Hunt Her Down

by Roxanne St Claire

  “No,” she insisted, digging her sneakers into a crack in the wet asphalt. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  He took hold of her shoulders and squeezed so hard his fingers dug into her bones. “Get the hell out of here right now. That’s all you need to know.”

  Lights from a car illuminated his face, and he forced her down, behind the car.

  “Michael, stop it. Why are you doing this?” Tears mixed with rain, stinging her eyes and cheeks.

  Headlights illuminated the lot and his eyes flashed as he nudged her once more toward the fence, then vaulted away.

  Slowly, she rose in shock, staring after him as he ran full speed to the warehouse. She saw him shake out of the jacket he wore and drop it to the ground, revealing another jacket underneath. With yellow letters on the back . . .

  FBI.

  Oh God. Oh God, no.

  He stopped, looked over his shoulder to where she stood, and even in the darkness, in the distance, she could see him saying something. To her? What was he saying?

  Then there was light and noise and the world seemed to explode. Spotlights poured blinding whiteness over everything, drawing a gasp from Maggie as she faltered backward.

  She spun and lunged for an opening in the fence, her sneakers splashing into puddles, her legs almost buckling as she tripped over gravel and cracks. Rain sluiced over her face, into her mouth.

  A gunshot cracked and voices cut through the deafening rain.

  “FBI! DEA! Get out of the truck! You’re under arrest!”

  Four, five, six more gunshots, staccato and deafening.

  She slowed, stopped, and pressed her hands to her chest to ease the pain of her heaving breaths. She had to see. Had to. Grabbing a strip of wood along the top of the fence, she hoisted herself up, blinking into the rain and lights and chaos.

  Men surrounded the delivery truck, guns drawn. One of them yanked open the door and pulled Jorge out. Then Stephan on the driver’s side. More men swarmed the warehouse. In the flood of light, she could easily read the large yellow letters on their backs.

  Her heart dropped right down to her toes, leaving a black, empty hole in her chest. Michael had betrayed them all. He was a fed. A narc. A liar.

  She clung to the fence, her hair plastered over her face, her lungs bursting, her heart breaking as the ugly truth hammered down on her as hard as the rain.

  One of the agents threw Jorge on the ground and clamped him down with a boot and gun to the head. Two more ran into the back, pistols straight out and ready to shoot.

  Agents and cops poured out of the warehouse, first with Carlos in cuffs, then Ramon, his long black hair streaming wet in his face, spewing obscenities as he tried to jerk free. An ambulance screamed into the parking lot, blue lights flashing; then the paramedics were running into the warehouse.

  Where was Michael?

  Frozen, she watched in horror as they took a stretcher inside. Minutes dragged by until they came back out, carrying Michael. As the stretcher passed Ramon, who was cuffed and slammed against the side of the building, he turned and spat on the body.

  “Cabrón!” Bastard.

  At the ambulance, they covered his face with a sheet. Closing her eyes, Maggie let go of the fence and dropped to the wet ground. Her stomach rolled, the nausea caused by something other than what she’d suspected for the last few weeks.

  He’d used her. He’d played her. He’d strung her along, made her think he loved her, all the time coaxing information that she got from her boyfriend. All the time making her believe he cared.

  She was nothing more than a way to get to Ramon, and through him, to El Viejo.

  Thank God he was dead—otherwise she’d go to jail for killing him herself.

  Ramon was right. Bastard.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the fortune. The universe spoke to her, all right.

  Stupid, stupid Magdalena. You have been royally fucked once again.

  She started to roll the paper into a ball, rocked by the sudden need to throw it down and grind it under her foot as if it was Michael Scott.

  But then she stopped and cupped her hands over it, the urge to protect it strong. The urge to protect the beauty that grew inside of her.

  That was the real meaning of the message in the fortune cookie.

  She tucked the paper back into her jeans pocket and then, just as she’d done the last time someone betrayed her, she ran for her life.

  Only this time, she wasn’t alone.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fourteen Years Later

  ALL HE WANTED to do was make a clean getaway.

  But Dan Gallagher knew the minute he stepped out of the Bullet Catchers’ headquarters that this exit would be anything but clean.

  Leaning against his Maserati was the one person who wouldn’t let him get away with anything.

  “Slinking out so soon?” Max asked, crossing his arms over his massive chest, his hair still sweaty from the company touch football game.

  “Slinking is generally done through the back door, Roper. I’m going out the way I came in.”

  Max narrowed dark eyes at Dan.

  “Out for good?”

  “Out for now.”

  “You’re crushed.”

  Dan laughed. “No, but if you don’t get out of my way, you will be.” He pulled his keys out. “I got a plane to catch.”

  “Not taking a Bullet Catcher jet?” Of course he didn’t move.

  “Nope. It’s personal business.”

  Max just cocked his head, never wasting a word. They hadn’t had “personal business” they didn’t share in twenty years.

  “Come on,” Dan said. “I’m seriously late getting to the airport.”

  “Did she tell you everything?” Max asked.

  Dan glanced up to the second-story window overlooking the drive, to Lucy Sharpe’s private library and office. She’d probably gone to the back patio to celebrate with the others. These were happy days for her company. For her.

  “She didn’t have to tell me anything. It’s all over her glowing face. And I’m delighted for her.”

  Max choked. “Delighted?”

  “What?” Dan countered. “You don’t believe I’m not happy that a woman I’ve worked for and been friends with for years has found . . .” Freedom from whatever misery had kept her in an emotional prison for a long time? He’d never had the key to that jail cell, but Jack Culver had proven himself more than capable. “Has found bliss,” he finished.

  “Delighted and bliss in the same speech?”

  “Shut up. She’s happy, and I’m …” Free to move on. “Happy for her. We’re all just one big, happy Bullet Catcher family. And a growing one, at that.” At Max’s look, he just shook his head. “I swear to God, I’m not lying.”

  “You’re rationalizing. Which is another word for lying, only to yourself. And while your ability to bend the truth has served you well in countless undercover situations, this is real life.”

  Dan scowled at him. “Did aliens come and take Mad Max Roper? Or has marriage and fatherhood turned you into Dr. Phil? And since when isn’t a UC situation real life?”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Fear not, my man. I’ve never been better. I’m free.”

  “Free.”

  “Yeah. Free. Lucy, in case you haven’t surmised from her radiance, has made the ultimate commitment with Culver. Do I agree with her choice of partners?” He shrugged. “Not my problem. Do I wish it was me up there perusing a baby name book? Hell, no. I know you think you’ve cracked the code with Cori and little Peyton, and maybe you have. But I don’t want that key. I like the status quo.”

  Unrelenting brown eyes narrowed. “More rationalizing.”

  Call it whatever you want.” He gave Max’s meaty shoulder a smack with the file in his hand. “Now go eat some charred meat like a good Rottweiler. You’re missing the party and all the gossip about the reasons behind my leave of absence.”

  �
�A leave of absence, with a Bullet Catcher dossier still warm from the Research and Investigative Department printer?”

  The son of a bitch didn’t miss a trick. “Just grabbed a file on an old friend I might look up in the Keys.”

  “You’re going to Florida? Cori and I are going down to Miami tomorrow, to her place on Star Island. Why don’t you stay with us for a few days?”

  “And get psychoanalyzed by the two of you? No thanks. Anyway, I’ll be a couple of hours south, in Marathon.”

  “Doing what?” Max pressed.

  “Fishing.”

  “You don’t own a tackle box. What’s going on down there?”

  “Nothing.” He hoped. “I’m taking some time to myself. See an old friend. Learn the difference between a trout and a . . . nother kind of fish.”

  “Who’s the old friend?”

  It was a waste of time to try and sidestep him. “A young lady I knew from my Miami days.”

  Max’s wheels visibly turned. “Not the girl from the Venezuelan money laundering ring?”

  Dan sighed. “Do you have to have a memory like a steel trap?”

  “How could I forget? For one thing, the takedown of Alonso Jimenez and company was a major operation that involved the DEA and the FBI. And, not exactly a lady, as I recall, though she was young then.”

  He bristled at the comment. “She’s fourteen years older now.”

  “So instead of licking new wounds, you’re going to open old ones?” Max asked.

  “The only thing I’m planning to lick is salt with my tequila.”

  “You sure that’s smart, when you’re on the rebound and all?”

  Dan leaned right in his friend’s face. “Let’s get this straight, Roper. I’m not on the rebound and I don’t need you to judge what’s smart and what’s not.” He pulled back. “But since you’re so damn nosy, I still have access to some of the FBI sites and I noticed that Ramon Jimenez got out of prison recently.”

  “El Viejo’s son?”

  “Yeah.” Everyone who knew the case knew Alonso Jimenez was universally referred to as “El Viejo”—the old man. “I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

  “You think he’ll go after her?”

  Dan shrugged. “She was never implicated or arrested, and, per my request, she was left out of the trial since her testimony was superfluous, considering all the evidence we had. As far as she or any of them know, Michael Scott—my cover name—was accidentally killed that night in friendly fire. That’s the way the agency wanted to play it. But Ramon has had a long time to put together the truth, and he might have figured out the leak was his girlfriend. He’s a rat bastard, and I don’t trust him.”

  “So what’s your plan? Spring your real identity on her?”

  “God, no. And she’ll never recognize me, because that cover was thorough and the guy she knew had brown eyes, dark hair, and a prosthetic nose. I just want to check out where she lives and works, make sure she’s safe. She goes by Smith now, so she’s probably married with kids.”

  “Could be an alias and she’s living in fear that they’ll find her.”

  The same thought had occurred to him. “If that’s the case, then I’ll introduce myself as a former FBI agent who thinks she should be aware that Ramon Jimenez is out of prison. Then I’ll leave, and she’ll be safer. This is strictly a standard security check after a prison release. After I’m done, I’ll be back.” Probably. He gave Max a tight smile.

  “Culver is a fact of our life, now,” Max said, a warning in his voice. “Can you live with that?”

  “Look, I know Lucy and I flirted with possibilities. But it would have screwed up a great friendship, and I’m not interested in …” A baby. “Anything that would tie me down. She knows that, and so do I.”

  Finally satisfied, Max moved. “Call me when you get there.”

  Dan reached for the car door. “Why would I even need a wife, when I have you?”

  “And the invitation stands. Cori has a week of board meetings at Peyton Enterprises, and I’m going to go apeshit and melt in the heat. Hang out with me in Miami Beach.”

  “You’re so full of it. You love all that time with Peyton.”

  Max beamed at the mention of his two-year-old. “It doesn’t suck.”

  “Who woulda thunk it? Max Roper morphs into Father of the Year.”

  “Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.”

  Dan circled his throat and mock-choked, then took one more glance at the library window. He’d never have gone there with Lucy, so she really was better off now. He climbed into the car and shut the door.

  Snapping on the CD player, he cranked up the volume, then took off down the driveway with the familiar relief that once again he’d successfully dodged a bullet.

  “Oh, please, not again.” Maggie clunked the empty tray on the service bar and put her hands over her ears but it did nothing to drown out the music echoing through Smitty’s. “I swear, I’m going to go down to Margaritaville myself and shoot Jimmy Buffett for recording it.”

  “That’ll just make ‘em want to hear it more.” From his favorite bar stool, Gumbo Joe threw her a wide, yellowtoothed smile. “Anyhoo, you’re the one who put a jukebox in this joint, Lena. Smitty’d roll over in his grave if he saw how you turned his nice little watering hole into a tourist trap full of northerners who want to get wasted away again.”

  “Smitty, God rest his soul, ought to roll over in his grave, for the debt he left me in.” She flipped the service door up and slipped behind the bar, dumping the empties into the recycle bin. “And I see the transformation from bait bar to tourist trap hasn’t stopped you from swilling one dollar AmberBocks every Friday night, Gumbo.”

  “Well, a man’s gotta drink after a hard day of trawlin’.” He took a swig to underscore the statement while Maggie headed to the cash register to ring up the pitcher of draft she’d just served.

  She hip-nudged Brandy out of the way, but not hard enough to make the superskilled bartender splash a drop of the tequila she was pouring. “Don’t forget the lost shaker of salt.”

  Brandy gave her a wry smile and lifted the tequila bottle. “Every time that tune comes on we sell more of this shit, and the markup is pure profit, partner. That song is what you would call a good sign.”

  “Ka-ching !” Maggie exclaimed as the drawer popped open.

  Brandy turned, expertly threading her fingers around six shot glasses. “Oh, and speaking of good signs. Look who just came in. Your boyfriend’s back.”

  Maggie froze, a little thrill tickling her tummy. “Don’t care.”

  “You lie, Lena Smith.”

  “I never lie, Brandy Istre, and you know that. But I’m not looking, because I don’t care.”

  “You should look, because, whoa, he is even hotter than the last two nights he’s been in here, checking you out like you were his favorite library book.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes, closing the cash register with a quiet click. “Whatev, as Quinn would say.”

  “In case you change your mind, he’s sitting down at the two-top by the window,” Brandy continued. “He’s looking at the table tent as if he’s actually considering a dollar beer, but we know he’s an import kind of guy. Look at those clothes, all Ralph Lauren expensive. I bet he came down in his yacht. Yep, he’s looking out at the marina, running his hand through that dirty-blond hair, and over his jaw.” Brandy dipped a little closer to whisper the rest of her play-by-play. “I don’t think he shaved today. He wants your poor li’l thighs to get all rosy with a rash.”

  Maggie laughed, hiding her weak knees and high hopes.

  The last two nights he’d been there, he’d just ordered a Heineken, nursed it, and then left. But the entire time, he’d watched her. No, he pinned her with eyes the same green as the bottle she served him, making her tense and prickly and . . . aware.

  She turned from the cash register, and looked right at him. Another lightning bolt rocked her, this time right between those poor li’l thig
hs.

  Holy mother of all that mattered, the man was edible.

  Neither one looked away, and Maggie could have sworn those perfect lips tipped in a smile. She managed to breathe—no mean feat.

  “Shots are up, Mrs. Smith!”

  His eyes flickered when Brandy called out the order.

  Maggie instantly transferred her attention to the service bar, where Brandy stood with a hand on her narrow hip and a smug smile on her elfin features.

  “Why’d you have to call me that?” Maggie scowled as she ducked under the bar to get to the other side.

  “Thought you didn’t care.”

  “Well, there’s no reason to make him think I’m still married.”

  “Sure there is—now you have to talk to him. Get your butt over there and tell him you’re a widow.”

  Maggie shot her a vile look and scooped the tray full of shots in one hand. “Look, if I want to get a good look at his ass as he runs screaming out the door, I don’t need to mention my dearly departed husband. The teenager at home usually does the trick.”

  “The teenager is at his uncle’s fishing for two days . . . and two nights.” Brandy leaned her whole body over the service bar to make her point. “And the merry widow hasn’t had sex in four years.”

  “Four years?” Gumbo Jim slammed down his bottle and let his jaw drop. “Lena, that’s a damn sin. Smitty would’ve wanted you to get laid once in a while. You’re a beautiful woman, for God’s sake.”

  Next to Jim, Tommy Sloane inched over and pointed at her. “You know, a hymen can grow back. I read that in Penthouse.”

  “A brain can grow back, too, Tommy, so there’s hope for you yet.” She nodded to a tall, dark-haired man who walked up to the bar and took the stool at the opposite end. “Brandy, you have a new customer. You’re going to want this one.”

  Brandy glanced over her shoulder, then let out a low whistle. “Holy hell, the place is swimming in high-quality testosterone tonight.”

  Maggie balanced the tray. “Go get ‘em, tiger. Our song’s still playing.” She headed toward the group from Philadelphia, who were already a little loud and loose. As she leaned to set down the drinks, she couldn’t resist lifting her gaze to the two-top at the window.