson wisely refused himself any kind of regret before setting his plan into motion. There could be no room for doubt, and no sympathy for the pawns in his elaborate game. The line between interaction and empathy was a fine one, and he had been adept at walking it.
Well, that was then, and this was now, he thought as he moved closer to inspect those tantalizing curls and pale skin. He crouched down beside the bed. All of the lines he'd grown accustomed to were blurring – because of her.
Although Lisa's makeup was smudged, her clothing wrinkled, and her hair mussed, Jackson found her disarray appealing. In sleep, she couldn't lie to him, and she couldn't hurt him. She was unequivocally his, if only for a short while. That was what he wanted in the end, wasn't it?
He wasn't sure any more just what he wanted. Part of him – a dark part that was sometimes hard to rein in – rebelled at his calm consideration of Lisa and burned for revenge almost constantly. None of this sentimental foolishness! it said. Hurt her. Make her pay for her lies. For all of the lies. That rage had broken free once before at the airport, when Lisa – conniving bitch, that dark part spat – had betrayed him and reneged their agreement. He'd wanted her dead, then.
His furious hatred had allowed him to cling to life in the hospital, and it was hard to give it up now after it had fueled him for so long.
But as much as part of him wanted her to suffer, another, more human part of him was beginning to realize that he just plain wanted her. Her mind, her body, her soul, even. Whatever he could get.
It wasn't love – he hadn't been capable of that in a long time. But it was lust, perhaps, or maybe just obssession. She was equated with so many different things in his mind – failure, pain, kinship, longing, conquest – that it was hard to tell where she left off and the rest of the world began. He'd felt something for her in that bathroom on the plane: compassion. Sympathy. Jackson knew what it was like to be scarred – physically, emotionally, you name it – and he knew that his probing touch had rattled her.
His nostrils flared in annoyance at the thought. Well, of course it had rattled her – enough to stick a ball-point pen right into his trachea.
Those dichotomies plagued him when it came to Lisa – business or personal, pain or pleasure, strength or weakness, anger or sympathy. Life or death.
He wouldn't kill her – couldn't kill her, really. But he could keep her at his mercy until he figured out exactly how to resolve this hold she had on him.
Jackson knew it was a bad idea, but he stretched out his left hand to finger a strand of her hair. Spontaneous contact was always a bad sign, he told himself.
It was even worse when she caught him at it.
Lisa's eyes snapped open – unfocused at first, she didn't know what had jolted her from sleep, but her instincts were already on high alert – someone was in her space, someone was touching her, get up, get away – and she lashed out with a fist. Agony shot through her hand when she solidly connected with something hard that elicited a satisfying grunt of pain– was that Jackson? Not pausing to inspect her handiwork, she scrambled over the other side of the double bed, heart pounding in her chest, breaths short and shallow.
Feeling a little better with the bed between her and her assailant, Lisa turned to see Jackson getting to his feet, holding a hand against one cheek. Gratification and anger mixed with a note of fear came on the heels of the adrenaline running through her body, and she said, "What the hell were you doing?"
Jackson glared at her. Words failed him. "Nothing."
"Ah, right," Lisa said, sarcasm thick in her voice. "'Nothing.' I can buy that – you just kidnap me, bring me here, come in while I'm sleeping and you're doing nothing."
"I certainly don't have to -"
He never got a chance to finish his sentence – a loud crash came from the direction of the living room, followed by the sound of booted feet on hardwood. Distant murmurs floated down the hallway and through the door, and Jackson's eyes hardened.
While Lisa was momentarily distracted by the interruption, he crossed the distance between them, clamped a hand over her mouth, and dragged her into the shelter of the bathroom. Too shocked to struggle, Lisa went along without a fight.
"Listen to me very carefully, Lisa," Jackson said, his voice barely above a whisper and deadly serious. She frowned against his hand. "I know you don't want to, but you're going to have to trust me – for a little while, at least. Believe me when I say that we are both in some deep shit as soon as those guys make their way down this hallway. Can I trust you to stay quiet?" When she nodded, he dropped his hand from her mouth and she took a deep breath.
"Maybe the police qualify as a threat to you, but -"
"Not the police," Jackson said matter-of-factly as he unsheathed the knife he'd threatened her with earlier in the day and examined the blade to calm himself. A humorless grin stretched his lips. "The police tend to announce themselves."
"Then who -"
"Could be anybody, really. Bounty hunters, disgruntled business associates, and so on. You don't make too many friends in my line of work. They shouldn't have been able to find me here." Lisa gave him an annoyed look. He ignored it. "They'll probably shoot you as soon as look at you, so I'll draw them into my room, which is across the hall, and you make a run for it. But Lisa?" He smirked knowingly. "Don't go too far. I'll catch up with you."
Like hell you will, Lisa thought, but kept silent. She would let him play the action hero and make good her escape - she was hardly surprised that he had people clamoring for his head on a platter.
"Come on," he said, knife at the ready, and led her out of the bathroom. Assuming the invaders were professionals, they would still be searching their way through the apartment. All he had to do was get their attention and make it across the hallway – when they finally came to him, he would make short work of them. The slap-dash plan could go terribly wrong, of course, but Jackson didn't really have time for anything more. He wouldn't have gotten this far without some measure of improvisational skill.
It went better than expected right up until the end. The armed men came down the hallway after Jackson like dogs after a particularly appetizing bone, and the sounds of the slaughter made Lisa's blood run cold. She ran, too, and would have made it to the front door but for the rear guard posted there. She froze. He raised his gun and fired.
Jackson came running at the sound of the gunshot and her strangled cry. Met with the sight of Lisa sliding down against the wall of the living room and the rear guard chambering another round to finish the job, Jackson snarled and struck.
Lisa didn't make a sound as Jackson helped her sit up against the wall. She had her hands pressed to her right side, so he moved them away from the area as gently as possible to have a look.
Her palms were covered in blood.