That was how it had been when they were married. Why should he expect things to be any different now? “Can you at least give me an abbreviated version of events? Bullet points will work just fine. You can leave out the part where people may or may not have contracted a slight case of rigor mortis.”
She watched him with wary eyes. “No hospital?”
If he lied, she’d know in a heartbeat. He didn’t know whether it came to her naturally or if she’d developed the skill during her years of government work, but she’d always had a talent for seeing straight through his bullshit.
“All right, you win. No hospital.For now.But I’m calling somebody to patch you up—don’t argue with me about this,” he added when she opened her mouth to object. “That’s my price for not tossing you into the truck and taking you straight to the emergency room.”
The grooves between her eyebrows deepened. “Who?”
“A buddy I work with. You can trust him; he used to be a medic in the Navy. He’ll take real good care of you and won’t tell a soul.”
Pain and suspicion warred in Essie’s deep-blue eyes. It wasn’t in her nature to trust, which made sense, considering how much of her life had been spent dealing with people who greeted you with a smile and then tried to knife you in the back. Sharing the wrong thing with the wrong person could get you tortured or killed, or might jeopardize national security. That level of confidence in a person took weeks, months—even years—to build, but it could be destroyed in an instant.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but take it personally. How could he not? It made him wonder if she’d ever trusted him. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
After what seemed like forever, she gave a curt nod, and some of the tightness in his shoulders relaxed.
Jackson looked to Navarre. “Call Pinto. Get his ass over here. I don’t care what you have to promise him.”
“You got it.”
As Navarre pulled out his phone and headed for the kitchen, Jackson returned his attention to Essie. Her hair was a mess, her clothes rumpled. A smear of blood marked the top of her forehead. She still managed to exude an air of confidence, but tonight it was mixed with something else, something that looked an awful lot like vulnerability.
With some effort, he softened his voice. “You want to tell me who cut you?”
“Not really, but I suppose you won’t stop bugging me until I do.”
“That would be correct.”
One arched eyebrow was more than enough for her to convey her annoyance. She sighed. “Vaughn, a guy I used to work with at the Agency. We had a disagreement over a job I was helping him with.”
The name didn’t ring any bells, which didn’t surprise him in the least. For obvious reasons, he knew very little about the people she’d worked with. “What kind of disagreement?”
“It’s probably best if you don’t know.”
Jackson must have heard that canned response a thousand times while they were together. It was that or “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” Back in the day, he used to let it slide. Not tonight. He wasn’t in the mood. “Come on, Essie. You know I won’t tell anybody.”
Her gaze slid to Navarre as he walked into the room and reclaimed his spot by the window. “What about him?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Navarre ground out. “I know how to maintain OPSEC. Do you want me to pinky swear, or would you prefer some sort of blood oath?”
“Don’t insult the man. You know he’s good.”
Indecision played over Essie’s features, a rarity for her. Her gaze flicked from Jackson to Navarre, and then back to Jackson again. At last, with a look of grim resolve, she leaned back against the couch cushion, drew a deep breath, and laid it all out: her connection to Vaughn, his original job offer, what the job actually entailed, and Vaughn’s attempt on her life.
“I’ll fucking kill him,” Jackson said as soon as she finished.
“No, you won’t. He’s all mine.”
There was a hardness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. He’d seen it plenty of times over the years, and it usually didn’t bode well for the unfortunate soul who’d put it there.
“But that’s going to have to wait; right now I’m more concerned about keeping his target alive.”
“So who’s the woman?” Navarre asked.
“According to the dossier, she’s Bratva, third generation. For whatever reason, she decided she didn’t want any part of the business and bailed. The family took it as well as you’d expect.”
That explained the price on the woman’s head. Most criminal organizations considered membership a lifetime commitment, and anybody who tried to leave was viewed as a traitor and dealt with accordingly.
