It was an improvement. Hunter looked down the quiet sidewalk in the direction of Sunny’s Tavern. The crappy old place was several blocks away, across the railroad track and beyond several closed businesses and deserted buildings. Everything in him tightened to impenetrable rock.
“Let’s do this, then,” Faye said, takinga step forward.
He held her in place. “I need you to stay in the truck, or walk down to Miss A’s store.” How many hours had they spent working at the specialty ice cream and latte store? More than he’d ever been able to count. “Please.”
“No.” Faye tightened her fingers through his. “Why would I do that?”
He looked down at her, needing her cooperation. “Because if you go with me, Ramsay will insult you, and I’ll put my fist through his face.” There was so much truth in the statement that he paused to let it sink in with her. “I need to talk to him and try to figure out where Jackson is going, if he has an idea. We have to get to that kid before somebody shoots him.” Mullins wasn’t the only trigger-happy jackass out there, and now bounty hunters were on the move.
Faye faltered.
He released her hand. “On the way to Miss A’s, call Raider and fill him in, would you? We need to get him officially on this case as soon as possible.” Then he gave her a slight nudge. “You need to trust me, Faye Smith Oliviet Jude Phillips Carter Ford June Berry.”
She smiled, as he’d wanted her to. Her hatred for her father had extended to her last name, so she’d changed it every month or so while they were growing up. “Fine,” she said, turning. “But I’m giving you thirty minutes with him. That’s it.” Her cute butt swayed in her worn jeans as she walked down thesunny sidewalk.
Thirty minutes was all he’d need. Any more time than that, and he wouldn’t be able to control his temper. He strolled down the sidewalk, past the respectable businesses, to the rougher buildings with bars on the windows, to boarded up warehouses. The grass went from green to burned brown to just plain old dirt. His gut ached, and his temples pounded. Finally, he reached Sunny’s.
The name had to be ironic. Even back in the day, the name would not have fit. Pine needles covered the worn metal roof, while the wooden siding had warped from weather; its dingy, rust-colored paint worn white in several places. The sign above the door was missingone of the n’s.
Nausea swirled in his stomach, and his palms sweat in a way they hadn’t for a decade.
He pushed the thin door open, and the stench of stale smoke made him want to turn away. Instead, he stepped inside the dim interior, banishing all emotion. A jukebox in the corner played a song about dogs and war, while several down-and-out patrons were scattered along the bar or at low tables. The reddish carpet was hard and bristly from years of spilled alcohol and puke, while the walls were velvet that hadonce been red.
He spotted Ramsay instantly.
His father sat to the far right, at a table against the wall, his back to it. He partially leaned over a full glass of whiskey next to a bottle. No ice. Ice was for pussies, he had always said. He straightened, and somehow his shoulders had broadened in the last decade and a half. His eyes, as blue as Hunter’s, gleamed.
Hunter ignored the kick to the gut and forced himself to walk casually toward the table, as if he had all the time in the world. Did the bastard know he could kill him with one decent move? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed. Not even close. “Ramsay.” Hunter pulled out a scarred wooden chair, flipped it around, and straddled it. There couldn’t be anything between him and the door—not even a seat back.
“Hunter, boy.” Ramsay leaned back and looked him over. This close, his belly showed some fat, as did the skin beneath his chin. He had to be, what? Fifty by now. Just that, though. “How long has it been?”
“Well, now. I had the stitches taken out eighteen years ago,” Hunter drawled, rubbing the scar alonghis collarbone.
Ramsay smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth, and the scruff along his jaw showed more salt than pepper. “You always were a stubborn shit. That knife barely nicked you.”
“You always had shitty aim,” Hunter returned. But decent reach. He’d taken a punch from the bastard more than a few times.
“How’s your aim?” Ramsay asked.
According to Hunter’s military record, absolutely superb. “Almost as good as my shot.” Which was also the truth. He was one of the best snipers still alive today, and part of that job was hunting and outsmarting the next guy. Which he needed to do right now, no matter how badly his hands itched to strangle the breath out of the man who’d fathered him. He angled his head, looking at Ramsay’s long hair. Blond and gray—thick to the shoulders. “At least you kept the hair.” That boded well for him.
Ramsay cackled. “I knew you’d be a tough one.”
“You don’t know me at all,” Hunter said.
“Sure I do. Heard you washed out of the marines and spend your time playing in the river with corporate assholes.” Ramsay took a healthy drinkof his whiskey.
Hunter forced a smile. Small towns held no secrets. “Actually, I was honorably discharged, with a boatload of medals you’ve probably never heard of. Unlike you.”
Ramsay’s eyes narrowed. “I was railroaded.”
“Bullshit. You were caught stealing and dishonorably discharged.” Unfortunately, that meant the dickhead had returned home and knocked up Hunter’s mother. Or so-called mother. “Enough reminiscing. Tell meabout the kid.”
Ramsay took another drink, looking like a fat cat eyeing a bird. “What kid?”
Hunter flattened his hand on the table. “Ramsay? We should get a couple of things straight here.” His chest heated and his accent deepened, but he wasfine with that.
“What’s that, boy?” Ramsay took another deep drink, finishing the glass this time.
