A Fatal Bragg (Ian Bragg Thriller Book 4) by Craig Martelle

Author:Craig Martelle [Martelle, Craig]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Craig Martelle, Inc
Published: 2021-11-25T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“My actions are my only true belongings.” –Thich Nhat Hanh

While we waited, Jenny and I had learned everything there was to know about Anastasia Milford, esquire. Top of her class at Chicago Law School, where she had two different articles published in the school’s journal. One was titled, Self-Help in Tort Law Versus Self-Help in Criminal Law. Her take on vigilantism.

Her article suggested a solid defense for a victim who sought justice when the system failed to prosecute a crime. In the real world, very few crimes made it to court, but the rule of law still applied. How could it be enforced when communities were woefully understaffed?

Enter the Peace Archive. Different, but the idea was the same.

To protect those who were not getting justice elsewhere.

An added bonus was her silence. She shared little on social media, not even reporting her junior associate status until after she’d worked there for a week. She had few if any real friends. Her phone records showed that she talked to few people, but no one on a regular basis except her mother, who lived in rural Illinois.

Someone with no close friends, the ability to keep a secret, and a willingness to consider the advantage of vigilante law.

I had no doubt what I needed to do. Jenny remained skeptical.

Help was on its way, someone who knew both New York and Chicago and supported an alternate system of justice.

The knock on the door came exactly at seven in the evening. I’d been hungry for a while. Jenny made faces every time my stomach growled like an angry pitbull.

We found the young lawyer waiting on the stoop, dressed as she had been earlier in the day. We had changed to casual.

“Ms. Milford. Welcome to Casa Bragg, where you’ll get to help yourself out of the refrigerator. We’ll eat out by the pool if that’s okay. My better half, Jenny.”

“Happy to meet you,” Jenny said neutrally, offering her hand. The women shook in a cold, unemotional manner.

“Call me Stacy, please,” she replied, a well-practiced phrase.

My stomach growled afresh. “We usually eat a little earlier,” I explained. “So, let’s grab our plates.”

We retreated to the kitchen, which was clean. We had three plates on the counter. “Help yourself.”

She looked around, confused.

“It’s in the refrigerator. I wasn’t kidding. I’m not hauling it all out just to put it all back when you inevitably nibble.”

Anastasia Milford sported a slender physique but was cut in a way that suggested aerobics or yoga versus the weightlifting and full-contact sparring Jenny and I employed to keep us fit. Jenny and Anastasia could not have been more different. I didn’t care about her blonde hair or alabaster skin; I only cared what was inside her head.

Jenny had her back up immediately as if the woman were a contender for my affections.

I slipped an arm around Jenny’s waist and pulled her tight against me as I turned away from the lawyer. I ran a finger down the side of Jenny’s face, holding her gaze. I kissed her until we heard a dish clink on the counter.

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