Maybe Brigid could help when she returned. Wolfe made a mental note to give her a call. “I don’t suppose you’d agree to just go home to your parents’ house in Tennessee for a couple of weeks and let me handle this?” he asked.
Her snort was kind of cute and not a surprise.
His phone buzzed, and he looked down to read a text from Brigid. Finally. “I have a line on the guys who shot at us from the black truck.”
Chapter Seven
The house was on the outskirts of D.C., in an area of town that Wolfe had never been. Lawns were small and burned, porches sagged, and paint peeled. A drug deal went down at the far corner, and feral cats fought near an overturned garbage can across the pothole-riddled concrete.
Clouds hung low and dark as if the sun didn’t dare to enter the neighborhood.
He drove by the address Brigid had given him, peering for a good alleyway to hide his truck. “I’m not comfortable leaving my truck around here.” The tires and wheels would be gone in seconds.
Malcolm nodded from the passenger seat, sliding a clip into his gun. “We could just park at the street and make a run for the door in a shock and awe, but that’d give them time to grab weapons.” He angled his head and studied the dismal street. “Plus, how good is your intel? I’d rather not burst in on an elderly couple having a late breakfast.”
“No kidding,” Wolfe returned, still not sure about having Mal along for backup. Not that he’d invited Malcolm. The guy had seen Wolfe leaving and had jumped in the truck, somehow knowing Wolfe was going hunting. “The intel is from Brigid.”
“Then it’s good,” Mal said. “Though I’d still like to peek into the garage to see if it holds the truck you saw the other night.”
Yeah, double-checking was never a bad thing when guns were involved. He drove a mile out of the neighborhood and parked in the front of a gas station/mini mart, running inside to pay the kid behind the counter to watch his truck. Then he jogged back out as a slight rain began to fall.
Mal stood near the truck. “How much did you give him?”
“Fifty now and a hundred if my truck is in one piece when I get back.” Wolfe zipped up his sweatshirt to hide his gun and then pulled the hood over his head. “Ready?”
“Sure.” Mal looked dangerous in his dark hoodie with unnecessary sunglasses hiding his eyes, but he’d fit right in as they jogged back to the house.
Wolfe took off at a fast pace. “You didn’t have to come—I can handle this.”
“Right. These solo missions you’ve been doing are stupid.” Mal kept pace, his tone more thoughtful than sharp.
“Yeah, I know.” Wolfe had been trained well, and backup was always a necessary precaution. It felt good to have Mal along.
Mal hunched his shoulders and slid his hands into his pockets. “The other day you mentioned a job dealing with sex clubs.”
“No, the job is tracking down a guy who went to sex clubs. Now that he’s dead, I have to figure out who he was, who killed him, and why.” The club was just coincidental, and he certainly didn’t want to see Mal in leather pants, backing him up at a club party.
Malcolm’s gait slowed. “Did you really go to a sex club?”
Wolfe grinned. “Yeah. A BDSM one.”
“Huh.” They moved silently for a while as the rain increased in force.
“You ever been to one?” Wolfe asked, keeping the conversation going.
“Nope. I make no judgments, but I’m more of a private type of guy when it comes to romance.” Mal’s boots splashed water up from holes in the sidewalk.
Wolfe stepped over a pile of fast food wrappers. “Ditto.”
“Was Dana really there?” Mal chuckled.
“Yeah, and she was barely dressed. I stopped breathing for almost two seconds.” Which was a long time for Wolfe to forget to watch his six.
“So the two of you—”
“No.” Wolfe increased his pace. “Just friends.” Why was it when a guy found love, he assumed everyone else would, too? Some guys, like Mal, found that happiness. Guys like Wolfe did not.
Mal stiffened as the sound of yelling came from one of the homes. A woman screaming at a lazy, no-good bum. “Sometimes romance sneaks up on you.”
