Exit Strategy Read Online Free PDF Page A

faint scent of smoke cut through the smells of the forest. Not wood smoke, but that of a cigarette, some foreign brand with a scent so distinctive I’d recognize it in the smokiest blues bar.
    I looked over. The lights from the lodge silhouetted a dark figure stood poised between the trees, a few feet from my shoulder.
    “Can’t just say hi, can you?” I said.
    He arched his brows and said nothing. Muffled laughter rippled from the lodge. Jack frowned, then hooked a thumb south and started walking. I followed.

 
    FOUR

    We walked toward the lake. No words exchanged, just walking.
    Objectively, I knew I was walking into the forest with a professional killer—a dangerous man made even more dangerous by knowing my secret. The problem was that the concept was hard to reconcile with Jack.
    He didn’t seem threatening, and I’d spent the first year fighting the urge to trust him. That was…confusing for me. At one time, I’d instinctively trusted people, but experience is the best teacher, and even the most trusting child can grow into an adult who’s always wary—even as she hides behind open smiles and friendly conversation.
    So why this sudden urge to trust Jack, of all people? Maybe it was more a need than an urge. For six years, I’d been so careful, holding myself close and tight. Of all the people in my life I should trust, Jack probably ranked at the bottom. Maybe that’s why I did. Like jumping from a plane. I know it’s dangerous. I know it can kill me. And I don’t care. I close my eyes, take the leap and fall.
     
    We stopped at a fallen oak by the lake. Once we’d made ourselves comfortable, Jack glanced in the direction of the lodge.
    “Full house,” he said. “Cops?”
    “It’s not a problem.”
    “Not for me.”
    He had a faint Irish brogue. Did that mean he was Irish? Probably not. There was nothing about Jack I took at face value, except maybe his size, which would be hard to fake. He was a couple of inches under six feet and well built. Beyond that—the brogue, the black hair, the dark eyes, even the angular face, too irregular to be called handsome—all could be faked. For all I knew, he wasn’t even a smoker.
    He opened his mouth again and I knew what was coming, some more pointed comment on my choice of guests.
    “Speaking of problems,” I said quickly. “It seems I have a big one.”
    “Yeah. Wondered if you’d heard. You okay?”
    “A bit freaked.” I paused. “No, a lot freaked.”
    He nodded, took out a cigarette and lit it. The match flared, illuminating the angles and shadows of his face. He passed the cigarette to me. I’d quit six years ago, but that doesn’t stop me from sharing the occasional one with Jack. I’d never told him I used to smoke. Maybe the drooling gave it away.
    I took a few deep drags, then handed it back. He inhaled once and held it out again. I guess he realized I needed the nicotine more than he did.
    “I’ve been away,” he said. “Out of the country. Got back. Heard the news. Wanted to warn you. Then this.”
    “Warn me about what?”
    “Cops think he’s a pro.”
    “The Helter Skelter killer? The Feds think he’s a hitman? Shit.”
    I tapped the ash off the cigarette, then looked down at the burning ember and stubbed it out against the log.
    “Is that why people think Moretti might have been part of the pattern? There has to be more to it than that.”
    He shrugged. “Not important. You did fine. Cops will make the mob connection. They’ll back off. But if the Tomassinis come calling again…”
    “It’ll be the new year before I hear from them again anyway.”
    “Good. Cops are coming down hard on pros. Dragging in every guy they ever suspected. Couple have already gone. Old charges. Circumstantial evidence. Lot easier to make that stick right now.”
    I glanced up at him. “Are you in trouble?”
    “Nah. But what’s bad for the business? Bad for everyone in the business. Word’s already leaking. Jobs are drying up. It