Masters of the Hunt: Fated and Forbidden

by Sarra Cannon

  “So how ‘bout it?”

  The question broke her from the self-pity spiral. Aw shit. What’s he mumbling about? She ruffled his hair, buying time. “How about what?”

  His pulse rose higher with the contact. “Your n-number so I c-could call you...if I get any m-more information.” The stuttering made her have to focus twice as hard.

  “Oh right.” She rolled forward and reached in her back pocket. “Here ya go.” Her business card shook as he took it in his wobbly hand. “Thanks for everything.” She blew him a kiss, hopped off the desk, and headed for the door.

  Bull followed behind, but stopped short and rounded on Harold. His white fangs gleamed against the room’s dim lighting. “Real glad this didn’t have to get ugly.”

  It took all of Jame’s willpower not to laugh when Bull winked. She didn’t quite make it, a small snicker escaped.

  “See ya Harold,” she called over her shoulder as they exited his office.

  — —

  Back in the main area of the news station, Jame signaled for Bull to mingle and search for clues. In the mean time, she headed out a side door to phone in her findings. Relief flooded her when Talon didn’t answer—no energy to deal with that emotional baggage right now—and she flipped the call list to her go-to gal instead.

  “Hey, Meg. Yeah, I just got through with the News Director here. He’s tightlipped about his reporter’s source.” Jame leaned against the building’s brick exterior, her cell phone propped between ear and shoulder. “No surprise there. But we managed to pry some info from him.”

  Bull exited the station’s side door into the alley. She waved him over. “Yes, yes, used my feminine wiles. You’re hilarious.” Covering the phone’s mic, she whispered a “Gimme one sec,” to Bull, then returned to the call. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Seriously?” She paused, hanging on Meg’s every word. “Whoa. That’s some heavy intel on our witness. So, this Sera chick’s got a record?”

  Jame held a hand up for silence as Bull opened his mouth. “Let me put you on speaker so Bull can hear too.” She motioned for Bull to stand beside her, then angled the phone so he could see the screen as well.

  “Been digging into our witness, and you’ll never believe what I found.” A political seal appeared on the cell screen. “PCD received a letter from a government office recommending Sera Benenati for our recruitment list.”

  “Recruitment list?” Jame pursed her lips. “But, she’s a civilian.”

  “Exactly. No, military or law enforcement background. And on top of that our witness has a sealed juvenile record. Unsealed by yours truly, of course,” Meg said. Her furious keyboard tapping clacked over the line. “The police suspected her of starting a car fire when she was sixteen, one where a boy ended up in a coma.” A news article popped onto the cell’s screen. “They brought her up on charges, but eventually had to let the case go. Newspapers called it an accident, but here’s where it gets hairy.”

  “Tell us, Meg.” Jame’s pulse quickened.

  “Her father, Reginald Marsh, was police chief at the time. He made sure the whole thing remained under lock and key.” A photo of the man in full cop uniform appeared next. His dark hair didn’t match their witness, but his brown eyes sure did. “He put Sera in boarding school for a year, then she went to college in Phoenix. She changed her last name to her mom’s maiden name, Benenati. Apparently, father and daughter have been on the outs since. But...”

  “Girlie, ya killin’ us here,” Bull said, stomping his big booted foot against the wall.

  “Sorry, sweetness. Here’s the kicker.” An article from last week’s Toronto Times appeared on the phone. “Recently, Papa’s moved onto bigger and better. See the headline?”

  Jame glared at the screen as if it would bite her. “I see it, but what does it mean?”

  “Papa was elected as a Junior Senator. And politicians have a lot more enemies.” Meg flicked the screen to a sad smiley. “So, let’s pretend you have a daughter, and she and you were on the outs. Now, you can’t warn her if someone cracked an old police record, what would you do?”

  Jame puzzled through the implications, but Bull solved it first. “You’d send the intel to someone ya thought could protect her.”

  “You got it, cowboy.” A doctored audience clapping echoed over the line, followed by Meg’s raspy laugh. “Seems someone’s gotten a hold of the Senator’s dirty little secret, in this case his daughter’s past. And my guess is he sent the file to us in the guise of the recruitment recommendation, before shit hit the fan. He’d know we’d do a background check on any potentials.” She took a deep breath. “Most likely, he’s being threatened or blackmailed. By who, I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

  A knot formed in the middle of Jame’s stomach. “Meg, the murder sprees, could they have been intended for our witness?”

  “Dunno. Could be. It’d make sense. But my gut’s telling me, there’s more to it.” More clicking and tapping vibrated from the phone’s speakers. “Gimme some time. Let’s see what I can come up with. I want to confirm without a doubt Papa Senator sent the file too.”

  “Okay, Meg. We got news of our own. We think the leak on our witness’ identity to the news reporter came from the local cops. Apparently, the reporter’s dating one of the guys on the force. Bull’s gonna check it out.” She took the phone off speaker and pressed it to her ear. “You tell Talon any of this?” Silence ensued for a heartbeat. “Figured not. Yeah, let me get through this press conference first. I’ll call him after and break the news. Hopefully, you or Bull will have more to go on.” She smiled. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Catch you later.”

  Hitting end, she shoved the phone in her pocket.

  Bull’s strong hands gripped his biceps as his arms crossed over his chest. Pound upon pound of muscle stretched under his t-shirt and jeans. His cowboy boots appeared polished as always. “Jeez Louise. Talon’s gonna be all-fired up ‘bout this for sure.” The scent of worn leather wafted on the breeze when he leaned closer. “Think it’s a good idea for you to tell him?”

  “When you get back from the police station and I’m done handling these idiot reporters, I’ll call Talon. In the meantime, phone Slick and let him know the deal. Meg should have some concrete answers by then.” She shrugged. “Better Talon hears all the news at once, not bits and pieces.”

  “Not what I meant.” His eyes glistened far too sympathetic for her liking.

  “I’m fine, Bull.” She slapped his shoulder. “Gotta get over the school girl crush sometime, right?”

  “I’m sorry, Jame.” He patted her arm. The gentle touch showed his expert control. His strength, both in his size and his natural vampire state, could be devastating.

  “I know. Thanks.” She tried to smile, but couldn’t. Scratching her nails against the bricks, she opted for a subject change. “Anyway, let’s meet up back at the office. We can review there. Try to get some dirt from the local boys, ‘k?”

  “That’s a job I like, digging up the dirt.”

  “You sure? Don’t you want to talk to the press?” Her eyebrows raised, a quick shot of hope running through her veins.

  “Nah, darlin’. That’s your department.”

  With luck, not for long. Solving the case lay at the forefront of her mind, but even so, a plan began to take shape for her future. Visions of barking out orders and taking point danced in her head. “Yeah, alright. See you.”

  Bull disappeared down the alley. His large body moved far faster than his size dictated and surprised many a criminal suspect.

  Jame sighed and kicked a can into a nearby gutter. When she felt confident Bull was out of earshot, she screamed loud and long. Her veins pulsed at her temples, the blood pouring into her ears. Energy zapped through her like an electric shock. Her body begged for a shift, but duty beckoned. With a last groan, she prepared for a fate worse than stakeouts, shootouts, or even all-nighters without coffee—a press conference.

  Chapter 7

  INTERSTATE 10, PHOENIX, ARIZONA
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  The Kawasaki weaved through the traffic on I-10 like a fighter jet. Hunched over the bike’s sleek aluminum frame, Talon embraced the machine. It responded to his every touch. To think he’d almost skipped out on it. “Best decision ever,” he said, leaning into a tight curve.

  He’d purchased the bike on a whim months back and brought it out during investigations, employing a cargo portion of the PCD jet for transport. When his eyes first landed on the quarter ton lime green and ebony beauty, it was true love. Not that he believed in that Hallmark nonsense, but bikes, cars, hell anything with an engine, warranted exception. Although…a pair of brown eyes, amber hair, and perfect face flashed across his mind. He tried to push it aside. His fiery reporter was the eyewitness of a murder investigation. Off limits didn’t begin to cover it. He forced the image from his thoughts and focused on the American tailpipe in front of him.

  Drake’s baby, a beaten up crimson Harley, cruised along the wide-open interstate heading into downtown Phoenix. Talon constantly had to ease off the throttle to keep from overtaking the American chopper.

  “Damn low riders,” Talon mumbled into his helmet. “All style, no speed.”

  “Stop bitching,” Drake said into a wireless microphone—the compromise for his refusal to wear a wired helmet. “Your Japanese dirt bike needs to learn to keep pace.”

  “Move your ass. Or can’t that hulk of machinery go faster?” The Kawasaki’s engine purred, jolting the bike forward and skimming the back of the Harley.

  “My Lucinda is a lady. Get off her rear. You’ve got to wine and dine her first.”

  “So, that’s a no.” Talon sped up to ride next to the slow vamp. He inclined his head toward Drake, eyebrows raised under his visor. “Wait a minute. You named your bike, Lucinda?”

  Drake laughed. “I told you, shifter, she’s a lady. Treat her right, then watch her go.” Lucinda roared to life as she kicked forward, leaving Talon sniffing a trail of exhaust fumes.

  “Motherless prick!” Talon let his girl fly.

  After Drake and Lucinda exited the freeway and zigzagged along alleys, they stopped cold in front of a blacked out bar. The brick exterior, nonexistence windows, and busted sign reading BUDS, pegged it as an establishment meant for the seedy part of town. However, here it sat on a corner lot with a laundromat to the right, a grocery store across the street and a Pentecostal church down the road.

  “Leave your bike out front. No one’s gonna touch it.” Drake stepped off his Harley and stuffed the microphone in his pocket. He gestured toward the door.

  Talon flicked down the kickstand, patted the seat, and left his helmet on the end. “You sure they’re safe out here?” The Pleasantville neighborhood did little to assuage his doubts.

  “Trust me, shifter, no one,” He looked around and raised his voice above the street traffic, “hear me? No one is going to touch my Lucinda. And since your crotch-rocket is resting next to her, no one’s going to touch that skinny bitch either.”

  He waved the back of his hand at Drake as if to brush off the insult and smirked. “So, you’re popular around here. That it?”

  “I get around, but then that’s why you hired me, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I just hope your sources are credible.” He eyed the bar’s windowless exterior without much hope.

  “Oh ye of little faith.” Drake kicked the door open. “Come on. Let’s find your girl.”

  Buds should have existed somewhere along the Texas-Mexico border, not in a suburbanized section of downtown Phoenix. The interior lit up like a Christmas tree with stringed rainbow lights hanging from the rafters. The crystal blue sidewalls featured paintings of floor to ceiling cacti with beige speckles coating the bottom. The back area housed the bar with the word Cantina written above its wooden surface. A mirror behind the shelved bottles reflected the multi-colored lights. Each table and booth, scattered across the floor, possessed a white paper cloth with the picture of an old wagon wheel in the center.

  “This is a joke, right?” Talon said with a raised brow.

  “Nah. This is the joint, but loosen up.” A pair of dark eyes seared him with a penetrating stare. “It isn’t the place for the law. And the stick up your ass pegs you as a cop.”

  “I’m more than a cop.” He growled, but tried to ease the tension from his muscles. If this source could give them a clue to find Sera, he would play ball. Sera. He couldn’t stop picturing her. A flash of heat ran through his blood with the thought of her. Those large chocolate eyes looking at him with desire, the feel of her golden skin under his palm had him hardening at the memory, his jeans a nuisance. He chastised his weakness. Keep it in check.

  “Then stay focused.” Drake slapped him on the back and walked toward the bar.

  Scanning the place’s occupants through narrowed eyes, Talon gritted his teeth. A customer sat on a stool with his head on the counter. Shallow breaths puffed from the man’s wide nostrils. His greasy black hair and disheveled clothes hinted at his condition. The smell of cheap whiskey wafted from the drunk’s vicinity like too much three-dollar cologne.

  “Billy, get the fuck out of here. Go clean up and have a shave for Christsakes!” the bartender shouted. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, while slapping a rag at the customer with the other.

  “Hah? What?” Billy flopped off the stool, tipping over a glass in the process. Splashes of liquor from the counter chased after him. “What’re ya goin’ on about now?”

  “I said to get your ass home.” Beady dark hazel eyes zeroed in on Billy. The bartender wasn’t a large man, but power vibrated from his body. His lean muscles tensed, showing under his maroon t-shirt. The posture screamed shifter.

  “Why?” Billy’s legs wobbled uncertainly as he cocked his head like a dog.

  “I got company and I don’t need the likes of you around.” He flipped the rag again. “Get out and come back later, with some cash this time.”

  “Ah hell.” Billy stumbled over a chair on his hobble to the door. When he passed Talon and Drake, he sneered. The stench of booze choked the air. “Whatcha yaz lookin’ at?”

  Drake narrowed his eyes and sucked in a breath. “You so don’t want to get on my bad side, you little shit. Now, go the fuck home.”

  “Are you calling a taxi for him?” Talon asked the bartender.

  A roaring laugh echoed across the bar. “That dipshit lives down the street. He’s here every day. God himself couldn’t kill the man.”

  “Shuz the fuzz up.” Billy exited by falling through the front door. “Ash holes.”

  “See you later, Billy,” Drake said smiling, then zeroed his attention on the bartender. “We’ve got business, Bud. Need some names.”

  “Have a seat,” Bud said, motioning to the bar stools. His energy dissipated slightly, but not enough to make the situation comfortable. “What type of names you need?”

  Talon reacted to the power buzzing behind the bar. The shifter in him couldn’t help it. As his blood pressure spiked, droplets of sweat clung to his chest.

  “Better take it down a notch, first,” Drake said. Patting Talon on the back hard, he added, “My friend here isn’t reacting well to the vibe you’re putting out.”

  Bud cursed, then laughed again. His shoulders hunched and released with the sound. “Sorry Drake. Didn’t know you had such sensitive friends. I’ll pull it back.”

  “No worries. When my fucktard meter spikes, I like to be ready.” Talon nodded a chin at the bartender, letting his power continue to magnify.

  “Bloody shifters.” Drake’s old world English broke through a split second before hiding behind the urban American slang. “This is why you animals need us.” He slapped a hand over his heart. “Have you ever see vampires going all ape shit alpha on each other? No.”

  Talon and Bud each eased back on the shifter posturing at the display. Drake continued with an exaggerated flourish. “Now, as I was saying. I need some names of people who’d be after the pretty blonde survivor from the six o’clock news s
tory.” He thumbed at a TV in the corner. “I’m assuming you’ve seen it and already had a few calls.”

  “I mighta. But you already know the parties who’ll be in play.” Bud rubbed the stubble along his chin. “So my guess is you want specifics.”

  “Smart boy.” Drake leaned over the counter and stared down at the bartender. “Don’t get too smart.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Bud stepped back, hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Let’s see. No doubt, Veritas will make a bid for her. I heard Strife’s in the area, so she’ll most likely lead the charge.” He grabbed a bottle of Jack from the shelves, poured three glasses, and slid two to his guests. “Local boys, Phoenix honchos, not the Buckhorn cops. They’d be in over their heads. PCD’s probably been called already.”

  Talon threw back the shot of Jack at the same time Bud mentioned the PCD. It burned his throat. Like some punk kid, he came up sputtering.

  “Something I said?” Bud’s eyebrows pulled together.

  Drake pounded a fist on the counter. “Just get on with it.”

  “Sure thing. Anyway, the main player amongst the local boys will be Mario Warren.” Bud poured another round. “He’s a real pretty boy. One of them blond-haired, blue-eyed cops who like to poke their noses in all the games around town. He’s got an in with the boys down at the warehouse, a ticket to the cokeheads on seventh, and a press pass with the news girl at channel nine.”

  Talon eyed the second round of Jack warily, then glared at the bartender. “So you’re saying this cop’s dirty and plays the field? He’s taking bribes so these lowlifes can get their business done?” He bristled under the knowledge of a rat in the local department. Even though it wasn’t technically a PCD issue, he still wanted to smoke out the prick.

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Bud huffed. “Anyway, the last party will be a new group. Well, not new, but new in the just came out of the closet way. They’ve actually been around for centuries.”