Mask Of A Hunter. Sylvie Kurtz

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ