Chapter 2
2
RUTGER
T wo hours later, I sit on the couch in my cabin in Hollister with an icepack on my black eye, now almost swollen shut. I grip an ice-cold beer, which does more for my punch-sore hand than my buzz.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand beside me, and I pick it up, seeing ‘Kurt Webb’ on the screen. He’s the private contractor who hired me. Putting him on speaker, I say, “Howdy, boss.”
“How’d it go?”
“Fine,” I grumble.
“Fine, as in no complications? Or fine, as in you had to press charges?” Kurt lives in Seattle and is a part of something called the Hunter’s Guild. I don’t know much about it and haven’t asked. Years of military service mean I’m used to keeping things on a need-to-know basis.
I admit, “I’ll take door number two. I went in without backup. Maybe not the best idea. But the opportunity fell into my lap.”
“Well, you don’t sound like you’re in the hospital or anything.”
“No.”
“That’s what I like about you ex-Army Rangers. No complaints and no hesitation.”
I grunt. Besides being a former Army Ranger sniper, I’m an on-again, off-again private military contractor. Kurt’s sister, Izzie, is married to my best friend and Army buddy, Wolfe. Knowing Izzie is how I got this gig. She calls what her husband and I do “Black Ops”—makes it sound like we’re playing Call of Duty or some shit.
“Well, enjoy the rest of your week and the not-insignificant paycheck headed your way.”
“Nice doing business with you, Kurt.” My finger hovers over the red end-call button, but his voice comes over the line again.
“I have a major case coming up. One I absolutely need you on. It requires travel, so I’ll get back to you ASAP with details.”
“Travel to where, boss?”
He grumbles, “New Orleans. Your home turf. Figure we can exploit your Old Dixie expertise.”
Thanks to my dad and the 75 th Battalion, I have roots in Texas and Georgia, and I lived in New Orleans for a couple of years. But expertise in the South? That’s highly debatable…
Deciphering thick accents and roundabout sayings, shopping Piggly Wigglies, and devouring fried cuisine, good music, and great beaches… I’d wager Kurt isn’t after any of those skills.
“Let me level with you, Rutger. Raul Lefevre has forfeited a sizable bond. Considering how close you came to being family, I figure no one’s better suited to find him… and I’m hoping you might want a little revenge, under the circumstances, too.”
Bile rises in my throat. Kurt’s done his research. Working hard to suppress the snarl in my voice, I declare, “If it involves the Lefevres, count me out.”
“Even for a million-dollar bond?”
Silence .
Why do I feel like the fiddler at the crossroads with the devil? Of course, Kurt’s question is simple enough. My answer should be, too.
But all I can think about is my former fiancée, the girl who not only got away but hacked my heart out in the process—Bijou Lefevre. The ebony woman’s name floods me with shivers of desire and hatred.
Clearing my throat, I say grimly, “I’m not sure there’s enough money in the world for that job.”
A one hundred-thousand-dollar bounty, Rutger… What the fuck are you doing?
“Think about it.”
After the call, I sit in silence as the cabin grows dark in the long shadows of evening. I’ve spent the past five years drinking myself into oblivion, partying away my soul, and pursuing an endless string of meaningless conquests…
All to keep from feeling precisely what I feel now.
I click the remote on my satellite radio, letting tunes as familiar as a pair of old slippers slide over me—BB King’s “Woke Up This Morning,” John Coltrane’s “Alabama,” Charles Mingus’s “Devil Woman.”
* * *
I lose track of time, ruminating in my thoughts. Finally, the doorbell pulls me back to reality. Must be Wolfe. He said he’d be by this evening to pick up a snowblower I borrowed a while ago. “Come in,” I holler.
The creak of the front door gives way to a rumbly “Oh shit.”
Removing the ice pack from my eye, I ask, “What?”
“Sitting in the dark, listening to this music. I know what that means.” The clean-shaven six-foot, six-inch brute with dark buzzed hair and brown-green eyes clenches his jaw, taking the recliner diagonally from me and removing his cowboy hat. After a long pause, he asks, “What’s brought this up?”
I reply, “Is that your nice way of saying, ‘It’s been five damn years. You should be over this shit by now?’”
His eyebrows raise as he takes a closer look at me. “What the hell happened to your face?”
I shrug. “After-effects of my first bounty hunter… I mean, fugitive recovery agent gig for your brother-in-law.”
The giant laughs deep in his chest. “Should I even ask how it went?”
“Well enough, despite the rearranged face. I clinched the ten-thousand-dollar bounty.”
“Nice. A sum like that’s mighty tempting, although Izzie would hate me going into that line of work.”
“And the travel it involves… especially now that you’ve got another kid on the way.”
An ear-to-ear grin lights up Wolfe’s face momentarily before he wills himself somber again. “I’m not letting you change the subject. What’s the deal with the music and the mood?”
“Kurt wants me to travel to New Orleans to apprehend Raul Lefevre. Apparently, he skipped out on a million-dollar bond. That’s a one hundred-thousand-dollar bounty. Maybe more.”
Wolfe whistles, shaking his head. “Tough to turn money like that down. But apprehending your almost-brother-in-law? Are you sure you’re up for that?”
“Taking down Raul would be priceless. I’d do that shit for free.” Wolfe’s tired of hearing it, but my gut has long told me Raul played a significant role in how my engagement ended.
He hesitates. “Are you sure you’re ready to see Bijou again?”
Regret floods me as I survey my living room. Evading his question, I observe, “You know what I realized this afternoon?” Apprehension clouds his face. “I live in small-town America… in a secluded cabin in the mountains… These were plans she and I made together. I’m unconsciously leading the life she and I dreamed up years ago— only I’m doing it alone . How fucking pathetic is that?”
I would never admit this to anyone else. To the world, I’m a happy-go-lucky player, running through women like coins at the laundromat. But Wolfe knows firsthand how the breakup with Bijou devastated me. Hell, it’s why I became a womanizer, to avoid ever getting hurt like that again.
“Maybe this isn’t the job for you…”
I shake my head. “Last time I checked, Bijou lives and works in Nashville?—”
The look of recrimination on Wolfe’s face stops me mid-sentence. Anger warms my face, though I know he has every right to be concerned. Especially considering my past track record and how I fixated on that woman.
I reassure, “Don’t worry. I’m not internet stalking her. But the point is I should be able to easily carry out this job without seeing her.”
Skepticism washes over Wolfe’s face.
“Besides, how can I pass up money like that?” Or the chance for revenge on the asshole who ruined my life? Still, the knot in my stomach leaves me wondering if this job is really worth it…