Page 4 of Preying Heart
Besides the baby …
An icepick stabs me in the gut.
The baby.
He’s not just Gavin’s kid but also mine.
My baby.
“You okay?” Slade asks when he notices how quiet I am. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“I don’t know if I can,” I admit. “I need more time.”
“Heck yeah, you do.” He gives a rebel yell. “About time you did something for yourself. Let’s go win us some money.”
Heath
Divine, Idaho, Population 874, Founded 1880. A forgotten town smack-dab in the middle of Idaho. It’s situated in a valley between two mountain ranges, one to the east and the other to the west. A river flows southwest down to the Oregon and Idaho border.
It doesn’t have much of a history other than the teetotalers who turned the town dry—but by then, the gold rush up north had run its course. Today, it’s a jumping off point for hunters and campers to pick up supplies before roaming into the nearby mountains and forests. Cattle graze on the lower hills, and apple orchards survive near the river. Other than that, it’s perfectly hidden and tucked away—well off the beaten highway.
I’m Heath Ruger.
Former big city cop.
But that’s another life I prefer not to revisit.
Out here, I’m one of the strangers. No one knows me, and I don’t know anyone.
I came into money—not telling how—and I’m not about to reveal my sources.
Suffice it to say, I don’t need to work but I pick up a job here or there to keep me on my toes.
I stride through town on this hot, dusty summer afternoon. Wearing shades and desert camo. Idaho is an open carry state so I don’t bother hiding my holstered Ruger 9mm SR1911. No one bothers me anymore. I’m not the chatty type. A nod or a grunt is my way of saying “hello and stay back” in one economical move.
I stock up at the general store. Pay cash for all my goods. Fill my gas cans and tank and check my mailbox. Business correspondence. I have no friends, in case you haven’t noticed. Left all that behind at the last precinct where everything went wrong.
Aside from the usual bills is a grubby envelope addressed to my pseudonym, Tristan Summer. A happy-boy name no one would associate with me. Imagine someone named Tristan Summer. You’d picture a Greek god with blond curls, a tan, and a surfboard.
Since I don’t advertise my services, whoever is writing to me got my name through word of mouth. I do all jobs concealed, never meeting face-to-face with a client. They give me the tag: photo, last seen, and I name the price. Whether it’s a skip or a fugitive, I nab them and get the bounty—no questions asked.
Like I said earlier, I don’t need to work, so if the job’s too easy or boring, I pass on it. On the other hand, tracking an ex-military professional who knows what he’s doing in the wilderness—now that is a job that gets my palms wet and my blood pumping.
I don’t read my mail until I’m safely behind my electrified gate. No one tailed me from town, but a man can never be too sure. After checking my perimeter camera feeds, I take a penknife and carefully open the envelope, expecting a photo and a dossier.
Name: Remi Brucker
Last known residence: Seattle
I study the colored glossy studio photo.
Sultry green eyes. Honey-blond hair. Classically beautiful features like she’s a Greek goddess statue come alive. The face is strong with well-defined cheekbones and a chin with a hint of stubbornness. And the lips? Bow-shaped and lush, just begging me to take a nip.
I flip through the dossier and frown. Domestic affair. Unnamed client wants his girlfriend back. Maybe she has a reason to run from him, and then my jaw drops.
The cat is offering a million cash.
Too bad I’m going to turn him down.
