“Well, it did keep the bullet from going through me, but the slug’s still got all that velocity behind it. Something had to absorb it, and that something was me.”

Jack still wasn’t sure why he’d given in to the impulse to wear the Santa suit. Usually if he dressed up it was either as a lure or to allay suspicion. Last night’s flamboyant performance with the ho-ho-ho’s and the beard and red suit was not his style.

But somehow… this time, this job… he’d felt compelled to make a point.

And he’d known that was stupid. Experience had taught him, when you try to make a point instead of simply getting the job done, you up the chances of things going wrong, which ups your chances of getting hurt.

So Jack had taken precautions. He never wore body armor, but had made an exception last night. Normally he would have opened a can of mace and lobbed it into the truck, then taken down the guy or guys with a sap when they tumbled out the door. But doing the Santa thing required more exposure, and he knew sure as hell someone would have a gun.

He’d been right. The guy got off a lucky shot that felt like a four-by-four slamming end-on into Jack’s chest. Knocked him off the truck and the wind out of his lungs, but the ten-ply vest had stopped the slug.

Good thing he’d had those weighted gloves. Abe hadn’t been able to find white ones, but he’d provided Jack a pair of white cotton gloves to wear over the more traditional black leather. The lead inserts doubled the impact of every punch and allowed him to make short work of the creep.

And then Jack had lost it. Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was thinking how he’d be dead if he hadn’t worn the vest, and maybe it was remembering the victims of the slimeball’s rip-off. Whatever, the darkness within slipped out of its hole and took over for a little while.

Gia slipped an arm around him and pulled him closer.

One of her breasts rested on the bruise. She nuzzled against his neck.

“When are you going to quit this?” she said.

Jack took a deep breath and felt a sharp stab of pain. He figured the bullet impact had caused a minor separation in his rib cartilage. Not the first time for him, probably not the last.

“Oh, we’re not going to get into that now, are we?” he said softly, smoothing her soft blond hair.

“It’s just that I get so scared when I think about people shooting at you.”

“It’s not an everyday occurrence. Most of my fix-ups are strictly hands-off affairs.”

“But there’s always the potential for things to go wrong. I mean, you’re not exactly dealing with upstanding citizens in your line of work.”

“You’ve got a point there.”

Maybe if he kept agreeing, she’d let it drop.

“I know I owe Repairman Jack, but—”