by Misty Evans
Deadly Bounty
SCVC Taskforce Romantic Suspense Series, Book 11
Misty Evans
Deadly Bounty, SCVC Taskforce Series, Book 11
Copyright © 2020 Misty Evans
Cover Art by Fanderclai Design
Formatting by Beach Path Publishing, LLC
Editing by Elizabeth Neal, Patricia Essex
By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.
Please Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
Contents
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
Acknowledgments
Romantic Suspense & Mysteries by Misty Evans
PNR & UF by Misty/Nyx
About the Author
Letter from Misty
1
San Diego
The woman watched from the cover of the trees as Joseph Cahill, bounty hunter, left his vehicle under a streetlight.
He glanced both ways and pressed his key fob. The BMW’s lights flickered twice, letting him know it was locked. Casually, he meandered into the building that housed a senior center and a private accounting firm.
Joe was a bruiser of a guy, a weight lifter and former college football star. Nearing thirty, time hadn’t diminished his size or the perpetual hard expression on his face. The tattoos on his arms, visible under his black T-shirt, looked as menacing as his countenance.
Perspiration trickled down her back as she watched him disappear inside, her blouse sticking to the skin along her spine. Today, the temp had hit a hundred degrees, causing people on the street to collapse from heat exhaustion in record numbers.
In the hazy evening light, things were a bit cooler, but she had to admit not all of her sweat was due to the awful July heat. At least some was from irrepressible fear.
Three weeks and two days since the incident—boy, how things had changed. She’d never dreamed she’d be here, on the run. Her life had become chaos, completely out of her control, and no one believed she was innocent.
And she had no idea why Joe—the number one fugitive apprehension agent in the country—was going inside this location.
He was too young to be a member of the senior center and doubtful he was invited to the apparent party they were throwing. She’d seen multiple men and women coming and going in bright clothing, carrying various types of food.
The accounting firm was probably closed, but she could be wrong. Maybe, for some reason, he’d driven from Carlsbad to San Diego to speak to a bookkeeper…yeah, that seemed likely.
He was the perfect person for Homeland and the Feds to send after her. Everything had gone to hell in a handbasket on July 4th. All she’d worked so hard for destroyed with the bomb.
Local law enforcement had been the first to grab her, and she’d been completely blindsided at first, otherwise she would’ve been on the run the minute the explosion happened.
The FBI had stepped in, yet she’d been convinced she could straighten out the misconception she’d had something to do with the bombing that had rocked an Independence Day parade. Yes, the man who’d done it was one of her undercover contacts, but there’d been no reason to believe she was the mastermind behind the attack.
It all still seemed surreal, as if someone had kicked her in the gut, even after being on the run these past weeks. How could anyone believe she—Samantha Rosenthal, FBI agent and undercover operative—would commit terrorism?
Hell, she’d never drawn her gun on the job, and she’d faced a multitude of dangerous criminals. To believe she could plant a bomb to hurt all those innocent people…
A shudder went through her. Escaping her fellow agents hadn’t been easy, but she’d been raised by spies. Her mother and father had been CIA operatives, and she herself had been top of her class at Quantico.
She’d grown up with three brothers which hadn’t hurt either. Learning evasion and escape techniques, thanks to all those components, had served her well.
Her first thought had been to go to her mom for aid in straightening out this horrible misunderstanding. That would be the first place her coworkers would look, and she couldn’t drag her family into this mess.
Two of her brothers were out of the country, both government employees themselves, and the third was at MIT, working on his second degree. None of them would believe the reports about her, and they were all probably searching for her, too, but involving any of them in this was a no-go.
A group of three boys went by on the sidewalk, one on a skateboard. They were talking about a baseball phenom and the number of balls he’d launched out of the park in the All-Star Home Run Derby.
Sam had considered going to her old friend, Olivia Fiorelli. They’d known each other since they were kids, and Olivia was now a US Marshal. Samantha had given two Marshals the slip, and dropping in on Olivia to beg for help when her organization was in on the manhunt, along with the FBI and Homeland, was also out of the question. Olivia was a good friend, and she was happy now. The last Sam heard from her, before all of this had happened, she was planning a fall wedding to West Coast FBI Director Victor Dupé.
That left Sam with one option…and not a good one.
Joe.
He was well acquainted with her work ethic and complete and utter devotion to her country—a perfect match for his. Like her mother, he had to know she’d never do what they claimed. He would believe her.
Wouldn’t he?
Reaching out was extremely uncomfortable, and not just because of her current situation. She’d been in love with him, planned to marry him, in fact. But things went south after he left the FBI to join his older brothers’ bail bond agency.
Sam’s dreams of the future had gotten sidetracked, and suddenly Joe was constantly on the road, out of touch. He grew unhappy when she accepted a role in the new counterterrorism taskforce, requiring her to do long-term undercover work. Harsh words had been said; their loving relationship had turned into a battlefield. Her heart still hurt every time she thought of him and the love that had been snuffed out.
Her job had been to get close to people whom profilers identified
as radical enough to commit a terrorist crime within a year. She hadn’t been allowed to tell anyone about the beta program or the top secret group she’d been assigned to, not even Joe. It had been the last straw for him, forcing her to choose between their relationship and her work.
Jimmy T, the parade bomber, had been her most recent target.
The beta software used to flag the high risk potential terrorists had been designed by a genius kid at USC working on his doctorate. Quiet Streets, it was labeled. Her mark had been on that list, and had a thing for brunettes with sassy mouths. So that’s what she’d become to insert herself into his pathetic, but often violent, life. It wasn’t much of a stretch.
Taking out terrorists made Sam’s pulse beat a little faster. Made her feel as if she was doing something to protect her country. Going undercover was simply slipping on another persona, and came with ease.
She’d played with her mother’s disguises when she was a girl, overheard her parents discuss operations where they’d altered not only their appearance, but had to remember challenging backstop identities, and use other languages as they pretended to be from different countries. It had sounded like a fascinating game to her.
Growing up to become an undercover agent was a dream come true.
Joe thought she was reckless, that there were other agents who could do the work. He’d told her Kyle Dunmire’s software program was walking a fine line, identifying suspects before they’d actually committed any crime. He was big on free will.
He hadn’t agreed with any of it, and she’d been frustrated with his short-sightedness. Random domestic terrorist bombings had been on the rise the past two years. She was determined to put a stop to them, and prevention was always better, wasn’t it?
In Sam’s mind, there was no one hundred percent cure, but she would do whatever it took to thwart their selfish acts of violence.
A lot of good that ideology had done her. Now, here she was, unable to prove her innocence and on the run from the entire world.
An elderly couple emerged arm in arm, laughing, and swaying slightly on their feet. At least the woman was. The man, while moving slowly and struggling to keep his balance against his companion’s teetering, seemed to be sober enough to drive. He tucked his wife—girlfriend?—in the front of an old Pontiac and hobble-walked to the driver’s side. He took his time getting in, putting on his seatbelt, and starting it.
As they drove off, Sam had another gut check. She’d believed in love and happily-ever-after. Her dreams of growing old with Joe still lodged deeply in her heart. Outside of protecting her country, and being a good daughter, it’s all she’d ever wanted.
He was all she’d ever wanted.
Shoving the thought aside, she forced her attention back to the front of the building. Maybe she could sneak in, figure out where he’d gone, and why.
She was about to exit the car she’d recently stolen from a used dealership, when a black SUV wheeled in and took the spot the old man had vacated. As the driver hopped out and scanned the area, Sam crouched down lower, even though he couldn’t see her.
Her blood went cold.
Dr. Roman Walsh, head of the Domestic Terrorism Taskforce and a Homeland agent high up the chain of command.
Why was he in San Diego? Specifically, what in the hell was he doing here?
She’d met him briefly while working on Quiet Streets. He had one of his people on the team, along with Sam and several more agents.
Seeing him, pieces of this black hole puzzle fell into place. He was meeting Joe.
The bounty hunter.
Fugitive apprehension agent, he’d correct her. He hated the term bounty hunter.
Walsh was a different side of the same coin. His team was looking for her, like the rest of law enforcement, and he’d figured out she and Joe had once had a relationship. It wasn’t a secret.
Again, Sam felt that drop in her belly. After three-plus weeks, the government was seeking outside help to bring a federal fugitive to justice.
Joe’s specialty.
His brothers used him for cases the government wanted to keep under wraps. In particular, when people from the alphabet agencies—NSA, FBI, CIA, etc.—went dark and tried to disappear.
She shouldn’t be surprised they’d recruited Joe, but she was kind of shocked he’d agreed.
Dammit all to hell. Had Joe actually accepted the task of bringing her in?
Walsh entered the building, holding the door for a pair of elderly ladies exiting. One of them lit a cigarette as soon as she hit the sidewalk.
Sam knew it was dangerous, but she waited for them to mosey off before she crossed the street. What was it about this place that brought the two men here? They could’ve discussed the assignment on the phone, met for coffee or a beer.
Had they realized she was in San Diego?
She had to know, and more importantly, ascertain if Joe was working for the enemy.
One of the problems about being on the run in Southern California in late July was she couldn’t wear bulky clothes or hide under a hood. She had a ball cap with a wig underneath, and sunglasses, but she was still a sitting duck.
The women, both of whom had to be in their seventies, were arguing in the parking lot. Sam, head lowered, slipped into the shadows.
As she waited for them to get in their car, she heard the front door open. Two people emerged—a man and a woman, the woman talking into a cell, low but urgent. “No, we need to get that warrant tonight. Yes, I’m aware it’s nearly nine, but this can’t wait.”
Side by side, they hurried down the block and Sam caught sight of them in more detail as they passed the skinny alley. Long shadows fell across the street, but the woman’s smooth, dark skin, and abundant afro stood out.
Ronni Punto. Agent Ronni Punto.
She looked more like a model than a decorated FBI agent. Her partner was Thomas Mann, another agent.
The black hole shitfest expanded.
They worked for the Southern California Violent Crimes Taskforce.
Joe…Walsh…the Taskforce.
Samantha’s insides liquified, her stomach bottoming out.
This had to be a covert meeting place for the SCVC. If Walsh had called Joe here, they were all working together.
To bring her in.
I don’t stand a chance.
Her last and final hope was her ex, but it seemed her worst fear had come to pass.
Joe was now the enemy.
2
Somedays his job sucked.
Joe was a natural when it came to catching fugitives. His twin brothers had started Bondsman Brothers after leaving the Marines, and they hired veterans who couldn’t find decent work in other professions.
They’d nagged him for years to join them, and he’d blown them off. He’d loved the Bureau, finding his niche in kidnapping and missing persons. Once when Caleb and Malachi were shorthanded, he’d given in and accepted a skip trace assignment—just a one-time gig. The hunt got into his blood, and now, thanks to that, his back was against the wall.
What the hell were you thinking, Sam?
Joe checked his watch—it was just after ten. He and Roman Walsh walked the hall, having completed their meeting with Cooper Harris and his taskforce. Samantha Rosenthal, charged with conspiring against the U.S. government, and a handful of others, had broken free during a Bureau transfer from San Diego to Los Angeles and gone on the run. Marshals had caught her, then lost her again. The last sighting was in Southern California, near the border.
She was good, but as far as they could determine, she hadn’t crossed into Mexico. Why, he didn’t know. After the bombing, why hadn’t she vamoosed across the border and kept going?
The Beach Boys filtered through the open door of the senior center. One of the spry elderly gals hustled out when she saw them, calling, “You boys looking for a little fun tonight?”
He and Walsh exchanged a look, and the DTT leader, always savvy and charming to women no matter their age, winked a
t the gal. “If we weren’t on the hunt for a big, bad terrorist, we’d join you. Have fun.”
Joe didn’t miss the woman’s eyeroll. She had no idea he was telling the truth. The taskforce met here under the guise of a support group, and she probably assumed they were avoiding the party to stay sober.
“Is that so?” she asked as they continued. “Sure. I hope you catch him!”
Him. The man driving the truck filled with explosives had died in the bombing. The person behind it—at least according to the higher sources of the US government—was a little petite thing, barely over five-four and a hundred-and-ten pounds soaking wet, who talked in her sleep and liked to be kissed behind her left earlobe…
There wasn’t much he didn’t know about her, like the fact she was highly intelligent, calculating, and extremely efficient at evasion.
His chest squeezed with remorse every time he thought of her.
Night had fully fallen, the heat from the sidewalk hitting them full force as they exited the building. Walsh slapped him on the shoulder. “With you helping Harris and the others, we should have her by the end of the week.”
Right. Because if there was anyone Sam might reach out to, it was him. Not her family—she was too smart to do that. But her ex? A sure bet.
And didn’t that make him feel incredibly good on one hand, and like a piece of shit on the other.
She’s too smart to contact me, either, he reassured himself.
He told himself the cramp in his belly was due to the heat and humidity, but deep down, it was that five-foot four firecracker upsetting his digestion.
