Hunte Page 2

  I wanted to have this for one more minute.

  I wanted her.

  I couldn’t have her. I shouldn’t stain her. My soul wasn’t even intact.

  With a growl, I pushed her off me. I steadied her with a hand on her hip as she found her footing.

  “What’s your problem?” JB frowned, her lips swollen from my kisses.

  “I can’t. Not with you. Not like this.” I wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  “Damn right you can’t. I’m too good for you.” She zipped her jacket all the way to the chin.

  Nothing hotter than a woman with an attitude who knew what she wanted, but I couldn’t take advantage.

  “Exactly.” I throttled my raging black bike, shouting over the roar of pipes, “We agree. Never gonna happen.”

  Peeling out of the parking lot, I glanced back one last time. Big mistake. JB stood under the halo of a streetlight with one stiff middle finger raised in my direction. And I wanted her even more.

  Not gonna happen.

  Only one good thing had come out of my life, and I had nothing left to give.

  Chapter Two

  “DADDY. DADDY. DADDY!” JACK’S high-pitched five-year-old voice shattered my not-so-sweet dreams.

  “Too early,” I groaned and rolled over, planting a pillow on top of my head. “Remember how we studied how to tell time? This is not wake-up time,” I grumbled.

  He tickled the soles of my feet kicked out from the sheets until I shot up and tackled him to the bed.

  “What time is it?”

  “The hour hand says seven and the minute thingy is on twelve. Time for breakfast!” Thick black hair hung over his wide golden eyes. He even had a miniature cleft-chin like mine.

  He vibrated with excitement. I should never have taught him to read analog clocks.

  I scrubbed my palms over my face. “You sure?”

  “Double-checked. Like you told me.”

  Christ. The boy was too smart for my own good. “I think IHOP closed down.”

  “Nuh unh! I checked the website.”

  Good God, I was raising a master hacker in the flesh. It all started with baby steps. Sitting up, I pulled him under my arm. “IHOP again?”

  “You promised.” Jack sat back with an expectant look, adding a chin wobble for good effect.

  “Yeah, yeah.” A promise was a promise. Save someone’s life. Destroy another. Spend Saturday morning at the local IHOP with your kid. I didn’t try to tally up my good deeds against the bad ones anymore.

  Besides, Jack put up with getting shuttled back and forth from his mom’s to mine a couple times a week. He was the one good thing in my life. He was the reason I stayed put in the lowcountry instead of moving onto deeper darker X-Ops pastures.

  “All right, little monster. Up and at ’em!” I lifted him in a fireman hold, setting him on his feet in the hallway bathroom. “Brush your teeth, twice.”

  He scrunched his face.

  “Brush your hair, once. Bath tonight.”

  “Do I really haveta?”

  “If I do, you do.” I just hoped he only picked up my good habits—like proper hygiene—instead of all my bad ones—like being a gun for hire.

  Back in my bedroom, I checked on the gun cases in my closet: top shelf, all locked, keys hidden. Being a dad was the most natural thing I’d ever done. At the same time it freaked me the fuck out. I knew what people were capable of. The worst. This wasn’t really the type of world to raise your kids in, nor was it ever a good time to fall la-di-da in love.

  I listened to make sure the water ran in Jack’s bathroom before I entered mine. One week later, JB was still on my mind, furrowing deeper. Her body, her wit, her kissable lips.

  JB didn’t fit with my lifestyle. No woman did.

  I shaved and showered and stepped out in clean clothes to find Jack jumping on my bed. If he’d combed his hair I’d like to see the rake he did it with. I ran a brush through it. He immediately shook all over like a wet dog, destroying my good work.

  Taking his hand in mine, I mumbled, “Hopeless.”

  Jack paid no never mind as we walked downstairs. He rambled on, “Not Waffle House because the waffles are soggy. I like IHOP, and that waitress knows us . . .”

  My phone rang, the one shoved deep inside my pocket. The cell that got little use these days, and I was happy for that.

  “Go hop in the truck, monster. I’ve gotta take this call real quick.”

  The door banged closed behind him. I moved to the front windows, watching him skedaddle inside the big black SUV before I answered my burn phone.

  “Ghost.”

  “Walker here.”

  He who walks silently, and wasn’t that fitting for the underground associate of Ghost? The dude wasn’t a government spook so to speak, but he sure as hell was spooky, and I thought I’d said my final goodbye to him in Tampa.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,” I said.

  “Hey now, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

  Walker was in fact my oldest friend in the business, my partner in crime for the good of all mankind. We hadn’t been in touch for half a year, about the time I’d decided to become a real person with a halfway normal life.

  I might work in an official unofficial capacity for the police department, but I answered professionally to much higher-ups extending far beyond the reach of the Mt. Pleasant Police Department. I was still trying to cut that goddamn umbilical cord.

  The civil force had police and SWAT. The feds had spies, Feebs, the DEA, and Homeland Security. Covert Ops for international exigencies was extensive: Delta, Force Recon, SEALs, and Rangers. When all those routes were exhausted, when all else failed, “they” brought in the big guns to handle all those troublesome “issues” that sparked up like wildfires across the US and around the world. The big guns being people like me who could get in, deliver the intel and/or the kill, and get out, as invisible as a ghost.

  We didn’t specialize in one area or the other be it drugs, crime rings, racketeering, espionage, warlords, international warfare, or terrorism.

  We didn’t adhere to those pesky things like international laws or civil rights or moral codes either.

  What we did was get the job done and fuck anyone who got in our way.

  “I. Am. Not. Interested.”

  “But it’s all full of flavor. Right up your alley. Cubans, cabañas, Miami-not-vice and I think it’s headed your way. Run-off from Tampa Bay Outlaws takedown.” Walker’s voice dropped. “Want to keep your precious Mt. Pleasant clean? Because I promise you, you got trouble brewing on the home front.”

  “Nope. No dice.” As I watched Jack in the SUV, he busily planted his lips on the inside of the window, blowing on the glass so it fogged up. Then he drew pictures on the misty windows. “Don’t care if the POTUS himself is giving the orders this time. I got my kid for the weekend and I am off-duty. Forever.”

  “C’mon. We’ll kill some crims, put some baddies behind bars, fuck a few babes. Just like old times. Aren’t you bored playing house yet?” Walker wasn’t used to taking no for an answer.

  Tough shit.

  I hung up while he was still wheedling and strode outside.

  Jack sat in the passenger seat of the black rimmed, black tinted, tank-sized Chevy Tahoe, and you better believe that fucker was bullet-proofed. I stashed my burn phone in the glove compartment alongside my second gun, locking it all up tight. I pointed to his car seat in the back until he scampered into it and buckled in.

  “Can we practice baseball later?” He piped up from behind me.

  “Anything you want, Jack. It’s your weekend.”

  In the rearview mirror, I saw him clap his hands with a squeal. “Lollipops and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie!”

  “I didn’t really mean that literally.” I adjusted my shades over my eyes.

  Jack was undaunted with all the enthusiasm of a kid about to get his hit of bad movies and an over-the-top sugar dosage. Father of the Year? Maa
aaybe not. But at least he was happy.

  At IHOP, the same waitress greeted us. Her nametag said Wendy, and she served me a flash of cleavage and a lot of eyelash flutters from her pretty face. She was always extra patient with Jack who always ordered twice: first something new he swore over and over he was definitely going to eat, then two minutes later with a callback to Wendy he switched to his regular breakfast order of the Rooty Jr. with strawberries.

  Wendy took it all in stride and even though she flirted continuously, she didn’t cross the line or write her phone number on the bill or make a general nuisance of herself. She may have been hot for me, but I hadn’t been able to get that sexy MC wench JB out of my head. I wondered if I’d pissed her off beyond redemption. If so, it would probably be in everyone’s best interests.

  Jailbait. Jesus.

  Lucky for me, Jack was a master distractor, especially when he insisted we make pizza from scratch together Saturday afternoon. That father-son experiment ended with smoke alarms going off and a call to Papa John’s. We left the house to air out and played catch while we waited for the pizza delivery.

  He broke in his tiny tot-sized baseball glove, tossing the ball back and forth with me. Then I busted out the big gun, a miniature aluminum bat. Jack hit the ball with a loud crack on my fourth pitch. As it bounced across the grass, he stared at me with wide eyes.

  “Whaddya waiting for? Start running!”

  Grinning madly, eyes gleaming, little legs pumping, he rounded the make believe bases as I loped after him. When he hit home base—the front steps—I shouted, “Touchdown!”

  He flew into my arms and I let him tackle me to the ground. “You’re silly, Daddy! It’s a homerun.”

  “You sure, monster?” I held him against me, unleashing tickle warfare.

  I couldn’t believe I’d missed so much with him. I’d spent too much of his early life out of the picture on the job. I didn’t want to be the kind of dad who just called it in. The sound of his laughter, the sight of his smile flip-flopped my heart in my chest.

  Later in the evening, we hit the movies. Hands down, Raphael was the best ninja turtle, and yes, I let Jack have a couple lollipops, too, because I was the sucker.

  On Sunday morning I drove him back to his mom’s. “We’re back, Mel,” I called out as I entered the house.

  “Kitchen!” she answered.

  She sat at the table with her checkbook out, surrounded by bills.

  Jack jumped into her lap, and I leaned over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “That time of the month again?”

  “Feels like all I ever do is pay bills and buy this scalawag new clothes because he keeps sprouting up.” She snuggled Jack in her arms.

  Pretty as ever with her pert button nose, sky blue eyes, and shockingly straight, blonde, beach bunny hair, Mel smiled apologetically at me. She’d been a part-time bartender, part-time co-ed when I’d met her. Now she was a part-time medical transcriptionist and a full-time mom.

  She’d never asked me for handouts, but then I’d always made sure she’d never had to. The thought of her or Jack going without caused a pang to my heart.

  “I can give you more. Told you I would.”

  “No, Hunter. I don’t want to—”

  “Okay. I’ll put it like this: I’m going to send more money. We aren’t going to discuss it. You’re not going to feel guilty about it. And every year I’ll send more, because pretty soon the scalawag is gonna start eating you out of house and home.”

  “Hunter.” Mel sighed. She patted my arm, which I took as agreement to my offer. “You know, it’s too bad we never worked out.”

  She was right about that.

  I’d met Mel purely by chance seven years ago. I’d hopped a transport on a C-17 inbound for Charleston Air Force Base from one of the many hot zones overseas. I’d cruised into the first bar I’d come to and hit the drinks hard. Talking to the cute bartender, I’d let the bottomless drinks loosen me up.

  I’d needed something that night—coming directly off one of the first missions I’d completed a little too easily, too efficiently for my own liking. There hadn’t been a shake in my hands or a glimmer of doubt in my mind when I took down the target. The target ran a brisk business in sex slave trading that completed a circle of black-market weapons and, everyone’s favorite, smack. During my recon of the mark, I’d also learned he appeared to be a doting husband, a loving father to four daughters and a son.

  I always told myself I was doing the world a favor, ridding the human race of one nasty scumbag after another, but at that point I hadn’t been inured. During the aftermath, I questioned my moral integrity. Wondered if there was still a soul somewhere inside me.

  Mel, the vivacious bartender, stopped me from getting too wasted and offered me something better instead: forgetfulness in a good fuck. Whenever faced with a choice between oblivion via a bottomless glass or a fucking hot ass, I always went with the latter. The only difference with Mel was she didn’t cry, cling, or throw things at me when I bugged out as soon as possible the next morning. She’d even offered to be my Mt. Pleasant honeypot if I was ever in the area again.

  The sex had been really good.

  Having a regular fuck buddy rather than going through the motions of flirting, seducing, dining, and dating conveniently meshed with my Ghost lifestyle. Whenever I’d managed to snag enough R & R, I’d hop to South Carolina for something that had more to do with a good old-fashioned romp on repeat than rest and relaxation. Mel was my first port of call until something went wrong—or a little too right.

  Despite our precautions, Mel got pregnant, and ten months later, Jack was born. And I considered myself one lucky bastard because of him.

  After finding out about the oops pregnancy, we’d decided no more sex, not if we wanted to make a decent go as parents. Unconventional we were, at the best of times. I’d kept in regular contact with Mel throughout her pregnancy as much as I could, even managed to be there for the week after Jack’s birth, if not exactly on time.

  As fly-by-night lovers, Mel and I had only ever fitted one way—in bed. As friends, we rocked the parenting gig pretty damn good.

  Mel believed I worked undercover for the government, not strictly a lie and not entirely the truth either. What she didn’t know about my perilous line of work definitely wouldn’t hurt her and would keep her and Jack uncompromised in the event anything should happen to me.

  Jack was a gift, pure and simple. The one thing that made the whole mess of my life not only bearable but sometimes frigging magical.

  Just then, my son, my precious precocious gift, slid to the floor and grabbed my hand. “Daddy! Daddy! Come look at my A, B, Gs I did at school!”

  I laughed at his mispronunciation of the A, B, Cs, and pushed a finger in my ear to wiggle it around. “Okay, but can you turn the volume down first? I’m old but I ain’t deaf.”

  “You ain’t old.” He giggled.

  I inspected the colorful school paper magneted to the fridge with a serious look. “Mm hmm. Ahh. I see.” I tousled his hair, “Good work. You like your teacher?”

  “Miss Barnes is sooo nice. And she’s the prettiest teacher in the whole school!”

  “My teachers used to be witches.”

  “I wouldn’t like that.” His thin black eyebrows sandwiched together.

  “I didn’t either.”

  “You want to stay for lunch, Hunter?” Mel asked.

  “Gotta head out. Bike run this afternoon.” I spun toward Jack and hunkered down on the balls of my feet. “And before you even ask when I’m gonna take you out on my motorcycle, the answer is maybe when you hit puberty. Now give me a hug so I don’t miss you too much.”

  He burrowed into my arms, and I shut my eyes, breathing in his boyish scent.

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you too.” I released him after a final squeeze. “Be good for your momma.”

  With a wave at Mel, I made for the front door.

  “Don’t forget you sai
d you’d go to the parent-teacher conference Wednesday!” she called after me.

  “I’m on it.”

  ****

  I met up with the Retribution dudes at the North Charleston Coliseum parking lot for the 14th annual Toys for Tots run. I paid my registration and donated a couple cool toys in addition to the fee.

  I kept one behind, stuffing it into the saddlebag of my Deus Grievous Angel. Sleek and sinister as a Grim Reaper, the motorcycle’s black hood and chromed pipes were a wet dream come to life. Make no mistake about it, my ride thrummed with raw power like a sexy women between my thighs. When I was on the Deus, I owned the road as much as the metal purring beneath me.

  I’d had little more than two tarnished pennies to rub together growing up. Now that I had more than enough to line my bank account, I’d eased up on the guilt enough to enjoy a few new luxuries.

  I didn’t need much. Just my bike, my place, and my son. Freedom from a past I didn’t want to serve any longer.

  The US Marine Corps Reserve and Law Riders Motorcycle club sponsored the charity ride so I saw more than a few familiar faces in the crowd, including Bo Maverick. It certainly wasn’t common knowledge, but the tall dude with the military crew cut and dark auburn hair was former FORCECON.

  We’d crossed paths more than once when shit went way south of sour and headed into FUBAR territory. Sometimes X-Ops and military Covert Ops collided. They couldn’t get out, we had to go in and salvage what remained of the mission and the men. When it worked out, all good. When it didn’t, toe tags and body bags were involved.

  Thankfully my run-ins with Bo strongly lined up in the plus column. Without doubt the dude ate danger for breakfast, guzzled vodka instead of Earl fucking Grey tea in the a.m.

  I sauntered over to him, making sure I didn’t approach him from the back or in his blind spot—that was never a good way to greet a killer dressed in civilian clothing. Men who risked their lives for man and country had lightning fast killer reflexes when caught unawares, and bad memories could sneak up and trick you in an instant.

  “Bo, my man.” I stepped closer.