11
JACKSON
The door closed, yet Jackson stood there dumbly, waiting for it to reopen. She couldn’t be gone, not like this. He’d fought too hard, waited too long, given so much . . .
“What the fuck are you waiting for? She’s gone.”
Clark’s cold words shook Jackson from his trance. He rounded on him, rage flaring in his veins.
“This is all your fault,” he snarled. “You can’t offer her anything. All you want to do is take and take and take.”
“Fuck you,” Clark shot back. “You treat her like some kind of experiment in a zoo. Something to watch and study and build a cage around.”
“And you treat her like your own personal savior.”
“At least it’s personal.”
Jackson roared in anger and lunged for Clark, who leaped deftly out of the way. A fist hammered into his kidney, and Jackson buckled, rolling away from Clark before getting to his feet.
His eyes were misted red with rage and pain, and he charged again, ignoring the hits to his jaw and abdomen as he tackled Clark to the ground. They crashed into a delicate coffee table, which shattered on the impact of their bodies.
Jackson straddled Clark and began pummeling him, taking out all his frustration and anger on Clark’s face.
Blood flew, then Jackson was hit with a massive blow on the side of the head. Clark had a hold of one of the coffee-table legs. Jackson fell off Clark, dazed. His eyesight was seeing triple as he tried to regain his feet.
“You asshole,” Clark ground out. “Your need for commitment drove her away. In one breath you say you understand her, and in the next, you’re shoving her into a fucking corner.”
He flew at Jackson, who’d only just stood, and they grappled. Clark got Jackson into a choke hold. Jackson’s fingers pried at the arm at his throat, but couldn’t get loose. Reaching behind him, he shoved his thumbs into Clark’s eye sockets. Clark grunted and abruptly let go.
“Are you fucking kidding me, douchebag?”
“You tell me, asshole.”
They continued pummeling each other, the blows getting weaker as they tired, the beating taking a toll on both of them. A punch to the gut, an elbow in the ribs. The room was slowly turning, the floor and the wall interchangeable as they each tried to keep going.
Finally, they squared off, unsteady on their feet and breathing heavily. The coffee table was in shatters. The furniture had been shoved aside. Decorative vases littered the floor, along with their sad dried floral arrangements.
Jackson snickered.
Clark glared. “What the hell is so funny?”
“You have a flower in your hair, Miss Daisy.”
Clark ground out a curse as he ran his fingers through his hair. Jackson collapsed on the sofa, still laughing. God, he was so fucking tired. He rested his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. He heard Clark sink into the armchair opposite him.
“I’m too old for this shit,” Clark said.
“What? Fighting over a woman?”
“Fighting, period. It’s gonna hurt like hell tomorrow.”
“Getting old sucks.”
“Speak for yourself, old man.”
They both sat there, saying nothing, just breathing. Finally, Jackson broke the silence.
“Now what?” He didn’t have to explain. Clark would know what he meant.
“I’m not about to let her try to trap and kill Danvers, if that’s what you mean,” Clark said.
“I didn’t think you would. My point is, what’s the plan?”
“She’ll be mad if we follow her.”
“So we don’t let her know we’re following,” Jackson said with a shrug. “If she goes off the grid, that means cash only, maybe Bitcoin. She’ll ditch the cell and get a new laptop.”
Clark thought for a moment. “She won’t stick around here. Neither will she go home. She’ll go somewhere else.”
“No one knows where Danvers is. Where would she choose to go?”
They both were quiet, thinking. Then Clark asked, “This is all about her mother. Where was she from?”
Jackson pulled up some files on his phone. “Louisiana. Ponchatoula. It’s about an hour outside New Orleans.”
“Then she’d go there. Despite wanting to go off the grid, she’ll want something familiar.”
“I don’t think she’s ever been to New Orleans.”
“No, but she’ll still feel a tie there. She can’t help it. Familiarity—even so distant—is what she gravitates to.”
Clark was right. Jackson knew it. They fell into silence.
“She loves me, you know,” Jackson said at last. “Despite what you think. We’re good together. And you know I’m better for her than you are.” Clark said nothing, so Jackson kept going. “You’re the guy who promises danger and adventure, but in the end, you only bring heartache. She deserves better than that.”
“And you think you’re it.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was flat and his face expressionless.
“I know I am. She almost died trying to clear your name. How many more ghosts from your past are going to show up at some point? What other motivation do you need than watching her slowly bleed to death? Sheer luck saved her in time. Next time—”
“There won’t be a next time,” Clark cut him off.
“And you’re positive of that. Sure enough to stake her life on it?”
Clark’s eyes looked empty. “I mean, there won’t be a next time,” he said, carefully emphasizing each word. “There’s only one ending to this story, and I suggest we stop measuring our dicks if we’re going to stay one step ahead of her.”
Irritation flared, but Jackson kept hold of his temper. “Do you have contacts in New Orleans? It would help if we can have eyes on her when she gets to town.”
“Yeah. Chances are she’ll take a bus. It’s the most anonymous way, and she’s been reading those Jack Reacher books lately.”
Great. Only he would have a genius girlfriend who thought she could be Jack Reacher when she broke out in hives if the clock on her microwave didn’t match the clock on the DVR.
He sighed. “Okay, then. I’m going to start tracking down Danvers.”
“How the hell do you propose to do that?”
“He’s no tech guru. He’ll have a digital footprint somewhere. And I’ve got some of the best network sniffers and hackers on my payroll. We find him first, before China does.”
“And then what? You’re going to kill him?” Clark’s sneering derision set Jackson’s teeth on edge.
“Turning him over to the FBI should be adequate,” he said. “He’s committed fraud, murder, and I’m sure a laundry list of other crimes.”
“Some of which I’m sure he did at the behest of the CIA.”
“So what’s your point?”
“You’re going to deprive China of her chance for closure, that’s my point.”
“And you want to let her kill her father so she has ‘closure’? You’re out of your mind. Do you have any idea what that’ll do to her? I don’t care if he’s a worthless piece of shit. China isn’t the kind of person that can kill someone in cold blood and walk away.”
“Then she needs to decide that for herself, not have you do it for her.”
They glared at each other. Finally, Jackson heaved himself up. “I’m going to get to work. I suggest you do the same before she gets too far ahead of you.” He looked steadily at Clark. “Can I trust you to work with me on this? Or are you going to somehow twist the situation to your advantage?”
A wince, so small and quick he might have imagined it, flew across Clark’s features. “I’ll keep you updated,” he said, rising from the chair. “She’s what matters. Not us.”
“At least we can agree on that,” Jackson said. “I’ll let you show yourself out.” He didn’t wait to watch him leave, but went back into the bedroom he’d shared with China and shut the door.
He could still smell her in the air. Not perfume, never that. Just the faint odor of antigerm gel that she was constantly using. Romantic? No. But it brought her to mind immediately, that sharp scent.
He’d lain awake last night, holding her as she slept. He’d been very aware that it might be the last time. Despite what he said to Clark, he was not at all sure that he’d win China’s heart in the end. For someone who craved and needed routine and structure, she had an affinity for Clark that Jackson couldn’t understand. What was it about Clark that drew her? Maybe it was something he himself could emulate?
Or was it the age-old attraction of a woman needing to fix a broken man? Because Clark was broken. Even a fool could see it. Jackson couldn’t compete with that.
He shoved his fingers through his hair in frustration. So a well-adapted grown man with his shit very much together held less appeal than a man in severe need of therapy, with a penchant for killing people? It wasn’t fair.
Of course, life wasn’t fair, was it, he thought as he threw his things together. You did the best with the hand you were dealt. A smart, geeky kid works hard and grows up to be a billionaire tech titan. Hires a trainer to put meat and muscle on his bones and a stylist to add the clothes. Gets the right haircut and Lasik surgery . . . and later the geek is a man 99.9 percent of women would give their right arm for. Except the one he wanted.
In his office the next morning, Jackson stared morosely out the glass walls to the line of cubicles. The one China had occupied now had another resident. Steve, maybe? Or Dave? He couldn’t recall. He just knew he could no longer look out and see her ponytail lightly bouncing as she typed along to whatever rock band was blasting in her ears.
His desk phone beeped and his assistant’s voice emerged from the speaker.
“Sir, Mr. Dunlop is on line two.”
“Thank you.” Jackson picked up the phone. He’d e-mailed his attorney earlier to call him. “Good morning, Richard.”
“Mr. Cooper, good morning. What can I do for you today?”
That was one thing he liked about Richard. He didn’t waste time with chitchat. “I need to modify my will. Can you come by the office this afternoon?”
There was silence for a moment—he must’ve taken Richard by surprise—then he recovered. “Of course. Would two o’clock work?”
“That’s fine. I’ll see you then.” He hung up the phone.
Clark’s job was to find China, but Jackson’s was to find Danvers before China did. Which was why he sent out an e-mail to two people on his staff: the VP of network security and his IT director. Ten minutes later, they were taking seats in his office.
“I have a special project I need done,” Jackson began. “Someone we need to track down, without him knowing.”
Willard—the security guy—perked up. He was the most paranoid person Jackson had ever known, which made him excellent at his job. He also held fantasies of being some kind of James Bond–like covert agent near and dear to his heart. To that end, he was clean-shaven and well dressed, though about fifty pounds more than MI6 Double-O fitness requirements.
“Sounds serious,” he said. “What’d he do?”
“Doesn’t matter. I just need him found, as well as any information we can dig up on him.”
“What’s the timeline?” Drew—IT—asked. He was the Abbott to Willard’s Costello—tall, rail thin, with wire-frame glasses, and zero sense of humor.
“Yesterday.” Both of them looked taken aback at that, but Jackson continued. “His name is Mark Danvers. He was military and CIA. I have a copy of his file. It hasn’t been updated in years, but it’ll be a start.”
Drew and Willard were both taking notes—Drew on his tablet and Willard with pen and paper—as Jackson spoke. They discussed having two teams of five members each that they would oversee. Names were thrown around until all ten people had been decided on, including two experts in cryptography.
“I won’t micromanage,” Jackson said. “You can coordinate and plan the best strategy with your teams. Report to me immediately if you find anything, otherwise I want weekly updates.”
They departed and Jackson was again left alone with his thoughts. He wanted to do more, do something, but he knew that the best he had were working on it. Instead, he got on the phone to his realtor. There was something he could do, if the future turned out as he hoped it would.