Hunt Her Down

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Will you leave me again?” The question was out of her mouth before it even consciously formed in her brain.

  He froze. “What?”

  Talk about the truth. She had it in just one look. She didn’t know what made her ask the question, didn’t even realize how much it mattered.

  But suddenlyit mattered a lot. “Will you make love to me and leave me again?”

  Still silence.

  “I don’t get the question,” he finally said. “What are you looking for? A formal commitment? A promise? Some kind of pledge about the future?” He made it sound like she’d asked for the moon.

  Maybe she had. But the question—and his response— did the trick.

  She rolled out from under him and sat up, pulling her T-shirt over nipples still wet and hard from his mouth.

  He looked shell-shocked.

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” she admitted. “But I have a son to think about—your son. I have to know. When Quinn is safe and everything’s normal, are you leaving? Going back to New York, back to your life and out of . . . ours?”

  He opened his mouth and she put her hand over his lips.

  “Don’t give me some Dan Gallagher version of the truth.”

  Three, four, five endless seconds ticked by. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m leaving. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “Yes it does.” She stood, the skirt falling over her legs. Finally she could think straight. Both the past and the future looked like heartache, with him.

  “Good night.” She bent over and kissed him softly on the forehead. “I really appreciate the honesty.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  COULD THIS BE possible? Did they have the best Thursday night ever or had she counted the receipts wrong? Brandy knocked her knuckles on the bar and stared at the readout. There had to be a mistake. She needed to run the numbers again.

  “Hey, Milk Dud,” she called out. “What time is it?”

  The kitchen door punched open and Dudley Matheson beamed at her, a navy bandanna wrapped around his shaved head, his blue eyes bright, considering he’d been cooking, washing, and working his damn ass off since four that afternoon and he loathed the nickname.

  “Snapper spawning hour, my friend.” He held up a small cooler. “Got the chum here, and Jimmy’s picking me up in five minutes at the dock.”

  “Really? It’s that late?” She’d lived in the Keys long enough to know those little buggers mated after two a.m., and the hard-core fishermen were out there to catch them in the act. “No wonder I’m beat.”

  “That last table of tourists couldn’t say die, huh?”

  She shrugged. “They will suffer tomorrow, that’s for sure. Had a couple of hundred on the tab when they finally closed.” She pointed at the calculator. “Contributing to what appears to have been a stellar night.”

  “Kitchen’s done and locked up,” Dudley said. “You going out the front? I’ll walk you to your car.”

  She made a face at the pile of receipts. “I want to run these numbers one more time so I can call Lena with the right amount tomorrow.”

  He shook his head. “No can do, boss. Lena left strict orders that you are not allowed to walk to your car alone with cash.”

  “I won’t take the cash, Dud. I’ll lock it up. And I’m parked next to the kitchen door, so there’s nowhere for you to walk me. You go out the front, I’ll lock it behind you, and I’ll leave through the back.”

  His look said he didn’t like the plan.

  “Come on.” She jumped off the stool and pulled her key ring from the pocket of her shorts. “You’ve worked too long and too hard to miss this boat ride to snapper heaven.”

  He hesitated, but she marched right by him, unlocked the door, and held it open for him.

  “You sure, Brandy? I don’t mind waiting.”

  “I’m fine.” She hit him on the shoulder. “Go forth and fish. Catch enough so we can fry it and sell it at a ridiculous profit tomorrow. I’ll give you a cut.”

  He grinned and blew a kiss to her, heading straight out to the marina, where there were enough engines running to assure her that all was right in the home of twenty-fourhour fishing. She locked the door and went back to the numbers which, miraculously, were dead-on the first time.

  She finally turned out the bar lights, locked the cash in the office, grabbed a soda for the road, and trotted through the kitchen that Milk Dud had cleaned within an inch of its life. Shutting down the last lights, she unlatched the dead bolt and stepped outside, lifting the Diet Coke to her mouth.

  The can flew forward as the force of a man’s body pushed her down to the sidewalk, and his body covered hers.

  Son of a bitch! More mad than scared, she fought to lift her head, but a powerful hand pressed it down.

  “I don’t have cash,” she managed to say.

  “Where is she?” The voice growled in her ear.

  What did he say? “I don’t have money,” she repeated. Could she give up that five hundred in cash? Yes. The rest was credit cards, thank God. Would he make her go back in? Then what would he do to her? She struggled to turn and see her attacker. “I swear to God, my kitchen guy took the bank.”

  A knee slammed into her back, knocking her breath out in one painful swoosh. “Where is Maggie Varcek?”

  Maggie Varcek? “I don’t know what you want.”

  Something prodded her back, right behind the heart. Holy shit, this dude had a gun. Her veins went icy. “I have five hundred,” she said quickly. “Inside. Please, don’t hurt me.”

  “Don’t fuck around,” he rasped in her ear. “Where is Maggie?”

  Maggie? “Do you mean Lena? My partner?” Was her name Varcek before she married Smitty? Wasn’t that Quinn’s middle name? Panic made her mind go blank.

  “She’s not here,” she said, unable to see anything but his arm in a long-sleeved sweatshirt. Was it the guy with the snake tattoo?

  “I know that.” He knocked her head down with the heel of his hand, pressing her cheekbone to the concrete. “You tell me where she is, right now, right this minute.”

  “She went out of town. With . . . her boyfriend.”

  He yanked some hair. “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Miami.” It was a big city. He’d never find her. “I swear to God I don’t know.”

  “And the kid?”

  “Yes, he’s with her. But I swear, I don’t know where they went. I don’t. Don’t hurt me.”

  “I’m gonna hurt you.” Her stomach turned, fear flattening her. “I’m gonna hurt you so bad, you’ll want to be dead. Tomorrow.”

  She fought for a breath, terror squeezing her chest. Tomorrow he’d hurt her, or she’d want to be dead?

  “Please. I can’t . . . help you.” Tears she didn’t even realize she’d been crying soaked her cheek and dribbled into her mouth.

  Voices floated up from the marina, some of the men laughing.

  He released his grip, maybe looked up. She tried to jerk free, but he smacked her back down again. “I’m not fucking around, Brandy.” The use of her name punched her like the knee in her back. “I’ll be back, and I’ll get what I want.”

  The voices grew closer, and then he was off her. She stayed perfectly still, half expecting a bullet in her head, half hoping she was about to wake up from a really bad dream.

  His footsteps faded away, and so did the unknowing saviors from the marina. Shaking down to the bone, she slowly pushed herself up, then managed to stand, turn to the door, and reach for her—

  Damn it! Her keys! She searched the shadows, the whimpering sound from her throat not even recognizable as her own.

  The bastard took the key ring. Which had her car keys, house keys, bar keys . . . She let out a soft moan.

  Lena. She had to call Lena. She pulled out her phone and pressed the speed dial with trembling fingers, her gaze darting up and down the street in terror. This side was silent. Around the front, there was activity near the marina.

  She too
k a few steps in that direction, willing Lena to answer, but it clicked into voice mail. Half certain he’d be waiting around the next corner, she headed to the marina, grateful as hell that her best friends were fishermen.

  “How exactly did you get this appointment?” Maggie peered through the windshield of the Porsche, checking out the four-story office building tucked between two much glitzier towers.

  “Oh, the usual Gallagher technique.”

  “You lied.”

  He threw a wry grin as he took his seat belt off. “I convinced Ms. James’s efficient assistant that I was a potential new client checking out cargo companies and only had one hour this morning. She said she’d get me in.” He handed her a cell phone she recognized as her own. “You left this in the guesthouse. So now I’m number one on your speed dial.”

  Of course he was.

  “You need to call or text me if you see Lola James come or go while I’m up there. But I’m hoping she’s the workaholic that file says she is, and I’ll catch her in the office.”

  Maggie had gone through the paperwork as they drove over the causeway from Star Island to downtown Miami, knocked out that his company could get that much information from a name. Flipping the file open again, she glanced at the picture of a beautiful Latina woman holding court at a business networking event, printed from the pages of a glossy magazine.

  “I’d have never recognized her in a million years,” she said. “There’s no way that homely little girl grew up to look like that.”

  “That’s the work of a fine Venezuelan plastic surgeon— they’re world class. What surprises me is that her company is legit. At least on paper. I’m going to go find out more.”

  She closed the file folder and held out her hand. “Keys?”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “No, but you’re not leaving me without air-conditioning. Keys.”

  He put them in her outstretched hands, closing his fingers around hers and drawing her closer. For a minute, she thought he was going to kiss her, but he just gave her that look—the same one he’d seared her with when she walked away from what he offered last night. A warning that it was coming, like it or not.

  “Go.” She pushed him back, trying to pull her hand and the keys from his grip. “Go pretend to be a client.”

  He gave her hand one more squeeze; then he left, striding across the parking lot, his broad shoulders square, jeans fitted over narrow hips and the hard thighs she’d ridden for a few blissful minutes last night.

  Once he was inside the building, she watched the glass doors glinting in the sunlight as they opened to let in and out a few people who couldn’t possibly be Lola James.

  Five more minutes passed and a man with long dark hair emerged, throwing on a pair of sunglasses the instant he stepped outside and looked around. Something about his gait, his posture—

  Ramon! It was Ramon Jimenez. She peered at him, reaching for her cell phone as he approached the same dark blue compact car she’d seen him get in when Dan ran him out of the bar.

  She couldn’t lose him. He was a critical link to the kidnapping, the fortune, and El Viejo. She hoisted herself over the console and stabbed the key into the ignition. Would Dan kill her for following a dangerous man? Or would he be disappointed she’d lost track of him?

  She hit 1 on her cell phone, glancing at the options on the screen. What if he was talking to Lourdes right then? She opted to text, quickly typing in Ramon here just as the blue car backed out.

  She hit Send, then threw the phone on the passenger seat, using all her might to depress the gearshift and follow the pattern on top to get the car in reverse. To the right and straight back. She slammed it down and pushed, grinding the gears in the process.

  “Damn.” The clutch! She had to get the clutch down before the gearshift worked.

  Ramon’s car stopped at the curb, waiting for a break in traffic. If he headed east, she was in luck. West? Could get ugly.

  He turned right, and she threw a thank-you up to Baba and the universe.

  As soon as he passed her, another car got behind him. That was okay; she could still see him. She turned the wheel, gave the clutch a little pressure, and slipped the gear shift into first. Then she hit the accelerator and shot like a rocket, narrowly missing the back end of a parked car.

  “Son of a—” She eased up on the gas, almost stalling. God, this thing was delicate. Dan made it look so easy to drive.

  Ahead, Ramon got in the left lane, headed straight for wide and busy Biscayne Boulevard, clogged with Friday lunch hour traffic. She managed to jerk over one lane to the left, grateful that the low speeds meant she could stay in first gear.

  On the passenger seat, the phone rang just as the light changed and Ramon slipped into the left-turn lane. She had to speed up to get there while the arrow was still green, the engine screaming for a better gear.

  Palms sweating, she blocked out the telephone and pressed the shift and clutch at exactly the same moment, finding that spot so the gear would slide into second just as Ramon made the turn and the light went yellow.

  And the goddamn car stalled. Grunting in frustration, she hit the brake, twisted the key, restarted it, and slammed on the gas, flying into the intersection just as the arrow disappeared and the phone stopped ringing.

  She whipped the wheel to the left, cruising to a spot where five cars separated her from Ramon.

  Working her way through traffic, she cut off one guy and gave a wave to another who let her change lanes. Then Ramon slid into the right lane, a few hundred feet from the next intersection.

  She glanced into the rearview mirror, prayed for an opening, and the phone rang again.

  It had to be Dan, furious that she was gone.

  Ramon turned right and she careened into that lane, still not used to the billion horses that powered this thing, and still four cars behind him. Without a signal, she rolled into the turn with one hand and grabbed the phone with the other, hitting the speaker button and tossing it back on the seat.

  “I know, I know, you’re going to kill me. But I have Ramon in my sights, he’s headed across Flagler and I just want to see where he’s going. Then I’ll come back and get you, but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to follow him. He could go back to Viejo’s house; maybe there’s been another drug delivery. So did you see Lola?”

  “Lena, what in the hell is going on?”

  “Brandy!” Maggie choked in surprise. “I thought you were Dan.”

  “I was attacked in the street at two in the morning by some thug asshole who wanted to know where you were.” Panic was not a sound she was used to hearing from Brandy, and the fear in her voice made Maggie sick.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

  “You are Maggie Var . . . something, right? That’s your name? ‘Cause that’s who this guy wanted.”

  Very, very few people on this earth knew her as Maggie Varcek. And almost every one was part of the Jimenez family. “Brandy, you have to be so careful.”

  “No shit, Sherlock! He’s coming back today. He already told me. And he has my keys to everything!”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At Milk Dud’s place. I’m not leaving, I swear. And I don’t even want to go near the bar. I’m scared, Lena.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll get you help, I promise.” Superman bodyguards. Dan would send an army down there.

  Traffic thickened as they approached Second Avenue, and Maggie’s head reeled. If Ramon was right there, could he have been the one threatening Brandy last night? It was only a few hours’ drive from here to Marathon.

  “Did you see what he looked like? Was he Hispanic?” One of Viejo’s men, maybe.

  “I couldn’t see a thing. He held me down on the ground and had a gun in my back and—”

  “Oh Brandy.” Maggie moaned with sympathy. “I am so sorry to drag you into this.”

  “Into what?” she demanded. “What the hell is going on, Lena?”

  “It’s compl
icated.” She heard her friend snort on the other end. “Really, it’s life and death. Oh, crap, I’ll never make that left. Hang on a second!”

  She checked the rearview mirror and punched the gas, grinding the gears as she cut off another car to get in the left lane. She powered through a light that was more red than yellow, screeching into the left turn and praying that didn’t get Ramon’s attention, even though his little car was now eight ahead of her. And two were view-blocking SUVs.

  In the brief silence, she heard the soft beep of an incoming call. Dan, no doubt.

  “Where are you?” Brandy demanded.

  “In Miami, and I don’t even want you to know more than that. Quinn is in a safe house, totally protected. And I’m . . .” Chasing an ex-con down Biscayne Boulevard. “Trying to find out who threw him in that boat the other night, and how we can stop them.”

  “What do they want from you, Lena?”

  Ramon caught the empty lane and zoomed ahead, forcing her to do the same.

  “A fortune.”

  She caught the gear and the lane and held him in her sights as he approached a bridge over the Miami River, continuing south. She glanced at the blue street sign hanging over the intersection. Brickell Avenue.

  “A fortune from you? Good luck with that.”

  Brickell Avenue? Where Lola James lived?

  “Listen, Brandy, I have to go.” She had to call Dan and tell him where she was. “But do not leave Dudley’s house, and make sure someone is there with you all the time. By tonight you’ll have professional protection. I promise. And they’ll arm the bar.”

  The incoming call beeped again.

  “Okay,” Brandy said. “But this really sucks, closing the bar and all. We made a ton of money last night.”

  “Just be safe—that’s all I care about. I gotta go. I love you. Be careful.”

  “You, too.”

  The connection ended just as Ramon moved into the much slower right lane and the landscape changed to palm-lined sidewalks and sky-high condo buildings perched on man-made rises along Brickell Avenue. He jammed on his brakes, zipping into a tight U-turn and parking in a spot across the street.

  She drove right past him, almost pounding the steering wheel in frustration, looking for a space that wasn’t there.