Page 7

Hunt

I grab the pedophile’s arm, drag him through the restaurant, then shove him out the door. “You come within an inch of those two ladies, I will kill you.”

The lowlife scumbag snarls. “You won’t be here forever, asshole.”

“Fuck off. Now.” My knuckles ache to connect with his flesh, but it would blow my cover.

Watching his hands, I keep mine by my waist, ready to react.

Gun? Knife? Fists?

Finally, he points a finger, spitting at my feet. “Next time.”

Arms crossed, I wait for his Hummer to disappear before fetching the O’Malley women.

As Kelly drives me to her friend’s garage, my mind shifts from the intruder to the way her willing lips molded to mine. A simple kiss turned my cock to steel. Huh. I can’t remember that ever happening before.

Focus, Hunt. I pull on the bothersome thread, dangling on the edge of my subconsciousness.

What kind of man ogles a young teenager? Why didn’t her mother speak up? I would ask, but not in front of young Mack, who seemed oblivious to the sexual undertones.

His voice sounded so familiar…

Shit. He was one of the mercenaries in the woods last night.

Bracing my arm against the driver’s seat, I lean until my mouth meets her ear. “Out with it. Who is he?”

“I already told you. Nobody. Leave it.” Face pale, she glances in the rearview mirror. In the back seat, her daughter listens, thumbs halted over her phone.

“What, exactly, were you supposed to remember?” My inner FBI agent has forgotten I’m a science guy, not a representative of the law.

She, however, has not. “I can take care of it.” White-knuckling the steering wheel, her mouth tightens.

Is it possible she’s aware of the Iranians coming over the border? If so, no wonder she wants to partner with me. She’ll make sure I see nothing. It would explain her heated response to my kiss. If I’m caught up in her sexuality, I won’t be able to think straight.

Well, babe, I am forty years old and not so easily duped.

We ride the rest of the way in silence. At the garage, I find my key under the mat and wave goodbye. I don’t ask if she will join me tonight in the woods. Circumstances clearly have changed.

Back at my hotel, I try to ignore thoughts of her as I layer on clothes. Finally, I step into my snowsuit. White, gray, and black splotches will make me one with the forest. This time, I park my SUV near a farmhouse, closer to where the sheriff arrested me. The stillness reminds me of Afghanistan. A ghost, I traverse the woods soundlessly. The black balaclava warms my face. Thick gloves, specially made for shooting, cover my hands.

I’m ready.

When a twig snaps, I stop in my tracks. Two hundred feet to the south, a guide leads two adults carrying two preschoolers. Their thin coats and wet sneakers say much about their finances. I am after predators, not prey, so let them pass.

Quiet again, I stick one of my miniature cameras high up in the bark of a maple tree. Moving deeper into the woods, I walk parallel to the deer trail. About thirty minutes later, Farsi mixed with Québécois floats on the breeze.

Soon, three men come into view. No wonder Bourdin ran off. He had two Persians to escort over the border.

While he leads, one of the men points. If my translation is accurate, he said, “We should kill him when this is all over.”

“Silence. Allons-y.” The pedophile from the restaurant waves them forward.

The urge to arrest him consumes me, but I tamp it down. If I show my cards now, I may never learn their agenda. I follow them to their car, copy the license plate, and return to my hotel. Once I’ve removed my outerwear, I call Axel and describe everything I have seen in the woods to date.

My former task leader chuckles. “How many undocumented did you see? You still have toes if you need to count higher.”

“You’re a fucking riot. Listen, as much as I love our little tête-à-tête, I wanted to run something else by you.” I explain how Bourdin walked up to our table, threatened Border Agent O’Malley’s kid, and how she did nothing to stop him other than telling me I couldn’t take him outside to teach him some manners.

Axel sighs. “Well, the way I figure, you have two choices. One, you put up your cameras, estimate the traffic over the border, then come home. Your second option is to investigate. If you choose door number two, don’t tell Hornsby.”

“Why not?” My gut clenches.

“We’ve pissed off Canada—cozied up to Russia, who happens to be in bed with Iran. You were told to tally up undocumented aliens. So, officially, that is what you do. Keep in touch.”

Shit, shit, shit. I jump under the covers, fully intending to get some sleep. Around three in the morning, college kids slam doors, shout, and carry on. Of course, my thoughts turn to the sexy border patrol agent. Damn that woman. Damn her kiss. In the bathroom, I grab my cock to relieve the pressure. Only then am I finally able to rest.