Hunt Her Down

  Alonso looked at the door, waiting for the next one, the crowbar in his right hand, his knife in his left.

  Had this one been alone? Had he been the only one to suspect something of value might be in the old, abandoned warehouse?

  Nothing stirred, not even the rats.

  After a minute, he dragged the body to the crate he’d emptied last time.

  Alonso Jimenez was a strong man. He might have a cancer in his body, a broken family, and a wrecked life, but he was still El Viejo. He hoisted the body into the crate, closed it, and returned to the one he’d been about to open. He jabbed the bar in and grunted as he pushed, the hinges squeaking. Then he reached in for a very heavy hammer to close the intruder’s coffin.

  He quickly finished his business, got what he needed to make this next deposit, and slipped back into the night, satisfied. Almost satisfied.

  He wouldn’t be truly happy until young Quinn Smith was home.

  After seventy-two miserable tequila-soaked hours staring out at the ocean from a different room at the same resort, Dan still didn’t have any answers. The questions just kept piling up.

  Quinn had lived his whole life, thinking another man was his father, so what difference did it make if he spent the rest of it with that mistaken notion?

  Maggie was clearly running from her past; what right did he have to blow it up in her face and wreck her life?

  Dan had just dodged the commitment bullet with a woman he knew well and nearly loved; why the hell would he seek it with a virtual stranger?

  And the biggest question of all—how would Maggie feel? He had no doubt that she’d seen what happened that night in Miami, and knew he’d betrayed her and used her to rat out the whole operation, so the chances that she’d be overjoyed to have a reunion with Michael Scott were nil. More likely, she’d use her little .22 right between his eyes. Or legs.

  She hadn’t figured it out yet, but wasn’t he living on borrowed time? Couldn’t she see the genetic imprint of him on her son?

  It didn’t matter if she did or not. He had to tell her the truth.

  Otherwise he’d have to go on knowing he had a son living on this earth whom he didn’t know. Not to mention the financial responsibilities. Maggie was obviously struggling, and he could make her life easy with the stroke of his pen.

  Was it the right thing to do . . . or the wrong thing?

  One thing he knew: he owed Maggie honesty. Then he had to respect what she did with that information. If she chose not to reveal the truth to her son, he would abide by that. He’d still give her money and whatever she needed, but he wouldn’t force his fatherhood on Quinn.

  He waited until he was fairly certain she’d be at the bar, early enough so that there would be few customers. As he parked his rented car in front of Smitty’s, the last vestiges of sunshine faded. He didn’t want to tell her at home, when Quinn was there, and not while she worked the bar or cleaned tables. Hopefully he could talk her into one more midnight rendezvous.

  As he climbed out of the Porsche, a loud bark pulled his attention and he spun around, seeing Goose, and then meeting those very green eyes that had haunted him for two days. The hero worship he’d earned over their dinner was replaced by cold teenage distrust and disgust as Quinn yanked the leash and pulled the dog back.

  “Hey, Quinn.”

  “What are you doing here?” Quinn demanded, the big Australian shepherd winning the tug of war and gaining ground. The boy’s flip-flops snapped on the pavement as Goose dragged them both closer, a bushy tail whipping side to side, that massive tongue waving with each loud pant.

  Dan closed the space and knelt down to rub the dog’s neck. “I stopped by to see your mom.”

  “She doesn’t want to see you.” He yanked the leash, as if to say don’t touch my dog.

  Slowly, Dan stood. “Why’s that?”

  “Beats me.” He brushed his hand over his hair in a gesture so familiar, Dan almost laughed. In a few years, when the kid had a beard, he knew exactly how he’d rub that, too.

  And, shit, he kind of wanted to be around to see it.

  “She didn’t tell you?” Dan prodded.

  Quinn managed to inch the dog back. “I don’t know. It’s, like, not my business, and I don’t really get her all the time, but whatever you did to her the other night . . .”

  “I didn’t do anything to her,” Dan said quietly. “What happened?”

  “She cried all night, that’s what. I hate that.”

  So did he. “Then I really better talk to her.”

  “No, you really better leave her alone.” His gaze flickered to the car for a second, and regret darkened his face. “Just . . . leave us alone.”

  He fought the leash one more time and started off.

  “Where are you going?” Dan’s question was natural, and came out without thinking.

  Damn. He cared. Already.

  “None of your fucking business.” Despite the tough guy talk, maybe because of it, he suddenly sounded very young, and vulnerable.

  “Quinn, don’t talk like that.”

  He shrugged. “Whatev. You’re not the boss of me.”

  And that, son, is where you are wrong. But Dan said nothing as Quinn jogged away, trying to keep up with Goose, who’d moved on to the next interesting scent.

  He headed in, rethinking his plan for a late night meeting. There might not be time for that. Or the opportunity.

  The bar was empty except for one older man at the far end, watching ESPN on the flat screen, the vague smell of stale beer and conch fritters in the air.

  Brandy looked up from a magazine and gave him a wide, friendly smile. “Well look what the hundred thousand dollar Porsche dragged in.”

  At least she didn’t think he ought to leave them alone. “It’s a rental.”

  “So I’ve heard. And it tells me a lot about a man who rents a car like that as opposed to, say, a Taurus.”

  Dan smiled as he leaned on the bar, resisting the urge to look around for Maggie. “What’s it tell you?”

  “That you’re rich.”

  “Only that I have expensive tastes.” He tapped the bar and glanced around. “She here?”

  Brandy cocked her shiny blond hair toward the door next to the back bar. “In the office. Want me to get her?”

  The office. Perfect. “Can I go see her?”

  She frowned, considering. “She hasn’t talked much about you the past few days. I thought maybe the crush got crushed.” Then she pointed a finger at him. “My godson, on the other hand, hasn’t talked about anything else. That’s how I know what your rental cost.” She looked hard at him. “You evidently made quite an impression on both of them.”

  He nodded and took a few steps toward the office. “Is it unlocked?”

  “Yeah. Go ahead. She’ll wished she had worn a little make up, but go on. Make her day.”

  “That’s my plan.” He turned the knob without knocking and stepped right in, peeking around the door just as she looked up from a metal desk covered in papers and forms.

  “Oh,” she whispered, her whole being stilled by the sight of him.

  Her face was pale except for faint shadows under her eyes. She obviously hadn’t slept much. And he was about to make it all so much worse.

  “Hey.” He didn’t wait for an invitation, but slipped in and closed the door, twisting the latch position as he faced her. “You should keep this door locked if you’re back here with any appreciable amount of money.”

  “Not appreciable. But thanks.”

  There was one chair with a little hole in the cane seat. A reject from the bar, no doubt. It wasn’t offered.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  She lifted a shoulder. “Fine.”

  He waited, but she didn’t say anything. “I’m fine, too,” he finally said, taking the chair that wasn’t offered.

  “Thanks for asking.” He winked to make it playful, but she just sucked her bottom lip in a little and watched him warily.

&
nbsp; “So . . .” he said, hands on his legs. “We need to talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk, Dan.” She set down a pencil and crossed her arms. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say, or flirt with you anymore, or make out under the stars, or get all tangled up in you. I really don’t know how to make that any clearer.”

  He scratched his face, definitely confused. She didn’t know yet, so why was she so defensive? “Why?”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you anything.”

  He took a deep breath. “I owe you . . . the truth about something.”

  “No, you don’t. You don’t owe me anything. Just leave and we’ll call it—”

  “Lena! I need you!” Three whacks on the door followed Brandy’s call. Then the locked handle jiggled. “Now!”

  They were both up in a shot, Dan turning the lock to whip the door open at the panic in Brandy’s voice. “Remember the Hispanic guy you told me to watch out for? With the snake tattoo up his arm?”

  Ramon.

  “I didn’t notice that tattoo at first and served him. Now he’s at the bar. Mean as spit and demanding to see the owner.”

  Maggie paled and put her hand to her throat. “I want him out of here.”

  “Stay here. Both of you.” Dan pulled Brandy into the room with one hand, and put another on Maggie’s shoulder. “I’ll handle this.”

  Without waiting for a response, he strode back into the bar and took the empty seat on Ramon’s left, getting a dark look and a fraction of a nod when he did.

  “How ya doin’?” Dan asked, his voice low.

  Ramon slid him another look. “Fuck off.”

  Good to know he hadn’t changed. “You know who I am?”

  “A prick.”

  “That and house security. So you don’t want to piss me off. All you need to do is go out the same way you came. Now.”

  Finally he got Ramon’s full face, which had become a little craggier in prison, and still housed plenty of hate in deep-set black eyes. “Kiss my ass, Mr. House Security. I know the owner. And I’m not leavin’ until I see her.”

  “That isn’t going to happen,” Dan said calmly. “So you can leave now.”

  Ramon took a very long swig of beer, then set the bottle down and gave Dan one more death stare. “She’s got something of mine and I’m not leaving without it.”

  Ice dribbled through Dan’s veins.

  Of course. What else would Ramon think? The kid might not look like him, but the math would work in his favor. Magdalena Varcek was his lover fourteen years ago, too.

  The ice turned to adrenaline and something else very dark. Possession. As Ramon reached for the bottle, Dan grabbed it out of his hands. “No more. Out.”

  With surprising speed, Ramon whipped his fist around, but Dan clipped it with the bottle. Glass smashed against flesh, cracking as beer and shards hit the bar and they both leaped up, Ramon’s bar stool clattering to the floor.

  “Motherfu—”

  Dan threw a fist into his cheek, then one into his gut. When he doubled over, Dan grabbed his arm and twisted him around into a chokehold, one easy move. He jerked away from the bar and yanked Ramon’s arm higher. “Time to leave, pal.”

  With a solid shove, he got him to the front door, and used Ramon to push it open and thrust him outside.

  “Where’s your car?” Dan demanded, still not letting him loose.

  “Down there.” He jerked his head toward a narrow street that ran alongside the bar. “Fuckin’ A, man, let me go.”

  Dan didn’t let up, scanning the streets for a possible accomplice and seeing no one. Around the corner was a row of parked cars by a Dumpster and side entrances to the buildings.

  He twisted the arm as he tightened his grip around Ramon’s throat. “Which one?”

  “Here.” He notched his head toward a subcompact.

  “Locked?”

  “No. The keys are under the front seat.”

  “Open it.” He let him reach the handle to pull open the door, then thrust him into the driver’s seat with one push, racking his Glock before Ramon took his next breath.

  “What the fuck, man?” He held his hands back and stared up at Dan in disbelief.

  “Here’s what the fuck, man.” Dan crouched down and got in his face, pointing the barrel between terrorstricken eyes. “If anyone ever sees you anywhere near this place again, if you make any effort to so much as breathe the same air as Maggie Varcek, if you even think about having contact with her, you’re a dead man. Is that clear?”

  “Yeah.” He glared at Dan, his eyes shooting back and forth as he surveyed his face. “Who are you?”

  “Her bodyguard.” Dan leaned forward. “And I take my job very seriously.”

  “Oh, yeah? So do I. And I have business with her.”

  “What business?”

  “She has a fucking fortune and it’s mine!” His black eyes burned. “I want it back.”

  Dan lifted the gun and touched it to Ramon’s sweaty forehead. “Get out. Don’t come back.”

  He stood, keeping his arm steady, then slammed the door and kept the weapon aimed straight while Ramon dug under the seat for the keys, turned on the engine, and drove away.

  Just as the car pulled out of sight, he caught movement in a doorway to his left. He instantly braced his weapon and locked on the shadow; then Maggie stepped onto the street.

  Her face was pale, all light gone from her eyes, her generous lips drawn to a tight line. “I want you to leave.”

  That was a fine thank-you. But he swallowed the sarcasm and chalked her reaction up to fear of the gun. “Not yet. Quinn’s out there alone, and so is that lunatic.”

  “You called me Maggie Varcek.”

  Yes, he had. Stupid, but he had. “Let’s go find him.”

  Her eyes widened. “No. I’ll find him and you… you . . . just stay away from me and my son.”

  “I can’t, Maggie.” He hated to do it like this, but there was no time. “Because . . . he’s not your son.”

  “What?”

  “He’s our son.”

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  CHAPTER SIX

  AS IF HER whole insides had exploded from the shock, Maggie’s brain went blank, and her heart just… stopped.

  “Who are you?”

  “Later. We need to find Quinn and get him home. Ramon wants something, and it might not just be revenge.”

  He was right, but— “Not until I know who you are.”

  “You knew me as Michael Scott.”

  The entire world rolled, taking her along with it. He must have seen her sway, because he lunged forward to grab her as she lost her balance. Instantly, she wrangled out of his grip.

  “You’re dead,” she spat the words. “He’s… dead. I saw his body. I read about the . . . trial. He was shot by another agent. Michael Scott is dead.”

  He just shook his head, as if he had no words to counter that.

  And honestly, words weren’t necessary. Because she was staring at Quinn, twenty-five years older. How could she have missed it?

  One by one, the pieces, and truth, fell into place as she covered her mouth and a fist-size lump formed in her throat. “You were in disguise.”

  He nodded.

  “You weren’t really killed that night.”

  He took a step forward, lifting his hands in a slight gesture of surrender. “Maggie, listen to me.”

  Her heart thundered so loud in her ears that the words sounded garbled. “No, no. You get out of here.”

  “I’m sure you hate me right now—”

  “Right now? I’ve hated you for so long, I… I can’t even tell you. I don’t know how to tell you how much I hate you. You have no—”

  “We have to find Quinn.” He grabbed her arm again, but this time his touch wasn’t playful or friendly. Oh God, had she really been flirting with the monster who’d used her and betrayed everyone around them? Kissing him, practically begging for sex? Dreaming of
more? Worried he could trace her past through the FBI?

  Trace her past? He was her past.

  “They know where you are, Maggie. If Ramon does, then any of Viejo’s men do, too. It wasn’t that difficult to find you.” He tightened his grip, engulfing her wrist and leaning closer to drive his point home. “You can skewer me after we get that boy home and safe.”

  As numb as she was from shock, she knew he was right. She let him lead her to the street, but questions bombarded her.

  “But why now? No one’s tried all these years.” Not even you. “Now two of you show up in the same week?”

  “Ramon just got out of prison. That’s why I’m here. And they could know more about you than I did. That you have a son. A son who is out there right now walking his dog, oblivious. Does he have a cell phone?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She hesitated one more second. Shouldn’t she go on her own? Or get someone from the bar? Someone she trusted? Should she get in a car with a man who lied and used her? Made her fall in love with him and then betrayed her?

  “Or you can stay here, locked in the office,” he said sharply. “That’s fine, and smart. But I’m going to find him, so tell me where the hell he might be. Fast.”

  She yanked her hand out of his and marched. He was right about one thing: she’d skewer him later.

  “Does he have a regular route or a place he always walks the dog?”

  “Sombrero Beach. He usually crosses the highway right there at that light, and takes Goose to a dog-friendly park down there.” Unless one of his friends called and he went to meet them. Then he could be anywhere.

  In the car, she dragged the seat belt over her as he started the engine.

  “Turn right here,” she said, leading them down the road to the park. With Ramon around, Quinn definitely wasn’t safe. She focused every brain cell on the need to see that lanky body loping along with a dog on a leash.

  She called Quinn’s cell three times, getting voice mail every time.

  The quiet streets of Marathon seemed dark and menacing, and the neighborhood looked nothing like the peaceful, residential beach town it was. Thickets of palm trees and hibiscus bushes formed dangerous shadows, and walls around yards and driveways became hiding places as the sun disappeared in the west, leaving darkness behind.