Hot Pursuit (2 page)

“What the hell?” he murmured.

That envelope definitely hadn’t been there before he’d left for work. An odd, unsettled feeling sunk into his gut. He knew before he opened the envelope what was inside. But what he didn’t know was why.

“Holy fucking crap!” he gasped, and stared at the hundred-dollar bills that fell over one another onto his table when he ripped open the envelope.

“Oh my God!” Stacy squealed, leaping at the money and reaching for it.

Ben stuck his hand out and stopped her. “No!” he said harshly.

“Look at all that money,” she gasped. “How do you have money like this after buying that noisy motorcycle?” she accused. “Oh my God, sweetheart. Is this your money to clear your record? Are you going to be an upstanding citizen now?”

Ben growled under his breath. He was already a fucking upstanding citizen.

There was half a piece of typing paper folded so it was the size of the money. Ben grabbed it and unfolded it, staring in disbelief at so much cash before reading the note.

Some call this blood money, but at least now it can be put to good use. Take care of your lawyer fees and do what you have to do to become a great bounty hunter. You’ll be one of the best. I don’t have to tell you to burn this note. Take care and listen to King. He has a lot to teach you.

“Micah,” Ben whispered. He would definitely burn the note. Micah had more or less just confessed to being what everyone already suspected him of being, the Mulligan Stew assassin. Ben went cold as the reality sunk in and his fingers grew damp.

Still holding the letter, he grabbed Stacy’s arm and pushed her toward his front door. “Leave now,” he snarled.

“But, but all that money,” she complained.

Ben pushed her out the door and closed it. He turned the lock and leaned his head against it.

Goddamn! All that money!
Some call this blood money.

Micah Jones had worked with Ben at KFA for four months but now was gone. Greg and Haley King were pretty convinced Micah was the Mulligan Stew assassin, as the news had been calling him since the gun used on one of the men KFA was chasing matched the one that had shot and killed a CIA agent in Washington, D.C. Both bullets came from the same gun.

The assassin was a ghost. No one had ever seen him. But he was allegedly responsible for the deaths of over fifty men and women. Each time the Mulligan Stew assassin struck it was a shot straight to the heart. And each person killed had done terrible things. They were drug lords, Mafia members, rapists, and pedophiles. If there was a terrible person in town and someone had the cash to dish out, they could have that person eliminated, without having to wait for the cops to catch them and the judicial system to find them guilty. The news had been vague on how the assassin was contacted. But apparently once the Mulligan Stew assassin was paid all he needed was whatever information a person had on a bad person in their city. The assassin did the rest, found the person and killed them. Then the assassin disappeared without a trace.

“Which it appears you’ve done again,” Ben mused, and slid into the chair at his table. He slowly began gathering the bills that had poured onto his kitchen table. “Good Lord, man, there’s ten thousand dollars here.”

Ben shivered with fear and excitement. His heart was beating so hard he couldn’t breathe. Ben dropped the money on the table and stared at it. For a year now Ben had been trying to save up the money to pay the lawyer to have the felony on his record expunged. He was pretty sure he hadn’t bitched about how much it cost to pay to have his innocence back. Although there were times when he’d wanted to actually commit a felony or at least pound something until all of his frustrations went away. In a country where a man was innocent until proven guilty, coming up with cold, hard cash to prove his innocence had been almost too hard to pull off.

For three years they’d locked him up. Ben would never forget the nightmare of being arrested for stealing cars in his hometown of Duarte, California. They’d pulled him out of his parents’ home, dragged him to the street, where police car lights had flashed off all the neighbors’ homes and lit up the night. People his parents had known for years came out of their homes, watched while Ben had been handcuffed, searched, and stuffed into the backseat of the cops’ car.

“I can’t believe you did this,” Ben muttered. He stacked the bills neatly and counted them once again. Focusing on the task helped put memories of his past out of his head. “This is a hell of a lot more than I need to get that damned felony expunged from my records.”

And to pay his lawyer fees. Once Ben’s record was clear he could get licensed in the state of California. Then he would be a bounty hunter, instead of the errand boy and driver he’d been so far for KFA, which stood for “King Fugitive Apprehension.” He would soon be apprehending those fugitives who had blown off court dates, disregarded the bond paid on them, and thought they could get away with it. Maybe KFA would get a case where they had to hunt down a criminal wanted for something more serious than fleeing from the courts. Either way, Ben looked forward to the day he would be the one tackling them to the ground, slapping on the cuffs, and informing them they couldn’t run from crimes they’d committed.

Maybe then his mother would once again be proud of him.

That thought doused the happy thoughts he was having and left a sour taste in his mouth. His parents had never believed him innocent. His mother had begged him to admit he stole those cars. Ben would never forget the day she looked at him with tears welling in her eyes and told him she couldn’t believe she had a son who was a car thief. His father had held Ben’s mother close and told him if he would tell them how he did it possibly the judge would go easier on him. His parents had thought Ben was lying to them and to the judge.

To this day, Arnold Shots, the asshole from hell, had never been arrested for stealing those cars. The prick had framed Ben, and all over a fucking girl. Ben had slept with Arnold’s girlfriend; make that “ex-girlfriend,” since they’d been broken up at the time. Arnold had never been right in the head, but he had been a thief and a manipulator. He could make his own mother believe he was a pure saint, then turn around and sell drugs out of her house.

Ben still didn’t know how Arnold had convinced the cops he had nothing to do with three brand-new cars being stolen off a car lot in Duarte. That was, if the cops ever talked to Arnold. Ben had never found out. Arnold had stolen two cars before from the same car lot and had driven them out of town, then sold them. He would have done the same with these three, but when he found out about Ben, after getting back together with Sally something or other—he didn’t even remember her last name—Arnold had driven all three cars behind the restaurant where Ben worked. Arnold had shown them to Ben, which was how Ben’s fingerprints got on them, and had told him they would be there overnight and gone before the restaurant opened the following morning. Ben had insisted Arnold not leave them there. Ben had told him it was stupid and Arnold was looking at life in prison if he didn’t get rid of the cars. Arnold never went to prison. The cops showed up at Ben’s house that same night, having received a tip that the cars were there. Ben believed to this day that Arnold had called the police and turned in an anonymous tip that three cars were behind the restaurant and that Ben Mercy had been seen with the cars.

“Ten thousand dollars.” A slow smile spread across his face. “I’m going to hire the best lawyer out there and put you behind bars, Arnold Shots. You’re going to rot in hell before you die.”

Ben wouldn’t have accepted this much money, or any amount, if Micah had tried giving it to him. If Micah had left it for him and had still been in town, Ben would have given it back. Micah was gone, though. The money was Ben’s, and he would put it to really good use.

He looked up from the cash. It suddenly hit him. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

There wasn’t a back door to Ben’s apartment. He could tell there was no damage to his front door. It was pointless to check the windows, although he would do it out of curiosity. Micah had skills that were out of this world. Ben would probably never know how the man got into Ben’s apartment, left that cash, then took off. More than likely no one saw him do it, either.

Ben picked up the stack of bills. Interesting how one-hundred-dollar bills had a different feel to them than other bills. Crisper, with a strong smell of money. It was as if these bills knew they were more important than an average twenty or ten. They were smooth, not crinkled, the way money was when it came out of an ATM. Ben doubted any of these bills had seen a bank or been in circulation recently.

Whatever crimes Micah had committed, or allegedly, he hadn’t done anything recently. Ben had worked long hours with the guy, day and night, and could account for his whereabouts up until a couple days ago. Quite possibly Micah had been sitting on this cash for a while. Which was impressive and smart. Micah had lived in a dump of a house in one of the low-income parts of the city. He never had much cash on him. To all appearances, he had seemed to have struggled financially just as Ben did.

It was still damn hard to wrap his brain around Micah being a cold-blooded killer. Quite possibly, at least the way the papers were telling it, the best assassin in the world.

The law would hunt Micah. Ben prayed they never caught him and hoped Micah was as good at hiding as he was at sitting on so much cash. As for the other crimes, as far as Ben was concerned, Micah was the most respectable murderer he’d ever met. And he’d met a couple while in prison.

He stood, walked over to his sink, opened the drawer to his left, and pulled out a book of matches. Then striking a match, he stared at the flame as it came to life, growing and shifting in color as it began to move down the stick toward Ben’s fingers. Then he burned the note that had come with the cash. He held the paper as it burned, watching it curl and turn black. When it got too small he dropped it into his sink. It curled into itself one last time and was nothing but ashes. Ben turned on the water and rinsed the ashes down the drain.

“Be careful, Micah, and be safe. Don’t let them catch you.”

Chapter Two

One year later

Wolf Marley pulled into a convenience store and parked. Fresh caffeine and a bit of walking and stretching, and he would be good as new. Or at least somewhere close to it. It had been one hell of a long drive. All the road construction and detours had been a bitch. His map was up-to-date. And although his new SUV came equipped with a GPS program, if Wolf wanted some lady telling him where to drive, she’d be sitting in the seat next to him. And at that, he could think of much better things she might do than tell him what road to take. He hadn’t gotten lost, but nothing sucked worse than seeing the interstate you needed to be on and driving underneath it while on the wrong road.

Los Angeles was an endless maze of neighborhood after neighborhood. He’d driven into L.A. this morning and with the afternoon ready to peak was, he hoped he was close to his destination. This was the third time he’d exited, believing he had the right neighborhood. If he was wrong a third time, he might get pissed.

Patience was the name of the game, though. That and not getting so aggravated he couldn’t think straight.

He shut off the engine on his silver Escalade. It beeped when he locked it. Wolf looked over his shoulder at his SUV as he headed to the store’s entrance. Dark-tinted windows made it impossible to see inside. The sticker price had been almost sixty grand. Wolf had paid fifty grand in cash with his last bounty check and owned his sweet ride free and clear. That Escalade had made driving across the country a hell of a lot nicer than previous road trips. He was still sore and stiff.

Not getting any younger, yet the bounties just kept getting bigger. The hell with patience. Perseverance was the name of the damned game.

He’d earned every damn penny it had taken to buy the Escalade. Just as he would earn his bounty now. The road trip had been hell, grueling, but already he felt that nip of excitement tighten in his gut. He was close. He could feel it.

Fifteen minutes later Wolf came out of the convenience store grumpier than he had been when he had entered. It would always be a mystery why these damn places were called convenience stores when there wasn’t a damn thing convenient about them. He climbed back into his Escalade and breathed in the new-car smell. When he had time he would figure out how to get rid of that smell. He didn’t want his car smelling like anything. Wolf hunted men and women below the radar, and he lived a life with nothing about him giving away any noticeable characteristics for someone to remember. As expensive as his Escalade had been, it was a silver SUV with no markings on the outside. The whole point was for it not to stand out in a crowd any more than he did.

Wolf didn’t fuck with Karma. He was very good at capturing men and women no one else could find. He did this by living the way they did. Buying the Escalade might have been an indulgence, but the SUV didn’t stand out. At thirty-five, he’d been doing this a while. That didn’t make the job any less demanding. The more years under the belt, the more captures he credited himself with, the more he expected himself to be able to do. He’d earned a comfortable ride while doing it. And Wolf needed a vehicle that would get him everywhere he needed to go, which was often all over the goddamned country.

He started the engine and cranked on the air when it started getting tight inside the car. Los Angeles’s summer heat was starting to get to him, although it was nothing compared to the summer mugginess back in Oklahoma. Wolf adjusted the AC and opened the folder on his passenger seat.

“There’s the address,” he said, staring at his own handwriting and the notes he’d made while in his hotel room that morning. “King Fugitive Apprehension, KFA … catchy name. Do I go in looking for work, or maybe advice? Advice might do the trick. Looks like the owner of KFA used to be a cop. He’ll be a cocky son of a bitch.” Wolf shook his head. “I bet he banged his head against the wall for months after the Mulligan Stew assassin left when he realized one of
America’s Most Wanted
actually worked for him. That would seriously sting the pride.”