by Connie Mann
The kid’s companion hiccupped. “We got enough.”
“Don’t drive. You hear?” When they nodded, Mitch stepped away and waited while Hal closed the hatch.
His brother pulled on a nondescript jacket. “What were you doing?”
“They looked in need.”
“You plan on rescuing every drunk you meet?”
“You really want an answer?” Mitch flicked sweat from his temple.
“I can do without one.” His usually too-serious brother cracked a smile.
They navigated around the tourists in front of an Italian grocery, then passed through the cayenne-scented steam coming from a bar serving seafood. Hal glanced at Mitch, grim lines grooving his forehead. “You sick? You’ve been sweating like a pig.”
Was his brother looking to disqualify him before he could even get started? No, not Hal. They were closest in age and had been great buddies until the accident. Mitch shrugged. “I’m okay.”
The army docs told him he’d probably have post-trauma episodes for years. Mitch had them mostly under control, the overreaction tonight his first in months. “I’m not going to let you down, Bro.”
Nor Big Easy Bounty Hunters.
Every takedown counted. If he and Hal failed to return this fugitive to jail before their recovery window closed, his brothers’ fledging firm would get a black eye. Mitch couldn’t afford for that to happen.
“My buddies in the marines say everyone who serves in the Middle East comes home with baggage,” Hal said, continuing to be a know-it-all.
“I’m on edge is all.” Mitch had been home nearly three months. Hal had been busy, sure, but they’d had plenty of time to talk. A nervous twitching in his gut flared again. “This is my first time.”
“Understood.” Hal glanced at him. “I saw your medals.”
Their elderly aunt had insisted on examining them, but Mitch would just as soon have left them in the box where they belonged. “All they mean is that I can hit a target from anywhere in or out of range, and I know how to score.”
“One of them has a purple ribbon.” Hal raised his brows. “You could have told us you’d been wounded.”
“We’ve all got battle scars, but yeah.” Mitch ran a hand over his short hair. His throat clogged. He swallowed but the pain only strengthened. “That was a rough op.”
“At least you got out alive.” Hal dropped to tie a shoe beneath one of the old-style lanterns dotting the Quarter. “Remember, your skip is going to be violent. He knows he’s hiding.”
“That figures.” His older brother took his mentoring job seriously, but he didn’t need to worry. Mitch had passed the bounty hunter course and planned to make his first arrest by the book.
His brother turned at the next corner, and they entered the French Quarter’s quiet residential streets.
Cold mist pushed at their backs and swirled past. Visibility would be plenty worse soon. Mitch patted his pockets, making sure he’d remembered his flashlight. “Hope we’re done before this stuff gets worse.”
“We’ll be in and out in ten minutes, tops.” Hal slicked a hand over his dark hair and waited for a car to pass before crossing the street.
Ten minutes would be the best-case scenario, but Hal wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t have confidence Mitch could perform. The knots tying his gut finally came undone.
Shutters covered the windows of the houses bellied up to the sidewalk. The sounds of traffic on the main arterial road faded. Hal stopped a few feet from the Creole cottage where they’d earlier located Mitch’s fugitive.
A gate closed off the alley that led to a courtyard and gave street access to tenants living in the rear. A small garden filled the wedge of visible lighted patio. No one who could be collateral damage appeared to be around, and Mitch gave his brother a thumbs-up.
“There’re lights behind the front shutters,” his brother whispered. “He’s inside.”
Supposedly his bail skip holed up with a girlfriend. Mitch braced a hand on the Victorian-style porch of the neighbor’s house. “What if the woman is here?”
“I’ll keep her out of the way.” Hal positioned himself at the bottom of the cottage steps. “You ready?”
Mitch unzipped his jacket to reveal the T-shirt identifying him as a bail recovery agent and went through his mission prep like a batter at the plate. A fist press against his upper lip. A shake to loosen his hands. He plastered his back against the front of the house and nodded.
Hal knocked.
Seconds passed. The gleam of reflected light on the knob disappeared as the door opened. Running shoes appeared on the doorjamb. Mitch tensed.
“Gas company.” His brother flashed an old security badge. “We were informed of a problem at this address.”
“Who is it?” A woman’s warm alto voice called from inside. Mitch clenched his jaw. He’d have to watch out for her.
“Wait a minute.” The door closed.
Adrenaline ebbed. Mitch whispered, “We got some wrong intel?”
Hal shrugged and leaned forward to call through the door. “Utilities. I’m here to turn the gas back on.”
The knob clicked and a sliver of light reappeared. “You have the wrong apartment,” the male at the door said. “Check the mailboxes.”
“Wait.” Hal stowed the ID. “What’s your name?”
Mitch held his breath. They needed to confirm their fugitive’s identity before they entered.
“My name?” The speaker paused, and Hal nodded. “Les Hurley. Why?”
Hal stepped down and Mitch vaulted the steps. The door under his hand banged against the inside wall. Hurley staggered back before Mitch even touched him. A quick glance around the room revealed a couch against one wall. An overstuffed armchair. A cluttered coffee table. Colored beads hanging in the doorway to a back room.
A woman’s pretty face flashed in his peripheral vision before disappearing. Hurley tripped over the coffee table, tumbled onto the couch.
The front door banged shut behind him. “You’re under arrest, Lester M. Hurley.” Hal’s voice couldn’t have been calmer. “Cooperate and you won’t get hurt.”
Hurley sprang to his feet and vaulted the overturned table. Mitch clamped a hand on his shoulder, but Hurley spun out of his grasp and sprinted into the back room.
Mitch swept aside the bead curtain and charged after his skip.
The mahogany-haired beauty huddled near the fridge on his left. The shock on her delicate face barely registered as Mitch rounded the table and caught Hurley against the counter. The guy twisted away. Lightning quick, Mitch pinned the smaller man against the stove and locked fingers around a wrist. He could kill a man with his bare hands, but lethal moves weren’t allowed. Bounty hunters had to bring a fugitive in alive.
“What is this crap?” Hurley twisted against Mitch’s thumbs, his longish blond hair flying. With more force, Mitch body-slammed the bail skip, twisting a wrist behind his back and pushing aside something heavy on the stove. He reached for the cuffs.
Flame licked at his hand. Mitch shoved the struggling fugitive in the direction of the sink. Hal needed to get over here. Now.
“Let go of him,” the woman yelled. “He can’t hear you.”
“Stay out of the way, lady,” Hal yelled. “Or else—”
“You can’t just come busting in here.” A female hand reached past Mitch and flipped off the burner. “This is a private home.”
“Stand aside, lady.” Hal held up a copy of the bail piece. “This gives us authority to arrest. Recognized by the law.”
Something stung Mitch’s arm. A blade glinted in Hurley’s fist. “Back off.”
Mitch yanked the wrist he held high behind his skip’s back. His fugitive shrieked. “Give it up. I got you beat.”
“You’re hurting him.” The woman again. “Let him go so I can sign
to him.”
Mitch barely heard what she said, couldn’t focus—“Ouch.”
Hurley had kicked out with both feet. Now he slipped from Mitch’s grip and dashed outside.
Mitch lurched forward, banging his head on the open door. His boots slipped on grit spilled across the floor, and he grabbed for support.
Soft, warm skin slid under his grasp. The most spectacular blue eyes he’d ever seen glared at him, but Mitch held on to her gaze as if to a lifeline.
“Do you mind?” Her low, sultry voice whispered through him.
Mitch blinked and let go of the woman’s slender arm.
“Didn’t you see the skillet?” She waved a hand at the stove. “I’m making dinner.”
“Bon appétit.” Mitch lifted a corner of his mouth, and her pretty face flushed. She stepped away, and he plunged outside after his fugitive.
A spotlight on the rear apartments cast deep shadows into the corners. A dog yipped inside a rear apartment. Big jars with cascading vines standing at either corner were too small to hide behind.
Mitch hugged the corner of the house so as not to present a target. His stupid fixation on the redhead had cost him too much time. Hurley could have already escaped. Or he could be standing only a few feet away in the black entrance alley, his knife ready. Mitch held still, but the shush-shush of someone breathing didn’t carry back to him. Dammit.
He drove a fist into the vinyl siding. An old war injury spread agony across his back, and he swallowed back another curse. Keep looking. Don’t think about failure.
Hal came up behind him. “I’ll check the other side.”
Mitch played his light down the alley. A clump of ferns grew in the elbow of one of the many pipes hugging the old house. Nothing else. No one else. He raced to the street gate and scanned the empty sidewalk.
“I demand an apology for barging into my house.” The redhead stood close behind him, but he hadn’t even heard her creeping up on him.
In the narrow confines, he barely had room to turn around without brushing her, but he managed. Producing more aggro for his shoulder. “If this is not your private alley, you have no jurisdiction. I’m the one being insulted.”
“I–insulted?” She scowled. “How do you figure that?”
Light from the street fell on her pale face and flushed cheeks. He caught a powder-fresh scent. She clutched the sides of a robe together, and he admired her slender neck. Perfect for nuzzling. Not by him. Not now.
His flashlight beam shone down the alley to the swaying leaves of the banana trees at the back of the patio. He stepped forward. She didn’t retreat, and his legs now pressed against hers, making certain body parts grow heavier. “Turn around and go back.” Don’t make me swear like my old sergeant.
“Not until you leave.” Her hand loosened, and she accidentally flashed cleavage. “We can pretend I’m seeing you out. Southern manners and all.”
That accent of hers belonged more to California than to any southern state, but his tightening groin didn’t give a shit. Nor did his resolve. He lowered his voice to a purr. “You really should go back to the patio.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Nothing over there but the garbage cans,” Hal called a moment before his silhouette appeared at the opposite end of the dark alley.
Mitch leaned close to her ear. “If you don’t want Hal searching your house, you need to stop him.”
“But, I…”
“You got him?” Hal started toward them.
“Wait.” Mitch waved his brother back and raised his eyebrows at the female in his way. “We’re coming out.”
She huffed out a breath but spun around. In the lighted patio, Hal glanced from her to Mitch, his mouth turning down. “You missed him.”
For now. The beauty crossed her arms, but Mitch shooed her away. “We’re finished. Go inside.”
He caught his brother’s arm and jerked his head toward the shrubs and banana trees. “The skip might be lurking.”
Hal waded through one side of the garden, Mitch, the other. Their twin beams hit a high brick wall without revealing a soul. Some Quarter landlords embedded broken bottles atop property walls to keep out thieves, but Mitch didn’t see any here. He stowed his light and backtracked to the patio. “Hold the trees away, Hal.”
“I still want an apology.” The female wildcat pounced.
“I told you to go inside.” Mitch judged the height of the barrier. A running leap took him to the top, and he hauled himself up.
“What are you doing?” The woman’s pale face appeared in the shadowed shrubs below.
“Fulfilling your deepest desires.” Mitch smirked. “Like the Southern gentleman I am.”
A multistory masonry house faced the parallel street on the other side. A swimming pool stretched past the converted servants’ quarters on one side of the patio. A soft snick drew his attention to the half-glassed door on the rear of the main house. With no side alleys here, this must serve as the street exit for the rear tenants. Or fugitives coming over this wall.
“I’m going over,” Mitch said to Hal. “Meet me around the block.”
Mitch dropped to the ground and raced along the pool. The doorknob turned easily, and within seconds he’d covered the inside hallway and stepped onto the street. Running footsteps faded into the night, and a flash of blond hair disappeared around a corner. Mitch reached the same intersection seconds later only to find empty sidewalks stretching in three directions.
Hal panted to a stop beside him, then pointed toward the street on the right. “I’ll go this way. You go straight.”
Mitch held up a hand. “We need to stick together, protect each other’s back.”
“Who’s been a bounty hunter longer?” Hal crossed his arms. “Huh?”
“You have,” Mitch said, but tightness pinched his chest.
“Let’s each circle a block and meet back here.” Hal moved off in his chosen direction.
Mitch crept down his deserted street, sweeping a glance along both sides. He jogged another block without any better success. He brought his gun up, rounded the corner onto Hal’s street, and halted. Halfway down, a dark shape sprawled on the sidewalk.
The thing inside clawed up his throat. Mitch raced down the block and dropped beside his brother. “What happened?”
Hal lay face up, a hand pressed to his shoulder. His eyes cracked open. “He got past the vest.”
Mitch removed Hal’s bloody hand and pressed his clean handkerchief to the wound. Hal inhaled with a rasp. “How…How bad is it?”
Hal needed to go to the hospital. Yesterday. Mitch switched hands on the compress and fumbled for his cell. “You’ll definitely need stitches.”
This was on him. Didn’t matter that Hal had separated them. If Mitch had done his job in the first place, they would already have Les Hurley on his way back to jail.
Nobody would be bleeding.
The phone case bit into his palm as he raised the cell to his ear. His fugitive would not get away. He would catch Hurley and make him pay.
* * *
Cath rubbed her jaw but her teeth remained locked tight. She’d always thought her brother could talk to her about any problems, but he’d lied to her. Big time. He hadn’t been forced out of his apartment by broken water pipes. He’d been hiding from these bounty hunters.
“Who’s the guy who charged out of here a minute ago?” Her next-door neighbor, Rhonda Owens, walked into the patio, her waitress apron dangling from one hand. “He nearly knocked me over bursting out of the gate.”
“Not surprised,” Cath muttered. “He was in a hurry.” But he wasn’t the bounty hunter inflicting the most damage. As if nearly catching himself on fire and scaring her to death wasn’t enough, movie-star Handsome had to throw a stone in the equilibrium she worked so hard to maintain.
The ripple
s still lapped at her edges, and her nerves still hummed from the aftereffects of his legs pressing hers. She sought the wrist where he’d wrapped his fingers. He’d relaxed his hold immediately, but he hadn’t let go because… She didn’t know. The whole thing had been weird.
And she’d reacted without thinking things through first.
“Houston calling. Earth to Cath.”
Rhonda tilted her head, a puzzled expression on her face, and Cath took a deep breath. “Are you talking about the one masquerading as the gas repairman?”
Her friend gaped. “There was more than one?”
“Unfortunately.” What were the chances this was all a bad dream? “The guy you saw…?” Cath raised her eyebrows.
“I don’t know what he wore. He whipped past me so fast I barely had time to determine his sex.” Rhonda pulled keys from her wrist clutch and waggled her eyebrows. “You’re not dressed. Does this mean what I think it means?”
“That I’m taking in customers and this guy couldn’t wait to get away from me because I’m so inept?” Cath cinched her belt. “You know me better than that.”
Though she could admit to a certain clumsiness in the relationship department. For which she’d already paid dearly.
“Don’t you lead a tour tonight?”
“Yeah. I better get dressed.” Cath held open her kitchen door. “You want some spaghetti sauce? I made enough for a crowd.”
“I really shouldn’t.” Her friend’s mouth turned down. “I’m trying to diet.”
“Why?” Cath opened a cabinet to search for a storage container. Rhonda already had a great figure. More voluptuous than her on top, but a perfectly flat stomach. “You’re already a smaller size than me except you know where.”
“Even short people need to be in proportion.” Rhonda patted her hips.
“I used ground turkey.” Cath placed a plastic container on the counter and stuffed a handful of dried pasta in a clear bag. “Take all you want. Bon appétit.”
Now she was quoting her hunky bounty hunter.
Her bounty hunter? Where had that come from?
He looked yummy and had set off butterflies inside. She had priorities, though, and they didn’t include men like him.