And what about Reese? Since they had been together, she had brought him nothing but trouble. Women loved him. Why should he stay with her when he could be with someone else and leave all the problems behind? And what would the police do when he told them he had killed a man?
Kenzie stayed silent as Reese walked out the door.
It was almost dawn, the sun lurking below the horizon, casting the city in an eerie purple glow. Hawk had spent the night digging for information in the underbelly of the city, starting in the seedy hoods of Shreveport, the Downtown Riverfront, then the dive bars of Lakeside and Allendale, coming up without much for his efforts. He knew more about Bolt than before, but not enough to find him.
From what he’d learned, Jeremy Bolt was in his late forties, a shadowy figure reported to have once worked for the CIA. Rumor had it, he lived a double life, one under an alias as the reclusive son of a wealthy entrepreneur who had left him a sizable fortune. The other as a hired killer, one of the best in the trade.
Jase had a lead on Bolt that might pan out, but he’d been up all night. He needed to be at the top of his game to take on a predator like Bolt.
As the first rays of light broke over the city, he checked into a motel with a two-diamond AAA rating on the sign out front, figuring it would at least be clean. The room was small, but most of them felt that way to him. He stretched out on one of the beds to catch a few z’s and closed his tired, heavy-lidded eyes.
When he woke up, he would call Kate, mostly just to hear the sound of her voice, but also because he didn’t want his wife to worry. As soon as it was dark, he’d start again, pick up Bolt’s scent, follow the trail wherever it led. Long Bailey was still in the hospital, still guarded by the protection detail Chase was providing, but soon he’d be released.
Hawk wanted Bolt out of action before that happened. Word was the assassin had a long memory. He wouldn’t forget what he considered Long’s betrayal.
A grim smile surfaced in the darkness. Before this was over, he wouldn’t forget Hawk Maddox, either.
Arthur Haines pulled into the parking lot of the Pot-of-Gold casino and walked to the separate hotel entrance that led up to the penthouse suite.
DeMarco didn’t go out a lot. Odds were good he’d be home. Arthur pushed the intercom button next to the private elevator.
One of DeMarco’s no-necks answered. “Yeah, who is it?”
“Arthur Haines. I need to speak to Mr. DeMarco.”
“Hold on. I’ll see if he’s here.” Mob speak for whether or not DeMarco would see him.
The man’s voice came back on. “Mr. De Marco says you can come on up.”
Arthur stepped into the elevator and pushed the button. The carriage didn’t move till a code was keyed in from the penthouse.
The elevator began to rise and Arthur’s hand shook as he reached in his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the revolver in his pocket.
The gun wasn’t fancy, not one of those big semiautomatic pistols in all the gangster movies. It was just a weapon he’d bought years ago for protection. You didn’t have to be a marksman to use it. Just aim the gun and pull the trigger. If he got close enough, it wouldn’t matter that he had only fired the pistol a couple of times before he’d locked it in his safe years ago.
The elevator doors opened and he stepped out onto the black and white marble floors in the garishly over-decorated penthouse suite. DeMarco ambled toward him, shorter than Arthur, his barrel chest puffed out, a heavy crystal glass of expensive scotch in his hand.
“You look tired, Arthur.” DeMarco’s raspy voice always grated on his nerves. “By now you must know that your grandson has been rescued. That means you aren’t getting that drilling platform you wanted so badly, and you still owe me several million dollars. So why are you here?”
Two of DeMarco’s dim-witted bodyguards stood at the back of the room. Arthur had purposely chosen an ill-fitting worn tweed jacket and a pair of scuffed shoes. Nothing threatening about him. By the time they figured it out, it would be too late.
“I didn’t know my grandson was safe. But I’m thankful for it. That isn’t why I came.”
“No? Enlighten me.”
“Would you mind if I poured myself a drink?”
DeMarco snapped his fingers and one of the bodyguards came forward. “A scotch for my guest.”
When the bodyguard started for the bar, Arthur headed in that direction, which brought him closer to DeMarco. His hand went into his pocket. If he hesitated, he’d lose his nerve. He pulled the pistol, aimed, and fired from no more than three feet away.
The stunned expression on Sawyer DeMarco’s face the instant before blood gushed from the hole in his throat was worth the hail of gunfire that slammed into Arthur’s chest. As he hit the cold marble floor, his last thought was of Daniel.
At least his precious son was safe.
THIRTY-SEVEN
After leaving Kenzie’s town house, Reese went home and made a brief attempt to sleep. When the effort failed, he rolled out of bed, showered, dressed, and went into the office. It was early Thursday morning. He filled the day with meetings and appointments, then worked late that night.
