it. He was so excited not to be tramping through a desert or a jungle, and he had a guy and was getting some on a regular basis. Why would he want to leave now?
And Hunter? God help him, he hadn’t had a real boyfriend since he’d left the military for mercenary work. If they could get clear of this job, perhaps find a different gig, a better one, maybe he and Paulie could actually talk—maybe even connect emotionally and not just physically. But they had to be in a place that didn’t make his intestines itchy, where he and Paulie didn’t have to hook up on the down-low.
Or be prepared to see a sweet old retired cop’s brains splattered against the gatehouse wall.
“We’re loading into the limo now,” Paulie said over the radio. “Pinter’s a wreck. Had to fish him out of a bowl full of blow. Fucking Jesus!”
“I’ll be by the gatehouse. Standing by.”
Hunter watched as one of the doors of the four-car garage attached to the side of the house opened, his eyes moving constantly, gut muscles pulled practically to his spine. Oh, he didn’t like this, didn’t like this—
Flames first.
Orange and billowing, blowing out of the garage with the force of the concussion that hadn’t yet rocked him.
By the time his feet had started to move, the blast was tearing through the garage, through the back portion of the house, through his soul.
There wasn’t enough left to identify in the end, although DNA had confirmed both Paulie and Pinter. But that’s not what Hunter saw in his dreams. In his dreams, he saw skeletons, scorched and shaking, sitting in the burned-out husk of the limousine, jaws locked open in an endless scream.
That had been eight months ago, and Hunter was beginning to realize he wasn’t ever going to shake that vision, not even in sleep, and his class on computers in criminal justice wasn’t much of a motivation to roll out of bed. But Hunter had depended on routine and order to get him through the last eight months, and today was no different. He sat through the lecture, making the occasional note about something that had been changed from when he’d gotten a similar course in the military, then all but sleepwalked back to the parking structure that held his car.
Where he saw another one.
God. These fuckers. So transparent. Watching their victims—usually females but sometimes a smaller, skinnier male who looked defenseless—waiting for a chance to strike. Sometimes it was just a purse snatching or a mugging, but others? Hunter was pretty sure he’d stopped something else entirely when he took those guys out.
Because when he saw them, he always took them out.
This guy was following a pretty college girl, the hood of his navy blue sweatshirt pulled over his face, his hands in his pockets. Hunter was positive he had a weapon in there, and that made it even better.
These guys were proving to be what really got Hunter out of bed. He started tracking the predator through the garage on the heels of the girl, who was dressed fashionably but impractically in a miniskirt and boots, her thin wool coat pulled as far down as it could go. Hunter wondered if it was a waitressing uniform and felt bad for her. Any man who thought that was a good idea in Chicago in the winter should be forced to wear a Speedo to work. He watched her get into the elevator, the predator at her heels, and called, “Hold that door!”
She did, thank God. Maybe she felt sorry for him in his short leather coat with no gloves. He gave her a brief smile and pushed the button one floor up from hers.
When she got out, Hunter subtly placed himself in front of her would-be assailant, blocking him, and wasn’t surprised when he felt the point of a knife at his waist and heard a harshly whispered, “Out of my way, asshole,” as the doors closed.
In one clean move, Hunter broke the guy’s nose with an elbow shot, and then, still using his elbow, went to work on his ribs, his liver, his kidneys, and anything else within reach. The door opened with a ding just as the guy fell to the floor, and to Hunter’s horror, a young man wearing black slacks, black boots, black fedora, and a black sweater under a black leather coat slid in, arching an eyebrow at the groaning mugger on the floor of the filthy elevator, holding