Wild Justice

  A PLUME BOOK

  WILD JUSTICE

  KELLEY ARMSTRONG is the number one New York Times bestselling author of the Otherworld series, as well as the young adult trilogy Darkest Powers, the Darkness Rising trilogy, and the Nadia Stafford series. She lives in rural Ontario, Canada.

  Praise for Kelley Armstrong and the Nadia Stafford series "Armstrong is a talented and evocative writer who knows well how to balance the elements of good, suspenseful fiction, and her stories evoke poignancy, action, humour, and suspense."

  --The Globe and Mail

  "Taking a break from her Otherworld series, the hugely talented Armstrong delves into a truly shadowy world where honor and morals are set to a different frequency. In Nadia Stafford, she's created an anti-heroine whose motivations are convoluted, yet utterly gripping. Take a walk on the dark side--where contract killers become both the bait and the hunter of a vicious serial killer."

  --Romantic Times Book Reviews "[Exit Strategy is] original, dark and gritty, with enough humanity to keep you caring about its antiheroes and enough suspense to keep you turning the pages."

  --Cody McFadyen, author of Shadow Man "Armstrong has a definite talent for sensual descriptions."

  --National Post

  "Exit Strategy is a perfect suspense novel for the summer. It is fast paced and high in action with a colorful cast of characters that will leave you wondering who you can trust. There is a wisp of romance, but that takes a backseat to the main events in the novel. . . . It is one adventure not to be passed up for fans of suspense thrillers."

  --Curled Up with a Good Book

  BOOKS BY KELLEY ARMSTRONG

  The Otherworld Series Bitten

  Stolen

  Dime Store Magic Industrial Magic Haunted

  Broken

  No Humans Involved Personal Demon Living with the Dead Frostbitten Waking the Witch Spell Bound

  13

  The Nadia Stafford Series

  Exit Strategy Made to Be Broken Wild Justice The Cainsville Series Omens

  Collections Men of the Otherworld Tales of the Otherworld Werewolves

  Spellcasters

  PLUME

  Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia New Zealand | India | South Africa | China penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company First published by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House Canada Limited, Toronto, 2013.

  Published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2013

  Copyright (c) 2013 by Kelley Armstrong Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK--MARCA REGISTRADA CIP data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-452-29881-1

  ISBN 978-0-69814679-2 (eBook) This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Books by Kelley Armstrong

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  For Jeff

  CHAPTER 1

  Alan Wilde was supposed to die at 8 p.m. on October 17, 2007. It was right there, on my agenda, and I am nothing if not precise about my schedule, even if it only exists in my head.

  I was lying on a cliff overlooking docks. The sign called it a marina. Having seen actual marinas, I'd disagree. It was a collection of battered and rotted wharfs mooring a collection of battered and rusted boats. The boats might not have been yachts, but they were all someone's pride and joy, with names like Buoys & Gulls and Seas the Day. Owned by folks who'd dreamed of retiring "up north" and spending lazy days pretending to fish.

  Wilde's boat was not meant for fishing. Or relaxing. From what I'd seen in my two days of surveillance, it was meant for racing up and down the coastline, setting canoeists and kayakers cursing as they struggled against the boat's wake. Tonight he was due to arrive at eight with his girlfriend, having told his wife he was going for a moonlight ride alone.

  So at 7:50 I was settled in, lying on my stomach, sniper rifle at the ready. The docks were quiet. This was Michigan cottage country, and it was too late in the year for tourists, too late in the day for locals. When a car pulled in, I expected Wilde's Mustang. Instead it was his winter beater--an ancient Corolla. The Mustang must have been out of commission. Not surprising given that I'd seen him fussing with it yesterday.

  Then a second set of headlights turned into the tiny parking lot. Alan Wilde's bright yellow Mustang. The Corolla driver's door opened and out climbed Mrs. Wilde.

  The Mustang paused at the edge of the lot. Mrs. Wilde didn't notice the hesitation. She was pulling her seat forward to get their three-year-old daughter, Hannah, out of her booster.

  Wilde had time for a getaway. Whoops, I didn't see you there, honey. I realized I'd left something at the shop and went back.

  He wouldn't even need to worry about his wife phoning and telling him she was there. Rose Wilde no longer had a cell phone. He'd taken it away after their last fight, when he'd dragged her out of the car, ten miles from town, and left her there. She had used her phone to call her father to come get her, which completely defeated the purpose of the lesson. So Wilde confiscated it.

  That meant he could get away. But after a moment's pause, he continued into the lot. Through my binoculars, I could see his girlfriend in the passenger seat. He knew his wife would, too. He just didn't care. He roared up beside the Corolla and threw open the car door.

  "What the hell are you doing here with the baby?" he shouted. I could hear him even without my earpiece amplifier. "Do you know what time it is?"

  "Sh-she's sick," Rose said, still standing by her back door. "She's running a fever, and I wanted to know if I can take her to t
he doctor."

  "Bullshit! You snuck out here--"

  "She's burning up, Alan. I don't give a damn about you and your whores--"

  The girlfriend got out. "Who you calling a whore, bitch?"

  Rose ignored her and tried talking to her husband. The girl kept yelling at her. Wilde did, too.

  I watched through the scope. Wilde hadn't moved since he got out of the car. I had a perfect line on him. A clean shot, with no chance of hitting the girlfriend or Rose. Just a squeeze of the trigger and . . .

  And I'd shoot a man in front of his wife and child.

  I could argue that Rose would be happy to see her husband dead. It was her only way out of this marriage. She'd tried to leave twice. The first time, he kidnapped their daughter. The second time, she'd been pregnant and when he found her, he'd punched her in the stomach and she'd lost the baby. Going to the police hadn't helped. When he was released from custody, he beat her so badly she needed painkillers for weeks, which he soon replaced with higher octane ones. He got her hooked, then convinced her that her addiction would mean she'd never get custody of Hannah.

  Yes, when it came to abusive husbands, you couldn't get much worse than Alan Wilde. Which is why I agreed to the job. Rose wasn't the one who'd hired me--her father had--but I'd seen nothing to suggest that Alan's death wouldn't be the best thing that ever happened to her. That did not mean she'd actually want to witness it. And she sure as hell wouldn't want their daughter to.

  So I waited. Finally, Rose strapped Hannah back into her booster and got into the driver's seat. "I'm taking her to the doctor," she said.

  "The hell you are!" Wilde stormed toward her car. "How the fuck are you going to pay for it? Call your daddy? If you do, I swear--"

  The car leapt back, tires squealing. Wilde barely got out of the way in time.

  "You bitch!" he yelled. "Don't you dare . . ."

  I didn't catch the rest of the threat. I was busy lining up my shot, waiting for the moment when Rose's car was out of sight. Just another few seconds . . .

  The girlfriend walked over to Wilde, trying to calm him--and stepped right into my line of fire. Wilde pushed her aside and headed for the driver's door. She followed, staying between me and him.

  I could make the shot, but there was a chance I'd hit her instead. I remained in position, hoping she'd move. But she kept pace until he got to the driver's door. He climbed inside and peeled away, leaving her in the parking lot.

  CHAPTER 2

  I'd missed my hit. It happened. Not often, thankfully, but no amount of planning can cover every contingency. I'd need to stay in Michigan to finish the job, so as I walked the two miles to my rental car, I called home.

  Home for me is a wilderness lodge northeast of Toronto. I'm the owner, operator, backcountry guide, shooting-range instructor, and entertainment director. Hell, some days I'm even the busboy and chambermaid. It's that kind of business.

  In October, we rarely have guests off-weekend, which is why I'd picked midweek for the job. Ostensibly, I'm taking a little personal R&R. Do my caretakers, the Waldens, believe that? They've been with me long enough to know I don't do R&R, as much as they would like me to, but they just wish me a good trip and assure me everything will be fine in my absence.

  Now I called to say that I'd be gone a little longer. Emma answered the phone. Her husband, Owen, never does--telephones require talking, and the only man I know who talks less is my mentor, Jack.

  "I'm thinking of taking a couple of extra days," I said. "How are the bookings?"

  "Same as they were when you called last night, Nadia. Three rooms, seven guests. Not one has requested range access or shooting lessons or rock climbing or white-water canoeing, probably because they're all over sixty and have learned common sense. It's past Thanksgiving. Everyone who wanted a fall-colors getaway did it on the long weekend. Also, they're forecasting snow."

  "Already?"

  "I'm sure it'll just be a sprinkling, but I wouldn't be surprised if we have cancellations. You know what idiots drivers are in a first snow. Go enjoy your vacation."

  "I will. And don't spoil Scout too much. Last time I came back, I thought she'd swallowed a beach ball."

  "That's Owen," she said. "Damned fool's a sucker for sad puppy-dog eyes."

  "Maybe you should try it on him."

  She laughed, and we ran over a few business items, then I reached the car and signed off.

  One call down. One to go. I took a different phone from the glove box. It was a toy from a hitman friend, Felix--the same guy who gave me the amplifier. The phone is a sweet piece of tech and probably damned expensive. It was untraceable, of course, but also came with built-in voice modulation, GPS blocking, interception alert, and a number randomizer. In short, it was perfect for calling to report a failed hit.

  I wasn't phoning the client. I had no contact with him. I work exclusively for Paul Tomassini, nephew to the don of a New York Mafia family. This wasn't their job, but one that came to Paul himself, as a special request from a connected friend whom Rose Wilde's father had contacted. Paul knew it was my kind of work, so he'd put me on it.

  "It's Dee," I said when he answered.

  That's my professional name. Jack's idea, proving that the guy has not an iota of imagination. His own nom de guerre? Jack.

  Paul did know my real name. He'd been a regular at the lodge when he invited me into my side business, knowing I was good with a gun and, at the time, I'd really needed cash.

  "It was a bust," I said, phrasing it carefully. "His better half showed up, with the little one."

  "Shit." A brief pause. "You trying again?"

  "Of course."

  "Good. I'll let him know."

  "Can you tell him he should check in on her, too? There was a bit of a scene." I explained what had happened.

  "What the fuck? Wife needs permission to take the kid to the doctor?"

  "She needs permission for everything. She doesn't have her own cell phone, car, credit cards, access to the bank account . . ."

  He let out a string of profanity. "And he waved his side dish in her face? Fucking bastard."

  "You'll let your friend know? If hubby is pissed off with her . . ."

  "He might beat the shit outta her again. Yeah, I'll call now. Make sure he knows what's up."

  In any job, it's nice to have colleagues you can call for a postmortem when things go wrong. A shoulder to whine on doesn't hurt, either. That's one thing I'd loved about my former career as a cop. There were always guys I could talk to.

  There's no support group for hitmen.

  I was lucky. I had a network. Very small, of course--this is a career that caters to loners. There's Jack, of course . . . who'd be the last person I'd call for a pick-me-up. In person, yes. On the phone, I might as well talk to myself.

  Then there's Jack's mentor, Evelyn. I could imagine her response. Why the hell didn't you take the damned shot? My reluctance to traumatize the wife and child would be silly sentimentality to her. I was paid to kill, so I should have killed.

  There was only one person I could talk this out with. Quinn. A U.S. marshal who moonlights as a vigilante hitman. Quinn understands the ex-cop part of me that Jack doesn't really get, just as Jack understands the part of me that isn't like Quinn, the part still bleeding from my cousin's murder twenty years ago.

  If this happened a month ago Quinn would expect me to call. He'd be pissed if I didn't. Now I'd probably get as far as "hello" before he hung up.

  After a year of flirting and circling each other, Quinn and I started dating six months ago. It had been good. Better than good. It made me wonder why the hell I'd put him off so long. It was a long-distance relationship--he lived in Virginia--but we got together at least one weekend a month.

  Six weeks ago, he'd asked me to his cousin's wedding. I shouldn't have been surprised. For months, he'd been joking about dragging me to this family dinner or that family party. I realized now it'd been the kind of fake joking where you're hoping for an enco
uraging response. Anyway, I missed the signals so I'd said no to the wedding. It escalated to a fight. He wanted more; I wasn't ready to give more and wasn't sure I ever would be. He hung up.

  A week later, he came to the lodge. He'd done that once before, and Jack tore a strip out of him. Quinn knew better than to show up there when I hadn't introduced him to that part of my world. Obviously waylaying me at home had not smoothed things over. We fought. He accused me of wanting nothing more than friendship with sex. It got ugly. He said we were through and stormed out.

  The hard truth? He wasn't wrong. I did want friendship. I did want sex. That's it. We led separate lives, and as happy as I was with him, I didn't see that ever changing for me. I didn't want to meet his family, because I knew how close he was to them and I knew that was the first step onto a road I wasn't willing to travel.

  It wasn't really the hackneyed "friends with benefits." There was more. It just wasn't what he wanted.

  After that, he'd gone silent. No calls, no e-mail, not even a text. I phoned a couple of times. He didn't answer. It was over. So there was no calling him tonight. There was no calling anyone.

  Normally, I'm up by dawn and out for my jog, but after a rough night, I needed my rest, so I turned off my alarm and dozed fitfully until nine. I ran fifteen kilometers after that, working off excess job frustration. Then I brought breakfast back to my motel room and waited to start tracking Wilde again. By midafternoon he'd leave work for the day, and I'd be waiting to follow him, figure out when and how to finish this.

  When my "business" phone rang just past noon, it was Paul Tomassini, which was odd. That's one advantage of working for the mob. They don't panic and pester you for updates. I wondered if the client was having second thoughts. Damn I hoped not. As a cop, I'd seen enough domestic violence to know it was only a matter of time before Rose was lying on a morgue slab. I'd much rather see him there.

  "It's me," Paul said when I answered. "Thought I'd hear from you."

  Ah, so, the client was just getting antsy. "Tell him it's under control. I can't promise it today, but it'll get done this week."

  Silence. Then, "Have you read the paper this morning, Dee?"

  My hand clenched the phone. "No. Why?"

  "Go read it. Call me back."

  The story made the front page of the regional paper: "Local Businessman Kills Wife, Self." The subheading: "Preschool Daughter in Intensive Care."