Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three by Alexi Lawless Page A
Authors: Alexi Lawless
Tags: Fiction
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risk everything to help her, and nearly lose her, my brother, and my best friend in the process, I’d have thought you were the one taking drugs,” he admitted to Mitch, meeting his eyes.
Mitch sighed. “Jack, maybe it’s proof that this isn’t the healthiest relationship for you to be in,” he said gently.
“No,” Jack shook his head. “Since I’ve had this time to myself, there are some certainties I’ve come to grips with: I don’t believe in reasonable success, and there’s no goddamn way I’m settling for discontented stability. I won’t walk away from my problems, and I certainly won’t leave Samantha alone to manage hers. Our lives are intertwined now, and I see my future more clearly than ever. It’s with her. For better or for worse. I won’t live my life half-measure, Mitch, comparing every other woman to her. It’s Samantha or no one.”
Mitch sighed. “And if she doesn’t come around?”
Jack shrugged. “She will.”
“You’re still a cocky SOB, you know that?”
Jack just smiled. “Sometimes you just have to be. It’s the only way to make the impossible happen. Now let’s get out of here. We’ve got more work to do.”
Chapter 6
March—Morning
Tel Aviv, Israel
R O X A N N E
R oxanne admired the view of Tayalet promenade from the wide bank of windows overlooking Tel Aviv’s charming beachfront boardwalk and the impossibly blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. She had a perfect line of sight towards Gordon-Frishman Beach’s pristine white beach, punctuated with colorful umbrellas and a few brave souls who were hell-bound and determined to enjoy the water despite the chilliness of the March weather.
She’d only been in Tel Aviv for a week tracking Avi Oded, but in the short time she’d been there, she’d come to quite like it. Compared to the inclement weather and never-ending dampness of London or the deep-freeze-locker feel of Chicago, Tel Aviv was a dream. For the past few months, she’d been traveling from shithole to shithole trying to track Lucien Lightner down, but now, hanging out in the former Sayeret Matkal operative-turned-Mossad-agent’s apartment, going through his spare but beautifully-appointed home, was actually a pleasure.
Rox had already scoured through the place, finding a closet full of impeccably-made suits, custom dress shirts with French cuffs, shined wingtips, and a handful of casual clothes. She’d learned that Avi Oded favored sandalwood-scented sundries, he exercised at home using a variety of weights, resistance bands, and a well-used boxing bag and in the morning, he surfed. She could also tell Avi Oded’s impeccable flat wasn’t a home—not really. Just a place to rest his head when he was in town. In fact, it was exactly the kind of space Rox would choose—quiet, excellent visibility with no buildings immediately in front, multiple escape routes, beautiful décor that felt more like a high-end hotel than an actual sanctuary. There were no books, no knick-knacks, no tossed receipts.
The only remotely personal thing she found was a dog-eared photo of him in uniform back when he was probably eighteen- or nineteen-years-old, laughing with men in his first IDF unit. She’d found a champagne cork rolling around in one of his kitchen drawers, written on it was the hand-scribbled date she guessed was the birth of his daughter from about ten years ago. She’d discovered a vintage white gold pocket watch with a man’s initials hidden in the safe beneath the floorboard of his living room. She also found a few thousand in cash, a Jericho .45 ACP combat handgun with the serial numbers filed off, and a handful of fake passports from different nations: the U.S., France, Switzerland, and even Belgium.
She flipped open a random passport. Avi Oded was a handsome bastard. He looked right at the camera with green-hazel eyes and had a kind of mysterious swagger. Maybe it was the undeniable lushness about him—the full, well-formed mouth, the
Mitch sighed. “Jack, maybe it’s proof that this isn’t the healthiest relationship for you to be in,” he said gently.
“No,” Jack shook his head. “Since I’ve had this time to myself, there are some certainties I’ve come to grips with: I don’t believe in reasonable success, and there’s no goddamn way I’m settling for discontented stability. I won’t walk away from my problems, and I certainly won’t leave Samantha alone to manage hers. Our lives are intertwined now, and I see my future more clearly than ever. It’s with her. For better or for worse. I won’t live my life half-measure, Mitch, comparing every other woman to her. It’s Samantha or no one.”
Mitch sighed. “And if she doesn’t come around?”
Jack shrugged. “She will.”
“You’re still a cocky SOB, you know that?”
Jack just smiled. “Sometimes you just have to be. It’s the only way to make the impossible happen. Now let’s get out of here. We’ve got more work to do.”
Chapter 6
March—Morning
Tel Aviv, Israel
R O X A N N E
R oxanne admired the view of Tayalet promenade from the wide bank of windows overlooking Tel Aviv’s charming beachfront boardwalk and the impossibly blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. She had a perfect line of sight towards Gordon-Frishman Beach’s pristine white beach, punctuated with colorful umbrellas and a few brave souls who were hell-bound and determined to enjoy the water despite the chilliness of the March weather.
She’d only been in Tel Aviv for a week tracking Avi Oded, but in the short time she’d been there, she’d come to quite like it. Compared to the inclement weather and never-ending dampness of London or the deep-freeze-locker feel of Chicago, Tel Aviv was a dream. For the past few months, she’d been traveling from shithole to shithole trying to track Lucien Lightner down, but now, hanging out in the former Sayeret Matkal operative-turned-Mossad-agent’s apartment, going through his spare but beautifully-appointed home, was actually a pleasure.
Rox had already scoured through the place, finding a closet full of impeccably-made suits, custom dress shirts with French cuffs, shined wingtips, and a handful of casual clothes. She’d learned that Avi Oded favored sandalwood-scented sundries, he exercised at home using a variety of weights, resistance bands, and a well-used boxing bag and in the morning, he surfed. She could also tell Avi Oded’s impeccable flat wasn’t a home—not really. Just a place to rest his head when he was in town. In fact, it was exactly the kind of space Rox would choose—quiet, excellent visibility with no buildings immediately in front, multiple escape routes, beautiful décor that felt more like a high-end hotel than an actual sanctuary. There were no books, no knick-knacks, no tossed receipts.
The only remotely personal thing she found was a dog-eared photo of him in uniform back when he was probably eighteen- or nineteen-years-old, laughing with men in his first IDF unit. She’d found a champagne cork rolling around in one of his kitchen drawers, written on it was the hand-scribbled date she guessed was the birth of his daughter from about ten years ago. She’d discovered a vintage white gold pocket watch with a man’s initials hidden in the safe beneath the floorboard of his living room. She also found a few thousand in cash, a Jericho .45 ACP combat handgun with the serial numbers filed off, and a handful of fake passports from different nations: the U.S., France, Switzerland, and even Belgium.
She flipped open a random passport. Avi Oded was a handsome bastard. He looked right at the camera with green-hazel eyes and had a kind of mysterious swagger. Maybe it was the undeniable lushness about him—the full, well-formed mouth, the
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