Atonement: The Hunter Mercenary Series (Book One)

by Morgan Kelley

  Cherries.

  Lemonade.

  Life.

  Unfolding it, he studied the writing. It was scrolling, it was delicate, and it was her.

  His heart thumped as he read it.

  ‘My dearest Dakota,

  Since you’ve blocked my emails, refused to take my calls, and have no desire to hear from me, I figured I’d take one last shot at this.

  What choice do I have?

  I hope this letter finds you alive. I don’t understand your suicide mission, but I accept it. I will be here when you’re ready. I meant what I said. I love you.

  Nothing you can do will change that. I know the man you are inside, and I think he’s special. I know he’s meant to be mine.

  When you find Bonnie, and it’s time to come home, come to me. I’ll be that shelter in the storm. I’ll be that one person you can hold onto when you feel so alone.

  I’ll be her.

  For you.

  I wish I could be by your side. I’d help you find her, but I get it. This has to be about you. This has to be about you realizing that you are loved, you are worth something to someone, and that I won’t hurt you.

  So, I’ll wait—even if it takes twenty years. I’ll be here. I already know that you’re the one.

  So, in order to prove it to you, I’ll stay here, keeping a vigil until you feel like you can come home to me and the life we could make.

  I miss you, Dakota.

  And I love you so very much.

  Be safe. I hope you catch her, and I hope you survive. I won’t love anyone else. I can’t. The second I saw you, I knew. You were meant to be mine.

  Forever,

  Sarah.’

  He stared at the words for a good ten minutes, trying to digest them. No one had ever said those things to him.

  No one.

  Here he was, chasing a demon that kept slipping through his fingers, and there was someone back in DC who actually wanted him.

  What was wrong with him?

  What was his problem?

  Oh, yeah, that sick sense of justice that forced him to live in this vicious loop.

  Hunt and find.

  Hunt and find.

  He couldn’t break the cycle.

  Gently, he lifted the letter to his nose and sniffed it. In his mind, he pictured her.

  That blonde hair running through his fingers, the bright blue eyes that sparkled when she laughed, and the kindness from her lips.

  His whole being ached.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah. I love you too. I’m trying,” he whispered, barely able to get the words out.

  They were caught in his chest.

  Locked in his soul.

  Bound by his perverse need for justice.

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Yeah, if Bonnie didn’t kill him first. Dakota knew the odds were NOT in his favor.

  He knew that he wasn’t going to walk away from that battle. He could already see his death, and it was going to be ugly. He only hoped that Sarah would move on.

  He prayed she’d never know his fate. Maybe it was better for her to never know that he’d died alone, broken, and doing something so selfish that he didn’t deserve her.

  His hand shook as he wanted to rip that letter to shreds so he wouldn’t have to face the truth.

  This was his suicide mission and he was never going to make it back.

  He was going to die on this hunt. A man like him always knew the odds, and they were not in his favor.

  Instead of destroying her letter, he gently folded it back up, tucked it into the envelope, and placed it beneath his pillow.

  Maybe her words would seep into his body via osmosis, and he would be able to shake this sick need for revenge.

  Leaning back, he stared at the ceiling.

  “Give me a sign. Just one sign to see that I need to change my direction and survive.”

  And he got one.

  He fell asleep.

  * * * H U N T E R * * *

  He wasn’t quite sure what time it was, but he heard the steady steps outside his door. The Quarter was deathly silent, and that, in itself, was odd.

  The Big Easy didn’t sleep.

  Ever.

  Still, from the sound of the streets, it appeared that the partying was over, and all the revelers had gone back to their rooms to sleep off the chaos.

  Yeah, something was up.

  There was a woman heading his way.

  His instinct for survival kicked in, and he knew he was in danger. The hunter had become the hunted.

  Dakota could feel it.

  Pulling the gun that he’d tucked into his bag, he sat up and stared at the door. He fully expected Bonnie to come through it, wielding an ax or who the hell knew what?

  Instead, the very feminine footsteps stopped, there was silence, and then Dakota watched a scrap of paper being slid beneath his door.

  He didn’t move.

  Instead, he listened to the footsteps—what sounded like a woman’s gait in boots—moving away from his room. When he believed he was safe, he headed toward the paper.

  Picking it up, he read the information on it.

  ‘Four twenty-five Chartres Street. Nine in the morning. Come if you want help finding Bonnie. This is your only chance. Gate code: 9-1-1.’

  Well, that had his freaking attention.

  Was that code a joke?

  What the hell was this?

  Someone knew he was hunting for her, and they wanted to offer up help?

  This had to be a trap.

  BUT…

  He was out of leads. He’d followed her from Atlanta to New Orleans, and the trail had gone cold. She’d vanished into the crowds, and it was likely Bonnie no longer looked the same.

  She was a chameleon.

  What choice did he have?

  Dakota already knew the answer to that.

  None.

  He had no choice but to follow this incredibly careless and suspicious lead.

  Opening the door to his room, he carefully peeked out, trying to find who left the paper. The only person he saw was a drunken partier heading his way. She was topless and wearing enough beads to cover her breasts.

  She was barefoot.

  Yeah, that note wasn’t from her.

  He’d heard boots—cowboy boots—to be exact. He wore them himself, so he knew what they sounded like on the hard floor.

  What the hell was going on?

  Closing the door to his room, he stared at the address. There was no way he was going to just walk up to that door and ring the bell.

  He wasn’t an idiot.

  Dakota would do his research.

  Then, it looked like he was going to be taking a little trip in a couple of hours.

  God help him.

  This was crazy, and he knew it.

  Or, better yet, God help the person who left the note. If they were yanking his chain, the shit was really going to hit the fan.

  This was no joking matter.

  Dakota was a man on the edge.

  He didn’t have time to screw around.

  He wanted to find Bonnie, kill her, and then somehow assimilate back into society. He wanted a life with Sarah and the only way he was going to get it was to walk headfirst into Hell.

  And survive.

  Chapter One

  Four Twenty-Five

  Chartres Street

  Saturday Morning

  Before Nine

  T o say he didn’t like this bizarre situation would be an understatement. This entire thing had him nervous, and not in a good way. He didn’t mind nerves or danger, but this was stupid and he knew it. He was likely walking into one hell of a trap.

  Still, he went.

  His need to catch Bonnie outweighed his concern for his own personal safety.

  As he sat outside the building, he watched the area to make sure it wasn’t going to blow up in his face.

  Literally.

  This quiet home was a dozen blocks from The Frenc
h Quarter and Bourbon Street. It was clear that the historic building, facing the beautiful park, was owned by someone with money.

  It screamed wealth from the pristine face to the little alley that led to what he assumed would be a private courtyard.

  Who wanted him here?

  No one he knew had this kind of money. A home like this, with its five floors, expansive space, and a million-dollar price tag was out of his acquaintances' reach. Whoever wanted him there might not be on the up and up.

  After all, wealth meant power.

  He wasn’t a fool.

  So, as Dakota sat there, he made note of the people coming and going around the place. People were out Christmas shopping, and tourists were taking in the sunny Southern days that they didn’t find up North.

  As the holiday swags decorated the festive window boxes, Dakota watched the curtains for any movement.

  None.

  If someone was in there, they were being cautious. If they knew him, they knew he’d scope it out before walking into a nightmare.

  As he cracked his window open, there was the smell of roasted chestnuts filling the air, the bells ringing from the multiple charity Santas trying to get their money for the poor.

  Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

  Nothing.

  And that was what freaked him out.

  All he saw were people walking their dogs, kids heading toward their schools for the final days before the holiday break, and pre-holiday merriment.

  Yeah, it was almost nine, so he talked himself into it.

  Getting out of his blacked-out ride, he headed toward the wrought iron gate that led to who knew where?

  Well, he was ready.

  Truth be told, he was wearing more guns than were legal. Before, he could hide behind the badge of a US Marshal. Now he was just a citizen.

  A gun-toting, law-breaking, sicko-stalking citizen.

  Yeah, he was screwed.

  At the metal gate that led to a backyard courtyard, he entered the ridiculous code and wondered who in their right mind would pick those numbers.

  Immediately, it clicked.

  With the toe of his boot, Dakota pushed it open, not wanting to leave any trace behind.

  Fortunately for him, it didn’t creak.

  Slowly, he made his way between the two buildings and toward courtyard space. Yeah, he’d been right.

  Someone had a lot of money.

  The path was individual stones, laid in a pattern from some French revival period.

  It was really gorgeous.

  From the pathway, he could see a three-tiered fountain, trickling water from level to level.

  The sound was cathartic.

  As he rounded the corner, he found two men holding each other at gunpoint.

  Well, shit!

  As soon as he pulled his gun, they were both focused on him and now he was the one with the high probability of getting shot.

  Great.

  Why the hell didn’t he listen to his gut?

  This was a dirty three-way and not the kinky kind you paid six bucks to watch in your no-tell motel room.

  This was a Mexican Standoff, and he was officially screwed.

  “Who are you?” he asked, staring at the two men.

  One was clearly Native, his long black hair hanging down his back, his tanned skin flushed with irritation, and his deep dark eyes flickering back and forth between him and the other guy.

  He was a brick shithouse.

  The man looked like he could eat a buffet for breakfast and still be hungry.

  “Why don’t you answer that first?” he asked.

  The second guy—the better dressed one—also of Native descent looked less than amused at his arrival.

  “Yeah, who the hell are you?”

  Dakota checked him out. He was some Native half-breed, trying to fit into a white world. Dakota had seen it before with Ethan Blackhawk. This guy was trying to be someone that he wasn’t.

  Out of the blue, the half-breed whistled.

  A large dog came barreling out of the opposite walkway where he’d entered the courtyard.

  “WHAT THE HELL?” the big guy said, now pointing his gun at the beast. “Where did you get a wolf?”

  The man said nothing but snapped his fingers. His dog moved to stand in front of him.

  He was protecting his owner.

  Well, when you thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. Not only was there three men with guns but a snarling wolf.

  He should have stayed in his hotel room.

  Here was the proof.

  If this was going to de-escalate, someone had to bite the bullet—hopefully, not literally—by making the first step.

  “I’m Dakota Rakin. I got a note telling me to come here,” he offered.

  The first man, the full-blooded Native one, didn’t shift his focus from them or the dog.

  “I’m Zayn Thundercloud. I got a note, too, at my place before I woke up. Some broad left it.”

  Well, that didn’t answer their question as to WHY they were all there, pointing guns at each other, but it was proving they were all on this boat together.

  “Who are you?” Zayn asked, focusing on the man and his dog.

  “I’m Rogue Ravenscroft. I, too, received a note earlier this morning. I thought to bring backup.”

  He pointed at his dog.

  “He’s Kugsha.”

  Well, at least they had all been introduced.

  Now came the next step.

  Dakota knew that the ONLY way this was going to not get them killed was if he put his gun away. Hopefully, they wouldn’t shoot him for shits and giggles, or that dog didn’t think he was a tasty snack.

  This was risky, but he had to prove he wasn’t there to kill anyone.

  Right?

  Slowly, he tucked his gun back into his underarm holster. He stood there with his hands at his sides, showing them they could do the same.

  “You’re an idiot. You never holster your gun when you have one pointed at you. Where did you learn survival? A school for stupid cops?” the full Native asked, pointing his gun at the other Indian man.

  Well, at least he wasn’t staring down the barrel of the man’s Sig.

  For now.

  “You’re all idiots,” said someone from the corner of the room.

  For Dakota, it was very familiar.

  They all turned and faced the man exiting from the luxury home.

  That’s when recognition dawned.

  It was Marcus Hunter.

  Well, holy shit.

  What was his ex-boss doing there?

  “Put them away, gentlemen. We have a job for you, and you don’t need to point your guns at us.”

  “Us?” Zayn Thundercloud asked. “I only see one of you. That’s not an us.”

  Another man followed him out of the shadows.

  Well, the devil was in the house.

  “Ethan freaking Blackhawk,” Dakota stated, sighing. Could his day get a little worse?

  Maybe he should just shoot himself.

  This was turning out to be a waste of his time. There was no freaking way this man was giving him any Bonnie leads. Maybe he’d give him a kick to the balls, but that’s about it.

  “Who the hell are you, half-breed?” Zayn asked.

  The other half Indian in the courtyard bristled at the term, even when Ethan didn’t.

  “We brought you here, so slow your roll, brother,” Ethan stated, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “We are NOT brothers.”

  Blackhawk still didn’t flinch.

  “Ethan, what’s going on?” Dakota asked.

  The two men holding guns looked over at him when he used the man’s name.

  “You know him?” the angry Native asked.

  “Pick up a magazine or paper. He’s all over the front of them,” Dakota stated. “Again, what’s going on?” he asked, this time focusing on the African American man.

  Dakota didn’t know what Marcus was
up to with this. Was this some twisted intervention?

  “Well, you have been on our radar,” he said, pointing at all three of them. “Why I didn’t just have you three dragged in is beyond me. I must have been drinking,” Marcus stated.

  “Yeah, well, I went along with it,” Ethan added. “So what does that say about me? ‘I have a plan, he said. It will work, he said’,” Ethan stated. “I’m beginning to think we’re both idiots.”

  He agreed there.

  The two men with guns still didn’t lower them.

  That told them a lot about who was capable of trust, and who wasn’t. That said a lot since it was Dakota who seemed to have the most.

  It was a sad testament to their planning.

  By process of elimination, they knew who would be in charge of this mess. It looked like they found their leader.

  “Spill it,” Rogue stated, keeping his eye on the two men—no, make that four men. At least he had his dog to keep him safe.

  For now.

  “You were brought here for a reason,” Marcus stated. “Each one of you is on a mission of sorts, and you need help with it. We are proposing a deal. You help us, and in return, you’ll get what you need from us.”

  Dakota knew what he needed, and up to that minute, he hadn’t had hope. Bonnie was elusive, but if Blackhawk was in on this meeting, he was likely on the up and up. His wife was tracking Bonnie, and he probably had decent intel.

  Oh, he was in.

  “What kind of assistance are we talking about?” Dakota asked, taking a seat on a wrought iron chair.

  “Before we get to that,” Zayn said, “how about you tell us why you think we need you?”

  Ethan moved forward. This was his area. While his friend and colleague had picked the players, the intel was his.

  “You need help finding someone,” he said, pointing at Zayn. “You’re a pissed off Native, and you want to find the person who killed your sister.”

  He didn’t bat an eye.

  Ethan was accustomed to standing up to Natives.

  Hell!

  He’d done it his entire life.

  “You,” he said, pointing at Rogue, “are looking for your father. You can’t find him and time is running out, no? It’s making you a mess.”