Hot Pursuit (6 page)

Wolf didn’t see need for conversation. He stormed around the desk clerk and pulled his key card out of his pocket. So much for a good night’s sleep. There were advantages to traveling light, and this was one of them. He entered the motel room with the desk clerk at his door, yelling at him to get out. Wolf grabbed the small bag that held his toiletries, unzipped his duffel and shoved it inside, then zipped the duffel up and headed out the door.

“Thanks for the fine service,” he grumbled, slapping the key card into the desk clerk’s hand, and headed to his SUV.

Apparently, the motorcycle belonged to Mercy, because he was on it and had already backed out of the stall. Wolf hid a smirk when he looked at the punk’s red face. There was a damn nice-looking bruise trailing down the right side of it. Mercy’s eyes looked a bit puffy. Either that or he was crying.

“Have a fun time riding that thing,” Wolf muttered, but took a moment to admire the fine machine Mercy was sitting on.

Wolf had a Harley at home, too. Now wasn’t time for nostalgia, though. He started his large SUV and rolled down the window. The motel had his name and tag number. He’d paid with cash, his preferred method of travel, but nonetheless there were shoddy motel owners out there and he didn’t want trumped-up charges or any attention drawn to him.

Wolf rested his arm on his door and nodded to the man, who still stood there. “There were no damages done to your motel.”

“You scared families in other rooms,” he pointed out, once again puffing himself to his full height of five-ten or so.

Wolf learned a lot from observing people. Standing at five feet, ten and a half inches, he’d spent his youth obsessing about his height. Which was probably how he’d noticed that men who weren’t as tall as other men looked a hell of a lot more impressive when they didn’t try puffing out like a peacock. Very few tall men did that. This desk clerk was doing his best to look as scary as possible and failing.

There was worry on the man’s face, though. Wolf saw that the man was trying to protect his motel single-handedly. The two women had already left.

Wolf nodded toward Mercy. “The kid is hot-wired. He thinks I wronged his mother.”

The desk clerk narrowed his eyes on Wolf, obviously not approving of men who abused women. Wolf didn’t, either. “He’s wrong, though. He threw a punch before he realized I’m alone and not with another woman. I would never do that to his mother. I love both of them. I’ll take the kid and calm him down. I do apologize if anyone was upset, or scared by the outburst.”

“Outburst” was putting it mildly, but the desk clerk calmed down a bit, his puffed-out chest relaxing. “Have a good night, señor.”

“You, too,” Wolf told him, then rolled up his window and glanced over at Mercy.

The kid was leaning on his handlebars. The parking-lot lights cast shadows over his face, but Mercy was going to have one hell of a shiner.

By the time Wolf hit the interstate heading north it was also apparent Mercy planned on following him. His Escalade could easily cruise over a hundred miles an hour if he wanted to push getting a ticket. Mercy, on that bike, could pace him without any problem. That one lone headlight in the middle of his rearview mirror became a thorn in his side as the evening wore on.

A few hours later Ben was eternally grateful when Marley took an exit off the interstate into a quiet, sleepy town. The tall, bright sign advertising the several motels along a strip off the road had never looked better. Wolf chose the closest one and pulled his Escalade in under the awning outside their main door. Instead of going inside, he came around his SUV and walked up to Ben.

“Do you plan on following me wherever I go?” Wolf demanded, his voice harsh but his face gray and slightly bruised. It would probably be colorful by morning.

“You broke into my home and took two postcards from me. I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”

“Suit yourself.” He pointed a thumb toward the motel entrance. “I’m going to get a room—
another
room,” he stressed, “and get some sleep.”

A pillow and blanket sounded so good. Ben considered his options. It was still a good six-hour drive to Zounds, if he didn’t hit any heavy traffic. It was seriously late, and his eyes were burning with exhaustion. The night wind slapping at him as he rode the motorcycle had the rest of him aching for a hot shower. Ben climbed off the bike and opted for a room, too.

He allowed himself only two hours of sleep. It was a high price for a short nap, but there was no way he could let Micah down, not after all he’d done for Ben. He would beat that damn bounty hunter to Zounds if it killed him. Then, the best thing that could happen was Micah wouldn’t be there. Marley wouldn’t have a clue where to go from there to find Micah any more than Ben would.

Ben was heading to his bike, seriously needing coffee, when Wolf Marley came trudging out to the parking lot. Ben cursed under his breath as he stared at the wild brown mop of hair covering the muscular, shorter man’s head. He couldn’t see Marley’s face, but it looked as if the man was walking stiffly.

Good, Ben thought. At least he wasn’t the only one hurting. Marley pulled into the twenty-four-hour gas station across the street when Ben did. Neither acted as if he knew the other when they got coffee.

“I know what you’re doing.” Marley stood outside his Escalade and stared at Ben through the steam of his coffee.

Ben gulped down half his cup. He would love to go buy another cup but wouldn’t risk having to stop for bathroom breaks. “What’s that?” he asked dryly.

“You’re headed up there to warn him.”

Ben had given a lot of thought to what Marley might accuse him of doing while following him. Driving after him up the state of California because the guy trashed Ben’s apartment seemed a bit extreme. More so, Ben had devised a plan so he’d know what to say when confronted.

“To warn him?” Ben cleared the distance between him and Marley.

The man stood a few inches shorter than Ben, and Ben probably had a good forty pounds more in muscle weight. Not to mention the guy was probably a good ten years older. To his credit, Marley didn’t shy down.

“What exactly do you think you found in those postcards?” Ben asked.

“I think Micah was letting you know where he was.”

Ben shook his head, refusing even to acknowledge the name Marley threw in his face. “If that is what you think, I’ll be collecting this bounty without any problems,” he said, laughed, and walked back to his bike.

“Collecting what bounty?” Marley called after him.

Ben turned around. “We knew the Mulligan Stew assassin was in L.A.,” he began, then shook his head, trying to make it appear the memory was a bad one. “I knew we were close to nabbing him, although now it’s even sweeter with a million-dollar bounty.” Ben waved his free hand as if this should all be common knowledge. “Then, we’re out apprehending a client. It was no big deal, a routine case. We’re a few yards away from capturing the son of a bitch and some asshole shoots him. Less than an hour later police are swarming our office and it’s all over that the Mulligan Stew assassin shot our guy.”

Ben shook his head, drank more of his coffee, and stood with his back to his bike facing Marley. The guy was staring back at him, digesting what he’d just been told.

“If what you’re saying is true,” he said slowly, “it explains why he shot someone that didn’t fit the profile compared to everyone else he killed.”

Ben nodded, getting into his act, and pointed a finger at Marley. “And that he shot him with the same gun used to kill that CIA agent. It was how he let us know it was him. Otherwise we would have believed we had a random shooting. The son of a bitch was taunting us.”

“That doesn’t explain the postcards.”

Ben hardened his expression. He knew Marley was probably snickering over the shiner Ben had. And it did hurt. Nothing that wouldn’t go away in a day or so, but when he frowned he felt the bruised skin tighten on his face.

“You broke into my home and stole those. By all rights I should be kicking your ass again instead of discussing anything about the assassin with you.”

“Kicking whose ass?” Marley laughed.

The man was hard as nails. It had felt as if he’d been hitting a wall the few times Ben got in a good punch the night before.

“Seems to me you’ve got some mighty dark bruises there, son.”

Marley wasn’t that much older than Ben that he rated calling him son. But fighting with the guy would just make him even more determined to beat Ben to their destination.

“I guess we both look alike more than we would otherwise,” he said coolly.

“These postcards came from the assassin, from Micah.” Marley’s voice was insistent. He was so sure he was right and wanted confirmation.

Ben wouldn’t give that to him in a million years. “You’re wrong,” he said softly, shaking his head. “I don’t know the assassin. But I will. I’ll get to know him real well when I haul him in.”

Marley narrowed his eyes. “Don’t think for a second you’re going to claim any bounty.” His tone and expression grew mean. The man didn’t change his stance, though. He remained relaxed and blew on his coffee before taking a drink. “Why do you have two blank postcards?” he finally demanded.

Ben’s answer was so rehearsed in his head he couldn’t wait to spill it out. “A friend of mine helped me track him after that man we were chasing down a year ago got shot. I didn’t have my PI license yet and wasn’t going to do anything to allow the feds to back out of paying me my due once I turned him in. When he thought he’d spotted him in Santa Clarita, we tore that city apart trying to find him. My buddy headed north on the chance the Mulligan Stew assassin would go that way instead of west or south. I stayed in L.A. finishing up what I needed to do to get licensed so I could officially be a bounty hunter and go after him, too.”

Ben knew Marley had seen all his paperwork to get licensed as a private investigator. It made sense, he had decided, to throw that bit in to make it more believable. Greg King had taught Ben many things, and one of them was about visuals. Let a man see something and it made it a lot easier to convince him it was true.

“When the second postcard showed up, I dropped everything and drove up there. Zounds, California, isn’t a big town and we thought we had him. The bastard slipped through our fingers once again.”

“Then why are you following me up there if you’ve already searched and didn’t find him?”

“Is that where you’re headed?” Ben shrugged. “You owe whatever you know about him for trashing my place. If I have to find it out by following you, then that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve put a lot of hours in on this, and you aren’t going to find him before I do.”

Wolf studied Ben, weighing the odds on the punk feeding him lies or whether he was telling him the truth. It didn’t take much to conclude whatever the truth was, Ben would hold out on any true valuable information he might have.

“That’s a good story,” Wolf finally said. “There’s no doubt in my mind you’ll lie about what you know or don’t know about the Mulligan Stew assassin. You’ll accuse me of withholding information by tempting me with information you may or may not have.”

To his credit, Ben didn’t bat an eye at the insinuation. “Are you going to tell me what you know?”

“Not on your life.”

“I think it would be best if we worked together.” Ben grinned as if he knew his suggestion would twist unpleasantly in Wolf’s gut.

Wolf didn’t work with anyone. Stepping on someone’s toes took up time. He preferred doing his own analyzing and research. He also preferred claiming any bounty all to himself.

“Works for me.” Wolf opened his SUV door. “I guess I’ll see you in Zounds.”

Chapter Five

Angelina Matisse, although she preferred Angel, despite the fact that the name didn’t suit her, lugged the heavy box across her storeroom floor just as the bell tinkled in the other room. She straightened, feeling the strain in her back, and rubbed her hand over her tailbone. No time to dwell on aches and pains. She had a customer.

“Hi, Angel,” Maggie Mall said and strolled into Angel’s bookstore wearing a broad smile on her face. “The book was great.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Angel said, matching the grin as she walked behind her counter. She glanced at the clock. Four
P.M.
, which meant another three hours to go before closing time.

The bell over her door tinkled again, and Mrs. Pointer hurried in with her four kids, who immediately raced over to the children’s books, except for the oldest Pointer boy, who made his way to the magazines.

“Mrs. Pointer,” Angel said, nodding and holding on to her “never a care in the world” smile.

When the Pointers entered, Maggie spun around as if she were expecting someone to come into the store behind her, but then visibly sighed. She was usually quiet, except when she and Angel were alone. Then Maggie opened up and glowed with a personality impossible not to love. Angel knew the signs of a beaten woman. Maggie lived with her husband outside of town. Angel had never seen the man. Some town folk thought Maggie made him up. Angel believed Maggie had a husband and that he was a hermit like Maggie told everyone. She also thought he must be a rough, possessive man by Maggie’s actions. She never spoke of him but always dutifully hurried back out of town as soon as she got what she came in to get.

“So which book are you getting today?” Angel asked Maggie when she turned back around.

“The next book in the series. Also, do you have any books on expanding your home?”

“Expanding your home?” Angel looked pointedly down at Maggie’s belly.

“Oh no! No.” Maggie laughed, getting Angel’s drift. “I’m not pregnant.” She said the last sentence with a wistful sigh. “We’re thinking about expanding, and with such a sporadic Internet connection where we live I thought books might help us get a grasp on what we’re taking on.”

“You can get all your answers in books,” Angel said, and cringed. “I sound like my dad. You never want to be like them but then have to laugh when you sound just like them.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Maggie laughed. “I look in the mirror and say hello to my mother every day,” she added, and followed Angel to the part of the bookstore where self-help books were shelved.