Legacies

17.

"Where are we?" Alicia said as Jack helped her up the ladder from the tunnel. "Take a look." Alicia turned in a slow circle to get her bearings. They'd emerged in the center of a clump of bushes bordering a potato field. Fifty feet to her right, she saw the white rented car, parked where they had left it. Beyond the car lay Jack's ranch house, with every window lit.

"We're across the street," she said.

"Right."

"Are we going to—?"

Alicia jumped as a booming retort echoed from the house, followed by a burst of machine-gun fire.

"My God, what happened?"

"Somebody just became cannon fodder, I imagine," Jack said.

"You mean dead?"

He nodded. "Most likely. I told you, it's my decoy place. Booby-trapped to within an inch of its life."

She looked at Jack. She'd grown to like him, even trust him during the short time she'd known him—unusual for her, because her list of trusted people was a short one—but there was so much she didn't know about him. And here was something she hadn't realized—maybe she'd guessed it, but hadn't wanted to confront it: beneath that unprepossessing, low-key, regular-guy surface was someone willing and able to kill when necessary.

And he was standing only a foot away. Her mouth went dry. She took a step back.

"You… killed one of them?" She tried to make out his expression in the dark.

"I like to think he killed himself—by being someplace he had no right being, doing something he had no right doing."

Alicia felt weak and shaky inside. She took another step back. "This is—very scary."

"You worried about them?" he said.

"I'm not a killer."

"But they are," he said softly, his eyes on the house, not her. "They killed your PI, they burned Benny the Torch alive, and they blew up your lawyer. What was his name again?"

"Weinstein… Leo Weinstein."

God, she'd almost forgotten about poor Leo.

"Okay. They blew him to pieces. And for what? For doing his job. You think Mrs. Weinstein would object to her husband's killers getting a dose of what Leo got? I don't think so."

"I wouldn't know about Mrs.—"

But Jack wasn't listening. He kept talking, his voice getting lower and colder.

"But I'm not doing this for Mrs. Weinstein, or your PI, or even for Benny the Torch, who I knew in a small way. I'm doing this for me and, whether you like it or not, you."

"Not for me," Alicia said. "I never wanted—"

"Because they're killers. And once you get on the wrong side of killers—and trust me, we're both on their wrong side—the only way to deal with them is to get them before they get you. If you don't, I guarantee you'll regret it. Because someday they'll find you—maybe by accident, maybe on purpose, but someday your paths could cross and then they'll snuff you out without hesitation. Or at least they'll try to."

Jack's casual, matter-of-fact tone chilled her.

What have I got myself into?

"Here they come," he said.

Alicia looked and saw two figures charging out the front door. She recoiled when he grabbed her arm, but he held her firmly.

"This way," Jack said. "And stay low."

In a crouch, he guided her to the car and carefully opened the driver side door. The courtesy lights stayed off—now she understood why he'd jammed the button with a toothpick. He motioned her in ahead of him.

"Crawl across and keep your head down," he whispered.

He got in beside her and eased the door shut. He inserted the key in the ignition but didn't turn it. Instead he leaned close to her and stared at the house.

"Now… watch. Won't be long."