Page 2 of Walking the Edge

If he’d been okay the first time, he never would have been arrested.

* * *

They’d been circling the French Quarter for nearly an hour and hadn’t even parked the car, much less made an arrest.

Mitch Guidry raised his window against the hubbub of sidewalk carousers getting a jump on Fat Tuesday. “Drop me off at the address we got. Let me grab the bail skip while you drive around the block.”

“We never go in without two,” Hal yelled over the roar of a passing tour bus. “Besides, you’re too intimidating to be believable as a meter reader.”

Mitch rubbed damp palms on his thighs, taking in the blue uniform shirt and pants his brother wore. “We’re about the same size. Pull over and give me your shirt.”

“No.”

“You really think this ruse will work?”

“Long enough to get you through the door.” Hal stopped beside a sedan and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Lookie what I found.”

Mitch jumped out to stop the traffic behind them while Hal backed the SUV. Nighttime fog poured in off the Mississippi, fuzzing the neon signs of restaurants along the street and the headlights of oncoming vehicles. Visibility low. No wind. High humidity. What are you doing, Guidry? You’re not on duty.

But he definitely had a job to do properly. His three older brothers had made him a conditional member of their Big Easy Bounty Hunters firm. Operative word: conditional.

They’d censured him before. Rightly so. If he messed up tonight, they could turn their backs on him again. Mitch couldn’t let that happen. He needed his brothers and his sweet, elderly aunt more than they would ever know.

Mitch sucked in the reek of stale beer from the bars behind him and guided his brother into the parking space. Someone slammed his back. He whirled and cocked a fist, stopping only when whiskey-laden breath washed over him. Slurred words tumbled from the mouth of the drunken college student staggering in front of him.

Calm down. You’re not in Kansas anymore. Or Iraq. Mitch steadied the kid before pulling out his cell. “I’m calling you a taxi.”

“We’re fiiinnne.”

And he was a horse’s ass. Mitch stowed his phone and held out a couple of twenties. “I’m serious. You need to take a cab.”

The kid’s companion hiccupped. “We got enough.”

“Don’t drive. You hear?” When they nodded, Mitch stepped away and waited while Hal closed the hatch.

His brother pulled on a nondescript jacket. “What were you doing?”

“They looked in need.”

“You plan on rescuing every drunk you meet?”

“You really want an answer?” Mitch flicked sweat from his temple.

“I can do without one.” His usually too-serious brother cracked a smile.

They navigated around the tourists in front of an Italian grocery, then passed through the cayenne-scented steam coming from a bar serving seafood. Hal glanced at Mitch, grim lines grooving his forehead. “You sick? You’ve been sweating like a pig.”

Was his brother looking to disqualify him before he could even get started? No, not Hal. They were closest in age and had been great buddies until the accident. Mitch shrugged. “I’m okay.”

The army docs told him he’d probably have post-trauma episodes for years. Mitch had them mostly under control, the overreaction tonight his first in months. “I’m not going to let you down, Bro.”

Nor Big Easy Bounty Hunters.

Every takedown counted. If he and Hal failed to return this fugitive to jail before their recovery window closed, his brothers’ fledging firm would get a black eye. Mitch couldn’t afford for that to happen.

“My buddies in the marines say everyone who serves in the Middle East comes home with baggage,” Hal said, continuing to be a know-it-all.

“I’m on edge is all.” Mitch had been home nearly three months. Hal had been busy, sure, but they hadn’t talked about Mitch’s duty tours. A nervous twitching in his gut flared again. “This is my first time.”

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