The Huntress

by Dorothy McFalls

  She was finally making some progress tracking down Greg Harper’s pre-college history—hoping to find a continued link between the men—when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” she nearly shouted into the phone, desperate to hear good news from one of the hundreds of contacts she’d made in the past several weeks.

  “Lower your voice, Vega,” her mother said with a stern clip. “I can’t understand why you insist on speaking with that bold voice. It scares away men, you know.”

  Wonderful, her mother must have found yet another eligible bachelor. She’d just finished dodging that last one. “I’m really busy with a case right now, Mom. I’ll be staying at the office until very late every day this week.”

  “You can spare a moment for your mother.” It wasn’t a request. Vega swallowed hard. He must be a real winner this time. “Tonight. Eight o’clock. I’d like you to meet Mrs. Byers’s son, Kyle. He’s a doctor.” Her voice literally sparkled on the word, doctor.

  “I don’t know. I’m already seeing someone.”

  “Oh, and wear something appropriate. I certainly don’t want Kyle scared away by those dreadful army boots, horridly baggy cargo pants, and one of those ill-fitting black t-shirts you insist on wearing.”

  Vega looked down. That was exactly what she was wearing. Was she becoming predictable?

  “Well, it’s practical. You can’t expect me to apprehend a fugitive in high heels and long skirt. I wouldn’t be able to defend myself. I’d break an ankle.”

  “I don’t understand why you insist on dressing like you came from poverty. Your father was the city’s police chief for heaven’s sake. A very respected position. We have a duty to his memory to always look respectable. I about died the last time you showed up for lunch with me at the club.”

  “I explained that. I…”

  “And another thing, Vega. Your job. It’s unseemly. I’d rather you didn’t talk about it with Kyle. You’re not a kid anymore. It’s time you started acting like a woman. It’s past time you got married.”

  “I have no interest…”

  “You have a duty. Just look at the example you’re setting for your sister.”

  This was a new argument in her mother’s repertoire. It stung, too, because she agreed. Fiona had no business following in her footsteps.

  “I’ve tried to talk to her, Mom. She won’t listen.”

  “She’d follow your example if you grew up and acted like a lady once in a while.”

  Vega listened patiently as her mother continued to lecture. Her duty as a daughter was to listen...not to agree. Though by the time she hung up the phone, she’d agreed to meet this new bachelor her mother had selected. Some family obligations simply had to be endured.

  At five o’clock, she decided to call it a day. Fifteen minutes later, she found Butch Polsen’s well-used Ford Crown Victoria parked at the curb of her apartment building. Butch was waiting for her at the door, his snakeskin boot propped up across the frame, his blond hair shimmering in the streetlight. He tipped his battered cowboy hat. “You won’t return my calls.”

  “Do you blame me?” She crossed her arms and stared at him. She wasn’t exactly disappointed to see him.

  He might be an uneducated brute with a short fuse, but he was still the safest man in her life. Probably because he wasn’t the type of man who could tempt her heart. Or make her long for his love. Love was for powder puffs like Lila Crafter and her mother. No way would she end up like one of them, loving a hard man like a brainless ninny.

  “I won’t apologize, if that’s what you expect,” he said. “That scum deserved to eat some buckshot after attacking me like that. You shouldn’t have stopped me.”

  “You’re a menace, Butch.” She pushed him aside and unlocked the door. “Might as well come in since you’re here.”

  He greedily accepted the invitation to invade her quiet space. “So, this is where you live?” He whistled through his teeth. “It’s so bare...depressing.”

  Her second story apartment was furnished with natural woods: bamboo and maple. A few black crystals and polished ebony stones populated the tops of the furniture, creating a stark contrast to the whitewashed walls. A tall bamboo plant grew in a bubbling water garden beside a bank of windows. This was her sanctuary.

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Butch. Not tonight.” She closed and locked the door behind them. “I’ve been summoned to my mother’s for dinner.”

  “Another bachelor?” A spark of anger flashed in his eyes. He grabbed her by the nape of her neck and pulled her hard against his body. Her senses exploded with the memory of their past physical encounter.

  His lips covered hers. With adept skill, his fiery kiss teased her mouth open. His tongue encircled hers, enticing her to surrender.

  A thoughtless tumble with him would do wonders for her nerves. The elusive Grayson Walker had haunted her day and night. His stunning smile even dared to intrude into her dreams. She deserved a break.

  Her body turned tingly, alive in Butch’s hands. He deepened his kiss, leaving her breathless. He’d already worked one hand into her shirt, arousing a nipple into a hard peak with those magic fingers of his. A hot gaze pinned her to the wall. A feral wildness she almost feared swirled deep in his blue eyes. His gaze pressing deeper, he peeled her khakis open and buried his hand in her panties.

  She moaned against his lips. Her body throbbed as he eased a finger deep within her. Oh yeah, mindless sex would be a very pleasing way to spend the evening. She might even risk her mother’s anger...

  Her cell phone chirped.

  “Don’t you dare answer it,” Butch growled. His heavy caresses grew more intense. Her legs weakened.

  The phone chirped again.

  She swallowed a lusty lump. Her body felt heavy, burning for satisfaction. “Have to,” she whispered hoarsely, “expecting a call from Snitch.”

  It took all her willpower to peel Butch away and reach into her coat pocket for the phone. “Vega here,” she said. Her voice sounded strained even to herself.

  “Snitch,” a metallic voice said on the other end. “I’ve got a bunch of weird stuff on your fugitive.” There was a pause. “You okay? You sound funny.”

  “Just a little overheated. Go on.”

  “There’s a CIA file on this guy and his victim. It’s locked up tighter than Fort Knox. It’ll cost you...um...five hundred for the risk.”

  Snitch was the best computer hacker in the area. Many of the bounty hunters in town used her services—at least they all thought Snitch was a ‘her’. The metallic voice had a decidedly feminine lilt. No one knew for certain. Payments were wired electronically to a Swiss bank account.

  “Thanks Snitch. I’ll pay it. Let me know as soon as you liberate the files.” Vega switched off the phone.

  Her mind started racing. The CIA? What was going on?

  “You’re deep in that Walker assignment?” Butch asked. The passion drained from his voice.

  “What do you know about it?”

  “The last hunter to go after the bastard worked with me.”

  She didn’t know. “Oh...I’m sorry, Butch.”

  He shrugged. “The bonding company withdrew their contract with us hours after that bastard popped a hole through my friend’s head. Said they were afraid we’d carry out some kind of vigilante justice.”

  “Imagine that,” she said dryly. Knowing Butch, he’d probably snap Grayson’s neck like a twig if he were to get near enough.

  “Watch yourself, Vega. Don’t go after him alone.”

  She shrugged off the warning. She knew how to take care of herself. “Tell me, do you know anything specific about this guy that could help me find him?”

  He stubbed his foot against the edge of a sisal rug for several minutes before answering. “I shouldn’t help you. I lost a friend and a lot of money because of him.”

  “Fine.” She checked her watch. She was dangerously close to being late for her mother’s dinner party. “I’ve got to get changed
and ready to go to Mom’s.”

  A few sleek dresses hung in the back of her closet just for these occasions. She went into the bedroom and started to dress. Her mother, always eager to impress—she was the good political force behind her husband’s rise to police chief—liked to make her dinner parties into grand affairs. Serving gourmet meals on the finest china in the family’s austere formal dining room. The fact her mother had inherited a fortune from a great-aunt, only made her lofty vision of what was ‘impressive’ all the more possible.

  “He was Army Special Ops,” Butch called from the other room. “That’s what Snitch is probably opening, his Special Ops history file. His partner, Greg Harper, served with him along with two others. I don’t know what missions they were on. The lid on his history is tight. Doubt Snitch can pry those files open. The hacker we used failed miserably. Couldn’t get much of anything useful that way.”

  She emerged from the bedroom fully dressed in a pale violet silk dress that dipped low in the back. Her strappy pumps with heels that would make a fluff-ball like Lila Crafter proud matched the gown perfectly. She pulled her hair up into a loose French twist. She hadn’t bothered with much makeup; her mother would scold.

  “Thanks, Butch.” She gave him a quick kiss and pushed him toward the door. “If I don’t leave right now, Mom will be having fits by the time I get over to the house.”

  * * * *

  After a painfully long evening, Vega collapsed on her bed and stared at the ceiling. This new bachelor her mom had selected had taken one look at Vega and just about licked his lips. The conversation revolved around his life as a doctor at a private clinic and his opinions on everything, all of which bored Vega down to the soles of her feet...until he started to talk about self-defense. He’d recent begun taking classes and thoroughly enjoyed the challenge. Finally, a topic of common interest. She had agreed heartily and explained how invaluable her lessons had been to her when bounty hunting.

  The room slammed into an uncomfortable silence. Her mother’s newest candidate for Vega’s future husband snapped his gapping mouth closed. She’d clearly shocked him.

  Vega and the renowned doctor fit together like two ill-matched puzzle pieces.

  She stared at the ceiling for several more minutes before dragging herself back up to check her phone messages. Snitch had called twice. First to report she’d retrieved Grayson Walker’s file, and then to report that she’d retrieved the files on the team who’d served with him.

  Vega flipped on her computer and pulled up her email. Sure enough, the files Snitch had promised were sitting in her inbox waiting to be read. It took the rest of the night for her to absorb every word.

  The files cracked open Grayson’s past, but gave nothing of what Grayson or his buddies had done during their years in the army. With a little additional computer work, she put together a long list of family and neighbors from Grayson’s childhood—all possible sources. Within a few days, she would know every detail, including Grayson’s favorite color. As the first rays of light streamed through her window, Vega leaned back in her chair, grinning. She felt damned full of herself.

  “Gotcha!” she said.

  Chapter Three

  Her trail ended here.

  The bar’s crumbling concrete block walls were in dire need of a fresh paint job. A handful of cars, beaten and dirty, were parked in the crumbly asphalt lot. For over a week, Vega had pounded on nearly every door between Atlanta and this backwater, salty area in the low-country of South Carolina. She was searching for Tommy Fisher, the man Grayson Walker would most likely run to. Fisher owned the bar. It was a far cry from the expensive glass and steel tower her quarry had used to house his Six-Star Enterprises.

  She pushed open the door to the Broken Cricket, a seedy bar stinking of sour alcohol and sweat, and stepped into the dark interior with a cautious gait. She zipped up her leather jacket despite the pit’s heat, not wanting any uninvited eyes to take too much notice of her and her tight t-shirt.

  Not when she had a job to do.

  She let her gaze roam the darkened interior of the joint as she quickly made her way to the bar, peeling her boots from the sticky floor with each step.

  Damn, this was not at all what she’d expected. Perhaps she was in the wrong place. Grayson, according to her research, would not willingly subject himself to such a hellhole.

  “Give me whatever’s on tap,” she said to the burly bartender whose shifting gaze had followed her from the moment she stepped into the bar. She slid a couple of dollars across the wooden bar top that probably had never been cleaned.

  “You a cop?” the bartender asked, staring wide-eyed at her money.

  She leaned over the bar, inwardly wincing at the thought of smearing the filth from it onto her favorite leather jacket. “Does it matter?” she asked.

  “Not to me.” He pulled a glass from a shelf.

  There was a large baseball bat hanging on that wall. She doubted the man was a sports fan.

  “Might matter to some of these guys, though,” he said as he filled a mug with frothy beer. “If’n you’re not a cop, I hope you carry a gun just the same. Wouldn’t trust a man in here with a woman as clean as you. Ain’t a pleasant place, you see.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” She took a deep drink of the beer, pretending not to notice the smudges of dirt on the glass. “Though, I can take care of myself.”

  “I hope so,” he said as he wandered away.

  She’d traveled too far to find this bar sitting in the middle of what the locals called Hell Hole Swamp, to run away now. Though she’d rather be spending Christmas Eve anywhere but here—more than thirty minutes from a freaking paved road—she wanted nothing more than to slap her cuffs onto her quarry’s wrists.

  Jack had promised her that she could find this Grayson Walker with her eyes closed.

  That had been a month ago.

  She sipped the beer—slightly watered down—wondering again if she’d been mistaken about this place. Turning around, she stood with her back to the greasy Formica bar, letting her gaze search the darkened corners of the room.

  The burly bartender could be the owner, Tommy Fisher. There was a definite resemblance to the photo tucked into her pocket. According to Tommy’s cousin, Grayson and Tommy hadn’t exactly remained friends after serving together in Special Ops. But they weren’t enemies. That made Tommy a contact, a very good contact considering Grayson’s short supply of friends.

  She watched as the bartender carried a beer over to a gloomy booth in the far corner of the bar. A man, who was slumped down in the cushions, sat upright for a moment to accept the proffered drink.

  Bingo.

  The unmistakably finely chiseled cheekbones of Grayson stood out in this bar like a cut diamond in a pile of coal.

  Unconsciously, she reached around to the small of her back to where her Glock 9 sat nestled in its holster and unhooked the latch. She was not about to take any chances with this one. Not after Grayson had rewarded the last bounty hunter to go after him with a bullet in the head.

  She glanced around, assessing the situation.

  Taking him here, in this bar filled with lawless hicks, would be just asking for trouble. But there was a back exit only steps away from where he sat. If she could get him to go out the back way, she could trap him.

  There was nothing out that way except a dumpster sitting on a concrete pad. The property sloped sharply down into a murky swamp. An army of towering cypresses rising up from a sea of black water slowly advanced on the building, probably trying to reclaim the land that had been stolen years before.

  Surely Grayson, from Atlanta’s concrete wilderness, wouldn’t risk the dangers of the swamp in the middle of the night. He’d stand and fight.

  Fight. That was exactly what she wanted him to do.

  The bartender bent down and whispered something in Grayson’s ear. Both men turned to stare.

  Undaunted, she smiled and raised her glass in a mock salute. She pushed away from t
he bar and started toward them, swinging her slim hips.

  I sure hope he’s attracted to women, she thought while she sidled across the room, slowly unzipping her jacket. She could feel several eyes burning into her skin as she used her figure, which had been described as sexy more times than she cared to hear, to throw Grayson off-guard.

  “Buy me a beer,” she said, her voice husky, just before sliding into Grayson’s corner booth. She looked up at the burly barkeep—his expression literally growled—and graced him with her most disarming smile. “He’ll pay,” she said. She turned her sultry gaze back toward Grayson. “I guarantee he will.”

  Grayson stared at her, his mouth slightly open. “I want to be alone,” he grumbled after Tommy left, shaking his head as if trying to clear out a bunch of cobwebs.

  “On Christmas Eve? No one wants to be alone on Christmas Eve.”

  “I’m Jewish,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said, though she knew full well he’d been raised Protestant. She knew damn near everything about him, except for his taste in women. “Well, maybe I don’t want to be alone.” She looked around the room at the motley group of men sipping on their drinks. “At least, not here.”

  Grayson nodded. “I understand. This isn’t exactly a safe place. You don’t belong here.”

  “You don’t look as if you belong either,” she said.

  At that, he quirked a brow. “Looks can be deceiving.”

  “Yes, they can, can’t they?”

  “Look, I’ll pay for your beer since it is Christmas and all.” He glanced around the room. His shoulders were as tight as steel under his hand-tailored blazer. She wasn’t exaggerating when she’d said he looked out of place in the Broken Cricket. She blended into the bar much more smoothly than he could ever hope to. “I don’t mean to be rude. I just don’t want any company right now.”

  He tossed a few dollars on the table in front of them and began to inch out of the seat.

  “Wait.” She covered his hand with hers. Their eyes met. An electricity rose between them, catching her completely off-guard as the tingling settled low in her belly.