Page 55 of Chasing Grace
He couldn’t risk tipping his hand. For now, he needed Francisco and Ryerson alive. They were the strongest link to Wright Adam had uncovered, and until he or the JTT could bleed the information they needed out of them, the cocksuckers got to play a get-out-of-jail-free card.
Adam had no choice. He gave them new orders and let them go with a sour taste in his mouth. A bitter pill to swallow, it took everything he had to leave his guns holstered as they skittered away.
He looked back at the wreckage. Under the strobing lights of the emergency vehicles, the first responders started to pack their gear. All sense of urgency gone, they moved at a steady pace, hauling equipment back to their trucks and preparing for their next call.
Fucking Jackson.
Gray would be devastated.
Adam had never met the journalist. Regardless, he hadn’t liked Jackson Lowe. A lightweight who sent Gray into situations that could’ve easily gotten her killed, he’d hidden behind his keyboard while she’d dodged bullets all over the globe.
Before his fake death, Adam had told her as often as possible to lose her partner’s sorry ass, but she had her own opinion about Jackson. Didn’t matter what anybody else thought about it, where he went, in the proverbial sense of the word, she followed. So, it went without saying, he’d been the tool used to put Gray on that ledge.
Why? Adam had no clue.
Dead to everyone who knew him as Adam Grayson, he’d been working this covert assignment as Sam Black for two years. Not even the JTT had known his real identity, except the colonel, who’d put him undercover in the first place.
At the time, the JTT had little intelligence, and they didn’t have much more today. But something had changed in the last couple of months. Wright had set his plans in motion, and they were careening toward a domestic terrorist event the likes of which Americans had never seen.
Fuck. Now that Gray knew Adam was alive, he needed to talk to his sister.
God help him.
Seven years his junior and his exact opposite in temperament, she’d always been full of fire and ice. Both states giving a third-degree burn whenever she projected her mood onto the closest human target.
Gray’s will was a force to be reckoned with, and both he and their father had failed miserably when it came to giving her what she really needed. With no family to speak of, she’d spent the last two years doing what she pleased.
Roaming the planet with nothing but a bottle of Grey Goose and a camera for company, she lived life on the wild side. And she’d developed a serious knack for landing in the middle of the nearest shit storm, whether aided and abetted by Jackson or not.
Why she’d landed in the middle of this one was the million-dollar question.
Adam shook his head, his gaze following the coroner’s van as it rolled down the street. Only a matter of time before Gray learned about Jackson’s unfortunate end, and she tried to cut and run.
He needed to warn Kincaid.
Poor bastard.
He had no idea what he’d signed up for when he agreed to watch Gray’s back.
“Excuse me, miss.”The twenty-something bottle-blonde Grant called out to grabbed a pot of coffee and joined him at the counter. Holding the carafe at the ready, she leaned toward him, putting her best fake assets on display.
“More coffee?” She smiled an invitation that hinted she’d be willing to offer him a side of spread legs with his six thirty a.m. breakfast special.
Grant lifted his empty mug, and she poured nice and slow. Jesus Christ. He didn’t have time for this. He cut her off at half a cup. “That’s good. Thanks.” He pointed with the coffee mug at the TV behind her bleached head. “Can you turn that up, darling?”
“Sure thing, sugar,” she purred with lips parted, and he couldn’t help but think her cosmetic surgery fund could have been better invested in some much-needed dental work.
She drifted off to peddle her wares to another potential partner, and Grant focused his attention on the morning news. Based on Jackson’s headshot filling half the screen with the tagline,Fiery Crash Kills Investigative Journalist, he suspected today would be another long day of text messages and phone calls. Sipping from his coffee-stained mug, he listened to what the pretty CNN anchor had to say about it.
“Internationally renowned investigative journalist Jackson Lowe died in Washington, DC, early this morning as the result of a single-car accident. According to eyewitnesses, Lowe lost control of his BMW for unknown reasons. Striking a sidewalk prior to colliding head-on into a concrete overpass support, the vehicle burst into flame. Accident investigators continue to probe at the scene. An early statement by the lead investigator suggests the cause of the fatal solo-vehicle collision was unsafe speed for roadway conditions. No foul play is suspected at this time. Confirmation of identity, toxicology results, and exact cause of death will be released as part of the coroner’s report sometime next week. The sole occupant of the vehicle, Lowe was thirty at the time of his death. CNN will continue to update as this news story develops.”
Out of habit, Grant checked Gray’s signal. Strong and steady and where it should be. It wouldn’t stay static for much longer. A fast learner, he knew Grace Emerson would run sooner or later. The woman had a tendency to throw herself in front of buses when confronted with stressful situations.
He’d bet money the asshole who offed Jackson Lowe counted on it.
Had to be Wright’s doing. No one else benefited from Jackson being in a body bag. Sam had finally filled him in on some of the details. Victor Bodak was a pawn. Grant had suspected it from the beginning, and Sam had confirmed it overnight.
A small-time gun dealer plucked by Wright out of the masses and made into the biggest international arms dealer in US history, Bodak had been set up to be a fall guy.
