Manhunt. Lisa Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ does not work. She lives in a condo in a gated community, drives a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car and spends her days shopping and getting manicures. She’s practically royalty around here, and you do not mess with daddy’s little girl.”

      “Still, couldn’t you have just mentioned it to Jonah?”

      “Fine.” Hailey sighed. “Marshal Turner plays golf with Thomas James Phelps the Third.”

      Eric huffed out a breath. “Okay, I get it.”

      He should have, because Marshal Turner was technically their boss—Jonah’s boss. Two years from retirement, his gut hung over his belt and he spent his days in the office looking at pictures of yachts.

      “I just want to ask if she’s seen or heard from her fugitive ex-boyfriend.”

      As of a week ago, instead of being transferred to his permanent federal vacation in California, Farrell was now back on the 15 Most Wanted list. And worse, his escape made her miss breakfast the next morning with her daughter.

      The security guard at the community’s gate frowned at their badges, but let them in. Was he going to call ahead and warn Princess Phelps they were coming? Hailey couldn’t do much about that, short of threatening him with her weapon. The security guard probably got paid more than she did, working in a neighborhood like this.

      The streets were wide and free of cars, as if the residents had been threatened not to park there. The landscaping was immaculate, although waterlogged, since the rain was still falling steady. And yet, somehow not even a stray leaf was on the ground. It was eerie, unlike her homey neighborhood and the dated farmhouse she grew up in. Her roof leaked and the wind whistled through the upstairs hall, but at least her house wasn’t sterile and void of humanity like this place.

      Hailey popped the trunk on her Honda and reached for her two pairs of cuffs, the extra magazines for her weapon, and her flashlight. Eric’s eyebrows rose under the bill of his government-issued baseball cap. Go team.

      Hailey shook her head. “It’s just a precaution.” And more habit than necessity, even if it could be the difference between life and death. The extra supplies balanced out the professional weight of the star badge on her belt.

      “I thought you weren’t worried about this. It isn’t a big thing, remember?”

      Hailey rolled her eyes. Kerry liked to use that tone of voice when she needed to remind Hailey of something she’d said. It was like the kid was twelve going on twenty-five.

      Eric’s lips twitched.

      Hailey frowned at him. “You’re teasing me.”

      He shrugged off his jacket and snapped his belt on below his Kevlar vest. “Only a little.”

      “Must be a slow day.”

      He laughed. The yellowing bruise on his neck from the beanbag round did nothing to mar his looks.

      They both pulled on black jackets with US MARSHALS stenciled on the back, and Eric followed her through the ridiculous little gate in the white picket fence of Deirdre Phelps’s townhome.

      Hailey unsnapped her gun and rested her hand on it. They were only there to ask Deirdre a few questions, but the possibility Farrell might be inside the residence couldn’t be ignored.

      The walk sloped up to the front door, while the drive curved down to the garage, tucked away below ground level like it needed to be out of sight.

      Hailey ignored the bell and hammered on the front door. “This is the US Marshals, Ms. Phelps. We need to speak with you.”

      That would get the neighbors talking. Hailey would probably get into trouble for disturbing Princess Phelps’s life, but she just knew there was a connection between Deirdre and Farrell.

      She pounded again. “Open the door, Ms. Phelps!”

      The voice that came from behind the door was muffled, but high-pitched. “Go away.”

      “Federal agents,” Eric called out. “Open the door.”

      “No!” the female yelled. “I know my rights.”

      She glanced at Eric, and they shared a grin. Why did no one ever worry about Hailey’s right to ask a simple question to someone who was clearly hiding something? That made her wonder again what secrets Eric was keeping, but there wasn’t time for that now.

      Not to mention the last thing she needed in her life was another man who was going to hide stuff from her. Not when she was trying to keep life as simple as possible for her and her daughter.

      Hailey banged on the door. “We just want to ask a few questions, Ms. Phelps. This won’t take long, and then you can go about your day.”

      “I’ll go about my day when you leave me alone. This is police harassment!”

      Hailey chuckled. “Open the door and tell me you don’t know where Steven Farrell is and we’ll be on our way.”

      “No.”

      Apparently Princess Phelps wasn’t interested in taking the easy way out. Hailey only had her suspicions. If Deirdre didn’t want to open the door and talk, there wasn’t much else she could do without probable cause and a warrant.

      The neighbors probably loved the shouting match happening on their quiet little street, but this was pretty much the highlight of Hailey’s day. There was a rush to her work, a satisfaction in being part of an organization that brought down the worst of the worst criminals and put them away. Justice. Honor. She breathed these things. Her heart beat by them.

      Hailey heard the ratchet of a shotgun.

      Eric launched himself at her just before the front door exploded.

       THREE

      Raindrops hit Eric’s face. He blinked up at the gray sky and shot to his feet, his weapon already in his hand. “I’ll call it in.”

      “There’s no time. He’ll get away.” Hailey hit the front step and Eric followed, their weapons angled down as they swept through the hall. Hailey probably wanted proof of Farrell’s presence, or Deirdre’s involvement, before they got reprimanded for going off on their own without informing anyone.

      Eric hit the button on his Bluetooth and scanned the empty living room while he used voice dialing. “Duty phone.”

      He saw Hailey react, but she kept her eyes on the room as they swept through it, clearing the designer luxury of the first floor, room by room.

      “Deputy Marshal Ames.”

      Eric didn’t hesitate. He lead straight in with, “Shots fired.” He gave the deputy marshal Deirdre’s address. “Backup requested at same address.”

      “Farrell?”

      “Possible location of escapee, but no sightings yet. House is not secure.” Eric ended the call. Most women didn’t pick a shotgun like that if they had the choice, СКАЧАТЬ