Chapter Fifteen
Jack couldn’t stay in the room with Ava Cavalcante a moment longer, not when she was staring at him out of those fierce hazel eyes, her dress ruffled and her hair messy, all fury and hunger and a fire he could hardly bear to look at.
Because all he could see when he looked at her was what his client was asking him to do. Pull the trigger. Put out the fire.
And a few days ago, he would have, wouldn’t he?
He reached the motorcycle with a few long strides and was racing away from the motel a moment after that. There was a practical piece of this—he needed the motorcycle gone, he needed a new vehicle, he needed clothes for Ava, and food for both of them.
He needed to catch his fucking breath.
Jack pulled over outside town, his chest still heaving wildly.
The area around the town was densely wooded, the trees towering, the air cool in a way that comforted him, slowed his racing heart.
It wasn’t like Jack to lose control, not even in the version of his life when he had been happily married, when he had been Jay’s beloved husband.
Jack was careful, controlled—and that had translated well when he’d lost everything and ended up in this career.
So why couldn’t he pull it together and do what needed to be done?
He’d planned to keep Ava with him until the hit was finished, mostly so she wouldn’t get in his way.
And then frame her, probably, or leave her behind to fend for herself while he lay low somewhere off grid, maybe back on his property in Montana, where nobody asked questions or looked too closely or even, really, knew his name.
Jack pressed a hand to his racing heart. He needed to get a grip, and then a plan. Briefly, wildly, he considered leaving Ava in that motel room, her auburn hair splayed across the pillows, and just abandon this altogether.
But there was a promise he had made, long ago. A person who needed the money he was going to make from this job.
Jack drew in a shaky breath and then drove slowly back toward town.
When he was at the outskirts, he pulled off the road again, leaving the motorcycle underneath a bridge that led into the town.
There was a small car rental agency a few blocks in.
He could walk there and get a cheap rental, regroup from there.
His heart was still stuttering in his chest, beating an uneven pattern. As he reached town, his pace steady, his phone buzzed.
Another text:
Will you do it?
Jack hesitated before shoving the phone back into his pocket.
This was going to take some finesse—he couldn’t piss off his client, because pissed-off clients were dangerous, especially mid-job, and he couldn’t overpromise when he didn’t know what the fuck to do.
If he could only make it to the damn gala, hold out for three weeks, things would be simpler.
If Cale Jacobson was dead, this would all get easier.
Jack crossed the parking lot at the car rental center, scanning as he went.
There were only a few cars—a small electric car, a sleek Suburban, a handful of sedans that looked at least a few years old, and a minivan that looked as if it had seen better days.
Jack sighed. It wouldn’t draw attention, sure, but it wouldn’t be the smoothest ride he’d ever had.
The attendant at the desk inside was an elderly man who barely looked up when Jack entered, but waved him over with one wrinkled hand.
Jack asked for the minivan and paid for it with the prepaid card he used for jobs like this, wincing when it took most of the remaining balance on the card. By the time he was finally out of the parking lot, on his way to get more of the things they needed, his heartbeat had slowed.
There was a Safeway across town. He could take his time, get groceries and do some more research on Ava, on his client, on Cale and the gala Jack was going to be attending against his will. When he reached the parking lot, there were two more texts from the client.
Need update, the first one read.
Time sensitive. Please advise.
The client was still careful with their language, something that was unusual for even the more cautious people Jack had worked with.
Why? Jack almost asked. Instead, he typed and retyped and finally settled on:
First the primary job.
There was typing on the other end, and then:
This is critical. Please reconsider.
Jack closed the text and returned to the private browsing app he used to do much of his research.
He preferred his laptop, of course, but the portable option was often the best one.
Customers streamed by him into the store, most barely noticing the man in the minivan—people should really notice their surroundings more—and Jack dug in further to Cale Jacobson.
The three siblings were public, had been most of their lives.
The oldest, Clara, was less public-facing than the brothers, but no less powerful—just harder to find.
Carson, the man Jack had spoken to after he’d saved Cale’s life, was in the background of every press conference Cale had ever done. And Cale himself?
Spoiled, rich, just like most men in similar positions.
But now when Jack began his search, the first dozen articles were on the recent attack, including a particularly unhinged celebrity gossip column that had headlines reading “Bombshell Psycho Leaves Billionaire Reeling” and “Heartthrob or Heart-Stopper?” Jack sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose where the tension was beginning to build into a headache.
Leave it to Ava to go viral for looking hot while trying to murder somebody.
He sent the client a text:
Looks like she’d be an easy cover. Lots of media coverage about her.
It was true, even if the idea of framing her for the job was feeling more and more unpleasant.
So why did this client want her dead? They had told Jack early on that they were a small collective of people who had been wronged by Cale Jacobson, and while Jack never took things a client said at face value, this had at least seemed realistic—Cale’s company had had increasing PR issues in recent years, with more and more complaints of unfairness in claims denials and a recent investigation into insider trading.
The client typed for several minutes before responding:
Too much heat. Need it gone.
Jack sighed and closed his texts, returning to the research on the gala, and then combing the calendar Ava had duplicated for him.
The address for Cale’s mansion up north was difficult to find, but Jack combed satellite images on his map app until he found the general location.
There would be no other event where Cale wasn’t swarmed with security guards, especially with the high-profile, unsolved attack.
The gala would be crawling with security, of course, but Cale would be less likely to be personally surrounded at all times—and even so, that was weeks away, the delay dangerous in Jack’s line of work.
Unfortunately, for better or worse, Jack’s client was right about one thing: The only way for this heat to die down would be if Ava Cavalcante were out of the picture.