Disclaimer: I don't own Red Eye. Mr. Craven, if you're reading, please call me. I'm happy to negotiate. XD
.-.-.-.-.
Jackson called another cab to take them to a restaurant he remembered. As they rode in the back seat, Lisa took some time to mull over what she'd learned. Her head hurt, spun with the convoluted logic he'd presented to her, the knowledge of what really happened to Enron (which was largely inconsequential at the moment), and the worry of what would happen to her family and friends if she didn't do what he'd asked her to do.
Which was to help him kill someone for knowledge that that someone might possibly share someday. Lisa decided not to think at all until after she got something into her stomach.
For his part, Jackson said nothing further about it as they rode. He was looking out his own window, either lost in thought or simply loath to discuss business—Lisa was dismayed to realize she was also thinking of it as such—when other ears were present. She frankly didn't want to discuss it at all. She wanted to go back to a time when she hadn't met Jackson, when she was safe in her life and her job and her routine, when her father was still alive and called her every night.
"I meant what I said earlier." Jackson spoke, startling her from her reverie. She looked over at him, questioning. The smile he gave her this time was a little sad, a strange expression to see but one he had worn before, at the funeral. "I was sorry about your father, Lisa. I didn't want him involved anymore." He turned back to the window as if he couldn't look at her and say what he wanted to say. "You told me I didn't know him, but I did. I figured he wouldn't want to tell you about it."
"About what?" Lisa felt her heart constrict. "What are you talking about?"
Only his eyes moved, watching her from their corners, gauging her reaction. "He came to visit me when I was in the hospital; he must have known someone or was able to get special treatment because I had been his attacker." He chuckled ruefully. "He was the first person I had seen who wasn't in a uniform of some kind. At first, when he saw I was awake, he started to go, but I called him back. He said later he had been coming to make sure I was secure, that I wasn't going to go after you ever again."
"He could have ensured that if he'd aimed a couple inches more to the right."
Jackson closed his mouth and a dozen expressions vied for dominance. In the end, Lisa was unsurprised to see that his professional mask was the one that he chose. His mouth smiled softly, but his eyes showed the icy anger that she recognized most. Instead of dignifying her insult with a comment, he returned to his perusal of the passing city until they reached their destination.
The restaurant turned out to be a family-run place, owned, Jackson told her with a detached air, by a husband and wife who had sneaked into the country from Cuba over twenty years before. Now their son and daughter-in-law took care of the day to day operations, while they gave shelter to other illegal immigrants who had come to the United States to hide from Castro. Lisa asked him rather snidely if he knew all this from spying on them, and he looked annoyed.
"No," he said curtly as they took a seat at a window table, "I know because I used to eat here all the time. Try the boliche."
That he needed to eat humanized him a little too much for her taste. "I don't have a lot of patience, Jackson. Let's just eat, then tell me what I need to know so I can figure out this mess. I do not condone—" her voice dropped to a whisper, "—killing a man. For the record."
"There's no choice. Donald Connolly has to disappear before the FBI figures out what information he hides."
It was the first time he'd mentioned the man's name, and Lisa got that sinking feeling again. She knew who Don Connolly was. He held a similar position to hers in the opposite party. "Don used to be a—a manager, like you?" She couldn't picture it. He was the antithesis of Jackson; quiet, even shy, a little geeky, certainly nowhere near as confident.
"I never said he was a manager," Jackson replied in a wounded tone. "I just said he worked for the Company. He was an assistant. A secretary."
"Ahh," was all she said for the rest of the meal, and they ate in silence.
The food was good, she had to admit. Somewhere in the area of the kitchen, a radio played Latin music at a volume that must have been blasting, but where they sat, it served to provide a certain authenticity as if to enhance the Cuban-home atmosphere. Under normal circumstances, Lisa might have lingered, but now she wanted to get out from under Jackson's gaze, wanted to think about what to do and how to do it. She needed to tell Keefe, that much was certain, but how? And when? She wouldn't be back in Maryland until she'd finished taking care of her father's house. The whole thing was giving her a headache. "Dammit."
Jackson tossed some twenties on the table and raised a brow. "Problems?"
"Yeah. Mine seem to start with the letter J." Lisa rubbed her temples as she stood, then she turned to face him. "How long do we have before the cleaners—"
"Cleanup crew," he corrected, and she glared at him. He shrugged.
"—before the cleanup crew starts picking off more of my family?"
He looked uncomfortable. His hands were in his pockets, the jacket draped carelessly over one arm, but the set of his shoulders gave his uneasiness away. "I don't know. I lack the information I would normally have if I was still with the Company." He shook his head. "I'm on my own."
"Well, why don't you go find out, and when you know more, call me. You have my number." Lisa walked past him out the door and onto the sidewalk without another word. She had things to do and she was tired of being in his company.
As she walked, she heard his footsteps hurrying along the pavement behind her. She knew what was coming. Five, four, three, two…
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" He caught up and fell into step with her, obviously angry. Again. His hand grabbed her just below her elbow; to the casual observer, he was a man escorting his pretty girlfriend. Lisa felt like her bones would be crushed. She knew she'd have a bruise there either way.
She sent him a wintry smile. "I have to go through my father's house. The police called me yesterday to let me know that I could go in again. They…took care of the scene of his death, so I won't have to see it. I just want to put some things in order before I head to Dallas for the holiday."
His eyes narrowed. "Do you have any idea how much danger you're in? How every moment you waste here brings someone else closer to dying just like your father? And what do you do when you learn what could happen—when you know what will happen?" He gestured scornfully. "You make plans for Thanksgiving as though nothing has changed."
"Nothing has changed!" She yanked her arm free. "As far as I know, you're messing around with my head again. No," she held up a hand, "I don't want to hear it. I have to think about what to do next, and damn if I'm not going to take care of my dad's things before I go running back to Maryland."
"You can't go back to Joe's right now anyway. I haven't checked it out yet."
"Dammit, Jackson!" She wanted to yell at him, but now there were people around. "Since when did my dad become 'Joe' to you? And since when did you start thinking you had any say in what I do and where I go?"
"Since I made a promise to him." He smirked a little when her mouth opened in shock. "I told you he and I talked a lot."
"Oh, no. No." Lisa shook her head, stepped back. "I don't want to hear this."
"Tough, Leese." Jackson's mouth set itself into a thin line. "You have to hear it. When I got out, just before I was officially unemployed, I made a special request that no action be taken against you, your dad, or anyone involved. It was my screwup, and to be frank, I was a little impressed that you took me down the way you did."
"How nice of you." She tried to push past him, but again he stopped her. She glanced around. No one seemed to even notice them; they were just another couple having a domestic argument in public. Nothing new in Miami.
"The thing is, he made me promise him I wouldn't let any harm of any kind—not just from my organization, but at all—come to you on top of all that." He snorted. "As if my word wasn't enough. But back to the issue: Joe and I talked a lot over the last few years. Somehow he found me once I was out on my own. We just started talking one day, meeting for coffee or a drink, and it became a regular thing. So not to correct you, Leese, but I did get to know him, and I did consider him something very close to a friend. And I was very, very angry when I found out about his death."
Lisa drew breath to say something that she never got to say. Something hit her ear, like someone had flicked a pebble at her. Irritated beyond belief, she snapped her head in the direction it had come. She was stunned to see a small hole spiderwebbed in the side of the building she and Jackson had been standing beside; she'd been hit by a small piece of flying debris.
Jackson sprang into action, wrapping his hand around Lisa's upper arm and dragging her around the corner of the building. He pushed her against the wall and ordered her to stay put. She flattened herself against the painted concrete, watching the way they'd come. Had that been a stray bullet, or a deliberate shot? Someone had nearly killed her, and she hadn't even known until after the fact. Further down the block, someone screamed. An odd popping noise filled the air along with the screech of tires and the sound of metal being punctured.
She heard him mutter, "Stupid gangs," in nonchalant disgust, though he produced a .45 and checked it, comfortably handling the weapon like he'd been born with one. He noticed her watching him and met her eyes. "Given the circumstances, I think this is a little too convenient. Whatever it is, I'm not in the mood to get caught in the middle of what could be a legitimate shootout or a cover for the crew to hit us. Keep your head down."
"What are you going to do?"
His grin this time was a little rakish, a little too enthusiastic. It struck her that he thrived on this kind of thing the way some people thrived on the thrill of skydiving or base jumping. He moved close to her, causing her to back against the wall further. "Why, Leese," he said, still with that grin, his voice soft and dangerous, "I'm going to get us out of here."
.-.-.-.-.
They hugged the side of the building, heading toward the opposite side of the block. Jackson's idea was that if it was an actual gang war, the action would be fairly contained in a brief time and small area. If it wasn't, they'd be followed. He kept watch in both directions, hurrying Lisa along in front of him.
"Hold on," he said in a low voice when they reached the corner. "Stay behind me and keep your back to the wall." Without waiting for her response, he inched forward and scanned the exposed area beyond. Miami was an open city, with fewer high and narrow alleys than someplace like New York or Boston. The alley in which they now stood opened into a large granite-lined courtyard between this building and the next. At least a hundred yards separated them from the next available cover; for now, a dumpster hid them from view should anyone follow them.
Jackson scanned the area they could see, then carefully he crouched down and checked around the corner in the opposite direction. Satisfied, he withdrew and turned to her. "There's no one on the ground or within sight. We'll—"
A smattering of gunfire cut him off, this sound much closer than before. Jackson pushed Lisa in the chest with his right hand, harder against the wall while his left whipped the .45 around to bear on the alley. Instead of the gang members that Lisa had expected to see through the space between the dumpster and the wall, several dark-suited men were approaching them warily. Jackson swore under his breath. "When I tell you to run," he murmured, just before the men saw them, "You run. Got it?"
She barely had time to nod; he simply expected her to obey his orders. Though a tiny voice within her brought up the complaint that he seemed very confident that she wouldn't fight with him, she knew he had the experience in this situation, and she was actually glad for his guidance.
Which, she would reflect later, was equally as disturbing as her earlier cover for him in front of the policeman.
Jackson was concentrating on the men who walked toward their hiding place. He held his arm steady, waiting for them to come into range. Imperceptibly, he leaned closer to Lisa, his hand still resting lightly against her breastbone, the two of them frozen and tightly coiled, ready to move.
When the first man appeared around the dumpster, Jackson was ready. He fired once, twice, and the man dropped, twin scarlet stains spreading across the fabric of his shirt. "Run," Jackson ordered, pushing her toward the open area. She hesitated, and he snapped over his shoulder again, "Lisa, GO!" as his arm adjusted and fired again at the next man to appear.
There was a flurry of gunshots; Lisa finally got her feet to respond and she sprinted from cover into the courtyard park. She heard shouts from several directions, people coming to help, someone shouting into a cell phone at a 911 dispatcher. A bullet sped by her, close enough for her to feel it disturb the air as it passed. She ducked around a stone bench that was bookended by cylindrical planters, also of granite, and caught her breath. Sliding down to sit on the ground, she regained her composure and then risked a glance back toward the alley, trying to see if she was being pursued or if Jackson was still there.
Her vantage point offered little information. She could see people running around, random passersby but no suits; a police car careened around the corner and pulled up, siren wailing. All attention was focused on the alley. Lisa allowed herself to take a great gasping sigh as she faced away from the alley once more.
"That was exciting." Jackson's rasp so close to her ear nearly made her jump a yard to the right. He crouched next to her, putting his gun away somewhere inside his coat.
"Oh, holy hell," she breathed, "I didn't hear you come up."
"Of course you didn't." He stood carefully and helped her up, looking around all the while. "We'd better go before someone sees us. I don't feel like answering police questions today, do you?"
Lisa didn't trust herself to do more than shake her head no. She let him take her arm—more gently this time than he had earlier—and guide her further down the block at a brisk walk. Other people were fleeing the scene as well, giving them cover from anyone who might have seen them in the alley. He kept checking around them to make sure they were alone, that they weren't being followed, and once they turned the corner onto the cross street, he hailed a cab. He gave his address, then let himself slump against the seat, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Hey," she asked, "Are you okay?"
He nodded. "I recognized one of the men in the alley." He sounded troubled. "Someone I used to work with."
She didn't know what to make of that. "Is he d—"
"Oh, yes." Jackson's face registered unease, worry. "Yes, very much so."
Once more, they fell silent. There was no lack of things to discuss, but very little they could say until they were alone.
.-.-.-.-.
