Page 2 of Handcuffed By the Bounty Hunters

Ryder spins his computer monitor around to face us. A photo of a guy in a suit takes up half the screen. He’s got brown hair a bit lighter than Cameron’s. My color, but without the gray at the temples, and a short beard like mine. The other half shows a big logo made from an interlocked C and O.

Ryder says, “Clive Oberon, owner of Oberon Transport, recently had sensitive files stolen from him. He wants the thief and the files recovered, without anything leaked. Oh yeah, and the thief is his ex.”

“Revenge porn?” Cameron suggests.

“No idea. Hunter’s Guild didn’t tell us. Likely, they didn’t ask either.”

“Did they tell us anything about the ex, at least?” I ask.

“Yep.” Ryder taps at his keyboard and pulls up a file, selects an icon.

The photo of Oberon disappears and an image of a beautiful woman pops up on the screen. Her curves are showcased in an evening gown with a deep V in the front that goes between her breasts to her navel. Her hair is cropped very short to show off her smooth neck. What’s most striking, however, are her deep brown eyes. She’s smiling, but her eyes are so fucking sad, they steal the breath from my lungs.

Cameron whistles. “That’s the target?”

Ryder nods. “Penny Govier. She’s an heiress whose inheritance was mismanaged, but fortunately for her, she met Oberon and her lifestyle didn’t have to change. Until now. I guess she got greedy or maybe she was already interested in corporate espionage.”

“Yeah, I’ll chase her anywhere.” Cameron nudges me with his elbow. “Ready, old man?”

The corners of Ryder’s lips quirk up in a smile. “You better be careful, Frenchie. Willis could probably take you.”

I’m barely listening to their banter, my gaze locked on the soulful brown eyes of the girl on the screen. Penny Govier. She doesn’t look like a criminal mastermind, but what the fuck do I know?

2

Penny

Three days. Three fucking days I’ve been on the run. A bone-deep fatigue weighs me down. I even hitchhiked for a while because I couldn’t imagine taking one more step. An older man picked me up in his truck, and his sweet Doberman had to sit in the middle of the bench seat between us, eyeballing me the entire way to Grasshopper, California where the man dropped me off. I’d told him it was my destination, but really, I have no destination. I’m going to keep walking until I get far, far away from Clive’s influence.

Once I feel safe, then I’ll decide what to do with everything that I saw. The pieces I recorded. The scream that echoes in my mind.

There doesn’t seem to be a motel in sight, but maybe if I walk along this street, I’ll find something. I miss my phone. The convenience and the security of knowing that the answer to any question I might have is right at my fingertips. Is there a hotel in Grasshopper CA? Before I finish typing it, there would be a list of accommodations. If they aren’t to be found within Grasshopper, there would be suggestions all around.

None of that. My phone is hidden away, shut completely off and nowhere near me.

So I walk, shivering in the cool wind that gusts down the street.

Hunger gnaws at my stomach with insistent teeth. I was smart enough to grab some cash before I left San Esteban, so when I come to a convenience store, I step inside.

It isn’t much warmer in here than it is outside, but I at least feel less exposed.

The sheer amount of choices overwhelms me. I want junk food for comfort, and I jealously watch a young girl drag her father to the candy aisle. But I don’t know when I’ll get to buy food again, so instead of candy bars, I fill a basket with fruit, a loaf of bread, and peanut butter.

When I go to the front to pay, the cashier stares hard at me, his blue eyes curious. He looks to be in his late teens, so about ten years younger than me, but my age doesn’t seem to intimidate him. Or maybe that look in his eyes isn’t interest in me as a date—maybe he’s seen my photo somewhere? I wish I’d worn my hoodie up, but a hoodie is a worthless disguise.

Surely Clive hasn’t alerted everyone to my disappearance. He wouldn’t want the publicity.

But Clive is a wild card. That’s what he always says about himself, anyway. Clive “Wild Card” Oberon. Who the fuck knows what he’s going to do next?

“That’ll be sixteen thirty-two,” the cashier says.

I hand over a twenty, trying to keep myself from shaking.

“What brings you to Grasshopper?” he asks.

“Oh. Um.” I didn’t think of a lie in advance. Quick. “I’m just passing through.”

“Yeah?” He grins. “Where are you from?”

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