Hot on the Hunt. Melissa Cutler

Rory. She kept her focus trained on the back of Rory’s head, at the buzz cut that made his bald spot look like a bull’s-eye. All she needed was a straightaway free of pedestrians and cars and she could take the shot. But it was rush-hour traffic on Veterans Drive, the road that ran along the harbor, and traffic was crawling. As long as he kept weaving a path among the cars and bicycles, she was helpless to do anything but follow.

      The mystery shooter wasn’t as concerned with collateral damage to bystanders as she was, as evidenced by the crack of another gunshot. This time, the bullet grazed Rory’s thigh. He stumbled right, bullied past a line of wooden barrels and half fell into a seafood processing plant.

      Alicia gave chase. Stunned workers whined their protest and waved fillet knifes and rubber gloves at her. One speared a massive butcher knife in her direction, scolding rather than threatening. She followed the trail of blood drops out the other side of the warehouse. Something flew through the air at her. She ducked back into the warehouse, slamming the door as something knocked against it. She opened it again. A fillet knife was stuck in the other side. With a growl of frustration, she continued following the blood trail out of the alley. Rory must not have been wounded too badly because he was on a bicycle and had taken off across Veterans Drive again.

      He jumped the curb onto the pedestrian and bicycle path that curved around the harbor toward the cruise ship terminals. The path immediately around him was empty. This was her chance. She ground to a halt and drew her gun. Before she could pull the trigger, a bang sounded from behind her. Rory’s bike collapsed. He fell out of sight, off the edge of the path and into the harbor.

      Cursing at the stranger who was really becoming a thorn in her side, she set her hand on the partition, preparing to jump. The whine of a motorcycle’s engine caught her attention. She turned to see a man on a motorcycle, his face obscured by the visor of his helmet, his bike picking up speed as it wove through traffic in approach of the partition between the street and the foot path.

      “Oh, hell, no,” was all she could mutter.

      The mystery shooter. He was young, judging by his fit, muscled body barely concealed by a snug blue T-shirt and worn jeans. He held an HK45 pistol against the right grip of the bike and didn’t seem to be paying Alicia and her Glock any mind.

      Why he was interfering with her operation remained to be seen. Was he helping Rory escape or trying to kill him? Until now, Alicia hadn’t considered the possibility that she wasn’t the only person in the world hell-bent on extracting lethal justice from Rory, but now it seemed a naive way of thinking.

      Then again, it didn’t matter how many people wanted Rory Alderman dead. Alicia was going to be the one who pulled the trigger, and the only sure way to guarantee that was to neutralize the mystery operative before he mucked up her operation any more.

      She vaulted over the partition and dropped onto the pathway, affording the felled bike a nominal glance. Rory was nowhere to be seen. Using the partition as cover, she steadied her Glock. The motorcycle was coming at her on her right. She took aim at the front tire, and that’s when he finally took notice of her. Swerving left, he brought his gun up and squeezed off a round in her direction. She ducked and felt the force of the bullet hitting the partition.

      Ready to give it a second try, she peered over the lip of the partition at the same time she registered that the bike motor’s whine had risen an octave, the sound of it gaining speed. She watched it jump the partition and land on the walkway in front of her. Whoever he was, this man was a professional. A damn good one. Probably, the shots he was taking didn’t hit Rory or Alicia by design, for reasons she had yet to figure out. He could be any one of dozens of black market operatives she knew of, or perhaps someone new to the scene. He afforded her a passing glance over his shoulder, then took off on the pathway.

      She stood, ready to shoot him in the back, but he was too skilled to give her an adequate target, moving the bike in unpredictable dips and swerves. A solid hundred meters in front of them, Rory had reappeared, slogging along in soaked clothes and barefoot toward the nearest dock—the one advertising parasailing adventures in which a tourist is harnessed to a parachute that’s then pulled along in the air behind a speedboat.

      Alicia cursed and took off running, pushing herself beyond the pain of her now burning quads, knowing he was going for that speedboat. It was the only one on the dock that looked remotely functional, much less built to go fast.

      A sunburned, schlubby tourist was presently being strapped into a parachute harness by a local man who was giving a safety talk judging by his gestures. When he saw Rory, he directed his gestures to him, protesting Rory’s presence, most likely. Rory shoved him in the water. The tourist screamed and frantically tried to unstrap himself as Rory leaped onto the boat his harness was tethered to.

      The mystery shooter sped around the turn onto the dock, but not fast enough. With a rev of the engine, Rory took off in the boat, the parasailer floating into the sky behind him, screaming his fool head off. Not that Alicia blamed him. She would’ve been screaming for help, too.

      Alicia ran for the dock. There were other boats nearby. Not as fast, but what choice did she have other than to give chase? Rory angled the boat toward the mouth of the harbor, then left the throttle up and moved to the back of the boat with what looked like a fillet knife in his hand. He worked to untie the rope and before the boat had gotten too far, the tourist went floating back, up into the sky in his parachute a solid ten meters before the chute buckled and he free-fell into the water.

      Alicia turned onto the dock as the motorcyclist swung off the bike and ran to the edge of the dock. He dropped the bag that had been slung over his back and withdrew a Remington XM2010 sniper rifle. The prototype model. The same limited-edition prototype Alicia and the rest of her black ops team had been gifted with three years earlier.

      Her breath caught in her throat. Of its own volition, her body went still. She should be making a break for one of the other boats in the harbor, stealing it and racing after Rory, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the one thought repeating in her head. No. It couldn’t be him.

      He lay flat on his belly against the dock, the rifle butt against his shoulder, its stabilizing legs extended to the floor. He ripped off his helmet, revealing tousled, dark blond hair. No.

      Her gaze roved over his body. That strong, broad back, narrow waist, perfect backside. Just as she remembered it. His eye was glued to the scope. He pulled the trigger. The rifle quivered as the boom ripped through the harbor. Rory ducked. The speedboat faltered, its glass windshield shattering.

      “Damn it,” he muttered, dropping his head.

      His voice sent shivers over her skin. How could it be, after so many months, that he still had that effect on her?

      He’d appeared out of nowhere and, whether he meant to or not, he’d helped Rory escape. And yet, she couldn’t get her mouth to close. She couldn’t catch her breath or convince her body to move. She couldn’t even find the will to tell him off for ruining everything. Again.

      Bringing the rifle with him, he pushed into a squat then stood. The jeans hung low on his hips but snug around his quads. She’d forgotten this part—the perfection of him—and she hadn’t even gathered the courage to look at his face yet.

      Rory’s boat was a blip on the horizon now, headed south in a direct path to St. Croix. She afforded the boat only a glance because she couldn’t, for the life of her, stop staring at the man before her, absorbing his nearness and heat, the raw power radiating from his every cell.

      She could feel him watching her and forced her gaze to meet his smoky-blue eyes.

      They were angry, colder than she’d ever seen them. He might have the body of the man she’d once called her lover, but she could see it in his face that he was a changed person. Harder, humorless. She wanted to slap him for what he’d done to her, slap him because she’d almost shot him in the back just now and she would’ve never forgiven herself for it. Most of all, though, she wanted to throw her arms around him and hang on forever. Like a fool in love.

      “John,” she croaked.

      “In