Slow Heat (2 page)

King was always right when it came to profiling. It was uncanny.

“So while you are getting our man, you’re sending me in to help out the cops?”

Greg King stared at him a moment, his gaze shifting as he appeared to be determining something about Micah. “Yup,” he said finally, and pushed away from the truck. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Santinos is hardwired. Marketing gurus often like to keep close tabs on their covers. He might tip off whoever is in the office when we take him down.”

“I can handle it.”

“I wouldn’t have assigned this part of the job to you if I thought you couldn’t.” It was as close to a compliment as King would ever give.

Micah watched his boss return to his truck, climb in, and start it. In that short time, the sun had quit procrastinating and finally dipped below the horizon. Evening shades of pinks and oranges streaked across the sky, making for one hell of a sunset. Micah glanced at the clock on his dash and put the truck in drive, pulling out of the circular drive of the Kings’ home and office, then looked in his rearview mirror when Ben pulled out behind him.

Three months wasn’t long at all for a bounty hunter. Micah had helped chase down plenty of criminals skipping out on their bail. There had only been a couple of cases that got interesting like this one. Greg and Haley had been profiling this case for a while. Micah had overheard them discussing it, and now he understood why. The information they’d been given on Santinos hadn’t added up for them. It was the irony of all ironies that King chose Micah to help out the cops.

Micah never once imagined working like this. Not only was he bringing in men and women who tried bailing on court dates or skipping out on their bonds, but now he was going even farther and searching for a person that the law hadn’t found yet. He’d hunted down more people than he could count in his previous life who were guilty of crimes but not yet convicted. Micah had never brought them in; he’d killed them.

That was Micah Mulligan, though, and for now that man was buried so far under the radar, not even Greg King would find him. Micah pulled into traffic as he stayed a car length behind his boss. It felt good to be given a loose rein on this one. He wouldn’t let it go to his head, though. Get cocky and take a bullet. Guaranteed.

Micah reached under his shirt for the silver pendant he always wore. The flat coin-shaped pendant had an engraving of Saint Michael on it. His father had given it to him when he was a boy after Micah had killed his first deer.

“Saint Michael protects hunters. You’re part of an elite, proud group of men now,” Micah’s father had told him. Micah had stood tall and proud. That day he had felt like a man, just like his father and uncle. “That doesn’t make you invincible. Remember that every time you aim your rifle, son.”

Micah thought about his old man and his uncle, hunters in the purest sense. Micah had learned how to hold a shotgun, aim, and fire when he’d barely been taller than the gun was long. Hauling home large game had been a thrill through his teenage years. By the time he’d hit his early twenties, there wasn’t a creature on God’s earth Micah couldn’t take down with a single shot.

Except for one.

When his father and uncle moved just outside Pontoria, Minnesota, a town in the northern part of the state, and beautiful country, Micah had been seventeen. With his mother long gone, and the old man and uncle all he had in the world, he trudged along begrudgingly. Their reason for leaving Evansville, Indiana, the only home he’d remembered up to that point, hadn’t been clear to Micah at the time. He had seen Pontoria and the many lakes and wilderness around the town as boredom personified. It wasn’t until he was much older that he learned the truth behind the Mulligan brothers’ relocation.

Except now, for the following year, he wasn’t a Mulligan. He was a Jones.

The pendant warmed between his fingers as Micah silently mumbled words to Saint Michael and rubbed it one last time before slipping it back under his shirt. His grandfather had been the strongest influence when it came to prayer. Micah’s dad went through the motions. Micah wasn’t sure why he always wore the pendant or said silent prayers. There was no harm in it. If he let go of the traditions his father and grandfather always followed, something bad might happen. Although what had already happened was bad enough.

Micah focused on King’s taillights ahead of him as twilight slowly drifted into night. Maybe there was a Mulligan curse. His father, uncle, and Micah had made the best of the curse, or gift, they were born with. For a number of years the three of them handpicked the jobs they took, and made a lot of money as agents hired to kill—assassins. Within a few years the Mulligan reputation grew to the point where they’d moved into some incredibly elite circles. None of them had hesitated when the U.S. government started paying attention to their success record. Maybe they should have. But the money was incredible. The jobs were more than satisfying. The power was addictive.

Micah still firmly believed they’d been set up. They hadn’t learned that their target was CIA until after Micah had put a bullet through his heart. His last kill had brought an end to the life they’d led for seven years. Micah’s dad and uncle quickly devised a plan. Mulligans didn’t go to jail. That same night they learned that Micah’s target had been CIA—and that now the elusive branch was inquiring into his death—Micah, his father, and uncle had packed their bags and left their home, each of them going in a different direction. For a full year they wouldn’t contact one another. None of them knew where the other two went. Three months of that year had passed. Three months now that he’d been Micah Jones instead of Micah Mulligan.

He signaled to turn when King’s blinker began flashing. Their exit was up ahead. He prayed his father and uncle had found new lives that allowed them to satisfy the hunter in them. In nine months Micah would find the man who’d hired him to kill Sylvester Neice. That man would regret the day he ever hired Mulligan’s Stew, the code name used when contacting the Mulligans. Once their world was safe for them again, Micah would track down his father and uncle. Micah wasn’t the young son in need of protection by his father and uncle any longer. He was the grown man, in his prime, a hunter no one would ever be able to hunt down and kill. His father and uncle were getting older. Micah would see to their protection.

Micah followed King’s truck, with Ben behind him. The three trucks slowed as they took the exit and reached the intersection that the street Club Paradise was on. Five minutes later they were pulling into a shopping center across the street from the club. Their trucks were conspicuous, but in the large parking lot with a four-lane, busy street between them and the club, their presence wouldn’t be as easily detected. Micah glanced at the digital clock on his dash at the same time his GPS announced he’d arrived at his destination. He’d been so lost in thought all the way here, it was the first time he’d heard the soft female voice speak.

“Good to know,” he muttered and parked alongside King. They had an hour before the club opened, plenty of time to nail Santinos.

King hopped out of his truck as Micah and Ben got out of their trucks. Haley hurried around to join them looking as if she’d just hung up her phone.

“Okay, Micah,” she said, sounding out of breath. She didn’t continue but instead looked at her husband. “We’ve only got about half an hour. You were right. The minute we explained our theory, they wanted in on the action.”

Greg gave his wife a knowing look and nod. “Not surprising. Anyone else isn’t our bounty, though. We have to let them in. All we get is Santinos.” He looked at Micah and Ben. “Which means we need to hustle.”

They took a few minutes to secure bulletproof vests over their shirts and check safeties on their guns. King was inspecting his Glock and slid it into the holster at his waist when he approached Micah again.

“You willing to go into this without the getup?” He nodded at the vest Micah was pulling up his arms. “If I send you around back, I need you looking as inconspicuous as possible.” He lowered his voice, although there was no one around but the four of them. “We called in our hunch, and it’s no one’s surprise that we have police detectives on the way. This isn’t their jurisdiction, though, so they have to go through red tape. That means the local jurisdiction will hightail over here, too.” King shook his head. “A piece of the action never grows old,” he muttered. “Needless to say, before long we’ll have a three-ring circus. I want to move in on this now, though. What I want you to do is sniff out the back end of the club undercover, so to speak. You up for this?”

Micah stared at King a moment before letting the vest slide back down his arms. “No problem,” he heard himself say and ignored the adrenaline spiking inside him.

King was one of the good guys. He wouldn’t set Micah up. Just because he’d been used as a scapegoat to get rid of a crooked CIA agent, then thrown to the wolves when someone needed to be charged with the man’s death, didn’t mean something like that would happen again. Not in this lifetime at least, which would last another nine months before Micah would return to his old life. Cats might have nine lives, but Mulligans had an infinite number, as long as they lived by the code.

Honor-bound is honor-solid. Find another by the same code and he’ll run by your side as true as Mulligan blood runs through your veins.
Grandpa Paul had often grabbed Micah by the arms and given him a solid shake as he repeated those words to him. Even after he passed, his father had made him recite the Mulligan code, especially when they were forced to work with others.

Micah felt his Saint Michael’s pendant press against his chest as he put the vest back into the side compartment alongside his truck.

“No weapons? Nothing?” he confirmed.

King nodded. “Just your true grit and intuition,” King told him, then patted him on the back of his shoulder. “Something tells me you have a lot of both. And this will go down a lot smoother if we have everything wrapped up by the time the men in blue show up.”

Micah watched King walk back to his wife. He prayed that was all King sensed about Micah. The next nine months would be hell if anyone learned who he really was.

*   *   *

Maggie O’Malley glanced up from her books when she heard the cook talking to someone out in the kitchen. Max was back there alone and would be for another hour until the club opened. He worked better alone and did an incredible job of setting up all the meal preparation if he didn’t have anyone to distract him.

Four other cooks would arrive and clock in within the hour. By then, Max would have all the sauces simmering, vegetables diced and sliced—all the preparations that would be needed for them to serve the dinner listed on the dry-erase board behind the bar for that evening.

When her other cooks clocked in, all they would have to do was prepare the orders once the club opened. It was a good system, one that worked well and kept everyone happy.

Maggie hadn’t asked to be kitchen manager along with accountant. When Uncle Larry hired her on as the club’s accountant two years ago, right after she’d graduated from UCLA with an accounting degree, she’d considered herself blessed to be doing exactly what she’d wanted to do. The club had been in worse shape than her uncle had described, though. In fact, it had been on the verge of bankruptcy. At first she’d been pissed—furious, in fact, that Uncle Larry had lied to her.

It was her mother who’d convinced her to make a go of it. “Your uncle probably doesn’t have a clue how bad off the club is. He doesn’t realize the blessing he’s been given by hiring you on, sweetheart,” her mother had explained in the soft-spoken, matter-of-fact tone she used so often. “God has sent you on this special mission. I just know it. Uncle Larry is a free spirit but a good man. You’ve got that level head and your feet are grounded, blessings you’ve been given and can put to good use now. I just know you can turn your uncle’s club around for him.”

Maggie had done just that. She’d even had to admit that she’d enjoyed the challenge. When her uncle was arrested, for money laundering no less, Maggie had been so livid she’d walked off the job. It took more than a bit of gentle persuading this time for her mother to convince her to ride out the storm. Lucy O’Malley could see no wrong in her younger brother. Maggie wasn’t so sure this time that Uncle Larry was innocent. What she didn’t know, and could only find out by remaining at work, was where he got the money to launder. It sure as hell wasn’t through the club. Maggie’s books were squeaky-clean.

Glancing up, she cursed under her breath when Max continued talking to whoever was out in the kitchen with him. Uncle Larry might be an idiot, but she’d sworn more than once that he’d given her this office, right off the kitchen, on purpose. Uncle Larry knew Maggie would jump in and put his kitchen in order once she heard the chaos that occurred there daily. And she had. The kitchen was run like a smooth sailing ship today. It would stay that way, too, damn it!

She pushed her chair back from her desk, eyeing her numbers longingly. They were so much easier to get along with than real people. Numbers were cut and dry. They were black or they were white. There weren’t shades of gray the way there was with people.

Not to mention, babysitting wasn’t part of her job description. Already Uncle Larry was on her shit list. It was bad enough trying to keep tabs on him day and night. Unlike her mother, Maggie’s father continually demanded that she wash her hands of him. Every time he said that, Maggie’s mother would show her true Italian blood and start banging pots and pans as she yelled at her husband that a Santinos never turned her back on family and she knew an O’Malley would never do that, either. When Lucy O’Malley started yelling there was nothing to do but let her run through her liturgy, which usually ended with a winded cry to Saint Joseph and Mary and the good Lord Jesus to protect them all from hell.

As she headed around her desk, the mixture of Irish and Italian blood inside her brought Maggie’s temper to a quick boil. She would never be like her mother, but a glance at the small statue of the Mother Mary holding baby Jesus, a gift from her parents, brought her pause.