Mask of a Hunter Read online

  Finally, Hannah’s cries lessened and turned to a watery gurgle. Mike’s weight shifted and the stairs creaked as he started down. Ace slipped down the street and made like he was just now rounding the corner to the building and his ground-floor apartment.

  Mike straddled the bike and nodded a greeting. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  There was no such thing as partial allegiance to the gang. Full membership required becoming active in criminal activity. Ace knew this outing tonight was more than a deal; it was a test. One he couldn’t fail.

  “Felicia home?” Ace took a half step toward the front door of his apartment as if he didn’t care one way or another.

  “Nah, her sister’s in town and I was paying my respects.” Mike pressed the starter and his bike roared to life. Perfectly tuned, it purred tiger-smooth.

  “Red hair?” Ace glanced up.

  “Yeah, what’s it to you?” Mike revved the engine.

  Ace cracked a hungry-wolf smirk. You had to talk to Mike on his level. Women were not people; they were possessions. “I’ve always been partial to redheads.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Red hair means fire, if you know what I mean.”

  Laughter exploded from Mike. “Not this one. Cold as ice, man. Cold as ice.”

  “So she’s fair game?” He had to stake his claim early if he wanted to keep her safe. But he had to do it without stepping on toes if he was to keep his cover.

  Mike’s gaze narrowed. “She’s all yours. But I’ll tell you, there’s easier tail to be had if you’re in need.”

  “I’ve always liked a challenge.”

  “Then you’ll love our run tonight.” Mike pulled out a vial from his pocket. The lump inside looked like a piece of dull quartz. “Want some?”

  “Can’t get loaded while I’m on parole. Might get drug-tested. There ain’t no way I’m going back in the slam.” He could keep the drug offers at bay for a while, but he had to comply with some things. Ace was charged with infiltrating the gang as deeply as possible. Tonight that meant receiving stolen property—a load of semi-automatic rifles in exchange for meth—to show his loyalty.

  The quality of methamphetamine that Mike provided wholesale to pushers was high. Every branch of law enforcement in the state wanted to find the lab supplying Mike’s gang community. But when pressed, busted dealers were more afraid of ratting on Mike than of going to jail. Tonight Ace had the chance to prove he was one of them, worthy of entering their sacred inner circle.

  Other than Falconer, no other law enforcement jurisdiction knew who Ace was. This was to guard against a possible inside informant in some part of the alphabet soup of agencies trying to end up top dog when it came time to grab headlines. A mole somewhere had already cost a DEA agent his life. If anything went wrong, he’d be treated just like any other felon.

  A certain sickness squeezed his gut. Always before action came a stab of apprehension. Natural. Desirable even. But it was his job and he’d do it—even if it meant skating a fine line between lawbreaker and law enforcer.

  This corridor had to die. He wanted to send the bikers—the ones selling crack, receiving stolen property and guns—to jail. And the sooner he could become one of them, the sooner he could shut it down and get back to getting his life—and Bianca’s—back on track.

  Mike nodded and returned the lump to the vial, then to his pocket. “I’ll meet you by the warehouse in ten minutes.”

  By the time Ace got there, Mike would have on a business suit and a minivan ready to go. Wearing your colors while committing a felony didn’t pay. Mike had learned appearing straight was a good cover for criminal acts.

  Time to clean up and make sure every detail of this little outing was caught on tape.

  Smile, scum, you’re on candid camera.

  WHEN ACE RETURNED home three hours later, he was wrung out and strung out. He wanted nothing more than to scrub away the stink from this job and fall into bed. But as he rounded the corner, a baby’s exhausted yet mournful cries stopped him. He looked up to the second story, saw light in the window and Rory pacing back and forth, bouncing the baby against her shoulder. Her body language screamed fear and desperation.

  Stuffing both his hands in the front pockets of his black Dockers, he let his head fall back. A crooked moon—a fingernail-paring shy of full—hung in the sky rimmed with a ring of cold light that made the stars around it seem to shiver. He didn’t want to go up. He didn’t want to get mixed up with Rory and her quixotic quest for answers she didn’t really want.

  But the kid’s tears cut him. He remembered what it was like to want someone with your whole being and not understand why you were being denied.

  “You can’t fix the world, Ace,” he told himself as he started up the stairs. “You can’t even fix your own tiny sandbox slice of it.”

  But he could quiet tears. He’d gotten good at that. He wasn’t doing this for Rory. He was doing it for the kid. He’d been there.

  THE KNOCK at this ungodly hour made Rory skid to a halt and her gaze fly to the door. Had she locked it after Mike left? Of course, there was no safety chain. No deadbolt, either. Certainly no security system. Felicia had often joked she didn’t even need to lock her door at all. The pause in action seemed to fortify Hannah and her cries became lamentations worthy of Jeremiah.

  “Who is it?” Rory redoubled her jiggling of Hannah. Was it too much? She’d read somewhere about shaken baby syndrome and was suddenly petrified the police had come to drag her to jail for endangering a child.

  “Ace,” came the answer drowned by Hannah’s wail.

  Shoot and drat. She didn’t need him here right now. What could he possibly want at this hour of the night? “Now’s not a good time.”

  He came in anyway. The room seemed to fold in around him, making the lime armchair and the oak rocker look as if they were meant for a dollhouse. She’d obviously not locked the blasted door. As he ambled toward her with his sure and steady stride, her pulse quickened, her breath shortened. Nothing to be afraid of, she assured herself, and frowned at the wooly flutter in her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. That was it.

  With one look, Ace seemed to assess the whole situation and find her lacking. She bristled and barked at him before he could cut her down. “I’m handling it.”

  “I can see that.”

  His mocking tone didn’t help her mood. Had she ever been this tired? She wanted nothing more than to go back to D.C. and the Maplewood Library where someone would be glad to see her. He reached for Hannah.

  Rory swung away, rounding over the baby. Where had this protective instinct come from? “No.”

  “You’re too tense.” A vein of irritation ran through his voice.

  Too tense? She was perfectly relaxed. Okay, maybe not. But with good reason. She’d gone over every inch of the checklist on the web site and found no grounds for Hannah’s obvious distress. Dry diaper. Full tummy. No signs of teething. No fever. No rash. Just buckets of tears that were ripping her heart and soul to shreds. How did mothers survive a child’s infancy?

  “Just hand her over for a minute.”

  Despite his presentable black Dockers and black silk shirt, Ace looked like the quintessential bad boy and wore an attitude to match. Ripped, that’s what the teenage girls back home would have called him. He had an athlete’s body that must have taken years of pumping iron to sculpt into this rugged beauty. Unlike Felicia, Rory had never entertained bad-boy fantasies, and she certainly wasn’t about to start now—no matter how tired she was.

  “I’m trying to help.” When he shook his head, the lamplight caught the tired lines webbing his eyes. She’d seen him talk to Mike and walk into the apartment below Felicia’s. Were the baby’s cries keeping him up? However much danger a man like him could pose a grown woman, she didn’t think Sebastian would hire a man who would abuse a child. And wasn’t Ace his sister’s guardian?

  With a sigh of resignation, she handed the bawling,
squirming Hannah to Ace. In his big hands, her cries immediately abated by half.

  That wasn’t fair. She’d done all the work. He grinned at her—a much too rakish smile. “I told you you were too tense.”

  “I’ve tried everything.”

  His gaze took in her laptop with its parenting page in full view. “Some things you can’t learn from books, sweetheart.”

  Before she could spit out a snappy comeback, he strode toward the bedroom at the back of the apartment. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  As promised, he was. He cradled the baby in the crook of his arm as if he’d done this before, and he carried one of Felicia’s sweaters in his free hand. He launched it at her. She caught it and slanted him a puzzled look.

  “Put it on.” He rocked Hannah whose cries now seemed to take a major effort.

  Rory held the blue sweater out in front of her and frowned at the suspicious stain on the shoulder. “I’m not cold.”

  “Do you have to argue about everything? Just put it on.”

  She was too tired to protest, so she slipped on the V-neck pullover. Ace handed her Hannah who snuggled against the wool and soon fell asleep.

  “What just happened?”

  “You confused her.” Ace’s voice was both rough and warm. He looked much too satisfied, and she wanted to smack his smirk off his face as much as she wanted to hug him for making Hannah stop crying. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could have held on before she’d joined Hannah’s chorus of tears with her own.

  Hannah looked like an angel once more, becoming heavy in Rory’s arms as she relaxed more deeply into sleep. How could someone so small have made such a big fuss? “I’m not following you.”

  “You look like Felicia, but you don’t sound like Felicia. And you don’t smell like Felicia.”

  The proverbial light bulb finally clicked on. “And Felicia’s scent is on the sweater.”

  “Right.”

  “Where did you learn that trick?”

  “The school of hard knocks, sweetheart.”

  She cringed at “sweetheart,” but said nothing, afraid to tense up too much and set Hannah off on another crying jag.

  She glanced at the crib. Would Hannah stay asleep if she put her down?

  As if he’d read her mind, Ace said, “Go ahead, put her down. She’s exhausted. She’ll probably sleep through till morning.”

  Rory carefully laid Hannah in her crib. Clutching the quilt, she wasn’t sure if she should wrap her in it or not. What if Hannah pushed her face in the folds and smothered herself?

  Ace grabbed the blanket and tucked it expertly around Hannah’s pajama-clad body, leaving her splayed arms free.

  “I’d get some shut-eye while you can, if I were you,” he said, hands on hips, looking every bit the rogue pirate.

  The advice made perfect sense. Why couldn’t she just shut up and take it? “You’re not me.”

  He kicked up both hands in surrender. “Doesn’t matter to me either way.”

  She ran a hand through her hair. Her fingers got stuck on dried carrot mush. She needed a long, hot—no make that scalding—shower. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  “They’re all long days when there’s a baby around.”

  She didn’t like the mocking shine in his dark-chocolate eyes, but she was way past witty and nearly all the way into zombie. She sank into the lime armchair and let her tense muscles relax. “How does she do it?”

  “Felicia doesn’t try to go it alone. She asks for help.”

  Implied fault stressed the silence. Trust. She didn’t have any.

  Why should she? What did she know about him? That he was one of Sebastian’s Seekers. A plus. That he was playacting the role of a biker. A minus. That he was good with Hannah. Another plus. That his skin was olive, his cheekbones sharp, his nose straight, his mouth generous, kissable. She quashed a groan. Definitely a minus.

  She was being too sensitive. She was letting his very presence become a burr because his expertise with Hannah made her feel incompetent.

  But trust grew with time and intimacy. Neither of these existed between them. How could they when Sebastian had handed them opposite ends of the same rope?

  She cocked her head, feeling the steam of temper crushing her chest, pounding at her temples. “Trusting a biker is what got Felicia into all this trouble.”

  He bent toward her, resting a hand on the back of the armchair, trapping a strand of runaway hair beneath his palm. His body heat shimmied into her. His scent of sweat and musk had her turning her nose toward it as if it were an aroma worth sniffing. His gaze was so sharp she angled her head to avoid its honed edge and felt it graze her anyway. “No, what got her into this mess was not trusting her gut.”

  Chapter Three

  Rory counted two diners, one pizzeria, two antique stores, one gift shop, one florist’s shop, one barber, one beauty salon, one ice-cream parlor, one service station, two churches and four bars squashed together around the picture-postcard town common. A cool breeze snapped at the flags flying from shop poles. The sun played hide and seek with puffy white clouds against a picture-perfect blue sky.

  Pushing Hannah’s stroller along the sidewalk, she noted the charm of the hunter-green-and-white bandstand circled by a bed of purple crocuses and yellow daffodils. A granite statue honoring war veterans was framed by budding azaleas. Granite benches, dotting the red-bricked walkway, invited walkers to stop and smell the grass. She could imagine how this two-block-long rectangle would look dressed up for a Fourth of July celebration or a strawberry festival, crowded with people and music and food. She could see the appeal of the image. A kinder mode of life—less hurried, less troubled, less complicated.

  But here in Summersfield the portrait was a lie. Why would anyone want to pollute their own hometown with the poison of drugs? Was that the reason Felicia had finally agreed to leave Summersfield? To save Hannah from that fate?

  With a sigh, Rory parked the stroller in front of the Star Café with its red-and-white checked curtains and carried Hannah inside. This is where Felicia works, she thought as sleigh bells tapped against the glass of the closing door. She took in the long stainless-steel counter along the side, the round white tables in the middle and the booths forming an L along the far edge and the window wall. The place was bustling with activity, especially along the counter. The aroma of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls and coffee sent her stomach gurgling. A harried waitress shouted, “Seat yourself, honey.”

  Rory chose a newly vacated booth by the window and Hannah was soon busily reaching for the caddy of sugar packets, the tray of jelly tubs, and the bowl of butter pats wrapped in foil. Clumsily, Rory pushed each out of reach while trying to free the baggie of Cheerios and the purple bear she’d stuffed in the pockets of her jacket.

  “Hi, sweetie,” a tired-eyed blonde armed with a coffeepot crooned at Hannah. Hannah’s bright answering smile and babble said this wasn’t a stranger. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  The blonde gave Rory a series of quick looks, as if she wanted to stare but didn’t dare. “You must be Felicia’s sister.” Her voice croaked.

  “Rory.”

  “Oh, that’s different. What can I get you?” She didn’t offer her name in return, but it was there on the red tag tacked to her white polo shirt. Heidi.

  Was Rory imagining the nerves? She glanced at the chalkboard menu on the wall, keeping Heidi in her peripheral vision. She was hungry enough to eat the lumberjack special, but settled for French toast. She could handle that and Hannah at the same time.

  “Great,” Heidi said. “I’ll be back with a high chair for Hannah.” She couldn’t seem to get away fast enough. That didn’t bode well for a flowing supply of coffee—or answers.

  “Wait!” Rory extended an arm across the table to keep the coffee cup from Hannah’s curious grip. “Have you heard anything from Felicia?”

  Clicking her pen like a twitchy rabbit, Heidi st
ood frozen. She tucked her pad and pen in the pockets of her red apron and cleared her throat. “Not since we last worked a shift together.”

  “When was that?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Four, five days.”

  She knew something. Of that, Rory was sure. Why else would she be so nervous? “I know you’re busy now, but when the rush dies down, could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  Heidi glanced toward the kitchen, then wrenched her lips into a strained smile. “Okay, I guess.”

  Heidi was no sooner gone than the bells on the door jingled, and Ace folded his long limbs into her booth. “Crowded,” he said by way of explanation.

  He was back to pirate mode this morning. His uniform matched Mike’s—except Ace’s T-shirt was plain white and no sign of tattoos peeked above his collar or beneath his cuffs. Why was it so hot in here all of a sudden? She unzipped Hannah’s jacket and stuffed it in her tote bag, started wriggling out of hers, then changed her mind. Ace had a way of making her feel transparent.

  A busty brunette settled a mug of coffee in front of Ace without asking if he wanted any. Must be a regular.

  “Hi, there, handsome.” She all but batted her lashes. Disgusting the way some women threw themselves at men.

  “Meg.” His smile was one of a man who knew he had the interest of a woman and enjoyed it. Was she part of his job of fitting into town?

  “Heidi’ll be right with you.” Meg’s tone suggested she found this personal loss regrettable. Rory couldn’t see the appeal. Why would anyone want someone so hard and unyielding as a partner? Of course, maybe partnership didn’t enter into the equation.

  “What are you doing here?” Rory caught the bits of paper Hannah dropped as she ripped a napkin to shreds. “Not checking up on me, I hope.”