Chapter 4
4
RUTGER
TWO WEEKS LATER
“S tay off the fucking tequila,” I warn McGregor. The redheaded, half-Scottish, half-Mexican former Army Ranger is a part of my fugitive recovery team and lives in Hollister, too. Everyone knows his Achilles’ heel: Don Julio.
A week into staking out Raul Lefevre’s crew in New Orleans, my gut tells me they’re about to make a move. I can’t take any chances with a one-hundred-thousand-dollar bounty on the line. Especially coupled with the promise of revenge against my almost-brother-in-law in sight.
“Wilco,” McGregor grimaces.
Alonso, another Army buddy of mine, nods in agreement with me. I’d conduct this operation myself, but I recognize some of Raul’s men. I don’t know if seeing me would help or harm the operation.
Gervais, another member of Hunter’s Guild, and I stay back. We watch McGregor and Alonso slip into the Devil’s Den, a private lounge and illegal gambling house located in a back alley near Chartres Street, ready for a break in this case.
Their mission is simple. Keep eyes on Lefevre’s crew, text the all-clear when it’s go-time, and provide a distraction if necessary. We don’t use wires, avoiding anything that could tip off Lefevre’s men.
Twenty minutes later, my cell phone vibrates. McGregor’s text reads: GTG. We carefully survey the parking lot where Lefevre’s crew parked their vehicles before dropping onto our backs to crawl underneath each of the four cars, planting GPS trackers. I have yet to put eyes on Raul, but my gut tells me he’s never far from his most loyal men.
While engaged to Bijou, I had plenty of time to observe the prick. If there’s one thing I know about him, he’s a coward. One terrified by the prospect of facing a fight alone.
An hour later, we reconvene outside the Devil’s Den, parking a safe distance away to keep an eye on the cars in the Lefevre entourage.
McGregor reports, “Lefevre’s men were loud and drunk. I heard more than I bargained for.”
“Like what?”
“That Raul Lefevre’s already on his way to Nashville. This crew’s rendezvousing with him tomorrow.”
“Motherfucker.” I look down.
“What is it, boss?”
“Are you absolutely certain?” The Music City’s the last place on Earth I want to be…
He nods confidently.
This is the first actionable intel we’ve had since arriving—not to be ignored. But it puts us seven hours out of our way. And it leaves me in striking distance of the one woman I must avoid like the plague.
Ultimately, the GPS trackers decide for us. Within two hours of reconvening, we follow Lefevre’s crew back onto the freeway, heading northeast towards Birmingham. McGregor rides with me.
Ever the chatterbox, he remarks, “You’ve been off your game, Hayes. I thought for sure you’d be picking up ladies right and left in New Orleans.”
What the fuck? His comment sounds ridiculous, considering we’re mid-assignment. But I have only myself to blame for the reputation I’ve cultivated over the past few years. I grunt, frowning.
Honestly, he’s right. I’ve been off my game ever since Bijou Lefevre’s name resurfaced. Of course, I can’t tell him this. Instead, I excuse, “You know how I am when I set my sights on a prize like this bounty. Nothing’s gonna stand in my way.”
“Not even pussy?”
“Not even pussy.”
“That’s the sniper in you talking.”
I nod. “It sure the fuck is. You never complained during my overwatch.”
He mumbles something under his breath. “How many confirmed kills do you have again?”
I growl a warning. I don’t talk KIAs ever. Hell, I still wake up too many nights to count in a cold sweat, seeing faces framed in the scope of my rifle. McGregor knows this is a taboo subject, but he’s being a dick because of how I reigned him in at the Devil’s Den. “Watch yourself, McGregor.”
He leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. “I was referring to darts. Dude, you’re in a lousy mood.”
I sure the hell am. One that gets worse each mile fate draws us closer to Nashville. Nearly five hours in, Lefevre’s boys turn north, and we follow, entering the Music City around mid-morning.
The ache in my chest morphs into a painful throb. By evening, Lefevre’s crew parks outside the Bow in Printer’s Alley…
Bijou’s haunt.
Fuck.