Hunt Her Down (2 page)

“When we’re done, we’re done,” Ramon said. “You don’t get out of this car, understand? If

we gotta move fast, you have to be ready to drive.”

“What if Viejo calls and needs you? Should I come and get you?” she asked.

Ramon just shook his head. “He won’t.”

He threw open his door and Carlos did the same on the passenger side, and they hustled off

while she got behind the wheel. The motor was still running, and the wipers smacked from

one side to the other, clearing the windshield for a split second before it was drenched again.

Smack, slap, smack.

Were they giving her a message, those rhythmic wipers? Baba would say . . .
listen. Smack,

slap, smack. Smack, slap, smack.

Mich . . . ael . . . Scott. Tell . . . him . . . now. This . . . is . . . it.

She dropped her head back to watch Ramon disappear around the back of the warehouse,

the air-conditioning blowing her hair off her face, the wipers thwacking their cryptic

messages.

Mich . . . ael . . . Scott. Tell . . . him—

She startled when the phone rang. “Hello?” The only reply was a mix of a choke and a soft

intake of breath. “Michael?”

“What the hell are you doing there, Maggie?”

Juan’s sick. He was throwing his guts up.”

Under his breath, she heard him swear. “You’re supposed to be taking Lourdes to the

movies.”

She liked that he kept track of her schedule. “She went to a sleepover ‘cause Ramon was

losing it, screaming that he needed me here. But now I can—”

“Don’t go in to the warehouse.”

“I won’t. I’m just going to flash the lights when you turn on Hialeah. I won’t get out of the

car.” His concern touched her and she tucked the phone deeper into her shoulder, wishing it

were him. “Michael, um, listen. Can we meet later?” The silence on the other end lasted one

beat too long. “Michael? Did you hear me?”

“You have to get out of that car.
Now
. You have to get out of there, away from there.”

She frowned, confused. “Why?”

“Because you do. You’re not supposed to be here tonight.” His voice was strained, the tone

sending a chill down her. “I mean it. Get the hell out of there. Fast.”

Just as he said it, she heard the rumble of a truck turning into the lot and caught the AJ

Cargo logo between wiper swipes. The delivery.

She twisted in the seat to see down the road. “Aren’t you behind these guys?” she asked.

But he was gone. The line was dead. Why would he tell her to leave?

And why hadn’t he called when the truck was on Hialeah, like he was supposed to? They

needed to get the cargo bay door open.

Should she do the brights now? If she didn’t, Ramon would kill her. If she did, and this

wasn’t the delivery, then El Viejo would kick her ass from here to kingdom come anyway.

She curled her fingers around the stick and pulled once, yellow light spilling onto the rain-

slicked asphalt. After a few seconds, she let go and the pavement went dark. She waited the

same amount of time, then—

The driver’s side door popped open.

“Get out!” Michael pulled her out, yanking her harshly from the seat.

“Hey! What are—”

He whipped her out as if she weighed nothing, pulling her by her shoulders into his face.

His breath was warm, his face furious.

“Go through that fence and run to the next block and get the hell out of here.” His eyes

burned darkly.

“Michael, why—”

“Just do it!” he ordered. “Go as fast as you can. Don’t stop. Don’t come back. Just run,

Maggie.
Run
.”

He pushed her away, madder than she’d ever seen him.

She stumbled and looked back at him. “Michael! I have to—”

“God
damn
it! Go!”

She lunged, grabbing his shoulders. “Listen to me!” she screamed. “I have to tell you

something—”

“Just go!” He shoved her toward the fence again, but she braced her legs and refused to

move.

“No,” she insisted, digging her sneakers into a crack in the wet asphalt. “Not until you tell

me what’s going on.”

He took hold of her shoulders and squeezed so hard his fingers dug into her bones. “Get the

hell out of here right now. That’s all you need to know.”

Lights from a car illuminated his face, and he forced her down, behind the car.

“Michael, stop it. Why are you doing this?” Tears mixed with rain, stinging her eyes and

cheeks.

Headlights illuminated the lot and his eyes flashed as he nudged her once more toward the

fence, then vaulted away.

Slowly, she rose in shock, staring after him as he ran full speed to the warehouse. She saw

him shake out of the jacket he wore and drop it to the ground, revealing another jacket

underneath. With yellow letters on the back . . .

FBI.

Oh God. Oh God,
no
.

He stopped, looked over his shoulder to where she stood, and even in the darkness, in the

distance, she could see him saying something. To her? What was he saying?

Then there was light and noise and the world seemed to explode. Spotlights poured

blinding whiteness over everything, drawing a gasp from Maggie as she faltered backward.

She spun and lunged for an opening in the fence, her sneakers splashing into puddles, her

legs almost buckling as she tripped over gravel and cracks. Rain sluiced over her face, into

her mouth.

A gunshot cracked and voices cut through the deafening rain.

“FBI! DEA! Get out of the truck! You’re under arrest!”

Four, five, six more gunshots, staccato and deafening.

She slowed, stopped, and pressed her hands to her chest to ease the pain of her heaving

breaths. She had to see.
Had
to. Grabbing a strip of wood along the top of the fence, she

hoisted herself up, blinking into the rain and lights and chaos.

Men surrounded the delivery truck, guns drawn. One of them yanked open the door and

pulled Jorge out. Then Stephan on the driver’s side. More men swarmed the warehouse. In the

flood of light, she could easily read the large yellow letters on their backs.

Her heart dropped right down to her toes, leaving a black, empty hole in her chest. Michael

had betrayed them all. He was a fed. A narc. A liar.

She clung to the fence, her hair plastered over her face, her lungs bursting, her heart

breaking as the ugly truth hammered down on her as hard as the rain.

One of the agents threw Jorge on the ground and clamped him down with a boot and gun to

the head. Two more ran into the back, pistols straight out and ready to shoot.

Agents and cops poured out of the warehouse, first with Carlos in cuffs, then Ramon, his

long black hair streaming wet in his face, spewing obscenities as he tried to jerk free. An

ambulance screamed into the parking lot, blue lights flashing; then the paramedics were

running into the warehouse.

Where was Michael?

Frozen, she watched in horror as they took a stretcher inside. Minutes dragged by until they

came back out, carrying Michael. As the stretcher passed Ramon, who was cuffed and

slammed against the side of the building, he turned and spat on the body.

“Cabrón!”
Bastard.

At the ambulance, they covered his face with a sheet. Closing her eyes, Maggie let go of

the fence and dropped to the wet ground. Her stomach rolled, the nausea caused by something

other than what she’d suspected for the last few weeks.

He’d used her. He’d played her. He’d strung her along, made her think he loved her, all the

time coaxing information that she got from her boyfriend. All the time making her believe he

cared.

She was nothing more than a way to get to Ramon, and through him, to El Viejo.

Thank God he was dead—otherwise she’d go to jail for killing him herself.

Ramon was right.
Bastard
.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the fortune. The universe spoke to her, all right.

Stupid, stupid Magdalena. You have been royally fucked once again
.

She started to roll the paper into a ball, rocked by the sudden need to throw it down and

grind it under her foot as if it was Michael Scott.

But then she stopped and cupped her hands over it, the urge to protect it strong. The urge to

protect the beauty that grew inside of her.

That
was the real meaning of the message in the fortune cookie.

She tucked the paper back into her jeans pocket and then, just as she’d done the last time

someone betrayed her, she ran for her life.

Only this time, she wasn’t alone.

ALL HE WANTED to do was make a clean getaway.

But Dan Gallagher knew the minute he stepped out of the Bullet Catchers’ headquarters that

this exit would be anything but clean.

Leaning against his Maserati was the one person who wouldn’t let him get away with

anything.

“Slinking out so soon?” Max asked, crossing his arms over his massive chest, his hair still

sweaty from the company touch football game.

“Slinking is generally done through the back door, Roper. I’m going out the way I came

in.”

Max narrowed dark eyes at Dan.

“Out for good?”

“Out for now.”

“You’re crushed.”

Dan laughed. “No, but if you don’t get out of my way, you will be.” He pulled his keys out.

“I got a plane to catch.”

“Not taking a Bullet Catcher jet?” Of course he didn’t move.

“Nope. It’s personal business.”

Max just cocked his head, never wasting a word. They hadn’t had “personal business” they

didn’t share in twenty years.

“Come on,” Dan said. “I’m seriously late getting to the airport.”

“Did she tell you everything?” Max asked.

Dan glanced up to the second-story window overlooking the drive, to Lucy Sharpe’s private

library and office. She’d probably gone to the back patio to celebrate with the others. These

were happy days for her company. For her.

“She didn’t have to tell me anything. It’s all over her glowing face. And I’m delighted for

her.”

Max choked. “Delighted?”

“What?” Dan countered. “You don’t believe I’m not happy that a woman I’ve worked for

and been friends with for years has found . . .” Freedom from whatever misery had kept her in

an emotional prison for a long time? He’d never had the key to that jail cell, but Jack Culver

had proven himself more than capable. “Has found bliss,” he finished.

“Delighted and bliss in the same speech?”

“Shut up. She’s happy, and I’m …” Free to move on. “Happy for her. We’re all just one big,

happy Bullet Catcher family. And a growing one, at that.” At Max’s look, he just shook his

head. “I swear to God, I’m not lying.”

“You’re rationalizing. Which is another word for
lying,
only to yourself. And while your

ability to bend the truth has served you well in countless undercover situations, this is real

life.”

Dan scowled at him. “Did aliens come and take Mad Max Roper? Or has marriage and

fatherhood turned you into Dr. Phil? And since when isn’t a UC situation real life?”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Fear not, my man. I’ve never been better. I’m free.”

“Free.”

“Yeah. Free. Lucy, in case you haven’t surmised from her radiance, has made the ultimate

commitment with Culver. Do I agree with her choice of partners?” He shrugged. “Not my

problem. Do I wish it was me up there perusing a baby name book? Hell, no. I know you

think you’ve cracked the code with Cori and little Peyton, and maybe you have. But I don’t

want that key. I like the status quo.”

Unrelenting brown eyes narrowed. “More rationalizing.”

Call it whatever you want.” He gave Max’s meaty shoulder a smack with the file in his

hand. “Now go eat some charred meat like a good Rottweiler. You’re missing the party and all

the gossip about the reasons behind my leave of absence.”

“A leave of absence, with a Bullet Catcher dossier still warm from the Research and

Investigative Department printer?”

The son of a bitch didn’t miss a trick. “Just grabbed a file on an old friend I might look up

in the Keys.”

“You’re going to Florida? Cori and I are going down to Miami tomorrow, to her place on

Star Island. Why don’t you stay with us for a few days?”

“And get psychoanalyzed by the two of you? No thanks. Anyway, I’ll be a couple of hours

south, in Marathon.”

“Doing what?” Max pressed.

“Fishing.”

“You don’t own a tackle box. What’s going on down there?”

“Nothing.” He hoped. “I’m taking some time to myself. See an old friend. Learn the

difference between a trout and a . . . nother kind of fish.”

“Who’s the old friend?”

It was a waste of time to try and sidestep him. “A young lady I knew from my Miami

days.”

Max’s wheels visibly turned. “Not the girl from the Venezuelan money laundering ring?”

Dan sighed. “Do you have to have a memory like a steel trap?”

“How could I forget? For one thing, the takedown of Alonso Jimenez and company was a

major operation that involved the DEA and the FBI. And, not exactly a
lady,
as I recall,

though she was young then.”

He bristled at the comment. “She’s fourteen years older now.”

“So instead of licking new wounds, you’re going to open old ones?” Max asked.