Page 127

He strode to the end of the display and stared at the stockroom doors. She and her brother might have wanted privacy. He pressed a hand against the cold steel panel but did not push. His skin crawled with a thousand ants. Now, do it now.
He punched his elbow back hard. Connected with a man’s soft gut. The bottom of a navy jacket blurred past. Mitch spun and sent his boot flying. At the same time, something fell away from his body. The butt of his backup pistol disappeared under the cooler unit.
His assailant sprawled on the floor, gripping his gut. No firepower needed here. Mitch relieved the man of his weapon holstered at his back and dragged him inside the stockroom to handcuff him to shelving.
A sickly sweet scent washed over him. Muffled voices drifted his way. Mitch crept forward and caught a flash of silver hair.
Lloyd Benedetto, Cath’s old boss, stood with his back to Mitch, something in his hand pointed at a white-faced Les Hurley. The kid cowered under a tower of shrink-wrapped bottles, holding a bloody arm.
Cath slumped against another stack dripping orange juice. Mitch swallowed to open his clogged throat, his gaze searching for an injury. Their eyes locked. He nodded. I got this, teammate.
Mitch pointed his confiscated gun at Benedetto’s back. “Drop your weapon.”
Before the last word left his mouth, the man’s shoulder turned. Metal flashed in the light. Mitch ducked, and a bullet whizzed over his head. He charged, knocking down Benedetto and banging his gun hand on the concrete.
The man’s weapon skidded across the floor out of reach. Mitch rose to his knees only to fall back from a swift kick to the chest. His gun flew out of his hand.
Benedetto jumped him. They wrestled across the floor. Before Mitch could deflect the action, the other man squeezed his hands on his throat.
The pounding in Mitch’s head took over. Dark spots edged his field of vision. He dug for the last of his strength and pried the other man’s arms apart. Soapy water cascaded over them, and Benedetto slumped on top of him.
Mitch sputtered, threw off Benedetto’s dead weight, and swiped his face. A wheeled mop bucket rolled away, and Cath looked down at him, holding her wrist. “Is he out?”
“Yeah.” Mitch shoved Lloyd Benedetto off and staggered to his feet. “Are you hurt?”
“I jammed my hand when I fell, but it’s only a sprain. Lloyd’s the big boss, Mitch. Les saw him at a drug buy, and he’s been hiding out ever since.” She grasped the sides of her jacket and looked over her shoulder. “We need to get an ambulance for Les.”
Her brother cringed against the pallet behind him.
“Take it easy, and you’ll be fine, Les.” Mitch thumbed the emergency number into his cell. He caught the instrument with his shoulder and squatted beside Les. “I’m calling 911, but let me see the wound. We can stop the bleeding ourselves.”
Les pointed a shaky hand. “Watch out!”
Benedetto crawled across the concrete behind Mitch, his silenced gun almost in reach. Mitch rushed to kick the weapon away. The gangster grabbed his ankle, but Mitch slammed a fist to his jaw. Take that.
He was pulling back to deliver another blow when a sweet voice stopped his fist in midair.
“I got this.”
Mitch sat back. Cath held what looked like his SIG Sauer in both hands.
“Where’d you get that gun?” Mitch yanked Benedetto’s hands behind his back and clamped on Hal’s handcuffs.
“You should be proud of me. I decided to be prepared for anything.” She gave him a smile that somehow lessened the throbbing in his head, the stinging from his wrists, and the rawness in his throat.
A deep feeling of completion filled him. He stretched his own mouth wide. “I’m very proud.”
“Since Paul tossed my gun into the sewer, your brothers gave me your recovered gun. According to them, I should have a backup like all bounty hunters.”
Chapter 24
Shadowed balconies lined the upper stories of houses along Royal Street and the upbeat strains of jazz drifted from Bourbon Street a block away. Cath checked off the customers who’d already arrived for her ghost tour and sidled over to Hal Guidry. “Where’s Mitch?”
Hal shrugged his broad shoulders easily. Cath thanked her lucky stars he’d mostly recovered from the wound her brother had inflicted. “He said he was coming.”
She rubbed her four-leaf clover. Mitch had been taking things easy to allow his hands and arms to heal. He’d insisted on sleeping on the couch in deference to his aunt’s sense of propriety, but they made the most of their alone time together—when they could find some. The sex they shared still burned hot enough to scorch her socks. They hadn’t used that time to talk, and so far, he’d played the clam as to how he felt about a “them.”
But now she needed to make certain decisions. “You think he remembers what time I start?”