Hit 'N' Run (Under Suspicion #1)

by Lori Power

  Arms folded across his chest, Mitch crossed his feet at the ankles and lowered his head to bury a chuckle.

  The big man furrowed his brow in a sharp angle over his nose. “What’s so funny?” An answering half grin tugged the corners of his thin lips.

  “Hank, man.” Mitch sighed, threw his head back, and laughed outright. “When I see you marching through a graveyard full of empty, open plots, dressed like you are right now, all I hear in my head is some hard, fist-to-the-air, loud-enough-to-make-my-ears-bleed, rock. You so fit the role, man.”

  Hank slapped Mitch on the shoulder and tilted his face towards the early evening sky. The low baritone rumble echoed, barely recognizable as a laugh. The large man pulled the do-rag from his shaved head.

  The hearse creaked a protest when Hank lowered his weight to the bumper next to Mitch. “The bust sure was something.” He yawned, not bothering to cover the gaping hole. “Hell of a day.”

  Mitch stifled his own yawn. “Um hum,” he agreed. With the way his morning began, he was still amazed he actually made it to church—drug bust—on time.

  Hank’s deep-set grey-green eyes, with their ability to intimidate even the most hardened criminal, crinkled with mischief. “I’ll be glad to get rid of this.” He moved a beefy hand along his leather biker outfit.

  “What?” Mitch tilted over on his hip to appraise his friend from head to toe. “I thought Tina liked the new you, ‘Ax.’” Mitch nudged Hank’s muscled shoulder with his own, using the big man’s alias. “Didn’t ya say she found the new duds kinda kinky?”

  Hank crossed his arms. “Sexy,” he replied and swiped the rag across his glistened brow. “Maybe for a weekend, but when Daddy comes home and the kids back away petrified…well, then it’s time to grow back the hair and lose the leathers and frayed jeans.”

  The pounding of several sets of feet drew their attention. A small detail of officers approached. “We need to get to those.” One of the technicians paused, pointing to the contents in the back of the vehicle. The two caskets located in the hearse contained a shipment of cocaine, not bodies.

  The partners scooted from their perch, stepping to the side to allow the officer’s entry.

  “Cut it kinda close, didn’t ya?” Hank raised his chin in the direction of the bent passenger door. “What the hell happened?”

  Mitch rolled his eyes. “Friggin’ nightmare.” He ran a hand over the cavity. Red paint from the diesel truck edged the side of the dent. Red like those strappy heels attached to lovely legs and a well-rounded—Still don’t have time for that, he admonished himself while wondering if he might be able to find out her name and make it up to her. Perhaps take the knot out of her hair.

  ***

  In her hotel room, Lorna fell back on the bed, drained by the happenings of the day. Completely spent, she worked and reworked the Aqua Oil proposal, striving to stay on task, her mind wandering at every turn. If only she’d had a normal day. But exhaustion pulled her down into its comfortable slumber. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her eyes open a moment longer.

  The goose-down pillows seemed custom made to fit her head. While her eyes fluttered closed, the damp scent of earth and wild ferns surrounded her. Young and free, the weight of the proposal and ever present business needs slipped away. She had transported back five years to McNab’s Island, the weekend prior to her graduation.

  Lorna stood to stretch her back after whacking the last peg in the ground to secure the tent. “Call me critical…”

  Natasha, the sister of her heart, laughed, moss-green eyes merry. “You’re critical.” She tossed Lorna a backpack.

  Lorna ignored the barb and bent to retrieve her sleeping bag. “Tenting on an island for a big drunk fest is not the soundest decision we’ve ever made.” She scanned the wooded area next to them and lowered her voice. “We don’t even know who our neighbors might be.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten…” Natasha threw another bag in the tent. “It’s called celebrating—a coming of age—end of an era—kinda thing.”

  Lorna stood hunched in the confined space but managed to put her hand on her hip. “Remembering why I’m here doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to celebrate.” She tilted her leg out for better balance. “I simply think assembling hundreds of newly graduated university students—”

  “Graduated being the operative word. Students no more.”

  Lorna huffed and swung her arm wide, trailing her fingertips along the inside of the nylon fabric. “Okay. Putting a bunch of graduates together on one small island and telling them to go wild.”

  Her roommate’s smile rivaled the brightness of the sun. “Do you think?”

  “What?”

  “We’ll get wild?” Natasha bounced up on her toes, an excited flush coloring her cheeks. “Be surrounded by wild, sexy men. What kind of paradoxical universe would that create?”

  Lorna snorted. “Oh, ha, ha.”

  Natasha’s straight brows drew a V over the bridge of her nose in a frown. “Listen, everyone needs to let go once in a while.” She placed her slender hands on Lorna’s shoulders. “Think you can try to let loose this weekend? You don’t want to be one of those people who up and cracks one day. Goes ‘postal’ or something.”

  The image fetched a froth of giggles. Lorna pushed the slender girl back so they both landed on the pile of bags.

  “When you put it that way, what choice do I have?”

  Natasha shimmied back to reach inside their cooler and toss Lorna cold one.

  Lorna caught the beer easily.

  Natasha peeked outside the tent flap before pulling her head back inside. “Men,” she squealed. “We’re surrounded on both sides by M-E-N!”

  “There’s that expensive education coming to good use.” Lorna crawled to the tent flap. “You can spell.”

  “One-two-three, let’s down these and go exploring,” Natasha said.

  “Okay, on three.”

  Music pulsated through Lorna’s veins, making her one with the camaraderie instead of simply a spectator. With no shortage of liquid spirits, Lorna’s shyness ebbed following Natasha’s lead.

  Natasha jerked her arm, almost knocking Lorna off her unsteady legs. “Don’t look now,” she hissed, directing her strong chin toward a group of rugby guys bench-pressing girls from the cheer squad. “There’s Mitchell Morgan. Didn’t you tutor him or something? You get all the luck. How many times did he ask you out?”

  Through fuzzy vision, Lorna honed in on the man. Her insides quickened. “I don’t know, maybe a couple of times. He wasn’t serious.”

  “Wasn’t serious, my ass. How many times did he show up at the dorm?” Natasha maneuvered them closer to the action. “Really, what more could you ask for? Built with a sense of humor and those ‘see you in the bedroom’ blue eyes.”

  Only because he doesn’t know I’m spoiled goods, Lorna took another drink to cover the jitter of her heart. No man will ever want what’s inside this package once they realize…

  Within the crush of bodies and alcohol haze, Lorna considered perhaps for one night she could let it all go. She would be like everyone else, not flawed, not damaged, but free to do as she pleased.

  Someone handed her a shot and she downed the contents, wheezing with the after burn. She joined the gyrating figures, stomping on the grass, hands in the air. Someone handed her another and soon her hair flowed about her shoulders.

  She spotted Mitch on the edge of the dancers. Here was her chance. Emboldened by booze, Lorna opened another button on her blouse and made her way towards her conquest.

  As if drawn to her like a needle at the end of a thread, she watched while he stepped back from the conversation at her approach. His face in shadow, she couldn’t read his expression.

  “You let your hair down.”

  With a self-conscious gesture, she reached to smooth the locks. Her breath labored as though running. Taking her courage by the shot-glass, she stepped closer. “Y-you never called,” she slurred and ended o
n a hiccup.

  The gleam of his white teeth reflected in the dim light. “No.” He drew out the word, his lips moved to her ear. “You didn’t take my calls. You never answered the door.”

  Her insides tuned to a quavering mass while his breath tickled her ear. She swayed back a step. “Oh.”

  His eyes crinkled and his smile widened. He had deep dimples.

  Without a word, he placed a hand on the small of her back and turned her towards the dancers. The warmth from his fingers radiated through her entire length. Entering the tussle of writhing bodies, he turned her in his arms, hands snug to her hips.

  His lips caressed the flower of her ear, his deep voice throaty. “I knew there was something in you just waiting.”

  The feel of his hard body intoxicated her more than the alcohol. “I’m s-sure there’s a lot more to me than—than y-you imagined.”

  With his tongue spreading a moist trail of desire, she found it increasingly hard to concentrate.

  “There is.” He claimed her lips.

  Her arms twined around his neck. The throb, which had begun the moment she saw him, grew rosy with the heat of their bodies. She opened her lips to him, her tongue dueling for control.

  His palms cupped her warm cheeks. His gaze drilled through to her soul. “Come with me,” he whispered and took her hand, drawing her from the throngs of dancing, sweating bodies.

  Electrical currents of anticipation travelled along her veins. She’d follow him anywhere. Gone were the crowds. For this moment they were the only two people on the island. Her courage held until he unzipped the flap of his tent, then she hesitated, her old resolve causing her to pull back.

  He tilted his head to the side and ran his thumb along her jaw. Electric tingles coursed over her skin. Desire filled her while a small pulse in an area typically ignored ached with expectation.

  “You want me?” She couldn’t stop the question.

  “I do. I tried to tell…”

  “Truly?” She raised a hand to his stubbled cheek.

  He kissed her tenderly, his lips forming to hers. He pulled back so only their noses touched. “For a long time now.”

  She lowered her head. “I want you too.”

  His thumb traced the contours of her lips and he tilted her chin up. “Do what you want to do, Lorna—what makes you feel good. Stop overthinking—overanalyzing.”

  “Mitchell…I’m…I’m dam—”

  “Damned beautiful is what you are.” His mouth descended on hers again, while his forefinger traced a seductive line from her collarbone over her exposed skin, down to her cleavage, to the button of her blouse.

  Warmth flooded in all hidden places in her body. She sighed.

  He lifted her hand and rained soft kisses on the inside of her wrist. “You don’t understand how I want you.” He led her through the tent flap and laid her back on the nylon floor, cradling her head in the crook of his arm. In no apparent hurry, he smoothed fingertips across her brow and down her cheek to reach behind her head to pull her face to his. “Don’t you know, Lorna?”

  The ping of an incoming e-mail rang through to her conscience, unexpected and unwelcomed. Lorna’s eyes flew open stung by the bright display of the open laptop. Her breath hitched, his whispered words reverberated deep in her soul. Don’t you know?

  Lorna swung her feet to the side of the bed. With her elbows laid across her knees, she tried to gain control of her breathing. She groaned, the loss of the emotional connection of her dream felt like a physical blow. She padded off to the bathroom to splash water on her face. Liquid cupped in her palms for a drink, she chastised her reflection. “Why didn’t I realize?” She shook her head at the dark circles under her eyes. She would have to take special care tomorrow with her makeup to cover the smudges of worry. “I was just a conquest. The one that got away—one in a long line, as it turned out.”

  Clicking off the lights as she went, she moved back towards the bed, exhausted and ready for slumber. The beauty of the dream—memory—could not erase or ease of pain of the harsh reality. Her heart craved the sweetness of that moment. If only it had stayed perfect.

  “I can’t live off ‘if onlys.’” She smashed her fist into the pillow, creating an ample dent to rest her head. Her knees came up to her chest and the seldom-allowed tears streamed off her cheeks to be absorbed in the crisp cotton of her pillow in her silent hotel room. How she wished she could eradicate Mitchell Morgan from her innermost heart. “Damn you, Mitchell Morgan,” she sobbed.

  Chapter Four

  The following week, Mitch and his squad returned to their Edmonton detachment, and strut their victory. They were a triumphant team having worked a successful sting operation that had crippled a major drug dealer in the lower mainland of British Columbia. Five months of background and planning put the team in the field. Then followed nine months of tedious infiltration where they set up a dummy rival drug consortium. Their aim was to smuggle illicit street drugs via a local funeral home. Between caskets and cremation urns, using hearses as the main mode of transportation, they nailed some major players within the Fong clan with a list of serious crimes stretching as long as his arm.

  Prudent, Mitch downplayed his role. He had come too close to blowing the whole operation when he ran the stop sign. The crux of their success lay in how the squad had taken over a legit funeral operation to start their own small drug gang. At first, they merely intercepted drug runs across the Washington border. Then the crew wormed their way in to the main gang, wooing members of the Fong syndicate to cross over to their operation. This was the focus of their sting, as it allowed them to elicit confessions and material information from each member they recruited. Processing this information slowly through the prosecution team, they built a strong case, which the police hoped would do more than bruise the growing drug cartel.

  Back at his old desk, Mitch ran his fingers along the scarred surface and groaned at the mountain of paperwork spread in disarray, awaiting his attention. With an internal sigh, he lifted the lid of his laptop and logged onto the detachment database. He opened the first of his diaries and began typing, wishing he could just hand the pile over to a secretary, when his old partner, Luke, approached with two steaming cups of coffee in his hands.

  “Hey ol’ bud,” Luke said, handing Mitch a cardboard cup. “Good to see you back.”

  “Good to be back.” Mitch lifted his coffee cup in salute. “Thanks for the joe.”

  “Did they strip search you?”

  Mitch almost choked on his coffee. “Ah, no. Got away clean this time,” he sputtered, remembering the last operation when he was arrested with the rest of the ‘bad guys.’ The local police had been very thorough in their techniques. A bit too thorough, offering an experience Mitch had no desire to repeat.

  Luke perched on the edge of the desk, noisily slurping from the steaming mug. “That’s likely because Hank covered your skinny ass.”

  Mitch shrugged. At six-foot-three, one hundred and ninety pounds, Mitch was far from skinny. But then again, compared to Hank’s bulk, everyone appeared slight.

  “I see you’ve kept the beard and hair,” his friend continued. “Is this the new department look?”

  Mitch ran his hand along the long beard hanging off his face. “Nah. I would have gotten rid of it already, but I haven’t received clearance yet. Soon as I do though, I’m off to the barber for a good grooming.”

  A young constable approached the two men and nodded. He pointed a finger at Mitch. “Chief wants you in his office.”

  Mitch tugged at his beard. “Maybe this afternoon,” he said, shutting down his laptop and patting his colleague on the shoulder.

  ***

  “This was a very serious infiltration, Morgan,” Chief Boulet began immediately when Mitch closed the door to stand before the large desk. The Chief laced his beefy hands on the ink-pad in front of him. “Even before the team made it to the field, there were months of planning that went into this.”

  “Yes, sir,�
� Mitch agreed with a stiff nod to his head. Where was this going?

  “We do what we can to prevent leaks.” The older man unlaced his fingers, laying his palms flat on the surface and stared at Mitch over the top of his rimless glasses. “One of the reasons you were picked to head up this op was your lack of connections to the area. No friends or relations—nothing to cause an accidental trace back to your being an undercover officer.”

  “Correct, sir,” Mitch replied, leaning back on his heels. His spine tingled, confused by the line of dialogue.

  “Part of nailing the Fongs isn’t just getting the drugs off the street, but finding out how deep their tentacles run. Get to the roots of their organization. Find the source. Who’s laundering their money, where it all goes, and who benefits.”

  Mitch opened and closed his mouth, groping for words, perplexed about why his commander felt it necessary to rehash old, day-one information. Incomprehension colored his tones. “Pardon me, sir, I don’t understand where this is going.” Mitch stood stiffly with his feet firmly planted and his hands behind his back. “The mission was successful. We have people behind bars who wouldn’t have been there otherwise. The prosecution has a strong case, based on the months of evidence we obtained.”

  Mitch adjusted his stance to the balls of his feet. This wasn’t going the way he anticipated. Despite his regulation suit and tie, the beard and too-long hair tied back in a ponytail made him feel grubby. He wanted to shed the false persona and get back to some form of normalcy. Why’s the old man giving me a hard time?

  The muscles of his thighs tightened in a take-flight response to the darkening pallor of Boulet’s face. Bracing himself, Mitch refolded his hands behind his back.

  Boulet’s lips thinned and he stared at Mitch for a pregnant moment through the slits of his heavy lidded eyes. “We’re a long way from a successful prosecution. Do you understand what kind of danger you put the operation in? Foolish, rookie behavior.” The Chief paused, wiping a hand across his brow before pulling sheets of paper from a file on the side of his heavy mahogany desk.